I Will Forget-You-Not

This post is a little, no, a lot different from my others. This is not a light-hearted reflection on an easily recalled childhood memory. It is a post I have been struggling, but longing, to write for weeks... months. Every time I have wanted to write it, the fact that I know a select few of my colleagues subscribe to this blog has stopped me. But until I have written about it I feel tongue-tied and cannot, respectfully, blog about anything else. So, those of you who read this and know me, I ask you this.... if you feel you will not be able to keep what you read here to yourself, or will not be able to look at me just the same as you did previously the next time you see me, then please, read no further. . .

Those of you who have read my blog before will know I have been uncharacteristically silent for the last few months. The truth is that my world fell apart and I have been, through my emptiness, slowly picking up the pieces.

If I say it quickly, I think it will be easier to 'say'.

In August I lost my baby. A baby whom, I now know, was a healthy little boy. I didn't get to hear his heartbeat. I didn't get to hear him cry or hold him. He was too little for that. But just because he was so very little, doesn't make him any less real. And I miss him. My only solace is that he must know that for his very short life he was very loved, and I know this because I did, and still do, tell him every day.

Here is where it gets harder, and feel free to stop reading if it gets too upsetting. I will understand.

He was the third baby I have lost. I have angels from December 2010 and February 2010 too. The hardest thing is that despite numerous tests, I have no reason why.

My first loss was so very scary. You never think something like this will happen to you. Someone should really take us girls aside when we are growing up and tell us the facts - warn us. Because I tell you this - the time to learn about it is not when you are going through it. It has to be the single most terrifying and devastating thing that has ever happened to me. And the 'after care' leaves so much to be desired. An A5 leaflet saying 'sorry you've had a miscarriage'. Seriously?

I found it so hard to believe in my second pregnancy. I had fallen so in love with the first and fell so hard when he/she left, I never wanted to feel that way again. The innocence of pregnancy was lost and I feared every twinge, pain and change in symptoms. Despite this, at 7 weeks I saw its tiny heart beating on the screen and I blinked to check it was real. It was then that I started to believe. As the weeks passed I knew something had changed and booked a private scan. My 10 week scan showed a tiny still baby whose heart no longer beat. He/she had left just 5 days after my first scan. I still have my first scan pic - its the only physical thing left to show he/she was ever here. Well, that, and my tears. I felt the heaviest guilt that I hadn't believed in him/her up until the first scan. Those short weeks were the only life they'd ever get and I should have had more faith. I know, logically, that it was not my fault. And I hope he or she knows they were loved just the same.

Between my second and third I had so many tests. No reason was found... I was just 'unlucky'.

I have told you about my third already. This time I was not expecting it. Not after the doctors reassurances that all was fine. They tried to give me another leaflet. I couldn't bring myself to take it from them - simply saying 'I have two already'. The doctors have nothing they can do or say. Nothing can make it better.

I know I have broken the rules here. I shouldn't have written about this. Miscarriage is taboo. I should be whispering somewhere private about this, not writing about it on my blog. But the horrible, heartbreaking, truth is that there are so so many others out there feeling the exact same way that I feel right now. And we all have to suffer in silence, returning to work to face the inevitable 'glad to see you are better' from well-wishing in-the-dark colleagues. I know it is not their fault. They do not know. But it is all you can do to stop from crumbling on the spot. You are not better. You'll never be 'better'. You learn to manage, but the emptiness lingers.

Each of my angels have their own 'little' star in the sky officially named after them. Two are near Orion's belt, the other is near the Leo constellation... my own star sign. I felt I had, no, needed to do something for them. Never before has the star-studded sky looked so beautiful to me. I will never forget them, and when I am gone, they'll still shine on...

Confessions of a Playful Prankster

Dear Reader, please forgive me, for I have sinned. Well, I wouldn't exactly say sinned, perhaps 'for I have, during my time, done some things entirely for my own amusement at the expense of others' is more accurate. Please don't misunderstand this as a nasty streak. It has always only ever been about fun. My fun.

Hmmm, where to start? I guess my confessions should be chronological...

That means starting with a joint prank played upon my elder brother (R) which endured over the course of a whole Christmas holiday visit to our father's house. I say 'joint' because the deed in question was carried out by me, my elder sister (J) and my two elder step sisters (CJ and JJ). See? I learnt this behaviour. I am the real victim in all of this! Poor little impressionable me..... Believe that? Believe anything!!

[Note to reader - the family structure is different for this example from previous posts as it is based at my father's house rather than at my mother's] There were four of us girls and only one boy (R). Unfortunately for R, that meant us girls had all the power, and for my eldest step-sister (CJ), being the big girl that she was and not being adverse to sitting on him, she had quite a lot of it. I cringe (and laugh an ickle little bit) when I think back about it. Anyhow, back to the story...

