Goodbye 2010

As the year draws to a close I have reflected on highs and lows. My world and the world around me seem to have been punctuated with turbulent times. There has been change, discord, misery, murder and natural disaster. There have been moments of intense grief and emotional carnage. If I were to list the things that happened both personally and nationally I could be here until 2012!

Out of it all there have been amazing moments of hope and huge examples of compassion for others. Many of the people that have shown courage and determination in the face of extreme trauma I have never met and am unlikely to do so. People like PC Rathband, who survived a horrific gun attack by a raving lunatic, the rescuers who went out to Haiti and plucked old and young from the maelstrom of floods and gave them hope, the people who built the memorial garden for Alan Wood, the people of Cumbria whose communal misery was witnessed and projected into the public domain by the worlds’ media and the Chilean Miner’s who may have suspected they would never see the light of day again. All these events and people formed the year that was 2010 and have provided some form of inspriatation to me throughout the year.

These traumas have drawn people together, whether by design or out of necessity. My own problems are insignificant in the grand scale of things and to all those people I don’t know, but who continue to provide inspiration in people they have never met, Thank You. To those I do know and who have held me up physically and emotionally whilst my brain thrashed around in its own sea of inadequacy this year a heartfelt Thanks. I hope, one day, I am able to repay your kindness and compassion. In the meantime I wish all my friends an absolute corker of a year in 2011 and let’s kick the ass of 2010 into touch with a bloody large Gin and Tonic to help us on our way.

A note to the Prime Minister

Dear Mr PM

Yesterday my husband laid off one of our best workers. He was loyal, hard working and dedicated. We have tightened our belts and downsized our company to protect ourselves and our business for the past eighteen months. Darren had been with us for four years, he is in his mid thirties, he is not nameless, he isn’t a P45 or a dispensable commodity. He was a married man, with a mortgage, a wife and he is a damned good friend as well as an employee. When my husband told him we had no choice but to lay him off, Darren cried Mr PM but despite his own misery he understood our position.

My husband is distraught, he would be the first to admit he sobbed and I mean he sobbed. He is inconsolable; he laid off a good man and a friend. He shattered his friend’s life, rocked his stability and caused him grief and pain. He had no choice. Me and my husband are not hard faced business people, we are a small family business who have trained at least 5 young men over the past few years to become plumbers. We have sacrificed our time, our energy and our money to build a business we are proud of and that we love. My husband has a conscience, dedication to his work and the men he employs. He is a kind, gentle man.

Why am I writing this to you? Because I hope you never suffer the misery my husband did. I hope you can remember my story. Every day we fret for our future, we are the human face of your country, we are the hope for your country and your ‘Green’ Policies. We have a home, a mortgage, children and our one remaining employee. Think very carefully Mr PM about your decisions. I would hate for your wife to have to hold you whilst you sobbed the anger and the misery of your decisions out of your body. I would hate for you to have to turn to her and say, ‘all my life I have worked long and hard and for what? This!’.

We are not unique Mr PM; this is the country you inherited. It may be useful to you every now and again to remember the words of Yeats, ‘Tread softly because you tread on my dreams’. A country without dreams and hope for the future is like a man without a heart, it is a shallow, worthless, shell.

Yours sincerely

A Grieving Employer

Lest We Forget

Today is Armistice Day. When I was growing up, I remember my Grandmother telling me the stories of my grandfather and his experiences during the First World War. My grandfather was a quiet, shy man. When he was 17 years old, he joined the Cheshire Regiment and according to my grandmother, ‘he changed’. He fought in several campaigns and many of the young, innocent boys he grew up with never came home to the small market town of Sandbach in Cheshire. These included the 16-year-old boy, who my grandfather held throughout the night whilst he shook and cried with fear, asking for his mother. In the morning, my grandfather’s compatriots had to prise him from my grandfather’s arms as he protested that he was keeping him warm. The boy was cold and he was dead. My grandfather hated to travel but he served in Egypt, amongst other campaigns, where he contracted Malaria and according to my grandmother for many years, he would suffer the effects of malaria with intermittent bouts of shivering, sickness and fever.

My grandmother’s stories are my history. One thing I am certain of is that my grandmother loved my grandfather devotedly all her life and when she talked of the changes in my grandfather, she was not bitter - just resigned. She once told me that after his death, she missed every single day, and she lived over 20 years after my grandfather. No matter how ‘difficult’ he could be to live with he was her true soul mate, she accepted the sacrifices he made, and the impact they had on the rest of her life.

