If you want to get to There, don’t start from Here !

One of the joys of living in a year-round sun-drenched resort is that you don’t have to ‘go on holiday’; the rational thinking being why go anywhere when I have it all here. However, when The Child is working in Fuerteventura and demands your attendance for a ‘cheap break’ then rational thinking goes out of the window and you suddenly find yourself making the journey from Hell.

You didn’t mention the lay-overs!!

There are several options for getting from Here to There all of which involve numerous airports, stopovers and are anything but cheap; my route of choice seemed reasonably straight-forward and had the benefit of being fairly inexpensive. On paper (well the browser window) it looked good – Sharm to Istanbul, from there to Barcelona and finally to FV. I had a couple of hours in each airport giving me ample time to browse the shops and get to my next flight – perfect … or maybe not.

Leaving Sharm at 2am didn’t seem an issue as I am often awake at that time anyway and figured I could grab 3 hours sleep on the plane. Friday morning I was up at 11am, went to work in the afternoon and enjoyed a few beverages with my best friend who was to deposit me at the airport at midnight. It was looking good for a kip en-route until you factored in my excitement at going somewhere other than Egypt or the UK for the first time in 20 years and my complete inability to sleep in a sitting position.

Ooh look! Istanbul

A slightly tired me arrived in Istanbul at 5am – or 6am their time and once through the transit pens I sought out the smoking terrace – thankfully they have one. A full tour of the departure area concluded there was nowhere suitable to catch a nap between flights and anyway what if I overslept and missed it? So armed with coffee I camped with the other nicotine addicts and watched the planes come and go.

Finally the flight to Barcelona was boarding and I figured now sleep must be possible; I figured without the over-zealous Pegasus trolley-dollies bumping into me with carts every 10 minutes, the loud and complete gibberish announcements from the cockpit and the 2 kids behind me holding their own auditions for Pop Idol. Grrr… 24 hours awake and counting.

I made a fatal mistake at Barcelona by thinking that such a large airport in a country where I thought they were ‘smoker-friendly’ would have somewhere I could get a coffee and a cig. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The security lady helpfully pointed out that there were no smoke-detectors in the toilets, but 4 hours in a loo seemed unhealthy.

Gosh a car park!

After a trudge of about half a mile I reached the outside world and clusters of people huddled around large friendly ashtrays. I made a mental note of my route through the airport and determined that I could sit outside in the sunshine for at least 3 hours and people watch. I seemed to be beside the short-term parking where I was passed by people with no luggage who returned later with more people and luggage.

It struck me as a little odd that many of the folk coming to collect friends and relatives had brought a dog with them. Having decided there was no logical reason for this I put it down to a Spanish quirk along with their idea that smoking in the loo was fine.

Finally I was on the last leg of my mammoth journey. I boarded the Ryanair flight with a bunch of excitable Spaniards and was prepared for 3 hours of unintelligible chatter around me. To my amazement the people sat next to me were Brits! Hoorah! They were living in Spain and had opted for a week break in FV – lovely people who made my last flight bearable, I thank-you.

Who Dat?

Once on the ground at FV the travelling, lack of sleep and general excitement got the better of me. I bounced up to the TUI reps like a kid who had eaten all the blue Smarties, hugged The Child (and anyone who came close) and made a pretty bad first impression with her colleagues who must have thought the babbling women had recently been let out of an asylum. I didn’t care. I had ARRIVED. I was with THE CHILD. I was deliriously HAPPY…

Summer is coming

Some things have been bothering me lately and I thought I would share them with you my loyal readers – yes both of you. So it seems to me that hair grows faster in warm weather.

One way or another the fact that I am now in shorts (not jeans) means I am paying more attention to the fur on my legs and rubbing the epi-thing over them more diligently than in winter. Is it a reality that the fuzz grows back faster or just my imagining because I see my legs more often? If it is true that hair grows faster in sunshine isn’t that a contradiction in evolutionary terms? Surely in cold weather you need more fur??? If I was a cave-woman then I’d want to be furry in winter not summer but then maybe I’d shed in summer like a dog and grow new fur to protect from the sun.

