When we first came here we had chickens; the feral remains of a flock that I fear have been living on the farm almost as long as those wild dogs have in Pompeii, Italy, whose ancestors once graced the villas of some long forgotten Roman.
Well the flock we inherited roosted in the trees and bushes around the farm with a tight knit group residing underneath the Wisteria on what was once a very nice wrought iron arch, the DIY welding, baler twine and chicken wire giving it now a slightly lopsided with defiantly bucolic air. It was the perfect roost being south facing and against a wall; warm in winter, a haven for flies and other winged bugs, and close enough to the bay window to alert the humans residing within that chickens need food – now!
There were many havens for chickens dotted about the garden – another favourite haunt was through a bramble infested bux and in among sharp-leaved witches broom and a completely dishevelled black bamboo – talk about jungle!
Most of the chickens slept in the trees leaping up to their perches along a series of well-worn paths over dilapidated sheds and lean-tos. They would hunker on to the branches and cling grim facedly despite all the efforts of the wind to dislodge them. It is rather nerve wracking to watch a flock of chickens being tossed willy-nilly in to the air during a storm. And it is extremely difficult to make you insurance broker behave and pull himself together when you try to explain that you car has suffered chicken damage during the gale.
I think we inherited about two-dozen chickens and they were semi friendly; however, relations did not get off to a good start owing to the fact that our city-raised Jack Russells decided to hone their inherent hunting skills on them. Suffice to say the flock was decimated.
We tried every trick we knew to stop the dogs from chasing and occasionally killing the chickens but it was not until we fenced off the back garden that we finally succeeded. In the intervening years the game of chicken took on a whole new meaning for us, and the flock.
The chickens themselves were a motley crew with an amazing picture book cockerel in charge. So handsome was he, I named him Brad Pitt - his son, Pitt the Younger, was the feisty bantam who killed off Big Boy the Aracna/Legbar cross.
The hens were compact little creatures in a variety of browns and russets with neat bright yellow legs. I could hardly tell one form the other.
During the winter we started to feed them and as got colder we became ever popular. It was our favourite party trick to call the hens to feed and then watch as they would appear from every corner and crevice high and low and either run or fly straight for us; low flying chickens unable to gauge landing became quite a hazard and I always felt whenever we did this that the Dambusters' theme would be appropriate accompaniment.
Thursday, 8 November 2007
Wednesday, 31 October 2007
A sad and creepy story…
Imagine if you will that you are with child, or your sister is or even your daughter; in this day and age it is usually a time for great rejoicing whether you are married or not. Now go back some 450 years and imagine yourself living in a small closed community, I’m afraid you are not rich and you are not educated and the father of the child, well he is not available. In fact he is more than likely to be your master.
If the pregnancy goes to term there will be long lasting repercussions; ignominy for the bearer, bastardy for the child and absolute disgrace for the family not just for a few years but for generations until finally the story is forgotten – what lengths would you and/ or your family go to protect yourselves?
Such is the fashion of the day that the fact that you are pregnant can be hidden; you continue to work knowing that should you be found out all will be lost. You can tell no one. It does not matter how tired you are, or if you feel unwell everything must continue as normal. Even at night there is no solace. The future looks so bleak.
Then comes the day of reckoning: is it natural or is it forced. Have you or your family been off to see the wise woman? What potions have you drunk? Has a member of your family taken matters into their own hands and brought about the event?
Everything starts to happen and you have managed to sneak away to your room; it may be at night but whatever time it is, it is more than likely you are on your own. You must make no noise. You must not be caught. Everything depends on secrecy.
The child is born, your child. Your first born.
I pray it is born dead, I am told it was more than likely to have been born dead as forensics say it was most certainly premature. All I know is that you hid the child, your shame and for 450 years it lay undisturbed and deliberately forgotten. And then, it was found, by us.
It was the beginning of 2004 and Charlie was having a week off to help the builders as they wrecked the joint. This involved the removal of the roof on one wing from either side of the massive Tudor chimney which housed two inglenook fireplaces on the ground floor and a third equally impressive fireplace on the first floor in what was once the master’s apartments.
I went off to do something or other and as I pulled away I jokingly said to mind the mummified cats, which I said they were bound to find. Charlie did and a lot more besides.
As Charlie tried to remove some wallpaper from the first floor bedroom on the opposite side of the chimney from the master’s apartments, the plaster came away and within minutes the whole wall, which was made of wattle and daub, disintegrated revealing what is colloquially termed a “Witches’ Midden”
This comprised a mummified cat, some shoes, a witches broom, a winnowing circle and a carved wooden spoon as well as a petrified mouse, a long dead bird and a couple of thatch stakes and a bill hook.
Charlie was so excited! And to be honest so was I. What a find! It was dark on my return so I had no chance of seeing everything in situ that night but the very next morning I took a closer look. What I found literally made my blood run cold.
Charlie and the boys had moved the heaps of dirt - for that is what it all looked like - into another room and were in the process of taking it down the stairs and out onto the bonfire. Charlie mentioned that he thought there was also a mummified dog but it was only partial. I was confused – in all the writings about old houses in the region I had never heard of people using dogs in this way. A sort of dread began to creep up on me and I started to look through the mess. I came across the top of a skull just the dome of it down to the top of the eye sockets – easily mistaken for a dog by it’s size but the eyes were wrong. What I was handling was definitely human.
When this happens there is ONLY one course of action. Call the police.
Within half an hour they were here and although we and they were convinced the remains were hundreds of years old we became a crime scene and all work ceased.
It started to dawn on us what we were dealing with and as I held my own baby close all I could think on was how had this happened? When had it happened? Why had it happened? And across the years my heart went out to the mother of this child.
Forensics were brilliant and within a few days we knew that what we were dealing with was a baby. More than likely born premature because of the way the bones had disintegrated and because of it’s size. They said it would have been unlikely to be put there alive; it was probably born dead then hurriedly hidden.
I still feel uncomfortable about it but I also feel that the house wanted to give up its secrets, the burden that it had carried for so long. We buried the remains in the old Church Yard at St Mary’s with a simple service carried out by our then vicar Rev Robin Jack who had cleared the way with the Diocese. The local funereal director had donated a tiny coffin and I planted snowdrops from the farm on the grave. Perhaps the child’s mother lies in the churchyard as well. I hope she found peace.
If the pregnancy goes to term there will be long lasting repercussions; ignominy for the bearer, bastardy for the child and absolute disgrace for the family not just for a few years but for generations until finally the story is forgotten – what lengths would you and/ or your family go to protect yourselves?
Such is the fashion of the day that the fact that you are pregnant can be hidden; you continue to work knowing that should you be found out all will be lost. You can tell no one. It does not matter how tired you are, or if you feel unwell everything must continue as normal. Even at night there is no solace. The future looks so bleak.
Then comes the day of reckoning: is it natural or is it forced. Have you or your family been off to see the wise woman? What potions have you drunk? Has a member of your family taken matters into their own hands and brought about the event?
Everything starts to happen and you have managed to sneak away to your room; it may be at night but whatever time it is, it is more than likely you are on your own. You must make no noise. You must not be caught. Everything depends on secrecy.
The child is born, your child. Your first born.
I pray it is born dead, I am told it was more than likely to have been born dead as forensics say it was most certainly premature. All I know is that you hid the child, your shame and for 450 years it lay undisturbed and deliberately forgotten. And then, it was found, by us.
It was the beginning of 2004 and Charlie was having a week off to help the builders as they wrecked the joint. This involved the removal of the roof on one wing from either side of the massive Tudor chimney which housed two inglenook fireplaces on the ground floor and a third equally impressive fireplace on the first floor in what was once the master’s apartments.
I went off to do something or other and as I pulled away I jokingly said to mind the mummified cats, which I said they were bound to find. Charlie did and a lot more besides.
As Charlie tried to remove some wallpaper from the first floor bedroom on the opposite side of the chimney from the master’s apartments, the plaster came away and within minutes the whole wall, which was made of wattle and daub, disintegrated revealing what is colloquially termed a “Witches’ Midden”
This comprised a mummified cat, some shoes, a witches broom, a winnowing circle and a carved wooden spoon as well as a petrified mouse, a long dead bird and a couple of thatch stakes and a bill hook.
