tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91292479455313724752024-02-07T16:57:39.119-08:00Spinning and Weaving: Tales & TailsTezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15968504091315232161noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129247945531372475.post-1458296517039407502015-09-04T01:52:00.002-07:002015-09-04T01:52:30.269-07:00The Wheels of the Bus? go Round and Round ...<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I had hoped to write this post last Saturday but lethargy and
laziness got in the way. Determined to show off my writing skills in a font
size smaller than that an Elephant's toenail, I was looking forward to seeing
what I was writing once I had my new glasses. I do wonder if I have a saying on
my forehead that says, "If anything can go wrong to this woman, it
will", because my new glasses were not to be. The optician worked hard to
make a prescription that would overcome the troubles with my eyesight but
it was impossible. The big problem that was too difficult to work around
was the fact that the cataract operation was a "bodgie job' (her words not
mine) and the lens was "skew-whiff" (again, her words not
mine). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As you can imagine, I was a bit miffed. (A bit of an
understatement.) However, all is not lost. The optician has referred me to the
Lions Eye Institute because they have developed a new procedure that allows
them to take out the faulty lens and replace it with a properly positioned one.
With luck and a fair wind, they will be able to help me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I am still debating with myself about whether to complain about
the surgeon who supervised the intern who performed the operation. If I do this,
I have to get legal advice; this may lead to a case of suing the surgeon,
intern and other surgeons who examined my eye at subsequent appointments, for
negligence. The thought of going down this road is giving me the
heebie-jeebies. My stores of fortitude are very low and I'm loath to enter the
strange world of the law via legal aid whilst taking on the public health
system. Will ponder this problem some more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">OK, that's all I can manage with one working eye. If the post
reads a bit cock-eyed, you now know why. (Sorry, I couldn't resist, he he.)</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Tezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15968504091315232161noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129247945531372475.post-13762033762163194062015-08-13T01:33:00.001-07:002015-08-13T01:33:21.883-07:00So they all rolled over and one fell out , , ,!<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">This day was supposed to be when I wrote my next blog post, but
one of the wheels fell off. The public health system, again, has got in the way
of my plans. That is, the surgeon who placed a new, artificial lens into my
right eye, in order to fix a cataract, has placed it quite a bit askew. As a
result, I enjoy the vision of a mole! Everything looks as though someone has
smeared my glasses over that eye with a thick layer of Vaseline. Added to that,
my astigmatism is much worse, so bad that I am seeing double all the time.
Trying to write is a nightmare.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">However, the good news is my new glasses
are ready to be picked up and my carer will take me to pick them up tomorrow.
Yea! So, with luck and a fair wind, I will be able to write the real blog post
at the weekend with no squinting, no finding the least fuzzy spot on my
glasses, no holding my head at an oblique angle, no more hitting the wrong keys
on the keyboard and definitely no more rubbing my eyes because of tiredness. I'm
looking forward to seeing a brand new, clear world. Wish me luck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">As compensation for such a short post, here is a picture of Rosie, my little dog, who has taken the idea of the princess and the pea to new heights. Being a Chihuahua, she hates being cold so </span><span style="font-size: 18px;">inserts</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> herself in between the dog beds. My granddaughters and I call in the Rosie Sandwich. Enjoy!</span></div>
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Tezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15968504091315232161noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129247945531372475.post-89547911597861980212015-07-18T00:16:00.000-07:002015-07-18T00:17:10.260-07:00And The Beat Goes On, Tra La La La<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
What is the world coming to? These days you go to the doctor to
get the results of a gastroscopy and come out two hour later with a diagnosis
that you're heartless! Well, not exactly heartless, just that your heart is
missing a beat or two and there is a lot of fraying in your aortic arch.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="text-align: center;">It seems my atrium have lost the ability
to tic in rhythm with the toc. All they can manage is a kind of half-hearted
quiver. This leaves the ventricles a bit bewitched, bothered, and bewildered
and they don't know whether to pump, bump or grind. This causes the blood to
pool and, as in any bemused crowd, stupid clots to form</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
My doc is a lovely, intelligent, clever
diagnostician who likes to cover all eventualities so he gives me a whole
tree's worth of prescriptions, a vaccine against pneumonia, an ECG, AND gets
the nurse to syringe my ears! I tell him he needs to get out more. Like most
doctors, he doesn't listen. He is on a mission to keep the Grim Reaper from my
door and he doggedly pursues this with fervour. I, on the other hand, have made
friends with my old pal Grim (we're already on a first name basis) and keep
telling the doc that he doesn't have to work so hard to keep me alive. I tell
him not to worry so much, death is just another phase of life and Grim and I
are tight.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
There are things worse than death and I
fear those things far more. I have no fear of dying either. Why would I? I live
in a society that will house, feed, medicate and look after me with as
much care as possible. I won't be dumped on the street where I have to beg for
a morsel of food or left to languish in some run down old people's home. The
incidence of elder abuse is minimal compared to other western countries and the
training for home care or residential care staff is of a high order. My
children are kind and will make sure I am taken care of properly. As long as
they don't decide they want to look after me themselves, things should be
hunky-dory.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
My kids and I have had many conversations
about who will take care of me in my dotage. Having physical and psychological
disabilities has meant that my health and well-being has always been part of
family conversations. The idea of living with either of my children is not appealing.
