I'm a supertisious sort of soul - you know the kind of thing: spilt salt - pinch with right hand over left shoulder to throw in the Devil's eye; don't walk under a ladder, acknowledge the single magpie, be careful what you wish for for you might just get it. This little notette is especially for Beloved Son and Heir, Beloved Daughter-in-Law and Sarah M, and fingers crossed, me!
I have blogged about two things recently and coincidentally, changes were made to both subjects. Sarah M challenged me to blog about the receipt of money and I have been apondering on it for a day or so. I tend to run my life along the lines of be careful what you wish for becuase you just might get it. When I plead with God or the Angels for help, I try to be really, really, specific with my requests so that there is no room for misinterpretation.
This period of my life is one of the hardest in ecomonic terms that I have lived through. I recall times when Beloved Son and Heir and I lived on potatoe and onion for a week - yes - there are seven different ways of producing a meal with potatoe and onion. And we did survive and given time, we will all survive again. Our society has a very peculiar way of dealing with it's people who don't have the fiscal wherewithall. For example: Mr Million Aire owes the Bank of Credulity £10m; he is feted by a member of the board of the bank, invited to high powered breakfasts, or lunches, or dinners and offered generous
terms and conditions for a business loan for, oh! let's say another £2m and sent VIP tickets for Wimbledon or Monaco or where ever the great and the good are to be found. Mrs Iam Ordinary is £3.00 over her overdraft and receives a communication from her bank informing her of this fact: she is admonished and encouraged to ensure that she maintains, in future, enough in her account to meet her payments, oh! and by the way the Bank will take £30.00 from her account for telling her that she does not have enough money. The consequence of which is that £30.00 is added to the over overdraft and interest is added, compounded and carried forward.
Then there is the clever payment protection/insurance gig! Oh! How I wish I had come up with this little wheeze! Me and mine would be in clover! So, what you do is you say to someone who say, takes out a credit card, we know that you may just, possibly, maybe, hit hard times and not be able to pay what you owe. So here's the deal: You let us take £7.00 per month from the credit card to ensure that any payments in the event of loss of earnings or illness can be met. These payments that you make every month are added to your monthly expenditure and as a result, attract interest. (Unless of course you can afford to pay off the monthly amount in full).
Then, heaven forfend! the worst happens and you do make a claim on your insurance. Ah! Silly Billy! You didn't read all of the small print did you before you agreed, or were bamboozled into taking out the insurance? You forgot your magnifying glass to start with, and, you forgot to predict that bankers and government would rape your savings and pensions to support their own inept activities and that either, a) you were laid off or b) you became too ill to work and therefore incapable of generating the income needed to meet your commitments. No matter! You apply. You recieve very impressive paperwork consisting of 7 pages from the Insurers asking for very personal and very intimate details. They ask for a Doctor's report and suggest that you may have to pay for the report and assure you of their best attention at all times. You take the form to the doctor: doctor says 'I don't do money stuff - take it to the Practice Manager'. By this stage you would discuss the most intimate details of your condition with the Practice Cleaner so Manager - no problem!!!! The Practice Manager explains that request for information falls out of the state contract so the fee will be in the region of £50.00 to £75.00. If you could afford to hand over that kind of money for the report, you could have afforded to have made to monthly payment to the credit card company.
And so what would I advise my grandchildren in terms of financing their futures? I would suggest they ignore the blandishments of the money men; the insurance idiots and the poncing payment protection purveyors. I would encourage them to save what they could and put it where no other grasping paw could touch it - like under the mattress.
There was an echo of hollow laughter bouncing off the walls of my endangered cottage this morning as I heard that part of the big society iniative was to encourge us to donate to charity via either cash machines or mobile phone. Guess what Mr Government Man: we can't manage to look after ourselves just now never mind our fellow citizens, or the broader world. Mostly all we need is time, time to retrench, re-assess, restructure but we are not allowed that luxury. But instead the weak, vulnerable and least able to survive are bombarded with exhortations to do better and dig a little deeper for another weapon of mass destruction or to support a weakened corrupt foreign regime.
I imagine the following scene: Daddy? Yes son/daughter? What did you do during the economic crisis? Me? Oh not much! I advised Goverment on how to manage their budgets? How did you do that Daddy? I told them to let the starving starve to death; told them to withdraw support for those weakened by poor health or joblessness and let them die or kill themselves. I encouraged them to devolve responsibility to the street. I asked them to protect the wealth providers and abandon the wealth users. Did they listen Daddy? Oh yes! Such savings were made!!
Count those pennies
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
written May 2011, never posted xTTT
Where the beauty and the humour hide ...
Friday 22 July 2011
Thursday 30 June 2011
What do we do now...........(week one)
It has been three weeks and two days, or 23 days for short, since I cuddle my mother, spoke to her and told her how much I love her, since that time my world has crashed down around me. On the 7th June 2011 at 10:35 Granny Bea, our Purple fairy...Mum lost her battle with her demons.
I feel rotten, void of all strength both in body and mind, I'm very angry and very sad at the prospect of not being able to hear her wise words or quirky phrases. The telephone call I received on that day will haunt me for the rest of my days, because it told me that my best friend had gone. Now in normal circumstances if I was feeling any of the above the first person I would turn to would be my mum, I always did, because she was my inspiration and the one thing I needed to survive my demons, albeit a scary shadow on the wall or to the craps of the modern world, she was there for me. She was also there for my children, my wife and everyone who knew her......she was the majik, she just didn't realise it.
That Tuesday evening when me and my wife, Ali arrived at her house, it wasn't empty, far from it. Seven bloody Tribal chickens determined to eat me, two cats that upon seeing me instantly went into alert mode half expecting the K9 pack that generally follows me, a budgie that had managed to poo in the same spot for what must have been an age and created a leaning tower of poo that is now touching his / her bottom .....22 days later he still hasn't been cleaned out........its a very impressive bit of work. Finally a maddy-moo, who looked just like I felt. As far as Maddy-moo was concerned, Womkin has popped out with some funny smelling hoomans and was coming back soon and as each door was opened I too began to think the same, then pray that she would, knowing all the time that she wasn't here. Had it not been for Ali I would have sat in the house for days still waiting.
Wednesday was a blur, so much planned very little done, as Each item of clothing, kitchen ware or used tissue was moved it became a precious memento, the smell of her perfume the aroma of flowers would tidal wave into a flood of emotions. I was broken, tired of walking because every time I stood still I would be wailing again, My heart Physically broken, I was dead. I had no idea what i was doing, how I was going to do it ....everything.
The coroner calls to introduce himself, seemed a nice guy. Had a lot of medical questions that should have been on the doctors report but was incomplete...interesting that. I had to tell him everything that was wrong with her and why she was under the "care" of the GP. As the information supplied by the GP had seven ....7 unknown markers. By the end of the conversation with the Coroner he almost wanted to thump the doctor. As the day passed by, little snippets of information were discovered about DR KING or Twat bollox (TB) as he shall now be referred as. The fact that the last post she made was to inform peoples that she had tried on FOUR occasions that day before she died to get TB , who was on-call, off his backside and travel 5.5 miles to her house because she has fallen several times and was having dizzy spells. On the last phone call she made she became so frustrated she told TB not to worry and that she would carry on as normal, then hung up on him. Poor TB became so traumatised by her actions that when BF called he told BF that he was refusing to come out because A) she had hung up on him, 2) That he knew nothing about her illness and III) that he had advised her to call back in the morning and get her own GP to come out as she was working that day. SORRY interrupting your pizza, your casual viewing of an item on Ebay, It's your bloody job, To say I was seething would be an understatement I was ready to rip him from every inch of his skin. I still am, however I would not be "Beloved son and heir" if I did that, I would be a savage animal and more importantly I would've let mum down.
With regards to A, 2 & III, there are some interesting points that I feel I need to clarify.
A) Did TB feel so important that he was so deeply offended by a poorly 59 year old woman that he HAD met before & could foresee that he would be in grave danger if he attended her address.
2) Apparently not knowing anything about my mother he was previously able to prescribe anti-biotics to her to treat a chest infection, Had been the GP she had seen on appointments made due to her problems, where all the information was / should have been on her medical records, is this standard practice for a GP to provide this service with no knowledge of the patient? and even if he didn't know her, he has a duty of care to either find out the information before coming to a conclusion on whether treatment is suitable or not or as stated in the GMC guidelines should contact the patients own GP to refresh or clarify any medical concerns. It would also be interesting to see the report he made detailing his rationale for not providing treatment or declining to treat a patient. If he could be bothered to have written one.
III) no reply for this statement is needed, it screams out Lazy bastard.
I knew that one day this would happen, I know people die, but this was avoidable. very much so, the coroner calls again with the cause of death, Lobar pneumonia ....apparently this is not commonly observed in present times because PROMPT treatment can be administered, this almost underlines TB's failing as a person let alone as a doctor. I am however blessed that I was able to spend time with her up until two days prior to her death. I have no regrets, guilt is a demon that festers inside of you. Some will have this and unfortunately that will be their problem. I am unable to help them because i can just about look after myself. I have been offered counselling which is all well and good, but I haven't stopped talking about it, I've told complete strangers my woes I'm not afraid to talk about her death, I'm afraid because she has died, and selfishly she was mine. I was happy to share her because she needed to be shared to help other people to provide a service of Majik. People say I'll get over it and things will get better...I know thank you. But it won't I'll get better because I have to, I'm responsible for my family It's my duty. but i will not get over it, because It's what I am, I am my mother every ounce of my body has been created by my mother, the pure essence in me is my mum. I loved my mum, and she loved me wholeheartedly. She told me all the time that I was the reason she was alive.
Thursday was a horrible day, so much to do, having to choose coffins and all that jazz, I don't want to be here. Appointment with solicitors regarding her will.... feel sick, My chest aches, am I having a heart attack, no my hearts still broken. Get back to somewhere and the safe sanctuary of the hive. Have a blazing argument with a lovely lady from Captial one, all i wanted to do was to ask them to stop phoning my mums telephone, as there were 38 missed call from them, does that constitute harassment? That evening Me and Ali are sat In a cold lonely house then things became weird. without any prompting, both me and Ali get up and start looking for things, what things we have no idea, we had both become puppets, controlled by ? very strange journey that evening and it must have been gone 3 til we both gave up and had to go to bed.
Friday I was dreading, having to return home and tell Bestest boy Ben and Pixie princess ruby the terrible news about their Granny Bea in charge of majik. Each passing minute of the 179 mile journey would send both me and Ali into a dark cloud of the unknown, unknown of the reaction of Ben. i was less worried about Ruby as she is only three and the full impact of the devastation would be lost on her, for now. Ben however would be a different story, As i saw his taxi from school arrive my heart fell 100 floors, the moisture in my mouth went in an instant. i was petrified about having to break this beautiful boys heart Without thought I went outside and went to the taxi drivers window, quietly informing him about not picking him up on Monday, or for the following week. I almost cuddled him into the house and sat him down of the sofa. Ruby came running in Shouting "Granny Bea's D..". Reflexes have never been so sharp in a swift move I cup my hand over her mouth and she is ushered out of the room. He knew, I knew.... What Ruby was about to say....I could see the tears well in his eyes, .......................................he knew. I didn't have a clue what to say and was working on pure luck as I opened my mouth......." Ben, Granny Bea's been very poorly .......I'm sorry I have to tell you this by she died.." I then bawled my Eyes out and sank my head into Ben's chest, He's crying and then stops, then the in most mature gesture he starts to rub my back and says "Don't worry Daddy, We'll look after you" I cannot describe how I felt in that empathetic moment displayed by my son, a ten year old boy, who had lost the love of his life, His Granny Bea, someone who would spend an entire day making Fat ball with him, so they could feed the birds, or covering themselves in coal dust, in order to become today's Eco-warrior. He had the same relationship with her that I did, complete devotion. An adult who allowed him to be expressive in the way children should be, acting silly, having fun and not being told to stop being an idiot or to shut up, She never said those words to Ben at anytime. Ben seems o.k., He's a bit distant and goes out into the garden, i can hear a faint song coming from him and as i get closer to him, he's watering the strawberry hanging basket Mum had helped him plant the week earlier. He singing "I love you Granny Bea........I do......I love you granny Bea ..it's true... When you're not near to me, I'm Blue....OH granny I love you" followed by "we always used to sing that to each other all the time, She wont be able to sing it to me again", He then crumbles, It's sunk in....His despair triggers me and I tell him through blubbed speech, "she will, everyday, you've just got to listen"
Saturday/Sunday ....... is like a hang over without the grog, Numb from the head down the whole family just sit and stare at anything that catches the eye line, Not really looking. The only break in the silence is the giggle of the Pixie, playing with her best friend Maddy-moo. Can you believe that Maddy-moo just jumps up onto the trampoline and has a workout, she's like a mountain goat. Early night Shattered.
It is my wish to keep this blog going, as I have found other articles (Pre-tinternet) that mum had written, & we would like to share with you. Thanks for reading
Love and peace
The Turner Tribe x
I feel rotten, void of all strength both in body and mind, I'm very angry and very sad at the prospect of not being able to hear her wise words or quirky phrases. The telephone call I received on that day will haunt me for the rest of my days, because it told me that my best friend had gone. Now in normal circumstances if I was feeling any of the above the first person I would turn to would be my mum, I always did, because she was my inspiration and the one thing I needed to survive my demons, albeit a scary shadow on the wall or to the craps of the modern world, she was there for me. She was also there for my children, my wife and everyone who knew her......she was the majik, she just didn't realise it.
That Tuesday evening when me and my wife, Ali arrived at her house, it wasn't empty, far from it. Seven bloody Tribal chickens determined to eat me, two cats that upon seeing me instantly went into alert mode half expecting the K9 pack that generally follows me, a budgie that had managed to poo in the same spot for what must have been an age and created a leaning tower of poo that is now touching his / her bottom .....22 days later he still hasn't been cleaned out........its a very impressive bit of work. Finally a maddy-moo, who looked just like I felt. As far as Maddy-moo was concerned, Womkin has popped out with some funny smelling hoomans and was coming back soon and as each door was opened I too began to think the same, then pray that she would, knowing all the time that she wasn't here. Had it not been for Ali I would have sat in the house for days still waiting.
Wednesday was a blur, so much planned very little done, as Each item of clothing, kitchen ware or used tissue was moved it became a precious memento, the smell of her perfume the aroma of flowers would tidal wave into a flood of emotions. I was broken, tired of walking because every time I stood still I would be wailing again, My heart Physically broken, I was dead. I had no idea what i was doing, how I was going to do it ....everything.
The coroner calls to introduce himself, seemed a nice guy. Had a lot of medical questions that should have been on the doctors report but was incomplete...interesting that. I had to tell him everything that was wrong with her and why she was under the "care" of the GP. As the information supplied by the GP had seven ....7 unknown markers. By the end of the conversation with the Coroner he almost wanted to thump the doctor. As the day passed by, little snippets of information were discovered about DR KING or Twat bollox (TB) as he shall now be referred as. The fact that the last post she made was to inform peoples that she had tried on FOUR occasions that day before she died to get TB , who was on-call, off his backside and travel 5.5 miles to her house because she has fallen several times and was having dizzy spells. On the last phone call she made she became so frustrated she told TB not to worry and that she would carry on as normal, then hung up on him. Poor TB became so traumatised by her actions that when BF called he told BF that he was refusing to come out because A) she had hung up on him, 2) That he knew nothing about her illness and III) that he had advised her to call back in the morning and get her own GP to come out as she was working that day. SORRY interrupting your pizza, your casual viewing of an item on Ebay, It's your bloody job, To say I was seething would be an understatement I was ready to rip him from every inch of his skin. I still am, however I would not be "Beloved son and heir" if I did that, I would be a savage animal and more importantly I would've let mum down.
With regards to A, 2 & III, there are some interesting points that I feel I need to clarify.
A) Did TB feel so important that he was so deeply offended by a poorly 59 year old woman that he HAD met before & could foresee that he would be in grave danger if he attended her address.
2) Apparently not knowing anything about my mother he was previously able to prescribe anti-biotics to her to treat a chest infection, Had been the GP she had seen on appointments made due to her problems, where all the information was / should have been on her medical records, is this standard practice for a GP to provide this service with no knowledge of the patient? and even if he didn't know her, he has a duty of care to either find out the information before coming to a conclusion on whether treatment is suitable or not or as stated in the GMC guidelines should contact the patients own GP to refresh or clarify any medical concerns. It would also be interesting to see the report he made detailing his rationale for not providing treatment or declining to treat a patient. If he could be bothered to have written one.
III) no reply for this statement is needed, it screams out Lazy bastard.
