Able Mable and Anthony Dick

He knew all of her and she wanted to know and not just remember all of him, as she traced the falling crumbs down his bronzed and toned chest - right the way to his belt buckle and the promise beneath it. She noticed in the folds of his crouch that a little of the sandwich she had made had come to rest, sending her body into a downward spiral of pure desire and lust.

‘Mable’ came her grannies voice from the kitchen, ‘You remember Anthony Dick, don’t you; he was in your year I think.’

Mable put the Mills and Boon book down on her Grannies reading table.

            ‘Another Dick? Ye, sure. The only kid with a name worse than mine. Wow she thought. That was a name from the past. The memories came flooding back. ‘Gran you really ought to get out more’. She looked up from the book and was horrified.

            ‘Hi Able Mable’ Anthony Dick chuckled ‘good to see ya again. He came across the living room and shook her hand. Gone was the spotty teenager that she remembered and there stood a truly ‘fit’ (in every sense of the word) man.

She blinked hard a couple of times. The twinkle in her Gran’s eyes sparkled in the way that normally Mable would have smiled at but at this moment in time it only made her embarrassed and irritated.

            ‘I asked him round to give me a quote for a new house’ the amusement in her voice made Mable throw her a ‘now behave Gran’ sort of expression. She caught the delighted glee in Anthony’s face. He had always had a sense of fun.

            ‘What new house?’

            ‘On the land by the village pond’

Anthony filled her in ‘the one we used to hide in when we were kids being chased by Jimmy’

            Out of her memory banks lurked a picture. ‘The one with the beautiful barn?’ Gran nodded

            ‘Didn’t know you owned that Gran’ Mable still looked at Anthony transfixed by the transformation he had gone through. His gaze was as fixed and steady on her.        ‘Been waiting for the right time and person, to make the best of it; location and barn being what they are. Now you have had a couple of years to get to grips with architecture and Antony has had his own building business for eight years or so and knows what he’s doing. Well I thought, you would both do a good job together.’

            Mable was taken a back, she never realised her Gran had such big plans, though she had constantly encouraged her to become an architect, just like her Granddad had been. Now it seems, she was going to make full use of what she had nurtured.

            ‘Does mum know about this?’ She asked her Gran.

            ‘Not on your Nelly, she would have spent the money and put me in a home. So you have to keep it hush hush and no telling ya dad either, he wouldn’t keep his mouth shut.

            Here’s a sketch of how me and ya Granddad envisaged it. Anthony knows the land and the housing market around here. I wanted to be your first client that you have.’

            ‘You certainly will be; haven’t even moved into the office yet!’ Mable loved her Gran she was everything she wanted to be. Sharp, witty and kind but didn’t suffer fools or overbearing and spiteful pompous prigs (which is what she called her mother). A no nonsense woman that loved life and the people around her with one exception, Mable’s mum.

            Mable was given the ugliest name by her mother because she was the ugliest baby, she had been told. There was no denying she was the scrawniest, thick black haired baby with piecing ugly blue eyes you could ever imagine. But in spite of her mothers best efforts she turned into a good looking girl; a little late perhaps but as Gran had told her some of the best things in life are worth waiting for. Now in her twenties about to embark on her thirties she was elegantly tall and womanly, with a joyful disposition which was a miracle her Gran would say.

            ‘Well off you go then, have fun. Don’t forget these and take good care of her Tony my boy, she drinks heavily when she’s thinking’.

            ‘Gran’ Mable protested. But Gran pushed the young ones out of the house with genial contentment and they took their leave.

            Mable could see her Gran peaking at them through the curtains and turned and stuck out her tongue and smiled, as she always had done. It was good to be back in the village, now she could see her more often. She breathed deeply the crisp spring air and the new grass and buds. She turned to Anthony and asked

            ‘Do you prefer to be called Tony or Anthony?

            ‘He shrugged which ever you’re comfortable with. What about you, you happy with Mable?’

            ‘I go as May at work and to my friends’

            ‘So May it is. I’ll take you in my truck. Save you drinking and driving’

            ‘Why? Where we going?’

            ‘Your Gran gave me orders to take you out, wine and dine you, while I talk you through her plans.’

            ‘No need, we could go back to my office.’

            ‘Trying to get me killed? Or just wanting her to have my guts for garters?’

            ‘You know her that well? Lord we had better do as we’re told. Wouldn’t want a death by Gran; after you managed to escape from Jimmy’s efforts to kill you. Talking of the devil what does he do now?’

            ‘He works for me.’

            ‘You’re kidding me.’

            As they got in his impressive truck with his logo on the side, May tried to get her head around what she had just been told. Jimmy was the village bully that had relentlessly hounded Mable and Anthony. Some how, she would have to meet Jimmy again just to see how the dynamics of these two had turned out. She will have to grill Tony and get the lowdown.

            ‘So which pub are we off to?’

            ‘Your Gran booked it up. Never been there before, ‘Cat ‘n’ Mouse’ I think she said it was.’

            ‘Oh!’

            ‘Is it that bad?’

            ‘Oh you’ll have a good time. The food is great and the surroundings (not that you will notice) are beautifully understated and the atmosphere relaxed and warm.’

            ‘So why the “Oh”?’

            ‘Gran, I think is trying to write a ‘Mills and Boon’ romantic noval with us as the main characters’.

Tony looked across at May. Confused, he took in her words again by repeating them to himself. He mulled them over and then the meaning hit him. His smile was board while his eyes glistened like they always did when they were young.

            ‘I love your Gran’

May rolled her eyes and giggled. ‘As I remember it Tony, writing was not your strong point and romance was a definite no, no.’

            ‘Oh but I’ve grown up since then, I still can’t write but I can do romantic’

            ‘What ‘Mills and Boon’ romantic?’

            ‘You want ‘Mills and Boon’ I will give ya ‘Mills and Boon.’

            ‘From what I just read, could we just go with romantic?’ His laugh had not changed, it filled her with a fun bubble that had kept her sane through all the ugly years and still had the same effect. Yep! She thought, it was great to be back where she belonged.

             

Patience they say is a virtue?

After a couple of weeks of little frustrations, such as washing machine, tumble dryer and dishwasher deciding they had had enough and quit working (I couldn’t blame them). I replaced them only to find the replacements had issues going on and we had to wait for their replacements. Then the car decided to have moments likened to a toddler having a tantrum, deciding it was going no further at the most inconvenient time! I know no time is convenient but when I had three places to be at the same time, making the calls while a line of traffic built up, with a tractor driver offering to push the car to one side for me while the children where shouting questions of importance, can make you a little overwrought and jaded around the edges. They just needed to give me time but they all seemed unwilling. Finally the car calmed down and started and the tight country lane was in full flow again.

Imagine then, how happy I was on that Friday evening to finally open a bottle of wine, escape upstairs and enter my in-a-sanctum of my beautiful new en-suit. Scented candles gave a pleasant and relaxing ambiance of a tropical beach. So realistic was the mood that I was sure even before switching on the shower that I could feel the water lapping at my toes. Alas it was not my imagination, there really was water lapping at my toes. My in-a-sanctum is no more. Life can be full of events that test your patience to the limit!

