tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-173000382024-03-13T00:53:53.139+00:00These Things I KnowThe poetry of motherhood. Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.comBlogger540125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-56039983473350227172023-12-11T16:43:00.004+00:002023-12-11T18:23:21.385+00:00Blessed<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Y2914kcAnhueQhFw8mWnFm_V6xYR0yFwBHjbqTIzrK8mML49WgbmrbU0pFuD3Gkpcio-hat8UYdYtCgrFMlb6akQEiKA4XCoB2U1-lPvqt2ZFHD6y8EI64GyjNx74vm6Sj7mq-AmutZEsGeC6CyKEJQns5dbFm4mpeKYfYST7tjBERHZY9hJ/s1080/lights.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Y2914kcAnhueQhFw8mWnFm_V6xYR0yFwBHjbqTIzrK8mML49WgbmrbU0pFuD3Gkpcio-hat8UYdYtCgrFMlb6akQEiKA4XCoB2U1-lPvqt2ZFHD6y8EI64GyjNx74vm6Sj7mq-AmutZEsGeC6CyKEJQns5dbFm4mpeKYfYST7tjBERHZY9hJ/s320/lights.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It's been so long, I've forgotten how to blog. I was hiding from the internet. Now it's Christmas time, I thought I could risk a wee post. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I went to see my old pals, <a href="https://www.belleandsebastian.com">Belle and Sebastian</a> play at Paisley Town Hall. Christmas lights floated gaily above the River Cart. It was unexpectedly pretty. I'm not much of a photographer, but you get the gist. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It was funny to hover at the merch table and see people buying T-shirts with my face on.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCTSbqsZJhc5ZWgZfcbM1NRtQJRkV16rLWbYIYz_r5UVB2Sy1TXW5kl97arS5AH32-1mc2IyDmaP_h4BVEFdVSjKGSQ8dMQu55SJXTNEmNF0fKzQW4I_y7kMcAQohceIIYWqJGPH5C0Sq5Syd5Z9RWUBB0sNHroB_JgwVsJgHyHoKfOKProchb/s1080/t-shirts.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCTSbqsZJhc5ZWgZfcbM1NRtQJRkV16rLWbYIYz_r5UVB2Sy1TXW5kl97arS5AH32-1mc2IyDmaP_h4BVEFdVSjKGSQ8dMQu55SJXTNEmNF0fKzQW4I_y7kMcAQohceIIYWqJGPH5C0Sq5Syd5Z9RWUBB0sNHroB_JgwVsJgHyHoKfOKProchb/s320/t-shirts.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">One family came in, and the Dad and two teenage daughters were ALL wearing the 'Sinister' T-shirt with my face on. It would have been amiss not to say hello. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The show itself was firing on all cylinders. Even The Simpsons approved. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtcTVduVw8RIaCVrhFF2r4LX-LLocLqaBPPeVd2WKG77Y-T-GQV4F4UMLTRi-zbLYPgg67Pz2DJZu5cOC9zhsfdCNE899joYjr1NPUAKbNVhKhGkqgv3NHJFwIksb14wQWOzgzHPDzAXjznh7XHKlHyb3iK6AGGANIvgx-JZv21lJLWLIF63wI/s2048/simpsonsB&S.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1007" data-original-width="2048" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtcTVduVw8RIaCVrhFF2r4LX-LLocLqaBPPeVd2WKG77Y-T-GQV4F4UMLTRi-zbLYPgg67Pz2DJZu5cOC9zhsfdCNE899joYjr1NPUAKbNVhKhGkqgv3NHJFwIksb14wQWOzgzHPDzAXjznh7XHKlHyb3iK6AGGANIvgx-JZv21lJLWLIF63wI/s320/simpsonsB&S.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Marisa Privitera, Stuart's lovely wife, is never one to miss a selfie. </div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR2UYzx4oJYavh637HospD_bB0D0VSRF25n7OgZnchysw7-GFBUb-VuEJFxzKZ1gnsFeBIqbi9_I_0i8siot6jndnQCE7Q380XaxXNg6V_RbK3wW1-bNRTcke4jNIZpxEsVhPfhTX46TqEx1GKuwEQUOGnSbYArjI36-RHdePjMY3rlVhhFxUa/s1024/maris%20and%20me.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="896" data-original-width="1024" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR2UYzx4oJYavh637HospD_bB0D0VSRF25n7OgZnchysw7-GFBUb-VuEJFxzKZ1gnsFeBIqbi9_I_0i8siot6jndnQCE7Q380XaxXNg6V_RbK3wW1-bNRTcke4jNIZpxEsVhPfhTX46TqEx1GKuwEQUOGnSbYArjI36-RHdePjMY3rlVhhFxUa/s320/maris%20and%20me.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Me and my goofy glasses. Doh! Marisa's is a very talented photographer and has a<a href="https://www.marisapmurdoch.com"> lovely website here. </a> </div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.teenagefanclub.com">Teenage Fanclub</a> finished their long and happy European Tour. The dog only had to wait six weeks for her postcard.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjznHsELKic7NibT4C07o1dCxUrGdyY-Pz__gYwQPhPsr4xcOf1F-BrGu6wuLgp3MVoijZuT1vf2M71CbtLHznRphYud-hoOwAoFe6ZBKpS2cqB43qQYx2INQlfWDJRgUxtNnPwXxmkPTvzQSCe9ZgG_8VuUkOq3jIjiF84F02xNpAKf2vDxJKS/s2048/sita%20pc.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1524" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjznHsELKic7NibT4C07o1dCxUrGdyY-Pz__gYwQPhPsr4xcOf1F-BrGu6wuLgp3MVoijZuT1vf2M71CbtLHznRphYud-hoOwAoFe6ZBKpS2cqB43qQYx2INQlfWDJRgUxtNnPwXxmkPTvzQSCe9ZgG_8VuUkOq3jIjiF84F02xNpAKf2vDxJKS/s320/sita%20pc.jpeg" width="238" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidIVCG6Z-Ym6CaURHGLrnwnSItaDG_7TIYQRLTa57s9abEaRzXHEDB23pxT_5TJQnWwxfi4MmBSZxES4AeuO5Kfzwxc-_RDjahisZIzWLIlEylyjDnZGPTHZYDPNepUpJlj2lZFVyGpafqfsbr01St07n1M1Ru0znfQ3XRsIl3q7aH7wqJ-wWq/s2048/pc.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidIVCG6Z-Ym6CaURHGLrnwnSItaDG_7TIYQRLTa57s9abEaRzXHEDB23pxT_5TJQnWwxfi4MmBSZxES4AeuO5Kfzwxc-_RDjahisZIzWLIlEylyjDnZGPTHZYDPNepUpJlj2lZFVyGpafqfsbr01St07n1M1Ru0znfQ3XRsIl3q7aH7wqJ-wWq/s320/pc.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Anyway, I've no big philosphical insights to claw after in this seasonal post. I can leave all my climate change campaigning for next year. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When I post a<a href="https://act.fossilfueltreaty.org/endorse"> petition on Facebook to Phase Out Fossil Fuels</a>, I'M lucky if I get two likes. If I posted our dog in a Santa jumper, it might get two hundred. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Did Trump get a hold of that algorithm? </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So yeah, this is just a few words to wish you a peaceful Christmas time. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Every day that I'm well and content, with a healthy family is a luxurious miracle and something I never take for granted. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There's no need to dress that up in fancy phrasing. It speaks for itself and, in this crazy world, there's no bigger gift. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgEbGwt0YtdFn2DDQ1YR9VmW1ERtdi-BvyCYGK1ZTGM5xXSX1C1GqqCr2c-nbVDEwrt6yFJhjWKiKB8w85ROWmsaVC6U-dJgU1m7gkoaAunhe_xdymAWqYVbrh0juRZQu6UJwsVNBU394MCQ7CrBicS5dkueFKaelZYU9WmEkcclR_XlbSuIkF/s1167/tree.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1167" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgEbGwt0YtdFn2DDQ1YR9VmW1ERtdi-BvyCYGK1ZTGM5xXSX1C1GqqCr2c-nbVDEwrt6yFJhjWKiKB8w85ROWmsaVC6U-dJgU1m7gkoaAunhe_xdymAWqYVbrh0juRZQu6UJwsVNBU394MCQ7CrBicS5dkueFKaelZYU9WmEkcclR_XlbSuIkF/s320/tree.jpeg" width="296" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-6522811913162297842023-04-13T14:01:00.007+01:002023-04-13T14:10:34.296+01:00The Migraine Misery of Toots Mania - A Call for Help<p style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfPqE7SVepPNScYILXrcbYi0al4BtFmVzaBKSxbBQMYdKQxm4nHrvLnxIfdletRLdgydlOaG1wRSNj16xioKcUsTIt82Ra60PT-jtjOHIU6eLcLfsVNMAqrMPGRF7JpN83Tgf6TKyU-gJouJXhmt11ZtvEjYLi9g-OB7GpcDEybhK4SfvQMA/w400-h300/thumbnail-42.jpeg" width="400" /><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">For years, my daughter Tess has been calling me 'Toots'.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">'What ya up to, Toots?'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">'Is Toots feeling okay?'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Recently, on witnessing yet another of my middle-age mum foibles, she simply exclaims, </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">'Toots <i>Mania</i>?!' </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">...as if '<i>mania' </i>is<i> </i>cover-all proclamation for any form of 'goofy' mother behaviour such as:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">losing my keys for the third time in an hour; or accidently teaming a Kagoule with a chunky necklace, or my swift regret after eating too much almond and raspberry tray-bake.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Toots Mania's gonna regret that.' </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> My 13 year old girl is all-seeing and mostly all-correct. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But, if this is a story of desired corrections - the misery of my ongoing Migraines is Top of The List. You thought I was well, didn't you?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>After the miracle of overcoming decades of terrible ME/CFS and a headache that lasted four years, how have I fallen back to battling the beast of migraine without any </span><span>success? </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Defeated shrug emoji. </i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Oh, Toots <i>Mania.</i> What will we do with you?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So this could be a reader-participation post. If you've struggled with migraines and gotten better, feel free to share your secrets with me. <i>Please</i> share your secrets with me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I've tried -</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Virtually all painkillers. Triptans take away the pain, but clobber me (like an anaesthetic) and all I can do is sleep. I love triptans. They are a furry blanket in a howling gale. The only drug that has<i> ever</i> helped the searing pain.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">BUT, there is now growing opinion that the <i>more you use</i> triptans, the more 'trigger happy' your brain gets and ultimately, you can end up with<i> more</i> headaches. Doh. I am desperately trying NOT to take too many. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Otherwise, I've tried - acupuncture, chiropractor, going on HRT for 2 years, coming off HRT, meditation, zero alcohol, epilepsy drugs, proprananol, etc. Lots of drugs I forget how to spell. I try to deal with stress as best I can, while realising everybody has some stress. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Lately, I found a website/podcast bold enough to call itself <a href="https://miraclemoment.libsyn.com">The Migraine Miracle</a>. It claims that an 'ancestral' diet is the cure. That is, no grains or sugar.<i> No almond bakes or chocolate croissants, for you Toots!</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Nothing processed or out of a package. Nothing that our caveman ancestors couldn't find, walking around with spears - just meat and fish and 'low carb' veg. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I was so desperate, I gave it a go. After 10 days, I felt like <a href="https://ew.com/movies/2017/03/30/trainspotting-toilet-scene-danny-boyle/">Ewan McGregor detoxing in Trainspotting.</a> Carb-Queen 'Toots Mania' was in dire straits. Look away now. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We were due to go on holiday, so I abandoned the diet, at least for the holiday. Cue normal holiday photos (minus migraine)-</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfPqE7SVepPNScYILXrcbYi0al4BtFmVzaBKSxbBQMYdKQxm4nHrvLnxIfdletRLdgydlOaG1wRSNj16xioKcUsTIt82Ra60PT-jtjOHIU6eLcLfsVNMAqrMPGRF7JpN83Tgf6TKyU-gJouJXhmt11ZtvEjYLi9g-OB7GpcDEybhK4SfvQMA/s1024/thumbnail-42.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjElm4HZx17qD0uATTGInqD1314ARQJHcgBImNbxJto9s1qdPkhecfyqMFl-7KA9s2Dxdd-vBCG_rYpMl00aG1GJNKCrxcRSTAr6xbxKDgCFESc-aALVd2wrWfR8fMHhqIkRK5tZShw3FuHbjG9yOJyFyapy6q1wrxFCEDA7P6mnswvtV5aew/s1249/thumbnail-51.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1249" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjElm4HZx17qD0uATTGInqD1314ARQJHcgBImNbxJto9s1qdPkhecfyqMFl-7KA9s2Dxdd-vBCG_rYpMl00aG1GJNKCrxcRSTAr6xbxKDgCFESc-aALVd2wrWfR8fMHhqIkRK5tZShw3FuHbjG9yOJyFyapy6q1wrxFCEDA7P6mnswvtV5aew/s320/thumbnail-51.jpeg" width="277" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggMxUUIq35qPWCN__oB8i8uYyD5Ec1sqTPTx6j986CkffUlsp96zLP1Yc1RxxNvfxunWMCzcHBxdj7PaqoTRnNgx2-6TrV-iKUhis-cUSMTgjDjfTllr5LNSC7X9SY9IgxFU8Va1bipjwbBgeHyLukldLK-HtVYQJ1zF3L7uVxZl1Y8Pqv-A/s1370/icecream.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1370" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggMxUUIq35qPWCN__oB8i8uYyD5Ec1sqTPTx6j986CkffUlsp96zLP1Yc1RxxNvfxunWMCzcHBxdj7PaqoTRnNgx2-6TrV-iKUhis-cUSMTgjDjfTllr5LNSC7X9SY9IgxFU8Va1bipjwbBgeHyLukldLK-HtVYQJ1zF3L7uVxZl1Y8Pqv-A/s320/icecream.jpeg" width="252" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I was barely home a day, and....wham...<i>off the cliff</i> into another two days of near-agony and incapacity, with the kids coming to the end of my bed like tentative sad dogs, checking when normal service might resume.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So, here I am, risen again, post-Easter, until the next time. I might try to go back to the diet, maybe in a less severe form, (sneaking in the odd oatcake). I'm wise enough to know that spikes and falls in blood sugar ain't good for the brain. Would a low Glycemic Index diet be enough?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I asked to see a neurologist on the NHS, but this requires me to try a 3 month trial of a strong epilepsy drug called Topiramate. A casual <i>Google</i> throws up medical papers telling me it can <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=how+common+are+kidney+stones+with+topamax&client=safari&rls=en&sxsrf=APwXEdfSEBd3-6ZNQ8S_AKdlhopiFmV62A%3A1681390047223&ei=3_k3ZKymDZqRgQbsy7OgDw&oq=topamax+kidney+stones&gs_lcp=Cgxnd3Mtd2l6LXNlcnAQARgDMgoIABBHENYEELADMgoIABBHENYEELADMgoIABBHENYEELADMgoIABBHENYEELADMgoIABBHENYEELADMgoIABBHENYEELADMgoIABBHENYEELADMgoIABBHENYEELADSgQIQRgAUABYAGCHHmgBcAF4AIABAIgBAJIBAJgBAMgBCMABAQ&sclient=gws-wiz-serp">cause kidney stones in over 10% of patients</a>. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Fabby do! Spin the wheel...or maybe not. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Ach well, time to get the laundry on the line. Normal service is slowly resuming. You'll see me body-swerving the pastry section, for this week at least. Onwards, fellow migraineurs. My hand in yours...our heads knocked thi'gither. </span></p>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-64526700757566415372023-01-18T15:27:00.007+00:002023-01-18T17:21:05.076+00:00Wednesday Newly Weds<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh99DT9voBrrDGwpMeNSmquvwqsHljJKAi3hFL5ySIRKnVmqePoTsWAln2x7C-cFtiGsCsOUD37s9GMdttWrvAsFQUQTSV_-nPsxDAMChxmmbeE4c38sXj5TqXXg29GIGTcyRmrFuWXnVorP7CgSkQeUpA2pDmsXEXSSJ9Ps3jMwhs0SMmtJw/s3865/20230118_111546.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3865" data-original-width="2670" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh99DT9voBrrDGwpMeNSmquvwqsHljJKAi3hFL5ySIRKnVmqePoTsWAln2x7C-cFtiGsCsOUD37s9GMdttWrvAsFQUQTSV_-nPsxDAMChxmmbeE4c38sXj5TqXXg29GIGTcyRmrFuWXnVorP7CgSkQeUpA2pDmsXEXSSJ9Ps3jMwhs0SMmtJw/w442-h640/20230118_111546.jpg" width="442" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When we told the kids we were getting a civil partnership, they didn't really understand the concept. Who can blame them? We've only been together 25 years and the kids are now 14 and 12. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">'It's like a wedding really, but it suits non-religious people, and it's easier, and it has all the same legal stuff as marriage does.' </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We thought the easiest way would be small scale. Just us, two witnesses and the weans.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The weans were unsure about it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">'It might be cringe-y. We're not sure if we want to come to your 'legal partner' thing.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Slowly, they came round. They'd get a day off school and French toast and maple syrup at Cafe Gandolfi. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">On the day itself, Tess commented, 'Mum, we should have had a HEN NIGHT with the dog! We could have worn rose-gold sashes and yours could have said, 'Civil Partner To Be'.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Hugh chimed in - 'Yeah, we should tie cans to the car that say, 'JUST civil-partnered!''</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When the marriage celebrant accidently called me 'Cara', I had to jump in and correct her politely. She was lovely, really. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">'Whoops, I nearly married the wrong woman,' commented Francis. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">(Hey, it doesn't feel natural unless someone mispronounces my name at least once a week). </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I read out a beautiful poem by Wendy Cope -</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The Vow, by Wendy Cope</span></p><div style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><p style="font-family: Roboto; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 1px;">I cannot promise never to be angry;<br />I cannot promise always to be kind.<br />You know what you are taking on, my darling –<br />It’s only at the start that love is blind.<br />And yet I’m still the one you want to be with<br />And you’re the one for me – of that I’m sure.<br />You are my closest friend, my favourite person,<br />The lover and the home I’ve waited for.<br />I cannot promise that I will deserve you<br />From this day on. I hope to pass that test.<br />I love you and I want to make you happy.<br />I promise I will do my very best.</p></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4NySq38bNa4PAg4OHXZpadBDDTV_GjOiPEiyjVujOGFoCYHVldezeIZCYevmNExuEtgbtK2nAxm88PEPBALBbwy8y2AFizGXWlmEY8wZ73PQYnaCdlJs0X1b_VsOe9dkLUs22R6LGWvB12y_Hz-h4t1USihVIsdCikq5cBHoox_c5vkvGfA/s1080/flowers.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4NySq38bNa4PAg4OHXZpadBDDTV_GjOiPEiyjVujOGFoCYHVldezeIZCYevmNExuEtgbtK2nAxm88PEPBALBbwy8y2AFizGXWlmEY8wZ73PQYnaCdlJs0X1b_VsOe9dkLUs22R6LGWvB12y_Hz-h4t1USihVIsdCikq5cBHoox_c5vkvGfA/s320/flowers.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My Mum and Dad, now in their eighties, were witnesses to the signing of the papers.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU_eaBX9im0LRH92O4sEKWepU2LDnSbLX5mE-l6ZULp42epH5aHHhMx_mcarX-SzQJQi0-hdSUzteEzy_tIeBRFA8aJqNXEfxoLNkfrMhgqN4JEm_6-kaX5jpr0kdKFOaxD8n3lDQGqXLs4qjfyRJFCetcQOpY2ICfW7E-OSv7-2F9FOQPFA/s1080/mum%20and%20dad.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU_eaBX9im0LRH92O4sEKWepU2LDnSbLX5mE-l6ZULp42epH5aHHhMx_mcarX-SzQJQi0-hdSUzteEzy_tIeBRFA8aJqNXEfxoLNkfrMhgqN4JEm_6-kaX5jpr0kdKFOaxD8n3lDQGqXLs4qjfyRJFCetcQOpY2ICfW7E-OSv7-2F9FOQPFA/s320/mum%20and%20dad.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Francis played a recording of his late Mum singing a beautiful gaelic song. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My Dad read my favourite Raymond Carver Poem -</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Late Fragment</span></p><div style="caret-color: rgb(20, 24, 35); color: #141823; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And did you get what<br />you wanted from this life, even so?<br />I did.<br />And what did you want?<br />To call myself beloved, to feel myself<br />beloved on the earth.</span><br /></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Then we went to Cafe Gandolfi and tore into the French Toast. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Afterwards, we headed home to walk the dog. I told some other dog-walking strangers that we just got married this morning. It's not something you can say every day. It felt strangely satisfying to utter the words. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Thanks to Bernard and Madeline (nee McGuckin!) for the meal. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Here's to Newly-Weds, Cara..., I mean <i>Ciara</i> and Frankie Boy. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And to Hugh and Tess, who are, of course, the finest consequence of our chance meeting at a <i>Belle and Sebastian</i> gig, many moons ago. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGCMonJx0QuQTeD_yz7EtwSdsxuKFN_Joz8AHSxuQLz6gRdi2bWROtigX_qKZGM4HZ2VIghEccnpeBWaV8P04N1qvPy-XWYnJ-kONs_4sexSFGT38IiYnO5HJzgXGkRA83_UBDdX1qyy5gkRz2n6wdJ42U5NRfM1rnGowLALaG65TpvwoPQw/s771/twenty%20years.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="691" data-original-width="771" height="359" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGCMonJx0QuQTeD_yz7EtwSdsxuKFN_Joz8AHSxuQLz6gRdi2bWROtigX_qKZGM4HZ2VIghEccnpeBWaV8P04N1qvPy-XWYnJ-kONs_4sexSFGT38IiYnO5HJzgXGkRA83_UBDdX1qyy5gkRz2n6wdJ42U5NRfM1rnGowLALaG65TpvwoPQw/w400-h359/twenty%20years.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-18350140076827353702022-12-28T15:42:00.004+00:002022-12-28T16:03:37.983+00:00Merry Covid-mas from The New Recluse<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNwDRd17MyxcVHGFYVjmcPthuwwVK2-XidfdPnJA-zmUovxURvKSQo_ZY5Yz9QNswHTnoG5EX43tu2KgtOFSUjIRtCdY9QVd6UjMH3AK8e_eF_taYIk8egex-RfvXwDUGT1Aw31BXnLPzfgwGP_A6DColt1P3gUiTMtuWsxQI7lc1pv2JWsg/s1080/thumbnail-5.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNwDRd17MyxcVHGFYVjmcPthuwwVK2-XidfdPnJA-zmUovxURvKSQo_ZY5Yz9QNswHTnoG5EX43tu2KgtOFSUjIRtCdY9QVd6UjMH3AK8e_eF_taYIk8egex-RfvXwDUGT1Aw31BXnLPzfgwGP_A6DColt1P3gUiTMtuWsxQI7lc1pv2JWsg/w400-h300/thumbnail-5.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Regular readers may have spotted something: I have become a recluse, and for Christmas, a Covid-y recluse.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I finally caught Covid after 3 years. It was flu-like, despite 4 jabs, and I'm getting through it. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">More generally though - I'm not afraid to say it - I'm now an extrovert turned introvert. Shocker, I know. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I think it's my new strategy to try and cope with life. A voice on the radio today, described watching the news as, 'An exercise in fighting daily despair.' Yes. I'm there. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I feel I have a duty to keep myself informed, yet watching the news is the opposite of hope. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Ages ago, I wrote a jokey post about feeling like a criminal when I had to throw plastic in the bin. Today, I'm still in slow-shock about world pollution- <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2022/mar/24/microplastics-found-in-human-blood-for-first-time">microplastics course through our blood stream </a>-and no one is stopping it. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Even the cosy, <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2022/dec/27/wood-burning-stove-environment-home-toxins" target="_blank">log fires of Christmas are a danger to health</a>, throwing out 750 times more particulate pollutant than an HGV lorry. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Burning wood, huh? No one is keeping the earth below 1.5 degrees of warming. 'The scientists are trying (desperately) and the climate-deniers don't believe there is a problem. Mind-blowing.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The film, <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt11286314/" target="_blank">Don't Look Up</a> said it all. I do recommend watching.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDIhDk_lW6o_HP8tqJcNySmtMsOGimZJCn1XE5tP_53o4VZerlc0vbQgjXf7bO7V07pH1NK2CoEC4M1eXxxjJJ7Pua8CgnrvEw2hUN7AyjpNhCdQy__XFbZwO67pTCZ0XVO6P4Fj6sZsNpS6Z6zrXeo-J8QBZTaE4xKckkFxteu0ztj4442Q/s1500/MV5BNjZjNDE1NTYtYTgwZS00M2VmLWEyODktM2FlNjhiYTk3OGU2XkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMTEyMjM2NDc2._V1_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="844" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDIhDk_lW6o_HP8tqJcNySmtMsOGimZJCn1XE5tP_53o4VZerlc0vbQgjXf7bO7V07pH1NK2CoEC4M1eXxxjJJ7Pua8CgnrvEw2hUN7AyjpNhCdQy__XFbZwO67pTCZ0XVO6P4Fj6sZsNpS6Z6zrXeo-J8QBZTaE4xKckkFxteu0ztj4442Q/s320/MV5BNjZjNDE1NTYtYTgwZS00M2VmLWEyODktM2FlNjhiYTk3OGU2XkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMTEyMjM2NDc2._V1_.jpg" width="180" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I try to do what I can, signing petitions, writing to politicians, buying less or buying 'greener.' <i>Buying 'greener'?</i> Just the one oxymoron please!</span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Maybe I can find ways to be more of an eco-helper in 2023.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My number one priority and vocation is still caring for the kids. There's always something they need help with: ribbons sewn on a dance costume or a deal on a second-hand iPhone. Doh!</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>Float Forward Willingly. </i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That's a mantra from the late great <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Claire_Weekes">Dr Claire Weekes</a>. She made it her life's work to try and help others with stress and distress. I say it to myself when I have to.</span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSfCFutN0Pt4anOk--dtVmS8tUZHKge_4aZyazHs6V9AWdCrDth4DaSie5BsiQJiP1_Ec3jBiGpUQ_P-6lHXOV5iQHQKJVxJ1vHwR8_8NGCYu4oUskThbBisQtkhw7uW5S9vMNfOo0M0eZZTGp3Icz5I5UYf3LKDQIkB50C2UfoL_Yju3Ptg/s1440/thumbnail-7.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSfCFutN0Pt4anOk--dtVmS8tUZHKge_4aZyazHs6V9AWdCrDth4DaSie5BsiQJiP1_Ec3jBiGpUQ_P-6lHXOV5iQHQKJVxJ1vHwR8_8NGCYu4oUskThbBisQtkhw7uW5S9vMNfOo0M0eZZTGp3Icz5I5UYf3LKDQIkB50C2UfoL_Yju3Ptg/s320/thumbnail-7.jpeg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> Rudolf and me can help you with any floating?</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This Christmas, I have a few dear friends and relatives with health struggles. I'm thinking of them, willing strength and healing. A less-polluted world would go a long way.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So, that's my apologist blog post, until next time. If you're looking for me, I'm still here. I'm just a bit camouflaged, hiding in the trees, not knowing what to say. Of course, I'm looking up, even if it hurts my neck. Float forward willingly, if you can folks. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And if you need more - here's a poem I wish I'd written. It's called <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/89897/good-bones">Good Bones by Maggie Smith. </a> </span></p><p><br /></p>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-18354885269519176102022-04-22T10:19:00.011+01:002022-04-22T12:24:32.636+01:00The Dog Who Was Scared of Bicycles<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7JoE8ov8I8mabECaiKnQ41BukNMtCmCFW8JbYIacgdyD-tLKre8HDlEei5bhPFsR_2Yaj29OHT9VeNeU96uJs5MMaY5OJwxBQOysPJF5fERXGPJkC-WuyhtRyY94E0UABBrcaom_0UxEFrV2zvb_e0vQ8_rb3b5FDxn9CLKl5XnU0pxBOqg/s1278/thumbnail-56.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1278" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7JoE8ov8I8mabECaiKnQ41BukNMtCmCFW8JbYIacgdyD-tLKre8HDlEei5bhPFsR_2Yaj29OHT9VeNeU96uJs5MMaY5OJwxBQOysPJF5fERXGPJkC-WuyhtRyY94E0UABBrcaom_0UxEFrV2zvb_e0vQ8_rb3b5FDxn9CLKl5XnU0pxBOqg/w338-h400/thumbnail-56.jpeg" width="338" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When I walk Sita in the mornings, we meet other dogs with their owners. I bent to stroke a greyhound and noticed it was trembling fiercely. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Aw, what's wrong? I asked the owner.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The dog was scanning the horizon in the wild-grass field that is Dawsholm City Park.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Ach, he's looking out for bicycles, she replied.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">There were no bicycles in sight, but the poor dog was shaking with sheer vigilance. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Apparently, a few years ago, it was slightly injured by a bike. As time passed, the dog started looking out for bikes everywhere. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I haven't posted in ages, because on many days, I feel like that dog.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The world can be sudden and random. I've weaned myself off Twitter. There are are too many 'bicycles' behind parked cars. I think it's better for me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm concentrating on looking after the kids, really being there for all their needs: a low-carbon activity that's greatly under-valued in society. Especially when their Dad is <a href="https://www.teenagefanclub.com/live">on tour.</a> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The horrors of Ukraine keep coming. I've donated to charity; it feels like all we can do right now. It's still so shocking. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My writing has stalled. Occasionaly, I re-read it and think it's no good. I let it sit. But that's okay too? There's no compulsion to write. There's no <i>higher moral ground </i>from writing. It's okay to just 'be'. <i>It's taken me 4 months to do a blog post!</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I also miss the sea. Did I mention that? One day, I think I'd like to live by the sea again. When I'm asleep, I have mixed-up dreams about trying to buy a house by the sea. It's too expensive, it has weird, Alice-in-Wonderland rooms, it's above a book shop, but the shop is closed. In my dream, I cried when I saw the view: it was my childhood view of Islay. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Eor_894E5LbAmuKVDTZtDbhBbYSjfLwrhmmJ9YC-DwQ1pTzlpgPK7_ahR7zT7Jxs-jSHXVjWmHEyelZyrTwa3uPJjJ4GfL0LhFbf4319nSLOhCQ_Hh7UkbM8amDV3XzIrUejJdpfPA3l20tVUKAYXdOIkaNjD2X9EDqATsPx0h8D1_t3NQ/s2048/278899247_10160429880277033_1347950743965577885_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1120" data-original-width="2048" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Eor_894E5LbAmuKVDTZtDbhBbYSjfLwrhmmJ9YC-DwQ1pTzlpgPK7_ahR7zT7Jxs-jSHXVjWmHEyelZyrTwa3uPJjJ4GfL0LhFbf4319nSLOhCQ_Hh7UkbM8amDV3XzIrUejJdpfPA3l20tVUKAYXdOIkaNjD2X9EDqATsPx0h8D1_t3NQ/w400-h219/278899247_10160429880277033_1347950743965577885_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><i> Photo - Ronnie Campbell</i></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Anyway, my fellow dreamers, it's time to get the dog out for a walk. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">'Love, Life, Prosecco!' as my girl, Tess, says in irony. The Prosecco of Spring sunshine is fizzing over Scotland. May it shine on you too. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3cn6V_dUBl-4SKE9D50SgjV4BS4l0s4g3LiRBi66nhJlXQI1h627-_Ta7pevf--N3qI_SR00LzKkw6kALZcmqHEEfQb0adqoQMTCKollLDsuYCxv6EoyrOeTp4KdjyY5JHc0SReqKrN6Wia2rWJV4lKRWgYcGGKlqtz2Oh8yuYTmQp7fpIQ/s1440/thumbnail-57.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3cn6V_dUBl-4SKE9D50SgjV4BS4l0s4g3LiRBi66nhJlXQI1h627-_Ta7pevf--N3qI_SR00LzKkw6kALZcmqHEEfQb0adqoQMTCKollLDsuYCxv6EoyrOeTp4KdjyY5JHc0SReqKrN6Wia2rWJV4lKRWgYcGGKlqtz2Oh8yuYTmQp7fpIQ/w300-h400/thumbnail-57.jpeg" width="300" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig8gbqulAsKRBBpKNXtyjg2YRguUqZBXbuIsJ8tCsyGW_0dmKbYvrSl3g4696Q5Jv0WCH9vwknmK2UwriMjYGBkz-9CtCXLDCqwJsUMQKpJcDFrHaqp34Wsd9kmv192FmI6nCmYqzL5QOUlA_Mtb4zk2ijXhaG4xEk16Tgw3JjRGt5hXZmug/s1080/thumbnail-58.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig8gbqulAsKRBBpKNXtyjg2YRguUqZBXbuIsJ8tCsyGW_0dmKbYvrSl3g4696Q5Jv0WCH9vwknmK2UwriMjYGBkz-9CtCXLDCqwJsUMQKpJcDFrHaqp34Wsd9kmv192FmI6nCmYqzL5QOUlA_Mtb4zk2ijXhaG4xEk16Tgw3JjRGt5hXZmug/w300-h400/thumbnail-58.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i> 'I can't swim, mummy.' </i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i> 'I know.' </i></span></p>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-79941906145136309032021-12-23T16:40:00.007+00:002022-02-07T16:35:32.933+00:00A Space Man Came Travelling<p style="text-align: left;"> <span style="font-size: medium;">How are we ? Haven't we been here before? Something's puzzling me.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgf21Jikc1P7AyvQh2-HSyCxKjsjuYL3w5gZ0iV4q1OVMZVCSFtIGGCrvHiAgf0W7v635aY-yhOfkQKCEv2pETU5wSll2vFpkWW68ZqCKTyjyY0lLNeCr_hJu5yo5p9JRZNkhK2Ulv4QWAQHTE5U7CkZH5nhjov6jss6bu-eh-BmZItOxoqqg=s1024" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgf21Jikc1P7AyvQh2-HSyCxKjsjuYL3w5gZ0iV4q1OVMZVCSFtIGGCrvHiAgf0W7v635aY-yhOfkQKCEv2pETU5wSll2vFpkWW68ZqCKTyjyY0lLNeCr_hJu5yo5p9JRZNkhK2Ulv4QWAQHTE5U7CkZH5nhjov6jss6bu-eh-BmZItOxoqqg=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Ah, yes. We're heading for another Covid-Challenged Christmas, serenaded by Ed Sheeran and Elton John. How did that happen?</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Tonight, I was cooking the dinner when I heard <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GmZg7tvGN9o">Chris de Burgh singing A Spaceman Came Travelling</a>. Flashback alert to 1986... </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #444444;">I'm walking home from school, listening to it on a Sony Walkman. The Paps of Jura are dusted with snow and Loch Indaal is calm as a mirror. It's like some kind of lost Narnia land where wild geese call from the far horizon. I breathe in the frosty air, like great mouthfuls of inhaled peppermint, and plan my outfit to the pinnacle of excitement that was the Christmas disco.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: medium;">It was magical. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Any Spaceman nowadays</span> would shake his head in disbelief at humanity's array of avoidable feck-ups, in relation to our relentless Pandemic and the Climate Emergency. I really am running out of words. But, hush my liege...we have to make the best of it.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I've been trying to plough on with my memoir musings. It takes a lot of work, and I'm never sure it's any good. Writers and self-doubt, huh? I find I can't write anything when the kids are off school, so it goes back into hibernation at every school holiday. I look forward to procrastinating further in 2022. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Time for a few December photos: </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The dog approves of the 'fire' I made from fairy lights. Much less air-polluting and way more carbon neutral. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi4zgbrX1_BdItWM2SAVfUpZdirqEOCYl934U-8C_7KCx-JOGSWTP9zhp8weZE13qtRc07JHwIpzXASHad_Vvu82t6A-c8rnesNsQDYrylWsD8YmfArN3mJCqLU5UZpDW7rWzRnmk-Gb5h4EIQZe1LD7PYQ_Z4aj4EJkg3gnvVT_FoXzifc3A=s1132" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1132" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi4zgbrX1_BdItWM2SAVfUpZdirqEOCYl934U-8C_7KCx-JOGSWTP9zhp8weZE13qtRc07JHwIpzXASHad_Vvu82t6A-c8rnesNsQDYrylWsD8YmfArN3mJCqLU5UZpDW7rWzRnmk-Gb5h4EIQZe1LD7PYQ_Z4aj4EJkg3gnvVT_FoXzifc3A=w305-h320" width="305" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">A beautiful Christmas doorway, nearby - I can pretend I live here.</div></span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHxjCyek-92-s9UJdXnpvec_Db9TZmN9VNRSGoYezS1lxStp16iKIdcY0v6K_0-agtHSjfZmDFGc2cLiTGmtWT0oeCEibHFfd3SabzqcaO2lhIKML8P3s7sEyznmoWkhlHyy5hKkgJcQpDRbvHMRPmTc3AHtOYMep17Stz6FMHIrSBKO9D6w=s4096" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4096" data-original-width="2900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHxjCyek-92-s9UJdXnpvec_Db9TZmN9VNRSGoYezS1lxStp16iKIdcY0v6K_0-agtHSjfZmDFGc2cLiTGmtWT0oeCEibHFfd3SabzqcaO2lhIKML8P3s7sEyznmoWkhlHyy5hKkgJcQpDRbvHMRPmTc3AHtOYMep17Stz6FMHIrSBKO9D6w=w284-h400" width="284" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Portrait of Granny and <a href="http://bernardmaclaverty.com">Granda</a>, living it large in Glasgow's West End. </span> <span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: center;">I like <a href="http://bernardmaclaverty.com">Granda's</a> pink crop top. The 1986 Christmas disco beckons.</span></span></div></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhyGhaTu0-ozUj-Qg7WvCMmui9tDPR6-_IZVSsrEFVzv0KSI5zDNyQGszIfrT0juerYzX8KQzNpEWv8AiInXOaFVOCQBJE0tr4f8HY2MkAIegh76C4f4Lq2TP1nOZQrCMCJ-9sSensmu1RGZljBvnFxbBX_CFebE4Ku6NTpl0Htg0qFWzSptQ=s4128" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3096" data-original-width="4128" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhyGhaTu0-ozUj-Qg7WvCMmui9tDPR6-_IZVSsrEFVzv0KSI5zDNyQGszIfrT0juerYzX8KQzNpEWv8AiInXOaFVOCQBJE0tr4f8HY2MkAIegh76C4f4Lq2TP1nOZQrCMCJ-9sSensmu1RGZljBvnFxbBX_CFebE4Ku6NTpl0Htg0qFWzSptQ=w400-h300" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If you want to hear more about <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/books/2021/aug/08/blank-pages-and-other-stories-bernard-maclaverty-review">'Blank Pages'</a>, catch the man himself on <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/m0012yzy/the-big-scottish-book-club-series-3-episode-8">The Great Scottish Book Club, final guest on this episode. </a></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Did I mention we went ice skating at <a href="https://www.itison.com/elfingrove">Elfingrove?</a> It was my favourite Christmas thing so far. So exhilarating, so freeing. I stayed upright. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVDZvxfZhOTDsB5Bc38SifBOrR2pKW5htyvJFr6QstzOgTXy8KjbXdtYPdDAgIvFzg7LrmJ_Zy4gyFj_Y5fF0Tv9xicHDjrbu1kwheGY2XI0J3owSGe--elxLspat5jKL7auUGmyYltu3Z4leQBBFPcib1dFhn_txyvEjpZ4WRpo8NlygncQ=s1080" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVDZvxfZhOTDsB5Bc38SifBOrR2pKW5htyvJFr6QstzOgTXy8KjbXdtYPdDAgIvFzg7LrmJ_Zy4gyFj_Y5fF0Tv9xicHDjrbu1kwheGY2XI0J3owSGe--elxLspat5jKL7auUGmyYltu3Z4leQBBFPcib1dFhn_txyvEjpZ4WRpo8NlygncQ=w300-h400" width="300" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Here's a Christmas Poem I wrote about seeing my son in the school nativity play, when he was much younger.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGXeVn61fTqW3TDwRBXVpqMsz6qrpLWVitWItAJAxeoLNu9DnV0XkquKGOvnXKvMBsldHApEPSL3K21GVwSYqKEX8KLMQtSupV2XggcTuYp1mkbZMbl3LHJhzCXkbWSWsUIUjVG3XZThF7XgZEIg3pN0AmwWeSybSqN_bt8iA2LpGFAEr7bA=s1600" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGXeVn61fTqW3TDwRBXVpqMsz6qrpLWVitWItAJAxeoLNu9DnV0XkquKGOvnXKvMBsldHApEPSL3K21GVwSYqKEX8KLMQtSupV2XggcTuYp1mkbZMbl3LHJhzCXkbWSWsUIUjVG3XZThF7XgZEIg3pN0AmwWeSybSqN_bt8iA2LpGFAEr7bA=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Happy Christmas. Stay as safe as you can, dear friends. I miss the way we were. I miss sharing air, without a second thought. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I keep reminding myself - spring and summer are waiting out there.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjJcoWgVg36GRnATHJQH404Nin05R0-JiqfmPIZypCn44G3XaE8EEwQWjnimO0myaBwu6Mqu27Tr9QlLMC6--1J5pbLA9UoPXZ-9tb368lAuzIb7xd0x0A1_Ym9u2B0XvmwNltMvBRo0p9TvmuSVa8h6Nxaib4Y_ZohgVLjZS1GhxfDU3vc_w=s1080" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjJcoWgVg36GRnATHJQH404Nin05R0-JiqfmPIZypCn44G3XaE8EEwQWjnimO0myaBwu6Mqu27Tr9QlLMC6--1J5pbLA9UoPXZ-9tb368lAuzIb7xd0x0A1_Ym9u2B0XvmwNltMvBRo0p9TvmuSVa8h6Nxaib4Y_ZohgVLjZS1GhxfDU3vc_w=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-12512838073532431912021-10-18T12:29:00.011+01:002021-10-18T13:22:27.841+01:00COP 26 is Coming to Town. <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjemDhAMaCFVYS2wQDMvWJ0tv5AgLTB8iH6xkHmbfWbswzwN-5gzWYP67jMw6DVQpwaGs4jEr5xTcisv1Hh23ZN15JurX3cH3AWa6KrPLGOZjmGFyA6cNa6PJV_iYBMyoOavtwP/s1416/thumbnail-52.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1416" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjemDhAMaCFVYS2wQDMvWJ0tv5AgLTB8iH6xkHmbfWbswzwN-5gzWYP67jMw6DVQpwaGs4jEr5xTcisv1Hh23ZN15JurX3cH3AWa6KrPLGOZjmGFyA6cNa6PJV_iYBMyoOavtwP/w305-h400/thumbnail-52.jpeg" width="305" /></span></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As a mother of two, I've spent years hinting to the kids that we need to take climate 'change' more seriously. For climate 'change,' read climate '<i>emergency'</i>, or at very least '<i>crisis'</i>. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The kids generally say, Y<i>eah, yeah yeah</i>, Mum. <i>Duh!</i> We <i>know that..</i>..now, can we go to McDonalds and Primark? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Last night, our son came back from a youth club, slightly breathless with the energy of The Outside World and asked:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Mum, have you ever heard of <a href="https://ukcop26.org">COP26?</a></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Ah</i>, at last. Thank you church youth club. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Yes, I reply. It's the most important conference in the world, and it's coming to our town.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Let's go, boys! he says; it's his reply to anything he approves of. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMMPM1XSecnmz_MaWPH0DyRG7iN1McGpOTgoJknMuuhmCj0sQrOGp1rNRcmuXJ8gqgO-Zp7zorc35cucBiW8yyQqocuJm7cE6yY0DNywoPwoyBAhBt154EMTZ24SAT5PdzVyEw/s314/COP26-Flosgow-ok.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="314" data-original-width="220" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMMPM1XSecnmz_MaWPH0DyRG7iN1McGpOTgoJknMuuhmCj0sQrOGp1rNRcmuXJ8gqgO-Zp7zorc35cucBiW8yyQqocuJm7cE6yY0DNywoPwoyBAhBt154EMTZ24SAT5PdzVyEw/s0/COP26-Flosgow-ok.jpeg" width="220" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Of course, I don't bother the kids with the discourse that COP26 is compromised by inequalities of access before it even begins; it is too little, too late. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">COP26 is critical and we have to make the best of the status quo. It's all we have.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">'Will Obama be there? Will Greta be there?' the kids ask, while pouring a supper of Malties and Cheerios. The dog hovers in hopeful expectation. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">'Will Nicola Sturgeon be in it?' Tess asks. They are shocked when I tell them that Boris Johnson <a href="https://www.thenational.scot/news/19492991.boris-johnson-u-turns-claim-nicola-sturgeon-shouldnt-anywhere-near-cop26/">did not want Scotland's First Minister to be any part of it.</a> <i>What?</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK2Prk-nNsIXLy2-_mdyUf3pVFaT7rF01mcY65Ol1lXLxqvsaMvTuOikRdp2MNU8NWsLsvllNaSqQspHSSj1Uh1zUZ4j6THH14NkTzEw6tlbpzthLGt4iFcOsteJQwJxDS_BAp/s2048/20211013_184532.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1187" data-original-width="2048" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK2Prk-nNsIXLy2-_mdyUf3pVFaT7rF01mcY65Ol1lXLxqvsaMvTuOikRdp2MNU8NWsLsvllNaSqQspHSSj1Uh1zUZ4j6THH14NkTzEw6tlbpzthLGt4iFcOsteJQwJxDS_BAp/w400-h231/20211013_184532.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">During October break, I was lucky enough to take Tess to a hotel in beautiful Edinburgh. By coincidence, my pal <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stuart_Murdoch_(musician)">Stuart</a> was playing with his band, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Belle_and_Sebastian">Belle and Sebastian</a> at <a href="https://countdown.ted.com">The Countdown TED talks</a> nearby. The talks are a 'countdown' to COP26. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Stuart kindly got me access. I was impressed by the level of 'covid security' (vaccine passports uploaded, testing on site before access, masks as standard. To me, it felt practical and safe). </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Nicola Sturgeon spoke at the <a href="https://www.ted.com">TED conference</a>, although I didn't get to see that. I had previously emailed <a href="https://www.snp.org">the SNP</a> and urged them to do more to <a href="https://twitter.com/StopCambo?ref_src=twsrc%5Egoogle%7Ctwcamp%5Eserp%7Ctwgr%5Eauthor">#StopCambo</a> - to condemn the UK government's plan to drill a new oil field in the North Sea. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I think it's vital for a healthy democracy that we challenge out politicians - even the ones we broadly support - and nothing is more urgent than <u><a href="https://www.unep.org/explore-topics/climate-action/facts-about-climate-emergency">the Climate Emergency. </a></u></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">On the way back from Edinburgh, I overheard two women on the train lamenting that the Clydeside Express would be closed to traffic during COP26. Consequently, it would be a big hassle for them to drive to work. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I wanted <a href="https://twitter.com/GretaThunberg?ref_src=twsrc%5Egoogle%7Ctwcamp%5Eserp%7Ctwgr%5Eauthor">Greta </a>to come and sit down beside them, with her plaid shirt and her serious eyes. I wanted her to explain driving to work versus the fast track to an uninhabitable planet. A few more decades of 'business as usual' will only be catastrophic without serious climate action. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGl5DKQ_5LsBEwO_DvelR3plPL20_PmEYsQvxcTZMmZVlpHv1AFhxQjvQSahHFSogqhsny4q7MWB5W9BVKY_hoH81GYz1EawR-qgtmSuptIRFl3xh-ipuARiVmSA-7BpwPhVB9/s1525/Greta_Thunberg_urges_MEPs_to_show_climate_leadership_%252849618310531%2529_%2528cropped%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1525" data-original-width="1111" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGl5DKQ_5LsBEwO_DvelR3plPL20_PmEYsQvxcTZMmZVlpHv1AFhxQjvQSahHFSogqhsny4q7MWB5W9BVKY_hoH81GYz1EawR-qgtmSuptIRFl3xh-ipuARiVmSA-7BpwPhVB9/s320/Greta_Thunberg_urges_MEPs_to_show_climate_leadership_%252849618310531%2529_%2528cropped%2529.jpg" width="233" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We've already done the talking. It's time for action. Bring it on, Glasgow. Do your best. Make it good. I beg you. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRu_rB28kOKVOPK78i0W8Mzcpf9RwF211V_8QBy2a13CbCb9TCEON7sdZiKW851RjKjbWWijcgRYDX-oetVpwWkII0Ffgg8vbNH0qc8nKJfQ4qrDHjS6BdMNuQ71wT-5cGZjR0/s1400/cop26-alt-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1400" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRu_rB28kOKVOPK78i0W8Mzcpf9RwF211V_8QBy2a13CbCb9TCEON7sdZiKW851RjKjbWWijcgRYDX-oetVpwWkII0Ffgg8vbNH0qc8nKJfQ4qrDHjS6BdMNuQ71wT-5cGZjR0/w400-h286/cop26-alt-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-53200680017618994402021-08-27T14:44:00.007+01:002021-08-27T17:21:28.512+01:00Scotland, Schools and Covid : Trading the Slow Puncture for the Big Bang?<p><span style="font-size: large;">The image of a tidal wave keeps falling through my mind. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnkt_-pLIPfyGEeQH_ObfvPbERAswA8MvoeC5xC1uexZDHW1oIt5v7FyuQren8L_cJwVmkVNjelwSfPIPrsLFse0zoqi5FpiRoB0k1jqm27pQF01EpjOb4Q7PDWYNnjZ0VJVPH/s910/mountain-green-grass-nature.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="910" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnkt_-pLIPfyGEeQH_ObfvPbERAswA8MvoeC5xC1uexZDHW1oIt5v7FyuQren8L_cJwVmkVNjelwSfPIPrsLFse0zoqi5FpiRoB0k1jqm27pQF01EpjOb4Q7PDWYNnjZ0VJVPH/w400-h300/mountain-green-grass-nature.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">The wave in the photo looks pretty, but the one I envisage is grey and more foreboding. Outside, the weather is glorious, while a tidal wave of Covid is hitting the schools. This time, it's really here. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My own kids are not showing any symptoms, thus far. But come on, the odds are narrowing every day. Nearly <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2021/aug/27/scotland-records-highest-number-of-daily-covid-cases">7K cases in Scotland today.</a> Our highest ever. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The isolation rules have changed: If one sibling tests positive, the other child is expected to attend school....until they too test positive a few days later. It's a recipe for super-spreading. It's flabbergasting. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">As this unfolds, I feel angry and bewildered. I keep thinking: WHY are the Scottish (and the UK) governments setting policy that actively encourages infection in schools? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And today, my guess is this: they want to get a wave of infection over with before the 'normal' winter crisis in the NHS. A big bang as opposed to a slow puncture? Wow.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But they could have offered vaccination to kids age 12 plus. They could have put better ventilation in schools and kept the old isolation rules. How many kids will develop Long Covid?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.glasgowlive.co.uk/news/glasgow-ambulances-facing-four-hour-21409588">Waiting times at Glasgow A&E </a>were reported to be four to six hours this week. You don't want to be in those queues. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This isn't going to be a normal blog post. It's an, <i>I can't believe it's happening </i>post. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I'm floating about the house and garden, a bit shell-shocked, just waiting for my family to probably get Covid...after spending nearly 2 years trying <i>not</i> to get Covid.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Last night, I met a GP friend (outdoors) to catch up. From my pal, and from others, I'm hearing reports of double vaxed people still getting seriously ill with covid pneumonia. People with 'no underlying conditions.' Friends of friends being airlifted to hospital. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, there's no jolly 'life is life' ending to this post. I have to get it finished before the kids come in from school. Hugh and Tess, living in the moment, glad it's Friday, hoping for an ice lolly in the garden, as the dog goes nuts with joy at the very sight of them. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZjp2CdhD1i3Mh17S6iBTTLHhdcC9cE9e5FIpKN75Ve0PAmnATsAyi8WIRViEPvuKg4bTl54HlUpxre-sF9R6TMlHlSXLmwhflCMmNREmfGqE2L9AW81RbIkCdg-bdRRz1z8yL/s1080/m.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZjp2CdhD1i3Mh17S6iBTTLHhdcC9cE9e5FIpKN75Ve0PAmnATsAyi8WIRViEPvuKg4bTl54HlUpxre-sF9R6TMlHlSXLmwhflCMmNREmfGqE2L9AW81RbIkCdg-bdRRz1z8yL/w300-h400/m.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-11693715753521461752021-07-16T12:58:00.001+01:002021-07-16T12:58:11.274+01:00Curing the Incurable Cough<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 18.200000762939453px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.4em; margin: 0.25em 0px 0px; padding: 0px 0px 4px;"><a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://ciaramaclaverty.blogspot.com/2021/03/from-nightly-despair-to-electrified.html" style="display: block; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;">I accidently deleted this important post! WayBack Machine and Dennis at habitcough.com helped me get it back. </span></a><a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://ciaramaclaverty.blogspot.com/2021/03/from-nightly-despair-to-electrified.html" style="color: #cc6600; display: block; text-decoration: none;"><br /></a><a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://ciaramaclaverty.blogspot.com/2021/03/from-nightly-despair-to-electrified.html" style="color: #cc6600; display: block; text-decoration: none;">From Nightly Despair to Electrified Hope - The Cure of The Non-Stop Cough</a><a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://ciaramaclaverty.blogspot.com/2021/03/from-nightly-despair-to-electrified.html" style="color: #cc6600; display: block; text-decoration: none;"><br /></a></h3><div class="post-header" style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;"><div class="post-header-line-1"></div></div><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-7591363681194904414" itemprop="description articleBody" style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Regular readers, oh, readers kind and fair: </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I wrote this feature to send to a newspaper. They want to do their <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://www.scotsman.com/health/girl-coughed-for-a-year-until-she-was-cured-by-a-10-minute-video-call-3180473" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;">own report </a>about Tess' s miracle cough cure. So, I saved you the inside story of our 2020 - the year Tess coughed a hundred times a day, every day, until a retired Californian doctor cured her on Zoom. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><i>Spoiler: </i>It's a<i> </i>5 minute read and there's a happy ending. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">2020: Our Daughter Coughed for a Year, until a Retired Doctor Cured Her on Zoom. <o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFvcdVvytFZJzrCsrmlA004_95xig4gJc5cTnQaciXBajDJr_gk3_ZMB0Fx41c2K_3Hx1uD-NGYaT6-9WJD9-QHXspYVAAgANRWyneWQvCzhOaxwpx4q7JTanmIa1r3UtHGxBl/s4032/high+rez+me+n+tess.jpg" style="color: #999999; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922im_/https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFvcdVvytFZJzrCsrmlA004_95xig4gJc5cTnQaciXBajDJr_gk3_ZMB0Fx41c2K_3Hx1uD-NGYaT6-9WJD9-QHXspYVAAgANRWyneWQvCzhOaxwpx4q7JTanmIa1r3UtHGxBl/w300-h400/high+rez+me+n+tess.jpg" style="border: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); padding: 4px;" width="300" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> In January 2020, my husband and I sat down to watch a DVD. It was called <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1917_(2019_film)" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;">1917</a>, a glossy war film, full of gunfire, bombs and men screaming for their lives. I thought I heard our daughter coughing in bed. She has asthma, so I went to check. I found her doubled-over in a kind of whooping cough struggle, that came from nowhere. It was a horrible sound - a choking 'bark', and her eyes were wide in shock.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Trying to hide my panic, I grabbed her inhalers and we abandoned the film and spent an hour, trying to soothe her to sleep. We had no idea, she would spend all of 2020 coughing every day, hundreds, even thousands of times a day, without any hope of healing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> That January, we followed our GP-led asthma treatment: more inhalers, oral steroids (miserable for her) and antibiotics for a chest infection. I had a ledger book to record her symptoms. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Previous months of blank pages and the odd note - <i>No issues</i> -became a thicket of handwritten bewilderment:<i> nightly coughing fits / rocked to sleep again / distress and exhaustion / cough loads worse / tight chest / WTF?<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I used a yellow highlighter pen for small improvements, blue biro for frown-face emojis, beside details of relapse and deterioration. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">By February, my dread was fuelled by reports of 'Corona Virus' coming from Wuhan and Italy. She didn't have that, <i>no</i>? It wasn't here yet? It was surely on its way. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> I spent hours clicking on Dr Google. Someone on an asthma message board suggested VCD - <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vocal_cord_dysfunction" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;">Vocal Cord Dysfunction,</a> something I'd never heard of. I found a <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://www.facebook.com/groups/vcdhelp" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;">Facebook Group</a>, four thousand strong, of people who had coughed and struggled for breath, for <i>years.</i> My heart ached for them all. There was no cure, and the only 'treatment' was Speech and Language therapy and 'breathing techniques.' <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> The 23rd March, 2020 was Tess's tenth birthday, and the first ever day of UK lockdown. "I never thought I'd be having my birthday in lockdown!' she announced. Me neither. And the brutal coughing fits continued. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> I sent video clips of the cough to her asthma specialist: Tess in a dressing gown, her head thrown back, as if gulping for air, her small frame wracked by hacking. He prescribed yet more harsh steroids, 'although, I don't expect them to work.' He suggested it could be 'post viral cough,' and would, 'go away after a few months.' <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> A locum GP said it could be 'a habit cough' and we should focus less on it. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I would gently plead with Tess to try and supress, or swallow the cough - or every second cough - but she would sob, and tell me she couldn't do it. 'You don't know what it's like Mum! Stopping the cough is like trying to walk on clouds.' </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> I read that 'silent' reflux could cause cough and our GP prescribed anti-reflux tablets, which helped at first, but the effect faded after a couple of months and another paediatrician told us to wean off the pink pills. They are dangerous long-term. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> I consulted private dieticians over Zoom. Clear-skinned and enthused, they hinted that serious diet change would be needed for healing. One advised six months of treatment that cost as much as an all-inclusive holiday in Majorca for a family of four. It also involved giving up most things that kids live on - pasta sauce, pizza, milk. Still, I was tempted. I wondered if it was our only hope. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Tess was so miserable, we decided to grant her the life-long dream of getting a dog. We took a private skin allergy test beforehand, just in case. To her elation, the test showed no significant allergy and Sita, a five-month-old puppy who looked like Bambi, arrived from a Romanian rescue charity. Daily summer dog walks were peppered with Tess's dry coughs and spells of her feeling 'puffed.'<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZ8zxFSAEs42FPT07x5uqcjGg3q2wBuU6BlN2mp275h9_heVENPTKRYe3xsG5w9Tf9pm9ak4vw52CIGg03J4KBdZJpD-jCfwz_XU2-WJXlOTdUyVFmWNR-aSj6UBebMQq2m7a/s1024/paw+sita.jpg" style="color: #999999; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="845" height="400" src="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922im_/https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZ8zxFSAEs42FPT07x5uqcjGg3q2wBuU6BlN2mp275h9_heVENPTKRYe3xsG5w9Tf9pm9ak4vw52CIGg03J4KBdZJpD-jCfwz_XU2-WJXlOTdUyVFmWNR-aSj6UBebMQq2m7a/w330-h400/paw+sita.jpg" style="border: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); padding: 4px;" width="330" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Schools reopened in August. Tess would come home saying her throat was sore 'as a hot rock' and she was breathless and 'coughy' in the playground. Other kids would look at her, wondering if she had Covid. <i>I </i>wondered if she'd had Covid. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> 'You can't say 100% about anything, but I'm 100% this isn't Covid,' said her asthma doctor, over the phone. We were still in wretched coughing limbo. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> By mid-Autumn, the cough was too intrusive and exhausting for Tess to function at school, so she stayed home. There was also the daily threat of catching Covid, but this was secondary. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> We were referred to Ear Nose and Throat at the children's hospital. An intrusive throat scope identified <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://www.healthline.com/health/vocal-nodules" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;">vocal nodules</a> ('like singers have?') and <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/http://www.britishvoiceassociation.org.uk/voicecare_muscle-tension-dysphonia.htm" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;">Muscle Tension Dysphonia</a> - basically, tightness and imbalance in the vocal cords. The test was stopped early when Tess nearly fainted. We were put on a waiting list for Voice Therapy. Like the rest of the world, we were glad to <i>see the back of </i>2020.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> I found a palm-sized click-counter in an old drawer. Tess was starting 2021 with an average of 100 to 150 coughs, before sleep. I recalled the anniversary of the 1917 war film DVD. For a year, it had been impossible to watch any DVD in the evening, with our girl coughing her throat raw. The heart-sink sound from her bedroom was audible in the living room between ten and eleven pm. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> 'It's like an alarm going off in my brain, I can't help it, it just comes,' was how Tess described the 'tickle' that triggered the coughing fits, and kept them going. It's like an itch that you have to scratch. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Could it be a tic? An overwhelming physical compulsion? For what seemed like the millionth time, I battered into Google. Search: tic cough, habit cough. And there it was, a video popped up that would change our lives:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Documentary - The Medical Doctor Who Permanently Cures the World's Coughs<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: large;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922if_/https://www.youtube.com/embed/31gUKy9UKNo" width="320" youtube-src-id="31gUKy9UKNo"></iframe></span></i></div><i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> The ten-minute version. <i>Are you kidding me?</i> On <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=31gUKy9UKNo&t=7s" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;">You Tube</a>, a retired American doctor is coaching a young girl called Bethany (who looks just like Tess!) and he helps Bethany supress her cough. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Bethany's Dad, Dennis Buettner, has filmed the event, and packaged it, complete with music, subtitles and filmic parental commentary - '<i>What you're about to see, shocked and amazed us.' </i><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> In the film, Dr Miles Weinberger beams from his photograph, like everybody’s favourite Grampa. He radiates goodwill and compassion. His voice can be heard on Bethany's laptop, as he coaches her through the 'waves' of the massive urge to cough. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Bethany sips her water, winces and swallows. This is clearly effortful for her. Dr Weinberger has the tone of an air traffic controller who's guiding a jumbo jet away from disaster, to a safe landing. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> He tells Bethany, 'Your taking control, you're not letting it control you. I know it's not easy, but you're doing it. You've done three minutes now, I bet you can do four. And the longer you can do it, the easier it's gonna get. You may have to do it for a while, but gradually, it's gonna get easier...'<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> It is indeed miraculous to watch. I went from nightly despair to electrified hope. Yes! <i>Rewiring </i>is needed! The brain and the throat have been tripping like a faulty fire alarm. They are stuck, trapped. This is both physical and mental. But, there <i>is</i> a way out, and Dr Weinberger has the expertise to uncover it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> At the end of the video, Bethany is filmed the next day, on her way to full healing. 'If I can do it, you can do it too,' she says, 'Thank you, Dr Weinberger.'<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> I can't wait to show the video to Tess, but I have to play it casual. I don't want to overload her with crushing expectation. 'There's a girl, like you on You Tube,' I say. "I think the video might help us too.' <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Tess agrees that Bethany is 'pretty' and lovely and, 'it might help.' I email Bethany's dad, thanking him and telling him we will try the video at bedtime, peak-cough. To my amazement he replies immediately and copies in the God-like Dr Miles Weinberger himself. They wish us luck. They are confident. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> And, so it was. How right it felt. I have written 'Miracle Day' in my ledger. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> It is now three weeks since Tess started to heal. She watched the same video of Dr Weinberger curing Bethany. It was tricky at first; the urge to cough was so strong, Tess was whimpering and groaning, restless in bed. But she did it. She resisted the cough. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> The compulsive 'tickle' started to recede in frequency and strength. No one is listening to the blare of the false fire-alarm. Soon, its power will run out.