All mums and grandmas should definitely read The Unmumsy Mum by Sarah Turner

My daughter recently gave me this book and I couldn’t put it down until I reached the last page. I laughed and cried in equal measures, (well probably laughed a bit more actually). She is mum to our gorgeous granddaughter aged six and a half and is determined that she will be an only child, (so far). I was a very unmumsy mum 30 years ago and now that my two are grown up and appear to have survived my mothering “skills” reasonably unscathed, I look back and ask myself – why? Why all the worry, guilt, comparing myself to all the yummy mummies I knew I had no chance of equaling. So today I’m a much more relaxed grandma, (even when I ask my granddaughter not to let on to mummy that a) she had an extra choccy biscuit for being a good girl; b) she was allowed to stay up late to watch “Britain’s Got Talent”; or c) we sometimes have been known to bribe her with extra pocket money to hurry up and get ready when we’re doing the school run. I am an only child and I can still remember bristling with indignation when my lovely mum pointed out rather unhelpfully that “I never behaved like that” as she witnessed her 3 year old grandson attempt to bite off his baby sister’s ear! No mum, I expect I was perfectly well behaved, as, I had no-one to aggravate the hell out of me all day long. When the Unmumsy Mum talks about mum’s guilt I know how that feels too. But then there was an added dimension to my situation. Unable to have our own kids, we adopted two babies so I always had the sneaking suspicion that I wasn’t doing as good a job as their “real” mothers would have done and they would one day compare notes pointing out that I was rubbish at baking, crafts, sports etc. That hasn’t happened – yet. It wasn’t exactly helpful when a “well meaning”, I.e., interfering old busybody from our Church exclaimed “well you didn’t have to have them”, as he observed me disciplining, (shouting), as they gaily ripped the heads off the daffs in the Priest’s garden. Of course the miserable old git was technically correct. We didn’t have to adopt. We both had a sluggish degree of fertility so we could have left it at that, bought a mansion, 2 brand new cars every year and travelled extensively in our private jet, (only kidding about the jet). However, after all the ups and downs of family life, the times when I could cheerfully have walked into the sea with large boxes full of Lego bricks tied to my legs, I know I wouldn’t have changed a thing. Last week my granddaughter wrote her first love letter – to me. It said “I luv Grandma and was illustrated with her depiction of herself, mummy and me. When I showed it to my girl her eyes filled up, (and she doesn’t do mushy sentiment). I’m so sorry that Sarah Turner’s mum didn’t get the chance to see what a wonderful job she is obviously doing with her two fantastic little boys. She would have been so proud of her daughter just as I am. My daughter is a single mum who hasn’t had the easiest last 7 years but she too has done and continues to do a magnificent job as I believe all mums do as they try to juggle work, family and relationships in the 21st century. And remember, when you’re a grandma you’ll wonder what all the fuss was about. Just relax and try to enjoy it all.

