Intentional Destiny

On Thursday night I had a dream about a friend’s husband who I haven't seen for three months. Perhaps it was a dream in which I shouldn’t have had but nonetheless, I can remember it as vividly as what just happened five minutes ago. On Friday morning, driving ‘Norman’ to Berwick, I passed said husband in his car, going South.

Last Saturday morning, for no reason, I thought about a couple who I used to work with ten years ago when I lived near Wigan. That same Saturday, just hours later as my mum and I sat eating our lunch at a garden centre restaurant, that same couple walked past us and sat down at a nearby table.

Yesterday, I thought about a lady of whom I haven’t seen for at least twelve months. I thought about her after noticing one of our walls needs repairing. She would be the one to call. This morning the phone rang. It was her. She invited me to her Baptism, at our local church. I had no idea about the problems she’s been having in her life recently and was thrilled to hear how well she is now, after going through such a terrible time.

When I was seventeen, I had a girl friend of the same age who I saw occasionally due to her living a long distance from me. Neither of us had passed our driving test and so we were still relying on dad’s taxi. I’d met her on holiday two years since and we got on from the start. She was beautiful. She had long brown hair, flowing in gentle curls down her back. She was extremely popular and had many more friends than I ever did. We spent many a day together, doing what girls of seventeen did in those days.

One day, on her way to work in her colleague’s car with whom she got a lift each morning, she was killed instantly as the car hit a lorry head-on. I was devastated. I couldn’t believe I had lost her. I couldn’t believe it was possible to lose someone so young. Twenty years on, she still visits me. I can remember her as plain as day. The way she spoke, the way she always styled her hair, the beautiful smile she always wore.

In 1991, I went on holiday with my parents. We stayed in a delightful country cottage on a farm. I’d always loved the countryside but had usually spent my holidays in foreign climes, soaking up the sun by the pool usually nursing a hangover. But this time, I had no need to go abroad. I had no urge to get on a plane and hope my feet touched the ground again. When we drew up at our country retreat I felt as though I was in heaven. Corn Fields. Sheep. A brown mare. My surroundings for the next two weeks. Then I met the farmer. A shy but welcoming man who didn’t seem to have a wife. When those two weeks had passed, with usual holiday haste, I cried. I wanted to stay. But not because I had enjoyed myself so much. I wanted to stay because I knew that it was where I belonged. My heart knew it was the place I would one day begin to live my life. The place I would call my home. It was already becoming that place.

For the next ten years, I went to that same place, spending two weeks with my parents, wishing I was a local as I drove around country lanes, walked along beaches, exercised the dog in the farmer’s fields. Each time I arrived, I felt as though I had “come home”. And that last time I visited that country cottage in June 2001 was the last holiday my mum and dad would ever take together. In fact it was the last holiday my dad took at all. And it was with me. In the place I now call, “Heaven”. It was this day six years ago, that I went back to Manchester for the last time after a holiday, having just spent two weeks with my parents. As we travelled in the car, I cried once more. I wanted to stay. I knew that the journey I was taking was only back to a place where I lived and where I would soon pack up my belongings to follow my heart.

I knew where my destiny lay. What I didn’t know, however, was that four weeks later my dad would pass on. Perhaps the reason why I am so close to my dad now is because I would never have found the courage to move away should he have lived. My dad knew me better than anyone. He knew where I yearned to be which is why he brought me back here year after year. Only in spirit was he able to encourage me to make that move. Only in spirit did he feel he could release me because now he can see me whenever he likes.

I believe my dad knew in his own heart where my destiny lay. Perhaps his own father's spirit encouraged him to visit this place in order to introduce me. I believe I was meant to be here a long time before I spent my first holiday in that country cottage on a farm with a shy farmer. And yes, I married that shy farmer. I now live on that farm and have a wonderful life. All thanks to my dad.

Gents & Gentility

Man at the door: "err, is ya 'usband in?"

Me: "Sorry, no. He's shearing sheep. Can I help?"

Man at the door: "I'll call back, pet." He got back into his white van. Typical white van.

Just as man in van was reversing his motor, along comes 'ubby. Looking forward to 'is cuppa. The van stopped. Man got out.

He said: "Oh, sorry to bother ya, I'm from xx (can't remember the name of the firm), we've just finished fillin' 'oles in the road and was wondering if ya wanted yours doin'?"

Now why couldn't Mr. White Van Man have asked me that very same question. Why did he have to ask my husband? Or do the 'oles in the road not belong to me?

Next day:

Neighbouring farmer called round, hubby was out in the fields, I was working at the pc.

He said: "Is the 'boss' in?"

"Yes," she replied. Neighbouring farmer laughed, turned round and said he'd get 'boss-man' on his mobile.

Sorry, what year is it again? Do remind me.

Don't you just love it (or hate it) when you've just rustled up supper only to get "I'll wash up, for you". And what about when they use the toilet and say, "I've cleaned the toilet, for you."

