I Have Resistance...

...the question is, does Resistance have Me?

Here's one I wrote earlier...

I've got 25 days left in which to write my latest, commissioned book. And I won't.

It's not that I can't, it's that part of me simply won't.

It's known as resistance and it's a bitch.

It will lose in the end, of course. As a radio and TV journalist used to tight deadlines, I'll get my head down just in time and work flat out to meet the deadline. Which is 25th November.

How to get round resistance? The world expert on that is Steven Pressfield, author of The War of Art which is probably the Bible of all writers. If you're a writer or a potential writer, read it.

Basically, the answer is simple: 1, Give yourself a day off; complete permission not to write the book ... that annoys resistance a lot ... and 2, Just bloody well write! That's why I'm writing this blog - so that my resistance remembers that, whatever it wants to do about it, I am a writer. Just because I won't write that book doesn't mean that it gets away without writing. Resistance is in me, but it doesn't have me. It isn't driving the bus.

And, as I write, I remember why I love writing so much; I find I am enjoying myself and inspiring myself. And, heck, I might even stick my nose into chapter eight just for a moment. Just to look at it, you undestand, not to actually do anything with it.

And as I write, I sense the Muse showing up, just a courtesy call; she won't settle into me again until I've shut the door, wrapped that figurative wet towel around my head, played six games of Freecell, checked Facebook until even my resistance is bored with the same stories in the feed, updated my tunes on Spotify, downloaded another App, and got going.

And then she and I will be in love again; that incredible one-to-one synchronistic love that flows the ideas and the words and never, ever wants to stop.

I am so looking forward to that.

The EasyJet Blog, Part Ten.

Cyprus, October 2018.

We had a lovely holiday, thank you. This was the replacement holiday given to us by EasyJet after our ridiculously stupid (and funny) experiences over Harold, the lost, run-over, bomb-scare suitcase. See here for the start of the story if you missed it.

I've come to realise over the years that every thought or problem is where you last left it. So if you've got an issue with someone or something and you don't clear it up, the next time you come across a similar situation or person, it will repeat itself. That's karma for you.

For example, it looks from the outside as if I had quite a few relationships before I got married - but it was all the same relationship just with different men. I only broke my duck when I met someone on the other side of the world when I was having to live consciously every day and was unable to put up my habitual boundaries and defences. Even then, I'd probably have re-infected the marriage if God/the Universe hadn't had enough of my ridiculousness by then and given me a red-flag event to wake me up for good.

Those red flags can be large or small. When we were given our new holiday and our new suitcase, I thought it was all sorted both inside and out. But then, I managed to damage a wheel on Harriet, the new suitcase, on a weekend trip and that stopped me dead in my tracks. It was very obvious that I had a suitcase problem.

Except, of course, it wasn't about suitcases; as the wonderful Danaan Parry wrote in his Warriors of the Heart  book on conflict resolution: 'the presenting problem is never the real problem.' It just looks like it is.

It took a while to find the root issue, during which I did quite a lot of internal work about loss and betrayal (yet another layer of the onion) ... and not only did the nice man at EasyJet give me his private email address and a 24-hour one for emergencies before we left ... but our suitcases all arrived safely. Phew.

There were some of the usual annoyances: the flight out was three-and-a-half hours late and the one back an hour-and-a-half late but then, if you think about it, flight scheduled times really only mean 'this flight will not be leaving before this time.' It's all a lot more relaxing when you've worked that one out and we both had really good books to read and a picnic so it wasn't really any problem.

Technically, you're allowed a free snack and drink if your flight is delayed more than two hours but they managed to cram us onto the airoplane after an hour and 55 minutes and then we waited the rest of the time on the tarmac. It's really quite clever, that one :-)

There was one glitch when we got to our room at the Helios Bay Hotel in Paphos. Have you ever seen a more ridiculous layout for a kettle and toaster? You simply couldn't use both safely. Even if the cords had been long enough to put them on the top of the hob, it was cleverly programmed to go beep if you did that, even when the cooker was switched off.

Yes, you could push the table up against the cooker and put them both there but then you couldn't sit at it comfortably or use the cooker... We did move the table  but I got annoyed; it was pretty late at night and I was tired.

The trouble is, I'm energetically pretty powerful nowadays, so when we tried to use the toaster for a late night snack, my annoyance transfered and it blew all the electrics, plunging us into darkness.

Luckily for me, I have a Lion who had already noticed where the fuse box was in the room and who had light sorted in a minute and we began to laugh. But the toaster was dead; it wasn't just a fuse in the plug. Obviously I hadn't cleared up all that energy quite as well as I thought I had!

We work pretty well together, Lion and I. He always notes the practical things and I always locate emergency exits. That's because my ego worries in depth (Scorpio moon) and his worries in detail (Virgo moon). Between us, we can worst-case scenario pretty much any potential problem and realise that we are doing it which actually makes it easier to sort stuff out.

The next day, we got a new toaster and an extension lead from reception and proceeded to have a very happy holiday.

(Somewhere in this picture is a Lion ... it's at the amphitheatre at the Kourion Archaeological site which is well worth a visit).

So the moral of the whole EasyJet story, I think, is that when something goes wrong, do point it out politely, consistently and stubbornly until your voice has been heard.

But even more, realise that, if the problem is a repeating one, then you are a part of it. There's some deep self-fulfilling belief inside that will ensure that the situation is repeated and repeated until a true resolution is achieved.

I appear to be sorted on suitcases but I know there's plenty more resistance inside me that needs work.  But it's a joyful kind of work because the results are clear, and lovely and prosperous.

Wishing you a wonderful day.

Being Visible

Picture by Ari Fox.

Last weekend I was invited to talk on a panel about 'The Invisible (Older) (Wo)man" at the Women of the World Festival in Exeter. I love how PC that title is! Basically it was a discussion on whether/why older women are not seen.

The funniest thing about it was that every single email in the booking process - and the Power Point at the event itself spelled my name incorrectly. The spelling of my name is important to me (as many of you know!) but it's also a very useful sign of consciousness. When we are conscious, we notice unusual things like a different spelling of a name. When we are unconscious (i.e. in our ego) we don't.

It certainly gave me a big opportunity to be very visible indeed at the start, by pointing that out...

Popularity mark: minus one.

I will cheerfully put my hand up to spelling other people's names incorrectly too at times; I'm nowhere near enlightened. And yes, I do know that autocorrect is not my friend. But I will continue, politely, I hope, to correct misspellings because a person's name is a valid part of their visibility.

I've done quite a lot of panels with an audience discussion and, in my experience, they frequently descend very swiftly into mutual pity-fests where everyone swaps negative stories. It's temporarily comforting because you feel heard and understood, but it doesn't move the situation on in any way. So, I decided that, this time, I simply wasn't going to participate in any of that. I wasn't going to court popularity in any way.

I'd say that was pretty successful... :-D

The author and teacher Caroline Myss calls repeating our unhappy stories in public 'woundology' - a way of showing that we are more interested in perpetuating and sharing our wounds than we are in healing them. The wounds become our identity - and often our excuse - instead of something from which we heal and move on. Caroline has lost a few friends through that one.

