Lower The Safety Curtain

Lower the safety curtain down on '2017 - The Year'.  For good or bad, that play is done - and whether you're sad to see it end or are still sitting there stunned, it's time to get up and edge towards the exit (making sure you take all your personal effects), so as to give the theatre staff a chance to clear our discarded debris, reset the stage and get ready for next year. The show must go on...

Traditionally (based on four years of dead good blogging!) this last Saturday post of the old year has indulged in a mixture of reflection and plaudits. Circumstances dictate there's no time for that right now, so I'm keeping it short.

I love the ambience of an empty theatre, the hush, the plush, the rows of chairs facing expectantly forward. Anything is possible and the magic is yet to begin. Roll on 2018...

Today's poem is in affectionate tribute to Pete Tong and the stalwarts of Cornley Polytechnic Drama Society, overseas students all, facing an uncertain future in our green and pleasant:

The P:0em That Goes Wrong
The year declines as this blank
versifier declaims anew [with much ado]
across the set of its
page to denizens
of old Britannia how
all that was good
all that was true
shall be..... [promptly]
debunked, deracinated and
demoted to a footnote,
tipped [as it were]
over the limelights into
that orchestra pit
of shattered dreamworks.....
.....cymbal and timpani of
discordant times Square rends
this mordant air, redolent
of Brussels' Sproutings &
Whitehall's
poutings from major
players who fluff
key lines by misarticulation,
[strutting ruffed and fretting]
   {time out of joint}
in a power nap of
incidental judgement, casual
laughter spilling chillingly
till the last recorded syllable of the last
blasted
            deportation
                                 order. [Exeunt - CURTAINS]

Thanks for reading. Happy New Year everyone, S ;-)

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Theatre Is Life

Theatre is life… Theatre is my life, my reason to get up in the morning. Performing consumes my thoughts daily, like the comedic panto character who constantly bumbles around the stage disrupting the ‘serious’ characters to interject a ridiculous joke.

The Theatre/performing allows me to experience another life, a different reality. I believe watching a show helps people to gain understanding of others and come to terms with their own issues.  The Theatre is live, allowing everyone to live in the moment rather than pressing record and watching it later… In a world that is constantly evolving and changing it’s refreshing to sit back, relax and just take in what’s happening in front of you.

So if you are fed up of the constant bombarding of emails, annoying Snapchats from the Ex or just generally need to recharge your batteries… book yourself a ticket for a show and turn off your phone.  Trust me, it’s a lot cheaper than an exotic holiday!

The Stage
When I'm on stage...
I feel alive.
I feel I can fly.
I feel wild and free,
As the adrenaline pumps through me.
I show another perspective.
I live another life.
So you have the ability to change yours!
I don't do it for the fame...
We just need to recognise underneath our skin
We are all the same.

Thanks for reading, Helena x

 

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Pudding

The festive season is almost upon us once again, so it's quite fitting that this week's blog theme is  pudding! There will be a lot of it going down in flames on Christmas Day.

Many puddings that were originally conceived as seasonal dishes linked to the availability of their fruit (eve's pudding, summer pudding, even pumpkin pie), have become all-year-round favourites, but it is still unusual to find the traditional Christmas pudding served up at any other time than this one. My mum made our Christmas pudding for years at the beginning of December (until she discovered Waitrose). It was a family ritual in many households. An exotic check-list of ingredients would be measured out into a very large bowl. The smell was fantastic, almost intoxicating. Everyone would stir it once for luck before a charm (usually a silver sixpence) was dropped in and then the whole sticky mixture would be spooned into its pudding-cloth, tied up and steamed for hours - the original boil-in-the-bag confection. What emerged was a glossy cannonball that would mature for three weeks until Christmas Day when it would be  doused in brandy, decorated with a sprig of holly, set alight and then served with a little single cream (my personal preference) or brandy butter.

If you're up for a helping of facts about the ancestry of our modern Christmas pudding, they appear to be these: it began life shortly after the Crusades when exposure to middle-eastern ingredients and cuisine began to filter back to England. By the 14th century, frumenty (the true fore-runner of today's pudding) was quite a popular dish at Christmastide. It was more of a porridge than a pud, consisting of minced meat (beef or mutton) mixed with raisins, currants, spices and wine and would have been eaten like a thick soup. By the late 16th century suet had replaced minced meat and with the addition of dried figs and prunes, beer and spirits and stiffened by eggs and breadcrumbs, the Christmas pudding came to resemble the solid creation we know and love today. The figs and prunes gave rise to its alternative names of figgy pudding and plum pudding. Interestingly, the puritans banned it for its decadence during the interregnum but George I (nicknamed the pudding king) re-popularised it as a seasonal delight in the early 18th century and it has never looked back. The fact that it was steamed (not baked) meant that most households could fashion one, for not many ordinary houses possessed ovens in those days; and it was a once-a-year opportunity for ordinary folk to concoct something quite rich and luxurious as the centre-piece of their ritual Christmas feast.

