365 Days of MS

A Remembrance

2017-07-16T22:17:00.000-07:00

Gone but not forgotten. Loved always.

Cyril Edward Parker (4th January 1923 – 31st August 2016)

Grief is an odd emotion. Most of the time you carry on, you do the day-to-day, and you think, ‘It’s Ok, I’m getting along fine’ and then someone will say something, you’ll see something or even smell something, and all of a sudden you are gasping for air as the weight of grief crushes you. Happiness is weightless, but grief has the stature of giants. We are here today to celebrate the fact that the enormity of that grief is a measure of the privilege we feel for having had Cyril Edward Parker in our lives.

‘Sometimes it’s the smallest things that take up the most room in your heart’ because it’s the small things that we remember. The knots at the four corners of the handkerchief that grandad wore on his head on the beach; the fact that I have never seen him paddle in a pair of shorts, when simply rolling up his trousers would do; tuc biscuits and shandy at the caravan; and of course the most expensive pair of wellies in the world – at 50 pence a week to my nan’s catalogue for about 30 years.

I didn’t want to speak to you today about death. I am not going to tell you that my grandad is in the wind that brushes past my face, or in the raindrops that fall. He is no more there, than he is in the coffin beside me. He is somewhere else now; he is young and free of pain and happy. What is left here are our memories of him, what he left here for us. I can see him every time I look at my daughter’s hands – I can see my grandad’s long tapering fingers and I am reminded of him. I am reminded of his dry humour, of the legacy he left all of us as a brave soldier who fought for our freedom. I am reminded of his selective hearing when my nan calls ‘Eddie, Eddie!’

So today I am going to speak to you about love. As the nation’s favourite bear once said ‘If there ever comes a day when we can’t be together, keep me in your heart, I’ll stay there forever’. It’s only love that matters, it’s only love that lasts, and Grandad was loved. To have the love of a beautiful woman for almost 70 years is a testament to the man that my grandad was, and my nan’s love lives on. As does ours for him. So, I want to celebrate that love today by reading a poem not about death or loss but about the enigma that is love. This is one of the most mystifying and beautiful poems, and perhaps it goes some way to describing almost 70 years of love.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

Irene Maud Parker (26th December 1926 - 17th May 2017)

How do you tell a life? Like a Rashamon effect, each of us has a different story to tell of Irene Parker, a different viewpoint from which to tell it: mother, aunt, friend, sister, neighbour. I can only tell you mine: grandmother. A woman married for 70 years to the same man, a woman who shares her birth year with the Queen, who made the best cakes I’ve ever eaten, the thickest gravy I’ve ever seen – who could knit you just about anything. Kindness, cuddles, love – oh and tuc biscuits and shandy at the caravan. So, let’s not mourn her passing, but celebrate her life, and allow her to live through our, very different, memories of her.

In a letter to her friend, Lady Ottoline Morrell, in October 1918 Katherine Mansfield wrote:

Oh, my dearest woman friend – how vivid you are to me – how I love the thought of you; you cannot know. And it is such a “comfort” to feel that we are in the same world – not in this one. What has one to do with this one?

There is always the reassurance that this world is merely a stopover, a transitory series of moments lived and remembered; ‘I am the resurrection and the Life’ sayeth Jesus Christ. And so, we still occupy the same world as Nanny, just with a slightly different viewpoint.

In his Parable on Immortality, Henry Van Dyke describes this viewpoint:

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch until at last she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and the sky come down to mingle with each other. Then someone at my side says, “There she goes.”

Gone where? Gone from my sight…that is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and just as able to bear her load of living freight to the place of destination. Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone at my side says, “There she goes”, there are other eyes watching her coming and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, “Here she comes!”

So, as we see Irene drift away from us and say ‘there she goes’, grandad sees her drifting towards him and says ‘here she comes’. We just see her from a slightly different viewpoint. Gone from our sight, but living on in us: loved and remembered.

Working Mum

2015-11-13T19:26:00.002-08:00

“…and at the top of the fishnet stockings, I’m wearing a lacy black garter with a red bow.”

“And what else…?”

“Only a tiny, black, negligee. It’s so hot in here; I may have to take it off. My breasts are hot and sweaty…”

“Describe your breasts to me…”

Audrey leant forward over the ironing board, reached for another pair of school shorts from the pile of creased clothes. Cradling the phone on her shoulder, she continued the conversation. Sarah was right, this chatline business was easy and lucrative. Her husband didn’t need to know. It wasn’t wrong. Just talking, right?

Pain Barriers

2015-10-28T04:00:00.000-07:00

‘Pain is your friend, darling. Breathe’.

The contractions were every two minutes. Claire was exhausted.

‘I want an epidural!’

‘Remember we discussed this. Breathe through the pain darling’.

‘Ahhhhh!’ Another contraction bit her.

‘You’re doing really well, Claire’, the midwife reassured her. ‘We’re almost there. On the next one, I want you to push.’

‘That’s it darling. No pain, no gain.’

Claire turned to her husband, raised her fist and hit him square on the nose. He yelled out in pain, blood gushing from his face.

‘Just breathe through it darling!’ Claire turned to the midwife, gripped the bedrail and pushed.

Contemplation of Keys to the Past

2015-10-25T23:37:00.001-07:00

We are having decorators in this week, so this has involved a fair amount of packing away of things and a bit of sorting out. On the inside of one of the kitchen cupboards there are a lot of keys. House keys, car keys, suitcase keys, many of which we look at in dismay, desperately trying to remember what they unlock.

