Town Versus Country

Did any of you ever read 'The Tale of Johnny Town Mouse' by Beatrix Potter? It’s adapted from Aesop's Fable 'The Town Mouse and The Country Mouse', and is a sweet story of two mice cousins who go to visit each other in their very different habitats – one in the city, one in the countryside, and after various hijinx they return to their respective homes convinced of the superiority of their own environments.

Johnny Town Mouse, by Beatrix Potter

Unlike the mice, I’m always torn between town and country – both of them have so many plus points it can be hard to decide where you’re best suited. I’ve been a Londoner since I was nineteen, and in the past few years have been witness to a fair number of friends decide to up sticks and move to, well, the sticks, as they tire of London life. It does force you to consider the same question: should I stay or should I go?

On the down side, London is obviously crowded, and getting more so every day. It keeps sucking up outer boroughs the way Mordor sucked up Middle Earth (first ever Lord of the Rings reference, score!) until eventually it will form one big, depressing mega city, which will take three days to commute across and contain half the UK population. That’s too many mofos infringing on my space, man. Stop walking in front of me in a zig-zag motion!

It’s also, at the risk of being obvious, too expensive. Imagine my reaction when I found out that a friend’s four bedroom Victorian house in Yorkshire cost LESS than I was paying for a halls of residence single bedroom in Tooting.

It’s exhausting. It’s dirty. It takes an hour to get anywhere. It’s too big to ever really know properly.

Sometimes I dream of waking up to sunshine on grass, and a window looking out onto fields and woods. I dream of walking early in the morning and being alone with just the wind rushing through the branches of trees. Mayday fairs by the river such as we had in the village where I grew up, bats flying through the night air on summer evenings. Bonfires in autumn and the sound of geese migrating for the winter. Nature nourishes your soul, refreshes, speaks to something elemental in your being and communicates a vital truth about your place in the universe.

But there are many reasons to love London too. To describe them would probably read like a love letter to a city, where I could list its many attributes but would fail to capture the true essence of what makes it so special. If I had to sum it up in one word it would be – variety. There is so much to do in London.

Last Monday I gathered with friends in the imposing Neo-classical courtyard of Somerset House where, along with 2,000 other people, we laid out a picnic on a rug and waited for nightfall to watch a screening of The Red Shoes at the outdoor cinema.

The week before, a friend and I met at night and walked along the buzzing, vibrant Southbank. Alive with buskers, skateboarders and crowds of social Londoners spilling out onto the pavement, we walked to the Globe for a midnight play of The Tempest. It was . . .  magical. Blessed with a warm summer evening, we watched incredible performances by some of the best actors in the world, as Prospero, Ariel, Miranda and Caliban breathed life into the most beautiful words ever written in the English language.

I recently hopped on the tube to the National Portrait Gallery and took in the BP Portrait Award exhibition. Afterwards I could have been standing in the Tate Modern turbine hall within thirty minutes, or in front of the dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum. All for free!

In art galleries, I feel like I am in my natural environment. As a person who wanders through life permanently lost, with no sense of direction, I suddenly find in galleries that I get my bearings. My internal map kicks in and I feel most like myself - a fish who has just discovered water. Could I live without being able to do this as a whim on a weekend morning?

Tomorrow I’ll be wearing my preppiest 1960’s outfit and heading to Future Cinema’s staging of ‘Dirty Dancing’, where they’ve recreated Kellerman’s in Hackney - complete with mambo lessons, beach volleyball, end of year show, ‘spontaneous’ dance mob, and after party in the ‘staff quarters’. Bring your watermelon. I ask you, who wouldn’t want to go to this??

In September I’ll be dancing like nobody’s watching as Simian Mobile Disco come to The Old Queen’s Head. The month after I’ll be sipping cocktails in the basement of Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club whilst imagining I’m a sophisticated femme fatale in a speakeasy (What? I imagine these things).

