Marching On

Rememberance Sunday

In Flanders Fields

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

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

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
 

Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)

Posted on Sunday, 12 November 2006 at 18:33 in From the recesses of my mind | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

Peace and quiet

It's mid-day.  It's hot and sunny, and there is not a cloud in the sky.  Butterflies are fluttering around the garden, gently alighting on my herb plants before taking to the skies.  I can hear bird song, and the sounds of a distant garden party.

The Baron is asleep.

The dogs are sprawled on the floor, sleeping in pools of sunshine.  I can feel Lila's hot breath on my foot, and the steady rise and fall of Zach's breathing against my leg.  Zach is dreaming and gently whining in his sleep.  Lila's ear is cocked in response, and she stirs.

The cats are snoozing in their favourite spots.  Every now and then I can hear a little squabble as a sleeping cat is awoken by another seeking to swap places.  I imagine by the time I go and check on them, all six will be laying in a heap on the spare bed. Paws, tails and heads entwined.

There is a book lying open in front of me, next to a cool glass of juice. 

The peace is such that I am loathe to leave it.

I should go shopping.  I ought to do some pruning in the garden.  I need to put the washing away.

But I don't want to.

Posted on Saturday, 15 July 2006 at 13:39 in From the recesses of my mind | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBack (0)

Sad stuff

I was thinking of you today, Twin of Mine, and all the things I was going to write about (other than the Monsters, that is!) just for you.

But I came home and read my way through my blog list.  And I don't feel much like writing anything at all.

http://cancerbaby.typepad.com/

http://everythingisundercontrol.blogspot.com/

Please keep them in your prayers.  They certainly need them now.

Posted on Wednesday, 10 May 2006 at 21:43 in From the recesses of my mind | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

All kinds of odd

Oddness abounds.

It all started yesterday, with an early morning phone call to tell me that my double glazing was ready for fitting.  We've been waiting for this, but without an exact date we couldn't really make any arrangements.

The Monsters needed to be put into cattery and doggery.

Easier said than done.  Willow started spitting when she saw the carriers.  Holly hid on top of the kitchen cupboards.  Frankie tried to blend in with the brown sofa.  He is all black so it wasn't wholly unwasted.  Ozzie ignored me.  Ellie tried to climb up the wall.  Charlie skulked around.

Charlie, bless his orange fur, simply looked defeated and walked into his carrier.

Ellie and Frankie were wrestled in together with only minimal bloodshed.  Willow and Holly were eventually coaxed into their separate carriers, although the hoover was deployed to get them down from their respective hidey holes.

That left Oz.  And we only have four carriers.

This never used to be a problem.  Harvey and Frankie would share, Ellie and Charlie would share and Willow and Holly had their own.  Willow and Holly don't share well, with the exception of their claws.

Now we have Oz. He adores Charlie, so the plan was to squidge them in together.  My two fat boys.

Charlie had other ideas.  He wanted that carrier to himself, and he refused to budge.  This of course was a problem as we don't have another carrier.  We briefly toyed with the idea of putting him in with Willow or Holly, but decided pretty quickly that it wouldn't work.  With the sheer effort it takes to get Frankie and Ellie in, it wasn't worth getting them out and swapping them around.

So...

This is embarrassing.

We put Oz in a wicker picnic basket.  And did the buckles up.

We had to borrow my parents Land Rover to get there.  Even with years of playing Tetris, there was just no way that three adults, five baskets containing six cats and a car sick rottweiler were going to fit in a small three door car.  Even in the Land Rover it was a tight squeeze.

We set off.  Lila was sick.  Oz kept toppling his basket.  All six cats discovered a talent for opera.  Lila was sick again.  I got lost.  Charlie started howling.  Holly joined in.  Oz tried to escape the basket.  Lila was sick again.

Of course, the cats refused to leave their carriers when we arrived.  Ellie was so reluctant to enter the cattery that she managed to hang on when the carrier was completely vertical.

Thankfully Lila trotted off with nary a backwards glance.

I went to work.  I had a meeting to get to.  Naturally I rushed there, arriving with seconds to spare, to find out that he was running late and only had a few minutes to spare.

