Brevity is the soul of lingerie

Here Be Dragons

2009-02-21T08:19:00.004Z

It is such a long time since I've written anything here, as life has been rather hectic and this has slipped down the list of priorities. Events of the last couple of weeks have, however, prompted me to want to start writing again.

So, how to start? How to explain, break the news? You would have thought that after a week or so of verbalising this, of having to tell friends and loved ones in a way that protects them from the shock, that I would have a practiced set of phrases that work equally well for imparting the news to complete strangers. I suppose I need the words to be right for me. Each time I say this thing, I have to face the reality of it. And it still really does feel fairly surreal.

Sometimes I've had to broach the subject deliberately, such as when I've told X or my children (and I'd have done anything to avoid them having to receive that hurt), and sometimes it's been totally unplanned when I've been asked that innocent and everyday question "how are you?"

My favourite (and I use that word very loosely: there's nothing pleasurable about doing this) tack is to start off by saying that I had a hospital appointment the other Monday. This provides a gentle lead-in. Lots of people have hospital appointments. Sometimes for trivial, sometimes for non-trivial reasons. Sometimes for wonderful reasons. However I'm at an age and relationship status where the likelihood of a pregnancy is fairly unlikely, so we're already into grounds of a health problem without blurting it out. Yet.

The next problem is how to say it. There was a time, when I was a child I suppose, that the C-word was never mentioned. It was far too scary. Everyone hid from it, hid it from everyone around them. We're more open about it now. I suppose we have better treatments, therefore more hope. So, I can say "I have been diagnosed with breast cancer" to my family and my friends and acquaintances. I prefer that to "I have a breast tumour". Somehow the word tumour is more severe. It's certainly an uglier word. It's hard and eats into you. Cancer sounds gentler, sounds like something the medical profession can soothe away. Let's hope they can.

I know that as I impart the information, I'm spreading my shock to others, and each time they take a little of it away from me. It's not fair and it wasn't in my life plan (such as that is), but there it is. And I think that here is a good place to say some of the things I'm going to need to say over the coming months. Wish me luck.

By the Light of the Silvery Moon

2007-04-10T23:16:00.000Z

A few weeks ago Mr F-M made one of his occasional appearances. I'd been to choir practice, and hadn't been home long when I received a text from a friend telling me that F-M and his brother-in-law were in our usual post-rehearsal pub. I couldn't resist it, made sure the children were tucked up in bed and happy about me popping out for a bit, and made my way down there. Now, when I say I couldn't resist it I genuinely mean that I needed to see him just to confirm to myself that my head is straightened out. However, you can understand that the friend who tipped me off was feeling thoroughly responsible for what she saw as another impending disaster.

I expected to walk in and join my co-singers at their table and then see what happened, but I walked in to find the front bar of the pub empty apart from Mr F-M propping up the bar. The usual crew were sitting out in the back room. As soon as I saw him I knew that he'd gone in there looking for me, but I didn't experience the usual lurch. I somehow felt rather in control of things.

"Bit of a surprise, F-M. What the hell are you doing here?"

"Hi G. You ok?"

Before I could answer, the Brother-In-Law (seems appropriate to call him Bill) appeared giving me a kiss on the cheek and leaving his arm round my shoulders.

"Hi Ginny, how the devil are you?"

So went the start of his attempt to wind up Mr F-M. They were both fairly well lubricated, Bill especially so.
A friend came round from the other bar and started talking to me about his daughter's domestic problems. Not something I felt inclined to brush off, but both Mr F-M and Bill were visibly irritated that someone else was holding my attention. They dealt with it in different ways, Bill initially trying to embarrass me by asking F-M loudly how he'd met me.

Bill: "Didn't you two meet online, F-M?"

F-M:"Just leave it, ok"

Me: "It's fine, I'm not that easily embarrassed"

I carried on talking to the bemused friend. F-M started hopping about behind said friend in order to attract my attention. I chat some more. More hopping about behind friend, with lots of wide-eyed peering over his shoulder. Friend looks more bemused. Bill drops some coins onto the floor and points at them. We all look, wondering what's going to happen next, at which point he grabs the nape of my neck and pushes my head towards the ground, presumably to make me pick them up. My immediate response, beyond realising what a sulky, attention-seeking child he is, is to yell and not in a particularly erudite way

"P**S off, Bill!!!"

He lets go, and my bemused friend sidles off to join the others. F-M glares at Bill. I get another drink, then glare at Bill myself like a rather cross parent at an unruly child until he reluctantly proffers a muttered apology. F-M and I then catch up on life, children, work etc, not realising Bill is sulking more by the minute.
I the height of his sulk he takes a menu from the bar, screws it up and throws it on the floor. I've seen better-behaved three-year-olds, but also know that they escalate the levels of bad behaviour until they get the attention they seek. The barman is clearly of the same opinion, as suddenly, quietly and calmly he's standing alongside us. He's a little guy, with a soft southern african accent and an air of authority beyond his stature.

"I'm afraid you'll have to leave now, sir"

"Why"

"Well, you've already assaulted this lady and now you're destroying pub property"

"Sit down, Bill. He'll behave himself now"

"I'm sorry, sir. It's illegal for me to let him stay now. He'll have to leave"

Bill now starts mimicking the barman with a poor imitation of his accent. This, of course, is going to help matters.

"Really, you have to go now"

F-M suggests we go to my house, something I suggest as being a rather questionable idea. I grab my coat and F-M offers to walk me home. Bill disappears in the opposite direction. F-M walks me home. He wants to stay. He loves me. He misses me. Can't we make love? I suggest he goes home to his wife.

"Do you want a lift home?"

"No, I'll walk I suppose. It will only take me four hours"

"Don't be daft. I'll drive you home. Has Bill got a phone on him?" I don't want Bill going back, telling Mrs F-M we've met and her turning up angry on my doorstep.

"I don't know"

"We'll drive through town and look for him"

"Can't we f**k first?"

"No, because I'm not f**king anyone who's currently f**king someone else. I'm looking after myself now"

"I do love you"

"Of course you do, F-M, and I love you too, but I'm not having you wake up in my bed in a blind panic, saying 'Oh, f**k! Oh, f**k!' and rushing off home not to be in touch for another two weeks, two months, whatever. I'm just not doing it any more."

"So, you're saying good bye then"

"You've made the choice yourself, F-M. Lots of times. And it's never going to be any different, is it?"

"I don't know. I love you"

"Well, I know and I'm going to drive you home"

"You don't have to"

"I know that"

We get in the car, drive into town and find Bill staggering around aimlessly, post-kebab. He slides into the back seat of the car and I head out of town.

"Go faster. You can drive faster than this", from the back seat.

"This is the speed I'm driving at, take it or leave it"

"Go on. This car goes much faster than this", a voice joins in from the front seat.

"Look, this is the speed I'm going at. Neither of you are in any position to complain. I can leave you here if you don't like it"

We approach the F-M residence and I pull over at a discrete distance to let them out. A wave from Bill as he staggers on the verge, a kiss and puppy-dog eyes from F-M. I drive home, text my friend to let her know I'm home and fine and she immediately rings to find out what has happened as I'm closing down the pc for the night.

As I'm in the process of reassuring her, an instant message arrives on the screen.

"Hi G. What would you like me to do with your little shampoo bottles? Should I throw them away or send them to you? Only they've been in my bathroom for 6 years"

It's from V-S. Funny, I hadn't noticed that full moon while I was out driving!

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

2007-04-02T22:09:00.000Z

Maybe in the real world, but not here in the realms of the blog. If you don't keep your readership entertained, amused, and dying to hear the next installment, they drift off to more dedicated blog-writers. So, having neglected my select, but perfectly-formed readership for some considerable time, what has prompted me again to put, if not pen to paper, fingers to keyboard?