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> It amazes me that we <i>could have missed this</i>; that countless other children (and adults) are stuck with daily, barking 'horror' coughs they could fix, if only they knew how. None of our UK doctors told us about this. They were dedicated and well-meaning, but unable to help. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Bethany's dad made it his passion to spread the word about this cure. His website, <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/http://www.habitcough.com/" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;">www.habitcough.com</a>reads like an advert, but he is not asking for money, he is simply spreading the small miracle that transformed his family life. He hopes to translate the video into many languages. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://www.milesweinberger.com/" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;">Dr Weinberger,</a> it turns out, is a Professor Emeritus of Paediatrics at the University of Iowa. He has a lengthy CV full of medical plaudits and positions, but his expertise is matched only by his radiant kindness and compassion. He is a true healer. He offered to talk to Tess from his home in San Diego, on Zoom, about any lingering concerns re asthma or symptoms. We accepted.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> As we waited to connect, Tess clicked on the option for fake Zoom background.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">'Come on, Tess, show the man some respect!' joked Tess's Dad.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> When Dr Weinberger appeared, he, himself, sat like a Medical Messiah in front of a photo-shopped background of a Californian beach sunset. May he bask in it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> 'Spread the word,' he said, as he wound up the call, gently, patiently, after an hour, and we thanked him again. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> I'm spreading the word: if your child has a chronic cough, Dr <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://www.milesweinberger.com/" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;">Miles Weinberger</a> might just save your family from years of suffering. He's a miracle worker. Pass it on. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcphVrTeDCy09HGGyP-1uEvxSlXrv2Ba15VK37izr1LXsJ6kx69qyQFlnSF6Ro4VWv9IfSMdz0J2t60LTdHlEbHHwjihQQ3wiGEoUPsatRfFrJleyZ1pohcSGaofS0hiG1_m7o/s1440/thumbnail-44.jpeg" style="color: #999999; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" class="" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922im_/https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcphVrTeDCy09HGGyP-1uEvxSlXrv2Ba15VK37izr1LXsJ6kx69qyQFlnSF6Ro4VWv9IfSMdz0J2t60LTdHlEbHHwjihQQ3wiGEoUPsatRfFrJleyZ1pohcSGaofS0hiG1_m7o/s320/thumbnail-44.jpeg" style="border: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); padding: 4px;" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><div style="clear: both;"></div></div><div class="post-footer" style="color: #999999; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10.140000343322754px; font-stretch: normal; letter-spacing: 0.1em; line-height: 1.4em; margin: 0.75em 0px; text-transform: uppercase;"><div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-1"><span class="post-author vcard">POSTED BY <span class="fn" itemprop="author" itemscope="itemscope" itemtype="http://schema.org/Person"><a class="g-profile" data-gapiattached="true" data-gapiscan="true" data-onload="true" href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994" rel="author" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;" title="author profile"><span itemprop="name">CIARA</span> </a></span></span><span class="post-timestamp">AT <a class="timestamp-link" href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://ciaramaclaverty.blogspot.com/2021/03/from-nightly-despair-to-electrified.html" rel="bookmark" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;" title="permanent link"><abbr class="published" itemprop="datePublished" style="border: none;" title="2021-03-27T18:40:00Z">SATURDAY, MARCH 27, 2021</abbr></a> </span><span class="post-comment-link"><a class="comment-link" href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17300038&postID=7591363681194904414" style="color: #999999; margin-left: 0.6em; text-decoration: none; white-space: nowrap;">NO COMMENTS: </a></span><span class="post-icons"><span class="item-action"><a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://www.blogger.com/email-post.g?blogID=17300038&postID=7591363681194904414" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;" title="Email Post"><img alt="" class="icon-action" height="13" src="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922im_/https://resources.blogblog.com/img/icon18_email.gif" style="border: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); margin: 0px 0px 0px 0.5em !important; padding: 4px; vertical-align: middle;" width="18" /> </a></span></span><div class="post-share-buttons goog-inline-block" style="display: inline-block; margin-top: 0.5em; position: relative; vertical-align: middle;"></div></div><div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-2"><span class="post-labels">LABELS: <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://ciaramaclaverty.blogspot.com/search/label/family" rel="tag" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;">FAMILY</a>, <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://ciaramaclaverty.blogspot.com/search/label/happy" rel="tag" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;">HAPPY</a>, <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://ciaramaclaverty.blogspot.com/search/label/health%20promotion" rel="tag" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;">HEALTH PROMOTION</a>, <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://ciaramaclaverty.blogspot.com/search/label/kids" rel="tag" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;">KIDS</a>, <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://ciaramaclaverty.blogspot.com/search/label/life-in-general" rel="tag" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;">LIFE-IN-GENERAL</a>,<a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://ciaramaclaverty.blogspot.com/search/label/mind%2Fbody" rel="tag" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;">MIND/BODY</a>, <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://ciaramaclaverty.blogspot.com/search/label/mind%2Fbody%20asthma" rel="tag" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;">MIND/BODY ASTHMA</a>, <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://ciaramaclaverty.blogspot.com/search/label/photos" rel="tag" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;">PHOTOS</a>, <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://ciaramaclaverty.blogspot.com/search/label/trying-to-get-well" rel="tag" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;">TRYING-TO-GET-WELL</a>, <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20210420213922/https://ciaramaclaverty.blogspot.com/search/label/writing" rel="tag" style="color: #999999; text-decoration: none;">WRITING</a></span></div></div>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-3780638346803831922021-07-15T12:08:00.022+01:002021-07-15T21:27:52.784+01:00My Righting Career <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcwKqcFv9Ze0sxJ4r0q9lJ8UtVbubeRgB-7kCTjLgY_Dm5Z4FT_ZgW0BPyyG9H0oSOHl6BzDv-y_zSCixH2_VK_s16A_vv7tzy9IlI9jjXgsdUGIYbi_4WOL9Zmg-xhGeUvEsY/s2048/2602440.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1471" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcwKqcFv9Ze0sxJ4r0q9lJ8UtVbubeRgB-7kCTjLgY_Dm5Z4FT_ZgW0BPyyG9H0oSOHl6BzDv-y_zSCixH2_VK_s16A_vv7tzy9IlI9jjXgsdUGIYbi_4WOL9Zmg-xhGeUvEsY/w288-h400/2602440.jpg" width="288" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><u> photo - Gordon Terris.</u></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I have forgotten how to blog. Bless me Father, it has been four months since my last blog post. (For the 'non-catholics' this is a lapsed-catholic joke). </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I don't <i>so much</i> have a writing career, as a <i>Right-ing </i>career, trying to make things 'right.' Things like the<a href="https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2021/jul/14/amazon-rainforest-now-emitting-more-co2-than-it-absorbs"> escalating Climate Emergency</a> and the soaring rates of infection in the Covid pandemic; just wee things like that. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The photo above was taken by a photographer from <a href="https://www.thenational.scot">The National</a> where I did <a href="https://www.thenational.scot/news/19434612.covid-scotland-eis-chief-urges-nicola-sturgeon-offer-covid-jag-pupils/">an interview</a> as a 'concerned' parent, urging better school safety mitigations and saying I'd be keen to get my kids 'Pfizered'. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Hugh (who didn't wish to be photographed) is now 12. He would be eligible for the jab, if they will finally allow it. Tess (above) is 11 and has been on daily asthma medications since she was 5 years old. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>I'm aware I have a couple of f</span><span>riends who would disagree with vaxing kids, but parental choice would be good, and I think it could help lessen the risk of <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-57693637">Long Covid </a>(estimated at 1 in 7 child cases, according to the Office of National Statistics). </span><span> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But summer. Ah, summer. I love it. It's a balm! It reactivates all the memories of happy summers gone by. Oops, here's a sneaky wee link to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DtxlvQqvDQs">Don Henley singing The Boys of Summer. </a> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We had a short break in bonnie St Andrews. We took our scaredy-cat, rescue dog. She got excited about rabbits. (She ain't never caught a rabbit, so she's still a friend of mine). Tess and I swam in the open sea. Baltic then exhilarating. I would do it again. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZvTiplNtAEarWb0YLz3rmWt2cC8gFUSoUz8TMf7cq2_Q3FKbThNYlVyKBGUAhU6M79tEGY7D2AOZDBDhFM4micCreBITxOLM4EKFGT1MlxnRXGjOSAYyJl9FQyfdg_qmpBAQ1/s1080/sita+beach.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZvTiplNtAEarWb0YLz3rmWt2cC8gFUSoUz8TMf7cq2_Q3FKbThNYlVyKBGUAhU6M79tEGY7D2AOZDBDhFM4micCreBITxOLM4EKFGT1MlxnRXGjOSAYyJl9FQyfdg_qmpBAQ1/w300-h400/sita+beach.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">
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</span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><div><span><br /></span></div>I have been reading my Dad's <a href="https://www.penguin.co.uk/books/144/1442953/blank-pages-and-other-stories/9781787333154.html">new book of stories</a>. Even if I wasn't biased, I'd have to say they were quite brilliant. They seem as effortless and natural as afternoon sunlight in a familiar room you want to sit down in. Out August 5th, online or at your local bookshop. Perfect for the beach. </span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Now, get in that sea. It'll do you good. </span><p></p></div>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-2299940242983144052021-03-02T17:32:00.012+00:002021-03-02T19:38:37.615+00:00Testing Testing, ENT<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> We are just back from the Childrens' Hospital. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGvIzHD-giCWm_Rj77ykLqw4BKEoFaog_nljqMhZSs1eLmJnL6YstAAbWSbpsm0388emnnrjVMu5w0fp9ztWxzbpw3EHgIldzyuhoUC4uDONwMajkjaH0_PPr5vSHUwPeeBCeq/s700/sglasgowunihosp1_1438168853.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="546" data-original-width="700" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGvIzHD-giCWm_Rj77ykLqw4BKEoFaog_nljqMhZSs1eLmJnL6YstAAbWSbpsm0388emnnrjVMu5w0fp9ztWxzbpw3EHgIldzyuhoUC4uDONwMajkjaH0_PPr5vSHUwPeeBCeq/w400-h313/sglasgowunihosp1_1438168853.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: left;">Tess was meant to be having a test for <a href="https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/asthma/expert-answers/vocal-cord-dysfunction/faq-20058019">Vocal Chord Dysfunction (VCD)</a>.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The test involved a 'scope' camera being slid up her nose (eek) to film her vocal chords / voice box. She was meant to cycle hard on an exercise bike, for five minutes, to see how the vocal chords respond to exercise. For the past year, she's had coughing fits when she exercises.</div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Poor girl didn't even get that far. The camera was only in her throat for a minute or so, before she started to feel, 'dizzy'. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">'She's very white,' said one of the doctors. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Tess, two ENT surgeons, three technicians and me - a 'Chicken Licken' crowd of us - all stood, masked-up, in the small windowless room, crammed with hi-tech medical equipment. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">They had to help her off the bike, and she looked wobbly and pale, like a rag doll. They let her lie on a leather examination bed. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">'I'm <i>never</i> doing <i>that</i> again,' she said to me as soon as we left.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">However, the surgeons<i> did</i> get some footage and the 'cool surgeon' (<i>Vans</i> sneakers), was able to say, straight away, that there was evidence of vocal nodules on Tess's larynx and clear evidence of <a href="http://www.otolaryngology.pitt.edu/centers-excellence/voice-center/conditions-we-treat/muscle-tension-dysphonia">'Muscle Tension Dysphonia' or MTD. </a> MTD? WTF?</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Let me get home to G<i>oogle</i> that, I thought immediately. He told me MTD is an umbrella term for inadvertent maladaptive muscle use in the throat - often following a viral infection. Kids can try too hard and their muscles over compensate. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He replayed the video. Tess's vocal chords were supposed to open and close like lift doors. Instead they looked like two bed sheets flapping in the wind. Well, not quite - but there was a fluted, shaky look to them. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The good news is, the ENT surgeon would refer us to 'Voice Therapy' and that <i>might </i>help. I confess, I am desperate for <i>more </i>than a 'might', but I'll take anything. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I realised there was still the big unanswered question of, <i>does she or doesn't she </i>have VCD - in <i>addition</i> to the MTD? How many acronyms can a girl have? How many can she bear?</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The surgeon agreed that Tess had, 'been through enough today' - ie - they weren't about to throw her back on the exercise bike and re-scope her. I don't think she'd have agreed to that, anyway. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On the way out, the technician admitted that lots of people can faint, when you start poking around inside their heads. Go figure. I had a flashback to the time I fainted, age 15, when I got stitches removed from my ear. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So, we will chase up the Voice therapy. The doc warned we would have to 'adhere' and work hard at it. Ready and willing. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hit us with your crossed-finger emojis. Not literally, but metaphorically will do. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We'll check back in with the asthma doctor too. Indeed the body is a complicated place to live...as if we didn't know. I'm pointing at you, 2020. And you can start to behave, 2021?</span></p><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLWGK-ZunNXhhefG2MP_eD73ZrG7JdvtzkqcBM29dBtQqtY0iBpHzt7DG9wx1O8URktry_MUb6T_mYwuPWhIyNF-NpcuJjxMSmz6Fd-6zFSLR9jBS5VHx_2COY-xQ6syHnmVGs/s1080/fence.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="863" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLWGK-ZunNXhhefG2MP_eD73ZrG7JdvtzkqcBM29dBtQqtY0iBpHzt7DG9wx1O8URktry_MUb6T_mYwuPWhIyNF-NpcuJjxMSmz6Fd-6zFSLR9jBS5VHx_2COY-xQ6syHnmVGs/w400-h320/fence.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-86860561931353465182021-02-06T10:24:00.005+00:002021-02-06T13:36:14.906+00:00Don't make the Schnauzer feel bad, Mum! <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkw0by8pYIBLnwOaJwln3TKfTZ4uJDktYNJABCJNcMRLZgmRayMuXiue_CSKC2uDPRQqUgqpRXTfOrNfR-qOUd9EGVioKMgx7Ma2cq_nXDJGZYrVPl1oyqWtoH7Zz3vIAr5lob/s1200/schnauzer-mixes-long.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="1200" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkw0by8pYIBLnwOaJwln3TKfTZ4uJDktYNJABCJNcMRLZgmRayMuXiue_CSKC2uDPRQqUgqpRXTfOrNfR-qOUd9EGVioKMgx7Ma2cq_nXDJGZYrVPl1oyqWtoH7Zz3vIAr5lob/w400-h216/schnauzer-mixes-long.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Every day we go on a dog walk. THE dog walk. We build our lockdown day around it. We pass through the grounds of the old <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gartnavel_Royal_Hospital">Gartnavel Royal Hospital</a> - once called 'The Glasgow Lunatic Asylum'. What a phrase to mug the heart. <i>Ooft. </i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It's a spooky old building, half occupied, half derelict - a castle from a Gothic Novel. Mr Rochester's stricken wife must be weeping in one of those turrets?</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCybJ-DZVDnAw5DYmaX_6gTxfORnKUUsstJawwkD_rKIicJ9fvlcdgwFPssfabY0muSEeWQPSdA8dK5m3bKaIYFIISf6mBpOEBI9ORFqEjl9jrHfwj9coI29HCYuf3nQExuxuw/s650/gartnavel-hospital-glasgow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="650" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCybJ-DZVDnAw5DYmaX_6gTxfORnKUUsstJawwkD_rKIicJ9fvlcdgwFPssfabY0muSEeWQPSdA8dK5m3bKaIYFIISf6mBpOEBI9ORFqEjl9jrHfwj9coI29HCYuf3nQExuxuw/w400-h266/gartnavel-hospital-glasgow.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span>We walk until we reach, 'The Field of Dogs.' Our Romanian rescue dog, Sita, gallops like an antelope to meet the other dogs. I coo over the cute dogs, (a labrador puppy?!) but Tess warns me to be more egalatarian in my coo-ing. </span></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Don't make the Schnauzer feel bad, Mum! </i>she whispers. So, I have to make 'cute noises' in the general direction of less-cute dogs.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Tess is not above some comparison, herself. She likes to decide which dog would be a suitable 'husband' for our Sita. This is subject to change. One recent 'front-runner', is now demoted, due to his lack of doggy recall and discipline.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>He'd turn out to be one of those husbands who wear grey joggys and stays on the X-box all day</i>, says Tess. Quite. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Disclaimer</i>. I'm sure those husbands are nice too. No husbands have been harmed in the making of this blog. </span></div></div></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9bxJ5FaNr4AdviTz84Ck4sLG3jYrAd0NeROBKKxfCl-7DetZg3eWNHbQtF7YczUg_0FPht1bYQzXFTfTHshu0RERm6RZXfbDkrYnwYVZy-oziFGvpe0ENTGG-6WIZfoKxxUaL/s1276/heart+sculpture.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1276" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9bxJ5FaNr4AdviTz84Ck4sLG3jYrAd0NeROBKKxfCl-7DetZg3eWNHbQtF7YczUg_0FPht1bYQzXFTfTHshu0RERm6RZXfbDkrYnwYVZy-oziFGvpe0ENTGG-6WIZfoKxxUaL/s320/heart+sculpture.jpg" /></span></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-align: left;">Gartnavel Sculpture - </span><a href="https://ayrshirehealthandarts.wordpress.com/2015/08/18/jephson-robb-sculpture-commission-200-years-of-gartnavel-royal-hospital/" style="text-align: left;">Two Hearts by Jephson Rob. </a></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">We meet other dog walkers too. A lovely, older couple with a 'blonde Lab' who lollops. Somehow, the dog reflects their kindness.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">We make regular small-talk in gentle morning ritual. How we slept. What we are watching on TV. We stand at least 2 meters apart, hovering, cautious. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I like to think of us, in time-lapse photography, viewed from a distance, viewed from above. Clouds billow rapidly, appearing and disappearing. We are all stick men in the field, and the dogs move five times faster than all of us, lapping us with their excited abandon. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The sun goes in and comes out. Shadows flicker accross the 'Glasgow Lunatic Asylum.'</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>The hopes and fears of all the years. </i>I had my own struggles with anxiety and OCD, in the past, but the passage of time and a couple of wonderful NHS 'shrinks', led me out of the forest, to the peaceful meadow beyond. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9S-NzFtoyOUOituLoNgRx63Md8e6-09y9PFbS1e3yiCGLAMbOcX8Bp_a6VAT_aFd-luFxJNmFvOfaa7IFsEjB3wpl4vfsnq6tlxr5ULqzZQ1eVK8W5tFHfDpsPmV18GucHnHB/s500/old+gart.