SHORT STORY: Caroline's butterflies (Prt 1 & 2)

Flat on my back, I lie and watch the crisscross of cobwebs across the light bulb. From one angle, it takes the shape of a cirrus cloud. From another: a butterfly. ‘Butterflies...’ I think out loud. Butterflies were my dead sister, Caroline’s, thing. She’d spent hours and hours poring over butterfly books. The Orangetip had been her favourite. She’d even won a school prize for a poem she’d written titled: The Bountiful Butterfly. ‘What does bountiful mean?’ she’d asked again and again while she’d been penning the poem. She’d only been six at the time.

Caroline visits sometimes. She simply materializes in my room without warning. Often: she’ll sit on the edge of my bed, or stand by the window gazing out at the surrounding farmland – where she’d exhausted countless hours exploring. ‘I’m off Butterfly scouting’ she’d yell as the door slammed behind her. On days like this, I can still hear her sunny voice. At other times: she lies beside me – as we are doing now – and we stare at the ceiling saying nothing. Since she died, Caroline hasn’t spoken to me. I talk to her all the time. But she says nothing. It’s as if there is a barrier between us. When I look at her, pools of sadness fill her eyes. She offers no tears, no words – nothing. In spite of this, her silence strengthens me. I’d rather have her wordless presence than nothing at all. Now: in the stillness of our thoughts, I squeeze her hand – the way I’ve always done.

Then: as if on cue, she bolts upright, stands up – shatters my reverie. With a finger, she urges me to follow. She wanders to her bedroom across the landing. As we enter, an abrupt sneeze escapes and is caught by my cupped hand. ‘Dust everywhere...’ I mumble to no one particularly. Her room is just as it’s always been; untouched since she died. It's been six months. Butterflies of all descriptions crowd the room. Butterfly patterned wallpaper, butterfly toys, posters and decor – resting and hanging from all directions. When she was around this Butterfly Zoo seemed to come alive. Buzzed with life. Nowadays, it felt... feels cold and lifeless. I notice Caroline open the wardrobe. She begins to rummage around for something. I watch her bent head; her pale curls bounce with the movement of her search. After many minutes, she retrieves a shoebox and places it on the bed. From it, she brings out a scrapbook-cum-photo album. Together we flick through each page. Inside: more butterflies. Images of: Orangetips, Brown Elfins, Edith’s Coppers, Cabbage Whites, and on and on. Each labelled in her scratchy scrawl. Eventually, from the back of the book, she pulls out a postcard. She stares hard at it, takes a deep breath, before handing it over to me. I fix my attention on the postcard settled in my grasp. But I am confused because it is blank. Her manner tells me that my eyes are deceiving me. I do not see what she knows. A secret lies in the note.

Today would have been Caroline’s tenth birthday. Unnoticed: she appears in the kitchen where my mum and I are busy pouring ingredients for a cake. She watches, wearing a strange expression, as eggs, sugar, flour, milk, cocoa and melted chocolate are poured and whipped in the bowl. Chocolate Fudge cake: our favourite. Mum stirs the lumpy mix until it is silken and smooth. I hover – waiting for mum’s nod; my permission to lick the thick rich mixture off the ladle. It’s not long before I’m lapping the sugary goo. With the corner of my eye I catch Caroline smacking her lips – plump and wet – I see her eyes are bright with green longing. In her halfway-house existence I wonder to myself: if hunger pangs are a thing of the past for her. It is peculiar that even though the room is full of our laughter, mine and Mum’s – a blinding sadness lingers. But somehow in this moment of reprieve, we are able to escape the sadness that has been eroding our life for months. Our pain suspended. This thought moves me to wrap my arms around my mum from behind, while she washes up. Caroline is settled next to us; leaning beside the sink, looking out the window – captivated by something: a bird, squirrel – I can’t tell what.
‘I sense her very strongly,’ Mum says with a short embarrassed laugh.
‘Perhaps she is here –,’ I whisper, tossing a glance in Caroline’s direction.
For a few seconds neither of us speaks – until Mum says: ‘Your father thinks it’s time we clear out her... Caroline’s... room...’ Her words tail off and dissolve with the air. My breath catches a little – as if the next word spoken will break the spell. It’s the first time Mum has mentioned Caroline by name since she died. Caroline has stopped what she is doing. She straightens herself, reaches over and places a kiss on our mum’s cheek. I see a slow smile spread across Mum’s face. ‘It’s as if she is in this room... standing right here,’ she says again, ‘maybe your father is right and it’s time to move on,’ she whispers.