Well, this is difficult to admit and I'm not sure where to start. I have been thinking about writing here again, and there has been a lot to write about in one way or another, but I didn't want to start again unless I was sure I'd be able to commit the time on a regular basis. I'm still not sure I will always have that time, but maybe it's not so important. So, I've been tip-toeing nearer, reading other blogs again, occasionally commenting when moved, going to sleep with half-formed ideas of pieces I want to write, but waking up the next morning and knowing that the day just isn't going to pan out with enough space to work on it.
Then, about ten days ago I booked myself in for a psychic reading. There, I've said it. How flaky is that!?! I'm an atheist. Admitedly not your Richard Dawkins, militant type of atheist, but rather your scientific-minded, everything can eventually be explained, sort of atheist. Well, no, not everything can be explained, but forgive me, poor mathematician that I am, you can prove something's not provable. But I digress. Away from the embarrassing fact that I had a consultation with someone who talks to dead people, from the other side, I ask you!
She's very good. I've seen her in operation before. She's my local pub landlady, and apparently she's been on one of these Derek Accora (is that how you spell his name?) style tv programs, where they go to "haunted" houses and try to film evidence while various mediums talk to the dead folk while some poor, blonde presenter gets scared half-witless by creaking floorboards. So, my pub landlady (I was going to call her Madame Arcati, but that would be too rude, so let's call her Alison for all you "Medium" fans out there) occasionally holds psychic evenings which have become so popular you can hardly get in through the pub door. She puts on a sort of show where she talks to indiviuals, but publicly, and invariably has people in tears with what their dear, departed loved-ones have to tell them from the other side. I suppose I'm a curious sceptic. It's fascinating how accurate she seems to be without slowly honing in on the correct information. The pieces of information she imparts seem to be snatched from out of nowhere, which I guess is why people are so floored.
I've become so curious about it that I've felt I'll only know what she's doing if I get a reading myself. The opportunity arose one night when she announced that she was starting some evenings where she'd do pre-booked, private readings. Twenty minutes for £10. Irresistible. I booked in for the following Tuesday.
We sat down at opposite sides of a small, square table in a quiet corner of the pub. Alison had a deck of gold-edged cards, which she asked me to cut. As she started to lay out the cards, I felt slightly disappointed that we were obviously baout to have the equivalent of a tarot card reading, something I do myself at dinner parties when the spirit moves me. Or rather, when the wine moves me. It's certainly a lot of nonsense when I wield the cards, I assure you.
After interpreting about three cards, Alison suddenly asked if the name Ed, Ted or Edward meant anything to me. Someone from the other side. My maternal grandfather was Eddie. She talked about him for a little, but things that weren't particularly unusual. She then said he was saying something about Lucy. Did this mean anything? My sister's name is Lucy. My family don't live locally and I can't say that I've ever found reason to mention them within her earshot ever. She talked about my sister needing me later in the year, there may be marital problems, and that someone is having blood tests, but not to worry, that person will be spiritually fine. My sister isn't a happy person, I'm not really sure why. And my mother is currently going through a round of tests for Alzheimers. I hope she's talking a load of rot. One amusing thing she did say, though, was that she was sure my marital break-up had been initially very difficult (when is it not?), that now it was much easier (true, but isn't that often the case?), but that Eddie said I wasn't to expect the X to ever apologise. Well done Poppa, I never realised how much you actually noticed!
So back to the blog. Alison asked me if I kept a diary, to which I replied that I had been writing a blog, but that I had let it slip. She said I really should get back to it. And who am I to argue with someone who gave my grandfather a chance to get a word in over my grandmother.

Changing of Parts

2006-03-13T11:13:00.000Z

Following on from my previous post, and Neil's comment

"I was hoping that you were going to write a poem comparing the ease of switching a hard drive with the complexity of love."

Of course he was right and it would tie up all the loose ends on that posting very nicely, but I had serious trouble finding anything out there. So, with profound apologies to Henry Reed, I give you...

To-day we have changing of parts. Yesterday,
We had de-fragging. And to-morrow morning,
We shall have what to do after upgrading. But to-day,
To-day we have changing of parts. Red roses
Glisten with dew in all of the valentine posies,
And to-day we have changing of parts.

These are the outer case screws. And this
Is the phillips screw-driver, whose use you will see,
When you are given your new drive. And this is the dvd re-writer
Which in your case you have not got. The lovers
Hold their bouquets with silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the IDE connector, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone cutting through wires. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The lovers
Are whispering through phonelines, never letting anyone see
Any of them cutting through wires.

And this you can see is the hard-drive. The purpose of this
Is to keep all the data, as you see. We can slide it
Easily out of the casing: we call this
Removing the drive. And rapidly replace with the new.
Our early loves are receiving and giving the flowers:
They call it falling in love.

They call it falling in love: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your heart: like the power supply,
And the mother-board, and the cd-rom, and the peripherals,
Which in our case we have not got; and the lovers
Silent in all of the chatrooms and the e-mails going backwards and forwards,
For to-day we have changing of parts.

O Tell Me the Truth About Love

2006-03-09T23:34:00.000Z

I've been having a very busy week. My eldest, S, has been off school since Monday with a gastric bug; work goes on apace; the house is a tip; there are nowhere enough hours in the day. This evening I escaped to the local acoustic club for some friendly faces, some familiar and surprising music. Even some singing from me.

And still no reply from Mr F-M. I don't expect a reply. And yet I do expect to hear from him. Sometime, maybe not for days, weeks, maybe even longer. A strange mix of hope, dread and resignation combines in the feeling that he will always be in touch. The hope really has to go.

And in the meantime, my pc is on its last legs. It has been showing odd signs of wear & tear by insiting on diskchk occasionally when it's switched on. Then yesterday it started telling me that the hard disk is about to fail (I guessed as much). So, any day now it will pack up and refuse to co-operate with any more of my life's essentials - Listen On Demand (courtesy of Radio 3), online banking, my diary and my blogging will have an enforced sabbatical. How will I cope?!?!

If I take it into the office I can filch a hard drive (it's ok, it's my company) and the emergency will be averted, but S is ill so I'm working from home, holding my breath and hoping the pc fairy will wave her wand for a few days more.

And I'm thinking about love, how it appears, how it slips away, how it's a a conundrum, a cocktail of the selfish and the nurturing. If only it was as easy to fix as the hard drive on my pc.
So, in want of some time to write something more meaningful I'll cheat and fall back on some poetry...

Some say that love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go round,
And some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pajamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does it's odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway-guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
it wasn't ever there:
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all it's time at the races,
Or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of it's own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my shoes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

W.H. Auden

The search for the perfect man (Part Three)

2006-03-02T00:14:00.000Z

Mr F-M

When you phoned me just before Christmas, wanting me to come down to Heathrow, I said that I needed something more from you before I could do anything crazy like that again. So you drove up to me. Although it was good to see you, that wasn't really what I meant. I meant I needed to see a change to the pattern of things to help me feel it would be worthwhile opening myself up all over again. If you'd have kept to your word about getting a laptop & communicating more regularly to see "how things go", it would have been a step forward. But it's all just the same thing routine, isn't it? I mean, last week you sent that email suggesting you ring to arrange to come round and I've still heard nothing again.

So we're now in March and we've passed my deadline of seeing how things go. I know you mean everything you say at the time (well I think you do, anyway), but what is the point in saying it if nothing transpires? As the man says " What we think, or what we know, or what we believe is, in the end, of little consequence. The only consequence is what we do." You're clearly comfortable enough in your life not to want to rock the boat any more, and time is going by too quickly for me. I'm getting on with my life.

I guess I'm saying that I don't want to hear any more about how much you think about me and how much you love me, unless you can show me the evidence of it. And I'm not feeling in the slightest angry, just rather sad that I'm fast approaching the point of becoming bored with the same old routine.
There was a point when I really believed you loved me, but I don't think you do any more. Probably not for some time. Anyway, I miss the times we used to spend together, both in real life and online, but those times are so rare now. Maybe the time has just passed.

Take care
love Ginny xxxx

Were I a cloud...

2006-02-26T12:27:00.000Z

This morning on my lazy trawl around the web I came across this site which will generate a word cloud from your blog, and even print it on a t-shirt for you. I love it. It somehow fits in with my feelings about today.
I like Sundays. I get up late, wander downstairs for the paper and head back to my coccoon to forget about everything that needs dealing with. Today, whatever it is can wait.
I have a lazy, self-indulgent day then cook a big roast dinner in the evening. The children (sometimes reluctantly, sometimes with enthusiasm) are roped in to help prepare the vegetables and set the table. Sunday dinner is an important ritual, part of the cement that holds together the simple structure of my family. Then we make ready for the onslaught of another hectic week.
I wish you all a peaceful Sunday and a good week ahead.

You're so sharp you could cut yourself!

2006-02-23T13:28:00.000Z

My ex-husband never liked to be thought of as accident-prone, but the catalogue of horror said otherwise. In particular his record with sharp implements is such that if he'd ever suggested running away to the circus as a knife throwing act I'd have been wise to book a permanent cubicle at A&E.

There was the time when I was about 3 months pregnant, and was recovering from an operation so unable to do much around the house. Before we'd known I'd have to go into hospital, we'd stripped out the kitchen to install a new one. Not just the units out, but down to bare brick & earth walls. So, we were cooking in the front room using slow cooker & microwave and washing up in the bathroom hand basin.