Online Abuse of the Elderly by - the Elderly

I recently ventured into the murky waters of on-line blogging. I’ve had a personal blog for just over 6 years, visible only to my immediate family, (if they could be bothered to read my drivel, that is). I write for my own amusement and treat it like a diary of my life, thoughts and opinions on this crazy planet we live on. Occasionally I’ve had the odd article or letter printed in magazines or newspapers but not enough to make me big-headed or presume I have any kind of talent. The fact that my blog is almost exactly the same age as my first and so far only grandchild is no co-incidence. She has brought such joy to our lives, (my husband has just recently retired), I picked up the proverbial pen again after years of child-rearing and work put writing on the back burner. So, as a grandmother I have just discovered a website dedicated to like minded women like me, (or so I believed), who wish to share information, chat, discuss problems or queries or just share nonsense they’ve penned to get a little feedback from their peers. At first all went well and I received some useful advice about such topics as what age to teach a granddaughter to knit or how to deal with a thorny motor insurance problem. I also posted a few comments on other grandma’s “threads” – see I’m learning the jargon already! I kept my comments short, to the point, always respectful in spite of my personal take on the subject and, I hope, constructive. Then one day I dared to put my toe into the shark infested waters of the “Blogging Forum”. Wow....of course I didn’t realise that this area was for professional or semi-professional writers and discovered too late that had my piece been correctly monitored by GNHQ it would never have passed the rigorous criteria required. It was a small somewhat caustic and very tongue in cheek piece, and not at all intended to offend anyone except perhaps Princess Catherine and the Middleton family who I’m convinced are big enough to take it on the chin anyway. Well the amount of vitriol spewed at me from the other grannies had to be seen to believed. I appear to have inadvertently offended not only all fans of the Middletons but everyone who was ever related to or descended from a coal miner, or living north of the Watford Gap, or lovers of “Marmite”. One of the more disgusted sisters then reported me to GNHQ – sounds scary enough to be a secret agent network doesn’t it? GNHQ very politely informed me via e-mail that they had removed my writing from the Blogs section and placed it in the less explosive “Chat” area. Then an enterprising granny posted a new and very originally entitled blog called “When is a blog not a blog?” and the same old witches, (sorry grannies), proceeded to spit their bile at me on that blog too. After informing them that I’d discovered their not very discreet game of hide and seek I then got bored and gave up viewing the poison. After all I had no desire to feed their already inflated egos by letting them think I was waiting with baited breath for yet more unoriginal snide comments as they each tried to outdo one another with bigger and better insults to me, a sad, snobbish Southerner. Luckily for me I lead a very busy life in retirement with several hobbies, volunteering and of course caring for our beautiful granddaughter while our daughter works. So I’m at a loss to know where these GOGs, (that’s Grumpy Old Grannies), find the time to a) read and b) tear to pieces so many other peoples’ harmless jottings. Oh yes, after a little research it wasn’t long before I spotted the same old pen names crop time and again posting similar vile comments on other writers who had dared to venture onto their hallowed territory. Fortunately I’m a mature, well balanced person who knows I can shut down my account and no longer have any dealings with these ethereal vampires. But I can imagine if you’re young and just gaining some confidence in the grown up world how hurtful and harmful on-line bullying can be and I accept I got off lightly. I heard recently that Saira Khan had death threats from One Direction fans for daring to write about Harry Styles. What on earth is that all about? I never thought that at the grand old age of 64 I’d become a victim of Trolls. It’s been a unique experience and I wonder how many other silver surfers have come across this phenomenon?

Mothers Day

Happy Mothers Day to all mothers, step-mothers, foster mothers, grandmothers and all carers of children young and old. The last few mothers days have not been very happy and have been even worse for my lovely girl, the mum of our gorgeous granddaughter. Yesterday was the best early mothers day celebration I have enjoyed for a long time. I spent it with my son and his fiancée discussing their wedding plans for next summer, my daughter and her fantastic new partner, my granddaughter and last but not least my wonderful long suffering husband of almost 39 years. We had a delicious lunch in Poole followed by a long walk in glorious sunshine in Sandbanks. Whilst we looked longingly at the millionaires' homes overlooking the sea, I couldn't have felt any richer as I watched all the people dearest to me having a great day together. Nothing material can beat the good health and wellbeing of your children and grandchildren. If this is the last Mothers Day I ever experience I'll die happy. Thank you Dan, Keri, Becky, Sean, Scarlett and John. XXXXXX

Depression or just feeling depressed?

January is almost over - phew! The worst month of the year is nearly done. How many people apply for a new job or book a holiday or decide to move or give their relationships an overhaul during the first few weeks of the year? Although I’ve never actually been diagnosed with depression there have been times in my life when I definitely have felt very low, usually at the beginning of the year. I’m sure that applies to almost everyone. The difference is that real depression strikes whether or not your life is going down the plughole. Feeling depressed or hopeless about the future usually happens when your life seems to be going out of control or you’ve had a run of bad luck. The good news is that as you age you become better at handling these low points and can stand back and take stock of your life. Shortly after I retired early from my full time job, my baby granddaughter was born and I threw myself into helping my daughter care for her. I had several hobbies and I volunteered for a local charity. So I was very busy and content with my lot. However within a year my daughter’s relationship with the father broke down and things rapidly deteriorated. I despaired as I watched my lovely girl become more careworn attempting to keep her head above water. Although we could help her financially we couldn’t help mend her broken heart. Anyone who thinks parents go it alone by choice and single parenthood is a doddle shored up by copious benefits deserves to be shot! After a while things started to improve and bit by bit our girl’s life began to settle. But just when the garden appears great some rotten weeds start sprouting. I wasn’t prepared for my husband’s mini nervous breakdown or that while I was putting on a “happy” front I was weeping on the inside. Looking back now I can see the odd behaviour I was exhibiting, (which I put down to the last knockings of the menopause). I was crying at the drop of a hat, and although exhausted at the end of the day, I found it hard to sleep as I was constantly worrying about the future. Worst of all I became very needy with other people, becoming defensive if I thought they were ignoring or avoiding me – yet I could hardly blame them. None of the self-help books I read avidly appeared to offer any real help at all. In fact they were so negative and depressing they made things worse. Then – I discovered yoga. In the last 21 months since I started I have discovered my inner serenity. I still worry of course, who doesn’t. It’s the 21st century disease. But now I am able to put everything into perspective. Worrying about the future never stopped the future from happening did it? My husband took early retirement and is so much better without juggling the stress of the job and family commitments. We spend as much time as possible with our gorgeous granddaughter. Our daughter is moving on with her life and guess what? I’ve ditched all negative influences in my life including people who just want to drag you down with their awful tales of woe though appear to have no time for you and your problems. All the self-help books have been binned – I’ll help myself in future. Namaste - peace be with you.

