waving wendy/drowning doris

Facebook and the Farmyard Game

2010-08-18T01:33:00.000-07:00

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

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

There’s a 60sfilm called ‘Poor Cow’.

There were ‘somepigs who were more equal than others’ in George Orwell’s Animal Farm – now I’mshowing off my literary knowledge.

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

There’s a beercalled ‘Speckled Hen’ and anothercalled ‘the Dog’s B......s’, but mypartner says I am becoming more and more foul-mouthed by the day so I’m not writing the word and there are plentyof ‘bores’ (boars) in pubs drinkingsaid beer.

And while I’m onthe subject of booze, there’s Bull’s Bloodwhich is a wine from Hungary – well, it started there I am reliably informed byWikipedia.

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

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

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

‘Turkey neck’ is to be avoided at allcosts by those of us of a certain age. Ishudder at the thought of plastic surgery so cover mine up with pearls, beads orneck scarves.

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

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

Some men havethose 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 tokeep 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 thatcovers most farmyards animals, so here you are Facebook Farmyard lovers – I put them all intoyour farmyard and hope that will finish the fatuous game.

After the Dance by Terence Rattigan

2010-08-12T02:07:00.000-07:00

What a culture vulture I have beenrecently. One Sunday a couple of weeksback, 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 thestart of the war. Poor Terence Rattigan apparentlytook it as an indication that it was no good and didn’t even list the play withothers.

Naturally, the play was dated, but Iexpected that. The set was exquisite andthe acting excellent. I felt it capturedwhat I understand to have been the desperation of the 30- something adults whomissed the drama of the First World War but were disturbed or bored enough totry to pretend their lives were not empty, but fun, fun, fun! They were the ‘bright young things’ of EvelynWaugh’s time, but neither especially young nor bright as one of the characters said.

The main character was a rather shallow manin his 30s (David) who partied a lot and found things boring if he didn’t. He was writing a historical book and had amale 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’sgirlfriend’s desire for David and his for her without concern for who theymight hurt in fulfilling such desires. The young woman (Helen) didn’t appear tobe at all worried about hurting Peter and both she and David assumed that hiswife (Joan) would not be affected by their relationship and the required divorce. Indeed, Joan showed no particular concern fortheir imminent divorce, blithely pretending that all was well. The young woman was callously determined tohave the older man and seemed unperturbed by the havoc their relationship wouldcause and indeed did.

The character who was most interesting wasthe sponging friend (John) who was staying with the couple and spent most of thetime on stage interjecting remarks and generally being very funny. In the end he showed himself to be remarkablyastute in his estimation of all the characters and towards the end of the play advisedDavid that he should not continue his new relationship with Helen, the youngwoman, because he would end up killing her as he had killed his wife. It turned out that he had been in love with Joanand, presumably, once she was no longer there, had no desire to stay. It wasjust before he left that he gave the speech ending with, ‘but I don’t supposeyou 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 ofmy friends remarked that she couldn’t relate to any of the characters and thereforefound it unsatisfactory. I found Helen’sdesire for David showed the selfishness and callousness of the young and wonderedif I would have behaved as badly had I been in a similar situation, but foundDavid not entirely shallow and his wife playing a part being almost a playwithin 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

2010-07-15T01:20:00.000-07:00

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

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

Once at the Albert Hall there was theinevitable queue for the loo, but I made it. It is alwaysimpressive the way English women politely queue for the loo – I have seenFrench 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 mountedthe stage, without zimmer frames or walking sticks – actually, they seemed much the same asin the 70’s, just fatter and greyer and none of them were bald unless of coursethey were wearing wigs. I was verydisappointed at the start of the concert – they played the (to me) beautiful,sweet, soulful numbers such as Marrakesh Express as if they were a rockband. I barely recognized some ofthem. I wondered if the person managingthe sound had got it wrong, but the Albert Hall are used to all manner of musicso I don’t think it could have been that. I was uncomfortable to find my ears ringing and my bottle of water visiblyvibrating when I took a sip. Maybe it is just me and they always were more rock and roll and it was just their studio recordsthat were quiet and melodic. My frienddid 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 onstage – he was unable to keep still and shuffled about in a parody of a youngrock star, but let’s be charitable; perhaps he suffers from ‘Restless LegSyndrome’ – yes it is a medical condition and I should know, I spent enoughtime as a medical secretary. He leaptinto the air at one point (only a few inches off the ground) but given hisgreat age, I anxiously wondered if he might have to be stretchered off with abroken knee-cap or hip.

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

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

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

I saw Ray Davies at the O²and that sound was brilliant, so perhaps Ineed to concentrate on (mainly) single performers. My ex-husband saw Neil Young at The Fridgeseveral years ago and he said he was fantastic – single singer and smallervenue; perhaps I need to concentrate on them more.

