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Quite fun: The diary I kept when I first went down with CFS features in the June issue of iBelieve magazine

Am very excited! I didn't see that I was given billing along the top of the front cover.

The photo was taken on the jetty at my parent's house last summer.

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A book review from British Columbia

A highly enjoyable, beautifully written & illustrated book! 

by Dave Miller

I first downloaded a sample of Sophie Neville's Funnily Enough book for my ereader a few months back and immediately loved it. I searched all my local bookstores to no avail but finally ordered it from Amazon. I devoured the book in a few days!

It's chock full of beautiful little illustrations throughout (done by Sophie herself...you've got to love that kind of personal touch!) told in a day by day journal over a year. Most journals can at times be boring and mundane in thier details but Sophie has chronicled her illness superbly. Not an easy thing to do when one's sick. It's interspersed with a great cast of characters (human as well as animals) that will make you laugh and cry and want to know more about them.

Having a few relatives that have/had Chronic Fatigue Syndrome I found the book to be an insightful read. I know back when they were diagnosed in the early 90's there wasn't much known about it at all. And they suffered the "it's all in your head" stigma. I'll encourage them to read this book!

From donkeys to otters and even a trip to the Lake District (which I've never been to but hope to one day) where she all to briefly mentions Swallows & Amazons (the movie in which she played my favourite character Titty). I'd like to think that the character Titty as she grew up would have led a very similar life as the actress/author who portrayed her. World traveler. Artist. Author. I wonder if Sophie maybe was inspired by the character too?

As I got near the end of the book I was a little saddened it was over so quickly (always the sign of a very good book though!). I'm delighted that there's a sequel of sorts (Ride the Wings of Morning) which I'm about to order soon. And if it's half as good as I found Funnily Enough I know I'm in for another fantastic read!

A book review from South Africa

Funnily Enough: funny, real and inspiring

I laughed the first time I read "Funnily Enough" and as I re-read it now, I am laughing at exactly the same places.

As much as the book is humorous, it also brings home the reality of how we push ourselves for fear of falling behind or losing what we have built up. We forget that all this can change in the twinkling of an eye and ultimately is not important.

The book helps to put life back into perspective and to remind us of where our hope, trust and faith should lie. Sophie's diary entries of the goings on within herself, the family and pets and with her friends over a period of a year while she is coming to terms with her illness and working towards recovery are thoroughly entertaining and illuminating. Her sketches add to the already vivid pictures that Sophie conjures up through her writing. Some of the incidents are absolutely bizarre but yet so typical of our journey in life. It was a completely enjoyable read the first time and even more inspiring the second time around. Superb. 

by Jennifer Hutcheon, Gauteng, South Africa
~ 3rd July 2012

The sequel to Funnily Enough is out on Kindle and in paperback ~

Ride the Wings of Morning ~

Illustrated hardcover and paperbacks are now available from Lulu.com

....a gorgeous book. To me it is not about travel but about life. I really enjoyed it. Twice.

Some parts, I have read three times!

~ A review by Peter Bell ~

Ride the Wings of Morning (lovely title) is a terrific sequel to Sophie's marvellous Funnily Enough; further following her life of extraordinary exploits and adventures, now in southern Africa. Some horrific, most delightful, but all fascinating and very amusingly told by way of correspondence to and from her more conventional sisters. Her parents and many friends from Africa also feature as do a veritable profusion of Sophie's joyful and individual style of sketches, drawings and paintings that have become even more assured as time progressed. Many are brilliant! (Especially her splendid cartoons!)

Sophie has a wonderful knack of inclusion of her readers in all her writing. She is very observant, particularly of the absurd, the ridiculous and comic juxtapositions as well as the mundane and it shows in the great warmth, engaging honesty and infectious humour in her writing. The reader is privileged that she shares this somewhat maverick part of her life in which she gives so much of herself. Again! I was ever more captivated by this book but in a slightly different way to Funnily Enough. A truly fascinating read from much obviously painstaking work.

