id ~ the set of uncoordinated instinctual trends

How do you prove you are really you when you are online?

I recently, as recently as Friday, bought an item from eBay.  This is not a common occurrence, it's not my favourite shopping site, I find the whole thing makes me weary and usually, when I want to buy something, I want to buy it right there and then.  Anyway this particular item was 'buy it now', so I did.

 I don't have a paypal account so I paid with my credit card and this somehow went via paypal nevertheless.  Paypal then asked me if I'd like this to be my paypal account, this being a much safer way to shop than just with a credit card (is it?). As many things have paypal now,  I thought why not? And pressed the little yes ok if you insist button.  I was a bit surprised to be presented with an account which had my first name down as the first half of my surname, and my surname as the same first half of my surname.  Jon Jon so to speak. Although in this case it was actually Ray Ray. Interesting I thought, because that is not how I had filled out my details when I'd paid.

But no worries there's a little place on paypal where you can change your details so I added the missing bits and hey ho - rejected.  Proof was required of my name.  All manner of suitable proof was acceptable so I uploaded a copy of my photo id driving licence cos, smart thinking on my part I thought, it also had my address on it.

Just now I had a delightful little missive from paypal saying that the account was so much of a risk they were limiting it until I could provide copies of my credit card and bank statement to prove my id, then they would close it. Gee thanks.

So I rang them and I asked what can possibly be the problem?  Apparently they were worried that Ray Ray and me are not one the same person! Shocking!   Ray Ray, could be impersonating me and using my credit card fraudulently.  Indeed I said in my Ray Ray voice, I could, but isn't it good that all the things I've bought I've sent to Mrs Ziggi at her address instead of defrauding her? And as I'm so cleverly living in her house with her credit card I might just have access to her bank and credit card statement too, couldn't I? How will sending you all these things prove I'm me not Ray Ray, who's also me and funnily enough has much of my name?

Paypal, you can't see me can you, to compare the photo id? You don't know to whom the fuck your talking do you?!  Surely, or am I missing the point, if you steal someone's identity it's to use that identity, not then to set up an account with all the details but a ridiculous name. Why would you ffs?
So to cut an extremely irritating conversation short I agreed to upload the statements so then paypal can close this suspicious account, and then with the same details I can open another one!

In your dreams paypal.

BLACK as your hat

I write a lot of things down but rarely post because it's usually self-indulgent bollocks about dying and how scared I am.  Which is as boring for me as it is for you.

Usually I keep the fear bottled pretty well and don't dwell on it too often; like my fear of spiders, but when a bloody big one has the audacity to take over the kitchen and won't fit down the end of the Dyson hose, one has to face one's fear head on.  Yikes.

I was forced  so to do, this month, when the reality of my situation hit home because the two people to whom I had grown especially close during our weekly art therapy sessions at the hospice, had the temerity to up and die during the summer, and without checking it was ok with me first. We had become a bonded unit of individual concentration and mutual support and now it’s as if they never were, except in my head.  I know their families must be grieving, but at the hospice it’s a very every-day occurrence  and life goes on, for those of us left, as normal.  Except I can’t seem to find the normal. 

I can only find screaming and beating of my fists against the inside of my head, and a total denial that this is happening to me, even though I know it is.  I’m just not prepared to let myself actually believe it. 

It’s been two years exactly since I was diagnosed and I spent the first year being too ill to worry about dying.  This last year I have not felt particularly unwell because I’m not having chemo again, yet.  The cancer is different now. Originally it was mainly a large tumour with some little friends but they were cut away and the chemo was meant to prevent any recurrence. I had a chance of beating it, but I didn’t, and now instead of a tumour it’s a whole reef of cancer cells spread all over the inside of my abdomen. They will eventually grow so large they will prevent my gut from working. Most women with recurrent ovarian cancer die of a blocked gut. It’s horrible and I’m not brave enough.

And I don’t want chemo again. I didn’t like it and it didn’t like me. It will give me a few more months  (maybe) but at what cost? I will do it though because my daughters want me to and I want to do every thing I can for them, I can’t bear putting them through this.

