Wednesday 22 February 2017

The one about best friends.

At the grand old age of 57, last year, out of the blue and without any effort from me, I met a woman who has fast become my very best friend. I've never been one for friends, the solitary that I am. I enjoy being alone but on the other hand I also enjoy a bit of company on occasion. It has to be the right company though and through the years I've never really met anyone that I felt comfortable with. Not that I cared. I had my 'baby' sister anyway and no woman on this earth could compare to that close relationship I had with her. So I thought.

Let's go back to November 2015, shops chock-a-block with people buying for Xmas and a Crone that was getting increasingly frustrated with having to keep telling people in shops that I'm so sorry but I'm deaf and didn't hear you asking me to move out of the way. Finding the local town Facebook chat group I decided to enter and put a message that described me and explaining about my deafness in the hope that some people might recognise me in town and understand my difficulties. Well come on, there's only so much eye rolling and nasty comments this Crone can take.

Only a short while after I posted that I was contacted by a lady who explained that she was deaf in one ear, had fibro and would be pleased to be in touch with me. We hit it off straight away. Sharing the same sense of humour, the same honest way of the straight talker, not to mention almost identical likes of things including animals. It wasn't long before we were chatting away ten to the dozen exchanging thoughts that we'd never have dreamed of telling anyone else. It felt like we'd known each other for years, like a reunion of two souls that had lived before.

We became like sisters. Yes I never thought of say that of anyone out of loyalty to my real baby sister, but it's the only way to describe our friendship because, you see, I adore my friend in the way I adore my sister, I want to protect her, make her laugh, help her out, go out with her doing the things I used to with my sister when I lived upcountry*. I can't imagine life without her now. She's my rock in the ways my soul mate husband can't manage. Is it a sexual thing? Absolutely not! I'd get a bit cross with people suggesting such things, can't two people have a close friendship without others labeling them gay? **

Could this be that we've both met before in a different life? Maybe she was my sister, my niece, mother, daughter previously? I've no idea. I don't bother questioning it but just take it as a meeting that was meant to be.

You're never too old to find a best friend and you're never too solitary to let that person in. The universal powers know what they're doing, it's up to you to allow them to lead you.

Blessings of the goddess to you.

* I've not lived within reach of my sister for twenty years give or take a couple (my memory ain't great) as I moved 250 miles away to come and live down in the South West. I miss her so much.
**There's nothing wrong with being gay, I've met some wonderful gay people of both sexes over the years. I just get irritated with a society that labels people without finding out. The same applies to male/female best friends. I mean what is wrong with that? Why does society immediately think they're having a sexual relationship? I've been friends with many males over the years that I've not had the slightest interest in at all, nor did they have interest in myself.

Society really does need a kick up the bum.
posted from Bloggeroid

Sunday 19 February 2017

Trouble with a capital D

Today I'm offering up for you to peruse, a short story. It's Sunday, you might have more time to read a long post. 😋
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Trouble with a capital D.

Some people are born, not with a silver spoon in their mouths, but with a halo of goodness which stays with them until the day they expire. You know the kind, sailing through life without putting a foot wrong. If they do manage to upset someone or do something they shouldn’t, their previous goodness butters over it all.

Then you get the likes of me. Debbie Phillips.

As mother has repeated parrot fashion over the years, I was born trouble with a capital D.
"I knew you would be trouble. You weren’t even born before you caused me trouble. Making me so ill with morning sickness, oh I was so ill. Refusing to enter the world [probably knew in advance what I was in for, mother] and finally arriving over six weeks late, via forceps, causing me extreme pain and numerous stitches".

The umbilical cord had wrapped itself around my neck, and had tightened during my travel down the birth canal, so I guess it was rather traumatic for us all. Anyway, my first experience of life was an incubator for a couple of weeks being really poorly. As a result it was some days before mother saw the fruits of her hard work and instantly declared she’d given birth to a miniature Edward G. Robinson, an actor not noted for his good looks. On frequent occasions thereafter, she’d tell me I was an ugly duckling, but never mentioned my turning into a swan.

Probably because I never did.

For my first four years mother, father and I lived on a farm just over the yard from the big farmhouse, and to the left of the cattle sheds. Both my mother’s parents came from farming stock, and the various aunts, uncles and distant relations had farms in all the neighbouring villages. The one we lived on belonged to the Brandons, mother’s second cousins. I remember distinctly that home and life on the farm, even the day we left to go and live with Granny Talbots (Mother’s mum) when she became seriously ill.