Thinking back to Christmases past, as a child aged four, fair-haired and innocent like the 'Pudding Boy' pictured above, I was taken to see Father Christmas a couple of weeks before Christmas by my southern auntie and uncle. I sat on Santa's knee in the Christmas grotto of some Portsmouth department store and when he asked me what I'd like for Christmas, I was happy to tell him. He listened most attentively - as, I suspect, did my auntie and uncle. He probably gave me to understand that my hopes were not unrealistic.

A week later, when visiting my northern auntie and uncle in York as part of our winter furlough from West Africa, they too wanted to take me to see Father Christmas in a grotto in a department store. Once more I sat upon his knee, only when he asked me what I'd like for Christmas, apparently I grew most indignant and exclaimed "I've already told you!" Ouch. Ho ho ho.

I hope these before and after 'Pudding Boy' illustrations by R.P. Gossop (1876-1951) amuse you...

Gossop trained originally as a wallpaper designer but then branched out as a commercial graphic artist (working for WH Smith) and as a book illustrator. For a while he was art editor of Vogue in Britain, then helped co-found the Society of Industrial Artists and went on to serve on the council of the Design Association and to lecture at City of London college. 'Pudding Boy' has become the subject of a V&A Museum Christmas card this year and should act as an amusing reminder to us all to make merry but not over-indulge at the feast!

Today's poem, Reproof Of The Pudding, is a little sprig of seasonal jolly. I've been busy revising it over several days and versions, as is my usual poetic modus operandi, until it arrived at its final, perfect form. "Perfection", as defined by Antoine de Saint-Exupery (aviator, novelist, poet), "is achieved not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away." A sound credo. Voila!

Reproof Of The Pudding

BURP!


Thanks for reading. I should like to wish a Merry 🎅 Christmas 🎄  to one and all, S ;-)

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Last desserts - wheel in the trolley!

I am not a big pudding fan. We had too many when I was younger. Thick sticky suet puddings were my Grandmother's speciality: Sticky apple dumpling, roly-poly, syrup pudding. My brothers were both 'fine strapping lads', the eldest a terrifically physical rugby player. His energy came from Nana's puddings, (and the half loaf consumed before most meals).

My mother was a great trifle maker.  Her sherry trifle contributed to an 'Egon Ronay' rating during her time catering at The Eagle & Child in the 1970s. I still make Mum's recipe once a year and it remains a family secret. There is less sugar in it now of course.

I don't really like puddings.  I always had a savoury palate, preferring cheese to chocolate, even as a child. I do indulge a little but gave up sugar for Lent several years ago and now find that most deserts are far too sweet. My mother's generation were starved of sugar during WW2.  Perhaps that is why they are so fond of the dessert trolley. When food rationing finally ended, seem to have lost most of their teeth. A new set of false ones gave both her and my father wonderful, everlasting smiles.

Two weeks ago, it seems like an age now, Mum overbalanced and broke her upper left femur. For me 'wheeling in the trolley' has taken on a completely different connotation. What follows is an account of our experience;

The NHS Nightmare before Christmas 2017

Friday 8^th December at approximately 3pm my 97 year old mother Dorothy Robinson, fell onto her rump, fracturing her left femur.  I managed to wheel a low chair around and got her settled, administered two paracetamol and called for an ambulance.  The paramedics were there within an hour.  She was at least warm and comfortable.  They did thorough checks, administered some morphine wheeled in a trolley with a stretcher and off we went to Victoria Hospital, Blackpool: Only a five minute journey from her home. We arrived at 17:05: In the next nine hours, we would both experience first hand,  more of the stress on the NHS than we ever thought possible.

On arrival at the hospital, her trolley was immediately stopped in the corridor while the attending ambulance crew waited to sign off her documentation. We waited in a freezing cold draft to hear that they would transfer her to a different trolley for x-ray, while she was waiting to go through triage.  The automatic doors in the corridor opened: Then they closed.  They freezing temperatures outside affected every one of the ten people who were in queued in various stages of distress, some in wheelchairs, elderly patients on trolleys, others in beds. After her x-ray, Mum was put back into the same corridor, a little further down but no less draughty.

Paramedics were cluttering the hallway too: At one point there were so many that I lost count.  There was one team of two overseeing the patients in the corridor, trying to keep everything tight but not everyone was getting the attention they needed. At around 7pm, a woman who was in the queue seated on a trolley, started to vomit into a grey bowl. No-one noticed.  I took the bowl from her walked to a paramedic and asked where the sluice was, asking also for another bowl for the young lady. I showed him the nasty brown contents. He said, “That is blood. Where is she?”  Over an hour later, I saw her again and removed a third bowl from her hands, filled with fresh blood. She had been seen by a doctor by then but was, once again, sitting on a trolley outside the treatment area: She was not in a cubicle.  Her skin was yellow ochre, probably liver failure.

