And a special welcome if you have just joined me to see whether I remember who I am. I do. Just. I have given myself permission to remain ungrowedup for another day so that I can gather the memories laid down over the past five days and firmly affix them to the walls of my happy room in my head.
I spend more and more time in my head these days on account of the fact that my resources for a romp through the external world are becoming fewer and fewer. It hurts to walk; I cannot entirely trust my limbs to do what they are being told to do and I would find it impossible to defend myself from attack. Now all this sounds a little gloomy and a bit pity-me-ish but nothing could be further from the truth. Right now I am such a happy little bunny basking in the warm glow of family love and this is my way of explaining that I have adapted to being an internal being rather than an external being. If truth be told, I sometimes find the intrusion of the external world somewhat burdensome.
Something rather strange happens when my family come to stay. There seems to be a shift in the space time continuum that affects my ability to tell the time; complete tasks in one hit and even to establish what day it is! Their presence also temporarily cures me of my OCD tendencies and I care not that things are not where they should be; where they shouldn't be or indeed, where they actually are! Other senses become heightened; tuning into to the possible distress noises not only of my Beloved Grandchildren but also those of Beloved Son and Heir and my Beautiful Daughter-in-Law, my need to nurture them and anticipate their every whim and well, just make them happy. And yet as we talk and laugh together my own Dickensian childhood intrudes and I find myself sharing information I did not intend to share with them and I do not know why.
Part of me wants to lay down loving memories for my grandchildren so that in turn they can tell their grandchildren of the japes and jollyiness they experienced when visiting me. I replay incidents in my head to strengthen my own memory bank possibly as an insurance against my bad memories. If I pack enough good stuff onto the shelf in my head then it may just result in some of the bad stuff falling off and disappearing forever.
Highlights for this Christmas:
Being first up on Christmas Morning and finding Santa's footprints all over the sitting room, torn wrapping paper, pink tennis balls scattered across the floor and a huge pile of presents under the new black Christmas tree bought to mark our first real Christmas together for ten years. I thought the paper represented Santa being in a hurry and the tennis balls Rudolph's droppings. But in fact Coco had managed to seek out her Christmas present from the pile without disturbing anything else. She and MaddyMoo spent the rest of the holiday challenging the hoomans' ability to securely hide them away.
My Bestest Boy Ben who couldn't stop the unbidden tears filling his eyes when he opened his main present from Mummy and Daddy; My Pixie Princess, the last one up on Christmas Day, fetching herself downstairs and wishing us 'Merry Christmas!'. Beloved Son and Heir taking over the cooking of Christmas Dinner - awesome! and then thrashing me at Scrabble. Watching my darling daughter-in-law's face light up as her children rampaged through the presents taking as much, if not more, pleasure in their reactions as in her own gifts.
I also made an interesting discovery during their stay. The Tale Telling baton has been passed down the generations. I used to be the storyteller, entertaining people with silly stories, dark deeds and the more pleasant memories of youth. It was my job to make people laugh, to inform and to please. (You don't have to be Freud to work that one out). And I was successful too - a natural communicator, complete with actions and accents, a Gemini strength. We were at my best friend's house and I suddenly became aware that my Beloved Son and Heir was taking the lead on the storytelling and I was content to let him do so. I then realised that Bestest Boy Ben too had always been a dramatic teller of tales and my Pixie Princess shows the same talent. I realised that I was pleased with this development: I no longer have confidence in the way I look when I speak and prefer to communicate via the screen where no-one can see me. So I am glad the Tale Telling baton is in safe hands.
I have had a wonderful Christmas, one I will never forget. My soul is full and my grin muscle hurts. I keep rewinding the video in my head replaying events and I will still be finding things in unexpected places throughout the new year. It is true that I cried when they left: it is harder and harder each time to let them go but meandering through my memories of our week together will sustain me during the endless grey days of January.
May the Angels of hope and peace walk with us as we travel through the New Year.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Where the beauty and the humour hide ...
Wednesday 29 December 2010
Tuesday 21 December 2010
THE Purple Fairy Generally Generalising
The tribe I belong to astonishes me. As a breed we are capable of producing exquisite art and music; capable of great gentleness, touching tenderness and unfailing bravery. I prefer not to dwell on the negative aspects of the mass, not because I am Pollyanna-arish - far from it! But because, if I consider too deeply the awfulness, I risk being subsumed, enveloped, swallowed and digested. I'd like to believe that I am a pessimistic optimist: I know things will go wrong but I hope they don't.
I had learnt to avoid people, despite the fact that I desperately wanted to be accepted; a necessary cog in the machinery, a key component vital to the smooth running of whatever society I happened to be in. But I learned from a very, very early age that nothing was ever quite what it seemed to be. It was safer to be a backroom girl with no expectations, that way you would not be hurt or disappointed. Never wanted to be a star (well that's not entirely true ... I ran away to London when I was 16 with 18s and 6d pocket and intended to be a singer in the style of Janis Joplin). No. I didn't make it.
But what I discovered in London gradually persuaded me to give people a second chance and indeed, absolute confirmation that nothing was ever as it seemed! In general I hated London. A cold, heartless City full of people who either wanted to take advantage of you, or rob you, or worse. But within one short week I began to trust my instincts once more. By the end of my first week I had stopped sleeping in Hyde Park; been rescued by a burglar, was able to identify plain clothed policemen, pimps and prostitutes, gotten myself a grotty room in Westbourne Grove and by day seven, had been employed by a Russian who had an antiques booth in Bond Street. When I look back on that first eighteen months in London I am astonished that I am still here: emotionally and physically. From the upper strata of society I encountered cruel and vicious people and people capable of selfless generosity. From what some would call the dregs of society, I was nurtured and protected and yet also placed in great danger.
Working in Bond Street selling Georgian silver, furniture and watches saw me learning that the oddest people can be the kindest people. It was an education I shall aways be grateful for even though the tale end of my career as an antiques salesgirl saw my first brush with death. I was actually a good salesgirl. Firstly, I was totally committed to the job. So much so that I would buy my clothes for work from Portobello Road. One outfit I adored was an alleged Victorian skirt and a velvet riding jacket. Oh! I wish I had those now!!! Sometimes when I look at Helen Bonham-Carter I see the seventeen year old me, always barefoot and with facial decorations made from paints and sequins with an eclectic dress sense.
The Russian had taken a chance on me because I had been cheeky enough to walk into his shop in Westborne Grove and ask for a job. It was that easy then. He was married to a rather gorgeous blond and had two dogs: one full Alsatian and one cross bred Alsatian. Me and those dogs became such good friends that I would take them out on my days off. They even accompanied me to the Rolling Stones free concert in Hyde Park.
Part of my education at the London School of Life introduced me to the third sex. Having sometimes lived on farms I was no stranger to the concept of reproduction. When Curly the Bull was required to service his herd, I was the one the farmer would dispatch to fetch him. The farmer was afraid of Curly and I was fearless of anything with four legs. What I had never encountered was people who liked to have sex irrespective of gender. I remember being taken to a rather seedy club in Westbourne Grove by a chap: at the front door was this apparition; the person was very tall, clad in a wonderfully revealing dress and sitting with legs apart displaying rather pretty knickers that looked strangely 'full'. A deep voice demanded the entrance fee and I realised that the voice had come from the spreadeagled one. I slowly looked up to the face and saw a heavily made up man. 'Close your mouth dear' the voice said 'In this place you have no idea what might just pop into it'.
I spent the evening in a daze of disbelief. I saw men kissing men, men dressed as women kissing women, women kissing women, women dressed as men dancing sensually with women. Despite my instinctive need to escape I found I could not help but look. Eventually my date realised that I was uncomfortable and took me home. The following day ,as I walked towards the Chinese restaurant for my weekly treat, I bumped into the chap(ess) who had been on the door in the club, this time dressed as a male. 'Alright darling?' he called. 'Anytime you want a drink pop in and see me on the door'. And I did and a friendship of the odd and the slightly lost was formed.
The stall holders in the Antiques Arcade were a very mixed bunch and I sometimes wondered whether they saw me as a mascot, a little match girl , their tame bit of rough. They were generally posh, well off and spoke with cut glass accents whilst I spoke with a mixture of broad Yorkshire/Lincolnshire dialect. I served Peter Noone (he of Herman and the Hermits fame) and showing him a beautiful Georgian dining table I said loudly 'Eeee that's a loverly bit o' wood the-ear' He must have agreed because he bought the table. My booth was at the end of the basement corridor next to the gents and my two immediate neighbours looked after me. They checked whether I had eaten, gave me money and sent me off for my breakfast if I hadn't. They were mother hens to me. One of the chaps would come out of the toilet and smooth down the back of his trousers just like a girl does with her skirt. I was confused and couldn't figure out why he did this. The other chap was less demonstrative in his actions but it seemed the two were lovers! That really confusticated me! Well, for a start, they were both married - to women. Admittedly the wife of one of them looked more like a man (and I later discovered she was an actress with a more than maternal interest in 'young gels').
As someone who always felt outside the glass looking in at the fun and jollity the rest of the world was having, these strange people were not in fact that strange to me. I never judged. I accepted who they were.
This train of thought has been triggered by the kindness of people in my circle, both real and virtual. Random acts of kindness can and do reduce me to tears. Help comes from, astonishingly, unexpected places and seeks no reward. I try to share what I have and sometimes, the only thing of value I do have to share is time.
Do something unexpectedly kind today: do not expect thanks, consider it a bonus if you do, but your random act of kindness may well stay in the mind of a little lost soul for the next forty years - reward enough methinks.
Take care, stay warm ...
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
I had learnt to avoid people, despite the fact that I desperately wanted to be accepted; a necessary cog in the machinery, a key component vital to the smooth running of whatever society I happened to be in. But I learned from a very, very early age that nothing was ever quite what it seemed to be. It was safer to be a backroom girl with no expectations, that way you would not be hurt or disappointed. Never wanted to be a star (well that's not entirely true ... I ran away to London when I was 16 with 18s and 6d pocket and intended to be a singer in the style of Janis Joplin). No. I didn't make it.
But what I discovered in London gradually persuaded me to give people a second chance and indeed, absolute confirmation that nothing was ever as it seemed! In general I hated London. A cold, heartless City full of people who either wanted to take advantage of you, or rob you, or worse. But within one short week I began to trust my instincts once more. By the end of my first week I had stopped sleeping in Hyde Park; been rescued by a burglar, was able to identify plain clothed policemen, pimps and prostitutes, gotten myself a grotty room in Westbourne Grove and by day seven, had been employed by a Russian who had an antiques booth in Bond Street. When I look back on that first eighteen months in London I am astonished that I am still here: emotionally and physically. From the upper strata of society I encountered cruel and vicious people and people capable of selfless generosity. From what some would call the dregs of society, I was nurtured and protected and yet also placed in great danger.
Working in Bond Street selling Georgian silver, furniture and watches saw me learning that the oddest people can be the kindest people. It was an education I shall aways be grateful for even though the tale end of my career as an antiques salesgirl saw my first brush with death. I was actually a good salesgirl. Firstly, I was totally committed to the job. So much so that I would buy my clothes for work from Portobello Road. One outfit I adored was an alleged Victorian skirt and a velvet riding jacket. Oh! I wish I had those now!!! Sometimes when I look at Helen Bonham-Carter I see the seventeen year old me, always barefoot and with facial decorations made from paints and sequins with an eclectic dress sense.
The Russian had taken a chance on me because I had been cheeky enough to walk into his shop in Westborne Grove and ask for a job. It was that easy then. He was married to a rather gorgeous blond and had two dogs: one full Alsatian and one cross bred Alsatian. Me and those dogs became such good friends that I would take them out on my days off. They even accompanied me to the Rolling Stones free concert in Hyde Park.
Part of my education at the London School of Life introduced me to the third sex. Having sometimes lived on farms I was no stranger to the concept of reproduction. When Curly the Bull was required to service his herd, I was the one the farmer would dispatch to fetch him. The farmer was afraid of Curly and I was fearless of anything with four legs. What I had never encountered was people who liked to have sex irrespective of gender. I remember being taken to a rather seedy club in Westbourne Grove by a chap: at the front door was this apparition; the person was very tall, clad in a wonderfully revealing dress and sitting with legs apart displaying rather pretty knickers that looked strangely 'full'. A deep voice demanded the entrance fee and I realised that the voice had come from the spreadeagled one. I slowly looked up to the face and saw a heavily made up man. 'Close your mouth dear' the voice said 'In this place you have no idea what might just pop into it'.
