BLUESTOCKING MUM

Check this out!

2011-11-04T10:45:00.000Z

Fellow aspiring author and RNA Member, the lovely Laura James, starts a new feature - 'Find out Friday' on her blog today, and I'm her first guest interview!It's my first interview too, so go and see what I have to say!Until another dayBye for nowxx

We interrupt this blog with an announcement...

2011-10-25T10:04:00.003+01:00

Apologies for anyone expecting to read the 'coping strategies’ I promised in my
previous blog but I have an announcement to make, a rather significant announcement for a wannabe writer…

Last weekend at the inaugural Festival of Romance International Convention I was awarded runner up in the New Talent Award. As someone who doesn’t normally like to sing my own praises, I’m sure you’ll allow me, just for this once to bask in the glory, especially given the year I’ve had.

Only a few weeks ago I didn’t even know whether I’d attend, having booked the weekend on a whim during one of my fight back moments. For aspiring author's to attend, one of the conditions was entering the New Talent Award. Back in August when I (somehow) managed to complete my first novel, 'Mother's Love' for the RNA New Writer’s Scheme, I received some excellent and encouraging feedback, but with everything else that has gone on over recent weeks, I haven’t got round to starting the suggested revisions. And so I duly emailed the required first chapter and synopsis of ‘Mother’s Love’ to Kate Allan, delightful author and organiser of the Festival without another thought.

And what a Festival it was! Superbly organised and executed by everyone involved, it was a joy to mingle with, and learn from established authors, agents and publishers, and to get to know better some of my AA (Aspiring Author) counterparts. What a lovely bunch of Romantic Novelists.

The backdrop of Hunton Park couldn’t have been a better setting, and I almost expected Mr Darcy to come romping across the lawns in my direction. He didn’t, alas, but I got my kicks elsewhere; in particular the session on Erotica versus Erotic Romance, which I’d never dared to even think about but now, especially as I’m a singleton, I may consider ;)

Dressed in my best Audrey Hepburn style posh frock, by the time of the evening dinner, Ball and award ceremony, the residual nerves and lack of confidence were banished by the half bottle of red wine I drank before going out. Thank you to all who kept me company throughout the weekend, and for those I didn’t manage to meet, we’ll hopefully get together at the RNA Winter Party

The awards ceremony commenced – a glitzy, glamorous affair with top talents in the Romantic Genre and Historical being recognised. Then it was onto the Festival’s New Talent Award, with agent, Jane Judd presenting the awards. (I’ve long had my list of top agents and Jane features in my top three.) Looking round the table of talent, I wondered which of my fellow rookie writer’s names might be called. And the first name out…

‘Debbie White receives the commended award for her novel, "Tough Love."’

I don’t know whether it was the fact that the title of the novel wasn’t mine, or that I was so stunned to have a 'commended' that made me freeze in the chair.

‘Go on, that’s you.’ Celia Anderson gave me a little shove, encouraging me to get up and shake hands with my heroine agent.
3rd place – the lovely Sarah Callejo
2nd Place – Rosemary Dun’s name was read out but the title of her novel was mine, ‘Mother’s Love.’Poor Rosemary had had to go home early with dreadful earache.
1st place and winner of the coveted New Talent Award - went to Henriette Gyland Congratulations Henri!

There was evidently some kind of a mix up with the author’s names and titles but it didn’t matter to me. I’d been commended, and for the next hour or two my emotions leapt somewhere between giddy excitement and pure emotion at how I’ve never given up my dream, and at last, irrespective of the eventual outcome with my first novel, I’d had some ‘proper’ official recognition that I can write. I DO have potential. The reason I attended the weekend was to kickstart my badly neglected writing career after events of the last few months and health problems, and this couldn’t have been better incentive.

Late in the evening I saw Jane Judd and her husband look as if they might be making a move, and fuelled by yet more red wine and the knowledge that if I didn’t properly introduce myself I’d always regret it, a wave of courage suddenly gripped me and catapulted me into her path, blocking her exit.

I shook hands nervously, bumbling that there had been a bit of a mix up with the titles, but thanking her for giving me the commendation for 'Mother’s Love.’

‘Is that the one about the Grandmother?’ Jane asked.

‘Yes that’s mine.’

‘No, that was definitely second,’ she said. ‘And it was a close second. I voted for yours to win…’

Second, fourth, I genuinely don't care. I'm sure my fellow AA's will agree, to be able to reach the top four in any kind of contest when you crave publication is massive achievement and big boost of confidence. For me, hearing Jane's comments and to get the opportunity to submit to her is prize enough. Needless to say the rest of the evening passed in a bit of a blur, not only because of the red wine.

Indeed I’ve been pinching myself ever since. I emailed Jane yesterday, saying it was good to meet her, and thanking her for the opportunity to submit the full MS which I will do once I’ve made the RNA NWS suggested tweaks. (I was also trying to prove that I could be professional and not a complete drunken buffoon.)Twenty minutes later she emailed back, not only confirming that I hadn’t dreamt Saturday night, but also giving me her feedback and the constructive feedback from Donna Condon, Senior Editor at Piatkus publishing.

With that invaluable advice, the hard work really starts for me, but bring it on. Everything happens for a reason. I always knew writing would be my salvation, and as I look back I see that booking the Festival of Romance weekend on a whim was not just a fightback moment, it might well be a defining moment. Life will get better from this point onwards, I just know it…

Until another day

Bye for now
xx

PS - Click here - for full details of the nominees and winners of Festival of Romance Awards. In particular, splediferous well done's to:
Sue Moorcroft - winner of Best Romantic Read
Jean Fullerton - winner of Best Historical Romance Read
Henri Gyland - Winner of best New Talent
Carole Matthews - Outstanding contribution to Romantic Fiction

PPS - All photos are courtesy of the wonderful talented Liz Crump - thanks Liz, and great to meet you!

It's a battle of heart and mind...

2011-10-10T12:41:00.005+01:00

"It’s hard to tell your mind to stop loving someone when your heart still does."

I’ve read some great quotes lately, and another which particularly resonated was, "The pain of having a broken heart is not so much as to kill you, yet not so little as to let you live.."

Image-kateshudsons.blogspot.com

When the main holidays were over and the children went back to school, I was smacked in the face by reality, hence the lack of posts. I know you'll understand. Thank you for your lovely messages. They are a huge comfort, even if I don't always reply promptly ;)

Much of my limited free time I've wandered aimlessly, daydreaming, over analysing, and in between devoured the occasional self-help book as I tried to pick my way through the mess which had become my life.

But here I am, The Queen of fightback, sticking my head above the parapet to write this. As I type, outside there's a solitary swallow – probably the last of the summer, balancing on the telephone wire in the garden as it prepares to leave for a different climate. And as summer wrings its last few weak rays from the sun I’m struck by the parallels between the swallow and me. The summer has gone, and now it's time to move on to the next stage...

I’ve accepted my marriage is over, as surely as I concede that autumn means that most trees and plants die off to preserve their energy for the long winter months and to re-generate in the spring, anew. Start afresh. After the baby step progress I’ve been making, my epiphany feels like an empowering leap into the abyss that is the future. No more numbness; clinging and fighting, stumbling through the memories that are the past, searching for answers or to turn back time. It’s time to stop. Enough. I’ve had enough.

Six years ago, when it happened first time round I thought it was the end of my world but now, in between the emotional turmoil, I know it’s not. And occasionally I glimpse the fun-loving girl I used to be.

I realise I want to look forward, and grasp the future.

It doesn’t matter whether or not I still love him. I love myself more, and actually, if I’m being honest, I don’t love who he is now. The love in my heart is for the man I thought he was; the man he used to be. I’m tired of fighting for something that doesn’t exist any more; of analysing and second guessing what my ex is really thinking. With this realisation, I also see I’ve been clinging onto the past and to things that are out of my control. Any wonders it felt like I was trying to clutch for water flowing down a river. It's impossible to hold onto. The only control I have is over myself and my own actions, and its time to get a grip.

I still understand him, despite everything. Whether it’s just a temporary interruption – that normal service will be resumed soon – or whether he’s lost forever, I don’t know, and I can’t waste any more time waiting to see any more.I don’t want a man who lacks integrity, who isn’t as loyal and loves as unconditionally as me. I want inner peace and happiness back in my life. Its been missing too long. Every moment spent stuck on the past and him, trying to figure it all out is time wasted on re-building my life and future. No one else will do it for me. I need to champion my own cause, for me and the boys, so we can all strive to live, and move on.

We’re getting divorced. End of. I've filed the petition. I had to admit defeat. An unknown future is unnerving, but I'm not frightened of it any more, and I'd rather be alone forever than spend my time constantly looking over my shoulder, being second best, or waiting for it to happen again. It probably would. The best predictor of future behaviour is past behaviour, and having been here twice now, the chances of him changing and doing the right thing are pretty slim.

I'm brave enough to face it and who know's, it may even be exciting. In a few days when I have more time, I’ll share the coping strategies that I’m learning along this rocky path. Hopefully they may help someone else who may be in the same position as me if they are stumbling the same route and find my blog.

Until then I’ll leave you with a few more of my favourite quotes about moving on and letting go:-

"If someone you love hurts you cry a river, build a bridge, and get over it."

"If you can’t save the relationship, at least save your pride."

“When one door closes another door opens; but we so often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door, that we do not see the ones which open for us.” — Alexander Graham Bell

“Some of us think holding on makes us strong; but sometimes it is letting go.” ~ Hermann Hesse

One final one:-

"No matter who broke your heart, or how long it takes to heal, you’ll never get through it without your friends."

Thank you all for being there.

Until another day

Bye for now

Xx

Image Kate Hudson Blogspot

I want more than this...

2011-07-27T16:29:00.002+01:00

It’s been a tough few weeks of firsts and facing things alone.

One of the hardest aspects is fronting people but it has to be done. It’s sad - terribly, unbelievably, gut wrenchingly sad - but as the old saying goes, “Life moves on,” and I have to do it some time. The boys need me to keep going. There’s no chance to curl up under a stone to hide away, however tempting the prospect so I have to overcome these events and push through the pain.

When things first kicked off I managed to keep a distance from the bus stop parents by dropping off and picking up whilst remaining in the car, waving and forcing a smile. However, the school summer show was less forgiving. Only a couple of days after I'd found out, I had to brave the other mums and dads, and watch them walk around hand in hand with their eyes twinkling and smiling faces, I couldn’t help comparing their happiness to my life a few months ago, wondering what might be going on behind closed doors, and whether any of them were betraying their partners.

Walking into the school hall to see the judging of the Home Entries was tough. Neither Quiet Mousie nor I had entered anything this year. Despite our good intentions, we didn’t feel like it once events took over. Child sized tables displayed the categories; best home produce, best half dozen eggs, best teatime fancies, best flower arrangements etc…

I glimpsed the entries for the men’s cookery section but couldn’t bear to look at the scones on display remembering the hysterics of some of hubby's attempts over the last six years and the caustic criticisms from the judges; “Lacked presentation,” “Too much butter,” “Should have been placed on a doily instead of straight onto the tray…” His cookies were sublime and I'll never forget how we all cheered when we went into the hall and spotted the gold 1st rosette next to his entry. He feasted on his success for weeks but there will be no more domestic chaos on the weekend of the summer show in future with our family stressing and rushing to pick all the flowers, do the displays, bake the cakes, make the jams and finish all our entries to get them to the hall for the cut off for judging in time. And Quiet Mousie only has one more year of the summer show before he goes to secondary school.

Despite the emotion and spending all day with my sunglasses on to mask my eyes, I did well considering, and lasted an hour and a half then slipped away and left Quiet Mousie to go home with our lovely neighbours.

Two days later, sports day was slightly easier. I only cried three times and lasted the duration, although I chose not to partake in the refreshments afterwards.

A couple of weekends ago was the first time of facing the other mum’s and dads from QM’s footie club. I couldn’t let him down as he’d been looking forward to a night camping with all the kids and parents.

If I'm very honest, it was horrendous and I spent most of the weekend trying to keep my face from crumpling, especially when someone’s sincere words and good wishes touched me, or as I watched QM stop playing with his pals to check his mobile phone and see if he’d had a message from his Dad. A year ago I would have abhorred the thought of my ten year old having a mobile phone but hey, he’s over the moon with it and is in more contact with his dad now than he was before with him being in London through the week. QM is doing remarkably well, considering.

To him the weekend was a huge success and that's all that mattered. The people were wonderful and protected me throughout, and as they detected my fargile mood, they left me to my thoughts and solitude and let me continue to gaze into the flickering, leaping flames of the camp fire. And they understood when I chose to sleep in my car alone rather than in the dorms with two of the other mums.

Last weekend was the hardest hurdle so far. The annual village party, the one time of year when everyone in the village gets together, we all hire a marque and bouncy castle, each bring food and drink and have a merry time. News had travelled through the village grapevine apace and I’d had many sincere offers of support and help, but so far I’d managed to avoid people (other than my nearest and dearest neighbours) by simply driving through the village, giving a wave and a weak smile as I passed them in their gardens, walking their dogs, or in their cars.

As I pulled up at this year’s host’s garden and saw the melee of people and children, the kids on the bouncy castle, I felt physically sick and wanted to turn on my heels and run but my neighbour, who had followed me down in her car so we might arrive together geed me up.

‘Come on, or I’ll grab your hand and drag you in!’ she said, guiding my arm with her hand. Then Quiet Mousie spotted me, beamed and waved frantically, happy to see me and there was no choice but for me to go through the gate to join them all...

I’d planned to stay an hour then go and collect Idle Jack from work, drop him there and make my excuses to go home (knowing my neighbours would bring the boys back up the lane.) But once I was there and felt how my wonderful community wrapped me and the boys in their warm blanket of friendship and care, I actually ended up being one of the last to leave.

Along with me at the end of the evening were three good male friends who sat at a table, merrily tittering, drunk, cracking their juvenile jokes as their wives stood opposite, smirking at the state of them, knowing they would suffer in the morning and rolling their adoring eyes in feigned annoyance. If recent events hadn’t happened, my hubby would have been there, ‘one of the lads,’ his humour more juvenile than them all, and I would have been crying with mirth at the scene.

As I sat there smiling at their antics, I remembered the words that he said to me when I first discovered the affair;
“I don’t know when, but at some point in the last year I realised I wanted more than this…”

I can’t tell you how many times, I’ve replayed those words in my head over the last couple of weeks. And I wondered, how could he possibly want more than this?...

Until another day

xx

Farewell...my love...

2011-07-12T23:58:00.011+01:00

"Living well is the best revenge," according to George Herbert.

I’m not there yet. It may take some time, but I will, one day, before too long. I hope.

Those of you who know me know I've been here before, and from a previous post will see I’m rather a master of resilience and overcoming adversity. Thankfully, this time it doesn't feel quite so much like it's the end of my world. I know I'll survive. It’s what I do best, and boy, after everything I've had in the last year - in the words of Monty Python, 'Tis but a meagre scratch.'

I jest. Oh, that what I’m going to go through in the next few months would be quite so painless. I’m all too aware, after twenty-two years with someone, this is going to hurt.

I don’t want to put on the worldwide web the innermost details of my personal life. You'll understand and read between the lines. Suffice to say; over the last two weeks my life has crumbled, and it’s nothing to do with cancer…

But hey, I have the best friends and family a girl could wish for - and you good folks - although I know you'll forgive me for saying that despite all this wonderful support, I can be in a roomful of people, yet still feel like the loneliest person in the world.

The reason for this is because I lost my truest, bestest friend about six or seven years ago. We never truly recovered first time round. It's not all his fault. I played my part, and I appreciate I've never been quite the same since. Then last year, with my jaw problems, I know I was a grumpy bitch being in pain. And this year with the cancer scare (although happily it turns out I'm simply a menopausal old bag.) What I'm trying to say is I know all the things I did wrong. It's just that I always believed we had a love that was so special, it would conquer anything.

But I see now, sometimes, love alone is not enough. Naively, I believed the amazing friendship we’d had (and overcome everything thus far) would win through every time. I presumed it was a deep bond that only soul mates have. I took that for granted. Our friendship wasn’t enough.

I wasn’t enough…

I’m not often wrong about affairs of the heart. I was this time. However, I gave it my best, for the sake of me, and my children. Even writing this I'm pricked by the knowledge that if I hadn't have had children, I might have made different decisions a few years ago and been through to the other side, onto a happier life by now.

I doubt it. I have no regrets. I truly loved my husband, with all my heart. I/We tried. It wasn’t to be, and perhaps, the one crumb of comfort I have to keep me warm at night in the vast space of bed beside me is that having been there before, I know I will get through this time even though it feels as if part of me has died. I don't have to go through the pain of giving him a second chances this time, no begging him to stay, fighting for him - none of the endless months of torture and heartache. Once I’m through the shock and initial panic of sorting out and unravelling twenty two years of marriage, I will bounce back in my usual, inimitable fashion. That doesn't stop me finding writing this hard, feeling so very sad, knowing how final things are and that my future will be alone. It's a good job I like my own company ;)

I’ve had so many people asking where I am. Thank you for caring. Those who knew what has happened have sent wonderful messages of support, and reading your comments on my last post, I felt I had to post this.

I’m not sure when I’ll surface again. I know I’ll miss the deadline for the RNA New Writer’s Scheme now. But I will most definitely be back…

Here's a quote I made up which maybe I should enter into the google archives:

"Don't despair when the person you love leaves you. The truth is, it's not your loss, but theirs, for they have left the only person who loves them unconditionally, and wouldn't have given up on them..."

See you when I see you

Until another day
Xx

Positive vibes welcome. Please

2011-06-06T15:27:00.015+01:00

Tomorrow, Tuesday,7th June,I find out whether I have Endometrial cancer.

I tell you this because earlier this week, I watched a documentary about Joseph Merrick, better known as Elephant Man, and how he lived for his short twenty seven years with the terrible affliction of Proteus Syndrome. Speculation still surrounds his death and whether it was accidental or deliberate on his part. And as I listened to the programme it struck me how his infirmity must have affected him, living with it day in, day out, and I found myself empathising, understanding if he did stage his own death why he might have done so.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never encountered anything like the physical difficulties or prejudices Merrick had – in fact, the outsider would never know from first glance anything was wrong with me. But living with Behcets,an auto-immune disease means there’s always some new health hurdle to contend with and I can totally understand how someone who lives with terminal illness, or chronic pain or illness might decide they’ve had enough.

Pain has been my lodger, my cross to bear (or ignore) for the last twenty five years. There's always something. Usually it's arthritis but I also experience colitis, ulcers (mouth and vaginal,) or some other aspect or by-product of the treatment for my condition. I've had septicaemia, avascular necrosis, miscarriages. The latest development is some sort of vascular problem with my hands, feet and head which I'm seeing my Rheumatologist about in a couple of weeks. Six months ago, I thought I’d tackled the biggest obstacle with the jaw replacements and hoped there might be a little respite for a couple of years. However, it seems Mother Nature has other ideas.

I’d ignored ‘women’s problems’ (constant, heavy bleeding and niggling stomach cramps) for months and put it down to the stress of the surgery, perhaps my system lashing out, or maybe being forty four years old I was simply a menopausal old bag! Eventually, I relented to hubby's badgering and went to see the GP. As a result, for the past few weeks I've had all sorts of investigations which have found an enlarged uterus, abnormal blood and smear tests, and in between, you may recall we had to cancel a trip to New York in March because two days before we were due to travel, I ended up in A & E with crippling stomach pains. As I lay in that A & E bed, I turned to my hubby and meant it when I said, ‘If it is cancer, I don’t want to have treatment. I’m weary. I’ve had enough.’

To be fair the hospital has moved quickly and after more delving, a couple of weeks ago I had a biopsy to test for Endometrial cancer, the most likely cause for my symptoms. In my heart, I don’t think it will be and even if it is the ‘C’ word, the prognosis is good if I have a full hysterectomy and chemo/and/or radiotherapy. But do you see what I mean? I thought I’d come through one big, bad lot of surgery; of life being on hold, cancelling holidays and experiencing pain so bad, I literally used to writhe in agony on the sofa. If it's not cancer, months of treatments may lay ahead and if none of them work there could be the same end result - a hysterectomy. And what really peeves me is whatever the outcome, as sure as night follows day, something else will come along. It's the nature of the beast that is 'auto-immune disease.'

Hubby and my boys have years ahead to enjoy their lives. Do they really want to carry this sickly, relentless burden around for the next thirty, maybe forty years? And am I not entitled to decide when I've had enough?

NO. As one of my best friends pointed out, I’m a mother and with that role, there is obligation and responsibility to my children. There isn't just me to think about. I have to carry on doing what I do best - fight - whether this is cancer or just another manifestation of the Behcets.

I’m in a perfectly lucid and rational mood - I promise - so please don’t think this is me being depressed or feeling sorry for myself. I don’t want tea and sympathy, although some positive vibes for Tuesday might help ;)

I suspect only those who live with chronic pain or illness will truly understand what I’m alluding to in the above. Perhaps if you read this and it means something you might leave a comment so that those close to me don't think I've gone completely bonkers, and that I know I'm not the only person who wishes in today's modern world we had the right to choose when and how we might turn the lights out.

We all deserve to be able to say, 'Enough is enough,' don't we?

Until another day

Bye for now
xx

My name's Debbie, and I'm an alcoholic...

2011-05-19T14:46:00.009+01:00

Photo: Jocelyn Durston

Or at least I will be, if I keep drinking wine like I do.

What’s the big deal I hear you ask? It's only a couple of glasses of wine at night. Where’s the harm?

I’ve been drinking at least two or three glasses of wine every night for maybe a year, and what I don’t like is that my little habit has turned into a battle of wills, with wine winning more often than not.

Like most women, I'm always trying to shift a few pounds. Following my recent health problems and surgery, in January I made a decision to get back in shape and thought giving up alcohol for a few weeks was bound to help the waistline. Easy enough, yes?

No. I made the decision mid-week but by Thursday my resolve was weakening.On Friday when hubby poured himself a glass and asked if I fancied one, I found myself justifying the craving. "It's only one glass. It’s your only vice. You deserve it” ‘Oh, go on then.’ The words were out before I could stop them and I caved. A few weeks later in March I tried again. I lasted two weeks, and actually, every day since, I’ve told myself I won’t have a drink, or I’ll only have one glass, but every evening my willpower ends up round my ankles, not to mention the guilt, the castigating, and disappointment with myself.

This realisation of my unhealthy relationship with fermented grape juice has crept up on me. I don’t remember exactly when the penchant began. Like many people, when I worked, I liked to come in from work at night and pour a glass of wine while preparing dinner. After the kids came along, it was "wine o'clock," that magic ‘me’ time after the little blighters had gone to bed and calm was restored chez nous, and I’d sit and watch TV, or read, with a glass of wine clasped firmly in hand. When I retired from work on ill health grounds, I carried on the habit. Hubby would come in from work - I’d already have a glass on the worktop as I prepared dinner - I’d get him a beer and pour myself a top up as we chatted and ate dinner. After clearing up, I’d pour another glass as the family sat down to watch TV. Three or four glasses said in context doesn’t sound excessive, does it?

The trouble is, then there's the occasional glass of Dutch courage I need if I'm going somewhere and feel unconfident, like one of hubby's work parties. Or the habit I've developed of having one while I do the ironing in an evening. And there's nothing like sitting on the patio, admiring the view and watching the swallows while sipping a cold glass of white...

These little associations to alcohol aren't healthy. Don’t get me wrong, drinking doesn’t affect my day to day life. I’m not out of control or a binge drinker. I rarely get drunk. Two or three bad hangovers in my early years of drinking are deterrent enough to stop a desire to get blotto. And unless we’re having Sunday dinner or on holiday, I can't stomach a drink before tea-time.

But am I the only woman, who around the time of 'The Weakest Link,' finds themselves watching the clock, waiting for the magic moment when it will be six o’clock somewhere in the world so I can get the corkscrew out and open the next bottle?

Evidently not. When I speak to my friends, some of them share the same habit. And according to several articles there's a growing trend for middle-age women to hit the wine bottle in the evening, not falling down drunk, but a glass or two at the end of the day. Every day. That's me. Who would have thought about the 35+ units it adds up to.

Photo:Luis Rock

As many as 1 in 6 has a problem with alcohol dependency. More than 1 in 3 women over 35 drinks more than they did in their teens. And 1 in 5 women over 35 admits to regularly binge drinking.

It’s a standing joke in our house about "Mum and her wine."
Even the kids see the association. It was funny at first but now I’m starting to feel it’s all a little sad. I don't want to turn into a bag lady. I started buying boxes instead of bottles. It didn’t look quite so desperate (or was it because it hid how much I was drinking?) But then I realised I could get through a box of wine in three to four days. It’s too easy to keep topping up with a box. And it was even more of a shock when I calculated how many units are in a box. Mum’s psychological crutch had increased to a bottle of wine a night. How shocking is that?

The fact that I've been able to stop in January and March without any ill effect shows I’m not physically addicted as such. However, I don’t like the thought that psychologically, my drinking habits are hooking me in, as alcohol insiduously teases me towards the slippery slope. It might be a way of helping me to wind down, but is the increase because it takes more and more alcohol to achieve the same effects, as your body becomes used to it. Because eventually alcohol might become the only way to wind down...

Am I over-analysing? Do I have a drink problem? I should be the one in control, not the wine, so I guess that makes it one, if it’s a problem to me.

I'm not addicted, but it's a habit which is starting to make me unhappy, and therefore one that needs breaking. Besides anything else, I take a lot of medication already for my Behcets disease – Methotrexate (an anti-cancer drug,) Sulphasalazine, (an anti-rheumatic,) Celecoxib, painkillers (sometimes morphine based.) I won’t bore you with them all, but you can see the amount of toxins my system has to cope with. I really shouldn’t punish my body by adding more.

And also, I have a new set of health worries to contend with - more about them in another post - but I need to make sure I’m strong and able to cope with whatever the outcome. Time will tell. Perhaps it's this scare which has given me the jolt I need, and to this end, I’ve stopped drinking. No wine has passed my lips for...err... forty-eight hours... but it's a start, and giving up for one night was the first psychological hurdle.

I won't set myself up to fail by declaring I'm going teetotal. For the time being, I’d like it to stop for longer than the two weeks I managed earlier in the year and to show I’m serious, I’ve posted this blog for the world to see and that I can re-read it as a reminder to look after myself better.

Right, it's your turn to be honest. Do you drink more than is good for you? And if so, have you tried to stop? Or if it's not the booze, what habit would you like to break?

Until another day
Cheers!
xx

Above statistics and information obtained from:
Drinkaware
NHS live well
Alcohol Substance Abuse
The British Liver Trust

Have I got news for you!

2011-05-11T17:28:00.015+01:00

No, I didn’t make it onto the Times Rich List. In fact, not many other writer’s made it, except the Great JK Rowling (and her literary agent, Christopher Little,) Jeffrey Archer, and Jamie Oliver (Chef, author, restaurateur. But most writer's I know are realistic, and don't expect to make much from their chosen profession. For me, I have something far more valuable. While I was away I was awarded another three blog awards! I am honoured. A thousand thank you’s to:

The super Elizabeth Mueller for recognising that I’d finished the A-Z challenge.

The lovely Cherie for the Blog on Fire award

And, the splendiferous, Anita who has awarded me an Inspirational blog award.

Oh yes, and not forgetting, I won a prize - a free 2000 words critique from writer, Jeffrey Beesler. Cheers Jeff!
Thank you all for your support and encouragement. It has been great to make your acquaintance over the A-Z challenge, and beyond…

Well, I’m back from the caravan after waving my little arm off flying the Union Jack flag for the Royal Wedding. And what a glorious and memorable day it was for me (hopefully the happy couple enjoyed it too.) I cried, I laughed, I ate salmon and strawberries and sipped Bucks Fizz. And that frock… (sorry, that’s a ‘dress’ for American reader’s) was divine! I thought everything was spot on – just the right amount of pomp, ceremony, and intimacy, considering millions were watching around the world. Most of all, it wasn’t too ostentatious.

Now I’m home, it's time to knuckle down to the WIP for the NWS, but not before I post this newsy, finger on the pulse blog.

Unfortunately, a gagging order prevents me from disclosing the latest line up of celebrities who have been caught, metaphorically speaking, with their pants down and in flagrante. But the question is, do we really care? Or am I the only old fart to ponder where the insatiable feeding frenzy for celebrities and the interest in their prurient, trashy lives comes from? I don’t give a stuff who’s made it big, despite their poor, troubled upbringings. I have no interest in vaguely famous people's stretch marks, their unsightly facial hair or latest drug,booze or shag-fest? Premier league footballers and their antics - pah! - I couldn't care less!

Photo: P A Wire

I don't do politics in my blogs and won't go on about the Lib Dem massacre in the local elections but I had to mention that it hasn't been a good week for Mr Clegg, seeing his electoral reform dream crushed. And it will be even worse if he happens to spot my blog because seeing a photo of him last week, I couldn't believe how much he's aged. They say a week is a long time in politics. But it's only been a year...

