Nana's Nano

I have written 18036 words in three days.

Why?

The old adage write about what you know and what you don't - make up.

I would do a longer post but the paws are burning, the eyes are stinging and my bed it's a calling.

One very tired but extremely chuffed writer signing off.

Night night. x

Here's a thought

Tracy Emin displayed an unmade bed complete with dirty underwear, fag butts, stained sheets and booze bottles not to mention dirty knickers the idea being to display her insecurities and imperfections en par with the rest of the world.

This was accepted by the critics.

So if I decide (bearing in mind I've signed up to nanowrimo at have said I'll write 50,000 words during November) to write the word f**k 49,000 times and punctuate it with things like 'the car won't start, I stood in dog s**t, I split my coffee all over the new cleaned rug and ended it with my ex sexually abused my son, beat me up put in me in hospital and made my kids sit in freezing cold room' would that also be considered a literary work of art.

Or would people prefer to read a story?

BOS and Jack

BOS stands for bum on seat and that's what I've got to do tomorrow. Got some catching up to do with nanowrimo but hey the weather doesn't look brilliant so tomorrow doesn't look a good day to avoid writing and run up Clunbury Hill. Not that I was going to anyway.

Friday had an interesting email. I entered a local poetry competition and didn't win, wasn't surprised at that but I had email saying that if I joined the group they would publish my poem in their magazine. Well I suppose that's one way of getting new members but this girl - well she doesn't fall for that so no my poem won't be published and I won't be joining their merry band. Hey I need more of an incentive that.

I had a very quiet weekend, didn't do any writing, in fact didn't do much of anything and certainly didn't go to a bonfire display. To be honest I've never keen on them but after being hit by a firework several years ago, I avoid them even more now. I know I'm a miserable cow but standing outside on a cold, damp, foggy November is not my idea of fun. Did watch the X factor though and thought - worst of two evils really.

I had a bad night last night and put on facebook that Arfur (pet name for arthritis) decided to party last night, unfortunately two people thought I'd had a rattling good time with a male friend called Arthur - oh well - I wish.

One thing I do want to tell you about. Jack Powell died today in Ludlow Hospital. Robz put on his facebook RIP Jack Powell you are a legend. Jack is a legend and quite a character. He was 92 and last years he was taking part in plowing competitions and spend most of his evenings propping up the bar in the Hundred House with his glass of whiskey by his side. I interviewed him once for the parish post and the tales he had to tell of farming in this area in the late 1920s and 30s were amazing. This valley is still very much a farming area but when you see the new tractors although farming is a hard job, in his day, it was even harder. But, throughout his tales his eyes twinkled and he said to me 'I've loved every day I've been here - winter and summer alike. Jack Powell will live on in the memory of so many people in the Clun Valley and I reiterate what Robz said Rest in Peace Jack Powell - you are a legend.

The land Jack worked all his life.

Right tomorrow is another day and as I said bum on seat and lots of scribbling, well you know what I mean so I've going to bid you a good night as I tick my to do box.

Blog - tick.

Research - what?

Yes that's right I delved into the world of research today, looking to see if I could find any information regarding the Starlings and Rothbury.

Alms cottages in Rothbury where I met Uncle Jimmy 

I did go there in about 1998 and met my Uncle Jimmy and Aunty Edna. Uncle Jimmy was my Nana's younger brother. At first they were a little reluctant to talk to me I think because they thought that Nana was the bad girl in the family, she wasn't but they had their own opinions. However, they did make me welcome but didn't talk about her, which I thought was very sad.

However, what I did discover was Uncle Jimmy was a prisoner of war and he was captured during the fall of Singapore (not that was before I arrived there and I had absolutely nothing to do with it). While he was a POW he was forced to work on the Burma Railway.

I knew this before hand but imagine my delight when a simple google search of Starling + Rothbury threw up his obituary in the Northumberland Gazette and thanks to that I know a little more of my Nana's little brother and I've found some new material, whether or not I use it is a different matter.

Oh and the weather tonight, absolutely dreadful. Rain and wind on a very dark night did the shopping, cooked dinner and then took a leaf out of Julie Phillips book - put my PJs on..

Nano, Nanu

Okay I'm back!

Lots of things have happened since I last posted but you might hear about that later in the meantime well nano-nanu.

Right I know you have to be a certain age to appreciate Mork and Mindy (1978-1982) yes my friends it was that long ago but Mork - the alien, played by the fantastic Robin Williams often had trouble understanding us earthlings. Well he's not being funny he's not the only one. No I'm not an alien although born in Singapore years ago that's exactly what I would have been called (I know that's answered all your questions about me) but often it never ceases to amaze me how my mind works (I know, you neither) but also where ideas come from.

Yes It's Nanowrimo month again and yes, me being me signed up for it sixteen hours after it started.

Why?

I'd thought about doing but I was struggling for something to write about and then I did what a lot of writers do and that's write about what you like to read about.

I love historical fiction. I love social history and at the moment I'm reading the story of Kathleen Dayus who was born in Birmingham in 1903, not far from where I used to live and her story, although very naively written  is about her life and hers and her family struggles just to survive. And then Halloween night, just as the witches were firing up their broomsticks my story came to me but the irony is, it's a story I've always wanted to write. It's loosely based on fact but the words are all total fiction. I've called Tina, my darling Christina and it's based on my Nana's life.

Christina Esther Starling was born on 8 Aug 1900 in Newcastle upon Tyne. She died peacefully on 23 October 1983 at home but all alone. She lived an eventful life and she played a large part in making me the person I am today. She was strong, she was a survivor and yes she did things her way.

So here I go, day two and 4293 words written about part of her life I know nothing about but you know when I write it, I can hear the Geordie accent in my head.

And for me - God it's fantastic to sit down and write something new.

Day three tomorrow - so nano, nanu and have fun.

Where were you?

I was at home after spending the morning at Albrighton Writers. I switched the television to watch some detective drama and then I switched channels because I thought it was a movie - one I didn't want to watch.

And then I realised....