I knew that one day this would happen, I know people die, but this was avoidable. very much so, the coroner calls again with the cause of death, Lobar pneumonia ....apparently this is not commonly observed in present times because PROMPT treatment can be administered, this almost underlines TB's failing as a person let alone as a doctor. I am however blessed that I was able to spend time with her up until two days prior to her death. I have no regrets, guilt is a demon that festers inside of you. Some will have this and unfortunately that will be their problem. I am unable to help them because i can just about look after myself. I have been offered counselling which is all well and good, but I haven't stopped talking about it, I've told complete strangers my woes I'm not afraid to talk about her death, I'm afraid because she has died, and selfishly she was mine. I was happy to share her because she needed to be shared to help other people to provide a service of Majik. People say I'll get over it and things will get better...I know thank you. But it won't I'll get better because I have to, I'm responsible for my family It's my duty. but i will not get over it, because It's what I am, I am my mother every ounce of my body has been created by my mother, the pure essence in me is my mum. I loved my mum, and she loved me wholeheartedly. She told me all the time that I was the reason she was alive.
Thursday was a horrible day, so much to do, having to choose coffins and all that jazz, I don't want to be here. Appointment with solicitors regarding her will.... feel sick, My chest aches, am I having a heart attack, no my hearts still broken. Get back to somewhere and the safe sanctuary of the hive. Have a blazing argument with a lovely lady from Captial one, all i wanted to do was to ask them to stop phoning my mums telephone, as there were 38 missed call from them, does that constitute harassment? That evening Me and Ali are sat In a cold lonely house then things became weird. without any prompting, both me and Ali get up and start looking for things, what things we have no idea, we had both become puppets, controlled by ? very strange journey that evening and it must have been gone 3 til we both gave up and had to go to bed.
Friday I was dreading, having to return home and tell Bestest boy Ben and Pixie princess ruby the terrible news about their Granny Bea in charge of majik. Each passing minute of the 179 mile journey would send both me and Ali into a dark cloud of the unknown, unknown of the reaction of Ben. i was less worried about Ruby as she is only three and the full impact of the devastation would be lost on her, for now. Ben however would be a different story, As i saw his taxi from school arrive my heart fell 100 floors, the moisture in my mouth went in an instant. i was petrified about having to break this beautiful boys heart Without thought I went outside and went to the taxi drivers window, quietly informing him about not picking him up on Monday, or for the following week. I almost cuddled him into the house and sat him down of the sofa. Ruby came running in Shouting "Granny Bea's D..". Reflexes have never been so sharp in a swift move I cup my hand over her mouth and she is ushered out of the room. He knew, I knew.... What Ruby was about to say....I could see the tears well in his eyes, .......................................he knew. I didn't have a clue what to say and was working on pure luck as I opened my mouth......." Ben, Granny Bea's been very poorly .......I'm sorry I have to tell you this by she died.." I then bawled my Eyes out and sank my head into Ben's chest, He's crying and then stops, then the in most mature gesture he starts to rub my back and says "Don't worry Daddy, We'll look after you" I cannot describe how I felt in that empathetic moment displayed by my son, a ten year old boy, who had lost the love of his life, His Granny Bea, someone who would spend an entire day making Fat ball with him, so they could feed the birds, or covering themselves in coal dust, in order to become today's Eco-warrior. He had the same relationship with her that I did, complete devotion. An adult who allowed him to be expressive in the way children should be, acting silly, having fun and not being told to stop being an idiot or to shut up, She never said those words to Ben at anytime. Ben seems o.k., He's a bit distant and goes out into the garden, i can hear a faint song coming from him and as i get closer to him, he's watering the strawberry hanging basket Mum had helped him plant the week earlier. He singing "I love you Granny Bea........I do......I love you granny Bea ..it's true... When you're not near to me, I'm Blue....OH granny I love you" followed by "we always used to sing that to each other all the time, She wont be able to sing it to me again", He then crumbles, It's sunk in....His despair triggers me and I tell him through blubbed speech, "she will, everyday, you've just got to listen"
Saturday/Sunday ....... is like a hang over without the grog, Numb from the head down the whole family just sit and stare at anything that catches the eye line, Not really looking. The only break in the silence is the giggle of the Pixie, playing with her best friend Maddy-moo. Can you believe that Maddy-moo just jumps up onto the trampoline and has a workout, she's like a mountain goat. Early night Shattered.
It is my wish to keep this blog going, as I have found other articles (Pre-tinternet) that mum had written, & we would like to share with you. Thanks for reading
Love and peace
The Turner Tribe x
Saturday 28 May 2011
When is a door not a door ....?
... when it's ajar! Sorry! A weak and feeble joke but my own which introduces some serious blogging commentary. As you know I'm a great one for the 'what ifs'; people who know me well know that a door is almost anything but a a physical object designed to fit into a space. A door can lead to a fearsome place; a fantastic place. It can be the signal of a refuge that barrs all and any from entering your space. It can provide safety as well as danger acting as a drawbridge closed against your nenamies. So, on that basis, it follows that other structures or accepted truths are always viewed differently by me.
Take Sharon Shoesmith - no please - just bloody take her will you! When Ed Balls announced her 'sacking'; or removal or whatever he called it, I just knew she would win the tribunal hearing. Knowing the little I know about personnelly type stuff I knew that she would win any tribunal hearing. Mr Balls acted outside of process and should have known better. It strikes me that 'filling the silence' is a habit shared by ministers as much as those ministered to. A rather clever, and spiteful director I knew, would question you and leave silences hanging in the air. It was sometime before I realised that the silence gap was a trap into which I was more than capable of being sucked into. I would babble or I would try and come up with something really intelligent that he wished to hear and frequently would make myself look a fool. I soon learned to leave what was hanging in the air to hang. Eventually the relationship between us levelled out. So what's this got to do with Sharon Shoemith? Mr Balls needed to fill the silence; he needed to offer a scalp to the public rightfully enraged about the treatment of a poor child called Peter. (I refuse to minimise his humanity by referring to him only by the label 'Baby P'). People tend to be quick to distant themselves from distasteful situations: not my responsibility; processes in place, can't legislate ... blah blah blah.
I have now listened to three interviews of Sharon Shoesmith and I'm not entirely sure what she was trying to get across to me - Mrs Jo Bloggs of Ordinary Street. I must declare an interest at this point: my background has fashioned me to be right wing reactionary when it comes to the abuse of the vulnerable, be they children, elderly or animals. I would happily take on Genghis Khan, Satan and Vlad the Impaler, all at once, in the defence of any of the above. Could I switch the switch, pull the lever or press the button? Damn right I could! What I find difficult to grasp is Ms Shoesmith's lack of humility; her inability to express genuine sorrow and her insistence that she is not to blame. She did not, it's true, actually physically abuse that wretched mite but she presided over an organisation that was charged, and financed, to protect all the Peters in her borough. Her organisation failed. He died. No-one who came into contact with the 'pathetic' family were streetwise enough to see through the lies and deceptions. What I want for Sharon Shoesmith is for her to just shut up; accept what compensation she is entitled to for the breach of process which saw her lose her job and then disappear from view - permanently. Anything and everything she does and say from this moment on is on the corpse of a little 17 month old boy called Peter. Poor Peter - he is as abused in death as he was in life. I suspend rational argument for a moment and say: Piss off Shoesmith, your arrogance is misplaced and we see your crocodile tears for what they are - for you and only you.
Talking of crocodile tears... so do you think Saggy Grins has recovered from his failure to gag the whole wide world? I'm actually not bothered about him and his itchy appendage between his legs - idiot boy - I'm concerned about his mother, his cousin, his nephew, his niece, his children, his wife and the legion of youngsters who idolised him. I am also astonished that he is still playing first class football at the age of 37!!! The daft thing is that if he'd let the silly tart who catered to his itchiness spill her sordid little story for the usual fee then the matter would have been dead and buried within two weeks. As it is it has gone on and on and on and on and and and and yawn - bor-ring! I've been wondering how the tabloid reptiles actually cost out how much they will pay for a kiss and tell. If you have performed a 'sex act' as the red tops modestly put it, out side of a nightclub, with a 'famous' celeb - is that worth £5,000.00? Or what if you actually, you know, er, go the whole way more than once, does that come out at say £20,000.00. Whatever the price paid the kissers and tellers always manage to look kind of smutty, dirty whilst trying to present as an ingenue; difficult to appear virginal and innocent whilst pouting, pointing your breasts at the camera and hitching your skirt to show off your frilly knickers....
Oh well..... life goes on.....those with brass necks will continue to thrive and those filled with impotent rage will continue to steam and blog and try to change things. Truth is all we can do, on a personal level, is hold dear to the values that shape us as civilised and share them with our children and grandchildren. Sometimes we may get the opportunity to show the wider world but let's not count on it eh?
Hold those close to you closer
Love and peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Take Sharon Shoesmith - no please - just bloody take her will you! When Ed Balls announced her 'sacking'; or removal or whatever he called it, I just knew she would win the tribunal hearing. Knowing the little I know about personnelly type stuff I knew that she would win any tribunal hearing. Mr Balls acted outside of process and should have known better. It strikes me that 'filling the silence' is a habit shared by ministers as much as those ministered to. A rather clever, and spiteful director I knew, would question you and leave silences hanging in the air. It was sometime before I realised that the silence gap was a trap into which I was more than capable of being sucked into. I would babble or I would try and come up with something really intelligent that he wished to hear and frequently would make myself look a fool. I soon learned to leave what was hanging in the air to hang. Eventually the relationship between us levelled out. So what's this got to do with Sharon Shoemith? Mr Balls needed to fill the silence; he needed to offer a scalp to the public rightfully enraged about the treatment of a poor child called Peter. (I refuse to minimise his humanity by referring to him only by the label 'Baby P'). People tend to be quick to distant themselves from distasteful situations: not my responsibility; processes in place, can't legislate ... blah blah blah.
I have now listened to three interviews of Sharon Shoesmith and I'm not entirely sure what she was trying to get across to me - Mrs Jo Bloggs of Ordinary Street. I must declare an interest at this point: my background has fashioned me to be right wing reactionary when it comes to the abuse of the vulnerable, be they children, elderly or animals. I would happily take on Genghis Khan, Satan and Vlad the Impaler, all at once, in the defence of any of the above. Could I switch the switch, pull the lever or press the button? Damn right I could! What I find difficult to grasp is Ms Shoesmith's lack of humility; her inability to express genuine sorrow and her insistence that she is not to blame. She did not, it's true, actually physically abuse that wretched mite but she presided over an organisation that was charged, and financed, to protect all the Peters in her borough. Her organisation failed. He died. No-one who came into contact with the 'pathetic' family were streetwise enough to see through the lies and deceptions. What I want for Sharon Shoesmith is for her to just shut up; accept what compensation she is entitled to for the breach of process which saw her lose her job and then disappear from view - permanently. Anything and everything she does and say from this moment on is on the corpse of a little 17 month old boy called Peter. Poor Peter - he is as abused in death as he was in life. I suspend rational argument for a moment and say: Piss off Shoesmith, your arrogance is misplaced and we see your crocodile tears for what they are - for you and only you.
Talking of crocodile tears... so do you think Saggy Grins has recovered from his failure to gag the whole wide world? I'm actually not bothered about him and his itchy appendage between his legs - idiot boy - I'm concerned about his mother, his cousin, his nephew, his niece, his children, his wife and the legion of youngsters who idolised him. I am also astonished that he is still playing first class football at the age of 37!!! The daft thing is that if he'd let the silly tart who catered to his itchiness spill her sordid little story for the usual fee then the matter would have been dead and buried within two weeks. As it is it has gone on and on and on and on and and and and yawn - bor-ring! I've been wondering how the tabloid reptiles actually cost out how much they will pay for a kiss and tell. If you have performed a 'sex act' as the red tops modestly put it, out side of a nightclub, with a 'famous' celeb - is that worth £5,000.00? Or what if you actually, you know, er, go the whole way more than once, does that come out at say £20,000.00. Whatever the price paid the kissers and tellers always manage to look kind of smutty, dirty whilst trying to present as an ingenue; difficult to appear virginal and innocent whilst pouting, pointing your breasts at the camera and hitching your skirt to show off your frilly knickers....
Oh well..... life goes on.....those with brass necks will continue to thrive and those filled with impotent rage will continue to steam and blog and try to change things. Truth is all we can do, on a personal level, is hold dear to the values that shape us as civilised and share them with our children and grandchildren. Sometimes we may get the opportunity to show the wider world but let's not count on it eh?
Hold those close to you closer
Love and peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Saturday 14 May 2011
Merriment appears to be Missing from May afterall
I shouldn't be doing this: there are a million worthy things I SHOULD be doing! I'm not entirely sure whether it is the meds or the Rat-in-Me-Back that befuddles me, or maybe it's both? What I do know is that today, the Rat-in-Me-Back is gnawing away despite the meds. If I thought it wouldn't frighten the animals I let out a primeval scream in an effort to reduce the pain. As it is my jaw is clenched so tightly I look like a gargoyle atop of the ceiling in 'my church'.
Had a welcome long conversation with Beloved Son and Heir earlier ; the magic of the 'telling bone' never ceases to amaze me: what can also be used as a weapon (and usually is by our creditors) is also a way of re-kindling the bonds of love and affection. The distance between us dwindled to nothing as I listened to the waking up noises of his household. The contents of the conversation were largely serious and worrisome with bouts of (sometimes hollow and sometimes black) humour but I am chuffed to little bits that he can talk to me.
When our children are young, in their eyes, we are invincible; we can fix everything cos we are super heroes! As our children get older the need to fix everything does not go away but it does become harder to do. The problems are bigger so the solutions are bigger too. What amazed me about our chat was his pragmatism, optimism and adherence to values beyond the material. I am very proud of my son.
Everyone I know, including yours truly, is having a bloody awful time of it just now. Regular readers will recall that I recently scribed that good things happen to me in May. Hmmmmmmm. Seems like the Good Fairy got lorst somewhere between the earthquakes and the tornadoes. Either that or she is saving it all up for the end of the month!!! So far May has brought terror, death, financial concerns and much worry to me and mine. Methinks it's time she gave us a break.
One little item in the news did make me smile broadly and made me want to issue a 'Welcome to MY World' badge to all our MPs. Gerald Kaufman, MP had written a billet-doux to 10 Downing Street and had received a response signed by a woman. Needing some clarification from the response, Mr Kaufman telephoned Downing Street and asked to speak to the named person. He was advised that this particular woman did not take telephone calls. So far so typically cowardly you may think. 'Cept that Mr Kaufman persisted in his request and was eventually advised that, er, actually, the woman did not, er, actually, er exist; she was in fact, a figment of a computer generated imagination. Who'd a thought it eh? A computer having an imagination. When the deception, for deception it surely was! was exposed the explanation was that this was a strategy in place at Downing Street for reason of security. Er, yeah right! I suspect that Central Government were just a tad slow in picking up some of the tricks of the trade from industry. At least nine years ago this deception was common amongst banking, insurance and utility providers. I recall getting into a rather heated discussion with a representative of npower. I had received a nasty, threatening communication from the Company and in my rage telephoned them to discuss the language they had used. I too was told that the author of the letter did not speak to members of the public on the telephone and I too was, eventually, told that in fact the name was just that, a name. Central Government has indeed mined the private sector for ideas and to a large extent that's a good thing. Over the years I have seen the gradual introduction of training materials and strategies that mimic those used in industry and retail. Unfortunately, successive Governments have been unable to distinguish the wheat from the chaff and appear to have adopted processes wholesale instead of selectively.
I'm not at all sure what we can do about the lack of Merriment in May: I guess we could all collectively stop time like the Samoan people have but for say, a month rather than a day. That way we could give May time to catch up with our needs and stop the money men making the little we have even littler.
Ah well, time to decide which of the really, really, REALLY important chores I should be doing next.
May the Angel of Hope walk with you today
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Had a welcome long conversation with Beloved Son and Heir earlier ; the magic of the 'telling bone' never ceases to amaze me: what can also be used as a weapon (and usually is by our creditors) is also a way of re-kindling the bonds of love and affection. The distance between us dwindled to nothing as I listened to the waking up noises of his household. The contents of the conversation were largely serious and worrisome with bouts of (sometimes hollow and sometimes black) humour but I am chuffed to little bits that he can talk to me.
When our children are young, in their eyes, we are invincible; we can fix everything cos we are super heroes! As our children get older the need to fix everything does not go away but it does become harder to do. The problems are bigger so the solutions are bigger too. What amazed me about our chat was his pragmatism, optimism and adherence to values beyond the material. I am very proud of my son.
Everyone I know, including yours truly, is having a bloody awful time of it just now. Regular readers will recall that I recently scribed that good things happen to me in May. Hmmmmmmm. Seems like the Good Fairy got lorst somewhere between the earthquakes and the tornadoes. Either that or she is saving it all up for the end of the month!!! So far May has brought terror, death, financial concerns and much worry to me and mine. Methinks it's time she gave us a break.