May 2010 - baby-faced and handsome Photo:Angela Harbutt

You wouldn’t catch me being a politician or Prime Minister, not for a squillion pounds! What a thankless job. And it wouldn’t be much better if I were still in banking.

I see in the last few days Lloyds Bank has set aside 3.2 billion for claims likely to arise from the incorrect selling of Payment Protection Insurance (although City analysts think the actual figure will likely exceed £10bn!)
Conditional selling, mis-selling - how underhand and unethical, I hear you shout! And you're right. There is no denying today's sales culture is about greed; banks make bigger profits, shareholder value etc. But having been on the 'other side,' I also understand why it's happened, because I have to admit, the news didn't surprise me.

In the early/mid 90’s before I joined Lloyds Bank as a Manager, I was Sales Manager then Regional Training Manager for Lloyds Bank Insurance Services – a wholly owned subsidiary of the bank. In essence it was my job to sales manage (and train) branch staff, from counter and enquiries staff to Senior Managers, how to sell insurance.

Branches had targets for everything; Overdrafts, lending, mortgages, numbers of personal loans, amount of loans, insurance take-up for mortgages and loans, freestanding insurance products, credit cards, bad debts... I won’t go on - you get the message.

Much time and training went into maximising every customer interaction, face to face and phone call, or ‘opportunity.’ Monitoring of leads, interviews and results, making sure staff didn't miss anything and were proactive. I observed interviews and coached. Staff sat in my interviews so I could demonstrate techniques. What I’m trying to show here is how sales and revenue were part of the culture and way of life. Back then, it was a struggle to get some of the old dinosaur staff to sell, especially the Senior Managers but slowly it dawned on people that working in a bank was no longer a ‘job for life.’ Everyone had to share in the sales effort, including cashiers and enquiries clerks who were expected to pick up snippets in conversations with customers, to identify leads, introduce them to an 'advisor.' There was constant resistance from staff who walked the fine line between providing customer service and giving help and advice, whilst at the same time increasing sales. Many staff hated the changes but their jobs depended on it. If you didn’t adapt to the changing ethos, you wouldn't survive.

As the pressure to grow sales revenue increased, targets got higher and higher, and everything and anything was tried to improve results; Competitions, rewards, tickets for sports events, holidays. Other gimmicks like ‘points made prizes’ (the more you sold, the more points you got, the bigger the prizes.) Clever incentives introduced a competition element, playing people off against each other. Successful individuals were hailed saviours; talisman of success, to be admired, and to aspire to. Branches were revered as the chosen ones, their methods studied, simulated, and best practise ideas spread across the network.

Nowadays, there can't be anyone who works in a branch who doesn't accept sales and targets as part of the job (even if they don’t like it.) In some cases branches have been de-skilled to the point that there are few skills left at all, only sales people. And I'm not knocking this. Being of this 'new breed' was the reason I was recruited all those years ago. It hasn't got any easier over the years for staff in branches. It doesn’t matter that times are tough in the economy, jobs are insecure, money is tight, customers don't have the disposable income etc etc. Branch targets are still there. In fact, more than ever there is huge pressure to increase sales revenue. Overdrafts and financial worries facilitate loans, and ‘talking up’ loans to increased amounts. Further advances may need to be secured against property, and re-mortgages. With an increased chance of redundancy and stress-related illness, there’s never been a more necessary time to have insurance. So the demand for loans won’t diminish. However people must see that when jobs, careers prospects, salaries, bonuses are inextricably linked to performance and achieving targets, it's going to be open to mass mis-selling. If a failure to meet targets means bank staff lose take-home pay, is it any wonders misconduct is widespread, and systemic?

The debate will continue to run but I wanted to show you a slightly different perspective and that you might see how hard it must be, trying to do what’s best for the customer, selling to their needs, when you have to balance reaching targets and surviving in a dog eat dog world.

I don't see obvious solutions. The above is the reality and unless banks stop the hard sell culture and have a major about turn on targets, bonuses, prizes and other incentives for staff to meet sales targets and shift the emphasis back onto customer service, I don’t think it will ever improve.

Sorry, I’ve got on my soap box a little there but with the recent revelations it gives a chance to voice something that's been glaringly obvious to me for years! I won't say any more as I have some very dear friends who still work for the bank;)

Anyway, I hope you liked the newsworthy blog. Let me know your news. And for now, I'd better get back to the novel...

Until another day

Bye for now
xx

PS - As most of you may know, Google's Blogger platform went down for a day. It erased most of my Wednesday, Thursday and Friday morning comments to this post - at least twenty of them, and I can't remember for the life of me who you all were. Sorry ;)

'X' is for ... eXcuse me

2011-04-28T12:39:00.003+01:00

I deliberated how to do this; my final post of the A-Z challenge. I’m sorry fellow bloggers, but I have the chance to go away to the mother-in-law’s caravan in Wales today, and after two weeks of kids and Easter Holidays, and ongoing health problems, I need a few days out.

‘Me’ time. I've been likened to a hermit in the past. It's a good job those close to me understand. Hubby is home for the double bank holiday weekend and able to manage the boys, domestic chores, and animals. I shall be tucked away at a quiet caravan park that nestles between the Welsh hills, somewhere between Devil's Bridge and Aberystwyth and has no internet connection or mobile reception. Peace and quiet. Solitude. Most importantly, there's a TV set, squidgy sofa and no interruptions so I may watch the Royal Wedding coverage to my little hearts content without fear of depriving the boys of SpongeBob SquarePants or playing the Wii!

In between waving my Union Jack, I have plenty of time to reflect. Plan. Write. I’ve hardly done anything on my current WIP and time is running away until the deadline for the Romantic Novelist's NWS.

For those who may have been interested in my last three A-Z posts:

X … was going to be for - X rated. Is it just me, but I blush at the mere thought of writing sex scenes? Notoriously difficult to write, I have managed a few saucy lines in my current WIP although I'm not brave enough to share them with you at the moment. I may post them when I return, to see what you think ;)

Y ... was for YOU.

It’s funny how you meet people. I’ve said it many times over the years. A few weeks ago I was lethargic and struggling with confidence, motivation and health problems. Feeling particularly lack lustre, and defunct of mojo, I made my usual visit to the lovely Talli Roland’s blog. She always cheers me up! I saw the A-Z challenge was starting the following day and from somewhere, someone enthusiastic (and a little bonkers) whom I recognised as me in a past life waved madly in the background, and urged, ‘Yes, I can do that!’I dared myself to do a blog every day, to get me back in front of the laptop every day, focusing instead of drifting aimlessly day to day, achieving nothing and increasingly frustrated that my novel was not progressing. Writer’s write. It’s as simple as that. I see that now after meeting all of you; listening to your tips, ideas, work ethic, and receiving your words of support and encouragement have made me feel alive again. Seriously. I can’t tell you how glad I am that I did the A-Z challenge.

Thank you to Arlee Bird and all the other hosts for your efforts.

This brings me to...'Z'
'Z' is for … Z end…

It wasn’t that I couldn’t think of 'Z' words. I could think of several, but when I considered that this would be the last blog in the A-Z challenge, nothing made the grade for ‘Z’ - the final letter, the end, the finale - and so seeing the significance, it seems appropriate that’s how I finish.
I got to the end.

I had a little goal when I started to get over 100 followers… and hey, look at me. That’s not really important. What I love about this challenge is that I've met some new and really diverse, versatile, funny, thoughtful, quirky bloggers, and some cyber friends to remain with me as we continue our journey, together, to publication.

So there you are; one post that covers the last three letters of the A-Z post. I may be bending the rules to suit myself but I don’t consider I’ve failed the challenge by posting my last two days in with this post. Looking back to a month ago, I wasn’t sure then I would even get past the first couple of days. Who’d have thought it, eh? You can do anything if you set your mind to it.

I'll be back very soon but in the meantime, think of me, dressed in red, white and blue on Friday. The rain will no doubt be banging down on the roof of the caravan, and sheep bleating away in the distance, drowning out the trumpeting of the Blues and Royal Dragoons. But I’ll be waving my flag madly, and toasting a mug of British tea to you all…

Until another day
Bye for now
xx

'W' is for ... writer, and whether I'm one

2011-04-27T05:35:00.005+01:00

I don’t suppose I’ll be the only blogger participating in the A-Z challenge that will post ‘W’ for ‘Writer's,' but am the only one who has a slight niggle inside about calling myself a writer?

It's hard to call yourself a writer when you don't have anything published.
If we're going to be precise, I suppose I'm a wannabe writer. I write, that's what writer's do (granted, I might be doing more blogging than writing at the moment - lol) but as a rule, I write every day. In fact,my family will tell you I'm a full time writer and sit at the laptop 24/7. That's not strictly true. I sleep in between. And eat. I just don't get paid for writing, yet, although I can't think of a writer I've met yet, who does it for the money.

I've written a novel. It wasn't good enough so I've re-written it. Three times at the last count. And I've started another. Well, I have the first couple of chapters. Then there are the jotted ramblings, characters, settings for another, I don't know how many, novels.

I can't tell you how frustrating it was when I had my latest flare up and subsequent surgery and couldn't write. There were times when I thought I might go seriously mad! I have to write or I become irritable and grumpy, and bored, and my brain won't shut down when I go to bed.

There’s nothing I prefer to do than write. If I was shipwrecked on a desert island, I'd need my laptop. Me and my best friend.

But then I can never be lonely while I have an internet connection, and the company of all of you lovely people, and most of you, other writers. You're the only people who really 'get' me. We get each other.

Writing is not just about being published. It's about a way of life - living, breathing, and sleeping writing. That's why I was up at 4.30am this morning, typing this. Sometimes, you have to give in to the inspiration for the next blog, or the next few paragraphs of the book.

Whenever I meet anyone and they ask me what I do for a living I rush to tell them that I had to retire because of ill health and I don't work. Sometimes I add quietly that I write, I'm working on my novel. I usually have two responses. 'Oh, I've always wanted to write a novel,' is quite common. I smile inwardly when I hear this, and ponder whether they've ever sat, day after day, night after night, typing, editing, crafting, toiling, all for a few sentences, which if they're still not good enough will be cut anyway.

The other comment I get, fires my belly, and spurs me on.

'Good for you,' they'll say. 'I wish I could write. Let me have a copy when you're published, will you?'

At this point, I'll relay the tale to hubby.

'Well, I'm not a writer, yet,' I say.

'Yes, you are,' he responds, then he rolls his eyes at the dishes stacked up on the kitchen worktop, and turns the oven on to make his own tea...

Until another day
Bye for now
xx

'V' is for ...Versatile Blogger

2011-04-26T15:19:00.002+01:00

Wow, it’s busy doing this A-Z challenge! But what a lucky blogger I am.
I've been given some awards.

A new blog pal,the vivacious Siv Maria has handed me the Versatile Blogger Award.

I’ve also been awarded the Stylish Blogger award from the vibrant Katie O'Sullivan

And in between, I picked up a tag from a blogger who's always full of vitality, Anita Grace Howard

Thank you to these super talented bloggers for your awards and cyber friendship. Check them out if you don't know them already for some inspiring posts.

At the end of this post are my choices for who I'd like to pass the awards to. I've also shown the rules, although don't feel obliged, or try to kill yourself doing everything if I've picked you. We're all busy people and you'll see that I had to bend the rules slightly, combining the awards and tag or I'd never finish the A-Z challenge, make any progress on my current WIP, and bore you all silly repeat myself - I'd never be able to come up with twenty one points that are interesting enough about me!

So, here goes…

Seven things about me you may, or may not know.

1. When I was a little girl I played for hours alone in my bedroom with my teddies and dolls. My favourite game was libraries and sometimes I would pretend to be a writer, doing book signings. Maybe...one day...

2. I won a competition for poetry when I was ten but haven't written a single word of poetry since.

3. I had music lessons at the Yorkshire Academy of Music in Leeds and achieved Grade 8 recorder, Grade 7 Violin and Grade 6 Piano by the age of fourteen. Despite having the opportunity to stay there and study music, I stopped playing all instruments when I was fifteen and only re-started the piano ten years ago when my hubby bought me one.

4. I was the youngest member of the Hull Philharmonic Orchestra when I joined, aged eleven.

5. I left school when I was sixteen to work in my uncle’s hairdressing business but quickly went off the idea. Having no idea what I wanted to do, I decided to apply for a job in a travel agent's I heard advertised on our local radio station. Little did I know, but over three hundred others also heard the advert and applied, and when I arrived at the interview I had never seen so many people! But I got the job. It was my first lucky break in life.

6. When I was seventeen, I was approached in a pub by a man and woman who asked if I’d ever done any underwear and jeans modelling as I had a very good bottom! They left me their business card and needless to say, thinking they were a pair of weirdo’s, I never rang. But it transpired months later they were from a top modelling agency.

7. I've always harboured a secret dream to go on 'Stars in Their Eyes' and say, "Tonight Matthew, I'm going to be... Karen Carpenter."

So, has that enlightened you?

It was an interesting exercise. What struck me as I wrote my seven things is how we can waste the gifts and talents we are given, and how different life might have been if I'd taken slightly different paths...

I'm sure none of you have ever wasted any of your talents!

Thank you again to my new blog friends for the awards and your cyber friendship. It’s been a pleasure to meet you and I look forward to a long and happy association through the blogosphere. In the meantime, to find out more about my other bloggers, here are my choices for the awards. I haven't made it particularly easy by combining the awards - some bloggers have one, some have the other. I think I've got them right and cordially invite you to accept the one you don't have yet:

Versatile Blogger Award

Spirit Called, Jenn Johansson, JolenesbeenWriting, Charmaine Clancy, Anne N Kenny, Ali Cross, Luana Krause, Misha, Corner Cupboard, City Views Country Dreams, Josh Hoyt,
Romy Gemmell,

The Stylish Blogger Award

Tara Tyler,
Anita Grace Howard
Carole Anne Carr,
Ally Harris
Helen Leathers

If you wish to accept the awards, it is not compulsory, but there are a few basic guidelines to follow. The rest of the rules, I shall leave with you ;)

- Right click on the award and save picture as.
- Thank and link to the person who gave you the honour in your post. You will see I've also linked the giver on the awards on the right hand side of my blog. If you're on blogger, from your dashboard go into 'design' and 'add a gadget' and add the picture/link.
- Divulge 7 things that your reader may not aready know about you.
- Here's the catch...
For the Versatile Blogger award you should contact 15 bloggers. For the Stylish Blogger award, it's 5 bloggers.
This is the part I shall leave to your discretion ;) because you need to check the recipient doesn't already have it, and contact them to let them know they've received it and explain the rules.

Like Siv, I've spent a few hours doing this, so I share her philosophy. I don't know who made up the awards and their silly rules but I like the idea, even though it is rather time consuming when I have a million other things I should be writing! We're all in the same position so do with the rules as you see fit. I'm sure no-one will mind. As Siv say's, The best kind of award you can receive is one that is sincere and has no strings attached. I love all the blogs I've awarded, and to me, you're all versatile, stylish and simply super bloggers! If you do decide to go ahead, I look forward to catching up with your posts very soon!

Until another day
Bye for now
xx

'U' is for ... Miss Universe

2011-04-25T10:03:00.007+01:00

When I was deliberating my posts for the A-Z challenge, I thought about doing ‘W’ for the Miss World pageant, an event I used to love when I was a little girl in the 70’s. Then, while I was researching I came across a story on the BBC website about Shanna Bukhari, a British Muslim who wishes to represent Britain in the Miss Universe contest despite a huge furore and backlash against her involvement.

Shanna has received racist and abusive messages from:
- Muslim groups claiming she is denigrating the name of Islam.
- White supremacists - saying that an Asian cannot represent the UK.
- Women - who range in their condemnation from those who believe beauty pageants are an affront to feminism and she is demeaning all women, to more vocal shouts of, 'Shame on you, and rot in hell!' - an opprobrium from feminists.

The backlash from women’s groups is nothing new. The decline in popularity and subsequent televising of such pageants was as a result of many women finding the competitions degrading. One of the main reasons some Muslims are angry is that Shanna would have to appear in swimwear in one round of the competition. Islam is clear that a woman should dress modestly and it is not thought appropriate for her to parade herself in a bikini, although I understand she intended to wear a one-piece and a sarong.

Shanna has many supporters from Spain, the Middle East, Pakistan, India and China. Most women supporters say she represents not just a role model for Muslim women, but all those who refuse to be cowed by bullies. ‘Good for you, stand up for yourself, and don’t let anyone dictate what you can and can’t do.’ Why shouldn’t Muslims in the UK be allowed to have a western lifestyle? Why can’t she represent Britain when she was born here and is proud to be British?

It’s a complex issue. And I'm not even going to try and pick apart the arguments as apparently she had had death threats and had to hire a private security firm to protect her. But what strikes me is that society has not progressed since my childhood days when I used to watch beauty pageants. This story highlights the state of multiculturalism in modern Britain and the divisions that still exist along with the lack of social integration, and lack of adhesion between white and coloured people.

During last month's semi-final for Britain's Miss Universe, Shanna Bukhari received the most public votes. Britain has never won the title. It is increasingly possible that its first victor might also be its first Muslim representative, and if she wins, I suspect you will be hearing a whole lot more of her name as the arguments and debates rumble on.

There’s my ‘U’ – Miss Universe.

All I really wanted to know was if you ever watched these pageants in the past?

Until another day
Bye for now
xx

'T' is for ... TIME

2011-04-23T23:00:00.004+01:00

Do you ever wish there were twenty five hours in a day, or better still, thirty?

When I worked full time in a demanding role and had a small baby I was far more organised and in control than I am these days, being at home all day.

Some days I get up at 4am in the vain hope I might achieve everything, as if stretching a few extra hours will suddenly turn me into a domestic goddess, worlds best mother, and booker prize author, chef, olympic athlete, etc.

I don't ask for much. Only that as well as my domestic and mummy duties, I can get squeeze out all the other things I like to do - writing, baking, swimming, reading, playing my piano, meeting friends...

It's no surprise I don't quite manage it all. In fact, it's as much as I can do some days to get dinner on the table and the family in clean uniform. It must be true what they say about time going quicker as you get older.

As for doing my nails, putting a face pack on, simply sitting and watching TV, well, I have to prioritise. There’s never enough time to do everything. Something has to give. Am I a good mother? Maybe not, but I'm good enough.

I've learnt to prioritise. I try to focus. Conscious of not wasting a precious minute, I naturally gravitate to doing what’s important to me, and what's essential.

I appreciate a large part of my problem is the debilitating effect Behcets disease can have on my health and well-being, and there are times when I’m really fired up and motivated, and can move mountains. However, never quite everything gets ticked on my ‘things to do’ list.

You might say that you find time to do the things you love. But that can’t be strictly true. I crave to play my piano and bake. I’d love to go swimming every day. I’d like to get on with my non-fiction book idea, perhaps write a short story or two, but I can’t seem to do it all. For now, my biggest priority (as well as completing this A-Z challenge) is finishing my current WIP for the
RNA New Writer’s scheme.

So I’d like to ask you – how do you manage your time? Do you get everything done in the day?

And, if there were such a thing as a twenty-five hour day, what would you do with the extra time?

Until another day
Bye for now
Xx

'S' is for ... Simba

2011-04-22T19:06:00.004+01:00

Some of you may not have been acquainted with the yellow, hairy member of our family. No, not the husband. Our yellow Labrador, Simba.

Twelve years ago, and after much deliberation we decided we would like to get a black female Labrador. A friend of a friend told us about a farmer friend of theirs whose gorgeous Labrador had just had pups. The next day we went to see them. Somehow the fattest pup, a yellow male 'found' my son. They have been inseparable ever since.

We named the puppy Simba, after the Lion King Disney film (son's favourite film at the time.) Simba is Swahili for Lion and it seemed rather appropriate.

When he was five months old, Simba nearly died after eating slug pellets in the garden. A few months later, he went terribly lame. Despite his pedigree certificate, low hip score and none of his brothers or sisters having it, after expensive investigations, we found he was riddled with arthritis - hip dysplasia, both hips and elbow dysplasia, both elbows.

The vet told us he wouldn't reach three years old and I sometimes wonder with my health problems, whether it was 'meant to be' that Simba ended with us. I know all about the pain of arthritis and living with chronic pain. He's been on medication ever since. We have to limit his food and exercise, he now has cataracts and can only see shadows. He's deaf and can only hear claps and follow hand signals. His breathing alternates between shallow and raspy and deep and laboured - sometimes I think he's having a heart attack
as he can't catch his breath. Yet despite the prognosis, Simba is still with us, even though every winter we say, 'I don't think he'll last another year'...

He has to twist and distort his body to lie comfortably, as you can see.

These days, he spends most of his time asleep. As I type this, he's laying at my feet, snoring like a trombone, his body twitching as he dreams of the rabbits he used to chase...

There you have my 'S' word - 'S' is for Simba, our very special, faithful, wonderful family member.

Until another day
Bye for now
xx

'R' is for ...Royalty or Republican, depending on your viewpoint

2011-04-21T00:46:00.002+01:00

Millions across the world can’t fail to have noticed that in a week’s time, our future King, William and Kate Middleton - Queen Catherine, as she will be known, are getting married.

Photo - Reuters

For many of us it will be poignant, watching young William go down the aisle with the woman he loves; a middle class girl with no title or aristocratic background.

The marriage of Diana to Charles was about providing an heir to the throne, not about love, but as an impressionable, romantic fourteen year old, I was swept away by Diana’s ‘common touch' and compassion, and her beauty. To me, she was the epitome of a princess - how she went into the church a ‘commoner’ and came out a Princess, and future Queen - or not, as fate decided.

Some republicans believe the House of Windsor will collapse after our current Queen dies, or they certainly wish it. As well as the threat of terrorist attacks, it is understood that in the middle of the celebrations and led by the British group Republic, campaigners from Sweden, Denmark, Norway, the Netherlands, Belgium and Spain are coming to London on April 29 to protest against the cost of taxpayers bankrolling European royal families.

There’s a big difference between indifference and activism. For some, disapproval only stretches as far as a complaint about some of the Royal ‘hanger’s-on and I can agree with some points. Plenty has been voiced about Prince Andrew - how worthwhile his role is in view of recent allegations and associations. Other Royals are a waste of time and add nothing to the cause. The perpetual royal scandals haven't helped. Some Royals have become part of the celebrity culture and it has had a damaging effect.

I’ve always loved royalty. Yes, I admit it. Perhaps it’s a side effect of being brought up by my Nan who was a huge royalist, but I think our country is better off for having a Royal family.

When the (then) Princess Elizabeth married Phillip in the forties, she revived our war torn nation, providing a little light relief, a sign of hope, and something to celebrate amidst all the gloom and troubles. And to her credit, our Queen has selflessly served our country ever since. She is a wonderful ambassador.

Is it just me being sentimental and old-fashioned, perhaps naïve in my views; but are things so very different today as they were then?

It’s been a miserable few years. We’re still a nation gripped by unemployment and huge financial hardship after the deepest, darkest recession since the 1930’s. Our troops are still in Afghanistan, we’re under constant threat of terrorism, and then there’s the NHS… I won’t go on. All I wish to illustrate is that life is more depressing and frenetic than it’s ever been. It’s a proven fact that more people today suffer from depression, cancer or other illnesses - possibly as a result of increased stress and lifestyle factors.

Some people claim it's only the press who are foisting the Royal Wedding on us - creating a false impression and positive imagery - when the reality is, many Britons are far less excited and enthusiastic than press coverage suggests. However, I know of people coming from America simply to be in our country, watch it in our TV’s, and be part of the atmosphere.

We say there’s no community spirit. Street parties will be thin on the ground. Is it apathy, lack of funds, the challenges of Health & Safety requirements when organising such events? Here we are with the opportunity to embrace a little piece of history, and join together as a nation. We used to like a good excuse for a knees up!

This wedding will cost millions in pomp and ceremony (and security) but the UK will benefit from a huge increase in visitors, especially to London. The main reason foreigners give for travelling to the UK is because of our history and the Royal Family. Think of all the revenue that gives us, the jobs, and let’s not forget the memorabilia; celebration mugs, plates, etc. Many a pottery in Stoke or Worcester might have been closed by now. Royalty is one of the things that make our Nation special.

And with all the gloom around us, isn’t it nice to have something to cheer about for a change?

There you have my letter 'R' - Royalty or Republican?
Do you care one way or another? Or will I be sitting there, glued to the TV commentary on 29th April, wearing red white and blue and waving the Union Jack flag by myself?

Until another day

Bye for now
xx

'Q' is for ... Quiet.

2011-04-20T15:10:00.006+01:00

Shhh-h-h...

Can you hear that?
Listen, carefully.
Aside from the twittering radio interference garble of swallows, and two buzzards circling, mewing high in the sky...

...Amidst the frantic bleating of a lamb that momentarily loses sight of its mother, and above the deep hum of two tractors a few fields away as they plant potatoes, I can hear…

Oh, no, now there’s no chance…

Hubby’s car roars up the lane amid a cloud of dust. I wait for the crunch of gravel, for him to turn into our courtyard, and the thump, thump sound of music vibrating from the car radio. He slams the front door behind as he comes in and dumps his bags on the hall floor. Black brogues clip clop over the steps, and onto the slate tiles of the kitchen floor. Before he’s even kissed me, he flicks the radio in the kitchen on, plugs it into the extension lead, and brings it outside.

'It’s like a morgue in here. I don’t know how you can stand it this quiet.’

He plants a wet kiss on my cheek and goes through into the living room, grabbing the TV control as he passes the coffee table, and presses the green button to watch the news. I know it’s only a matter of time before tinny 80’s music will blast out of the Ipod speakers in the study.

Hearing him, the boys rush out from the bedroom. The sound of guns shooting and a Sergeant Major barking orders emanate from the X-Box they’ve left on. Before I can tell them to go back and turn it off, they yell to greet their dad and charge outside to bounce on the trampoline. Springs creak, fabric stretches, squeals of laughter peal out, and my young bucks vie for top dog position, wrestling in between their ‘I can bounce highest’ competitions.

Next door’s toddler pokes her pretty, strawberry blond head under the fence. ‘Hiya! Hiya. Hellooo.’ She’s impossible to resist. Her elder brother - who’s only five - bounces his football loudly, hoping to attract the attention of my boys so they'll give him some attention and play.

In the field across the lane, the farmer on his quad bike and his dogs send the ewes and lambs into automatic frantic mode. They give chase, baaing and bleating for the feed and supplements. The neighbours horses and donkeys decide to join the mayhem and hare across the field in pursuit of each other. By the time they have run a few feet, they lose track of who’s chasing who.

My youngest gets bored on the trampoline, finds the football and starts kicking and kneeing ‘keepy uppies.’ Without his younger brother to torment, the eldest loses interest too, and tennis racket in hand starts batting a ball against the house and on the decking. Next doors puppy yaps at our cat and gives chase. On the drive over the other side of the barn, I hear the neighbours pull their bins across the gravel, ready for the morning bin collection.

Hubby comes outside with a beer and sits down. The dog lollops towards him, panting and sneezing in excitement.

‘So how’s your day been?’ Hubby asks.

‘Quiet,' I say, and groan inwardly.

I do love them all. But sometimes, just sometimes, I wish they would all go away and leave me in peace.

Am I the only one who feels like this?

Quietness is not only a lack of noise, but it’s a state of mind. No agitation, excitement; with quietness comes calmness and tranquillity, a peaceful contemplation.

Quietness is underestimated and undervalued. Except by me.

For now, I shall have to wait until next week, when the Easter holidays are over. Then I might snatch some quiet time again.

Until another day
Bye for now
xx

'P' is for ... Progress and Positivity

2011-04-19T15:06:00.003+01:00

I haven't blogged about my progress for a while so when ‘P’ came up, I thought it would be the ideal word.

For anyone new to my blog, nearly five months ago I went through major surgery - total jaw joint replacements (both sides) caused by arthritis, one of the manifestations of my Behcets disease.

Did this really happen to me?

Was it really the 13th October that we drove to the hospital - me taking deep breaths, in, out, puhhhh, blowing away, like I was in labour - trying to calm myself, and not panic, and hubby kept reaching for my hand, covering it with his and crunching it tight as he tried to reassure me. 'It won’t be long now. Soon be over.'

Nearly seven hours of surgery later, and I came round in ITU and was sick, sick, sick - not good when you have two new jaws. Hubby was beside me. I couldn’t see him but I could hear his deep, booming voice. ‘It’s all done – it took six and a half hours. You look incredible. Well done, darling.’

On the one hand it feels as if it was yesterday. On the other, when I see the photos, it might have been ten years ago. When I did my last blog about progress, I think it dawned on me then that it was going to be a long, long road. And it has been.

I will always remember that first glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror after surgery. It wasn’t me. It didn't even look like my eyes. Tiny, tiny eyes filled with pain stared back in horror. Mrs Doubtfire was the first person to spring to mind. My face was an enormous pastry, doughy mixture. My neck, more swollen than when I had mumps.