One Friday evening X was washing up while I was sitting on the steps in the doorway talking to him. He started wiping my very sharp little Sabatier knife, holding the cloth in his left hand and very vigorously running the knife blade back & forth between thumb and index finger. It was one of those split-second moments where you think "Do I say something and risk a row or do I keep quiet and..." he put the knife point clean through his thumb. In one side & out the other. Ouch big time. I couldn't drive for another four weeks, so I rang a friend who took him off to the hospital for a 2 hour wait, cleaning and stitching up.

Clearly a one-off accident. He's not accident prone.

There was also the cat. Poor cat, who was a little neglected after the baby was born. He was long-haired and needed regular grooming. Much more regularly than I was finding time for with the demands of a new baby, and so he was developing some felt-like matts in his fur. I'd been gently teasing them out with a comb and snipping away tentatively with some nail scissors. Says X, "I'll do that, you've got other things to do and it's going to take ages." So, off he goes into the garden with cat under arm.

Several minutes later I decide to investigate, and what do I find? Cat, very co-operatively (he was such a sweety) lying on his back with his legs in the air as X hacks away (and there is no other phrase to adequately describe the motion involved) at lumps of fur with (wait for it) a Stanley knife! I pause thinking the same "Do I say anything and risk the ire, or..." when he stopped hacking with an "Oh, f***!" having sliced the cat. And the cat's still lying there as good as gold with his attacker & knife still poised above him.

It was a fairly shallow cut but clearly in need of veterinary attention. "I tell you what," I say. "You can take him to the vets because I'm sure as hell not explaining that one!" Thankfully the vet insisted, not only in stitching up the cat, but also finishing off the fur-trimming excercise.

And more notably, going back a few more years, before children and in the midst of major DIY projects there was the Black & Decker Jigsaw Massacre.

One Saturday morning I went off into town in search of nails & wood glue, leaving X behind cutting up bits of wood. When I got back his left thumb was sporting a bandage of cartoon proportions.
"What the hell has happened?"
It transpired he'd been cutting a piece of architrave with the electric jigsaw, not using the workbench but holding the wood in his hand. He'd washed the cut, put a plaster on and it bled through. So he put on some cotton wool and another plaster and it had bled through. so He'd added a further layer of tissue and more plaster and more cotton wool & tissue and finally, masking tape.
"Shall I take you to casualty? It sounds as if it might need stitches."
"No, it's fine now, just a cut. Don't worry about it."

Well, on Monday I did worry and so did he. When he unwrapped the "pass-the-parcel" dressing it looked awful & didn't smell great either, so we went off to our GP who immediately said it had needed stitches (what did I say?! thinks I) but that it was too late for that so we'd better head to hospital to see a plactic surgeon. So, off we go, referral letter in hand. My hand, that is.

We made our way to the relevant ward where we'd been told to wait for the consultant to do his rounds. He took a quick look and said "Oh dear, should have had stitches in that, but it's too late now. I'll get a nurse to clean it and dress it properly" (What did I say?!)
Eventually the nurse arrived, took a look at thumb and notes and said "Ooh, nasty cut. It should have had stitches in that. Didn't you realise?" X, by now was not even looking at me, as she started to clean it up.
"How did you do it?" she said.
"With a jigsaw", said X
She continued cleaning, then carefully added a non-cartoon, neat as a pin dressing, but clearly the cogs were whirring round.
"What sort of jigsaw?", with a look of puzzlement etched on her face.
"An electric jigsaw", said he.
"Oh," she breathed, metaphoric light bulb glowing above her head. "I thought you meant a jigsaw puzzle!"

Lethal weapons, those 4000 piece puzzles. I wonder what the ex could do with one.

Changes

2006-02-21T23:44:00.000Z

Nearly eighteen months ago a good friend died very unexpectedly. His partner walked into their kitchen first thing in the morning and found him collapsed on the floor. He had suffered a sudden and massive heart attack at the age of 49, so fast that he probably didn't even know it had happened. It was difficult for everyone, but most profoundly for his partner. The tragedy for her was indescribable, having suddenly lost her previous partner to an accidental head injury only five years before.

We all rallied round, in various stages of shock and loss. Friendships were strengthened, rifts healed, tears shed, lessons learnt. Lots of Jamesons consumed. But for various reasons I felt unable to grieve properly for him. One reason was that my eldest daughter was struggling to deal with her first time grief. At the age of eleven she was still a child, but also able to experience the "adult" grieving emotions when losing someone who has a real and seemingly ongoing part in your life. It was painful to see her floundering like that without being able to give her any answers.
And then there was the closeness that I'd experienced with P earlier in the year when we were both dealing with our individual crises. He had been involved with C, a good friend of mine, for some time, but for some mysterious reason had been unable to commit. She had reached the end of her patience with the whole situation and had ended the relationship, joined a dating agency and met someone else. At which point, P realised how much he loved her and what he was losing. With as much Catholic angst as he could muster, he suffered serious anguish, knowing he loved her beyond belief, but believing that he just wasn't good enough for her. He regularly stood opposite her house in the shadows watching her light go out at night just to have a connection with her. And to me he poured out all his grief over losing her, and his guilt over the terrible infidelities he commited before he'd been able to see how much he loved her.
At the same time I'd had a major crisis with Mr F-M (of which I will write another time), and so we became like two shipwrecks, clinging to each other for survival. We shared our troubles, confided out deepest and darkest secrets and talked into the early hours. All without any of our circle of friends knowing.
Finally he turned the corner and saw that his happiness and C's happiness were dependent on each other, something I'd tried so hard to persuade him of. They had maybe six months of happiness together and then he died.
I grieved for him losing everything he'd wanted, though how enviable to unknowingly die at such a blissful point! I grieved for C, having again to go through such a trauma. And I grieved for myself in losing someone I cared for and who had shown care for me and my children.
The difficulty was that I couldn't outwardly acknowledge my personal grief beyond that of a casual friend, for fear of it being misintepreted, so I concentrated on looking after my daughter and tried to help her experience a good grieving process.
A couple of months later I felt as if I was falling apart. I couldn't sleep properly although I was constantly tired, I couldn't concentrate at all (and my job demands a deal of concentration) , I was suffering from dreadful mood swings, and I just felt like curling up in a ball and ignoring everyone. So I went to my doctor hoping to be referred for some counselling. Instead my GP wanted to do a load of blood tests (including liver function, which concerned me a little!).
Then the surprising denouement. My blood tests were all fine except for my hormone levels. At the ripe old age of 44 I was heading into my menopause, and all my symptoms could be explained away by mere chemistry. I now found myself in the midst of my grief for a friend having to rationalise my grief for my womanhood. Of course the latter allows a rather longer timescale for coming to terms with and I'm still not sure at which point I emerge from this particular corridor of change.
I feel as if time is running out for me. I'm on my own and I'm peeking out at my old age unable to do anything about it. I feel as if I've suddenly switched from the invincible teenager who never had to consider her decrepitude, to someone who's sitting on the edge of the slope with no other choice but to slide down.
Somehow the only thing that makes it feel right is the emergence of my elder daughter from childhood. There is something appropriate about her emerging like some butterfly as I drift off into middle age, and I absoultely treasure the joy of witnessing her changing into a beautiful young woman.
For me, I hope I will be able to grasp any happiness that life offers me, because we only have one chance. And given the opportunity I will rage, rage against the dying of the light.

State of Confusion

2006-02-18T10:11:00.000Z

I don't seem to have a lot of spare time at the moment and yet there are so many things going around in my head that I'd like to write about. Maybe even need to write about. Not least is the matter of further contact from Mr F-M.
He appeared a fews days before Christmas. Firstly online, with a new screen name & hotmail address, and the promise of getting a lap-top in the New Year to enable some more communication. We chatted for a bit and he said he'd like to speak later that evening.
I went to bed with no particular expectation, but he rang at around midnight and we talked for nearly an hour. He was staying overnight in a hotel about an hour and a half's drive from here and wanted me to drive over to him. I declined, saying that if I was ever going to do anything as daft as that I needed a little more from him. So, clearly a little put-out, he said goodbye & I went back to sleep. Only to be woken by him having driven here! He left early in the morning, asking me to be patient (!!!) as things are very difficult, but that when he gets his laptop we'll be able to communicate and see how things go from there.
So of course nothing until about two weeks ago when I received this e-mail:

Hi Ginny
Sorry it's been so long. Hope all is well, think about you daily. Wish that
i could be with you tonight, take care xxxxxxxxxxx

And again I'm in a complete muddle. Of course he's messing me about, but I know it's not deliberate. He believes what he says and what he feels at the time, and he acts on it without concern for the implications and the effect on anyone else. He's an emotional coward, but then who isn't faced with the prospect of hurting your children? My head tells me I should do what my good friend P once told me to do, and stick a note above my front door saying "F O J" (his initial is J - you'll get the rest!) to remind me to never let him over the threshold again. And yet, apart from maybe the vanishing R, he's the only man to have really got to me since my marriage break-up.