In the two years since this happened despite many men coming to look and scratch their chins and two new doors replacing the old Leakey one. I still have no flooring down, due to the leak that still persists through the seam in the door. I had said right from the start that I thought it was a design fault. Three men looked around at me, the shower man; the plumber and my poor husband, they indulged my theory only two years later did they believe it!

Patience they say is a virtue that will be rewarded, what I would like to know is when!

Tink an up-date.

I’m no expert and I don’t want to go rummaging around to find out but if being off her food, not wanting to walk too far and her pacing me to the sofa at every given opportunity so that she can get herself comfortable on me is anything to go by, then yes, I think she is in pup!!

When I make a coffee at lunch time she wines at the living room door and when I open it so that she can go in, she stands at the door and looks deep within me and waits for me to understand. She considers it my duty to come and spend some time with her; after all it’s my fault she is in this predicament! I feel this vibe very strongly! Not normally stopping for lunch, it took me a couple of days to get the message but with her perseverance I have gained the enlightenment and I must say it has been a wonderful and therapeutic time for me.

I knew it was my duty to make sure that I have good homes for the pups, that I take every precaution to breed a healthy brood and I have. Meticulously going through every piece of advice ensuring that I understand it and when I’m given conflicting advice that I, think it through and do the best I can. What I had not anticipated was this strong feeling of empathy.

I hated being pregnant, it neither felt natural or comfortable and the sickness was not just in the mornings but 24/7. Tink is not just off her food but not eating at all!!!! I understand her reluctance to eat, I remember it well. I had this desperate craving for chocolate mouse, knowing it was going to resurface was none to pleasant either but the need to eat them was so strong I could not deny it. A few moments of pleasure for an hour or two of hell never seemed worth it but there, such is life. I have found a few ingenious ways to get her to eat a little and am hoping that soon her need to feed her growing pups, will take over and that her sickness will soon subside.

Then there is her effort to get up and bearing in mind the pups aren’t even showing yet and things are going to get worse is playing on my mind. I remember feeling my body had been taking over by an alien when I was first pregnant and the looks she gives me with those deep toffee eyes, I can see she feels the same, though much stronger as she has five/six little aliens growing inside her.

Taking time out of my day to fulfil her needs, looking at her changing ways and body, does give me a sense of wonder. Just by eye contact, looking at her demeanour, feeling the energy that pass between us and observing, it is surprising how much you can understand and communicate without words. This for me is the reason I love dogs so much, not the unconditional love they can give me but the way they make me look at life.

I feel this understanding would work with teenagers and toddlers alike. If we stopped looking at them as pre-programmable adults and just took time to breath deeply, observe and feel the energy that passes through us and them, perhaps our communication skills would be greatly improved along with our lives. It’s just a pity it doesn’t work with husbands, I have tried. Oh I can understand him and his needs but there is only one look he understands/takes notice of . I only have two types of energy apparently; angry or happy and nothing in-between gets noticed. Our communication is fine he would say, I understand him, what more do I want?

Someone to visit me in my goldfish bowl for a change?

The Battle of the Coat Hangers and Odd Socks

The fight between Clothes Hangers and Odd Socks Broke out this Morning

Yet Another Flight of Fancy

 by Tilly Moments for you to smile at J

The battle of the coat hangers, still persist in our house. I have come up with several cunning plans to draw up a cease-fire but the children, clothes hangers and odd socks always carry on the assault. Angus has now taken his big brothers habit of shoving socks down, behind and sometimes into cushions, behind chairs and in DVD cases…. mine is not to reason why, just do or die trying to pair up socks.

            For anyone who lives with more than one person in their house this is a constant battle – odd socks and coat hangers. In the time in which it takes me to wash, dry and sometimes iron the clothes I have to put the empty clothes hangers somewhere! But no matter how organised I try to be or which place I put them in, they escape or are released.

            Angus plays with them and they can become anything from Captain Hooks hook to a big bazooka that gives him full control over all he surveys, apart from me much to his bitter disappointment. He can be very inventive – after watching “Spy Kids” he set a trap for his sister. I fell over it in spectacular fashion that he would’ve been very proud of, but he was at school at the time. Health and safety in the home would say I should have a serious talk with him, but it was so inventive and impressive I hate to quash his talent. At least I found the missing cotton I got out to do a running mend, now the cotton reel is empty!

            The older ones create a pile in different places, which changes day to day hence the disarray. I try to gather them up the best I can, near the ironing board and laundry basket preferably, and often find an odd sock or two hanging desperately to the hook.

            Ella with her ordered thinking decided we had too many clothes hangers and odd socks so she started to throwing them out. When I pointed out that was due to the pile of washing (which nearly reaches the ceiling) not being beaten into submission yet, so were eventually going to need the hangers and the odd socks will eventually meet their partners! She was free to sort the pile out, then there would be no clothes hangers to annoy her. With this she turned on her disgruntled heal and stormed off. I stared after her, as most of the clothes were hers!

            Going on strike or working to rule is hard work! But short of constantly shouting and being in an agitated state to get my family helping with the daily chores, I find I have no option. My theory is – that the more you do the less they appreciate what it takes and think less of you too. I’m working to rule with some things and on strike with other motherly duties, which doesn’t bode well for the washing pile.

            When they needed their sports kit or their favourite thing to wear, they attack the pile with the ferocity of a mole, and wear it crumpled “see look it’s fine, what is all the fuss about” bemused I look on and do you know I’m really not sure why it does matter. Somehow it’s the way I show my love, care and an outward respect of self. Nothing smells more homely than the smell of freshly ironed washing and nothing looks more cared for than crease free clothes, giving a confidence to the wearer.

            As I set the ironing board up, I ponder on what must happen when I turn my back. I know I left a nice neat pile of hangers there, and the odd socks all place together waiting patiently for their partners to find them. However when I came back  the odd socks and the coat hangers are intermingled as though a full-blown battle had ensued and the debris a strewn all over my bedroom, maybe a fairy battle? Now that would be grand. I smile to myself, perhaps there is a story there, and start to write in my head as I iron.

            The children think fairies do the washing anyhow, after all no human in their right mind puts any effort into such a mundane silliness as ironing clothes, and pairing socks? You open a draw and there are the clothes all ready for you – right? Well children and men think this. Lets face it women have to oversee the chores because men are just incapable and certainly not made for the job of nurturing or teaching, a luxury of not shouting to get things done is all theirs.

            A loud booming voice broke off my sexist thoughts and made me jump, as I didn’t recognise it. There it went again; it came from a fluffy chin that had the hint of manhood about it. As I marvelled at this sprouting wishful beard, that had so many differing colour in it that deep call came again. Low and behold it was connected to that colourful chin. I realised it was my son’s chin and his voice. How did that happen? That ever-deepening boom had replaced the teenage trill of yesterday, and I marvelled at nature. Apparently he was looking for his favourite socks but any pair would do he said. ‘I’m on strike, I’m not doing demand service today’ I reminded him, still transfixed by the multi coloured beginnings of a goatee. He, disgruntled turned on his heal and left leaving the battlefield for me.

