How I hate the Beast!

Every year, at this time, I fall into a slough of despond. In truth I feel it starts much earlier, with the changing of the season, but it is skilfully disguised by me throwing myself into Christmas ridiculousness. There’s a reason my family get so many presents - apart, of course, from the fact that I love them dearly, I am also distracting myself with the purchase of Christmas pants!

So many presents - ridiculous!

By the end of January, however, seasonal excitement is forgotten and I am truly downhearted.

If I’m honest, it seems worse since I retired. Not because it is, but because I have more time to notice my feelings. I was sufficiently professional to carry on despite my feelings and, provided there were no major crises, turned up and did my job every day. Now I have much more time to navel gaze and over analyse how I am feeling, and how I am feeling is not great.

Experience has taught me that it will pass, and the coming of the Spring will also see the return of some equilibrium in my mood. 

Roll on Spring!

Strangely that doesn’t help for now…and neither does self awareness. I am fully aware that I am thoroughly difficult to live with, snarling, growling and, mostly, sighing. I know that if I got off my, not inconsiderable, backside and spent some time in the garden, baking or going for a walk I would feel so much better but, well, I can’t be bothered! 

Just go for a walk...

I can also acknowledge that I have nothing whatsoever to be miserable about - I have a caring husband, wonderful children, no financial worries and am reasonably fit and healthy. 

Nothing to be down about

But that’s the thing about depression - it doesn’t just choose to inflict itself upon people who have something to be depressed about. It’s a little trick it has to make sufferers feel guilty about feeling that way. It is a cunning beast - there’s a reason it’s been described as a ‘black dog’ - and sometimes it does feel like a living entity.

Honest!

I refuse to be scared of the beast, however, and writing about my feelings is one way of facing it down until normal service is resumed in the Spring! Now excuse me while I go and stare into space, and sigh…

Just saying...

Bless me reader, for I have sinned - it is eight weeks since my last post! To be honest, anything I would usually write at this time of year is mostly related to my issues dealing with shorter days, how much I dislike winter, in spite of my love of cosiness and candles, and how hibernation seems really appealing!

Loving candles...

But I’m not going to write about that!

The dust has now settled after the festive season, and my house is now back to ‘normal’, with the welcome addition of some new nice things, and I have had time to reflect on the past few weeks. We were lucky enough to have a lovely Christmas - visits from family, good food and thoughtful gifts - and lots of happy memories created. 

Glorious plant stand! 

Hare and tea light lanterns!

It struck me that two of the things I enjoyed the most were a visit to my granddaughter’s ballet class and seeing my great niece, perform in professional panto at a local theatre (oh yes she did!) It was completely joyous to watch both these beautiful girls, aged 6 and 8, dance and act. 

She's behind you! 

How lucky they are to have parents that value the performing arts, and have the wherewithal to allow them to do it. It is no coincidence that both their mums danced when they were younger.

My children did not dance, but they did both learn instruments and this gave them a richness in their lives that they wouldn’t otherwise have had. Previous Christmases have seen me proudly watching my son perform the Snowman on his violin, and quietly snivelling as my daughter played ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ to me on the piano. Despite my changing finances, following my divorce, I was determined that, whatever happened, I would continue to fund my children’s music lessons, and, to this day, they both have a love of music and playing their instruments.

Still playing their instruments, many many years after this!!

And then I started to wonder about all those children whose parents didn’t dance, didn’t have the benefit of private music lessons, but who would gain so much from the discipline, the concentration, the teamwork that comes from being involved in performing? The answer used to be, of course, that all children would have these opportunities when they went to school. But in these straitened times you don’t have to google for too long to find examples of schools cutting back on their performing arts provision  - not only can they not afford to employ specialist staff, they also feel that they  can no longer afford the curriculum time. There is so much pressure on schools to deliver incremental improvements in maths and english that they are almost scared to do anything else. Before I retired I worked in a class delivering specialist autism provision. I can say now (safe from Ofsted’s reach) that if the curriculum didn’t fit, we pretty much ignored it. 

A vehicle for communication...

We used it as a vehicle to deliver what our students really needed - opportunities to communicate, interact and cope with things not always going to plan (a common occurrence in my classroom!) Our students were so caught up in their own consciousness that, sometimes, our bonkers music sessions were the only thing that they did together. Did it fit the curriculum? Probably not. Did the children benefit? Definitely. Not so sure about the staff - I think they still have nightmares! The point is that sometimes access to something other than a prescriptive curriculum can have untold benefits. 

