Christian Retreat

 

I’ve just spent the weekend away in Shropshire, dwelling in a luxury mansion on a Christian retreat. Apart from a few night terrors, which is understandable from sleeping in a strange bed, I had no spiritual experiences. By spiritual experiences, I mean that my ghosts did not follow me. I did get closer to God, with hours and hours of praise and worship, and I felt at one with his people, in his home. The big rooms and high ceilings were pleasant; I felt like Donald Trump or a rich footballer for a couple of days. One morning I rose early and flipped on the XL television, just sat there in comfort chilling out with a programme on, something alien to me because I don’t watch TV. I had several coffees watching something about psychosis, then took myself in the stately gardens for a ciggie in front of the water feature. A woman called Lebo was singing her Afrikaans songs to herself via her mobile phone. It was also nice to see Kaly from America strutting her stuff on the violin. There’s just something about a girl playing a violin, it’s like been on horseback or something. Both would be good, wouldn’t it? Riding a horse and playing a violin at the same time (jumping through hoops on fire). They do say that men aren’t as good as women at multi-tasking. Hugh Dennis from Outnumbered calls it multi-failing when his off-the-rail teenage boy attempts it.

I got away from the spirit world for two nights. I heard some voices at night, but they were manageable. That was just the devil attacking me because I was at ease with Christians. He does that. I knew there’d be a swimming pool there, so the day before I bought some Big Vision goggles to assist me. The Big Visions are larger than normal goggles; you can see a lot more of the underwater when wearing them. Swimming without your own goggles is like playing pool without your own cue; it enhances the experience a lot. I don’t think I have swam since Corona Fear virus, so it was nice. I attended with my boy Jon, who declared ‘Praise the Lord!’ during his breaststroke.

Meal times always have the potential to be awkward. Where do I sit? Who do I sit with? But it went without any problem. I was happy sitting with children and parents alike. It was strange, because on the morning of departure, I was half-certain that I wouldn’t be going. I couldn’t get in touch with anyone. It turned out that one church member in particular was looking for me around the town, playing detective. I bumped into her outside pathways of all places and got her number, so all was sorted. It seemed like it was meant to be.

It was in the middle of nowhere, at the end of miles and miles of spooky narrow country lanes. I felt a sense of foreboding returning home to my dingy little council Golgotha drug den; it’s where all my trauma is buried, and all my bad memories, and all my psychotic exposures. I’m working on feeling gratitude for what I’ve got. Happiness is an inside job. My flat, to a homeless person, would feel like that stately palace felt to me. That’s what I’ve got to remember, instead of being envious of what others have.