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

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

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

Slogans and ‘cool’ phrases

2010-07-11T02:12:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-27T00:54:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-16T01:51:00.000-07:00

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.

Carmen and more elephants

2010-06-11T15:30:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-06-07T02:16:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-06-03T00:41:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-05-30T10:14:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-24T16:16:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-05-20T15:38:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-14T14:48:00.001-07:00

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

2010-05-13T02:26:00.001-07:00

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

2010-05-13T02:15:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-09T03:11:00.000-07:00

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)

2010-04-21T12:43:00.000-07:00

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'

2010-04-14T12:47:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-11T02:57:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-06T00:09:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-05T13:10:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-05T13:05:00.000-07:00

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.

Obsession

2010-02-21T06:44:00.000-08:00

As a bipolar I know a lot about obsession. When I am down I obsess about myself and what is wrong with me to a morbid extent, very occasionally to the extent where I consider suicide. However, this is not something I want to dwell on.

OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) is the new buzzword for something that has been around probably for centuries, but naming it doesn’t make it is any less dangerous or uncomfortable. To those who have obsessive behaviour patterns like constantly washing their hands or having routines that mean leaving the house takes hours are obsessions that seriously impede their lives.

I obsess in small ways and have only just recognised that I do – for instance, being what I proudly think of as a wordsmith means I can find myself thinking of words that sound the same and counting how many I can list in my head – for instance: isle, bile, dial, file, guile, mile and then we come to Nile and I can’t decide whether to allow it, because it is the name of a place. This thought goes through my mind ‘shall I, shan’t I?’ until I finally think ‘this is my head and my list – what does it matter whether I allow it or not?’ But it doesn’t stop me doing the same thing on another day, another time.

Perhaps obsessions are ways of avoiding reality or just coping with the tedium of everyday life – could be either, could be both. All I know is that my most dangerous obsession is with myself in the middle of a depressive episode.

I also obsess about things that happen that upset and unsettle me, but then perhaps we all do. For instance, when an outstanding debt had been dealt with months back and someone from a bank or building society call centre telephoned to ask about it yet again I become incandescent with rage. I suppose it is actually caused by fear – if they haven’t accepted or noticed the arrangements I have made to pay maybe the bailiffs will come! I must say I do find the incompetence of institutions now where nobody seems to be in charge incredible! In the end I had to write to the Financial Ombudsman to make a complaint – this would not have been necessary had all the agencies dealing with the debt spoken to one another!

Being told by someone who looks as it they are just out of school that my loan has not been approved seems incongruous to say the least – it happened to me a few years ago when I asked or suggested that I be interviewed by the Bank Manager. Somehow, it wouldn’t have been quite so humiliating to be turned down by a stern-faced man in suit and tie. It was hard to take from a young man in casual clothes who merely consulted a computer screen before saying in effect ‘the computer says ‘no’’.

I become obsessive about my lack of facility in the home – our home looks, well ‘lived in’ is the politest way I can put it. My partner wishes that I would become obsessed with housework and we could have a clean house in consequence, but there is no chance of that.

Several years ago I helped with the Census – delivering and collecting forms and all the necessary paperwork involved. I didn’t notice I was becoming obsessed, but my partner did and now I look back I can see that I did. It was a strange but interesting experience, though – on one occasion a homeless man chased after me demanding a form because he should be on the census too. I agreed with him, but there was no room in the census for people on the streets. I could only deliver to addresses! Perhaps had he had a tent erected it would have been possible – and now I’m obsessing about that – wondering how many people can’t vote. There must be a fair number and is that fair? No it isn’t.

Then there is my obsession with getting my diary absolutely perfect – daily date headings in bold for instance and when I find for some inexplicable reason that my headings have changed or the line spacing I can get into a rage. Crazy, really, since I am the only person who ever looks at it – it is for me to try to get a handle on my feelings, remind me of what I did the previous day etc. etc.

I am presently doing a college course and I spend hours trying to get my homework right. We are supposed to do 200 to 500 words and if mine goes over, as it often does (about 300 to 400) I spend ages taking things out.

Thoughts on Computers

2010-01-18T12:12:00.000-08:00

Now I am no computer nerd, but I know several - you know who you are but don't worry, I am not going to name names. Some time back, of course, it was very uncool to be a nerdy computer buff and almost statutory that computer support in any office or organisation consisted of rather ordinary-looking men in glasses, weirdos or people with body odour (sometimes all three) and they were almost all exclusively male. I recall us women in my last office were delighted to find our new 'computer man' was an Australian with a six-pack and even at my advanced age, I could admire his looks (you can eye up the goods without being able to do or indeed wishing to do anything about it). There were rather a lot of requests for assistance which he responded to with good humour.