OK I’m not a dog and I just get hacked off that my legs seem to go into overdrive once the sun comes out and I spend half my life rubbing a stupid plucking machine over them. If there is some deity that created women and a large proportion of the world worships said mythical being why the feck do all men want women “hair-free” instead of how said imaginary beast created us??? No guy thinks hairy legs are sexy (unless they ought to be locked up) and Islamic culture suggests the ‘bride’ is free from all hair and pure before the wedding – how the feck can that be right – some body hair is useful otherwise it wouldn’t be there and if you want a nude fanny doesn’t that make you a bit weird and into pre-pubescent girls??? Don’t’ get me wrong, trailing pubes out of your swimsuit is a bit icky but surely there has to be fur there for a reason…

So my questions are: – Why do we get hairier in summer? Why doesn’t the body give up making hair when you rip it out every few weeks? Why can’t guys accept women have hair too – let’s face it when did your man last shave his legs or trim his pubes???

Answers on a postcard please to FedUpPluckingOfSharrm, MenShouldTryIt, Egypt

It’s been a while

It seems I’ve been very quiet lately which most of you will know is completely unlike me, I’m putting it down to the fact that a) nothing really interesting has happened and b) I had the life sucked out of me by a twat. We’ll leave the latter alone for now now and concentrate on the fact that Sharm has got boring.

Sharm is now officially dull. Lots of interesting people have left and the tourists are lacking the level of intelligence that make for good conversation.

“Do you really live here” intoned in an Essex accent leaves me wondering ‘where do you think I live when I’ve just told you I’ve been here 10 years’. The question “Don’t you miss home?” has me squirming  as this is home. “Where can I watch X-Factor?” is just so banal I have no answer. Nope, the tourists are not what they used to be.

Thankfully there are returning ex-Sharmers and good friends who are still here to keep me sane – OK laugh, you know I’m not sane – but these good people make special days and give me a sense that not everyone thrives on crappy reality TV or the latest match between Nohope United and Whogivesatoss City. No seriously when did football take over the world and get to be shown 24/7  365 ??? I’m all for sport and can handle a 5 day Test match but why oh why must there be 22 yobs trying not to get injured (or faking injury) on the telly every day ?!?!? And while I’m on a rant why does Nohope United take precedence over 30 guys who play real sport and refuse to acknowledge injury because they’re proper men not over-paid twats.

Anyway, life is OK right now and I’m waiting for it to rain. The weather forecast says so and it must be true. I might have a long wait because the last time it rained was about 3 months ago and that only lasted 5 minutes so perhaps I’ll do something useful instead like going to bed.

I ought to re-visit this tomorrow and make it more exciting but then again …

Night folks

All in a good cause

Go on – you know you want us…

When someone asks you to do something that is a bit out of your comfort zone but absolutely the right thing then it becomes very hard to say no; so here I am writing what amounts to a begging letter. I’ve never begged for help before (the odd beer after hours maybe) and my experience of trying to get cash out of people for a good cause is limited to one Mr. Geldof swearing on live TV so if I’m really awful at it please forgive me but SAFA, or rather 5 little cuties need your help.

Their sob story writes itself; stolen from Mum probably to be sold, abandoned once they were a problem and then left to die with no water, food or shelter. The lone boy of the pack had his tail barbarically hacked in half and could have easily died from blood loss or septic shock. The tale (forgive the pun) is way too common in Sharm where few of the Egyptians respect animals and there is little protection for the ones in most need.

I promise I won’t chew – much….

Thankfully this merry band nick-named Game of Bones ended up with the lovely folk from SAFA. They are now enjoying the safety of The Rescue Centre and growing into strong healthy pups.  The next part of their life could be up to you – yes you – the one at the back peering over your friends shoulder to look at the cute puppies on their IPhone. You can help SAFA find these lovely dogs a loving forever home or at least spend some of your hard earned cash to buy  a bag of Puppy Chow for them.

Please give me a home!

Seriously folks these little ones are at the age where they would normally be heading off to a home to learn how to be a loving pet. The longer they sit around in their kennel as a pack, the harder it will be for them to adapt to a new life which they richly deserve after the bad start fate dealt them.

