Church. It's a Christmas thing.

Six o’clock mass on Christmas Eve is for the pansies who aren’t committed enough to go at midnight or on Christmas morning. I attended one with my mother and sister earlier this evening. We had no trouble finding a bench. It’s fair to say that the numbers have dropped significantly in recent years, and I sat down with a humph. A quick glance around revealed that somebody had had a baby, somebody else’s gran had died. Nothing makes me realise my own mortality better than going to church.

I didn’t have to be there. But I did really. I was told I didn’t have to go. But its part of Christmas and I couldn’t have opened my presents without going. It’s an OCD thing, or a guilt thing.

I’ve been a member of the same church for my whole life. I went through christening to confirmation and grew up with members of the congregation. I remember going there when I was tiny, sitting on the floor and leaning on the wooden bench to draw pictures. And I remember when I got to old to get away with that…

My relationship with Catholicism is one which dwindles most of the time. Christmas is the only time I make the effort anymore, and it is my lack of faith rather than lack of effort. And who can I blame for that? I’m not a cynical person. On the contrary I’m very open-minded and there are times when I’ve thought YES. I’VE GOT IT. Namely, on a retreat I went on in Kintbury. I found God there. I should go back there.

Mass is the problem. Oh dear, I’m bordering on the brink of religious debate. But if I, supposedly a failed young catholic, can’t comment on the way it is practiced today then who can? Numbers are dwindling in churches because the way mass is given just doesn’t make any sense anymore. (NOT because of the acts of some perverted priests. They have nothing to do with the religion itself and I’m reluctant to comment on it further.)

Today, priests still have to be men. Abstinent men. And I’m supposed to sit there, put my hands together and repeat after you? Tonight when I entered the church I was handed a leaflet. It was basically INSTRUCTIONS about how to pray. Kneel at this line, bow at this, stand on your head now. Ridiculous. And these are the same prayers that have been drummed into my head since age womb. Which I know off by heart but refuse to chant because I don’t know what they mean. And I refuse to pray in that way, God knows what I might be saying. No literally, God knows.

Then, as the church was horrendously cold, I applied some Vaseline to my lips. My mother fixed me with a stare which said “I’m going to smash your fishtank.” and I quickly put it away. I forgot! You’re supposed to be uncomfortable in church! Oh good, the priest is singing now. Again.

Oo! It’s the second hymn! This is good. It means we are half an hour through the service. Since I was a child, the progression of mass has been dictated by the hymns. And seeing as the only clock in the church is hung on the back wall, to avoid any unsightly head-turning, you can decipher how close you are to going home by how many verses are left.

Oh no… I’m having a coughing fit. I haven’t been well and now I’m coughing. Nobody can hear the reading! Shit, and everyone is looking at me. Well, whateveeerr you should have come at midnight. Read louder, old lady! Don’t you know that nobody has heard the nativity story before! This is unsightly, I’ll have to leave. I walk all the way down the aisle, past the priest and into the toilet. Seriously though, putting the toilet ON the alter was bad planning. Oh that’s a font? That’s right, the toilet is just to the left. I drink water out of the toilet tap and go back, steps echoing horribly, back to my seat. Minutes crawl by. There’s a tickling in my throat… oh gawwwwd. Oh sorry. Forgot where I was. But hear comes the coughing. I can’t possibly pull off going to the toilet again. I slip out the back. I feel myself relax as I tread in the snow, straight across the road into Dominos. No bottles of water. Perfect. Can of fanta it is. And I trudge back in and clamber to my seat.

I can not look at my mother. I feel ASHAMED. Genuinely. But I really could do nothing else. I disguise my can under my bag and try and shut up. Priest is singing. “Only say the word and I shall be healed.” WHAT IS THE WORD? I have always wondered.

Ok, I’m babbling now. The point is – and this is a broad statement – rethink the mass system to bring the youth in! Stop preaching about doing good and serving the lord and actually do something! I’m all for faith, I think it gives life perspective, but only if it actually encourages you to better yourself. I think people should be comfortable at church, that anyone who believes in it should be able to lead it, and that there should be more singing. Lots of singing. It makes me happy.

Merry Christmas!

This is a blog.

So... I never did write that blog, but I shan't dwell. Those memories are swirling about in a little purple mug in my brain. I can still poke my finger in (via one of my dodgy ears) and taste the vibe of Kingston. Senses can be strangely connected in that way.

So s'all good. The sadness is gone, and now I am craving the future. I've been working a full time factory job, which is a funny story to tell, but not really a funny story to live. So I shan't tell it. The point is it's almost over, and soon I will be back in London.

These could be the most important couple of weeks of my life. I applied for a fair few jobs today, most because they pay high, but a few because made my heart skip a beat. I'd love to have a job where I get to work in the arts, as a writer or on something I can get passionate about.

I hope I find it!