God’s Sweet Grapes

There is a secret church. It promises bliss, immortality, a voluptuous woman to feed you grapes from God’s personal stash — the usual religious nonsense — but only if you adhere to a single rule: Whenever you’re in a narrow alleyway, or on an escalator, or on a busy path you must walk slowly, placing oneself perfectly in the centre of the path and flanked either side with obstacles; positioned precisely so that the space around you is too narrow for somebody to squeeze past without awkwardly brushing against you. You must maintain this measured pace, adopting a wide gait and swinging your arms, ignoring the agony on the faces of the commuters behind you. All of this you must do, if you want to taste God’s sweet grapes.

Although they keep their existence hidden I know that this church exists, because I encounter their devotees every day, on the short walk from Central station to upper Queen street.

Andrew Bloyce