The best laid schemes of mice and men...

It was all going so well.

I set off for Alton, Stoke-on-Trent on Monday morning, with a brief detour back to my own house to collect my mobile which I'd left on the sofa. No big deal.

For a week, I was part of the catering team on the LCET summer camp, On the Edge. Known collectively as 'Kitchen', we were cool, calm and collected in the face of curry from scratch for 100 people, and a whole bunch of fairly fussy eaters. It was a great week. We laughed, chopped, sliced, danced, fried, toasted, sung and ate a few too many nachos.

As I got in the car the following Saturday morning, I was making plans to get home, watch some TV, have a long bath, play the guitar and maybe do some more unpacking. So, waving cheerfully in the glorious sunshine, and honking my rather pathetic car horn, I set off for home. It really was a gorgeous day. Sunny, clear, fresh. The 2 and a half hour drive was going to be a joy. I love driving, especially on days like that. My iPod was cranked up and I glided down the windy country lanes away from Alton. And this is where things went wrong.

I came to a tight bend at the same time as a driver on the opposite side of the road. I was perhaps going a little too fast so I begun to break and move over a little to avoid an embarrassing wing mirror clip incident. But as soon as I tapped the breaks I realised I wasn't going to get around the corner. In an instant, I had hit the kerb. I felt a jolt and closed my eyes. My feet were frozen on the pedals. I remember praying, 'Please God don't let the car roll over.' I heard a thud. Then, as though I'd just woken up, I moved my feet and slammed them both on the brake pedal. The car came to a stop. I could smell soil. I could hear nothing. I opened my eyes and looked through the perfectly intact windscreen. Bushes. Sunlight. Sky. Ground. I took out the keys and took a very deep breath before I got out of the car.

After that, things went pretty quickly. A couple had seem me crash, called the police and come over to check on me. A nurse pulled up behind them and immediately came over. I was fine. Grateful and shaky, and annoyed about my car and my stupid mistake, but okay. This in itself was a small miracle. I had hit a BT pylon. It had taken off my wing-mirror but missed my car. Missed my head. I was fine. My superhero co-chefs picked me up and drove me home, via Costa. I couldn't believe that my day was panning out so very differently to what I had planned. We laughed about the cows whose field I had destroyed. We sung along to songs on the radio. I caught up with friends and family on the phone. I was fine.

After a cup of tea at home and some time in front of the TV, I headed up for that long bath - the only part of my plan I could still complete. No plug. That broke me. I cried. Seriously cried. It's funny how your body and mind respond to trauma. It was a plug that finished me off. Silly, but there it is. Now, two days later, I am a little achy, and it is the thought of buying a new car that makes me cry. I have realised that I am really not a very strong person. Perhaps at the instant something happens I am able to cope, but I am pretty sure I will be feeling overwhelmed for quite some time. Still, it could have been so very much worse. I am home, I am breathing, I am walking, I am loved and looked after. I am fine.

Crushed by Hotmail, the irresponsible, heartless machine.

Just wanted to direct some well channelled fury at www.hotmail.com.

Since earlier this year, my account has been sending all of my email contacts (including my church admin, and employer) spam mails about flatscreen TVs and medicines. You know the sort.

So, I visit the pleasantly titled, 'Microsoft Help Center.' Even the homepage frustrated me. Just a lot of buttons, links and pictures to click. It is all just generic questions answered by some kind of 'help bot.' Still, I pressed on.

Hotmail 'help center' told me to change my password. The emails still kept coming.
Hotmail 'help center' told me to change my secret answer and LiveID. The emails still kept coming.
Hotmail 'help center' told me to delete my account. And still the emails kept coming.

Not once have I been able to speak to a real human. There is no contact address, email or phone number. And I don't have hours to sit digging around the inner depths of Hotmail to find one. Worse still, while I've been slowly going insane trying to get in touch with somebody, I've found I'm not the only one. Time and again, their forums and discussion boards feature angry, upset, worried and just plain pissed off customers, desperately trying to prevent the spam emails being sent out in their name.

