Hark back to the Wednesday of last week. This correspondent headed out to Saxby’s Stadium to chase a story. There was a wheelchair sport program in full swing as we entered the premises. We were approached by one of those in charge, who was in a wheelchair, offering assistance.

We told her who we needed to see, fully expecting her to wheel off. And then it happened. She rose from her wheelchair and walked. It was a biblical moment if ever there was one. This was undoubtedly The Miracle of Saxby’s Stadium. And we performed it – hallelujah! We were transfixed. We were a tad disappointed at the lack of fanfare that followed the miraculous moment for we thought that at least a band of angels would descend to acclaim us with trumpets trumpeting. Maybe that’s not the way these things work, we decided.

Perhaps, we pondered as we made our way back to the office, we should have paid more attention during the hours upon hours of religious instruction we endured at school. For we would imagine being a miracle worker would be a job of considerable responsibility. 

The Lord works in mysterious ways. We immediately decided that we have to lead others back to the path of righteousness. What better place to start, we deemed, than where we’re employed.

For this is a home to fornicators, lairs, charlatans, thieves and drunkards … and that’s just the sport desk.

Unfortunately colleagues weren’t convinced about our suddenly discovered healing powers. Editor Bell, who we’ve long suspected of being a heretic, led the attack.

“You halfwit (or at least a similar word ending in ‘wit’). Just because the person was sitting in the wheelchair doesn’t mean she was confined to it,’’ she thundered.

“A miracle? That’s absurd, even by your standards. The only miracle that’s happened today is that you’ve actually done some work.’’

However, colleague Rob Douglas, who knows much about these things, offered that if we can perform three miracles, we qualify for Sainthood.

“One down, two to go,’’ he noted, a tongue perhaps in cheek.

“A Saint,’’ we said.

“I’ll be Michael, the first of his name, Ruler of Struggle Street and all its mangoes, the...’’

“I think you’re getting confused with Game of Thrones,’’ Rob politely interjected.

Dammit, just when we were going to make a play for Daenerys Targaryen.

We were starting to wonder if other miracle workers copped this much flak. But then Editor Bell showed her pragmatic side.

“If, for your next miracle, you can turn water into wine, let me be the first to know,’’ she whispered.