I wonder if the original nerdy computer whiz kids decided to have some fun and consequently produced computer words that sound pornographic - dongles, megabytes and blogs to name a few, or is it just that I have a dirty mind? Megabytes sound like someone with huge teeth or a tendency to vampirism - then there are all the search engines: Google, Yahoo etc. - none of them seem very normal somehow, but then what is in computer logic.

I had only just come to terms with faxing before the advent of computers and the worldwide web and even now blogging feels like sending messages up a chimney, or perhaps I am doing something wrong. However, I am proud that I have managed to get it up and running even if I struggle to get into it sometimes. Such are the lives of us dinosaurs!

Of course, now that computers have become mainstream we all hang on every word of a computer expert. My own man is pretty good - he has rebuilt and upgraded ours several times. Trouble is, like many men, he thinks I should be interested and do it as well. I am not interested and never will be - I use a computer as a tool and as far as I am concerned tools get fixed by craftsmen and I am no craftsman (or woman) for that matter.

However, as a former secretary, I could not do without a computer. I came into secretarial work rather late in life (I was about 25) and learnt on a manual typewriter; also learnt Pitman's Shorthand. I remember our shorthand tutor like it was yesterday - she used to urge us to 'pop along the line'. Anyway, my first secretarial job after qualifying as a Personal Secretary put me off for years - the bank manager I worked for dictated onto a tape, or should I say mumbled onto a tape and then said at the end of the page, 'can you put in so and so at the end of the second paragraph'. That meant retyping the whole thing! I used to stomp about a lot then, not knowing how to express my anger, even at that age. Anyway, after that job I didn't do anything secretarial for several years and when I applied for a job about 10 years on, was delighted that computers were in almost all offices. It meant I could actually enjoy typing, because of the wonder of being able to cut and paste, check spelling, re-punctuate etc. Of course, that didn't last long because I got fed up of thinking that I knew better than the person dictating to me, except when I became a medical secretary and then I knew I didn't know better than they. However, I used to improve on their English occasionally - there was one Greek doctor whose eloquence, though quaint, could have been taken the wrong way sometimes.

I am fascinated by how much children understand about computers and use them. An autistic child I knew was faster than anyone I have ever seen using a mouse. However, I still believe that computers are only as good as the person who uses them. For instance, not just any fool can discover things on Google or Yahoo - it does require you to be able to sift stuff and also to have some idea of what you are searching for and even spell it sometimes.

As for the i-books - for me they will never take over from real books. You can't lie in bed and read a computer, nor can you read computer screens as easily as the written word on paper. Also, books look nice on bookshelves and older relatives can look at them!

Some of my friends/relatives complain about the way photography has changed and I understand some of their difficulties. For instance, photos can only be shared with people who have computers and many elderly people don't and that means that unless somebody prints off the pictures of their grandchildren they will not see them. Relatives may show them on their laptops, but nothing can really replace little photo albums. I sometimes long for them myself.

The New Year - Crisis Management & Philosophy

2010-01-03T07:26:00.000-08:00

2010 is now upon us and I have made no resolutions other than to make none - what's the point? I shall only get depressed about my inability to keep the house tidy, get fit, give up booze etc. etc. 2009 was a pretty crappy year for me and 'he who must not be obeyed' so we are hoping for a better one this year. The credit crunch will make little difference to us as we already have our own financial crises to deal with and will not be using any credit cards in the forseeable future. In fact, I returned one (cut up) to Barclaycard since I was afraid they might try to charge me for not using it. It seems to me that could have been a strong possibility.

My one positive thought for 2010 is that I shall not be around by the time all the food/energy has run out in about 60 years and that I have no children to have dumped that on. I do, however, have nephews and nieces who will be reaping the rewards of our greed and complacency about the planet's resources. Oh dear - I'm being very curmudgeonly and uncaring; not like me at all! They will all have to work until about 80 in order to draw any sort of pension too!

I hope that the credit crunch may have a positive side effect, aside from the weeping and gnashing of teeth over loss of jobs and banks, that people may start to appreciate the simpler things of life and learn to enjoy them. This happened to us in 2009 as we suffered a big drop in finances and have thus had to live within a very small budget. It is surprising how much we really enjoy a rare treat such as a trip to the cinema or a meal in an inexpensive restaurant. Shopping at Iceland, the local market and the Pound Shop is not so bad and we are eating some very healthy, albeit cheap food. You can't get much cheaper than a lentil-type curry.

Of course, in London and other cities there are are many things to do that are free - you just have to look for them. I have always loved reading and libraries are a source of free reading material (the i-book, nor the computer will ever take the place of books for me). I can even borrow dvds - it is possible to borrow one for nothing once you have 6 date stamps on a loyalty card.

