Oats

Nine scattered oats adorn the kitchen worktop. I must have spilled them this morning when I was making my porridge, I thought. I sat morosely and pondered my existence. Why nine oats? what kind of a number is nine? It’s absolutely insignificant to me, it means nothing – not a thing– if God wants us to understand things why doesn’t he have me accidentally scatter ten oats? Yes, ten. That’s how many fingers I have, and toes too. It’s the number that we all understand. And why not have the oats fall in some special shape? A constellation maybe, the one I was born under perhaps? What is god playing at? He can’t be paying attention if he allows such dire randomness to transpire. This irremediable contingency is bound to scratch at the very souls of his sentient creations, those that possess the capacity for reflection at least, namely human kind. Though I dare say I can say nothing definite on the consequences of, say, a rabbit coming across these nine oats in my kitchen.

So there I sat, my very being in tatters, torn to shreds by the negligence and sheer laxity of our revered creator. I dared not approach Him directly on the matter for surely, if the rumours of his beneficence can be trusted, His Almightiness was most busy with matters of much greater exigency (no doubt somewhere in the world there scurry unfortunate creatures of a degree of want unknown to me; creatures whose hunger, on entering my kitchen, would undoubtedly impel them to gobble up these nine oats without even taking the time to contemplate their ghastly anomalous protuberance. God, one would hope, has enough on his hands with these wretched individuals). So I refrained from engagement in that telepathic wonder that we call prayer and, instead, attempted to darn the rags of my psyche with an introspective needle and thread. Why is God giving me nine oats? I could scarce get beyond this point when Maud, the most quiet and nimble of our maidservants slipped past my crooked figure, leaning forth as I was pondering the oats, and somehow managed to clear them away as she went. Spinning round with a bemused look on my face I noticed the entire kitchen was now spotless. Not an oat left extant.
“Sorry Sir” she mumbled with a tired look on her face “Did you want me to leave the kitchen dirty today?”
“No no, not at all my dear girl” I straightened my back and smiled “A fine job you’ve done, a fine job indeed. Most exemplary!” I gave the lovely little thing a pat on the head and wandered out into the conservatory feeling quite content. What a nice day for a picnic, I thought as a warm breeze tousled my dark curls and I smiled to myself, splendid.