One little item in the news did make me smile broadly and made me want to issue a 'Welcome to MY World' badge to all our MPs. Gerald Kaufman, MP had written a billet-doux to 10 Downing Street and had received a response signed by a woman. Needing some clarification from the response, Mr Kaufman telephoned Downing Street and asked to speak to the named person. He was advised that this particular woman did not take telephone calls. So far so typically cowardly you may think. 'Cept that Mr Kaufman persisted in his request and was eventually advised that, er, actually, the woman did not, er, actually, er exist; she was in fact, a figment of a computer generated imagination. Who'd a thought it eh? A computer having an imagination. When the deception, for deception it surely was! was exposed the explanation was that this was a strategy in place at Downing Street for reason of security. Er, yeah right! I suspect that Central Government were just a tad slow in picking up some of the tricks of the trade from industry. At least nine years ago this deception was common amongst banking, insurance and utility providers. I recall getting into a rather heated discussion with a representative of npower. I had received a nasty, threatening communication from the Company and in my rage telephoned them to discuss the language they had used. I too was told that the author of the letter did not speak to members of the public on the telephone and I too was, eventually, told that in fact the name was just that, a name. Central Government has indeed mined the private sector for ideas and to a large extent that's a good thing. Over the years I have seen the gradual introduction of training materials and strategies that mimic those used in industry and retail. Unfortunately, successive Governments have been unable to distinguish the wheat from the chaff and appear to have adopted processes wholesale instead of selectively.
I'm not at all sure what we can do about the lack of Merriment in May: I guess we could all collectively stop time like the Samoan people have but for say, a month rather than a day. That way we could give May time to catch up with our needs and stop the money men making the little we have even littler.
Ah well, time to decide which of the really, really, REALLY important chores I should be doing next.
May the Angel of Hope walk with you today
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Wednesday 4 May 2011
The 'Glad Game': A bit blurred by the Blues (and I don't mean Everton or Chelsea)
Oh what I'd give to be Pollyanna instead of a sort of Pandora! I seem to have forgotten the words and tune to my chosen National Anthem : 'Always Look on the bright side of life'. Strangely, as I typed those words two magnificent Magpies flew into the Ash tree growing in the dyke on the opposite side of my road and my heart lurched upwards momentarily.
PMA: Positive Mental Attitude. I even created a informal group some years ago with then workmates who were severely downtrodden and mistreated by the employer: think characters from Dickens: Thomas Gradgrind partnered with Scrooge with a dash of Uriah Heep. Both girls had worked for so many years with the two they mutely accepted the working conditions. Despite one of the partners being mid 40's he regularly scolded three grown women for a) laughing (specially if they had not shared the joke with him) b) talking instead of typing c) not being at the individual workstations during working hours. (He would listen out for a lull in the sound of a keyboard being bashed and come out of his office to enquire as to the whereabouts of an individual. It didn't take me long to figure out the best way to make him scuttle back to his room was to suggest that she was in the toilet and may have 'wimmen's problems'. All that was missing was the actual whip and the high chair where the workers could be overseen. I had arrived in town after my decades in London working with and for people who encouraged original thought; accepted that it was possible for a woman to use her hands and speak at the same time and did not feel it necessary to impose timed toilet breaks. I was stunned: at the management attitude and at the mute acceptance. So me and my new fangled ideas stirred the pot and every Friday night we would meet and go through the week dissecting what had happened and looking for the positive in each of the negatives. I offered visualisation strategies to them to help them in pricking the pompousness of each of the partners; I encouraged them to laugh and reminded them of their status. Gradually I whittled away at ten years of servile attitude - both were 'grateful' for being employed for differing reasons and horror of horrors, I organised a meeting between the partners and the workers. It had never been done! No-one had ever challenged the status quo and the real fear expressed by both my colleagues ranged from being sacked to being sent to Coventry. Eventually, having persuaded both sides to meet (after work hours of course!) with me acting as facilitator, we had a frank exchange of views. The most Dickensian of the two kept trying to highjack the meeting, reassert his status and dismiss any concerns being raised as 'none of your concern, matters for those with managerial responsibility only' but me and my chums were doggedly determined and ploughed ahead and outwitted him. The other two girls grew in confidence as the meeting progressed and we had been well prepared. So when it came to offering alternatives to existing practices, the senior partner started to accept some of the suggestions. The junior partner became deflated and thereafter took little part in the proceedings. But we had achieved what we'd set out to achieve: the girls were no longer meekly accepting of the Dickensian management style and the partners realised that we, the workers, did have value and they they needed us just as much (if not more) than we needed them.
What was the point of that anecdote? It illustrates that I am (or was) capable of being positive but am finding this last year of my fifth decade really, really hard to deal with. The brick walls just seem to get thicker and higher and more complex. I had a chasing letter from Atos - the contractors for the DWP - today. Funnily enough I had already been nightmaring about the fact that I had probably missed the deadline for submitting the 20 page form. Double checking today the form has to be returned by the 17th of May. But the letter I received today dated 1st May is designed to put the wind up me. And it worked. Firstly the envelope: I cannot tell whether it has been sent by first or second class and it carries the endorsement in large, emboldened print 'Important information This is Not a Circular'. The letter itself reminds me that they sent the form to me on the 31st of March and that they have not received the completed form. In bold text I am reminded that I must return it by the 17th of May. To add to the imperativeness of my compliance with their request, I am further reminded that if I fail to do so, then my benefit may be affected. So I set to this afternoon and started to complete the form. As I did so, I realised they already had the information they wanted, they had the original of my GP's recommendation and I struggled to find new ways of explaining my symptoms. One thing I have discovered is that not all government departments use English in the same way as each other, never mind in the same way as me! I have also discovered that they don't do maths in the same way as others either.
According to law the minimum income I require to live on is £9.35 per day which is £289.85 per 31 day calendar month. Accounting only for coal, wood, insurances and council tax my monthly expenditure is £309.15 representing a deficit of £19.15 per month. I can't bear to consider the calculations for mortgage, utilities, medicines, clothing, food, pet food, petrol etc etc etc. Is there any wonder Mr WorryWorm is fat and in rude health just now? Or that the Sleep Fairy evades my clutches? Or that Mr Motivator's lycra appears to have perished? On the positive side I know I can get through the rest of today: I have been fed and watered and my animals will be fine too. I have learned to barter and am no longer embarrassed at the till to ask the assistant to deduct an item or items from my meagre shopping basket because I am 16p short. I have also learnt to scour the stores at the right time of day (between 15.00 and 16.00 since you ask) for the 'must get rid of today items' and examine closely the price of everything. I was listening to Lady Jenkin, a Peeress, today who is taking part in the Restless Development initiative by living on food this week to the value of £1.00 per day to raise awareness on extreme poverty in the third world. She's right you COULD live on £1.00's worth of food per day.
I've taken to costing out the food that I eat, although I haven't managed to work out the calculations for the collection, preparation, storage or cooking costs. Today, I think I have spent about £2.34 on food alone. Going back to the legal amount I need to live on per day, remember? it was £9.35 per day: so from today's daily allowance I have a remainder of £7.01 with which to fund all other expenses. My mind has turned already to possible sources of fuel lurking in my garage as my wood stocks have depleted and cannot be replenished until, maybe, the middle of the month. I have also thought of other means to raise funds; most have been discarded on either moral, health or sheer inability grounds. Tomorrow I am scheduled to work for a little while using some precious petrol: I will earn around £12.21 for one and a half hour's work. I shall have to declare those earnings to both the DWP and to the local Council so that they can re-adjust the benefit I receive, because I will have earned about £2.86 above the daily legal amount they tell me I need to live on.
I KNOW there are people worse off than me: I know that all WILL be well; but I also know that this evening, I am low and the only thing that has not escaped from my very own Pandora's Box is hope.
Take care and watch those pennies!!!!
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
PMA: Positive Mental Attitude. I even created a informal group some years ago with then workmates who were severely downtrodden and mistreated by the employer: think characters from Dickens: Thomas Gradgrind partnered with Scrooge with a dash of Uriah Heep. Both girls had worked for so many years with the two they mutely accepted the working conditions. Despite one of the partners being mid 40's he regularly scolded three grown women for a) laughing (specially if they had not shared the joke with him) b) talking instead of typing c) not being at the individual workstations during working hours. (He would listen out for a lull in the sound of a keyboard being bashed and come out of his office to enquire as to the whereabouts of an individual. It didn't take me long to figure out the best way to make him scuttle back to his room was to suggest that she was in the toilet and may have 'wimmen's problems'. All that was missing was the actual whip and the high chair where the workers could be overseen. I had arrived in town after my decades in London working with and for people who encouraged original thought; accepted that it was possible for a woman to use her hands and speak at the same time and did not feel it necessary to impose timed toilet breaks. I was stunned: at the management attitude and at the mute acceptance. So me and my new fangled ideas stirred the pot and every Friday night we would meet and go through the week dissecting what had happened and looking for the positive in each of the negatives. I offered visualisation strategies to them to help them in pricking the pompousness of each of the partners; I encouraged them to laugh and reminded them of their status. Gradually I whittled away at ten years of servile attitude - both were 'grateful' for being employed for differing reasons and horror of horrors, I organised a meeting between the partners and the workers. It had never been done! No-one had ever challenged the status quo and the real fear expressed by both my colleagues ranged from being sacked to being sent to Coventry. Eventually, having persuaded both sides to meet (after work hours of course!) with me acting as facilitator, we had a frank exchange of views. The most Dickensian of the two kept trying to highjack the meeting, reassert his status and dismiss any concerns being raised as 'none of your concern, matters for those with managerial responsibility only' but me and my chums were doggedly determined and ploughed ahead and outwitted him. The other two girls grew in confidence as the meeting progressed and we had been well prepared. So when it came to offering alternatives to existing practices, the senior partner started to accept some of the suggestions. The junior partner became deflated and thereafter took little part in the proceedings. But we had achieved what we'd set out to achieve: the girls were no longer meekly accepting of the Dickensian management style and the partners realised that we, the workers, did have value and they they needed us just as much (if not more) than we needed them.
What was the point of that anecdote? It illustrates that I am (or was) capable of being positive but am finding this last year of my fifth decade really, really hard to deal with. The brick walls just seem to get thicker and higher and more complex. I had a chasing letter from Atos - the contractors for the DWP - today. Funnily enough I had already been nightmaring about the fact that I had probably missed the deadline for submitting the 20 page form. Double checking today the form has to be returned by the 17th of May. But the letter I received today dated 1st May is designed to put the wind up me. And it worked. Firstly the envelope: I cannot tell whether it has been sent by first or second class and it carries the endorsement in large, emboldened print 'Important information This is Not a Circular'. The letter itself reminds me that they sent the form to me on the 31st of March and that they have not received the completed form. In bold text I am reminded that I must return it by the 17th of May. To add to the imperativeness of my compliance with their request, I am further reminded that if I fail to do so, then my benefit may be affected. So I set to this afternoon and started to complete the form. As I did so, I realised they already had the information they wanted, they had the original of my GP's recommendation and I struggled to find new ways of explaining my symptoms. One thing I have discovered is that not all government departments use English in the same way as each other, never mind in the same way as me! I have also discovered that they don't do maths in the same way as others either.
According to law the minimum income I require to live on is £9.35 per day which is £289.85 per 31 day calendar month. Accounting only for coal, wood, insurances and council tax my monthly expenditure is £309.15 representing a deficit of £19.15 per month. I can't bear to consider the calculations for mortgage, utilities, medicines, clothing, food, pet food, petrol etc etc etc. Is there any wonder Mr WorryWorm is fat and in rude health just now? Or that the Sleep Fairy evades my clutches? Or that Mr Motivator's lycra appears to have perished? On the positive side I know I can get through the rest of today: I have been fed and watered and my animals will be fine too. I have learned to barter and am no longer embarrassed at the till to ask the assistant to deduct an item or items from my meagre shopping basket because I am 16p short. I have also learnt to scour the stores at the right time of day (between 15.00 and 16.00 since you ask) for the 'must get rid of today items' and examine closely the price of everything. I was listening to Lady Jenkin, a Peeress, today who is taking part in the Restless Development initiative by living on food this week to the value of £1.00 per day to raise awareness on extreme poverty in the third world. She's right you COULD live on £1.00's worth of food per day.
I've taken to costing out the food that I eat, although I haven't managed to work out the calculations for the collection, preparation, storage or cooking costs. Today, I think I have spent about £2.34 on food alone. Going back to the legal amount I need to live on per day, remember? it was £9.35 per day: so from today's daily allowance I have a remainder of £7.01 with which to fund all other expenses. My mind has turned already to possible sources of fuel lurking in my garage as my wood stocks have depleted and cannot be replenished until, maybe, the middle of the month. I have also thought of other means to raise funds; most have been discarded on either moral, health or sheer inability grounds. Tomorrow I am scheduled to work for a little while using some precious petrol: I will earn around £12.21 for one and a half hour's work. I shall have to declare those earnings to both the DWP and to the local Council so that they can re-adjust the benefit I receive, because I will have earned about £2.86 above the daily legal amount they tell me I need to live on.
I KNOW there are people worse off than me: I know that all WILL be well; but I also know that this evening, I am low and the only thing that has not escaped from my very own Pandora's Box is hope.
Take care and watch those pennies!!!!
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Tuesday 3 May 2011
It Aint Necessarily So but then again...
I have decided it's cliche day today: All day I have been assailed by cliches; I have uttered them, listened to them, believed them, disbelieved them. And still they survive. Cliches: trite; overused phrases that are supposed to show that the utterer lacks original thought or imagination. A very harsh description methinks.
There's been a broad spectrum of stuff for me to consider and such consideration has not been helped by a serious case of the blues and the re-emergence of Mr WorryWorm who has taken root in my upper stomach - again! Oh! how short a step it is from optimism to pessimism! In no particular order because, rather oddly, all that I am about to refer to, causes Mr WorryWorm to turn somersaults and my optimism to reach for the tissues.
I'll start with the news of the death of a chap at the G8 summit in 2009: An inquest jury has just reached it's conclusion as to the manner of his death and has decided that it was unlawful. This means that someone, against the rule of the land, caused him to die, deliberately or accidentally. Any death is a tragedy: that is a cliche that has been used till tis almost wored out. The officer who pushed the man about and hit him with a baton said, in his evidence in chief at the coroner's court, that he was sorry if any action he had taken had caused the death; tonight Scotland Yard issued a statement saying, inter alia, that they were profoundly sorry about the unlawful killing and that the officer in question would be subject to a disciplinary hearing. Shortly thereafter I heard a 'witness' describe what he had seen on the day: how the man had 'flown' towards him and landed heavily as a result of being pushed with unreasonable force. I don't know. I wasn't there. I didn't see. But there are little things about the whole thing that bother me: why had the officer, a member of an elite squad, been involved, allegedly, in five violent incidents prior to the one which caused the death? Was he afraid? Was he 'high' on battle adrenalin? Had he seen one of his colleagues battered perhaps and was getting his retaliation in first? I don't know. What I do know is that this officer is about to be subject to the most severe of discipline procedures. You think that the discipline procedure at your place of work is tough: believe me, the standards set for those charged with maintaining the law are a damn sight tougher and rightly so. Then I heard the conflicting pathology reports, noted the discrepancies and the detailed description of the man's medical status. At some point I think someone suggested that he was drunk, had a drink problem and/or had a pre-existing heart condition - the suggestion being that his lifestyle may have contributed to his doom. Almost unnoticed, a reporter commented that the man who died was not a demonstrator; he was simply making his way through the demonstration to his hostel. Hostel? What hostel? Why was he in a hostel? Why does it sit uneasily with me that he was en route to a hostel? Why did he attempt to go through a violent demonstration to reach his destination? His family, being interviewed today, declared their love, their anguish and their visceral need for justice for his lost life. So, why was he living in a hostel?
Onto another death: Osama Bin Laden. For a while I was stunned by the news, not quite sure what my reaction was and I took some time to process it. I am not American: I was not related to any who died or were injured in the September 11 tragedies (now there's a overused word: i.e. it was a tragedy when the ball went into the net). But I was transfixed in horror as the awfulness was beamed across the world, over and over and over again: like many people I found it necessary to telephone each and every person I loved to touch base with them and tell them how much I loved them. The horror was deeply embedded into my soul when I saw and heard the 'celebrations' from representatives of other nations as those poor people fell to their death rather than be consumed in the fires of hell. I have never been able to erase those pictures from my mind. Nearly ten years on I watched (in full) President Obama deliver his speech to the Nation. I was struck by his lack of rhetoric; his lack of triumphalism and realised that those slim shoulders had indeed been dealing with matters a little more important than his place of birth. It didn't take long for the doubters to voice their difficulties with the situation, irrespective of their nationality: the manner of the death; the manner of the disposal of the body, the timing of the announcement, the beneficial bounty to Obama in his next election etc etc etc..... I wonder what the Saudi is for 'hide yourself in a crowd'?
