from sychar to eternity

the end times

2007-08-29T11:13:00.000Z

And he said, Behold, I will make thee know what shall be in the last end of the indignation: for at the time appointed the end shall be. Daniel 8:19

It has been a year since I started this blog. And in this time I have tried chastity, met a man, fallen in love for the first time and now, it seems, have had my heart broken.

Now is not the time to go back to chastity. No, that came out wrong. Now is the time to recognise my limits, of which being an Evangelical is definitely one.

So a new reason to write and a new name. Perhaps also less of the hiding behind anonymity.

See you in another life!

Remark with five a note of passion (4)

2007-04-08T19:48:00.000Z

Tears and fears and feeling proud

To say I love you right out loud (Joni Mitchell)

There are no passages in the New Testament dealing with love between a man and a woman. (This is very sad and explains much about the modern Church's attitude to sex, marriage and teenagers)

I am in love. With the man. And he loves me. Or so he says. Dammit, I should try not to do that deprecation thing.

I thought I loved him before. Like an idiot I told him and was rewarded with an embarrassed silence and the desperate hope I might wake up from the bad dream. Perhaps in someone else's bed. Anything but the embarrassment and the silence.

At that time I wasn't in love. I was infatuated and frankly over-awed by the fact someone still wanted to go out with me nearly 2 months down the line.

It's difficult to admit to being wrong, especially when you confess to being in love

(example scenario 1: explaining to best friend why you are dating the 'bastard ex' again)
(example scenario 2: getting married and later regretting it)
(example scenario 3: all of the bad poetry written in adolescence)

I realised that I couldn't genuinely be in love with him if he didn't love me. It is difficult, if not impossible, to love in a vaccuum: over time it becomes obsession or desperation, or some other perversion of love, which feeds on its own excrement. Nice.

So now that he's confessed to loving me, I can explore my own feelings more freely. Reciprocate the words. Then sit back and consider their meaning. Try to understand if I am in love, or in love with saying the words.

To pursue a glib saying, Love is...
...exquisite joy in their company
...crippling fear that they will be lost
...endless thoughts of them in daydreams
...smiling despite their absence
...worrying in their presence
...extreme of emotion

...impossible to define.

Of course, I can't just enjoy the fact that I am loved and love back, I have to seek the bigger picture. One day this will end in heartbreak. Whether it’s next week after a disastrous row, or 70 years in the future, in a silk-lined coffin.

Oh dear. That’s not a happy thought. Can I really be in love if I can be that pessimistic about it? Shouldn’t I be listening to Lionel Richie and walking with a permanent smile on my face?

On a better note, the sex is better than ever. Is this because it has the seal of Love approval? Fuck knows.

Whose justice?

2007-04-04T20:44:00.000Z

Do not follow the crowd in doing wrong. When you give testimony in a lawsuit, do not pervert justice by siding with the crowd. (Exodus 23:2)

I was in Bethnal Green police station the other day. First time I had ever been inside a police station. It was dingy, care-worn, relatively inhospitable, which every Daily Mail reader might expect from the nation’s prisons, havens of criminals and ne’er-do-wells as they are.

A few months ago I had my mobile nicked by a stereotypical Hackney hoody: just out of school and looking shifty. Bastard grabbed my phone and in a split second I looked a fool. Fortunately it was my work phone so I just had to tell the boss and sit tight while they paid the damage. It was also a several year old Nokia, its only redeeming feature an addictive golf game I missed sorely.

So two and a half months later I am surprised to hear that it’s been found and would I like to give a statement? Damn right I would; it took me off work for an hour or two, it meant an exciting sojourn into new anecdotal territory, not because I felt I needed justice

I’m sitting in a room with no curtains and gargantuan filing cabinets describing at length. “And how tall was he? How old did he seem? Can you tell the difference between different types of black?” Two thoughts spring to mind.

Does the boy they have in the cells look anything like the guy I’m describing? Since the charming police officer isn’t going to stop if I’m giving her a black boy with a hoody and she has a white kid with a sweatshirt… and

What if this statement sends him to prison? Since the stolen property is only part of the bigger case they’re building against him.

I miss my golf game, but I’ve just about got over it. I don’t feel any need for justice. I should not have left the mobile on the table. True, I was little further than a metre away from the sod when he nicked it, but I didn’t feel so wronged that I chased him down the street in my 4 inch heels. The poor kid probably couldn’t flog the vintage handset, it would certainly explain why he still had it nearly three months later.

There is an argument that says justice should be served as an example, that unless every thief is publicly reprimanded, other thieves will continue to take liberties. There is the argument that this boy, who has other charges against him, is a bad sort who needs discipline. There is the argument that the police are there to do their job and charging a Hackney minor with possession of stolen property is part of that.

However, there is also the argument that as long as there is envy and greed, there will be theft and punishment no disincentive. There is the argument that discipline should have been in his life long before puberty set in or the police got involved. There is the argument that if the victim (me) doesn’t need ‘justice’, it shouldn’t be sought.

Maybe I shouldn’t have given the statement. I forgive the kid. He’s bored, it’s a challenge. Ranulph Fiennes surely has similar motives for each expedition.

So if Bethnal Green police station ask me to give evidence in court, I will say no. Except I can’t, because I signed something that said I had to. Ooops. And bugger.

Many opinions are uninformed purely through lack of experience. As Socrates says: “Wise is the man who knows that he does not know/” I had abstract ideas of justice before. Now they are informed at least slightly through experience, but still nascent. If I craved justice would I still be so willing to forgive? If I felt apathetic, would I let someone else decide on the necessity for justice? If I felt entirely absolvent, would I fight for the person who had supposedly wronged me?

Forgiveness is, according to cliché, divine. But so is wrath and justice. Some Christians love to tell people that they’re going to fire-laden hell with God’s angry finger pointing the way, while hiding their own short-comings behind the words “For God so loved the world…”

Judgement is enshrined in justice: it is the culmination of justice, its working out. However in human courts it is not the victim who passes judgement. They seek justice on the victim’s behalf. I’m not sure that makes sense.

I’m going to think about this, because it’s too easy to run away with opinions of why this is and why this may be wrong. Is justice sought for the individual or for society, and can it ever be enough for either?

radio silence

2007-02-19T19:53:00.001Z

Wow, I haven't posted in a long time.

Work's been hectic, I've been moving flat and obviously there was the week skiing... Enough with excuses, here's a quick round-up:

Skiing was amazing. Both the learning how to and the sharing a holiday. Being in ski school for the morning definitely helped, that way we weren't in each others' faces for the whole day. We had some good talks, we had some excellent silences and one night after far too much wine, he put Robbie Williams' Angels onto the iPod speakers and sang along in my ear as we danced. I think it's a testiment to how far I've come that I wasn't disgusted by the incident!
I have left the small room I was renting and haven't looked back. Strange feeling, living somewhere for five months, sharing living space and bathroom tiles with new people for that long and leaving without a backward glance. There hadn't been (much of) a falling out, but I just felt no obligation to swear friendship and an "I'll miss you". New gorgeous flat, living with friends, all very grown-up methinks.
Work has become something different from the original job description. But only for a while. For another 2 weeks it's hectic data inputting and still being out of my depth.

That's it for the moment. Need to think about some of the things that have happened this month. Will write again soon...

facing a fear

2007-01-13T16:14:00.000Z

quidquid id est, timeo danaos et dona ferentes (Vergil)

I'm going away with someone for a week. This is something I'm very worried about. It will probably be ok, it may even be fun, but at this moment in time, with 12 hours to go before we leave for the airport, I'm scared.

I don't want to go into why because it will feed the fears. And I don't want to think about 'when I get back' because, as when I lie in bed thinking how much I need to sleep it eludes me, it will make the fears fester.

It is wrong to test God, but is it wrong to test relationships? Is every event in a relationship a test, or does that question reflect a negative frame of mind? I need to pack and I need to stop thinking so much.

preaching: a biblical concept or a modern construct?

2006-12-19T20:59:00.000Z

To one there is given through the Spirit the message of wisdom, to another the message of knowledge by means of the same Spirit (1 Corinthians 12:8)

The power that is in the gospel does not lie in the eloquence of the preacher; otherwise men would be the converters of souls. Nor does it lie in the preacher’s learning; otherwise it would consist in the wisdom of men. (Charles H Spurgeon)

A while ago I was at one of those evangelical churches where the young people all look alike - very clean - and the annual gift giving exceeds one and a half million a year.

The preacher was a 'nice' man. He stood in the pulpit and he toed the party line. He said exactly what the large, healthy and wealthy congregation wanted to hear: that they were saved, God loved them and thank His glorious name that we weren't like those poor Godless souls living outside these walls.

And yet he was preaching from the Sermon on the Mount, one of the most radical speeches on equality, liberty and fraternity ever recorded. Specifically he was preaching on Matthew 7: 13-14

Don't look for shortcuts to God. The market is flooded with surefire, easygoing formulas for a successful life that can be practiced in your spare time. Don't fall for that stuff, even though crowds of people do. The way to life—to God!—is vigorous and requires total attention.

First of all, there is so much scope here for a brief sojourn into first century Palestinian life. What is Jesus referring to when he talks about "the market"; what kind of life were these "crowds of people" living and were they likely to have been 'Godless' or religious hypcrites; surely it was Jesus' Judaism that informed this statement rather than a prophetic form of Christian asceticism?

This preacher, however, did not even pay lip service to the historical context of the passage. He launched immediately into how it was relevant, in its unexplored entirety, to 'us'. Like an English teacher explaining why Chaucer's ribald stories are funny without ever mentioning that they're set in the forteenth century.