Only a full read of this marvellous 542-page book can do it the justice it deserves that no review of mine can hope to achieve. Unplug the phone, shut out the English 'summer' and indulge yourself with Sophie in the warmth of her true life in a world so far apart from your own!

She is a uniquely talented and individual person and this extraordinary work is to be deeply savoured and enjoyed. Tops on any scale of hugs and highly recommended by me as one of many here. The printed editions are to keep for ever.

Thank you so much, Sophie. Thanks also to Perry, Tamsin, and 'Mum and Dad'. I really look forward with great enthusiasm to the promised next instalment. Quite lovely!

Also available to order: ISBN-13: 978-1475244472

Questions for Book Clubs

1.  Is it important that Funnily Enough is a true story? Why?

2.  Whilst most readers say they laughed out loud whilst reading 'Funnily Enough' one reviewer thought it a sad story. Another said that it is not a funny book.  Is it sad?  Is it funny? Would the funny stories lack appeal without the reality that ME or Chronic Fatigue is a disease that needs to be taken serioulsy?  

3.  Do you think the story could be made into a stage play?

Or could be read on stage with music and sound effects?

4.  How would you alter the story to make it into a feature film? Would you make it into a romance, a thriller or both?

5. One Book Club thought that the Christian content would hinder sales and book reviews in mainstream newspapers and magazines. Do you agree?  If you were a publisher would you reduce or cut out the Christian sections?

6.  Do you want to know what Sophie did next?

How do you cope with being laid up in bed day after day?

15^th April ~ A huge Get Well card has arrived, signed by my entire cast and crew. It’s a picture of a crocodile in bed with a thermometer in its mouth. Not a very sexy looking one. My P.A. had written ‘Rest: don’t feel guilty about spending time in bed, you work too atrociously hard.’

I’m reading a book about the French Revolution but I can’t take it in; my brain seems to have shrunk to the size of an apricot.

Mum went around in a Police car today with a video camera, in an attempt to catch speeders speeding. The life of a J.P. (Justice of the Peace.) She absolutely adores being a magistrate. Having always complained about public lavatories, it gives her a title suitable for bullying people to do something about them. And, she always had an aptitude for prosecution. I can remember waiting at the traffic lights when we were little when Mum sharply informed a boy on his bike,

‘It’s getting dark, you should have your lights on.’

‘So should you lady,’ he answered back.

He was right; she hadn’t turned her own headlights on.

Alastair came to see me, leaving a trail of destruction. It comes naturally to him. In the last few years he has broken the dishwasher, sloshed coffee all over the Persian carpet and split open our pink bath. He stood in it. For some reason he got in without any water, which was just as well as Dad found a live electric wire running underneath. Rats had gnawed off the plastic insulation.

It’s sweet of Al to come over, but it’s rather enervating having him around. Like many high achievers, he switches from being frantically outgoing to being totally self absorbed. I just wish he could understand that we love him for who he is and not for what he can achieve.

I don’t know; he’s crazy about what he does; Alastair is even more engrossed in his work than I am. His great passion in life is birds and he loves, loves, loves making films about them. I once asked him what was the most important thing in his life, thinking he might talk about his faith or his family, his health or even perhaps me. He said, ‘Peregrine falcons.’

‘Oh. What’s the second most important thing in your life?’

‘White fronted bee-eaters.’