Our Nannie had knitted each of us girls a raggy doll (not my favourite toy as, as afore mentioned in previous posts, dolls scare me a bit) for Christmas. However, a doll can only be as fun as your imagination... and we had that in bundles! So, very shortly afterwards we decided that our dolls would be used as currency to gain entry to JJ's room (JJ being the younger of my two step sisters, but still older than me). They worked like a secret password. One. Simple. Rule. 'No doll, no entry, no exceptions'. We all found this very reasonable, a perfectly fair rule, not based at all on age, sex or race. A rule that would probably stand up to scrutiny in a court of law discussing the finer points of the anti-discrimination law. R, on the other hand, oddly enough, did not! The conversation went a little like this: knock, knock [R on the door]. Us [CJ, J, JJ and me] (from within): "Yes"? R: "can I come in"? Us: "Do you have a doll for entry?". R: "No". Us: "Well, .....then no". R: "That's not fair, just because I am a boy!". Us: "No, it's not, it's because you don't have a doll". R: "That's because I am a boy!".... and so on, and so forth the conversation went.

Poor R!! Another of our favourites was to pretend that R was 'The Black Hole Man'. To this day, I don't really remember exactly what the rules of The Black Hole Man were, except that he was to be avoided at all costs, so anyone who saw R (aka The Black Hole Man) had to run in the opposite direction as fast as they could screaming "arrrgggghhhh Black Hole Man!!!" as loudly as possible. Poor R spent a lot of time on his own and didn't find the game as much fun as we did!

I, ashamedly, but in laughter, move on to my next confession...

Ok, well, chronologically, the next involves R (but he is a participant in this case), J and me and is set on our farm. We owned the farm, however, our farm was situated around a gravel pit owned by the local council who used to sell fishing licences to keen fishermen. The council owned some of the land nearby to the pit and this was allocated for fishermen's parking. Adjacent to this is was our land, which despite our repeated, polite requests to the contrary, was also used for fishermen's parking. We tried everything to persuade them not to park there: Polite requests, sign posts, even warning them of our dog (which unbeknownst to them was the stupidest, soppiest farm dog in the whole recorded time of farm dogs - although I am not sure exactly where farm dogs are recorded, and if they're not, they should be!). Anyhow, I digress, AGAIN!

So, we eventually found a way to communicate with the serial 'parking on our land' offending fishermen... We (R, J and I) would wait for a car to be 'illegally' parked, then when we were sure the fishermen had left, we grabbed our spades and hurried over to dig deep holes behind both of the back wheels. Then, when the hole was 'big enough', we covered the holes with twigs, leaves and grass to disguise it then rushed back to a safe hiding place to lay in wait. And wait. And wait.... (this bit was actually quite boring).... But, lo and behold, after hours our prey would return and, as he would have inevitably parked right up against our fence (right in front of the 'Private Property - No Parking' sign) the only way they could go was to reverse.... Right. Into. Our. Trap! I don't know exactly why we found this so hilariously funny, but we did. And, funnily enough, after the word got out (they must have a special fishermen hotline to share news about pesky hole digging kids), they stopped parking there. And thus ended our fun!

The person who has borne the brunt of most of my tricks, however, is my younger brother H.

Firstly, I convinced him when he was about six that he had to go to live at the zoo because there was a monkey shortage and they had to fill the spaces with children. A very simple trick, but also very effective! I used to do that ring-back thing on the phone when he wasn't watching and then intercept 'the call' and stage the following conversation: Me: "Hello? (long pause - pretending to listen) Oh, hi, you're calling from the zoo? (more 'listening') What's that? You have a monkey shortage? (more 'listening') And you need children to come and live there instead? ('listening') No, that'll be fine, H would love to come and live there! H: (looking slightly worried) But I don't want to go and live at the zoo!!". Me: "Sorry H, but you have to.... there's a monkey shortage".

The weird thing is, that he took this as an absolutely valid reason as to why, against his wishes, he would now have to go to live at the zoo in the monkey enclosure. It was all too easy! So, I tried something else...

Next I showed H a photo of my elder sister J. It was double exposed and had an image of her over the top of an image of an old castle and it looked quite ghostly. I explained that this was taken when J had turned, at age 8, from a boy into a girl. I then showed him a photo of R aged about 8. In this photo he was in fancy dress as 'The Incredible Hulk' - face painted green and looking very strange. This was 'evidence' of when R turned from a girl to a boy. It was not a far stretch to then convince him that when he turned 8 he too, would turn into a girl.

He only believed me for about a year. I can't imagine why, but he soon began to not take everything I said so seriously any more. How peculiar?!!

Another 'group' prank, was expertly performed by the whole of my Geography A Level class, whilst on a school trip to Wales, upon several students from another school staying at the same hostel. Throughout the week we had been the target of several pranks from the other students - including moving all our belongings into other rooms (they didn't steal anything, just mixed everyone's things up in different rooms so no-one could find anything). That was their most elaborate prank, however they were constant and undeserved. Our teachers were firm that we were not to retaliate against them, or at least if we did, to leave it till the last day and not hurt or damage anyone or anything. We took this as 'licence to trick' on the last day. We had become friendly with some of the other kids from their school, and obtained 'insider' knowledge. The key info being: they were travelling home by train and whereabouts in the breakfast hall the key instigators sat each morning. The penultimate day saw us trekking miles and miles to the nearest shop which doubled as a pharmacy. Operations began early doors on the last day. Everyone was involved. We crushed up a strong, but safe dose of laxatives, and added the 'special ingredients' to the milk on their breakfast table, stirred it nicely in, then returned to our rooms to reappear later with innocent, but excited faces. We were all giggles when they were polishing up their cornflakes. They looked at us so strangely.