Secondly, how wonderfully contraversial a passage for a congregation whose lives are, by and large, very successful in the eyes of the world. How can an investment banker on three quarters of a million a year live a 'vigorous' life? According to this preacher, by contributing to the church's hefty gift kitty every month and coming to church once a week. Would Jesus, who said if a man asks you to carry his bag one mile you should carry it two, agree that this is vigorous enough?

A vigorous life cannot wholly be measured in actions and it cannot be prescribed in a twenty minute sermon. A vigorous life should be one that is challenged, with total attention, at every turn by the word of God, by the conscience of the individual and the interpretation of other people.

The preacher should have taken the opportunity to challenge us listening as to whether our lives were examples of shortcuts to God, whether we were living in a way that was too easy to sit well with the words of Jesus or we were giving our total attention to the 'narrow path'.

There is no word for 'preach' in New Testament Greek. The words that are translated as 'preach' mean either 'tell good news' or 'proclaim' or 'herald'. The word that most accurately encompasses the term 'preaching' is propheteia, which is the root of the English word prophecy. Few preachers today would be confident enough to describe what they do each week in the pulpit as prophecy.

These days, if someone is described as a good preacher, they are probably intelligent without being academic, articulate without being longwinded, holy without being pious and always reliable to throw in a few laughs. They are rarely described as heralds of God's glory on a weekly basis. But are they prophets?

Prophets are not people who see and predict the future, they are people who speak for God and interpret His will. They are people who see what is wrong with the world and challenge it loudly and forcefully.

Some people might argue that prophecy is a spiritual gift. In which case preaching must be also, especially if you consider what congregations ask of their preachers each week - a little wisdom perhaps understanding - and then read the verse from 1 Corinthians above.

Perhaps it is too much to ask for words of prophecy every week, but complacent teaching is an insult to the words of Jesus. There has never been a rosy age of history when things were right with the world. Ever since his resurrection, Jesus has empowered us to seek the things of God, which does not mean hiding behind religious walls and patting ourselves on the back for our ability to find faith. This means looking at the world that God has made and challenging others but most of all ourselves to recognise what is wrong and what needs to be changed.

If individually we don't have the gift of speaking for God and interpreting His will, then we must rely on our preachers to do this for us. And then we listen vigorously and with total attention to what they say.

Crowds of churchgoers fall for allowing complacent preaching that neither exhorts nor exalts and this is nothing but a shortcut to God.

feeling unsettled

2006-12-12T13:17:00.000Z

You never know, wife: The way you handle this might bring your husband not only back to you but to God. You never know, husband: The way you handle this might bring your wife not only back to you but to God. (1 Corinthians 7:16)

Was just chatting with the boyfriend’s younger brother. Same age as me and quite similar I suppose in mind-sets. It’s not so surprising since they had the same upbringing and I and the boyfriend have a similar worldview. He said that he had recently come to the decision not to have sex again until he was married.

I found myself feeling ashamed when he said this. After all, wasn’t that the decision I had sort of come to myself five months ago? I hadn’t gone so far as to use the ‘M’ word because, frankly, I never imagined myself being in the position to get married (that darned self-esteem thing again), but had I lost any sense of the principles I was trying to discover?

Now that I reflect a little more honestly, I think that I fell into the same trap I allowed myself with some of my more inappropriate one-night-stands: saying yes because it was easier than saying no. The boyfriend status had made it seem less inappropriate, but I was still not assertive enough to stand by what little principles I was trying to find.

This makes me sad because it brings the boyfriend down to the level of the boys in my past. I don’t want to do that to him, but equally I don’t want to mention the ‘M’ word as a panicked dash to principled safety. Firstly because, while I really do like this guy a lot, I’m still nervous about another six weeks, let alone a lifetime; and secondly because he broke up with his last girlfriend because she wanted to know if they’d be getting married at some point in the future.

I am feeling ashamed and guilty right now, which is little different from how I’ve felt for the last four years. Or rather, how I’ve felt in conversations with Christians who are ‘better’ than me. It’s also how I feel in conversations with non-smokers, people who eat their five portions a day, people who exercise regularly, people who rarely – if ever – swear. Perhaps I’m losing sight of why I’m feeling guilty simply because it’s my default emotion when I’m feeling unsettled.

I need to pray about it, but this brings with it the possibility that I need to rethink this relationship, which means talking to the boyfriend, which means maybe jeopardizing what we have, which means almost certainly carrying on saying yes because it’s still easier than saying no.

There’s an extra dimension to this whole issue: if my boss finds out I’m sleeping with my boyfriend, there will almost certainly be a disciplinary meeting, because I am not being ‘Christlike’. I’ve laughed about this, but I’ve also been worried by it. It’s so easy to mock conservative Christians when you’re a liberal academic type, but it doesn’t make you right. What the conservative line lacks in compassion it makes up for in righteousness.

I am certainly not righteous enough, but is it ok to give up trying?

something on my mind

2006-11-24T20:46:00.000Z

health warning: this post will be (quite) explicit

Going down, sucking off, fellatio, blow-job. However you describe the act, it never sounds pleasant. And yet it can be enjoyable and satisfying for both giver and receiver.

Why is it that euphemisms for blow-jobs usually sound so crude? Or cringeworthy, if you're reading a Mills and Boon. And she took his throbbing member into her salivating mouth.

It was this train of thought that broke my concentration during intercessions on Sunday night. It is difficult to feel prayerful when you've been doing the deed only a few hours before. Eyes closed, hands together, a calm lull over the congregation and the vivid memory pops into my head. Eyes open, hands clammy, a panicked sense that everyone else saw your unholy thoughts. Chances are that I wasn't the only one reminiscing over making her man come while the nice people pondered the persecution of Christians in China. Or I was the only lustful trollop in the congregation, which is more likely.

Setting aside the issues of married/unmarried relationships for a moment, are blow-jobs kosher?

The bible does not forbid oral sex, it doesn't encourage it, in fact the issue never arises. In churches the issue is rarely discussed outside traditional youth group conversations, where teenagers' sincere questions are often trivialised by the leaders' responsibility to toe the party line. I'm intrigued to know whether marriage counselling events that churches occasionally hold open the debate.

I think there should be a debate, or at least a more open forum to discuss it. Surely since the first cavemen fell into rivers and found washing their intimate bits got them laid more often, humans have experimented. Especially when honeymoon cystitis kicked in. Surely women mastered the art of making their men climax without risking pregnancy centuries before male scientists generously empowered them with the pill. Especially in the days when condoms were made from animal intestines. Surely, men being the depraved creatures they are, God knew they would find new places to put their cocks.

But wait, men have found new places and these are, according to the bible, "unnatural". Here, for evangelical types, is the rub.

"Natural" refers, presumably, to sexual acts that could lead to children. So unless sperm begin training to swim the channel, blow-jobs could not be described as "natural".

However, "natural" could refer to sexual acts that lead to pleasure. Not such a silly idea if you consider the mitzvah in Exodus 21 that a man has a duty to give his wife her "marital rights". Not children, but "marital rights", which many Jewish and Christian scholars have interpreted as a husband's obligation to keep his wife sexually happy. A hypothesis that in part explains the existence of the clitoris. Of course, if "natural" does refer to sexual expression, then the question of anal sex within a marriage becomes a quandary, since it is the man's prostate that makes that particular act enjoyable.

Lots of ifs (and butts) in the last few paragraphs. This was really just a development of my random thoughts last Sunday.

I suppose the reason the debate hasn't been raised in too public a forum is the danger that it might lead to accepting other forms of sexual expression. Which, as we all know, would most likely spell the downfall of the human race. That and letting a woman become Archbishop of Canterbury.

a new direction

2006-11-16T17:25:00.000Z

It is easier to fight for one's principles than to live up to them. (Alfred Adler)

Life has taken a new and unexpected direction. Yes, it's the boyfriend.

This is not something I factored into the equation and it's left me with some new questions to answer. First and foremost the point of this blog.

Like a smoker biding his time to quit, I skirted around the decision to make a concerted effort to control myself. A last cigarette here, an enforced hiatus there, this time it was going to be different. Actually the smoking analogy doesn't work since I fully intend to be doing as much smoking as I possibly can for the rest of my life, metaphorically speaking. Food would have to be a better comparison: bulimia, anorexia, over-eating; pick your favourite eating disorder and then learn how to eat healthily.

In my case get a boyfriend and then rethink my attitude to sex.

I like it. Many many people do. Some don't. Others haven't had the opportunity to discover how to like it, and some people will never have the chance to try.

I have never felt as comfortable with any man as I have this one. Surely this is a good start to any sexual relationship. But this brings me to my second question: can I still remain accountable when someone else is more intimately involved?

One of the reasons I wanted to challenge myself over my behaviour was my relationship with God. For some religious people that means sex only in the context of marriage. However, convincing anyone to marry you - especially if sex is on the negotiating table - is difficult enough. The chip on my shoulder was almost screaming "pieces of eight" at passers-by when I was a post-pubescent virgin. Knowing what I was missing would add a peg-leg and an eye-patch to that particular image.

I want to have sex within a healthy and happy relationship. Some marriages can't claim to be that healthy or happy, but religious doctrine gives them the divine seal of sexual approval.

Finally to my third question: is this a healthy and happy relationship? I think so, but I am also new to this. The relationship itself is still new.

I'm still afraid of screwing this up, perhaps I always will be. Perhaps everyone in any relationship, happy or not is afraid of screwing it up. Perhaps I should let go so completely that I have no energy left to be afraid.

erogenous zones that came as a surprise

2006-11-08T15:27:00.000Z

How happy your men must be! How happy your officials, who continually stand before you and hear your wisdom! (1 Kings 10:8)

Five weeks ago I met up with a friend from my GAP year, hadn't seen him in 4 years, but it was as if the time between had been fleeting. We chatted, drank coffee, walked, ate pizza, drank wine, laughed, drank beer and inevitably, 10 hours after meeting up, french-kissed the entire length of Oxford Street.