Charlie was so excited! And to be honest so was I. What a find! It was dark on my return so I had no chance of seeing everything in situ that night but the very next morning I took a closer look. What I found literally made my blood run cold.
Charlie and the boys had moved the heaps of dirt - for that is what it all looked like - into another room and were in the process of taking it down the stairs and out onto the bonfire. Charlie mentioned that he thought there was also a mummified dog but it was only partial. I was confused – in all the writings about old houses in the region I had never heard of people using dogs in this way. A sort of dread began to creep up on me and I started to look through the mess. I came across the top of a skull just the dome of it down to the top of the eye sockets – easily mistaken for a dog by it’s size but the eyes were wrong. What I was handling was definitely human.
When this happens there is ONLY one course of action. Call the police.
Within half an hour they were here and although we and they were convinced the remains were hundreds of years old we became a crime scene and all work ceased.
It started to dawn on us what we were dealing with and as I held my own baby close all I could think on was how had this happened? When had it happened? Why had it happened? And across the years my heart went out to the mother of this child.
Forensics were brilliant and within a few days we knew that what we were dealing with was a baby. More than likely born premature because of the way the bones had disintegrated and because of it’s size. They said it would have been unlikely to be put there alive; it was probably born dead then hurriedly hidden.
I still feel uncomfortable about it but I also feel that the house wanted to give up its secrets, the burden that it had carried for so long. We buried the remains in the old Church Yard at St Mary’s with a simple service carried out by our then vicar Rev Robin Jack who had cleared the way with the Diocese. The local funereal director had donated a tiny coffin and I planted snowdrops from the farm on the grave. Perhaps the child’s mother lies in the churchyard as well. I hope she found peace.
Saturday, 20 October 2007
Another Country - My Rugby World Cup Final
It’s 8.30pm when I walk in the room, I tread diffidently and my eyes are drawn immediately to the score in black and white in the top left hand corner of the screen: Eng: 3 RSA: 6. Charlie is sitting forward on the sofa, wound up, alert.
“It’s not as bad as you think: South Africa have been lucky.” He says. As way of greeting, I start to say some inanity but something happens on the screen and Charlie twitches in sympathy with his heroes and it quite disconcerts me. I notice he can’t keep his feet still and he runs his hands up and down his thighs as if in preparation to catch the ball. I ask him if he’s like some supper. He glances at me, frowning a little confused – I am disturbing his concentration. He flicks his hand showing me his plate: “I’ve had some.” and there’s a roar from the crowd on the television and his eyes snap back to the screen.
As I walk to the kitchen he calls after me. “I’ve go to get a closer look at the scrum…” then as if remembering what it was he wanted he tersely adds: “put the kettle on!”
I get my supper and listen to his commentary from the sitting room. I am unsure whether it’s for me or for himself. I feel the professionals are making a better job of it but I say nothing. The timing would not be right.
The kettle boils and I call back to him. “What do you want to drink.” There is an almighty long pause and I am just about to shout irritably at him to answer me when he calls: “Lemon & Ginger!”
It crosses my mind that it’s a rather tame drink to be having on such an historic occasion. It should be beer really. However, it’s only him in there. The Boys are too young and in bed while I, well I never think it a good idea to watch. Call me superstitious but if I watch England they’ll lose – you’ll know who to blame then if it all goes pear-shaped.
I am now ensconced upstairs on my computer and trying to work while my ears strain to catch how the match is going.
It’s 8:56 Oh God I can hear the muffled and excited jabbering of the commentator and roar of the crowd from the sitting room downstairs. “OH YES!” Then shouting up at me “Liza! England has scored.” I shout back: “That’s brilliant!” Rather than “I know you berk – I’m listening!”
It’s quiet again – I’ll have to go and watch. I need to know the score. I’ll make myself some tea and sort of loll against the doorpost to catch a glimpse of the action – it’s not really watching….
How can they do that – It’s been disallowed! With half an hour to go England are still in with a chance its’ Eng 6; RSA 9. As I shot through the sitting room not daring to look at the screen I hear the crowd on the telly singing Swing Low Sweet Chariot and I feel that if the team hears that surely their hearts will swell and the at fighting spirit will not be dimmed. Charlie is curled up on the sofas. Tight and small - coiled I’d say. Ready to explode. The tension in the house is beginning to make the cats' uneasy. They’re always the first to vocalise what the rest of us feel.
I’ve get my bar of chocolate and cup of tea. The chocolate as some sort of release. It always calms me and I need a lot of calming. My ears are straining again a whistle has blown nothing much can be going our way as I can hardly hear a thing. Perhaps if I were in South Africa the TV would be alive with something different maybe now their commentators are gabbling in excitement and the crowds are roaring…
No noise, nothing. I can hear them again, no nothing. I will stay where I am though the temptation to dive down the stairs is overwhelming. Have another piece of chocolate. I can hear the commentator reeling off names, the ball is being passed now there’s a scrum and I can see in my minds’ eye a tumult of hard-pressed muscle green and white; thighs and forearms, a squashed English rose.
It’s quiet again from downstairs; the telly warbles in the background but the sound is indistinct. No wait. Oh my god I think they're going to score again! Shite no - its OK I hear them again…do I go down? I’ll have to….
South Africa is leading by 9 points. As I look anxiously across at the telly in the corner Charlie turns to me: “Well, South Africa has had all the luck, England are doing all the running.
“Yeh, but South Africa is winning!” I growl.
“All it will take is one try and that will change everything,” he says – I feel he is just trying to be positive for the sake of it. I don’t feel his heart’s in it. Maybe it’s mine that isn’t. Oh! I so want a fairy tale ending.
I retreat back upstairs…
There’s a build up in tension again – the match seems to have been very close but its looks like South Africa are going to take it. There’s a roar from the crowd, but I can’t hear Charlie. I think, I think it’s all over….
I peer round the corner at the telly and there are the South Africans hugging each other and the English looking sad and tired, stiff upper lips all round. I am proud of them. To come all this way.
“It was a good match?” I ask.
“I think England played much better,” says Charlie meaning much better than South Africa. I love him when he is like this. Proud in defeat. “If we’d been allowed that try it would have been a different game,” he adds
The commentator echoes the sentiment.
I watch the wind down and as I clear up and put the dogs out and I hear Brian Corry being interviewed:
Interviewer: All that heart all that courage…
Brian Corry: Yes, but it’s such a shame that all that heart and all that courage comes to nothing.” His disappointment is palatable.And my last thought is how wrong you are – we was robbed and in another time we’d be celebrating fairy tale ending! I believe in fairy tales…and I can hear the sound of “Another Country” and my heart swells with joy and pride….just you wait next time!
“It’s not as bad as you think: South Africa have been lucky.” He says. As way of greeting, I start to say some inanity but something happens on the screen and Charlie twitches in sympathy with his heroes and it quite disconcerts me. I notice he can’t keep his feet still and he runs his hands up and down his thighs as if in preparation to catch the ball. I ask him if he’s like some supper. He glances at me, frowning a little confused – I am disturbing his concentration. He flicks his hand showing me his plate: “I’ve had some.” and there’s a roar from the crowd on the television and his eyes snap back to the screen.
As I walk to the kitchen he calls after me. “I’ve go to get a closer look at the scrum…” then as if remembering what it was he wanted he tersely adds: “put the kettle on!”
I get my supper and listen to his commentary from the sitting room. I am unsure whether it’s for me or for himself. I feel the professionals are making a better job of it but I say nothing. The timing would not be right.
The kettle boils and I call back to him. “What do you want to drink.” There is an almighty long pause and I am just about to shout irritably at him to answer me when he calls: “Lemon & Ginger!”
It crosses my mind that it’s a rather tame drink to be having on such an historic occasion. It should be beer really. However, it’s only him in there. The Boys are too young and in bed while I, well I never think it a good idea to watch. Call me superstitious but if I watch England they’ll lose – you’ll know who to blame then if it all goes pear-shaped.