            When I get back from taking the children to school, I put in the second load of washing for the day, pick up the scattered hangers and unruly odd socks and being to think of my flight of fancy and her idea of writing. In-between loading, unloading folding sorting the washing I write my four novels, blog and short stories. I finish just in time to prepare the evening meal, and ready to pick up the children who will come home famished and needing to be fed. I stand there taking a breather and wonder why I never get anything finished.

            We all clamber out of the car and then the race is on, can I cook the meal before they empty the contents of the cupboards? To stave of the assault of carefully planed fare I had lined up for the week, I ask them all to go and get the washing in. Irritated teenagers followed by a buoyant and mischievous seven year old, I sigh at the struggle. All sorts of hollers and yells come from the garden, which I close my eyes and ears to, though I do notice my youngest son’s foot flying in the air around my whirly gig washing line. I try not to focus on how they are folding the washing and how many extra creases have been put into the clothes, which will take me twice as long to iron.

            My daughter comes in and disappears, I sigh, but soon she reappears and helps me in the kitchen. My little one gets the drinks and by the time the meal is on the plates, my husband is home and putting the them on the table. It’s like the Walton’s on the old TV show, happy, helpful and very respectful and I’m truly humbled and take it all in, case it never happens again.

            As I run the youngest bath, I try to put the clothes away and iron them while he plays contented, and this evening I brace myself for the fight. There on my bed are neat piles of carefully folded clothes that need very little ironing and inwardly I bloom. Axl at least has appreciated the struggle to have an ordered home. The clothes hangers neatly placed in their specially designed box and paired socks all in a neat row – my daughters ordered mind has wrestled them into submission. I feel valued and appreciation spring to my eyes in water droplets of joy. I know the same struggle will continue tomorrow children, clothes hangers and socks being what they are. Perhaps they are just tiny steps in my shoes but at least they took some time to walk with me in them.

A clothes hook was patented in 1869 by O.A. North of New Britain, Connecticut but it was Albert J Parkhouse in 1903, after co workers complained of not having enough coat hooks who bent a piece of wire into the shape we recognise today. This is the fact that I find so amusing though, he worked for Timberlake wire and Novelty Company, does this mean the humble clothes hanger is a novelty?

            Ever since the struggle with this particular not so novel novelty, has and forever will rage and enrage. In conclusion then, men’s inventions may solve a problem but inevitably create a different difficulty – mostly it has to be said for women.

So How is the Strike Going? You Might Well Ask!

Problem is I keep forgetting I’m on strike, well as I’ve said before I’m the facilitator! (say ‘the facilitator’ in your best Arnold Schwarzenegger voice it works better) It’s a innate thing, part of me and when it’s not taken advantage of, very enjoyable. But and it’s a big but, people never know what they have until it’s taken from them and they miss it - well that’s the theory I’m working on at the moment - so if I stop doing all those little things for them, they are bound to miss them and they will appreciate them and me a little more. RIGHT?

            Going on strike or working to rule should never be taken on lightly though! Not only is it extremely difficult for mothers to undertake and let’s face it, if I did go on strike, truly, truly on strike the only person that would notice would be me, also it can be depressing as the house spirals out of control.

            When I look around the house in the mornings and see the devastation that family life produces I do wonder how it all happens. The washing basket at last is empty and I rush to go and get a cloth to wipe the bottom and when I get back it’s full again. How does that happen? That fairy is to blame I’m convinced.

            Francis Xavier; it is told, came up with the quote ‘give me a child before seven and I will give you a man’ or something along those lines. I would like to have a few moments to put him right about this one. A man who lived on his own and had never been involved with the workings of a child’s mind and tantrums can theorise all he wants and we would all love to be able to believe in this simplistic view. I know for a fact he's wrong, otherwise I would’ve stopped telling my children to say please and thank you by now; something I've been doing before they could talk so by now, according to his teaching, this should be part of them. I find that they have minds and a debating ability all of their very own and even though it matters how I bring them up this is not by anymeans the only influence that has a profound effect on them, infact surprise surprise they are indervidual people not robots you can pre-program Saint Francis Xavier!! More's the pitty.

            Then there is the Angel-Devil effect. You know when your child is so angelic and you are so full of pride they then throw a mega wobbly out of the blue (reason un-known to them or you) and just as you get your head around this and put strategies to help get through it all, they change back to that Angelic creature of two seconds ago.

            So after the struggle with unruly belongings, washing and children do you really have the energy to say ‘No I can’t do that, I’m on strike remember!! By the time all that has happened I think your doing well to remember who you are.

Just Why Did I Want to be a Mum?

Just why did I want to be a mum?
I can’t quite recall.
Was it the love of sleepless-nights?
No time to one’s self at all,
With a head full of voices
That are not your own.
I thought of the times
Of stories and teddies,
Making tents,
Snuggling up after bath times.
With long walks
While having long convoluted talks.

I dismissed from my mind
The hazard of learning
Repetitive questions
Investigations of what really happened
Or bodily pooing functions
With wee’s and farts
Demonstrations given of their manufactured burps
At the local supermarket,
On pension day!

I thought of marshmallow cheeks
To kiss softly to sleep
Sweet slumber with loving sighs
I didn’t know anything of the nightmare cries
I’m a filing cabinet, that’s all!
A computer, a machine
From the moment I open my eyes it starts
Where did my wallet go?
Open file
Put in information for quarry
Last seen in husband's hand
Who was proceeding towards
The shower-room
Quarry shows possibilities
Left in pocket of trousers on the shower room floor,
In washing basket
Or on top of the loo,
"See!" He shouts
"I told you , you moved it!"

First child down the stairs
"Is it a school day mum?"
"No, but we have to be out by ten"
"Oh no! I hate being out
On Saturdays!"
Second child down the stairs
"How many elephants can you
Get on a pin head?"
"Fifteen I think the man said.
Now remember to write the
Card for the party,
It’s at two thirty"."What are you going to wear?"
"Out, out, let’s go.
See ya love."
"When will you be back, do you know?"
"Why?"
"I need a bit of a hand"
I look straight at him
With an open glare
Perhaps I misheard
For the list of jobs I have to do
Is rather absurd

I can see by his expression I didn’t mishear
But the look I gave was enough
To strike fear
And he'll not ask again.

Alone at last
House all quiet
Even the dog had gone.
A solitary bath
Luxury

Piping hot water
Fragrant and relaxing aromas
That turns the water blue
The bubbles sparkle and shimmer
And hold rainbow colours that dance.
Slipping into the bubbles
That cling like magical oysters
To my relaxing body
Holding a glass of wine to sip
I regain my inner being
My soul comes to life
And for this moment
I become truly me

For ages I dreamily float
On a cloud of bubbled soap
And soak away the trauma
Of trying so hard to be what
Does not come naturally
A good mother.

