I still don’t understand…

So, here it is, my latest blog.

I’m doing it for no reason other than my husband is out (again), I can’t be bothered to deal with the washing, and no matter how hard I tried just now (OK so I didn’t try that hard), I couldn’t get iplayer to work. It took me an age to log in to my blog thingy because I couldn’t remember my username or password. I seem to be forever resetting passwords because I have about a billion different username/password combinations for the squillions of things I supposedly need like my bank account, credit card, phone account, Twitter, Facebook, email accounts…blah blah blah. I am coming to the conclusion that I’m getting old because I don’t really understand this stuff anymore and I seem to be turning into my mum.

I still don’t really get the blogging thing, but maybe that’s because I rarely have anything interesting to say…my friend Emily (who is probably the only person who will read this, hi Ems) has a really interesting blog because it’s all photographic and stuff. Mine is just bog (blog) standard…at the moment I’m inclined to say it’s all grey and blue because those are the colours I can currently see but I fear that you, dear reader, may be seeing different colours. Who knows? Frankly who cares?

Yesterday we went to an Abbey in Berkshire for a “quiet day”; it led me to thinking about why we have all this stuff…mountains of stuff…and all I do with all my stuff (books, clothes, technological gadgets I don’t understand, weird kitchen implements, random candles and boxes and nick nacks) is moan about it because it gets in the way. More specifically I moan about Andy’s stuff, but that’s because I’m a wife and so it’s the rules or something. Anyway, I’ve gone off on a tangent.

So I have been wondering about all this stuff, and was reminded yesterday about when I was in 6th form and we went to see some monks in Crawley Down. They didn’t have loads of “stuff” and I remember not really understanding it. How can you live and be happy without “stuff”? We went to talk to them about religious experiences but the only thing I really remember was the fact that they made cheese which I thought was amazing. Then I read an article a while ago about a guy who lived in America, I think in New York, and all he owned was a matress, his apartment, an iPad and a bike (pretty much). I remember thinking that was pretty weird, mostly because despite the smooth and slick advertising Apple still haven’t been able to really explain to me what an iPad is or what the heck the point of it is. But I also thought “wow, what a brave thing to do.”

I was forced to think about all our “stuff” recently when Andy and I had a fairly yucky incident with our shower which involved inhaling toxic smoke from burning plastic and then a visit to A&E because we didn’t feel well. All was fine, but I was discussing the incident with my dad who was asking me about contents insurance, which we inevitably don’t have because we like to live on the edge. I didn’t really think anything of it until I remembered that one of my colleagues had a fire just outside her house which had resulted in the house being filled with toxic fumes. They had to leave the house for 8 months whilst the kitchen was refitted and all their possessions were replaced or deep cleaned. Pretty horrendous. Thinking about it made me realise we should probably take the idea of contents insurance a bit more seriously…

We lead such cluttered lives, running from one thing to the next, holding some possessions so dear yet with no real knowledge of why. I got all these quotes for insurance and they ask you to work out how much everything you own is worth. I was pretty stunned once I started to add it all up – we’ve only been married a year and a half, how could we have so much stuff?

We live in a consumer society. It’s all about what you have, whether it’s the best, or the fastest, or the shiniest. It makes me sad and yet I still buy in to it all – it seems so ridiculous to me. I had this film called “They Live” that I was introduced to at university. It’s a 1988 sci-fi/horror/dark comedy film about a guy who finds a pair of sunglasses and when he puts them on he sees things for what they are (so for example a billboard that has a picture of a woman on a beach on and the wording “Come to the Carribbean” reads “Marry and Reproduce”; paper money reads “This is your God” etc etc). It’s a bit daft and far fetched – the main idea of it being that some “humans” are actually aliens and they control what goes on in the world – but this one scene where he’s noticing that advertising has subliminal messaging within it has stuck with me – we all know the purpose of advertising but it’s funny to see it in such an odd and yet blatent way. If you get a chance to see it, do…