Keys tell a history, don't they? When you look at those keys, and try to remember which particular door or cupboard they are married to, what memories do they evoke? Keys can keep secrets like the bridge in France, littered with padlocks to lock away secrets for generations of people who traverse the walkway. I often wonder what people do with the key afterwards? Do they throw it into the river, or, frightened of the consequences of that, that final desperate letting go, perhaps they put it in a box or safe somewhere, locked, paradoxically, with another key. Does the effort of placing the lock on the bridge expunge the memory locked in the compartments of the mind? Does the keeping of the key (or indeed the disposal of it) help cathartically? We can't forcibly forget something, despite Freud's best work on the unconscious - repression is, well, unconscious. You can't choose to repress something. Because the conscious attempt at repression simply recalls the memory.

Keys remind us of our past. They place us, not just temporally, but also spatially in the past. Keys remind us not just of times we have been, but places we have inhabited. To own the key is to own a small piece of that past: to place something in a location in the corridors of the mind. Looking through the keys in the cupboard I recall the first time I placed the key in the lock, to open a new part of my life. Keys, then, signal the past but when we first take ownership of them, they signal the future. Each one of those keys in the cupboard was a move forward: and in their very existence now they hold that memory for me. Where was I going, what excitement did I feel?

The keys are tarnished and scratched; evidence of life lived. We carry keys with us where we go. They experience life with us, recording and remembering, so each one of those scratches, the veneer that is tarnished, means that I experienced life. The key records, in each of those impairments, a step forward in my life.

Would that I could hold, now, the keys of the future. In the future, I will hold the keys I carry with me now and I will wonder what they were for: what areas of my life did they unlock - for good or bad. But as long as I keep moving forward, taking the new keys and allowing them to open new realities, struggles or enlightenment, I am living.

On a school night?

2014-01-21T21:32:00.000-08:00

Dear Member,

Thank you for becoming a member of the 'no wine in the week' society. This contract outlines your obligations as regards no alcohol on a school night, notwithstanding subsections 4 through 9: exemptions for bank holidays, or other religious holidays, noting that members do not have to be active participants of a religious society, doctrine or organisation in order to participate in religious exemptions. This amounts to approximately 143 days per year.

I would like to draw your attention to the following further exemptions which, notwithstanding current stocks of alcoholic beverages, allow for some indulgence on the below mentioned occasions:

1. Homework: in the instruction, assistance with or carrying out of homework with or on behalf of children, one may partake of alcohol;
2. Teenage angst: anyone with children between the ages of 13 and 43 may partake of alcohol on a school night (week night for those with children over 18) for reasons of having to deal with teenage angst. One should remember on all occasions that anything that is going wrong in your teenager's life, IS your fault;
3. Teenage Monstrousness: regardless of exemption number 2, exemptions are also incurred for teenagers with challenging behaviour. This includes mood swings, contrariness, shouting, slamming of doors, de-friending you on Facebook and so on. The amount of alcohol allowed can be increased exponentially with the number of times you say 'black' and the child responds with 'white' or, indeed, 'whatever'.
4. Medicinal Uses: Any alcohol required for medicinal purposes is also permitted. This clause can be invoked for pretty much any reason you like.
5. Husbands: It is recognised that pressures on wives are exerted by husbands being, well let's face it, completely useless, and women may take advantage of this exemption clause, rather than stabbing said husband with something sharp.
6. Morons: It is equally recognised that, for the most part, we are surrounded by morons and alcohol may be partaken of if members have had to deal with moronic behaviour at least twice in a single day.
7. Parents: Despite some members having moved 3000 miles away from parents (elderly or otherwise) it is acknowledged that family issues, gossip, problems, and general annoying behaviour can cross time and space, and this clause allows for that.
8. Finally, and without prejudice to any other exemption clause contained herein, members may engage in alcoholic beverages on a school night if they can think of a reason to, or indeed, even if they can't.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank you once again for becoming a member of our society. Cheers!

Paradoxical

2013-12-11T06:43:00.000-08:00

I have always liked the word Paradoxical - mainly because it's quite difficult to explain what it means but you nevertheless know what it means. Do you know what I mean?

Anyway, I am having a bit of a paradoxical time at the moment. It goes a bit like this: new medication comes along. For most people it is all singing and all dancing, no side effects, no relapses, going to make your life wonderful, medication. And guess what, it comes in tablet form. One pill a day and that's it. Fantastic.

Well, fantastic until you have the first set of blood tests and your neurologist suggests that you are either (a) a vampire or (b) already dead. Hmm. So, I plead with him to let me stay on panacea-type medication. He reluctantly agrees for a further two weeks because the alternatives are not so all-singing-and-all-dancing. In the meantime, I do that very dangerous thing: research on the inter-web (as my mum in law refers to it).

Research into medical matters on the inter-web is not for the faint-hearted. Within two hours I was convinced that I had dengue fever, chagas disease, leprosy and the plague. The research on said new medication however, was suspiciously elusive. I directed myself to that paragon of all human interaction: Facebook, and joined a group. Therein lay the answers to all of my queries.

So today I see my GP for a minor complaint which she concludes is stress related. Juggling too many balls in the air, she suggests. It quickly dawns on me (cos I'm smart like that) that the most stressful thing in my life is not my job, my kids, my PhD - it's my neurologist and the not so all-singing-all-dancing medication. Paradoxical: the thing that is supposed to make me feel good, is in fact the one thing in my life that I am stressing about. So, what's a girl to do? There's no alternative but to make a list of things to avoid the stress (admit it, you knew there was going to be a list) My GP suggests less coffee, sleeping, eating, that kind of thing. But oh, no. That won't do. So, here's the grown up woman's guide to avoiding stress:

1. Stab the neurologist with something sharp.

2. Give as many people as you can, the finger on the SZR and see how long it takes the police to arrest you (this is based on the hypothesis that it isn't in fact illegal to make hand gestures but is merely frowned upon). There's nothing like a night in Dubai Jail to smooth away all thoughts of anything else stressful in your life.

