The Rapture is supposed to be happening at the weekend.
I mean, it doesn’t seem that long since the Rapture was last happening, and yet here it is again. But it’s always the way with this sort of thing, isn’t it? You think you have ages and them BAM! It’s there. In your face. Like the fact that shops are stocking Christmas things already.
Not that they’ll be needed, obviously. What with the Rapture and all that jazz.
The last time the Rapture was coming, we’d spent the day in Bridlington enjoying 2p arcade machines, freshly made doughnuts and the crappest model village in the United Kingdom (but it’s so crap it’s good – although I believe it has new owners now who actually care about it so maybe the spray-painted Woody and Jesse from Toy Story will have been removed from the army camp). You know, if the world was going to end, it could have happily done it round about then. It’s hard to top that, really.
But, obviously, it didn’t happen. Because even though these things are meticulously worked out by people who understand the Bible better than anyone else, ever, it never really seems to happen. But it also, conveniently, can be interpreted slightly differently which allows another set of experts to come up with a new date.
Which happens to be Saturday.
It always seems to be at a weekend. That’s one thing I’ve noticed. The Rapture is very understanding of the working week. You know, people are too busy to be called up to heaven or left to burn in the brimstone destruction of the planet on a weekday. There’s deadlines and things. Work needs to be done. People need things. No, it’s much better to have the Rapture on the weekend. I mean, sure, you might be whisked off to Heaven and your lawn needs cutting but, hey, that’s not going to matter in the great scheme of things. I mean, not really. And it will give those of us who aren’t lucky enough to be whisked away by an omnipotent deity who – you know – loves everyone, but equally doesn’t love everyone something to do while we’re waiting for the world to turn inside out and zombies to eat our brains.
But this Rapture malarkey does make it hard to plan ahead. I mean, is it coming? Can I count on that? Because if it is then it’s probably not worth me doing an online shop for next week’s groceries. Imagine if I did it and the bloody delivery driver was just called up to the right hand of God or whatever. What would happen to my perishables? What’s the point in having a delivery pass if I have to find the van, now occupied – presumably – by the lifeless, soul-less body of a delivery driver, and fish my own groceries out of the back of it?
But if I don’t sort out a shop and then the Rapture doesn’t happen I’ll have to go to the supermarket because I’ll be too late to put an order in.
And that really is some sort of hell-on-Earth suffering, right there.