Lachlan had lived an average sort of life. He’d told the odd fib, but it didn’t amount to much. He’d given the occasional dollar to the Salvation Army during their Annual Appeal. He’d paid his taxes. He never once got a ticket for speeding. He’d been worn to a frazzle rearing his kids and driving van-loads of exuberant youths to this game and that, and so on. It was an average sort of life.
Eventually he died. He joined the line at the Pearly Gates.
Saint Peter said, “You lived an average sort of life. The standard here is very high. I’m sorry but you’ve missed out.”
“Oh, dear!” said Lachlan. “So I’m going to Hell?”
“No,” said Saint Peter, “as a consolation prize we’re sending you into oblivion.”
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