Feeling as delicate as bone china for weeks after the surgery, there were times when progress stopped, ir it was so painfully slow, it was undeterminable. The pain was brutal. Everything hurt above the neck. Parts of my face wouldn't do what I wanted them to do. I developed a new party piece - I could only lift one eyebrow. The other sat like an overstuffed caterpillar about to fall off a cushion over my eye. My brain played silly buggers with my nerves for months. I couldn't stand noise. For weeks, every small step was progress; a shower, washing my hair, brushing my hair, pulling a top down over my head.

Now I am me. No more Mrs Doubtfire. There has been so much progress, although I still wonder if there will ever be a time when my jaws feel as if they are mine, rather than mechanical.

The most significant progress, is I have no TMJ or jaw pain. I stopped taking morphine months ago, and don't take any pain killers for my jaws.

The scars have healed wonderfully. The two on my neck are still pink, deep and painful - they feel sore and sometimes pull, although it helps when I rub in copious amounts of bio oil. And the ones in my head ache but otherwise, the scars around my hairline and ears are barely visible. I can turn my neck and drive without thinking about it. Sometimes it feels a little sensitive if I wear a scarf as it rubs, but nothing much.

There are tender patches on my head that feel as if been scalped – hair might have been yanked from my head - and it still feels tender, almost bruised on parts of my forehead and eye socket.

I still can’t sleep on right side as it hurts to put my head and ear down. And if I turn on my left, I have to lay with my head angled on the pillow so that my ear sits below the edge or between a gap to cushion it.

Most of the feeling has now returned to my face but all around my hairline, the scars are still numb. The tops of my ears have feeling but the lobes could be pierced without any feeling.

My mouth opening is about 2.5 - 3cm, a huge improvement from the 1cm opening pre-op.

My bite isn’t quite right - it's still tricky to bite spaghetti or salad but that's no big deal in the scheme of things.

I can just about brush the backs of my teeth.

I can eat crusty bread. And sweeties.

When I use my jaws there is always the sound of a quiet rustling, like fabric or newspaper if I tune in to it. They squeak if I eat an apple or anything that makes them work hard. But there is no longer a clunk or click when I talk or yawn.

I can sing, laugh, yawn, and talk. Oh, I can talk! By the end of the day when I'm tired my cheeks ache, as if I've been laughing too much. And I'm not sure whether others can spot it but when I'm tired I also develop a slur or lisp and my words don't come out quite so easily. If I get too excited and want to speak too quickly my brain stops me, like I’ve had a stroke and slows me so I sound like I'm drunk. Or imagine a ventriloquists dummy. Sometimes it feels as if someone has their hand stuffed up my back and is making me speak, forcing the words out, yet all the time, my mouth won't co-ordinate with it and my face feels taut and stiff.

However I look normal. I go to the shops, the bus stop, the school playground, and to people who don't know me, there is nothing untoward except a couple of scars on my neck if you look up close. Strangers would have no idea what I've had done.

I learnt the hard way that with this surgery there would be no day on day improvement. It was no good getting frustrated or trying to push progress. My consultant told me it might take six months to get my jaws working to capacity. It's still only five months. When I see him in a couple of weeks for my check up he'll be delighted with my progress. Looking back at the photos, it's clear how amazing it's been. A lot of that has been my mental attitude but staying positive has not always been easy. TMJ replacement surgery is complex and the recovery is a slow process. Patience is not one of my virtues.

We still don’t know the life expectancy of the jaws and being realistic, it's inevitable I shall have to go through the whole thing another once, twice - maybe three times in my life time. But after eighteen months of the most debilitating, all consuming TMJ pain, I am free of any. And for now, I can't tell you how good that feels.

Until another day
Bye for now
xx

'O' is for ... OLYMPICS

2011-04-18T10:21:00.006+01:00

In 2012, The Olympics are coming to London

London has hosted the Olympic Games on two past occasions, in 1908 and 1948.

The planned 2012 Olympics will make London the first city to have hosted the modern Games of three Olympiads. Our family is really looking forward to being part of the history.

A public ballot system is currently allocating 6.6million tickets to UK citizens who want to go and see the events. To make it fair the tickets are not being issued on a first-come, first-served basis and will only be allocated once the window closes on 26 April. Tickets for the Paralympics will go on sale in September.

We’ve made our selections; Athletics, Cycling, Swimming, a football match at Old Trafford. Fingers crossed.

The 2012 Games will give a huge boost to tourism in the UK, especially London with visitors from all over the world wanting to see the games and visit. Sebastian Coe, Chair of the London Organising Committee of the Olympic Games and Paralympic Games, said: “London 2012 will be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for the UK to show all we offer."

My earliest memory of an Olympic games was in 1976 when I can vividly recall being enthralled by the Montreal Olympics and watching Brendan Forster run the 10,000 metres. Unfortunately, he only got a bronze medal and it was Britain’s only track and field medal at those Olympics.

I was ten years old then. Next year when the 2012 Olympics come to London, my youngest will be eleven and he might not realise it yet, but he will always remember the year when the Olympics took place in London

So there you have my word for the letter ‘O.’ ‘O’ is for Olympics.

What would your choice of events be? And/or what is your first memory of an Olympic games?

Until another day
Bye for now
xx

'N' is for ... Namby Pamby

2011-04-16T16:07:00.002+01:00

How many of you have heard the phrase, ‘namby-pamby?’
It’s a phrase I love although hopefully no-one could ever accuse me of being namby-pamby!

If someone is considered namby-pamby they would lack character, substance or courage, and be insipid, weak, and indecisive.

Here are a few examples of how it may be used for those who might not be familiar with it:
-‘Gerard couldn’t understand how Sheila could dote over any dog, let alone a ‘namby-pamby’ poodle.’
- ‘Stop being so ruddy namby-pamby and tackle your opponent!’
- 'It wasn't a namby-pamby cat fight, but a brutal affair where hair was ripped from her scalp...'

The phrase ‘Namby-Pamby’came from a derisory term given to the English poet and playwright, Ambrose Philips (1674 - 1749) When he became tutor to George I's grandchildren, the raised position and status rather went to his head and he started writing ingratiating, sentimental poems in praise of children, written in affected, insipid nursery language.

His work was derided by rival poets and playwrights, especially Henry Carey and Alexander Pope. They thought his sentimental, singsong verses were too childish and simple. Around 1725, Carey came up with the rhyming nickname 'Namby-Pamby' (playing on "Ambrose") to parody Philips and created a satirical version to imitate the cloying nursery style. Carey was the first to put the poem, Namby Pamby, into print, around 1725:
All ye poets of the age,
All ye witlings of the stage …
Namby-Pamby is your guide,
Albion's joy, Hibernia's pride.
Namby-Pamby, pilly-piss,
Rhimy-pim'd on Missy Miss
Tartaretta Tartaree
From the navel to the knee;
That her father's gracy grace
Might give him a placy place.

Before long, the term ‘namby-pamby’ began to be used to describe a style of insipidly precious, simple, or sentimental writing and over the years, the connotation widened to more of a general disparagement, and 'namby-pamby' entered the language to refer to anything that was considered weak or indecisive.

Something else you might not know is that 'namby-pamby' was the inspiration for the name of the children's television character, Andy Pandy – a puppet that featured in the Watch With Mother classic series which started on the BBC in the 1950’s. It was one of the first programmes especially for children and I remember loving it when I was a little girl in the late 60’s.

So there you have my ‘N’ word in the A-Z challenge;
‘N’ is for ‘Namby-Pamby

Until another day
Bye for now
xx

'M' is for... Mother's Love

2011-04-15T13:19:00.004+01:00

Ok, so I'm cheating slightly today. You might call it a lazy day, although actually I'm trying to be brave (especially with all you writer's out there.) This is my current WIP in progress and other than the A-Z challenge, it's what's taking up every spare minute of my time as I prepare it for the RNA New Writer's Scheme. So I thought I'd share the first chapter of my debut novel with you. It's called, Mother's Love.

Until another day

Bye for now
xx

MOTHER'S LOVE

Chapter 1

You reap what you sow. I knew my time would come. I recall the exact moment, on a stifling, hot day in the summer of 1976 as I sat at the kitchen table and watched a fly stick to the yellow Vapona. At the time there was no hesitation in my mind of what I was about to do. But that was a long time ago and it’s wrong what they say about burying the past. It has a habit of finding its way out and I see now I have been sitting at the kitchen table ever since.

Over the years, the more I’ve tried to escape the past - forget the wrongs and put them behind me, hoping they wouldn’t stir - the more they remained, prodding at me every day, every birthday, every Christmas, every time I see and speak to Rebecca. And now, I’m consumed by that sense of fear again, the furtive unrest. The blind unreasoning panic.

All I ever wanted was to protect Rebecca. She was my life. My reason to live again when I thought there was none. I always believed I was doing my best and that anyone faced with the same would have made similar decisions. Then a few months ago, my son, David, sent me a birthday card. Inside the card was a short note asking if he could come and see me, and talk. As my fingers stroked the glitter that highlighted the rose and I re-read his message, I thought of the life I had before that summer in 1976 came along and changed everything, and I wondered, was it worth it? If I had my time again, would I do the same? I knew then it was time to face up to what I’d done.

And I lay here now, oxygen whistling out of the white, plastic moustache positioned underneath my nose, still deliberating how to put it right. Rebecca sits beside me, her long slender fingers – piano fingers I used to call them - absently flicking through a magazine, as she keeps vigil. The sun has bleached her hair a light honey shade and the thick, wavy spirals look as if she’s been riding a motorbike without a helmet. Her sun-kissed skin contrasts against the whiteness of the hospital bedding and walls. Willowy limbs and delicate features belie her strength. She’s stronger than she thinks, and wiser than she knows. I made her so.

Closing my eyes tight, the bright lights of the hospital ward tinge everything orange while my mind wanders as if I’m in a library, flitting across shelves, flicking between books, dipping into pages. Illustrations are my memories, and words, my recollections of the past. Clear, yet disjointed pieces in my mind.

I picture my old council house on the Wybourn estate, Sheffield, surrounded by a four-foot privet hedge. The Wybourn estate was a sprawling mass of matchbox houses with back-to-back gardens but it had heart, our community. People laughed at life and feared nothing. We all looked out for each other. But it was like living in a goldfish bowl, living at the top of the crescent, everybody that walked past gawping in the front room. Net curtains helped give some privacy but the small white window frames didn’t let much light in anyway, never mind that they forever needed washing of the orangey smog which belched out of the steelworks over the years. Thank heavens for the clean air act.

The house had a red brick lower floor, the upper half was grey pebbledash and ‘London’s Pride’ lined each side of the path from the front door to the green painted wooden gate that hung more off than on the hinge and banged whenever there was the slightest breeze.

And there’s Bertie, swamped by the tartan blanket that he could barely stand pressing down on his body, staring pitifully up from our big bed, his face all angles and hollows, and grey. Get the bed warm my love, I won’t be long. My body wills me to sleep, to never wake up but I can’t give in yet. I need to know Rebecca will be alright. I don’t want her to be alone again, like she was that day when I found her…

***

It was only a short walk round to David and Linda’s two-up two-down terrace on the Maltravers Road. Being only a couple of kids themselves, they were grateful for my help when they had Rebecca. But one day as I let myself into their house and heard her screaming from upstairs, I knew straightaway she was alone.

'Hello, Linda it’s only me.’ I listened for a second, watching the vapour of my breath suspend in the cold air in front of me. ‘Hellooo, is anyone home?’ At first I thought Linda might have fallen asleep or been taken ill. However, in the kitchen, dirty washing up floated in murky, grey water in the sink, scum lapping at the edges. Empty tins and redundant wrappers scattered every surface, and a sour smell emanated from an open, half-empty milk bottle. A stale loaf of bread sat in front of the breadbin next to a tub of Stork, the knife still sticking in it. The front room was the same; old newspapers, unfinished mugs of coffee all over, and a trail of vinyl singles and empty covers led to a new addition on top of the sideboard - a brand new Dansette record player sat - the auto-drop arm suspended mid-air interrupting the stack of vinyl singles, positioned and ready for playing. It must have cost a fortune, and they reckoned they didn’t have any money.

Hearing the baby’s screams become more urgent I ran up the wooden staircase, two at a time, almost tripping at the top, and was incredulous with what greeted me on the landing. One of the bedroom doors had a terry nappy tied around it and had been draped across to an adjacent door, securing it shut to stop the occupant getting out. Not that she could, a one-year-old baby.

‘It’s all right darling, Nan’s coming. I’ll get you out.’ I frantically tore at the knot of white towelling to undo it. ‘Nan’s here, lovey.’ I tried to reassure her through the door. ‘Oh, my God... Jesus Christ...’

My hand went to my mouth, part shock, and part reaction to the stench that hit as I walked into the room. Navy velvet curtains masked whether it was day or night. It made little difference to the baby in the cot on the other side of the room. Except when I pulled the shabby curtains back, she shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun and cried even louder.

'It’s okay, Rebecca, did I frighten you? I’m sorry, darling,’ I tried to console her. It was hard to tell how long she’d been there alone. Judging by the state of the cot, it could have been a couple of days. It was more than a couple of hours. Somehow she’d managed to wriggle free of the rancid nappy and thrown it out of the cot onto the carpet. She wore only a dirty vest. Smears of faeces covered it and her delicate, pasty body. Her little eyes were red and puffed from crying and the effects of ammonia that hung in the air. Slivers of wallpaper she’d peeled off the walls and tried to eat lined the cot. Where she’d picked at the walls the damp of the room had lifted the seams, and the edges of the lime green and brown flowered paper curled up to reveal a sandwich of woodchip and several layers of other garish papers beneath.

Her eyes adjusted to the light and focused, her cries turning into more of a desperate giggle as she recognised me. Her slender arms reached out; a tiny, helpless bird, begging me to pick her up.

‘Oh, you poor lamb. I’m here. Come to Nan.’ Hoisting her into my arms, hot tears sprang in my eyes; a mixture of pity and anger seeing her in this state yet relief that I’d found her. ‘Poor little mite. How could they do this to you, my precious?’ I cried, cradling her in my arms and jigging her on my hip, attempting to pacify her. Precious little girl.

For a moment, I was cradling my daughter, Teresa. The day she died was the day I stopped believing in God. God would never have let her die so young. God would never have brought such misery and grief by taking my precious girl.

‘Come on. Let’s get you out of here.’ I tried to bend, baby still in my arms, to open the chest of drawers and get some clean clothes but I couldn’t manage it. I placed her on the floor but straight away she became hysterical and her arms went up again. ‘It’s all right darling, I’m not going to leave you. Nanny’s just getting your clothes. Here we are…’ I showed her the tunic dress and top. It was horrendous hearing her distress. ‘It’s going to be alright.’ Lifting her over my shoulder, I tried not to get the clean clothes dirty. ‘It’s OK, darling. Hush... shhh... Nan’s here.’ In the bathroom, I wrapped her in a rough towel to try to keep her warm before turning on a tap at the sink. Cold water bit at my fingers so I made downstairs to fill a kettle and heat some water to clean her up. They shouldn’t have had a child, they never wanted her, and David, where on earth was he with all this going on?

Without a second thought, I took Rebecca home with me. Don’t ask why, but I left a note for Linda, telling her where she was. Stupid really. I should have left her to worry herself half to death when she came back and found the baby missing. It was three days later before she turned up at my house, wailing and carrying on. I still don’t know if she’d only just gone home and found the note. She didn’t even ask to see her little girl. Simply handed over two carrier bags and stood there sobbing.

'You can have her, Mam. You can keep her,’ she cried. ‘I can’t cope anymore. And if you don’t want her, put her in a home.’

You might wonder how any mother could do that; give away her child. I wondered the same thing myself many times over the years. Maybe that’s why my search for redemption is fathomless - I’m running out of time, and there’s too much to forgive.

It started long before the summer of 1976, or the time I found Rebecca in the house, back to a time when I had a waist so slim I could span my hands round it. Before Bertie. That’s my only excuse; that it happened before Bertie. Things might have been different if I’d known him then. It was a lifetime ago. A lifetime spent searching for an absolution that will never come. Because the question I keep coming back to is, how can I ask for forgiveness, when I can’t forgive myself?

'L' is for ... the LONDON MARATHON

2011-04-14T15:34:00.002+01:00

I’m trying to get as many people as I can behind Jimmy who is running this Sunday, 17 April 2011 in the LONDON MARATHON in memory of my dear friend, Carmen (Woozle) who sadly died on New Year’s Eve, 2009, aged only 42.

Held every spring, this year’s 31st London Marathon, sponsored by Virgin Money, is now one of the biggest running events in the world. It’s hugely, hugely popular and notoriously difficult to get into. In 2010, 160,000 applied for a place and the race saw a record of 35,500 finishers.

What makes the London Marathon so special is the amount of charities it supports. Since it started in 1981, the event has raised over £450 million and holds the Guinness world record as the largest annual fund raising event in the world.

My hubby has run the New York marathon but despite several attempts has so far been unsuccessful to get into the London Marathon. Knowing several people who have run it, we have heard it is very, very special marathon, which is huge fun to run, and you hear of some heart-warming stories of human endeavour and spirit. The crowd and atmosphere carries people around the mainly flat course 26.2 miles around the River Thames, and through the streets of London to the finish in The Mall alongside St. James's Palace.

In last year’s, there were more world records achieved than at any time in the marathon's history. 74 heroic runners took part in 29 official world record attempts, and 18 new Guinness World Records were achieved and featured in the famous book.

Here are just some of the records:
• Most money raised for charity by a marathon runner - £1,841,138
• Most runners linked to complete a marathon - 34 people
• Tallest costume worn while running a marathon - 7.04 metres
• The fastest marathon dressed as a vegetable - 3 hr 09 min 21 sec
• Fastest marathon carrying a 40 lb pack - 4 hr 42 min 44 sec
• Fastest marathon in a fireman's uniform - 4 hr 45 min 16 sec
• Fastest marathon run by a married couple - aggregated time - 5 hr 59 min and 20 sec
• The fastest time run in a Santa outfit is 3:12:27

Just a little additional information for anyone who is interested. The name Marathon came about to commemorate the legend of a Greek soldier Pheidippides who, legend tells us, was a Greek soldier who acted as a messenger. Having fought in the battle of Marathon (490,BC) the legend says that he ran the whole way from there to Marathon proclaiming “We have won” before collapsing and dying. And appropriately the oldest man to complete a 26-mile marathon was a Greek runner - Dimitrion Yordanidis who ran it in Athens, Greece in 1976. At age 98, he finished in 7 hr 33 min.

There’s hope for my hubby yet.

But in the meantime, if anyone can help Jimmy raise the £5,000 he’s aiming for in memory of Carmen, then please - anything, however small, is most welcome.

Good luck Jimmy, the star in my blog for today. Carmen will be up there, looking down and cheering you on with the rest of us.

So there's my 'L' - the LONDON MARATHON

Until another day
Bye for now
xx

'K' is for ... KNICKERS

2011-04-13T14:02:00.005+01:00

Pants, panties, drawers, briefs, undies, passion killers; call them what you like, but it’s always been knickers for me.

Pants and pantees just don’t have the same ring and Knickers is a very British reference to what any readers in the US and other countries might describe as girls/women’s underwear - an item that preserves modesty and stops a draft from getting where it shouldn’t;)

Knickers usually have an elasticated waist, are made of a light layer of fabric which fits snugly and cover from the waist down to two leg openings. A lined crotch panel covers the genital area. In the British sense of the word, knickers have no legs or in some cases very short ones.

Here are some interesting facts about Knickers you may not know:

- The name knickers came from the long bloomers that used to be women and girls underwear.
- Knickerbockers were full breeches which gathered and banded just below the knee.
- In the US, I think you refer to Knickers/knickerbockers as a type of golfing pants – or Plus fours.
- Wearing no knickers is known as going commando!
- When Emmeline Pankhurst (pioneer of the Women's Suffragette Movement) died she was famously wearing split crotch knickers

- Marks & Spencer is the biggest seller of Knickers in the UK, selling over 50 million pairs of knickers worldwide each year – that’s 137,000 pairs of knickers sold each day.

- The word Knickers has a naughty or playful connotation in the English language. Here are a few typical sayings to make you smile:

- ‘Pah, knickers to you!’ is a way of telling someone that you don’t care about them or their opinion.

- The phrase ‘Don't get your Knickers in a twist!’ is commonly used as a way of telling someone to calm down and not get angry.

- 'Ooer, look at her, Miss Tarty Knickers!’ – might apply to a women who dresses too provocatively or sexy.

- And one of my favourite phrases, best said with my Yorkshire accent is, ‘She’s all fur coat and no knickers!’ In other words she might look rich and glamorous, but she has no class!

There's a huge array of knickers out there; Boyshorts, low rise, bikini, high leg, hi-cut, classic, G-string, V-String, hipsters, French knickers, granny knickers, thong (although why anyone would wear a cheese grater between their legs is beyond me;)...

How do I wear mine?

Or if I’m going out on the town , the bigger the better.

Although not quite as big as these:

So there you have my K word – KNICKERS!
It's a little cheeky but I can't finish the post without asking what type of knickers you wear? ;)

Until another day

Bye for now
xx

'J' is for ... Jam and Jerusalem

2011-04-12T11:50:00.002+01:00

Our local WI are a lovely bunch, nothing like the formidable old battle-axes of sizeable girth who bicker over who makes the best jam traditionally associated with the Women’s Institute, and not a purple rinse in sight.
Crafts, cooking and healthy eating form an important part of the WI's history. Originally set up in 1915, The Women’s Institute (WI) had two main aims: to revitalise rural communities and to encourage women to become more involved in producing food during the First World War.

But times are changing. Years ago the WI was the only thing to do but now women work and have active and varied social lives so WI doesn’t have the same appeal.The infamous ‘naked calendar’ and run-ins with the Labour party, efforts to modernise it's image and increase membership, demonstrate the efforts of the increasingly publicity-conscious WI.

People are busy. Life is hectic. There are never enough hours in the day. That’s the only reason I haven’t joined, yet (along with health and other commitments.) It’s inevitable I will join the ranks, one of these days. As the largest voluntary women’s organisation in the UK it does hugely valuable work on a local level and is a great galvanising force in the community. It pulls people together, gets them to do things and is very pro-active.

The WI has a long association with the hymn, Jerusalem.
The poem, written by William Blake (1757-1827) was later set to music by Sir Hubert Parry and Sir Edward Elgar. During the 1920s, many WI’s started choirs and the National Federation of Women’s Institutes set up a music committee, appointing a Mr Leslie as an advisor. Mr Leslie held a one-day school for village conductors in London in early 1924 and asked his friend, Sir Walford Davies to write an arrangement of Hubert Parry's setting of Jerusalem, for WI choirs. This hymn with its association with the fight for women's suffrage was seen as appropriate for the newly emerging WI movement who were encouraging women to take their part in public life, and fight to improve the conditions of rural life.

The special arrangement for choir and string orchestra was first performed at the Annual General Meeting of NFWI held in the Queen's Hall, London in 1924. Mr Leslie conducted the singing himself and brought a choir from local WIs. It was so successful, it has been sung at the opening of NFWI AGMs to this day. Many WIs also open meetings by singing Jerusalem.

By co-incidence, Jerusalem is a very special hymn to me. My Nan was from Glastonbury, where many incredible myths and legends connect Glastonbury with Joseph of Arimithea.
In the mid/late 1920's, when Nan was a young girl, there were some major renovations to the Town Hall, including a hall added to the rear of the building and once completed.

A grand re-opening ceremony was arranged and twelve boys and girls were selected from St Benedicts school to sing at the opening. Nan was one of them. Her father was so ill with heart disease he had to be helped up the steps by three people. But nothing would have stopped him. Not only was he proud to hear his daughter sing but the whole town wanted to hear the new choral version of ‘Jerusalem’ (or Glastonbury Hymn as it was sometimes known because of the connection William Blake made in the words to Glastonbury and Joseph of Arimithea.)

It was the first time the people of Glastonbury heard the tune when she sang it. And it has only been since she died that I've pieced together the timings and can see how the tale she told me links to the WI choral version.

Many people today see Jerusalem as more than a hymn. It is almost our national anthem; as popular at rugby internationals as it is at earnest Labour party conferences; it is universal in its appeal. It’s also more than just the name of a magical place. It represents the British nation itself. And for me, you will see how it is particularly special.

So there you have my ‘J’ - Jam and Jerusalem

Until another day

Bye for now
xx

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?

And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold:
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O Clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire.

I will not cease from Mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land.

'I' is for Ideas and Inspiring

2011-04-11T14:03:00.002+01:00

As a writer, my brain often feels a bit like a washing machine, constantly whizzing, humming, buzzing, with new ideas I've found when I watch TV, drive, read the paper, sit in the hairdressers or stand in the queue at the supermarket.

Ideas pop up at the most inopportune moments. On a couple of occasions I had to jot them down on the back of a till receipt or use an eye liner to write key words and consequently, I've learnt to always carry a notepad around and even have one by the side of my bed in case I wake up in the night, suddenly struck by the next novel.

I’ve studied lots on how to generate ideas and overcome writer’s block but personally, I’ve never been short on ideas. My next three novels are imprinted firmly in my mind’s eye with thumbnail sketches of the characters, plot and settings for each. I have a writer’s bin where I keep all ideas, including titles and key phrases for stories or novels as well as any superfluous work I might have edited in the past. A bit like the loft, it’s important never to throw anything away. You never know when it might come in handy.

However, my problem is sometimes I don’t feel inspired to create anything with them. It’s really hard to come up with a piece of quality work or something of value for a blog, article or story line. I need something to inspire me - that trigger from the idea that gets me going, writing something I feel so passionately about, that once I start putting pen to paper and write the first word, it is a catalyst for everything else whirring around in my head, to transpose on to the piece of paper where your pen is yielded; an effortless transition from brain to pen to paper and before you know it, the piece has written itself.

When I’m truly inspired, I find I'm desperate to get that idea punched into the PC, and once I’m on a roll nothing will stop me, not even the internet connection (and Facebook and Blogger ;) I know part of this is tangled around discipline or motivation, and that's another blog altogether, but I’ve found the A – Z challenge has been really good for me -in an inspiring way.

- I’ve discovered that I am inspired and most productive when I’m writing about something that’s important to me. Then, the blogs almost write themselves.
- Despite it being extra workload on top of my existing, I’ve found myself constantly thinking of ideas, jotting things almost brainstorming in desperation, and when I look back over the ideas I’d written down, there are sometimes glimmers of little gems in there.
- It’s been better to brainstorm ideas and write down everything but the key has been doing it RIGHT NOW. There’s no time for procrastinating when I’m trying to blog every day and work on the novel to get it in for the RNA New Writers Scheme. I can always edit afterwards but I’ve needed to DO IT NOW to keep on top of the blogs.
- And finally, and a bit perverse, I’ve found that the pressure of time has also forced me to be creative and that’s been a real eye-opener.
English writer Graham Green attributes much of his success to that simple habit. He forced himself to write at least 500 words daily, whether he felt like it or not.

It’s the lifeblood of a writer to be able to generate ideas and get on with the work and perhaps creative inspiration can strike at any time, but it strikes more often when there is work instead of waiting.

So there's my 'I' - IDEAS and INSPIRING

How do you get ideas and inspire yourself to write?

Until another day
Bye for now
xx

'H' is for ... Happiness

2011-04-09T19:55:00.003+01:00

Are you happy?

What makes you truly happy?

It’s a question I ask myself a lot these days. We’re looking forward to Easter and wishing a Happy Easter to everyone. Every year we’re wished a Happy Birthday, Happy Christmas and a Happy New Year. But I’m not entirely sure what happiness is any more. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy. Some of the time. But living with chronic illness and pain day in day out tends to dull the sparkle from you.

There was a time in my mid-twenties when I was so happy I thought I would burst. Someone I once worked with said I like a breath of fresh air. I wonder if they'd think the same if they could see me now. Being the kind of glass half full type, I try to remain cheery despite spending much of the time being frustrated because my body won't always do what I want it to do. And being a perfectionist doesn’t help. I read an interview with John Cleese a while back. In it he mentioned how being a perfectionist meant he was never completely happy and I understood what he meant by that. When I decided 'H' was for Happiness in the challenge, I asked myself what makes me happy. Not surprisingly, it raised rather a lot of questions;

- Can you ever be truly happy when you live with chronic illness and pain?
- We tend to be happy when we’re in love. But does that mean another person can make you happy, or do you have to do that all by yourself?
- Are we happier when we’re children? And if so, does that mean old folks aren’t happy?
- I look at people worse off than myself and ask what have I got to moan about? I have two wonderful boys, a loving husband, beautiful home, brilliant friends… and much more. Some people are never happy or fulfilled and I don’t intend to turn into one of those.