Many lessons I have to learn
That will last my whole life long
As my Gran once said
"Your father though retired
Is a worry to me
Is he happy?
Is he fed?

A long time a mother, no turning back,
For even when they're not with you
Your heart is not your own".

I’m dry now
House still quiet
Sexy undies
To keep hold of the woman
That is part of me.

Time to pick them up,
Will he remember where they are?
Should I ring?

I miss their loud antics
The dust they make
Sounds of laughter
And in my mind’s eye
I see their smiles
The way they talk,
Hear their questions
The looks they give each other
And the ones they keep
Just for me.

I begin to understand a little
Of what my Gran once said
They will never be
Out of my heart or my head.

My innate sense of time
Rings aloud an alarm
Time they were here at home
Safe, with me!
Phone in my hand
I punch the numbers,
As methodically I go through
All the sensible and horrific Scenarios.

The door bursts open
And life breathes in
The quiet house gone again
As a home kick starts into action
Flowers thrust into my arms
Closely followed by a take-away.
Smiles and love fills
Every space of the quiet house
Making it our home

As my family sit contented
Watching the latest DVD,
Inwardly I bloom.

It’s not quite what I expected
Being a mum.
But sitting on the family sofa
Is a little like
Flying to the moon
In a beautiful sky blue
Jewel incrusted boat.
You just have to learn,
How to
Let it
All
Float!

The Erupting washing Machine

Alana enjoyed cleaning at Bruce’s house just a pity there was not enough to do. It was like a fantasy a designer life style at it’s best. He had split up from his wife about a year ago and employed her to clean and run errands. It was Friday and as Steve was having the kids this weekend she had asked Bruce if he wanted her to cook a meal and leave it for when he came home.

            The thought of cooking something with true taste excited her, cooking for children was plain and simple with predictability that sat heavy on her and there was no point cooking just for one. Now she could prep a good meal that she could leave him to enjoy, take hers home and enjoy it while having a quiet night with the telly and face book as company, bliss. They could both benefit from it, giving her something to clean up afterwards which intern made her feel better about taking his money.

            When she opened the door to his house though, there was something in the atmosphere that made it feel all wrong, a stress! Lord above, she thought was there a burglar in the house! What should she do, turn and run? Nar not her style, she got her pepper spray out.

            His orderly intelligence reeked through the shelves as she past them and the kitchen as clean as a new pin but the noise was getting louder and without thought she opened the door to the utility. She looked around not seeing it at first but there running from washing machine to sink was Bruce. Bruce, thought Alana, was a strong and practical name, saddly though not a bit like its owner. She walked over to the huge top loading beast (brought no doubt because it was the best and not for the purpose it was needed for; washing a few smalls on the odd occasion). She looked over to the fraught man. ‘Thank god Alana could you ring a good plumber for me?

 ‘Why?’

‘Have a problem with the washing machine. It keeps filling up and overflowing and I can’t stop it’ he said as he emptied yet another jug full of soapy water down the sink and rushed back to fill it again.

            Alana went over to the cupboard next to the beast and switched of the electric off, stopping the soap monster in its tracks. His fretful face turned into dismay at the simplistic solution to his predicament. She tried her best to stop the laugh from erupting and humming fantasia.

            In utter disbelief his stunned voice asked ‘Why didn’t I think of that! How simple, just why did I not think of that’

            Alana retrieved the mop and bucket from its hiding place and began to mop the spilled contents of the jug up. At least it gave her something to clean.

            ‘Quantum physics I can get my head around, switching off an over filling washing machine, far more difficult! Coffee?'

Mr Spring and the Jelly debate.

Mr Spring was a gamekeeper that I lived next to when I was growing up and I have written a few times about him in my blog (My Humble tribute and Twenty Men). He was tall, muscular and intimidating; as his blue eyes challenged you with a tinge of mockery.  When I grew to an age where the intimidation stopped being so threatening and became part of the fun of talking to him, we started debating issues that we both thought were fun.

Mr Spring’s wife had always kept a dog in the house but they always went to his shoots. Mr Spring thought that living in the house ruined the dog, made them soft and harder to work with. Amber was a boarder terrier of renown and as we sat there I felt rather indignant at this widely held belief throughout the shooting fraternity and thought he and they were wrong. We both agreed to blame it on the difference of the sexes.

Mr Springs very male approach to the matter was that if you gave too much of anything the clear rules and lines of acceptance are blurred any blurring makes the dog unable to focus on the job in the field. He said this as he was feeding Amber a jelly!

It now makes me smile at my arrogance, after all, I was living in London and had never fully trained a dog or wholly been responsible for one but I didn’t let this deter me. I gently reminded him that Amber had always been in the house and followed Mrs Spring everywhere and a better foxing dog could not be found. I could see in his eyes the dawning of this revelation. My thoughts were, that this was because a woman can give boundaries while in a home environment, men find this hard and I also thought that women can manage their feelings better. Its not the dogs fault the male handler finds it hard to love and discipline at the same time and I bet that the reason; on the whole, why after their dogs death a family find it hard to have another take its place, is because the men of the family can’t cope with the loss. Women are more able to grieve than men and so we are perceived weaker, when in reality we can grieve and move on better than our male counterparts. Anyhow I finished off, it may because you feed Amber too much jelly and she can’t move so well. He winked at me, as he fed her his biscuit of his plate.

In counter argument he announced with an even bigger twinkle in his crystal blue eyes (I brace myself for the battle of the sexes). When coming across a woman protester against blood sports shouting at him, he quietly and respectfully asked her whether she thought she was any better, stopping her in her tracks.

Not privy to the scene I quickly made a mental picture of it in my minds eye. Wooded area of idyllic tranquillity, beaters getting ready with their dogs Mr. Spring cap adorned and camouflage jacket and kaki waffle scarf protecting him from the bitter chill. Middle aged woman, towards retiring age stops car gets out ‘Skirt a swinging’ leaving five dogs in the back of the car barking excitedly while she was telling him how wrong he was.

When she asked him ‘what on earth do you mean by that? How could she in any way be likened to him and his antics’ (And at this point his broad smile could not get any bigger) He recounted to me what he had said. Five dogs in any car were too many but in a small car such as hers was fool hard for their safety and that of any other road user. ‘My dear lady’ I can hear his clear no nonsense voice still. Your dogs have been bread to chase pray. He had explained. The whippet for rabbits, your two Jack Russell’s for rats and such like, your lovely retriever, you are denying its right to retrieve and your two fox terriers for foxing. Apparently she was under the elution that because the terriers were small dogs that they didn’t need as much exercise as big dogs, so only took the small ones out occasionally. She was soon put straight by Mr Spring who went into great detail of why terriers are so revered by the shooting community. Their stamina and tenacity coupled with their daredevil approach to life, they most certainly needed a good five mile walk a day as they were kept at the heel of the farmer or ran and kept up with the horse and hounds. I asked him what she had said in reply, he laughed aloud and said they had spent a happy lunchtime talking about dogs and she viewed them a little differently, the dogs he hastened to add ‘not me you understand’ he winked at me ‘I’m still a barbarian’. We both laughed at that.

