Oh dear! I really wish I wasn't having to write this but ... my beautiful, feisty Monica has left the 'estate'. For those of you who are not familiar with the Menagerie that shares my home, Monica is a battery hen who was unceremoniously stuffed in to an air conditioning unit along with some of her 'sisters' by a Year 11 student anxious to leave his mark on the last day of term in May 2010.
When I first met her and two others, Martina and Merkle, I was not hopeful of her survival. Everything about her from the half plucked feathers showing bald patches, to her limp, almost white comb, the botched debeaking, to the strange ring around her irises told me she would not last 48 hours. It took a month for me to help the Three Ms regain their condition and beautiful buff and blond feathers returned to cover their skins. I brushed their feathers gently to release ; they scratted in the garden, in the daylight - soaking up vitamin D, for the first time in their lives. They feasted on the best mixed grain I could get which I dressed with olive oil and I made them vegetable mash from peelings and leftovers.
Monica did survive beyond my predicted two days: She was the first one to discover she could fly; she taught the others how to escape from Peckingham Palace - she really did! I watched her do it!!!! When she did return to condition she was fearless. The dog snapped at her when she tried to steal her food: Monica's reaction was a simple shake of her feathers - beak held high as she walked away and I swear she would have said 'what-ev-va' if she could have spoken. Martina and Merkle were less ballsy and made way, not only for the dog, but also for the cats.
Time came when Martina and Merkle made like truculent teenagers. You know the ones: those who get everything they need (and more!), wear designer clothes cos otherwise the wail of 'But Muuuuummmmm ! Every one's wearing Addynickeysports stuff' would echo through your head, your house, the shopping mall...... but moan to their peer group that their parent is a) sooooooooooooo like not cool; b) doesn't understand what it is like to be (insert age) c) NEVER gets me what I want. As soon as Martina and Merkle were returned to condition and all three had started to lay eggs, they packed their spotted handkerchiefs and toddled off across the fields. I searched everywhere for them and, heart in my mouth, came across a large buffy browney thing... I used my walking stick to push the grass aside and was stunned to find THE biggest fungus I had ever seen. There was no evidence of any attack by Mr Fox so I am pretty sure they ended up on someone else's plot. A few days later, driving towards the next village, I spotted a pair of Hampshire type hens on the roadside just in front of a farmhouse...
And that left Monica: Oh! Monica what WILL I miss about you? I will miss your 'hen with attitude coming by - step aside' attitude: I will miss those special occasions such as when you allowed my Pixie Princess to kiss you on your beak; when you permitted My Bestest Boy Ben to brush you and you fed from his hand - he was almost overcome with emotion. I have some wonderful pictures of you in my head: you sitting on my lap and the girl cat backing away as you insisted this WAS your rightful place and she could go hang; The first time you flew up onto the kitchen table followed by several episodes with me pretending to unwitting guests, as they fought to protect their cakes and cups of tea from your thieving beak, that 'Oh! My Goodness: that's the FIRST time she's done that!' ; my hunk of a son backing away barefooted to escape your attentions to his feet; the look on the faces of the two Jehovah's Witnesses as they came to the gate to convert me but spotted you in the doorway and changed their minds; you tolerating Coco's persistent examination of your back end; you attracting the attentions of the gorgeous church bell mender meaning he spent 15 minutes talking with this mad old bat. You laid an egg in the clothing waiting to be washed; my daughter-in-law is convinced you were saving me the effort of going out into the cold to collect your gift.
Oh! there are so many occasions when you made me laugh out loud, made me smile and drove me mad too! My friends accepted that you were my pet chicken and made allowances for any little messages you left behind (I was so pleased I had hard floor coverings!), you stole food from the dog, the cats and from me. You knocked on the door to be let in. You peered at me eye to eye through the Hive window when I tarried too long letting you in. Once you had inspected the entire ground floor, stolen what food there was, cleared up any leftovers I had not disposed of you would settle under my desk, hide your head in your lovely feathers and go to sleep and yes Monica, you did snore. You also purred and talked and you listened too. You drove my friends and relatives mad when they were on the telephone to me because you would insist on telling us all about your day, very, very loudly. Some nights you refused point blank to leave the house so I let you roost in my office not having the heart to put you out - one night you actually snuck up the stairs and roosted in my bedroom and by the time I realised you were there it was too late!
Those are the pictures of you I want to keep in my head and my heart: the feathers scattered around suggest that you put up a good fight with whatever it was that took you: I cannot bear to consider what actually happened to you but I am grateful I do not have your corpse to dispose of - darling Monica I am so sorry you have gone, we are all going to miss you. Farewell my Feathered Fiend and thanks for all the eggs!
Love and Peace
THE sad Purple Fairy xxx
Where the beauty and the humour hide ...
Monday, 31 January 2011
Monday, 3 January 2011
on the Passing of Pete Postlethwaite
I don't quite understand how the unhappy news of Pete Postlethwaite untimely death has triggered thoughts of numbers and OCD. On mourning his passing today my thoughts wandered from me at the age of 15, The Who, Sesame Street and my need to count everything.
Those readers familiar with Pete's work will understand why he is considered by Stephen Spielberg to be 'probably the best actor in the world'. It is said that Pete's response to the accolade was to dismiss it with a typical self effacing comment that it sounded for all the world like a lager advert. No 'luvvie' this chap. He did not present himself with airs and graces and I would be very surprised if the termites came out of the woodwork to insist that he was a diva who made unreasonable demands. I want to believe that he was what you saw. A strong, passionate, committed Northerner with a heightened sense of justice. For those of you who have not seen it do please watch the film 'Brassed Off'. I defy you not to be moved by the speeches Pete makes despite your politics. For my American readers, think Charles Bronson and/or David Carradine in his youth for a flavour of what Pete was able to project on screen.
As I trundled through my chores with Pete's death on my mind I remembered standing in St Mary's Churchyard, alone except for the birds and the dead. I was 15, fearless and feisty and singing The Who's 'My Generation' and in particular the line: 'I hope I die before I get old', at the top of my voice. I had tried to see what a 30 year old me would look like and found it impossible to envisage. I considered it so very ancient and part of me thought I would die by the very old age of 32 in any event because my mother had. The logic applied to that thought process was along the same lines as the opening statement of my autobiography commissioned by the English teacher as a class exercise: 'I was born at an early age and was a girl because my mother was'. But it was something I truly believed until I passed the key date.
I found it impossible to consider being anything other than 15 and frankly my dears, if I'd known what was to come, I might well have pleaded with the Gods to let me remain in a Peter Pan state of fearlessness. As it was I had no choice but to continue on the route mapped out for me. Oh I was so very brave in those days; afraid of nothing and no-one. Well with the exception of a couple of people who should have protected me. I was safer in the outside world than in the so called family world. I was perfectly capable of hitch hiking to where ever I wanted to go; sleeping rough in derelict houses when it was too late for me to make it 'home' and reliant on the kindness of strangers to look out for me. Once it had become too late to go home, 8.00 pm since you ask, I would be locked out of the house in any event and forced to 'sleep' in the barn. Five minutes late was enough to see the door barred to me. One particular night exactly five minutes late, I approached the door to see her smile as she locked it against me forbidding my father to let me in. I developed a 'well I'm going to get into trouble anyway so I might as well go the whole hog' attitude.
