I wish someone would carry on the story of Susan Pevensie after the death of her family in the train crash which whisked them painlessly into Narnia at the dawn of the last battle. What happened to her? She who fell out of favour with C.S. Lewis, trading Narnia for lipstick and invitations, without her family or her past. I guess in some sense, it doesn't (shouldn't? wouldn't?) matter to the Narnians who, after all, have Aslan.

I envision her story to be one of heavy redemption, I guess. Not the epic magnificence that surrounded Edmond's redemption from the white witch, but a long-drawn out, complicated process that sighs and groans under the weight of reality, London, Earth. A tired woman in her forties perhaps, haunted by the betrayed beauty of a childhood past, helplessly entwined in who she is today, coming into grace of a different name. Because I guess, the shades in the shadowlands are still caused by slivers of scattered light.

I can't help but feel that we're all Susan and, as I mentioned over drinks and "Desperado" this evening, I resent the church for trying to simply life. All this clutter of how "god has a plan" etc, is all good and well, but it doesn't tell me how to live. God can have his plan but I have a life to live, and while I am delighted to live in the cradle of his plan it just isn't up to me to go about tip-toed trying to peek around for illumination.

Life is difficult, and we make the best of it.