Halloween Horror 31/10/15

I’ve never got the fascination with Halloween. 

When I was growing up, the greatest excitement on October 31st was semi-drowning in a bucket of water while trying to pull an apple out with your teeth. 

That was it. Party over.

    

It was only when I moved to the US that I realised what I had been missing out on. My local Williams-Sonoma store in Beverly Hills started stocking up on Pumpkin Carving Kits at the end of summer. I’d never before been in contact with a pumpkin, let alone something to turn it into a work of art. It wasn’t that my parents were mean; they were just a bit slow on the uptake when it came to essentials for festivities. 

We were always, for example, the last people Christmas shopping for sprouts at 5pm on Christmas Eve (I still am, by the way). My Jack o’ Lantern was always a turnip, not a pumpkin, because the latter sold out at least a week before we needed them (I recall one year when even the turnips had run out; I think we had to make do with a plump carrot that year).

   

In Los Angeles, people start turning their lawns into Halloween Festivals round about September 1st. Skeletons, ghouls, fluffy white stuff, pumpkins, candles - everything guaranteed to terrify a small child goes on display, and for what purpose I have never been able to fathom.

   

A notice came around in my building last week asking whether I wanted to be included in the Trick or Treat festivities carried out by the complex’s little people. Not unless they never want to be reunited with their parents again and eke out their remaining days under my floorboards, I said. Politely.

   

I put it down to the fact that I was born on November 5th. In the UK, that is the day that celebrates (or commemorates, depending on which side of the political fence you are sitting) Guy Fawkes’s unsuccessful attempt to blow up the Houses of Parliament in 1605. He was a Catholic. That may or may not be relevant - depending on which side of the religious fence you are sitting.

   

Every year, children came to my birthday party armed with (and I mean this literally) explosives. Sometimes, I got a present, too, but the bigger the box of explosives, the smaller the present. After everyone sang Happy Birthday and I blew out my candles on the cake, everyone retired to the garden to watch the explosives display. 

Except me. 

I always stayed inside, hiding under the dining table or behind a chair until it was all over. I hated fireworks then and, to this day, I still do. They make me cry. To me, it’s the loneliest sound in the world.

   

I suppose I equate Halloween with that time of year. I’ve never been able to be near anyone wearing a mask; my dislike of beards is probably because I genuinely have a fear of being close to anything with its face covered. I would need to be accompanied by paramedics if I were to attend a masked ball; my mother once had to carry me out of the circus when a clown approached me for a friendly chat. I had hysterics in Paris Disneyland when a mouse came within nibbling distance. 

And I was 43 at the time. 

   

So, tonight, I am staying in. I’ve just had to turn off Strictly Come Dancing on BBC1 because they are doing a Halloween theme, and I never thought I’d run screaming from BBC presenter Jeremy Vine. 

   

What’s to like about something that celebrates everything that is horrible? That preys upon our greatest fears about the unknown? That transforms people into hideous incarnations of grossness?

   

Bizarrely, it is a celebration - the first day of Allhfallowide - that takes place on the eve of the Western Christian feast of All Hallows’ Day. In my book, that’s just a posh way of saying “Another Excuse for Christians to Get Rat-Arsed Day".

   

Apparently, we’re not supposed to eat meat today, but we’re at liberty to light candles on the graves of the dead. 

Go figure.

   

So, a very happy Halloween to you all. I’m keeping all my doors locked, eating all the candy I have (sorry, kiddies), and watching back to back Law and Order: SVU (again).

   

Come November 5th, I might emerge. 

Drinks are on you.

   

   

    

Health Is Bad For Your Health 28/10/15

I suddenly became very weepy this morning.

For no reason whatsoever.

Having recently reverted to my Twenties lament of “I am short, fat and ugly”, I’ve been living a very healthy lifestyle of late: meditating twice a day, drinking my healthy green shakes, going to the gym, walking, swimming, taking time to read, making sure I take time off from work to enjoy friends. None of it has helped with my sleeping, though (not to mention the short, fat and ugliness), and I think I’m just exhausted with fitness.
 
I keep a daily book of my morning weight and blood pressure, meditation time (20 minutes), everything I eat and drink, the seeds and powders that go into my shakes, my morning vitamins . . . and, before you know it, it’s time to go to the gym. A walk of 1.3 miles to Chelsea Piers.
 
