Goodbye, Mrs. Hen

It was 9am, Friday morning. Having waved Amy off on the school bus, I was still not dressed. I made the executive decision as I stood in red fleece pyjamas and blue fleece dressing gown, plus furry brown slippers, that the hens would now be desperately in need of seeing daylight, would also need a change of water plus their fill of Thursday's leftovers. Instead of changing into wellies and farm clothes, I ventured down the stone steps at the back of the house towards the hen house where the path is mapped by various breeds of poo. Dogs, sheep, hens, badgers, most probably foxes. My haste in releasing the twenty five hens which clucked in true Northumbrian style made me totally oblivious to the squelch that my furry brown slippers had become accustomed to. The hens, as always, bombarded through the door like eager punters at the village jumble sale. The stench in the hen house almost knocking me sideways in my reach for the water bucket, suddenly became non existent to my senses as I noticed a hen lying quietly by the perches.

Her little leg was at an angle and even though her eyes were open, it was obvious that the life she still had within her would soon come to an end. I picked her up. She did not struggle. On the edge of a free range life, I knew I had to try to help her. I had no idea what I would do but if I got her inside the farm house perhaps she would feel warmer. I carried her gently, her body as light as a feather, back up the stone steps and into the kitchen. Unable to find a suitable blanket I sat on a chair next to the Aga and positioned her on my knee. I lovingly stroked her beautiful dark orange feathers. Her little eyes kept closing as my hands massaged her head and when I took them away, her eyes would open again as if to ask for more.

Fifteen minutes passed and I knew I could not sit there all day. It was time to take her back to the hen house, perhaps she would eat something then lay a golden egg in the hay. As I reached the bottom of the stone steps I heard the farmer on the quad bike nearby. I decided it would be best to ask him for advice for he knows about hens, much more than I do. However, on this occasion, it was my job to see this through for the quad bike did not approach and went into another field instead.

I went back into the hen house. Just one hen left inside, scurrying around for leftovers which she may have missed. The others had already flown the nest and were on their first rounds of exploration around the farm. I chose a dark corner to my left. I stroked Mrs. Hen once more, blessing her as she moved onto her next life, then carefully and with absolute compassion, I bent down in order to place her on the floor. Just as I did that last deed, her body became limp, her eyes closed and she passed away peacefully, while still in my arms.

My return to the house found me in the pantry, frantically stripping to my Sunday best. I hummed. But just that once, it did not matter. For the state of my clothes, did not matter. What did matter, however, was that the last twenty minutes of Mrs. Hen's life were spent in comfort and warmth. It is not much to ask from a dying hen.

Felines and Elephants

The hour was late. My bones rested yet my heart raced. My mind needed stimulation. I could not think about sleep. I could only think about the noises which came from the room below. The sound of a television. Voices, nonsensical. It was no use. I could not lie in my bed, continuing my quest for sleep. Sheep had come and gone, numbers no longer followed on. I rose. Slipping on my dressing gown to warm my numbing flesh, I made my way downstairs to the open doorway leading into the lounge. The television was not on. It had not been on all night. Toys lay scattered on the floor, books and games left in a disorderly pile. Dolls faces stared up at me, their eyes piercing as they watched my every move. The cat lay neatly on a cushion. Her tail tucked underneath for entire warmth. As she noticed me, she asked politely, should my knee be available for extra comfort. I switched the television on and settled myself on the sofa, encouraging Jess to join me. Her claws sank into the fleece of my dressing gown. Again. I stroked her head gently, she purred, happy to have some company in her independent world.


The television began to relax my mind. There was nothing of interest to watch as my eyes kept wandering to the toys strewn around the room. A pair of sandals lay, one straightened, the other on its side. A toy elephant sat upright by the turned up sandal. The toy looked at me. I felt that sudden rush of excitement of which I recognise to be an indication of a presence within my vicinity. As I continued to stare at the toy elephant, the sandal turned over, resting itself flat upon the floor. My eyes just caught the movement, a quick manoeuvre by invisible hands; a powerful force, unexplained.


I sat, perfectly still. The cat purred on my knee, unfazed by what could have been poltergeist phenomena. I was surprised that she did not seem to care, perhaps she did not feel threatened by the presence. Cats are supposed to have a sixth sense. My senses told me there was no danger in what I had just witnessed. My mind was beginning to tire. I could feel my eyes becoming heavy. I slept well that night. But I do not remember the toy elephant lying on its side, as I switched the light off in the lounge.

***********************

After another successful swimming lesson on Thursday afternoon, I packed two happy girls into the car to bring them back to the farm. Amy was of course one of them together with her lovely friend, Em, a gorgeous little girl, two years younger than Amy. They sat in the back, chattering away about the fun they planned to have; a tea party in the Tinkerbell tent; watching Bratz Fashion Pixiez, amongst various other activities that made me want to relive my childhood. However, that would have had to wait until another day as Em's mum was due to meet us at 3.30. A lovely person, friendly, bubbly, great conversationalist. Great company. We sat around the kitchen table drinking tea and talking about all those things school mums tend to talk about. Just about everything. I think in the space of a few hours we covered subjects from school to autism, from the paranormal to romance and just for good measure, threw a bit of gossip in along the way.

A keen horsewoman, Em's mum loves to talk about farming and so when the farmer came in for his afternoon tea, he made himself comfortable and joined in our girly chat. The children ran into the kitchen every so often, telling the odd tale which usually focused around Amy being the bossy boots that she is but on the whole they got on incredibly well. Which wasn't (isn't) surprising as Amy's mental age in the way of social skills is around 6 years old. The exact age of Em. There are times when Amy acts her age like when she wants to borrow my makeup (to paint on her doll's faces, not her own) and other times when she's out on the farm helping out. But social interaction for Amy doesn't come easy with children of her own age. Taking Casdok's words in her recent blog (hope she doesn't mind), Amy is autistic, autism is Amy. She is lucky to have such adorable friends, ones she can pleasantly interact with; who cares what age they are.

After fish fingers, chips and beans, always a firm favourite, followed by chocolate muffins, Em and Amy said their farewells. It was one of those big hug-moving moments when two friends who have enjoyed each other's company immensely have to part for, ooh, in this case about 14 hours! Then came the job of peeling Amy off the ceiling. I have seen her worse, especially in the days I would give her a chocolate overload not realising it was increasing her somewhat boisterous behaviour. The puppy got the brunt of the after-math followed by me when I insisted she put her pyjama's on at 7pm. I could not stand any more. My head was whizzing. And my stomach sounded like a central heating boiler because I hadn't eaten. The farmer kindly went to the Chinese while I battled with an over-excited child but we got there in the end. She eventually calmed down and I let her watch a DVD in her bedroom, that usually does the trick. Shutters and curtains closed, dim lighting and an inviting bed. Peace and quiet by 9pm. Until my guest arrived a little later on.

My Time with Tom

I used to have big ideas about moving to a town in New Orleans called Baton Rouge. I have no idea what it is like, or it's size. I just knew for some time, approximately two years, that I wanted to go. The reason for my desire was a man known as Tom. I spoke to him every day on the phone, usually after lunch when he arrived into his office. The company I worked for used his company to ship material worldwide. Okay, the company was ICI. But keep that to yourselves. Tom and I built up an amazing rapport. We talked about anything and everything, a lot of it completely unrelated to work. Tom was a divorcee. So was I and lived on my own. For some reason, perhaps that, we seemed to gel.