I am now ensconced upstairs on my computer and trying to work while my ears strain to catch how the match is going.
It’s 8:56 Oh God I can hear the muffled and excited jabbering of the commentator and roar of the crowd from the sitting room downstairs. “OH YES!” Then shouting up at me “Liza! England has scored.” I shout back: “That’s brilliant!” Rather than “I know you berk – I’m listening!”
It’s quiet again – I’ll have to go and watch. I need to know the score. I’ll make myself some tea and sort of loll against the doorpost to catch a glimpse of the action – it’s not really watching….
How can they do that – It’s been disallowed! With half an hour to go England are still in with a chance its’ Eng 6; RSA 9. As I shot through the sitting room not daring to look at the screen I hear the crowd on the telly singing Swing Low Sweet Chariot and I feel that if the team hears that surely their hearts will swell and the at fighting spirit will not be dimmed. Charlie is curled up on the sofas. Tight and small - coiled I’d say. Ready to explode. The tension in the house is beginning to make the cats' uneasy. They’re always the first to vocalise what the rest of us feel.
I’ve get my bar of chocolate and cup of tea. The chocolate as some sort of release. It always calms me and I need a lot of calming. My ears are straining again a whistle has blown nothing much can be going our way as I can hardly hear a thing. Perhaps if I were in South Africa the TV would be alive with something different maybe now their commentators are gabbling in excitement and the crowds are roaring…
No noise, nothing. I can hear them again, no nothing. I will stay where I am though the temptation to dive down the stairs is overwhelming. Have another piece of chocolate. I can hear the commentator reeling off names, the ball is being passed now there’s a scrum and I can see in my minds’ eye a tumult of hard-pressed muscle green and white; thighs and forearms, a squashed English rose.
It’s quiet again from downstairs; the telly warbles in the background but the sound is indistinct. No wait. Oh my god I think they're going to score again! Shite no - its OK I hear them again…do I go down? I’ll have to….
South Africa is leading by 9 points. As I look anxiously across at the telly in the corner Charlie turns to me: “Well, South Africa has had all the luck, England are doing all the running.
“Yeh, but South Africa is winning!” I growl.
“All it will take is one try and that will change everything,” he says – I feel he is just trying to be positive for the sake of it. I don’t feel his heart’s in it. Maybe it’s mine that isn’t. Oh! I so want a fairy tale ending.
I retreat back upstairs…
There’s a build up in tension again – the match seems to have been very close but its looks like South Africa are going to take it. There’s a roar from the crowd, but I can’t hear Charlie. I think, I think it’s all over….
I peer round the corner at the telly and there are the South Africans hugging each other and the English looking sad and tired, stiff upper lips all round. I am proud of them. To come all this way.
“It was a good match?” I ask.
“I think England played much better,” says Charlie meaning much better than South Africa. I love him when he is like this. Proud in defeat. “If we’d been allowed that try it would have been a different game,” he adds
The commentator echoes the sentiment.
I watch the wind down and as I clear up and put the dogs out and I hear Brian Corry being interviewed:
Interviewer: All that heart all that courage…
Brian Corry: Yes, but it’s such a shame that all that heart and all that courage comes to nothing.” His disappointment is palatable.And my last thought is how wrong you are – we was robbed and in another time we’d be celebrating fairy tale ending! I believe in fairy tales…and I can hear the sound of “Another Country” and my heart swells with joy and pride….just you wait next time!
Monday, 15 October 2007
48 Questions…and as many answers
1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?
I was going to be called Sian but Grandad put a stop to that saying with a surname like Helps I wouldn’t be off to the best of starts!!!!
2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?
Last week in frustration over the state of my life and everything that that encompasses.
3. Do you like your handwriting?
Nope it’s awful and I am very aware of that fact. Was publically humiliated by my father-in-law over the state of it too
4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAL?
Roast beef sandwiches with horseradish.
5. DO YOU HAVE KIDS?
Yes, two edible boys.
6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?
Unsure of that. I’m told I have a very sharp tongue and I might scare myself.
7. DO YOU USE SARCASM ALOT?
I don’t think so.
8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS
Yes.
9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?
No way there are plenty of safer ways to scare myself silly – looking at my bank statement springs to mind!.
10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?
All of them bar All bran or anything too healthy – currently eating Cheerios in the morning. Sometimes have a run on Porridge. Never been known to refuse Frosties/Cocopops/Frutloops etc.
11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?
Very, very rarely although I mean to ‘cos it’s such a fag when you have to put them on again!
12. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG?
Depends what’s facing me. Strong to climb Everest? Then perhaps but very very slowly. Strong to face loneliness? Well not in company but would get on with it on my own.
13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?
Not ice cream - sorbet and if that, then lemon every time!
14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?
Eyes.
15. RED OR PINK?
Red.
16. WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?
Being fearful. I am such a wimp and always worried about what people think!
17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST
Granny Sue.
18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO SEND THIS BACK TO YOU?
Yes.
19. WHAT COLOUR PANTS (TROUSERS) AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?
Dark blue jeans and faded blue Sloppy Joes.
20. WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE?
Piece of cake which I promised to save for The Boy but decided to eat ‘cos I thought it would go stale - now have to replace it so he won’t notice, which means buying a whole new cake!
21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?
The hum of my computer and the thumping and banging upstairs of the whippet as she rolls ( I think) around on the floor - I have no idea why she’s doing this just a manic Monday I suppose.
22. IF YOU WHERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?
Purple - of course!!!!!!
23. FAVORITE SMELLS?
Cut grass – reminds me of summers as a child and being allowed to ride in Granny Sue’s wooden wheelbarrow up and down the garden.
24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?
The registrar at school to say I had not found anyone else to replace me as Parent Schools Liaison so I’d be doing it again this year…..
25. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU?
Yes
26. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH?
Show jumping
27. HAIR COLOR?
Brunette with natural white highlights.
28. EYE COLOR?
Hazel but it changes in the light from grey to green to brown - so I’ve been told.
29. Do you wear contacts?
No.
30. FAVORITE FOOD?
Apart from Sorbet? Proper Chinese food. Husband hates it; so get it oh, so very, very, rarely…
31. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?
Always happy endings even in horror stories...
32. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED?
Ice Age on TV. Bourne Ultimatum in the Cinema.
33. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?
Wearing a brown stripey fleece and black padded waistcoat – it’s cold outside!
34. SUMMER OR WINTER?
Both – summer for lazing on the lawn and dozing in the heat; winter for brisk bright mornings and getting a move on!
35. HUGS OR KISSES?
Cuddles when feeling sad, kisses when feeling … well I leave that to your imaginations!
36. FAVORITE DESSERT?
Lemon sorbet.
37. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
Purple people!
38. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
My Dad.
39. What book are you reading now?
Atonement by Ian McEwan; Cow by Hannah Velten; Lollipop Shoes by Joanne Harris and The Devil’s Cub by Georgette Heyer. I like to have a choice at bedtime/bathtime etc.
40. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?
Dirt.
41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON T.V. LAST NIGHT?
Ugly Betty/Argentina vs RSA.
42. FAVORITE SOUND?
Laughter.
43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?
Beatles – I enjoy singing along and anyway Mick Jagger scares me!
44. WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME?
In physical time the Magnetic North Pole; in distance (if home is the UK) then Hawaii/Hong Kong and the bit inbetween.
45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?
Still looking for it….
46. WHERE WERE YOU BORN?
Carmarthen in Wales
47. WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK?
Anyone’s - I'm nosey.
48. WHAT TIME IS IT NOW?
1402hrs. Monday
I was going to be called Sian but Grandad put a stop to that saying with a surname like Helps I wouldn’t be off to the best of starts!!!!
2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?
Last week in frustration over the state of my life and everything that that encompasses.
3. Do you like your handwriting?
Nope it’s awful and I am very aware of that fact. Was publically humiliated by my father-in-law over the state of it too
4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAL?
Roast beef sandwiches with horseradish.
5. DO YOU HAVE KIDS?
Yes, two edible boys.