I knew my husband would never be a modern man when I married him. I didn't expect him to change. But I'm beginning to wonder whether my late father-in-law left the chains behind for hubby to use once he'd gone.

But I think the best conversation I had this week (or lack of one) was with one of the sheep shearers who came on Tuesday. The rain stopped play and fifty sheep got lucky, for one more day. However, Tuesday night the phone rang.

Caller: "Tell 'im ta ring me when sheep a' dry."

Me: "Sorry?"

Sigh, crackle, someone talking in background. Caller: "Ge y'im ta ring me when sheep a' dry."

Me: "Who is this?"

Caller: "Clipper!" Phone went dead.

I assumed it was the sheep shearer. I'm so glad I didn't go down to help! Oh no, instead I went to get the pies, I brewed up, I washed up. I swore. A lot.

I do think manners go a long way. The 'clippers' turned up at 7am the following morning and at least got the job done. It would be worth it if we made lots of profit on the wool but we don't. In fact, we make bugger all!!

Picture of Sparky

Parental Guidance

I felt a bit odd. The sound of the television had become background noise as I lay in my bed, watching a picture with no meaning. My thoughts were elsewhere. My mind wandered, from one vision to another, then back again to the moving picture. I couldn’t focus. My body began to levitate as my soul was carried away to a separate plane. I turned my head. My eyes saw a pillow, dented by a spirit’s weight. My mind saw a man. A smiling face, the kindest eyes. The man reached out and held my hand. He saw my pain. He felt my anguish. He suffered with me. Tears fell from the bluest eyes. Yet he continued to hold my hand, his silken flesh healing my torment; caressing my soul.

Intense heat enveloped me, the purest image raging through my bones as the unseeing hand became locked in mine. The dented pillow became filled with the outline of a man. A soul manifesting before my eyes as they no longer saw an empty space. I cried. I wanted the spirit beside me to stay; I wanted him to remain in my life as a person, not a spirit. Even though he lay next to me, I missed him. I knew I had his attention; he knew he had mine.

I needed him. I needed his guidance, his support. I needed to reach out to him like I used to. I brushed my hand along the dented pillow. My breathing became heavy, uncontrolled. My heart became irregular and I felt unsteady, weakened as my floating body entered a world of mystical existence. The spirit spoke to me. I did not hear legible words, just reassurance impressed up on me. Complete understanding of my fear, absolute support towards my actions.

My tears ceased to fall; I smiled, my pain extinguished, my positive outlook once more alight. I could feel the spirit slipping away. My reverent soul returned to his heaven as I returned to mine. I no longer felt odd. I felt peaceful, serene. Contented in my request for parental guidance.

That was Monday night. I have no doubt my need for enlightenment will overwhelm me again soon. Sometimes the need for support becomes so strong that I am able to make that connection; a true link with the man I idolised in life and who I glorify in spirit. I have no doubt of his existence or his knowledge of my desires. He is here. He is with me. He will never leave me. He is my father.




For Woozle1967

Silently Infuriated

People often think of me as a ‘soft-touch’. I call myself laid-back. I would go so far as to say I am a doormat. If I tell you my husband is 20 years my senior, would it matter? If I told you I have a cupboard bursting at the hinges with skeletons, would you care? I have lived. Done that. Bought the tee shirt. I have appeared on the other side of the fence and realised the grass is only greener if I want it to be. When I moved to Northumberland it was because I wanted to start a new life. Be in love. Feel fresh air in my lungs. When I discovered my daughter was autistic I knew I could be in no better place; the farm, the environment, the school.

Since my daughter’s diagnosis I have had to toughen up. I have had to learn that life can no longer be seen through rose tinted glasses. Events will happen now that I cannot deal with on my own. Life will, from now on, be different as I learn to live with a child whose concept of the world is somewhat different to the one I know. Do I turn a blind eye to the comments from passers-by as they witness my child’s frustration? Do I pretend I haven’t heard the mother of the child too close as she says “come away”? Do I walk away when my daughter shows me a bruise on her arm, inflicted by a fellow pupil in his wish to ‘wind her up’?

My little girl cannot express her feelings like other children in the playground. She does not know when to laugh or cry. She does not know when to shout or whisper. I hear her speak at school and she sounds different. Her accent has changed. Her comfort zone may be tested. But I know she is happy at school. She has the best care, the best teachers and the best support. I cannot ask for more. But I will. Supervision in the playground is excellent; reaction to incidents is second to none. I cannot ask for more. But I will.

Amy sobbed. Shoulder jerking tears descending down her rosy cheeks. She cried her little heart out as she leant on my shoulder. She showed me her arm and told me in detail how it had happened. She does not forget. She never forgets. She will remember that incident for the rest of her life. This saddens me. Even though Amy is only seven years old, I often wonder about her future. I wonder if she will ever fall in love. I wonder if she will ever have children of her own. I wonder, will she ever find someone to trust enough to share her inner-most secrets. Seven is a special age. It is a milestone in a child’s life when they begin to feel grown up. They are at last old enough to know right from wrong and maybe accept some responsibility. Amy may never know what that feels like. She may rely on me forever, to warn her about nasty people and cruel tricks. To keep her protected from being hurt or even abused.