Some clever dick told me there are five stages one has to go through before you accept the reality of your situation, it’s the same as grieving I’m told. First there’s disbelief, then anger, then bargaining, then sorrow and finally acceptance. I haven’t travelled far in the two years I’ve been living with this.  I don’t really understand the bargaining one. Is it just for people who believe in a loving god that (presumably) dropped them in the shit in the first place?  I’m probably stuck somewhere between Miss Disbelief and Mrs Angry, with a good side portion of extremely easily irritated, hypersensitivity and a dollop of self-pity thrown in for good measure. I am so completely fed up with being me I want to throw myself on my sword but I only have a small Swiss army knife.  And of course I would never do such a thing, I’m not so dim that I don’t realise the damage this would do.

I did have the most wonderful holiday in Canada this August with my two brilliant daughters.  I can hardly believe how lucky I am to have them. Just thinking about them makes me smile.  Coming home to my dead friends and reality has probably taken a wee bit of a toll on my usually sunny disposition (ha) - let's blame it on that shall we?

I just don't like it when ...

When my children were smaller and inclined to moan now and again, I used to say “tell me what you do like, not what you don’t”.  So with that advice in mind, here is a list of my pet hates:

(and in no particular order)

people who Cc you in emails instead of putting you either in the ‘to’ line or sending you a personal email

toast crumbs in bed

people who can’t control their dogs when they’re out and about

people who can’t control their dogs when they’re out and about and then put them on those ridiculous extending and dangerous leads*

making lists

people who insist on telling you about their religion

those same people who then become offended, or try to convert you, when you tell them in answer to their questions, that in your opinion there is no god and that you’re happy believing that there is no god

those people who then try to threaten you by saying that only believers go to heaven  (good grief - what are they on?)

solicitors

greenfly

cold feet - mine

husbands - mine

spiders that insist on coming inside

builders’ bums

men whose main concern is finding a woman

women whose main concern is finding a man

cannulas

burning the end of your tongue

feeling like you should be putting ‘one’ instead of ‘you’

noticing any spelling and grammatical mistakes in everybody’s text but your own

being called darling, sweetheart, love, term of endearment by strangers

being addressed at boob level

*Lily doesn't count!

ode to getting older (and nothing to do with Tim's post at all, honest)

When the lure of the National Trust

Invades my tired mind

And I think

That sounds nice

A visit to that old heap

And wonder and wander

Amongst the refurbished face of history

Then I know

It’s time 

To say

Good

bye

Lord I must make an appointment for a blue rinse.

ode to not getting old

It has become less* important to me what age I achieve before I die. What has become more important is ensuring that the life I am leading now is the one that I want. And that I live it in the here and now.

The past is gone, so in many ways it doesn't matter how much went before.  And none of us can really know how much is left ahead. Although I concede, some of us have a better idea than others.  Which is a tad unfortunate if it’s not the 50 years you were banking on.

But it can also be a gift, of  sorts; a useful present that you didn't want, but actually turns out to be just the thing you needed. It certainly focusses the mind.

So gone are the long term plans and the working today to live tomorrow. Roll up! Roll up! Living is happening here today.

But it’s a quiet sort of normality of living, not a bucket list of wild and exotic locations, tattoos, body piercings and swimming with dolphins, although ... thinks ... would quite like to do that: more a contentment in the circumstances I find myself, in enjoying what I can still do, while I still can do, instead of bemoaning the fact I won’t be able so to do do do  (de da da da is all I want to say to you). 

Pleasure in small measures if you will, or not so small if that’s champagne you’re pouring ... 

This isn’t easy for me though. I had the sort of mind that was always looking ahead. It was never on what I was doing, but on what I’d be doing next. I always seemed to be waiting for something to finish and something to start . . . ad infinitum. 

And while I was doing that I was also regretting a great deal of what went before even though, here’s the thing, that can’t be changed.

So I’m trying not to do that anymore. I’m feeling the mud beneath my feet and the rain upon my head and appreciating it. And I’m trying not to regret the things I won’t have (like grandchildren) because there’s no guarantee of those either.

