Wide eyed and hairless

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

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

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

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.