We emailed each other constantly. Never an hour went by when we didn't have some form of contact. Tom started off being a platonic friend. Little more than a work associate. After a year of our friendship, we had discovered that we had become much more than friends and colleagues. Our relationship moved up a level as we exchanged home telephone numbers, eager to talk to each other without the prying eyes and listening ears of those nearby, some who took great pleasure in mocking us. Tom would phone me every night. It was usually around 8pm which, if I remember rightly, was mid afternoon where he was.

Tom was an avid Trekky. His love of Star Trek went beyond my comprehension but I tried my best to keep up and began watching it whenever it was on our terrestrial channels. I wasn't particularly fond of it. I remember my mum questioning me every time I insisted watching it on BBC2 when I was at her house. Of course she knew it had something to do with Tom, I had mentioned him a few times, but I don't think she realised it was because I was falling in love with him.

It was 1997. The year I went off the rails. The year I lived life to the full, pushing and barging through those around me. I had the world at my feet. No commitments, no responsibilities (except a mortgage) and no one to answer to. I had my own place. A one bedroom apartment, a beautiful abode of which I made comfortable and homely. I didn't have many friends. My only true friend, Ali, had several friends of her own and couldn't always find time to spend with me. I didn't blame her for that. She had a life.

It was the year I truly started thinking about writing a book. A romance based on two people who lived thousands of miles apart, had never met, yet had an incredible bond. A mysterious link to an unknown world. It would be a story about an Internet love affair. It would be my story. True; yet sad. When I went in work one morning to be told Tom and another male associate known as Greg would be coming over for meetings some time in the next fortnight, I thought the butterflies in my stomach would take flight. I couldn't wait to speak to Tom and find out when they were due and if we could meet privately.

He was quite keen to meet up. They had been booked into a hotel in Manchester City centre and he would find a way in which we could spend some time together, alone. It was unbelievable. Surreal. I was going to meet the man I had so desperately wanted to see for the past 2 years. Of course we had exchanged photographs on many occasions but it wasn't the same as talking to that person in the flesh. Being in the same personal space at that person. I simply could not wait.

Their plane was due in on a Wednesday morning. I did offer to meet them both at Manchester Airport but my offer was declined. Perhaps, as usual, I hadn't been assertive enough. Or perhaps I just wasn't meant to go.

I never did get to meet Tom. He didn't travel with Greg that Wednesday. Something had come up and he had to stay at the office yet it had been too late for him to phone me and let me know. I was quite gullible in those days. I was also in love. Perhaps. When I did get chance to speak to Tom later that day he apologised and I accepted there was nothing he could have done. Later that same year I decided to leave ICI. Tom and I stayed in contact for a further few months. His phone calls became less and less, each time giving an excuse for his absence. I knew then that our "Internet romance" would never have worked. I also knew that I needed to come up with a stronger plot for my novel.

In the Shape of a Tip

Every day I sit and think. Usually for a very long time, occasionally when I am bored. Recently my thinking has focused around the novel I have committed myself to write. I can make notes at all times of day. And night. Especially at night. It is much easier to listen. It is more atmospheric as darkness envelops me in my bed. It is less challenging to my eyes as I see a familiar shape, a head perhaps, and a torso. My eyes did not deceive me for a lay, propped up on my pillow, watching and making mental notes for my next instalment. I blinked. My mistake. The shape found an opportunity and withdrew from my sight. It did not leave a parting light. It's gift, however, was thought. A wonderful new idea it bestowed upon me as I turned over and welcomed the dead of night.

********************

"Your room is a complete tip!" How often do we say that to our children? I say it almost every day to Amy. It is usually around this time of year when I get the bin bags out and have the ultimate clear up. When she is at school. She has far too many toys and some are never played with. But of course the minute you ask, "do you want this?" it becomes her all time favourite. Adverts have already begun their annual temptation, cleverly broadcast in between programs of which children are sure to watch. When I was a child, my dad's favourite answer to my pleas for totally unnecessary items was, "We'll see." I can hear him say those words as I type, he said them so often. However much I love my dad, I always made a pact with myself that I would find my own style of parenting. It is of no surprise of course that whenever Amy asks for the toy I have no intention of buying my exasperating answer is none other than, "We'll see."


It is quite wise where Amy is concerned to write down the items she finds of interest at this early stage in order to compare it with the items she finds of interest nearer to Christmas. She has a few favourites of the doll variety but I know, as of old, that she will change her mind many times over the next few months. My love of Christmas gives me a perfect excuse to scour the Argos catalogue and various internet sites achieving the best prices for certain items, I hate being swindled. But there are two birthdays before the big festivities; the farmer's in October and mine in December. And Amy's birthday falls just after the New Year.


So, instead of sitting here devouring a box of After Eights, listening to my piano being tuned, perhaps I should start thinking again. I need to buy another birthday present for a school friend of Amy's. Another party she has been invited to but will not be attending. Amy does not do parties. She simply cannot cope with the noise levels, the large numbers of children charging round and me, trying my best to encourage her to join in the games. I have spent so many hours in toilets, running around outside (in all weather), rocking her on my knee that I am no longer prepared to put her through the agony of which she clearly feels. Luckily, most of the children's parents understand and even though are kind enough to offer their support, it remains that Amy is far better not going. Believe me, I have tried. Many many times. Imagine a child screaming and shouting "shut up" at top volume when all your little darling's friends are singing Happy Birthday around the cake of pride. Imagine a child screaming and lashing out at a smaller child at the party, one who is minding their own business, one who accidentally knocks said screaming child. And imagine spending two hours outside whilst the fun goes on under cover. You might as well not be there.

Walking the Tight Rope

An hour sat in the accountant's office this morning did not bode well with my nerves. I wondered, as I grew hypothetical wings in order to fly from his office window, how immensely boring it must be to have to know about the dreaded three letter word of which we do not associate pleasure; i.e. Tax. A wise man. He has to be admired, on a grand scale. His knowledge of such formality completely blew my mind and set me off thinking about what I should cook for supper. For I decided, while nodding in agreement and saying yes occasionally, that whatever happened to my finances, my family would need feeding. I just hoped I would have enough brain power left to think of something edible, not to mention something cheap. Meanwhile, perhaps, and I say perhaps as I do not wish to offend, our "I'm just getting on with the job" Prime Minister is sat tucking into his truffle butty while thinking about none other than the increase on fuel tax.

"Better not fill the tractor up this week, darling." I am flabbergasted to see how much hard earned funds have quickly vanished (and still are) from our farm account during this harvesting season. Gone are the days of horses, straining their backs with the oldest plough in town. In are the days of forking out on John Deere's and fuel companies. Every time the farmer brings the tractor up to the diesel tank, I cringe. Every thing around me suddenly takes on the shape of a pound sign as I shout over to the tups, "better work hard this year, boys."