I made a vow to myself when my daughter was born. I made a line, an invisible mark of tolerance which would stay inside my head unless warranted to surface. That line has been crossed. Someone has hurt my baby. Someone has hurt my baby more than once. I am no longer a doormat or a woman with rose-tinted glasses. I am a mother, first and foremost. I am the mother to a beautiful, bright and sensitive seven year old autistic little girl. I now have the job of consoling my precious one. I have to lie to her saying her attacker didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean to twist her little arm around her back. He didn’t mean to hurt her, physically and emotionally. Probably for the rest of her life. I will have to keep watching her now. I will need to be reassured that no such incident ever happens again. I need to know that no one looks upon my daughter as a doormat. I will not allow it. Her life is different than mine. I have lived. Done that. Bought the tee shirt. I just want Amy to live. Happily.

Pups, Tups & Wood Lice

At last! The puppy has put on enough weight to be prevented from squeezing through the gate. Call me sadistic, but it's quite funny watching her try desperately to get to the other side where she obviously thinks the grass is greener, only to get stuck half way through. Her little bottom does a frantic wobble as she squeals and wrenches herself back to freedom. Or the yard at least. I'd like to report no more accidents but I'm afraid I'd be fooling you. Perhaps I should throw another coin into the wishing well and hope for the best. She had her first injection on Tuesday. She was sitting ever so comfortably in hubby's arms when all of a sudden she nearly jumped into next week. She felt a little prick from nowhere. A taste of life to come I dare say. And on that subject, she has the brawl to square up to the monstrous tups. They stamp their front legs and lower their heads as a brazen-faced fur ball stands her ground. We suspect she'll make an excellent working dog. So long as we continue to buy docile tups at any rate.

I thought I'd been selected to be a contestant on "I'm a Celebrity, get me out of here" this morning. Obviously I'm far from being famous and nowhere near as gorgeous as Myleen Klaas so chances of that ever happening are of course very minimal indeed. Letting the hens out of their revolting house, struggling with the two hundred year old door which definitely looks it's age, I got dripped on by an infestation of wood lice. They were everywhere. In my hair, in my wellies, even down my top! What they were looking for down there I've no idea, but I'm sure they would have been disappointed. Feeling riddled with God's worst creation known to man, I went inside the hen house to collect the eggs then made my way back up to the farm house. I don't remember my journey upstairs as it all happened in a flash. I've never run up that staircase as fast in all the time I've been here. In fact, I've never run as fast. Full stop. Ripping my clothes off, a distant and very vague memory beginning to emerge, I jumped, literally, into the shower. I'm sure I can still feel something crawling about my person. I think I'll let hubby shut the hens in tonight. Don't think I could face running up those stairs like that again. I almost felt light headed when I got to the top.

I'm off to Manchester this weekend. Just Amy and me. Hubby stays home to look after the farm, the dogs, the cat, the pony, the hens, the pet lambs. And of course the sheep. He tries to look after himself also but normally finds it quite hard. It's not unusual to come back on Sunday afternoon and find the kitchen in chaos, mice eating their way through a block of cheddar which has been discarded on the kitchen table and hens running riot in the lounge. However, this Sunday I might have to tread carefully when I enter the kitchen especially if the puppy is shut inside while he's been out silaging.

Well I have to say I'm rather pleased with the weather today. I've finally been able to rummage out a tee shirt and show off my somewhat hairy arms. It's a bit early for any leg-showing just yet so jeans are still trend of the day. I've tried putting fake tan on my legs and wearing pedal pushers in the past but I tend to look like someone has had an accident with the gravy browning so I just wait for the hot weather (hmmm), find a secluded spot in my garden and smother myself in oil. We have to make the most of the good weather in these parts. If there's a North East wind blowing off the coast of Northumberland we might as well say goodbye to short sleeves and paddling pools.

I suppose I should tell you about the moving rocking horse. You see I slept in the guest room last night. Not because I wanted to but because hubby was doing his incredibly annoying impression of a pig. I snuggled down, my bunny rabbit tucked safely under my arm, when suddenly I heard a faint creaking sound. I'd left the door open, it has a tendency to shut by itself and I was feeling brave. Sitting up in bed, I noticed the door was in the same place, no one had tried to close it. However, when the creaking sound came again, this time a little louder, I began to wonder whether my cruel desertion of hubby and his thunderous snoring had been such a good idea after all. The creaking was coming from the rocking horse which now stands in the guest room after being relocated from Amy's "tip". My eyes caught a slight movement, as the horse's head bowed towards me. But if someone was trying to spook me, it didn't work. I might just be in there tonight and this time I'll be ready!