I spent the evening in a daze of disbelief. I saw men kissing men, men dressed as women kissing women, women kissing women, women dressed as men dancing sensually with women. Despite my instinctive need to escape I found I could not help but look. Eventually my date realised that I was uncomfortable and took me home. The following day ,as I walked towards the Chinese restaurant for my weekly treat, I bumped into the chap(ess) who had been on the door in the club, this time dressed as a male. 'Alright darling?' he called. 'Anytime you want a drink pop in and see me on the door'. And I did and a friendship of the odd and the slightly lost was formed.
The stall holders in the Antiques Arcade were a very mixed bunch and I sometimes wondered whether they saw me as a mascot, a little match girl , their tame bit of rough. They were generally posh, well off and spoke with cut glass accents whilst I spoke with a mixture of broad Yorkshire/Lincolnshire dialect. I served Peter Noone (he of Herman and the Hermits fame) and showing him a beautiful Georgian dining table I said loudly 'Eeee that's a loverly bit o' wood the-ear' He must have agreed because he bought the table. My booth was at the end of the basement corridor next to the gents and my two immediate neighbours looked after me. They checked whether I had eaten, gave me money and sent me off for my breakfast if I hadn't. They were mother hens to me. One of the chaps would come out of the toilet and smooth down the back of his trousers just like a girl does with her skirt. I was confused and couldn't figure out why he did this. The other chap was less demonstrative in his actions but it seemed the two were lovers! That really confusticated me! Well, for a start, they were both married - to women. Admittedly the wife of one of them looked more like a man (and I later discovered she was an actress with a more than maternal interest in 'young gels').
As someone who always felt outside the glass looking in at the fun and jollity the rest of the world was having, these strange people were not in fact that strange to me. I never judged. I accepted who they were.
This train of thought has been triggered by the kindness of people in my circle, both real and virtual. Random acts of kindness can and do reduce me to tears. Help comes from, astonishingly, unexpected places and seeks no reward. I try to share what I have and sometimes, the only thing of value I do have to share is time.
Do something unexpectedly kind today: do not expect thanks, consider it a bonus if you do, but your random act of kindness may well stay in the mind of a little lost soul for the next forty years - reward enough methinks.
Take care, stay warm ...
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Saturday 18 December 2010
THE Purple Fairy explains why she does NOT feel guilty today
You may recall that I have already introduced you to Assumption, Instinct and Perception. Another prominent member of the tribe is Guilt. Those of us 'welcomed' into the Roman Catholic church learn, even before we understand the language, that it is all our fault! Every ill besetting the planet is because of something that we did (or even, something we did not do); each atrocity carried out by our ancestors is laid on the shoulders of the fragile new born to burden it with original sin and, all worldwide disasters, whether medical, meteorological or man-made, are as a result of the Vengeful God punishing us for offending His (it is always His) sensibilities. Is there any wonder so many of us want to 'dip' out of the real world?
The Magnificent Marianne Faithful recorded what could be my personal anthem: 'I feel guilt'. The lyrics go on to say that 'though I know I've done no wrong, I feel guilt...'
Guilt has been my constant companion for the last zillion years. I am pretty convinced that I did not cry out when I was born. I reckon I yelled out 'I'm sorry!'. Certainly that's exactly what I did when I came round from the gas and air after dental surgery. Guilt is so deeply ingrained into my psyche that I even apologise to lampposts if I bump into them. When the realisation kicks in that the lamppost couldn't give a flying fig whether I bumped into it or not, I then feel guilty for being so stupid! I have been known to say sorry to a wide range of animate and inanimate objects. I apologise to the corpses of road kill if I cannot avoid driving over their bodies; someone will tell me some bad news relating to them and I immediately apologise despite having no influence on the road conditions that caused their accident, or, I could not have caused the row they have just had with their boss and of course, I always apologise for the state of my cottage.
It is not always necessary to use the word 'sorry'. Feeling guilt is demonstrated effectively by body language too. Indeed one of the triggers for a street robbery is the way someone walks down the street. If you make like a Masai Warrior with a straight back and your eyes fixed on the horizon you are less likely to be mugged. Hunch your shoulders, keep your head down and avoid contact with others and you actually invite the attention of those with bad intent.
One thing I was taught was that there is no such thing as not being guilty. After my confirmation into the Roman Catholic church , I was of course, required to go to confession. Fifty years on I am still perpleplexed by the idea that a child below the age of criminal responsibility actually has anything to confess. I recall my first visit to the confessional after I had been received into the church and the kindly, disembodied voice asked me to confess my sins. I was word perfect with the opening words but I got stuck when I was asked to list my sins. I just couldn't think of a one . Nothing. Could not recall anything I had done wrong since my confirmation. So, I told the priest ' Forgive me Father for I have sinned' paused and tried to think of something I had done wrong. Silence. 'Well child?' said the priest. More silence. 'Child!' said the priest more forcefully. 'You need to seek absolution for your sins! Speak and tell me what you have done'. I mumbled something about not actually having done anything wrong since my confirmation and the confessional seemed to shake with anger! The priest was furious with me. How dare I challenge him! How dare I challenge God! How dare I insult the Virgin Mary! Of course I had sinned! All children were sinners! The priest then told me that God would deal with me directly but in the meantime my punishment was to recite 10 'Our Fathers' and 10 'Hail Marys'. I was not a stupid child. I realised that I was in mortal danger and vowed to keep an accurate record of everything I did wrong until my next visit to the confessional. The following Sunday I presented myself to the faceless voice in the darkened box once more and boy! was I prepared!!! 'Forgive me father for I have sinned' I intoned and went on to list my sins: I had had a bad thought about my brother; I had stolen a piece of raw swede, I had wanted to disobey my mother and I had forgotten to pray on Tuesday night. Phew! For that list of sins I was penalised with only 1 'Our Father' and 2 'Hail Marys'. So from then on in, if I could not think of a sin I had committed, I would invent one to keep the priest happy.
So why am I guilt free today I hear you ask? There are a million things I SHOULD have done today: cleaning, ironing, washing up, scribing (the proper version not this one), paying bills and ensuring the cottage is totally prepared for my most welcome invasion due on the 23rd of December. And what have I done instead? I have emptied out all my stocks of baubles, beads, and bubble wrap into a untidy heap on the sitting room floor. I have dressed the shrubs in the garden with angel hair and ribbons and placed stars onto trees in the hope that I can enchant my beloved grandchildren when they arrive. I have managed to install some lights and a few decorations inside but the truth is I am going to have to wait until Beloved Son and Heir comes up here to finish off for me.
Even the misplacing of my Christmas Tree has not caused me to feel guilt. I cannot find it anywhere. It is probably somewhere really safe but it is certainly not in the cottage. I thought it might be in the garage but as the door is frozen shut, I can't investigate! Ah well, something will turn up. One year I used the 4 foot dried stalks, complete with seed heads, of my fennel plant as a representation of a tree and dressed them with crocheted snowflakes. Stunning.
Right, time for me to turn on the guilt and do some chores.
Take care of yourself, and of each other
Love and peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
The Magnificent Marianne Faithful recorded what could be my personal anthem: 'I feel guilt'. The lyrics go on to say that 'though I know I've done no wrong, I feel guilt...'
Guilt has been my constant companion for the last zillion years. I am pretty convinced that I did not cry out when I was born. I reckon I yelled out 'I'm sorry!'. Certainly that's exactly what I did when I came round from the gas and air after dental surgery. Guilt is so deeply ingrained into my psyche that I even apologise to lampposts if I bump into them. When the realisation kicks in that the lamppost couldn't give a flying fig whether I bumped into it or not, I then feel guilty for being so stupid! I have been known to say sorry to a wide range of animate and inanimate objects. I apologise to the corpses of road kill if I cannot avoid driving over their bodies; someone will tell me some bad news relating to them and I immediately apologise despite having no influence on the road conditions that caused their accident, or, I could not have caused the row they have just had with their boss and of course, I always apologise for the state of my cottage.
It is not always necessary to use the word 'sorry'. Feeling guilt is demonstrated effectively by body language too. Indeed one of the triggers for a street robbery is the way someone walks down the street. If you make like a Masai Warrior with a straight back and your eyes fixed on the horizon you are less likely to be mugged. Hunch your shoulders, keep your head down and avoid contact with others and you actually invite the attention of those with bad intent.
One thing I was taught was that there is no such thing as not being guilty. After my confirmation into the Roman Catholic church , I was of course, required to go to confession. Fifty years on I am still perpleplexed by the idea that a child below the age of criminal responsibility actually has anything to confess. I recall my first visit to the confessional after I had been received into the church and the kindly, disembodied voice asked me to confess my sins. I was word perfect with the opening words but I got stuck when I was asked to list my sins. I just couldn't think of a one . Nothing. Could not recall anything I had done wrong since my confirmation. So, I told the priest ' Forgive me Father for I have sinned' paused and tried to think of something I had done wrong. Silence. 'Well child?' said the priest. More silence. 'Child!' said the priest more forcefully. 'You need to seek absolution for your sins! Speak and tell me what you have done'. I mumbled something about not actually having done anything wrong since my confirmation and the confessional seemed to shake with anger! The priest was furious with me. How dare I challenge him! How dare I challenge God! How dare I insult the Virgin Mary! Of course I had sinned! All children were sinners! The priest then told me that God would deal with me directly but in the meantime my punishment was to recite 10 'Our Fathers' and 10 'Hail Marys'. I was not a stupid child. I realised that I was in mortal danger and vowed to keep an accurate record of everything I did wrong until my next visit to the confessional. The following Sunday I presented myself to the faceless voice in the darkened box once more and boy! was I prepared!!! 'Forgive me father for I have sinned' I intoned and went on to list my sins: I had had a bad thought about my brother; I had stolen a piece of raw swede, I had wanted to disobey my mother and I had forgotten to pray on Tuesday night. Phew! For that list of sins I was penalised with only 1 'Our Father' and 2 'Hail Marys'. So from then on in, if I could not think of a sin I had committed, I would invent one to keep the priest happy.
So why am I guilt free today I hear you ask? There are a million things I SHOULD have done today: cleaning, ironing, washing up, scribing (the proper version not this one), paying bills and ensuring the cottage is totally prepared for my most welcome invasion due on the 23rd of December. And what have I done instead? I have emptied out all my stocks of baubles, beads, and bubble wrap into a untidy heap on the sitting room floor. I have dressed the shrubs in the garden with angel hair and ribbons and placed stars onto trees in the hope that I can enchant my beloved grandchildren when they arrive. I have managed to install some lights and a few decorations inside but the truth is I am going to have to wait until Beloved Son and Heir comes up here to finish off for me.
Even the misplacing of my Christmas Tree has not caused me to feel guilt. I cannot find it anywhere. It is probably somewhere really safe but it is certainly not in the cottage. I thought it might be in the garage but as the door is frozen shut, I can't investigate! Ah well, something will turn up. One year I used the 4 foot dried stalks, complete with seed heads, of my fennel plant as a representation of a tree and dressed them with crocheted snowflakes. Stunning.
Right, time for me to turn on the guilt and do some chores.
Take care of yourself, and of each other
Love and peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Wednesday 15 December 2010
THE Purple Fairy is not entirely sure about today...
... will Triumph overcome Disaster as the predictions would have it? I have just committed myself to a work day today. What I didn't say was when that day would start ...
Today, apparently, I am achieving my health goals (really?!?!?!? - You mean I am MEANT to feel like this?!?!?!). As regards my love life, it seems that I am in danger of being obsessive about the object of my affections. (Hmmmm ... and you manage that with an ethereal entity - how? Shall I be boiling a virtual bunny p'raphs). My skills are to be recognised by those who manage me and they will make me an offer I simply cannot refuse. (Yeah! right! that'll be the graceless tw*ts who could not even be bothered to say 'thank you and goodnight' when they last met me ... ). As for the financial forecast, oh boy! oh boy! oh BOY! I am doing everything right and will soon be able to achieve my dreams. (Hmmmmm difficult to even think of a wry line let alone write one!).