We had let our 'friends' in on our trick against their classmates, and they seemed happy enough for it to proceed as planned. They were also the ones who reported back to us that, on the train home, there was a sudden rush for toilets and a few panicked faces. We were so proud of ourselves that our teachers knew we had done something naughty, so we told them and - after checking we'd been careful about dosage - they thought it was very funny and that they had needed to be brought down a peg or two after their incessant pranks on us during the week.

There are so many other stories... most of them involve H - poor kid! But, if you think about it, it is probably his own fault really for being so gullible ;)

Hark... is that the zoo phoning? Wonder what shortage they have today....

Disclaimer: No big brothers, little brothers or fishermen have been harmed in the making of this blog post.

London - The Outsider's Inside View

London is like Marmite. Some people love it, whilst others hate it. London commuters are a notoriously unfriendly crowd. Do not look at them, or if you must, do not let them catch you catching their eyes. They are the living descendants of Medusa - you can only look at their reflection, otherwise you will be turned to stone.

OK, well, yes. A little over dramatic perhaps. But the truth is not far off! In London you cannot look directly at another passenger on the tube, you must never speak to them in the lift and woe betide if you dare smile at them. You are automatically classified as one of the many (many) tube schizophrenics and to be avoided at all costs!

I moved to London as a bouncy, just-turned-eighteen, law student. I left three years later, almost twenty one, older, a little wiser and a lot more cynical.

In London, people live in bubbles. Your bubble consists of your friends, the local chippy and pub, the man who serves you coffee every morning at the station and taxi drivers. That's about it. Talk to anybody else and you are considered psychotic. Once you get used to the rules, which include reading the same twenty word advert on the tube fifty times to avoid eye contact with another soul, London is amazing.

I first started coming to London when I was fourteen. I used to starve myself at school lunchtime, instead pocketing my £1 lunch money to scrimp and save for months to be able to get tickets to see my favourite bands play in various venues throughout the city. My first ever gig was to see Blur at the Mile End Stadium. I remember working on my Mum for weeks beforehand to allow my friend and I to go. We felt so grown up - a night out at the biggest stadium gig held in the UK (until Oasis topped it the year later with their Knebworth gig) - on our own. Well, until my sister convinced my Mum that she should go too.... and her friend.... and my brother.... anyhow, we remained silly excited. I was wearing my Dodgy skinny tee and my baggy checked trousers, my blonde hair and down to my bottom, donning my red John Lennon glasses. They (Blur) had several supporting acts, so we got there early and settled in for an amazing day. We stayed with my brother throughout the day, and took it in turns to sit on each other's shoulders and sing madly to the Parklife words. We were the first audience to hear their new song 'Country House' and weeks later they released a live CD. I fell in love with gigging and it remained a theme throughout my teens, my twenties (the highlight has to be meeting Gaz (beautiful lead singer from Supergrass) before their gig in a pub in Tufnell Park and offering him a drink) and even now in my (very very very) early thirties.

London has a great live music and clubbing scene. My uni years saw me dancing madly at 'The Cross' near King's Cross (old station archways, which get so hot they have turbine fans to cool the clubbers down), Fabric, and, when with my gay male friend, cheesily at 'G.A.Y.' in the London Astoria.

London has sights-to-see galore. My earliest being the National Gallery at Trafalgar Square with my friends and I being chased up and down in the lifts by the security guard who had warned us not to play in the lifts any more or we'd be chucked out (not my most proud or mature moment). The odd thing about Londoners is that they generally walk right past the sights without seeing them. In my last week of uni, after three years of living in London, my friends and I decided we should probably actually go and see the traditional sights. So we went to see if Lijjibeth (my three best friends at uni were Asian, so Queen Elizabeth II was nicknamed Lijjibeth for the day) was home for tea at Buckingham Palace. We were an odd bunch of friends - one Muslim, one Sikh, one Hindu and one Christian - but it worked and we were inseparable.

The best thing about London is you can always find something new. Like the heavy concealed doors off of Shaftesbury Avenue leading down into the best Moroccan restaurant, quiet parks dotted amongst the streets trodden by thousands, hilarious newcomers to the comedy stage in back rooms above struggling pubs near China Town, and, whilst rollerblading in Hyde Park, discovering masses of roller skaters intricately break dancing to the beats provided by beat boxes on the shoulders of spectators. Then, when the night is done, if you accidentally miss the last tube you can always find an all night cafe in Soho to nurse a coffee or two until the sun returns for morning, and another day in the city begins.

London is not all excitement and light. There are hundreds (thousands?) of homeless on the streets. I used to see the same young girl (thirteen?) on the underground every time I exited at Oxford Circus. She looked so tired, so hungry and so forgotten. And that was before you even noticed she was cradling a young baby. I remember one freezing winter, just a few days before Christmas, I went shopping for last minute bargains, excited about the upcoming festivities, full of gift ideas for my family. I was wrapped up all toasty, disgustingly chuffed with myself in my present choices, ready to set off home (which at the time was Brixton) so treated myself to a Gingerbread Latte at Starbucks before heading towards the tube. I was descending the steps, when I saw her. She looked so cold. I felt embarrassed. I'd just been spending money on glittery cards and shiny gift tags, all pretty, but totally useless items. All the while oblivious to her quiet misery. There was not much I could do to help her, so I emptied my purse and gave her the rest of my money whilst wondering where her family were, and whether they were hoping against hope that she appear on their doorstep on the 25th. She didn't even look up. Her problems were bigger than money - my measly offerings couldn't fix anything for her.

