My First World Problems

No one is reading my blog

My parents are too busy to read my blog and they’re RETIRED.

I can’t work out how to activate comments on my blog.  Ok this one is sorted.

My blog keeps distracting me from my actual job.

Now I’m on Twitter I have too many procrastination options.

Modern technology has given me Attention Deficit Disor, ooh cakes!

My parents live on a yacht so I’m forced to spend all my holiday time and money going to visit them in the Caribbean.

Sainsbury’s Local is closer to my house than Morrisons, so I keep spending twice as much money as I should on shopping out of laziness.

I can’t get anything creative done as I have too many box sets to watch.

My boss thinks I’m ace so keeps giving me more responsibility.

Someone keeps beating me to blog post ideas.

I have such a full social calendar that I feel exhausted with my life and just want to stay home.

My local pub is too posh to sell crisps.

I can’t afford a holiday abroad this year as I spent my money on festivals.

Now I have maps on my internet phone, I miss the London A-Z.

Sometimes I get paralysed by too much choice in the supermarket and spend 20 minutes trying to decide between Sharwoods curry sauce and Sainsburys Own.

Acacia Blossom honey is £2 more than regular runny honey.

Being size medium in clothing and shoes means stuff always runs out first in my size.

I feel guilty when I eat quinoa that I'm depriving a Bolivian family.

The beep on my microwave sounds too bossy.

Give It Some Latitude

Just back after four days away at Latitude festival so I haven’t written anything in over a week . . . . I’m a bit sleep deprived and groggy from this humidity right now (seriously, how hot is it?? I got attacked by a mosquito the size of a pterodactyl last night), and I wasn’t going to write about the festival as I always think you sound like a bit of a knob trying to describe how you had such an amazing time – “So there were these sheep painted multi-colours, and a fountain with performance art projected onto it, and we went into the woods where there was this giant pregnant torso made out of twigs and we crawled between her twig legs and birthed ourselves!” “Er, yeah that sounds great, call me when the mother-ship lands, ok?"

I WILL say that I loved the mix of music, dance, poetry, literature and comedy (and did, in fact, have such an amazing time. Sorry!). I have been schooled in the art of awesome contemporary poetry this weekend (Luke Wright and Holly McNish, I am about to become your biggest fan-slash-stalker). And that right now I would quite like to be in the knitting tent creating a communal sculpture out of wool. Or dancing in a forest under fairy lights, drinking cider with a shot of brandy dropped in (to save time queuing for the bar again, obviously) all covered in gold glitter.

I WILL say that I never thought I would get to use all the ‘traveller crap’ that I bought whilst backpacking again, but it turns out that multi coloured harem pants are totally appropriate for festivals! It is probably a good thing the festival was only four days, as I get insanely carried away by the atmosphere of wherever I happen to be – on my first day in Goa I looked at all the other travellers wearing their crusty tie-die floaty outfits and thought “hilarious!” Twenty four hours later I was decked out in ankle bracelets, harem pants and a t-shirt with the ‘Om’ symbol painted on the front. I AM A LOSER! (But seriously guys, those harem pants are hella comfortable AND practical. Just saying . . .)

I WILL say that I managed to avoid the whole ‘flowers in the hair’ thing, but only because I wasn’t convinced people would get that I was being ironic. As in “Yeah, secretly this is quite fun to wear but I’m aware of how clichéd this is, and I want us to both know I’m aware that this is clichéd, but am doing it anyway to make a statement about festival costume. In a post-modern ironic way, m-kay?”

Also, I know I sound like a deranged old bag here, but what is with teenagers wearing denim cut-offs so short that the pocket lining protrudes from the legs of the shorts??? (Yeah, I used a lot of italics and question marks there – this whigs me out so much that it makes me abandon correct usage of grammar!) Is it meant to be sexy? Because to me it just looks like their sanitary towel has wriggled free and is making a break for it down their legs, like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape, except with less Nazis and more feminine hygiene products.

