Some Modern Nursery Rhymes - by me

Charlie, Charlie, likes to parley
talks to oats and beans and barley.
What he tells them nobody knows
but that's the way his garden grows.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The King of Babylon ruled his land
with an iron glove on an iron hand.
He made the country shiver and shake
and kept the bushes wide awake.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A rich young man who lived in the east
became a fierce and cunning beast.
He left his home and lived in a cave
because he didn't know how to behave.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

An iron lady came to town
and turned the country upside down.
Some said hang her, some said burn,
but no one could make the lady turn.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

One two three, what do I see?
four five six, who's playing tricks?
seven eight nine, spin me a line.
number ten, messed up again.

Diary of a Troubled Mind

Written across a week during a time when depression was a frequent unwelcome visitor.  I have quite a collection from that time.  It may seem odd to be able to get one's thoughts on paper during such times, but it's one way of coping.


Diary of a Troubled Mind


Day I

Curled beneath the covers
trembling, thumb in mouth,
silent tears dampen the pillow.
Once again oblivion calls
as sanity
slowly
slips
away


Day 2

A mind bewildered, fogged, befuddled,
thoughts and feelings mixed and muddled,
from the confusion a thought emerges,
sobbed at first, it quickly surges:
I have - the right - to say no...
I have the right to say no.
I HAVE THE RIGHT TO SAY NO!


Day 3

My birthday.
Celebrate? I don't think so.
One card, from my sister
- at least someone remembered -
with some of her poems
on how to be a better Christian.
Or something.


Day 4

It's all a matter of balance.
One wrong move and whoops!
there she goes again;
hurtling to who knows where.
Psyche on the high wire
without a safety net.


Day 5

Lavender, bergamot, ylang ylang;
a recipe for calm.
At last the heart stops pounding,
lies still the trembling arm.
Some semblance of normality
brings reason to the fore
to put my thoughts in order,
to face the world once more.



Day 6

Today I woke feeling normal,
normal, that is, for me.
I realise I'm noticing things,
becoming aware of the outside world;
the roar of traffic, next door's dogs.
A siren wails, and another,
as ambulances pass.
Next door are drilling, hammering;
sounds as if they're coming through.

It's cold today, cold and grey,
Spring halted in its tracks.
Today, perhaps, I can leave my room,
get online, make contact.
Hi Mac, nice to see you
seems like simply ages
since last I touched your keys.

But wait! The trembling threatens,
the heart begins to pound.
Perhaps another day?
No use rushing into things.
I can wait. I can wait...
No, I'm a big girl now.
I can do this. Right?


Crazy
© April 2003

Philosophical Meanderings

Philosophical Meanderings



Does the butterfly know courage
when first it leaves the cocoon?
Having left it's earthbound pedestrian life
of eating, eating, and yet more eating
to hibernate for many days
on the underside of a leaf
and break down into genetic soup,
it now has to start all over again
struggle free, out into the light
stretch its wings and soar on high.
How brave is the butterfly?

Does the lioness know courage
when she faces the male who comes along
and wants to mate and sees her young as
a threat to his own genetic line;
when she drives him away with tooth and claw
to defend her young ones sired elsewhere
does she stop to think "Ooh, this is scary"
or just act purely on instinct?
What courage she shows in human terms
but a mother's desire to defend her young
is pretty instinctive under duress.
How brave is the lioness?

A baby bird has to leave the nest
learn to fly and fend for itself
and we put it down to instinct
but is it afraid of the cat and the owl
the predators all around?
Does it have to pluck up courage
to launch itself from off that bough?
To struggle at length with its very first worm
which must be a little daunting
and we call it nature, take it for granted
- that's just what creatures do.
Is talk of courage absurd?
How brave is the little bird?

I ask because I'm human,
and humans like to know.
We want to know what makes us tick
why we do the things we do
or why we sometimes don't.
Is courage merely an instinct
born of the need to survive?
or is it something we can control
by an act of will, determination?
We like to think we're very brave,
ripping our fears asunder,
but are we really? I wonder.

Friends to Ashes, Toys to Tears

Friends to Ashes, Toys to Tears.


I still remember well the day
my mother threw my toys away:
the woollen war-time home-made bear
and Gloria, with dark brown hair,
my rag doll, Annie, who for years
had soothed away my childhood fears,
a china doll with little teeth
and silken clothes with pants beneath.

These childhood friends who'd shared my bed
were suddenly just junk instead.
I, silent, watched them turn to ash.
What wouldn't burn went in the trash.
Others, too, I don't remember
turned into a glowing ember;
all but one doll, new and blonde,
with which I couldn't seem to bond.