Life always has something to throw at us, however big or small. It is generally how we deal with it that can determine its severity to our well being. Of course, some things are totally out of our control and we can only go along with advice and suggestion, frustrated at the pitfalls we know are inevitable. None of us wanted a fresh outbreak of Foot and Mouth. Farming was finally getting on it's feet when everything came to a very abrupt halt. Movement bans. Farms over crowded with scheduled lambs for market. Who, exactly, knows what they are doing or what they should be doing. It seems like once again, we have Zippo's circus making decisions for our 'head bobbing above water' businesses. I am sure Zippo's establishment would make a fine job if they were left to it, without interference from the powers that be.

To make matters worse, potentially much worse, a disease known as Bluetongue has hit our country. When will it end? Will it end? I think farmers have a valid excuse for moaning right now. However, moan on, complain away, rant 'till the cows come home but I would never swap my farming life for any other. I have worked in offices in Manchester city centre, I was slave to an aggressive solicitor in Bolton, I was a receptionist in a busy factory office in Leigh, but none of those jobs plus all the others I have had will ever come close to my life on this farm. I do not envisage ever understanding the workings of the tax system. I will never accept the excuses we are fed by the government regarding the welfare of our livelihoods. I hope and pray the fatal diseases of Foot and Mouth together with Bluetongue leave our planes as quickly as they arrived and I will pray for those already affected by this dreadful tragedy. I am not going anywhere. My head will continue to bob. The water might be cold, but my heart remains warm.

Look Out For Me

Once a month I make a four hundred mile round trip to visit my mum. She lives in a little suburb of Manchester. It used to be one of those quiet areas with houses dotted about, a handful of people queuing at the local grocery store for quarter of cooked ham and a loaf of bread. Now, in our twenty-first century madness, it has become a selection of housing estates. Another expanding waistline for the ever growing population. My mum lives in a lovely house, four bedrooms mainly to accommodate her visiting family. But it is a corner plot. Whilst sitting in the lounge one would feel quite at home should a goldfish swim by. The huge window which looks onto the front drive, directly off the public footpath makes it feel rather like being in a Pyrex bowl, having passers by gorping at your every move. Mum keeps the blinds tilted most of the time which prevents nosey neighbours from looking in, however, it also prevents her from looking out; a favoured past time as a nosey neighbour.

My mum is surrounded by houses. They are very nice houses, with supportive neighbours. She has an appointment with a double glazing salesman this coming week. Her idea is to install glass which will enable her to see out but prevent people from seeing in. A bit like one of those two- way mirrors. Imagine the things you could get up to in your own home, with the curtains (or blinds in my mums case) left open. I can't imagine it adding value to the house but it has been upsetting her for some time now. I think that is what becomes of being a nosey neighbour. You get found out. Of course where I live, the only nosey neighbours we are likely to encounter are of the four legged woolly variety. The pony peers in occasionally, but that is only if her head is facing in the window direction during the few times she looks up from mowing the lawn. So it is not necessary to close our shutters, we do not have curtains in the lounge for I just don't see the point. Our large bathroom window is of transparent glass and as far as I am aware, I have never been spotted in my Sunday best.

It goes without saying that I thoroughly enjoy going to see my mum. We always have a good natter, we have lots to talk about. I find it so much easier to talk to my mum face to face rather than on the phone. She tends to phone me at the most awkward of times and I tend to phone her when she is out. Saturday's are usually spent at the shops. It has to be one of the best past times to go shopping with my mum. I would never pick something up if I wasn't prepared to buy it myself but strangely enough, my purse never seems to see the light of day. Sometimes I refuse to let her spoil me. I can not remember when I did that, but I have done it. But, as my brother and sister will vouch, we spoil mum too. If we can't spoil her with gifts as much as she does for us, we always give plenty of love. It has been hard for her since she 'lost' my dad, as are her words. She listens to me when I talk to her about his spirit but she doesn't always understand, which is her choice. She has accepted that life goes on. It has to for our own sanity. And she has found a lovely man of whom she loves and spends a lot of her time with. But during last week, her thoughts were with my dad. She mourned for him. She missed him. I hope Amy and me helped her to remember the good times we all shared, not forgetting the good times we all share now.

Mum looked after Amy on Saturday night while I went out for a Chinese banquet with my friend, Ali. It was one of those catch up nights, where two people who haven't seen each other for months have so much to say that it is impossible to get it all in. Ali is so different to me. We have little in common. But each time we are together, we agree on so much. I have promised Ali I will dedicate a blog to her. A promise of which I intend to keep. A blog of which I will take great care in composing. She does not take any shit. Her mouth is bigger than the Mersey Tunnel, as she will admit, but she is my oldest and most honourable friend. A very special person in my life.

Our return journey brought us north along the A1. Fields in our view, sheep and cattle grazing, oblivious to the horrors which could lay before them. As my farm hoved into view, my expression went into automatic pilot, a smile painted firmly while listening to Amy cheer as she noticed Heaven upon its hill. "We're home, mum," she yelled. There's no where like it.

Swimming for Gold

All is quiet. My head spins as it unwinds from a hectic afternoon. Teaching children to swim. That is what I do on Thursday afternoons. Just voluntary, for the school. Each child in my group has his/her own targets. Each one has a different level to which they work, hard. I truly love the buzz. To watch each child improve as the weeks go by, to feel rewarded as they show me their badges, to know I have helped a child to swim. Today, a child in my group achieved what he has been wanting to achieve for some time. He earned his first badge. He smiled as he reached the side, knowing a round piece of cloth was within a whisker's reach. How proud of him I was. How proud of him I am.

I swam for a club, many years ago. In the days when I was fit. I have always loved swimming. To be part of a group of eager children, destined to bestow self-pride, is something I feel privileged to do. I never thought I would experience the amazing feeling that teachers feel on a daily basis, that feeling of achievement; being rewarded for helping others. I never considered myself clever enough to be a teacher. I am not academic. Studying does not come easy to me. Shouting, however, does. The little patience I have is stored in a jar of which is opened when Amy is at her most trying. That is when I realise I could never have been a teacher.

My chosen profession was a vet. I wanted to spend my life performing miracles on animals that were on the brink of death. I wanted to make someone smile when I told them their beloved pet would pull through. That would have been a rewarding occupation. That would have been a job worth getting out of bed for. Even on a day like today when I have been suffering with a cold. The type that makes you tired when you haven't lifted a finger. The type that makes you want to curl up under your duvet, alone. I nearly rang the school to send in my apologies for non attendance. By mid morning I had a change of heart. I am not indispensable. I am not the one and only. But those children are. Their success is paramount. I want them to go through life enjoying the water, taking pleasure from swimming, even competitiveness. Some of them may not get another chance to shine. I dragged myself from my bed at 11am, a white tissue married to my nose. My flesh hurt as clothes touched; makeup was not important for I knew it would not stay on long; the hairbrush briefly skimmed through my short red hair. I gathered Amy's swimming kit, devoured a sandwich and went to school.

During the hour I spent with those beautiful children, my head was clear. My nose divorced the tissue; my throat did not feel like pins had lodged. I did not go in the water for fear of getting cold and so I walked along the side, shouting encouragement to enthusiastic young swimmers. I watched as each one had to perform a task in order to earn their badges. Then I watched as each one lifted up their arms, grinned like Cheshire cats and shouted, "YES!"

