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
Where the beauty and the humour hide ...
Thursday 31 March 2011
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
Tuesday 29 March 2011
At the end of the day (and other cliched claptrap) ....
Ho Hum! Herculean effort to suppress symptoms this morning and get to the hospital appointment at silly o'clock paid off, well sort of. Without an alarm I woke up at 5.45 except, I didn't. Having managed only to change the clock on the microwave and the cooker, the mantle clock is an hour out so I actually got up at 6.45. This meant ingestion of painkillers/anti inflammatories delayed until 7.15 ish: the consequence of which means that the rat which chews away at my spine continues to chew causing chronic pain. It still has not and will not ease today.
All medical appointments require planning but hospital appointments requires specific and additional planning. Now I am 'alone' and 'partnerless' there is no automatic cry of 'Don't worry! I'll take the morning off and take you there and hold your hand'. (Er... was there ever??? Ed.) So my lovely BF is dragooned to meet me in the car park. I actually manage to arrive on time, with sufficient coinage for the car park penalty one pays for being ill, and, although it took ten minutes to do so, I even managed to key in my car registration correctly. So far, so successfull!
I'm second in the waiting room and presenting myself to the receptionist I suddenly realise that I have not actually spoken with BF to confirm where we shall meet. Terrified I shall lose my place I explain that I need to nip out to the car park to make a call all the while hoping that the nurse type person doesn't come and call out my name whilst I am absent. BF is on voicemail. Of course she is! She's bloody driving you idiot! Shivering I return to the waitng room anxiously trying to see if my file has been removed from the pending tray. I can't tell.
Mobile rings and BF has been caught up in the complicated roadworks I got caught up in. Seconds later, it seems, the weighing person calls me into a side room and weighs me. (I have already checked on my home scales and note under 8 stone to be the measure.) The scales at the hospital, of course, are not in English and when I ask the weighing person to tell me what the English version of 52 and a bit killogams is, she is unable to do so because she does not have a conversion chart. There is, I discover later, about a 4lbs difference between us. I am returned to the waiting room and shortly my BF sweeps in majestically and we both sit shivering. There is a certain sort of 'OMG what time of day is this' tinge to our conversation bordering on hysteria. My name is called and we are shown to the second waiting area.
We watch as women in uniform and men in plain clothes stalk the corridor we are seated in. Busy, busy, busy! Some are carrying notes, some are carrying equipment, some are taking patients into side rooms. Patients to be weighed, patients to be measured, patients to be examined. Cups of tea collected from trolleys - oh! how me and BF would welcome a cup of tea. My consultant's nurse comes out of his room and we exchange greetings. She has a big, beautiful smile and makes me want to be hugged. My consultant today is the one assigned to the gastro section of my bodily malfunctions and our consultation is the follow up to the CT scan. His door opens again and out he pops. I smile winningly and he ignores me as he enters the room next to me. He's not, of course, ignoring me. He simply has not seen me. It is not my turn. I am not scheduled to be in his consciousness for at least another ten minutes, hence he does not respond.
Last time we met, Dr S came to where I was seated, smiled, greeted me, shook my hand and escorted me to his room. This time he tentatively stood in his doorway and called my name. BF and I enter his inner sanctum and I remind him I am alone now and that my BF is with me to help me fill in the gaps. He shakes her hand. What followed next was, simply, appalling. The consultation was adversarial. What had I done to change things? Why was I taking one particular tablet? How frequently do your 'you know whats do the you know what? No I don't want to know about today specifically. Four times so far today you say? But what about other days? And what does it look like? You have too many things wrong with you. You have too many different pains. There is nothing I can do for you. The last drug I recommended to your GP? Oh that? Well you have just told me the steroids prescribed for your chest have had no beneficial effect on your digestive system and as the last drug I recommended is a targeted form of steroid there's actually no point in your taking it. You might as well continue with the chest ones. Gallstones? Oh yes! Nearly forgot. Leave them alone. They are doing no harm. Oh? they are causing you pain, then you need to go back to your GP for a referral to a surgeon. I don't do gallstones.
My Beloved BF is making notes for me because although I have brought a pencil and my daily log, I am too disheartened to remove it from my bag and record what he has said. Dr S dictates the bones of his letter to my GP into his recording device and tells my BF, rather sharply I thought, that she does not need to make notes, that he will do so, and, that he will send me a copy of his letter. I shake his hand and thank him for his time because I am well brunged up. What I really want to do is hit him! God help me I want to hit him. And me a pacifist, a hippy, a peace chick! I want to slap him. I am angry. I am hurt. I feel diminished. I am a bloody nuisance. I cling onto BF and fight angry tears through gritted teeth.
