"We are all of us judged every day. We are judged by the face that looks back at us from the bathroom mirror. We are judged by the faces of the people we love and by the faces and lives of our children and by our dreams. Each day finds us at the junction of many roads, and we are judged as much by the roads we have not taken as by the roads we have.
"The New Testament proclaims that at some unforseeable time in the future God will ring down the final curtain on history, and there will come a Day on which all our days and all the judgments upon us and all our judgments upon each other will themselves be judged. The judge will be Christ. In other words, the one who judges us most finally will be the one who loves us most fully.
"Romantic love is blind to everything except what is lovable and lovely, but Christ's love sees us with terrible clarity and sees us whole. Christ's love so wishes our joy that it is ruthless against everything in us that diminishes our joy. The worst sentence Love can pass is that we behold the suffering which Love has endured for our sake, and that is also our acquittal. The justice and mercy of the judge are ultimately one."
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Frederick Buechner's Wishful Thinking really speaks to me. I can't quite trace my thought process back to how I decided that this post would have Mercy as its subject. It has something do with me being ashamed of how I behaved in the house last night, but I'm sure it's more than that.
I hope you all had as good an Easter weekend as you could have, given that some of us are praying our hearts out about loved ones, and all of our other temporal concerns here in this world. Me? It was nice and peaceful with my parents. I read Lesson 9 of Tenebrae (Jesus falls for the third time) in an Easter Eve / Holy Saturday service and heard a good sermon from my Dad on Easter Day. Without calling my Dad I couldn't tell you which Lectionary Year is current (A, B or C) in the Church of England but the Easter Gospel was John 20, 1 through 18.
Both services reminded me that I need to forgive so that I might be forgiven. So perhaps I should have selected Forgiveness from Mr Buechner's book instead of Mercy. I do feel they are related - although to be merciful does not necessarily mean there is anything you are personally forgiving. But to forgive is an expression of mercy.
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Between starting this paragraph and finishing the previous one, I paused for a long time. Long enough to scarf down some food, read next week's Radio Times and a bit more of a book about Isaac Asimov. My writing just does not want to flow tonight. A lot of it is knowing that I should not still be in the office, but that I should have returned to the shared house hours ago and prayed for enough courage to try and sort things out. It's tipping it down with rain outside and I've just remembered that I need to refuel my moped. Joy. Why do I do this to myself?!
My session with Judy last Thursday was ok but I was late because of commuter traffic combined with getting away for the long weekend traffic. And Judy's now away for two weeks so I don't see her again until Thursday 14 April. {sigh} Well it's Wednesday already tomorrow. Practically the weekend and goodbye March. A week tomorrow I go wrestle with the UK government bureaucracy and fork over $468.58 for them to stamp my current passport so that when I return to the UK on 10 May after my trip to the US, they won't think I'm an illegal alien and try and deport me. I'm just euphoric about that prospect. Saturday 9 April is my visit to the oral hygienist since I missed my original appointment on 12 March because I forgot all about it. Won't be doing that again, as it's a nice $30 fee for the missed appointment. Still, all things considered, God bless the NHS and its fabulously cheap dentistry :) And no, not all Brits resemble Austin Powers in the dental department ;)
Oh that reminds me. I must try and contact my mate Dr Jo to see if she wants to be an author groupie at the Oxford Literary Festival, 'cos both she and me are big PTezza fans :) I've met him several times, once even while I was in LA. That'll be Saturday 16 April. I completely forgot to mention that next week I'm on call, which means I have to take the work mobile phone with me to the oral hygienist; I can just see it now - brr brr / brr brr. {muffled} Ah ahrn-ahng, Ah Ee Er-ih Eh, Ih-ay ee-ing, before I can dispose of the spray from the water pick! Is it just me, or does anybody else have a hard time breathing / swallowing when a dental technician is cleaning and polishing your teeth? I know that's what the suction tube is for, so that you don't have to swallow, but some sort of reflex gets triggered and I have to close my mouth to swallow! My oral hygienist Natalie earns her money with me, I can tell you :)
Oh and also on that weekend of Sat 9 / Sun 10 comes my turn for the pudding club at work. The three entries so far have been an apple cake with a nutty crumble topping; home-made chocolate truffles and chocolate dipped cherries (plus fudge but I knew my limitations); and chocolate rice krispies cakes. My mum & I made a chocolate mousse just this Sunday (well I stirred a little, she did all the real work) but if next week's entry is also a chocolate number, I'm going to have think up an alternative....
