Beauty and the Olympics

The sun stayed out long enough today for my friend and I to enjoy an afternoon in Greenwich Park drinking Earl Grey tea and strolling among the tall mauve lupins. My friend noticed my newly (professionally painted) toenails and commented on how pretty they were. We spend a long time saying goodbye (mainly because we couldn't decide on whose car to take on our next outing) and trying to decide what to do the next time we met up. The trouble is London is an amazing city filled with an infinite number of interesting places to visit. It is also close to counties like Kent and Essex, and of course, the sea. We finally decided to visit Dungeness, both admiring of the industrial emptiness of the place. 'I thought you would like to visit somewhere prettier and picturesque'. said my friend.

Dungeness has its own beauty. Places by the sea do not have to look like St Ives or Lulworth Cove. Just as architecture does not have to be handsome Georgian houses or iconic buildings like the 'Shard' to be beautiful. Or women tall, blonde and size zero. Or men who look like George Clooney or David Beckham. I am always struck by the beauty of Battersea Power Station and the Nuclear Power Stations of Dungeness stir the same admiration in me.

My friend nodded. 'Me too. But make sure you wear some open-toed sandals so that I can admire your toenails if all the industrial beauty gets too much for me.'

http://www.dungeness-nnr.co.uk/

A more conventional beauty spot is Greenwich Park, sadly scarred at the moment by the preparations for the Olympics.

http://www.royalparks.org.uk/parks/greenwich-park

As the games get nearer I am trying to stir up some enthusiasm even going as far to enter a ballot to be allowed to buy tickets that have been allocated to Greenwich residents. But in all honesty I am not waiting for the opening ceremony with baited breath. I resent not being able to drive through the park each day and so missing the opportunity to witness the small changes that nature makes over the weeks to the flowers and the trees. I resent the heavy traffic I now have to sit in every morning. I resent the nightmare it is going to cause me on my journey to work this summer. I resent the blot on Blackhealth that the work has resulted in. I resent having to apply for parking permits in order to park at my home for the duration of the games. No doubt once they start I will be able to enjoy some of the hype and the sychronised swimming. Oh and the gymnastics with the ribbons always gets me going. There are some benefits I will enjoy. Take the new river crossing....flying over the Thames in 'gondolas'! I can't wait to try this out.

http://now-here-this.timeout.com/2012/06/19/sky-high-club-emirates-air-line-opening-date-announced/

And I will be in Woolwich town square with my grandson to see the Olympic flame pass through. Well why not? If you can't beat em blah blah blah.

 http://www.royalgreenwich.gov.uk/info/200131/greenwich_2012_community/1170/olympic_torch_relay_through_royal_greenwich

Hug

Watching the England fans celebrate last nights win got me thinking how little opportunity we have to express ourselves in such a overtly and noisy manner. There is a certain childlike exuberance to the screaming, yelling, jumping up and punching the air behaviour that was replicated in pubs, bars and living rooms up and down the country. And the hugging. Lots if adults hugging. Lots of men hugging men.

Hugging is a wonderful human interaction. Although intimate hugs are non sexual, non threatening - just human touch. Hugs congratulate, commiserate or even just greet someone you like.

On Sunday I was at work and my children gathered at my place before they went to visit their father for Fathers Day. While they were getting ready they allowed my grandson to play outside on the shared lawn. As he was making his way down the path in his football kit he met another boy, a couple of years older than him, also decked out in a football kit. The other boy was with his dad and they were returning from Sunday morning football practise.

'Hello' they said, each taking in the different football kits. 'Fancy a game?' my grandson asked. The older boy asked his dad if that was OK and on receiving permission the two boys, who had never met, enjoyed a kick about for a half hour. My son, who was watching, said the older boy was a skilled footballer and showed my grandson several footie skills.

My son told me that when my grandson was called in as it was time to go he heard the following conversation;

Older boy - 'Can we play football again?'

Grandson - 'Yes. But I don't live here. My nan does and I'm just visiting.'

Older boy - 'I don't live here either. Just visiting my dad. He lives here. I see him every other weekend'.

Grandson 'OK, lets play next time we are both here'.