6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?
Unsure of that. I’m told I have a very sharp tongue and I might scare myself.
7. DO YOU USE SARCASM ALOT?
I don’t think so.
8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS
Yes.
9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?
No way there are plenty of safer ways to scare myself silly – looking at my bank statement springs to mind!.
10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?
All of them bar All bran or anything too healthy – currently eating Cheerios in the morning. Sometimes have a run on Porridge. Never been known to refuse Frosties/Cocopops/Frutloops etc.
11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?
Very, very rarely although I mean to ‘cos it’s such a fag when you have to put them on again!
12. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG?
Depends what’s facing me. Strong to climb Everest? Then perhaps but very very slowly. Strong to face loneliness? Well not in company but would get on with it on my own.
13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?
Not ice cream - sorbet and if that, then lemon every time!
14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?
Eyes.
15. RED OR PINK?
Red.
16. WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?
Being fearful. I am such a wimp and always worried about what people think!
17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST
Granny Sue.
18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO SEND THIS BACK TO YOU?
Yes.
19. WHAT COLOUR PANTS (TROUSERS) AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?
Dark blue jeans and faded blue Sloppy Joes.
20. WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE?
Piece of cake which I promised to save for The Boy but decided to eat ‘cos I thought it would go stale - now have to replace it so he won’t notice, which means buying a whole new cake!
21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?
The hum of my computer and the thumping and banging upstairs of the whippet as she rolls ( I think) around on the floor - I have no idea why she’s doing this just a manic Monday I suppose.
22. IF YOU WHERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?
Purple - of course!!!!!!
23. FAVORITE SMELLS?
Cut grass – reminds me of summers as a child and being allowed to ride in Granny Sue’s wooden wheelbarrow up and down the garden.
24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?
The registrar at school to say I had not found anyone else to replace me as Parent Schools Liaison so I’d be doing it again this year…..
25. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU?
Yes
26. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH?
Show jumping
27. HAIR COLOR?
Brunette with natural white highlights.
28. EYE COLOR?
Hazel but it changes in the light from grey to green to brown - so I’ve been told.
29. Do you wear contacts?
No.
30. FAVORITE FOOD?
Apart from Sorbet? Proper Chinese food. Husband hates it; so get it oh, so very, very, rarely…
31. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?
Always happy endings even in horror stories...
32. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED?
Ice Age on TV. Bourne Ultimatum in the Cinema.
33. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?
Wearing a brown stripey fleece and black padded waistcoat – it’s cold outside!
34. SUMMER OR WINTER?
Both – summer for lazing on the lawn and dozing in the heat; winter for brisk bright mornings and getting a move on!
35. HUGS OR KISSES?
Cuddles when feeling sad, kisses when feeling … well I leave that to your imaginations!
36. FAVORITE DESSERT?
Lemon sorbet.
37. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
Purple people!
38. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
My Dad.
39. What book are you reading now?
Atonement by Ian McEwan; Cow by Hannah Velten; Lollipop Shoes by Joanne Harris and The Devil’s Cub by Georgette Heyer. I like to have a choice at bedtime/bathtime etc.
40. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?
Dirt.
41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON T.V. LAST NIGHT?
Ugly Betty/Argentina vs RSA.
42. FAVORITE SOUND?
Laughter.
43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?
Beatles – I enjoy singing along and anyway Mick Jagger scares me!
44. WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME?
In physical time the Magnetic North Pole; in distance (if home is the UK) then Hawaii/Hong Kong and the bit inbetween.
45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?
Still looking for it….
46. WHERE WERE YOU BORN?
Carmarthen in Wales
47. WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK?
Anyone’s - I'm nosey.
48. WHAT TIME IS IT NOW?
1402hrs. Monday
Sunday, 14 October 2007
Stumbles, trips and blips
Sometimes you just can’t say the right thing in fact you can’t seem to write at all! No matter how hard you try all your thoughts seem to shrivel away in the glare from the computer screen. You trip and stumble and rough your words and it all comes out – well, just awful.
When the words you write are full of import they just seem to die and the clarity you had just moments before cannot be transferred to the page. The frustration!
Then…the doubts.
I write for a living, usually it comes out pretty clean, not too much effort but there again I have been writing about the same specialised subject for years. I was thrown the other day by a simple conversation and I tried, unsuccessfully, to explain. The words I wrote just wouldn’t. They came out messy, convoluted, mean, condescending, arrogant, crap!
And suddenly my whole world went up in the air! If I could not explain the basics of a subject that I have been in the heart of for eight years, what sort of writer was I? Obviously not a good one.
I was trained to believe that a good writer, in a few short sentences, should be able to explain everything - and I mean everything - to his or her reader. It is something that I used to pride myself on – in fact something I used to be employed for. No, I wasn’t your leading columnist. No, I wouldn’t be getting by-lines in the nationals but I have/had a reputation for the clarity of my writing.
I’m not so sure now….
Someone sweetly said loads of working mums feel like I do from time to time and that my confidence will return. Well, least I’m writing this again…
When the words you write are full of import they just seem to die and the clarity you had just moments before cannot be transferred to the page. The frustration!
Then…the doubts.
I write for a living, usually it comes out pretty clean, not too much effort but there again I have been writing about the same specialised subject for years. I was thrown the other day by a simple conversation and I tried, unsuccessfully, to explain. The words I wrote just wouldn’t. They came out messy, convoluted, mean, condescending, arrogant, crap!
And suddenly my whole world went up in the air! If I could not explain the basics of a subject that I have been in the heart of for eight years, what sort of writer was I? Obviously not a good one.
I was trained to believe that a good writer, in a few short sentences, should be able to explain everything - and I mean everything - to his or her reader. It is something that I used to pride myself on – in fact something I used to be employed for. No, I wasn’t your leading columnist. No, I wouldn’t be getting by-lines in the nationals but I have/had a reputation for the clarity of my writing.
I’m not so sure now….
Someone sweetly said loads of working mums feel like I do from time to time and that my confidence will return. Well, least I’m writing this again…
Thursday, 4 October 2007
RESPECT your chickens....
I am rapidly revising my ideas about chickens mostly I think of them as dumb clucks, sometimes a feather short of a full wing but in no way do I think of them as cunning, vicious killers.
However, today my blood ran cold. Today I realised that though the velociraptor is extinct its legacy lives on in its feathered descendants far more than may commonly be realised.
I had just been round to check on “Said Chicken” and ascertain if she really was one of my flock – I couldn’t get close enough to work it out so prepped Roger to catch her later in the day - and went to open up the Chicken shed.
I call to the tree chickens first; they roost in the trees at night and are more bantam like than their Chicken Shed cousins. I think that being smaller they need to get a look in before the bigger birds are let out. Then I usually open up the small chick cage to let out the babies and when I think they’ve had a good old go, I nip round the back and open the hatch.
Out they pour, clucking and cackling, a blur of black, brown speckled, white and grey blue feathers. Clacking yellow, pink and black long toed feet on the ramp a few jump and a few fly and whoosh they are round the corner and tucking in – only today something else happened.
There was the most god awful strangulated squawk from behind me and I swivelled on my feet to witness one of the younger cockerels chasing down what I thought was a chick – just as I started to burst into action and chase the bugger away, Blue – my Old English Game hen - joined in from the opposite direction. The “Chick” jinxed and got passed Blue who had made a lunge at it missing it by inches. Having survived that it seemed to falter and I realised that it was a juvenile Moorhen. I must have been slow because I could have grabbed it and rescued it but it dodged round me with both Blue and the young cockerel quite literally on its tail only to run straight into a few other hens. I thought it would be OK and relaxed a bit only to find that all the others turned on it as well.The bird was trapped and then all the hens all started to peck and jump up and down pulverising the unfortunate creature to death. It was all over within seconds and then my blood ran truly cold for with it dead the chickens started to feast. And those who has not taken part started to flock over and it was like out of some horror film – chickens grabbing at bits of gore, fighting, squawking and then it was all over and they were back to normal pecking away in the sunshine at the left over corn or wandering off to check out the garden, drink by the moat or else dust bathe in the sunshine. Just another normal autumn morning…and I am left standing looking about for evidence of this extraordinary goings on. Just a pair of yellow feet and some dusty grey black wing feathers…I am not so sure I will dismiss my chickens in quite the same way as before. RESPECT your chickens.