Over the years, I have watched friends go to war in The Falklands, Iraq, Afghanistan and serve during the ‘troubles’ in Northern Ireland. Now when my own children tell me of their friends going out to Afghanistan (one was the youngest solider ever to go Afghanistan, reaching his 18th birthday just days before he was sent) I know they will come back changed or they may not come back at all. When my own ex husband went out to Afghanistan I worried for the effect it would have on my children, I told a few white lies to protect them, making light of the fact that their father was not even in a war zone and that he was in no danger. It wasn’t entirely true but what could I do? They needed to believe that their Daddy was safe but the truth is, no one is safe in a war zone.

Yesterday students from all over the UK protested against cuts in Student Grants. Do not get me wrong, I wholly agree that every person in this country is entitled to a decent education and the opportunities this education could afford them. Had people like my grandfather never fought the wars they did life in the UK may be very different to today. The damage some elements of the protesting of students caused to the Conservative Headquarters was unforgivable. Where was their respect? I am not convinced that the people who initiated the destruction and invasion were all genuine students. I cannot condone the use of violence or destruction. There are too many people, young and old, who have given and are still giving their lives, their innocence, their limbs and in some cases their sanity, for the sake of others. At 11.a.m. sat at my office desk, I will observe the two minutes silence. One of my thoughts will be that some of the people who wreaked havoc yesterday will have the decency to remember that there are people, younger than they are, facing fear for their lives on a daily basis. I suspect those soldiers do not condone violence either, they just have to live with it daily.

It's all about Respect

The Chilean Miners were raised from their own living hell this week. The world watched in awe and amazement and universally we were moved by their stories of resilience and strength. They emerged from a dark choking hole, like human butterflies emerging from the chrysalis of the earth. They were dragged towards the light in a metal pod called Phoenix.

These men had risked their lives to extract copper. Little mention was made of their working conditions. The story was of hope, resilience and the camaraderie they were forced develop amongst their group. They were a shining example of teamwork, strength and faith.

I work in plumbing and heating. When I heard the miners were mining for copper when they were buried alive, it added a completely new dimension to my view of their release. These men, unknown to me, spent their days working in dangerous, dark, inhuman conditions. They risked their lives to provide the basic raw materials that ultimately allow my company to function. Their lives, distantly, touched my own and I was filled with respect for the risks they take in their daily lives.

That led me on to thinking about Big Pink Heart an organisation that promotes the idea that it costs nothing to show respect to others and by doing so we can create a better society.

The following morning on Twitter, someone I follow, was predicting another day of workmen in their house and anticipating their failures before they had even set foot through the door. There was no respect given to the workers, they were the butt of what this person assumed was an amusing anecdote. I felt for them, they were to work for a person who had berated them before they had even arrived.

There was a link between the two groups of workers. Both groups of men, had wives, families and a job to do. They provide a service. They probably dread their daily toil some days, yet they do what they have to do to make it through life. It brought to mind that everyone, no matter what our position in society, should be treated with respect and that respect comes in many forms. Respect for human dignity under extreme conditions. Respect for someone you have asked to complete a task on your behalf because you do not have the skills to complete it yourself.

Respect is a chain reaction and just as the miners in Chile were tenuously linked to my world hundred of miles away, I had respect for the workmen entering the house of someone who had already judged them.

Huge ‘Respect’ to Big Pink Heart some of us ‘get it’ and Good Luck with your challenge because that is what it is; a challenge to change peoples perceptions of their fellow man and to offer respect as a first option, not an afterthought.

http://www.bigpinkheart.co.uk/hello.asp

The Tree

(image ©EllaJenkins 2010)

The weather has changed and it has become decidedly autumnal. After a weekend of extreme negativity from external forces, I am struggling to learn the lessons the last few days are trying to teach me.

I have spent much of the weekend gardening, digging, moving soil and constructing flowerbeds. The solace I find whilst up to my elbows in muck is immeasurable! Who would think the smell of soil and the look of a freshly dug flowerbed could bring such comfort to the soul?

Working on The Alan Wood Memorial Garden has proved to be an emotional experience. Some of Alan’s older and closer friends than me are putting hours of back breaking work into the garden. Sometimes when my body aches from digging, I wonder what drives people to create a lasting tribute like this. I love the camaraderie we have. I have turned acquaintances to dear friends since Alan’s death and oddly, I have laughed more in the past 12 months than I had for some time before.