The de-brief takes place in my car in the car park. I am so glad BF was with me and I seek her agreement that it was as bad as I describe. She agrees. She is angry too. She confirms that, in her opinion, it was appalling. We jointly agree that if I had just the ONE thing wrong with me instead of FOUR, I might stand a chance of either being assisted in managing the problem, or, heaven forfend! be offered a repair!! So, there you go! My fault for having more than one thing wrong with me. Now we will look towards alternative sources of assistance, advice and just plain bloody concern. It would of course, suit society better, and be a lot more helpful of me if I just bloody well shut the hell up, stop whining and either develop a crisis condition which they can deal with as an emergency, or just up the doses until I no longer remember my name.
No dear reader I am not whinging and whining. I feel like a reporter. It's as if this crap is happening to someone else and not me. I can understand why people go under. God knows I have been there! Those who have loving framily and friends are fortunate because such support stops you sinking under the weight of worthlessness that is cast upon your shoulders. No wonder people die alone in their homes unfound for months. There comes a stage, if you are alone, when your resources are utterly depleted and you simply cannot fight back on any level. Negotiating life in the 21st Century appears to resemble walking through treacle whilst negotiating quicksand and speaking to people incapable of hearing.
I am fortunate: My resources, boosted by my framily and friends, have returned to me, albeit in a slightly squiggly, uppy sidey downy sort of way. My need to share words and experiences is almost an addiction that did not exist before 2008. More writer than reader now. Dr Blog. Writing therapy - don't really care what it's called. This appears to be my way of 'managing the processes' as they say in behavioural therapy circles. It's not anonymous of course. And I suppose that there may come a time when I shall be mortified at the misquotation of something years hence causing embarrassment to my framily or friends. But, whilst this helps, I shall continue. Until it is time to stop.
Stay well, for God's sake, stay well!
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx ps: BF fixed the clock in my car so I shall consult Florence when I need to know the time.
All medical appointments require planning but hospital appointments requires specific and additional planning. Now I am 'alone' and 'partnerless' there is no automatic cry of 'Don't worry! I'll take the morning off and take you there and hold your hand'. (Er... was there ever??? Ed.) So my lovely BF is dragooned to meet me in the car park. I actually manage to arrive on time, with sufficient coinage for the car park penalty one pays for being ill, and, although it took ten minutes to do so, I even managed to key in my car registration correctly. So far, so successfull!
I'm second in the waiting room and presenting myself to the receptionist I suddenly realise that I have not actually spoken with BF to confirm where we shall meet. Terrified I shall lose my place I explain that I need to nip out to the car park to make a call all the while hoping that the nurse type person doesn't come and call out my name whilst I am absent. BF is on voicemail. Of course she is! She's bloody driving you idiot! Shivering I return to the waitng room anxiously trying to see if my file has been removed from the pending tray. I can't tell.
Mobile rings and BF has been caught up in the complicated roadworks I got caught up in. Seconds later, it seems, the weighing person calls me into a side room and weighs me. (I have already checked on my home scales and note under 8 stone to be the measure.) The scales at the hospital, of course, are not in English and when I ask the weighing person to tell me what the English version of 52 and a bit killogams is, she is unable to do so because she does not have a conversion chart. There is, I discover later, about a 4lbs difference between us. I am returned to the waiting room and shortly my BF sweeps in majestically and we both sit shivering. There is a certain sort of 'OMG what time of day is this' tinge to our conversation bordering on hysteria. My name is called and we are shown to the second waiting area.
We watch as women in uniform and men in plain clothes stalk the corridor we are seated in. Busy, busy, busy! Some are carrying notes, some are carrying equipment, some are taking patients into side rooms. Patients to be weighed, patients to be measured, patients to be examined. Cups of tea collected from trolleys - oh! how me and BF would welcome a cup of tea. My consultant's nurse comes out of his room and we exchange greetings. She has a big, beautiful smile and makes me want to be hugged. My consultant today is the one assigned to the gastro section of my bodily malfunctions and our consultation is the follow up to the CT scan. His door opens again and out he pops. I smile winningly and he ignores me as he enters the room next to me. He's not, of course, ignoring me. He simply has not seen me. It is not my turn. I am not scheduled to be in his consciousness for at least another ten minutes, hence he does not respond.
Last time we met, Dr S came to where I was seated, smiled, greeted me, shook my hand and escorted me to his room. This time he tentatively stood in his doorway and called my name. BF and I enter his inner sanctum and I remind him I am alone now and that my BF is with me to help me fill in the gaps. He shakes her hand. What followed next was, simply, appalling. The consultation was adversarial. What had I done to change things? Why was I taking one particular tablet? How frequently do your 'you know whats do the you know what? No I don't want to know about today specifically. Four times so far today you say? But what about other days? And what does it look like? You have too many things wrong with you. You have too many different pains. There is nothing I can do for you. The last drug I recommended to your GP? Oh that? Well you have just told me the steroids prescribed for your chest have had no beneficial effect on your digestive system and as the last drug I recommended is a targeted form of steroid there's actually no point in your taking it. You might as well continue with the chest ones. Gallstones? Oh yes! Nearly forgot. Leave them alone. They are doing no harm. Oh? they are causing you pain, then you need to go back to your GP for a referral to a surgeon. I don't do gallstones.
