Jesus , it’s cold
Audit
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”
You and I
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 !”
Waltz
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
And all at the age of twenty two
I grew up
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
And all at the age of twenty two
I grew up
Weaver Hates Snow
I’ve got my Lego out
Oh Beautiful Night, Night Of Love
Sometimes I haven’t much to say.
Somedays I haven’t got anything to contribute in conversation
Some days I just don’t speak!
I met the German for lunch and was entertained by his slender grasp on everyday English .
I’m glad he’s not working with counselling clients, for his sake rather than theirs
I had to titter after he raised both eyebrows to my common colloquial saying of disbelief
“ and my dick’s a kipper”
“You are always talking!” he observed over coffee
He wasn’t being unkind , just direct
I need to practice being quiet with him me thinks.
I’ve nothing major to share today.
When I am alone in the cottage, I’m silent
I’m not one to chatter away at the animals
I don’t usually play music either
But today was an exception.
Just before Christmas , the lisping Choir and Metropolitan Orchestra performed the famous barcarolle from The Tales of Hoffman. The original is a lilting aria between two sopranos and it mimics the lilting song of the Venetian Gondoliers and their version for their yearly Children’s concert ( complete with toy instruments ) was sublime and all rather joyous
Enjoy
Did you notice Sylvia reprimanding a chorister for not paying attention at the end
Nudging Into 2026
I’ve worked the last two nights so I’m back home properly today.
I have no news apart from the fact I’ve just booked my ticket to see the lisping choir in May
That’s the excitement of the day as The Archers has just disappointed with George Grundy’s heavy handed survival and me and the Welsh have just walked the length of the dark, almost frozen lane in the moonlight.
Mary now is wearing her multicoloured cardigan, her matching Christmas Jumper, a gift from Trendy Carol now washed and pressed alongside Roger’s.
Neither dog wanted to walking into the cold
A barn owl *, Huge and not totally silent loops over the field towards the ghost of the Church, unseen by the dogs who just want to return to the fireside. It swooped over my laburnum with the sound of silk curtains being quickly drawn and then around into the stable fields then back over us with its square head looking directly at us as we slowly headed for home.
It’s freezing
2026 John - Just Keep Swimming
My niece has just left me a message. She described 2025 as a shit year and I found myself feeling a little guilty that my negativity has leeched downwards into everyone’s psychi.
That was naughty of me, despite the important fact that when someone actually asked if I was ok this year, I managed to honestly say at times that I wasn’t .
For me this is an important breakthrough
It acknowledged the fact that I was actually vulnerable and was in need of support.
The row with a senior colleague over possible redundancies was seminal too. When she told me to be more loyal and positive I gave her short shrift . Something normally I would have never done.
Having a voice is important, especially when you feel powerless
And 2025 offered me powerlessness in bucketloads.
But what was good in 2025?
There were lots to be thankful for
- The Flower Show was the biggest and best we’ve ever had ( I can happily drop the microphone right there)
- Trelawnyd Productions got off the ground with a cracking success and an introduction to new characters from the village as well as a resurrection by old ones. The energy and good humour generated was worth all of the hard work
- Madrid proved to be more than just a city break. It was a lifesaver. It reminded me and my friend Ruth that travel feeds you. It chased away the cobwebs and those dark thoughts and it brought me “home” to my lisping Choir , who have given me light on nights where light was much needed.
- Theatre and cinema has continued to be my go tos. Every Brilliant Thing and the new soho Theatre and Giselle at the Opera House, a highlight, but praise must be given to my bolt holes of The Storyhouse and Picturehouse dark corners of warmth and solace and recuperation
- Oh and my qualification! I missed my graduation , but finally will book my gown hire tonight! Working in MIND has made me realise that I’m not an imposter when it comes to counselling. I have validation and worth as a new professional and that’s a lesson a long time coming.
- Oh and meeting that rather odd but charming German makes me realise that someone can find me attractive, even if a relationship may not be quite on the cards
And so dear readers, I wish you all well in 2026. I wish my family well, my friends well, and I wish myself well.
I’m a list maker,
So tonight, I’m booking my holidays, getting those faraway theatre ticked organised, renting my university gown and planning reunions and catch ups
As that lovely painted card on my living room wall reminds me .