My youngest daughter and I were having a discussion over the weekend about ‘ultimate good and ultimate evil’. Whilst digging I had time to ponder, quietly, to myself.

Out of ultimate evil has grown a tree with every leaf a symbol of goodness. The wind that strokes the leaves of this tree prompts the tinkle of a laugh, the sigh of hard labour or the shudder of regret. The tree struggles occasionally as the roots try to find their way through the dark cloying soil of darkness and disbelief but look up and you will see light skipping and twinkling over the branches and you know that good will triumph over evil.

Each leaf is a personality touched by evilness. There are young, tender branches combined with stronger limbs extending from the trunk and each one stands basked in the light of hope. The autumn will remove the leaves from our tree; they will fall silently to the ground like quiet tears, apparently taking all signs of hope with them. The leaves will die and rot away but the goodness from them will seep into the dark, damp soil. It will go into a state of dormancy, or so it will appear. It is merely resting, guarding itself against the cold, protecting itself from the elements that nature will use to test its strength. We know that come the Spring each one of those leaves will reappear, thankful to see the daylight, thankful to see the sun, thankful to dance in the breeze. As every leaf sings and dances, the tree is a spectacle of strength, hope and regeneration. It takes all the leaves to create this vision, working in unison, fighting the elements together.

So my puzzling over what the weekend had taught me has become clearer. There is strength in unity. Eventually, despite the struggle against what sometimes seem impenetrable odds, good will always form a close and strong bond in its silent battle against evil.

Watch our progress here:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Alan-Wood-Memorial-Garden/128773460507919#!/pages/Alan-Wood-Memorial-Garden/128773460507919

A First, a 21st and a Heart Fit To Burst

It is my son’s 21st Birthday on the 12th of September. It is my granddaughter, his daughter’s, 1st birthday on the 11th September. What do I think of that? Well, I am incredibly proud.

When I mapped out my life, probably when I was about his age, I never imagined I would not stay married to his father for all of my life and that my own child would be a parent before he was 21. In black and white (or on a screen) it doesn’t look good really. I could be classed as a dysfunctional mother with a son that is far too young to be a father. But, I repeat, I am incredibly proud of my son. He has been with the same girl since he was 17, they did use contraception, but a change in the type of pill and confusion over whether it was the pill that caused his girlfriends periods to stop meant that she was 23 weeks pregnant when they knew for sure.

When ‘that’ phone call comes, you just know what is going to be said. Instinct kicks in, your heart starts to pound and if I am blatantly honest, I wanted my own parents. I was too young to cope with being told I was about to be a grandmother, I was too young to teach my own son how to be a father and I was not prepared in any way, shape or form to deal with the emotional highs and lows my child would be sure to experience. I didn’t shout, I didn’t call him a fool, I didn’t castigate him, I just kept saying the words, ‘it will be alright, we will make it work' and even when I doubted it I kept telling him.

My son was terrified of the birth; he has a genuine phobia of hospital. On the day his daughter was born he went to the hospital, he sent texts every hour and then it went quiet. My husband went to bed, I stayed up. I paced the kitchen floor. I made cups of tea I didn’t drink. I sat on the doorstep in the dark and silence. I felt scared and I felt very alone. At 12.40a.m. I received a text, it was a picture text of one very crumbled, very pink, very perfect little girl. A few seconds later, my son rang. I could not hear his words and I didn’t understand anything he said. I could only hear huge, gasping sobs and I was desperate to hug him. I asked the questions and he gasped back the answers. He put the phone down and for a few minutes I sat on the doorstep on my own in the black silence and I cried. I cried for her future, I cried for my son’s future and I cried with relief for his girlfriend.

My granddaughter’s mother is a fantastic; she dotes on her baby and my son. My granddaughter is very pretty and obviously the brightest baby in the world!

Nearly a year has gone by. My son changes nappies, he feeds, baths, read to/plays with baby and showers her with love. He went back to University a month after her birth and he carried on his studies for 4 days a week, then he came home and spent time with his child and his girlfriend. In the holidays, he has found work on a local farm, every day he is at work by 7,30a.m returning late in the evening and some days he checks the animals on a Saturday and a Sunday. He NEVER complains, he just gets on and does as he needs to do. Yes, sometimes I regret that he does not have the freedom some of his peers have.