No it wasn't a movie, it was happening, it was real, it was horrific and I remember sitting on the sofa and crying.

One disaster after another, the twin towers, the airplane that crashed in Pennsylvania, the Pentagon, it was like rapid gunfire, bang, bang, bang and suddenly thousands of lives were lost. And, despite living in a village in Shropshire, I was frightened, I was very frightened. I wanted my family home there and then because I didn't know where or when it was going to end.

But then I looked out of the window. My street was just the same, my normality was intact and I knew my family were safe. It was then I thanked God but....

On another street in a different country peoples' normality had changed forever. Someone was doing the same as me, looking out of the window and seeing the world change. Someone saw people plunging to their deaths,  someone saw flames that they knew incinerated flesh and blood, perhaps even their own flesh and blood, their partners, their family perhaps even the only person they had in the world who loved them.

Images were flashed across the world of terror, peoples' lives changing forever and I watched in the comfort of my own home and wept.

Ten years on, those images are as real today as they were they then. Ten years on, we must never forget. Ten years on, I'm at home and my family are safe but still I'll remember and yes I shall weep.

It's the simple things in life

I saw this on facebook and just had to post it.

The Writer's ABC Checklist: Avoid this writing scam

The Writer's ABC Checklist: Avoid this writing scam: Janice from Blackburn sent in a question that seems to be coming up more frequently recently – and it’s a worrying trend. She writes: I ...

Saturday's Workshop with Mike Smith

What a joy, not only the venue, the leader but also my lovely friend Di Perry was there too. Sadly though we were the only two but for us, sounding very selfish, it was fantastic. We had time to sit and talk, discuss different aspects of writing and also to share our own thoughts and opinions.

Mike Smith who writes under the name of Brindley Hallam Dennis led the workshop. Why he uses that name is quite a story but it's not place to tell it but bless him for sharing it as well as sharing with us his love not only of writing but of words too.

Picture Credit - Diane Perry

We started where everything starts at the beginning - looking at different openings which set the scene and introduced us to the characters. It also showed how even in the first paragraph the writer using words, descriptions can set the time the story is set in without always having to tell you. My favourite example given was from 'The Tailor of Gloucester' by Beatrix Potter.

In the time of swords and periwigs and full-skirted coats with flowered lappets - when genlemen wore ruffles and gold-lace waistcoats of paduasoy and taffeta - there lived a tailor in Gloucester.'


Isn't that beautiful? You can visualise the setting, the time and yet she only uses so very few words. Something definitely to aspire to as a writer.

We then looked at location. To be honest I don't often think of location when I'm writing because I don't find it so important, as a rule, unless the story is set in a specific place or I identify certain buildings etc, within the story. But what I did find interesting was how thinking of a location can focus your mind on a story itself. A different way of working and one I'll try.

Style was next on the list. We all know how we have an individual style and mine, at times can be more individual than most but as writers I think we all can write in different styles, depending on what we're writing about. The most important to me is the use of language, a modern, contemporary piece is written in a different language say to something set fifty years ago.

The exercises we did were fun. We had to write a beginning to a short story and it proved that Di and I have different styles but in both cases, it's amazing what comes out when you're asked just to sit and write. I love that challenge, write on the spot my brain works in a different way and often I surprise myself as to what comes out.

I had a really fantastic day and it was so lovely to be able to sit down and talk about writing to share with others, instead of being a lonely writer hiding under the stairs.

Maybe we'll meet up with Mike again when he comes back to Shropshire - I do hope so.

Just for a laugh - TGIF

I saw them out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t really pay any attention at first, after all it was a narrow country road and I was only in second gear, inching my way around the bends. They were standing inches apart. I’m not sure if they were staring into each others' eyes but it wasn’t any of my business; live and let live is my philosophy.

But it was their reaction when they saw me that made me interested in them. Suddenly they went from being a normal couple to having a couple hiding a secret and the sight of me obviously made them realise their secret was in jeopardy of being discovered.

They literally fled but in different directions.

I mean if they were a couple surely they’d have gone in the same direction but no. I knew, or at least I thought they were having an affair. Okay I know that’s the obvious conclusion but what other conclusion is there?

Standing inches apart and then suddenly they were off.

Hang on is my imagination running away with me? If I was anywhere else then I’d probably yes but not in my village. Hey you sneeze around here and the whole neighbourhood knows and offers of tissues, various linctus and a few garlic bulbs are offered readily. What I’m saying is everyone knows what is going on and if there was an affair in the offing – well I’m not saying it would make the Parish Post but word would spread before he’d even slipped her bra strap from her shoulder never mind managed to undo it.

Was this a secret that no one knew about and if so what should I do about it?

Ignore it. None of my business.

So I drove on and gave nothing more than a cursory glance to the fleeing couple but I couldn’t help wondering if I’d stumbled on something that for once no one knew about.

Or was it just the fact they were a couple of bunnies standing on the grass verge who were spooked by the big black car bearing down on them?

You decide. 

George III Golden Jubilee

Isn't technology amazing?

I was going through my files on John Starling (yes saved on the computer) when I came across this poem he wrote about his memories of the King George III Golden Jubilee which happened on 25th October 1809. I suspect he did use some poetic licence in writing this because he was only four at the time - but you never know.

On my seeing the Jubilee when George the third had reigned for 50 years

I well remember when a boy

We had a jolly spree  years

When old King Gerge reign’d fifty

There was a Jubilee

There as a dinner in the street

All hearts were light and free

To see the puddings and the beef

At that grand Jubilee

Besides a plenty of strong ale

Round the tables passed so free

All eyes were bright and hearts so light

At the Kings Jubilee

And after dinner they did shout

Three ringing cheers so free

God Save the King long may he live

For this his Jubilee

The guns did fire the bells did ring

All hearts were full of glee

And all over merry and jovial here

At this great Jubilee

Should I’ve been spar’d a little time

Another we shall see

Victoria have reign’d fifty years

This is her Jubilee

Long may she live long may she reign

To rule o’er land and sea

That thousands may rejoice to see

Her year of Jubilee

I know full well it is the last

That many on earth will see

But hope in heaven we all shall meet

At that great Jubilee

Another one there yet will come

Which all of us will see

When Heaven and earth will pass away

At the last Jubilee

There Kings and Queens and subjects will

The King of Glory see

Upon his throne to hear their doom

At the final Jubilee

John Starling 1806 - 1891

Today may have been shit

But tomorrow is a bright new day.