James says he finds it somewhat annoying; not the bird fetish so much as the desire to get up so early in the morning. Al says he’s sure everyone thinks he’s bonkers but doesn’t care. The great thing is that one is whisked along with his enthusiasm and where it takes you; out to see gannets on the Farne Islands in sparkling sunlight and high seas or off to remote parts of Morocco to find the flamingos and egrets he last filmed in the Camargue. Surprisingly good fun. A group of us girls went out to Kenya one Christmas to see him when he was making a film on the white fronted bee-eaters with Simon King. Al was so focused on the project that when we returned from a long and adventurous journey to Lake Turkana he didn't even say Hello. Mind you, he was battling to complete a sequence with a mongoose. (They predate on bee-eaters.) It wouldn’t do what Alastair wanted at all and that can be extremely frustrating. I had the idea that Marmite might smell like a female on heat. They got a shot of the mongoose sniffing a bit but somehow the Marmite got everywhere. Under Alastair’s arms, on Simon King’s pigtail, all over the mongoose, and I was covered in it. Mongooses don’t smell very nice either. The idea of making wildlife films suddenly lost its charm.

16^th April ~ My littlest sister Mary-Dieu, aged nineteen, has a baby girl aged one. She’s called Daisy, has no schedule at all and arrives with a huge pile of laundry. It’s pretty difficult looking after her as she normally sleeps in bed with my sister and objects to being plonked in a cot. But she’s come to stay because Mary-Dieu wants to go ‘Clubbing’. Night clubbing. The thought alone exhausts me.

Daisy is a delight. Her big eyes and curls make her look like a little imp with a question mark on top of her head. I really didn’t know what to do with her, but found Atalanta’s baby-walker behind the sofa. Daisy thought this was great and spent all afternoon whizzing about my room. I rather need a baby-walker myself.

Nicola, one of my best friends from school, came over. She looked at Daisy with horror and then said in a small voice, ‘I’m pregnant,’ sounding like a frightened sixteen-year old. She isn’t sixteen; she’s twenty-nine and has been married for two years. I think it’s exciting that she’s going to have a baby. I showed her the schedule, which is still hanging on the sitting room mantelpiece.

‘Oh, Sophie, I thought that was for you.’

‘Yes. I suppose it could be.’

‘Do you manage to keep to it?’

‘No, we’re always behind.’

Daisy is sleeping with Mum in her bed and my father has migrated to his study. I lie alone in my high four-poster, looking at the card of the crocodile. Mary-Dieu (Dieu as in mildew) was nearly four when we adopted her. I was fifteen. She was the sweetest little thing, easygoing, bright and extremely articulate. Our only problem, and it was quite a hazard, was that she was, and still is, radically outspoken. She could state the obvious at embarrassing and inopportune times. We all had to go to court for her formal adoption. Mum knew that the old judge only had one hand. The other had been replaced by a hook. We were all terrified that Mary-Dieu would declare, ‘You’ve got no hand,’ or something and had been drilling her frantically. Instead, she walked into the court, paused in the doorway, and when sure of everyone’s attention, looked at the judge, looked up at Mum and said, in her clear piping voice, ‘I no say anything about the hook. I just tell him to be careful of the crocodile.’

17^th April ~ Mum came plodding upstairs to ask if I wanted Rufus Knight-Webb to come and see me. I looked at her a little oddly. I know that Jesus wanted the sick to be visited but I’m not sure I should have so many people in my bedroom. Rufus is the son of our old G.P. and I haven’t seen him since he was adolescent. He’s an artist and lives in London; I’m sure he won’t want to come.

‘You’ve absolutely got to see his wife. She’s beautiful.’ I’d no idea they were downstairs.

Mum was getting impatient with me. ‘It’s all right, they live in a squat.’ She was referring to the chaos in my room.

Rufus’ new Yugoslavian wife is beautiful. Startlingly so. In the way she is, as much as how she looks. She speaks not one word of English. Rufus, in contrast, hadn’t brushed his hair for a long time and spoke without drawing breath.

‘I’m painting with ultra-violet in the dark,’ he told me. I could just imagine it. Rufus in Peckham, painting in the dark. I showed him the luminous stars stuck to the ceiling above my bed. His works of wonderment need to be illuminated by a black light or something. Weird. (How can you get black light anyway?) They’re going to James’ dance in May, when we all have to dress up as soap opera stars. I tried to persuade him to go as a carrot and represent The Archers.

