Flea Baby

Back from holiday for just over a week (thank goodness) and we have a house full of visitors. I’ve had personal contact with several of them and I’ve exacted the wrath of the vacuum cleaner and the tumble drier on several others. If I meet any more then they are quite definitely going to DIE.

My fur baby, the utterly delicious Mrs Poppy Chihuahua has quietly, and without my particular permission, invited them to stay. On herself.

How kind and generous my darling is. How utterly ruthless I am.

She is the warm and friendly hostess. I am the cold hearted hunter out to get these most unwelcome guests, tracking them down, wiping them out. I am the flea-o-saurus rex, the flea-dalek, exterminate, exterminate, exterminate!

They shall be gone, if not with the wind, then with the vacuum cleaner and the special spray.

Phshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh……………… die, flea baby, die!

Get Netted

Get Netted!

Small, sleek, smooth, and seductive the dark red object begs to be opened. Inside is a vision of the universe and the hint of possibility beyond. Inside are images of the world which take the breath away. Inside is scientific discovery of a magnitude never before envisaged. Inside is knowledge, knowledge so vast that a human lifespan could never discover it all.  Inside is the sociologist’s macro and micro - the scale of humanity, the enormity of life and the minutia of all. Inside is a qwerty keyboard in all its glory.

Inside is an Intel Atom processor and all of the electronic gadgetry and wizardry required to produce any type of document, chart, spread sheet, or power point that I could desire. Or there would be, if I’d paid for it, but I didn’t, so Mr Gates or his sidekicks, will only let me have a little trial version insofar as they can advertise on it.

This is my new, small red netbook, the result of a hard fought battle between tiny technology or touch screen rapidity. Netbook or ipad. Netbook won, obviously. This is my new toy to aid and abet my dream of being a writer. This is the result of an epic battle, not only between choices of technology, but between consumer and provider, customer and seller, me and the sales boy.

Not salesperson, not salesman, but quite definitely sales Boy. Of course anyone under thirty is boy to me when you add up my years on earth. To the sales boy, anyone of my age carries certain characteristics. We conform to a stereotype, especially if we are, dare I say it, female.

You see, women of my age, caught mid-way between fifty and sixty, shortish, blondish, fattish even, are undoubtedly stupid and misguided and badly in need of the attentions of a sales boy.  Usually the attentions of boy-men are a source of amusement rather than flattery. This sales boy was not of the flattering type, neither was he amusing. He was just exasperating, annoying, insulting and confusing and he almost undid my resolve never to hurt anyone deliberately. He buzzed around me throwing questions into the air not waiting for them to land before he threw the next one. I resisted the urge to swat him, and swat him hard with a verbal put down that would stun him into silence and then finish him off with a quick blow to the psyche that he would never recover from.  Instead, and to cause him no offense I played the game.

So what happened?

I went in to a large and well known store near to where I work on a reconnaissance mission. With the help of a very sweet young lady I investigated ipads and net books until deciding on this one – the one on which I type now. Last minute indecision meant that I called back the following day to make my purchase, having a last look at the choices on display. I didn’t see him until he spoke

‘Do you need any help at all?’

‘Yes. Thank you. I would like to buy this net book’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, this is the one I want’

‘What would you be wanting it for?’

‘Knitting’ I replied ‘Knitting and making macaroni’ (I made that up, I really said ‘for word processing, for creative writing’)

The sales boy told me that I didn’t want a net book at all. If I would like to follow him he would show me what I wanted and he walked around the display to the lap tops. He explained that they were portable and much, much better than a net book. I began to realise that he thought I was computer illiterate at best, absolutely stupid at worst. I explained that I wanted a very small machine and he clearly didn’t believe me, again showing me a lap top.

‘Small enough to go in my handbag’ I said helpfully.

‘How big is your handbag?’ he replied, so I waved it at him. Tiny, Kipling. Cerise pink… really consolidated my either blonde or old persona.

Explaining that I already have a lap top of my own, access to two others, a PC t home and a PC at work eventually convinced him that I knew which size of machine I wanted. Just then my phone rang.

‘You’ve got an iphone!’ he exclaimed. At last, in his reckoning I moved into the 21^st Century but swiftly fell back out when he questioned me about it.

‘I can get you a great deal, an upgraded phone and that thing there for half price’

I didn’t want a new phone. I wanted a small red net book and eventually I convinced him.

A minor spat ensued regarding windows installation and internet security, except he didn’t call it that and gave it a brand name which I didn’t recognise. Taking a guess at his meaning and being exasperated beyond belief I told him that I could extend  security from my home computers (yes, plural)for seven pounds. He assumed I meant household insurance.

‘No’ he said, ‘you don’t understand. Do you have a garden ? Well, in your garden you have plants that you want and plants that you don’t, you can’t help the ones that you don’t…….’ I butted in and stopped him and but for the arrival of another sales person, would have told him to stuff the little red net book into any area able to accommodate it. , We then entered the battle of the Microsoft Office. I didn’t need it, but caved in under pressure and regretted my weakness (returned it for refund the next day’).

I’m a teacher. I can patronize to my heart’s content but I respect my learners, so I don’t. He clearly had little to no respect for any intelligence I might have. He asked another sales person to handle the sale.

‘Please set this up for the lady’ he requested ‘It’s only £70 today but would be £100 if you couldn’t manage it yourself and had to come back’.