After lunch and an indulgent slice of cake, Caroline and I walk up the lane to the village church. Once there: I sit on a patch of faded grass by her gravestone and pull out the postcard she handed me last week. Caroline stands at a distance, with the soft sunlight dancing around her like a honey shower. I turn back to the card in my hand. The one side remains blank, so I peer at the image on the other side. It is strange, because the longer I stare – the image becomes sharper – in the manner of a camera lens adjusting a blurred picture, bringing it into focus. At the centre: a delicate yellow butterfly. Circling it: six black butterflies. The more closely I look into the picture, the six butterflies appear puffed up, somewhat menacing. The dawning realisation emerges as a thread of clarity making a direct connection with six girls I knew. For almost two years these six had made Caroline’s life a misery. Even as my eyelids flutter and shut I can hear their taunts: ‘Butt Fly’ ‘Moth Girl’ ‘Caterpillar Caroline’. My anger and fists had only gotten me in trouble every time I had tried to protect her. I blink away the rising tears – squint slightly – and look up to find Caroline facing me, sitting cross-legged. Her sudden proximity startles me. She has been as soundless as the shadows emerging among the trees. Our gazes lock in a knowing look. An unexpected shiver travels through me. Something ugly – uglier than ugly – had happened that terrible day.

...to be continued in part 3...!

Boxing Day Reflection

Two things occupying my time at the moment, around the merriment of Christmas and New Year festivities are:
(1) Reading: The Shack by WM Paul Young, and
(2) Completing an assignment (3000 words) for my current MA in Creative Writing. The title: What, if any, is the significance of tradition for poets we have studied? Your answer should refer to at least two poets studied on the course. The two poets I’ve decided to focus on are W.H. Auden and Philip Larkin.

It is always interesting when different elements of one’s life seem to come together and link in to formulate a ‘word of wisdom’. I’ll explain what I mean. In researching Larkin – I came across his poem titled: Aubade (which I post below), a poem that contemplates death in an honest and straightforward way. Underlying the poem is that age-old question as to the meaning and purpose of our lives – especially when we are being ravaged by difficult and traumatic circumstances. It is this same question that is ultimately presented in an intelligent and different way in the book: The Shack. Indeed, I heard about this book in the summer but for some reason resisted jumping on the bandwagon at the time – and I have only finally picked up a copy this December. And on reading it (absorbed from beginning to end)... all I can say is: WOW! It is a book that discusses an old narrative in a vibrant, new way – causing the reader to re-think ideas and paradigms of one’s understanding and truth about God (or that ultimate power or supreme being... however you choose to interpret or define ‘Him/Her/or It’). Even though this book is a Christian book – it transcends the religion or system we call ‘Christianity’ – and asks for serious reflection and consideration of the question posed by Larkin’s Aubade – to both Christians and non-Christians alike. It provokes and challenges pre-conceived notions and ideas of humanity’s relationship with a supreme being (however, you interpret that!) Hence, both Larkin’s Aubade and Young’s The Shack has illuminated for me a quote that I read recently by the contemporary artist, Francis Alys: ‘Sometimes, to make something is really to make nothing; and paradoxically, sometimes to make nothing is to make something.’

I find it poignant to be reading and reflecting on these things at the dawning of a new year. A reminder to myself that in my anxious moments when my mind is shackled by deep and dark fears and feelings of uncertainty about the future, that the key to living in the now and present is to: ‘trust and let go’ – allowing each day to take care of itself.

HAPPY BOXING DAY TO YOU ALL!!!

Aubade by Philip Larkin

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

SHORT STORY: Caroline's butterflies (Part 1)

Flat on my back, I lie and watch the criss-cross of cobwebs across the light bulb. From one angle, it takes the shape of a cirrus cloud. From another: a butterfly. ‘Butterflies,’ I say out loud. Butterflies were my dead sister, Caroline’s, thing. She’d spent hours and hours poring over butterfly books. The Orangetip had been her favourite. She’d even won a school prize for a poem she’d written titled: The Bountiful Butterfly. ‘What does bountiful mean?’ she’d asked again and again whilst she’d been penning the poem. She’d only been six at the time.