He's my imperfect man and until I deal with the whole situation my search for the perfect man is probably doomed.

Valentine

2006-02-13T10:22:00.000Z

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding ring,
if you like.
Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.

Carol Ann Duffy

The Perils of Ginny

2006-02-07T23:27:00.000Z

I've been neglecting my blog of late. Like the beautiful, though silent, Pearl White I've been tied up for the last few weeks. Well, metaphorically anyway.

A series of 11+ appeal process, work, and illness culminated last week with me being laid up with a bad back. For several days I was unable to sit for more than a few minutes at a time, leaving me with the options of pacing around endlessly or taking strong pills & sleeping. The latter seemed eminently more sensible.
Thankfully I'm now on the mend, sitting even as I type!
And, as I know you're dying to know, I didn't end up with a knackered back as a result of some dastardly, but handsome, man tying me to the railtracks (or the bed). No. Sadly it's very mundane. I foolishly insisted the children tidy up their bedroom & I picked up a couple of paperbacks from the floor.
How the mighty are fallen. Or felled.

Sunday Morning

2006-01-22T18:16:00.000Z

This morning, lying in bed reading the Sunday papers and listening to the radio, I heard a track that always moves me beyond words. It's Gavin Bryars' "Jesus' Blood Never Failed Me Yet" and you can read the story of how he came to compose it here.
This was a version I hadn't heard before, with Tom Waits "duetting" with the tramp. Beautiful. I won't describe it, you can hear it for yourself.

The search for the perfect man (Part Two)

2006-01-03T00:58:00.000Z

After VS exited stage left (well, was pushed off stage left, continuing to try & sneak back on), I decided I had to take an active decision to find someone else for fear of drifting back into something with Mr F-M. So, I joined an online dating site. Of course, all my friends thought I was completely insane - having already met two clearly unsuitable men online, there could only be axe-murderers waiting in line for me, but ever being the optimist...

I trawled through the profiles and made a shortlist, contacted some of them and found myself with a dinner date. Judging him by his profile he was very good-looking, had his own business, didn't live too far from me, and wasn't too recently separated, so not too much baggage. However, he turned out to be the foulest-mouthed, most racist, good-looking businessman I have ever come across. I can only imagine it was my immaculate good manners that prevented me from walking out of the date there & then. That and disbelief at the stuff spouting from his mouth. Things like how women of a certain ethnic minority are absolutely gorgeous to look at, but get anywhere near them and they stink. Lovely. He said he'd love to see me again, and we are both adults aren't we? You see, a born romantic too.

Oh well, back to the short-list.

And next on the list was R. His photo was a rather good shot of him leaning nonchantly against a cottage wall, wearing a white linen shirt, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He looked gorgeous. Slightly older than I was looking for, and living quite a lot further away from me than was practical, but otherwise the profile was ideal. We progressed rather quickly from emails, via MSN to phonecalls, and he had a gorgeous voice too. We soon slipped into a routine of talking every evening until we could fix up a Saturday lunchtime meet.

It was, I have to say, the best date I've probably ever been on. He was utterly charming. The first thing he said to me when I walked towards him was "Darling, your photos don't do you justice". I was lost. Fifteen years of being told "Yeh, you look fine. Can we just go now" disappeared instantly. We drove to a pretty Cotswold pub for lunch, then went for a walk round the village. The conversation was still flowing and the chemistry was buzzing. And I hadn't planned beyond that. He suggested we drive down to London to take in a show. So we did, with me texting friends to say I was ok & wouldn't be back home quite yet. We saw a play, had a meal in Chinatown, took a cycle rickshaw back to his car (all the way to Marble Arch), and only then did he kiss me. So, we got in his car and he drove me back to my house, afraid that I was going to expect him to drive the two and a half hour trip back to his own house. Which of course I didn't. And as I was drifting off to sleep he whispered that tomorrow he would wake me up and make love to me all over again, all morning.

We spent the next three months speaking on the phone every night, spending the weekends together either at his or at mine. He charmed my children and my friends, he introduced me to his family who were all lovely, we spent a wonderful, romantic weekend in Florence, he told me life was good again for him because of me.

"So what went wrong?" I hear you ask. One evening he didn't ring. I knew something had happened. The something was his ex-girlfriend of a year before turning up on his doorstep out of the blue, offering to leave her husband for him. I wanted to talk about it straight away but he wouldn't see me for two weeks, by which time he'd made up his mind. Apparently someone had taken photos of them making love in a field some eighteen months before, recently posted them on the internet and sent copies to her husband. Because of this he felt they were bound together in some way. You can't fight that, can you? It all came as a bolt out of the blue for me. Cliched phrase, but the only one to describe it.

He said he wanted to remain friends and maybe I'd be in touch if I felt like it in a few months time. Of course that was a load of old bullshit, and when I did phone him six months later and feeling fine, he was rather terse because (it turned out) she was with him & he felt awkward talking to me in her presence. I could ring him at his office if I wanted. I didn't want. But I suppose it did prove I could fall in love & forget Mr F-M, if only for a while.

Musings on a New Year

2006-01-02T12:09:00.000Z

There was a time when I loved New Years Eve, probably more than Christmas in many ways. I loved the partying, the feeling that I was casting off the old year and setting off into something new. Don't get me wrong, I was never one to religiously make New Year's Resolutions. Well, apart from the one I made some years ago, that I would never make a New Year's Resolution again, and I have stuck to that without fail.
But New Year always somehow feels different now. I can hear my maternal grandmother saying (as she did to most aired niggles) "It's your age", a comment I always felt indignant about and still would now. Of course I have the usual pos-Christmas good intentions (eat less, drink less, get more excercise) but the old feeling of a new start just isn't there any more. And it's been replaced with a feeling of having to continually face the same old problems as I did the year before.
This probably sounds rather depressive, but it isn't at all. The "same old problems" are there because they're part of an ongoing process, things that I know aren't just going to be resolved overnight because the date has a new number in it. And the big advantage to viewing it all as an ongoing process is being able to relax and enjoy the unexpected events and people that appear in my life. Just think of all the wonderful bonuses I would have missed if I'd had my head down, intent on following a set route!
So, I hadn't made plans for New Year's Eve at all. Most of my friends were away, some of them on the other side of the world. One of my cousins was free and we found ourselves invited to friends of mine for a dinner party, where we shared good food, good wine and good company, and I did tarot card readings for everyone.
I woke up very early yesterday to a killer hangover, but still managed to get dinner on the table for the children and some friends. (For the foodies out there - home made gnocchi with creamy radicchio sauce, roast duck with potato stuffing, mashed celeriac & fennel, steamed savoy cabbage, roast potatoes, marsala gravy, followed by Collins Street Bakery World Famous Fruitcake served with a half-bottle of Tokaii - not a bad feat considering the state of my head!) What was most enjoyable was that I was sharing the day with my daughters (most important of all), a couple of well-established friends and a couple of friends who I've got to know really over the last year. The two couples hadn't met before but got on really well (I just love it when that happens, introducing friends to each other and seeing them hit it off), so we had a slow relaxing meal with easy-flowing conversation. It sort of represented what I like about my life - my children, my friends and the new people who are becoming part of my life. What better start to a new year?
I am, as ever, aware that I do miss having a partner, but life is pretty good anyway.

100 things we didn't know this time last year

2005-12-31T13:26:00.001Z

(courtesy of the BBC news website)

1. The Queen has never been on a computer, she told Bill Gates as she awarded him an honorary knighthood.

2. Mohammed is now one of the 20 most popular names for boys born in England and Wales.

3. While it's an offence to drop litter on the pavement, it's not an offence to throw it over someone's garden wall.

4. An average record shop needs to sell at least two copies of a CD per year to make it worth stocking, according to Wired magazine.

5. Nicole Kidman is scared of butterflies. "I jump out of planes, I could be covered in cockroaches, I do all sorts of things, but I just don't like the feel of butterflies' bodies," she says.

6. WD-40 dissolves cocaine - it has been used by a pub landlord to prevent drug-taking in his pub's toilets.

7. Baboons can tell the difference between English and French. Zoo keepers at Port Lympne wild animal park in Kent are having to learn French to communicate with the baboons which had been transferred from Paris zoo.

8. Devout Orthodox Jews are three times as likely to jaywalk as other people, according to an Israeli survey reported in the New Scientist. The researchers say it's possibly because religious people have less fear of death.

9. The energy used to build an average Victorian terrace house would be enough to send a car round the Earth five times, says English Heritage.

10. Humans can be born suffering from a rare condition known as "sirenomelia" or "mermaid syndrome", in which the legs are fused together to resemble the tail of a fish.