One decade later Beloved Son and Heir had come into my world and everything I had been through started to make some sort of sense. I had a fierce, tigerish love for this wonderful thing that I had helped to create and was determined he would not receive the kind of raising I had received. I never, ever said, 'because I say so!', I never, ever hit him with a weapon, I never ever deprived him of sustenance physical, mental or emotional and I never, ever, ever broke a promise to him. I fell instantly in love with him the second I saw him and indeed as time proved, there came the opportunity for me to discover my inner tiger and protect him from assault. One of our shared pleasures as he grew was Sesame Street. I seem to think that his favourite character was Big Bird whilst mine was Count Dracula. It was many decades later that I realised Count Dracula tapped into that part of my brain that needed to count everything. I did not weigh food for recipes, I counted the spoons or handfuls of ingredients. I counted the stairs I climbed to my flat. If we bought sweets I had to count them to make sure there was an even number. Anything that amounted to 13 had to be swiftly culled to reduce it to 12 before being handed over to Beloved Son and Heir. I counted how long it took to fill the bath before the water cooled. I still count the number of birthday or Christmas cards I receive not, I hasten to add, to wallow in the number which could either confirm how much or how little I am remembered. That's not the point! The point is in the counting.
Three is my number of choice: displays have to be in threes; a mixed bunch of flowers picked from my garden has to offer a minimum of three of each species otherwise, no matter how much I love a particular flower, it cannot be picked unless it has two matching companions. I do sometimes wonder if it comes from the root of my abandoned Roman Catholicism forcing me to acknowledge, if only obliquely, the Trinity.
So when I heard that Pete Postletwaite was only 64 when he died I counted the number of years between us: 5 since you ask. Well nearer 4.5. There is something infinitely sad about your peer group dying. The people you see on the silver screen, or the theatre seem almost invincible, larger than life and immune to the petty trials of us mere mortals. Pete was one of those people I would have liked to see on stage before he went: Jimmy Stewart was another in the West End with his play 'Harvey'; Joyce Grenfill, in anything at all, another. Some stars I have been fortunate enough to see: Leo McKern holding the stage for two whole hours on his own - absolute magic. Griff Rhys-Jones as Mr Toad. Even Leslie Phillips and Brian Rix entertained me.
So Pete, I hope the Gods appreciate you because they have taken you way too early, rest in peace.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Those readers familiar with Pete's work will understand why he is considered by Stephen Spielberg to be 'probably the best actor in the world'. It is said that Pete's response to the accolade was to dismiss it with a typical self effacing comment that it sounded for all the world like a lager advert. No 'luvvie' this chap. He did not present himself with airs and graces and I would be very surprised if the termites came out of the woodwork to insist that he was a diva who made unreasonable demands. I want to believe that he was what you saw. A strong, passionate, committed Northerner with a heightened sense of justice. For those of you who have not seen it do please watch the film 'Brassed Off'. I defy you not to be moved by the speeches Pete makes despite your politics. For my American readers, think Charles Bronson and/or David Carradine in his youth for a flavour of what Pete was able to project on screen.
As I trundled through my chores with Pete's death on my mind I remembered standing in St Mary's Churchyard, alone except for the birds and the dead. I was 15, fearless and feisty and singing The Who's 'My Generation' and in particular the line: 'I hope I die before I get old', at the top of my voice. I had tried to see what a 30 year old me would look like and found it impossible to envisage. I considered it so very ancient and part of me thought I would die by the very old age of 32 in any event because my mother had. The logic applied to that thought process was along the same lines as the opening statement of my autobiography commissioned by the English teacher as a class exercise: 'I was born at an early age and was a girl because my mother was'. But it was something I truly believed until I passed the key date.
I found it impossible to consider being anything other than 15 and frankly my dears, if I'd known what was to come, I might well have pleaded with the Gods to let me remain in a Peter Pan state of fearlessness. As it was I had no choice but to continue on the route mapped out for me. Oh I was so very brave in those days; afraid of nothing and no-one. Well with the exception of a couple of people who should have protected me. I was safer in the outside world than in the so called family world. I was perfectly capable of hitch hiking to where ever I wanted to go; sleeping rough in derelict houses when it was too late for me to make it 'home' and reliant on the kindness of strangers to look out for me. Once it had become too late to go home, 8.00 pm since you ask, I would be locked out of the house in any event and forced to 'sleep' in the barn. Five minutes late was enough to see the door barred to me. One particular night exactly five minutes late, I approached the door to see her smile as she locked it against me forbidding my father to let me in. I developed a 'well I'm going to get into trouble anyway so I might as well go the whole hog' attitude.
One decade later Beloved Son and Heir had come into my world and everything I had been through started to make some sort of sense. I had a fierce, tigerish love for this wonderful thing that I had helped to create and was determined he would not receive the kind of raising I had received. I never, ever said, 'because I say so!', I never, ever hit him with a weapon, I never ever deprived him of sustenance physical, mental or emotional and I never, ever, ever broke a promise to him. I fell instantly in love with him the second I saw him and indeed as time proved, there came the opportunity for me to discover my inner tiger and protect him from assault. One of our shared pleasures as he grew was Sesame Street. I seem to think that his favourite character was Big Bird whilst mine was Count Dracula. It was many decades later that I realised Count Dracula tapped into that part of my brain that needed to count everything. I did not weigh food for recipes, I counted the spoons or handfuls of ingredients. I counted the stairs I climbed to my flat. If we bought sweets I had to count them to make sure there was an even number. Anything that amounted to 13 had to be swiftly culled to reduce it to 12 before being handed over to Beloved Son and Heir. I counted how long it took to fill the bath before the water cooled. I still count the number of birthday or Christmas cards I receive not, I hasten to add, to wallow in the number which could either confirm how much or how little I am remembered. That's not the point! The point is in the counting.
Three is my number of choice: displays have to be in threes; a mixed bunch of flowers picked from my garden has to offer a minimum of three of each species otherwise, no matter how much I love a particular flower, it cannot be picked unless it has two matching companions. I do sometimes wonder if it comes from the root of my abandoned Roman Catholicism forcing me to acknowledge, if only obliquely, the Trinity.
So when I heard that Pete Postletwaite was only 64 when he died I counted the number of years between us: 5 since you ask. Well nearer 4.5. There is something infinitely sad about your peer group dying. The people you see on the silver screen, or the theatre seem almost invincible, larger than life and immune to the petty trials of us mere mortals. Pete was one of those people I would have liked to see on stage before he went: Jimmy Stewart was another in the West End with his play 'Harvey'; Joyce Grenfill, in anything at all, another. Some stars I have been fortunate enough to see: Leo McKern holding the stage for two whole hours on his own - absolute magic. Griff Rhys-Jones as Mr Toad. Even Leslie Phillips and Brian Rix entertained me.
So Pete, I hope the Gods appreciate you because they have taken you way too early, rest in peace.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Sunday, 2 January 2011
What is the view from the Hive?
Being a literal bean I explain the view from the Hive. The largest window faces almost due South and the smallest looks Westward. Using my 'happy' eyes this is what I see late afternoon through the West facing window: A Eucalyptus tree now standing around 25 feet tall. Ten years ago it was one foot high and lived in a black bucket. It's rather odd really because this is a tree that has come home so to speak. A neighbour of my father's was a keen gardener and some 12 or so years ago gave me the sapling she had raised from seed. Potted on, it made it's way back down South with me and I could not quite decide where to plant it in my little garden in Hertfordshire so it was set into a black bucket and despite me, it survived.