It would not be right of me to single out one child in front of them all, for they all worked exceptionally hard and deserved their badges. But I can cherish the memories of today's achievers. I can think about how proud they will be tonight as they close their eyes and drift into youthful dreams. And I will always remember the little boy's face when he realised he had secured his first badge.

"To all you lovely children who swam your little heart's out today: Well done and sleep well."

Beans on Toast

I keep looking around this house. There are three rooms which are desperately in need of renovating and I am constantly telling every one who asks, "we are having a new kitchen. We are turning this room into a formal drawing room. This will be our dining room." Yet when I close the door on my guests, I return to the computer, or the tv, whichever is more interesting at the time. All summer I have been wanting to change my kitchen. I have even gone as far as having plans drawn up only to throw them away in temper after feeling I was being ripped off. I have now chosen a different kitchen showroom which I think will be better suited to my needs. And my bank account. I ask my husband what he thinks. "I'll leave it to you," is his sensible reply. And when I tell him about the appliances which the new kitchen will boast he answers, "we don't need a dishwasher. Why do you want a new cooker? What's wrong with the kitchen table?" I have come to the conclusion that his view does not count.

So what is it with me and kitchens? Why do they intimidate me so much? Why do I worry about having friends over for dinner? I have no interest in cooking. I would rather scoop up puppy poo on a grand scale. For many years, our farmhouse kitchen has been the hub of the house. Visitors walk through the back door to be greeted with racks of wellies before entering, at their own risk, what could easily be classed as the most grottiest kitchen ever. I watch people's faces as they notice the grime on kitchen cupboards; tobacco stains on the ceiling and cigarette burns on the lino. Our kitchen has part sixties and seventies units. It has a stainless steel sink with hot and cold separate taps, neither of which work properly. We have a filthy, fat stained Aga which even though serves a purpose is probably going to need either replacing or in the very least, a complete cleaning overhaul. It is older than me. Most things in the house are older than me.


Last night I made Amy a pork steak (well cooked to prevent re-occurring worms), mashed potato and sweetcorn. As I put her meal in front of her, she asked, "is this Grandma's food?" In other words, is it edible. After a quick nod of the head and a silent prayer for my sins I left her to it. My husband will not eat spicy food. Nor will he eat food that is a little different from what he is used to. I think I might employ a chef. Both Amy and the farmer are good eaters, however. They usually enjoy the meals I have cooked for them. It would be easy for Amy to say otherwise as she has no concept of fibbing. There have been times when two dogs have sat either side of my husband, tongues moving about in rather an optimistic fashion as bits of left over food miraculously land in their mouths.


However. I have recently found a little motivation and have started making arrangements to visit my chosen kitchen showroom. I know what I want the new kitchen to look like. A Belfast sink is an essential item as is some kind of feature above the Aga, perhaps to encourage the eye away from such hideousness. I also want multi-coloured splash back tiles and terracotta slate on the floor. I want a double oven, built in at a height which means I do not have to visit my physiotherapist after each oven meal. I also want a family sized dishwasher because the least time I spend in the sink, the better. I am actually quite excited about creating a new hub for my lovely farmhouse. It will be such a change to welcome friends and family into my home and not scurry them through the kitchen towards the lounge. I might even enjoy sitting in the kitchen. You never know, I might even enjoy working in it. Then again, Nelson might get his eye back.

I've been Meme'd .....

..... by the lovely Flowerpot! Please forgive me, dear heart, for I cannot think of enough words or facts which cover Crystal. I have therefore chosen my beautiful daughter instead. Here is my homework:

A: Astral. I think it may well be common knowledge by now that a huge part of my life is dedicated to an existence beyond our earth plane. For me, it is a wonderful and fascinating subject of which I love to write about. My own experiences are being collated together with research and studies to complete a novel about life in a paranormal world.

M: Making Friends. A wonderful past time. I have many loyal friends that I have made since living in Northumberland. Most of my friends are parents from school. There are a few in particular who I consider to be very good friends and the type of people I would turn to in a crisis. I hope they would feel the same way about me. And I hope, if they are reading this blog, they know who they are! Friendship is so important to me. I know that these friends I speak about will be friends for a very long time. I would, however, consider my best friend to be my sister, Bea. I have made lots of friends through blogging. Some I have been lucky enough to meet. Some I live near to. Others I hope to stay in touch with.

Y: Yule. My favourite time of year. I absolutely, completely and utterly adore Christmas. Decorating the house, buying presents, writing cards, even spending money. I love to watch Amy's face on Christmas morning when she sees piles of presents, all wrapped up for her from Santa. It makes everything so worthwhile. I start preparing for Yuletide around this time of year, not in an obsessive way, just buying cards and ordering wrapping paper from various catalogues. I start writing lists of who to send a card to and other lists of who to buy presents for. I love visiting the garden centre where all the Christmas ornaments and trees are on display. I can't walk out without buying something. Since my dad's passing in 2001, my mum doesn't get excited about Christmas anymore. She and my dad used to have the most beautiful tree, seven foot tall, decorated from top to bottom with an incredible display of ornaments. Now, however, she doesn't have a tree. She puts a few decorations up but nothing like she used to.

As part of the homework, I shall pass this MeMe onto 3 fellow bloggers. If you want to take part, feel free but don't feel obliged to:

Westerwitch/Headmistress (I don't expect all letters to be used!!)
Suffolkmum
Tom Foolery

Crystal Jigsaw xx

Family Matters

Shortly after moving onto the farm, it became obvious that my smoking obsessed father-in-law was in no way prepared to refrain from lighting up around the kitchen table or indeed the kitchen. Nor was he bothered about smoking through the whole house, even, between you and me, the bathroom when duty called. One of my pet hates. If people wish to smoke, it is their choice. However, when my meal is overwhelmed by someone else's smoke, I feel obliged for the sake of my taste buds and my lungs, to make a polite complaint. This I did on many occasions. It fell on deaf ears. Amy would be sitting at the table, in the early days before she turned two and would be engulfed in smoke, being inconsiderately blown from an old man who could not have cared less should we all have caked it on the spot, from passive smoking.


FIL had smoked since being 14 years of age in 1938. He was 82 when he passed and still smoked 'like a chimney'. Many years ago, before I moved up here, he and his wife would hold card nights with friends. All smoked. They would sit around the kitchen table and get through a pension's worth of cigarettes in one night. My husband would stay away from fear of being mistaken for an intruder through all the fog. The whole house used to smell like a volcanic ashtray, curtains and carpets hummed, chairs and cushions were putrid. Even the dogs coughed and spluttered, begging to be let out into the cold, happy to sacrifice the snacks and nibbles which often got thrown their way. I am so glad those days were over when I moved in. Perhaps life would have been so different.


Wishing my daughter to enjoy her meals without being polluted I decided to set up a little table and chair in the lounge where she could eat in peace and watch her favourite program at the same time. This generally worked. She was calm and content and whilst I or J sat with her, she would eat every last bit on her plate. A result. No smoke, no fuss, no food left. A shame for the dogs but a relief for me. J and I, in the meantime, took to eating our supper after FIL had retired to his sitting room to watch Emmerdale. Saturday's and Sunday's were usually a bit fiddly especially when I insisted on sitting down to Sunday supper together. I got slightly sneaky after a while however, making sure supper would be ready at 7pm on Sunday evening knowing full well FIL would never miss Emmerdale and would therefore insist on having his meal in his sitting room so that he could watch it in peace. Meaning J and I could eat in peace. Another result.