However, today my blood ran cold. Today I realised that though the velociraptor is extinct its legacy lives on in its feathered descendants far more than may commonly be realised.
I had just been round to check on “Said Chicken” and ascertain if she really was one of my flock – I couldn’t get close enough to work it out so prepped Roger to catch her later in the day - and went to open up the Chicken shed.
I call to the tree chickens first; they roost in the trees at night and are more bantam like than their Chicken Shed cousins. I think that being smaller they need to get a look in before the bigger birds are let out. Then I usually open up the small chick cage to let out the babies and when I think they’ve had a good old go, I nip round the back and open the hatch.
Out they pour, clucking and cackling, a blur of black, brown speckled, white and grey blue feathers. Clacking yellow, pink and black long toed feet on the ramp a few jump and a few fly and whoosh they are round the corner and tucking in – only today something else happened.
There was the most god awful strangulated squawk from behind me and I swivelled on my feet to witness one of the younger cockerels chasing down what I thought was a chick – just as I started to burst into action and chase the bugger away, Blue – my Old English Game hen - joined in from the opposite direction. The “Chick” jinxed and got passed Blue who had made a lunge at it missing it by inches. Having survived that it seemed to falter and I realised that it was a juvenile Moorhen. I must have been slow because I could have grabbed it and rescued it but it dodged round me with both Blue and the young cockerel quite literally on its tail only to run straight into a few other hens. I thought it would be OK and relaxed a bit only to find that all the others turned on it as well.The bird was trapped and then all the hens all started to peck and jump up and down pulverising the unfortunate creature to death. It was all over within seconds and then my blood ran truly cold for with it dead the chickens started to feast. And those who has not taken part started to flock over and it was like out of some horror film – chickens grabbing at bits of gore, fighting, squawking and then it was all over and they were back to normal pecking away in the sunshine at the left over corn or wandering off to check out the garden, drink by the moat or else dust bathe in the sunshine. Just another normal autumn morning…and I am left standing looking about for evidence of this extraordinary goings on. Just a pair of yellow feet and some dusty grey black wing feathers…I am not so sure I will dismiss my chickens in quite the same way as before. RESPECT your chickens.
Wednesday, 3 October 2007
One of your chickens is missing….
I’ve just had a call from a lovely lady in the Village who informs me that one of my chickens is missing.
“Really?” Says I, “which one?”
“The brown one.”
“Right, um… do you know which brown one?”
“Well the one that’s missing…”
“Are you sure it’s mine?”
“Well, I asked Annie and she said it was….”
Now I don’t mind holding my hand up to ownership of said chicken it just depends whether the said chicken has been behaving itself. So I tremulously asked what the chicken had been up to. Imagination in overdrive after reading an article which linked Jurassic Park velociraptors to chickens, I imagined said chicken stalking unwary village folk, flying out at head height and scaring toddlers into dropping their sweets, chasing old age pensioners into their sheds then scrabbling away at the dirt outside the doors in an attempt to get in and all the time my said chicken was growing from bantam size into something the magnitude of a small Nissan Micra.
As she started to speak my heart started thudding rather uncomfortably….
“Oh no, the chicken’s just been wandering around for the past few days and we were getting worried about it.”
After recent events in the Village I was mighty relieved to hear those comforting words – all it had been doing was causing people to be worried…phew!
I have now arranged to catch it tomorrow and bring it back to the flock… I’m not sure if it is going to be too pleased about these events as it is obviously enjoying the attentions of several households, which have been feeding it a variety of food from crisps and breadcrumbs to hamster food.
“Really?” Says I, “which one?”
“The brown one.”
“Right, um… do you know which brown one?”
“Well the one that’s missing…”
“Are you sure it’s mine?”
“Well, I asked Annie and she said it was….”
Now I don’t mind holding my hand up to ownership of said chicken it just depends whether the said chicken has been behaving itself. So I tremulously asked what the chicken had been up to. Imagination in overdrive after reading an article which linked Jurassic Park velociraptors to chickens, I imagined said chicken stalking unwary village folk, flying out at head height and scaring toddlers into dropping their sweets, chasing old age pensioners into their sheds then scrabbling away at the dirt outside the doors in an attempt to get in and all the time my said chicken was growing from bantam size into something the magnitude of a small Nissan Micra.
As she started to speak my heart started thudding rather uncomfortably….
“Oh no, the chicken’s just been wandering around for the past few days and we were getting worried about it.”
After recent events in the Village I was mighty relieved to hear those comforting words – all it had been doing was causing people to be worried…phew!
I have now arranged to catch it tomorrow and bring it back to the flock… I’m not sure if it is going to be too pleased about these events as it is obviously enjoying the attentions of several households, which have been feeding it a variety of food from crisps and breadcrumbs to hamster food.
Tuesday, 25 September 2007
Clarity and confusion
This maybe hard to believe but I rarely if ever am jealous or even envious of others so I find it very difficult to understand why others are - particularly of me.
I will joke that I would prefer to be swimming in the South of France rather than darting from door to door to avoid the rain with the builders’ tea but as Little Britain character Vikki Pollard would say actually: “I’m not bovvered”.
This is a legacy of my peculiar mindset – the fact that I have been clinically depressed since I was eighteen years’ old (at least that was when I was diagnosed). At that time I did not know my mind, I did not know myself and over the years I’ve come to understand a lot about how minds work – especially mine.
Where most people can go with their gut instinct, I cannot trust mine and have to question it constantly. I’ve worked out many methods of doing so. And through trial and error worked out how to gauge others but it is not instinctive. This I fear makes me slightly odd especially on meeting and how I’ve managed to keep friends defies belief! I think the best way to describe it is that I am slightly disconnected.
Because I have had to live with this for such a long time - and believe me a lot of it has been pretty horrendous - I would not wish my life on even those who have caused me great hurt. So I find it surprising when I am the object of either envy or jealousy.
The most extreme example of this caused me to miscarry – or so I believe perhaps it would have happened anyway one will never know for sure.
We had been living at the farm for a little over three years and I was the proud if somewhat incongruous mother of a year old baby boy.
I arrived home from shopping to find that I could not get into the farm because some ditsy girl in a bright yellow Peugeot was turning in the drive. She eventually got herself into gear and I carried on. As I got out of the car I noticed that the girl was pulling up behind me – I thought she was lost and holding the baby in my arms approached the car.
“Can I help?”
“Are you Mrs X?”
“Yes.” I instinctively clutched my baby closer as a huge sense of foreboding descended upon me.
“I’m from Social Services.” She held out her identification – I don’t remember looking at it by this time every muscle in my body was tense. The Boy however, gurgled delightedly and waved his arms about in greeting.
“Can we go inside,” she said, before gently manoeuvring me through the back door and into the Kitchen.
I think natural good manners forced me to go through the banalities of welcome but to be honest I can’t really remember.
“We’ve had a call about your baby and although I can see that everything is absolutely fine we have to check…I can see the call is malicious…”
I don’t think I registered much just the bit about the call about the baby.
As the social worker explained she had had a call concerning the welfare of The Boy and whether I was fit to be looking after him. If I say my world was plunged into darkness I think any of you who have children will immediately emphasise with me. For surely every mother’s worst nightmare will be that someone takes their child from them with no just cause.
I was visibly shaken and the darling girl gave me as much comfort as she could – she tried to make me listen. She tried to make it better. She reiterated that she knew the call was malicious.
She explained that every call logged by Social Services is taken seriously and investigated thoroughly and she laid out the charges that had been brought against me. They were long and detailed – very detailed. But all twisted.
The caller had started off saying that I was often heard shouting at the baby; that I had cleaned its pram with bleach, that it went to bed in hat and coat because we could not heat the house, that we had too many pets, that I had depression and was very clever at hiding it that in essence I would try to hide the fact that I was not a fit mother and that the baby was endangered.