A third death that has an impact on me is the death of someone I have never met, didn't know and who had only the most tenuous link to me: a close relative of my BF. The shattering impact on her has highlighted the impotence of those who stand and care. The cliches tumbled from me; offers of a safe pair of ears; encouragement to her to acknowledge her own feelings whilst supporting others in their loss and how the next few weeks, with the rituals, were part of the process of healing and that such rituals should be embraced. I hope that those cliches did not sound hollow because they were heartfelt. Just because a set of words is not original does not mean they are not sincere.
Then there are the cliches that come with animals: 'I swear, he/she understand everything I say'. This is a phrase oftimes uttered by your Scribe and ascribed to all and any type of animal. The fact that it is a cliche does not detract from the truth of the statement. Every single animal I have ever come into contact with DOES understand that 'Hungies' said in a sing song voice means food; that 'dinkies' means take a drink of water and that 'beddybooks' means time to go to sleepybyes. MaddyMoo excelled herself today and brought a smile to this rather sad face: I think I may have mentioned the food word because as I was lighting the fire, she brought to the hearth her empty food dish and dropped it dramatically on the wooden floor in front of me. I got the message.
Take care, live every moment as if it was THE most important moment in your life, cos, guess what? it IS.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
There's been a broad spectrum of stuff for me to consider and such consideration has not been helped by a serious case of the blues and the re-emergence of Mr WorryWorm who has taken root in my upper stomach - again! Oh! how short a step it is from optimism to pessimism! In no particular order because, rather oddly, all that I am about to refer to, causes Mr WorryWorm to turn somersaults and my optimism to reach for the tissues.
I'll start with the news of the death of a chap at the G8 summit in 2009: An inquest jury has just reached it's conclusion as to the manner of his death and has decided that it was unlawful. This means that someone, against the rule of the land, caused him to die, deliberately or accidentally. Any death is a tragedy: that is a cliche that has been used till tis almost wored out. The officer who pushed the man about and hit him with a baton said, in his evidence in chief at the coroner's court, that he was sorry if any action he had taken had caused the death; tonight Scotland Yard issued a statement saying, inter alia, that they were profoundly sorry about the unlawful killing and that the officer in question would be subject to a disciplinary hearing. Shortly thereafter I heard a 'witness' describe what he had seen on the day: how the man had 'flown' towards him and landed heavily as a result of being pushed with unreasonable force. I don't know. I wasn't there. I didn't see. But there are little things about the whole thing that bother me: why had the officer, a member of an elite squad, been involved, allegedly, in five violent incidents prior to the one which caused the death? Was he afraid? Was he 'high' on battle adrenalin? Had he seen one of his colleagues battered perhaps and was getting his retaliation in first? I don't know. What I do know is that this officer is about to be subject to the most severe of discipline procedures. You think that the discipline procedure at your place of work is tough: believe me, the standards set for those charged with maintaining the law are a damn sight tougher and rightly so. Then I heard the conflicting pathology reports, noted the discrepancies and the detailed description of the man's medical status. At some point I think someone suggested that he was drunk, had a drink problem and/or had a pre-existing heart condition - the suggestion being that his lifestyle may have contributed to his doom. Almost unnoticed, a reporter commented that the man who died was not a demonstrator; he was simply making his way through the demonstration to his hostel. Hostel? What hostel? Why was he in a hostel? Why does it sit uneasily with me that he was en route to a hostel? Why did he attempt to go through a violent demonstration to reach his destination? His family, being interviewed today, declared their love, their anguish and their visceral need for justice for his lost life. So, why was he living in a hostel?
Onto another death: Osama Bin Laden. For a while I was stunned by the news, not quite sure what my reaction was and I took some time to process it. I am not American: I was not related to any who died or were injured in the September 11 tragedies (now there's a overused word: i.e. it was a tragedy when the ball went into the net). But I was transfixed in horror as the awfulness was beamed across the world, over and over and over again: like many people I found it necessary to telephone each and every person I loved to touch base with them and tell them how much I loved them. The horror was deeply embedded into my soul when I saw and heard the 'celebrations' from representatives of other nations as those poor people fell to their death rather than be consumed in the fires of hell. I have never been able to erase those pictures from my mind. Nearly ten years on I watched (in full) President Obama deliver his speech to the Nation. I was struck by his lack of rhetoric; his lack of triumphalism and realised that those slim shoulders had indeed been dealing with matters a little more important than his place of birth. It didn't take long for the doubters to voice their difficulties with the situation, irrespective of their nationality: the manner of the death; the manner of the disposal of the body, the timing of the announcement, the beneficial bounty to Obama in his next election etc etc etc..... I wonder what the Saudi is for 'hide yourself in a crowd'?
A third death that has an impact on me is the death of someone I have never met, didn't know and who had only the most tenuous link to me: a close relative of my BF. The shattering impact on her has highlighted the impotence of those who stand and care. The cliches tumbled from me; offers of a safe pair of ears; encouragement to her to acknowledge her own feelings whilst supporting others in their loss and how the next few weeks, with the rituals, were part of the process of healing and that such rituals should be embraced. I hope that those cliches did not sound hollow because they were heartfelt. Just because a set of words is not original does not mean they are not sincere.
Then there are the cliches that come with animals: 'I swear, he/she understand everything I say'. This is a phrase oftimes uttered by your Scribe and ascribed to all and any type of animal. The fact that it is a cliche does not detract from the truth of the statement. Every single animal I have ever come into contact with DOES understand that 'Hungies' said in a sing song voice means food; that 'dinkies' means take a drink of water and that 'beddybooks' means time to go to sleepybyes. MaddyMoo excelled herself today and brought a smile to this rather sad face: I think I may have mentioned the food word because as I was lighting the fire, she brought to the hearth her empty food dish and dropped it dramatically on the wooden floor in front of me. I got the message.
Take care, live every moment as if it was THE most important moment in your life, cos, guess what? it IS.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Sunday 1 May 2011
Welcome to the Merrie Month of May!
Oh! What a beautiful Herald she is! The magikness of May will bathe us all. This month has always been a kind month to me even though my own birthday month is June. As I look out of the Hive I see brilliant sunshine caressing the sandstone of 'my' church and highlighting the glorious greenery of my garden and beyond the hedgeline. Yesterday I saw my first two swallows balancing precariously on the telephone wire, or, as I was in full sun at the time, they may actually have been House Martins!
The Birthday Beech has today confirmed that it is alive and well as two leaves begin to unfurl to greet the new month. I just hope that this sharp Easterly wind does not succeed in scorching them off before they have time to fully develop. The Camellias appear to be less fortunate - naughty Granny Bea! but optimistically I shall not give up on them until I absolutely have to! Each of my rose bushes shows the promise of a fine season for roses with many buds on each plant. Incidentally the little pale rose which heads my blog is from my garden but I lost the label sometime ago!
I did manage some more maintenance yesterday and rescued three plants that should, by rights - having been so badly neglected - have given up the fight. Such determination and bloody mindedness deserves reward so I have placed them in the planted up wheelbarrow on my patio. I think there is a red geum called Mrs Bradshaw, although I am not entirely sure that I don't also have a yellow version, in two out of the three pots; and the largest pot houses Aquilegia Denver Gold. I am so fond of Granny's Bonnets or Columbine and have many in my garden from the yellow of Denver Gold through to 'black' and white Magpie, a deepest purple, palest pink and a white one. If I could I think I would set a whole bed exclusively to every possible colour and type!
The wheelbarrow planter did not fare well over the winter months: not least I suspect because it was parked in a North Westerly position; largely unwatered and wore a thick white coat of snow at least 12 inches deep for several weeks. Everything, save for the wonderful moss and some bloody minded Sweet William, was killed off. I shall try and take better care of it this season and proper planning would ensure that something will be in bloom every month
I was rather pleased with the bouquet carried by Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge on her wedding day. My understanding is that white lilac symbolises humility and innocence; Lily of the Valley means sweetness and purity of heart, Sweet William is for gallantry, Ivy for love and affection and finally, Myrtle from the plant set by Queen Victoria. The messages contained in the bouquet were lovely but its simple delicacy and beauty were, like the rest of the Bride, stunning. (Observant readers will have noted that, at last, I have actually got her name spelt correctly. I was, unusually, mislead by the K which is the shortform of her name. I passionately hate getting names wrong and have severely dealt with myself.)
And with the new month comes much hope. May's kindness has been with me over the years: big decisions get made and somehow work to my advantage despite my belief they will always fail. I really should trust more. Serious medical matters; legal matters, even major career decisions made in May tend to work out just fine. There are many existing problems and I confess today to a slight case of the blues and not a little loneliness. Of course I remind myself constantly not to be so bloody stupid, to be grateful for my blessings and to appreciate the moment. My worries are not confined to me (I have had to take meds early): they are also shared with my Sister-in-Law, my BF's Sister-in-Law and to some extent my family and friends. My Father once told me when I was 15 that I would be grey afore I was 30. Not quite Dad but me and WorryWorm have lasted longer as a partnership than either of my marriages put together!
Be kind to each other and spare some self kindness for you! I'm off to find a spot in the garden that is NOT being battered by the wind!
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
The Birthday Beech has today confirmed that it is alive and well as two leaves begin to unfurl to greet the new month. I just hope that this sharp Easterly wind does not succeed in scorching them off before they have time to fully develop. The Camellias appear to be less fortunate - naughty Granny Bea! but optimistically I shall not give up on them until I absolutely have to! Each of my rose bushes shows the promise of a fine season for roses with many buds on each plant. Incidentally the little pale rose which heads my blog is from my garden but I lost the label sometime ago!
I did manage some more maintenance yesterday and rescued three plants that should, by rights - having been so badly neglected - have given up the fight. Such determination and bloody mindedness deserves reward so I have placed them in the planted up wheelbarrow on my patio. I think there is a red geum called Mrs Bradshaw, although I am not entirely sure that I don't also have a yellow version, in two out of the three pots; and the largest pot houses Aquilegia Denver Gold. I am so fond of Granny's Bonnets or Columbine and have many in my garden from the yellow of Denver Gold through to 'black' and white Magpie, a deepest purple, palest pink and a white one. If I could I think I would set a whole bed exclusively to every possible colour and type!
The wheelbarrow planter did not fare well over the winter months: not least I suspect because it was parked in a North Westerly position; largely unwatered and wore a thick white coat of snow at least 12 inches deep for several weeks. Everything, save for the wonderful moss and some bloody minded Sweet William, was killed off. I shall try and take better care of it this season and proper planning would ensure that something will be in bloom every month
I was rather pleased with the bouquet carried by Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge on her wedding day. My understanding is that white lilac symbolises humility and innocence; Lily of the Valley means sweetness and purity of heart, Sweet William is for gallantry, Ivy for love and affection and finally, Myrtle from the plant set by Queen Victoria. The messages contained in the bouquet were lovely but its simple delicacy and beauty were, like the rest of the Bride, stunning. (Observant readers will have noted that, at last, I have actually got her name spelt correctly. I was, unusually, mislead by the K which is the shortform of her name. I passionately hate getting names wrong and have severely dealt with myself.)
And with the new month comes much hope. May's kindness has been with me over the years: big decisions get made and somehow work to my advantage despite my belief they will always fail. I really should trust more. Serious medical matters; legal matters, even major career decisions made in May tend to work out just fine. There are many existing problems and I confess today to a slight case of the blues and not a little loneliness. Of course I remind myself constantly not to be so bloody stupid, to be grateful for my blessings and to appreciate the moment. My worries are not confined to me (I have had to take meds early): they are also shared with my Sister-in-Law, my BF's Sister-in-Law and to some extent my family and friends. My Father once told me when I was 15 that I would be grey afore I was 30. Not quite Dad but me and WorryWorm have lasted longer as a partnership than either of my marriages put together!
Be kind to each other and spare some self kindness for you! I'm off to find a spot in the garden that is NOT being battered by the wind!
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Friday 29 April 2011
I could have resisted.... but I didn't
The last blog may have given the impression that I couldn't care less about the Royal Wedding - I tried really, really hard to foster that belief in the reader. Don't care! Won't care! I insisted I was uninterested and I was! Then James Naughty (deliberate spelling following his infamous slip up) came on the radio and I just couldn't bear listening to him. However I was curious enough to have a little peek and tuned in the BBC News Channel.
I found it hard to conjure up excitement when listening to Huw Edwards (I think) reporting on outfits. It may have been that his voice displays an obvious lack of enthusiasm or indeed it could have been the scarcity of real information being fed to him. Instead I took pleasure in checking out the outfits for my ownself. Strangely I will start with the Groom and the Best Man: what splendid uniforms!!!! My goodness all that scrambled egg and vividness - worthy of a Vivienne Westwood creation surely? I was struck by the broadness of Harry's shoulders. He really has developed into a fine specimen of manhood and I just love the fact that his hair appears to disobey him at every turn. Not sure why but William reminded me both of the Royal family in Monaco and Ruritania - I am not being discourteous when I write that - it's just, well just, what came to mind.
The other thing that struck me was the obvious closeness between the two princes and the fact that just underneath the pomp and ceremony there lurked a couple of lads having a ball! I believe the affection between them to be real and I cannot help but feel that this is as a direct result of Diana's influence.
When it came to the outfits worn by the laydees my overwhelming feeling was one of simplicity; straight lines, tailored coats and frou frous saved only for the fascinators! It is often the case that the Bride's mother tends to favour duck egg blue; all frills and froth without the slightest hint of embarrassment. This Bride's mother looked stunning. Her elegant outfit complementing rather than competing with the Bride and the colour was an inspired choice. The Duchess of Cornwall's outfit was also stunning and her advisers are to be praised for their reinvention of the woman who has travelled from hateful interloper to accepted matriarch. I wish her no ill but I still blame her.
The worst thing any female can do is upstage the Bride and I did not spot one possible outfit that tried to do that. In fact some almost appeared to be dressed down deliberately. It's difficult in these challenging times to balance the need for restraint against the need for showing orf! To the Bride herself: exquisite - beautifully cut gown that flattered and enhanced her assets adorned with a simple veil and lace. And the Matron of Honour? Her gown was simply gorgeous and flattering.
As the Bride and Groom, Best Man and Father of the Bride stood before the altar there were two examples of the humanity within the pageantry: Harry, William and Katherine looked for a while as though they shared a naughty secret and were struggling to repress the laughter that lay just under the surface. The second example was the Father of the Bride mopping sweat from his brow just before the ceremony commenced. Poor chap! It will be some time methinks before he will react to the call to 'stand at ease!'
And soon the Nation will return to it's usual state: but not before the newlyweds have played their part in bolstering our spirits for a little longer. It's hard to be churlish so I won't be. Despite being alone here in my cottage, I have not been able to deny the smile on my face or the pleasure in seeing two hooman beans smiling with joy and I am happy for the world to bask in the fairytale. May God bless and protect them.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
p.s. what's the betting that there is a chorus of 'my feet are killing me' and 'where can I have a ciggie?' as the guests return to the palace?
I found it hard to conjure up excitement when listening to Huw Edwards (I think) reporting on outfits. It may have been that his voice displays an obvious lack of enthusiasm or indeed it could have been the scarcity of real information being fed to him. Instead I took pleasure in checking out the outfits for my ownself. Strangely I will start with the Groom and the Best Man: what splendid uniforms!!!! My goodness all that scrambled egg and vividness - worthy of a Vivienne Westwood creation surely? I was struck by the broadness of Harry's shoulders. He really has developed into a fine specimen of manhood and I just love the fact that his hair appears to disobey him at every turn. Not sure why but William reminded me both of the Royal family in Monaco and Ruritania - I am not being discourteous when I write that - it's just, well just, what came to mind.
The other thing that struck me was the obvious closeness between the two princes and the fact that just underneath the pomp and ceremony there lurked a couple of lads having a ball! I believe the affection between them to be real and I cannot help but feel that this is as a direct result of Diana's influence.
When it came to the outfits worn by the laydees my overwhelming feeling was one of simplicity; straight lines, tailored coats and frou frous saved only for the fascinators! It is often the case that the Bride's mother tends to favour duck egg blue; all frills and froth without the slightest hint of embarrassment. This Bride's mother looked stunning. Her elegant outfit complementing rather than competing with the Bride and the colour was an inspired choice. The Duchess of Cornwall's outfit was also stunning and her advisers are to be praised for their reinvention of the woman who has travelled from hateful interloper to accepted matriarch. I wish her no ill but I still blame her.