Since January of this year, as some of you know, FIL left the farm to live in a nursing home and died at the end of May. Just recently, Amy has decided she prefers to eat at the kitchen table. I have always given her a choice but after spending so long eating in the lounge, it had become a habit. But now, I suppose, with no FIL, no smoke, no fuss, our cleaner life has rubbed off on Amy. In fact we have a life. A good life, one to be cherished. Perhaps FIL watches us from the astral plane, puffing on his Benson & Hedges, dropping ash on the floor, burning holes in the carpets. But he can't spoil our supper anymore. Never again will I worry about Amy eating her supper at the kitchen table, inhaling a mouthful of second hand smoke whilst trying to enjoy fish fingers, chips and beans. Never again will I need to worry that there is ash on the cooker, or specks of it in the mashed potato. And believe me, I am not exaggerating.


On Sunday evening I cooked a beef joint. Having made egg and chips for Amy and J at lunch time, of which they sat at the table and devoured, I decided roast potatoes and vegetables were not necessary and made the excuse to sidle out of cooking. So it was barmcakes and Green Giant Sweetcorn. "What's a barmcake?" I hear you ask. Anyone who watches Coronation Street might have heard the term being used. It is a slang name as used by Mancunians, i.e. me, and simply means 'bread roll'. Green Giant Sweetcorn; crunchy sweetcorn in a tin. It has to be Green Giant because Amy loves the advert and thinks if she eats that particular brand she will turn into a Green Giant. She is already a giant.


So my family sat around the kitchen table. Amy, J and myself; Molly and Sparky, the two opportunists, forever around when food is on the go and I think Jess the cat was hiding somewhere, perhaps in a cupboard, it being her favourite place. Plenty beef for everyone. Including the animals. I looked at my daughter. Eating happily. I looked at my husband. Eating messily. I smiled. This truly is what life is all about. Family. Happiness. Contentment. Complete.

Music

I sit at the piano, gazing into his eyes. He listens as I play Fur Elise. His presence intensifies. His smile sighs within my heart. I no longer concentrate on the piece I play, for my thoughts have been overwhelmed by a childhood vision. My fingers continue to caress the keys, an unknown force keeping rhythm to a steady beat. My mind's eye sees a tall, elegant man; he stands at the end of the piano, tears piercing his eyes as he hears attentively; the first piece of music to be played in complete harmony, 27 years ago. The piece reaches its climax; my audience shakes his head, pride escaping from weeping eyes.

I go on to play further pieces, in the presence of one so pure. Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata; Memory, from Cats the Musical; Hush-a-bye Mountain, from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Three of my favourite pieces which captivate my heart as I make music for an unseen loved one. He asks me to practice Edward Elgar's Nimrod taken from Enigma Variations. It is, in my opinion, the most poignant piece of music one could listen to, between this world and the next. It is spiritual; emotive; unique. Four hundred mourners filled a church. A congregation of silent heartbeats, paused in the wake of he who had passed. Four hundred pairs of ears listened to Elgar's composition, the only sounds; instrumental.

My piece comes to an end. Energy no longer supports me as I stoop, lifting my head towards smiling eyes and a contented soul. I put the scores away. Place the stool back in tidy position. A gentle thud appears from the corner of the room, followed by another as I turn, wondering if I have given enough of my music to be appreciated by he who has listened. My attempt at Elgar's Nimrod was poor. I make a mental note to continue in my pursuit for perfection. Inspired, only, by perfection.

I close the lid on the piano. I do not close the lid on my music. Each day I play for he who will listen. And I listen to he who inspires me to play.

Tooth Fairy Magic

I have spent weeks putting off an inevitable visit to the dentist. Eight weeks to be precise. Before the school holidays, you may remember, Amy twisted her neck in the bath while throwing a wet sponge at me. She was in considerable pain and I rushed her down to the local A&E at Alnwick Infirmary. Nothing broken, no long term damage, just a pain in the neck. Literally. Some few days before that unfortunate incident, I had decided it was time to take Amy to the dentist to have her front tooth looked at and possibly taken out. The tooth, even though a little loose, was (and still is) reluctant to come out naturally and as another tooth has already grown behind, I have been rather concerned that one way or another the baby tooth will have to be surgically removed. A piece of cotton and the kitchen door would have sufficed at one time, but I don't have any cotton.

So my idea was to wait until the summer holidays were over, not wanting to spoil the fun by a trip to the dentist and the thought of having a white gloved hand twisting and turning a little baby tooth until it became separated from superglue roots. Just to backtrack here, this very thing happened with Amy's first front tooth. And I really didn't want her to have to go through it again. If it hadn't been for me acting like a neurotic idiot, cringing and gripping the dental nurse, I am sure Amy would have been fine. That was until she saw the blood. And asked me why I had my head between my knees.

As soon as she had gone to school last Wednesday, I made an appointment. I thought it best not to tell her, it was quite traumatic the last time and I don't want to put her off going to the dentist altogether. I did, however, talk to her about going to the dentist at some time and the possibility of him having to spray (freeze) her gums again so that he could pull the tooth out and she would not feel any pain. She didn't seem too bothered about it and almost convinced herself that it wouldn't hurt.

Tuesday arrived and I was nervous. The thought of my little girl being frightened at the hands of another made me feel physically sick. I knew it would have to be done but the thought of it was tearing me in two. I picked Amy up from school at half past two. Armed with toothbrush and paste, I passed them to her and she happily ran off to clean her teeth. I stayed with the teacher. I could have done with a hug. Amy's cheerfulness was inspiring however. My seven year old autistic daughter once again pulled me through, together with my lovely friends over at Purple Coo. But it was upon arrival at the dental surgery that Amy began to show signs of nervousness too. "I don't like the dentist," she announced rather a little too loudly as we walked through the door. Neither do I, I almost said, before remembering I was supposed to be the strong one. Unlike the last time when I was reduced to a gibbering wreck, I had to remember I was an adult accompanying a child. Not the other way round.

"You'll be fine, sweetheart," I kept saying, not sure who I was talking to. We only waited five minutes before the nurse called us in. While Amy made herself comfortable in the dentist's chair, I was bombarded with questions from the dentist himself. Questions I was under the impression had already been answered during our many previous visits. That did not help my confidence. However, Amy obligingly opened her mouth and the dentist had a look, a little prod and a nod of the head. "Please don't hurt me," she said, in a tiny childlike voice. Oh don't start, Amy, please, I thought, as tears started to well up in my eyes. As I listened to the suggested treatment, trying to appear knowledgeable and familiar with dentists' jargon, I glanced at Amy who was now sobbing in the chair. Huge tears filling her malteser eyes, large drops beginning their descent down her little rosy cheeks. I held her hand. The dentist looked at her and smiled. A nice smile, friendly and understanding. I am very pleased to add. It was decided that she was too distressed to have him inject her at the front of her mouth in order to pull out the offending tooth. Therefore, she will have to go to the dental hospital somewhere near Newcastle where she will undergo a local anaesthetic, which I was assured will be absolutely safe, then will have the tooth removed without pain or side effects. "A bit like gas and air, you know, when you're giving birth!" the dentist was kind enough to point out. Except when I was giving birth I didn't have gas and air because I was petrified it would bring on an epileptic seizure! God, there's no hope for me! My poor darling soon composed herself when she realised she was safe from pain and blood for the day and for some reason, removed her shoes, settling back into the chair as though she was expecting supper on a tray and Sponge Bob to be shown on the Xray glass.