Watching her friends

There’s a huge amount of maths in music, and watching my granddaughter hanging onto the words of her dance teacher and watching the other dancers made me realise how hard she was concentrating. I found a fascinating article about how a school in Bradford has improved its SATs results by giving its pupils six (yes, six) hours of music a week 

It actually scares me that some of our children, especially those living in socially deprived areas, could grow up experiencing an ever narrowing curriculum and miss out on experiences that could not only support them academically, but also help them to be more rounded individuals as they go through life. 

Just saying…

Remembrance

My hero...

If you look up ‘remembrance’ in the dictionary, alongside ‘the act of remembering and showing respect for someone who has died or a past event’ it also says ‘a memory of something that happened in the past’. The fear is that, after all these years, fewer and fewer people actually remember the wars. The last veteran to serve in the trenches in World War One was Harry Patch, who died in 2009, and year on year there are noticeably fewer veterans from World War Two at the Cenotaph, who have real memories of the conflict. Looking to the future, this can only make the act of remembrance increasingly more abstract.

I have no answers for how to fix this, but I can talk about my experiences of how I was taught about, what I thought of as ‘the war’, when I was small.

Would we have been here?

Every Sunday, my family would have tea (not dinner, that was for lunch time) and sit together around the table eating ham, salad, and home made cakes and biscuits. Afterwards my dad would regale us with tales from his time in the army. He’d joined the army as a medic shortly after the Second World War was declared, only a month after he’d married my mum. 

A month before the outbreak of war

Most of the stories he told were lighthearted and funny - about how he travelled the country to get home on leave, doing his best not to pay his train fares. He argued that the government was sending him miles from home, so why should he pay to get back! The scarier recollections were usually about his time on leave, when my mum and dad were fired on by a German fighter plane, or the damage done to the family home by a bomb raid. Although he shared tales of getting seasick on manoeuvres (practice for D-Day) or getting tipsy one Christmas on sherry trifle in a hospital in Burma, he didn’t really talk about any of the horrific things that he must have seen. 

This was new information!

However, during a period of prolonged ill-health, he decided to write his ‘memoirs’. We were older by this time, and me and my brothers and sister teased him mercilessly. We thought we’d heard the tales a million times, and couldn’t think why any one else would want to read them. And then we read them. My dad was a total hero. He landed in Normandy  on D Day, and was promoted in the water, because his sergeant got swept away and drowned. He travelled on an ambulance jeep to reach the wounded under sniper fire, with only the red cross to ‘protect’ him and, at the end of the war, helped clean up and reclothe inhabitants of concentration camps. And all this in his twenties and early thirties. The other underlying thread of his stories was how much he loved my mum and how desperate he was to get home to her. My hero!

My lovely Mum

I think of everything to do with remembrance, what resonates with me is that these men and women were so young. We see veterans and think of them as ancient. But they weren’t when they were fighting, battling to make the World a better place for others, separated from their loved ones. I am well aware that there have been many

other conflicts since - the Falklands, Iraq, Afghanistan - but the people involved in the two World Wars had no choice. They weren’t career soldiers, and if they didn’t enlist, they were conscripted.

I am, at heart, a pacifist and my dad always said he would only enlist as a medic - he didn’t want to carry arms - but I recognise the sacrifice that over a million people made, and it is right that we remember them. Whether you do that wearing a poppy, or by taking a quiet moment to think about where we would be if no-one had stopped the Nazis, you should do it. And when poppies are being sold and your children ask why, maybe take some time to explain that thousands of young men and women went to war to protect the World from evil and make it a better place. Then there’s a chance that, even if nobody actually remembers the conflicts, we can all honour and show respect for past events.

Clothes Maketh the Man, but Shoes Maketh the Woman!

Ah, Shoe Embassy!

Last week we had the joy of having our grandchildren for a half term sleepover. Whilst we don’t really need an excuse for such an event, the reason was that we’d promised our granddaughter a new pair of boots as a belated birthday present. I don’t know who was more excited, me or her. You see, I love shoes. I hazard that I am not alone in this amongst women. Men, not so much - my husband argues that you can only wear one pair at a time, so why would you need any more than that. Meh!

If as Mark Twain said, clothes ‘maketh the man’, then shoes definitely maketh the woman!

All the t-bars! (I'm strangling the cat!)

I feel as if my love of shoes has been with me all my life - I clearly remember lying about a pair of t-bar sandals when I was 10 years old. They were too small, excruciatingly painful to wear but unbelievably beautiful, so I convinced my mum that they were a perfect fit and suffered all summer. But my, were they beautiful!