There, between machines, I catalogue my calories and miles per hour and length of time spent on each exercise. Then, I walk home, write down the statistics in my book, do my evening meditation, take my evening vitamins, cook my supper, write down what I’ve had, do my evening meditation, relax in front of the telly, and retire to bed. Exhausted (Oh, yes, I forgot. I work, too).
 
Except I can never sleep. I’ve never been a great sleeper, even as a baby when, even then, I think I had a terror of what I might be missing. I haven’t been out for a week (apart from to the gym) and think that my new lifestyle might be turning me into a bit of a recluse. What if someone buys me a drink that is over the 125 mls I occasionally allow myself? I daren’t risk the adventure.
 
Which is possibly why, this morning, I just started crying. I started to read up on depression that can be related to both meditation and exercise. I already knew of the former. When I learned Transcendental Meditation many years ago, my calming Alpha waves made me so spaced out I nearly got myself killed crossing a road after a session. I then became so severely depressed, they had to cut my meditating time, as I was clearly delving way too deep into my psyche.
 
There is a theory that over-exercising can induce depression, too. While it boosts serotonin, which brings about positivity, some believe that coming down from that high can send you plummeting to the emotional depths you were trying to escape in the first place, in much the same way that coming down from a drugs high can do.
 
The truth is probably much more simple. We are physical, emotional and spiritual beings who cannot but help react to our surroundings and the people in them, conscious or otherwise. We want to love and be loved; we not only have our needs, but we like to be needed; no matter what our social status, we have basic primal emotions that are all part of the one basic need, which is to survive.
 
Despite our apparent surface differences, we have more in common than we know, and it probably boils down to this: we want to protect ourselves and our loved ones. We choose many different ways to do that (I am not, for example, going to rob a bank), but survival is all.
 
Survival is also about control and, when one feels that life is out of control, there are any number of things people turn to that might give them at least a semblance of control or, at best, the illusion of it.
 
I’ve never been into the chemical drugs scene (I was once offered speed and turned it down on the grounds I thought I was being asked to run a very fast marathon. Not joking. I was very young), but I’m suspecting that ultra health is my drug of choice.
 
As a child, I spent most of my pocket money on Here’s Health magazines and the vitamins it recommended. I have exercised my entire life and never not been a member of a gym (although I know many people who can say that and they have never been to one). I’ve always looked to being the best that I can be, physically and mentally (give or take the odd bottle of Chianti, obviously).
 
But: Oh, sleep, where art thou? Because, no matter what I do, I can’t capture that one thing that everyone tells you is the key to good health. I dread going to bed. I dread sleep. I hate every minute I am not conscious. I hate my dreams in which I am always buying houses I can’t afford (a bit like real life in that, actually) or travelling in vehicles that won’t take off or land. I fear every moment I am not in control.
 
And there you have it.

Maybe, at the end of the day, that’s the fear we all have: the dread of losing control just manifests itself in different ways, socially, politically, personally, whatever. This morning, I just lost control.

But tears dry.

Life moves on.

And so, for today, I’ll just go along with the words of the song: “You've got to laugh a little, cry a little/Before the clouds roll by a little.”
 
And at the risk of going a little too soppy sitting alongside my Kleenex, this much I know: The sun’ll come out . . .

Tomorrow.
 

Sexing By Numbers - Who's Counting? 29/9/15

How many times have you had sex? 

How many times have you had sex with each person? 

These questions have been uppermost in my mind this week after reading a couple of news stories in which people state, specifically, how many times they have shared bodily fluids.

   

First, it was the wife of the UK’s Jeremy Kyle, Carla, who was reported to have had sex 20 times with polo player James Carr at his Ascot home when Jeremy was away filming in the US. For those of you who don’t know, Jeremy is the UK’s answer to Jerry Springer, a very good presenter on mainstream TV (although occasionally prone to what I would call bullying) and quite a hottie (well, a hottie by ITV standards). Carla is reported to have enjoyed a smoking break outside her home with Mr Carr, after which he led her inside etc. etc. (I thought people lit up after sex – is lighting up before a new thing? Or am I just behind the times?).