And then my son told me the two boys hugged and said goodbye.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hug

Millions and millions of years would still not give me half enough time to describe that tiny instant of all eternity when you put your arms around me and I put my arms around you. ~Jacques Prévert

Everybody needs a hug. It changes your metabolism. ~Leo Buscaglia

You can't wrap love in a box, but you can wrap a person in a hug. ~Author Unknown

Hug Department: Always Open ~Author Unknown

I love hugging. I wish I was an octopus, so I could hug ten people at a time. ~Drew Barrymore

There's something in a simple hug
That always warms the heart,
It welcomes us back home
And makes it easier to part....
~Johnny Ray Ryder, Jr., "A Simple Hug"

Arm ourselves for war? No! All the arms we need are for hugging. ~Author Unknown
I will not play at tug o' war
I'd rather play at hug o' war,
Where everyone hugs
Instead of tugs....
~Shel Silverstein

A hug is a handshake from the heart. ~Author Unknown

You can't give a hug without getting a hug. ~Author Unknown

A hug delights and warms and charms,
that must be why God gave us arms.
~Author Unknown

Hugs are the universal medicine. ~Author Unknown

A hug is a great gift - one size fits all, and it's easy to exchange. ~Author Unknown

Happiness is an unexpected hug. ~Author Unknown

...A hug is an amazing thing
It's just the perfect way
To show the love we're feeling
But can't find the words to say....
~Johnny Ray Ryder, Jr., "A Simple Hug"

If you're angry at a loved one, hug that person. And mean it. You may not want to hug - which is all the more reason to do so. It's hard to stay angry when someone shows they love you, and that's precisely what happens when we hug each other. ~Walter Anderson, The Confidence Course, 1997

There's nothing like a mama-hug. ~Terri Guillemets

A mom's hug lasts long after she lets go. ~Author Unknown

Hugs grease the wheels of the world. ~Author Unknown

Your hugs and kisses are like the stars that light up my life when things get dark. ~Author Unknown
A hug is worth a thousand words. ~Author Unknown

Every day you should reach out and touch someone. People love a warm hug, or just a friendly pat on the back. ~Maya Angelou

Have you hugged yourself today? ~Anonymous

A hug is two hearts wrapped in arms. ~Author Unknown

I don't discriminate - I'm an equal-opportunity hugger. ~Author Unknown

Hugging has no unpleasant side effects and is all natural. There are no batteries to replace, it's inflation-proof and non-fattening with no monthly payments. It's non-taxable, non-polluting, and is, of course, fully refundable. ~Author Unknown

Hugs don't need new equipment,
Special batteries or parts -
Just open up your arms
And open up your hearts.
~Johnny Ray Ryder, Jr., "A Simple Hug"

A hug is like a bandage to a hurting wound. ~Author Unknown

Never wait until tomorrow to hug someone you could hug today,
because when you give one, you get one right back your way.
~Author Unknown

A hug is the shortest distance between friends. ~Author Unknown

http://www.freehugscampaign.org/

My Naked Women

On waking up he looked round my bedroom and asked me why there are so many naked women in my room.

Why indeed?

I love men. I much prefer to spend time with men than with women. For one I find that I laugh more with men. They are just funnier than women and I am funnier when I'm in their company.

Usually men smell good. I mean the pheromones not the aftershave although I do sometimes get a whiff of an ex partners aftershave (Obsession) and I am, in my mind, instantly back in his arms. Speaking of smells I recently purchased two vintage scents on eBay simply to revisit memories. One was the scent my grandmother used to wear (Yardleys Fressia) and long since discontinued. When I opened the bottle it was as if my nan had stepped into the room -  so powerfully did the smell bring her back to me. I then closed the bottle tightly and gave it to my dad, her son. His wife rang me a few days later to tell me he had taken the bottle into the spare room and a few minutes later she could hear him sobbing. That night they got out all the old pictures and discussed long forgotten memories and it was wonderful to have nan back for a few hours. The other vintage scent I bought was the one I wore in the 1970s (Panache...classy eh?) and when I sniffed it I was instantly transported to the time of my first love, loosing my virginity and being irresistible to the opposite sex. I spent a wonderful few hours being 17 again.

I love mens bodies. The muscle formation, the tight bums, their hairy chests and their bits and pieces. But I do not want them on my bedroom walls.

The naked women on my bedroom walls are beautiful and serene and quietly sensual. My favourite is 'My Senses' by Chekirov.

http://www.originalpaintings.com/talantbek_chekirov.htm

I wake up and the first thing I see is this beautiful woman drying herself after taking a bath in preparation for the day or the night. 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edgar_Degas

Then there is my mystery woman. Who she is or where she is from I have no idea but she too is preparing for something or someone. She waits so patiently.

Filling my bedroom with naked women was not intentional - it all came about by chance as all rooms should. Not planned, not co-ordinated but just becoming the place to be for its user. My bedroom is also filled with books and shoes but all anyone ever notices is my naked women.

ignorance is bliss...and sometimes desirable

Major life events are still being recorded by my grandson in his little diary. However when I asked him if he had entered the news that Chelsea where the Champions of Europe he replied 'no, I'm only writing the important stuff'. This confused me as he had felt the fact they reached the finals as important and recorded that event in his diary but I thought no more about until my daughter told me of a conversation she had had with him.