My Beloved BF is making notes for me because although I have brought a pencil and my daily log, I am too disheartened to remove it from my bag and record what he has said. Dr S dictates the bones of his letter to my GP into his recording device and tells my BF, rather sharply I thought, that she does not need to make notes, that he will do so, and, that he will send me a copy of his letter. I shake his hand and thank him for his time because I am well brunged up. What I really want to do is hit him! God help me I want to hit him. And me a pacifist, a hippy, a peace chick! I want to slap him. I am angry. I am hurt. I feel diminished. I am a bloody nuisance. I cling onto BF and fight angry tears through gritted teeth.
The de-brief takes place in my car in the car park. I am so glad BF was with me and I seek her agreement that it was as bad as I describe. She agrees. She is angry too. She confirms that, in her opinion, it was appalling. We jointly agree that if I had just the ONE thing wrong with me instead of FOUR, I might stand a chance of either being assisted in managing the problem, or, heaven forfend! be offered a repair!! So, there you go! My fault for having more than one thing wrong with me. Now we will look towards alternative sources of assistance, advice and just plain bloody concern. It would of course, suit society better, and be a lot more helpful of me if I just bloody well shut the hell up, stop whining and either develop a crisis condition which they can deal with as an emergency, or just up the doses until I no longer remember my name.
No dear reader I am not whinging and whining. I feel like a reporter. It's as if this crap is happening to someone else and not me. I can understand why people go under. God knows I have been there! Those who have loving framily and friends are fortunate because such support stops you sinking under the weight of worthlessness that is cast upon your shoulders. No wonder people die alone in their homes unfound for months. There comes a stage, if you are alone, when your resources are utterly depleted and you simply cannot fight back on any level. Negotiating life in the 21st Century appears to resemble walking through treacle whilst negotiating quicksand and speaking to people incapable of hearing.
I am fortunate: My resources, boosted by my framily and friends, have returned to me, albeit in a slightly squiggly, uppy sidey downy sort of way. My need to share words and experiences is almost an addiction that did not exist before 2008. More writer than reader now. Dr Blog. Writing therapy - don't really care what it's called. This appears to be my way of 'managing the processes' as they say in behavioural therapy circles. It's not anonymous of course. And I suppose that there may come a time when I shall be mortified at the misquotation of something years hence causing embarrassment to my framily or friends. But, whilst this helps, I shall continue. Until it is time to stop.
Stay well, for God's sake, stay well!
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx ps: BF fixed the clock in my car so I shall consult Florence when I need to know the time.
Monday 28 March 2011
Today's Curious Considerations Collection
Been an interesting pot pourri today. My last posting related to a heightened state of hysteria at anticipated happenings. Somewhere along the rather odd night, a touch of doggedness attached itself to the coattails of the hysteria and fired up an attempt to p.u.t. t.h.i.n.g.s. i.n. o.r.d.e.r.
Having mentally exhausted myself with serious politicking; surreal chitter chatter, daftness with my framily and worn a hole on the enter key of the laptop (sorry JC!), I kinda figured I'm manage sleep fairly easily. Oh no! It was not to be.
Consideration Number 1: When you have experienced Sky television in the wee small hours, chances are you can find something mildly distracting, or even amusing to aid the arrival of the sleep fairy amongst the 7 thousand channels available. Terrestrial TV on a Sunday evening tends to offer worthy, earnest, heart tugging material and so it was last night. I did not mean to watch Vera Drake. Really, I did not. I knew the subject matter; I knew it would distress me, I had been born in the year the final trial was set and well remembered the darkness of those days, all brown paint, lino, drudgery and drabness. Nope! Not the appropriate fix for insomnia. Turned over to look for a funny. Nope. Thought about reading. Tried. Nope. Can no longer do that - one of the worst side effects. Multiple medical matters have robbed me of a life-long passion for the reading of words and I think I resent that more than the physical curtailment. Somehow Vera Drake lured me back and I am so glad I allowed myself to be so lured. What a stunning performance from Emelda Staunton! Her portrayal was exquisite. Her walk; the mantle of weariness settling around her shoulders; her pathetic delight in the love and support of her husband. Her absolute horror that she had hurt someone whilst trying to 'help' them. The entire cast were utterly believable. There were moments when I thought I was actually in a neighbour's house watching their lives fall apart. And then I went and spolit it all by watching Mystic Pizza. By the end of that I was still wide awake and several hours short of whiskey.