I was once told that, at some point in your life, you have to live or work in London. It is the only way to 'understand' it. It's true, you do see a different London to the London the tourists see. It can be awe inspiring and yet so utterly heartbreaking right around the corner.

So, I guess I have now been out of London for long enough that I am now a tourist too. I was in London twice last week and I even caught myself sitting on the tube doing that 'one, two, three........ nine' head nod thing while counting the stations until my stop. That is a sure sign of a tourist - Londoners never count the stops, they know the tangle of underground stations inside out and back to front as if it were their own veins. London is in their blood.

So, as for me, I have danced in King's Cross, lived on the Caledonian Road, been a barmaid for an Arsenal pub, shopped the amazing foods at Borough Market, pub-crawled 'Upper Street' and gigged my little heart out. But there will always be so much more to see in old Londinium...

My Bucket List - Because Life is for Living

Life is for the living, if only we had the time, money and imagination. We only get one life and we don't know how long we'll get. I don't understand those that whittle it away, losing the opportunity to experience the wonders our world offers. Yes, it can be expensive. Yes, it can be scary. But adventures are out there waiting for us, we just need to grab them.

But, what to do? Where to go? There is only one thing for it - I need to write a bucket list!

There are two types of people who write lists. The ones who write lists of things they still have to do and those who write lists which, in addition to the things they still have to do, also include some of those they have already completed, just so they can cross them off and feel good. I, embarrassingly so, belong to the latter. It is totally illogical, I know, but the action of crossing off items already completed on my 'ink just dry' list somehow makes me feel like I am one step closer to completing my list. I feel it is about momentum.

So, after 30 years of deliberation, here is my draft bucket list (and because I'm me, I've thrown in some items I have already done). It is draft because I intend to add to it as new ideas come to me, so, dear reader, if you have any extra ideas, feel free to add your ideas as comments to this blog and if they make it onto my bucket list I will attribute them to you.

1. Step foot on all 7 continents
2. See all new wonders of the world (Great Wall of China, Petra, Christ the Redeemer, Machu Picchu, Chichen Itza, Colosseum, Taj Mahal, Great Pyramid of Giza)
3. Write a blog (tick) and a book
4. Read the entire completed words of Jane Austin (Pride and Prejudice (tick), Emma, Persuasion (tick), Sense and Sensibility, Mansfield Park (tick) and Northanger Abbey (tick)
5. Go zorbing
6. Own my own home (tick - house bought November 2011)
7. Swim with dolphins (tick)
8. Ride something bigger than a horse
9. Spend a day on a deserted tropical island (tick) (deserted Maldivian Island in the Indian Ocean)
10. Surf (no matter how badly)
11. See The Grand Canyon (tick), Niagara Falls (tick), the Hollywood Sign, The Golden Gate Bridge (tick), Times Square (tick), the Amazon, The NASA building (tick) and Mount Rushmore
12. Sleep under the stars (no tent) (no ponies)
13. Officially name a star (tick) (tick) (tick) (that's thrice - not a typo)
14. Participate in 'Burning Man'
15. Fly a plane (tick)
16. Skydive
17. Patent my invention (don't ask, I can't tell)
18. Grow my own vegetables on an allotment
19. Visit every Country in Europe - those already 'ticked' are: England, Wales, Scotland, France, Germany, Spain, Holland, Italy, Iceland, Switzerland and Belgium.
20. Make every Christmas present I give for one Christmas (tick - Christmas 2011 - hampers and scarfs)

OK, there's 20 for starters. Some, admittedly, are easier than others. I will update the (tick)s as I achieve them, and add to my initial 20 as more come to me.

Right, no time to chat! I've got a bucket list to be getting on with.....

The New Forest Pony Survival Guide

It all started very simply. "Do you want to come camping in The New Forest with us?". I jumped at the chance! I love spending time with my brother's young family, and I hadn't been camping for almost ten years. I had almost forgotten how much fun it was. I had completely forgotten about The Ponies!

I haven't always been afraid of ponies. Growing up my sister had a dapple grey named Braidy and a Shire Horse called April. I used to want to ride them, but I was always told I couldn't "because of your allergies". Later, when I was a little bit older, I was allowed to ride the horses my step-sister used to look after. I say 'ride' but with Charlie, perhaps 'try to persuade the lazy lump to even move' is more accurate. I was still allergic, but if I didn't ride the horses, there was literally nothing else to do. So I accepted the sneezes and asthma over death by boredom.

The tides turned on how I felt about ponies following a riding accident in which we lost a young member of our family. It was then that I fully noticed their huge size and strength in comparison to ourselves. And, whilst we allow ourselves to think we 'break' them in and can then maintain control over them, I believe they are just humouring us, because, if they want to, they can really show us who's boss! It also doesn't help that I had a vivid dream (bordering on nightmare) about a giant black horse and armies of soldiers emerging from the sea marching towards me crying 'War'... but that it another story entirely...

So, I no longer trust ponies. It's not like I think they are going to trick me into giving them my pin code. I am not even sure what the would do with my pin code when they inevitably got it from me. Sainbury's bumper bag of carrots and a pack of Polos perhaps? It's more to do with the fact that they are just too unpredictable for me.