'Mum, will I die when I filled up all the pages of my diary?' he asked her.

'What? No, of course not' said my daughter.

'What happens then? When I've filled it up? said my grandson.

'I'll buy you a new one'. my daughter told him.

So it would seem that he thought when he filled in the last page of his diary that would be the end of his life so he had started rationing what he wrote in it. But wouldn't it be wonderful if at the end of your life you could just buy a new one? Of course if you were very rich you could buy a good successful life, one in which you had brains, beauty and robust good health. If you were poor and could only afford the life of an unhappy, unloved ugly old crone you are hardly going to make the purchase are you? Or are you? Is life that desirable? In that case lets say you can buy the new life with good deeds. The more good deeds you have done the better life you could buy. If you had been a selfish cruel person all you would be able to afford is the life of the ugly old crone. Eventually the world would be filled with beautiful, clever and healthy people. Oh dear, that sounds like religion with a dash of eugenics....moving on.

Last weekend we spend a wonderful day at a 'Make Merry' event on a local common where
we enjoyed a variety of live music, dance and exotic food. A couple of days later we were driving past the common (one of several where I live) and I pointed it out to my grandson saying 'That's the common where we were making merry the other day' and he asked me why it was called a 'common'? I, incorrectly it turns out, told him that common land belongs to everyone. This is apparently a misapprehension that has persisted since at least Tudor times, when land would have been used for communal farming and domestic practises. Now it means Common land is a piece of land in private ownership, where other people have certain traditional rights to use it in specified ways, such as being allowed to graze their livestock or gather firewood. And in 2012 have festivals, funfairs, circus', football practise, kite flying, dog walking and general merry making it would seem. Anyway getting back to my wrong answer to his question - that a common belongs to everyone - he asked why the Earth isn't called the Earth Common as the Earth belongs to everyone. Now this is were I am blissful I was ignorant of the facts. If I'd know I was wrong it would have been oh so easy to explain why some people own parts of the Earth and why some counties wage wars in order to own parts of the world but I didn't know I was wrong and said that we just called it Earth for short.

Driving him home the other day I, slightly frustrated at my grandsons occasional inconsiderate behaviour, said to him 'you are a bit of a user your know'. 'Yep - lots of people have told me that' he replied nonchalantly.

Oh to be 6 years old and full of curiosity and self worth and having the ugly truth hidden from you.

Is This So?

The last year has been a difficult one in regards to work. Like many people in today's economic climate we have not known if our jobs were safe, or if we would all have to take on different roles at a lesser rate of pay. This has meant that myself and many of my colleagues have been operating on a knife edge in an atmosphere of distrust for months. We were eventually put out of our misery and told what our immediate futures would be - some of us are to remain employed on our current grades and others are being 'deleted'. The news was given in a shambolic, haphazard and uncaring way. Late on a Friday afternoon emails were sent with an attached letter with the news we had been either 'assilimated' or 'deleted'. So late in the afternoon was this email sent that many of us were out on visits and unable to access our emails and heard the news via the grapevine - but not which letter we had been sent. There were many tears of anger, frustration and fear. Those of us who have been 'assilimated' are under no misapprehensions - we all know our time will come and this knowledge, and the misfortune of some of our colleagues, meant that there were no celebrations, just guilty relief. This little scene is being played out in organisations all over the country. It was shocking and saddening to hear that an ambulance is called, on average once a week, to the building I work in as some poor employee has collapsed from stress. Only last week a young man had his breakdown in a lift. Not a lift breaking down you understand - but a young man who broke down sobbing, curled up in the foetal position and
refusing to leave the lift. Eventually he was encouraged out and led to a waiting ambulence. 

Several of my colleagues are off sick with stress related illnesses. One young girl has had a stroke. Several have cancer. Two have died in the last year (although they died from cancer and not stress they are much missed by their friends and colleagues who have to 'carry on regardless'). Several people have already been made redundant and the gap they have left is huge - and those left behind have to pick up the slack. Those left are often frazzled, nervous, anxious and short tempered.

Yet in all this madness I have managed to find some calm and inspiration. Take this week for instance. I attended a 'Storytelling' session and the person running it was a charismatic, enthusiastic teller of stories. It came as no surprise then to find that he was a writer, a journalist, a social worker and amazingly, for 10 years, a Catholic priest, but hey, no ones perfect.