Music costs nothing to listen to and we have joined a film club which means for a monthly fee we receive dvds of our choice regularly so our home entertainment is more or less sorted. And if we are really bored we could always film the cat on our camera or phone. I am learning to teach myself piano having inherited a very small portable organ from my mother. It's hard work and I shall have to find a teacher some time soon as I am getting to the point where I think I need some assistance. Meanwhile my partner and the cat are regaled with Ode to Joy played with one hand, The Alpine Melody with two - the latter is the shortest, and probably easiest tune, that can be played with two hands, but at least it is tuneful, which is more than I can say for my rendition of Three Blind Mice - now you would think that easy and so it is with one hand, but with two ...

Although, unusually for the UK, we are in a very cold spell of weather, I am enjoying the crisp beauty of the snowy landscape. Of course, the unspoilt purity of it won't last long - not in London with all the traffic, but there are parks and gardens which look very beautiful at present. There are the usual complaints about councils being unprepared, the salt supplies are running out and so might the gas, but I think it is better to just enjoy what we can. Sufficient unto the day etc. - today the sun is shining, the sky is blue and from indoors the remaining snow in our little close looks very pretty.

The UK and us British are obsessed with the weather - our main news story at present is 'the extreme weather', never mind the wars that are still going on and the human rights abuse happening in places like China and Burma. If the weather is cold we complain about the iced up roads and pavements, when the temperatures rise we complain about the lack of air-conditioning. However the British good spirit does show at times of weather crises and there are stories of neighbourly people shopping and looking out for the elderly. Perhaps it will continue after our 'cold snap'.

As I get older I wonder about my health and how I shall cope with retirement/old age etc. It is my dream to grow old disgracefully and not become one of the forgotten or invisible. My biggest fear healthwise is the possibility of Alzheimer's - my ability to forget people's names, lose words sometimes and generally do ridiculous things like put my glasses in the fridge and the butter on the table or forget the safe place I put the scissors in - could they be signs? However, having spoken to other people in my age group this may just be the effect of ageing, some of which can be helped by using memory aids (no, I didn't say marital aids, but that's a thought ...). Actually, that is where technology comes in handy - I have a calender which I fill with dates and times of appointments and sometimes things I want/have to do such as seeing the dentist, a visit to the gym, tidying the bathroom - the last has been on my calender for over two weeks and still I haven't done it! (As I have said before - only dull women have immaculate houses). My phone can be connected up to my computer by a plug in thingy (sorry my memory of the names for technological terms is non-existent) and miraculously, all my appointments are set in, well if not stone, then on an electronic diary. Of course I am lost when I forget my phone, but ... such is life. Of course, nothing can help my ability to forget the shopping list when going shopping or mislaying my glasses, keys etc., but I am working on that - I want an invention which I can buzz to find something - it works with my phone after all; I often have to phone that up to discover its whereabouts.

Feeding grumpy grannies and others Christmas stuff

2009-12-23T01:18:00.000-08:00

It was the Christmas Lunch recently - organised by myself and A ANOTHER for the residents of the local sheltered housing unit. The first disaster happened 2 days before the party - the pub where we had Christmas-lunched for the last 2 years said they had 'double-booked' and we wouldn't be able to come on the date agreed; they could offer us a date closer to Christmas. No doubt they had a better offer - local office workers drink far more than a bunch of elderly ladies. We were very annoyed and have every intention of giving them as much bad publicity as we can - some of us have local influence and there is nothing like word of mouth (and a few of us have large ones) for passing on such things.

As luck would have it, my co-organiser conned another pub into receiving our gang of grannies and all seemed well. We were (supposedly) tucked away in a corner of the pub on a raised platform. It meant we had to squeeze past dart-players, but they were very amenable to moving and gave up playing with pretty good grace in the end. Nothing like making your presence felt!

The lunch was great, but I don't think we will be invited to return. My co-worker, not known for her diplomacy, had already annoyed the bar staff by the time I arrived, to say nothing of some of the early arrivals.

It took some time ferrying people into taxis and unloading them at the other end. I had carefully written out a table plan, but everybody sat where they liked; indeed some of them flatly refused to move once they had sat down. Shepherding recalcitrant sheep is definitely not my forte.

I have put on a bit of weight lately and wore a dress I haven't worn for some time - it was a bit tight, but not too short, so I thought it would be fine. My partner assured me that 'my bum did not look big in it' (I would have killed him had he said it did), but one very frank old lady told me it did - she's 92, so I suppose she would know!