I WILL say that you should fear the pop-up tent. I cannot stress this enough. Cannot stress this enough. Sure, it seems like a good idea at the time - arrive after a long stressful journey, and whilst everyone else is faffing about assembling poles and hammering tent pegs all you have to do is release the packaging and a tent pops up instantly, leaving you more time for buying cappuccinos and smugly watching your friends struggle from the comfort of your shelter! But DO NOT let yourself be seduced. When it comes to putting the bloody thing back in the bag again, you will be weeping and contorting yourself into strange positions, sitting on the thing whilst three of you try to compress something approximately the size of a rhinoceros into a carrier bag the size of a frisbee. Yesterday morning three complete strangers who had all experienced the Pop-Up Tent witnessed my pathetic wrestling match with a jumped up plastic bag and took pity on me, and none of them could make it work either! Not one of them could manoeuvre this thing back into its container. Eventually a couple of campers came over and advised me, in hushed tones, to go and see “The Tent Whisperer”. The Guru of Pop-Up Tents. The Dalai Lama of Camping. They led me on a pilgrimage to see this mystical being, who sat cross legged in his pop-up whilst desperate campers came and laid offerings at his feet in exchange for his supernatural tent wisdom. It took even him a few goes, but eventually, between four of us, we managed to tame the plastic beast . . .  I sacrificed my morning coffee to The Tent Whisperer, grovelling and giving thanks and praise. (Note: this is a slight exaggeration. He was a totally nice chappie who was helping people for free, and only asked if he could have a sip of my coffee as he’d run out of money. I practically pushed the cup into his hands exclaiming “Take it! Take it!” as I was so very grateful. I would probably have signed over ownership of my first born child in exchange for not having that tent-sized problem in my life anymore).

ANYWAY, I have spent far too long talking about tents, so the final point I WILL talk about is that the festival was a bit anti-Christian, y’all! Maybe it’s a result of this particular festival being a haven for middle class, Guardian reading liberals, but belief bashing was practically a sponsored activity. (I’m looking at you here, Eddie Izzard, although you’re not the only one. I used to find you quite sexy, with your confidence and your funniness and your decadent make up. But not anymore! Good luck getting over that one, Eddie!). Now, I don’t have a problem with people expressing views different to my own, and I would never want to censor artistic expression, but I do have a bit of a problem with the way they go about it – it’s just a bit . . . rude. Not just rude, but not especially clever or funny. I didn’t hear any dazzlingly insightful rifts on theology, just material along the lines of “There is no God, Christianity is rubbish and people who believe are stupid, whilst I am very clever, ha-ha!” And this gets a massive easy laugh! Throw the F word in there a few times and people are howling. It’s not exactly Peter Cook at his best, is it?

Insult my religion if you must, but for goodness sake make me laugh whilst you do it.

The Church itself is ripe for mockery, and I like a good “priest buggering the choirboy” joke with the rest of them, but mocking belief itself is just a bit . . . mean. And narrow minded. As though we’re all a bunch of Creationists who’ve never thought through the implications of belief in God, and all we need is to hear is some stand up comedian in a tent in Suffolk to make us reconsider and see the light (the metaphorical light, not the spiritual light, seen as that’s a religious phrase and we hate religion). So it’s not their views themselves that stick in my graw (Is that a word? Spell Check says no but I think it’s a word). It’s the fact that I would never stand in front of an audience and say that all atheists are stupid, because they’re not. And I would never mock their life choices, because that’s just bad manners. All I’m asking – politely, with pretty pleases and cherries on top - is that people extend me and others like me the same respect. Because we’re all just muddling along through this thing called Life and we should, you know, do unto others as you’d have them do unto you. Yep, that’s from the Bible, folks. But it’s still just common sense, right?

Oops. It seems I’ve accidentally written a post about festivals.

Faith Versus Doubt

Doubt is always lurking somewhere by the side of the road on my faith journey. Usually just as I think I'm making a leap forward in my devotion to Christianity, it jumps out from behind its hiding place and mugs me: "Not you again"! I sigh, "I thought I was done with you"!

It can be anything that sets it off – a non answer to prayer, a depressive mood where God can’t seem to get past my temporary numbness, a book on atheism that seems pretty persuasive . . .

In moments like that, sometimes I question if I’m even a proper Christian - I can’t speak in tongues and I don’t prophesy. If I’m having doubts too, what’s left? Someone once lent me, at just the crucial moment, a book by Philip Yancey, who writes about all these kinds of questions with brutal honesty. If he feels these things too then it must be ok, he’s definitely a proper Christian - he’s had a book published!

But sometimes the words of another human being aren’t quite enough, and then I stop and remember why I became Christian in the first place.

