Stress

Stress is something that is more readily acknowledged in recent years than it used to be when I was younger.

I recall getting engaged, finishing my degree, getting married, moving to the opposite end of the country and then starting a new job all within the space of a couple of months. When we arrived on the Wirral in Merseyside, we wondered why we were finding it difficult to adjust  and manage the new situation. There was no thought from anyone else that this might have been a stressful time for us, or that we might need some time to get used to all the changes.

We managed to muddle through together and in some ways it has made us appreciate each other more and the times we have now here in Blackpool in semi-retirement where life is much less stressful and much more enjoyable.

Thankfully now, most people are more aware of the need to provide help and support if someone is struggling with stress. If you are stressed, my encouragement would be to find someone to talk to about it (we got by through talking with each other).

There are talking therapies available if you don’t have a partner or a friend you can share with.

Also, see if there is any way you can change your situation if it is that which is causing you stress, although this may not be possible. I was in a job for several years where someone tried to bully me and I had to continue in it for the family’s sake for a few years.

Above all, cut yourself some slack and don’t  feel bad if you are struggling mentally or physically with stress. Everyone will at different times in their lives, so you are not on your own.

I conclude with a new poem on theme:

Mindful of Stress

Consider this chart:
Unhappy at work, 15 points
Change of residence, 17 points
Change in number of arguments with partner, 33 points
Death of a relative, 50 points

Need
I go
on?
See
how easily
the score
calculates
and many
of us
I know
find this
reckoning
a reason
for stress
in itself.

If no
cause to cry
is at hand,
treat yourself
to a good
sob
during a film
to release
toxins,
though not
every
tear-jerker
matches
the real thing;
proteins
in
each
drop
don’t
always
reduce
pain.

Thanks for reading, David.

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Life Cycle by Jill Reidy

I've written all my life.  I have diaries from when I was six, short stories in exercise books and blogs on all sorts. I even self published a children's novel when I couldn't get a publisher to do it.  So this week's blog should have been a doddle.  It wasn't.  All my stories were too short or too long, so I'm hoping I'll be forgiven for this one, that's slightly longer than recommended.  The idea came to me years ago, when my grandma began to suffer from dementia, and it's only recently that I've put this down on paper.  I've always been fascinated by the passing of time, and especially within families, when roles eventually become reversed. This story has not had an airing before, and it would be good to hear what readers think.

Life Cycle by Jill Reidy

4^thAugust 1949

Dear Mags, 

Thank you so much for the card and pretty bootees.  They will be perfect to keep Jean’s feet warm once the weather turns a little cooler. I can’t believe I’m now actually, officially, a mother!  I hope this letter finds you and Charlie well, and tell Susan we’ll come over as soon as we get straight, and she can meet her little cousin in person.

Love Elsie xx

PS. No, the birth wasn’t pleasant

19^thOctober 1950

Dear Mags,

It was lovely to see you all last Sunday, and thank you again for our tea, which was delicious.  Jean has just started walking with her little trolley!  She’s still a bit wobbly and not always keen to have help, but we’re doing all we can to encourage her to walk independently.  We are keeping the pushchair for now as I don’t think we would get to the grocer’s without it just yet, never mind into town. She’s into everything as you can imagine. I can see we’re going to have to put some locks on the cupboard doors before long.  That’s a job for Bert.

Love Elsie xx

8^thJune 1951

Dear Mags,

Potty training! How on earth did you deal with it?  I’m at the end of my tether, and running out of clean knickers for Jean, who doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest.  She hasn’t got the hang of it at all.  There’s wee all over the house, and I’m worried about the smell.  If you have any advice, please let me know by return of post before we all drown.

Love Elsie xx

PS Nurse at the clinic suggested slapping Jean’s leg every time she loses control, but I’m not very happy doing that – and anyway, it didn’t do any good.

7^thJanuary 1952

Dear Maggie,

Thank you for your letter. I understand your concerns about Jean’s speech, but the nurse really didn’t think there was anything to worry about. She said they all develop at their own pace and Jean has her own gobbledegook language just now.  Most of the time I find it not too difficult to understand.  Nurse seems to think she will be chattering away ten to the dozen before we know it. Susan is obviously much more of a talker than a doer.  I noticed she wasn’t keen to play outside withJean when you were over last week.