So the week of Monday 11 April I'm working 12 noon to 8pm. The next week I'm back on 9 to 5 and Saturday 23rd (Happy Birthday Will :) I'm off to my hairdressers for my pre-holiday cut & colour. Then I drive straight to Mum & Dad's so that Dad can drop me & Mum off at Gatwick on Sunday 24th in good time for our flight on Monday 25th. I don't even want to think about how much I'll have to catch up with here on pleo when I return to work on Thursday 12 May!
Wow. It's only 25 days until my trip. Ok that's scary. I'm not going to overpack this time (famous last words) but there's so much to do, not just materially and logistically but spiritually and emotionally - ie the whole housemate thing. I cannot go to the States without having made an attempt to sort it out, I don't want to leave it festering and have what remains of our friendship succumb to septicaemia (God forbid). Ok. More than past time for Elaine's butt to prise itself off the desk chair and get on home where she can spend some decent time with God asking for guidance on just how precise she can set about trying to make things right. Until next time, take care of yourselves :)

"After centuries of handling and mishandling, most religious words have become so shopworn nobody's much interested any more. Not so with grace, for some reason. Mysteriously, even derivatives like gracious and graceful still have some of the bloom left.
"Grace is something you can never get but only be given. There's no way to earn it or deserve it or bring it about any more than you can deserve the taste of raspberries and cream or earn good looks or bring about your own birth.
"A good sleep is grace and so are good dreams. Most tears are grace. The smell of rain is grace. Somebody loving you is grace. Loving somebody is grace. Have you ever tried to love somebody?
"A crucial eccentricity of the Christian faith is the assertion that people are saved by grace. There's nothing you have to do. There's nothing you have to do. There's nothing you have to do.
"The grace of God means something like: Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are because the party wouldn't have been complete without you. Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid. I am with you. Nothing can ever separate us. It's for you I created the universe. I love you.
"There's only one catch. Like any other gift, the gift of grace can be yours only if you'll reach out and take it.
"Maybe being able to reach out and take it is a gift too.
"(see JUSTIFICATION)"
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This definition of Grace is from Frederick Buechner's Wishful Thinking. Here on Monday of Holy Week, four days before western (as opposed to Orthodox) Christians remember the ultimate outpouring of God's Grace, I'm more in need of it than I have been in a long time. Ok, so maybe the little bubble in which I was dwelling in the shared house was not all that comfortable and the most healthy thing God could do was pop it. I still object to the size of the pin and the timing. I know that Alan and Andy are not going to stay in touch once they move out. If they could move out tomorrow, if Rob and they found a place next week, they would be out before I could blink. I also know that, mea culpa, I am partly to blame for that and I hate it; I'm angry at myself for what I've done and not done, said and not said, thought and not thought, because I've lost someone who was important to me.
And then, on top of that, there's the practicalities of finding replacement tenants. Or, finding a new place to live for Cherish, Alana and myself and breaking the lease, and then moving. And, Pelion upon Ossa, my nice comfy work area is getting all shook up and we're moving around there as well. OUAI! Aarrggghh! Grrr!
Thank heaven for the established Church here in England, so that both Good Friday and Easter Monday are days off work. I really pray that my counsellor Judy is able to see me on Maundy Thursday before I drive down to my parents in Ipswich to celebrate the Resurrection of our Lord in a haven of peace.
Ultimately, however, I know that Alan's and Andy's decisions had very little to do with me. I am but one of the four female housemates. Four women is an awful lot for two men to deal with. Next year is their finals which decides the quality of their degree. They want a more stable, less tempestuous environment. I can't be angry at them for that. This is what they think best, and if I love them, then I have to let them go.
The previous paragraph was in the voice of what Counsellor Judy and I have described as "Big Elaine", or Bea (B. E.). The rational, mature, Christian, forgiving, grown-up Elaine. Bea is too often bound to a chair so she can't move and gagged by "Little Elaine", or Ellie (L.E.). Ellie is very angry, a lot of the time. I've just been back through all 83 previous entries and found that my St Martin's Day entry refers to my anger thing, but not in as much detail as I thought. My momma is Italian-American, bless her, and so when she gets riled, everybody knows about it. I have inherited this from her but growing up, you wouldn't have known it. I did not feel able to express anger as a kid. I'm sure this is partly where my depressive episodes originate, because I do subscribe to the "depression being anger turned inwards" description, among others. Not only that, but I used to hyperventilate or hold my breath in stressful situations and thereby pass out (not deliberately, I hasten to add - I just couldn't deal). This was not all environment - my Mom remembers my paediatrician Dr Sue saying that when Elaine gets tired, her ability to cope decreases. True before I was two years old; true now. And I've observed that this is also true for other people.