It’s only human to want to be happy but over the years I’ve learn to accept that on occasions unhappiness is a part of life. What I refuse to do is let it move in forever. Living with chronic illness, it’s unrealistic to expect to be happy every day and here's how I've coped:

- I tell myself pain is there for a reason, like a warning. Nature is very clever when she’s not being a pig. Nature defines we’re not supposed to be happy during physical pain but we can have the strength of endurance and look forward to feeling better. So when I’m in the midst of a flare up, I’m kind to myself and tell myself it won’t last forever. And when I’m feeling better I’ll do such and such.
- I’ve learnt to ‘use’ the good days – along the lines of ‘make hay while the sun shines.’
- Perhaps most significant, I’ve discovered how to embrace my pain and condition – this ‘lodger’ of mine – a kind of making my peace with it. It has taken a long time to reach this point.
- I find happiness in the simple things - listening to the rain, watching the boys bounce on the trampoline, eating Bailey’s ice cream - a bit like those endorphins I mentioned in my ‘E’ is for Exercise Blog, the feel good hormones kick in when we’re working our bodies and endorphins play a big part in feeling good and being happy.
When I went to the Easter service at my son’s school on Thursday, I can’t tell you how happy I felt during and after watching their little beaming faces as they told us the Easter story and singing the Spring Chicken song. It was pure joy.
- After spending time looking inwards, I have found in spite of my health problems there are some things I can do that make me happy. I was devastated when I had to retire aged only 32 but after I left the bank, I tried running a little craft business to fill the gap. Then when my health got the better of that too, I started writing. You have to keep going to find the thing you like (and are able) to do. For me, I found writing is a significant thing besides my family and friends that makes me happy and feel fulfilled.

So if you are struggling to find happiness, perhaps ask yourself sometime; what is the one thing you would really like to do? Often it’s something you have thought about for a long time, perhaps even since you were a child but never thought you could/should do it.

You might find that gives you the fulfilment, joy and happiness you have been looking for.

Happiness, like thoughts, our incentive and creativity are born within, and can only come from somewhere deeply imbedded within each of us. And happiness isn’t a gift we receive from someone else, it’s a present we give ourselves.

I will leave you with this thought; something my Nan was forever telling me when I was a little girl. ‘Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and you weep alone.’ The full version is at the end of the post.

And if all else fails, watch this It can't fail to make you happy!

So until another day
Bye for now
Xx

Solitude
Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow it's mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

G is for ... Great Writers

2011-04-08T19:45:00.001+01:00

I can’t stand doing those Facebook Farmville/Poker games. But a year or two ago, someone sent me a quiz asking me which great writer I might be like. After doing the quiz, I came out as Edgar Allan Poe. The only reason I can surmise his name came up was he was an alcoholic and I’m known for being rather partial to my wine of an evening ;)

It is the consensus that you can teach people to write and I think this is true. In addition you can even teach people to write well enough to sell their work. But can you teach someone to be a great writer? Or will they be great if they practice enough? Is it simply a case that some have it, and some don’t?

I’ve always maintained and I’m under no illusions, I’ll never be a Booker Prize winner. I don’t profess to be a great writer in literary terms. That said, what I love to read is ‘great’ writing. To me that means literary fiction; books like Tess of the D’Urbevilles, The English Patient, Kite Runner, Memoirs of a Geisha, Wuthering Heights; some of the real classics of our time. However I bet if I asked a hundred women who like to read Romantic or Women’s Fiction who they think are great writers, Catherine Cookson, Barbara Taylor Bradford or Maeve Binchy would soon come up.

Is it just a matter of opinion? Is the accolade of greatness given depending on the amount of books sold? Is it the length of the book? Or is it the poetry of the prose?

In the last poll for The Book magazine, Harry Potter author JK Rowling was named the greatest living British writer, receiving nearly three times as many votes as second-place author, fantasy writer Terry Pratchett and previous Booker Prize winners Ian McEwan, Salman Rushdie and Kazuo Ishiguro followed. Nick Hornby, Jonathan Coe, Philip Pullman and Muriel Spark made it into the top twenty.

So what exactly makes a great writer?

There are a huge variety of stories on the shelves but what makes the jump into the league of Hemingway, Alice Munro, Raymond Carver, or Doris Lessing, for instance. What makes ‘Gone With the Wind’ a better love story than ‘An Affair to Remember’ or ‘Breakfast at Tiffany's?’

Trying to get a definitive list of our Greatest Writer’s, or even a leading group of contenders, is a hazardous undertaking. At worst it is harmless fun, and at best it might provoke us to consider what constitutes great writing, whether a canon has any validity, and who determines what work survives.

I’m no literary critic so I can’t speak with great authority. But to me, a great writer has the ability to connect, as if we are the only reader in the world. When I think about some of the best novels I’ve read, what jumps is that they are so effortless, they don’t read like writing. Great writing is a combination of things, but how the writer engages me and the distinctiveness of their voice is what sets them apart - that tone, essence, and breath-taking choice of words paragraph after paragraph, page after page, is what does it for me. The likes of Pinter, Stoppard and Lessing have changed the literary weather. Their work endures the years.

I guess ultimately posterity decides who the truly great writers are.

So what do you think about what makes a great writer? And who’s your favourite?

Until another day

Bye for now
xx

'F' is for ... FRIENDSHIP

2011-04-07T16:25:00.004+01:00

Throughout my life, I've encountered many, many people, some of whom I found a special connection and became friends with. Hubby says I gather friends like flowers. I like that analogy. They are all little flowers.

Over the years my friendships have evolved like the stages in my life. Friends have come and gone with changes of school, new jobs and house moves, some fading along with the memories. My children found me friends – mum’s I was in hospital with when I gave birth. Mum’s from the school gates. Their best friend’s mums. The bus stop mums. Mum’s from when I went to mum’s and toddlers groups. Other friends I’ve gathered have come from my many trips into hospital. A couple of friends were from when I did my little craft business. I’ve made friends with several people in our village. A few years ago, I joined the Purplecoo online community and I have forged some wonderful friendships with several of them. Then there are the people I’ve met in the last few years; mainly aspiring writers from writers courses – My Arvon friends, My Caerleon friends, my Blogging Friends.

I recently found my best friend from school through Facebook. It was nearly thirty years since we had been in touch and yet despite that, when I found her and we started communicating, it was as if it were just yesterday that I last saw her. Back then, we used to sneak off just away from the centre of our village to privacy of the rear of the primary school and church where there was a track through to some woods, and we would sit by a gate on a stone, sharing a cigarette and coughing together while we discussed our latest crushes or what we were going to wear to youth club the following week.

It turned out she had looked for me many times over the years. We both pledged when we found each other we would never lose touch again. Health permitting, I’d love to get over to Leeds this year to meet her and for us to spend a weekend reminiscing and giggling like silly schoolgirls again.

Some of my friends remain constant. They are my true friends. What I mean by that is I know they will be a friend for life, even if we are separated by years or miles apart. I have a handful of my dearest true friends. They care about me as much as I care about them. They really are the best friends anyone could ask for irrespective of whether I have known them ten, twenty or thirty years.

My closest friends are as different as a tin of Quality Street. One is groomed and gorgeous, (looks a bit like Julia Roberts,) constantly on the go, highly strung, analyses everything, but is practical, pragmatic and superb in a crisis. One is a tea and sympathy kind of friend, wonderful listener, serious and thoughtful. One is dippy and charming, reminds me of a red-setter how she can be all over the place. One is timid and quiet but the most selfless person you can imagine, and kind and reliable. One is ever so slightly self-absorbed but great fun and totally solid. I could guarantee if I rang her in the middle of the night, she would come to me like a shot... See what I mean about a mixed bag?

We need different friends for different things. We lean on them, or look to them for light relief, dependent on our own mood and situation. I know I can depend on them all, as they depend on me. We may not speak every day (or every week for that matter) but when we do, it will be as if we were never apart. We can be ourselves, be unguarded and open, and show our vulnerability. We are in good hands when we are in each other’s company. They love us the way we are, faults and all. We understand each other. We trust each other. Implicitly.

At this point, I'd also like to mention my friend Carmen, (I met her on Purplecoo originally.) Sadly she is no longer with us. She died on New Years Eve 2010, aged just 42. Her support, enthusiasm and zest for life will never leave me. I miss her very much.
Her darling husband Jimmy is running the London Marathon next week so if you can help even in a small way, please click on her photo to sponsor him and help him raise £5,000.

Despite all my personal problems and health problems, my true friends have stayed with me. We have laughed and cried together as we have been together through good and bad times. We are all there for each other whenever we need someone. For some of us our children have now become friends. Hopefully they too will have friends for life.

I tell my eldest son who has been with his first girlfriend for nearly a year, don’t forget your friends. As well as a romantic relationship, your friends are the most important people you will have. You never know when you might need them. But it has to be a two way thing. If you give lots of kisses and hugs. You will get many back in return. We might be lucky enough to have family we can talk to and depend on, but our friends are always there for advice, comfort and inspiration.

So there's my word for today. 'F' is for Friendship.

Until another day
Bye for now

xx

'E' is for ... EXERCISE

2011-04-06T14:04:00.003+01:00

Exercise is a four letter word, isn’t it?

Well, some forms of exercise are ;)

- L-e-a-p, j-u-m-p, lift, flex… :)

Sound too energetic? How about swim? Or walk.

We all know that exercise increases fitness levels and helps you lose weight. But did you know for many chronic pain sufferers, exercise can improve mood, give a general feeling of well-being and actually help control pain levels?

The reason for this is Neurotransmitters, remarkable bodily control and functioning mechanisms. One of these neurotransmitters is endorphins - powerful hormone-like substances produced in the brain that function as the body’s own natural feel good chemicals and painkillers. And scientists have discovered that during physical activities - including sex -but exercise in particular, the body releases endorphins which can produce feelings of euphoria and a general state of well-being so powerful, it can actually mask pain to the same extent as morphine can.

In addition, exercise releases adrenaline, serotonin, and dopamine which work together to make you feel good, and it decreases stress hormones such as cortisol.

The problem I’ve had recently and alluded to in recent posts, is that I’ve lost my mojo and I need motivation to exercise. I won’t beat myself up that I’ve let it slide recently because I had a good excuse having major surgery. But it's time to get back in the saddle, so to speak.

This A-Z challenge has given me a bit of a buzz again for the first time in months. Positive thinking and laughter provoke the production of endorphins, the same as taking a walk during a sunny day or meeting an artistic person does. And I can see it’s the endorphins, my natural feel-good hormones that are kicking in. The challenge has got me focused and motivated, writing again EVERY day, and with the encouragement and support I’ve received from fellow bloggers, it’s really spurred me on. THANK YOU.

I believe in exercise and the power of endorphins. Exercise has kept me out of hospital for the last ten years. And it helped me tremendously last year while I waited for surgery. TMJ pain was the most incredible pain, like no other pain I've ever suffered. And I’m sure one of the reasons I coped so well and have recovered from major surgery so quickly was because of my level of fitness and the positive outlook.

My next step is to get exercising again. It can't be a marathon, or a run at all for that matter. I can’t do anything high impact - it must be strictly non-weight bearing or it causes flare-ups - and I can’t push myself too hard or too fast for the same reasons. I can’t afford to mask pain so I will listen to my body. I know from experience that all it takes to promote those endorphins is moderate amounts of exercise to get effects.

Swimming and cycling are my thing, and Yoga is perfect as it reduces tension and stress and focuses on stretching, breathing, and motion that release negative emotions in the body.

So, there you have it – my‘E’ is for Exercise... and Endorphins.

Until another day
Bye for now
xx

D is for... DETERMINATION

2011-04-05T09:31:00.004+01:00

Sperm are determined. Salmon too and how they travel upstream to spawn. And swallows; any time now they will fly in the thousands of miles from South Africa to make a nest and raise a brood in the eaves of our barn simply because it’s where they nested last year. That’s because it’s their natural instincts to do so. They travel to whatever lengths, face whatever challenges, and jump whatever hoops to achieve their goals.

As humans, we’re just as determined in the way we live our lives – sometimes driven by instinct, but more often by our upbringing, or our goals and plans for life. Determination is in my makeup, my instinct for sure. I’ve always been the same - stubborn, determined and driven.

You can’t imagine how it affected me when my body stopped cooperating with my mind, ambition and dreams. It was like the ultimate betrayal. How dare my own body let me down? I’d always treated it pretty well, eaten my vegetables like Nan told me, exercised, looked after myself like I was supposed to do when I was pregnant. Yet still my body betrayed me.

It was never meant to be like this. Learning how to live with Behcets disease has been the biggest challenge of my life. Never a day goes past without my frustrations bubbling up over something or other; cancelling holidays! (Thursday's blog) Despairing at the state of the bathrooms that need cleaning, knowing the beds haven’t been changed for three weeks, not being able to go and weed the garden. I have never played football or had a play fight with my sons. And of course, I had to give up my job to cope with everyday life and the pain.

There are days when I wonder how I ever had time to fit in working. I was so organised, I would prepare the dinner the night before and simply stick it in the slow cooker in the morning. Now I’m at home all day, we’re lucky to have a good square meal on the table. Often it’s an easy ready dinner compromise or takeway. Shocking eh? Again, you can’t know how difficult that is for me because I used to be a fab cook. I enjoyed experimenting and found it easy.

Luckily, as well as having an understanding family, I’ve learnt how to live with my illness. It has meant adapting. Adapting means I survive. And it also means compromising my dreams and what I’d really like to do, understanding my limitations. I’ve learnt the ‘be kind to myself’ strategy. Living with an auto-immune disease and being in chronic pain means if I do exert myself a little, I need to rest afterwards, then I can do a bit more. For example, if I do the beds this morning, I’ll sit and read or write this afternoon, and leave the bathrooms until tomorrow. Instead of hand-crafting birthday and Christmas presents – the things I used to love doing - I not only have to buy them, but I have to plan well in advance as I’m slower than I used to be and usually, I’m working around some flare-up or trying to be organised, just in case of the next one.

Not going out to work means I can lead life at this pace and not push myself too hard. The day is a series of stop, starts and compromises. Work, rest, rest, work. I get the balance wrong at my peril, and the whole family pays for it. And flare-ups are not necessarily self- induced. Sometimes auto-immune diseases just happen. Flare ups have no rhyme or reason. It’s a strange journey. Me and this lodger of mine.

Being as stubborn and determined as I am, I’ve learnt this the hard way, through pain and suffering. Like those salmon I still go upstream every day of my life, often knocking myself up in the process. But I have a hard head and don’t listen to others as I should. This is one of the lessons I still need to learn.

Knowing my limitations will always be part of my life now. The frustrations go with the territory. But this is where I have a problem as I always do things the hard way. Like Winston Churchill, I ‘Never, never, never give up.’ And he won a war, didn’t he? Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

There you have my 'D’ – DETERMINATION

Until another day

Bye for now
xx

C is for...my children

2011-04-04T08:41:00.006+01:00

How can you have two children, (whose names both just also happen to start with the letter 'C') bring them up the same, yet their characters are completely different?

Where do I start with Cameron, Trainee Chef and eldest son
Well, there’s only one Cameron, that's for sure! His character is his strength, and he really is a character; one of those once seen, never forgotten types. Despite his lazy tendencies, he’s razor sharp and has charm in abundance. He’d make a wonderful salesperson and is a natural leader. It wouldn't surprise me if he ended up famous; maybe a captain of industry or on the TV as a celebrity chef.

He appears strong, invincible, and occasionally madcap to the outside world. However, as his mother I know he’s often wearing an invisible shield, the one with feigned self-confidence and bravado. He’s at that age, nearly eighteen, (it must be hormones) when I wish I knew what was going on in his head. I try to talk. Sometimes he doesn’t want to. Sometimes he can’t. Sometimes I can’t shut him up. Sometimes he hates the world. I try not to nag or push too much but I can’t win. I’m a mother, which means on occasions I’m his emotional punch bag. My love is unconditional. He knows that, and that I’ll always be here for him. He tells me he loves me several times every day so I’m luckier than many who have teenage sons.

Cameron’s character will be the making of him. Everyone who meets him says he’s special. I hope in time he will see it for himself and make the most of it.

Chef Cameron; my crazy, characterful, Cancerian clown of a son

Then there's litle Callum, light of our lives. Callum, constantly cheerful and co-operative is still at ten years old considered cute. And thankfully, he’s also very cuddly although he can be cool with strangers. He's altogether quieter, more reserved than his elder brother, never crazy. He’s far too busy being cautious, sometimes fretting unnecessarily. He’s sharp too; intelligent and how he surprises us as the comedian.

Underneath the quieter façade, he’s the one with the confidence. He has a smile that will light up a room. He’s kind, loves animals, and is considerate. It’s a rare quality in one so young. Perhaps it’s my illness that has made him that way. And he has his own health issues to contend with. They think he may be showing signs of developing my Behcets disease. The tests have started. Only time will tell. When he has flare ups we lose our little ray of sunshine for a few days/weeks. His effervescence flattens like a bottle of pop left with the lid off. But most days he is chirpy and bright.

Cheerful, chirpy, Callum the cuddler, confident and calm.

So there you have my C words - Cameron and Callum. My Children.

'B' is for...BLUESTOCKING

2011-04-02T15:43:00.009+01:00

I considered writing a bodacious blog about books. Books are my life. But then I had a thought. After all these months of blogging, Hubby asked me last week, why is your blog called ‘Bluestocking mum.’ So today, on the second day of the A-Z challenge, ‘B’ is for Bluestocking.

According to the Oxford definition, a Bluestocking is a woman with strong scholarly or literary interests.
The Bluestocking Society was founded in the early 1750s by Elizabeth Montagu (2 October 1718 – 25 August 1800.)

Being from a wealthy family, she had strong ties to the British peerage and intellectual life and when she married Edward Montagu, a wealthy man with extensive holdings she became one of the wealthiest women of her era. However she devoted this wealth to fostering English and Scottish literature and relief of the poor. And along with her friend, Elizabeth Vesey and several others they organised a women's literary discussion group - The Bluestocking Society - a revolutionary step away from traditional, non-intellectual, women's activities at that time.

The story goes that they invited various eminent men to attend, including the botanist, translator and publisher Benjamin Stillingfleet. Stillingfleet was not rich enough to have the proper formal dress, which included black silk stockings, so he attended in everyday blue worsted stockings.

They may have been fashionable glamorous people, but their work focused on the life of the mind. Through their correspondence, parties and meetings they rebranded the idea of sociability to embrace women's right to education and enlarged the boundaries of what women could think, write, and do. And thus the term ‘Bluestocking’ came to refer to the informal quality of the gatherings and the emphasis on conversation over fashion.

Until the late 18th century, the term referred to learned people of both sexes. However it subsequently became applied primarily to intellectual women. In time the name Bluestocking was applied solely to women of pedantic literary tastes. For a period, Bluestocking was a denigratory term, an insult, so much so, that it helped create a climate for generations of women who lived in fear of being labelled a 'bluestocking.' In the 19th century, the Brontë sisters and Mary Ann Evans (George Eliot) felt it necessary to hide their genius under male pseudonyms; in the 20th century the word conjured up images of desiccated female dons. The original 'blues' were much more various than this stereotype suggests, but their dilemmas about intellect, fashion and femininity are still with us today.

When I was researching, I discovered a couple of points from the archives that might to make you smile:
"Women don't become bluestockings until men have tired of looking at their legs.”

And, former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher was described by the BBC in 1957 as "very pretty, and dresses most attractively. Very feminine ... her main charm was that she does not look like a career woman."

This is where my own experiences are relevant. Smart women have always had a problem. If you're clever and plain you can be dismissed as a bluestocking; high-minded but unable to get a man. If you're clever and sexy you're ten times worse, a bitch, you sleep your way to the top – perish the thought - a career woman. Fifteen years ago when I was appointed Branch Manager of Lloyds Bank Newport, Shropshire, there were very few women Bank Managers around. There was a fair amount of bitching about why I was given the role; I’d never worked in a bank before and goodness, I was only twenty seven. I was a woman. And oh yes, I was blonde.

I knew my appointment was controversial and had a huge desire to ‘prove myself.’ Intensely conscious of my image, I toned down my appearance, reverted to my natural brown hair colour instead of blond and had it cut in a bob and dressed in dark, business-like suits, wore tights/stockings on my legs(never bare-legged,) and natural peachy shades of makeup (no bright coloured lipsticks.) These were all attempts for me to be taken seriously.

I took over the role from a fifty seven year old dinosaur of a Manager who used to intimidate his customers and throw things at his staff. His lending was exemplary (no-one would dare default!) but he was not the future of Lloyds Bank. And in the fullness of time I was able to show why I got the job; on merit, because I was good with people. My role was about customer service, developing the staff, and sales, sales, sales. The bank was changing. The organism that adapts will survive.

Intellectual women have increased greatly in number since the Bluestocking days. Some 55% of new entrants to university are women and outnumber men at every level up to PhD. But from my own experiences I see how the struggle for the right to be clever, sexy and feminine goes on. The original 'Bluestockings' were our foremothers, the missing link in an unbroken chain of female creativity. Their work should never be forgotten.

So there’s my ‘B’ word. ‘B’ for Bluestocking.

Until another day

Bye for now

xx

A is for ...

2011-04-01T11:24:00.007+01:00

Having just visited the lovely Talli Roland I noticed something strange is going on out there in Blogland starting today - An A - Z challenge for bloggers.

Well, I’ve joined the merry bandwagon.

Thinking about where to start isn't difficult. I want a positive start. You may see from recent blogs, I haven’t been feeling too positive lately, I've rather lost my mo-jo. Sometimes living with chronic health problems can get you down. And the last eighteen months have been more of a challenge for me than the last twenty five years. However, as someone who’s maxim is, ‘There’s no such word as Can’t,’ it’s time for me to try and get it back.

Nan used to tell me I could achieve anything if I wanted it and worked hard enough. So my word to start the A – Z Challenge is ACHIEVE.

I am going to achieve my short term goals;

- To finish my novel in time for the RNA New Writer’s Scheme.
- To get 100 followers on the blog.
- To blog every day during April.

What do you aim to achieve today/this April?

Until another day

Bye for now

xx

Another holiday bites the dust

2011-03-31T09:50:00.007+01:00

I should be on my way to New York today. But I’m here, sitting at the island in our kitchen, looking out at the emerald green fields to the front of the barn.

A nearby farm house is cradled in a dip as if to keep snug from the elements. Outside the wind buffets the double glazing and shakes at the bird feeders on the trees until they slide off and scatter peanuts over the ground. The cat, his fur ruffled, darts across the garden like a thing possessed and pleads with urgent mews to come in. He cosies up alongside the dog that is at my feet. We all hide away.

I haven’t been well for weeks. I thought it was the after effects of my recent surgery. Then I supposed it was my age. Eventually I went to the doctors. An enlarged uterus was diagnosed. What now. More blood tests, an ultrasound showed nothing serious although I have to see a gynaecologist and have more investigations. Sometimes I get so sick of always having something wrong with me.

It got worse. After spending most of the weekend in bed, I woke on Monday morning with crippling stomach pains. Hubby had to rush me to A & E where we spent most of the day. Inflamed ovaries. As well as my Behcets disease, I’m now a menopausal old bag. No, that’s a little melodramatic - I’m not quite past it yet - I’m still producing hormones, they are imbalanced. It’s the peri-menopause. Great. It might go on for years.

We’re delighted to hear I will be allowed home with pain killers, as long as I rest. But we’re supposed to be going to New York on Thursday. It’s been planned for months. We had to cancel twice last year with my jaw problems.

'I’m afraid I can’t support a trip to New York.’ The doctor frowns and in a few short words shatters our day.

All I wanted was to go up the Empire State Building and re-live the moment in 'Sleepless in Seattle.' To see the Phantom of the Opera on Broadway and the Statue of Liberty from the Staten Island ferry. And meet my cyber-friend Frances who I’ve been acquainted with for several years.

The hubby is brave and philosophical. We can't take the risk if something goes wrong while we're out there. And the insurance would be invalidated if the doctor won't support us going. The boys are stoic and cheerful. In the scheme of life it’s not important. It's just a trip. There will be other trips. But we all know I’m not really robust enough for city breaks. Better in the future stick to sunshine, pool, and writer’s holidays. When I come through the disappointment, I will bounce back as I always do, and tell myself there are people far worse off than me. And there are.

Something crashes outside. A garden chair has flipped back in the wind. Callum’s goalposts are strewn upside down in the neighbour’s garden. All I can think about is in the bedroom the clothes are all still draped over the clothes horse, ready to pack in the suitcases. Sometime today I shall have to put them all back in our wardrobes.

I’ll get over it. I always do. In the meantime, I’ll write - push on with the novel for the RNA New Writer’s Scheme. I won’t be having a few days break from it after all.

So until another day

Bye for now
xx

'Sick' writer. Help needed

2011-02-07T10:19:00.027Z

When I opened the curtains this morning and looked out at the grey oppressive day, I could sooo easily have got back into bed and snuggled beneath the duvet.

I’m probably not the only one to think it today. Listening to Rabbi Lionel Blue give his ‘Thought for the Day’ on Radio 4 this morning, apparently the first Monday in February is known as ‘National Sickie day’ - the day of the working year when the highest numbers of employees are likely to call in sick. But he also suggested that getting down to work is often the best therapy for morning depression. Calling in sick might not be the answer for everyone.

His words struck a chord. When I was in the bank and had my health problems it would have been easy to go off sick. However, I often went into work when I shouldn't. One particularly bad day, I hobbled in to open the branch and keep some customer appointments. Mid-morning, I went to the doctor's for both feet injecting. I’d never had them injected before. He warned me it would be painful, the feet being made up of such small bones. He wasn't kidding. It must have been mild shock but afterwards, they had to make me a cup of tea and allow me to stay seated for a while so I didn’t pass out.

'Right, now off you go home, put your feet up and rest for a few hours until the injections take effect,’ my doctor said.

'Oh, no, I can’t do that,’ I replied, after I'd composed myself. ‘There’s too much to do. I have more appointments and a meeting later.’

'I can’t keep on patching you up and sending you back out there,' he said, half joking, half-serious. Then he added kindly, 'Why don't you give it up - go and write poetry - your body can't keep taking this. Sometimes you have to know when to give in.’

He couldn’t have known me very well. ‘Giving in' is something I'd never, ever done. And even a few months later, when I had to retire from the bank, I wasn’t about to start.

Since I left, it’s good to be able to sit down in the day if necessary, or go to the gym for a swim or a Jacuzzi. It often helps the pain and stiffness. But over the years, I've had to re-invent myself several times, adapting to survive and stay happy. Leaving the bank made me feel a bit of a failure. I started a little craft business but when my health got the better of that too, I found writing was my salvation; it distracted me, kept me 'busy,' stopped me dwelling, and becoming depressed. Writing keeps my brain alive. It makes me feel worthwhile – yes, I know being a good mother and housewife is worthwhile - but writing is something for me. It makes me feel I'm good at something.

The trouble is, I'm floundering. Two years on and there has been no success. The only thing that keeps me going is my dreams and determination. It’s my own fault. I haven't pushed anything I've written with any real conviction. If I'm honest, that's because I haven't finished much. Writers write. And I do write a lot, except once I've written it I delete it, put it in my slush bin, or play around with it for hours, hoping some new bud will miraculously spring upwards and make it a masterpiece. I procrastinate. I've blogged today, hoping I'll feel better for freeing up my mind. But the bottom line is I could have added a thousand words to my novel.

These days, my inability to work (not only writing) is sometimes a mental hurdle rather than a physical one. Something inside, some little worry worm, burrows into my brain and makes me doubt myself. Re-reading my last blog, I was full of good intentions, excited by the possibilities of what lay ahead. Here I am; no further forward. Despite this wonderful opportunity on the RNA New Writer’s Scheme, every day when I sit down to the second novel, I panic.

Lack of self-confidence and belief cripple me as much as a flare up in my wrists or fingers stop me from writing. I’ll never do it in time. I’m only up to 12,000+ words. How will I get it up to 90,000 and completed in time for August? Anyway, it’s not good enough. I’m not writing what I want to write - I’m not fun enough for chicklit/rom com – These are just a few examples of what's going on in my head.

Every few months my first novel pulls me back to it. I have an idea to take it somewhere completely different. I think it could work. Yes! Yes! Yes!

No.

I can’t do it. I’m not talented enough - I don’t have a degree in creative writing. Neither of my novels is any good. I’ll never be a published writer. Does this loop that's been going around in my head since the New Year make any sense to you, reader? I know the writers among you will be smiling. Having read some of your blogs, I’m aware that crises’ of confidence go with the territory of being a writer.

Rabbi Blue’s final points resonated most. ‘Don’t be defeated by perfectionism – even if you fall short of the task in hand, at least you can say you gave it a go.'
This is the crux for me. Being a perfectionist means finding happiness with myself is a continuous challenge. So for now, all I can do is keep 'having a go,' although I still don't know whether I should put all my energies into the first novel or the second.