My photos of South Africa have arrived from the developers. Oh, how I wish I’d never come back. The horses look so beautiful. I’m sitting on a big black Friesian with a flowing mane and tail. There are shots of us riding with the game. Shots of us walking through the mountains. Well, me walking, Sarah-Jane striding. I must’ve known her for twenty years. She has a wild and free life. And I mean a life in the wild, where she has freedom. Strong minded and independent, she’s torn away from convention and does what she wants. And why not? About five years ago we drove down through Africa and, although she had no money at all, she decided to stay and start her own business in tourism. Rebecca was on that trip. I’m going to send her some of these photographs and persuade her to get out there. It’s very much her thing.

18^th April ~ Syndrome worse today. Achy back. I can hardly do anything at all. It’s so frustrating; being unproductive goes against the grain of my essential make up. I’m not even much fun to talk to. But surely I’ll be better in time for James’ party.

I went to see my family’s General Practitioner. She peered down my throat.

‘Yes, well this is infected for sure, but tell me, do you always push yourself to the limit?’

‘In what way?’

‘Were you getting stressed-out at work?’

‘I was under a great deal of pressure, but I’m used to coping with that. It can be all quite exhilarating.’

‘How long have you been doing this job?’

‘I’ve worked for the BBC for about eight years, and have been in this particular job, directing stuff, for three.’

‘But is it a stressful job?’

‘Yes, it’s up to me to come up with the goods; the filming is pressurised,’ I admitted. ‘I work with children who are only allowed on set for a limited time, so I have to operate at a fair pace, directing with two cameras, but it’s not as if I was getting particularly anxious or worried. I enjoy it.’ I do, I love my work. I didn’t go into the details but it was the stupid recce that nearly killed me. These times of planning and reconnaissance are normally fun, but we had no time at all. I was going to have to film difficult sequences from a canal barge and wanted everything to be well organised. It was all rather difficult to envisage. Instead of delegating, insisting my production manager chose the locations, I’d spent a Saturday cycling miles up a gravely towpath and I think I pushed myself too hard physically. The only stress was on my muscles, which I’d thought would be good for me. But I was still on antibiotics and must have felt better than I really was.

‘Well, you have had two bad bouts of ’flu this year. I’d say you definitely have post-viral fatigue.’

‘How long can I expect to be ill for?’ I asked.

‘It’s hard to say.’

What I somehow never managed to explain was that while I was with Sarah-Jane I recognised the fact that I was badly in need of a long break; a proper sabbatical.

I staggered back from the surgery, sank into bed and spent all afternoon in a deep, hot sleep. Mum came back from Gloucester looking pretty exhausted herself. She told me that Mary-Dieu was still in bed when she’d returned Daisy at half past five. In the evening. Honestly, even I get up before then, and I’m meant to be in bed.

‘Her basement was filthy,’ Mum reported, ‘so I set to, scrubbing away. Mary-Dieu just sat on the sofa smoking, and watching me.’ Mum hates cigarette smoke. ‘I don’t suppose the night clubbing was much fun.’ Mary-Dieu’s lived in Gloucester for two years but hasn’t many friends. She seems to lead a nocturnal sort of life that I suppose cuts you off from the world after a while.

Mum, worried about christening her granddaughter, once asked Mary-Dieu if she had a church. ‘Yeah, I belong to The Church of Can’t be Bothered.’ It’s her choice but she must be so bored. Poor Daisy has to put up with all the muddle and smoke and the darkness of this ~ I don’t know what you call it ~ alternative lifestyle. Mum was quite funny though, going on about the mess; her own room is just as bad. The things she has on her windowsill alone: piles of letters, Agatha Christie books, wire coat hangers, one shoetree, empty boxes, her old specs (I bet she’s been looking for them for ages) and we are not allowed to interfere. Mary-Dieu knows this of course.

