Theodora's Diary Read online

  I’m rambling. The chickenpox must have affected my thought processes.

  August

  Sunday 2 August

  Went to church. Reverend Graves (a most unfortunate name, I’ve always thought, especially as he’s originally from Australia and has the nickname ‘Digger’) gave a very uplifting sermon from 1 Corinthians 12 about knowing your gifts. I had a slight guilt pang about giving Kevin’s Mum the bottle of cheap perfume Auntie Gwen gave me for Christmas as a birthday present, until I realized he was talking about spiritual gifts, so that was all right.

  He spoke about the different kinds of jobs the Holy Spirit gave to people in the early Church: apostles, prophets, teachers, workers of miracles, healers, helpers, administrators, and the gift of speaking in different kinds of languages. He said that people in the modern Church could also have these gifts. I spent the rest of the sermon and final hymn trying to decide what my gift was.

  I was still pondering the subject over coffee in the hall afterwards, when Nigel Hubble came in carrying a tray loaded with polystyrene cups of coffee and tripped over Mrs McCarthy’s zimmer frame. It was like a slow-motion film. He stumbled, regained his balance, then trod on one of his children, who started yelling indignantly. He eventually lost his grip on the tray, which toppled onto Mr Wilberforce’s dog.

  In the ensuing mêlée of damp cloths, apologies, muttered curses and agonized yelping, it became very clear which members of the congregation possessed what gift. The ‘apostles’ in the room were sent for more coffee; the ‘helpers’ pulled the dazed Nigel to his feet, picked up the cups and mopped the carpet; the ‘teachers’ showed him the correct way to carry a tray of coffee; the ‘miracleworkers’ managed to persuade Mr Wilberforce that Nigel was really very fond of Rex and the scalding was merely an unfortunate accident; the ‘healers’ rubbed Germolene into Rex’s scalded fur; the ‘administrators’ calculated the cost of hiring a carpet-shampooing machine; the ‘prophets’ said, ‘I knew that would happen!’; and many of the words uttered, mainly by Mr Wilberforce, were in a totally indecipherable language.

  Monday 3 August

  Back to work today. The security guard peered closely at me over his glasses as I waved my pass and went into the building.

  ‘’S funny, you don’t look any different,’ he said. He sounded disappointed.

  I’ve had chickenpox, for goodness’ sake, I thought, not grown an extra head. When I reached my office, Declan had mysteriously disappeared. All through the morning, every time I looked up from my pile of papers, I found groups of people peering at me from behind files or round filing cabinets, whispering. I spent the rest of the day wondering why everybody was looking at me so strangely, until I tortured a filing clerk into divulging that Declan had told all my colleagues that I’d been off work having plastic surgery to make me look like a supermodel.

  This is Declan’s idea of a joke. That man puts clingfilm across toilet bowls and superglue on door handles for ‘a bit of a laugh’. Some days it’s like working with Jeremy Beadle.

  He’s going to need more than plastic surgery to remove the filing cabinet from where I’m going to put it when I find him.

  Tuesday 4 August

  All that chocolate and daytime television while I was off sick has taken its toll on my figure. Only three weeks until I go on holiday, and some serious measures are called for. I went out at lunchtime and bought a large tub of cottage cheese. I really hate cottage cheese. In fact, no one actually likes cottage cheese. It’s one of those things that’s so disgusting it must be doing you good.

  Wednesday 5 August

  Joined the gym at the local sports centre today. I was pleasantly surprised to find that it wasn’t completely bursting at the seams with lycra-clad supermodels with leotards that look in danger of vertically bisecting their bodies and more silicon than IBM. Instead there were a couple of pleasantlooking young mums, a very large Italian lady and three elderly men.

  A girl who looked about 12 years old showed me how to use the equipment. There were cycling machines, rowing machines, stepping machines, machines to make your arms bigger, machines to make your backside smaller, and even a machine to develop your ‘pecs’. I didn’t like to admit that I hadn’t a clue where my ‘pecs’ were, or even if I had any to develop. I decided to use the machine anyway: at the end of the session, by a process of elimination, I’d know that the bits which felt developed must be pecs.

