The Wrong Blogger

I've written a few times now about how frustrated I get when I receive emails wanting to add links onto my blog, offer me an item or event to review, do a sponsored post, or, my biggest bug bear, offering me content for my blog that is "guaranteed to increase traffic and improve my content". I read many brilliant reviews, some of which I've used to buy certain items or visit particular places, but I made a point of including a page on this blog called "About Me" which says in very simple terms that I don't work with outside companies or PR's. I obviously don't expect every one to read it but it would be nice if some companies who think I will offer them blog space did read that page; it would take all of two minutes maximum.

I've been involved in conversations online with people who have received emails from PR's and companies that have been intended for a different blogger, one who has absolutely no relevance to the actual recipient. Part of me understands how busy these people are and that they often work from a list they have been given by their superior. But yesterday I received one such email that was intended for fellow blogger, Ellen Arnison, whom I admire and respect and who's blog is exceptional. The company's representative was offering content of which this blogger really doesn't need, due to her ability to write perfectly good content herself. These emails actually piss me off. Some bloggers say delete them, some say politely respond. But I'm afraid I replied with less grace than I would usually adopt when corresponding with a so-called professional. In my opinion, these people aren't professional. They are far from it. They have a job to do and continuously fail to do it properly with the efficiency needed when making contact with bloggers in the hope of doing some kind of business deal. That deal may include an item worth £10 to review, or it may involve a year-long contract that legally binds company and blogger thus potentially giving financial benefit to both.

Bloggers are not idiots nor are they gullible. Some bloggers enjoy a working relationship with companies and PR's and some are lucky enough to enjoy a successful relationship with them, too. But some have difficult relationships with these people and when emails are sent out to the wrong person it's easy to see why. It is unprofessional. In order to do "business" with a blogger, conducting yourself in a professional manner should be paramount. It certainly is in my book.

Sun, Sea and Need a Wee

Took Amy to the beach on Sunday. It doesn't happen very often but when we do go we always have a great time. It was just a walk along the beautiful sands guarded by the magnificent Bamburgh Castle but the sun was shining and the sea was a stunning colour of turquoise.  Whether it's the sea or the fact I'm just me I really don't know, but I always need the loo as soon as I step foot on the sand, and unfortunately, there aren't toilets on the beach. There are gigantic sand-dunes but the huge amount of people pottering about prevented me from squatting down amongst the wire rushes that would no doubt feel a little uncomfortable in delicate places. Nevertheless, it was a particularly pleasant walk and one I look forward to doing again. Here are a few photos:-

Looking towards Lindisfarne Castle (Holy Island)

Bamburgh Castle (south side view)

Sparky dropping the ball, ready for another run & fetch!

Bamburgh Castle (north side view)

Inner Farne (one of the Farne Islands)

Miss. Northumberland posing for the camera

Should Children Be Seen And Not Heard?

Recently, I just had to give my opinion on a Facebook group I'm a member of. I realised my opinion wouldn't have been welcomed by some but this new opinionated me couldn't resist putting my two-pennies worth in. It's a lovely group that is helpful and mostly always happy, mainly because it's a group that's been created for people who are going to the same holiday resort. But naturally, there are always the odd few who like a good old whinge, and recently it's been at the expense of parents and noisy kids. As it's a family resort that is very child focused, but does also have an area for adults only, I found it a bit unfair to expect kids *on holiday* to be seen and not heard. I mean, come on, if you don't like kids or haven't got them, is there any point in going to a family resort? And if this is a place where you really want to go, then is it fair to moan about other people's kids who are there because it is a family resort? The whole idea of the adults only area that contains a spa, restaurant and is located in a particularly quiet part of the resort with its own swimming pool, is so that people who prefer to be away from the noise can enjoy their holiday, whilst the families can also enjoy theirs. But I really do think people need to remember that kids have just as much right to be noisy as they do. And let's face it, when you get a few adults together, the more drink they consume generally means the more noisy they become. I don't drink myself but I would never complain about someone enjoying themselves *on holiday*, and perhaps being a bit loud because they've had one too many - so long as they didn't get aggressive of course...