But hang it all, I’m not that good, so I’m also buying a brand new car (comes Friday) and taking my girls on a 3 week trip to Canada in the summer!  Yippeeee

*less not un

“Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing - absolutely nothing - half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.”

The most lovely Mig and her rather wonderful husband Barney, invited me to spend a few days on their narrow boat, with them of course, and travel along still waters.

Three ladies lunching

At times, it was wet both below and above, but it was also beautiful. Spring had sprung in Staffordshire, at least along the canal; and ducklings, goslings and cygnets floated serenely by except the three (stupid ones) that I nearly crushed betwixt the canal-side and the boat (they kept swimming towards the ever decreasing gap) (yes I know I was in charge of making it bigger (the gap) but I was watching them and flapping). I really don’t know who was most panic-struck, ducklings, mother duck or me but rescue came from unperturbed Barney as I thrust the tiller at him with eyes wide shut. 

Horses! 

Mig and Barney were brave indeed to let me loose in charge of steering their boat and I only hit a few things. They’re surprisingly resilient these boats, as of course, are the banks and the bridges if not the ducklings, who were saved by Barney’s swift adjustment in direction.  

I’d never been on a canal boat, or indeed a canal, before and I’m surprised frankly that more death and destruction doesn’t abound around these things.  There seemed many a way an individual, such as myself, with tiller or windlass and an unsteady gait,  could wreak havoc to one and all. 

Some children paddling that I just I failed to hit

And we’re lucky indeed that bridge 80 is still crossable above and through-able below, because I bounced their boat off both sides before abandoning the tiller once again.  It was unfortunate therefore, that we had to cross this damn bridge (by car) four flippin’ times that evening to and from the pub (twice to the pub, I know, ask Mig) and it was pointed out each and every time that this was the bridge to which I had so sadly failed to navigate in anything approaching aplomb or even control. And all at less than walking pace - it’s amazing, even to me.  

A cow

The pub though, served the best fish and chips I have ever had.

Thank you so much Mig and Barney.

When I returned ...

In Oakfrith Wood 

The Bluebells had come out 

... and then this happened!

..." ?@*$%!! " ...

1. it's back
2. fuck
3. bugger
4. bollox
5. shitty shitty shite


I'm surprised to find I don't know that many really juicy and expressive swear words and those above have become rather commonplace and cannot, by any stretch of the imagination,  express how I feel.

It wasn't until my 3rd argument this weekend that it dawned on me that I must be angry.

I don't feel angry though, inside. 
I don't have the urge to throw things or punch things (except ex-husbands) or scream and beat my fists against innocent objects.

But cross me today and I'll tell you what I think - oh yes; and it's you I'm looking at Mr Job's Worth parking attendent; and you, emergency plumber who wouldn't come out on a bank holiday even though I had water coming through my ceiling as it wasn't an emergency TO YOU; and you, you stupid stupid woman in the post office queue, of course the Post Office doesn't arrange cat spaying FOR PETE'S SAKE! (Who is Pete?).

No I can't say I'm taking the news lying down. So something inside me is not happy, perhaps it's me.

the little things ...

1. Sometimes the smallest things can gives us the greatest satisfaction.
2. Quite obviously I’m not talking penis size, but am in fact talking folding fitted sheets neatly. 
3. I can do this now having followed a youtube clip from, I think, Roses. 
4. Before that I sort of rolled them up and my little OCD mind would shudder and beat its tiny fists against my consciousness, but now I can do it and it gives me enormous pleasure. 
5. I am that sad!

where fore art thou Romeo

Today I went to a wedding.

I am really rather sad because the groom is my 90-year-old neighbour J and he has been a stalwart of this village for over 40 years.  When I was less mobile and unwell he planted up my wee garden with pretty spring flowers, cut back things that were over-grown and knew a plant from a weed. He looked in on me most days to ensure I was coping and brought me logs and kindling when it was cold. When I starter to become stronger I helped him in his large and quite beautiful garden by admiring it and also holding great lumps of wood while he wielded a chainsaw, something neither of us did very well, it’s a fair miracle we have all our limbs still remaining.