Mum reached the automatic-door end of the corridor at around 7.30pm and needed to use a bedpan.  The nursing staff were courteous, wheeling her into a cubicle with a curtain to preserve her dignity.  They checked her admission time and despite having x-rays that showed a severe break in her femur, we were informed that she had only been at the hospital for 2 hours and there were others ahead of her in the queue.  Mum had still not been through triage: She was wheeled back into the corridor. By now she was so cold that I had to put my jacket over her feet. There were others in the corridor, on wheelchairs and trolleys, complaining that they were cold only to be told that there were no blankets available.  The wind howled through the automatic doors as they opened and closed every few minutes. Outside the temperature was well below zero.

Apart from my mother, there were three very elderly people in that corridor.  One was wheeled into the emergency room with several family members and was wheeled past us at around 10pm covered by a blue plastic cover, en route to the morgue. I am not saying that this death was caused by the delays.  Elderly people die.  I do however believe that they should not have to die in an Emergency Department at a hospital. My mother has a ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ in place, ensuring that she can die with dignity in her own home or during any surgery. She witnessed the "crash team" spend 20 minutes trying to revive my father after a massive heart attack when he was 83. Her last moments with him were spoilt by the unnecessary intervention. They should both have been allowed to let him die with dignity.

By 11pm, Mum was in a cubicle, waiting to see the doctor.  I took the initiative and sourced some nappies, to stop the staff having to bring a bedpan. The corridor was still filled with new arrivals and very cold people still awaiting treatment. A man in his fifties, who was sitting in a wheelchair outside the triage cubicle area, began to vomit into a bowl.  I saw him vomit three times.  Nobody noticed but me.  Suddenly he was having a seizure in the wheelchair.  His face was turning blue and his head knocking on the back of the chair.  For a few minutes staff did nothing.  After several minutes doctors ran round shouting and wheeled him into the emergency room. I was grateful that Mum had nodded off. 

Mum was finally admitted to the orthopaedic ward at 2.30 am. She was scheduled for surgery early the next day and could not have food or drink.  Her blood pressure was very low and she was severely dehydrated.  It had been very difficult to get an intravenous line into her arm. It was over eleven hours since her fall. I had a sandwich and cup of tea at 7pm: A gift from a hospital volunteer.  While we were still in the corridor, I had heard two of the ambulance staff talking.  Although one team had been for a break, the others had not had a break.  I saw them the next day in the hospital café while I waited for Mum to come out of surgery.  They had worked a 12 hour shift without a break. No one in our NHS should be expected to work without adequate meal breaks: The wellbeing of their patients depends on high levels of concentration and clear decision-making.

The surgical team, the nursing staff on Ward 35, the physiotherapists, occupational therapists and the consultant were all wonderful.  The trauma of the Emergency Department is disgraceful, for patients, for hospital staff and for ambulance crews alike.  As a Nation we are becoming complacent with this government and their scathing cuts to our NHS. I appeal as an NHS user, as a British citizen and as the carer of a woman who built Wellington bombers in Blackpool during the WW2 to keep our country safe, “For God’s sake Teresa May – put the NHS emergency services at the top of your Christmas list and make it a New Year resolution that no-one should have to experience  The NHS Nightmare before Christmas again!”

 

I hope I never see a trolley again. 

 

Thanks for reading.  Adele  

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Pudding Moments

Growing up in Canada, pudding was something very specific.  It started with grabbing from the pantry a small cardboard box featuring the Jell-O logo and containing a plastic pouch of powder.  After a whisk with milk in a small, stainless steel bowl and a couple of hours in the fridge, my siblings and I would indulge in the thick, gooey sweet stuff that our mum spooned out into little bowls.

Fast forward to being a young wanderlust-filled adult living in the UK, discovering that ‘pudding’ meant all desserts … not just the whisked up contents of a cardboard box.  It was one of the many subtle but significant cultural differences I navigated through when I first moved here, like making sure to say ‘trousers’ when talking about pants.

I was brought up on dessert (or pudding) being the reward for finishing a meal.  I was a very slow eater as a child, so often that chocolate biscuit or bowl of pudding felt well earned.

Brings to mind the time I was doing cover work in a school in Edinburgh and spotted on the lunch menu that the day’s pudding was going to be ‘Angel Delight’ … I’d never heard of it before and the name sounded magically delicious.  I looked forward to rewarding myself with that tasty treat after finishing my slightly soggy tuna cucumber sandwich.  I’m not going to lie guys … I was pretty disappointed with the reality – it was my first and last encounter with that bizarre concoction.)

