It’s housework day. Well, it’s not, but I’m a bit out of synch with the days so today has become the housework day for this week.

I don’t mind housework. I have a system and can knock it over in a few hours. My wife directs from the wet areas and I stay with the monotony of Hoovering and mopping, earplugs secured and keeping in rhythm with life and Brad Mehldau https://youtu.be/tn6gjoMUEY4

But today I am a little out of sorts. I have a strange feeling in my groin and a slight disturbance in my cerebral cortex. A premonition, perhaps. Something pending. Then I remember. The gas man cometh. I ran out while cooking dinner two days ago, right in the middle of a critical moment in culinary activities resulting in less than perfect cuisine for Her Ladyship.

The doorbell rings. I didn’t hear it over the drum solo. Christine hollers and signals wildly. Bugger. Did I unlock the gate? Can he get into the driveway? Do I owe him money? Did I put the dog in? Forget the last one. I don’t have a dog for reasons best known to me.

I drop the nozzle, hurdle over the humming Hoover and head for the door. Where are my keys? No time to look. I head for the garage and press the remote to open the door.  

As the door rises majestically into the garage ceiling like a curtain on prom night I peer into the front yard. A foot appears from around the corner to the front door followed by a lean trouser leg, then another foot and leg, attached to a neat arse, a white shirt and a cerulean blue tie neatly ties and tucked beneath a smiling, youthful face.

F#$k! Mormons. 

Before I had a chance to retreat another similarly dressed young man appears from aforementioned corner. I should have known. There is always at least two, sometimes more, never just one. I waited momentarily for anything in a floral dress or dark suit to appear.

“Good morn......” 

The first youth was still smiling, his Snow White teeth glistening in the morning sun like an Osborne child in mid concert. 

Now, this hasn’t been the first calling I’ve had. My house is in a street between suburbs and people of all sorts use it for a walking passage way between the shops and the park. When I say all sorts I mean the likes of dog walkers (one of the reasons I don’t have a dog) shoppers, residents, children to and fro from school, the dog catcher, the occasional policeman, and thieving brats from the adjacent suburbs looking for easy game and a door off the latch (hence the policeman). So it not unusual to have hawkers, collectors and varying religious personnel looking at my welcome mat and thinking, for some obscure reason, I need insurance, make a contribution or find God.

Generally speaking I’m a polite sort of bloke. I’m under strict and explicit instructions from the lady of the house to be so. On occasions I’ve been known to turn the hose on a squatting dog on my nature strip, chastise a child for hiding in my bushes or suggesting to the postman to take better aim with my bills, but generally it’s a nod from me and a nod from them who pass.

But there’s something about Mormons.  

I know. I’m going down the generalisation path I advise others not to take. I’m being intolerant and disrespectful. I’m not allowing others to have their say or believe what they want.

Well, you’re right.  

I’ll tell you what annoys me, shall I?  

Firstly, it’s the clothing. I live in the tropics. It’s hot and humid. No-one here wears a tie, and I mean no-one. Even the politicians leave the tie in the wardrobe unless they are spending the day seated in the air conditioned comfort of parliament.

Secondly, I’m an atheist. No, more than that. I’m an anti-theist. I don’t really care for the beliefs of others but they had better not bring it to my door.

Thirdly, I’ve just been interrupted. My karma was already in some sort of turmoil when I woke. Now it’s been completely destroyed.

Fourthly, of any religion, this one takes the cake. Devised by a bloke called Smith, claim the earth is about 4600 years old, deny any scientific evidence for evolution, and immortal life (which might be a solution to our ageing but I doubt it).

Fifthly, I hate being disturbed when I’m busy.

As a result of these minor irritants of mine and my quick wit and timing, I drew breath, braced myself against the closing roller door and yelled, for all the world to hear .....

“Oh, f&#$ off and don’t darken my door again or I’ll set the Rottweiler on you”.

And as the roller door slid into its resting position and I headed back to my Dyson I thought pleasant thoughts and the karma slowly returned to its resting place; a small patch of grey matter nestled safely in the hypothalamus or pituitary or where ever it  resides.

Then I remembered. I don’t have a Rottweiler. Maybe I should get one for next time.