I could not get over the incredible detail of our daily lives that was spread before us – for everything against me had in some cases more than an element of truth. Yes I had shouted at the baby – I was a new mother and the lack of sleep and isolation had got to me on occasion usually I’d then call friends and go to them or drift off over to Annie’s for some tea and let her cuddle The Boy until I was OK again.
Yes I had once put him in a hat and coat because I had forgotten to order the oil and we had run out and most important of all I admitted I had clinical depression – my doctor, the midwives and my health visitor all knew about this - there had been no problems. The accusations seemed to cover a period of about a year.
Recovering slightly I asked who had said these things.
“I can’t tell you.”
”Why not? They’re not true!”
“We have to keep confidentiality, if we did not people would be too afraid to call us if they suspected a problem. They are protected by the law.”
“What about the law protecting me and my family. Who would want to do this?”
“I’m sorry I am not at liberty to say.”
My thoughts could only focus on who would hate me so much as to do this. I was so shocked. I at once was disassociated and unconnected and there all at the same time. I was numb and so very cold I could hardly stop shivering.
I can’t remember all that happened suffice to say that Dear Charlie turned up and the discussion was carried on without much input from me. The Social Worker left reiterating that there was no problem that she had sorted everything out as far as she was concerned and that there was no case to answer.
But me my sense of isolation was never more acute – who had done this. I thought I was going out of my mind. I thought it was my husband – how could these intimate details of our life been so exposed if not from someone close to me?
Was it my mother? My sister? My mother-in-law? My sister-in-law? Which of my friends? And I could not say anything to anyone. We had decided that no one was to know what had happened we did not want anyone, least of all the one who had done it, to have the satisfaction of knowing what devastation they had caused. So I scrutinised everyone felt I could trust no one and even in my darkest moments thought it could have been me and that I had blanked it from my own memory.
Several weeks passed and time that great healer dimmed my concerns and lulled me in its passing days.
Then I came home to find my glorious Marian in tears outside the house. She came to warn me that she had been contacted by Social Services following up a report that she had asked a friend to voice her concerns about me and The Boy. She begged me to believe her that she had never said anything to anyone least of all to call the social services on her behalf.
The nightmare started over.
Marian had been asked by Social Services not to report back to me saying that they would get in contact with me themselves. But Marian could not do that – she had spoken with her mother and her mother, sensible lady that she is, had said to go straight to me and tell me exactly what had happened. Marian was shaking. She said she had no idea who had done this and begged me to believe her again and again. I was cold and my brain was having to work over and over going through all the few facts that I knew. The one thing that stood out was that I knew she loved The Boy and would never do anything to jeopardise him or, said the more cynical part of myself, would she jeopardise her job.
Social Services visited again reiterating that they felt it was the actions of a malicious caller.
“Do you know anyone who would do this?”
“No, I can’t think of anyone…” I dared not voice my suspicions for I could point the finger at several who were not fond of me and leading the troupe was my sister-in-law.
They said they would come and assess the situation in two weeks time. So for a further two weeks the strain built up. It was inevitable that I could not keep quiet this time. My overwhelming urge was to find out who and then to get the full force of the law behind me so that they would never ever do this to me or anyone else again.
Ferris, our gorgeous teenage boy of all trades – was devastated when he heard and immediately but unbeknownst to me set about recruiting his mum to find out all she could at the local school gates. Perhaps he had heard things said about me and wanted to make sure. Marian also was trying to hunt down the culprit, as was her mother who suggested that shooting the bugger would be too good.
Dear Charlie was with me as was Marian when Social Services next visited. There were two of them a man and the darling ditsy girl. I was given the all clear and it was explained to me that my record would show that the calls and accusations against me would be labelled as malicious. And it was then that I begged them to tell me everything that they could – I had to know who was doing this.
“We’re sorry but we can’t say.”
“Is it my family?”
“We can’t say but… well…no it’s not.”
“Is it someone within the county?”
“Yes.”
“Within the Village?”
“Yes – look we really are not allowed to say.”
I could sense them weakening and pressed the advantage.
“Is it someone involved with us?”
“Look I can’t say but as far as I can say then no…”
I plagued them to report exactly what the caller had said. They read out from the transcript of the telephone call.
“Was it the same person as before?” I asked.
“”We don’t hold those sort of records…”
“But surely you must log every call, surely you must know who calls?”
“We just get a telephone number.”
“But was it the same telephone member as before?”
“Yes, but we can’t say if it was the same person. We’re not allowed to.”
“Can you give us the telephone number for our solicitor?”
“No. The callers are protected.”
“Can you prosecute people for wasting your time if you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the call is malicious?”
“No, we can’t. We get a lot of malicious calls usually between parents especially if there is a custody problem over the children – we can’t even prosecute them. It’s very unusual to get a truly malicious call like this one.”
My thoughts raced – the person who called would get away with what they had done, Scott free and there was nothing I could do about it.
But then something sparked in my brain; the phraseology used in the transcript. I asked for it again and something twigged. I remembered the exact same words been spoken and only recently, the problem was I could not remember who had said them. A faint recollection so I asked if it was she. Their faces across the table were inscrutable.
“Look, we are sorry but we cannot say.”
Dear Charlie ploughed in: “Will you log the callers calls? Will you tell the caller that there is no case to answer if they call again? And warn them that we’ll prosecute.”
“All I can say is that the caller is flagged.”
As we escorted the social workers to their cars to say goodbye Dear Charlie asked again: “Is it her? We just want to know. We won’t do anything I promise we won’t”
The guy looked at Dear Charlie full of sympathy and as he started to pull away said: “You’re not far wrong.”
The woman is a supply teacher, the information about our lives gleaned through village gossip from a variety of sources, as she has never set foot in our house. She must have been building her case against me for over a year possibly longer – and the only reason my mother an come up with is that she is jealous.
What of the aftermath – I collapsed; I miscarried but as I said earlier that may have been on the cards despite this episode rather than because of it.
In order to protect my family I enrolled my son at a Nursery and told them all that had happened I asked them to record everything about my son and how they felt he was being treated so that I would have a written independent record on his health and well being. For months after I ensured that I was very rarely alone with my son during the day so that we would be protected. That we would have witnesses to his welfare.
And when I had my second – I employed a Nanny. Not because I wanted to but just in case.
I think that explains why I am reticent, I think that explains why I do the things I do. I think that explains my isolation here in Suffolk and why this site is so important to me – for here I get to know you slowly. Here I can reveal myself slowly here is the comfort of anonymity and of being judged on who you are rather than what you represent.
I will joke that I would prefer to be swimming in the South of France rather than darting from door to door to avoid the rain with the builders’ tea but as Little Britain character Vikki Pollard would say actually: “I’m not bovvered”.
This is a legacy of my peculiar mindset – the fact that I have been clinically depressed since I was eighteen years’ old (at least that was when I was diagnosed). At that time I did not know my mind, I did not know myself and over the years I’ve come to understand a lot about how minds work – especially mine.
Where most people can go with their gut instinct, I cannot trust mine and have to question it constantly. I’ve worked out many methods of doing so. And through trial and error worked out how to gauge others but it is not instinctive. This I fear makes me slightly odd especially on meeting and how I’ve managed to keep friends defies belief! I think the best way to describe it is that I am slightly disconnected.
Because I have had to live with this for such a long time - and believe me a lot of it has been pretty horrendous - I would not wish my life on even those who have caused me great hurt. So I find it surprising when I am the object of either envy or jealousy.
The most extreme example of this caused me to miscarry – or so I believe perhaps it would have happened anyway one will never know for sure.
We had been living at the farm for a little over three years and I was the proud if somewhat incongruous mother of a year old baby boy.
I arrived home from shopping to find that I could not get into the farm because some ditsy girl in a bright yellow Peugeot was turning in the drive. She eventually got herself into gear and I carried on. As I got out of the car I noticed that the girl was pulling up behind me – I thought she was lost and holding the baby in my arms approached the car.
“Can I help?”