I love them to bits but I definitely don't want to have them as full-time
carers, as much for their sake as mine. I am not a 'good' patient and would run
either of them ragged, so to save their sanity they have been brainwashed from
an early age to "put me in a home" when I can no longer look after
myself. With luck and a fair wind, they will do as they're told with no guilt
or regrets. As I keep telling them, I have lived my life, it's their turn now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
But I digress. The heart of this story is
to tell you why it has taken me so long between sips at the trough of the
blogging world. After oodles of medical tests and several visits to the
emergency department, the medicos finally decided that I needed a stent in my
aorta. Placing a stent in the aortic arch is not a common procedure so I had a
few days in the ICU - ostensibly for my benefit, but I suspect it was to allow
the surgeons to get up to speed by watching YouTube versions of the operation.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
All went well except they forgot to tell
me the long-term side effects, which included constant pain, depression and
circulation problems. The physical issues exacerbated the depression, which, as
you can imagine, delighted Igor <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(name I gave my depression)</span> in a lugubrious mealworm kind of way. He
settled in for a long stay with the attendant problems of phone, noise and
webby phobias. Hence the inability to write except for the occasional short
comment on other blogs I read. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
It's been a hellish 18 months or so and
whilst Igor is still around he is about the size of a pea, a pea that is about
to be crushed between my thumb and finger. There are plans afoot that my best
girl (daughter), my doc and I are organising that will
reduce the pain and take the pressure off the pump in my chest. I'll tell you all about these plans in another blog post. For now, know that I am hale and hearty in my imagination and a super hero in my own lunch box (is that still a thing?). </div>
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<br />Tezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15968504091315232161noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129247945531372475.post-64101065191370565252013-12-05T00:09:00.001-08:002013-12-05T00:12:17.979-08:00Dogs, Dogs, and More Dogs<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">A hush descended. The tension in the room was increasing but
nothing was happening. The two combatants were still as statues, sending almost
invisible signals to each other. The signals proclaimed loudly for all who
could interpret them that the winner would take all. Every now and then one of
them would look away from the other whilst altering, ever so slightly, a part
of their stance; a barely moved lip, a flick of an ear. The other would respond
in kind but remain staring at the opponent. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Watching them was nearly unbearable and
there was a longing to break the pressure, relieving the anxiety of
knowing this </span><span style="font-size: 9.5pt;">altercation</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> could erupt into a
fully-fledged fight. If a fight ensued, blood would flow. The grumble had
been bubbling up in the background for weeks and now was the time for it to
come to a head. Much more was at stake than the prize that lay between them.
Who would be the victor? Who the </span><span style="font-size: 9.5pt;">loser</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">? Loving
them both, it was horrible to watch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">After fifteen minutes the muscles on the
back of the younger one began to tremble, and then relax. Simultaneously he
lowered his head and eyes in a canine bow of supplication, jumped off the sofa
and left the victorious top dog. She watched him for a few seconds before
delicately picking up the prize of the raw hide chewy and devouring it
noisily. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Phew! It was over. I let out a huge sigh
of relief knowing all was now right in the world of my long time companion,
Rosie, a Chihuahua and recently adopted Dougal, an Australian Silky
Terrier. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnvimuXbHxhoxoKmMEAXRN8LHZ7EMhfYTqmB5zdgF2ZP0mKaWcvIFgYY5jvCgq41IvM9ahYlGxrzSKeoGuRFt8D9e4tAELPfvTWwwqEfKTlnCHsT1zrxAUqJy7QSAQm-wJCIc-l4McqZQ/s1600/20th+Nov+2013+4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnvimuXbHxhoxoKmMEAXRN8LHZ7EMhfYTqmB5zdgF2ZP0mKaWcvIFgYY5jvCgq41IvM9ahYlGxrzSKeoGuRFt8D9e4tAELPfvTWwwqEfKTlnCHsT1zrxAUqJy7QSAQm-wJCIc-l4McqZQ/s320/20th+Nov+2013+4.JPG" width="232" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rosie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" 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/AVvXsEjAU2wMqJlhXVw0p8hQVdCnbiraixawlzB2dS3E_s1432U0UX0GHuxQtihUshdJXZ3Uyy3UmZ0zgoeRfCWAaJCI_rWL1TNWvqaVEBq8KKtKU7qea7sfMYdfHVs3cGryNihj_YfZPFn0s9Y/s1600/30th+Nov+2013+6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAU2wMqJlhXVw0p8hQVdCnbiraixawlzB2dS3E_s1432U0UX0GHuxQtihUshdJXZ3Uyy3UmZ0zgoeRfCWAaJCI_rWL1TNWvqaVEBq8KKtKU7qea7sfMYdfHVs3cGryNihj_YfZPFn0s9Y/s320/30th+Nov+2013+6.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dougal</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Yep, I'm the pack leader for a new dog. We are now a family of three. Did I ever mention that I was dog dotty? Well, I am and have always had rescue dogs in my life. My first rescue was Spot, an unwanted puppy about to be thrown down a pit shaft. I was eight years old and persuaded the man doing the throwing to let me have the pup. Even though I was forever arriving home with a dog I had kidnapped or enticed out of its garden telling my mum, "It followed me home, mum. Honest", this time I had corroborating evidence. My brother was a witness to the man's means of getting rid of unwanted pups and, to my delight, my mum let me keep him.<br />
<table align="center" 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/AVvXsEgS02YwcCUMRriG5WAjfvPGBjSU3TWLbkdcEuWzmH0iI2Z0zNgUAg6nYNn1pmtkeiZKNRptj196_4CTExezKGvrxVbxcvkHBhoU9Gl2KjG_BBFWg3FDsER5q2xjoA7CSBkvHvMyX2zFJGg/s1600/1950s+Mary+Fenton+(Mum)+&+Spot+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS02YwcCUMRriG5WAjfvPGBjSU3TWLbkdcEuWzmH0iI2Z0zNgUAg6nYNn1pmtkeiZKNRptj196_4CTExezKGvrxVbxcvkHBhoU9Gl2KjG_BBFWg3FDsER5q2xjoA7CSBkvHvMyX2zFJGg/s320/1950s+Mary+Fenton+(Mum)+&+Spot+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mum and Spot, 1953<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Many dogs have come and gone in my life since then, providing me
with love, comfort and friendship. Every one of them has taught me something
about dogs and, more often, about me. I only hope I made them as happy as they
made me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Now, the proper hierarchy of our new pack is established - me as pack leader, second-in-command is Rosie and Dougal is the newbie. The two dogs
are happy knowing their place in the pack and peace will reign until Rosie
gets too old and is challenged by the underdog. No blood was spilled in
establishing the natural order of our canine world and all the tension has disappeared. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<i><b><span style="font-size: large;">Now we are a proper pack. Yea! Let the fun begin.</span></b></i></div>
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Tezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15968504091315232161noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129247945531372475.post-28516264852981216612013-12-04T22:32:00.002-08:002013-12-05T00:15:52.515-08:00Broadcast of SUICIDE AND ME <br />
I wanted to share this video made by young Australian film-makers. I'm so proud that there are young people in the world who want to change things for the better. These young film-makers give me hope that mental health issues will be better funded and understood in the future.<br />
<br />
Please watch and share the video. The information could save your own or someone else's life. Don't be embarrassed, mental health issues are everyone's business. Those of us who suffer from MNBP (malfunctioning neural brain pathways) don't want to die and leave the ones we love. We just want the pain to stop.<br />
<br />
I'm OK and safe today. Are you OK and safe? If you are I hope you remain so. If you aren't please ask for help because I want you to stay with us and get well.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://ab.co/18auwP0" rel="nofollow" style="background-color: white; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 13.600000381469727px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://ab.co/18auwP0</a><br />
<br />
If the above link doesn't work try this:<br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 13.600000381469727px;" />
<a href="http://www.abc.net.au/iview/#/view/77966294" rel="nofollow" style="background-color: white; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 13.600000381469727px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://www.abc.net.au/iview/#/view/77966294</a><br />
<br />
<br />Tezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15968504091315232161noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129247945531372475.post-64236922944693067422013-11-28T01:27:00.002-08:002013-11-28T01:30:17.489-08:00How I Met My Mother<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 18pt;">November 17th was the anniversary of my mother's death.