However there was never any intention of us going out, we even discussed what a bad idea it would be. We met up again with a few more from the year out the next weekend and it wasn't awkward. Another random snog, with a brief venture onto second base, nothing happened, case closed.

Two weeks ago I met up with a friend and some of his friends. Of that group there was one friend, who is now my friend, to be precise, my boyfriend.

Quick turnaround, huh.

And the difference in my mind is phenomenal. For one thing we also walked the entire length of Oxford Street, but arm in arm, not lip to lip. Kissing him is not an exercise in sexual dominance, or achieving my competitive objectives. And, for the purposes of this blog, sleeping with him may become a problem.

I have never liked someone and then slept with them. It has once or twice happened the other way around. But, as with kissing my friend five weeks ago, it was usually case of doing it expecting no particular commitment or emotional interest. I am in virgin territory, if you enjoy an ironic turn of phrase.

I find it amusing that only 2 months after starting an accountability blog I find someone I really like. Directive Christian types would say that this is because I am having a closer walk with God and He is rewarding me with a man. Bullshit I would say in return, and probably reap the consequences on the day of judgement. It is wonderful though.

I don't know what to do. So I shall for the moment do nothing. Unfortunately by bringing someone else into this accountability equation the proportions are unequal. I am easily led - at least when I already know I want something!

Concerning the opening piece of scripture, I am very happy and very excited, even if my tortured psyche's self-indulgent musings tell a different story.

Regarding the title of this post, it was something I discovered 5 weeks ago and had confirmed on Wednesday: Earlobes are the new inner thigh, and far more accessible...

treated like a lady and feeling like a fraud

2006-11-07T09:34:00.000Z

Food gained by fraud tastes sweet to a man, but he ends up with a mouth full of gravel (Proverbs 20:17)

I went on a real and proper grown-up date last night! With a grown-up. I even planned my outfit in advance.

Had I the time I might have found someone to teach me about the etiquette of cutlery, but as I am not a prostitute, he is not a billionaire and this is no Hollywood movie, I settled for taking time out to straighten my hair.

To cut what could be a long and rather boring story, the evening was wonderful. Dinner, the theatre and then after-show drinks were the superficial trappings; enjoyable conversation, smiles and mutual respect were what made it more than an exercise in courtship.

This guy likes me! But, more importantly, I like him and I'm not finding him unattractive because he likes me. (I know, I know, a rather dysfunctional tendency)

Of course, I can't just enjoy this. No no. I must agonise and worry and enthuse and panic. So this guy likes me, so I like him. This doesn't mean he won't take my anxious heart, rip it from my be-padded bosom, and stir-fry it in strips before my weeping eyes.

This also doesn't mean he won't decide my past is just a little too unsavoury for his liking. I don't think I give off any innocent, naive impression. In fact, I'm sure of it. But when someone compliments you in the way that this guy has, it is difficult not to feel like a fraud, masquerading as a lady.

K’Naan and the price of getting merry

2006-10-28T12:50:00.000Z

Muslims Jews and Christians war, no one’s left to praise the Lord (k’Naan)

One of my bestest friends phoned last Wednesday to invite me to a gig. Guy called K’Naan, Somalian, rap meets genuine melody, without the cheese of Nelly and other Western excuses for entertainment.

Of course, we had to stand through several warm-up acts. Which in hindsight could never be more than lukewarm against the heat of K’Naan. I’m sure that in a few years time these warm-up acts will be best-selling artists I tell my Godchildren I saw in person. But at the time they were rather generic.

K’Naan was fascinating.

At this point I would like to bring in his personal history, but my internet connection is intermittent at best, and K’Naan’s site – which I am told in good faith provides several recipes for superior weed – is a blank page with a message telling me the connection has timed out.

Thus I refer to his lyrics, which speak for themselves.

At one point he asks his audience: “Are you hardcore, really hardcore?” and then says that growing up in Somalia was the grittiest ghetto there is. What I loved about that song was his attack of 50 cent and other “hardcore” rappers. What I didn’t love was the competitive edge. He has a point, but I’m sure a kid his age from Rwanda would have similar, if not more relevant, claims to growing up in the worst ghetto there is.

Africa is a huge continent. I wandered into a shop selling ‘African’ food in Peckham on Tuesday and asked for mealie pap, only to be answered with blank stares. Speak Swahili to a Namibian or Zulu to a Nigerian, offer Mopane worms to a Senegalese or ask the Djibouti football team for their World Cup credentials and there is no understanding. Africa is apparently a poverty-striken continent; tell that to the millionaires living in JoBurg. The entire continent is a warzone; discuss that idea with those finally enjoying peace. There are many similarities, but far more differences between countries across Africa. The similarities appear to be more tragic than the differences, and yet the differences have a capitalist edge that render them ultimately more tragic than the similarities.

Somalia has issues and K’Naan has done bloody well for himself. He has some very pertinent and compassionate points to make. He also has a beautiful singing voice when he reverts from his eloquent rapping. A great night.

Bloody expensive though. And my friend’s boyfriend arrived later in a foul mood. Several costly beers later and he cheered up slightly. All in all a night that was measure by the quality of the entertainment and the quantity of the till receipts. Worth it, in my opinion.

films and an attempt at a top ten

2006-10-21T10:12:00.000Z

Watching Jerry Maguire again.

I rarely watch films more than once and if I do, there’s something special that draws me to it. When Harry Met Sally, Pulp Fiction, The Birdcage, Gigi, Ghostbusters, Singing in the Rain, Lock Stock and 2 Smoking Barrels, The Fisher King and Beauty and the Beast, they are the ones I will watch wherever, whenever if I have the chance. I hope the list gets a little longer soon, there aren’t any films in that list from the 21^st century.

Charismatic as Tom Cruise is, what I love about this film is the relationship between Marcy and Rod Tidwell (and Renee Zellweger doing both geeky and vulnerable). “My whole life is this family and it cannot function without him,” she weeps into the phone. She is mouthy and passionate and he is self-obsessed and cocky. It’s a film and therefore difficult to associate with real life – especially when everyone has such great teeth – but they love each other and they work as a couple. The significance of Maguire’s relationship with Dorothy is only relevant against the backdrop of theirs. It’s easy to be sidetracked by the “cute kid in glasses” (prizes for the tv connection) but he is the reason for their relationship, they are the paradigm.

The film also has sport in it. Unfortunately it’s American, but having tried to rewrite it as an English classic involving a spin bowler and an Oxbridge sports agent I realise Crowe got it right.

Reading the list again I’m glad Lock Stock is in it, I might otherwise have been tempted to include Notting Hill. Good as a lot of English films are, my top ten has mainly American exports. Number 10 is actually Amelie and not Jerry Maguire, but as soon the words “top ten” have tapped through the keyboard I’m plagued by more and more films that deserve note. Like Rob in High Fidelity, I find it difficult to decide on a list when it feels like it matters.

Read Persuasion last weekend. I love Jane Austen. She waxes lyrical in this one and it doesn’t surprise me to discover it was her last novel. I find 2 Timothy as moving. I read it as Paul’s last letter to Timothy (once you’ve removed the less Pauline sections!) and have found myself in tears. I may have been menstruating at the time, but it still takes a bit of sentimental cheese to get the tear glands going. If you haven’t read Persuasion I recommend it hugely, especially if you’re over one and twenty. If you’re a man then you’re a potential husband for many many years yet so it might serve you better to learn the rules of American football, write a screenplay and make women across the globe swoon.

work and the power of prayer

2006-10-21T10:09:00.000Z

Already my second week is over. The job is great. Not that I’ve said that out loud, there’s still the nagging fear I could lose it at any time, which is odd since I’ve never had a warning, let alone been sacked.

It is so good to have a real job again! I get to think and write and communicate and ponder and fiddle with all the Office programs I can legitimately use.

However, it is a daunting prospect. For what are probably all the wrong reasons. It is a Christian organisation and the HR department are very into the power of prayer. I am a liberal christian, which means I have an open mind in so many ways and generally defer to the Lord when I’m feeling judgemental. But I get embarrassed and righteously prudish when people spout blessings and prayers in the comfortable and easy way that most people discuss last night’s tv.

So finding out that not only was my position prayed over (and the fact I found it by pure accident is portent in itself) but that I was the only one interviewed on faith is pretty scary. I feel like Jonah on a pleasure cruise to Ninevah… I want to turn the boat around and go anywhere but. Life is that much easier when it feels like your own stupid accident and your attempts to make it ‘worthy’.

The paradox: do you believe that God has a definite plan for you and therefore focus on him to the extent that you rely on him and find a confidence rooted not in ‘self’ but in Christ? Or do you continue as you are with the hope/fear that God has a plan for you and focus on doing the best you can, taking the credit if you fail and thanking God if you succeed?

Perhaps not technically a paradox.

I may always lean towards the latter. I told a therapist (it was free) that I didn’t want to gain self-confidence because I didn’t deserve to feel that way about myself. Boo fucking hoo. If I spent as much time practising the guitar as I did feeling sorry for myself I’d be the single white female Jimi Hendrix right now.

I am, at the moment excited and pleased about my job. I hope it lasts and I hope to God that the prayers did hit their mark. All I know is I’m going to work as hard as I can. That will be my attempted testament to the power of prayer.

moving on

2006-10-05T21:54:00.000Z

I command you - be strong and courageous! Do not be afraid or discouraged. For the Lord your God is with you wherever you go. (Joshua 1 v.9)

I have a new job. It's all very exciting and very very nerve-wracking. It has been a few months since I've had a job that was difficult and was genuinely interesting, which should make this a good thing. Except that I've screwed up before and I'm scared I'll screw up again.