So, my poor angry Ellie. Ellie is aged about 8. This is the age I was when I went to boarding school. This experience is what my counsellor Judy focuses on big time. And I resist that a little, but if pressed, I admit I can see why. I've reflected and prayed about it and I arrived at an unoriginal conclusion that perhaps the most primal experience that shapes all of us, is abandonment. It will happen at any age - for some unhappy and piteous souls, as soon as they emerge from the mother's womb, they are deprived of parental care by death or desertion. Others make it perhaps to toddlerhood before the centre of the world leaves them. Some get to teenage years and then parents split. At any age, the heartbreak is appalling.
The only concept 8 year old me had of boarding school was that portrayed in Enid Blyton's books of Malory Towers and St. Clare's, all jolly japes and midnight feasts. I had no idea back at the end of the 1970s, start of the 1980s, that the world Enid depicted had not existed for over 3 decades. I really believed with every fibre of my childish being that boarding school in Michaelmas Term 1981 would resemble those described by Enid. I could not have been more wrong. Here are just a few of the differences: Enid's schools were single-sex; mine was co-ed. Enid's pupils were adolescent; mine was a prep school, 8-13. Enid's schools were boarding only; mine had day pupils as well. But of course, the biggest difference is between fiction and reality.
Only a few of Enid's pupils blubbed a bit with homesickness and then were promptly "bucked up" by their new chums. Happy, jolly, romps of short fiction aren't supposed to deal with the utter, crushing void left by the absence of loving parents, their hugs and affection, the familiarity of daily life. And Enid's quite rightly don't. I didn't even realise it consciously myself at the time. But even in 1981, house mistresses and matrons can't go around hugging little 8 year old girls, and child protection legislation had not developed to anywhere near the extent it has now. I remember having my long straight hair cut in a bob because I hadn't learned how to catch it back in a pony-tail and how utterly outraged I felt at this violation, although I wouldn't have been able to put it like that if you'd asked me back then. There was no privacy anywhere. It was there I learnt how to shed tears without making a noise - I have to be very distressed indeed to sob out loud - not only did you thereby not upset other girls in your dorm, but also you weren't then picked on, teased, bullied, for being soft.
So, ok, it wasn't a permanent abandonment - just thrice yearly for five years. And my parents would come down for visits, and of course there were half-terms. Dover College Junior School was no Borstal, and I do have some fond memories of it. I learned Latin there and I met my friend of longest-standing, Lyvia, there. I learnt a veneer of self-sufficiency and acquired both good and bad habits; the good I cherish, the bad I'm trying to fix now with God's help and that of my counsellor Judy.
My parents, God willing, will celebrate their 38th wedding anniversary this year. They still love each other very much and are each other's friends. I have not had to deal with their divorce or, yet, with the death of one or both of them. So in the absence of these far more traumatic experiences, I can see why my counsellor Judy ascribes a lot of behaviour patterns and their underlying feelings to the "boarding school experience". Well, Bea can. Ellie is still pretty much trapped there, hating it and wondering why she's been abandoned. Is she not good enough? Has she let her parents down? Please come back; she'll be good. Raging at them not coming back until half-term. Never fully enjoying the liberation of holidays because term-time is always around the corner.
And the really sick thing of course, is that poor Ellie has actually convinced herself that she likes being abandoned. Some part of her is addicted to the empty feeling inside of not being wanted, of being left on her own, so actually digs it when circumstances and choices bring about exactly that. Whether it's hopeless crushes that aren't going to be requited, or marrying a gay man, or picking housemates who leave, Ellie is actually getting off on the sadness Bea feels in those situations. Maybe I shouldn't have dismissed the NHS psych people so early on (if only they'd stopped asking the stupid voices questions I'd have taken them more seriously).
So the previous 7 paragraphs (all >1k words of 'em) were to give any of y'all still reading this (why, by the way?!) some more insight into how it is your nutty narrator ticks. And yet, despite saying that Ellie gets off on Bea's sadness, in this particular situation (maybe others as well), Bea is being the understanding, noble one, already adjusting to loss. It's Ellie who's wailing up a storm at losing somebody important to her, and having to go through more change. Hmm. I think my inner child needs a big hug. How the heck do I get it to her?