I'll never know, I couldn't say,
what made my mother act that way
but, after more than fifty years,
it still reduces me to tears.

What's in a Name?

Parents, be very careful about naming your children. It can have a profound effect on their lives. It did on mine.

I was born during the Second world war, 1944 to be precise, and on Good Friday of that year, which must be the saddest day in the Christian calendar.  Not an auspicious time in any sense.  My family were sleeping in a bomb shelter my father had built in the cellar of the house at the time.  I once asked if I'd been born down there but was assured that the event had taken place upstairs in my parent's bedroom, after which we moved back down into the cellar.

My mother, in her wisdom, chose to name me Christine much in the way that people throughout history have been named Coronation, or Jubilee, or some such ridiculous name. Though they aren't as bad as one poor chap I read about in ancient somewhere-or-other who was called "the day the well fell in".  Imagine going through life saddled with that! Anyway, the name meant nothing to me for the first few years of my life. It was just the name I was known by.

It was never abbreviated and I had no other. My older sister had two names from which to choose, which I grew to envy, but I had been given just the one, as if they couldn't be bothered to think of another, or were too poor to afford more than one. Nor was I ever given a nickname or pet name. Christine I was, and Christine I remained.  I was duly so registered and christened into the Church of England, as were most children in those days, and that was that.

Although mine was not a church-going family they'd had some religious training in their own upbringing so, at some point during the tender years of my childhood, I was sent to Sunday School.  I doubt this would have happened had we not lived next door to a Sunday School teacher; an elderly woman and pleasant enough as I remember her. I believe her name was Bessie Clegg, a good old Lancashire name, though I could be wrong about that. My brain is the sort in which names find it very easy to avoid detection, moving around as they do in a sort of haze.

This Miss Clegg, who was one of two unmarried sisters, would hold my hand and walk me the mile or so to St Matthew's Parish Church every week and we would meet in the adjoining school house where, week by week, I learned what it meant to be a Christian. It appeared to involve "sitting still" and "being good" amongst other things. 

Like most children I asked about the meaning of my name. It meant "Christian" apparently and was a feminine form of that word.  So this, it appeared, is not only what I was but who I was.

At the age of twelve I was confirmed into the Church which, for those not in the know, means that one confirms the vows made by one's parents at infant baptism. Much later I was to receive yet another baptism, by full immersion, so I was thrice blessed. Or thrice beholden anyway.

But I digress. We were expected to leave Sunday School after confirmation and attend church services instead, although there was a Rector's Class for teenagers which I attended for a short while. There I learned two things.  One was that nobody could answer my questions, so it seemed a waste of time going. The second was that the older boys, of sixteen years or so, would take the girls to bed after the evening service.  For a thirteen year old girl this was an alarming prospect, especially as I had no knowledge of "that sort of thing". 

It was tried on me once and only my naiveté saved me on that occasion.  Whatever else those boys were being taught there was clearly no mention of inter-personal relationships of a sexual nature, as far as under-age girls were concerned anyway.  Needless to say, I left the Rector's class.

From then on it was holy communion and matins or evensong, all of which I loved attending. St Matthew's church was not so High that we involved the Blessed Virgin, nor were there "smells and bells", but we did chant the services, sing psalms, and had a crucifix instead of a plain cross. It was this crucifix that was to colour the next thirty or so years of my life.

I would stand before it, beneath the pulpit, and gaze into the beautiful but infinitely sad and long-suffering face of Christ.  This, then, was what it meant to be a christian, a Christine.  My fate, it seemed, was sealed.  I was to suffer. To sacrifice myself in the service of others.

This was reinforced at home, where all of us suffered some degree of deprivation in order that my mother might achieve her dream of one day owning her own home.  I gave up more than she will ever know to that end, but that's another story. I saw it as my lot in life so to do.

Many years later I broke out of this straightjacket called destiny, and realised that there was more to life than serving and appeasing.  Now I am a much more rounded character.  To mark this I have taken on some new names, befitting my new status.  I am and always will be Christine at heart, that's too deeply rooted now to be totally eliminated, but I am discovering so many facets to my personality that even I am amazed.  I am branching out in all directions.

Whatever names I am now known by are not intended to deceive, but to help me express thought processes that the tightly constricted me would never have dared consider.  This is today's me, the new me, the "look out world, here I come" me, the me you know as hochiwich - amongst other things.