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="339" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9S-NzFtoyOUOituLoNgRx63Md8e6-09y9PFbS1e3yiCGLAMbOcX8Bp_a6VAT_aFd-luFxJNmFvOfaa7IFsEjB3wpl4vfsnq6tlxr5ULqzZQ1eVK8W5tFHfDpsPmV18GucHnHB/s320/old+gart.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEichwllZgzlJpua0t3fJyxip2FbDPhr3ZN_J7sIUBsleq6DIlB16OLiWT7CR0R6hnBZiMwbhAKZWX3uPIHRJVjAr94on__NPkM7M_xRV3DFQ4_8L12W8W9wZrnw-_ZponDjaf2n/s512/nurses+garnavel.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="374" data-original-width="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEichwllZgzlJpua0t3fJyxip2FbDPhr3ZN_J7sIUBsleq6DIlB16OLiWT7CR0R6hnBZiMwbhAKZWX3uPIHRJVjAr94on__NPkM7M_xRV3DFQ4_8L12W8W9wZrnw-_ZponDjaf2n/s320/nurses+garnavel.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> Now, I have Tess - the daughter I thought I might never have - to keep me in check, and prevent me from inadvertently offending any passing Schnauzers. Fair deal, I'd say. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-60751444243824397312021-01-29T18:50:00.001+00:002021-02-02T18:33:15.840+00:00The Pasta of Disownment <p><span style="font-size: medium;">My son had a dream about, 'the Pasta of Disownment.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Oh really. Now what's that?</i> (Clearly not the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TjYdt1hhs-o">Le Pastie de la Bourgeoisie)</a>.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">'It's the pasta that Harry Potter had to eat when he had no friends. There was a big neon sign above it.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>I don't think that bit was in the books. </i></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzOLlxe62UuMuHEj8R9NwwWyNJjSnZJTfOjaA2iEMR8EnPPLVS8DnJAnge4YW1ZyB6a2K74hbNqisn4FaMfuV94-viNUSKa4Ce5I2QRZgYEBAUi2UKJOsCj4G-8TJe0EYKYTXN/s1462/pasta.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1462" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzOLlxe62UuMuHEj8R9NwwWyNJjSnZJTfOjaA2iEMR8EnPPLVS8DnJAnge4YW1ZyB6a2K74hbNqisn4FaMfuV94-viNUSKa4Ce5I2QRZgYEBAUi2UKJOsCj4G-8TJe0EYKYTXN/w295-h400/pasta.jpg" width="295" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">But hey ho, The<i> Pasta of Disownment</i> could feature in future tales. And it feels like my staple diet at the moment. Oh, the un-splendid isolation! Good people, can you bear it? </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Every disgruntled thought I have these days, is countered by another thought, telling me I can't complain.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>But this winter lockdown is long and hard and boring!</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">YOU ARE NOT A DOCTOR OR NURSE IN ICU. YOU ARE NOT A PATIENT IN ICU.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbujuIuAYtYIUzxtntlkjXwChOvKxwT05k0RLLCYG6bOZZsgPJs4BwUxYHe3wLqNhbGhurIcPo9vLmP9DgxE3CXPRfCh1CSaKTbCuB86vXP6kFwrYGZZ2atK99CeKKjShNIyMI/s1024/snowman+mask.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbujuIuAYtYIUzxtntlkjXwChOvKxwT05k0RLLCYG6bOZZsgPJs4BwUxYHe3wLqNhbGhurIcPo9vLmP9DgxE3CXPRfCh1CSaKTbCuB86vXP6kFwrYGZZ2atK99CeKKjShNIyMI/s320/snowman+mask.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>I miss my friends and the life we had before - but it's so far away now, I forget what it feels like. What if I become 'comfortably numb'?</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">YOU HAVE A WARM HOUSE AND A FAMILY THAT CAN BEAR EACH OTHER.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ueeNz0tvWVMSQGU_kSgF1CYeWHGEdsKpW6k4P4TYMobQs6vB-4IYhxSEMigaWlFuXV1Bee_SzBJleTMWGMVgWsBJG6PQwa23IAJe7G-FRTXpxmItg9KmW-rKglKU-qBN5TtV/s1080/thumbnail-41.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ueeNz0tvWVMSQGU_kSgF1CYeWHGEdsKpW6k4P4TYMobQs6vB-4IYhxSEMigaWlFuXV1Bee_SzBJleTMWGMVgWsBJG6PQwa23IAJe7G-FRTXpxmItg9KmW-rKglKU-qBN5TtV/s320/thumbnail-41.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>You should have written a book by now! What's kept you?!</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">YOUR KIDS NEED HOMESCHOOLING, FEEDING AND MEDICAL APPOINTMENTS. YOU ARE KINDA BUSY. Oh, and the dog says it's your turn at Scrabble. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG2J2znYnM7EXf7UCxPS7N6aHl3T8ujBXZo3keijBdlwPMTbRY4rp9Q0qkxSGZIZ0pDFffzfvYSpIM0pjMAsgn_yGUs4gKaHplThGFNrDQxybu6NhbxATzkWj39Z3TNRY_GFmF/s1080/sita+rug.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG2J2znYnM7EXf7UCxPS7N6aHl3T8ujBXZo3keijBdlwPMTbRY4rp9Q0qkxSGZIZ0pDFffzfvYSpIM0pjMAsgn_yGUs4gKaHplThGFNrDQxybu6NhbxATzkWj39Z3TNRY_GFmF/s320/sita+rug.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So, talking of medical appointments, poor Tess has coughed every day for a OVER A YEAR.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It is currently the main weight on my heart. You are only as happy as your unhappiest child, said someone once. Not a monk. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We have seen several doctors, tried many medications. None have worked. She was due to get a throat scope last week, but the poor ENT doctor had to self isolate. More <i>Pasta of Disownment </i>over here please, waiter? Grazie! More for everyone, including the kind surgeon! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Our local neighbourhood had been planning a Winter Window Art Festival. I am not one of these 'natural crafting mothers' (NCM's?) but we did our best this afternoon - only to find out later that it has been cancelled, due to lockdown. <i>Doh! </i>of course it has. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Here's our inside-out windaes, for one night only:</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqU6zbNfhRjQXQKp9HQ7-R4fPDM9So44Abnzx1npY17fRIglGfLQcnjo3Zascl1h7mJJlPXCz4Po0zQ_ROwSS3sslbQqmi728jmroyjMlmh_Q5wgqlrDpuQth6iWIBerowmw7R/s1080/window+1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqU6zbNfhRjQXQKp9HQ7-R4fPDM9So44Abnzx1npY17fRIglGfLQcnjo3Zascl1h7mJJlPXCz4Po0zQ_ROwSS3sslbQqmi728jmroyjMlmh_Q5wgqlrDpuQth6iWIBerowmw7R/w300-h400/window+1.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiieaWBN-eD3A_roIWmiuukZyqgyhAxbTk4XJpV7BtvJxuomC3Kqqg2h_zsSHFDjp2dNTLEr1ixP_E_5ZC22AweRpI28FyBRKI9gke2zyrBRDxhHGcBwz6Y9_mXQGY6eg2TV_Rf/s1080/wind2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiieaWBN-eD3A_roIWmiuukZyqgyhAxbTk4XJpV7BtvJxuomC3Kqqg2h_zsSHFDjp2dNTLEr1ixP_E_5ZC22AweRpI28FyBRKI9gke2zyrBRDxhHGcBwz6Y9_mXQGY6eg2TV_Rf/w300-h400/wind2.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Ah well. It is Friday. We nearly have January 2021 tucked under our belts. We haven't resorted to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iW0C_zSVnPM">playing Barbara Dickson.</a> <i>Oops</i>. I just have. It's a bit Cliff Richard, when you think of it. Must dig out my Walkman, roller-skates and satin shorts. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Here's some beautiful children and a dog. Thank God they're mine. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ENb1c63wObVkN9E4gqzXVnfe6penJsLqJYSMkmunBHkXHqvpx1WPaIWmT0cAKq4ONVBmp5tRBTvdfKl3-j_JnoE7MG_4GnqXXxQnY7tNBpAxGAUu8LqXvXz0ja6N3xZob4rj/s1080/cute+kids.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ENb1c63wObVkN9E4gqzXVnfe6penJsLqJYSMkmunBHkXHqvpx1WPaIWmT0cAKq4ONVBmp5tRBTvdfKl3-j_JnoE7MG_4GnqXXxQnY7tNBpAxGAUu8LqXvXz0ja6N3xZob4rj/w400-h300/cute+kids.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> February's on it's way. Keep ploughing your furlough. </span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0-NHWAzzWasLsTKBlOIUO7_FjlogqOGipuJjSxxzSJd3sL5E03LmrHLfOfgnj74OTLNGT_w3yDAy_Z0pEkOFZcCk0vdmC-VpyGcKqhVCfAuru4US3VMWxfOhIwYGtQx2g6F_8/s1080/rab.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0-NHWAzzWasLsTKBlOIUO7_FjlogqOGipuJjSxxzSJd3sL5E03LmrHLfOfgnj74OTLNGT_w3yDAy_Z0pEkOFZcCk0vdmC-VpyGcKqhVCfAuru4US3VMWxfOhIwYGtQx2g6F_8/w300-h400/rab.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-44045808413179050472021-01-08T18:46:00.016+00:002021-01-08T19:28:50.048+00:00Can I help you? Working 9 to 5, in the Gift Shop of Life<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It's 2021! </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Here we are, in a full-blown Covid crisis. Honestly, I can barely look. Time to deploy some Memoir Nostalgia, as a distraction. Let me tell you about my first ever job. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I was a Saturday assistant in an island shop. <i>Can I help you, Madam? </i>I was way too shy for that kind of chat, but here is my tentative 80's grin.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj37yEuitZ6QbbDEeceVAMqE1p9jLwxzFG2JOLBwKy7SHEv3lSunc-wpu0pwNrBqZrFMBkZHMYv8tudw0BwqXFbvNAiRiTaF4wzi8u0CJB6H49MlobzKAzz14DxQdhz7voLG_TR/s977/ciara+15.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="977" data-original-width="585" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj37yEuitZ6QbbDEeceVAMqE1p9jLwxzFG2JOLBwKy7SHEv3lSunc-wpu0pwNrBqZrFMBkZHMYv8tudw0BwqXFbvNAiRiTaF4wzi8u0CJB6H49MlobzKAzz14DxQdhz7voLG_TR/w240-h400/ciara+15.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It was a shop of lovely things, for locals and tourists. We sold <i>Wrangler</i> jeans, Lopi jumpers, silver jewellery, chunky pottery - painted with puffins, books and cards; waxed green jackets and carved walking sticks (bring your own Labradors).</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixu9gsD1q3lK-b5oxeIcuISLY3OEkBPml9i3I-E4o0zxUJfREtlJlBzotP57XkHwH_cx-FxjWAkhi1tShFMsAoNXHog2TIRypYniYKOl-rq3lGJTMeJYyjynIr84Su-F2SDYlY/s800/giftshop-5936810891.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixu9gsD1q3lK-b5oxeIcuISLY3OEkBPml9i3I-E4o0zxUJfREtlJlBzotP57XkHwH_cx-FxjWAkhi1tShFMsAoNXHog2TIRypYniYKOl-rq3lGJTMeJYyjynIr84Su-F2SDYlY/w400-h300/giftshop-5936810891.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The shop smelled of new books and clean wool. The door made a ding. Postcards poked from a revolving rack. (Photos of our island, looking almost tropical). There were big windows to stare out of, and a secret kitchen at the back, full of shoe boxes and coffee mugs.</div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My early tasks included making Camomile tea with honey (for the boss) and arranging the Hallmark greeting cards, via price codes. I was only 14; nervous about getting things wrong. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On the first day, I gave someone too much change. An extra pound note from a fiver! I was shaking, as if I'd accidently killed someone's dog. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The other shop assistant was called Janet, or at least, I'm going to call her that - in case she is embarrassed at me celebrating her, years on. That's the thing about memoir - maybe people don't want a cameo role. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Anyway, 'Janet' reassured me that my incorrect-change-catastrophe wasn't a handcuff situation. I think she dipped into her own purse, to make the numbers add up. Aww, Janet.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Of course, I looked up to Janet. She had long curly hair, a curvy figure and she oozed capability and kindness. She twirled her curls in her fingertips, and gave wonderful throaty laughs. She wore a diamond ring that clicked on the counter top. She was great at helping all the customers. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I was the opposite. My number one goal was to avoid 'pestering' customers. I stood at the side of the shopfloor, trying to look available, but not pressurising. A key distinction in my 14 year old mind. I hid under my 'Lady Di' fringe.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Beside shelves of denim (of every size), there was a small changing room. Inside, a window looked out, far over Loch Indaal. The window had no curtain. Seals and seagulls would blush.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdqh5-llboLAQDvW53XYcBvTv-ejA3ACiDQn7AuJ7k2XT9GoZn5-_TQiTF_JieOL2i9dg0SzN_s20b-gOlYT5yhIu8gRUSQEimikIIWSv8hDULtDVGiJfF6Yh2jqxMOLtJaR5b/s450/Islay-WoolenMill-Scarf-purplegreen-check-450x450.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="450" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdqh5-llboLAQDvW53XYcBvTv-ejA3ACiDQn7AuJ7k2XT9GoZn5-_TQiTF_JieOL2i9dg0SzN_s20b-gOlYT5yhIu8gRUSQEimikIIWSv8hDULtDVGiJfF6Yh2jqxMOLtJaR5b/s320/Islay-WoolenMill-Scarf-purplegreen-check-450x450.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">One time, a local scuba-diver guy was back from the oil rigs. He was famous for owning a speed boat. Janet was doing brilliantly, trying to help him choose a present for his girlfriend, or his 'fiancé'.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">'Money's no matter!' he announced, as Janet offered him an array of jumper and jewellery options. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Money's no matter!</i> He repeated, waving his generous arms about the shop. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Money was a matter for me. I got paid £5 per Saturday, and it felt like a fortune at the time. My mum encouraged me to save, so I stashed the cash in my Bank of Scotland hippo. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs5e482ZL2nrkux9Szq7hMzahaLtP50G6Bgz9mpD9eO574rKtL5aKUMx8pcXlsTZBAWV1jVAZ8EdDasnwpMjhxZVMlqdQjUi43us7w4KsLGDolgCtuEq1vEbd7vwFSnzA4s9ql/s400/vintage-rubber-plastic-toy-bank-lot_1_8fcde040e021a2cf24fab39e8946c469.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs5e482ZL2nrkux9Szq7hMzahaLtP50G6Bgz9mpD9eO574rKtL5aKUMx8pcXlsTZBAWV1jVAZ8EdDasnwpMjhxZVMlqdQjUi43us7w4KsLGDolgCtuEq1vEbd7vwFSnzA4s9ql/s320/vintage-rubber-plastic-toy-bank-lot_1_8fcde040e021a2cf24fab39e8946c469.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">After a few months, Janet mentioned that I'd be expected to work right through the school summer holidays. <i>What? </i>I was practically winded. Give up childhood summer to work 6 days a week? <i>Indoors? </i></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Call me spoiled, call me a work-shy fop, but at fourteen, no amount of money was going to be worth the sacrifice.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">'You'd better tell him,' said Janet. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The boss seemed surprised. Frustrated. 'I've trained you, you have responsibilities,' he said.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I don't know where my <i>Jane-Eyre</i> audacity came from, but I replied plainly -</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">'I'm too young to have responsibilities.' </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Today, I can see both sides. It was a privilege to be offered a job, so young, in this shop of lovely things; to have the chance to learn; to watch Janet in action and have her watch over me. </span><span> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">'Which boys do you like?' she'd ask me, as we stared out the window at cars driving up and down Main Street. I'd confide. She'd concur, 'Oh, he's a <i>nice</i> boy. And he's <i>lovely</i> too.' It was sisterhood. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There was a dress in the shop that I used to adore. It was displayed prominently, on a spotlit hanger. Black satin with a red sash around the waist. Imagine Lady Di at a Gala ball. Madonna in a Material World. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLDUxoly9EfXJRjja7JX6WY6dHDI5VTACAhSUJQfOSppsxl_TG5mNtVbIUk6FcF4vbUt8HsxF8lv7f09ylSbibwLhuQwwp1pjL-twrmmrTUbFRVz2fD7bvRAlyEY8ivf0tTK50/s788/dress.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="570" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLDUxoly9EfXJRjja7JX6WY6dHDI5VTACAhSUJQfOSppsxl_TG5mNtVbIUk6FcF4vbUt8HsxF8lv7f09ylSbibwLhuQwwp1pjL-twrmmrTUbFRVz2fD7bvRAlyEY8ivf0tTK50/s320/dress.jpg" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I knew I would never own it. It was £60. <i>Twelve weeks wages!</i> But I loved projecting myself into it. A secret Cinderalla dream. How blessed I would feel. Surely it was made for me?</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Or maybe, it was made to teach me patience, when things I longed for, were just outside my reach. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I don't rememember the day that I left the shop for summer, I just remember that I had to. I won't forget the joy of summers on the island, on those postcard beaches, string bikinis and 80's slogan T shirts. <i>Ce'st L'ete! Joe Cool. Choose Life. </i></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIhLrLOgezJPOedFPGPZDjcpBucuY3FV7TJWIFhTpL-TEMOA5yzn13wJexAUpkEgzR2iHYuN9MKJM0nrEQlwqMH-Qq_kF-Isc-cL0KTpjBeT2UXDNHQBJe5BXYyJZwXuKtF4tX/s900/postcard.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="900" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIhLrLOgezJPOedFPGPZDjcpBucuY3FV7TJWIFhTpL-TEMOA5yzn13wJexAUpkEgzR2iHYuN9MKJM0nrEQlwqMH-Qq_kF-Isc-cL0KTpjBeT2UXDNHQBJe5BXYyJZwXuKtF4tX/w400-h270/postcard.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But I won't forget working in the shop either. Tea break and biscuits in the tiny, yellow kitchen. Christmas shoppers blown in from the blustery cold. The glass revolving jewellery case, the tartan carpet. Growing up slowly, in hush of the upstairs fashion floor. Wide windowsills to watch the world from. A gift shop, it certainly was. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So, after lockdown, if you're lucky enough to be on Islay, pop in to the <a href="https://www.theceltichouse.co.uk">gift shop </a>for a few postcards. Or maybe a new dress: </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>glorious in the spotlight, the perfect fit, waiting for you... still. </span><span> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-66990882296366497402020-12-23T19:34:00.014+00:002020-12-23T20:45:06.591+00:00A Different Kind of Christmas<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb4RySyKI5p76qnp2cXNbjF0imSwdDv6XzrvlEXiRXWNF4E7PIZeLl1KwMszQ7H_wfqct7nFDFWZxIYx8o-Vjcz284YowQzRVDXHYaNhPg4K7IqH08fREeELG60wY6i10J2vRf/s980/snowglobe.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="551" data-original-width="980" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb4RySyKI5p76qnp2cXNbjF0imSwdDv6XzrvlEXiRXWNF4E7PIZeLl1KwMszQ7H_wfqct7nFDFWZxIYx8o-Vjcz284YowQzRVDXHYaNhPg4K7IqH08fREeELG60wY6i10J2vRf/s320/snowglobe.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In our garden, there is a 15 foot hedge. An evergreen laurel, to be precise. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTjtbKmEeeNo0GAaRCpvTJne-EAQX-yc-Lo3tcRc6Ajo1nB5MpTTze3HeYvqZ8lopghcwKgUgEGLF4yairWPnGOz9N15QY4zNX5Vh3haqcRJmeqWyjFWtkPmf-7POPxdoSk7ie/s1504/UK_hedges-cherry-laurel.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1128" data-original-width="1504" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTjtbKmEeeNo0GAaRCpvTJne-EAQX-yc-Lo3tcRc6Ajo1nB5MpTTze3HeYvqZ8lopghcwKgUgEGLF4yairWPnGOz9N15QY4zNX5Vh3haqcRJmeqWyjFWtkPmf-7POPxdoSk7ie/s320/UK_hedges-cherry-laurel.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Every couple of years, I pay 'a man' on a ladder to trim it. I don't trust myself with a chainsaw. Who does? Yesterday, on the darkest/shortest day of the year, I began to attack it with a £3 saw from Lidl. (Try cleaning the Titanic with a toothbrush). </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>There is something addictive about hacking through a forest (I can see how Sleeping Beauty got her prince). I was getting all my 2020 anger out. </span><i>Take that, you stupid thicket! You dumb plant! Rampant growth, Out of Control.., you Pandemic Metaphor, you! </i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>The saw made pulsing noises, like electricity down a train track. It was rhythmic and soothing, in the still winter air. </span><span>The sawdust fell, pale and petite as snow in a snow globe.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I have missed you, readers.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I have wanted to 'talk' to you more frequently, but poor Tess has been off school again, since early December, and that means I am immersed in stay-at-home <i>Mummery</i>. Her chronic cough just powers on (like the hedge) and she needs soothed to sleep after 11pm. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We are waiting for more tests, more advice in 2021, though doctors are kinda busy right now. She's cheerful enough, between coughs. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9NtJ6sF3Z2IehiltQHn3jegm-TAi1yi50udnM8r1lihMxGm42r_YRi2hLMstSLhywY5IhfbpRIemOMQpNf0ufvsbgjj-nogbNitm8WeRMMUw3AtVqxki3YGZ3AUNb9XAD3Ccq/s1080/tess+and+sita+carpet.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9NtJ6sF3Z2IehiltQHn3jegm-TAi1yi50udnM8r1lihMxGm42r_YRi2hLMstSLhywY5IhfbpRIemOMQpNf0ufvsbgjj-nogbNitm8WeRMMUw3AtVqxki3YGZ3AUNb9XAD3Ccq/w400-h300/tess+and+sita+carpet.jpeg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Doctor Sita, checking Lung Function. </i></span></p></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: medium;">If 2020, has taught me anything, it is this: my kids need me and I should drop the vague 'guilt' or 'not enough-ness' that comes with being a Stay at Home Mum. I have carried that feeling for a decade, like a wee battered suitcase.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm generally in a minority. Most of my pals have jobs <i>and</i> children. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I feel like my writing is not a 'job'. It's something I attempt to do, when the kids are at school and coasting.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But this has been a year like no other. And it continues to be. Often, I think this is just the beginning of massive planetary turbulence and climate emergency - something I have to try to hide from the kids. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I've enjoyed writing a <a href="https://ciaramaclaverty.blogspot.com/2020/11/coke-chocolate-and-cornflakes-mix-with.html">few memoir type posts - escapist nostalgia </a>- and I hope to get back to that, maybe at a time when the kids aren't constantly asking, </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Are you excited for Christmas, Mum?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>On a scale of 1 to 10? Are you 10 YET?!</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMYzqViMzrEQ8Tx7I9byCiHhos6TZjuUiun78Xz1-vT3482FjIz-qGojzZcB79w9q9WXsIuT0GDpOgJ40OEk9sAR7vYJxkH8cv0v-z-VNvRkwkXYDoOvq3CRnzUgNLWCQS3WoT/s1080/plastic.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMYzqViMzrEQ8Tx7I9byCiHhos6TZjuUiun78Xz1-vT3482FjIz-qGojzZcB79w9q9WXsIuT0GDpOgJ40OEk9sAR7vYJxkH8cv0v-z-VNvRkwkXYDoOvq3CRnzUgNLWCQS3WoT/s320/plastic.jpeg" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The jury aren't convinced. I'm guilty as charged, for having an inner Greta Thunberg. But I am proud of my hedge trimming, instead of hedge funding. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi38vawsxVkzN54380XJTIGP6AiVNi-KtAluYmRifm236e7WVk7E-pjDXrbcK5jL045LYqq0urat1vkh9NOn3ohWAtkLy8vkgJz28YPcC1T3DvaEAuQyUsGeVHN8T19KdeNl7Sd/s1080/hedge+trim.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi38vawsxVkzN54380XJTIGP6AiVNi-KtAluYmRifm236e7WVk7E-pjDXrbcK5jL045LYqq0urat1vkh9NOn3ohWAtkLy8vkgJz28YPcC1T3DvaEAuQyUsGeVHN8T19KdeNl7Sd/w300-h400/hedge+trim.jpeg" width="300" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Have yourself a different kinda Christmas. Put that chainsaw down. Love the ones you're with.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFKsb73F63Ic-o_7MOedcIExc-j37aQ2-v1_DrLieZwydiSYp9qN6kMN1-sWacVkjQ7W7L2DjeyRlNQS8hjNnH-n27FA3vLE-Crqu2O5t3f7qJS0SVMPAcB0AQYJuENu4J9IR6/s1080/sunset.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFKsb73F63Ic-o_7MOedcIExc-j37aQ2-v1_DrLieZwydiSYp9qN6kMN1-sWacVkjQ7W7L2DjeyRlNQS8hjNnH-n27FA3vLE-Crqu2O5t3f7qJS0SVMPAcB0AQYJuENu4J9IR6/s320/sunset.jpeg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-6277370291882087992020-11-29T21:03:00.007+00:002020-12-23T09:16:29.979+00:00You Must Be My Lucky Star<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span>It is 1982, and I'm head-banging to AC/DC at the Islay High School disco. I'm wearing a pleated flowery skirt with a puff-sleeved blouse. My Lady Diana haircut, normally flat as a cow pat, is mildly electrified. I feel stupid and invigorated, comical and earnest. <i>Why am I doing this?</i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>A semi-circle of spotty kids face the stage, in race-start position. They wear denim jackets ('den jacks') covered in patches, sewn on by their mothers; patches that say <i>Motorhead</i> and <i>The Scorpions</i>. On one patch, an embroidered, naked woman writhes astride a snake. Hair flails, air guitar wails. T</span><span>eachers look on, bemused and bored, shirts still tucked into slacks. </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;">The air smells of wood floors, hair gel and longing.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span><span><i>It was one of those nights, when you turn out the lights, and everything comes in to view, </i>scream AC/DC.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> 'Did you know head-banging eventually causes brain damage?<i>' </i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We said this to each other, earlier in the day, during maths. We assessed the risk, with an inhalation of air through the nostrils; a serious nod of the head, a dip of the Lady Di flick. Yup. Live dangerously. That's what teenagers do. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A few school dances later, Madonna burst into my life, to let me off the hook, and guide me away from Heavy Metal. Step <i>away</i> from the potential brain damage. Crop your vest tops. Brandish your crucifixes wisely. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqFa4kR2yPSR9borWTQX2CapgmCjf02CVW59vc2XHvSII7Qn9z9NX931IpyIll6qguYzgNlkfYBUFhvgcds60NOTxYYdWhU0R8l_h2u5PzDTeA09Asj3gsxxQLYK9FIJxguslK/s698/pop-icons-madonna-lucky-star_orig.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="363" data-original-width="698" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqFa4kR2yPSR9borWTQX2CapgmCjf02CVW59vc2XHvSII7Qn9z9NX931IpyIll6qguYzgNlkfYBUFhvgcds60NOTxYYdWhU0R8l_h2u5PzDTeA09Asj3gsxxQLYK9FIJxguslK/w400-h208/pop-icons-madonna-lucky-star_orig.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Madonna, oh, <i>Madonna</i>. As soon as I saw your videos - ogled them, <i>over and over</i>, rewinding the heck out of that clunky VHS cassette, I knew I needed to follow your Lucky Star. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It wasn't <i>just</i> that Madonna was bendy and gorgeous and dressed like... no one ever before, it was the spectacular way she carried herself. She made self-control look easy. Anything was possible. </span></p><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Admittedly, I got confused when she married Sean Pean (why not Matt Dillon?). Then, Sean Pean left <i>her - </i>left<i> Madonna?!- a</i>nd she poured out her heartbreak to the press. It said so in <i>Just 17, </i>so it was 100% true. </span></div><p></p><div></div><p></p><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5jd-jOfSLUwgthRtl575dlQGX3gW4LillwuARnAW5TAsdsW78H6GcDOLyQVvRw4rdL0X4yPmWrNLdKfwRU3aHI13gjwQ7a3GBTwfRQlcxSpATZ2IE8L1XqI3H2q1NhLH1VOCc/s600/a9eda2cc774006dc6e33bff267989663.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK1gC57k6WUmhaCCeAOwsx4UPEx2Vehl5-wH19t1rKINBWZcKfOYQHdTNzn1CLt0iw0gxR0pPysAc-tHIBBMNFliwaYROXEb8yRl7Df8nxnxbHtcPCwE1RmQwymWVVRWY09AaE/s600/a9eda2cc774006dc6e33bff267989663.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="424" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK1gC57k6WUmhaCCeAOwsx4UPEx2Vehl5-wH19t1rKINBWZcKfOYQHdTNzn1CLt0iw0gxR0pPysAc-tHIBBMNFliwaYROXEb8yRl7Df8nxnxbHtcPCwE1RmQwymWVVRWY09AaE/s320/a9eda2cc774006dc6e33bff267989663.jpg" /></span></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-align: left;">I was equally discombobulated, when Jean Paul Gaultier strapped 'Madge' into that ice cream-cone bra. Are you sure, Madonna? Are you </span><i style="text-align: left;">sure </i><span style="text-align: left;">you want to poke fun at your femine prowess? Are you sure it's even attractive? <i>Who was I, her mother?</i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-align: left;">But <i>that</i> was the whole point. She didn't care. She rocket-fuelled herself out of</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span><i style="text-align: left;">our</i><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></span><span style="text-align: left;">comfort zone. She made mankind (womenkind / every kind) come to her - not the other way around. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;">*</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;">I am tone deaf. Some people say, there's no such thing as 'tone deaf' and anyone can learn to sing, but I'm not fooled.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;">When we were kids, we were asked to 'perform' for visitors. With resigned practicality, my mum used to announce -</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;">'John can sing, but the girl's can't.' </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy2XqH1AMWSDJfZErFMRlSolUqmTo4xgIvnzMusVX6h7ZEHEEIaogFLcPttfvxsjJy_idz3zcbsXt2i1aP-heTDZPTxEOuCdIx1JVahAWLNWYcxM__avUedc4_bmNJgfamwbpl/s1190/mulreesh+hair+family.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="864" data-original-width="1190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy2XqH1AMWSDJfZErFMRlSolUqmTo4xgIvnzMusVX6h7ZEHEEIaogFLcPttfvxsjJy_idz3zcbsXt2i1aP-heTDZPTxEOuCdIx1JVahAWLNWYcxM__avUedc4_bmNJgfamwbpl/s320/mulreesh+hair+family.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><i>Family Von Trapp. Not.</i></span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;">It sounded cruel, but at least I had no delusions from a young age. I was never goning to be an embarrassing audition in the X factor. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;">Mind you, in high school, a music teacher was looking for kids to sing a few solo lines, in the pantomime. I put up my hand and announced:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;">'My brother can sing, but I CAN'T!' The confused woman shook her head. 'But your brother's NOT HERE is he?'</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">*</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I have always liked 'uncool' music. I refuse to be ashamed of it. I will dance round the kitchen to Lionel Ritchie, Hall and Oates, Radio 2. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In the early 90's, a boy called Neil Roberston visited my small basement flat. Neil was the talent scout who brought Belle and Sebastian to Jeepster Records. He flicked through the CD's and commented - 'You're lucky this isn't a first date, because you wouldn't get a second date on this collection'. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I knew it was tongue-in-cheek, but it reminded me of an exchange at school, one of my historical clunkers. I cringe at my lack of tact. I told a girl I didn't like (a girl I didn't know how to connect with) that I 'hated' Morrissey, and he was 'rubbish'. <i>Gladioli on Top of The Pops?! Pardon?</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizre4uVFOjeS89yLRAOOBvwbtH-DfKQTNhsbgdmnCIcGit8xQePR9Xi10XnI5ciEpJX9vYl4j-yrSS2r_U_mXujKH6tx1T5CSsVcZO626pMt-WZcPfZQYL014cfjSqMjnBiqUQ/s480/moz.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizre4uVFOjeS89yLRAOOBvwbtH-DfKQTNhsbgdmnCIcGit8xQePR9Xi10XnI5ciEpJX9vYl4j-yrSS2r_U_mXujKH6tx1T5CSsVcZO626pMt-WZcPfZQYL014cfjSqMjnBiqUQ/s320/moz.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My supposed<i> </i>enemy<i> </i>had the nuance and the savy to appreciate Mozza. She kept a straight face and reiterated that she liked him, she liked his voice. </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>I was too young to 'get it'. If I had a time-machine, I'd apologise, or at least keep my neon </span><i>Smash Hits</i><span> views to myself. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But, back to scouting for Belle and Sebastian. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In 1997, they'd release their second album - If You're Feeling Sinister. I'd be on the cover, reading Kafka. Years on, I'd be more famous for this, than for anything else. It comes up in conversation, and strangers say, </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">'No Way? That was you? <i>Coooooool!'</i> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieemsO2WdkMOPjaXNrn__U5G-QxXv76EhK24-0_RaJwI3FqErln_3BsMHWFqUw7f95o122Zk_3Vmeaj-95vt6aBPlqJ1r2q_H1w-PzwrXA7fZ_rFz3T7jDFROaxhaEQrgJlFdo/s300/Belle_And_Sebastian_-_If_You%2527re_Feeling_Sinister.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="297" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieemsO2WdkMOPjaXNrn__U5G-QxXv76EhK24-0_RaJwI3FqErln_3BsMHWFqUw7f95o122Zk_3Vmeaj-95vt6aBPlqJ1r2q_H1w-PzwrXA7fZ_rFz3T7jDFROaxhaEQrgJlFdo/s0/Belle_And_Sebastian_-_If_You%2527re_Feeling_Sinister.jpg" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And the best part is, I can still keep my uncool taste. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm still best pals with Stuart, lead singer of Belle and Sebastian. At a B&S gig, I met <span><a href="https://www.francismacdonald.com">Francis</a>, my partner of 23 years. </span>We have two kids, a garden, a milk frother and a Romanian Rescue dog. Life is good. Francis drums for <a href="https://www.teenagefanclub.com">Teenage Fanclub</a> and writes music for <a href="https://www.francismacdonald.com">Film and TV</a>. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So far, nobody's asked me to sing backing vocals on their tracks. Lucky, that. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-60710078901942461072020-11-23T14:49:00.014+00:002020-11-26T17:11:40.574+00:00Coke, Chocolate and Cornflakes. Mix with Love For The Very First Time<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">There was an advert in the 80’s that compared drinking Coke to being in love. For the Very First Time. A stonking power-ballad advised teenagers everywhere, especially me -<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">It’s an uncharted sea, it’s an unopened door,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">But ya gotta reach out, and ya gotta explore<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Only then, do you know, you’re in LOVE<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><i>For the very first time, for the VERY FIRST TIME</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsx1iPS0aEhGlTFDLVW3SC9k5i3cpVeHOOtAdgHM422abKMx8EKfxJRO98PRWorDwUE3ZdgBy0pDR29g1YCTNik_WMZGYLdYEc53OJqU1KPIrLB9cVlGrdXN03TypDKUBDijx7/s570/coke.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="570" data-original-width="569" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsx1iPS0aEhGlTFDLVW3SC9k5i3cpVeHOOtAdgHM422abKMx8EKfxJRO98PRWorDwUE3ZdgBy0pDR29g1YCTNik_WMZGYLdYEc53OJqU1KPIrLB9cVlGrdXN03TypDKUBDijx7/s320/coke.jpg" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I don’t drink Coke now, I haven’t for decades. (<i>Hark, is that a puritan smug alarm?). <o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">But <i>COKE</i> and L<i>OVE</i> and <i>ADVENTURE</i> were all one to me, on the fateful day we left Ireland to move to Scotland. Next slide please: Young Family Emigrates From Civil War.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">For some unknown reason, Mum and my 3 younger siblings flew to Edinburgh. Probably<i> Aer</i> <i>Lingus</i>, my mum breastfeeding my baby sister at 400mph, mid-air, shamrock on the tail fin. Dad took me on the ferry. He led me straight to bar, where he ordered a Guinness.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">“What dy’a want to drink, love, a can of Coke?’ he asked me, casually, completely unaware of his power. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">A CAN OF COKE? TO MYSELF? I am 7 years old. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">As one of four kids, I never, ever, had anything to ALL to myself.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Every <i>Mars Bar</i> or <i>Crunchie</i> was gently sawn into 6 pieces, and arranged in semi-circle: a chunky chocolate necklace, on a side plate, passed round the sofa with reverence. Bless Me Father. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Weak<i> Quosh</i> orange squash was poured from a plastic jug into doll-sized glasses. Once, I tearfully refused a pancake that my sister had tried to grab, because I would, ‘feel her feel.’ <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">The status of having an iconic can of Coke raised to my lips, in a smoky bar full of truckers on a Stena Link ferry, as it crashed the waves of the Irish Sea, was a lightning strike moment in childhood. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I was the advert, years before the advert existed.</span><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">What would Scotland be like? Narnia? Switzerland? Land of Highland cows and Edinburgh rock in a tartan box?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaMsXeqmmeR10sPfXu-eRHkXyFdZCx-MoWgQmlw6VY1B2sRUlppt3A2XjOCtskBgFLfbDFFuM_BELSS1FcKfgoHYOcCOOcTPDJg7FH0SsrBonY8_bINgq_QbnfWL_tq_yjTpui/s1500/71rE7376pRL._AC_SL1500_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1066" data-original-width="1500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaMsXeqmmeR10sPfXu-eRHkXyFdZCx-MoWgQmlw6VY1B2sRUlppt3A2XjOCtskBgFLfbDFFuM_BELSS1FcKfgoHYOcCOOcTPDJg7FH0SsrBonY8_bINgq_QbnfWL_tq_yjTpui/s320/71rE7376pRL._AC_SL1500_.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">The flat surprise of the blue Motorway signs. They are the same! The roads are the same, the cars are the same. The weather is the same. The fields are bigger and ploughed bare. The fields look more lonely; less like a childhood jigsaw of <i>The Farm.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">But I would not be dissuaded. This was an adventure. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">And, true, on the very first night, my sister and I watched from the bedroom window of our new Wimpy House near Edinburgh. The local kids put on a Cul-de-Sac circus for us. They cycled in circles on Chopper bikes, doing wheelies, and 'no hands' as we clapped furiously. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHtH1Yl5jSI0bPbYJDCX_yv6L5OPQ5lEaiZCiG66GIyULrohUi2vc5R60RUIqERHI_7cmhGeUKMUrLCosp2V5USejq6dpNuyBJNBHeyPKLZluzOmXu_VjQJnODAeGc8NDR1HWA/s1080/green+flare+ciara.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHtH1Yl5jSI0bPbYJDCX_yv6L5OPQ5lEaiZCiG66GIyULrohUi2vc5R60RUIqERHI_7cmhGeUKMUrLCosp2V5USejq6dpNuyBJNBHeyPKLZluzOmXu_VjQJnODAeGc8NDR1HWA/s320/green+flare+ciara.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Here were the kids, here was the street, where we would share sweets, love and life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">The Cola Bottles, the Fried Eggs, the Dolly Mixtures, The McCowan Toffees, the Penny Chews. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnjIojo_wB35kxDutIS5z9SEJ7VNdexAaZU0EzlW2s24VB9U-FNVbcgwYg2mOvUnPDyUOfIhcltKzyEY4pLpKihONm3fP4JlvdaDfZbhec5QQ2rMKbCLDEM7TQYKGmvR0mv-YW/s976/sweets.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="699" data-original-width="976" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnjIojo_wB35kxDutIS5z9SEJ7VNdexAaZU0EzlW2s24VB9U-FNVbcgwYg2mOvUnPDyUOfIhcltKzyEY4pLpKihONm3fP4JlvdaDfZbhec5QQ2rMKbCLDEM7TQYKGmvR0mv-YW/s320/sweets.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">The Penny Chews became a standard metric measurement. If something cost £100 – say, a lawnmower or a new carpet – we’d say, ‘IMAGINE that in Penny Chews! A bath full of Penny Chews? A Kitchen, filled to the ceiling with Penny Chews!’ <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">In the late 1970’s my brother, John went to our new, Scottish village shop and asked the shopkeeper –<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Excuse me please, how much are your Terry’s Chocolate Orange?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Eighty-nine pence, she replied.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">‘I’ll just have a penny chew, then,’ said John. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbhyphenhyphenlm4_tzQS4glZw1byqVeOUqcez6RBjyK0j8Y9-Pb7WjV8Sv8C3NClxIOAmKO35nkGveh4dHS338Z1SuZ8-VWSb1_UgRrrCiaheYgmBcPLCJdfcYvfhuGznSj9xgjT-D8XH1/s480/choc+orange.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbhyphenhyphenlm4_tzQS4glZw1byqVeOUqcez6RBjyK0j8Y9-Pb7WjV8Sv8C3NClxIOAmKO35nkGveh4dHS338Z1SuZ8-VWSb1_UgRrrCiaheYgmBcPLCJdfcYvfhuGznSj9xgjT-D8XH1/s320/choc+orange.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">*<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Maybe I had a sheltered upbringing, but it seemed as if sweets were more of a Scottish thing. There were always kids clutching white bags of pick and mix on the street corner.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">At eight years old, I thought the pinnacle of adult freedom and liberty, would be the ability to eat as many Cornflakes as you like. Seriously. I have always loved Cornflakes an unreasonable amount. More than sweets, or ice cream. They hit the bliss point in my brain. I think a bowl of Kellogg’s ‘Sunshine Breakfast’ Cornflakes with soya milk would be my last supper on death-row. Philistine or no.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">In 1980, we made another big move from Edinburgh to the Island of Islay. It’s a horseshoe-shaped island, half way between Ireland and Scotland. As if the Mull of Kintyre was kicking a football to Ireland, trying to land a decent pass. <i>Oi, Paddy!</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir9KA3yivq-UDzeIF_b3MDw2R-v9fuYf6ICVf3BzAHYrxAeEqirHRtHIxPefWkBNNdfsyXHp6SAGD2q76wv-2ihwR91LuGXvBD2Qxr8sYNs8xCXfSseXJQWk75yq5SUxdPfcyw/s2048/Argyll_and_Bute_UK_relief_location_map.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1975" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir9KA3yivq-UDzeIF_b3MDw2R-v9fuYf6ICVf3BzAHYrxAeEqirHRtHIxPefWkBNNdfsyXHp6SAGD2q76wv-2ihwR91LuGXvBD2Qxr8sYNs8xCXfSseXJQWk75yq5SUxdPfcyw/s320/Argyll_and_Bute_UK_relief_location_map.jpg" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> My Dad drove our family on to a Cal Mac ferry, this time, no Coke-to-Myself glory. At first, we lived in a council house, perched on an outcrop of rock, overlooking the bay. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">The house had chip board floors and no carpets. It was pebble-dashed, the colour and texture of a Bourbon biscuit. On a clear day, we could see Ireland across the sea. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8I9-f9qxYcNl8bDAWi1LVm5G1nAAUt5GbP9FZc5ZPqZI0Je4mOqy6v15G8ActbPiSzBSryTblyiIqwQQc8MirFhoyJ01u5FN3elzxsfTJEA4pSbYgFko9KIow75QLHMvB4iof/s620/ireland-visible-from-islay_1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="304" data-original-width="620" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8I9-f9qxYcNl8bDAWi1LVm5G1nAAUt5GbP9FZc5ZPqZI0Je4mOqy6v15G8ActbPiSzBSryTblyiIqwQQc8MirFhoyJ01u5FN3elzxsfTJEA4pSbYgFko9KIow75QLHMvB4iof/w320-h157/ireland-visible-from-islay_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">My dad had warned us that the island was so remote, ‘there’ll be no television.’ He was trying to toughen us up. Lower the bar, so we weren’t disappointed. But there was television, of course. Coke adverts. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">And there was a High School of 350 kids, where my dad took up his new job, as Principle English teacher. He wore an M&S tweed suit jacket with two toggle buttons like polished, wooden mushrooms. I was embarrassed about those mushrooms. What’s with the mushrooms, I used to think. Whose idea was that?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">After a while, Dad recruited two 14-year-old girls from his class, called Ann and Caran – to babysit while he took my mum to meet the locals in the pub (the glamour of the Ardbeg Inn). <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Ann and Caran always brought us sweets. From the pockets of their matching fleece jackets, they eased out packets of Maltesers, Juicy Fruits, and Caramac bars; placing them on the sofa, as if setting down a family of baby birds. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> To my 11-year-old self, Ann and Caran were impossibly beautiful. Caran was blonde and shy, soft as cotton wool, a hint of fabric softener, or baby powder. Ann had chestnut shiny hair WITH A FLICK! Ann knew how to deploy that flick. Her smile and her cute white teeth. Ann and Caran. Caran and Ann. They were white chocolate and brown chocolate. <i>So mysterious yet, so incredibly real. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">They turned the green dial on my Dad’s Hi-Fi radio to Radio Luxembourg. They danced about the living room, in front of the fire, laughing and being generally spectacular. They talked about kissing boys, late at night, in the red telephone box.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">But how did you BREATHE? I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">They fell about laughing. They taught us to dance, by rolling our pelvis like Elvis. They knew all about Being in Love for the Very First Time. I lapped them up then, and I raise a glass to them now. Or at least a golden spoonful of Kellogg’s Cornflakes. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj69Y5yzNQRnX2vDmZG-VeaLxeF2WDElfbR0oneB2pNhyBsUZKK1tqL-C9kdstMAekcS7V78UkU4Sk1Aul7yFT06JiAebeATTFuFyPTpXPMiSEVUL3zYouj9FlzxCgV45QbFKNP/s492/cornflakes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="492" data-original-width="325" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj69Y5yzNQRnX2vDmZG-VeaLxeF2WDElfbR0oneB2pNhyBsUZKK1tqL-C9kdstMAekcS7V78UkU4Sk1Aul7yFT06JiAebeATTFuFyPTpXPMiSEVUL3zYouj9FlzxCgV45QbFKNP/s320/cornflakes.jpg" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-11367455811164014572020-11-21T15:13:00.006+00:002021-02-02T18:37:20.090+00:00Sam Teddy Sugar Lump<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">The sheer luck of a happy childhood can’t be underestimated. You can dance your way on to the dance floor of life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlHcZe-2AwXgSdi6r5it3_OlWJ1BJWxYtTrDmXCKpQDxNgVvFOhghwS6xJzhX8OiTGld783RRQLFaZtkwW6hz8e5KPojI31xeHr1-RpJ2VMvW7XMyzkShPenXgOJ-nLUEZiXHk/s1080/baby+ciara.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="865" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlHcZe-2AwXgSdi6r5it3_OlWJ1BJWxYtTrDmXCKpQDxNgVvFOhghwS6xJzhX8OiTGld783RRQLFaZtkwW6hz8e5KPojI31xeHr1-RpJ2VMvW7XMyzkShPenXgOJ-nLUEZiXHk/w400-h320/baby+ciara.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I was a lucky, happy kid. I want to write about growing up, but I don’t know where to start. Then I thought about objects, as markers of time and place. I thought about <i>Sam Teddy Sugar Lump.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Even now, I love the rhythm of it. We stood in the back garden, my sister, Claire, and I, chanting in sing-song, <i>Sam Teddy Sugar Lump! Sam Teddy Sugar Lump!<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">On the other side of the wire-diamond fence, a huge Alsatian dog came bounding up, in a frenzy of barking. We clapped and danced like Rumpelstiltskin.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><i>Sam Teddy Sugar Lump</i> was the name we gave him, and he could bark a storm and wag his brush of a tail. Who knew if he was piqued or delighted? We were safe, <i>luxuriously</i> safe, on our side of the fence. We presumed he liked us. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"></span></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI2kKh0BebC-o4ouLXC0MAV5zqJsappF9XEJtrXx7XjCM4oI5eaoT6wvZNcX_Q7t0x6q3UUw3eU7KEEO4SqOVxgEm2lq4rYal6KMeGEt9mFJn1o7ImQOXaeSKaZ6AgnkmCh2OQ/s615/sam+teddy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="461" data-original-width="615" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI2kKh0BebC-o4ouLXC0MAV5zqJsappF9XEJtrXx7XjCM4oI5eaoT6wvZNcX_Q7t0x6q3UUw3eU7KEEO4SqOVxgEm2lq4rYal6KMeGEt9mFJn1o7ImQOXaeSKaZ6AgnkmCh2OQ/w400-h300/sam+teddy.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">A child who presumes they are liked, is a lucky child. They have no evidence to the contrary. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Aged 7, I was walking home from school (in a civil war, in Belfast!) and I got lost in a different housing estate. Two older girls speculated I must have been a ‘feckin fielian’. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I had been casually identified as a rare species of butterfly and was generally unperturbed. Later, I asked my mum what a ‘fielian’ was. She recounted the story to my aunts and uncles, with much head shaking and general knowing. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">*<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">In our small kitchen, with buttercup wallpaper, my pregnant ‘Mammy’ was rolling pastry. I asked her, how the baby got inside her tummy. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">She placed her words carefully; a story about, ‘the man putting a seed in the lady’. <i>I had a clear vision of an apple pip being carefully positioned into a belly button.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">But, <i>when</i> did Daddy put the seed in? I asked. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Eh, one day when you were away at Colin Patterson’s house, she replied. <i>Nice one.</i> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">It seemed odd to think of such clandestine ceremony, when I was digging for treasure at the back of Colin Patterson’s garage, or practising ‘Commado runs’ (your feet <b>have</b> to hit your bum!) or listening to Rolf Harris sing <i>Two Little Boys</i> in Colin Patterson’s back room, my bare legs imprinted by the wicker stool. Look at us!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr7m1OtgSiilbuklL4i_tvPHC2dmhSAOtigHmnvXCBGnLfmfwpe5cP7TVan1rt-9ngKOSJ7ZNu3KH7fPtgSLxs4IP5XLBLpQ763lRqAKfLu6JPOnf-XHoH2v0qJklsLDFtZNaP/s1581/ciara+and+colin+p.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1581" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr7m1OtgSiilbuklL4i_tvPHC2dmhSAOtigHmnvXCBGnLfmfwpe5cP7TVan1rt-9ngKOSJ7ZNu3KH7fPtgSLxs4IP5XLBLpQ763lRqAKfLu6JPOnf-XHoH2v0qJklsLDFtZNaP/w274-h400/ciara+and+colin+p.jpg" width="274" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">These were the ways we passed our days. In 1972, Mark Spitz was a swimmer who won 9 gold medals at the Olympics. We lined up on a knee-high wall, taking turns to shout ‘Mark Spitz!’ and make a spitting sound. We threw our bodies through the air, diving into the ‘swimming pool’ of grass, below. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Back then, everything was a soft landing. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">We tried to catch bees in jam jars at the Fuscia hedge. We knocked at back doors, and once, when neighbours were out, we entered the kitchen and stood on a chair to reach the biscuit tin. We took a biscuit each, thrilled at our audacity. My mum made us go back to apologise. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">No wonder then, I still remember, ‘the Judas ice-cream.’ <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">My mum, nee Madeline McGuckin (yes), insisted on, ‘no eating too close to tea time’ (i.e. dinner time). I heard the ice cream van, as Mammy juggled with saucepans and fried sausages in the small kitchen. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I ran to ‘Daddy’ in the ‘front’ room. He was reading on the leather sofa, in brown slacks, George Best hair, and a white cotton shirt. I asked for 2pence for an ice cream. He rummaged in his pocket, and dropped a copper coin in my palm. It was that easy.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">One lick of the ice cream, was all I could take, before I threw it behind the ‘Mark Spitz’ wall. It sank like a deflated clown, in a pointy hat, streaked with strawberry sauce. The wave of guilt! Through my whole body, turning in my stomach. I went inside for tea. I told no one. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Memories are like a hall of mirrors. Years later, you only have memory-of-memory. All my life, I’ve never really liked ice cream, the way other people do. But I liked it as an early life lesson, a twitch on the moral compass.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> <i>‘The past beats inside me like a second heart</i>’ said author, John Banville in his novel, <i>The Sea.</i> Indeed. All praise be, to the luck of a childhood played out on a sunlit street, to the distant bark of a dog we liked to call, <i>Sam Teddy Sugar Lump. </i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH0Y3YGFLQ4wlBrAwNvgf41EOwbgxEMPQBUIoBFRK0ANoYIzvKccL-Fa2QbmJfvcuON0m-f_K8-EqxHkAUwGho0y5hy8l37SjWsMt5bk875qtVV8eG_dbPZuPCugBH2jxiz0uu/s1080/greystoun+kids.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="767" data-original-width="1080" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH0Y3YGFLQ4wlBrAwNvgf41EOwbgxEMPQBUIoBFRK0ANoYIzvKccL-Fa2QbmJfvcuON0m-f_K8-EqxHkAUwGho0y5hy8l37SjWsMt5bk875qtVV8eG_dbPZuPCugBH2jxiz0uu/w400-h284/greystoun+kids.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-48095637903059187332020-11-18T12:20:00.001+00:002020-11-18T12:45:38.996+00:00 I wish I had a river, I could skate away on<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGxTahy3uwa4sySxLWQNKlkYDAq1DVsJHLnTf6YEtbXrTlXu663HRzdPB_nZOIofDMraw-O_yulhrXwuwI4WNOBipC1pbo_eLe_KkM0bQ707SN5iRI5HbXcLE5BYdl6vFgJQUO/s1024/tess+minister+skating.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGxTahy3uwa4sySxLWQNKlkYDAq1DVsJHLnTf6YEtbXrTlXu663HRzdPB_nZOIofDMraw-O_yulhrXwuwI4WNOBipC1pbo_eLe_KkM0bQ707SN5iRI5HbXcLE5BYdl6vFgJQUO/s320/tess+minister+skating.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBRlBd9tG8f_O0pdGVPYzAFeDeLKzw90ANtxNWhaol_IbCs52sSCg7Gntcog_NQiG5qzJzgVuuNqKB3fu-vOFP90ITjLuUreeIqvi56av4BzbN1XsAkZITgBp2uwiLujmIIQEb/s1453/1200px-The_Skating_Minister.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1453" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBRlBd9tG8f_O0pdGVPYzAFeDeLKzw90ANtxNWhaol_IbCs52sSCg7Gntcog_NQiG5qzJzgVuuNqKB3fu-vOFP90ITjLuUreeIqvi56av4BzbN1XsAkZITgBp2uwiLujmIIQEb/s320/1200px-The_Skating_Minister.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">I like Tess's drawing of the Skating Minister. As metaphors go, it's quite apt. We slide forward, oh so precariously, fuelled on faith. What else is there?</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Well, science obviously. My post on <a href="https://ciaramaclaverty.blogspot.com/2020/10/the-covid-crisis-coming-to-school-near.html">Covid in Schools Risks, got more views than other posts,</a> and I'm still preoccupied with that concern. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My mum has decided I'm bugging <a href="https://www.gov.scot">ScotGov </a>too much, and warned me (in brisk, motherly tones): 'They will never shut schools, no matter how much you campaign'. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But, Lo! What's that on the horizon? I see the <a href="https://www.eis.org.uk/Coronavirus/Level4">EIS, Scotland's biggest teaching Union</a> <a href="https://www.eis.org.uk/Coronavirus/Level4">put out a statement,</a> insisting that schools in Tier 4 must move to blended learning for the protection of all. I agree. Let's see.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Time will tell. Obviously, I have to reiterate - I'd much rather kids were at school - but it HAS to be safer than it is now. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Talking of the future..., Scottish Book Trust and <a href="https://talesofonecity.wordpress.com/2020/11/13/dreams-we-dream-of-dreaming/?fbclid=IwAR02tcAU6np4zNhCWQUseo6bjTy9PKCAyxWCc1n3Njtq2zeKwkodREXVllU">Edinburgh City library</a> are running <a href="https://talesofonecity.wordpress.com/2020/11/13/dreams-we-dream-of-dreaming/?fbclid=IwAR02tcAU6np4zNhCWQUseo6bjTy9PKCAyxWCc1n3Njtq2zeKwkodREXVllU">a wee poetry project </a>about 'The Future'. They want anyone and everyone to write a quick, 4 line poem about what the future is.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I operate from the <i>Say What You See</i> method (remember Catchphrase?). So here is mine:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b style="background-color: white;">The Future</b></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">co</span><span style="font-family: arial;">mes to those who wait,</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">it's my dog licking the white table cloth</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">her paws at ten-to-two, a priest saying mass</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">to crumbs that fall astray. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #cccccc; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white;">What else people? <i>Honest-lee, Honest-la.</i> Not much!? Punctuate your days with cups of tea. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white;">I need to get started with my online 'Santa' shopping. Something I don't excel at. Last year, Tess set out 'booby traps' for Santa - taught skipping ropes, tied to the bed leg. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white;">She heard me stumbling about, filling stockings at midnight, trying not to swear when I tripped. '<i>Very Ciara MacLaverty'</i>, she said. Yes. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white;">Keep Skating, look ahead, chin up. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcZ2idoGpFzhfcZdCiJazQ47y2-yazQP0uRG1fOJKvgaLdMuHOyQgfPrPZgE2RJIxs0qy_aneEdxhbvvbMqbAT_TvkvIMJI78YnE0jONHMSOYmaUVs6X6DCG_lJhl0sHZ78OAV/s960/ciara+and+tess+nov20.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcZ2idoGpFzhfcZdCiJazQ47y2-yazQP0uRG1fOJKvgaLdMuHOyQgfPrPZgE2RJIxs0qy_aneEdxhbvvbMqbAT_TvkvIMJI78YnE0jONHMSOYmaUVs6X6DCG_lJhl0sHZ78OAV/w300-h400/ciara+and+tess+nov20.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br /> </span></p>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-38936355159145718022020-11-05T14:32:00.014+00:002020-11-06T17:16:12.374+00:00Nothing, pure nothing in the middle of the day<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This is the first moment I can sit down. The first moment not devoted to other things. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It reminds me <a href="https://www.poetryinternational.org/pi/poem/29719/auto/0/0/Rita-Dove/DAYSTAR/en/tile">of a poem called DAYSTAR by Rita Dove</a>. It's a poem about the vast immersion of motherhood and those small moments coming up for air. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It is 12 years since I gave birth to my son. <b>Happy Birthday, Hugh!</b> Sometimes known as <i>Hugo Boss</i> or <i>The Hughster. </i>He's a cracker, and how we love him.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We've all aged well, and know how to dress appropriately. The kids can be suitably embarrassed by this photo. I'm suitably embarrassed by this photo. It was a game called, 60 seconds to raid the dressing up box, on Halloween. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGlqGZpblbhAJuFO6zn2TjI1Jhn5sQa__jrIdPePnr-o3y_gwt4I283TjvHOCiJFx1_6u1GBuA1L12vbwhiwq4GsNNSkDDBKSriWk_R_kI6wRfaYkTBgosQ-22LCPGX5XxyPfk/s1024/halloween+family.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1017" data-original-width="1024" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGlqGZpblbhAJuFO6zn2TjI1Jhn5sQa__jrIdPePnr-o3y_gwt4I283TjvHOCiJFx1_6u1GBuA1L12vbwhiwq4GsNNSkDDBKSriWk_R_kI6wRfaYkTBgosQ-22LCPGX5XxyPfk/w400-h398/halloween+family.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Tess was off school for 2 days. Her infuriating <a href="https://www.aaaai.org/conditions-and-treatments/related-conditions/vocal-cord-dysfunction">Vocal Cord Dysfunction</a> cough relapsed. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The online nutritionists seem to cost the same as <i>a</i> <i>fortnight in Majorca for a family of four. </i>Who knew? I expect they also require a lot of dietary commitment (euphemism for giving up wheat, dairy and sugar). Easy for any child?! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I haven't given up trying. I'm just researching down more rabbit holes* ( *with organic lettuce and carrots). And the price would be worth paying, if it helped to heal her. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I remain very concerned about the Covid risk in schools. You don't have to be a scientist, to see the massive potential for aerosol spread in the classrooms. <a href="https://www.princeton.edu/news/2020/09/30/largest-covid-19-contact-tracing-study-date-finds-children-key-spread-evidence">Studies are emerging </a>to this effect. <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2020/nov/03/advice-schools-covid-infection-pupils-classrooms-test-and-trace">This is a very important article </a>about the <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2020/nov/03/advice-schools-covid-infection-pupils-classrooms-test-and-trace">school scandal.</a></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The kids do enjoy school and they will be bored silly if schools close, but I can't really see HOW countries can get<a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/health-52473523"> the 'R' level</a> below 1, with schools open. None of this talk of 'some progress'...we can't argue with the R number. It's like running UP the 'DOWN' escalator. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">If <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/health-52473523">the R level</a> is even 1.1, that <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xUVERo2xpH4">means exponential growth (click on this video)</a> which inevitably leads to medical and moral catastrophe. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Righty-ho, if there are readers out there shouting 'cheer up, hen, don't mention the war', then I'll let you win this time.</span><span> I'll savour this brief moment of suspended peace, in the middle of the day.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> The dog is lying in a pool of carpet-sunlight. Behind our garden, I hear the JCB diggers knocking down the old people's home that was, 'surplus to requirement', according to Glasgow City Council. But there are always old people, needing homes....(?!)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The leaves are falling from the trees. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The world is doing what the world does. And we are breathing. Let's not underestimate it. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-XtGUnBDQ55az9DlpxtymN4miR2YLxgwk662Bawe0biwOa_VGS6Ledga7gB9LgYpmG-M0fhV0D11kftXBoDnHpsMpa2tbvx5498UTKwhDeRt9-CuxD-VlKairNH5lDOJYJLsd/s1080/leaves.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-XtGUnBDQ55az9DlpxtymN4miR2YLxgwk662Bawe0biwOa_VGS6Ledga7gB9LgYpmG-M0fhV0D11kftXBoDnHpsMpa2tbvx5498UTKwhDeRt9-CuxD-VlKairNH5lDOJYJLsd/w300-h400/leaves.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-76796579257394153652020-10-27T22:55:00.011+00:002020-10-28T21:17:48.719+00:00The Covid Crisis - Coming to a School Near You<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times;">I am dropping my daughter back at school, when I see the windows in two classrooms are firmly shut. So much for Covid-prevention. I make a note to email the headmistress.</span><span style="font-family: Times;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><img alt="School children" class="css-evoj7m-Image ee0ct7c0" height="225" loading="lazy" src="https://c.files.bbci.co.uk/1534D/production/_114216868_gettyimages-1228011464.jpg" srcset="https://ichef.bbci.co.uk/news/240/cpsprodpb/1534D/production/_114216868_gettyimages-1228011464.jpg 240w, https://ichef.bbci.co.uk/news/320/cpsprodpb/1534D/production/_114216868_gettyimages-1228011464.jpg 320w, https://ichef.bbci.co.uk/news/480/cpsprodpb/1534D/production/_114216868_gettyimages-1228011464.jpg 480w, https://ichef.bbci.co.uk/news/624/cpsprodpb/1534D/production/_114216868_gettyimages-1228011464.jpg 624w, https://ichef.bbci.co.uk/news/800/cpsprodpb/1534D/production/_114216868_gettyimages-1228011464.jpg 800w" width="400" /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Photo- Andy Buchanan </i> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Last night, I got a private message on social media from an old friend who is a secondary teacher. ‘Brace yourself,’ she said. "I c</span><span style="font-family: Times;">aught Covid a month ago and it spread to most of my pupils…and their parents’. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">After 4 weeks, my friend still has trouble breathing. She feels a heavy pain on her chest. Her GP sent her to the hospital with an irregular heart rhythm, to check for blood clots. Long Covid is now on her notes. She is frightened. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Before all this, she was a fit 35-year-old. She tells me, teachers sign a contract not to discuss schools on social media. Photos of drinking wine at a party are frowned upon. Teachers telling Twitter they are appalled at the lack of in-school mitigation against Covid in isn’t going to sit well with employers. Secretly, staff rooms are ‘aghast’. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I know what that feels like, because I’m a parent, who also feels ‘aghast’. I suffered 22 years of acute disability with a diagnosis of ME/CFs, from age 18 to 40. It all started with a sudden virus. I was bed-bound and wheelchair bound for years, in acute pain and ‘brain fog’. I’ve been recovered for 10 years now. I don’t take a day of that for granted.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">2020 brought us Covid. A risk we all share, some more than others. During the first wave, our family were able to isolate in lockdown. Although frustrating and frightening, our risk was low. We were the lucky ones, privileged to work-from-home. That semi protection ended when schools returned. Our two children went back, full of excitement and purpose to primary and secondary schools.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">‘There is NO social distancing in school. <i>None</i>!?’ admits my 10-year-old daughter. Teachers are now frontline heroes in my mind. They do their best inside the classroom, but the free-for-all in the playground and around school gates is glaring. Even if the kids are in ‘bubbles’, 30 is a pretty big bubble. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Meanwhile, at school lunch hour, our corner shop is crowded with anoraked teenagers, not wearing masks, bunched together on the pavements, like penguins in the Antarctic. Kids are not expected to wear masks in class. My son says, ‘only one or two’ do. Kids lean in close to share memes on their phones. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">All of this leads to a grinding feeling of inevitability. Are school-age families just waiting for the Covid clusters to arrive –exactly as they did with Universities? Will the virus clobber and disable many parents, just as it clobbered my teacher friend, who can’t even speak out about her experience, for fear of losing her position?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I feel as if I am in a minority. Even my own family are much more ‘que sera.’ Trust in the schools, they say. It’s worth the risk. A friend is ‘very happy to drop kids at the school gate’ and I shouldn’t make myself ill with worry. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Technically, I could try to home school my kids. I know a few mums who have done this, but it’s not what my kids want, and I get that. Of course, I’d rather have confidence that they were safer in school.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What would ‘safer’ look like? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Many scientists are emphatic that only a full UK lockdown will reduce case numbers now. Personally, and on behalf of public health, I would welcome a reset / fire break lockdown for a few weeks. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For those who make understandable pleas for mercy on the economy, I hear that pain, but surely lower numbers of circulating Covid are the only way to bring confidence back into the economy? When hospitals are overwhelmed, it’s time for the brakes. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If community transmission is finally lowered via lockdown, schools could be re-opened and made safer by measures such as smaller class bubbles, mandatory masks in class and increased ventilation (HEPA air filters, proven to lower transmission are less than £100).<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Acknowledgement is needed of the growing science of aerosol spread. The two-meter rule is shown to be outdated and insufficient. Blended or part-time learning for older teenagers could be utilised.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I say this as a one-parent, keyboard warrior, at the risk of annoying people. I feel like I embody a Told-You-So, just waiting to happen. Few people are taking this seriously enough. I think the Scottish Government are getting many things right in this battle, but they are getting schools wrong. They got Universities wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My teacher friend ended her chat by saying – ‘Just know you’re totally right on this, and it’s mental more people don’t get it.’<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I just pray they ‘get it,’ before they get Covid. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-84900832237379118792020-10-22T13:43:00.011+01:002020-10-22T13:51:07.180+01:00Rally your Inner Spirit for Halloween<p> <span style="font-size: medium;">I've just heard Nicola Sturgeon hint that Halloween will have to be restricted. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXGV3BLc5KsZeIz10dwxMxnG5_NmJpDjcIELV3jZ5bu1jLanqwxFa7ihtvzjOjgUeoVeUYRxlzOHgqYamhv563aKPYZ4AqACjoj1i55_TFbN3ab39MGwSB_C6S35ZxD8LCLfMZ/s1111/halloween+door.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1111" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXGV3BLc5KsZeIz10dwxMxnG5_NmJpDjcIELV3jZ5bu1jLanqwxFa7ihtvzjOjgUeoVeUYRxlzOHgqYamhv563aKPYZ4AqACjoj1i55_TFbN3ab39MGwSB_C6S35ZxD8LCLfMZ/w389-h400/halloween+door.jpg" width="389" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In a moment of heart-tug, the First Minister of Scotland rallied by saying, if there are any kids watching, 'Santa is a Key Worker, and he'll have to get through.' </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It was similar to a moment of pathos, at breakfast. I told Tess I had to speak on Radio Scotland about the Covid coverage. Occasionally they invite me on as 'Mum of two and Blogger.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Tess commented - 'You always try and<i> hide</i> the news from us, mum, but you don't need to, because it can't get any sadder! It's at <i>Peak Sad!'</i> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">She must have watched me turn away to spread tuna on a pack-lunch bagel.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">What's <i>that face, </i>Mum? <i>Mum</i>?! The <i>It-can-get-sadder</i> face? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I had to rally and say, 'Well yes, ...who knows whatever the future holds, but we'll have the <i>inner spirit </i>to get through it! Of course we will!' </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Tess is wise for her 10 years. She radiates faith. She raises my game. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKMwfMCMxFoy-st8nFcfvXVrRgKYHs1hZRtyLZwrzYAocHBe1a1_QXUxbgf1J428Q25DGAsaG8d4N0S5jeFs-QKTOlCpbL63yWEIGdA7DQzIyuDs42HF-1Yyo6oY0tx3oFFyAP/s1080/halloweeen+banner.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKMwfMCMxFoy-st8nFcfvXVrRgKYHs1hZRtyLZwrzYAocHBe1a1_QXUxbgf1J428Q25DGAsaG8d4N0S5jeFs-QKTOlCpbL63yWEIGdA7DQzIyuDs42HF-1Yyo6oY0tx3oFFyAP/w400-h300/halloweeen+banner.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw_8yxPOJJG7ohD7RW9sredsuuiMoyGNyc2VI1-G_jkmQR6NAqcoQ0Ib8Qt7-zwdRz2TZ2z-nOInwbvpDcBKB6MZy6j4F2pA-TteAKSjldkuOUYRV3BdpR-NB1zIZ7ehMQBsbC/s1080/halooween+cookie.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw_8yxPOJJG7ohD7RW9sredsuuiMoyGNyc2VI1-G_jkmQR6NAqcoQ0Ib8Qt7-zwdRz2TZ2z-nOInwbvpDcBKB6MZy6j4F2pA-TteAKSjldkuOUYRV3BdpR-NB1zIZ7ehMQBsbC/w300-h400/halooween+cookie.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Avert your eyes from the sugary cookies. I'm about to get an introductory call from an online nutritionist. Tess's cough is still persisting and I think it's worth a try. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm a believer in the potential of 'gut biome' therapy, even though this kind of 'holistic care' is only available on the fringes of medicine. The theory is that long-term reflux harms the throat and the body needs rebalancing. All sounds so simple. I wish someone could tell us exactly how to achieve such a nirvana. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Wish us luck and play Spot the Dog. Or howl at the moon, if that's your thing, on this, the scariest Halloween. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFwPqao9Za2c0grGRFmS7elhiFTo82qIXjgm_e8cPYczoAEQU_hVPBR4nJaACX2OJF0KGM30etHt7NtpwPkan87ZBXk-Ot-cbQQWod2f03B9S9EcGNhmd5f1JV8W0QLQ2kQHa6/s1080/spot+the+dog.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFwPqao9Za2c0grGRFmS7elhiFTo82qIXjgm_e8cPYczoAEQU_hVPBR4nJaACX2OJF0KGM30etHt7NtpwPkan87ZBXk-Ot-cbQQWod2f03B9S9EcGNhmd5f1JV8W0QLQ2kQHa6/w300-h400/spot+the+dog.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-25318633828813267922020-10-08T13:43:00.008+01:002020-10-08T17:18:06.247+01:00Staying Human - Quite a Trick if You Can Pull it Off<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwGUTqeRbhDiwhh1ECml8aAoJudK9iYWUbQMoO5KOyb8LwOVtC-i1l0_Ic-iCLGrJTkR_V8xc45KlILpMwoo3SW3ToFJKIpRSk1p8OEPJ_8q8TFOAHTaAN5jPqKI6yAN8PKJDl/s507/staying+human.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="299" data-original-width="507" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwGUTqeRbhDiwhh1ECml8aAoJudK9iYWUbQMoO5KOyb8LwOVtC-i1l0_Ic-iCLGrJTkR_V8xc45KlILpMwoo3SW3ToFJKIpRSk1p8OEPJ_8q8TFOAHTaAN5jPqKI6yAN8PKJDl/w400-h236/staying+human.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"> A decade ago, I had a new job in a TV company that was falling apart. I didn't know it was falling apart; it became more evident as the weeks rolled by. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The boss looked like Bill Clinton, or at least, Bill Clinton with more personal problems and a bandaged hand. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Meanwhile, I had a baby boy kicking inside my belly. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I wrote a poem about that intense time, and I'm chuffed to have the poem published in this amazing <a href="https://www.bloodaxebooks.com/ecs/product/staying-human-1185">Bloodaxe poetry anthology</a>. What an honour! These <a href="https://www.bloodaxebooks.com">anthologies</a> have inspired me for years. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Honestly, I can't leaf through one, without loads of the poems giving me the shivers, and I think, if only I could write one like that. Now, I can officially die happy. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Unless, of course, I die of Corona Virus. I won't be happy, at all. What a mess we are all in. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Quick - look at that rainbow! Note to self : <i>Distract yourself</i> from Planetary Disaster and the lure of the Twitter Doom-scroll.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQpIsNqiDzh7dr9eR6J93VXCSB8j_QlkUtBFLIClUINX-fgrZ1GxQzDFT0HGlJWOIlery5zF9Lhekg247q80h2NKorKvfP34A6MfxCuLvcdupEtu5pFUSKCZ_cLDRb1G7FcbD/s1625/rainbow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1625" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQpIsNqiDzh7dr9eR6J93VXCSB8j_QlkUtBFLIClUINX-fgrZ1GxQzDFT0HGlJWOIlery5zF9Lhekg247q80h2NKorKvfP34A6MfxCuLvcdupEtu5pFUSKCZ_cLDRb1G7FcbD/w266-h400/rainbow.jpg" width="266" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My best distraction is still the daily dog-walk. Who knew it was a form of meditation for those who don't want to sit crosslegged chanting <i>Ommm</i>? The Wellies are put to good use. I feel like a farmer, tending my fields. Look - this is Glasgow!</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguj411uE0BRkhyL-D_i52cYDdjAQ4D7veEZQw9BFHD66_3WV6AGZvE49V1IJhyphenhyphenuCnM-I3EBdcsS2lHyXx24NOXQ547ipMyu7OXjtD370-UNVCwHkvsWISXfy6SoYf5_K5xrc1T/s1080/dawsholm.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguj411uE0BRkhyL-D_i52cYDdjAQ4D7veEZQw9BFHD66_3WV6AGZvE49V1IJhyphenhyphenuCnM-I3EBdcsS2lHyXx24NOXQ547ipMyu7OXjtD370-UNVCwHkvsWISXfy6SoYf5_K5xrc1T/w300-h400/dawsholm.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And this is <i>Bumcheek</i>. The kids call her Bumcheek when she is being 'naughty'. Or being <i>'Bum-Cheeky'</i>. It's become an adjective now. Someone's been editing photos on my phone. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFcTj0xTkVnfUJI425mZix2xMkFqDIz50XIo3tSzzc21K2pCWQEbR4-z_ptXVfZ0m3x-ntRDhAUJLejFvSkM5wzHrIb1cue4-uQmsL6zJCNVeOJZsFQEBPkLnLbaaZvHDeEROx/s1440/bumcheek.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFcTj0xTkVnfUJI425mZix2xMkFqDIz50XIo3tSzzc21K2pCWQEbR4-z_ptXVfZ0m3x-ntRDhAUJLejFvSkM5wzHrIb1cue4-uQmsL6zJCNVeOJZsFQEBPkLnLbaaZvHDeEROx/w300-h400/bumcheek.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Here we go for the October Break. In terms of Covid Risk, it's a temporary relief having schools shut for the holiday. We don't have any plans, beyond dog-walks, popcorn, Netflix and Nonsense. It's enough. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Life can be scary, but it's still abundant. And a bit Bum-cheeky. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWdDAaYB0j0ZFE3M9LvPjTrWq5sJKUMPXUORhI43YtSzNlxWk21946-gxEMw7kuTZxyoTCiL-3AmHN5cOCdEeVLqQci7iUuS-P-9eZ9YcY8mCS-2bKFQuajP5N3cgb4UYr-64v/s1080/tree+autumn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWdDAaYB0j0ZFE3M9LvPjTrWq5sJKUMPXUORhI43YtSzNlxWk21946-gxEMw7kuTZxyoTCiL-3AmHN5cOCdEeVLqQci7iUuS-P-9eZ9YcY8mCS-2bKFQuajP5N3cgb4UYr-64v/w300-h400/tree+autumn.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Stay Human, fellow Bum Cheeks. X</span></p><p><br /></p>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-57844170441394280792020-09-23T20:33:00.016+01:002020-09-23T21:12:13.807+01:00The Second Wave<p><span style="font-size: medium;">How do sunsets get so effortlessly stunning? They are the same phenomenon each time, yet we're all seduced by any half-decent dip of the fiery ball. Here's a quick snap from my phone, doing it no justice whatsoever. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFTFu9fj-nfrQffLOZxWvUB9wgM7yPcB48KrN6w8-RqaqDgm7t0ERnkszaHktxc-7jlh8p8Ry1NrHURrwh-ENiVOOx8m2cQn2ML7SotsdW7npBLk1of_Y81Zcy872_vE4ysTdR/s1080/thumbnail-37.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="1080" height="346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFTFu9fj-nfrQffLOZxWvUB9wgM7yPcB48KrN6w8-RqaqDgm7t0ERnkszaHktxc-7jlh8p8Ry1NrHURrwh-ENiVOOx8m2cQn2ML7SotsdW7npBLk1of_Y81Zcy872_vE4ysTdR/w640-h346/thumbnail-37.jpeg" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Our attic looks to the far South West horizon, towards Arran and Islay. As I poked my head out the skylight tonight (careful not to let my glasses plummet), I watched an ambulance scramble in silence, blue lights flashing hypnotically. A plane ascended into the orange sky, floating like a dragonfly. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Was the ambulance Covid-related? The ambulance and the plane and the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Butterfly_effect">proverbial butterfly's wing.</a> I thought: we'll never get to 'Zero Covid' if we allow planes to fly in and out without strict quarantines. ScotGov please sort that out. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In earlier blog posts in March, I talked about the, <a href="https://ciaramaclaverty.blogspot.com/2020/06/every-so-often-it-hits-you.html">'Oh my God' moment</a>, that hit us all at the beginning of the pandemic. I felt like today was a second, 'Oh my God.' </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A second wave. Scotland's <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-scotland-politics-54265540">highest testing numbers</a> since the pandemic began. Six months of winter ahead.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I confess, I am somewhat frozen in horror. I've resorted to picking up old self-help books, like <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Power-Now-Guide-Spiritual-Enlightenment/dp/0340733500">The Power Of Now!</a></i> I wish. Although, the book does try to teach living 'in the moment' to lessen anxiety. I'm trying.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Tess's cough has relapsed. Sigh. She is on anti-reflux medication and I don't know if the effects are wearing thin, or if the body is just following its own mysterious fluctuations. I have emailed the GP, (who is probably crazy-busy).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">There is so much to talk about right now. So many ways that the mind can run rampant. I get a 'system overload' sensation sometimes and just want to stare out the window, or eat too many raisin bagels. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Luckily, I have a terrified dog that needs walking through autumn leaves.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq5dfDXyxrhb05d_uBh05EOOe2duQRsjHMcOqArXUvWdgqwR8ft0OHcPFLt9W28G8o1rB2s6WR4uMDLfTjAjhTLimmuT6an-sCZTY0kjItSmd6TC88uSCz177H97EXH2-RvNKz/s1080/leaves+sita.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1077" data-original-width="1080" height="399" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq5dfDXyxrhb05d_uBh05EOOe2duQRsjHMcOqArXUvWdgqwR8ft0OHcPFLt9W28G8o1rB2s6WR4uMDLfTjAjhTLimmuT6an-sCZTY0kjItSmd6TC88uSCz177H97EXH2-RvNKz/w400-h399/leaves+sita.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimRBGgwZAD_G5_2xdMRZVPAUgIFZXRT9PrE_OC0iXjGJvkHEvl0sEXPI_Ii_c3_6bmIPyQ3OKy_WQsP0LHiev5m8s9ypodyh1CtPk6zFSXkJCgED6T2Yeq2flNRvR-p-h5Xra_/s1080/puppy+training.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimRBGgwZAD_G5_2xdMRZVPAUgIFZXRT9PrE_OC0iXjGJvkHEvl0sEXPI_Ii_c3_6bmIPyQ3OKy_WQsP0LHiev5m8s9ypodyh1CtPk6zFSXkJCgED6T2Yeq2flNRvR-p-h5Xra_/w400-h300/puppy+training.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;">She hasn't got to the chapter about not barking at the postman, or eating toast from the kitchen table. All in good time, Sita. We're here for a while, and we've all got a lot to learn. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17300038.post-20997065490743493822020-09-10T19:31:00.015+01:002020-09-11T20:35:36.579+01:00The Moment versus The Abyss<p> Recently, I watched <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt4633694/">Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse</a> with Hugh. Spoiler, there are lots of Spidermen. And even a Spider-woman. It was great film, actually. I surprised myself.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl2p2MWP5wKw1GYLobC9x353kZa6MVH7E1myYup0ViCEBc33uqjWEbgMUCHfKL11NfsRhmRDZnQac0ZnPbfMJC8qoi_Y7aJwHgsR98JjjjclqlgO-28BeLK1p-690Rlv7iPtHL/s402/movieposter.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="402" data-original-width="279" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl2p2MWP5wKw1GYLobC9x353kZa6MVH7E1myYup0ViCEBc33uqjWEbgMUCHfKL11NfsRhmRDZnQac0ZnPbfMJC8qoi_Y7aJwHgsR98JjjjclqlgO-28BeLK1p-690Rlv7iPtHL/w278-h400/movieposter.jpg" width="278" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>In a tense escape, one Spiderman tries to pass on wisdom to a younger Spiderman. He says,</p><p><i>Let Go! Be in the moment!</i></p><p>The young Spiderman yells back-</p><p><i>I am in the moment! It's a TERRIBLE moment!</i></p><p>In my head, things are back to where they were in March. I would enjoy watching a film or TV programme, and when it was over, I felt the sad rush of remembering the pandemic. It would hit me in the solar plexus, a kind of semi-grief. </p><p>But we could hide from the virus in lockdown. We are lucky enough not to have key-worker jobs, interacting with the public.</p><p>Now, I wake at 6am with the dread. The virus <i><b>IS</b></i> in my son's school. One case and counting. It's in my nieces's school nearby, and a handful of local schools. </p><p>Everybody KNOWS that kids and teenagers are rubbish at social distancing. They're just kids and teenagers. It's not their fault. </p><p>This is the reality. I know I can't spend hours worrying about it, looking into 'the abyss' of Covid; and whoops, there's another wee abyss called the Climate Emergency. </p><p> This helps nobody. So, I need to try to learn to use the distracted moments as stepping stones. To 'float forward'. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGPUqCqLJbljrJjMjk4UuF42HpnYxERahmwj-aTsTiqNOY8BJR73nSV99227U3aiSHHCMMyCSpPIO0njQG0BLbGpkadMqD4QSZNODb0As5IYEGNL3SCa9PqOpmV5EMu1x9CbWI/s1440/cyclamen.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGPUqCqLJbljrJjMjk4UuF42HpnYxERahmwj-aTsTiqNOY8BJR73nSV99227U3aiSHHCMMyCSpPIO0njQG0BLbGpkadMqD4QSZNODb0As5IYEGNL3SCa9PqOpmV5EMu1x9CbWI/w300-h400/cyclamen.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyqadMwBpNkHtpUsztwCcbGWVmMlCAXYYU4YQWFXjYCVsBesG0iCmGdbcy6Zou_hi7zcGM7sgaiyrx-lgWCB1vkf2ZmLiQS0rmyiuOfpuzF8Llu9NXMXKQcuaV475Me9wIAe4e/s1080/paws.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyqadMwBpNkHtpUsztwCcbGWVmMlCAXYYU4YQWFXjYCVsBesG0iCmGdbcy6Zou_hi7zcGM7sgaiyrx-lgWCB1vkf2ZmLiQS0rmyiuOfpuzF8Llu9NXMXKQcuaV475Me9wIAe4e/s320/paws.jpg" /></a>The white paws are my comfort. In the half-light of the night time kitchen, I rub them like worry dolls, like 'lucky' rabbit feet. </p><br /><p>It sure feels like autumn. Like no other autumn we have known. Float forward, if you can -I know it sounds like a new-age hippy line- one moment at a time. </p><p><br /></p><p>PS - <a href="https://protect.scot">Download the Protect Scotland App here.</a> </p>Ciarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01908098909334331994noreply@blogger.com0