This week in pictures

Near where I live, The Roaches taken from Morridge Top.



The view out of my therapy room at work.



The tree in next doors garden that I watch whilst eating breakfast in my kitchen.



Consall Gardens in Staffordshire which I went round on Wednesday, the last day they are open ever.



Another view in these spectacular gardens

For my Dad, least we forget.

So in the same way I did something to connect with my mother after she died I did the same for my Dad after he died.

My Dad was born in 1929 and was therefore just a year too young to be involved in the war, much to his disgust,as it was Dad's dearest wish to be in the army.
But it was not to be and the war ended. My father had an amazing sense of loyalty which in a way made life very difficult for him. And so for his job he joined the family business. He was the youngest of three, but both his older sister and brother were not prepared to have anything to do with the business. In fact they were both a bit feckless and spent years being financially supported by their parents.

But not Dad, he joined his father managing their loriner business ( Walsall, where I come from is the centre of the saddlery industry and a loriners make the buckles bits and stirrups that go with the horses equipment.)

He met and married by Mum, and as already stated they were very much in love and very happy. But Dad hated his job, so to make his life outside of home bearable, he joined the Territorial Army. He loved playing part time soldier. He loved going to the drill hall once or twice a week and doing whatever the soldiers did there. He loved the annual camp that he was sent on. He rose through the ranks finally to the rank of Major and was awarded the TD medal with bar eventually.

He was on the South Staffs Regiment, as had his father and Uncles before him. Both his Uncles had been killed in World War I. It had been one of his greatest wishes to got to Ypres in Belgium to pay his respects to the fallen there, but his life was very difficult emotionally and he never made it.

So after his death I did it for him, going with my friend Jenny for a long weekend three years ago.

Ypres is a city not far from the border between France and Belgium and in WWI was the closest city to the battle field known as Passendale. The city was almost completely destroyed, and has lovingly been restored so that it is difficult now to identify it with the many photographs of how annihilated it was back then.

Our hotel was lovely, unexpectedly so, which came in later. I had driven my car over, so we were two gorgeous women in a sports car with the roof down most of the time. But we were far to emotionally wound up to even notice.

The list is long of the places we visited, but the two that stand out more than any other, and probably because of the scale of them were, Tyne Cot and the Menin Gate.

Tyne Cot is the biggest Commonwealth Cemetery in the world. It is the size of perhaps three or four football pitches with row upon row of graves. Each one beautifully cared for the Commonwealth Graves Commission. It is an awesome place and not in a good way. It is just unbelievable to think that this vast area is just full of young men who fell at Passendale. And then there is the visitor centre.
It is a very simple square structure with not much inside it. Except this wall on which photographs are shown, they change every few seconds and as they do a voice intones the name of the dead soldier and his age. It is devastatingly moving. You can do nothing, but stand in front of it for as long as you are able, and just watch this sad roll call, in my case with the tears pouring down my face.

Then there is the Menin Gate, every single night of the year there is the Last Post Ceremony when the bugles are played and people pay homage to the fallen. On the walls of the Menin Gate there are thousands upon thousands of names engraved of men who have lost their lives and have no grave.

As we got there,two lots of trainee soldiers marched through the Gate to stand at either end. At the far end they were engineers they were dressed in shirts and ties, no uniform. And were reasonably organised in their marching and parading. At the other end were a group of trainee Guards all in blazers and the standard of their marching and parading was infinitely more professional. Between these two groups of young men were the people who'd come to watch including J and me. We'd managed to get to the front, right under the arch and were standing next to the young Guards.

What happens here is, a regiment or association brings it's Colours(flag of the Regiment) and the bearer of the Colours keeps the flag lowered until the last post is sounded , and then the Colours are raised to commemorate the particular company it represents. Then many wreaths are laid, every day by different people or groups. Every single day of the year.

So the old soldier carrying the Colours walked down the steps in the middle of the Gate and waited. The Last Post sounded and the Colours were raised. I could not believe my eyes, there in front of me were the Colours of the South Staffs Regiment.
The regiment associated with my family for the best part of a hundred years. And I had unknowingly turned up on the night that they were presented. Again the tears were falling down my face and J's.

It was (and is) an incredibly moving Ceremony to witness. And to know that it goes on day after day and has done since the Gate was built in the 1920s is a testament to those people who died for us, in the War to end all Wars.

The weekend was emotionally draining, we knew it was going to be. There is so much to take in, and so much to be aware of in what you can't see. I'm so glad I went with J, as we both were able to be open with each other about what we felt and our friendship is so strong that we could be there for each other.

By Sunday lunch though we could take no more, and the hotel came into it's own with a bottle of Champagne that we toasted those people in our lives and histories that needed toasting. And then spent a long time eating a delicious lunch that was just the right amount of indulgence to work as a counter balance to the rest of the weekend.

Now I have not only been to Ypres with J, the following year we went to the Somme in France. And there on one cold and wet morning in May at the hugest monument to the dead I'd seen we found the names of both our dead Great Uncles. Amazingly their names were either side of the main entrance. My Great Uncle 19 and in the South Staffs. J's Uncle 34, and in the Manchester Regiment. And there we stood friends for 15 years, and our Great Uncles within touching distance of each other on this mighty tribute. Another day for tears and hugs between us.

This year we went to Amsterdam and took in Anne Frank's house. And next year we plan to got to Krakow and to Auschwitz. Then I think we have all we can do to remember, so we can tell our children and our grandchildren. As increasingly there are less and less people to remember. But it is so vital that we bear witness so that these atrocities can never happen again.

And what about my Dad, well I am my Father's daughter, and I too have those senses of loyalty, right and wrong, the need to remember, they are all in me. So I know that if my Dad could see me, he'd be proud that I've done those things in his name.

Parents who'd have them? well me for one!

When a child is born they are a screaming mass of humanity, totally dependant on their mother to work out what the cries mean. Whether feeding or changing or burping, the mother very quickly works out what the child's needs are, and does her best to meet them. The new born baby can only focus initially on the breast, but very quickly develops enough to take in Mum's eyes.

In the first two years of life the baby changes and develops incredibly fast. And all the while all they want is to know they are loved, safe and warm. A child comes pre-programmed into wanting it's basic human needs met!

