Depression is a cunt

 

I met a friend for breakfast today.
They have been low for a long time and are probably very depressed.
We meet monthly for coffee, more if they are up to it.

Depression is a cunt.

I listened and made them laugh just the once 
But when we said our goodbyes 
I felt as helpless as ever

But , I hugged my friend close and for the longest of times
And kissed them squarely on the forehead 
Which I hoped meant something.


The Book of Love - The Dutch Tenors


The day hasn’t turned out as it had planned to be. 
I took myself off to the University library in Rhos to work for the day.
It was uncharacteristically shut, so I bought a coffee and parked on the Promenade to listen to the rain and the waves.
There I promptly fell asleep long enough for a concerned passerby to knock on the window to see if I was alright.
I dropped into the supermarket, the pet store and then Jackson’s Nurseries in Trelawnyd where I bought a coffee plant and some candlesticks 


Tonight I’ve  got a friend coming to supper
Homemade lasagne, mango salad and strawberries and ice cream ( with chocolate sauce) 



New Routine

 My five year Dorothy routine is in disarray.
The Welsh like a lie in, and walks are not greeted with an hysteria bordering on a1960s Beatles concert.
So I’m starting the day later in general , in a quieter, less fraught environment.
My blood pressure will benefit, I’m sure.

I have a journal to complete for college.
This time centring upon a childhood memory, resurrected during personal development group. I have a few in mind and discussed possibilities with myself during dog walks this morning. 
I am a big self chatterer. 

I have picked a rather painful memory when I challenged my mother about the level of her drinking.
Instead of exploring the subject, brought up by a gauche and very young 17 year old, she did what she often did and retreat to bed blaming her unhappiness on me or us ( her children) 
Incredibly passive aggressive and exceptionally dysfunctional, her behaviour found its mark  and , I found  myself ultimately apologising for upsetting her, which in retrospect was a terribly skewed expectation of an adolescent to behave .

And so I’ve tossed the memory around this morning. That’s half the battle all told. Memories can warp themselves into passable chunks. I just need to map out the essay,

In half an hour I need to take Trendy Carol’s Hubby for a hospital appointment, he is a regular attender and I’m happy to take him. I will refer to him in the future as Ieuan which the Welsh version of John.
Today I found the ceramic heart on the kitchen wall, a gift from the velvet voiced Linda and a few days before the pencil drawing of Dorothy was left on Bluebell’s passenger seat by Margaret from Choir,
Kindnesses go far….


I’ve made a lasagne today as I’ve a friend coming over for supper tomorrow.





Silvia Sanz Torre









If Silvia Sanz Torre was conducting my choir, I’d do out if my way to please her. That’s the sign of a charismatic choir master.
In my mind charisma and passion go side by side, you see it in the great divas such as Diana Damrau, who Command  the stage with a certain something, that if you could bottle it, it would send a rocket far into space. I saw her once in New York at The Met singing The Queen of the night aria and you could literally feel the audience stiffen in glee as she started her chorus.
Peter Ustinov had oodles of charisma in spades too but his passion used to lie with words and with stories as many actors do
Audrey Hepburn had a still charisma. The late Queen a strength behind the eyes. 
And I’m remembering The Red Faced Welsh Farmer here, who looked and sounded like an old pirate 
And whose charisma was funnelled under a beanie had and a battered red landrover.

Without a bulldog to wake me up, I slept in after night shift. The Welsh patiently wait their turn to go out and we’ve just returned from an afternoon walk and venture to the supermarket for treats.
It’s wet and cold and I’ve heated up chowder and garlic bread which I’m going to eat with a serving spoon. 
I’ve made garlic bread for me and a small mozzarella bun for the Welsh,  when cool they  will take their buns away to enjoy in a dark corner. 
Dogs adore cheese.




 

Feels Like Home


The little bow of acknowledgment lifted this humorous encounter into something so much more ……special I always think.
This moments are rare 
I was moaning about something only yesterday. 
Something about a friend letting me down.
I what’s chunnering away to myself, whipping things up when there was no need to.
I don’t deal with rejection well, I never have.
Friends don’t let me down, they just say no occasionally 

And Dorothy listened to that, 
She always did. 
Yesterday I went banging along and the Welsh remained firmly dozing.
Sure an ear would twitch 
And a half eye would open, 
But content they were not the centre of my moan, 
They rested the rest of the just, 
And slept.