I spent the afternoon with my daughter, son, and four grandlings having
afternoon tea and cake belatedly celebrating my
68th birthday. My mother died when she was 68 years old, three days after
my 30<sup>th</sup> birthday.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 18pt;">My mother was a formidable woman. In today's lingo she would be
described as awesome. She didn't suffer fools gladly and brooked no nonsense
from her four children. Smart without being a know-it-all and accomplished in
many skills: knitting, crochet, sewing, gardening (vegetables and flowers),
baking, cooking and reading. Oh, how she loved to read. I have inherited her
need to read and, like her, voraciously devour all things written. Someone at
uni once called me an epistemophiliac and I, thinking it was a put-down,
rushed to the library to find a dictionary. I thought of my mother and laughed
out loud when I discovered the meaning. It means a lover of knowledge. We need
to know and need to know now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 18pt;">I’ll give you an example of just how formidable my mother was. I
was thirteen and, with two friends, had taken to a life of crime. The three of
us would go into the city after school about once a week for a shoplifting
spree. Inevitably we were caught and handed over to the police who charged us with
theft then ran us home in police cars. I’ll never forget the look of
mortification on my mother’s face after I had been marched up to the door with
two cops on either side of me (I wonder if they thought I was going to try and
escape). Never missing a beat my mother invited the cops in, offered them a cup
of tea and listened carefully to their tale about her miscreant daughter. She
never looked at me or spoke to me and I just remained standing behind the sofa
feeling as though I would die. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 18pt;">After the cops had gone I expected her to give me such a terrible
a tongue lashing but she ignored me completely. I was in a state of terror and
remained so until we had to go to the juvenile court. In all that time my
mother never spoke to me, acknowledged or looked at me. She did a thorough job
of ‘sending me to Coventry’. My brothers were sympathetic but would not dare to
bring mother’s wrath down on their heads when we ate together or did anything
as a family. My sister was away so missed the quiet but deathly drama.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 18pt;">It was when she and I went to court that I began to see her as a
woman instead of just my mother. We had arrived early as instructed but were
still waiting at noon. The other girls and their parents were sitting with us
but my mother never spoke to them or me. At exactly 12pm my mother rose from
her seat, approached the court usher and told him to give a message to the
magistrate. She explained that, as she had done nothing wrong and had arrived
at court at the correct time, she did not see why she should be punished by
having to sit on a hard bench outside the court. So, she informed him in a loud
and proud voice, she was going home. At this point she turned on her heel and,
with a great deal of dignity, walked out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 18pt;">I was beside myself, believing I would be sent to Borstal (a
juvenile prison) and that I would never see my mother again because she was so
ashamed of me. The other girl’s parents just sat looking at the exit with their
mouths open and the usher was dashing here and there trying to decide what to
do. He eventually disappeared into the court room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 18pt;">I learnt later that the usher had informed the magistrate of my
mother’s leave-taking upon which the magistrate had sent a police car to pick
her up and bring her back to court. I was bewildered when she arrived back just
before we were ushered into the court room. Feeling absolutely certain that the
magistrate would definitely send me to Borstal after such a show of defiance from
my mother, I didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry she had returned,
especially as she still refused to acknowledge my existence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 18pt;">What happened next was simply unbelievable. The magistrate heard
the evidence from the shop detective and the police, accepted our guilty pleas
and assurances that we would never break the law again. Then he said he wanted
to address my mother before telling us our fate. At that point I knew I was in
serious trouble and hung my head. He looked directly at my mother and asked her
to accept the apologies of the court for keeping her waiting! He then said a
whole lot more about the court system and how they tried to keep the waiting to
a minimum but it wasn’t always possible. My mother graciously accepted the
court’s apology and our sentences were given. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 18pt;">I was stunned when he fined me, the ringleader of our lawless
gang, 10 shillings but fined the other two girls 10 pounds. Their parents were
not amused and threw dark glances at my mother as though she had cast a spell
on the magistrate into doing such an unfair thing. I and the magistrate, on the
other hand, were in total awe of my mother’s grace, dignity and self assurance.