How do you cope when you’re crippled by that lack of belief? How do you keep going? And for the writers among you, any tips for how I’m going to muster 80,000 words in the next six months would be appreciated too.

Until another day

Bye for now

x

New Year New Me (with new jaws)

2011-01-12T14:04:00.006Z

A belated Happy New Year to all.

Christmas came and went in a blink, and with the dark nights (and days) still here for a few weeks, I’m fighting the doldrums. I don't know why. A year ago I was just about to go for my first lot of surgery. Here I am with it all behind me, everything to look forward to.

I’m always the same at this time of year. Perhaps it’s the anti-climax, the realisation that (yet) another year has passed; knowing you’ve put too much weight and drunk too much and it’s going to be an uphill struggle, and you still haven’t achieved all the things you planned to do last year.

However the one thing I like about January 1st is it’s a time to wipe the slate clean. I can put the past behind me, dream the dreams of everything I’d like to do; re-evaluate and make changes.

Usually in January, I’m full of renewed vigour and set myself a mountain of resolutions and projects ‘to do’ that very quickly get broken or fall by the wayside. I did it last year, then with my health problems and the operations spent much of the year beating myself up about what I was unable to do and didn’t achieve.

Why do we do that – set ourselves up to fail? Why are we so hard on ourselves?

The trouble is, my brain is still alive (even though my body might not always do what I’d like it to,) and I need something to keep me going or some days with the Behcets disease, I might prefer to curl up under a stone.

What’s the answer?

Well, a slightly more pragmatic me has raised myself after the Christmas/winter slumber this year. I’ve decided to cut myself a little slack. Let’s face it, who knows what’s round the corner, (especially with my health.) So I’m not going to make any resolutions. I need aspirations rather than resolutions – and aspirations that are realistic and achievable. Let’s face it, I’m never going to win the Booker,I’ll never be able to run a marathon and I don’t suppose I’ll get a nomination for ‘mum of the year’ any time soon. I’m going to focus more – and pick one or two key aspirations rather than make a shopping list.

To do this I start by asking myself, ‘If you could choose one thing that you'd really like to do, just one thing, that would enrich your life and make you happy, what would it be?’

It’s easy to answer. I've been desperate to get back to writing. It’s a cliché but writing is my passion and I’m pleased to announce I have been accepted again on the Romantic Novelist’s Association’s New Writer’s Scheme.

The first aspiration therefore follows - to finish my second novel, Country Strife and get it off to them for critiquing. The second is something I’ve been talking about for long enough. With the surgery behind me there are no more excuses - oh yes, except my illness, and life which sometimes has a habit of getting in the way - but you will be pleased to learn I’ve actually STARTED that non-fiction book I’ve kept talking about. Living (and smiling through) long term illness and/or pain.

That’s it. Nothing else. If all I achieve by the end of 2011 are those two things I shall be very pleased with myself.

Now it’s over to you - same question - ‘What is the one thing that you would really like to do – just one thing, (however small) that you keep telling yourself you would do, if only you had more time, more money, more motivation…’

You don’t need to write a book. It might be something simple like write your memoirs, start piano lessons, call an old friend, volunteer. As long as it’s something you would really, really like to do. Another true cliché – life is too short. It’s time to grasp it, get on with it. Carpe Diem – seize the day!

After all the hurdles and hindrances I encountered in 2010 I shall spend this year living a creative, joyous and fulfilling life.

Just like my second novel, a new chapter in life is waiting to be written…

So until another day

xx

Christmas Blessings

2010-12-20T15:13:00.008Z

In a weeks time it will all be over. That’s what Nan would say if she was still here.

Well, I don’t want it all to be over. In fact, I don’t mind if Christmas Day doesn’t come at all. Suspend this day, and the other days that lead up to December 25th because for me, it’s the build up, the anticipation which fills me with the joy of Christmas; decorating the house, bringing the food in, meeting up with friends, hearing from people who we only hear from at this time of year.

On this run up to Christmas, I always find it’s the one time of the year when people give a little more, act a little nicer and for some, be the people they want to be all year round. A while back I read somewhere, "I wish we could put up some of the Christmas spirit in jars and open a jar of it every month." It made me smile although this year despite (or maybe because of) the extreme weather, I find there's a great spirit everywhere. It's as I’d imagine the Dunkirk spirit; people being stoical and cheery despite the circumstances, helping each other, being extra thoughtful and looking out for those vulnerable people like the sick and elderly.

Listen to me and my ‘God Bless us, everyone.’ Perhaps I’m getting older but I often find myself melancholy and reflective around this time. When I hear of people killed in car accidents, think of our men and women in the Armed Forces, learn of someone who’s having a tough time, I always feel a little more for them if it's close to Christmas, aware that from now on, instead of Christmas being a time of joy and happiness, it will always be a little bit worse.

My Granddad died just before Christmas the year before I was born and it was also his birthday in December. When I was a child, I remember asking Nan why she had sad eyes one Christmas. Now I understand why. Christmas is a sad time for many people. Spare a thought for some of my friends;
Kate Hardy has just lost her dear Dad. B, my lovely neighbour, started chemotherapy on Friday knowing she has secondary cancer. Despite numerous scans and tests they can’t find the primary source. J, one of my dearest, longest standing friends will once again spend Christmas without her husband. He’s only sixty-five but has Alzheimer’s and has been in a care home for the last few Christmas's. J will have her family around this Christmas and her friends will all be there for her, yet I understand how there may be times when she'll be in a roomful of people, yet still feel like the loneliest person in the world. Then there’s Mr Woozle. They say time’s a great healer but I bet as he faces the first anniversary of his beautiful wife’s passing, it doesn’t feel much like that.

Bless those of you who have troubles and worries in your life and know that I am thinking of you. If I could grant you one wish it is that I could take your troubles away. Of course I can’t do that so I hope instead of being sad for the whole Christmas you might spend some of the time re-living happy memories and smiling.

As I recover from my surgery there is a lot to be thankful for. Who would have thought I’d be able to eat my Christmas dinner, chomp on nuts and sing carols. Despite all the grief and worry he’s caused us, Idle Jack has a job when many don’t. And I'm thankful too that hubby is still in work. A year ago we didn’t know what might happen when his company were taken over. Spending the week in London is a small price to pay. Quiet Mousie has health worries (he’s showing signs of developing my Behcets disease) but with a wonderful Professor of Rheumatology at Birmingham Children’s hospital looking after him and a Mum who understands the disease, we can help him manage it. And let’s be especially thankful, he’s not going to die from it. Some children won’t be so fortunate this Christmas...

As mine rip open their presents on Christmas morning, I shall be reminding them that it’s not about what you get. It’s about what you give too; friendship, love and support to those who need it most.

I have everything I want for Christmas; a full fridge, the log burner exuding warmth, my lovely family and the best friends in the world, and for now, I’m grateful that my health is holding up - health is everything. So yes, I’ll be counting my Christmas blessings this year more than ever, surgery behind me and with much to look forward to.

On that subject, can I take this opportunity to thank you all for your support and kind messages throughout the year.

I wish you all the joys of Christmas and happiness throughout 2011.

Until another day

God bless us, everyone.
xx

Progress II

2010-11-17T11:57:00.022Z

Well I’m back. Not just back home but I’m me again. Mrs Doubtfire has left the room. It's five weeks since my surgery. And again for the benefit of anyone else facing total replacement TMJ surgery (see previous blog,) here’s my progress from when I came home...

The first couple of days out of hospital I’m as delicate as bone china. The pain is brutal. I can’t stand noise. I sleep like a geriatric, nodding off for minutes here, hours there. Unable to concentrate and read a book, I am content to flick through magazines.

Quiet Mousie grins broadly whenever I look at him, thrilled to have me home. Idle Jack has a few days off to ‘help.’ When I first hear this, I'm anxious at the prospect, and of him making his mess everywhere. While I was in hospital he didn’t visit and barely sent a message. First day home and he’s gone off to his girlfriends to stay over. It’s like he doesn’t care. That’s teenagers for you. When I eventually see him he’s sheepish. Furtive eyes. Then I realise. It’s not that he doesn’t care. He was frightened. And now I’m home and he can see me, he’s better.

I’m soon appreciative for his efforts. He makes soup and cups of teas, prepares food and does housework without me asking. We sit and re-watch the Harry Potter films 1-6together in anticipation of the launch of the latest film. By the time he goes back to work, I miss him and his good nature. I’m blessed to have my two boys.

7 days post op

The first time I go out is to have my stitches removed. Walking into my doctor’s surgery I grasp Hubby’s arm and everyone stares as if I’m Frankenstein’s monster. I apologise to the nurse for doing this to her on a Friday afternoon. It takes forty-five minutes to remove them. It could have been worse. But not much.

Stitches out - 10 days post op

I send a message to friends on Facebook and post photos. I think about writing but thinking is as far as it goes. Ideas stay locked in my head. A week later and I’m able to read a chapter of a book. Trouble is, I’ve changed the book about five times.

Progress has stopped. Or it’s so painfully slow, it’s undeterminable. Everything hurts above the neck. Parts of my face won’t do what I want them to do. I have a new party piece - I can lift only one eyebrow. The other sits like an overstuffed caterpillar about to fall off a cushion over my eye. I scrunch my face up and will it to move. My brain’s playing silly buggers with the nerves. My consultant told me there was no point doing physio, it’s futile exercising stretched skin. I need to wait for the swelling to go down. It will take time. All I have is time.

Showering is difficult, especially washing my hair so I bath. I’m unable to manage without the morphine - something to do with brain receptors, endorphins and tolerance levels, and the awful pain I had before surgery. I mustn’t feel a failure. It’s most important to stay on top of the pain. Pain will hinder healing as will lack of sleep. Just get through the days, and nights; the incredibly long nights. It’s hard to sleep propped up high in the Princess and the Pea bed next to hubby but it will reduce the swelling quicker.

Patience has never been one of my virtues. Where's the day on day improvement?
I count the days since surgery. My consultant told me it might take six months to get my jaws working. It's two weeks. I'm being negative. I am my own worst enemy, creating such high expectations. After eighteen months of TMJ pain, I thought I’d feel the difference straight away. I don’t. I need to stop this. Frustration will only set me back.

At last, a breakthrough. I try a different strategy. When people tell me how great I look, I musn't think they are simply being kind. One look at the photographs and I can see the progress for myself. With the stitches out, the scars are fading fast. When I wear my hair down it’s hardly noticeable. I look amazing, considering. Stop the negativity. Concentrate on the P words; PROGRESS. POSITIVITY and pat myself on the back daily with any progress, however small.

I thrive being more positive. I notice my jaws are not clunking when I eat or talk; the sound is more of a quiet rustling, like fabric or newspaper. I can get a toothbrush into my back teeth. More progress. I don’t spend all day watching Escape in the Country on the Home channel. I remove my pillows from the sofa and put them back on my bed. It’s best to keep sleep for night time. I start thinking of Christmas and open my organiser. I can clean my ears out. I prepare dinner and stick it in the slow cooker. And slowly, as I accept my limitations; that it’s normal, and all part of the process, I find it liberating. Before I know it, I don’t need morphine in the mornings. I care about getting Take That tickets for next years tour and spend most of the day, trying to secure them. I walk round to my neighbours, my first time out. I blog, my first blog post op.

Somewhere around the 20 Days post op mark, I turn a corner and venture down to the bus stop to collect Quiet Mousie off the bus. Driving is tricky but it’s good to be behind the wheel. With Hubby back to work I have to push ahead with domestic duties; getting Idle Jack to and from his shifts, putting washing in, hoovering. It’s slow. But I’m doing it. Every day I see progress.

A week later and I’m back to the Consultant for the post op check up. My mouth opening, 2cm is good for four weeks post op. My bite isn’t right - it was something he flagged before the op - but it's the nearest he could get it. It feels worse than it looks. To my mind, I'm Janet Street Porter wearing a pair of false plastic teeth that are about to pop out. And my teeth won't bite together so it’s impossible to eat salad or spaghetti. But it's troublesome, not insurmountable. At some stage I might see an Orthodontist to see if they can correct it without further surgery because it would be much better to avoid that. If any bacterium gets into my replacements, the only action is to remove them, have them sent off back to the USA, cleaned and put back in. By the time he's finished emphasising the perils of infection, I am clear that it's something I must guard against for the rest of my lifetime, including infections from deep back fillings or tooth extractions.

We talk about other concerns; the drooping eye, lazy forehead, numb patches, etc etc. He can see movement so he thinks it will come back; it may take days, weeks, months, maybe a year. It's normal. So are the occasional electric shocks that spasm from my jaw line down my neck. They are muscle spasms and should ease eventually. It's the same with the swelling. He expects that to take another couple of months or so. I'm progressing as he'd hoped, if not better. And he’s delighted I’m off the morphine.

Now the hard work really starts. He gives me a box of wooden tongue depressors. Five or six times every day I need to place a clutch of sticks in my mouth to increase my jaw opening. Do this for the next two months and gradually increase the number of sticks. I start at thirteen. I’ll see him again in another two months. Then six months. Then annually. Forever.

I go back home and ram the sticks in my mouth. Within three days I’m up to eighteen. It’s been slightly slower this week. I’m managing twenty-one but that's good. It's still progress.

So here I am up to date with this, my second blog post op. I'm encouraged when I see the photos of the surgery and what I've had done. I know I'm getting there. Staying positive has not always been easy. TMJ replacement surgery is complex and the recovery is a slow process. I've needed to keep some goals in mind; to have something to aim for, even when I couldn't see how I could possibly achieve them and I look forward to the time when I can sit and write the days away once more; probably in the New Year. I still have my eye on getting the second novel critiqued on the RNA New Writers Scheme. And that non-fiction book about living with chronic illness or pain and staying positive. However as I sit here, writing this, feeling more like my old self, I am simply looking forward to Christmas. A few months ago my Consultant told me that I might, only might, be able to eat a little Christmas dinner, but I wasn't to build my hopes up. Give it time. Be patient. It seems a theme, patience and TMJ problems.

The surgery is behind me and I have no regrets. I am thankful to my wonderful family, the best friends in the world and of course, Mr Bernard Speculand, one of the best surgeons there is for this type of surgery, and the excellent care and attention I had from him and his team.

Bring on the Christmas dinner and carol singing, that’s what I say.

So until another day

Bye for now

xx

Progress - I

2010-10-31T10:26:00.025Z

I tried to keep notes while I was in hospital and am posting this to help anyone else who has forthcoming total TMJ replacement surgery.

Wednesday 13th October

As we drive to the hospital texts ping on my phone continually, goodwill messages from lovely friends and family. I take deep breathes - in, out, puhhhh - blow it away, like I am in labour. Calm me. I don’t want to panic. Help me to stay in control. Hubby reaches for my hand and crunches it tight.
'It won’t be long now. Soon be over.'

We arrive at the hospital for 1pm and it’s a flurry of activity as my Consultant wants to make an early start. He’s booked me into the main theatre for 2pm. No time to think about it. I rush to gown up and put on my stockings. Two nurses swish into the room, label me and check paperwork. The Consultant visits. The Anaesthetist visits. I regret putting my full face of makeup on and quickly set about removing it with a wet wipe.

I don’t recall hugging hubby or saying goodbye but I know I must have. By 1.30pm, I am walking down the corridor to theatre with a nurse who will be looking after me when I return to ITU. Six blue clad people greet us. The lighting is bright. One of the young men is excited at the prospect of seeing my surgery.
'You don’t get to see this procedure very often. I’ve been looking forward to it,’ he enthuses.
My gorgeous calm Anaesthetist comes in and starts tapping away at my hand, trying to find a vein. I know I am in safe hands.

When I came round in ITU I am sick, sick, sick - not good when you have two new jaws. Yet despite the sickness, I feel surprisingly well. The pain is tolerable, better than I imagined.

Hubby is beside me. I can’t see him but I hear his booming voice. ‘It’s all done – it took six and a half hours. You look incredible. Well done darling.’

Moments later - or hours later – I’m not sure, I open my eyes and look across to the ITU nurses who are sitting and chatting. One is eating a biscuit. There are no windows in ITU. I think it’s night time. They can’t see me looking at them. I can’t communicate. I am asleep but my eyes are open, staring at them.

Thursday - Day 1 post surgery

Suddenly it’s busy. There is a clock in front of my bed and I see it’s 5am. Two nurses arrive, bowl and towels in hand, place clean sheets at the bottom of the bed. They give me a bed bath – wash gently from top to toe and sprinkle me with talc. All the time, they chat away. For the life of me I can’t remember what about.

Less than twelve hours later Rob, a gorgeous American nurse in navy blue scrubs (must be a 'sister’) tells me I am ready to leave ITU and go back up to my own room on Colmore Suite.
‘You look fabulous,’ his accent twangs. ‘There’s hardly any swelling or bruising. Now don’t you go getting into any fights.’

He must know what's to come.

I sleep until hubby returns. He’s still enthusing about my face; it nothing like as bad as he thought it would be. His words are reassuring. I know I’ve done really well. The worst is over.

As well as the morphine which I control myself with a pump, they pump drugs into me; More painkillers. Antibiotics to stop infection. Voltarol and Diclofenac, anti- inflammatories. Blood-thinning medication is ‘stapled’ into my stomach for good measure. I feel punch drunk with drugs. But by tea time on the second day I am alert and able to eat small amounts of soup and a couple of mouthfuls of cottage pie.

All the medical staff tell me I look wonderful, considering.
'I told you,' says Hubby, snapping some photographs. I read somewhere and my Consultant told me that taking photos of recovery can be good for moral with this type of surgery when progress can be slow. It helps to see improvement when you think there is none.

It’s an effort to talk, open my mouth or eat. My jaws clunk and pop as if they’re the internal locking system of a car. But I’m eating. It’s progress.

My Consultant is really pleased. He thinks my forehead looks ‘lazy’ - a bit like I’ve had botox - but apparently it’s normal. People pay a fortune for this treatment. I’m glad he’s pleased. Like a child, to please makes me feel as if I am doing something well.

Friday – Day 2 post surgery

The nurses keep checking me. ‘Are you sure you’re okay? Is your pain manageable?’

I'm trying to be a good patient. I was never a moaner until I had these jaw problems and now they are replaced, I want to go back to being my old self – the happy go lucky, cheery girl who sometimes has pain but gets on with it and doesn’t let it control her life.

It's painful, but a different pain to pre-surgery. I know the discomfort will improve. My nose feels twice the size and is numb. I could slice it off and not feel it. And my ears, and large patches of my head. I was told to expect numbness, maybe for months.

I ask for the catheter to be removed so I can start moving around. Progress. They duly oblige. A couple of hours later, they also remove the Bet Lynch chandelier drains that dangle from my head and neck. Progress. Hubby returns later in the day. I think I see him shudder as he walks into the room but when he speaks, he’s as positive and encouraging as ever.
‘Your face has swollen a bit since earlier,’ he says, still sounding positive. ‘But you still look great.’

He takes more photos of my progress.

I glimpse them and don’t think I look too bad either.

However by the time he leaves an hour or so later I can hardly see out of one eye. The drains must have been stopping my face from swelling. The eye tears permanently.
The inside of my mouth is exquisitely sore. Everything feels over-sized. Running my tongue over my gums I can feel grooves, like a cheese wire has cut into them. It’s where they wired my jaws for a few hours post op. I don’t remember them being removed.

I ask a nurse to help me to the toilet. Progress. It’s my first time out of bed on my own even if I think I'm going to pass out as I sit on the commode. My face is about to explode, it's so stretched. But I want to get a shower and my Consultant asks the nurses to try and wash my hair to keep infection at bay.

I will always remember that first glimpse in the bathroom mirror. It isn’t me. Tiny, tiny eyes filled with pain stare back in horror. They're not even my eyes. Mrs Doubtfire is the first person to spring to mind. My face is an enormous pastry, doughy mixture; my neck, more swollen than when I had mumps. I manage a shower but not to wash my hair. I have a constant urge to keel over. Small steps. I managed a shower – that’s progress.

My best friend visits and I want to cover myself over with the sheets and hide away. I don’t look as bad as she thought. She is kind.

My little boy, Quiet Mousie visits. I expect to see horror, even fear in his eyes. But his gaze never once averts. He sits chatting away and smiling, a huge beam that brightens the room. He’s simply pleased to see me. All I see is his cheerfulness and love.
‘You’re still the same Mummy underneath there. And I can see your eyes.’ He kisses the top of my head ever so gently with cushioned lips.

My little golden nugget of treasure. He can still see my eyes, when I can’t. It gives me hope, and something to cling to because when I look in the mirror, it doesn’t get any easier seeing Mrs Doubtfire staring back.

Saturday - Day 3 post surgery

I crash.
Too unwell to do anything. Can’t eat or shower. Don’t wash until past 11am.

I feel sick, so sick. My wrist has swollen. My nose oozes gunk. My veins are shutting down on the intravenous drips. They have to re-do them in case it’s an infection. My consultant thinks it's viral. Have I had chickenpox? I won’t be able to go home until at least the end of the weekend. They pump yet more antibiotics. My mouth flares with ulcers. I have vaginal sores. I think it’s thrush, perhaps from the catheter.

My neighbour calls in to see me but only stays a few minutes when she sees my state. It’s too much effort to talk.

Later, I perch myself up in bed to look outside. Autumn had it’s foothold on the leaves of the trees in the car park. The yellowing leaves of a Beech swirl and fall to the ground, and simultaneously tears fall from my eyes and splash onto my nightie; tears of self pity that I feel so unwell mixed with a realisation that I have a long, long road ahead of me.

Hubby and Quiet Mousie arrive. I try to talk but give up. They gibber about footie scores and the Shrewsbury Town Match they’ve been to in the afternoon. Idle Jack is working. Hubby asks if he’s sent a message. He hasn’t. I wonder if he’ll come tomorrow as it’s his afternoon off.

Progress. After they leave I drag myself up and pull back the vertical blind to look out to the car park below to try to wave them off. The car park glows orange from the street lights until I see their shadows flit across. Hubby walks with a purpose and Quiet Mousie skips to keep up. He catches sight of me and waves madly, his delight obvious. My little lad doesn’t take his eyes off me as the car reverses out of the car park, indicates, and turns into the adjacent road. He's still waving.

I shuffle back onto bed, relaxing my aching jaws from the perma-smile position and grimace in pain. It’s a long night ahead. It must be bad - I snooze through X Factor. Hubby’s text stirs me. He and Quiet Mousie are sitting in the car waiting for Idle Jack to finish his shift. They’re eating fish and chips. I text back. What I wouldn’t give for ‘fee & chee.’ Give Idle Jack my love. Xx Sending a text. Progress.

A few minutes later my stomach collapses inwardly and I have to dash to the toilet. It cramps and I’m doubled up. I fret. Maybe it’s an infection. Maybe my body is rejecting my jaws; I’m allergic to the metals after all. Maybe I’m overdosing on all the drugs they are giving me.

I receive a text from Idle Jack. It’s a lovely text. He says he’s missing me and hopes I feel better... and the house is tidy. I know his Dad has cattle prodded him to send me a message.

Preparing for the night ahead, the nurses bring me a drink and my drugs, along with the dreaded warfarin that she staples into my already sore stomach. She sees the pain I’m in and asks if I need to see the on-call doctor about my colitis.
'You must shout if you need anything else. I'll leave the door open and keep an eye on you.'

She’s very kind. They all are. As I lay, trying to find a comfortable position to nod off, I tell myself to be patient. It’s only been five days. I was told it would be a long, slow process. For such complicated surgery, I’m doing well.

I’m back on the toilet within an hour. As I sit, I realise that the sores ‘down below’ are ulcers not thrush. Ah, it’s just my friend, Behcets syndrome, reminding me that it hasn’t left me. I have to respect it. And listen. It’s bigger than me. After twenty-five years I know when I have to back down and take notice. I don’t need to prove anything or be superwoman. Behcets is the reason I’m here.

Sunday - Day 4 post surgery

The tea trolley clatters down the corridor at 6am, and I know it’s going to be a tough day. So it’s a pleasant surprise when I rouse and don't feel as bad. One moment I'm tired. The next I am in pain. But in between I feel strong. Feeling is beginning to return to parts of my face and head. My ears pop and crack like fireworks going off. My teeth are on edge. The pain is more in my cheeks than my jaws. The swelling hasn’t worsened.

The nurses manage to wash my hair which makes me feel better. My neck hurts more than my head.

The physiotherapist comes. He wants to make sure I’m not getting a chest infection. He asks me to do the stairs with him. The consultant needs to know I can do them before I’m allowed home.

Two close friends come to visit. One of them brings a packet of Rolos and Fruit gums as a joke. I can’t stop laughing. It still makes me laugh, thinking about it. After they've gone I flick through a magazine, more progress.

People are so kind. I’ve had some lovely cards and messages of support by text and e-mail. Progress. I start to send some replies.

I sit up and move to the window to see Hubby and Quiet Mousie arrive. I want to show my little lad how I’m improving. I’m disappointed when I see Idle Jack isn’t with them. Quiet Mousie runs around the car park to me and in no time is sitting beside me as before, lighting up the room with his smile, stroking my bruised hand gently. I ask about Idle Jack. He’s at home, Hubby he plays it down. I suspect they’ve had words and drop it.

They are only gone an hour and my best friend comes again. She can’t believe how the swelling has improved since she saw me two days ago. She sits with me and we watch X Factor together. I don’t fall asleep this time. Progress.

Monday – Day 5 post surgery.

I wake expecting continued improvement after yesterday but am weak and listless. I hardly slept last night with pain and my stomach. My high expectations make me feel I've stepped backwards.

My Consultant calls in early. He agrees that it’s the Behcets. With any auto-immune disease, my body is bound to react after such surgery. He asks if I am ready to go home. Am I sure?

Home. Where my heart is. To see my boys and the countryside. And so much easier for everyone than stuck over in Birmingham.

'Yes please, I’d like to go home.'

I’ll make better progress when I’m home.

Until another day
Bye for now
xx

This is it. Bye for now

2010-10-12T13:03:00.004+01:00

Hurricane Debbie. That’s what they should call me today. I’ve just sat down to take a breather between hoovering, dusting, cleaning bathrooms.

I’ll never get it all done before I go in hospital tomorrow. Why do us women nest like this? I’m the same at Christmas, before I go on holiday, if I go on a writing course, and now before I go in for my surgery.

There are a million things to do but I am compelled to make sure the house is clean, the washing is up to date, the boys all have shirts, school uniform, Chef whites lined up for the next few days.

I know they’ll be fine. It’s not as if they’re babies. They’re all quite self sufficient (they’ve had to be with my health.) And my hubby is a gem at times like these. Even with his mountain of work, he’ll cope wonderfully as he always does.

'You don’t need to do all this, we can do it,’ he chastises me.

I know they can. But making sure everything is in order is my way of having a little control. It makes me feel better; gives me peace of mind, knowing that while I’m away, they will all be okay. And lets be honest, being busy distracts me.

The pre-op on Thursday made it all feel real. Pulling up on the car park of the Priory, Birmingham my stomach collapsed inwardly, my legs turned to Bambi and my heart banged against my chest, attempting to escape.

I can’t escape. It has to be done. I know it will all go well. I have the best surgeon in the country for this complex surgery.

Because of my health complications the Anaesthetist wanted to see me at the pre-op to check a few things. He’ll come to see me tomorrow too beforehand. It helps that he is completely gorgeous. His bright green eyes are intense but kind, his presence is reassuring. He anticipates my surgery lasting at least seven hours and I have to be catheterised (which I've never had before) but the good news is I won't be on a ventilator - they need me to be alert, to keep my airwaves clear and get me mobile as soon as possible afterwards. Being on a ventilator was one of my fears so that’s good.

So, the plan is, I go into hospital tomorrow (Wednesday) at 1pm and in view of the length of surgery, should go down first (about 3.30pm) to theatre. All being well, I should be finished by about 10-11 pm and straight into intensive care. It depends how I get on the first day whether I'll stay in intensive care another night or go to my own room. Do you want to place your bets now as to how long you think I’ll be in there? You bet. I’m hoping to be home for Sunday or Monday.

Don’t worry. I'm a good patient so I won’t rush things. I’ve had enough operations to know it’s best to do as I'm told. And at least at the other side of all of this, I will be able to be proactive at helping myself recover. For the last year and a half I’ve been helpless and at times, terribly depressed, overwhelmed by pain and the misery of my whole predicament.

At last, this is what I’ve been waiting for.

I have never been more frightened about any operation than this. I wish Woozle was still with us. I miss her. But I know she’s with me in spirit and wishing me a speedy recover. I will get that cup of tea and huge slice of cake at De Grays very soon.

One day. One precious day. One drop of time.

I’ll see you when I see you.

Until then

Bye for now

xx

Season of mists and mellow thoughtfulness

2010-10-03T16:48:00.008+01:00

Seven days home and already my tan is washing away in the inclement weather. Loads of washing almost complete, the ironing beckons. Quiet Mousie has settled back into school. Idle Jack once again looks handsome in his chef whites.