Considersation Number 2: Cocoa, even proper Bournville Cocoa, is a very, VERY poor substitute for a malt whiskey, or even a blended whiskey, when it comes to sleep inducing effects. Despite the calendar, I am so not ready to abandon my bad habits in favour of Mills and Boon; bed jackets and malted choclotately beddy byes drinkies. IT'S TOO DAMNED SOON!
Consideration Number 3: Animals are an essential aid to mental well being. They may not give you a reason for wearing your best frock, or even trouble you to do the accounts or the filing. Their welfare depends not on your ability to read a government form or explain the theory of quantum physics. Their welfare hinges on your ability to be compost-menthol (thank you Jade) enough to love them, pet them, feed them, nurse them, entertain them and exercise them. They could not give a flying flicker whether you smell of manure or Channel No: 5; dress in Primani or D&G, have a degree or a fortune. Just so long as you give to them what they give to you - absolute devotion. In the spirit of that thought, after a long, cold and poorly winter, I realised today that my beloved MaddyMoo looked more barrel shaped than lean and lithe as her mixed breeds demand. So after a brief forage in the village, on a whim, I took her to Howden's Pullover. Fortunately there was a ball in the car!!!! I only managed 15 minutes playing fetchy catchy before I became exhausted but at least she got to romp through the dunes and wear down her claws a little on the rough car parking area. And I managed to suppress the usual shiver of fear that attaches itself to me when I am alone and worried about that strange car that's just pulled alongside me...
Consideration Number 4: My Framily and Friends deserve more from me. I am conscious that there are been TOO MUCH WITTERING coming out from these 'ere lips! There are only so many ways one can complain, whine, worry, moan and lean on willing, loving friends. Time that Boudicca returned and indeed she does appear to have paid a visit. I think she rolled in yesterday afternoon because I found myself, at last, supporting my best friend on the 'phone when she needed it. And, what's more, making her laugh!!!!! I have not done that for such a long time and she does nothing BUT support me all the time. So I have tried today to 'touch' those I care about and to let them know that I do care about them. There is much danger in 'Me, Me, Me, Me, I'.
Today I managed the make a start on the chaotic paperwork, both personal and work, and whilst two hours of it did for me; I DID make a start. I shall continue again tomorrow after the next consultant consultation and hope that the Spirit of the Warrior Queen continues to sit on my left shoulder.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Having mentally exhausted myself with serious politicking; surreal chitter chatter, daftness with my framily and worn a hole on the enter key of the laptop (sorry JC!), I kinda figured I'm manage sleep fairly easily. Oh no! It was not to be.
Consideration Number 1: When you have experienced Sky television in the wee small hours, chances are you can find something mildly distracting, or even amusing to aid the arrival of the sleep fairy amongst the 7 thousand channels available. Terrestrial TV on a Sunday evening tends to offer worthy, earnest, heart tugging material and so it was last night. I did not mean to watch Vera Drake. Really, I did not. I knew the subject matter; I knew it would distress me, I had been born in the year the final trial was set and well remembered the darkness of those days, all brown paint, lino, drudgery and drabness. Nope! Not the appropriate fix for insomnia. Turned over to look for a funny. Nope. Thought about reading. Tried. Nope. Can no longer do that - one of the worst side effects. Multiple medical matters have robbed me of a life-long passion for the reading of words and I think I resent that more than the physical curtailment. Somehow Vera Drake lured me back and I am so glad I allowed myself to be so lured. What a stunning performance from Emelda Staunton! Her portrayal was exquisite. Her walk; the mantle of weariness settling around her shoulders; her pathetic delight in the love and support of her husband. Her absolute horror that she had hurt someone whilst trying to 'help' them. The entire cast were utterly believable. There were moments when I thought I was actually in a neighbour's house watching their lives fall apart. And then I went and spolit it all by watching Mystic Pizza. By the end of that I was still wide awake and several hours short of whiskey.
Considersation Number 2: Cocoa, even proper Bournville Cocoa, is a very, VERY poor substitute for a malt whiskey, or even a blended whiskey, when it comes to sleep inducing effects. Despite the calendar, I am so not ready to abandon my bad habits in favour of Mills and Boon; bed jackets and malted choclotately beddy byes drinkies. IT'S TOO DAMNED SOON!
