A few years ago I went through a big phase of ticcing about God – they were the first tics I responded to creatively. Suddenly, this afternoon while I sorting out my washing, a fresh batch of ‘God’ tics burst out. Poppy jotted down as many as she could:
God said, ‘It’s a good job I made Ketamine for you.’
God said, ‘I made Skittles for Barking not Dagenham.’
God said, ‘It’s a good job I made you a foreskin.’
God said, ‘Don’t worry, it’s an iceberg lettuce not a hailstorm.’
God said, ‘Don’t worry I’m not going to keep Buckinghamshire.’
God said, ‘Noah, learn to swim.’
God said, ‘Noah, leave the barn owls behind.’
God said, ‘I fucked up with alligators.’
God said, ‘I love ashtrays.’
God said, ‘I made a seasonal erection a permanent thing.’
God said, ‘Magnesium is overrated.’
God said, ‘I’m just putting it in your head for now, I’ll take it away later.’
God said, ‘I’d never have invented Spam.
The God tics stopped as suddenly as they’d started, and I carried on folding my washing.