Wishing Well

I like to show my friends around this big old house. I like them to see what I see. Furniture from a bygone age, sitting amongst chaotic rooms of self-importance, outdated wallpaper as it struggles to adorn the crumbling walls. I like them to notice my newly painted bathroom and the luscious terracotta carpet which runs up and down the stairs. I want them to notice the positive energy which seeps from the stone walls and the peaceful ambience as it encircles their soul.

How enlightening for them it would be if they were able to feel what I feel. If they could reach out their hand and feel warmth; close their eyes and feel their space had been occupied. Would they smile as they entered a room with a haunting mood, would they marvel if they thought it held something they were unable to explain? I like to show my friends the cellars; dark, oppressive rooms whose floors crunch beneath your feet from falling stones. These rooms need to be reborn. Their walls yearn to be awoken and their memories released.

I am not morbid; I smile when I sense an astral being. I do not cry; I sigh when I feel my loved ones are near. Sometimes I am fearful. Afraid of who has invaded my home, afraid it could be a lost soul who fumbles their way through a maze of uncertainty, on their quest for peace. Unexplained activity fascinates me. It alerts me to my beliefs, a life beyond the one we know.

We have had the company of good friends during the weekend. I wanted to show them the house. I took them into a large unoccupied room. A space once loved and cared for. A room in which I feel nothing apart from coldness, biting through my skin. It is a room where I keep boxes of discarded crockery. Old fashioned tea services once used for morning coffee and afternoon tea. Items ready to be offered to a more appreciative owner. We have decided to keep one of the tea services; it belonged to my late mother-in-law. My husband remembers it being used when the ladies in the village came to visit. He says it’s been passed through generations and should be kept. He didn’t tell me it has a soul. It holds memories of a generation who took ‘high tea’ whilst exhibiting their baking skills. I showed the service to my friends. Pat* held a cup in her hands, its delicate handle proving too small for her finger to fit through. As I put the cup back into the box, Pat showed me a piece of wood which she proudly took out of her pocket. A small piece of uneven oak about 2” in length, polished and smooth. Her father had carved the wood many years before his passing, leaving it conveniently placed in order to be found. Pat discovered the wood and took possession of it, carrying it with her wherever she goes. She touches the wood everyday, running her fingers over its glassy surface, rotating it in her hands to alleviate stress.

Whilst still in that forgotten room, cold and unfeeling, Pat placed the wood back into her trouser pocket. She has not seen it since. It has disappeared. We have searched the house, each and every room in which we wandered but can find no trace of that little piece of history. Pat isn’t worried, however. She feels her father is at peace and the wood in which he so meticulously carved will be with him once more. Perhaps Pat’s father visited her as she took ‘high tea’ with that little china tea cup.

Is it an old-wives tale that when we throw a coin into a wishing well we should never divulge our pleas? I hope it is for I am going to share with you my wish. As the coin escaped my clutches, a shiny penny desperate to submerge amidst murky waters, I closed my eyes. “I wish I will live here forever.” I opened my eyes. As I looked into the well, several coins resting in the depths, I felt a warm glow in my heart. For even if I do not reside in this big old house for the rest of my life, I know my soul always will.

Mirror, Signal, Maneouvre

My kitchen is starting to whiff. Well actually, when I walked in there recently, it resembled a cross between blocked drains and an old dog bed. Sparky, the pup, still has the occasional accident which is starting to tell as one can't enter the back door without first having to apply a clothes peg to one's nose. There always seems to be a smell of some sort in our kitchen and nine times out of ten, it isn't cooking. However, we knew what we were doing when we brought Sparky home so I guess it's our responsibility to hand out the pegs. It's almost worth the scooping and mopping when we first go into the kitchen to be greeted by an eighteen inch-four legged fur ball and usually a dollop of pooh. We shouldn't complain though. At least the pooh is near the back door so it's not too far to carry the pan.

After another trip to the bank today, I was enlightened for a whole hour with some excellent advice on how to invest my savings. So excellent in fact, that I didn't take any of it. It seems that these days in order for you to get any decent return on your investments, you have to be prepared to take the odd risk or at least have so much money in your account that it won't make much difference if you lost a great wad of it anyway. I'm afraid I don't enter into either category. I like to know where my money is and how it's being spent, i.e., how I'm spending it. I don't want to pick up the paper one day and realise that my risk taking didn't pay off, only to turn to Del Boy for some much needed counselling. The advisor who sat before me did seem to know what he was talking about and must have been just a teeny bit miffed when I announced I was quite happy to keep things as they were. Having just wasted an hour of his time when he could have been revising the stock market or polishing up on his jargon, we shook hands as he handed me his business card. A bit unfair, I know, but I only went to the meeting because I was exhausted with the phone calls from the bank telling me how it was in my best interests to make an appointment and see how my money could work harder for me. Right. So. Money works; and talks. Clever stuff.