Dorothy however would take everything on board.
I miss those big eyes, unblinking and watching carefully as I moaned and kvetched and shared that life isn’t always a bed of roses.
Like Mr Kim’s nod, she had the ability to acknowledge things with a long serious look
Even though she had no idea of what was being said.


She was my confidante, my conscience….my priest 

And she would never look away……….  

Mixed Bag


It’s sunny this morning. Sunny enough to warm the south facing stone wall of the cottage by 9.30 am.



Taskmaster has restarted this week, and Sophie Willan had me in stitches with the hooplaring of Gary ( watch it from 4.30 to see what I mean )
I’ve drank coffee and was mindful by eating some hot cross buns covered with clumps of butter for breakfast


Last night’s The Kite Runner was an interesting adaptation of the multi awarded book. It lacked a bit of drama for me given the epic nature of some of the story but the lead (Stuart Vincent) was impressive enough. 




I’m working the weekend on nights 


The aubretia is flowering

Good Friday


 I’m not a lover of Easter. 
It feels what it is, a now defunct holiday with no purpose or reason.
The supermarket was packed today, which told me enough
Just an excuse to waste money.

Having said that, I bought some chocolate eggs for the work staff . I am on nights tomorrow and Sunday, and felt I wanted to treat those on duty. It’s not that long ago, that I bought eggs to hide in the garden for my mother -in-law to find. It is her birthday over Easter and it was always a silly tradition I used to stage for her. 
I doubt she would remember it now.

I bought flowers for the cottage and pigs ears for the Welsh, and some noodle ready meals to use over the weekend, and I’ve washed clothes and underwear which are festooned over the bushes and back kitchen walls to dry. I’ve messaged my friend Ben in Korea and spoke to Nu. 
Easter is usually a quiet weekend.

I’ve been invited to Gwawr’s 40th at the hall and will pop there later after I go to the theatre. 

 

Monster

 A rainy day and a cold one.
I walked the dogs and left them cuddled up asleep and went to the Chester Storyhouse. I was too early so had pad Thai in the Market and ate it with chopsticks on one of the communal tables in the vast dining room


Monster is a carefully crafted study of the pain of feeling what you feel when you are a pre teen, and everything is not quite what you think it is. Seen in a long series of flashbacks taken from differing points of view from a succession of characters we watch single mother (Sakura Ando) trying to understand why her young son Minato ( Soya Kurosawa) is acting so strangely. She hears through the grapevine that his outwardly diffident teacher Mr Hori ( Eita Nagayami) is bullying him and as she battles with the grief stricken and obsequious headmistress ( Yuko Tanaka) it is suggested that Minato is in fact bullying  another boy, the gentle and slightly effeminate Eri ( Hinata Hiiragi) 

Like the skin on an onion, director Hirokazu Kor-eda, slowly peels away the reality of the story with some care and with a Japanese eye, examines  homophobia, physical and sexual abuse, and maintaining honour and saving face within the story of two boys growing up.

Yuko Tanaka

It’s an incredibly fascinating and rather sad story all told , acted beautifully by all involved. Ando and Nagayami are especially strong as the lioness mother and bemused teacher and veteran actress Yuko Tanaka is compelling in her emotionless turn as the damaged headmistress.  

Kor-eda finally brings all the threads together by the final reel , but he gives the audience two endings, one hopeful, one tragic .

I’d like to think everyone picked the hopeful one

I’m off to Chester again tomorrow , but this time to the theatre to see The Kite Runner. How lucky am  I Japan one day Kabul the next .