Caroline visits sometimes. She simply appears in my room without warning. At times, she’ll sit on the edge of my bed, or stand by the window gazing out at the surrounding farmland. Often, she lies beside me – as we are doing now – and we stare at the ceiling, saying nothing. Since she died, Caroline hasn’t spoken to me. I talk to her all the time. But she says nothing. It’s as if there is a barrier between us. When I look at her, pools of sadness fill her eyes. She offers no tears, no words – nothing. In spite of this, her silence strengthens me. I’d rather have her wordless presence than nothing at all. Now – in the stillness of our thoughts, I squeeze her hand – the way I’ve always done.

Then as if on cue, she bolts upright and stands up - shattering my reverie. With a finger, she beckons me to follow. She wanders to her bedroom across the landing. As we enter, I sneeze. I've always been sensitive to dust. Her room is just as it’s always been; untouched since she died. It's been six months. Butterflies of all descriptions crowd the room. Butterfly patterned wall-paper, butterfly toys, posters and decor – resting and hanging from all directions. When she was around this Butterfly Zoo seemed to come alive. Buzzed with life. Nowadays, it felt... feels cold and lifeless. I notice Caroline open the wardrobe. She begins to rummage around for something. I watch her bent head; her pale curls bounce with the movement of her search. After many minutes, she retrieves a shoebox and places it on the bed. From it, she brings out a scrapbook-cum-photo album. Together we flick through each page. Inside, more butterflies. Images of: Orangetips, Brown Elfins, Edith’s Coppers, Cabbage Whites, and on and on. Each labelled in her scratchy scrawl. Eventually, from the back of the book, she pulls out a postcard. She stares hard at it, takes a deep breath, before handing it over to me. I am confused because it is blank. Her manner tells me that my eyes are deceiving me. I do not see what she knows. A secret lies in the note.

SHORT STORY: Dying to be free

The horizon hummed in the distance. The silence of early dawn drowned by the waking landscape. Laurie took a sharp intake of breath, drinking in the freshness of first light. Martin stood apart lost in his own thoughts. Both figures: reflecting on their future.

Their conversation the night before had been difficult. In thirty-five years of marriage there had rarely been a raised voice.
‘I can’t do this anymore. I want to die,’ she had told him, in a muted calm tone.
She observed the anger carved in the heavy lines of his brow.
‘How can you ask of me such a thing?’ he had shouted.
‘I need permission to die with dignity. I have nothing more to offer this world in this condition. I will only get worse. I choose not to live like this.’ There had been very little emotion in her words. Dead-pan, she had delivered her thoughts with a steely look.
‘What about me? And the girls? We need you.’ He declared before dissolving in a torrent of tears with the distress of a petulant toddler. No more words had been said as she cradled his head on her lifeless lap.

This morning it had been her wish to see the sunrise. The cold air lapped around her face and she closed her eyes. She allowed herself to be submerged by the atmosphere’s embrace. Her mind travelled to a time in the distant past. She recalled the house she was raised in: the old, rambling cottage in Port Talbot; sprawled on a hill. Nine years old, her legs worked then. A tom-lass, she’d loved running through the overgrown grassland or climbing up the oak, birch and ash. A laugh rose and rippled in her throat as she remembered their honey-coated Labrador chasing after her, drooling and wagging. Ringo Starr, he’d been called; after one of the members of the Beatles - her mother’s favourite rock band.

In the depth of her daydream, she was transported to the cycling accident that had taken her life. Sure, it’s true that physically she wasn’t dead, but the spinal injury had destroyed her life. Or at least, any life that was worth living. Her strength, her joie de vivre, her independence – all gone. ‘Her independence,’ she sighed heavily. Since the accident, it had been up to Martin to care for her. Ten years of routine that she no longer handled on her own. Never again would she be able to: brush her teeth, blow her nose, cook, dress up, or walk their dog – Millie. Even after ten years, she still had days like this… when she ached to be her old, able self. She longed to walk again away from her wheelie, as she affectionately called it – like the invalid in the bible who ‘got up and walked’ when Jesus gave the command ‘get up and walk’. If only.