So, I didn't engage in the acknowlegement of wounds, nor tell my story at the start. I just said that I was not invisible and told them what I had done in order to make sure that I was visible. I said it was entirely an inside job and I hoped they would find the information I shared useful.

Popularity mark: minus two.

To be absolutely fair, by not telling my stories of unhappiness or grief, and by instead positing solutions upfront, I did inspire three women (who kindly told me so) but I seriously pissed off most of the rest of the room (some of whom not-so-kindly told me so - which was, of course, their right).

Now, it's perfectly legitimate to tell your story - and to tell how you overcame massive odds to succeed and both my fellow panelists did that very well. But I chose to say that I am happy and empowered - and much more so since growing older and becoming silver-haired - and offering solutions that have worked for me and which are the reason why I don't nowadays repeatedly tell sad stories of my life.

I also acknowledged that I was being annoying  :-)

One questioner said she didn't have time to do that kind of work.

I suggested she got up earlier, took magnesium if she were habitually exhausted and said I certainly found that I wasted too much time on social media and she might look at that.

Popularity mark: minus three.

One questioner asked what to do about shop packaging (not sure what that had to do with the topic!)

I suggested she handed plastic back at the tills, bought when she could from a local shop, made more of her own food and grew vegetables in window boxes if she didn't have a garden.

Popularity mark: minus four.

The questioner said she didn't have time to cook.

I suggested she cooked enough food for a fortnight at the weekend and froze it (that's a lot cheaper than living on take-aways).

Popularity mark: minus five. (fair call. She might not have had a freezer...).

A questioner bemoaned the fact that Dr. Christine Blasey Ford has vanished from the news and is in hiding and Brett Kavanaugh is still in the news and in public.

I suggested they wrote letters to Dr. Ford to thank her.  Her address is c/o Palo Alto University, 1791 Arastrado Road, Palo Alto, California 94304. The university will forward them.

Popularity mark: minus six.

I was also challenged for saying that I understood a situation that one of my fellow panellists spoke of as a reason why any of the Work I suggested above could not be done.

'No you don't understand!' she said with great emotion. I let her have that one because, having not told my story, she could have absolutely no reason for knowing that I did understand that situation. And I am immensely proud of myself for taking that hit and not succumbing to the temptation to dive into 'woundology' in return. That was quite a challenge...

Popularity mark: minus seven.

I was informed that I am privileged, arrogant and unsympathetic. This is a first for me and I think I might actually be rather impressed.

Byron Katie, the great teacher of The Work, says 'who would you be without your story?' and that is a  deeply profound question. Who I was, without my story was:

• Not entirely popular.
• Highly visible.
• Perfectly happy.

I can live with that.

Back to Main Line Steam!

Not everyone gets to celebrate their 21^stbirthday on a Castle Class engine in full steam. 

I’m afraid I rather took it for granted, having been raised in a family dedicated to steam preservation. 

That doesn’t mean to say I didn’t enjoy every minute of it – and I drove that steam engine that night too – and, yes, I did have a reserve dress to change into for the dancing section later.

Steam engines are in my blood. My father, Patrick Whitehouse, was at the forefront of steam preservation in the 1960s-90s and together with a committed band of railway preservationists, he set up the Birmingham Railway Museum at Tyseley in Birmingham. I was always a horsey kind of child but I gave in, as the years went on, and accepted that the Iron Horse was a part of my destiny.

As a family, we travelled around the world visiting the last steam engines, photographing and chronicling them. My mother once said she knew every ladies waiting room in Europe! Certainly there was more time spent on steam trains than on beaches and we all took the most memorable of trips on the old Orient Express from Paris to Istanbul when I was 14. Of course, the most exciting thing I can remember about that was being chatted up by a suave Frenchman in the dining car – he was sent packing by my Dad very swiftly...

Most of my summers in my late 20s and early 30s were spent with my Dad travelling the railways of China – way before the days that Coca Cola and McDonalds made it over there and, in 1988 I made a documentary for Channel 4 Manchuria Express about steam in China. You can still see it on YouTube. As well as having a fabulous time, I did pretty well out of that trip – I married the sound recordist, Henry Barley.

But that particular 21^stbirthday party, pictured, was held on one of the last steam engines to be decommissioned by British Rail in 1968, 7029 Clun Castle. I’m remembering it specifically today because today, it has been announced that the Office of Rail and Road has granted her – and several other engines – a licence to run scheduled express services across the main rail network.

My Dad is not alive now to see this; but my brother, Michael Whitehouse, has been at the forefront of the campaign by Vintage Trains. I’ve done basically nothing but bathe in reflected glory  – and pose for the odd photograph with my mother, Thelma Whitehouse, at Tyseley while Clun Castle was restored over the last few years.

Clun and her companions will run between Birmingham and Stratford to start with – at what may seem to be the somewhat sedate speed of 75 mph. They’ll stop at stations along the route allowing passengers to get on and off and we’ll have the choice of a basic ticket or a three-course meal in the restored Pullman dining car. But the plan is much bigger than that; Clun is in the market for running to York, Chester, Bristol and London.

It's less than a year since Clun has been back to her full glory after a costly and long renovation programme at Tyseley. I was honoured to be asked to bless her in public at the great party for her relaunch. 

A public share issue has raised £850,000 but the aim is to raise £3 million to expand the services across the rail networks.

Tyseley folk have a double celebration right now – this month the engine works turns 50 and there are special steam days on 29^thand 30^thof the month. You can find out more here.

There are not that many of us now who can remember the experience of being carried long distances by great, glowing dragons of fire and metal. My Dad used to say that a steam engine was the nearest thing humans had created to life – with the four great elements of metal, water, air and fire. And if you’ve ever stood in front of one of them while she snorted and steamed at you, you’ll certainly agree.

Here’s smut in your eye!

In the Eye of the Storm.

Since Christmas, I've been a jobbing vicar on the West Devon Methodist circuit, which means travelling to a variety of churches on a Sunday morning or evening to lead what's known as 'the five hymn sandwich.'

It all came about because of meeting quite a few Methodist ministers — particularly Rev. Jerry Cook — when I was doing the BBC Radio Devon Sunday Breakfast Show. And it's a huge honour to be asked given that although I am ordained, I'm also a notable heretic who has written a lot of books on Jewish mysticism.

Methodists, like other slightly less orthodox Churches are allowed to use Ministers from other traditions and I wish that were more commonplace. I know that the Rector of our Anglican Whiddon Parishes circuit would be hanged, drawn and quartered if he dared to use me. The row over whether or not pews may be removed from churches would be nothing in comparison!

So now I travel throughout West Devon, through the beautiful lanes, under the beautiful sky, to talk to tiny communities which still hold stillness and peace and song as an essential part of life. And I think their attentiveness to this heart of an ancient tradition holds and supports the county in a way it will probably never realise - and never needs to realise. This love is unconditional, whether the worshippers know that themselves, or not.

