Church Chairs. Never has alliteration held such awkward connotations. On saturday, in an act of cultural extension, a few of us decided to see a screening of the 1926 classic silent film; Faustus. Played alongside this was a live accompaniment of some vary talented, if haunting, organ music. This screening, however was inside a church. What a fantastic setting you may say, and it certainly fitted the aesthetic mood. That is, until you had sat down for more than 10minutes. Maybe my derrière is just that much more sensitive, but either way, what followed was 2 hours of constant shuffling whilst trying not to disturb Mark or Owen who sat on either side of me.
Everyday I’m shufflin’…. onanincrediblyuncomfortablechairthatisflatteningmybackside.
… Doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.
I just want to ask what part of being a devoted Christian has to do with experience unbearable bubble butt agony whilst in service. Surely the service of all things is the one time when a devout being of faith should be at their most content, unless you’re Jehova’s Witness, at which point I daresay the opening of someone else’s front door is the closest to nirvana you should receive. Surely, if people are wiling to attend prayer, faith and philosophical services every week and devote themselves to a religion, that said religion would at least provide them with cushions.
Though maybe this is all just because we were watching a film surrounding the selling of one’s soul to the Devil for hedonistic purposes…