In the past year, I have seen him change dramatically. He is even funnier and even more loving and caring. He works incredibly hard at university, his job and caring for his baby. He interacts with his own family more, he helps in the house and he drives me mad not removing his very muddy boots before he comes into the house, leaving pieces of his car lying about the house and he stuffs the washing machine to the gunnel's and ‘forgets’ to hang it out to dry. He is not perfect, thank goodness, but he is my son. Despite the critics he has had over the past 12 months, he has held his head up, stood by his girlfriend and loved his baby as if his life depended upon it. He enters his final year at University soon, he is doing a degree in Physics, this will be his hardest challenge but you know what? He might just be OK and I just want him to know as he approaches his 21st Birthday that I love him with all my heart.

Lets Start a Campaign

It had been a strange end to the week. I was delighted to discover that the very charming Clare Balding had joined Twitter. I then felt rather guilty at my own joy when I discovered that she had joined, initially, to vent her anger at a recent review of her programme, ‘Britain by Bike’. I shall not summarise the aforementioned review and ongoing tarrididdle it can be found here http://www.thefword.org.uk/blog/2010/07/homophobia_appa

Then on Saturday morning I was astounded to see (via Twitter again. I know I should get out more!) that ‘The Sun’ had an article stating that the young Joe McElderry had decided to announce he was gay. Do not get me wrong here, I have absolutely NO problem with young Joe being gay. None whatsoever. What I have a real problem with is the link between both stories. Joe should not have to ‘announce’ his sexuality and Ms Balding should not have to read disparaging comments and witness name calling in relation to her sexuality (apparently in the name of humour; I don’t see many people laughing by the way). We live in an accepting society. Like hell we do! And more importantly, I truly cannot get my head around what anyone’s sexuality has to do with anything (with the obvious exceptions where that sexual orientation is illegal and or/harmful to other non-consenting humans).

I do not introduce myself in the following way, ‘Hi, I am Mary, I am rather frustrated heterosexual due to the fact I work too hard, don’t take enough holidays and live in a house that resembles a drop in centre for teenagers, nice to meet you’. Why don’t I? Because no one gives a damn (apart from my husband of course) it is completely irrelevant to anything I do. Can you imagine the meeting of Commonwealth Leaders, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen I give you Mr Cameron, quite obviously, as can been seen by his wife’s current condition, an active heterosexual’. It would be bloody ludicrous and stir up a right box of frogs.

Humans should be judged by their human content in terms of compassion, kindness and inspirational characteristics. What they do in the privacy of their own bedroom/kitchen/stairway is no one else’s concern. To carry on this outrageous behaviour by silly name calling and innuendo is far more revealing about the ‘journalist’ concerned (and his arrogant Editor) than the article is about Ms Balding’s sexuality. Joe McElderry is a young man and I understand why he ‘came out’, he did it to prevent being ‘outed’ under embarrassing circumstances at some later date. He is 19 years old! What sort of society are we creating?

I know! From now on, we must all introduce ourselves to people at parties/BBQ’s/Parent’s Evenings/on the train etc, by clearly stating our sexual preferences. If we proceed down this line of approach I reckon in 12 months both of the articles I refer to, will be completely pointless as everyone will know everything about everyone. In this way we can get back to the true grass roots of judging our fellow humans – by character, personality and talent. I can’t wait to see my post man’s face on Monday morning when I start my new campaign.

Every Cloud and All That

I tweeted this morning about depression. Not sure what possessed me. It was uplifting to discover than quite a few online friends were supportive of my comments. I could sense that many of them knew precisely what I was feeling. Beneath the elation, there was a brief moment of sadness.

All of my adult life I have battled with depression. Do not get me wrong, I am not a miserable, down beat sort of a soul. I positively love life and like to think I have an optimistic and humorous view of the world. The problem with depression is it creeps up on you, grapples you to the ground and stamps on your head. Usually when you least expect it. It IS the ghost of darkness and lurks constantly in the recesses of your mind. It has taken a lot of soul searching and watching my response to certain triggers for me to learn to ‘manage’ my depression. That is what I do. I manage it. I don’t control it, I don’t cure it, and I don’t expect it to completely disappear. In earlier years, I battled long and hard. It became a personal challenge to become depression free forever. It was pointless and I accepted that this is just the way I am and that I cannot remove it. I learnt to live with it. The lows can last hours/days/weeks or very occasionally (thank goodness) months.

