DeBrief

Mary, carefully waiting for her sausage to arrive

 If my counselling day is dull and cool, then I am getting into the habit to taking the Welsh with me. They are walked before hand, and patiently sleep in the car for the hour and a half I am away, after which it’s a walk on the beach and a shared sausage sandwich at Parisella’s.

I’ve said it before, but the beach provides a wonderful debrief for me, where the off shore wind, literally sweeps through my head like a new broom.

Mary, sits with me, bolt upright, careful to miss nothing.

Roger is pulling on the lead, trying to beg crumbs from the next table .

He’s succeeding to , 

I let my brain wash away from the sadness, of complicated lives, and of anxious thoughts 

And I watch my aged Welsh Girl patiently waiting for her part of the sandwich

Her old brown eyes, bright in the anticipation . 

And I realise, all over again, that I love her so very much

Over to the magnificent lisping Spanish choir

Have I ever told you that I went to Madrid to hear them live?

It’s them at their best with a love Matters Medley 

A Conversation

 “ I didn’t want to leave my brothers”

1989 Walkley, Sheffield

My father was talking about joining the RAF at the height of the War 

He became a navigator on a Wellington Bomber

I would have picked up on that statement now, and would have explored it.

Then, aged 27, it lurked just there

Hanging between us.

He died three months after visiting, 

Just three months

My father never spoke of his relationship with his father, 

All I knew was that his father was bad tempered, Scottish and old fashioned

When I was nearly sixty, I found out from an aunt that he was physically abused 

Typical of the first born in a family of three boys 

his abuse, protecting his younger brothers.

My father had no voice about all this

He never was shown how,

And I wish I known then, what I know now.

Then I would have told him that despite our own problems in the father/son timeline 

Just for the fact he coped and protected his siblings 

He was my hero

The Vulture

Daily, I try to read a vintage post. 

One that is at least a decade old, if not older 

This one amused me today 

It was written in 2011

The shed behind the cottage, has always been nicknamed "The High Dependency Unit" by Chris, who is almost always  exasperated by the fact that it always seems to be populated with some sick animal receiving treatment.

Today Theresa is the patient. Theresa for those that don't know is the turkey that turned up two years ago sitting quite comfortably thank you very much in the boot of car. I was asked by her owner if I could mate her with Boris to he could rear some turkey poults. I agreed and Boris duly "did the deed", but then the owner seemed rather reluctant to collect her again........and bless she kind of ...well...just stayed

Presently, Theresa has a bit of a bad chest, so has been receiving intensive tit bit therapy as well as oral antibiotics. She has perked up quite nicely, and as she is one lazy bird, I think she has actually enjoyed the rest and comfort of a quiet shed with everything "laid on" as it were.

To give her a bit of UV therapy first thing, I opened the shed door for a bit and went to have my morning coffee, and as the shed opens up to the lane,any occupant can be seen by anyone passing the cottage.

A while later,through the window, I spied a man with his son out walking. The boy must have been around seven and I could hear him chattering excitedly as they both saw Theresa sunning herself by the egg boxes.

"Dadddddd....look! there's a vulture in that shed" the boy gasped

The father sounded like one of those new-age dads..encouraging and gentle natured. 

"I don't think it would be a vulture Ben" he said "they can be rather dangerous"

"Is it an eagle then?" Ben asked

"I am not sure" Ben's father said making things up as he went along "It's not a bird of prey"

"What is it then?" Ben asked " a white pheasant?"

"No I think it is some sort of exotic bird" his father continued to bullshit and started to sound testy

"He's got a bald head" Ben said "like a vulture...I bet you it's a white vulture" 

"I don't think he's a vulture" Dad repeated with a loud dismissive sigh....

I couldn't resist it...

I walked out of the cottage, pretending to put out the rubbish and said hello as the two of them continued to lean over the wall looking at Theresa who now was asleep

"What's kind of bird is that" the father asked brightly?

I didn't hesitate

"It's a white vulture" I said with a smile.

Felipe

 The car goes in to the garage for a couple of days, so I’m marooned.

Before this happened, I shopped, ran errands and met my sister in law for lunch.

It was raining and humid when I got home and I found myself reading an article on King Juan Carlos and

Queen Sophia of Spain.