I kept sneaking looks at her because she seemed to be a totally different
person; not only had she stood up for herself but had also saved me from being
sent to juvenile prison at worst and got me a fine of only 10 shillings at
best. I was so proud of her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 18pt;">My mother eventually forgave me, explaining her abhorrence of
police, courts and jails as a result of my father’s experience with the law
(another story, for another time). We became friends afterwards as two women as
well as mother and daughter. I came to know a lot more about her, discovering
qualities that had been hidden from me by my child’s eyes and I will be forever
grateful for an experience, however painful for us both that allowed me to
know, understand and love my mother in much deeper ways.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 18pt;">I also learnt things about myself too. For instance, I vowed I
would never treat my children the way my mother treated me and I never did. The
agony of being shunned ignored and humiliated every day bordered on extreme harshness
and left me in a state of terror that was very traumatic. I understand
perfectly why my mother did it and don’t blame her. She did the best thing she
knew how at a time when children were treated far worse than she had treated me
(one of the girls from our little gang had been beaten very badly by her
father). On balance, I gained far more from the experience than I lost and for
that I will always be grateful to a wonderful, strong, and redoubtable woman
who I was lucky to have as a mother.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 18pt;">RIP mum, you were the best.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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Tezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15968504091315232161noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129247945531372475.post-21824940909412048322013-07-22T02:32:00.002-07:002013-07-22T02:32:41.276-07:00Ten Pearls of Wisdom<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">There is an unwritten rule that says now I'm in my 'advanced'
years I can share pearls of wisdom with others. The rule doesn't
make clear whether others listen. However, it is of no
consequence to me if they do or don't. In other words, I don't give a shit! All
I know is that the following things, in no particular order of importance, are
certain and true.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: red; font-size: 13.5pt;">Pearl 1</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">: Cosmetics
will not make anyone beautiful, overnight or otherwise and, when we all come
to our senses, the cosmetic industry will be put on trial for crimes against
humanity and nature (and false advertising). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />
</span><span style="color: red; font-size: 13.5pt;">Pearl 2</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">: You will get laid regardless of what you
look like because sex has nothing to do with looks, everything to do with your
brain. Good sex starts in the brain and is intelligent. Good sex is
fucking fantastic!<br />
<br />
</span><span style="color: red; font-size: 13.5pt;">Pearl 3</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">: You can never have enough teaspoons and
tea towels. Believe me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: red; font-size: 13.5pt;">Pearl 4</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">: Reality
TV is the same as the freak shows that used to be attached to a circus and just
as obscenely horrible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: red; font-size: 13.5pt;">Pearl 5</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">: The only
way to know if you are a successful parent is if your offspring </span><span style="font-size: 18.399999618530273px;">don't</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> grow up to be axe-murderers, drug dealers, obscenely wealthy, human
traffickers or recidivists. These people and people like them are
NOT, repeat NOT, fully functioning, authentic human beings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: red; font-size: 13.5pt;">Pearl 6</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">: Nobody
cares what colour your hair is, whether it is long, short, or middling or what style you adopt.
Honest, no one gives a rat’s arse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: red; font-size: 13.5pt;">Pearl 7</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">: The sky
will not fall in if you wear the same clothes twice in the same week. Honest!
Most people </span><span style="font-size: 18.399999618530273px;">won't</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> even notice and those that do notice are the fashion police
and they are to be ignored at all costs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: red; font-size: 13.5pt;">Pearl 8</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">: The only
real best friend you will EVER have is a dog!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: red; font-size: 13.5pt;">Pearl 9</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">: Shaving
your legs, or any other part of your body, is a complete and utter waste of
time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: red; font-size: 13.5pt;">Pearl 10</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">: 60% of
what you learn will be of no use to you in everyday life. But, learning stuff
is such kick-arse fun!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">There you have it, just some of the things I've learnt in almost three score years and ten. Now, go live your life in the way you want. Wisdom is highly overrated.</span></div>
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Tezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15968504091315232161noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129247945531372475.post-31495840559327033242013-07-07T02:38:00.001-07:002013-07-07T02:38:39.306-07:00A Day in the Garden<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="uficommentbody"><span style="background-color: #fafbfb; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #4e5665;">My wonderful son and grandson came for a visit last Tuesday and ended
up completely transforming my back garden. Well Ric did the transforming by
weeding, pruning and putting in stakes to support my falling plants. <span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="uficommentbody"><span style="background-color: #fafbfb; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #4e5665;">Daniel rode the bike; <span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="uficommentbody"><span style="background-color: #fafbfb; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #4e5665;">put pieces of a co</span></span><span data-reactid=".r[2lsqv].[0]{comment10151682777178680_27023892}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:3]">ncrete
slab in and out of the wagon. He told me he was a big boy now he was three and
a half;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="uficommentbody"><span style="background-color: #fafbfb; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #4e5665;">brushed his teeth
3 times until they sparkled. He is such a delight;</span></span></div>
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<span class="uficommentbody"><span style="background-color: #fafbfb; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #4e5665;">helped me 'ferdilise' the plants. I told him he could fertilise the plants much better than me and he told me, "Gwanma, I'll help you because I 'ferdilise the plants better than you" (didn't get a picture of this because we were too busy 'ferdilising'); <span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="uficommentbody"><span style="background-color: #fafbfb; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #4e5665;">painted a picture;<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="uficommentbody"><span style="background-color: #fafbfb; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #4e5665;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">and kept me
entertained all afternoon. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="uficommentbody"><span style="background-color: #fafbfb; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #4e5665;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Great work boys
