jentay61

"Books at my bedside" - A Preamble

2011-08-30T10:00:00.000-07:00

Someone, who I respect enormously, suggested that perhaps as I had enjoyed her "A Year in Books" I should do one of my own. I didn't feel organised enough to do that but thought that doing somethingsimilar with my current pile of books might be a useful exercise.

Here, as a preamble, is some of the background to my relationshipwith books.
Books at my bedside have been an enduring feature of my life for as long as I can remember. My first school report said that I liked best sitting in the book corner looking at picture books.

From the printed edition of "The Lord's Prayer", illustrated with beautifully composed none twee pictures of hands, on paper even then I could recognise as good quality by its sheen and weight, to the tattered edition of "The Kittens Who Lost Their Mittens" that my mother and father read to me with, what for them, must have been monotonous regularity, onto "Milly Molly Mandy".
Having regular bouts of tonsilitis (my mother wouldn't let me join the throng, in the 50s, of children having tonsils and adenoids routinely removed as she believed they were a safety mechanism and unless I developed quinsy the tonsils were staying) to the weeks spent with plaster casts on my legs while a fracture healed, books were my constant companions.

My grandmother through her second hand business kept me supplied with piles of comics,magazines and a very eclectic range of books.

Absolute security and comfort was being tucked up on a sofa,in front of an open fire, and entering the different worlds within all this reading matter.

Dan Dare in the "Eagle",the world of London/county society in "The Illustrated London News", the womens' magazines with their make do and mend or making co-ordinating accessories such as hats, belts and summer shoes.

Strangely, one of my favourites was a book in landscape format full of photographs of "our brave boys" exercising and training prior to going into the carnage of World War 1.

I realised later that if each of the pictures had been presented differently they would have made a "flick" book and become a moving film.
Eventually, I moved onto the classics, reading Dickens, Stevenson, Jules Verne and Rider Haggard along with the "Empire Youth Annual" (a relic of the strange bedfellows war throws up), Film annuals and, now and again, "Bunty" with the "Four Marys" and the world of hockey and boarding school.

All these other worlds beyond my own experience - I craved to be taken out of my self - and all provided by Grandma, who eventually handed over some really old books - bound copies of the"London Art Magazine", "The Church Times", gazeteers and "The Wandering Jew".

The day she gave me "The Master of Bank Dam" it was with an injunction not to let on to my parents.

Why? Because unlike most dynastic novels of the Victorian/Edwardian era, it made reference to bodily functions, albeit vaguely, of embraces down alleyways, and most particularly to the "petty" - the toilet.

The Brontes, Mrs Gaskill, not even Dickens did that!

I read anything and everything so that by the time I was at secondary modern school I had a head stuffed with general knowledge and was allowed to pick what I liked from the reading shelves,rather than that prescribed, only mindful that new words had to be recorded in my vocabulary book with its dictionary definition.

At that point I loved "Susannah of The Mounties" for the adventure and freedom it described, of a young girl travelling across Canada and up into the Yukon with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I don't ever remember even thinking about any question of authenticity - I was in the story, part of it.

At 13 I was given a scholarship to the new Comprehensive that had been formed from the old local grammar school and a new world of books was available to me.

The local library was also a vital source when books cost too much for my parents budget and became a constant haunt.

Only when I did my degree did I analyse and look for hidden agendas.

Many people say an English Degree spoils your ability to read and enjoy a book but, as usual, perversely, I run counter to the tide and enjoy the analysis, looking for the omnipotent narrator, wondering what was left out, asking what slant/axe the author is trying to produce/grind. Perhaps the fact that I was a very mature student meant that my ability to enjoy a story for its own sake wasn't subverted.

The Field

2011-05-04T08:00:00.001-07:00

At one forty-five a.m. lights danced and flared across Orion's belt,

silent choppers or Tornados practicing.

In its proscription it contains all,

Today, at breakfast, a single pheasant.

There are the loners who stroll across the furrows

or the hare who sits in the hollows between.

Then the desperately gregarious who must be with others even if it's

only to fight.

They are startled and rise or bolt.

You wait to see the what and why -

Nothing.

They settle and continue until.....

Which chimera this time?

Twenty second of February

2011-05-04T07:21:00.000-07:00

The shock of a weak vessel suddenly cracking in a daughter's brain, a daughter who has stayed with us by what seems like a thread.

Looking robust and rosy she hades a frailty masked by the emphasis on brittle bones.

Once again in the toilet, as on each previous occasion when my family have been in crisis, God and I had our usual open and frank discussion - not bargaining but the offer of my life, freely given, if that was what was needed to maintain the balance so essential to retaining the tension that holds life together.

Son-in-law and I cried, hugged, steadied each other as she disappeared into the theatre, shades of Craig's uber-marionettes.

Mad as it sounds, I was aware, on our way to and from the ward, of the sequence dance of the lift as dancers enter, leave and chassis back and forth, keeping out of each other's and the door's way.

In the intervening period we watched mind numbing dross on the cafe television and kept it together despite provocation.

Seven hours later we sighed with relief that she was awake and alive.

As we sat in the waiting area we were aware of another group, ashen and frozen, dealing with their own crisis and so tempered our euphoria.

The danger time wasn't past but the first hurdle was cleared.

Daughter's first comment on her condition was typically understated and concise - "I feel crap !"

We rejoiced that she could speak and her personality seemed intact.

The danger of spasm in the blood vessels of the brain, which could induce the effects of a stroke remained for the next twenty one days and I dare not relax. My life experience has tended towards it being dangerous. The moment I do seems to be the trigger for another crisis and more guilt so I only allow myself a controlled response.

In the following days she requested that all her hair be shaved off so that it could grow back at the same rate. She endured the removal of a legion of clips and contemplated the shaving of her legs and a pedicure as a high priority.

She continues to grapple with the tiredness that brings on slight aphasia and confusion, and an acceptance that for the next few months she has to step back, allow blood to be reabsorbed and let the healing happen.

Daughter and Son-in-law are blessed with a battalion of true friends who don't just say but do and a family who think the world of them both and two little girls with Grannies who support each other and love them unconditionally.

The shock, support, love and relief has girdled the earth and comeback ten fold.

Perhaps now my daughter will realise she doesn't have to be superwoman, is more than good enough as she is and is valued for herself.

February Randoms.

2011-02-06T04:10:00.000-08:00

(The following are as yet unconnected, raw jottings)

Keep the Beat.

The resonance of the drums bouncing off the stones,

inducing the hypnotic beat until oscillations merge,

stones and drums are one.

The great malleability of human amplifiers lifting

The Beat to the sun on the solstice,

making The Stones speak.

Drum channeling voices from earth, humans, wind,

into a great funnel upwards to Sky Father,

not to desert the land, to re fertilise and make her

live again.

Taking blood, always The Blood, Life Giver, and

returning it to the Earth Guardians,

fecund in its falling, spilling, seeping.

The Drum synchronises brain, heart,

with Earth Throb,

creating an unbreakable force.

---------------------------------------------------

Last night out of my window a curved sliver of moon

finally faded over a crusted earth.

---------------------------------------------------

Do Robots Converse While Working?

Painting robots like shrouded, jerky ghosts,

bending, dipping as the spray bursts,

the armature turns and twists.

And the dance of the synchronised welders.

---------------------------------------------------

A Bruegel for today.

Men in hoodies, various types of woolly hats,

in overalls, with pinched winter noses and cheeks,

looking earthy, workmanlike, unadorned -

warmth the priority.

---------------------------------------------------

On the field.

Four cock pheasants on the morning rime.

One, still, in a furrow,

One circling,

Two heading for the cover of the hedge.

A short "man-run" with bobbing head that

fizzles out to a stroll and peck.

Boldly bouncing hare bolts through them

like a bowl through skittles.

In the field today a morning workout.

Four hares racing back and forth

like a rugby scrum without a referee,

(Four seems to be this field's number)

then over the crest and out of sight.

Singleton sitting in silhouette against the sky,

long back legs able to tip the body forward,

pushing nose to the ground,

or tilting it up to test the air.

They race in synchronised, apparently aimless,

circles sometimes stopping to spar.

Along the boundary hedge a chopper streaks,

and undaunted hares lap the field,

athletes limbering up.

-------------------------------------------------

Last night the wind howled with the ferocity

and rhythm of breakers on the shore,

whooshing, then silence, until the next heave.

So we keep trying

2011-01-31T06:04:00.000-08:00

The month has flown, been and gone,

and My Dear Blog I haven't visited you.

So today, which hasn't perhaps been

particularly exciting, I sit here in my corner

watching the sunshine and fighter jets

going over, and determine to write,

even if only a few lines.

My mind drifts back to the early morning

promenade by four cock pheasants in

the adjoining field.

Ambling and pecking,

aimlessly wandering,

until Number One decides to sit in a furrow,

Number Two slowly circling him,

while Three and Four suddenly break into

a run and make for the hedge.

Through them all, like a bowling ball aimed

at skittles, boldly bounces a hare, bolting.

Number one gets up, breaks into that man-run

thing which fizzles out into a casual stroll of

no fixed purpose

A chinless wonder who either doesn't know

what to do next

wants it to seem like something else.

Another Resolution

2010-12-30T05:55:00.000-08:00

Here we are again, Dear Blog, at the end,

And beginning, of another year,

Ready to make a new commitment to each other.

My head is telling me that if I were a serious writer

It wouldn't be necessary to keep resolving,

To keep saying "This time, come hell or high water..."

You and I both know that truthfully if I hit a snag

Or my stress levels go through the roof,

Paralysis sets in and writing is the last thing

I am capable of.

However, one can't give up hope

And so again I promise to keep you company

On a regular basis, with my unimportant thoughts.

Winter in the drove

2010-12-14T06:27:00.000-08:00

Dawn light comes muffled,

cloying and lilac tinged

with a chill edge.

There are chevrons of beating wings

above blanketed fields,

Rippled clouds like sand

as the tide recedes.

Ebb and flow of dawn mist

making remoteness more so.

Pheasants strut,

confront each other,

feathers erect.

Spar, circle combatively, play act,

then retreat,amiably,

back to their bush together.

Today's performance complete.

There's a tree,

by my bedroom window,

without a straight line,

twisted and gnarled.

It's foliage bends and hangs

like feather boas.

At the top is an

inescapable shape made

by a clump of boa-like

twisting,forking limbs.

It forms a silhouette

of a 50s "New Look" model,

haughty,nose in the air,

however much the wind blows.

Her hat a "Moulin Rouge" headdress,

breeze ruffled, arched swan's neck

atop a stick body, thin,swathed in

moulting foliage.

Veins of filigree twigs criss cross

the alabaster skin sky.

Twisted aorta forks, branches

to capillaries.

An armature stripped back.

Still proud and elegant.

Hares bounce boldly,

with invisible pursuers.

No hiding place until their coats change.

Against the white canvas the

secret world of hedgerows

and acres revealed.

Low morning sun emphasizes

furrows old and new.

Undulations of the past revealed

and the model's hat is

ermine edged.

I struggle with mine and

everyone else's anxiety.

The ice in my fingertips reflecting

arctic chill in head and heart.

I'm wanting to hide again,

frozen by fear,

not acting on my own advice,

afraid for the future.

Not living by my creed,

ashamed, guilty, powerless,

alone, inadequate.

Response to "Shadow Play"

2010-11-28T06:55:00.000-08:00

Gentle understatement,

Haunting Bartok,

Silhouettes in slow motion.

Rebuilt Chain Bridge,

Testimony to renewal.

Shadow feet walks city street,

To haunting boots, shoes,

At river's edge,

Tramp to oblivion,

Memorial to an obscene last act

by Danube's chill waters,

An end and beginning.

Deeply ironic resurrection,

Of those whose elimination took them

into the water-of-life for the perpetrators.

(or: from death to life-giving

in the enemy's midst.)

Poet with his life reduced

To darkness, certain death,

Still wrote verses on scraps

Shoved in his pocket.

Future exhumation made them

Identifiers after his disintegration.

Immortalised in words and bronze.

Statues transmuted from oppression,

Super-human inaccessibility,

To relaxed, human proportions.

Powerful in their informality,

None-threatening but always challenging.

Edward Petherbridge's Budapest.

An iphone production of montage,

Shadows and ripples.

Gentle voice alliterating,

Rhythmically playing with

Language, light.

Expanding pathos, drama.

Exposing fundamental paradoxes.

Another moving, revelatory gem.

New technology performance art

Provoking irresistible response.

Child -poem

2010-11-21T04:58:00.000-08:00

Almost Soho

2010-11-20T04:42:00.000-08:00

Once the decision was made that we couldn't go on

and get into Soho, which like Brigadoon seemed

to have become an illusion with all roads closed

into the enclave due to the Lord Mayor's Show,

we would people watch, take photographs,

comment, sometimes waspishly,

on the passing scene.

I'd missed the meeting despite being in London a

good one and a half hours before starting time.

My stress levels were through the roof with

exasperation.

After an hour in static traffic on London Bridge,

with an effort the levels subsided and I

succumbed to sense, deciding to make the

best we could of the situation.

Looking beyond the cones and no entry signs,

we glimpsed portly men in antique uniforms

raggedly making their way back to wherever

their incongruous transport was parked.

Standing at a bus stop, an Air Cadet with

cymbals clasped under his armpit,

hands still white gloved and pristine,

making his way home.

Theatre and the prosaic meeting.

At 3.30pm as we waited in more grid locked

traffic, a figure lurched to a standstill, at a corner,

steadied himself and his can of Special Brew

against a wall, and surveyed the scene,

taking stock through eyes, that even at a

distance, looked unfocused.

It was a rubbery,Hogarthian countenance,

and equally booze soaked.

The camera clicked randomly and with

my usual abandon, hoping that out of

the indiscriminate might come something

interesting.

Like the figure sitting by the roadside,

hood up, eyeing passers by and, surprised,

acknowledging the lone donation dropped

onto his blanket.

In the viewer the figure was blurred,

all the focus on the outline of wing mirror

and car window sill.

I was going to discard it when No.1 son

stopped me and saw potential.

"Do we really see the homeless?"

The picture spoke and remained.

Stepping out of a taxi an African woman

stopped to look about her before ascending

a flight of stairs to her maisonette.

A cloud of silver tissue gracefully swathed,

folds draped, crisply angled at the shoulders,

a toque pleated into a cockade.

Lusciously exotic against a seedy,limp

background.

Another episode of gridlock gave me

the opportunity to snap boys on bikes,

casually gliding in decreasing circles,

then suddenly pirouetting,

with rising back wheels,

weaving in, out, of columns and

each other.

In an unchoreographed barn dance,

people advanced, retreated, with

suppressed hysteria into and out of

tube stations.

They sashayed out into the road making

for the safety of the isles at the base of

traffic lights.

Making shapes where real life lies.

Crawling in traffic gives time to look

down alleyways and glimpse

another London, and dimension,

behind the hi tech facades.

Fenland Samhain

2010-11-01T12:20:00.000-07:00

As day fades,

Sun makes one last entrance,

diffuse cascade of gold poured over

the horizon.

Long rows of trees stream

to the vanishing point.

Distant buildings in this

flat landscape,

dwarfed

by the sky,

forcing eyes upward,

to a varied cloudscape.

Veiled flame-clouds fill

two thirds of the windscreen,

enveloping mist gives the air a pink-grey haze.

Trees, a palette of umber,ochre,

terracotta, russet.

Long fields dry but striated

by dark, loamish slashes.

Parapets of cumulus rise

threatening rain.

In muted tones earth-life,

slows,

cryogenic.

A slow throb holding the spark

as it renews, garners strength and power.

Fusion rolls, compounds secret stockpiles

until the Sun returns,

A high Gloria unveiled.

Droves, cuts, are calm,

sluice gates stand raised.

Churches, chapels, in field corners,

marooned,

sentinels of a once new order.

Hills of mangold wurzels

undulate.

All transmuted

by Autumn's chill breath.

Shrouded shapes coalesce.

Copses rise crannog-like,

above a meniscus of mist.

All Hallows Eve

an attempt to reconcile

what?

Threads of both old and new,

unbroken, bloodied, but unshaken,

Its fulcrum - the Sun Son.

Cloudscape,

above,

of a parallel dimension.

Buildings,

below,

isolated, square,

austerely dark except for a dull glow

in the endmost top window

intrigues.

Aren't they afraid to move so far

from a comforting hearth-side?

Eye, Walsoken,

etymology

connecting us with our past.

Flag Fen, the Iceni,

hidden,

still faintly pulsing,

their DNA entwined with ours.

Samhain-All Hallows

reminds us of part

of helix at our fundus.

Tomorrow the mantle changes,

seemingly.

Warp to weft.

Thread of the future that help us face,

overcome,

winter's soul demands.

The chthonic,not necessarily

detrimental,

reminds that in frailty, arrogance,

ignorance,

we still need the earth,

we are more than flesh.

Rationale is suspended;

for one night

we nod to an olden time,

invisible world reinforcing its reality.

I like night driving.

Light changes

perspectives,

removes details, reveals basics.

Silhouettes,

untrammelled.

Lighted ribbon way speeds,

dull glow behind treed roads,

signals humanity,

at a distance,

where,sometimes, it should be.

At night,

in Fenland, earth has

pre-eminence.

Humans are

marginalised,

other creatures reign,

things closer to God.

My Autumn is now.

If I am wise I will

reconnect

with the basics.

Ditch flim-flam,

remove deadwood

that I might,

at last,

see the trees.

Teenage Logic

2010-10-22T08:52:00.000-07:00

Grandson No1, the nineteen year old, has been my carer/supervisor today.

The pain has been bad so I stayed at home with him while the rest of the family

went to take their chance at TV Centre.

I wandered around with a heat pack wrapped inside my pashmina and tied

round my middle.

He's excited because tomorrow he goes to meet his "Divine Sarah" and spend

a few days with her, playing house.

The night before last he accompanied his parents to an event held in a plush

burlesque club and promptly left to spend the evening in the car.

"I felt uncomfortable being there and her feeling ill away up in Yorkshire."

Bless him!

Under that unfazable, super cool exterior he does have limits and standards

he can't transgress, and is willing to stick to them.

He handed me two pairs of denims, scruffy and frayed, and indicated the

slashes in each on the inner thigh.

"Can you mend these like now?"

Two slits closed later and as I clipped off the cotton, I tentatively asked

if I should also trim off the tatty scraps that drag at his heels.

OMG! No! They're like essential"

But not the slits?

Think tolerance Jenny.

After all, here you are dressed in fleecy, uncoordinated layers, real grunge,

with a halogen forehead lamp and glasses on the end of your nose.

Best keep quiet perhaps?

Following my whimsy

2010-10-17T03:46:00.000-07:00

With a sense of anxiety bubbling in my stomach,

before dawn broke, I tried to gather my faculties.