As I progressed through my teenage years I would save my meagre wages from Saturday jobs to satisfy my need for the latest style and fashion - platforms, slingbacks, Dunlop green flash plimsolls, hippy dippy leather sandals! Never stilettos though - my centre of gravity didn’t suit them!

Comfy boots!

Probably because of my experience as that 10 year old, limping through a family holiday in Kent, I eschew uncomfortable shoes. Not for me having my little toe amputated so I can fit into the latest Manolo Blahniks. I’m more a Doc Marten, Clarks Originals or desert boot type of woman. I appreciate that many of my friends regard my shoes as ugly, but I love them for their stylish quirkiness!

Another pair of t-bars - on my beautiful daughter!

Footwear is perfect - it always fits, regardless of weight fluctuation, can lift an outfit to another level, and make you feel confident when you’re at your most unsure. My daughter and I bond over shoes on a regular basis, sharing links to our latest internet finds. We both own far too many pairs and yet still resort to our favourites, time and time again.

Nanny, I love them...

It was two years ago that we first took our granddaughter to buy footwear - again as a birthday gift. We had her measured in a specialist shop and asked them to bring out any shoes in her size. She tried on a few pairs, reluctantly looking in the mirror each time. Then she tried on the silver pair with the pink flower…When she finally stopped skipping around the shop she whispered in my ear, ‘Nanny, I love them!’ Sold. She knew exactly which ones she wanted, and was so happy. They were impractical, but completely beautiful and, unlike my t-bar sandals, fitted her perfect little feet too.

Two years on, she has even clearer ideas about what she likes. She always chooses her own outfits to wear, and prefers twirly dresses to jeans, and sparkly tights to leggings. In the first shop we went to, the long suffering assistant brought her many boots, none of which passed muster. Too ‘purply’ in one case! We drove 40 miles to the next nearest specialist shop where we repeated the process. She half liked one pair, then tried on THE pair. 

THE pair!

We were again treated to a dancing, twirling child. Not only did she love them, she professed the desire to sleep in them! I have also wanted to sleep with shoes in the past, so I didn’t find this at all odd!

So in this confusing, troubling world, be grateful if you are lucky enough to own, appreciate and enjoy shoes - they bring so much happiness to both big people and little people - mine say more about me than anything else I own. Apart from, of course, handbags…

Oh the joy!

Every Little Thing's Gonna Be Alright...

Who isn't grateful for half price ice-cream?

For the past week or so, I’ve been joining in with the Salted Tail’s ‘Grateful Bedtime Stories'. It involves creating an Instagram ‘story’ listing three things you are grateful for on that particular day, just before you go to bed. And I have been finding it surprisingly difficult. 

If somebody asked me to list the things that I am generally grateful for, I wouldn’t struggle at all. 

Warm, cosy, fed - oh and a cat on the table!

I watch the news and there are daily reports of increasing numbers of people using food banks, struggling with the anathema that is Universal Credit and dreading the next knock on the door. So I am eternally grateful that I own my own home, I am warm and fed and the only knocks on the door are parcel deliveries or the window cleaner. 

He lurves me!

I have known times of hardship, and also loneliness but I now have a lovely husband who, astonishingly, loves the bones of me, despite the fact that these bones are better covered now than they have ever been. He doesn’t judge me and puts up with all my moods and grouches. Grateful? Of course I am.

I lurve them!

I am also lucky enough to have two children, two stepchildren and two adorable ‘step grandchildren’ who all get along, haven’t fallen out, still communicate with each other and with me. One of them even still lives at home - Okay, maybe not so grateful about that, but only because I know he would love to be financially able to move out! 

Loony, lovely family!

I am reasonably fit and well, despite my ongoing knee problems, and so are my family. We have had a couple of bereavements this year, but even these have served to draw us closer together through shared love and sadness.

So all told - and these things aren’t the half of it - I have very much to be grateful for. So why doesn’t it feel like it?

Stupid brain...

Primarily because my stupid brain finds it increasingly difficult to stop worrying about things that will probably never happen and prevent me living my life as I would like to. I am simultaneously convinced that my son is going to lose his job, my daughter is going to crash her car (again - she does have previous…), I’m going to run out of money, my husband is going to stop loving me, I have deep vein thrombosis / breast cancer / motor neurone disease…(delete according to the day of the week!) 