(and thank you)!</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 26.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Tezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15968504091315232161noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129247945531372475.post-21739838724275095452013-07-03T02:07:00.000-07:002013-07-03T02:07:07.496-07:00Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Naught. Nil. Zero. Except a laugh!<span style="font-size: large;">I have no words. They have all dried up (or maybe that's me).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Instead, here is a funny email I received. It shows the perils of translation. I suspect Chinese people are far too smart for the following to be true but hope you have a chuckle or two.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<i><span style="color: #0000fe; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 18pt;">A woman went to Beijing recently and was given this brochure by the hotel. It is precious. She is keeping it and reading it whenever she feels depressed. Obviously, it has been translated directly, word for word from Mandarin to English……….</span></i><span style="color: #0000fe; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span><br /> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br /><br /></span><b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15pt;">Getting There:</span></b><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15pt;">Our representative will make you wait at the airport. The bus to the hotel runs along the lake shore. Soon you will feel pleasure in passing water. You will know that you are getting near the hotel, because you will go round the bend. The manager will await you in the entrance hall. He always tries to have intercourse with all new guests.<br /><b><br />The hotel:</b>This is a family hotel, so children are very welcome. We of course are always pleased to accept adultery. Highly skilled nurses are available in the evenings to put down your children. Guests are invited to conjugate in the bar and expose themselves to others. But please note that ladies are not allowed to have babies in the bar. We organize social games, so no guest is ever left alone to play with them self.<br /><b><br />The Restaurant:</b>Our menus have been carefully chosen to be ordinary and unexciting. At dinner, our quartet will circulate from table to table and fiddle with you.<br /><b><br />Your Room:</b>Every room has excellent facilities for your private parts. In winter, every room is on heat. Each room has a balcony offering views of outstanding obscenity! You will not be disturbed by traffic noise since the road between the hotel and the lake is used only by pederasts.<br /><b><br />Bed</b>Your bed has been made in accordance with local tradition. If you have any other ideas please ring for the chambermaid. Please take advantage of her. She will be very pleased to squash your shirts, blouses and underwear. If asked, she will also squeeze your trousers.<br /><b><br />Above all:</b>When you leave us at the end of your holiday, you will have no hope. You will struggle to forget it.</span></div>
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Tezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15968504091315232161noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129247945531372475.post-91000695560455685092013-06-22T01:26:00.000-07:002013-06-22T01:26:10.961-07:00Life gets serious, don't it?<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">It wasn't my intention to leave
such a long gap between posts.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Life
has a habit of getting in the way of our good intentions. Life, in the form of
chronic illness, hospital admissions, and a death in the extended family, has
played havoc with my intention to write a post every fortnight. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The
hospital admission was mine. I was rushed to the ER by ambulance with a
suspected bleed in the brain (in other words a stroke); a
frightening experience, more so for my children than for me.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>However, after what seemed like
thousands of medical tests included a lot of bloodletting and big pieces
of machinery run by sophisticated technology, it was decided my
problems were caused by a viral infection of the brain.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Whew! What a relief. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I'm
still fighting the virus. It's a very possessive one; it wants all my attention
and because it affects my brain it has that attention in
spades. It fights with the chronic illnesses causing them to have temper
tantrums that are as disruptive and painful as any 3 year old meltdown. I sleep
a lot. When awake I drink at least 4 litres of water a day to prevent a return
of dehydration. (The toilet and I are now in a very close relationship. Thank
god for the proximity of the bathroom to my bedroom!) </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Still
my medical issues are minor compared to my daughter-in-laws recent news. Her
sister died of an aneurysm in the brain and she was only 43 years old with
a 13 year old son. It has devastated her family. I've spent long
hours with my 3 year old grandson to take the pressure off my<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">DinL</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>so she can get on with the business of
grieving. It is so sad. Her sister died so suddenly that everyone has been
bowled over by her death. My<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">DinL</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>is a wonderful, intelligent and wise
woman who is a fabulous mum to my grandson and great life partner to
my son. All I can do is hug her when she cries, listen when she wants to talk
about her beloved sister and keep my GS as occupied as possible. It seems so
little in the face of such a catastrophe but my sweet<span class="apple-converted-space"> <span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">DinL</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>says it's enough.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I'm
very lucky to live in a country with excellent, universal health care and where
there are support systems in place for the bereaved, all at no cost to me and
low cost to my<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">DinL</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>and son. I am so grateful for my
family who love and support each other and are there for each other in times of
need. Most of all, I'm very grateful to be alive. Every day is a
bonus to be lived to the fullest with a grateful heart.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Tezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15968504091315232161noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129247945531372475.post-26896088996733635522013-04-13T19:07:00.000-07:002013-04-13T19:07:31.875-07:00Round and Round the Mulberry Bush<br />
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Warning! Warning! This post wanders
all over the place and is far too long but, huh, it’s the best I can do. With
luck and a fair wind I'll get better at this blogging thingy. In the meantime, make
yourself comfy and settle down to a nice long read . . . or not.</div>
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<br /></div>
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At the end of my second post I
mentioned that I would be posting my thoughts about charities. Then
I promptly forgot. Now I can't remember what I wanted to say about
charities. That's the frustration of old age; the memory goes on walkabout
leaving us with empty spaces and blank expressions. It is also the beauty
of old age; memory is the gift that keeps on giving because when the memory
returns we get the pleasure of remembering all over again. However, I
recently learned that memory loss has little to do with age, but rather
with the lack of routine and a busy schedule. In other words, the old have the
leisure to meander through time, to trip down memory lane when and if they feel
like it, and, if all older people are like me; they just can’t be bothered
remembering stuff. </div>
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<br /></div>
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It used to upset me tremendously
when I couldn't remember events or forget an appointment, or forget to do a
regular task, like flea treating the dog. I used to have a very good memory and
could recall exact, pertinent details of practically everything and got
distressed when I lost the ability. Now I couldn't care less if I forget stuff
because I realised it doesn't matter not one jot if I remember or not. The sky doesn't fall in if I can’t remember what I did last week or two years ago, the bureaucratic
system doesn't grind to a halt if a bill is seriously late, my friends don’t
care if I forget their birthday and there is no one around to challenge my
recollections of my distant past and, anyway, they are my memories not theirs.</div>
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<br /></div>
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This brings me to the subject of
this post. My eldest grandchild keeps asking me to tell her stories of about my
childhood. So, before I lose or muddle all my memories altogether, I have
decided to use this blog as a way to record stories of my life so my
grandchildren will have a record of what it was like to grow up and live
through some of the most fantastic times, with the greatest inventions and
social changes that have occurred in the modern world. Having never met my own
grandparents, I think it would be nice for my grandchildren to know who I was,
what I believed in, what I did and why I made the decisions I made about my
life. </div>
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<br /></div>
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First, it’s important to know that