Let me start to tell you about my New Forest Pony Survival Guide. I'll start by explaining why I need a pony survival guide in the first place...

The New Forest has hundreds of wild ponies living in it which are free to roam day and night. They don't have a curfew. They don't even have an ankle tag! The first night camping was fine, I had seen a few ponies around the site, but they seemed to be minding their own business, no doubt contemplating whether to get shod with new shoes - I could almost see the pale girly one visualising the sparkly sling backs she'd seen through Dorothy Perkin's window and whether they would go with her new pony tail 'up do'. No, night one was not a problem, it was Night Two when the trouble began....

We'd had a great day taking my little niece to the deer sanctuary and reptile house. We'd cooked sausages on the camp fire. We'd even had toasted marshmallows. The only minor issue was that I had forgotten to bring a torch, so on sun down, it was an early bedtime for me! Apart from that, everything was good. For a short while.

Just as I was falling asleep I heard clumsy footsteps and heavy breathing outside my tent. My heart started to do that 'I think there is someone in the house so I am going to beat twice as fast and really loudly so the intruder can hear it and know exactly where I am' thing. Who was it? Or worse, what was it? I thought I should get my torch and have a look, then remembered my torch is fast asleep on the shelf in Oxford. Lazy torch! The heavy footsteps and breathing soon was interrupted by the sound of tearing and chewing, it was then that my supersonic brain joined the dots and identified the noises as a pony outside my tent!! Scary bananas!! I stopped breathing in case it found me. I shortly started breathing again because I thought possible injury by pony was a better bet than definite death by lack of oxygen. Quick, brain... what should I do? The best brain came up with was curl in a ball, ignore it and go to sleep. Sleep? Very funny brain!

So there I was, in the dark, curled in a ball, panic stricken and wide eyed, 'trying to sleep', when it became apparent that the ENTIRE population of The New Forest Ponies had converged on our camp site and decided that now (1am? 2am? I had no idea, for which I blame lazy torch, lazy watch, and lazy 'I have no batteries left' mobile), NOW was the perfect time to all begin neighing and stampeding through the site, right past my tent. Brain had to re-think. Carrots! If I had some carrots (which for some reason I forgot to pack in my essential camping bag) I could throw them away from our tents and divert the ponies to someone else's tents. But then they might send the message out to other ponies 'free carrots, come quick' so I thought, better not. No, carrots could make things worse. A cattlegrid! I could quickly install cattlegrids around the perimeter of our tents to stop them getting near, yes that would do it, cattlegrids were a great idea. A wall would be quite handy too. It was in this 'helpful' vain that brain continued until I became aware that I must have somehow found sleep because here I was waking up. Alive.

So, in my knowledgable position as 'pony survivor', I wanted to share my recommended pony survival kit with you:

• Carrots (although could be risky, see related danger of 'more ponies' discussed above)
• Cattlegrids (not an 'easy fix')
• Walls (easier)
• Moats (only recommended for experienced landscape gardeners)
• Electric Fencing (installation must be undertaken by a CORGI registered electrician)

The ponies came back the next day and gatecrashed our barbecue. Although, if they thought they were going to get their hooves on our burgers and trifle they had better think again! I am very protective of friends, family and food.

Honestly! Those New Forest ponies - they have no boundaries! I personally blame the parents.

Our Poem for H

Life in a family with a disabled sister is normal to me, normal to us all. It is natural for us and we now couldn't imagine it, and wouldn't have it, any other way. It wasn't as we expected though.

I was eight when H was born, a surprise at 5 weeks early. I remember the hushed phone calls and the silence from adults when asking for news. We knew something had happened, that this thing that had happened was to do with the new baby, that the new baby was a girl and that she wasn't coming home - "not yet".

Days became weeks, and during these weeks we came to understand that H was very ill, that she was 'disabled' and that it was probable that she would not live. We all felt a little helpless miles from the hospital - not that we could do anything even if we were there. She was in an incubator with scores of tubes attached to her, surrounded by machines and specialists. I cannot hear the Athlete song 'Wires' without thinking of baby H. She was so tiny, yet so very, very strong.

She astounded her doctors, by fighting back from each new challenge. They said if she had been born a year earlier, that they would not have had the technology to save her. The thought does not bare thinking.

I had always thought that our mother had taken this all in her stride, that the moment she laid eyes on H she didn't see all the things 'wrong' with her and that she just saw her little girl. But I was wrong. Mum described her feelings of that initial week as that she hadn't got 'what she had ordered'. That you have this perfect picture of your child in your head and that when her child was not perfect in the ordinary way, that she felt cheated and guiltily recalled that, in the shock of the moment, she had not wanted her.

Time passed and the shock gave way to the inevitable love that anyone who knows H cannot help but have for her. I remember a poem Mum shared with us to try to explain to us why this had 'happened' to us. It is a commonly shared poem in families who have disabled children. It brings understanding of the important role our special families play. Its author is Edna Massionilla and I want to share it with you:

Heaven's Very Special Child

A meeting was held quite far from Earth!
It's time again for another birth.
Said the Angels to the LORD above,
This Special Child will need much love.

His progress may be very slow,
Accomplishments he may not show.
And he'll require extra care
From the folks he meets down there.