'What Me Mam Taught Me'


Sometimes your evening doesn’t quite work out the way you expect it would . 
John Copper Clarke

I went to see the poet and raconteur John Copper Clarke last night. 
And I kind of fell in love with fellow poet Mike Garry who was supporting him. 
They sound the same.
A thick, proud Mancunian accent. 
Nasal and rhythmical, his poems of childhood and a rough working class life in a Northern City had an obvious energy and life to them, and he lived each one with the power of an evangelist preacher.
I was captivated from start to finish, so much so that I was slightly disappointed when Cooper Clarke came on stage, late and ever so slightly drunk. 
At seventy five John Cooper Clarke is still the old king of his craft, and he performed a good selection of his poems with a wry wit which is both appealing and affectionate. But he is much more an all rounder now, more a stand up comic who hurtles one liners out like machine gun bullets rather than just a performing poet. 
I felt as though Mike Garry was his younger version 
Having said that, I remember one short poem which had the audience screaming in laughter when Cooper Clarke lugubriously threw away his short poem called Necrophilia 
“ Are you fed up with foreplay and all that palaver? 
‘Ave a cadaver” 
Cooper Clarke and Mike Garry

A Little Piece Of Home


In the wee small hours this is broadcast on BBC Radio 4 fM
I tune in perhaps three or four times a year
And there it is 
Like poetry, or a prayer
More about that tomorrow….it’s been a poetry led evening and I’m feeling suddenly melancholy 

Sweet dreams ( thank you Philip xx)



Bluebell



When you’re single you have no back up! 
Bluebell was taxed last year but the MOT just passed me by and so I was lucky my nephew could fit her into his garage today at very short notice.
By the end of the day , she was serviced and MOTeed and was sitting proudly in the drive at the end of the garden , a constant friend in my 61st year. 
On reflection I have underestimated just how much she has been a good mate to me these past five years, and only very occasionally has she let me down.
This week is a case in point, not only do I have to nights to commute to, I’ve got John Cooper Clarke to go and see at venue Cymru and The Kite Runner is on stage at the Storyhouse. In Chester on Friday .
No car
No social life.
No work
No life

Anyhow it’s Interior Design Masters tonight on tv.
Which is camp as Christmas 

I’ve made macaroni cheese for tea, with onlyRoger in tow, Mary has been loaned out to Trendy Carol’s Hubby again today.



Two night Shift Stories

Nurses get paid more for night shifts. They bloody well deserve it too
It’s a completely unnatural time to be working, which encroaches not only on the day you work but the day before and the day after.
It’s like being effectively jet lagged once a week and research has proved the practice to be dangerous to physical and psychological well being .
Working nights can also be dangerous. You are on minimal staffing, have minimal resources , and in 40 years I have been involved in several violent situations , all centred on a night shift where help often didn’t come.
Night time, is also the time people are at their lowest ebb…..that’s why more people pass away in the wee small hours than anytime else. 

My worst night shift ever was back in my psychiatric days 

“ After I qualified as a staff nurse in mental health' I got a job in a prestigious psychiatric hospital in North Yorkshire. The hospital had only seven wards which were all situated within a beautiful Regency style building in it's own grounds. The wards were carpeted and sympathetically decorated in a period style and their day rooms filled with comfortable sofas and occasional furniture.It was a pleasant place in which to work.
I was placed on the mother and baby unit , where seriously ill post partum women and their offspring were admitted for treatment, but most of the other wards catered for acutely mentally ill patients, patients with cognitive impairments and people suffering severe epilepsy..
Staffing generally was very good , but when there was an emergency situation on a ward then an alarm bell would sound and each ward would send a " runner" to help with whatever problem was afoot. No wards were ever locked.
I was telling some of the junior staff this story last night whilst on a break, as a sort of lesson of how Intensive Care is one of the few places in nursing that is probably safest from assault and injury ....things in the early 1980s could be very different!
I remember one night at the hospital when at around 4am the alarm bell sounded. I was one of the five nurses who responded to the call,
The emergency was on the epilepsy assessment ward , a ward staffed by both general and mental health nurses. On duty were three nurses. A heavily pregnant girl, a young staff nurse just out of training and an experienced male staff nurse. All three had been sitting in what was essentially a glass box which overlooked the dormitory of patients on two sides.
The office was essentially an observation room.
Out of nowhere, a powerfully built male patient had suddenly become agitated and very confused and had hurled himself at the windows of the nurses station. He shattered the glass with his body, and like an animal he went for the nurses inside. The male nurse hit the emergency buzzer then bolted out of the office to get help, but as he ran, the office door bounced shut , locking the two women inside. The pregnant nurse, with great presence of mind clambered over a desk and jumped through a window into the grounds to safety but unfortunately the patient caught hold of the young female staff nurse before she could flee.
By the time we arrived on the scene a couple of minutes later, the patient had fractured her jaw and had broken her arm as well as biting her badly on the side of the face.
This was the only time , I have been truly frightened at work Over the years I have been personally abused many times by patients and relatives alike. I have been screamed at, shouted at, spat at and in one case threatened with a broken teapot! but this situation with a brain damaged patient and a young helpless staffnuse still lingers long in the mind.
A scary story to share with a group of nurses in the wee small hours of the morning eh?”

