Dear Lord,

You know that I’m not very wealthy, but I know that you own absolutely everything. You own quasars. In fact, you own all the quasars. Even Richard Branston doesn’t own a quasar. Whereas I have three nice cats and quite a good collection of books, you have the Horse Head Nebula.

Maybe you know where this is going… Wait, of course you know where this is going. But you’ve told us to ask for things anyway, even though we know that you already know. You know I’ve had this little dream in my mind for a long long time. Well, I suppose not really a long time for you, but for me quite a while.

Could you please give me a house? It doesn’t need to be a big or fancy one. In fact, I’d be pretty happy with a place like this one…

Maybe it’s a bit silly, a bit romantic, like I’ve really just spent too long reading Tolkien. But it looks like a place to be happy in, don’t you think? And I know the kitties would love the green roof.

(The hippies weren’t wrong about everything.)

I’d be very happy to help with construction too. In fact, it sounds like it would be really fun to do and it would be very useful to know how to build things like this. Next I’d build a little oratory/chapel, and after that a guest house, and then a wood-fired bath house and an outdoor summer kitchen.

Then I’d build a 12 foot stone wall around the whole thing, with a little gate, (we’ve got lots and lots of rocks around here, so you don’t need to send me any) and I’d hang a bell on the wall next to the gate (I’ve got the perfect bell picked out at the ferramenta in town). Inside, I’d keep bees, ducks and chickens. And maybe a goat, and grow a very large number of sunflowers and pumpkins. Wait, maybe two goats … so the first goat doesn’t get lonely.

And then when it’s all ready, people could come and visit. One at a time. And we could sing the Divine Office to you in the oratory every morning and say the Rosary to your Mum in the garden so the Great Chastisement doesn’t come and blast us all to smithereens.

It says right in the Psalms that people who have been blasted to smithereens can’t praise you or thank you for things.

_For in death there is no remembrance of thee:

in the grave who shall give thee thanks?_

Of course, for all this, we require a bit of time. So if you don’t mind, could you also hold off the smiting for just a little while longer?

Thanks.

Amen.

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