I am not absolutely committed to mocking these predictions ... like most people I try to pretend I have an open mind. But I do find myself seeking out the horoscopes and then groaning inwardly at the silliness of it all and yet, still seek them out again the next day. My session with Helen yesterday helped me understand a bit more.
Predictions, horoscopes, tarot readings, pricking thumbs: these are, perhaps, manifestations of the need to be validated; to justify your very existence. Those who were or are cherished, I believe, are the well balanced people who are quite capable of validating themselves. These people do not need the reassurance of faceless shaymen or showmen to feed off their insecurities and for that I envy them!!!
There is, however, comfort to be found in the strangest of places and that is why I mock not completely. Some people pray, whether they believe or not, and I wouldn't dream of challenging them. I pray in the hope that there really is a superior being because I cannot believe that the human race is the pinnacle of spiritual progress. Some people believe in beads or other items they cannot bear to be parted with. I have a a 'lucky' necklace made in Africa from seeds. I wear it rarely; only on those occasions when I really want something good to happen. And guess what? Each time I wear it, things turn out the way I want them to. I don't want to 'wear it out' so use it sparingly even when I am tempted to wear it more often.
My other 'lucky' item is a simple Kara: a stainless steel bangle given to me 42 years ago by a young Indian lad who befriended me when I was a waif and stray on the streets of London. He said it would protect me from my ghosts and I have never let it lose contact with my skin for over four decades. Even major surgery couldn't persuade me to remove it and it had to be bandaged up. It makes a noise every time I work on the keyboard and occasionally it has bruised my arm when it has gotten tangled up in something. But still I wear it day after day. I learnt much later in life that the bangle reminds the wearer to do good with their hands. Whether it protects me or not and whether I am reminded to do good with my hands, I cannot say. What I can say is that I cannot bear to be parted from it. It inextricably links me with the Indian boy whose name I no longer remember but whose kindness sustained me through days of fear in a cold city.
Which leads me to my third source of comfort (it's that three thing again). Readers who know me are familiar with my need to acknowledge the magpie. It may be the alleged Spanish gypsy of my ancestors; or my Celtic heritage that draws me to the magnificent bird. The Devil's bird some say. The corpse of which is used to demonstrate the existence of a gypsy curse. Even farmers suspend them from fences, along with rooks and crows, to deter others from landing. I am a friend of the magpie - well - it is another 'underdog'. It is perpetually blamed for it's status, it's a killer and a scavenger and it is shot, trapped and poisoned. One woman happily went public with the fact that she lures them to her garden and traps them so they can be killed. More sinned against methinks than sinner. I have looked closely at the Magpie. It is a damned attractive bird! If it were a hooman male, it would strut down the High Street like a dandy, acknowledging the swooning females admiring him with a haughty salute. The bird's feathers are black and white but they are also sometimes dressed with a green or a blue sheen and I have never, ever seen one whose feathers were not perfectly placed where they should be. I acknowledge every single Magpie I see, greeting him as a friend. To spot TWO Magpies gives me a silly sense of well being and I end up grinning just knowing that all will be well today. And, you know what, it always is.
Be gentle with yourselves, take your comforts where you find them - just ensure that no-one pays a price they cannot afford for that comfort.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Today, apparently, I am achieving my health goals (really?!?!?!? - You mean I am MEANT to feel like this?!?!?!). As regards my love life, it seems that I am in danger of being obsessive about the object of my affections. (Hmmmm ... and you manage that with an ethereal entity - how? Shall I be boiling a virtual bunny p'raphs). My skills are to be recognised by those who manage me and they will make me an offer I simply cannot refuse. (Yeah! right! that'll be the graceless tw*ts who could not even be bothered to say 'thank you and goodnight' when they last met me ... ). As for the financial forecast, oh boy! oh boy! oh BOY! I am doing everything right and will soon be able to achieve my dreams. (Hmmmmm difficult to even think of a wry line let alone write one!).
I am not absolutely committed to mocking these predictions ... like most people I try to pretend I have an open mind. But I do find myself seeking out the horoscopes and then groaning inwardly at the silliness of it all and yet, still seek them out again the next day. My session with Helen yesterday helped me understand a bit more.
Predictions, horoscopes, tarot readings, pricking thumbs: these are, perhaps, manifestations of the need to be validated; to justify your very existence. Those who were or are cherished, I believe, are the well balanced people who are quite capable of validating themselves. These people do not need the reassurance of faceless shaymen or showmen to feed off their insecurities and for that I envy them!!!
There is, however, comfort to be found in the strangest of places and that is why I mock not completely. Some people pray, whether they believe or not, and I wouldn't dream of challenging them. I pray in the hope that there really is a superior being because I cannot believe that the human race is the pinnacle of spiritual progress. Some people believe in beads or other items they cannot bear to be parted with. I have a a 'lucky' necklace made in Africa from seeds. I wear it rarely; only on those occasions when I really want something good to happen. And guess what? Each time I wear it, things turn out the way I want them to. I don't want to 'wear it out' so use it sparingly even when I am tempted to wear it more often.
My other 'lucky' item is a simple Kara: a stainless steel bangle given to me 42 years ago by a young Indian lad who befriended me when I was a waif and stray on the streets of London. He said it would protect me from my ghosts and I have never let it lose contact with my skin for over four decades. Even major surgery couldn't persuade me to remove it and it had to be bandaged up. It makes a noise every time I work on the keyboard and occasionally it has bruised my arm when it has gotten tangled up in something. But still I wear it day after day. I learnt much later in life that the bangle reminds the wearer to do good with their hands. Whether it protects me or not and whether I am reminded to do good with my hands, I cannot say. What I can say is that I cannot bear to be parted from it. It inextricably links me with the Indian boy whose name I no longer remember but whose kindness sustained me through days of fear in a cold city.
Which leads me to my third source of comfort (it's that three thing again). Readers who know me are familiar with my need to acknowledge the magpie. It may be the alleged Spanish gypsy of my ancestors; or my Celtic heritage that draws me to the magnificent bird. The Devil's bird some say. The corpse of which is used to demonstrate the existence of a gypsy curse. Even farmers suspend them from fences, along with rooks and crows, to deter others from landing. I am a friend of the magpie - well - it is another 'underdog'. It is perpetually blamed for it's status, it's a killer and a scavenger and it is shot, trapped and poisoned. One woman happily went public with the fact that she lures them to her garden and traps them so they can be killed. More sinned against methinks than sinner. I have looked closely at the Magpie. It is a damned attractive bird! If it were a hooman male, it would strut down the High Street like a dandy, acknowledging the swooning females admiring him with a haughty salute. The bird's feathers are black and white but they are also sometimes dressed with a green or a blue sheen and I have never, ever seen one whose feathers were not perfectly placed where they should be. I acknowledge every single Magpie I see, greeting him as a friend. To spot TWO Magpies gives me a silly sense of well being and I end up grinning just knowing that all will be well today. And, you know what, it always is.
Be gentle with yourselves, take your comforts where you find them - just ensure that no-one pays a price they cannot afford for that comfort.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Saturday 11 December 2010
It's like 'day jar voo' all over again ...
I watch people, I observe them. I am attuned to big politics, middle sized politics and micro politics. It is a burden I do not carry easily. I find my species fascinating, sometimes incredibly generous, sometimes cruelly mean and sometimes, just plain stupid. The air is full of insecurity just now and not only at an individual level. As a child of the sixties I was involved on the fringes of protests. My protesting tended to be through words; poetry, indignant missives to Councils and other organisations, except for two occasions.
My only contribution to mass protest was when I joined the Anti Vietnam protest outside of the American Embassy. Whilst I was passionately against the war and, in absolute sympathy for the American troops who were being so brutally slaughtered and tortured, my attendance at the demonstration was as an observer. I wanted to see what a street protest looked like, tasted like and sounded like. I imagined myself as a cub reporter fancying that I would be able to offer an article (to whom I had no idea!) with a quirky angle.
I chose my 'uniform' very carefully. A very purple two-piece satin suit with short skirt which I had bought from Portobello Road - one of my most favourite places in London - and the most ridiculously high heeled shoes. Armed with a notebook and pen I set off to report.
The first thing that struck me was the sheer size of the mass of people. As a country girl, used to wandering alone through woods and across fields, I always struggled with London's crowded streets. Something that did not leave me for twenty-six years. The second thing was the noise. Oh how loud it all was!
I perched against a fence and started to write. I cannot remember a single word I wrote and of course did not keep the notebook. I found myself watching more than writing. A sense of unease began to wander through me. I had not realised that I was crowd-phobic, a condition that can freeze me on the spot these days resulting in a panic attack. The noise got louder and the chants more threatening. I stepped away from my perch to find my way back to the tube station and the crowd surged forward. As it did so I was swept up by the momentum and found myself being forced against the 'Thin Blue Line' with my face pressed against the chest of a rather large policeman. Policemen in those days did not dress like Robocop. They carried out their duties, whatever they were, in the same blue serge uniform. I have a particular fondness for blue serge.
I tried to step back from the officer but my way was barred by what seemed to be hundreds of bodies. I was trapped and I could feel my panic rising. The spell was broken in the strangest way. The chest I was forced to lean on commanded me sternly 'It's no good you pushing here girl' and I explained that I wasn't doing it on purpose. I was convinced I would be arrested for assault on a police officer when another voice down the police line called out 'You can push here darling!' and the line of officers laughed. He was rather attractive and I was minded to accept the invitation. In that moment, however, my erstwhile belief in the power of protest was shattered. It had been distilled from something huge, something important and powerful, into something silly and yet frightening. I managed to extricate myself without arrest or injury and to wend my way back to the relative peace and quite of Shepherds Bush. After I had left the demonstration became violent with assaults on officers and even on the police horses. I was appalled by the reports and vowed never again to attend a demonstration.
The second occasion I am not necessarily proud of but it illustrates that even a passionate pacifist can toy with primitive behaviour. Tis a thin veneer this civilised stuff. I was living in Chiswick and was a happy little bunny. I loved living there, once I had realised that London was actually made up of a series of villages. I belonged to Chiswick with it's quirky shops, wonderful restaurants and the air of Bohemia. A sort of almost growed up version of hippiedom. I had a lovely flat, a good job and could afford to eat in any restaurant.
I cannot remember which set of strikes it was but the streets of London were covered in rubbish. The summer was very hot and the air was heavy with the smell of rotting debris. People were trying to manage their own waste as best they could but a few transported their trash to other premises and houses. The local Council, I seem to remember, did offer a collection service but there was a financial cost involved. At the end of my road was a well known fast food establishment which I had frequented once or twice. They stored their waste at the rear of their premises refusing to accept the collection service. The pile had filled the vacuum, spilled onto the pavement and was headed towards the road. And, yes there were rats.
Rushing to work (I was ALWAYS late - even though I lived ten minutes away) I managed to avoid the stinking mess by stepping off the pavement onto the road. What I did not see was the plastic tape used to secure parcels and got it tangled around my feet. My fall to the road was not particularly elegant and for a moment I lay on the tarmac wishing that it would swallow me. Eventually I got up to discover my stockings torn, my leg bleeding and worst of all, the heel of my shoe broken off. I went from humiliation to white hot anger in less than a second.
The manager was just opening up and I stormed in and, well, it's true, I shouted at him. In fact I probably ranted and raved having previously asked him several times to clear the rubbish off of the pavement. I had been civilised, pointing out the service offered by the Council and had even reported him to Environmental Health. When I paused for breath he laughed. What -a-mistake-a-to-make-a! My dander was well and truly up! I warned him I would return the following day and expected to see that he had cleaned up. My employer found me strangely productive that day...