The worst thing any female can do is upstage the Bride and I did not spot one possible outfit that tried to do that. In fact some almost appeared to be dressed down deliberately. It's difficult in these challenging times to balance the need for restraint against the need for showing orf! To the Bride herself: exquisite - beautifully cut gown that flattered and enhanced her assets adorned with a simple veil and lace. And the Matron of Honour? Her gown was simply gorgeous and flattering.
As the Bride and Groom, Best Man and Father of the Bride stood before the altar there were two examples of the humanity within the pageantry: Harry, William and Katherine looked for a while as though they shared a naughty secret and were struggling to repress the laughter that lay just under the surface. The second example was the Father of the Bride mopping sweat from his brow just before the ceremony commenced. Poor chap! It will be some time methinks before he will react to the call to 'stand at ease!'
And soon the Nation will return to it's usual state: but not before the newlyweds have played their part in bolstering our spirits for a little longer. It's hard to be churlish so I won't be. Despite being alone here in my cottage, I have not been able to deny the smile on my face or the pleasure in seeing two hooman beans smiling with joy and I am happy for the world to bask in the fairytale. May God bless and protect them.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
p.s. what's the betting that there is a chorus of 'my feet are killing me' and 'where can I have a ciggie?' as the guests return to the palace?
Thursday 28 April 2011
Deference: Where did it go....?
I really am not sure how I feel about the upcoming nuptials of Miss Katherine Thingie and Prince William of Wotsit. I am mindful that 30 years ago I was caught up in the wave of emotion and happiness of the Prince's Mother and Father's own nuptials. So much so that I encouraged Beloved Son and Heir - aged 6 - in his wish to marry his then girlfriend, Lavinia, in a charming ceremony in our council flat in Shepherds Bush where we had our own royal wedding party. I have the picture somewhere buried in one of my photograph albums.
I also got swept up in the horror, sentimentality, and sheer grief at the death of Prince William's mother. Coincidentally we were enjoying a party at our house in Hertfordshire and the party goers, across the generations (with one infamous exception) watched in stunned silence save for the pouring of tears and gentle sobs of disbelief. How on earth was this possible? Someone so beautiful, so kind, so popular wiped out in such mundane circumstances. I don't know that we ever foresaw any suitable death for Diana, indeed most of us with gentle hearts did indeed hope she would go into exile somewhere where she would be appreciated - the States perhaps - or even Paris maybe? As it was her fate was to end up being killed by the curiosity that haunted her. We were all responsible. Not just the reptiles who pursued her with their long lenses but we, the Great British Public and beyond who vicariously enjoyed every snippet, every piece of filthy tittle tattle - true or false - was consumed as we greedily asked for more.
Some of you will say 'Pah!': she played her own media game and indeed she did. Anyone who has ever been bullied, and yes I have, will try at least once to appease the bully; ingratiate themselves by playing the same game but alas the only way to deal with any bully is to say as loudly, as publicly and as often as necessary 'Piss Off!' Or as Princess Anne would have had it 'Piss Orf'. I minded to recall that 30 years ago when Diana, walked down the aisle to meet the Prince of Wales she was a 19 year old girl in love with her prince. An innocent; an ingenue thrust into the centre of a rarefied society she had only ever experienced on the fringes. Any of us who have ever experienced being the 'new girl (or boy!)' knows that awful feeling in the pit of your stomach when you start a new project or job or join a new society. Experience also tells me that in any new venture you need a good six months to get your head around the technical aspects, the politics - both big p and little p - the rules, the unwritten rules, the social structure - who's grooming whom in the tribe or pack, and, to identify your allies and your nenamies. Imagine that magnified with the aid of fishbowl lenses and the knowledge that every aspect of your self presentation is scrutinised by blemish, by error or by success. What an awful bloody life!!! I get irritable when people drive past and insist on looking in through my Hive window!
Then there came the funeral: my heart ached as I watched the two young Princes walking somberly behind her coffin; their floral tribute reduced me to uncontrollable sobs and I rallied with fierce admiration when her brother gave his extraordinary speech from the lectern and then, oh my goodness! there was clapping from the congregation and the onlookers. Never before had our masters and betters witnessed such defiant yet honourable salutation. Gradually the grief lessened and turned to white hot anger, particularly when the reptiles, gossip mongers, liars and the wretched Paul Burrell milked her corpse. They continued to pursue her beyond the veil. That is when the deference within me, that which had been force fed to me with my mother's milk, died.
As I have aged I have become less and less deferential of my elders and betters: they know no more or no less than I do; they have the same bodily functions as I have and I no longer feel the need to tug my forelock in the presence of grandness.
As for Kate and Wills? Well I wish them no harm whatsoever. I am utterly bored to death with the hype the forced joviality, the attempt to dissuade me from the harsh realities of my world as it is today. I wish them only joy, happiness and most of all I wish them strength because they are going to bloody well need it!!! Good luck to them!
Take care of each other
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
I also got swept up in the horror, sentimentality, and sheer grief at the death of Prince William's mother. Coincidentally we were enjoying a party at our house in Hertfordshire and the party goers, across the generations (with one infamous exception) watched in stunned silence save for the pouring of tears and gentle sobs of disbelief. How on earth was this possible? Someone so beautiful, so kind, so popular wiped out in such mundane circumstances. I don't know that we ever foresaw any suitable death for Diana, indeed most of us with gentle hearts did indeed hope she would go into exile somewhere where she would be appreciated - the States perhaps - or even Paris maybe? As it was her fate was to end up being killed by the curiosity that haunted her. We were all responsible. Not just the reptiles who pursued her with their long lenses but we, the Great British Public and beyond who vicariously enjoyed every snippet, every piece of filthy tittle tattle - true or false - was consumed as we greedily asked for more.
Some of you will say 'Pah!': she played her own media game and indeed she did. Anyone who has ever been bullied, and yes I have, will try at least once to appease the bully; ingratiate themselves by playing the same game but alas the only way to deal with any bully is to say as loudly, as publicly and as often as necessary 'Piss Off!' Or as Princess Anne would have had it 'Piss Orf'. I minded to recall that 30 years ago when Diana, walked down the aisle to meet the Prince of Wales she was a 19 year old girl in love with her prince. An innocent; an ingenue thrust into the centre of a rarefied society she had only ever experienced on the fringes. Any of us who have ever experienced being the 'new girl (or boy!)' knows that awful feeling in the pit of your stomach when you start a new project or job or join a new society. Experience also tells me that in any new venture you need a good six months to get your head around the technical aspects, the politics - both big p and little p - the rules, the unwritten rules, the social structure - who's grooming whom in the tribe or pack, and, to identify your allies and your nenamies. Imagine that magnified with the aid of fishbowl lenses and the knowledge that every aspect of your self presentation is scrutinised by blemish, by error or by success. What an awful bloody life!!! I get irritable when people drive past and insist on looking in through my Hive window!
Then there came the funeral: my heart ached as I watched the two young Princes walking somberly behind her coffin; their floral tribute reduced me to uncontrollable sobs and I rallied with fierce admiration when her brother gave his extraordinary speech from the lectern and then, oh my goodness! there was clapping from the congregation and the onlookers. Never before had our masters and betters witnessed such defiant yet honourable salutation. Gradually the grief lessened and turned to white hot anger, particularly when the reptiles, gossip mongers, liars and the wretched Paul Burrell milked her corpse. They continued to pursue her beyond the veil. That is when the deference within me, that which had been force fed to me with my mother's milk, died.
As I have aged I have become less and less deferential of my elders and betters: they know no more or no less than I do; they have the same bodily functions as I have and I no longer feel the need to tug my forelock in the presence of grandness.
As for Kate and Wills? Well I wish them no harm whatsoever. I am utterly bored to death with the hype the forced joviality, the attempt to dissuade me from the harsh realities of my world as it is today. I wish them only joy, happiness and most of all I wish them strength because they are going to bloody well need it!!! Good luck to them!
Take care of each other
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Thursday 14 April 2011
Fibbers, Manipulators and Spins Doctors.
Yesterday I heard my first cuckoo of the season. Oh yes I did! Oi! You at the back! I DID hear my first cuckoo call of the Spring. For once the morning was silent as Radio 4 had been bypassed in my hurry to attend to an urgent matter. ('You're not going to tell them are you?' asked Ed incredulously) Further explanation not available.
I really had intended to continue taking care of business but am suffering the side effects of starting to do so. I am, therefore attempting to distract myself from the dead left foot, the aching back and the overwhelming need to go to sleep. There is another hour before I can have more meds so.... to what the messenger brings.
Mr Cuckoo, because it is only he who sings that unique song, acted as the herald for Madam Spring yesterday. It is a sound I love to hear. The sound brings a lifting of the heart, an anticipation of the pleasures to come and each note promises warmer, kinder days. And then I went to the garden centre with my lovely friend J and her equally lovely daughter B. Mr Cuckoo Sir! You are a fibber! Your promises were overwhelmed by a bitter, bone cutting wind and stremities had to be revived. I note, wryly, that you sing not a note today. Harrumph!
Yesterday, despite the cold, saw your Scribe admiring J's garden; offering advice (groan. Ed) , spotting treasures, snaffling a stunningly beautiful purple geranium - oh joy! and rescuing an accident Clematis cutting - butterfingers J! Then we went to the garden centre. Now there are a number of establishments wherein I could bankrupt myself: would take oh! less than half an hour. They are: chemist, garden centre, Lush, Ikea, Greek restaurant, Indian restaurant and any store that sells decent malt whiskey. But. Harken! One of the joys of being penniless, poor, potless, is that you can look,admire and drool and then encourage your companion to spend far more than she might have intended. I keep my fingers crossed that her purchases thrive.
This morning I've been pondering on being manipulated. As a child, I was manipulated by fear, threats and worse. As I grew into a defiant, scared of nothing teenager of 15 I was manipulated by hollow promises. I have written already of the broken promises of authorities, the false horizon painted if only you do ...... such and such. But there is a positive form of manipulation that we oft times ignore. We hooman beans, of course, tend to focus on the negative of our interactions, our memories usually because those are the things ingrained in our entire bodies.
I recall the first time my Beloved Son and Heir manipulated me. Mother Nature is no slouch when it comes to providing the vulnerable with the wherewithal to be protected. Part of her tool kit is the way she designed the young of most species. Take a pair of big brown (insert colour) eyes, add a dash of a smile and bind together with a chirruping giggle. Instant! Nothing beats that on the attention stakes. He was about 18 months old and showed a love for the female of the species which he retains to this day. Big women, little women, black women, white women, fat women, thin women, six months to sixty years - no matter - they were female and he showed great skill at bending them to his will. I was cross with him for some minor infringement and was telling him off in that pretend, fierce way you use with toddlers. He hiccuped and turned to me having enlarged those big brown eyes so they almost filled his face, quivered his bottom lip and wailed 'But I Lurb You!' V was one of the last letters he mastered. Hopeless. I was defenceless! It was a bit like I imagine it would be if Omar Sharif were to ride up to you on his camel in a cloud of dust; fix you with those limpid deep brown pools and insist he was taking you for his Queen.
On the news I heard about a fabulously beautiful, famous film star had released the information that she had been treated for bipolar. Initially I thought 'how brave! how refreshing that we have another advocate for one of the last taboos'. Those of us who have admitted to others, not just ourselves, the presence of the Black Dog, as Churchill described his depression, need all the advocates we can get. On the surface here is a woman who has everything: beauty, health, wealth, a doting famous husband, beautiful children and a stunning career. What on earth has she to be miserable about? Apart from the fact that the piranhas have been feasting on her since she appeared in the perfick television programme; that her husband has survived cancer, that her life is lived under the glare of the telescopic lenses. Trying to maintain a front, a coolness, a calmness, never letting the perfect mask slip is hard enough for the average nondescript, un-newsworthy individual let alone a stunning beauty such as her.
Then I remembered the nasty little court case in London. The one where some celebrity magazine was being sued over unwarranted, and it has to be said not entirely flattering, pictures of the couples wedding. Part of her evidence in chief was that to her and her husband, £1m was an insignificant amount of money. Pause for effect. It was a little while before the less well off in the Country released the out breath. Remember my old friend Perception? Well Perception told us that she had forgotten; her tectonic plates had completed shifted; she had moved up the social ladder not just by one notch but by many. Now she was perched above us looking down pityingly at our paltry incomes. Unfair? Yep! Unlikely? What do you think?
Then I got to wondering whether the announcement was a spoiler: that some red top rag had a story, or worse still, a grainy picture, of her being escorted unceremoniously into a clinic and was going to run it over the weekend. Maybe her publicist advised her to beat them to it to get her version of events in print first. To deflect attention so that it is focused in sympathy with her rather than in condemnation of her. In a way I hope so. I am tired of being manipulated by the press. The ring in my nose no longer supports the weight of an editor's fingers as (s)he insists I see things from her/his point of view. I have learned that Frank Carson was right: 'It's the way I tell 'em'.
So I end with a little prayer: 'Lord, make me less cynical, but please just not yet!'
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
I really had intended to continue taking care of business but am suffering the side effects of starting to do so. I am, therefore attempting to distract myself from the dead left foot, the aching back and the overwhelming need to go to sleep. There is another hour before I can have more meds so.... to what the messenger brings.
Mr Cuckoo, because it is only he who sings that unique song, acted as the herald for Madam Spring yesterday. It is a sound I love to hear. The sound brings a lifting of the heart, an anticipation of the pleasures to come and each note promises warmer, kinder days. And then I went to the garden centre with my lovely friend J and her equally lovely daughter B. Mr Cuckoo Sir! You are a fibber! Your promises were overwhelmed by a bitter, bone cutting wind and stremities had to be revived. I note, wryly, that you sing not a note today. Harrumph!
Yesterday, despite the cold, saw your Scribe admiring J's garden; offering advice (groan. Ed) , spotting treasures, snaffling a stunningly beautiful purple geranium - oh joy! and rescuing an accident Clematis cutting - butterfingers J! Then we went to the garden centre. Now there are a number of establishments wherein I could bankrupt myself: would take oh! less than half an hour. They are: chemist, garden centre, Lush, Ikea, Greek restaurant, Indian restaurant and any store that sells decent malt whiskey. But. Harken! One of the joys of being penniless, poor, potless, is that you can look,admire and drool and then encourage your companion to spend far more than she might have intended. I keep my fingers crossed that her purchases thrive.
This morning I've been pondering on being manipulated. As a child, I was manipulated by fear, threats and worse. As I grew into a defiant, scared of nothing teenager of 15 I was manipulated by hollow promises. I have written already of the broken promises of authorities, the false horizon painted if only you do ...... such and such. But there is a positive form of manipulation that we oft times ignore. We hooman beans, of course, tend to focus on the negative of our interactions, our memories usually because those are the things ingrained in our entire bodies.
I recall the first time my Beloved Son and Heir manipulated me. Mother Nature is no slouch when it comes to providing the vulnerable with the wherewithal to be protected. Part of her tool kit is the way she designed the young of most species. Take a pair of big brown (insert colour) eyes, add a dash of a smile and bind together with a chirruping giggle. Instant! Nothing beats that on the attention stakes. He was about 18 months old and showed a love for the female of the species which he retains to this day. Big women, little women, black women, white women, fat women, thin women, six months to sixty years - no matter - they were female and he showed great skill at bending them to his will. I was cross with him for some minor infringement and was telling him off in that pretend, fierce way you use with toddlers. He hiccuped and turned to me having enlarged those big brown eyes so they almost filled his face, quivered his bottom lip and wailed 'But I Lurb You!' V was one of the last letters he mastered. Hopeless. I was defenceless! It was a bit like I imagine it would be if Omar Sharif were to ride up to you on his camel in a cloud of dust; fix you with those limpid deep brown pools and insist he was taking you for his Queen.
On the news I heard about a fabulously beautiful, famous film star had released the information that she had been treated for bipolar. Initially I thought 'how brave! how refreshing that we have another advocate for one of the last taboos'. Those of us who have admitted to others, not just ourselves, the presence of the Black Dog, as Churchill described his depression, need all the advocates we can get. On the surface here is a woman who has everything: beauty, health, wealth, a doting famous husband, beautiful children and a stunning career. What on earth has she to be miserable about? Apart from the fact that the piranhas have been feasting on her since she appeared in the perfick television programme; that her husband has survived cancer, that her life is lived under the glare of the telescopic lenses. Trying to maintain a front, a coolness, a calmness, never letting the perfect mask slip is hard enough for the average nondescript, un-newsworthy individual let alone a stunning beauty such as her.
Then I remembered the nasty little court case in London. The one where some celebrity magazine was being sued over unwarranted, and it has to be said not entirely flattering, pictures of the couples wedding. Part of her evidence in chief was that to her and her husband, £1m was an insignificant amount of money. Pause for effect. It was a little while before the less well off in the Country released the out breath. Remember my old friend Perception? Well Perception told us that she had forgotten; her tectonic plates had completed shifted; she had moved up the social ladder not just by one notch but by many. Now she was perched above us looking down pityingly at our paltry incomes. Unfair? Yep! Unlikely? What do you think?