So now we are waiting for Postman Pat to bring a not so welcome letter from the NHS (could be waiting a while) admitting Amy to the dental hospital for a taste of gas which, according to the dentist will probably make her giddy. And reduce me to another gibbering wreck.

Candle Light Supper

I had a meeting at school yesterday. An informal chat with Amy's teachers to pave a way forward for the coming months. It was a bit of a shock when I was advised that my favourite teacher would be going part time for five months. She has been Amy's support worker since day one. We have grown to love and respect her and I have grown to admire the amazing approach she so expertly delivers when dealing with my daughter. However, we have to accept and move on. Fortunately, the chosen substitute is also one to be admired. Having years of experience working with children on the autistic spectrum, we can only but thank the school for their support and acknowledge that they have considered Amy's needs as paramount.


At 4pm, Amy and I arrived home. Still a little shell shocked I noticed the phone was flashing persistently at me, desperate to attract my attention. No message on the answer phone, no reason to flash. I pressed every conceivable button, deleted its memory, banged it on the table twice and was just about to throw it through the window when Amy's shout for dutiful help distracted me from sadistic thought, saving the phone until I returned. "I'll be back," I told the motionless flashing device, between gritted teeth.


Of course, after motherly deed had been done, my memory cut short and I went upstairs to switch on the computer. Nothing. Pressed buttons, a little too fiercely perhaps. Still nothing. "F**k," I muttered. Not my usual tone of speech being ever so polite as I am. But when one can not use one's pc before one's supper time, one gets rather upset. I picked up the phone next to the pc. Dead. Totally stoned. Okay, so there was something wrong with the phone line, I thought. The following thought was "f**k" as I realised we had a power cut. The second in as many days. We are remote up here, but we do have electricity cables and as far as I am aware, they work.


By 5pm, still no power, I phoned the Electric company. "Yes there is a fault in your area and it's being dealt with now." How spiffing. I decided to wait until it was back on before starting supper. Apart from the fact I am a useless cook, the Aga isn't my favourite item in the kitchen and I avoid it like the plague. But when my electric cooker still wasn't working by 6.30 I started to panic. Beef burgers would have to do. At least I could put them in the Aga. From frozen. Peel a few potatoes and boil them on the hot side. A pan of sweetcorn. Sorted.


My Aga heats the water so we can't turn it off. However, in the summer months it isn't necessary to have it on too high thus taking much, much longer for anything cook. I went without. A bar of Cadbury's Caramel and packet of wotsits sufficed but I stood over that damn Aga for over an hour waiting for those sodding spuds to boil. I do not have much patience. In case you wondered.


But what followed will go down in my historical book of beautiful family moments. Four candles, gently flickering in a glow of orange light, softly lit the space around us as we sat around the table, moving little counters around a board game. My mind's eye began a journey back in time, resting on a family in Victorian attire. Pipe tobacco swirled above children's heads as they rolled a die on the oak wood table. A middle aged woman, her hair discreetly piled beneath white laced bonnet, sat by an oil lamp in the corner, carefully darning a torn school pinafore as she looked up to see her adoring family. A large clock ticked sonorously. The hour was still young yet darkness prevailed over fields of stock. The distant sound of sheep carried across rugged land. As I left the kitchen, my steps became cautious upon my journey through the house. Too many clouds engulfed the skies, a silver moon hid behind blankets of mist as stars failed to sparkle. The hall was tranquil; yet eery as I ascended the staircase towards the mirror which holds secrets of a forgotten Victorian family. I could not see my hand in front of my face. The darkness did not scare me. I know my way around this big old house, yet I was confused. It did not feel like my home as my mind's eye still saw life emerging from energy of a long ago past.


Upon my return to the kitchen, the candles were still glowing. Amy was excited at this new found experience. A night sitting around the kitchen table, playing games with mum and dad, a television standing idle in the lounge, dvd's resting upon the shelf. Even the dogs enjoyed the atmospheric candle light as Amy fed them biscuits from a little plate she had lain, a party plate to accompany the candles. "Can we bake a cake, mum?" she asked. If I was confident enough to use the Aga for baking I would have gladly said yes. Decorated it with candles, lighting each and every one. It was 9pm when my mind was once more transported back to my electric oven, a flashing phone and a microwave inviting me to reset its twenty first century technology. Our evening of candles and Victorian memories had come to an end as we packed up the game and went upstairs to switch the television on. Until the next power cut. Of which will not be quite so bad after all.

Fancy a Drive?

'Stormin' Norman' went in for a service and MOT on Friday. Of course He passed. I knew He would. Knowing very little about cars and their engines I must have looked like a mechanic's idea of the "typical woman" when she told me about the middle section of 'Norman's' exhaust. Apparently it was hanging off. Whatever that meant. But I was asked if the car sounded noisy. Have you ever heard the engine of a Land Rover? They are noisy. And when the middle section of the exhaust is "hanging off" it would have made it even noisier. Did I notice? Nope.

I told them about Him needing a new wiper blade on the driver's side. I felt quite proud of myself having pointed that out. Perhaps I could be a mechanic. I like taking 'Norman' to that particular garage. They are a family run business, trustworthy, friendly and do not have a patronising bone in any of their bodies. Which is very nice when it comes to dealing with me, the person who would probably scream at a very high volume should a tyre need changing.

There was a list of six recommendations with the invoice. Two of which are fairly urgently required. Poor 'Norman' is going back in next Friday for more surgery. He's in excellent shape, good bodywork, although some does need touching up a tad. A job for another day I think. That is after the accountant comes round from passing out when he finds two invoices for 'Stormin' Norman' staring at him in the pile of VAT returns.

I've had my trusty Land Rover for five years now. He doesn't go far, a bit of a potterer if you like. My lovely mum has always bought smaller cars, ones she feels comfortable driving and especially parking (in the smallest Tesco car park you have ever seen) being a rather anxious driver. She will not drive on the motorway and has never driven up to Northumberland (200 miles door to door) on her own. In fact she has never driven up to Northumberland at all, she is always the passenger. Then usually needs a lie down when she arrives. My mum's cars have always been potterers. She currently has a Nissan Almera. Very happy with it she is too. She does not like my Land Rover. "Why on earth you had to get one that big, I'll never know," she said to me when she first saw it. My previous car was a Peugeot 106.