So here’s what you – yes you still peering at the pictures – can do:–

• Take one home and love it forever – SAFA will help with vaccinations and neutering so it won’t cost the earth. If you are in Europe they can arrange to fly it to you for less than the cost of a pedigree puppy and you’ll have brought a ray of Sharm’s sunshine into your life
• Take one to Foster – you may not be here forever but training the puppy and giving it a home life will be a big help
• To quote the afore-mentioned Sir Bob, “Give us your ****ing money”. Every pound (Egyptian or Sterling 🙂 ) or Euro or Dollar even Yen will help keep these little bundles of joy in food and pay for their medical treatment
• Volunteer to help SAFA – there are lots of ways to help – apparently writing begging letters isn’t the only thing they need!
• Tell your friends, family and every random stranger you meet about their plight. At least you can share this post – now I’m talking to you with the Iphone ….

You can read the interviews with the Games of Bones crew at http://sharmactionforanimals.com/dogblog/ and check out their photos here http://sharmactionforanimals.com/four-gorgeous-puppies-abandoned/

You can find more information on the website http://www.sharmactionforanimals.com or join the Facebook group www.facebook.com/groups/sharmactionforanimals

They promised me if I looked pathetic enough I can go to a forever home with real parents… how am I doing ??

Suicide is painless ….

No pics, No funnies. I just needed to say this. Sorry folks.

 

For those of you who are expecting something funny, tune out now. Every now and then I feel the need to write about something close to my heart and this is one of those times. FB has been awash with people shoving their feet in ice buckets for ALS. This is great, well done ALS for raising such huge awareness and getting money to fund research. So here’s my thing – where is the money for depression. There are truckloads of people who suffer and are never  even diagnosed. There are countries that don’t recognise it as an affliction let alone an illness. My own Ma (may she rest in peace) said “We didn’t have stuff like depression and stress in my day we just got on with it”. Well maybe we should all just ‘get on with it’ but anyone afflicted with this horrible mental health problem will tell you it’s not that easy.

 I am a functioning depressive –that’s like a functioning alcoholic – I am basically screwed but get by day to day. I tried drugs but they made me fluffy and as a reasonably creative person I’d rather take depressive and lucid over fluffy and incoherent any day. So the drugs don’t work – where have I heard that? But there’s therapy right? Sure there is loads of self-help shit on the net which tells you exactly what you know already (and you would tell to others) but in your own life it seems impossible to put into practice. You know exactly what you should do, but you are a depressive and regardless of how much sense something makes or how much it is the right thing to do you can’t quite get there.

A friend once described ‘The Black Cloud’ and I instantly knew what he meant. There is no rhyme or reason to it, just apathy and a sense of loss; everything is just too hard – even getting a glass of water when you are thirsty seems too much effort; a step further than your mind wants to take your body. Going to bed is a trial and getting up again is harder; there is no reason or purpose. The Black Cloud gets you and there is seemingly no escape.

 I’ve been lucky to have great support around me and a series of animals that have kept me sane. That being said, I swear sometimes despite my beautiful daughter, whom I love dearly, the ‘easy route’ has only been blocked by getting up to feed the dog/cat. I was brought up to believe that obligation meant something and that has kept me grounded and made me fulfil those obligations to those around me – even if they have four legs not two. I am a firm believer that if you take on a responsibility then you honour it.

Subconsciously I suppose this is why I keep pets – they keep me from opting out. I know my daughter would be pissed at me for checking out early, especially as her father had no choice and was lost too young, but she also knows I am flawed and maybe she would be happier without my late night calls when it’s all gone Pete Tong. No – the realist in me says that no matter how flawed I am she would rather have a Mother. For all my faults I am there for her when she needs hugs and I never judge and am always proud of the amazing creature that spent 9 months kicking around inside me.

I also have friends that need me. For whatever reason I am part of their life and perhaps they would be worse off without being able to call on me. They too need a support network and who am I to deny that to good people who have been there for me? We all need an ear right? Someone you can bitch at and tell your darkest secrets;  someone who tells you the truth while supporting your head as you vomit. Good friends ….. works both ways.