© 2002 edited 2013

My Hero

So there I was - all 5'2" of me - standing under a streetlamp in my white see-through nylon nightdress around one o' clock in the morning, chatting to these two blokes. Each of them was like the side of a house, and one had blood running down his head.
Why? You may well ask...

    It was late, well past midnight, and one of my boys, the one who still lived at home, wasn't in yet.  My daughter was already married and living elsewhere.  I still called them "the boys" (still do, today) even though they were pretty much young men by then.  Both in their late teens, one of them 6'2" and the other not far behind.  They used to go into town for a few drinks with their friends and usually got home safely.  This night, however, that hadn't happened.  
    I was asleep in bed with their father, but was rudely awoken by a crashing sound at the front of the house.  Blearily we made our way into the living room to see a brick on the floor and a jagged hole in the double glazing.  My husband was furious, naturally.  It was a large window that he and I had installed ourselves, with a great deal of effort and at great expense, and very recently. 
    Then we noticed two creatures on the pavement - sidewalk - outside the house.  There was a street light immediately by our drive so it was impossible to miss them.  I would have said "young men", but I wasn't convinced they were any such thing; these were gorillas in clothes. Huge. And ugly. And they had obviously been imbibing freely during the evening.  They were swaying gently and peering at the house.
    My husband clenched his fists and stomped out of the front door. He approached them, asking what I considered to be a somewhat unnecessary question. 
    "What d'you think you're doing?" he said, in a tone of utter bewilderment.  He didn't even sound angry; more perplexed really. British, you see. Polite. Have to keep the stiff upper lip.  Dignity at all times.  He went on to ask, equally redundantly: "Did you do that?"
    I'd followed him out there, in my nightdress.  I'm not really sure why, now.  Maybe to keep the peace or something.  Help out in some way.
    "Yeah. Where are they?" one of the neanderthals grunted. 
    "Who?" I asked, knowing full well. At this point I was keeping it general, not really wanting to know which of my little darlings had provoked this assault on our premises.
    Nevertheless he told me  - in no uncertain terms - that it was the older one he really wanted.  "He hit my brother. He's bleeding!"  He turned the other man-mountain around and sure enough there was a small gash on his head from which blood had clearly been trickling down his head.  To be fair it was probably a mixture of blood and alcohol.
    My husband did one of those exasperated, blowing sort of things and quietly suggested: "You keep them talking while I go and phone the police."

   My hero, I thought, as I raised my eyebrows, wryly. Not in surprise; there was little that could surprise me any more. 'This then, is my knight in shining armour!' I admitted to myself, watching his back as he retreated to the safety of the house.
    Over the next few minutes the vandal who was capable of speech told me that they'd had a fight with my sons, which wasn't exactly a shocking revelation, and one - the bleeding one - had been hit with something hard. For this they wanted retribution. 
    I explained that one of the boys, the younger one, no longer lived at home; he shared a flat with another lad.  I don't think they believed me.  They looked pretty sceptical.  At least, that's how I interpreted the looks they were giving me.  I also told them that the one they were looking for hadn't returned yet but I'd be sure to look into what had happened when he did. 
    They appeared less than satisfied with this but there was nothing they could do, being too drunk in any case, so the semi-coherent one simply told me that I was to tell my son and heir that when he saw him he was going to kill him.  Actually, the phrase he used was "put him in a box" which I assumed meant "kill him". He was a young man of few words to be honest.
    Now it was my turn to sigh, deeply and meaningfully, but after a few more sympathetic motherly comments from me they decided to go, and I went back into the house.  My husband came into the living room and said the police were coming round so we sat down to wait for them.
    My older son came in soon afterwards and we questioned him about the incident.  It appeared that the gorillas were brothers and well known local hooligans.  One of them had thrown someone through an upstairs plate glass window once.  Nice! I thought. 
    Anyway, my younger son had been in a bar when the aforementioned thugs had come in and decided to start a ruck.  He decided to leave the pub, but as he did these two hoodlums leapt on him from behind, so his brother, who had been upstairs playing snooker or billiards  - something like pool - was told and ran downstairs  and followed them out. 
    Aha, the weapon was a snooker cue, I thought, but no.
    Nothing so simple.  As he ran after them he came to the rescue with his nunchucka. Yep, that's right.  He'd made it himself from two hammer handles and a short length of chain, and he'd been practising using this, unbeknown to me.
    He'd caught one of the assailants on the back of the head, then someone called the police so he'd dropped his weapon and the two of them made a run for it.   I should explain that the police station in that town is only a couple of hundred yards from this particular pub they drank in.
    As promised, I passed on the message from his would-be murderer which probably came as no surprise to him. These brothers were well known in the town. As were my sons, actually, but for different reasons, which I won't go into now.