That Achilles has a lot to answer for!

Achilles’ heels, we all have them, don’t we? That’s the truly vulnerable spot that we protect with emotional sticking plaster all our lives. Of course you don’t know what your Achilles heel, (Ah), is until someone hits you right there. Poor old Achilles died when he was shot in the heel which had been the bit his mother hung onto when she dipped him in the magic strengthening waters of the River Styx. Naturally, it was mum’s fault, isn’t it always? My first Ah was my weight. I was a bonny baby, a chubby child and an Amazonian adult – pleasant enough adjectives meaning FAT!!!!! I’ve been on some kind of diet for most of my adult life, very few of which have actually worked. Now aged 64 I’ve grown into my own plump skin and feel relaxed enough to say “Sod it”, what you see is what you get and that goes for all the other insecurities of youth. Ah its grand growing old when you can do and say exactly what you like, (within reason). My second and probably hardest Ah became apparent in my early thirties. Married for over 7 years and tired of the usual tactless remarks from so called “friends” about the patter of tiny feet, we had our fertility tested and received the devastating news that the only way a baby would come our way was through AID and that wasn’t guaranteed either. I remember one particularly insensitive colleague at work who kept offering friendly advice on fertility treatment. Having popped out three of her own as easily as shelling peas she was obviously fishing for news. After a few months treatment we gave up on that too and later became proud parents through adoption. Like all families, we’ve had our ups and downs; the teen years were particularly challenging, but when aren’t they? We don’t regret our choice for one moment and our daughter’s beautiful little girl has brought untold happiness to the whole family. However, that doesn’t stop the busy bodies from trying to shoot that arrow at your Ah. People, i.e. those who consider themselves “normal” parents, whatever that is, like to parade their snug middle class offspring in front of you. You know the type, whose children have made good marriages and have set off into the sunset in a haze of white tulle. Of course I would love my children to meet, love and be loved by good partners but adopted children often find adult relationships tricky as they come to terms with their own life story. Still things are looking up – last September our son got engaged to his lovely girlfriend of 6 years and our daughter at last has a new boyfriend who treats her like a person and not a chattel. Where there’s life there’s hope I suppose. I think I’ll try and fill a bottle with water from the River Styx just in case though.

Grandma sent to Head Teacher's Study once again

Last week my granddaughter brought home a letter from school detailing three occasions last term when she was marked late at morning registration time. As we take it in turns to take Scarlett to school, we knew by the dates that these occurred on “our watch”. Mortified by the shame of it all I was prompted to write the following letter to the school. 11th January 2016, Dear Head Teacher, I refer to your letter dated 5th January 2016. Scarlett has had a word with us about our extreme tardiness on the mornings of 16th and 30th November and 14th December 2015 when we were solely responsible for providing her school transport. We humbly beg forgiveness and will endeavour to make sure there is no repeat of this behaviour. In our defence, (bearing in mind that “ignorance is no defence of the law”), we mistakenly believed: 1) Class registration was 9.00 am and not 8.55am; 2) We would be as speedy as we were on the last school run 25 years ago; 3) We might occasionally be able to park closer to the school, (perhaps there could be a petition for allocated parking for OAPs). As we are both retired now we are available for detention or any other suitable punishment deemed fit any day after school. Yours sincerely, etc. We are still awaiting suitable punishment but in the meantime I will write out 100 times “I must try harder to arrive at school on time”. Have any other grandparents been in similar trouble at school lately?

