Life is a Gin and Tonic

A Story of Frustration

2012-01-20T19:10:00.001Z

It is very difficult to write apiece objectively about a relative and the care they have received during astay in hospital. The following wordsare not a criticism aimed at any one person or event. It is merely the story of a woman and herstruggle to retain dignity in testing circumstances.

My mother in law is an amazingwoman. In May she will be 70 years old,she was orphaned as a child and brought up by an Aunt, she and my father in lawmarried young and had four children, up until quite recently my parents in lawalso fostered children, in excess of 35 of them. My mother in law has cared for hergrandchildren whilst her own children went out to work and she has always beenextremely active. Her faith in God isunshakable and she has the kindest heart of anyone I know.

In August MIL went to her GPcomplaining of severe back and leg pain, eventually she was sent for an X rayand informed that her hip was fine and no fracture was visible. Four weeks later she was in utter agonyeventually taking herself back to the hospital and refusing to leave until shewas given another X Ray, despite being told ‘your hip is not broken we havedone one X ray we do not need to do another’ In desperation my MIL said, ‘wellI cannot and will not leave, until you do’. She was right her X ray showed a fracture. The words uttered to her? ‘You cannot go homeMrs Lamont, your hip is broken, you must have had a fall since your last X ray,did you? Oh and by the way you will need surgery tomorrow’. Sometimes the patient knows their own body.

The repair plate was inserted andMIL bounced back with such vigour that even the nursing staff were amazed with herability to cope and within a week she was discharged home. Life was difficult for her, she struggled toget in and out of bed and get to the bathroom. Eventually it was so painful getting in and out of bed she took tosleeping in her reclining chair in the lounge, snatching pockets of sleep asthe pain would allow her. The pain grewworse. The physiotherapist assured MILthat this was a natural result of hip surgery, but MIL was scared and inpain. After approximately 10 days,despite encouragement from family members and assurances things would improveMIL was at rock bottom. The pain in herleg was excruciating and she no longer believed our words of reassurance allshe knew was her world of utter misery and pain. When she could stand it no longer she made mybrother in law drive her to the hospital and demanded (yet again) another Xray. She was right, the screws in her plate had come lose and were constantly,unbeknown to us, scraping against her muscles with every move she made. Sometimes the patient knows their own body.

Mother in Law had to wait inhospital for a week whilst a special Titanium plate was ordered in to replacethe original that now had to be removed. Her spirits were low and we tried to encourage her that this time itwould be better and to try and get her to focus on how well she feltimmediately after the first plate insertion. Eventually the second plate arrived and MIL underwent her secondoperation in less than 6 weeks. Herrecovery this time was slow, she was nauseated, constipated, down hearted andhad needed a blood transfusion following the operation. She wasn’t helped by a bout of diorehea 3 or4 days after the operation that incapacitated her for 24 hours. Whether this was caused by 2 days oflaxatives (due to constipation caused by the drugs) or a ‘bug’ we are yet tofind out.

Her recovery was harder for her;she depended on the help of the nurses far more and felt like a burden. A feeling that was alien to this strong andvibrant woman and she cried more often, especially if she couldn’t raise a nursein time enough for her to get to the bathroom and this resulted in her ‘havingan accident’. It was hard to stay calmfor her and each day we just kept telling MIL and ourselves she was a daycloser to going home.

It was about this time I diddecide to put my foot down, MIL felt she was being treated as ‘needy’ by someof the nursing staff and after a while of letting the situation calm down andthere being no improvement, I rang the ward. I actually rang the ward because MIL had been told she would be goinghome this particular day and had got herself dressed and sat in a chairwaiting, refusing to eat, in case she had sickness or diarrhoea in theambulance on the way home. When I rangthe ward it was gone 6pm and she was still waiting, crying to herself in herchair. The nurse was icy, until I gentlyreminded her that my MIL was normally a strong, kind hearted, independent, Christianwoman and that the nurse should perhaps review her notes and realise this wasMIL’s second repair in 2 months and she just wanted to go home. The nurse and I agreed no ambulance wouldcome that day and that I would explain this to her, NOT the nurse, as I couldpersuade MIL to return to her bed. Irang MIL and gently broke the news to her and promised her faithfully that nomatter what happened the following day I WOULD get her home and my heart achedas she sobbed down the phone to me. The followingday my sister in law and I booked a wheelchair taxi just in case and informed MIL. Eventually at 3.p.m. the ambulance arrivedand MIL went home.

This time Mil’s attitude wasdifferent, she seemed permanently down hearted and she worried constantly aboutthe plate in her hip and fretted constantly about her recovery. Her wound started to weep blood andpuss. After a few days there was noimprovement, in fact the wound had become sore and constantly weeping. MIL was returned to hospital the week beforeChristmas, the following day she returned to theatre to have the wound re-openedand washed out, swabs and tests were carried out and we waited and waited. MILneeded yet another blood transfusion. She sat in hospital for Christmas and between Christmas and New Year weflew out to visit.