    Those guardians of English law and order, the local bobbies - PC Plod and his sidekick - eventually arrived at our house, looked at the window, looked at the lump of brick, and asked if we'd seen who threw it. They pursed their lips and stood shaking their heads regretfully when we said we hadn't. There was nothing they could do; no witnesses, you see.  As we hadn't actually seen the men throw the brick they couldn't charge them.  It counted for nothing that the men involved had admitted it to us.  Hearsay, you see. Can't charge a person on hearsay. 
    Which is no doubt true, but not what we wanted to hear. I mean, they didn't go and ask the neighbours if anyone else had seen it.  That would have been too much trouble, no doubt.  Easier to just let it go.
    They said they would go and speak to the other men and see what they had to say, but it was unlikely they would admit anything. 
    You don't say, I thought.
    As they left us the police suggested that, as they could do nothing, my son should catch these blokes down a dark alley one night.  It would be doing the town a favour. They wouldn't be mourned, apparently.  Unfortunately, my son thought this was a splendid idea.
    To say I was appalled is putting it mildly.  I was too stunned to say anything to the policemen but when they'd gone I left my son in no doubt that I would not harbour a murderer under my roof.  He could put all thoughts of getting revenge out of his head or leave home. 
    My husband insisted I was being totally unreasonable.  Surely I wouldn't turn my own son out of the house! Why was I taking sides with the enemy? 
    Unreasonable? Me? I said he had a week to think about it.  And I wouldn't be changing my mind.  All that such an action would do is set some sort of family feud in motion.  And I was having none of it.

    That was not the easiest week of my marriage by a long way. My husband set up a cine-camera, trained on the front door, in case the morons came back for another go.  I think he thought we'd be murdered in our beds or something.  He barely spoke to me, not to say anything civil anyway, but I was adamant.  I love my son dearly, but there are limits to what I will tolerate.
    By the end of the week my son had reconsidered and agreed he wouldn't attack anyone.   He did ask me where they were supposed to go for a night out now, as it was a very small town.  The kind where almost everyone is related.  You know the sort of thing: kick one and they all limp.  Our family was not a part of that, however, as we'd moved there some years before from a totally different part of the country. Incomers. Outsiders. We didn't really belong.
    I suggested they go to the next town just a few miles up the coast, no distance at all, until things blew over, and he agreed that was reasonable. 

    So that's what happened and no more came of it, thankfully.  But I think that night was the first time I'd realised just what wimps men can be, not to mention idiots. And why they need women around.

My Time in Germany

   I suppose I've told you about the time we went to Germany, have I? No? Are you sure? Oh ok.