“Are you Mrs X?”
“Yes.” I instinctively clutched my baby closer as a huge sense of foreboding descended upon me.
“I’m from Social Services.” She held out her identification – I don’t remember looking at it by this time every muscle in my body was tense. The Boy however, gurgled delightedly and waved his arms about in greeting.
“Can we go inside,” she said, before gently manoeuvring me through the back door and into the Kitchen.
I think natural good manners forced me to go through the banalities of welcome but to be honest I can’t really remember.
“We’ve had a call about your baby and although I can see that everything is absolutely fine we have to check…I can see the call is malicious…”
I don’t think I registered much just the bit about the call about the baby.
As the social worker explained she had had a call concerning the welfare of The Boy and whether I was fit to be looking after him. If I say my world was plunged into darkness I think any of you who have children will immediately emphasise with me. For surely every mother’s worst nightmare will be that someone takes their child from them with no just cause.
I was visibly shaken and the darling girl gave me as much comfort as she could – she tried to make me listen. She tried to make it better. She reiterated that she knew the call was malicious.
She explained that every call logged by Social Services is taken seriously and investigated thoroughly and she laid out the charges that had been brought against me. They were long and detailed – very detailed. But all twisted.
The caller had started off saying that I was often heard shouting at the baby; that I had cleaned its pram with bleach, that it went to bed in hat and coat because we could not heat the house, that we had too many pets, that I had depression and was very clever at hiding it that in essence I would try to hide the fact that I was not a fit mother and that the baby was endangered.
I could not get over the incredible detail of our daily lives that was spread before us – for everything against me had in some cases more than an element of truth. Yes I had shouted at the baby – I was a new mother and the lack of sleep and isolation had got to me on occasion usually I’d then call friends and go to them or drift off over to Annie’s for some tea and let her cuddle The Boy until I was OK again.
Yes I had once put him in a hat and coat because I had forgotten to order the oil and we had run out and most important of all I admitted I had clinical depression – my doctor, the midwives and my health visitor all knew about this - there had been no problems. The accusations seemed to cover a period of about a year.
Recovering slightly I asked who had said these things.
“I can’t tell you.”
”Why not? They’re not true!”
“We have to keep confidentiality, if we did not people would be too afraid to call us if they suspected a problem. They are protected by the law.”
“What about the law protecting me and my family. Who would want to do this?”
“I’m sorry I am not at liberty to say.”
My thoughts could only focus on who would hate me so much as to do this. I was so shocked. I at once was disassociated and unconnected and there all at the same time. I was numb and so very cold I could hardly stop shivering.
I can’t remember all that happened suffice to say that Dear Charlie turned up and the discussion was carried on without much input from me. The Social Worker left reiterating that there was no problem that she had sorted everything out as far as she was concerned and that there was no case to answer.
But me my sense of isolation was never more acute – who had done this. I thought I was going out of my mind. I thought it was my husband – how could these intimate details of our life been so exposed if not from someone close to me?
Was it my mother? My sister? My mother-in-law? My sister-in-law? Which of my friends? And I could not say anything to anyone. We had decided that no one was to know what had happened we did not want anyone, least of all the one who had done it, to have the satisfaction of knowing what devastation they had caused. So I scrutinised everyone felt I could trust no one and even in my darkest moments thought it could have been me and that I had blanked it from my own memory.
Several weeks passed and time that great healer dimmed my concerns and lulled me in its passing days.
Then I came home to find my glorious Marian in tears outside the house. She came to warn me that she had been contacted by Social Services following up a report that she had asked a friend to voice her concerns about me and The Boy. She begged me to believe her that she had never said anything to anyone least of all to call the social services on her behalf.
The nightmare started over.
Marian had been asked by Social Services not to report back to me saying that they would get in contact with me themselves. But Marian could not do that – she had spoken with her mother and her mother, sensible lady that she is, had said to go straight to me and tell me exactly what had happened. Marian was shaking. She said she had no idea who had done this and begged me to believe her again and again. I was cold and my brain was having to work over and over going through all the few facts that I knew. The one thing that stood out was that I knew she loved The Boy and would never do anything to jeopardise him or, said the more cynical part of myself, would she jeopardise her job.
Social Services visited again reiterating that they felt it was the actions of a malicious caller.
“Do you know anyone who would do this?”
“No, I can’t think of anyone…” I dared not voice my suspicions for I could point the finger at several who were not fond of me and leading the troupe was my sister-in-law.
They said they would come and assess the situation in two weeks time. So for a further two weeks the strain built up. It was inevitable that I could not keep quiet this time. My overwhelming urge was to find out who and then to get the full force of the law behind me so that they would never ever do this to me or anyone else again.
Ferris, our gorgeous teenage boy of all trades – was devastated when he heard and immediately but unbeknownst to me set about recruiting his mum to find out all she could at the local school gates. Perhaps he had heard things said about me and wanted to make sure. Marian also was trying to hunt down the culprit, as was her mother who suggested that shooting the bugger would be too good.
Dear Charlie was with me as was Marian when Social Services next visited. There were two of them a man and the darling ditsy girl. I was given the all clear and it was explained to me that my record would show that the calls and accusations against me would be labelled as malicious. And it was then that I begged them to tell me everything that they could – I had to know who was doing this.
“We’re sorry but we can’t say.”
“Is it my family?”
“We can’t say but… well…no it’s not.”
“Is it someone within the county?”
“Yes.”
“Within the Village?”
“Yes – look we really are not allowed to say.”
I could sense them weakening and pressed the advantage.
“Is it someone involved with us?”
“Look I can’t say but as far as I can say then no…”
I plagued them to report exactly what the caller had said. They read out from the transcript of the telephone call.
“Was it the same person as before?” I asked.
“”We don’t hold those sort of records…”
“But surely you must log every call, surely you must know who calls?”
“We just get a telephone number.”
“But was it the same telephone member as before?”
“Yes, but we can’t say if it was the same person. We’re not allowed to.”
“Can you give us the telephone number for our solicitor?”
“No. The callers are protected.”
“Can you prosecute people for wasting your time if you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the call is malicious?”
“No, we can’t. We get a lot of malicious calls usually between parents especially if there is a custody problem over the children – we can’t even prosecute them. It’s very unusual to get a truly malicious call like this one.”
My thoughts raced – the person who called would get away with what they had done, Scott free and there was nothing I could do about it.
But then something sparked in my brain; the phraseology used in the transcript. I asked for it again and something twigged. I remembered the exact same words been spoken and only recently, the problem was I could not remember who had said them. A faint recollection so I asked if it was she. Their faces across the table were inscrutable.
“Look, we are sorry but we cannot say.”
Dear Charlie ploughed in: “Will you log the callers calls? Will you tell the caller that there is no case to answer if they call again? And warn them that we’ll prosecute.”
“All I can say is that the caller is flagged.”
As we escorted the social workers to their cars to say goodbye Dear Charlie asked again: “Is it her? We just want to know. We won’t do anything I promise we won’t”
The guy looked at Dear Charlie full of sympathy and as he started to pull away said: “You’re not far wrong.”
The woman is a supply teacher, the information about our lives gleaned through village gossip from a variety of sources, as she has never set foot in our house. She must have been building her case against me for over a year possibly longer – and the only reason my mother an come up with is that she is jealous.
What of the aftermath – I collapsed; I miscarried but as I said earlier that may have been on the cards despite this episode rather than because of it.
In order to protect my family I enrolled my son at a Nursery and told them all that had happened I asked them to record everything about my son and how they felt he was being treated so that I would have a written independent record on his health and well being. For months after I ensured that I was very rarely alone with my son during the day so that we would be protected. That we would have witnesses to his welfare.
And when I had my second – I employed a Nanny. Not because I wanted to but just in case.
I think that explains why I am reticent, I think that explains why I do the things I do. I think that explains my isolation here in Suffolk and why this site is so important to me – for here I get to know you slowly. Here I can reveal myself slowly here is the comfort of anonymity and of being judged on who you are rather than what you represent.