Do you also fancy pretending you’re in a speakeasy during Prohibition? There’s at least two club nights for that. Want to dress up like a consumptive bohemian in Belle Epoque Paris? There’s a night for that too. Want to lounge on the rooftop beach of the Roundhouse, then nip off for some liquid nitrogen ice cream? You can do so without even leaving my neighbourhood.

I’ve barely even skimmed the surface – the architecture, the music, the art, the food, the fashion, the parks . . . city lights on a winter night, walking with a take-away cup of hot coffee through the busy streets, the steam and smell of vendors selling roasted chestnuts at Christmas. Columbia Road flower market on a Sunday, the view from Waterloo Bridge at night, vintage shops on Brick Lane, evensong at St Paul’s Cathedral, the Houses of Parliament, Portobello Road,  Hampstead Heath, Primrose Hill, Borough Market, Brixton Village, and the temples to consumerism that are Selfridges, Liberty and Harvey Nichols, all lit from within with a holy light. And let’s not forget the people who make up this ethnic soup of a city. I’m not sure I want to move somewhere populated in the main with white middle class people who wear Barbour jackets and shop at Boden.

I think just from writing this I’ve convinced myself that I have a few more years of London life left in me. I’m not sure yet whether I’ll ever turn into that country mouse and flee to greener pastures.  I like having the option available, but for now town is best.

What about you - do you love London? Hate London? What are the best and worst bits of where you live?

Prayer Part 2: So Does It Actually Work?

The million dollar question, people: does prayer actually work? 

Giovanni Bellini's 'Agony in the Garden'

In some ways knowing there’s a God who is omnipotent makes life more difficult. When bad stuff happens, rather than just accepting it as the shit randomness of life, we feel like there’s someone to blame. I have been known to shake my fist at the sky and weep “Why God, why” at a missed bus, so it’s lucky that so far in my life, I have escaped having to deal with anything too seriously awful happening. But the day will sadly come, and when it does, will prayer actually make a difference?

The honest answer is Yes and No.

This answer is often mocked as being stupidly illogical. If your prayers are sometimes answered, and sometimes not, that’s just chance and coincidence! That’s the same outcome that would occur whether you were praying or not, right?

I understand this thought pattern even now. I’ve heard friends who have been job hunting for months cite their finally getting a position as an answer to prayer. “Praise God!" they say, as I cynically add in my head “Praise the job applications you’ve been making every day for five months, more like”.

But despite my occasional cynicism, I truly believe that, as God has assured us in Scripture, He always hears our prayers. I still believe that God can change all situations, even if the answers don’t always seem forthcoming.

Prayer isn’t like a cosmic cash machine – you don’t put in your request and your prize pops out.

What you’re praying for may not actually be right for you. It might require that big no-no - subverting another human being’s free will (into both of these categories fall things like praying for that douche-nozzle guy that always blanks you to finally realise you’re the One That He Wants).

What you’re praying for might not be in line with God’s values. God isn’t massively concerned with delivering cash windfalls, Mercedes Benz’, that dazzling promotion so you can rub it in Steve from Accounts’ face, making you thinner, more attractive, or gifting you with a rad new set of dance moves. God is not about ticking off our wish list, as much as we might like Him to be (especially that dance moves thing).

Sometimes the answer is still just No, in spite of the worthiness of our request – healing for a sick person, prayer for a marriage to work out, for loved ones to come to faith. If God answered each prayer like this, the world would no longer be the fallen place it is and Heaven would be here right now. A miracle is, by definition, a rare event. A lot of the time, when we pray, we won’t get the answer we were looking for.

So why still do it, Mofo? 

I still do it, often sporadically, sometimes half-heartedly, because I know it has value. Because I trust that God hears me and that He cares about my situation. I pray for loved ones because I never want to miss the opportunity to put in my request for them. And because this might be the occasion when miracles do happen.

I still do it because so often prayer is not about extracting my demands from God, but about God changing me from the inside out. The more I pray the more I get in line with his values, get outside my own concerns, find my heart softening, and start caring about the things He cares about.