    It was like this. My daughter went somewhere  - northern Italy I think - on a skiing trip with the school. Unfortunately it proved to be something of a disaster  - disasters followed us around I'm afraid, rather like a faithful hound - but we weren't to know that then.  It was around Easter time as I remember and my husband decided it would be nice if we and the boys went somewhere for a few days as well.  This was a rare event in our house so we jumped at it.  I believe it was the year before we all went by boat to the Channel Islands, but I could be wrong.  It is a long time ago.
    Anyway we, or he, I don't remember now, decided we would drive to Germany.  We had a large car, a Citroen Safari - kind of a station wagon type thing but sexier.   We crossed the English Channel by ferry as it was before the Channel tunnel was built.  That's a point. Do you build a tunnel?  It sounds all wrong somehow.  Maybe you dig it, but that sounds far too hippy. 
       My husband drove through France and Luxembourg until we got to Germany.  He's one of those men who can stay awake indefinitely when they want to, but get them home and they nod off in the armchair in front of the tv.  He's been known to drive all day, all night, and then some.
    So we drove and drove and drove.  Thankfully the boys were well past the "Are we there yet?" stage and amused themselves.  On the autobahn in the Rhein area we spotted an exit sign for a little town called Stromberg-am-Rhein so naturally had to take a picture of it, me leaning out of the car window as we hurtled along. 
      We continued more or less eastwards to Munich where there was nowhere at all to stay - there was some big convention taking place - then drove south for a bit. It was now dark and eventually he decided it would be a good idea to find somewhere to spend the night, so we stopped at the next little town we got to and found a hotel.  It was one of those Swiss chalet type of buildings, the sort where you expect a musical movement incorporated somewhere and a large key on the side.  Obviously it hadn't any such thing.  Anyway, we went in and approached the desk. 
    Now, I had learned a little German at school, many years before. I couldn't hold a conversation but if I say something it does sound like it's supposed to, right?  This isn't always a help, as you'll see, but my hub was at the other end of the scale.  He's the kind of person who thinks if you say it in broken English loud enough, especially with what he supposes to be a foreign accent, they're bound to understand eventually.
I have to tell you now - they don't. 
       I spoke to the woman in charge. "Haben Sie zimmer frei, bitte?"  (Have you rooms free, please?) "Oh jah," she repled, followed by a lot of stuff I couldn't follow.
    I looked bewildered, nodded and tried again. "Mit bade?  Douche?"  (With bath, shower?)
    "Jah, jah," she agreed. I was doing fine.  Up to that point anyway.  She showed us to the rooms and before she left I asked "Konnen wir essen, bitte?" (Can we eat, please) as we hadn't eaten for some time.  This too was ok by her.
    We were fairly hungry and looked forward to some good food. She led us to the dining area, all raw wood and hard benches, and gave us a menu to look at. It was in German, with no English translation, but I figured I could work out the dishes ok with the help of a basic English/German  and German/English dictionary. This was a big mistake. Huge.
    I saw a dish called kaltfleischplatte or something like that. Now knowing that kalt is cold, and fleisch is meat and platter is fairly obviously platter, I imagined slices of cold meat, cold cuts.  Well you would, wouldn't you?  No?  Well I did. One of the boys went for the same but the other two had something different.  A mixed grill or some such.
    When it arrived I was more than a little surprised.  It turned out to be something akin to what I later learned is called steak tartare, which I believe has to do with it first being eaten in Russia.  It was a huge mound of raw minced, or ground, meat - beef I think -  with some raw onion slices on top and a dusting of paprika.  It may have had some raw egg mixed in there as well, I'm not sure.  It was certainly slimy.
    Well, to our credit, my son and I bravely managed a small amount of this delicacy, without turning a hair, before admitting defeat.  I have never had the slightest inclination to eat raw meat, either before or since, and would have to be a great deal hungrier than that to do so again.  Like dying of starvation or something.
    The hour was late so we retired, I somewhat deflated. 

    When we woke the next morning it was to a magnificent sight, from our bedroom windows, of snow covered mountains.  Real honest to goodness mountains, high and mighty, the kind we just don't have at home.  On leaving the hotel after a breakfast of rolls and slices of cheese, and coffee,  it was to find the whole place looked a bit like Toytown. Only bigger of course. 
    All those wonderful chalets, many  with magnificent paintings on the walls.   It turned out we were in, or very near, Garmisch Parten-Kirchen, famous for the skiing.  I'm afraid my memory is legendary for being somewhat sporadic.  It's very near Oberammergau, too, where they do the Passion Plays.
      Anyway, my husband needed to change some money into Deutschmarks, so we found a place dedicated to that sort of thing where he, being the man of course and in charge, tried out his version of pidgin English cum German. Loudly. "I vant to change money.  Engleesh."
      The attractive and perfectly poised woman behind the counter must have been either amused or irritated, I would imagine, but remained completely aloof and merely answered him in flawless English without a hint of an accent.  "Yes sir, certainly. How much would you like to change?"
      I just wanted the floor to open and swallow us all, a not uncommon desire on my part during my married years.  Eye rolling was a family pastime.

     None of us ski but we did go up Zugspitze, the high peak, in a cable car and stand looking out over the Alps of three countries: Germany, Austria and Italy.   The border between Germany and Austria is at the top and if you go through the restaurant there you actually pass through the border.  You weren't allowed to go down the other side of the mountain of course unless you had your passport with you.  That may have changed now, with the new freedom to travel in Europe, but that's how it was then.
    The view from the railed walkway was an amazing sight.  Breathtaking.  Like being on top of the world.  On the way back down we saw deer tracks in the snow between the trees and took pictures of them, which I still have. 