When I returned to Lincolnshire 10 years ago, the second thing I did when I moved into the cottage was to plot and plan where to place the plants I had repatriated from my Hertfordshire garden. The Eucalyptus tree was beginning to look very sorry for itself and there was barely any base to the bucket left. I set the tree too close to the washing line and it's first winter in the ground saw it battered by the Northerly winds. After a tricky winter it defiantly grew at an angle and helps keep, what I call, my wooded area dry. It has several roles really: it's survival under extreme pressure is, of course, symbolic particularly bearing in mind the tree has a very shallow root system. It plays host to the wide range of birds who visit my garden and supports a white perfumed clematis set to mark the death of my father. The blossom of the tree is unremarkable when looked at singly but when I look at the tree from the upstairs window the tiny, delicate greeney white flowers cover the tree like a veil giving it a slightly unearthly air. As dusk falls it's oval leaves gradually turn black in the fading light and the tree takes on a menacing magic as night closes in.
I also see a sagging old telephone wire with what looks like a dead plant attached to it. This was a speriment that didn't quite work. If I had been a physicist I may have been able to predict the failure. On the corner of my West wall is a wooden arch; built for me by the Estranged One, to support an ice cream scented clematis and a scented rose called New Dawn. My original plot was for the two plants to clamber over the arch, climb up and over the ridge tiles and eventually cover the flat roof of my Hive. The plants had other ideas and defied me. Armed with chicken wire, grim determination and sheer bloody mindedness I insisted they would do what I wanted and eventually they have started to comply. Then I thought, how nice would a clematis curtain be across my garden and trained the Montanna along a disused telephone wire. It was too successful! It is a rampant plant, the Montanna, and is clearly very happy where it lives. The sheer weight of the plant has brought the wire down low which means I have to stoop to get at my wood store and access the rear of the house. Hmmmmmm not entirely sure what to do next....
I use plants to mark special people and events in my garden, a sort of memorial if you like. The West window looks out also on to a white lilac set 9 years ago to mark the birth of my Bestest Boy Ben. Then there is the deep red Cherry bearing the name of my Pixie Princess, Ruby, set three years ago to mark her birth. Last year I set (or rather a member of my framily set) a crab apple tree which celebrates my freedom from mental slavery (as Bob Marley would have put it) and I'm sure that a trick cyclist would have fun with the choice. My overriding thought was to provide Mrs Blackbird with plenty of fruit in the winter: blackbirds so enjoy the crab apple fruit.
From the window in front of me: the redundant church, which I jealously watch over, looms large and magnificent. Feng Shuey experts would probably despair of it's placing but it has been here so much longer than the cottage. Inside my hawthorn hedge, which houses at least one wren, robins and a huge flock of sparrows, there is a weeping beech called a Purple Fountain. This was a gift from my Beloved Son and Heir for my last birthday and is currently dressed with baubles and angel hair for the benefit of my grandchildren and the season. The hedge itself supports a very vigorous ivy. Proper gardeners would rip it all out and refer to it as a parasite. Me? I see a green cloak covering the bare twigs of the hawthorn offering shelter for the winged residents in winter. It also provides nondescript green flowers which turn into the blackest and shiniest berries providing another valuable resource for the birds.
And there is the front gate which squeaks when it is opened. It too is dressed with Seasonal trimmings and ivy. I have been training the ivy around the wrought iron as much to hide the dilapidated state of the iron works as to create a living sculpture. I have never wanted to oil the gate to stop it squeaking because it acts as an alarm signal for both me and MaddyMoo of the possibility of an intruder. The gate leads directly to the road and I tend to be paranoid about people leaving it open. After all I have a chicken with limited road sense, a dog with an over developed sense of welcome and a boy cat who defiantly stands his ground when the vehicles cross his path. The road links the village to the town 10 miles away to the West and the next village 3 miles away to the East. It was not built to accommodate either the amount of traffic or the size of the vehicles it now has to support. Farm vehicles are so wide and heavy now they straddled both the carriages and rock my cottage as they pass by. Articulated lorries also shake the foundations and I can't help but think there is a fault line stretching diagonally from my cottage to the church across the road.
People who drive or walk past just cannot help but look into my window and there are some who must think I am nailed to the chair in my Hive! I resent their interest and tend to leave the blind closed with just a little chink of the window showing which allows me to spot unexpected visitors. I only want to share my world with people I want to share it with. Strangers are no longer welcome in the flesh. I think it has something to do with my now limited ability to defend myself. There are those in the village who watch over me without me realising. I am beginning to think I have turned into the village eccentric hiding behind closed drapes and appearing to be quite batty with her herd of animals. Shortly before Christmas one of the villagers came to deliver a Christmas card. I watched as she walked through the gate and thought she would simply place it into my post box. I let her in and sort of apologised for the state of the floor and she said she needed to explain the Christmas Card. I am afraid I cried. Apparently there is a Village Fund for people in need and the Trustees decided this year that I should receive some money to assist me over the festive season. I was stunned and incredibly touched by their kindness. So, the lesson for me is that not everything or everyone who comes through the front gate brings trouble or worry. I use the imagery of angels to offer support to others and find I too am watched over by angels.
My only New Year message to everyone is that there really are diamonds in the dirt, you just need to dig a little to find them. May the angels of hope, peace and love walk with us all and sustain us through trials and tribulations.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
When I returned to Lincolnshire 10 years ago, the second thing I did when I moved into the cottage was to plot and plan where to place the plants I had repatriated from my Hertfordshire garden. The Eucalyptus tree was beginning to look very sorry for itself and there was barely any base to the bucket left. I set the tree too close to the washing line and it's first winter in the ground saw it battered by the Northerly winds. After a tricky winter it defiantly grew at an angle and helps keep, what I call, my wooded area dry. It has several roles really: it's survival under extreme pressure is, of course, symbolic particularly bearing in mind the tree has a very shallow root system. It plays host to the wide range of birds who visit my garden and supports a white perfumed clematis set to mark the death of my father. The blossom of the tree is unremarkable when looked at singly but when I look at the tree from the upstairs window the tiny, delicate greeney white flowers cover the tree like a veil giving it a slightly unearthly air. As dusk falls it's oval leaves gradually turn black in the fading light and the tree takes on a menacing magic as night closes in.
I also see a sagging old telephone wire with what looks like a dead plant attached to it. This was a speriment that didn't quite work. If I had been a physicist I may have been able to predict the failure. On the corner of my West wall is a wooden arch; built for me by the Estranged One, to support an ice cream scented clematis and a scented rose called New Dawn. My original plot was for the two plants to clamber over the arch, climb up and over the ridge tiles and eventually cover the flat roof of my Hive. The plants had other ideas and defied me. Armed with chicken wire, grim determination and sheer bloody mindedness I insisted they would do what I wanted and eventually they have started to comply. Then I thought, how nice would a clematis curtain be across my garden and trained the Montanna along a disused telephone wire. It was too successful! It is a rampant plant, the Montanna, and is clearly very happy where it lives. The sheer weight of the plant has brought the wire down low which means I have to stoop to get at my wood store and access the rear of the house. Hmmmmmm not entirely sure what to do next....
I use plants to mark special people and events in my garden, a sort of memorial if you like. The West window looks out also on to a white lilac set 9 years ago to mark the birth of my Bestest Boy Ben. Then there is the deep red Cherry bearing the name of my Pixie Princess, Ruby, set three years ago to mark her birth. Last year I set (or rather a member of my framily set) a crab apple tree which celebrates my freedom from mental slavery (as Bob Marley would have put it) and I'm sure that a trick cyclist would have fun with the choice. My overriding thought was to provide Mrs Blackbird with plenty of fruit in the winter: blackbirds so enjoy the crab apple fruit.