By the age of two the baby has moved from the breast into wanting sweeties in the supermarket, and having the almighty awful tantrum if this need is not met. This isn't because they are 'bad' or greedy it's because they have yet to be taught self control, cognisance and rational thought. They are still an emotional bundle wanting those basic needs met. We have been taught, and will teach our children over time, to put their feelings away and we will reward their 'good' behaviour instead.

During the first five years of life the child puts his parents on a pedestal. They can do no wrong. All small children love mummy and daddy unconditionally and tell their parents they are going to marry them! They don't just do this out of love, they also do it out of survival. The child unconsciously knows that they need their parent to survive. So during this time of parents being perfect, patterns are set that affect all of us later in life.

Once the child goes to school and starts socialising with other children they start to experience other models of child rearing. Parents are still perfect but they notice and use other parenting models to try and extend their boundaries, as in Little Johnnie's mum lets him stay up, eat sweets and carouse all night so why can't I?!

Then human beings hit adolescence! And for the sake of argument, if Mum and Dad are Christian, meat eating, right wing voters, the adolescent will automatically become a vegetarian, left wing, atheist, just because they can, and their parents know nothing anyway! They also become incredibly self centered the world revolves around them. Which is just them growing up, and adjusting to becoming the people they will eventually end up being.

Slowly then as the person hits maturity they stop rebelling just for the sake of it, and start making their own views usually based on their upbringing. Which is why so often we turn into our parents!!! But at this stage we'll not be ready to take that on board. As all young people reinvent the wheel,as what do their parents know about anything??

On reaching our twenties people are busy establishing themselves, starting their career, finding a place to live, meeting that someone special, and having children. No-one has time during this period to really think about their parents, except them perhaps being a bit of a nuisance!

The thirties find people consolidating their lives, careers, home, family and increasingly the parents are either useful in babysitting terms, but possibly becoming an emotional drag.

People can obviously resent their parents always, and many have huge emotional difficulties with them. But probably the majority of people do continue to love their parents, even if they sometimes find them aggravating. The guilt button is never very far from being pressed even for those people who get on with their parents. As in where we spend Christmas, for example, on our own, with his/her family. We rarely get to please all the people all the time in relation to our families.

It is however, in our thirties and forties that the biggest attitude change has to come in relation to our parents for us to be able to cope with what is to come.

We have to forgive our parents for what they have done to us!!!

What I mean by this is, that we have no choice about having our histories, what we have a choice about is whether be are a product or a victim of them. And if we hold our parents responsible for our adult selves, then there is work to do.

No parent ever has a child to ill treat it. The child gets ill treated as the parent doesn't know any better. Those children who are unfortunately battered to death by their parents were not born to satisfy the parents need for blood lust. The parent is just not adequate in relation to doing the job properly of child rearing.

And there by the Grace of God do we all go. I can still vividly remember the day when my eldest son was a few months old and he wouldn't stop screaming. I was stressed beyond the ability to deal with it. I was crying hysterically. I was also getting incrediably angry. I wanted to hurt my child, who I adored. I was in danger of getting him and smashing his head against the wall. But I didn't,I had the nouce to not do that. What I did do was drop him from the height of the cot bars onto the mattress in the cot, a distance of about two foot. Which caused him to cry even more. And at that point I was so shocked by what I'd done I phoned a friend for help. She was round within minutes. I was sitting at the top of the stairs she ran past me and comforted my son before dealing with me. Of course the minute he was picked up by someone calm he stopped crying ,and went back to his usual sunny nature. It was a salutary lesson for me about how very easy it is to loose control. And something I have never forgotten and use when talking to clients who have young children, as a way to share that isolation and out of controlness that all parents can feel when faced with small children.

But back to dealing with parents.

The thing any child has to identify, and this isn't usually possible until the 'child' is 40 something. Is that their parents did the best they could in bringing them up, even if that was crap. What gets in the way of this idea,is the perfection that the small child held their parent, that, putting their parents on a pedestal, that is an essential part of the small child's survival.

What has to be separated is that before their parents became their parents, they were human beings first with all the myriad of behaviours/beliefs/skills/ emotional development that make up every human being. Which will be based on their experiences as children and their parents before that.

Once we understand that, then we can forgive our parents for not being perfect. And that is essential for us as children of parents who are getting older every day. We may be expected to have an increasing role in their support and care. And if we haven't forgiven our parents for being themselves, then that job is incredibly tough as every time we are asked to do something our adolescent selves gets in the way with resentment and rage.

I had a wonderful happy childhood, I was a wanted and loved little girl. The problems in my life stemmed from 10 years of age all the way through adolescence. My parents didn't do a good job then of caring for me. I carried all the stuff from this time into my adult life. I was angry with them for being alcoholics and having mental health issues. They constantly pissed me off, none more so then having to speak to them on the phone every Sunday morning, without fail. It used to drive me nuts. To the point now that I phone my son up anyday but Sunday!

But at some point in my forties I remember being out walking my dog one morning. I'd been thinking a lot about my parents at the time. My mum had been dead several years, but Dad was still alive and causing me grief. And suddenly it came to me that THEY HADN'T DONE IT DELIBERATELY, THEY'D DONE THE BEST THEY COULD. The thought stopped me in my tracks, suddenly I understood they were human beings before they became my parents. And I suddenly let go of all the years of resentment I'd carried around about their supposed ill treatment of me. In effect I forgave them for not being perfect, which they never had been anyway, that had just been the place I as a child had put them to ensure my survival.

So now although I know my parents had 'faults' I understand these because I know their histories, and as a therapist I know how those histories would have affected their ability to raise children. And now when I think of my parents it ia always with love.

I am grateful for how they brought me up. I am grateful that I went through hell as a teenager. Because without their care of me, whether good or bad, I wouldn't be the person I am today.

And I would give an awful lot to have a phone call on Sunday

Ireland found and fears confronted

At four am I got up and bundled two sleepy boys into sleeping bags into the car. They were 15 and 10 years old. I drove to Holyhead in Wales to catch the hover ferry to Dublin. It was the quickest way across, which I needed as I get horribly sick on ferries.

