And so it is official I am still with BBC London 94.9.
Let me tell you the relief merited an almond milk latte and a gluten free cherry cake.
My inability to trust the process of the Universe has been tested to the limit of late.
‘Why?’ ask my esoteric friends do I not believe that all will be as it should be.
‘Well’ I reply ‘The last two and half years have been so dramatic, so brutal, so intense, that were I a disciple from Galilee even I would still have had my patience tested.’
Although somehow I have survived the force nine gale that has hit me, I have rolled with the punches, faced my demons, come up still breathing and still managed to write a script with Ms Majors, that even I am proud of.
Today I forsook a day of re-writes to go to Brighton with Gods Gift to see Maia, the step grandaughter, in her Nativity play.
We left home with a boot full of bottles, leaving it too late to recycle them.
The traffic was light, the sky clear and the winter sun strong through the windscreen. Brighton takes about 40 minutes.
The old man and I discussed the notion of original sin.
First salvo from me: If the Catholic Church believes we are born from an act of sin then there seems very little hope in anything a Catholic may do.
‘Not so’ says the ‘oosbind, ‘If the sinner repents all is well’
‘But’, says I ‘If the concept of conception is indeed sinful then we come in already tainted.’
The discussion took us to Lewes and the Cuilfail Tunnel.
Normal ranting resumed in full daylight.
‘My point is,’ I continued,’If you believe that you have a right to a joyous, sin free life and all the abundance that goes with it, then everything that you could possibly want will manifest.’
My lapsed Catholic spouse then asked me why I did not believe, on a continual basis, that I would get what I needed not necessarily what I wanted, but that if I truly believed my own philosophy then why the hell did I get so het up and panicky when the possibility of a job loss looms. And so we entered Brighton-by-the-sea with me all at sea and him having scored another point.
We drove up the hills, past little pink, tourquoise, peppermint green and yellow houses to the daughters house.
Then we walked, in the cold, cold, cold, afternoon, to Maia’s school. The queue of anxious mothers and fathers, hoping to get a front row seat, wound past the school gate. We entered the dry heat of the junior school and into the school hall, taking our seats amongst crying babies the air still thick with the smell of Cabbages and King Edward mash.
Somehow Zoe managed to get me a front seat to the right, and Jimbo a seat on the other side.
At nearly precisely 1.45 the show commenced.
Crowns fell over heads, cribs were planted in the wrong places, the CD got stuck and several children forgot where, why and what they were doing.
IT WAS MAGNIFICENT.
I cried at ‘Silent Night’ sung in Spanish, and Joseph and Mary helping each other onto the podium, slipping on their little brown tights, and by that I mean sliding over the floor not dressing up in front of us.
I counted at least four slightly grubby kitchen tea-towels securely placed over the Three Wise men and Joseph’s heads.
Maia’s school is wonderfully diverse, all colours and creeds, unlike B’s schools which were firmly white in their catchment and persuasion.
We celebrated Maia’s performance as a head-banging heavy metal biker, with that Almond Milk latte and gluten free cherry cake.
We arrived home in time for the 5.00 o’clock news an another batch of Bafta films that have to be watched by Wednesday so that I can vote.
On my walk this morning birds looked like they were falling out of the trees, chirruping and swooping all around me. My tree now has a firm Mac red lipstick patch where I kiss it each time I pass.
I am finally getting my rhythm back.
We are even thinking about getting another dog. if anybody knows of a scruffy pup that needs a home please let me know.