The rise of the on line auditor is one of the sadder aspects of the net. Some Middle aged men with a history of little life purpose, isolation and anger problems have carved themselves out a niche by exploiting the law by filming public companies with camera and drones. Of course, they know the law doesn’t stop such activity as long as it takes place in a public area , but all they want is the filmed tension between company staff and perpetrators such as Mark Evans, who is quick to insult and to goad as long as it gives him a video which will be adored and hated in equal measure.
Blogland has its fair share of Mark Evan’s. Angry people whose life has been passed by….. People who feel that they should have more importance than they deserve, who audit other’s writings desperate in the need to find some perceived discrepancy . I suspect the nature of blogs mean that there are more women then men that feature here.
Tired, frustrated, small minded …I could go on, but I won’t, suffice to say that I loved one unflappable security guard’s response to a particularly rude and nasty tirade by Mr Evans
The security guard turned to a colleague and laughed “ He’s a prime example why prostitutes shouldn’t marry” he quipped
Non of my clients turned up for their appointments , a galling and fairly frequent aspect of counselling I’m afraid . I left the centre early and ended up having a row with a drone flyer who was photographing a caravan park next to a garage shop. He was arguing with the park staff but like most of the sad on line auditors do, he knew the legal aspects of flying a drone., which allowed him to do so from public land, so just just enjoying bating the staff for some cheap footage.
“I have a legal right to film”he cried out like a teenager and I couldn’t resist calling “ but not a moral one!”.as he glared at me, pointing his camera at my fat arse as I walked away to Bluebell
“ I bet your mother is very proud of your achievements “ I fired back, almost as cutting as old fashioned “cheap Shoes”
I’m back working as a counsellor tomorrow, after my Christmas Break. Today I sort of prepared myself by meeting Chic Eleanor for lunch. She’s very psychologically minded, so a couple of hours with her often feels like I’ve completed a good bout of supervision . ( for those that don’t know Chic Eleanor is also a trained counsellor)
We talked about where we felt we were both going this new year and ever the optimist she rested a gentle hand on mine and said
“We are going to have such adventures, you and I !”
Ive posted this story before, but after watching Cinderella on digi box I was reminded of this story all over again….like all good stories, I never really tire of telling it.
I was just twenty two years old when I first grew up as a nurse and as a man…….I remember the situation as if it was yesterday, and the memory seared into my psychi forty two years ago is fresh and as moving and as important as it was on that muddy weekday morning when I was slopping tea into thirty empty cups in the kitchen of an old asylum Ward .
I was tired and weary. One of four staff, I had helped 30 men to get washed, dressed and fed on Durham ward. A ward that catered for the senile, the head injured and the institutionalised. It was late morning and the men had been sat in a routine square around the day room as the staff puffed fags on the verandah. I didn't smoke so it was my job to get their tea, before another rounding of toileting began The tea was made in one large metal teapot. Tea, milk and sugar all added to the mix and it took two hands to lift the pot as I poured the brew out into saucerless cups.
As I worked I watched the female residents of Durham's sister ward Daresbury , all sat in similar poses along the square of their dayroom chairs. In one corner sat a visitor . I had often seen him before , and recognised his smart suit, and his polished shoes. He always sat with a very still patient, a patient that I assumed to be his wife and they shared tea from a flask that he brought with him every morning. I remember his wife having grey hair that was curled chignon style at the nape of her neck and that morning I watched in a half interested way, as he started to pull her out of her chair to her feet. His wife stood shakily, like senile people often do when they don't understand what is wanted of them and after a bit of manoeuvring the man held her in a waltz hold. They staggered back and forth for some moments, unbalanced and unpredictable and then I saw something quite magical happen as her muscle memory started to kicked in With a turn of her head on an arched neck she grasped his hand tightly and they started to waltz . Very slowly at first , but with a gathering momentum, they two of them danced around infront of two dozen unseeing eyes , with only me there to witness the event, and they did two circuits of the room before silently returning to their seats like a pair of ghosts. I stood still , the teapot still in my hands , and wept. In one tiny moment I had seen a true love expressed and recognised the importance of seeing hospital patients as real people with a past and a future
Bun ventured out this morning, her button small footprints hardly visible in the carpet of white. Weaver took one long look at the front garden, and with a clear fuck this look on her face, she parked herself next to the fire.
