Wanted: one retreat centre.

www.darlingdoodlesdesigns.com 

What would I like for Christmas?  A retreat centre, that's what.  Nothing big and fancy and smart. Not a kick-ass spa or a fancypants hotel but a simple place where people (myself included) could just...be.  

Where would it be?  It doesn't entirely matter - though feng shui would prefer that it have water (ocean ideally) in front and mountains (or some sort of hills) behind.  It would embrace all the elements and be head over heels in love with every season.  It would be a place where the devas, the elementals and the nature spirits would smile.  A place to sun, moon and star bathe. 

This I do know: there would be open fires, there would be big deep baths, there would be snugly throws and hammocks and sweet sweet scents. There would be silence sometimes and music from time to time too.  There would be laughter and smiles, sometimes tears maybe but of the healing kind.  It would be a place to breathe deeply and well.  There might have to be animal therapists.  There could be a labyrinth.  

I'm not sure I'd want to inflict a programme or routine.  But, if people chose, they could join in daily meditation and yoga, in gentle walks and mindful mealtimes.  Food would be picked and prepared with love and care, a prayer breathed into every pot.  

There would be no preaching or pontificating, just peace and prana (and some Puckish fun too).  It would, in my dreams, be a place where people could let go of their cares and worries; a place that, maybe, might inspire them to remember who they are - really/unreally - and to take that back to their everyday lives. It would be a place that would remind me to do that each and every day too.

Above all, it would be affordable.  Every time I go away and report on these amazing retreats and spas, it hits me that only a few people could afford to go to them - and often not the ones who really need them.  I remember back when I used to go to the Pelican Centre in Somerset (now sadly no more) that I used to pay extra each time I went (as did other people) so the Centre could offer free or discounted places to those who needed them but couldn't afford the full whack. I like that idea.   

Anyhow, that's what I'd like.  It doesn't have to be immediately.  My son still has two years of school to go.  But then...well, that would be tickety-boo.  Of course I have no money to buy it.  Not a penny. But hey, I'm putting it out there, out here, as - who knows?  

Adrian is sitting on my head

Back to school.  Back to reality. Back to my new classroom. 

Backtrack to the barmy days of summer (okay, poetic license).  Susie and I were lugging kettlebells on the grass by the river (watched by ducks, laughed at by small children, copied by Stalkerish Stretching Man) and I was lamenting my parlous finances (again).

‘You…need…to….see….Helen…’ Susie gasped.

‘He…len?’ I gasped back.

‘Yup.  Is…feng…shui…’

Eh? But we launched into a brutal series of cleans and so I had to wait until we went down on the grass for floorwork to find out more.  Turned out Helen was a feng shui wotnot (Master? Mistress?) and had ‘sorted’ out Susie’s house and, lo and behold, Susie had got herself a pretty stunning high-powered new job before you could say "bagua".  

‘I don’t want a high-powered job,’ I said, slugging the kettlebell over my head while scissor-kicking my legs feebly.  ‘I just want some straightforward money.  Living on freebies is all very good but it’s…limiting.’

‘Helen will sort it,' said Susie firmly. 'I’ll bring her over tomorrow.’

Tomorrow?? You think it’s bad getting your house ready for viewing by potential buyers? Pah! Let's face it, your average house buyer isn’t going to suck his or her teeth and go, ‘Gawd, crap energy flow’ or ‘Will you take a look at that cutting chi?’  I’ve learned enough about this stuff to know we had ‘issues’, to put it kindly.  Once again I’d managed to fall head over heels for a house that was, shall we say, challenged, not only in its structure and underpinning but also in its wealth corner.  But hey, what can you do?  It’s not like you can shove your dirty chi under the beds and disguise your pathetic tai-chi by grinding coffee beans, is it?  

She walked around, sighing softly.  In a dispirited sort of way.  I trailed behind, heels dragging, like a child that knows it’s going to get told off.  And I did what every naughty child does – shifted the blame. 

‘I’ve told Adrian again and again about the clutter in that room,’ I pre-empted. She gave me a beady look. then looked at my office. 