There were other volunteers helping serve the drinks and they had been provided with all kinds of headgear - antlers and Santa hats to name just 2. One of the male volunteers really got into his part as Father Christmas ho-ho-ho-ing all over the place; his act slightly spoilt by his trousers slipping down. (Good thing it wasn't children he was giving presents too).

The saddest part, for me, was the old lady who said she didn't want to go home as she would just be up in her flat on her own! I am sure there are several elderly people either with no relatives or none living close to them who will spend Christmas alone.

Of course, there are those 'elderly' parents/grandparents etc. who are invited annually to their children/grandchildren and don't have any desire to go. They find the grandchildren noisy and the layout of the bathroom difficult etc. etc. If only people were honest and told one another what they really want to do - it is quite possible that the children/grandchildren dread having the parents every bit as much as they dread going there.

I have the best of both worlds this year - I will be spending Christmas Day with my lovely man at home, where we shall lay about a lot, eating, watching films and generally being very slatternly. He is the cook in our house so 'Heaven' I shall sit about while he stands over a hot stove. We are not eating turkey! We are having Beef Wellington on Christmas Day, lobster (from Iceland - the shop, I mean, not the country) on Boxing Day when a friend is coming over and there will be more eating, drinking and socialising.

Then I am spending time with my family - sisters, brother, niece and their families altogether in a place not far from Manchester. The worst of Christmas will be over by then - the turkey and the clearing up (my sister is fanatical about tidying up, often on Boxing Day - hoovering around the rest of the family). I expect we will be on sausage and mash as an antidote to all that rich food. My partner, who still thinks 'up north' consists of clogs, hats and greyhound racing, is not coming with me, so there will be none of that concern as to whether he is enjoying himself listening to my relatives who are a noisy lot at the best of times. Actually, there will be a greyhound in the equation - a pet of one of the family. My man - he who must not be obeyed - will be looking after our completely crazy cat.

Christmas Chaos and Families

2009-11-30T07:44:00.001-08:00

The idiotic line in the pop song that includes the words 'I wish it could be Christmas every day ...' - fills me with despair - Christmas - every day; I think it should be once every four years. Don't get me wrong, I am not Scrooge with his 'Bah! Humbug!' but I do find the way Christmas starts ever earlier each year infuriating. I first spotted Christmas cards in the shops in August this year. If I bought Christmas cards that early I wouldn't remember where I had put them and would have to buy them again nearer the time. They would probably turn up in a bag or box in the loft long after I move out or shuffle off my mortal coil and people will mutter about what a strange person I was to hoard such a load of rubbish.

I can't bear the cacophony of Christmas piped music that is played in shops from about October - how the shop assistants haven't beaten the speakers to a pulp is beyond me. After five minutes of 'Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer' and other nauseating nonsense, I want to murder a muppet, torpedo a teddy or strangle a Cindy doll or all three!

I also find the curious behaviour of families just before Christmas odd - the frantic stocking up of food and drink. Watch a family, or even just a couple, fill their supermarket trollies with enough for a long siege, despite the shops only being closed for three days at the most.

Then there's the 'it's for the children' brigade - have you ever noticed that the small child with an overwhelming array of dazzling presents will play happily with one of the boxes said presents arrived in, rather negating the need for expenditure on treasures for his or her edification. It is a salutary lesson remembering that in some parts of the world children barely get enough to eat, let alone receive gifts.

Families who see each other rarely (and there is a reason for that - they can't bear to be in the same room together) somehow feel duty bound to pretend filial affection, sit around a table together, eat too much, drink too much and then wonder why hostility becomes festering animosity. This is not helped by the fact that the weather is usually dull, there are no shops open and nothing to do for three days. No wonder there are so many families at the sales after Christmas - they don't want to buy anything, just get away from Aunty Chris or Uncle Brian. It is not quite so bad when there are children - at least half a day can be spent playing with their toys under the axiom of 'checking it is working properly'. (Just before Christmas a trip to Hamleys is quite an eye-opener - the place is packed out with fathers playing with train sets - not a child in sight!)

I love my own family dearly, but more than a couple of days together and we revert to childhood patterns of behaviour and bicker about the most ridiculous things. One year I had an argument with my sister about how old our brother is - neither of us would back down (I found out later she was right - she usually is! Grrrgh!!!) I usually become stony-faced and stubborn, refusing to do much in the way of housework and retreating into reading.

Staying with in-laws can be fraught with danger too. One tiny criticism of my mother-in-law's 'perfect' son and there used to be a threatening silence which could last for 24 hours. This, you would think, might be a relief from the relentless Christmas cheer, but a chilly absence of words and passive-aggressive behaviour can be very disturbing. One year I brought several books to to get me through the boredom of the holiday and proceeded to read throughout the usual rubbish TV - Eastenders depressive dive into some crisis or another and repeats of Fools and Horses, Mary Poppins and the Great Escape. Escaping into my choice of fantasy turned out to be a mistake - I was considered rude not contributing to the collective couch potato watch. I protested to my then husband that I thought it rude to force me to watch crap TV for hours on end - now that could be called relative-abuse!