‘You alright, love,’ Martin whispered from behind, rubbing her shoulders in a gentle massage.
Her eyes darted open. ‘Yes – yes. This spot is beautiful.’
‘A beautiful place,’ he echoed.
‘Martin,’ she began.
‘Uh-huh…’
‘I want you to help me with something.’
‘Go on…’ he changed his position and knelt in front of her.
‘I’d like to create a memory box. For the girls.’
‘We’ll have to tell them soon.’ Hs eye-lids drooped, and his head fell forward. Reminiscent of a sad clown, Laurie thought. But said nothing. Only turned her face away from his gaze. She didn’t want to think about it. Telling Poppy and Zahra, it would break their hearts. It would be hard on both of them. Twins, they were in their second term at Brunel. She imagined how they might react; probably, not dissimilar to Martin’s reaction.
‘Yes – I will have to find the time to tell them. First things first... I want to create a memory box for them.’ The thought of the project brightened her spirits and forced the other niggling, not-so-uplifting thought to the back of her mind.

Poppy called a few days later and Laurie asked if she and Zahra would visit during the long Easter weekend coming up. ‘I’ve got some important news to share with you both.’ It was a matter-of-fact request in her bid to keep the conversation light. ‘Is anything wrong?’ ‘No – no. Everything is fine. It’s nothing to worry about.’

After this phone call Laurie summoned the energy to begin creating her memory box. ‘I want every item to mean something,’ she told Martin, as they began rummaging through the boxes Martin had lugged down – almost twisting an ankle – from the attic. It was a time-consuming and tiring process. Martin held up each item. If Laurie shook her head in the negative, he returned it back in the box. When she said ‘perhaps’ he placed the item in Laurie’s hands. Sometimes, she would be silent and at other times she talked about the memories behind each article – resurrecting them from the buried years. Over the course of a month, she decided on her ten items. The diary she kept during her first year of marriage; a scrapbook she had created in secondary school; a pair or earrings that had been passed down from Grandma Alma; an empty locket her mother had given her on her sixteenth; a collection of short stories by Katherine Mansfield; and five journals filled with poems she’d written over the years. Martin, she told him, was to give Poppy and Zahra the box after she’d gone. She hoped that by leaving a part of her in this way, she would ease their pain somehow.

‘Zahra, you’ve lost a lot of weight,’ Laurie reproached when the younger twin stooped low to give her a hug.
‘Mum, don’t start,’ she giggled. ‘And, you’re looking great.’
‘Yes – I suppose I am,’ she winked, ‘I had my hair styled yesterday.’
‘Very chic, Mum,’ Poppy said, leaning over to give her a kiss.
‘How are things going with you both?’
‘Where’s dad?’ Zahra asked, as she arranged herself cross-legged on sofa.
‘Sorting out tea, I think.’
‘I’ll go and see if he needs a hand,’ Poppy said, vanishing to the kitchen, carried by her long lissom stride.

After their evening meal, Laurie decided to tell them. It was a staggered confession of sorts – her decision. She steeled herself as she watched each face drain its colour. She knew she had to hold it together – for her sake and theirs. Poppy was the first to speak.
‘I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I don’t believe what you’re saying.’
‘I know this will be difficult on all of you. But I’ve thought about it long and hard, and for me,' she paused, 'it’s the answer.’
‘To give up,’ Poppy half-shrieked. Her eyes flashed with fury and brewed with tears.
‘What would you have me do? To stay? Unhappy and useless?’
‘No – yes – I don’t know. To stay for us,’ she whimpered. A strained smile formed along Laurie’s lips as she noticed her daughter's clenched fist. From birth, Poppy had always been the stubborn and feisty character. As a baby, her trombone sounding lungs had always given clear guidance on her likes and dislikes. Not selfish exactly, just wilful. She wished she could reach out and stroke her daughter’s wet cheeks.
‘I have to do this,’ Laurie said resolutely, in no more than a whisper.
‘Dad, what do you make of all… all this?’ She threw her hands in the air, unable to find any other words. Three pairs of eyes gathered to stare at Martin.
‘It’s your mother’s decision. I – we – have to respect that,’ he said, uncrossing his legs. While he spoke, Laurie noticed how grey he looked. Like a wilted plant. A twang of guilt washed over her. Was this really the only way?
‘I agree with dad,’ Zahra said. It was the first time she’d spoken. ‘If it’s what Mum wants to do – we have to respect it.’ At this point, Poppy stood up and ran out of the room. In turn, Zahra came forward and knelt down to give her mother a hug.
‘I love you, Mum,’ she said, squeezing tight.
‘I love you all very much.’ Laurie said, kissing her daughter’s recently shampooed locks, ignoring their tickle on her nose and chin.
‘I’ll go and check on Poppy.’ She unclasped her arms and disappeared.