The discussion started because someone complained about a child sat a table near them who was watching a portable DVD player at dinner. Now then, to an extent I agree that it was discourteous to other diners and irresponsible to allow the child to have their cartoon on loud enough that it was disturbing other guests. I would have been a bit miffed myself if I'm honest. That's where headphones come in. What harm is it doing to other guests if the child was watching their DVD with headphones so as not to disturb those nearby? Some children like to colour in at the table (like Amy), some like to play on their gadgets (this is the 21st century, get over it), and some just like to sit quietly with their family. Each to their own. When we've been out for a meal, which isn't often, Amy usually takes her Nintendo 3DS and has the sound turned off. This is to keep her occupied. Yes, she is 12. Yes, she probably shouldn't need to have something to occupy her anymore, but she does. I don't think her autism is mainly to blame, it's just the way she is. I would much rather have her occupied and quiet than be causing a nuisance and disturbing other guests. Comments were made that children shouldn't need gadgets and DVD players at the table and should be made to enjoy family time. Well I'm sorry, but even though I know that would be an ideal world, no one has a right to judge someone else's child or how they have been brought up.

So while I can see both sides to the whinging that took place on that particular thread, I did point out that I would not be dictated to by someone who's opinion was that children should be seen and not heard at a dinner table. I respect others as I would wish to be respected in return. I wouldn't allow Amy to disturb other guests and I will ensure that she behaves impeccably whilst at the dinner table. But she's a child. Children are unpredictable. Children with autism are even more unpredictable. Live and let live; I do wish people could adapt this attitude, especially when they're on holiday. Some of us, like me, will have spent a year saving up for a luxury two weeks in the sun at a five star All Inclusive resort. No one's spoiling my fun, and they're certainly not going to spoil Amy's.

Scent of Reminiscence

Time goes so quickly when you let it; standing back and letting the moments soak into your soul will leave you with memories to cherish and a vivid reminiscence of happy occasions. I will always remember a lady telling me many years ago just a few days before my first wedding, to remember to take a step back and enjoy the moment. Her wedding day went too fast and she needed the guests' photographs to remember the smaller details, like what her best friend was wearing, the delight on the guests' faces when they first admired her dress, the love in her new husband's eyes as he recited his vows. My first wedding was a beautiful day even though it was a marriage not to last, and my second wedding was equally as beautiful in its own right. Something I will never forget about my wedding to The Farmer is the way he cried when he saw me walk towards him on my brother's arm. He was completely overwhelmed, whilst I stayed composed, making sure I remembered that look of total adoration for the rest of my life.

Apart from The Farmer and Amy of course, another person who loves me unconditionally is my mum. She has just spent a week at the farm with us, a week that has passed far too quickly. I remember when their car drew up in the driveway and I saw her smiling face peer round the corner of the house. I recall the huge bag of food she carried in and placed on the kitchen table, containing food I knew we'd never eat. I think about her electric toothbrush and toiletries littered along the bathroom windowsill, and her comb sat on the dressing table. On Monday night I had one last look around the guest room to see it filled with her belongings, a pair of slippers neatly tucked away under a chair; I noticed one of the wardrobe doors ajar because she'd filled it with her clothes; a small chintz alarm clock on her side of the bed, ticking away with no remorse.

Now the house is filled with her scent, the beautiful aroma of Chanel, wafting through the east wing, lingering on the bedding I have yet to wash and the dressing gown she leaves hung up behind the door. I'll leave the bed for as long as possible before I strip it, in order to get the most out of her visit. The unconditional affection she has for me has taught me the value of motherhood, and it is her that I thank as I watch Amy and wonder how my daughter will remember me.

Blog Trolls

Have you ever given ammunition to a troll? My definition of a troll is someone who has nothing better to do than leave ridiculously annoying comments on blog posts and online newspaper articles, picking up on every other comment left, and always needing to have the last word. Part of me feels sorry for these people. They obviously have such a desire to crave attention that they feel a need to do it aggressively, upsetting innocent bystanders along the way. They show no remorse for their opinionated clap-trap, are always right and will never agree with anything anyone says. It's beyond sad to be of this nature. It screams desperation to interact, to find someone out there who might be just as annoying and will therefore be happy to join in the confrontation. I've been noticing it a lot recently on different blog posts and many articles I've read. One blogger in particular seemed to be hounded by a troll who had quite obviously spent all day on her blog, replying to every comment. It was beyond pathetic. But it also stopped me leaving a comment. I don't like confrontation and I certainly won't feed trolls. Commenting on someone else's blog is a simple way to interact, whether it be an agreeable or disagreeable comment. But when a troll comes along and starts to get personal, rude and abusive, for me, right or wrong, that's the time I back away.