Being an independent means that you have to both bend like a willow to try and fit the ethos of the place where you are preaching and take the chance of contributing a breath of fresh air to lift some dust. Whether that dust dances like coloured sparkles in the light from the stained glass windows or forms a cloud of grumbling darkness in the corner really depends on how you handle it.

So far, nobody has complained but one or two times it may have come close...

The balance has to be blending who I am and what I've learnt with who they are and what they wish (if anything) to learn. I get to do a sermon at each service and so far we have covered the hidden prosperity underlying the story of Jesus' birth in the stable, that betrayal is an essential part of human learning, forgiveness, binary and non-dual concepts of God, how to bring through the Holy Spirit and how very much God loves to laugh. Twice, just twice, someone has come up to me afterwards and said, quietly, 'that was exactly what I needed to hear today, thank you.' And in those small moments, is the foundation of the Great Work.

Now these are not high-and-mightly lectures delivered from upon high to a hundred people; if I'm very lucky I'll have 20 people in the church but, it is much more likely that there will be three or four stalwarts half-hiding in the back row, hoping that I'm not going to pick on them. Sometimes, I go and sit at the back of the church with them, sometimes, I sit on the steps leading up to the altar, sometimes I need a microphone but that's only because so many of them are deaf!

In the far-flung, beautiful little buildings, a small group of generally elderly people will gather, with a pianist, an organist or a CD player and they will sing their hearts out and have the Grace to listen, politely and attentively, to a total stranger.

Hopefully I'll be come less of a stranger as time goes on and I complete the full circuit. But, you know, there isn't a single Church that I has visited that isn't both grateful for the travelling ministers and also wishes, with a profound regret, for their own priest, with whom they could share their lives, little events and rites of passage.

Methodist Churches are closing all over Devon - and probably all over the country - as the church-going population grows ever older while fewer young people want to embrace the concept of faith. Certainty is the popular belief now; the certainty of atheism. And you can understand that because the orthodox religions cannot compete with a wide-open world. They must update - as my own teacher said, 'cultural patterns may change; Universal Law does not. What must change for the Churches to live is the interpretation of that law. And whatever you thought of Rev. Michael Curry's sermon at the wedding of the Duke and Duchess of Sussex, that Law always has been and must be based in love.

What I have met, so far at least, is a series of pockets of people who are filled with love, with light and the eagerness for a faith that is relevant to today and its problems. And every time I drive home from these tiny churches, through the verdant beauty of Devon, I thank God for them and the peaceful eye of the storm which we experience every Sunday. Wherever two or more are gathered ... there is still Love.

The EasyJet Blog Part Nine (Resolution).

Meet Harriet. She arrived last week, compliments of EasyJet. No, she won't replace Harold in our hearts but she is very welcome all the same. And she is certainly snazzy!

So, the holiday is over; the refund for items bought or damage has been approved. Now, do I ask for a replacement holiday given that, although ours was certainly affected, we still managed to be happy and enjoy ourselves?

First, I had to sort out in my own multifariously-wired head why this had happened. You may be the kind of person who says, 'stuff just happens,' but I'm a Law of Cause and Effect kind of girl.

Was it karmic for something I'd done? If so, then no, don't claim another holiday. This was Justice.

Was it, however, Justice that it happened to Lion as well as me? Probably not. So, yes, do claim another holiday for his sake.

Was it that I was the agent for someone else's Karma? (that has happened before). If so, yes, do claim another holiday.

Was it going to take a huge amount of time and effort when life is about letting go and moving on? If so, no, don't claim another holiday.

I sat with this in meditation and the answer to why was so clear: I simply hadn't cleared up my thinking from last year's trip to Albuquerque to see Fr. Richard Rohr. When I went on that, I wasn't at all well and, to be honest, I'd thought the trip would be a major part of my healing. It was; but not immediately. So I was coming home, tired, a bit discouraged and bad weather delayed one of my flights which meant I lost the connection at JFK and ended up sleeping on the floor.

Being a vicar and all that, I had rather expected to be able to sleep in the chapel (!) but unfortunately, that wasn't on. So I was not at my best and, understandably, given the lost connection, Colin the Suitcase didn't make it home for another five days.

I didn't think much about it - but I certainly didn't clean up the vibration around it either. So, the Law of Cause and Effect would find it very simple for it to happen again. Nothing more than that.

So that was probably it but, even so, I wasn't entirely sure. So, the answer, for me, was to write just one, very polite, very short email to the head of Customer Services at EasyJet, outlining what had happened and respectfully requesting a replacement holiday. And then give it up to God.

I did just that, and let it go.

Within three hours, we had had a telephone call from EasyJet, apologising profusely and promising a new holiday. Now that's good customer service!

Okay it took a slight nag to get the follow-through but now we are booked to go back to Cyprus entirely at EasyJet's cost in September. We are thrilled.

And that's the end of the EasyJet blog in honour of Harold the Suitcase. Thank you for reading.

And there will be plenty more blogs to come...

The EasyJet Blog, Part Eight (To Complain Or Not To Complain?).

Cyprus is a wonderful place to go on holiday; I just wish we had had more time to enjoy it.

And now we were home, I had to decide exactly how much time I was willing to spend trying a/ to get my money back for the things I had to purchase and b/ whether to ask for a replacement holiday.

You see, I didn't want to complain. Hopefully, if you've been reading this blog, it hasn't come across as a series of complaints because that wasn't how it was intended. I'm a believer in the Law of Cause and Effect and I know that if you go on and on and on about something, you just attract more of the stuff you're going on about.

It's a tough call sometimes; you feel dreadful and you need a good moan. Well, fair enough, but there's an old saying that we should only complain three times or we will start to draw more of exactly the stuff we don't want. The more you complain, the more you feel like complaining and the more miserable you become.

That's why I prefer blessings and appreciations. You do those often enough and they draw more things to appreciate. And Cyprus had many things to appreciate including the amount of times that Lion and I laughed over the whole suitcase situation.

So the key for me, in applying for compensation to EasyJet was firstly to be certain that it was justice that I wanted rather than to throw bricks. Accidents happen, cover-ups happen - I've made mistakes myself in my life and hidden them, I have to confess so maybe this was just long-overdue Karma. But it was also important to make it clear that when someone has a duty of care, they have a duty of care.

The second thing was to work out just how much fun I could have in doing it. And that was slightly testing in itself! Okay, writing this blog is fun because I love to write so much that if I were shipwrecked on a desert island I would most likely write a novel in the sand. But filling in online forms? Not so much.

I might not even have done it had I not tried to contact EasyJet four times while we were on holiday to ask what I should do next and to ask for a replacement suitcase. No reply. Then I had an automated email from them36 hours after we collected poor Harold from the airport. The email said, 'You lost luggage has been found. It will be delivered within the next 24 hours.'

Really? You don't say!

I'm not a subscriber to 'rage against the machine' but this was just ridiculous.

Now, I don't have much clout (sometimes I really miss being a journalist!) and, though my workshop students might disagree, I am a bit of a wimp. I'm a lioness fighting for someone else, but for me...?  But I do have a big brother. And said brother is a top-notch lawyer in contract law.