19^th April ~ Woke up with a stiff neck, feeling turgid and somehow compressed. It seems I’m unable to do anything productive. I ended up sitting slumped by my bookshelves reading about a boy who was dying, called William*. I was completely caught up by the story. His mother, Rosemary Attlee, tells the first part. Now I’m reading the journal William wrote in the last four months of his life. He was nineteen. It’s a spiritual journal and so touching. All true and much better reading than the French Revolution.

This diary of mine ought to be a spiritual diary but I’m shy about what people might think. I mean, it’s very personal. I used to think faith was a private thing, but we’re not going to learn anything by internalising what we experience. Anyway, it’s exciting hearing about what God’s doing in people’s lives. I don’t know if what’s happening in mine will be. Where do I start? I’m in the middle of so much. Start where I am now. Not a good place because I feel that nothing spiritual is happening in my life at all. I feel clogged up intellectually (and can hardly spell. I’ve just spelt hour: OUR and her: HAIR).

Should people pray when they’re ill? Well, yes, I’ve so much time on my hands. I ought to try to get closer to God. He really is here the whole time. That I have noticed. It’s a staggeringly beautiful spring for a start. These last few days I’ve been sitting quite motionless for ages, just soaking in all that is around me. I look out of my bedroom window at the cherry blossom. It’s spectacular. In the past I’ve been so busy filming that I’ve missed this extraordinary sight for years. Now it seems as if it’s out just for me, undaunted by wind or snow. Do people just get so busy they fail to appreciate God’s presence in their lives?

20^th April ~ Tried to pray. Can’t; too groggy. Must, must keep my intellect at least ticking over by writing more creatively. It’s essential to persevere. And take risks.

P o e m

If it wasn’t for all the mud and rain

Reality wouldn’t be the same.

Better try harder.

Try brain exercise. Must read newspaper. Reach for The Times. Ghastly news:

It says that an estimated 100,000 people have just died in Bangladesh, killed by a cyclone. That’s an awful lot. But then you read (well, I read in Bill Bryson’s book) that 1,360,000 people in the USA are airborne (flying over it) at anyone time; that must be about 5,000 aeroplanes; more. Dad says unless a load of planes are in the air, there’s not enough runway space for them to park up. Can’t bear to think about it. Give up. I don’t think I’m very well. Perhaps I could write about being ill for the advance of medical science.

I was just beginning to feel dejected when Mum appeared bearing ten pairs of the most enormous knickers I’ve ever seen. Five pairs white, five pairs ‘flesh tone’. Tamzin, who claims to be my most down to earth sister but is really quite glamorous, had just sent them to her for her birthday. Being a housewife she doesn’t earn any money, so my brother-in-law Johnty had had to pay for them. What an hysterical present. Mum had asked for knickers and told her to get the biggest possible, but these are VAST.

Dad, seriously concerned now about safety aspects of handling garden machinery, is writing an article about his experience with the rotary cultivator for The Kitchen Garden Magazine. They’ll just think he’s nutty.

21^st April ~ Nicola has kindly given me some emu oil for my skin. Real emu oil, all the way from Australia. The Aborigines say it has wonderful healing properties. The only problem is that it makes me smell like a roast chicken.

I’d love to be married like Nicola, but it’s just as well I’m not. I can’t bear anyone touching me at the moment. You don’t when you have ’flu and I feel like one does the day after the fever has gone, only this day seems to be going on and on and on. I must thank God for all the good things. He is in control. Control over a sick girl smelling like an emu.

Dad came back from buying plants looking relieved as he learnt that he’s not the only one to have an absurd relationship with a motorised plough. The man who runs the nursery, who after all is a professional gardener, said he started his rotavator in the garage and for some unknown reason it leapt into reverse too. The thing pinned him to the wall, blades spinning frantically within inches of his person. Like Dad, he was all alone and there was no way of escape. He had to wait until it ran out of petrol, which took about forty minutes.

*'William's Story' by Rosemary Attlee (Highland, 1987)

I had the most amazing riding holiday in South Africa...

