Sunday, February 18, 2007

Day 179

Today I had a date with God. Well, I had a date with a Baptism, and God would be there, and I would be in his ‘house’, so I concluded it amounted to the same thing.

Thoughts that ran through my head this morning as I made ready to try to get out of my house for my first ‘serious’ public function in, well, a long time: Would it be ‘cool’ with God if I turned up without showering? Would it also be acceptable to turn up aided and abetted by my true and reliable friend, Diazepam? I kept thinking about an old colleague of mine that said one must bathe before prayer or it was some kind of mortal sin that him upstairs would frown upon. I did both, and met with no lightening bolts.

I wore black, accessorised by clean plasters, which I was not entirely convinced was appropriate for a Baptism, but when others in the congregation wore jeans, (JEANS – in church!) I thought I did pretty damn well.

The minister’s sermon focused on “Munro Bagging” and all I heard was "tea bagging". Could God hear what I was thinking? If so…'hell' and 'hand basket' sprang to mind. Then my friend swore, in church, so we decided it was a given, we were both going straight there.

The beautiful pixie baby that was the guest of honour did beautifully. She promptly fell asleep just as she arrived at the Baptismal font and awoke abruptly with water being poured over her head. And then I panicked. I really did. I panicked that she was being covered in holy water, holy water that I had only ever come across in vampire slayings, a la Buffy and when he signed the mark of the cross on her forehead I nearly passed out. I wanted to rip my good friend’s child out of his arms – what if it changed her in some way? What if promising her to God meant she was no longer ours?

I spent the rest of the afternoon cuddling her, and my fears were assuaged. She was still the same, adorable pixie baby, chewing the hem of her Christening gown. I should stop watching films like "Rosemary’s Baby". They are not helpful in the quest for good in the face of evil.

My “good friends” are “the friends that went away that came back”. I think the latter pseudonym is no longer appropriate as they have been nothing but available since their return. I am also beginning to understand that life does indeed get in the way of things. Just because I was trying to end a life (mine) they were trying to bring a life into this world and as I now suspect this is a feat of equal difficulty.

One of the other kids that was at the house afterwards asked what I did to my hand. “My Mum has a new kitten” (“I walked into a door”…). She showed me a similar plaster on her hand and said: “I burnt my hand on my straightening iron and it got infected.” I might try that next time.

I think I buried a (possibly) selfish hatchet today. I also coped in a confined space with lots of people. Lots of people that enquired about what I’d been up to since they’d last seen me. My answers focused mainly on “writing”. Well, I am aren't I? See...words.

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