We’ve all lightened up a bit momentarily, chiefly because the g’son returned to school quite normally Monday and is only grumbling in normal fashion about the exams they are being subjected to this week. H even asked his mum why she and I where so worried, which caused her to splutter rather. ‘But It’s over now for another three weeks,’ he said, reasonably enough. Forgive us, child, for being afraid of the subterranean rumblings in his unconscious - the sort that have caused psychosomatic illnesses over the passed two years.
Maybe he really is learning to cope. Apologies to the tiny counsellor in that case - now could she come and help us two poor raddled ‘grown-ups.’
To survive the horrors I’ve been reading a raft of girly pool-side books. Starting with Joanna Trollope’s “Friday Nights,’ which I hear on her site (my isn’t she a plummy Brit?) was inspired by her vision of the new importance of friendship between women in a fractured society where friends replace family. I moved to a similar, but more souffléd, theme in Carole Matthews’ ‘The Chocolate Lovers’ Club’ which caused me to eat a whole bar of Green & Black’s dark choc with cherry in one morning, so possibly should come with a health warning. I romped through Fay Weldon’s: ‘she my not leave’ (lower case for title because it’s written thus on the cover) which as often with her novels gives the initial impression of being predictable but has a scorpions’ sting in it’s neatly furled tail.
Finally I am just finishing something I never thought to read, Lauren Weisberger’s ‘The Devil Wears Prada’ which I’m finding more satisfying than the film. But that’s usually the way.
There may have been others, taken off now by my daughter for her own therapeutic binge, but I can’t remember them.
Between the marshmallows I’ve digested Karin Slaughter (what a name for a crime-horror writer!) ‘genesis’ (again the lower case title. It must be designer chic with the publishers at present.) That was a lot more readable than Patricia Cornwall’s ‘The Scarpetta Factor’ (upper case... should have known.. ) which I found almost impossible. maybe the timing in my life was wrong but it seemed to me to be full of the minutiae of legal, forensic, political, crime work, which slowed any story to a crawl and lost me completely. Hardly a single italian dish was prepared by the eponymous heroine in all 536 pages. I have come to expect at least a drizzle of extra virgin and some parmigiano reggiano from Scarpetta..
9 Jun 2010
6 Jun 2010
Nightmare
The events of the last week would have been disturbing enough but they came just three weeks after my grandson returned home deeply distressed after a visit to his father and was finally coaxed into revealing the reason for his distress: His father had threatened to shoot his mother and her partner.
The child is forced, when visiting this charmer, to call his mother (and all of the rest of us) by obscene names. The charmer’s partner, who seems to be a hot-headed and jealous woman (we already suspect her of hitting S once in the past) helps by prompting S if he fails to speak of us in the required terms. S was shown a pocket full of marbles and a catapult and told these are to be used to smash the windows of my daughter’s car and the house. The death threat will be carried out if the father hears he has three days left to live. What a thoughtful parent to envisage killing his son’s mum just as his son is hypothetically about to lose his other parent! As G is 55 and his health isn’t great, (angina, stents , dodgy heart, etc.) This isn’t so distant a possibility as it might sound, especially to his young son. Dad is always telling him that he might die at any time. Playing the guilt/sympathy card. He’s really good at that.
My daughter was persuaded by two retired policemen to report the threat to the police. She was reluctant to do this because S had told her of the threats in confidence and she is always afraid he will stop confiding in her if she betrays these confidences. S doesn’t want to stop seeing his dad. That’s just about understandable - we all want our fathers to love us, be an OK person, and so on; at least at that age.
The police agreed not to speak to S . One officer was particularly sympathetic because he had been in the same position himself as a child , having to sell one or other parent ‘down the river’ every time the police called after an incident. He remembers how bad that made him feel.
After several long interviews with C & I they uplifted the guns and G’s licence has been revoked until the situation is reviewed. The police told my daughter that they had received similar reports from a source who overheard G sounding off in Tesco! Unfortunately that source was ‘too specific’ to be used in evidence. We don’t understand this.
