Zimmer Frame for Santa

Amy will be 10 in January. To look at her you would think she was about 13 or 14, and it is proving a little difficult these days to buy appropriately aged clothes that don't make her look older than she is. This year I have wondered about the issue of Santa. Last year she clearly believed in the disappearance of a letter which got magically carried away by Santa's elves as they did their pre-Christmas rounds. She didn't get as many presents from Santa last year but there was a few waiting for her under the tree on Christmas morning. And the glass of orange had been drunk too. So this year I have been wondering what Amy's thoughts are on the subject of Santa Claus and his determination to squeeze down our chimney in order to deliver a few gifts and stuff his face with a mince pie or two.

Every year I have taken her to a beautiful garden centre not far away which has the most amazing display of decorations and an incredible grotto where Santa greets his small guests, whilst electronic reindeer nod their heads by his side. I guess it's become a habit to go because Amy has asked me if we can go again this year. I told her she might be a bit big to see Santa now but that went in one ear and out the other. She's obviously determined. "I don't need to sit on his knee," she said, "I can sit on the bench next to him." I'm sure Santa will be pleased.

I was 10 years old when I stopped believing in Santa. I remember reading a reply to my letter to him, and the writing was my dad's. My dad had very distinct hand writing and there really was no mistaking it. I guess I should thank my brother at this point, for at 3 years older than me and probably the daftest brother on the planet, it is a miracle that he hadn't told me sooner. I don't remember being disappointed for my parents whisked me off to church soon after and the whole episode was forgotten about. With Amy however, things aren't as simple. I wonder when she will stop believing in Santa; as a child who takes everything literally, we might still be going to the garden centre in another 10 years to see those nodding reindeer and the tired looking Santa, not to mention waiting for the elves to collect a wish list from our chimney.

Insurance Trouble

Because of not being able to drive I have decided to cancel my pre-booked holidays for next year. One of which was to Center Parcs, the same apartment we stayed in last time only this time it would have been for a full week. The driving excuse wasn't the only reason for cancellation; my lack of confidence and fear of having another seizure was another, but that, I know, will hopefully have been overcome by August 2010. However, cancelling the holiday wasn't as simple as it seemed. The special offer of free insurance was, I thought, a good one and one not to be sniffed at. Those of you who read my post about Center Parcs will remember how much Amy and I enjoyed ourselves back in August and I was totally excited to be going again, albeit a long way off. But, I made the decision, phoned the hotline and cancelled the booking, very swiftly, very efficiently. "Your deposit will be refunded to your credit card," I was told. What I wasn't told was the ridiculous rigmarole I would have to go through in order to get that £200 deposit refunded.

I was sent an email of confirmation to the cancellation. Then another lady from Center Parcs rang me to tell me I had to phone the insurance company for a form in order to claim back the deposit. Bearing in mind, the staff at Center Parcs are very polite and sympathetic. I rang the insurance company who have now sent me a form more or less asking for my medical history. They also want my doctor to fill out a form and sign it. I'm just a bit fed up now. Is this typical of insurance companies; to take ya money (okay, mine was a freebie but it's the principal) and when you need to make a claim it's like getting blood out of a stone. I don't have much experience with insurance companies, having only ever made a couple of claims in my lifetime, but for just £200, wouldn't you have thought it a bit more straight forward than having to trouble the GP when he's probably got much better things to do, like diagnosing someones illness for example? And the daft thing is, it will cost me to get the GP to fill out this form, which I can understand from their point of view, but it's like being penalised again, just for being epileptic. And there's no assurance that I'll actually get the deposit back anyway. My thoughts right now are that they will look at the form and say, "this person has suffered with epilepsy for ten years, she could have seizures any time". Am I being a little paranoid here do you think, or am I on the right track?!!

Boot Room Shenanigans

I managed to get out of the house today; just to the local town of Berwick to pop in and out of the bank, but it's a start. The Farmer of course played chauffeur, and I was glad of his company. But getting home was such a sigh of relief, as though I'd been away for days to a far away strange land. I keep looking round the house thinking how untidy it is becoming, until I retreat back to the bedroom in search of the remote control. I thought about Christmas today; my most favourite time of the year and one which has always held such emotion in my heart, not least because of the memories I will always harbour of my childhood. I guess I feel age has slowly crept upon me recently; the feeling of being a young and active twenty year old disappeared and I became a woman of 40, realising that looking after myself needs to be taken more seriously.