I sit at the island in the kitchen and look out. Outside, the world looks an oppressive grey and the hills sit in suspended animation on the horizon with rain-filled clouds sagging over them, waiting to burst. Autumn has applied its brush strokes to the surrounding countryside. Leaves have turned to browns and ochre as green chlorophyll is leached from the trees. Hedgerows bulge with brambles and hawthorns. Elderberry and apple trees bow under the weight of fruit. The swallows have gone but finches, buntings and sparrows flock across the country lanes. Fields lay bare; the harvest gathered and already turned over by ploughs leaves pheasants and partridges exposed. Next door’s straw is stacked against our fencing for winter use. In our courtyard, freshly delivered logs sit neatly stacked, ready for the first fire of the season.

Antigua is a distant dream and as my list of things to do grow in my Filofax, I begin the countdown to surgery.

13th October has a large red circle around the date. And I’ll confess to being ever so slightly in a panic. About everything; the domestic arrangements and whether I’ll get it all done in time, the children, the animals, the housework (I haven’t nested like this since I was last pregnant.) Most of all it’s the thought of six hours of surgery and waking up in intensive care, and the long recovery. This is the biggest thing I’ve had over my thirty years with Behcets disease.

It’s hard. I’m frightened. My chest has taken on the feel of a cage. A bird flutters constantly within it. My insomnia has returned. However with the electric blanket now on the bed, my duvet cocoons me and getting up in the night doesn’t have quite the same appeal in autumn and winter. So I stay huddled beneath, staring up at the vaulted ceiling, watching the oversized illuminated digital clock project itself up onto the bedroom ceiling, the rhythmic flashing on and off, on and off, as the second’s ticks away and morning draws closer.

On Monday 5th October my replacement jaw joints will wing their way across the Atlantic and wait for me in a lab in Birmingham. 7th October is pre-op day. I’ve treated myself to new slippers, pyjamas and a ‘cardigown,’ an ideal jacket rather than full length dressing gown, made of soft fleece fabric. Nan would have called it a bed jacket. I had a facial last week; a vain attempt to prepare my skin in addition to the copious amounts of bio oil I slap on my face. My hair has been a dilemma. I contemplated having it all cut off so it wouldn’t be so noticeable when they shave each side, but then figured that it’s probably best to leave it long - that was idea of growing it in the first place – it would be better to help cover the swelling. And after surgery, I can always have lots of layers cut into it to disguise the scars.

I miss writing. In between the fuzz of chaos, I think about writing and my projects. For now, I must be content simply with thinking about them. Usually at this time of year I would be picking elderberry’s to make wine, plucking rosehips to dry in the airing cupboard ready for Christmas garlands and pot pourri, thumbing through the charity catalogues for my Christmas cards.

There’s no time for any of it. I need to prioritise. And remain positive.

In two weeks time it will be over. By Christmas, my consultant tells me I might be able to have a little food. Hopefully, soon I will be able to eat a banana, hug and kiss people again, talk and yawn without it feeling as if my jaws are dislocating, turn over on my side in bed, brush my teeth properly and visit the dentist. In a year’s time, life should be much improved. After the eighteen months I’ve had, it will be good to have my life back.

So until another day

Bye for now
x

The last swallow. The end of summer

2010-09-12T18:52:00.021+01:00

A bird dive bombed our barn window yesterday as I stood doing the ironing. It’s a common occurrence up here on the hill; birds disorientated by the trickery of light from changing skies, that or being chased by Bobby, our ten month kitten as he hones his hunting skills.

I dashed out to see whether (as is often the case) the bird was simply stunned. A swallow with a slightly dull metallic blue jacket and tail streamers lay twitching on the decking. The absence of the usual russet colouring told me it was a juvenile, probably from next doors field shelter which is onto the third clutch. It would never have made it in time to migrate with the others anyway.

Most of the swallows departed a couple of weeks ago, two weeks earlier than last year. As they prepared for their journey to warmer climes, I knew there would be no Indian summer. The air thronged with their song; a rambling warble of trills and twitters, reminiscent of radio interference. Large flocks perched on wires and practised their aerial acrobatics, circling gracefully overhead and swooping low over the garden and fields in front, entertaining us one last time.

Meanwhile, the only flutter from the swallow in my hand was from the breeze which fanned its feathers. His head hung downwards. I waited a couple of minutes but nothing. Even Bobby, who had been smarming expectantly against my legs rolled his eyes, flicked his tail in disgust and stropped away in the direction of the blue tits chirruping over the buddleia, eager for more action.

The swallow had died and with it, in the blink of an eye, the last of summer disappeared. What a summer it has been...

It’s a blog all of it’s own, and a very long story but this summer I found two sisters whom I have never met. Until a few years ago, they didn't even know I existed. They say truth is stranger than fiction. You couldn’t write my life story. No-one would believe it.

I’ll always remember it as the summer that Idle Jack became a man. We found out at the end of last term that he had been skipping lessons. He even missed an exam.

His year at college was supposed to be re-taking the GCSE’s he'd failed at school.Instead, he spent a year doing nothing, or nothing to do with enhancing his education. We’d had enough. Having tried everything; positive parenting, grounding him, withdrawing privileges, it was time for tough love. And it was tough.

We told him we wouldn’t support him to go back to college - it was time to get in the real world; get a job. We suggested an apprenticeship; Trainee chef. He would always find work as a chef; he could go on a cruise ship once he qualified, maybe travel the world. The girls all love a chef.

He resisted, of course. He came back from his first apprenticeship interview regaling us with how it had gone, how the head chef had praised him, the questions he’d been asked and how grateful he was that I’d helped him with his interview technique. The following day while he was out, I had a phone call. It was the manager of the restaurant, ringing to re-arrange the appointment my son had cancelled due to a family crisis.

Oh, there was a family crisis that night, I can tell you. My son, Idle Jack - now Walter Mitty.

I drove him to his next interview and sat outside, waiting for him.

“They said I did really well,” he gushed, as he came out after only ten minutes. “And they want to offer me the job. I have to ring them tomorrow to let them know whether I’d like it or not.”

I ask you. In today’s economic climate. I still don’t understand what he was thinking.

Needless to say, he didn’t have time to take his shirt and tie off when he got home before I made him ring them back to graciously accept their kind offer.

It was the right decision. A couple of weeks after starting the apprenticeship it was GCSE results day. This was one occasion when I would have been happy to be proved wrong. But I wasn’t. Eldest son failed all his re-takes. It had indeed been a wasted year.

Academia isn’t for everyone, I told him, putting on my best positive voice. This summer he’d turned it around; he’d got himself on an apprenticeship - a worthwhile career plan - in a couple of year’s time when all his friends are leaving college and Uni looking for a job, he’ll have the advantage.

Six weeks into the job, I’m beginning to think I might have to change his nickname. I can’t exactly keep calling him Idle Jack when he works in a kitchen from 10am until 10pm, on split shifts.

But in true Jane Austen (and Helen Fielding) style it is a truth universally acknowledged that when one part of your life starts going okay, another falls spectacularly to pieces. As hubby and Son No 1 ride off into the sunset in gainful employment my next set of life challenges spring up as sure as night turns to day.

With major surgery knocking at my door, my youngest son has to see a Rheumatoid Paediatrician tomorrow. He keeps getting deep necrotic ulcers in his mouth and after several appointments with Paediatricians and numerous blood tests the worry is, he may be showing signs of developing my Behcets disease – certainly, his immune system seems to have been compromised.

It’s another worry, to add to the many. But then that is life, full of ups and downs. Seasons change. Some are harder than others.

For our house, the summer has gone, along with the swallows, winging their way for winter in South Africa.

We’re off too – not emigrating, but we’re going to the Caribbean on Tuesday for some sun, fun and relaxation.

After the summer we've had, we need it.

So until another day

xx

There's no such word as Can't

2010-09-02T07:55:00.004+01:00

What’s your mantra?

There’s no such word as can’t

This is mine because I believe that when you really, really want something you must never say the ‘C’ word. You can do anything if you set your mind to it.

My Nan drummed it into me at an early age. Whether it was schoolwork or music, dance or athletics, whenever I said ‘I Can’t,’ Nan would look me straight in the face, her expression serious and retort with gusto, ‘Of course you can. There’s no such word as can’t. Keep trying.’

Sometimes, I puzzled and fretted over her words. There were lots of things I couldn’t do. I couldn’t get A+ in Maths, however hard I tried. I couldn’t get my soufflés to rise like Margaret Owen in Domestic Science classes. I couldn’t run the 100 metre hurdles in under fourteen seconds.

Years, and countless times later of Nan batting those words at me, I found I’d developed huge resilience, a staying power, a dogged determination that nearly matched her strong will. My never say never attitude served me well in my career, personal life, health – especially those times when ill-health threatened to ruin everything. And with the successes came confidence, and a belief that if I tried my very best and kept going, then maybe I could. Nan was right. There really was no such word as Can't.

Now on the second anniversary of her death, whilst I recognise it’s a mantra I’ve maintained most of my life, I have to confess; over the last year or so there have been times when I’ve been lost as I floated in limbo, endlessly waiting for the surgery that’s going to miraculously improve my physical and mental well-being.

Last week, I had to give myself a swift talking to. I’d done so well over recent weeks and had come out from under the duvet where I’d been hiding.I’d stopped swimming because it hurt my jaws to push my chin forward. Or that was my excuse. I couldn’t be bothered. I preferred to sit home and wallow in pain and gloom at my predicament. But a few weeks ago I realised I missed it. Swimming helps the rest of my bones not seize up. It stops me feeling like a lump of lard. And whether it hurts or not, swimming isn’t going to make my jaw problems any worse.

I’m now back swimming four or five times a week. Already, my body tone has improved which makes me feel better about myself and I know I’m preparing myself, physically and mentally, for what’s to come. Exercise has helped the endorphin levels - perhaps it’s psychosomatic, but I feel as if I’m coping with the pain better - I’ve certainly stopped going to bed in the afternoons to shut down from it.

But swimming alone isn't going to help me. I need something to stop me going backwards, sliding towards the open jaws of the black dog of depression.

Come on, Deb. There’s no such word as Can’t. I have to fight back.

It’s easy to say. But the most difficult thing with my periods of ill-health (and other adversities,) is finding the strength to believe in myself again.

As I sat there, feeling sorry for myself, frustrated at the lack of control, I summoned all the positive thinking and strength I could muster for the a final assault. Knowing myself as well as I do, I need a plan or plans. I need goals; something to work to, something to look forward to, something to help distract me and not dwell. Most of all, I need to believe.

Fed up of waiting, we booked a holiday for the 15th September. I may as well be in pain in Antigua as sitting home, looking at the four walls and waiting. We all need the holiday and it will be good for the boys for us to have some proper time together, and if we don’t get away now, it might be months. We’ve had to cancel two holidays because of my health this year.

Next, I chased the hospital and the manufacturers of my replacement joints in the USA tmjconcepts - I sent a nice, but strongly worded e-mail. I can't go on like this. I need an idea of when the surgery is. I have to make certain domestic arrangements. With a husband who works in London most of the week and two boys to organise, it’s not unreasonable to at least have an idea of when the surgery might be, is it - especially if, as I’m told, I might be out of action for several weeks.

On the writing front I would like to announce that I am OFFICIALLY a writer, not because I’ve been accepted for publication, but because I’ve had my first rejection for Living in the Past from a publisher. Well, that makes me a proper writer, doesn’t it? So I've also made a few writing goals which I need these to keep focussed because there were times this year when I gave up - it didn't last, of course - after a few days, I felt anxious, restless and unfulfilled. Writing is the milk in my tea; the fondant on my cup cake, the ice- cream on my jelly.

I intend to finish Country Strife, my second novel and get it on the RNA New Writer’s Scheme for 2011. I’m going to finish the two stories I have in mind for women’s magazines (and submit them.) Finally, I’m going to push on with my idea for non-fiction book about living with pain/long term illness – nothing gloomy or self indulgent - something light with some positive messages. I think it might also be cathartic.

There we are. I have a plan. I feel strong. I have my mojo back. It's just as well.

Last night I had an e-mail from my Consultant.
"How does the 13th October sound for your surgery date?"

Nothing comes to he who waits.

“You can do it. Believe. There’s no such word as Can’t.”

I miss you Nan. But you’d be proud of me.

Until another day
xx

'Living in the Past' is history

2010-08-19T14:51:00.004+01:00

Well, I’m back from the Mother-in-law’s-caravan; a whole week of self imposed writer’s retreat because I didn’t feel quite up to going on any writing courses or holidays this year while I’m waiting for my surgery.

And it’s been a productive week. I return with several thousand words added onto two of my novels, proposals for two non-fiction books, a couple of articles, one short story, and multiple lists of action points and ideas. Not bad. And the beauty of being away from home, the family and housework, is I didn’t feel guilty about writing once.

But it wasn’t always easy, maintaining the self-discipline and it took me a couple of days to get into the swing of things. In fact I have a confession to make. I wasted the whole of the first day dabbling with a possible re-write of Living in the Past.

Stop! I hear you shout. Surely ‘Living in the Past,’ (previously known as Tango Man,) is now complete? Yes, you’re right. I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve tinkered with it, and I’m not talking just a little tweaking but three complete re-writes and numerous cutting and editing besides. I think this is the third year I’ve spent on it. And it’s not as if I ever thought it was the novel that would get me the Booker prize (indeed whether it will even ever attain publication remains to be seen.) I accept this because I recognise the novel served me well in terms of learning the craft of writing – serving my writing apprenticeship – and it was a story I was compelled to write. It’s been critiqued by the professionals, it’s had some positive feedback so I’m as happy as I’m going to be with it. And after all the hard work, I’m going to start sending it out to agents.

I don’t think it’s the elements of the story that keep drawing me back to tinker – the Nan, the husband, the betrayals, demons – they are all in the PAST and I worked through much of it years ago. So why the meddling? Why do I keep going back to it?

Is this normal behaviour for writers - this obsession, the pursuit of perfection? Do you have a piece of work or novel; something that you can’t stop going back to, something you can’t let go of in writing terms? Or tell me is my OCD towards my first novel simply habit or comfort, or maybe even lack of confidence towards moving on.

Anyway, it’s time to move on. I see that. Besides everything else, I’m fed up of looking at it. To mark the occasion (in addition to the blog,) I’ve penned a magazine article and a rough outline of a non-fiction proposal, all about living in the past and how to move on.

This blog is my promise to myself to let it go. It seems somehow symbolic.

So until another day

Bye for now
xx

Writers=Sales People

2010-07-27T16:11:00.007+01:00

In today’s ultra competitive writer’s market, selling yourself is an important factor, like it or not. And I don’t.

Since Tango Man (now re-named Living in the Past) returned from critiquing under the New Writers Scheme,I’ve done the tweaks suggested, re-written the synopsis and have my query letter prepared, ready with a list of agents to approach. Unfortunately, my pen lost momentum when it came to the Biography. After the initial panic, I sat down and deliberated...and cogitated. For hours.

It’s easy enough to scribble a couple of lines that describe who you are but when it comes to showing why you’re someone to read, it’s a different matter altogether. And the trouble is, when it comes to self promotion, I’ve never been very good at that type of thing. Yes, I know, I can hear you all saying this is the girl who was in sales and sales training for most of her working life, and it’s true; I used to be able to sell the proverbial sand to Arabs but when I retired from my job in the Bank, it knocked the stuffing out of me. And with my ever decreasing confidence over the last year as my health problems consume me, (there’s nothing like being unable to do something due to ill-health for making one feel incompetent) it leaves me feeling that there’s not much to sing about in terms of successes .

Am I being hard on myself again or is it simply part of being British? I can’t help thinking that many of us feel uncomfortable with this ‘sell yourself’ aspect of being a writer. My Nan used to say, “No-one likes a big head.” She taught me humility, how to hide my light well and truly under a bushel. However, the trouble is, if I want to progress my writing I’m going to have to sell myself to an agent and publishers, to bookshops and to my readers and having reached this rather crucial stage along my path to publication, I need to do something about it. I need to overcome the biography barrier.

For the last week or so I’ve been searching for inspiration. I read a lot (like most writers) and I thought a good place to start would be the books on my bookshelves. Having analysed the inside covers to crib off the experts, there seems to be a pattern. Here’s what I found: -

Good news – Biographies are only about three lines long, four at most.

Line one tends to be qualifications, highlighting any degrees and certifications the author has. Here’s where a degree in English or Creative Writing comes in handy because I doubt my ‘O’ Level English will have the same clout. Of course, not every author has an ‘Ology.’ Many fiction writers seemed to have been English teachers in a former life, or had careers in journalism. This biography business is about selling yourself; shouting to the world that you are qualified in some way to write what you write. I had to retire from my job as a Bank Manager aged thirty two. No matter how much I fanny about with that snippet, I can’t make it sound exciting. Hmm, I don’t suppose being editor for my local Parish News counts as journalism?

The second line seems to tell why the author is writing the novel/articles/non-fiction book or what prompted them to start writing in the first place. It let’s people know why their work is worthy of attention or if they have an area of expertise.

Okay, so this is where I start to see I might just have a unique selling point - we all have them; we just have to look deep within ourselves. Because if this is where the author makes themselves look attractive to publishers and the market (and even forms the basis for their overall marketing,) at least I can see I have an angle for that non-fiction book about living with Chronic Illness and Pain, or the novel I’ve outlined titled, ‘Smile through the Pain.’

Can you imagine the line, “Debbie is inspired to write for other women, to share her experiences and offer insight...?”

I digress.

This part of the biography is also where the writer tends to note any awards or competitions they’ve won.

Right, I’m back to being negative because I haven’t won any competitions, although last month ‘Baby Blue’ was short-listed and highly commended by Sue Moorcroft for Writers Forum Magazine. Some writers might also include here any publishing successes, however small. Hmm, do you think anyone will be interested in the poetry competition that I won for the Yorkshire Evening Post thirty years ago?

The last sentence of the bio tends to be more personal. For many authors this is where they share with the reader the number of children, pets, and anything else that might be of interest, like where they live. Easy peasy. I can do this one - ‘I currently live in rural South Shropshire with my husband and two sons.’

The final point I will make about the biographies I looked at is that few of them are ordinary. There are some amusing and original biographies around - like best selling Romantic Novelist, Katie Fforde, who on the inside cover of Highland Fling reads:
‘Katie Fford lives in Gloucestershire with her husband and some of her three children. Her hobbies are ironing and housework but unfortunately, she has almost no time for them as she feels it is her duty to keep a close eye on the afternoon chat shows...’

Of course the fact that Katie has more than fifteen best sellers means that few readers give a jot about her writing history. Her success proves her pedigree.

With my limited background, I might learn a lot from Katie’s quirky format. And on that note, rather than writing about my biography, I’d better get on with actually writing my biography. Perhaps, with the help of friends and family I’ll be able to make the most of myself, my abilities and my interests. With any luck, by the time I’ve worked down the list of agents, I might have won something or made inroads into the women’s magazine market and had something published.

What is it they say - ‘success breeds confidence?’

Until another day

xx

I'm still here. Kind of.

2010-05-20T15:43:00.007+01:00

I am in limbo. I’ve been like it for months; floundering, poised up on the top of the hill in my barn, I sit at the island and look out in a state of suspended animation. I am still waiting for the bilateral TMJ replacement surgery. Sorry, I’m conditioned to the medical terminology after a year of injections, investigations and unsuccessful surgery. What I mean is both jaws are to be completely replaced.

“Too much talking,” my husband jests. Not any more. My precious talking. Lordy, how I miss it. And eating, sleeping and yawning. I hardly go out. I’ve tried, but I only suffer afterwards, and I’m not the best company at the moment. I hate to moan but I do anyway. It’s so unlike me. Twenty-three years with Behcets disease, and I’ve never given in before. Having chronic pain can be wearing at the best of times but being in constant pain in my head, jaws and ears is all-consuming. Imagine the worst toothache, earache, abscess, neuralgia pain you have ever had. That’s what it’s like day in, day out. So I hermit; I sit, and wait for the replacements to be custom made. Imagine, in a few months time, I will be walking around with jaws that were made in the U.S.A.

A few of you have missed me and for that I am grateful. I miss me. Some days a catch a glimpse of my old self – she comes out and gives me a swift kick up the derriere and tells me, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” “Don’t let the ‘black dog’ get you,” “Think of all the people worse off than you.” I tell you who I do miss – Woozle. She would tell me what to do.

Since I finished the (third) re-write of Tango Man I have crashed creatively. The second novel has stalled. I have a trio of novels in my head which, if I gave them half a chance, could become a Saga trilogy but I don’t have it in me to get them down on paper. I have a couple of unfinished short stories that I intended for the women’s magazine market. Oh yes, and I keep thinking about writing a non-fiction book about 'Coping with Chronic Illness and Pain.' However, all I do is think about it, then I change my mind because I don’t think I’d set a very good example for someone who fights long term illness and pain and copes when I don’t some days.

For those who are interested, 'Tango Man' is now being critiqued under the Romantic Novelists Association New Writers Scheme. And hey, I’ve written a blog. Think of all the positives. It’s only taken me five months. Surely, I won’t have long to wait for some news from my Consultant. We’re hoping August for the surgery. It doesn’t seem that far away now. Maybe this is the beginning of the great fight back. I’m known for them, but then again...

Until another day

Bye for now
x

Ho Ho Ho

2009-12-22T12:49:00.010Z

This morning at the Post Office, a lady was chuntering about the cold weather. It’s funny how we British are never happy. Yes, the arrival of the cold weather will play havoc with my bones, but for me there’s nothing nicer than a bright crisp day, lighting the log burner and donning my winceyette PJ’s and bed socks by 7pm.

It’s that most wonderful time of the year and I LOVE IT! Granted, my husband could do with a visit from the three ghosts. However, when he arrives home on Christmas Eve to the aroma of mulled wine and freshly baked sausage rolls I know the festive spirit will rub off. He’ll be able to switch off from worries of his company being taken over and imminent redundancies for a few days. And he won’t complain about how much I’ve spent on Christmas. Well, at least not until the 4th January.

I’ve always been Christmas’s number one fan right back from my earliest memories of pilfering satsuma’s out of the fruit bowl and eating fried leftover Christmas Pudding on Boxing day. Christmas Day was always a rather forlorn affair in our house. Like Tiny Tim, there was no succulent turkey. For Nan and I, a scrawny cockerel from the Co-op was our usual feast, along with sprouts that Nan put on to boil a week beforehand. But the table always looked magical when laid with the best dinner service, I was allowed a Babycham and Nan and I would pull each other’s crackers (although I always had to read her jokes because she couldn’t read the small writing.)

The year I first found out the truth about Santa was devastating. But I can’t blame Susan Abey for ruining it when she told me that it was really my Nan. It was my own fault. You see, as soon as I discovered the truth, I went hunting for all the presents hidden around the house. Consequently, on Christmas day, there were no surprises and I had to feign delight and even worse, lie to my Nan as I opened them. These days I much prefer surprises and ever since, I don't feel a present or shake it to try to guess what’s inside.

Since I met my hubby over twenty-one years ago, I have created my own traditions. Like listening to carols from Kings College while I make the mince pies on Christmas Eve. Another has evolved since an Italian friend brought us a Pannetone round one year and we kept it until Christmas Day. It was so delicious and light to eat on Christmas morning before the big dinner that we’ve bought one every year since. Oh yes, and there’s my greasy, well- thumbed copy of Delia Smith’s Christmas that hubby bought for our first Christmas. It still comes out every October; my bible to keep me on track with the food preparations.

If you’re anything like me at the moment, your life will currently be lists and more lists but over the years, I’ve given up the need for perfection. More often than not, I buy my Christmas pudding these days. The children always make the centrepiece and a good friend, Snailbeach Shepherdess usually makes me a delicious Christmas cake. Christmas is a precious time for us as a family, just the four of us and the dog, of course (although hopefully he won't eat the turkey carcass off the side this year so we'll be able to have cold turkey sandwiches.) We stay at home all Christmas, and the children get to play with their new toys. If they’re happy, we’re happy.

I’m well on with the nesting – another tradition in our house. Although goodness knows why I feel the need to wash the inside windows, paintwork and clean the fridge. Perhaps it’s so that when I’m lying and snoozing after dinner I won’t feel guilty ... I can simply relax and enjoy the festivities after all the build up.

May I wish you all a very special time with the love of family, the happiness of friends and the joy of Christmas.

God Bless us everyone

Until the New Year

xx

We all have our cross to bear

2009-10-12T11:59:00.004+01:00

Five years ago, my husband, my soul mate, the love of my life had an affair. Despite a year apart, we are still together.

It never leaves me – what he did and what we went through consequently. Every day some little reminder prods and pokes at the old scab to see whether it has healed. There were times during my troubles that I was overwhelmed by anger – not at him, but an incredulity that I’d had more than my fair share of grief and hard times over the years. ‘Him up there’ has thrown most things at me at some stage or another; being abandoned by my mother and father as a small child; numerous miscarriages; being diagnosed with Behcets disease in my twenties and losing my job as a result; my eldest child being very, very sick. I won’t go on. There is a lot more.

I used to wonder how it was that some people seem to have all that life can throw at them and some remain untouched, leading seemingly blessed lives. Over the years, I realise that is not the case. Everyone has his or her cross to bear. Adversity can strike with or without notice. It can hit a relationship, a loved one, your business, your health or your financial status. No matter where or when it hits it will leave the same emotions and feelings in its wake; anxiety, stress, frustration, disappointment, fear, sadness and almost always, a sense of hopelessness and/or despair. How cruel life can be. But we all know that life’s not fair and what is it they say – what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger?

Adversity has an incredible power over our emotions, feelings and responses. Yet it always amazes me how strong the human spirit can be to endure such pain and hard times and still battle and come through the other end. From what I’ve gleaned so far, it is how we deal with adversity that separates those who come out at the other end better and wiser from those who are broken by the experience or end up bitter and ruined. Indeed, how we see life determines our interpretation of whether it is an adversity or not. When adversity rocks a comfortable secure life, fear takes over. We all wonder, ‘how will I survive alone?’ ‘Can I ever get over this?’ ‘Will I ever get a new job or career?’ However, if ten people faced the same adverse event, I guarantee that some will see it as negative, some positive and some devastated by it.
We have a choice as to which way we see it. One of the best illustrations I can give is for you to think about Neville and Doreen, the parents of Steven Lawrence or, Sarah Payne, mother of little Sarah who was abducted and murdered by a paedophile. There can be no event more terrible to endure than the death of a child. For some people, a tragedy gives their life purpose.

I should be a resilience coach. Over the years, I’ve perfected it to a fine art. Every knock back is a learning experience. How many times have I told myself that, ‘It must have happened for a reason’ or ‘some good has to come from it.’ Perhaps I’m kidding myself and wrapping it up to make it easier to accept. But hey, if that’s my coping mechanism at least I can say that the challenges in life have made me better, not bitter. It depends how strong your survival instinct is. For me it has always been the need to keep going and never give in. If we’re trying to climb a mountain, it isn’t the mountain that we conquer, it is ourselves. Edmund Hillary said that after he climbed Mount Everest.

I’m not for one moment suggesting that I’m always strong and positive, focussed and proactive in the face of disorder. I can fall apart like the next person and how we cope at the time of the event is a completely different matter and a separate blog. I am talking about resilience, because after I’ve wallowed and hit the bottom, something kicks in and I always, ALWAYS manage to bounce back up and fight. Here’s what I’ve learnt from adversity:-
1 To fight not flight – It’s far better to face the reality of the situation rather than run or shirk it.
2 Accept support from family and friends - The saying, ‘A problem shared is a problem halved’ is so true. It’s also true that the tough times are when you find who your friends are. People who care deeply for you will be there when adversity strikes. When my world crashed around my ears five years ago, my friends carried me through. But even total strangers reached out to me to give their support and encouraged me to keep trying hard to get my life back. Women in particular - ‘sisters’ - there is nothing like the support of another woman. Men rarely have the same support network.
3 Focus on what you have, and what you can do – This doesn’t mean money and material things. People, especially you, are far more important to treasure than possessions.
4 Learn from it and re-build – Adversity can be a tool, just like any other emotional tool for positive change. You have to be self aware to see the opportunity. You have to be patient with yourself – not beat yourself up thinking things like, “I’m such an idiot.” Adversity often brings with it knocks to confidence, loss of security, crippling lack of self-esteem. If you can dig deep into your resolves and strive to where or who we want to be rather than who we are or who we used to be, you will have to have learned to love yourself enough.

Learning to love yourself is the most crucial key to coming through adversity and being stronger and better as a result.

Walt Disney once said:- “You may not realize it when it happens, but a kick in the teeth may be the best thing in the world for you.” A resilient person is able to withstand life’s battles, survive them, and come out triumphant. If you are currently smack in the middle of a rotten situation, take a step back and think of another occasion when you (or someone you know) went through a trauma, tragedy or horrible experience. You see, you survived (or they) survived. We are here to tell the tale. Surviving such experiences should give us confidence and belief in our ability to get on with it when the unthinkable happens. Life isn’t fair and you may be battled scarred and weary but at least you will be able to look at the scars and know the hurt is over and the wound is closed because you have that gift of an amazing and indomitable human spirit.