I think I need to go take this off the computer screen and on to my knees. Until next time, please take care of yourselves.

Aren't Leprechauns supposed to be cute little blighters? Well, I know that the Warwick Davis series of movies (although until IMDB'ing him just now, I thought that there was just one of these unholy films, silly me) depicts the titular character as an ugly piece of work in more ways than one. Whatever I've done to offend you, Little People of Eire, I'm sorry - will you lay off, now?
Not only have I overspent this month again after my purchase last night, to which I will return, but pride has reared its sinful head in my behaviour and I'm not happy about it. Since I didn't see my counsellor last night because she was ill, I was torn between going along to this month's Changing Attitudes meeting about Worship or catching Casanova on BBC3, a digital TV channel. Except our TV, inherited from my parents (thank you Mum & Dad) only receives the five basic terrestrial channels - BBC1, BBC2, ITV1, Channel 4 & FIVE (original names they got there, eh?). I'm not ready to spring for a monthly cable or satellite subscription yet, but the UK has another option called Freeview. All you need is a digital receiver set-top box and you're off. That's the idea, anyway....
One of the many issues with our rented accommodation is that the rooftop aerial cable is, apparently, cut in three places. For 9 months we've been resorting to a very battered set-top aerial which should be battery-powered. Reception sucks, even with the creative addition of tin foil around the loop. So when I purchased the Freeview box, I also got a replacement antenna. {sigh} It should have worked. I asked the retail guys about cables. They assured me all cables were ok but warned me that my £10 aerial was underpowered and I should spring for the £30 antenna. Apart from costing more, I was on my moped and the more expensive aerial came in a bigger box.
So I returned home and after the male housemates finished the X-Box session and one of them withdrew to his room to resume his degree work, I set about hooking up cables etc. Good news is that the new antenna improves normal reception a whole bunch. Bad news is that not only do I probably (but not necessarily) need an RF cable to complete the loop of antenna, TV, digibox but that digital reception is only gonna work with a roof aerial. Phooey. But more phooey on me for my reactions last night. The male housemate who stayed downstairs, the vaguely Irish one who was ill, whose friendship I really valued until it attenuated into such gossamer-like fragility it's as if it never was, the one I'm having problems with, him? Yeah, just so we're clear. Not only am I fighting the urge to cook a spaghetti bolognaise (my mother being Italian-American) just so he has it proved to him that I'm better at cooking it than the other male housemate (pride #1), but I just wanted to scream when he said "Why not get Andy (the other male housemate or TOMH for short) to take a look at it?" (it being the digital box etc). True, Andy's worked in sound engineering and knows about connecting cables. True, Andy's a maths undergraduate. True, Andy's a man and the housemate whose friendship I valued is a complete male chauvinist porcine. But gosh did this prick my professional pride (#2). I'm an IT Tech Support geek for my sins and have been professionally for 6 ½ years, as well as being a keen amateur for a long time before that. I aced physics, chem & bio at high school and didn't do too bad in my Physics A Level; my first attempt at uni was physics & astrophysics. In other words, I know what I'm doing when it comes to electrical & electronic things. And here was my once (and God willing, future) friend trying to be "helpful", but I felt completely and utterly dissed. Well, I then called it a night and felt thoroughly ashamed of myself in the morning, not to mention disappointed in myself and annoyed at myself. I am my own best and favourite whipping girl. I'm working on it with the Lord via my counsellor Judy and my spiritual director Fr Susannah - I can't wait to see Judy next Thursday. It feels like such a long time until then, and it will have been a very long three weeks since my last appointment. {sigh}.
Then, I get to work and recount last night to my colleagues, and my closest friend at work decides to point out I could have saved £10 on my digibox if I'd purchased it from a different retailer. Arrghh. Insult to injury. I was a grumpy guss for most of the morning. I do wonder whether PMS may be playing a role in this but still, I'm not happy with myself. Getting out, even briefly, at lunchtime into the balmy spring air and the blue skies and the lovely bright sun, did help a lot, although it was to pay the Council an extra £92 council tax since our student hovel as been revalued as of 1991. And then there's the water bill. That can wait until next week and payday, when I'll set up a direct debit. But because of the digibox purchase, I had to go cap in hand to my Dadda asking him to sub me until payday. I'm 31 years old and my parents don't have any more more money than I do. Less, in fact. When, oh Lord, when will you infuse me with enough willpower and energy to organise my life and room so that I can set out exactly what household bills I'm currently taking care of to my housemates, so that I can reluctantly accept contributions (oh, yes, goodwill would also be a good one, too, please Lord) and stop over-spending and sponging off my poor Mum & Dad? Double AARRGGHH!