    Pressing on, we headed back west towards the border with France and came to the Shwarzwald, or Black Forest.   We found a little place called Titizee and, being young teenage boys, my sons were inordinately tickled by this name and engaged in a considerable amount of sniggering.
    We stayed there for a couple of nights at an inn adorned with various animal heads and antlers and so forth. The people round there hunt a lot. Especially for wild boar. The innkeeper proudly told us about his son who had trophies for it. On eating out we found that they ate a lot of pork in the area, as you might suppose.  And everything had rich sauces made with cream. Very nice food but loaded with calories.  I gained half a stone that week.  They did a lot of sauerkraut too.
    Whilst there my sons made off with my German phrase book so they could chat up the girls.  I don't know what success they had. I didn't ask. They probably wouldn't have told me anyway. And they managed to lose the phrase book.
       My sons and girls. That was something that started extremely early but it was good for one thing: they were always clean and sweet smelling.  We never went through the unwashed stage many mothers of teenage boys have to endure.  The downside was never being able to get in the bathroom, and occasionally not being able to find my hairbrush or hairspray. 
     But I digress.  Back in Titizee, the main thing to be had in the way of tourist stuff was cuckoo clocks, so of course  we had to have one as a souvenir.  Now, one of the other things about my old man was his insistence on always having the most expensive thing he could afford regardless of its suitability. He spotted one he liked.
    Unfortunately, as well as the loud tick as the pendulum swung, and the cuckoo bobbing out and cucking and ooing at you to mark the hours, up to twelve times of course, it also played assorted little German tunes every quarter hour.  Which is all very well in the shop, but in the living room at home, when you're engrossed in a tense tv drama, it's less than endearing.  Also the carved decoration consisting of crossed guns and dangling dead rabbits and birds was not really to my taste, but my husband was well impressed.
    Naturally we had to take this monstrosity home with us.  And the clock.

Mad as a Hatter

I have something to get off my chest.

Oh, and don’t feel obliged to listen.  I can rattle on for ages given half a chance.

The thing is, I’ve just realised that instead of being someone with rather erratic moods, I seem to now have two distinct and disparate personalities, which come and go.  What’s more they appear to be diverging.  One of me is totally calm, logical, and the other is quite the opposite.

As long as I have my sensible head on I can cope with anything, but when the emotional side rears its ugly head people should really run for cover.   Worzel Gummidge, a fictional scarecrow character from my childhood days, had different heads for different occasions.  The difference with me is I don’t seem to be able to choose which one to wear at any given time.  They come and go as they please.

I believe that the concept of multiple personality disorder is now regarded as just plain wrong so I won’t even consider that as an option but I do wonder what’s happening to me, and why it’s happening now.  Could it be some sort of bi-polar thing, I wonder, becoming more obvious with age. Are the two halves of my brain, the male and female sides, coming unglued?  An interesting prospect.

As you can no doubt tell, I have my sensible head on as I write this, or it would be full of doom and gloom and possibly even profanities.  And yet, as a recent comment shows, a piece written in that phase has been called possibly my best work.   It’s hard to know what to make of that.  Many artists have been disturbed in some way, I know, mad as hatters, some of them, so I should probably thank my lucky stars and just get on with it.

They do say that genius is just a hop, skip and a jump away from madness of course, which is a comforting thought.  I think.

Oh, it’s no use telling me to ask my doctor.  He would probably raise an eyebrow and give me a verbal pat on the head.  He’s like that.  Very nice man but not terribly understanding.  I’ve pretty much given up going to see him at all.  Waste of time on the whole. 

No, yet again I’ll do some research, see what the so-called experts have to say.

It’s all very odd, yet fascinating, watching it happen.  It’s at times like this that I’m relieved to live alone.  There isn’t anyone to drive up the wall.  I can be as odd as I like and there’s no-one to see it.  Thankfully.

Aren’t you lucky to have such a fascinating creature in your midst? Don’t answer that.  It was rhetorical.  I just feel I have to justify my existence somehow.  

But anyway. I was thinking, I’ve become rather comfortable in my body recently so why be selfish about it? Why not move over and allow two of me to inhabit it.  It seems to be working so far.  Sort of.  And if the unruly person in me becomes too outrageous I have no doubt someone will do something.

Just don’t put me back on the psych ward. Please! The place is full of loonies. 


©March 2007

It is now 2013 and you may or may not be pleased to hear that I am considerably more stable these days.

Green and All at Sea

 Have I ever told you about the time my husband decided we should take up boating? No? Oh, you must hear this one.

   Having saved hard for some years he decided that a boat would be just the thing for our future holidays and going fishing as well.  It would save us money in the long run. No matter that none of us had ever been boating in our entire lives and knew nothing whatsoever about boats.  That would easily be remedied.   He could do anything he put his hand to, right?
   Well, we got our boat.  We drove to somewhere up the Thames where it was berthed, haggled a bit no doubt, and came away ten grand the poorer and the proud possessors of a twenty six foot, twin screw, five berth boat.  Lovely.  He, naturally, was to be the skipper, which meant he sat at the helm and issued orders.
   Me? I was to be the navigator, first (and only) mate, cook and general galley slave.  You're wondering about that navigating bit aren't you?  I know, I wondered about that myself.