I was born in the November of the year that the Second World War ended. There
was a time in my early teens that I thought of myself as a victory baby; that
my parents celebrated the end of the way by conceiving me, as a kind of
passionate hope for the future. But, that was pure fiction on my part because
the war in Europe didn't end until May and, as I was a full-term baby, weighing
in at 7lbs and some ounces, the dates just didn't add up. Perhaps now would be
a good time to mention that I've always had a vivid imagination and a strong
desire to be seen as special. This desire was earlier fuelled, if not caused,
by the birth of Prince Charles, the heir to the throne of England, on the SAME
day as my birthday. For years I thought there was a special bond between the
bonnie prince and me because we shared a birthday. </div>
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By the time I was ten years old I
had figured out that there were millions and millions of people who shared the same
birth date of Prince Charles, thus ending my claim of 'specialness'. By the time
I was eighteen I was a fervent, if closet, anti-royalist; I would not have
dared tell my mother that I despised the whole idea of royalty. She would have
had a fit! She identified strongly with the queen who, like her, had four
children and behaved at all times like a gracious lady, something my mother
strived to be at all times too. Even when I became an active and out anti-royalist
I never told my mother. I don’t really know why I didn't tell her. It wasn't to
save her feelings because we argued about so many fundamental things, like our
differing philosophical, political and religious perspectives. I suspect I
never told her because I believe she modelled herself on the Queen and what being
a gracious lady meant to the extent that she would have thought I was saying I didn't like her. Whereas, when we argued about other issues it was always based
on differing ideas and concepts rather than personalities. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The reason my birth at the end of
the war was important was that the Labour party was elected into government and
they introduced the welfare state. Without it my childhood would have been so
much bleaker. Without this political change my childhood would have been one of
hunger, crippling deformities and equally crippling ignorance. To be housed,
fed, schooled and given free access to specialist orthopaedic surgeons
provided me a healthy life with a mother and a home. If the Labour party had
not introduced free welfare for all after the Second World War and because my
father died, my siblings and I would probably have lived our lives in abject
poverty or in an orphanage and/or been sent to the colonies as child
migrants. </div>
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<br /></div>
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In fact, we only escaped being sent
to Australia as child migrants because of the strength of our mother. In 1954
mum was taken to hospital very ill and had to have a hysterectomy. We four
children were farmed out to two families in the catholic parish; two boys
together and two girls together. Eventually we children had to move to another
county and go stay with unknown aunties and uncles and we didn't see mum for
three months. Many years later I asked why she had been away so long and she
told me that during the operation she lost a lot of blood and had to have a
transfusion but was given the wrong blood type and almost died. While she was
convalescing, a social worker (they called them Almoners in those days) came to
visit with forms to be signed. These forms gave permission for us children to
be sent on a boat to Australia with hundreds of other children. This is what
had been decided would happen to us if mum had died. Fortunately for us, mum
refused to sign the forms, although she said she thought about for a little
while. Knowing now the harrowing stories of the children who did not escape
this fate I am forever in my mother's debt.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
What made it possible for my mother
to make such a choice was a change of political will and raising the
consciousness of the whole country to the moral, political and financial
necessity of having universal access to basic standards of living, education
and health care. Having access to a widow's pension provided by the
state, a pension that did not depend upon having rich parents, an annuity or a
trust account meant my mother could keep her four children at home and feed,
clothe and educate them. Don't get me wrong, it was NOT easy. The
pension was meagre and without my mother's resourcefulness we would
not have thrived as well as we did. But thrive we did and luckily remained
a family in our little council house on the outskirts of Leeds, Yorkshire, in a
post war Britain that enjoyed universal state benefits. It wasn't paradise but
better than anything a pre-war Britain could have offered. And for that, I am
eternally grateful.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<i>Do
you have a good memory? <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<i>In
what kind of political and economic system did you spend your formative years? <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<i>Did
you feel special because of something or someone that had nothing to do with
you?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<i>What
secrets did you never divulge to your mother and/or father? <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
Tezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15968504091315232161noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129247945531372475.post-66934652542258290682013-04-08T03:30:00.001-07:002013-04-08T03:30:59.306-07:00In praise of Elan Morgan: brilliant blogger<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Well, blow me down with a feather! I never would have thought it but my previous post was
chosen to go on Elan Morgan’s, Schmutzie & You Five Star Friday. Elan
is an amazing blogger and interesting writer; profoundly intelligent, wise and
friendly. She is also a very creative photographer, poet, designer and public speaker.
If you </span><span style="font-size: 18.399999618530273px;">haven't</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> seen Elan’s blog do check it out. You will be pleasantly
surprised. </span><span style="font-size: 18.399999618530273px;">You'll</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> find her at:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><a href="http://www.schmutzie.com%20%20%20%20/">http://www.schmutzie.com </a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The fact that Elan put my post on her Five Star Friday has left me a bit
speechless and blushing with pleasure. As a newbie blogger who almost gave up
blogging after a couple of disastrous attempts on other blogging platforms,
this inclusion has sent my confidence soaring. So to you, Elan, I send a huge thank
you. Your work always inspires and feeds my soul.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Even though this is a short post, I do have a piece of writing in my
draft file waiting to be finished and I will get it finished soon. Now </span><span style="font-size: 18.399999618530273px;">I'm</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> old,
various medical issues pop up that take my attention away from the pleasures (and
anxieties) of writing. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">As Arnie said, “</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 18.399999618530273px;">I'll</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> be back”. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Soon.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Tezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15968504091315232161noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129247945531372475.post-58803918653504495442013-02-04T12:32:00.000-08:002013-02-04T12:32:33.525-08:00Body of Evidence<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last September, 2013, Eden Riley (one of the all-time great
bloggers) wrote a post about female body image and her dismay at discovering so
many young girls and women were considering surgery to modify their bodies. You
may want to check Eden’s post out at:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="color: #45818e; font-family: "Neuton","serif"; font-size: 17.5pt;"><span style="color: #2c6e81;"><a href="http://www.edenriley.com/2012/09/ladies-its-time-we-got-real-about-being.html" target="_blank">Ladies, It's Time We Got Real About Being Beautiful.</a></span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #45818e; font-family: "Neuton","serif"; font-size: 17.5pt;"><br /></span></b></div>
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One comment on Eden’s post was from <span style="color: #cc0000;">DaisyLolaDot</span> that intrigued
the hell out of me and left me wondering about how I felt about my own body. Well
into my late 40s I imagined the kinds of cosmetic surgery I would
get if I won the big Lotto prize. I have a space in my upper front teeth that I have always disliked and day-dreamed about closing that gap.