In the past I've given a short response to a troll's comment that I felt would be justified but I've never directly replied to a troll. I don't see the point. Blogging isn't always about happy, fluffy, I-agree blog posts; it is about you, your personal feelings, your opinions, needing advice, feedback, suggestions, getting to know people, showing off your pictures, letting the world know about your child's achievements. I read such a huge variety of blog posts, some sad, some happy, some laugh-out-loud, some so well-written they deserve an award and some that are written from the heart. To think someone could come along and trash your blog post with their venomous drivel is pretty despicable. I guess we'll always have trolls on the internet. Some don't need feeding, they just enjoy their given right to "freedom of speech" as they pull everyone up on their opinions. But if you do get a troll on your blog, don't reply to them. Ignore them. They don't deserve your time, and they certainly don't deserve to sit behind a computer screen grinning at the thought of having wound you up. That's when they know they've won.

Having A Clear Out

Imagine the scene; you've moved into your partner's house with all your stuff and he gives you full rein of the wardrobes, drawers and crevices he has used to hoard his belongings for the past few decades. You are quite shocked when you open the drawers and find a ridiculous amount of what you would describe as outdated tat, crammed in small spaces that is very obviously no longer needed, no longer used and just kept for no reason other than your partner has never bothered having a clear out. When you mention the outdated items you've found, your partner looks at you as if you've got two heads and claims he didn't know the stuff was in there anyway. Do you...

a) offer to clear it out for him, patiently asking what he does or doesn't want..

b) offer to clear it out for him, pulling your face every time he says he wants to keep something that is caked in dust and never been used for donkey's years..

c) not offer to clear it out, watch him go off to work waving sweetly from the window, then grab a few bin bags and do it yourself. After all, if it's stuff he didn't even know was in there, is he going to miss it?

NB, I'm not being sexist by referring to partner as a 'him', before you mention it!

Would You?

So, would you, have you, do you let someone else clean for you? I sure do! I have my mum here for a week and as her house is meticulously cleaned to within an inch of its life, I thought I'd leave the kitchen floor, just in case she fancied something to do while she's here.

Result.

I now have a spotlessly clean kitchen floor!

How about you... Would you let someone else do your cleaning?

Permgate

I finally succumbed to the excitement of rollers and had a perm. Grey and blue rollers tightly fixed in my hair made me feel (and probably look) like a member of the blue rinse brigade, but I kept my head buried in a book until it was thrust almost off my shoulders when bending backwards over the back-wash, in order to have it rinsed. It's not the most comfortable of experiences but we women do put ourselves through these rigorous activities to at least look half decent. I got a little worried at one point when my regular hairdresser didn't feel confident putting rollers in. He shouted over his colleague who wasn't sure which colours to use, and she shouted over the manageress who confirmed the right rollers, had a play with my hair and commented on how fine it is. I commend them on not just hoping for the best, but staying with me through the whole ordeal, checking when necessary, contemplating leaving the rollers in another five minutes, before taking my money and seeing me on my way. They did a good job. Though my first reaction did resemble shock. It's been a long time since I've had a perm and did, funnily enough, get used to my straight and very limp hair. To see myself looking like my head had been stuck in a live socket was really quite strange. I wasn't happy with the way they dried my fringe, so, in true female fashion, I've redone those few strands since arriving home. But here I am, all permed and curly. And feeling ten years younger. I said 'feeling', not 'looking'. Stop laughing at the back.

Ooops! Wrong picture...

Don't Ever Judge Me

It was the 22nd May when I published a post about my brush with Social Services. Not a pleasant experience I might add, and certainly one I was in a hurry to forget. They made a mountain out of a mole hill and tried to play down that I wasn't in question. On 12th July, nearly 2 months later, I received a letter from them to say they have closed the case. I did have sleepless nights over this. Though after a while, and the continuous support from family, friends and school, I was assured there was nothing to worry about. Having something like this hanging over your head isn't nice. I was told on several occasions by the social worker that my parenting won't be and hasn't been taken into consideration, because at the end of the day, this wasn't about me. It was something Amy said that was completely blown out of all proportion, and whether social workers think they were doing the right thing, what they've actually done is drive me away from ever asking for their help. When really, they would probably have been the ones to contact should I feel the need to look for outside help. Which, sometimes, I do.