One of the stories he told us was a story called 'Is that so?' which it transpires is a Zen Koan. A Koan is used as a test of a Zen student's ability. The master is not looking for a specific answer but for evidence that the disciple has grasped the state of mind expressed by the kōan itself. The Ex Preist didn't mention Zen at all, in fact he set the story in a small village in Western Ireland and Hakuin was a local man called Finbar, must respected by the villagers for his wisdom.

Is That So?

A beautiful young  girl in the village would spend a lot of time with Hakuin. She would sit and listen to him and relish his knowledge and wisdom. She watch him as he read or cooked or chatted to his neighbours and she admired him greatly. As did all his neighbours who respected him greatly. One day the beautiful young girl announced she was pregnant. Her angry parents demanded to know who was the father. At first resistant to confess, the anxious and embarrassed girl finally pointed to Hakuin, the Zen master whom everyone previously revered for living such a pure life. When the outraged parents confronted Hakuin with their daughter's accusation, he simply replied "Is that so?"

When the child was born, the parents brought it to Hakuin, who now was viewed as a pariah by the whole village. He was ostracised and tormented by his former friends and neighbours. The beautiful girls parents demanded that he take care of the child since it was his responsibility. "Is that so?" Hakuin said calmly as he accepted the child.

For many years he took very good care of the child and continued to be treated badly by those who had once respected him. Until the beautiful girl could no longer withstand the lie she had told. She confessed that the real father was a young man in the village whom she had tried to protect. The parents immediately went to Hakuin to see if he would return the child. With profuse apologies they explained what had happened. "Is that so?" Hakuin said as he handed them the child.

When he finished telling the story the Ex Priest asked me what my response to it was. For me it was about the shifting power of acceptance. How do explain to a stranger your own feelings and experience of acceptance? For me it has never been 'Is that so? but 'If you say so'.

The Ex Priest also shared some great quotes:

'Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited to all we now know and understand, while imagination embraces the entire world and all there ever will be to know and understand.' Albert Einstein

'There are those that look at things and ask 'why?' I dream of things and ask 'why not?' Robert Kennedy (paraphasing George Bernard Shaw).

'This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognised by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of Nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievance's complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy' George Bernard Shaw

'Never underestimate the impact which the story of your life and work can have on this organisation or the wider community - good or bad' the Ex Priest.

He also shared this poem - Begin Again by Brendan Kennelly

http://www.experienceproject.com/stories/Like-A-Good-Quote/2245241

My Noble Tits

There has been a recent advertising campaign for a bra that is the least sexy bra imaginable but promises to be invisible under clothes and to hold your breasts in a pert position. It achieves this by having no seams, wires, clips, fasteners, patterns or bows. As, after my operation, I had to wear a bra 24/7 for several weeks I bought a couple. And they are everything the makers claim. So much so that it makes you look as if you're braless under clothes as it does absolutely nothing to hide your nipples, something that is not evident in the adverts as the woman featured do not own nipples. Instead they have breasts like Barbie dolls, small smooth mounds. In a market today I found a stall selling similar bras. As they were a third of the price I bought one and when I got it home I looked at the claims made on the box about the powers of the bra held within - Invisible? yep it certainly looks as if it isn't there once you put in on under a t-shirt - if I stood still in a corner someone could hang a jacket on my nipples. Comfortable? Indisputably. Sexy? Well - I know some people are turned on by the weirdest things but this isn't something I'd wear if my intention was to seduce. Noble? Eh? The box claims my breasts, once encased in the bra it contains, will indeed look 'noble'. What do 'noble' tits looks like exactly? I can only think that the makers used an on-line translator and wanted a word that meant 'uplifted' and got 'noble'. If this was their meaning then yes, my tits are noble. Or maybe my tits are now also actually principled and magnanimous.

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w7p8mFoAhcc - What have these women done with their nipples? Seriously, we should be told.

Apart from bras with amazing powers this market sold a wide variety of things that I found I couldn't actually live without. Memory Foam pillows, plant pots that look like giant cups and saucers, tea towels and catering size packs of cling film. Fresh baked bread, interesting sausages and enormous onion bhaji. All this and an Elvis impersonator, encased in a white and gold suit, wearing a bushy black wig with sideburns and sporting a beer belly.  He belted out 'Jail House Rock' as we browsed. The streets were festooned with bunting as they are preparing for the Jubilee celebrations. And although we didn't get the sunshine we were promised we didn't get any rain. And as we wandered around in our summer tops in the slight chill my noble tits looked lovely despite the very evident nipples.