   

Now, there’s another story in the news: a schoolboy who was seduced by “disgraced teaching assistant” Caroline Berriman, claims to have had sex 50 times with her, when she was 30 and him 15. 

   

I’m not going to pass judgement on either situation, but I’m fascinated by the specifics of the numbers. How many people actually count, let alone remember? Pretty much everyone can recall their first time, and I suspect most can also remember their first time with a new partner. But after you’ve listened to them banging on about themselves (I’m thinking about men here), don’t you just get on with it whenever you choose and forget the time codes? 

Sex is difficult enough to negotiate, both emotionally and physically (not to mention the post-coital laundry), without having to bring maths into the equation.

   

I already have a strangely prurient interest in these stories: such as, what was the 11^th time like, Mr Carr? Did you keep a notebook full of polo statistics and, after riding your horse in a match, put something in the margin along the lines of  “Later that day: another great ride”? 

   

I’d be interested in seeing Jeremy’s diary for this period, too, because he, on national television, confessed to not having had sex with his wife for a very long time. Now this sum, I find easier to deal with, because, if you’re not getting it, you can always remember the last time. It’s all the counting between the first and last times that I’m struggling with.

   

I can, for example, remember my first kiss. It was at a schoolfriend’s party and with a boy called Wyndham. I remember he was wearing a bottle green V-necked sweater and had brown-rimmed National Health glasses. I was 13. I can also remember the first time anyone saw my breasts – so terrified was I, as an innocent in South Wales, they could hear my screams in England. 

More recently, I remember the last time I kissed someone (who shall remain nameless). But as for all the kisses and liaisons in between, who’s counting? As I grow older, most of the time I can’t even remember where my tongue is, let alone where it’s been (I’m regretting not having gone to the pub last Saturday to see Wales beat England in the Rugby World Cup, though, because Welsh men can’t keep their tongues in their mouths after spectacular wins).

   

Speaking as a woman in relation to men, what do we really remember after sex? Not always the guy’s name, that’s for sure, so why would you record the notch on the bedpost? Here’s a list of what I remember (all things relate to the man’s actions, not mine, by the way):-

1.     Snoring.

2.     Farting.

3.     Stealing the duvet.

4.     Breaking the door handle in the rush to escape (just me, then? He never paid for the repair, either).

5.     No wine to keep me drunk enough to keep fancying them for the next 40 minutes (at most).

6.     No milk in the fridge for a cup of tea in the morning.

7.     The car registration number (just me, again?).

8.      The registration number of the next car, when car number one is traded in (there’s a pattern emerging here, I can tell. For those of you interested: TB0 440H, followed by MUH 853P).

9.     Choking.

10.  Three licks, followed by the words “My tongue’s tired.”

11.  No licks at all.

12.  Waiting for the early morning wake-up call that all the books tell you guys have, when they are already suited up and looking for the car keys to drive to work.

13.  Texts from ex-girlfriends.

14.  The decreasing content level in the baby oil bottle at the side of the bed (advice: mark it with a Biro when you leave, girls).

15.  The bailiffs arriving to take away the bed you are sleeping in.

16.  The police arriving to take away the guy you are sleeping with.

17.  The ex-girlfriend arriving with an axe to chop up the bed and the guy.

18.  Getting rid of him so that you can catch up with Law and Order: SVU on the DVR.

19.  Wondering what on Earth you were thinking the night before.

20.  Another reason why I am never drinking again.

And that’s just for starters. The nice ones. Wait until I get going on the guys I didn’t like.

  

  

  

    

Single Supplements - Give Us a Break 28/9/15

Business travel at a fraction of the cost. 

The French boutique airline, La Compagnie, which in June started operating flights between New York, London and Paris, appears to have it all – until you try to register on their site. As I travel between all three places and enjoy my creature comforts, when I tried to sign up I discovered I couldn’t, as there were just two options: Mr or Mrs.

   

As a single woman, I have always refused to tick the “Miss” box on any application form, for one simple reason: no man is ever asked to tick “Master” or “Mister i.e. a man is never asked to declare whether he is married or not. While many sneer at “Ms”, it is, to me, entirely correct. The only reason women were ever required to declare their marital status was because, as singles, they were deemed unable to have the resources to pay their bills: having a man as an appendage made a woman reliable (allegedly. They’ll learn).