  After an hour of pulling, stretching, lifting, cycling and walking, I felt sweaty and slightly wobbly. There was no sign of anything developing. The three old men, who looked in far better physical shape than I did, nodded to me as I left. I climbed gratefully into my car and drove the 200 yards from the leisure centre to my home—I didn’t want to overdo it on my first day.

  Cottage cheese lasagne for supper tonight—I can hardly wait.

  Thursday 6 August

  Woke up unable to move. The gym is entirely out of the question today. Can’t work out where my pecs are, because everything hurts. I can’t have pecs all over, surely?

  Friday 7 August

  Stiff muscles even worse today. At work it took me 10 minutes to ease off my jacket and hang it on the back of the chair. I barely had the strength to pick up a coffee cup. No sympathy from my colleagues.

  At lunchtime, Declan asked me to take some letters down to the postbox. In agony, I struggled to put on my jacket—only to find that I couldn’t get my hands down the sleeves. Declan had stapled up the ends of my sleeves while I was in the loo. I needed two people to help ease my arms and shoulders out again. I could hear Declan howling with laughter from the other end of the office.

  Kevin was rather more sympathetic and enthusiastically offered to massage my sore pecs for me. I know where they are now, and there’s no way he’s getting his hands on them this side of an engagement ring!

  Sunday 9 August

  I’m still concerned about what God has up His sleeve for me to do. I bet Declan wouldn’t dare staple up God’s sleeves. I prayed that God would send a thunderbolt to strike down Declan right in the middle of one of his pranks. That would be revenge indeed—the best practical joke ever.

  Monday 10 August

  Felt guilty and repented of wishing Declan struck by lightning. He might be a pain in the neck, but I’m sure God loves him.

  At lunchtime, as a reward for a week of cottage cheese, I met Ariadne for coffee at a little Italian café halfway between her office and mine. While we waited for what seemed like three days for the waiter to bring our order, I asked her what kind of thing she thought God had in mind for me.

  ‘If God has some important work for me to do, I should be getting on with it, not just sitting here wondering what it is,’ I complained. Our cappuccinos arrived, but the chocolate powder had yet to put in an appearance. I drummed my fingers on the table. ‘I’m just wasting my life. All this unfulfilled potential.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, sipping her coffee and leaning thoughtfully back in her chair, ‘perhaps God’s teaching you about patience, endurance and forbearance, learning to live tolerantly with others and forgive their faults.’

  ‘OK, fair enough, but if God’s teaching me these things, I just wish He’d hurry up about it.’

  Ariadne started to cough and splutter into her cappuccino. Honestly—sisters!

  Tuesday 11 August

  Forgot to ask Ariadne about God’s sleeves. I woke up three or four times last night wondering what God wears. My mind flitted back to a school trip to the National Gallery. There were plenty of pictures of God there. He was usually sitting in clouds casting thunderbolts at cowering mortals beneath. But what was He wearing? I searched through my sluggish brain, trying to remember what this terrifying, vengeful deity wore. As far as I could remember, it looked like some sort of tablecloth. The more I thought about it as the night wore on, the less the image of God in the paintings seemed to fit my experience. Where had I gone wrong?

  Had the Church of England misled me when I dared to believe
that God might actually love me and accept me, warts (actually, I don’t have any warts) and all? Doubts, fears and the looming gargoyles of my insecurity roamed my mind. I cowered like the mortals in the paintings, uncertain whether my duvet would afford adequate protection against a celestial blast. I became more and more convinced that what God had up His sleeve for me was a thunderbolt.

  Wednesday 12 August

  After another night of torment, I rang Ariadne first thing this morning in a state of feverish agitation to talk through my questions.

  ‘Ariadne, does God have sleeves?’ I blurted out. ‘On His arms, I mean, like a sort of jacket … to keep things up, you know, things for us … thunderbolts … or something…’ Realizing I was talking gibberish, I ground to a halt.

  ‘Have you been drinking, Theo?’ she enquired, in the sort of voice people use when talking to men wearing trousers held up with string who wave empty whisky bottles on station platforms late at night.

  ‘Of course I haven’t been drinking! It’s only 7.15,’ I replied huffily.