I never planned on it happening. I was bombing about my mid-twenties doing all the stuff that young adults do, but a school friend had become Christian a few years ago, and naturally myself and others were sceptical: “They’re RUINING their life!” we bitched, “they’re missing out on all the good stuff”! As a proper evangelical is supposed to, my school chum had been inviting me to carol concerts and Alpha launches (a course outlining the basics of Christianity) but I’d been pretty non-responsive. The carol concert had freaked me out with its super smiley Welcome Team (it’s just not normal to be that friendly), and for the rest of the events I’d cancelled at the last minute, preferring to spend my evenings in the pub or, on one occasion, curled up in bed after a mammoth 48 hours clubbing, shivering and trying to sleep instead.

But my gal pal had a sneaky trick up her sleeve – instead of inviting me to a church event, she invited me for a drink. Uh, yeah, of course I’ll go! Looking back, I’m slightly embarrassed that that’s what it took for me to actually commit to meeting up . . . but turn up I did, on her doorstep, waiting for instructions on what she had planned for the evening. And then she unveiled her genius move: “I just need to pop in to this church thing on the way, I said I’d help out, it will only take 40 minutes and then we’ll head off, is that ok”? Sure, fine, whatever.

Well, the church ‘thing’ was an Alpha launch, and by the end of the evening I’d signed up for the course. In my family, debating is king, and I had a vision of myself arguing all these silly Christians down until they admitted that I was right and they were WRONG WRONG WRONG! How could anyone believe this stuff in the modern world? What about evolution? What about dinosaurs? What about homosexuality? These nerds were going DOWN . . .

Eighteen months later (including two courses and many church trips) belief happened, and I realised that I too wanted to follow this way of living. It was one of the best days of my life, but it did not come easily. It wasn’t like I did the Alpha course and Hey Presto – faith! It was a gradual erosion of my prejudices and ideas that had held me back. People often say to me that the idea of there being an eternal, omnipotent Being is ridiculous, but I began to see that no matter what you believe, you’re dealing with some pretty crazy concepts . . . . Eternity, and Nothing, and Chaos, and Time. Even if you’re a full on atheist as I was, you’re still dealing with the idea that once there was just nothing, or complete chaos, and at some point a singularity occurred from that nothing and the universe expanded out - time and space, matter, cause and effect, and physical laws were all created. One day it will all contract and time will end, and what will exist then? Just nothing again perhaps, for all eternity. None of these theories are implausible, but neither are they LESS strange than the idea of there being an eternal creator outside of time, who caused that singularity, who said “Let There Be Light”, whereupon the big bang occurred and existence was set into motion.

The day that I believed, I looked around me at all the people talking, laughing, sulking, being, and it seemed obvious that there were individual souls inhabiting each body, that we were more than just flesh and chemical interactions in our brain. Have you ever looked at an infant, and you can see its personality - that there’s a distinct person in there, even though they can’t talk yet, or act out with particular behaviour? Christianity’s explanation of the world seems to make sense – that the world is fallen and this is not the way it was meant to be, but at the same time that humans are more than just animals, we have the divine spark within us – whatever it is that equals the human spirit. That the reason why we’re here is to find our way back to God and have a relationship with Him once more.

So I persevere.  When I have doubts I keep going - because I made this commitment, and if Christianity is about having a relationship with God, then faith is like a marriage. Sometimes it’s joyful, I’m flying, it’s so easy to believe and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Other times I wonder if I’ve done the right thing and might not want ‘a break’ or a trial separation. I feel like cheating on my faith, with Agnosticism, Humanism or Nihilism. But I remember why I made this commitment in the first place, it’s my anchor and I know I’m in the right place.

The anchor is Jesus . . .  . I’m ashamed to say that sometimes I struggle with talking about Jesus. It’s easier to talk in vague concepts about ‘God’ or ‘a supernatural being’. The word ‘Jesus’ is quite loaded – it has a lot of connotations, of children’s nativity plays, of the Bible Belt, of sandals and beards and school R.E lessons. But if you get past all the associations, Jesus is radical in a way that will change your life. He’s the person at the centre of a storm of misconceptions and church politics. Whenever I truly doubt, I turn to the gospels, and the man depicted there is SO real, so counter cultural, that I cannot help but believe in his truth. He hung out with the lowest of the low in society, the outcasts, the sinners, the ones who didn’t fit in. He hated judgement and was all about love. Love your neighbour. Love your enemies. His claims to be the Son of God are massive, but then if you start from the point of there being a God, no miracle or manipulation of the laws of nature are too big. People expected a mighty ruler, but instead he came to serve. He is someone you can trust, who will never shame you and wants to know you so much you wouldn’t believe it. But you should believe it. It’s worth persevering for.