Time flies by

I've just watched a documentary on ITV of Charles and Di's wedding from 1981 - thirty years ago. I remember watching it live with my in-laws because they had a colour telly and we didn't. Thirty years ago, I wish I felt thirty years older but I don't but hey that's history. I did find it quite offensive that they decided to show that wedding especially seeing as what happened and in my own opinion how Diana was used.

But memories are funny things and I'm going to look at the last ten years. I've watched many of my writer friend go on and achieve so much and for that I'm so thrilled for them and I mean that and they know that. But if I put myself back ten years my dreams would have been to have my name on bookshelves, my name in magazines but life took a different path for me. As one car insurance company said to me when I listed my occupation as a writer 'but we don't insure anyone famous,' my reply was 'I'm not famous darling, I'm infamous.'

Ten years ago I was in a wheelchair and had been told I'd never get out of it. That was a hard pill to swallow but what was even harder was the fact that no doctor would give me a diagnosis for my illness, despite the fact it was blatantly obvious to the specialists I was seeing.

Why? Because they were covering up for a misdiagnosis one of their colleagues made. Sounds daft but it's true. So what I was doing was going one step higher but I didn't realise that these guys played golf together and rather than admit that a colleague of theirs had made a mistake, they happily said there was nothing wrong with me. They lied, they made false promises which they never fulfilled. The Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham reassured me they wouldn't discharge me until they'd got me a diagnosis, the next time I went back they couldn't wait to get rid of me - without a diagnosis.

I travelled to Oxford to see one of the top consultants in the country who knew about Charcot-Marie-Tooth Disease but sadly he also played golf with the guy from the QE and told me there was no reason I couldn't walk and I certainly didn't have CMT and basically I was putting it on. They were all protecting each other. I did at the time have a website showing the deformities in my family's feet and interestingly enough a doctor from South America emailed me and asked if he could use a photograph of my feet and legs in a book he was publishing about CMT because they were showed classic, severe signs of the disease. Hey Cyd Charisse eat your heart out lol.

It's a long story but finally in 2002 I was diagnosed with the disease.

Yes that was achievement but the achievement wasn't mine. I've lived with this disease, the pain, the deformities, the disabilities it causes all my life so for it's normal. But the diagnosis was important because CMT is genetic. My Dad has a mild form of it so do some of his cousins, two of my sons have it, so do members of my sister's family. For them it's not a problem, they live normal lives. This is one of the things about CMT it affects different members of the same family in different ways but not every family member is affected.

For me, I got a pretty dose of it - but that's okay and my reasoning for that is that I've got the gob to shout about it. It remained undiagnosed in my (despite showing very obvious symptoms from birth) for forty one years. But now it's been diagnosed and is recorded in both my immediate family's records and my extended family.

So what did that battle achieve?

If any child born in the future to a member of my family has problems, funny feet which are seriously funny although they can't cure it, they can help delay the effects of it and no one will have to wait forty one years for a diagnosis and hopefully no one in the future will end up in a wheelchair because of it. I did it not for me but for my family and those to come.

And for me, why have I got it so severely - hey the gob came with it lol.

The second major thing I've achieved is getting my family, my sons away from an evil bastard who beat them up, beat me up too and sexually abused my youngest son.

To stand alone, when you're far from the best of health and move everything from your home of fourteen years overnight, to move to an area where you knew no one to ensure safety is something. I did it. Hey the part of Wales I moved to, I didn't even speak the language but we were safe.

Since then we've lost one home because of floods in 2007 and were homeless before we came to Clunbury. Now it's time to move on and face new challenges.

My novels are still on my hard drive - my dreams of being a writer have taken second place to the challenges of life but I have survived.

Those challenges have taken their toll both mentally and physically and with the added complication of not one but three types of arthritis plus a muscular wasting disease and despression - well let's say it's an experience.

But despite everything and even in my darkest moments the flame, which has at times been just a flicker of light has never stopped burning. I was a musician, I am musician, I'll never stop being a musician but I also discovered writing which as I've said before to me, is another form of music, sounds, words that I can still play and enjoy.

So yes, I haven't achieved what I wanted to achieve but my family is safe in every sense and I've done my best - that is my achievement over the past ten years.

Now it's time for me - hey kids watch this space and this too, I'll do on my own.

Holy Island

Last night wasn't a brilliant night in the whole scheme of things. It didn't help by falling asleep on the sofa and was worsened by the trip to Bridgnorth to see my consultant except I didn't see him, I saw his nurse. It certainly wasn't a wasted journey because it was useful and informative visit but I did feel let down when I walked into his room and was told he was in Croatia. Mind you I was glad I didn't have to drive there to see him.

But no, last night wasn't feeling too happy and when I went to bed I desperately needed something to read that wasn't a woman's magazine. I picked up a book, that I've read several times before but it's kind of special because it has a link with two very special people in my life.

The book is the story of Peter Mortimer's one hundred stay on Holy Island, just off the Northumberland coast line. It's a fantastic read of a man who'd already decided that he was going to go there to write for one hundred days, what he didn't foresee was the death of his father, just before he went and his nephew having to have major surgery - however, he took the 'selfish' decision of a writer (and I don't mean that in any nasty sense) and went anyway, very concious of the fact he was leaving his elderly mother alone when she needed him most.

The book is written in a diary form and tells of his times there. His rather infrequent interaction with the locals, the isolation, the awareness that when the tide was in, he was cut off from everyone and everything he loved. I do wonder actually when reading the book other than his diary, how much writing he actually did but the diary itself talks about his experiences, feeling and emotions.

