Apparently I am a fraud! Hey! How exciting, now I am labelled as something other than average or invisible! Not that I have been officially told I am a fraud. No, that would be to allocate a humanity to me that the Tribunal were incapable of expressing. It seems that not only am I unimportant enough not to benefit from assistance but they have written to tell my friend this is the case BUT NOT ME! How hard must it have been for her to have had to tell me over the 'phone?
So, there you go - you know those headlines that tell you your taxes are being wasted on wastrels; the ne-er do wells, the scroungers, those citizens that can't be arsed to get off their fat backsides and do a day's work? Those who are profligate with their reproduction resources and leech as permanent parasites from the State? Well according to three honest, upright citizens, I AM ONE OF THEM!
But! Wait! Not only that! I am also a benefit cheat! Under the rather wonderful Welfare to Work programme (thanks to the last government) I was encouraged to seek Employment Support Allowance. Only problem with that was that it was intended for individuals who did not have a job. I did. Not only did I have a job but I benefited from generous terms and conditions that saw me through the first part of my illness. As I went into the zero pay stage under my sick note (oh! sorry that's out of fashion now - they are no longer sick notes but fit notes) I was required to be screened by the wonderfully named Atos on behalf of the DWP, then referred to TNG (for some reason I want to call them TCP) another organisation employed by the DWP to assess me for any training needs I may have to encourage me back into work. To overcome my illness(es) and continue to contribute to the State.
The training I needed to get back to a job I already had was a diagnosis of one condition and the management of the excruciating pain of another condition to enable me to function nearly normally for a few hours a day.
Injunctions galore signposted the route back into work. I must do this: I must comply with that; I must co-operate with any and all who asked me; I must share my most intimate secrets with any 18 year old spotty Kevin or Kevinette who I was directed to. Failure to meet any such directions would result in hanging, drawing and quartering. Oh alright then! I exaggerate - a bit. Any failure to follow instructions you could not understand would result in benefit being withdrawn. To complicate matters further, if your ESA is granted on the basis of contributions paid via the National Insurance Tax you are precluded from seeking financial assistance with things like poll tax. If, however, it is granted on the grounds of income, then your poll tax is paid in full!!! So an income 50 pence higher that the minimum set for a person to live on per day trumps four and a half decades of paying contributions. A calculation process even the most greedy of bankers would have envied.
I am sure there are people in this Country who are managing to defraud the system; who know the right words to say, who know how to complete the relevant 46 page forms accurately. People who can adjust their bodies into the rigid boxes that have to be ticked by a faceless policy wonk who has no idea who or what you are. I almost admire them! They must be bloody clever to get around the system! Perhaps it is a skill that could be added to the curriculum so that erstwhile students can add it to their cannon of qualifications. I, clearly, have failed. Because I was daft enough to believe that TNG were acting in loco DWP and who shared my day to day information with them, and, because I was silly enough to report two weeks early a proposed adjustment to employment mutually agreed between me and my employer prior to it's formal implementation, I am now marked as a cheat for receiving £282.00 too much money. Oh and TNG still owe me the £50.00 shopping voucher they promised me for being a good girl and returning to work.
Having striven through the first age and the second age to make a decent life for me and my family, paying all my dues, obeying all the rules, I find myself progressing through to the third age discounted as a human being; called a liar, labelled a cheat and unworthy of help from all the State. If I was the only one then I could easily mange the rage I feel because after all, if you are called worthless long enough, you do believe it and there is no need to trouble with how others perceive you. But I am only one. There is a large, silently suffering population hidden away under the skirts of Mother England.
Mr Irritable Duncan Smith is quite right! The feckless and the foolish should be discouraged from milking the state. However the tools to be used for such a process need to be much finer than the blunt boxing of people into shapes that do not fit them. The decision process sidelines the GP's report (the one prepared for me clearly detailed my difficulties and my needs so she too must be a liar) the focus isn't even on any additional consultants' reports (ditto previous comment), it is on the ticked boxes, on strict narrow parameters. Step outside the line by a toe and you are automatically discounted as a cheat and a liar.