 So here I am torn between my depression and the reality of being a Mother, friend and owner of pets. I shoulder my responsibilities, put the pills out of reach and take Ma’s advice – just get on with it. It doesn’t make it an easier, but knowing she’d beat crap out of me for being a surrender monkey kind of helps. Her strength and the support of awesome friends get me through.

 Thank you to everyone who has listened to me or picked up the phone in the middle of the night, to you kind folk who respond to my rantings via message or e-mail, to everyone in my life that makes taking the ‘easy way out’ a whole lot harder – I love you guys, you are special and deserve a frigging medal for putting up with a nutter like me. ….. and Rat, I love you and I’m sorry I’m such a fuckwit.

 

I deviated from my script there…. The original had this more to say:-

I once tried to describe my depression to someone close to me who had no comprehension. I wrote a piece off the cuff and had then had it edited by a friend and fellow writer who has been in the dark places. I post it here in the hope it gives insight to something that is so hard to define. If someday I stop being responsible maybe you will forgive me and understand that it was something I could no longer control. In the meantime I think I’ve done well to type this up because my writing is terrible and a doctor would struggle to read the scribble I’ve just transcribed!!

 

The vast, black, thunderless clouds roll over the desert driven before a Saturnine wind whose power cannot be comprehended by mortals; only the Devil himself could contrive such darkness and destruction. The air is alive with alien voices calling to the myriad grains of sand “Come with me”. Each tiny particle heeds the call and joins in the chorus of “destroy, destroy”. Nothing can withstand the brutal baying of the wind, the sting of countless mosquitoes formed by Hades own hand while above the coal coloured clouds laugh and laugh at the havoc they have wreaked.

Far below a tiny sapling, newly formed and pushing forth towards the heavens, struggles against the baying wind, the stinging sand, the chaos all around. It watches as great structures are torn apart and giant, strong limbed palms are thrown aside to die. It howls as its new-formed leaves are stripped from its fledgling branches and cries as its slender trunk bends and twists trying to withstand the onslaught that is far beyond its strength to bear. It clings to the imperfect soil and pushes its slender, desperate roots further towards the life giving water below the surface of the desert. It endures the stings and the pain stoically and with a maturity far beyond its tender years. Still high above, the belligerent black cloud’s laughter echoes like a Satanic symphony determined to bring doom to all and let loose Cerberus upon any that would dare to resist.

By and by the clouds pass, the baying wind abates and ceases its howling, and the tiny grains of sand settle back into the vast desert. The landscape has changed but the little sapling has survived the devastating storm. With no leaves and a twisted trunk, it relies even more on the tentative roots it has pushed deep, deep into the ground. Its foundation is stronger than ever now and next time the Demonic, black clouds come calling it hopes to be a proud, resilient tree that laughs in their face and shouts “You will never destroy me”. The little sapling will never bend to their will as long as the water nourishes it and its roots are strong.

Are blogs like buses ?

Author’s Note: This may turn out to be complete and utter nonsense as I am currently heading into hour 49 of wakefulness. As a certified (certifiable?) Vampire, I obviously retreat to my crypt during daylight hours but with my upstairs neighbour doing some serious re-modelling my rest has been just a tad disturbed

 TURN THAT FECKING DRILL OFF I NEED SLEEP !!!!! 

Wishing for a bunny logo – A Jumper on a Jumper on a Jumper

In the past I have written some pretty bizarre articles where only the title is given and the rest is left up to the author to conjure magic. Strangely, titles such as “Specific vegetables that boost acne treatment” (yes done that) are easier than say “Jumper” (done that too) because at least you have a clue where you are supposed to be going with it. “Jumper” is just too woolly or fluffy (pardon the puns) because it could be the wearable kind, the kangaroo kind, the cables to start a car, the sort you need a big airbag for, not to mention frogs, bunnies,fleas or even (and I think what was intended) the movie! For what it is worth I ignored common sense and went knitted.

Thankfully “10 reasons to dump your boyfriend” is pretty specific while leaving a certain amount of leeway for creativity.

… so here is my latest attempt at a totally pointless piece of writing – but bring on the $3.

There are certainly more than 10 reasons to dump your boyfriend; the obvious and universally agreed upon being infidelity and violence. Sadly some women stay with abusive or philandering partners for many years before gaining the courage to move on. It is worth while looking for signs of these traits and making your exit before you make your walk down the aisle – it’s a real pain trying to run backwards in those big white gowns ladies!