I call these days my grey days. It can be the brightest, sunniest day but to me the sun is dull, the green of trees and grass is not as bright, I can’t smell the fresh grass, or soil that has just had rain on it. I feel like an ice cube is wedged in my brain. I flit from one job to another, never concentrating on anything and I just want to curl up in a ball in the dark. Everything is a struggle, even deciding what to wear or when to have a shower (if I can even bothered to!). I set myself tiny, tiny challenges each day, one very small step at a time and eventually I get to the end of the day. I try to congratulate myself when I go to bed that I have got through the day, this isn’t easy when you feel like even the simplest tasks have been equivalent of a climbing the north face of the Eiger in a wet suit carrying a tonne of bricks on your back!

These days I ensure I make the time to make time for myself. I grow flowers, veggies and herbs, I bake, I read a fair amount, oh and I use Twitter! My husband is brilliant, how he puts up with me sometimes is beyond me, the first husband never managed it! When I feel I am retreating into myself I MAKE myself visit a friend, a neighbour or spend time with the children.

I have tried medication, it make me angry! I am used to my brain churning over nonsensical things and most of the time I enjoy its busy whirring. I cannot cope with the cotton wool head medicine gives me it is a dreadful feeling. St Johns Wort has been my salvation on many occasions, I know its medicine but at least it is natural and seems to work … sometimes!

I rarely speak about my depression. I try and hide it. I don’t speak about it because even after all these years I feel a bit of a failure. I get incensed when I hear people talk about depression and say, ‘why can’t you just snap out of it, it’s not as bleak as you make it out to be’. It is that bleak. Do you not think if we could ‘snap out’ of it, we would? Imagine how useful and less stressful that would be. When I am at the bottom of my pit of despair, I see you, I hear you and trust me, I am trying to claw my way out of the bottomless pit of dark, clinging, blackness that can and sometimes does, convince me I am mad!

The best thing about depression? When the light comes on, the sun shines SO bright, the flowers smell great and the birds sing such sweet, enthusiastic songs and you KNOW that life is great. You KNOW every day is an adventure. You KNOW that your family and friends love you. You KNOW that all is well in your own little world. If you suffer depression, don’t be afraid to talk about it. You are not mad you are just a bit different at this moment in your life and there are a quite a few of us out there. It does get better; in fact, when you come out of your tunnel the light can blind you. Keep Smiling :O)

Self Check Out Hell

I went to the supermarket last night. Self Check Out, that was what finished me off. I quite fancied playing the grown up version of 'shopkeeper' with a full size check out and till, minus the plastic orange and minature box of cornflakes. Why can’t they let you choose the pre-recorded voice, somewhat like Satellite Navigation? The virtual check out assistant sounds so condescending.

‘Please scan the item’. I AM! It is not my fault the grapes are round and smaller than the barcode making it impossible to scan. ‘Please put the item in the bag’. OK. ‘Please put the item in the bag’ I HAVE. ‘Please put the item in the bag’ I HAVE, I HAVE, look, it is in the bloody bag. ‘Please scan the item’ ‘Please scan the item’. I AM! Stop putting me under pressure. I am sweating in fear now. What if the assistant thinks I am trying to steal something by not scanning it? My gestures become extreme as I attempt to prove to everyone watching that I am trying to scan the item. I now resemble a playschool teacher reciting, ‘Wheels on the Bus’ with my overly exaggerated arm movements, whilst trying to look like I am in control and enjoying the whole ‘self check out’ experience. I am not. I am on a fast train to hell and there are no brakes.

‘Please enter the barcode’ WHAT! Oh struth, I can’t see it, where are my specs? Handbag! That is where they are. Putting your handbag on the scan screen is not a good idea. ‘Please scan the item’. It is my handbag, it is Italian and I refuse to pay for it, it was a present from my mother. ‘Please enter the barcode’. I am getting my specs, for gawd’s sake! Why is it that now you find the arm of your specs have broken off and that the only way of getting them to stay on is to put your head is at an angle of 45 degrees? ‘Please enter the barcode’. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a mother with two toddlers methodically working her way up and down the aisles, she is obviously shopping for the whole of Stamford. Head on one side, trying to read a 20-digit barcode, whilst holding item in one hand and typing with the other, praying broken specs, stay on nose is not a look conducive with a seasoned ‘self check out’ shopper. Three attempts later, ‘please put the item in the basket’. Yes, haven’t we been through this already? ‘Please scan the item’. The customer at the till next to me, smiles sweetly (as he is paying) ‘try wiping the screen’. I have turned into the store cleaner! I resist the urge to ask, with acidic undertones, ‘am I allowed to spit on the tissue first, it always worked with the children?’