From the window in front of me: the redundant church, which I jealously watch over, looms large and magnificent. Feng Shuey experts would probably despair of it's placing but it has been here so much longer than the cottage. Inside my hawthorn hedge, which houses at least one wren, robins and a huge flock of sparrows, there is a weeping beech called a Purple Fountain. This was a gift from my Beloved Son and Heir for my last birthday and is currently dressed with baubles and angel hair for the benefit of my grandchildren and the season. The hedge itself supports a very vigorous ivy. Proper gardeners would rip it all out and refer to it as a parasite. Me? I see a green cloak covering the bare twigs of the hawthorn offering shelter for the winged residents in winter. It also provides nondescript green flowers which turn into the blackest and shiniest berries providing another valuable resource for the birds.
And there is the front gate which squeaks when it is opened. It too is dressed with Seasonal trimmings and ivy. I have been training the ivy around the wrought iron as much to hide the dilapidated state of the iron works as to create a living sculpture. I have never wanted to oil the gate to stop it squeaking because it acts as an alarm signal for both me and MaddyMoo of the possibility of an intruder. The gate leads directly to the road and I tend to be paranoid about people leaving it open. After all I have a chicken with limited road sense, a dog with an over developed sense of welcome and a boy cat who defiantly stands his ground when the vehicles cross his path. The road links the village to the town 10 miles away to the West and the next village 3 miles away to the East. It was not built to accommodate either the amount of traffic or the size of the vehicles it now has to support. Farm vehicles are so wide and heavy now they straddled both the carriages and rock my cottage as they pass by. Articulated lorries also shake the foundations and I can't help but think there is a fault line stretching diagonally from my cottage to the church across the road.
People who drive or walk past just cannot help but look into my window and there are some who must think I am nailed to the chair in my Hive! I resent their interest and tend to leave the blind closed with just a little chink of the window showing which allows me to spot unexpected visitors. I only want to share my world with people I want to share it with. Strangers are no longer welcome in the flesh. I think it has something to do with my now limited ability to defend myself. There are those in the village who watch over me without me realising. I am beginning to think I have turned into the village eccentric hiding behind closed drapes and appearing to be quite batty with her herd of animals. Shortly before Christmas one of the villagers came to deliver a Christmas card. I watched as she walked through the gate and thought she would simply place it into my post box. I let her in and sort of apologised for the state of the floor and she said she needed to explain the Christmas Card. I am afraid I cried. Apparently there is a Village Fund for people in need and the Trustees decided this year that I should receive some money to assist me over the festive season. I was stunned and incredibly touched by their kindness. So, the lesson for me is that not everything or everyone who comes through the front gate brings trouble or worry. I use the imagery of angels to offer support to others and find I too am watched over by angels.
My only New Year message to everyone is that there really are diamonds in the dirt, you just need to dig a little to find them. May the angels of hope, peace and love walk with us all and sustain us through trials and tribulations.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Wednesday, 29 December 2010
THE Purple Fairy on Meandering through Memories
And a special welcome if you have just joined me to see whether I remember who I am. I do. Just. I have given myself permission to remain ungrowedup for another day so that I can gather the memories laid down over the past five days and firmly affix them to the walls of my happy room in my head.
I spend more and more time in my head these days on account of the fact that my resources for a romp through the external world are becoming fewer and fewer. It hurts to walk; I cannot entirely trust my limbs to do what they are being told to do and I would find it impossible to defend myself from attack. Now all this sounds a little gloomy and a bit pity-me-ish but nothing could be further from the truth. Right now I am such a happy little bunny basking in the warm glow of family love and this is my way of explaining that I have adapted to being an internal being rather than an external being. If truth be told, I sometimes find the intrusion of the external world somewhat burdensome.
Something rather strange happens when my family come to stay. There seems to be a shift in the space time continuum that affects my ability to tell the time; complete tasks in one hit and even to establish what day it is! Their presence also temporarily cures me of my OCD tendencies and I care not that things are not where they should be; where they shouldn't be or indeed, where they actually are! Other senses become heightened; tuning into to the possible distress noises not only of my Beloved Grandchildren but also those of Beloved Son and Heir and my Beautiful Daughter-in-Law, my need to nurture them and anticipate their every whim and well, just make them happy. And yet as we talk and laugh together my own Dickensian childhood intrudes and I find myself sharing information I did not intend to share with them and I do not know why.
Part of me wants to lay down loving memories for my grandchildren so that in turn they can tell their grandchildren of the japes and jollyiness they experienced when visiting me. I replay incidents in my head to strengthen my own memory bank possibly as an insurance against my bad memories. If I pack enough good stuff onto the shelf in my head then it may just result in some of the bad stuff falling off and disappearing forever.
Highlights for this Christmas:
Being first up on Christmas Morning and finding Santa's footprints all over the sitting room, torn wrapping paper, pink tennis balls scattered across the floor and a huge pile of presents under the new black Christmas tree bought to mark our first real Christmas together for ten years. I thought the paper represented Santa being in a hurry and the tennis balls Rudolph's droppings. But in fact Coco had managed to seek out her Christmas present from the pile without disturbing anything else. She and MaddyMoo spent the rest of the holiday challenging the hoomans' ability to securely hide them away.
My Bestest Boy Ben who couldn't stop the unbidden tears filling his eyes when he opened his main present from Mummy and Daddy; My Pixie Princess, the last one up on Christmas Day, fetching herself downstairs and wishing us 'Merry Christmas!'. Beloved Son and Heir taking over the cooking of Christmas Dinner - awesome! and then thrashing me at Scrabble. Watching my darling daughter-in-law's face light up as her children rampaged through the presents taking as much, if not more, pleasure in their reactions as in her own gifts.
I also made an interesting discovery during their stay. The Tale Telling baton has been passed down the generations. I used to be the storyteller, entertaining people with silly stories, dark deeds and the more pleasant memories of youth. It was my job to make people laugh, to inform and to please. (You don't have to be Freud to work that one out). And I was successful too - a natural communicator, complete with actions and accents, a Gemini strength. We were at my best friend's house and I suddenly became aware that my Beloved Son and Heir was taking the lead on the storytelling and I was content to let him do so. I then realised that Bestest Boy Ben too had always been a dramatic teller of tales and my Pixie Princess shows the same talent. I realised that I was pleased with this development: I no longer have confidence in the way I look when I speak and prefer to communicate via the screen where no-one can see me. So I am glad the Tale Telling baton is in safe hands.
I have had a wonderful Christmas, one I will never forget. My soul is full and my grin muscle hurts. I keep rewinding the video in my head replaying events and I will still be finding things in unexpected places throughout the new year. It is true that I cried when they left: it is harder and harder each time to let them go but meandering through my memories of our week together will sustain me during the endless grey days of January.
May the Angels of hope and peace walk with us as we travel through the New Year.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
I spend more and more time in my head these days on account of the fact that my resources for a romp through the external world are becoming fewer and fewer. It hurts to walk; I cannot entirely trust my limbs to do what they are being told to do and I would find it impossible to defend myself from attack. Now all this sounds a little gloomy and a bit pity-me-ish but nothing could be further from the truth. Right now I am such a happy little bunny basking in the warm glow of family love and this is my way of explaining that I have adapted to being an internal being rather than an external being. If truth be told, I sometimes find the intrusion of the external world somewhat burdensome.
Something rather strange happens when my family come to stay. There seems to be a shift in the space time continuum that affects my ability to tell the time; complete tasks in one hit and even to establish what day it is! Their presence also temporarily cures me of my OCD tendencies and I care not that things are not where they should be; where they shouldn't be or indeed, where they actually are! Other senses become heightened; tuning into to the possible distress noises not only of my Beloved Grandchildren but also those of Beloved Son and Heir and my Beautiful Daughter-in-Law, my need to nurture them and anticipate their every whim and well, just make them happy. And yet as we talk and laugh together my own Dickensian childhood intrudes and I find myself sharing information I did not intend to share with them and I do not know why.
