THE TEN COMMANDMENTS AND A JAM DOUGHNUT

Foot’s getting better. I’ve been sorely tempted this week to tell people I injured it on an SAS training exercise.

“Yeah, just er. Just opened the parachute a second or two too late,” (nonchalant). “Turns out it’s much harder to land on a jet ski in the dark than you might think…”

Still. I’m out of the boot now and doing my best to hobble round in my trainers. It’s still a bit painful, especially when you accidentally bend it, or put all your weight on it, but it is noticeably better.

It’s had its perks! Last week, while Sammy traipsed through a hot and stuffy town centre, I got to rest in a cool, dark church. There was a colourful stained-glass window at one end. Columns supported sloped balconies, and all along the nave, the polished floor and boxed pews carried that hymn-book aroma you only get in churches like that. High windows let sunlight stream down in rays, gilding the brass as though blessing it from heaven. I watched the dust dance in the beams.

I was there a while. The man at the back said I could sit and rest, and the vicar, a friendly man in a polo shirt gave me a gentle smile as he pottered about.

Either side of the altar, in flowing text, two giant panels showing the Ten Commandments boomed over the lectern, and what would have been the congregation. I read through them, reminding myself of the order, each prefixed with a Roman numeral.

“I No other gods, II No idols, III No taking the name in vain,” I pondered. “Fair enough.” The rest of the first panel was taken up with IV. Keeping the sabbath, which I had never noticed had a lot more text to it. Over on the other side, the list went on.

V Honour thy father and mother, VI Thou shalt not kill.

I wanted to ask the vicar whether this one included insects. He didn’t exactly look like he’d warm to the theological question. Though I’d still argue that if you put up a plaque in your house and then invite visitors over, it’s fair game for them to ask questions about it.

VII No adultery. VIII No stealing. IX Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour.

Not a problem. They’ve just moved out.

“Do you want a cup of tea, coffee?” asked the vicar, gliding down the aisle.

“Oh, no thanks. I’m alright with water,” I replied, and held up my plastic bottle of Ballygowan Spring to prove it.

“Ah,” he smiled sweetly. “How about a doughnut?”

“Well I wouldn’t say no to a doughnut,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“Er, yes please.”

He disappeared. Sammy wasn’t back; I had time. If I brushed off the crumbs, she’d never need to know about the cheeky doughnut in the cool of the old church.

X. No coveting. Not even the donkey, or the ox. Don’t be jealous of anyone. I thought about that for a while.

Just then, two things happened at once: the sliding vicar re-appeared with a perfectly round jam doughnut and a paper napkin; and Sammy arrived, baking hot and ready to leave. She raised her eyebrows at the scene.

Now I’m sure there’s nothing specific in those Ten Commandments that says I shouldn’t have a jam doughnut on the back pew of an old church while my wife was struggling through a baking town centre. Nevertheless, at that moment I felt like I’d somehow broken every one of them. Thankfully she did find it really funny, which baffled the vicar further. Then the jam oozed down my thumb and onto the plate and I was covered in sticky grains of sugar. I don’t like that.

“And how did you do that?” he asked, pointing to my toe. I thought about the SAS, glimpsed the Ten Commandments, and looked at Sammy. It was like a perfect example of the letter and the spirit bringing conviction in the house of the Lord. You might be pleased to know I told him the truth.