My meeting, for which I had spent an hour on the train, lasted seven and a half minutes.  I'm so glad that I bothered to show up.

So I sat down, and enjoyed the three hours I had to kill before my next meeting.  I wandered through London, arriving on time at my next client.  To find out that she was in Manchester.  Meeting cancelled.

I went home to a very empty house.  Not that I stayed for long, as I had to pick up the Boy and my sister from Heathrow airport.  They had spent the week in Mauritius, and as my sister's birthday present (she was 26 yesterday),  I agreed to pick her up.

So my mother and I set off, braving rush hour traffic through roadworks.  It took forever.  My sister's bag was held up, and so I drove round the airport several times.  I had to illegally park so that I could run in before I wet myself, and then finally I saw the Boy.

If you were at Heathrow last night, I'd just like to apologise on behalf of the excited small blonde boy who screamed and dropped his bags when he saw Auntie and Nanny waiting for him.  If he ran into you before he threw himself at me, I'd also like to apologise.

So we then came back through the traffic.  And went home to a very empty house.

But, this was all for a purpose; well maybe not the jaunt to Heathrow. At a very indecent hour this morning, there was a knock at the door and the first of many requests for a cup of tea.  I left for work shortly after every single window had been ripped out. 

When I got home, all was complete, although the teabags had all mysteriously disappeared.  It looks great.  We have a front door that actually shuts properly, and windows that can be locked in an open position without kitties making an escape.  No more condensation.  It cost a small fortune but it needed to be done.

I cannot describe how empty the house feels without the Monsters.  I'm constantly looking for them, wondering where they are.  This morning, I tripped over the Baron's white socks (he is really crap about puttng them in the washing basket) and black shirt, and apologised to what I thought was Ozzie!

I keep finding myself checking the time because I am ready to walk Lila.  I found myself standing in the kitchen holding the kibble tub for the cats wondering where they all were.

Still, they will all be back home tomorrow morning.  I can't wait!

Posted on Thursday, 08 September 2005 at 22:20 in Demonic dog, Devilish cats, From the recesses of my mind | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)

A sad day

S joined us in the third year, I think.  She was very shy and quiet.  I don’t remember how she was introduced to the class, but I remember that almost immediately we all turned our backs and continued our conversations unabated.

None of us were particularly interested in her.  We all had our best friends, and our little groups that we stayed in.  We were only just fourteen, after all.

S sat behind me in the form room.  I can’t remember who she sat next to – I think she was on her own.  Our form teacher asked my best friend and I to keep an eye out for her, to try and make friends with her. 

We tried.  S was so difficult to talk to, that it was too easy to fall into private conversation again.  We kept trying though.

S had some odd habits that annoyed others.  She used to hide behind doors – that small space between a door and a wall when the door is fully pushed back.  She picked at the skin on her lips but didn’t pick the bits off, leaving them dangling like little ribbons.  She had eczema on her hands but didn’t treat it.  She didn’t attend lessons, but didn’t get into trouble.  She refused to use her desk or locker and instead carried absolutely everything around she might need.  Her bag was the size of a small house and was not much smaller than her whole body.

I wish I could say that we didn’t tease her.  But that wouldn’t be entirely true.  We didn’t to her face, but we weren’t kind behind her back.  She was just so different.

The day that I broke through her reserve and met the real S was a horrible day for her. 

Someone accidentally kicked over her bag in class, on the way to the front for a French recital, and an unopened sanitary towel fell out.  And he picked it up and handed it to her.  He was honestly trying to help.  We started to laugh at the look on his face – when he realised what he was holding, he looked like someone who had picked up a bomb.

This, of course, would be embarrassing to most fourteen year olds, but for one as painfully shy as S, it was just too much.

We were shell-shocked at the evident distress that she was in.  The good natured laughter that had started rapidly faded away.  S turned white, pink and then red in quick succession, and just started sobbing where she stood, hand still out to take the towel.  Then she ran from the room.

None of us knew what to do. 

