In which I suspend disbelief...

She’s really gone and done it this time.

California Girl has joined a cult. No, really.

I should probably have been more worried when she started ‘learning about religion’, but I figured that anyone who can’t tell the difference between Islam and Islamism could probably do with a bit more learning.

And so it was that she took herself off to church a while ago: this, I’m all for. Anything that gets her out of the house more is fine by me. But, of course, it was naïve of me to expect that she’d make a habit of it, and be out of my hair regularly of a Sunday morning.

“I didn’t really like it,” she said, talking all over an episode of The Palace [I really don’t know why she insists on watching: she doesn’t understand it, and talks all over it with inane questions about the Royal family. If you don’t get the basic premise, don’t watch the bloody programme and let me enjoy it]. “I didn’t enjoy that the service was based on the bible.”

You really couldn’t make this stuff up. “Didn’t enjoy that it was based on the bible.” What in the name of Manolo did she think it was going to be based on? The Very Hungry Caterpillar?!

And so, recently, CG came back to Blonde Towers, announcing she’d joined a cult. Well, to be honest, she didn’t say ‘cult’. She said something about a prayer group and a religion I've never heard of. I say cult. I’ve looked it up on Wikipedia: at the very best, it’s a sect. Even Madonna's not gone through a phase with this one.

And thus, two or three times a week, CG toddles off to discuss the spiritual unity of humankind. And, from what I can tell, eat - a lot.

“You know,” said Speckled Lad, sounding desperately concerned when I told him, “I think you should be more worried about this, Hannah.”

I looked up at him from my latte and the crossword. “Eh?”

“No, you should: these things can get really serious. You really should keep an eye on her.”

I raised my eyebrow. “Look, it sounds like they get together and witter inanely. I very much doubt there’s anything more serious than that going on. And hey, if she’s stupid enough to give them all her money, then that’s her problem. On the bright side,” I clicked the pen and filled in an answer, “if she hands over all her cash, she won’t be able to afford to live with me. Everyone’s a winner.”

He looked at me disapprovingly and shook his head. “You’re awful.”

Maybe. But at least I know that, if and when I hand over pots of cash for my religious beliefs, my feet will look stunning.

Tags: Home sweet home, Prize idiocy