Evil Beard Syndrome

The other night I was busy procrastinating over something or other whilst my flatmates were carrying out a conversation in the background about the contents of the fridge. Something like: "Is it ok to throw away this rice?" "Yeah, but don't throw away the pasta that's in there, I know you and you're a bit chuck-happy" . . .etc etc. Somewhere between their conversation and my procrastination, I turned this into there being a small person called Chuck Happy who sneaks into your fridge at night, and throws away that yoghurt you'd been saving, or, you know, that milk that is only just at its sell by date and totally fine, and sell by dates are all hooey anyway . . . well, unless it's actually turned green and has started moving of course . . .

ANYWAY, I lay on my bed that evening trying to brainstorm ideas for stories and drawings (I didn't really get much further than "The Adventures of Chuck Happy - he, um, sneaks into your fridge and, like, steals some yoghurt"?? Riveting stuff I'm sure you'll agree, J.K. Rowling had better just WATCH OUT!). I usually keep a pad and pen by my bed in case some brilliant idea occurs to me in the middle of the night, otherwise I'll have completely forgotten it by morning. If I'd been Pharaoh having those seven cow dreams foretelling the famine in Egypt (see Genesis), the next morning I'd have been like "Well, there were these . . . .  big dogs, and something to do with water, and then, um, something happened, and then I realised I was taking my exams and hadn't done ANY REVISION WHATSOEVER! Do you think it means something?? Nah, probably not . . . .Oh well, what's for breakfast?"

Back to the 21st century, and as I'm lying in bed having turned out the light, waiting for sleep to happen, I occasionally jot the odd thing down on the pad by the light of my phone - thoughts on spirituality, embarrassing stories, stuff like that. I must have been a bit more asleep and doolally that I thought I was, because when I woke up the next morning I'd scrawled "EVIL BEARD - DIAGRAM" diagonally across the whole of the pad. I distinctly remember this making perfect sense at the time of writing, and thinking "What ho, Emsy! This is IT! You will revolutionise the theological debate with this one!" But obviously, by the clear light of day I have no idea what this means whatsoever.

I must admit, I'm not a massive fan of beards. Stubble and a few days growth is fine, in a 'hey I'm so devil-may-care and rock n'roll that I haven't had any time to shave' kind of way (wink). But full on beards, despite their popularity amongst both indie band members and World of Warcraft gamers, are really only a good look if you are one of the following: Santa Claus, Dumbledore, or Brian Blessed in Flash Gordon.

Maybe it's a childhood thing. When I was 13 I went on holiday with a school friend and her family to Centre Parcs in Belgium. After a week of playing badminton and messing around in hot tubs with added jasmine scented oils (SOOO classy, thinks 13 year old me!) we all arrive back at my house, only for the front door to be answered by a strange man who greets me with a hearty "Hello!" and gives me a big hug. Completely bugging out, it takes me a full minute to realise it's my DAD who, formerly a card carrying member of the beard club, had shaved it all off! WTF!

Not realising anything is wrong, my Mum invites the other family in for a cup of tea and post holiday analysis. We're all sat there on the sofa, tea has been brewed, but it soon becomes clear that something is not quite right here. "Did you have a nice time"? my mum asks me. "'Mm" I whisper, intently keeping my eyes on my shoes. People look around, not quite sure what to make of my mood. "What did you get up to"? she tries again . . . . . "Hmk!" I manage, as a lump has been building up steadily in my throat for the past ten minutes now and is threatening to explode all over the living room. My mum is looking worried and pissed off. The atmosphere is awkward. I excuse myself and flee to my room, where my Mum promptly follows, considering whether to give me a right ding-dong about being rude in front of guests, or gently ask whether I'd been, you know, abused or something.