From my perch on the wooden steps that led up to our door, I’d watch Mrs Brandon working in the scullery, wiping the newly collected eggs using a deft flick of the wrist in a twisting fashion, the corner of the blue cloth swishing her wrist each time. Or she’d be making butter and cheese, churning away in time to the songs she sung. Bored of watching I’d wander over on chubby legs and she’d turn to me with a smile cracking her rubicund face.
"Come to help have you, then?" And set me about watching the eggs closely.
"Now don’t take your eyes off them, they will run off cos they have little legs you see. No, it’s no use looking for them, they won’t show their legs until you aren’t looking."

Sometimes I’d help her gather the eggs, the wicker basket with the handles tied on with string, would slap against my legs as I wobbled along, leaning to one side to counter balance myself.

My favourite part was thrusting a hand under a sitting hen, feeling the scratchy warmth of her feathers, my fingers scrambling around for the smoothness of a shell, then withdrawing it oh so carefully and holding it aloft to show Mrs Brandon. During my later years, collecting eggs from my own hens, this pleasure never left me, and I’d always think back to that kindly old lady who had so much patience, even when I managed to drop a full basket of eggs smashing most of them.
‘Oh well. Never mind, plenty more to come. It’s no trouble, so hush the blarting now, come on let’s dry those beautiful big eyes of yours.’

My parent’s first real experience of what trouble their daughter could cause came when I was about eighteen months old. It seems I went out to play in the yard about ten o’clock one summer morning, and mother presumed I’d be in my usual place on the step. However, an hour or so later when she looked out to check on me, I wasn’t there and so she began to roam around the farmyard to find me.

"At first I wasn’t too worried, thinking there was no way you’d travel very far and the main road was miles off and not much traffic came up the lane in those days. Not like today. But could I find you? No. Me and Mrs B went to look in the orchard, and everywhere but no sign of you. I took everything out of my cupboards looking for you, you little terror. And poor Mrs B was crawling in hen houses and everywhere. My heart pounded until I thought it would burst from my chest and the more worried I got, the more my temper rose. Oh I was so going to spank your backside! Trouble, troublesome child!"

By now Mr Brandon and his workers had joined in the search, and all work stopped while the hunt for the missing toddler went on, the neighbouring houses were visited, and people had joined in to look for me. But farm animals needed feeding and Mr Brandon went into the sty to feed the sow who had only recently given birth. She was a miserable old sow and very protective of her babies, so he went armed with a stiff stick and a board to keep her from attacking him. As she wasn’t outside, he peered into the sty and did a double take, letting out a terrified yell. For there, fast asleep in the middle of the throng of sucking piglets, was the blonde haired child.

‘It took three men to get you out; the sow didn’t want them anywhere near you. And you were covered in pig lice and stinking to high heaven.’
Mother’s face will display signs of horror even now, and she will go on to tell how she had to stand me in a bowl of bleach water and scrub me down with a stiff brush, before spanking my little arse and putting me to bed with no tea.
The consensus seems to be that I suckled off the sow during my stay there as I never complained of being hungry or thirsty. I probably did, I’d eat anything as mother discovered when she caught me sharing the farm dogs’ dinner.

Whisky and Patty those dogs were called. Whisky was a Welsh corgi with a mean glint in his eye, renowned for inflicting damage on legs of those walking too close by. Patty, the Border collie, was no better but at least she gave notice of her intentions by barking first. Both lived outside and both were my best friends, allowing me to do anything with them. A favourite pastime was making daisy chains and decorating them both, much to the amusement of the farm men who left Patty’s flowery chain on when they took her off to work rounding up the cows. As she ran, snapping at the cows heels, flowers would be flying in a shower of white and green but there’d always be a few left stuck to her muck encrusted fur.
 
It was with these two accomplices that I disappeared a second time, some two years after the pig sty incident. This one I remember clearly, and even know why I did it.

At the weekend mother, dad, and I would make the trip up town to visit dad’s parents. They lived in Stoke, in the heart of the Midlands, in a dark terraced house on a cobbled street. Granddad Phillips was a retired Sergeant Major who couldn’t stop being in the Army and who ruled his house, and family, with an iron fist. When Granddad said move, you moved double quick. Grandma was the complete opposite, a tall, gentle hearted lady with a meek manner. You could breathe when there was only granny in.

This particular day, it must have been a Spring or early Summer day, mother dressed me up all nice and clean in a crisp new frock, white ankle socks and sandals. My long hair had been washed and brushed until it shone like a newly minted thrupenny bit, and put into two pony tails bound with dazzling white ribbon, whose ends were carefully cut into an inverted V-shape. I was then told to go and sit to wait in the car, while mother and dad finished getting ready.