I emailed him (he was in China or Burma or Bhutan or Dubai or somewhere exotic on business), told him the story and asked for backup. His reply? 'OMG of course!' It may surprise you, but that made me cry. We're not an incredibly close family and he used to sit on my head a LOT when I was a child.

So, I started the process of claiming for the losses and damage. You have to fill in a form that looks like this. And provide pictures of receipts. A tad tricky if you're trying to claim for something that was given to you for Christmas more than a decade ago but which is still very dear to you.

I considered contacting the friend who had given me the lovely golden silk chiffon wrap that was so badly stained but, on second thoughts, I didn't think she'd have the receipt either...  Luckily, in that case, six separate soakings and tamping with soap sorted the problem sufficiently because EasyJet were not going to allow that claim without a receipt!

Eventually, on a website that kept falling over and not saving the files (is this deliberate? I was beginning to wonder...), after two days of trying to get the damn thing to save what I'd posted, Taurean tenacity won out and I submitted my claim...

...To be told that elecrical leads were not covered in hold baggage and that £45 of my claim was being denied. It's in the Terms and Conditions, apparently. I replied, saying that this was cabin luggage not hold luggage to receive this communication:

Right! This bit, I was going to enjoy... Good old journalistic training! I answered as follows, taking apart their terms and conditions. I'm also including  my favourite text of all time from our housesitter (and I did apologise for her language!)

Result! All of my claim has been allowed.

Next episode: how do I actually manage to claim the money given that I am required to sign away all other rights to claim in any way, shape or form in this world or the next? That given that I am planning to ask for a replacement holiday? Stay tuned!

The EasyJet Blog Part Seven (Those Whom The Gods Love...)

The idyom is: 'Those whom the gods love, die young' and it's generally used as some sort of 'comfort' when someone young does die ... as in, they were so lovely, the gods wanted them with them. Cold comfort for many, I'm sure.

However, my Teacher always said it meant that those who were in touch with spirit retained a youthful attitude and aspect throughout their life - somewhat along the lines of Jesus saying that you have to be like a child to access the kingdom of heaven.

In my tradition, the kingdom of heaven is the same as the Hindu solar plexus chakra; the true self - away from the ingrained habits of the ego, so that makes sense to me.

I'm not saying that the gods love me - but I do take the time and trouble to honour and talk with them wherever I am, especially in a land where they played a significant part in history. Greece for example.

You have to be careful with gods because they are never neutral. The first commandment in the Hebrew Testament is clear: 'no other gods before my face' meaning that the One, the Source is the most important and only focus for the true believer. But that doesn't mean that there are no other gods.

If you've ever read Terry Pratchett's brilliant book, Small Gods, or Douglas Adams' Long Dark Teatime of the Soul, you'll be familar with the concept of gods still existing, just fading slowly because they need belief to keep them powerful.

And I'm always respectful of the gods because ... well, just because. Long before I was ordained, I would always greet the angel of a land when I arrived, introduce myself and ask that they be blessed by the All-Holy One. And I would feel that the request was received and appreciated. It might only be my imagination but I like to do it and, if it is real, it's only polite.

Even if places no longer have gods, they have angels and angels like to be greeted too.

The primary god of Cyprus is said to be Aphrodite, and I greeted her and blessed her on our first evening and, as I was peturbed by the whole suitcase thing, I was tempted to invoke her for help. I could feel curiosity about my desires, but gods are always transactional - they require sacrifice in return for their actions - which is one of the reasons that religion goes wrong: it teaches us to worship a transactional God and to expect to pay in return. The Holy One is transformational; you can ask for sure but then you must let go and let God so that better than you could imagine (or at least better for you can happen). We turned the original meaning of 'sacrifice' from 'to make sacred' to 'suffer.'

So I said, 'thanks but no thanks,' and let go and let God.

You'll have read Harold's story by now ... and the next day, Lion and I went out to visit some archaological sites and ruined temples and, at one of them, I sat quietly in the shade of a carob tree, in meditation. There was absolutely no one there but Lion and me and we had walked into the site through quite a small, open gateway. This was not a site you had to pay to enter so you just walked from the car park, and there you were.

I was quiet, and grateful and still. After a few minutes, I felt the energy of the angel of the island (Aphrodite or not, I don't know) settle within me with a feeling I couldn't quite recognise but which felt peaceful and even abundant. I sat with it and realised that I felt young ... and free ... and oddly, innocent. I blessed her again and then the feeling left.

When I opened my eyes, there was a rabbit skin on the stones in front of me. It had not been there before.

This was a perfectly-tanned skin, not a wrap or a scarf, just the skin. Of no practical use whatsoever. And it was just lying there.

I checked with Lion as to whether it had been there earlier and he said, 'no.' I checked to see if any other people had turned up, and they had not.

I can't think of any explanation other than it was a gift from the goddess/angel of Cyprus. Perhaps to say 'sorry' for the trouble over Harold? Who knows.

Do I have any use for it? Practically, no! But it is now lying on the altar in my offic as a symbol of abundance and I find it to be beautiful. In its way, it is a sacrifice - in the old way of the gods. Something died so that something beautiful could be given. On my altar that rabbit's life is made sacred, in honour, appreciation and love.

The EasyJet Blog Part Six (Harold's Fate)

'The police are looking for you' has never been my favourite salutation.

The lady at LGS luggage services at Paphos Airport had no other details apart from giving me the airport police's number.

What could have happened? What had come to pass for Harold - or even worse, what had Harold done? Okay, I thought he was a sweet little suitcase but did he have a secret heart of depravity? Had he gone on some kind of criminal spree? Or had he been trafficked and coerced? I felt sick.

Nervously, I phoned the number that LGS gave me and, when a policeman answered, enquired if he spoke English. He did, thank God and he was glad to hear from me. The airport police had Harold; they had had him since Wednesday night. He had been picked up in Departures, not Arrivals and they were under the illusion that I was calling from England having left him behind when I went home.

Now everybody was confused. Why would Harold be in Departures? Why had they not been able to trace me? The police had contacted LGS but they hadn't, apparently, added a lost suitcase and a found suitcase on the very same night 200 yards apart into any kind of workable equation.

I had to go and collect Harold; the police don't deliver. And I had to sign for him too. Still, he was alive! He was in existence! He was in one piece!

Well sort of...

We had hired our car for two days because we'd thought we'd go and see some archaeological sites on the second day ... the rest of the holiday was for some much-needed R&R in the sunshine. So, thank goodness, we had transport to the airport, nearly an hour's journey away.

So, Lion and I set off and he dropped me off, intending to circle the airport until I came out with Harold. It should only take about ten minutes, right?

Wrong.

Firstly I had to deal with LGS. You've never seen a woman so bored and unhappy with her job as the woman I spoke with. You had to feel sorry for her. And she had no explanation as to why no one had connected Harold (lost at Arrivals) with Harold (found at Departures). When I asked why, if they knew the police were looking for the suitcase's owner, they hadn't at least tried me, she had no answer. She, reluctantly (because it was such a challenge to her valuable time) led me over to the police department behind the scenes ... and there was Harold!