I said I would find her, and see if she was ok.  I didn’t like French recital that much, so it was for purely selfish reasons I went after her. 

I found her in the lower school girl’s toilets.  She was standing on the bowl so that I couldn’t see her feet and know where she was.  Being shameless, I just climbed up in the next cubicle to check anyway.

She told me to go away.  I remember saying that I didn’t want to leave her alone.  I said that I would stay with her, but we didn’t have to talk.  We were silent for a little while.

Then we started to talk.  I’ve never been able to stay quiet very long, and to me the whole situation was funny.  She thought that we were laughing at her because she had a towel in her bag.  I can remember the feeling of absolute bewilderment I felt when I explained that most of the girls had something like that in their bag, just in case.   That we weren’t laughing at her at all, but at our poor classmate who had picked it up.

I got to know S a little better after that.  She trusted me.  Her mother invited me out a few times.  We went bowling. We went to the cinema.  We talked.

S was a beautiful soul, hidden away under her shyness.  She had a deep and profound faith, a love for poetry and the ability to make beautiful music.  She honestly could see into your soul and share your feelings. 

I could see all that then. But I couldn’t appreciate it.  I was fourteen. Not heartless, not uncaring, but just immature.  We were fourteen.

Then one day she didn’t come to school.  I missed her that first day, but truthfully, I didn’t give her too much thought after that.

Days turned into weeks and we heard that she had gone into hospital.  We weren’t told why.  We wrote letters and had collections to buy her flowers and presents.  Christmas, Easter, her birthday passed and we were told that she wouldn’t be back that year.  It wasn’t possible for us to visit her.

S returned briefly the following school year.  Nothing changed much.  Her strange habits and behaviours had intensified and she was even quieter.  She wouldn’t talk much to anyone at all.  She refused to talk about why she had been in hospital.  Rumours abounded.

S returned to hospital later that year.  I never saw her again.

We carried on writing.  We sent cards and presents, but as time passed, the rest of the class lost interest, until it was just my best friend and myself sending her letters. 

I left school three years later.  We still wrote occasionally, although the frequency was diminishing.  I had the excitement of University, my first boyfriend, my first car, a new job to occupy me.  S was still in hospital.  Sometimes it felt stilted – I used to wrack my brains thinking of interesting things to tell S and not feel guilty that she wasn’t experiencing these things.  We were the same age – she must have wanted those things too and she couldn’t have them.

I knew she was in a residential scheme for young adults.  I didn’t fully understand why, but I never asked.  I didn’t want to pry into an obviously personal matter.  She could tell me if she wanted to.

S wrote about a cat she had.  I told her about my dog.  She’d met him and by this time he was getting old.  We joked about which made the better pet – cats or dogs.  I swore blind that dogs were perfect, and cats were rubbish.  If only I could talk to her now!

In her last letter she told me that she was about to move to an independent living scheme.  She seemed so positive and happy.  I never did get around to replying to her.  I had exams coming up……….

A couple of months later, I received a letter from her parents. They had found my last letter in with her papers.  They informed me that S had taken her own life a couple of days before.  They thanked me for having continued writing to her and asked me to attend the funeral.  S would have been twenty one in the summer.

So I went.  My old best friend was there (we had drifted apart years ago) – she had continued to write.  My form teacher was there as well – she had stayed in contact over the years as well.  Another old friend was there.  F was from a different class but we had sat next to each other for two years in maths class – she knew the family. 

The funeral was beautiful.


At the house after the funeral, I caught up with my old friends and teacher.  F had remained in close contact with the family and told us what had happened.

S had struggled with severe OCD for most of her life.  Although she was very happy and excited that she was well enough to move to an independent flat, she struggled with her thoughts after receiving some distressing news.  Eventually she returned to hospital, and unable to cope, she attempted to kill herself.

Her first attempt was not successful.  S was placed under close supervision, but a few days later, she hung herself in a bathroom.  Her thoughts were just too intrusive and persistent for her to be able to cope with anymore and she gave the nurses the slip just long enough to achieve the peace that treatment had not managed to give her.

                                                            ****

            

Happy Birthday, S.  It would have been your twenty seventh birthday today.  I’ll be thinking of you.