The puppies have adjusted well to their new sleeping quarters in the shed. It's very warm and cosy for them and they can poo till their heart's content. They do like coming back into the house however, during the day when we're around. Upon our return from Berwick, neither puppy had messed in the boot room where we left them, and can you believe, as soon as we opened the kitchen door, Bonnie shot in and made a bee-line for Sparky's bed. They are definitely learning the laws about indoor control for she knew immediately after the Farmer shouted at her that it was wrong. You can just tell with those sad puppy dog eyes that bore into you and I have to walk away for fear of caving in and giving them both a big cuddle.

No Money for the Carer

Well I think I'm on the mend. I don't feel as tired and lethargic as I did, and I'm getting fed up of sitting in bed. Mind you, I have enjoyed the rest and have been spoilt rotten which has been lovely. Do you remember me telling you about the threat of my carer's allowance being taken away? Well the robbers have done just that. I am a full time carer to Amy and am unable to claim carer's allowance because they reckon I earn too much. What a bloody joke. This government is a bunch of knob-heads and it's about time they got some sense running the country. I obviously won't go into my personal financial situation on here but take it from me; I don't earn enough and the £95 a week they say I earn from my business accounts is absolute rubbish. So now I shall appeal. But first, I'll get better because I want my wits about me. I had to try and forget about it when I got the letter the other day, for I'm petrified of having another seizure. My confidence levels have plummeted; I haven't been out of the house for eight days now even though I look longingly through the windows at the glistening fields.

That's it for today; having no life means nothing to report! Unless you want to hear about my latest read, Life & Death on the Streets by Stuart Gray, paramedic. After my experience with two (rather hunky) paramedics a week ago last Thursday (in my bedroom), I've come to realise how amazing they really are. It's a fantastic read by the way.

Here:

I can't stay, the last five days have been somewhat of a blur and I thought I'd just keep you posted so you didn't think I'd disappeared altogether. I was rushed into hospital last Thursday night after having two epileptic seizures. It wasn't a nice time and there was a moment that I thought I wouldn't see my family again. But I'm home again and still alive, making progress and coming to terms with the fact that I can no longer drive and my lifestyle will become a little less pressurised from now on. I have some good friends who are helping with Amy and my husband has been my savour. But I will be back soon to continue blogging as normal; I know I have a lot of reading to do to keep up with you all but please bear with me. A little at a time is all I can do right now and as the doctor has increased my medication it looks like I'll be drugged up to the eyeballs for a while too! Bye for now xx

No More Mess

My poor puppies; they've been thrown out. Not thrown exactly, that would warrant a visit from the RSPCA, but they have been re homed. Don't worry, it's only to the shed, but that's bad enough. The house seems strange without them diving through the kitchen, grabbing a quick bite of slipper and leaping to the worktops to see if any food lurks about. That bit I didn't mind. Even the Farmer gave a little chuckle at Bonnie's persistence. The last straw came yesterday when Farmer cleaned up poo for the third time that day. And I hadn't told him about the two times I had cleaned it up in between. When Amy ran upstairs at 8pm shouting, "puppy poo, puppy poo", I knew that was it. The Farmer put his foot down and I, reluctantly, agreed. I can hear you saying I told you so, from here, and I wish I had followed my head right from the start, instead of going with my heart and allowing them to live inside. Molly was a model puppy, Sparky was, as my older readers know, a damn nuisance, but both were soon toilet trained and have been good dogs ever since, albeit Sparky still being a pain in the arse from time to time. The problem has been that both the Farmer and I have been poorly recently, had really bad colds which could have bordered on flu, man-flu in the Farmer's case, but nevertheless, neither of us have felt like wiping up puppy pee and puppy poo.

It's a comfortable kennel that they have, plenty big enough to stretch their legs, and totally sheltered from the elements. But my intention now is to get a purpose built shed-like building, erected near to the house, which will house both puppies and preferably Sparky. Not sure how the Farmer will react to my idea of it housing Sparky too but I'll do my best. They're too rough for Molly so she can stay in the house which I am sure she will be thrilled about. At only four and a half months, they're young enough to adapt to new surroundings and they can poo to their heart's content. I'd much rather muck out a dog kennel every day than be standing in dog shit every time I want to get through the back door.