I'd booked our first might in a bed and breakfast in Dublin and then we'd be on our own. The B&B was in a wonderful Georgian building, the sort Dublin is famous for. We got there in time to unload our bags and go for an explore around the city. Over the Liffey Bridge just taking our time wandering. Had to buy an essential pair of new socks, as the ones I was wearing decided they were not going to stay around my ankles but were going to worm their way to the bottom of my toes! When it was time to eat I did what all good mothers visiting Dublin should do, found a pizza place!!! So appetites were satisfied with successful food for at least two of the party.

The next morning after a huge Irish breakfast of rashers (yes! to be able to use that word in a sentence how good is that!) sausages and white pudding. A very strange version of English black pudding, which are both just slices of ground meal and pigs blood and definitely an acquired taste.... one party happy!


Then leaving the security of Dublin behind and not having any idea of where we were going, and what we would find we set off for Northern Ireland. At that time the military had finally stopped manning the checkpoints on the border between Eire and the North, but the towers and look outs were still there. A grim reminder of far too many years of bloody violence in the name of religion.

We drove in Armagh and then into County Tyrone, heading for the little town of Callodin. Driving down the main street we spotted the Church. We didn't know if it was Protestant or Catholic, so parking the car, the three of us wandered round the Church yard trying to find a notice board that might tell us. This was eventually found, it was the Protestant Church, so no use to us.

Driving down the street we came to the village store. There was no choice but to go in and ask if anyone knew of the family, given that my mother had left it 50 years previously. But her father Patrick had been the station master at the local railway station, so it was worth trying.

The lady behind the counter couldn't have been more helpful, although she didn't know of the family. But she knew someone who might. So she phoned her up, and we were invited round to this old lady's house. This old lady, whose name we never found out, asked us in,put the kettle on,produced cake and squash for the boys and started talking.

She had memories of Patrick when she was a very little girl, and of mum's sister Kathleen, she was the middle child, her brother, also Patrick was 5 years older, and mum, Maureen, had been 10 years younger, but the old lady couldn't remember either of them.
But she did know where the family had lived and where the Catholic Church was, that the family were buried in.She also knew of a branch of the family in the next village.

By this time the shop keeper had phoned back and said that we were welcome to stay with her overnight.

We set off for the house. I knew it was the right house, as on the other side of the road was Mum's lake. The place she'd talked about playing near as a child. Continuing up the road we came to the Catholic church ,a much more humble affair than the Protestant one. Again we started looking around a Churchyard, but this time for grave stones. We found them, Patrick and Mary, mum's parents and her brother Patrick. We also found Kathleen's which made me sad, as Kathleen had been the only member of her family to have anything to do with mum, even though that contact was a card at Christmas, usually accompanied by a prayer card.

I didn't know then, that Dad always sent her a card back with money in as Kathleen had fallen on hard times in Belfast.

We decided to and check out the cousin in the next village. This was actually very intimidating. This village was obviously very pro Catholic and parking my car with it's English number plates was difficult, as we could feel ourselves being watched the whole time we were there. The cousin wasn't in, only her teenage daughter, who in the way of teenagers wasn't hugely interested in us, so we didn't prolong our visit.

Getting back in the car I made the decision, despite the kind invitation to stay in the area that I'd had enough. I was totally overwhelmed with finding all these connections to my darling mum, and I didn't think I wanted to be sociable with a stranger, I was exhausted.

So we left not really sure of where we were going. We decided to head up to the Giant's causeway, and as luck would have it there was a hotel there. It was a wonderful hotel with amazing views of the coast from our room. Although the whole place was stuck in a time warp from the 1970s. But we were so pleased to have found a place, we decided to stay for two nights.

The next day the causeway was explored, the cliff path walked on and a boat trip round the bay had. All of them fantastic and all of them leading up to me doing one of the most frightening things in my life the following day.

The boat trip went near a rope bridge 70 foot up above the sea, it's called Carrick'a'Read rope bridge.It joins the headland with this tiny little island. the bridge is for the fishermen who launch their lobster pots of the far side of it. Of course when the boys saw this bridge they wanted nothing else than to go across it.

How I wished for a strong man to do the deed with them, whilst i could have waited sweetly for the men folk to do their stuff. As there was no tough man, then there was no choice. This bridge was as wide as two planks of wood and it was open to the elements with just a handrail between me and the sea 70'below. Of course the boys positively leapt across. And I stepped on it. I don't mind heights,what terrifies me is my lack of balance. So foot in front of foot, hand by hand, with my eyes firmly on a spot on the other side I crawled across. I was utterly, utterly terrified, but I did it. Which was fantastic, then came the realisation that the only way back was doing it again. I have to admit doing it again was not as scary and I even remember turning my head to take in the view. But I don't think I'll ever need to do that again as long as I live.

The rest of our little break continued to be wonderful, our last night was done in County Wicklow in Eire, so we wouldn't have a horrendous drive to be in time for the ferry. We even ended up in the village that was known to millions of TV viewers at the time as Ballykissangel, where they were actually filming a show in the torrential rain of that day.

Then it was an uneventful journey home. But what I got from that trip has been immeasurable. I confronted my fear on that bridge. I confronted my fear of going into Northern Ireland from the south.I confronted my fear of just going and trusting in the universe to provide.

And more than anything else I find where my mammy came from, I found her childhood and I hope I gave her a measure of peace wherever she is, as I settled something about her life as her English daughter, in the land of her birth.

Part I of finding Ireland and my Mother's roots

I was discussing reading with a friend the other day and the sort of books I favour, when I realised that most of the books I read are set in America or Ireland. The first one was obvious to me, I spend so much time there and always stock up on books the minute I get there.

But I'd never really thought about how much I live the Irish authors before, Marion Keyes, Patricia Scanlon, Kathy Kelly et al I gobble all the words up in their books the minute they release a new one. I love the words they use that are just so Irish, like rashers (bacon) feck (well guess that one!)and at the certain Irish phrasing used.

What I'd never really thought about was why, which is one of those eureka moments when the blinding obvious bites you on the bottom.

I am half Irish, my mother came from County Tyrone in the North.

She left Ireland when she was 17 to start nursing in England. She chose Walsall the town she arrived in as the name of the hospital, the Manor Hospital,made her think it sounded like a place in the country. She got a real culture shock as she came from a small friendly country town and suddenly found herself in an area christened the Black Country based on the grime and dirt, as it was the centre of industrial Britain.

She met my father when they were both 21 and married when they were 25. I was a honeymoon baby and arrived 10 months later.Followed two years later by my little sister. We were a complete and very happy family.

