No dogs on strings, no swords, no cloaks, no staffs of power

Yeah, I felt like that...

Now where was I? Please excuse my discombobulation but I spent the weekend with my friend Kate and consequently I have had about two hours’ sleep, no longer have any vocal chords and my atoms really do feel as if they have been rearranged back to front.  

We went to Glastonbury.  Really I could stop right there and you’d get the picture but, actually, you wouldn’t because Glastonbury wasn’t quite as Glastonbury as it normally is.  We both agreed it was odd that we saw

• No dogs on strings
• No men in cloaks (with or without optional swords or staffs)
• No women in cheap velvet medieval barmaid dresses
• No people of any gender giving you those penetrating ‘I’m a magician; no really, I am!’ stares

Yeah, he looked like that (only older and fatter)

We were looking for a healer of some sort (preferably the chiropractic sort really) as some tosspot had arsended her car and left her with whiplash.  The first place we tried said CLOSED (even though the guy was sitting staring blankly at us through the window). The second place we tried offered us Tracey. Tracey had pin-in rainbow-coloured dreadlocks and apparently practiced Tibetan head massage so there were a whole bunch of damn good reasons right there why we backed away. Then we walked up some stairs and found this hobbit. Seriously. And so I left Kate with the hobbit for an hour and a half and floated round lusting after sky high bright red platform boots and buying out of print books with hilarious covers and flying incense.

And the hobbit fixed Kate.  Which really surprised the hell out of all of us.

And then we went back to her house and talked. And talked. And talked.

Yeah...just yeah...

There’s a whole long list of reasons why I love Kate but I think the trait I admire the most is her honesty.  We had some bloody deep conversations, about some pretty tough stuff. We didn’t always agree; in fact we agreed to disagree totally about some things. Other firmly held opinions were batted back and forth very vigorously but without bulldozing, without demeaning. We listened to one another; we tried to understand one another through this imperfect medium of language. We failed, frequently, so we tried again, a different way, using different words. And we didn’t give up until we’d got to understanding. Not necessarily agreement – but understanding.  I can’t tell you how refreshing that is. 

She’s bloody smart. She’s very real. She’s exceedingly brave.

Er....no....

She’s also got a shedload of wisdom in that noddle of hers.  She talks a load of sense.  And no, of course she doesn’t always follow her own wisdom.  She gets tripped up and falls over. Just like all of us. And she freely admits it.  Which is another reason I love her. It’s like I keep saying - I get queasy around gurus.  If someone is perfect; if someone is always gleaming pure white light with a side order of fluffy unicorns, rainbow dolphins and sparkly angels, my eyes narrow in disbelief.  Okay so there might be the odd ascended master or whatever floating around but I haven’t come across any, as far as I’m aware. Everyone else can only be good enough, pure enough, right enough, spiritual enough.  It’s like parenting.  Everyone fucks up sometimes. And if people don’t, I get suspicious. What are they suppressing? What are they hiding?  The people I trust, that I pay attention to, that I listen to, that I love, are the ones that lose the plot from time to time; that screw it up totally every so often; that are beautifully, blissfully, humanly flawed.  And, actually, if you look at most religions – with the honourable exception of Buddhism – there’s a whole lotta prophets and gods and what have you basically going medieval all over the place.  Food for thought, huh? J

God,  I love it when you get angry. :)

Btw, Kate doesn’t *get* Marek. Not remotely. No sirree. Yet, here’s the funny thing.  As I sat and listened to her, it all started sounding weirdly familiar. So much so that I kept shaking my head to dislodge the feeling of déjà vu.  Really, it was like listening to his twin. Except she's female and Englandish of course. 

Wart charmers, warlocks and sex with entities

Sometimes life feels so predictable.  It’s like we’re those little wooden figures in schmaltzy cuckoo clocks that toddle out, bang one another over the head, and then wobble back in again, only to do it all over again the next hour, day, week, whatever. 