And here we are in December 2017, at the end of a year that has – for many reasons – felt like hard work.  It’s been a constant barrage of horrendous headlines and sickening stories from all corners – political, environmental, economic, and cultural.  Partisan gaps are becoming chasms.  Warfare, displacement and border fury are rampant.  The seeds sown through austerity measures are cultivating deepening issues of poverty and deprivation.  Despite a global groundswell demanding an end to sexual aggression and assault, it is still happening.  And the omnipresence of handheld access to everything online is pushing us further and further into isolation from each other.

We need some sweet stuff.  We work hard to digest what we face day to day. We’ve earned dessert.

So over the next few weeks of journeying through the festive season and transitioning into a new year, be sure to find some time to enjoy some pudding – whatever that means to you.

If it is curling up under a duvet with a giant tin of Celebrations, go for it.

If it is roasting a 78 pound turkey with six tonnes of potatoes and a vat of gravy to feed multitudes of family and friends which appears to be stressful but actually brings you huge joy, do it.

If it is baking your grandmother’s Xmas cake recipe for the first time since she passed away, relish it.

If it is congratulating yourself for making it outside because most days it feels too overwhelming to do so, you are amazing.

If it is deciding to get in touch with a friend or family member you’ve not contacted in ages, go you.

If it is volunteering to serve lunch at a shelter or donating money / food / clothing to one of the countless worthy organisations in our midst, you rock.

If it is remembering to take mini moments to close your eyes and just breathe amid frenetic family gatherings, feel proud.

Love and light and big wishes for many more pudding moments in 2018!

Rose x

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Winter Ghost

I was reminiscing with someone this afternoon about the 'terrible winter' of 1962/3. He'd been given a bike for Christmas but wasn't able to ride it for weeks because of the Big Freeze. I'd been bought a new football jersey and broke it in - over the top of several layers of vests and t-shirts - playing football out on our snow-filled road rendered impassable by traffic - except for the milk van which was still pulled by horse!

It was the coldest winter in Britain since 1739. The snows arrived in mid-December 1962, we had the whitest of White Christmases and then arctic blizzards swept the country on Boxing Day. Snow fell on several occasions over a couple of months and lay to a depth of many feet - but the low temperatures were the biggest factor. Hard frosts and freezing fog were a daily occurrence through January and February. The ground was frozen (hard as iron), rivers became solid and even the sea iced up around parts of the coast. Sporting events (horse-racing, football matches) were postponed for weeks on end - with Blackpool players ice-skating on the Bloomfield Road pitch - and the thaw only commenced at the beginning of March. It seems hard to credit nowadays.

That's almost by-the-by. What I planned to write about is the much-mythologised Christmas Day football match in no man's land from December 1914. Michael Foreman wrote an excellent and moving children's story about it in War Game. Then there was a big fuss when a leading supermarket chain made it the subject of their Christmas advertising campaign on the 100th anniversary, with some claiming it had never happened and others levelling accusations of such commercialisation showing a disrespect for the dead - so I went to the Imperial War Museum website looking for the truth and it is this:

Late on Christmas Eve 1914, men of the British Expeditionary Force heard German troops in the trenches opposite them singing carols and patriotic songs and saw lanterns and small fir trees along their trenches. Messages began to be shouted between the opposing lines.

The following day, British and German soldiers met in no man's land, exchanged gifts of cigarettes, chocolate and drink, took photographs and played some impromptu games of football. After Boxing Day, the meetings dwindled out, officers being worried that the 'truce' would undermine fighting spirits; and the High Commands on both sides tried to prevent any truces on a similar scale happening again.

I have a profound belief that more unites us than divides us and the essence of that no man's land event still resonates for me, so much so that I've re-mythologised it in today's poem.

There are times when, on balance, the human condition feels like it's a sad one. This low period of winter ghosts is one such time, but it will pass like a weather front. Kindness and a compassionate out-reaching to our fellow human-beings can restore a sunnier clime.

The Ghost Between The Posts
As a lad, he turned out
on the raddled playing-field
of no-man's-land
at Christmas
in that first cruel winter
of the war to end all wars,
big hands keeping goal,
the last line of defence
while his fellows
ran like kids in the local park
leathering a sodden football
out of sheer relief
for being untrenched
and still alive
in the mud of so much madness.

When it was too dark
to distinguish friend from foe,
then the game was over,
the result irrelevant
as there were no losers on that day,
just two weary teams
retaking their respective bunkers
with respectful handshakes
all round
but no swapping of shirts,
for on the morrow
they would be duty-bound
to fall to killing each other once again.

As a lad, he bled out
on the bedevilled slaying-field
of no-man's land
on New Year's Day
in that first cruel winter
of the war to end all wars,
big hands clutching
at his gaping side
as he tried to make sense
of why he had to die,
why his fellows
fell like nine-pins in the dark,
in the fog of stinking gas
and the mud of so much madness.