Astonished I declared that I could indeed set up a PC and install programs. He stepped back in disbelief.

‘Are you sure? You need a user name and everything.’

I am no longer sure. I am a mere whisper of the person I was when I entered the store. I do not possess a degree in social and political theory; neither do I have two further professional qualifications. I am defeated. I give up and behave like I am expected to, like an idiot, and I go to the till and pay my money and get out of the experience. He doesn’t get to set it up though as I fib and say that my husband can do it. I so obviously cannot.

What is it about me that signals my stupidity? What is it about me that marks me as an incompetent customer and an incapable consumer who needs little boys to take over and think for me. Well, nothing actually, the mistake was all his.

The fact that you are a Fones4U boy, interfering in the business of the real sales people tells me that you didn’t do so well at school. Come to my college little man and I will show you how to REALLY treat people with intelligence – intellectual and emotional. You’ll like it. You might learn some manners.

This was to be a really witty post. It started off Ok, but dwindled into whinge mode as I remembered how much fun I didn't have buying this net book.

 

just a little cross......

.....but not yet angry enough to be rude to anyone.

Dear @@@@@ Club

I am writing with regard to the club site at xxxxxxxx.

My husband and I use this site every year – for seven years in fact. We always enjoy our stay there, sometimes stopping over, sometimes using it as a base for touring, sometimes just for the pleasure of being there.

The facilities are not state of the art, but they are spotlessly clean and perfectly adequate. The wardens on site are always dedicated and helpful, companionable and informative too.

I have really looked forward to this year’s visit. I even saved up my washing for my few days of chilling out at xxxxxxx. Except, I’m not exactly chilled out, because the laundry facilities are out of order, and have been, so I’m told, for some weeks now.

Overnight, there was a spate of illness in our campervan resulting in an urgent need for the bedding to be laundered. Alas, the facilities advertised in the site directory are not available necessitating the need to visit the dry cleaning establishment in town. An expensive visit, during which the proprietor told me that she has enjoyed many visits from folks ‘at the campsite’.

The tent campers, without drying facilities have a particular problem, one young lady hanging rain soaked clothing in the ladies’ changing area.

After cleaning up this morning, I showered …….no hairdryer! Not so bad for me as I have a spare travel one, but again the tent campers are at a disadvantage.

On investigation, it seems that there are many issues at  this site beyond the control of the wardens and about which the club has done very little, if anything. The situation is losing custom and portraying the club in a negative manner to non members. Perhaps the club no longer cares about the little, tucked away, quaint place as xxxxxxx?

I care. Very much so. Please pay attention and resolve these issues immediately as it is a disgraceful state of affairs indeed.

As I cannot seem to contact you about the issues outlined above, I'm posting you on the world wide web instead.

Bus - y

Horror of horrors, there is no hot water in my house. The immersion heater has been leaking for a couple of days and thanks to a supply of towels to rival any health spa, we have managed to save the floorboards - and the ceiling of the room below. His Majesty has battled bravely all day firstly trying to fix the existing tank and secondly by buying a new tank.. the old one refused to be mended.

As I start a new programme of study on Monday evening I needed to go into the city to buy the three set texts. I also wanted a little look at some nice yarns in the department store. H.M. being so busy, I went by bus. After all, it more or less stops at the end of my crescent (street) it would be daft not to take advantage of it. It certainly took advantage of me! The last time I travelled by bus it cost £3.50 for a day return ticket. The driver asked for £6. I had £5 in cash. No matter, I paid for a one way trip, after all I could pop to the 'hole in the wall' and get the return fare when I got there.

By car the journey takes about forty minutes. One and a half hours later and several chapters of Thomas Hardy I arrived, too stiff to move, hungry and needing the toilet. Ah well.

Straight to the cathedral book shop. Oh dear, all of my required texts are sold out. I ordered them and left, passing the 'Big Issue' seller.

" 'Haven't sold one all day love" he said.

I scrambled about in my purse, £1.90 something.

'They're £2.50 love' he added. I told him that I'd pick one up on the way back to the bus stop, walked about 100 yards and thought better of it, returned and gave him what was left in my purse. I may not see him on the way back to the bus stop, and I could get to the bank machine - he couldn't. I didn't take a magazine. They used to be £1. Inflation hits everyone!

No books and no yarn later it was time for the trip home. One bus at 17.31 and another at 18.01. Missed one, too early for the other....ooooh here one comes, 17.50. Work that one out.

Settled into a seat with the Kindle and began to sink into the novel again but the little child in the seat in front began to leap up and down and shriek. He was around two and a half years old with a gorgeous mop of curls and the brightest brown eyes I have ever seen. Mum looked dreadful, exhausted, drawn and ill. She was. Poor lady has the current flu bug. Jamilla and I sang all the way home. We sang about black sheep, wheels on the bus, Postman Pat, Bob the Builder, Miss Polly's dolly, Humpty Dumpty and a host of other top ten hit with tots. Mum took the opportunity to take her flu medication while Jamilla and I took the opportunity to discuss the sand and water play at his playschool. They left the bus in the village before mine, she looking a little better and he waving goodbye. Kindle and I became reacquainted and as I settled back into the story a voice behind me said

'You getting on alright with that darling?'