But the best part of the day was on my journey home. I managed to infuriate a van driver. Wow! How hard is that. Sat, waiting very patiently in my Land Rover at the level crossing not far from home I couldn't help but look in my mirror as a bright yellow van hurtled up behind me, almost skidding to a halt when he realised there was someone in front. Of course, sod's law, I had blocked the entrance to the station house. I think in all the six years I've used the crossing, I have encountered desperate traffic at the station house on so few occasions, it would be pointless counting. Reaching for my bottle of coke in the few moments I had before the barriers lifted, I suddenly heard a forceful horn being blown in my direction followed by a rude hand being waved in a signalling gesture. Or should I just say I got told to get out of the f***ing way! The passenger who sat in the front devouring what looked like an ice cream cone, shook his head in disbelief at the fact that a woman could possibly have blocked an entrance-way. Women have rights too, you know! Boy, do men have a lot to learn!

For fear of being shunted onto the railway track and dismantled in about ten seconds by a roaring Virgin, I quickly released the handbrake and moved forward. Unfortunately, being a bit slow on the uptake, I never got round to replying to his lack of manners. I need to harden up.

Picture of Amy on Chi-Chi

Distant Chains & TCP

“Absolutely not, there are no ghosts in this house!” My late father-in-law confirms, the ultimate sceptic.

"You have no idea,” I reply, utterly insulted as he laughs at me, shakes his head in disbelief and begrudges me a few more moments with my wonderful father.

Yet now, he may wonder how he could have been quite so dismissive. Unable to accept the truth as his broken heart was swept away into another world.

Two years ago, Amy and hubby swapped beds for the night. Hubby didn’t sleep a wink in his temporary retreat and from that day to this has questioned the unusual sounds he heard and the distinctive scuffling as someone quite clearly carried on their business around him. He was quite sure at the time that he wasn’t alone in that room and it took him six months to find the courage to tell me. Amy has a beautiful picture of my grandma lodged inside the frame of a mirror in her bedroom. It is not uncommon for this picture to be found on the floor. It was once found face up on the bed, yet no one had been in the room.

This room was once known as the ‘Bacon room’. Pigs were slaughtered on the farm and taken there. They were prepared, severed for consumption. Yet this room has a welcoming atmosphere. It sighs as you walk in, an unseeing smile washing away the harsh realities of life. I suspect it was also a child’s room in times gone by, a place of frivolity, hopes and dreams. I talk to my Grandma when I enter it. I wish her a good day. We smile together as we look out of the window at the little wendy house and the swing gently swaying in the breeze; the daisies scattered amongst the grass and the gorse-covered hill beyond. She stands next to me, watching my eyes as they thank her. Thank her for finding me this heavenly piece of paradise. For sending me on a journey away from home and helping me to understand where my journey will end.

Last night I sat on the stairs. I told myself to stop what I was doing and note my inner feelings. The pungent aroma of TCP suddenly filled my senses. I closed my eyes, hoping to be greeted again by the more welcoming scent of lavender. But the smell stayed with me. A sickly taste beginning to form in my mouth. I listened silently for the sound of chains and the ticking of a clock for as I sat there, my head resting against the wall, I suddenly feared I had been visited by a somewhat resentful spirit; a recently passed soul who was trapped between the gates of heaven and a lifetime of haunting. My late father-in-law used TCP daily. I never knew why. It was always on my shopping list along with a hundred cigarettes.

We cleaned his room after he had gone into hospital in January. A few ornaments sat amongst an old bottle of his daily habit, an insufficient amount ready to be thrown away. Of that we did. Perhaps we should not have done. Perhaps tonight he will sit beside me as he reaches into his concealed pocket and takes out an invisible cigarette. I will hear the click of his lighter as the flame glows in the corner of my eye. Then I will experience that familiar tobacco smoke as it swirls through the air before resting on my clothes.

Determined not to believe in those unexplainable events, this man has decided to revisit the house in which he lived for all of his life. I wonder if he has seen my friend, the 18th century Gentleman’s wife as she glides upstairs on her journey to the first floor. I wonder if he has encountered my Grandma as she stands at Amy’s bedroom window, admiring the beautiful landscape. I wonder if he can see my father; the man who breaths deeply by my side.

I suspect I will hear chains; rattling as their captor is released. I think I will know when he visits. My soul will become tense and my head will pound. And then I will relax as my senses once more become my own.

Just Visiting

A door closes, by itself. It is impossible for this particular door to close tight without the handle being turned. Someone knocks on the bathroom window. Without ladders, it is impossible for anyone to knock on this window from the outside. Someone is standing outside my office door. Someone wants to come in, see me work, offer advice. There is no one standing outside this door, waiting for my invitation.

My bed shudders. I lie in it, alone, watching the shadows dance as tiny white lights flash through the darkness. I hear someone walking up the stairs to my room. There is no one there. When I am in the bathroom, I ask Amy what could be so urgent that she has to run up stairs with such haste. Amy, however, is in the garden, playing with the dog.