It was now 10 days since MIL’s ‘washout’ and her mood was optimistic as she was beginning to feel physically betteras the antibiotics appeared to be holding the infection at bay, or so itseemed. Time was running out on our visit and my Sister in Law decided to stopbeing patient and ‘demand’ some answers and managed (eventually) to get anappointment with the ward Doctor. Wecarefully explained that mother was a strong, optimistic woman and this was notthe person we knew was sat in the side ward on her own that he saw. We asked if the infection was in the bone orthe plate and were assured that they did not know that for sure but that theyhad some results back and MIL had 2 infections in her wound (whether this wasin the bone, plate or soft tissue they didn’t know!) one was a common streptococcalinfection usually found on the skin, the 2^nd they were surprised by,it was a bug most commonly found in the bowel but was now present in MIL’swound! (Remember the laxative incident!) The plan of campaign was to put MIL onan intravenous drip of antibiotics for SIX months and oral antibiotics for 12weeks but they were confident this would cure the problem and once the woundhad stopped weeping MIL would be allowed home to be cared for by the CommunityNurse. Things were looking up, or werethey? Time passed and we returned homeassuring MIL that although she had to have IV antibiotics for 6 months at leastit was clearing the infection and ensuring that it was totally eradicated. MIL acceptedthis and everything seemed calm. Sometimesthe family know the patient’s body.

MIL stayed in hospital and thewound improved but still continued to leak, we asked for the results of theplate and bone tests they weren’t very forthcoming. Then the infection control team got involvedand said that MIL could indeed go home the following Monday. I was uneasy, I lay in bed and fretted,something wasn’t right, it didn’t feel right, but was I just worrying, fussing,being over protective of a woman I love to pieces and had been through such ahard time? I spoke to my husband,without trying to worry him anymore than he was. I tried to explain thatsomething didn’t ‘feel’ right and eventually I rang my sister in law (aqualified and practising Community Nurse) I suggested (after a conversationwith a friend who has extensive experience in the hospital environment) that weasked that MIL was not discharged until we were certain that the infection wasunder control and until we had, had an in depth conversation with the surgeon. What ensued was a maelstrom of events!

My sister in law and I drew up alist of questions and eventually managed to secure a meeting the followingmorning after informing the surgeon that MIL was due to be discharged that daywith a weeping wound. The surgeon wasunaware of this and an ultra sound scan of her wound was ordered, it showed a ‘large’pocket of infection inside MIL’s hip near the joint. We were also informed that the infection wasindeed in the plate and that as a result MIL needed urgent surgery to removethe plate with the option of traction or cement spacers (laced with antibiotics)being placed into the hip. It wasdevastating news, utterly devastating, this would be operation number 4 in asmany months and with each operation MIL’s recovery time was slower and moretraumatic to see. Sometimes the family knows the patient’s body.

MIL had her operation on Wednesday;she was very sick, very emotional, very sore and very downhearted. The family are worn out. We feel frustrated and hopeless because welive in the East of England and can’t be there as much as we want. My father in law who has never been separatedfrom his wife has barely had her at home since August/September and there seemsto be no end to this misery as MIL now faces a total hip replacement in 6 – 8 weeksIF the infection can be got under control. In the words of the surgeon following MIL’s operation this week, ‘it wasa good job we got that plate out when we did’ excuse me but weren’t yourhospital all set to discharge MIL on Monday leave her on IV antibiotics for 6months, withdraw them and then ‘see what happened’?. If I weren’t so concentrated on MIL and her wealthfare I would have gone into orbit. Todaynews breaks of 3 small, newborn babies dying of infection at The Royal VictoriaHospital and a deep cleaning operation to clear the infection that has devastated3 families and robbed them of the most exciting time of their lives.

My MIL told me yesterday she justwanted to die, she doesn’t, she just feels that way at the moment and I canunderstand why. I will let you into asecret, I don’t think we are anywhere near the end of this debacle and I amworried about the future.

One Girl and Her Dog

2011-11-23T23:36:00.001Z

When my children were 2 and 3 yrsold we took them to my parents in law for a holiday whilst we were there one oftheir neighbour’s dogs had just delivered puppies. We chose two and Daisy and Maisy eventuallycame home to us. Maisy died some yearsago but Daisy has been my soul mate for 18 and a half years. I loved her for so long now I can’t remembernot loving her. She was the mostbrilliant dog for catching rats and mice (a pain in the neck when you havehorses) She has grown up with my 2 eldest children and my youngest (now nearly15 years old has never had a life without her in it)

As she has got older, Daisy haslost her hearing and most of her sight. She has had more than one stroke and her hips aren’t as good as theyused to be. It is sad to see she can nolonger jump on the sofa or climb the stairs to hide under the pillows on thebed because she knows she shouldn’t be there, but she is my best friend. I have been lucky that all my animals(horses, cats, dogs, goldfish) have lived long and full lives and I now regretthe days I have cuddled Daisy when it is just me and her in front of the fireand said ‘do me the biggest favour, don’t let me chose when you die, just go tosleep one night on your pillows and let me find you cold in the morning’. Today I would give anything to have her here,under my feet, involuntarily hurdling over her as she gets under my feet whilstcooking. I cannot begin to describe howI feel about her; she has been constant in my life for so long. She has never let me down, she has lookedafter my children, made me laugh, worried me senseless but most of all she hasbeen MY constant companion for the last eighteen and half years.