South Africa 1991

21^st March ~

‘I wish you could stay longer.’

‘So do I,’ I said, as we walked round to heave my luggage into a waiting car.

‘Sophie, I wanted to ask: would you like to consider becoming my partner in the horse safaris?’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘I’d love to, Sarah-Jane but I can’t. I’ve too many commitments.’

‘Uncommit.’

‘It’s not that easy, I’m half way through my contract with the BBC.’

‘London will be horrid,’ she insisted.

‘Yes, but,’ I said, leaning against the car, trying to explain, ‘I’ve agreed to direct a long-running drama series.’

‘I know.’

‘It’s such a good opportunity. I can’t turn it down.’

‘I would have loved your help here.’

‘Rebecca might come. She’s a fantastic cook.’ Sarah-Jane and I pulled ourselves up onto the boulders so that we could see her little camp below with the horses milling around in the kraal. I tried hard not to cry.

‘It’s good that you came.’

‘Yes, it has been wonderful, much more than a holiday.’ I stood looking out across the vast, wild country through which we’d ridden. It was still early in the morning and quite cold. The mountains were standing dark against the rays of the rising sun. A huge grief welled up inside me; I didn’t want to go at all. Tears started streaming down my face.

‘Sarah-Jane.’ A voice came out of the darkness. ‘You left your revolver under the front seat of my Land Cruiser.’ The Game Warden had come to look for her. Time for me to go.

‘Goodbye, Sarah-Jane. And thank you for such an amazing time. I’m sure things will work out.’

‘Come back as soon as you can.’

‘I will. Goodbye.’ I drove off towards Johannesburg and an aeroplane that would take me back to what I thought I had to do.

At this point my life became very busy indeed - until 9th April, when my diary begins. The diary of my encounter with Chronic Fatigue. 

Reviews ~

Funnily Enough - it really is!

Sophie Neville's book 'Funnily Enough' is quite the most delightful new book I have read for many a long year.

From her diary she writes of a time when her relentless life in front-line television production was 'crashed into the buffers' by a then desperately little understood affliction. She charmingly engages the reader about her struggles with the medical condition and as a result, herself, her beliefs, her whole world, and writes as to you, personally, like an old and valued friend. It is beautifully written and every page left me smiling contentedly for hours: refreshingly different and a real tonic in itself.

Sophie draws the reader into her real life where, with the support of her wonderful if slightly unconventional family and friends far and wide, despite the setbacks, she triumphs over the adversities to new sunlit uplands in her life. It is surely also a 'must read' for any past or present sufferers of what is now called 'M.E.' for it brings hope and faith, and the charity from which she gives so much of herself - to everyone.
It is a very enjoyable and HAPPY book, nicely illustrated with her quirky sketches from the time. The excellent title is true except that I want more of Sophie's affectionate writing style and her lovely sense of humour. Highly recommended, 'it ticks all my boxes': don't risk being 'sorry for a might-have-been'!
Peter Bell

This is my first review on a book, but I just had to do it.
This book, is a must to read, it is written in diary form, but takes you through Sophie's days, in a day by day format, at a rate of knots, and describes her journey through her illness, the highs and the lows. The book describes her move back home to live with her parents and the many situations that happen. These incidents will have you in stitches, as you imagine what actually might have been, like the time when her father is attacked by one of these motorised garden cultivators, and his manhood is only saved when the machine decided to cut out.......
The characters who pop up in this book are wonderful, from Alastair, to Mrs Hawkins...
I could go on but I think what you should do is get this book, "Funnily Enough" and make sure you have plenty of time, are sitting comfortably, have been to the toilet, got a drink and a snack to hand, as you will not really want to move until you have finished it........
Dave Holbourn

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Is emigration a viable treatment for Chronic Fatigue?