Some of the questions I was asked were ludicrous. Scary in fact. And my suspicions about the woman judging me have now been confirmed in writing on a report written on pink copy paper. "Mum was warm and affectionate and spoke very fondly of Amy." Of course I did. She's my daughter and I love her more than life itself. "Parents are able to meet Amy's needs and are able to provide age appropriate clothing and support Amy's social skills." "Mother clearly loves Amy very much and has very good insight into Amy's condition and needs." "Mother appears to be a very loving and supportive mother who has good insight into Amy and her needs. Mother spoke warmly and affectionately regarding Amy and there were lots of family photos around the room showing Amy smiling with her parents." So, I haven't been judged have I not? Lying bastards.

Serious Small Talk

I think we can safely say that here in the UK, one of the main topics of conversation is the weather. It's always the same really, an ice-breaker to start off the day. But this is starting to get a bit more serious than a conversation starter and the small talk about the typical British summers is becoming rather worrying. Our fields are flooded and two in particular will inevitably not bring in the yield we had hoped for. This obviously means less profit for us even though the bills continue to rise. Leaning on government help is crucial whether people like it or not, but one way or another, we have to live. Reading some articles recently and the rather ignorant comments left, it seems a lot of people assume those who rely on subsidies and government assistance are as bad as benefit scroungers. This simply is not the case. I can't be arsed to defend my rights to claim what I am entitled to on here because quite honestly I find blogging about political issues an absolute bore. I like to read political and topical posts but I'd much rather not write them. So to all those people who think being a farmer and claiming what is rightfully due to my business is benefit scrounging, you can fuck right off. Yes, I did say that on my blog.

Dairy farmers are having a hell of a time and I really wouldn't want to be in their shoes right now. Supermarket giants are a disgrace and it's about time these extremely hard working men and women who run dairy farms were given a break. And a big one at that. The Farmer is in a permanent bad mood because we haven't even been able to clip sheep yet, never mind make hay. What's that saying, "make hay while the sun shines"? What a load of bollocks that is turning out to be!

Needing to be Included

Took Amy into our local town last weekend where we had a bite to eat in a small cafe. She's at that age now where everything I do seems to embarrass her. If she sees kids her own age without their parents, she's constantly looking round at them in the hope they won't notice how cringe worthy it is being seen out in public with her 42 year old mum, oh ancient, embarrassing one. I just smile and pretend not to notice but our recent outing had me pointing out that being with your mum isn't as bad as it might look to a pre-teen. The girls she was wary of were sat a few tables away and looked about the same age as Amy. They had their own purses with money in and were ordering their own food. They were well behaved and polite, they were also street-wise. They'd obviously been eating out together for quite some time and were, I would hazard a guess, middle school girls who spend every waking moment together, have at least one sleep over a week and don't need to be constantly supervised.

Unlike Amy.

Being a pre-teen and autistic is so bloody hard. She wants to be like the others, but she knows she isn't. She wants to be let loose in town with her friends, but she knows she can't. She wants to spend time at her friends' houses, having sleep overs, meeting boys, doing all those girly things that teens do. But girls her age don't want to babysit their peers. They don't want to knock about with a girl-friend who needs to be supervised by a parent. Amy has a few friends and her best friend lives quite some distance away. The few friends she has in the area have their own circle of friends and it wouldn't be fair of me to expect their parents to take care of my daughter. You may think this sounds ridiculous. But it isn't. It's real life. It's something I've had to accept, come to terms with, adjust to. When I see girls Amy's age knocking about round town together, enjoying each other's company, talking about boys, about nail varnish, about who's house they're going to sleep at tonight, the wave that is the autism diagnosis washes over me once more. I've spent many years jumping over it, ignoring it, swimming through it. Now, as my girl gets older and her needs become more complex, that wave becomes tidal. And I have to find even more strength to get me through the next five years.

Being Curvy isn't in Fashion

Sent off for one of those fan-dabbi-doozle catalogues the other day that are constantly advertised on the television. The reason I sent off for it was a) because I need some new tops and trousers for my forthcoming holiday to Center Parcs, and b) because it's a catalogue for the larger lady and therefore sells sizes to accommodate the more voluptuous amongst us. I like to consider myself curvy rather than large, though my curves are rapidly losing their will to live. The advert on television shows a lovely selection of clothes on offer, worn by very curvy 30-somethings with what I class as having a fabulous figure. I'll never be slim even if I do need to lose a stone or three, but I'm beginning to think that advert is somewhat misleading - perhaps just a ploy to get us to send off for a catalogue and feel pretty shit about our curves once we see the models on the pages.