3. Avoid looking at the photographs that your best friend took at the Christmas party last week.

4. Arrange a further Christmas party (you might be able to remember this one)

5. Respond to the emails asking you if you would like to enlarge your 'member' just to see what they can offer (women only on this one please). The possibilities are endless.

6. Go into Gap and unfold all the carefully folded jumpers telling the assistants that you are looking for a size -1

7. Just for a laugh, spend the day trying to get something done in immigration - if you are really stressing about something in your life do this on a Thursday - all other stresses pale into insignificance once you have to contend with immigration.

8. Decide from now on to cook only things that require 1 tablespoon of wine. Be inventive: beans on toast au vin, sausages poached in wine with egg and chips,red lentil and sauvignon blanc soup, you get the picture. Once a bottle is opened it must be drunk or it goes off (which is a waste of money, which causes you stress, so you need to drink it).

9. Log in to Ebay and look in the miscellaneous-other section. Weird isn't even close. This will make you realise that no matter how stressful your life is, there are people out there suffering far more than you (and they are prepared to pay for it).

10. Finally, write stupid blog entry, include list that you can only think of 9 things when your OCD decrees that it should be 10, and then just add stupid statement on the bottom...

The Week from hell...

2013-03-08T06:24:00.001-08:00

This week has been the week from hell. No, really, the worst so far this year (yes, I know it's only March). It has been a week of unprecedented disasters.

This is how the week was supposed to look:

Sunday: Meeting with PhD supervisors during which I would convey my erudite and original ideas for my research proposal whilst cultivating a friendly and mutually respectful exchange.
Monday: Parents evening at secondary school. Teachers would confirm our choices for GCSE options, assuring us of our educated and well informed decisions.
Tuesday: Reading group. Lovely evening with a few friends to raise and discuss profound questions about last month's book.
Wednesday: Highlight of the week: visit arranged by me, to my place of work, of eminent British Detective fiction writer (who shall remain nameless but who writes a very famous series of novels featuring a detective in Scotland). Director would be impressed with my organisational skills and bask in the kudos of opportunity to meet such a famous and charming author. This is followed by 1 hour meeting at secondary school to discuss forthcoming trip to Tanzania for No 1 child to iron out any small wrinkles.
Thursday: Visit to local Dr of dermatology for removal of two moles - a small procedure one has undergone before - relatively painless and minor. This is followed by girls night in at BFF's house - wine flowing, food delicious, riotous company.

This is how the week actually went:

Sunday: Soul destroying meeting with PhD supervisors in which I manage to convey not only my utter incompetence but also my general demeanour of sheer panic.
Monday: Parents evening resembles a rugby scrum in which 5 minute appointments are allocated for 10 minute chats and everyone is behind by 30 minutes into the sequence. Teachers all assured in the belief that THEIR subject is the most important and suitable for No 1 child. Leave totally unsure of GCSE option choices.
Tuesday: Reading group meeting. Most people hate the book. We discuss it for 5 minutes and spend the other 175 minutes drinking wine and laughing raucously. Stagger home and await the arrival of the hangover that will pervade the VERY IMPORTANT DAY tomorrow.
Wednesday: Up at the crack of dawn and into work at stupid o'clock. Driver takes me to hotel to collect eminent author. Arrive at hotel 45 minutes early. Have lovely cup of coffee in lounge. Wait in lobby for eminent author with lovely lady from Literature Festival who is accompanying him. He doesn't show. I panic. I have the Vice Chancellor, the Deputy Vice Chancellor, the Director and about 60 other people awaiting eminent author back at GCHQ. It transpires that eminent author has been given wrong schedule and is currently in the elevator with his wife at the tallest building in the world, the Burj Khalifa. I manage to convince festival organisers to allow me to fetch eminent author. Driver takes us to largest mall in the world and I walk the length of it, in three inch heels, to collect eminent author who is understandably, somewhat flummoxed. Wait 15 minutes for driver to find us on other side of world's biggest mall. Arrive at place of work 45 minutes late, stressed out and mortified in embarrassment. Talk by author absolutely hilarious and worth the wait.
Death by meeting to discuss Tanzania trip simply goes over previous information sent by email; my mobile phone goes off just as they are explaining that pupils cannot take their mobile phones on the trip. I apologise profusely and die of embarrassment for the second time today. My humiliation is complete.
Thursday: Procedure to remove moles agonisingly painful. It transpires that as moles are on back, I now cannot bend. So dressing, particularly putting on one's shoes or knickers becomes a triumph of ingenuity and yoga style stretching without bending. Cannot move without pain from barbed wire type stiches in back.
Arrive home to find cat very ill. Rush to vets. He has temperature of 40 degrees and bowel obstruction. Vet keeps him for x ray and telephones to inform me that charges will amount to the cost of a small car.
Girls night in: masterful triumph from most excellent hostess who plys me with much needed alcohol.

What are friends for.

That time again?

2012-11-04T21:58:00.002-08:00

It's that time of year again: the domain of the Office Party. It's the end of another long and challenging year and the opportunity to let one's hair down at the Company's expense is too good to pass up. And so, we get our gladrags on, a bit of make up, dust off the high heels and head for the End of Year Party (note that these are no longer referred to as the 'Christmas Party', although Father Christmas has been known to put in an appearance). So, I thought it best (as guru of 'what NOT to do when you are drunk') I should offer some advice to the uninitiated on office party etiquette.

1. Outfits: think 'going out with your mum' rather than 'on the lash with the girls' so leave the leopard skin boobtube at home.

2. Only speak to the Senior Management Team between the aperitifs and the buffet - not towards the end of the night when the cocktails start coming out.

