Tuesday, 5 July 2016

Wow that was long time away....!
I have a good reason though, I suddenly had to have my appendix out, and I've been recovering
v......e...r....yyyyy slowly unfortunately.   It does seem to take a lot longer to recover from anything when you have M.E.  The disappointing thing is that I actually came though the operation and just after really well and was discharged home after only two days, my G.P. couldn't believe how good I seemed and when I walked past him he said,"My word you're walking like a teenager!"  But it's gone downhill steadily since then, and last week I did my back in as well.  Ah well, C'est la vie!
Just thought I'd let you all in on where I've been all that time, and hope to be back blogging again very soon.

Thursday, 28 January 2016

Dust.  Dust lingers everywhere in our house.  I keep thinking shortly I will resemble Miss Havisham in Great Expectations.  However I'm not dressed in an aging mildewed wedding-dress, neither do I have an decaying wedding-cake on the dining table, but cobwebs abound however.  Funnily enough I've read Great Expectations more than a few times.  In my growing-up it seemed to follow me.  At the age of ten it was the first Charles Dickens novel we read in class in our last year at Primary school, it was exciting and spooky; I was there in the Kentish graveyard with orphaned Pip and Magwitch the scary, scary convict. We read on,each picturing the grim and dilapidated ruins of Satis House and the ghostly visage of Miss Havisham, bitter almost to the last, cruelly taunting Pip to fall in love with Estelle.  A Gothic novel of twists and turns, peppered with those marvelous names Dickens was a master at inventing.  Mr Jaggers the lawyer, Bentley Drummie, Pip's rival in love,Startop, Dolge Orlick and the churlish Compeyson, Magwitch's nemisis. I took it all in and loved it.  However upon reaching High school what should be the set book for the next three years... you guessed it, Great Expectations and they even screened the film to us all as an end of school treat at the end of third year.  Fourth year loomed and we had to choose Options, I chose English Literature, and what do you think was the set book?
 Aggh! By this time I was well over it.  You'd have thought I would have passed with flying colours.  I ought to have been able to ramble verbatim practically, not so, on reflection I think only two of us from a class of thirty-two scraped through.  I wonder what went wrong?  We were probably just so sick of it that we'd long ago switched off, preferring to focus on the latest Jilly Cooper novel or Lord of the Flies.  Actually I understand Lord of the Flies has actually been a set book on the curriculum in some schools these days.  How times change?

Sunday, 10 January 2016

Happy New Year all my blogging-friends.......
Thought we all might be in need of a laugh!

Photo- from Pinterest.

Monday, 31 August 2015

The planes go over our house on busy times like this weekend, a bank holiday in England. The flight path is changed I presume for the abundance of extra excursion planes joining a holding pattern.  As they go over the house they are gradually loosing height  and banking over to the right.  In the distance, their wing lights twinkle and the sound of their engines alters, each time it puts me into the aircraft amongst the passengers.  Strapped into our seats anticipating the landing, some of us looking forward to sleeping in our own beds, meeting up once more with relatives and friends perhaps waiting for us now in the arrival hall, others sad that their holiday is over and they must return to the daily grind. At that moment cabin lights dim, a few nervous coughs join the murmur of voices, the cry of an infant wails out as air-pressure pains our ears, there is the rumble and roar and rush of air outside as the pilot throttles back, engines roaring as we hurtle along the runway.  That optimum moment when just for a split second I would think,
"We're not going to stop!"
Everything green and concrete rushing past at incredible speed, until the feeling of gravity thrusts in and the plane cruises to a gradual halt.  Cabin lights flicker up and one of the crew presses the intercom ping and a voice reminds us all, to,
 'Please remain seated until the plane comes to a stop.'
How many times have I been there in the past?
Returning to Manchester where it would invariably elicit a comment over the intercom from the pilot, his voice brighter, more free now that the danger of the landing is over, telling us the air temperature outside and almost always adding...."And it's raining!".

Saturday, 8 August 2015

It's drizzly in the North today, wet roofs and pavements.. what's new?  It's Manchester in August in the suburbs.  Well, we're all used to it I suppose, some would say resigned, to wearing woollies in the summer and having an umbrella somewhere handy.  I'm struggling with withdrawal symptoms from a recently prescribed pill that my body decided it didn't like one little bit, so threw a big wobbly.  The GP said stop taking it.  Just like that, when on the instruction blurb it said, 'On no account stop taking this pill, always taper off over a series of weeks.'  However she said, to go on taking it means certain death..... Cheery thought that!
I think of myself now as being like a typewriter.  Well to be specific, my best friend's typewriter, back in the days well before computers, when we used to type spreadsheets on great big hulking machines in the office where we worked.  Her machine was totally temperamental, it knew when someone other than S was using it and it would go out of alignment, every time.  So I think of myself as 'out of alignment' presently.

Tuesday, 9 June 2015

Hello everyone, I'm really sorry not to have posted for ages now, it's just that I've not been at all well. However I am keeping positive and I do hope to be back
reading your lovely blogs once more very soon!
I hope you won't run off anywhere before that day arrives!  :))

Love and hugs,

Tuesday, 31 March 2015

As some of you already know I don't go out very often now, so my mind often turns to memories and remembrances.

 When my eldest daughter was small we lived in Scotland in a huge white painted farmhouse called Yonderton at the top of a long tree-lined lane.  To the left of the house stood a byre where the farmer who rented Yonderton to us kept a special cow or two.  They looked like Jersey cows to me, because their faces were soft and expressive and their hide was that wonderful honey brown shade, but being a city-bred person I probably guessed incorrectly, maybe they were just being fattened for market, a horrid thought.   'S' and I visited them often because they didn't seem to be put out into the fields, spending long days in the cowshed with only the light from the wedged open doorway and the tall sash window which was permenantly dropped open, the top over the bottom leaving a big opening to capture the sweet Scottish airs.  One morning we made our usual visit and my attention was quickly caught by a small blue fluttering bird trapped in the crevice between the two window panes.  It was too high to reach from the inside of the shed so we made our way around the front to see if I could reach it from there.  I didn't have a ladder and I'm not sure what I must have used to stand on after all the years spanning between then and now, but somehow I managed to climb up precariously, and reach down between the two panes to rescue what I now realised was a baby swallow.  This tiny blue-blue beating heart settled for a few seconds upon my outstretched palm before suddenly taking flight up up and away.  This then became my regular rescue-mission throughout the summer, as the swallow babies learnt to navigate through the opening without first having to stop on that dangerous perch atop the two sashes.  I remember I felt so privileged to be able to hold those feathers of midnight-blue lightening for a second or two, before they took off to practise more aerial gymnastics throughout those days of summer skies long gone.                                          

Swallows.  by Leonora Speyrt,  from:- 'A Canopic Jar'         Illustration: Hector Giacomelli,'With the Birds' via: archive.org

They dip their wings in the sunset,
They dash against the air 
As if to break themselves upon its stillness:
In every movement, too swift to count,
Is a revelry of indecision, 
A furtive delight in trees they do not desire
And in grasses that shall not know their weight.

They hover and lean toward the meadow
With little edged cries;
And then,
As if frightened at the earth's nearness,
They seek the high austerity of evening sky
And swirl into its depth.