I knew he would ignore me but I had a plan. I fully expected the rubbish to be even worse the following day. It was. I waited for him to open the front door and I casually wandered in. Speaking quietly I told him that ignoring me had not been a good idea. The sneer on his face said it all. I reached into my handbag and took out my rather lovely Ronson lighter and without uttering another word, flicked the wheel and lengthened the flame. I then reminded him that we had not had any rain for weeks; I suggested that I could assist him in disposing of his rubbish if he would like. The sneer slipped down his face onto his chest. Heart beating furiously in my ears, I turned round and went off to work. I was wracked with guilt as I calmed down. Convinced, again, that any moment now the office door would be flung open and six burly policemen would rush in to arrest me.
The following morning, not only could we all safely negotiate the pavement again but the space behind the shop had also been cleared. Hmmmmm I wonder what it was that changed his mind..... ?
Take care, stay safe
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
My only contribution to mass protest was when I joined the Anti Vietnam protest outside of the American Embassy. Whilst I was passionately against the war and, in absolute sympathy for the American troops who were being so brutally slaughtered and tortured, my attendance at the demonstration was as an observer. I wanted to see what a street protest looked like, tasted like and sounded like. I imagined myself as a cub reporter fancying that I would be able to offer an article (to whom I had no idea!) with a quirky angle.
I chose my 'uniform' very carefully. A very purple two-piece satin suit with short skirt which I had bought from Portobello Road - one of my most favourite places in London - and the most ridiculously high heeled shoes. Armed with a notebook and pen I set off to report.
The first thing that struck me was the sheer size of the mass of people. As a country girl, used to wandering alone through woods and across fields, I always struggled with London's crowded streets. Something that did not leave me for twenty-six years. The second thing was the noise. Oh how loud it all was!
I perched against a fence and started to write. I cannot remember a single word I wrote and of course did not keep the notebook. I found myself watching more than writing. A sense of unease began to wander through me. I had not realised that I was crowd-phobic, a condition that can freeze me on the spot these days resulting in a panic attack. The noise got louder and the chants more threatening. I stepped away from my perch to find my way back to the tube station and the crowd surged forward. As it did so I was swept up by the momentum and found myself being forced against the 'Thin Blue Line' with my face pressed against the chest of a rather large policeman. Policemen in those days did not dress like Robocop. They carried out their duties, whatever they were, in the same blue serge uniform. I have a particular fondness for blue serge.
I tried to step back from the officer but my way was barred by what seemed to be hundreds of bodies. I was trapped and I could feel my panic rising. The spell was broken in the strangest way. The chest I was forced to lean on commanded me sternly 'It's no good you pushing here girl' and I explained that I wasn't doing it on purpose. I was convinced I would be arrested for assault on a police officer when another voice down the police line called out 'You can push here darling!' and the line of officers laughed. He was rather attractive and I was minded to accept the invitation. In that moment, however, my erstwhile belief in the power of protest was shattered. It had been distilled from something huge, something important and powerful, into something silly and yet frightening. I managed to extricate myself without arrest or injury and to wend my way back to the relative peace and quite of Shepherds Bush. After I had left the demonstration became violent with assaults on officers and even on the police horses. I was appalled by the reports and vowed never again to attend a demonstration.
The second occasion I am not necessarily proud of but it illustrates that even a passionate pacifist can toy with primitive behaviour. Tis a thin veneer this civilised stuff. I was living in Chiswick and was a happy little bunny. I loved living there, once I had realised that London was actually made up of a series of villages. I belonged to Chiswick with it's quirky shops, wonderful restaurants and the air of Bohemia. A sort of almost growed up version of hippiedom. I had a lovely flat, a good job and could afford to eat in any restaurant.
I cannot remember which set of strikes it was but the streets of London were covered in rubbish. The summer was very hot and the air was heavy with the smell of rotting debris. People were trying to manage their own waste as best they could but a few transported their trash to other premises and houses. The local Council, I seem to remember, did offer a collection service but there was a financial cost involved. At the end of my road was a well known fast food establishment which I had frequented once or twice. They stored their waste at the rear of their premises refusing to accept the collection service. The pile had filled the vacuum, spilled onto the pavement and was headed towards the road. And, yes there were rats.
Rushing to work (I was ALWAYS late - even though I lived ten minutes away) I managed to avoid the stinking mess by stepping off the pavement onto the road. What I did not see was the plastic tape used to secure parcels and got it tangled around my feet. My fall to the road was not particularly elegant and for a moment I lay on the tarmac wishing that it would swallow me. Eventually I got up to discover my stockings torn, my leg bleeding and worst of all, the heel of my shoe broken off. I went from humiliation to white hot anger in less than a second.
The manager was just opening up and I stormed in and, well, it's true, I shouted at him. In fact I probably ranted and raved having previously asked him several times to clear the rubbish off of the pavement. I had been civilised, pointing out the service offered by the Council and had even reported him to Environmental Health. When I paused for breath he laughed. What -a-mistake-a-to-make-a! My dander was well and truly up! I warned him I would return the following day and expected to see that he had cleaned up. My employer found me strangely productive that day...
I knew he would ignore me but I had a plan. I fully expected the rubbish to be even worse the following day. It was. I waited for him to open the front door and I casually wandered in. Speaking quietly I told him that ignoring me had not been a good idea. The sneer on his face said it all. I reached into my handbag and took out my rather lovely Ronson lighter and without uttering another word, flicked the wheel and lengthened the flame. I then reminded him that we had not had any rain for weeks; I suggested that I could assist him in disposing of his rubbish if he would like. The sneer slipped down his face onto his chest. Heart beating furiously in my ears, I turned round and went off to work. I was wracked with guilt as I calmed down. Convinced, again, that any moment now the office door would be flung open and six burly policemen would rush in to arrest me.
The following morning, not only could we all safely negotiate the pavement again but the space behind the shop had also been cleared. Hmmmmm I wonder what it was that changed his mind..... ?
Take care, stay safe
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Sunday 5 December 2010
I am just Work in Progress: Live with it!
Good moaning world! So,we're here again then. We've survived another night. The trees are where we left them, the weather continues to keep us guessing and sleepy postings are beginning to appear on Facebook. Some tell tales of snugly Sunday mornings; others tell tales of feeling fragile and yet others the postings of the games we play. I confess: I belong most definitely to the latter category!!! I do, sometimes, find it hard to believe that a growed up womkin like me can spend so much time playing silly games on the computer.
I talked to Helen about it at our last session and think I have kinda come up with a sort of answer. Games like Mafia Wars, Farmville, Cafe World etc etc are distraction tools I have decided. Speaking personally, they distract me from my pain whilst my meds are kicking in; they distract me from the things I cannot control (no matter how much I wish to!) and, somewhat weirdly, the processes to play the game help me manage my more negative thoughts.
My distraction of choice is Mafia Wars. Yes, I hear you at the back there - what's an unreconstituted hippy, who claims to be a raging pacifist, and signs herself Love and Peace, doing playing a blood thirsty game all about killing and maiming and domination? I ask myself that question frequently. I acknowledge that I do not have all the answers to my questions. This acknowledgement of course means that I can quite happily confess that I also do not have answers to all the questions raised by the rest of the world. I am just egotistical enough though to think I do!
Anyroadup, so I thought about my addiction to Mafia Wars in some depth. What was it about the game that hooked me? How was it I could spend hours playing it to the detriment of my chores? My first conclusion was the sheer bloody daftness of the whole thing. Not so much tongue in cheek but an entire limb in cheek. The daft weapons; the silly pursuits and the wonderfully stupid names the players give to themselves. My own game name is Purple Orchid - an effort to inject some class methinks. The ridiculous pleasure that you get from achieving the next level with rewards to boost your armoury such as exploding eggs, or, bloody thirsty roe deer, or items of clothing. All of which carry with them added power to the player of defence and attack skills. What? You are supposed to be an intelligent woman for goodness sakes!
It is addictive is my first defence. My second defence is that whilst I am trying to think strategically within the game and become a really powerful gang boss, I am not focusing on my pain and eventually when the meds kick in I can begin to function physically. Third defence? Struggled a bit with that one. (Have you noticed ,by the way, that I tend to think in threes?) I conclude that I cannot resist seeing what the incredible imaginations of the producers of the game come up with next! There are times when I DO laugh out loud at the next generation of inventiveness they offer to us addicts. I do hope that the developers are being well paid for their efforts. I am always astonished at the seriousness with which some people play. I have considered deleting it, the game that is, but you know what? I don't think I will. Eventually I will become bored with the uselessness of it all, like some of the other games I started and abandoned, but in the meantime I will use it to help me manage. Until such time as something else attracts my butterfly mind.
Yesterday I received a long awaited e-mail from my Own True Love. For such a long time we have been in a cyber void whilst he attended to serious domestic matters and in his absence I prayed that all would be well for him and his loved ones. We occupy a space in the ether and will, if I think pragmatically, never meet again. This is no self pitying wail from a wizened old woman. It is simply the acceptance of what will be will be. Relationships are a most peculiar puzzle to the average hooman bean.
The driving force to be connected to a mate is still linked to the primitive need to bond for survival of the species and can encourage less aware souls to make the most disastrous choices! I admit to being a less aware soul in romantic affairs, with the exception of one relationship. That one connection aside, I have made mate choices not for the purposes of breeding (although the one who helped me produce my Beloved Son and Heir did provide the basic DNA for a wonderful physical specimen of manhood). I tended to be attracted to broken people who needed mending; weaker specimens who needed looking after and who, in my arrogance, I thought I would help. Oh does Mother Nature have a way of putting you in your place!!!
My focus these days is no longer on the physical need to have a companion. Actually that's not strictly accurate. My soul is satisfied with the reconnection with my Own True Love: it is as if the last 40 years did not interrupt. The links between us have survived the intervention of four decades at all levels and I freely confess to being grateful for this. It is testament to the strength and reality of our original love and validates my memories.
I am now physically alone, by choice, my own choice and am happy with that choice. I made a mistake and having 'made my bed and laid on it' as they say oop North I discovered I was afraid of not being cared for in my ill health and weaknesses. It is difficult for those who care for people to be saintly and I have never demanded saintliness in any of my relationships. (Difficult to demand saintliness in others when you are a sinner of the first order!) However, when the person who purports to love you and gets cross with you when you insist on being independent encouraging you to seek assistance, sighs loudly, swears and delays at the first request .... you learn to stop asking. I don't blame the Estranged One, really I do not. If anyone carries the blame for the breakdown of my second marriage it is me. My need to nurture overcame my sense of self preservation and I silently apologise to him for that. He will not communicate with me so I cannot tell him in spoken words.
It is now no longer necessary for me to seek a physical mate, Pragmatism is a useful foil to thwart the WorryWorm with. Oh of course I struggle to lift things: I struggle to work and I know my health will continue to deteriorate. In some ways this frees me from pursuing a romantic relationship with anyone other than my Cyber Lover. Can you imagine the scene? Even if I were brave enough to share my skinny frame intimately again, how long before the potential lover would become bored at the list of things I could not do because of my various afflictions?!
I never realised that pretending could actually work in your favour. I can find strategies to deal with physical assistance: I have good loving friends who recognise that I am actually not very good at asking for help; eventually the State will recognise that I am officially disabled and assist me and my Beloved Son and Heir has made a sacred promise NOT to put me in a home.
I hope my Cyber Lover, if he has managed to read this, does not feel devalued by what I have written. He should be flattered that at last, I need no substitute for him. I live with my dreams of our reconciliation, I eagerly check my e-mail for his sporadic missives and silently squeal with delight when one arrives. Of course I long to be enveloped by him again and all that would ensue but for now I am satisfied that he is alive (when I thought he was dead); I am content that he is loved and has thrived and wish only happiness for him. If the Gods are kind they will reunite us. We used to joke with each other that we would perambulate along Eastborne or Hastings in our dotage with matching walking frames and be happily in our own little world needing no other. In some ways we have achieved, with the aid of technology we could not have dreamt of forty years ago, our very own space in the ether that no-one else can share.
Right my darlings! Nuff of the self indulgence!! Time to address my chores and my responsibilities. As I slowly mutate back to being an owl from many years of having to be a lark I find that my days are being somewhat truncated. I am sure that eventually my internal clock will adjust and I will revert to at least attempting to be productive.