As we sat by the side of his fire, warm and cosy with Amber now on my lap I had enjoyed immensely the telling of the story and I asked him if he also told her that they can make good fireside companions. On cue Amber went back to her master and liked his face.

This poem is to all of us who have loved our pets.

The day I Lost my Shadow

I lost my shadow to-day

I noticed when I hung out the washing

A void that will not be filled

A presence so soft

A nudge so gentle

I noticed again when I walked

As I have walked

A million or more times before

A flicker of my shadow

I thought I saw

But my shadow

Bless her, is no more

My constant companion

Our linked and entwined soles

Shared space

Moments of peace

Solace in madness

She calmed my day

A wet cold nose

Meant time to sit and cose

At night when our home is quiet

Meant my shadow was waiting

A coffee for me

A bone for her

She would watch the kettle with interest

And concern if I walked away

A whimper ment she had waited too long

My shadow would pace me

To the sofa

Our rightful place

Though the void seems endless

The day my shadow

Laid down and to me was lost

I knew

I had truly been

Blessed

X

My very supportive family and a compulsion Takes flight a Tilly debate.

I have added a second part of the story at the bottom. Skip the first bit to find out what happens next.

My very supportive family make my day worthwhile. Oh Yeah! They know how to fill me with confidence and inspire me.

I was talking to Kev about going in for a competition that had; as part of its prize a mentoring scheme, he thought the mentoring was a good idea but told me to save my money on entrance fees as I was unlikely to win. Giving him the benefit of the doubt I thought he put this down to the fact that it was a big competition and there would be many entrants so it would be difficult for me to win. But that was my own naivety.

            Sitting down later that day he said he had given it some thought and while having a cup of coffee he elaborated on his comment earlier. I hadn’t asked him to and as my self esteem had dug its self a rather large hole into which to bury its self in, I think he should have drunk his coffee in peace; after all there is only so much realism a person can take.

            His thoughts concluded that while he enjoys my take on life as I see it, my short stories are not my thing and I should just write the odd poem and anecdote as a hobby and enjoy it.

            It gave me enough food for thought for a banquette for a thousand hungry guests. I will have to take time in digesting this, as I internally debate whether I should give up on the short story and novel idea. I would ask the other family members what they think but I would hazard a guess their answer would be the same. Thinking about that that really should tell me something shouldn’t it! WAKE UP AND SMELL THE COFFEE TILLY!!!!!!!!

            How so ever the short story should be 300 words but I wrote 480 so he’s right! I’ll let you decide whether it was worthy of writing.

I Watched as my Compulsion Grew wings

I watched my compulsion grow wings and take flight, I tried in vein to catch her but to no avail. I stood incensed; as once more I had been passed over for a promotion and it was given to the loud mouthed, unnatural red haired, tight skirted, bursting boosomed know it all; that knew nothing and the most aggressive office bully that I had ever met in my life. An unnatural compulsion to tell the truth, without a care rose like an out of body experience. It looked so beautiful and felt so liberating. I was transfixed on the spot at the splendour of it all.

            ‘Did you hear what I said?’ Her banshee’s screech hurt my ears. Slowly I brought my eyes down and focused on her thick makeup that clung to her features like a badly made mask.

            ‘No’ I replied dully and turned to go. She grabbed my arm to swing me around so that another onslaught of her abuse could be unleashed on me but my compulsion was having none of it. Without turning and with conviction and an inner strength; I had rarely felt, I asked her to let me go.

            ‘You stay here and listen to what I have to say. Just because you wanted the Managers job but they picked me;’ her face had screwed up into a contorted hag’s; which I must admit suited her personality well. ‘For obvious reasons, might I add!’ she continued. By now the whole office had stopped what they were doing. I looked around and back at the false nailed, boobs on stilts and before I could capture it, it took flight again and all my thoughts and truths whirled through the air zooming with zeal and delight. The crowd that had gathered were taking great enjoyment in my swooping and looping statements. I watched her face crumble and the mask crack in lines but I didn’t stop and as I reached the door, I bowed with exhaustion and exhilaration, as I closed the door on the stunned manager and delighted crowd.

            As the wings of my compulsion carried me home I kept saying to anyone who would listen, did I really do that? Flash backs of the statements I had made, amused me but if they hadn’t been truths they would have filled me with remorse.

            I thought by Thursday I would get a call; after all I was the only one Mr Fleming would talk to and then no one knew where the key to the supplies was kept or how to work the printers when they had a funny turn; which they did every third day or so. So by Thursday someone would have to eat a large piece of humble pie and ring and ask for help. Now I wonder who will be chosen for that deed and I wondered if a salary of a manager was enough!

THE END

P.S If you’re wondering who the boobs on stilts is, its Kev in drag!

I’m dedicating this to Julie who is suffering from man flu. I know Kev’s thoughts on my work will incense her beyond distraction speeding her recovery I hope and giving her some light relief. x

The second part of this story which I had no intention to write was asked for by a very dear friend who laboriously goes through my work when I send it out to agents. Unlike my family she firmly believes I will get published, with her and a few others they keep me going. That and my readers of my blog so many thanks x

            To Tina my name sake bless ya x

When a Compulsion is Liberated

            Liberation couldn’t last long, finances being what they were. Did I really want my old job back anyhow? Contemplating the issues I walked as I often did, in a semi trans-like-state when I heard a friend call. We had met a few times while she was walking her little lad, so friend was probably too strong word for it, acquaintance is a better description of our relationship. Apparently I lifted her spirits and made her laugh, a much needed thing when your child is teething.

            We had walked across the green some way and had turned to go through our favourite part of the village, a wooded walk through. Going parallel with the road I could see a car pull up, I thought I recognised the car but I’m completely hopeless when it comes to cars. Not wanting to appear rude and stare at a stranger I turned to answer a question Jane had just asked. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the screaming banshee stride on her stilts over to me. Acutely embarrassed, knowing from experience that she was going to get verbal again, I turned to apologise to Jane. I want a word with you her venom spat out.

‘We’ll wait’ she nodded to Tom in the buggy.

‘No I don’t think so’ I replied moving to protect Tom but I was too late as Boobs on stilts, nearly stumbling over him to get to me.

            I could see from her fixated eyes that she was out to get my eyes. Lord I thought she needed careful handling but what could I do with dog poo bag full of the stuff and the lead to my pregnant bitch in one hand? Somewhere in my mind I heard the voice of my son when he had taken an army day at school ‘bend the figures back to gain control. Well I didn’t argue as I’d already sustained a scratch high up on my right cheek bone. When I had full control she started to kick me as hard as she could.

