Not so far from me lives a small community of Brethren, and you see the women shopping in the nearby supermarket. They really go for denim, the younger ones, anyway (their elders favour navy polyester; the men, of course, look like ordinary men, the Lord apparently making no sartorial demands on them). Since they’re not allowed to wear trousers or short skirts, they opt for several metres of top-stitched denim in the vague shape of a skirt, and flap along like ships under sail.
The Denim Skirt is accessorised with a headscarf (female heads must be covered), clumpy shoes (stylish ones presumably being the work of the devil) and several small children, the little girls with their heads already covered.
And of course it's entirely their business. So why - given the tolerant attitude I recently expressed towards the wearing of the burqa and veil - do I always feel I want to seize these women and shake them til their teeth rattle in an effort to wake them up?
By which I mean, I know why I do, but I wish I didn't.
My dear son occasionally offers to do the supermarket shopping with the express purpose of visitng the Woolworths in question in order to Make A Brethren Smile (or even laugh, if that's imaginable). I would in other circumstances scold him for his religious insensitivity, but since I found out that Brethren consider all non-Brethrens to be damned to eternal torments - well they can just go to hell. I'll see them there.
ReplyDeleteLovely to have you back, Anonymous. And I applaud your splendid intolerance. But wait - what are your shoes like?
ReplyDeleteMy shoes are,of course, splendidly stylish. I wear them while slouching towards Bethlehem ...
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