There’s a lot we don’t understand and a lot that is driving me wild with frustration. It feels as if no-one can or will help. Because there is a legally binding agreement in place, made at the time of the divorce and custody proceedings, S has to see his father every third weekend or his mother is in contempt of court. The visit fell this weekend. He doesn’t stay overnight (that happens only at the mother’s discretion) so I saw him yesterday eve. He told me everything was fine. As soon as he got home to his mum he was frenetic, acting wildly and with extreme jollity, pretending to be OK, whilst we tried to enjoy a barbecue. Bits came out gradually to his mum and her partner. It seems, unsurprisingly, that dad is very angry and has made that anger quite clear. He was sworn to secrecy again so, in effect, must lie to us. A child of 11 really can’t keep that sort of thing to himself and shouldn’t be asked to. This man is evil.
S goes to a counsellor who claims she can do nothing unless he asks her to so would be no help if C did have to withhold visits and was taken to court. The father has legal aid so can go to a solicitor as often as he likes whereas C would have to pay thousands again to defend herself.
I don’t care about the threats. The man is a coward anyway. I do care about the poison he is dripping into my grandson’s ear and the terrible patterns he is building up in him of lying and deceiving, of fear and mistrust... to name but a few. I will also be very surprised if S manages to get to the end of term with all this going around in his head. It separates him from his peers because he feels he’s the only one with so many troubles. The school aren’t much help. I will bet money that he can’t go away with his class on the canoeing expedition because he’ll be too worried about what’s going on at home and if everyone is safe.
I write this in the hope of getting some of it out of my own system. I’m finding it very hard to breath at the moment! Also - if anyone out there has any ideas or views I’d be extremely grateful to hear them. We think we’ve covered all bases and are stuck with the situation,but a fresh eye might see something we’ve missed.
The child is forced, when visiting this charmer, to call his mother (and all of the rest of us) by obscene names. The charmer’s partner, who seems to be a hot-headed and jealous woman (we already suspect her of hitting S once in the past) helps by prompting S if he fails to speak of us in the required terms. S was shown a pocket full of marbles and a catapult and told these are to be used to smash the windows of my daughter’s car and the house. The death threat will be carried out if the father hears he has three days left to live. What a thoughtful parent to envisage killing his son’s mum just as his son is hypothetically about to lose his other parent! As G is 55 and his health isn’t great, (angina, stents , dodgy heart, etc.) This isn’t so distant a possibility as it might sound, especially to his young son. Dad is always telling him that he might die at any time. Playing the guilt/sympathy card. He’s really good at that.
My daughter was persuaded by two retired policemen to report the threat to the police. She was reluctant to do this because S had told her of the threats in confidence and she is always afraid he will stop confiding in her if she betrays these confidences. S doesn’t want to stop seeing his dad. That’s just about understandable - we all want our fathers to love us, be an OK person, and so on; at least at that age.
The police agreed not to speak to S . One officer was particularly sympathetic because he had been in the same position himself as a child , having to sell one or other parent ‘down the river’ every time the police called after an incident. He remembers how bad that made him feel.
After several long interviews with C & I they uplifted the guns and G’s licence has been revoked until the situation is reviewed. The police told my daughter that they had received similar reports from a source who overheard G sounding off in Tesco! Unfortunately that source was ‘too specific’ to be used in evidence. We don’t understand this.
There’s a lot we don’t understand and a lot that is driving me wild with frustration. It feels as if no-one can or will help. Because there is a legally binding agreement in place, made at the time of the divorce and custody proceedings, S has to see his father every third weekend or his mother is in contempt of court. The visit fell this weekend. He doesn’t stay overnight (that happens only at the mother’s discretion) so I saw him yesterday eve. He told me everything was fine. As soon as he got home to his mum he was frenetic, acting wildly and with extreme jollity, pretending to be OK, whilst we tried to enjoy a barbecue. Bits came out gradually to his mum and her partner. It seems, unsurprisingly, that dad is very angry and has made that anger quite clear. He was sworn to secrecy again so, in effect, must lie to us. A child of 11 really can’t keep that sort of thing to himself and shouldn’t be asked to. This man is evil.
S goes to a counsellor who claims she can do nothing unless he asks her to so would be no help if C did have to withhold visits and was taken to court. The father has legal aid so can go to a solicitor as often as he likes whereas C would have to pay thousands again to defend herself.