Until another day

Bye for now

Favourite Film Characters

2009-09-21T11:02:00.008+01:00

The lovely and very talented Dulwich Mum has tagged me for my favourite film characters.

I had to think long and hard about this tag - to separate film characters from book characters. For example some of my favourite all time ‘characters’ are Tess (of the D’Urbervilles,) Atticus Finch (To kill a Mockingbird) and Chiyo Sakamoto (Memoirs of a Geisha.) These, are favourite book as well as film characters. However, had it not been for the book, I would not have watched the film. So I’ve tried to consider my favourite film characters as stand alone, not adapted from books or not from books that I had previously read.

Number 5 on my list is Captain Jack Sparrow from Pirates of the Caribbean, not my usual type of film at all if I didn’t have the two boys. However, it has become a firm favourite not only because the divine Johnny Depp plays Captain Jack, but also because Depp has created a real classic in this role. Known for his ridiculously silly walks and slurred speech, Captain Jack is completely bonkers and gloriously over the top. And we could be kindred spirits – we both love rum!
And if, like me you're glad of any excuse to oggle Johnny...

Number 4- Bridget Jones. Of course,Helen Fielding started Bridget Jones’s Diary in the Independent, chronicling the life of the thirtysomething single woman in London and the inevitable publishing deal soon followed. However, it is the film, and Renee Zellweger’s portrayal in the film adaptation that I love. Bridget is such an endearing and funny character – I laughed throughout the film (and still do) at her attempts to make sense of life and find love with the help of her fabulous friends. I laugh at her bad habits and her obsession with self-help books. Most of all I laugh at the honesty and vulnerability of the character – the diary is the device to say what the rest of us often think.
Best quote:

“Resolution number one: obviously, will lose twenty pounds. Number two: will find nice sensible boyfriend and not continue to form romantic attachments to alcoholics, workaholics, peeping-toms, megalomaniacs, emotional fuckwits or perverts.”

Number 3 - Forrest Gump. "Stupid is as stupid does," says Forrest Gump as he discusses his relative level of intelligence with a stranger while waiting for a bus. Despite his sub-normal IQ, Forrest leads a truly charmed life, and relates the parade of memorable events that befall him such as becoming a football star, meeting JFK, serving in Vietnam, defeating the Chinese national team in table tennis, opening a profitable shrimping business and becoming an original investor in Apple Computers. I love Tom Hanks as an actor and his portrayal of Forrest is truly enchanting. Forrest is one of the most moving and beautifully wholesome of characters, with an ability to touch everyone he meets – I adore this film and so does my son.
Best quote:

“My Momma always said; life is like a box of chocolates... You never know what you're gonna get."”

Number 2 - Sandy from Grease. I was eleven when I first went to the cinema to see Grease. The whole film blew my mind – the music, the script, the characters. After seeing it, posters of John Travolta and Olivia Newton John adorned my bedroom walls. I still remember listening to the radio chart show in our kitchen every Sunday night for eleven weeks when ‘You’re the one that I want’ was number one. I used to sing the songs with my friends in the playground and in my bedroom at night, until my Nan shouted up the stairs, “Will you shut that ruddy noise up!” I wanted to be Sandy and only have one unfulfilled dream - to go on Stars in Their Eyes and sing ‘Hopelessly Devoted to You!’

Number 1
MY FAVOURITE film character is from the film Gladiator.
Maximus Decidimus Meridius is favourite commander to the Emperor Marcus Aurelius but the Emperors unhinged son, Commodus betrays and murders his father and attempts to kill Maximus. Maximus escapes and heads home to find his wife and son murdered. Captured and enslaved along the outer fringes of the Roman Empire, Maximus rises through the ranks of the gladiatorial arena to avenge the murder of his family and his Emperor.

Not since Spartacus, has there been such an epic film with such a leading Alpha Male.
Favourite quote:

“My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions, loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.

It gets me every time.

Ok, I'd love to know who the following blog friends favourite film characters are:-
Snailbeachshepherdess
Elizabethm
Being Miss
Reasons to be cheerful 1,2 3
Debs-daydreams in the shed.

Consider yourselves TAGGED!
Until another day

2009 - The summer that maketh a man of Idle Jack.

2009-09-08T12:35:00.006+01:00

My eldest son, 'Idle Jack' turned sixteen in July.

When you’re sixteen you think you’re a grown up. You can get married, have sex and smoke. Sixteen, for some teenagers is the new ‘key to the door.’ For Idle Jack it was time to get a job. He would have happily spent the summer, post exams, exercising his thumbs on the PlayStation and lifting his legs as I hoovered around him. His dad had other ideas.
“We’re going to stop your pocket money, so you’ll need to get a job. At your age I’d had a paper round for two years and was walking whippets.”

An online application and ten days later and he had an interview at McDonalds. It’s always been a favourite of his. He was nervous it being his first interview. Then there were two more interviews, one of which was an ‘on the job’ evaluation. Finally, they handed him his uniform and advised the shifts. Idle Jack had his first job.

Six weeks on and he’s “LOVING IT!” He’s repaid what he owes us and has money in his pocket (when it’s not dropped through the hole that it burned.) But as Bridget Jones said, “It is a truth universally acknowledged that when one part of your life starts going okay, another falls spectacularly to pieces.” And it did when we got back from holiday last week and found his GCSE results on the doormat.

“I don’t understand, I thought I’d done enough. I’ve blown it.” His colour dripped into his Fat Face trainers along with his dreams of going on an Animal Management course.
“Too right, you’ve blown it!” declared his dad after he’d come down off the ceiling followed by World War 3 between his dad and him, his dad and me. I could have walked out. I didn’t. I’m a mother. Idle Jack needed me to shield him from his dad’s wrath. He needed me to help find him another college; to give him some words of encouragement when his plans and dreams were unravelling.

“I’m a failure. I can’t get anything right,” he cried.
This was my son crying – my son who normally wears a mask, an invisible shield with his feigned self-confidence and bravado. Aside from the fact that he left it too late to work hard, one of his failings was that he never told anyone when he was struggling. Teenage boys don’t like to open up and show any weakness or vulnerability. Perish the thought that he should ask for help. It’s difficult to know the state of mind behind the mask; what’s really going on in his head. You try to talk. Sometimes he doesn’t want to. Sometimes he can’t. Sometimes he hates the world. You try not to nag or push too much. You can’t win with a teenager.

He’s never been an academic. That’s probably because he’s never liked school much. His first day at school set the tone for the last eleven years. As I met him at the gate, flung my arms around him and asked eagerly how his first day had gone, he wiped my slobber from his cheek before he nonchalantly replied, “Oh, it was fine, but I don’t think I’ll go again.”

Personally, I think kids have so much more pressure on them these days. I hated being a teenager. Without doubt it was the darkest period of my life. I truly felt that no-one understood me. They probably didn’t. For teenagers, there is so much peer pressure - having to be ‘cool’; if you’re attractive; your weight if you eat too many Mackie D’s, or being too skinny if you don’t eat enough Mackie D’s; whether the Clearasil is working on your acne; the size of your manhood or breasts; You want to become independent. Then, on top of all that, you have to worry about grades. Even worse, for ‘Jack’ when the grades didn’t reflect the hard work he put in, even if it was too little, too late. There are demands from parents, demands from school. Is it any wonders so many teenagers face depression?

He tried his best. Or even if he didn’t try his best all of the time, he now realises that he should have worked a lot harder. It turns out that he was having second thoughts about the Animal Management course anyway. I’ve always said that things happen for a reason. He’s not a failure. He got the part-time job at McDonalds when there are so many that are unemployed. So Business Studies it is. It’s a good, general course that is very marketable and he can re-take the GCSE’s alongside. And there are worse places than Ludlow he could be travelling to. It won’t be too onerous for me to pick him up once in a while and educate him to the towns gastro-delights and delightful independent shops!

He’s not blown it. It’s not the end of the world. It’s how he copes from now on that is important. And how we support him. Who knows, it might end up being the making of him.

It’s been a tough lesson. But then as I'm always saying to him, life is tough.

So until another day

Sleep tight...or not.

2009-06-11T12:05:00.004+01:00

Okay, so the decaf tea before bed-time doesn’t work either. Neither does the hot camomile, catnip, anise or fennel tea, hot milk, drinking alcohol, not drinking alcohol. Nothing helps – exercising during the day, not exercising, milky drinks, earplugs, a fan, a mask, reading, listening to music. We invested in a Tempra mattress, (the memory foam mattress developed originally for NASA.) It cost a fortune and is very comfortable in a sinking in, sliding, body moulding kind of way. But it doesn’t help the sleep problem.

I never used to have any difficulty sleeping and it’s not actually getting off to sleep that’s a struggle. I’ve developed a habit over the last couple of years - that’s what it is - it’s simply a habit, but I can’t get out of it. I stir in the night. My brain clicks into action ahead of my eyes that are desperately willing themselves to stay shut. But the brain whirrs and whirrs until I have a ‘virtual list’ of worries, two sides of A4 paper, and there’s not a chance of getting back to sleep. By this time, my eyes won’t stay shut, and will continue to roll open like a Tom and Jerry cartoon until I get up.

Top of the list at 2.30 am today:-
- Amending my internet shopping before the 1pm deadline the day before delivery.
- GCSE Science (my eldest is in the throes of exams.)
- My Take That tickets (when will Ticketmaster send them out.)
- Editorial on the Village Newsletter.
- The opening sentence of my novel.
- The plot of a short story I’m working on.
- Chase the electrician.

This isn’t an exhaustive list but enough to get me out of bed, turn the PC on, make a cup of tea (herbal, of course,) and scribble down yet another ‘To do’ list. If not, I would only lay in bed with my Victor Meldrew head on, becoming more agitated and peeved at not being able to sleep, tossing and turning watching the illuminated clock on the barn ceiling flash at me, and waiting for ‘Puffer Billy’ by the side of me to snore so I can brain him.

Try counting sheep, I hear you say. Counting bouncy, little hyperactive sheep leaping over a fence is never going to work for me. I could hear the little buggers bleating on the field in the middle of the night when I got up. Take it from me, counting sleeping sheep is likely to be much more effective, only not for me.

Everyone I speak to about my problem has a suggestion. Here are some you probably won’t have heard of before:-

Sleep with your head facing north - And unless you have a particularly unusual body, your feet facing south. This aligns your body with the magnetic field of the planet, bringing your own energies into harmony with those of the Earth. Bizarre but apparently true.
Don't Watch TV or Read Before Going to Bed - opposite advice to watching TV or reading before going to bed.
Toe Wiggling – aids relaxation. Hmmm.
Stomach Rubbing – Evidently soothes down the digestive system and helps to bring about a deeper relaxation. An extra benefit is that it will help you to lose weight by improving the functioning of the digestive system. As if.
Progressive relaxation - Feel your feet. Feel the weight of your feet. Feel your feet relax and sink into the bed. Feel your lower legs. Feel the weight of your lower legs. Feel your lower legs relax and sink into the bed. Feel your knees. Feel the weight of your knees. Feel your knees relax and sink into the bed... you get the idea. Mentally scan your body. If you find any place that's still tense, relax it and let it sink into the bed. By the time you feel your hands, you’ll be bored out of your head and glad to get to sleep.
Deep Breathing – in through your nose and out through your mouth. Or is it the other way around?
Visualize Something Peaceful
Visualize Something Boring
Quiet Ears - an ancient Eastern meditation as well as a method of falling asleep. Lie on your back with your hands behind your head, fingers interlocked, and your palms cupping the back of your head. Get as relaxed as possible (it may take a little while to get used to.) Place your thumbs in your ears so that you are pressing the outer flap of your ear and blocking the entrance to the ear canal. Lie quietly and listen for a high-pitched sound that you will gradually hear inside your head. Lay for ten – fifteen minutes, concentrating on that sound. Then put your arms to your sides and go to sleep. (Don't worry about the ringing in your ears – its natural.)
Sex - Alone or with others.
Imagine Coloured animals - Sounds silly but it is supposed to work (just not for me.) Visualize animals in the wrong colours. For example, purple cow, green sheep, red pig, and so on. After coming up with a colour and animal combination, actually visualize it and then I move on to the next one. Coming up with the combinations and then trying to picture the animal is supposed to keep the mind occupied and distracted from whatever stressful thoughts were keeping you awake. Or it will bore you to sleep quickly.
Imagine It's Time to Get Up – works every time.

You see, when I told you I’d tried everything I wasn’t lying. Unfortunately, for me, there are only two options left to try. The first is to buy myself a bottle of ‘Night Nurse’ and have twenty mls every evening before bedtime for the next week in the hope that I can knock myself out and break the habit. It’s as good as sleeping tablets and saves a trip to the doctors.

Alternatively, I could give in to it. When I wake up I don’t lie there and toss and turn. Only use my bed for sleep and sex. The trouble is, there’s not much of the latter either, because I’m too knackered.

Good luck! Pleasant dreams.