Weaver’s Nature
Tonight I cooked a chicken casserole.
Comfort food
Jewish penicillin
I ate massive bowls of it in front of the fire
Watching Australia on tv
The Baz Luhrmann epic from 2008
A sob fest
Weaver appeared
Sitting on the stairs looking at me eating with hateful eyes.
Her gentle sister was sat on the trendy blue couch with the Welsh
Legs tucked under her chest, her eyes closed in happy company.
I pulled a piece of chicken from my bowl and waved it at Weaver
She cocked her head with attitude.
Like the alien did to Sigourney Weaver
“ Come on you little bitch “ I called
“ I’ve got chicken “
Weaver chunnered gently, her teeth chattered
I ignored her
Weaver circled the room knocking Christmas cards off the bookcase with attitude.
It took her 20 minutes for her to finally appear at my feet
I ignored her
To be fair she had the final chutzpah to tap my knee five times with a sheathed paw
So hoping for a bonding moment I held up a large piece of chicken from my empty bowl.
She took it as if she was doing me a favour and walked to the centre of the room rug to eat every bit , her eyes never leaving the dogs who had woken up by the mini drama but who collectively were too fearful to start something.
I picked up another piece of chicken and held it up hopefully…and
Weaver walked off to the kitchen
And I could hear her peeing on the door mat before she smashed herself through the cat flap
She even did that with attitude
Fuck off 2025
With the exception of Madrid and Qualifying as a counsellor (strangely on the same day !) 2025 has been an awful year.
It’s not been my worst but it ranks highly as a real pisser and is one that I now know I’ve almost survived
The threat of redundancy has made me view charities as businesses rather than just special places to work, and I never want to venture back to those sleepless nights where every following day may bring you the news that your job has gone alongside the way of paying for a roof over your head.
This threat brought the best and worst out in co workers
I’m so glad it’s over.
Losing the sight in my right eye is a wrench too
I’m clumsier than normal which is saying something
And that fall on the underground brought me up short too……but at least I no longer have to suffer the eye injections which were unpleasant to say the least
I feel I’m walking towards 2026 with a more sober head on
Where self care is vital
A trip to Florence, and a return to Madrid are planned
A proper return to the choir, and a judicious increase in counselling clients are on the cards
I’m making soup this afternoon.
Chorizo and bean and the fire is lit and the cottage is warm
Hey ho
He Sleeps - James Newton Howard
I fell asleep at teatime and dreamed a dream fired by a conversation with my elder sister today .
I “woke” and my grandmother was sitting quietly in the arm chair next to the fire. Finlay on her lap
The fire was reflected in her glasses and I could smell cold cream and fairy hand soap.
She was smiling and had a white cardigan on
I could even see the handkerchief she had suddenly pushed up one sleeve
Finlay smiled too
My grandfather was asleep on the couch next to me in his shirt and tie, I could smell tobacco
Winnie snoring gently next to him and across the room my aunt Dena waved gently and Albert swished a tail in his normal bad tempered way from the back of her chair.
Meg, and Willian and Dorothy lay in front of a fire I could feel from my dream and I could hear my sisters laughing from the kitchen though I couldn’t see them
When I woke , I could only see Roger in the arm chair
And all I could smell was the spiced Christmas candle given to me from a neighbour
And I suddenly felt I had missed something all rather special
Wicked ( For Good)
Note spoilers
I met a friend in Llandudno and we sat through Wicked For Good
I fell asleep in the middle which speaks volumes , but woke up soon after to see the best bits
Aka Ariana Grande ‘s comic turn where she slaps Elphaba
And of course their mostly unscripted and ad-libbed final “door” scene which got me blubbing.
But I think I would fall asleep in the middle of this one again …
Hey ho
The noise of Old Friends
I’ve know the Irish powerhouse Gráinne and Liverpudlian Hillary almost as long as I have Nu, though have seen them and their husbands more sporadically than I have my best friend. Today I remedied that by driving over to Anglesey to catch up with them all, including extended family and Nu’s husband Jim at a beautiful Georgian farmhouse just outside Beaumaris.
It was lovely.