The volcano of tears erupts: "He's not my daddy anymore!!" I wail, "He doesn't look like my daddy anymore! Without the beard, it's all wroooooooooonggggg!!!!" I throw myself onto my bed and do that attractive crying so hard you can't breathe and start hyperventilating thing, quickly turning my pillow into a soggy flannel.

Nineteen years later I am pleased to say that I am now fully recovered. I am totally used to having a beard- free dad, and can't imagine his face any other way. But maybe there's a lingering resentment at beards for having abandoned me so suddenly at 13. I just don't know.

Anyway, here's a picture of what I imagine Chuck Happy and his arch nemesis, Evil Beard, look like. Chuck Happy is massively influenced by the illustrations of Brian Froud and Alan Lee (so nobody sue me!) although I have also been told that he strongly resembles Mick Jagger.

Things I learnt at GCSE

Geology:

English:

I can't tell you what a past participle is, but this is how to make me happy . . .

This Day Has Been Totally Biblical

On Saturday me and my lovely flatmates went to Summer Stampede to see an awesome line up of bands headlined by Mumford & Sons. Now, I know Mumford & Sons are a bit divisive, with people either loving them, or hating them because they're too 'commerical', but seen as I have no pretentions whatsoever to coolness I'm happy to admit to being a fan. In general, Christians love Mumford & Sons! (Yes, that's a huge sweeping statement and I'm sure there's loads of exceptions to the rule, but I'm kind of prone to making sweeping statements. For example, I have been known to quote that 80% of the UK's mobility scooters are purchased in the North of England. I have no evidence for this whatsoever, it just FEELS like every time I go Oop North I spend way more time dodging feisty OAPs zipping along the roads like they're competing in the Grand Prix that I do down South. It just feels true!).

I think part of the reason Christians like Mumford & Sons (apart from their music, natch) is because the lead singer's parents are prominent church leaders and their lyrics are completely saturated with religious imagery (their album is called Babel, after all). And although the band members themselves don't like to label themselves as Christians (although they do admit to believing in God), we've basically claimed them as our own. Which is understandable, as up until now we've really only had Cliff Richard as an available celebrity Christian, whilst Mormons get sexy sexy Brandon Flowers . . .  Islam has Cat Stevens (or Yusuf or whatever his name is now. I just Googled it, it's Yusuf Islam). Buddhism has . . . Richard Gere?? I don't know, my knowledge of celebrity religious affiliations only goes so far . . .

Now one of the side effects of having an over active imagination is that real life occasionally (regularly) blends in with stories from films and books, and this particular day was totally out of the Bible you guys!

First off, the walk from Stratford station into the Olympic Park was EXACTLY like the Israelites wandering in the desert for 40 years, trying to get from Egypt to the Promised Land. It was baking hot, there was no shade, no food or water, and it seemed to go on forever.

Rough recreation of scene from journey to Summer Stampede

Route taken by the Israelites on their exodus from Egypt to the Promised Land



Route taken by Summer Stampede ticket holders on their exodus from Stratford Station to the Olympic Park. The similarity is striking.


Once we'd finally made it and basked in the glow of our arrival, we got to enjoy the musical stylings of Haim, Ben Howard, Vampire Weekend and Ed Sharpe, who demonstrated the second of our Biblical recreations:

This photo isn't great for showing this, but Ed was totally impersonating Jesus with crowds reaching out just to touch his garments. He even has the beard!

Final Bible recreation of the night came after we got back home, to find that Lazarus (the clay model of Lazarus that my flatmate made and sits on the bookshelf) had taken a dramatic tumble to the floor and was now decapitated. Totally Headless. Without noggin. Well, Jesus did bring Lazarus back from the dead after all, so we attempted a similar trick. One healing later (read: squidging the clay together a bit until the head and neck merged once more) we had a restored Lazarus back in pride of place on the bookshelf, watching over us benevolently.
Witness:

That towel is not covering quite as much as it should . . .

But what about Mumford & Sons? Well, they were pretty flippin' FANTASTIC. I firmly believe that words have power . . .  and as casual and jokey as I've been about religious stuff so far in this blog, it was amazing and kind of moving to hear 60,000 people, regardless of religion, race, gender or any other factor, come together and sing the words "Awake My Soul" . . .  Amen to that!


Update: this weekend has become even more like something out of the Bible, in that our bathroom has been invaded by flying ants and I'm just about to go all genocidal and wipe them all out with bug killer, like the Israelites did to the Amalekites (the Amalekites were definitely wiped out by bug killer). There is LITERALLY a plague on my house right now.

