Counselling

 

I’m back counselling today. 

It was icy and road conditions were difficult, but I got to MIND early, had a zoom meeting with my supervisor then saw clients until three.

My head was full, so I dropped into the one and only Starbucks ( something I never do ) for a coffee, ham something and a self debrief.

The coffee house was filled by women and girls on laptops.

I sat and made mental notes about my clients, that way you leave the emotions they share with you at the door. Having Said this there is always the moment you can pick those emotions up and that’s a real no no Human , but a no no. 

If you have a headache after facilitating therapy, you need to roll the emotions out away from yourself 

The coffee and ham sandwich helped.

So did the self debrief.

An open window left screamingly open in the icy air clears the head too.

I bought coffee logs from Lidl and cheap scented candles from the reduced price shelf beforehand but the bustle didn’t help my reboot , so Starbucks here’s to you, no blaring music, quiet corners to hide away in

Few screaming kids

I watched the Baristas and thought about the fires in California 

A sequence where some homeowners were leading their horses to safety amid a flurry of sparks only to be “interviewed” by an over zealous insensitive reporter came to mind

It’s a mad world

Having said this, this reported showed much welcomed humanity when coming across a young man fleeing his burning house with hardly anything…..

Roger Brings Them Home

 It is a terribly icy last night.

After a rather lacklustre Archers episode, I marshalled the Welsh and took them out of the living room front door for a wee walk. 

I thought I had shut the door behind us

The lane was dangerously icy, and in the dark we had to shelter in Trendy Carol’s drive to let some farm traffic to roar through. The dogs weed on patches of snow by the sheep gate on tip toe and as I waited, Roger barked at something towards the cottage, something in the dark as the lane light was still out of order. 

Tottering into view came the twins. 

Wide eyed and panicked on their first venture outside

I hurried back, fearful of more traffic, and let Roger pull forward 

He dropped his head and Bun quickly rubbed it with hers 

And both kittens followed Roger home as me and Mary brought up the rear 

- September

I can’t dance

Never have been able to.

Some of that is my dyspraxia 

Mostly I have a limited sense of rhythm 

And a huge dollop of self consciousness 

The last time I danced was with a patient at her request

She asked me about my bucket list and I mentioned dancing

She shared it was one of her wishes to dance again

As it turned out she had less than a week to live

So she asked me to dance, a funny silly little dance

Me in my navy uniform, she in pyjamas and fluffy slippers 

And we danced in her room after pushing a set of drawers against the door so no one else could see.

Fuck You

 

Weaver remains aloof with me and darn right aggressive  with the Welsh. 

If she was human, she would be termed as a damaged adolescent 

She certainly has issues.

She clearly loves her sister 

And just occasionally she will allow me an ear scratch but only when I’m supine in bed

But if the dogs are in any close proximity, she is a tiger, a Shere Khan, crossed with Vicky Pollard

If she could speak she’d be yelling FUCK YOU 

With her middle claw extended

Before punching you smartly in the face.

Oh the shame of owning a daughter with such problems 

Is she A Bad Seed? Roseanne’s Darlene? Dolores  Umbridge ? A Bette Davies Baby Jane? 

Bun remains sweet, and acts as though she should be wearing a gingham dress and pigtails 

Weaver I bet is upstairs pulling the wings off flies. 

It’s a shame

I will be letting them loose on the village soon

Gawd help us all

When I’m Calling You!!

 Blogging to me is a bit like a one sided chat

Sometimes it’s a deeper conversation

Sometimes it’s a lecture

Sometimes it’s a bit of whimsy

I can’t stand blogs that tells its audience what it thinks of them

Pompous 

The trip to work last night was dreadful but I drove 30 miles praying that Bluebell’s dodgy windscreen wiper wouldn’t come loose again

It did, of course.

These things always do.

I’m day dreaming of my bed 

I love my new duvet. 

I cleaned it and the bedding the day before Colin arrived so it’s still fragrant and devoid of kitten paws 

It’s calling to me like Rose Marie belting out the Indian Love Call to Sergeant  Bruce

I won’t be long my love

I call back

Snow

 

I’m on night shift so am just going back to bed 

Hopefully it will be clearer later

Takeaway and lunch

 My friend Colin came over from Liverpool last night and we drank wine, ate a Chinese takeaway and gossiped. He’s a true cat person so Bun and Weaver made a bee line for him.

I was jealous 

This afternoon I went to the Mostyn Gallery to see the works by Greek painter Apostolos Georgiou

After popping into Waterstones I met my friends Ben and Ruth for lunch at Providero ( soup to die for ) and left earlyish to get home before the snow warning

# nice weekend

A Little Story About Grief

 

Nearly fifteen years ago now, I had a conversation with Auntie Gladys.

I remember it as if it was yesterday .

We were sat at her kitchen table with tea and scones. The scones she had just baked on the off chance of someone calling. The tea was served in a mug. 

All men drank tea from mugs according to Auntie Glad

Only women drank tea from cups with saucers.

Her kitchen was immaculate  and testament to her cataracts , as she always over cleaned everywhere just in case, and her eyes were always a watery blue, like topaz seen through gauze,  as she regarded you carefully and always with much affection.

We talked about a mutual acquaintance from Bron Haul who had recently died and the conversation veared to the personal and the painful; memories of her daughter, Edwina who had been killed in a car accident aged 16. 

“ I went to bed” Gladys said simply “ I went to bed and didn’t care for anything or anybody’” 

She paused and put a warm, dry hand on mine

“ It was a dreadful time” she said her sing song Welsh accent hiding the emotion “I’d given up”

“ But then came the Doctor, who marched up those very stairs” she pointed to the hallway where her Regency Staircase stood, one which was once part of a private boys school.

“ He said Gladys my girl, enough is enough. You need to get out of bed !  I have got you a job cleaning in a solicitors in Holywell ! You start on Monday” 

Gladys clapped her hands and laughed at the memory

“In those days you did what the Doctor told you to do, as they had the learning and we didn’t 

I got up, washed my face and went to work, and it was the saving of me . The Lord sent me the doctor that day and do you know what John 

I’ve  always been busy since” 

We drank more tea and gossiped more about village news and I realised  that what was a charming little story, a snippet of whimsy, was in fact a story that hid a great deal of pain. 

Gladys, buttered more scones and poured more tea and wrapped the scones in brown paper for me to take home. 

I was happy, sat at that table 

I was a child again, listening to my Grandmother’s  voice. 

Safe and comfortable in a warm kitchen that smelled of baking.