Day 360
It was book group last week and we did The Wasp Factory by Iain Banks. As an example of how childhood isn't that innocent, and children are not always sweetness and light, it was very successful. The main character had already killed three members of his own family before even becoming a snotty teenager, and describes it as a phase he was going through. Nice.
Got me thinking about my own adolescence though.
I suddenly remembered the thrill of power and pride that had spread though our class, when we heard our English teacher had suffered a nervous breakdown. We were convinced we had driven him to it and shamelessly gloried in it.
Steve said the same had happened at his school so we weren't unique in our callousness by any means. To have an effect on the outside world - on the adult world - was something we all aspired to and bragged about.
"We made Miss shout/throw the board rubber at Sid/storm out the room/cry" meant you weren't at the bottom of the food chain any more, and there is nothing more enticing to any child than having power over an adult.
I personally couldn't get away with it with my parents - they were just too terrifying - but teachers were fair game. And dinner ladies. And the driver of the school bus if it was Ken (but not if it was Herbie c'os he was nice).
So when Penny had a crush on the maths teacher and just leaned back in her chair, glowing at him lasciviously, and the poor man had to hide in the stationery cupboard until he'd got himself together, we thought that was wicked.
And there was one lad who had a set of skeleton keys he had made that opened every door in the school. He was our hero. A total God of cool.
And when a sneakily made audio tape circulated around the school, of Miss Threapleton (the strict and unpopular classics teacher and head of the girls boarding house) and the new sports master in bed together, our glee was unparalleled.
God, we were horrible.
In my defence, can I just say that I do still feel guilt and remorse over one incident.
On a school walking trip, me and Alison Neate (the class gorgeous girl), were hanging back and waiting for a chance to nip behind a tree for a wee. Up came Dr Skinner, IQ of gazillions and therefore, not very cool but really making an effort.
He kept talking to us, very pleasantly, as we meandered along, but showed absolutely no signs of leaving us and catching up with the others no matter how slowly we went.
Eventually, my walk had turned into a closed legged sort of waddle, and I whispered to Alison "this is getting worse and worse".
Not quietly enough.
Dr Skinner went bright red, muttered something about needing to join the others, and sped off leaving us in fits of embarrassed laughter, whereupon I pee'd myself anyway.
For six years - let me repeat that, six years! - I tried to pluck up the courage to apologise to the man. Never did. Still feel dreadful about it because it was accidental.
Had we intended to insult him, however, we would have been triumphant. Therein lies the difference.
So - childhood - not so innocent. Come to think of it, the only innocence I remember was a complete lack of comprehension about the consequences of my actions and the limitless ability to revel in the misfortunes of others.
Still, we can't get away with that as adults, so enjoy it while you can, kids.
Unless you want to be a sociopath and end up in a book by Iain Banks, of course.
Thursday 2 September 2010
Tuesday 24 August 2010
Bye bye Roger, hello E.T.
Day 351
A word about guinea pigs.
Dearest Roger has died. I knew he was ill (just like Spike Milligan) but the vet said he wasn't.
But he was. Died in my arms on Thursday morning.
Farewell you sweet natured, soft furred, handsome fellow.
Sandra and Barry, the girls he has left behind, are coping - for which fact I am very grateful. We only got Roger in the first place because bitchy old Barry was constantly picking on poor little Sandra. Get a neutered male, we were told, so we did and they all turned into one great, big, peaceful, lovely family of oinks. So have been on the lookout for a return to the snotty behaviour from Baz but it seems ok for now.
Old friend Janine came for the weekend. She is funny and beautiful and interested in the same things as me, which is a treat when you live with all blokes for too long.
She brought with her my birthday present - a large, mummy-sized money box and a smaller set of salt and pepper pots ALL IN THE SHAPE OF GUINEA PIGS!!!!!!!!!!
They are sitting on top of the cage and looking too life-like for comfort sometimes. I have named them Mandy, Dick and Phil, respectively. I don't normally name inanimate objects - I have never named my car, for instance - but they make the loss of Roger a little easier as it feels like I have just got three more (and they don't poo or eat, which makes life cheaper). Yay. (Thanks Janine, you always know the right thing.)
Except even she could not solve the 'mystery of the stained hand'. Sounds good that - the 'mystery of the stained hand' (pause for blood-curdling laugh and spooky noises).
Quite simply, I went to bed, slept, woke up and went to the loo, then went back to bed with a book (one of the shopaholic books, so I couldn't put it down). Then the phone rang so I answered it from the extension in Sam's room as it's closest (he wasn't home). Sat on the end of his bed chatting to Janine about what train she was arriving on and what we were going to do when she got here, and then I looked down at my hand.
It was covered in a rust coloured stain over half the palm and most of the fingers.
And it wouldn't wash off.
In fact it took two and a half days and a lot of scrubbing to clear it.
And I have absolutely no idea how it got there.
I don't smoke so it wasn't a weird, massive nicotine stain.
I'm not American so I don't use iodine when I cut myself (I'm British - I just run it under a tap or suck it or, if something's hanging off by a thread of sinew, I slap on a bit of Germolene).
I hadn't picked up some large, rusty object whilst fast asleep in bed, and even if I had, it ought to have washed off, which it didn't.
I don't think it was a stigmata, but if it was, then it was wasted on me.
And it wasn't blood or paint.
So that just leaves alien encounters in my sleep. Newsflash. Aliens now kidnap us in order to badly henna our fingers instead of conducting mad experiments involving drills and such.
Perhaps there is a new strain of young aliens who spend their gap years in India, before settling down to the proper task of abducting humans.
So if you wake up in the morning with a hankering for the remains of last night's curry for breakfast, it may well be less to do with your hangover and more to do with recently ashrammed aliens with no artistic ability.
You have been warned.
A word about guinea pigs.
Dearest Roger has died. I knew he was ill (just like Spike Milligan) but the vet said he wasn't.
But he was. Died in my arms on Thursday morning.
Farewell you sweet natured, soft furred, handsome fellow.
Sandra and Barry, the girls he has left behind, are coping - for which fact I am very grateful. We only got Roger in the first place because bitchy old Barry was constantly picking on poor little Sandra. Get a neutered male, we were told, so we did and they all turned into one great, big, peaceful, lovely family of oinks. So have been on the lookout for a return to the snotty behaviour from Baz but it seems ok for now.
Old friend Janine came for the weekend. She is funny and beautiful and interested in the same things as me, which is a treat when you live with all blokes for too long.
She brought with her my birthday present - a large, mummy-sized money box and a smaller set of salt and pepper pots ALL IN THE SHAPE OF GUINEA PIGS!!!!!!!!!!
They are sitting on top of the cage and looking too life-like for comfort sometimes. I have named them Mandy, Dick and Phil, respectively. I don't normally name inanimate objects - I have never named my car, for instance - but they make the loss of Roger a little easier as it feels like I have just got three more (and they don't poo or eat, which makes life cheaper). Yay. (Thanks Janine, you always know the right thing.)
Except even she could not solve the 'mystery of the stained hand'. Sounds good that - the 'mystery of the stained hand' (pause for blood-curdling laugh and spooky noises).
Quite simply, I went to bed, slept, woke up and went to the loo, then went back to bed with a book (one of the shopaholic books, so I couldn't put it down). Then the phone rang so I answered it from the extension in Sam's room as it's closest (he wasn't home). Sat on the end of his bed chatting to Janine about what train she was arriving on and what we were going to do when she got here, and then I looked down at my hand.
It was covered in a rust coloured stain over half the palm and most of the fingers.
And it wouldn't wash off.
In fact it took two and a half days and a lot of scrubbing to clear it.
And I have absolutely no idea how it got there.
I don't smoke so it wasn't a weird, massive nicotine stain.
I'm not American so I don't use iodine when I cut myself (I'm British - I just run it under a tap or suck it or, if something's hanging off by a thread of sinew, I slap on a bit of Germolene).
I hadn't picked up some large, rusty object whilst fast asleep in bed, and even if I had, it ought to have washed off, which it didn't.
I don't think it was a stigmata, but if it was, then it was wasted on me.
And it wasn't blood or paint.
So that just leaves alien encounters in my sleep. Newsflash. Aliens now kidnap us in order to badly henna our fingers instead of conducting mad experiments involving drills and such.
Perhaps there is a new strain of young aliens who spend their gap years in India, before settling down to the proper task of abducting humans.
So if you wake up in the morning with a hankering for the remains of last night's curry for breakfast, it may well be less to do with your hangover and more to do with recently ashrammed aliens with no artistic ability.
You have been warned.
Sunday 8 August 2010
"Rosebud..." (said in the voice of Orson Wells)
Day 336
Squeezing out a blob of pink toothpaste and it forming a perfect, five-petalled rosebud on one's brush is a good start to the day, I find. It's a Zen thing, isn't it, to be able to find a moment of peace and beauty that grounds us in the here and now? Or is it only Zen if you can make it last longer than the time it takes to clean your teeth? Which I can't really. So possibly not that Zen.
Had a visit from our landlords this week. They are lovely people and it is always nice to see them, but so much nicer when you know you can afford the rent, which, temporarily, we can't, so Steve was quite anxious. I, however, live in an unreality bubble where showing them their newly laid patio, decorated bathroom, and beautifully made roman blind were all much more important to me, so I was quite excited.
My bubble won the day. They paid for the lino and the blind, and said to just keep them informed of what we can afford and when we can pay it, and left with a list of other things to get sorted for us on our behalf. How many landlords hear you tell them you don't know how much rent the social is going to pay while you're out of work, but it might not be all that is due, and they give YOU money !!!???!!!
(Brief interlude here for Kylie Minogue moment - "I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky...") Thank you Sian, thank you other Steve, we are unbelievably blessed to be your tenants.
I think of my Steve's worries before they came, and I wonder how many people miss the opportunity to feel excited like I did, because they are so busy trying to divert the bad thing that they predict is coming to them? If you have a choice, why not be a glass-half-full person as it surely makes the world look rosier?
Perhaps the pain of being 'unprepared' when something bad inevitably does happen (as it does to everybody sometime) outweighs all other considerations. The fear of being hurt again can leave us in the habit of looking over our shoulder, and missing the toothpaste rosebud right under our nose.
I do understand this, I honestly do. I found my own fears tripping me up this week, like dirty laundry dropped on a dark floor. I am visiting another doctor next week and all my past experiences with them hang on my back, pulling my focus away from reality, away from the positive, and away from the present. I am already envisioning not being listened to, being dismissed and disbelieved.
Have I gone completely bonkers? What possible good will that do me? That goes against everything I believe. And yet I am SO tired that, perhaps, I am not quite my usual self. I sense my brain malfunctioning and sending me down thought-tracks that are alien and uncomfortable for me, but have hardly the energy to resist.
How easy it would be to fall asleep on the job here, so to speak. To let the negative thoughts just run their course, determine my actions, and choose the words I speak to the doctor next week - to influence the attitude I walk in with and the way I listen (or not). How 'reasonable' to complain afterwards about the way I was treated, and divulge myself of all responsibility.
I've lived like that. We all have. We 'go with the flow' and think things are 'done to us'. Which we either like or don't, but always think we have no power over.
Bollocks.
I can't do that any more.
I will squeeze out a whole tube of toothpaste if necessary, until my brush is a bunch of roses. I will remember how much is possible. I will say "Thank you, thank you, thank you" to the universe for sending me that landlady, and I will go to the doctors with an open mind, heart, and ears. I will go expecting a gift, even if it is no more than the gift of someone's time.
I will see this as just one more step on my road to recovery.
I will believe in my recovery and give thanks in advance for it.
And I will do it with a fuzzy brain, no concentration, a tendancy to weep for no reason, an inability to get out of bed most days for long, and some significantly increased pain levels. Because, really, what is the alternative?
My glass is half full (of mouthwash) and my toothpaste is pink. Bring it on, guys, bring it on.
Squeezing out a blob of pink toothpaste and it forming a perfect, five-petalled rosebud on one's brush is a good start to the day, I find. It's a Zen thing, isn't it, to be able to find a moment of peace and beauty that grounds us in the here and now? Or is it only Zen if you can make it last longer than the time it takes to clean your teeth? Which I can't really. So possibly not that Zen.
Had a visit from our landlords this week. They are lovely people and it is always nice to see them, but so much nicer when you know you can afford the rent, which, temporarily, we can't, so Steve was quite anxious. I, however, live in an unreality bubble where showing them their newly laid patio, decorated bathroom, and beautifully made roman blind were all much more important to me, so I was quite excited.
My bubble won the day. They paid for the lino and the blind, and said to just keep them informed of what we can afford and when we can pay it, and left with a list of other things to get sorted for us on our behalf. How many landlords hear you tell them you don't know how much rent the social is going to pay while you're out of work, but it might not be all that is due, and they give YOU money !!!???!!!
(Brief interlude here for Kylie Minogue moment - "I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky...") Thank you Sian, thank you other Steve, we are unbelievably blessed to be your tenants.
I think of my Steve's worries before they came, and I wonder how many people miss the opportunity to feel excited like I did, because they are so busy trying to divert the bad thing that they predict is coming to them? If you have a choice, why not be a glass-half-full person as it surely makes the world look rosier?
Perhaps the pain of being 'unprepared' when something bad inevitably does happen (as it does to everybody sometime) outweighs all other considerations. The fear of being hurt again can leave us in the habit of looking over our shoulder, and missing the toothpaste rosebud right under our nose.
I do understand this, I honestly do. I found my own fears tripping me up this week, like dirty laundry dropped on a dark floor. I am visiting another doctor next week and all my past experiences with them hang on my back, pulling my focus away from reality, away from the positive, and away from the present. I am already envisioning not being listened to, being dismissed and disbelieved.