Part of me wants to lay down loving memories for my grandchildren so that in turn they can tell their grandchildren of the japes and jollyiness they experienced when visiting me. I replay incidents in my head to strengthen my own memory bank possibly as an insurance against my bad memories. If I pack enough good stuff onto the shelf in my head then it may just result in some of the bad stuff falling off and disappearing forever.
Highlights for this Christmas:
Being first up on Christmas Morning and finding Santa's footprints all over the sitting room, torn wrapping paper, pink tennis balls scattered across the floor and a huge pile of presents under the new black Christmas tree bought to mark our first real Christmas together for ten years. I thought the paper represented Santa being in a hurry and the tennis balls Rudolph's droppings. But in fact Coco had managed to seek out her Christmas present from the pile without disturbing anything else. She and MaddyMoo spent the rest of the holiday challenging the hoomans' ability to securely hide them away.
My Bestest Boy Ben who couldn't stop the unbidden tears filling his eyes when he opened his main present from Mummy and Daddy; My Pixie Princess, the last one up on Christmas Day, fetching herself downstairs and wishing us 'Merry Christmas!'. Beloved Son and Heir taking over the cooking of Christmas Dinner - awesome! and then thrashing me at Scrabble. Watching my darling daughter-in-law's face light up as her children rampaged through the presents taking as much, if not more, pleasure in their reactions as in her own gifts.
I also made an interesting discovery during their stay. The Tale Telling baton has been passed down the generations. I used to be the storyteller, entertaining people with silly stories, dark deeds and the more pleasant memories of youth. It was my job to make people laugh, to inform and to please. (You don't have to be Freud to work that one out). And I was successful too - a natural communicator, complete with actions and accents, a Gemini strength. We were at my best friend's house and I suddenly became aware that my Beloved Son and Heir was taking the lead on the storytelling and I was content to let him do so. I then realised that Bestest Boy Ben too had always been a dramatic teller of tales and my Pixie Princess shows the same talent. I realised that I was pleased with this development: I no longer have confidence in the way I look when I speak and prefer to communicate via the screen where no-one can see me. So I am glad the Tale Telling baton is in safe hands.
I have had a wonderful Christmas, one I will never forget. My soul is full and my grin muscle hurts. I keep rewinding the video in my head replaying events and I will still be finding things in unexpected places throughout the new year. It is true that I cried when they left: it is harder and harder each time to let them go but meandering through my memories of our week together will sustain me during the endless grey days of January.
May the Angels of hope and peace walk with us as we travel through the New Year.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Tuesday, 21 December 2010
THE Purple Fairy Generally Generalising
The tribe I belong to astonishes me. As a breed we are capable of producing exquisite art and music; capable of great gentleness, touching tenderness and unfailing bravery. I prefer not to dwell on the negative aspects of the mass, not because I am Pollyanna-arish - far from it! But because, if I consider too deeply the awfulness, I risk being subsumed, enveloped, swallowed and digested. I'd like to believe that I am a pessimistic optimist: I know things will go wrong but I hope they don't.
I had learnt to avoid people, despite the fact that I desperately wanted to be accepted; a necessary cog in the machinery, a key component vital to the smooth running of whatever society I happened to be in. But I learned from a very, very early age that nothing was ever quite what it seemed to be. It was safer to be a backroom girl with no expectations, that way you would not be hurt or disappointed. Never wanted to be a star (well that's not entirely true ... I ran away to London when I was 16 with 18s and 6d pocket and intended to be a singer in the style of Janis Joplin). No. I didn't make it.
But what I discovered in London gradually persuaded me to give people a second chance and indeed, absolute confirmation that nothing was ever as it seemed! In general I hated London. A cold, heartless City full of people who either wanted to take advantage of you, or rob you, or worse. But within one short week I began to trust my instincts once more. By the end of my first week I had stopped sleeping in Hyde Park; been rescued by a burglar, was able to identify plain clothed policemen, pimps and prostitutes, gotten myself a grotty room in Westbourne Grove and by day seven, had been employed by a Russian who had an antiques booth in Bond Street. When I look back on that first eighteen months in London I am astonished that I am still here: emotionally and physically. From the upper strata of society I encountered cruel and vicious people and people capable of selfless generosity. From what some would call the dregs of society, I was nurtured and protected and yet also placed in great danger.
Working in Bond Street selling Georgian silver, furniture and watches saw me learning that the oddest people can be the kindest people. It was an education I shall aways be grateful for even though the tale end of my career as an antiques salesgirl saw my first brush with death. I was actually a good salesgirl. Firstly, I was totally committed to the job. So much so that I would buy my clothes for work from Portobello Road. One outfit I adored was an alleged Victorian skirt and a velvet riding jacket. Oh! I wish I had those now!!! Sometimes when I look at Helen Bonham-Carter I see the seventeen year old me, always barefoot and with facial decorations made from paints and sequins with an eclectic dress sense.
The Russian had taken a chance on me because I had been cheeky enough to walk into his shop in Westborne Grove and ask for a job. It was that easy then. He was married to a rather gorgeous blond and had two dogs: one full Alsatian and one cross bred Alsatian. Me and those dogs became such good friends that I would take them out on my days off. They even accompanied me to the Rolling Stones free concert in Hyde Park.
Part of my education at the London School of Life introduced me to the third sex. Having sometimes lived on farms I was no stranger to the concept of reproduction. When Curly the Bull was required to service his herd, I was the one the farmer would dispatch to fetch him. The farmer was afraid of Curly and I was fearless of anything with four legs. What I had never encountered was people who liked to have sex irrespective of gender. I remember being taken to a rather seedy club in Westbourne Grove by a chap: at the front door was this apparition; the person was very tall, clad in a wonderfully revealing dress and sitting with legs apart displaying rather pretty knickers that looked strangely 'full'. A deep voice demanded the entrance fee and I realised that the voice had come from the spreadeagled one. I slowly looked up to the face and saw a heavily made up man. 'Close your mouth dear' the voice said 'In this place you have no idea what might just pop into it'.
I spent the evening in a daze of disbelief. I saw men kissing men, men dressed as women kissing women, women kissing women, women dressed as men dancing sensually with women. Despite my instinctive need to escape I found I could not help but look. Eventually my date realised that I was uncomfortable and took me home. The following day ,as I walked towards the Chinese restaurant for my weekly treat, I bumped into the chap(ess) who had been on the door in the club, this time dressed as a male. 'Alright darling?' he called. 'Anytime you want a drink pop in and see me on the door'. And I did and a friendship of the odd and the slightly lost was formed.
The stall holders in the Antiques Arcade were a very mixed bunch and I sometimes wondered whether they saw me as a mascot, a little match girl , their tame bit of rough. They were generally posh, well off and spoke with cut glass accents whilst I spoke with a mixture of broad Yorkshire/Lincolnshire dialect. I served Peter Noone (he of Herman and the Hermits fame) and showing him a beautiful Georgian dining table I said loudly 'Eeee that's a loverly bit o' wood the-ear' He must have agreed because he bought the table. My booth was at the end of the basement corridor next to the gents and my two immediate neighbours looked after me. They checked whether I had eaten, gave me money and sent me off for my breakfast if I hadn't. They were mother hens to me. One of the chaps would come out of the toilet and smooth down the back of his trousers just like a girl does with her skirt. I was confused and couldn't figure out why he did this. The other chap was less demonstrative in his actions but it seemed the two were lovers! That really confusticated me! Well, for a start, they were both married - to women. Admittedly the wife of one of them looked more like a man (and I later discovered she was an actress with a more than maternal interest in 'young gels').
