Don’t Ask the Heathen!

I drove off to get some space and peace, and found out it’s hard to be on the road. Every space is taken. You can’t stop on the road and you really shouldn’t stop on the pavements. Nor should you block the few pull-over lanes the new South Africa made for taxis. But it was early Sunday morning, so I pulled into a lane that taxis can use outside St Elizabeth’s Church, not far from home. Who was Elizabeth, I wondered? And how do you become a saint? Do you have to be as evil as Mother Teresa?

So I’m sitting and thinking when a car cruises up slowly and stops opposite me. I wave and carry on with what I’m not doing when he winds down his window and I twig he wants to ask me something. He’s neatly dressed and the lady next to him is dressed for church. Lovely friendly-looking people who the Nats would have classified ‘Coloured’ – and the ANC kept these damned fake classifications! Under RACE in govt forms everyone should write NOT RUNNING.

‘Do you know what time the service is?’ he asks. Oh heck, no, I’m sorry, I’m a heathen. I wouldn’t have a clue, I tell him. It’s Anglican, right? I ask him. He says ‘Yes,’ smiling. His wife peers at me, interested, I think. Maybe: ‘So THAT’s what they look like!?’ They drive off and park to watch the church. A few minutes later someone drives into the church parking lot and they follow that car – hopefully to get a more useful answer.

~~oo0oo~~

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