These days,
he's the ghost between the posts
on that haunted poppy-field
of everyman's land
big hands spread in seeming benediction
for the fallen of both sides,
lads who played that game
out of their love of life
and a simple belief
in our common humanity.

Thank you so much for reading the blog, S ;-)

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Long nights, time to dwell...

I've been going through a rough time over the past few weeks. It's kept me indoors, away from hillwalking, upsetting my system, upsetting the balance of my mind. I began to dwell on things...My husband died just before Christmas 2009, so this time of the year is difficult for me. Thoughts turn to those who we've spent festive seasons with...loved ones, family, friends, pets. Not conjuring up ghosts as such, but images from the past...creating ghosts in our mind. Well at least that's what has happened to me, but even more so this year, for some inexplicable reason.

I didn't want to go out. Didn't want to look out Christmas decorations. Didn't want to eat. Just didn't want to bother. I found myself weeping at odd times...like on the bus, sitting on the prom..What was amiss ?

The weight was dropping off me, I felt anxious, agitated, lethargic, unhappy. I thought the disease I've controlled for years was getting the better of me. A trip to the IBD clinic at the Victoria Hospital. Blood tests, samples. The lot !

Bad thoughts. Might I have to have surgery? Would I ever go hillwalking again ? How would I cope being alone ? Ghostly, ghastly thoughts.

I found the culprit ! A month or so ago I'd been prescribed a rubbing gel with a small dose of Ibuprofen, which I applied in the evening to a swelling on my femur. Two days ago I stopped taking it and I've been transformed. No more ghostly, miserable,anxious thoughts.

Ah ! The ghosts we conjure up. They join us on those dark, long, lonely nights of winter. Be gone I say ! ( Hopefully they have ).
     
   Days like this
   Nobody told me there'd be days like this-
   Days of loneliness and sorrow.
   Nobody warned me that I'd have days like this,
   When I'd long for a better tomorrow.

   Nobody versed me in these feelings-
   These days of being alone again.
   No one prepared me for these 'down' days
   When glorious sunshine seems like rain.

    Not one person offered this advice-
    That sometimes I'd feel so low.
    No, no one mentioned the possibilities
    That these feelings could be so.

    Now, I offer this advice to one and all-
    Be prepared to feel alone.
    Some days might be full of sorrow,
    But tomorrow those fears will have flown.

   Season's Greetings All.

 

 

Thanks for reading my rambles , Kath.

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Winter Ghosts - just beyond the veil.

The winter months are  a reflective time for me - tinged with sadness. The long dark nights make me want to snuggle down early with a good book.  Too much time sitting alone at night allows me to dwell and get down. Keeping busy at home helps.  The ghosts that haunt me, although kindly, make my heart sad.  They haunt my home.  I miss them.

I miss Dad.  His birthday was 13th December - so this month was always a celebration when he was alive. I remember the care he took with decorating the pubs he ran.  At The Everest, he made Santas on sleighs to fly among the climbing gear and mountains on the walls.  There was always a huge welcoming Christmas tree at The Eagle & Child and the restaurant would be filled with people on works Christmas parties, enjoying the seasonal cheer. My father was a generous man. Giving brought him (and us) such joy.

My Godmother Mavis died on 19th December. She had sent a beautiful Christmas card with a tiny angel made from wine and feathers on the front. That night it fluttered to the ground.  As I picked it up, I actually asked it what it was trying to tell me. Her death was unexpected.  Her gifts to us were under my tree until I took it down. They were always so beautifully wrapped, with bows and bells. The contents were secondary to the care and attention she gave to the excitement of the parcel. I bought a pair of black dressy shoes with the money that she had slipped into the box of Swiss chocolates.  The shoes are past their prime but I still wear them.  I can't bear to part with them.  Every year, when I decorate my tree, I get out the box of baubles and there is her angel. My Winter Ghost.

There was Dad's friend Kenny.  So full of fun.  He always called to see us at Christmas. Gone now. 

My Grandmother Phyllis, who hid all her Christmas gifts under her bed. We always found them.

There are my own traditions. Rituals played out each year. Home made soup, mulled wine and Christmas strudel on Christmas Eve after church. Eggs benedict for breakfast.  Mum watching the Queen's speech before we eat lunch. My only wish for Christmas is that I can share it with her at least one more time before she too becomes a Winter Ghost.

When you love someone deeply - they never leave you. They are as much a part of you as the next generation. When they pass - love stays and keeps you strong until another Spring. We miss them but they have passed on the baton: We have no choice but to live up to their expectations of us. 

And Death Shall Have No Dominion

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead man naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion. 

Dylan Thomas.