Elsie x

PS the nurse has booked Jean in for a hearing test, although she doesn’t think there’s a problem.

18^thDecember 1952

Dear Mags, 

I will be coming on the Number 4 bus on Thursday, about 11am.  Jean loves asking the conductor for her ticket now she has got her grommets in and she can hear properly!  I must admit, it’s made things a lot easier.  It was very frustrating talking to her when she couldn’t hear. By the way, dear, if you have any advice on sharing I’d love to hear it.  Jean had a little friend to play yesterday and refused to share any of her toys or even the sweets they had after tea.  I’ve never felt so embarrassed.  Little Christine’s mother was there, looking very disapproving.  I’m glad to hear that Susan has finally managed to pedal her bike without any help.

Love Elsie xx

19^thAugust 1953

Dear Mags,

I can’t believe Jean will be starting school in only a few more weeks.  She’s still my baby and she can’t possibly be big enough for proper school. I sat last night and sewed her name into every item of clothing she owns! I can’t afford to be buying more if she loses anything.  We’re still on coupons for the time being.  Lord knows when that’s going to end.  How did Susan get on when she first started?  And, more to the point, how were you?  I fear I shall be in floods of tears when I send her in on her first day.

Love Elsie xx

4^thOctober 1953

Dear Mags,

It was lovely to get all your news and to hear how well Susan’s doing at school, now she’s settled.  I’m hoping the same will happen with Jean. The first couple of weeks were dreadful. She had to be peeled off me, screaming. They kept telling me to leave her and walk away, but I just couldn’t do it, not when she was so upset.  They say she’s fine once she’s there but I’m not so sure.  I walked past the playground one day and she was standing by the fence, all by herself. I didn’t let her see me but I can tell you, it broke my heart, Mags.  Hopefully she’ll soon make some little friends, then she’ll be happier, I’m sure. Did you check with Charlie whether you can come over on the 9^th?

Love Elsie

xxx

22^ndAugust 1965

Darling Mags, 

What can I say?  The telephone call was such a shock.  I hadn’t realised Charlie was so ill.  Bert and I will be at the funeral, of course, but we’re having a few problems with Jean at the moment, and I’m not sure if she’ll make it that day.  I’ve told her Susan will be there, but you know what teenagers are like?  Anyway, dear, take care and we’ll see you next Friday. I’ll bring ham sandwiches and a victoria sponge.  Do you want flowers?

All our love, 

Elsie and Bert xx

21^stOctober 1965

Dear Maggie,

I’m sorry to hear you’ve been feeling so low, and I’m surprised you think we haven’t been very supportive. We’ve been over as much as we can, but, as I’ve mentioned before, we’re having problems with Jean.  It was bad enough when she wouldn’t come out of her room and all we could hear was music at full blast, but now she’s never in – out every night, dancing and goodness knows what else.  I put a meal on the table and she just looks at it, as though I’m trying to poison her.  She picks at it for a bit and then disappears upstairs again.  Things were so much easier when she was little.  From your last letter it sounds as though Susan is much more sensible, but even so, sometimes they need a little nudge.  I’d have a word with her dear, if you’re feeling a bit down. She should really be thinking a little more about you.

Love Elsie xx

29^thSeptember 1967

Dear Mags,

The end of an era.  We dropped Jean off at Leicester Poly this afternoon.  It’s a tiny room but she seemed happy enough, in fact, couldn’t wait for us to go.  I cried all the way home but we’re back now and Bert’s putting the kettle on.  It’s just the thought of her there, on her own, knowing nobody.  I wonder how long the peace will last.  

Love Elsie xx

PS I’m sure we’ll miss her, just not the drama!

suem49@btinternet.com

08.09.20012

Hi Sue,

Thanks so much for the warm bed socks and slippers for mum.  They will be lovely and cosy for her as the nights draw in. 

You asked for an update. Where do I start?  I dropped mum off at the Nursing Home yesterday, which was pretty traumatic.  I know she doesn’t really recognise me any more but it was still awful having to hand her over to a complete stranger, and to see her face as I walked straight back out (which is what they’d advised by the way).  I couldn’t see for tears as I drove home.  And then when I got home, I realised I still had her suitcase in the boot of the car – all her clothes neatly labelled with her name, so they don’t get lost.  I started off sewing the labels on, but it took me so long, and made me so sad I bought the iron on ones and raced through it so I didn’t have to think about it.  I couldn’t help remembering all the happy times when we were younger and we used to come and visit you and your mum.  How we used to wind them up and then disappear in fits of giggles.  