As someone who always felt outside the glass looking in at the fun and jollity the rest of the world was having, these strange people were not in fact that strange to me. I never judged. I accepted who they were.
This train of thought has been triggered by the kindness of people in my circle, both real and virtual. Random acts of kindness can and do reduce me to tears. Help comes from, astonishingly, unexpected places and seeks no reward. I try to share what I have and sometimes, the only thing of value I do have to share is time.
Do something unexpectedly kind today: do not expect thanks, consider it a bonus if you do, but your random act of kindness may well stay in the mind of a little lost soul for the next forty years - reward enough methinks.
Take care, stay warm ...
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
I had learnt to avoid people, despite the fact that I desperately wanted to be accepted; a necessary cog in the machinery, a key component vital to the smooth running of whatever society I happened to be in. But I learned from a very, very early age that nothing was ever quite what it seemed to be. It was safer to be a backroom girl with no expectations, that way you would not be hurt or disappointed. Never wanted to be a star (well that's not entirely true ... I ran away to London when I was 16 with 18s and 6d pocket and intended to be a singer in the style of Janis Joplin). No. I didn't make it.
But what I discovered in London gradually persuaded me to give people a second chance and indeed, absolute confirmation that nothing was ever as it seemed! In general I hated London. A cold, heartless City full of people who either wanted to take advantage of you, or rob you, or worse. But within one short week I began to trust my instincts once more. By the end of my first week I had stopped sleeping in Hyde Park; been rescued by a burglar, was able to identify plain clothed policemen, pimps and prostitutes, gotten myself a grotty room in Westbourne Grove and by day seven, had been employed by a Russian who had an antiques booth in Bond Street. When I look back on that first eighteen months in London I am astonished that I am still here: emotionally and physically. From the upper strata of society I encountered cruel and vicious people and people capable of selfless generosity. From what some would call the dregs of society, I was nurtured and protected and yet also placed in great danger.
Working in Bond Street selling Georgian silver, furniture and watches saw me learning that the oddest people can be the kindest people. It was an education I shall aways be grateful for even though the tale end of my career as an antiques salesgirl saw my first brush with death. I was actually a good salesgirl. Firstly, I was totally committed to the job. So much so that I would buy my clothes for work from Portobello Road. One outfit I adored was an alleged Victorian skirt and a velvet riding jacket. Oh! I wish I had those now!!! Sometimes when I look at Helen Bonham-Carter I see the seventeen year old me, always barefoot and with facial decorations made from paints and sequins with an eclectic dress sense.
The Russian had taken a chance on me because I had been cheeky enough to walk into his shop in Westborne Grove and ask for a job. It was that easy then. He was married to a rather gorgeous blond and had two dogs: one full Alsatian and one cross bred Alsatian. Me and those dogs became such good friends that I would take them out on my days off. They even accompanied me to the Rolling Stones free concert in Hyde Park.
Part of my education at the London School of Life introduced me to the third sex. Having sometimes lived on farms I was no stranger to the concept of reproduction. When Curly the Bull was required to service his herd, I was the one the farmer would dispatch to fetch him. The farmer was afraid of Curly and I was fearless of anything with four legs. What I had never encountered was people who liked to have sex irrespective of gender. I remember being taken to a rather seedy club in Westbourne Grove by a chap: at the front door was this apparition; the person was very tall, clad in a wonderfully revealing dress and sitting with legs apart displaying rather pretty knickers that looked strangely 'full'. A deep voice demanded the entrance fee and I realised that the voice had come from the spreadeagled one. I slowly looked up to the face and saw a heavily made up man. 'Close your mouth dear' the voice said 'In this place you have no idea what might just pop into it'.
I spent the evening in a daze of disbelief. I saw men kissing men, men dressed as women kissing women, women kissing women, women dressed as men dancing sensually with women. Despite my instinctive need to escape I found I could not help but look. Eventually my date realised that I was uncomfortable and took me home. The following day ,as I walked towards the Chinese restaurant for my weekly treat, I bumped into the chap(ess) who had been on the door in the club, this time dressed as a male. 'Alright darling?' he called. 'Anytime you want a drink pop in and see me on the door'. And I did and a friendship of the odd and the slightly lost was formed.
The stall holders in the Antiques Arcade were a very mixed bunch and I sometimes wondered whether they saw me as a mascot, a little match girl , their tame bit of rough. They were generally posh, well off and spoke with cut glass accents whilst I spoke with a mixture of broad Yorkshire/Lincolnshire dialect. I served Peter Noone (he of Herman and the Hermits fame) and showing him a beautiful Georgian dining table I said loudly 'Eeee that's a loverly bit o' wood the-ear' He must have agreed because he bought the table. My booth was at the end of the basement corridor next to the gents and my two immediate neighbours looked after me. They checked whether I had eaten, gave me money and sent me off for my breakfast if I hadn't. They were mother hens to me. One of the chaps would come out of the toilet and smooth down the back of his trousers just like a girl does with her skirt. I was confused and couldn't figure out why he did this. The other chap was less demonstrative in his actions but it seemed the two were lovers! That really confusticated me! Well, for a start, they were both married - to women. Admittedly the wife of one of them looked more like a man (and I later discovered she was an actress with a more than maternal interest in 'young gels').
As someone who always felt outside the glass looking in at the fun and jollity the rest of the world was having, these strange people were not in fact that strange to me. I never judged. I accepted who they were.
This train of thought has been triggered by the kindness of people in my circle, both real and virtual. Random acts of kindness can and do reduce me to tears. Help comes from, astonishingly, unexpected places and seeks no reward. I try to share what I have and sometimes, the only thing of value I do have to share is time.
Do something unexpectedly kind today: do not expect thanks, consider it a bonus if you do, but your random act of kindness may well stay in the mind of a little lost soul for the next forty years - reward enough methinks.
Take care, stay warm ...
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Saturday, 18 December 2010
THE Purple Fairy explains why she does NOT feel guilty today
You may recall that I have already introduced you to Assumption, Instinct and Perception. Another prominent member of the tribe is Guilt. Those of us 'welcomed' into the Roman Catholic church learn, even before we understand the language, that it is all our fault! Every ill besetting the planet is because of something that we did (or even, something we did not do); each atrocity carried out by our ancestors is laid on the shoulders of the fragile new born to burden it with original sin and, all worldwide disasters, whether medical, meteorological or man-made, are as a result of the Vengeful God punishing us for offending His (it is always His) sensibilities. Is there any wonder so many of us want to 'dip' out of the real world?
The Magnificent Marianne Faithful recorded what could be my personal anthem: 'I feel guilt'. The lyrics go on to say that 'though I know I've done no wrong, I feel guilt...'
Guilt has been my constant companion for the last zillion years. I am pretty convinced that I did not cry out when I was born. I reckon I yelled out 'I'm sorry!'. Certainly that's exactly what I did when I came round from the gas and air after dental surgery. Guilt is so deeply ingrained into my psyche that I even apologise to lampposts if I bump into them. When the realisation kicks in that the lamppost couldn't give a flying fig whether I bumped into it or not, I then feel guilty for being so stupid! I have been known to say sorry to a wide range of animate and inanimate objects. I apologise to the corpses of road kill if I cannot avoid driving over their bodies; someone will tell me some bad news relating to them and I immediately apologise despite having no influence on the road conditions that caused their accident, or, I could not have caused the row they have just had with their boss and of course, I always apologise for the state of my cottage.