Thanks for reading.  Adele                        

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Winter Ghosts

It may be the fault of that famously flimsy veil between the worlds of the living and the dead which is reputed to exist over Hallowe'en. From that point on, as temperatures drop and the brittle winter sunlight crumbles to ruins by mid-afternoon, so the ghosts gather in increasing numbers--if only in the stories we read and the films we watch.

Tales of spectral visitors have long been associated with the wintertime. "Scary ghost stories" even get a mention in Andy Williams' classic Christmas hit (linked here) It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year, which, unless you're a latecomer to the blog and reading this in July, you may have heard a time or several recently.

When we think of winter ghost stories, we may think first of 'A Christmas Carol', that tale of the haunting of a rejected and rejecting man, which first appeared in 1843. Or perhaps of the stories of M.R. James, which followed almost ninety years thereafter and which the author read at Christmastime to his students at Cambridge.

However, winter ghosts have made their presence felt long before and long since, from the three sons of the (linked) Wife of Usher's Well, who paid their mother a visit around Martinmas (11th November), to the residents of 'The Shining's' snowbound Overlook Hotel.

What is it about a season in which we huddle together for warmth, indulge in the comforts of rich food and remind ourselves of the importance of peace and good will that draws the ghosts out from the shadowy corners of our homes and our minds?

Banquo's Ghost

The brighter the lights and the warmer the hearth, the darker and colder those shadowy corners seem. One way to consider a ghost is as a manifestation of something that has been rejected, neglected or ignored for too long and is now compelled or determined to be acknowledged by the world. That something could be a person--perhaps, as in many classic ghost stories, a departed person whose wishes have been over-ridden by their living relatives. Or the ghost might be nothing more or less than a truth that is being ignored. It might even represent a living person who is in some way unwelcome or outcast, the proverbial (linked) ghost at the feast. In that sense, unhappy Mr Scrooge had already much in common with his chain-rattling visitor; despite his nephew's well-meant invitation, no-one truly relished the prospect of the miser's company at their Christmas table.

Merry Christmas, Alison Raouf

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Winter Ghosts - Nearly Christmas

Christmas is taking shape. I’ve made the cake, bought some but not all gifts, made food plans and put the tree up. I loved the looks of delight on the faces of my two and a half year old grandson and one and a half year old granddaughter when I showed them the tree and the special things hanging on it. The baby, another grandson, is too young to take any notice yet, but I showed him everything and told him about the star, the angel and mix of baubles that all mean something. They don’t know it, but these beautiful children save me from getting too maudlin when I miss my family.

I’m fortunate to have a wonderful family round me of my own making but I miss my mum, dad, grandparents and all my extended family and friends who are no longer with us. I’m grateful to have grown up in such a family to give me strength of character and confidence to stand and grow alone when I had to. My guardian angels who picked me up when I fell, pointed me in the right direction when I took a wrong turning and stopped me from roaming a rocky path. Christmas brings them all near and even if I’m weeping yet again for what is lost, I’m joyful for the magical memories of Christmases past.

These winter ghosts gather to share in the Christmas of today, surrounding me with the love I grew up with. I hope our dinner is perfect, our company convivial and I wish, as I always do that just one more time, the family I miss could be sitting round the table. My Nanna, still with her pinny on, making sure everyone has everything they want, and my dad checking the wine. Until we meet again.

I will do my best to cook a lovely dinner. We’ll share thoughts and memories, we’ll laugh but not cry.  Someone will raise a toast to those who have passed but with us in spirit. The children will jump at the snapping of crackers and play with the contents then later mess about until they fall asleep, cheeks rosy and hearts full of love. It’s a family circle and I’m Nanna now.

I hope in years to come, my children and grandchildren will look back with fondness on memories of their own.

I have this poem in a frame and bring it out every Christmas.

Christmas Memories by Patience Strong.

Christmas memories stir the waters of the well of thought-
And reflect the best of what the passing years have brought…
Past and present mingle when we hear the Christmas chimes.
Names come back as we recall good things and happy times.
 

 

The photos are copied from my late father's colour slide collection. I apologise for the poor quality. It's a work in progress.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Winter Ghosts

Ghosts in horror films are seen as scary, horrifying, supernatural beings… When really I think they are lost souls searching for a purpose.

 

I’m not sure if anyone else feels how I feel but during the winter months I feel haunted by my past. Not like Scrooge haunted by the three ghosts, but I think about the year that’s past… The highs and the lows. The wonderful new people I have met and those I have left behind.

 

The key thing is not to continue letting those ‘Winter Ghosts’ corrupt your thoughts. Think positively, act positively and you will be so happy and fulfilled that you won’t have time for the ghouls in your mind. At the end of the year spend time with your love ones… Don’t be a ghost....