Holy Island for me is a special place. I first there when I was about eight or nine on a school trip when I lived up in Gateshead. We did the tour of the abbey on a drizzly day and then went into the gift shop. I was eagerly clutching my ten bob note (no you don't carbon dating to realise this was before 1972). As I wondered around the shop I saw the most beautiful cross and chain that I'd ever seen in my life and I knew it was perfect for my Mum. It cost seven shillings and sixpence but it was worth every penny. It was gold coloured and inside the shape of the cross were stones of different colours. It was large and totally unlike anything my Mum would ever wear, goodness she didn't even have her ears pierced, because as she said, if God meant you to have holes in your ears, he'd have put them in.

I never saw Mum wear that necklace and to be honest I don't blame her but I know she kept it safe in her treasure box until the day she died. I don't know what's happened to it now but Mum treasured it for all those years.

The second time I went to Holy Island the weather was in complete contrast - it was beautiful. And after wondering around the Island, which bore no resemblance to the one I half remembered from childhood we went up to the castle and had a wander round. Finally finding a spot at the top where we could sit down and have a very late lunch. It was stunning just looking over the beautiful blue of the North Sea that was until a strange asked if we were staying on the island.  Lunch suddenly forgotten about as we realised that sea would cut us off from the mainland if we didn't get a move on. I don't think it would necessarily have been a problem other than we were running a course in Alnmouth and there would be people waiting for us to show it - not a good time to be stranded.

We did make it back, I think with about twenty minutes to spare but to be honest I didn't find that much comfort after hearing about someone the previous weekend being caught in the tide and having to be airlifted to shore, minus their car. Those words still make us laugh today as well as remind me of a wonderful afternoon out.

So, last night after spending a bit of time on Holy Island with Peter Mortimer and two very special people. Although when I went to bed I was feeling fed up and lonely, I slept with a smile on my face - a good book and very happy, special memories.

My dear darling friend Heather

I ain't that clever with words

And I don't claim to be a poet

I have an idea, scribble it down

Upload it and say sod it!

I do love Heather dearly but she did make laugh today. She sent me a card, it's something we do if we see a card the other might like. This one had a sketch drawing of a cat rubbing faces with a woman in the bath. Apparently in years gone by Heather had a cat that would that.

Heather is a very accomplished and gifted poet in her own right and has won or been placed in many anthologies and competitions but in her card she wrote 'I have a look at any poems as you have the dark, disturbed soul poet's should maybe have.' Hmmmmm

Now before anyone goes into a spin unlike Sylvia Plath I don't have a gas oven so I'm not going to stick my head that but maybe I should laugh more - I don't know.

It's funny though because to me words are like music and in the day when I played music there were pieces that could make me howl with laughter and there were those that could easily reduce me to tears. The same with words, they're such a gift and we do have a beautiful language with which to express ourselves. Never take words for granted they have their own special meanings and put together carefully can produce a symphony which is a delight to the ears.

And as for poetry well, I just love Wendy Cope particularly her poem Loss

http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/show/312104

Right pontificating over, this cheerful little soul is going to bed.

Night, night God bless x

A simple prayer

God grant me the serenity 
to accept the things I cannot change; 
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

The National Memorial Arboretum Alrewas

Today the Queen will be paying to tribute to the soldiers killed in Afghanistan in 2010 at the National Memorial Arboretum at Alrewas. There will be, besides the Queen all the dignitaries that go with such an occasion and families of those brave men and women that were killed but for me there will be someone quite special missing.

My young cousin Mark Turner was killed in Afghanistan on 4th April 2010. I didn't Mark, but I grew up with his Dad and his uncles and when I learned of his death it brought this horrible war even closer to home. I have never agreed with this war, I'll be honest but I do totally respect those that have been called on to go out there, they didn't question, they didn't refuse, they went to do their job and many sadly have suffered the consequences of that.

"Rifleman Turner, 'Turtle' to his mates, was one of the bravest men I have ever had the pleasure of working alongside. He had an inner bravery which made it even more humbling."

Major Mike Lynch

Mark was only 21 when he was killed, still a young lad really. Apparently he was a right character but he was a very brave man.

So as the Queen pays tribute to 'our kid' just remember those who are out there and pray that soon this war will be over and our troops can come home safe.

God bless you Mark. 

Your whole family are proud but humbled by your ultimate sacrifice.

xx

Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.
John 15:13

One of those nights

You know the ones I mean. When your exhausted, yawning your head off and longing to crawl beneath the quilt. Bedtime can't come quick enough and then finally, days' tasks completed you wearily climb the stairs to bed. You look longingly at the pillows and you undress and for me, remove my teddies, doll and cushions off the bed. Throw the quilt back, sigh with relief as your head hits the pillow and then suddenly....

Funny word that suddenly, I was told that it was a word that writers should avoid but sometimes it's the only one that works. Immediately, yeah maybe but suddenly, to me anyway has that bit of drama about it. But, I digress.

Suddenly my eyes were wide open, my brain revved up and promptly launched itself into fifth gear and that was that. I tossed, I turned and tossed and turned again. I had pleasant thoughts, I even tried counting sheep but it was too dark to see them. Joys of living in Clunbury - no street lights. Even the cows out the front were noticeable by their absence or rather were getting a better night's kip than me.

2 o'clock, 3 o'clock and then my mind turned to the fact that I had to be up at 7.45 and it was getting perilously close to the time the alarm would scream at me so I started worrying about that. I'll feel like death in the morning, ran through my head, yeah that did the trick, I don't think. I've got to drive, my eyes will feel like I've got half of Rhyl sands behind them. And I've got to do this tomorrow and oh, must do that and then there's a pile of ironing.

3.33am I know that because the clock told me, actually it's fifteen minutes fast to try and get me up in time but when you know that, it doesn't work, I got up and came downstairs for a drink. It was at this point I did think about blogging but if you guys saw the time, you'd know I couldn't sleep so there would be nothing to write about today.