            The thing that struck me was how quiet she was, not a murmur. Her eyes were fixed and with every sinew she had was out to get my eyes, to cause as much damage to them as she could. I bent her fingers a little further while I asked Jane to take my dog and poo bag.

‘You’re hurting me’ she wailed.

‘Sorry’ was my reply. I know, I know. It makes me laugh too but manors cost nothing. Well I was bending them hard to gain control and to stop her kicking me, so I relaxed my gip a little.

            So there we stood in a bit of a dilemma really. Quiet, nothing at all being said while I contemplated what to do. She had started to calm down, well she had too I was in full control. Bullies always think they can physically take on more than they truly can.

            I was not prepared to let her go close to toddler and dog. So I frogmarched her backwards fashion to her car. Jane shouted that she was on to the police and she should go and she retorted that how she could do that, nodding at her hands.

‘You think I’m letting go you’ve another think coming.’

‘I can’t get in the car like this’ she nodded again at her hands. She had a point. So I pushed her free and made ready for retaliation and was a relieved that none came. She hurled a few abusive remarks and left.

            I went over to Jane to check she was ok. Jane was reciting the number plate and handed me the phone to the police.

            When I had got home the police were waiting for me to take a statement. They advised me to press charges; even though it wouldn’t make it to court she would be flagged on police records for my safety and that of others.

            When they had come back from arresting her they could give no answers to why the attack happened apart from what I had told them of what had happened in the office she had said nothing. That was what perturbed me and the officer for neither of us thought what I had said was enough to warrant my eyes from being scratched out. The arresting officer said they had a hard time getting her to admit to what happened he said that only when they told her they had witnesses and that I had pictures of the intentional scratches and that if she did not admit to her part in it they would be forced to take things further did she admit to it.

            We laughed and though I was shaken, I was more embarrassed. Well the sight of two middle aged women having a scrap with a poo bag and a pregnant dog on a lead in the middle of a quaint village, well it is funny bordering on surreal.

            I also know that one day that Banshee Ninja and I will meet again. I wonder what will happen then?

Tink and Paddy

Tink came into season out of the blue, as often happens. All the studs I had lined up for her for one reason or another fell through. So what to do? I trawled through the internet went on walks and then I found Paddy. As he lived an hour away and the window in which Tink would be fertile is small, we didn’t have time to meet him before. So we went on her tenth day ( her most fertile time we hoped) to meet Paddy and his owner for the first time and to do the deed; if we were all satisfied and happy to go ahead. I was a little apprehensive but Victoria was great and Paddy was a star. If dogs could fall in love these two did.

            Now picture the scene: - Idyllic location in Suffolk, small enclosed dog kennel and three grown women looking on with embarrassment at two dogs mating, several times! You have to stay with them as the dogs stay attached for a while and this is less painful if they keep still. Victoria and I took it in turns to cradle the two dogs while this happened.
Paddy is a handsome Jack Russell, of about eleven inches high, making him the same height as Tink and looked a lot like Rip, (my first real dog experience and best friend when i was growing up), so I fell in love with Paddy too. Small dogs get a bad press about being snappy and possessive. Though I think their behaviour is more to do with the fact their owners seem to let them get away with a lot more than big dogs can and very often people put their un-wanted behaviour down to breed type rather than owner responsibility. Breed types have been made so that aptitudes are strengthened for certain jobs but if the handler lets the dog constantly bark or jump up and nip, then the dog will be unaware that this is wrong. Good, clear and constant boundaries delivered by an understanding and communicative handler gives you a good dog! Regardless of breed! I will climb off this particular soap box but will build it up again soon. Paddy was happy to see us and overjoyed to see Tink.

            After our first meeting with Paddy Tink spent the next two days close to the side door and jumped in the car with excitement but when we came back home she would whine her disappointment. My human heart says that she liked him a lot and I know this to be true, though my handler heart tells me this maybe because she was ready to mate and knows her time is right. Both, I think are correct, no animal or life in general is as one sided or simple as we would like to think and though animals see things differently to us (as we are now finding out with Dolphins) they also have many personalities and responsibilities to others that we don't understand yet. I think us humans are very arrogant; unless an animal or other human understands us, they are at fault and are lesser beings. Oh! Oh! Soapbox alert!!

            So all being well around the 25^th March 2011, this house will be a hive of activity and a mother will go on strike big time for a few months. I can feel Mr Springs smiling eyes look down upon me; my ideas and thoughts always brought a glint to his eyes (if you’re not careful Mr Spring, I will tell them about the jelly, Oh yes I will. Mr Spring and the Jelly to follow shortly, his fault his eyes dared me!)

            The responsibility is great and I know that I will feel this heavily when and if she is in pup but I think for me this is part of growing as a pet owner and human. Now I just have to tell my dad! Mr Spring had blue sparkling eyes that always glinted with challenge, my dad has a big booming voice of reason (his reasoning is the only way and wow betide you if you don’t listen).

 

So what sort of flight of fancy would make a mum go on strike?

This particular “Flight of Fancy” started many years ago when I lived next to a Gamekeeper called Albert Spring. If you have ever walked with a pack of dogs or have seen a handler that rarely raised his voice but communicated; what seemed like telepathically, then you would have this energy imprinted in your being.

            There was Miss Lovelace who walked her three Pekenese of Camberwick Green, Trumpton and Chigley; a Children’s program that still fascinates me and they have a brill web page: - http://trumpton3.homestead.com/TrumptonPt2.html I wanted to be her and have lots of dogs on leads at the same time serenely walking, elegant and in control; easier said than done, I know.

            Then there was Rip; so named because when a pup he had a thing about taking buttons of any shirt left lying around, he was my best friend when I was growing up. He was a little Jack Russell that liked to curl up with socks (specially smelly ones) never had a lead but would follow your heal everywhere until he got bored. We never trained him as such but he blended into family life perfectly.

            These three separate imprints later gave this “Flight of Fancy” wings. The catalyst was the passing of Grace my Lab and our first family dog. Even though all the family wanted the dog the responsibility was soon left at my feet. I have come to realise that I am the facilitator of all my families’ needs, requirements and dreams but when it comes to my dreams or wishes they are made to feel like silly fancies. Well breeding Tink could be seen as a folly; don’t I have enough work to do? They ask, I’m always moaning about it they say. Anyway there are many dogs needing good homes at this time of year, why give yourself the hassle and the worry of pups? I could give many reasons but the main two is that Tinks pups will make ideal first time dogs and a great companion too. She is small and her temperament could not be bettered. Secondly she will teach me how to be a good handler. You see when I’ve been trained up enough I would like to foster dogs and by having this experience I will find out weather the work load will be too much or that I haven’t the aptitude to do this sort of thing.