One of my best mates has a downstairs toilet in which her Mum had put up laminated quotations and poems. I would find myself absorbed in reading the walls and the ceiling, then get embarrassed and feel I had to explain away my long absense. Like those squirmish moments in Bridget Jones without the adorable looks and ultimate happy ending. So it was from a young age that I knew the piece of wisdom:

Work like you don't need the money;
dance like no one is watching;
sing like no one is listening;
love like you've never been hurt;
and live life every day as if it were your last.

The last one is a bullshit piece of existentialist self-obsession. Living as if every day were your last would make the objective of each action yourself, your own impact upon the world and perhaps your own standing with God. One of the bravest things to do in the world - with that one life you have - is to give back and help people, without worrying that it has a large enough impact that your involvement is what people remember. There have been a thousand Mother Theresas without publicity gurus making them international icons. Which is not, incidentally, what I think Mother Theresa did want, useful as it was for finding funds and other support.

The first one is great - if you have a safe and warm somewhere to sleep, and enough food to ensure you don't die of starvation. Once these needs are met, then working like you don't need the money has a whole new meaning.

Dancing like no one is watching? Never had a problem with that one. Actually I dance like someone is always watching. It is a performance. I also walk like someone is watching. When I'm feeling lonely or self-conscious on a public street, I strut like I'm on a catwalk. It has the power to make me feel positively self-conscious. My esteem is no higher, but it looks as if it is. Similarly with the singing. If you sing as if you're not sure you should be, then people will also believe you shouldn't be. Sing with confidence and charisma, and even if it is the most appalling racket in the world, the performance will make it more than it could be.

Loving, now that's a difficult one. I have never really been hurt, not really. My first real relationship, he dumped me after 4 weeks and never had a reason. He sat for 2 hours because his friend told him he should talk to me about why and he could not come up with a reason. I got angry and said:
"Four weeks? I've had constipation for longer. And it was a hell of a lot more enjoyable when it was over."
The tears made it less sassy and cool than it could have been.
However, it did hurt. For some reason I am acutely aware of how much it could/will hurt when I have my heart truly broken. I don't understand why someone would want to stay with me, and so I don't want to risk going out with anyone because they will leave me and it will hurt.

This new job, I'm scared I will screw up again and so I'm scared to start it. Because I don't want to screw up again, last time was horrible enough. But I have to start it and I have to move on, however scary it may seem. As a very dear friend, and one of the holiest people I know, said tonight,
"God is your anchor and will be with you wherever you go. He will test you and He will continue you to test you, but He will always be with you."
Ah, the ineffable God, whose nature is so alien as to be cruel, in human terms!
It's true though.

So with logic, theology and the overwhelming desire to earn a decent wage moving me forward, how am I going to find motivation to fall in love? Is God with me on that journey too, in which case I fully expect to be tested in that area too. I'm frightened, because the way things are going at the moment, I may find myself in a mindset that would welcome a relationship. And that is the scariest challenge of all for me: beyond a new job, an empty dance floor, an open mike and even the prospect of death (because then you're not alive to nurse a broken heart), I am afraid to get my heart broken.

shining a light

2006-10-01T11:03:00.000Z

The lampstand will be placed outside the inner curtain of the Most Holy Place in the Tabernacle. Aaron and his sons will keep the lamps burning in the Lord's presence day and night. This is a permanent law for the people of Israel, and it must be kept by future generations. (Exodus 27:21)

There was a baptism during this morning's service. When the vicar lit the Paschal candle he took a few minutes out to explain its significance: "It reminds us that we should not hide our light, because things that are done in darkness are usually not good." Sadly he didn't explain what he meant by "our light", but his comment about things done in darkness struck a chord. In the hours since, I have tried to think of things done under the cover of darkness that aren't ethically shady, with great difficulty.

Availibilty of light may not be the problem today that it was up until relatively recent centuries. Such breakthroughs as night-vision goggles and heat-sensors mean that less can be hidden, if you know where to look. We can have 24/7 lives because when the sun goes down, the lights come on. Although how beneficial this is to society as a whole is debatable. However, darkness does not have to be visual. Things that are hidden can include actions taken under the cover of excuses, or someone else's blame. They are things said and later denied. They are thoughts unexpressed, but which continue in the mind.

If we take the vicar's words at their most simple and conclude that everything done with the intention of it being hidden is wrong, the verse about not hiding a light under a bushel has an interesting flip-side. The light that is being hidden is not right precisely because it is being hidden. In hiding your light under a bushel, you have rendered that light less than what it should be. Like a candle locked into a bell-jar, the oxygen is consumed and the flame dies.

However, everything done in the light is not necessarily good. In fact, its flaws and shortcomings are more apparent than ever in the glare of publicity. But I don't believe that God wants us to shine our light to the world because it acts as a beacon of good. There is often an evangelical bent to the language of shining light, that we shine so that others will see and ultimately believe. I would argue that a community of people all being terribly and luminescently 'good' is more off-putting than welcoming. How many Christians begin their journey of faith hoping that they will either become good or learn how to be good and get lost along the way because they can't reconcile faith and deeds? Similarly, everything done in the light is not necessarily spoken into a microphone and shared on a daily basis with an audience of hundreds. It is living a faith that tries not to suppress facets of personality, social worry and cruel temptations under a bushel from God himself.

So if we are to shine our light for God to see, the reaction and opinion of the world becomes less significant. I heard a story about a family with huge financial problems, whose car had broken down and they had no means to fix it. Someone in their church donated them a car. It was left outside their house one morning, with no indication of who it was from. This gesture was more admirable because it was done under the cover of darkness. The light shone brighter and more clearly from its source - God's grace - because it wasn't embodied in the middle man.

Therefore whatever is done, whether in the open or in hiding, must have at its heart the knowledge that God wants to be a part of it. "Shining our light" is not about doing things openly, it is about being open with God and from that vantage point, shining with His grace.

Consider for a moment the lamp kept burning outside the Holy of Holies. It was (is) entirely symbolic and has that wonderful ambiguity of religious sacrament which invites analogy, metaphor and any manner of interpretation. It is kept burning, the responsibility is given not just to one man, but to his family and descendents. This light does not just shine, it has to shine. People tend it and keep it burning, and it is kept burning within the sight of God.

It is our responsibility to keep our lights shining. God may be the source of that light, and he may be present as it burns - and invariably flickers - but He is not the one that keeps it burning. We should not hide our light because how else would people know to remind us that it needs tending, how else can we remind ourselves? We should not hide our light because it will suffocate without the space to breathe. We should not hide our light because together we can shine brighter and more beautiful than we can alone.

doug liman, vince vaughn and knowing it all already

2006-09-30T00:57:00.000Z

But if you marry her and then decide you do not like her, you must let her go free. You may not sell her or treat her as a slave, for you have humiliated her. (Deuteronomy 21:14)

Fucking love Film Four. Until it became all commercial. But still.

Spent a total of 4 hours watching it tonight, which is more than I've watched tv in weeks... First of all Spellbound, which reminded me slightly of the Channel4 documentary on pre-pubescent beauty queens a few years ago. Something they should repeat on the heels of the JoBenet case if only so we can play "Spot the pervert father".

Spellbound sent my Mum out the room in embarrassment when Harry, the boy with ADHD or something certifiably weird about him, was allowed screen time. Adorable kid, but seriously? Sadly my own father had called me "certifiably weird" only 24 hours before. He tried to ameliorate (A-M-E-L-I-O-R-I-A-T-E, ameliorate) the situation with "he's officially wierd, you're certifiably weird but seem normal." Still not sure how that makes things better.

Loved seeing the geeks in action. These are people only glimpsed as amusing cameos in teen movies and as "best friends who don't get it" in programmes like Made. We decided that Neil may well get beaten when he got home and they would all rebel at some point in the next few years. Here's hoping... Brilliant film. Several moments stood out, the most amusing being at a family dinner table, when the mother pauses in verbally abusing the father and the precocious little spelling champ says "you remind me of Archie and Ethel, cos Archie's always telling Ethel how dumb she is."
Silence.
The dog barks.

Then Swingers: Vince Vaughn in his early thirties, looking skinny and more Italian than he may actually be. Jon Favreau, better know for being chubbier and Monica's "Ultimate Fighting Champ" boyfriend several series ago of Friends also stars and incidentally wrote, he has automatically shot up in my estimation. And Doug Liman, of Go fame directed, as his debut. I love discovering earlier directors' works. It reminds me of the feeling when I first heard Definitely Maybe, having been of the What's the Story (Morning Glory) age when I first discovered Oasis. Go is an enjoyable and engaging film. Swingers is more so, perhaps because it involves very few ridiculously attractive women with accompanying charisma, or because Katie Holmes will always be annoying to her female watchers...

There's a moment in Swingers when Vaughn explains what women want to his friend. It made me laugh because I have had that conversation, with a male friend. Frighteningly enough I identified most with the Vaughn character. I'm the dickhead that drags you out when you just want to mope. I'm the one that pulls without the ethical angst, I'm the one that toasts your success from afar. That's as far as the comparison goes, but still - very enjoyable film.

However, I think Vaughn is more attractive older and with a little more girth. Perhaps like the chest hair thing, taste veers towards the genuinely manly as time goes on...

back to the point

2006-09-28T10:09:00.000Z

Do not defile your daughter by making her a prostitute, or the land will be filled with promiscuity and detestable wickedness. (Leviticus 19:29)

So back to the point of this whole exercise...

Since starting this blog, almost a month ago, I have been out drinking and dancing just once, when I was on my best behaviour. Over the next few weeks/months I'm going to be seeing more of my friends again and this will involve more nights out, but I am feeling confident.

