No miracles in the NHS

“It's Our Lord,” said my receptionist, “and before you ask, He has ID, a gold credit card.”

“Hang on,” He said as He entered the surgery, “I'd asked for a doctor that believes in Me.”

“Nothing personal, Lord,” I said, “but to rational people you're slightly less believable than Santa Claus or homoeopathy, all that Samson and Goliath stuff.”

“Hey,” He said, “Samson was a decent hardworking man; runs a barber shop now—or was it then? Omnipresence can be confusing.”

“I'm feeling a bit depressed,” He continued, idly bringing my …