Of course the decibel count was through the roof, but moments after sitting down at their dinner table set for 11, I was blissfully transported to back 1989 when young physiotherapists met young nurses at the Irish pubs of Sheffield .
6 am Christmas Morning
It’s cold
Mary and Roger shared my bed last night and didn’t want to get up this morning
Bun slept carefully between them, all three under the duvet.
Weaver left home for the night,
Hunting voles and shrews in the frost of the Church field no doubt.
I nurse a coffee in a mug my sister Janet gave me yesterday
Ann gave me a drone for Christmas, Janet a lovely metal robin and 10 tickets to the storyhouse cinema !
Nu sent personalised writing paper
What fun.
Before I leave the dark cottage , I’m pleased by the garland of Christmas Cards in the living room.
The last card received by hand delivery was from affable Despot Jason and family at teatime yesterday
It filled the room totally as if it was a key in a lock .
Bun plays in the discarded wrapping paper as I leave my cottage
My uniform over my arm, coffee in hand, right eye blurry as hell…..
I have decided that this is the last Christmas Day I will ever work as a nurse
43 years all told
No more
Todays hospice staff
Spritzkuchen And other Stories on Christmas Eve
Mrs Trellis called around yesterday with her erect bobble hat very evident .
She brought me a small golden alpine looking house which lit up ( in part) which was incredibly sweet of her.
She’s spending Christmas Day with a great niece and plans to re home another whippet in the spring.
I gave her a fat robin to sit under her Christmas Tree which pleased her enough to clap her hands gayly
“ God bless you!” She said as she left…and I suddenly felt as though I had been visited by one of life’s real survivors, which was nice.
Around teatime Trendy Carol called by . She was wearing something festive in green and red ( with a touch of green glitter) she delivered a bottle of Bombay Sapphire ( with massive bow,) as well as matching Christmas Jumpers for Mary & Roger. I promised they would wear them tomorrow as I’m taking them both to work with me on Christmas Day
Yesterday evening I met my sister Janet and went to the cinema to see the horror thriller The Housemaid which was a passably shite drama if you like people pulling their teeth out
I got home around 11pm so missed a plate of Spritzkuchen sat on the kitchen wall. Now generally a semi retired nurse doesn’t recognise Spritzkuchen When he sees them but when I went outside this morning to see fifteen rings of glazed dough on a plate covered in rainwater and cling film with the blurred hand written note of apology and explaination from my German friend, I was sort of pleased .
They tasted like shite ….which made me smile even more
But it is Christmas !
They tasted like shite ….which made me smile even more
But it is Christmas !
This morning I picked up 6 coffees from MacDonalds and went to meet my family in Prestatyn for coffee and cake. Now I love my eldest sister Ann dearly , but she does make crap coffee! ( hence the takeaway )
We shared gifts and cards, as I’m working all day tomorrow and when I got home some more gifts had piled up on the kitchen wall, before the postman arrived just with enough cards to fill the gap in my living room garland…..what fun
🎤🎶 Nocturne and Finlay My Christmas Card to you all…
This is my official blog Christmas Card. For those that don’t know , this is Finlay my very first Welsh Terrier.
Unlike Roger he was bright.
Unlike William he was selfish
And unlike Mary and Meg he was lazy, and cowardly but in a good way.
He was the first dog to both capture and tear my heart into pieces, and he started my love affair with a breed which is now rare, and remains the oldest in the British Isles.
I remember taking this photo 21 years ago.
Finlay was only four years old and he was asleep just before Xmas Eve in 2005
He slept through the silence of positioning the Prof’s Christmas Santa
And. Didn’t notice it as he was fast asleep, warmed by the coal fire
I remember thinking of how lucky I was that evening . My husband was asleep in his arm chair with a bad tempered Scottie called Maddie at his feet. Finlay was snoring lightly on his sofa and old Joan the cat was curled up by the fire.
The Christmas Tree was lit and it really felt like Christmas .
Like it does today
So Happy Christmas my dear friends
Happy Christmas …..I will leave you with this lovely piece above from my lovely lisping Spanish choir…it’s called Nocturn …….I was in the audience for this !
My highlight of 2025
Happy Christmas My Friends…..