He may not run or laugh or play,
His thoughts may seem quite far away,
In many ways he won't adapt,
And he'll be known as handicapped.

So let's be careful where he's sent,
We want his life to be content.
Please LORD, find the parents who
Will do a special job for you.

They will not realize right away
The leading role they're asked to play,
But with this child sent from above
Comes stronger faith and richer love.

And soon they'll know the privilege given
In caring for their gift from Heaven.
Their precious charge, so meek and mild,
Is HEAVEN'S VERY SPECIAL CHILD.

So, you see, those who have not experienced loved ones with special needs may misunderstand H as a burden rather than the gift she really is. I am not saying it was easy. In truth she turned our world upside-down and inside-out, but, our world, albeit upside-down and inside-out, is more complete with her in it.

Bunny, Bunny, Bunny, Bunny.... Whoops.... Bunny, Bunny.... Whoops.... Bunny, Bunny, Bunny, Bunny

OK, so I know "Bunny, Bunny, Bunny, Bunny.... Whoops.... Bunny, Bunny.... Whoops.... Bunny, Bunny, Bunny, Bunny" is a bit of a long and odd title for a post. But, hey, nevermind. It means something to me, at least. It was a little trick I used to play on my elder niece when she was diddy, and apart from the word 'Bunny', it has nothing to do with the rest of what I want to tell you... Oh, well, I am feeling a little bit naughty and self indulgent tonight, so let's just roll (or hop) with it for now!

Today I went into Oxford to get a bunny. Not a real life bouncy fluffy bunny. A stuffed bunny. And, no, I don't mean taxidermy. I went to buy a soft toy bunny for my little niece who I will be seeing next week. I know she will love it as she makes a bee-line for both of the ones I have every time I see her. I am not the type of person to collect teddy bears, or even teddy bunnies, in fact teddy bears have always freaked me out a little, along with dolls of all kinds. In spite of this I have two little white teddy bunnies, one of which has a bell inside it. In all honesty, despite the fact that I bought them and that they have spent every night since they were bought in my arms, they are not my bunnies. They were bought for two much more important people than I, and I am just looking after them for now.

I bought her, my niece, her own bunny last year - a mainly white, with a teeny bit of pink, 'Miffy' bunny, which she (apparently) cuddles each night before she eventually allows herself to succumb to sleep. I guess you could say it is her comforter.

My comforter as a child was a blanket. I loved my blanket so much and to this day remember my upset and confusion as I watched it shrink in size and then totally disappear. My mother, at the time, explained the phenomenon away as the washing machine's doing. It had, on several occasions, unexplainedly, repeatedly, shrunk my innocent blanket, until one night when it had finally 'eaten' it, and Blanket was gone. I was distraught and hated the washing machine for a very long time! I only discovered the truth about 'Blanket' later in life, and I wasn't impressed! The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, was that my mother (yes, my wholesome, honest, god-fearing mother) had systematically cut my blanket down in size again and again until the time came when the washing machine (aka 'the bin') could be blamed for its eventual demise.

As far as comforters go, I thought Blanket was pretty harmless really. I wasn't the only sibling who had a comforter... My brother had 'Fred'. Fred was a hand made starfish-shaped ginger stripy clown. Yes, he sounds attractive, I know! A little odd, perhaps? Truth is, he was. But, he was also very loved (and exists to this day, I believe). My sister had a cutting of silk that she used to wrap around her fingers before she went to sleep - I think the 'washing machine' may have played a similar sinister part in bringing that love affair to an end. My sister, however, also had her thumb! Not much Mum could do about that! Not even the washing machine could fix that! So, Mum did what most parents would have done. She resorted to bribery. She promised to buy my sister a watch if she could bring herself to stop sucking her thumb. I really didn't find this fair. I didn't have any bad habits to give up in order to get a watch. So I seriously considered starting to suck my thumb, just so I could get my watch when I stopped.

My aunt, it seems, did not have the same aversion to comforters that our Mum did. She allowed our cousin to keep, maul even, his 'Bee', which, alternative to the suggestion in his name, is not a bee, but a bunny. Well, at least Bee was a bunny, if I was being accurate I would say that he is now just an ear - the result of 30 years of 'love' - although I doubt Bee felt the same ultimately.

So, we have come full circle, back to bunnies. Next week, I will give my niece her new bunny, and I can only hope it gets half the love bestowed to Fred, Blanket, Bee or my sister's silk ribbon!

On Hopes and Fears

Fear is a funny creature that preys upon us, elevates our heart rates, spikes our senses, raises goose-bumps and arm hair, makes us shiver and, for the unfortunate few, can paralyse us in our tracks. Some fears are more common - spiders, snakes, celebrities getting 'papped' without their make-up. Some, however, are, lets face it, just out and out strange!

If you ask me what I am scared of, moths will feature highly. It is not that I find a moth itself a terrifying sight to behold, it's the flying moth I fear. The moth that randomly approaches, no pattern in its flight - you can never be sure where it is heading. Although inevitably, it will always try to attack me, burrow into my hair and try to get into my ear - at least that is what I fear. Irrational, I know, but woe betide a moth be waiting for me when I go to bed. The moth will be victorious as I will not, no, actually, can not, sleep in the same room. It is at times like then that I miss my youngest brother, my official appointed moth killer/remover/trapper.