‘Oh dear.’   

The three of us sighed in unison. My office was too big, too cold (no kidding), had too many doors and way too much frenetic energy.  When Helen found out that Adrian’s office sat directly above mine, she shook her head.

‘He’s sitting on my head, isn’t he?’ I said mournfully.

She nodded. 

‘Well?’ said Adrian, after they’d gone and we were sitting at the kitchen table having a post-mortem. 

‘Well,’ I said, prodding a chocolate biscuit.  ‘Seems I can’t work cos you’re squatting on my head.’

‘Okay. And what do we do about that?’  You have to hand it to him. How many men would react like that?

‘Umm…well apparently I need to move my office into the guest room.’

'And this will bring in some work?' he said. Hopefully. 

'Apparently.  Allegedly. Whatever,' I said.

'Let's do it.' 

So the next day we dismantled the guest room and moved it downstairs into my ex-office which, frankly, does look a bit weird, like we’re getting ready to install Uncle Fred (if we had one) and a bedlift.  

And here I am - up in the guest bedroom - feeling…curiously light-headed.  

Midsummer Resolutions

I’m making resolutions. Yes, I know it’s not the New Year but that passed by in a blur of family trauma and I really didn’t have the inclination to do anything other than lurch through each day, clutching a bottle. Anyhow, New Year resolutions are a lousy cliché and also it’s a rotten dreary time of year to resolve to Do Better.

Midsummer (ho ho) is a different matter. As I write, the rain lashes down, the wind whips and, to be honest, it could be bloody New Year. Still, never mind. I have put Ray Lamontagne on the CD player (to remind myself that there is always someone more depressed than oneself) and stuck some neroli oil in the aromatherapy burner (to lighten the mood a little and to get rid of the overbearing smell of rancid dog). Now I am sitting at the kitchen table in our new (oh yes, oh yes!) breakfast room deciding on how to live out the rest of the year. So, I hereby resolve:

1. To follow my own advice. I am shamefaced to admit that while I can merrily dish out the wise words to all and sundry, to those who ask and those who don’t, I blithely ignore it myself. Therefore I will:
a) get my feng shui sorted. I know it sounds bonkers but I do believe in this stuff (the proof of the pudding and all that) and I haven’t lifted on finger towards sorting out my cutting chi and the money pit of the Loo of Doom.
b) start eating healthily. Yawn, yawn (the devil’s food is soooo good) but must be done. I am falling to bits and must get sorted. Last night I had a last hurrah of steak and chips and now it’s lentils all the way.
c) call in the experts. As soon as the money comes in (see point 6) I will get me to an osteopath/homeopath/nutritional therapist. I need to clean up my act and need some judicious prodding.

2. To have a makeover. Again, this is dependent on number 6 (as are most things) but as soon as humanly possible I’m going to get a haircut, a manicure, have my eyebrows shaped and my invisible eyelashes dyed. I’ve gone feral and need to remember that I once had self-respect and looked vaguely groomed (as opposed to a shaggy fat hairball). I will stop short of a wax as I don’t want the beauty therapist suing.

3. To blog more often. It really is therapy for me. However please note this does not mean I expect you to read and comment on every dollop of my verbosity (do you reckon one in seven is a reasonable expectation?).

4. To stop being honest. OK this flies in the face of my last post but it truly is the devil’s path. If I’ve learned anything this last year it’s that honesty, naming names and being blunt simply doesn’t pay. So, from now on I’m going to hide behind pseudonyms and trot out polite aphorisms and Not Stick My Neck Out.

5. To stop trying to be perfect. I have, at the last tally:
· a job (sort of – see point 6 again)
· a child (boy, 9, demanding and truculent)
· a husband (not rich, very messy)
· a Greek chorus of needy friends
· a house in the process of being dismantled and cobbled back together at huge expense and severe trauma
· two revolting dogs
· far too many goldfish (whatever possessed me to think that goldfish were easygoing happy little pets?)
· a garden full of triffids and ground elder
· a trail of divers builders, plumbers, electricians, decorators et al in constant need of urging, placating, praising, encouraging, decision-making and tea-providing


I do not have:
· a nanny, child-minder or cheery helpful relatives ready to pitch in
· a cleaner
· a personal assistant
· a never-ending supply of money

Ergo, I cannot be superwoman. You’d have thought I’d have realised it by now but I begin to think I am truly rather dim.