Oh yes, take my word for it; the majority of models in the actual catalogue are a UK size 12 at the very most. In fact, I'd put many of them in a size 10, after they'd polished off steak, chips and hot chocolate fudge cake. Which makes the curvaceous in our midst wonder if indeed any of the clothes will suit at all. Granted, there are some lovely outfits and accessories, albeit a little pricey in my humble opinion, and if I were a size 12 I would be happy to browse through and write myself a list of item numbers. But how on earth is it possible to visualise yourself as a size 16 (there's my secret) in an outfit worn by an early 20-something, slim model who is able to carry it off to perfection? My boobs are more Dolly Parton than Kate Moss, my legs are more tree trunk than stick insect and my curves are more Michelin tyre than drainpipe - type. So I buy an outfit that I've seen a 20 year old stick insect wearing, get it home and it makes me look totally ridiculous. Easy enough to return it I guess, but why do these catalogue companies do this? It's misleading the customer and making bigger women feel out of place. What's really rattled my cage about this is how I feel I have been misled by the television advert in so far as the catalogue would indeed portray the larger model showing off clothes for the larger lady, which in reality, just isn't the case. Yes, I do want to be slimmer. Yes, I am overweight. And yes, I am doing something about it. But women come in all shapes and sizes. Including my well-endowed size 16, as my mother likes to point out.

A couple of posts on this subject by fellow bloggers:

Kelloggsville

Nickie O'Hara

Progress

Many of us are quite nifty with texting these days. It's quick, convenient and most mobiles are user-friendly, therefore making the idea of sending a quick text an easier option than picking up the phone and making conversation. But does this mean the art of conversation is beginning to fade? I was talking to someone over the weekend who feels this is exactly what is happening. Some of us find talking on the phone enjoyable and easy, but some of us don't. I fall into the latter category. Texting for me is a really useful tool to have in our modern lives and means I don't have to pick up the phone every time I need to say "How r u 2day?"

Emails have taken over letter writing, though I do have a few friends who still write a good old-fashioned letter. I prefer to email, or text. But do you think our modern day methods of communication will ruin, or have already ruined, the art of conversation? The someone I was talking to over the weekend about this was my lovely mum. She's never got to grips with texting even though she has a mobile phone. She tried it but wasn't keen. She loves to talk on the phone and is my total opposite in so far as she loves social gatherings and having a face-to-face natter. Her adamant expression when she voiced her opinion about texting was quite assertive for someone as gentle as my mum. Perhaps if she ever got the hang of it she would enjoy doing it, but her words did ring true. I think a lot of us now find it difficult to pick up the phone, write a letter or take time to visit, when it's so much easier to tap in a few words like "luv u". To read that takes seconds. To say it also takes seconds. Guess she does have a point.

Build up to a Sigh

Anxiety almost got the better of me last week during the lead up to my visit to my mum's. It's always the same and I feel ridiculous, but it's me, and I doubt I'll ever change. As it happens the weekend went well. I caught up with very good friends who never fail to make me feel welcome, saw my soon-to-be 17 year old nephew who's looking forward to his first driving lesson in a couple of weeks, had a lovely meal out with my mum and her partner, then set off for home at 9am on Sunday. Despite the weather, the journeys to Lancashire and back home to Northumberland were good with, surprisingly, no hold ups on the motorways.

And the best parts of the weekend?

Being hugged. I miss being hugged. My dad used to give incredible hugs; squeezing the life out of me before I left their house, as if every hug he gave was the last. Amy gives hugs like my dad did, wrapping her arms around me as though determined to never let go.

My mum is a small-framed lady and her hugs are gentle. My friends, Dolce & Gabana, are welcoming and homely and their hugs ooze true friendship, though Dolce is recovering from an operation so I was a little afraid to hug him too tightly.

The house hugged me on my return. I felt the walls wrap themselves around my waist, familiar warmth seeping into my heart.

And then I got the hug I'd been waiting for. The one that always keeps me going while I'm away. The one that reminds me of my dad, of Amy, of my home. The one that gives life in Northumberland such meaning and purpose;

My Farmer's hug.