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God owes me $600.
I'm not holding my breath waiting for payment, although that's probably the only way I'm ever going to collect.
Actually, God owes me more than $600.
It's closer to $850, and increasing by some $25 a month.
God owes me this mounting sum of money because of what he did to my car.
That's my car (pictured below) after what God did to it last year when he blew some trees on top of it.
A few months later, God got stuck into my car again. Would humming Hail to the Chief give you a clue to what he did to my poor car on that occasion?
A lesser person would take all this rather personally. At the very least, resume regular church attendance. Me? I just thank my lucky stars that God was resting on the other occasion some one got stuck into my car in recent months.
It was the Sabbath, and some poor mortal soul with his fair share of human failings ran up the arse of my car while I was teaching my oldest son to drive.
Because a mere mortal and not God caused that particular accident, there remains a faint hope – deep in my heart and wallet – that one day I will recover the $800 excess my RACQ-GIO insurance policy required that I fork out for those repairs because a youngster was at the wheel at the time.
There's no such hope for redemption when the damage is inflicted by The Omnipotent One.
Call him Yaweh if you must. Sacred Heart's Pop. Big Daddy. The Big G.
Whatever, he sure as hell (sorry!) has taken a liking to my car of recent times.
Now I know who parked my car in Water Street, Fortitude Valley, that sunny morning in the second half of last year? Me. But who made me? God.
Who planted those big trees on the footpath beside my car? City council workers, sure. But who made the trees and the city council workers. God.
And who blew up that sudden storm that gave my poor old car the wedgie of its life? God!
Same thing a few months later. Who turned my poor old Forerunner into a giant, cobalt-coloured golf ball. God!
The first act of God was fixed just before the second act of God took place. The panel beaters now tell me they can fix the second act of God some time next year. Provided they don't get an influx of work from Sydney in between.
So, two $300 excesses later, could I be finally be safe from God's wrath?
Not quite. I got my insurance premium the other month, and it's taken a heaven-sent upwards spiral.
I took it up with the insurers.
"I've lost my Category 1 rating," I wailed. "Is it because I've had three claims in a year?"
"Of course not," the nice young man up at their Fortitude Valley office sniffed. "Other companies have that rule but not us."
"None of my claims was my fault, surely?" I asked.
"Well, let's see," he said, punching keys on his computer. "I see that in the first accident, you were hit from behind so you're totally blameless there," he said, scrolling through my file.
"It's the other two claims that have caused the problem."
Yes, it seems I have to pay a fair bit more annually for foolishly letting myself be the victim of two acts of God in the one year.
If God had rammed me up the arse twice, I'd have been okay.