Our last week in the Seminary is a blurr. We cleared the flat, Olwen sold my favourite trousers for 30p, and I was sent out to buy an animal chair. Two years ago we'd bought a giraffe chair for a granddaughter, but this time all I could get was a Friesian cow with solid wooden legs. Lovingly others had paid for us to fly Business Class and Olwen was delighted. Unfortunately news of the upgrade hadn't reached Colombia's military security. And just as she, for the first time in her life, stepped into the Priority Access lane in Medellin's airport, a voice called her away. Surrounded by unsmiling camouflaged military every item in two cases was examined. I blame it on the local lilt she's developed working in Zero Stress: it was assumed she was a mula (mule or drug smuggler). The cow, suspected of being a Trojan Horse, was X-rayed twice, Leon Morris' commentary on John's gospel was smelt, and each book was carefully examined for trace