Until another day
Bye for now
x

We're not worthy

2009-06-06T16:24:00.001+01:00

Before you read this, I want you to think of ten positive things about yourself. You will see why by the end of my blog.
~~~~~~
A friend gave me a beautiful silk notebook as a gift, about five years ago. The cover is rich, reddish-brown, almost the colour of polished copper with a ‘framed’ panel of sinuous, vertical meandering flowers and acanthus leaves embossed in the middle of the front outer cover. For five years, it has lived on top of my piano alongside my metronome. It stays there, gathering dust, each parchment page as virginal and empty as when it was hand bound. It wasn’t until a conversation with a friend, that I realised why.

Apparently, her sister has a gift for writing poetry and in an attempt to encourage and inspire, F bought her a luxurious notebook for her ideas and notes. After a few weeks, she discovered her sister hadn't used it - the reason, her sister told her, was because it was “too lovely to write in...”

Following lengthy discussions with her sibling and others, F concluded that her sister didn't feel that she was ‘worthy’ of the notebook. It was as if somehow, it was 'too good' and too beautiful for her to write in - that her writing did not measure up to the paper.

I smiled as F recounted the tale and told her about my own notepad - how I hadn't defaced it for fear that my writing would spoil it. It was too beautiful to waste it on my scribbling.

As if to further illustrate the point, I remembered this tale whilst clearing my Nan’s house after she died. Nan always liked to keep a pair of slippers, dressing gown and nightdress ‘for best,’ just in case she had to go into hospital. Why then had she squirreled seven dressing gowns, ten nightdresses, four pairs of slippers and three bottles of Oil of Ulay? In her wardrobe, I found rail after rail of lovely clothes, hardly worn and at least ten garments still with the labels on. On the top of her dressing table sat a whole collection of Helena Rubenstein Apple Blossom – four un-opened spray perfumes, matching soaps, talc, and shower gel - all hardly used. Mind you, I can't talk - I still have a hardly used bottle of Coco Chanel eau de parfum that cost my husband a small fortune when he bought it nearly seven years ago. Well, I only wear it on special occasions-maybe his work Christmas party and my birthday.

So why don’t we indulge and use or spoil ourselves if we have nice things or are given lovely gifts? I feel sure that F’s theory is correct-it is about our feeling of ‘self worth.’

Self worth is different to self-esteem. Self-esteem can go up and down. When I was a Bank Manager, for example, if my Branch and staff achieved our monthly sales targets and received praise, recognition and maybe even financial reward, I would feel good about myself. When we did not, I felt terrible. Self-worth is something you are born with and not changeable. You are worthwhile and have a value – it can’t be taken away from you. You can’t lose it. But you can lose sight of it and forget your own value.

Our feeling of self worth comes from the skills we possess; our achievements and successes, and status including our financial position and even our physical attributes. When we find ourselves not measuring up to society’s criteria for 'worthiness’, we can suffer serious consequences, and our self-worth depreciates dramatically. Of course, nothing eats at self-worth faster than regret, anger or fear. Some of us encounter more than others. For example if we are in an unsatisfactory relationship or have a domineering parent.

From my own experience, the pursuit of perfection and approval steadily drove me further from peace and self-confidence. As a child, I had it drummed in to ‘love my neighbour as myself,’ and not to brag or be selfish. As a teenager, there was a tendency to minimise accomplishments to avoid appearing conceited. By the time, I was an adult I always put the ‘neighbour’ first and had developed a kind of false humility to avoid looking prideful. One of Workaholic Hubby’s biggest criticisms of me is that I ‘put myself down.’ He says I am always doing it, but I can’t help it. I don’t even realise I’m doing it sometimes. Maybe somewhere along the road in my sub-conscious – that perhaps I stopped liking myself, and started to believe I did not deserve anything good - Self-esteem suffered while self-worth was forgotten.
Now back to the question posed in the opening line of my blog. Well, how easily did you reach your target of ten positives about yourself? Would the task have been easier if I had set you ten negatives? I know mine would.

The reality is that loving your neighbour as you would yourself begins with you. You must love and value yourself if you are to love others. You have to respect yourself and acknowledge your own self-worth. You must take care of YOU so that you can love and help your neighbour. Be kind to yourself for it does not make you selfish.

Until another day
Bye for now

x

Preseli Mags said...
Yes, it was really difficult to think of ten positives. Negatives would be much easier, which is very sad really. That's a very thought-provoking blog, Angel. I know exactly what you mean about the beautiful notebook - I have a very lovely silver photograph album that I have never put any pictures in for the same reason. I think I'll take that as homework!

Thursday, September 18, 2008

Faith said...
Excellent blog Angel, and I dived straight in without thinking of 10 positives as I knew it would take me ages! It is similar to another good blog I read recently by, I think, Fire Byrd. I am just starting to realise that at over 50 years of age, I might as well use my stuff as there is no better 'best' than now! Your nan's collection of nighties, olays etc reminded me of exhub2's mother - when she died we cleared out loads of unused goodies. I think she was a hoarder because she had come from such a poor Irish family - no shoes to go to school in - that she couldnt believe that she could now have things. It's very sad. Let's all who read this blog use something 'good' or 'special' that we have been 'saving' this week!

Thursday, September 18, 2008

Elizabethd said...
Well written Angel.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

LittleBrownDog said...
Very thoughtful blog, Angel, and so true. I think I got up to about five positives before I got stuck, and I know just what you mean about the beautiful notebooks and barely used bottles of perfume - I'm just the same.

Friday, September 19, 2008

snailbeachshepherdess said...
Ouch - cringeing well here - three gorgeous water colour sketch pads kept flat under the matress for goodness sake....now what do I do?
Very thought provoking blog Angel.

Friday, September 19, 2008

Working mum said...
Thought provoking! I came up with four, not good, eh?

But, I think I score Brownie points for this one - I have some beautiful Royal Doulton Crystal wine glasses that we received as a wedding present; I do not save them for best, we use them all the time as I think that is the way to appreciate them. Will that redeem me?

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Arcadian Advocate said...
Yours is an interesting blog that I first found today.

Saying 'No' is a vital tool easier to do as we get older, and I am sorry about your Gran, we too have lost someone this year and it is still sharp and raw.
However, the list of 10 things will need to be thought about . First attempt:
kind, empathetic, reliable, knowledgable, funny [I guess this depends on your sense of humour], writes a lot, faithful, loyal, honest and well completely myself. Will that do?

Do please come visit my blog, I am rather new to all this: http;//arcadianadvocate.wordpress.com

Hope to see you soon and enjoyed your blog.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Marianne said...
Hi Angel,
Thanks for visiting my blog.

When my life collasped, we lost our home, car and finally the marriage itself disappeared. It taught me to live every day in the present and not to assume that you will have tomorrow what you have today.
Enjoy it while you can.

Monday, October 06, 2008

CAMILLA said...
A wonderful written post Angel.

I have two notebooks that friend has given me as gifts, and they still remained untouched, so I have learned a lesson there.

I have to agree.... I could easily write negatives rather than positives. Totally agree about love thy neighbour.

xx

Monday, October 06, 2008

Tattie Weasle said...
I confess I have a beautiful notebook that I have not written in as well - hating to despoil it.
Very thought provoking...

Wednesday, October 08, 2008

angel said...
Lovely post,i also have a notebook that i "may spoil" if i use it, your post has really made me think.
Thank you.

Friday, October 10, 2008

Fennie said...
Only just caught up. You would not believe how much of this I recognise.
The trick is perhaps to live life at right angles to events and not in parallel with them. If you live in parallel, it's like being on a wave - you are up and down, up and down, with every bit of praise of criticism that comes your way. But if you live your life at right angles you can become detached and realise that how you feel about yourself is how you decide to feel and not how events make you feel. Very Buddhist and Very Difficult

Sunday, October 12, 2008

toady said...
Only just caught up with this and wow did it ring bells. Being the youngest of 4 and a girl I think praise was a bit thin on the ground in order 'not to spoil me'. Now find it very hard to accept it if any comes my way and can't take criticism either.
Funny lot aren't we.

Monday, October 20, 2008

Sally's Chateau said...
Lovely blog, I too have a pristine notebook which I hate to 'spoil' and wise words indeed about valueing yourself.

Monday, October 27, 2008

Exmoorjane said...
I tend to dive in and use my notebooks and then feel I have 'let them down' by not writing good stuff in them. So maybe I'm one step on but still not really there!
I loved this - chimed a chord for sure.
jxxx

Quiet Mousie in Happy Land

2008-12-17T11:36:00.000Z

Tuesday was my absolute favourite night of the year-The Christmas play, this year-“Happy Christmas in Happy Land,” a charming play written by Quiet Mousies teacher all about a school who are visited by ‘Hector the Inspector,’ an OFSTED Inspector who wants to close the school down.
We have been rehearsing the script in our house for nearly three weeks, my youngest cast as ‘Pork Chop’ and also ‘Mr Slack’ who turns into Santa Claus (you have to be there really.) What amazed me the most was how the children’s personalities have developed and their confidence grown over the last year. His class of twenty children, aged seven to nine years old consummately acted and spoke out loud and clearly to the back of the room and beyond into the car park-a ‘proper’ presentation with oodles of humour and fun woven into a feel good storyline...and there was even a nativity scene in there too.

However the best gag of the show was when Mrs Tick the Teacher was trying to get her husband, Mr Tick out of bed one morning-
Mrs Tick: Henry! Henry! Are you out of bed yet?
Mr Tick: Yes, I’m out of bed, but I don’t really feel like going to school today.
Mrs Tick: But you have to Henry!
Mr Tick : Oh, dear. Why do I have to?
Mrs Tick: Because you’re the headmaster Henry, that’s why!”

Diddley um bum bum.

So until another day
Bye for now

Meet the Totleigh 16

2008-11-20T12:43:00.009Z

DAY ONE
My first day of the Arvon Course does not start well.
Once shown to home for the next six days I locked the door of my room and waited nervously for the right time to come out. Half an hour later the main door opened and in burst a profusion of accents and raucous laughter, possibly a group of friends judging by the noise. What if they don’t like me? What if they all have English degrees? What if they already have a book published?
“Is someone in there?” A soft Irish Accent asked the group. Cue me. Maybe not. Better had. Cue time to pop out of my little hole, introduce myself, look them all up and down then scurry back into my room. They all look glam and ‘arty.’ What if they are journalists? What if I’m out of my depth?
I have turned into a mouse. It is time to circulate or I won’t last the day.

Into the great barn, our class and common room for the duration and everyone is younger than me. And more cosmopolitan-there are two Australians, a Brazilian, one of the two freelance journalists has come from Oslo, two girls from publishing, students studying English or creative writing-one is a model and dating a famous Aussie Rock Star. Our tutors arrive -Louise Dean is beautiful and boho chic. Patrick Neate, his quietness hinting at his eccentricity, was wearing a woolly hat and nervously pulling it down over his head constantly trying to cover his face. The last of our group joins us.
“Hey, that looks like Gilbert O’Sullivan!” I said to the girl next to me who looked at me like I was her Grandma.

It was not Gilbert O’Sullivan. It was Donovan ,the Donovan. The British Bob Dylan.
They do say that truth is stranger than fiction.
Here was the Totleigh 16.

The intros helped me relax a little. Everyone was nervous, self deprecating, humble about their writing to date and their expectations of the course. I was the only one with 90,000 words of my novel in hand. Contrary to what I thought, none of them knew each other prior to the course. We all felt much the same and that, along with the promise of tea and biscuits, stopped me from fleeing there and then.

And so to work. Exercises, one after the other, I could not do any of them. Every ounce of confidence escaped from my pores. Panic set in-totally unreasonable panic and self deformation.
“Take ten minutes to come up with.....”
Blank paper. Blank brain. The more I heard the others pens scribbling on their notepads the worse it got. Don’t cry. The mouse disappeared back into her hole by 10.30pm and barely slept a wink.

DAY TWO
It was time to give myself a good talking to. I won’t give in. I have been looking forward to this course so long. It is good to have some time to myself. I paid £550 for this.

Progress as I actually enjoyed the dialogue work reading it aloud to the group. Everyone was charming and kind which helped.
My safe room still pulls and gets the better of me by 11pm but not wishing to be beaten, I try to do the exercises I struggled with yesterday.

DAY THREE
Work about plots, building characters, weaving the magic in. This is when the light bulbs started to go on. This is what I am missing in my writing. The lack of self belief kicked in again as I sat down to my scheduled one to one tuition with Louise Dean, fully expecting to see huge swathes of red crossings out all the first three chapters of The Orange Man which I dared to let her read.
“There are some lovely touches. There are times when you really ‘see’ people and we have a taste of their pain. It is as if you know what they are thinking. I love your characters.”
You don’t know the half I wanted to say.
“Take out the tortured stuff. Lighten it up. Use more humour. You are funny.”
Me.
"Trust in your dialogue. Use more-especially your use of the vernacular-it is magic! Show don’t tell. That is what you do best. The little pictures you paint are wonderful!”
Did she say wonderful?
“Cut every sentence that does not progress the plot.”
Hmmm. I’m not good at paring down words.
“Be brutal.”
Ok. I get the idea. Some things will just take me time.

Louise Dean, winner of the Betty Trasker Prize for her first Novel told me that I should stop being so hard on myself. (Ok, ok. I know.) The basics are there in my manuscript. It is time now to start the crafting of it...Nuts and bolts can be learnt-from the course, books, internet, courses, I can read someone else’s book that is in the same genre as mine and learn from how they do it.

Lots of character work. I made a promise to myself to not freeze up-must ‘have a go’ at everything and read it out, even the rubbish. Our guest speaker in the evening was Bidisha. Crikey to have a book published at 16. Wow.
At least I have her enthusiasm.
All I want to do is get out my lap top and start the re-write.

DAY 4
Now I am starting to really enjoy it. A wonderful day. At first I was nervous about tutorial with Patrick especially when he tells me he’s not sure about the story-
“It is an archetypal love story. Therefore you must do something different if it is going to get you a book deal. Make it funny-you are really funny. You do tell a very good story and the way you paint the scenes is very vivid. ‘Show don’t tell’-that must be your mantra.”
How strange-the the second person to tell me that in two days. I don’t do funny.
Maybe Milla could ‘ghost write’ for me?

In the evening we are treated to Donovan and his ‘friend’ Kelly, (his beautiful green guitar) doing a 'minstrel' act. Amazing. I am in heaven with the music until 1.30am.
Still on a high, my laptop winks at me when I get back to the room and I stay up writing until nearly 3am.

DAY FIVE
“Let’s talk about getting published.” Patrick says to the class. We hear about book deals and ‘another world’ of publicity and bidding, launch parties and how Waterstones have the stranglehold on publishers. We do the synopsis of our novel that we will send to an agent. This is in fact more difficult than the 90,000 words of the novel done this far.
Setting free your imagination.... Patrick has never been to New Orleans. How on earth could he have writtenTwelve Bar Blues?
"Use your imagination" says the winner of the Whitbread Prize like it is easy.
"Look up the facts on Wikipedia and make the rest up, but convincingly of course."

Last night we discovered one of the girls in our group has a wonderful voice-she has sung Les Miserables. So we set her and Donovan to sing Yesterday for our last night. Amazing. Jen McDerra.Remember her name. She is looking for a band. I am sure we will hear her or read her works in years to come.
We all joined in Mellow Yellow, Monster Mash and lots more of Donovan’s hits which we knew verbatim by now. I was so happy I could have burst. Instead of that I started harmonising. Before I knew it I was scatting with Donovan. And everyone was cheering me, and Donovan, of course. The word legend is over used except in this case, it applies. How surreal...Or some might say...how Mellow Yellow. (and take a look at the Totleigh 16.)

A bit like Purple Coo, it was a pleasure and an honour to be with a group of people where you could be ‘yourself’ for a whole week without anyone thinking you are bonkers.

So until another day

Bye for now

22 comments:
LittleBrownDog said...
Oh, Angel, I lapped up every word of that - it sounds completely wonderful. Would love to go on an Arvon course, but have always made excuses for not going this year, maybe next? I'm so glad it was everything you hoped it would be, and more. That confidence is so important. Looking forward to seeing your name on the shelves of Waterstones one day.

Thursday, November 20, 2008
ChrisH said...
WELL DONE! It's sounds as if it was a real ordeal for you at first so you were very brave to stick with it. Writing from cold like that is hard - I hate doing it! - especially when you have to read it out to other people but at least everyone was in the same boat. Take confidence from the praise you've been given - the tutors wouldn't say it if it wasn't true. Good luck with the rewrite.

Thursday, November 20, 2008
Milla said...
what a fantastic sounding time. SO exciting and reinvigorating - and, believe me, that sense of positivity DOES last, so build on it and go, girl, go (wrote go, gril, go first!)

Thursday, November 20, 2008
Pipany said...
Lord thoe idea of reading something out makes me go cold all over Angel. Well done you, feel proud and go for it! xx

Thursday, November 20, 2008
elizabethm said...
I am just so pleased it was all worthwhile and fascinated by the sound of it. I have always fancied going and never done it - it feels as if you are saying you should be taken seriously as a writer and that makes me feel uncomfortable, but you will know all about that!
Great, just great and I know all that positivity will stay with you.

Go for it!

Thursday, November 20, 2008
lampworkbeader said...
Oooh! Angel. One day I'll be able to say, 'I knew here when she first started writing on Coo.'
(Cut out every sentence that doesn't advance the plot. I''ll remember that. Though it makes for a very short novella)

Thursday, November 20, 2008
lampworkbeader said...
Oops! meant her not here,

Thursday, November 20, 2008
snailbeachshepherdess said...
there is a new animated Angel bursting out of the page - go girl go!

Thursday, November 20, 2008
mountainear said...
It sounds so exhilarating - hope you keep up the momentum and write, write, write. You've got it in you - now do it.

What a fantastic week.

Thursday, November 20, 2008
Tattie Weasle said...
Oh it sounds wonderful and you are SO brave! Some mouse though...fantastic!!!

Thursday, November 20, 2008
bodran... said...
What a brilliant time you had . i can so understand the hideing away i would have done the same .
As for donovan you lucky thing i love his music.xxx see you soon .

Friday, November 21, 2008
muddyboots said...
wow, angel, this sounds sooooooo cool!

xx

Friday, November 21, 2008
Arcadian Advocate said...
In the 90's I looked at Arvon courses many times, but have not done so for a while as I have been so busy. Perhaps one day, after all, I will be brave enough to go.
Good Luck and thanks for sharing your experience, you brought the week alive for us all, and yes many of us can remember Donovan!

Friday, November 21, 2008
pinkfairygran said...
Congratulations Angel on actually doing the course, seeing it through. I know how nervous you were, but you did it, and aside from what you got out of it, you must be so proud of yourself for going.

You sound so fired up from it all, well done and more power tol your writing. And of course, I remember Donovan. What an extra treat for you!

Friday, November 21, 2008
Cait O'Connor said...
Comgratulations Angel. That was a great piece of writing in itself and good luck with your present and any future work. I am so glad it was money well spent.

Saturday, November 22, 2008
Frances said...
Please forgive me for being so late in leaving you a comment. Your experience at arvon seems to have been quite enriching.

Don't lose a bit of the energy, confidence, enthusiasm that you took home with you.

Write, rewrite, share what you've written with more folks (even those whom you fear might be critical, because they just might be excellent readers.)

I did check out the Utube segments, and those were also so much fun. First there is a mountain then there is no mountain then there is. Etc. Create!

Sunday, November 23, 2008
Exmoorjane said...
I am so so thrilled that you loved it (would have beaten self with a wooden stick over the head if you hadn't). Ah yes, show not tell.....those words echoed through our week too. But your bunch sound much younger and trendier and go-getting that our lot (who had a penchant for running away and crying -but that could have been the Philip Hensher effect!).
You go girl indeed or even gril go.....we all know you have it in you.
Janexxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Monday, November 24, 2008
CAMILLA said...
Well done to you Angel, for sticking it out, if it was me I probably would have run.

Definately money worth spent though Angel, and the very best of luck with the writing for the future.

Ooh, meeting Donovan, how wonderful is that, I adore his music.

xx

Saturday, November 29, 2008
Fennie said...
They are wonderful those courses. I went on one years and years ago - on writing comedy - Ha! (or even HaHa!) but they are hard work. Great camaraderie. Certainly it's an experience you will remember for a very long time. And meeting Donavan as well!

Sunday, November 30, 2008
Tessa said...
OMG - you are so brave. I would have run away the very first night. What an absolutely wonderful experience it turned out to be - I'm so thrilled...and excited...for you. Bravo!

Friday, December 05, 2008
blogthatmama said...
Angel I'm so glad I found this post, I'm in such a muddle these days I couldn't remember who was going on the course until I went on purplecoo today. It sounds absolutely brilliant but very scary, well done for being so brave, I think I would have pretended to be the cleaner. I would really love to go one day, when life calms down a bit! Mellow Yellow! Haven't thought about that song in ages

Friday, December 05, 2008
Marianne said...
I am so impressed that you did this. Well done for being so creative and so brave. Loved your description of your stay and good luck with the novel!

My Teflon Nan

2008-09-04T00:41:00.000+01:00

It is amazing how someone knows when he or she is dying.

A few weeks ago, my Nan’s legs were so swollen with oedema she bluntly announced she knew she was dying to me one day when I visited her.
“We have to face facts Debbie. I can’t go on forever and I’ve had enough. My time is up. I want you to take the victorian plate and the three handled mug from in my glass cabinet and take them to the Rural Museum.”

By pure co-incidence, the following week I was going for my second trip to Glastonbury-Nan’s hometown, this time taking my two boys. I have spent most of the last few months collating family history and annotating Nan’s memories of her life as a girl growing up between the wars in Glastonbury. Nan became so animated as she gave me her life’s review, telling her stories and sharing her knowledge of the town.

I smile as I recall the time that my Nan queued for nearly three hours when the Antiques Road show visited Leeds many years ago to show them her artefacts. She was disgusted to learn the plate was only worth twenty-five pounds and the mug just twenty or so. “All that time I queued to hear that load of rubbish! Humph! He doesn’t know what he’s talking about!” I suspect she gave the valuer a flea in his ear too. She never did appear on the Sunday night programme.
Whatever the intrinsic value, the historic appeal was obvious and the Rural Museum seemed thrilled with her donation. It is in the right place I am sure.

After I came back from Glastonbury, there were only a couple of weeks until her 90th Birthday celebrations. The oedema was advancing up her legs but Nan still stubbornly refused the doctor and district nurses attempts to get her into a home or hospital. “I’m not going anywhere until at least after my birthday!”
We invited nearly thirty people to her party at the community centre of the sheltered complex where she lives. Only eleven of her old dears turned up along with hubby, boys and me. Not even the promise of a free tea could persuade some of them to forgive her cantankerous and sometimes tyrannical ways over the years. However, the people who mattered were there and she had a marvellous time.

Unbeknown to her, for our present to her, I had booked a couple to come, sing, and play the piano to her. I requested her favourites-‘Jerusalem,’ or the ‘Glastonbury Hymn’ as some know it and ‘You’ll never walk alone.’ In between, they had a good old singsong to wartime and Gershwin classics and her old friends went home laden with doggy bags.

For Nan, two hours of singing and snoozing exertions proved almost too much. We were due to go to Antigua just three days later.
“How long are you going for?” She asked as I settled her back in her own bungalow afterwards.
“Only a week Nan-we’ll be back before you know it.”
“Oh, thank god.”

I rang her doctor to ask his advice as to whether I should go and checked the insurance details if the worst should happen.
“In my opinion, medically, she is not on her ‘last legs’ yet so I should go. She will have made her own decisions on when she wants to go anywhere and nothing any of us say will change that. My biggest concern is that she won’t go into hospital or a home but she is the most stubborn, difficult lady I have ever known and we can’t make her go.” Tell me about it.

I rang her from Antigua. She sounded frail and a little confused. “Are you home now?” She asked eagerly.
“No darling-just another two days-I’ll soon be there.”
“Only I’ve decided to go into respite care,” she interrupted. “I’m only going in for two weeks but I’ve told them I’m not going anywhere until you get home from holiday.”
What a relief to think she would have some proper care at last. This was what she should have had for over a year now since I gave up being her primary carer. I secretly hoped that maybe once she was in a nursing home she might find she quite enjoyed the care and company. But then again...I remembered her words a few weeks ago that once she went into hospital or a home she knew she would not come out.

The family and I travelled back from the Caribbean on Saturday evening/Sunday and as soon as I plugged my phone in the charger, I found the messages from my uncle to say she was in hospital. Half an hour home and the hospital rang to say she had deteriorated rapidly. They wanted to impress how poorly she was and advised I could visit her anytime. I left hubby and boys to unpack the cases and went straight to the hospital.

Nans eventually recognised me and then immediately proceeded to work through her wishes-Different to a few weeks ago, this time, adding personal details of her funeral arrangements such as where to scatter the ashes.
“For an extra two guineas you can make sure I’m cremated by myself-I don’t want to be burnt with other people-you don’t know whose ashes you’re getting!”
She’s a sharp one my Nan.
“Tell the boys I will be looking down on them and making sure they are ok. I’m so proud of them...and if you need me you just look up and say ‘Mam-what do I do?’ and I’ll help you. I’ll always be there for you.”

I thought she was invincible. Three heart attacks, two strokes, pacemaker fitted, five major operations...She had a will of steel, my Teflon Nan....my Mam.

For a couple of hours she went through room by room, cupboard by cupboard and told me specific instructions on what do with everything...her bedroom furniture, her clothes, her curtains...even her kettle and her tinned food.
“I told you I knew this was the end for me and I needed to sort it all. Does Dr Wright know I’m going? He’s so lovely, he’ll want to know. And the Vicar-you must tell the Vicar.”
I told her “Don’t worry-I’ll take care of everything.”

That is the way it has always been with my Nan and me. This time I did not mind. I knew she needed to have everything in order... before...

Her final words to me were-“Can you stop stroking my hand please. I can’t go anywhere while you’re stroking my hand.”
That made me smile.
“Do you want me to leave?” I asked, not sure whether to leave her or not. What if?...
“Yes please. I came into this world alone and I shall leave alone.”
Some of you may know what she is quoting. I think I may have heard it before. Or maybe it was Nans own saying?

She was not alone when she came into the world. She was with her mother. I wanted to be with my ‘mother.’ Despite everything over the last, however many years, that was what she was to me, and without her my life would have been so very different.
However, she had sorted all her arrangements and wishes. In her head, the contents of her cupboards and her belonging already had new owners. She had ticked all the boxes on the checklist and could get some proper rest now.

I was only home for an hour and a half and the Hospital rang me. They said not to rush back but she was very, very poorly. I did not make it back to the hospital in time-she had already gone by the time I got there. The nursing staff told me that she wanted to be alone. She asked them for some fresh water and by the time they returned, she had gone.

She had it all planned. In control until the end eh? How was it she knew that she was dying?...You hear so many tales of people that leave the world like this, without any worries and everything organised.

Until another day...

xx

The power of learning to say “NO”

2008-06-12T10:17:00.005+01:00

No" is such a simple word...Just two little letters. For years, I have unsuccessfully battled to master it. I am sure I said "No!" quite well when I was two years old. However, over the years as I grew into a child and then adult who craved to please people and be liked, the simple word somehow dropped out of my vocabulary.

Is it just me who struggles? It is just that I have always found it so much easier to say, "I'll be glad to..." (Eleven letters) or "When do you need me to..." (Seventeen letters.)

How nice it must be to be able to say a nice ‘assertive’ “NO.”
"No, I won't be able to help with that. I've already got something else I am doing on that day." Short and simple.
I think I have muted before on several occasions I do not do short and simple. My attempts at “No” in the past have usually been accompanied by weak excuses and rationalizations, which left the other person unconvinced, sure that I would ‘give in’ in the end. Predictably I usually did, unable to risk offending someone or the wrath of him or her thinking badly of me. The trouble with not being able to say no is that it can put an enormous strain on your time and resource. It can drain your energy. In addition, as I found out over recent years, it can sap your soul.

You should not need an excuse to support your stand. Why should we feel guilty saying no because we need more time to ourselves? What is wrong with not agreeing to take on a job because you really do not fancy doing it?

Take for example the approach I had a couple of weeks ago from our Parochial Church Council for me to become their Treasurer. To be fair they must have though “ex Bank Manager-she would be ideal...and she’s at home all day... (Well, I am sure that is what some people think, even my husband. Or is that my guilty conscience?) ...and she’s always getting involved with things in the village...the perfect candidate.” Except I am not.

I was a Personal Banking Manager where everything is system driven. My focus was on customer service and sales, not Trading Profit and Loss accounts. Maths was my weakest subject at school. Remember that I was the bank manager who never even got ‘O’ Level maths! Even to think of being Treasurer filled me with horror. I know I would dread that responsibility every month.

Since I retired from work, I have never been so busy-I don’t know how I ever managed to fit in work! My primary role is the family. Idle Jack takes a considerable amount of cajoling and supporting him to get anything done in a day! With Quiet Mousie it is the opposite with his demands for healthy eating (he’s on the Rooney diet) and countless trips to football coaching and training. There are packed lunches to prepare, dinners to plan, plants to water and tend, veggies to pick over, slugs to control. Then the housework and my ridiculous attempts to be the perfect domestic goddess (Well, if I bake every week, I must be a good mother.) I am currently selling off all my remaining stocks of bags to close my little craft business finally so that I can take things a little easier. I long to write but recently have let my sacrosanct two hours in a morning lapse due to everything else I have on the go.

The simple fact of the matter is that I am already spreading myself too thin and do not feel I am able to get on with anything-at least not well, or on time as I would like. I do not want to do any more.

I could go on...My point is-did I tell them that? No, I did not.

It was very nice of them really and I felt honoured that they should ask me. However, instead of saying “No” there and then, I asked for a couple of days to consider. Then I went back to them and gave a long list of excuses-my health was not very good, I already had such a lot on with campaigning for the Post Office and editing the Village News, then there was my work on the school ‘friends’ committee and trying to support them. On and on the excuses...

The Chairman of the PCC is a very nice man and said he understood. “Would you maybe just come onto the PCC then? We could do with some fresh blood and you would be a great asset to our fundraising efforts...”
Well, what could I say?

I had my first meeting last week. We are having a village barn dance in three weeks time. I am helping make a chilli, selling tickets, and making bunting and creating ‘wanted’ posters. Will I never learn I hear you ask?

Two days after the PCC meeting, ‘Pervy Reg’ flagged me down in the village.
“I hear you have been voted onto the PCC, well done Debbie. You will bring a fresh perspective on the fundraising. I wonder whether you would consider coming onto the Village Hall Committee if you don’t have too much on already.”

This time I resisted asking for time to deliberate my decision. There was nothing to deliberate. I know I am running at maximum. I cannot be productive if I keep taking on more and more commitments. Something has to give. It is usually my health.

“I am very sorry. I know you are working hard to raise funds. However, I feel my plate is already rather full with commitments and I can’t take on any more at present. But thank you for asking me...”

I know it was not a perfectly executed “No.” There was still rather too much waffling and a need to apologise and be nice. And I fretted all evening about what he would say or think about me.

Still, I should at least give myself credit-it was a step in the right direction and good practise for saying such an important two letter word.

I hope you all practise it too...

Until another day
Bye for now

Thursday, June 12, 2008
Milla said...
Sounds like you have really big things to say no to - they are massive commitments and people must now that it's not just like having a couple of kids back after school for tea, but an on-going drain on your time. You could say that you'd worry you wouldn't be able to do it justice etc - yes, I know, I'm another who finds it hard to say NO (though F9 says it all the time and sometimes I quite amdire him for it) and always feel I have to provide a massive excuse. A man wouldn't think like that, I'm sure. Be strong!

Thursday, June 12, 2008
ChrisH said...
Well done! You won't get those precious two hours unless you do say no. Good for you.

Thursday, June 12, 2008
Elizabethd said...
Good for you. Sometimes 'no' is a very important word to learn!

Thursday, June 12, 2008
Working mum said...
Well done. You will find that people will respect you for saying "No" and will be all the more grateful when you do say "Yes". Keep your extra curricular stuff enjoyable and manageable I say!

Thursday, June 12, 2008
Crystal Jigsaw said...
You have taken on quite a lot there haven't you! The farmer finds it difficult to say no unless I'm asking him to do a job for me and I'm useless! I'm like you, if I say no and give my excuses I spend ages afterwards wondering if the person will still like me, that's if they ever liked me at all!!

CJ xx

Thursday, June 12, 2008
Inthemud said...
Yes, I've always struggled with the word "No", if I do say No , I tend to then feel so guilty, I change my mind to Yes, I did an assertiveness course once and did practise more of saying No , got better for a while, then slipped back.

Didn't realise you'd become just Angel instead of CCA!

Thursday, June 12, 2008
bodran... said...
I still have problems saying it so i just hide from people!
I've just been doing a catch up. your trip to glastonbry sound fascinating...
How are you fixed for sunday in ludlow instead of hiking all the way here ?? i've put a pst on the cm xx

Thursday, June 12, 2008
Frances said...
Sometimes, it occurs to me that I have a difficult time saying no to what others ask, but that the result is that I have said a quick no to what I myself might have been planning. It's good to practice saying yes to yourself!

xo

Thursday, June 12, 2008
mountainear said...
I'm not very good at saying 'No' either - but I have noticed that when I've got a full diary things do get done - and generally it is fun and fulfilling. Honest!

Thursday, June 12, 2008
CAMILLA said...
Hi Angel,

Yep, I am just the same, I have always struggled with the NO word. I can be up to my eyes in one thing or another, and I have fear of saying that two letter word. Then if I do say NO, then feel terribly guilty afterwards.

I have to keep reminding myself that you are now Angel and not CCA.

Good for you Angel in saying the two letter word, and as they say, one can only do so much.

xx

Thursday, June 12, 2008
Cait O'Connor said...
It's hard Angel but I have learned that less is more . in everything. Too much leads to stress....whatever it is. It's my mantra now. Saying No is so hard though but it will get easier the more you do it!

Friday, June 13, 2008
Pipany said...
Golly I could have written this Angel! Don't know if I am getting busier or just cope less well now! I think my permanently grumpy/harassed face is putting people off asking me to help with such things - worth a go?!! xx

Sunday, June 15, 2008
Preseli Mags said...
This rang so true with me too. I was asked to be treasurer of one group and reluctantly agreed. I found it so stressful! Then another group asked and I tried so hard to say no - layers of emotional blackmail later and I was a treasurer again! More stress, sleepless nights over accounts, fund-raising, grant applications etc. Never again! Next time I will say no, just as you did. But why is it such a difficult thing to say? Brilliant blog!

Monday, June 16, 2008
muddyboots said...
practice saying no in front of the bathroom mirror, no No NO! a little stamp of the foot might help.

Monday, June 16, 2008
Exmoorjane said...
How funny - have just finished writing a feature on exactly t his - how to say NO.
Apparently the key is to say it very quickly and immediately - then you can apologise all you like. So it's a brisk, 'No, sorry.....' then blah-di-blah-di-blah. I do it myself ever since I did a 'Just say no' workshop and it's fabulous. Works a treat. people don't even bother asking now! I also say that I'm allergic to committees (which is true - I come out all bright red and puffy faced and make strange spluttering noises). jxxxx

Tuesday, June 17, 2008
snailbeachshepherdess said...
The thought of a treasurers job would just leave me in gibbering heap...horrible.
How are you? How are those Xams going? have been wondering..

Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Fennie said...
I know just the feeling Angel! I am a sucker for ending up doing things I don't want and don't have time to do.
But sometimes it is easier to say 'yes' and just do it, than to pfaff about umming and I'll let you knowing. How do you avoid feeling guilty when you say 'no'- that's the problem.

Saturday, June 21, 2008
elizabethm said...
Oh I like this blog! I have learnt to say no although used to be terrible. Jane is right. If "No" is the first word that comes out, as in "No, I'm sorry..." it is amazing how much better people hear it than when it comes with prevarications running before it. Although mountainear is right that it is amazing what one can do if you want to do it - wanting ,that is the key!

Saturday, June 21, 2008
Milla said...
have just come to see if anything more on how you are? OK, I hope? And have commented on the end of chapter 3's story, too xx

Thursday, June 26, 2008
Sally's Chateau said...
It's such a simple short word isn't it ? I have trouble saying it too..........

Sunday, June 29, 2008
annakarenin said...
Good for you. It is hard to do, I made the descision when we moved here that I was not going to end up on masses of commities and have pretty much stuck to it. The pressure does come but remain firm for you and your family. Just being a mother is work enough for anyone.

Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Milla said...
still not a peep from you, sigh. hope all is well, D?

Friday, July 25, 2008
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The real Glastonbury-THE TOWN

2008-05-23T05:56:00.000+01:00

So much mythology and legend surrounds Glastonbury. Stories abound and people have flocked, sometimes in their thousands, for over 4000 years. However the reality of real life in Glastonbury is very different. And the town of Glastonbury, as seen through the eyes of a young woman growing up between the First and the Second World Wars was far removed from the esoteric shops and lost souls that we see there today.

I started the Millenium Trail from the Georgian Town Hall, (next to Glastonbury Abbey) and followed thereafter in order the guide suggested-a good way to take in the main highlights and sights which I had heard about over the years as I grew up with my Nan.
The Town Hall has served many purposes over the years-as well as housing a market area, jail and Court Room and even a silk factory for some time.

Nans main recollection of the Town Hall was as a young girl of eleven or twelve years. In approximately 1930 a hall was added to the rear and following the renovations there was a grand re-opening. Twelve boys and girls were selected to sing at the opening. Nan was one of them. Her father was so ill (heart disease) he had to be helped up the stairs by three people. Not only was he proud to hear his daughter sing but he and the whole town wanted to hear the choral version of ‘Jerusalem’ (or Glastonbury Hymn as it was sometimes known.)

William Blake wrote the immortal words many years previously, probably inspired by the apocryphal story that a young Jesus, accompanied by Joseph of Arimithea, went to Glastonbury. However it was Charles Hubert H Parry who wrote the musical score to accompany the words in 1916 when he was asked by the poet laureate, Robert Bridges, to put it to music for a ‘Fight for Right’ campaign meeting in London’s Queen Hall. After that it continued to be tested out with different orchestral and choral versions. During the 1920’s many Women’s Institutes started to close their meetings by singing Blake’s words to Parry’s setting. Parry died in 1918 (incidentally that was the year my Nan was born.) And Edward Elgar added to the scores to create the more powerful version known and loved by so many of us today.
According to my Nan she was one of the chosen ones to be involved and it was the first time that the people of Glastonbury heard the tune when she sang it.

As you look out from the Town Hall you can see St Benedicts Church.
The adjacent school is where Nan attended her secondary school. Back then it was an all girl’s school. The year Nan sat her 11+ no one passed the exam. The following year only one girl passed-a very posh girl called Margaret Parsons who was apparently related to someone in the Clarks (shoe) family.

Back towards town on Benedicts Street is the Mitre Inn.

Nan remembers a new girl, Joy Mills coming to the school. She was plump but very well dressed and had curly dark hair with a fringe. Her parents owned the Mitre Inn.

When I went to Glastonbury I contacted the local press and they were so helpful they even put an appeal in the paper for any one who remembered my Nans family or who remembered life in the town just before the 2nd World War to contact me. I was quite disappointed not to hear from anyone throughout my stay. However the night I got home I had a telephone call from a 90 year old lady-Joy Mills, Nans friend from all those years ago. She still lives on Benedict Street with her husband and for several years took over the Mitre Inn pub after her mum and dad passed away. She is one of the few remaining ‘elders’ in the town-everyone else has now sadly died.
Iris Knight (daughter of Knights famous Knight's Fish Restaurant, the oldest (and best) fish and chip shop in Britain ) was at school with Nan and they shared exactly the same birth date. 18th August 1918. Sadly Iris died a few years ago however the fish and chip shop still exists and I ate the most delicious fish, chips and mushy peas during my stay and definitely plan a return trip with the boys!

Nan can remember shop by shop along the streets in town. I have written them all down and intend to document them along with her memoirs-the Antiquarian Society and Library said they would be very interested for their records.

The market square used to be the centre of town life and many of the buildings date from the time of the Abbey, although the shop frontage has changed over the centuries. The present cross was built in 1845 and replaced a medieval water conduit. Live cattle were sold in front of the butchers shop, where nan's Uncle Wally worked for years.

Nan came out of the dance at the town hall one New Years Eve and danced and celebrated with everyone in the square.

One of the old Glastonbury Inns, The Crown (mentioned as early as 1535)still remains. Unfortunately a bad fire a hundred years ago burnt down much of the medieval original. Nans Uncle and Aunty owned the pub for several years and Nan was very good pals with their daughter, her cousin Eileen. For some reason when Eileen died, the family never contacted Nan to tell her and the two sides of the family lost touch. However it was believed that the family continued to own the pub until more recent times. I intend on my next visit to brave and go in and enquire to the current landlord-I was a little nervous on my visit as it seemed a little intimidating from the outside. It would be interesting to see whether any of 'that side of the family' are still alive.

The George & Pilgrims Inn was built by Abbot Selwood approx 1465 to accomodate the thousands of visitors who flocked to the town.
Nearly opposite the inn used to be an ironmongers. Nans brother Douglas used to work there filling up the paraffin lamps.

By co-incidence my Granddad was billoted to the house above it during the second world war during his first stay which is when they met. Nan would go past on her bike and wave to him as he hung out of the window. They would shout the words “Three Pips!” at each other, coded message for “I love you.”

St Johns Church was very much the centre of their world. Nan was christened there and her mum and dad's burial services were there before being taken on to the cemetery on Wells Road.

The Glastonbury Thorn in the churchyard flowers at Christmas and Easter time. Every Christmas the vicar cuts some blossom and sends it to the Queen for her Christmas breakfast table.

To the rear of the church is St Johns school, Nans first school. Nan had two older brothers as well as her twin brother. One day the eldest, Jack came home with a note from the school teacher-she needed to see a copy of the twins birth certificates for the records. My Nans mother never did send her a copy despite her repeated requests-she packed the children off to school and they were barely three years old.

Nan recalls going to school with Jack Chislett (and admits she used to fancy him!) He was mayor of Glastonbury a few years ago. His brother, George (who sadly passed away a couple of years ago) had a flower shop on the high street. He was head gardener for the Abbey grounds and was one of the few people who was able to graft Holy Thorn cuttings onto the root of blackthorn.

The war memorial in front of the Church was designed by Bligh Bond and based upon a Saxon Cross he discovered when excavating the abbey. Nan recalls being a brownie and leaving a wreath on the memorial on Armistice Day .

Much of the remainder of the high street remains as it has been for over 200 years.

The post office is the only other memory of any real significance to Nan along the high street. Her beloved dad worked there as a postal clerk. And she later joined as a post person-she covered a good five mile stretch down the high street, down Benedicts Street delivering post along a round route to the Station and back.

At this point I diverted off the millenium trail to Bove Town, which until about 1791was the main medieval road to Wells.
On the left as you go up you see a beautiful cottage, Many of the other houses along this stretch still have internal features that are up to 500 years old.

I was looking for Coombe House, the house where Nan worked as an 'in-between' maid' from the age of just twelve.

I could see very little from the roadside of the house-it was masked by laurel and leyandii trees although I dared to step up a couple of the steps, maybe re-tracing the route she will have taken to the servants entrance. Nans hours of work were 7am until 9pm. She stayed at the house during the week and only went home at weekends. Woe betide her if she was not home on time-her mother would march down and collect her!

The house is now privately owned by two gentlemen, one of whom is the Chairman of Somerset County Council, Alan Gloake. I have had no luck contacting him so far. However I have just been given his telephone number so I will dare to ring and introduce myself. I do know from the website that the gardens open on 3rd August for 1 day only. Me and the boys have already planned our return visit to Glastonbury around this date, although I am rather hoping Mr Gloake may be kind enough to show me around the inside of the house some time!

Next door is a thatched cottage dated 1637. Miss Murial owned it and sold it to the Scott Stokes, a very wealthy family who were related to the Clarks of Somerset. Nan remembers as she worked in Coombe house the children next door ran and played outside in their bare feet, not of course because the family were too poor to afford shoes, but the Clarks family believed that it was more healthy and natural for childrens feet to be allowed to breathe and grow without restrictions.
If you continued past you walk through Wick Hollow and a route to Tor Hill.

Uncle Wally (the butcher) and Aunt Bess lived there and one of her errands was to go and collect cider in a heavy flagon for her dad from the cider press which Wally had.

On the way home Nan would pick violets and primroses and other seasonal flowers from the banks and take small bunches back to her mother.

To be continued...