Further update: the genocide has had to be delayed as I can't get the child proof cap off the bug killer.

Final update: Genocide carried out! They swarmed around me as I covered the bathroom in bug powder, and some of them crawled up my leg and landed on me, so I feel pretty disgusting and violated right now. But I had my vengeance! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Although I might have gone a bit overboard with the ant powder . . . the bathroom looks a bit like photographs you see of Pompei, everything under layers of volcanic ash and dust. Better get out the vacuum cleaner . . .

Trying To Get My Tongue Around Things

So I've been thinking about tongues a lot lately. Not just the muscle in your mouth that you use to stick out at annoying children or lick yummy ice cream off spoons with, but the activity of 'speaking in tongues'. For those of you that aren't of the Christian persuasion, speaking in tongues is, according to the church and the Bible, a spiritual gift bestowed by God that allows you to speak in a different language to pray. It seems to come in two forms - a sort of private language that sounds vaguely like Hebrew where you don't know exactly what is being said, used for personal prayer to God when you want to pray but don't know what to say. Then there's a more public version where someone speaks out loud in a language they've never learnt, and someone else is bestowed with the translation, for the 'edification' (heh heh, see previous Christian Dictionary!) of the congregation.

Let me tell you, as a newbie believer this is one of the most fer-REAKY aspects of  Christianity, and one that makes you suddenly start wondering if you've got yourself involved with a bunch of chicken sacrificing cult members. I find it quite comforting that even in Paul's day (that's St Paul of the Bible, I just realised I need to clarify, not Paul McCartney, Paul Simon or any other Paul) people saw the apostles engaged in this gift and assumed they were drunk  - it shows that humans have always been, and always will be, cynical buggers, and that people weren't automatically gullible about miracles when Jesus was alive just because they're, you know, OLD and HISTORICAL. . . I would bet my bottom dollar that had I lived in Paul's time I would have been shouting "Drunkard"! and "Wino"! with the best of them.

Whilst part of me still maintains this view, various things over the years have slowly made me reconsider and decide that sometimes this phenomena is genuine, and if it's in scripture maybe I shouldn't totally diss it (the reliability of scripture is a whole other blog session that maybe I'll go into another time) and that I should, you know, have a little faith.  I vowed to set my innate cynicism aside the other day and give it a go . . . .  It was NOT an unmitigated success. I opened my mouth - and nothing came out. I tried to be a bit more proactive and have faith that if I just started making noises the language would come, but all I managed was:

"Ah, ah, ah . . .corashaaaa . . . la la la, tra la la . . . aye carumba! Rah rah rah . . . Rah Rah Rasputin, lover of the Russian Queen, there was a cat who really was gone. Oh no wait, that's not right. That's Boney M lyrics . . . "

So! Just to recap in visual form:

Speaking in tongues:

NOT speaking in tongues:

Not, to the best of my knowledge, the language of angels.

"Aye Carumba" indeed.

The catchphrase of Speedy Gonzales has also been known to come out of my mouth in times of attempted prayer . . . 

 I am not kidding, once I went over to the house of a girl from church who got words from God all the time and has a super active prayer life. She prayed with me that I would get the gift of tongues. As we were praying she asked if I felt anything on the tip of my tongue that I wanted to say. I grasped at straws and said the first thing that came to my mind: "Hakuna Matata". 

To be fair, it does mean No Worries . . . 

I can't even FAKE this language!! Unless God is communicating to me via the medium of cartoons and disco music?? Soooooooooooo, maybe I'll stick a pin in the whole 'speaking in tongues' thing for the moment and just go back to normal prayer. It's not like I've ever run out of anything to say after all.

Biggest.Fail.So.Far

I'm moderately aware of my failings as a 'good Christian' on a day to day basis - I know I'm supposed to give to the homeless guy at the station but I REALLY NEED that last £2.50 for a skinny cappuccino . . .  I know I'm meant to display patience towards my fellow human beings, but I practically have an embolism every time some gormless tourist flounders around in my path and delays me by a mere 8 seconds on my morning commute. I am SO grateful that people can't actually hear the thoughts that go through my head on public transport, because I strongly suspect I'd be strung up by the thumbs and put on display as the Woman Born Without a Heart, like in one of those Victorian freak shows . . .