Take care of each other, be gentle with yourself
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
I talked to Helen about it at our last session and think I have kinda come up with a sort of answer. Games like Mafia Wars, Farmville, Cafe World etc etc are distraction tools I have decided. Speaking personally, they distract me from my pain whilst my meds are kicking in; they distract me from the things I cannot control (no matter how much I wish to!) and, somewhat weirdly, the processes to play the game help me manage my more negative thoughts.
My distraction of choice is Mafia Wars. Yes, I hear you at the back there - what's an unreconstituted hippy, who claims to be a raging pacifist, and signs herself Love and Peace, doing playing a blood thirsty game all about killing and maiming and domination? I ask myself that question frequently. I acknowledge that I do not have all the answers to my questions. This acknowledgement of course means that I can quite happily confess that I also do not have answers to all the questions raised by the rest of the world. I am just egotistical enough though to think I do!
Anyroadup, so I thought about my addiction to Mafia Wars in some depth. What was it about the game that hooked me? How was it I could spend hours playing it to the detriment of my chores? My first conclusion was the sheer bloody daftness of the whole thing. Not so much tongue in cheek but an entire limb in cheek. The daft weapons; the silly pursuits and the wonderfully stupid names the players give to themselves. My own game name is Purple Orchid - an effort to inject some class methinks. The ridiculous pleasure that you get from achieving the next level with rewards to boost your armoury such as exploding eggs, or, bloody thirsty roe deer, or items of clothing. All of which carry with them added power to the player of defence and attack skills. What? You are supposed to be an intelligent woman for goodness sakes!
It is addictive is my first defence. My second defence is that whilst I am trying to think strategically within the game and become a really powerful gang boss, I am not focusing on my pain and eventually when the meds kick in I can begin to function physically. Third defence? Struggled a bit with that one. (Have you noticed ,by the way, that I tend to think in threes?) I conclude that I cannot resist seeing what the incredible imaginations of the producers of the game come up with next! There are times when I DO laugh out loud at the next generation of inventiveness they offer to us addicts. I do hope that the developers are being well paid for their efforts. I am always astonished at the seriousness with which some people play. I have considered deleting it, the game that is, but you know what? I don't think I will. Eventually I will become bored with the uselessness of it all, like some of the other games I started and abandoned, but in the meantime I will use it to help me manage. Until such time as something else attracts my butterfly mind.
Yesterday I received a long awaited e-mail from my Own True Love. For such a long time we have been in a cyber void whilst he attended to serious domestic matters and in his absence I prayed that all would be well for him and his loved ones. We occupy a space in the ether and will, if I think pragmatically, never meet again. This is no self pitying wail from a wizened old woman. It is simply the acceptance of what will be will be. Relationships are a most peculiar puzzle to the average hooman bean.
The driving force to be connected to a mate is still linked to the primitive need to bond for survival of the species and can encourage less aware souls to make the most disastrous choices! I admit to being a less aware soul in romantic affairs, with the exception of one relationship. That one connection aside, I have made mate choices not for the purposes of breeding (although the one who helped me produce my Beloved Son and Heir did provide the basic DNA for a wonderful physical specimen of manhood). I tended to be attracted to broken people who needed mending; weaker specimens who needed looking after and who, in my arrogance, I thought I would help. Oh does Mother Nature have a way of putting you in your place!!!
My focus these days is no longer on the physical need to have a companion. Actually that's not strictly accurate. My soul is satisfied with the reconnection with my Own True Love: it is as if the last 40 years did not interrupt. The links between us have survived the intervention of four decades at all levels and I freely confess to being grateful for this. It is testament to the strength and reality of our original love and validates my memories.
I am now physically alone, by choice, my own choice and am happy with that choice. I made a mistake and having 'made my bed and laid on it' as they say oop North I discovered I was afraid of not being cared for in my ill health and weaknesses. It is difficult for those who care for people to be saintly and I have never demanded saintliness in any of my relationships. (Difficult to demand saintliness in others when you are a sinner of the first order!) However, when the person who purports to love you and gets cross with you when you insist on being independent encouraging you to seek assistance, sighs loudly, swears and delays at the first request .... you learn to stop asking. I don't blame the Estranged One, really I do not. If anyone carries the blame for the breakdown of my second marriage it is me. My need to nurture overcame my sense of self preservation and I silently apologise to him for that. He will not communicate with me so I cannot tell him in spoken words.
It is now no longer necessary for me to seek a physical mate, Pragmatism is a useful foil to thwart the WorryWorm with. Oh of course I struggle to lift things: I struggle to work and I know my health will continue to deteriorate. In some ways this frees me from pursuing a romantic relationship with anyone other than my Cyber Lover. Can you imagine the scene? Even if I were brave enough to share my skinny frame intimately again, how long before the potential lover would become bored at the list of things I could not do because of my various afflictions?!
I never realised that pretending could actually work in your favour. I can find strategies to deal with physical assistance: I have good loving friends who recognise that I am actually not very good at asking for help; eventually the State will recognise that I am officially disabled and assist me and my Beloved Son and Heir has made a sacred promise NOT to put me in a home.
I hope my Cyber Lover, if he has managed to read this, does not feel devalued by what I have written. He should be flattered that at last, I need no substitute for him. I live with my dreams of our reconciliation, I eagerly check my e-mail for his sporadic missives and silently squeal with delight when one arrives. Of course I long to be enveloped by him again and all that would ensue but for now I am satisfied that he is alive (when I thought he was dead); I am content that he is loved and has thrived and wish only happiness for him. If the Gods are kind they will reunite us. We used to joke with each other that we would perambulate along Eastborne or Hastings in our dotage with matching walking frames and be happily in our own little world needing no other. In some ways we have achieved, with the aid of technology we could not have dreamt of forty years ago, our very own space in the ether that no-one else can share.
Right my darlings! Nuff of the self indulgence!! Time to address my chores and my responsibilities. As I slowly mutate back to being an owl from many years of having to be a lark I find that my days are being somewhat truncated. I am sure that eventually my internal clock will adjust and I will revert to at least attempting to be productive.
Take care of each other, be gentle with yourself
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Friday 3 December 2010
Random Reasonings
There are so many thoughts rampaging through my ball of wool I'm not sure which one to alight on. I am going to allow my fingers to decide. When I started this blog I thought I would use it to amuse my more discerning family and friends, and, to find an outlet for my surfeit of worms.
First a bit of an update: The Bell Menders went home yesterday and I'm trusting they arrived safely home. The younger (gorgeous) one engaged me in conversation for some minutes; talking about Monica; encouraging MaddyMoo to play in 12 inches of snow and telling me about the giant snowball that had formed through the highest slit in the tower. He explained that as it grew daily they were simply waiting for it to fall on them. I reminded him that they had laughed at me for being concerned for their safety.
After I had wished them a safe journey I reflected that 40 years ago I would have been happy to have engaged him in conversation. Been anxious in fact: to ensure that my skirt was just short enough; my false eyelashes firmly in place and that my vivacious personality made up for my lack of Playboy style breasts. As it was he was happy to remain talking to me in my Hannah Hawkswell persona; woolly hat, several padded layers and mountain boots that are too big for me. I so rarely wear makeup these days and there is such a sense of freedom associated with not needing to attract a mate. I am allowed now to lust after beefcake I could never have. I can make cow eyes and no-one gets offended. Women tolerate my flirting with with their men because I am no longer thought of as a threat. I am just a batty old woman with mischief in her eyes but unable to follow through. The onslaught of illness has seen to that.
I had always thought that I would develop into a sprightly, interfering old woman, a sort of Miss Marple but with radical tendencies. A challenge to social workers and a nuisance to my Beloved Son and Heir. A game old bird who would blast the neighbourhood with her Bob Marley records and speak patois to confuse the authorities. I do still have ambitions despite my Bad Back Monsters; my Bad Belly Monsters and my fightback to sanity. My poor health restricts me far more than I am comfortable with. There are times that I could so easily slip back into the dark warmth of depression and just give up trying to fight to stay upright, in all senses of the word. My fight to manage my Dickensian childhood is constant and if truth be known, I am never, ever going to be able to erase the damage done. No matter how hard I fight, or how hard I try to accept, my primitive being is so closely attuned to the possibility of danger I can no longer turn it off. Maybe if we had tried to mend me many years ago it would be different.
My physical problems are becoming too numerous to enumerate and so bloody boring. I'm tired of being ill. I am tired of being tired and I am tired of having to excuse myself for my inability to do things, to go places. I caught sight of myself in the mirror today and was so disappointed at the aged old hag that was staring back at me. I am astonished at how much I have aged. What surprises me more though is how young my mind is. I still remain connected with my beautiful grandchildren, the young teenagers of friends want to talk to me and think I am cool. I am hungry for knowledge and feed my mind with as much information as I can manage. Radio 4 is my constant companion (and was named as a marker of my unreasonable behaviour in the divorce petition served upon me by the Estranged One) and I try to ensure my soul stays in touch with all creatures great and small. I looked into the sky last evening and was agog at its crystal beauty. This morning I noticed the tips of my Eucalyptus tree were frozen turning it into an exquisite artwork. The morning sun lighted on the diamonds hidden in the six inches of snow on my flat roof as Mr Robin and Mr Blue Tit foraged through the snow covered clematis looking for sustenance.
Today I was rewarded with confirmation of the best news possible! My beloved Bairns have confirmed they are coming home to me for Christmas!!! For the first time in ten years! I have hedges to dress, menus to plan, food to prepare, and bedding to air!! Yippee!! I just cannot wait. I am the most fortunate of women.
Take care, look after each other, stay young in your soul
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
First a bit of an update: The Bell Menders went home yesterday and I'm trusting they arrived safely home. The younger (gorgeous) one engaged me in conversation for some minutes; talking about Monica; encouraging MaddyMoo to play in 12 inches of snow and telling me about the giant snowball that had formed through the highest slit in the tower. He explained that as it grew daily they were simply waiting for it to fall on them. I reminded him that they had laughed at me for being concerned for their safety.
After I had wished them a safe journey I reflected that 40 years ago I would have been happy to have engaged him in conversation. Been anxious in fact: to ensure that my skirt was just short enough; my false eyelashes firmly in place and that my vivacious personality made up for my lack of Playboy style breasts. As it was he was happy to remain talking to me in my Hannah Hawkswell persona; woolly hat, several padded layers and mountain boots that are too big for me. I so rarely wear makeup these days and there is such a sense of freedom associated with not needing to attract a mate. I am allowed now to lust after beefcake I could never have. I can make cow eyes and no-one gets offended. Women tolerate my flirting with with their men because I am no longer thought of as a threat. I am just a batty old woman with mischief in her eyes but unable to follow through. The onslaught of illness has seen to that.
I had always thought that I would develop into a sprightly, interfering old woman, a sort of Miss Marple but with radical tendencies. A challenge to social workers and a nuisance to my Beloved Son and Heir. A game old bird who would blast the neighbourhood with her Bob Marley records and speak patois to confuse the authorities. I do still have ambitions despite my Bad Back Monsters; my Bad Belly Monsters and my fightback to sanity. My poor health restricts me far more than I am comfortable with. There are times that I could so easily slip back into the dark warmth of depression and just give up trying to fight to stay upright, in all senses of the word. My fight to manage my Dickensian childhood is constant and if truth be known, I am never, ever going to be able to erase the damage done. No matter how hard I fight, or how hard I try to accept, my primitive being is so closely attuned to the possibility of danger I can no longer turn it off. Maybe if we had tried to mend me many years ago it would be different.
My physical problems are becoming too numerous to enumerate and so bloody boring. I'm tired of being ill. I am tired of being tired and I am tired of having to excuse myself for my inability to do things, to go places. I caught sight of myself in the mirror today and was so disappointed at the aged old hag that was staring back at me. I am astonished at how much I have aged. What surprises me more though is how young my mind is. I still remain connected with my beautiful grandchildren, the young teenagers of friends want to talk to me and think I am cool. I am hungry for knowledge and feed my mind with as much information as I can manage. Radio 4 is my constant companion (and was named as a marker of my unreasonable behaviour in the divorce petition served upon me by the Estranged One) and I try to ensure my soul stays in touch with all creatures great and small. I looked into the sky last evening and was agog at its crystal beauty. This morning I noticed the tips of my Eucalyptus tree were frozen turning it into an exquisite artwork. The morning sun lighted on the diamonds hidden in the six inches of snow on my flat roof as Mr Robin and Mr Blue Tit foraged through the snow covered clematis looking for sustenance.