Anyway I had my drink and went back to bed. Snuggled up again under the quilt, decided this time to try and count sheep in my head instead of the ones in the orchard - but that didn't work either. By 3.55 but actually fifteen minutes earlier, I had go to the loo.

Back in bed, the clock - oh so slowly made it to 5am.

And then the alarm went off and yes my eyes did feel like I had the sands of Rhyl behind them. And yes I did feel like death warmed up and of course, I could so easily have turned over and gone back to sleep - but no, I drove the lads to work, have drunk countless cups of coffee and now as I type the words are blurring on the scream and my thoughts, yet again turn towards to my pillow and my quilt.

Early night tonight me thinks.

A challenge

I wrote a couple of lines on facebook the other day and my friend Liz Bowsher (we were school friends and used to play French horns together) challenged me to write the poem so for Liz here it is.

I Scream in Silence

I scream in silence

I cry in the dark

but when day breaks I paint a smile on my face with lipstick,

so you never know what is going on in this crazy head of mine.

Yes I'll laugh.

I'll be what you want me to be

until the darkness falls,

and then I'll scream in silence

I'll cry in the dark

until the day breaks when yet again

I'll paint a smile on my face with lipstick,

leaving you, none the wiser.

Serious warning!

When I’m an old woman I’ll eat ratatouille

And my house will smell of garlic and onions with

The aroma of olive oil and empty bottles of red wine

And bleach, toilet cleaner, old perfume and loneliness.

But with failing hearing I shall hear the phone

Because day in and day out I’ll long for it to ring.

I’ll chat to foreigners who want to sell me

Life insurance, car insurance and holidays.

Then I’ll put the phone down and hear the silence

And I’ll dust and polish spick and span surfaces

Must keep busy.

I’ll welcome Jehovah’s Witnesses with joy

Because they’re a voice and someone to talk to

Then they’ll go leaving me unconverted

And the Watch Tower they leave will be screwed up in the bin.

But old age I look forward to because

Because I aim to be right pain in the arse

I’m not going to put up with the hassle

That I’ve endured in my younger years

So those who want to control can whistle because I’m gone.

I’m fifty now and not so well but here’s to those

who wish me well and those who don’t can go to hell but….

Warning – what life is left I’ll be living – my way.

A Brave New World

Okay I've done a week with two hearing aids in and gosh the world sounds very different.

As soon as I had them fitted and left the clinic I stepped out onto the A49 and a lorry went past. I nearly shit myself the noise was incredible, in fact it was quite scary. I then went into my local supermarket the sounds of tills ringing, the noise of people talking - I didn't stay long.

To be fair the audio guy did say that things would sound very 'tinny' and they do, even a week on because I'm not hearing normally and my brain has to get used to it. I hope it gets used to it quickly because tings, rings, bleeps and pongs make me react like a squitish kitten (don't know if that's a word but you know what I mean) but on the positive side I sat talking to a friend who was sitting on my right side and I could hear everything he said.

As I said, a brave new world - still hate the damn things though but I have dyed my hair red and I make a point of wearing earrings - my hair isn't long enough to hide them so I flaunt them or try and make them as part of me as possible lol.

Bugger isn't it?

I did ask the audio guy how long he thought I had with hearing and of course he couldn't answer, he kept going back to age related hearing loss but admitted that at 50 I shouldn't need two hearing aids and yes it must likely was down to the CMT. But proving it is not viable and it won't help me anyway lol.

Thinking of leaving my body to medical science, then they can do all the tests etc they wanted to do when I was alive and I said no to and maybe it will help them find out more about CMT which although it won't help me, might help someone in the future and it will save everyone the cost of a burial.

My body may not be unique but it certainly is in Shropshire - fame at last.

Angry, angry and even more angry and I also feel guilty

I feel guilty because I feel so angry. There is so much suffering in this world, there are people very close to me who are going through hell so in that respect my anger is totally unjustified.

Let me explain or rather let me look on the positive side. Hopefully things are going well for us at the moment. I'm having a new home, one I can cope with and the lads are going to have their own homes too. Now how often does that happen? Not often I'll tell you.

Dan is working after six months of not working so that is positive. Physically I'm feeling well, so on the whole life is looking good.

But I'm sorry I'm still so angry and it's no ones fault - it's my body, my disease.

CHARCOT-MARIE TOOTH DISEASE - I FUCKING HATE YOU!

Every time I think I've got your measure, every time I feel positive about living with you, you throw up another surprise. We walk hand in hand through life but round every corner you jump out and bite me, throw me back and then expect me to take your hand again. But I have no choice, you are my constant companion.

You know I try and hide the affects you've taken on my body. I hide my legs so no one can see how you've taken away the muscles. I use trolleys to shop and to walk to no one can see how you've affected my ability to move but now you've taken my hearing. Okay I'll soon be able to hide that but what next?

Tomorrow I'm going to be plugged into the national grid, well not quite but that's how it feels. Tomorrow at 12.30 I'm being fitted with two hearing aids. Okay to some, that doesn't sound drastic, to me it's devastating it is yet again, a constant reminder of another part of me I'm losing. To me it's almost the very core my being. Sounds, music, bird songs will have to be and will be stored in my head as my hearing gets worse.

But tomorrow - I'm going to dye my hair red, dark bordeaux it's called. Why? In defiance of Charcot-Marie-Tooth - you who I hate so much.

I will always hear the owl in the orchard

It's a lovely thought isn't it? But it's true. I was told today by a dear friend to go out to listen to everything and anything, to listen to what I wanted to listen to and I'd remember it and I could play it over and over again in my head.

That might sound like a daft thing to say but it's very true. We do remember sounds. I can remember the sounds of the music of concerts I've played in and I can remember the pure joy of being part of an orchestra or the thrill of playing as a soloist. I can still hear that music, years later. I can also hear the audience as they applauded their appreciation of that music.

I'm lucky in that respect because I've experienced it and more so I've lived it.

So yes I will become deaf but I will always be able to hear.

Many, many thanks to my friend for reminding me of that xx

Surprises, Secrets and Skeletons

Do you ever wonder where you come from or rather who you come from?