But my most epic of 'oh FAIL' moments so far was on the night train from Mumbai to Goa. That sounds pretty evocative doesn't it? The "Night Train to Goa". It sounds like a good title for a book, possibly a murder mystery written by Agatha Christie, all glamorous and romantic . . . Yeah, not so much. There's six bunks to a carriage, with a walkway running the length of the train at one end, and it's pretty grimy, hot and sweaty. The bathroom is a hole in the floor where one does ones business onto the quickly disappearing tracks below, and vendors travel up and down the train selling spicy snack food and toothache sweet Chai tea which I happen to love.  In fact, I truly love India, and will always keep going back for more, which sometimes baffles me as it can be SO infuriating . . .

On this particular occasion I was travelling with one of my bestest of best gal pals, a woman who never fails to make me laugh at whatever unfortunate situation I find myself in. We'd been allocated the top two bunks, almost on the ceiling -  a super kind act that most travel agents in India do for Western girls travelling by themselves to provide a level of safety. The train was scheduled to leave at 11.30pm at night, and just before we departed, four rather large middle aged Indian gentlemen complete with impressive colonial moustaches arrived to occupy the rest of the carriage. There was much shuffling around, sniffling, arranging of ones shoes, and a fair bit of burping and clearing of ones airways (the men, not us, obviously. Also, I'm not ENTIRELY sure why I keep referring to everyone as 'one' in this post. Maybe it's the reference to Agatha Christie that's making me go all formal).

ANYWAY, eventually everyone retires for bed and the lights go out - sleepy time right? Wrong! One of these chappies is a snorer. I'm not just talking about a regular decibel of snoring either. I'm talking about Olympic level, Richter scale registering, room shaking levels of snorous noise here people! Me and my friend look at each other in disbelief - how can this guy's friends be asleep?? Do they have ears? Can they not feel the vibrations reverberating through the floor? But nope, they are dead to the world. We try and join them in the land of nod, but it is not to be. This snoring is EPIC. Acting super English, we tentatively try to wake him: "Excuse me??? (in a whisper) Hello???" We try slightly louder, and louder still, but nothing will wake this dude.

And I haven't even gotten to the worst bit yet! His snore is a kind of throaty, deep, wet phlegm rattle of a snore, that ricoches off the walls and makes me feel sick to my stomach. My friend actually does have to go and throw up in the hole in the floor, it's that bad! She walks the length of four more carriages to see how far the noise extends. But really, in such a circumstance, what can you do?! Like Pavlov's Christian canine, I start praying: "Please God, make this man stop snoring. I really need some sleep. You know how cranky I get when I don't get enough sleep, I can't function, tomorrow will be completely ruined if I'm awake all night, I'm begging you . . . . " etc etc.

It doesn't work, the snore continues. I try again to get to sleep. I lie there for hours stressing and turning over on my bunk and trying to block out the noise, until at some point, totally exhausted and tearful, I snap - I furiously start praying that God WILL KILL THIS MAN!! I seriously pray to Jesus (Jesus!) that He will kill this man quickly (but painfully) so that I can get some shut eye. I must have dozed off for about an hour because I distinctly remember the snore seeping into my consciousness and dreaming that I lost it and started stabbing him with a knife "shut up shut up shut up!".
 Ber-limey!

The next morning the sun is shining. We depart from the train, slump into a rickshaw and stumble gritty eyed and less than perky onto one of the most beautiful beaches I've ever seen. Relaxing onto a bean bag and ordering strong coffee in a beach cafe, I confess to my friend what happened at about 4am the night before - that I had prayed, in all seriousness, to Jesus, the man who died for our sins, to kill my fellow human being over  . . . . SNORING! We start . . . .  to laugh . . . It's SO ridiculous. Praying to someone that stands for peace, love and forgiveness to end someone's life over something as petty as a snore!

So yep, here it is - my biggest Christian epic fail ever. SO FAR! I am constantly humbled and amazed by my ability to go from humanity-loving, all singing, all smiling Christian, to a petty, hateful psychopath in 0.2 seconds flat. Thank GOODNESS for grace or I would be in serious trouble, you guys!