About a year ago, a boffin in a taxi rammed into the back of my beloved 'Stormin' Norman'. I think he was either falling asleep, already asleep or had just descended from Mars. He got out, as did I, and we both surveyed the damage. The only thing was, in my favour, all the damage had been done to his car. Both headlights smashed, registration plate hanging off, bumper caved in, dent in the bonnet. And not a scratch on 'Norman'. Not a whisper. I had to refrain from laughing. I have had a few accidents in the past, one so bad I got rushed to hospital after being cut out of the car by the fire brigade (Purple Coo!). So I didn't want to appear arrogant. I looked at him. He looked at me. "Don't worry pet," he said, "I'll sort it. Are you okay?" He was a nice man. Perhaps a very nice man called Bill.

A Farming Rant

I love a good moan. The satisfaction of getting that niggling, lip curling anger out of my system so that I can carry on with my happy life. I enjoy airing my views. Making others realise that I am not the pushover they often think I am. I like putting the world to rights. Suggesting alternative approaches to government thinking, debating whether the country would be better managed by a few members of the general public, that sort of thing. But something that really rattles my cage is downright rudeness; bad manners; bare faced cheek.

From time to time, we get holiday makers staying in the farm cottages who do not like farms, cannot stand dogs and are totally anti-Northern. So why do they come here? Why choose this beautiful county to stretch their angled legs and refresh their fumed filled lungs? We have a large garden in which we let our dogs run about, play, do their business. They even bark sometimes, yes bark, when they see a walker over the wall, wandering about on the farm, exploring that unfamiliar territory. When my dogs bark, it is usually because they are guarding their home. Even little Sparky has a feisty growl showing her razor sharp teeth to the unknown.

Yesterday, as usual, I let the pony out of her stable. Because she has had the unfortunate disease called Laminitis (which in simple terms is a very painful inflammation in the hoof, generally caused by eating too much rich grass and can in some cases be fatal), we only allow her to graze between the hours of around 5pm and 7pm. Cruel to be kind, it sounds, but really it isn't. So the dogs came with me. Lolloping along, happy to be alive, happy to be helping with the daily chores. When suddenly I was greeted by a tremendous bark coming from one of the holiday cottages. A huge dog (haven't a clue which breed) was ranting and raging and going completely mad at my beautiful border collies. Of course my two responded in the usual way. Okay, that is what dogs do. Then the dog's owner popped her head up from behind the wall. And instead of the expected apology for upsetting my dogs, scaring me half to death and probably annoying the pony, the woman scowled at me, shook her head and pulled her giant mad hound away as if consoling it from two rather disturbed collies.

I picked Sparky up and reprimanded Molly, instructing her to follow me, of which I am very pleased to say she did. I even apologised to the woman! I cannot believe I did that, but there you go. I guess I am still a pushover then. As I approached the stable, I said in rather a loud voice, "it's okay dogs, we just live here." God, the cheek of some people.

There was another family (in the same cottage funnily enough) who, just as they were getting out of their car, children in the back, were greeted by Molly and Gyp (who's now in doggie heaven). The mother of the family told the children, in front of me, not to touch the dogs because "you don't know where they've been!" As you can imagine, I was fuming! My reaction was to walk away, however, I so wanted to ask the mother why she had brought her family to a sheep farm which was guaranteed to have at least one sheep dog. I know dogs eat sheep manure, I know they lick themselves in orifices we would rather not think about but she could have at least refrained from such rudeness. And what really gets to me is that those poor children might grow up never to know the wonderful and unconditional love a dog will give.

But the most ridiculous comment I have ever heard, made by a holiday maker a few years ago, floored us all. He came with his partner at Easter. The middle of lambing. He complained that it had been too noisy for him. The sound of sheep, yes sheep, all day had made him anxious. Sheep farms at Easter generally are noisy, 24 hours a day. He wants to try being a farmer some time. Then he and all the other holiday makers who think they own the land once they step foot inside a holiday cottage might just appreciate what exactly they have spent their money on.

Rant over. Back to work.

Crystal xx

A Child like Amy

After tears (mine) and panic (me), running round like a headless chicken (me again) and a phone call to my lovely mum for that old familiar voice in my hour of need, Amy went off to school, her first day in Year 3. Wow! Where on earth have the last three years gone since she started school. I for one, haven't a clue. But so much has happened that we couldn't fail to recognise the last three years as being some of the most important in Amy's life. And of course ours. As she went off in the taxi this morning, excited and full of life, I thought back to the days when I used to sit by the baby monitor on the kitchen worktop, listening to snuffles and movement as she turned, sleepily in her cot.

I also reminisced about the noises which would emanate from the same monitor, sounds of a baby crying and a mother singing a lullaby. The farmer and I would check on Amy twice, three times in a matter of ten minutes only to find her sleeping soundly, her little rosy cheeks and toy smile poking out from beneath the blanket. A collection of bears and dogs surrounding her, lucky enough to watch her as she lay peaceful in her little bed of love. Only the farmer and I would be disturbed as we continued to listen to a mysterious presence which took over the airways between Amy's first floor bedroom and the ground floor kitchen.

Then I thought about her first day at nursery. She had just turned two years old. I enrolled her for two mornings a week, dressing her in a nursery motif sweater, denim skirt and thick woollen tights. It was the beginning of January. Cold and dark mornings. But a lovely happy time in our hearts as we witnessed our beautiful little girl making friends and having fun. It didn't take long before my smile disappeared, however. For only four months after beginning at nursery it was discovered that she could have an illness. She showed signs of epilepsy at first, blank spells as they were then described. And by the end of the summer term, it was suggested she may be autistic.

My adorable pigtailed princess. I worried. Day and night. For her, for me, for all of us. A difficult eighteen months opened up before us as I tried hard to help my family understand what may lie ahead. Not even knowing myself. But we all got through it. We got through the confusion and the anger. We awoke each morning to a new day, a challenge, another learning curve. We had support. Good people who wanted to help. Friends who tried to understand. I remember the six page list of special schools which I received, education for children like Amy. I couldn't focus on any of them. I'm sure they would all have been a wonderful environment in their own way but the school I really wanted Amy to go to was in the next village, a total of 40 pupils. Exactly the right environment for 'a child like Amy'.

We've had our ups and downs, a few incidents of bullying (of which I have blogged about previously) but on the whole I couldn't have chosen a better place for her education. When a child has spent almost seven weeks away from school they usually need to get back to a routine. Amy is no exception. Having spent all that time at home, some of it away, she was so eager to go back to school I almost shed a tear that she didn't want to be at home with me anymore. My little girl in her pigtails, with surrounding toys, lying peacefully in a room filled with love, is growing up. And I'd like to think I'm growing with her.

The photo's were taken when Amy was three/four yrs old

Interview with a Friend

I thought it was about time I responded to DJ Kirkby’s questions of which I agreed to answer some time ago. I hope she will forgive me for the delay and will find the following response of sufficient interest.

1. From your comment about your toe dream you seem to be a lucid dreamer. Can you tell us about any other dreams?

I dream every night. Some I remember, some I don’t. One which will follow me to the next life was about my loving dad. I was in a large room with a huge bay window in leaded paned glass. A few people started to filter in, they were ex-colleagues who I used to work with when I worked for my dad. I turned my head towards the door and in walked my mum and dad. My dad was dressed in smart attire, his usual business turn out, looking as sophisticated as I always remember him to be. There was only one person in that room that he looked at. Me. He came over to me and held me so tight. Every one else in that grand state-like room might not have been there for my dad only had eyes for me. I awoke after that wonderful dream, with a tear stained face and the most incredible feeling in my heart.

