Every so often the doorbell rings, and I scamper downstairs, blindly hoping that a sexy woman desperately needs me to have sex with her. Then I answer the door and am disappointed to find a middle-aged black couple, wanting to tell me more about being a Jehovah’s Witness. Being the polite man that I am, I never slam the door in their faces. I merely tell them that I’m busy, but I’m happy to read their literature. And then they give me a copy of The Watchtower and move on to harassing my neighbours.
I now have quite an extensive collection of issues of The Watchtower. I have read none of them. It’s not something I regret.
When I was younger and the Jehovah’s Witnesses turned up, I would try to get them off my case by telling them that I was Jewish. That was a bad move, because it gives them an opening to explain how Judaism is related to their own faith and then they never stop talking. I suppose I was naive in thinking that belonging to a totally different religion would somehow put them off.
The thing is, as I get older and lonelier, I’m increasingly tempted to actually let them carry on talking. We could be friends. Maybe I’d invite them into my flat for a coffee and biscuits. And I’d sigh a lot and talk about the emptiness of existence, and they would shake their heads and try to instill their faith in me. And then I’d give them a novel to read, or tell them about a new exhibition at The Tate Modern or ask if they wanted me to burn them a CD of my favourite MP3s. Before they left, I would ask them if they wanted to go for a drink, or spend an afternoon bowling in Finsbury Park, and they would edge slowly to the door.
I admire the fact that they want to save me, even if they are total idiots.
Tags: Jehovah's Witnesses