Wake up Hotmail. Your service is unexceptional, at best. At least have the decency to recognise that people's online identities are very important and that, for many, they are in your hands. You may be a hugely successful and profitable company, but the people you deal with should still be your priority. So sort it out or I will find a person to shout at, and it will not be pretty.

Love and Wizards.

I cannot help the fact that I am IN LOVE with StarKid productions, The Very Potter Musical and, more specifically, the glorious, wonky-jawed beauty that is Joey Richter (Ron Weasley). I cannot help the fact that I have watched AVPM and its sequel at least 3 times each in the last 4 days. They run at about 3hours each....ahem. I cannot help the fact that I have downloaded both soundtracks already. I am even contemplating buying a $24 t-shirt all the way from the States, just to show my love.

Love is a strong, strong thing!

Was that a Donkey on the Tracks?!

When you are poor and desperate for a holiday, you take any travel option to save a few quid. A train ride across Bulgaria from west to east? Sure, I thought, that'll be fun!

Let me explain that we began this train ride a little shaken following a slightly white-knuckle taxi ride from the airport to the station. Apparently the rules of the road do not apply in Bulgaria. Not even basic ones like, 'Don't drive directly at another vehicle,' or, 'avoid running over pedestrians.' It was tense.

The train station in Sofia looked like a run down version of a disused train station. The sort of place Kevin Bacon might have gambolled around to perform an angry dance during his younger days. The platform was crumbling, the signs barely lit and the trains, heavily graffitied, looked like something dragged up from my grandfather's dusty old toy box.

As a shorty, sweaty man hurried us to our seats, the whistle blew and I clocked the temperature at 29° at about 1pm. Tired from the plane journey, and breathing in the stiflingly muggy air, we fidgeted into the compartment and tried to get comfy. What happened in the following 8 hours, yes, 8 hours, was both entertaining and extremely stressful. The temperature gradually climbed into the mid-30s. The train did not pick up speed. The supplies of water and crisps dwindled rapidly. We were all tired, all hot, all hungry and none of us expected to make it through the trip,(Dramatic, but that's what happens when your brain overheats and rationale turns to mushy peas).

However, when I looked out of the train's windows, Bulgaria surprised me again and again. Buildings were scattered between wide open stretches of dry grassland, and they all stand in varying degrees of disarray. It looked as though, as fast as someone (communists, presumably) built an apartment, factory, farm shed or outdoor toilet, someone else wouldn't be far behind with a buldozer to knock it down again. Even the buildings that were still in use - train and police stations, houses and shops - by and large seemed to feature crumbling roofs or a distinct lack of brick work! All along the journey, however, we saw signs of fruitful agriculture, hundreds upon thousands of beautiful smiling rows of sunflowers and Bulgarians going about their daily lives amidst this chaos. People, and their livestock, seemd to stroll freely across the tracks, like jay-walking Londoners moving in slow-motion, cutting right infront of the train. We saw mountains, lakes, rivers, suburbs, farms, villages, shopping malls, the sea and holiday resort complexes.

About 2 thirds of the way into the trip, at a comically named city called Plovdiv, a young man joined our compartment. He was obviously Bulgarian (I worked this out because I heard him speaking the language to the elderly gentleman who waved him off at the platform) but seemd very engaged in our semi-hysterical conversation as he sat down. It soon transpired that his English was better than most of ours - he was a music student, specialising in the niche musical stylings of the theremin, studying at a university in New Jersey. He shared his grandma's cake with us (and no, it wasn't until we got off the train that I even considered how eating cake offered by a stranger in a foreign country might have been quite hazardous) and told us about where to visit, what to eat and how to survive the heat. Nice guy.

The train sluggishly hissed into Bourgas 8 hours later, almost as hot and tired as we were. We parted company with our musical friend and dragged ourselves to the apartment. We all had to agree it had been quite an adventure.

The CB3 Experience

When I agreed to be on the cooks team for a 170 strong Christian camp for 14-18 year olds in North Wales , I have to say that I expected 7 days hard labour, no sleep, little contact with the non-culinary world, and a headache by the end of it. I could not have been more wrong.