   "Go to the public library," he said. "Borrow a book on it."
   Yeah, right.
   So, dutifully, I went to the library and in fact found a very helpful book; one of a series of Teach Yourself books, called Teach Yourself Navigation.  It's true, I swear! 
   I took it home and read it, studiously. Me, who'd left school without a single qualification.  Me, who'd been called stupid all my life!  I leaned about the effects of tides: high tides, low tides, spring tides, neap tides.  I learned about charting a course, compass directions and weather warnings, sea conditions and all manner of stuff I now can't bring to mind. 
   Ok.  Good.  I was now ready to navigate for our first holiday at sea. I made sure he knew that I would cook breakfast and lunch, but evening meals would not be down to me; we would eat out.  He was less than thrilled at this.  Appalled is the word that comes to mind. The thing had a galley didn't it? Hadn't he spent enough already?  Nevertheless I insisted, which isn't something I did as a rule but it was my holiday too, after all.
   The boat was duly brought down the Thames to the harbour at Whitstable where we lived at the time.   We bought suitable clothing, stocked the galley with non perishable food - I even pickled a large jarful of eggs for the trip - and set off into the unknown.
   I haven't yet mentioned our three teenagers who were to accompany us on this journey of discovery.   Our daughter was seventeen then and fairly typical of the breed.  Scathing of her brothers and wanting little to do with them.  The boys, fifteen  and fourteen, and already six footers give or take an inch,  were also fairly typical. Either fighting or the best of mates.  And they despised their sister.
   These three, then, had to share the sleeping space in the bow, in separate sleeping bags, naturally,  while hubby and I shared the double berth made from the dining seats and table in the galley area. 
   We got out of the harbour without mishap and motored round the coast to the marina at Ramsgate and put in there for the first night.  So far, so good. The next day we went as far as Brighton marina, where my husbands over inflated sense of importance convinced him that we would be allowed to use their yacht club. This was not the case of course so we had  look round the town instead before heading off to Cowes on the Isle of Wight, off the south coast of England. There we moored amidst assorted yachts of the more or less wealthy, from huge luxury Yachts with a capital Y that dwarfed us, to proper sailing yachts. The thing I remember most is the clanking of ropes against masts that I was aware of all night.  I found it a curiously comforting sound, somehow. 
   Later we discovered that we'd arrived just in time for this leg of the Round the World Yacht race, which explained the huge numbers present.  No wonder I felt so insignificant.  He didn't, of course.  I don't think he ever did though. 