He was a bit of a dog to her by all accounts, 

I got enthralled in the Spanish Royal family and forgot to blog 

Silly me. 

I like Felipe, he is also an arguably more progressive monarch than Queen Elizabeth or King Charles In 2015, Felipe became the first monarch to appear on the cover of gay magazine, Ragap. The cover photo was in connection with a profile the magazine ran on King Felipe's progressiveness with regards to "homosexual, bisexual, and transsexual topics." That is not the first or only progressive move King Felipe has made in this area, though. He was the first Spanish head of state to meet with LGBT groups — and he did so during his very first week in office. 

Bloody lovely

I remember that I never mentioned the death of Donald Sutherland an interesting actor who became a firm favourite after shining in the likes of Dont Look Now, Mash, Klute and Ordinary People. 

As an old man, his best performance was in this scene as Mr Bennett in Pride and Prejudice. Underplaying Knightly and winning the scene

A few examples of what I binged on Netflix 

The Fox and The Dog

 

In 41 years nursing, I have done my fair share of nights. 

During that time, I have had one enduring memory of a favourite shift. 

This was at the Princess Royal Spinal Injuries Unit in Sheffield where I was the senior nurse in Charge of the four Osborn wards.

It was summer and around five dawn was bringing warmth and light to FirthPark, FirVale and Longly, the poorer parts of the Steel  city. The Northern General Hospital with its 1000 beds was located centrally, effectively separated  from the real world by a wall, railings and small copses of trees. Such a copse featured as the backdrop to the spinal unit and this morning I remember watching a Jack Russell Terrier play with an adult urban fox in the urban meadow formed by my buildings.

It was a glorious and intensely personal experience, seen only, I presume by me and I was captivated by the pair who chased and rolled and yapped and jumped around the small field together like puppies

Sometimes, an experience like that lifts the heart in its warm reality, and to this day I remember it as if it was only yesterday. 

The fox, magnificent in russet red, and the little white terrier, open mouthed smiling and breathless, frolicking as most of Sheffield slept on

Aladdin - Grupo Talía

Voice

 I always listen to my inner voice.

It’s rarely let me down even when it’s being fickle or playful or god forbid sexual in any way.

Yesterday my inner voice saw a guy in the supermarket. Broad and bearded like me, we held a look a millisecond longer than “ normal” and my inner voice told me repeat the process, which we did at the checkout where the hint of a smile was shared. 

In counselling that inner voice can can be useful, it can cut through, bullshit, or a lack of client awareness to the truth of a situation or feeling and like a benign basset hound, can lead you to psychologically sniff again at a certain spot, in order to clarify or to probe. 

At the hospice the inner voice will pick on the imminently dying, recognising that the light in a person being extinguished

We all need to listen to this voice when it is trying to protect us too.

The moment it makes us hesitate, to pause, to breathe.

It’s primeval 

Innate

And is there for a reason

Blood Red Geraniums

 

Trelawnyd is quieter today.

Well it is, down beyond the lane.

You can still hear the rumble of traffic on London Road, but it feels muted, allowing for bird song to filter through as well as the cried and shrieks of the children over in the school. 

I’ve walked the dogs down the lane to Graham’s fields and house martins ( only 6 of them mind you) are swimming the grass tops for insects. 

Through his fringe Roger is watching them and he sits. 

I pick lumps of moss from inside the dry stone wall of the field which I shall mulch around the stems of the geraniums.

Red geraniums are Spain to me

Of well looked after window boxes and of cheerful happy days of bright sunshine .

They lift the cottage out of its Welshness

And hint at a woman’s touch.

The old fragrant roses I planted a few years ago are doing well. The glorious yellow of the 1940s Ice Cream that my friend Colin gave me for my 60th hints at its vintage scent as does the Raspberry Ripple on the back garden arch

The wren that Janet bought me for this year’s birthday has weathered in nicely already, blink and you’d miss it as it stands guard over the back door. 

I’m making proper Chinese chicken and sweet corn soup for supper and have cut more yellow hawkbit from the lane to mix with Albert’s old catnip flowers as I let the stock stand . 

It’s good to have sun on my face