Special Guest Blogger: Saint Seraphim of Sarov

Do you live in the boring suburbs but dream of living in a lonely hut on a windswept moor? Do you long to trade in your suit and waistcoat for a smock? Do you eat microwave dinners all the while wishing you were munching on grass? Yum Yum! Is your next ideal home improvement a bucket under the hole in your twig roof? Well get ready because i'm the Saint for you!
After being ordained i wondered what could i do to prove to the man upstairs that i was on Team God and nothing says i'm with you big guy then going to live in solitude in a hut and eating nothing but grass.
Twenty five years i lived in that shack and people would keep turning up to ask me questions because living alone in a ramshackle log cabin and eating Grass in 18th Century Russia somehow qualified you as a wise man.
So people would arrive but rather than give me a potato or a turnip to go with my grass, would ask me weird questions like why did God make mosquitoes and if God sees everything, does he watch me peeing?    
One day, while chopping wood, a gang of thieves attacked me with the handle of my own axe but what they expected to steal from a man whose meals are grass i don't know but all they found was a whole lot of empty hut but it forced me to rethink my whole strategy because obviously living in a hut for a quarter of a century was obviously not enough for God so i decided a hut was too glamorous so packed up my grass and went to live on a rock and just for a special touch, i spent 1,000 successive nights in continuous prayer with my arms raised to the sky.
Still people came to ask me questions and i got a reputation for answering the questions before they were asked but that bit was easy, some fat guy waddled up and before he would open his mouth i would say 'Because you eat too much' or a man with pus filled pustules on his face would roll up and i would say 'because mirrors haven't been invented yet' but generally the generic 'because God will's it' did the trick.
I died while kneeling and praying before a picture of Mary and Jesus which came a quite a relief, not the religious moment, but because my arms were killing me.