Sunday is well named. It really is a nice day out there. This morning I couldn't resist taking a break down by the lake at Queens Park. With water levels so low, the gravel beach also exposes larger stones that make convenient seats. A flock of bemused pidgeons strut by in random directions, heads titling, trying to figure out what breed of bird I might be. Give it up guys. Your brain is too small.

The geese and swans never even stirred. They all remained curled up a few yards away. I guess they know me by sight. Also by the fact I never throw them any bread, though one female duck plodded cautiously toward me on the off chance she might be wrong. Only when the asian crowd left their temples and wandered through the park in noisy family groups did anything happen.

All of a sudden the geese were awake, moving slowly here and there, stretching their wings, like combatants preparing for the great fight for food they expected to erupt any minute. Among them were grey and white seabirds, black coots and moorhens, dull flecked ducks, and of course, the inevitable pidgeons in their monotone urban cammouflage. The swans remained snoozing. Why should they worry? If bread starts appearing, they're big enough to see off their competitors.

It was quite a peaceful scene. Apart that is from asian kids chasing the birds away with impetuous bravado, the insistent buzz of a passing light aeroplane, and a distant peel of church bells. What could be more british? My mother contends stubbornly that Britain is a christian country, but then, she hasn't realised that the 1950's are now considered a historical period. If only she could see how many exotic faiths now use the local church.

Or would she? One of the reasons my mother refuses point blank to accept I'm a spiritualist, other than her fond desire to subject me to holy slavery, is that I don't attend a spiritualist church. It's an interesting viewpoint. For her, religion is everything. It orders her life and provides a weekly security blanket. For me, it's insufferably grey, conformist, and reduces belief to a chore. She thrives on duty. A structured world with no suprises.

I was watching one of those Great Railway Journeys programs on television. In it, the black presenter leaves London and heads for 'Arkadia', ostensibly in Greece, but as he realises along the way, it is in fact an inner place, a peace of mind, a sense of belonging, something that long travel tends to remind a person of. I had to chuckle because I realised that my own virtual realm, the Inopendent Republic of Rushey Platt, is nothing different. A middle england all of my own. Not just some silly fantasy, but a connection with a world that I can, at times, reach out and touch. Less of a state, more of a state of mind.

I can alrmost hear people making disparaging comments about my state of mind, or indeed my state of being, but I'm not bothered. Why would I want to be trapped in their grubby little reality? I passed a chap earlier, dressed in some kind of civic work uniform, pacing along the car park behind the main shopping thoroughfare. With his mobile phone pressed against his ear he said "How do I get out of here?... Swindon, I mean..."

We're Here To Help You

We used to get a lot of missionaries from the Society of Jesus wandering around town. They'd approach in pairs and spiritually mug you for your soul. I wonder why we don't see them around now? Have they been locked up for crimes against rationality at last? Most of the time they sim ply say hello, or more accurately, "Hi there", because they were invariably american. On one occaision the missionary had the cheek to begin his sales pitch with "You look like a guy who needs help". Thanks mate. America is that way. It's a long walk. Remember to pack your swimming truinks.

On one occaision a missionary managed to get me into conversation mode. No mean feat for a man bearing a badge with Jesus on it. He wore that badge like it gave him permission to get past the security guards at Heaven Inc. Alarmed at discovering I played for another team (even if I'm the only player), he tried to find a weakness in my religious armour.

"So what what exactly do you hold sacred?" He asked.

Well... I looked around for a stage prop. Aha! That pebble will do. You see this? It's a small rock made of compressed sand. Maybe a few million years old, maybe older, who knows? I could claim that this rock is sacred. That it represents something important to me. But hey, it's just a pebble, and with that I tossed it over my shoulder. He looked confused. Isn't it interesting that these paid up members of the Jesus fan club interpret the world around them only in terms they define for themselves. We humans do like our little worlds.