Reasons to Feel Guilty.

There was a knock on my door at about 10 o’clock this morning. Knocks on my door are very rare, and on the odd occasion that they do happen it’s nearly always somebody come to preach at me or try to sell me something, or somebody whose presence is generally unwelcome and who is about to pollute my world. It happens about twice a year on average. (Unfortunately, the one person whose knock would be a true delight is never going to grant me that favour so there’s no point in expecting it.) In spite of my obvious misgivings, however, I decided to open the door.

An elderly man stood on the threshold with a bunch of leaflets in his hand. He said:

‘I’ve come to invite you to a special event in Ashbourne on Friday to commemorate the death of Jesus Christ.’

And then he handed me a leaflet, at which point I couldn’t help saying the first thing that came into my head:

‘I don’t happen to subscribe to the notion that Jesus was the Christ.’

He looked deflated, poor chap, and I felt like a prize heel. He’s entitled to his beliefs, isn’t he, no matter how absurd I find them? If he’d started preaching at me I would have been justified in regarding him as fair game, but he wasn’t. He was just handing me a leaflet. I said ‘thanks anyway’ and off he went.

I’ve always been prone to this, you know – opening my mouth before my brain is in gear. Why didn’t I just say ‘thank you’ in the first place? What happened to my post-op resolution to be a better person, to think more carefully about what I say to people so I don’t cause offence without adequate justification? Still working on it. (Then again, I could have gone further and explained to him why, if Jesus really had been the Christ, the notion that he was capable of dying is patently irrational. Thankfully, I stopped short of that one.)

*  *  *

So then I went to Ashbourne and found another reason to question my way of being. One of the charity shops has a middle aged Downs man working in it. Mostly he keeps his own company, sitting on the shop floor and sweeping the same bit of it over and over again. I always thought that was his job, but today he came over to me while I was looking through the jeans, and said:

‘Hello, mate. How’s the missus?’ (For those who don’t know, ‘missus’ is a British colloquialism for ‘wife.’ It’s pronounced the same as Mrs.)

‘I don’t have a missus,’ I replied, wondering how he’d come by the notion that I did. He looked suddenly sympathetic, and said:

‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ (I assumed he must have thought that, being the age I am, if I didn’t have a wife I must have lost her somewhere along the way.)

‘That’s OK, I don’t want one,’ I reassured him. ‘They get in the way and force you to compromise. I know they can be useful at times, but not often enough to bother.’

I think the undercurrent of humour was beyond his capacity to grasp because he changed the subject:

‘They’re too big, aren’t they?’

I looked at the jeans I was holding. They were actually my size, but too baggy for my taste.

‘They’re too baggy,’ I said.

‘That’s what I meant.’

And then I went off to peruse the bric-a-brac, and when I left the shop I questioned the whole situation. If he hadn’t been a Downs sufferer I would probably have been more reticent and a little sharper. But I feel the need to make extra effort with somebody who has a difficulty of that sort, and I wonder whether I should. It’s inevitably a little forced and it seems patronising. So is it right or wrong to make the extra effort? Still working on it.

*  *  *

As I continued my perambulations I hoped I would encounter the former Lady B’s sister so I could apologise for Monday evening, but she was conspicuous by her absence as usual and blissfully unaware of the pangs of guilt plucking at my sense of self.