Students are back this week and I met a very cute fourth year, which was tempting. Fortunately I lost him in the crowd.

One of the things I am hoping to learn from this is to take a step back. Not initiate the conversation or throw myself upon someone for fear they would never want to get to know me if I didn't.

I do have to confess to a flirty text message with a trainee surgeon (half Pakistani and no interest in cricket, this will clearly have no future!) but that was yesterday and this is today and I will not succomb again.

The verse is in reference to a conversation I had with my Dad yesterday. A guy I know - young, brash and not a little annoying when he's on a roll - had said "you are a bloody flirty, you flirt with everyone." In itself this comment shouldn't have annoyed me, because I've had people tell me that since I was a geeky 13 year old. It was more the hypocrisy of his statement, since he went on to tell me about kissing a beautiful student the night before and how it didn't matter that he has a girlfriend because he didn't sleep with this girl.

At home later that night I told my Dad what he'd said and how insulted I felt. He dismissed it with, "we all flirt: you, me, Mum, don't worry about it."

He's great!

fat and famous

2006-09-24T23:36:00.000Z

All that time I had eaten no rich food or meat, had drunk no wine, and had used no fragrant oils. (Daniel 10:3)

Tonight I caught a programme on BBC3 that has sent me on two linked but very disparate tangents: famous people and fat people. The programme was Fuck Me, I'm Fat! presented by the comedian Ricky Grover. I met Ricky a few years ago. We chatted for ages and he is a very funny guy. I had hoped to book him for a University gig but our budget was limited to student bands and a six-piece funk troup from the next county. I have also got weight issues: I am a 10, sometimes an 8 on my upper half, with a neck and collar bone that has made me seem waif-like in the right light. But have a very stocky lower body, with hips that sometimes need a 16 and calf muscles that will only wear boots from Evans. A few weekends ago I wore a short denim skirt, my first ever in public without it being part of some fancy dress party. Tonight, sitting with my impromptu cocktail of Polish vodka and cranberry juice, I found that seeing Ricky on tv and women in size 20s and with far slimmer, more attractive legs than mine, set me thinking.

Famous people first. A friend of mine was in a film last year. It was huge and she featured on the poster plastering tube stations across London. I was, and still am, so proud. Her ex-boyfriend is in a nationwide advert at the moment, which always prompts me to say that I know him, but leaves me biting my lip when I know in reality he's a bit of a wanker. Meanwhile an ex of mine has just appeared on another nationwide advert and it feels even stranger.

I sent him an e-mail to say well done. Although now in my paranoia I worry it sounded patronising. Thing is, I always felt we could have been friends, except he's as weird about that kind of thing as me. The last time we ever met, at a club at Uni, we hugged and chatted and he told me he hoped to be famous. I said that I knew that already and wished him the best. He begged that I never "kiss and tell" to the papers. I laughed, because in my mind the girls that kiss and tell are money-grabbing whores with no sense of self-respect or the impact of their avarice and insensitivity. Now I see him every few hours on the plasma screen at work, helping marketing gurus to sell their product to teenagers. He looks good.

Thing is, I don't want to go out with him, I just want him to be happy. It's weird, but all of the guys I've slept with I want to be happy, find love, find success, whatever it is they need or desire. I'd quite like to bump into them in a bar and hear about it all, without any feeling of being uncomfortable. In many ways I'd like to reel off right now the guys I could pinpoint the ambitions of - for someone who talks too much, I'm surprisingly good at listening! Maybe a few: Roly wants to matter in the world, ideally as a comedian, more realistically as a favourite staff nurse; Andy wants to be rich, with a penthouse apartment, all mod-cons; Lee wanted to be an Aussie Rules footballer, but he felt too pressured by his Dad to make it his life; Tom wants to be famous, maybe as an actor but only one who's infamously intelligent; Matt would love to play football, but it's too late and he hates what he's doing right now.

Embarrassingly there are names I've forgotten, how awful is that! My "number" is hardly of record-breaking proportions, but when you can remember everything else except their damn name, it doesn't reflect well.

Fat people, now there's a topic of subjective proportions. My Dad reckons he's fat and while his BMI isn't healthy, he's only on the cusp of fat, and always has been. The guy in The Full Monty is apparently fat and yet he's much like the average 30-something man, with his beer gut and mini-jowls. When I look in the mirror I see fat, but my friends - and strangers - see slim. Although I don't know how they see my legs. You see, they're disproportionally huge. I saw a woman the other day, fat by anyone's standards, with pins that could rival Heidi Klum's. Meanwhile I've tried not eating, and throwing it up, with little to no change at all in my lower-body.

The reason I've chosen to rant is because superficially it matters. In the BBC3 programme, 2 girls who were a size 20 stood outside Miss Selfridge's with "No Fat" banners, exclaiming that they "didn't care" what people thought, as passers-by stared. Good on you, girls! Except that sometimes you do. Two weekends ago, when I walked in my high heels and short skirt (iPod blaring, because it drowns out reality) I strutted through pride, but cringed at every down-turned glance. Here is a girl with a slim, conventionally attractive upper-half, and legs that could serve you cold Kronenburg of a night. A month ago I decided to wear a short skirt I'd bought at Oxfam, only to have my Dad tell me that I looked awful. While I may never have been his princess in terms of looks and pretty blonde locks, that hurt. I changed into jeans, like always.

I can't sympathise with people who are fat because I'm not. I will literally starve myself before I reach anything that could be seen as overly chubby. I have habitually eaten cake to cheer myself up and then flushed it down the toilet an hour afterwards in fear of getting fat. And yet, even at my skinniest weight, when I was eating just 2 pieces of toast a day, my legs would not fit into the most generous of Topshop boots and my arse could find the bare minimum of room in size 12 jeans.

With that in mind, I can't help but attempt to sympathise. Perhaps, like me, they cannot lose that particular weight. Like me they dream of wearing the outfit they saw in Vogue without feeling like a fashion fraud, it's just that the focus is different. Passing someone and thinking that they shouldn't be wearing that is not a unique thought, they probably had it first. And they're probably reciting the mantra "I don't care," even if, every once in a while, they do.

The quote from Daniel is rather apt, when you think of the diets that famous Hollywood types adhere to. Apparently restaurants in LA no longer serve bread as a side dish, or indeed as any dish. Vegetarianism is on the up because it is less fattening. Fragrant oils are probably still popular, but nothing too greasy, we wouldn't want spots. I hope my friend doesn't become like that, it's so difficult eating with someone skinny. It's also difficult eating with someone famous.

While few of us woud wish to fade away in anonymous obscurity, nor waddle into heart-threatening obesity, fame, infamy and the inevitable fear over love-handles that translate onto tabloid-size photos are equally distasteful. What to do?

Fuck knows. I know that if I ever have the capital I might actually resort to surgery, although there are risks I may never walk again, so deep the insecurity runs. Other than that, there are no conclusions as of yet. Fat people, famous people, rarely do the twain meet. For now.

driving lessons

2006-09-20T07:56:00.000Z

Every day God gives us is a gift. That's why we call it the present. (Jeremy Brock, Driving Lessons)

Suffering a split shift on Sunday, I used my spare 2 hours to watch Driving Lessons, a coming of age tale with Rupert Grint (Ron in Harry Potter), Julie Walters and Laura Linney. It had been that or The Ballad of Ricky Bobby, and since I can quote Anchorman back to front, I thought I'd wait for a better quality Will Ferrell offering.

For anyone who has grown up in a Christian household, Driving Lessons is not easy watching. The resignedly good-natured Ben Marshall (seventeen and a half), who over the course of the movie breaks free of his doormat status, may live in very different circumstances from the average Christian teenager, but for anyone who has made a fool of themselves in a Sunday school production, or used their free Saturday afternoon to serve food to elderly people, or simply sung through classic Church dirges rather than run free and unencumbered out of the building, the film will resonate.

I'm not going to bother explaining what happens, leave that to film critics and bloggers with too much time on their hands. The small cast is, however, an intriguing mix. Apart from Ben, whose facial features range from bored to blank to bemused with the barest of disctinction, the characters appear quite derivative: Julie Walters returns to Acorn Antiques and Laura Linney is an English version of her Truman Show character. However, they are both exquisite in these roles. Walters, whose character is a retired actress with delusions of grandeur, revels in the lines and scenes when she can recite Shakespeare and Chekhov, reminding us that her movie work is a dim shadow of her acting talent. The supporting cast are well imagined and well cast, both the downtrodden vicar and the Marshall's odd houseguest bring comedy and interest to a film that would have suffered without them. The curate is smarmy excellence, with enough screen time to strike a chord but not enough to become a nuisance. However, Ben's Scottish amour is too old to make their relationship believable, a sure sign that the writer is male!

Apart from a denouement that had me cringing in the aisles, this was a film I was very glad to have caught. My only regret is that, as a daughter still willing to do any stupid thing my Mum or Dad need at church of a weekend, Driving Lessons has left me wondering if I've really grown up yet. The film takes an easy route out: a Miramax conclusion without life's little greys blurring the soft-focus black and white.

It does, however, make great use of the word "fuck". Don't be surprised if Julie Walters makes a cameo in Tarantino's next outing, this was a great audition for the part of his grandma.

ideals

2006-09-18T11:21:00.000Z

So I tell you, don't worry about everyday life - whether you have enough food, drink and clothes. Doesn't life consist of more than food and clothing? (Matthew 6:25)

Years ago my Mum pilfered some oversized framed photos from her workplace. They were the annual winners of an amateur photography competition, mostly wrought iron buildings at sunset and poppies in situ. One was different, she gave it to me and I immediately loved it. The picture depicts two people standing together looking at dawn breaking over the sea. The only colour is a pale glow from between the clouds and reflected on the water, while the couple stand in silhouette in the foreground. Their pose is ambiguous: they could be friends or lovers.