2. What do you work from home doing and how did you get started?

Even though I am currently unpaid, I am writing a novel of which I hope will one day be published. I have wanted to write for many years and have often ‘dabbled’ by writing short stories and articles. Living on the farm, I help to run the business. My main job being the accounts. I’m not very good when it comes to figures so this tends to be a long job with the use of a calculator and a pc! However, I have been helping on the farm this year particularly with the lambing. Of course getting started on that was down to my move to Northumberland. I’ve always had a keen interest in agriculture so living here has added to my dream.

But of course, I would always consider my main job being a mum to Amy. I am also her carer due to her disability and even though I have days when it feels almost impossible to cope, she is my whole life. I hope to write a book about her one day, about her autism and how she lives with her difficulties. As a child of only seven years, she is truly inspirational.

3. How has epilepsy changed your life?

To be honest, I haven’t really allowed epilepsy to change my life. It is a condition of which I have no choice but to live with and so I feel therefore, it should not interfere with daily life. I do take medication which keeps it under control but that is something I have got used to doing. People with epilepsy can be restricted by so many activities in their lives, such as swimming, simple bathing on their own in the house, driving a car. It is still a subject which is not discussed enough in my view. Parents should always be aware of it as it can strike a child at any time during their lives, particularly during adolescence. Epilepsy is a hereditary condition on my mother’s side. I have had my driving licence revoked on two separate occasions due to having fits and for me it’s a very inconvenient thing to happen as I live in such a remote area. There are often times when I am "spaced out" and feel hungover but my drinking days are over now because of the drugs and the obvious danger involved.

4. Why did you begin blogging?

There are two answers to this question. The first is simple; a good friend encouraged me to and I will always be grateful to her for that. The second answer is because I love writing. I love writing about anything and everything. Particularly my daughter, my paranormal experiences and my family. If I was completely honest I would also say I wanted to (and still do) promote my writing, to give me confidence to continue and write the novel I have already started. Blogging has introduced me to many wonderful people. I have made good friends from around the country and indeed the world, DJ, and have developed a bond with some. I enjoy reading about other people’s lives, about their own experiences. I also like to make sure there are people out there in cyber-space who are as barmy as I am! I’m glad to say there is.

5. When did you begin to have visits from your 'see through' friends?

I don't class my friends as being 'see through', they are departed souls who have the ability to manifest should they choose. When I was about the same age as Amy is now, I shared a bedroom with my brother while my baby sister still slept in a cot in her own room. One night, I was awoken in what must have been the early hours and was alerted by the brightest circle of light drifting past my bedroom curtains. I remember being totally spooked and running into my parents’ room. I thought at first it was the moon in my bedroom. But as I became an adult, I realised the moon does not appear in one’s bedroom in the dead of night. It is possible this was an orb, the potential manifestation of a spirit.

When I was 21, my dear grandmother passed (my mum’s mum). Hers was the first bereavement I had ever experienced in my family. I had known people who had passed but my Grandma was my closest soul. I felt her presence often. I received advice from various mediums that she was with me and their constant confirmation that it was indeed her became startling. I continued to feel my Grandma for many years and particularly during the twelve months I lived alone after being divorced. That was until my forever loving dad passed in 2001. That was when I really started to experience paranormal activity and especially when I moved to the farm in Northumberland. Many things have happened here, some of which have been welcome, some which have left me feeling angry. My sensitive fascination with the paranormal has introduced me to an amazing life after the one we know has come to an end. However abruptly, however wrong, however natural our passing, there is something truly wonderful waiting for us and these experiences are just a confirmation of that.

Crystal Jigsaw xxx

Back to the Grindstone

I can't believe there are only four, yes 4 days left of the school holidays. I have to be completely honest, they have flown this year and I am most pleased to add, they have been a pleasure. Amy has thoroughly enjoyed herself despite not having seen many friends and I have enjoyed having her at home. The farmer has done his fair share of child minding in so far as letting her accompany him up and down fields on humongous John Deere machinery (very safe!) whist I have caught up with the odd job here and there and squeezed a blog in just for good measure. Unfortunately, my novel has taken a back seat of which I really must bring back to life (hmmm) once Amy has gone back to school. That is after I have been to the hairdressers and had the perm I have been desperate for during the last seven weeks.

During these holidays I am sure Amy has grown another inch. Or two. We worry slightly that by the time she is ten, she will either be the same height as the farmer and me or even worse will tower over us in intimidating stance as we try in vain to send her to her room. Sparky has also shot up like a magic beanstalk and she is now going through that rather spindly-leg stage, no longer the furball she once was. Fortunately, she has calmed down and can no longer be classed as the "puppy from hell". Border collies are incredibly intelligent creatures and Sparky is no exception. Commands of "SIT" and "STAY" are now being adhered to. Especially if shouted at exceptionally high volume. We have also started using "HERE" which brings her bounding back to us, confused as to why she couldn't continue chasing the hens or feast on left over sheep manure. But she will have to be trained at some stage. After all, she is a working dog and snuggling up under my duvet just will not do.

There have been the usual drama's of course, the ones we have got used to over the years, the ones which never cease. A full toilet roll stuck in the toilet, just to see if it might flush away. A pane of glass smashed in the greenhouse as a daydreaming child forgot how close she was. That reminds me of the many times when Amy was younger and she would stand at the top of the stairs, then throw a glass from the galleried landing just to see if it smashed. Thankfully she has grown out of that. She still has a wonderful sense of humour, even though her ability to understand jokes is extremely minimal. Mind you, mine isn't much better so I guess there really is no hope for my daughter.

The caravans are making their way home today. A busier day than usual on our notorious roads. I expect shoe shops will be experiencing a rush too as parents bribe their playing children from bikes and dolls to have their growing feet measured, ready to look their best on the first day of a new term. How exciting for them it must be. Perhaps. My school days were awful. I hated school. I was bullied for about four years in primary and I still have the odd dream about the girls who made my school life a misery. I remember one of them taking my kitkat from me every break time. I never did tell my mum. Amazingly enough, years later, after leaving school and having my own car, that same kitkat-cow came to see me at home and asked if I wanted to go out for a drink with her. I did. But she had changed. She was a bit nicer, not a lot but a bit. I didn't see her again after that but found out about ten years later that she was a single parent with two children, one having a severe disability. If that didn't change her, nothing would.

The new climbing frame was fixed yesterday. My explanation of how exposed we are up here seemed to fall on deaf ears when I parted with my cheque and it was assembled in four hours, ready to fall down within four weeks. Unfortunately, our garden isn't exactly level which caused a problem for the installers but they went ahead anyway. I was quite keen to have it built on the day they arrived but had I known previously just how little support they would give it I would have had serious reservations about spending my money. However, they did come back and have anchored it into the ground, building extra beams which should hold it. Ha! Wait until we get the winter. Then we shall see. I have no doubt they will return - at their expense. At least it is safe now for me, err I mean Amy to play on. And the farmer if and when he gets time off.