One year, in desperation, I insisted we play party games. Under protest, this was attempted and it was certainly the most fun any of us had had in several Christmases (we don't get out much!). Watching my pompous father-in-law pushing a matchbox along the carpet in competition with a mad aunt was hysterical. The version of Call my Bluff was a great success - my mother-in-law won consistently, presumably because she was the most convincing liar.

How not to chair a meeting!

2009-11-26T00:45:00.000-08:00

I am chair of a local resident's committee and it was the AGM recently, met with trepidation by myself and our treasurer. As all 14 out of a possible 30 arrived, on zimmer frames, mobility scooters and in wheelchairs, I had to admire their grit. We started 15 minutes late - everybody needed to be settled, with much creaking of bones then bribed with a drink to ensure they stayed more than 5 minutes. So it was out with the Buck's Fizz and the sherry (with lemonade - well, the sherry, anyway). If you need to get drunk quickly sherry and lemonade goes straight to your head and the thought of trying to get a drunk posse of the elderly home on their various modes of transport was a bit of worry. The treasurer reminded them to drink with care as 'we don't want to wheel anyone home in a wheelbarrow'. Luckily, they all live within spitting distance of the venue.

The meeting began with difficulty - a get-together presents a good time to exchange views and gossip. The next task was making sure everybody had their papers and understood what was what - agenda, minutes of last AGM, yearly accounts and Chair's report, written by yours truly. I took the minutes as well. Not because none of them are compus mentis, but because eyesight, hearing and arthritis prevents them from managing paperwork.

After that, it was all systems go - well, sort of ... tenants got sidetracked by various subjects, ran down rabbitholes with them and it was with great difficulty and as much tact as I could muster, that I engineered a return to the point! And still there was an underlying mummer from a lady who becomes strategically deaf - she can always hear the offer of a drink or that she has won a prize in a raffle, but otherwise - well, picture the scene. There were times when I wanted to get up and hit her over the head with her walking stick, but couldn't of course - elder abuse I think that is called.

Then there was the sweet old lady who just wants company - she is confined to her flat because of her physical and mental health, but dearly loves to join in and although confused, tries to help with clearing and washing up. At the end of the afternoon, she wanted to 'come home with you' because, as she said, 'I'm only up there on my own!' Quite true and sad - pity volunteers have to jump through so many hoops before being allowed to volunteer to befriend the elderly. Of course there are those who prey on the vulnerable, but they could be easily watched. It is sad when the kindly and loving have to suffer for the sins of the minority.

Anyway, all in all, it was an event to be remembered and the committee members (all over 70, and some over 80) have a lot to be proud of. After 5 years of fighting with the local authorities the committee have managed to obtain secure gates and safer pavements/roads around the site. This has involved a considerable amount of work and attendance at meetings, made more difficult by having to deal with two different councils. When the gates were almost turned down because of planning permission I believe there would have been a riot, but the council climbed down very quickly after intervention from local councillors and one MP. Perhaps the prospect of grappling grannies to the ground or being run down by a disability scooter or zimmer frame helped.

At the end, our treasurer, a wheelchair-abled (she is certainly not wheelchair-bound) lady with lots of bottle, cut glass accent and amazingly colourful language, said that she hoped the group would go on from strength to strength and continue to 'grow old disgracefully!' I said they could 'wear purple and spit' at their age and hope to become as active and forthright as they are when I hit their age.

He who must not obeyed and other relationships

2009-11-24T01:08:00.000-08:00

I was thinking about toy boys the other day and the number of celebrities who swear by them. No chance! Well, for a start, I am well past my sell by date, have little money, very little style or particularly spectacular looks or figure. Anyway, I think toy boys are over-rated! 'He who must be obeyed' is older than I by 9 years and there is a lot to be said for that. Firstly, he cannot run fast enough to catch younger women and secondly, he is short-sighted so doesn't notice my wrinkles.

We are both as honest as possible in our dealings with one another - sometimes he can be too honest. In my previous relationship I was much less honest and it fell apart ... Of course, my man complains that I am obviously not as compliant as I was with my husband and I tell him that I have learnt my lesson and he has to live with the consequences! One day we will get married, but I do need a divorce first and it costs! Besides, as I said to 'he who must not be obeyed' what makes him think I want to become one of his mad family; I have a crazy enough one of my own.

Other relationships - well, I have two sisters, both very loveable, if bossy. I envy them both for knowing what they wanted career-wise from young. Me - I still don't know what I want to do! Sometimes wonder why you are expected to know what you want to do once you have left school. By the time I am pensionable age, perhaps I will know!