On days when I pray for joy, I find that I am joyful. On days when I pray to do my job well, I find myself more productive. On days when I pray to be filled with the Holy Spirit, I find myself being more patient, compassionate and observant of other people’s needs. At the time of prayer I feel no rush of endorphins, or a meditative inner peace to indicate that through prayer I’ve just realigned my thinking. Yet it delivers none the less.

If you knew that you would have a better day, be filled with joy, be more compassionate, and more alive if you prayed, then wouldn’t you do it without fail? Erm, I’d like to say so, but I still often choose to sleep in, or forget and spend my evening watching ‘Mad Men’ instead. But God is always there, waiting, which is definitely worth trying again tomorrow for . . .

Have you ever had an amazing answer to prayer? Or a prayer disappointment? How do you deal with that?

Prayer Part 1: The Problem With Prayer

Prayer is one of the bedrocks of being Christian. We’re advised in Scripture to take all our problems to God, and prayer acts as the main communication channel between us, making this relationship with Him an actual personal ‘thingy’.

But it’s really effing HARD sometimes.

Laziness is one of my fatal flaws. Right now as I type this, I’ve just consumed a batch of pancakes and am battling internally with myself as to whether I can be arsed to go to church this afternoon, or should stay and read my book like I really want to. I’ll enjoy church once I get there, but that whole getting dressed in proper outdoor clothing and making the long journey on public transport thing feels like way too much effort . . . . It’s the same with prayer.

In many ways, I find praying is a bit like writing my blog – self-centred. In this blog I know I should talk about current events and focus on issues other people can relate to, but I’m too caught up in whatever’s going on in my own preoccupied head at the time.

Ditto my prayer life. Occasionally, I’ll throw in a shout out to other people (or when I’m really stuck pray a vague, Miss Congeniality like request for, “World Peace or something”). But taken as a whole it’s all about me me me.

Here are some of my main issues with prayer:

Not Saying Rude Words:

I suspect this one is just me here, but when I first became Christian and started praying, I was a bit ‘star struck’ and overwhelmed by the thought that God was actually listening to what I was saying – THE God, people. The perfect, holy and sin free creator of the universe, listening to what I was about to say to Him. Ber-LIMEY, the pressure!

As I tried to pray a simple and selfless prayer my mind started going all traitor on me: ‘What’s the WORST thing I could think right now’ my back-stabbing inner monologue questioned. ‘What’s the most INAPPROPRIATE, filthy and downright naughty word you could say in your head right now’? ‘Cause whatever you do, DON’T THINK THAT!

Inevitably, those are exactly the words that started popping into my head just as I was in the presence of Jesus himself: “Argghhhhhh! Oh no, I can’t believe I just said that in front of God. Shit! Crap, I just swore again”! And on it would go, like being inflicted with Mental Tourettes Syndrome.

Of course, now I’m so cool and have gotten over the star struck panic, I’m like Hunter S Thompson partying with one of the rock gods he was sent to interview. Yeah, me and God – we’re like this (am doing the cross fingers thing, in case you need it spelling out. You don’t, right?).

Prayer Voice:

I don’t know what it is about praying out loud in church, but it seems to bring out this strange ‘prayer voice’ in many people, a kind of soft, melodic, slightly romantic way of speaking, suggesting “Yeah, I’m totally filled with the Holy Spirit right now, people, you can tell by my gentle and holy tone of voice”. ‘But you don’t normally speak that way’ you might find yourself thinking about said person, ‘In fact, you have a pretty strong Glaswegian accent in day to day life’. Doesn’t matter. The prayer voice can affect anyone.

I’d like to say I’m immune to such superficialities, but on occasion, when praying out loud in a group, I have been known to have the following inner dialogue: ‘Hmmmmm this prayer doesn’t seem to be going down that well. I’m not getting many murmurs of agreement and ‘Amens’ here. I’m losing them. Quick! Adopt prayer voice!’

I have a theory that it’s just really soothing, the way adults speak to babies when they want to comfort them or lull them to sleep. The vocal equivalent of a Victoria sponge cake. Or June Whitfield. But I have no scientific analysis to back this up. In fact, I just came up with this theory now.