Today I was rewarded with confirmation of the best news possible! My beloved Bairns have confirmed they are coming home to me for Christmas!!! For the first time in ten years! I have hedges to dress, menus to plan, food to prepare, and bedding to air!! Yippee!! I just cannot wait. I am the most fortunate of women.
Take care, look after each other, stay young in your soul
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Wednesday 1 December 2010
Mentioning Monica
Hello Everyone: Couple of domestic announcements: First, I have a special lexicon inherited from my family (courtesy of the Goons, Monty Python et al) upon which I have built and added material. So, certain words will appear as though I am incapable of spelling. Not so. In fact I am a demon speller despite never having been taught technical English. Such words may assault you; for example - 'brian' is my version of 'brain': 'Perpleplexed' is my word for 'confused, irritated and quite possibly vexed'; and 'confusticated' means a mixture of confusion and frustration. To make it easier to follow I have decided to emphasise the words in some way so that the reader realises that I have not made an error. Pedants and I seem to attract each other, like magnets. Let's say that if a word appears in my favourite colour, purple, then the reader will realise that I am only partly bonkers.
Secondly, an update for those of you following me: the two men mending the bells have been up the steeple again having fought a long battle to travel the three miles from the next village in absolutely awful conditions. They are indeed hardy souls! Again I have not seen them all day but did worry less today; that might have been because I have been distracted by the Bad Back Monsters and the Bad Belly Monsters.
Right, time I addressed the real reasons for this missive. Monica, for those of you who have not met her, is a battery Hen. She was one of several that, as an end of term prank, found herself stuffed in heating ducts at my school on the last day of the Spring Term. The Headteacher hesitated not in offering to me three of the hens as he retrieved them and brought them into staff briefing. Before he could complete the question, not only had I agreed but I had relieved him of his feathered burdens.
At home I was fortunate enough to already have a chicken house, known as Peckingham Palace, naturally, but it desperately needed cleaning out having been empty for a year. The Estranged One had not been persuaded to clean it out for me over the year and physically, I am incapable of carrying out the task. Fortunately one of my male colleagues volunteered his son and the following day, Peckingham Palace was restored to its cosy glory.
My three hens were such a sorry sight: hybrids, skinny, bald on the back of their necks and rumps, feathers all dull and dirty. Their combs were the palest pink and floppy too. I named them Martina, Merkle, and Monica and was not hopeful of their repair and survival. A trip to the local animal food merchant saw me buying the most expensive mixed grain they had which I dressed with cod liver oil. A soft baby brush was also purchased so that I could stimulate the oils needed and, hopefully encourage them to preen. I was convinced that Monica would die within two days. Not only was she in the worst condition, her comb being more white than pale pink, the rings around each of her eyes told me that she was not long for this world.
MaddyMoo, my faithful hound, happily accepted the additions to her pack and spent sometime familiarising herself with their state of health by sniffing their bottoms. One of them, I never knew which, had THE most awful evacuations which, strangely, MaddyMoo appeared to relish. Day one passed and they were still alive. Every time I approached them they cowered and assumed the position. More days passed and even though Monica still looked as if she was at death's door, she stubbornly refused to go. Gradually the pinkness returned to their combs and Martina and Merkle were even able to keep them erect. Monica's comb remained pale and laying flat. She showed no sign of improving.
About a week and a half later I noticed that not only were my hens less bald but there was a sheen to their feathers. Martina and Merkle were becoming quite sprightly and were happy to forage as well as accept food from my hand. Monica was less happy wandering but seemed content to take food from me. Three weeks passed and each had a full coat of feathers!!! Martina and Merkle rampaged through the garden taking on the dog and the cats and stealing the food put out for the wild birds. Monica was more restrained and spent more time close to me. Eventually all three had recovered and even though Monica still appeared weak she eventually joined with her sisters in foraging. I was ridiculously pleased when I noticed her comb was upright for the first time. And, she was managing to keep up with her 'sisters'.
One evening, as dusk fell, I went to put the hens to bed. My usual routine was to totter around the garden to see if anyone was still foraging. Next, I would lift up the roof of Peckingham Palace to check all were safely tucked away from Mister Fox. Only Monica was in residence so with some trepidation I didn't close the hatch door and kept my fingers crossed that Mister Fox could not gain entry. I did not sleep well that night. As soon as the Bad Back Monsters loosed their hold on me I tottered out to Peckingham Palace with my heart in my mouth, fully expecting to see beautiful brown and buff feathers scattered over the pen. Monica greeted me stretching her neck to see what treats I had for her and of the other two there was no sign. I fed and petted Monica and told her I would seek out her sisters and all would be well. They did not return. I checked the garden inch by inch to see if I could find evidence of their demise. Nope. No feathers, no gizzards, no unfamiliar droppings from a foxy visitor. On examining the fence line on the Northern side of my garden I spotted a browny, buff mass. With my heart in my mouth I brushed away the grass fully expecting to see a feathered corpse. As the most amazingly beautiful fungus appeared from within the grass I laughed out loud with relief.
Martina and Merkle were never seen again. But, I was intrigued some days later, to see a pair of pale brown hens foraging on the road side two miles away,as the crow flies, from my house. I like to believe that, having put them back together, restoring them to condition, they behaved like truculent teenagers ungratefully packing their bags and leaving home without a by your leave. I did look for corpses but never ever found them.
Monica has developed into the most extraordinary creature. She is clever, funny, demanding, bossy and afraid of nothing at all. MaddyMoo snaps at her when she steals her food and Monica just cocks her head to one side with an old fashioned look as though to say ' and... yes?' Coco, MaddyMoo's cousin, comes to visit and Monica is like, 'yeah whatever!' when Coco tries to eject her from the house. Monica knows it is her right to come into the house whenever she wants to. If I am late up she marches up and down outside the front door until she can sneak in when either the cats or the dog are let out for their morning constitutionals. She is very fast and determined and easily outwits me when I try to bar her entry. Once she has stolen any remaining food leftover from the cats and the dogs, Monica settles down under my chair in the Hive whilst I work on the computer. She alternates between quietly chuckling away to herself and 'talking' very loudly to me telling me all her news.
This evening she has caught me good and proper! Normally as dusk falls she asks to be let out of the front door to roost. For some reason she absolutely refuses to bed down in Peckingham Palace preferring one of the many shrubs in my garden for her bed. She does leave my daily portion of protein in the hut, yes she is still laying even now. This evening, however, she has taken herself upstairs and has bedded down. I do not have the heart to eject her so have provided her with a nesting box. Of course I realise there will be much that I have to clear up in the morning and I am grateful that the Estranged One has left the matrimonial home thereby avoiding an awful scene. But... My father once said that I was 'too soft for my own good'; my first husband told me that I would 'sit in a pile of shit for an animal' and my Beloved Daughter-in-Law says that she always pictures me surrounded by my animals. I take all three comments as compliments.
And now whilst the Bad Belly Monsters have given me some temporary respite, I shall close. If you have enjoyed this, do please let me know, and, perhaps you could follow me too ...?
Take care, Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Secondly, an update for those of you following me: the two men mending the bells have been up the steeple again having fought a long battle to travel the three miles from the next village in absolutely awful conditions. They are indeed hardy souls! Again I have not seen them all day but did worry less today; that might have been because I have been distracted by the Bad Back Monsters and the Bad Belly Monsters.
Right, time I addressed the real reasons for this missive. Monica, for those of you who have not met her, is a battery Hen. She was one of several that, as an end of term prank, found herself stuffed in heating ducts at my school on the last day of the Spring Term. The Headteacher hesitated not in offering to me three of the hens as he retrieved them and brought them into staff briefing. Before he could complete the question, not only had I agreed but I had relieved him of his feathered burdens.
At home I was fortunate enough to already have a chicken house, known as Peckingham Palace, naturally, but it desperately needed cleaning out having been empty for a year. The Estranged One had not been persuaded to clean it out for me over the year and physically, I am incapable of carrying out the task. Fortunately one of my male colleagues volunteered his son and the following day, Peckingham Palace was restored to its cosy glory.
My three hens were such a sorry sight: hybrids, skinny, bald on the back of their necks and rumps, feathers all dull and dirty. Their combs were the palest pink and floppy too. I named them Martina, Merkle, and Monica and was not hopeful of their repair and survival. A trip to the local animal food merchant saw me buying the most expensive mixed grain they had which I dressed with cod liver oil. A soft baby brush was also purchased so that I could stimulate the oils needed and, hopefully encourage them to preen. I was convinced that Monica would die within two days. Not only was she in the worst condition, her comb being more white than pale pink, the rings around each of her eyes told me that she was not long for this world.
MaddyMoo, my faithful hound, happily accepted the additions to her pack and spent sometime familiarising herself with their state of health by sniffing their bottoms. One of them, I never knew which, had THE most awful evacuations which, strangely, MaddyMoo appeared to relish. Day one passed and they were still alive. Every time I approached them they cowered and assumed the position. More days passed and even though Monica still looked as if she was at death's door, she stubbornly refused to go. Gradually the pinkness returned to their combs and Martina and Merkle were even able to keep them erect. Monica's comb remained pale and laying flat. She showed no sign of improving.
About a week and a half later I noticed that not only were my hens less bald but there was a sheen to their feathers. Martina and Merkle were becoming quite sprightly and were happy to forage as well as accept food from my hand. Monica was less happy wandering but seemed content to take food from me. Three weeks passed and each had a full coat of feathers!!! Martina and Merkle rampaged through the garden taking on the dog and the cats and stealing the food put out for the wild birds. Monica was more restrained and spent more time close to me. Eventually all three had recovered and even though Monica still appeared weak she eventually joined with her sisters in foraging. I was ridiculously pleased when I noticed her comb was upright for the first time. And, she was managing to keep up with her 'sisters'.
One evening, as dusk fell, I went to put the hens to bed. My usual routine was to totter around the garden to see if anyone was still foraging. Next, I would lift up the roof of Peckingham Palace to check all were safely tucked away from Mister Fox. Only Monica was in residence so with some trepidation I didn't close the hatch door and kept my fingers crossed that Mister Fox could not gain entry. I did not sleep well that night. As soon as the Bad Back Monsters loosed their hold on me I tottered out to Peckingham Palace with my heart in my mouth, fully expecting to see beautiful brown and buff feathers scattered over the pen. Monica greeted me stretching her neck to see what treats I had for her and of the other two there was no sign. I fed and petted Monica and told her I would seek out her sisters and all would be well. They did not return. I checked the garden inch by inch to see if I could find evidence of their demise. Nope. No feathers, no gizzards, no unfamiliar droppings from a foxy visitor. On examining the fence line on the Northern side of my garden I spotted a browny, buff mass. With my heart in my mouth I brushed away the grass fully expecting to see a feathered corpse. As the most amazingly beautiful fungus appeared from within the grass I laughed out loud with relief.
Martina and Merkle were never seen again. But, I was intrigued some days later, to see a pair of pale brown hens foraging on the road side two miles away,as the crow flies, from my house. I like to believe that, having put them back together, restoring them to condition, they behaved like truculent teenagers ungratefully packing their bags and leaving home without a by your leave. I did look for corpses but never ever found them.
Monica has developed into the most extraordinary creature. She is clever, funny, demanding, bossy and afraid of nothing at all. MaddyMoo snaps at her when she steals her food and Monica just cocks her head to one side with an old fashioned look as though to say ' and... yes?' Coco, MaddyMoo's cousin, comes to visit and Monica is like, 'yeah whatever!' when Coco tries to eject her from the house. Monica knows it is her right to come into the house whenever she wants to. If I am late up she marches up and down outside the front door until she can sneak in when either the cats or the dog are let out for their morning constitutionals. She is very fast and determined and easily outwits me when I try to bar her entry. Once she has stolen any remaining food leftover from the cats and the dogs, Monica settles down under my chair in the Hive whilst I work on the computer. She alternates between quietly chuckling away to herself and 'talking' very loudly to me telling me all her news.