FEBRUARY ~ Out of the mire and clay

1^st February ~

No. No. No! Mum is making me give a talk to the W.I. (the Brimpsford Women’s Institute) with an otter. Tonight. She’s double-booked and already dressed in a safari suit, hurrying off to appear as an amateur herpetologist in a film about iguanas. She knows nothing about reptiles, but when I challenged her earlier she looked at me as if I was imbecilic and said she was acting the part. Well, she’s a very stressed part. ‘Don’t tell me I’m stressed.’

Now I’m stressed. Distressed. I’ve bought a ticket to Johannesburg and leave in ten days’ time. 'The Lord’s plans are irrevocable!' But I’ve decided a certain amount of stress is probably a good thing. It stops one turning into an iguana.

2^nd February ~ The ladies of the Women’s Institute were adorable and laughed at all the right places in my talk entitled ‘Having to live with Otters’. Luckily the Chairwoman was a Swallows and Amazons fan, thrilled to give me a fee of £30. I need the money.

I’m going to have to streamline my life; make it simpler. Epicurus said, ‘Contentment consists not in great wealth, but in few wants.’ I’ve decided to cut my outgoings right down to the minimum and separate myself from my possessions. This has got to be healthy. I want to do more with less. I need to fit myself into a suitcase anyway. Pippa is going to rent my flat with everything in it and look after the repairs, maintenance and insurance. A very sweet trainee production assistant called Hope is moving in to keep her company. She comes from Nigeria.

It looks as if I won’t need a new car after all. Perry wants to borrow my tramp mobile, as Tamzin insists on calling it, and will keep it on the road until I come back. To Tamzin, I’ve bequeathed my dead sheep. This is her name for my sheepskin under-blanket, which she has been longing to try out. I’ll keep clothes and things in my room at my parents’ house for future use. My main expense now is decent health insurance.

3^rd February ~ ‘Are you the one who makes the hawk soar and spread its wings to the south?’ Robin found this in the book of Job. It’s taken completely out of context.... or is it? He said that he’s not at all happy that I’ve decided to go to South Africa but cheered up when I suggested he should come on a horse safari. He loves travelling, being detached from responsibilities.

I found a Canadian film crew in our house. Dad said he was sweating with embarrassment as they had spent the morning filming Mum in the kitchen with the otters leaping around in the sink (together with the washing up), making their own way into the ’fridge (which is always chaotic) and breaking eggs onto the floor (which is filthy). By the time I arrived they were filming Mum, bum in the air, trying to extract Jims from underneath a chest of drawers. I took a cup of tea to the continuity girl. ‘Are you off to film any other interesting animals?’

‘Animals? Aw no. This is a series about great British eccentrics.’ I don’t think my parents are aware of this.

The Producer asked me if I could possibly keep the cockerels quiet for a while. I’ve regressed to being a film runner. One thing I gained a great deal of experience in at the BBC was asking people to stop making a noise: I could stop pneumatic drills drilling, chain-saws sawing, Rastas from playing basket ball – once I even stopped the traffic going down Bayswater Road, but could I do anything about the cockerels? I found the only thing that worked was letting them out to scratch around in the field. Disaster. I went to shut them up later, when it was beginning to get dark, and found Terry running around looking flustered. There were feathers everywhere. Albert had disappeared. Mum was very upset. She was furious with me and spent hours wandering up and down to see if he was hiding anywhere, but I’ve got a feeling we won’t find the body and am wracked with guilt.

4^th February ~ Big packing-up session in London. Good-bye sofa, good-bye desk, good-bye television. Good-bye Television. I feel right about all this. Have inner peace. What really matters is what happens within us, not to us.

5^th February ~ I’ve a funny feeling I know who ate Albert. I found an awful lot of feathers in the haystack where Jake has a hidey-hole.

Mum has handed in her resignation as a J.P. after thirteen years’ service. It has been very hard for her to let go but I’m glad. She has enough to cope with in life without the addition of draining voluntary work. An invitation has arrived inviting her to attend the International Otter Convention in India, which is exciting, and she’s looking forward to it already. She’s passionate about conservation, and drawing on her skills as an actress, is brilliant at conveying the message to others, especially children. We feel she should concentrate on this and let others deal with delinquent youths. The delinquent pet – Jake, has been granted parole.

