A rebel without a clue.

Once upon a time ... There was a little boy who didn't look like, sound like or feel like all the other boys and girls he'd been in class with all his life: they didn't like him and used to call him names all the time, but he didn't know what to say or do to make them stop; even when they hurt him they never listened. Then he would feel very sorry that no one wanted to be his friend and only wanted to make fun of him all the time. If he ever tried to say "stop it" he just ended up really really upset because something didn't work properly in his head and got so confused. Some days he would sit and cry all day because nothing he did made any difference. The teacher were all equally mean to him because they often made him do things which he could not understand and they never explained things - or when things were fun would they suddenly clap their hands and tell the class to stop what they were doing and to pay attention to the front of the class. If they ...

So tired. Crashed out - my body is still churning over that sickness begotten at Porto Pizza. But I have ended today back at St Oswald's Pastoral Centre on the left bank of the Eskdale Valley, just outside Sleights, around 4 miles from the North Sea. Now I am in the Hillside self-catering block. The previous visit was my 43rd birthday on the 2nd February when it snowed heavily and I was forced to walk down to here from Fylingdales. It is somewhat tranquillity today: the distant sound of a prop plane, the hoot-choochoo of a steam locomotive, a very far away sawing or strimming and the call of a mighty bull in the field. The Centre is busy with a gardening retreat - keeping this plot pristine, godly, manicured; "surely I have made this only Eden yet more perfectly ordered that it pleases you to let me into Heaven?" - which must be a land of perpetual clearing, cleaning, arranging, straightening, weed killer, slug pellets and cups of tea. While I accept food is a necessit...