So, what is it about them that scares me so much? I do not know for sure. I have tried to tell myself that they are 'just furry butterflies', but my fear is too smart to be fooled. It, instead, deeply ingrains into my subconscious that they are 'evil butterflies' out to get me. In fact, I can not think of two such similar things as the moth and the butterfly which entice such polar opposite reactions in my body.

I remember a summer afternoon, living on the farm, when I decided to sit out in our garden and draw our family home (built circa 1600s). I was deep in concentration in capturing the aging bench below the sitting room window, when the most beautiful butterfly swept in and graciously perched itself delicately on my left knee. I daren't move or breath for danger of scaring it away. It flexed its wings and seemed to be curious about me. Seconds passed so slowly as I admired the outstanding colours and detail woven into its wings. After about a minute it swiftly took to flight and soared up over the roof of our house only to arch skywards and perform a perfect loop-de-loop and returned boomerang-style to my knee. I felt so privileged this outstanding beauty had thought me special enough to revisit! In a bizarre way, I felt it knew I was no danger to it - it didn't fear me, despite my colossal size in comparison. It had learnt to trust me.

My other, ridiculously embarrassing, fear is floaty bits in washing up water. I instantly turn cold and snatch my hand away as fast as lightning as whatever-it-is brushes against my hand. A shiver ran down my spine just now simply imagining it in detail enough to explain it to you. I think, again, it is related to the unpredictability of the situation. It could be anything! Well, realistically, it could only be a limited amount of foodstuffs from the dinner just cooked. But my mind will not accept that logic and still tells my senses that it could be seaweed, or worse, jellyfish!!! Euuggh!

These, of course, are the fears I am comfortable sharing when asked what I am scared of. My deeper seated fears are of failure, of rejection and of loss. But these, are more socially acceptable fears. Quite unlike my strange ones, and those oddities told to me by friends - elastic bands, cotton wool and (!!) the little white bits that grow out of potatoes when they have been left in the cupboard for a while. Now, that is so specific and outlandish even I don't understand. But, that's not the point. Fears are very personal, and for her, it is very real.

I am aware, dear reader, that I inferred from the title of this post I would also talk a little about hopes. I have not forgotten. I am getting to that now.

Hopes are generally characterised by those we wish for a new born baby - health, happiness, love and success. Upon these basic hopes, we overlay our values. I truly believe we should treat others as we'd wish to be treated ourselves, and, without actually directly believing in 'karma', it does ring true that, generally, what goes around, comes around.

I don't believe this is a cosmic balancing out of human rights and wrongs. I believe it is in our nature. We have scientifically recognised aspects of ourselves which would lean towards the result of karma. For example, our capacity to remember. Who can honestly say we forgive and forget? We don't actually forget. We learn from experiences and only grant future faith, favours and good will to those deserving of it. To do otherwise would just be crazy. In addition to this we possess greater awareness than scientists give us documented credit for. We somehow know when we meet someone who is 'not very nice'. People definitely give off what can only be described as 'vibes'. I am lucky to own acute instincts, and in the main, they serve me well. But, sometimes 'lucky' is not how I feel as sometimes these instincts can land me in awkward situations - such as when I know someone is telling me a lie but they reassure me they are telling truth. In situations such as these, without 'evidence' it is a very difficult thing to explain how I know what I know. It isn't because I have a 6th sense. I genuinely believe that I have the ability to pick up tiny cues from people, even if they are not aware they are sending them out, and I have honed a skill to read them correctly.

My one true hope for myself is that when I die it has mattered that I have lived. I do not mean that I will leave grieving loved ones behind - I hope that is a given (and I don't mean I am wishing them future unhappiness, but, if they are not upset when I do go I might just come back to haunt them just for the sake of it). What I mean is that I hope there is physically part of me that is left behind. The most obvious way of achieving this is in having children, and my children having children, and so on and so forth - even though, admittedly so, it will be an increasingly small part of me which will live on through them. The incomprehensible fact about this is that if I do not have children all of those future children and grandchildren will not exist. Well, theoretically, they will half exist as whomever was going to be their father will still meet a different mother and the 50% that would have been me will simply be 50% someone else. It is just too weird to discuss further.

Another way to live on would be to do something outstanding for the world, like finding a cure for cancer. I am guessing I have no real chance of that, not having pursued the sciences for my career choice. But, consider this: What if my £15 monthly donation gives Cancer Research just enough money to hire the scientist whose research in five years strikes upon the answer? What if, without my measly £15 they didn't hire him? Or her? Actually, yes, in my random scenario it is a lady, let's call her 'Rosie'. What if, without my tiny donation Rosie is not hired and hence she does not make her incredible discovery? Instead to pay back her student loan she has to take a job in sales, although I have no doubt she will be brilliant at what ever she does, as let's face it - she is the girl that would have found the cure for cancer!

Or, we can write books. We can live on through future generations reading our carefully crafted thoughts captured as printed words on the page that we publish to share with the world at large, forever. This is why I think it is criminal (am I being too harsh? Is jail really an appropriate sentence?) when people do not read books. They have been made specifically for us to read. The author spent valuable time, care and attention to creating it for you to read, and if you don't... did they waste their time? Their life?