At 3am I was watching shooting stars of the astronomical

kind in a clear but crowded sky, sans orange glow or city

lights to obscure the glory.

All confidence had dripped away.

I would know no one, be in a daunting environment,be in

the same space as someone I admire immensely.

People might be beyond me intellectually and in terms

of sophistication.

I was engulfed in an inferiority complex that has trailed

me since forever and, at the last minute, has given me

endless excuses to duck out of difficult situations and

then berate myself for missing out.

Telling myself that I was as good as anyone else, that I

only had myself to blame if I missed this, I steeled

myself and we set out for That London as daybreak started

to evaporate the rime, so that wispy misty drifts flowed

erratically across fields and hedges.

It was early enough for a herd of deer to linger

behind a hedge close to the road.

We filled up with diesel, the queue and checkout

woman still yawning and coming to.

On the outskirts of The Great Wen the traffic thickened.

I developed palpitations which increased as the husky voice

of the satnav variously sent us left, right,straight on,

obviously using a long out of date map.

All our factored in time for delays drained away and with a minute

to spare we steered INSIDE the black barriers beyond the visitors

entrance of The Mother of Parliaments.

In my sweaty little paw I juggled the invitations and confirmatory

emails ready to prove our right to infringe the usually forbidden areas.

We were at checkpoint/border posts.

A cheerful helmeted bobby got us through the first and handed us on

to terser, more aloof colleagues with guns and mirrors.

The car was trapped between mini ramparts that rose

back and front from the earth and the vehicle was searched

inside and out before we were ushered on.

Our host met us and took us through the personal security procedure.

I didn't warrant a photograph on my pass being too low down,

because of the wheelchair, for the camera.

Then on through inner courtyards, through the village

that is Parliament, passed stonework shrouded in plastic,

regiments of cast iron tiles being cleaned or replaced,

weaving and dodging past cages of provisions

disappearing up dim corridors.

At last we entered Westminster Hall and inside the cordon

I got my first glimpse of my fellow society members,

my first opportunity to assess what I had joined.

We seemed a varied bunch with the age range

weighted towards the middle aged and elderly.

I felt reassured,

It was much as I had expected.

The Secretary welcomed me and at last I could put faces to email tags.

I think I was a little anxious about the possible inconveniences

the wheelchair might engender and any discomfort its presence

might give to others but there we were and soon setting off

to our first point of assembly, ahead of everyone else

because of the different route needed for the chair.

It was a recurrent feature of the day and I decided to be positive about it -

it would give me a different perspective and view from anyone else.

The tour took over an hour and our guide vied with the presence

and hubbub of other guides and groups in trying to show us everything

and guide us through chambers and spaces.

The visual senses are overwhelmed with the pre-raphaelite,

mock Gothic decoration, with ceilings dripping in gold leaf and complex designs.

There was also the character of the group and I felt at home,

perhaps too much so, in the company of so many elderly people

muttering that they couldn't hear the guide,

wandering off to look at things themselves or engaging in

diverse conversations with friends not seen since the last meet-up.

Our shepherd tried his best, was exasperated with other guides who

transgressed time and space, fielded quixotic questions,

and long over ran his allotted time.

There is an element of change coming as all the guides are being re-trained

and this obviously rankled, bringing challenges to perceived competence

and suspicion of increased vigilance and uniformity.

Hurrying on now we made our way to the marquee on the House of Lords

terrace and the reception.

This bright autumnal day was perfect for the view of the Thames

and London Eye.

Quiet servers started to circulate with drinks, people drifted out

on to the terrace and finally someone braved breaking the ice

with wheelchair woman.

I tried to guess who might be who, identified Norma Major, and

then Edward Petherbridge and his wife arrived.

Like a silly young thing I became flushed and starry eyed,

finally seeing someone I had come to admire so much,

not just for his Lord Peter Wimsey but the plethora of his other

work.

OMG! The editor of the society bulletin is speaking to him,

gesturing towards me and they are coming over.

How could she do this?

I shall be either dumb or inane.

Nevertheless, here he is shaking my hand.

I had already drawn my son's attention and asked him

to get a picture as EP gave his reading from the new novel.

What came out in a sequence of photographs,

on the mobile phone camera, was the mortifying sight

of my raised index finger pointing, for all the world looking

as if I was wagging it, at this lovely man.

What I was saying is a blur but I am absolutely certain it wasn't

anything in the least bit admonitory, but it's a gesture I loathe.

The saving grace was that EP was laughing.

He was kind enough to remember my weekly comments to

his weekly posts positively and spend some time talking

about various aspects of his work, amongst other things.

My day was more than complete.

Then he had to go, I had to go.

Son and I retraced our steps down ramps, in service lifts,

down back corridors, and into Black Rod's car park.

We both sat savouring the moments and

asking ourselves if it had all really happened as it seemed.

Almost euphorically we dived into London's traffic

ready to take our chances, enboldened!

My whimsy had taken me into a place and situation

I had not expected to be in three months ago.

Thank goodness that damned reticence had been grappled

with and discharged, this time!

2010-10-17T03:27:00.000-07:00

Zen and gin made me feel stimulated and happy but in a

Non-productive way.

Won't feel guilty about that,

Just psyching myself up for seeing one of my heroes

Next Monday if all goes to plan.

But I won't speak to him,

I'd be tongue tied and stupid.

I must have an ipad, to play with,

To tinker with the Touch Retouch app,

And the painting app,

All the apps!

Oh I don't care!

Had to answer a million questions, today, to see if I qualify

For an extra £23 pounds per week pension.

I hope I gave the right answers.

DO I have right of abode in this country?

HOW would I prove it?

(IF I had to.)

WHAT does it mean?

I know I sound like a demented old hag.

Look it too, according to the bloody phone videos

My son insists on shooting.

And the notes for this blog look like a spider

Has tottered across the page.

DON'T CARE!

Get it?

This Week

2010-10-03T02:47:00.000-07:00

Photograph by Alan Taylor-Shearer

Monday was brain workout day after reading Petherbridge's Weekly Post
(as it always is).
But although it was created by his editor it linked to his newly renovated
Staging Post etc., and covered so many aspects, that by the end
of the reading, my brain had the healthy ache of a good workout session.
It included reflections on the work of Edith Sitwell and Dylan Thomas,
amongst other topics, with a rap from Mr. P and a tour of his attic,
poetically as well as visually!

It triggered off so many other ideas and urges to experiment and tweak
what's already in progress but I am trying to be original or, at least,
not completely derivative.
All this necessitated a trip into Kings Lynn to buy, amongst other things,
picture frames, black paper and card and then get back to start cutting
and devising.
This time also with the realisation that there was no deadline to meet
or need to cram all artistic endeavour into concentrated compartments,
each vieing for my time and energy.
That night I went to bed with sheets of white paper and scissors
and cut and snipped the way we used to at school, around Christmas
time, when we made streams of angels all holding hands or circles
folded into segments that, when opened, looked like snowflakes.

Tuesday -Odd day! The CPN visited No 1 son to talk about recommencing
treatment now he's moved from a military to civilian setting.
We all try to be upbeat prior to his arrival but behind the facade
we walk on glass shards and keep looking, covertly, at him to try and
assess his stress levels.
The initial assessment the previous week involved me as well as son and
wife and ended traumatically.
This time I stay out unless he really wants me there.
I know he gets embarrassed about what I might think and it's no good
if he's holding back so unless he says "Stay"......
Part of me hopes he won't.
The unbearableness of trying to stay composed, matter-of-fact,
while watching him chew his already excised fingernails, holding himself in
until the moment when he's asked to go back and remember.
His eyes glaze, he's dumb, zoning out, not with us anymore.
Wife tries to bring him back but he's out of his seat and stumbling passed us.
I follow.
We stare into each other's eyes.
I see my child retching, twitching. He doesn't see me despite my efforts to
focus him, get his breathing under control.
He is seeing horror, desperation, human scraps - those whom he waved off,
promised to welcome back, who instead went down in flames.

There has been four years of panic, insomnia, dislocation, alienation and
a million dreams shattered - for all of us.
The two older boys were shielded to a degree by boarding school but
the youngest, although not privy to the full horror and protected as far
as possible, sensed the problems, pondered on the silences when Dad needed
to be left alone, when Mum pretended to maintain her fragile optimism
while struggling with a recalcitrant body.
He took refuge in day dreaming, unable to focus or concentrate and found
solace in the cyber universe that didn't make emotional demands.
He has learnt early about the vulnerability and hurt that can come from
trusting outsiders and that there is security within the family and distance
from those who take advantage and heap on another layer of pain.

Wednesday was a relief and was spent making a mini set in black paper and
cardboard to photograph cutouts, silhouettes, and lighting effects
a la Edward Gordon Craig.
I was exasperated by 'none' sticky sticky tape that refused to adhere,
patterns that won't stand up, lay flat, disentangle their filigree parts without
tearing.
What seemed so simple!
Waited for night fall to play with lighting, shadow, texture.
A delivery arrived of a beautiful posy in the name of a delicate
daughter-in-law but not for her to enjoy.
Tomorrow she's off to Stevenage for the funeral of
a favourite aunt and staying over to support Daddy and grieve.
She took herself off, with ipod, to her middle son's vacant room to cry
and soak herself in soul music.

I tweaked yesterday's stew with paprika and cumin for "Man of the house"
and self, "Small fat old woman of the house", serving it casually in bowls,
then made rhubarb crumble, gluten and lactose free, for "Woman of the house".
On Tweetdeck No 1 grandson's darling ranted about the vicissitudes of
communal living and its constraints. Grandson is offering, in chivalric
manner, to 'speak' to she-who-has-offended-his-lady, in no uncertain terms.
I Tweet restraint - "....the idiotic, like the poor, are always with us......"
( Yes, I know two parts of the triangle are in the same house but it means
moving.)
In between all this No 3 grandson burns his finger touching a hot griddle,
as a diversion, and first aid is given.
I blub with anxiety as d-i-law announces she's staying away longer,
afraid my presence is proving too much, and blurt out my fears.
We blub together and embrace, reassuring each other that all is intact in
both our worlds.
When everyone else has gone to bed and darkness has fallen, I carry the
set and screens to the breakfast bar and with No 1 grandson manipulating
various types of lamp, and offering sound lighting advice,
I finally get my shots.
The set is already up for grabs and could be starring in other productions.
No 3 grandson and his father have ideas for interesting uses of their own.
Watch this space, or rather 'YouTube', 'facebook', Twitter et al.
I am considering its rental potential.

Thursday was going well. Son and d-i-law had set off for funeral so there
was just No 3 gr.son, who is home schooled, plus his brother still comatose
in his lofty pit, and myself.
We opened the grow house as the sun warmed up, walked down the drive
to see if the flag was raised on the mailbox and collected the post.
I got back to the house and made the fatal mistake of congratulating myself
on feeling loose and relatively pain free.
I made bread, times two, and scones, times one, checked my emails and
opened my post.
There was sudden, unexpected pricking behind they eyes on opening
the envelope from the Royal British Legion and finding two crosses
ready for a repeat of last year's dedications.
Soon, it was lunchtime but in all I did there at the back of my mind was
the mini-theatre and possible variations. I made a salad sandwich,ate it
and then was over whelmed with tiredness and a desperate desire to
curl up and sleep. It was impossible to shake off or succumb to but
I fought it.
However, it meant very little was completed during the afternoon.
Son returned alone and with Ibuprofen and coffee the ennui began
to lift.
I am determined not to be stuck with the cooking of evening meals
so after a hectic search for the car keys, son was dispatched
to the 'chippy'.
Creativity surfaced again and i considered a large sheet of black mirrored
card before turning it into two columns as a support for the 'tree'.
A cereal box covered with black paper became a support of the 'arch',
simple silhouettes, reinforced, created characters and voila!
New ideas.
I played with them using a halogen forehead lamp and realised quite
quickly that I must get more black paper/card/gaffer tape as a
matter of urgency - for whom?
For me, that's who.
Am plagued by ache in ribs, knee, hips. God! everywhere hurts but I
must wait for darkness so in the meantime another Gayton sunset
photograph can be taken, as an after thought perhaps, then monochrome
takes over.
Eventually, the yawning intrudes, I give in, come to bed and then write
up this journal.
If it doesn't make sense it's because I gave in and went to bed with
Lord Peter Wimsey, just for a change you understand.

Friday was a funny day.
Unrelenting rain pounded on the conservatory roof. Definitely a day
for staying in.
The ennui seemed to affect us all and the pain was pervasive, making
it difficult to settle to anything for any length of time. I crack on, however,
with the 'Monotheatre' as I've called it. The black and white pictures,
on the laptop, are interesting but playing with effects gives the option of
experimenting with accidental colouring.
I seem to do nothing but move from one seat to another and yet the
aches grow.
Half an hour in one place and rigidity sets in.
I am steadily turning to stone.
Today, I made soup for lunch out of odds and ends from the freezer.
The ice cream boxes that fooled grandsons, contained portions of
pre-roasted vegetables or the remains of a can of sweetcorn, that all
went into the pot.
At least, today, I didn't need to make bread.
I settled in the conservatory with paper and scissors. "Man about the
house" joined me with his ipad and I was diverted by his roaming
on 'YouTube'.
There was an interlude of the kind of deep, demanding laughter that
leaves you exhausted and your facial muscles pleading - "No more!"-
where you get to the point of being laughed out.
The evening ended with a print off of a picture of No 2 grandson sitting in
his dressing gown with two 'Pringles' sticking out of his mouth
like a duck's bill.
This will be his birthday card - "The Greater Duck Billed BillyFish at rest"

in his natural habitat.

Off to bed to cut more patterns from more paper. For what point?

Saturday and Sunday passed almost without incident although three males

together seem to find it difficult to function in any sort of practical

coherent manner. They rove from one diversion to another and are

resistant to the benign controlling hand of matriarchal me who is attempting

to bring some sort of order to even the most mundane of daily tasks,

all without success. The constant reminders of what needs to be done

so we can see the sink or fish out sufficient crockery and cutlery to eat with

is met with equally constant mananas.

I leave them to it and retreat to my civilised little corner, only venturing out

when need drives me to it.

However, the tempo increases with the realisation, by them, that Wife and

Mother will be back on the Monday, and a frenzy of clearing, cleaning

and tidying brings them and the place back to a semblance of order.

These are my weeks now - elements of routine interspersed with scary

but healthy doses of unpredictability.

Child asleep by water

2010-09-25T07:18:00.000-07:00

Child, snub nosed,

hands lightly clenched,
asleep in the grass,

by slow moving water.
Patchwork between her
and the earth.

Hair like damp soft feathers.
Perfect half-moon cuticles,
finger ready to rise and
summon her slaves when
she wakes.
Fleshy creases of shoulder
and elbow,
Long eyelash fronds delicately
rest.

She dreams of.......what?
Harmony,abundance,bliss.

(Words and picture by J. Taylor from an original
photograph by Claire Hutchings Dunigan)

The cycle begins again

2010-09-24T10:20:00.000-07:00

I was woken this morning by the tractor passing my window
as ploughing started, so close that I could wave to the farmer.
Timed my dressing, to save both our blushes, with his
disappearance over the horizon and had bra and top on
just as the cab reappeared and grew steadily bigger.
Waited for it to diminish again before taking off my pyjama
bottoms and getting into my pants.
On his third pass I was decent.

Back and forth in great diagonal sweeps with a devoted
entourage of gulls, rising, falling, systematically
"field walking" with finds consumed and unrecorded.
Furrows, deep brown, contrast with the green and
baulks almost invisible as every foot is used, scattering
indolent gulls who move no further than absolutely
necessary so as not to miss a morsel.

The field has lain fallow since my arrival but this morning's
activity is encouraging.
If he's ploughing then there has been no change of land use.
For at least another season our solitude is safe and I can
watch the cycle of the farming year from start to finish
With the job done in less than two hours he makes his
final pass, glances, and waves an "au revoir".

Death in the morning

2010-09-24T10:06:00.000-07:00

The battle was played out on my window pane.
As the crane fly struggled desperately,
its wings invisible in their impotent beating,
the spider continued spinning relentlessly and
amputated two of the fly's legs.
The end of the second leg freed the fly.
Denuded, it limped on to an adjacent pane and
rested.
Spider sated herself and stored the surplus,
delicately arranging the long spindly feast into a
compact, concertinaed, easily stored package.

The modified cranefly waited for death in the sun,
four legs gracefully splayed.
It's abdomen an unadorned, flared column,
fatally silhouetted.
Spider didn't keep the kill for future enjoyment,
as breakfast was taken early and replete,
she retired to a quiet corner of her web
amongst the ivy, abdomen faintly throbbing.

A passing bird,vied with its kind, and ate
the rest of the fly, an unexpected snack.

Recording

2010-09-21T10:33:00.000-07:00

It's a long time since I've waited in a queue
for artistic reasons I mean.
Ahead of us are young women, with fluorescent hair,
apparent old hands at this radio recording game
and determined nothing and no one will be allowed
to get in front of them.
Then two Americans who communicate monosyllabically,
without looking at each other and while reading.
That's obviously where we failed - no books to while away
the time, or a kindle like the young woman just behind us.
As the temperature dropped her decision not to wear a coat
and to sit on her cardigan looked less and less wise.
But she bore up.
Another family arrived,the mother glamorous but outgoing
and unexpectedly, because my son is also outgoing, we struck
up a rapport.
Passersby stared, tried to make sense of this expanding line
outside the BBC, and other ticket holders hailed us and vowed
to return later.

Book less, I passed the time people-watching, speculating on
the ebb and flow of guests arriving and leaving The Langham.
There was a frisson of raised hackles when three other women
arrived and instantly queue jumped, talking animatedly to
the three at the head of the line.
Kindle girl, indignant summoned a security guard who,
wimpishly, ducked out of the challenge.
So she tackled them herself, to no avail.

Eventually, there was movement and our tickets were stamped.
Inside we passed through the scanners,men removing their belts
and praying their trousers wouldn't fall down.
Interestingly, women were presumed not to wear belts,
probably on the assumption that those with suspenders
were out of date.
Once through security we were shepherded to the bar.
We snapped up the seats by the door.
Apparently, this is essential in order to get a head start
when the stream is unleashed into the studio.

The feral nature of the audience became overt as
the crowd around the door became denser and
people tried various ploys to bag an advantage.
The unholy scrum as the word came that we could
go to the studio was the epitome of "everyone for
themselves" and a stumble at that point would have
meant a severe trampling.
How naive of me to imagine a modicum of civilised behaviour
would prevail within the hallowed portals.
Half the stalls seat were already occupied as we entered the
theatre and occasioned puzzlement but was explained
when we realised that this was the end of the series and that
these were family and friends, plus VIPs.