Consideration Number 3: Animals are an essential aid to mental well being. They may not give you a reason for wearing your best frock, or even trouble you to do the accounts or the filing. Their welfare depends not on your ability to read a government form or explain the theory of quantum physics. Their welfare hinges on your ability to be compost-menthol (thank you Jade) enough to love them, pet them, feed them, nurse them, entertain them and exercise them. They could not give a flying flicker whether you smell of manure or Channel No: 5; dress in Primani or D&G, have a degree or a fortune. Just so long as you give to them what they give to you - absolute devotion. In the spirit of that thought, after a long, cold and poorly winter, I realised today that my beloved MaddyMoo looked more barrel shaped than lean and lithe as her mixed breeds demand. So after a brief forage in the village, on a whim, I took her to Howden's Pullover. Fortunately there was a ball in the car!!!! I only managed 15 minutes playing fetchy catchy before I became exhausted but at least she got to romp through the dunes and wear down her claws a little on the rough car parking area. And I managed to suppress the usual shiver of fear that attaches itself to me when I am alone and worried about that strange car that's just pulled alongside me...
Consideration Number 4: My Framily and Friends deserve more from me. I am conscious that there are been TOO MUCH WITTERING coming out from these 'ere lips! There are only so many ways one can complain, whine, worry, moan and lean on willing, loving friends. Time that Boudicca returned and indeed she does appear to have paid a visit. I think she rolled in yesterday afternoon because I found myself, at last, supporting my best friend on the 'phone when she needed it. And, what's more, making her laugh!!!!! I have not done that for such a long time and she does nothing BUT support me all the time. So I have tried today to 'touch' those I care about and to let them know that I do care about them. There is much danger in 'Me, Me, Me, Me, I'.
Today I managed the make a start on the chaotic paperwork, both personal and work, and whilst two hours of it did for me; I DID make a start. I shall continue again tomorrow after the next consultant consultation and hope that the Spirit of the Warrior Queen continues to sit on my left shoulder.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Saturday 26 March 2011
Life and the Living of it.
Dear Dr Blog
Your erstwhile correspondent is struggling today on just about every level. Black humour, a mainstay of my life since God was a boy, has deserted me. So, once more I turn to you for healing. The only weapons I have for attack and defence are words. Words that: wound heal destroy re-build clarify confuse. With such words comes overwhelming power and raging impotence. A malestrom making choice a terrifying adventure.
I know what my words mean. I say 'Yes' and this means I assent; I agree, I acknowledge the validity of your words. I say 'No' and this means I do not assent; I do not agree, I do not acknowledge the validity of your words. English is a beautifully crafted, cruel and tender language that can reduce giants to pygmies and elevate pygmies to kings. (I use the masculine for ease and not as a poke in the eye for political correctness).
The well of despair has issued another invitation and I battle to avoid it's embrace. Taking stock: that that was inevitable turns out to be just that - inevitable. That that could not be avoided will not be avoided. Facing up to reality is a painful process which causes even the hardest of hearts to wilt under its viewing. When that heart is tender and afraid, well ... much strength and courage is sought but not always found.
In our First Age we are offered a warm, rosy picture of the Third Age that will become our legacy. To achieve this we are told that we should listen to our betters and elders; learn, train, study, strive, work hard, play little, save a lot, resist temptation and not indulge our weaknesses. At school we do as we are told little knowing that someone with absolute control over your life can make decisions that condem you to a route you would not have chosen. No matter. Our elders and betters know best. We must accept their widsom. The die is cast and gratefully you accept the path now given to you. But wait! Just a minute! Come the time for you to enter the Second Age you discover that the promises made to you in the First Age came with caveats that no-one ever told you about. 'Oh!' they laugh, 'Silly you! When we said study hard and get good marks, please your teachers and keep your nose clean and you will get a well paid job, we meant to add the word "maybe" Tsk Tsk! Now! Who forgot to mention the "maybe" word? No harm done!'
You enter the Second Age carrying no fomal qualifications worthy of note and take the first paid employment offered to you. You are not ashamed. In fact you are quite proud that someone actually wants to employ you. Not a total waste of space then! Ah, but another little suprise is hiding in the undergrowth. Your 'family' want recompense for the monies spent raising you to the grand age of 15 so take £3.00 of the £3.10s.0d you earn each week in exchange for cold teas and half a bed. Not to worry! You have ambition? Great stuff? Want to get out of the factory? Go into service! Much more comfortable and no keep to pay, they actually pay you! You start work at 6.00 am, cook for a family of four, clean a three storey house and look after two little boys. And then they just add the few little extras to your duties as the seasons progress. A little painting here, a little sanding there. Whilst you are waiting for the food to cook just pop into the garden and hand weed the vegetables. Oh! and after you have put the children to bed make a start on the dressing and cleaning of the game in the utility room shot today. Last rabbit cleaned at midnight. Time for bed. You wonder if there is a better way of earning your corn.
