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.
