I was absolutely fuming: “I told you that watching that awful ‘art film’ would kill us, that we would die of boredom and disgust but no, no, you said we had to sit there and finish watching it once we’d started—‘those are the rules’ you said! Now look what your f’n rules have gone and done!” “You have to see the bad ones to appreciate the good ones,” responded Paul patiently. “B-but--WE ARE DEAD NOW PAUL!” I exclaimed. “Yeah, not much use getting all mardy about it now, is it? Done and dusted. Let’s be on our way to Hell . . .” he smiled. “WHAT?!” I cried, “We can’t do that! Most of my family is up in Heaven—or on their way there—we can’t very well just pack up and move off to 'The Infernal Regions', without so much as a ‘hail and a heigh-ho’!” “Text’em.” I stared blankly at Paul, sluggishly stammering and repeating his words back to him like a parrot on Thorazine: “I-Uhhhmm-a-I-I’m--I'm sorry . . . ‘Text them’?” “Yes. ‘Text them’. Send them a nice, friendly little mobile text message now and again—it’ll be fine. Because there is no way I’m going to Heaven. The music is RUBBISH in Heaven—they have far better festivals in Hell . . .”
