The Jesus in the drain

Of all the stories told by My Aunt The Nun when I saw her in France, this is my favourite. The event in question took place in Belfast, Northern Ireland. I’m not sure how long ago it happened but it would’ve been 30 years at the very least.

One day, word went round my grandmother’s neighbourhood that one of the residents had witnessed a genuine miracle: she’d seen Jesus’ disembodied head looking serenely up at her from inside a nearby drain.

“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed my Aunty Cassie. (A different aunt again. She had a temperament to match her fiery tresses and a colourful vocabulary that regularly scandalised the rest of the family. I think I inherited my love of swearing from her). “That’s a hell of a place for him to turn up.”

Her avowed skepticism did not stop her lining up with the rest of the neighbourhood to peer into the Blessed Drain, however. She didn’t see anything remotely resembling Jesus’ head and neither did anyone else. But for weeks afterward, people procured and poured vast quantities of Holy Water down their plugholes, presumably to make him feel more comfortable in the sewers.

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