Well, there’s not been much to laugh about the last few months, I can tell you.  There was the deafness, which nearly drove me insane.  How dad had lived with it all those years, god only knows.  I’m just glad he’s not here to see mum now.  It would have broken his heart.  Once we got the right hearing aids at least mum could hear, even if she couldn’t understand.  It’s been so hard, Sue.  People don’t realise how awkward she can be, shutting herself in her room and refusing to come out, picking at her food, refusing to hand round her sweets. Then, one day last week, as I drove past the Home, I spotted mum, sat outside on a bench all on her own.  It made me sad to think she hasn’t really got friends any more. I know it’s the illness but that doesn’t always help.

I’ve been taking her on the bus, just for something to do.  She seems to like that, looking out of the window and clutching the ticket as if her life depends on it.  I dread anybody speaking to her as I know she’ll either not answer or come out with some gobbledegook that only I understand, but I suppose, in a way, that’s the least of my worries.

They rang me from the Home yesterday to ask me to take in some incontinence pants.  I know mum had had a few accidents lately, and I must admit, I was worried that the house would stink of pee, but I was really hoping it was just a phase.  Obviously not.  I’ve bought a huge pack and will deliver them tomorrow, along with the clothes.  They also mentioned that mum’s struggling to walk with her frame.  It seems she’s going backwards (metaphorically, not literally, although who knows what’s next!).  She always seemed OK with it when I was in the house, but she’s obviously getting more wobbly.  The trouble is she just won’t accept any help.  I might take you up on that offer of Auntie Maggie’s old wheelchair, if the offer still stands?  It will be handy when I take her out and it means we can at least get into town without too much trouble. 

It looks as though mum won’t be coming back to her house again, which is another big sadness.  I’m going to start tidying up a bit with a view to selling, although that could take a while.  The first job is to remove all the locks we put on cupboard doors to stop her getting to anything like matches or knives.  You just don’t think of all these things before it happens, do you? 

On top of all this, I’ve got Emily (at thirty two!) still at home.  As if we didn’t have enough problems with her when she was in her teens. Now she doesn’t know whether she wants to work in Superdrug or be a nuclear physicist (well, not quite, but you get my drift).  Jason’s daughter, Amber is eleven, going on twenty two, and is already throwing her weight about. When does it ever end?

Anyway, Sue, I’ll sign off now. I’m going to get out the old photo albums and take them in for mum to look through.  You never know, it might just spark a memory.

Things were so much easier when mum was younger.

Looking forward to a catch up very soon.

Lots of love 

Jean xx

PS Sue, I hope I don’t sound too harsh, I’m sure you understand.  Mum looked after me all those years and now it’s my turn to look after her.  

 She was my Mum by Jill Reidy

She was my mum

Many, many years ago

I was inside that sagging belly

My squirming and kicking

Testament to the life within

Those breasts, now flat against a caving chest

Once a comfort, rounded and full, 

Calling to my selfish baby lips 

They nurtured and grew me

The feeble arms, flesh loose 

Had spent nights wrapping babies in their tight embrace

Rested heavy in a tired lap

Strong work-worn hands

Gently wiped away my tears

Now they flutter and shake

Pick endlessly at imaginary fluff 

Hold a plastic cup with lid and spout

Just like mine when I was two  

The swollen feet in cosy slippers 

Once squeezed into stilettos and waltzed around the room 

Ball gown wafting perfumed air 

As I marvelled at the transformed beauty

Now she's my daughter

I guide the cup to thin, parched lips

Wipe a whiskered chin

Tuck in the sheet around her tiny form

Stroke her cheek 

Switch on the lamp she likes left on

Small comfort in a confused and empty life

Tomorrow I will brush her hair

Braid it as she once did mine

Bribe her to replace the dentures

Wash her face and scrub her nails

We'll fight over the incontinence pants 

And putting on her tights

I'll get her in the wheelchair

Take her on the bus

Let her have the ticket as I whisper in her ear 

I'll walk her through the park

Past the flowers whose names are now lost 

In the tangled muddle of an old, old brain

I'll look at the back of her neck

Feel unbelievably sad

And wipe away the tears that just won't stop.