Several items later, wonky glasses have now developed a precarious stance as they drift towards my left cheek. I am sweating as if I have just run a marathon. ‘Please wait for an assistant’. WHAT! I haven’t done anything. I look around for the assistant who is helping a 4-year-old reach the card payment machine; they obviously have a better clue than I do. ‘It says I have to wait for you’, ‘Yes dear, that is because you have alcohol, ooh are you having a party?’ ‘No, it’s been a hard day’. Look of horror quickly replaced by sympathetic glance from assistant.

All items eventually scanned and in the ‘Bag Area’, ‘How would you like to pay?’ What a daft question! Well, do you know what? I do not care. Have my credit card, here have the contents of my purse, re-mortgage my house and take the proceeds, I don’t care just let me go’.

Mother with toddlers is now passing through the exit doors with monstrous trolley full of shopping, packed and paid for. I, meanwhile, am considering returning into the supermarket to purchase a Gin and Tonic in a tin; with any luck, I could have drunk it before I reach the trolley park. Perhaps not. I am exhausted, stressed, broken out in a hot sweat and humiliated beyond belief by my own ineptitude. Sod it. I am going home. I shall grow my own food from now on; it could not be more stressful, could it?

The General Election 2010 - Runners and Riders

Gordon Brown
Evens chance of winning if his nemesis, ‘World Recession’ doesn’t threaten his position on the outside rails. Trained by Tony Blair, who had an unbeaten run of 10 years, Tony lacked staying power for the final race so opted to quit whilst ahead, hoping to avoid a Stewards Enquiry over his race fixing with George Bush. This became unavoidable when the owners of ‘Iraq Enquiry’ lodged an official complaint. This left Gordon Brown to take up the reins on hard going. Has moments of stamina, but tends to flounder when the blinkers are removed, leading to running off track and has been known to take completely the wrong course on occasions.

Will have to watch runners from his own stable who have been known to hamper a clear run at the fences. Notably the filly ‘Harriet Harman’ who would not be averse to seeing her stable mate fall at the final fence. Another insider threat ‘The Prince of Darkness’ trained by Peter Mandeleson who has fought back from 3 or 4 behind in the field previously and was the joint trainer with Tony Blair of the once bright, young filly, ‘New Labour’ who appears to have disappeared from the scene and been put out to grass.

Gordon Brown has unproven form in the General Election and it remains to be seen if he can stay the course over rough terrain. Would be well advised to avoid excessive use of 'Chief Whip' to secure a good result as this may also result in a Stewards Enquiry and a lengthy ban from future races. Unlikely to romp home as a clear winner.

Update on Chances

Fantastic News. The youngest has been offered a place at her school of choice! The Bursary awarded met with my ex husbands approval and it has been agreed that she will be able to attend.

I am not sure my openness, honesty and soul bearing had any effect on the decision. One day I may find the courage to ask, in the meantime, I am just so very relieved. The school is exceptional and has all the opportunities my daughter could ever dream of. Now it is down to her to learn, dream and live the chance she has been given.

Chances

I laid my soul out on a piece of A4 paper this week. I opened myself up for judgement (financially) by a man sitting in an office. I didn’t want to do it. I was backed into a corner. Slowly manipulated, I knew it was happening but I was powerless to stop it.

I was excruciatingly embarrassed. I felt humiliated. I felt powerless to control the outcome of my soul bearing. Deep inside there was the ember of some long burnt out fire. A message. A memory from the past. It had been stuffed into an old brown envelope and filed away into the recesses of a drawer in my head. I was fighting for my child and her right to the education I know could influence the path of her life.

At Christmas, I was told by my ex-husband's new wife that he couldn’t afford to contribute as much as necessary to send his daughter to the school she dreams of attending. I was informed, that if I was so set on her going to the school I should, ‘contribute financially’. OUCH! The kick delivered from that mule, hit the mark. I guess being a career woman, who professes to never wanting children; she doesn’t see my point of view. For ten years, in place of maintenance, my ex husband has contributed towards their education, he doesn’t pay all the fees but that is another story for another time. I gain nothing financially and never have from this arrangement.