 

 

Daylight

I spend my nights searching…

Days dreaming…

Life wishing….

Mind re-playing…

Daylight disappears…

Leaving me alone with all my fears…

Of all those wasted years…

 

Helena Ascough - Thanks for reading.

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Box Of Rain

It's approaching mid-December in Blackpool and it's raining. No surprise there, given the time of the season and the arrival of the first serious cold weather of winter  - icy tears from the eye of Storm Caroline.

The theme of water does little to inspire a Saturday blog, but I missed out last week - sustaining a foolish injury that has seen me hobbling painfully and snaffling ibuprofen for a week already, with more discomfort to come until torn muscles mend - so I'm determined to cobble something together on theme today, however brief. It's almost a sacred duty, for we Aquarians (February born in my case), are supposedly water-carriers (Ὑδροχόος or Hydrokhoös) in a grand tradition stretching back to Ganymede, cup-bearer to the Greek gods.

Therefore, courtesy of the good old Grateful Dead, I bring you a Box Of Rain...

I started thinking about this song after Thursday's Dead Good Poetry open mic night, when amidst the festive jollity (fuelled by mulled wine of prodigious strength), quite a few of the works performed were very eloquent and moving reflections on impermanence and loss.

Then last night Adele's mother fell and broke her femur/hip in three places. She's 97, bless her, and is in an  operating theatre at Blackpool Victoria Hospital as I write, where surgeons will do their best to mend her frail bones. Adele is understandably beside herself with worry. This, then, is for her... and for anyone who is feeling low at the moment.

It is one of my favourite Grateful Dead songs, tune by Phil Lesh and lyrics by Robert Hunter, written circa 1970 for Phil Lesh's father who was dying of cancer at the time. Not many songs aspire to poetry (an old debate we've had on the blog several times) but this lyric, reproduced below in slightly abridged form, has its moments. In particular, I love the imagery of a box of rain. Listen to the band perform it via the YouTube link below for maximum effect...

Box Of Rain
Look out of any window
Any morning, any evening, any day.
Maybe the sun is shining,
Birds are winging or
Rain is falling from a heavy sky.
What do you want me to do,
To do for you to see you through?
For this is all a dream we dreamed
One afternoon long ago.

Walk out of any doorway,
Feel your way, feel your way
Like the day before.
Maybe you'll find direction
Around some corner
Where it's been waiting to meet you.
What do you want me to do,
To watch for you while you're sleeping?
Then please don't be surprised
When you find me dreaming too.

(***)

Walk into splintered sunlight
Inch your way through dead dreams
To another land.
Maybe you're tired and broken
Your tongue is twisted
With words half spoken
And thoughts unclear.
What do you want me to do,
To do for you to see you through?
A box of rain will ease the pain
And love will see you through.

Just a box of rain,
Wind and water,
Believe it if you need it,
If you don't, just pass it on.
Sun and shower,
Wind and rain,
In and out the window
Like a moth before a flame.

And it's just a box of rain
I don't know who put it there,
Believe it if you need it
Or leave it if you dare...
And it's just a box of rain
Or a ribbon for your hair,
Such a long, long time to be gone
And a short time to be there...

                                      The Grateful Dead 

Link to listen to the song here: Box Of Rain


Thanks for reading. Believe it if you need it, Steve ;-)

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Water of life ?

Water is a life saver and a life taker. It seems we either have too much of it, or not enough of it! Is this down to climate change? I can only speculate. I am no expert.

Having seen first hand the devastation caused by storm Desmond, and how two years later people are still awaiting the repair of bridges, roads and even homes. When I went to Colorado in June 2014 they'd had devastating floods in the September before with the loss of lives, businesses, homes and infrastructure.. I've also experienced (to a lesser degree) the effects of drought. The summer of 1976 when we had no rain from April to August. I recall this as I was pregnant at the time. I sat beneath a large tree in the garden , day after day...getting browner and browner . Bath water was limited to a few inches and I spent hot afternoons sitting on the edge of the tub with my feet in an inch of cold water. Subsequently I was admitted to the hospital a month before my due date. On being discharged the same regulations applied, but bottled water was delivered for the baby.

We watch dramas unfold before us in news coverage of wildfires, floods,drought, famine, deluge, landslides ...all related to either too much or not enough water. Yes. It's a life giver and a life taker.

Today's poem is taken from my archives and portrays water in a gentle form, a shower...

             The Passing of the Rain ---June 1966?

             The shower has passed and leaves behind the scent of new cut hay.

             The sky has cleared, and the sun beams down it's golden ray.

             The birds have started to sing again...

             So this is the passing of the rain.

             Mother Nature yawns and stretches out her hand

             To revive, to awaken all living things on land.

             The frisky mare tosses her mane...

             So this is the passing of the rain.

             Birds splash in puddles that are left.