The siren voice of the Capital reaches you in a darkened jazz club carrying promises of fame and riches and you submit. The journey through the Second Age continues with workacholism, 15 hour days, chronic poverty and payments into pension plans guarenteed to comfort you in the Third Age. 'Count on us!' the copy says; 'We'll look after the money that you can ill afford to pay in and you will be alright when you can no longer work!' A warm autumn halo surrounds the older vision of you as you contemplate the rewards of your hard work and thrift.
Ah! But's what's this!!! You are standing in the doorway ready to step, too early, into the golden age of retirement because your shrinking frame can no longer take the strain of 45 year's worth of work. 'Not to worry' you tell yourself: you made provision for just such an event. Except. Except that the Faceless Ones, acknowledging too late they didn't study enough during their maths lessons, suddenly realise they need your money more than you do. So they use some words. They write complicated words in a version of English that only they can understand and store them away until they are needed.
'Hello Mr Pension Plan Man (aka: Mr Government Man) I'm too poorly to work anymore and I would like to take those pennies I paid in out so that I can heat my home and feed myself and buy my medicines please'. Ah! 'Now then' replies Mr Pension Plan Man. 'Thing is you see; well you'll see the funny side of this I know! But that money that you paid in all those years ago. See. We thought you wouldn't need it. So, we, well, we kinda used it to build some Trident missiles in case we needed to bomb the shit out of some Country we are never likely to visit' vaguely pointing somewhere Eastwards. 'O.Kay' you say, 'but what about my state pension; you know the one I have been paying into for 45 years? Can I have that now to help me keep warm, manage my medical condition and feed myself?' 'Oh! Thought you'd not noticed that one. Well, you know we sent you a forecast a year ago and, in recognition of your extended contributions, said we would pay you a whole £147.00 per week. Well, it's not quite panned out as we'd forecast you see. As well as the missiles and weapons and such like that we have had to buy to keep you safe from being blown to bits in the street, we have had to help some banker chaps and politicians who have come up against hard times. Not their fault of course, these things happen dontcha know! Market forces! Market forces! But as they are the wealth providers and you have now become a wealth user, well, it makes sense Rodney don't it? Got to look after the providers innit? So. To make it fair, what we will do is strip you of whatever dignity you may have retained over the years; examine, probe and means test you until your pips are visible. Deny you your independence and pursue you to your grave for not understanding our version of the English Language. Oh! And another thing: we forgot to mention, you know that forecast? Well we've had a look at the figures again and find we need just a little more funding to help the undeserving. So we have come up with this wonderful wheeze. Instead of paying out to those of you with over 30 years worth of contributions, we will reduce the state pension to a fixed sum for everyone! Now that's fair surely! How about £140.00 per week for everybody whatever they have contributed? Eh! Sounds fair to me governor! You don't agree? Oh! Pity! Okay we will just have to revise the figure downwards then. Shall we say £130.00 per week?'
And so dear reader, 'tis only words and words are all I have to take your breath away'.
This is England: This is the West: Don't get sick; don't get old, hide your money in your socks, fritter your lives away. The next time some honeyed voice suggests you part with your hard earned pennies for a better future, just tell them to take a jump off Wigan Pier.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Your erstwhile correspondent is struggling today on just about every level. Black humour, a mainstay of my life since God was a boy, has deserted me. So, once more I turn to you for healing. The only weapons I have for attack and defence are words. Words that: wound heal destroy re-build clarify confuse. With such words comes overwhelming power and raging impotence. A malestrom making choice a terrifying adventure.
I know what my words mean. I say 'Yes' and this means I assent; I agree, I acknowledge the validity of your words. I say 'No' and this means I do not assent; I do not agree, I do not acknowledge the validity of your words. English is a beautifully crafted, cruel and tender language that can reduce giants to pygmies and elevate pygmies to kings. (I use the masculine for ease and not as a poke in the eye for political correctness).
The well of despair has issued another invitation and I battle to avoid it's embrace. Taking stock: that that was inevitable turns out to be just that - inevitable. That that could not be avoided will not be avoided. Facing up to reality is a painful process which causes even the hardest of hearts to wilt under its viewing. When that heart is tender and afraid, well ... much strength and courage is sought but not always found.
In our First Age we are offered a warm, rosy picture of the Third Age that will become our legacy. To achieve this we are told that we should listen to our betters and elders; learn, train, study, strive, work hard, play little, save a lot, resist temptation and not indulge our weaknesses. At school we do as we are told little knowing that someone with absolute control over your life can make decisions that condem you to a route you would not have chosen. No matter. Our elders and betters know best. We must accept their widsom. The die is cast and gratefully you accept the path now given to you. But wait! Just a minute! Come the time for you to enter the Second Age you discover that the promises made to you in the First Age came with caveats that no-one ever told you about. 'Oh!' they laugh, 'Silly you! When we said study hard and get good marks, please your teachers and keep your nose clean and you will get a well paid job, we meant to add the word "maybe" Tsk Tsk! Now! Who forgot to mention the "maybe" word? No harm done!'
