Drood has a God, a diffident, Anglican sort of God. The kind one doesn’t like to bother unless it’s something really serious, and certainly not on a weekday. Drood’s God is neither the type for severing hands nor stoning the adulterer, nor the kind you would want to shout “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabacthani” at, even in the teeth of a storm, when cringing at the edge of a great, grey glissando of a precipice with no equipment other than a pair of boots that have definitely seen better days and not a dastardly Moriarty nor faithful Watson in sight to render one immortal.

“I have to get back”, said Drood out-loud to himself. “I have a column to write. There is, if one includes the editor, an enthusiastic readership of at least five people waiting for it.”

“For half a dozen more, I might consider you worth saving”, said the Anglican God, quietly in his right ear.

“I don’t have them”, said Drood, “I’m a poor blogger, not the bloody Telegraph”

“You shouldn’t swear”, said the Anglican God, “not even in a tight corner.”

“This is 2010, we’re not at Agincourt, ‘bloody’ doesn’t count as swearing, hasn’t for years.”

“I was at Agincourt”, said the Anglican God, “the language was fruity in the extreme. I didn’t like it then and I don’t like it now. I made the universe and I make the rules.”

“Including gravity?”

“Including gravity, nice try” ... “Listen, I might let you off for a good joke, as long as it doesn’t feature, sex, race or members of anyone’s clergy”

“I don’t do jokes”, said Drood, “and anyway, you can’t be funny and PC at the same time, it’s impossible. Does the clergy thing include Mullahs?”

“Mullahs, Ayatollahs, Bishops, Rabbis, whatever ... no clergy”

“Whose side are you on? I thought you liked a nice Jewish joke.”

“The Lord your God is a balanced God. I try to encourage collegial respect.”

“What about other minorities: Celebrities? Talking animals? Scientists?”

“No problem with any of them,” said the Anglican God, “as long as it’s a good joke and nobody gets hurt or upset, or made to feel stupid because they didn’t get the punch-line.”

I give up”, said Drood, “I’d rather take my chances with the next fall of scree, or whatever this third-rate, non-rock is called.”

“My work is perfect”, said the Anglican God, “there is nothing third-rate in the whole universe that was not made by your lot”

“You made our lot, so how can we be the root of imperfection?  That’s neither fair nor logical. I thought you were an Anglican! And anyway, we didn’t make the Alps, you did, and this stuff is rubbish: can’t climb it, can’t build with it, can’t make fire with it or anything useful! No wonder the whole damn range is eroding away. You just can’t admit that you got it wrong, that’s all.”