On my way home yesterday, a man I’d never met asked me if he could come inside my apartment, use the toilet, and pray. Because it was nearly past his prayer-o’clock.

A series of ‘what the fucks???’ crossed my mind, then a ‘forgive me for I may have sinned’ to ward off the what the fucks, just in case, despite different and often opposing religions. I said NO.

I put this situation on Facebook, asking if my refusal to let him in was uncharitable. All friends who responded said it was reasonable for me not to let him inside. It was a unanimous no. Terms like weirdo, murderer, rapist, con-artist, and junkie were bandied about. Mum reminded me of the stranger danger that she taught me as a kid. And someone pointed out the obvious. If he needed to pray on time, he needed to plan his trip better. That’s what the Metlink site is there for.

Despite all of these potential realities – I once came home to a junkie lying in my yard, looking a bit dead and so I called the police, so if I handled that I could handle anything – I was worried about two things if I were to invite him in. Were there any dirty undies on the floor, left in haste before the morning’s shower? And I dislike religion being forced onto me, so the thought of someone praying in my apartment disturbed the BeJesus (or in this case, the BeAllah) out of me. Being murdered didn’t cross my mind.

Someone asked if my toilet was a shrine. Well yes, actually. It is. Aside from the seriously stylish prints of Libra Fleur adorning my cistern, my toilet door is a shrine to some of my favourite musos. Pictures of Silverchair. Savage Garden, Genevieve Maynard and Kurt Cobain are blu-tacked on the back (shhh it’s a rental), and a sign that reads ‘Do not disturb, I’m listening to Silverchair’ hangs from the handle (definitely NOT a euphemism for ‘do not disturb, I’m doing a poo’). Had I let the man in, my music tastes (religion) may have been forced on him in the toilet-shrine.

And that’s just another example of the strange folk I attract.