'Praying Hands' by Albrecht Durer

Karaoke:

Man, seeing that microphone down the front makes me want SO BADLY to go forward with a ‘word from God’ and break into a belting rendition of ‘I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues” by Elton John. Captive audience, suckers!

Opening eyes too early in group prayer:

It’s in the title, folks. I often seem to finish up prayer mode a bit sooner than other people, and end up opening my eyes thinking we’re done whilst everyone else is still deep in communion with the Holy Spirit. This leads to closing them again, and regularly opening just one eye (still half praying, see?) to check out where we’re at spiritually, as a group. Also leads to carpet staring, and examining people’s facial expressions when they have their eyes closed.

Making a To-Do list:

One of the most common difficulties people experience when praying is being easily distracted. We’re all afflicted with the age old curse of monkey brain, our minds chattering away and resisting our commands to focus on one thing at a time.

One of the chief problems is that praying is sometimes a really handy exercise for reminding yourself of what you have to do that day: “Lord, I pray that you help my presentation to go really well – (MUST remember to pick up the memory stick for my presentation on my way to work). And I really pray that you bless my Mum and Dad and keep them safe on their travels (Need to sort out Skype as Dad will ask me about it when we next speak. But I can’t get it to work! I have TRIED. Urgh, I need to ask someone to help me. But who?? Thingy said she’d help me when we were on holiday, but I forgot to remind her before we left. So annoying. Maybe the work IT department can help? Must remember to ask them – I’d better write that down . . .  Sorry God. What was I saying??).

My prayer journal often resembles a To-Do list, containing boring stuff like ‘Ring HMRC’ in there just as much as spiritual truths.

Arguing with God about things that haven’t even happened yet:

I think this might be a female thing, as I know myself and several girlfriends have pulled the same shiz with past boyfriends – had complete arguments in our head about imagined slights and possible events that haven’t actually happened, but could happen. Maybe.

So it goes with God: “Hey God, I’m just walking along here and thought we could have a chat . . . . You know, catch up . . . Whatcha been up to? Running the world and stuff I suppose! I’m still just waiting to hear back about that job I applied for, trying to stay strong and trust in you. So you’re not going to let me down, are you? Hah, just kidding, I know that no matter what happens you’re still good and I’ll still give you praise. Just don’t put me to the test, ok? That would be really unfair. You’re going to put me to the test, aren’t you? You would totally deny me this job I really want and have worked SO hard for, just to test my faith, wouldn’t you? Well that is SO UNFAIR! I can’t believe you would do that to me! Why are you so mean to me? I can’t do this anymore! Urgh, I know I’m not supposed to think that way, I’m sorry, I take it back, You’re still good, I know, I know . . . . I just can’t believe you’d allow this to happen, ALL I ASK IS FOR THIS ONE THING AND YOU CAN’T EVEN GIVE ME THAT?!

Ooh! A phone call! It’s the job people, I totally got it! Hurrah! Thank you God, thank you thank you thank you! Sorry about that whole shouty thing before . . .”

We bitches be crazy.


So, those are my problems with prayer - are there any that I've missed? Or am I making it a lot more difficult than it should be?

Make Do and Mend

 

This rabbit what I made. Sinister innit?

The crafting trend is experiencing a bit of a boom period right now.

If you’re roughly over forty five, don’t own a television, don’t live in London, or you’re the owner of a Y chromosome, you may not be acutely aware of this, but trust me that it’s ‘a thing’. No doubt there’s been oodles of media space documenting this already (probably presented by Kirstie Allsop) but I wouldn’t know, having studiously avoided ‘hard news’ in favour of stuffing my head with knitting patterns and finding out when the next cake decorating event was happening.

As a little girl, my heroine was Ripley from the ‘Alien’ franchise. I’m part of the generation that grew up on ‘Sex and the City’ (doesn’t mean I’m a fan btw). I was always of the assumption that it was not only acceptable, but desirable, to be a single woman in your thirties living in the capital city (ignoring the fact that all those SATC characters talked about was landing a boyfriend, blinkered teen that I was), focusing on work and spending my free time going on exotic travels. Why would I waste time slaving over a mixing bowl when I could get my cupcakes directly from the Hummingbird Bakery? Once, upon hearing a friend state that she was ‘just going to check how the frittata was doing’ I loudly declared “I am never going to need that phrase”.