3. As far as Disco Divas are concerned you are right up there with them, but to save some very unusual looks in the office next week, try and keep the Beyonce 'Single ladies' moves at bay. Think dancing round your handbag, rather than pole dancing.

4. As the evening progresses,and with the beer goggles on, everyone from the office suddenly becomes your friend, refrain from offering any useful advice, or home truths. Believe me, honesty is NOT the best policy.

5. Taking photos on your phone of your very drunk colleagues and uploading them immediately to Facebook might seem like a good idea at the time, but is likely to get you sent to Coventry come Monday morning.

6. Never, under any circumstances, and especially not after more than one glass of wine, should you comment upon or indicate your approval/disgust at colleagues other halves. So the 50 year old guy who brings the 17 year old taiwanese wife he met on the internet, who is clearly dressed by TopShop, is not to be subjected to your critical eye. No, no, no.

7. Karaoke: is for someone else. Nuff said, I think.

8. And finally, for those who are single: as soon as you feel the urge to touch, kiss, become intimate in any way, shape or form, with any of your colleagues, it's time to leave and go home to bed. ALONE.

So, Merry Christmas everyone and have a good party season.

Love is...

2012-10-28T21:02:00.000-07:00

Sophie was completely besotted. There was no other word for it. She hung on his every word. Smitten, her mum would have said. When he left the room her eyes followed him, and when he re-entered, the room simply lit up.

Every night, cuddling by the fire: he with his warm, knitted jumpers and she with a blanket, keeping the cold and the rest of the world at bay. When he glanced down at her, she melted.

He reached over, gently stroking her head. Come on then girl, walkies! Sophie bounced up, and, with her tail wagging excitedly, followed him out into the garden.

Rain, what rain?

2012-10-07T00:52:00.002-07:00

Fish and chips, Stafford, Train journeys to shopping cities, beautiful countryside, Sunday lunch, welcoming arms and happiness kisses, pub lunches, pub dinners, hell, pub any time, high streets with Georgian buildings, parks, Kedleston Hall, expensive petrol, Tescos, Peterborough, Liverpool and Birmingham, Blists Hill Victorian Village, Ironbridge, glorious views, people who 'get' my English jokes, grass that is lush and green, family gossip, carpets under your feet at home, people I love and who love me, wine for 4 quid a bottle (and you can buy it anywhere), small cars, people who say 'excuse me', 'please' and 'thank you', swings and see-saws, trees - loads and loads of trees, umbrellas and wellington boots, yorkshire pudding, banks that know what they're doing, Macdonald's breakfasts, coffee with friends and girl's nights out, libraries and second hand bookshops, rivers and lakes, cobbled streets, Shakespeare outside, hills and walks, castles and people dressed up in costumes, and most of all: family.

England, my England.

Evil Invigilation

2012-05-10T10:46:00.001-07:00

Invigilating exams is the new form of torture. Death by boredom. I notice that it doesn't say anywhere in my contract that I have to sit in a room for 3 hours, with 50 smelly and extremely anxious (hence the smelliness) students for three hours with absolutely nothing to do. That's because recruitment of lecturers would be arduous if they knew that it included regular bouts of such torture.

So, there's nothing for it but to amuse oneself whilst having to watch them sweat. So, for the uninitiated, here is the guide to surviving three hours of evil invigilation:

1. Greet the students, seat them and thank them for coming (well, it is nice of them to turn up).
2. There will, inevitably, be only one chair between two invigilators, so stake your claim the minute you enter the room.
3. Once you have the chair, fill out the paperwork. It takes less than 2 minutes but that only leaves 178 minutes to go.
4. Now you have completed the formalities, you need to invent interesting ways to amuse yourself so here goes.
5. Count how many people have shoe laces.
6. Walk around the room, sniffing the delicate aroma of the great unwashed, and estimate how many of these vastly superior and intelligent beings, have not heard of deodorant.
7. Wake anyone who is sleeping (including the other invigilator).
8. Put the air conditioning on 'arctic' and count how long it takes for one of the brave souls to ask you to turn it up.
9. Read the exam paper and estimate whether you would pass or fail (of course you would pass, you are a lecturer for goodness sake).
10. Observe the students carefully, it is usually easy to tell which ones have revised and which ones haven't. Go around the room and behind each student, indicate via a series of hand gestures and facial expressions to the other invigilator, what chance of passing you think the student has.
11. Tell the students they only have 15 minutes remaining when they actually have 45 minutes, and laugh at the panic that ensues.
12. Finally, to mark the end of the exam set your timer on your iphone to play 'There may be trouble ahead...' by Nat King Cole.

There you go. Three hours of boredom. Sorted.

Diet schmiet

2012-05-01T04:52:00.002-07:00

I'm on a diet. No, really I am. Stop laughing.

Well, I say I'm on a diet. That's if you don't count the daal and naan bread, fillet steak with peppercorn sauce and three desserts I cooked and ate with my friends last Thursday. I swear, the 100g that it took me all week to lose, I put back on in that one night!

So, I'm thinking that weightwatchers ran the prisoner of war camps in WWII and that's where their entire diet regime comes from. I mean really, a 60g portion of pasta is correct? For a three year old it is. I swear I am starving. I have done weightwatchers before (years ago) and they have changed their scheme. Now, all fruit and vegetables are 'free' (i.e. zero points). So, basically, I could sit at my desk at work and eat fruit and veg all day and I wouldn't use up any points. Hmm. And, wine counts! How can that be? It's made from grapes, d'er!

The consequence of making fruit and veg 'free' is that everything else is twice the points. I am allowed 26 points a day. This is playing havoc with my trips to Starbucks. Did you know that a full fat caramel latte with two sugars is 7 points! I'm mean, really. And if you add the muffin, well that's pretty much breakfast and lunch wiped out.