Have I gone completely bonkers? What possible good will that do me? That goes against everything I believe. And yet I am SO tired that, perhaps, I am not quite my usual self. I sense my brain malfunctioning and sending me down thought-tracks that are alien and uncomfortable for me, but have hardly the energy to resist.
How easy it would be to fall asleep on the job here, so to speak. To let the negative thoughts just run their course, determine my actions, and choose the words I speak to the doctor next week - to influence the attitude I walk in with and the way I listen (or not). How 'reasonable' to complain afterwards about the way I was treated, and divulge myself of all responsibility.
I've lived like that. We all have. We 'go with the flow' and think things are 'done to us'. Which we either like or don't, but always think we have no power over.
Bollocks.
I can't do that any more.
I will squeeze out a whole tube of toothpaste if necessary, until my brush is a bunch of roses. I will remember how much is possible. I will say "Thank you, thank you, thank you" to the universe for sending me that landlady, and I will go to the doctors with an open mind, heart, and ears. I will go expecting a gift, even if it is no more than the gift of someone's time.
I will see this as just one more step on my road to recovery.
I will believe in my recovery and give thanks in advance for it.
And I will do it with a fuzzy brain, no concentration, a tendancy to weep for no reason, an inability to get out of bed most days for long, and some significantly increased pain levels. Because, really, what is the alternative?
My glass is half full (of mouthwash) and my toothpaste is pink. Bring it on, guys, bring it on.
Wednesday 28 July 2010
"A woman walked into a Doctor's surgery and said..."
Day 325
No news is so often good news, but not when it concerns one's health. I am so tired of feeling shitty as all hell, then giving in to pressure and going to the doc's, only to have tests that reveal absolutely nothing.
According to all the tests I have ever had, I am not only fine, but also possibly, in the very peak of health. Nothing EVER shows up as being wrong. The fact that I am also registered as disabled would seem to counter this notion, but there you are.
Now, normally this would not bother me. I lean towards an holistic point of view, and regard my healing as a personal matter. My body is communicating 'dis-ease' and I look for alternative ways to re-balance and heal.
Sometimes, however, I need a bit of traditional help. I'm not above taking Ibuprofen when I have period pains or having surgery when my appendix burst, to name two extremes.
Right now I know my hormone balance is so out of whack that my Thyroid is being beyond troublesome. That this is due to the menopause pushing me further out of kilter than usual is not unreasonable, but the chances of anything showing up on a blood test are zero - I know because I have tried many times before.
In the meantime, my weight has rocketed, I could sleep for England and win gold (even over teenagers!), and I'm so exhausted I can barely lift my arms to drink a cup of water half the time. Walking slowly up the stairs has me puffing and red in the face, shaky, dizzy, and needing to lie down.
But none of my symptoms count unless a blood test confirms them.
Which it never does, (even when I had a goitre that stuck out of my neck for a full inch).
I don't go to the Doc's for attention. I just want then to work with me to find a way for me to feel better.
Or even just to function adequately.
But they view patients with suspicion and condescension, in my book. I remember when my eldest son was crippled with constipation as a young, premature baby. He would scream with pain most of the time, eventually causing a hernia in his groin.
At the time, I had not heard of milk allergy - it was not common then. I only knew something was terribly wrong. The doctors treated me as if I couldn't possibly know my own baby better than them. I was sent away over and over.
Eventually I figured it out, with no help from them, but not until he had suffered nearly a year of pain and sleeplessness, and endured two operations.
What struck me most about it was not how long it took to find out what was wrong, but how I was continually dismissed as having no information worth considering, being 'only the parent'.
Since Sam was born and I became ill, I have faced the same attitude over and over again - my experiences, and the records I keep of my symptoms, are often considered irrelevant, or even unnecessarily intrusive. Certainly, they are rarely taken into account and mostly ignored.
So here I am again. Needing a bit of help with my Thyroid until the menopause is over.
I will go to the doc's again. I will take their tests again.
And then, I strongly suspect, absolutely nothing will happen.
But wouldn't it be nice if this time it did?
Fingers crossed, everybody, please.
No news is so often good news, but not when it concerns one's health. I am so tired of feeling shitty as all hell, then giving in to pressure and going to the doc's, only to have tests that reveal absolutely nothing.
According to all the tests I have ever had, I am not only fine, but also possibly, in the very peak of health. Nothing EVER shows up as being wrong. The fact that I am also registered as disabled would seem to counter this notion, but there you are.
Now, normally this would not bother me. I lean towards an holistic point of view, and regard my healing as a personal matter. My body is communicating 'dis-ease' and I look for alternative ways to re-balance and heal.
Sometimes, however, I need a bit of traditional help. I'm not above taking Ibuprofen when I have period pains or having surgery when my appendix burst, to name two extremes.
Right now I know my hormone balance is so out of whack that my Thyroid is being beyond troublesome. That this is due to the menopause pushing me further out of kilter than usual is not unreasonable, but the chances of anything showing up on a blood test are zero - I know because I have tried many times before.
In the meantime, my weight has rocketed, I could sleep for England and win gold (even over teenagers!), and I'm so exhausted I can barely lift my arms to drink a cup of water half the time. Walking slowly up the stairs has me puffing and red in the face, shaky, dizzy, and needing to lie down.
But none of my symptoms count unless a blood test confirms them.
Which it never does, (even when I had a goitre that stuck out of my neck for a full inch).
I don't go to the Doc's for attention. I just want then to work with me to find a way for me to feel better.
Or even just to function adequately.
But they view patients with suspicion and condescension, in my book. I remember when my eldest son was crippled with constipation as a young, premature baby. He would scream with pain most of the time, eventually causing a hernia in his groin.
At the time, I had not heard of milk allergy - it was not common then. I only knew something was terribly wrong. The doctors treated me as if I couldn't possibly know my own baby better than them. I was sent away over and over.
Eventually I figured it out, with no help from them, but not until he had suffered nearly a year of pain and sleeplessness, and endured two operations.
What struck me most about it was not how long it took to find out what was wrong, but how I was continually dismissed as having no information worth considering, being 'only the parent'.
Since Sam was born and I became ill, I have faced the same attitude over and over again - my experiences, and the records I keep of my symptoms, are often considered irrelevant, or even unnecessarily intrusive. Certainly, they are rarely taken into account and mostly ignored.
So here I am again. Needing a bit of help with my Thyroid until the menopause is over.
I will go to the doc's again. I will take their tests again.
And then, I strongly suspect, absolutely nothing will happen.
But wouldn't it be nice if this time it did?
Fingers crossed, everybody, please.
Wednesday 21 July 2010
Loving like Haddi
Day 318
Finally! I get to the computer! Life with a husband at home and a son out of college is not my normal life, let alone my new life. Fitting around others all the time, at the moment, and finding it a trifle draining. Oh well.
Now. Updates.
Have done lots of sewing for Denise, my clever, clever friend who makes stage costumes. These were for the Globe Theatre's production of Anne Boleyn. I did all the lace and beads and fiddly diddles for two frocks. Very proud of myself.
Have received another rejection for my colour book for kids, but they were ever so complimentary about it, which is nice. Reason for rejection was that they had two similar books on their list already but the quality of the illustrations had made them consider it nonetheless. Very sweet way to say 'No', I thought.
Have started doing some voluntary work at a local charity shop. Wanted something to do that wouldn't be too taxing (as health bloody awful right now), but was community minded. Wanted to give back something as feel rather 'taking' at the moment, and that doesn't sit well with me. Am bringing home all the things with buttons missing or hems down to repair for them.
Also, made a little girl cry.
The little girl is called Haddi, and she is four years old and adorable. She is the grand-daughter of the lady who runs the charity shop and is all big green eyes, fuzzy dreadlocks, and chatter, and she adopted me as her playmate on my first afternoon on the job.
This was great. We played with lots of toy animals and a cardboard box, with endless variety. Then it was time for me to leave and she crumbled like a souffle in the wind. She hurled herself onto her mother's lap and sobbed.
What a humbling and heartfelt reminder about the true nature of love. The heart of a child simply opens to encompass you fully, with no reserve. You do not have to prove yourself or meet any expectations, and yet they take you into their world so completely that they are devastated at your leaving.
I look at my husband and my sons. Do I open myself that fully to them? No I do not - I keep something in reserve. I do not fling myself into my hubby's arms when he steps through the door, nor feel an aching loss at his parting. 'Real life' is, apparently, not like that. (Most of the time I don't even remember to give him a kiss.)
But perhaps we take too much for granted, play it all a bit too cool. When I remember the joy of little Haddi, I realise I want to open up more than I do, to appreciate those I say I love more openly, emphatically and enthusiastically. Why not, after all - they deserve it!
My love for them is in there somewhere, a little buried under everyday chores and niggles and worries, perhaps, but real enough in it's own way. If I look a little foolish pulling it up to the surface and choosing to show it abundantly, then where's the harm? I have stayed safe and subdued far too long.
Life can be draining and others take far more of one's energy than is comfortable, but - and it's a big but - what if they weren't there at all? How would I feel then? And one day they won't be. My last child will leave home and start his new life. My husband won't live forever. Have I made the best use of this time that I have with them?
Have I loved them like Haddi?
I want to love them like Haddi.
I just forget sometimes.
Finally! I get to the computer! Life with a husband at home and a son out of college is not my normal life, let alone my new life. Fitting around others all the time, at the moment, and finding it a trifle draining. Oh well.
Now. Updates.
Have done lots of sewing for Denise, my clever, clever friend who makes stage costumes. These were for the Globe Theatre's production of Anne Boleyn. I did all the lace and beads and fiddly diddles for two frocks. Very proud of myself.
Have received another rejection for my colour book for kids, but they were ever so complimentary about it, which is nice. Reason for rejection was that they had two similar books on their list already but the quality of the illustrations had made them consider it nonetheless. Very sweet way to say 'No', I thought.
Have started doing some voluntary work at a local charity shop. Wanted something to do that wouldn't be too taxing (as health bloody awful right now), but was community minded. Wanted to give back something as feel rather 'taking' at the moment, and that doesn't sit well with me. Am bringing home all the things with buttons missing or hems down to repair for them.
Also, made a little girl cry.
The little girl is called Haddi, and she is four years old and adorable. She is the grand-daughter of the lady who runs the charity shop and is all big green eyes, fuzzy dreadlocks, and chatter, and she adopted me as her playmate on my first afternoon on the job.
This was great. We played with lots of toy animals and a cardboard box, with endless variety. Then it was time for me to leave and she crumbled like a souffle in the wind. She hurled herself onto her mother's lap and sobbed.
What a humbling and heartfelt reminder about the true nature of love. The heart of a child simply opens to encompass you fully, with no reserve. You do not have to prove yourself or meet any expectations, and yet they take you into their world so completely that they are devastated at your leaving.
I look at my husband and my sons. Do I open myself that fully to them? No I do not - I keep something in reserve. I do not fling myself into my hubby's arms when he steps through the door, nor feel an aching loss at his parting. 'Real life' is, apparently, not like that. (Most of the time I don't even remember to give him a kiss.)
But perhaps we take too much for granted, play it all a bit too cool. When I remember the joy of little Haddi, I realise I want to open up more than I do, to appreciate those I say I love more openly, emphatically and enthusiastically. Why not, after all - they deserve it!
My love for them is in there somewhere, a little buried under everyday chores and niggles and worries, perhaps, but real enough in it's own way. If I look a little foolish pulling it up to the surface and choosing to show it abundantly, then where's the harm? I have stayed safe and subdued far too long.
Life can be draining and others take far more of one's energy than is comfortable, but - and it's a big but - what if they weren't there at all? How would I feel then? And one day they won't be. My last child will leave home and start his new life. My husband won't live forever. Have I made the best use of this time that I have with them?
Have I loved them like Haddi?
I want to love them like Haddi.
I just forget sometimes.
Monday 5 July 2010
Delaying tactics
Day 302
There is a space between the past and the future where one is not necessarily present. A waiting room of a place, a limbo, a holding area. This is where I am firmly ensconced. Part of me is happy with this state of affairs, part of me wants to scream. I imagine myself battering on the windows, fists flailing, a primal yell erupting. I also see a waiting chair, where I meditate quietly, allowing the old to become the new in it's own good time.
I have no paintings to produce, and no studio to experiment in. No funds to buy paint with either, come to that. My first book is waiting in a pile on a publisher's desk, (take your time, Emily, give it a chance to grow on you), and my second has progressed enough for me to see how many re-writes it is likely to need, (I'm hoping only about four).
Meanwhile, time pootles along and the sense of urgency I once had is swallowed up in a deep pool of exhaustion, boredom, housekeeping and family problems. I am hemmed in by other peoples lives, ergo, I see no space for my own. Small niggles are starting to overwhelm me. The mess has crowded out all other thoughts. I have no creativity, only a longing, a yearning, and a tiredness that is bone-deep.
Tears sit to attention, ready for 'the off' like good little soldiers. My feet and back have gone on strike. They have withdrawn their support until working conditions improve. My eyes are traitors. Everywhere I look I am reminded of something I want but can't have - a clean place to sit, a project finished, a dream realised, a space of a few hours where there is literally nothing that I am supposed to do.