11. One in 10 Europeans is allegedly conceived in an Ikea bed.

12. Until the 1940s rhubarb was considered a vegetable. It became a fruit when US customs officials, baffled by the foreign food, decided it should be classified according to the way it was eaten.

13. Prince Charles broke with an 80-year tradition by giving Camilla Parker Bowles a wedding ring fashioned from Cornish gold, instead of the nugget of Welsh gold that has provided rings for all royal brides and grooms since 1923.

14. It's possible for a human to blow up balloons via the ear. A 55-year-old factory worker from China reportedly discovered 20 years ago that air leaked from his ears, and he can now inflate balloons and blow out candles.

15. Lionesses like their males to be deep brunettes.

16. The London borough of Westminster has an average of 20 pieces of chewing gum for every square metre of pavement.

17. Bosses at Madame Tussauds spent £10,000 separating the models of Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston when they separated. It was the first time the museum had two people's waxworks joined together.

18. If all the Smarties eaten in one year were laid end to end it would equal almost 63,380 miles, more than two-and-a-half times around the Earth's equator.

19. The = sign was invented by 16th Century Welsh mathematician Robert Recorde, who was fed up with writing "is equal to" in his equations. He chose the two lines because "noe 2 thynges can be moare equalle".

20. The UK's first mobile phone call was made 20 years ago this year, when Ernie Wise rang the Vodafone head office, which was then above a curry shop in Newbury.

21. One person in four has had their identity stolen or knows someone who has.

22. The length of a man's fingers can reveal how physically aggressive he is, scientists say.

23. In America it's possible to subpoena a dog.

24. The 71m packets of biscuits sold annually by United Biscuits, owner of McVitie's, generate 127.8 tonnes of crumbs.

25. Nelson probably had a broad Norfolk accent.

26. One in four people does not know 192, the old number for directory inquiries in the UK, has been abolished.

27. Only in France and California are under 18s banned from using sunbeds.

28. The British buy the most compact discs in the world - an average of 3.2 per year, compared to 2.8 in the US and 2.1 in France.

29. When faced with danger, the octopus can wrap six of its legs around its head to disguise itself as a fallen coconut shell and escape by walking backwards on the other two legs, scientists discovered.

30. There are an estimated 1,000 people in the UK in a persistent vegetative state.

31. Train passengers in the UK waited a total of 11.5m minutes in 2004 for delayed services.

32. "Restaurant" is the most mis-spelled word in search engines.

33. Chelsea boss Jose Mourinho has only been in an English pub once, to buy his wife cigarettes.

34. The Little Britain wheelchair sketch with Lou and Andy was inspired by Lou Reed and Andy Warhol.

35. The name Lego came from two Danish words "leg godt", meaning "play well". It also means "I put together" in Latin.

36. The average employee spends 14 working days a year on personal e-mails, phone calls and web browsing, outside official breaks, according to employment analysts Captor.

37. Cyclist Lance Armstrong's heart is almost a third larger than the average man's.

38. Nasa boss Michael Griffin has seven university degrees: a bachelor's degree, a PhD, and five masters degrees.

39. Australians host barbecues at polling stations on general election days.

40. An average Briton will spend £1,537,380 during his or her lifetime, a survey from insurer Prudential suggests.

41. Tactically, the best Monopoly properties to buy are the orange ones: Vine Street, Marlborough Street and Bow Street.

42. Britain's smallest church, near Malmesbury, Wiltshire, opens just once a year. It measures 4m by 3.6m and has one pew.

43. The spiciness of sauces is measured in Scoville Units.

44. Rubber gloves could save you from lightning.

45. C3PO and R2D2 do not speak to each other off-camera because the actors don't get on.

46. Driving at 159mph - reached by the police driver cleared of speeding - it would take nearly a third of a mile to stop.

47. Liverpool has 42 cranes redeveloping the city centre.

48. A quarter of the world's clematis come from one Guernsey nursery, where production will top 4.5m plants this year alone.

49. Tim Henman has a tennis court at his new home in Oxfordshire which he has never used.

50. Only 36% of the world's newspapers are tabloid.

51. Parking wardens walk about 15 miles a day.

52. You're 10 times more likely to be bitten by a human than a rat.

53. It takes 75kg of raw materials to make a mobile phone.

54. Deep Throat is reportedly the most profitable film ever. It was made for $25,000 (£13,700) and has grossed more than $600m.

55. Antony Worrall-Thompson swam the English Channel in his youth.

56. The Pyruvate Scale measures pungency in onions and garlic. It's named after the acid in onions which makes cooks cry when cutting them.

57. The man who was the voice of one of the original Daleks, Roy Skelton, also did the voices for George and Zippy in Rainbow.

58. The average guest at a Buckingham Palace garden party scoffs 14 cakes, sandwiches, scones and ice-cream, according to royal accounts.

59. Oliver Twist is very popular in China, where its title is translated as Foggy City Orphan.

60. Newborn dolphins and killer whales don't sleep for a month, according to research carried out by University of California.

61. You can bet on your own death.

62. MPs use communal hairbrushes in the washrooms of the Houses of Parliament.

63. It takes less energy to import a tomato from Spain than to grow them in this country because of the artificial heat needed, according to Defra.

64. New York mayor Michael Bloomberg's home number is listed by directory inquiries.

65. Actor James Doohan, who played Scotty, had a hand in creating the Klingon language that was used in the movies, and which Shakespeare plays were subsequently translated into.

66. The hotter it is, the more difficult it is for aeroplanes to take off. Air passengers in Nevada, where temperatures have reached 120F, have been told they can't fly.

67. Giant squid eat each other - especially during sex.

68. The Very Hungry Caterpillar has sold one copy every minute since its 1969 publication.

69. First-born children are less creative but more stable, while last-born are more promiscuous, says US research.

70. Reebok, which is being bought by Adidas, traces its history back more than 100 years to Bolton.

71. Jimi Hendrix pretended to be gay to be discharged from the US Army.

72. A towel doesn't legally reserve a sun lounger - and there is nothing in German or Spanish law to stop other holidaymakers removing those left on vacant seats.

73. One in six children think that broccoli is a baby tree.

74. It takes a gallon of oil to make three fake fur coats.

75. Each successive monarch faces in a different direction on British coins.

76. The day when most suicides occurred in the UK between 1993 and 2002 was 1 January, 2000.

77. The only day in that time when no-one killed themselves was 16 March, 2001, the day Comic Relief viewers saw Jack Dee win Celebrity Big Brother.

78. One in 18 people has a third nipple.

79. The section of coast around Cleethorpes has the highest concentration of caravans in Europe.

80. Fifty-seven Bic Biros are sold every second - amounting to 100bn since 1950.

81. George Bernard Shaw named his shed after the UK capital so that when visitors called they could be told he was away in London.

82. Former Labour MP Oona King's aunt is agony aunt Miriam Stoppard.

83. Britain produces 700 regional cheeses, more even than France.

84. The actor who plays Mike Tucker in BBC Radio 4's The Archers is the father of the actor who plays Will Grundy.

85. Japanese knotweed can grow from a piece of root the size of pea. And it can flourish anew if disturbed after lying dormant for more than 20 years.

86. Hecklers are so-called because of militant textile workers in Dundee.

87. Pulling your foot out of quicksand takes a force equivalent to that needed to lift a medium-sized car.

88. A single "mother" spud from southern Peru gave rise to all the varieties of potato eaten today, scientists have learned.

89. Spanish Flu, the epidemic that killed 50 million people in 1918/9, was known as French Flu in Spain.

90. Ordinary - not avian - flu kills about 12,000 people in the UK every winter.

91. Croydon has more CCTV cameras than New York.

92. You are 176 times more likely to be murdered than to win the National Lottery.

93. Koalas have fingerprints exactly like humans (although obviously smaller).

94. Bill Gates does not have an iPod.

95. The first traffic cones were used in building Preston bypass in the late 1950s, replacing red lantern paraffin burners.

96. Britons buy about one million pumpkins for Halloween, 99% of which are used for lanterns rather than for eating.

97. The mother of stocky cricketer - and this year's Strictly Come Dancing champion - Darren Gough was a ballet dancer. She helped him with his pivots.

98. Nettles growing on land where bodies are buried will reach a foot higher than those growing elsewhere.

99. The Japanese word "chokuegambo" describes the wish that there were more designer-brand shops on a given street.

100. Musical instrument shops must pay an annual royalty to cover shoppers who perform a recognisable riff before they buy, thereby making a "public performance".

'Twas the day after Boxing Day...