Perhaps, dear reader, these words I write for you will be the only part of me to live on, albeit somewhere in cyberspace rather then the physical page. Although, given the reliability of 'Blogger' this past week, I do not hold much Hope! ;)

Rule Britannia! Britannia, Rule the (Air)Waves

Every now and then along comes an event which divides the world. You know the events - the ones you cant even miss if you blink, not even if you blink constantly for days, weeks on end. On Friday 29th April 2011 the World's eyes were on England for the Royal Wedding of our Prince William to his Kate. From here on the world would forever be divided into those who watched and those who did not.

I am not one to get excited by Hello! magazine wedding spreads. I am not a Royalist. I don't even 'do' marriage. And I was determined to be 'on the other side of the divide' of the Royal Wedding hysteria which bombarded the lives of English citizens in the weeks and months (felt like years) running up to the main event.

However, despite my blind protestations that I would not be watching the Royal Wedding, I watched the Royal Wedding. And, if I tell you a dirty secret would you keep it for me?.... I loved it! To my shock (and horror) I sat in front of my TV unabashedly owning a soppy grin throughout the whole ceremony. And it left me thinking... why?

It was certainly not the pomp and circumstance of the ceremony, all things grandiose do not impress me. It was not the dresses (is it a McQueen? will it be a Vivienne Westwood? I honestly did not, and still do not, care). It was definitely not the presence of our Queenie, 'Her Maj'. The reason for my Cheshire Cat grin, was that here, despite all odds, was a couple who looked truly in love. I know the nervous smirk which appeared on Prince William's face when he saw Kate, I have seen it before. It was unmistakeably the same incredibly proud look I saw on my own brother's face when he married his wife. It is the look of the (pedigree) cat that got the (Tesco's Finest) cream.

I believe 'my generation' can identify with the young generation of royals (despite their ridiculous titles, fancy clothes and the Queen being their Grannie). They are just like us: they party, they dance to Nelly Furtado's 'Man Eater' at concerts and they, very occasionally, make poor fancy dress choices which offend the nation (who hasn't).

I was, however, disappointed with HRH ER II constantly trying to upstage the bride (even I, with my limited wedding etiquette know that upstaging the bride is a wedding no-no). Her carriage was grander and had more horses, trumpets heralded her leaving Buckingham Palace (or were they celebrating her leaving?) and her arrival at Westminster Abbey, and all the guests, including the Bride and Groom, had to sing the National Anthem to her! Couldn't she just say: "You know what? I'll let you have this one Kate".

Anyhow, attention-grabbing Queenies aside, I am reformed. 2012 sees Her Maj's Diamond Jubilee (and another Bank Holiday) and I am already working on convincing Prince Harry that he wants to marry Chelsea in 2013. I am really liking the possibility of a rolling programme of additional (royal related) Bank Holidays, and, if truth be told, I loved the Royal Wedding and will watch the next one!

Although, if asked, I will deny I ever said that!....

The Other Other Sister

Meet me, meet my family. That's me - right there. No, not the alarmingly beautiful artist one with the stunning daughter. I'm also not the scientific genius with the perfect adorable little family. Look past them, past the eternally innocent sister who is disabled, past the tall blue-eyed handsome boy and further still past the creative entrepreneur. That one at the back on tippy toes, trying to strain my head above the crowd, waving madly, now, that one is me. I am the other other sister.

Finding an identity in a large family is a difficult thing to do, especially when you are mediocre at most things, but a master of none. Parental time is sparse, especially with the addition of our youngest sister, whose disability meant life as we had come to know it ceased to exist and we suddenly, unexpectedly, lived to new rules. Rules that no-one knew existed and no-one knew who made them or when a new one would be needed. These rules included the habitual farming out of siblings to different branches of the family during extended hospital stays, a perpetually tired mother and the family holding their breath on several instances when the moment turned life-or-death. In return, she, our sister, gave us happiness. A naughty, giggly girl, who throughout her pain, brought joy to our family.

What of our fathers? Us eldest three saw our father leave when I was just two for life with another family. He is still in our life, but he is not part of the household I am sharing with you. The younger three? Well, their father had difficulty accepting us elder children, but loved his three dearly. After a while he too left our mother to care for the whole family. What can I say? She is not an angel - but not far from it.

I love being from a big family. You are never alone and you are never short of someone to talk, play or argue with. But with all these siblings, comes competition, and with siblings like mine, competition is high. Without a unique skill of my own, I would watch and learn from theirs. I would challenge them with my mediocre version of their genius, and fail, but in doing so make myself just a little bit better each time.

For most of my teenage years I was uncomfortable in my own skin, and at times, wished I could be more like my elder sister. It wasn't until my university days in London (a big step for a farm girl whose nearest neighbour was fields away) and later in my working life that I found I quite liked being me. Hearing your own thoughts is a luxury after a noisy, crowded childhood. It is from this that my addiction to thinking began...

Publicising the Private Me

Well, here I am, after weeks of to-ing and fro-ing, excuses and procrastination, finally dipping my metaphorical toe into the blogosphere. My reason for waivering is not a lack of commitment to my future readers (hi by the way, nice to meet you), but rather the plain and simple fact that, in truth, behind the public me, I am personally shy. I know this knowledge doesn't sit well with my decision to share my weird and wonderful inner dialogue with whomever stumbles across my blog, but hey, I have never purported to be normal.