God is a Pink Kettle

I am sat on the work surface. I have tears and snot on my face but I’ve stopped crying now because I’m going to get a plaster on my knee. Mummy cleans the cut. It is stingy but I am brave. There is a lot of good red blood coming out. It is a proper sorely.

‘God only knows how you managed to fall over,’ Mummy says, shaking her head. She has very beautiful long blonde hair.

‘How does he know?’ I ask.

‘He’s everywhere,’ she says, wiping my knee with cotton wool.

‘Everywhere?’ I look around the kitchen.

‘Yes,’ Mummy says. She is not looking at me, she is looking at my knee through her insect glasses. She is working out how much plaster to cut from the roll; a good big strip.

‘Is he there?’ I point to our pink kettle.

She glances around. ‘I suppose so.’

Mummy sticks the plaster down. I feel safe; God is in the pink kettle.  

One theory of why my symbol for God is an old pink whistling kettle.