The only sadness my mother had that couldn't be fixed was the fact that when she married my English Protestant father she was disowned by her family and excommunicated by the Catholic Church.

She only saw her parents once after she'd married and that was when they were dying.
After that she never went back to Ireland and whatever feelings she had, she kept locked inside for many years.

Unfortunately no-one can keep pain indefinitely and living with that, and my father who suffered from what was then called manic depression turned them both to drink as a way to try and escape their feelings.

My father had his own demons to deal with as his childhood was emotionally very tough, and he didn't have any more resources to deal with his issues than my mother had. So the pair of them were co-dependant and troubled by their individual pasts, but throughout their love for each other and their children stayed strong.

They also both smoked like chimneys, So a combination of alcohol, stress and cigarettes caused by darling Mummy to get cancer when she was 57years old. She got cancer of the oesophagus. It was diagnosed in June, and she had horrible major surgery to no avail and she was dead in November.

I have so many memories of that time, and over the years have written them here. So I don't want to do that again.

More I want the set the scene for the story of my going to find my Mums roots a few years later when the boys and I went to Ireland, so part II of this story will follow soon.

Swear words.... good or bad?

Isn't language odd?

It's constantly evolving and changing. There are diehards who bemoan the passing of the Queen's English. But they are living in a world that never existed, as language changes constantly according to fashion and youth.

Lets face it, not many of us will be using the expression Odd's Bodikins, which is an Elizabethan piece of blasphemy, meaning God's Body. Language changes most in relation to swear words, what was once seen as a scandalous word to use, may now be used in common parlance by some.

Youth in particular have the wonderful knack of inventing new terminology, for example, when my youngest son wants to say there is lots of something, he says there's bear. I have no idea how bear got translated as lots. And I don't know where it comes from. Although I suspect it's a word used in Grime. You might ask what Grime is? Well it's the English equivalent of rap music. Except it's more real.... see, I can talk the talk man!

Words go in and out of fashion, who ever thought that having a gay old time back in the 1930s would have such a different meaning now.

Why are some words so offensive to some and not to others?

My point here, is that the words we use matter, and how we say them matters even more. I want to respect my fellow man, and I would like respect back. But I will not be precious about someone using a word as an expletive when they are frustrated. Cause lets face it those people who get twisted up about swear words and say things like.... oh sugar, are really saying oh fuck, and they fool no-one by their sweetness.

But that said I think the Brits probably swear more than anyone else. Don't think this is a claim I'm proud of! But nowadays so many words are seen as normal, especially amongst the young. We seem to have swear words that cover all occasions; religion, sex, drugs and drug users, race, disabled, anything or body we can find, we will find an offensive word

Being angry is a normal part of human behaviour,and being able to let rip a few chosen words may just stop the knife going in. I enjoy swearing, it helps me to cope when I'm cross or frustrated.

What is weird about trying to write this post is that I've just taken out the paragraph about the actual words, almost as if to write those words down and talk about them is one step to far. Which is nonsense cause everyone has swear words in their heads, even if we are scrupulous about not uttering them out loud. We will mutter them to ourselves if we feel in danger. But it feels more respectful to those that might be offended by seeing them written.

What I find just plain boring is the conversation laced with the F Word when used without thought. As in what's for effing tea, I want have a cup of effing coffee. Etc etc. Very dull conversation.

I use swearing as part of therapy. So many clients come into my room and make immediate value judgements about me,white ,middle aged (surely not!) middle class and so on. They are scared stiff of being judged by me. So when I hear what they say I will respond at some point with a swear word, like 'I'm not fucking surprised', when someone has told me why they are feeling awful.

I do not just use it, because I'm uneducated, I use it because I need that person to relax, and to be able to use the language of their frustration. And if their perceptions of me get in the way, as in they can't relax because their worried about offending me than that is no help to them. So by finding out that I'm unshockable by the words they use they can get more out of therapy by being real.

Rudyard Lake Staffordshire

I've stopped throwing my toys out of my pram. And made myself stand in the corner until I knew what I was doing wrong!!!
And so I've put the comments back on. But may carry on with pics for a bit until i come up with something to say.

My baby

I'm scared, really scared, and I'm hoping with my fingers tight crossed that the end of this post later on today will be good news.
Alex has gone to court this morning, with five charges against him. He's pleading guilty to the first four but not the last.
Best case scenario is a fine, his lawyer thinks he'll get a fine and community service. And everyone's fear is he could be sent down.

He did do wrong, he knows that.

He has turned his life around since. He's stopped drinking completely. He's been having counselling (not by me)He's been talking more to me recently than for a long time. He's been happy to get up and be my taxi service to work whilst I can't drive. He starts a job tomorrow, well at least the induction for the next two days.

The thought that my baby could go to prison is so awful.

I will update this later. In the meantime I'm going to overwork and clean to keep myself from fear.

UPDATE
The bloody case is adjourned until December..... so we all know what I want for Christmas, Alex at the table!

LUD'S CHURCH Staffordshire, one of my favourite places

Todays photo: River Manifold Derbyshire and a decision

Oh my how to feel loved and cherished in one collective hug, thank you.
As I said in my last post I do love my blog, so it does now feel very harsh to shut it down.
So this is what I'm going to do, I'm going to put just photographs up for a while and then if I feel like it a written post.
What I have done though is to take the comments box off the end.
It's the comments I'm struggling with, or sometimes the lack of them. Although I'm a very sorted out person the thing that comes back and bites me over and over is that feeling of being lost and not worthy of friends. So it's not to do with anyone person it's to do with my having gone to that place too many times recently. Maybe cause I've haven't had too much else to do and the computer has taken on to big a role that needs balancing inside me a bit.
So for the time being I need to protect that small child by not being open to comments, or to statistics, so I can get to a healthier place.
I will continue to visit people on my blog roll when I can.
I will continue to maintain all my email relationships and if anyone does want to contact me that doesn't already have my address then try: pradapixie@hotmail.co.uk and I'll get back to you

Last chance to read Firebyrd

I love my blog, it's been my friend
It's the place I've written my life and stories
I've loved putting my pics for all to see
And changing them for the next theme
I have tried so hard,
I've written my heart out.
I've written about my pain, my knowledge, my grouches and moans
I've held the faith that people read me
I've stopped checking just to ensure
I've done my best not to mind
That less and less pass by and comment anymore.
And that I go day by day just to make sure I don't neglect
Those people who I know who bother to write
And I leave a comment and they ignore
Well .......... mate
I'm taking a break
It hurts to see that people I love go elsewhere
So this will be here till tomorrow
Then firebyrd will be no more

Bar humbug..... Awards tyranny or joy?