Then I got to wondering whether the announcement was a spoiler: that some red top rag had a story, or worse still, a grainy picture, of her being escorted unceremoniously into a clinic and was going to run it over the weekend. Maybe her publicist advised her to beat them to it to get her version of events in print first. To deflect attention so that it is focused in sympathy with her rather than in condemnation of her. In a way I hope so. I am tired of being manipulated by the press. The ring in my nose no longer supports the weight of an editor's fingers as (s)he insists I see things from her/his point of view. I have learned that Frank Carson was right: 'It's the way I tell 'em'.
So I end with a little prayer: 'Lord, make me less cynical, but please just not yet!'
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Monday 11 April 2011
Mini-Muddles to Middle-Sized Muddles
Oh! Eckky Thump! By the Great God Entwhistle (famous old Yorkshire God - didn't you know?!). I had crafted this blog today about money and how it muddles me cos I don't speak it's language. I had even referred to the two pages of correspondence I had received from the Tax Man(Manette) explaining to me, in a language I am unable to decipher, that he/she has adjusted my tax code by making it smaller and that, should, I have earned £37,000 ish during the past year then I must understand that I shall be paying tax at 20%, and, 40% at anything else above that figure. My perplelexedness comes from the fact that the authorities know everything there is to know about me: medically, mentally and monetarily. So what idiot thinks it is likely that in the period of the one year past I am likely to have earned £37,000 or above? And!!! If I was likely to earn above and beyond that figure, that I would, er... actually be on benefits......? Ho hum.
So I had written several paragraphs that went on to talk about medieval-ness and bartering and general chitter chatter when I went to edit some mistake. Yep! Wiped the flipping lot! every word, 'cept the word that I had just edited. Couldn't find the blog anywhere. So here we are then with fresh one. Clearly the Blog Fairy thought the previous version was a little too, how shall we say, open?
Despite having retired early last evening, I awoke very tired this morning and remained so. In fact, it is fair to say that I could have gone back to sleep after the first cup of tea. But I didn't. I allowed sufficient time for medications to do their thing, chatted on chat with my Beloved Daughter-in-Law, and then made my way via the Rhubarb plant to the village. I'd harvested the first six sticks of the crop and took them into the animal feed shop. We bartered: D got the rhubarb and I got two days supply of food for my dog, my cats and the Wild Boys. Now that's the sort of market forces I understand!!!!!! Must be a medieval soul, always said I was born out of my time.
Took MaddyMoo to Howden's Pullover to play fetchy catchy and en route we saw two magpies. Oh joy! Previous readers will recall that I have an irrational love for the so called Devil's Bird and am always rridiculously pleased to see a pair. So I grabbed the omen tightly to my chest and hoped. MaddyMoo was delighted to arrive at her new favourite play place. Something, however, spooked her. She, the fearless Patterdale crossed with a Collie who would take on the biggest, fattest, smelliest monster if it was attacking any member of her tribe. She became distracted. Looking beyond me to the horizon she could clearly hear or see something I was not privy to. I confess that I was struggling on account of the fact that I had miss-timed the meds, again, and was finding it hard to throw the toy but I tried to encourage her to play a little longer. Nope! MaddyMoo picked up her toy, leapt into Florence and looked at me in that 'Can we go home now please' kinda way. Gratefully I fired up Florence.
Then I decided that I would just pop over to 'my' church to see what was happening. I was a bit concerned. The conservators have been here for over a week restoring the font and the door was wide open and the lights were on but no car or truck parked up. They had already asked me to keep the church locked as there was £5,000.00 worth of tools stored in there whilst the work continued. Me and MaddyMoo went to investigate. The young man in his mid-twenties was in fact in the church continuing with his work on the wooden lid of the font. He explained in answer to my worried enquiries that he had had to park his car away from the church because someone coming out of the farm entrance next door had hit his car! This is a rural road! One car parked by the Church, several collared doves wandering along the road, the odd, very odd as it happens, Wood Pidgeon and several sparrows. And she managed to hit him how?????
Ah well I guess we can all get into muddles.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
So I had written several paragraphs that went on to talk about medieval-ness and bartering and general chitter chatter when I went to edit some mistake. Yep! Wiped the flipping lot! every word, 'cept the word that I had just edited. Couldn't find the blog anywhere. So here we are then with fresh one. Clearly the Blog Fairy thought the previous version was a little too, how shall we say, open?
Despite having retired early last evening, I awoke very tired this morning and remained so. In fact, it is fair to say that I could have gone back to sleep after the first cup of tea. But I didn't. I allowed sufficient time for medications to do their thing, chatted on chat with my Beloved Daughter-in-Law, and then made my way via the Rhubarb plant to the village. I'd harvested the first six sticks of the crop and took them into the animal feed shop. We bartered: D got the rhubarb and I got two days supply of food for my dog, my cats and the Wild Boys. Now that's the sort of market forces I understand!!!!!! Must be a medieval soul, always said I was born out of my time.
Took MaddyMoo to Howden's Pullover to play fetchy catchy and en route we saw two magpies. Oh joy! Previous readers will recall that I have an irrational love for the so called Devil's Bird and am always rridiculously pleased to see a pair. So I grabbed the omen tightly to my chest and hoped. MaddyMoo was delighted to arrive at her new favourite play place. Something, however, spooked her. She, the fearless Patterdale crossed with a Collie who would take on the biggest, fattest, smelliest monster if it was attacking any member of her tribe. She became distracted. Looking beyond me to the horizon she could clearly hear or see something I was not privy to. I confess that I was struggling on account of the fact that I had miss-timed the meds, again, and was finding it hard to throw the toy but I tried to encourage her to play a little longer. Nope! MaddyMoo picked up her toy, leapt into Florence and looked at me in that 'Can we go home now please' kinda way. Gratefully I fired up Florence.
Then I decided that I would just pop over to 'my' church to see what was happening. I was a bit concerned. The conservators have been here for over a week restoring the font and the door was wide open and the lights were on but no car or truck parked up. They had already asked me to keep the church locked as there was £5,000.00 worth of tools stored in there whilst the work continued. Me and MaddyMoo went to investigate. The young man in his mid-twenties was in fact in the church continuing with his work on the wooden lid of the font. He explained in answer to my worried enquiries that he had had to park his car away from the church because someone coming out of the farm entrance next door had hit his car! This is a rural road! One car parked by the Church, several collared doves wandering along the road, the odd, very odd as it happens, Wood Pidgeon and several sparrows. And she managed to hit him how?????
Ah well I guess we can all get into muddles.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Sunday 10 April 2011
A Lazy Sunday Afternoon in April
I'm not sure where I am on the lazee-itis spectrum but as an unwashed benefit claimer sus-sppose I must be somewhere near the top percentile. Percentile. What a funny word! Before it was explained to me by our wonderful Head of Learning Support, I thought it was a Latin derivative used to describe the symptoms of special needs. Anywhey! it's one of those words that fascinates me - like 'exquisite' (which I see as delicate, sparkly and tiny - a bit Kylie My-nog-knee ish; or, 'mayhap' which conjures up for me a serf in drab beige-y brown-y clothing but wearing a jolly red hat and long-toed shoes in royal blue. (No, I don't get it either.) Back to being lazy; and I have been today - 'Idle-itis! That's your middle name!' I hear my dead Catholic mother say.
The appearance of being busy is not the preserve of Catholics alone. Oh - No - Siree - Bob!!! How many people do you know who can manage to expand the task to fit the time? It's as if they have discovered how to bend time to their will. That young chap from Accounts? Always with the busy, busy, busy ! He's forever up and down the corridors between floors 5 and 9 with reams and reams of papers. Ah, but, the astute observer will have noted that; a) the file is always the same file and is dated 1989, b) he times his excursions fifteen minutes prior to authorised breaks and always returns to his work station precisely at the agreed return time from the scheduled break. Monitoring his activities over say, a five day period, would, in fact, prove that he actually only spends 3 hours attending to actual work out of his contracted seven and a half hours.
I spent some time today regretting that I had not realised the film Mama Mia! was on the goggle box last night! I fell upon it around an hour short of the end. What a shame! I wish I had seen it from the start. Flipping great it was: wonderful!!! Cheesey? but of course; believable as a tale? certainly not, a triumph of actors singing splendidly? not at all! What it was was a damned good, a feel good, an in-your-face-having-a-great-time homage to those Music Meisters: ABBA. It made me laugh out loud, suspend belief and rather unexpectedly, weep (I gave myself a right good telling off I can tell you!). It was obvious to a blind tortoise that those taking part were having a thoroughly good time! How fabulous! I do hope it is re-screened soon.
I'm kinda struggling today; got too cold - April can be very deceptive don't you think? She looks pretty enough in her spring frock with all its promise of the joys to come but she can be cruelly cold without warning.
I also think I may have used up the small amount nenergy I was granted today what with the washing and the setting of my hair and stuff. I have fed my babies and fed myself so I think I shall indulge in a little more idle-it-ist and just go snuggle in the den and doze.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
The appearance of being busy is not the preserve of Catholics alone. Oh - No - Siree - Bob!!! How many people do you know who can manage to expand the task to fit the time? It's as if they have discovered how to bend time to their will. That young chap from Accounts? Always with the busy, busy, busy ! He's forever up and down the corridors between floors 5 and 9 with reams and reams of papers. Ah, but, the astute observer will have noted that; a) the file is always the same file and is dated 1989, b) he times his excursions fifteen minutes prior to authorised breaks and always returns to his work station precisely at the agreed return time from the scheduled break. Monitoring his activities over say, a five day period, would, in fact, prove that he actually only spends 3 hours attending to actual work out of his contracted seven and a half hours.
I spent some time today regretting that I had not realised the film Mama Mia! was on the goggle box last night! I fell upon it around an hour short of the end. What a shame! I wish I had seen it from the start. Flipping great it was: wonderful!!! Cheesey? but of course; believable as a tale? certainly not, a triumph of actors singing splendidly? not at all! What it was was a damned good, a feel good, an in-your-face-having-a-great-time homage to those Music Meisters: ABBA. It made me laugh out loud, suspend belief and rather unexpectedly, weep (I gave myself a right good telling off I can tell you!). It was obvious to a blind tortoise that those taking part were having a thoroughly good time! How fabulous! I do hope it is re-screened soon.
I'm kinda struggling today; got too cold - April can be very deceptive don't you think? She looks pretty enough in her spring frock with all its promise of the joys to come but she can be cruelly cold without warning.
I also think I may have used up the small amount nenergy I was granted today what with the washing and the setting of my hair and stuff. I have fed my babies and fed myself so I think I shall indulge in a little more idle-it-ist and just go snuggle in the den and doze.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Saturday 9 April 2011
Bits and Bobs on a Spring Day
If you have been, thank you for reading ;-). Having awarded myself a Purple Fairy Bank Holiday yesterday, I was supposed to be a Worker Bea today. I have failed. Do I feel guilty? Yep but only mildly. Cos, actually, there is only me to tell me off and I'm rather bored with the concept of self flagellation.
So just what has today been about then? Well, I had intended to be as daft as a brush all the live long day and me and LL managed a flying start this morning with our potty posts on Facebook. Then I spoke/chatted with five of the people I love and made an arrangement to swap seeds and stuff with K and her daughter tomorrow. I did the crucial chores between bouts of pain but not the ones that were on my 2DoMent List. Oh! I had great plans to get out into the garden and to try and deal with the runaway hedge, the rampaging grass and the dastardly dandelions infesting one of my pots which houses a rose.
I did have a bit of a scare early in the day: My MollieMoo did not attend me with her early morning enquiries after my health. I kinda thought she was punishing me for, yet again, letting that flipping dog occupy the BEST spot when sleeping with THE Purple Fairy. I didn't panic straightway because I thought she was safely tucked upstairs in or on my bed. I called up the stairs and invited her to partake of breakfast. Nothing. Zip. Nada. No little answering squeak and big eyes peering at me from the top of the stairs. No matter I thought, she'll surface when she's hungry or when she needs the 'What DO you mean you haven't cleaned the litter tray' facility. With half an anxious ear tuned into possible MollieMoo sounds, I carried on carrying on.
Since poverty has gripped me in it's horny hand, I daily think of ways of making money, food, fuel, all resources in fact, go further. One of the side effect from this has been the reduction of speed as I travel in Florence. Those who know me, know that I am no stranger to the 70, 80, 90, and heaven forfend! 100 miles per hour on the speedometer. However, now, as I eke out the pitiful amount of fuel I cannot afford for Florence, I try to estimate the number of trips the amount in the tank will take me to the nearest town. Fortunately those clever French engineers have created a guesstimator that tells me how many miles I have fuel for. The result of this is that I appear to have lost contact with the accelerator and tootle along at sensible speeds watching to see if the guesstimator's predictions increase. For shame!!! Oh my Goodness, I will be wearing beige next!!!!!! And if this distancing of myself from the gas pedal, as my American chums say, continues when the hell WILL I be able to play my Meatloaf and my Bonnie Tyler tapes, just answer me that!!!!
Actually, I am beginning to think that the cocktail of medications I now take is having a crucial impact on my view of the world. I did something today I never, ever, thought I would be capable of. I was shocked. Nay! Stunned. I spent £1.90. No! Really I did! I spent £1.90 on a copy of the, oh I can barely bring myself to even type the word; a copy of the GUARDIAN! I have never, ever, knowingly even read a paragraph from the Guardian, let alone bought a whole newspaper before. Some people, I assert wrongly, judge your character and your politics by the newspaper you read. (For the purposes of this discussion I discount the Star and the Daily/Sunday Sport by reason of their efficacy as toilet paper.)
When I was being brunged up I avidly read the Daily Mirror from cover to cover because that was the newspaper my father read. And, besides, I just loved Andy Capp. As I grew older I became uncomfortable with it's tone, the newspaper's tone not the tone of Andy Capp. At about the time I was going out with a rather gorgeous, highly intelligent young man (no! I don't know how I snared him either) he thought to add to expand my intelligence by 'encouraging' me to read The Times. Every day, he brought me a copy. Every day I looked at the front page. Sometimes I even unfolded the broadsheet and looked at the second half of the front page and once, I looked at the back page. Michael would test me on what I had learned each evening. After about a fortnight, he became, how shall I say? perturbed. Perturbed at my lack of progress in the intelligence stakes; confused that I could not answer the simplest of his questions posed by the big issues of the day and covered by The Times. This lead to friction. Miserable after the fourteenth fight over my inability to get beyond the front page, I yelled at him that I couldn't understand the bloody headlines never mind the bleeding paragraphs underneath the headlines. Michael, somewhat dignified I thought, withdrew from the role as edjumactor of the Thick One. It may come as a surprise to you to know that the relationship, sort of, well, failed actually.
Somehow I found myself in the world of the Daily Mail as I grew older. I read every word, including the back pages; all the columnists - oh how I miss Keith Waterhouse!! My day was incomplete if I did not obtain a copy. In fact I got vexed if I could not buy a copy and have been known to walk several miles to bloody well get one!!! I consumed the newspaper in the same way as I consumed books; greedily, totally without pausing for breath. I could not bear it if someone handled or read MY newspaper before I had! My love affair with the Daily Mail lasted throughout my Second Age until the reading gene broke down about three years ago. Since then I have bought the local newspaper for my nearest town (generally to see if I recognise any of the arrestees as my 'boys') once a week. I have occasionally bought a copy of the Mail at the weekends and struggled with the sheer weight of them!!! Sadly it would be fair to say that sometimes, not only have I not unfolded it, but I have used it to light the fire without reading a word.
So why the Guardian I hear you say? In my defence, I say that, as a person of conscience (God! what a curse!) it appears to have cornered the market on the collective consciences for the Nation. From the MPs' expenses scandal to the present revelations of the JobCentre Plus targeting people in order to reduce their benefits. It seems to chime with the burgeoning rage of the silent majority. So I have brought the first copy home today. I am comforted that the bundle should last me at least a week in reading terms - provided of course that I can concentrate long enough to absorb the contents. I'll keep you posted as they say!