Meggie

Bonnie

Sixty Years of Life

I commissioned a friend and superb artist, Sarah Riseborough, to paint this beautiful picture for the Farmer.


Of course I haven't known him for all that time, having only been around for almost forty years myself, but the Farmer has turned sixty today. A treat indeed, as he was introduced into the world on 31st of October 1949. He was 51 when we got together. I was 31. The age gap meant nothing, and still doesn't. Love however, means everything. I was a little shocked at first when he told me his age, as I had thought he was around his early 40's. But after a while, I realised that no matter how many years were between us, it was so irrelevant compared to the way we felt about each other. As each day dawns, I love him more. Together with Amy, he is my world and I know that he always will be. He lifted me from darkness, just after my dad had passed, and even though I still have issues with that event, those eight years have been the best of my life. It is no secret that there were many difficult days in which we got through, when we shared our home with my late father-in-law. There were many times in which I could have walked away, thought it wasn't worth it, asked if I had jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. But I didn't. When I met the Farmer, I realised I had been given a chance of true happiness, and I took it. Nothing and no one was ever going to stand in my way of realising that my dream had come true. That last piece of jigsaw was placed in my hands and it was up to me to find its final resting place.

The Farmer shares his birthday of course, with Hallowe'en. Pumpkins and glitter decorate the house as two children dress up hoping to scare the adults. Hope you all have a great time on this scariest of scary nights and don't encounter too many ghouls on your travels.

Just saying ....

I'm sorry for being such a useless blogger recently. I realise that it may have been noted, my lack of reading blogs. I have always tried to read as many blogs as possible, and will always be grateful to those bloggers who read mine. I love keeping up with all your tales, your every day battles and your daily updates about your families, and I have missed you. Get the bucket if you wish, but there's the truth. I find myself clicking on to a regular blog only to then find myself having to read previous posts to catch up with the most recent. It always seems to be the case that if I start reading blogs when Amy's at home, she simply won't let me. Not that she can stop me of course, but it's like when you pick the phone up for a chat and you can guarantee the kids will need your attention. Or want it.

So the truth is, I've been writing the book recently as you know, churning out the odd blog posts which have been pretty rubbish, and finding that I haven't got time to read. I try not to use the computer after 7pm as I have had it on for most of the day and I really feel I need to give my eyes a rest (plus I like watching telly), so I have been very reluctantly neglecting my blogging buddies. And for that, I really do apologise because it hasn't been intentional. Amy's off school this week but I will dip in now and then, see what's what in blogville, and hope I haven't upset anyone for being so one-sided. And I will spend a couple of days next week, reading my loyal followers and regular bloggers. Of course, some of the followers which you see in the sidebar don't have a blog to read, and some don't seem to exist. So if you want me to read your blog, stick yourself on my followers list, let me know you're there, and I'll be straight over.

And thank you for being faithful to my blog. Without you, I wouldn't be here. Nor would I have met you. Which, in itself, would have been a huge shame.

Love CJ xx

Pumpkins & Odd Balls

Is it just me or is it strange how we always seem to sound completely different to how we imagine we sound like, when listening to ourselves on a tape recorder, or video. I sound odd. Okay, so I am rather odd, but I sound different, my voice is deeper and my accent sounds less like "rough English" and more like "a mixed-up cross between Manchester, Yorkshire and Northumbrian". I know, I told you I was odd. I found a little dictaphone cassette yesterday, of Amy talking when she was four. She sounds so different, it could almost be another child. I know it was her because I was prompting her what to say in the background, in my odd voice. She kept screwing her face up with embarrassment when she realised it was her; I thought she sounded incredibly cute, but I would I suppose. She just kept laughing and eventually said, "turn it off!" in her grown up almost-ten-year-old-voice, which sounds incidentally, a bit like a cross between Manchester and Northumbrian, missing out the Yorkshire bit.

I must just tell you, Amy's just asked me if Christmas existed "in those days, the ones in the 70's and 80's when you were young". How old does she think I am? Do all our children look at us as though we used to live in caves? lol... I really need to get 'with-it', start listening to the Top 40 again, and get my hair dyed.