You enter the Second Age carrying no fomal qualifications worthy of note and take the first paid employment offered to you. You are not ashamed. In fact you are quite proud that someone actually wants to employ you. Not a total waste of space then! Ah, but another little suprise is hiding in the undergrowth. Your 'family' want recompense for the monies spent raising you to the grand age of 15 so take £3.00 of the £3.10s.0d you earn each week in exchange for cold teas and half a bed. Not to worry! You have ambition? Great stuff? Want to get out of the factory? Go into service! Much more comfortable and no keep to pay, they actually pay you! You start work at 6.00 am, cook for a family of four, clean a three storey house and look after two little boys. And then they just add the few little extras to your duties as the seasons progress. A little painting here, a little sanding there. Whilst you are waiting for the food to cook just pop into the garden and hand weed the vegetables. Oh! and after you have put the children to bed make a start on the dressing and cleaning of the game in the utility room shot today. Last rabbit cleaned at midnight. Time for bed. You wonder if there is a better way of earning your corn.
The siren voice of the Capital reaches you in a darkened jazz club carrying promises of fame and riches and you submit. The journey through the Second Age continues with workacholism, 15 hour days, chronic poverty and payments into pension plans guarenteed to comfort you in the Third Age. 'Count on us!' the copy says; 'We'll look after the money that you can ill afford to pay in and you will be alright when you can no longer work!' A warm autumn halo surrounds the older vision of you as you contemplate the rewards of your hard work and thrift.
Ah! But's what's this!!! You are standing in the doorway ready to step, too early, into the golden age of retirement because your shrinking frame can no longer take the strain of 45 year's worth of work. 'Not to worry' you tell yourself: you made provision for just such an event. Except. Except that the Faceless Ones, acknowledging too late they didn't study enough during their maths lessons, suddenly realise they need your money more than you do. So they use some words. They write complicated words in a version of English that only they can understand and store them away until they are needed.
'Hello Mr Pension Plan Man (aka: Mr Government Man) I'm too poorly to work anymore and I would like to take those pennies I paid in out so that I can heat my home and feed myself and buy my medicines please'. Ah! 'Now then' replies Mr Pension Plan Man. 'Thing is you see; well you'll see the funny side of this I know! But that money that you paid in all those years ago. See. We thought you wouldn't need it. So, we, well, we kinda used it to build some Trident missiles in case we needed to bomb the shit out of some Country we are never likely to visit' vaguely pointing somewhere Eastwards. 'O.Kay' you say, 'but what about my state pension; you know the one I have been paying into for 45 years? Can I have that now to help me keep warm, manage my medical condition and feed myself?' 'Oh! Thought you'd not noticed that one. Well, you know we sent you a forecast a year ago and, in recognition of your extended contributions, said we would pay you a whole £147.00 per week. Well, it's not quite panned out as we'd forecast you see. As well as the missiles and weapons and such like that we have had to buy to keep you safe from being blown to bits in the street, we have had to help some banker chaps and politicians who have come up against hard times. Not their fault of course, these things happen dontcha know! Market forces! Market forces! But as they are the wealth providers and you have now become a wealth user, well, it makes sense Rodney don't it? Got to look after the providers innit? So. To make it fair, what we will do is strip you of whatever dignity you may have retained over the years; examine, probe and means test you until your pips are visible. Deny you your independence and pursue you to your grave for not understanding our version of the English Language. Oh! And another thing: we forgot to mention, you know that forecast? Well we've had a look at the figures again and find we need just a little more funding to help the undeserving. So we have come up with this wonderful wheeze. Instead of paying out to those of you with over 30 years worth of contributions, we will reduce the state pension to a fixed sum for everyone! Now that's fair surely! How about £140.00 per week for everybody whatever they have contributed? Eh! Sounds fair to me governor! You don't agree? Oh! Pity! Okay we will just have to revise the figure downwards then. Shall we say £130.00 per week?'
And so dear reader, 'tis only words and words are all I have to take your breath away'.
This is England: This is the West: Don't get sick; don't get old, hide your money in your socks, fritter your lives away. The next time some honeyed voice suggests you part with your hard earned pennies for a better future, just tell them to take a jump off Wigan Pier.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Thursday 17 March 2011
Supping with the Devil and suffering the consequences
Unresolved anger is an unattractive thing in anyone. Impotent anger is equally unappetising but sometimes, just sometimes, you just want to be as mad as hell! It has gone midnight; I am recovering, again, from being seriously ill, I am exhausted, again and, yet again, I am afraid.