I don’t care about the threats. The man is a coward anyway. I do care about the poison he is dripping into my grandson’s ear and the terrible patterns he is building up in him of lying and deceiving, of fear and mistrust... to name but a few. I will also be very surprised if S manages to get to the end of term with all this going around in his head. It separates him from his peers because he feels he’s the only one with so many troubles. The school aren’t much help. I will bet money that he can’t go away with his class on the canoeing expedition because he’ll be too worried about what’s going on at home and if everyone is safe.
I write this in the hope of getting some of it out of my own system. I’m finding it very hard to breath at the moment! Also - if anyone out there has any ideas or views I’d be extremely grateful to hear them. We think we’ve covered all bases and are stuck with the situation,but a fresh eye might see something we’ve missed.
3 Jun 2010
Baroque catharsis
For one wallowing in the Slough of Despond it seemed appropriate to go to a performance of ‘Tears of St. Peter’ verses of Luigi Tansillo set to music by Orlando Lassus in 1595, his last work. It was billed as ‘An emotionally charged sequence of twenty sacred madrigals in seven parts.’ The words of each are agonisingly painful as St. Peter wallows in - self pity? Self castigation and bitterness at ‘life’ which he feels has engulfed him and led him to the final terrible betrayal.
Happily the lyrics were in Italian and the music itself didn’t really seem to reflect this agony of mind. It was a long programme, we arrived early to bag a good spot, (so early we caught the rehearsal which is when I took the photos) the chairs we were sitting on were horribly uncomfortable, but after a while the voices started to flood over me and I got quite lost in it. Nearly three hours passed I believe, and I came away feeling refreshed.
The setting was the wonderful Abbey of Pluscarden, about four miles away. Set in a deep green valley, once very isolated, with a long history that began in 1230 when it was founded by King Alexander of Scotland and housed the Valliscaulins, a strict order akin to the Benedictines. It flourished for a while until it attracted the unwonted attention of local badboy, Alexander Stuart, known now as the Wolf of Badenoch, who, in anger at an unfavourable decision on his marital status by the Bishop of Moray, fired it along with Elgin Cathedral and Forres in 1390. There are still marks of this fire to be seen on the old walls left standing.
Despite this the Priory survived throughout the Reformation struggling on for over a century until it fell into ruin and was almost abandoned around 1662 apart from local worship. In 1948 the work of restoration began and is ongoing to this day with the monks themselves still working on replacing plain glass with gloriously coloured stained glass windows, of which I am an avid fan.
29 May 2010
Depression?
A friend came into the shop one day this week and asked me if I knew about depression. Do I! Yes I do. It's something I'm prone to. Looking back over this blog I've just noticed that my enthusiasm for it is fading away. I have zero energy for finding photos and no impulse to write screeds about my opinions. Maybe that's a good thing for the world, but I suspect not good for me - it's a state of mind not arrived at through tranquility but brought on by low-grade gloom. Anyway, I clicked on the next ten blogs and found them all to be filled by textile artists, design artists, quilters, etc. Many with very beautiful stuff. Maybe this is no place for words.
Or nobody has the patience to read words any more. The magazine mind that likes to flick picture pages has triumphed. The instant gratification society has taken over.
Which reminds me: One of the most depressing adverts I've seen in the papers recently was for a children's 'interactive' book which promised to 'make reading fun.' Reading IS FUN DAMMIT. IT DOESN'T HAVE TO BE MADE FUN WITH A WHOLE LOT OF VISUAL GIMCRACKERY.
Maybe I do still have opinions!
Doesn't mean I'm not depressed.
Not sure what to do about the depression. Pulling up the socks has never worked for me. There may be a long intermission whilst I slide gently to the bottom of the sludge.
Or nobody has the patience to read words any more. The magazine mind that likes to flick picture pages has triumphed. The instant gratification society has taken over.
Which reminds me: One of the most depressing adverts I've seen in the papers recently was for a children's 'interactive' book which promised to 'make reading fun.' Reading IS FUN DAMMIT. IT DOESN'T HAVE TO BE MADE FUN WITH A WHOLE LOT OF VISUAL GIMCRACKERY.
Maybe I do still have opinions!
Doesn't mean I'm not depressed.
Not sure what to do about the depression. Pulling up the socks has never worked for me. There may be a long intermission whilst I slide gently to the bottom of the sludge.
22 May 2010
Overcast.