By the way, I once recounted this story to some church members in our Freedom in Christ course, expecting a shared 'ha ha, how funny!' reaction. I was met with blank stares and a long silence punctuated by "Oh dear (long pause) . . . that's not good". Eyes were not met. People suddenly became engrossed in studying the chairs in front of them. Luckily the session started then and I could hold a quiet funeral for my dignity in private.

It IS bad, I admit that. But I still insist that if you'd been there, maybe you wouldn't have done the same, but you'd understand . . . .

Welcome to Faith Monkey!

Hello, hello, hello and welcome to my blog!

So I'm new to this blogging malarkey, and anyone who knows me in the slightest will be aware that I have all the technological skill of a blueberry scone. Computers freeze in my presence. I'm not entirely sure what a router does, apart from that it somehow 'makes the internet happen'. My iPod is basically a tiny magic box that music comes out of, for which I'm very grateful. So if you're reading this, please bear with me whilst I play around with the format and work out how to make it look pretty.

So . . . what the world REALLY needs is another blogger, right?? Um, probably not. So why am I starting this? I'm glad you asked. The answer is twofold:

1. I am a frustrated worker bee, trying to turn myself into a beautiful creative Queen Bee. Like many bloggers, I do a 9-5 office job which, although I know I'm very lucky to have, and work with some truly lovely people, does not exactly make me feel like I'm fulfilling my calling in life (I'm still working out exactly what that means). This blog is an excellent opportunity for me to indulge my creative pretensions.

2. I became a Christian 6 years ago at the age of 26, and to be honest I am a bit crap at this whole evangalising thing. There's tons of stuff I'm interested in that doesn't revolve around church and Christianity, but this belief system is basically the foundation of my life and affects how I view the world. It's hard to work it into every day conversation, and tbh I'm also wary of becoming a Bible thumping bore. So on this blog I get to write about my thoughts and opinions, how I see things, in a non direct manner which people are free to either take or leave as they see fit. Some of it may be more serious, some of it a bit more silly. It doesn't mean that faith is ALL I'll talk about, but it will probably sneak in there fairly often. (Incidentally, when I mentioned to my boss that I was thinking of starting a blog, he told me to avoid anything potentially controversial, like religion and politics. This may prove difficult . . . ).

So, I guess I should begin! Here goes:

 

The Christian Dictionary for Beginners

One of the things that amuses me the most about becoming Christian is that it seems there’s a culture of jargon that I just can’t bring myself to adopt. In the same way that the business world produced ‘Bullshit Bingo’ (don’t even get me started on the word ‘synergy’) there’s a little lexicon of vocab that invariably comes up regularly in Christian conversation. Here’s a little summary of the words and phrases that make me cringe a little inwardly:

Edifying: I kinda know where they’re going with this one, and there really isn’t any other word you can use to get across the same meaning, but it’s used SO commonly as short hand to describe anything ‘good’. E.g. that new book I'm reading is really edifying (i.e. wholesome, no sex or violence, builds you up and makes you feel good afterwards).

Godly: Another short hand often used to indicate someone or something is automatically good. E.g. It’s ok to fancy that person because they’re really godly (i.e. very visibly active in the church) or “How was you weekend”? “It was great, I just wanted to have a really Godly time, you know”?

Unpack: Used in theological discussions A LOT to mean expanding on the original point and going into further detail. I.e. “Let’s unpack that statement”. Technically there’s no reason why anyone of any belief system can’t use this, but I’ve only ever heard it in Christian circles. See also ‘Coming in to land’.

Coming in to land: Used in sermons to indicate that we’re nearing the conclusion, folks.

A heart for: Possibly the most overused phrase of all. This is meant to mean a particular cause, passion or pastime that God has called you to serve Him in. But it seems to have become synonymous with having enthusiasm for, or just being ‘kinda into’ something. In Christian circles you don’t just say “I’m really into Drum n’ Bass” or “I really want to live in Paris” (hey, me too!). You say “I have a real heart for Drum n’ Bass” or “I really feel that God has put it on my heart that I’m to live in Paris”.

I'm sure there's tons more that I've forgotten here, but these are the basics you'll need to make yourself sound like you know what you're talking about in Christian conversation.

P.S. I've just had a work colleague express surprise at my starting a blog: "I didn't think anyone did blogs anymore. Are you going to join Twitter in ten years time too"?
I DID say that I am a bit technologically challenged . . .