Now, I posted the least troubling picture first, so as not to upset you. But, I'm sorry to have to tell you that Harold was in desperate trouble. At the very least, he had fallen out of the aircraft; more likely, he had been run over. Harold was a mess. Harold's travelling life was over.

But he had had an adventure...

Harold had had his baggage labels removed and been dumped in Departures, where he caused a major security alert, closed down the airport for half an hour and only just avoided being blown up as a suspected bomb. But there was to be no happy ending. I know he wanted an adventure. But sadly, it was a terminal one (oops, bad pun, sorry).

The police were very nice; once I had explained where I lost him, they did a fair amount of snorting at LGS and filled in a long form to exonerate me (and Harold) from anything, including suspected terrorist activities, which I duly signed. They said they had looked through him for anything that might have identified his owner (and also in case he was a bomb, obviously...) and that they were sorry that one of my bottles of tablets had been badly damaged and the contents destroyed. What they failed to mention was that all my bottles of tablets were either destroyed or missing and those that had been destroyed had leaked all over everything.

If you're ready for the shock, I will now post the rest of Harold's body's pictures. In a nutshell, his top end, where the handle was, was smashed and the contents open to the elements; he was squashed, ripped and had a wheel and one foot missing. He was an ex-suitcase.

Sadly, I took him back to the LGS services desk where I made them check that the laptop was still working. Fortunately, Lion makes sure that even cabin luggage electrical equipment is padded to the nth degree so it was in one piece. Its battery, however, was flat so I needed their power. Miss Life-Isn't-Worth-Living reluctantly allowed me to test it (it was fine - PHEW!) and when I, politely, asked her for a replacement suitcase, she said, 'You must contact EasyJet.'

Having seen the state of Harold and his contents by then, I was trying very hard not to unload a shit-load of Scorpionic fury at her. I managed it but it was close. 

Being a journalist, I asked more questions about when the police had contacted them. Another lady turned up and assured me that they had only been informed this very morning, about half an hour before I telephoned and they had called my mobile several times. The police report said they had informed LGS on the Wednesday night. I showed her my 'missed calls' list which showed no calls. I suggested she called now and she did and my phone rang. She told me she was honest. I told her I absolutely believed her but it was very odd, wasn't it? She went away.

I carried Harold out of the airport to where Lion was circling patiently and we drove back to the hotel to see exactly what, from the contents, could be salvaged.

The answer, I'm glad to say, was pretty much everything. Apart from the iPad lead and all the vitamins, everything was there. But it was all covered with CBD oil and vitamin C powder and it would be a slow process taking three full days. The latter, when oxidised, turns into a gel and then sets like stone onto anything it touches. Which meant that every item of clothing had to be soaked for up to four hours to get it off. And the oil stains...

So that, my dear friends, is the story of Harold the suitcase, who wanted adventure and, sadly, found it.

Colin bore up bravely. He had to be stuffed to the gunnels for the journey home as it turns out that EasyJet was not the company to replace him and we were forced to return home without a replacement. The check-in lady at the airport did point out that he was over-weight but just three minutes of well-rehearsed and pithy explanation was enough and she waved us through.

Harold's body remains in Cyprus. We didn't know what to do with him and there were no skips nearby and, anyway, who could put Harold in a skip? In the end, we took him, empty, back to the airport as we left and insisted that Miss Life-Isn't-Worth-Living took responsibility for him. I suggested she buried him suitably with a ceremony and flowers and she looked at me as if I was totally out of my mind. I had a tiny snigger at that.

There is yet more to come - and, eventually (for us at least) a happy ending. But I will never forget Harold, the little case who wanted so much to travel and to see the world and to return home with his friend Colin and tell all the other cases all about it.

The EasyJet Blog Part Five (Nicosia).

The only thing to do then, was to put on my one remaining smart-ish outfit and head off for Nicosia. Fans of Harold, I'm afraid there's not a lot to report in this episode - but there is a knuckle-biting twist at the very end...

We had a fabulous time in Nicosia meeting up with Darcie Silver, whose book I've been editing. We met on Facebook and have become fast friends. 

Darcie's wife was told that her eyesight was failing rapidly and nothing could be done about it so they decided to backpack around the world on a tiny budget so Natalie could see everything she wanted to see before she became blind. The book's in its final stages right now and serendipity at its best meant we would both be in Cyprus at the same time.

Though it would have been nice to have had my laptop and have done some work together on it...

When Darcie's book Backpacking Into Darkness is out, I'll post a link to it here.

Once Darcie had persuaded me to cross the border into Turkey to see how it felt (it is different, just as crossing the Bosphorus in Istanbul feels different) and we'd had tea and a chat, we went to meet Tim, Natasha and Ariadne for supper. They took us to a taverna in the suburbs of Nicosia in a place which felt like a village square and where the owners let us take our table outside in the cool of the evening. There, we caught up on life, the universe, EasyJet and everything, noshed ourselves silly on mezes and I got tipsy because that alleviated the shingles pain. I don't think I was too embarrassing...

And then it was the hour-and-a-half's drive back to Paphos and a return of all the worries. The are so clever when it's the middle of the night and you've had a tad too much alcohol, aren't they? And the shingles thing means that I can't bear to have a very light touch of something like a sheet on my right side so I could only lie on my right. Pressure, for some reason is fine.

So I prayed and affirmed and relaxed and repeatedly re-focused my mind. And the answer came very clearly. 'Call the airport tomorrow.'

So I did, after I'd checked in to see if there was any news from EasyJet. I phoned LGS the luggage services at Paphos at 9.30am to be met with the response, 'Oh yes, the police are looking for you...'

The EasyJet Blog, Part Four (Still No Harold).

This unexciting picture is Harold's baggage ticket
- the one they handed to me when he was taken away
What's most interesting about it is that it is damaged.
Was this a sign?!

Another day, another baggage status update. No news.

This was not good. Had Harold been accidentally left on the plane, he would have been found. Had he been mislaid at Paphos Airport, he would have been found. He had a baggage label put on him at the gate at Bristol airport. There should have been an email saying, 'We've found your baggage; it will be at Paphos tomorrow' (Saturday was the next flight in from Bristol).

So was Harold now dead in some drug-hazed dive in Tangier? Was he tied up in a corner while someone tried on all my clothing and found it wanting? Was he crying for his safe cupboard in Lion's office and all his friends and wishing with all his little heart that he hadn't wanted to have an adventure? I tried to visualise him touring the world with a cute little scarlet hottie but Harold was the kind of suitcase who would have let me know he was okay.

Heartbreaking...

The only really viable option now was that he had been stolen. Apart from his shock and fear, I wasn't feeling too good about that for myself not only because of the clothes I was fond of but because my laptop was in him. Now, you might be wondering why I had a laptop with me on holiday. It's because I have four email addresses all to do with different lines of work plus a personal one. As I'm a minister and I work with people with physical, mental, emotional and spiritual problems, their emails are wired so that they can only come into me on my laptop. While I keep off the Internet as much as I can on holiday (and always on Sundays) people often need access to me whether I'm away or not.