I’ve no idea what I’m getting at really (had you noticed?) other than we seem to be surrounded by “stuff”, most of which we don’t really need. Red Nose Day is coming up on Friday (the 18th) and it will be the first Comic Relief campaign I’ve not been involved with since 2005. I’m sad that I’m not a part of it in the same way it but actually have come to realise that nearly a year away from it has done me good; it’s given me a chance to sit back, take stock, refocus and remind myself why I love what it is they do and why they do it. One of the reasons Comic Relief has been able to do so much is that it is given so much. And where does that come from? It comes from the sacrifice of “stuff”, whether it be someone giving up next week’s bottle of wine, DVD, book or outfit to donate that money to people who don’t ask for or need ”stuff”; they just want to be safe, or healthy, or educated. So next time I go for the beer/wine/chocolate/shoes/handbag/new outfit/DVD I’ll think about doing something else with the money…or at least matching the cost of it with a donation to a good cause.

Anyway dear reader, you’re bored, I’m bored, the cats are fighting and the husband has returned from Jericho (yes, Jericho…only in Oxford). I bid you farewell.

PS

£45 could pay for a child in war-affected Uganda to go to primary school for a whole year, giving them a chance at a brighter future, free from poverty.

£100 could pay to train a youth worker in how to support a young person affected by mental health problems, so they can build a happier future.

£182 could pay for a maternity nurse in Tanzania to attend a seven day training course on child delivery care to ensure the safety and health of many mothers and their babies.

£50 could enable a specialist worker to run an after-school play scheme for a week so that children from disadvantaged or low income families in the UK have somewhere safe to go while their parents work.

Three is the magic number.

Well, we’ve been at Staggers a year now and I’ve managed to blog twice. Well done me. Determined to do this properly now so here I am!!

Husband and I have now been married the grand total of 442 days; some days it feels like we’ve been married 10 minutes and other days it feels like forever. Since getting married we’ve moved house three times, gained two cats (and a third is attempting to join us, if you’re part of the VP’s family you’d understand), had countless rows, been to lots of evenings in college involving gin, bought a new sofa, a new bed and many a bookshelf/storage unit and fought off dangerous masked/caped villains (also known as the next door students). We’ve owned three ovens (oven number three is broken), had three fridges (fridge number three is broken) and owned three televisions (T.V two and three still working, T.V one was smashed – accidentally – by college maintainence staff).

Since moving here I’ve also had three jobs – finished my work at Comic Relief and started working for an ace charity called Family Links (I encourage you all to visit our website www.familylinks.org.uk). Starting at the organisation as their information administrator, I’m now working as the training administration co-ordinator and after a month and a half in my new role I am sort of starting to get my head around the job! My new role is a far cry from the old days of commuting what felt like three light years from Oxford (FL are based about 3 miles from my doorstep) and life is just generally a bit more pleasant. I start work at 9 and finish at 5, so I can get up at 8.10 and be at work on time which is an experience I have never enjoyed before now. I joined a gym and go (wait for it) at least three times a week – at least that’s what my “personal trainer” has set for me.

And so, out of nowhere, without me even trying, three seems to be the common denominator between a lot of these factors in my life. To all you athiests out there (and I know who you are ), this will be a mere coincidence, but to someone who is a Christian, I guess you’ll not be surprised one way or another.

My faith has taken a real, hardcore, proper beating this last year. I don’t mind admitting that because I think honesty is important. I don’t go to church, I rarely pray, I don’t tend to read scripture much and I don’t listen to my worship music as much as I used to. Being at college drives me mad (we’re in to week three of having an oven which serves no purpose beyond a teeny tiny cupboard as it broke for no reason), there’s hypocrisy, impoliteness, pompousness and sometimes a general unwillingness to be helpful; not to mention the gin, lace, gin, bells (ohh the bells), gin, incense and did I mention gin? I often struggle to see God in the midst of it all and I regularly struggle to connect with Him. One of my saving graces is my friend George, who lives up the road. She lives at number 3, I hasten to add. She’s a continuing source of laughter, support, and left wing political viewpoints (very important when being married to a Tory and living in an Oxford college) and I imagine if she reads this she’d not be surprised in any way that the number three keeps appearing.