They represent how I see my close friendships and also my relationship hopes. Sometimes I look at them and wonder about their friendship, or their hopes. For me they are both projection and metaphor. Unlike living breathing family and friends, theirs is the relationship I aspire to.

People tell me I'm odd, strange, even mentally deranged (in a good way). Occasionally I don't see it, usually on the heels of trying so hard to blend in, but I'm not stupid and I recognise that I will do or say things that others don't. Ergo 'strange'.

I think that in a similar way my ideals of what a relationship should be are 'strange'. At the very least they are not the relationships my friends inhabit, nor they ones they revere in films and televison programmes. There's a song out at the moment, Chasing Cars; it's over-played, which doesn't help, but it reflects some of my ideals. I think too much, I talk too much and I "love" a lot of things in life. I want someone who would lie with me without thinking, without needing to express feelings, without needing to say the cliches of love and committment that pervade every facet of pop culture...

There's someone I like. I am intrigued by him. I don't know him very well and I feel like a pillock in his vicinity (a cliche in itself!). He seems to be funny, I would like to think he has a great personality and he's got nice eyes. All slightly irrelevant if you can't get past the initial hello. More importantly I can imagine being able to be silent in his company; not a silence caused by lack of conversation but rather its excess. I can envisage being allowed to be different, saying things that avoid cliche and explore what's new and different. I could imagine being the girl in my photo, leaning on his shoulder.

It's all so tragic: the girl sitting at her computer dreaming of her Mr Right. If I were 3 stone heavier it would make a great film, provided I got off my fat arse to the local gym and showed him that an eloquent personality can look good in a thong.

This is why I would fuck any cute guy willing to give me the time of day: because every average girl has an ugly girl inside her saying "Take what you can." Maybe it wouldn't make sense to people who know me, or maybe it would. Truth is, when you can't talk honestly to the people you want to, you find a deceitful truth in the people you will eventually want to avoid.

Don't expect a happy ending. I still haven't been able to get past the initial hello and I probably never will. It's not his fault. My own insecurities are definitely not his fault. However, when you're the girl standing at the side (or even centre) of the room, desperately hoping that he will ignore all the superficial issues for a chance of one dance, one moment where you do not feel stupid or ugly or, worst of all, as if you need to impress him beyond all others like the prize pig at a county fair, it becomes his fault. Ergo 'all men are bastards'.

It makes the resulting sting less acute.

the weekend began...and ended

2006-09-17T23:34:00.000Z

The heartfelt counsel of a friend is as sweet as perfume and incense. (Proverbs 27:9)

At 9.23pm (I had just looked at the time on my phone) the song came on and it closed the elipses of the weekend's beginning. A few hours before I had gone to a play with my London-shy friend(s) for her birthday. It was hilarious, which is always a good start to an evening. We ate at a plush restaurant, one of those places where if you haven't already clocked the veg is under "side dishes" you're severely disappointed at what eleven quid bought you, and the waitresses sneer at yet another order of three jugs of cocktails. If you were next to a table of girls singing along with the guy on the piano (Easy Like Sunday Morning, if you weren't) I do apologise.

A little while later we found ourselves in Covent Garden and people started to talk of outside bars and chilled atmospheres. I know the birthday girl too fucking well to let the night slide into respectability so I dragged them (my ho's to the bouncers) into the Roadhouse. She loved it. Heck, we all loved it. And at 9.23pm I Can't Wait for the Weekend to Begin came on.

At one point in the night, when I Don't Feel Like Dancing was playing, her little sister leaned in to drunkenly tell me "You're the best dancer!" I stopped doing the Charleston and stared back at her bemused.
"But I take the fucking piss!" I scoff.
"I know," she says. "But you look so good doing it."
Big grin!

As we walked out of the club/dive one of the girls remarked, "I love going out with just the girls!" We all agreed and carried on walking. I started thinking of course and over-analysing the situation. The night had been about my friend whose birthday it was. There were some cute guys in the vicinity but they were wallpaper to the showpiece of a night spent talking, laughing and dancing. These are the nights that empower: when in your unselfconscious rhythmic swaying you catch the gaze of someone you not only like and are comfortable with, but who is not appraising you and are not themselves being appraised. Oh, unless you're taking the piss in a stylish way...

The whole weekend was wonderful. I stayed with a friend on Friday night and enjoyed cigarettes, wine and conversation. One of those evenings/nights/birdsong at dawns that give you a lot to think about, from the superficial or trivial to matters far more significant.

Perhaps I do think too much, but I'm inspired by so much I hear and see (shades of my father) and more often the people I meet. It could be the attitude someone takes to their workplace or the intensity with which they communicate - both verbally and non - their passion for a subject I care nothing for, or their verbal tics and facial scars. I think I collect people. Does that make sense? Not in the manner of getting contact details and making new friends with every new acquaintance, far from it. I remember those I meet and what interests/fascinates/appalls me about them. Friends are different because they become more than a categorisation of their parts, but there is still a part of me that says: "That! And that!" These things, these are what I want to pin down and display in a glass-fronted case that may one day be donated to the Royal Sociological Society for public exhibition.

So didn't sleep with anyone this weekend. Did not kiss anyone. Flirted only from afar (cheeky wave to the piano player, cheeky wink flew back) and all this with the equivalent of 2 jugs of cocktails in the system. On some level knowing that I had this blog to write on Sunday was a guiding force. Feeling pretty good about myself helped too. Now I desperately need some sleep.

can't wait for the weekend to begin

2006-09-14T11:46:00.000Z

But we prayed to our God and guarded the city day and night to protect ourselves. (Nehemiah 4:9)

I'm probably cheating at this. If I was (were?) back at Uni this blog would be far more interesting, fraught with anxieties and disappointments, valleys and peaks and a lot more temptation. At the moment, however, I'm not inviting temptation. Last Saturday's few hours in the pub were the nearest I got to taking some time out in the local dives. Compared to the time I tried to give up drinking (13 days, but a very good excuse for the wine that broke the camel's back) I feel as though I can do this.

Things are currently conspiring to give me excuses: the raw chicken, a late shift last night that meant I couldn't join some mates on the lash, and this weekend coming when I have to be somewhere at 10am and can't stay out the whole night. Ooh, am I growing up? These excuses are sounding kinda mature!

The raw chicken can also be explained by my passionate love of food. This is how I justify the inability to give up drinking. By drinking I mean a few glasses of wine here, a pint or two there, I have never been able to binge heavily. I sit and growl menacingly at the sparky bastards who claim they "never get hangovers". In my mind I am a dog with large teeth and barely controlled rage raising my hackles at the fluffy bunny that has seen fit to bounce across my lawn. The fluffy bunny is blissfully ignorant of the danger approaching and if it wasn't for the damn chain shackling me to the house (see what I did there, the chain is my own hangover...) I would spring with all manner of force on the innocent little tyke.

In all honesty, I like my sleep and I like to feel vaguely fresh in the mornings. I am not a pretty sight when the sun comes up, even after a day of fruit, veg and water. So it makes sense that I'm avoiding the drinking dancing temptation of nights out. This verse seemed to sum it up: I'm guarding the city. It won't last, but an initial burst of zealous enthusiasm couldn't hurt in the long run.

Last night I agreed to go for a drink with someone. Immediately my shoulders have slumped and my face dissolved into a frown. It's not as if I get asked out on dates often, but it's irrelevent how many people register their interest if your interest is minimal at best. I hate letting people down, but the last thing you need is to be spending time with someone out of duress. My uber-boss - the hierarchy at work is mostly linear and entirely male - asked if I had a boyfriend, I said no, he asked why, I said because I hadn't met anyone I wanted to go out with, he asked what I did when I needed affection and companionship (and sex of course, but that's a different issue altogether). I paused and told him that I would want those things with someone I liked rather than someone I was using for my own purposes.

I have known too many friends at school and Uni who did just that: went out with people because they felt they should, they wanted to feel special, they had become dependent on being in relationship status. I don't get it. Ally McBeal - may she rest in peace - talked about getting the "ick", although this would happen after a few dates. I seem to get the ick on being asked for a date. It does mean I have more nights free, but then I use it to watch shite tv! I need a hobby.

So do I tell the boy no, actually, I don't want to meet you for a drink? Or do I go for the drink, have a pleasant chat and a free glass of something cold and hope he doesn't upgrade to dinner? Or, should I do what characters in derivative Western youth programmes do and act so appallingly that he never wants to see me again; only to discover he is in fact so fascinated by my brutal honesty and engaging liveliness that he turns up at my door the next day with flowers. Hmm, methinks option 2, just in case.

This weekend will officially begin on Friday afternoon, can't wait.

keeping it real

2006-09-12T11:19:00.000Z

For though I do my work with wisdom, knowledge and skill, I must leave everything I gain to people who haven't worked to earn it. This is not only foolishness but highly unfair. (Ecclesiastes 2:21)

There are several books in the bible that I've never really looked at; Ecclesiastes had only registered because it was my Mum's favourite evil charade to give someone at Christmas. I found this verse on a random trawl and was immediately struck by how un-Jesus it is. Read it, can you imagine the man who told the rich young noble to give all his money to the poor adding the words:"Yes, this is unfair, but life's a bitch."

In one way, this verse describes teaching (bear with me). Teachers - the good ones - spend hours devising lesson plans that will stimulate and educate the children. They summarise pages of GCSE knowledge into easily mangaeable bits. They create templates for coursework that will make getting it done in time that much easier. They use their own wisdom, knowledge and skill to encourage and educate those without these things. However, there's a positive ending to the teaching metaphor, it is not foolishness or unjust, but a progressive and altruistic way of life.

(At least in theory, some of the little rascals don't help things.)