  I was rather put out by the suggestion and carefully explained my theological predicament. She laughed and said, ‘You do find the strangest things to worry about. Try Psalm 104.’

  I grabbed my Bible and flicked through it frantically.

  … clothed with splendour and majesty.

  He wraps himself in light as with a garment …

  It isn’t a tablecloth, then. But it still doesn’t help much.

  Thursday 13 August

  Dad phoned me at some unearthly hour this morning. ‘I’m sorry to spoil your day,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got a bit of bad news, see. Auntie Ivy’s just died.’

  ‘Who’s Auntie Ivy?’ I murmured, pulling the duvet back over my head.

  ‘You know, Auntie Ivy, one of your Grandpa’s sisters.’

  Grandpa Llewellyn was one of 17 children, all girls except for him. They all lived into extreme old age and the surviving old ladies were sprinkled liberally around remote parts of South Wales. Although Grandpa died when I was very young, I remember him as a very quiet, tormentedlooking man. Not surprising, really.

  ‘Oh. Have I met her?’

  ‘Course you have—blue hair, kept racing pigeons, had a thing about greaseproof paper.’

  ‘I don’t remember her.’

  ‘You’d know her if you saw her.’

  ‘Well, I’m hardly likely to see her now, am I? She’s dead.’

  ‘True, true. Anyway, just thought I’d tell you. Funeral’s on Monday 24th down home. Ariadne’s got to work, and goodness knows where your brother is. See if you can make it. Mam and I are driving down Sunday. We’ll stay overnight at Auntie Madge’s.’

  Saturday 15 August

  I’ve been busy at work recently, so the diary has been put on the backburner rather. Likewise the diet. Cottage cheese was invented by sadists. It isn’t a food, it’s a form of punishment.

  Sunday 16 August

  Today’s sermon was based on the sufferings of Job. Job 10:10 caught my eye: ‘Did you not pour me out like milk and curdle me like cheese …’ Obviously a sign to persevere with the diet!

  Monday 17 August

  Have lost only three pounds after all that effort. I asked Kevin what he thought about my diet. He said, ‘I think you look fine the way you are. Nice and cuddly. I like curvy women.’

  That does it. The diet hots up. ‘Cuddly,’ indeed!

  Tuesday 18 August

  Only a week to go to my holiday, and I still look like the Michelin man’s overweight sister. No more food until I can get back into my bikini. Not even cottage cheese.

  Thursday 20 August

  I fainted at work today and Declan had to call Ariadne to come and take me home early. Ariadne tutted and shook her head as we sat together on the station platform, me with my head between my knees—which undignified position, she insisted, would prevent me passing out again.

  ‘You can never do things sensibly, can you? You always have to take everything too far.’ She unwrapped a chicken roll she had bought from the buffet and broke bits off to feed me.

  ‘I’m sorry, I just felt fat and unattractive.’ I sat up and accepted another bite before returning to my extremely unattractive pose. I felt like a gigantic sparrow fledgling with an inferiority complex.

  ‘Who are you trying to attract? You’ve got a boyfriend who likes you the way you are. No one else is remotely interested in whether your waist is 26 or 24 inches. You’re just making yourself unhappy and ill with this diet. Eat a bit less chocolate and walk a bit more. Give your poor old car a rest. And for goodness’ sake, smile! That’s what makes you attractive.’

  I smiled and gave her a hug. I just wish she wasn’t always right.

  Friday 21 August

  I decided to resolve the issue of what God has up his sleeve for me once and for all today.

  Digger Graves was mowing his lawn when I called at the vicarage. ‘G’day!’ he called, waving cheerily. He pulled out two folding chairs and we sat on the newly mown grass. The smell of roses filled the still evening air and with only the sound of distant birdsong to accompany my discourse, he sat and listened patiently, nodding occasionally as I poured out my worries and fears. About God, His plans for me and what now seemed my ludicrous dilemma about His sleeves. Digger is the only person who doesn’t laugh at my fears or dismiss them as a symptom of too many Enid Blyton books as a child.