Over recent months as she gotolder and more senile, I have mopped up after her, tempted her with titbits(something I NEVER do with my animals) cuddled her on my lap in front of thefire when no one was around and valued every extra minute she has given mebecause I know her time is now very limited.

Today she went missing, it was myfault, I let her out and went off to clean the bathroom when I came to let herin she was gone. Usually she wouldreturn after the ‘constitutional’ inspection of our small village, today shedidn’t. I have searched high and low, inhedges and fields, I have knocked on the limited number of front doors in ourvillage, my husband and the local farmer have been out with a Land Rover and ahigh powered lamp but there is no sign of her.

I cannot begin to explain mygrief. She is old, she cannot survive anight out in November. Perhaps she has had another stroke and is lying, unheardin a ditch. Perhaps someone picked herup (despite having a collar and tag) thinking she was lost or uncared for. Perhaps someone hit her by accident in theircar and didn’t have the courage to come and tell me. Perhaps she was taken by the foxes (I heardbarking in the field opposite soon after she was missing) as she was too oldand frail to fight for herself. Perhapsshe is locked, inadvertently in someone’s garage or shed. So many questions. All I know is I want her back, I need to tellher I didn’t mean I wanted her gone when I said I wanted her to go to sleep andnot wake up, I just didn’t want to have to make the decision. Most of all I didn’t want her to leave. I just need one last hug and the ability tosay ‘Thank You’.

Plumbing - A Varied View of Life

2011-10-20T09:10:00.003+01:00

The families from Dale Farm are being evicted. There are rights and wrongs to their eviction. They broke the planning laws and they shouldn’t have done. It remains to be seen where they will relocate but part of me thinks it would have been easier for the council and the occupants of Dale Farm to have negotiated a compromise on the existing situation rather than completely overhaul it. But that is a whole different debate or blog.

I believe, strongly, that there is good and bad in ALL sections of society. This was evident this summer during the London riots which saw a mixture of hatred and lack of respect for people and buildings result in determination by other members of the affected communities to rise from the destruction and rebuild their shattered communities. It is a basic human instinct to protect our homes, families and livelihood when under threat.

This week one of the jobs we are doing is working on a ‘Park Home’ site. The families that live on this site are travelling show people; they spend the year travelling to Fun Fairs providing entertainment. The site is made up of a series of large static caravans and pre fabricated chalet bungalows. The families live in very close proximity to each other and it is difficult to tell who the children belong to as family units are so intermingled. They live in both the caravans and chalet bungalows and there living accommodation is pristine. Three or four generations of the same family live in close proximity to each and share the responsibility of caring for the children, organising works that need doing on the site and travelling the Fairs entertaining people.

I will not forget a phone call though that started with a quiet, unassuming voice asking me ‘Hello I need a new boiler, do you work on Park Home sites?’ Not ‘Hello I need a new boiler, can you come and give me a quote’. I felt an overwhelming sadness. I could not imagine having to live a life where you doubted constantly that people would carry out work for you just because of where you live and the lifestyle. I can’t say negotiating the logistics of this week’s job has been easy; it is not easy to discuss things with a customer who travels hundreds of miles every week going from town to town working until the small hours of the morning. On the positive side, Olly who is installing the new oil boiler has been plied with constant cups of tea and coffee.

I cannot change people’s prejudice against Gypsy’s, Travellers and Show People but I can hope that we can all learn to see a bigger picture, not a black and white picture but one painted with the bright and varied colours of our different heritages and lifestyle choices. It wouldn’t do for us all to be the same.

To wax or not to wax

2011-09-27T10:33:00.004+01:00

This morning I noticed that Duncan Bannatyne was rather agitated that Mumsnet Founder, Justine Roberts had stuck her head above the parapet (again) Ms Roberts stated that girls should be allowed to be girls rather than indulging in beauty treatments, in this case waxing, and ‘not obsess about being hairless’. http://www.dailystar.co.uk/news/view/212995/Dragon-s-slain-for-girls-spa/

My blog is not here to sit in defence of Mr Bannatyne, I am sure he is more than capable of doing this himself!

My irritation is with Ms Roberts. I have 3 children including one 21 year old and one 14 year old girl. I was born with fair skin, blonde eyebrows and due to the development of Polycystic Ovarian Disease, occasionally too much body hair for my liking! Let me tell you something Ms Roberts had my mother had the opportunity to escort me to a treatment that could have tinted my eyebrows and waxed some of the hair from my body, as a teenager, I would have had far more self confidence as a teenager.

My youngest daughter has dark hair and dark eyebrows, she is a beautiful looking girl but SHE feels uncomfortable with her bushy eyebrows. For twelve months now my youngest daughter has joined myself and her older sister in having her eyebrows waxed, by a qualified beautician in my presence. I am forty eight years old, with twenty two years experience of raising three bright, funny, well adjusted (I hate that description) children. I KNOW what makes them feel insecure and what makes them feel better about themselves. That, Ms Roberts, is a good mother. Knowing what makes your child feel self confident about themselves. Now, should that be dressing in a day glow pair of socks, wearing thick black eye liner or once every 6 weeks having their eyebrows or half legs waxed a good mother will know how to assist and advise them with compassion and understanding and will refrain from immediately dismissing their thoughts and suggestions without due consideration for their feelings.