I’ve always been interested in my ancestors ever since childhood when my Nana would tell me about her Dad and their lives up in Rothbury. I remember when she stayed she used to sleep in my sister’s bed and many Saturday mornings she’d tell me how she used to knit socks for the soldiers in the First World War and how she carried a milk yoke across the moors. Of course to a child, these images were very romantic whereas in reality it must have been a hard life, especially in the winter.

So with these memories in my head and the ever increasing information on the internet I began researching my family history. And found quite a few surprises.

I think the main one was I thought my Mum and Nana came from good old Geordie stock, I’d been brought with the words ‘hinny’ ‘netty’ and the broad vowel sounds of the Geordie accent. But no, wrong.

I discovered that both my Grandad and my Nana’s dad were born in Norfolk so that knocked the Geordie blood on the head. So leaving Newcastle and Gateshead behind I headed south and east (on the computer of course) to Norfolk. There I discovered a murmuration of Starlings and an illumination of Turners. I also was fortunate enough to meet some distant cousins who were able to give me some more information about my great, great, great, great granddad.

The story goes he was supposed to have at the Battle of Trafalgar and they had a sword which allegedly belonged to him. Immediately the romance that I’d imagined when Nana told me her stories went into overdrive. Swashbuckling hero on the high seas, perhaps looking over Hardy’s shoulder and Nelson succumbed to his injuries.

But sadly this was all in my imagination, the sword was of the wrong date and despite intensive research there was no record of an Edmund Starling at the Battle of Trafalgar but maybe he’d been press ganged and didn’t give his right name – I wish.

John Starling
1806-1891

His son John was a right character. He was a painter and decorator, church warden for over forty years and collected the census information for Worstead  in the mid nineteenth century. He was also a writer and some of his work remains today in the Norfolk Archives in Norwich.

He appears to have been a virtuous and quite a pompous man. In 1876 he went on holiday to Great Yarmouth with his wife Hannah. He wrote in a small notebook about his holiday and what he saw but he also gave a brief insight into the person he was. I love this.

‘I am now standing looking at some men lying down gas pipes to lighten the street to the pier. I pray that more may be employed to exibet the true light, hic enlighten every man that cometh into this world.

                A man on horseback very near rode one. I said friend there ought to be room enough in the world for you and me to pass through, He rode away angry.’ John Starling 1876.

I bet he did.

James Massingham Starling
1845-1887

I don’t much about his son, my great, great grandad, James Massingham Starling, other than he followed his Dad into the decorating trade, married Mary Ann Wenn and died at the age of 43.

However, the cousin I met could remember his wife. She told me that in her old age Mary Ann Wenn went blind and Margaret could remember meeting her and Mary running hands all over face so she could a picture of what she looked like.

Mary Ann Wenn
1846-1929

What amazed me about that story though was the fact I was talking to someone in 2003 who had spoken to someone who was born in 1846. To me that takes some getting your head round.

Now the secrets and skeletons.

James and Mary had a son in 1873, my great granddad who was also called James Massingham Starling (sounds posh doesn’t it?) This James was responsible for the move of this branch of the family up to the north east.

In 1895 he left Worstead, his sleepy little village in Norfolk because his elder sister Kate had an illegitimate child (Margaret’s mother) and his way of escaping the ‘humiliation’ was to leg it up north. Little did he know what was in store for him and that history would repeat itself through his eldest daughter, my lovely, brave Nana.

When I was growing up I always understood my Nana had four children. There  was Cyril, who I never met, my Aunty Elsie, my Mum and my Uncle Stan. But this little girl used to earwig in on grown up conversations and perhaps heard things that she shouldn’t have. I’m not sure how I knew but I did and once the internet started producing family history sites, I had a look.

I discovered that in 1919 my Nana had her first child, Ernest William Starling. I’ve no idea who his father was and I doubt there is anyone alive today who can answer that question for me because his name was never put on the birth certificate. I do know that he was initially brought up by Nana’s parents and he ended up in Coventry.

Then in 1926 she had a son James, who again I don’t who the father was but this time she had to have her baby in ‘a naughty girls’ house in Newcastle, described by some relative as a workhouse. I can’t imagine that would have been a pleasant experience by any means. James went to live in Rothbury with his grandad and eventually settled near Newcastle. I don’t remember ever meeting him but I do know that some of the family did have contact with him.

My lovely Nana
1900-1983

Then there was Cyril. He was born illegitimately in 1929. Nana married my Grandad Arthur Turner the following year and he adopted Cyril. However, when Cyril found out the circumstances of his birth he walked out and never saw my Nana again. When she died in 1983 he was invited to the funeral but replied by saying ‘as far as he was concerned his mother died years ago.’ Cruel to us, into today’s world but back then it was a very different world and perhaps circumstances of birth were more important than a mother’s love?

But there are a couple of twists to this story. My Grandad was born in Mundesley, Norfolk in 1880 but his family also came from Worstead and both the Turners and the Starlings had known each other for about 130 years before Nana and Grandad married.

Grandad Turner
1880-1946

The story goes though that Grandad was a widower up in Newcastle/Gateshead and Nana went to live there as a housekeeper (I think that was Great Grandad’s suggestion) and three years later they married.

But perhaps the biggest twist is that three times, before she married, my Nana found herself pregnant and had her children. However, Grandad’s first wife Elizabeth Goodwill was a back street abortionist.

Different times, a different world, a different society but Nana was spurned by many because of what happened and because of the attitude of many, she didn’t or couldn’t tell the truth to her younger children. My Mum grew up believing that Ernest and James were her uncles and not her brothers.

How much did she miss out on because of that belief but I like to think that before my Mum died, she did know the truth and I know it wouldn’t have made any difference to how she felt about her mother – they were two peas in a pod who loved each other dearly and me, well I miss them both terribly but I’m proud that I knew them, I was loved by them and yes, they helped make me the woman I am today.

Today I've learned

That I'm definitely a DBV. In fact I think I'm a chronic DBV. No change that I know I'm a chronic DBV.