Then J met M. She used to live in the village but she and her (2nd) husband moved to a town on the south coast some years ago.  J's wife died 2 years ago and it's true he was lonely sometimes, especially in the winter months when he couldn't garden from dawn to dusk and chat to the passers by.

Somehow over the late summer and autumn M worked on J and persuaded him to leave his quintessential thatched and quite extraordinarily beautiful cottage with his prized garden and move south to her. We all asked him why M couldn't move in with him here, to the home he loved with his garden that he'd worked on for 40 years and which kept him fit, healthy and spritelier then many 50 year olds I know.  M lived in a tiny flat on a main road and none of his friends and family could understand why he eventually decided to buy a house along the road from M's flat and leave everything he knew and loved for a town in which he knew but one person and to a house without a garden. 

This last month J has been steadily trying to sort out his very many years of belongings and packing up his home and life.  Only 2 weeks ago we received invitations to the wedding, today, and learned that J was moving out this week.  The removal truck arrived on Monday and J arrived at my door with a rocking chair that M doesn't want. It hardly fits in here but I will keep it because it will remind me of J. He looked harassed and sad and nearly every one of his 90 years.  The move is killing him, and I get the feeling that now they are married M won't mind if it does. 

But today he looked smart and happy and I guess that's what counts.  The small village contingent that had travelled down to witness the ceremony walked passed by his modern townhouse to the reception along the busy main road; as one we looked at each other and wondered whether the next time we met here would be at J's funeral. 

Poor M.  Can one scheming woman withstand so much ill will I wonder?

anyone for golf...? (should this be ..? using the dot of the ? to form the 3 ellipsis?)

I only have the smallest of lawns, if indeed lawn can be used to describe a twelve foot square, even when it had grass. Now it is mainly dirt, to call it soil would be to show it more respect than it deserves.  Before this sudden and unexpected dry spell I had mud. Mud of varying depths where small industrious dogs have applied their version of gardening which as far as I can tell involves digging an assortment of holes of various sizes with great enthusiasm and astonishing speed.  This has caused the grass of which there was once a fair covering to vanish as though it never was, although it grows aplenty between the flag stones where it isn't required.

Anyhow, what to do? What to do, with this small and arid wastelend? It needs something to keep the dirt / mud from being brought into the house which it is doing in ever increasing volumes.  If these dogs wore trews I would swear they were digging an escape tunnel and had little bags of the stuff up their trouser legs which they were cunningly depositing inside to disguise their nefarious activities. But they don't, so they must just be shovelling it in when I'm not looking and then blaming the cats.

Bailey is the main perpetrator, but he is leading the others astray.  He told me earlier that he is in fact building me a golf course.  He's just roughing it out at the moment.

("Rough! Rough!")

no, I have no idea why they are all 1. ... one of those days

Dear Parcelforce Delivery Person

1. Since when do you deliver before 07.00 AM?! And how dare you put a note through my door saying I wasn’t in when I was in bed like any normal retired person.  It takes more than a nano second to get downstairs you know, you stupid-little-very-early-delivery-person.

1. How dare you say it will be in the post office in the next village but three on your irritating little note and then not deliver it there; BUT while I’m there trying to collect it take it back to my house and put ANOTHER note through my door telling me you tried AGAIN.

1. And then tell me it's now at another Post Office.

1. Is this Helpful?

1.  

NO

1 ... 5

1. I like these 1 - 5 posts

2. Holiday was wonderful, thanks.

Here we are admiring Gaudi's handywork

3. I think Spring may have lifted its long remembered head and blinked. The forsythia has blossomed and I'm sneezing.

4. I have been officially retired and have a pension!

5. In celebration I should be contemplating a tight perm but my hair has done that by itself, so I'll just have to go for the blue rince*.

*I went for pink instead.

