The Miracle

So Mr Wittgenstein, said Belle at Bonne, you study language-games?

A dog may expect his master, said Wittgenstein. But a dog cannot expect it's master next Wednesday.

I see, said Belle et Bonne sagely. It is because the dog does not have language.

But the dog may expect his master when it is next Wednesday, said Saint Nicholas.

Certainly, said Wittgenstein, but today, he cannot expect his master next Wednesday.

I think we all agree on that, said Belle et Bonne. I do hope Uncle David gets here soon. We need to talk about the bumper Christmas edition. Saint Nicholas has agreed to write something for us, haven't you Saint Nicholas?

I have indeed, said Saint Nicholas. I am looking forward to it.

We thought that since it was to be a Christmas edition, the topic ought to have something to do with Christmas, as well as the requisite philosophy and bicycles, said Belle et Bonne.

My story does not actually include a bicycle, said Saint Nicholas. And it doesn't really have to do with Christmas, except that I am in it. I suppose however that it could be regarded as philosophical as it involves a miracle, performed by me.

That is highly unsatisfactory, said Wittgenstein.

No no, said Belle et Bonne. He is right that if he is in it, it is by definition Christmassy. As to the bicycle, it it always possible to fit one in the story somewhere.

I meant the miracle, said Wittgenstein.

The Miracle

We shouldn't laugh at Corky's owner for her god thing. I had a god thing happen to me once, well it wasn't really a god thing, let's say it was inexplicable.

It was about fifteen years ago it happened. I was wearing yellow rubber gloves.

We'd had bacon for dinner and there was bacon stuck to the bottom of the pan, hard baked-on bacon, difficult to get off. I was doing the washing up. I scraped at the hard baked-on lumps of bacon with my finger encased in the finger of the yellow rubber glove.

I finished the washing up and took off the yellow rubber gloves. And then I saw it. A piece of disintegrating bacon stuck under my fingernail, the one I'd used to scrape the bacon with. But the fingernail had been covered at all times by the rubber of the glove.

I was astonished. But I thought perhaps there had been a hole in the yellow rubber glove. I examined it closely. I couldn't see a hole. I looked and looked. There wasn't any hole. The only possible conclusion was that the bacon had travelled through the rubber.

For half an hour I was in a state of believing the miraculous. It was regrettable that my miracle only involved the transmission of bacon through solid yellow rubber. But a miracle was a miracle, nonetheless.

So there you have my god thing. As I said it wasn't really a god thing, but it was inexplicable.

Turned out it wasn't even inexplicable. There was a hole in the finger of the yellow rubber glove after all, I had just missed it. But I haven't forgotten the feeling of being faced with the ineffable. That is why I would not laugh at Mrs Corky.