Thanks for reading, Jill

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Generation Gap? More like techno-overload.

I have never really acknowledged a generation gap.  My parents were pretty open-minded.  They had to be.  There were four of us born between 1947 and 1958. My Mum and Dad were big jazz and swing fans. They met in Blackpool in 1945 at the end of the war, so they had a lot to dance about. My paternal Grandfather, Fred Robinson, played tenor saxophone in Jack Hilton's band and transposed the music for Dolly Hilton who sang with them. My maternal grandmother taught classical piano and dance.  She lived with us until I was eleven.

My bothers and sister felt the generation gap more acutely than me.  Lesley was a big Beatles fan and in 1962, the Fab Four came into my Dad's pub. They wanted some food and  Dad refused to serve them.  He said that the kitchen was closed.  Lesley was devastated. He told her that he had no intention of serving those, 'long-haired louts.'  That was one bad move, Dad.  Think what the signed photo's would have been worth.

My two brothers loved Cream, Hendrix, Who, Dylan, Free, Pink Floyd, Tangerine Dream. The flat above the pub was often more raucous than the bar downstairs. Every so often Dad would come up and switch off the record player and make remarks about head-bangers but really he took it all in his stride. God knows what my Grandmother thought.

My own music choices were more to Dad's taste.  I was the little one.  I loved to sing his kind of music. When I was three, we all went to see Can Can (a musical with Frank Sinatra, Shirley McLane, Louis Jordan and Maurice Chevalier).  Dad already had the LP and as soon as it started, I stood on my seat and sang every song, word perfect.  I started ballroom dancing in 1966 and have loved big band, swing and Latin American rhythms ever since.  For me, Carlos Santana is the greatest musician in the world. 

My son is 27 now and often plays tunes from a Sting album that I like.  A neighbour tells me that he also does a mean Sinatra at the local pub karaoke nights. My 24 year old daughter and I share a love of The Script and Brian Adams.  It is just fun music and we blast it out in the car just as much now, as we did on the way back from gymnastics when she was ten. We all share a respect for the myriad personas and musical styles of David Bowie.  So although I can't confess to a musical generation gap within my own family, there are other gaping issues.  I do worry for the rest of humanity.

Ch-ch-ch-changes.

In my childhood summer days,
there were picnics by the sea.
I thought they called them sandwiches
because they had sand inside.
It got in your mouth and was grit when you chewed.
We got goose-bumps splashing around,
then a rub with a rough old towel.
No fabric softener – just love by the bucketful.

Up on Winter mornings,
banging feet on the lino floor,
watching the kindling sparks in the grate,
socks on the guard but you couldn’t be late,
so you ladled in thick sticky porridge,
burning your mouth in your haste.
Nights were warm and cuddly,
hot-water bottles and bedtime stories
tucked under eiderdown.

Now it is faster.
Rewind, replay, regurgitate.
Plug in, switch on, don’t hesitate.
Instant access, instant messaging,
no time to ruminate.
Ting dinner, ten minutes from frozen,
clothes washed and dried in ten minutes.
HG Wells would think it impressive.
Fibre optics speed communication,
before you have time to think what you say
it’s broadcast to the global Nation.

Some change must be for the better.

Yet I hold onto the pen for sincerity,

to the thrill of receiving a letter.

Not an email that’s not interpersonal
or a text often clipped and severe.

Automatons at the checkout,

designed to speed up the queue,

don’t even try to brighten the day.

They don’t ask the elderly 

“ …and how are you?”

 

Please don’t even mention the satnav,

I don’t need a nag on my dash.

A map gets me wherever I need to go,

Techno-free reading taught me what I know.

I appreciate lifestyles are different

Home workers are virtually free,

to stay all day in pyjamas.

I should say at this point that I know a guy

who has virtually worked since 1993.

 

We’ve been to the moon and back,

photographed Mars. We've spoken to stars,

Still no-one has been in touch,

So why not stop pushing these buttons

and try saying ‘let’s do lunch'.

Let’s go to the Lakes and go boating.

Let’s crumble the credit crunch.

Let’s cancel the Facebook and twitter,

Switch off the mobile phone.