It is not always necessary to use the word 'sorry'. Feeling guilt is demonstrated effectively by body language too. Indeed one of the triggers for a street robbery is the way someone walks down the street. If you make like a Masai Warrior with a straight back and your eyes fixed on the horizon you are less likely to be mugged. Hunch your shoulders, keep your head down and avoid contact with others and you actually invite the attention of those with bad intent.
One thing I was taught was that there is no such thing as not being guilty. After my confirmation into the Roman Catholic church , I was of course, required to go to confession. Fifty years on I am still perpleplexed by the idea that a child below the age of criminal responsibility actually has anything to confess. I recall my first visit to the confessional after I had been received into the church and the kindly, disembodied voice asked me to confess my sins. I was word perfect with the opening words but I got stuck when I was asked to list my sins. I just couldn't think of a one . Nothing. Could not recall anything I had done wrong since my confirmation. So, I told the priest ' Forgive me Father for I have sinned' paused and tried to think of something I had done wrong. Silence. 'Well child?' said the priest. More silence. 'Child!' said the priest more forcefully. 'You need to seek absolution for your sins! Speak and tell me what you have done'. I mumbled something about not actually having done anything wrong since my confirmation and the confessional seemed to shake with anger! The priest was furious with me. How dare I challenge him! How dare I challenge God! How dare I insult the Virgin Mary! Of course I had sinned! All children were sinners! The priest then told me that God would deal with me directly but in the meantime my punishment was to recite 10 'Our Fathers' and 10 'Hail Marys'. I was not a stupid child. I realised that I was in mortal danger and vowed to keep an accurate record of everything I did wrong until my next visit to the confessional. The following Sunday I presented myself to the faceless voice in the darkened box once more and boy! was I prepared!!! 'Forgive me father for I have sinned' I intoned and went on to list my sins: I had had a bad thought about my brother; I had stolen a piece of raw swede, I had wanted to disobey my mother and I had forgotten to pray on Tuesday night. Phew! For that list of sins I was penalised with only 1 'Our Father' and 2 'Hail Marys'. So from then on in, if I could not think of a sin I had committed, I would invent one to keep the priest happy.
So why am I guilt free today I hear you ask? There are a million things I SHOULD have done today: cleaning, ironing, washing up, scribing (the proper version not this one), paying bills and ensuring the cottage is totally prepared for my most welcome invasion due on the 23rd of December. And what have I done instead? I have emptied out all my stocks of baubles, beads, and bubble wrap into a untidy heap on the sitting room floor. I have dressed the shrubs in the garden with angel hair and ribbons and placed stars onto trees in the hope that I can enchant my beloved grandchildren when they arrive. I have managed to install some lights and a few decorations inside but the truth is I am going to have to wait until Beloved Son and Heir comes up here to finish off for me.
Even the misplacing of my Christmas Tree has not caused me to feel guilt. I cannot find it anywhere. It is probably somewhere really safe but it is certainly not in the cottage. I thought it might be in the garage but as the door is frozen shut, I can't investigate! Ah well, something will turn up. One year I used the 4 foot dried stalks, complete with seed heads, of my fennel plant as a representation of a tree and dressed them with crocheted snowflakes. Stunning.
Right, time for me to turn on the guilt and do some chores.
Take care of yourself, and of each other
Love and peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
The Magnificent Marianne Faithful recorded what could be my personal anthem: 'I feel guilt'. The lyrics go on to say that 'though I know I've done no wrong, I feel guilt...'
Guilt has been my constant companion for the last zillion years. I am pretty convinced that I did not cry out when I was born. I reckon I yelled out 'I'm sorry!'. Certainly that's exactly what I did when I came round from the gas and air after dental surgery. Guilt is so deeply ingrained into my psyche that I even apologise to lampposts if I bump into them. When the realisation kicks in that the lamppost couldn't give a flying fig whether I bumped into it or not, I then feel guilty for being so stupid! I have been known to say sorry to a wide range of animate and inanimate objects. I apologise to the corpses of road kill if I cannot avoid driving over their bodies; someone will tell me some bad news relating to them and I immediately apologise despite having no influence on the road conditions that caused their accident, or, I could not have caused the row they have just had with their boss and of course, I always apologise for the state of my cottage.
It is not always necessary to use the word 'sorry'. Feeling guilt is demonstrated effectively by body language too. Indeed one of the triggers for a street robbery is the way someone walks down the street. If you make like a Masai Warrior with a straight back and your eyes fixed on the horizon you are less likely to be mugged. Hunch your shoulders, keep your head down and avoid contact with others and you actually invite the attention of those with bad intent.
One thing I was taught was that there is no such thing as not being guilty. After my confirmation into the Roman Catholic church , I was of course, required to go to confession. Fifty years on I am still perpleplexed by the idea that a child below the age of criminal responsibility actually has anything to confess. I recall my first visit to the confessional after I had been received into the church and the kindly, disembodied voice asked me to confess my sins. I was word perfect with the opening words but I got stuck when I was asked to list my sins. I just couldn't think of a one . Nothing. Could not recall anything I had done wrong since my confirmation. So, I told the priest ' Forgive me Father for I have sinned' paused and tried to think of something I had done wrong. Silence. 'Well child?' said the priest. More silence. 'Child!' said the priest more forcefully. 'You need to seek absolution for your sins! Speak and tell me what you have done'. I mumbled something about not actually having done anything wrong since my confirmation and the confessional seemed to shake with anger! The priest was furious with me. How dare I challenge him! How dare I challenge God! How dare I insult the Virgin Mary! Of course I had sinned! All children were sinners! The priest then told me that God would deal with me directly but in the meantime my punishment was to recite 10 'Our Fathers' and 10 'Hail Marys'. I was not a stupid child. I realised that I was in mortal danger and vowed to keep an accurate record of everything I did wrong until my next visit to the confessional. The following Sunday I presented myself to the faceless voice in the darkened box once more and boy! was I prepared!!! 'Forgive me father for I have sinned' I intoned and went on to list my sins: I had had a bad thought about my brother; I had stolen a piece of raw swede, I had wanted to disobey my mother and I had forgotten to pray on Tuesday night. Phew! For that list of sins I was penalised with only 1 'Our Father' and 2 'Hail Marys'. So from then on in, if I could not think of a sin I had committed, I would invent one to keep the priest happy.
So why am I guilt free today I hear you ask? There are a million things I SHOULD have done today: cleaning, ironing, washing up, scribing (the proper version not this one), paying bills and ensuring the cottage is totally prepared for my most welcome invasion due on the 23rd of December. And what have I done instead? I have emptied out all my stocks of baubles, beads, and bubble wrap into a untidy heap on the sitting room floor. I have dressed the shrubs in the garden with angel hair and ribbons and placed stars onto trees in the hope that I can enchant my beloved grandchildren when they arrive. I have managed to install some lights and a few decorations inside but the truth is I am going to have to wait until Beloved Son and Heir comes up here to finish off for me.
Even the misplacing of my Christmas Tree has not caused me to feel guilt. I cannot find it anywhere. It is probably somewhere really safe but it is certainly not in the cottage. I thought it might be in the garage but as the door is frozen shut, I can't investigate! Ah well, something will turn up. One year I used the 4 foot dried stalks, complete with seed heads, of my fennel plant as a representation of a tree and dressed them with crocheted snowflakes. Stunning.
Right, time for me to turn on the guilt and do some chores.
Take care of yourself, and of each other
Love and peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Wednesday, 15 December 2010
THE Purple Fairy is not entirely sure about today...
... will Triumph overcome Disaster as the predictions would have it? I have just committed myself to a work day today. What I didn't say was when that day would start ...