   

I had this argument with British Telecom some years back, when they asked if I was a Miss or a Mrs. I refused to tell them and questioned whether men were required to say if they were single or married. Of course, they were not.

   

La Compagnie also offers special deals, yet the current ones are all “for two”. I have no partner, I travel alone, yet always find myself excluded from the things I enjoy the most. I can’t, for example, have the Chateaubriand or the paella “for two” in a restaurant. I once ordered the latter and said I would pay the full price, but was refused on the grounds that it would be “too much for one person”. No amount of my arguing that I would just leave half of it would persuade the waiter to help me part with my money. I very much doubt they would have treated a man with the same gastronomic contempt. I ended up with a pork chop. For one.

   

Single women are still perceived as weirdos when out alone or, at best, second class citizens. In San Francisco one lunchtime last year, I was pointed to a really nice table in the middle of the restaurant, only to be bumped when the maitre d’ spotted a couple behind me in the queue. She then told me I could sit at the bar or outside. The bar was overcrowded; the outside seat had a great view of Alcatraz (possibly the only time anyone has wanted to escape to the prison). I left without eating and phoned to make a complaint. 

“We really don’t treat women like that,” said the manager. “You just did,” I pointed out, adding that the couple who took my table probably had a green salad between them and a jug of tap water. I would have had champagne, wine, three courses, and probably still been in there when dinnertime came around, to begin the routine all over again.

   

It is hard enough being single in a world where travel companies continue to charge single supplements, tax breaks benefit couples, and society as a whole celebrates and fawns over marriage, without out having to deal with the anti-singles frustrations socially. I happen to be a big fan of marriage: I come from a very stable background and am lucky enough to have had a loving mother and father who could not have been better parents. It just hasn’t worked out that way for me. I’m not bitter about it; I don’t really think about it, unless I am asked. I have a wonderful family, incredible friends and, for all its obstacles, a better life than most people in the world. I am truly blessed.

   

But I still get treated like a social leper as a single woman. Most married couples don’t include you at their social functions unless they have a recently divorced/largely unmarketable/psycho man in their circle that they might be able to palm off on you. Then there are the practical difficulties to deal with when you are out. If you have to go to the toilet when you are in a restaurant, you have limited choices: leave your stuff at the table and return to find it removed by a waiter who thinks you have done a runner, or have it stolen by a passer-by. 

The third option - asking the people at the next table to keep an eye on your things - attracts the kind of looks you might get had you handed them a rifle and asked them to commit armed robbery in your absence.

   

It’s not as if I haven’t tried to meet someone who will split the Chateaubriand with me, but it hasn’t gone well. I recently attended a gathering of singles, where a French hobbit grappled with my friend’s right breast in what appeared to be an attempt to secure her stick-on name badge. He was 103, if he was a day. Next, a walrus appeared at my side, claiming to be a criminal psychologist. The walrus was also in the early stages of dementia, because he asked me my name five times. 

There was also an attempt to entertain us by a 'close-up magician', who tried to hypnotise us with non-existent snake oil. We had to imagine our hands were glued together with said oil and then try to pull them apart, the premise being that we wouldn't be able to. Er, we did.

   

The truth is, that if a man is single, there is something wrong with him (all the good ones really are taken); but if a woman is single, the chances are that she has had the good sense and guts to ditch the men who have that something wrong with them. That’s not to say there aren’t strange women out there (heck, I know some guys who would categorise me as that) but, for the most part, there are far more bright, sharp, funny women on the market than there are men. 

If a man is free, trust me, there’s something wrong with him, and unless you act fast to secure Windows 2016 about now (you have to look out for those inevitable Christmas break-ups), you’re going to miss out on the good guys next time around, too.

   

So, as I sit contemplating my Chateaubriand and paella free lifestyle while planning my travel over the next few months, I’m going to suggest to you, Sir Richard Branson, entrepreneur, enabler and grand empowerer of people, that you get behind my campaign to get great deals for single women. I can’t think of anyone better to have on our side, and all it needs now is for me to sign off. 

Yours, hopefully, Jaci Stephen (Ms).

  

  

    

  

  

    

   

Stalked By An Angel 5/11/15

It’s a thin line between an angel watching your back and being on it. 

This, I have discovered to my cost, after my guardian angel started stalking me.