Am I vexed! Am I filled with rage! Too bloody right I am! Me and half a dozen people involved in my care have been called liars, but worse, thousands more are deprived or dissuaded from seeking help because the authorities cannot manage the handful of thieves who do plunder the system. Once more the tail wags the dog. I wonder if any of the people who sit on these appeal tribunals ever trouble to reflect and research on their decisions. Of course not. That would credit them with an empathy they clearly do not possess.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Where the beauty and the humour hide ...
Saturday, 19 February 2011
Friday, 18 February 2011
When not to speak ...
There is a difficult balance to be struck if you are taught to defer to your betters, speak when you are spoken to and to show no outward sign of the state of your emotions. The conflict lies within the need to hear, or see, natural justice take its rightful place without either; making an idiot of yourself, or worse still, be punished publicly for daring to feel out loud.
All hooman beans, of course, communicate with every atom of their beings: we tell each other how we feel with so many tools; voices, music, art, words, touch, eyes, smell, gesture, memory and instinct to name but a few. Depending on your nature or nurturing, you learn to suppress or to just "be".
I have taken small steps recently in the art of communication with my species. Ingrained from day one with the need to stay silent in the presence of adults: I have a vivid memory of our family going to visit some Great Aunt and we three children were seated in a line on the broad windowsill in the best room, dressed in our best clothes, silent and still. Any sound or movement invited admonishment from any or all of the assembled adults. If any of us transgressed the rules whilst visiting, the journey home would be a rant against our ill discipline and the fact that we had shamed the family. All three of us would be punished irrespective of who was the guilty party. As the eldest I took on the role of protector and would watch my siblings closely to ensure they did not get into trouble. Little mother, I was unwittingly reinforcing the Victorian stance and it is not until recent years that I have realised that.
Reflecting on my career path I realise also that I chose, or had chosen for me by fate, supporting roles; a back room girl happy to let the stars shine at the front taking my joy in their success. Every single role from domestic service to personal assistant to a main board director of a blue chip company; from legal executive to writing training material, meant I was little mother. Always on the alert for possible harm to 'my' people and doing all that I could to protect them. I was, and remain, a huge fan of loyalty. I am absolutely devastated when either my loyalty is thrown back in my face, or, I discover that what I thought was loyalty towards me was nothing more concrete than a sham.
And sometimes, just sometimes,, my need to shout, metaphorically 'It's not fair! It's not just! It's not right!' leaps out almost unbidden from my throat. It doesn't have to be a response to a personal issue, real or imagined, it can and does happen when I think someone is unfairly taking the piss out of someone else; or perhaps showing disrespect for their weakness. For many decades I bit my tongue; kept my head down, was a good girl, didn't argue, didn't challenge my elders and betters. Acceptance. Acceptance of my station in life.
There was, however, a bit of the flaw in the doormat design assigned to me. A slightly misplaced piece of DNA meant that, inside me, was a very well developed sense of natural justice which could not be suppressed or contained no matter how hard I tried. I have been practising quite a bit the art of actually answering a direct question with a direct answer. Even if the answer may not be palatable to the listener, or indeed, palatable to me. It's quite a painful process but also incredibly liberating at times.
I am now almost restored to a sense of equilibrium thanks to Doctor Blog and sign off by saying, just for one day; listen with all of your senses, hear with your eyes, talk with all of your senses and speak with your body.
Love and peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
All hooman beans, of course, communicate with every atom of their beings: we tell each other how we feel with so many tools; voices, music, art, words, touch, eyes, smell, gesture, memory and instinct to name but a few. Depending on your nature or nurturing, you learn to suppress or to just "be".
I have taken small steps recently in the art of communication with my species. Ingrained from day one with the need to stay silent in the presence of adults: I have a vivid memory of our family going to visit some Great Aunt and we three children were seated in a line on the broad windowsill in the best room, dressed in our best clothes, silent and still. Any sound or movement invited admonishment from any or all of the assembled adults. If any of us transgressed the rules whilst visiting, the journey home would be a rant against our ill discipline and the fact that we had shamed the family. All three of us would be punished irrespective of who was the guilty party. As the eldest I took on the role of protector and would watch my siblings closely to ensure they did not get into trouble. Little mother, I was unwittingly reinforcing the Victorian stance and it is not until recent years that I have realised that.