'A leading question' thought I, and replied ' yes, its great, got it for Christmas. Smashing on the bus. Can't replace a real book though, not the same'. Right answer. Gentleman works for a book distributor. It's always good to agree with people on a bus!

The day had faded into darkness when I alighted just around the corner from my house. H.M. had worked all day on the hot water system and we managed a couple of baked potatoes with cheese before he went to bed. The simple stuff is always the best.

And me? Well, I've been cared for by my lovely husband, mindful that I like to shower in hot water, snuggled by Poppy Chihuahua, I've been 'loved' by a homeless magazine seller and 'darlinged' by a warehouse packer. But most of all, I've been appreciated by a small miracle, a little boy with curly hair and brown twinkling eyes. What more could I want?

Barred of soap

Gifts. Gifts are special, special to receive and special reminders of who gave us them. Usually gifts are welcome and appreciated but we all have experience of a gift that we might not have liked, or even one that insulted us in some way.

I love giving and receiving gifts and I try to take as much care of those I receive as possible, and to appreciate both the gift and the giver.

Today I have thrown away a gift. I've half-used it, disliked it, and thrown away a perfectly good gift. In the bin. Gone. Dissolved, deleted, eliminated. Oh what bravery!

It was a bar of soap, a simple bar of soap. Being a lady who appreciates lovely smellies as gifts - soaps are treasured. As children my sisters and I were well scrubbed with a bar of rough red stuff called carbolic (excuse the spelling if you know better). I can smell it now. Very coal tar - ish. I quite liked the smell. We would watch TV adverts for more beautiful and less utilitarian soaps such as Lux or Camay. Camay came in PINK. Important to three sisters used only to rough red slabs of scrub-a-dub-dub, cold water, kitchen sink and a shared towel. How we dreamt of such luxury as Camay.

'It's scenty' my mother would say 'No good for your skin. It will give you spots'.

Now children know what spots are. Itchy things with names such as Chicken Pox or German Measles. We'd had them and we didn't want them again, so we acquiesced and stopped piping about Camay and Lux, and, luxury of luxuries - Pears.

As teens luxury soaps became ours as friends and families moved their gifts to us from toys to more adult offerings. How we delighted in them. They were indeed 'scenty' and needed to kept well away from one's glorious complexion, but we loved them all the same.  Later I became an Avon lady and would furnish my bathroom with soaps which reflected the changing seasons, always of course using a mild and gentle soap on my own babies and certainly not carbolic.

The gift I disposed of was a scented bar of soap which my subconscious presented as precious and needing to be used to the last tit bit . It was given by a Not Friend. That is someone who pretended to love me but didn't. This Not Friend was only too able to target me as someone to emotionally blackmail and bully...yes, you have read about her before. Anyway, the Not Friend has gone now but sadly some of the damage she caused lives on still. Why is she a Not FRIEND? Because she told me how fond she was of me whilst wreaking her trail of destruction, that's why. A friend? Not.

Remember the song 'I'm gonna wash that man right outta my hair'? Well, using the soap I thought would wash the Not friend out of my mind. It hasn't. It serves as a daily reminder, and not only that, it has dried the skin of my hands into wrinkly claws. So begone, you demon. I want to be mended. I want my hands to be nice again and I want my mind to be fixed again. Into the bin you go. I don't want you, I don't even need you... there are other, less pretentious soaps in my repertoire that will be kind to me. And so, out with the trash went the soap. Finito. The emotional scars may take a while to surface properly and then dissipate but hey ho, they will go!

Imperial Leather. That's what you would normally find in my bathroom. I have used it since leaving my parent's home in 1978. It is simply the most gorgeous soap with a clean and crisp scent. Opening a new bar instantly transports me back to the camping days and my dad getting washed in the tent. He always had Imperial Leather on camping trips. Add to that memory those ones of my children playing with the lather and I have a lifetime of pleasant thought and happy memories to scrub out the Not Friend unpleasant ones.

Gifts. Good to give and good to receive, especially when they are given and received with love. Those precious gifts given by God may hold a few surprises, but they will be good. His most precious gift, that of His son Jesus Christ is one which will last a lifetime and beyond. Accept it and wash away the cares and the sins of the world. A true friend and a true gift. Enjoy.

Alas me Hearties!

When you've got a pain midships and it feels like you're coming to the end of your keel row you know that you may get hoisted by your own petard. I'd no wish to descend to Davy Jones so visited me old bosun at the health centre. Nothing wrong. Still the old pump kept being a bother and it seemed to want to cause chaos in the engine room. Easily solved me hearties! A little less stress and the engine purrs like a kitten. A brand new set of rigging in a slightly smaller size for the heavy ballast midships and Captian Jack! No more problems.

And the moral of the story is: ladies on diets who get chest pains - try a smaller bra. (and visit ye olde bosun too just in case).

Weeza and the Terrierists

Blessed as I am I have many wonderful friends to compliment my darling family. I have my precious God Sister - that's she with the many children and then my much valued Christian colleague who keeps me grounded and sane. I have another friend too and she is gorgeous and funny and sunny and golden all the way through. She is Weeza and she has a pair of terriers who are absolutely adorable.

I am so blessed that I know that I am loved. That is an amazing feeling. In my younger days when I wasn't sure what love was or even how love (in the agape sense) was demonstrated, I was probably badly behaved in response and very insecure and lacking in self worth. No longer. I cherish my beloved family and friends and I am cherished in return. Weeza too is a 'cherisher', she loves wholeheartedly and unselfishly and she is loved and cherished in return.

When someone loves and is loved then carries the confidence that goes with it, they are able to offer the treasure of their love outwards drawing in those who don't feel loved. That's a great gift, one from God.

Sadly, not everyone responds well. I remember a former colleague who seemed to despise me and I could never understand why. One day, after treating me with the utmost contempt she said that I had too many friends and she wasn't going to be part of my falseness just for the sake of it. If only she knew! If only she had taken the love offered! Another response is jealousy. Some people try hard to be liked but aspects of their character are hard and spiteful and when they see a popular person, the need for them to be the centre of attention creates hard and spiteful actions. Others do not want to suffer the same fate as the popular person, so they join forces with the jealous one so that the jealous one does not turn on THEM. Contrary to popular belief, those of us who are loved don't always have an easy time of it!

This is happening to Weeza right now. Right now she is under attack from the Spiteful and Jealous Ones. Right now her beautiful sunny nature and her generous loving spirit are being jet-washed with nastiness. Right now she needs our support and our prayers.

 It is the love of God that people like Weeza and I try to reflect. If we are commanded by Jesus to be like him, then anyone should be able to look at us and see His light reflected there.  

On your kneeza for Weeza - right now!

Just been mangoed.

I've just been mangoed. Patience now whilst I try to explain. Our House has had a brand new fitted kitchen. My very first kitchen that hasn't belonged to somebody else, in that it was ripped out of their kitchen and made to fit mine. This kitchen is mine, all mine and I chose it, even down to the rather pretentious tap which appears to wing its way out of the draining board and take flight across the kitchen like some sort of stainless steel swan. The work tops are laminate... its no use a spillalot like me having the real thing, granite and wood would be ruined in no time. There is underfloor heating - gorgeous - and an absolute plethora of spice drawers. Fifteen in fact. Two of them even have spices in them. All in all it is a beautiful addition to our home and His Majesty and I are well pleased.

His Majesty likes mango chutney. More than likes, in fact I would say that His Majesty ADORES mango chutney. He would and does eat it with just about everything. A jar doesn't last very long in our house. In order to catch the last little drop in the jar he stands it upside down in the cupboard so that the chutney has drained downwards towards the lid and can be got at easily without the aid of a spoon.

And drain it did. All the way down and out through the carefully left unscrewed lid, across the brand new cupboard shelf and down the side of said shelf onto the one below.

I may be of a substantial width but I am nonetheless of limited height. Therefore the cleaning up of His Majesty's mango necessitated the fetching of a chair from the dining table and a precarious mixture of balance and scrub.

Am I at all rattled by the migration of mango?

You bet!

A brand new kitchen starts beautifully clean. Without this incident, I shouldn't have needed to take a cloth to it until at least 2015.

Now there's a hiatus

Hmmmmm. Problematic hernias. Always caused by obesity apparently. Of course being twelve and a half stone I am morbidly obese, a quivering lump of frightened jelly waiting to expire in a moment from heart attack or stroke. I've grown quite fond of my hernia over the years. It gives me good warning of calorific overload and serves as a constant reminder of how weak willed I am when it comes to food - for my hernia is of the hiatus kind, the valve between stomach and oesophagus is a little wonky.

Consultant and GP alike blame ME. I did it. I am responsible. I am the careless twit who threw her health away on several (how I can lie) bars of chocolate delight and a walnut whip or two. I have gotten quite sick these days, not on chocolate though that would be rather nice, but on the victim blaming culture of 'oh well, I am so sorry you are suffering, but it is your own fault you know, Mrs Very Bad Person'.

Well stuff you. With chocolate. I didn't get the dratted hiatus hernia from eating chocolate at all........ if I turn the clock back twenty years I can see where it came from.

Imagine this.... a very slim woman of around thirty has a wonderful job in a preschool. Every morning, lovely slim lady and other slim friends turn up at the local church hall and set out all of the play equipment for the day. Some of that play equipment is HUGE, heavy wooden climbing frames of superb quality wood, filled to the brim sandpits loaded with scoops and rakes, dressing up boxes complete with the very latest in cast off ball gowns and rolled up carpets to spread beneath the bounty and protect little hands, knees and feet.

I remember the pains. For a couple of days I would live on arrowroot biscuits and Earl Grey tea until they settled down. Not for a moment did I think it was a medical condition, in my ignorance I thought I kept catching tummy bugs from the children!

So, those of you who tell me to lose two stones and it will go away, remember that heavy lifting is a cause too. I think my hernia is much more stubborn than two stones. It could be here to stay.

ANOTHER HIATUS:

Hmmmmmmm. Well, there's a thing. Another hiatus actually. Poised on the brink of actually CHANGING MY MIND I've hesitated. I love my job. I get to be as creative as I can be, I get to help people through some of the worst times in their lives. I get to send people into a rewarding and fulfilling future and begin them on a learning journey that should last for the rest of those lives. And am I happy? No.

Happiness is subjective of course so I will try to explain. I am happy standing in front of my class watching the learners light up with enthusiasm. I am happy when they grow and develop and learn and a whole new vocabulary and perspective becomes theirs. I am happy in the staff room with my wonderful colleagues. I am not happy being part of some big game where those of us who carry the good name of the learning establishment on our shoulders are being robbed of precious management and preparation time by the vicious greedy swipes from  above. Efficiency? Stinks of immorality and bullying.

Here's the hiatus: do I stick with it and gradually let my physical and mental health get squeezed thinner until I disappear altogether? Or do I make a move to another job?

There is another job on the horizon and it could be mine. It is a very different job involving a very different set of skills and it is with a company who actually care for their customer and care for their staff.

I would still be making a difference. A very different sort of difference, but a difference just the same. And a special one involving people at the very extreme of emotional distress. Therefore no more creativity with classes of students, mass hilarity or elated success.

I do so want to make a difference, that different difference. But I'm scared. What would YOU do?

Thinking about being squeezed, I think it's about time I tried another slimmers cupasoup. Yum.

Happy anniversary for the 28th my Lovely Pops! Kiss kiss kiss xxxx.
the spell check has stopped working. Soryr.

Postscript added February 2012. I didn't apply for the new opportunity, my Pops wasn't welcome and she would have been left alone for far too long during the day. There are lovely dog-carers to help out, but I am Pops's primary carer and she is my beloved little friend who I won't abandon for the sake of change. When the time for change is right, God will provide and equip. I wait.

Poppies lift, firm and separate!

http://www.legionshop.co.uk/shop/jewellery/poppy-jewellery/the-buckley-poppy-brooch.aspx

Isn't that lovely? I bought mine and am wearing it with pride. Exactly WHERE I  wore it yesterday it will be made clear in a moment.

Yesterday was graduation day. You would think I would be used to it by now, yesterday was my third, and although they have all been greatly different, this one came with the required outfit of academic gown, hat and hood. Thereby hangs a tale. I should know by now, as a regular wearer of an academic hood (mine is added to my clerical gowns for special occasions), that I would know how to fasten the thing on.

In preparation I wore a blouse with buttons. Correct. The blouse was made of flimsy material though and the hood began to slide down my back, lifting my blouse and threatening to cut off my circulation. It wasn't a pretty sight I can tell you. My better half was highly amused.

A kindly colleague gave me a tip.

'Fasten it to your bra with a pin' she said. Super idea... but where to find a suitable pin?

The only thing I had vaguely resembling a pin was my beautiful poppy brooch, carefully pinned to the outside of the gown. Off it came, and standing in the shadows of a rather grand town hall staircase, I managed to pin through blouse and bra and hold the hood down.

Immediate and marvellous effect. The threat of strangulation removed I stood tall. At least five feet two. My back straightened, my chin came up and I looked (but not felt as I had a steaming cold) ten years younger.

I discovered that the lift and separation of a poppy brooch bearing the weight of an academic hood rivals that of any other bosom upholstery. Lift and separation were mine, in abundance.

Eat your hearts out supermodels! I stood proud, in more ways than one, and took my place on the platform, safe in the knowledge that NOTHING was going to let me down.

You know, they didn't let us down, the ones we remember on Poppy Day. They held us up even unto their last breath. They didn't know us but they knew that we would come in the future and they died to protect that future for us. We live in now, this very moment, the future that they gave their lives for. Don't waste a second of it because it came at a great cost.

And, returning to a familiar theme, our lives and out eternal life are secured by another sacrifice, a life freely given that we might be forgiven and have, when our earthly time is over, everlasting life.

Dear Jesus, help us not to  waste a second of our lives.  We are lifted up before our God and we will never be separated from Him. Because of You. 

It's hard to forget

Remembrance Day soon isn't it. Poppy Day. And then it will be Poppy Day again as we celebrate a whole year of gorgeous chihuahua - ness, and look back on how she came to us, settled in and now runs our lives. Poppy Day.. the reality of what it really means is etched into the face of every member and every former member of the armed forces. Look into their eyes and you can see it.

I can't take the credit for the poem, it is a very famous and often quoted one, and I am sure that during my studies I must have picked up ideas from others. So I thank you, those who have made me think and weave together the thoughts below...

 ‘In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.’

As a child, living in a crowded town in an area where there were row upon row of houses opening straight onto a pavement, things that grew were cultivated, they didn’t get there by themselves. I had lots of experience of fields and farms unlike the other children around me, and I was intrigued by growing things. I knew that things in the country grew by themselves so to speak; I knew that things in the town grew because someone planted them. Poppies were an enigma. They grew on bits of waste ground, bits of grass that hung around on the edges of spaces, around crumbled buildings, and were there was a gap between houses that nothing filled. I loved them; I loved the red of them and the shape of them and the fact that they, like me, seemed to hang around where no one else seemed to want to be. They seemed brave somehow, pushing up through the hard ground and flaunting their loveliness in the dereliction around them. I had little to no idea of the significance of the poppy of course; they were just my flower, bright and lovely. Although I gathered up buttercups and daisies, I never broke the stem of a poppy, it seemed wrong to do so, as if I would be removing a badge of courage from the ground. As a child, I reasoned this, I felt this. Somehow, my childish reasoning must have picked up on Remembrance Day and built in me a subconscious reverence for the flower and its meaningfulness.

Remembrance Sunday isn’t a looking backwards day because when we remember those who died, it brings them into the present-day. As long as we do not forget them they are part of our human community here and now. Their lives and their deeds are still meaningful  to us. If we ever forget them then they will truly be left in the past. So by remembering those who gave their lives for us as we do today we are not living in the past –we are enriching our appreciation of the present..  

Remembrance Sunday is a time for looking forward too. There is a close relationship between remembering and hoping. Hoping is like the future tense of remembering.

 When we hope for something which is yet to happen its like remembering what we believe in and trust in – and so the thing we are hoping for also becomes part of our present day – because what we hope for guides our actions here and now

If we remember the dead but have no hope for them; again it is as if we had left them behind in the past. So as we remember our war dead also we have many hopes. We hope they will never be forgotten in the future. As we remember why they died, we hope that their death will not have been for nothing. As we remember the scale and the horror of war deaths over the last 100 years and all the misery and destruction that flowed from these wars also we hope that there may be no more wars like those in the future.

The Scriptures urge us not to grieve over the dead as if there was no hope. We are to remember what and in whom we believe and have hope – remember what happened to Jesus – he died but we believe he was raised from death. So Christian hope is the dead will rise again. As we remember God; who holds all life in his hands; as we remember Jesus and what he taught and what happened to him; then may we hope that the dead will see a day when they know that they are not forgotten but are forever alive in the love and memory of God.

Remembrance Sunday helps us to make that vital link between people in the past who served us well and our hope of peace in years to come. Today is an opportunity to make the link -as we honour those who died, as we support the work of the British Legion, we are in some way securing some sort of future peace for their families and friends at home. In addition, we honour them by working towards a hope for peace in the future.

Remembrance day reminds us that the peace that we have enjoyed for the last 50 or so years here in Great Britain was not bought cheaply.

It is not just a reminder of those who died in the First and Second World Wars - important as they were. It is also a reminder of other conflicts that our armed services have been in

The Korean War
The Aden and Malayan Emergencies
The Falkland War
The Cyprus Conflict
The Northern Ireland Police Action
The 1st and 2nd Gulf Wars
The Afghanistan and Iraq Conflicts

And it gives us an opportunity to say “Thank you” for the sacrifice that so many made - so that we in the United Kingdom can enjoy peace and we can do so in an informed and thankful way. As Christians we have our book of memories to help and guide us towards the ways of peace and righteousness. Our Bible is a book of memories.

There we can recall God’s goodness to his people starting with the stories of the Patriarchs Abraham, Isaac and Jacob in the Old Testament.
There we remember – in the New Testament – the story of God sending his own Son Jesus into the world to bring mankind back into a right relationship with God - culminating with the ultimate sacrifice that Christ made on our behalf on the Cross. Thus a book of remembrance, a book of the present, and a book of, and for, the future, our future and the future of all humankind.

For every one who suffered, Christ suffered too. For everyone whose body was bloodied and torn, so too was his body. For everyone who was wracked with pain so too was he. For everyone who cried out with despair, so too did he cry out. For everyone who entered into a living hell, so too did he, and he took on the hell of the dead, and was victorious, for them, for us, for always.

‘In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.’

When fighting ceased in 1918 the mud of the battlefields was allowed to rest and nature began to be restored and before long the wild flowers grew and bloomed including the poppy. The colour of red reminded people of bloodshed and the sacrifice made by millions of brave soldiers. And so the poppy became the symbol of sacrifice.

We, in the Christian Church, also have a symbol. It’s the Cross of Jesus. One of His great sayings is: ‘Greater love has no-one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends’ (John 15:13). And that’s just what He did.

Amen.

What's a few months between friends?

I disappeared from the blog scene. Stuff was going on and stuff is still going on, but stuff goes on in the lives of every one doesn't it?

I just felt really guilty about the self indulgence of the whole blog thing. Why should I spend my time writing onto a virtual sheet of paper things about myself, my family and events around me when there is so much happening and needing to be done?

The marking for instance..... the pile just grows and grows.
The essays to be written for my course.......
The ironing. Oh the ironing.

My sister has been to stay. Last summer she tydied up my utility room and folded my rebellious ironing pile into some sort of order. Wonder if she noticed during this visit that IT IS THE SAME PILE? I could have pretended to have recycled it but I really didn't notice myself until she had gone home.

oops.

Well, new developments chez moi. Something popped up, popped in and pops around.
(Sounds so rude!)
It's small, furry and gives a great deal of pleasure.
(Sounds even ruder)
I get to stroke it and it positively trembles with delight.
(Oh the absolute rudeness)
And if I give it a little kiss..............
(Rudeness personified now)
I get over come with love for it
(Overcome with rudeness!)
And I want more.
(shame, shame, shame).

It's POPPY. Poppy is the most delightful, delectable and deliciously cuddly little doggy ever to be found. Description doesn't do her justice, she is ADORABLE and she's here!

For Poppy it has been a tough journey, leaving her previous owners and moving in with us - but I hope it has been worth it for her. Now that I'm back on board with my literary self, I'll post about Poppy and her journey to us and all that I've learned in the meanwhile.

Bye for now folks and thank you for waiting.

Poppin' in soon

One of my very, very first posts was 'can't get you out of my head, 'cos chihuahua is all I think about'. Well, the thought is still there, it never went away. I think I developed it because I still miss my dear Old Meggie so much and although I long for another dog, I don't want to replace her or, sort of feel unfaithful to her. That could be why my subconscious chose a very non terrier breed for me to focus on. I could indulge my need for a dog safely knowing that I wouldn't get one. Does that make sense? WELL I'M GETTING ONE NOW!!!!!!!!  Heart doesn't ache quite so much and the time, and the situation are right... and Poppy arrives at our house in two weeks time. She's no baby, but she is very small, very cute, and very much a big dog in a little package. Yes, she's a chihuahua!

Eye'll be more careful next time

My eye! Eye will certainly have to be less enthusiastic about my spare time reading from now on. Eye really put my foot in it. As I waited in a rather wide doorway last week, I chatted to a friend. Other people passed by and to each I said 'goodbye' and exchanged pleasantries. To my friend I waxed lyrical about a passage I had read in Henry Mayhew's 19th century book about London's working poor. Intrigued by his first hand accounts from the mouths of the poor themselves, I had read a piece quoting a glass eye maker. It is a super piece and it illustrates the plight of those who lost an eye in Victorian times. As the glass eye maker was a profitable business, it seems that losing one's real eye was a common occurrence. He says, that to a poor person, a glass eye was a real necessity for no one would employ a person with an empty eye socket. He describes the glass eyes en-mass for inspection and the variations in qualities between them. It really is a poignant piece. It's not my fault that I find it ever so slightly funny, is it?

There I was then, describing the passage to my friend when who should walk by and stop to chat but Frank. Of course he heard the tail end of the tale. Of course Frank has a glass eye. Of course I tactfully steered away from the subject. Of course not. I tried, I really tried, but somehow every second word which fell from my lips had something to do with 'seeing him on Wednesday' 'looking forward to the weekend' and more. I couldn't have been less tactful if I had actually written a script and rehearsed it.

Reminded of an event from several years ago made me blush all the way home. A friend of my brother-in-law, studying with him at a local university, came to stay. A beautiful day, we decided that a barbecue would be fun, feed all of us and best of all, the guys could cook.

Something terrible had happened to brother-in-laws friend. His dad had been discovered, discretely wrapped in carpet, tucked neatly away under the garden fence where he had lain for quite some time. It transpired that friend's family had suffered terribly at this man's hands and during one last and awful altercation, he had been battered to death. Our friend had not missed his dad, believing him to be working in the far eastern oil fields. When he rang home, his mum would say
 'oh, you've just missed your dad, he is flying back in half an hour', or
'Dad won't be home for Christmas, the station needs to be manned'. Needless to say, our friend had received a terrible shock. I felt that it was my duty as a friend and a Christian to welcome him to our home and be of as much comfort as we could be.

Back to the barbecue. The boys went out to play in the local public house and my husband and I prepared the meal and we waited. And we waited. And we waited. And eventually we cooked it and we ate it. Keeping some for the bother-in-law and our guest, we left the charcoal glowing for as long as possible. Eventually the meat was too charred to be of any use and in a fit of pique I threw it over the fence into the field beyond.

Home came brother-in-law and friend, staggering gamely in through the back gate and demonstrating how well they could stand on one leg after downing ten pints of lager between them.
'Where's me dinner?' asked hungry friend
'Down there' I said. 'Interred at the bottom of the garden where it deserves to be'.

Out in the blog-o-sphere

I've been out in the blog - o - sphere for a while. When things get serious I need to concentrate and not let my thoughts get out of control. So, no funny stories, no weird happenings, nothing exciting to report.

Except: I have been enthralled by the rescue of the Chilean miners. Absolutely enthralled. They are a testament to their own strength, courage, faith and conviction and tributes must be paid to the wonderful people who engineered their rescue and those who held vigil for them.

A person posting on my Facebook page does not want to hear any more about the miners ...'sick of it' says the poster. I'm not. I watched as much of it as I possibly could. In this world of tragedy brought about by toxic waste, mud slides, floods, earthquakes, and humanity acting against itself, the story of the Chilean miners is one of humanity actually demonstrating wisely the tremendous power that humanity has.

The power of patience, courage, knowledge, organisation - too much to mention - have all been ably and manifoldly demonstrated. Not sure if manifoldly is a real word, but its the one I want to use.

Get fed up with watching the events? Never! I have seen prayer in action and prayers answered, right before my eyes.

Thank you to the 'little heroes'  - the Red Cross and other agencies, who through their charity, supplied shelters and more for the waiting relatives of the trapped men. The old King James version of our Bible uses the word 'charity' where our newer versions use the word 'love'. Faith hope and love. Faith, hope and charity. Love expressed and love freely given.

A dear friend of mine, not one known to my 'churchy brothers and sisters' has just been diagnosed with cancer. A very special lady, she has actually made history in one part of her life! She is not a religious person, in her own words, and she has a strength within her that most of us can only dream of, so my prayers for this wonderful person, is that she can learn to lean on others and take heart from their strength. So, dear, non religious friend, whether you like it or not, prayers are yours.God bless you and keep you, and yours, in His care.

No comment

My apologies if you are trying to comment. I thought I had enabled comments, but don't quite seem to have managed it. Of course you could leave a comment telling me how to do it, but I wouldn't see it because I can't, so to speak. If you know, email me!

Revenge is feet (or toetal wipeout)

Are you sitting comfortably?
Then let's begin......

Downtrodden for years, the back doorstep decided that it was now time to retaliate. Spotting its intended victim momentarily distracted by a broken peg basket it quivered with glee and gave an almost imperceptible but extremely effective flick.The victim fell forward, the little piggy that stayed home buckled, bent and bellowed in anguish. Ricocheting between the clothes airer and door jamb the doorstep's victim too protested loudly.On hearing notes usually beyond the victim's mellow mezzo and a vocabulary certainly beyond the pale, the doorstep settled back with the smug, self satisfied glow of a job well done. The fat lady had sung.


Should you not have understood my Pratchett like ramblings, I shall explain. I broke my toe on the back door step. And it hurt. Slightly worried  about the wide ranging extremes of the words I used to alleviate the pain! I will probably have to scale the pearly gates now rather than gain direct entry.

Oops.

See, we'd like you to stay but.............

Way back, my posts discussed what would happen if I tried to improve my working life. Now I know what happens. Of course what happens is strictly because of business and economic expediency, but my exit may be speedier than even I, imagined.
When the wrath of wages (or lack of them) hits, I shall still be standing. The Rock of Ages has a firm hold of me.

Just as long as no seaweed tangles round my feet in this imaginary world of watery repercussions. I can't stand the stuff.

Instant wait loss

In an instant 10% of my excess body baggage was gone. Yes, gone! Like an advertisement for low fat, low calorie yoghurt, I was not quite fat free, but carrying 10% less than I did just ten seconds before. How could this be?

It was sooooh easy. When I read the print out from the nasty body fat monitor it said 43% fat. I forgot that I am dyscalculic/dyslexic and that my eye to brain link tube automatically reverses numbers. About to throw said print out away, I just glanced at it and saw, to my delight, that the 43 had transformed into 34. OK, not quite 10%, but near enough.

Joy oh joy. After such a massive reduction I can now afford to diet next week, not this week. This week I shall live - it instead.



One day, as well as having my lovely family, I will have another lovely dog.

 Last week, at a training event, the trainer invited us (well told us really) to play an ice breaker game based on speed dating. Three of us did not fit into the plan and we found ourselves a forlorn trio seated at a table at the back. As the instructions were to 'find some common ground', we set about finding out if the three of us had anything in common. I mentioned being a dogless dog lover which elicited a response  - Tony lost his dog eight years ago and still thinks abut her. Then Tim told us that he had lost his dog just two weeks earlier. We shared our experiences and found our common ground. We miss our canine companions. We would not name the grief as being like the loss of a child for that kind of loss is a deep, deep wound, but we named our loss as being beyond anything that we had expected. We shared the keeping of collars and leads, the anticipation of a waggy welcome greeting on returning home, furry cuddles and always willing listening ears attached to a friend full of unconditional love.

I salute you guys, for sharing with me and owning with me the pain that follows the loss of a beloved pet. I'm encouraged that I'm not the only one who feels this and I'm not the only one who dares own up to it. God bless you and keep you in His care.

Having no dog of my own doesn't stop me from caring about them. Check out this web site http://www.wiccaweys.com/ Read every scrap of it and see if you are not in awe of the wonderful people who work with the dogs. Then, support them, or your own local animal shelter. They need us too.

Dancing feet

Standing in a queue - we British are so good at it we have turned it into an art form - I listened to the piped music wafting vaguely around my head from hidden speakers. As the tune changed, I recognised the new one immediately, and my mind left the queue far behind, travelling back through the years, and the subcutaneous layers, to the stage.

Yes, dear reader, I was once lithe and nimble enough to grace a stage and play to an audience. Behave yourself! This was long before lap dancing. A keen member of amateur dramatics, I've played a variety of parts, most of them involving a Yorkshire accent. Incidentally, I don't have a Yorkshire accent, I'm from a part of England between the Tyne and the Tees that has more to do with monkeys than Geordies. I played the Yorkshire person because my accent was probably the nearest the am dram society could get at the time. And I was jolly good too, in my own expert opinion.

Anyway, on one occasion (not an am dram one), I was a dancer. Me! Two flat left feet, no coordination and short term memory issues to boot - a dancer!

Proudly, I stood on stage clad in jazzy top and frilled skirt, little twee shoes ready to float and twirl like never before. The music began. Off we went, round in a circles, swoop this way, spring that way, raise arms, do a twizzle or two, back two steps, skip three steps.....and the gradual realisation that an important piece of underwear had worked loose and was removing itself slowly but surely. Nope, it wasn't the knickers - it was the bra.

Bra straps eked their way down from my shoulders and peeped out from beneath the sleeves of the top. With elbows seriously shackled and preventing any artistic and elegant arm wafting, I stopped mid twirl and sashayed off stage into the wings.

'Hey, Mike' I whispered into the darkness, 'come here'. Mike made his way carefully through the flats and props.

'Stick your hands up the back of my tee shirt and fasten my bra'. Mike raked around in the darkness. His hands trembled as they went where angels fear to tread, but he accomplished his task without any embarrassing 'accidents'. With a whispered 'thank you' I was out onto the stage with a flutter of feet and an array of arms to hide my entrance. I don't think Mike had had such a good offer for donkey's years.

Year later I was walking along a corridor after a successful job interview. The area manager who interviewed me was some metres behind, walking with another manager. Without so much as a warning 'twang' my underskirt fell down around my ankles.

Stepping out of it, I picked it up and popped it into my bag, as if this sort of thing was quite normal and happened every day. I mean, what else is a girl supposed to do?