Posted on Wednesday, 18 May 2005 at 08:29 in From the recesses of my mind | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBack (0)

Your choice

Do you want the pictures of my week (a Day in the Life Of......run to excess!)?

Or would you prefer the guided tour of my estate?

Posted on Monday, 02 May 2005 at 11:48 in From the recesses of my mind | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBack (0)

Or not, as the case may be....

As my alter ego knows all too well, things are not always as is they seem.

Willow has bitten the end off of her tail before.  Naturally we assumed that she had done it again.  But something wasn't right.

The vet was sceptical that she could have done this to herself.  The bleeding was caused by a straight, two and a half inch long gash up her tail - it was unlikely she could do that to herself.

However, the vet discovered evidence of previous chewing during surgery, so for want of a better explanation, the diagnosis was a recurrence of feline hyperesthesia.

But this was odd.  Being a fan of murder mysteries, I decided to analyse the trail of bloodsplatters decorating the house.  I don't have luminol, or a stringing kit, or even a magnifiying glass.  I do however have a DangerMouse lapel pin and too much free time.

We started in the bedroom.  We had found her there, bleeding out onto my pillow, panting and shaking.  One huge bloodstain.  One ruined pillow, but no help.

We tracked the spatters along the hall to the spare room.  She had obviously cornered herself behind the door as another huge stain was evident on the door.  There were spatters up the wall (five feet up) and the mirror also had droplets on it. 

We followed her path back to the computer room (blood on my files, carpet and monitor) and down the stairs (blood up the walls).  Into the kitchen.

At first glance, we couldn't find anything.  I thought back to what had happened that morning.  I had fed the cats that morning, and then fed Lila.  Lila eats in the kitchen with the cats.

I remembered that I had left Lila's food on the side whilst I ran for a tissue - bloody hayfever again.  Whilst I was out of the room, Willow shot up the stairs, Frankie hissed and tried to ignite the gas stove with his belly.  When I returned, Lila was sat eyeing her food and Frankie was eyeing Lila.  Pretty normal stuff.  Willow doesn't tend to stay downstairs long for fear someone will steal her place on the Stuffed Rottweiler.

Had Lila tried to bite Willow?  Why had Frankie hissed?  Lila, being a rottweiler, is tailless, and has always had a fascination with the cats tails..........

It didn't seem too likely.  I would have heard something, and Lila would not have been sitting waiting for breakfast patiently.  If she had bitten WIllow, she wouldn't have just sat there. 

There were no knives out.  Or any other sharp objects.  Or any blunt objects.  In fact, barring Frankie, there was nothing on the side at all.

So we thought about it.  Whilst we thought, we fed Lila again.    And it hit us.

Lila's food had been on the side.  She must have jumped up to sniff it whilst I was out of the room - she knows she is not allowed to jump up in the kitchen.   

Willow must have been sniffing her food.  She usually does and usually steals a mouthful as well.  When Lila jumped up herself to have a sniff, her puppy sharp, but adult sized claws landed on Willow's tail as she sniffed the food.  Willow jumped to get away and Lila's claw raked through her tail, leaving a straight, two and a half inch long gash.

Willow shot along the sideboard to avoid Lila, jumped down and ran up the stairs, leaving her trail of blood as she fled. 

Mystery solved.

Posted on Saturday, 09 April 2005 at 17:47 in From the recesses of my mind | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)

Sandwiches

My favourite lunch ever.

Easy to make, carry and eat. You can eat them whilst sitting at your desk working (or playing Spider Solitaire), or whilst wandering aimlessly round the shops because you can’t face returning to that file review you have been putting off.

You can eat them at home lying on the sofa, or whilst chasing after the pets/kids/painter high on cocaine. In the garden. Stuck on traffic. So what to have?

Maybe I lied about sandwiches being the easy option……

Fish? Meat? Salad? Egg? Cheese? Mayo? Butter? Rolls? Sliced white? Wholemeal bread? Malted bread? Baguette? Ciabatta? Flatbread?