I didn’t intend at all for this to come out all “Goddy” and yet it has somehow…I feel that God (Father, Son and Holy Spirit) has a very daft sense of humour and I have been saying that consistently for the last *sigh* three years and I suppose He’s trying to tell me He’s there.

Hey God. While you’re there, if you could fix the oven, that’d be ace, coz the bloody engineer didn’t turn up AGAIN. Guess what. Next call out will be his third.

Winter Blues

So I’ve not blogged or whatever you call it for ages, and I didn’t tell anyone about the last one (pointless) so as you can see I’ve really got the hang of it!!!

We’ve been living in college (St Stephen’s House) in Oxford for four weeks. Can’t quite get the hang of it but I’m sure I’ll get there (been assured that I won’t settle in until December – fab). So far my life seems to have mainly consisted of making friends not with mad trainee priests or nutty students, but with different seats on the trusty old Oxford Tube service. Let me introduce you to my new friend.

The Oxford Tube is a fab service that allows those of us living in Oxford who are quite poor to get the heck out of Oxford and screech at great speed into the capital city…I mean pootle along rather slowly. The service is totally hit and miss – not because it’s unreliable – it’s brilliant in fact – but because of the wonder that is commuter traffic. There are days when I leave home at 6.30am and don’t make it into the office until after 9.30, or I leave the office at 4.30pm and get home three hours later. And then there’s last week. Overslept by an hour, left the house at 7, and yet would have made it into the office by 9.15 if I’d not had to go via a shop in Victoria. As for that day’s journey home, well, I found myself wondering what was going on. The usually busy coach was almost empty and we sailed through London to Hillingdon and ended up home 20 minutes earlier than normal. I just can’t quite get my head round what time is best to travel and when to avoid and after 3 and a half weeks I’ve started to come to a conclusion – there is no answer.

Anyway, St Stephen’s House is a pleasant place and I’m sure once we’re settled I’ll enjoy living here. There are some interesting characters. People training here are of a more high church background (“Staggers”, as it’s called, is considered to be all “Gin and Lace”) and I find myself wondering what’s going on most of the time. It’s no secret that the Church is full of men in dresses who enjoy poncing about, and St Stephen’s House is no exception. What I have picked up on so far though, is how despite all the gin (and there’s a lot of it) and lace (a lot of that too I’m told), most of (sadly not all) the people here seem to be quite down to earth.

I think it’s safe to say that I’m not really enjoying myself in Oxford just  now, but I’ve decided I’m ok with that. I don’t feel settled, I’m not as happy as I’d hoped to be, and we are paying what seems to be rather a lot of money for a teeny tiny flat (which I also dislike and if you see it you won’t have trouble understanding why). I feel beaten, battered and bruised by the Church for various reasons and I struggle with the way that my shiny new husband and I have been treated by the powers that be within the Church, as an unmarried couple and then as newlyweds. What St Stephen’s has taught me so far though, is that being part of the Church doesn’t necessarily have to be a negative experience (even when it feels like it is). We don’t have to take it that seriously. We just have to remember why we’re here. Let’s just hope we stick with that whilst we’re here.

So here it is….

A few people have badgered me to start this whole blogging thing. So here I am. I’m not sure it’ll be very interesting or anyone will want to read it. Just trying to get to grips with the whole thing – at the moment it’s looking far too complicated – I struggle with Twitter.

Anyway, here it is, the start of my blog – designed to mainly be a commentary on life in Theological College from the point of a wife, as requested by a couple of (dare I say it) slightly mad friends.

I feel I should mention at this point that I’m not technically a wife – although as far as I’m concerned I have been for about 17 months (give it 8 days though and I will be a proper one). And we haven’t yet made it to college. That’s not to say we’ve not experienced it yet – the experience starts right from the moment someone says “I think I’m going to do this with my life”…

Well…here goes….let’s hope we all enjoy the journey.

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