There is a growing list waiting for me which, at time of going to press, includes buying sawdust and cleaning out the guinea pigs, giving them baths and cutting Sandra's hair, the laundry, this weeks ironing and last weeks, packing away my painting stuff and getting out my sewing stuff, cleaning the bathroom and hoovering the stairs, laying the lino in the bathroom and making and hanging the roman blind, tidying up everywhere, weeding the garden and dead-heading the flowers, taking garden rubbish to the tip and finishing off pruning the trees, buying something to stop the cherry re-sprouting where it is cut and applying it, putting weedkiller on the paths and patio, and slug pellets around the pots and hostas, writing thank-you letters for my birthday and other thank-you letters for recent hospitality from friends, writing to Arnol, our sponsored child in Honduras, packing up catalogue rejects and phoning the courier to come and collect them, feeding the cat and the family, working out menus to fit our very limited budget and doing the food shopping and the cooking, turning on lights and opening curtains because our house is too dark, making the bed and sorting out all the stuff that didn't get sorted out when I changed the room around so I could paint, putting the loo-roll on the holder because nobody else does, picking some flowers to put in the house so it feels more like a nurturing place, picking up a book from the library and taking others back, paying the fines, emptying the compost bin in the kitchen and cleaning out the fridge, cooker and microwave, cleaning all the insides of the windows, changing the cat litter, and washing the downstairs floors.
Steve has been doing all the washing up and a fair bit of the shopping and cooking. Although lovely, this is not taking a lot from my list, and all the time that both Sam and Steve are in the house, the mess grows ever larger.
I am helpless within it because the menopause has cranked up my PMS to unbelievable proportions, and the Chronic Fatigue Syndrome has gone stratospheric. My Progesterone levels have been ridiculously low since I got ill after Sam was born. Progesterone is like Insulin, you see - part of a bio-feedback system that allows the brain to work out how much sugar is in the blood, and too little Progesterone gives a faulty reading. Consequently, the brain demands that you eat to correct the balance.
This is not hunger. I know hunger. This is a severe craving along the lines of cold turkey drug withdrawal. If I try to resist, the brain goes to it's emergency supply and produces Adrenalin to get the process going. This, the 'fight or flight' hormone, leaves me edgy, anxious, tearful, irritable, pacing the floor, unable to function or make decisions (even about what I want to eat), snappy, shaky, nauseous, and head-achey. If I persist in not eating, or am unable to get to food, it can lead to a complete system shut-down where I pretty much collapse and can't talk, or raise my arms, or even support my own head, for several hours. I've ended up in hospital like this a few times, but the doctors were baffled and unsympathetic.
To avoid this I eat, and I am now thirteen and a half stone and getting fed up with the whole process. I lie exhausted on the sofa, and I eat. I do use a Progesterone supplement but, after nearly twenty years, this is how my body is used to operating and it doesn't want to change. So I am intending to fast today because I have read that this can help with food cravings - I wish them to be back to manageable levels, a place where I don't weep on the hour, every hour, if I can't get chocolate (which I don't like that much and leaves me feeling sick). Perhaps this will at least nudge my brain into a re-think - a complete re-boot would be a lot to ask, I suspect.
A time of limbo is perhaps not such a disaster when I am as knocked out as this as, although I rest a lot, my batteries fail to recharge. My space is not nurturing and my family demanding. Seeing friends and doing things that are fun seem to help, but the effect is short-lived without a structure to support it.
The mantra that pulled me out of depression was 'This too will pass', and it is just as apposite here. When it passes, as all things must, I hope I will have learnt something other than how to blind myself to chaos, clutter and mess. That would be a sad thing.
I may have no will within me that I can harness to complete any of the chores, but I do have a cup of hot lemon. And I do have hope. It is just as well that no-one is battering down my door with commissions or contracts, and although I'm sure that would galvanise me for a while, the problem would still persist. I prefer solutions when I can, I'm not much of a one for a hamster-wheel sort of life.
I am in limbo. I am waiting. I am stuck between the past and the future. I take another sip from my cup, I look out of the window, and I hope.
There is a space between the past and the future where one is not necessarily present. A waiting room of a place, a limbo, a holding area. This is where I am firmly ensconced. Part of me is happy with this state of affairs, part of me wants to scream. I imagine myself battering on the windows, fists flailing, a primal yell erupting. I also see a waiting chair, where I meditate quietly, allowing the old to become the new in it's own good time.
I have no paintings to produce, and no studio to experiment in. No funds to buy paint with either, come to that. My first book is waiting in a pile on a publisher's desk, (take your time, Emily, give it a chance to grow on you), and my second has progressed enough for me to see how many re-writes it is likely to need, (I'm hoping only about four).
Meanwhile, time pootles along and the sense of urgency I once had is swallowed up in a deep pool of exhaustion, boredom, housekeeping and family problems. I am hemmed in by other peoples lives, ergo, I see no space for my own. Small niggles are starting to overwhelm me. The mess has crowded out all other thoughts. I have no creativity, only a longing, a yearning, and a tiredness that is bone-deep.
Tears sit to attention, ready for 'the off' like good little soldiers. My feet and back have gone on strike. They have withdrawn their support until working conditions improve. My eyes are traitors. Everywhere I look I am reminded of something I want but can't have - a clean place to sit, a project finished, a dream realised, a space of a few hours where there is literally nothing that I am supposed to do.
There is a growing list waiting for me which, at time of going to press, includes buying sawdust and cleaning out the guinea pigs, giving them baths and cutting Sandra's hair, the laundry, this weeks ironing and last weeks, packing away my painting stuff and getting out my sewing stuff, cleaning the bathroom and hoovering the stairs, laying the lino in the bathroom and making and hanging the roman blind, tidying up everywhere, weeding the garden and dead-heading the flowers, taking garden rubbish to the tip and finishing off pruning the trees, buying something to stop the cherry re-sprouting where it is cut and applying it, putting weedkiller on the paths and patio, and slug pellets around the pots and hostas, writing thank-you letters for my birthday and other thank-you letters for recent hospitality from friends, writing to Arnol, our sponsored child in Honduras, packing up catalogue rejects and phoning the courier to come and collect them, feeding the cat and the family, working out menus to fit our very limited budget and doing the food shopping and the cooking, turning on lights and opening curtains because our house is too dark, making the bed and sorting out all the stuff that didn't get sorted out when I changed the room around so I could paint, putting the loo-roll on the holder because nobody else does, picking some flowers to put in the house so it feels more like a nurturing place, picking up a book from the library and taking others back, paying the fines, emptying the compost bin in the kitchen and cleaning out the fridge, cooker and microwave, cleaning all the insides of the windows, changing the cat litter, and washing the downstairs floors.
Steve has been doing all the washing up and a fair bit of the shopping and cooking. Although lovely, this is not taking a lot from my list, and all the time that both Sam and Steve are in the house, the mess grows ever larger.
I am helpless within it because the menopause has cranked up my PMS to unbelievable proportions, and the Chronic Fatigue Syndrome has gone stratospheric. My Progesterone levels have been ridiculously low since I got ill after Sam was born. Progesterone is like Insulin, you see - part of a bio-feedback system that allows the brain to work out how much sugar is in the blood, and too little Progesterone gives a faulty reading. Consequently, the brain demands that you eat to correct the balance.
This is not hunger. I know hunger. This is a severe craving along the lines of cold turkey drug withdrawal. If I try to resist, the brain goes to it's emergency supply and produces Adrenalin to get the process going. This, the 'fight or flight' hormone, leaves me edgy, anxious, tearful, irritable, pacing the floor, unable to function or make decisions (even about what I want to eat), snappy, shaky, nauseous, and head-achey. If I persist in not eating, or am unable to get to food, it can lead to a complete system shut-down where I pretty much collapse and can't talk, or raise my arms, or even support my own head, for several hours. I've ended up in hospital like this a few times, but the doctors were baffled and unsympathetic.
To avoid this I eat, and I am now thirteen and a half stone and getting fed up with the whole process. I lie exhausted on the sofa, and I eat. I do use a Progesterone supplement but, after nearly twenty years, this is how my body is used to operating and it doesn't want to change. So I am intending to fast today because I have read that this can help with food cravings - I wish them to be back to manageable levels, a place where I don't weep on the hour, every hour, if I can't get chocolate (which I don't like that much and leaves me feeling sick). Perhaps this will at least nudge my brain into a re-think - a complete re-boot would be a lot to ask, I suspect.
A time of limbo is perhaps not such a disaster when I am as knocked out as this as, although I rest a lot, my batteries fail to recharge. My space is not nurturing and my family demanding. Seeing friends and doing things that are fun seem to help, but the effect is short-lived without a structure to support it.
The mantra that pulled me out of depression was 'This too will pass', and it is just as apposite here. When it passes, as all things must, I hope I will have learnt something other than how to blind myself to chaos, clutter and mess. That would be a sad thing.
I may have no will within me that I can harness to complete any of the chores, but I do have a cup of hot lemon. And I do have hope. It is just as well that no-one is battering down my door with commissions or contracts, and although I'm sure that would galvanise me for a while, the problem would still persist. I prefer solutions when I can, I'm not much of a one for a hamster-wheel sort of life.
I am in limbo. I am waiting. I am stuck between the past and the future. I take another sip from my cup, I look out of the window, and I hope.
Sunday 27 June 2010
Get your dates right, boys
Day 294
Fancied a bit of a change - what do we think of the new look? There are several others I'm intending to try out but this felt good to start with.
The boys came up trumps on Father's Day this year. They are both rubbish at giving people gifts and cards on time (or at all), and I was still waiting for my birthday cards from the beginning of the month. I put the fear of God and a few other deities into them about Father's Day though, and they turned up with a card each for Steve - ON THE DAY!
AND they had a card and pressie for me. Well, swipe me sideways and call me Susan.
Joe bought me a candle (the last of the big spenders, that one) which was quite nice, actually, as I'd just been to a car boot sale and bought a big wooden candlestick.
Sam bought me a bathroom gift set, which on first glance appeared to be quite nice too. On closer inspection, however, it proved to be fantastic. It was clearly cheap and foreign and, better still, badly translated. Lush!
I am now the proud owner of bath salts for 'decompression', should I ever want to bathe at a depth of 1000 metres. My 'fancy soap' - (which, in my head, is soap given to you by your fancy man) - is supposed to 'cleanlily take good care of ones health maintain skin'. But my favourite is the shower gel which promises to 'clean skin, no-irritated, moisten,and fresher'. Fab-u-lous!
So - I get a birthday present on Father's Day. Steve should expect a Father's Day pressie on his birthday, at the end of July. Then he can have his birthday presents on Sam's birthday in August, who will have to wait until Joe's birthday in December for his. Joe can have his birthday present at Christmas, and they can both wait for their Christmas presents until Easter.
Sorted. Much less expense and we can shop in the sales. If they complain, I can always point out that "you started it", like the mature person that I am. (I am a reed, I bend, I adapt, I go with the flow, this is all perfectly zen...)
You do your best as a parent but it just never turns out the way you expect, does it. They are both much shabbier at things I have always considered important, and wiser than I ever would have expected. They are both funnier, which is always a bonus.
Sam is far kinder than he seemed likely to become as a boisterous little toddler. Joe is more stubborn than I anticipated. And handsomer. But the older they get, they seem to move further and further away from the way I brought them up and into a space of their own.
This is exactly how it should be, I know, but it is also a bit weird.
I have invested twenty-eight years into being a parent, which is well over half my life, and I find I still want to see evidence of all that input in their current lives. I am not quite ready to have my influence so speedily repelled, the lessons I tried to instill so conveniently forgotten, or to have the values I exampled discarded with such happy nonchalance.
This letting go stuff really is for grown-ups, isn't it.
Perhaps I need to have a 'decompression' bath, and get myself 'moisten and fresher', which sounds just about as rude as it possibly could. Ergo, I'm in.
Care to join me?
Fancied a bit of a change - what do we think of the new look? There are several others I'm intending to try out but this felt good to start with.
The boys came up trumps on Father's Day this year. They are both rubbish at giving people gifts and cards on time (or at all), and I was still waiting for my birthday cards from the beginning of the month. I put the fear of God and a few other deities into them about Father's Day though, and they turned up with a card each for Steve - ON THE DAY!
AND they had a card and pressie for me. Well, swipe me sideways and call me Susan.
Joe bought me a candle (the last of the big spenders, that one) which was quite nice, actually, as I'd just been to a car boot sale and bought a big wooden candlestick.
Sam bought me a bathroom gift set, which on first glance appeared to be quite nice too. On closer inspection, however, it proved to be fantastic. It was clearly cheap and foreign and, better still, badly translated. Lush!
I am now the proud owner of bath salts for 'decompression', should I ever want to bathe at a depth of 1000 metres. My 'fancy soap' - (which, in my head, is soap given to you by your fancy man) - is supposed to 'cleanlily take good care of ones health maintain skin'. But my favourite is the shower gel which promises to 'clean skin, no-irritated, moisten,and fresher'. Fab-u-lous!
So - I get a birthday present on Father's Day. Steve should expect a Father's Day pressie on his birthday, at the end of July. Then he can have his birthday presents on Sam's birthday in August, who will have to wait until Joe's birthday in December for his. Joe can have his birthday present at Christmas, and they can both wait for their Christmas presents until Easter.
Sorted. Much less expense and we can shop in the sales. If they complain, I can always point out that "you started it", like the mature person that I am. (I am a reed, I bend, I adapt, I go with the flow, this is all perfectly zen...)
You do your best as a parent but it just never turns out the way you expect, does it. They are both much shabbier at things I have always considered important, and wiser than I ever would have expected. They are both funnier, which is always a bonus.
Sam is far kinder than he seemed likely to become as a boisterous little toddler. Joe is more stubborn than I anticipated. And handsomer. But the older they get, they seem to move further and further away from the way I brought them up and into a space of their own.
This is exactly how it should be, I know, but it is also a bit weird.
I have invested twenty-eight years into being a parent, which is well over half my life, and I find I still want to see evidence of all that input in their current lives. I am not quite ready to have my influence so speedily repelled, the lessons I tried to instill so conveniently forgotten, or to have the values I exampled discarded with such happy nonchalance.