But as usual things need a balance and this short take should fit the bill



 Christmas  Night 1986
It was very cold and snowy and I remember.
I wasn’t very happy.
I had just started work in the November.

A new staff nurse role, in a new city of York
I’d barely been there a month and still lived at the nurses’ home at Clifton Hospital a couple of miles out of the city.
I knew no one properly and I was homesick
And already I had been put onto night duty.
The ward was quiet. 
A psychiatric admission ward with twelve or so general admission patients and an attached mother and baby unit with a half complement of two mums and two newborns.
We had three staff of duty. Staff nurses clive and I covered the main ward and Sue who was a motherly enrolled nurse took charge of the nursery.
Around midnight Sue and I were in the darkened office, each of us feeding a baby.
I couldn’t see her face properly just a glint of her glasses from the lights from the snowy garden.
She was asking me about me, and I had been yacking on in the dark for an age.
I had no idea what I was doing but my baby was large and content and sleepy so from the get go..so I was lucky.
“ Are you gay John? “  she seemed to ask me out of nowhere and she nodded when I defensively replied no, just a little too quickly .
“it’s ok if you were you know? ” She said slowly in her broad flat Yorkshire accent  “I’ve always loved gay men”

And in the comfortable silence that followed, something quietly and inexplicably shifted in me 

As we fed babies in the dark on Christmas Day”

Everybody


My favourite lisping Spanish choir
And orchestra 
Can anyone spot my favourite woodwind player??



 

The Art Wall part 1

 The next couple of blogs will explain, in part, the significance of the paintings, and drawings and prints and fabrics chosen. It’s not static, it has to be fluid , but most, (but not all) have a special significance to me

First it is this little map 


This was a gift , a secret Santa gift given to me on the first Christmas I worked at the hospice. It was given to me by Sionad a woman that couldn’t be more Welsh if you had dipped her in a mixture dragon poo and Bara Brith

It signifies the purchase of my cottage. A thing that could only have happened when I managed to get a full time job and a contract saying so. Despite my age, the Halifax took me on as a customer and the cottage and the village remained mine and Sionad remembered my relief on that day and had the map made accordingly as a Christmas gift.

Note there is a heart and a Gray ( Grey) one where the cottage stands


Catherine, Princess of Wales reveals cancer diagnosis


A pitch perfect reply to Fleet Street et al
Gracious and supportive and incredibly Brave 
Brava !! 

Finished

 It’s Friday and I’ve finished the kitchen and it’s Friday and I’ve passed my filmed Counselling assessment I will have the opportunity to critically assess my own skills next week, as we have to write an essay review.
I hate seeing myself on video.

The weather is brighter today and Trendy Carol’s Hubby phoned to see if one of the dogs could go around to keep him company. I’ve sent Mary around because she loves a cuddle slightly more than Roger.
The kitchen now looks fresh and clean. 
I’ve used a Jasmine White only in order to allow the colours of the paintings to pop a little, but as you can see, nothing matches too well, which suits me just fine.

Can you see the felt scotch egg hanging from the window!!!





Morale and A Memory

Morale at work is low, it always is when a much loved workmate dies unexpectedly and staff gather together to morn, to talk, remember and gain comfort. I’ve not been back to work since Ann’s death but I’ve been in touch with others I work with and now am able to go to her funeral as others that didn’t know her well are kindly now covering my shift.. As a Manager I have dealt with similar scenarios and you just have to have broad shoulders and an open office door. 