A radio recording seemed to me rather like a public
rehearsal or read through, in format, except this was the finished
performance.
The setting is quite informal with the cast casually dressed, although
the female members were more chic than their male counterparts,
and simply sitting on chairs between trips to the microphone.
The fluidity of this had elements of the dance.
Microphones suspended above our heads could pick up
laughter, applause,(wanted) coughs and mutters (unwanted)
so we had to be both spontaneous and yet careful.

At the end of each session the producer bounced onto the stage for
the re-takes.
My heart went out to Richard Johnson, who probable had most re-takes
to do and one, to his great exasperation, three or four times over.
We willed him to get to the end of his speech ( he had quite complex syntax)
and when he finally did, amongst the cheers, I let out an emphatic "Yes!"
which will probably be edited out.

In the middle of the stage, on a stand, perched what I can only
describe as a smooth coconut shaped item with a green light on top.
The actors have to wait for the green light before commencing
their re-takes and the wait sometimes seemed interminable.
We had to remember to laugh, clap, cheer in the right places,
each time.

How different in so many respects from conventional theatre
and yet there are similarities such as the evocation of the story
in the mind's eye.
The imagination compensates for the limitations of the stage or
in this case a total lack of physical setting.
It has completely changed my listening habit as it is now enlivened
by remembrance of what listeners don't see or aren't aware of.

And I had to remember to laugh, not because it wasn't funny,
but I was so engrossed in the mechanics of the action that it almost
took precedence.
I'd love to go again but next time my Dorothy L Sayers will go with me
as will some extra protection against the scrummage.

Three weeks in

2010-09-21T10:19:00.000-07:00

The hardest part of winding down is not to go too far so that the brain
becomes moribund, the adrenalin levels drop too low,
the synaptic gills close and filter nothing.
I am struggling to maintain a balance and accept that I
don't have to do everything with in a restricted
time frame.

There is time to consider,
no deadline to meet (as yet) but I still feel pressure,
probably of my own making;
that not enough is produced in the time I have (for whom?);
not enough artistry, creativity, revealed in the hours available.
It is as if I am still constrained by the greater demands
of the work place and its insistence on subordinated self-expression,
which had to be crammed, concentrated into snatched moments.

These moments are in danger of expanding to a degree where their bounds
could become invisible, non-existent and therefore perilous.

Evenings with satellite food channels

2010-09-17T04:56:00.000-07:00

Commence with the culinary excess that is "Man v Food"
Impellingly repellent.
Twenty million calories smothered in gunge
In peculiar combinations -meat with grapefruit conserve
Wrapped in bread.

Then to Ina in the Hamptons
And her Jeffrey.
She's independent,apparently,but so down home.
The concept of "back to basics" enshrined in processed
This and ready made that.
Make it for yourself dear-and if
Jeffrey doesn't like then....
More for you!
Harking back to Europe,
Shabby chic that wouldn't dare be.

Assume nothing, take nothing as read,
From an audience that needs an ad break
Every ten minutes
And smile at all costs.
Why are there no brown eggs in America?
And an electric squeezer for the juice of half a lemon?
How back to basics is that?

My god! the man's not due back 'til tomorrow
Yet he hangs like an omnipresent master.
He's a patterned sweater wearing,
Grizzle haired,
Teddy bear of a man
Who comes home now and again.

Ina's cuisine is slightly less
Overblown, less smothering,
Just as calorie, cholesterol laden
And I shouldn't watch, especially
At this time of night.
It makes me hungry and I'm
Trying to be good.

They keep guffawing at each other,
She's actually said "My purpose in life is to
Make you a good dinner" and
"I do love our weekends together".
Does she go into a cupboard from Monday to Friday?
Was Sunday dinner filmed on Monday because of Jeffrey's schedule?
A chimera like their whole relationship?

I'm gritting my teeth not to succumb and go to the fridge.
I should switch off and do something more useful instead -
Like sleep!

Next up -
Dypso drifts around The Med,
Pickled in claret and merlot.
I can't be bothered.

Tonight it's the woman with the
Curly fingers and that damned perpetual smile and
She has pink spatulas.
This is another supposed option to fast food,
She makes the sauce after serving the dish,
Surely it's getting cold so is it fast food per se?

From the semi-sublime to the nearly ridiculous.
"4 Ingredients" from Oz.
This is cooking through white tombstone teeth.
Smile after smile.
Open a can of this (boiled condensed milk),
Buy a ready made that.
Serve it up to four captive guests who will
"Ooh" and "Aah" to the camera.
It's really all about the sea and surf setting,
A cheats dinner party,
Okker food.

Now back home for Nigella.
All this contrived domesticity,
Barefooted (but no Contessa).
No bed hair or naked face (although the
Pretence is there).
"Ugly duckling" children who
Mustn't upstage her.

Why does she never splash herself
While wearing crisp summer linen?
The pretentiousness of pulling a
Large mixer from a holdall,
Just can't be without her
Culinary status symbols.
I refuse to believe she does the washing up.
Domestic goddess to skivvy?
Impossible.

Everything has to be a seductive,
Quasi-orgasmic experience,
Trying to be ordinary but would be
Horrified to be defined as such.
And do the friends mind being used as
Stooges, foils, accessories?
Wearing less distinct clothing,being colourless,
So as not to draw the focus away from
"The Star".
Patronising didactism demonstrating
Pallid parcels,
Rice based,vapid,
High class nursery food.

Prissy, flirtatiousness,
While friend is consigned to
Bathing the children,
Putting them to bed,
Prior to the grownup food.
Ostensibly, South Indian, but never
Tainted by peasant fingers.
This is playing at "roughing it".

Unpromising Day

2010-09-13T08:58:00.000-07:00

As they often do, days start out uncertain, anxious, full of foreboding.
Today, the arrival of the post woman only increased
that sense of dread I've relearned, too quickly.
Fatal brown envelope lay in my hand between junk and my railcard.
Daughter-in-law opened the envelope.
I saw the tremor of her fingers as she tried to tear along the fold.
As usual my role is that of "sure and stedfast" rock,
but I'm struggling to fulfill it.

We waded through the jargon, the welter of figures that
seem randomly plucked, to the nub.
They accept my son is ill, that he needs space,
may eventually be well again.
But for now, he doesn't have to endlessly recount the horrors,
push down the nausea, justify himself to ignorant pen pushers.
I sagged onto her shoulder, shouted, silently,
"Thank You" to the sky.

The whole day changed.

Son appeared, zombie like,
and took a while to assimilate the news.
The weight gradually lifted as the import filtered through
clogged synapses.
Now, I could enjoy, really enjoy just standing, watching,
Red Admirals, delicate proboscis probing each sac of the buddleia,
Dragonflies, whisking the air, and pick lavender and bay.

Cloudscapes change from louring to sunlight and at last I can feel
a sense of genuine happiness,or rather contentment.
Not quite the same thing.

That night, while three fifths of the family were out,
I sat outside with a wee libation, and sang, realising that there
was no other human near enough to hear me.
The only accompaniment was the trickle of circulating water,
in the pond and trees silent after the wind dropped,
Inky black sky, punctured by pin pricks, with no orange, city glare.
I switched off the lights and sat in real darkness.
Moths, who had cavorted around the lamps, were disorientated
and threw themselves against the glass.

Apart from a sleeping young boy, I was alone,
liberated rather than scared.

Photogragh by J.Taylor

Settling in

2010-09-09T12:01:00.000-07:00

The days are flying at the speed of the Tornadoes zooming over the house.
We all appear to be in our separate zones but we are actually
collaborating and creating at the same time.

Grandson number 2 after eleven weeks holiday decided to produce
his "other washing and mending" from The Great Wen that is his suitcase.
"Nan, I love you, do you love me?"
"Yes James, what do you want and how much will it cost?"
"Not money, I didn't call you Grand mama Dearest, did I?"
"True my dear so what is it?"
"This seam in my trousers needs mending and can you repair the slit in my
brassard which got accidentally caught with scissors - not by me I hasten to add....."
"Oh and also, sew on my badges in this order? I'd do them myself
but got to fly-Xbox game to play...."
Some things never change.

Forty eight hours before he goes back to boarding school we start
a massive clear out/clean up and he suddenly remembers a host of items
he aught to take back with him that amnesia has hidden.
He produces three packs of decrepit emergency rations,
from a long ago cadet camping expedition, so far out of their sell by date
that not even the most dedicated eco-warrior would touch them.

The rain is rattling a staccato tattoo on the roof of the conservatory and I think Autumn approacheth.
I live in a house, now, with four rock guitar fanatics so as I walk through
to my room Grandson number 1 stands in his boxers on the stairs,
playing his bass along to some vibrating cacophony while a projected,
animated idol struts across an expanse of wall.
Grandson 2, slender, long legged, as hairless as his brother is hirsute,
plays a lead guitar while Grandson 3 runs his fingers along an instrument
known as the "cigar box" but which resembles an oriental instrument
played with a bow.
Their father sings and plays all their instruments and the house shudders.
Fortunately, no one overlooks or hears us, except the quails
who sometimes craik an accompaniment.

They groan at my musical taste but tolerate it and show me
spontaneous kindnesses such as making me a step to ease my entry
and exit from the house or taking my coat,without being asked,
and hang it up.
They even accompanied me to the dentist with relatively good grace
and "tweeted" while I endured the excruciating scream of the sonic devil in my mouth.

Sunset, after the first week.

2010-09-05T11:30:00.000-07:00

Deep orange above the horizon,
Striated through with brown.
Azure melting into navy
As the sun recedes.

Lights flicker at points
Across the vista.
Grouse or quail craik in
The undergrowth.

Dark,sharp, shapes stark
Against the dying sky.
Sun flames linger in a
Gloria of cloud.

(photogragh by Jennifer Taylor)

Internal worlds

2010-09-03T05:13:00.000-07:00

I've posted this week's comment to another blogger's post, after drafting and proof reading the few lines at least five times, before hitting the "post" button, this time without typos, in my usual trepidation.
I become a gibbering idiot at the thought he might read it (how immature of me) and think me an illiterate, which he obviously isn't.

Such talent. The pictures and erudition prove that, along with the ability to not only observe but make connections of a global and more local nature.

(I'm finding myself in the midst of an internal trio again - the other two as yet blurred and ill defined. Foils to me or vice versa?)
I share my passion with an invisible cast of thousands. Those who don't appreciate or share said passion can be disregarded with impunity.
The real power of fantasy is the omnipresence and omnipotence - of being the omniscient narrator moving the pieces at will.
The problem for me seems to be that the characters play scenes on a screen immediately behind my forehead and won't stop unless I write down what I see and what they say.
Only then will they move on. My omnipotence is undermined by the power of the characters to act independently- apparently.
I feel I am "the puppet". When I try to manipulate them or the storyline it doesn't work.

Well, the characters are in a new setting and like me are having to attune themselves to it.
It will take me ages, I think, to lose the conditioning, to realise that time is more flexible.
The danger will be in forgetting, or not being able to let go.
That a) some semblance of discipline is necessary and b) it is no longer as rigid or unrelenting.
Managing the new environments, new routines and re-learning the strategies of communal living is the most challenging. ( Dealing with the old anxieties when the postie appears has reasserted itself,unfortunately)

At the moment I am learning to cope with living in a one-storey building with odd steps, climbing in/out of a new bath; remembering to lock toilet doors, where locks exist, etc.etc.
All the new patterns and I haven't even considered the outside!

The skies really are high and wide in Norfolk and the bands of weather are equally wide.
My brain is trying to break out of its cocoon-one part is freeing itself, alongside other parts that still plough along in seventeen year old furrows.
That's done with but I know myself well enough not to be fooled that it won't nudge me from time to time, or refuse to relinquish its vice-like grip.
After all, part of that furrow is Me. The perseverance, the strait way, the caution.
To jettison it all completely would be false and a pretence.

Now I have access to extended facilities, shared equipment, that offer more opportunities for artistic and other development.
Of course, it also means compromised privacy - I can get it if/when I need but it's not total as when one lives alone.
There is also, still, the sense of time needing to be managed quite tightly- that will take longer to loosen its grip.

More shorts

2010-09-03T04:40:00.000-07:00

1) Hand Skin (Old)

Noticing that the folds create new landscapes,
Flesh thinning like the bones,
so that loose creases concertina,deepen,convolute,collapse,
interrrupted by purple pools and a navy delta of bloody tributaries,
a boney sierra covered by a delicate web of thinning epidermis.

2) Hand Skin (Young)

Swollen,plump, taut-
heavily blood fed epidermis,
smooth virgin territory,
unworn,unworked,unblemished
bloody tributaries, subterranean.

3) Face Skin (Old)

Alternately worked by a thousand diets,
stretched, flaccid,
soft crepuscularity,
wind, sun flensed,crevices deepened
by reduced collegan under the jaw,
around eye sockets.
Proportions altered by lengthening pinna and drooping lobes.

4) Face Skin (Young)

Unadventured
cradling bone structure snugly,
super collegened, inexperienced,
punctuated by pustules, sebum soaked,
hormonal dynamo in hyperdrive,
overloading regenerative balance.

Young skin, cool as cotton in summer heat,
refreshing, reassuring.
Old skin, cool as a shroud in summer heat,
shrinking, warning.

Balance

Balance is the key
Perfect and all is peace and harmony,
Off kilter, by the merest micron,
Result- chaos.
In spiritual terms,
the Fulcrum hangs at Golgotha.

Shorts

2010-08-30T12:37:00.000-07:00

The crack in the rock seems settled, hidden, where I can observe,safe until....
The dust blows into my eyes
or there's an itch.

The perils of having a brain,
and daring to use it,
is the jealousy and painful clarity
it invokes.

The "lonely" wind blows and the chill of anxiety
over perceived difficulties seeps into my bones.
The silences when no Tweets come and the facebook status
remains unchanged for days.
The insidious fears dare to tip toe from the
margins and attempt a coup d'etat on centre stage.
I'll be damned if I'll let them seduce me into a fit of the
blues just as everything is reving up a gear.

What did I say?
The blues came, tsunami-like,
the following day.
I rolled into a ball,went to bed and believed that,
whilst I slept,
the rest was a mirage.
I awoke still with the weight of fear
pushing me down.

The pain was almost negligible.
Nevertheless, I struggled to get dressed and
push my way through the treacle,
fear debilitating me.
Positive thinking matters but my mind
is swamped by the "....what if...." and
the realisation that we live,largely, in a
fools paradise.
We're falling for the hype and
when the lights come up
we will see the utter stupidity of most
of what we say and do.

My internal life deserted me,
my saving strategy evaporated,
I am really alone.

It reasserts itself.
The constant meanderings of an
untrammelled brain that fantasizes
ad infinitum.
Two days later I was back in my
usual trio adoring an idiosyncratic being.

Sunday in the park

2010-08-22T09:18:00.000-07:00

For the first time in years I've spent Sunday afternoon in the park with a band playing (albeit a rock group), sunshine, cake and a lively family picnic.
We're a bit rowdy when we're enjoying ourselves but not too much so.
As an adjunct the birthday event was enhanced by a fun fair that happened to be there at the same time.
A beautiful day but the ground was still soggy from a week of heavy rain.

I suppose we were a microcosm of the average contemporary social grouping.
The Birthday Girl has two divorced and single grannies, multi ethnic cousins, a grandpa who came alone (as his second wife doesn't gel with the rest of the family), and her parents friends who run the gamut from goth to theological academic,with fantasy role players in between.
Rather like a dinosaur I sat in the middle of it all, because I can't get down onto the grass, and let it all swirl round me. I did have the last laugh though as my bottom stayed dry while everyone else's got damp.The men compared the wet patches on the knees of their jeans and pretended they didn't care.

Two oriental children wandered into the middle of it all, drawn by the hubbub and possibilities of cake and chased the bubbles we all blew en masse at the end of Pass-the-Parcel, music provided by my eldest grandson testing his vocal range and singing acapella. It also meant he could manipulate the stopping,starting, so that each child got a present and Princess Mir the piece de resistance by ripping off the last layers.
Even the paparazzi were in attendance in the form of eldest son and daughter's friend, who vied for camera angles and then compered lenses and equipment spec.

The end of the party was signalled by the wailing of overtired children,starting to feel a little queasy from several rides on the merry-go-round mixed with fairy cake, so the cleanup commenced and we left the sward pristine, proving we might be a little unruly but we are also responsible.
It was one of those rare occasions when things go to plan,are unwittingly enhanced, with no one feeling the need to be diva-like or indulge in tantrums, when it requires no effort to be relaxed and sociable and even going home feels right.

Where do words go?

2010-08-16T02:45:00.001-07:00

Where do words go?
One moment they're spilling out,
Vehement, energetic, diarrhoea.
Today?
The synapses are silent, producing bugger all.
Thoughts, ideas, higgledy piggledy,
Aborted unformed, lying dormant,
Refusing even to peek out of their spiral shells.
Tyrants!
You know I want to
Create, express ideas,
However frenetic and
You stay away,
You refuse to behave.
I am supposed to be in charge of You
Not the other way round.

(photo by Alan Taylor-Shearer)

Moving

2010-08-16T02:42:00.000-07:00

Each box filled,
And still more to follow,
Hardly seem to make a dint.
I shall get to the point
Where I dump stuff out of
Sheer exhaustion, exasperation.

Winding down

2010-08-16T02:27:00.000-07:00

I really don't want to go into work.
I am detaching myself,mentally,emotionally,physically and counting the days.
The "Goodbyes" are starting to be said,with the realisation that this au revoir really will be goodbye for a lot of the people I'm attached to.
There's more than a racing cert they won't be here, or anywhere else, when I pay a return visit.

My daughter asked if I was having a "leaving do" - what an appalling thought?
Me tottering my way along West Street or High Street?
Too too sickening to contemplate.
None of the bright young things would want to settle in one place or have a civilised meal - and anyway, everywhere glitzy would be raucous and I wouldn't hear a word so what is the point?

I dread having to tell the neighbours,especially as one of them is already depressed and will be
hyperanxious about the future.
I can't face fuss.

Final reckonings

2010-08-09T15:22:00.000-07:00

Shredding Dad's last papers was chastening.
He logged the frustrating delays as he tried to claim his War Pension.
The elusive Miss Mitchell who was always out when he called.
The secret donations to The Gurkhas.
The record of his time in Burma and its long term consequences.
The tabulating of all his payments to local and national authorities
Finally pulped as he would have wanted.
Privacy preserved.

As time draws on....

2010-08-09T15:05:00.000-07:00

Great bald patches of space are appearing throughout my home.
"How much stuff?" says Didi.
I dread the unpacking and the groans of despair from the boys at the threat of
there being cerebral matter in their orbits.
Books pose a challenge of self-discipline, of constraint.