This letting go stuff really is for grown-ups, isn't it.
Perhaps I need to have a 'decompression' bath, and get myself 'moisten and fresher', which sounds just about as rude as it possibly could. Ergo, I'm in.
Care to join me?
Tuesday 22 June 2010
Down unknown roads
Day 289
Life changes course all the time. There are little swerves, dips in the road, hills and bumps, and most of the time, we don't notice. But it changes, nonetheless, and suddenly, we look back and say "how did that happen - and when did this become my life?"
Life is swerving mightily for us right now. We cannot help but notice. We are nearly swept off the road by it's force. Such change, such disruption, yet on the outside it would all look just the same to you.
Steve is discontinuing his pshycotherapy course. Not because it isn't the right one or he has gone off it, or changed his mind, or any of that rubbish. No. The body blows he has been dealt in the last month have left him unable to even consider it as a career path anymore. The whole vision he had of himself, his history, his family, his sense of identity - it has all come crashing down, and he is searching through the resultant rubble, trying to recognise his voice.
When I was at the worst point of my illness, I had a similar experience, and my heart goes out to him now. I know that he was never who he thought he was - the real Steve was always stronger, wiser, kinder, clearer, and even more beautiful. But in life we tend to believe less of ourselves, especially if our early life trained us in accepting unworthiness. It takes others, who love us, to remind us of our true hearts.
There he stands now, at the brink of all the horrible awareness that he is not who he once thought, and it is painful for him. There is shock to be recovered from. There is exploration to be endured. If he could see through my eyes, feel with my heart, he would know how extraordinary and fine and lovely a soul sits in him. I have glimpsed this many times. Our true natures cannot hide forever, not when we act out of love.
And Steve has loved. And shown his true self. And it has always been so enchanting that I have hungered for more every time, and felt profound loss when it was hidden away again.
I want to tell him that like that other Steve, we can rebuild him, better than ever before, but without it costing six million dollars. I want him to see that this is a transformative time, and that these are Phoenix ashes he now stands in.
He knows that I have recently lost my sense of self too - that I am journeying towards my own unknown and unguessed at future. I know he does not want to add to the difficulties that I carry, but I want him to take the hand I hold out to him, and feel the adventure waiting in the shadows. I am happy to take all of the first steps - let him follow close behind. There is nothing unfair about that - for when I am tired I can lean back and there will be someone to rest on.
Life changes all the time. We cannot prevent this, and why would we want to? We can choose how we ride the crest of those roller coaster times. Screaming, certainly, but with hands high above our heads, facing forward, letting the new ground rush towards us.
To follow ones heart is the bravest endeavour I know. Sometimes it feels the hardest, but I never doubt it, never. Hold my hand sweetheart, the future beckons us, the present pushes us, the past has abandoned us, we'll walk together in brand new shoes.
Life changes course all the time. There are little swerves, dips in the road, hills and bumps, and most of the time, we don't notice. But it changes, nonetheless, and suddenly, we look back and say "how did that happen - and when did this become my life?"
Life is swerving mightily for us right now. We cannot help but notice. We are nearly swept off the road by it's force. Such change, such disruption, yet on the outside it would all look just the same to you.
Steve is discontinuing his pshycotherapy course. Not because it isn't the right one or he has gone off it, or changed his mind, or any of that rubbish. No. The body blows he has been dealt in the last month have left him unable to even consider it as a career path anymore. The whole vision he had of himself, his history, his family, his sense of identity - it has all come crashing down, and he is searching through the resultant rubble, trying to recognise his voice.
When I was at the worst point of my illness, I had a similar experience, and my heart goes out to him now. I know that he was never who he thought he was - the real Steve was always stronger, wiser, kinder, clearer, and even more beautiful. But in life we tend to believe less of ourselves, especially if our early life trained us in accepting unworthiness. It takes others, who love us, to remind us of our true hearts.
There he stands now, at the brink of all the horrible awareness that he is not who he once thought, and it is painful for him. There is shock to be recovered from. There is exploration to be endured. If he could see through my eyes, feel with my heart, he would know how extraordinary and fine and lovely a soul sits in him. I have glimpsed this many times. Our true natures cannot hide forever, not when we act out of love.
And Steve has loved. And shown his true self. And it has always been so enchanting that I have hungered for more every time, and felt profound loss when it was hidden away again.
I want to tell him that like that other Steve, we can rebuild him, better than ever before, but without it costing six million dollars. I want him to see that this is a transformative time, and that these are Phoenix ashes he now stands in.
He knows that I have recently lost my sense of self too - that I am journeying towards my own unknown and unguessed at future. I know he does not want to add to the difficulties that I carry, but I want him to take the hand I hold out to him, and feel the adventure waiting in the shadows. I am happy to take all of the first steps - let him follow close behind. There is nothing unfair about that - for when I am tired I can lean back and there will be someone to rest on.
Life changes all the time. We cannot prevent this, and why would we want to? We can choose how we ride the crest of those roller coaster times. Screaming, certainly, but with hands high above our heads, facing forward, letting the new ground rush towards us.
To follow ones heart is the bravest endeavour I know. Sometimes it feels the hardest, but I never doubt it, never. Hold my hand sweetheart, the future beckons us, the present pushes us, the past has abandoned us, we'll walk together in brand new shoes.
Sunday 13 June 2010
A Dancing Queen at Pimms o,clock
Day 280
Right everybody, sing along now -
"It's such a perfect day,
You'll wish you spent it with me..."
Obviously I'm paraphrasing, but I've just had the best day ever.
I woke up and had a nice chat with Steve whilst playing solitaire on my Iphone, in bed, with a hot lemon (don't drink tea). Good start.
Then had a nice bath and when I got out Steve had made bacon and eggs. Getting better.
Then Asda delivered our groceries. I had signed up for online shopping yesterday and placed an order, only to have the lovely surprise of getting a bonus that took £75 off the total. Seventy five quid! I had to order more food just to make up the total. Even with the cost of delivery we ended up spending less than two quid and the fridge is full! Brilliant!
Then we pootled down the road and things picked up even more.
At the bottom of our hill is a small street of shops that - despite the busy road that runs through it - considers itself a separate community, almost a village in Bath, if you like. It's called Widcombe, and every two years they shut off the street, pull out all the stops, and have a massive street party called Widcombe Rising.
It was today and the sun shone on it with gusto. There was lots of street theatre, all the pubs were serving pints and Pimms, and the restaurants had hog roasts and currys and cakes etc., all out on stalls.
There was a ferris wheel, a helter skelter, a farmers market, morris dancers (obligatory), muscly young acrobats from Oz (nice), balloons and candy floss, and everything that makes up a good party including four different stages playing lots of different music, all day.
Our near neighbour is in a band called the Good Fridays, so we grabbed some Pimms and went to hear their set, and they were great. Plenty of updated eighties hits like 'Tainted love', and a guest appearance on the bongos of a nice chap Sam knew from way back.
Next we watched two hunky acrobats stand on their hands, and on huge piles of chairs, and take their shirts off, and do see-saw stunts, and did I mention, they took their shirts off? Really quite good..
Hungry now, so we wolfed down a hog roast bun each and headed up to the next stage to hear A Handbag of Harmonies, from that show on the telly - Last Choir Standing. Lots of pink, plenty of audience participation, terrific harmonies, great singalong songs, a totally camp conductor in a frilly shirt, and a marvellous Beatles medley to finish it all off. Love, love, loved it.
Needed a sit down now, so it was off to one of the churches for a cream tea, whilst stone masons chipped away outside, showcasing their work, (this is Bath - we have to have some 'posh').
Then, on our way down to the next stage, we bumped into old work colleagues of Steve, one of whom was playing in the band I had planned to see later. Nice touch down with them, arranged to meet up before the set, and mooched off to hear a jazzy funk band called The Bourbons, whilst queueing for the ferris wheel.
As it happens, Steve and I are both terrified of heights, but we tend to get brave every now and then and do battle with this fear by going up the Eiffel Tower or something like that. So today it was the Ferris wheel, which was always called a Big Wheel when I was a kid, but this one wasn't really that big. You could see over the houses at the top (if you looked, which we tried not to do too much ), but that was about all.
We both stayed very still, so as not to rock it, and I can honestly say that that is the tightest Steve has held my hand in a long time, so, result!
Then it was off to the stage for the Demolition Rhythm and Blues Band, and Steve's old mates, and a gin and tonic and chips. They turned out to be excellent. Steve's old mucker who was the lead singer, had a whole Jack Black, Tenacious D thing going, that worked fabulously well.
But it was the dancers who stole the show.
Earlier, the dance floor had been populated by small children and the kind of people who live in a home, not at home, which is all very sweet and I wish I was that brave about my dancing.
Now, however, they had mostly gone and a motley crew of individuals had assembled instead, in a line which moved gradually forward as they got more confident. They were headed up by a young man constructed mostly of tattoos, black shirt, Doc Martins, and a striking resemblance to Dennis Pennis. He danced like he had only minutes to live, but was on powerful drugs, and so didn't care. He busted some good moves too.
Alongside Mr enthusiastic there were two other celebrity lookalikes. There was an Ozzy Osbourne, (if Ozzy hadn't got famous, and actually lived in a caravan outside Chippenham), and a Gilly Goulden (who never let go of her pint the whole time, good on yer, girl).
More people got brave c'os the music was really good, the floor started to fill up, and we had front row seats, naturally.
A chap right in front of me clearly had a sense of rhythm in his head but the rest of his body danced to the beat of a different drum, or possible several. I was riveted. Every part of his body was moving, but no two parts were in time with each other. He was the King of all 'dads at a wedding' and my eyes were glued to him. I just couldn't work out how he (or anybody) could move that way. It was astonishing.
Then, just when we thought it couldn't get any better, SHE came along.
She was young, drunk, barefoot, and wearing a long blue dress. When she started to dance, she hitched up her dress to allow ease of movement, then it all got a bit suggestive, and her dress rode up a lot and she flashed her bum.
At this point, I thought it was accidental.
The more she danced, the more I realised how wrong I was. An old fella who had gamely tried to keep up with Dennis Pennis grabbed her hands for a dance, and, boy, did he get one! She flicked her dress up to boob height repeatedly now, showing all her tattoos and a rather small thong, and finished the dance by holding him close and crotch-humping him.
He was quite old, as I said, and we were all getting worried that she might give him a heart-attack. We never saw him again after that, but we reassurred ourselves that an organised event of this nature was sure to have a St Johns Ambulance on standby somewhere, and besides, she was now the floor show.
She really went for it and whirled around everywhere, flipping her dress up continually and frightening young children with her spotty bottom. I was craning my head to look but all the men were trying to pretend they weren't, and how the band kept focus I really don't know.
Dennis Pennis knew he had been totally upstaged, but frankly, I know pole dancers who would have been embarrassed to dance like that, so he was a worthy second place.
When it was all over we came home to comfy chairs, Top Gear on the telly for the guys, and the computer wating for me. Sam even said he'd got some homework done, so today is stratopherically good.
Sam is currently outside sitting on our steps, talking to the big, gnarly, toad that lives under our patio but has come up to take a little evening air, while I sip hot lemon and write this.
The last scents of honeysuckle drift on the breeze.
This has been a perfect day.
Bar none.
Right everybody, sing along now -
"It's such a perfect day,
You'll wish you spent it with me..."
Obviously I'm paraphrasing, but I've just had the best day ever.
I woke up and had a nice chat with Steve whilst playing solitaire on my Iphone, in bed, with a hot lemon (don't drink tea). Good start.
Then had a nice bath and when I got out Steve had made bacon and eggs. Getting better.
Then Asda delivered our groceries. I had signed up for online shopping yesterday and placed an order, only to have the lovely surprise of getting a bonus that took £75 off the total. Seventy five quid! I had to order more food just to make up the total. Even with the cost of delivery we ended up spending less than two quid and the fridge is full! Brilliant!
Then we pootled down the road and things picked up even more.
At the bottom of our hill is a small street of shops that - despite the busy road that runs through it - considers itself a separate community, almost a village in Bath, if you like. It's called Widcombe, and every two years they shut off the street, pull out all the stops, and have a massive street party called Widcombe Rising.
It was today and the sun shone on it with gusto. There was lots of street theatre, all the pubs were serving pints and Pimms, and the restaurants had hog roasts and currys and cakes etc., all out on stalls.
There was a ferris wheel, a helter skelter, a farmers market, morris dancers (obligatory), muscly young acrobats from Oz (nice), balloons and candy floss, and everything that makes up a good party including four different stages playing lots of different music, all day.
Our near neighbour is in a band called the Good Fridays, so we grabbed some Pimms and went to hear their set, and they were great. Plenty of updated eighties hits like 'Tainted love', and a guest appearance on the bongos of a nice chap Sam knew from way back.
Next we watched two hunky acrobats stand on their hands, and on huge piles of chairs, and take their shirts off, and do see-saw stunts, and did I mention, they took their shirts off? Really quite good..
Hungry now, so we wolfed down a hog roast bun each and headed up to the next stage to hear A Handbag of Harmonies, from that show on the telly - Last Choir Standing. Lots of pink, plenty of audience participation, terrific harmonies, great singalong songs, a totally camp conductor in a frilly shirt, and a marvellous Beatles medley to finish it all off. Love, love, loved it.
Needed a sit down now, so it was off to one of the churches for a cream tea, whilst stone masons chipped away outside, showcasing their work, (this is Bath - we have to have some 'posh').