   

A friend has pointed out that this is what they have to do, otherwise how could they guard you. But I’m not convinced. Seriously. I am being stalked by an angel.

   

I don’t think I actively sought out a guardian angel, as I have so many people I don’t see in my life as it is, without having to cater for another. But I figured that with the flying advantage (do angels get Flying Miles, by the way? Just asking, because I’m a few thousand short for my next trip), they might be a little less demanding. Not so.

   

If you read my previous blogs, you will know how Padre, the angel hunter and I, became acquainted; you will also know that I did not give the heavenly throng my credit card details.

   

However, ever since I made the briefest contact, the angel has been on my back (you see what I mean?). I have been told to fill in forms, click on links, get in touch by every means possible, otherwise I will lose the good fortune (mainly monetary) that is apparently winging its way to me (geddit?).

   

Padre is even more persistent than Adrian the astrologer, who appears to have given up on me. Padre has warned that I have just 72 hours before the angel gives up on me, too. It’s a bit of a strange missive, because he declares he “must reveal to you without delay” and then doesn’t relay anything of significance at all (it’s what I call a delaying tactic).

   

This revelation has to do with “a very positive thing for the proper progress of your imminent happiness.” Hmmmph. More delays. Is my happiness progressive, or is it imminent? Imminent, to me, means the next two minutes; progressive could be 2018, at the earliest.

   

Now, here’s the key: “A phenomenon in angelical magic will be triggered on your behalf after you have read this letter.” I tell you: it’s another slow week for angels, because mine (whose name I have forgotten) cannot stop writing to me. I suspect he is not even going to be taking Labor Day off.

   

The letter tells me that within one minute, “you will have struck a decisive blow against your greatest enemy.”

   

Okay. Let’s give it a minute. 60, 59, 58, 57, 56, 55, 54, 53, 52, 51, 50, 49, 48, 47, 46, 45, 44, 43, 42, 41, 40, 39, 38, 37, 36, 35, 34, 33, 32, 31, 310, 209, 28, 27, 26, 25, 24, 23, 22, 21, 20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7 (I’m getting really excited now), 6, 5, 4, (I am wetting myself), 3, 2, 1 . . . 

   

Nope, nothing. I think it may be because I don’t really have any enemies. There are people I don’t like, but I get them out of my life pretty quickly (and if they don’t like me, I just put a curse on them). Maybe there are enemies I am not even aware of, lurking in the shadows, although I am beginning to think that my angel is making up enemies purely in order to justify his job.

   

The next 72 hours are going to be crucial, too, bringing about a “great upheaval” – 60, 59, 58 . . . No, I really can’t go through that again.

   

The “spiritual angelical forces” are going to sort everything out and help me “strike a decisive blow against your greatest enemy”. My life of “poverty . . . emotional loneliness . . . misfortune, burdened with endless problems, drenched in bad news” (geez, you really know how to cheer a girl up on a weekend) is going to be over. My angel is going to destroy the enemy once and for all.

   

Now, listen up, angel. Listen real good. Because I’m going to teach you something.

   

Your greatest enemy is always yourself. You are the only person who stops you from achieving your goals. All the external bad forces in the world are no match for the inner strength that, as humans, we carry within us. You can flap your wings all you like and smile your silly smile from your fluffy blonde cloud, but you won’t change one of life’s fundamentals: we are the guardians of our own destiny.

   

So stop stalking me, angel, and stop contacting my friends just because they are on my Facebook page.

   

When you come up with a cure for yeast infections that doesn’t involve sending one’s vagina to a yoghurt convention, feel free to contact me again; because, until then, you are useless. 

You can call it what you like, but stalking by flying is still stalking, whichever way you look at it. 

Stick to what you're good at and tell a few unsuspecting virgins they are pregnant.

Now go away before I set God on you.

  

  

  

   

New York State of Mind - for Emma Freud and Richard Curtis 1/9/15 (or 9/1/15 as they say here)

Dear Emma, Richard and family. Welcome to New York! I am sure that everyone will be full of good advice here as to what you should do, where you should go etc., so I thought I would chip in with a few useful pointers, too. UK’s loss in NYC’s gain!

1.     Don’t “Rush to the Macy’s sale”. There will be another one in 30 seconds. Every day. For 365 days. And 366 in a Leap Year.