Reflecting on my career path I realise also that I chose, or had chosen for me by fate, supporting roles; a back room girl happy to let the stars shine at the front taking my joy in their success. Every single role from domestic service to personal assistant to a main board director of a blue chip company; from legal executive to writing training material, meant I was little mother. Always on the alert for possible harm to 'my' people and doing all that I could to protect them. I was, and remain, a huge fan of loyalty. I am absolutely devastated when either my loyalty is thrown back in my face, or, I discover that what I thought was loyalty towards me was nothing more concrete than a sham.
And sometimes, just sometimes,, my need to shout, metaphorically 'It's not fair! It's not just! It's not right!' leaps out almost unbidden from my throat. It doesn't have to be a response to a personal issue, real or imagined, it can and does happen when I think someone is unfairly taking the piss out of someone else; or perhaps showing disrespect for their weakness. For many decades I bit my tongue; kept my head down, was a good girl, didn't argue, didn't challenge my elders and betters. Acceptance. Acceptance of my station in life.
There was, however, a bit of the flaw in the doormat design assigned to me. A slightly misplaced piece of DNA meant that, inside me, was a very well developed sense of natural justice which could not be suppressed or contained no matter how hard I tried. I have been practising quite a bit the art of actually answering a direct question with a direct answer. Even if the answer may not be palatable to the listener, or indeed, palatable to me. It's quite a painful process but also incredibly liberating at times.
I am now almost restored to a sense of equilibrium thanks to Doctor Blog and sign off by saying, just for one day; listen with all of your senses, hear with your eyes, talk with all of your senses and speak with your body.
Love and peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Tuesday, 15 February 2011
Oddities and Soddities
I'm not entirely sure I know where to start really ... okay - most important thing to do is to say how much I appreciate the love and support of my best friend Rachel. Without her, I'd probably have ended up in the cells. So, dear heart, thank you, yet again, for your friendship. I also want to thank those lovely friends I already have, and those I have yet to meet, for their good wishes.
So, almost a year after the refusal of my second application for disability living allowance, we ended up in the Magistrates Court today for the appeal to the Tribunal. This Tribunal, we were told several times, is completely independent of the DWP and it cannot take into account the state you are in at this moment. You have to cast your mind back to how you were when you first applied. In my case that was a year ago.
But I jump ahead of the proceedings. We got to the court with one minute to spare. I was trying not to look neither, vulnerable to any passing baddy, nor, like I was an appropriate candidate to be appearing before the beak for say, oh! let's try - benefit fraud shall we? The security guard did recognise us as tribunalists - I pretend it's because we look like, well decent folk, but actually I suspect it was the presence of Percy, my walking stick, that gave him the clue.
A previous recce of Court 5 had served us well. We knew where the special lift was and what's more, Rachel remembered how to operate it! One of the side effects of being host to the Bad Back Monsters is the frequent loss of control of, how shall I say this, waste products. When the Clerk to the Tribunal informed us that we would be likely to be in the hearing for 45 minutes I asked for directions to the nearest loo. The Clerk apologetically explained that, actually, it was back on the ground floor.
This caused us some consternation, not least because it would now put us late appearing before the tribunal. There are two toilets: one which you can access via an upwards staircase; or a toilet for use by the disabled accessible via a downwards staircase, or, via a special lift, one that can accommodate a wheelchair. However, to do so, you are required to find someone who has a key not only to open the lift, but also to unlock the toilet. Fearing that a) my bladder would struggle to wait much longer, and b) conscious of the ticking of the clock and wishing not to offend the panel further, we opted for the upstairs toilet - just as slow as finding a keyholder but fooling me in to believing I had a measure of some control over the situation.
It took 15 minutes in total. What I fail to understand is the design decision making process: did it go like this?