When I write all these things down, I can see how ridiculous, nay ludicrous they sound. But I can’t quieten my mind enough to focus on the simple things that I am grateful for and that make life worth living. I fully appreciate the big things - it’s the little things I need to work on. 

Stay awake for helpful tips...

I am currently listening to an audiobook sent to me by my daughter, who pretty much has me sussed. It’s called ‘The Worry Trick’ by David A Carbonell, and talks about how your brain tricks some people (me) into not only worrying about a variety of things that may never happen but also into worrying about worrying about things that may never happen. It’s been an interesting listen so far, and is making lots of sense about how anxieties affect your life. Haven’t got to the bit that offers any help yet though - I keep falling asleep! At least its helped my insomnia!

Fresh bed linen - another joyful, little thing...

I’m going to continue with #thankfulbedtimestories. I think it’s good for me to recognise little things in my life without contriving to be thankful for them. Hopefully, as time goes on they’ll become less food or drink orientated!

Sing along - you know you want to!

As I drove home from shopping yesterday, a song came on the radio that I was immediately thankful for - ‘Three Little Birds’ by Bob Marley. It made me smile, sing along and I was very grateful to Graham Norton for playing it! 

🎶Don’t worry about a thing, because every little thing’s gonna be alright🎶 

So Much Better than a Bucket List...

©Rob Ryan

When did ‘bucket lists’ become a thing? Was it when the film of the same name was showing on the big screen? (Shockingly that was ten years ago!) Whenever it was, I was reminded of mine, for two reasons, last week.

1. My lovely friend Eleanor over at The Salted Tail blogged about 30 things that she wants to achieve before she turns 30, next September (read her list here)
2. I was facing a general anaesthetic last Friday, and that always focusses your mind on your own mortality - did anyone ever NOT think that they were never going to wake up?

I remembered writing a list of ’25 Things to do Before I Die!’(note the jaunty exclamation mark, showing that I don’t really think I’m going to die), so I asked my husband to find it on the depths of the hard drive and print it out for me. Turns out my bucket list is rubbish. It claims to be 25 things, but I only reached 17 on my list. 

Not exactly adventurous!

This adequately demonstrates my total lack of imagination and derring do! I must’ve written the list about the time of the film, because ‘Marry Brian’ was on the list, and I did that in 2008! To be fair, I have achieved 9 out of the 17 things, but some of them were not exactly challenging! Along with ‘Marry Brian’ was the separate item of ‘Move in with Brian’, which turned out to be one and the same thing. Also,’Sort out my facial hair’ was achieved, but now its all grown back, so I probably only deserve half a point for that! (FYI, nothing works, and I never go far without my tweezers!)

So, out of 17 items, I have realistically achieved 7.5 of them, and given that another one was ‘See Norwich play in the Premiership again’ - ticked off but not exactly down to me - I can probably only claim 6.5. In ten years…

I was there - I get some credit, right?

Now as I clearly woke up after my op, and I’m not planning on shuffling off this mortal coil anytime soon, I hopefully have plenty of time to work on the rest of my list. But it begs the question ‘If I’m that bothered then why haven’t I done them?’ 

The truth is, I’m not really a bucket list fan. I’ve done lots of things not on my list, which could easily warrant a place - going to the British Grand Prix,

Not on the list...

taking my husband to the Minack Theatre,

Not on the list...

taking the grandchildren to Legoland,

Not on the list...

getting my kit off in front of a camera - see, I must be up to 25 things now!

So not on the list!

It seems I don’t really need a list - I manage to do things without one, and the things I really love wouldn’t make it onto most people’s lists anyway. I’m not an abseiling, zipwiring, mountain climbing kind of woman. I enjoy seeing new places and experiencing new things, but I get just as much pleasure from an evening at home with my family, playing silly games or watching TV. Would this change if I were to receive news of a life threatening or life changing condition? Of course not - in fact I am sure it would make me want to cherish and spend more time with the people I love, and that hopefully love me. 

Should be on the list!

The print at the top of this blog sums it up for me: 

• Can we? Shall we? One day very soon, let us go away together. Just you and me. Can we? Shall we? Call in sick one day and travel to the sea and hold hands all day. Can we? Shall we? Eat our sandwiches on the train. Get drunk on fresh air and come home tired and never tell anyone…Ever (Rob Ryan, 2011)

It makes me smile every day!

My daughter bought this print for me for my 60th birthday. It hangs on my living room wall and I look at it every day. For me, this is what life should be about - treasuring time with loved ones - partners, children, friends - and appreciating every single moment. So much better than a bucket list.

Who needs a bucket list?