On a personal level I am incredibly lucky and count my blessings everyday, truly I do! My love for my framily and friends remains undiminished and is returned to me in spades. The Angels of Hope and Protection remain with me despite my inability to assist myself at times; without the love and support of some very special people, I would be truly lost.
My anger, however, lies subsumed mostly. Occasionally it breaches the surface and burst forth unrestrained and vicious. Incapable of imposing physical harm I find my escape through words. I want to have a row! I want to have an argument! I want to scream and shout at how bloody rotten the inhabitants of this rocky sphere can and will be. My Boy Cat will not argue with me; my Girl Cat simply tells me to 'calm down dear', my budgie asks me where his food is and my beloved hound says 'It's okay Mum, you can shout at me, I won't mind.' as her ears flatten to her head and her eyes adopt the 'please don't beat me' look. Grrrrrrrrr I want to be angry! I want to be vexed! I want to smash crockery! I want to yell and scream and tell that patronising government official that they do not need to speak to me slowly and loudly. I want to have a trantrum! I want to behave like a spolit brat, stamp my feet and scream 'Sharn't' at whoever is telling me what to do.
What has brought this paragon of Hippiedom to this state? Sigh - I'm not sure. I have achieved what I set out to achieve today, well at least partially. I have provided for those who depend upon me. I have faced one of my major fears with honesty and reveived the sanction I required. I have attempted to restore some harmony on domestic issues but then I have heard the news too. So Libya is next then. A UN resolution blah blah blah. We drank his health; we provided his regime with what it required; we forgave him Yvonne's blood and we asked our chums to support his reintegration into the 'civilised' world. Was it because we admired his manly demeanor or his willingess to use females to protect him? Did these little funny ways make us laugh girlishly at his antics? No. As usual, we accommodated him whilst it suited us. We have watched as one Arab state after another woke up to life beyond their tented horizons with the aid of Western Technology. But what a beast we have awoken!
Our young will pay the price, again, for our greed. Our young will and are always mortgaged for our self prostitution to the purveyors of oil and wealth. It is a little late now for the so called civilised world to be awakening to the 'yooman' rights of opressed people. They were alway oppressed, we just forgot to tell them. God help us all.
I am now spent, too tired to continue the rage so I shall retreat to the duvet with the dog and the cats and hold them a little closer tonight.
Love and peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
On a personal level I am incredibly lucky and count my blessings everyday, truly I do! My love for my framily and friends remains undiminished and is returned to me in spades. The Angels of Hope and Protection remain with me despite my inability to assist myself at times; without the love and support of some very special people, I would be truly lost.
My anger, however, lies subsumed mostly. Occasionally it breaches the surface and burst forth unrestrained and vicious. Incapable of imposing physical harm I find my escape through words. I want to have a row! I want to have an argument! I want to scream and shout at how bloody rotten the inhabitants of this rocky sphere can and will be. My Boy Cat will not argue with me; my Girl Cat simply tells me to 'calm down dear', my budgie asks me where his food is and my beloved hound says 'It's okay Mum, you can shout at me, I won't mind.' as her ears flatten to her head and her eyes adopt the 'please don't beat me' look. Grrrrrrrrr I want to be angry! I want to be vexed! I want to smash crockery! I want to yell and scream and tell that patronising government official that they do not need to speak to me slowly and loudly. I want to have a trantrum! I want to behave like a spolit brat, stamp my feet and scream 'Sharn't' at whoever is telling me what to do.
What has brought this paragon of Hippiedom to this state? Sigh - I'm not sure. I have achieved what I set out to achieve today, well at least partially. I have provided for those who depend upon me. I have faced one of my major fears with honesty and reveived the sanction I required. I have attempted to restore some harmony on domestic issues but then I have heard the news too. So Libya is next then. A UN resolution blah blah blah. We drank his health; we provided his regime with what it required; we forgave him Yvonne's blood and we asked our chums to support his reintegration into the 'civilised' world. Was it because we admired his manly demeanor or his willingess to use females to protect him? Did these little funny ways make us laugh girlishly at his antics? No. As usual, we accommodated him whilst it suited us. We have watched as one Arab state after another woke up to life beyond their tented horizons with the aid of Western Technology. But what a beast we have awoken!
Our young will pay the price, again, for our greed. Our young will and are always mortgaged for our self prostitution to the purveyors of oil and wealth. It is a little late now for the so called civilised world to be awakening to the 'yooman' rights of opressed people. They were alway oppressed, we just forgot to tell them. God help us all.
I am now spent, too tired to continue the rage so I shall retreat to the duvet with the dog and the cats and hold them a little closer tonight.
Love and peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
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