Are your parents home?
Thankfully Jehovah’s Witnesses are not frequent door knockers in our area but that wasn’t always the case.
When I was sixteen years old we lived in a small country housing estate in a street with only five residents. With so few neighbours we all knew each other and recognised each others cars as they drove down the street.
One Saturday afternoon I was sitting in front of the TV when a strange car drove along our short dirt road and attempted to do a U-turn in the cul-de-sac at the end. Being a nosy teenager I got up from the couch and headed over to the window for a closer look.
Once the driver managed to turn around and eventually stop half on and half off the road out the front of our neighbours place I saw four immaculately dressed men in suits carrying brief cases. Having seen them before I knew exactly what they were doing in our quiet little street and with none of the other neighbours home I knew it wouldn’t be long before they found out front door.
Being a rebellious smart arse my first thought was to annoy rather than ignore and knowing I had to be quick I got moving.
Less than five minutes later I was sitting on the step in the alcove of our front door. While I could see our driveway and the men walking down it they could not see me. I was able to time my next move easily and when they finally stepped in front of the alcove and were about to ring the bell they saw me sitting on the step.
Sitting there on the step with a cigarette in one hand, a stubbie of beer in the other and puffing out a series of smoke rings I was definitely not as surprised as my visitors.
“Oh. Excuse me son,” the one standing at the front said, “Are your parents home?”
Taking a deep drag on the cigarette in my hand I replied. “What do you think?”