The weather is changing,oops that was yesterday on climate change!
But change is in the air, the leaves are turning those fabulous mixture of colours. The sun is shinning but it's getting cold first thing and at dusk.
The sun rises at this time of year, if I'm awake for them, are spectacular outside my bedroom window.
And it is also award season. Or possibly it's award season all the time, but I just deal with them when I've got several I haven't done anything with!! So because last time I had any awards it was just embarrassing, as I'd had them so long I couldn't remember who'd given me what!
This time I know (she said polishing her halo!)
I've been given them by three wonderful women who work hard at maintaining their blogs and what they stand for. I'm pleased to be able to call them my blog friends, and delighted that they think I'm one of their friends to award me.
Trouble is with awards is that they are a pleasure to get and a pain then to have to deal with. Each award has a slightly different citation, which are all really about saying how much we admire someone else's work/ attitude/compassion/ humour.
The rules then about finding 5or7or8or453 recipients then means that depending on the length of your blog roll it just becomes repetitive. And when we then have blogger mates in common the award can be given several times.
So the whole thing ends up being somewhat meaningless, cause lets face it if we didn't like someone's blog we wouldn't bother reading in the first place,unless of course we were Mrs Outraged of Chipping Sodbury who reads shocking blogs just to confirm her narrow view of the world, that it's a dangerous place!!!
Now please don't get me wrong I AM VERY PLEASED to have been given these awards and I'm not at all ungrateful.
But I do feel we have all somehow got hoodwinked into behaving in a certain way over them.
Whether I've just got cynical, and that is because I've been blogging a long time and have a coterie of blog friends, and therefore some security in what I write will be well received, as my friends share some of the same ideals I have.
However if I put myself back to how it felt to first get awards when I first started blogging then it felt very different, it was affirmation then of doing something new and challenging. I had no idea I could write and getting them was a colossal boost to my self esteem.
So maybe blog awards should only be given to new bloggers to encourage them, and us old hands should sit back and smile indulgently at the youngsters efforts!!!
That said, by not dealing with what someone has given you is also ungrateful. They may have given it because they are a huge fun of your writing, and not just because they've got to get rid of these bloody things somehow!!!
Below are my three awards and I would like to thank nitebyrd, angela r and lori, for their generosity in giving them to me.
I on the other hand am now refusing to hand them on, I don't want to name 435 people or even say if you read me then you deserve an award.
If you read me you do it because you like my stuff and be assured that I read you cause I think you are wonderful. As I by nature I'm not very tolerant of fools, so if your get read by me it's because I consider you to be no fool.
I know this is going to sound very bar humbug spoilsportish, but I'm fed up with the tyranny of awards. Either cause I get them, and have to deal with them. Or even worse when I don't get them and I hook into not being good enough. Neither place is one I want to be in if it's all the same to you.
But I mustn't be too churlish, so here are my awards and instead of you getting them I'll just dedicate the bunch of flowers to you all, cause I truly do think your fab and I'd be lost without you



The deliciously naughty nitebyrd deemed me worthy of this award.


The wonderfully artistic Angela Recada handed this one over to me




This award was givwn me by the wonderful Lori, and the condition of recieving it was to supply this list of one word answers

1.Where is your cell phone? pocket

2. Your hair? short

3. Your mother? dead

4. Your father? dead

5. Your favorite food? toast

6. Your dream last night? unknown

7. Your favorite drink? champagne

8. Your dream/goal? contentment

9. What room are you in? living

10. Your hobby? writing

11. Your fear? loneliness

12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? seaside

13. Where were you last night? here :)

14. Something that you aren't? mean

15. Muffins? ugh!

16. Wish list item? strength

17. Where did you grow up? Staffordshire

18. Last thing you did? sleep

19. What are you wearing? dressing gown

20. Your TV? Off

21. Your pets? Trix!

22. Friends? many

23. Your life? BLESSED

24. Your mood? curious

25. Missing someone? sons

26. Vehicle? MX5

27. Something you're not wearing? shoe

28. Your favorite store? Marks&Spencers

29. Your favorite color? green

30. When was the last time you laughed? yesterday

31. Last time you cried? monthago

32. Your best friend? eve

33. One place that I go to over and over? devon

34. One person who emails me regularly? gelipaulalindanickymax

35. Favorite place to eat? home

Climate change awareness Blog Action Day

Thursday the 15th is climate awareness day in blogland in having a Blog Action Day
But I won't be able to write a post then, I've actually got to do some work....tsk, whatever is the world coming too!
So here it is today instead.

Where do I start?
Do I write about what is being perceived as the place that is responsible for the first refugees of global warming in northern Kenya
Do I write about the need for wind farms over here. With so many people resistant to what is an astonishing and cheap resource that we as an island could export electricity to other countries
Do I write about America's appalling attitude to getting it's act together regarding climate change. Which hopefully after Barack Obama's acceptance speech for the Nobel Peace Prize will start to register more with people.
Do I write about snow in October in places that don't expect it for at least another four weeks.
Do I write about the floods, droughts, rain, heat that has plagued us all this year at the wrong time when we were expecting different weather.


Of course the scientists have two sources of this, global warming or the next ice age. Who knows which one it is. I'm only being slightly flippant here, cause it doesn't really matter what is causing the changes to us non scientists, all we know is that we are being affected. And depending on where we are lucky enough to live on the planet, depends how badly we will and are suffering.

There has always been somewhat of an expectation that countries will have flood and drought, but now it seems unremitting. And the droughts becoming so severe that when the rains come it is becoming too late. Especially if the rain is so heavy that floods ensue. So even if northern Kenya gets the rain is has been without for over a year, it may not help, as the infrastructure is so damaged that the water will just drain away.

We only have one planet. We are a planet of have and have nots. There is no parity around the world at all. The rich get richer. Animals are becoming extinct

We cannot go on not caring about the whole planet. It is ridiculous to constantly war with one another, as if we can afford the luxury of war.