Normally I make my lunch at home. But……sometimes I get stuck in traffic and I get bored and hungry. On those days, my sandwich doesn’t even get close to lunchtime before meeting its demise. Of course, even if I get to work on time, the fact that I have a sandwich with me means that I don’t have to resist hunger in the morning.

So sometimes I have to buy one. There are too many choices – do I want the organic sweet-cure bacon, organic egg and sunblush tomato on the organic wholemeal bread, or do I fancy the rare roast beef and mustard on a sliced bloomer, or do I actually want the chicken Caesar wrap with croutons………..?

And every shop and its aunt sells sandwiches, so before I even get to the sandwich choice I have to pick what bloody shop to go to.

Do I want pre-made, or do I want a specially crafted sandwich? Which leads to even more decisions……….which client am I at – are there any shops around? How much time do I have to queue? Am I in an open office? Do I have a white shirt on? Do I have any cash?

By this time, of course, either my entire lunchtime has been spent fart-arsing around, or I am just not hungry anymore.

Today, I spent ages trying to pick a sandwich. I had had a lovely hoisin duck wrap earlier in the week, but then felt very ill after. It turns out that it had bloody cream cheese in it. I found it tucked away in the ingredient list after spending the afternoon inexplicably throwing up– what the fuck is cheese doing in a hoisin duck wrap?

Did I learn to read the ingredients? Did I bollocks.

I picked my sandwich. Being virtuous I had selected a low calorie roast chicken sandwich, no mayo, low fat spread. Well, my right hand was virtuous. My left hand was clutching a packet of Maltesers. I concentrated hard on that right hand. Left hand was hand non grata.

The queue was long. I flicked through a crappy women’s mag (“Eat nothing but chocolate and lose six stone”…… “My husband is a love cheat RAT but I’ll never leave him”……… “I am a man and I didn’t KNOW until I gave birth!”………. I got pregnant from wearing my husbands TROUSERS – whoops, that one was from Delphiland).

Two people from the front of the queue, and I glanced over the ingredient list of my virtuous sandwich.

Dear people, can you guess what was hiding in my roast chicken sandwich, no mayo, low fat spread?

Can you? That is right. Fucking cream cheese. What the fuck is cream cheese doing in my sandwich? Again? And in a low calorie sandwich? Argh.

So back I trudged to the sandwich cabinet and I started the whole bloody process over again.

I just had a crappy full fat chicken sandwich, with peppered mayo on malted bread.

I need inspiration for tomorrow. So tell me. What is your perfect sandwich? I need to know.

Posted on Tuesday, 15 March 2005 at 17:10 in From the recesses of my mind | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBack (0)

Angry

Oh yes.

Yet another dickwad politician is trying to interfere with women's right to privacy under the guise of "protecting children".  Quite how obtaining the details of all women in Kansas who have had abortions past 22 weeks will achieve this is beyond me.  Oh hang on, let me guess.  The children he really wants to protect are the ones that women are having the temerity to abort for their own personal reasons.

Fucktard.

Then there are the good religious ladies of a forum I frequent.  They are for the most part very nice ladies.  But they have cottoned on to a fellow bloggers tragedy and are now slating her and her decision, because it is contrary to their beliefs. She is "hard hearted" and "selfish" for her decision to induce a child that will not be able to live. 

They are concerned for the stresses that the child may undergo in induction.  Fuck the stresses it will undergo at full term birth.  Fuck the stress that the mother, father and sibligs will feel, watching a child growing that will die at birth.  Waiting for the inevitable.

Can someone please explain to me exactly why an unborn child is of greater importance than the mother?  The existing family? 

Because I don't get it.  At all.

Posted on Friday, 25 February 2005 at 20:19 in From the recesses of my mind | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

The Sims 2

Has anyone else got this?

It is the best time waster I have.  I am currently engaged in ruining countless people's life in one neighbourhood, and I have the legacy challenge going on in another.

I am also trying to find the teenage woohoo cheat........nothing like some knocked up teenage slapper to liven up a game!

Posted on Monday, 21 February 2005 at 20:04 in From the recesses of my mind | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBack (0)

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