There appears to have been a bit of a rumpus in my garden shed overnight, involving a battle weary hedgehog and a flottila of Palastinian Suicide Slugs. The pots of paint that I'd carefully placed on the shelf which, in turn, was balanced precariously at one end of the broom handle, have exploded all over my bicycle so that it now resembles a leftover prop from a Noel Edmunds' programme. Fortunately a passing angel must have noticed the fracas and decided to intervene. Christians, apparently, are often touched by angels in the same manner that children are touched by Matthew Kelly and the pattern is lifted from Bernard Manning's dinner plate by his fat greasy tongue. Christians, or so they tell me, know when an angel has been spying on them because angels leave white feathers behind. Amongst the mess in my garden shed this morning there was a solitary white feather. Perhaps more disturbing though, the angel had taken a shit down my shed roof. I don't know what they get fed in heaven but it seems to be white and must be served in very small portions. Perhaps it's Jesus' spunk. Whatever the case, the hedgehog was last seen ambling towards the Mount with a very sore nose in pursuit of a limping seagull that was making a racket and the angel has mysteriously vanished up its own scented arsehole leaving me alone to clear up the shit.