Last Word

Last night, after finishing the 'Peril' blog and going to bed I dreamt about him. I dream about him far too often for peace of mind and they are the sort of dreams that wake you up with a start and make falling back to sleep difficult if not impossible,.Yet in last nights dream I wasn't scared. I was strong and brave and he just faded away and my dream took another, much more pleasant route. I can only assume that writing about it confronted some internal monsters and I took away their power with the power of writing. Quite the warrior! So what if its several years (decades) too late.

Normally I will avoid anything to do with domestic violence. Nasty, draining subject that makes me very uncomfortable. My job means that I come into contact with its victims on an almost daily basis so if I see a documentary, or a newspaper article on the subject, I switch over or turn the page. When I have training with organisations that work with the perpetrators and victims of domestic violence I put on my professional hat and try not to indulge in any self pity as I recognise scenarios and identify with the helplessness of the victims. Recently I was caught unawares when DV was sneakily introduced into one of the soaps that I watch. 'Coronation Street' has a storyline where one of the nicest, most lovable, sympathetic characters, Tyrone, is the victim of his girlfriends violence. Tyrone was also a victim of child abuse, his mother played with over the top 'Kylism' by the actress Margi Clarke. When his mother left him as a young teenager he was taken in by Jack and Vera who provided him with a safe loving home and he has grown into a fine young man who works hard, cherishes his friends and is kind and loving. What struck me most (please excuse the inappropriate pun) was that after his girlfriend whacked him with a kitchen utensil, the conversation they had after the attack - her begging forgiveness, while at the same time, managing to imply that it was his fault, and Tyrone's incredulous, sicked, saddened and shocked disgust. It was the conversation I never had. Thinking back there was a couple of big subjects we didn't talk about. Yes, we talked about the kids, family, friends, holidays, films, music etc but we didn't talk about the attacks or sex. We just did it (not at the same time, we would wait until the bruises had faded and my resentment had abated. Usually. Yet I suspect there were times when I needed sex to make things 'better' but I will kid myself that that never happened. See how being a victim of DV is a sick, ugly thing to be?) The DV was terrifying and the sex was mostly nice but an open, honest conversation would, I'm sure, have made a huge difference to our relationship. I suppose to have those sort of conversations requires a large dose of trust and, looking back, that was missing.

He, foolishly as it turned out, trusted me totally not to cheat on him. Likewise I never questioned his fidelity. But that sort of trust isn't the trust I mean. That trust is just the shell of the 'trust nut' if you like. It is the trust under that superficial coating that really takes a relationship to another dimension. I am talking about the 'seed of trust'. We lacked the trust that means you could share things in a safe environment, a trust that means you wouldn't be judged, a trust that means it is OK to disagree, that difficult conversations can happen, secrets can be told. The trust that secures you as a team, a trust that means you would never intentionally hurt each other and, if you do so unintentionally, the trust that makes it possible to forgive. The trust that means it's OK to take risks and the trust that the love wouldn't be sacrificed on a whim.

Anyway enough of this self indulgent nonsense. I promise this is the last word on it because maybe now I've written this down I'll never wake up again in the middle of the night with the feeling of fear and dread that I am back in that place waiting for his judgement and punishment.

The Perils Of Keeping Quiet

After the first few times, while I lay battered and bruised, he would apologise. Not that it made any difference. His words meant nothing. I knew that even then. At seventeen I knew I had jumped from the frying pan into the pot. The strange thing is I never challenged him about it. I never demanded apologies or explanations or promises for it to stop. I just wiped up the blood, put the clumps of hair he had pulled out of my scalp by dragging me room to room by the roots of my hair and slapped makeup on the bruises. I wore purple eyeshadow for many years, 'Miss Selfridge' did a perfect bruise covering colour long since discontinued. After the beatings we would both pretend it had never happened. If domestic violence was ever shown on the TV or reported in the newspaper he would be very vocal in his disgust for the men who did this. 'Scum' he would call them. He would also speak with hate about his father - who he blamed for his mothers suicide - 'he killed her, with his beatings and threats'. Yet the beatings he gave me were never mentioned, it was as if they were of no consequence. I suspected that they actually gave him pleasure, or at the very least, a measure of relief from whatever was raging inside him. We were the perfect match, him - with the need to take out his frustrations on someone and me - with the belief I was worthless and deserving of every blow. But I still hated him at the times he showed contempt for the men who acted as he did, more even than when the blows were raining down on me.