I mucked up my education. I wasn’t a bad scholar, I was a rebel (well, in my head I was!). I didn’t enjoy education. I fought, silently, in my head against teachers, my parents, learning and the bullies who made my life a misery. I vowed from the day each of my children were born, that I would encourage my children to love learning. I have had a life of missed chances, opportunities and recognition. I don’t want that for them. I love my life, I have very few regrets but it would have been different if I had learnt to love learning at a younger age. Ironically, as soon as I left school I couldn’t learn enough; art, history, music, I devoured it.

So, a decision was made to apply for a ‘discount’ by my ex husband and the financial situation forms duly arrived for me to complete. It didn’t take long to complete them; there wasn’t much to say really. I don’t have much in financial terms, apart from our business and a mortgage!

That was when the pain kicked in. ‘It didn’t take long’ and all it did was reinforce the fact that I should have learnt to learn at school. I had gone full circle. In that circle, I had waded through a maelstrom of inadequacy, embarrassment and humiliation. I was wracked with regret for the education I scorned. I felt inadequate. I know I have a good and agile brain but my lack of proof and a marriage, that involved many moves, did nothing to help my career in the earlier years. Now I feel I am playing ‘catch up’ and the financial gains are not what they would have been had I started on my chosen journey earlier in life.

I cried with humiliation and frustration, at first they were silent tears then they became a wave of misery, a veritable tsunami. I do not want any of my children to feel these emotions. My youngest loves learning, she lives to read; novels, facts, study books and poetry. She reads an average of 2 to 3 books a week and loves writing. The final five years of her education are as important as the years that have gone before. I don’t expect her to be a genius, I just want to her continue loving words, music, art, science and the knowledge they instill. What she chooses to do with her education is for her to decide but I must do whatever necessary to give her the best chance. We will see.

Looking Inwards, Looking Outwards

Christmas came in a flurry of wrapping paper, wine, food and snow. Snow! It fell from the sky like a burst feather pillow, only a lot colder. The youngest daughter was, initially, beside herself with excitement. I fell once more, into paranoid mother mode. ‘Do not go out without waterproofs on, you will catch a chill’. ‘Don’t go so fast on that sledge, if you crash into that tree you will hurt yourself’. ‘Ring me when you arrive at work and do NOT drive above 10 miles an hour’. ‘Do not warm your fingers and toes on the fire like that you will get chilblains’. I really do need to let go a little, my youngest is 13 years old soon, the eldest two are 20 and 19 years old respectively.

I tried over Christmas to let go. The whole of the Christmas break was spent doing nothing. I became a hermit and rarely ventured out of the house and grumbled when I did! I am always telling myself; quite literally, I need to get out more. When I had the chance, I didn’t do it. I am becoming a somewhat strange, overly paranoid, recluse. My car has not left the drive in weeks and I am beginning to see trips to the supermarket as an ‘outing’. I look inwards too much.

The Haiti earthquake struck this week and suddenly the desire to stay within the confines of my little world left. I am sure everyone is moved when they see a disaster but this one seemed to stir something stronger inside me. I was very serious when I asked my, already overworked husband, if we could get out there and help get water and sanitation established. I remain serious; I have created myself a small, safe, world in my part of Rutland. Real life isn’t like that though is it? I am extremely fortunate, I ramble on fretting about the minor things but when I watched some of the news reports, worrying about a 12 year old whizzing down the garden with the snow in her face, laughing, made me realise that my worries were insignificant.

My desire to go to Haiti is very real. I can plumb (even if my skills with a blowtorch are a little rusty) my husband is extremely skilled and knowledgeable; surely our skills could be put to use. I am aware to go out now would be foolish, there is chaos out there. Haiti will not be rebuilt or regain any semblance of order for months, if not years. It is time for us to leave our safe haven and make a difference. If we can use our skills to make the difference to anyone by giving them back running water and sanitation or teaching them how to do it for themselves, surely we must make an effort. Perhaps this year’s holiday should be a trip out there, we have the choice, the people of Haiti have no choices. So if anyone out there knows if any organisations are mobilising plumbers to go out there, let me know.