Warm sunny weather but the skies are overcast, it feels heavy and humid here. My letter box is about to be fitted with some sort of anti-arson device by the police. I leave the reader to fill in the story.
21 May 2010
Character and attitude.
The day of the true eccentric isn’t over. We have one in town called Margaret. Very small and rather bowed she trots up and down pushing an enormous square shopping trolley, dressed always colourfully in stripey tights, shawls, multiple scarves and recently an amazing hat. Rising about 18” from the top of her brow this hat is knitted (crocheted?) cotton in multicoloured circular stripes From a floppy brim it ascends to a peak exactly like a witches’ hat, except that no witch recorded ever chose such a gaudy piece of headgear. On the very tip bobs a bright pom pom.
She fights her trolley into the shop to buy Dandelion and Burdock drinks, Sesame Snaps, and Yogi Tea, and to have a bit of a blether. She brightens my day.
She fights her trolley into the shop to buy Dandelion and Burdock drinks, Sesame Snaps, and Yogi Tea, and to have a bit of a blether. She brightens my day.
New and true.
True - and now for the urban myth collection.
A Jack Russell ran down a rabbit hole, one of many in a field full of such holes. His owner waited but the dog failed to emerge. He was wearing a harness so the possibility was strong that he had got caught on a root underground. (Memo to J R owners: don’t put harnesses on them.) The fire brigade was called and many rabbits found their burrows extended by spades, but no J R was discovered.
Darkness fell and the fire brigade went home. The wife of one of the firemen (a volanteer) was so upset at the thought of the wee dog lying trapped underground she wandered the field calling and began praying, as one does, to a God she wasn’t sure she believed in. The next day the SSPCA came to look with no success and another night passed. The lady continued to walk the field and started to make bargains with the deity: ‘If this little dog can be rescued I won’t have any birthday presents or cards this year’ (her 50th birthday) ‘The money my friends might have spent on me I’ll ask them to donate to charity.’
On the second day since its disappearance the dog finally started to whine and the farmer who owned the field brought a digger. Happy ending. Dog extracted. (Of course it will be down the next hole at the first opportunity. J R’s never learn, I know, I had one. )
The fireman’s wife duly told all her friends of her bargain and she received no presents or cards - except one. This one had been bought three months earlier by a friend who saw it during a shopping expedition and told her husband she must buy it for A’s birthday. ‘Why?’ he asked. “Her birthday’s not for ages.’ ‘I don’t know.’ she replied, ‘I just must have this one.’
It was a very ugly card with a bad drawing of a Jack Russell, it’s mouth covered in chocolate, sitting by a plate on which lay a few crumbs of the stolen chocolate cake. The title on the back of the card was: ‘Evidence.’
A Jack Russell ran down a rabbit hole, one of many in a field full of such holes. His owner waited but the dog failed to emerge. He was wearing a harness so the possibility was strong that he had got caught on a root underground. (Memo to J R owners: don’t put harnesses on them.) The fire brigade was called and many rabbits found their burrows extended by spades, but no J R was discovered.
Darkness fell and the fire brigade went home. The wife of one of the firemen (a volanteer) was so upset at the thought of the wee dog lying trapped underground she wandered the field calling and began praying, as one does, to a God she wasn’t sure she believed in. The next day the SSPCA came to look with no success and another night passed. The lady continued to walk the field and started to make bargains with the deity: ‘If this little dog can be rescued I won’t have any birthday presents or cards this year’ (her 50th birthday) ‘The money my friends might have spent on me I’ll ask them to donate to charity.’
On the second day since its disappearance the dog finally started to whine and the farmer who owned the field brought a digger. Happy ending. Dog extracted. (Of course it will be down the next hole at the first opportunity. J R’s never learn, I know, I had one. )
The fireman’s wife duly told all her friends of her bargain and she received no presents or cards - except one. This one had been bought three months earlier by a friend who saw it during a shopping expedition and told her husband she must buy it for A’s birthday. ‘Why?’ he asked. “Her birthday’s not for ages.’ ‘I don’t know.’ she replied, ‘I just must have this one.’
It was a very ugly card with a bad drawing of a Jack Russell, it’s mouth covered in chocolate, sitting by a plate on which lay a few crumbs of the stolen chocolate cake. The title on the back of the card was: ‘Evidence.’
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