2005-12-27T18:16:00.000Z

... and my daughters are at their father's for a couple of days. I drove them over there earlier today, thinking that I would quite enjoy the peace and quiet, and had every intention of hitting the post-Christmas mess that is my house like a reverse tornado. However, the house is far too quiet and all I've succeeded in doing is falling asleep. My half-hour doze somehow morphed into a three-hour time-warp of a sleep, from which I woke rather Rip-Van-Winkled to the dark and a further covering of snow.

I think I'll take the hint and put the housework on hold until tomorrow. There are a couple of films I fancy watching, a fridge full of tasty leftovers, and a cupboard full of nice bottles of wine. It would of course be nice if friends unexpectedly rang the doorbell later and joined me, but after the hectic couple of days we've just had, a quiet evening in front of the Quiet American will be just fine.

Christmas has been lovely. It wasn't the Christmas I would have planned for: apart from anything else we haven't seen my mother due to my sister's game-playing. I've just gone with the flow, not thought about it and so it hasn't spoilt it. We'll have her over here another time. And I haven't let thoughts about Mr F-M interrupt either. He unexpectedly made contact about a week ago, asking me to make an 130-mile round trip to see him, and when I wouldn't he turned up at my door instead. The saga continues.

Yes, I need a good film or two to occupy me tonight.

My Favourite Christmas Cake Recipe

2005-12-22T09:02:00.000Z

With fond memories of Pearse, whose bottle of Jameson's will now never run dry

Ingredients:

1 cup of water
1 tsp. baking soda
1 cup of sugar
1 tsp. salt
1 cup of brown sugar
lemon juice
4 large eggs
nuts
1 bottle Jameson's
2 cups of dried fruit

Sample the Jameson's to check quality. Take a large bowl, check the
whiskey again. To be sure it is the highest quality, pour one level cup
and drink.

Repeat.

Turn on the electric mixer. Beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy
bowl.

Add one teaspoon of sugar. Beat again. Make sure the whiskey is still
OK.

Try another cup.

Turn off the mixerer. Break 2 leggs and add to the bowl and chuck in the
cup of dried fruit. Mix on the turner. If the fried druit gets stuck in
the beaterers pry it loose with a drewscriver. Sample the whiskey to
check for tonsisticity.

Next, sift two cups of salt. Or something. Who giveshz a ****. Check the
whiskey.

Now sift the lemon juice and strain your nuts. Add one table.

Add a spoon of sugar, or something. Whatever you can find. Greash the
oven and piss in the fridge.

Turn the cake tin 350 defrees. Don't forget to beat off the turner.
Throw the bowl through the fecking window.

Check the whiskey again and go to bed.

May you all have a wonderful Christmas and may your lives be blessed with true & loving friends

The search for the perfect man (Part One)

2005-12-18T11:01:00.000Z

In the search for the perfect man that has followed my marital break-up I've acquired a stalker. Not the sort that sits in the dark outside your house to see when the lights go on or off, or follows you to Tesco to see what brand of fabric conditioner you buy, or who pinches your favourite Aubade knickers from the washing line. No, he follows me around online, collecting little electronic pieces of me. I have a virtual stalker. He could very well be reading this now, in which case I'll say: Stop reading now - virtual eavesdroppers seldom read good of themselves!

My VS, as I'll call him, sort of crept into my life rather unexpectedly about a year after my separation. I was involved in a relationship with someone who, I decided, was never going to muster the courage to commit. Yes he was married, though in his words the marriage was "fucked" and still is now. But that's a story for another time. Maybe.

So, I mentally distanced myself and set off to a new horizon. Virtually. That is to say I chatted online to new people, not with any intention of meeting anyone, but rather to while away the hours that had previously been filled with chatting online to Mr Fucked-Marriage. And I started talking to VS, who was vaguely amusing and didn't resort to sending unsolicited penis shots (which seemed to be the norm on one ISP I probably don't need to mention).

Then one weekend when I was at something of a loose end, VS invited me to meet him for a coffee as he'd been stood up (in retrospect by someone a little more discerning than me). He was good company, seemed quite interesting, and was wearing an item of clothing I find irresistible on a man (something which is too sad to reveal now). Ok, so he was a good couple of inches shorter than me (and I'm not particularly tall), one-eyed and dyslexic. Not being one to be prejudiced, these facts in themselves would not be preclusions to a relationship, but combined with the whole package might have been warnings in the way that a plague of frogs would be.

My problem is that I'm generally attracted to men who aren't hide-bound by convention. I like something of the rebel in a man, and it can manifest itself in many ways. As can wierdness, and it's not always intially obvious which it is. Ok, I know it is most of the time, but there are phases in all our lives when we're less discerning than we might normally be. VS was odd, but not in the way he liked to think he was. He liked to think he was eccentric - worshipping Wicca by prancing around his back garden naked at full moon, and keeping an attic full of porn were a couple of his foibles. Actually the porn was very funny. He decided to treat me to a viewing of some choice pieces one evening. Obviously a prequel to some "creative" sex, but it just made me laugh like the proverbial drain, which rather put the dampers on things.

VS was also rather tight-fisted, and lived in a house I positively hated. And he picked fault in me in an oblique way, so that when I challenged him he always countered "But I think you're gorgeous". And rather obsessive. He kept tapes of phone messages from an ex-girlfriend of a year or so before. He even chatted online to Mrs F-M, which shook me a little. So, not my perfect man. Time to move on.

After I broke the news to him the obsessiveness came to the fore. He filled up my answer machine with call after call, one immediately after the other. He must have put down the phone then remembered something else he had to enlighten me on, so was compelled to ring back again. He also sent me a little short story he'd written, based on me in which the main protagonist (with a gender change to provide anonymity) came to a rather nasty end, drunk and choking on his own vomit, and leaving his poor children to fend for themselves. I ended up screaming at him to "fuck off" down the phone, after he accused me of not leaving him in peace to get on with his life!

This was all about four years ago, but he still resurfaces, sending me little instant messages such as "Talking to you is like talking to crayfish in the Great Ouse". Hmmmm. And sending me emails (to a new email account that he knew nothing about) claiming he satisfies all the criteria in an online dating agency profile I have (for which information he must have done a fair amount of trawling). And sending me recordings of him singing "amusing" songs about dating. I ignore them all, as a response of whatever tone will only encourage.

Still, I suppose the advantage of meeting someone over the ether is that any potential wierdness will remain virtual. I do hope so.

In these Old Lavender Trousers

2005-12-16T18:00:00.000Z

I know what you're looking at people,
What you've got your eyes on I can tell;
It's these dear old lavender trousers,
Wishing you'd a pair like them as well.
My Grandad left them to me
So I could look a toff,
And I said till I was dead,
I would never take them off.

In these old lavender trousers
I've skipp'd and jump'd and skated,
Laughed and wept, Work'd and slept,
And twice been vaccinated.
I've drunk fourale, I've drunk champagne,
Been up the pole and down a drain,
I won the heart of Mary Jane
In these old lavender trousers!

Late last night I toddled in Lipton's
Everybody yelled "Here's someone big!
Who's that in those lavender trousers?
Hen-e-ry the Eighth or Lipton's Pig?"
I ran round the counter quick,
And when I wasn't seen
Down my legs I stow'd some eggs,
And a roll of margarine

In these old lavender trousers.
But soon I did feel shocking!
I turned green, the margarine
Was running down my stocking.
Lipton called a man in blue,
Then all the eggs were hatching too
All the little chicks went "Cock-a-doodle-doo!"
In these old lavender trousers.

Once when I was staying in Brighton,
Mashing all the girls on the Prom-what-what!
Dazzling them with my lavender trousers,
Suddenly the girls yell'd out "Great Scot!"
Some old chap was running round wrapp'd
Up in wet seaweed,
Shouting "Dogs, they've pinch'd my togs!"
So like a friend in need,

In these old lavender trousers
Said I, "There's room for two, sir!
Though you're fat, and I'm like that,
I'm sure there's room for you, sir!"
And all the girls began to screech,
For he and I had one leg each,
And arm in arm we toddled up the beach
In these old lavender trousers.

Last year we had a week in Blackpool,
Hadn't got a trunk or a bag, and so
Pack'd the things in the back of my trousers -
I was a walking portmanteau.
When we reach'd the station. oh!
My missus what a brain!
Said "Don't pay for the kid, you jay!
Smuggle him into the train."

In these old lavender trousers
I push'd our little Sammy,
Walk'd right thro', and paid for two -
Me and his dear mammy.
But that kid, when the guard came round,
Got me pinch'd and fin'd a pound,
'Cos he pok'd his head thro' a hole that he had found
In these old lavender trousers.

Once I was a tragedy actor -
Thirty bob a week, and a real big star!
When the limelight shone on these trousers
Ladies in the stalls would faint - Ah, ah!
In the drama "Dirty Dick"
I fairly froze their blood,
Till the lords up in the "gawds"
Started throwing lumps of mud.

