We woke up this morning to a sparkling Tasmanian Spring Day. The sun is shining, the air is warm and there are a couple of new magpie chicks learning how to warble just outside our lounge room window.
As the poet said, all's right with the world. What could possibly spoil this good mood I'm enjoying?
As I bask in the delight of the day, a car comes up our driveway, parks on the grass and two men get out: dressed in jackets, wearing ties, and carrying briefcases, their purpose is all too obvious. In fact, they've been here before, on their usual round. They're missionaries, peddling the beliefs of, I think, Jehovah's Witnesses.
"Bugger off!" I shout, and shake my fist. I don't really, although it goes through my mind, shaken out of my reverie by the unwelcome intrusion.
Instead, I say politely, "I don't want to talk to you this morning, and I would prefer if you didn't drive your car up my driveway, uninvited.
They come regularly and, if we're not home, they leave their literature at the front door. Somehow, we've been conned into allowing these organisations to operate tax-free so that unwanted literature is subsidised by the Australian tax-payer. Did I get a say in that decision? Not likely.
Each time these blokes come, I tell them I'm not interested but their business plan depends on ignoring my wishes and persevering with their visits in case someone more amenable answers the door. Maybe a previous occupant made them more welcome and there's a big tick beside this address on their To Do list.
Whatever the reason, like death and taxes, missionaries seem to be always with us. Perhaps it's time to get a big dog.
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