Time Store

The hens are sitting in the middle of the formal rose garden at Cluckinghen Palace, staring at each other around the Henry Moore statue. It's a statue they acquired a couple of years ago, Lord knows from where; all Miggins will say, when pressed on the subject, is that she's got 'contacts in the trade, right?', and then she gives me a menacing look and I don't like to probe further.

'All right, girls?' I call over the fence, for despite their best horticultural efforts with a honeysuckle, I can still see inside the grounds if I stand on a footstool, on a ladder, on a coffee table, on the heap of soil I dug up recently whilst trying to extricate the last of the roots from the eucalyptus tree. (Which, annoyingly, is starting to sprout again. I think the darn thing has Terminator tendencies.)

'We're fine,' says Mrs Miggins. 'We're having a board meeting.'
'Oh, really?' I say. 'Which board meeting would that be then? The Associated Chicken Society? The Peckham Ladies' Cluster? The All Feather and No Pants Guild?'
'No,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Not that kind of board. The other kind. B...O...R...E...D....bored meeting. Because we are bored.'

Well, as my children will both testify, mentioning the word 'bored' to me is like waving a red rag to a bull that isn't, unlike its compatriots, colour-blind.

I have two stock answers to the 'I'm bored...' thing. They are 1) go and tidy your bedroom and 2) go outside and play.

Neither of which suffice for the chickens because a) they have a woman that does to tidy their bedroom (i.e me) and b) they are already outside, although they aren't playing. Unless you count the game Mrs Miggins and Mrs Pumphrey play every day in trying to keep Mrs Slocombe at beak's length.

'I wish I could suggest something for you to do,' I say.
'Oh, we'll be okay this afternoon,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'This afternoon we are going on a mystery tour. On a coach. Tango Pete's arranged it.'
'How exciting,' I say. 'Any idea where?'

Mrs Miggins gives me a bit of a stare. 'It wouldn't be a mystery tour if we knew where we were going, would it?' she says.
'Lakeland Plastics,' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'Oooooh, I LOVE Lakeland Plastics!' says Mrs Slocombe, waking suddenly from her bored meeting meditation. Well, she's approaching that age, I suppose, where retractable feather dusters and banana holders become suddenly fascinating must-have objects.
'WHAT?' says Mrs Miggins. 'How do you know we're going to Lakeland Plastics?'
'Tango Pete asked me where I'd like to go if I was to go on a mystery tour and didn't want to be too surprised,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'And I've always fancied getting one of those Ramoushka pots, you know, for those evenings when I'm on my own and want a pot-for-one-prepare-ahead-and- slow-cook-supper.'

Mrs Miggins sighs. 'He's so unimaginative,' she says.

I, on the other hand, have been anything but bored this morning. I have been to the dentist for a check-up. All tickety-boo and good for another year. I have purchased seven rolls of wallpaper for the hall, landing and stairs. There was a spot of wild shenanigins yesterday when I waved a tape measure around for a while, adding up very approximate numbers as I went, and guessing a bit in difficult places to reach like the top of the ceiling and the recess into the stairwell. And then I abandoned the tape measure and consulted my instinct who said seven rolls would be ample. And if it's not, I shall know who to blame, shan't I?

Then I came home with my wallpaper. I unravelled a roll, held it up the wall, and said, 'Oooh, lovely.'

Then I did a spot of interwebbly property surfing, hoping that 'THE HOUSE' would leap from the screen and make itself known, then I remembered I'd just spent a fair packet on some wallpaper, so best reign in that 'let's move' malarkey feeling toute suite.

This afternoon I have to meditate on a conundrum. You know how I am planning to do my Reiki degree? And that I've contacted a tutor? Well, whilst having a book tidy out the other day, I came upon a copy of a book I acquired many, many years ago written by the healer Harry Edwards. It was one of the initial motivators that got me into the whole psychic reading and healing thing. My Mum's nanny was a friend of his; I think that's how I came by the book in the first place. So, being a curious type, I typed Harry Edwards' name into Google, and to my delight, his healing sanctuary still operates today! It's about an hour's drive away, in Surrey. And they run courses and retreats where one can gain a formal and recognised qualification in healing! And they have an Open Day this Saturday!!

Well!! Suddenly, I'm all fired up about something that happened nearly thirty years ago, that, although not forgotten, had slipped to the back of my mind. Suddenly, I feel like this could be the continuation of a journey that I began back in the summer of 1982, 8 months after my grandad died and I heard him telling me the runner beans were going to be good that year. And they were.

I have suddenly realised that Time doesn't work. Time is a human concept attached to the motion of the Universe, which the Universe roundly ignores. The Universe puts elements of our life in place, knowing we'll be back for them sometime next week, next month, in five years, ten years, a lifetime, it doesn't matter when. All that matters is that we do return, and continue along the way that is meant for us, no matter how far we've drifted off to pursue other interests.

As Helen Keller said : 'When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened for us.'

So - Reiki or Harry Edwards? Or neither or both?

Let the dance-off begin!