  ‘Well, Theo love, I can’t be sure about the Heavenly Father’s clobber, and He hasn’t told me what He’s got up his sleeve for you, but I can tell you exactly what He has in His hand.’ He picked up his Bible and began to read to me from Psalm 73. ‘This is what the psalmist says about God: “Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand. You guide me with your counsel, and afterwards you will take me into glory. Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you.” I can’t think it’s much different for us Christians now. If God’s holding your hand, I don’t think you need worry about anything else.’

  Saturday 22 August

  Told Kevin about my impending trip to Wales and tried to persuade him to come with me for the weekend. ‘It’s part of my heritage, you know. “Land of My Fathers” and all that.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned,’ Kevin said, ‘any nation that spends its winters running up and down a field with a ball shaped like an Easter egg and goalposts you can go over as well as under, where handballs and flying tackles are not only legal but part of the game, where you pass the ball backwards to move forwards and the whole team has the same surname, will just have to do without me.’

  Sunday 23 August

  Got to Auntie Madge’s just in time to go with her to the evening service at chapel. Afterwards, while she was chatting to some of her friends, I slipped away and had a quiet wander around the graveyard. I love reading the names on old headstones and trying to imagine what life was like for these people who lived in another age, so distant, so separate. Glorious Welsh names caught my eye:

  Griffith Ap David Ap Meredith Ap Jones

  God took his soul,

  Now God rest his bones.

  Laid to rest in the year of our Lord 1875

  So did the inscription on a monument to a former minister of the chapel who had met a tragic end:

  Reverend Ifor Cowryd Thomas

  Departed this life 12th day of March 1910

  Struck by lightning whilst walking to chapel

  for the morning service

  This memorial was erected by his grateful

  parishioners

  Monday 24 August

  6 a.m.

  I’ve just spent the night sleeping on what felt like a sack stuffed with marbles in Auntie Madge’s spare room. With an overnight temperature of 15°C outside, the stone cottage managed to maintain an indoor temperature of just above freezing. Even with an extra blanket, two jumpers and my socks, I still shivered.

  5 p.m.

  Just got back from the funeral. It was what people cal
l ‘a lovely send-off ’.

  ‘Such a pity, she was so young,’ lamented Auntie Madge.

  Young? She was 92!

  Still, the funeral served to dispel one myth. Not all Welshmen can sing. I know this for a fact. I had one sitting behind me, belting out the hymns in a monotone all the way through the service. I mentioned this to Dad on the way back.

  ‘I know him,’ Dad said. ‘That’s Owen Thomas, that is. Used to have a beautiful singing voice. He worked down the pits, singing hymns as he toiled at the coalface. Then one day he got crushed in a rock fall, mid-descant, and now he sings in the key of A flat miner.’

  What a sad story! Dad, for some reason, seemed to find it funny.

  Tuesday 25 August

  Packing! Such a nightmare. Better make a list.

  Something for the beach. Bikini or swimsuit? Both.

  Towel (the ones in the hotel are usually about the size of a postage stamp).

  Something for the evening, and a jumper in case it gets cold (make that three).

  Shorts and top for sightseeing.

  Shoehorn to squeeze bottom into shorts. (Only joking.)

  Something to wear on the journey (both directions).

  Something in case it rains. Yes, it does rain in Kos in August. Not often, but better be prepared.

  Shoes, sandals, flip-flops, wellies (no, forget the wellies).

  Sunhat (makes me look like Daisy the Blackpool Donkey, but it’s the only one I’ve got).

  Mosquito repellent, suncream, sunburn cream, hot-water bottle.

  Something to read on the beach. Something a bit more respectable to read on the beach, in case I meet any other Christians.

  Greek phrasebook (it’s arrogant to expect the rest of Europe to speak English just because we’re too lazy to make the effort).

  Travel games.

  Iron.

  Washing powder.

  Washing line and pegs.

  Toiletries and make-up.

  Emergency back-up mascara brush.

  Actually, forget the travel games. My Travel Scrabble only has 17 letters. I think the rest got lost the last time Ag played ‘rude words Scrabble’ with Auntie Rosie after too much sherry trifle one Christmas. If you could buy a two-piece jigsaw, my brother would be sure to lose one of the pieces.