You can gain more points by exercising. I looked up 'shopping'. Wasn't on the list. Do they know how big the malls are here? I could walk 4 miles in the course of searching for the perfect dress for dinner at a very fattening restaurant for Friday night. I am beginning to wonder whether this is really for me. I'll keep you posted.

Oh, no, did I really?

2012-03-06T22:06:00.001-08:00

One of the things my friends will testify to, is my considerable experience with alcohol. People often (but not as often as I would like) comment that I look young for my age, and my response is always 'preserved in alcohol, you see'. So, I feel it encumbent upon me to share my wisdom with those less fortunate than myself, and impart a few tips about what one should, and shouldn't do, whilst indulging.

Once you have begun on the merry path to oblivion, you must never:

1. Update your Facebook status. The horror of waking in the morning to find the expletives, emotional outpourings, or cringe-worthy comments one has shared with the world, is beyond bum clenching embarrassment, so don't go there.
2. Log on to Ebay. Those items that it was 'fun' to bid on last night, have to be paid for in the morning. The absolutely essential but nonetheless useless 'soft cotton Japanese black bondage rope' (I kid you not, I just looked it up - for research purposes you understand) will seem 'not so essential' in the morning.
3. Send pissed text messages. Yeah, we've all been there: 'you are my absolutely bestist friend and I love you so much, I'm so glad you are my friend'. Ok, so maybe that's just me then.
4. Answer work emails. Much as you would like to explain to your colleagues (especially those in other Countries) exactly how to 'shove' something where only doctors should normally go, jump off the nearest cliff or give them directions to Hell, you will regret such statements in the morning. Oh, and the 'withdraw' option on emails only works if the recipient hasn't actually opened the email and read it. Trust me, I know.
5.Order cards from online retailers for your relatives. Tempting as it is to order all of the birthday cards in advance from someone like Moonpig, one's sense of decorum can be a little skewed when indulging. The card showing a woman on a beach and mentions 'savouring the salty tang', is not suitable for your nan or your mum, however opened minded they may be.
6. Hand out your business cards. Under no circumstances should you identify yourself to anyone you come into contact with in a bar after your first few glasses. Networking should be reserved for sober moments only.
7. Karaoke. Nuff said I think.
8. Write ridiculous blog entries about alcohol. Hmm.

Dear Smudge

2011-11-09T04:19:00.000-08:00

Dear Smudge,

I write on behalf of 'De Management' who wish to call attention to some recent, and flagrant, disregard of 'the household rules'. It is incumbent upon me to outline that said rules are to ensure the mutual enjoyment of our surroundings and/or each other's company. I therefore, draw your attention to the following matters and ask you for your support in making our family life one of mutual respect and admiration:

1. 5am is NOT breakfast time. No amount of licking of faces, pouncing on a noisy toy or jumping up and down on the bed will induce the mother and father to get up and provide you with nourishment at this ungodly hour.
2. Underneath the duvet is NOT a place for pussy-cats. You sleep ON TOP of the duvet.
3. Yes, we are aware that the bedside lights can be turned on or off by touching them. There is no need for a nighly demonstration of such effects, particularly before 6am.
4. The four poster bed is not a climbing frame for pussy-cats. There is no need therefore, for you to climb the curtains, launch yourself onto the top of the frame and run around it as if it were the Formula 1 race track.
5. Pussy-cats go OUTSIDE in the daytime: ones natural processes can be best served in someone else's garden rather than the litter tray which 'De Management' have to clean out.
6. Toys which squeak, groan, whir or include attachments with bells do NOT need to be ignored all evening and then become an object of fascination once everyone has gone to bed.
7. Anything that goes into the litter tray, STAYS in the litter tray and does not need to be removed from said tray and played with on the kitchen floor.
8. It is with regret that we must confirm, after the recent munching of bread items on top of the toaster, that the breakfast bar is out of bounds.
9. Persons walking around the house with no socks or shoes on are not inviting you to bite their ankles.
10. Finally, what goes up, must come down and therefore, if you manage to climb into next door's garden you must ensure that you are able to climb back. Step ladders, the fire brigade or the RSPCA will no longer be deployed in rescuing adventurous pussy-cats.

I thank you in advance for your careful observance of these rules from now on.

Yours

De Management.

Peeping Tom

2011-11-06T04:50:00.000-08:00

My neighbours think that I'm a peeping tom. Well, I have been peering over the wall into their garden of late but I have a genuine reason. Really I do.

Smudge, previously mentioned kitten of magnanimous cuteness, has recently discovered how to climb onto the six foot wall that divides our garden from next door's. And so he has ventured into their garden. This however, is where his genius fails him. You see, from our side of the garden he can jump onto the window sill, then onto one part of the wall and meander, at his leisurely pace, onto the dividing wall and jump down into next door's garden. Unfortunately, in true pussy cat style he has not sussed out his escape route. He cannot jump high enough to get back onto the wall and get out of their garden and into ours.

So, this morning saw witness to my husband employing a step ladder (after some diligent ringing of next door's doorbell to ask permission, to no avail) and climbing over said wall to rescue cute and naughty kitten. To say the kitten was ungrateful would be an understatement.

So, I have just let said naughty kitten into the garden again and guess where I can hear him crying from now? Well, tough love is called for and he will be applying his masterly precision in acrobatics and figuring out how to get back over that wall before I get arrested for being a peeping tom!

Goodbyes

2011-11-01T21:01:00.000-07:00

‎I came across this quotation recently:

'The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty: not knowing what comes next' (The Left Hand of Darkness, Ursula Le Guin).

I was reading the book for my reading group - well, when I say reading, I mean wading through it as one would wade through a swimming pool full of chicken soup: you might like chicken soup but immersing yourself in it is another thing altogether. The English language I love, science fiction, not so much.