Today reduced me to palpitations and tremors- to facing the reality of cancelling
accounts and informing others of my change of address.
I want it all done without my having to do it.
By the time I'd rushed to get ready for work the gibbering was palpable-the
fluttering in the base of the throat, stuttering pulse, sense of losing control,
stupid mistakes, butter fingers, everything ending up on the dog shelf,
(just when bending is excruciating and agonising)
first fear of making mistakes in crucial areas.

This is not the first time I've moved and I've organised them before without
this mess of anxiety and exhaustion.
My underlying fear is that there is a physical cause that I or the doctor are missing.
I don't want to confront that either so I'm doing what I reprove in others-deliberate
ignorance as a safer bet than the truth.

Coward,coward, coward.
Don't try to cover it by saying you want to spare loved ones the anxiety,the heartache, because
they have enough troubles of their own....
Yada,yada,yada..........

Sunday Afternoon

2010-08-02T11:16:00.000-07:00

This afternoon I had the stuffing knocked out of me.
A service user being moved.
The announcement made without preamble,
No rhyme or reason
Just vague hints, amorphous reasons
And a refusal to elucidate,
Insidious, pernicious inferences.

The mind obsesses over real and supposed
Details,events,scenarios
Trying to determine what,where,when,how
From ghostly implications.

What are we doing wrong?
Why the succession of problems, obstacles, impedimenta
Unless, Someone somewhere is trying to
Remind us of our prime directive and
The loss of spiritual heart and commitment.

Random Posts

2010-08-02T10:42:00.000-07:00

1. Looking at the boxes, some flattened, some constructed, I am too daunted to know where to start packing.
What to keep, what should go?
Can I mix books, dvds, duvets, ornaments in one box?
Idiot! You can do as you please.
Unpacking will just be chaotic-
But surprising!

2. I am stuffing myself with supplements, hoping to make myself supple,(no pun intended) and
up my energy levels.
I feel as weak as a kitten-I half fill a box and I am spent.
I creak, hurt - the pain is winning-
Perhaps I should try some Mary Baker Eddy and persuade myself that pain doesn't exist,
transcend the earthy, visceral, as if agony is a chimera to be divested of by effort of will.

3. With a coffee and cake, my excuse being that I need a break and have run out of space, I sit in Fort Box and drool like a love-sick teenager over this man's performance.
Consummate, graceful, and every fibre L.P.W.
The emphatic shoulders," tailored to swooning point", finely delineated lips, idiosyncratic pronounciation, even to hesitation on the ps and ds.
The utter vulnerability each time she rejects him, lacerates him,
Her irony heightened by the emotional exhaustion mirrored in his empty eyes
As my Whimsy takes me denied in his bowed head,deferring to his Domina.
I have the power to stop/start/pause/step/fast forward/reverse and characters are in my total control.
Constant review of each nuance, each quixotic flash.
Time disappears and there is balm for my soul, briefly,in the finesse of characterisation.

A morning with the dear little ladies

2010-07-28T09:50:00.000-07:00

The taxi shuddered and screeched as the driver stopped and started his way through breakfast traffic and I hoped my stomach would stay where it belonged. As he miscalculated stopping distances or the aberrations of other drivers I held on, sticking it out on an errand of mercy.
The dear ladies dearest Daddy is not well but, being an Englishman of the best sort, he doesn't make a fuss but bears up wonderfully,and I was going to sit with them so that he and Yummy Mummy could go to hospital for an emergency procedure that's best left un-described.

Finally, we slide to a halt outside the blue door which swung open before I had chance to knock, and piping voices ordered me in to observe the ritual of breakfast.
Small,curly fingers delicately held triangles of toast spread with blackberry jam,pinkie fingers akimbo, and proceeded to cram the whole piece into rose-bud mouths and describe indistinctly what would be happening while Poorly Daddy was away.
Their french plaits gently swing, particularly Miss Fourandahalf, who as the eldest deludes herself into believing she is in charge of Miss Almostthree, and rushes around organising in imperious tones reminiscent of her mother.

Both of them have the agility of gazelles, pirouetting and gambolling, but Miss Almostthree being a little more earthy than her sister tends to be more disconcerting.
Seeing her other granny take off her top to apply deodorant, Miss A strolled past and commented "HaHa-Nudey Bum!" She also heckled an eminent politician with her harmonica on a recent visit.
This same Miss scaled the back of the futon, balanced herself on the back, behind me, and ruffled my hair-"I want your earrings, Nanny". The curly fingers tickled the sides of my face,jabbed at the cloisonne discs, paused, then gave them a tug "just to see if they're in properly".
After almost throttling me with enthusiasm, she relaxed, re-adjusted her position, and suddenly her plump toes and stocky little feet appeared, one on either side of my face.
The little piggies wiggled closer and closer until almost touching and her chuckling voice asked..."Cheesy?"
I agreed.
"Not mine, yours of course!"

Miss Fourandahalf, meanwhile, perused the shelf of dvds, running her finger professionally along the spines, her long plait draped over one shoulder. Poised and deceptively fragile she plays the butterfly. Shall it be this one or that?
She makes the choice, dvd is inserted and play button pressed, and she then proceeds to give me a run down of the whole plot, it's subvert and overt themes, who says what,when and how. She is a small version of her academic parents hypothesising in an assignment
Never was "Wallace and Gromit- The Curse of the Were Rabbit" so cogently explained.

I am a willing slave and take my orders obediently. I serve their snacks with all the deference of the Head Waiter at The Ivy and these patrons are demanding and onerous.
Poorly Daddy and Yummy Mummy ring as good parents should to see if the girlies are keeping me in check-all has gone to plan and they are on the way home.
"Better tidy up" says Miss F scurrying round to collect all the bits of paper we have cut and torn, while Miss A says
"No way"
and continues on her rampage, using me as an assault course.

Do I care?
Do I Hell?!
They can use me as they choose.
They are gorgeous, invigorating, endlessly questing, humorous, bewitching- a pair of elves who dwell in the world of humans and run circles around us.

The Vendetta

2010-07-27T09:33:00.000-07:00

This week's bet noir is coat hangers and their ceaseless vendetta against me.
The constant tangling and snagging, their mocking tinny jangle as they giggle together
and plot the next round.
They choose the moment when I'm near to breaking point with exasperation and jam the hanging
bar against their clones or cling onto the clothes, especially those silly bootlace ribbon loops sewn
into the shoulder creases. They judder and poke.
I hang them seperately, with the hooks all facing in the same direction, I return to find them embracing
each other as if copulating, engaged in a writhing metal ecstasy.
As I swear, mildly, they suck themselves closer poking the skirt hanging hooks into the fabric of an
adjoining item of clothing which pulls the fibres however carefully I try to release them.
Perhaps a hanging system is the answer - all the hangers uniform and covered in a velour fabric that purports to cling to the sheerest fabric gently but firmly and stop them ending up on the dog shelf.
However, I cannot justify to myself the cost for hangers and tie/scarf holders of various kinds, so will continue the skirmishing unless I take revenge and dump them all in shameful darkness, bend their skinny metal shoulders into grotesque shapes or force them apart and use them to dowse for water or the ultimate disgrace, to unblock the loo.
I will master them!

Blog-the return

2010-07-25T02:57:00.000-07:00

The previous post is my first for absolutely ages as I've gone in other directions but now life is changing radically.
I'm retiring and about to move to Norfolk and in the midst of attempting to begin packing the creative urge has returned, both in the visual and written form- typical!
Looking at the boxes, some flat packed, some half full, I am too daunted to know what to do next and I've run out of space.
Now have to call for help from number one son to make space before I can continue.
What to keep, what should go-can I mix books, dvds, duvets, ornaments, in one box?
Idiot! You can do whatever you want.
It will just be chaotic when you unpack....
But surprising!

Teatime-July

2010-07-25T02:42:00.000-07:00

Watching globules of rain bending the leaves on swelling green tomatoes, now lashing hard as stair rods, cascading and breaking, mini tempest smashing insect wings.

The slugs gurgle and giggle, their desiccation banished, sliding over blunted egg shells to eat the fruit.
Delicate herbs shiver as waves of wild spray bounce off the windows.
I'm watching the tallest tree in the vicinity as it rocks and bows,
Its boughs bucking.
I dread hearing the crack of doom that will come if the tree trunk splits- it will lay waste, rape the neighbourhood.

Out of this deluge The Rhubarb straightens and stretches as I watch, its leaves vast and dangerous but shielding the tender crown, red stalks full and bitter.

Raining so hard it makes the air thrum and the house hum
as it bounces.
In the half light, daytime night, a brief tattoo and...now the sun shines.
Smell of brimstone and vanilla comes from nowhere.
My technology stutters and fails to respond.

Grrrrrrr!

2009-03-26T14:48:00.001-07:00

I have just spent half an hour writing my first blog for ages only to be told there is an error and my text has disappeared!!!!
Am not going to try and re-hash it but will precis it as follows:
Everything feels as if it's out of control, life is full of uncertainty;
my children's' futures are not just uncertain because of the current lunacy
but their lives are in the hands of others.( I get on my knees, on a big foam pillow to pray
deeply but it doesn't completely remove the pain in my joints.) They can have my life to secure a safe future for them and their children, Anything.

More immediately, my life is going to become more demanding and hectic and it will be a test and challenge so let's hope I can rise to said challenge. And despite the economic maelstrom my finances seem to be healthier than ever before - it can't last, that would run completely contrary to my life.
So while on one hand I am drifting and eddying, fretting and full of angst, one area of worry has abated. Do you think Lord, that just for once we could have a plateau please?
Of course the truth is that life is a paradox and there is no earthly or heavenly reason why it should be settled and predictable and if it was I would soon be bored - it's just an indicator of my perversity. Don't take any notice, no one normally does so why change the habit of a lifetime!

new year, new promises, to break....

2009-01-12T09:37:00.000-08:00

So here we go again, dear Blog, I make another attempt to keep you going.
My excuse for neglecting you, and I'm sticking to it, is that actually I have a lot of other things to do and I won't bore you with the details.
I am now official sock and mitten knitter to 2 princesses, who are very demanding.
In between that I am making changes to my sitting room - why does it take less time to put everything back on shelves than it does to take it off? It seems the more I clear out the more appears - it's breeding in secret places!
I have managed to prise the carpet shampooer back from my offspring so the next task will be to use it - sometime.

Now I am sixty

2008-11-24T14:09:00.000-08:00

Well, Blog, it has finally arrived. The dreaded 60 and I am not sure how I feel about this particular milestone.
So much seems to change and yet is it so much? At 59 people still treated me as if I was part of the scene and I didn't feel much different to the way I did at 58.
I am not sure if it's the hype that changes attitudes or not. After all chronology is man made, and 60 is a socio-political border-line created by the state as a means of production control, except that now as everything goes belly up it actually counts for little.
The last three weeks have left me somewhat confused. I can tell that age is exerting an influence on the workings of my body but how much is down to the advance of age or the effects of past exertions is not so clear.
I have to face the fact that I am entering a new phase of my life and, like it or lump it, it is the last phase.
I can jump two ways - sit and wait for decline or embrace the freedom aspects and minimise the negatives.
I know what the answer should be but my humanity is frail and I know enough about myself to realise that without conscious effort I will fall into the former rather than lumber ( no gazelle like leaping for me!) towards the latter.
The constant battle with this recalcitrant and anarchic body of mine has been going on for years. I win the odd skirmish but now I have to work harder and devise more sophisticated strategies just to stay in touch.
What I have found is that at last I may be debt free sooner than I thought now that my student loan has been cancelled due to reaching the magic age, my prescriptions are free and if I can carry on working and collect my state pension (once they've got their act together and decided my entitlement) then for once in my life I might be able to stop always having to make choices and have my cake and eat it, for a while at least!
To the medics I have become a geriatric, possibly to be assessed, on each meeting, for competence if not for crumbling skeleton or lackadaisical bladder. I am constantly listening for the change in the tenor of their approach and questioning. They forget, or are ignorant of, my knowledge and expertise in this area, and I for my part, am anxious they should not make assumptions.
My post war generation should not go quietly into the long goodnight of settling for mediocrity and patronage.
We will want atms and internet access, pasta and sushi, a little eclat rather than inconspicuousness, when the time comes for us to need social care.
Woe betide anyone who makes assumptions about me or talks over my head rather than to me. The proverbial faeces will definitely hit the fan!

Scramble

2008-10-30T09:41:00.000-07:00

My mind meanders through lists of words.
I view the grid and while I try to string letters together time ticks by.
How do these people have time to pass messages as the clock slices away
at each three minute slot?
My eyes turn somersaults finding words longer than three letters.
At zero the graphics change - a revised list of scorers pop up plus a list of all the words
in the grid, many of which are incomprehensible.
Are they plucked from some World Dictionary?
I wonder who searches them out.
Are we being duped, victims of a huge joke?
Someone on another part of the planet sniggers as they make up words,
the weirder the better?
Even so, when the clock starts the count down the pulse quickens and you hope
your eyes can pick up the sequences of letters.
Your fingers slide over the keys, illuminating the developing words.
Each word registers points, hopefully rapidly enough to lift a players position and
thereby raise each word I.Q.
My brain/hand/eye co-ordination seem so sluggish in comparison to other players
and then the laptop freezes - exasperation seethes as seconds melt away.
I resent the phone ringing with a minute to go, it equals words/points missed.

There is very little give and take.
Anyone exceeding the maximum room I.Q. is ordered off to higher places.
The Great Glory is the "greenie" - the green highlighted word scored only by
one player.
What exultation!
Eventually, reason surfaces and I take myself in hand.
I return the game to its rightful place and remind myself that in the great scheme of
things it is inconsequential and still second to the Great Solitaire,
the ultimate panacea when stress levels rise.

2008-10-28T06:57:00.000-07:00

Dear Blog, you must think I have abandoned you and I admit my guilt in neglecting you but you must realise that there are other dimensions to my life. However, I will try to do better.

The particular story I am about to relate started with my calming two, near tearful, members of staff who were at the end of their tethers with a difficult client. Then onto calming said client who, in floods of tears, couldn't understand why we couldn't just pick all her sixteen stone up, bodily, and place it just where, when, how she wanted, without the use of equipment.
By eight a.m. I ached everywhere and mused that this was just the first hour of the shift. This client is one of several who need lots of our physical and emotional effort plus the two we are nursing in bed, both looking at death at very close quarters. Then I juggled the various dynamics of staff tensions. If I didn't have another agenda, one that is spiritual rather than temporal, would I work this five day week, including evening, weekends, bank holidays, for eighteen thousand a year? I'm pretty sure no man would!
It's hard work and even more so at weekends when we have one less pair of hands and the same amount of work. So, we do more work for the same money. It rankles but I am told this is the way it always was, will, has, to be. Put up and shut up.
Rant over.

Onslaught

2008-10-07T08:08:00.000-07:00

I have survived the onslaught of the two youngest grandchildren, one, two and three-quarters, with eyes full of attitude, and the other, one year old, with bi-lateral dimples. One trampolines along the shattered sofa, the other lolls against it leaning on one elbow contemplating the possibility of toddling across the gap to the futon.
Miss Attitude tosses her long, dark, crisp and sumptuous hair that almost, but not quite, overwhelms her elfin features.
Miss Dimples' shorter, light brown hair, like a cap, gently curves around her chubby features with her trade mark extra long tendril trailing beyond the nape of her neck.

There are brief hiatus when their attention is held by Tomliboos and Pontipines. Miss D. lays her head by her sister's feet, flips herself over so that she looks endearingly at her sister upside down. They murmur to each other gently then Dimples, revealing two rows of lethal biters, attempts to fasten her mouth around Attitudes big toe. Not quick enough though! The older one withdraws her tarsals, casually, and recommences bouncing and flinging cushions accompanied by high pitched squeals.

Daddy reappears from his shave and hands out dishes of thinly sliced apple and high tech juice receptacles.
Attitude nibbles delicately, precisely, leaving thin, red arcs of peel while her sister bites fiercely, sucking in large chunks.
Attitude purloins her sister's slices, pretending to feed her, swapping them while diverting us all , from one bowl to another. "All gone!" She presents an empty pink dish to Daddy with innocent eyes.

On the floor they slide past, over, around, each other, interacting as they pass with varying degrees of gentleness and in their own language.
How I wish I had more energy; that I didn't haltingly pull myself up each stair and heave this non- conforming torso onto the landing to the toilet. I want to play with them but despite a willing spirit the flesh is weak and uncooperative.
I hate this getting older and having to accept that many and various bits of me aren't as efficient as I would like.

secrets

2008-09-17T09:22:00.000-07:00

I showed a couple around the home a little while ago. An elderly man with a strong German accent and his nervous daughter. Along with all the usual questions about cost, etc., he kept asking me how much forgiveness there might be. I told him that as we all needed it I hoped there would be a lot. And would we need a lot of background information? Enough to make sense of the present situation, I said, but that of course we couldn't make anyone tell us what they didn't want us to know. That seemed to be a relief and he alternated between English and German, translating my answers to himself and their implications. The daughter seemed weighed down, trying hard to keep some sort of calm yet feeling his emotion was running away from her control.
She constantly tried to bring the conversation back to the prosaic in order to enforce some sort of normality but the whirl wind of his anxiety over took her and she gave up.
The tour was proscribed - no going into the lounges where other people were - "Show only to me the room". "Would it be necessary to eat with people?".
"Dad likes to keep to himself, very much." She explained with a nervous laugh.
Suddenly, I wanted to ask him to roll up his sleeves and let me see his arms. Of course I didn't but my mind replayed grainy black and white archive footage of striped clad bodies staring out with dark, hollow, eyes.
I returned to the present. I must have gone to auto-pilot because I seemed to have made the right responses. He was already out of the door, still muttering bi-lingually. The daughter tried to redeem some shreds of social grace and say "Goodbye" as casually as a bag of nerves can.

slacking

2008-08-30T14:12:00.000-07:00

I am so cross with myself, in a very British fashion of course, because lack of discipline has meant I have broken my resolve, Dear Blog, to make regular entries into you (take that as you like). No excuses apart from idleness and endless Scramble/Solitaire/Word Challenge games on Facebook, in fact anything rather than concentrate on the task in hand.
Except I don't want you to be a task, I want you to be a galvanising force that opens up some disused synapses and gets my once fertile imagination flowing again.
I used to be capable of enormous imaginary clarity,full of vivid imagery and a group of characters who lived out their lives in independent, glorious living technicolour. They played their scenes across the screen in the frontal lobe of my brain and I simply recorded what I saw, heard, felt as fast as my little fingers could wield the pencil.
Then, as life became increasing complicated and other peoples' needs took precedence, I made the fatal mistake of thinking I could defer recording to a later date. I let other matters deflect my focus.
Fool that I am!
The scenes paled, the characters lost their clarity and now I struggle to maintain any sort of focus and depth. I read my drafts and shudder at their inanity and shallowness. Eyes open or closed, the screen is clouded at best and, at worst,blank.
Perhaps it's age or the combined effects of years of various chemicals meant to calm my fractured emotions, that have not only taken the edge off but blunted my fantasy-life so effectively it gives me no solace,escape or artistic release.
My latest fictional embryo lurches from frenzied scribblings to a slack few lines penned with lethargy. My advice to my daughter to keep her literary efforts honed through regular exercise, independent of a fickle muse, smack me between the eyes.
Take your own advice woman!
And also decide what it is you are trying to achieve - an ego trip based on personal fantasy or something that has a message, something useful. The conundrum is deciding what useful is. Am I deluding myself by believing I might have something to say or even whether anyone could possibly want to listen/read my ramblings. I have some good ideas - I don't thing it's too egotistical to say that - but unfortunately I struggle to make them cohere or maintain a consistent power. They seem like random strands, each interesting in their own right but I am failing to make the connections that would give them substance and staying power.
Someone once told me I was on the cusp of either being effective artistically or falling into the pit of the dilettante - perish the thought - and the terror is I have seen so much wither away through neglect and lack of perseverance that I may have done irreparable damage. I know I have lost some of my physical, tactile agility and so producing a picture or design is an enormous challenge but I have to believe that with "brain training" I can re- connect with an organ that dashes hither and thither and channel it again into acuteness and passion.
Andrew Thorpe and his three sirens may still have a future if I can shake off a few inhibitions and maintain enough anonymity to free myself from the constrictions of the person other people think I am ( or should be).
Perhaps I have the right to indulge myself and my own personal fantasies and at the same time create something other people might enjoy.
Watch this space.

venting

2008-08-11T00:40:00.000-07:00

So the man has finally appeared to put in the blessed extractor fan.
It's never a simple job with a man is it?
Just replace the old one for goodness sake, same place for goodness sake!
No, there has to be chin scratching, head wagging and a lot of pacing around and staring at the
roof outside. There has to be serious, almost presidential, mobile phone discussions about where
the external grill might be and where the moisture might go. After all if it just goes into the loft it will
make it wet!
I tentatively try to suggest that the other two homes have had theirs done and they were put in the same
space as the old one - no, this guy has to find the external opening or he can't do the job. Is he hoping against hope?
Right, I'll ring my neighbour - after all, this is the same company even if it's a different workman. Mr Neighbour confirms what I've already told Mr Workman. Infuriatingly enough he recites everything I say back to me. More pacing and discussions. This is a flipping extractor fan installation not a heart operation.