A normal day started with a scalding hot shower at 6.45am (a full 15mins later than I would get up on a school day!). After that, a gentle 5 minute stroll to the kitchens. Hat, apron and clean shoes on, we would pray for energy, wash our hands and set to work. I say work here in the loosest sense of the word - I would chop carrots, fry hundreds of bacon rashers, turn chipolatas in a pan, grate vast quantities of cheese or simply 'make the drinks.' And it continued - there I was thinking we'd have to eat on the fly, bowl teetering in one hand, stirring a cheese sauce in the other, but no. We sat and ate. We talked. After breakfast the 'helper' team (which I think should actually be called the Hero team) would clean up and we would all then go to a seminar. We had time to attend seminars!

After a few more jobs, we would finish late morning and nip out for a trip somewhere - usually involving tea and scones. Back in the kitchen we'd prepare and serve dinner, the helper team once again making sure we had plenty of time to rest and digest our own meals. We even got time to attend the evening talks and join in the wonderful singing and learning. By the end of the week, we recieved a standing ovation and rapturous applause - it went on slightly too long for my liking, but I'm working on it.

What surprised me most, was the way that the camp organisers had thought so carefully about making sure the helpers and cooks teams, who were not really involved in the main teaching and bible studies with the campers, had sufficient spiritual input. We bonded well as a group - never more so than in our late night jaunt to the Great Orme for toasted marshmallows and silly dances around the bbq!

I have met a wonderful group of genuine, funny, caring, interested, normal people (and some crazy crazy mentalists!) and my sides still ache with laughter. I have learned that my identity is secure, positive, purposeful and eternal in Christ. I have been reminded that suffering for Jesus is normal, fighting for purity is hard and that Christian community is absolutely vitally important. I feel blessed, privileged and blown away by this week. Praise God.

And I will never fry 150 rashers of bacon ever again!

All Change Again...

It's the last Tuesday of this school. The last Tuesday I will teach in Year2 in DeHavilland. The last Tuesday I will have to walk into my classroom and desperately try to remember what it was like teaching in Key Stage 2.

All of these things feel good.

In a few short weeks (not too short, I hope, as I have to fit in summer camp, Bulgaria and a healthy amount of loafing) I will be moving on up to Year 4. Aaah, back in my comfort zone. Sure, I have to move classroom again. Sure, I have to plan a whole new set of units and lessons. Sure, I have no display stuff ready or any idea about the children in my class.

None of these things worry me.

This year has been, well, horrid. It started well and got progressively more stressful, painful, confusing, tiring and pointless. Okay, not pointless. I have learned a lot about my ability to cope under pressure. I don't really have one. I have found out just how emotional I can be. I have discovered that I respond with neither the fight or flight reaction. I just throw in the towel and lose interest. I stay up until 3am watching films. Or worse, watching interviews with celebrities at press junkets on YouTube.

So, with 3 'sort of' days left of term I fully intend to allow my class to enjoy themselves. We will paint, play, sing, draw pictures, watch films. I will give them an end of term present. I will expect nothing in return. And when the school day ends at 2pm on Friday afternoon, I will breathe a tremendous sigh of relief, sign off my computer and drive home. Smiling. For the first time in a long time.

Doctor Doctor!

Today I have Hollywooditus.

This is an ailment characterised by feelings of a destiny far beyond that which you are currently on course for.

Symptoms may include excessive daydreaming, making futile attempts to write something meaningful, displeasure with life's current state, complete immersion in popular culture and occasional escapist tendencies.

It is not yet understood why people can contract this illness so suddenly, nor how it can seemingly disappear and lie redundant for months at a time. There is, however, strong evidence of a cure for Hollywooditus which requires very little action on the part of the patient, and no medicine need be prescribed.

'This is God's Word on the subject: "I know what I'm doing. I have it all planned out—plans to take care of you, not abandon you, plans to give you the future you hope for."'