And I didn't have my review yet. But on the plus side it means I've more time to write up the Cardiff info. And I see Mum & Dad tomorrow - even if it is because we're going to the dentist. Sheesh that reminds me. I've got to find my digital radio and its booklet so I can swap it with Mum's - mine's battery as well as mains powered and Mum's is only mains, and she doesn't have a spare outlet at work. And I need to get the car washed before I meet them at 11:30 tomorrow morning. Ok. I guess I'd better leave it here for now. Have a good weekend y'all and take care of yourselves until next time :)

Not only is my counsellor ill (poor Judy :( ) but I'd typed a fabulous first paragraph of my blog and instead of alt+tabbing to switch between my multiple browser windows, I accidentally alt backspaced and lost it! AAARRGGHH {sniff} boohoo, it was wonderfully otiose and a good bit of writing and it has been whisked away into the abyss :(
Ok, enough woe-ing is me-ing for now. Cherish's Grasshopper Cake was a triumph and if my gannets of housemates have not devoured the whole thing, I look forward to another slice when I get home :) Drat. Losing my original first paragraph has really body-checked my train of thought. Whatever it was about which I was going to spout has completely escaped me. Don't you hate it when that happens? Surely 31 is too young for premature Alzheimers (please God)?
Well, the shamrock power of three has afflicted not just my counsellor with lurgy, but also my mum and the only actual Irish housemate of the six of us. I do hope all of them feel better soon. Our housemate is so off kilter that he actually turned down a cup of tea. This is not good. But I did spend time in the same room with him last night and was even able to provide nutrition for him thanks to overordering from the Chinese delivery place. Yay for delivery! I'll probably stop at a UK 7/11 equivalent on the way home for my evening provender tonight. Plus it's the Grauniad's science / IT day on Thursdays and this week's New Scientist should also be out.
Review tomorrow, so let's hope I can repeat today's feet of getting to work an hour early and write up my notes from last week's Cardiff trip. My intention to do that today was foiled by trying to fix the persistent (of many months now) network / local profile issue on my PC. {sigh} Physician, heal thyself. I still haven't progressed my laptop hinge any further. Maybe tomorrow evening. Tonight, as soon as I can tear myself away, I'm going to purchase a Freeview set-top box so that I can see BBC 3's new programme about Casanova, with Peter O'Toole and David Tennant. Yum! :)
So let me not wait upon the order of my going but skedaddle my tush off my office chair and make a hasty retreat retailwards. Beannachtam na Femle Padraig and until next time, take care of yourselves :)

Do you think that Master Po would have baked one of these for Kwai Chang Caine on his birthday? If not, he should have - why should green cakes be reserved only for Leprechaun Day?
I got my friend's daughter's card in the post last night after having to make change twice to satisfy the ridiculous amount of £3.36 for 12 first class stamps. And I learnt that it's not a good idea to down a litre of soya milk immediately before bed. So yesterday was not completely wasted.
Today? Well, I bought the pan for Cherish to make the Grasshopper cake for St. Patrick's Day, and both of us are savouring the irony that the only housemate of immediate Irish descent has declared US cake mixes and frostings (well, any US food product really) anathema because of his anti-GM fetish. Well, he just won't get any cake then. Oo, what do I have that's green to wear tomorrow so I don't get pinched? But I digress.
I'm looking forward to seeing my counsellor tomorrow. I can't believe it's been two weeks since my last appointment. Fighting the rumbling belly due to too much rich liquid too fast as I tried to get to sleep, I was praying about my current situation and a little ray of clarity dropped off this idea. Maybe I'm expecting too much of myself to be able to just rewind and be who I was, act how I used to, all of the time around the housemate in question. Maybe I should rather try and immunise myself to the pain I feel in his presence by just being around briefly every now and again, until it's no longer an effort. And then try it for longer. It won't be easy, but it's got to be better than just completely withdrawing, right? Wish me luck and spare a prayer for me please, y'all :) Until next time, take care of yourselves :)