Thankfully, at last, and after a further grovel around the loft, he finds what he's looking for and work can commence.
I got up at the crack of dawn on my day off for this so it had better be worth it!!

TheCrie de Coeur of Age

2008-08-06T11:01:00.000-07:00

Our value is not defined by the efficiency (or otherwise) of
Our sphincters.

playing scramble, feelings

2008-08-04T12:13:00.001-07:00

My mind meanders through lists of words. I view the grid and while I try to string letters together as time ticks by. How do these people have time to pass messages as the clock slices away at each three minute slot? My eyes turn somersaults finding words longer than three letters.
At zero the graphics change - a revised list of scorers pops up plus the list of all the possible words in the grid, many of which are incomprehensible. Are they plucked from some world dictionary? I wonder who searches them out. Are we being duped? Are we victims of a huge joke? Someone on another part of the planet sniggers as they make up words, the weirder the better.
Even so, when the clock starts the count down the pulse quickens and one hopes one's eyes can pick up the sequences of letters. The fingers slide over the keys, illuminating the developing words and registering their points rapidly enough to lift a player's position and thereby each players word I.Q.
My fingers and brain/hand/eye co-ordination seem so sluggish in comparison, then the laptop freezes and exasperation seethes as seconds melt away. I resent the phone ringing with a minute to go - it equals words/points missed.
There is little give and take. Anyone exceeding the maximum room I.Q. rating is ordered off to higher places. The great grail is the "greenie" - the highlighted word (in green as opposed to blue) scored by only one player. What exultation!

Eventually reason surfaces and I take myself in hand. I return the game to its rightful place and remind myself that in the great scheme of things it is inconsequential and still second to the Great Solitaire - the ultimate panacea when stress levels rise.

hairdressing visit

2008-07-19T05:01:00.000-07:00

Today Cecil has mainly been musing on mortality - mainly his own.
Very pale, wan and depressed and it shows in my hair - his depression that is.
At least he used the comb on my hair exclusively, this time, rather than using it on his own hair halfway through the comb-out.

Small, lantern jawed, old women shuffle into the shop; some of them Cecil has picked up on his way in.
He hands out cups of coffee, they collect up damp towels and roller pins. He barks phrases into deaf ears and the women move from shampooing basin to setting chair, to hair dryer, at his nudge, doing small jobs as they go.

Cecil's chatter is endless. The trouble is he ceases work while he recalls an anecdote and I watch the clock move on nearer to the time I should be at home. Edna and Norah nod in the right places, dutifully hand up the pins as required and watch the traffic go by. Other callers pass through to visit the chiropodist and provide yet another distraction and delay.

Cecil is desperate for a ciggy. His feminine "tut" and pout exaggerated by twitchy fingers pulling up his trouser waistband to just below his paunch. Immediately it slides back and his hands stray to his back pocket. He tries to pretend they weren't reaching for the packet.
His mournful voice recites a catalogue of doctor's visits and medical tests, the strain on his marriage because he doesn't feel Sheila is giving him all the sympathy and support he feels entitled to. After all, look how he cared for her through her "dark time" and it's only right he should have his turn.
Then he reveals that none of the test results are through yet - all these ifs and maybes.
He has his grave booked and an appointment with the undertaker on supposition alone!
I have to say something, I really do or I'll still be here at teatime.
"Still working at the home are you Dear?" He's studying his reflection, turning to look at the profile of his gut, not thinking, really, about what he's saying.
"Yes! And I have to be on duty by two."
"Oh you should have said!" He continues back combing Norah's hair with a brush, then choking her with hairspray. There are no refinements like face shields. Norah's medical history is exposed without reference to her. She nods vacantly as he recites the details of her long standing leg ulcer and the vagaries of her digestive system.
Edna, under the dryer, is oblivious as her talks about her without interruption. She sees a stray, wet towel that has missed the linen bin and makes to get up and retrieve it. "Leave it - don't move!" She complies and Norah tuts.

At last! My head is pushed back into the shampoo sink and soft finger tips briefly massage shampoo, in small circles, before tepid water trickles down my neck and into my ears. Cecil continues to speak but now his voice is indistinct and muted because my hearing aids are tucked under the coverall, clasped in sweaty hands. The battery compartment closes, inadvertently, and the aid screams. Cecil prods me. "Yer whistling". Obediently, I fumble under the folds trying to adjust it.
Once he has shaken my head in the towel I can put one aid back in and rejoin the monologue.
"What's the future for me now? High blood pressure, diabetes - it's so depressing." Once again he pauses and the comb waves in the air instead of through my hair. He plugs in implements - clippers, curling tongs and then searches for the blow dry brush, which is a wizened, almost naked, set of spikes that he drags through the hair accompanied by blasts of searing hot air. I am choked by the crystal spray he uses to anchor the style but try not to cough and splutter. He is busy spraying a bigger hole in the ozone layer.

Why do I come here? I constantly ask myself as I look at a decor well past its sell by date. The mobile paraffin heater keeps his feet tepid, the customers need the hair driers to stave off the chill. The corners of the setting area have eons of hair clippings which vapid sweeps of the brush have failed to stir.
Yet customers come from quite a distance, week after week, settling for the same styles for years.

Another regular entered, a tall woman with a short body and disproportionately long legs, a dowager's hump and a beehive worthy or a sixties teenager.
Without a word Cecil left me, washed her hair,put me under the dryer and left me to spectate.
Her hair was spun sugar, an ebony black that accentuated her pallor and heavy, tight, jaw. I felt I had been transported back to an eighteenth century boudoir as he sectioned her hair, rolled each one over a pad and anchored them with squadrons of hairpins that she handed up robotically. As each roll was completed is was sprayed heavily. The final creation was immovable, wisps at the nape of the neck deftly tweaked and tucked under the confection. Her heavily ringed fingers replaced huge button earrings.
Cecil carefully draped a chiffon scarf over the creature - because it did seem to have an independent existence. She, decomposing, sank while her coiffure stayed unchanged like a parody of Dorian Grey.
All her colours were poster blocks, bright, unsubtle, but the frame seemed too fragile to carry the exhibition.
She is the sort of person who beguiles me, holds me fascinated to the point of ogling.

Why are we wasting time?

2008-07-13T14:01:00.000-07:00

I listened to Andrew Marr this morning. He is always worth listening to. But he had a bishop of the Church of England, or rather the Anglican communion, talking about the current debates going on in the church.
Now, whatever the rights or wrongs of these debates my problem is a) where is Christ in all this? and b) the world is heading for Armageddon and we are debating sex in various forms! Why? There really are far more important things to worry about and get really het up about.

My concern with a) is that Christ seems to have very little if any say in these matters. They are topics of discussion for those whose first priority is their own self indulgence and gratification. If they really were followers of the Nazarene he would be their first port of call and his reputation would be their first concern.
Instead we see his name and honour dragged through the mud for what? For people who are so consumed with their own ego massaging that the real issues are being overlooked and ignored.
If we are really serious, as Christians, then Christ has to be our one and only concern.
Every thought, word, and action would be referred to him and their consequences for him would motivate the same. My heart grieves for the dishonour to his name and the totally distorted picture presented to none Christians.
Time is running out - that must be obvious to all but those whose minds, souls and consciences have been sealed with a red-hot iron, many of them in prestigious posts in the church - and we must bend our energies and efforts to The Great Commission, not to contemplating our navels and disappearing up our own bottoms!

dream

2008-07-07T11:43:00.000-07:00

After a complicated dream that seemed to centre on the Normandy landings (commemoration of D-Day?) with sweeping vistas, close ups and obscure/anachronistic tableaux, in vivid if imprecise detail (oxymoron?), on waking I commenced a conversation with myself - no with the invisible audience if I am honest - about the vicissitudes faced by female fraternizers. The tarred and feathered. My daughter's incandescent fury at their treatment all for trying to protect and feed their children led to the consideration of The Whited Sepulchres who tried to deflect scorn from their own collaboration, who pitched on an easy target.

This led on to "This week I went to Auschwitz..." - imagining my grandson, after a government sponsored school visit, comparing his experience with that of his grandfather's. Jimmy had been part of a Royal Engineers bomb disposal squad sent in to remove booby traps et al before liberation proper could begin. They were warned that things would be bad but who can prepare you for something like that?
"This week I went to Auschwitz."
Anyway, they were led by a young captain. He collapsed and was carried out. Jimmy said he had heard the term "Green at the gills" but that was the one and only time he had ever actually seen anyone that colour. He managed to stay on his feet and finish the job - he was proud of that - but he said that afterwards nothing any human being did to another would surprise him ever again.
"This week I went to Auschwitz."
Will we, at some point, be arranging school trips to Darfur? Just to prove that whatever the horrors we learn little.
Our arrogance in the face of Josef Friezle's revelations - the Pharisaical prayer of "thank god I'm not like that"- and questioning of the Austrian psyche led me to ponder on the nature of abuse/slavery. The two are the same. I smiled wryly at our ability to look without seeing.
"This week I went to Auschwitz."
Abuse, control,slavery, doesn't have to be physical, tangible - it is an attitude of mind, of which we are ALL capable.

It is the attitude of controlling, creating dependence, manipulating anyone to suit ourselves.
It can live in a mansion, wear designer clothes, or next door with Joe Bloggs ; we can find it just as easily in deprivation and abject squalor.
Until attitudes-of-mind change slavery will continue in myriad forms and locations.
"This week I went to Auschwitz".

faces

2008-06-28T05:30:00.000-07:00

I sat in the car park at Morrisons, Lincoln, last evening - I couldn't be bothered to walk around another store. We had just traipsed around B&Q and the ASDA outlet looking at toilet seats, voile curtains, lamps and compost etc.etc. Then we decided to eat Mexican so had to collect some of the ingredients.

Anyway, while No.1.son and wife went into the store I remained sitting in the car doing what I do best, people watching. There are really only a few types of people, so I understand, and I suppose given that we are all descended from 6 "Eves" that is not surprising. That seems to fly in the face of the idea of individuality but, of course, it's the detail that makes the difference and the details are infinitely varied. A man went passed with gorgeous hair but as he got closer the proportion of his face in relation to his height and the length of the hair rather spoilt the image. There was the sloppily dressed guy with his eyes looking heavenward who seemed to fit the stereotype of the academic with his head in the clouds. Of course the reality is probably very different and all I am doing is exercising my own prejudices but it makes an interesting past time and beats looking at shelves full of products that I am not allowed to eat or rather aren't good for me. If I am people watching then I am not eating so I pass it off as part of my diet regime!
Categorising people is one thing, confusing it with reality is another. I like to muse on the other lives of the people who pass by, wondering what their mood and motives are. Are they shopping to get away from household tension or simply because they need to replenish stocks. Is it a special meal to impress, placate, buy favour or defuse stressful relationships or because of conditioning? Will the ingredients be chosen for quality or budget, for health or taste - the two should be synonymous but unfortunately aren't!

A couple stroll by, hand in hand, middle aged but still able to express affection, carrying eco friendly bags between them - sharing the load, crusty baguettes poking out like a stockade wall and melons stretching the jute bags to their limit. What kind of meal does that conjure up? Alfresco dining, with a Mediterranean theme. I salivate at the thought of luscious tomatoes drenched in olive oil and lemon, the drippings sopped up by the bread, interspersed with ripe. plump olives and pimentos, and, at some point, a dessert of melon cubes, grapes, strawberries with a syrup flavoured with fresh mint and preserved ginger. I come back from my reverie and shake myself. Too much tv watched I think.
In a rush a pair of women, obviously mother and daughter, overtake the relaxed pair, hugging strawberries and boxes of cereal, thinking of tomorrow's breakfast or embarking on the diet promoted by a current ad campaign? Two meals replaced by cereal and the promise of at least a drop in dress size in a matter of days. If only....

I watch them rushing, ambling, determined, unsure, their faces reflecting the myriad of reasons why we do anything and the needs that drive us. By now my hunger is palpable and I just want my pair to re-appear so we can get home and eat. The desire is overwhelming. I watch my son and daughter in law's faces as they approach the car. If he's been to the cash machine then the meal may be a more strained affair, if she has bought more than envisioned then the strain may make the meal inedible before it's served.

continuation

2008-06-23T03:31:00.000-07:00

Mr Fantasy went home and then the phone calls began - from all and sundry. The care package didn't kick in as it should have and he started to phone people who then phoned us for information and advice! We played Pontius Pilate again, unashamedly, and referred them to the experts. This man was ambulant, continent and could wash and dress himself and manage his own toileting but we had doctors asking us if he knew how to open the door. How would he feed himself? Their own assessment referred to the fact that he had cooked a meal for his relative on a recent visit so the powers that be were told very firmly that he was quite capable of getting himself a bowl of cereal and a cup of tea, that he would only starve if he chose to.

He left and I started a holiday only don't run away with the idea that a holiday for me is going away or doing nothing. It began with my children organising some of it for me and so first item on the agenda was Speech Day at my grandsons' school. As promised to No.1 grandson ( although he didn't think I meant it) I wore the big hat and his mother wore a fetching little number, we arrived almost late and he cringed with embarrassment and tried to hide. The face of No.2 grandson was also a picture acccompanied by much head shaking. Once No.1 had received his award the day deteriorated somewhat; the weather closed in so the picnic was consumed hastily indoors. Then came the removal phrase. At the end of said phase there was barely room for passengers, both parents were bathed in sweat and tempers frayed. Mother swore that the start of the new term would find the offspring down sizing and father feared for both his own mental, and the car's,suspension. Coupled with this was anxiety about the funding for No.1's sixth form place, and the what ifs lay upon us all like a leaden blanket as we finally set off home.

I ask myself, constantly, how much more of this I can take? This seemingly relentless requirement for me to keep everyone else steady - and I know I have referred to this before in this place but it does seem to be a recurring theme -and my growing awareness that the ability and wherewithall to do so is draining away. The desire to be released from the continuing commitment is overwhelming at times. How many more times can I scream silently in the bathroom as I try to contain overpowering emotions?
I love all my children and their children to pieces but there is a point where age is creeping up and motivation has to be dug deeper for. In other words the spirit is still relatively willing but the flesh is so very weak.

the fantasy man

2008-06-12T12:30:00.000-07:00

This week I have met two rather interesting people, demanding but interesting, that have tested my patience to the limit. Mrs Hyper was the term "in your face" personified. She positioned herself about six inches from my face and delivered everything at about one hundred decibels. Prior to admission she was so depressed she could barely bring herself to lift up the phone. Whatever the doctor has given her has had a significant impact and now she is so pepped up that she can't sleep or sit still, consequently her legs are swelling and she is almost as anxious but in an active sense, as she was before. Trying to get anything done with a whirlwind attaching herself to me and with a constant commentary made me feel drained. She was so emphatic and interspersed her narrative with references to various physical ailments - showing me a sebaceous cyst, her swollen calf etc etc- and her own personal history and that of her extended family, all at the same time. We all felt exhausted by the time she was collected and went home!

The fantasy man of the title just demands a book to himself.
He introduced himself to me with a clasp of the hand and hushed voice. "Someone is out to kill me dear, I know a lot of secrets and a lot of important people and that makes life dangerous for me." My heart sank. Life was stressed enough as it was without someone fantasising. He went on to tell me that the room was wired and he hoped that those listening in were getting their money's worth. I kept my face impassive and tried to behave as if it were the most natural conversation in the world. When I could escape I re-read his file and realised that the assessment was very sketchy and superficial - we would have to radically re think our approach. He cosied up to various other clients, whispering in vulnerable ears - I tried to observe discretely without exciting his hostility. He strode into the office and demanded paper and pen, to " record his observations ...." We waited to see what would develop and were disappointed with the result. A rough sketch and random jottings that while not exciting were a graphic illustration of the two people he talked about - never knowing which one would surface first when he woke. By the end of the week nothing would have surprised us and we all learned to assume poker faces. Two photo albums were thrust into a colleague's hands, full of wartime pictures - signed photos of an American beauty in uniform with shades of a Glen Miller style musical back ground. Maybe there is some hidden mystery here. The late marriage to a guarded blonde, who looks into the camera warily, who is photographed staring into the distance from a hill top, who looks unapproachable and icy. His family, such as it is, evinced concern but with such exaggeration that at the end of the interview we began to wonder who was conning who. Were the Oriental volunteers really fleecing Mr F or was it a ploy to keep his money intact ready for inheritance. The more detail the relative gave the more mind boggling it became and we decided to play Pontius Pilate and have nothing to do it with the situation.
Half way through the stay a social worker appeared to assess the situation and quickly realised she didn't know half of it. After a chat and perusal of the notes he'd made it became very apparent that she would have to reassess and possibly look at other options for care. The longer I am with Mr F the more like an iceberg he seems - we are only seeing the tenth of the mass(man) and the further we delve the more dangerous it might be. Watch this space.

you thought you had got rid of me!

