Willoughby was getting on in life. He was in his seventy-fourth year. He had led an interesting enough life; fairly bland, but with the occasion moment of excitement. He dreamt of having his life over and doing things better the second time around.
He would like to take an old building – such as a barn or a rundown church or even a small factory – and turn it into a lovely home. He’d seen people doing that on television. Of course he would need plenty of money because he would work on his renovation and building preservation every day; all day if he had half a chance.
And when the house was finished he would start on the garden. Perhaps a small lake. Certainly at least a fish pond. And he would keep chickens, not for eggs but for an interest. If he bred rare varieties of fowl he could enter competitions with his perfect poultry at various fairs.
Naturally there would be an extensive orchard. Not only would it supply fresh fruit in season, but he could make and freeze fruit pies for the cold winter months, as well as canning fruit and creating tasty pickles and chutneys. In fact, in his renovated dwelling he had a special room for storing all these preserves.
There would be ambient lighting in the garden, and a large patio for barbeques. And a triple garage – one for his regular car, one for his pick-up truck (how else could he gather firewood off his ten acre woodland?), and a third garage for his classic 1930’s car. There was a workshop as well; quite large, where he could potter away with wood. With a lathe he could turn wooden bowls. Oh! and a potter’s wheel and kiln!
God heard Willoughby’s earnest desire. He was granted a second life; a reincarnation. He was rich. He had everything he ever dreamed of. He hated it.