The first time it happened I can remember being shocked at how much it hurt. My mother had beaten me regularly most of my childhood but compared to the ferocity of his beatings those inflicted by my mother were half hearted and amateurish. He used tools to beat me with. A hammer, a rolling pin, whatever was at hand. His left me black and blue and often bleeding. He broke my bones. He blacked my eyes. He knocked me out by kicking me in the head.The other difference is that he never harmed me with his words. When I lived with my mother she would tell me most days that I was ugly and stupid. That I had ruined her life. That she hated me and that she wished she had been sucessful on the many attempts she had made to abort me. That  no one would ever love me. Then she would suddenly be nice to me, when she was drunk she sometimes even told me that she did love me - it was just that she should never have been a mother, she had intended a different life. He rarely used harsh words just maybe some name calling during the beatings. In fact he would tell me I was beautiful. That I was smart. That  he loved me more than anything and  that I was the best thing that had ever happened to him. And I was pathetically eager to hear those sentiments and kind encouraging words and  maybe the price I was paying was the cost of love.

Once, when I was pregnant with by son, he left me unconscious. Each time I came round he would be back to pretending nothing happened and I pretended too. He put me back on his pedestal until the next time he would knock me off.

It became second nature to anticipate the beatings and I became adept at avoiding the triggers that would make him want to hurt me. I stopped disagreeing with him. It was safer to keep my opinions to myself. I made sure his shirts were ironed just they way he liked them
and I buttered his toast to the very edge. I discovered a hundred different ways to make him happy, to adapt to his moods and I put the 'real me' away in a box.

Over the years the beatings became less frequent although they still occurred from time to time. The last time he hit me was the final straw. It wasn't a beating. Just a punch on the chin. We had just come out of a restaurant having enjoyed a lovely meal which was the climax of a lovely day spent roaming the countryside. When we got in the car he was having trouble with the steering lock and was getting angry. I said something like it would be OK, I often had a struggle with it after he had parked the car and suddenly he punched me on the chin. I literally saw stars and had never felt such humiliation. We drove home in silence. When a couple of weeks later, at my sisters, he rose from the sofa and made a move to punch me (why I can't remember) I quietly said (so my sister, who was in the kitchen, wouldn't hear) 'if you hit me one more time that's it, you will never see me again'. He stopped in his tracks, a look of shock on his face, and sat back down. He never laid a finger on me again.

Who'd have thought it would be so easy? All those years of saying nothing. All that Fear. All that Shame. The Self Disgust. The Pretence. The years of getting my own back in the only way I knew how. I could have stopped The Sentence with one sentence.

There is little point in wondering why I stayed with him for as long as I did. Domestic Violence is complex and is about so much more than violence. It is about the imbalance of power, a lack of self worth. It is about terror, shame, self loathing, anger, hate, love, duty, helplessness, naivety, low expectations and acceptance. Even knowing all this I remain ashamed and embarressed about accepting that from someone who was meant to be my friend and lover. The women who make a stand and challange this behaviour, women who run away from these men are the bravest women you could meet. I wish I had been as brave as them rather than getting my freedom as a result of circumstances. I just got lucky.

Play School

There is something very beautiful about the mind of a 6 year old. Take my grandson for instance. Life for him is so simple. He wakes up and spends his day learning new things and having adventures in the best way possible - with minimal risk. He is at the time of his life when everything is black and white and problems can be solved by telling a grown-up - and letting them deal with it. He is a very lucky boy because every day I meet children who are repeatedly let down by the grown-ups in their life.

My grandson stayed at my place last night and he came into my bed this morning for a cuddle before breakfast. 'What are you thinking about' I asked him after the cuddle and he'd gone quiet. 'Football' he replied 'what are you thinking about?' 'Work' I said. 'What do you do at work?' he asked.  I explained that I worked with children and their families, helping them with any problems they might be having in school. 'Like what?' he asked. 'Well, bullying for instance. A child may not want to go to school because they are being bullied.'

 'I was bullied once. It didn't stop me going to school.' he told me.

This came as a surprise to me as neither my grandson nor his parents have ever mentioned that he had been bullied. 'When did this happen? What happened?' I asked him.
'When I was in the nursery. Harry and Ayo tried to pull me off the trike.' Given that this was 2 years ago and wasn't actually bullying but small children fighting over a toy I responded 'You are right to be upset about that but that's not really bullying. That was an argument about a toy and although it wasn't nice of Harry and Ayo to try and take the trike while you were playing with it that isn't really bullying. If Harry and Ayo tried to take toys from you all the time, if they called you names or hit you and made you worried and scared that would be bullying. He looked very affronted and said 'it was bullying. It was the big trike!'