In these old lavender trousers
To act I wasn't willin'.
They kicked me on and the limelight shone,
And the heroine said "Vill'in!
Have you no heart for a woman's woe?
No tender feeling at all? No, no!"
Then I rubb'd my patch and I said "What oh!"
In these old lavender trousers.

RP Weston & Harry Bedford

Over the top

2005-12-15T08:18:00.000Z

I never met my paternal Grandfather, John. He died before I was born, of causes that hint of a life lived to the full. He was what is often called a "character". A small, wiry man with sparkly eyes and a large personality, he was handsome, gregarious and a born entertainer. He performed comic songs in a music hall act, once even performing before the then Prince of Wales. Clearly my grandmother was smitten as she travelled steerage to India to marry him in 1922, against the wishes of her family (she was Catholic, he Church of England).

He was in India because he was a Private in the Northamptonshire Regiment, and before India he'd seen service in France during WWI. He didn't enlist until February 1918, aged 25 and was injured out shortly afterwards. I guess the reason for his late enlistment was that he was a coal miner and so probably categorised as being in a reserved occupation. The reason for his return home makes for a more amusing story.

I have no record of exactly where in France he was, but he was in the trenches waiting the order for a new push. Apparently everyone was issued with a tot of rum before an advance. A small shot of courage no doubt. Not everyone could face drinking theirs, so Grandad (being Grandad and not wanting to waste a good drink), drank all the spares. He was, the story goes, rather drunk and so when the order came and they charged out over the top, he tripped up, his legs in the air and got shot through the foot.

A narrow escape and ticket home that I will always raise a glass to!

When you wish upon a stir...

2005-12-11T15:19:00.000Z

I woke up abruptly rather early this morning by the room being shaken slightly. As I came to, the bottom of the blind tapped against the window frame maybe two or three times. In my half-awake state I thought that it had been a slight earth tremor and I went back to sleep.

I was quite incredulous later on when I got up and checked on the BBC website and saw the Hemel Hempstead explosion. I live about 40 miles away and felt it. The poor people who live nearby. And no doubt the rumours will start - there was already a rumour circulating during the week that there would be a bomb in Milton Keynes centre today, but then that particular version of scare-mongering always happens in the run-up to Christmas.

So, I'm now here writing this when I should be cracking on with housework before the children get back from their father's. But I'm not in the mood, though I have been shopping ready for our pre-Christmas ritual of pudding making. And yes, I know I should have made them a couple of weeks ago!

My Christmas Pudding recipe has been handed down sucessive generations on my mother's side. I come from a line of committed Methodists, many of whom signed the pledge, yet the recipe calls for both brandy & stout in generous quantities. I guess if you can't drink it, you'd better find ways of eating it! And who am I to argue.

So, this evening I'll put on some cheery music. Not too Christmassy (it's a bit early for anything too blatant). Maybe some Bach or Handel choral music, though the girls will complain if I join in con gusto. Maybe some Van the Man, to make me feel like dancing round the kitchen. And the girls will help me measure out, and crumb, and grate, and pour, and stir.

Of course, the most important part of the ritual is that when you stir the Christmas pudding you get to make a wish (clearly some devious ploy invented years ago to get the rest of the household to do some of the work). I've got lots of things I'd like to wish for, so I'll carefully pick one and keep it to myself (because if I tell anyone, even you, it won't come true). Then I'll put the pale mixture into basins and simmer them in the slow cooker overnight, so that they very slowly darken. And tomorrow morning we'll wake to the smell of Christmas.

Choices are the hinges of destiny

2005-12-10T12:22:00.000Z

Yesterday I ground to a halt, feeling completely exhausted. This week, on top of my usual crazy routine, I've been preparing grounds for appeal on my daughter's non-selection for grammar school.

As well as (just about) holding down my full-time job, I've been ferrying children between school and various out-of-school activities, rehearsing for a carol concert, supporting my daughter at a cross-country meet, taking her to her violin exam, going to the school carol concert, meeting friends who have been through the whole process to get advice on how to proceed, meeting with my daughter's head teacher to discuss her support, and last night collapsing with a friend and a (much-needed) bottle of wine.

So, my application for appeal is in now in the post, winging its way to the LEA who think my little girl isn't good enough.

Several things have struck me over this week, and one of them is how many people keep information from their children. Information that affects their future. I know 10 is young, but 10 year olds think deeply. They also worry if they think you're hiding something from them. The letter we received last week telling us that Rose had not passed her 11 plus exam included in an enclosed brochure the advice to "Think carefully before letting your child read the enclosed results letter, which is addressed to you not your child. ..but it is your choice, so consider this carefully especially if the result is unexpected." As if you're going to read the brochure before you look at the results, and then say to little Timmy "I think it's best you don't see this, but don't worry your little head about it"!

I've heard of one set of parents have taken this advice to heart and hadn't told their child his results nearly a week after everyone else had received them. He'd failed, which was no doubt obvious to him otherwise surely they'd have told him straight away. It's a tough thing to land on your 10 year old, but surely better to be honest and open.

My daughter knows that I'm going for the appeal - she was involved in the decision to go ahead with it. She very much wants to follow her older sister to the local grammar school, and I needed to know that was the case before I went ahead. I've also been honest with her about our low chances of success, with the reassurance that I will do absolutely everything I can to succeed. And I've talked to her about other schools and taken on board her views. After all it is her life we're making decisions about, and I don't consider I have ownership.

It's a delicate balancing act between giving her too much choice and responsibility at a young age, and being over-protective. And it's all brought back to mind having to make a similar decision myself.

When I was about 10 we were living in Kenya, and I was at a boarding school in the UK. I loved it, even though I was a long way from home so could only be there for the three main holidays. After I'd been there for about 18 months and I was home for the Christmas holidays, Dad had a long chat with me about how business wasn't going well and we were just about broke. He said that one saving would be for me to leave boarding school and go to a local school, but that if I really wanted to stay there he'd find the money somehow. It was my decision and there was no desperate hurry to make up my mind.

I agonised. I loved school, I had wonderful friends, I liked boarding - it made me feel independent. But there was a huge responsibility in that staying there would be a financial strain for the rest of the family. I was torn between what I wanted and what I thought was the right thing to do. I didn't think I could make the decision, and I wanted it made for me. But eventually I did it.

We had all gone to see my uncle off at the airport. The whole family was there - aunts, uncles, cousins, Mum, Dad, my sister & me. Fred was coming back to the UK on business. We all said good bye to him and sat in the airport viewing lounge watching him and the other passengers walk across the tarmac and up the stairs onto the plane. I was sat next to Dad, so I turned to him and said "I think I'll go to school here". "Ok", he replied and we said no more about it until a few years ago.

The trigger for my decision was the realisation that I couldn't face saying goodbye to my family and walking across that tarmac with the air hostess (as they were called then) and travelling all that way on my own, feeling very small and alone. And Dad was relieved because every time he'd waved me off, he'd (totally unknown to me) wept buckets seeing his little girl disappear like that.

It was probably the most difficult decision I've had to make, but I'm grateful to Dad for allowing me that responsibility. I hope I'm strong enough to give my children similar gifts.

Subhasita

2005-12-05T23:18:00.000Z

When we have loved, my love,
Panting and pale from love,
Then from your cheeks, my love,
Scent of the sweat I love:
And when our bodies love
Now to relax in love
After the stress of love,
Ever still more I love
Our mingled breath of love.

Poem from the Sanskrit

The things our children teach us

2005-12-04T22:57:00.000Z

What a weekend! Friday was such a smack in the face and the worst of it was seeing my normally robust, exuberant and witty child reduced to a withdrawn, tearful little thing, for whom my reassurances that "everything will be ok" were hollow and meaningless.

Rose cried before she fell asleep on Friday night, curled up in my bed. She cried again as soon as she woke up. She cried when she got back from her friend's house on Saturday afternoon. She cried when we went to bed again. She even apologised to me. I comforted her, of course, and poured in all the positive energy I could muster, and then cried all over a couple of friends at the choral society afternoon rehearsal.

My maternal rage kicked in very quickly on Friday afternoon, and I phoned her headteacher and made an appointment to talk to her about putting in an appeal to secure a place at the grammar school. The odds are very slim (last year 85% of appeal places were granted to children with test scores higher than hers), but I'm going in fighting because that's the school she wants to go to. And educationally, financially and logistically it's the best choice all round. I'm not sure her headteacher is going to be very helpful, but I hope I'm wrong.

And small, beautiful and kind things happened.

The friends at choir (well, acquintances really I suppose) were wonderfully understanding about my momentary crumple.