The following blog of a decade ago, was flagged up by a follower this morning. He emailed me with a kind, thoughtful observation which I shall take on board and I will share the blog with you today.
On reflection I’m rather proud of it, and I’ve enjoyed the memory


“I have often heard that cats are attracted to people that either don't like them or are frightened of them. Such is the fickle and rather demanding nature of felines.
Dogs on the other hand seldom approach someone who does not want to be approached. They, like insecure children, need and love adulation and will often grab it whenever it is offered.
They are wrong footed when they feel rejected, like toddlers can be.

Every night The Prof is approached by Winnie after he has sat down heavily into his armchair.
She doesn't bounce like the terriers, nor does she jump up to rest huge paws on a knee, she just sits and looks, waiting for that big kiss on a face the size of a large dinner plate.
To be fair to the Prof, he never wanted or indeed even likes bulldogs. Winnie's arrival was a kind of fait accompli which drove him almost to distraction, so he kind of tolerates the big old girl, without offering the sloppy affection I give her, every single day.
But every day. Winnie wanders up to the Prof as he taps away at emails that need reading, and rather seriously she will lower herself down like a fat woman negotiating a deck chair, her eyes never leaving his face. There she will wait,sometimes for an age, for him to look over his spectacles to acknowledge her.

I watch this scenario every single night.

The acknowledgement always comes eventually.
It's never, however, a kiss on a big sloppy face. Nor is it an overwhelming coo-cooing an old lady gives to her pekingese but eventually the Prof will look slowly down from his work and without a smile he will pat the big girl firmly on the head .
Winnie will always battle for more. She will wave a fat paw at the Prof in a futile attempt for him to pat longer and hard as it may seem on the surface, I realised that all this is a kind of game the two of them play.
She is more than happy with that one pat!


It's a dance between bulldog and stoney faced academic.”



A Beer With Eleanor

 I love meeting Chic Eleanor in the pub at early doors. The place is usually filled with blue collar chaps relaxing after work, so the sight of an attractive woman calling  out “ Oh Darling lovely to see you!” Seems to turn everyone’s heads with a slight envy.
We drank Cruzcampo beer and put the world to rights and I was home in time to watch Interior Design Masters which is camp as Christmas. 
It was lovely to see her 

Today I’m painting, and I’m late starting. With no bulldog to wake me up, I sleep as long as the Welsh do and they love their lie ins . 
The place looks like the wreck of the Hesperus 



Running Dogs

 Skills assessment today.
An important day, because if we fail this we’re off the course.
Our counselling scenario is videoed and assessed by our tutor and a second marker. If we pass then I have to reassess and critique the video in its entirety. 
I think it went ok, but you can never be sure, and the criteria for passing is justifiably stringent.
I was very aware that at one point my post covid  cough got the better of me and I barked out one so forcefully that I farted in unison.
Does one acknowledge ones own farts in a counselling situation ? 
I’m my case I did not ! Hey ho

So back to painting, the kitchen . 
My latest piece of art is Eniko Eged ‘ Running Dogs which is away getting framed 
It’s lovely



Burleigh

 

Washing crockery is mindful, especially when it’s hand painted Burleigh Ware where you can see beautiful plants and flowers, designed with a stroke of a brush. My favourite pieces were gifts from my sisters and they are rare finds indeed, being potties designed to be sat on. 
The cheeseboard in the front was designed and made by my sister Janet and that is my favourite piece of pottery in the kitchen.
There is something very pleasing when these pieces sing in the sunlight.

My cottage kitchen is quirky for It has three windows. Two look back into the back garden and a small one faces the lane. Most people that walk the lane are locals so they respect  my privacy more than  intermittent walkers who I often catch peeking through the window with idle curiosity. 
Before cleaning the paintwork I opened up the widow wide, letting the noises of the Churchyard spill into the cottage. From the open window I can see the 13th Century Prayer Cross as well as my laburnum sapling which remains robust and healthy and optimistic .