Then, on our way down to the next stage, we bumped into old work colleagues of Steve, one of whom was playing in the band I had planned to see later. Nice touch down with them, arranged to meet up before the set, and mooched off to hear a jazzy funk band called The Bourbons, whilst queueing for the ferris wheel.
As it happens, Steve and I are both terrified of heights, but we tend to get brave every now and then and do battle with this fear by going up the Eiffel Tower or something like that. So today it was the Ferris wheel, which was always called a Big Wheel when I was a kid, but this one wasn't really that big. You could see over the houses at the top (if you looked, which we tried not to do too much ), but that was about all.
We both stayed very still, so as not to rock it, and I can honestly say that that is the tightest Steve has held my hand in a long time, so, result!
Then it was off to the stage for the Demolition Rhythm and Blues Band, and Steve's old mates, and a gin and tonic and chips. They turned out to be excellent. Steve's old mucker who was the lead singer, had a whole Jack Black, Tenacious D thing going, that worked fabulously well.
But it was the dancers who stole the show.
Earlier, the dance floor had been populated by small children and the kind of people who live in a home, not at home, which is all very sweet and I wish I was that brave about my dancing.
Now, however, they had mostly gone and a motley crew of individuals had assembled instead, in a line which moved gradually forward as they got more confident. They were headed up by a young man constructed mostly of tattoos, black shirt, Doc Martins, and a striking resemblance to Dennis Pennis. He danced like he had only minutes to live, but was on powerful drugs, and so didn't care. He busted some good moves too.
Alongside Mr enthusiastic there were two other celebrity lookalikes. There was an Ozzy Osbourne, (if Ozzy hadn't got famous, and actually lived in a caravan outside Chippenham), and a Gilly Goulden (who never let go of her pint the whole time, good on yer, girl).
More people got brave c'os the music was really good, the floor started to fill up, and we had front row seats, naturally.
A chap right in front of me clearly had a sense of rhythm in his head but the rest of his body danced to the beat of a different drum, or possible several. I was riveted. Every part of his body was moving, but no two parts were in time with each other. He was the King of all 'dads at a wedding' and my eyes were glued to him. I just couldn't work out how he (or anybody) could move that way. It was astonishing.
Then, just when we thought it couldn't get any better, SHE came along.
She was young, drunk, barefoot, and wearing a long blue dress. When she started to dance, she hitched up her dress to allow ease of movement, then it all got a bit suggestive, and her dress rode up a lot and she flashed her bum.
At this point, I thought it was accidental.
The more she danced, the more I realised how wrong I was. An old fella who had gamely tried to keep up with Dennis Pennis grabbed her hands for a dance, and, boy, did he get one! She flicked her dress up to boob height repeatedly now, showing all her tattoos and a rather small thong, and finished the dance by holding him close and crotch-humping him.
He was quite old, as I said, and we were all getting worried that she might give him a heart-attack. We never saw him again after that, but we reassurred ourselves that an organised event of this nature was sure to have a St Johns Ambulance on standby somewhere, and besides, she was now the floor show.
She really went for it and whirled around everywhere, flipping her dress up continually and frightening young children with her spotty bottom. I was craning my head to look but all the men were trying to pretend they weren't, and how the band kept focus I really don't know.
Dennis Pennis knew he had been totally upstaged, but frankly, I know pole dancers who would have been embarrassed to dance like that, so he was a worthy second place.
When it was all over we came home to comfy chairs, Top Gear on the telly for the guys, and the computer wating for me. Sam even said he'd got some homework done, so today is stratopherically good.
Sam is currently outside sitting on our steps, talking to the big, gnarly, toad that lives under our patio but has come up to take a little evening air, while I sip hot lemon and write this.
The last scents of honeysuckle drift on the breeze.
This has been a perfect day.
Bar none.
And now I'm off to watch Galaxy Quest - don't you wish you were me?
Wednesday 9 June 2010
Keeping up with the Daltons
Day 276
Hello little blog, remember me? I have left you to your own devices for too long but I am back now.
Not been very well actually, and when I have been well, I've been busy. Had a birthday. Not an important one with a zero - that was last year - but still took up some time. Had a great meal out with friends, but am still waiting for a card or pressie from either of my sons, little sods.
Carole Burnett once said that if you want to know what childbirth is like, take your bottom lip and stretch it over your head. Feel like suggesting that to my boys. Then they may be a little more grateful and responsive on my birthday.
Rosie, one of my lovely step-daughters, sent me a cute little jacket that didn't fit her, but - sadly - didn't fit me either. Nice try though.
Been madly painting that commission I got. And when I say madly, I don't just mean my painting technique. The big problem was it took me days to remember how to achieve the effects that I was so effortlessly employing a year ago. I honestly couldn't seem to grasp how to do it anymore. Breakthrough came yesterday, at last, and painting almost complete now. Phew! Paint had to be sanded down half way through as had got so thick.
Oh - did I say? - the patio is finished! Just in time for all the rain. The bruises I sustained re-laying it have nearly all gone so I'd like some sunshine now to brown my legs please.
Steve's work life is all over the shop. The contract he was waiting for and had done months of work for has been put off until end of August. We can't last that long on the wages he earned for the six weeks in Belgium, so that's a no-no. Could be tricky. Oh well - life will send us what we need, as it always does.
Been in hormone hell as well. Hoping this sudden frenzied onslaught of mood swings, exhaustion and weeping heralds the final storm. As my hormones get more out of whack I am hoping it is a sign that the end is in sight. Prefer to think this way whatever the reality.
Haven't had a chance to write any more of my book - this is the first writing I have done for a week and a half. Missing it but the painting is the priority at the moment. Waiting on feedback from Diane and her daughter Ella about the first batch anyway.
I still have one copy of my manuscript outstanding at a publishers. I notice that I do not want to ring them up and prompt them about this in case it prompts them to say "oh forget it then". I will be brave and just do it. This week. Sometime. This is not the right energy to be putting out.
Well that's it for now. I will write properly next time - this was just a catch up to say I'm still here (even if my brain clearly isn't).
Hello little blog, remember me? I have left you to your own devices for too long but I am back now.
Not been very well actually, and when I have been well, I've been busy. Had a birthday. Not an important one with a zero - that was last year - but still took up some time. Had a great meal out with friends, but am still waiting for a card or pressie from either of my sons, little sods.
Carole Burnett once said that if you want to know what childbirth is like, take your bottom lip and stretch it over your head. Feel like suggesting that to my boys. Then they may be a little more grateful and responsive on my birthday.
Rosie, one of my lovely step-daughters, sent me a cute little jacket that didn't fit her, but - sadly - didn't fit me either. Nice try though.
Been madly painting that commission I got. And when I say madly, I don't just mean my painting technique. The big problem was it took me days to remember how to achieve the effects that I was so effortlessly employing a year ago. I honestly couldn't seem to grasp how to do it anymore. Breakthrough came yesterday, at last, and painting almost complete now. Phew! Paint had to be sanded down half way through as had got so thick.
Oh - did I say? - the patio is finished! Just in time for all the rain. The bruises I sustained re-laying it have nearly all gone so I'd like some sunshine now to brown my legs please.
Steve's work life is all over the shop. The contract he was waiting for and had done months of work for has been put off until end of August. We can't last that long on the wages he earned for the six weeks in Belgium, so that's a no-no. Could be tricky. Oh well - life will send us what we need, as it always does.
Been in hormone hell as well. Hoping this sudden frenzied onslaught of mood swings, exhaustion and weeping heralds the final storm. As my hormones get more out of whack I am hoping it is a sign that the end is in sight. Prefer to think this way whatever the reality.
Haven't had a chance to write any more of my book - this is the first writing I have done for a week and a half. Missing it but the painting is the priority at the moment. Waiting on feedback from Diane and her daughter Ella about the first batch anyway.
I still have one copy of my manuscript outstanding at a publishers. I notice that I do not want to ring them up and prompt them about this in case it prompts them to say "oh forget it then". I will be brave and just do it. This week. Sometime. This is not the right energy to be putting out.
Well that's it for now. I will write properly next time - this was just a catch up to say I'm still here (even if my brain clearly isn't).
Friday 28 May 2010
Letting God play dice
Day 264
Life is all about change sometimes. In our house we know a fair whack about that, as it happens. We rarely live anywhere longer than five years. Careers are updated or totally changed on a regular basis. I can't even keep a room looking the same for more than six months without all the furniture needing to be moved.
We live in a space of flux and progress as regards our inner selves, too. I am not the woman I was ten years ago, not remotely. I'm not even the woman I was last year. We are physical, emotional and intellectual nomads - always on the move.
Two years ago, I was a student, my younger son Sam was anti-school and working at Costa Coffee, and my fella was in I.T. in Bristol. One year on from that and I had finished college, and both husband and son were unemployed, but hubbie had started training as a Psychotherapist. Update another year to now, and fella has been working in Belgium, Sam is at college, and I am writing books and selling paintings.
Yet more change is on the horizon. For reasons that are his business Steve is discontinuing his psychotherapy, and the job is Antwerp is up in the air. Sam is pushing 20 and is starting to mature into a much more aware young man. I have gone through a complete identity crisis which - talking of change! - the bloody menopause has not helped. And yet, out of all of this I can only see the glimmers of light on a new horizon. My pulse quickens at the thought of "what next?".
Do you love, as I do, being driven down an unknown road, gazing out of the window at unfamiliar sights, drinking it all in? This is my life - a long drive down an unknown road. I trust the future and what it will bring because I have faced death and am not frigthened by it. There is safety in that. The future can bring what it likes, and the less I know about that the more surprised and delighted I often am.
So many times now we have been in a situation that could easily be labelled as unfortunate, and yet it has never really been so. Afterwards we have always found ourselves looking back and saying "look where we are now, thank goodness that happened because it led us here - how lucky are we?". Providence, serendipity, fortune favouring the brave - however you wish to call it - this is a marvellous thing. I am sitting on the cusp of change right now. I can feel it's bite and the familiar tingle in my solar plexus.
An unknown road beckons my husband, and where he goes, so go I. We are fellow journeymen in this life together. External changes usually demand internal ones - lessons learnt, ideologies shifted, old habits discarded, a cleansing if you will. We hold each others hands through it, and often provide the push for uncertain feet to move forward. Sometimes we have to drag each other. But we go, we travel, we move on, always together.
This time next year, where will we be? I love that I have no idea at all. So much potential, so much unplanned, unexpected, or out my control. The universe has the map to my life, not I. When it offers me riches that were more than I asked for, anticipated or imagined, I take them and say "thank you".
Yes. Say "thank you" and jump. That about sums it up, I think. If you relinquish some of the control and expand your horizons to include the unexpected, you may get more than you dreamed.
I always do.
Life is all about change sometimes. In our house we know a fair whack about that, as it happens. We rarely live anywhere longer than five years. Careers are updated or totally changed on a regular basis. I can't even keep a room looking the same for more than six months without all the furniture needing to be moved.
We live in a space of flux and progress as regards our inner selves, too. I am not the woman I was ten years ago, not remotely. I'm not even the woman I was last year. We are physical, emotional and intellectual nomads - always on the move.
Two years ago, I was a student, my younger son Sam was anti-school and working at Costa Coffee, and my fella was in I.T. in Bristol. One year on from that and I had finished college, and both husband and son were unemployed, but hubbie had started training as a Psychotherapist. Update another year to now, and fella has been working in Belgium, Sam is at college, and I am writing books and selling paintings.
Yet more change is on the horizon. For reasons that are his business Steve is discontinuing his psychotherapy, and the job is Antwerp is up in the air. Sam is pushing 20 and is starting to mature into a much more aware young man. I have gone through a complete identity crisis which - talking of change! - the bloody menopause has not helped. And yet, out of all of this I can only see the glimmers of light on a new horizon. My pulse quickens at the thought of "what next?".
Do you love, as I do, being driven down an unknown road, gazing out of the window at unfamiliar sights, drinking it all in? This is my life - a long drive down an unknown road. I trust the future and what it will bring because I have faced death and am not frigthened by it. There is safety in that. The future can bring what it likes, and the less I know about that the more surprised and delighted I often am.
So many times now we have been in a situation that could easily be labelled as unfortunate, and yet it has never really been so. Afterwards we have always found ourselves looking back and saying "look where we are now, thank goodness that happened because it led us here - how lucky are we?". Providence, serendipity, fortune favouring the brave - however you wish to call it - this is a marvellous thing. I am sitting on the cusp of change right now. I can feel it's bite and the familiar tingle in my solar plexus.
An unknown road beckons my husband, and where he goes, so go I. We are fellow journeymen in this life together. External changes usually demand internal ones - lessons learnt, ideologies shifted, old habits discarded, a cleansing if you will. We hold each others hands through it, and often provide the push for uncertain feet to move forward. Sometimes we have to drag each other. But we go, we travel, we move on, always together.
This time next year, where will we be? I love that I have no idea at all. So much potential, so much unplanned, unexpected, or out my control. The universe has the map to my life, not I. When it offers me riches that were more than I asked for, anticipated or imagined, I take them and say "thank you".
Yes. Say "thank you" and jump. That about sums it up, I think. If you relinquish some of the control and expand your horizons to include the unexpected, you may get more than you dreamed.
I always do.
Wednesday 26 May 2010
Seeing is believing and vice versa
Day 262
I still can't see (I am on my sixth different contact lens trial), but I can't see quite a bit better than I couldn't see before, if you see what I mean.
Can't see the keys of the computer but can see the screen, which is a definite improvement. Can see to drive, but can also see how blotchy my legs are now that summer skirts are de riguer. You win some, you lose some.