            Even though I talked endlessly about the fostering scheme to Kev when I had the opportunity to have a dog (well three) Kev said that he knew nothing about it? Perhaps selective hearing plays a part in this one or control? Oh I could so go on about this but, I will refrain; with reluctance! We also had mega problems with the drains here and this meant we couldn’t go through with it. Diggers and gaping holes and dogs are not a good combination. So all summer Tink and I was bereft of the company and all the walks I had planed. My children said I should enjoy the summer and that the whole thing would have been hard work, they were right, I knew the commitment and constraints it would put on them but thought the rewards out weighed them all. They obviously haven’t heard how a load might be best shared. They also questioned whether it was really fair on them as they would love having the dogs around – though it was made quite clear the walking, cleaning would be mine alone as it was my idea – when it was time to give the dogs back they would be sad and they couldn’t deal with that. This is when I decided to go on strike. Why should all the hard work, love and worry be mine alone? Why should I be made to feel guilty?

            So I’ve gone on strike or is it works to rule? When I’m asked - can you just do my hair? Instead of yep, just give me a mo, I now say-you’ll have to wait and you will have to help me out! Anything above and beyond the call of duty is now met with this reply. But Oh boy! This is such hard work. The problem is I’m the facilitator and naturally I would just try to help or sort out any issue arising but at some point I have to realise that their life support is my energy and time and they can breath on their own and do all the necessary, I’m just the easy and safe option with no effort or responsibility on their part needed. Will I ever get my fledglings to fly? Or will I have to kick them out of the comfortable nest? Come back soon to find out.

Falling off the Tandem part two

It was only five thirty when I got to my room and I had an hour to wait before diner menu was available.

I had looked forward to reading and enjoying my pimms all week but found I couldn’t settle; due to being wound up by the spiteful text. I decided to go for a walk to unwind the tightly coiled spring within. It didn’t take long the two glasses of Pimms had worked their magic. I walked back to the veranda the July heat had subsided and the flowers sent floated on the calm and still air. It truly was a glorious setting and perfect for a wedding.

The stillness was broken by a rich and good humoured male’s voice talking on a mobile phone. As I walked up to the steps, I caught the gist of the conversation. They (whoever was on the other end of the phone and Mr. Smooth voice) were the ones who had cancelled the honeymoon suite. They had organised a helicopter to take the soon to be newly weds to a seaside location of the bride’s childhood, where the couple would not be disturbed by their boisstres friends and family; who would also be staying at the hotel. I smiled as I walked past, how sweet and thoughtful and was glad that the wedding hadn’t been called off as I had thought.

I heard his hurried footsteps and half of me wanted to turn around and see if the face matched his luscious voice the other half wanted to grab and kiss him fully on the mouth with every ounce of passion I felt. I sighed I had not had sex for so long it was starting to effect me and daydreams of romance an ever persistent emotion to sit on. Must get back to the safety of the room, I was obviously in no fit state to be out in public. I actually giggled out loud at this thought.

As I made my way to the exquisite French doors still wondering what he looked like and planning to sit on the table just inside, so I could take a sneaky peek at this voice that melted me like a warmed marshmallow. But before I could reach the top tier of the extensive veranda, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Oh and he was as sexy as his voice. His appeal dripped from his smiling eyes and down his cheeks to his smile that I immediately swooned for.

‘Sorry to bother you’ He almost pleaded with his voice and I just about stopped myself from saying ‘the pleasure is mine’ I blushed as he kept his hand on my shoulder the contact with another adult human being was intense to the point of pain. ‘Are you going into dinner now?’

‘Yes’ I replied trying to breath and not fling my arms around him and snog with gusto, now there’s a word from the past snog. The long lost sense of teenage faire l’amour sprang from that word and a primal instinct that was hard to ignore came with it. The little devil inside me wanted to hide the mother side of my complex being in a cupboard and release the animal within. But regrettably the mother side won, again! And the frustrated animal was captured and behind safe bars mores the pity!

‘Would you mind if I tagged along?’

‘Sure’ I tried to casually shrug. This was not good, how on earth was I going to keep my hands off him, let alone think straight? Now I felt a little uneasy about being on my own for diner and what on earth would he think if he knew I was in the Honeymoon suite, I wondered.

As we went down past the reception he asked me if I was on the bride’s side or the grooms.

‘Neither’ I answered tensing, lord I thought how ridiculous and silly my ideas are if he finds out I’m on my own he is going to think I’m a right loner; which of course I am, a mother is always a loner when divorced.

‘Oh’ His awkwardness made him pause for a while and then he carried on. ‘So sorry I thought you were one of the guests for the pre wedding dinner. Can I get you a drink?’

Good lord a drink, not a great idea really, unpredictable urges that felt as if they were going to erupt at any second needed strong support not more of a relaxed attitude. I reasoned; I couldn’t say no even if I wanted to. If we parted now he would be embarrassed as he would be unable to keep his invite to diner and not to mention how I would feel about being dressed up and on my own. Having a drink would get us both out of a difficult social situation. It would also give me time to plan a timely retreat. I could have a soft drink but when he asked if I wanted to share a bottle of wine I smiled and said that would be lovely.

‘So are you waiting for someone?’ He looked at me obviously taking in my dress. I wished I could lie but some of us just can’t.

‘No’ I confessed with guilt. His confused and puzzled expression made me want to play with his bemused face that he fought gallantly to control. My heart took pity on him and the truth tippled out, thanks to the Pimms.

‘This is a new beginning, silly really and a story that probably would take up most of the evening in the telling and would bore me and send you to sleep, so I’ll spare us.’ He was about to say something but once started I had to carry on. ‘I was going to have dinner and then go and read a book.’

‘That dress would be wasted on a book’

I blushed. ‘That’s very kind’

‘Nonsense, it’s a simple fact.’ He took a wine buffs approach to the just poured wine which had appeared like a magic trick. Deep in thought we waited the wine waiter and I for his verdict. He looked right into my eyes, deep into them and smiled. I felt that I could almost read his thoughts; he had picked the wine for me. He nodded at the waiter. As the waiter left he turned his thoughts to me by which time I had rapidly drank half the glass; the tension was getting to me and he was right the wine was divine. He lent over to refill my class but I held my hand over the top.

‘I try very hard to sip wine but when it’s cool and as refreshing as this, I tend to drink faster than perhaps is wise.’ He smiled and gave a little rumble in the back of his throat. It made me breathe deeply with contentment. He looked at me pleasantly surprised by my reaction.

            ‘I would like to ask a favour and I honestly wont be offended if you decline’ He attentively began. ‘I know we’ve just met and that was a little unorthodox on my part and this is going to seem really strange. But would you help me….you see I was supposed to come with someone for the family pre wedding diner and to my sisters wedding and our over bearing mother would spoil her evening and day, if all she could go on about was the fact I’m single again. There would be the Spanish inquisition of why and at the top table there would be no let up, it would all be unbearable.’

His pleading eyes drove away my inhabitations and all defences.

‘I would love to be your knight in shinning armour’
As I took another sip and an inward panic started to built up. It’s ok putting yourself forward heroically, I thought but will you be any good at riding the white charger and how are your lance tactics? I pondered. I took another sip; well actually a gulp, perhaps I think too much and even worry more. Live a dream, just for a short while, become something you will never have a chance of becoming again. Go on have a little fun, without responsibility. Mothers should have a duel personality to keep them sane; now who had said that? If nobody had they should’ve. I looked across at the stranger and into his eyes that were deep and mellow and full of playful peril. Irresistible! Somethings in life you just have to have a go at. I mounted that white charger, I feared the wrong way round, as he led me to my quest. 