'I say! we need somewhere to hear disability living allowance appeals. I know! Let's schedule all the hearings at the top of the building in the Magistrates Court! We will need to install a lift; factor in the travel expenses of visiting Judges and panel members, subsistence allowances will need to be made available and appropriate rooms provided for panel members. Now, what have we missed?'
Er, actually you have missed the bloody fact that people who claim to be disabled generally have MOBILITY problems! Some of them have weakness in the areas below their waists which are difficult to control and you thought it was a good idea NOT to make a toilet available to them adjacent to the court in which they would be heard??? I wonder if the panel members have their own private toilet facilities contained within their suite?
Anyroadup, we settle before the panel: The Judge looked like an accountant; the doctor looked well fed and watered with a pinkish glow about his face and the member with 'care need experience' sported a fetching pair of sunglasses, through which, she reassured me, she was quite capable of seeing me. Ooooookay!
I will never, ever put myself through that again. The expert doctor questioned me closely about my various difficulties. Explaining the Bad Back Monsters was not difficult, fairly straightforward really and he appeared to understand the story. Bad Belly Monsters were a little more tricky as he appeared to be fixated with a particular form of faeces and didn't appear to understand that I thought one particular medication was for emergencies only. The most distressing for me was having to give details of my 'stepping off the world episode'. I made a fool of myself; I cried, I tore at tissues, I wiped my snotty nose on my cardigan sleeve. Rachel said the doctor was visibly shocked when I recounted the Dickensian history of my childhood.
At last he had finished and the 'care expert' took over the grilling. Again and again I was reminded not to reply with today's medical condition in mind, but how I was a year ago. This is probably where I will have lost the appeal. I have difficulty remembering to attend scheduled appointments, take my pills, remembering not to attend appointments I don't have, remembering to be bothered to eat, therefore, trying to recall how I was, how I felt 365 days ago, is a bit of a challenge. Half was through her questioning I began to feel incredibly tired, drawn out and I just wanted to go home. It had begun to feel such a waste of time; a waste of money, a waste of resources and I felt the outcome was inevitable. It means nothing at all to them that my back was screaming in agony; it was the process and the process had to be followed. The appropriate boxes had to be ticked, I had to fit into the criteria set by some faceless civil servant. The Judge had no questions. We left the panel to their decision.
Outside the court I wept and wept and said that I would never, ever put myself through that again. Rachel too was in tears and was so angry on my behalf. The Panel were doing what the Panel had to do, for which by the way, I have paid in contributions for the past 45 years. The Clerk came out to explain that it was not possible for the Panel to give their decision verbally; I must understand that a) we started late b) my hearing had taken longer than anticipated/predicted and c) the Panel were entitled to a break before they dealt with the next case. If I had been capable of jumping up and down in rage, I would have but I smiled wanly and said of course I understood and that I hoped the Panel were not cross with me.
Budget cuts mean that the decision needs to be fed back to Leeds so that someone there can type it up and post it out to me. It will probably take about 7 days but, hey! I've already waited a year so what's one more week to be told no.
If I had realised how instrusive, how bloody pointless, how degradingly difficult it would be to explain to strangers my most personal, most intimate and embarrassing difficulties, I would not have embarked upon this road seeking help from the State.
If government don't want people to have assistance, then take the offer off the table; to catch the few, the many have been sacrificed in order to meet unreal criteria. One's ability to bathe, to clean surroundings, to shop, to indulge in hobbies is absolutely discarded. So, if you can open a tin of beans, wipe yourself with a baby wipe, refuse to take morphine because you want not to become a zombie, I urge you NOT to seek help from the state with either care or mobility. It pains me to say that MY Country is careless not only of its most vulnerable children, its weakened and dependent elders, but it has simply stopped caring at all.
I am ashamed to be English tonight, I am sad to be English tonight and no! not just because of the rollercoaster that I, personally, have been through during the past two and a half years. But the damming report issued today by Ann Abraham about the so called care of the elderly in my Country should make us all hang our heads in shame.