Anyway, is that really true, that it's the uncertainty that keeps us going? We surround ourselves with routine and habit: is this our attempt to make sense or create some order out of the uncertainty? I have had a week of goodbyes, and I can tell you that all of that comes with just about as much uncertainty as I can take. The first goodbye was to a member of staff at work, who, for personal reasons decided it was time to go. It was, in my opinion, just a crying shame. Will I see her again? And then, Jimmy Saville died. I mean, aren't your childhood heroes supposed to live forever. No uncertainty about that, surely. Who will be next - Rolf Harris? That just doesn't bear thinking about, does it?

And then my parents, who had been staying with me for a week, returned home. Goodbye, again. Dickens was right about goodbyes:

'Why is it that we can better bear to part in spirit than in body, and whilst we have the fortitude to act farewell, have not the nerve to say it? (The Old Curiosity Shop, Charles Dickens)

Those routines, going through the motions, that's what he means. We can act it out, but to say it removes the uncertainty and makes it permanent. Goodbye not au revoir. So, what comes from the uncertainty, Le Guin, is hope. Hope that, yes, we will see these people again, the only uncertain part, the difficult bit, is when, but the hope is what makes the uncertainty tolerable.

To MRI or not to MRI, that is the question.

2011-10-22T04:13:00.000-07:00

I'm in hiding. No, really I am. Not 'I'm in the witness protection programme' type hiding, but 'my neurologist wants to send me for another MRI' type hiding. I am not going. My mum says I don't have to, and I can get a note and everything. I'm not going.

Don't you ever feel like you're just a guinea pig? I'm sure it must be fascinating for the neurologists: MS. Let's face it, it's an enigma. For each individual, it's different. It manifests itself in so many different ways that the lab rats working on a cure just can't keep up. The first case of MS was diagnosed in the 1400s and we still don't have a cure. TB, syphillis, smallpox, the plague. We've got it covered. The person who finds the cure for MS is likely to be canonised, never mind celebrated.

But I draw the line at medical procedures (and associated costs to the insurance industry) that are simply carried out as a result of my neurologist's curiosity. Don't get me wrong: I like my neurologist a lot: he's one of the good guys. But an MRI is only going to tell me what I already know. The reason he wants me to go is because (a) I haven't had an MRI for a year and (b) the new hospital here has one of those all-singing-all-dancing-power-of-the-space-shuttle-launcher fancy MRIs that will give a fantastically clear picture of the bright lights inside my head. Apparently, there are only three of these superpower MRIs in the world. So, I guess Dr Neurology is all excited: a child with a new toy.

Is this simply a case of, I don't want to ask the question because I don't want to hear the answer? I admit, it's a possibility. Ignorance is bliss, after all. And, eventually I'll put my toys back into the pram and I'll go for the MRI. I'll contribute to the growing body of knowledge about MS and I will be grateful for the advances that are being made in medical technology that allow me to have one of the most powerful MRIs in the world.

But, for now, I need to sulk just a little bit longer.

OCD, me? Really?

2011-10-21T05:27:00.000-07:00

Most people get excited about social events, family gatherings, birthdays and holidays. Me: I am no more excited than when I am about to embark on a new course of study. New opportunities, new horizons open up within the vista. And I have that feeling again. Here I stand on the precipice of new learning. I am so excited I can barely breathe. I bought six textbooks this morning. I love to soak up the aroma of new paper; examine the glossy covers and read the blurb on the back several times.

The thesis topic festers and formulates in my mind until it bursts onto the paper, fully formed and screaming like a newborn infant. And then the hard work begins. The long hours; the tedium of reading and re-reading the textbooks to accumulate their worth and redistribute it in a new and original work, applying the theory in innovative ways. My mind is on fire.

But, lest we get carried away, we must start with baby steps. One must begin with what one knows. As a category A person with OCD tendencies, there was no other place to start than with the organisation skills that will carry me through the next five years of intense concentration: I must reorganise the bookshelves. Alphabetically? No, this would be indulging one's OCD a little too far. All necessary texts within reaching distance of the desk? Certainly. One shelf for primary works, one for secondary? No, cross referencing would be required. No, no, no. Get a grip. And so, a happy morning of PhD related activities ensued. I am organised. I feel righteous.

Of course, that is only the beginning. A friend has suggested that the next step is, inevitably, to purchase and arrange one's stationery. Coloured highlighters, notebooks of varying colours (co-ordinated with said highlighters of course), folder dividers, post it notes (in a variety of sizes and shapes, coloured coded of course), printer paper, pencils and a nice writing pen that I will never use because I type everything, but it looks nice on the desk.

So, there you have it. The PhD is begun. All I have to do now is to write a research proposal, find a university, find a tutor, fill out an application form, get three references, locate and send a piece of my writing 5000 words long, re-write said research proposal in light of said tutor's comments, re-send application form, get permission from current university employer to do course with other university, write big fat cheque...What was I going to write about again?

Bollywood Masterchef

2011-09-29T22:34:00.000-07:00

I had some friends over for dinner last night. My friends are from a variety of cultures and nations: some don't eat pork, some don't eat beef...so what could I cook that would be tasty for everyone. I know, I'll make curry!

Now, my experience with curry has largely involved picking up the telephone and calling the local takeaway. But, oh no, I couldn't possibly do that when my friends come round - I have to cook. So, I freed the afternoon, cracked open the recipe books and got down to it. Hmmm. Six hours later I manage to grab a 2 minute shower before the guests arrived! OMG, Indian cooking takes all day!