And so back to MollieMoo. By midday, it would be fair to say that the panic was indeed beginning to surface. No answer came the stern reply to all my callings. Taking my courage sternly by the throat, I ascended the stairs and went to my bedroom. Harrumph! Did I really leave the wardrobe door open like that; and that pile of freshly ironed clothing dumped on the bed, and what about clean bedding you were supposed to be putting away! The answers, of course, were yes; yes and oops! No MollieMoo; no MollieMoo in the spare room, the bathroom, in the walk in cupboard, not a single glimpse of her. I was, by now half expecting to find a corpse, inside or outside of the house. Looked around the downstairs again - nope. As I was about to totter along the road and to check the dykes, I had an Eureka Moment; opened the door to the Garden Room and sleepily, MollieMoo blinked at me as she lazily lifted herself off the cushion and squeaked at me. I swear she said 'What took you?'
take care, love and peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
So just what has today been about then? Well, I had intended to be as daft as a brush all the live long day and me and LL managed a flying start this morning with our potty posts on Facebook. Then I spoke/chatted with five of the people I love and made an arrangement to swap seeds and stuff with K and her daughter tomorrow. I did the crucial chores between bouts of pain but not the ones that were on my 2DoMent List. Oh! I had great plans to get out into the garden and to try and deal with the runaway hedge, the rampaging grass and the dastardly dandelions infesting one of my pots which houses a rose.
I did have a bit of a scare early in the day: My MollieMoo did not attend me with her early morning enquiries after my health. I kinda thought she was punishing me for, yet again, letting that flipping dog occupy the BEST spot when sleeping with THE Purple Fairy. I didn't panic straightway because I thought she was safely tucked upstairs in or on my bed. I called up the stairs and invited her to partake of breakfast. Nothing. Zip. Nada. No little answering squeak and big eyes peering at me from the top of the stairs. No matter I thought, she'll surface when she's hungry or when she needs the 'What DO you mean you haven't cleaned the litter tray' facility. With half an anxious ear tuned into possible MollieMoo sounds, I carried on carrying on.
Since poverty has gripped me in it's horny hand, I daily think of ways of making money, food, fuel, all resources in fact, go further. One of the side effect from this has been the reduction of speed as I travel in Florence. Those who know me, know that I am no stranger to the 70, 80, 90, and heaven forfend! 100 miles per hour on the speedometer. However, now, as I eke out the pitiful amount of fuel I cannot afford for Florence, I try to estimate the number of trips the amount in the tank will take me to the nearest town. Fortunately those clever French engineers have created a guesstimator that tells me how many miles I have fuel for. The result of this is that I appear to have lost contact with the accelerator and tootle along at sensible speeds watching to see if the guesstimator's predictions increase. For shame!!! Oh my Goodness, I will be wearing beige next!!!!!! And if this distancing of myself from the gas pedal, as my American chums say, continues when the hell WILL I be able to play my Meatloaf and my Bonnie Tyler tapes, just answer me that!!!!
Actually, I am beginning to think that the cocktail of medications I now take is having a crucial impact on my view of the world. I did something today I never, ever, thought I would be capable of. I was shocked. Nay! Stunned. I spent £1.90. No! Really I did! I spent £1.90 on a copy of the, oh I can barely bring myself to even type the word; a copy of the GUARDIAN! I have never, ever, knowingly even read a paragraph from the Guardian, let alone bought a whole newspaper before. Some people, I assert wrongly, judge your character and your politics by the newspaper you read. (For the purposes of this discussion I discount the Star and the Daily/Sunday Sport by reason of their efficacy as toilet paper.)
When I was being brunged up I avidly read the Daily Mirror from cover to cover because that was the newspaper my father read. And, besides, I just loved Andy Capp. As I grew older I became uncomfortable with it's tone, the newspaper's tone not the tone of Andy Capp. At about the time I was going out with a rather gorgeous, highly intelligent young man (no! I don't know how I snared him either) he thought to add to expand my intelligence by 'encouraging' me to read The Times. Every day, he brought me a copy. Every day I looked at the front page. Sometimes I even unfolded the broadsheet and looked at the second half of the front page and once, I looked at the back page. Michael would test me on what I had learned each evening. After about a fortnight, he became, how shall I say? perturbed. Perturbed at my lack of progress in the intelligence stakes; confused that I could not answer the simplest of his questions posed by the big issues of the day and covered by The Times. This lead to friction. Miserable after the fourteenth fight over my inability to get beyond the front page, I yelled at him that I couldn't understand the bloody headlines never mind the bleeding paragraphs underneath the headlines. Michael, somewhat dignified I thought, withdrew from the role as edjumactor of the Thick One. It may come as a surprise to you to know that the relationship, sort of, well, failed actually.
Somehow I found myself in the world of the Daily Mail as I grew older. I read every word, including the back pages; all the columnists - oh how I miss Keith Waterhouse!! My day was incomplete if I did not obtain a copy. In fact I got vexed if I could not buy a copy and have been known to walk several miles to bloody well get one!!! I consumed the newspaper in the same way as I consumed books; greedily, totally without pausing for breath. I could not bear it if someone handled or read MY newspaper before I had! My love affair with the Daily Mail lasted throughout my Second Age until the reading gene broke down about three years ago. Since then I have bought the local newspaper for my nearest town (generally to see if I recognise any of the arrestees as my 'boys') once a week. I have occasionally bought a copy of the Mail at the weekends and struggled with the sheer weight of them!!! Sadly it would be fair to say that sometimes, not only have I not unfolded it, but I have used it to light the fire without reading a word.
So why the Guardian I hear you say? In my defence, I say that, as a person of conscience (God! what a curse!) it appears to have cornered the market on the collective consciences for the Nation. From the MPs' expenses scandal to the present revelations of the JobCentre Plus targeting people in order to reduce their benefits. It seems to chime with the burgeoning rage of the silent majority. So I have brought the first copy home today. I am comforted that the bundle should last me at least a week in reading terms - provided of course that I can concentrate long enough to absorb the contents. I'll keep you posted as they say!
And so back to MollieMoo. By midday, it would be fair to say that the panic was indeed beginning to surface. No answer came the stern reply to all my callings. Taking my courage sternly by the throat, I ascended the stairs and went to my bedroom. Harrumph! Did I really leave the wardrobe door open like that; and that pile of freshly ironed clothing dumped on the bed, and what about clean bedding you were supposed to be putting away! The answers, of course, were yes; yes and oops! No MollieMoo; no MollieMoo in the spare room, the bathroom, in the walk in cupboard, not a single glimpse of her. I was, by now half expecting to find a corpse, inside or outside of the house. Looked around the downstairs again - nope. As I was about to totter along the road and to check the dykes, I had an Eureka Moment; opened the door to the Garden Room and sleepily, MollieMoo blinked at me as she lazily lifted herself off the cushion and squeaked at me. I swear she said 'What took you?'
take care, love and peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Friday 1 April 2011
Little things, it's ALWAYS the little things - like a decimal point eh Asda?
Oh! Hello! I notice it is Friday. The end of the week for most people, save for shift workers, retirees, the jobless and those whose attention wavers from the calendar. It is also April Fools Day. The Day of Fools. Not many societies, I suspect, can claim a day (well, actually only half a day cos it all ends at midday) set aside in the calendar just for Fools. I missed the possible joke on the Today programme this morning but truth be known, I have managed to spot the joke for several years, so I guess I didn't miss it that much. I also missed the spoofs in the newspapers on account of the fact that I only ever buy a newspaper now once in a blue moon and usually use it to light the fire rather than read it. Whilst I remain politically active, committed and impassioned, I am so fed up with the spin doctoring of the presentation of news. One misplaced , misjudged word can throw the entire 'story' out of kilter.
It's been a sort of frustrating day really. I wanted to 'get on' and 'do stuff'. No! Honestly, really I did. I had intended to do a little of this, a bit of that, some of the other and a lot of the thingie. The Rat-in-Me-Back; the telephone and the distraction of the bag-o'-words in me head saw a different outcome. I did so the fire thing; the collecting of the wood thing and the chopping of the sticks thing. The Rat-in-Me-Back appears to have smuggled in a cousin of his into his lair cos each time I have tried to pick something up, or move something, or, indeed make my way through the throng of animals, the Spiteful Cousin stuck a red hot knitting needle deep into my bone causing me to yell out. First layer of frustration.
A little light distraction with the computer games temporarily puts the pain on the back boiler. Doesn't make it go away of course otherwise I wouldn't need the meds, but concentrating on something else takes the focus away from those nasty little teeth as they chew through my nerves. I haul the weary carcass to the village and had intended to let MaddyMoo loose at Howden's Pullover for a bit. I even packed a fresh new tennis ball, such was the sincerity of my intent. But. Got as far as the store. Now, I am currently greatly in need of meat and I toyed with the idea of getting some bacon so that I could do baked potato dressed with bacon bits, beans and grated cheese. Before I went to the butcher I just checked again the dwindling stock of coinage in my wallet. After the third moth flew out I realised that purchasing bacon would mean the non purchasing of another essential item. Turning away from the butchers me and Percy, my walking stick, hobbled into the store to ponder.
Once upon a time I rampaged through the world at 90 miles an hour, carried a tonne of produce and groceries, knitting my own yogurt as I planned the next exciting adventure for my family and friends or worried about the next project at work. These days, I lopsidedly shuffle from aisle to aisle trying to remember what it was I HAD decided I might buy. Choice at my local village store is limited. Time spent preparing and producing food is also limited. Sometimes I have to eat and I have to eat NOW! There was nothing that leapt out and said 'eat me eat me!' So I settled for a tin of mushroom soup and some high fibre wholemeal bread. Second layer of frustration settled down without my noticing.
As I fired up Florence the Rat-in-Me-Back and his Spiteful Cousin danced around the already overheated damaged area of my back and I realised that, uh oh! yet again, I was out of time with the meds. 'So sorry MaddyMoo' I said 'I need to go straight home, eat and then take the meds.' 'Minnits' I said unconvincingly, our word for maybe, soon ...
I used to be scared of microwaves. Way too scary for me. All that talk of danger and leaking and radiation and rock hard stuff you had to eat with a pick axe and hammer made me very nervous. I managed to keep my first microwave with a power factor of about 250 watts for about 12 years. It's longevity probably explained by the fact that I barely knew how to do anything with it other than make things hot so it was unlikely to get worn out. My current version is a little more powerful, all shiny stainless steel, and, I'm told, quite capable of splitting the atom or at least cooking a joint. I have mastered about one third of the controls and knobs and functions ... It is of course ideal for heating soups, re-heating cold cups of tea or coffee or heating frozen foods what I have saved from a previous cooking session. Mmmmm mushroom soup I thought.
Once upon a time if you needed to open a tin of food, you had to use a rather peculiar shaped instrument that looked a little like a fat fork with two prongs. One prong was actually a cutting blade sharpened into a point and the other prong had a nick cut into it where you placed the rim of the tin, once, that is, you had stabbed the tin with the pointy bit to make a hole in the lid. The technique required that you carefully and slowly manipulated the cutting blade around the whole of the lid until you were able to, everso carefully prise the cut tin lid away from the body of the can and access the food therein. The secret was to make sure you had just enough of the lid to manipulate; not only to expose the food but also to ensure you did not slice the top of your fingers off. The experienced pracitioner learnt, after several cans of food were spoiled with blood, to use the two-pronged can opener to remove or bend the lid backwards rather than your naked fingers. Armed with appropriate microwaveable container I picked up the tin of mushroom soup with its new fangled ring pull lid. Turn ring, straighten ring, insert finger and pull backwards towards you. No more ripped digits with this new invention. Ah! The ring on the tin was broked. Three failed attempts later, four expletives deleted plus sore forefinger, I reached for the swanky tin opener. Three failed attempts later I realised that the siting of the easy new ring pull lids were actually a tad deeper than the depth of the cutting wheel on my fancy can opener. Third layer of frustration solidified into temper tantrum.
At the end of the 15 minute process of trying to prepare a light, but warming, lunch in order to line my stomach prior to the injestion of the overdue meds, there was: a sore forefinger; a half opened can of mushroom soup, a draining board decorated in mushroom soup artfully arranged in the style of Jackson Pollock and a blue tinge to the air in the kitchen as various filthy Anglo Saxon words looked for somewhere to hide. Nice.
And so, once more I have procrastinated, put off dealing with the troublesome stuff, the stuff that's too big for me to deal with but I have enjoyed a wonderfuly long telephone conversation with Beloved Son and Heir and my lovely Daughter-in-Law; my Best Friend, chatted with my chums, and heard that the final stages of the end of the Second Age are approaching the final straight where freedom beckons. Now all I need is for someone to ...............
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
It's been a sort of frustrating day really. I wanted to 'get on' and 'do stuff'. No! Honestly, really I did. I had intended to do a little of this, a bit of that, some of the other and a lot of the thingie. The Rat-in-Me-Back; the telephone and the distraction of the bag-o'-words in me head saw a different outcome. I did so the fire thing; the collecting of the wood thing and the chopping of the sticks thing. The Rat-in-Me-Back appears to have smuggled in a cousin of his into his lair cos each time I have tried to pick something up, or move something, or, indeed make my way through the throng of animals, the Spiteful Cousin stuck a red hot knitting needle deep into my bone causing me to yell out. First layer of frustration.
A little light distraction with the computer games temporarily puts the pain on the back boiler. Doesn't make it go away of course otherwise I wouldn't need the meds, but concentrating on something else takes the focus away from those nasty little teeth as they chew through my nerves. I haul the weary carcass to the village and had intended to let MaddyMoo loose at Howden's Pullover for a bit. I even packed a fresh new tennis ball, such was the sincerity of my intent. But. Got as far as the store. Now, I am currently greatly in need of meat and I toyed with the idea of getting some bacon so that I could do baked potato dressed with bacon bits, beans and grated cheese. Before I went to the butcher I just checked again the dwindling stock of coinage in my wallet. After the third moth flew out I realised that purchasing bacon would mean the non purchasing of another essential item. Turning away from the butchers me and Percy, my walking stick, hobbled into the store to ponder.
Once upon a time I rampaged through the world at 90 miles an hour, carried a tonne of produce and groceries, knitting my own yogurt as I planned the next exciting adventure for my family and friends or worried about the next project at work. These days, I lopsidedly shuffle from aisle to aisle trying to remember what it was I HAD decided I might buy. Choice at my local village store is limited. Time spent preparing and producing food is also limited. Sometimes I have to eat and I have to eat NOW! There was nothing that leapt out and said 'eat me eat me!' So I settled for a tin of mushroom soup and some high fibre wholemeal bread. Second layer of frustration settled down without my noticing.
As I fired up Florence the Rat-in-Me-Back and his Spiteful Cousin danced around the already overheated damaged area of my back and I realised that, uh oh! yet again, I was out of time with the meds. 'So sorry MaddyMoo' I said 'I need to go straight home, eat and then take the meds.' 'Minnits' I said unconvincingly, our word for maybe, soon ...
I used to be scared of microwaves. Way too scary for me. All that talk of danger and leaking and radiation and rock hard stuff you had to eat with a pick axe and hammer made me very nervous. I managed to keep my first microwave with a power factor of about 250 watts for about 12 years. It's longevity probably explained by the fact that I barely knew how to do anything with it other than make things hot so it was unlikely to get worn out. My current version is a little more powerful, all shiny stainless steel, and, I'm told, quite capable of splitting the atom or at least cooking a joint. I have mastered about one third of the controls and knobs and functions ... It is of course ideal for heating soups, re-heating cold cups of tea or coffee or heating frozen foods what I have saved from a previous cooking session. Mmmmm mushroom soup I thought.
Once upon a time if you needed to open a tin of food, you had to use a rather peculiar shaped instrument that looked a little like a fat fork with two prongs. One prong was actually a cutting blade sharpened into a point and the other prong had a nick cut into it where you placed the rim of the tin, once, that is, you had stabbed the tin with the pointy bit to make a hole in the lid. The technique required that you carefully and slowly manipulated the cutting blade around the whole of the lid until you were able to, everso carefully prise the cut tin lid away from the body of the can and access the food therein. The secret was to make sure you had just enough of the lid to manipulate; not only to expose the food but also to ensure you did not slice the top of your fingers off. The experienced pracitioner learnt, after several cans of food were spoiled with blood, to use the two-pronged can opener to remove or bend the lid backwards rather than your naked fingers. Armed with appropriate microwaveable container I picked up the tin of mushroom soup with its new fangled ring pull lid. Turn ring, straighten ring, insert finger and pull backwards towards you. No more ripped digits with this new invention. Ah! The ring on the tin was broked. Three failed attempts later, four expletives deleted plus sore forefinger, I reached for the swanky tin opener. Three failed attempts later I realised that the siting of the easy new ring pull lids were actually a tad deeper than the depth of the cutting wheel on my fancy can opener. Third layer of frustration solidified into temper tantrum.
At the end of the 15 minute process of trying to prepare a light, but warming, lunch in order to line my stomach prior to the injestion of the overdue meds, there was: a sore forefinger; a half opened can of mushroom soup, a draining board decorated in mushroom soup artfully arranged in the style of Jackson Pollock and a blue tinge to the air in the kitchen as various filthy Anglo Saxon words looked for somewhere to hide. Nice.