With the benefit of hindsight, I would love to travel back to my 15 year old self as I started work in service; I would tell me to guard well my earnings, my health and to invest in a health and care plan where I would not have to beg and plead for assistance but could purchase help like any other commodity.
Ah well, I shall allow myself to wallow in self pity for a little longer and tomorrow THE Purple Fairy will resurface to shake her wand at the world and spit in its eye!
Take care of each other, take care of yourselves, and most of all, learn to love yourself for the amazing hooman bean that you are!
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
So, almost a year after the refusal of my second application for disability living allowance, we ended up in the Magistrates Court today for the appeal to the Tribunal. This Tribunal, we were told several times, is completely independent of the DWP and it cannot take into account the state you are in at this moment. You have to cast your mind back to how you were when you first applied. In my case that was a year ago.
But I jump ahead of the proceedings. We got to the court with one minute to spare. I was trying not to look neither, vulnerable to any passing baddy, nor, like I was an appropriate candidate to be appearing before the beak for say, oh! let's try - benefit fraud shall we? The security guard did recognise us as tribunalists - I pretend it's because we look like, well decent folk, but actually I suspect it was the presence of Percy, my walking stick, that gave him the clue.
A previous recce of Court 5 had served us well. We knew where the special lift was and what's more, Rachel remembered how to operate it! One of the side effects of being host to the Bad Back Monsters is the frequent loss of control of, how shall I say this, waste products. When the Clerk to the Tribunal informed us that we would be likely to be in the hearing for 45 minutes I asked for directions to the nearest loo. The Clerk apologetically explained that, actually, it was back on the ground floor.
This caused us some consternation, not least because it would now put us late appearing before the tribunal. There are two toilets: one which you can access via an upwards staircase; or a toilet for use by the disabled accessible via a downwards staircase, or, via a special lift, one that can accommodate a wheelchair. However, to do so, you are required to find someone who has a key not only to open the lift, but also to unlock the toilet. Fearing that a) my bladder would struggle to wait much longer, and b) conscious of the ticking of the clock and wishing not to offend the panel further, we opted for the upstairs toilet - just as slow as finding a keyholder but fooling me in to believing I had a measure of some control over the situation.
It took 15 minutes in total. What I fail to understand is the design decision making process: did it go like this?
'I say! we need somewhere to hear disability living allowance appeals. I know! Let's schedule all the hearings at the top of the building in the Magistrates Court! We will need to install a lift; factor in the travel expenses of visiting Judges and panel members, subsistence allowances will need to be made available and appropriate rooms provided for panel members. Now, what have we missed?'
Er, actually you have missed the bloody fact that people who claim to be disabled generally have MOBILITY problems! Some of them have weakness in the areas below their waists which are difficult to control and you thought it was a good idea NOT to make a toilet available to them adjacent to the court in which they would be heard??? I wonder if the panel members have their own private toilet facilities contained within their suite?
Anyroadup, we settle before the panel: The Judge looked like an accountant; the doctor looked well fed and watered with a pinkish glow about his face and the member with 'care need experience' sported a fetching pair of sunglasses, through which, she reassured me, she was quite capable of seeing me. Ooooookay!
I will never, ever put myself through that again. The expert doctor questioned me closely about my various difficulties. Explaining the Bad Back Monsters was not difficult, fairly straightforward really and he appeared to understand the story. Bad Belly Monsters were a little more tricky as he appeared to be fixated with a particular form of faeces and didn't appear to understand that I thought one particular medication was for emergencies only. The most distressing for me was having to give details of my 'stepping off the world episode'. I made a fool of myself; I cried, I tore at tissues, I wiped my snotty nose on my cardigan sleeve. Rachel said the doctor was visibly shocked when I recounted the Dickensian history of my childhood.
At last he had finished and the 'care expert' took over the grilling. Again and again I was reminded not to reply with today's medical condition in mind, but how I was a year ago. This is probably where I will have lost the appeal. I have difficulty remembering to attend scheduled appointments, take my pills, remembering not to attend appointments I don't have, remembering to be bothered to eat, therefore, trying to recall how I was, how I felt 365 days ago, is a bit of a challenge. Half was through her questioning I began to feel incredibly tired, drawn out and I just wanted to go home. It had begun to feel such a waste of time; a waste of money, a waste of resources and I felt the outcome was inevitable. It means nothing at all to them that my back was screaming in agony; it was the process and the process had to be followed. The appropriate boxes had to be ticked, I had to fit into the criteria set by some faceless civil servant. The Judge had no questions. We left the panel to their decision.