   The next morning I listened in to the early weather reports for the English Channel.  They seemed ok, and the weather looked fine enough, so the skipper had me get out the charts I'd prepared for continuing on to the Channel Isles. 
   Off we went.  Cowes is on the northern tip of the island, close to the the mainland. Imagine a rather flattened diamond shape with its topmost point close to land and you get the picture.  For some reason I can't now remember, possibly the tide, we decided to head out for the journey in a south easterly direction then round the eastern point and southwesterly before heading out towards the Atlantic ocean.
   All was going fine, though the sea was rather choppy for such a small boat and we were being bounced around like peas on a drum.  The captain sat at his wheel, smoking his pipe and looking every inch a skipper totally in charge of things.  The operative word there is "looking".
   When we were about half way round the island the sea mist started to roll in.  Gradually at first, but nonetheless I questioned the advisability of continuing. I suggested we turn back.  "Oh no," was his considered opinion. "It probably won't be much." 
   Ha!   By the time we got to the open sea you couldn't see more than a few yards.  I should probably point out at this juncture, for anyone who doesn't know, that the English Channel is one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world.  Massive tankers of all types use it to go from northern Europe to just about everywhere, and in addition,  cross channel ferries travel between France and England on a regular basis.
   And here we were, a tiny little boat, in a thick fog, attempting to navigate said channel.  It was like wandering around on foot on a multi-lane highway with everyone blindfolded.   Every now and again the haunting sound of a fog horn would eerily encroach upon us above the noise of the engine, but with no real indication of direction.  Echoes made it seem to come from everywhere.
   Our older son, all of fifteen and a half years, was sent to sit astride the railing on the bows and periodically hoot one of those canned foghorn things.  My daughter and I, devout Christians as we were, huddled on a seat on deck and prayed incessantly, or sang uplifting religious choruses to keep from going completely insane.
   The weather was not conducive to being on deck you understand, it's not as if we were sunbathing, but the continual motion meant that being below resulted in rather severe nausea.  When the boat wasn't tilting forwards or backwards, it was getting lifted by waves then dropped into the gaps between them.  Being on deck was definitely the lesser of two evils. 
   Besides, we wanted to see whatever we were going to crash into.  Our youngest was below however, lying down as he was feeling unwell. 
   Then, as it was getting pretty cold,  the captain helpfully suggested cocoa all round. 
   Now, I don't know if you've ever tried making five cups of cocoa while being hurled about by  high waves whilst traveling at a rate of knots, but I can tell you now: it isn't easy.  It involves putting the cups in a row on the draining board, preparing the cocoa while the kettle boils - trying to remain in one spot - then using the motion of the boat to run past the cups as you pour.  The direction isn't important.  What you don't get in the cups on the first run doesn't matter much, you get another go on the way back.  They get filled eventually.
   Then came the challenge of carrying them up the ladder. Again, not an easy task under those conditions but I made it.  It was while drinking my cocoa, which I managed to do without spilling too much, that I suddenly had this awful thought. 
   "Suppose," I said, "we miss Alderney in the fog? It's only small.  We could could end up in mid Atlantic rapidly running out of fuel."
   "Good point," agreed the skipper. "Go and plot a course for the north coast of France."
   "Right," says I. Adding under my breath: "Anything to oblige."
   I scrambled back down the ladder and got out the chart, a ruler, a pencil and the other necessary paraphernalia.  Now, I don't know if you've ever tried to draw very precise lines with a pencil and a ruler while being hurled about by high waves whilst traveling at a rate of knots, but - ok. You get the picture.  The damn things kept leaping off the table as the boat smashed down between the waves.
    After much trial and tribulation and liberal use of an eraser,  I plotted a course to Cherbourg. It was almost directly opposite where we were. He couldn't go far wrong, surely.  Even he could manage to steer in a straight line.  I gave the figures to the man in charge and went back to praying.
    With the undoubted help of all our combined guardian angels - and my navigating - we did in fact make it to Cherbourg in one piece, sighting the marker buoy easily.
    We ate on shore in the town and went to sleep that night hoping for a better day on the morrow.
   The next day dawned bright and fair. Clear skies meant we had a relatively easy journey ahead of us.  Unfortunately by this time my youngest son was in a bad way. He was clearly burning up with the worst fever I'd ever seen.  Although he'd complained of feeling unwell earlier the situation had clearly escalated. 
   I set about sponging him down with cold water to try to get his temperature down, as the pills I'd given him didn't help at all.  He was a big boy for his age but too ill to care about modesty; almost delirious in fact. His temperature was something like105 degrees.
   When we arrived at the harbour on Alderney the first thing we did was ask about a doctor at the sailing club.  They told us the quickest thing would be to go to the hospital in St Anne, the only town.  It's in the centre of the island but only a mile away from the harbour, so off we went.
    They examined the poor kid, who was pretty delirious by this time, shook their heads, and asked if we'd been in Africa recently. Africa? What did he have? Swamp fever?!  Apparently they'd never seen the like, such a high temperature...etc etc.   Africa!  We'd never left England before!
   The only ward they had empty was the maternity ward so, in order to isolate him, that's where he was put.  I wonder how many fourteen year old boys have had that experience.  Later we decided that he'd picked something up in Cowes from handling the mooring ropes.  With visitors there from the four corners of the earth who knows what it might have been.
   He was in the hospital for a week.  His father and brother went fishing each day while his sister and I visited him.  He was loving it.  The nurses were giving him blanket baths every day to reduce his body heat, as I'd been doing on the boat, and he had iced water on demand.  And although he might sound young to some, this was a very precocious fourteen year old.  Very.

   So passed the first week we spent on that boat.  We did eat out in the evenings; I made sure of that.  We visited Guernsey and Jersey and Sark before returning to the Isle of Wight, where we had to leave the boat and get the ferry and train back home.  The engines had packed up.
   Sadly that was the only holiday we ever had on it. Hubby went off the idea of boating after a couple of fishing trips and it was left to rot in Ramsgate marina until it sank and had to be lifted out of the water. Then it was seized and sold to pay outstanding marina fees. That was years later, some time after I'd left the man to his follies. 
   Considering he'd bought the boat to save money on vacationing, that was one expensive holiday.