This evening she has caught me good and proper! Normally as dusk falls she asks to be let out of the front door to roost. For some reason she absolutely refuses to bed down in Peckingham Palace preferring one of the many shrubs in my garden for her bed. She does leave my daily portion of protein in the hut, yes she is still laying even now. This evening, however, she has taken herself upstairs and has bedded down. I do not have the heart to eject her so have provided her with a nesting box. Of course I realise there will be much that I have to clear up in the morning and I am grateful that the Estranged One has left the matrimonial home thereby avoiding an awful scene. But... My father once said that I was 'too soft for my own good'; my first husband told me that I would 'sit in a pile of shit for an animal' and my Beloved Daughter-in-Law says that she always pictures me surrounded by my animals. I take all three comments as compliments.
And now whilst the Bad Belly Monsters have given me some temporary respite, I shall close. If you have enjoyed this, do please let me know, and, perhaps you could follow me too ...?
Take care, Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Tuesday 30 November 2010
THE Purple Fairy considers the pitfalls of being a Strategic Thinker.
Once upon a time I worked for a major retailer where it was said that 'Every Little Helps'. I learnt a great deal at the feet of very talented and important men and women, one or two of whom remain my heroes - they know who they are. Part of my lifelong learning in the decade of my career that belonged to this powerful organisation was what I absorbed through the wisdom and compassion of my female boss for whom I was a personal assistant. The remainder I learnt in the training departments when she pushed me out of my comfort zone, by way of promotion, to allow me to blossom into middle management. I learnt about things that I didn't know I knew; I learnt about things I didn't know I needed to know and I learnt about things I didn't know.
I was taught to recognise my own strengths and weakness - an uncomfortable process if you happen to be a lapsed Catholic with a phenomenal ability to feel guilt and have a finely tuned sense of unworthiness. At first I discovered that I DID have some talent despite my lack of formal education and, what's more, IT HAD VALUE!!!! Blimey! What a breakthrough that was. And, I was in my early forties! Then I discovered that whatever it was I did know was contained in a tangled ball of wool with many loose ends inside my brain. I had to learn how to retrieve it in order to compete with the graduates and to get my voice heard. That was painful.
Anyroadup, with the assistance of some highly skilled trainers I learnt that within my toolbox of skills was the ability to think strategically. What Ifs...? What Happens...? Where will ...? How ...? Why? What a revelation that was! It meant that I could write training material from every ones perspective, the seller's, the customer's, the operatives . I automatically found it easy to capture the needs of what they call now, the stakeholders. I became quite proud of my skill even though some people resented my ability to suggest where an issue might lie. Methinks that no-one likes a smart arse.
I also learned that strengths can become weaknesses: in the jargon, they can becomes an over-played strength. So my natural weakness as a strategic thinker manifests itself as a chronic worrier when at its worst. Take today's example (yes I have gotten to the point dear reader!):
I am a key holder for the redundant church in my village. I am passionately protective of my church and work with the Churches Conservation Trust on a voluntary basis. Yesterday two lovely chaps travelled from Bridport (! in this weather?) to carry out repairs to bells that have not been heard for decades. I am ridiculously excited at the prospect of hearing them ring for the first time in the ten years I have stood watch over the Church. Having arranged for them to collect the key this morning, I waved them off to their day of work. Not once did I see them emerge from the Church, all day. That was fine, how many times can you climb up and down steep steeple steps anyway? If the steps were a road they would be classed as a one-in-one.
I was beginning to feel a little guilty about not offering them a hot drink: as a cripple I was concerned about the conditions under foot and my resolve was broken by the bitter easterly wind which whipped across my face as I opened my front door. The afternoon came, along with the wind, the snow - horizontal as well as vertical, the hailstones and the icy rain. I kept watch from the comfort of my Hive window anticipating the appearance of one or the other of the workmen. Nope. No sign. No lights appeared in the steeple, nor the main body of the Church as the sun set. There was no activity in or around the van either. Gradually the WorryWorm began nibbling at the skirts of my conscience and I began to be concerned.
'Hey!' hissed WorryWorm, 'Why haven't you been over to check on them?'. 'Er ... ' said I, 'It's rough out there! They are grown men! They know what they are doing!'
WorryWorm left me alone for a little while, even though he was not satisfied with my explanation. The sky got darker and the icy rain started thickening once more into fat, fluffy flakes of snow. The next time I looked away from my screen, it was almost dark and still no sign of any lighting within the Church. 'Hah!' shouted WorryWorm in my ear. 'See! there is STILL no sign of them!'. Assuming responsibility, yet again, for that which is not mine to assume, my imagination went into overdrive. What if: what if one of them has fallen? The other will have a mobile phone I told myself. Brief respite from concern followed for, oh! a whole nano second. Okay... what if one of them has discovered that the other one has been having an affair with his wife and has killed his rival? Now you are just being silly. Even briefer pause before WorryWorm came up with the ultimate worry: What if?: what if they have been using a paraffin stove to keep warm in the steeple? What if? : a stiff breeze has entered through one of the slits in the tower and blown the flame out and niether of them noticed and they have had both been overcome by the fumes?
WorryWorm won of course. Donned on my boots, woolly hat, gloves, two layers of coats: picked up Percy - my walking stick - press ganged a reluctant MaddyMoo to accompany me. As I locked my front door and became blinded by the sleet being thrown in my face I noticed the lights were on in the Church. Gingerly I made my way across the freezing road. One of them was still alive! Hurrah!!!! Stumbled up to the front door of the Church and spotted both of them. Admonished them, much as a neurotic mother does when she has temporarily mislaid her child (yes, I did) and asked them how much longer they would be working in the dark because I was concerned for them. They laughed, good naturedly as you do with a batty old woman who might prove to be dangerous, and assured me they were fine, that they were used to working in much worse conditions and that they would be finished by 18.00 hours. I wished them well and left them to it.
Of course I couldn't settle until they had actually finished - 10 past six since you ask - couldn't draw my blind, break out the first whiskey of the evening, wash my hair or leave my post until I knew they were safely away to their bed and breakfast lodgings.
I console myself with the knowledge that I can, at last, be accepted as a silly old bat whose heart is in the right place. Where once I strived to appeal to people (okay men in particular) as the most beautiful, sexy, intelligent , devastatingly funny woman they had ever met, now I am content to be considered as mad as a box of frogs and to enjoy the indulgent, 'she's harmless' tolerance of the young.
Of course, the younger of the two will never know just how delicious he is considered to be by this crippled old hag: the sort of chap who wouldn't have stood a chance against me before age and the Back Monsters assailed me. Thank God for memories eh?!
Stay safe and take care of each other
Love and peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
I was taught to recognise my own strengths and weakness - an uncomfortable process if you happen to be a lapsed Catholic with a phenomenal ability to feel guilt and have a finely tuned sense of unworthiness. At first I discovered that I DID have some talent despite my lack of formal education and, what's more, IT HAD VALUE!!!! Blimey! What a breakthrough that was. And, I was in my early forties! Then I discovered that whatever it was I did know was contained in a tangled ball of wool with many loose ends inside my brain. I had to learn how to retrieve it in order to compete with the graduates and to get my voice heard. That was painful.
Anyroadup, with the assistance of some highly skilled trainers I learnt that within my toolbox of skills was the ability to think strategically. What Ifs...? What Happens...? Where will ...? How ...? Why? What a revelation that was! It meant that I could write training material from every ones perspective, the seller's, the customer's, the operatives . I automatically found it easy to capture the needs of what they call now, the stakeholders. I became quite proud of my skill even though some people resented my ability to suggest where an issue might lie. Methinks that no-one likes a smart arse.
I also learned that strengths can become weaknesses: in the jargon, they can becomes an over-played strength. So my natural weakness as a strategic thinker manifests itself as a chronic worrier when at its worst. Take today's example (yes I have gotten to the point dear reader!):
I am a key holder for the redundant church in my village. I am passionately protective of my church and work with the Churches Conservation Trust on a voluntary basis. Yesterday two lovely chaps travelled from Bridport (! in this weather?) to carry out repairs to bells that have not been heard for decades. I am ridiculously excited at the prospect of hearing them ring for the first time in the ten years I have stood watch over the Church. Having arranged for them to collect the key this morning, I waved them off to their day of work. Not once did I see them emerge from the Church, all day. That was fine, how many times can you climb up and down steep steeple steps anyway? If the steps were a road they would be classed as a one-in-one.
I was beginning to feel a little guilty about not offering them a hot drink: as a cripple I was concerned about the conditions under foot and my resolve was broken by the bitter easterly wind which whipped across my face as I opened my front door. The afternoon came, along with the wind, the snow - horizontal as well as vertical, the hailstones and the icy rain. I kept watch from the comfort of my Hive window anticipating the appearance of one or the other of the workmen. Nope. No sign. No lights appeared in the steeple, nor the main body of the Church as the sun set. There was no activity in or around the van either. Gradually the WorryWorm began nibbling at the skirts of my conscience and I began to be concerned.
'Hey!' hissed WorryWorm, 'Why haven't you been over to check on them?'. 'Er ... ' said I, 'It's rough out there! They are grown men! They know what they are doing!'
WorryWorm left me alone for a little while, even though he was not satisfied with my explanation. The sky got darker and the icy rain started thickening once more into fat, fluffy flakes of snow. The next time I looked away from my screen, it was almost dark and still no sign of any lighting within the Church. 'Hah!' shouted WorryWorm in my ear. 'See! there is STILL no sign of them!'. Assuming responsibility, yet again, for that which is not mine to assume, my imagination went into overdrive. What if: what if one of them has fallen? The other will have a mobile phone I told myself. Brief respite from concern followed for, oh! a whole nano second. Okay... what if one of them has discovered that the other one has been having an affair with his wife and has killed his rival? Now you are just being silly. Even briefer pause before WorryWorm came up with the ultimate worry: What if?: what if they have been using a paraffin stove to keep warm in the steeple? What if? : a stiff breeze has entered through one of the slits in the tower and blown the flame out and niether of them noticed and they have had both been overcome by the fumes?
WorryWorm won of course. Donned on my boots, woolly hat, gloves, two layers of coats: picked up Percy - my walking stick - press ganged a reluctant MaddyMoo to accompany me. As I locked my front door and became blinded by the sleet being thrown in my face I noticed the lights were on in the Church. Gingerly I made my way across the freezing road. One of them was still alive! Hurrah!!!! Stumbled up to the front door of the Church and spotted both of them. Admonished them, much as a neurotic mother does when she has temporarily mislaid her child (yes, I did) and asked them how much longer they would be working in the dark because I was concerned for them. They laughed, good naturedly as you do with a batty old woman who might prove to be dangerous, and assured me they were fine, that they were used to working in much worse conditions and that they would be finished by 18.00 hours. I wished them well and left them to it.
Of course I couldn't settle until they had actually finished - 10 past six since you ask - couldn't draw my blind, break out the first whiskey of the evening, wash my hair or leave my post until I knew they were safely away to their bed and breakfast lodgings.
I console myself with the knowledge that I can, at last, be accepted as a silly old bat whose heart is in the right place. Where once I strived to appeal to people (okay men in particular) as the most beautiful, sexy, intelligent , devastatingly funny woman they had ever met, now I am content to be considered as mad as a box of frogs and to enjoy the indulgent, 'she's harmless' tolerance of the young.
Of course, the younger of the two will never know just how delicious he is considered to be by this crippled old hag: the sort of chap who wouldn't have stood a chance against me before age and the Back Monsters assailed me. Thank God for memories eh?!
Stay safe and take care of each other
Love and peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Monday 29 November 2010
THE Purple Fairy on Being Perpleplexed
Being perpleplexed is a natural state for most human beans: we struggle to understand the rules. Those of us fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to know the difference between right and wrong feel smug when we just KNOW what is right, There is a song written by Bob Dylan and covered by several artists: 'God on our Side'. It tells the story of righteous anger carried into wars in His name. It says it is okay to do what you want if you believe that God is on your side. Bob is being sardonic.
I have just listened to Ms Hilary Clinton launching her defensive attack on the Wiki Leaks. Putting aside the fact that I am perpleplexed that her hairdresser gets paid for that hair style..... I am more perpleplexed at her assertion that the leaks will be responsible for the King of Misrule to rule again causing the death and destruction of 'innocent' people.