6. To make money. Somehow. I have £100 in the bank and a tax bill 30 times larger. I will rob Peter to pay Paul but it’ll mean we will run out of radiators by the time we get to the bedrooms unless I do something quick. I have been monstrously self-indulgent, wallowing in Poor Me syndrome and it has to stop. I have taken on a book project (nicely timed to tie in with the school holidays which have already started - how did that happen? so wrong - ) and shall actively pursue more work.

I was going to go on to 7,8, 9 and 10 but I think that’s enough to be going on with. Don’t you?

Astral doorways and axe murderers

Why is it that dogs see ghosts when you’re all on your own in the house? Adrian is off in the Isle of Man and of course, Asbo is going all spooky on me – you know, that horrible fixed staring at a spot by the door, eyes moving as if following some spectral dog. Or I’ll let him out and he’ll go ‘on point’ at the hedge and growl, menacingly. Despite being isolated, this is not a spooky house, but I suffer from an over-fertile imagination, legacy of an early diet of classic horror films and the entire oeuvre of M R James.

Our old house, on the other hand, was seriously scary. At that time Adrian was up in London every week and, even though it was in the heart of the village, surrounded by neighbours, I was absolutely terrified every night. There was a feeling of menace somehow. Every time you walked down the curling staircase something seemed to try to trip you up. Things moved – without any logical explanation (and, trust me, we tried).

Then one day a feng shui expert pitched up on the doorstep. Turned out her mother lived in the village and had told her about the house (obviously had a reputation in arcane circles). She had heard I’d moved in and decided to offer her services.
Standing on the doorstep she gave an uncannily accurate list of what we had experienced since moving in.
‘Astral doorways,’ she said, doing the equivalent of a plumber sucking his teeth.
‘Nasty. You want that sorted. Need a clearing.’
Then, as I was wondering how much she charged for such services and how I’d explain it to my accountant, she offered one ‘on the house’. I snuck a look right and left, to make sure the nets weren’t twitching (this came hot on the pig blood/satanic worship episode) and yanked her inside.
She proceeded to do her stuff, lighting incense, ringing bells (‘keep it quiet, eh? A light tinkle rather than full-on clanging?’) and clapping round the house. I kept my mind wide open and - you know what? – it worked. The house felt better, much better. I slept properly for the first time in months.
But, cleared or not, it still felt good to move to a place without, to our knowledge, any astral anythings. The farm felt solid and sensible and safe – until the night of the axe murderer.

Adrian was off on another beer trip, leaving me, James and Asbo Jack alone in the house. It was about 11pm. James was asleep, Asbo was doing the twitching thing, and I was trying to watch TV. Then the phone rang. It was my mother. Hysterical.

‘Have you seen the news? Oh my God. There’s been a murder at Winsford and there’s an axe murderer on the loose. Tell Adrian to get out his gun. Lock all the windows. Don’t let the dog out. Oh, I’m in such a state. Winsford!’ And she put down the phone.

What??? Even if I’d managed to get a word in edgeways I wouldn’t have dared say Adrian was away. She was probably battening down the hatches, ten miles away in Bampton. The worse thing was, I couldn’t find out what had really happened. By some weird anomaly we don’t get local news on the TV – we get Welsh TV. It was too late to phone up any of the ‘neighbours’ – who are all tucked up in bed by 8pm. So I spent an uneasy night, jumping at every creak. The next day I found out that, yes, they had found a body – up on Winsford Hill – but it had been dumped there months before. Unsettling, but no cause for panic.

Anyhow, to cut a long story short we made it through the night. The morning has dawned bright and hopeful. There are catkins on the hazel and the birds are attacking the feeders with gusto. We live to fight another day. Though whether I’ll make it through aerobics is another matter altogether.