2.     Don’t go to Macy’s. If you don’t break your neck rushing to the Macy’s sale, sure as hell you will do so rushing for the elevators. That one woman with three hatboxes you watched in old movies has been replaced by 20 overweight women with strollers.

3.     Say stroller, not pushchair.

4.     Don’t even think of asking for a European wine outside of a smart hotel. There is only one. Pinot Grigio.

5.     Allow an extra 40 minutes for every restaurant experience you will be sending back the corked Pinot Grigio and debating with management holding it up to the light saying they can’t see any cork in it.

6.     Fear not for the “blizzard” everyone is already warning you about that will allegedly arrive in January. It won’t. It’s a flurry.

7.     Every man is gay. Keep Richard locked up at all times.

8.     Shop online at Peapod. Don’t do Fresh Direct, which is way more expensive. Don’t shop at Food Emporium unless you want to spend the next three days crying. And starving.

9.     Don’t attempt irony. I cannot stress this enough.

10.  Every 4^th drink is free. If it’s not, move on.

11.  Avoid Irish bars. People in them are even marginally less funny than they are in Dublin on a Saturday night. “You’re gonna laugh at this” means you won’t.

12.  Learn how to talk about sport in bars. Here are some useful phrases - all to be spoken in a VERY LOUD VOICE while (preferably) throwing a chair: F*****g moron! ISIS c**t! Tom is innocent! Yay, the Heat, maaaaan! No f*****g way ISIS c**t! etc. etc.

13.  There is no such thing as a free hot dog. They may tell you that in Rudy’s dive bar, but you will still be paying the price several days on. Trust me.

14.  Don’t snog anyone in Rudy’s dive bar. Especially after 3am. And especially if they have consumed a free hot dog. And REALLY trust me on that.

15.  Do not interpret the lit-up pedestrian icon at every junction as a signal that it is safe to cross the road. It isn’t. It is an incentive to every driver to accelerate and try to kill you.

16.  Customer service is second to none. Buy everything. Use it. When you are bored with it, take it back and say you want them to exchange it. They will. You won’t have three birthdays while arguing your case at the Marks and Spencer Returns desk.

17.  Don’t trust the Bed, Bath and Beyond 20% off coupons. You will find that most things are at least 25% less on Amazon.

18.  If you fall into the Bed, Bath and Beyond 20% off coupons trap, remember you can always take everything back (see 16).

19.  Don’t fly American Airlines. Ever. Life is too short. Unlike their waiting times, while they try to fix mechanical faults.

20.  Don’t watch FOX news. It is not good for your blood pressure.

21.  Do watch Suits (hot lawyers), The Good Wife (more hot lawyers), Law and Order: SVU (hot lawyers and cops with a mutilated body every episode), Mistresses (best garbage on TV), How to Get Away with Murder (or How to Get Away with Stretching a Weak Premise to its Limit), Chasing Life (the sometimes upside of cancer).

22.  Don’t give your phone number to anyone after 4am. You really will get a call the following morning from a stranger whose opening gambit will be: “Hi, we met on the subway last night.”  Some of us have learnt the hard way.

23.  Join Chelsea Piers. It is by far the best gym/sports venue in the city. Don’t opt for the “Are you happy to go circular?” in the pool. It is really a Jaws remake.

24.  The answer to anyone asking “D’you want to join me in a shot?” should always be NO. Shots are the Devil’s work.

25.  You will never bump into Jimmy Fallon. Be content with breathing the same air. Anything else is delusion.

26.  Central Park is full of mosquitoes and thousands of people who run or cycle in the opposite direction from the one in which you are traveling.

27.  Never spell with two LLs where one will do.

28.  They love Brits here. And I mean really love us. If in doubt, put on your best Downton Abbey accent. You will get everything for free.

29.  Address everyone as “Sir” or “Madam”, especially cab drivers. Over politeness goes a long way here – unless it is interpreted wrongly, in which case you will be stabbed.

30.  ENJOY! You are embarking on a great adventure that you will love! The UK’s loss is New York’s gain *sings Star Spangled Banner while saluting*. Oh yes, I forgot. Learn the damned words to that.