What’s Normal Anyway?

You may remember in my first blog last week I mentioned that my old blogs came under the title “Adopting the Brace Position”. This, as I’m sure all flyers amongst you will know is what the airline stewards explain when they tell you how to react to an emergency aboard the aircraft i.e. when the plane is about to crash land. I’m sure that you, like me, know there is really a cat in Hell’s chance of ever surviving whether or not you “brace, brace” whilst struggling with your oxygen mask, life jacket and Rosary beads all at the same time. I used the expression to name my blog because throughout most of my adult life I seem to be waiting for the next disaster and never being quite in control of living life in the moment. The title is also a pun on words as I am the mother of two lovely adopted children, now aged almost 29 and 26. When my son was about two I joined a local mother and toddler group as you do when you’ve tired of watching “Thomas the Tank Engine” for the 400th time, you’ve run out of ideas for building a tower block, fire station, dockyard out of Duplo and you just feel the need for some adult conversation. There I made friends with numerous other mums, one of whom I’ll call Ellen. After a few weeks of close observation, of which I was blissfully unaware, Ellen sat next to me one day and quietly confided, “You know, you’re quite normal just like the rest of us”. Whilst reassured to hear that I needn’t volunteer as an in-patient for the psychiatric ward just yet, I was however a little bemused. What did she mean exactly? “Well, you know, your child isn’t biologically yours yet you treat him exactly the same way we treat ours!” I laughed and asked how should I treat him – like a little alien or a prisoner on day release? I didn’t want to embarrass poor Ellen any further but it was clear that she didn’t quite know what to say. If you have a capacity to love at all that love is unconditional. It doesn’t matter if you grew children in your womb or like my husband and I had them as seedlings and watched them grow in our nurturing Greenhouse. We were never quite sure how they would turn out, but then who does? I expect Adolf Hitler’s’ mother would have been full of trepidation if she’d suspected that the embryo she carried would have turned into such a monster. It’s true that we all have ambitious plans for our children even if only because our own hopes and dreams have been somewhat thwarted. But like a carefully planted garden, sometimes bugs and weeds from outside get in when you’re not watching and lead your plants astray. You just get the right pesticides, (environmentally friendly ones of course), and keep the enemy at bay until your seedlings are old enough and strong enough to withstand whatever life throws up. The nurturing side you can control but nature has a way of bringing up all sorts of unexpected surprises and you get to see traits in your children that have been replicated from you as well as the more surprising ones they may have in their genes already. Either way, adoption provides a family life full of fun, excitement and the occasional heart stopping shocks and intrigue without which life would be quite dull. The biggest surprise is not how different they are but when your children mature how similar to you are their views and comments on the world around us. I often catch my daughter and 5 year old granddaughter repeating my old hackneyed phrases, you know the ones you heard your mum say and swore you’d never use – ah yes!! First published October 2015

They're not all bad eggs!

Last week we had to say goodbye to a very special person. His name is Father Chris and for the last eight years he has been our Parish Priest. He celebrated his 75th birthday and retired in the same week and whilst we wish him many years of happy retirement, he will be sorely missed. I’m a cradle Catholic. In other words I had no choice as a child as I was baptised into the religion of my Irish mother’s family. My dad was not a church goer but promised on marriage to my mum that he would be happy to raise any children in the Church of Rome. I’ve had numerous shaky moments over the years when I’ve doubted my commitment to the Church. But I’ve always been drawn back, even when after my mother’s death I was unable to enter a church or sing the beautiful hymn, “Our God Reigns”, (it was sang at her funeral Mass), for a full eighteen months. Unfortunately not all Catholic Priests sit easily in their role. No one can deny that it’s a difficult vocation. Not all young men who takes vows of chastity, humility and poverty in their late teens or early twenties can stay true to those promises for the remainder of his life. Anyone who believes in God must by default believe in the Devil and for every good deed there is an opposite evil one. The Catholic Church has a lot to answer for, that’s true. Perhaps they have finally learned that by burying their scandals under the carpet for years they only made the problem grow and fester even more. However, for every rogue Priest or Religious there are thousands of good, pious and decent people who have sacrificed their own selfish ambitions to lead their flocks. They have given up the chance to have a family of their own and have sought to help hundreds of other families find their way in an ever increasingly bewildering secular world. Father Chris was one of these people. He encouraged me to return to the Church When I thought I had lost all hope of recovering my faith. I even toyed with the idea of embracing a new religion. Then I remembered the words of a fellow Catholic during an Alpha course several years ago. What would happen if you arrived at the Pearly Gates having abandoned your religion for a new regime only to find at the eleventh hour you had “backed the wrong horse?” Two months short of my 64th birthday, I think I’ll stay right where I am and take my chances when Saint Peter asks for my CV. First posted October 2015