I have lots of acquaintances and a few good friends. One in particular is a very tough lady and I have to fight to be on an equal level with her. She swears like a trooper and is straightforward in most of her dealings, but I have noticed some manipulative behaviour. She will say, 'would you do me a favour' which immediately makes me feel put on the spot. One day I will get up the courage to say that I would prefer she just say 'please could/would you ..'

The Chaos Theory of Housework

2009-11-23T07:30:00.000-08:00

I remain a bit of a stranger to housework - don't know the last time I used the iron and the ironing board is at the back of a very cluttered cupboard. Our flat is littered with books I am reading, about to read, have taken off the shelves and not returned (my excuse is that I have to use steps to put them away); in the sitting room the computer desk is covered in bits of paper, pens, magazines and mail, some open, some not.

In the corner of the room are two tool boxes and by the radiator several bits of computer, which my partner is, allegedly, using to improve the computer. I have yet to see an improvement, but it keeps him happy. I fall over the toolboxes often, reminding me that I should look down more, given our propensity for not putting stuff away. We have an overflowing filing tray and 'to do' basket - to do means, loosely, will be done some time within the next two or three months, except when I have an appointment and have to plough through it all to find the relevant paperwork required. We are so disorganised we sometimes end up buying something again because we can't find the original and then end up with three of something. Very wasteful!

I try not to worry about the consistent state of chaos and remind myself of the axiom which I ascribe to of 'only dull women have tidy kitchens' but sometimes wonder if my partner would enjoy a bit of a dullard for the price of a clean home. I have suggested he try living with my oldest sister whose home is always tidy and he looks alarmed at the prospect, so maybe there is something to not being too fussy!

When I am very bored perhaps I shall do the housework, but I doubt that. As soon as I have nothing to do, I find something I like doing and that's that. Interestingly, I clean for a neighbour - his place is cleaner than mine before I start the cleaning! I can manage to do it because it is so tidy and I am getting paid. My partner suggested paying me, but since what's his is mine, there is no point.

Enough of housework except to reiterate, 'only very dull women have tidy kitchens'.

And didn't Quentin Crisp say,'the dust doesn't get any thicker after three years'?

Exercise & the cat who 'walks alone'

2009-11-22T08:38:00.000-08:00

I started at a gym recently - knowing that exercise is especially good for combating depression. Trouble is, having been size 8 to 10 most of my life, I have never really bothered with exercise, but change of life, medication and doing very little when depressed has left me overweight and flabby. Anyway, I joined a local gym and have so far been to 3 classes called LBT (legs, bums and tums) - yes I thought T stood for that as well! There were two different teachers and one of them was a sadist! At one point he let us all punch into a punchbag that he held up in front of us - I was obviously looking very fierce as he said 'not my face!' As if ... By the end of each class I was absolutely exhausted, but so were many of the group, most of whom looked younger than I. Of course I look red-faced and sweaty within minutes - why is it some women still look good after strenuous exercise - are they real? Some of them don't appear to sweat at all and wear attractive outfits which don't look marked in any way. My costume is a pair of shorts and t-shirt (gone are the days when I could get away with bike shorts).

The gym bit of exercise is far less interesting. I find all those toned bodies and tans intimidating and make sure I use the machines furthest away from them, preferably ones where there are no mirrors - seeing myself sweat is not one of my favourite pastimes. There are far more men than women there and they often look to me as if they are showing off with weights etc. I find the treadmill the most boring of all the machines and looking at all those clones running/walking/earphones on/bored expression on face is enough to put me off. However, I have paid for the month and am determined to stick it out. Strange that I, who always thought myself the least competitive of people, should find myself competing when on the rowing machine and anyone comes and uses the one next to me. (There are only two, so there is no choice but to go on if someone else sits down next to you). Of course, even if I can keep up with anyone, I am surely on a lesser strength pull, but who's to know that?

The biggest challenge in using the gym is mastering the machinery. This is difficult since I have never been much good at technical stuff. I had a session with an instructor, told him what I hoped to achieve (inch loss rather than weight loss) and a moderate level of fitness - I don't intend to run any marathons! He showed me a series of stretching and exercising machines that felt like torture. I couldn't manage one called the Fly at all and he has suggested I lie on one of those big balls and lift two .75 kg weights. Now that is what I call elegant! One of the machines for abductions is even sexier - sitting with legs akimbo and stretching out and back. However, I think I probably look funniest doing the pulling exercise - I can barely reach the pulley and must then struggle into a very uncomfortable sitting position and pull the thing up and down.

