Down On The Farm

They were born again Christians, although I couldn't get a handle on their proselytising lark. They' d be down the precinct every Saturday afternoon, giving it fire and brimstone. We were all damned, of course. I don't know if they were trying to convert the weekend shoppers - I suppose they must have been. They were known as The Brethren, but there was none of that 'come and join us' brotherly love. I worked for them for four summers. Dinner times were a revelation. They would not eat with us; the sight of a Pot Noodle being consumed by a heathen mouth was to be avoided on pain of excommunication. We worked hard, though. Thirty two pounds for a forty hour week. I asked for a raise, and got it. Ninety quid. I got sacked on payday. The Lord works in mysterious ways, right enough.