After I'd dropped my daughter at her friend Samantha's house on Saturday morning, her mother rang to ask me how things were. Apparently Sam, though thrilled with her pass-mark, had cried for about an hour when she'd heard our news. Nina (the mother) said that she had talked to Sam about keeping an eye out for Rose at school to make sure nobody upset her talking about their results & which school they're now heading for, and said that if there was anything they could do (having her round, taking her out with them, etc for cheering-up purposes) just to call on them at any time. Her concern and support were heartfelt and much appreciated.

My ex is coming round tomorrow to talk action plan. He's putting together a budget for managing to continue at the private school if necessary. AND he'll sell his beloved VW beetle to help fund it if necessary.

Today has been busy. We've had Grandma and Great-Aunt and Aunt round for Sunday dinner, and lots of homework to finish. Then when Rose was having her bath, she started talking calmly about whether the grammar school is really the right one for her. My little 10 year old was saying that even though that's where she'd like to go because her sister's already there, and she'll be able to walk to school, and lots of her friends are going there, that maybe it isn't really the right place for her. And she talked about what subjects she'd like to do for gcse, and what she'd like to do at university. And that really what she wants to do is to play hockey for England, so how old does she have to be before she can be given one of those hockey shirts with her name printed across the back. I suggested we'd better aim for the Olympic team then. And she smiled.

If only as adults we could deal with our disappointments so well.

Toward the Unknown Region

2005-12-03T08:19:00.000Z

We finally reached home and it was three in the morning. All four of us tired and pleased to be home after too long a journey, but I was dreading opening the front door. I turned the key in the door, and walked in with the girls following me. And I was right; the whole house was covered, not in a fine film by any means, but completely disguised in plaster dust. And they hadn’t finished yet. A note from the builders waited for us on the dining table. “A few pieces to finish off. We’ll be here at 8am”. Great. No lie-in then.

There was a mountain of post that could wait: it would be all bills and junk mail. We just needed to get the girls to bed, and hopefully their room would be clear. But one envelope caught my eye. Hand-delivered with just my name on the front. Bad news. I knew it was going to be the one thing that remained in the back of my mind throughout the two weeks holiday. Ian hadn’t made it. I opened the envelope and read. And there it was, the inevitable and most shocking.

“It’s from Steve,” I said. “They operated on Ian last week and he never recovered.” He did put his arm round me “I’m sorry,” he said. A rare moment of tenderness. “The funeral’s in Southampton on Wednesday. I’d like to go. ” And then the moment vanished, not even any traces of it left in the dust. I managed to find a spot to sit down among the dust-covered, piled-up furniture and downed a large gin.

Then four days later the funeral. Richard drove the car, Steve sat quietly in the front, Carol, Sally & I in the back. Sally wore the hat that made Ian laugh. It was one of those gloriously sunny days that add to the sense of disorientation at times of extreme sorrow. And somehow the random play on the CD player, guided by forces unknown, kept returning to James Taylor singing the line “And the sun shines on this funeral, the same as on a birth”. We sang along instinctively, Sally and Carol holding hands, heads close together.

At the church Ian’s father, remarkable and smiling, greeted everyone and made sure they found a seat, arranged that Jane was welcomed within the family and was mentioned in the prayers as “Ian’s special friend”. We cried on the front row and tried to sing and couldn’t imagine he was really there in that shiny box with the flowers on top. And somehow I managed to find my voice because Ian loved music and I wanted to sing well for him. George was distraught, said he felt worse than at his mother’s funeral, and Sue remarked “wasn’t that a jolly good sing!” Then we went to the pub and drank to Ian, and talked about him and laughed, and all tried on Sally’s hat, and had our photos taken with it on. And still it didn’t seem real.

And so here we are, three months later, to perform the concert he had planned. The challenges he set for himself and us have bravely been taken on by someone else. All difficult pieces in many ways, but the most challenging to me is this one. Vaughan Williams’ Toward the Unknown Region. Beautifully written, technically difficult, and so emotionally demanding. I haven’t been able to listen to a recording of it without crying. The poignancy of Ian having chosen this for us to sing and for him not to live to conduct us in it has just added to the heartfelt force of the music.

The tower room door opens and our new conductor and the orchestra leader walk down the aisle towards us. We lead the applause, they acknowledge the audience and take their positions. Now the orchestra begins, softly. Someone coughs. I start to count the bars, feel the apprehension described by the piano and strings, take a breath (two bars to go), hold it, hear the first note in my head, feel the consonant ahead of the beat, now we are there. Darest thou now O soul in hushed tones swells out into the next phrase. Walk out with me toward the unknown region. We all know the first few lines by heart, so I can look clearly out into the audience and only need a glance at my music. I remember the instructions: “you know it all – you don’t need your books, make eye-contact with the audience, communicate with them”. They are silent out there, watching us, the orchestra and Mark conducting. Ian’s father is seated at the back, on his own, eyes closed, concentrating on the music. Where neither ground is for the feet nor any path to follow. Still the orchestra arouses sensations of unease. I am now immersed in the music, all sense of myself fading into the atmosphere. Nor voice sounding, nor touch of human hand. Ian’s father is now leaning forward, his face resting in his hands. Is he overcome by emotions uncovered by the music, or is he just concentrating on listening?

And as my eyes scan the back of the church I see him. There, beneath the gallery, by the tower room doors is Ian. He is walking across the back of the church. Can he hear us? It is definitely him, his dark tousled hair, the way he’s walking, the concentration on his face. He’s wearing his suit & bow tie, under his parka as if he has arrived ready to conduct. I know it not O soul. Am I imagining this? It must be the intensity of the music, and yet I feel no surprise: he should be here, he was supposed to be here.

Till when the ties loosen, all but the ties eternal. He would usually have been guiding us through this, there would have been eye contact with him. We would have known instinctively what he wanted; we would have felt his passion for the music. Yet he has no communication with us any more. He is just here, part of the music, doesn’t seem to see us, and may not even be listening. The music intensifies, and still he calmly wanders around at the back of the church.

Then we burst forth, we float, in time and space O soul. And the music takes over, building towards its climax. I can feel the sound in my head now, everyone around me, we are all part of the crescendo, the intensity. The strings playing faster and louder, until the resolution. Them to fulfil, Them to fulfil, O soul like a hymn tune. Them to fulfil, O soul! The last high note, at the peak of volume rings round the church. The piano and strings reach the conclusion. Silence. Applause. And he has gone.

--------------------------------------------

Darest thou now 0 soul,
Walk out with me toward the unknown region,
Where neither ground is for the feet nor any path to follow?

No map there, nor guide,
Nor voice sounding, nor touch of human hand,
Nor face with blooming flesh, nor lips, nor eyes, are in that land.

I know it not 0 soul,
Nor dost thou, all is a blank before us,
All waits undreamed of in that region, that inaccessible land.

Till when the ties loosen,
All but the ties eternal, time and space,
Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, nor any bounds bounding us.

Then we burst forth, we float,
In time and space 0 soul, prepared for them,
Equal, equipt at last, (0 joy! 0 fruit of all!) them to fulfil 0 soul.

WALT WHITMAN
(From ‘Whispers of Heavenly Death’)

Life and other diversions

2005-12-03T00:02:00.000Z

Tonight, dear reader, I emerge blinking from behind the curtain with my first blog. It was originally going to be as witty and insightful as many of the other blogs I've been reading in the last few weeks. However, real life has a habit of intervening, and very little goes according to plan. Well, in my life it doesn't anyway.

For instance, I join a dating site with the misguided anticipation of meeting some interesting and attractive men, but instead develop female friendship. A wonderful bonus of course, but not according to plan. Rather in the same way that I once went out to buy food for a barbecue and came home with a couple of antique chairs. Great chairs, perfect for lolling gaudy in my boudoir, but not ideal for char-grilling. Maybe I'm just easily distracted.

And needless to say today didn't entirely go to plan. It was supposed to go like this...

Get lots of work done, pick up youngest daughter from school clutching her 11+ results with nervous anticipation, open envelope, whoops of delight, rush home to elder daughter, phone round with good news, all go out for a meal in celebration.

However, in the reality that is mine...

Work didn't go well (too boring for here), got dragged out to the pub for lunch (this was an enjoyable diversion, I hasten to add), elder daughter wanted picking up from school making me late for younger daughter, who was clutching 11+ results in nervous anticipation.

And then, sadly it diverts too far from the grand plan for a ten year old to deal with. Failure. A very crappy place for a 10 year old to be landing with a bump. So we went off to the cinema with a friend and her daughter who has also failed, and we divert ourselves with Harry Potter. And I want to know where I can get one of those wands from. I mean, you can buy anything on Ebay these days. And the local secondary school is certainly not Hogwarts.

Tomorrow I'll start with a new grand plan and maybe I'll keep you posted