Hold hands with the people who love you,

Take pleasure in knowing we are not alone.

 

Technology has succeeded

where extreme ideology fails

We’ve a worldwide community network

yet everything rotten, that should be forgotten

invades every home. 

It infects. It exhales. 

An innocent non-believer is demonised by using new-media.

A mid-eastern woman is still stoned to death

for an act of adultery,

while we in the West, free to do what we like,

can watch it unfold on real time TV.

All too much or is it just me?

 

Thanks for reading.  Adele

 

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Serendipity ? i am not convinced.

Earlier today, I logged into my computer to use a search engine to look do some research.  A close friend recently managed to dissuade me from using the ‘usual suspect’ search engines in favour of one that claims to be, ‘the most private search engine in the world.’  I wasn’t convinced at the time but recently I have begun to notice a real difference.  A difference in my own on-line behaviour.

I am no longer bombarded by advertisements and links to stuff that the internet wants me to see. You know what I mean, at least you will if you are a bit IT naive, as I was when I started typing all sorts of requests into a well- known commercial search engine. It was so exciting and I often got side-tracked and sometimes linked to other sites and bought things: Things that I thought I needed.

 

Thanks to my friend’s intervention  I am now an internet grown-up.  I no longer believe that it is serendipity that magically understands my social status, purchasing habits, likes and dislikes.  I now understand that the search engine and those who seek to optimise the sales of their products had lured me into an insecure world of invasion of my privacy. They pre-empted my every move, drip fed me things that they wanted me to like and buy.  They tapped into my email lists so that they could do the same to my contacts and like a relentless worm, they dug into my inner-self to exploit my weaknesses.

 

Serendipity  - ah yes the subject of this blog - finding a true friend who, through their knowledge and caring, points you in the direction of  https://ixquick.com 

and help you to avoid being sucked into the wormhole that the internet has become.  Thank you, serendipitous friend. You know who you are.

 

Ch-ch-ch-changes

 

In my childhood summer days,

there were picnics by the sea.

I thought they called them sandwiches

because they had sand inside. 

It got in your mouth, in your ears, in your shoes.

We got goose-bumps splashing around,

then a rub with a rough old towel.

No softener – just love by the bucketful.

Waking on Winter mornings,

banging feet on the lino floor,

watching the kindling sparks in the grate,

socks on the guard but you couldn’t be late,

so you ladled in thick sticky porridge,

blistered your mouth in your haste.

Nights were warm and cuddly,

hot- water bottles and bedtime stories,

snuggling down under eiderdown.
 

It’s all faster now.

Rewind, replay, regurgitate.

Plug in, switch on, don’t hesitate,

instant access, instant message.

No time to ruminate.

Ting dinner ten minutes from frozen.

Tumbling wet to dry in less.

HG Wells would think it impressive.

Fibre optic communication,

by the time you can think it

it’s shared with the Nation.
 

Some change must be for the better.

Serendipity?

Yet I hold to the pen for sincerity:

to the thrill of receiving a letter.

Email seems impersonal.

A text can be clipped and severe.

Automatons at the checkout

designed to speed up the queue,

don’t even try to brighten the day

and they don’t ask the elderly,

“ How are you?”

Please don’t mention the satnav,

I don’t need a nag on my dash,

a map gets me anywhere I need to go.

Techno-free reading taught me what I know.
 

Oh I know that when snow fall is heavy,

some workers are virtually free,

I should say at this point that I know a guy

who has virtually worked since ’93!

We’ve been to the moon and back,

photographed Mars, spoken to stars,

still no-one has been in touch.

So why not stop pushing these buttons

and try saying ‘let’s do lunch.’

Let’s stay in, save up and go boating.

Let’s crumble the credit crunch.

Let’s cancel the Facebook and twitter,

switch off the mobile phone

and hold hands with the people who love us,

embracing the fact that we are not alone.
 

Technology has succeed

where extreme ideology failed.

We’ve a worldwide community network,

so everything rotten, that should be forgotten

invades every screen.

It infects.

It exhales.

An innocent non-believer is demonised using new-media.

A mid-eastern woman is stoned to death

for an act of adultery,

while we in the West, free to do what we like,

watch it unfold on real time TV.

Is it all too much or is it just me?
 

 

 

Thanks for reading ... Adele

 

 

 

 

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