Dear Ms Clinton, they will not! You guys have already put that train on the tracks. So the moderate Arab states wish the head of the serpent be separated from it's body but do not want to wield the sword - really? You surprise me! No doubt a willing Western country will do the job for them and in return? Well let's see, what on earth could the Arab states offer in return? Ah! Could that be oil? Easier to ask someone else to do your dirty work, reward them and then wash your hands. Ask Pontius Pilate. After all, these pesky Westerners are only to eager to offer themselves as the World's police officer.
So, what do we have with this latest controversy? We have so called evidence of tittle tattle: playground stuff : he said, she said, they said. Some Heads of State called other Heads of State names - no! really! An over indulged establishment figure of royal personage said something rude about someone else, was abrupt and, well, behaving in a lower class manner. And we are surprised because...... ?
What is surprising is Ms Clinton's defence of the edict that went out to staff seeking bio metrical information, passwords and whether someone had racked up enough points for frequent flyer status. What the hell? Is there any wonder that the World's citizens are paranoid? Our elders and betters operate at playground level and we are supposed to show respect? We are supposed to trust them to govern us?
This entry was meant to be an amusing one, I had almost promised my beloved daughter-in-law and my friend Sandy that it would be, but you know what? My sense of humour is chilled right now and not just because of the weather...
Take care, stand up for what is right
Love and peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
I have just listened to Ms Hilary Clinton launching her defensive attack on the Wiki Leaks. Putting aside the fact that I am perpleplexed that her hairdresser gets paid for that hair style..... I am more perpleplexed at her assertion that the leaks will be responsible for the King of Misrule to rule again causing the death and destruction of 'innocent' people.
Dear Ms Clinton, they will not! You guys have already put that train on the tracks. So the moderate Arab states wish the head of the serpent be separated from it's body but do not want to wield the sword - really? You surprise me! No doubt a willing Western country will do the job for them and in return? Well let's see, what on earth could the Arab states offer in return? Ah! Could that be oil? Easier to ask someone else to do your dirty work, reward them and then wash your hands. Ask Pontius Pilate. After all, these pesky Westerners are only to eager to offer themselves as the World's police officer.
So, what do we have with this latest controversy? We have so called evidence of tittle tattle: playground stuff : he said, she said, they said. Some Heads of State called other Heads of State names - no! really! An over indulged establishment figure of royal personage said something rude about someone else, was abrupt and, well, behaving in a lower class manner. And we are surprised because...... ?
What is surprising is Ms Clinton's defence of the edict that went out to staff seeking bio metrical information, passwords and whether someone had racked up enough points for frequent flyer status. What the hell? Is there any wonder that the World's citizens are paranoid? Our elders and betters operate at playground level and we are supposed to show respect? We are supposed to trust them to govern us?
This entry was meant to be an amusing one, I had almost promised my beloved daughter-in-law and my friend Sandy that it would be, but you know what? My sense of humour is chilled right now and not just because of the weather...
Take care, stand up for what is right
Love and peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Saturday 27 November 2010
Pondering Perception
Perception has become a close friend of mine whilst Helen and me have tried to mend me: Assumption is a close relative of Perception and invariably follows her everywhere. Unfortunately Perception tends to be misled by Assumption and Perception has learned to ignore her more truthful cousin, Instinct.
The Human Bean (deliberate spelling) is first born with innate Perception granted through primitive ancestors. Smell, sound and touch instinctively granted allows the infant to seek nourishment and comfort. The giver of nourishment and comfort is also instinctively programmed to give what is sought, if the infant is lucky. Sometimes, however, the givers' instinct is corrupted and denied. Such denial carries devastating results and colours the growing infant's reading of it's world and the Beans in it. So as you teach, they learn; so as they learn, they teach.
Allow me to demonstrate using one of my favourite tools: a 'What If'.
What if you see the following scene:
Harassed mother, one toddler walking and one child riding in buggy are outside a shop. A cursory glance from Assumption tells Perception the group is well dressed, thriving and in need of no concern. Instinct has spotted the crusted layer of mucus on the top lip of the child in the buggy; and the tear stained trail on the face of the toddler. Instinct has also noted the hard edges of the Mother who has dressed for attention rather than comfort. Instinct is braced for what happens next.
Having terminated the phone call she was on, Mother looks down as the feet of the toddler and screams as she slaps him across the back of his head: 'You f***ing stupid boy, three years old and you still can't tie your f***ing shoe laces!' Further tears follow the route already laid on the boy's face. Struggle as he might to correct his mistake, he is not quick enough and suffers further blows and unpleasant curses whilst his Mother roughly completes the task.
So as you teach ...: What has our boy been taught? He has been taught that doing something wrong will result in him being hurt physically: that his error will result in the withdrawal of care and dignity; that if you do something that offends someone else it is acceptable to assault and insult for the offence. Even our child in the buggy is having their Perception altered: that child has seen, by demonstration, how not to anger the provider of care.
The template given to both these children will help to govern the way they function in society. One child may simply retreat into not trying to achieve at all in order not to take the risk of having anger showered upon them; the other child may strive beyond need for perfection in order to ward off any possible threat of painful sanction. In any event both children are damaged and ... so they learn. Years down the lane the younger child is a skilled expert at deflection, the older child has simply learnt that not only it is easier not to strive but it is perfectly acceptable to knock seven kinds of sh*t out of someone who offends. So when the classroom teacher leans over the desk and hisses at the boy that he is stupid, the boy knows that thumping the sneering face is appropriate.
My 'What If ' too fanciful for you? Not so. The incident is real; it happened 40 years ago and was witnessed by the writer. I continue to see examples of the teaching and learning manifested daily.
To those who have care and control of children, I beg you, consider the templates you give them. As you teach so they will learn; as they learn so they will teach. That little old bag lady in the city with the ulcerated legs smelling of pee ...... what template was she given for self worth? The old man cowering in terror behind his curtain afraid to open the door to his son ..... In his youth, and in drink, he terrorised his own children with his tongue and his fists . The damage he inflicted on his own son haunts him in his ailing years.
The gift of a child is beyond price: every action you take, every word you use weaves a living blanket that they wrap around themselves as they walk into their futures. You cannot see what you are creating as you create it. Evidence only becomes clear as they grow and develop. Take great care of your precious gifts. Allow Perception to be guided by Assumption by all means: every picture does indeed tell a story. BUT allow Instinct to have an equal say so that a balance is struck. Judging a book by its cover only makes sense when you have investigated what lies within.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy <3 xxx
The Human Bean (deliberate spelling) is first born with innate Perception granted through primitive ancestors. Smell, sound and touch instinctively granted allows the infant to seek nourishment and comfort. The giver of nourishment and comfort is also instinctively programmed to give what is sought, if the infant is lucky. Sometimes, however, the givers' instinct is corrupted and denied. Such denial carries devastating results and colours the growing infant's reading of it's world and the Beans in it. So as you teach, they learn; so as they learn, they teach.
Allow me to demonstrate using one of my favourite tools: a 'What If'.
What if you see the following scene:
Harassed mother, one toddler walking and one child riding in buggy are outside a shop. A cursory glance from Assumption tells Perception the group is well dressed, thriving and in need of no concern. Instinct has spotted the crusted layer of mucus on the top lip of the child in the buggy; and the tear stained trail on the face of the toddler. Instinct has also noted the hard edges of the Mother who has dressed for attention rather than comfort. Instinct is braced for what happens next.
Having terminated the phone call she was on, Mother looks down as the feet of the toddler and screams as she slaps him across the back of his head: 'You f***ing stupid boy, three years old and you still can't tie your f***ing shoe laces!' Further tears follow the route already laid on the boy's face. Struggle as he might to correct his mistake, he is not quick enough and suffers further blows and unpleasant curses whilst his Mother roughly completes the task.
So as you teach ...: What has our boy been taught? He has been taught that doing something wrong will result in him being hurt physically: that his error will result in the withdrawal of care and dignity; that if you do something that offends someone else it is acceptable to assault and insult for the offence. Even our child in the buggy is having their Perception altered: that child has seen, by demonstration, how not to anger the provider of care.
The template given to both these children will help to govern the way they function in society. One child may simply retreat into not trying to achieve at all in order not to take the risk of having anger showered upon them; the other child may strive beyond need for perfection in order to ward off any possible threat of painful sanction. In any event both children are damaged and ... so they learn. Years down the lane the younger child is a skilled expert at deflection, the older child has simply learnt that not only it is easier not to strive but it is perfectly acceptable to knock seven kinds of sh*t out of someone who offends. So when the classroom teacher leans over the desk and hisses at the boy that he is stupid, the boy knows that thumping the sneering face is appropriate.
My 'What If ' too fanciful for you? Not so. The incident is real; it happened 40 years ago and was witnessed by the writer. I continue to see examples of the teaching and learning manifested daily.
To those who have care and control of children, I beg you, consider the templates you give them. As you teach so they will learn; as they learn so they will teach. That little old bag lady in the city with the ulcerated legs smelling of pee ...... what template was she given for self worth? The old man cowering in terror behind his curtain afraid to open the door to his son ..... In his youth, and in drink, he terrorised his own children with his tongue and his fists . The damage he inflicted on his own son haunts him in his ailing years.
The gift of a child is beyond price: every action you take, every word you use weaves a living blanket that they wrap around themselves as they walk into their futures. You cannot see what you are creating as you create it. Evidence only becomes clear as they grow and develop. Take great care of your precious gifts. Allow Perception to be guided by Assumption by all means: every picture does indeed tell a story. BUT allow Instinct to have an equal say so that a balance is struck. Judging a book by its cover only makes sense when you have investigated what lies within.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy <3 xxx
Episode the First ...
This will be interesting methinks... I was going to ask for assistance from my grandchildren to create this b.l.o.g. thingey but ever the independent old bag I thought I would have a go by my ownself. I am a blog virgin and will probably end up a source of amusement for the more technically minded readers. Never mind, it stops them picking on someone else ...
Now, what's The First View from the Hive?
November has stamped her authority on the earth to remind us that she used to herald the Winter Season. I remember seasons. I remember a winter so hard that the snow reached the wires at the top of telepgraph poles. My Dad used to tell me tales of watching rabbits jump over power lines whilst villagers dug out an escape route. I remember seasonal foods and still swear by the rule; do not eat sprouts until the first frost has dressed them.
My beloved garden has gone to untidy sleep although some defiant roses remain on undressed stalks. The commerative rose I bought for the late Princess of Wales has a perfectly formed bud waiting to bloom. Anticipation will be heightened come Spring when I will be in awe of what has survived. Last winter saw the destruction of all but one of my Hebes.
Now I need to clean and lay the fire - a heavy task that I struggle with. I accost male strangers at will in an attempt to keep my indoor scuttle full of coal but mostly I have to collect wood and coal by my ownself. My beloved MaddyMoo recognises the signal of the scuttle being dragged over the doorstep and is convinced that I cannot possibly complete my chore without playing fetchy catchy with her.
I shall close now just to see what happens next
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Now, what's The First View from the Hive?
November has stamped her authority on the earth to remind us that she used to herald the Winter Season. I remember seasons. I remember a winter so hard that the snow reached the wires at the top of telepgraph poles. My Dad used to tell me tales of watching rabbits jump over power lines whilst villagers dug out an escape route. I remember seasonal foods and still swear by the rule; do not eat sprouts until the first frost has dressed them.
My beloved garden has gone to untidy sleep although some defiant roses remain on undressed stalks. The commerative rose I bought for the late Princess of Wales has a perfectly formed bud waiting to bloom. Anticipation will be heightened come Spring when I will be in awe of what has survived. Last winter saw the destruction of all but one of my Hebes.
Now I need to clean and lay the fire - a heavy task that I struggle with. I accost male strangers at will in an attempt to keep my indoor scuttle full of coal but mostly I have to collect wood and coal by my ownself. My beloved MaddyMoo recognises the signal of the scuttle being dragged over the doorstep and is convinced that I cannot possibly complete my chore without playing fetchy catchy with her.
I shall close now just to see what happens next
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
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