One morning at the age of 12 years I woke to find a huge shelf on my chest that
got in the way of EVERYTHING. I longed for a breast reduction that would make
me look normal and stop boys (and later men) constantly wanting to touch them. To make my appearance different I would I have
gladly gone under the surgeon’s knife. I wanted to become a dainty, ethereal
creature instead of the lumpy, peasant looking girl that I was. <i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">(It’s just as well because </span><span style="font-size: 14.399999618530273px;">I'm</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> sure K.D. Lang used me as her
inspiration when she wrote that fabulous song about the Big Boned Gal. It would
be a sad world without that song.)</span></i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I've been thinking about the issue of cosmetic surgery and
body modification since the post from Eden and am stunned to discover that I now
really, really love this old body of mine. On the surface, my body is in bad
shape. It is morbidly obese, has crippling osteo arthritis and spondylitis, has
needed a hysterectomy, appendectomy, gall bladder removal, numerous operations
on deformed feet, fusion of the cervical spine, two hip replacements, carpal
tunnel surgery, and has allergic reactions to substances too many to list. What
has taken my breath away is the realisation that, in spite of these handicaps,
my body has brought me so much joy. </div>
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</div>
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</div>
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These feet emerged at birth as clubbed feet and endured endless pain of
straightening physiotherapy, wearing ugly prosthetic footwear that caused such
embarrassment and several operations during my childhood years. Yet these man-sized feet also took me dancing, hiking, potholing, rock climbing and bush
trekking. They carried me thousands of miles to school and work and back. They
helped me carry my babies, shopping bags full of groceries and even furniture
when I moved from place to place. I find I have a great deal of affection for
my feet, even when the bunions throb with pain, or when, because their joints
are fused together, the slightest knock means the toes break, or the ankles
protest another flare up of arthritis. My feet are marvellous because of their
triumph over adversity AND, to me they just look beautiful.</div>
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<br /></div>
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My knees are now swollen, pitted with scars and the
occasional spidery vein. Yet, I find I'm so proud of them! </div>
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These knees helped me get around before I could walk. They
have crawled over many surfaces whilst chasing pets, babies, toys and other
treasures. They got scraped when I fell off a bike my younger brother and I
made from bits found at the dump. The scar (on the left in the picture) reminds
me of how exhilarating it was to fly down the street on two wheels but no
brakes. As I went arse-over-tip my knee caught on the open end of the steel
handlebar and gouged out a huge piece of flesh. At age 8 I was so proud of that
wound and it is a scar worth having!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These knees have helped me crawl through and up and down
potholes, assisted me in clinging to sheer cliff faces in the Yorkshire Dales
and the Lake District. They have gripped lovers as passion took our bodies and
minds to the heights of absolute enjoyment. They also gave me something to hang
on to when I pushed my two children into the world.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, the patella in my right knee keeps going off the rails.
At random moments it forgets where the rails are and dislocates. This usually
results in me becoming a fully-fledged member of the “Ministry of Silly Walks” <i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(The Monty Python team would be so proud)</span></i>. Alternatively, I
just fall over. Yes, it bloody well hurts, but I get a great pay off from the
looks on people’s faces when it happens in public. Priceless!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, these knees are good knees. They have done, and
continue to do a good job and I wouldn't swap ‘em for quids.</div>
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<br /></div>
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What to say about these oddly shaped hands?</div>
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These hands hold every memory of everyone and everything
they touched and left a memory for everyone and everything that touched them.
The exquisite, yet simple pleasure of walking down a street and having the man
I love reach for and hold my hand is priceless. These hands have
provided safety and comfort to my children and grand children plus all the other children who I
have had the pleasure to know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my late teens and early twenties I was embarrassed by my
big, man-sized hands. Yet I was grateful for the power they embodied. These hands have traversed many
lovers’ bodies, bringing sweet rapture equally to those I loved and those I
liked. They kept my safe when dangling from ropes halfway up sheer cliff faces
and lifting fallen boulders to clear the way in deep potholes.</div>
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Having big hands was a bonus when handling my new born
babies; they were sure, strong and, at the same time, gentle. These hands have
cooked and cleaned, washed and ironed, knitted, sewn and crocheted. They have
turned thousands of pages in books, written and typed thousands of words in
journals, essays, letters, emails, a thesis and even blog posts. They have
planted gardens and veggie patches, stroked and fed dogs, cats, rats, guinea
pigs, mice, rabbits, chickens, ducks, budgies and, yes, even a pet goat. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, looking at my hands with their wrinkles, age spots and
crooked fingers I am filled with wonder at what they have done and I rejoice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I look at my large, wobbly body and wrinkly skin and feel delighted. All
desire for cosmetic surgery has disappeared. I am now thankful for and love this old body. Every wrinkle, every scar, every age spot is testimony to a life lived. A life to be very grateful for and a life in
which I have loved deeply and been deeply loved. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think it’s time for us as a society to rejoice in our bodies as they age and celebrate bodily milestones. Every BODY is beautiful, including mine. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now I'm off to plan a party. I will be 68 this year
and I think my body deserves a to celebrate. I hope yours does too. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">PS: My 4 year old
granddaughter told me that she loves me being fat because the hugs I give her
are so soft and squishy and she could stay hugging me all day!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Tezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15968504091315232161noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129247945531372475.post-86007667996364115252013-01-15T03:29:00.000-08:002013-01-15T03:29:03.915-08:00B(w)affling<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">This blogging
caper is a bit baffling. The idea was to write a post every week but
somehow the time has flown by and </span>I'm late, I'm late, for a very
important date. There are a million, very sound (<i>yea, I bet</i>), reasons why the deadline
passed me by but I won’t bore you with them (mainly because I wouldn't get away
with trying to give a million reasons). Honestly, the main reason is I keep waiting for something out of the ordinary to happen that would get my creative writing juices
flowing; that I could dazzle my reader(s) with; that would be satisfying to
write.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I travelled half
way around Australia in 2004-2005 and wrote an email journal to family and
friends, a pre-blog if you like. It was easy to write about each new place, people, activity and experience.