I smell freesia’s and perfume, a delicious aroma of cooking and the harsh scent of tobacco smoke. I hear my name being called, the cry of a child and a woman’s soothing voice. I turn, my eyes see movement, flitting from one wall to another.

I am not scared. This is my home as it was once theirs. Three people now live in this house, yet I do not know how many spirits. Some come in visitation, some are grounded. The smiling eyes of my father look closely at me, they see my pain and my anguish. They see my joy and contentment. I speak to my father now, more in spirit than I did when his body was part of his soul. He talks to me, laughs with me, cries with me. To others, these sounds may not be heard but to me they are physical. I feel his presence. This makes him visit me more.

*****

This big old house, on the top of a wind-swept hill, was built @1750. It is a beautiful building, erected of stone, chimneys standing proud at each end and one in the middle. It has an original staircase which separates one end of the house from the other as the landing half way up allows you to choose which way to go. There are three flights of stairs, one in which every step is a different width and at the top, the landing slants as though tiredness has set in. But the staircase holds a secret. The walls have voices, while the floor creaks from silent footsteps. A lost soul stands, once at the foot of the stairs then in a split second has advanced to the landing. As I stand, looking over the banister I hear shuffling; someone with long skirts perhaps, treading the staircase to an upstairs room. The reflection in the landing mirror fades, a mist sweeps by it, retreating towards the East wing. It beckons me to follow. It takes me to a room which has been recently renovated, stripped to reveal far away memories of a centuries old house. My red chair awaits and I sit down. My mind gathers thoughts from a forgotten time. I see children sat on the floor, laughing, dolls and picture books scattered about their feet; I see a brown dog, large and friendly, happy to be part of the family; then I see the woman. A tall elegant beauty, her flowing skirt sitting neatly up on the wooden floor. She watches the children, her mouth moving with dignity as she laughs. Then she turns to me. She puts thoughts in to my head as I begin to understand her status. She is a previous occupant, the wife of the gentleman who built the house. She wants me to know that she walks up and down the staircase. Her memories are forever sublime and she has at last found me, someone to share them with.

Perhaps she is grounded in this big old house. Perhaps she enjoyed living here so much that she can find peace nowhere else. This is her home, as much as it is mine.

Here's lookin' at Ewe

Eager to get on my way, excited at increasing the bank balance, I set off in ‘Stormin’ Norman’, my faithful old Land Rover, to make the twenty mile journey along the A1 to Berwick town. Trudging along at 45 mph, down to 40 when the lorry driver in front decided to have a quick swig of his coffee, I finally arrived at the roundabout, even more excited that I could at last build up speed and perhaps get to the bank before close of day. I needn’t have been so enthusiastic. Battling my way through the town centre, dicing with delivery vans and pedestrians, Norman drew up outside the bank. Can you believe it? One of, if not the biggest banks in Berwick was closed! At 10.45am they had shut their doors and attached a large notice which read;

Closed due to system error.
Sorry for any inconvenience.

I wasn’t happy. I’m a very nonchalant kind of person, I have a relatively carefree life (she says as she touches wood) but when I’m in the middle of undertaking a 40 mile round trip in a beast that does about 25 miles to the gallon, following the laziest lorry driver in the British Isles and fighting with Berwick’s useless narrow main street, I am in danger of foaming at the mouth. I continued my journey to Morrison’s and compensated myself with a Big Mac & fries. Not very healthy I know, but it was either that or I faint in the fruit & veg.

Where has all this rain come from? It’s spent the last two hours pelting what looks like hailstone past the window, it’s thundering and it’s far too cold for this time of year; moan, moan. But the worse thing is that for some reason my internet connection has been throwing a wobbler. I’ve had Broadband for the last 12 months, the lowest form possible as I live 8 kilometres from the exchange but luckily the man with the van was able to connect me, giving me allsorts of useless advice and trying to sell me the contents of British Telecom. But it seems that every time we get this ghastly weather, the internet just doesn’t want to play. I’ve almost broken the mouse by clicking it and bashing it on the desk and then I get that annoying message which says “System Error”. Perhaps it’s got something to do with the bank; too many employees browsing the internet, fishing about on EBay, visiting chat rooms when what they should be doing is counting our money and paying wads of interest in to our accounts on a regular basis.

Living on the farm has opened my eyes over the last six years. One of the things that has done this to me is our nine tups. Rams for those who don’t know what I’m talking about. There’s no mistaking that they’re male. By ‘eck, no. They have no choice but to walk in a bow-legged fashion as their crown jewels hang almost to the floor, swinging to and fro like cathedral bells. They have the most enormous faces; great monstrous eyes which stare at you as they make their way to the Hemel to have their backsides cleaned. I wonder what they must think. I wonder if those humongous assets cause them any discomfort. I’d hate to be a ewe. Our ratio of 9 tups:250 ewes is quite an achievement, from the tups’ point of view. But I know that’s quite a small number of ewes compared to some farms in the area. I think there could be a lot of men out there hoping to reincarnate as a tup. They have an easy life, like most men I suppose (not that I’m a feminist).