Friday. Zumba. Regular as clockwork. Yawn. Except not really cos it still gets me going.  The first ten minutes are a little like bad sex – you’re going through the motions with one eye on the clock and your mind pondering the relative merits of broad beans or peas in risotto.  But then something switches; the body goes on auto-pilot and the mind floats, blissfully off into the rhythm and far away out into the cosmos.  So, like good sex really. 

Anyway.  Afterwards I was quietly dripping sweat in the car park and chatting to my friend Caz whom I haven’t seen for aeons about how to deal with sleep paralysis (you know, that feeling of being pressed down into the bed and not being able to breathe). 
‘Heck, you need a banishing ritual,’ I said.  As you do.
‘Nah,’ she said. ‘I found another way.’ And she looked shifty, and a little smug.
‘What?’

‘I…ummm…’
‘You didn’t!’
‘I did…’ 
‘You had sex with it?’ 
She grinned.

‘You lucky cow!’

‘Don’t you dare tell anyone!’

'I wouldn’t dream of it…’

And we were laughing our heads off when out came Daisy, in the skimpiest dress going, pentacles dangling from her ears, followed by an enormous man wearing some kind of amulet round his neck. And it struck me, with total delight, that here we were – three witches and one very large warlock – in a car park in sleepy Brushford.  See, Liz Jones, you don’t know the half of what goes on in your village...

‘Nice,’ I said, pointing at his necklace.

'It’s Sir Gawain’s glyph,’ he replied. (occult footnote:  in the legend of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Gawain has a pentagram inscribed on his shield, symbolising the five knightly virtues of generosity, courtesy, chastity, chivalry and piety)
He pointed at my necklace.
‘Nice,’ he said.
‘It’s a Gate Opener,’ I replied and he nodded. 

If people are elements this guy was all Earth.  Really he should have been dressed in full-on Celtic warrior gear, all leather straps and a whacking great broadsword or an axe.  I was slightly lost in re-dressing him when I realised they were talking about warts.

‘He’s a wart charmer, you know,’ said Daisy.   

Caz was proffering her hand.  ‘I’m not sure if it’s a wart of not,’ she said.  Shameless hussy, first she’s shagging entities and now she’s offering up her warts to any old warlock. He grabbed her mitt and spat at it, rubbing in the spittle and holding it tight, gazing sharply at her. ‘Don’t look at ‘im…don’t you look at ‘im!’

‘I won’t..’ she said, shaking her head. Smart girl, you don’t argue with ten foot Celtic warlocks.

‘If ‘e be a wart, ‘e’ll be gone.  Give ‘im three weeks.’
‘I haven’t got any warts,’ I said, sadly.  ‘Just partying entities. Oh, and Lizzy says I’ve got a grabber on the stairs.’
Sir Gawain nodded seriously, as if I’d just said ‘I’ve got a new dishwasher’ or ‘awful weather we’re having’.
‘No,’ he said firmly.  ‘Don’t worry. ‘ee won’t hurt you.  Talk to ‘im. Tell ‘im to push off now; to move along.’
Hmm. That’s what Lizzy had said.

‘We should really get going,’ said Daisy, looking at the moon. 
‘Overdue for a ritual?’
‘Nah, we’ve got a table booked at the pub.’

Sir Gawain nodded and held out a hand the size of a small shovel. ‘It was nice to meet you,’ he said, perfectly polite and formal.  I took his hand and he gazed right into my eyes, like he was scanning my hard-drive.
‘You’re alright, you know,’ he said finally. ‘And it’s gone now.’  
I nodded.  As you do. We said our goodbyes and I drove home.

‘You’re late,’ said Adrian as I climbed up the (curiously quiet stairs). 'I thought you'd gone down the pub.'

'Nah. Met a wart charmer in the car park,’ I said.

‘Nice,’ he said.  ‘Fancy curried vegetable fritters?’

‘I prefer warlocks,’ I said. 
‘Charming,’ he replied.  And shook the frying pan.