The (not so) "Secret Santa"

It’s that time of the year again. Workplaces all across the universe are revving up for the festive season and that old favourite, the secret Santa rears its ugly head. You wonder whose name you’re going to pick out of the hat and if whoever gets stuck with you actually likes you enough to buy you something other than Avon cosmetics or a whoopee cushion! Twenty seven years ago we had a toddler and as Christmas was looming and we had no money I persuaded my old boss to take me back as a part-time manager in the department of a local government office. I job-shared with another part-time mum and it was honestly one of the worst jobs I’ve ever had. The lower grades resented us and the other managers and senior staff just dumped all the grisliest old cases on our desks each morning. Some of them hadn’t seen the light of day for ten years. So my secret Santa was almost a complete stranger to me. She was a full-time manager in her late 40’s and I knew nothing about her likes or dislikes, hobbies or interests, character or disposition. Did she have a GSOH or was she a misery guts? Who could say? And as it’s a secret I couldn’t really ask anyone for inside info. The monetary limit was £5.00. (You could get a lot for that in the 80’s). I popped into M & S on the way home and bought a gift I would have been pleased to receive, wrapped it up, labelled it “Guess Who” as usual and left it under the office tree. Well, by her reaction when she opened the parcel you’d have thought it was a lump of dog poo wrapped in fancy paper! She looked around the room and yelled “who the f%*” gave me this?” I was stunned and gawped in horror like everyone else. You could have heard a pin drop and I slowly slunk away back to my desk. Sometime later and still a little shell shocked by my accidental error I learned that my secret Santa recipient had a secret of her very own. A seemingly happily married woman she was having a bit of a fling with a married manager in the office. Now at that time the Department was in the habit of sending staff to quite pleasant hotels, usually in sunny Bournemouth for a week’s training and in the evenings after a few drams in the bar the trainees could get a little frisky and didn’t always end up in their own bedrooms. Perhaps my innocent gift triggered a guilty conscience. What was this heinous present that put the fear of god in our adulterous colleague? Well, it was a tiny food hamper containing English breakfast tea, a miniature pot of marmalade and some biscuits. It would appear she had put two and two together and assumed that someone had guessed she hadn’t breakfasted alone at the hotel. Three months after Christmas my husband received a large enough pay rise to enable me to resign so with relief I left the office without ever being discovered as the person who unwittingly put the kibosh on an illicit affair. First published December 2015.

Keep your friends close.......

Well believe it or not it’s been almost exactly 6 years since I last produced a blog. That was on my old site "Adopting the brace position" and I only wrote two before, as they say, life took over. I had taken early retirement and was eagerly awaiting the birth of my first grandchild, Scarlett, whose glorious arrival was on 6th November 2009. My daughter and her partner were very young and sadly destined not to stay together so I spent the next 5 years working as a part-time childminder as Becky endeavoured to return to work and plough through the mine field that is single parenthood. I also spent most of that period slaying the dragons that chased our beautiful Becky. Unfortunately she has kissed a lot of ugly frogs since she started dating some 10 years ago and so far none have been transformed into a handsome Prince. Those pesky fairy Tales have a lot to answer for. But I digress, more of that later. That old saying "keep your friends close but your enemies closer still" is the basis for this tale. About 7 years ago my husband John and I teamed up with another couple and a recently widowed lady and her much older male friend who she had at one time worked for. We spent several pleasant evenings together, meals, nights out at a private club we frequented, family gatherings - you know the sort of thing. Said widow's brother had a large 6 bed roomed house built in Ireland and there was often talk of us all decamping there for a long weekend. The widow had an old friend living in Spain and she suggested that I and the other wife accompany her also for a long weekend. The main obstruction to any plans was the teenage son of the other couple who couldn't possibly be trusted to be left at home alone even though a more well behaved young man you are unlikely ever to meet. He just isn't the type to throw a large face book party, (unlike my daughter who did just that aged 16. That's material for another blog too). He doesn't drink, smoke, (fags or pot) and besides he wouldn't dare...... So the idea was put on hold for a few more years. So imagine our surprise when John got wind of a Spanish trip planned for the two women. At first I thought nothing of it. I even gave them the opportunity to come clean. The widow denied any holiday plans were a foot even though she usually visits her Spanish contact 3 or 4 times a year! The other wife kept her eyes downcast and even claimed she had a hearing problem and never heard the query in the first place. Exasperated at their barefaced cheek, I confronted them individually. After generously giving them time to come up with a plausible alibi guess what their best defence was? "As you don't speak any Spanish Bridget we didn't think you'd care to go". Ha ha, well I've just enjoyed two trips to Barcelona and Mallorca this year and my lack of knowledge of the lingo didn't impede in the slightest. To add insult to injury the widow and the other couple have recently enjoyed a lovely trip to - you guessed it - the huge Irish mansion! Yes, even old boss man appears to have been squeezed out. Could he have been making overtures in the wrong direction, one wonders? It reminded John and me of a similar scenario several years ago when we were used as a shield for a couple having an illicit affair to give them respectability. As soon as they were forced to go public we suddenly became "persona non grata". Am I the only one to see a pattern forming here? 26/09/2015