Outside the court I wept and wept and said that I would never, ever put myself through that again. Rachel too was in tears and was so angry on my behalf. The Panel were doing what the Panel had to do, for which by the way, I have paid in contributions for the past 45 years. The Clerk came out to explain that it was not possible for the Panel to give their decision verbally; I must understand that a) we started late b) my hearing had taken longer than anticipated/predicted and c) the Panel were entitled to a break before they dealt with the next case. If I had been capable of jumping up and down in rage, I would have but I smiled wanly and said of course I understood and that I hoped the Panel were not cross with me.
Budget cuts mean that the decision needs to be fed back to Leeds so that someone there can type it up and post it out to me. It will probably take about 7 days but, hey! I've already waited a year so what's one more week to be told no.
If I had realised how instrusive, how bloody pointless, how degradingly difficult it would be to explain to strangers my most personal, most intimate and embarrassing difficulties, I would not have embarked upon this road seeking help from the State.
If government don't want people to have assistance, then take the offer off the table; to catch the few, the many have been sacrificed in order to meet unreal criteria. One's ability to bathe, to clean surroundings, to shop, to indulge in hobbies is absolutely discarded. So, if you can open a tin of beans, wipe yourself with a baby wipe, refuse to take morphine because you want not to become a zombie, I urge you NOT to seek help from the state with either care or mobility. It pains me to say that MY Country is careless not only of its most vulnerable children, its weakened and dependent elders, but it has simply stopped caring at all.
I am ashamed to be English tonight, I am sad to be English tonight and no! not just because of the rollercoaster that I, personally, have been through during the past two and a half years. But the damming report issued today by Ann Abraham about the so called care of the elderly in my Country should make us all hang our heads in shame.
With the benefit of hindsight, I would love to travel back to my 15 year old self as I started work in service; I would tell me to guard well my earnings, my health and to invest in a health and care plan where I would not have to beg and plead for assistance but could purchase help like any other commodity.
Ah well, I shall allow myself to wallow in self pity for a little longer and tomorrow THE Purple Fairy will resurface to shake her wand at the world and spit in its eye!
Take care of each other, take care of yourselves, and most of all, learn to love yourself for the amazing hooman bean that you are!
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Wednesday, 2 February 2011
Considering the end of a relationship
Well! From the end of one relationship to the end of another in two days. I last wrote about the demise of Monica (and this morning found even more evidence of how hard she had fought off her attacker) and yesterday another relationship came to its natural conclusion.
Me and Helen have worked with each other for almost a year: I was referred to her for Cognitive Behaviour Therapy by one of her colleagues, Becky , who had put me back together again after I had done a Humpty Dumpty impersonation. I wasn't sure what to make of Helen at first. A small woman, blond hair and with a very 'proper' air about her but I did catch the occasional glimpse of rebelliousness about her.
I had known yesterday was to be our last appointment and was therefore prepared for the loss; seeing someone every week for almost a year and sharing with them the most awful secrets, fears, joys, little triumphs and major setbacks is a very odd experience if you have been 'taught' to be self reliant in all things. Add to that lesson the confirmation that to suffer is God's way of making the next world more glorious and top it off with a generous dressing of unworthiness and you have the perfect recipe for a hooman bean riven with terror. Oh! And it helps if you were born saying 'sorry' too. This condition is also known as 'trainee perfectionism' where you strive to overcome all the ills of your world by consuming the full dish of responsibility for everything that goes wrong which, naturally, leads to others not accepting their portion.