And moving on, the reason why we had the dictaphone out was so that Amy could record a list she's devised including activities she wants to do on Halloween. We bought a couple of pumpkins over the weekend to be hung, drawn and quartered before being set aglow to entice the spirits of the night to make contact. I do hope we will get some response this year. Last year a book fell off the book shelf on spooky night, and I felt a strange atmosphere in the house. But the list Amy has goes a bit like this: play with the dogs outside; bake a cake in the shape of a pumpkin; have lunch; find candles for pumpkins; colour in spooky pictures. We won't forget the Farmer of course, as he turns 60 on Halloween. And I have something very special for him to open. Now, now.

A Step in the Book

I managed to crack on with my book this week. Got the word count upto over 61,000. I can almost see an end, a little light at the end of the tunnel, the twist and the mysterious ghosts at last revealing themselves. I'm actually quite excited about it now, having gone through a stale few weeks of wondering if I shall ever finish it, and now realising that it is, after all, within my reach. I did aim to have it finished by the end of this year, before the Christmas holidays begin, taking January to read through it several times until I am sure it's ready to present to a hungry agent. But I am in no way ignorant to the fact that publication is hard to find and I realise the difficult part will begin once this process takes hold. It would have been wonderful to have a publisher lined up, a company all ready to accept my work and have it available for all to read. But, unlike my ghosts, I live in this life. It could take years, and I know I have to be prepared for that possibility. Which is why I shall submit short stories to magazines in the meantime. Who knows, I may even have time to write another novel whilst waiting for Spirits of Rosehill to be accepted. Here is an extract for you, a scene in which Camilla ventures into the cellars of the house, beckoned by an unknown entity:

Plaster peeled from ancient walls, once applied with a loving hand, perhaps once admired by proud eyes. A small heap lay upon concrete floor; damp, forgotten. Visible patches of stone greeted me as I touched its crumbling walls, my fingers excavating years of standing decay. Tiny paw scurried beside by feet, a desperate wish for freedom, a life still to live. Cobwebs wrapped around my hair, tearing strands whilst I trailed a long ago creature from sleep. Steps almost gave way beneath me, clear danger looming should I have lost control. My hand needed to grasp for safety, a rail of aged wood and early craftsmanship. Descent to darkened rooms in trepidation, the unknown as was always my existence. I had learnt not to fear, to look forward with challenging mind, embrace with anticipation. With flickering candle I made my journey, a short wait before the unknown would be familiar territory. From days gone by I could feel my thoughts drowning in residual energy, a possession becoming too close for comfort, too many spirits vying for my attention. I wanted only one. Yet I was not sure which one. I knew my heart rested with a male entity, I knew he once lived in this house. My frustration played on my ever potent mind but I was drawn, beckoned by a force too strong to resist. My destination would soon become clear, light would shine upon perishing rooms and my eyes would see the love which continued to overwhelm me. Just a few more steps to take. More deterioration from an unoccupied space. I wanted to know who sought me from the depths of Rosehill; which soul still lived to protect me in my home; and why.

I arrived in the first room, a large pantry, shelved and mouldy. The open door clung to a hinge, determined not to fall to plaster-ridden floor. Two square sheets of glass at the top, thick with dust, dark brown wood flaking, woodworm having lived within for too many years. Old and murky bottles stood on a top shelf, cobwebs encased around them. Putrid tins with lid intact, broken glass, rusty pans, all shared space upon shelves, memories recorded by servants’ hands. The candle continued to flicker, I cupped my hand around its flame, the darkness would have been too thick for me to wander these desperate rooms. More scurrying, orbs, perhaps dust, whispers from another world. I made my way into the next room, a large space filled with a debris littered floor. The room was staggeringly cold, my heavy coat unable to warm me. A small light shone in one corner, alerting me to a possible presence, and my potential find. I transfixed my eyes to the light as it grew, a steadfast glow increasing in intensity whilst arrogantly performing before my eyes. A shape began to appear, a body first, legs following. The light became the figure of a man, to which I felt I had been invited to witness. My breath was evident, my hands were frozen to the bone. I did not feel afraid though I was cautious, the atmosphere adding to my apprehension.

The light now shone against the head of the figure that stood before me, seemingly unwilling to show a face. It was the same outline as the spirit man I had seen often around the house, still shy of allowing me sight of his identity. A little frustration grew inside me as I asked, quietly,“who are you?” I stayed cautious, I did not want spirit to think I was prudent. Spirit will only show themselves if they choose, it is their prerogative.