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
My friend Della from the village, came with me to the carol service in Llanasa tonight. Llanasa is a picture post village located a mile and a half Northeast of Trelawnyd and its Norman church remains open, unlike our own . Della and I both miss the Trelawnyd service, with Church Warden Christine Davis proudly carrying on the peanut sized baby Jesus.as Gaynor the mad Organist looked on with pouting lips and a wry look, and so we went tonight which was sweet.
One of the most moving readings came from Betty Smith’s A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. It tells of the time poor siblings Francie and Neeley Nolan take part in a local tradition where Christmas Trees were given away to the poor, but only after they were caught after being thrown by a fierce tree seller.
The Christmas Tree is a metaphor for hope and I was rather pleasantly surprised to see it quoted tonight.
Earlier today my friend Colin dropped in unexpectedly bearing gifts of scotch eggs and a Christmas card, which was lovely and the treats continued as the Cameron’s ( one of my favourite of village families) dropped off a family made wreath at the kitchen wall……
It’s feeling rather festive today all told , and the garland of Christmas cards just under the living room ceiling is almost complete.
Dena
When I was a child my uncle Jim divorced his wife and went to live with a woman from South Yorkshire ! The woman was twenty five years (?) his junior and hailed from a family that was colourfully working class and I remember so vividly just how shamed my grandparents felt at the news as they talked in hushed tones and cried together in the privacy of their bedroom.
Yesterday that woman, my aunt Dena from South Yorkshire died . Peacefully in a local hospice
I still love my grandparents so very much and it's nearly four decades after they died, but I know that they could not have coped with me being gay, not in the early 1980s. They thought and were shamed by things that shamed and upset people from another era........we don't live in that world anymore .
Having said this, my grandparents eventually came around to my Uncle's new life, much younger wife and bonny baby grandson. They did this because my new aunt was and is a decent woman with a warm personality. My cousin was a delightful little boy and my Uncle was loved so very much.
Loving him, for them, finally out weighed any prejudice they felt.
I would have liked to have come out to my grandparents. I would have liked to have come out to my
mother and father too, but it was never to be and it was never the right time........ c'est la vie as they say in Frenchland.......
I still love my grandparents so very much and it's nearly four decades after they died, but I know that they could not have coped with me being gay, not in the early 1980s. They thought and were shamed by things that shamed and upset people from another era........we don't live in that world anymore .
Having said this, my grandparents eventually came around to my Uncle's new life, much younger wife and bonny baby grandson. They did this because my new aunt was and is a decent woman with a warm personality. My cousin was a delightful little boy and my Uncle was loved so very much.
Loving him, for them, finally out weighed any prejudice they felt.
I would have liked to have come out to my grandparents. I would have liked to have come out to my
mother and father too, but it was never to be and it was never the right time........ c'est la vie as they say in Frenchland.......
I did come out to my Aunt Dena who wrote to me often, enquiring about my life, loves and news.
She sent me a gift when I got married, a vase which sits on my bathroom window ledge
When I told Auntie Gladys that The Prof was my partner ( before we all met up for one of my first Flower Show Meetings) I was acutely aware that in some small way I was "re-living" a moment I
wanted so much to have had with the matriarchs of my old family all now deceased .
It wasn't rocket science....in homespun psychology terms!
I said the words that I really didn't have to say and waited with winced eyes for the reaction.
Gladys was 86 back then.
"Will he be coming to the meeting too? " She asked me, her eyes were bright and interested
" I don't think it's his cup of tea" I told her
" Right O " she said busying herself with a tea towel " " I'll wrap up some scones for him to have later"
And she left him scones, tied in a bag to our front door for the next ten years!
Christmas Week 2004
A memory flashed into consciousness after a patient watched a film full of bonnets and tailcoats.
Christmas Week 2004. I was at work at the Spinal Injury Unit in Sheffield’s Northern General Hospital . My husband was off work and had gone for a riding lesson, so had strode onto the ward in riding boots and tight fitting jodhpurs. He also was tall and often held himself with a slight imperious air, so when he asked for me, a wisecracking Yorkshire nurse called Alexa scurried from the nurses station into the ward round multi disciplinary meeting where I was busy with the consultants and psychologist and physios and hissed at me
“ There’s a Mr Darcy to see you John” she shared rather breathlessly “His breeches are magnificent !”
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