There were times when I left Helen's office physically exhausted; other times when I was so drained mentally I could not function in any way for the rest of the day. At first I didn't understand that I was 'working' with her: my simple view was that she was being paid to listen to me wittering on about my Dickensian childhood but of course that was not the plan at all. Helen's role was to walk me through events; to see them from a different perspective; to view the participants from other angles, including and especially me. Our sessions were not a series of light-bulb-lighting moments of recognition; often the sense or understanding of something puzzling did not come to light in my psyche until several days, or nights, after the unravelling. Then I would find myself Tigger-like wanting to tell Helen what I now understood from something that occurred 50 years ago.
I tried to encapsulate with her what I thought our relationship had achieved : She agreed with my suggestion that, had we met socially, we would have probably ended up friends because we each recognised the off-the-wallness of each other. It had been easier to do that with Becky: I had been broken and she had pieced me together again. What was put together, however, I couldn't yet approve of. I was still very fragile when I met Helen and it wasn't too long before we both realised that there was too much 'stuff' to be dealt with to use only one form of therapy. Not least because of my absolute inability to relax!!! We agreed that our joint task was to help me manage the crap and it residual behaviours. Our work has helped me realise that it is actually quite okay to be a mad old bat; that I am who I am because of my past (and indeed my present). I am neither inferior nor worthless. Those lessons taught to me by my mother, the Roman Catholic church, my stepmother and other vermin were NOT an acceptable curriculum for an innocent child and what's more, I did NOT invite them!! Wow!!! Only someone who has walked a similar road will understand just how absolutely massive that realisation is.
As I approach my sixth decade (something I genuinely believed I would never see) I know I am the most fortunate of women. It is true that I have complex and serious health problems; the concept of my demise is never too far away from my consciousness (I'm hoping for an actual answer from the imminent CT scan - at last) but now I forsee my demise as a natural progression of my life. My future, financially, is bleak and I am being divorced by the Estranged One because he was care-less. I am utterly blessed with my little family; I am blessed with genuine friends (AND some of them are women!!!) across the age range. I have friendships with people through cyberspace that I am unlikely ever to meet but with whom I have a definite and real connection. I have my family of animals to sustain me and I am content to be alone. I no longer have to prove I am worthy of someone's affection; I no longer need to justify my very existence. It's perfectly alright for me to have a house full of animals including a chicken who wants to inspect the food on the table. In other words, I am what I am and I am ME!
Helen had made it clear, during one of our sessions, that I was not to provide her with a gift so, being a literal bean (and likely to be on the spectrum if ever diagnosed) I didn't. But that didn't stop Monica, posthumously, getting me to wrap, individually, 6 of her eggs in paper patterned with red stars and presented in a red silken pouch. (For those familiar with Chinese lore - red is of course the colour of wealth.) Helen, in her response, illustrated again how well she had gotten to know me: she said that the gift was all the more precious because of Monica's departure and that she, and her family, would share a celebratory omlette at the weekend to remember her. That's my kinda girl!!!
Beloved Son and Heir is hoping to come Ooop North to visit at the weekend and has asked me to save the remainder of Monica's eggs (this fantastic chicken who laid ALL the way through winter including Christmas Day) so that we can have a family omlette together to say goodbye. I have one unhappy task to perform: my darling grandchildren will be devastated to learn that Monica has gone and I have asked if Granny Bea in Charge of Magic can tell them in her own way and my son has agreed. I shall tell them the truth but in my special Granny Bea way.
So another goodbye but one that sees me with a happy, if slightly dented, soul looking forward to the next adventure...
Keep safe, warm and dry
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Me and Helen have worked with each other for almost a year: I was referred to her for Cognitive Behaviour Therapy by one of her colleagues, Becky , who had put me back together again after I had done a Humpty Dumpty impersonation. I wasn't sure what to make of Helen at first. A small woman, blond hair and with a very 'proper' air about her but I did catch the occasional glimpse of rebelliousness about her.