Similarly the rise of the charitable organisation. Here are companies that could take as their mission statement the first part of this verse. Foolishness it may be to the conglomerates and investment bankers, but the work that people do in charities benefits people who by and large will not be able to repay that effort. "People who haven't worked to earn it" is a phrase that sounds petty, and one can imagine a rich man strolling the golf course with his buddies of a Sunday morning using it, but it is true. However, when the people who have stood to gain are able to, they do work. Besides, the "gain" that the writer of Ecclesiastes is talking about is probably monetary, it is something that can be counted and respected. How many millions of people around the world work dusk till dawn to feed themselves and their children, and that's it? The work that charities do creates capital that is then used to help anyone without the resources to help themselves. This is not foolish, it is admirable.

I had a conversation with a friend a while ago where we talking about Maslow's hierarchy of needs. I am no sociologist and would not presume to analyse it here, when there are enough papers available already, but I believe it highlights the different attitudes people have to respect and fulfilment in different circumstances and cultures. I had seen an episode of MTV cribs recently and was appalled at how opulent the house this inarticulate skinny white guy was showing off. Maybe I'm just not that into the idea of being rich, but with the personal and safety needs dealt with, he had taken the need for esteem, belonging and actualisation to a tacky, widescreen, petrol-pumping extreme. I get so angry at these programmes. Extreme Makeoever: Home Edition as well. Sure, there are people who have been through some serious personal crisis, with no home to speak of, but if they took a quarter of the budget on these houses and went over to Rwanda, they could build as large and as beautiful a home there as in the US. As I said, I'm no sociologist, but there are some massive things wrong with Western society when its people seek love, status and actualisation in third homes and walk-in wardrobes, and are encouraged to do so.

Back to Ecclesiastes. Turns out, the entire book is a poetic extension of the adage "Life's a bitch". Scholars reckon that some of the more depressing - and therefore impious - passages were toned down over the years. The author's premise is that Death makes no distinctions, so life itself and finding joy in life is pointless. There are quite a few theological books out at the moment on the nature and possibility of an afterlife. Some conclude that there is no life after death, but that it should not stop us from leading lives of humility and Jesus-led grace. For thousands of years, Jews lived according to the laws of the Torah, dedicated to God, without believing that at the end of their lives they would find reward in an afterlife. Perhaps if we lived as if there was no reward, the gift of life would be enough. In fact, if we ceased using the rhetoric of "seeing the Lord face to face" or "when I stand in glory", it might encourage more selfless lives. If Christians believed that they were living for a better world now and after they died, rather than an existence now and a better world for themselves after they died, there would be so much activism and fervour for justice and respect in the world that things might change.

This blog isn't just about keeping myself accountable to lewd behaviour, it's being held accountable full stop. I say these things, I think these things and yet I'm not pushing my way to the front line. I'm not trying the chaste thing so that one day God will pat me on the head and usher me into heaven. Plenty of non-Christian girls out there would quite like to find someone who respects them enough to wait, or who doesn't pile on the pressure (and the vodka). For the next few days its about looking for a way I can work and toil and use my skills in such a way that others gain, because it is foolishness in the world's eyes but it is just and it's what Jesus would have wanted.

Saturday afternoon

2006-09-10T12:08:00.000Z

He who loves pleasure will become poor; whoever loves wine and oil will never be rich. (Proverbs 21:17)

I like this bible verse, along with much of Proverbs. While many of the verses in Proverbs are truisms that are repeated throughout every generation and culture, some of them are very specific to the time and the situation in which they were spoken. This one is probably somewhere in between, in that today it would only be uttered on a regular basis by a certain type of person: doom-monger puritan folk. I suppose it's true. What am I saying, I know it's true! Fortunately if I consolidate my existing debts I can continue getting pissed every weekend without the feeling that I'm throwing my income to the liver.

Finished work early yesterday but unfortunately just missed the bus. (If you heard a girl screaming "Wanker" at a Number 1 bus on Saturday afternoon, that was me). So popped into the nearest bar and bought a coffee... except that a few tables in sat my friends Lou and Sue (wow, never said that together before, they sound like a Sesame Street duo). A shot of Jamesons in the coffee and standing in The Eagle watching the United/Spurs match later, I was holding another pint of Harveys (back to that later) and feeling kinda tipsy. I was also flirting with Sue and Sue's boyfriend - I usually put multitasking under Additional Skills on the CV - oh and a guy called Adam, and Sue's boyfriend's flatmate Phil, and Melinda, and staring lustfully at Neil, who's arguably the sexiest man in town. It was at this point that I realised I, and the uncooked chicken I'd bought 3 hours earlier, needed to get home.

It wasn't really self-control on my part, I used the chicken as an excuse, but I didn't stay out, I didn't get wankered and I didn't end up pulling some random. This is progress.

pulp fiction

2006-09-08T22:55:00.000Z

Then they sat on the ground with him for seven days and nights. No one said a word to Job, for they saw that his suffering was too great for words. (Job 2:13)

I love this film. I love this film so much that in a period of my life when I was getting little sleep through worry and having to crawl out of bed every day at half 6, I willingly watched it until 2am on the black and white TV in my possession.

Several occasions in the film resonate in particular: when Mia Wallace says: "That's when you know you've found somebody special. When you can just shut the fuck up for a minute and comfortably enjoy the silence," when Jules does his bit of spontaneous exegesis in a roadside diner, when the young black guy gets his head blown off and Walken's monologue. These are moments that stand out in an outstanding film.

First example because of a pathetic need for romance. Girls are feeble when it comes to moments where fantasy meets real life. The vision of being able to enjoy silence (which involves acres of unspoken profundity) with a man is very seductive, especially for girls who have things to say, and feel pressurised - by the fear of being boring - to say them. The character of Mia Wallace, who is infinitely cool and composed, even when recovering from an adrenaline hypodermic in her torso (one of the funniest moments in film) , wants to enjoy silence with someone. Perhaps it's not so unusual that girls see enjoying silence as some kind of pinnacle for a relationship: men traditionally enjoy sport/films/computer games together that means the minimal of communication, women traditionally enjoy hours together of chatting, sharing and much meaningful communication. Being able to defer to your man's interests by shutting the fuck up represents feminine deference, and a tangible relationship difference between that of you and your girlfriends. Not only that, if you can shut the fuck up and the guy doesn't dump you for being dull, or even keeps you because you're not a mouthy bitch, then the relationship has, at the very least, a short term future.

Second, because I believe Jules' conversion represents one that rivals Paul's, particularly because there is the comparison of Vincent's response to the divine intervention. One man sees the experience as something life changing, the other sees it as coincidence. Surely on some level this is the essence of faith? True, this is a gross generalisaion, but when talking to people, there are elements of explaining one's faith that have to be understood on an instinctual basis. Vincent does not hear what Jules has to say - we never find out what the Tim Roth character makes of the personal exegesis - and it makes sense, because even with examples of God's power that equate to having six rounds of a magnum fired at you, point-blank range, without hitting their mark, some people do not hear.

Third because it's a powerful moment of film that is somehow funny (helped by Tarantino's turn as a metrosexual housewife) and existential. Fourth because Walken is talented and gorgeous. This is a contraversial comment, although less so since he was in the Fat Boy Slim video. I love the moment when he turns from it being Bruce's family history to his own: "I hid this uncomfortable piece of metal up my ass for two years." Brilliant! Apparently he doesn't turn down film offers. Pretty sure this is admirably altruistic. At the very least I want it to be. I contend that the film still where he was his most attractive was Deer Hunter, in the Vietnamese cage, when the camera panned to him and he was young, vulnerable and sexy.

If I were to turn these disparate insights into moments of religious clarity I'd fail. Pulp Fiction is way too secular to resonate on a wider basis, which is a pity. Maybe I would get on with more Christians if they watched and enjoyed films like this more often.

I'm going to bed. I have drunk too much wine, and while I am alone this is good because I am not being easy, it is also not good because I am alone. Drinking that is. Alone can be good at times.

a voice in the night

2006-09-07T17:16:00.000Z

What you are doing is not right! Should you not walk in the fear of our God in order to avoid being mocked by enemy nations? (Nehemiah 5:9)

I had a phone call last night at 2am from a number I didn't recognise. The guy on the other end of the phone said that his name was Ben and did I want to come suck his cock.

I hung up and I turned the phone off. Then I turned over and felt afraid. Who was this guy? Why did he have my number? And was my past behaviour entirely to blame for this call? I found myself trying to remember any Bens I had met, or friends of guys I knew who were called Ben. Nothing. Still I felt scared, as though somewhere there were people sitting around who had suggested I'd be a good target for such abuse. Or worse still, that I would be someone interested in taking up the offer.

I turned the phone back on, wondering if this mysterious 'Ben' might have sent a text, a clue as to who he was; naively I imagined he might send an apology. Neither came.

Is there anything I can do about this? In the short term I may turn my phone off before falling asleep at night. In the long term I do nothing.

One of the reasons I am eager to move away from where I'm living now is the knowledge that I can find new friends, with this new understanding of who I am and how I should relate to people. But is this a coward's way out? By not doing the things I used to, I am not sending an obvious and direct message to the people around me that I have changed (and therefore paved the way for some transformative evangelism). If I had been fucking strangers every night the difference would be clear, but this is a simple and understated change. People would still remember that I had slept with Rob the year before. This is information that lives on, because in communities people are the sum of the gossip they have created. The fact I had not slept with anyone since would be irrelevant. I am no longer a virgin, therefore I have nothing pure to offer in the way of sexual evangelism. I am suddenly more aware than ever of the power of reputation to affect the present.