Well, colour me corrected, my friends. I spent my last weekend happily whisking together a banana cake and giving the kitchen a thorough clean. Although I never thought of myself as one of life’s happy homemakers, it was pretty . . . satisfying. I felt like Anne of Green Gables, confident that I would pass Marilla Cuthbert’s Victorian standards of cleanliness and rejoicing in being allowed to prepare supper ‘like a grown up’. A job well done, I took to my sewing, stitching together (badly, I must admit) a soft toy I’d been gifted with by a friend aware of my crafty proclivities.

I’ve started a knitting circle at work. I’ve spent at least two hours of my life competing to decorate a biscuit with the best possible portrait of Lionel Ritchie’s face. What has happened to me? When did I turn into such a girlie girl?

As mentioned earlier, it’s not just me - the nation has gone batshit-crazy over cosy crafting activities: Make Do and Mend, ‘Drink, Shop, Do’ in King’s Cross, The Great British Bake off, The Great British Sewing Bee, yarn bombing . . . .  Plus pubs the city over have wised up to the merits of hosting craft nights where (mostly female) Londoners can combine the delights of a stitch n’ bitch session with the delights of a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

Ask a random observer about it and they might suggest this is all in response to the ubiquity of technology in our lives. Saturated as we are with iPads, iPhones and Kindles, purchasing our every furniture or food requirement online, and tweeting every random thought that wanders into our frazzled brains, we long to reconnect with the pleasure of creating something with our hands. I can vouch for the therapeutic benefits of clacking knitting needles, the yarn twisted around your fingers. A pestle and mortar feels more satisfying than shaking herbs straight out of the packaging.

But surely it’s also a response to the state of the economy?  Everything feels a bit shit, and we’re all experiencing a collective hangover from the material excess of the last thirty years We’re longing to get back to basics, yeah? (Let’s slide over the fact that a Cath Kidson apron will set you back the best part of £30, it’s the mood of the times, innit).

Or maybe it’s just that as a generation we’re bored of what came before. In an era where nothing is denied to us, an era of casual sex and superficiality, excess drinking, parties, clubbing, and drugs firmly crossed over from ‘strictly for the bad kids’ to ‘everyone’s doing it’, maybe it’s the only way left of rebelling.

Zoiks! It’s slightly strange to find out that what you thought was your own innate need to express yourself through crafts and feeding others is in fact part of a greater statistical trend reflecting the state of the nation. I just want to make tea cosies, man!

My parent’s generation seem a little bit baffled by this turn of events. “What have you been up to” they ask over the phone, remembering days when this question used to be answered with words like: electro-marathon, Jaeger-bomb, and Bleugh-I’m-so-hungover-right-now-I-can’t-think-my-brain-hurrrrrrrrrts.
“Oh, you know” I now reply, “Went to a knitting night with some friends yesterday. I’m making a tea cosy!”
"I see” they respond “Had a nice drink or two did you”?

 “Well, a pot of tea and some scones . . . .With cream and jam!” I throw back lamely.

I explain about the crafting trend in London right now, about the economy, about technology, and about ‘too much freedom’.

“Well, yes I understand that” my dad offers politely . . . . “It’s just not very rock n’ roll, is it?? I mean, you couldn’t imagine Mick Jagger saying he spent his evening knitting a tea cosy and drinking a pot of tea”.

“True” I counter, “But Mick Jagger had to start taking his cocaine up his anus because his septum was dissolving. Now if it was a choice between that and a nice tea cosy, I’m going with the tea cosy. . . .”

Score one for knitting, I think.

I will admit to the odd twinge about whether I’m betraying the feminist sisterhood by being overly interested in all this 1950’s housewife stuff. But I REJOICE in the knowledge that all this crafting is of my own free will, and if I wanted to, I could pick up a hammer and knock together a shed, or go learn to be an engineer and construct a mighty bridge. You know, should the mood take me.