What's a DBV. Well it's not up to me to totally enlighten you but if you want to more about it go to http://www.writersbureau.com/blog/writing-inspiratio/2011/07/ where Simon Whaley can totally enlighten you.

But me, yes definitely distracted by views (DBV) which stops me from writing. Okay maybe I can be forgiven because of where I live - right in the heart of the Clun Valley which has been designated as an area of outstanding natural beauty. Clunbury Hill to the front of the house and the Clun Valley to the back of it. But to be honest that's an excuse. There are many and varied reasons why I haven't been writing lately but the views certainly aren't one of them.

It doesn't matter what's outside your window,  it's what is in your head that needs to come out and until you sit down and write you'll always be distracted by the view. Every morning you make your bed, you wash up, you don't do that by choice, you do that because you have to. Writing's the same - you have too, regardless of what's outside.

The other thing I learned today which to me is more important (and that's no disrespect to Simon) is that we need to be totally aware of everything that is going on around us. Sights, smells, sounds and we can never take anything for granted. For me, after a visit to the audio guy today I know that sound will soon be a thing of the past.

Okay you can call this dumping shit and maybe it is. But ever since I discovered I had a love and a gift of playing music, sound has always been important to me. Hey I was the one that could tune an instrument from 50 yards. The very thought of not hearing bird song, not being able to listen to a concert, not being able to listen and have a chat with my friends - scares the hell out of me.

It's been a tough couple of weeks or so and I'm tired of going to bed and still being a wake as the dawn chorus starts - if I'm in the same place tomorrow, I will embrace that sound. Things play on your mind, people you love, you worry about and although you know there's nothing you can do, it doesn't stop you worrying.

To be honest I don't know where my head is at the moment. I do know that for over forty years the biggest fear I've ever had is losing my hearing. I've often said, I'd rather lose my sight than that.  I still stand by that so today's news went down like a lead balloon.

The loss of hearing in the past few years is quite dramatic and if my lot don't start producing grandchildren soon, I will never hear their voices.

Sorry this is pure indulgence but I don't mind admitting that I'm frightened. I know a certain amount about isolation but not the isolation that comes from being locked out from the world.

This is one of those posts I need just to voice how I feel. If you think I'm making a mountain out of a molehole I'm sorry and if I've offended you again I'm sorry. But for me, it's another loss, a very important loss after everything else and I need to grieve that loss.

Do you remember?

Or

When it actually happened not the numerous times it's been repeated?

Okay I don't remember Andy Pandy from 1952 but I do remember it in the fairly early sixties. And the elephant video, yes I was part of the generation that was mentally scarred when a baby elephant thought the floor of Blue Peter's studio was the local lav.

Memories, memories, memories.

When we came home from school and went out to play or if it rained, we'd play Snakes and Ladders, Ludo or Tiddlywinks.

I went back there today just for a visit and one hell of a laugh. A neighbour and I went to the Museum of Lost Content in Craven Arms - what a wonderful place. Cries of 'look at that. Do you remember that? Oh my God!' Memories of when Michael Jackson was black and The Osmond Brothers were young (they're coming to Shrewsbury next year - don't think I'll bother going, their piccy in the paper the other week made we weep) and the word Golliwog was accepted.

If ever you get chance to go, do but be prepared to feel very old when you come out.

But you know childhood memories can be a very useful tool for writing. I remember my Dad telling me that when he was a child in the 40s that one night he sat on the church yard wall with his friend and the two of them were looking up at the moon. My Dad said 'one day I want to walk on that.' 

His friend replied 'don't be daft, no one will ever walk on the moon, least of all you.'

Man did walk on the moon, sadly though not my Dad. But using his childhood memory I wrote a story 'Footsteps on the Moon,' which came second in a Wrekin Writers' open competition. I rewrote it under a different title and changed it slightly and it was later published in a small press magazine.

So if you're ever sitting there staring at a blank screen trying revisiting your childhood and see where it leads, failing that think back to Blue Peter (which was broadcast yesterday for the last time from the studios at Shepherds Bush) and do something creative with a plastic bottle, some sticky back plastic and some macaroni - uncooked of course and show your kids or grand kids just how resourceful you can be.

Long time no hear

I know had a lot of issues to deal with including depression. Not nice staring at the world through a big bubble and not being part of it but hey I'm getting there. Now I can smell the flowers, I can feel the rain and appreciate the warmth of the sun but there are still times when the darkness reappears and the bubble becomes almost as real as it did before but not quite.

But (and are you ready for this) I'm writing again. Okay the best seller that is going to make me millions is still in the back of the freezer, not defrosted, never mind cooked and ready to serve but short stories are appearing, at least on the computer with quite a frightening regularity. One has been sent to a poor unsuspecting editor and two are at the red pen stage being scored and shouted at with the odd naughty word thrown in. I know that some of you will find this hard to believe seeing as I am such a quiet, gentle, delicate little creature but even us shy violets have to give vent to our annoyance at times.

And more news. I'm moving house. What again? But this time, I think it will be for quite a long time. The powers that be, the occupational therapist, the housing association, the medics, the quacks the caretakers have decided that I'm not safe here anymore so I'm being moved to a bungalow. Now for some, a bungalow at the age of fifty might sound a bit off but for it's sounds like heaven. No more stairs. No more coming down on my bum when the legs and back have packed up. Oh and no more kids. They're moving too, they're having a place of their own.

But let me tell you about Bucknell, where I should be going. It's a quiet village practically on the border between England Wales but fortunately the fortifications were moved and not one but two pubs were put there to entertain the locals once bashing the Welsh became a thing of the past. It also has a shop.  So no longer will I have a ten mile round trip when I've forgotten the milk (must have a chat to them about selling wine) I can 'pop to the shop.'

Bucknell is bigger than Clunbury, considerably bigger but it's a funny place but it's a funny place because the houses are interspersed with fields so possibly if my neighbours do pop their heads over the fence they will chew the vegetation in my garden like they do now.

