Take me to church

There were a few key facts that highlighted the fact I was feeling lower than shark shit in the mood department.
I say lower than shark shit, because I’m pretty sure I drowned a few weeks previous, and in the world of metaphors, without being scientific, I’m sure shark shit is next on the scale of down in the dumps.
Anyway, the weekend, last gone, saw me convinced I was having a heart attack. I had a pain in my chest, in between my boobs to be precise, (a vast, sweaty area) it hurt to move, breathe, exist and I was sure the end was nigh. By the Saturday night, it still hurt to breathe but from behind the boys, sort of in my back.
‘I’ve sprained my ribs.’ I declared after extensive Googling and Holby City’ing. ‘I’m not dying, I’m juts anxious by all accounts.’
I spent the remaining weekend in bed or drunk. My go to coping mechanisms.
When Monday rolled around and smacked me in the head, breathing and moving still difficult activities, I felt the only thing left to try was some sort of divine intervention.
‘I’m going to spiritual church.’ I told Twitter.
I’d made this decision briefly after holding eye contact with a robin in the park, moments before B fell off Scott’s shoulders and moments after Tom Hardy bowled me over on the green.
My friend Hannah had been before and therefore promised to meet me in the car park, warned me that I’d have to sing and told me I’d enjoy.
What Hannah failed to mention was that I’d have to sing Annie’s song to a shaky CD player, that there’d only be twelve of us in the room that had been set up like an actual church and that I’d be scared shitless.
There were friendly greetings, I placed £2 into a wicker basket, took my seat second row back and watched five, very different looking individuals, sit in front of me like a judging panel off a reality TV show. Only this panel desk was home to jugs of water, artificial candles, a photograph of a woman, that I noted wasn’t in the room, and some leaflets on dead things.
There was an open prayer, I’m still confused about, there was an Acapella hymn and then Annie’s song and then an angry looking woman in a pale green blouse asked could she come to me and I was like, oh shit here we go.
I won’t patronise or pick apart what the spirit wold told me, I feel like that’s best left for the pub, or the stage, or some more appropriate platform where I wont come across as a heartless wanker but I will say;
1. I’m not a quiet person, spirit got that wrong.
2. I’m not a wall flower, I do walk into a room and command attention, spirit got that very wrong.
3. None of the women in my family wore sensible shoes.
4. If you keep rallying months my way I’m bound to find a connection with them, I once had a dentist appointment in September?
5. The name Harry did mean something to me, I saw ‘Harry has a penis’ graffitied in the park that very afternoon md tried to get my four-year-old to read it. (Homework purposes.)
6. I am an open book, I do talk too much to too many people, I now feel even worse about this character flaw. Cheers spirits!
7. I agreed that sometimes I feel ‘presences’ because I felt like it was easier to, the panel have intense eyes. I failed to mention that I ‘feel’ such things normally after I’ve eaten Super Noodles, though I felt it was inappropriate to say this given the setting etc.
8. I’m damn sure someone is talking behind my back, I’d be bloody disappointed if they weren’t, spirits, I was sent here to rock boats, I know, you know, let’s not make me paranoid in the process is it?
9. I genuinely thought my Nan had turned up in the room when, someone, passed me a tissue over my bloody shoulder! I needed the tissue for mopping my sweat panicked face, I promise there were no tears.
10. I didn’t get the answers I was looking for but I did have a jolly good time and that, my friends, made me realise I suppose that’s what life is about, right?

Tell me about your divine interventions, will you?

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