Later that evening, before Laurie turned in, she stood at the doorway watching Poppy and Zahra sleep. Lying in beds side-by-side in the room they had always shared. She heard Zahra’s gentle snore – purring rhythmically. Poppy, as she had done since infancy, lay curled up in a cat-curl deep under the duvet. Some things never changed.

The rest of the weekend had been difficult. Poppy remained moody while Zahra put on a brave face. On the Monday, the girls left to return to their lives in Middlesex. And as they were leaving, Poppy embraced Laurie and made a strange remark: ‘I won’t let you do this. I can’t and I won’t.’

Catherine Mark

I've decided to post this short story (WIP) that I'm working on... I have an ending in mind... but I thought it might be fun to see what endings my blog readers come up with:) Let me have your thoughts/ideas/comments... Thanks for reading!!!

SHORT STORY: Uncle Jock and the girl in the barn

I blow a bubble of cloudy O on the window. Follow it with another, and another. Then, with my stubby, half-chewed finger I trail my initials through the mist formed by my mouth. The door slams. Mother enters the car. ‘Indigo,’ she barks, ‘why aren’t you wearing your seat belt?’ she says, casting a nervous glance in the front mirror. I struggle with the strap. Tug, tug. At last, it extends. I press the buckle in and it lodges with a click. Mum gives me a side glance before revving up the car. The engine sputters in the icy cold. Reluctantly, it springs to life. We are on our way to see Aunt Mavis and Uncle Jock.

Their cottage is nestled on a large farm in the Cotswolds. It is a grand dwelling brimming with wealth. Aunt Mavis and Uncle Jock don’t have any children. ‘Too busy making their millions,’ my mother would often TUT. There is a purpose to our visit today, but I can’t remember what it is.

When we arrive, Aunt Mavis and Uncle Jock meet us at the door. Aunt Mavis is looking immaculate, perfectly coiffed like Nicole Kidman in that perfume commercial. Although well presented, Uncle Jock – short and stout – looks awkward standing beside my aunt. Greetings and kisses are exchanged. Mother and Aunt Mavis head off to the kitchen while Uncle Jock mutters something about going for a walk. I decide I will explore the woodland around. ‘Don’t go too far,’ my mother says, disappearing down the hallway.


The trees stare solemnly while I stroll through their doorways. Their bare barks look bleak, barren. With each breath I exhale a conical cloud rises as it hits the freezing atmosphere. Even underfoot, the ground is glazed with ice. Temperatures had dropped to 2 degrees overnight. There is no plan in my mind as to where I am going. I just walk, ambling along a muddy frost-crusted path.

I don’t know when my feet stumble on a derelict barn. Non-descript, it resembles a shack. Even at this distance, I can tell that large chunks of the flat timber are rotten through – dead wood. My size-fives break a twig, surprising a black bird. It swoops off a branch and flies away. I watch until it becomes a black dot against the November mist. Averting my eyes back to level ground, I walk around the rectangular structure. I am quiet. I sense that I am intruding. On what, I do not know. That is, until I hear something – a whining sound. Like the whimpering noise cats make when they are sick, or suffering. I stop. Listen hard. Perhaps, I have imagined it. But it comes again. I lean against the wooden wall, as if wanting some sort of a camouflage. I wonder if I should make my escape. No – my curiosity gets the better of me. Now at the rear end of the barn, I move closer to the wide window, and crouch beneath it. I take a deep breath, trembling slightly: a mixture of cold, excitement, and fear. I count to ten before edging my body upwards. My eyes hover halfway then peer through the dust streaked panes. I blink, widen my eyes, and press my face against the window – flattening my nose. I see nothing; only the outline shadow of a pile of hay and a scattering of disused farming equipment. I stretch myself fully. A wave of disappointment drifts through me. There is no mystery here. In that moment of contemplation, in the stillness that envelops, I hear a strained, soft moan. Following the direction of the breathy whimper, I walk past the window and notice a loose panel – no longer overlapping – revealing a slit-hole. I peep.