If we want a world for our children and grandchildren to live in, then we have to take action now.

Of course it is not going to be easy, but if all of us in the western world make an effort, with energy saving devices, if we recycle as much as we can, if we support endeavours with what we can that help others. Then surely bit by bit we can change things.

We can all moan about schools, hospitals, care being inadequate but at least in this country we have it, however bad we think it is. Try telling a child working in a sweatshop somewhere how tough it is for us, and watch them fall about laughing.

There is too much inequality and that is not fair.

Swear words.... good or bad?

Isn't language odd?

It's constantly evolving and changing. There are diehards who bemoan the passing of the Queen's English. But they are living in a world that never existed, as language changes constantly according to fashion and youth.

Lets face it, not many of us will be using the expression Odd's Bodikins, which is an Elizabethan piece of blasphemy, meaning God's Body. Language changes most in relation to swear words, what was once seen as a scandalous word to use, may now be used in common parlance by some.

Youth in particular have the wonderful knack of inventing new terminology, for example, when my youngest son wants to say there is lots of something, he says there's bear. I have no idea how bear got translated as lots. And I don't know where it comes from. Although I suspect it's a word used in Grime. You might ask what Grime is? Well it's the English equivalent of rap music. Except it's more real.... see, I can talk the talk man!

Words go in and out of fashion, who ever thought that having a gay old time back in the 1930s would have such a different meaning now.

Why are some words so offensive to some and not to others?

My point here, is that the words we use matter, and how we say them matters even more. I want to respect my fellow man, and I would like respect back. But I will not be precious about someone using a word as an expletive when they are frustrated. Cause lets face it those people who get twisted up about swear words and say things like.... oh sugar, are really saying oh fuck, and they fool no-one by their sweetness.

But that said I think the Brits probably swear more than anyone else. Don't think this is a claim I'm proud of! But nowadays so many words are seen as normal, especially amongst the young. We seem to have swear words that cover all occasions; religion, sex, drugs and drug users, race, disabled, anything or body we can find, we will find an offensive word

Being angry is a normal part of human behaviour,and being able to let rip a few chosen words may just stop the knife going in. I enjoy swearing, it helps me to cope when I'm cross or frustrated.

What is weird about trying to write this post is that I've just taken out the paragraph about the actual words, almost as if to write those words down and talk about them is one step to far. Which is nonsense cause everyone has swear words in their heads, even if we are scrupulous about not uttering them out loud. We will mutter them to ourselves if we feel in danger. But it feels more respectful to those that might be offended by seeing them written.

What I find just plain boring is the conversation laced with the F Word when used without thought. As in what's for effing tea, I want have a cup of effing coffee. Etc etc. Very dull conversation.

I use swearing as part of therapy. So many clients come into my room and make immediate value judgements about me,white ,middle aged (surely not!) middle class and so on. They are scared stiff of being judged by me. So when I hear what they say I will respond at some point with a swear word, like 'I'm not fucking surprised', when someone has told me why they are feeling awful.

I do not just use it, because I'm uneducated, I use it because I need that person to relax, and to be able to use the language of their frustration. And if their perceptions of me get in the way, as in they can't relax because their worried about offending me than that is no help to them. So by finding out that I'm unshockable by the words they use they can get more out of therapy by being real.

So what do you think? Do you come from a country with many or few swear words? Do you use them? or is it all a load of bollocks!!!

418 posts, anyone would think I'd run out of things to say soon!!

My mate Trousers was round last night, we went out for a curry, and he was celebrating having written his 300th post.
Which got me thinking, and then cause this enforced sitting gives me not much to do, I started checking statistics.
And guess what.... yep you have to suffer them too
So this is my 418th post!!!!
So Happy 418th Birthday to my blog.
Except that this is the third bog here. I started life as Prada Pixie in May 2006 and wrote for almost a year and 196 posts. Became known as Pix to everyone, and am still called that my a blogger who became a dear friend.
There was a small break, when I had an emotional melt down which I didn't want to write about here, given that my readers had being putting up with that, in one shape or another for a year. And for me that was one emotional screw up too far.
I was away for about three weeks. And in that time I almost got used to not blogging.
But I seriously missed the contact with people, so I came back as Bollinger Byrd.
This wasn't a good name, and I wasn't happy with it, but I was out of inspiration until I went and met and stayed with the astonishing Sorrow.
And in the way of these things huge meaningful conversations ensued. And whilst climbing in the Blue Ridge Mountains we talked about how I felt I was finally starting to rise above the ashes like a Phoenix and Firebyrd was born.
In these two identities I've written 221 plus today's post.
I've written 36 poems, 15 short stories. I've got two other blogs, the first 11 chapters of a self help book I keep meaning to finish which so far numbers 24,000 words. My other blog is not for the faint hearted as it is sexual in content, and hasn't been written in for several months now, but has 7 posts.
And the rest of this collection of words are my thoughts on the world.
Whether therapy stuff, my own pain, life stories about my family, moaning or whatever.
And I frequently think I'll close it all down when I'm having a fit of pique and throwing my toys out of my pram. But then realise that the only person who will suffer as a result of that is me.
And the biggest and best thing that I've got out of blogging, well that's easy, it's YOU! Whether you are old friends, who no longer blog, but who I walk, do lunch with, get on a plane to visit. Or new friends who I do exactly the same with and have plans to meet, or have met.
YOU make this worthwhile, and I would dearly love to meet up all the people it's not possible to meet in Australia, America and Africa and give a huge hug to.
Wouldn't it just be lovely to all be able to afford the time, and money to get together and have a 'real' world party.
But in the absence of that I'll just continue writing and writing and visiting you in blogland and email and thank you for putting up with the occasional (!!!!!!) thing I find to say!!!

Who/when will they get help

First published in June 2008, but even more relevant today.
____________________________________________________


I am doing an increasing amount of work with ex military personnel related to PTSD.
It is proving very difficult for them and for me.

One of the remits of the armed forces is the need to make men into fighting machines. I appreciate that women are also trained but for the sake of convenience 'men' will apply to all generically.

So depending on which branch of the forces is entered depends on the length of time they are trained, an infantry man- 12 weeks, a para-28 weeks and a marine commando 32 weeks. As for the SAS and the SBS they have more on top of the original training.