I kind of thought blogging would be the same. After lurking about on other blogs
and discovering that personal bloggers talk about their daily lives, thoughts
and insights I </span><span style="font-size: 18.399999618530273px;">reckoned</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> I could do the same. Those bloggers make it look easy and fooled me into a </span><span style="font-size: 18.399999618530273px;">false</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> sense of security. Damn you, clever bloggers!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Trouble is I now
lead a very ‘less ordinary’ life. What to do? It seems the best advice is from
the good bloggers is to speak your truth and tell it like it is. But do you,
dear reader(s), really want to know that my stomach and guts are in an uproar? That
the recurrent vestibulitis (it interferes with balance and makes the room spin
every time I move my head) I suffer from has returned to plague me? That I haven’t
been out of the house for five days and only seen two people in that time? That </span><span style="font-size: 18.399999618530273px;">I'm</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> getting very bored with the dross on offer during summer time TV? No! I
challenge anyone to get some blog worthy writing out of that lot. Except to say they are all fairly good reasons why I missed my blog deadline and have nothing interesting to write about. Excuses, excuses, Humph!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">So, in the
interests of waffle I shall post a picture of my dog’s extra long tongue in the
hopes that you will be distracted from the detritus above and be convinced that
I live a truly exotic life because I have an exotic (kind of) pet.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP0vU_M-f8M39P06VNx1xyh-5BunVVWLrqVPpbRfxJ1Sv6AUKFZJX8Ttqm0i3FdgTu7SpgSc-laC_9TtSHc1IpBifTBvj9esruM-8LFbZKEJCdXC0zFyzfPACqfjsi-VX3MgulLZxqqaw/s1600/IMG_0124.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP0vU_M-f8M39P06VNx1xyh-5BunVVWLrqVPpbRfxJ1Sv6AUKFZJX8Ttqm0i3FdgTu7SpgSc-laC_9TtSHc1IpBifTBvj9esruM-8LFbZKEJCdXC0zFyzfPACqfjsi-VX3MgulLZxqqaw/s320/IMG_0124.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>She is a Chihuahua licking a tea plate. She really </i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>gets her money's worth with that tongue.</i></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">You’re not fooled,
I can tell, but just go with the flow and </span><span style="font-size: 18.399999618530273px;">I'll</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> see you in a week.*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">*</span><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">If I remember (or merember, as both my kids
used to say, a hundred or so years ago when they were little). </span></i><i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
Tezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15968504091315232161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9129247945531372475.post-16878748237301998612013-01-02T03:13:00.000-08:002013-01-02T03:13:06.673-08:00Time and Tide . . . .<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Typically, I didn't write this brand new post to my brand new blog on the first day of 2013 of the Gregorian calendar. I'm nothing if not perverse. Can't stand all the dribble about starting over, reviewing the past, resolving to do different things and the same things differently, blah, blah, blah. The very idea of new years' resolutions makes me want to bang my head against a brick wall. That would be so much less painful than than having to live through the silly season that culminates in an explosion of lame "Top 10 Resolutions". Ahhhhh . . . . "beam me up, Scottie." Please, I beg you, take me away from all this.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Anyway my sweeties, how's your belly for spots? Mine's fine; full of <a href="http://www.arnotts.com.au/" target="_blank">Arnotts Tim Tams</a> and a nice cuppa tea. As you may have gathered from the previous paragraph, I'm not a fan of the western world's customs of christmas and new year. I've survived (sometimes barely) the appalling charade of the "festive season" 67 times and it's made me somewhat cynical and </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">very weary</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. The false bonhomie, the spending, the eating and drinking orgies, the overindulgence of children as present piles on present, the mounting debt and the waste. Oh, please don't get me started on the waste! All the paper, plastic, cardboard and food that is discarded is appalling and even more so when two thirds of the world's people are undernourished or starving to death. It's so disgusting I can't stand it and I can't understand why everybody else can't stand it. People in the western world really have no inkling about the meaning of giving and seasonal celebrations and, until they do, every advert, nay every purchase, should be followed by a loud announcement saying, "Every time a cash register rings, somewhere in the world a child dies." The people in the checkout queue in the supermarket did not appreciate me saying this on the 23rd December, 2013. They all looked at me as if I was the misanthrope! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Next time I think I'll have a big sandwich board made with the words, "<i><b>Every time a cash register rings, somewhere in the world a human being dies</b></i>", written on the front and back, then Rosie </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and I can parade up and down outside major supermarkets and department stores. Ha ha ha . . . it could be fun and should put one old woman and little dog among the fat cats! (Much better than sacrificing a pigeon.) I wonder how long it would be before they called the cops? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Oh, by the way, if you ever meet any designers or manufacturers of wrapping paper, please smack their hands and face for me. The smack to the hands is to remind them that, if they insist on continuing in this useless and unnecessary occupation, every design should incorporate lines to make the cutting of the paper easier. The smack to the face is to jog their memory that making the paper too thin so it has to be doubled in order to cover a present, because a single thickness ALWAYS tears, (yes, I'm shouting!) does not endear them to the general public.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I give the grand kids gifts on their birthdays and at christmas and this year I'm making them all a shiny material pillow case with their name embroidered on the front. I'll tie it up with a ribbon at the top so they can still have the pleasure of opening something, it will just be the same something each time (the wrapping not the present). I can stop wrestling with paper, scissors and sticky tape that ends up in the bin and me as a gibberish mess. Instead, I'll sit back and bask in an environmentalist glow and send money to <a href="http://www.worldvision.com.au/" target="_blank">World Vision Australia</a>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Well, would you look at that? I've outed myself as a bleeding heart. How fabulous and so much better than being a heartless sod. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Still, bleeding heart or not, I'll leave it until next time to tell you why I have a problem with the approach the charitable organisations have towards the twin evils of abject poverty, ill health and death. On that cheery note, I take my leave.</span></div>
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<br />Tezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15968504091315232161noreply@blogger.com4