Inside, there are two figures. First, I see the fresh, freckled face of a girl. Not much older than me. Thirteen? Fourteen? I cannot see her eyes, but the paleness of her skin tells me she is frightened. Her red curls are sprawled in a tangle on a bed of hay. She lies still; pinned down by a flushed fleshy mass. His back – a blanket of grey wiry hairs – faces me. I recognise the thinning patch on his head. He is still wearing the green pullover he greeted my mother and me with. My chest tightens. I cannot think what to do. Transfixed. I watch the rhythm of his bulge move back and forth. With each thrust a moan escapes; a cry of pleasure and power. 'Get up. Run.' The words ring in my mind - over and over. A sharp pain stings my chest, as I will the girl to move. She doesn’t. Stiff, stoic – she remains as silent as I am.

Catherine Mark

In this... I'm experimenting with the present tense (very much work-in-progress). Let me know what you think.

A lesson in God's wisdom (the hard way!)...

Well, I’ve finally arrived at my temporary digs over the weekend (on Sat 29/11). For the next few weeks – until I complete the new term and as I await all my visa paperwork to come through – I will be sharing a lovely house with a primary school teacher. The move operation ran like clock-work. Three friends helped out with their three cars and we were loaded up and arrived at the other end by around 3:30 pm. However, it wasn’t an uneventful move with my landlords turning evil on me and threatening to withhold my deposit of almost £600 – for a moth ruined carpet caused by damp (possibly condensation). To say the least, I saw red – especially, as I have sought for months to highlight these problems (structural issues of poor insulation and ventilation with the house) with them, hoping that they would engage with the situation and find solutions to remedy the deteriorating condition of the space. Their plan: to allow me to continue in a false sense of security i.e. believing that they were fair, decent and Christian human beings – and, then on the date of my departure inform me that they would not be returning my deposit. This deposit of which every penny is accounted for! I was fuming – angered by their lecherous greed and pretty much fell apart. (Unfortunately, this is a failing of mine – whenever I get that angry, I am no longer able to muster up the ability to communicate in a reasonable manner – all my words choke in my throat or go jammy in my mouth – and, I often end up child-like in a flood of tears!) This encounter was no different (sigh). After accusing Mr and Mrs Evil of being ‘thieves’ I fell apart on the phone to Joel. It never ceases to shock and infuriate me when I encounter such manipulation and wickedness of this kind, or magnitude. How these people can live with their consciences when they blatantly endeavour to derail others (me, in this case) with their lies and untruths, I do not know!?! Joel often chides me that I need to develop a ‘thick skin’. I find it offensive to see this level of depravity fuelled by greed (in this situation). Then, I ask myself why am I surprised by the extreme acts of terrorists (note my blog entry below)? Okay, okay – perhaps, I’m being a tad melodramatic placing these two, Mr and Mrs Evil, in the same breath as terrorists – maybe… but, not so farfetched in that they fall within that spectrum of human nature that has the propensity to be sinful, to do wicked and cruel things. To be egocentric! To find myself on the receiving end of such ugliness is quite unpleasant. It’s not the first time and I know it will not be the last time. True, a part of me is sick and tired of fighting injustices of this kind. And I wonder whether the time, energy and money that I will expend should I take these two to a small claims tribunal – is it really worth it? The old adage comes to mind: choose your battles carefully. And, for me at this juncture in my life – preparing for my relocation to Oz – I don’t think this is a battle worth fighting. So, against all my principles, I decided to take the deal that was eventually offered to me yesterday (Mon, 1 Dec) at around 5 pm – they’ll take £100 and return the rest. Life is so unfair – but, at this point I feel that I just have to cut my losses and hope that Mr and Mrs Evil choke on every penny of the £100 (i.e. their greed).

In all of this, what has been the lesson? Funny you should ask. Well, I remember when I first saw the house and fell in love with it – quaint, and quintessentially English. Postcard perfect (on the outside)! I prayed so hard that I would get the lease on the house – pressing God not to let me down on this. If only I had allowed myself to LISTEN to God’s will and purpose as with regards to this house. He probably would have told me that although the house looked great on the outside – it wasn’t the house for me… because he would have known about all the internal problems with the place, and the evil landlords. But I wanted it my way… and twenty months on I have paid a heavy price! Yes – it pays to ‘wait on God and heed his voice’!

‘For the wisdom of this world is foolishness in God's sight. As it is written: "He catches the wise in their craftiness"…’ (1 Corinthians 3:19)!