A year in the life of a tup:

early February – end October:
Eat grass; sleep; watch the world go by; have backside cleaned.

November – January

Shag.

A year in the life of a ewe:

early February – (approx) end March:
Carry unborn lambs; blow up till you can hardly move; have very little energy; have painful contractions; give birth.

April – end October:

Feed young; nurture, protect and yell at young; have excruciatingly sore teats; try desperately to get some peace; eat grass.

November – January:

Have horrendously large male mate with you, daily.

So you see, a tup’s life is much more pleasurable. Hmm.

I won’t leave without mentioning the aroma of chocolate in my hall earlier. Not sure what that was all about but I checked the house and as I was supposedly alone I smiled and thanked my visitor for their presence. But an odd thing has happened. Not that I needed them today with the torrential downpour, but only last Saturday I bought four green chair cushions for my outside furniture. They’ve completely vanished. And they cost me a fortune!

What a load of ....

What I want to know is how so much pooh can come out of such a small puppy? I must say, Sparky's doing marvellously well with the toilet business but standing outside, having to watch her on doggy throne, looking out for worms and anything else that might be lurking uninvited can be quite a turn off. And a pain in the, dare I say it, arse! She is quite clever though, she tends to whine when she needs to go outside so we shouldn't really complain. Even though we always do!

Now that that's out of the way, I'll get on with my blog. Postman Pat brought a pathetic mixture of junk mail today. Not his usual stuff which we discard in the bin without actually reading any of it but a letter inviting hubby to join their insurance venture for the over-50's which I can tell you was pretty soul destroying as he still thinks himself as a spring chicken, and a complimentary catalogue from a high street shop which caters more for the bigger sizes, i.e. me! So I guess you could say we both got our fair share of crap. I love it when the postman comes. It's usually about 1.30 in the afternoon and I go running to the gate with my little postbox key, desperate to seek my mail. You can normally tell if there's anything of any interest amongst it when I'm on my way back. If there's something worth looking at I normally break into a slow jog, my flat feet somehow finding their way through the puppy pooh to the back door. And if it's just a load of rubbish, i.e., junk mail, catalogues, bills, that sort of thing, then I saunter back, narrowly avoiding the puppy pooh. Today, however, I ran back as I realised the cheque for the VAT had arrived. Me to the bank tomorrow then.

Can you believe it, I actually put the heating on this afternoon! This house is made of stone and it's situated at the top of a very windy hill, twice as windy when hubby's been stuffing his face with beans. I refused to put another layer on or wear thermals as I was already wrapped up like an Eskimo so the heating switch got flicked on and the radiators once more came to life. The house warmed up, eventually, but I think it'll be fleece pajama's and bedsocks tonight. I get really pissed off when it's cold at this time of year. I spend ages (all day) tidying out my drawers and wardrobes, moving all my winter garments to another room and bravely bringing out the summer stuff then spend ages (all day) running from one room to the other wondering what to put on and asking myself why did I bother to move the clothes in the first place. I'm back to jeans and jumpers. I can't understand how the holiday makers round here parade round places like Seahouses which is the coldest place on earth in shorts and tee shirts, usually a mac hanging over their shoulders. I used to think those members of the universe who are on the slightly larger side will probably have enough 'meat' on them to be able to withstand the cold. I've got more than enough 'meat' on me and I'm always freezing!

And finally, I heard a wonderful knock on the window this morning. The window which is right next to me as I sit at my desk working. A window which is situated on the first floor of the house. I thought it was the local window cleaner come to clean my filthy windows, I did ask him about two years ago and he never turned up. But there was no one there. Just the knocking which I put down to my 'visitor'. It's happened many times before but never on this window so even I was a little taken aback. Well actually I was scared out of my wits. I decided it was time for my morning break. Then just as I got to the bottom of the stairs that marvellous aroma of cooking hit me like the back of a frying pan. Steak and onions is what it smells like. I have a feeling it could be hubby's mum who was the best cook in the North. She spent her life in the kitchen, pinny and chains around her waist. I always say "hello" to her as I'm pretty sure it is her. She probably can't believe her eyes when she watches me taking Iceland's microwave lasagne's out of the freezer to give to hubby for his tea.