My Octopus on Speed Has Gone Missing

So what do I mean about my octopus on speed? Well when any child enjoys doing things they know they shouldn’t but don’t quite know why not, they go through a really hard period of time when that is all they seem to do. Angus use to like; on the odd morning I was unprepared, to go straight to the cupboard I used to keep the biggest box of washing powder I could buy and spill it all over the floor, as I would’ve reached that point he would have scarpered to the dogs bowl emptied that then run through to the living room and emptied all of his numerous books all over the furniture, put some in bags and all his hiding places as fast as he could. So I had no hope of any damage limitation. He would then calmly sit and read as though he was the book worm and not the octopus. By the time I had cleared up the aftermath of his arrival I would be running late and stressed. I would then look in on him and there he would be oblivious happy and content.

The thing is that he would go for long periods of time in-between these outbursts so I was lulled into a false sense of security, I’d let down my guard with ‘Oh that phase has passed, good!’ so the explosion of activity always caught me off guard. Then he would go full pelt and headlong into a situation I could only live and breathe through; if I was lucky.

Angus enjoyed doors especially ones with locks on so when we went for a sort break to Paris and booked a family room I was on my guard. When we got there and found that the bathroom door was solid and had no emergency lock on the out side, I was on my high alert setting. Every time one of us wanted to use the bathroom I would stand near the door making sure Octopus boy could not slip through below my radar and lock himself in. Axl 10 Years Angus’s senior had just came out and as I was on century duty holding the door to make sure little man could not trap his fingers or lock himself in I turned to ask Axl if he had brushed his teeth. I felt a slight force and as I turned back the door slipped shut and the lock was engaged and my heart filled my veins with a cold dread.

While Kev went searching to find help, I held Angus’s attention as close to the door as I could, while reaching across the hall to pick up the fire extinguisher to bash the door down. I clouted that door with all my might spurred on by my over active imagination running through all the possibilities. There was a long mirror near the toilet that was fragile when you consider that a phone was opposite and I could hear him clunking the mirror with it, as I was thrashing the door with every fibre I owned. Then there was the fact he could run the hot tap by himself and climb into the bath unaided, put the plug in slip and fall on the marble, climb onto the sink with all the chemicals to sniff and drink. 

So when Kev arrived back with help, I was relieved. The man went straight to the phone understanding this was a very dangerous situation, so picking up the phone to get an engineer to take off the door - I though we were home and dry. That is until I heard Octoboy picked up the phone cutting off our help line and his voice full of enjoyment and fun said clearly ‘Hello, Hello, Hello’ which was all his vocabulary held at that time and put the phone down, only to do it all again on an endless loop. This carried on for a few more failed attempts when my ‘would be hero’ asked me to tell my eighteen month old son to put the phone down. I looked instantly at him and retorted not too politely, if I could have that sort of conversation with him I would have asked him to unlock the door.

Well the poor man asked me what he should do when I suggested he should use his long legs and go and get help before my son did real damage to himself. Again everyone departed and I was left coaxing Octoboy to the door again. I asked him if he could wiggle the handle and to my pure relief he did. I then asked him to reach down and push the lock; I was ready to shove with all my might. I then heard that most wonderful sound of metal gliding on metal quick as a flash I grabbed him like a mother possessed, just as a non English speaking engineer came through the door. Putting as much distance between the room of horrors I tried to breath through my sobs.

Although Angus was out, I knew he was still in danger, the door had to be sorted before he was safe and this man I could not communicate with was going to be my hero. He picked up the phone and handed it to me and through my uncontrollable sobs I tried to explain to the main desk what had just taken place. I then handed the phone back. Comprehension and empathy erupted over his face and he hugged me with such compassion.

Sometimes words are not needed especially when emotion is shared.

This was nine years ago and today my Octoboy has gone missing and mostly forgotten. Today my boy is in constant pain. Over the last year or so there have been medical people that should know better and more informed tried to explain the mental state of my son. They tried to convince me the virus he had, had left him so he had forgotten or he did not want to live as he had. Now I tried to get my head around that and it was like watching one of the ugly sisters ram the glass slipper on her foot. It was never going to fit! What they described to me was their theory and not my reality.

It now makes me wonder about the mental state of our mental health providers. We need proper research into mental health, not sticky plasters over physical problems.They so wanted a theory to fit, they ruled out a physical component to my sons health. Unexplained physical symptoms are just that, that is to say the medical profession are just not able with their ability at the moment to figure it out, it does not mean to say we should blame the mind of the sufferer for the lack of knowledge of the medical profession. Perhaps all mental illnesses have a physical element and this need investigating.

If you understand the 80 or so autoimmune illness that have a devastating effect on people, then why cannot they believe in ME? what sort of dangerous situation are we heading for if we give physical control of the health of our nation to Psychiatric theories. Psychiatrists convinced the NHS that Cognitive Behaviour Therapy was a good idea for people suffering with ME. They came up with inappropriate research and trials. Now we have a fresh trial called Fitnet, the coverage has been extensive through the BBC as a treatment like no other they seem to gloss over the PACE trial fiasco. Yet since 2011 a connection has been made to the autoimmune system and ME. Reading the literature regarding Cognitive Behaviour Therapy there is a stark difference between the delivery and I would shameful.

James Gallagher in a radio four program Inflamed Mind sensitively tackles the subject of the autoimmune on psychosis, yet talking about ME he tells how the treatment will  change the way children think of the disease then tells how 'that some activists say that Cognitive Behaviour Therapy (CBT) just treats the mind. He omits the fact that the World Health Organisation list ME under a neurological condition and immunoglobulin has been used with some promise around 2011 with ME. .

ME sufferers are so good at managing their pain and determined to be normal, that medical jargon can get away with saying they are fatigued. ME is about the whole body being affected in the most crippling way, not about fatigue. Psychiatrists can not understand or diagnose  PoTS ceolacs and if they could not tell that, why are we giving them control over our health service with regards ME? PoTS or some form of orthostatic intolerance (OI) along with PEM is two of the criteria and Fitnet does not include either. How can we trust them psychiatrists with our bodies when they just want to blame out thinking minds regardless of the ongoing evidence?

Inside my son even now there is Ocotboy meets monkey act waiting to burst out as soon as his body is able. On good days I can see them waiting in my sons eyes. He does not need CBT to get him better, he needs his condition understood and most important of all a cure. Psychiatrists prolong and mask the agony, they do not have the answers biomedical research does!

The sadness I feel looking at my child with hope that some part of his day will be enjoyable, I cannot describe. I reflect on those days I was stressed over the pile of washing powder, how he looked on top of the pile of books when he was young and I wonder who will take the responsibility over those who fall like my son?