If your boyfriend refuses to put his smelly socks in the washing basket it may not be a reason to leave in itself, but repeated failure to accede to polite requests could end up in all out war. It’s amazing where those smelly socks lead – in some cases walking all by themselves. What if he chooses to see attractive single women when he’s not with you and refuses polite requests to cease? Now it’s not just dirty laundry, it’s dirty tricks. He should want you not other women and it’s a sign his eye is roaming.

Alcohol is often cited in abuse cases and certainly dating a raging alcoholic would be crass stupidity, but there are functioning alcoholics who “like a drink” that can be real charmers and the life and soul of the party. Try looking past the jolly nights out to the day he turns up at your place of work and harasses you, your co-workers and clients because he has had just one too many vodkas to be friendly and one too few to have the decency to pass out. One solution is to keep a handy hip flask to tip him over the edge, but a much better idea – throw him out with the empties.

Pet owners are some of the kindest and most loving people; they deserve to be treated with the same respect and love they give their animals. If you see your man slyly kicking the dog or launching poor kitty ten feet through the air perhaps this is not the guy for you. He may not turn into a serial killer because he got fed up being drooled on and pushed the pup too hard, but it’s a smaller step to pushing you around. Next time you clean out the cat litter think about scooping this pooper out of your life.

So ladies take heed; if he admits to wanting affairs, don’t praise his honesty – dump him. He bullies you or belittles you – drop him. He takes you for granted and the Welcome mat gets more attention – ditch him. If he ever lies to you or says your bum does look big in that – deck him! He may have the body of Brad Pitt and the brain of Stephen Hawking and be stunned you’ve dumped an Adonis like him but, as the Country girls sing it, he can blame it on his “lying, cheating, cold, dead-beating, two-timing, double-dealing, mean, mistreating loving heart”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eopNLWRW0IM

Great video but I sooooo wanted his bits to be trapped in the car door when she kicked it shut – does that make me a bad person or just someone that wishes there was justice in the world?

It also occurs to me that a man who does any, or all, of the above would naturally find some way to blame his girlfriend or suggest that her behaviour was irrational for dumping him over such tiny indiscretions – so watch out for (possibly coming soon) ………

“10 reasons your girlfriend is NOT a Psycho-bitch”

 

On the up and up – hopefully!

Life has its highs and lows they say (yes the ubiquitous they). Like waves rolling on to the beach, the big ones tend to have longer intervals than the small ones. For instance; the high of finding a new love to the low of realising what a colossal mistake you’ve made years later – conversely the split second between finding chocolate ice cream in the freezer only to discover the tub is empty. I suffered the latter today and the disappointment was so devastating I nearly went to the shop to get more before the benefits-to-waistline factor kicked in.

But I digress (as usual), the point is I’ve been pretty low lately thanks the economic climate and a series of losses from my life that the Midsomer Murders would be hard pressed to match. I won’t name names, but three ‘fathers’ in a month is pretty harsh on anyone, throw in the dog, 2 kittens and a variety of acquaintances and it’s all gone Pete Tong. You start to doubt the point of it all when people can be snatched from your life well before their time.

Fatalist will be screaming at the screen that it must have been their time otherwise they wouldn’t have died, but guys give me a break you know what I mean. The world’s greatest work of fiction allots three score years and ten or some such and loads of people believe it so must be true! OK, remove tongue from cheek and statistically unless you live in West Africa or a war zone the average life span well exceeds 70 years. Monaco must have a load of geriatrics to get an average over 89, but the UK is respectable just topping 80 – even Egypt will bag you 73. So fatalists I challenge you that clocking out before the average IS a life cut short – feel free to argue back.

And there I go digressing again (I wonder if you can get pills for it, thanks god I wasn’t responsible for Roman Roads or they would have been Roaming instead), so the point I’ve been trying to make is that things are finally looking up. The low has passed and I can almost see the top of the breaker. Little bits of work thanks to a mad man in the UK have helped plus the support of good friends and family. A night out dancing was a great tonic, no gin involved but it was fabulous to see many old friends and boogie about like a teenager.