We had a lovely time yesterday playing 'school's'. He was the teacher and I was the pupil. After calling the register he gave out the whiteboards for the 'phonic session' which seemed to me to consist of repeated chanting. We then had a playtime and came back in for Maths which involved me adding millions and trillions. I got bored. I started to chat to the little imaginary child on my right. 'Teacher' told me to stop talking. I tried but I soon got bored again sitting on the carpet and I started to chat and fiddle. 'Teacher' threatened me with a loss of Golden Time. First I lost 5 minutes and then 10. As Golden Time is at the end of the week I wasn't too worrried about missing some of it as it was too far away from the here and now for me to care and I was still bored so continued to chatter and fidgit. Finally 'Teacher' snapped and sent me to the headteacher. 'Have you ever been send to the head?' I asked him once we were back to being ourselves. Outraged he said 'No!' Apparently he is a very good boy.

He keeps a diary. After we found pieces of writing on bits of scrap paper and old envelopes scattered around his mum bought him a diary which he now keeps under his mattress. He is only using it at the moment to record big events in his life such as catching chickenpox, losing a tooth and Chelsea beating Barcelona but he does this independently. I'm going to start him blogging. A few weeks ago I woke up to find him logged on to my laptop and using the Cbeebies website to play games. I had no idea he could navigate a computer. He had logged in as a guest because after trying to log in on my profile using his name as a password and failing (and being miffed that I hadn't chosen his name as a password) he knew enough to try the guest profile. I was even more amazed to find him on his DS this week sending an email to a friend!

When I was 6 I was almost reading - well I was able to read the 'Janet and John' books in school. But I badly wanted to be a 'real' reader and be able to read, not books, but the newspapers. Both my parents were avid readers of newspapers and I desperately wanted to read the 'News of the World'- a paper which caused a lot of debate in my home and was hidden from my view instantly making it more appealing. I remember my dad would send me to the local newsagents (yes, at 6 years old and times were not so very different then - reports of the Moors Murders filled those very papers - what was different were parents perceptions of danger) and having purchased his paper (Daily Mirror) I would walk home pretending to read it so that passersby would be mightily impressed by this young girls reading ability. My dad rarely got a newspaper in pristine condition as a result.

After our 'school' game I told my grandson about my teachers when I was at primary school. He was aghast at tales of Miss R, an elderly spinster that makes Miss Trunchbull from Roald Dahl's 'Matilda' look like a pussycat. I had to explain to him what a 'cane' was. Oh I love his innocence.

Soul Food

Seriously...music saved my life tonight.

Well, OK, not quite. My life hasn't particularly been at risk tonight or any other night. Maybe it would be more accurate to say music saved my soul tonight. And by tonight I actually mean this afternoon but that lacks the impact I am trying to convey. I have decided that when I die I want music piped directly into my coffin. Or to be buried with an MP3 player or the equivalent permanently inserted into my ears with lifelong (or even deathlong) batteries which, by the way, I don't intend to die until they've invented. So cremation is now out of the question.

Just spent a lovely couple of hours listening to music with my son. I love his passion for music and of the 55.000.000 plus views of 'Stairway to Heaven' he thinks 25.000.000 views are his. We have enjoyed Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Jimi Henrdrix, Arertha and Tom Jones. We have marvelled at Sippie Wallace and Bonnie Raitt (although he thinks a ginger female playing blues on a guitar is 'just not right', he wants all his blues musicians black and male). Check out Bonnie jamming with John Lee Hooker . We finished it off with Gilmour and Bowie performing 'Comfortably Numb'. Bliss.

Enjoy.



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xHaKSb6F4b4&feature=fvsthttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xHaKSb6F4b4&feature=fvst  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dfo6SgtnnEk&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=50ZD1yWjGDc

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SXVoOgwiYc8

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BozPEpeMg2c

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SXVoOgwiYc8

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PADfOighk4k
Now...tell me your soul doesn't feel a hella of a lot better than it did before.