When I was regularly doing visualisation exercises a few months back, I always pictured myself running up a mountain, with pain-free feet, and lots of energy - not purple in the face, bent double, gasping for breath and requiring air-lifting back down again, which would be the reality of running more than ten yards DOWNHILL now. I also always saw myself bare faced - ie: no glasses, which I've needed since I was 12 and need even more now I am at bifocal stage.
I have great faitnh in the propensity of visualisations to produce results. Ergo, despite the fact that every year or so I try out a pair of lovely, soft, wafer thin contacts which my eyes reject completely, I suddenly find I can wear them in moderate comfort. This is revelatory. Lens are now half the width of a cobweb, it would seem.
This pair have the best vision so far, but have earned themselves the nicknames itchy and scratchy. But I am determined. I have a vision about my vision, so to speak. In My New Life I feel the need to present my face to the world. Open. Undefended. Unhidden. Naked, even. It seems important to do so, therefore I persevere. Glasses can seem like armour, after all.
There are ups and downs, of course. Now I am trying out lenses I frequently poke myself in the eye in an attempt to push non-existent glasses further up my face. Wonder if I can see to put on make-up? What kind of make-up should I wear now that it can be seen?
I had a friend who always put her make-up on in the dark because she said that if she was going to be wearing it out at night, it needed to be strong enough to count. If she could see it in the dark then it was the right amount. I can't begin to tell you how wrong she was, or how scary her blusher looked (which always ended up vertical, for some reason) whenever we went into a pub. I always attracted dirty looks, as if I had been vigorously slapping her about the face and giving her black eyes before we came in.
I worry that this is how I will apply make-up now that I see with very different vision. 20/20 is not all it's cracked up to be. Being short sighted I have always been able to do things that required detail and precision because I could focus perfectly TWO INCHES FROM MY NOSE! Make-up was always put on without glasses, of course, and therefore, I got very close to the mirror. My blending was perfect. Only thing was, I never really knew what it looked like from a distance. And it was usually hidden behind glasses anyway, so I couldn't really tell. What if I am to make-up what Jackson Pollock was to paint ?
I once went to dinner at friends house, and - because I was feeling vain and with a chap I wanted to impress - I left my specs at home. Normally, not a terrible move but this time, disastrous. The table was lit with only one candle and even the perfectly sighted were struggling to see. Also, my mate served a whole salmon, and I spent a lot of time storing the bones in my cheeks for later removal in the loo, c'os I couldn't see to fillet the damn thing at all. I'm lucky to be alive.
But there are things I look forward to. When it rains I will finally be able to feel it on my face rather than that disturbingly violent splash one gets, when a raindrops ricochets off the inside of ones glasses straight into the eye. And I will be able to open the oven door without my glasses being totally clouded over by the steam from the fan oven. I am reminded of those glasses in the Hitch-hikers Guide to the Galaxy, which go completely black when danger is there so you don't frighten yourself to death. I imagine a small robot trapped inside my oven door going "danger, Will Robinson", which dates me, I know.
I will be able to have a hairstyle with a damn good fringe, without looking like I start from the nose down like something out of Sesame Street, and I will be able to go on roller coasters without worrying whether the centrifugal force is enough to keep my glasses on. I probably shan't because I am terrified of heights and a real wimp about those sorts of things - but I could.
So until next wednesday, itchy and scratchy will get a fair trial, m'lud. At the moment the jury is out, but the stakes are high as are my hopes.
Well - that was the 'can I use a computer in these lenses?' test. Not too bad. I think I need to do the 'can I watch telly in them?' test now. Toodle pip dudes.
I still can't see (I am on my sixth different contact lens trial), but I can't see quite a bit better than I couldn't see before, if you see what I mean.
Can't see the keys of the computer but can see the screen, which is a definite improvement. Can see to drive, but can also see how blotchy my legs are now that summer skirts are de riguer. You win some, you lose some.
When I was regularly doing visualisation exercises a few months back, I always pictured myself running up a mountain, with pain-free feet, and lots of energy - not purple in the face, bent double, gasping for breath and requiring air-lifting back down again, which would be the reality of running more than ten yards DOWNHILL now. I also always saw myself bare faced - ie: no glasses, which I've needed since I was 12 and need even more now I am at bifocal stage.
I have great faitnh in the propensity of visualisations to produce results. Ergo, despite the fact that every year or so I try out a pair of lovely, soft, wafer thin contacts which my eyes reject completely, I suddenly find I can wear them in moderate comfort. This is revelatory. Lens are now half the width of a cobweb, it would seem.
This pair have the best vision so far, but have earned themselves the nicknames itchy and scratchy. But I am determined. I have a vision about my vision, so to speak. In My New Life I feel the need to present my face to the world. Open. Undefended. Unhidden. Naked, even. It seems important to do so, therefore I persevere. Glasses can seem like armour, after all.
There are ups and downs, of course. Now I am trying out lenses I frequently poke myself in the eye in an attempt to push non-existent glasses further up my face. Wonder if I can see to put on make-up? What kind of make-up should I wear now that it can be seen?
I had a friend who always put her make-up on in the dark because she said that if she was going to be wearing it out at night, it needed to be strong enough to count. If she could see it in the dark then it was the right amount. I can't begin to tell you how wrong she was, or how scary her blusher looked (which always ended up vertical, for some reason) whenever we went into a pub. I always attracted dirty looks, as if I had been vigorously slapping her about the face and giving her black eyes before we came in.
I worry that this is how I will apply make-up now that I see with very different vision. 20/20 is not all it's cracked up to be. Being short sighted I have always been able to do things that required detail and precision because I could focus perfectly TWO INCHES FROM MY NOSE! Make-up was always put on without glasses, of course, and therefore, I got very close to the mirror. My blending was perfect. Only thing was, I never really knew what it looked like from a distance. And it was usually hidden behind glasses anyway, so I couldn't really tell. What if I am to make-up what Jackson Pollock was to paint ?
I once went to dinner at friends house, and - because I was feeling vain and with a chap I wanted to impress - I left my specs at home. Normally, not a terrible move but this time, disastrous. The table was lit with only one candle and even the perfectly sighted were struggling to see. Also, my mate served a whole salmon, and I spent a lot of time storing the bones in my cheeks for later removal in the loo, c'os I couldn't see to fillet the damn thing at all. I'm lucky to be alive.
But there are things I look forward to. When it rains I will finally be able to feel it on my face rather than that disturbingly violent splash one gets, when a raindrops ricochets off the inside of ones glasses straight into the eye. And I will be able to open the oven door without my glasses being totally clouded over by the steam from the fan oven. I am reminded of those glasses in the Hitch-hikers Guide to the Galaxy, which go completely black when danger is there so you don't frighten yourself to death. I imagine a small robot trapped inside my oven door going "danger, Will Robinson", which dates me, I know.
I will be able to have a hairstyle with a damn good fringe, without looking like I start from the nose down like something out of Sesame Street, and I will be able to go on roller coasters without worrying whether the centrifugal force is enough to keep my glasses on. I probably shan't because I am terrified of heights and a real wimp about those sorts of things - but I could.
So until next wednesday, itchy and scratchy will get a fair trial, m'lud. At the moment the jury is out, but the stakes are high as are my hopes.
Well - that was the 'can I use a computer in these lenses?' test. Not too bad. I think I need to do the 'can I watch telly in them?' test now. Toodle pip dudes.
Saturday 22 May 2010
sing it with me -"everything's coming up roses.."
Day 258
"I'm so excited,
I just can't hide it,
I'm about to lose control
and I think I like it"
This is me, singing away, inside.
c'os....
I GOT MY FIRST COMMISSION! (applause, cheers, fx)
Well, not my first, obviously - I've been asked to do many things over the years, but they were very nearly all from family and friends, or people who knew my family or friends.
THIS WAS FROM A STRANGER!
Which makes it more official, somehow.
And more exciting.
And WAY validating.
Which is so bad it's good, which is wicked, so therefore really baaaaaaaad!
Chappy came round yesterday with his lovely wife to see my stuff. Showed them all my canvases to see if any of them would be suitable for their friend as his wedding present, and anything else I had left in my portfolio.
They really liked the canvases and have taken some prints to show said friend and he can choose which one he likes. Yay!
Also, loved a small print that I had overpainted, and have commissioned a larger version on canvas. Double Yay! (yay)
Charging them a small fee because they will be bringing me more work in and I am unknown, and I am sure we're all gonna be mates (so they get mates rates). Besides, think a lot of art is horrifically over-priced, and therefore, too out of reach for most people.
"I'm so excited...."
Also got a sewing job to do for my lovely mate Denise, over the road. She makes costumes for film and theatre etc, so she's very useful to know sometimes. Gonna be sewing on lots of hooks and eyes for her to help her meet a sudden deadline. I don't mind - it's boring work, bit I can sit and listen to the radio while I sew.
I'd do it for free to help her out, but she wants to pay me, so I'll take that too, thank you so very much.
Funny how, once you find your direction in life and start just getting on with it, things fall into place to support you. I've always thought that was a particularly nice thing about life. Good job, whoever's in charge there.
"I'm about to lose control..."
My picture book is still being considered by a publisher and has not been rejected yet, people want to buy my paintings, and my kid's story book is in demand by the little 'uns I've farmed it out to for feedback. (and I'm only up to chapter seven - they are nagging me for the next bit, c'os they want to know what happens next).
I am queen of the happy bunnies in happy bunny land on happy bunny day. And.......
I'm hungry, so I'm off to fry an egg.
"I'm so excited,
I just can't hide it,
I'm about to lose control
and I think I like it"
This is me, singing away, inside.
c'os....
I GOT MY FIRST COMMISSION! (applause, cheers, fx)
Well, not my first, obviously - I've been asked to do many things over the years, but they were very nearly all from family and friends, or people who knew my family or friends.
THIS WAS FROM A STRANGER!
Which makes it more official, somehow.
And more exciting.
And WAY validating.
Which is so bad it's good, which is wicked, so therefore really baaaaaaaad!
Chappy came round yesterday with his lovely wife to see my stuff. Showed them all my canvases to see if any of them would be suitable for their friend as his wedding present, and anything else I had left in my portfolio.
They really liked the canvases and have taken some prints to show said friend and he can choose which one he likes. Yay!
Also, loved a small print that I had overpainted, and have commissioned a larger version on canvas. Double Yay! (yay)
Charging them a small fee because they will be bringing me more work in and I am unknown, and I am sure we're all gonna be mates (so they get mates rates). Besides, think a lot of art is horrifically over-priced, and therefore, too out of reach for most people.
"I'm so excited...."
Also got a sewing job to do for my lovely mate Denise, over the road. She makes costumes for film and theatre etc, so she's very useful to know sometimes. Gonna be sewing on lots of hooks and eyes for her to help her meet a sudden deadline. I don't mind - it's boring work, bit I can sit and listen to the radio while I sew.
I'd do it for free to help her out, but she wants to pay me, so I'll take that too, thank you so very much.
Funny how, once you find your direction in life and start just getting on with it, things fall into place to support you. I've always thought that was a particularly nice thing about life. Good job, whoever's in charge there.
"I'm about to lose control..."
My picture book is still being considered by a publisher and has not been rejected yet, people want to buy my paintings, and my kid's story book is in demand by the little 'uns I've farmed it out to for feedback. (and I'm only up to chapter seven - they are nagging me for the next bit, c'os they want to know what happens next).
I am queen of the happy bunnies in happy bunny land on happy bunny day. And.......
I'm hungry, so I'm off to fry an egg.
Thursday 20 May 2010
I'm sorry I haven't a clue
Day 256
I seem to coming out the other side of my identity crisis, which is always a nice thing to be able to say. Steve's six week contract finished yesterday, and what an emotional six weeks they turned out to be. I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
I have learned that without someone to relate to, or something that duty demanded I do, I felt rudderless, adrift, confused, guilty, and panicky. In retrospect I realise that I have never lived entirely on my own. I have always been a girlfriend, or flatmate, or parent, or wife. Although being a single parent felt like being on one's own, I realise now how much it wasn't.
I don't have a problem with solitude, ifn fact I really like it - I'm not scared of the dark or panicky about burglars or anything like that. It's more that I have never had a space, since I was four years old, where I free to find out who I was, what I wanted, or how I like to live that was not dictated by somebody else's needs or demands.
After my sister was born and my mother became ill, she ruled our house like a concentration camp. I lived in dread and terror, and self-expression was the quickest way to incur her wrath and make my life miserable. I hid a lot and was silent about my thoughts as often as I could get away with.
When I left home I went straight to trying to please a boyfriend, then a child, and so on. Where was the space to discover myself? In my illness, that's where.
Twenty years is a long time to be ill. I have spent months of my life bed-bound, with only my thoughts and feelings to negotiate, or for company. Many times my hormone levels or bouts of post-natal depression have altered my mind, and my behaviour patterns to extreme levels, and I have had to learn how to cope with myself as an unlikeable or even scary and dangerous person.
I had to learn how to know myself, to forgive myself, and to rehabilitate myself. I thought I knew who I was, the hard way.
Turns out I missed a trick along the way.
With nobody else to relate to or even to consider, I am finally starting that process of perfect selfishness that should have been my right as a child. Six weeks is not long enough to have got more than a flavour of it, but that is a good start, and - if nothing else - I am practised at finding my way though difficult things.
I missed my husband while he was away, but I have been missing myself for a lot longer. I know I am strong-willed, creative, funny, forthright, soppy, maternal, honest and easy-going, and a whole host of other things - I have not lost sight of everything - but I am only now discovering what I really like or dislike.
Without reference to someone else, what time do I like to go to bed, and how long do I prefer to sleep? What eating habits suit me best, that does not include cooking for the family all the time? What do I like to drink, and when? What chores am I happy to do and which are just, well, chores?