I might explain about the Mad Man and the work another day, but as most of you have the attention span of a 3yr old with A.D.D. I think 450 words are quite enough. Until next time, just make sure you don’t get a maiden century when there are Eunuchs about!

For Mr. DB – thanks for reading and asking for more!

Should have gone to Specsavers ??

Recently I have admitted to not being able to see. Anyone who knows me will perhaps be thinking “but she has been blind for years”; this type of seeing got fixed by small bits of plastic in my eyes when I was a mere teenager, but recently my arms have become too short and a whole other type of seeing is problematic.

I am assured that this is normal as one reaches one’s dotage and that everyone’s arms shrink. I have blindly (no pun intended) been battling my shrinking arms for a while and thank the makers of my Kindle for the ability to change font size. I’ve variously blamed my failing eyes on bad light, poor print quality, drunkenness (yeah that one maybe is true) and the inability to read anything moving. In reality the problem is simply age – more years equals eyes that prefer longer arms it seems.

I was introduced to the idea of ‘reading glasses’ by a guest who offered them as a joke when I blamed candlelight for not being able to read a menu – bad light stopped eating?  Really, I sound like a cricketer who got bowled by an innocent ball that should have been whacked for six – anyway, the glasses helped but I still stubbornly refused to admit that after years of short-sight, I now suffered long-sight also.

Let’s face it shouldn’t one cancel out the other? How can you have problems seeing things far away and close by at the same time – as we say here Mish Mumkin. It cannot be possible to have eyes that can’t see either – you may as well say that 2 + -2 = 4 !! OK only mathematicians got that but how can my -4.25 eyes now be +1 at the same time !! Now you need to be an optometrist to get it.

Alright I know I’m whinging and old age comes to us all, complete with hair in weird places
and arms that shrink, but having got away with tiny plastic eyes for 30 years the idea of going back to specs is just all wrong. I suppose I could pay a fortune and get plastic eyes that do both but really how does that work? You have to peer through the bottom bit or maybe a side if they slip??? Please anyone with bi-focal contacts please enlighten me …

And so now I have ‘reading eyes’ – good-old pound shop glasses that help me when bad light, short arms or even a few beers cause me to peer at my book and wish I was 10 years younger.

On the upside, if it’s a real paperback and not my Kindle, the little blighters make a great bookmark!                                                                                                                                  

 

 

Breaking News: Brain cells in ICU – worst feared

It’s Official; there will be a formal announcement soon and BBC World will undoubtedly want to do a full day special report (a la Nelson Mandela) on this auspicious, nay, Earth-shattering event.

I can hear the collective intake of breath as you all edge closer to the computer and reach
hurriedly for your Specsaver two-for-one reading glasses.

Drum roll pleeeeeesee ……

I’VE LOST THE PLOT COMPLETELY !!  My marbles have departed, the bats are firmly in place, half my picnic has been stolen by squirrels and the four slices I used for toast are never to return – if only I had a hod then one of the Egyptians would have pinched most of the bricks by now. I am expecting the men with the nice white coats which do up at the back at any minute so I’d better explain quickly before the key gets turned on the room where every wall serves as a wuverly fwuffy matwess for beddie-bobos time. (Note to self: The dried frog tablets are NOT working)

The reason for my absolute certainty on this matter involves a cup of coffee, a roast lunch, some knitting and The Lug’s water bowl. I’m still a little hazy on how the water bowl got in on the act, but as the knitting ended up in the fridge I think I can safely say that things were going slightly pear-shaped in the grey matter department.

To put things in context, I’ve been knitting frantically for my stall at the upcoming C*******s Fair; while I detest the festive season the opportunity to make a few Shekels is always appreciated. So the latest project is a Santa Hat and at some point I decided I needed more coffee. **

So far, so good, all normal except for some reason my trip to make a hot beverage resulted in me peeling spuds and carrots, trying to put them in the dog’s water bowl (which I must have picked up en-route to refill). I then worked out that I had half a Sunday Lunch prepped but no meat which must have led me to the fridge – at this point I’m making the wild assumption that I had knitting in my hand and placed it on a shelf while I got some chicken out (that’s my story and I’m sticking to it).