NHS DVD & FUK

VIVA NHS

Recently there have been so many articles written about the NHS and about the lack of care provided by the nurses that I was dreading going in for an operation but I am happy to report that there are actually centres of excellence that are actually, well, excellent. So a big thumbs up to the Queen Victoria Hospital in East Grinstead. This is a very small, almost cottage like hospital, that does great work in its specialist fields. I was given 4 hospitals to choose from and after research opted to have the operation at the QVH because of its high feedback ratings and positive comments about the care provided by the staff. Everyone concerned in my care was professional, caring and did their best to make me feel confident and at ease. I'm thrilled with the results of the surgery and can't think why I put if off for so long. We are so lucky to have a highly skilled NHS and it has saved my life on two previous occasions, once when in my first pregnancy I had placenta previa, a condition that can be dangerous for both mother and baby and the second time when I had breast cancer. It would be fair to say that my recent operation was mainly cosmetic yet the care I received was as good as it was when my conditions were life threatening. If you Google articles related to NHS you will find awful stories about old people left to starve or left to lay in soiled beds, stories about long waiting lists or treatment being denied to those in need. There will be stories about nurses ignoring patients while they gossip in their nurses stations, stories of MRSA infections and dirty wards. Maybe patients with experiences like mine aren't newsworthy. I had my non urgent operation 18 weeks after seeing a consultant. I had a choice of hospitals. They insisted on my attendance at a pre operation seminar and talked through all the options with me. On the day I was greeted by a friendly face and introduced to the team that were taking care of me. I was given my own room (tip...in pre-assessment say you snore - they will do their best to give you a private room, at least I think this is why I was given this luxury - or maybe it was something on a swab!). Also in addition to the usual blood tests etc I was given a ECG and swaps were taken from every orifice (to protect from things like MRSA). They also had a photographic studio and took several pictures which they may use in a before and after presentation, with my permission of course. 

This morning, less than 24 hours after my operation I was up and about and pain free, Totally pain free. Without  any medication. How is this possible? I think meditation has helped along with my breathing exercises. Anaesthetic makes your breathing shallow and this means that in recovery you are given oxygen. I found that my breathing exercises increased my oxygen levels and this meant I was on the road to a quick recovery. It also helped with staying calm during the more unpleasant aspects of surgery such as having tubes and needles inserted and removed.

SIGHT AND SOUND
In fact this was my first experience of a non teaching hospital. It was much more intimate than I am used to, more charming. There wasn't a television on the ward or in my room but a radio that picked up the BBC radio channels, local radio and BBC1, Channel 4 and ITV. I was able to listen to Coronation Street and when I actually watched the episode later at home I was surprised to find it did not differ to the image I'd had while listening. Every scene looked as it had in my imagination. When I was younger I used to think I'd rather be blind than deaf. The thought of living without music terrified me so much. This changed when I had children. Seeing their faces became the most important thing. Now I'm not so sure. I know every inch of their faces, every look they have, every nuance. But I'd hate not to hear their chatter and their laughter.

Imagination is a wonderful thing. My daughter tells me she was playing football with her son, just the two of them, and she scored a goal. He interrupted her goal celebration to tell her the goal was disallowed as the flag was up. 'What flag?' she asked quite reasonably seeing as they were the only two there. 'The flag in my imagination' he said. Needless to say he eventually won the game.

WHY WRITE?
My grandson is almost 6 and his reading and writing is coming on in leaps and bounds. He was discovered sending his dad a text this week. His mum and dad are 'on a break' and he had asked his mum for a new toy to be told 'no, I can't afford it this week. Maybe when I get paid'. A little later he entered her password on the phone (she uses the same password for everything and he remembered it) scrolled down to to find his dads name and sent him this text 'dad can you lend me sum £monee pleess'. On his birthday wish list he has written 'dee vee dee' as they have been working on the 'ee' and 'oo' words at school this week. Then I found some envelopes that he had written on in the back of his mums car. 'j is a nic person becos he let me play on his putor' and on the other side he had written 'fuk'. When I challenged him about this he was very affronted and told me 'that is my diary and you are not meant to read my diary.' Notwithstanding the attempts to write swear words I was pleased he felt the need to write down his thoughts. The fact that he isn't only writing at school but for his own needs and entertainment at home gives me a warm glow. Think I'll start him Blogging.



                      

They Did What?

Nothing surprises me anymore

Unshockable me.

'Surely its against the law? - if not it should be'.


Apparently it all started last June

that's the word on T Street.

And we danced to their tune

They really had us beat.


We rallied around, picking up their slack

Just carrying on really.

While they laughed and stabbed us in the back

Its costing us dearly.


But nothing surprises me anymore

Unshockable me.

'Lets show them the door - don't let them off Scot free'.


They've be lying for ages

Playing us for fools.

Happily taking their wages

While we worked like mules.


But nothing surprises me anymore

Unshockable me.

'I've been here once before - and seen all there is to see'.

JIGSAW

A million pieces
Different shapes and sizes
Different substances
Crafted over time
Yet they fit together
Perfectly

A million pieces
Some rough some smooth
Different meanings
Painstakingly researched
Yet they all fit together
Sublimely

A million pieces
The edges sometimes blurred
Different pictures
Lovingly collected
Yet they fit together
Beautifully