Plus ca change..........

Last year I visited the Hidden Heene Exhibition at St Botolph’s Church in Lansdowne Road, Worthing. One of the several fascinating exhibits was a scrap book containing relevant cuttings from the Worthing Herald. The one that grabbed my attention was from the edition dated Friday, 3rd July 1953, (exactly 61 years to the day of my visit). It printed part of a speech made by the Rt. Rev G H Warde, Bishop of Lewes in which he stated that “.....the freshness of British Womanhood ........has fallen and fallen a long way.” He went on “The girls and women who are often photographed or featured in the Press in what are called “daring” dresses or “glamorous” swimsuits are not contributing to the good of life; but are making decent thinking and moral action a terribly hard thing for young men and boys – and indeed for men who are not so young.” Bishop Warde died in 1972 aged 83 so I wonder what he would make of today’s female fashions! In the light of recent high profile cases it would appear that men of a certain age excused their lack of control by blaming women’s seductive ways. Hopefully now with a lot more flesh on display than in 1953 modern man, (and woman too), may rise above their animal urges. Posted 27/09/15

Equality

Last week was extremely interesting. On Wednesday I went to see the film “Suffragette” – an incredibly moving performance by Carey Mulligan. Thursday I saw “Platonov”, part of the Young Chekov season at the Chichester Festival Theatre. Finally on Saturday morning I attended a breakfast talk by Chris Lubbe, a bodyguard to the late President Nelson Mandela. Wow, after this incredible feast of sights and sounds I’m a little shell shocked. All three performances provided massive food for thought but I realised that they all had a common thread – the wilful abuse of certain groups of people. In “Suffragette”, Carey Mulligan plays a character that encompasses all working class women of the early part of the 20th century who had the audacity to fight for emancipation. In doing so she lost her job, home, husband and young son – a dreadful price to pay. Platonov is an archetypal misogynist who claims to love women but uses them for his own gratification casting them aside like old clothes and destroying the lives of his wife, son and best friend at the same time blind to his own flaws. Chris Lubbe spoke of his time as an activist fighting to end the horrendous apartheid regime in South Africa and the oppression of all non-whites. On Saturday afternoon a local community choir sang beautiful Gospel music in our library. They ranged in age, race and gender and I was moved to see a performance that would have been impossible to stage in South Africa during apartheid or in this country one hundred years ago, or Chekov’s Russia when women required their husband’s permission to set foot outside their own front door! Whatever we may feel about Britain in the 21st century we could be so much worse off.

Celebrating Diversity?