2008-06-06T03:28:00.000-07:00

Dear Blog you must be so disappointed to find that my hoped for disappearance didnot happen.
I am disappointed with myself for leaving things so long but then, it has given you a breather from my endless navel contemplation - one girl's meat is another's poison.
Things have been hectic and yet the material outcome seems to be negligible, as usual.
I accompanied the grandsons back to school on Sunday and on the way we trailed in the wake of a traveller's traditional caravan, the synchronised clopping of the horses' hooves totally in keeping with the countryside we passed through. It was also a living link with the boys' paternal great grandmother who was probably born in one like it.
We arrived at the school and led a crocodile of other cars seeking the right entrance to the car park. The official one was closed although the electronic barrier kept waving to us from the other side! It seemed to be mainly grandparents acting in loco parentis and then taxis full of Oriental teenagers who appeared to have been shopping for their lives.
The return trip was very quiet with just Mr Charming in the back. It must be very strange for him dealing with the coming and going of his brothers at erratic intervals.
Back to work on Wednesday and had to hit the ground running. Although nothing much seems to change in the lives of the very old if one is in tune with them then you notice the nuances. Thursday brought a surprise in the form of an extra member of staff so that The Boss and I could settle down to a bureaucratic marathon. Basically, we are doing a job that a senior administrator for the regulatory body has been doing in years past. Now we have to assess ourselves and still continue to pay loads of money to said body for doing a large part of their job for them. Unfortunately we won't get their salary. Talk about brainache.

We have moved on now and this weekend I felt as if I was doing mental health nursing. A client with fear that he was going to be killed by a hairdresser. As he said himself he is two people and when he wakes up he doesn't know which person will emerge, neither do we! Further along the corridor another client sits shouting in her room and we are unable to help her. These are the times when I feel most inadequate and dissatisfied. Also, at the weekend, I spent a lot of time steadying staff and by the end of it felt burnt out, asking myself who steadies me, apart from God?
Between work and family I start to feel very small and fragile and ask myself how much more I can carry. But not being a quitter I have to square my shoulders and try to make each day a new start. If only so that I don't have to dwell too long on my own weaknesses. I have had to remind myself not to become complacent and imagine that the Chinese whispers and bitchiness can't devastate me. I am a fool if I fall into that trap and I have been a fool enough times in my life already. Tomorrow is my day off, I have already done the washing and it's flapping gently in the breeze, being bleached my the sun, so once the robot's leg has been dragged around the house get ready dear Blog...

ad lib

2008-05-23T02:49:00.000-07:00

I have holiday starting about 9.30pm tonight (Friday) and I haven't got a clue what I am going to do with myself.
There is so much I should be doing, could be doing, want to be doing, BUT which I shall do, or feel up to doing, is the unknown quantity. I set out with such good intentions but the reality of my energy and inspiration levels always means I fall short of my own aspirations. The children are otherwise engaged and miss my grandchildren as I do there have to be times when I share them, reluctantly, with other members of their families. Anyway, I have to do maintenance work on my own psyche and individuality because if that falls apart then I shall end up like a lot of the sad women I have looked after over the years, lost and moribund. They have subsumed themselves so entirely in home, hearth and family that when the children have flown the coup, the husband/partner is dead, and they can no longer manage the home, they are left with precisely nothing. No interests, no personal individuality and no impetuous to drive them forward.
So now we are on Sunday and what have I done? Well, I have transplanted lettuce seedlings, and planted more spring onions - I have carted water for the tomatoes and now the sun has gone away and growing conditions are at a premium. I have made bread and muffins (chocolate), fiddled with various designs and photos and more than anything struggled with this laptop which has suddenly decided to play silly b's with my pictures and programmes. It freezes, shuts itself down, and the cursor becomes paralysed. My mobile phone is also temperamental and will send/receive multimedia messages as/when it feels like it. I am fed up especially as I haven't changed any settings. I bet if I take them back to where I bought them the first line of defence will be to ask me what I have changed? Of course they will then work perfectly and make me look a complete prat!
Bank Holiday has dawned bright, fair and windy - just right for hanging the washing out, cleaning the vacuum cleaner filter, thus covering myself in dust, desperately trying to make the place look presentable ready for the hairdresser visiting tomorrow. Isn't life riveting? And protecting my tomatoes from the coming gale. Is this really nearly June? So, I rigged up this Heath Robinson affair of a wind break around my baby plants, composed of bubble wrap, pea canes and pegs. Very useful items pegs. Not classically decorative - bubble wrap and bright orange pegs- but serviceable.

We are onto Tuesday now and the hairdresser finally arrived. Why are they so afraid of my hair, of cropping the nape of my neck so the hair doesn't stick out at a 45 degree angle as it grows out of my scalp?
The excuses are interesting if not bizarre - it will make your head look small, it will make you look masculine, I can give you a false hairline - NO! Just do as I ask - you ask enough money for it.
Then I went for a lay down after an early start and disturbed night. I get up and guess what? One side of my hair is as flat as a pancake. When I lay on the other side this does not happen. It simply confirms a long held view that my hair, like the rest of me, has a life and mind of its own, that continues without reference to my control.
Wednesday. This entry has to stop being a draft and become a published post so I will endeavour to bring it to some sort of conclusion. I had the most horrendous night which did not bode well for the day to come. It was broken sleep punctuated by vivid, bizarre rather than frightening, dreams and an inability to relax or get comfortable. This of course meant that I overslept this morning. I was going to do so much in town before going to see my daughter and the pixies. The weather was dank and misty, more reminiscent of November than the end of May, and it didn't take much to talk myself out of my original plan, truncate the agenda, and head for the supermarket to pick up lunch and then to my final destination.
Those pixies - what can I say? They do me the world of good with their zest for life ( and destruction) and redress the sense of hopelessness that occasionally assails me. Of course they are wonderful, of course I am biased, but you don't get great children without good parents and if the pixies' elders need to reassure themselves about their abilities then they should be comforted by the plain, straight forward, rightness of these particular imps. The day, after I left to come back home, deteriorated somewhat, weather wise, and as the rain cascaded off the guttering I turned my back on it and lost myself between "facebook" and you Dear Blog.

9

a miscellany

2008-05-20T03:11:00.000-07:00

Various things have been buzzing about my brain over the last few days.
A lot of it to do with the Lancaster. Now, people seem to think it very peculiar that a woman should be obsessed with this aircraft, in her own right if you see what I mean, not as an adjunct to some male in her life as a shared interest. I am the one that drags the males in the family,(not that it takes much you understand) to various places to watch this, and the rest of the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight, going through its paces. For me it is a deeply emotional and evocative experience that re-affirms that all is not entirely lost in this apparently benighted land - that there are still some semblances of the character and tenacity that saved our communal lives.
And I am not alone. Another woman of my acquaintance, a phlebotomist, is also a Lanc. fanatic. We exchange notes when we meet over a blood sample and if she didn't do such a good job and wasn't such a thoroughly nice person I would have scratched her eyes out when she told me she was actually going for a ride in My Beauty (My pet name for City of Lincoln, whatever her current manifestation) and had paid £250 for the privilege.
I have also noticed that there are more women on the flight line at take off, also there out of their own interest and not at the tail end of a line of father, son, brother, grandad etc. etc.
Standing by the barrier at the Coningsby families day flypast, as each element of The Flight taxied out, I looked over my shoulder and the word, and the distinctive sound of the Merlins, was getting around. The stampede as people converged from all quarters made me glad I had stuck to my guns and made getting a good vantage point the first priority when we arrived.
As My Beauty and her acolytes, the Spitfire and Hurricane, trundled down the runway, I looked along the crowded barriers. There were women holding video cameras, digital cameras, mobile phones aloft. As the planes cleared the ground level with us the young woman next to me couldn't contain herself any longer. "Aren't they bloody brilliant?" To which the general response was "How right you are!"
While they fly I shall not lose all hope.

shape of life

2008-05-10T11:09:00.000-07:00

There is an awful symmetry about life and death.
I use the word "awful" in its original meaning, i.e. shock and awe style.
We would be very worried if birth was a quiet, placid affair, however much we woman would
like it to be so.
So why do we see the perfect death as requiring calmness, tranquillity and stillness (prior to the ultimate stillness, of course).
The truth is that there is an awful symmetry and as we come kicking and screaming down the birth canal, taking the first breath that ruptures the vessel that allows the circulation of blood to become closed and independent,
the struggle begins.
Whether we like it or not, the struggle is vital and without it we remain enfeebled and lacking stamina.
My great fear for today's generation is that, in our desire to protect them, we deprive them of the opportunity to strive, to discover what they have in them, to push their limits and thereby grow stronger.
However long or short our days, and I believe in earthly terms the expenditure of life force varies for each individual, once the cycle has completed, the life force, for want of a better word, is exhausted and life here is over. The problem is the length of the cycle - some use it up more quickly than others. This is the unknown quantity.

Out of the mouths of babes.....

2008-05-08T11:07:00.000-07:00

Lewis, aged 9, on seeing an advert for wrinkle and spot removal:
"You should keep all your wrinkles and spots - it's nature's way of telling you -
Being an adult stinks!"

The BBQ

2008-05-07T07:34:00.000-07:00

The people, a motley crew, of almost-chavs with the women in over tight clothing and men in peculiar combinations of colours and patterns. That awful ensemble of t-shirt, three quarter shorts, socks and Birkenstocks was much in evidence.
The tensions were mostly hidden but rose nearer the surface as more alcohol flowed.
People dipped into black bins and pulled out cans and bottles.
Vaguely defined groups developed at tables, under canopies around the edges, ebbed and flowed in the middle. We all scrutinised each other. Funny how people find an observer like myself uncomfortable.
Someone not just stuffing her face or rapidly becoming legless is conspicuous and threatening. I saw them watching, whispering covertly, and didn't care!

The children bounced in ever changing configurations on the trampoline or toddled around the obstacle course of adult legs.
The hostess had worked hard. She had that pug-nosed Crankiesque physiognomy typical of some urban Scots.
We picked at barbecue food - cold stiff pasta salad, cold stiff, partially carbonised sausages. The roast pork was good if slab like.
After two hours of racket and karaoke I made my excuses and left escorted by number one son, himself at the edges of his sociability scale, and we walked home. Daughter in law, and guest,arrived a little later and after stamping feet and tears to relieve her exasperation at the actions of so-called friends, settled down to counsel said guest with the aid of yours truly, and a bottle of wine.
While I played endless games of solitaire and tried to keep us all on this side of sanity, tears and heartache flowed and years of separation were bridged. And we wondered why we had bothered with the BBQ.

catching up again!

2008-05-01T13:49:00.000-07:00

To continue from where I left off regarding peculiar people and my decision to start a personal backlash against other people's insensitivity ( with regard to me).
Some of the other people I saw during my sojourn in the city included the lovely placard man with his all- weather gear and big sign admonishing sinners to repent - the truth always hurts but remains the truth for all that. I was waiting for someone to start giving him some lip just for the opportunity to wade in and, the two of us together, show the unbelievers what really muscular Christianity is about - not that Sign Man would need my help. I have seen him in action and believe- you- me he can more than take care of himself.

There was the little woman in the chemists who stood so close to me I wondered if she wanted to pick my purse, although it would have been a waste of time, but no, what she wanted was advice about hair spritz as if asking me would leave her any wiser. Neither of us found what we were looking for or were even sure what it was in the first place!
Why,when there is loads of space where ever I am, do people have to come and stand so close you would think they were practising sardines? And they have to inflict their life stories on me as well, speaking as if I was privy to the characters starring in said story so don't need the vital bits of background info. that makes sense of it all. I must have the sort of face that is so inconsequential and nonthreatening that just talking at me makes them feel better and me feel like a blotter. ( But then I wouldn't have ammunition for this blog or the "novel" I keep trying to write.)

A person strolled into my place of work this afternoon who also imprinted herself on me for all kinds of reasons. Firstly, because every time I see her I am convinced I know her from somewhere else but can't think where. Secondly, because she has the archetypal middle class English face that is intellectual but trying so hard to be of the people. She wears a well worn gillet, cords and quirky handmade shoes that are so foot shaped and utilitarian only middle class ex-hippies and those needing orthotics would look at them.
However, the chief reason she impacted on my memory was the great fuss and palaver she made over a small bunch of pansies she had brought for the person she was visiting. Could we find a small enough vase to fit them? When she had shown them to said recipient she would come back for said vase. She came back, put the flowers into the vase,( a plastic drinking glass, which was all we had small enough) and inspected them from various angles. Could she take them back again for the recipient to look at? Where would be the best place to display them to best advantage and effect when she came back?
Eventually, we settled on a table by the front door where the six pansies would "cheer us all and raise our spirits" - perhaps. In the meantime my and colleague and I were trying to actually get on with a fairly important task, the completion of which would really cheer us up no end.
After all that this woman sat with the resident, in total silence, and never gave the already wilting pansies another thought.
This is what gets me about this particular type of intellectual. They try so hard to be eco- friendly, recycling minded and earthy and the truth is they often don't have a practical bone in their bodies and really do live on another planet, which is inhabited by"lovely people who think nice thoughts" and don't disturb the ether of cosy suburbia.
If you ask them to do something really natural such as clean up great cow pats of ordure that have just erupted from a human rectum or pick dentures out of unmentionable places, they wouldn't just run a mile they would collapse with disgust. Whether we like it or not nature is red in tooth and claw, and yellow and various shades of brown in elimination!! If we kicked up as much fuss about the really vile and artificial stuff we create and do to each other, as we do about totally natural functions we would all be dead without, then I might start to take some of these people and their ideologies seriously.

people watching

2008-04-28T07:10:00.000-07:00

I don't know if it's because I am getting older, ( I almost typed "odder" which could equally fit) but I do find myself becoming more reactionary - not, I hasten to add, in discriminatory terms, i.e.gender, race, sexual orientation etc. ( However, any opinion expressed is in essence discriminatory)

No, I mean in terms of speaking my mind with more acuteness than I have in the past.
I thought about all this while standing on one leg, then swapping to the other, waiting for a taxi in the middle of town. People watching is a favourite pastime of mine in any geographical situation but today it seemed that my senses were heightened. Perhaps it was the excruciating knee pain I was trying to relieve?
There was the woman in green, swathed in waterproofs and scarves - I wondered if she was a "green" candidate living up to the image - and obviously from her high colour sweating profusely. Then the bald headed man with a naked upper lip, a rim beard of pale ginger, combed out like a sun ray on his chin, in a long black leather coat and Doc Martin high laced boots. Obviously a grass roots philosopher.
A trio of women all wearing exceedingly tight trousers with expanses of flesh seeping over the waist bands waddled passed followed by the older woman in clinging jeans that emphasised the shelf-like nature of her buttocks.
They seemed to be impervious to the picture they presented while I keep try to hide away and be inconspicuous. It struck me that I too could be myself without souring the cream or making people scream and run for cover - couldn't I?
People drifted out into the road, munching endlessly on subs and wraps, heedless of traffic danger, then ebbed back to the pavement.
I craned my neck to see round the vehicles that shouldn't have been parked in the bay, but were, to try and not miss my cab and cursed the idiots that kept blocking my view. A car containing a man and child continued to sit in the bay, talking on his mobile until his partner appeared, (see I can be politically correct) and they mused over the bank receipt, disputing each item until with vehemence he revved the engine and they sped off.

But back to my exercise in growing intransigence:
While in the chemists scanning shelves of hair products some- woman imperiously tried to excuse herself to get passed me and it took all my self control to stop myself asking her what she'd done. Earlier, some- man had continued to walk into me despite surely realising we would collide. He had worked on the premise that I would get out of his way but I set my shoulders and carried on relentlessly meaning he had to swerve and was stopped in his tracks - and I didn't care if he had tripped! Some-people need to realise that Yourstruly can be just as obstructive and will be practising more of the same.

I am more than a little fed up with being the one who apologises, gets out of the way, takes the evasive action. Not doing it anymore and if that makes me a bit of a dragon, a cumudgeon, or whatever, then so be it. There has to be a time when the perks start and surely one of them is that one can speak one's mind with impunity and tell it as it is.
My list of those who need to be told what they really are in a clear and concise manner rather than having it dressed up in psycho babble is growing so beware, dear Blog, because there will be more of the same!

delayed

2008-04-24T13:57:00.000-07:00

Here is another quick fix of a blog because I shall feel so guilty if I let another 24 hours go past without making an entry. This has been a hell of a shift for a variety of reasons. Very few people know, or care, about the effect of continuous repetition on the target. And before anyone says "You shouldn't do the job if you can't hack it" let me say we are looking after someone who should be more appropriately placed but that would involve health care professionals getting their fingers out and doing something about it. We were supposed to be a temporary holding operation which it has been very convenient to extend and extend. Trouble is the poor sufferer isn't improving and we seem to be crying the wind. She is too young to be in this placement but it has salved everyones' conscience and because she can't make up her mind, due to her condition, then no one else is prepared to. Result is nothing moves forward and she is back to square one, has come full circle, and we are tearing her hair out trying to deal with the situation appropriately. Pigs in the middle as usual.
Well, it's another early start again so if I am going to succeed in getting any sleep tonight I had better make a move. I shall be back to vent more steam tomorrow, all being well, so beware!

still getting a grip

2008-04-20T02:38:00.000-07:00

I think that I shall have to make a point of researching more thoroughly the whys and wherefores of this blogging business.
I tend to go straight to new post and type away instead of looking at what others are doing - arrogance I suppose.
What I do know is that I am not making the most of this opportunity and it's basically due to lack of thought and planning as well as lack of self-discipline.
On another tack, my daughter goes back to work tomorrow after maternity leave and it's going to be hard for her.
Part of her is going to miss being there when her girls are rampaging around learning at a rate of knots, and yet she has a good brain and is extremely capable and needs to be out there doing. I would hate her to let all that talent atrophy, especially the writing ability, in a welter of domesticity, so I hope and am encouraging her to be as objective as possible and see that she is providing for her own and their future. They are also being left with a super dad who loves them to bits so will not lose out in terms of care and attention. She has nothing to worry about, in that respect, and the world needs strong women like her - with brain and skill tempered by care and compassion.

tiding over

2008-04-18T11:15:00.000-07:00

This is purely an exercise to fulfill my desire to make regular entries.
Today has been a day for visual art and learning about my lap top's limitations in the art department.
I have had two extra days off work after pulling a ligament at the back of my knee and having to hobble into work on Wednesday afternoon because there was no one to cover my shift. Fortunately, an extra member of staff came in so I concentrated on medication and administration, although I must admit not responding to the buzzer was very difficult.
There are times, and this has been one of them, when I am tempted to go into the office with "Mug" written across my forehead with marker pen, because I am sure no one else would be so crazy or so easily persuaded!
By Thursday morning the knee was so swollen and stiff I could only move with great pain and a walking stick. I had to admit defeat and ask to be covered for that day's shift. I am not the sort of person who can just sit and watch television so I have filled my time building up my stock of cards and experimenting with new designs when not feeling guilty about not fulfilling my duties.
My imagination outstrips both my ability and resources, damn it, and every imperfection is magnified in my eyes, contributing to my frustration. I never really believe in my ability and so give up before I've started.