The laptop is, of course, passworded. However, people can break passwords and there was a lot of very personal information on that computer. And direct logins to my websites. And to my credit cards. The fact that GDPR was looming was not helping either... My ego was having a heyday with all that stuff for sure. There's nothing so bad a load of self-blame can't make worse, after all.

Another reason for having it was that I've been editing a book for a client whom I was due to see in Nicosia that afternoon. I'd intended to take the laptop so we could do some work in person together which is always the best way for an editor to work. She was going to pay me for that work too...

That laptop had never before in its life gone in a hold. Yes, I probably should have taken it out when the easyJet lady at the gate said Harold could not go on with me. But she said, 'Take only what you need on the plane,' so I did. And I was flustered as to exactly what I would want on the plane, I only had a small handbag and I saw Harold loaded onto that plane. What could possibly happen between the plane and the carousel?

I do need to say here that it wasn't actually easyJet who lost Harold; it was LGS, the baggage service at the airport. But easyJet had the duty of care.

So, setting worries aside, today's jobs were to hire a car and get a present for Ari. Oh, and sunglasses and some somewhat essential vitamins because that old shingles stuff was back together with another problem which I won't go on about here (there's loads about it in earlier years on this blog). Suffice it to say that a few years ago, I decided that I was not willing to live a half-life on codeine or morphine so I hunted until I found alternatives. I have a prescription for a cocktail of natural medicines from a consulant in Harley Street (I know, get me!) which works a treat while I do the inner work to clear the last dregs of the original problem. These vitamins etc. are effing expensive and include the fully-legal CBD cannabis oil.

So, that was important. As was the present for Ari. Of course, Ari didn't need a present and I'm only an adopted grandmother but any real grandmothers out there will understand why the lost embroidered slippers simply had to be replaced.

It was Ari's mother Natasha's birthday this week too and, to my huge relief, I'd put the earrings that I had got for her at a local craft sale into our hold luggage so they were safe.

The car, technically, had nothing to do with easyJet but was still annoying because we were going to hire it yesterday but were sidetracked by the whole 'vicars need knickers' scenario and essential shopping and it turned out that the car hire firm near the hotel had nothing available today. They did have the perfect car yesterday of course...

So that was a bus ride to the next car hire firm, but it turned out to be all for the best because the people at Nippy Turtle (what a great name!) were terrific and right next door to them was the most beautiful shop of hand-made goods and lovely clothes where I was able to buy a beautiful shell box for Ari.

Even better than that, the lady who runs it offered me anything I needed to help me out while Harold was still missing. I said, 'Thank you, but we don't want to buy too much if we can help it,' and she replied, 'Oh no! I will lend you clothes and anything you need. We are on this Earth to help each other.'

I must admit that I shed a tear then because I am always touched by the kindness of strangers. I can't find her shop name at the moment but if I do, I shall be sure to post it.

We hired the car and set off for Nicosia where we were to meet my friend and client, Darcie, and the family later on for supper. On the way, thanks to the Internet, we found a Holland and Barrett which sells a lot of vitamins and the all-essential CBD oil. Except this one didn't. Bum. I bought what vitamins  I could and hoped for the best as we set off for our rendezvous in Nicosia.

The EasyJet Blog Part Three (My Birthday).

I really, really didn't want to have to go shopping for a bra and knickers on my birthday.

Okay, I'm 62 and birthdays at that age aren't quite the same as when you're six. But I like them and I celebrate them, especially as there was a time a few years back when I wasn't sure whether I'd be getting any more.

We often go away for our birthdays because Lion's is just two days before mine and my mother's is one day before that - and if we're not careful everyone's simply bored with birthdays by the time mine comes along. I used to think that was acceptable but now I realise that my birthday is just as important (or not) as anyone else's.

Apart from the bra and knickers, we urgently needed a mobile phone lead because my phone was out of power and the only way to contact Tim about where and when to meet was by phone. The only way to hear from EasyJet was also by email or phone.

Now, you may be thinking, 'What about her husband's mobile phone?' Excuse me while I fall over laughing. Lion may be a brilliant publisher but he is also a troglodyte. He does actually possess a mobile phone (an old one of mine), but it is more than a decade old, contains no contact numbers apart from mine and it hasn't been topped-up in a year. It's sometimes okay if I'm lost and I call him - if he's remembered to turn it on - but that's about it.

Email was available via the phone or the laptop. Sigh. What about the iPad? Tim's not on Facebook or WhatsApp or Messenger. Can I remember his phone number? Can I hell! You don't nowadays, do you? It's all in your equipment.

So, Harold's fate, tragedy or adventure, was yet unknown. I have to admit that I did worry a little; he was so new and, rather like me, so gullible. But I had to let those feelings go if the day was to be enjoyed. I could only hope that he hadn't met a shady, trafficking suitcase who travelled airplane holds secretly looking for innocents to coerce into lives of degredation and horror. Harold would have been so excited if promised adventure and exotic locations. He would have thought, 'I'll have my own story to tell Colin and the others when I get back!' But would he get back...?

I thought, 'I'll go swimming.' Great idea. I love swimming.

Drat. No costume. There were bikinis at the tourist shop next door to the hotel but nowhere to try them on and anyway, I don't wear a bikini if I can possibly help it for all sorts of reasons that I don't need to go into here. I had another paddle and that was nice.

I couldn't check emails on the hotel's computer (€4 a go) because our servers are encrypted and the password's on my laptop! But I could discover that they allow you £25 a day to purchase essentials if your luggage is mislaid.

Bra, knickers, and mobile phone lead for £25 eh? Tricky. Still, at least if Harold was still lost the next day I'd have another £25 for sunglasses, a swimsuit and a present for Ariadne (yes, do please read that sentence with irony).

I asked for help from above ... because as a priest, that's what you do. And as I walked out of the room, I saw Edita, one of the cleaning ladies on her iPhone 5. I asked if she happened to have her lead with her and she did. That was pretty bloody fast! She fetched it, explained in excellent English that it was a cheap one and they only lasted a few weeks, but I was welcome to try it. Excitedly, I went back into the room, plugged my phone in ... and watched the 'charging' sign come up. Jumped up and down with joy and went out to find out where in a tourist area you could buy a bra and knickers.

Now you may be thinking, 'who needs a bra and knickers on holiday?' And yes, many times I've gone bra-less and commando - when I've got a long sun dress to wear! But not when the natural south-moving aspect of the older woman's bust is going to be annoyingly wobbly. And not when there's a party to go to and the only clothes you've now got to wear for it are ones that require you to be fairly well held-together.

We discovered, to our situation-led delight that there was a shopping mall a half-hour's bus ride away where underwear could be found. And, luckily, we went back to our room to check the phone before we left ... because Edita's lead had died and there was no charge. Bugger.