And so, once more I have procrastinated, put off dealing with the troublesome stuff, the stuff that's too big for me to deal with but I have enjoyed a wonderfuly long telephone conversation with Beloved Son and Heir and my lovely Daughter-in-Law; my Best Friend, chatted with my chums, and heard that the final stages of the end of the Second Age are approaching the final straight where freedom beckons. Now all I need is for someone to ...............
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Thursday 31 March 2011
What a clever sausage!!
That Melvyn Bragg eh? What? My goodness how DOES he hold all that complicated stuff inside his brain? My intimate friends (and the divorce court) know that I am a Radio 4 fanatic. Fiend in fact. Tis true that every single radio (which will end up on land fill apparently together with my old fashioned telly cos I'm not upgraded) is tuned to Radio 4. Radio 4 accompanies me wheresoever I go in the cottage: from the ahem! smallest room to the bathroom to the den to the bedroom where I frequently listen to the shipping forecast and the currently decimated World Service. For those not familiar with the World Service I can confirm that not only is it a vital, essential, necessary form a communication across the planet (and probably beyond!) but it has sustained the alone, the terrified and the ignorant over the years. Even captives report the warm comfort of the transmissions in their darkest hours. And the presenters seem much more relaxed that their daytime colleagues. There is a gentleness (and an equal fierceness actually!) about the programmes laced with slightly cheeky humour which I find delightful. And it's not just me: glowing comments are recorded everywhere from strange sounding Countries with exotic sounding names.
But back to Our Melv: He frightens me. I would be absolutely scared to death to share a dinner table or a platform with him. Each week, week after week after week, he engages in highbrow conversation on subjects as diverse as the inter galatic impact of the chain reaction effect of a butterfly taking off in the Amazon to the nuances of the obsure religion of the Goo Goo Ga Tribe. Marvellous! Seriously I mean it he is Marvellous Melv. The depth and breadth of his knowledge is phenomonal. There appears to be no subject complicated enough; obscure enough or terrifing enough to throw Our Melv. I don't think in all the years I have listened to him I have ever heard him say 'I don't know'. There is no subject this man does not know something about. He speaks a form of English it is now too late for me to learn. I understand every fifth word he speaks: 'Good' 'Morning' 'Yes' 'Really?' 'Why?' for example. The words in between are an utter mystery to me. And, no! I am NOT sneering! I genuinely admire his apparent knowledge. I am, in fact, jealous. Please God make me a teeny weeny bit 'telligent like what Our Melv is. I hunger for knowledge, always have done. Loved school, cried when I was cruelly removed too soon.
And now, having given the Rat in my Back sufficient time to be slightly snoozed by the pain meds, I guess it is time to be growed up again and attempt to right the ship that is my life. Postie's delivery received just now has been painless (but of course there is Friday to come; the traditional day for creditors and bullies to write in apocalpytic terms to you in time for you to spend the weekend in sleepless terror); the rain has stopped (shame!) the wind has risen and the sun is shining. All I have to decide next is which actual chore will I pick up next. I have three and a half hours until the Rat in my Back will need sedating again, so let's see what I can achieve in that time.... Oh, and the the way, for some reason spell check won't play today so although I have managed to edit and stuff a couple of times, any errors? Live with them ;-)
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
But back to Our Melv: He frightens me. I would be absolutely scared to death to share a dinner table or a platform with him. Each week, week after week after week, he engages in highbrow conversation on subjects as diverse as the inter galatic impact of the chain reaction effect of a butterfly taking off in the Amazon to the nuances of the obsure religion of the Goo Goo Ga Tribe. Marvellous! Seriously I mean it he is Marvellous Melv. The depth and breadth of his knowledge is phenomonal. There appears to be no subject complicated enough; obscure enough or terrifing enough to throw Our Melv. I don't think in all the years I have listened to him I have ever heard him say 'I don't know'. There is no subject this man does not know something about. He speaks a form of English it is now too late for me to learn. I understand every fifth word he speaks: 'Good' 'Morning' 'Yes' 'Really?' 'Why?' for example. The words in between are an utter mystery to me. And, no! I am NOT sneering! I genuinely admire his apparent knowledge. I am, in fact, jealous. Please God make me a teeny weeny bit 'telligent like what Our Melv is. I hunger for knowledge, always have done. Loved school, cried when I was cruelly removed too soon.
And now, having given the Rat in my Back sufficient time to be slightly snoozed by the pain meds, I guess it is time to be growed up again and attempt to right the ship that is my life. Postie's delivery received just now has been painless (but of course there is Friday to come; the traditional day for creditors and bullies to write in apocalpytic terms to you in time for you to spend the weekend in sleepless terror); the rain has stopped (shame!) the wind has risen and the sun is shining. All I have to decide next is which actual chore will I pick up next. I have three and a half hours until the Rat in my Back will need sedating again, so let's see what I can achieve in that time.... Oh, and the the way, for some reason spell check won't play today so although I have managed to edit and stuff a couple of times, any errors? Live with them ;-)
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Wednesday 30 March 2011
Little things mean a lot
One opiate down... Did I really see the pidgeon riding shotgun on the white van at 7.30 am? I did! I KNOW I did. Was is a real pidgeon? Or was it a pretend pidgeon? You know those wonderful refuse operatives who drive the big, noisy trucks at silly o'clock in the morning and collect the garbage we don't know what to do with...? Well I notice that each wagon appears to have some sort of toy attached to its radiator. A monkey here; a parrot there, and, horror of horrors! a teddy bear too! I assume that it is a sign; a badge, a form of communication between members of a specific profession. Bit like the Freemasons perhaps? Maybe White Van Man (or Woman) has borrowed the communication tool.
Ah ha! The postman has arrived!!!! Shall I pray fervently BEFORE I open the door or after I have inspected the postbox? Both methinks. Hmmmm. Now, there's interesting. Postie, who is a chum of the Estranged One, sent me to Coventry several weeks ago. He went from years of friendly exchanges of mutual greetings and enquiries after each other's health to studiously avoiding even setting eyes on me through my Hive window. For a while, I was outraged, hurt and bewildered. Being a literal bean I tend to believe you if you are friendly. Equally I tend to accept it when you indicate you can't stand the sight nor sound of me. Shit happens. People don't always like other people. But what I do struggle with is when you change attitudes without explanation. Like a maggot feasting on a wound, the thought chews away: 'Why? What did I do? How shall I deal with this? What's been said? Shall I face him down? Shall I leave a note?' No. I do what I always do, eventually, bewail the unfairness of it all into the ever patient ear of my BF. No wonder she has tinnitus! In the end I decide I actually don't give a flying flicker after all. His problem not mine.
Anyroadup, today I WAVED AT POSTIE even though he was avoiding my fisog. Breakthrough!!! A wave returned with the merest hint of a lopsided smile. That'll do thank you. Delivery? and breathe. Seed catalogue trying to lure non existent pennies from my purse and begging letter on behalf of the birds. Now all I have to do is worry about the 'phone ringing ...
Spoke with my lovely Sister in Law: We share two connections, apart from my Baby Brother. We both work in education and suffer the slings and arrows of living in a goldfish bowl being tested to death. We both suffer back problems. L's are significantly worse than mine - although pain comparisons are a complete waste of time; your pain is your pain and my pain is my pain. She is recovering from a mammoth operation to try and repair the damage done by the previous mammoth operation. The second surgeon shared with her the awful reality of what he had found and we thank God! for the timely intervention. For those 'colleagues' of hers who bitched about her being seen shopping in town the weekend prior to the 6 hour operation, thereby attempting to diminish her suffering and her bravery, I reserve my most vitriolic words. I confess to white hot anger on her behalf and I counselled, as fiercely as I know how, that she should only ever take notice of the opinions of those she values and disregard the rest. Sometimes I hate members of my tribe.
Last night's TV surprised me. I spend an inordinate amount of time on tinternet/laptop and blogging and stuff. But I try to make myself spend time in the other rooms of the Cottage, to justify their existence really. So, I usually close down anytime between 7.30 and 10.00 pm depending on how humorous or interesting the intercourse is with Framily and Chums. Early close down saw me retreating to the den to do 'something else'. The choices: continue creating the blanket I am making for my BF (which should have been completed in February); read the newspaper I bought on a whim, or poke the fire and watch the telly. Settled for the third option as the first two required less pain plus the power of concentration. Four and a half channels now means that sometimes I am just stuck with what there is. And, sorry JM, not matter how wonderful you think Professor Brian Cox is (Professor? professor? For God's sake he doesn't even look old enough to have left the Upper Sixth yet!) I cannot get beyond the boyish good looks and sharpened cheekbones. I wish I could! Then I might come across as 'telligent.
So to Eastenders then - hey! you there! yeah! you! the one sneering in the corner: it's known as a distraction technique! I don't always remember the names of the actors or actresses (yes I DO insist on referring to the feminine as an actress - I refuse to be utterly cowed by what is supposed to be free speech). The scene between the characters Kat and Jean were worthy of a repeat watch and perhaps should form part of a training package for 'professional carers'. Each actress captured the nuances of depression and mental illness perfectly. The tenderness with which Jean gently wiped the much fought tears coursing down the over made up face of Kat was breathtaking and believable. The damaged trying to heal the damaged. I'm not suggesting that all therapists should be damaged before they are released to help others but my goodness, unless you have been there ... Kat's portrayal of absolute hollowness and bewilderment at her lot was perfectly pitched. I know it's not fashionable to praise the script writers of 'soaps' but sometimes, just sometimes, they hit the spot. Funny enough, apropos no connection at all, a professor type chap was being interviewed on Today and talking about his book this morning in which he confirms that happiness, after a brief visit to you as a small child, actually avoids you again until you reach old age. Within the discussion he referred to mild and severe depression: he said that if you could describe your severe depression you didn't actually have it. Spot on Prof!
Hairy Bikers! Oh my! THE Hairy Bikers! I am not a foodie; it's fair to say that actually, food and I have a, shall we say, difficult relationship at the best of time. Didn't used to be the case. I could eat as much as me Dad. These days I guess less physical activity means less expenditure of energy ergo, less fuel required. It also doesn't help that one of my multiple medical matters relates to the entire digestive system. But the Hairy Bikers. I fell over them acidentally a week or two ago and was mesmerised by them. They laugh! They have long hair! They are clearly well fed! Their carefully choregraphed chaos beguiles me. No Nouvelle Cuisine from this pair thank goodness! No three blobs of brown stuff artfully draped over a teaspoon of raw fish dressed with a single grape carved into a rose these two! Oh no! Lovely, home made, proper food treated with reverence and care. Last night's sausage casserole receipe confirmed the benefits of good home cooking from scratch with no scientific babble. The Hairy Bikers come across as real. From the brushing of the hair away from the face, to the little accidents, to swatting the flies - real people preparing real food for real people to eat. Magic! Sorry Heston; sorry Gordon, sorry Jamie. I know you each have your place and welcome to it you are but if I ever get rich enough again, I want to attend a live presentation of the Hairy Bikers.
Time to stop being self indulgent: although I have managed some chores today, I have had to indulge in more respite time between chores hence the waffle of words above. Looking forward to trying me Chili Con Carne Hotpotch I made from scratch, adding the left overs from the fridge, this morning - inspired by the Hairy Bikers.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Ah ha! The postman has arrived!!!! Shall I pray fervently BEFORE I open the door or after I have inspected the postbox? Both methinks. Hmmmm. Now, there's interesting. Postie, who is a chum of the Estranged One, sent me to Coventry several weeks ago. He went from years of friendly exchanges of mutual greetings and enquiries after each other's health to studiously avoiding even setting eyes on me through my Hive window. For a while, I was outraged, hurt and bewildered. Being a literal bean I tend to believe you if you are friendly. Equally I tend to accept it when you indicate you can't stand the sight nor sound of me. Shit happens. People don't always like other people. But what I do struggle with is when you change attitudes without explanation. Like a maggot feasting on a wound, the thought chews away: 'Why? What did I do? How shall I deal with this? What's been said? Shall I face him down? Shall I leave a note?' No. I do what I always do, eventually, bewail the unfairness of it all into the ever patient ear of my BF. No wonder she has tinnitus! In the end I decide I actually don't give a flying flicker after all. His problem not mine.
Anyroadup, today I WAVED AT POSTIE even though he was avoiding my fisog. Breakthrough!!! A wave returned with the merest hint of a lopsided smile. That'll do thank you. Delivery? and breathe. Seed catalogue trying to lure non existent pennies from my purse and begging letter on behalf of the birds. Now all I have to do is worry about the 'phone ringing ...
Spoke with my lovely Sister in Law: We share two connections, apart from my Baby Brother. We both work in education and suffer the slings and arrows of living in a goldfish bowl being tested to death. We both suffer back problems. L's are significantly worse than mine - although pain comparisons are a complete waste of time; your pain is your pain and my pain is my pain. She is recovering from a mammoth operation to try and repair the damage done by the previous mammoth operation. The second surgeon shared with her the awful reality of what he had found and we thank God! for the timely intervention. For those 'colleagues' of hers who bitched about her being seen shopping in town the weekend prior to the 6 hour operation, thereby attempting to diminish her suffering and her bravery, I reserve my most vitriolic words. I confess to white hot anger on her behalf and I counselled, as fiercely as I know how, that she should only ever take notice of the opinions of those she values and disregard the rest. Sometimes I hate members of my tribe.
Last night's TV surprised me. I spend an inordinate amount of time on tinternet/laptop and blogging and stuff. But I try to make myself spend time in the other rooms of the Cottage, to justify their existence really. So, I usually close down anytime between 7.30 and 10.00 pm depending on how humorous or interesting the intercourse is with Framily and Chums. Early close down saw me retreating to the den to do 'something else'. The choices: continue creating the blanket I am making for my BF (which should have been completed in February); read the newspaper I bought on a whim, or poke the fire and watch the telly. Settled for the third option as the first two required less pain plus the power of concentration. Four and a half channels now means that sometimes I am just stuck with what there is. And, sorry JM, not matter how wonderful you think Professor Brian Cox is (Professor? professor? For God's sake he doesn't even look old enough to have left the Upper Sixth yet!) I cannot get beyond the boyish good looks and sharpened cheekbones. I wish I could! Then I might come across as 'telligent.
So to Eastenders then - hey! you there! yeah! you! the one sneering in the corner: it's known as a distraction technique! I don't always remember the names of the actors or actresses (yes I DO insist on referring to the feminine as an actress - I refuse to be utterly cowed by what is supposed to be free speech). The scene between the characters Kat and Jean were worthy of a repeat watch and perhaps should form part of a training package for 'professional carers'. Each actress captured the nuances of depression and mental illness perfectly. The tenderness with which Jean gently wiped the much fought tears coursing down the over made up face of Kat was breathtaking and believable. The damaged trying to heal the damaged. I'm not suggesting that all therapists should be damaged before they are released to help others but my goodness, unless you have been there ... Kat's portrayal of absolute hollowness and bewilderment at her lot was perfectly pitched. I know it's not fashionable to praise the script writers of 'soaps' but sometimes, just sometimes, they hit the spot. Funny enough, apropos no connection at all, a professor type chap was being interviewed on Today and talking about his book this morning in which he confirms that happiness, after a brief visit to you as a small child, actually avoids you again until you reach old age. Within the discussion he referred to mild and severe depression: he said that if you could describe your severe depression you didn't actually have it. Spot on Prof!
Hairy Bikers! Oh my! THE Hairy Bikers! I am not a foodie; it's fair to say that actually, food and I have a, shall we say, difficult relationship at the best of time. Didn't used to be the case. I could eat as much as me Dad. These days I guess less physical activity means less expenditure of energy ergo, less fuel required. It also doesn't help that one of my multiple medical matters relates to the entire digestive system. But the Hairy Bikers. I fell over them acidentally a week or two ago and was mesmerised by them. They laugh! They have long hair! They are clearly well fed! Their carefully choregraphed chaos beguiles me. No Nouvelle Cuisine from this pair thank goodness! No three blobs of brown stuff artfully draped over a teaspoon of raw fish dressed with a single grape carved into a rose these two! Oh no! Lovely, home made, proper food treated with reverence and care. Last night's sausage casserole receipe confirmed the benefits of good home cooking from scratch with no scientific babble. The Hairy Bikers come across as real. From the brushing of the hair away from the face, to the little accidents, to swatting the flies - real people preparing real food for real people to eat. Magic! Sorry Heston; sorry Gordon, sorry Jamie. I know you each have your place and welcome to it you are but if I ever get rich enough again, I want to attend a live presentation of the Hairy Bikers.
Time to stop being self indulgent: although I have managed some chores today, I have had to indulge in more respite time between chores hence the waffle of words above. Looking forward to trying me Chili Con Carne Hotpotch I made from scratch, adding the left overs from the fridge, this morning - inspired by the Hairy Bikers.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
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