In those weeks the military needs the person to let go of all their soft and gentle side, to become a mean fighting machine. Someone who when asked will follow orders, be prepared to kill, to work as a team with their comrades.

The upshot of this is that the men become very fit, very hard, and are trained to a high standard to be able to without question do as they are told. The when not working then play hard as anyone who lives in a military town will probably attest to.

In some branches of the forces the training is so tough that the fall out rated is huge, as in the Marines, out of 500 that join less than 50 will actually achieve the coveted Green Beret.

The aim of young people joining up is on the whole to see the world and to see some action.

Perhaps now the getting to see the world is eclipsed by the amount of action that they will see.

I am not here to justify the wars we as a country are involved in, in fact I think they are wrong politically. But I do feel passionate about this country's need to support it's armed forces personnel, particularly on their return.

And therein lies the problem.


There isn't enough help available for the number of soldiers (another cover all term) who will return needing psychological help.

The armed forces have had a view over the years, that to be upset about what you have gone through is just part of the process, which is why it allows the hard bitten behaviour of it's personnel to go on when they are outside of their bases. The heavy drinking, fighting, shagging that goes on with the foot soldier.

However this won't do anymore, as slowly men who are now getting close to their 50's in age are starting not to be able to hold in the trauma that they went through in whatever conflict they were involved in; Ireland, The Falklands, Bosnia etc.

It is starting to affect their lives, in fact it probably always has, but when we are in our 20s and 30s we have more resilience to put away stuff that is too painful. It is only as we reach the lost decade of our 40s that it becomes so difficult to continue to deny pain.

This is not just true of the armed forces, it is no surprise that most people who seek out psychological help are in their late 30s to mid 50s. It is in our 40s when we start to question; is this all there is? that people want to reinvent themselves, to start new relationships, to not feel lost and without hope.

So it is with these men. And what therapy has to do, crudely, is break down all the long held dehumanised views and help the person get back in touch with his emotional side. That is, to smash all the extremely well built up ways of defending themselves from getting in touch with their humanity.

Before every single terrible atrocity done by a soldier in the name of war they are likely to feel utter terror for a moment, before their training kicks in and they do what they have been trained to do.

And it is that moment of fear that the soldier will feel most shame about, as it goes against what he as trained to do. The problem with this is, that before the man became a machine, he was a man.

And men bleed.... emotionally as well as actually.

What I am spending my time doing is getting these so tough men to let go of the training that they have held dear to themselves for however many years and get them not to be angry, which is the easy route for trained men to follow. The ability to fight, drink, carouse etc. What I have to do is get them to cry, and not just a few tears but to sob uncontrollably for as long as it takes for them to allow themselves to forgive themselves for that perceived moment of weakness when they felt fear.

Only when they do this can they start to integrate their whole selves. That is be someone who is at peace with their feeling side and their logical side, and not one in conflict with the other.

Added to this I may have to do some work with their partner to help them understand what process this person has gone through. Because usually prior to therapy the soldier has given their family hell for some time. It may of course be too late in many cases the partner has had enough, but if not then it is possible to get the relationship back on track.

So I'm doing this now.

My youngest son has a mate who has returned a year early from Iraq because he tried to kill himself. He tells my youngest about some of the terrible things he has been through that made him want to end his own life.

He's 23.......

A lesson in gratitude part II

I've recently joined this lovely women only social network. And I'm really enjoying being there. The icon on my side bar is the way there if your female, if not then don't bother!

I've had the pleasure to become 'friends' with several people already. One of them is a new friend who I obviously don't know as yet. But I picked up a comment she'd left on my real friend Sorrow's page. And I had to investigate.

Her son is a soldier who was shot in the back whilst out in Basra. He was told he'd never walk again. Well he wasn't taking any notice of those words and later this month he and four other soldiers are intent on climbing Mount Kilimanjaro.

Tonight I did two Tarot readings, the first ones I've charged serious money for, I said the money was for raising the roof on the school in Mozambique for which I have already raised some money. But having read the story of this young man the money has gone straight to him and his mates. They are trying to raise £100000 for Help our Heroes www.helpforheroes.org.uk

These young men and their colleagues they deserve our gratitude, regardless of whether we think the war is worthwhile or not.

And it puts my small broken bone into perspective really!

A lesson in gratitude

One of the things I've been aware of more recently is gratitude.
Now obviously I am extremely grateful for all my wonderful friends support.
I'm grateful for the effort my youngest son has made.
But I'm not talking about that I'm talking about things.

We surround ourselves with stuff, in the kitchen, gadgets and gizmos to make ever tastier meals. In the study the latest technology whether in a computer or a mobile phone. In the living room ever more exciting televisions, stereos and other paraphernalia that we get persuaded by clever marketing people we can't possibly lead happy lives without!

In our wardrobes, the latest fashions, purple being this years black! The right handbag (purse), the latest cut in trousers, straight leg, wide, drain pipe, boot cut. All utterly vital stuff.

In the bathroom, we surely can't go out without our faces cleansed and toned. Moisturiser and serum applied below a skin regulator, below a creamy roll on foundation. And surely now we are all going to have to go out and buy a motorised mascara for those extra long curled lashes that no woman could possible walk down the street without being noticed as having failed in her duty as a fashionista!!!

Nope not talking about that either, what I'm talking about are the things that I've found out seriously make a difference to my life right now. They are very few in number. They don't win prizes in any fashion stakes, gizmo or paraphernalia competitions.

The two things that make my world bearable right now are my glasses, without which I can't read or write a thing. And probably even more important is a small rubber soled, canvas sided, Velcro topped shoe. This amazing structure gives me freedom (of a sort) I can walk around the house, I can walk to a son or friend's car and get in, I can get out the other end and get into the place for lunch, or go to work.

I have learnt that high fashion, and moisturiser, food processor and DVD player matter not one iota compared to being able to hobble to any of them and do whatever needs doing with whatever it is.

We, and I think I can say this about most of us, take things for granted some of the time. We don't have to think about how we get into the toilet, turn round, get our clothes adjusted and so on till we can't do it. We don't work out how we get things in and out of the oven, washing machine, dishwasher, until we can't actually bend or balance on one leg. We don't realise how uneven pavements (sidewalks) are until every uneven one jolts are body in a way that hurts. We don't think about how easy or difficult it is to push/pull a garbage can down the drive to the road ready for collection until we can't do it without a struggle. The list is endless, but these are just a few of the things I've grappled with recently.