I hope Ben doesn't call again, or anyone else. I hope it was a prank and nothing more serious. I hope a lot of things, but can't articulate them. I suppose most of all I wish, yet again, that I hadn't been this way for the last few years. I wish someone could have taken me aside and showed me how to find confidence and affirmation in other places. I wish they could do that now.

Tyler Moore or Burchill?

2006-09-05T12:45:00.000Z

Some people have wandered from the faith by following such foolishness. (1 Timothy 6:21)

My boss has a girlfriend. Yippee I cry and promptly decide the slightly lesser boss has lovely eyes.

I am thinking that perhaps a healthy and potentially more lucrative way of approaching the situation is to pre-empt things imaginatively: write a Mills and Boon novel of workplace romance starring me, my boss and my lesser boss. And if I get started early enough, anything even approaching 'shenanigans' will be infinitely less satisfying than those which my imagination has already envisaged.

The idea came to me on the late shift last night, when I found myself in one of the cellar rooms with a head full of soft-core uses for the space. Do other people do this as well? Men according to 90s statistics do every few seconds and so they're given leeway. Women, however, have only recently been allowed to voice these kinds of ideas and even then it's frowned upon in polite society. Men who seem otherwise sound will suddenly spout off that they'd prefer to settle down with someone like Mary Tyler Moore than Julie Burchill. Ok, who wouldn't, but in the long term I think I'd put up with the anger and eloquent bile in favour of the insight and intelligent humour. Perfect hair and a pretty smile can have the same long-term effects as Chintz wallpaper: originally charming to look at, but sickly and almost certainly doomed to be out-of-fashion after too long.

I am a voicer. Really? Hadn't noticed, says the stranger in the bus queue, who listened to my views on misinformant timetables for the last ten minutes. They say that it's the quiet ones who are getting all the sex, the ones who talk about it all the time aren't. I can agree with that, on some level. But for me, most of my encounters were fuel for entertainment and reflection. Perhaps if I had a bit more money I'd have just gone to Peru or Iceland, or taken flying lessons or swum with Walruses (Walrii?). Perhaps once I'd realised how interesting the whole sexual encounter thing could be, I wanted to investigate more? Perhaps this is another excuse!

Had a brilliant time this weekend, a friend's birthday/leaving party. We went to a dingy yet funky bowling alley off Russell Square that had a DJ, a bar and a late licence. Needless to say I got drunk and played the worst game of my life, but it didn't matter because it was a party and they were playing candy floss dance and popular indie. It's difficult to take yourself seriously when Shampoo are following the Killers and you've just dropped the bowling ball backwards into your waiting friends.

Another great part of the night was having no one I could risk seducing. I could get drunk without fear of throwing myself at some poor unfortunate whose only crime was walking past and looking cute. With that in mind I have decided to rate the potential temptation of nights out on a scale of 'lonely' to 'too many friends to get lonely'. Of course if a night out could be classed as 'lonely' there's very little likelihood I'd bother to make the trip.

I might just stay home and get started on that romance novel.

recognising the signs

2006-08-31T18:29:00.000Z

My lover is dark and dazzling, better than ten thousand others! (Song of Songs 5:10)

My boss is really hot. El diablo hot. Dark eyes, dark hair and an arrogant manner that screams for female attention. Points against him are that he is shortish and rather skinny, but he has beautiful chocolate-fountain eyes with a puppy-dog slant, and a smile that hints of both warmth and impudence.

Now is the time to recognise the signs. Herein lies the danger of staff parties and extended exposure. While I can't really prevent our being in close proximity for large portions of the day, I can stop, for instance, gazing at him - and his arse - when he's not looking.

It is so easy to build someone up in your ideals. People who walk this earth with the benefits of high cheekbones and large eyes, or aesthetically proportioned figures and flawless skin are often forgiven their shortcomings more readily than those who aren't quite so attractive. My boss is no one special. He's not that funny, although he has his moments. (Aargh, begone vapid mistress of smitten-ness.) He is not that intelligent. He is not that romantic or affectionate. He doesn't express his opinions at any length. This is a man who, without his conventional good looks, would struggle to make a more lasting impact on the world.

Hmm, that's cruel. But necessary methinks. I need to view him as someone lucky enough to be good looking, not someone who should be admired and longed-for on the basis of these looks.

This is Day Two and I am again at home. It's all much easier when I have nothing but television to distract me. Eventually I'll stop counting the days and sounding too 'holy'.

Day one

2006-08-30T23:45:00.000Z

Let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily hinders our progress. And let us run with endurance the race that God has set before us. We do this by keeping our eyes on Jesus, on whom our faith depends from start to finish. (Hebrews 12: 1-2)

I believe one of the most hurtful things someone can say to you is: "I wish I had never met you." Similarly, one of the saddest things someone can say to themselves is: "I wish I had never been born." Hurtful because it says that your very existence in their lives has had an effect they wish neither to revel in or to learn from. Your impact has been detrimental to the extent that it would rather be forgotten. Sad because it implies you believe your own impact and existence is detrimental to the point of irrelevance and oblivion. At the end of L'Etranger the protagonist, Mersault comes to the conclusion that in the very last minutes of his life he can still impact upon the lives of those around him, that he can know he - for even a brief moment - affected the life of another. He wants those people to remember him and perhaps learn from the experience of seeing him.

I veer between wishing I had never done the things I have, consigning the last few years to oblivion. And hoping that remembering, and learning from, my past actions will result in something positive. The fact is that, like the phrases above, I have done these things. I have "met me", in the contemporary tendency of ascribing stages of life as different versions of yourself. I am like totally a different girl to the one who went into the house, gushes the latest Big Brother contestant to be evicted.

The significance of past actions can be easily identified: a poor reputation, an overwhelming sense of guilt, a risk of disgusting anyone I might hope to form a real relationship with in the future, a detached understanding of the nature of sex. But there are other significances that will probably emerge over time.

The most frightening one for me is whether my continual and depraved hypocrisy - while continuing to attend church and pray - has disgusted God to the extent that He can't love me. Is this fear the obstacle to truly being a Christian? A faith that can move mountains can also help a guilty soul feel loved. Surely a Christian, in order to be such, must believe that he or she is loved by God? On good days I do. On dark days He is so disappointed in me that I am loved through a veil of His tears, and it is my sin that has made Him weep. What kind of horrible person can do that to someone they try so hard to love?

The title of this blog is somewhat misleading. While it is a reference to the Samaritan woman Jesus met at the well, it implies that her sin is like mine. Mine is worse because I have never been in love with anyone I've slept with. I have not been in a relationship and I have not committed myself in other, more cerebral and admirable ways. Occasionally I have walked away and hoped that maybe that person might like me enough to follow, but they haven't, whether because they were aware that I didn't particularly like them or because they didn't particularly like me, or a combination of both. Ironically my actions that were fuelled by a lack of self-esteem have too often crushed my ego still further. This sin will remain with me for as long as I do not make a very real effort to change and to live a life with Jesus, accountable to Him.

This is Day One. I have had a bath and I sit with a cup of tea in a nightdress that takes Victorian fashion sense to heart. I look wholesome, I feel afraid. This will not be easy as, several decades into my life, I realise that being a Christian means genuinely trusting in God.

This is the most destructive of my personal demons (there are plenty more besides). Help me Lord Jesus, please.

Introduction: the shit-stained sepulcre

2006-08-30T23:12:00.000Z

Hello.
I have a confession to make; several in fact and perhaps over the course of time they will be made. Or not. This blog is not really here to be read but to be written. By imposing upon myself a responsibility to write each week, I hope to challenge the life I live the week before. This blog represents the conversations I should be having. It is the anonymous discourse between myself and my conscience.

I am a Christian, or at least I try to be. I am also a hypocrite, which I succeed at far better. This is not a happy state of affairs.

I believe I am a Christian in my mind and in my heart, but I live with a terrible need to find affirmation through sex. I'm not an addict, I'm not a whore, I don't compulsively find strangers simply for the purpose of getting laid, but when the moment arises I don't say no. This way of living is little different from that of many other women in their twenties, thirties and older. Glamourised in Sex and the City and Friends and Cosmopolitan and all the other scapegoats for aggressive female sexuality, this has become a defensible way of enjoying the company of men. However, I don't feel I can maintain any kind of meaningful relationship with God for as long as I continue in this way.

I am open about the fact that I sin, but a shit-stained sepulcre is still a sepulcre. I make excuses: a lack of self-esteem, a need to make these men like me (not love me, because my subsequent regret is always too great a hurdle to attempt a relationship), a fear of confrontation, a lack of good friends who share my faith. But these excuses are an insipid attempt to convince myself that this is not my fault. It is. I lie to myself and I lie to God. I lie to God by crying a little, praying a little and promising not to do it again. This blog, trivial as it may seem, represents my efforts to stop lying.

This blog also represents my efforts to be held accountable. As I said before, I have no good friend, who shares my faith, with whom I can have this conversation. I am wary of searching for a particular someone to take on the responsibility of listening, supporting and advising. So I have taken this step: holding myself accountable in my own words, to my own conscience and with the knowledge that someone faceless and nameless could find these words and follow my journey; anonymously holding me accountable to this endeavour. And articulating through this my promise to God: that I will follow Him and remember Him and ultimately be held accountable to Him.

If anyone does read this - particularly evangelical types - then I do ask one thing: please don't be too damning. First of all, it's not really your position to pronounce judgement, there's someone far better placed for that. Second of all, I am fully aware of my hypocrisy. I know that I let God down and I want to change. This blog is a proactive attempt to do just that. The logic of this may be lost on some people, but if I know that I need to be honest - and this veil of anonymity will be bloody useful to achieve that aim - then I hope to challenge my actions with this responsibility. Some people wear WWJD? bracelets, others immerse themselves in a church environment and friendship group, I blog.

So here goes...