Now, in my defence I have to say the idea of going to town used to fill me with horror. Not only did I not like the stifled, smoke ridden air of the place, I detested my Granddad - he was no fun! So what happened between my leaving the home door and getting to the car can be excused, I reckon. For some reason, my scrubbed up legs took me towards Whisky and Patty and from there to the farm gate, the one that the led to the cow pastures. Dogs trotting behind I lifted the latch and, without a second thought, slipped through. I remember looking down and realising that my socks and sandals were going to get rather grubby, so tried to tip toe over the oozing mess of poached earth and cow muck. Of course, the more I tried to be careful, the more I made mistakes (something that still happens to me in my old age), and it wasn’t long before I felt the softness of mud between my toes. A final clumsy jump and I was in the lush grass and running in the manner of a horse put out to field after a long spell in the stable.

Off I went, arms flailing, sometimes skipping, sometimes jumping, and enjoying the feel of my dress dancing round my legs. Then shaking my head up and down, side to side, feeling my pony tails whip with each movement. I really disliked ribbons in my hair, and when they whacked my eyes a few times, I came to a halt and tugged them out, tucking them in the waistband of my knickers for safekeeping. Even at that young age I knew enough not to incur mother’s wrath and she was so fond of ribbons and other girly gewgaws; rather sad that her daughter was such a tomboy and remained so until she had children of her own. But I left the pony tails in; I liked them because I thought they made me resemble the farm horses with their long luscious tails.

There was a copse in the next field, and that was where I was going. Getting there involved a scramble under barbed wire, and a squeezing through some brambles. The dogs made the crossing look easy so I followed suit, but dogs don’t wear dresses and at some point I got entangled in both barbed wire and brambles. Nothing that a quick yank couldn’t solve; the fact my brand new dress was torn in a few places never bothered me in the slightest. After such an adventure and having by now reached the copse, throwing myself down under a big horse chestnut tree, I relaxed by holding blades of grass between my two thumbs and blowing to produce a farting noise. I must have blown too hard at some point, as the sharp edge of grass cut my bottom lip which was rubbed free of blood with the hem of my dress.

It wasn’t long before I decided to climb a tree, finding the right one became the uppermost thing on my mind. How about this one? No, I can’t reach the lowest branch. This one? Oops, branch not strong enough I discovered as I fell back to earth with a wallop. The dogs took advantage of me being flat on my back and pounced on me, slobbering their sticky, gooey kisses on any bit of flesh they could find. No doubt I giggled, and rolled, and giggled some more, as both dogs decorated my dress with paw marks.

And then I saw it.

I had a way of moving when I was looking at things, creeping along half crouched, head jutted forward to peer closely at a baby bird in the nest, or a butterfly drinking in the sun on a flower. Aunt Sheila described my movement as ‘A ballet dancer with bad piles.’ And it is this way I moved now to peer closely at my new found treasure.

A large hole tucked behind a fringe of long, straggly grass, in the side of a steep dip in the ground. Loose soil and a scattering of pebbles lay strewn before the opening like a welcome doormat, and for added effect posies of dandelions each side. A fairy’s house, and what’s more, the door was open inviting me in. How could any child resist?
Tucking my dress into my knickers, on all fours I stuck my head in the hole, but only got as far as my shoulders. No matter how much I wriggled and squirmed, my chubby body wouldn’t fit. Sitting back up again, swotting the dogs out the way as their noses prompted them to explore, I decided to try feet first. A little more success this time, but only as far as my shoulders again. The darkness in the hole felt warm against my legs as they did a kicking swimming stroke. I lay there, arms stretched out above my head, watching clouds sailing across the sky. The fairies weren’t at home, that was for sure. Dog drool, cold and glutinous, fell on my cheek, bringing me back to earth, and it was at that point I remembered mother.

"One moment you were there, the next you’d vanished. I asked your father where was she? But he’s as bad as you, in bloody cuckoo land. I thought to myself, why couldn’t I have a normal child? But you have to go and take after your father don’t you, couldn’t be like us Talbotses. Oh no, had to be a Phillips through and through. Anyway, we looked all over, shouting and bawling your name, but no sign. Then just as your father was off down the lane to see if you were there, you came strolling through the field gate, in such a bloody mess. Only been down a badger hole, hadn’t you. Never seen anything like it. That lovely new dress in tatters it was. Oh I went mad! I didn’t half slap your arse. I grabbed your ear and frogmarched you home, had to strip you off and scrub you all over, put clean clothes on again. And you had the cheek to smile at me when you sat in the car. Trouble. Trouble with a capital D!"

It would be nice to say that as I grew older the troubles lessened, but not so. There is one thing though, one thing I console myself with - I might have got into a lot of trouble, but by gum, I had a barrel load of fun.

A very young Debbie with her uncle Ray. Standing on the front step of granny Talbot's house. 

posted from Bloggeroid

Wednesday 15 February 2017

Early morning ramblings

What do animals dream about? It's a question that has never been answered to my satisfaction.