Today, apparently, I am achieving my health goals (really?!?!?!? - You mean I am MEANT to feel like this?!?!?!). As regards my love life, it seems that I am in danger of being obsessive about the object of my affections. (Hmmmm ... and you manage that with an ethereal entity - how? Shall I be boiling a virtual bunny p'raphs). My skills are to be recognised by those who manage me and they will make me an offer I simply cannot refuse. (Yeah! right! that'll be the graceless tw*ts who could not even be bothered to say 'thank you and goodnight' when they last met me ... ). As for the financial forecast, oh boy! oh boy! oh BOY! I am doing everything right and will soon be able to achieve my dreams. (Hmmmmm difficult to even think of a wry line let alone write one!).
I am not absolutely committed to mocking these predictions ... like most people I try to pretend I have an open mind. But I do find myself seeking out the horoscopes and then groaning inwardly at the silliness of it all and yet, still seek them out again the next day. My session with Helen yesterday helped me understand a bit more.
Predictions, horoscopes, tarot readings, pricking thumbs: these are, perhaps, manifestations of the need to be validated; to justify your very existence. Those who were or are cherished, I believe, are the well balanced people who are quite capable of validating themselves. These people do not need the reassurance of faceless shaymen or showmen to feed off their insecurities and for that I envy them!!!
There is, however, comfort to be found in the strangest of places and that is why I mock not completely. Some people pray, whether they believe or not, and I wouldn't dream of challenging them. I pray in the hope that there really is a superior being because I cannot believe that the human race is the pinnacle of spiritual progress. Some people believe in beads or other items they cannot bear to be parted with. I have a a 'lucky' necklace made in Africa from seeds. I wear it rarely; only on those occasions when I really want something good to happen. And guess what? Each time I wear it, things turn out the way I want them to. I don't want to 'wear it out' so use it sparingly even when I am tempted to wear it more often.
My other 'lucky' item is a simple Kara: a stainless steel bangle given to me 42 years ago by a young Indian lad who befriended me when I was a waif and stray on the streets of London. He said it would protect me from my ghosts and I have never let it lose contact with my skin for over four decades. Even major surgery couldn't persuade me to remove it and it had to be bandaged up. It makes a noise every time I work on the keyboard and occasionally it has bruised my arm when it has gotten tangled up in something. But still I wear it day after day. I learnt much later in life that the bangle reminds the wearer to do good with their hands. Whether it protects me or not and whether I am reminded to do good with my hands, I cannot say. What I can say is that I cannot bear to be parted from it. It inextricably links me with the Indian boy whose name I no longer remember but whose kindness sustained me through days of fear in a cold city.
Which leads me to my third source of comfort (it's that three thing again). Readers who know me are familiar with my need to acknowledge the magpie. It may be the alleged Spanish gypsy of my ancestors; or my Celtic heritage that draws me to the magnificent bird. The Devil's bird some say. The corpse of which is used to demonstrate the existence of a gypsy curse. Even farmers suspend them from fences, along with rooks and crows, to deter others from landing. I am a friend of the magpie - well - it is another 'underdog'. It is perpetually blamed for it's status, it's a killer and a scavenger and it is shot, trapped and poisoned. One woman happily went public with the fact that she lures them to her garden and traps them so they can be killed. More sinned against methinks than sinner. I have looked closely at the Magpie. It is a damned attractive bird! If it were a hooman male, it would strut down the High Street like a dandy, acknowledging the swooning females admiring him with a haughty salute. The bird's feathers are black and white but they are also sometimes dressed with a green or a blue sheen and I have never, ever seen one whose feathers were not perfectly placed where they should be. I acknowledge every single Magpie I see, greeting him as a friend. To spot TWO Magpies gives me a silly sense of well being and I end up grinning just knowing that all will be well today. And, you know what, it always is.
Be gentle with yourselves, take your comforts where you find them - just ensure that no-one pays a price they cannot afford for that comfort.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Today, apparently, I am achieving my health goals (really?!?!?!? - You mean I am MEANT to feel like this?!?!?!). As regards my love life, it seems that I am in danger of being obsessive about the object of my affections. (Hmmmm ... and you manage that with an ethereal entity - how? Shall I be boiling a virtual bunny p'raphs). My skills are to be recognised by those who manage me and they will make me an offer I simply cannot refuse. (Yeah! right! that'll be the graceless tw*ts who could not even be bothered to say 'thank you and goodnight' when they last met me ... ). As for the financial forecast, oh boy! oh boy! oh BOY! I am doing everything right and will soon be able to achieve my dreams. (Hmmmmm difficult to even think of a wry line let alone write one!).
I am not absolutely committed to mocking these predictions ... like most people I try to pretend I have an open mind. But I do find myself seeking out the horoscopes and then groaning inwardly at the silliness of it all and yet, still seek them out again the next day. My session with Helen yesterday helped me understand a bit more.
Predictions, horoscopes, tarot readings, pricking thumbs: these are, perhaps, manifestations of the need to be validated; to justify your very existence. Those who were or are cherished, I believe, are the well balanced people who are quite capable of validating themselves. These people do not need the reassurance of faceless shaymen or showmen to feed off their insecurities and for that I envy them!!!
There is, however, comfort to be found in the strangest of places and that is why I mock not completely. Some people pray, whether they believe or not, and I wouldn't dream of challenging them. I pray in the hope that there really is a superior being because I cannot believe that the human race is the pinnacle of spiritual progress. Some people believe in beads or other items they cannot bear to be parted with. I have a a 'lucky' necklace made in Africa from seeds. I wear it rarely; only on those occasions when I really want something good to happen. And guess what? Each time I wear it, things turn out the way I want them to. I don't want to 'wear it out' so use it sparingly even when I am tempted to wear it more often.
My other 'lucky' item is a simple Kara: a stainless steel bangle given to me 42 years ago by a young Indian lad who befriended me when I was a waif and stray on the streets of London. He said it would protect me from my ghosts and I have never let it lose contact with my skin for over four decades. Even major surgery couldn't persuade me to remove it and it had to be bandaged up. It makes a noise every time I work on the keyboard and occasionally it has bruised my arm when it has gotten tangled up in something. But still I wear it day after day. I learnt much later in life that the bangle reminds the wearer to do good with their hands. Whether it protects me or not and whether I am reminded to do good with my hands, I cannot say. What I can say is that I cannot bear to be parted from it. It inextricably links me with the Indian boy whose name I no longer remember but whose kindness sustained me through days of fear in a cold city.
Which leads me to my third source of comfort (it's that three thing again). Readers who know me are familiar with my need to acknowledge the magpie. It may be the alleged Spanish gypsy of my ancestors; or my Celtic heritage that draws me to the magnificent bird. The Devil's bird some say. The corpse of which is used to demonstrate the existence of a gypsy curse. Even farmers suspend them from fences, along with rooks and crows, to deter others from landing. I am a friend of the magpie - well - it is another 'underdog'. It is perpetually blamed for it's status, it's a killer and a scavenger and it is shot, trapped and poisoned. One woman happily went public with the fact that she lures them to her garden and traps them so they can be killed. More sinned against methinks than sinner. I have looked closely at the Magpie. It is a damned attractive bird! If it were a hooman male, it would strut down the High Street like a dandy, acknowledging the swooning females admiring him with a haughty salute. The bird's feathers are black and white but they are also sometimes dressed with a green or a blue sheen and I have never, ever seen one whose feathers were not perfectly placed where they should be. I acknowledge every single Magpie I see, greeting him as a friend. To spot TWO Magpies gives me a silly sense of well being and I end up grinning just knowing that all will be well today. And, you know what, it always is.
Be gentle with yourselves, take your comforts where you find them - just ensure that no-one pays a price they cannot afford for that comfort.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
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