So, just for the uninitiated (because now, of course, I feel that I have immersed myself in the Indian culture and am guru of Indian cooking) here is the guide to cooking Indian food the Indian way and the British way:

Indian Way (for guests arriving at about 7pm)

1. Early start shopping: Buy a large truck and back it up to the loading bay of the local supermarket. Purchase every spice they have.
2. Don't forget you also need lamb and chicken by the truck load.
3. Breads: Purchase large clay oven known as a Tandoor and place in garden, in which to cook the roti. Employ Indian servant to make the breads and cook them in said large clay oven
4. Ok, so that takes us up to 6am. Now you can begin the preparation.
5. Finely chop a basketful of onions, layer on copious amounts of salt and leave for hours so that they lose their excess water.
6. Now, squeeze out excess water and deep fry the onions in batches. Breathe in the gorgeous aromatic smell because this is as good as its going to get today.
7. Divide said fried onions into two batches, reserve one and puree the other with water.
8. Spices: These are best kept in a large container, otherwise all the neighbours will be round wondering if you are running an Indian restaurant from your home.
9. You will have been advised by expert recipe to purchase spices whole (not ready ground) but now you will be required to grind them to a powder. Hmm.
10. Marinate meat in spices, pureed onion mixture and yoghurt for next two hours.
11. Panic because that definitely doesn't smell right and you can't remember whether you put in a teaspoon of garum marsala or a tablespoon.
12. Now, heat meat in marinade, adding more spices as you go, for 45 minutes.
13. Check on little man on tandoor duty.
14. Mix lethal cocktails so that guests will get drunk quickly and won't notice that food is awful.
15. Finally, put dish in the oven for final 45 minutes and spend half an hour re-reading recipe and wondering what you were supposed to do with the saved deep fried onion mixture.
16. Rice: soak genuine Basmati rice in water for 30 minutes. Now cook in boiling water watching it for every second so that you can remove it from hot water after only 5 minutes so that it is just cooked and not stodgy and sticky.
17. Now taste everything. Drink heavily from hip flask (or lethal cocktails made earlier) add salt to everything and hope that no-one notices that it definitely doesn't look like the picture in the recipe book.
18. Get guests drunk before serving and laugh off your culinary incompetence. What are friends for?

The British Way (for guests arriving at 7pm)

1. Go to supermarket and purchase jars labelled 'homepride curry sauce' or if you are really pushing the boat out anything made by 'Pataks'.
2. Begin cooking half an hour before guests arrive. Put chicken in pot, pour over sauce, put in oven for 45 minutes.
3. Put Uncle Ben's boil-in-the-bag rice into saucepan and cover with boiling water.
4, Drain rice and pour cooked chicken and sauce over it.
5. Voila!
6. Next Morning: take two immodium tablets with water. Lie down for rest of day.

Will all those with MS please stand up

2011-09-26T03:04:00.000-07:00

Years ago, I worked for Social Services. I had an admin type role but worked alongside Social workers. What I remember most notably about that time, was the diversity of personality types that were attracted to Social Work as a profession. Entering the social work office, you were met with people from all walks of life; all with a unique and diverse outlook. Of course, looking back on it now, I realise that that is as it should be. Social workers have the unique task of meeting people often when they are at their lowest ebb, and need help. And all of those people (or punters, as one of the more colourful social workers used to call them) come from different backgrounds and have different expectations and needs. It is only fitting that the team of people who help to satisfy those needs should to be equally heterogeneous.

Now, when I look around me at the people I know who have MS, the same multiplicity is what I see. The longer I live with the beast, the more I come to realise that he stalks his way between us and his pathway is indiscriminate. The stereotypical image of an MS sufferer as a wheelchair user no longer applies. I have met mums with young children, grannies, fitness instructors, yummy mummies, men with stressful jobs and a penchant for speedboats: all of whom have met, and are on first name terms with, the beast.

We each deal with him in our unique ways, with a little help from the neurologists and the ever growing pharmaceutical industry. And at some point, it will be our turn to accept the assistance of the social workers, and we will be comforted by their individuality and the fact that when you open that door to the social work office, the diversity of personality is as extensive as the reach of the beast.

Tooth Fairy in Training

2011-09-04T03:21:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, one of my daughter's remaining baby teeth felt out. At this event, my daughter is always ecstatic, not least because it means a visit from the tooth fairy. At nine years old she still expects the tooth fairy's visit, although she teeters on the brink of disbelief. Father Christmas was abandoned some time ago, but the heavenly creature who swaps teeth for money, remains a firm friend for now.

So, at bedtime, my daughter carefully places the tooth under her pillow, wrapped in a tissue and I wait for the moment when she is deeply asleep, to sneak into her room, steal it and leave the agreed monetary renumeration. Now, don't go imagining at this point, that I don a pair of wings, halo and a sparkly skirt to complete the effect. When one thinks of the tooth fairy, one can conjure up the image of Tinkerbell from Disney's Peter Pan or Ariel from Shakespeare's The Tempest but in my house its more like the scene from Fantasia with the ballet dancing elephants (or were they rhinos???).

Anyway, I manage to sneak into her room. I delicately slide my hand under the pillow and feel the tissue parcel tucked away there. My daughter stirs and in my haste I knock the tissue and it slides down the gap between the mattress and the headboard! I deposit the money just as my daughter awakens and announces that she wants to go to the bathroom. Ok, this is it. I have about two minutes to retrieve the tissue parcel before she comes back. I prostrate myself on the floor, fumbling under the bed in the dark, amongst the dust and debris but the darn thing isn't there. Oh, heck. It must have lodged itself between the headboard and the wall! Great, I can't get it now without pulling the bed out and making a racquet as it slides on the hard floor! I decide to abandon it as a lost cause and hope that in the light of the morning, my daughter won't notice it - perhaps she will be too distracted by the reward!