But like a lot of this part of south Shropshire it is a quiet place where people come to retire. The gentle hum of village life will continue to surround me and the slow pace of traffic that I've become accustomed to, will also prevail. To give you an example of exactly how peaceful Bucknell is see below

Hey looks like fun and yes this did happen in Bucknell.

Let the train take the strain - I don't think so!

One dark and cold March night, well last Friday to be exact, my youngest son and his mate were standing on a desolate station in Shropshire.

                Here at home in sleepy Clunbury, the phone rang.

                ‘Hello.’

                ‘Mum,’ I recognised the voice instantly it was no 3 son, not exactly hard to deduce as no 1 and 2 were home.

                ‘Yes son.’

                ‘What time’s the train?’

                I looked at the clock on my computer, it read 19.20. ‘It will be there in a minute, well actually two, the train is due in at 19.22.’ My voice sounded confident. I had faith in National Rail, a faith borne out by someone who hasn’t used a train in years. ‘You’ll soon be back,’ I said reassuringly. ‘Talk to you soon.’

                I put the phone down. Soon they would no longer be standing on the cold platform but would be warm in the plush carriage provided by Arriva Trains Wales.

                I made a coffee. Images of a hostess trolley pushed by a kindly member of staff flashed before my eyes, ladling out national rail coffee and sandwiches complete with a national rail smile and I was content.

                In the meantime on the cold, desolate station in Shropshire 19.22 arrived heralded with a passenger train hurtling through the station at something akin to the speed of sound. My son, well lubricated by Carling’s finest, giggled ‘were we supposed to get on that?’ He asked his friend. But as the train hurtled into the darkness the answer was obvious. It was not stopping and the lack of reversing lights proved the driver was intent on continuing his journey, regardless of what any timetable said.

                Oblivious to all of this, I settled down to watch Corrie. Relieved that my son was catching a train and not a tram that would venture over the end of Coronation Street, although the slight slurring in his voice did make me think he could well have ventured into the Rovers Return.

                The adverts heralded a break from the doom and gloom of soap land just as the phone rang.

                ‘Hello.’ I said.

                ‘Mum,’ again I knew it was no 3 son seeing as no 1 and 2 hadn’t moved since the last phone call.

                ‘Yes son?’

                ‘Mum the train hasn’t arrived.’

                All the images of hostess trolleys and kindly National Rail staff faded.

                ‘’Oh!’ I said in my best concerned motherly voice.

                ‘What time did you say it was due?’

                ’19.22 but it’s now 19.45.’

                ‘Oh right,’ he said in his best bravado voice, which wasn’t nearly as convincing as my motherly tones.

                ‘I tell you what, I’ll ring National Rail and find out what’s going on.’

                He seem happy at this but I recognised that he’d inherited my naïve belief in National Rail. He voice conveyed his belief that a phone call would sort it out.

                ‘I’ll call you back darling.’

                ‘Thank you.’ The line went silent now it all rested on my shoulders.

                I dialled the number and waited. Finally a voice answered.

                ‘Good evening,’ I said. ‘I’m enquiring as to what has happened to the 19.22 service from Albrighton, Shropshire to Shrewsbury.’

                ‘Brighton!’ A harsh male voice shrilled back at me.

                ‘No!’ Instantly the confrontational little sod that lives deep within me sprung to life. ‘Albrighton. That is A L B R I G H T O N and just for good measure I reiterated Shropshire.’

                ‘And where do you want to go to Madam?’ Now one thing this confrontational little sod that lives within me hates, is being called Madam but somehow I managed to suppress its urges to yell and scream.

                ‘Shrewsbury. That is S H R E W S B U R Y again I added Shropshire, I didn’t want the guy on the other end to suddenly have to worry about cross channel ferries.

                ‘Ah the next train for Albrighton to Shrewsbury is the 20.40 which is currently running on time.’

                ‘I know what time the next train is but what I want to know is what happened to the 19.22?’

                ‘I will have a look for you Madam.’

                ‘Down confrontational little sod,’ I muttered under my breath, desperately hoping the guy on the other end didn’t hear me.

                ‘The 19.22 from Albrighton to Shrewsbury is running two minutes late.’

                Confrontational little sod is now howling with laughter as his mate hackles begins to rise.

                ‘Well it is now 19.48 and the 19.22 is running considerably later that two minutes because my son is still standing on the station waiting for the train and he was there before the train was due.’

                ‘No madam the train is just two minutes late.’

                By now confrontational little sod and his mate hackles were having a party. I could hear amongst all their jollies they chorused together ‘go for it girl.’

                I could resist their calls no longer. ‘Forgive me for asking but can you tell me where you are based?’

                ‘I’m sorry Madam?’

                Now confrontational little sod and his mate Hackles had brought in a brass band.

                ‘Which part of the world are you in? My question was asked slowly and very deliberately something that Mr, I know what time the trains are running failed to pick up on.

                ‘Oh I am in India.’

                ‘Well how the hell do you know what is happening to trains in a sleepy part of England?’

                Obviously he’d been asked this before because without even thinking about it he came straight back at me. ‘Oh all the information about trains are fed through to us. We know what is happening.’

                Well the information you have is bloody wrong. The train is not two minutes late, it is now nearly 30 minutes late.’

                ‘Oh no Madam, you are wrong.’

                All attempts at suppressing confrontational little sod and hackles had gone out of the window by this point.

                ‘My son is waiting on that bloody station and the train has not arrived. You can not tell me that the train is two minutes late from India when he is there. The information you have is incorrect, you are being fed a load of bollocks by incompetent idiots. The train has not arrived and I’m not going to waste my time trying to relay the facts to you as witnessed by someone who is actually present.’

                ‘Very good Madam, is there anything else I can help you with.’

                I put the phone down in total disgust and rang no 3. I told him what I’d been told and then said the time of the next train – which unlike the one before did actually turn up but not before he’d had a hour and twenty minutes wait on a cold, dark, desolate station in March.

                And they want us to use public transport – huh!