I have not forced my daughters into having their eyebrows (or anyone other part of their bodies) waxed, they made the decision for themselves, when they were ready. I have merely ensured they use a qualified beautician and in my presence. My girls and I enjoy our ‘girlie’ beauty evenings. We chat, we giggle, we discuss a range of subjects and we have fun. They feel they have been pampered and feel good about themselves following one of our ‘treatments’. Get over yourself Ms Roberts. I shall carry on my journey through motherhood completely relying on my own instincts and will refuse to the listening to the cackling of other mothers who ‘know best’.

Wide eyed and hairless

2011-04-15T16:05:00.004+01:00

Spring has arrived! The other day I decided it was time to don my new summer frock. I gleefully popped on the new frock and decked myself in my large brimmed hat and sat in the sunshine. After approximately a minute I realised there were two alien ‘things’ sticking out from the hem of my dress. Legs! Boy, oh boy, were they a sight to behold. I sat in my garden, feet up on a garden chair and I found myself looking around furtively, in case anyone else could see these unsightly objects. I was hit by a brainwave. I will epilate them!

It seemed a good idea at the time but there comes a point, about half way up the shin of your right leg, that you get that gut wrenching moment and realise there is NO turning back. It is at the same moment you also realise it was most likely a man who had invented the epilator, safe in the knowledge he would never rip the hairs from his leg at a rate of 600 revolutions a minute.

Small beads of perspiration had started to break out on my brow. My eyes were out on stalks as I offered the epilator to my leg. My leg developed a mind of its own and started to attempt a retreat out of the bedroom door. I twist my body into a strange, contorted shape (the like of which has never been attempted by any Olympic Gymnastic) as I try to sit on my own leg to prevent its exit from the room. By this time I am, quite frankly, sweating like a pig in a pork pie shop! My teeth are gritted so hard they are starting to appear out of the top of my head and I have ground all but the finest layer of enamel from them. My left hand is gripping my leg with a vice like grip. I try a different technique and run the blades of torture faster up and down my leg. This results in me chasing myself around the bedroom, hopping from one foot to another, as I begin to hyperventilate. I persevere with a steely determination so as not to end up with one leg smooth as a baby’s bottom and the other looking like it has been transplanted from a small baboon.

Several hours later, actually that is not true, it was an agonising eternity; my job is complete. Not a hair in sight and if there is one, it is clinging to the life raft of my leg by its own enamel free teeth. The upside is that I have lost two stone in weight in the form of gallons of perspiration! The downside is as a result of having hairs ripped out of them at an obscene rate of knots my legs have gone into melt down and come out in hives that closely resemble nettle rash. I text my friend making an excuse not to meet her that evening at the local pub and cancel all engagements for the next 24 hours. Oh well, I won’t have to do that again for six weeks so it has to be worth it. Doesn’t it?

The Grand National

2011-04-10T21:57:00.002+01:00

I learnt to ride at nine years old; I had my first horse at fifteen years old. She was young, unschooled and as green as the grass she ate. She never changed. She gave me the love of my life when I put her in foal to a friend’s Arab stallion. Sarbo arrived, the ugliest thing I had ever seen but he became my soul mate. His mother had to be shot at the age of 21 and I was devastated. Sarbo grieved so badly that the vet told me to give up hope and have him shot too as he literally lay down and refused to get up, eat or drink. I didn’t. I kneeled every two hours, whilst 8 months pregnant, day and night for 48 hours, syringing an obscure concoction of kaolin, morphine and electrolytes into him. I talked to him, I begged him to live. I prayed to any god that may be listening not to take him away from me and he lived, thankfully.

I loved him with all my heart. When he was diagnosed with Cushing’s disease I knew, at 16 years old, his end was near. He had lost his sparkle, he was always pleased to see me but everything else just wasn’t ‘doing it’ for him. I could keep him alive with drugs but it was January and he had dreadful laminitis and was grossly overweight despite living outside and getting no ‘hard’ feed, other than a bit of hay. Come the Spring he would have had to have been stabled and kept on the tiniest patch of grass. That would have broken his spirit and mine. He was Arab, he loved to gallop across the field with his tail arched over his back and he would never be able to do that again.

On a Monday morning in January my husband went to work and unbeknown to him I rang round trying to find someone to shoot my horse. I rang my husband and told him. He refused to let me deal with it myself and I was too distraught to argue. The huntsman arrived, he was a small, calm and very, very gentle man. He said ‘Hello’ to my horse with his ‘gun’ tucked into the back of his waistband (so the horse couldn’t see it) stroked his head and with a slight of hand any card player would have been proud of, tucked Sarbo's forelock behind the headband of his head collar. Then I was told to leave, my husband held the lead rope and I stood in the road out of view. The crack came cutting through the air. Birds stopped singing and for an eternity the village was silent. My hands went from covering my eyes to covering my ears and back again and again and again and at the same time I spun in circles trying to escape the sound. Then I ran. I ran to my horse now lying on the ground, a trickle of blood running from one nostril and a vein slowly pumping in his neck as his heart ground to halt. My husband shouted at me to stop and I heard a voice say, ‘let her go, its ok’. I fell to my knees, lifted my precious Sarbo’s head and rested it on my knees. ‘Is he dead’ I whispered. The huntsman looked at me and nodded. I heard the huntsman saying to my husband ‘now you need to leave because getting him into lorry will have no dignity attached to it’. My husband picked me up and I turned my back on Sarbo. I vaguely remember being half carried, half dragged up to the house, my boots were removed and my husband ran me a bath and I sank into it and tried to wash away the utter misery that was literally, making my heart ache.