I am sailing, I am sailing . . . but flying first

My daughter, the Baby-Doc, and I are off on our hols tomorrow. I’m so exited I can’t tell you. The other daughter for her sins, is a teacher and doesn’t break up until next Thursday so can’t come. This is a bit of a shame, but as a modern, working woman such as she, has long grown out of holidaying with her mother, and is probably heaving a large, but discreet, sigh of relief at the near miss. But Baby-Doc is a student and is therefore more inclined to grab a free week’s holiday when offered even if it does means putting up with her excruciatingly embarrassing mother.  We have a lot planned for our week sailing around the Med,  although it looks like most of it will be spent changing judging by the two trunks currently blocking the living room. We have enough clothes to last 6 months without repetition, or washing.  The weather doesn’t look that balmy, but at the very least it will be warmer than here and with less snow.  B-D is particularly looking forward to seeing the Gaudi Parc Guell in Barcelona (cue Freddy and Montserrast). And so am I, but what I’m particularly anticipating is the on-board bar, which is free as long as you hand your credit card in at the beginning, doing the Birdie song with complete strangers and also, thinks,  that thing involving a coconut tree and sitting on the floor rowing. I’m sure I’ve seen people enjoying themselves doing such things. We’re also going to hold up the leaning tower while wine tasting the local red, not going into Rome because it’s Good Friday the pope holds no interest, looking at rescued tortoises in Corsica, plus another couple of ports here and there. A kindly soul is moving into chez nous to look after the menagerie and enjoy the Wiltshire weather.  I just have to decide on which shoes, sandals (boots?) to take. See yers laters peeps!

ein kleines nachtlicht

puppy training

1. On thursday evenings I go to puppy training classes with my puppy.  The only thursday it isn’t on is the second thursday in the month.  Nevertheless I went yesterday because I have lost my functioning mind and even though I write these things down I forget that I have and don’t look.
2. Still it’s an interesting drive along narrow country roads without street-lighting but also without traffic. I passed but one vehicle. It is Extremely Dark. That is until the village of Bishop’s Canning where they illuminate their church and the spire suddenly appears on the right (going to puppy training) and it’s horribly eery.
3. It giveth me the heebie-jeebies and I have to drive with eyes left so I can’t see it, so affected by its loominess and malevolence am I.
4. Because there was no puppy training last night (must have been the second thursday in the month), and the village hall was occupied by elderly men with important looking folders all sat in a ring (no idea, you?), I had to about turn and head back home.  The church is not so spooky this way.  In fact isn’t it funny that the same road looks completely different going the other way? This is true of all roads in my experience. I can’t find my way back from somewhere just because I’ve got there.  It looks nothing like the same in reverse. Anyway said church doesn’t bother me so much going home and I don’t get that awful adrenaline rush that catching sight of it engenders going the other way. It is a huge church though, for titchy village and it would put me off living there.  Perhaps they light it like that to keep the inmates inside at night.
5. I don’t have a 5.
6. For the fun of it ...

Extremely Dark (NASA)

Photo taken by Cmdr Hadfield aboard the ISS

You should all follow him on @cmdr_hadfield

incredible photos and an extremely interesting man.

I am sailing ...

So busy have I been, clinging to the wreckage of my previous life, that I failed to realise that what I have here is a pretty good raft. 

Furthermore, I, and only I, have the tiller. 

It was quite a light bulb moment. 

So without further ado I shall be sailing my raft just where the fuck I please and there's no-one  (ha!) to stop me! 

Look at me will you, past 2 in the morning and I'm up. And only the dogs are confused. (Poetic licence for have gone to bed without me).

(Why didn't anyone tell me I was allowed to be free?)

🎶

...

Melvyn Bragg talks too quickly on the radio. Funnily enough it's not so noticeable on the television, nor is the annoying timbre of his voice. I must remember to turn him off next time and not just listen getting annoyed. It's not good for my SW!

soul less ... is more ...