So there we have it lesson number two for me in less than a month. The first being to give a helping hand or smile to someone trying to make themselves understood in a foreign language when in my country, even if I don't understand them. That's not the point, the point is to let them know they are not alone.

And the second lesson is a greater understanding of what it feels like to be disabled. I'm extremely lucky this bone will mend and I will be walking and driving again soon. But until this happened to me I'd not really any idea of what it felt like to not be able to do the things I take for granted.

And for these two lessons I am more than grateful. And I sincerely hope that in learning them I don't then forget them, if and when, my fellow man needs a little more understanding than I would have previously given.

We have a choice always in life to learn from our experiences or to ignore them and carry on blindly, I know which side of this coin I want to come down on, what about you?

When I start writing a post I never plan what I'm going to say it just evolves from an original idea. And I thought this would stop after writing about the shoe, but where I've ended up is so much more important. To actually be able to own that out of adversity comes learning and appreciation for what I've got in life is a very humbling lesson, and one that I must not take for granted.

Do you ever.......

Do you ever question how you got to be so blessed in life
Do you ever stop to think
Do you ever hear the whispers in the wind
Do you ever sense the caress of the sun on your face
Do you ever see the smile of a friend warm with love.
Do you ever learn to be grateful enough
Do you ever feel a child's hand in yours
Do you ever sip on what life hands out, grateful for it's nourishment
Do you ever care without needing pay back
Do you ever love and be loved
Do you ever wonder under a moonbeam
Do you ever aspire to be the best you can
Do you ever want to show the world
Do you ever sparkle in the sun on the waves
Do you ever listen when someone calls out
Do you ever love unconditionally, no questions asked

And if you do any of these, do you think yourself lucky and loved and rich.
Cause that's all it takes to be wealthy in life
To Live and Love and Care for each other
What more do we need to be blessed

Day trip to Canada,Part III

So as you may have been able to tell from the previous post I was not enamoured of a life at sea!
Day to day it was just plain boring, trying to find things to occupy my mind and time. It was also a place filled with misogynists, especially the Chief engineer and one of the ways to entertain myself and all those around us was to argue with him about his attitudes to women. But always bearing in mind that although he wasn't Howard's boss, as he was a deck officer the Chief was the equivalent of the Captain only on the engine side of things and whether I liked it or not there was a hierarchy on the ship, where officers wives ranked lower than the ships rats!!!

However despite all this there were a few highlights, well three actually, so in order of them happening.

The first was being allowed to be on the Bridge of the ship as we went through the Straits of Gibraltar. Standing on the Bridge wing watching the dolphins swim in the bow wave was lovely.

The second was even more spectacular and one of the highlights of my life. The ship is slow steaming through the Gulf Stream in the Atlantic. We are travelling really slowly as there is currently an oil glut and we are waiting to deliver the oil to whomever wants it. So as the ship is dead slow I'm yet again up on the bridge wing. I was only allowed up here with the first Captain, after they changed I was no longer allowed to go and see my husband when he was on watch.
It was getting towards sunset, all the time I'd been up there I'd being seeing whales in the distance. When suddenly right next to the ship a Great Blue Whale appeared out of the sea. Relatively as close to someone sitting the other end of my sofa, given that it was enormous and the ship was enormous and they were next to each other. It was an amazing sight. It spotted up water, which stank badly, but a small inconvenience in relation to seeing this magnificent creature.

I didn't realise at the time being so high up on the bridge actually how big the Great Blue is. And it was only years later when I was in the Natural History Museum in the room where they have life size models of creatures and the Great Blue stretched from one corner to the other that I realised what an amazing sight I had seen.

Finally, an order came thorough to go to St.John's New Brunswick to deliver the oil.
This procedure would take all day, so officers not on watch and any wives could go ashore. My husband was on watch, but I didn't care about being alone I was just so glad to get ashore.

Now St John's back then (and possibly still) was a very small sleepy little town but it had enough for me. First stop was the hairdressers to book an appointment for a couple of hours time. Then the book shop, the wool shop, to replenish supplies, and all other shops for a mooch. I even went and got a burger, this was before McDonalds was everywhere in the known universe. I'd only ever heard of them before. So when they asked me in quick fire succession what bread, what pickles, etc etc I was completely befuddled. And they then asked me very slowly what my choices were.

Every shop I went in I talked, of course they didn't have many British visitors and particularly not ones that were only there for the day!! So the shop staff all enjoyed talking to me, almost as much as I enjoyed being with them.

All too soon it was time to go back on the smelly oil tanker. Trouble was it was now empty of oil, and hadn't as yet had it's ballast water added. So the bloody thing was another couple of hundred feet out of the water. The small tender going alongside was dwarfed by the side of the ship. There was a metal stair up the height of the ship. Firstly I was terrified of jumping from the tender to the platform, but somehow I did it.

Then I started the long climb up, the man behind me saying constantly don't look down, of course I did. I don't have a problem with heights per se, but I have always had a problem with being half way up,or down something. And this was no exception, and I lost my nerve. I was terrified I couldn't move, I was crying and clinging on the stair rail where I was not able to move. They had to radio for Howard to come to the companion ladder to help me. In the end the guy that had been behind me managed to get in front and another person moved behind me and they got me step by long step. Talking all the while encouraging me and Howard was above yelling down encouragement till I finally got to the deck of the home from hell.

So then I was back and the order was back to Sicily.

I continued with my battle with the Chief, and one of the things I had brought on my day trip was a copy of Playgirl, a magazine with centrefolds of naked men. In the wardroom (bar) the only picture on the wall was a 1960s pin up of a topless woman.
I thought we women on board should have a beautiful man to look at. But to preserve the delicate feelings of the officers I carefully cut out a heart from a pack of cards to hide the centrefolds appendage!! I put it on the wall underneath the naked woman we had to put up with.

My picture lasted about thirty minutes till the chief spotted it and removed it in a fit of outrage at having to look at something so offensive!!!!

We got our orders, Howard was to disembark in Sicily and go on leave, and when it came to going back down the companion way, funnily enough I had no problem as there was a plane waiting somewhere to get me back to England, and I didn't look back once.