Horses have been in my life as long as I can remember. I love the smell of them, the sight of them, and the early mornings. I have galloped across fields; I have galloped across the beach and sat on my old mare as she played in the sea. I have seen the sun rise on the coldest of days when the only heat was from my horse’s nostrils as I put his outside rug on. I am no different to anyone else who owns, works with or trains horses. So when people call for an end to the Grand National on the grounds of cruelty, it insults those people who work with horses. I can assure you there is utter misery when anything happens to their precious animals. On TV you only see the bright dresses of the lady owners, the colours of the silks the jockeys wear, the shine that has been put on the horses coat by hours and hours of brushing using a brush so soft you would think it wouldn’t brush a baby’s hair. The owners, trainers and grooms dedicate their lives to caring for their horses and are fortunate to have made this way of life how they earn their living. Horses fill our days from early morning to last thing at night, they touch our spirit and they wind themselves around our soul. Racing isn’t cruel; no horse will do anything it doesn’t want to do. Any death of a horse is tragic. I should know and whilst I accept it, I can never truly live with it. That is a life with horses, it is not misplaced sentiment, just a pure, unadulterated love of a way of life and the magnificent animals it involves

Big Fat Gypsy Prejudice

2011-01-26T13:03:00.008Z

Tuesday evening sees Channel 4’s programme, ‘My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding’ aired at 9.p.m. There is one thing for sure, it provokes reaction. Lots of it. I am not a voice for the Gypsy community and I have had more than one ‘run in’ with them. As plumbers, who work a lot with copper and lead, we attract the gypsy’s. They have stolen from us and had to be warned by the local police not to harass us. They can be intimidating. Conversely, I have also done business with them, on more than one occasion, all business was above board and they have proved to be good customers and very prompt payers.

The vitriolic tweets on Twitter, castigating the Gypsy way of life, their morals and dress sense is disheartening and downright vicious. It is prejudice and the passion behind the insults is quite frightening. The programme enthrals me; it shows some interesting aspects of their way of life and their view on the way they are treated. I do not agree with everything they do but it is not my position to criticise. If they choose to be a close knit, secretive, community that is their right and historically I can understand why they are that way inclined.

If the word Gypsy in some tweets were changed to Jew, Black, Pakistani or homosexual the majority of these tweets would cause outrage. The Gypsy community has always prompted prejudice and fear amongst those outside their community. Hitler murdered five million of them in the gas chambers. How can we make the world a better place for our children when as adults we attack what we do not want to understand? I wonder how many parents tweeting on a Tuesday evening would tolerate a similar outburst from their children towards any other ethnic group, or indeed, anyone of a different sexual orientation to themselves.

I am wholly in favour of free speech but it applies to all sections of society. Let the Gypsies have their say, after all they are giving us a tiny view into their way of life, we may learn something from them.

Goodbye 2010

2010-12-31T15:16:00.004Z

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

2010-11-27T16:00:00.002Z

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

2010-11-11T10:11:00.003Z

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

2010-10-15T11:16:00.002+01:00

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

2010-09-27T11:24:00.007+01:00

(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

2010-08-12T15:57:00.004+01:00

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

2010-07-31T12:48:00.011+01:00

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

2010-07-02T14:36:00.003+01:00

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

2010-04-20T10:33:00.004+01:00

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

2010-04-06T15:57:00.003+01:00

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

2010-03-03T14:35:00.003Z

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

2010-02-26T09:35:00.004Z

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

2010-01-15T13:19:00.003Z

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.

Making Mince Pies, Toga's and Christmas Shopping

2009-12-15T11:27:00.004Z

I am sure that Christmas will come together but currently I cannot see the Christmas tree for the holly. I am beginning to resemble a slightly deranged, bag lady. There are bags scattered around the house, badly secreted under beds, in wardrobes and the office stationary cupboard. They contain various Christmas presents or parts of Christmas presents and my mind is beginning to lose track of what is for who and where it actually is. I wake at night in a cold sweat dreaming that I have wrapped 0.2mm drawing pen and given it to the local farmer instead of a bottle of wine.

Do not start me on the Christmas tree! The buying and decorating of the tree was scheduled for Sunday past. It didn’t happen, not because I decided to have the mother of all lay ins. Oh no, I couldn’t be that lucky. I was up early frantically knitting a dress for my granddaughter in white four ply. Have you ever tried knitting four ply on a Sunday morning? My eyes felt like red-hot candy canes had poked them out.