In the end, we actually found a Marks and Spencer's where I could get a bra and knickers I knew would fit. And the shopping mall had an iPhone lead (though not an iPad 2 lead). We ended up having spent more than half our first day's holiday - and twice as much as EasyJet was allowing us - replacing three essential things.

When the phone started charging, I received an anxious text from Tim asking whether we had arrived safely and a perplexed one from our housesitter in England asking me why EasyJet was leaving automated messages on the home telephone about lost luggage.

Had they found Harold? Had they hell! But they were anxious to tell me what an excellent record they have with baggage. When I checked emails on my phone, they told me again how very good they were. Well that's nice then.

We had a lovely supper (in bra and knickers - though not just bra and knickers and that was only me...) of kleftiko at a local restaurant, as pictured. And I had a good birthday because I was bloody well determined to have a good birthday. And maybe, just maybe, I'd get some news tomorrow. That was kind of important because I was going to be needing my vitamins or I'd be starting to be in pain.

Yes, I can meditate my way through the pain (it is a leftover from shingles) and I can alleviate and even stop it for a while. But forgive me if that's not exactly what I want to be spending my time doing on holiday...

The EasyJet Blog, Part Two, (The Ego).

The beach at Helios Hotel, Paphos.

Normally on the first night of a holiday by the sea, I wander down to let the waters nibble my toes, breathe deeply and greet the devas of the land.

This time I did just that too ... but it became a spiritual exercise to continually calm and release the chattering of my ego. The devas were a bit cross too at the start. Devas do like to be noticed and greeted and they made it quite clear that they don't give a flying you-know-what about lost suitcases. I could almost hear them sighing and saying, 'Get a grip, Whitehouse!'

Egos are brilliant for repeating things; they are the part of the brain that remembers stuff but they're not very good at anything new. You need the conscious self for that. The wonderful thing about holidays somewhere new is that we spend a lot of time conscious because the ego has nothing much to offer. Unless, of course, it can lock onto an old worry pattern. This aspect of the ego (Eckhart Tolle calls it 'the pain body') figuratively eats negative emotions and enjoys calling them up for a nice, yummy, supper.

But Cyprus was not a new country for us; some of our family live here and, the last time we visited, I was sick so that was the level of energy that my ego was just delighted to be offering.

The Hebrew word for ego is Yesod and it really was being a little sod that night. But at least I could observe it instead of being eaten up by it.

It was also doing its job in pointing out that Harold had been on the flight so something was seriously wrong. He wasn't just lost.

The only options, it said, were:

• He'd gone back to England. 
• He'd been damaged and hidden.
• He'd been stolen.

Option 1 was possible but doubtful as he'd been one of the last cases on the plane. Option 2 was also possible but seemed ridiculous. Option 3 was possible too but who would want one small case with a very old laptop and clothes? Harold himself was certainly a darling but cabin luggage isn't exactly the kind of thing hardened thieves fight over.

My ego went on (and on...and on...) remembering exactly what was missing inside Harold and giving me little digs about how utterly inconvenient it all was. Even when we went to bed in our lovely appartment at Helios Bay Hotel, just as I was dropping off, it brought up, 'and another thing...'

Given that Harold had contained essentials, this is what Yesod, with clever little jerks of distress, worked out was missing:

1. Two bras (I always travel in a Patra crop top).
2. Seven pairs of knickers - and with no balcony to our room the one pair I had would have to dry over the back of a chair which wasn't going to happen very fast! 
3. Swimsuit.
4. Sunglasses.
5. Ariadne's present.
6. Black silk trousers.
7. White linen top - these two were the clothes I was going to wear for the family party in two days' time.
8. Laptop computer with all my contacts on it.
9. Computer lead.
10. Mobile phone lead.
11. Lion's iPad lead.
12. The beautiful turquoise top, given to me by my Bishop when I was going to perform at the Edinburgh Festival. 
13. Sun dress. 
14. Cotton trousers. 
15. My blue embroidered waistcoat.
16. Two teeshirts.
17. Hairbrush.
18. Handkerchiefs.
19. My birthday cards for the next day (and a present).
20. Olive-coloured bolero.
21. The lovely golden silk scarf, given to me by my friend, Bernadette.
22. Some jewelry.
23. All my vitamins and medicines (including painkillers).
24. A hessian bag for the food shopping we planned to do because we were self-catering.

I won in the end, and the last thing my ego offered did make me laugh. It pointed out that if I were to have any genuine cause for complaint to the airline should Harold not return, I had absolutely no right to enjoy myself in the meantime. I should be miserable. Cunning! But that one's not going to work. :-)

The EasyJet Blog, Part One: Vicars Need Knickers.

I had this suitcase.
It was a sweet, happy little suitcase that had lived with us since last August, making its own nest in the cupboard in Lion's office together with the other suitcases. They got on well.
The other suitcases would tell it stories of their travels. Some of them had been to the USA, all of them had been to Europe. One of them had even been to Russia and China. That one shows off a bit but we forgive it because it's a bit of a Velveteen Rabbit.
But Harold (did I tell you the suitcase's name was Harold?) had a favourite amongst the other cases: unfortunately - hindsight is everything - his favourite was Colin.

Harold was in awe of Colin (pictured left) because Colin had an adventure on the way home from my visit to Albuquerque last April. Colin made it to New York city and then went AWOL. He took in a couple of Broadway shows, a Nascar race, ODd on Maple Syrup and hit on some pretty hot babes (that's not my bikini!). It took Colin five days to get home but he made it in one piece with many outrageous stories to tell.
Even so, Colin is an old campaigner; we've had him for more than five years and Harold was just a baby (excuse me while I wipe away a tear from writing the word 'was').
I don't even have a picture of Harold ... sniff.
But, back to the story. We were going to Cyprus on holiday and it was to be Harold's first ever trip on an aircraft, let alone abroad. He was so excited and perfectly happy that his job was to be cabin luggage because Harold knew just how important cabin luggage is to me. He didn't feel any the lesser because his great friend, Colin, was going in the hold.
I've travelled all over the world and I know about Colins and airlines and stuff getting lost. So Harold was thrilled to be packed with the absolute essentials for the first couple of days of our trip. He had my laptop, all our phone leads, some birthday cards and a present for me from a friend as it was my birthday the day after we arrived in Cyprus. He had the clothes I was planning to wear for the family birthday party we were having with our adopted son Tim, his wife Natasha, and four-and-a-half-year-old Ariadne in a couple of days' time and Ari's present (a beautiful pair of embroidered slippers from India). Even more importantly, he had all my vitamins and medicines - which are essential to keep me out of pain from the after-effects of a long illness a while ago and last, but not least, both of my bras and all my knickers.
We checked Colin in at bag drop and took Harold and Josie, the other cabin baggage, to the gate. At which point, the EasyJet staff informed us that the aircraft was full and that our cabin baggage had to go in the hold.
Harold gibbered with joy. He was to have a big adventure and travel with Colin! He was so excited to have a baggage label put on him and I was happy for him too. Lion and I actually watched him being carried onto the aircraft and we knew he'd find Colin in the hold and snuggle up if he found it a bit scary.
On the flight, Lion and I listened to recordings of I'm Sorry I'll Read That Again and had a great flight. We didn't worry about our batteries getting low because Harold had all the leads.
And then we landed. We were at the carousel at Paphos before it started to move and I couldn't wait to hear how Harold had got on. He was a jolly little suitcase and I knew he'd chat all the way to the hotel.
First Colin arrived. Then Josie. And then nothing.
Harold wasn't there.
Lion had gone through to the arrivals hall to sort out our transfer to the hotel so it was just me, suitcaseless in the baggage area, alone.
I reported Harold missing to a nice woman from LGS, the luggage people at Paphos. She didn't understand my concern - that I'd actually seen Harold go on the plane and she assumed that he had missed it. Her English was better than my Greek but the message didn't go through. In any case, there was nothing to do but leave Harold behind, assuming that he simply hadn't got off the plane and would return (again) with the next EasyJet flight to Paphos.
Apart from anything else, I really, really hoped that would be the very next day. Tim was due to text us with the venue in the morning and I had very little battery left and one of the downsides of the connected world is that you don't memorise mobile phone numbers. I needed my painkillers. And more than that ... trust me, vicars need knickers.

