... 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
Where the beauty and the humour hide ...
Saturday 28 May 2011
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
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