"Mind How You Go"

Well, there it is, the big day been and gone and fortunately without a hitch. If you can say a funeral was a success, then I'd say it about this one. As it was Jim's wish to have a private service, just fifteen of his family & close friends arrived to pay their respects and give him the best send-off. I read my poem together with a few paragraphs and a prayer I had devised and the cool clergy paid a touching tribute to the man he hardly knew. At one point I almost had to prevent myself from bursting into laughter as the funeral director opened up the back of the hearse and pulled down the cupboard situated underneath where the coffin lies. You see I'm an 'Open all Hours' fan, Ronnie Barker and David Jason at their best. I imagined Ronnie Barker popping his head up and announcing to the waiting mourners, "Don't upset yourself, Lilly, we'll get the buns in somehow". I guess I've got a shocking sense of humour but sometimes it just helps to have a little chuckle even it is with yourself and I know Jim would have found it hilarious. Most people came back to the house for tea and biscuits (and a Carlsberg) then gently dispersed about 4pm, leaving me to pick Amy up from my very good friend who had kindly looked after her after school.



There was just one little thing which I suppose could have been a lot worse had it not been a funeral; hubby's brother came (naturally) and brought his very quiet wife, who for one reason or another has decided she doesn't like me. Today was the first time I'd ever met her. She didn't make a big impact on me, quite the contrary. She was rude and she was in My home. We can't be absolutely sure about the reasoning behind her shunning behaviour but we think it might simply be, jealousy. Nobody needs ever be jealous of me. I'm a down-to-earth mum with a passion for writing (and blogging) and I married the man I love. I even wondered whether her and hubby had a secret affair sometime in the far distant past, but no, hubby denies everything. So then, why did she have to be so discourteous? Why did she snub me when I tried to say hello, nice to finally meet you? Why did she bother to turn up? "Nowt as queer as folk". Anyway, there's one thing that's come out of it, she's no longer welcome in my home.


The flowers were a credit to the florist. The most beautiful display of white lillies and green foliage adorned the coffin, shiny brass handles peeping through. There was a smaller display of white and pink lillies with a few pink roses nestled amongst green foliage, a card rising up on a stem saying, "To Grandad, I love you, Amy". In all the time we knew Jim, he always insisted that Amy address him as just simply, 'Jim'. However, she adamantly wrote the card out to 'Grandad', a man she had looked up to and respected; a man who had shared his inner-childhood with the little girl who breezed into his life six years ago. She now believes Jim is with her other Grandad (my dad) and our two dogs, Ben & Gyp. In her eyes, she sees them walking along Bamburgh beach, enjoying the magnificent coastline as they throw sticks into the crashing waves.

I've had a few 'corner of the eye' moments recently. Those strange sensations when you think someone has just walked by you. I often wonder who it could be, wishing a whole host of people would make their presence known. I've also heard some peculiar knocking sounds the last couple of days. Unperturbed yet anxious, my senses become alert as I look around me, starting to hear all sorts of odd sounds that I've never heard before. My imagination working overtime? Absolutely not. I have a large red armchair where I sit quietly, desperately trying to meditate. I always have so much going on inside my head I find it almost impossible to concentrate. But I don't need to. I can guarantee that as soon as I sit at my desk I feel a presence behind me. A smartly dressed gentleman in a suit and tie, shoes which reflect like mirrors, silver hair and a gentle smile. He watches me as I work, helping me out with the words on which I struggle, guiding me to find the right context. He sits on my bed. I hear the mattress grind as his weightless body makes itself comfortable on the duvet, his soul resting against the headboard. I look up at his photograph which hangs just above the computer, his eyes smiling as he proudly admires his grand daughter just hours after her birth. Moments precious, only to a father and his daughter. I remember him once more, his strong arms holding me, my head resting against his cushion-soft chest as he strokes my hair and says those final words, "Mind how you go".

I'm sure hubby will miss his father, maybe just as much as I miss mine after nearly six years. I will support him as much as he has supported me and eventually he will realise that life never ends, it merely moves on.

Useful Facts

In response to Gwen's "I've Been Tagged" blog, I would like to list my eight most interesting facts. I apologise in advance should this blog make you yawn, make you cry or make you laugh (at me not with me). I would also like to point out that I am having to have a careful think about my five nominations so please Gwen, be patient with me. Anyway, here goes:

1. I used to play squash for Lancashire Juniors (about a hundred years ago).

2. I was nearly killed in a car crash 10 years ago, had to be rescued by the fire service (didn't notice if any of them were strapping or not) and suffered permanent spinal damage.

3. My daughter, Amy, is autistic. Her fact I know, but as I gave birth to her, she's a piece of me.

4. In 2001, my dad suddenly past away after suffering a massive heart attack, aged 58. Three weeks later, I moved 200 miles away to Northumberland, upsetting friends and family, and my sister stopped speaking to me. However, we made up six months later and are now the best of friends.

5. I have epilepsy.

6. My favourite time of day is evening when I can wind down, visit blog-land and spend quality time with my daughter.

7. I am a paranormal freak. I love anything to do with ghosts, hauntings & mediums. My house is haunted; I will write about this soon in a future blog.

8. I used to be a svelte size 12.

It should also be noted that I have many skeletons in my cupboard, some of which need to stay there. WAKE UP!