Then I received the bombshell that my youngest HAD to go Christmas shopping for her friends, she needed to wrap and fill her Christmas shoe-box for Rumanian orphans, oh and could I find a sheet for her Roman Christmas Feast as part of her Latin studies and if I had time could I make some Mince Pies for the Mothers Coffee Morning. I went into freefall.

I put down the knitting, made the pastry and left it in the fridge (apparently this helps the pastry). We hot footed it down to Argos where I spent 20 minutes browsing with the youngest, attempting to find five Christmas presents for 12 year old girls, all of which I had set a budget of £6 each on. The budget flew out of the window. I dashed next door to pick up a chicken (dead, I hasten to add) for Sunday lunch and grab more Christmas cards. I never knew I had so many people to send cards to. Crisis! I remembered I had no mincemeat for the mince pies. Easy to find mincemeat at the local Leedaaals. Ohhh noooo it isn’t!

We dash round to Morrisons; I had forgotten to get dog food too. BIG mistake. The world and his wife had decided to park in supermarket car park and trot off into town for the Victorian Christmas Market. What are you thinking of people? Are you mad? Christmas is two weeks away and you are ambling around the local ‘Past Times’ market.

Was I the only person in town that had broken into a sweat of fear at the thought of not being able to secure the purchase of a jar of mincemeat and four tins of dog food? I manoeuvred the husbands ‘truck’ into the car park and sat, then I sat some more. Then I was overcome with car park rage. ‘RIGHT, that does it’ I yelled. ‘We are going home’. We did, minus the mincemeat and dog food. By this time, I genuinely had the mother of all Migraines and a severe case of Post Traumatic Shopping Syndrome. I got home and I had a strong coffee with a slug of brandy in it.

I helped the youngest wrap her Christmas presents and dispatched her with hubby to her riding lesson. It was 3 o’clock and not a Christmas tree in sight! I decided to cut out the mince pies ready for the arrival of the mincemeat hubby had promised to secure. The phone rings. ‘What type of mince meat do you want, figs and brandy, rum and almond, luxury or just plain cheap?’ Oh my giddy aunt! In my head I was screaming, ‘I don’t know.... ask me again.... no don’t.... I haven’t a clue, just get me anything’. My festive spirit and the brandy had worn off. ‘Cheapest you can get and lots of it’ I barked, immediately feeling sorry for him.

I made the mince pies, after borrowing extra pie tins from my neighbour. I seem to have lost two of my three tins. I suspect they are somewhere in the garden being used for ‘concocting’ some experiment by the youngest.

By the end of the day, daughter had sheet (toga), presents bought, wrapped and packed neatly into several carrier bags she had wrestled her show box into submission and packed that too. Something missing? Oh yes, the mince pies. She never did get those. For some reason although they looked relatively festive, the bottoms of the mince pies were as hard as the hobs of hell. To send them to a coffee morning where they would sit next to those made by mothers who had taken all the time and care in the world would be suicide. I sent the daughter off with the words ‘sod it, I am not going to the coffee morning anyway, they can mange without mine’. She smiled her best sympathetic smile and said, ‘never mind Mummy, no-one will notice’. Bless her, she could have told me that at 9.a.m that morning. Christmas tree is scheduled for later this week. I will keep you posted!

Finding a Cure for Chilblains

2009-11-10T08:53:00.003Z

The weather is grey, interspersed with sunshine. A little like life really. My feet get cold, so cold they feel numb. My brain seems to follow the same pattern these days. Warming my feet by the fire, I risk chilblains and wonder if the constant searching for sunshine for my brain will risk me being left with chilblains on the brain! It does though, doesn’t it? With the pain, sense of loss and anger of the last few weeks I know the chilblains on my brain will heal but I also know they will leave their mark. I guess that is what makes me the person I am and the one I will become. If I give in to anger and bitterness, all is lost.

Following on from the murder of our friend, one of my girlfriends died last week, she had fought long and hard against cancer. She was so determined to live. She loved life, her young son and her husband and always had a smile on her face. The only self-doubt I ever heard her have was when we met for a drink and she took me into the Ladies and removed her hat. 'Look Mary', she said looking tearfully at her head. 'It had grown back so beautifully and now I look like a badger'. I hugged her, rubbed the patchy skull and told her it would grow back again when she had beaten this second round of treatment. I lied and deep down we both knew I had. We never talked about her dying; she told me she did not consider it an option. I will miss her; she could drink some Guinness that girl.

I have my moments when things seem futile. I am left with another layer of life heaped into my head. Having mulled things over for a few days, I know I was lucky to have known the two people who have now moved onto another place I have yet to discover. I learnt a lot from knowing them. I need to take their examples of courage, compassion, hope and kindness and use what they taught me to make a difference in my own life and the lives of my own family and friends. If I let anger, misery and bitterness wrap their icy fingers round my brain, I will never cure the chilblains in my head.

No Answers

2009-10-30T12:13:00.007Z

We went to Venice. It seems an eternity away now.

Twenty-four hours after returning, our world was shaken and suddenly everything changes. On Saturday, a friend of ours was found murdered in his home. He had lived quietly on his own.

I sit here and I can still see his face, his smile and hear his voice. We are caught in a time warp.