Sorry, I haven't really moved on with this preoccupation with the business of spiritual wellbeing and souls.  Please just ignore me as I think, a tricky business, aloud.  While my subconsious mind machinates on the concept of "I think therefore I am" where the assumption "I am" is a different entity to the physical me, let me ask you if you watched sex-on-legs Prof Cock explain the Wonders of Life? I'm quite happy to believe I'm just a cascade of protons but what about that dragonfly eh? What is the point of metamorphosis?  I'm not talking Kafka here I'm talking caterpillars, tadpoles and the like. They exist happily in these states, successful life achieved, why the change into something completely different?  It's bound to be something to do with sex, it always is, but it must surely have been as easy to evolve reproductive capabilities as a caterpillar, as the massive change to a dragon/butter fly? Well obviously not ... Think I'll have a look what Prof Google has to say about the evolutionary process of the dragonfly.  Excuse me just a moment I will return...

Ok, not so much sex as flying, try telling that to the amphibians.

Here if you're interested.

So back to this, my naive outlook on souls /spirits. I have to take you round the houses a bit here because this thought process involved a conversation I was having with the lady who very kindly drives me to the hospice where I have art therapy - this is therapy not because I'm about to croak, but because I was and now I'm not, well not in the immediate now unless I fall under a bus, the kind of thing that can happen to anyone careless enough to be looking the wrong way. Although living as I do in a small village, buses are a rarity, it would more likely be a tractor...

... I was describing to this kind and long-suffering lady a soulless building. Not devoid of people, but devoid of character, faceless, dead and cold. Ah ha! Thunk I, I can apprciate the concept of soul - less, so by definition and logical conclusion I must know what I think soul is! It's an uphill struggle I know, I feel your pain.

I'm going with 'soul' incidentally because 'spiritual' is too intertwined and messed up with religion in my head and I can't convince myself that a set of rules and practices invented by mankind can have anything whatsoever to do with life, the universe and everything.  And Tim who knows everything and uses long words says they're the same. Where was I? Oh yes our internal, if not eternal, souls.

Back to the beginning then, where we were thinking therefore we were, what were we? Well for want of a better word, a soul. Our thoughts and emotions expressing themselves as our character and personality, shaped by external influences for sure, but in essence apart and separate and making an individual, individual.  So I think this ... If I am allowing negative external influences effect my thoughts and emotions to an extent that I can hardly control them and they are spiralling downwards, then my spiritual wellbeing is frankly shite. If, on the other hand, in spite of any malign influences and with the help of all the good floating about out there, I am what is underratedly termed content, then my spiritual wellbeing is good thanks, as is my soul.

I know this is pathetically simplistic but my mother was catholic, need I say more?

tell me the answer (42)

In the course of my recent life I see at least one or two medical professionals each week. Not just doctors, but physiotherapists, occupational therapists, psychologists, my current favourite the art therapist, dieticians, radiologists, you get the picture? My life is governed to a great extent by visiting or being visited by *ists. And a jolly lovely and life saving lot they are too. Indeed in about half an hour I’m off to see the physiotherapist termed with some affection the physioterrorist and she is a hard task master. But 18 months of not doing a great deal and being opened up front and back has left me wobbly.  She leaves me achy and wobbly a win win by her standards. 

What all these lovely people have in common is a clipboard or pc or some such device to record my progress each week / month  etc and one of the questions they ask besides the most obvious is “how is your spiritual wellbeing” and this one stumps me every time because by the time we get to this one I’ve already answered the aches and pains and mental and mood questions. I have no conception of the nuances of spirituality. In my (no doubt limited) mind it conjures up those people who find their strength in believing in something for which I can see no evidence. When I have asked what it means I am told various sort of woolly things like it’s my love of my fellow man, or a sense of togetherness with one and all. And in a woolly sort of way I get that, but is that spiritual? In an effort to explain more fully one of the hospice staff pointed out a young vicar type person and asked me if I couldn’t tell that he was spiritual because he spent his time caring for the wellbeing of all these cancer patients. To me he seemed a very kind and compassionate young man and that was it - no added extra and frankly he didn’t need it he was good to go as he was. 

So no, I still don’t get it and I’m sick of being asked because I don't know the answer - but I better go now because I don’t want to be late for my *ist.