Such simple questions - you would think anyone would know the answer, wouldn't you? Well, not me apparently.
So now Steve's back in what I have recently begun to feel is my space and I am bumping into all my old habits of fitting around others. This time, however, I am awake to this and can catch myself when it occurs. There is a freedom awaiting me when I get past this that will far ouweigh all the discomfort it has cost me.
Onwards and upwards. That, at least I know, is how I want to live.
I seem to coming out the other side of my identity crisis, which is always a nice thing to be able to say. Steve's six week contract finished yesterday, and what an emotional six weeks they turned out to be. I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
I have learned that without someone to relate to, or something that duty demanded I do, I felt rudderless, adrift, confused, guilty, and panicky. In retrospect I realise that I have never lived entirely on my own. I have always been a girlfriend, or flatmate, or parent, or wife. Although being a single parent felt like being on one's own, I realise now how much it wasn't.
I don't have a problem with solitude, ifn fact I really like it - I'm not scared of the dark or panicky about burglars or anything like that. It's more that I have never had a space, since I was four years old, where I free to find out who I was, what I wanted, or how I like to live that was not dictated by somebody else's needs or demands.
After my sister was born and my mother became ill, she ruled our house like a concentration camp. I lived in dread and terror, and self-expression was the quickest way to incur her wrath and make my life miserable. I hid a lot and was silent about my thoughts as often as I could get away with.
When I left home I went straight to trying to please a boyfriend, then a child, and so on. Where was the space to discover myself? In my illness, that's where.
Twenty years is a long time to be ill. I have spent months of my life bed-bound, with only my thoughts and feelings to negotiate, or for company. Many times my hormone levels or bouts of post-natal depression have altered my mind, and my behaviour patterns to extreme levels, and I have had to learn how to cope with myself as an unlikeable or even scary and dangerous person.
I had to learn how to know myself, to forgive myself, and to rehabilitate myself. I thought I knew who I was, the hard way.
Turns out I missed a trick along the way.
With nobody else to relate to or even to consider, I am finally starting that process of perfect selfishness that should have been my right as a child. Six weeks is not long enough to have got more than a flavour of it, but that is a good start, and - if nothing else - I am practised at finding my way though difficult things.
I missed my husband while he was away, but I have been missing myself for a lot longer. I know I am strong-willed, creative, funny, forthright, soppy, maternal, honest and easy-going, and a whole host of other things - I have not lost sight of everything - but I am only now discovering what I really like or dislike.
Without reference to someone else, what time do I like to go to bed, and how long do I prefer to sleep? What eating habits suit me best, that does not include cooking for the family all the time? What do I like to drink, and when? What chores am I happy to do and which are just, well, chores?
Such simple questions - you would think anyone would know the answer, wouldn't you? Well, not me apparently.
So now Steve's back in what I have recently begun to feel is my space and I am bumping into all my old habits of fitting around others. This time, however, I am awake to this and can catch myself when it occurs. There is a freedom awaiting me when I get past this that will far ouweigh all the discomfort it has cost me.
Onwards and upwards. That, at least I know, is how I want to live.
Tuesday 18 May 2010
24 or A Day In The Life
Day 254
Phew! what a lot can change in twenty-four or so hours. This time yesterday I was a miserable, sleep-deprived wretch who hated the telephone, and today I think A. G. Bell must have been some sort of God, and who cares about sleep, anyway!
Let us roll time backwards... (wibbly wobbly lines fx)
Steve had booked his Eurostar back to Antwerp for stupid o,clock on Monday morning, so this necessitated us getting up at 4 to drive to Bristol to catch the early train to Paddington. "We have to leave at quarter past" he said, leaving me wondering why he hadn't set the alarm for earlier then. As it was, we left at twenty past, as cleaning his teeth seemed the right thing to do (call us over picky, if you like, but that's us).
"What time is the train?" I enquired, as a speed trap flashed at us hurtling past. Quarter to five I was told. Yikes. It's always taken me half an hour to get to Bristol, but Steve does it every week and reckons it's twenty-five minutes. Now bend me over backwards and call me Susan, but I still think that is rather a small margin. Especially as he still had to get his ticket.
We screeched in, Steve hopped out, I waited.
After a while, Steve trundled back out of the station, having run like the blazes, and on the verge of a heart attack, but having missed the train by seconds, none the less.
So we drove back to Bath so he could catch the next train, at an additional cost of fifty quid.
When I got home I fell into bed to try and catch up on some sleep. The precious four hours I had previously got had been filled with dreams of the house being on fire, and having an intruder, then suddenly switching to Afghanistan, where I was being shot at, so not a restful night.
Woke up suddenly (like you do for certain, particular noises), as the cat had got trapped in the bedroom and was scratching around preparing to pee on a library book. Don't know which one of us was more startled as my half asleep body jerked to a standing position, screaming "don't you dare!". On reflection, I think it was probably the cat.
Checked my watch and realised I had twenty minutes to get to the opticians, so hurried along like a good 'un. Got there bang on time, to be told that they had phoned and left a message telling me not to bother early that morning. I, of course, had slept through it.
So I went home and ate some food and tootled about tidying up and such. Tried to get a bit more sleep in the afternoon, as still exhausted, when woken by the phone, where a pleasant sounding machine asked me to make a will. This was not me at my best. The pleasant machine may need trauma counselling, because I really let off a bit of steam.
I shall digress for a moment here to inform you that I have A PLAN!
It is this - I was moaning at the weekend about how many ruddy phone calls I get per week from Indians offering me things I don't want, haven't asked for and am perfectly capable of researching the variables of, should I wish to change. The latest was some scare mongering about computer viruses and the guy told me he knew what was on my computer and got very incensed when I pointed out that that was illegal, and constituted a breach of privacy, and could I have his supervisor please?
Steve advised me to just say "no thank you" which just shows how often he's had to deal with them if he thinks that would work. So my plan is this. They clearly don't know me well or they wouldn't keep calling me Mrs Dowltun (It happens so often I'm starting to wonder if someone else lives here), so they have no clue as to my nationality. This means I can adopt any accent I like - the more unintelligible the better.
So the next time someone calls I shall reply in a mix of scottish, welsh, geordie, and scouse, but with a lot of drunken slurring bleeding all the 'words' together. Something along the lines of "Aye well ah canna be oon verra sticky bin a loss gud neva eh?" should do it. What do you think?
So, back to yesterday. Sam was trying to catch up with his photography project workbook as it had to be in today, and was carefully cutting out contact sheets by the hundred while we watched 'Vicky Christina Barcelona' together. To be fair, he obviously has some dedication because he carried on working all the time Penelope Cruz was snogging Scarlett Johannson, and there aren't many men who wouldn't be dribbling.
I decided to help him by sticking into his book what I could before the Pritt Stick ran out, so he positioned everything up and went to the computer to finish getting his research material together. We left the TV on in the background as 'noise' but it was on the style network, which is all crappy programs about hairdressers and such. At two in the morning Sam requested a channel change, even though we weren't listening to it really, as he felt he had had enough style advice for one night (and probably one lifetime).
At four in the morning both the Pritt and I ran out of substance.
I had difficulty switching off and getting to sleep but managed it and slept for at least five hours. Got up, made a cup of hot lemon, ran a bath, fed the cat, hurled some celery at the guinea pigs, closed the door on the mess in the kitchen, went groggily to the bathroom and sank into blissful bubbles.
Phone went.
Jumped out to answer it and left a puddle of water on the end of Sam's bed as his is the upstairs phone. Silence on the other end. Oh well.
Back to the bath. Hot lemon, bubbles. Nice.
Phone went.
Jumped out, soggy bed, etc., etc., answerphone message from our handy man who'd lost the email address of our landlady. Resolved to sort that out later.
Back to bath. Bubbles pretty much gone. Water only warm. But nice.
Phone went.
Now it gets exciting. This time it was my old college. First thought was "What has Sam done now?" followed by second thought of "I'm sure I returned all my library books?" In fact it was a secretary asking my permission to hand on my phone number to someone who wanted to buy one of my paintings.
Hell, yes!
At our end of term show, two of my small paintings had been bought by the college as leaving gifts for two of the governors, and this particular gentleman loved his and wanted more!
Danced back into the back. Quite cold. No bubbles. Who cares? Inane grin keeping me warm.
Phone went.
Jumped out blah blah (Sam's mattress now needs a very big tumble dryer).
It was the gentleman in question, who shall hereto be referred to as Carlos (c'os that's his name). It seems his son did the same course as me, so he is a big fan, and he liked my work because it's full of colour, and he's Spanish. He even liked my motto, which is "Why use five colours when fifty will do". He has my picture in his study and his friend (who's getting married) loves it, so he'd like to get him something I've done as a wedding present.
Yes! I can do that. I can do stuff to commission too, honest. (dream sequence, walking on clouds fx).
Fell into bath after arranging a viewing of my stuff for later this week.
Phone went.
It was my friend Diane (I can't keep calling her 'the leper', can I) inviting me to a gallery viewing and a coffee tomorrow, and can I bring more of my book, as they must know what happens next. Which is wonderful, but not nearly as wonderful as having someone to share my news with immediately! I was so excited I was probably rude.
Gave up on bath after that - I shall smell instead. Who cares. I have a fan.
Yesterday I was tired, miserable, and uninspired. Today I am an up and coming author and artist. People like my work and want my work, which is a whole lot better than just me thinking it's good. I have a reason to clean the house, which I had been putting off for some considerable time, and plenty of adrenaline-energy to do it.
Twenty four hours,
.........and there it is - My New Life, peeking out after all.
.
Phew! what a lot can change in twenty-four or so hours. This time yesterday I was a miserable, sleep-deprived wretch who hated the telephone, and today I think A. G. Bell must have been some sort of God, and who cares about sleep, anyway!
Let us roll time backwards... (wibbly wobbly lines fx)
Steve had booked his Eurostar back to Antwerp for stupid o,clock on Monday morning, so this necessitated us getting up at 4 to drive to Bristol to catch the early train to Paddington. "We have to leave at quarter past" he said, leaving me wondering why he hadn't set the alarm for earlier then. As it was, we left at twenty past, as cleaning his teeth seemed the right thing to do (call us over picky, if you like, but that's us).
"What time is the train?" I enquired, as a speed trap flashed at us hurtling past. Quarter to five I was told. Yikes. It's always taken me half an hour to get to Bristol, but Steve does it every week and reckons it's twenty-five minutes. Now bend me over backwards and call me Susan, but I still think that is rather a small margin. Especially as he still had to get his ticket.
We screeched in, Steve hopped out, I waited.
After a while, Steve trundled back out of the station, having run like the blazes, and on the verge of a heart attack, but having missed the train by seconds, none the less.
So we drove back to Bath so he could catch the next train, at an additional cost of fifty quid.
When I got home I fell into bed to try and catch up on some sleep. The precious four hours I had previously got had been filled with dreams of the house being on fire, and having an intruder, then suddenly switching to Afghanistan, where I was being shot at, so not a restful night.
Woke up suddenly (like you do for certain, particular noises), as the cat had got trapped in the bedroom and was scratching around preparing to pee on a library book. Don't know which one of us was more startled as my half asleep body jerked to a standing position, screaming "don't you dare!". On reflection, I think it was probably the cat.
Checked my watch and realised I had twenty minutes to get to the opticians, so hurried along like a good 'un. Got there bang on time, to be told that they had phoned and left a message telling me not to bother early that morning. I, of course, had slept through it.
So I went home and ate some food and tootled about tidying up and such. Tried to get a bit more sleep in the afternoon, as still exhausted, when woken by the phone, where a pleasant sounding machine asked me to make a will. This was not me at my best. The pleasant machine may need trauma counselling, because I really let off a bit of steam.
I shall digress for a moment here to inform you that I have A PLAN!
It is this - I was moaning at the weekend about how many ruddy phone calls I get per week from Indians offering me things I don't want, haven't asked for and am perfectly capable of researching the variables of, should I wish to change. The latest was some scare mongering about computer viruses and the guy told me he knew what was on my computer and got very incensed when I pointed out that that was illegal, and constituted a breach of privacy, and could I have his supervisor please?
Steve advised me to just say "no thank you" which just shows how often he's had to deal with them if he thinks that would work. So my plan is this. They clearly don't know me well or they wouldn't keep calling me Mrs Dowltun (It happens so often I'm starting to wonder if someone else lives here), so they have no clue as to my nationality. This means I can adopt any accent I like - the more unintelligible the better.
So the next time someone calls I shall reply in a mix of scottish, welsh, geordie, and scouse, but with a lot of drunken slurring bleeding all the 'words' together. Something along the lines of "Aye well ah canna be oon verra sticky bin a loss gud neva eh?" should do it. What do you think?
So, back to yesterday. Sam was trying to catch up with his photography project workbook as it had to be in today, and was carefully cutting out contact sheets by the hundred while we watched 'Vicky Christina Barcelona' together. To be fair, he obviously has some dedication because he carried on working all the time Penelope Cruz was snogging Scarlett Johannson, and there aren't many men who wouldn't be dribbling.
I decided to help him by sticking into his book what I could before the Pritt Stick ran out, so he positioned everything up and went to the computer to finish getting his research material together. We left the TV on in the background as 'noise' but it was on the style network, which is all crappy programs about hairdressers and such. At two in the morning Sam requested a channel change, even though we weren't listening to it really, as he felt he had had enough style advice for one night (and probably one lifetime).
At four in the morning both the Pritt and I ran out of substance.
I had difficulty switching off and getting to sleep but managed it and slept for at least five hours. Got up, made a cup of hot lemon, ran a bath, fed the cat, hurled some celery at the guinea pigs, closed the door on the mess in the kitchen, went groggily to the bathroom and sank into blissful bubbles.