I've come to realise that since FMS /CFS came to live with me, I soon began to put every health blip down to that condition. Example, I get that chest pain that i simply cannot pronounce or even spell but I'll say it begins with Chondri, oh anyway I get that pain and I've become used to it. So every chest twinge I get now I shrug and say "it's OK, just fibro reminding me on its there." That attitude could be rather dangerous couldn't it?
Then again I can't keep checking BP and all, I'd become a hypochondriac. [Note to certain people, no I'm certainly and most definitely am not one already. Say that again and I'll show you that my tongue works very well!] I suppose I'll just go on doing as I do and ignore it unless it really really really hurts.😋

I awoke at 4 a.m just as I was being swallowed head first by Alice Cooper who had told me I was going to hell. Poor bloke must have terrible indigestion and bad breath because I've got a good dose of IBS and can't stop letting off. 😊

Kind of keeping to that topic, why didn't my husband laugh when I told him I'd got Donald in my gut after I'd just gifted the house with a rather obnoxious trump? No sense of humour that one.😋

My dog knows me better than I know myself. He can tell when I'm getting up to go the loo rather than getting up to sit in the living room. In the former case he doesn't move from his bed, doesn't even open one eye. Whereas in the latter case he'll immediately get up and go sit on the sofa, waiting for me to walk in with a cuppa. I've tried to trick him by putting the kettle on before I go the loo then going back to bed instead, but do you know, he bloody well knows I'm tricking him and will stay where he is in his bed. It's like living with Big Brother.


posted from Bloggeroid

Tuesday 14 February 2017

It's a hard fact to face.

Hello, good morning.

Here I am awake at three in the morning, musing about how medication can change your life. It didn't do much for TP-T did it? Such a lovely girl, always seemed down to earth, no nonsense type. Yet she got reliant on a drug or two, was she a junkie? I suppose some would say yes.

I'm a junkie too. Last week I had no pregabalin to help with my leg and spasms problem. I could hardly move. I'm not saying I went through cold turkey because I've no idea what that feels like but I was in such a bad way. My bed became my best mate as I was wracked with pain, even crying at times with limbs that wouldn't stop beating me up. That's what it feels like; my body just goes into attack mode determined to get the better of me. I needed those pills and I needed them just like a heroin addict needs their next fix but not because I wanted to get high or however you get on those hard drugs. No I needed them to function, they've become the only way my legs can move and my arms too because they suffer just as much as my knees do.

So I reckon you could call me a junkie. I'm not the only one either, I can't be. I'll bet that there are many people out there in the real world who are the same because prescription medications, be they for coping with pain, keeping your heart beating, stopping depression, diabetes, or whatever, they are still drugs. And what is the common expression for people reliant on drugs?

Yes junkie is the word.

Isn't that a hard fact that slaps you in the face!

posted from Bloggeroid

Monday 6 February 2017

Just my imagination.

You know, much like everyone else I have spoken to, 2016 wasn't my best year. It seemed to be day after day of troubles, either my own -usually health troubles for me - or my family's or my friends. In fact the whole world seemed to be in trouble. Right? Were you one of them who raised a glass on new year's eve, just as the clock struck midnight, and toasted to hell with 2016 here's to a good 2017?

But the first month of the new year wasn't exactly a good start, was it eh? Famous and not so famous people dying off, some past their prime others in their prime, while others never even glimpsed their prime. Then we have political woes in many countries, the whole world apparently poised on the brink of a world wide disaster. "Oh no, not again!" we groaned as we read the papers and watched the TV news.

I felt much the same as my health troubles increased making walking near impossible and days in pyjamas the norm. Then I had my epiphany! A bright light suddenly appeared and all was clear... No it didn't! I wish! No what happened was I got to thinking. I'm thinking "what if there really is power in collective thought?" If so, then if we all keep thinking about the horrible things that have happened over the last thirteen months and looking to the rest of the year with negativity, eventually we will make things worse all by ourselves, without any help from Trump, Putin, May, et al. Simply because we've all walked about thinking "another crap year!" Logically it follows that if we all walk around with minds firmly fixed on positive things, keeping a smile on our collective faces, then we'll have a good year. We could change the world! Imagine that! So shall we try? From today let's all firmly fix the image of our world leaders running in slow motion trying to catch butterflies in nets. Then add all our armed forces into that vision, see how dainty they are leaping in their big boots and flak jackets, determined to catch that beautiful white butterfly. Any colour butterfly will be OK, I just fancy white with dark blue ermine spots. Eventually push that image further to add every human. What a great thing we'd have done!
Except the butterfly population would be in danger. Drat, always a caterpillar in the salad isn't there! 😊

posted from Bloggeroid