My youngest daughter, when she was treated to dinner in the local, always had Chicken Teddies. Our friend would try the distraction trick whilst trying to 'steal' the Chicken Teddies from her plate. She loved his, obviously bungled, attempts. It became their ritual. As she grew older their conversations became more 'grown up’. Our friend always remarked how bright, and funny she was. In the same way he brought tears to my eyes a few months ago, when he told me what a beautiful girl my eldest daughter was, 'she is beautiful from the inside out Mary'.

My girl’s world has been rocked. How do I calm the eldest, who knew him well? What do I tell the youngest? How do I protect them from a vicious, nasty world, when that world has landed here? How do I make them realise that this is not going to happen again? Suddenly our rural community, that was always idyllic and friendly has been cloaked in fear, anger, misery and grief.

I cannot make any sense of it because there is none. Our friend was a son, a brother and an uncle. Why did this happen to this family? There are no words of comfort I can think to offer his family. I have a huge anger in me, a rage I cannot explain. No one deserves to die in this way, no one. Our friend was the kindest of gentle men. You tell me where the justice is, I cannot see any.

I have held my eldest daughter. I have diluted the story of his death to the youngest. She said the line that everyone in our community was silently saying in their own heads. 'I don't want to hear this; I know I don't want to hear this'. God only knows what his family where screaming in their heads.

Someone out there, who is a son, possibly a brother, lover, husband, father or uncle did this. You took the life of another man, who had the nicest nature of anyone I have met. You have ruined the life of his elderly mother and his sisters, nephews and nieces. May your soul be damned to hell for eternity. May you never rest peacefully in this life or any other. I hope that you DO realise one day what you did, because you can NEVER salve your conscience whilst you walk on this earth.

The Power Of Twitter and a Busy Week

2009-10-16T16:13:00.005+01:00

There were a few hangings on Twitter this week, the odd escaped balloon, a roof top protest and a miserable employee.

Jan Moir has been hung, drawn and quartered for her completely bigoted and despicable article on the untimely and tragic death of the young Steven Gately. Her acidic tongue and the venom she flicked from it was ceremoniously ripped from her mouth and thrust down her throat. She deserved it. Her downfalls began when she assumed she could hide behind the Daily Mail and flaunt her vicious nature whilst waving her 'I am a serious journalist and have the right to voice my warped opinions' flag. The aforementioned flag has been ripped from her hands and not too gently put into a place where the sun does not shine. Her arrogance was terrifying and her ignorance was beyond belief. Her mistake was assuming anyone would have even considered the opinions of such a misinformed witch as her. I am only surprised she only managed to miss mentioning Jade Goody out of diatribe of claptrap. Perhaps that is being saved for her next article.

The Trafigura toxic waste dumping off the Ivory Coast was shoved, none too silently, out into the public domain, completely defeating the object of the Court Injunction against The Guardian Newspaper. Within hours, more people knew of the incident than would have if The Guardian had actually published the article in the first place. The object of the exercise was complete, we knew about it and we shouted about it. Success.

Balloon Boy disappeared over the USA in a weather balloon, sparking a major incident, only to reappear, several hours later in his parent’s loft. Don’t ask! Amid cries of, ‘it’s a publicity stunt’ the Internet went into free fall, somewhat like the deflated balloon the child was said to, mysteriously, have got into before it vacated its tethering rope on Terra Firma.

Greenpeace went up on the roof of Parliament to raise awareness of Climate Change and tweeted from the rooftops. They also produced one of the most iconic photographs of recent weeks as they held a large, yellow banner above their heads against the backdrop of Big Ben.

Ian was exceptionally rude to an elderly traveller on the London train network. I suspect, as a result of the huge outcry on Twitter and several ‘tweets’ to the Mayor of London, he will lose his job. Quite rightly so.

What have I learnt this week?

That if you are misinformed, vicious and have an axe to grind, do not do it in print and expect to keep your head.
That if you don’t keep your children tethered to the ground they float off.
If you anchor your ship off the coast and poison thousands of innocent people, you will be found out.
If you angrily suggest that someone be pushed under a train, your words will come back to haunt you.
Finally, if you want to shout about something, get up on the roof.

If you do any of the aforementioned stand by your computer, we are all armed with opinions and some are not scared to voice them. Who said Twitter was for saddos? Let us hope it is a bit quieter next week.

Blog About Climate Change

2009-10-15T13:28:00.005+01:00

Act on Climate Change or this is the conversation I may be having with my granddaughter in ten years!

What is a Polar Bear? She said
It is like the Dodo, its extinct, I said

What is an ice cap? she said
It is like the ice cream you eat, I said
But that’s all gone, she said

What is a rainforest? she said
It is a field, I said

What is Climate Change? she said
It is your future, I said

Sing Birdies, Sing

2009-10-13T10:26:00.008+01:00

I am not a person for New Years resolutions; instead, I strive every day to find something positive to see in others even when they lead their lives in the grey, dark, misty places of negativity and bitterness. It must be a very cold place, living in a world where everything someone else does, irritates you. A world where the sun never truly shines and never casts warmth and light.

