And I didn’t see a single Beckham in there so it was an absolute waste of my time.
After that I went to get a pedicure to calm myself down, but that experience was even more embarrassing. The woman spentan hour ignoring my attempts at small talk, as she sawed at my yellow soles, making noises like she was competing at the women’s Wimbledon final. She then made me leave wearing lurid greenflip-flops in a man’s size eleven.
Since then I’ve been trying to pull the day back from the brink of terribleness by limping around Sunset Boulevard looking for a Scientology building. Mark dared me toget recruited, and I’ll be damned if I fail at that one thing.
I was just about to give up hope when a lady, wearing what could only be described asrobes,stopped me in front of a nondescript building, holding out a leaflet.
‘I sense you need to find yourself,’ she said, smiling through dead eyes. ‘We can help you. In fact, we are the only people who could ever truly understand you.’
I nodded enthusiastically, completely delighted. ‘That’s good,’ I told her. ‘Because my brother says no one will ever understand me, or my haircut.’
‘We can help you solve your haircut and all other problems with the art of Sheathology,’ she continued, smoothly.
‘Oh, don’t you mean Scientology?’ I said, trying to hide my disappointment.
‘Thosecon-artists have no idea,’ she scoffed,waving her hand dismissively. ‘Sheathology is the only real method ofself-discovery. We dig deep inside you, down below, to determine what terrible spirits are holding you hostage and preventing you from reaching your sheath potential.’
‘So, you are still a cult, right?’ I asked, anxiously.
‘Of course we’re not a cult!’ she replied, cocking her head at me. ‘We only ask that members committhemselves fully to our cause, turning their backs onnon-believers and giving themselves and their ancestors to the Sheathology cause for the next thousand years. In exchange, we can help you release your demons and become the sheath bearer you were meant to be.’
‘Sounds great!’ I said happily, following her inside.
Which is how I find myself sitting in a circle ofnervous-lookingfemales, all sitting on the floor of a large hall, clutching leaflets.
‘Er, what do you know about Sheathology?’ I whisper to the young woman on my right, because I’m starting to worry there is a small chance I’ve made a mistake.
She leans across enthusiastically. ‘Oh, it’s ...’ she begins, just as a beaming ringleader – wearing the same robes as the woman outside – strides in and plonksherself down,cross-legged, in the centre of us.
‘VAGINA,’ she shouts, still smiling inanely. I jump.
‘Welcome, my fellowsheath-owners,’ she continues, making steady eye contact with each of us,one-by-one. ‘Today you have taken the first step towards reclaiming your vagina from those who would keep it from you.’
Oh God.
She gestures at her groin, smiling maniacally. ‘Sheathologyis all about releasing the power of the vagina. We must, each of us, embrace our collective vagina – our magic muff is one – and exorcise her demon. Today, I will show you how this can be achieved.’ She stands excitably, her robe flapping around.
I start sweating. This is not what I signed up for. I wanted Tom Cruise secrets, not taco talk.
‘For those of you who don’t know,’ she continues,speaking way too loudly, ‘vagina is the Latin word for sheath. It is where those worthy can place their sword. And the one true king is the one who can remove it again.’
Wait, is that a Sword in the Stone reference? What was I thinking doing this? Spontaneity is a terrible idea.
Merlin moves around the circle, stopping in front of me and we stare at each other. A bead of sweat runs downmy face. Godammit, Mark won’t be impressed by this cult at all – he doesn’t like vaginas. Honestly, I’m not even a fan of my own. Maybe if I tell them about my awkward smear test they’ll let me leave? They won’t want my terrible vag ruining their collective hoohah.
Merlin is still talking, waving her hands some more and talking about how our group flower needs room to blossom.
‘We shallnow watch a short film about the rise of the rosebud,’ she announces, as one of her whisker biscuit minions pulls down a projector screen and dims the lights. ‘The movie will be followed by a discussion on what type of animal your vagina is,’ she announces, eyes bulging as she walks off. ‘Mine is a chinchilla.’
The room gets darker and the woman beside me leans back into me.
‘Holy shit,this is amazing,’ she breathes in a European accent. I grimace in the gloom. I was going to try to sneak off, but I have a believer beside me. She continues in my ear, panting. ‘Isn’t it though? I mean, I wanted mad, but this is absolute batshit nonsense.’
I suppress a relieved giggle. ‘What kind of animal is your vagina?’ I say in a hushed voice and she considers it.
‘A mosquito, probably.I’m small and cause an itch.’ I giggle and someone nearby tuts.
‘That’s not an animal!’ I say, scolding.