Phone went.
Jumped out to answer it and left a puddle of water on the end of Sam's bed as his is the upstairs phone. Silence on the other end. Oh well.
Back to the bath. Hot lemon, bubbles. Nice.
Phone went.
Jumped out, soggy bed, etc., etc., answerphone message from our handy man who'd lost the email address of our landlady. Resolved to sort that out later.
Back to bath. Bubbles pretty much gone. Water only warm. But nice.
Phone went.
Now it gets exciting. This time it was my old college. First thought was "What has Sam done now?" followed by second thought of "I'm sure I returned all my library books?" In fact it was a secretary asking my permission to hand on my phone number to someone who wanted to buy one of my paintings.
Hell, yes!
At our end of term show, two of my small paintings had been bought by the college as leaving gifts for two of the governors, and this particular gentleman loved his and wanted more!
Danced back into the back. Quite cold. No bubbles. Who cares? Inane grin keeping me warm.
Phone went.
Jumped out blah blah (Sam's mattress now needs a very big tumble dryer).
It was the gentleman in question, who shall hereto be referred to as Carlos (c'os that's his name). It seems his son did the same course as me, so he is a big fan, and he liked my work because it's full of colour, and he's Spanish. He even liked my motto, which is "Why use five colours when fifty will do". He has my picture in his study and his friend (who's getting married) loves it, so he'd like to get him something I've done as a wedding present.
Yes! I can do that. I can do stuff to commission too, honest. (dream sequence, walking on clouds fx).
Fell into bath after arranging a viewing of my stuff for later this week.
Phone went.
It was my friend Diane (I can't keep calling her 'the leper', can I) inviting me to a gallery viewing and a coffee tomorrow, and can I bring more of my book, as they must know what happens next. Which is wonderful, but not nearly as wonderful as having someone to share my news with immediately! I was so excited I was probably rude.
Gave up on bath after that - I shall smell instead. Who cares. I have a fan.
Yesterday I was tired, miserable, and uninspired. Today I am an up and coming author and artist. People like my work and want my work, which is a whole lot better than just me thinking it's good. I have a reason to clean the house, which I had been putting off for some considerable time, and plenty of adrenaline-energy to do it.
Twenty four hours,
.........and there it is - My New Life, peeking out after all.
.
Friday 14 May 2010
I've gone all jelly and custard
Day 250
Feeling a most ungrateful cow today. My husband is home and being thoughtful, kind and helpful. My son is mostly not here or in bed, so making much less mess than usual. I should be happy but I'm not. I feel confused, rather blank, sluggish beyond words, and as if some lifeline to myself has craftily been severed while I slept.
Every time I start to get an inkling about who I am, what I want to do, and how I want to live, Steve comes home and I bury it beneath a mountain of habitual thinking and behaviour. HELP! I am the jelly woman. I have no spine. My brain has been replaced with marshmallow. My blood has all the passion and purpose of flat lemonade. I am a kid's tea-party wrapped in skin.
I have trapped myself in a way of thinking that flattens out all other thoughts. Today, for instance, I have absolutely no clue what I feel capable of or how to proceed - I only know what I think I SHOULD do which is finish painting the bathroom, but my CFS is making me too exhausted at the thought. I feel like I'm in a bubble and the life that is really mine is on the outside, just out of reach.
Is this the most outrageous self-indulgence? I don't know. You're quite welcome to think so and you may be right. I am too busy bumping into my self-imposed barriers to care. I am aware, however, that the world out there is full of people with REAL problems, so I give myself no sympathy here.
Hamlet said "There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so" and he had a point, you know. Mrs Shakespeare didn't raise no idiots, as they say. I suspect Mrs McDonald (my mum) might have though.
Perhaps I just need some more time. I have been a parent for twenty-eight years, after all, and that is a long time to embed a pattern of thinking that demands you consider others with your every thought. Maybe one month of freedom from that is not quite enough to consolidate.
See what I'm doing here? I've been through shock and denial, and arrived at acceptance and excuses. I wonder what bargaining is going to look like? To Steve - give me more time on my own or I'll spit in your coffee? To Sam - clean up after yourself or I'll convert to Judaism and you'll be long overdue for a bris? Bit extreme, perhaps, and not really me. Oh well.
Do you remember Worzel Gummidge, who had different heads he put on according to the occasion? What a whizzy idea, I sure could do with that. A whole head that gets things done, then I put it aside and put my ME head back on again. Bish-bosh, job done. Clarity of thought kept in the head with the good hair. That would be nice.
So, I don't know - a bit of a dogger mucka of a day really. (Had to get that in - new swear word sent to me by Matt, and loving it). Might substitute the 'M' though, unless the day improves.
Feeling a most ungrateful cow today. My husband is home and being thoughtful, kind and helpful. My son is mostly not here or in bed, so making much less mess than usual. I should be happy but I'm not. I feel confused, rather blank, sluggish beyond words, and as if some lifeline to myself has craftily been severed while I slept.
Every time I start to get an inkling about who I am, what I want to do, and how I want to live, Steve comes home and I bury it beneath a mountain of habitual thinking and behaviour. HELP! I am the jelly woman. I have no spine. My brain has been replaced with marshmallow. My blood has all the passion and purpose of flat lemonade. I am a kid's tea-party wrapped in skin.
I have trapped myself in a way of thinking that flattens out all other thoughts. Today, for instance, I have absolutely no clue what I feel capable of or how to proceed - I only know what I think I SHOULD do which is finish painting the bathroom, but my CFS is making me too exhausted at the thought. I feel like I'm in a bubble and the life that is really mine is on the outside, just out of reach.
Is this the most outrageous self-indulgence? I don't know. You're quite welcome to think so and you may be right. I am too busy bumping into my self-imposed barriers to care. I am aware, however, that the world out there is full of people with REAL problems, so I give myself no sympathy here.
Hamlet said "There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so" and he had a point, you know. Mrs Shakespeare didn't raise no idiots, as they say. I suspect Mrs McDonald (my mum) might have though.
Perhaps I just need some more time. I have been a parent for twenty-eight years, after all, and that is a long time to embed a pattern of thinking that demands you consider others with your every thought. Maybe one month of freedom from that is not quite enough to consolidate.
See what I'm doing here? I've been through shock and denial, and arrived at acceptance and excuses. I wonder what bargaining is going to look like? To Steve - give me more time on my own or I'll spit in your coffee? To Sam - clean up after yourself or I'll convert to Judaism and you'll be long overdue for a bris? Bit extreme, perhaps, and not really me. Oh well.
Do you remember Worzel Gummidge, who had different heads he put on according to the occasion? What a whizzy idea, I sure could do with that. A whole head that gets things done, then I put it aside and put my ME head back on again. Bish-bosh, job done. Clarity of thought kept in the head with the good hair. That would be nice.
So, I don't know - a bit of a dogger mucka of a day really. (Had to get that in - new swear word sent to me by Matt, and loving it). Might substitute the 'M' though, unless the day improves.
Right - boring myself rigid now with my negativity. Have written up to chapter 6 with my new book so am decided, am absolutely decided, that I will continue with that today and sod everything else. Phew, done it, made a decision that comes from outside the barrier. Only took half an hour and fifty lines.
After all - I have readers waiting for the next chapter, (well, my friend Diane, the 'leper', and her daughter Ella, does that count?) so should really crack on. The public is SOOOOO demanding (picture me with hand on brow, fainting from the pressure of fame onto a crusty chaise-longue, wearing my head with the good hair, natch)!
Saturday 8 May 2010
****
Day 245
I have just discovered my most favourite swear word.
It is Fuck-a-doodle, bugger me, balls!
It is almost sublimely poetic, don't you think?
I have just discovered my most favourite swear word.
It is Fuck-a-doodle, bugger me, balls!
It is almost sublimely poetic, don't you think?
Wednesday 5 May 2010
Shaken not stirred
Day 242
My friend just had a delightfully humbling experience. A few weeks ago she told me that she and her daughter were going along to an audition at the Theatre Royal, where some lady is putting on a production of Ben Hur using the locals as extras. Her little girl Ella was really excited and I think that, secretly, my friend was too. However, I saw her last night and found out that, yes, she has a part - as a leper! What a scream. This is definitly going to end up more Life of Brian than Charlton Heston. Can't wait.
Always stayed behind the scenes myself. Used to do the set painting on the school plays which was brilliant, (our after-show parties were legendary). Worked my way up to being in charge. Did Sweeney Todd one year and had everybody on their hands and knees, half a potato in hand, printing cobblestones over the backdrop from Monkey the previous year. I think this is where I learnt to improvise.
(Can I just say that I found trying to replicate damp stains on old wallpaper the most challenging. Getting them dark enough to show up in all the lighting effects without just looking like mud was stretching, and I'd love to know how it's done in less than 13 tries.)
They filmed a Bond film near where we lived once. I think it was 'The world is not enough', but I'm not a big fan of cheesy so I'm not sure. Anyway, they left most of the set behind in the woods where we walked the dog. Some foreign army checkpoint, with tanks etc. It was great seeing it all close up. Everything was painted MDF and I wished I'd been able to paint rusted metal and concrete bunkers and barbed wire fences as well as that when I was set-painting.
It stopped dead two inches out of shot which was a bit peculiar. Also, a lot of the tanks were pretty crap when you got close, and full of empty beer cans and fag ends and only half there. A lot of the trucks had no wheels.The magic of cinema certainly is magic. Smoke and mirrors, guys, smoke and mirrors.
I wish I could apply some of that to my home at the moment. Steve is now coming home every week so he can attend college on a Saturday, and Sam is back from Malta. My house is a mess again, and I have been pushed off the perch of trying to find out what I want to do, in favour of being bombarded with what I have to do. Is there a way to use MDF and paint in my kitchen so it looks like no-one's been in there?
I retreat to the hole in the wall where we house the computer. It is freezing and I am covered in blankets. I finish chapter 3 of my book, rewrite chapter 1 and start on chapter 4. 'Word' plays up and I keep losing sentences. Perhaps my computer has an opinion and is editing for me? I certainly have an opinion of the bloody computer, so fair's fair, I suppose.
I mix up some more paint for the bathroom so it is less scrambled egg and more delicate primrose, but have not the strength to paint it yet. I leave the paint on my arms and my apron on. Smoke and mirrors again - it looks more like I did something that way. Besides, not convinced about the yellow - it now looks like Brie and is still making me hungry.
I had a part in a school play before I got transferred into the set painting. I was a widow in The Government Inspector. I got a bit carried away. I thought 'I'm poor, so I probably have lice and fleas and a runny nose etc.,' and I spent my whole ten minutes on stage scratching and sniffing and hawking to the best of my ability. I didn't get asked again.
In retrospect, I think my performance may have had too much smoke.
My friend just had a delightfully humbling experience. A few weeks ago she told me that she and her daughter were going along to an audition at the Theatre Royal, where some lady is putting on a production of Ben Hur using the locals as extras. Her little girl Ella was really excited and I think that, secretly, my friend was too. However, I saw her last night and found out that, yes, she has a part - as a leper! What a scream. This is definitly going to end up more Life of Brian than Charlton Heston. Can't wait.
Always stayed behind the scenes myself. Used to do the set painting on the school plays which was brilliant, (our after-show parties were legendary). Worked my way up to being in charge. Did Sweeney Todd one year and had everybody on their hands and knees, half a potato in hand, printing cobblestones over the backdrop from Monkey the previous year. I think this is where I learnt to improvise.
(Can I just say that I found trying to replicate damp stains on old wallpaper the most challenging. Getting them dark enough to show up in all the lighting effects without just looking like mud was stretching, and I'd love to know how it's done in less than 13 tries.)
They filmed a Bond film near where we lived once. I think it was 'The world is not enough', but I'm not a big fan of cheesy so I'm not sure. Anyway, they left most of the set behind in the woods where we walked the dog. Some foreign army checkpoint, with tanks etc. It was great seeing it all close up. Everything was painted MDF and I wished I'd been able to paint rusted metal and concrete bunkers and barbed wire fences as well as that when I was set-painting.
It stopped dead two inches out of shot which was a bit peculiar. Also, a lot of the tanks were pretty crap when you got close, and full of empty beer cans and fag ends and only half there. A lot of the trucks had no wheels.The magic of cinema certainly is magic. Smoke and mirrors, guys, smoke and mirrors.
I wish I could apply some of that to my home at the moment. Steve is now coming home every week so he can attend college on a Saturday, and Sam is back from Malta. My house is a mess again, and I have been pushed off the perch of trying to find out what I want to do, in favour of being bombarded with what I have to do. Is there a way to use MDF and paint in my kitchen so it looks like no-one's been in there?
I retreat to the hole in the wall where we house the computer. It is freezing and I am covered in blankets. I finish chapter 3 of my book, rewrite chapter 1 and start on chapter 4. 'Word' plays up and I keep losing sentences. Perhaps my computer has an opinion and is editing for me? I certainly have an opinion of the bloody computer, so fair's fair, I suppose.
I mix up some more paint for the bathroom so it is less scrambled egg and more delicate primrose, but have not the strength to paint it yet. I leave the paint on my arms and my apron on. Smoke and mirrors again - it looks more like I did something that way. Besides, not convinced about the yellow - it now looks like Brie and is still making me hungry.
I had a part in a school play before I got transferred into the set painting. I was a widow in The Government Inspector. I got a bit carried away. I thought 'I'm poor, so I probably have lice and fleas and a runny nose etc.,' and I spent my whole ten minutes on stage scratching and sniffing and hawking to the best of my ability. I didn't get asked again.
In retrospect, I think my performance may have had too much smoke.
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