So having retrieved the veg from the dog bowl, I rinsed them and put them on to boil: I finally remember I wanted a coffee and go back to make it, only to find my cup is MIA. A frantic search of some pretty weird places later and I scoop it off the drainer (it never gets washed up so why the Hell was it there?) and return to the get some caffeinated goodness.

Of course by this time the spuds have boiled and I go to get some lovely duck-dripping from the fridge (yes I roasted a duck and kept the fat 🙂 which was when I found my knitting. I dealt swiftly with the matter of the spuds in a Junior Masterchef kind of way and retreated to the sofa with my semi-constructed Claus-ian headgear wearing for myself a puzzled expression as the pattern had said nothing about “chill before decreasing on next row”.

Satisfied that everything was now under control; spuds in oven, Lug’ water restored, knitting warmed up, bum on sofa; I naturally lit a well earned cigarette to go with my coffee – I think the instructions here must have been “Repeat from **” as, with the indubitable outcome that only great narrative can achieve, I had, of course, forgotten my coffee –  *sigh*

Hark! The distant wail of senility sirens and the pitter-patter of pocket-sized patients living in the proverbial nest – I’ll take that jacket in pink if you have it Sir ………..

Nature or nurture? Warning: Soppy Alert!!

A few weeks ago I called the two people I love the most in this world. Not because I had anything to say, but simply because I wanted to hear their voices. I miss them. That is something strange for me, who chooses to be two and a half thousand miles away, to admit, but I do miss them – both of them.
I miss one because she always knows when to tell me to “Shut up”. She knows when I’m just being stupid and she knows when I need a hug.

I miss the other because she also knows when to tell me to “Shut up”, when I’m being stupid and when I need a hug.

We are the same people. All three of us; we are the tri-factor of unreasonable behaviour that the rest of the family abhors. OK, not abhors, but we certainly don’t win any prizes for “Relative of the Month”. We go our own way despite what convention, or the family, think is “correct”.

So here I am, surrounded by people who care about me and would cross the Peace Road to make sure I’m alright and yet somewhere deep down I need these two women to talk to me. Just to hear their voice and know they are OK too.

I often wonder about the bonds which tie us to family. Are they genetic or a response to being in close proximity for many years? Is the genetic bond something which surpasses being apart? Questions, questions.

Science is of no help. It says that we are partly formed by genes and partly by environment. The whole nature vs. nurture deal has been debated for centuries and hasn’t come up with anything definitive yet. In my experience nurture has a lot to offer but nature pulls me toward something that I never expected.

My mother was a strong woman, so strong she survived a World War and bringing me up. I wasn’t easy as a teenager but somehow she kicked my ass into shape. She wasn’t the woman that gave birth to me, that prize goes to the lady I now call when I need reassurance. Regardless, she was my mother and I loved her. I still talk to her and in my mind she talks back. I have to say she never agrees with what I do….

So why is it that I feel the need to call the woman who gave me life when I feel down? Is it because she gave me life or is it because I trust her as a person and love her for who she is? Is it nature that drives me or am I simply responding to someone who cares? Whichever way I am glad that she is on the end of a phone.

The other woman in my life is more complex. I gave birth to her and feel that she is part of me. She is my best friend and yet when I confide in her I feel I’m burdening her with things she should never need to know. I should be the strong one, the one taking all the hardship and yet I pass it on to her and she takes it with the strength of an army. I love her for her resilience, patience and humanity.

And so I write, because this is the only way I know how to express my feelings. I wasn’t going post this because it is too personal, too close to the bone. It has sat here in a file waiting for me to be ready to share. It needed saying and perhaps the two women will read this and realise how much I love them and need them.

I shed tears that night for the women in my life. I shed tears for not being with them, for not talking to them often enough, for not being able to tell them how much they mean to me. Mostly I shed tears because I miss them. These strong women, these women who keep me sane, these women who know me well enough to say “Shut up – you’re pissed bitch”.

since writing this I feel the need to add another woman to this list – but perhaps that’s another blog – let’s just say this particular Essex Girl really rocks 🙂

…. and don’t try Google Images for “cool Essex girl” – the results are not pretty !!!