My plan worked, thank goodness, and this morning I managed to retrieve the offending article and deposit it in the treasure box with the other spoils from tooth fairy visits. I almost have enough now for a full set of dentures for when I'm an elderly woman. Just a couple more visits from the tooth fairy and I'm there!

To my children...

2011-08-24T02:25:00.000-07:00

I know that this is hard for you, as it is for me. To see the people you love, and be a part of their lives, for only a moment and then to walk away. It feels like you are a visitor on their journey, a holidaymaker as someone else. The familiarity, and ease, is overwhelming.

I know that this is hard for you, as it is for me. Wondering when you will see them next; when you will be here again. Forcing yourself to take that flight back to normality; to school and work; to routine and a culture you might have immersed yourself in, but to which you will never belong.

I know that this is hard for you, as it is for me. But I can promise you that it is worth it. The skills you are learning, the life that you are leading, will present you with opportunities that I dream of for you. Your exposure to other cultures will, hopefully, develop in you the ability to be tolerant, to adapt and to accept that not everyone is the same. Difference is not something to be afraid of.

I know that this is hard for you, as it is for me. To walk away from them. But be assured that it is Ok to make your own path. Be independent. Be extraordinary. Be different.

Culture Vulture

2011-08-18T03:54:00.000-07:00

Introspection and reflection are the cornerstones of good teaching. At least, that's the mantra one repeats after a two year, part time PGCE. The trouble with being introspective, is that you have a tendency to apply it not only in the work place, but throughout your own personal life. And so, this recent trip to the UK has me apply those very skills to the idea of belonging to a Country's culture.

We all joke about Expat Brats: the breed of children we are raising in someone else's Country. But there's more to being an expat brat than having difficulty picking a vacuum cleaner out of a line up of household equipment. There's the lack of identifiable culture to which you belong.

I used to belong here. I used to be able to identify my values, my manners and my culture amongst the debris of British society. But I am struggling. I have to ask myself whether it is society in my own Country that has changed, or is it me? Am I now such an outsider that I see the UK with new eyes? There's no doubt that, even if I had stayed, I would be lamenting the evils of looting and rioting in the Country's major cities but as an outsider, these actions become representative of society as a whole. What I see is a fragmented society; one in which there is no sense of community because that sense has been removed. 'We owe each other nothing' rather than 'united we stand, united we fall'. And I am saddened and a little ashamed. Sheepishly will I walk back into immigration in Dubai, with my British passport in my hand.

I want to slap Blighty about the face and say 'come on, stop sulking and get that sense of culture back'. When my own expat brats ask me to which culture they belong, I want to be able to list what's great about the UK, so pull your socks up and give me something to tell them.

Hey Honey I'm home...

2011-07-31T11:14:00.000-07:00

And so the journey begins. The airport is throbbing, even the Mahaba lounge is full of tired travellers jostling for a seat and the free buffet. The fun part is people watching, guessing people's stories. Take the guy over there, sharing a table with a woman he has never met before. My goodness, he could bore for England; giving her his sales pitch, his 'hey, look at me, I'm a really interesting person'. I'll bet she can't wait for the gate to open to take her flight. You watch the tourists, the only ones stupid enough to be in the not-so-duty-free shop. The MTMs (married the maid) men on their first trip to the Phillipines, wondering if the novelty of the nocturnal incentives is starting to wear off.

The best bit is getting on the plane first and watching all of the muppets who just don't seem to be able to work out the seating plan. Here's a clue for you: it's in numerical order. And then of course there's the overhead locker to contend with and there is always one passenger who gets on last with two or three large suitcases and delays the take off trying to find somewhere to put them. The exasperated air stewardess grimacing whilst trying to maintain her polite demeanour, grappling around trying to find a space in the already crammed lockers.

At last the doors close and you can take off. You think you're safe to relax and begin watching the movies and then you are interuppted by the safety video and a film entitled 'short history of Emirates' that is not so short.

Seven hours of films you've seen before, mediocre food, cramped conditions and the tedium of wanting to be somewhere five minutes ago. But when you step off that plane and take your first lungful of British fresh air, it's all suddenly worth it. The land of hope and glory lies before you, so open your umbrella, put on your cardigan and rush into the arms of the relatives you haven't seen for a year. Seven hour flight? Washed away by the first welcome home kiss.

Traumatic Day

2011-07-24T07:15:00.000-07:00

The phrase 'curiosity killed the cat' is true. No really it is. Well, I suppose it might be 'curiosity got the cat into a lot of trouble'. Smudge is very, very curious and this has led to a rather traumatic day for him. He is into everything. It's a bit like having a toddler who wants to get into every cupboard. There are carrier bags stuffed into the gap between the dishwasher and the cupboard because yesterday this was the primary area of investigation. Underneath the cooker is also a favourite. And the fact that he is not allowed into the utility room to explore the washing machine, Smudge takes as a personal affront.

So, today, he decides that the inside of the fridge MUST be scrutinised: just as my 9 year old decides to get out something for her lunch and as she closes the door (without looking down)... Needless to say, I think the curiosity to interrogate the nether regions of the fridge are now not at the top of Smudge's agenda.

This is all followed by a trip to the vet. Hmm. The cat box comes out and Smudge is asleep in his bed so I gently place him inside the cat box and...he goes berserk. He was really upset. We manage to make it to the vet, get him checked over, get the worming formula (and confirmation that Smudge is only 4 to 5 weeks old) and I have to carry him home on my lap in the car to calm him down. Methinks that perhaps when Smudge and his brothers and sisters were abandoned, they were driven to the dumping ground in a cat box. So, on the advice of a friend, the cat box has been left out, to reduce its traumatic symbolism.

Anyway, on an up note, the children are now on their best behaviour. This is in view of a recent policy decision that punishment for any infringements is now to clean out the litter box!