Wild Garlic Digestives

I'm learning to forage. It's something you have to be careful about but I'm a member of a Facebook group called Wild Food and Hedgewitchery which keeps us on the straight and narrow and allows us to post pictures to check what we've found is edible.

But wild garlic is fairly easy to spot; you just rub your fingers on the leaves and they smell of garlic. There was a great pathway of new growth  on Friday's beagle walk and I thought, this time, I'll do it!

Oh my! It's delicious all on its own but I was planning to make some gluten-free digestives and after crushing the leaves with a pestle and morter, added them into the mix.

Yes, I know they're not pretty (if you've read this blog before you'll know I'm not an artistic cook 😄) but oh my! Talk about yummy. With digestives, I can generally get the dough into the oven without too much interference but about a quarter of this stuff was gone before I could get it onto the tray.

I'm pretty sure that if you made the mix with a bit more care, you could roll them out and make them with a round cutter but they won't taste any better!

Recipe:

GF Digestives

12g porridge oats
20g mixed pumpkin, sunflower and flax seeds.
75g Dove’s Farm GF plain flour (or use the SR but don’t add baking powder)
½ tbsp baking powder
Large pinch salt
25g soft brown sugar
1 tbsp soft butter
1 tbsp goat (or other) milk

Preheat oven to 200c/Gas 6
Line baking tray with parchment

Blitz oats and seeds in food mixer
Add flour, sugar, salt, baking powder and butter and whizz until well mixed
Knead briefly on a floured board and roll out (if you like neat stuff!) and cut into shapes about 3mm thick
Otherwise, spoon onto baking sheet and flatten with fingers

Bake for about 12 minutes until lightly golden.

Flushed with success, I made a wild garlic cauliflower cheese last night. Yum!

The Three Day Fast

I'm on a three day fast. Which means no food at all. Nada. It's not fun but it is interesting.

And of course, I've just driven myself crazy posting a picture of a quiche I made because you're 'supposed' to have a picture on a blog posting. Sometimes I do make myself laugh...

So, you say, why are you doing the fast if you don't enjoy it? Who would?! But there are three reasons really - it's good for my body and it's good self-discipline - and because of John-down-the-road.

When I was ill a year or so ago, I ate very healthily but since then I've gone back down the 'yummy carbs' route probably because I'll never be one of those people who only eat to live. I love my food! And I love baking and making treats for others.

When I was sick I ate keto as much as I could - no sugar, virtually no carbs for 18 solid months (and no alcohol either). I certainly got slender - though ironically that wasn't any part of the goal - and people said that I'd never want to go back to sugar. Really? On what planet? I have to say I'd love to be one of those people who genuinely discovers that sugar no longer appeals but it certainly wasn't the truth for me.

When I bake nowadays I bake gluten-free (which is probably why so much of my food is messy - see articles below!) but I still include maple syrup or sugar when the recipe requires it. I focus on the gluten-free not because I'm coeliac but because I just think it's healthier. Who knows how much mess there is bound into most gluten? Apart from anything else, most pesticides are formulated to destroy the insect's stomach and if you have enough of that in your own tummy ... well, need I say more?

Incidentally, the quiche pictured is 50-50 gluten free and normal flour. That was quite simple: I just made two pastries and stuck them together. The non GF half was for my husband.

It would, of course, be healthier to drop the sugar too - but I don't want to. And I am a fervent believer that what makes you happy is a valid pathway to greater health. Eat as well as you can and eat happily and you are doing okay. I hardly ate happily any day for those 18 months; it was a grind and that's not how I want to live my life. It's not healthy!

There is research that supports what seems to be true for me - that the body tries to re-build the fat it used to have before you dieted/got sick. It seems that it believes that being skinny is not the accepted, healthy norm for it - and as the dieting doesn't actually remove the fat cells, just makes them skinny. They want to fill out again.

Hence the fast. I reckon that if I want to stay as healthy as possible and I intend to eat stuff that is 'bad for me' and which makes me joyful then I also need to allow my digestion and immune system the chance to take some time out and re-set itself. Here's an article about it. If there's no food to process, the stomach can rest ... and if there's nothing to spark any reactions, the immune system can get on with sorting out what really matters like any rogue cells, that sniffle that's gone on too long or anything else that might need repairing.

What's fascinating is that, here on day two, I'm not hungry. Truly, there has been no rumbling yet at all. But I miss the routine of eating breakfast, lunch, tea and supper with my husband, I miss the anticipation of meals, I miss the cooking. And I miss the food!  I can smell Lion's lunctime soup and his supper much more than I would notice the scent of my own food. And I'm finding it hard to concentrate which means my blood sugar is (understandably) low. But I'm incredibly proud of myself. In many ways I lack self-discipline but this is an exercise in just that and it's pleasing that I am ready, willing and (so far) able to do it.

Oh...the bit about John-down-the-road: John is an incredible man who heals people with chronic pain through EFT and kinesiology. He truly has had some wonderful results but, just like all healers, he has had his failures too, including, partially, himself. He had arthritis. Now he didn't have it like he 'should' have had it because of his work on himself and his diet and his beliefs; it has reduced and reduced since he started healing work and became simply faint but it was still there. So John (who has shedloads of money and never charges for his healing work - bless him) went off to Arizona to do a three week fast, to reset his immune system enough to clear his arthritis.

This fast was fully medically supervised - he wasn't even allowed to leave the facility which, to me would have been hell! - and all he took in for 21 days was water. He was bored out of his brain but he did it.

And the arthritis went.

Now, I don't have the guts to do 21 days but I can be inspired by John and I can manage three days and I can intend to do this at least every six months as an act of love towards this marveous, beautiful body of mine.

And on Friday, I can have another of those uttely yummy GF, organic brownies I made on Sunday. If Lion hasn't scoffed the lot.