I think it’s important that we remember, in the midst of getting off our faces on cake stands, vintage tea cups and crochet hooks, that we’re able to enjoy these hobbies precisely because they’re HOBBIES, and no one’s going to beat us round the head if we don’t actually home-make all our clothes, or produce dinner for four on a ration book of three carrots and half a sack of flour (or whatever it was they were allocated during the war).

Which is why I proudly call myself a feminist and get irked that the word has such bad PR. “I’m not a feminist, because I don’t hate men, and I love cooking and would actually rather like staying at home with the kids and baking all day” I’ve had thrown at me in conversation. Well that’s lovely, angel-face. Good stuff, and carry on, says I. But I’m pretty sure you are a feminist. In that you’re university educated, are free to marry the man of your choice, and get to enjoy the wages that you earn. If you believe in equal pay and equal rights, trust me, you’re a feminist. Now excuse me, I have to go and check on the frittata.

What's better than a knitted rabbit? A rabbit in a Rasta hat, of course. And no, he doesn't have pubic har and sidies as one reader suggested, it's just the camera angle and the fake fur. Sicko

In The Army

Hey there my fine fellow human beings!

Did you know that you’re working for God, each and every day?

Yep, He’s kinda like your employer, but hopefully he gives you a better benefit scheme (unless you work for Google, those guys get scooters).

So, I’ve been thinking about this passage from the gospel of Matthew lately (bear with me, it’s fairly short):

“Then the King (Jesus) will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world.  For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

 “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink?  When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you?  When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

 “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

This passage was brought home to me in a new way this week. I used to think that when God intervened in our lives it was directly and unmistakably – a voice from above, a troubling situation resolved, a healing, a financial bonus (hah!). But although I know and have seen that he CAN do those things, the more I learn about him the more I see that he prefers to work through people if he can – the shoulder to cry on, the sofa to sleep on, the wise words from a friend. 

I recently had an unpleasant (but luckily not serious) incident when I was travelling on the tube, was taken ill, blacked out, and had what seemed to be a seizure. Now of all the places to have a seizure, the underground on a Saturday evening is not the most . . . convenient. If I'd been conscious at the time I'd have said it was pretty embarrassing . . . I was the doofus everyone hates who causes the train to be delayed then taken out of service. Yet I was blown away by just how kind and caring people were.

Although I was alone at the time, I totally felt like God was with me: acting through the grey haired lady who sat wiping my brow and giving me water. The young man who gave me a blanket and bagged up all my scattered items. The stranger who held my hand as we waited for the paramedics and said she’d stay with me as long as I needed her to. And at the hospital, as I waited on a trolley in my hospital gown with standard issue Not-Enough-Ties at the back to make it cover your essential bits, I saw it in the work of the health care professionals who served the sick, the destitute and the downright hostile with patience, compassion and respect.

We are his church, his reflection on earth. That’s not just the officially signed up Christians, people, that’s all of us – anyone reading this. Anything we do for the least of our brothers and sisters, God views the same as if we’d done so directly for Him.

So it turns out that really annoying children’s song is true. The one that goes:

“I'm in the Lord's army!

Yes sir!

I'm in the Lord's army!

Yes sir!”

Erm, that’s all the words I know, so consider yourself lucky.

If I’m any kind of army recruit then most of the time I'm ‘Private Benjamin’, right after she first joins up and is all rubbish and can’t climb over a wall or run 5 miles without puking. But at other times I get to be Private Benjamin after she goes all bad-ass, and learns to make a bed you can bounce a coin off and wins the championship games. (If you haven’t seen Private Benjamin, none of this will make sense. Also, what is wrong with you??) And now I don't really know where I'm going with this analogy and have talked too much about Private Benjamin. I just really like Goldie Hawn in that movie.

How have people helped you out in amazing ways? And more importantly, what’s your favourite bit of ‘Private Benjamin’?

Why Sex Before Marriage Is Not A Great Idea

Before:

After: