Facebook and the Farmyard Game

A lot of my younger Facebook friends seem to play a weird game online – something to do with farm animals.  It seems to exercise their minds a great deal and there are odd comments on their pages saying things like so-and-so reports a pig in their farmyard.  Well, here are some for them:-

Mick Jagger/The Rolling Stones had a hit record about ‘a little red rooster’.

There’s a 60s film called ‘Poor Cow’.

There were ‘some pigs who were more equal than others’ in George Orwell’s Animal Farm – now I’m showing off my literary knowledge.

And now for a biblical quote, ‘all we like sheep have gone astray’ – can’t you tell I got RK A-level?

There’s a beer called ‘Speckled Hen’ and another called ‘the Dog’s B......s’, but my partner says I am becoming more and more foul-mouthed by the day so I’m not writing the word and there are plenty of ‘bores’ (boars) in pubs drinking said beer.

And while I’m on the subject of booze, there’s Bull’s Blood which is a wine from Hungary – well, it started there I am reliably informed by Wikipedia.

Mary had a little ‘lamb’ and many of us carnivores eat it with mint sauce.

People ‘duck and dive’ in business and I think they might in the farmyard game, but since I don’t play it …  And there’s the politically incorrect comment about someone suffering with  ‘duck’s disease’ being a short person who therefore has a ‘low-down bum’ who wipes out their footprints as they walk.

Then there’s the expression that someone’s ‘cooked their goose’ on the same lines as ‘shot their bolt’ or ‘made their bed and must therefore lie on it’ ….  and the ‘Goosie Goosie gander’ of nursery rhyme fame.

‘Turkey neck’ is to be avoided at all costs by those of us of a certain age.  I shudder at the thought of plastic surgery so cover mine up with pearls, beads or neck scarves.


And here's a picture of an animal you'd never see in a farmyard.

You used to hear about a ‘bull market’ and ‘bullish’ shares in the City, but those expressions are rarely heard these days given the state of the economy.

Some men have those horrible ‘goatee’ beards – I suppose leaping about like a ‘mountain goat’ doesn’t quite fit the farmyard criteria.

‘A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse’ – that’s another animal that no self-respecting farmer should be without.

And ‘cat’s eyes’ – most farms have cats to keep the rats down which suggests farms have rats – there’s that awful puppet-thing called Roland Rat, people ‘rat’ on each other – I don’t of course.

I reckon that covers most farmyards animals, so here you are Facebook Farmyard lovers – I put them all into your farmyard and hope that will finish the fatuous game.

After the Dance by Terence Rattigan

What a culture vulture I have been recently.  One Sunday a couple of weeks back, myself and partner attended After the Dance, a Terence Rattigan play, purported to be one of his best, but that had a short run mainly because of the start of the war.  Poor Terence Rattigan apparently took it as an indication that it was no good and didn’t even list the play with others.

Naturally, the play was dated, but I expected that.  The set was exquisite and the acting excellent.  I felt it captured what I understand to have been the desperation of the 30- something adults who missed the drama of the First World War but were disturbed or bored enough to try to pretend their lives were not empty, but fun, fun, fun!  They were the ‘bright young things’ of Evelyn Waugh’s time, but neither especially young nor bright as one of the characters said.

The main character was a rather shallow man in his 30s (David) who partied a lot and found things boring if he didn’t.  He was writing a historical book and had a male secretary (Peter), a poor relation, typing it up for him.  His wife was a party person too whose favourite phrase seemed to be ‘too boring’.

The story revolved around Peter’s girlfriend’s desire for David and his for her without concern for who they might hurt in fulfilling such desires. The young woman (Helen) didn’t appear to be at all worried about hurting Peter and both she and David assumed that his wife (Joan) would not be affected by their relationship and the required divorce.  Indeed, Joan showed no particular concern for their imminent divorce, blithely pretending that all was well.  The young woman was callously determined to have the older man and seemed unperturbed by the havoc their relationship would cause and indeed did.

The character who was most interesting was the sponging friend (John) who was staying with the couple and spent most of the time on stage interjecting remarks and generally being very funny.  In the end he showed himself to be remarkably astute in his estimation of all the characters and towards the end of the play advised David that he should not continue his new relationship with Helen, the young woman, because he would end up killing her as he had killed his wife.  It turned out that he had been in love with Joan and, presumably, once she was no longer there, had no desire to stay. It was just before he left that he gave the speech ending with, ‘but I don’t suppose you will’.

The audience were left hoping that he would ‘do the right thing’, but it wasn’t apparent that he would definitely do so.

I found the play illuminating, but one of my friends remarked that she couldn’t relate to any of the characters and therefore found it unsatisfactory.  I found Helen’s desire for David showed the selfishness and callousness of the young and wondered if I would have behaved as badly had I been in a similar situation, but found David not entirely shallow and his wife playing a part being almost a play within a play.  I particularly enjoyed the part of John the way that, as an onlooker, he had the most insight into all the characters.

                                                                                                   

Crosby, Stills & Nash at the Albert Hall

Yes, I am still an old hippy at heart and finding out Crosby, Stills & Nash were on at the Albert Hall and having a friend willing to treat me – well, how could I not?

The evening started off badly – the traffic was so heavy that we got a taxi from The Strand.  I bet we would still have been sitting on the Number 9 bus now if we hadn’t.  Don’t know what was wrong, but it was Gay Pride Day so perhaps some of the traffic was the revelers heading home.  Actually, it was a relief not to go on the bus – the temperature was still in the 80s and buses don’t have air conditioning.

Once at the Albert Hall there was the inevitable queue for the loo, but I made it.  It is always impressive the way English women politely queue for the loo – I have seen French women, bored with queuing, march into the Gents and go into a cubicle, presumably ignoring the line of male backs.  While admiring their chutzpa I am not sure I can emulate it.

Once in the Albert Hall, the trio mounted the stage, without zimmer frames or walking sticks – actually, they seemed much the same as in the 70’s, just fatter and greyer and none of them were bald unless of course they were wearing wigs.  I was very disappointed at the start of the concert – they played the (to me) beautiful, sweet, soulful numbers such as Marrakesh Express as if they were a rock band.  I barely recognized some of them.  I wondered if the person managing the sound had got it wrong, but the Albert Hall are used to all manner of music so I don’t think it could have been that.  I was uncomfortable to find my ears ringing and my bottle of water visibly vibrating when I took a sip. Maybe it is just me and they always were more rock and roll and it was just their studio records that were quiet and melodic.  My friend did say that he had heard them sing at Glastonbury (on the TV, I hasten to add) and that they were much quieter then.

I was mesmerized by Crosbie’s antics on stage – he was unable to keep still and shuffled about in a parody of a young rock star, but let’s be charitable; perhaps he suffers from ‘Restless Leg Syndrome’ – yes it is a medical condition and I should know, I spent enough time as a medical secretary.  He leapt into the air at one point (only a few inches off the ground) but given his great age, I anxiously wondered if he might have to be stretchered off with a broken knee-cap or hip.

After the interval the music was much quieter and more soulful – just the three of them without drums or keyboard.  They played a new number which was lovely and sang three or four of their melodic, beautiful hits from long ago.  Then Graham Nash played keyboard and sang, but again it was much too loud and I felt cheated.

They sang some cover versions of songs that they are hoping to put on their newest ‘record’ – Norwegian Wood was fine, but the Bob Dylan one was embarrassingly awful – they should have gone with one of his simpler songs.

Towards the end of the concert the loud rock sound began again and most of the music was unrecognizable, then it was the two encores – one I thought was ruined by the volume, but the second, though loud, was more palatable.

I saw Ray Davies at the O² and that sound was brilliant, so perhaps I need to concentrate on (mainly) single performers.  My ex-husband saw Neil Young at The Fridge several years ago and he said he was fantastic – single singer and smaller venue; perhaps I need to concentrate on them more.

I know it is more than likely due to my great age, but I find the whooping and ‘yip yip yip’ noises from audiences rather irritating – they sound as if they’re riding to hounds and, let’s face it, all but a few people these days admit to enjoying hunting, so why make a noise that sounds as if you do?

Noticed a few ’women of a certain age’ (as indeed I am) standing up dancing in what I would call an ‘embarrassing way’ (you hear children at family parties begging their parents not to dance sometimes).  I think those women wouldn’t have danced ‘like that’ had children been with them, but then … why not?  After all, if a geriatric Crosbie can prance around like a teenager (well, sort of) why not women?

Coming home the traffic was still unbelievably congested and I walked much of the way back.  Central London is a fairly benign place on a summer night and I only felt  a little alarmed when one of a trio of teenage girls threw a glass at the other two who were several yards in front of her, as was I, so it could have been aimed at me!  Deciding discretion the better part of valour (even being hit mistakenly didn’t seem much fun) I hurried off stage right and got home unscathed.

Slogans and ‘cool’ phrases

Walking down The Cut recently, I spotted a young man sporting a t-shirt with the words, ‘I make beautiful babies’ emblazoned on his chest.  I pondered on this for a while and then thought what a ridiculous but quite possibly truthful boast.  For a good-looking man with an average or high sperm count, it is easy to father babies (perhaps even beautiful ones), although that is largely down to genetics/luck), but that doesn’t mean he can actually bring them up (that takes a real man! usually with the help of a woman!  Of course an arrogant so and so like this man might not stand a chance – would you ‘bother’ fellow-woman?

 I thought perhaps, as a woman past her prime, it would be worth me wearing a t-shirt with the slogan ‘I can’t bear children’ on it, but as I rather like them it wouldn’t do much for my street cred.   My partner often says, when asked if he likes children, ‘Yes, but I can’t manage more than one at a time’.

Can’t bear the slogans like ‘Slut’ or ‘I’m a virgin’ which I find odd in the extreme – are they boasting or complaining?  These are very much on a par with the signs on cars saying ‘baby on board’ – same question applies.  I have seen signs on cars saying, ‘if you can read this sign, you are too close’ and wonder how many accidents happen and is it one of those insurance scams?  I find myself rather offended by the ‘Little Monster on board’ comments rather worrying – who would want to admit that their child is one, even if they are?

And now to the ‘in’ phrases – ‘see you later’ from a complete stranger with whom you have exchanged a few words such as ‘where is …’ or ‘turn left, right …’ etc.  The chances of you seeing that person ever again, let alone ‘later’ is negligible so why ….?

‘No problem’ used to be an expression of note – it usually meant, ‘I’ll do it when I feel like it, you tosser – stop hassling me!’ or even ‘I’ve no intention of doing it at all, but haven’t the heart or the honesty to admit it’.

Then there was ‘groovy’ which was around when half the population were either on acid or smoking ‘herbal substances’ in the 60s/70s.  It had a brief resurgence in the 80s I think, probably when half the population were on Ecstasy which seemed to spawn a number of gurning, dancing idiots – still, better than fighting, something which happened quite frequently in nightclubs before its advent. 

That is 'so cool’ is another expression (probably uncool by now) and I have penned a few lines about it in a poem:-

Cool

What do you mean, ‘cool’

The mother said, frowning

I’m not such a fool

So please stop your clowning.

It’s quite warm today

So cool isn’t right

It means it’s in fashion

Her son said with might

And considerable passion.

She still didn’t get it

And wondered for hours

Shook her head for a bit

Then planted some flowers.

Musings on elephants and failure

I have failed at my intention to photograph the 260 elephants scattered all over London - (spotted one at the Elephant and Castle as I passed by on a bus to Camberwell today).  My excuse is that I hadn’t realized that they were going to be moved today to various places – I understand there are to be elephant ‘parades’ at the new shopping centre in Shepherd’s Bush and the Royal Chelsea Hospital, so maybe I can redeem myself there.  Trouble is there will probably be masses of people and the elephants may be all mixed up so that I won’t know which ones I have photographed.  Ah well – nobody forced me to decide to photograph them all so the failure is all my own.  Anyway, I hope to put a slide show on my blog of the ones I have got as soon as I have worked out how to do it!  But here's a picture of another two elephant until I manage that.

Thinking about failure – I attended a course last year called ‘Fear of Failure’ which was far more interesting than I had anticipated.  Indeed I still have a little notice over my desk saying, ‘There is no failure; only feedback’ which I took back from it.  We (that is those of us on the course) came to the conclusion that we often don’t attempt something because of our fear of failure/being laughed at or scorned.

 Looking back over my childhood I remember not seriously trying at sport, for instance, because my older brother and sister were so good and I might not be … Interestingly, my younger sister told me than an English teacher she was taught by a couple of years after me told her that I was brilliant at English, the implication being that he expected much the same of her. (Why didn’t teachers then seem to understand the psychology of those who, far from being pushed to succeed by such behaviour, might not even try!)  Perhaps I am unusually stubborn, but I don’t like being compared with other people, especially not other members of my family.  We all have our strengths and our weaknesses – we are just different!!!

Birthday Blogging Blues

It was my birthday recently and suffice it to say that I way past 40.  As I grow older I find birthdays lose their significance and I don’t bother celebrating them quite so much.  In fact, I am looking forward to getting my Freedom Pass in the not too distant future – how sad is that?  Still, at least nobody can say ‘she doesn’t get out much …’ because I do – why would I be longing for the Freedom Pass otherwise?  I only hope the government doesn’t axe them before then – if they do I can see a silver-surfers rebellion on mobility scooters .  It’s enough that those of us born after 1950 are going to have to work beyond 60 to get their pension; in fact, there might not even be a pension by the time we get there.  Actually, given the money I owe, I can’t see myself retiring much before 75 anyway.

Spent the morning lazing about – partner got the breakfast and then we lay about reading the paper and generally taking it easy.  Thought we were not going to do anything, but he suggested a meal and the film Avatar – we’re close to the IMAX which, allegedly, has the biggest screen in the country. 

The meal was lovely (local restaurant so we were assured of a good one) and the film – well, I was gobsmacked.  It was fantastic – the special effects were brilliant and even the story, if a little corny, was good - I do like a bit of romance.  There were times when it felt like we were moving and I felt a little seasick; perhaps they should have provided sick-bags as well as 3D glasses. 

Maybe one day there will be a cover they can put over the screen so that you don’t have to wear the 3D glasses which make everyone look a bit like a poor relation of Elton John in his flamboyant days.  Thought my glasses had a dirty mark on them but discovered that wasn’t so once the film started – I had just tried them on too early.
 

Found it a bit noisy at times – my ears are not really attuned to our loud world, but that was my only complaint.  It was awesome and I particularly loved some tiny little blossoming things like dandelion blooms in bubbles which were an indication of the spiritual beliefs of the ‘blue people’ for want of a better word.  I liked humankind being called the ‘Sky people’ as a race who brought devastation from the skies.  Did wonder about the blue’s sex life as they didn’t appear to have any genitals and I assumed love to be a spiritual kind ‘I see you’ being their pillow-talk, but there were babies and if they had them with as little trouble and mess as they seemed to have sex – well, I’m all for it.   My partner said it was typical of me to think of something so basic, but then considering he made up a disgusting limerick with the ‘c’ word in it on the way home I don’t think he has any room to talk.

I’ve written a rather crap blues poem – set to music it might sound OK; after all, lots of blues don’t say much more than this.  Just imagine the piano/guitar riffs – I long to get good enough on piano to play blues!

Birthday Blues

I got the Birthday Blues

Can’t fasten my shoes

Cos I can’t bend enough

And I get out of puff

Got the Birthday Blues

Can’t even booze

Any more

Frightful bore

I just fall asleep

In a messy heap.

B

Carmen and more elephants

There should have been a photo of Trafalgar Square here in celebration of my amazing cultural evening but I forgot my camera, so here's a photo I just like.

From the (almost) ridiculous to the sublime.  On Monday I was seeking elephants to photograph, Tuesday night I was watching Carmen – amazingly a free viewing in Trafalgar Square where the opera was transmitted direct from the Opera  House to the big screen erected between the lions.  I hadn’t seen Carmen before and was absolutely transfixed.  It was fantastic!  I hadn’t realized how much of the music I knew, such as Toreador and others – someone said a lot of it has been used in adverts on TV.

It was warm at 7 when the choirmaster from that TV programme about getting people to join and/or start choirs locally, persuaded us all to join in and sing Toreador in English.  Somehow it doesn’t sound quite so sexy in English, but it was great seeing the public (especially the normally reticent English) singing with gusto.  He has such enthusiasm and charisma to manage that.  One of the spectators sporting a red flower behind one ear said she had come because it was free and she knew it was about gypsies – a synopsis of the reasons most people came I think.

Got rather colder as the evening wore on and I bought soup for myself and two companions in the interval – we had a bottle of wine too so were in ‘good spirits’.  We had to pour the wine into a plastic jug and use plastic cups to drink it – I suppose they were afraid of damage and/or violence.

The event was sponsored by BP but they were very low-key about it, perhaps because they are very unpopular just now.  There were no baseball hats, plastic macs or cushions handed out this time.  They are probably too expensive to provide now given the expense of trying to clear up the disastrous oil spillage.

Because I live in central London I was able to walk both there and back and because I was quite chilly by the time it finished, I walked/ran home with my disabled friend trying to keep up with her rather sophisticated scooter – no little runaround that only does 3 miles an hour!  Hers is called a  tramper and she rides it as if she’s a queen.  If she had whips and knives she could be a Cleopatra.  As it is, she makes do with calling out ‘excuse me darling’ as passers-by scatter in her wake.   I told her she could be the pacer for someone in practice for races.

Then we come to the elephants – on Monday afternoon I started out with the map I had downloaded from the internet allegedly showing the whereabouts of them all.  It is not exactly accurate and has clumps of elephants marked in one spot when they are in fact far more scattered.  Anyway, I found a small group in St James’ Park and two much larger groups in Green Park, including one on the pavement near the tube station.  All in all, I must have photographed about 20 and with the 15 I did a few days ago near the Mayor’s gaff, that makes 35 – only another 225 to go.  Perhaps I need to co-opt my partner in my project – there is a limited time, because the elephants are going to be taken away in July.  I wonder what they will do to them all – they would take up a lot of space if kept together.  Maybe they will let each company have the ones that they ‘bought’ or sponsored.

I was disappointed to find, predictably of course, that I was not the only person determined to find/photograph all the elephants and a diverse lot they were – a young business woman, a pensioner and a young (professional?) photographer with a very sophisticated camera - not trainspotter types at all, although I may have been wearing an anorak (no, it was a yachtie jacket – not that I have a yacht, but that’s another story).  I don’t mind having pictures with children on or by the elephants or adults looking/ stroking them etc., but people tend to get out of the way often when they see me with my camera or maybe I look scary!!!  Of course, there is a lot of anxiety around strangers taking pictures of children, but I don’t think any of us constituted any harm.  For a start, most of the children will be unrecognizable given the distance you need to stand to get the whole elephant in focus.

One of the best things about the elephant invasion is the conversations that spring up between complete strangers.  We Londoners are not the most talkative of people (not because we’re unfriendly so much as there are more nutters to the square inch in a big city) so we are cautious.  Anyway, in my quest I have talked with other photographers, children (parents in toe of course), businessmen, professionals, homeless people etc.

Oh well ONLY ANOTHER 125 TO GO!!!!!  Below this I have put a photo of a few elephants just to remind me (and anyone reading this blog in the blogosphere) of their amazing  explosion into London.

Anger Management/Temperament etc.

I have been giving some thought to my temperament/way of being lately, because I am trying to prevent episodes of depression (which I have finally accepted I am just going to have to live with) with some cognitive therapy and ideas of my own.

One of the definitions of depression is that it is suppressed anger with anybody, everybody and everything and that I must learn to accept that I have no control over other people, places or people – just me and my attitude/behaviour.  Makes me think that perhaps I am a control freak or just plain arrogant – either possible aspects of my personality I am unwilling to accept, but think I may need too.

As I learn to cope with both aspects of my bipolarity, I find that as I begin to feel better, towards the manic, my tolerance tends to go and I can become very angry, particularly over what I feel to be an injustice wreaked on someone else!  I am not so good at getting angry because of someone treating me badly.  Maybe that is why in depression mode I rarely socialize and disappear up my own backside as my partner says in his inimitable style – am I worried subconsciously that I might become uncontrollably angry and/or cry because I don’t like what someone is saying or behaving?

I have attended an anger management course and find that it is very difficult to count to 10, breathe deeply or any of the other tactics – they all seem to fly out of the window when I become cross.  The only way I can cope really is to leave the room/space or company of the person I am angry with.  If I could just learn to not shout as a parting shot – I know how annoying that can be.

My ex-husband used to move from room to escape my ‘nagging’ as he called it and I found that could build my anger up; he also sulked if he didn’t get his own way and then when I asked what was wrong he would say ‘you know’.  In the end, sometimes, in despair I would say, ‘Perhaps I am thick or something but I don’t know what I have done …’  But he came from a long line of sulkers – his brother sulked for so long one Christmas that his wife was driven to packing a suitcase and threatening to leave, at which point he admitted to having forgotten what had annoyed him in the first place.  Now that is weird behaviour in my book!

I have spoken with one of my contemporaries is mentor as well as friend and she suggested I  release my anger by some sort of energy outburst – hers is hitting a plastic bottle on the bed until she is exhausted.  That wouldn’t work for me, but perhaps punching something (other than my partner) might, but ideally a padded cell into which I could run screaming, hitting and kicking the walls.  However, that ain’t going to happen as our flat is minute – personally, I think every workplace should be supplied with a padded room for all members of staff, but it would probably be used so often a queue would have to form and anger doesn’t sit well with organized queuing which we Brits are so good at.

My problem is that I am far more likely to hurt myself when I am angry by, literally, banging my head against a brick wall or kicking the wall so hard that I hurt my leg.  I have tried howling in the shower, but the last time I did that my partner, who I thought had ‘left the building’ to escape, came in with a worried expression on his face and asked if I was all right.  I said, through clenched teeth, ‘just go away’ and he left the room looking puzzled.  (Mind you, it worked in one way – at least he didn’t go on yelling back at me!)

Health professionals will always ask a bipolar if they are violent, I suppose because they think you could be dangerous, but my psychiatric team know very well that I am much more of a danger to myself at such times.

Therapists suggest looking back at your childhood to try to understand why we are like we are today and that is an interesting exercise.  I come from a very loving background and have two sisters (one older, one younger) and an older brother.  Of the four of us, my older sister has red hair and the temper to match – she had an explosive temperament as a child and would become so angry that she would grind her teeth and clench her fists.  My brother used to kick me under the table and pull a face sometimes  to make me laugh and I would get my face slapped for my pains.  My parents were very firm in believing that behaving so angrily was not even on their radar and she was punished for it – not in any corporal way, as they weren’t that kind of parent.  Their punishment was a severe talking too and the implication that they were disappointed in you.  In consequence, perhaps, I learnt that anger was an emotion that it was wrong to show and perhaps went too far in believing I shouldn’t even get angry.  I am no psychologist, but I have wondered …  My  sister has of course learnt to control her anger over the years and channels it into throwing herself into causes she feels passionately about and lots of exercise – she is very sporty; does running, swimming, surfing etc.

All very curious, but still doesn’t help me to work out what to do when I am angry – fortunately, my partner is big enough for me to know that punching him wouldn’t work.  He could just put his arm out and I wouldn’t be able to reach him.  Perhaps I should get a punchbag …

Photograph at top is to remind myself that tranquility is something I aspire too.

The Elephant in the Room and Trafalgar Square, South Bank etc.

There are a noticeable amount of elephants all round the capital just now in an attempt to publicise the dearth of this magnificent creature because man is encroaching on their space.  Man (and woman)kind have not got a lot to be proud of - we are wrecking the planet, polluting the seas, over-populating the land etc. etc.  I could go on, but it would be too depressing.

However, the presentation of colourful elephants all over London is a bright and interesting way to highlight the problem - there are 250 apparently and I am going to try to photograph them all before they are taken away some time in July.  There is even an elephant parade at the Royal Hospital Chelsea at the end of June and I spotted a jewelled one, situated appropriately in Coutts Bank.  However, I have put a taster with this blog.  Enjoy!

Then I started to think about the expression 'the elephant in the room' and couldn't help remembering the Rise and Fall of Reginald Perrin with him seeing a hippopotamus every time his wife mentioned her mother.  My, very rude partner, suggested someone big to dinner one night and remarked that then we really would have an elephant in the room.

The expression of course means the presence of something not talked about or ignored, usually causing an atmosphere.  When I have an argument with someone and they think I am in to the wrong they may sulk and not speak to me - a punishment I don't enjoy.  I suppose that is 'the elephant in the room', but it usually refers to something much more sinister such as abuse, violence and sadism.  Fortunately, these days those subjects are shown the light of day more and no longer cast as dark a shadow as they used too.  However, there are still children and adults subject to abuse and violence and it is time for more refuges for the battered and care for the abused.

I believe the 'elephant in the room' in another home I know of was addiction - parents never referred to it and never even visited when their son was in treatment, nor his brother who was in hospital for drug-related problems at one time.  When I first mentioned addiction in that home, saying that Hepatitis C was probably caused by 'recreational drug use' the mother said she didn't know what I was talking about!  Now that is an enormous 'elephant in the room'.


I am not sure there was an 'elephant in the room' in my family home because we were encouraged to be honest and open and our parents were open and caring.  I was probably the one of us four children who shared least, being a rather private and secretive child.  I suppose sex was a little glossed over - my father was a minister and sex was considered taboo outside of marriage.  They had to give way on that after I moved in with a boyfriend, but it was at least a steady relationship - we were together for over 20 years and married seven years into the relationship.  Over the years, of course, they changed with the times and became less rigid in their beliefs.  I was proud of their honesty and belief in all of us children and couldn't imagine them not visiting us if one of us had been in treatment for anything.

Dedicated Follower of Fashion!

I saw Ray Davies (formerly of the Kinks to those of you who were born after the 70s) at the Albert Hall recently.  The concert was excellent and he and the band played many new numbers as well as some of the old favourites.  One of the old ones was 'He's a dedicated follower of fashion' and  I got to thinking how much I was a slave to fashion in my youth (many years ago).  I cringe when I remember many of the appalling clothes I thought I looked good in (I think it was called  'groovy' then).  I wore mini-skirts at the end of the 60s/start of the 70s  that were so short I couldn't sit down on the tube or sit anywhere except behind a desk  in case I showed my knickers and tights.  Thank goodness for tights though - imagine miniskirts with stockings.  I also wore hot-pants on a few occasions - I shudder at the thought.

Then in the 70s it was flares which got very wet and dirty, as well as downright dangerous if they caught in anything.  And the platforms -  which being 'vertically challenged' I wore a lot and have lost count of the times I fell off them when sometimes the worse for wear, but more often just because. ...  Then there were those awful tank tops and 'big hair' - I had an Afro which I could never quite manage and must have looked like a lollipop with a small, skinny body and a big head.

The long flowing skirts were a much nicer fashion and it meant you could be as undignified as you liked sitting down.  However, I never got up the courage to wear a see-through blouse - not got the boobs for it.  The hairstyles then were long and straight and I probably looked like a Amish and I coloured my hair with henna so I was red at that time.  I remember my boyfriend of the time had long, curly hair and wore an Afghan coat - he was always being stopped by the police who thought he must be on drugs to look like that.  I used to wear Patchouli Oil myself until a kind policeman told me the smell was similar to pot and I stopped - I was very naive then.

In the punk era I never really had courage for the chains, slashes and dangerous haircuts, but then I lived in Devon at the time and fashion was slow to reach Tavistock to say nothing of frightening the horses.  But I do remember an extreme punk hairstyled young man being refused employment because of the chances of him piercing the tyres in the garage where he was going to work.  There was the hairstyle I call the 'toilet brush' because that is what it resembled - hair pulled straight up.  There was a memorable occasion in a hospital shop when one of the elderly volunteers said, 'oh my dear, I am so sorry' - I presume she thought something had happened to cause her hair to be so bizarre.  Anyway, the young woman concerned came to work the next morning with her hair in a conservative ponytail.

In the 80s I became a great deal more conservative, not being in the first flush of youth, but I remember wearing a pale orange cheesecloth skirt and top on my wedding day.  I think my hair was mid-length and straightish by then.  But the ra-ra skirt was a step too far and I was proud of myself for avoiding this particular fashion - made you look as if you were a toddler going into a party.

In the 90s I went blonde and short - had a haircut similar to Annie Lennox but without her style and poise.  My own (then) husband walked past me in the street when I first had it done so it was a radical change.  It grew very quickly though and I couldn't be bothered having to keep having the roots done so grew it out and went for a different ringletty sort of perm - this was a disaster.  It looked fine to begin with, but when I washed it I couldn't get even an Afro comb through it and on one occasion my mother cut out a tangle which happened after a swim in Brighton.

In 2000 I am much more content and confident in dress and don't subscribe to being fashionable any more.  I look with fascination at the low-down jeans with the thongs showing at the top of them - I am always afraid they will either fall down or someone will tug them down for a laugh and the thongs make a weird sort of builders bum. Then there is the strange fashion of a pretty dress with Doc Marten's, shorts worn with tights underneath and warm boots with a light dress or skirt.  But I have to remind myself not to be an 'old fart' and remember the fashions I dressed in when I was young were just as ridiculous.

Totally wired - just another Manic Monday

For the last few days I have been feeling great, in fact probably too wired.  This is the manic phase of my disease and I must try to monitor it because these are the times when I can be in danger and my relationships suffer.  The difficulty is (I am told) bipolars lack insight when manic - I don'the think I do, of course, but denial  is all part of it.  It is fortunate that I have a dosset box to remind me to take my medication.  I sometimes feel I don't need the drugs I am prescribed at such a time, but just have to accept that I do at present.  The trouble is that in the last 12 months I have had 3 to 4 bouts of depression, one of them very serious, and not one manic episode - it seems grossly unfair to have so many, at times spectacular, lows and no highs at all.  Looking back I have been depressed for about 4 months and cycling between depression and 'normal' for eight.  No wonder one of the buzzwords in an argument is: 'why can't you behave like a normal person'.  I know that is said in complete desperation and understand why it is said to me sometimes, but it is very hurtful given the stigma attached to mental illness.

In the last couple of days I have had a bout of almost uncontrollable rage with my partner - so bad that I had to escape from the flat for a couple hours or I might have tried to hit him.  Of course I felt my anger was justified - he can be very impatient when I don't grasp something immediately, but the towering inferno that then erupted was awesome for both of us but because anger has replaced depression I feel it is a better emotion, but I do understand that I need to express my anger 'appropriately'.  I doubt he feels the same way and considering our argument in retrospect I know that my behaviour was out of control.  I just hope he doesn't get me sectioned one day!  That has not happened so far and if he felt it was necessary I trust him enough to go voluntarily rather than be forced into psychiatric care.

Other bizarre patterns include my thought patterns jumping about, not sleeping properly, talking fast, walking fast, not looking where I am going, carelessness when showering (tripping), falling over or treading on the cat, dropping things and generally mismanaging things in the home.  It is a good thing I am not responsible for the cooking as I would probably burn things or leave the gas on.

I have read somewhere that Omega 3 is particularly good for mood swings so I will try taking that in addition to the other medication I take, as long as it doesn't work against them.  I would really like to manage with just diet and natural medicines, but I suppose that is in the future.

Funeral baked meats & etc.

Went to a funeral yesterday - she was an elderly lady I had known for a few years; sadly she had become demented in the last year or so.

It was a crematorium service - rather perfunctory because the family are not a churchgoing crowd.  The vicar did his best and he had found out a few things about her so that he was able to give a very small homily.  I loved the old lady concerned and the service seemed to bear no relation to her whatsoever so I did my best to just try to remember her and ignore the funereal paraphernalia.  She was a lovely person with humour and personality before dementia robbed her of her reason.  I think she would have liked the sunshine and pulled a rueful smile at the meaningless platitudes mouthed by well-meaning friends and/or family.

When she had been dispatched the small crowd of mourners stood forlornly around the flowers and I was reminded that I want no flowers at my funeral - I dislike this outward manifestation of public grief and find flowers made into names such as Mum or Nan particularly offensive.  They look so naff and sad - all the money spent on flowers could be put to much better use  - given to Amnesty International, Save the Children or Oxfam to name but a few charities. Worst of all is when somebody famous dies or someone murdered and people who don't even know that person appear on TV with suitably sad expressions clutching flowers or worse still push their children forward to strew flowers at the place where someone was killed.  Cynically, I feel that they are using someone's death to promote themselves and publicise a grief that is false - I would be very upset if I was a member of a family suffering such a loss.

I have tried (and failed) to understand why flowers at funerals are considered a gesture of 'respect' and wonder where that has come from.  Surely respect is shown by attendance at a funeral service?  I find it pretty difficult, too, when people speak well of the dead, even when someone was a complete horror; also the way people mouth platitudes like 'it was a lovely funeral', 'the vicar spoke well' etc. etc.  In many cases the service was not lovely, the vicar an idiot, the funeral over-priced and the flowers naff, the mourners don't behave especially well and the fighting over someone's treasures can begin almost before the funeral baked meats have been eaten.

Hope nobody takes offence at the above, and must just say that the opinions expressed are mine alone and I reserve the right to say what I want in my blog.

Government and all that

I have lived in London for many years and have never been quite so freaked out and surprised by the public's behaviour as now.  Over the last few days with the Clegg and Cameron coalition the press have been all over College Green - the patch of grass opposite the Houses of Parliament.  This has resulted in the world and his wife walking and talking there and generally trying to be seen on TV.  Do any of them realise how idiotic they  look - imagine being the children of a man who just wanted to be seen there - how embarrassing.  The British never used to be so keen to show themselves up; now we are some of the biggest show-offs in the world.

Drowning, not waving

I have been struggling for some time with a serious bout of depression - looked at bridges over the Thames thinking about how simple it might be to just jump off.  However, I know that drowning is not an easy option, that I have too many people who love me to put them the pain of loss; doesn't stop me feeling bad, but stops me doing something crazy.

My mood is starting to rise, to my relief, and I shall be waving in no time.  Glancing through a few blogs I have been amused by somebody obviously misinterpreting the title of one which incorporated 'wet' - this, rather sad, person thought the woman might be looking for some kind of sexual encounter.  Groan - what is it with some men -

Dodgy Invitations

It is a mystery to me how people/sites get my e-mail address, particularly as I have an excellent firewall.  However e-mails from unknown addresses do, at least, go into my junk e-mail which is something, I suppose.  The newest one was an invite to join 'Queerpeople' - and I thought the word queer was no longer acceptable in the gay or homosexual community - obviously nobody's told the site administrator.

I also get odd 'somebody fancies you' messages on my mobile phone which I ignore, of course.  I understand that this can be a ploy to get you to call a premium line number just as a call suggesting that I have had an accident and might need a lawyer is much the same thing.  I do wonder whether anybody is taken in by it - how could anybody know if you have had an accident.  There are things about over-communication that can be a bad thing.

Incidentally, most of my friends don't do it, but sometimes I get sent those rather silly chain-letters encouraging me to send the (often rather soppy - pass on a hug-type suggestion) on to 10 other people.  At work I have often wondered how people find the time, or the inclination to do so - in fact, on one occasion a number of members of staff were ticked off because it was thought a pornographic message had been forwarded.

Blogs and how they are listed

I have just looked at the next several blogs by clicking next blog and it seems to me that I have stumbled across quite a few blogs which involve exercise and fitness.  As I am unfit, rather disinterested in exercise person I flicked through them quickly, only to pause at one which referred to the break up of her marriage.  (When I looked at her previous posts it seemed that the whole thing came out of the blue - one minute her life was great; the next it wasn't!)

My life is a bit like that - I can feel on top of the world for a few months and then get taken over by feelings of overwhelming sadness and hopelessness.  I know this is mainly due to my illness, but long to have more moderate feelings and moods.  However, I do have a lovely man in my life who helps me through my down phases - keeps reminding me that it will pass and that things do get better.  When in the doldrums it is hard to believe that that is ever going to happen.  I am in the dismal phase at the moment and hope writing this may help me to come out of it.

I think if he wasn't around I would probably starve myself as I have no desire to look after myself - I struggle to get out of bed and shower at these times.  But, I am determined to get better and am fighting to stay positive and focused, difficult though it is.

Blogging Tips!!! Poetry please (or if you don't please)

Here I am, sat at my laptop, glass of wine next to me, trying to improve my blog.  I have searched a number of sites on 'how to' but, 'alas' I am obviously not intelligent enough or knowledgeable in computerspeak.  I thought I had done exceptionally well to set up the blog, use a template and add the odd photo (and even that was riven with problems - I kept either deleting ones I didn't want to delete or found the ones I had were much too big or too small!)  Believe me, I have and continue to try, but I am rather daunted by the number of others who obviously understood what was said in the tips offered by the Blog Doctor or other clever bloggers.

Instead of moaning on about my lack of skill and whether I really want anyone to read my blog - perhaps people won't like it and might leave rude comments about it etc. etc. I have put one of my poems in here.

Mother Mable - with apologies to Lewis Carroll

You are old, Mother Mabel,

  The young woman said

Put your teeth in a glass overnight

 And yet you continue to dance on the table 

Do you think at your age that is right?

In my youth, quoth the old one

  As she jumped on a bike

I had to be good and polite

  But now I am old and have no-one to please

I shall do whatever I like!

Learning and 'you can teach an old dog new tricks'

I am learning to play piano at my great age which I shan't reveal - suffice it to say ad that I am over 40!  I haven't the money to pay for a teacher and am struggling along with books and a small organ.  So far, I have managed to  play Ode to Joy with one hand, Three Blind Mice, For He's a Jolly Good Fellow and Drink to me only with Thine Eyes with two as well as a few obscure tunes which I hope to recognise in due course.  When I first played Ode to Joy laboriously I didn't recognise the tune at all - it was only when I got into the rhythm that I did. I sincerely hope the same thing will happen with them.  Now that I am more comfortable with playing and am more committed to practising I shall see about getting a few lessons to help me along.

Then I got to remembering when I learnt to drive and I was over 30 then.  I have to say that it was faintly embarrassing to be instructed by a pony-tailed young man with acne who called me 'babe'.  Anyway, he was a good instructor and by the time I tried again to have lessons, having struggled and failed tests the previous year, I had to 'parallel park' something I am hopeless at to this day.  I struggled with it particularly and the third time I failed it was because I shot backwards trying to park and the examiner had to put his foot on the brake.  I said 'I  almost hit the pavement, didn't I?' and he replied with unconscious irony that it had been the tree he was concerned about. (I hadn't even seen the tree).  My youthful instructor had warned me that if the examiner had to intervene (i.e. brake for you) it would be instant failure.  Eventually, I passed the fourth time and was so ecstatic that I almost got knocked down by a passing car as I leapt out of the driving seat.  Then I couldn't drive the family car because it was a hot hatch and they wouldn't insure a 'new' driver, but that's another story.  I think it might have been easier if I had learnt at 17 - certainly less embarrassing.

I remember, also, the advent of Word replacing Wordperfect - us secretaries were very anxious about having to change to Word and I recall one of the IT men saying that if he heard one more person say 'but it doesn't have reveal codes' he would jump out of the window.  Now, of course, I can't imagine using anything else, but we were all very disturbed about the change.  I realised then that it isn't just 'old dogs' but the whole of man/womankind that fears change.  Incidentally, maybe we should come up with a new word to replace 'old dogs' given the  use of  dogs as a derogatory term for women - or maybe we should stop using the expression  altogether.

My next challenge is Windows 7 - I have been on the previous incarnation for years.  I can see that it is very clever and that there are things you can pin on to your worktop etc., but I am really struggling.  My partner says it is because I refuse to look at the instruction which is of course worded in computer-speak and I always find manuals a yawn.  Anyway, he can talk - I don't think he looked more than cursorily at it.  There is a video of course, but I usually find myself distracted by the way the person talks or the way they look or something which only goes to show, I suppose, my small concentration span.  I will get it in the fullness of time ...

My partner, being a sailor, tried to teach me how to sail but I couldn't grasp the wind and how they affected the way the sails worked etc., although I did love just sitting on the deck enjoying the experience.  It didn't help much that I didn't actually know which way went out to sea and which towards London - bit of a disadvantage for boating.  However, I did learn to steer - a kind, patient man was able to teach me - encouraging, since my partner couldn't. Sadly he is a very impatient teacher and thinks if he can do it anybody can!

Anarchy/Government/Voting and the rest of it

I have never considered myself to be particularly interested in politics, but it is hard to escape the forthcoming election and decide how to vote or indeed whether to bother to vote at all.  It is hard to respect  MPs who have lied and cheated about their expenses, and I really wish we had been supplied with a list of those who didn't play fast and loose with them.

The mess that successive governments have made of the economy, the health service, the schools, housing etc. - the list goes on and on so that is difficult to make a case for having government at all.  Perhaps we should try anarchy which would make a change from our British apathy.  Maybe we need to have a revolution - there never has been a serious one in this country, but we came pretty close in the Poll Tax riots.  Pity serious marches and demonstrations are ignored - there have been marches against the Iraq war, but nothing has been done to curb it.

All very depressing and enough to send people running for cover - easier for the rich to decide to desert for another country or a handy tax haven.  Whoever said life was going to be fair?

My drug of choice and how to manage my disease

The word 'disease' is an interesting one - meaning literally 'dis-ease' being uncomfortable with something and I must say that bipolar/manic depression is an extremely uncomfortable illness.  My drug of choice (apart from the medication I am usually on) is reading and I read obsessively when I am feeling really down.  However, my concentration is knackered and I find myself reading and re-reading the same pages.  When I feel up I still enjoy reading, but I am not so obsessed with it.

I am enormously grateful to Stephen Fry for his frankness about his bipolar condition as this means I no longer feel quite so guilty about my own behaviour/inability to work etc.  The only way I can describe my depression is I feel like I am wading through treacle; it is almost impossible to put one foot in front of the other.  I can barely get out of bed, don't want to socialise, don't want to look at my post or e-mails and generally behave in a 'head under the duvet' manner.  I am fortunate in having a lovely man who enjoys cooking so that at least I eat.  If I was on my own I doubt I would eat or drink adding malnutrition to my other difficulties.   Sadly, he has an aversion to housework (as do I at the best of times) so our home becomes uncontrollably messy, but I can tackle that when I feel better.

This last down draught has been rather drawn out, especially as I thought trying some of the exercises cognitive therapy has taught would help me more.  However, the therapist said that I had 'too high expectations' this time.  One day ...

Dismal Doris - Depression

Feeling very Dismal Doris at present. When I am up I can scarcely remember feeling down - when down feeling high seems a faraway event. This is the first time I have ever blogged when down in the depths - well, that is not quite true; I must be feeling a tiny bit better to even attempt it. I wouldn't mind losing the highs if the lows went as well.  I am on medication to ensure that I don't get too manic - the health professionals seem far more concerned about that - presumably because they think I might hurt myself as I can compromise my safety (my ability to gauge events/circumstances becomes erratic at times).  Unfortunately, while I have lost most of the mania, the  lows are the same as ever - occurring often and causing me a great deal of unhappiness.

In the course of my down phases, I have gone bankrupt, lost my job and now have to exist on very little money. However, that is to be expected and it is true that getting back to basics is no bad thing - as long as there is food on the table and there is a roof over my head, I am grateful for small mercies.


Meanwhile, I am giving some thought to what I want to do with my life - at my age, that is rather surprising I suppose.   However, we can all dream - castles in the air are fine, as long as you don't move into them.

Malapropisms – expressions & language

The other day a friend of mine said ‘he was footless’ – when referring to a drunk. It took me a few minutes to realise she meant ‘legless’ and I suppose it could be a new word which means much the same thing. Then I got to thinking of ‘footloose’ – now there’s an expressive word meaning exactly what it ‘says on the tin’. It’s rather a nice expression and describes a beautiful picture of freedom to my mind.

From there I am now thinking about our very interesting use of slang and idioms. I remember being out with a group of Korean visitors on one occasion. They all spoke very good English and understood most of what we said, but one of them asked what a ‘bit of a do’ meant – an expression I had used without thinking. I explained it meant a party and he was very puzzled that I hadn’t said that in the first place!

Then there's that wonderful phrase 'moveable feast' - as a child I thought it meant picnic and still think that could be one of its meanings, but referring to timing of meals it's brilliant

There are words that mean different things too – for instance oversight can mean being left our or forgotten/overlooked, but it can also mean ‘keeping an eye on’. The two meanings are opposite and yet the same word ecompasses both meanings.

Then there are words that just sound what they mean – what better word than ‘doleful’ it sounds so sad - I see a picture of a bell tolling dismal news. Dismal also sounds how it is pronounced, but the tone of ecstasy and euphoria sound wonderfully exciting and hyper.
Then I got to thinking about the weird things that I get wrong sometimes - the Oyster card for buses and tubes in London I have been know to call the Octopus card and have got some very strange look when I say it.  I also enjoyed using acronyms from the 80s (when I was probably the only person in the UK who failed to make money) such as - WOOP - Well Off Older Person (or did I make that up?)  I remember telling my parents (now deceased, sadly) that that was their status at the time.
Not sure I like the craze for certain words like 'wicked' 'cool' taken to mean much the same and I think eclectic is over- used. But then I like some of the American expressions which I find particularly funny such as 'putting your arse on the line' and 'awesome' said with an American accent always makes me laugh.  I also like the the 'y'all' used mostly by Texans I believe and 'you guys' encompassing male and female is great; also 'sidewalk' is so much better than 'pavement'.


And now I really must sign off - my man says my stream of consciousness can be a bit much for him (but usually it is spoken to/at him and the so and so tunes out).  I hope writing it instead might improve our relationship - well, I live in hope.


I used to look the 'jolly hockeysticks' expression to describe happy and well-spoken women, but there are less and less boarding schools where I think the words started from.