When Jehovah runs out of puff

There I was, this morning, minding my own business, having a breakfast of egg soldiers, when a knock on the door woke me from my mid-morning reverie. It sort of startled me because we hardly ever get any visitors who have to knock on our front door when they visit (the last one was Denise Roche when she was canvassing for votes in her successful bid to become our City Councillor almost 3 years ago).

A duo of women of a certain age stood there huffing and puffing. The trek to our front door is, firstly, a steep concrete driveway, followed by about 50 steps and, we suspect, many give up halfway, which keeps us thankfully free of street hawkers, beggars and assorted street riff raff, but on the other hand, when faced with a the intrepid climber who actually has made it, I cannot simply turn them down with a stiffly unfriendly grunt. Not even the Jehova's Witnesses, as they seemed to turn out to be - I can't be sure, they never actually identified their faith, but their frequent use of the word Jehova gave a clue. I'm not that au fait with the minutiae of Christian faiths.

So I took pity on them and decide to hear them out, even though I couldn't actually make out what they were preaching about: their trek had left them so short of breath they barely could utter any words. I almost offered them a cuppa but I returned to my senses before I would be saddled with them on the couch for the rest of the morning.
It actually turned out to be a spirited, polite discussion about the "ideal society" and whether man or "the Creator", as she called it, could bring it about.
No prizes for guessing who won that one.
Her fitness was helped by her trek up the stairs so that was one thing she did that was beneficial for her health without the need for her creator. And if she had had a heart attack at the bottom of the hill, our taxpayer-funded health service would have whisked her off to hospital. "The Creator" would have been quite useless as he's not at the other end of a 111 call.