I had known yesterday was to be our last appointment and was therefore prepared for the loss; seeing someone every week for almost a year and sharing with them the most awful secrets, fears, joys, little triumphs and major setbacks is a very odd experience if you have been 'taught' to be self reliant in all things. Add to that lesson the confirmation that to suffer is God's way of making the next world more glorious and top it off with a generous dressing of unworthiness and you have the perfect recipe for a hooman bean riven with terror. Oh! And it helps if you were born saying 'sorry' too. This condition is also known as 'trainee perfectionism' where you strive to overcome all the ills of your world by consuming the full dish of responsibility for everything that goes wrong which, naturally, leads to others not accepting their portion.
There were times when I left Helen's office physically exhausted; other times when I was so drained mentally I could not function in any way for the rest of the day. At first I didn't understand that I was 'working' with her: my simple view was that she was being paid to listen to me wittering on about my Dickensian childhood but of course that was not the plan at all. Helen's role was to walk me through events; to see them from a different perspective; to view the participants from other angles, including and especially me. Our sessions were not a series of light-bulb-lighting moments of recognition; often the sense or understanding of something puzzling did not come to light in my psyche until several days, or nights, after the unravelling. Then I would find myself Tigger-like wanting to tell Helen what I now understood from something that occurred 50 years ago.
I tried to encapsulate with her what I thought our relationship had achieved : She agreed with my suggestion that, had we met socially, we would have probably ended up friends because we each recognised the off-the-wallness of each other. It had been easier to do that with Becky: I had been broken and she had pieced me together again. What was put together, however, I couldn't yet approve of. I was still very fragile when I met Helen and it wasn't too long before we both realised that there was too much 'stuff' to be dealt with to use only one form of therapy. Not least because of my absolute inability to relax!!! We agreed that our joint task was to help me manage the crap and it residual behaviours. Our work has helped me realise that it is actually quite okay to be a mad old bat; that I am who I am because of my past (and indeed my present). I am neither inferior nor worthless. Those lessons taught to me by my mother, the Roman Catholic church, my stepmother and other vermin were NOT an acceptable curriculum for an innocent child and what's more, I did NOT invite them!! Wow!!! Only someone who has walked a similar road will understand just how absolutely massive that realisation is.
As I approach my sixth decade (something I genuinely believed I would never see) I know I am the most fortunate of women. It is true that I have complex and serious health problems; the concept of my demise is never too far away from my consciousness (I'm hoping for an actual answer from the imminent CT scan - at last) but now I forsee my demise as a natural progression of my life. My future, financially, is bleak and I am being divorced by the Estranged One because he was care-less. I am utterly blessed with my little family; I am blessed with genuine friends (AND some of them are women!!!) across the age range. I have friendships with people through cyberspace that I am unlikely ever to meet but with whom I have a definite and real connection. I have my family of animals to sustain me and I am content to be alone. I no longer have to prove I am worthy of someone's affection; I no longer need to justify my very existence. It's perfectly alright for me to have a house full of animals including a chicken who wants to inspect the food on the table. In other words, I am what I am and I am ME!
Helen had made it clear, during one of our sessions, that I was not to provide her with a gift so, being a literal bean (and likely to be on the spectrum if ever diagnosed) I didn't. But that didn't stop Monica, posthumously, getting me to wrap, individually, 6 of her eggs in paper patterned with red stars and presented in a red silken pouch. (For those familiar with Chinese lore - red is of course the colour of wealth.) Helen, in her response, illustrated again how well she had gotten to know me: she said that the gift was all the more precious because of Monica's departure and that she, and her family, would share a celebratory omlette at the weekend to remember her. That's my kinda girl!!!
Beloved Son and Heir is hoping to come Ooop North to visit at the weekend and has asked me to save the remainder of Monica's eggs (this fantastic chicken who laid ALL the way through winter including Christmas Day) so that we can have a family omlette together to say goodbye. I have one unhappy task to perform: my darling grandchildren will be devastated to learn that Monica has gone and I have asked if Granny Bea in Charge of Magic can tell them in her own way and my son has agreed. I shall tell them the truth but in my special Granny Bea way.
So another goodbye but one that sees me with a happy, if slightly dented, soul looking forward to the next adventure...
Keep safe, warm and dry
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Monday, 31 January 2011
THE Purple Fairy says Farewell to Monica
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
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
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
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