The exercise machines I use in my programme otherwise are: the treadmill (boring), the bicycle (at least I can see I have cycled a certain distance, even if my pace is so slow that sometimes it thinks I have paused!) The rowing machine feels like it is doing me good, if only because I can feel my tummy muscles working. I use that to warm down.

Now I am boring myself about exercise, so will turn to my cat's behaviour. He is a lovely black male with a mind of his own (certainly the best-looking male in the house). He barely acknowledges us, occasionally honouring us with his presence in the middle of the bed and permitting us to stroke him for a while. He enjoys walking over everything, including keyboards, mobile phones, remote controls and any work surfaces, even those cluttered with debris (which is most of them - we are not the tidiest people on the block). He likes peering out of the window and has managed to get out on a very narrow window-sill on 2 occasions so far. A pitiful crying alerted us to his plight at about 3 in the morning! He is an elegant and beautiful creature and gives us endless pleasure - we don't get out much! We hope to get some kind of ladder erected for him to get into the communal back garden as we are on the second floor with no access to it.

Introduction

2009-11-21T16:05:00.000-08:00

I was diagnosed bipolar a few years ago; hence the title of my blog - sounds better than manic depression I think; sexier and more interesting somehow. Bi (double-faceted) and polar (think bear or ice cap). Manic depressive sounds - well, mad!

Don't know how often I will post blogs - that will, of course, depend on my state - waving or drowning! At present I am in a rising state having come out of a downer. Now I have to be careful that I don't get too high and prepare to change my medication accordingly. Depressions (drownings) are so bad sometimes that I can barely get out of bed, wash, eat or enjoy life at all. I cut myself off from social contact, don't want to speak on the phone and don't want to open my mail. In fact it feels as if I am wading through mud just prior to sinking and drowning. If it wasn't for my lovely man I would probably starve or dehydrate. When I become Waving Wendy I don't want to remember Drowning Doris and sometimes can hardly credit ever feeling that way. My memory is selective to help me cope I suppose.

My mood changes have caused some terrible things to happen - separation from husband, bankruptcy, loss of work and friends - luckily I have a few very good ones who just wait until I have come back - one of my friends calls and says she thought I must have dropped off the edge of the world again. An apposite and perceptive comment.

I think I must have been bipolar from my teens, but it was just assumed to be normal adolescent angst. I had times when I completely isolated myself (difficult in a family like mine) but I was almost always able to shut myself off from the world, my drug of choice being reading. I read everything and anything. In fact, at about 16, my father told me I must limit my reading to two books a week after a bout of sleepwalking.

In a high state I was sometimes out of control - luckily my parents didn't know some of the dangerous stunts I pulled, although they were aware of my odd behaviour at times and just allowed it to go on as long as it didn't impinge on family life too much. Frankly, our family are quite eccentric anyway and rather proud of it.

Because I am having a great deal of treatment now and am trying hard to manage my illness I have decided to look back and consider the pattern of my behaviour over the years. Many of the incidents are funny, some sad, but I hope to be more waving than drowning in the future. Over the last 18 months I have been waving for about 13, but the drowning was serious in August; hence the treatment regime I am no now.

It was rather amusing how my diagnosis was reached, now I think about it. My partner and I had been offered family therapy to help manage my depression which had become worse as the years went by. It was a new sort of treatment - a therapist talked to us while a gang of three watched a video link in another room. At the end of the session they would come into the room, sit to one side and discuss their opinions about us. We were not expected to comment ourselves, just observe. They then left the room and we talked briefly to the therapist about our feelings on what they said. For the first six months or so we talked about management of my depression and my partner's difficulties coping with the really deep pits I fell into (for the purposes of anonymity I shall call him Jack). Some of the time it was difficult to make myself get on the bus to make the appointments and there were times when I did little but cry, but then one memorable day we reached our little room for therapy and I was feeling really good. Jack was very concerned about my excitable behaviour, but I didn't think there was anything wrong with it - I was just glad to be out of the doldrums. I suppose I was talking too much, waving my arms about and generally euphoric. Then I noticed our therapist - she had a very expressive face and she looked scared! That stopped me in my tracks and one of the gang of three came in and said she felt there was 'something more going on' and she felt I needed to see a psychiatrist. I was so shocked by the intervention and the therapist's look that I agreed. The psychiatrist I saw told me the diagnosis was bipolar and that the antidepressants I had been taking on and off for several years could have exacerbated my condition. I was a bit annoyed about that, but he pointed out that I probably had never seen a doctor when feeling good so that it wasn't surprising that I had been misdiagnosed as being depressed.

Enough! I hope that will be the last time I refer to the boring bit about bipolar - the drugs, the therapy etc. This blog is going to be more about the weird and wonderful things in my life and how much I want to be waving not drowning.