Do not get me wrong, I love a good rant, but once the rant is done, I am over it. Until the next rant creeps up on me, unexpectedly!

The sun is beaming through the window of the office. My old dog is snoring on the doorstep. The leaves are clinging onto the trees stubbornly refusing to change colour. Everyone is out at work and the village is peaceful. What more can you ask for? Perhaps that is where the answer lies. The simple things are truly the most important. If we spent more time letting the sun truly warm us perhaps some of us could thaw our souls out a little.

When the birds outside my office sing, they sing in harmony. It isn’t scripted, each bird sings a different song but en masse, it may as well be a symphony. There are no pre-dawn meetings needed to discuss the tempo or the rhythm, each one is an individual and each voice is important. There is no fighting for supremacy, no under-hand 'knobbling' of the opposition, no greed for adulation. Perhaps out politicians should spend more time in the country!

2009-10-05T09:11:00.005+01:00

Monday Morning, blurgh. Monday during term time, is the weekly dropping off of youngest daughter at school for weekly boarding. The older children both boarded full-time too. I hated that as well!

I have had my fair share of critics over the years for sending them to board. I have rarely defended myself. I do not see any point in explaining how they love the boarding environment, being with friends their own age, planning 'get togethers', whispering to each other after lights out, giggling over the latest pop god or discussing the latest 'reality' TV. Boarding has given them continuity of care and study time in a family life that is punctuated with my heavy workload. They loved coming home for holidays and weekends but it was obvious that they could not wait to go back either!

The most common comment thrown at me, 'how selfish, how can you abandon your own children?'. I have never abandoned them. I have worried and fretted late into the night over each of them. I have resented (occasionally) the bonds they have formed with the House Parent's and Matrons who have cared for them over the years. I have dreaded the end of each holiday drawing closer. I have taken myself off and cried after leaving them and not just at the beginning of term. My grief was never limited to the start of term time; it sprang upon me at its own choosing.

This weekend my ex husband and I took the youngest to see her new school. She absolutely loved it. Her excitement at seeing the school and her new boarding house was barely containable. This morning on the school run, I asked her, 'if there are no flexible boarding places left, how do you feel about boarding full-time?'. The answer cut like a knife. 'That would be great'. Great for you I thought, but what about me.

Sending my children to boarding school has never been an easy option for me. I adore all my children and dote on them, probably more than I should do. The research that goes into finding the next school is time consuming and mind blowing. Many parents encourage their children to go to University and expand their education, I just started earlier with mine. I look at the two older children, now young adults. They have a strong work ethic, are kind, considerate and accepting of others. I rarely clash with them. Perhaps they would have developed these traits had they gone to a local Comprehensive or a day school. Who knows?

The youngest is excited to be back at school today, she has been learning a jazz tune for her drum lessons and is rehearsing a new piece for her drama exam; she has stories of her new school to tell her friends. Meanwhile I am might just pop to her room, have a tidy round, and have one of those moments.

Confusion Limitation

2009-09-24T12:01:00.003+01:00

I have reached the age where each day is merely a different level of confusion, punctuated with brief moments of clarity. I find myself worrying unnecessarily about my parents, my children and now my granddaughter. Where did the new found level of forgetfullness come from? Lists! For goodness sake I have never written lists, now I write lots of them, only I can't remember where I put them.

There are too many occasions when I ask one of my eldest offspring, "where are you going, when will you back?" only to be told, "Mother, we discussed this the other evening, I gave you the details then". The look that accompanies the words is more disconcerting than the fact I don't recall the discussion! My son has perfected delivering the aforementioned line with a heavy sense of resignation that his mother has started to lose the plot. I can sense the painful, protracted sigh, bursting to break free from him. I feel the knowing looks pass between the eldest children and my husband.

I find myself researching the symptoms of the menopause, grasping at the hope that there is a logical explanation for the fact that I cannot remember where my husband left his keys, where the oil for the chain saw is, where my daughters brown shoes (which originally were mine until she 'borrowed' them) have vanished to. My youngest is used to me and fortunately has accepted since she could walk and talk that I have a tendency to forget where I left her or forget to collect her from school.

Trust me, I don't relish the menopause, in my head I am capable of having at least 6 more children and I am far too young to reach the end of my reproductive life, even though I have no intention of producing anymore offsrping! In my head I am capable of running my house and my businesses in a perfect, structured, well organised way. In reality I am having more days when I stand staring into space, trying to recall why I went upstairs in first place. I now laugh when I set off for the supermarket and find that I am actually going completely the opposite direction. I don't mind being told that the reason the printer doesn't work on the computer is nothing to do with a software/network problem, it is merely due to the fact I haven't switched it on. I try not to get frustrated that after half an hour trying to charge a phone I discover that not only am I plugging the wrong charger in, it is actually plugged into the wrong connection on the phone.

The reason I am not perturbed is simply that I now make time to stand and gaze at my garden, the countryside that surrounds my home, my children and tiny little fingers and toes of my recent granddaughter. I read anything and everything because I indulge myself and make time to do so. I have taken up lots of the creative pursuits I indulged in before the children came along and despite the apparent loss of some of my marbles I like my confusion because it makes me laugh at myself. After all, laughter is the best medicine.