Stephen Fry and Guttenberg's press

2008-04-17T02:57:00.000-07:00

This was a magical programme.
From wine press to printing press,
Obvious when the suggestion was made.
The pouring of the font.
Lead, tin and antimony, immediate solidity,
Chemical alchemy.

Artisan plus intellect,
Shirt sleeves, dogged patience,
Muscle, brain power,
Inventive alchemy.

Effort producing such treasure,
Glowing asymmetric jewels
Juxtaposed with geometric compacted type,
The wonderful crackle of a page turned.

The secrecy of dangerous invention, ideas,
Accusations of subversion, or fear of same.
Medieval industrial espionage.
Guttenberg "brown tongued" to protect his invention
Printing papal indulgences to buy,
Buying papal indulgence to print.
Temporality and spirituality combined.
Stabbed in the back with foreclosure,
But new ideas were unstoppable.
Poor Guttenberg,
Face saved with a Palatine knighthood
And pension.
Aborted dreams salved by minor status.

Where would we be without the metal inverted "e"?
The clunk of type rippling in the form,
Caress of ink paddle stippling, glistening across letters,
The anxious creak of press,
Replication.

To watch craftsmen decoding the mystery of
Press construction, and in the process,
Invent problem solving devices.
Engineering alchemy.

It's having the knack, Stephen.
You have a special combination,
Erudition, intellect, humour.
Media alchemy.

Independence - what's that about?

2008-04-14T08:56:00.000-07:00

I attended a review today where the word "independence" must have been uttered at least a dozen times and it made me think about what the word and reality actually is.
My thesaurus says : liberty, scope, range, latitude, elbow room. So, in the light of that definition just how independent are any of us?
Let me say, straight away, that I believe that the whole concept of independence is a misnomer, a mirage, so the ultimate irony is that it is the focus of whole sections of industry and philosophy - and is in reality completely unattainable.
Real independence would only be within the reach of a superhuman, robotic entity ( for even God needed company) who could supply all its own needs and had infinite elbow room.
How many of us actually do meet ALL our own needs? Do we grow and process all our own food, produce the materials to clothe and shelter ourselves, supply all our own utilities? I am talking about real independence, life without reference to others.
Of course we don't. However self-reliant we might think we are the truth is that we need others to fill the gaps in our own knowledge and abilities.
When I talk to clients about maintaining independence and how we can support them in that, I am beginning to feel I maybe selling them a lie.
I think I should be talking in terms of interdependence - the need we have for the skills and input of other people and their need for ours.
The frail elderly are particularly vulnerable in this area. Because we live in a society which covertly believes that you are only valuable when you are producing, whatever that society might say overtly, then when people reach the time of life when their obvious productivity seems to have ended, the sense of guilt and dependence is overwhelming. To ease that sense of guilt we promote the idea of independence as the holy grail of social care - we are so focused on it that we lose connection with reality, we are expending valuable energy striving for the unattainable.
Now, if we talked in terms of interdependence then not only would it be a realistic goal but we would actually value not only the client but all those making up the network that allows us and our society to function.
The frail elderly are often perceived as takers, a drain on increasingly scarce resources and as unproductive, with a parallel rise in the often unsubtle questions regarding their continued right to life.
Of course, the reality is that without these people I, and thousands of others, would be unemployed and even larger swathes of British industry would be defunct. Which begs another question as to whether there is a correlation between the low status of both the social care force and their clients and the fact that the makeup of both sections is still largely female, and aren't we cheaper by the dozen?
The truth is that we all need each other, in every situation. If no man is an island then no woman, or man, is independent, and we would need to be the one in order to really be the other. We could all start to function more realistically and attain more successfully. More importantly, we would recognise the value of those who really count in society - I am not talking about class or professional status - but anyone who enables any of us to function and meets our needs, however eclectic.

naughty girl

2008-04-11T02:06:00.000-07:00

I have been a naughty girl and ignored you, dear Blog, but I feel so awful that the most I have been able to manage, especially after baby sitting Pixie 1, is to try to eat something and then go to bed.
I shall be glad when this week is over for all sorts of reasons and hope to goodness I feel better.
Am in to work this afternoon at the start of a run of three late finishes then in very early on Monday morning - hope I can manage it!
My colleague has been bereaved so I am holding the fort but I can't shield her from everything, much as I would like to.
More immediately, I must psych myself up to tackle the mundane domestic chores of hoovering and dusting - Boring! - the last things I want to do but I can only ignore it for so long.
My mind is firing on about a quarter of a cylinder so bye for now - maybe I should plug myself into the laptop to give myself a frisson of motivation.

writing exercise

2008-04-08T09:21:00.000-07:00

I had tried all I could to kick start the writing drive, including buying an extortionately expensive little pad and pen at the railway station book stall. I worked on the principal that surely a train journey ought to stimulate the brain cells. Where did the genie go and what did I have to rub to make it re-appear?

For a start, this lousy rail service needs a kick in the pants. National Rail Enquiries give out the information, it's even printed in their guide but come day and time? No train and no one knows anything about it except National Rail Enquiries and us!

I check my mobile phone and wonder who Nicola is and which of my particular financial vultures she represents? I deleted her message without really listening to prevent the bolt of lead re-entering my stomach and dragging me back down.
At least, from the carriage window, there's a different view, looking over and down. The landscape has a different shape and interpretation from the perspective of other peoples' backyards.

I have upset the refreshment attendant by bringing my own food and drink. I'll put him out of a job - but prices shouldn't be so inflated I tell him. He's in a sulk.
The ticket inspector looked at my ticket three times. Do I look suspicious or does he not believe his own punch?

I make a crackly call to my destination and at least my grandsons seem glad to hear my voice and anticipate all the opportunities for inveigling sweets, magazines, junk that my visit offers.

The refreshment guy has a rhythm all his own. He drags the trolley so far down the aisle and, as the rattles of bottles deafens, he says "Any drinks?" with so much sibilance it becomes a hiss, a release of gas. His hips swivel in step with the wobbly wheels.

This time of year the sun is low, the shadows deep and in the fields the past peeps, teasing us with hints and possibilities.
The sun flickers through hazels and hedges. Will it trigger fits in those susceptible to strobeing?
It is a gloria in a mackerel sky.

hospital visit

2008-04-07T06:27:00.000-07:00

Just back from a visit to the hospital and so many memories have been triggered.
It's forty years since I left the place but each time I call in the clinic at the main entrance I am reminded of the love affair that started in the building next door, the old casualty. He was a porter and I a student nurse. He had had an adventurous life and I was as green as grass. We embraced in the old porters' lodge across the road just before I went on night duty, he was my first port of call as I went to the wards, in the morning, and he was ready to leave after a night shift.
Further up the drive was the red brick, barrack-like, structure of the Nurses' Home -where we started off under the eaves as cadets, and moved from floor to floor depending on where we were in our training. I always said it was a cross between a convent, girls school, and military establishment - the only thing we didn't have was a service number.
Today, I decided to take the courtesy bus from one end of the hospital to the other. There is much re-building going on, as everywhere else, and the corridors I trod have been shorn of their outbuildings. Up the hill, the Lecture rooms, where the Principal Sister Tutor held austere sway are dilapidated and blanketed in new brick. Round passed the Clock Tower, anno domini 1878, glass and chrome cover the ghosts of Burns, Tennyson, Longfellow, Keats, a literary cloak to hide long rows of geriatric, psychiatric beds, and the locked units where the immoral girls were kept - the irony being they had been locked up to try and curb their pubescent sex drive and I had to leave because my sex drive made me an unmarried mother at 20. 30 years, or so, earlier and I could have been one of them!
Now into the relatively shiny new orthopaedic clinic where, what ever the surroundings, the waiting is just as interminable. And people don't change.
My ability to wait and watch started very early when you saw the doctor at 9am and were still waiting in the stuffy, cramped ambulance room, to go home at 3pm. My mother, bless her, had walked the wards before me and, despite herself, built up great reserves of stoicism and self control - she expected no less from me and the training started from the word go. So, no fidgeting, no whinging, no unkind comments about others - we waited our turn, being sensible and patient, after all we could be in a much worse situation and it would end, it really would. I just wanted to get home, get through breaking the news to dad, then onto the sofa,before a roaring fire and get my nose in a book knowing that this was how it would be for the next few weeks - safe, secure and endless opportunity to escape into my imagination.

Today, I seemed to be the only singleton amongst a crowd of orthopaedic couples. The clinic staff seem to plod about looking hangdog and casual - the system must be known to them, one hopes, because it certainly isn't obvious to the patients. Opposite, sits a small, blonde haired, middle aged woman, huddled into an Astrakhan coat. Eventually, a large, louche, man joins her, loud and tapping her thigh with a "Now then my girl..." She brushes away his hand, embarrassed at his hearty familiarity. To begin with I think he's taking advantage, that she doesn't really know him, that she wishes she was somewhere else and I expect her to get up and move away but she doesn't and it becomes obvious that they are together.
He has the face of a frog, he's bigger, coarser featured, with the flushed, almost cyanosed, complexion of a hard drinker. The clothes are good, he has a patterned scarf tucked into his collar, and I notice they they are both wearing similar shades of brown, but it can't hide the roughness that sits uneasily with late affluence. He subsides into the same reverie as the rest of us.
The saw whines in the plaster room. It has been many years since I had a cast removed but I can still feel the tickling sensation of the blade slicing through the gypsum and the sense of anxiety as it closed on the skin. Only the experience teaches you to actually believe the plaster technician when he says the saw vibrates rather than cuts - that it won't slice through the cast into the skin. After the first time you believe because you see with your own eyes but the mind takes more convincing and there is always the tinge of anxiety.
Ancillary staff slob to and fro. Piles of files and x- rays are ferried around in square, metal, four wheeled trolleys not the two wheeled wicker baskets with walking stick handles we used as cadets. And today there weren't enough wheelchairs to move patients who had been decanted from ambulances, into the waiting area but couldn't walk into the consulting rooms and so appointments were held up while staff scoured adjoining corridors for spare chairs. Various names are called and we strain to hear our own, afraid if we miss it then the wait will be even longer. I always remember the Senior Geriatrician giving me a lesson in voice projection the first time I did his clinic. He had been in the Brigade of Guards, an Old Contemptible, and always walked with great long strides carrying a furled black umbrella. It was my first out patients clinic and he sent me out with a set of notes to call "Mrs Smith" - no response so I tried another patient, still no response. He came out with me the third time and directed my attention to the fact that not only was it busy and noisy in the waiting area but Mrs Smith could have been to the toilet, be entering via the ambulance area or just plain deaf. "Lift your chin, Nurse, turn to your left, raise the pitch of your voice and call the name. Now, try it to your right, then finally, if there's still no answer, to the body of the clinic."
Of course Mrs Smith was there all the time, chatting to her neighbour and deaf, and the pimply nurse, feeling and looking unsure of herself had directed her voice into the buff manila folder of her notes.
I have often wondered whether something similar ought not to be mandatory training for clinic staff, especially as now I am the deaf one struggling to hear my name when a bored, staff member mumbles my name from the other end of the corridor, into my buff manila folder of notes.

Then, I am in to see a doctor and he's actually courteous enough to stand as I enter and shake my hand. He examines my fat, unattractive knees, reads my notes, checks my slightly less unattractive orthotic shoes and tells me we will leave well alone for another six months.

Here goes

2008-04-05T01:52:00.000-07:00

Sitting here, shivering slightly with the change in the weather, I have several issues exercising my mind and emotions so this entry may take sometime to compose and complete. It may also seem very random in content.

A few days ago I received a circular from the Royal British Legion highlighting the problems of, and help given to, various categories of casualties of service personnel and their dependents. It both angered and moved me considerably. Angered me that people are being jettisoned back into civilian life, after suffering from post traumatic stress disorder and being discharged as unfit for duty, with very little after care or support, and they and their families are having to turn to a charity for basic welfare provision. It moved me as I have a family member suffering from the same condition who is venturing back to work on Monday in order to save his job, home, and his children's education. If he doesn't make a successful return then he will be in the same boat and, quite frankly, I don't know how we will all cope. My capacity to withstand one crisis after another is waning and while the spirit is still willing the flesh and bank balance are spent!
I can see a period of intense and prolonged prayer coming on. On more than one occasion I have set myself the task of intensive prayer which meant actually getting on my knees for long periods and concentrating deeply to exert as much spiritual force as possible - e.g. at the births of my grandchildren in difficult circumstances. Prayer comes every day, in every way, but there are times when extra effort is necessary and I can feel this will be one of them.

Second installment coming up. The other thing to exercise me this week is my growing not-so-little list of those who won't be missed(to paraphrase the song from The Mikado) and I want to add Naomi Campbell to the list, and those like her.
They are all spoilt brats who take up valuable space, do nothing meaningful or useful, need their bottoms smacking, should be sent to bed without any tea and minus their dummies and not allowed out until they have matured sufficiently. Paris Hilton was let out of prison far, far too early for my liking.
Why we throw our hard earned cash at these rich,useless entities, who then grow richer while we grow poorer defies any sort of logic. The same argument was presented to me as a reason to stop smoking and it worked better than any health advice.
Add to the list, also, those incompetents who foul up and are not held accountable (they need a list to themselves!). If I have to carry the can for my actions then I am damned sure everyone else should as well. Yes, I know it's an unfair world but that doesn't mean we have to let injustice go by default just because the worst aspects of human nature seem to predominate.
And if another person bleats to me about not being able to come to work because of a pain in their backs, heads, stomachs or egos, I shall scream, quietly as usual, because it is a daily fact of life for me. I want to say "welcome to my world" where the expectation is that one will just carry on regardless, cope with whatever is thrown at one and just get on. If this seems like a self-regarding rant you are absolutely right - where else can I let off steam?

bursting forth

2008-04-02T17:51:00.000-07:00

Get ready, Blog, because the pressure is building and come Saturday I intend to let you have it full force.
I have been ferreting around and there are a lot of drafts that I need to transpose and get into some sort of formal order or it will never happen.

My mind is once again starting to buzz with fantasy and characters acting out their lives on the screen of my frontal lobe. If I don't give them a voice and record their activities then they will plague me to death and I shall know no peace. Whether what I write has any quality or credibility is another matter - the important thing is that they are demanding I release them and I can't ignore it anymore.
This is the one area of my life where I can have free rein, although it does feel as if the characters control me, and I decide their fates. I can be at the centre of this particular universe and manipulate to my heart's content,pathetic as it may seem.

I will try hard to maintain the boundary between the realities and not lose sight of what is real and what I have created. We could get very philosophical here as what constitutes reality and varieties thereof but I really am too shattered to think that deeply.

Blueberry and banana muffins

2008-03-31T09:20:00.001-07:00

Today I have enjoyed the delights of blueberries popping as I bit into the muffins my daughter made, and shared them with my pixie of a granddaughter, a child I never thought I would see and for whom I have a close affinity. We not only look alike, at least as I looked as a child, slender and rather fragile, but share the same brittle bone condition. I am determined she will not suffer the same fate as myself, being defined by the condition and limited because of it.
She is beautiful, as most children are, with an impish look and temperament that closely replicates her mother's and therefore the ability to give masterclasses in tantrum and sulk. That they will clash is all ready evident, and I have had to mediate, but Pixie's fire gives me hope that she will give a good account of herself and not be any one's fool, unlike her grandmother.
There is so much character in the sideways glances and snatched looks, beneath luxurious eyelashes, and an ego that finds itself already struggling with the physical limitations and immaturity of being two years old and wanting to delve into every nook and cranny. I see the individual differences in interaction between her and mum and dad. As they pass each other, Daddy says "Hi" and Pixie responds in the same tone and pitch, they nod to each other, each mirroring the other. With Mummy there is the same unforced response but, for me, the bemusing sight of a mini me and her grown up twin - the same volatility and passion mixed with a great tenderness. The ability to evoke both great love and exasperation.
Given the headlong descent into apparent self destruction that characterised Mummy's teenage years - there came a time when she was nineteen when I resigned myself to the possibility that I would lose a child young - I had given up hope of her living into her twenties let alone that she would ever be a mother.
She was never going to have children, she couldn't cope with the competition, particularly of a daughter, and felt she would be a terrible mother.
The truth of course is that not only is she a very good mother but has found a depth of maternalism that has astounded her. She has almost literally given her life to deliver her children and, sometimes, works far too hard being SuperMum.
I pondered all this while trying to prevent Pixie from getting blueberry all over herself, it stains so tenaciously. It could be a metaphor for the deep embedding of Pixie into my being and the brio she spreads as freely as crumbs and juice.

the lost hour

2008-03-30T03:33:00.000-07:00

Can't help it, folks, but this losing of an hour each year,especially as one gets older, is no joke.
It always leaves me feeling cheated and more groggy than usual when I wake up on this particular Sunday morning. Who is this suppose to benefit? Farmers these days seem to work whether its light or not, and have big searchlights if they need it. School children don't care whether it's light or dark if/when they make their way to/from school - it's going to be one way or another after all.
So, what is it all about? When we were fighting for our lives and needed every hour of daylight to plough and sow; when we couldn't use headlights or street lamps then this all made sense, economically and in safety terms, but now?