A Guardian Angel Speaks - Never Trust A Man With Wings, Part II 19/8//15

Dear Padre

You cannot imagine my delight when, out of nowhere, a flashing box popped up on my computer screen telling me that I had missed a message from my guardian angel. How had this happened? Not since I had been informed by a dating agency that “Bill the fireman is down the road and waiting for your call” had I been this excited (he wasn’t, on both counts). 

An angel, no less! What could he/she want with me? I'm not a virgin, I'm too old to bear children, and I don’t need an interpreter for my visions, so why would a winged creature from the celestial heavens be descending upon my weary shoulders?

   

So, I replied, and you kindly sent me the name of my guardian angel  - Sehaliah, the “45^th Kabbalah Angel”, dealing with “Virtues”, and a member of the “Angelical Choir”. You took no time at all in talking with him (I had rightly guessed it was a him, given that I could see the moral lecturing path he appeared to want to take) and I have been fascinated to read the details of your very lengthy chat. 

I can only think that it must have been a slow day for you both, given the volume of your reply, and I am sure my life is about to change for the better as a result of your communications. Quite why Sehaliah couldn’t have come directly to me and cut out the middle man (i.e. you) is anybody’s guess, though I suspect it has something to do with the credit card I will be asked for if I wish to keep asking for angel assistance.

   

You say that you “strongly” felt the need to see changes in my life. Have we ever met? I don’t think so, but I admire the depth of your commitment following the “celestial confirmation of the problem which worries you right now” (er, which one? There are so many). I specially like your going on to tell me that the changes in my life will occur within the next three weeks.

   

Now, about my running mate. You inform me that “Sehaliah is the Angel who embodies faithfulness” and the “Angel of pure souls”. Quite why you asked him about Love, Money and Good Luck over the next 30 days only you know, but I like his answers.

   

I specially like the bit about the windfall that is coming my way, probably on September 9^th. Apparently, it’s a “lot of money” that will leave me “speechless” (to be honest, any money at all would leave me speechless these days; times are tough), and it’s going to appear “as if by magic”. Love and success are on their way, too. Great. So far, so good. “But there is one condition . . . ” Oh, dear, here we go. 

I wonder if the Angel Gabriel did the same thing with Mary: “Here’s the good news . . . you’re going to have a baby and you won’t even have to have sex with the destitute carpenter . . . But there’s a condition. There’s no room at the Marriott, your kid is the Son of God, and you’ll have to watch him die on a cross.” Conditions. There are always conditions.

   

And this, you say, is mine: there is an “adverse karma” that is the source of all my difficulties. It’s built up from all my past lives and I’ve been paying a “Karmic Debt” that is not even of my own making! Yes, that’s right! Other bastards in my other lives have hijacked my brilliance, success and luck, and drained me of all the good things. People can be so mean. 

But now, it seems, I have paid back that debt (tell me about it!) and, as a result, have acquired a “Hyper-Beneficial Angelical Karma” that is about to turn things around.

   

However, nothing's that easy. It seems I need “The Divine Angelical Ritual of Release from past lives” in order for this to happen. Based on ancient magical rites written down in an old Angelical book of spells, you tell me that you are the only one who can perform it for me, Padre.

   

Much as I like the idea of being released “once and for all from this negative force” you claim is ruining my life (I want a list of all those past life reprobates; I’ll start targeting their descendants and see how they like their karma being hijacked), I’m suspicious that you are willing to perform it for free, especially when I visit your “Angel Boutique” and see the prices you charge once my initial free consultation is over.   

You’ve also gone a bit scary, to be honest, and I don’t think angels or their accomplices are supposed to be that. You say that if I don’t reply immediately, you will be “forced” to offer the “Archangels’ Seal of Supreme Salvation” to someone else who finds themselves in a difficult situation. How spiteful is that! Can’t I just mull it over for a few days?

   

It is, therefore, with regret, that owing to the threatening tone of your final paragraphs, I must decline your kind offer to sort out my karmic debt. However, if you or Sehaliah could see your way to paying off my real debt at the bank, I would be extremely grateful. 

   

In this expectation, I look forward to September 9^th, when you will hopefully be sending me a vast sum of money that will sort out and secure my future once and for all. 

   

Thank you again for the speedy response from you and your feathered friend. 

   

Jaci

PS Is the cheque in the celestial post?