6^th February ~ Alastair is off to the South Pole to film penguins in a thermal zoot-suit. James isn’t envious at all. He gets seasick. He says he’d rather come with me, but isn’t that thrilled about the idea of watching rhinoceros from horseback. I am. Alastair thinks that I would feel isolated living way out in the bush and could get very lonely, but it can’t be lonelier than being ill. I can cope with that.

Tamzin said that Jonnie hasn’t noticed the dead sheep yet despite the fact that it makes a huge lump under the bottom sheet on her side of the bed. She gave me some riding boots, which are too small for her, in part exchange. Dad has given me a pair of binoculars and Mum has found me some old insect repellent. Granny keeps ringing to say Good-bye. I went to see Daisy. Mary-Dieu has never once thanked me for looking after her baby, but it doesn’t matter. She isn’t cross any more. In fact she was very funny and said she’d take the nightshift when I have kids. I hadn’t thought of that. I must drive her crazy, but she loves me. Loving despite of is more precious than loving because of.

Mum and Dad went out to dinner and arrived back with the prettiest little hen you have ever seen. She is to be a girlfriend for Terry. I hope he’ll be nice to her.

7^th February ~ ‘What has been the purpose of this time Lord? This season of sickness in my life?’

Will I only be able to see the answer clearly from a distance?

I’d been going so fast. My days had just been filled with lists of things to get done. I’d fallen into the trap of putting the merely urgent before the important. It’s so easy to let our perspective become quite limited. We think our bodies so significant, and they are because we need to be healthy to operate effectively, but how much more vital is our spirit? We have eternity ahead of us. In our society we spend years educating our intellect and training our brains, and yet most parents are shy, scared of developing their children’s spiritual understanding. They see it as ‘Religious Education’, which is either unimportant or something that must be tackled by teachers at school.

An Texan girl once told me that the word Bible stands for Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth. B.I.B.L.E. We have the Maker’s Manual, but like most instruction books few people ever read it. Until things go wrong. Then it’s, ‘Help, I can’t understand this. Nothing’s working properly. Where did you put the instruction manual?’ Somehow we never find the time to read it. Well, I’ve had time.

I’ve learnt that, if Earth is our training ground, then we must expect to have to undergo trials here so that our spiritual muscle and resistance can be built up. If our body is in bad shape a virus will knock us sideways; if our spirit is in bad shape disasters will hammer us. Life is going to be full of tribulation. We’re always going to need the strength and confidence, the wisdom and understanding that lie the other side of suffering.

8^th February ~

‘Yes, but I would really appreciate more of an explanation.’

I was given it. Jesus said, ‘Simon, Simon, (Sophie, Sophie) behold, Satan demanded to have you, that he might sift you like wheat, but I have prayed for you that your faith may not fail; and when you have turned again, strengthen your brethren.’ Well that’s what it’s for, so we can ‘strengthen and build up others.’ That is my commission. ‘To comfort others with the comfort I’ve been given.'

How does the Prayer of St Francis go? That we should seek not so much to be understood as to understand. Make me a channel of your peace.

9^th February ~ I’ve packed my bags and I’m ready to go. I’m taking the suede chaps I had made in Farnham, a sketchbook and a hammock. Granny rang to say, ‘Smell Africa for me.’

10^th February ~ Fly to South Africa.

I went to see how the chickens were getting on just before I left. I opened up the bedroom side of the hutch and found two perfect white eggs. It was so exciting to find them, like a symbol of hope.

Tamzin made me a special Going Away lunch and drove me to the airport. I didn’t feel at all strong; very shaky in fact, with a head full of cottonwool and rags, but I staggered onto the plane and let everything roll over me. I flew high on wings like an eagle; a steppe buzzard migrating south.