This was meant to part of yesterday’s blog, but it felt out of place and too frivolous under the circumstances, and I wouldn’t want to offend Cath’s memory.
It was the funeral, of course, and the thought of heaven. So here is my admission — I am a non-practising atheist.
That may sound odd, but what I mean by it is that the clever, logical bit of my brain tells me that gods and an afterlife don’t exist. It’s something we’ve made up to make us feel happier about dying.
Then there’s that nagging doubt at the back of my head, the bit that says, “Are you sure?” And I project forward to *that* time and imagine what a right pillock I will look when I hand over my docket to St Peter to be told: “The God you don’t believe in is busy right now,” as he hands me my one-way ticket down.
So I’m hedging my bets.