             Tiny snails can leave their small wall cleft.

             Rabbits run gaily along the lane...

             So this is the passing of the rain.

Thanks for reading, and Season's Greetings, Kath

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Water, water everywhere ...

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is one of my earliest poetic memories. It was probably the first epic poem that I read. I loved the way poetry could be used to tell a story. The poem used vivid imagery to open a reader to an ocean voyage fraught with horror but it was idea of being becalmed at sea without drinking water that stuck in my young mind;

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.

The very deep did rot – Oh Christ!
That ever this should be.
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs,
Upon the slimy sea. 

Coleridge's poem was written in 1834.  During the 19th century, cholera spread across the world from its original reservoir in the Ganges delta in India. Six subsequent pandemics killed millions of people across all continents. The current (seventh) pandemic started in South Asia in 1961 and reached Africa in 1971 and the Americas in 1991. Cholera is now endemic in many countries. In Yemen - cholera is pandemic. 

The cholera outbreak in Yemen has become the largest and fastest-spreading outbreak of the disease in modern history, with a million cases expected by the end of the year and at least 600,000 children likely to be affected. The World Health Organization (WHO) has reported more than 815,000 suspected cases of the disease in Yemen and 2,156 deaths. About 4,000 suspected cases are being reported daily, more than half of which are among children under 18. Children under five account for a quarter of all cases.

• Cholera is an acute diarrhoeal disease that can kill within hours if left untreated.
• Severe cases need rapid treatment with intravenous fluids and antibiotics.
• Provision of safe water and sanitation is critical to control the transmission of cholera and other waterborne diseases.
• Cholera is an easily treatable disease. The majority of people can be treated successfully through prompt administration of oral rehydration solution (ORS). The WHO/UNICEF ORS standard sachet is dissolved in 1 litre (L) of clean water. Adult patients may require up to 6 L of ORS to treat moderate dehydration on the first day.

The crisis in Yemen is completely man made. More than two years of fighting between the Saudi-led coalition and Houthi rebels has crippled the country, causing widespread internal displacement, the collapse of the public health system, and leaving millions on the brink of famine. The situation worsened when public health workers, whose salaries had gone unpaid, went on strike. Rubbish, left on the street washed into the water supply.

Over 19 million Yemenis no longer have access to clean water. Without rehydration through salts and clean water, the disease spreads like wildfire. The Yemeni government stopped funding the public health department in 2016: many doctors and hospital staff have not been paid for more than a year. Healthcare has since been provided mainly by international groups. Their progress has been hampered by conflict.

The most of the children of Yemen do not celebrate Christmas. Many of them may not live until the end of the year. Who cares? WHO cares – there is a continual appeal for aid to provide ORS packs and to pipe in clean water supply. When you consider buying that extra gift this year, consider helping Save the Children to provide a ceramic water filter for a family and help stop the spread of this virulent disease. https://www.savethechildren.org.uk/how-you-can-help/emergencies/yemen-crisis

Here in the West, we believe that fresh, clean water is our human right. When our local water supply became infected with cryptosporidium, we were able to buy clean, bottled water. Eventually we were compensated. In Yemen over one million people will be infected by cholera by the end of 2017.  Many will die. Death from cholera is preventable.

Water 

Yemen lies awash
with parasitic conflict:
Open the floodgates.


Thanks for reading. Please pass this on to your friends and family. Adele 

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Water - Deluge

There was more rain than usual on our recent visit to Dumfries and Galloway. It doesn’t bother us, after all, rain away is better than rain at home. Driving along the east side of Galloway Forest, following Loch Ken, we noticed how high the water was, almost lapping the road in low places. The nearby waterfalls rushed faster than ever, tumbling over rocks, cascading between trees and roaring under the bridge into the Loch. It was a beautiful sight in the winter landscape of fading autumn colour and another reason to love spending time in this enchanting area.

Further south, Galgate, Lancaster, Hornby and the Lune Valley were being subjected to serious flooding.  We saw the devastation on the news. Homes and businesses damaged. Roads becoming rivers in a very short time. Pictures closer to home showed Bispham and North Blackpool badly affected, streets we recognised succumbed to the deluge.  I was saddened to learn of someone who lost everything, bungalow damaged, possessions ruined, no insurance but fortunately a caring, loving family to give help and accommodation.

     As I admired the waterfall and the rising loch, unbeknown to me, others not too far away watched in horror as flood water breached their homes.

 My chosen poem,

All Day I Hear the Noise of Waters by James Joyce

 

All day I hear the noise of waters
Making moan,
Sad as the sea-bird is when, going
Forth alone,
He hears the winds cry to the water's
Monotone.

The grey winds, the cold winds are blowing
Where I go.
I hear the noise of many waters
Far below.
All day, all night, I hear them flowing
To and fro.

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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