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.
Saturday 19 May 2012
Tuesday 8 May 2012
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.
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.
Monday 7 May 2012
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.
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.
Sunday 6 May 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday 1 May 2012
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.
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.
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About Me
- Katie Clapton
- Rat symbolizes such character traits as wit, imagination and curiosity. Rats have keen observation skills and with those skills they’re able to deduce much about other people and other situations. Overall, Rats are full of energy, talkative and charming.