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Suppose there was a miracle.

Suddenly you know who everyone is. Outside the tube station, a pedestrian waits for the lights. She's an industrial designer, working on a prototype intelligent shopping trolley. Standing next to her are two old ladies, Anglo Irish sisters. During the Troubles, they lived next door to Eamon de Valera. He would slip over their garden wall to avoid the secret police.

At work, the security guard says hi. He repairs vintage cars and wants to get into your knickers. A woman from the IT Unit walks past you glowering. She loathes you. Someone has been telling her you are a racist, someone you thought was a friend.

At lunch, ten large men crowd into the bar. In the grip of the miracle, you are hounded by knowledge: they are policemen, off duty, boisterous, veering out of control. They will fail to pay their bill.

Back outside, you are overwhelmed. Passing cars gnaw at your attention like gnats. On the 5th floor of the old M15 headquarters, a drunk squatter is sprawled, unable to stand, desperate to pee.

"Why?" you ask God. "Why break all the rules just to do this terrible thing to me?"

And God answers. God has a small voice, tiny and sweet. His testes have not descended. He doesn't have testes. He giggles a lot. The voice of God when you finally hear it sounds like a cross between a sparrow and Marilyn Monroe.

"I'm sorry," God coos. "Now you know why I hate miracles too."

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