Sunday, 23 September 2007
The Littlest one…
How do I describe the Littlest One? The one who gets forgotten in the hurly burly of life, suddenly remembered and blamed at the same time for just being there?
He never seems to notice the guilt and exasperation, he just laughs as I snatch him up and swing him round onto my hip. He looks on delightedly as I struggle with school bags and shoes and keys and dogs. He’s thrust into the car every morning and largely ignored as The Boy and I chatter nineteen to the dozen about almost anything or else shout and growl at each other then sulk and listen to the radio in uncomfortable silence.
He’s left in the car as I take The Boy into his classroom a fluffy Jack Russell to guard him as some sort of sop to the fact he’s left behind.
He’s all sweetness and light, bubbles and blond curls. The largest blue eyes and SUCH a smile. But his brother is quicksilver, fearless with strangers, long lashed minstrel brown eyes and a puck-like sense of humour and merry laughter – when he wants.
The Littlest snatches his moments with me at bedtime while The Boy has TV privileges keeping him downstairs in the early evening. While we shop he holds out his rounded plump little arms for a crafty cuddle while his mercurial brother is self-importantly hunting down the Rice Krispies. In traffic queues we catch each other’s eyes in the driving mirror.
And everyday the stakes are raised as each grabs a bit of me for themselves. They try to outdo each other and are oblivious to the fact. One insists on eye spy at the table showing off his fledgling knowledge, the other boasts his dexterity look mama I use a spoon! One involves me in complicated jokes with no meaning the other starts to clamber out of his highchair. One helps me clear away the plates; the other makes a beeline for the dog’s water bowl.
We play peepbo at the table as I swap my attention from one to the other and while I am in deep discussion with The Boy I hold the Littlest one ‘s foot under the table just so he knows I love him too.
He never seems to notice the guilt and exasperation, he just laughs as I snatch him up and swing him round onto my hip. He looks on delightedly as I struggle with school bags and shoes and keys and dogs. He’s thrust into the car every morning and largely ignored as The Boy and I chatter nineteen to the dozen about almost anything or else shout and growl at each other then sulk and listen to the radio in uncomfortable silence.
He’s left in the car as I take The Boy into his classroom a fluffy Jack Russell to guard him as some sort of sop to the fact he’s left behind.
He’s all sweetness and light, bubbles and blond curls. The largest blue eyes and SUCH a smile. But his brother is quicksilver, fearless with strangers, long lashed minstrel brown eyes and a puck-like sense of humour and merry laughter – when he wants.
The Littlest snatches his moments with me at bedtime while The Boy has TV privileges keeping him downstairs in the early evening. While we shop he holds out his rounded plump little arms for a crafty cuddle while his mercurial brother is self-importantly hunting down the Rice Krispies. In traffic queues we catch each other’s eyes in the driving mirror.
And everyday the stakes are raised as each grabs a bit of me for themselves. They try to outdo each other and are oblivious to the fact. One insists on eye spy at the table showing off his fledgling knowledge, the other boasts his dexterity look mama I use a spoon! One involves me in complicated jokes with no meaning the other starts to clamber out of his highchair. One helps me clear away the plates; the other makes a beeline for the dog’s water bowl.
We play peepbo at the table as I swap my attention from one to the other and while I am in deep discussion with The Boy I hold the Littlest one ‘s foot under the table just so he knows I love him too.
Tuesday, 18 September 2007
The accidental feminist
Married, living in the country, basically barefoot and pregnant, relying on her lord and master to bring in the bread - an unlikely proponent of feminism.
And yet I find myself championing the right for women to retain their surnames after marriage should they wish. It is sort of accidental; I did not mean it to happen. In fact I never really thought about it until the day after I got married.
My father-in-law greeted me with the words: “Aah, here comes Mrs ------ junior!” I was horrified, I had completely forgotten to tell everyone that I would not be taking my husband’s surname. To be honest, I had never thought about changing my name anyway.
What a pickle – I looked about me and everyone was beaming beatifically as if I had achieved a great feat – all I had done was get married and yet everyone looked at me as if I had become something new and exotic. I was exactly the same person as I was the day before.For the rest of the day I was slightly lost for words and the enormity of what had happened with those six silly little words gradually sunk in. Society expected something from me that I was unable to give.
At first, I let it ride. I still had my job where I continued using my own surname – changing it would only cause confusion, and besides my husband’s surname was far too long. It is triple barrelled, totals 15 letters when used fully and is definitely not Anglo Saxon.
But as time went on I did get annoyed about it. However, I did not change my passport, banking details, tax details or any other form of documentation. It was not needed and after a while I found out, quite by accident, that there was no legal requirement for me to do so. It is just custom.
But going against a custom, means taking on society and causes much hurt and heartache. My family and indeed my husband’s family were horrified. They could just about swallow the idea that I needed to keep my own name for ‘professional’ reasons but that I wanted to keep my own name was an anathema.
What shocked me more though was the attitude of friends. Especially girlfriends. Only the other day I was presented to some new people. I had briefly met one of them for a fleeting moment at a drinks do some 10 months previously. I introduced myself using my own name to be immediately contradicted by my hostess who said: “Oh, you will know her better as Mrs ------!”
I was furious and said without hesitation that I did not use my husband’s surname and pointed out that I never had. There was an uncomfortable silence. It was rather drawn out before conversation resumed again with me being studiously ignored. In order to maintain relations I had to apologise and suffer a lecture on how inconvenient I was.
But that just about sums up the problem, society does not like inconvenience. Me keeping and using my own name is inconvenient. I mean how do you introduce people with different surnames? What do you say to ones children? It’s so terribly embarrassing…So now I have to make a stand. I don’t want to, I am not good at it and quite honestly I am rather scared. But all I would like is to be respected for who I am and that does include my right to be called by whatever name I choose. My husband has no trouble with it – so why should society?
And yet I find myself championing the right for women to retain their surnames after marriage should they wish. It is sort of accidental; I did not mean it to happen. In fact I never really thought about it until the day after I got married.
My father-in-law greeted me with the words: “Aah, here comes Mrs ------ junior!” I was horrified, I had completely forgotten to tell everyone that I would not be taking my husband’s surname. To be honest, I had never thought about changing my name anyway.
What a pickle – I looked about me and everyone was beaming beatifically as if I had achieved a great feat – all I had done was get married and yet everyone looked at me as if I had become something new and exotic. I was exactly the same person as I was the day before.For the rest of the day I was slightly lost for words and the enormity of what had happened with those six silly little words gradually sunk in. Society expected something from me that I was unable to give.
At first, I let it ride. I still had my job where I continued using my own surname – changing it would only cause confusion, and besides my husband’s surname was far too long. It is triple barrelled, totals 15 letters when used fully and is definitely not Anglo Saxon.
But as time went on I did get annoyed about it. However, I did not change my passport, banking details, tax details or any other form of documentation. It was not needed and after a while I found out, quite by accident, that there was no legal requirement for me to do so. It is just custom.
But going against a custom, means taking on society and causes much hurt and heartache. My family and indeed my husband’s family were horrified. They could just about swallow the idea that I needed to keep my own name for ‘professional’ reasons but that I wanted to keep my own name was an anathema.
What shocked me more though was the attitude of friends. Especially girlfriends. Only the other day I was presented to some new people. I had briefly met one of them for a fleeting moment at a drinks do some 10 months previously. I introduced myself using my own name to be immediately contradicted by my hostess who said: “Oh, you will know her better as Mrs ------!”
I was furious and said without hesitation that I did not use my husband’s surname and pointed out that I never had. There was an uncomfortable silence. It was rather drawn out before conversation resumed again with me being studiously ignored. In order to maintain relations I had to apologise and suffer a lecture on how inconvenient I was.
But that just about sums up the problem, society does not like inconvenience. Me keeping and using my own name is inconvenient. I mean how do you introduce people with different surnames? What do you say to ones children? It’s so terribly embarrassing…So now I have to make a stand. I don’t want to, I am not good at it and quite honestly I am rather scared. But all I would like is to be respected for who I am and that does include my right to be called by whatever name I choose. My husband has no trouble with it – so why should society?
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