Of course, we all live in different time zones, whether geographically or mentally, but it would help if at least within the confines of this country we didnot have to go through this twice a year - constantly quoting to ourselves, or trying to remember, spring forward and fall back - and then being unsure whether we have it the right way round.
My children, all adults seemingly, still wait for a message from me reminding them about the change, because for goodness sake they couldn't remember it themselves could they? Apparently not because on more than one occasion, when I didn't nudge their memories, they have lived life an hour behind the rest of us trying to make sense of the discrepancy, so they have no need to scoff.
However, this time I sent the message and then an hour later, after consideration, realised I had made the basic error and had to swallow my pride and admit my mistake, all excused on the grounds that I'm becoming gaga, and send another text.
It will be interesting to find out which member of staff arrived an hour late this year. I do know that overseas workers find it bemusing to say the least. If we can't work it out or explain it what chance do they have?

the return2

2008-03-29T09:47:00.000-07:00

Dear Blog - after all you do seem to have become an entity to me - I returned to work to find that nothing had changed and the work load was heavier than ever. Now, before you tell me off for moaning, where else can I whinge, legitimately, if not here. One of the residents, now deceased, used to say it was alright living longer and being well cared for but it was at the cost of wearing the carers out in the process!
Nothing runs to schedule when there are four of us and twentyfour of them and a significant proportion of them need intensive care from all hands. Monday to Friday there are five on care but, for some obscure reason, there is this idea that everything eases up at the weekend so we can do with less staff. The truth is that we have exactly the same work load and extras like marketing to fit in. The official answer is that "this is how it always is in care and no one works with a full staff quota at weekends" - yet, the expectation is that standards will not be compromised and we will plough on regardless. It's damned hard work and not difficult to understand why recruitment and retention is such an ongoing issue.

However, I have now been at home for a little while and had chance to defuse myself so ought to have a more positive outlook even if there is precious little energy. I have fought the desire to go and have a nap as something that wastes time and is inefficient but having checked my emails, my ebay and facebook I am running out of excuses. The time of chopping and slicing approaches and then getting into bed with a crossword and something mind numbing on digital tv and I might feel a little more human.

The return

2008-03-27T14:09:00.000-07:00

Well, I have returned home and I swear that the next set of days off I get I am going to go somewhere on my own.
I love my family dearly but I don't think I can stand the stress anymore!
I have missed you, dear Blog, and the self discipline you invoke in me.
This has been four days of flu, stress, more flu and more stress with me in the middle trying to keep everyone on an even keel. Now, it's back to work tomorrow and I am absolutely wrecked but at least I have some topics for the blogs to come.
For now, I am off to bed, to get something approximating to a decent night's sleep,with my melange of fruit and veg. and a word puzzle, to try and attain some sort of equilibrium again. Must remember the 14 points of articulation......

The wrong button

2008-03-23T04:51:00.000-07:00

I have racked my brains ......Damn! Now would you believe, I have caught a wrong button, just the merest pressure, and lost all I have written. I was going to say that I have found it difficult to decide on a topic for today, especially as I shall be away from the laptop for four days. No doubt themes will occur during that time and, given the nature of my family, they will be many and varied.
This is by way of a coda to my first series of blogs and has been an excellent exercise in daily discipline and overcoming my inability to compose at the keyboard.
My next test is to transpose work I have already drafted in longhand.
More immediately, I must gear myself up for today's shift and coping with a member of staff noted for her ability to not only talk but also slow down the pace dangerously. This needs careful handling and planned strategy otherwise the work load falls on the backs of the rest of us instead of being shared.
So, Blog, until the next time.....

A good childhood?

2008-03-22T14:25:00.000-07:00

The Children's Society are conducting research into what constitutes a good childhood and inviting reminiscences from past generations as well as today's. It got me wondering about my own childhood and that of my children and grandchildren.

I suppose my childhood was privileged in many ways, both in terms of a lot of my contemporaries and todays' children. It didn't seem like it at the time and,by today's standards, I suppose that materially it might seem fairly deprived, but where it differed from a lot of my contemporaries was that because we lived with my mother's parents security came from several sources. I had my own room; we kept pigs and chickens so ham and eggs weren't scarce; my grandmother dealt in second hand goods, mostly clothes and books etc., so I was dressed in Ladybird clothing, used but in good condition, right from the start, and there was a large kitchen garden with apples,pears, soft fruits and vegetables. There was room to roam and play and grandma's ragbag provided me with endless dressing up possibilities. There was also an endless supply of comics, both boys and girls, and classic books. The house was never empty and the door open to a varied selection of callers: some to do with my grandma's business, some were family, sometimes neighbours in for a chat and a barter - Mrs Jackson next door made ice cream in the summer and used our eggs or gave us Staffordshire oatcakes and pikelets in winter - and motorists paying their rents on the garages at the end of the yard.

Like most children, though, I was only dimly aware, at that time, that not everyone lived as we did and given that my father worked a brick making machine, only the extended family setup gave us the extras.
Where my childhood might be construed as lacking was that there were few other children living around us. I had to be taken to play with other little girls unless cousins visited. I don't remember feeling lonely but I suppose my preference for being with older people stems from this time. There were two children living across the road, in a row of dilapidated cottages, twins with an Italian father and English mother, but my grandfather disapproved of my consorting with them - not because of Italy's role in the war but because the father was a jail bird. It didn't always stop me playing mud pies with them though.
However, the fact was circumstances and choice meant that I was in the company of adults most of the time. Even school didn't redress the balance as it took me ages to settle. I hated leaving my mother and with fractures and such a great deal of my general knowledge was acquired from the books supplied to me by gran at home.
I have never known again the warmth and security I felt, when ill, of being tucked up in front of a blazing fire, a rich comforting mug of Sister Laura's food in reach, and a pile of comics, annuals. and picture books to occupy me.

My children knew a different sort of environment - a new council estate with a lot of the modern conveniences not available to my family when I was small.
Sophisticated technology was starting to impact on most peoples lives. A wider range of people and experiences influenced their development and there were more children around. We were the nuclear family, living in our own four walls, albeit rented, and living on what was in effect a more restricted income than my parents. Grandparents still helped to make up the shortfall but not so much in terms of their daily presence.

Now I have five grandchildren experiencing, in many respects, a childhood that, materially, would have seemed unachievable fifty five years ago. Three of them have already moved home several times due to dad's job. They have flown and lived life in the sun, gone to school in three countries, become almost casual about travelling and never known life with outdoor plumbing or being in close contact with their food.
My two granddaughters have graduates for parents, a home that belongs to those parents and already know, as do their cousins, how to operate keyboards and digital this and that.
The other great change is in the fluid nature of family relationships. I lived in an extended family but the relationships were relatively simple and stable. Today, children, including my grandchildren, have to untangle the complex web of family connections where both sets of grandparents are divorced and "step-grandparents" are part of the set up. Where aunties and uncles may not stay in the same combinations.

Whose childhood is better? Materially, I suspect, theirs by miles, but having space and opportunity to indulge and develop imagination, time to consider,a lack of pressure to react and a greater degree of certainty then, maybe, mine.

The truth is that all is relative and, while I can see where their childhoods could have been bettered, they would probably regard mine as boring and restrictive in its opportunities and lack of what are now regarded as common place necessities.

obsessing and exaggerating

2008-03-21T14:31:00.000-07:00

I nearly drove myself to a stroke this morning obsessing about a potential issue that in the end didn't arise.
Unfortunately, I have this propensity to do this, along with talking things out with myself, but don't worry, I haven't got to the dangerous stage of answering myself back - Yet!

Today, I have worn several different hats at work-not literally you realise. They have ranged from the catering, medical, personal servant, administrative and marketing to counselling, hospitality and supervisory. It takes flexibility and thinking on your feet to juggle them all. There are shades of "Waiting for Godot" in more areas than one as we often spend a lot of time hunting for hats, shoes, handbags, teeth etc. and trying to match them up with their owners. I hasten to add that this isn't because of institutionalism - e.g. the old communal clothes pile or bucket of false teeth, if- it -fits -it's-yours scenario - but because people can be incredibly inventive if they decide to hide something or even just want to dispose of things temporarily.
One has to think laterally when hunting for false teeth - I have found them inside socks (still on the wearer's feet) stuffed inside cushions, other people's handbags, pushed down the owner's underwear, (upper and lower), put in the waste paper bin, you name it. Fortunately, I am not squeamish, except about snot, so digging dentures out of some one's underpants with breakfast still in situ, does not bother me. The problem is once said dentures have been cleaned then getting them back into the owner's mouth is not so easy. You know these teeth belong in this mouth but suddenly the mouth seems to have shrunk two sizes and no amount of manipulation will re-unite the two. Of course, once left to their own devices, the owner will either solve the problem themselves or find another hiding place!
The tenacity and perseverance of people, even when it's misplaced, is enormous. I remember a night when a resident spent the entire shift purposefully trying to cram her feet into shoes that were at least two and a half sizes smaller than her own. When presented with her own shoes she tossed them aside and went back to the tussle, either that or walk around in her stocking feet, until morning. The abandoned shoes, still where she had left them, were pounced upon and reclaimed with joy. Whether daylight made them look different I don't know, but suddenly she recognised them and all was well until the next night.

I think I did rather well at the marketing, despite not being prepared, but the proof will be if/when a booking eventuates. Meeting and greeting is all very well and I try to tailor my approach to the customer, but having to do it just after escorting the corpse of someone you have looked after for five years, is not so easy.

As for the exaggeration part of the title, well, sometimes staff are not happy unless they are hamming it up and their encounter with difficult Mrs.X was so much worse than anyone else's, their aches and pains are more intense, even to the staff member I met tonight who came on duty telling me that not only was it "freezin, but honestly there's a blizzard out there..." I got myself ready to come home, all wrapped up etc. and walked out to dry surfaces, a clear sky, and no sign of snow. Is it just me? Or am I turning into an ultra reactionary? They really do not seem to have any sense of degree or balance.

I nearly forgot......

2008-03-18T16:22:00.000-07:00

Here we are almost out of the day and I suddenly realise that with all today's activity I haven't made my blog entry. I already feel uneasy if I don't make an entry, as if some unseen hand will materialise out of the ether and zap me for my omission!
So what have I done today? It might be easier to start with what I haven't done - e.g. no washing, dusting, vacuuming, if fact I have avoided anything that comes under the heading of housework, thank goodness.
However, I haven't been entirely idle. I prised vital statistics out of my eldest grandson so that I could trawl ebay for a kilt - he's decided he wants to wear one for the Senior Prom(?).
As an anglo-scot he's entitled to but I have warned him of dire consequences if he chickens out after all my efforts. His response was to tell me to behave as "...you know me, Nan, I'll do anything..." ( I do hope not!)
So my messages requesting the length from navel to kneecap, collar and shoe size were sent via text and email.
I managed to make myself sit down with the cheque book and write one for the water company then go through the nightmare of an automated telephone payment to my clothing account. Make a choice from this menu or that, key in these numbers, remember various bits of my telephone number, just for security, and follow each step by pressing the hash key. Anyway, got that boring stuff out of the way and then set off to see my two granddaughters and their mum.
I have come to dread taxi journeys these days as the radio is invariably on and the subject of the Diana inquiry comes up. Its not a long ride but oh dear, they always ask my opinion and then subject me to a tirade if I don't respond as they think fit. I don't know what happened, I don't particularly care, so now I sit in stony silence and refuse to be drawn. These same people always preface their comments with "They won't let her rest in peace..." and then proceed to fulminate on various aspects depending on what their own private agenda is - like the Bible, Diana can be made to fit any situation.
Thankfully, today, it was a dissection of Heather Mills McCartney, et al ,and I stared out of the window and grunted in what I hope were the right places - she's another woman who will never get it right.
So to my pixies - the elf and the goblin. No, I don't mean that, but one is delicate and apparently fragile (the reality is quite different) and the other vocal and ebullient. What they both have is cuteness in obscene quantities and, with their cousins, provide me with the impetuous to soldier on.
For a few hours my balance was re-calibrated and my cynicism diluted by their energy and lust for life. Her regal majesty with an imperious look and distinctive wave allowed me in, her equally royal sister bounced and gurgled, scanned me and then got on with the really important business of cruising the floor and puking where ever she fancied. Apparently, Her Majesty continued to twirl her hand and call "Bye Nan" for a good hour and a half after I left, bless her.
So, back home, read my emails and listen to my messages. From one I learn that the company handling my debts has some good news - I have finally cleared the big debt and due to an administrative error ( we never discover whose do we? ) I have overpaid and Northern Rock need to reimburse me. I talk to a very nice man in their debt department and in a couple of days, I shall be a little better off than I expected.
And so to bed with my plastic box of carrot sticks, apple pieces, grapes, cheese cubes, olives, celery, fruit and nuts, a crossword puzzle and the melange that is freeview.
I have my dose of "Pimp my ride" which is incomprehensible and naff, (therein lies its attraction) and "Dog the Bounty Hunter" which is even more bizarre and therefore more intriguing. This is the sort of pap that helps me relax - I wonder how much bigger Mrs. Dog's breasts can get and how much tighter the lycra before it all explodes and she is smeared across the rest of the family/team. God knows what would happen if her hair and Dog's became intangled and what an odd silhouette he cuts with all his accoutrements.
Finally, as if you care, I remembered my blog and got up to fulfill my obligation to myself, if no one else.

2008-03-16T03:47:00.000-07:00

This is the end of an interesting week for my foray into blogging.
I actually managed to acheive my goal of an entry each day and it has been a good exercise in self discipline and developing my ability to compose at the keyboard, something I've always found difficult,preferring the portability of pen and paper - it's quicker to strike through a wrong word than delete on the laptop.
I have had to think about themes - some have come easily, others had to be delved for.
Once again, the coming shift is dominating my thinking and time. I have a sick client whose care will determine the course of the rest of the work load. This week seems to have consisted of moving one load after another and I have to confess that I feel exhausted but this job needs to be done. The problem is human loads aren't as passive and co-operative as inanimate ones and before anyone shouts health and safety I am talking about the use of hoists and other aids, in most cases. There is still considerable effort involved and anyone who presumes the elderly are necessarily light weights knows nothing about it!

I'm going now to limber up and get myself ready for the fray, mentally as well as physically.

old is good but frustrating.

2008-03-13T09:58:00.000-07:00

It occurred to me today that part of the problem for young people, in dealing with the elderly, is that they are full of pent up energy that has to be even more pent up when they are dealing with those for whom life has slowed to a snails pace (and slower). It asks a lot of both parties in terms of patience and discipline just at a point in life where, for the young, it's embryonic and needs nurturing and at the other end of the scale, it's atrophied and what's left needs conserving.
At 59 I know I'm slow- my eldest grandson, an energetic 16 year old, passes me and says "Keep up Pingu!" - and yet I in turn rein back my movements to keep pace with someone who takes 10 minutes to walk a few feet.
On one side there is realisation that another person is being held back, is mentally gritting their teeth at the painful slowness of everything, and on the other an effort to try and understand how anything could take this long. Anger can be induced on both sides. Anger that a mind and body can become so limited and limiting.
Anger that so much else needs doing and energy is draining away. Anger and guilt at the feelings of exasperation on both sides.
For me the nurturing and harvesting of patience began early - at 2 years old I was exhorted to sing rather than cry while waiting in casualty to have a fracture diagnosed. I learned to people watch and occupy myself while waiting interminably for an ambulance home. This happened many times through the years.
As a brittle bone sufferer I learned early what pain and waiting were about but, also, that they could be harnessed as tools for dealing with the future and developing hidden reservoirs within myself.
So, as we take one slow step at a time, Mrs. X and I, for her this is full stretch, a giving of all she has and for me it's a respite when I scrounge a little more breathing space and wonder what it will be like when/if my time comes.

2008-03-12T10:27:00.000-07:00

Today ,when I got into work, the whole team configuration had changed from that expected. This is how it often is in care. People ring in sick, swap their shifts, or take a holiday at the last moment and as a manager I have to cope with whatever comes. It makes it difficult to plan the day's work, especially the administration.
The team mix decides what my priorities will be. With an established crew I know the work will get done, well, and on time, but with bank or agency staff, who don't know the clients or work patterns, then forget it. In that case, I have to think for everyone (and I'm not being patronising) in order that needs are not just being met but met to the nth degree. Details matter in care, the seemingly inconsequential takes on a significance beyond belief, and whether early tea is on time or not might define the whole tenor of the day.
This might seem petty-fogging but frail, vulnerable people draw their comfort and security from routine and sameness. Disruption spells anxiety and unease.
So, new staff, who need to be directed at every turn present a particular set of challenges.
It's necessary to assess their capabilities very quickly, direct them with conciseness and precision and take into account any particular hurdles such as language fluency and experience. It is easy to fall into the trap of doing everything oneself, and I do, to save time and tempers but this is misplaced, in the long run, and leads to permanent staff running themselves ragged while the temporary staff can feel excluded and inept.
Fortunately, today was a good mix with relief staff having the chance to gain new experience and reinforce skills without increasing the work load for regular staff.
As usual I held the fort, fielding queries from various quarters, wearing several hats, (sometimes all at the same time), doing jobs I love and those I hate(most specifically the coffee round!) and, trite as it may sound, all worth while when a client says "I'm glad it's you, I've missed you".

digital aids

2008-03-11T10:49:00.000-07:00

Well, I have just returned from hospital where they have tried to solve the mystery of why
my new digital hearing aids ( or at least one of them) suddenly stopped working and why
I keep getting a noise, at certain pitches, that sounds like an out -of -tune guitar string being
strummed.
I explained that the right aid refused to work when I put it in yesterday morning, and that after
trying 4 new batteries it gave a pathetic bleep and died.
Why do technicians always assume that it must be the deaf person's fault?
"Have you got /had an ear infection? Have you got moisture inside it? How do you mean
you can't hear as well on the right side with your digital aid as you could with the analogue
one? Impossible!"
I reassured the technician that after 28years of being deaf and wearing aids, I knew when/
if my ears were infected, (it's messy and painful) and that keeping them dry was crucial.
"Well, you will get feed back if you put your hand near the microphone, dear."
Yes, but I don't walk around with my hand cupped to my ear and it still twangs.
There was still the question of not hearing as well on the right as I did with the old
analogues.
"And the tubing in that aid is rigid, how could that have happened, dear?
Are you sure you haven't got an ear infection? We'll just check shall we?"
Ok, just to keep you happy.

She shone the light of the auroscope into my ear canal and pronounced it clear.
I thought she would have apoplexy when I confessed (it did feel like that) that I had been
wearing digital in the left and analogue in the right and it was better.
"No! No! No! You can't do that. That can't be right."
Is it some sort of heresy to challenge the supremacy of new technology or to suggest that
it doesn't fit all circumstances?
When she had recovered herself she disappeared for a while.
On return she re-tubed the ear piece and produced the aid like a rabbit out of
a hat. "
You will never guess? There seemed to be some moisture in the filter hidden
away in the hook, dear. I wonder how it got there?"
Yes, I wonder - was it a convenien t get-out and of course it put the onus right back on me?

When you're deaf you are always to blame for the breakdown in communication.
It couldn't possibly be that the hearing party didn't open their mouths, annunciate, or take their
hands away from their mouths?
Well, when it's my fault I'll take responsiblity but not when it's down to laziness and ignorance.