I was working as a teaching assistant some years ago when the then government in all it's wisdom decided to close special schools and place most of the students in mainstream education. I was assigned one to one with a boy I'll call William who was twelve years old and had Asperger Syndrome. He was an attractive child, smart and tidy in appearance but his lack of empathy and serious nature meant he had few if any friends. My role was to try and keep him focused during lessons as his powers of concentration were limited and he was easily distracted. During one memorable English lesson, tiring of listening to the teacher, he turned to me and asked in all seriousness, "Did you ever meet Hitler, Miss"? Well, I know all grown-ups seem ancient to twelve year olds but as I wasn't born until the very end of 1951, I was a little bemused! I explained that though I didn't know him personally I had a little knowledge of who Hitler was and that after the English lesson we could have a good chat about him. This succeeded in getting William back in the present and the lesson continued. However, the leniency shown to him in regard to time-keeping, failure to submit homework etc. didn't go down too well with the other kids and William was usually ostracised or bullied in the playground. Sadly I changed jobs shortly after this so I didn't see how he got on through the rest of his time at the school. He was a personable young man and I hope that with the appropriate support his life is going in the right direction. Today I was reminded of how our behaviour is sometimes dictated by people who are labelled as "different". I volunteer for a local organisation helping to keep independent elderly people taking part in social activities. My job is to serve drinks, snacks and lunches to the clients and most of them are charming and pleasant despite suffering from various age related problems. Today, however, one of the ladies was extremely rude, not for the first time and not only to me, and when I mentioned this to the manager she explained that her problem was bipolar disorder. Does a "label" like aspergers or bipolar mean that we should turn a blind eye to inappropriate or unpleasant behaviour? The problem is that those not openly suffering from a disability are made to feel awkward when trying to accommodate those who are and whilst bending over backwards to treat all comers equally the resulting favouritism is weighted on the side of the disabled. Dare I ask if some people could be actively taking advantage of this? The jury's still out on that one I fear. First published October 2015

21st Century Dating Game

“I’ve got a date mum”. These words put the fear of God in me every time I hear them. Why? Well, I have a gorgeous 26 year old daughter who is resolutely single after kissing several ugly frogs and not a Prince amongst them as I've mentioned before. Trouble is she is also mum to our lovely 5 year old grandchild. Now, I grew up in the 50’s in a very strict Roman Catholic household. There was no sex before marriage, no contraception allowed and it was instilled in me that if you “got into trouble”, no decent man would touch you with a bargepole because he wouldn’t want to bring up another man’s offspring. After all males in the animal kingdom kill and sometimes eat their rival's progeny before they mate with the mother. Now, I know there are loads of great step-dads, (and mums), out there but they seem thin on the ground where my girl is concerned. Not that she's particularly keen on becoming a step-mum to some odious teens. But unfortunately the current crop of available men appear to be embittered divorcees whose children probably won't welcome a new step-mummy young enough to be their big sis. We’re extremely proud that Becky eschewed a miserable shot-gun wedding for appearance sake as this usually ends in tears. I was only chatting recently to the 35 year old son of a friend who confided that he wished his parents hadn’t stayed together purely for him and his siblings, “We always felt uncomfortable especially when we went on holiday with friends whose parents obviously got on well together. I think our parents made a big mistake”. My daughter is in no hurry to get spliced. She's decided she wants no more children so her biological clock isn’t running out but what happens if Mr Right eventually does turn up and he does want kids? Any suggestions will be gratefully considered. First published September 2015

Virgin on the Ridiculous

Well the New Year has definitely arrived! I’ve done my first bit of gardening, (its mild enough here for the daffodils to be fooled into thinking its spring). More importantly my husband has had his first run-in with Virgin Media!!! Why oh why is it that a perfectly simple job is performed by a polite and experienced engineer only to be totally annihilated by the incompetent, laughingly described, Customer Relations Call Centre? As the land line was temporarily switched off to perform the procedure and we were assured by said engineer that it might take approximately up to 24 hours to resume you can imagine hubby’s displeasure when the “Call Centre” explained it could take up to 10 days to get our old number back – a number we’ve had for almost 20 years. Not to worry, as a quick call to our helpful engineer proved timely and HE got the phone working by the next morning. However, as I write this draft blog, the internet is down. If it ever reaches my Blogspot you, dear reader, will be relieved to know that all is well again and Virgin Media will be reprieved once more. Don’t you have sympathy for the engineers who are, in most cases doing a splendid job but are being woefully let down by the back up team in operation thousands of miles away who are probably paid by the quantity as opposed to the quality of their target driven telephone enquiries. And I speak as one who knows, as I once had the dubious pleasure of working for a Government Call Centre in England. When my target was raised to in excess of 100 calls a day, I quit but then I had the luxury of not needing the part-time job in the first place. P.S. Whilst waiting for my internet connection to return something strange happened to my Blog and to cut a long story short it has miraculously reverted to my old Blog named “Adopting the Brace Position” which has lain dormant since 2009! As I search for “Waving not Drowning” I’m sending this post to the old one. I think I need a crash course in IT for Idiots.