Navigation - Sat-nav or Map?

“Navigation? Simple. There’s an app for that.”

I have my own ‘app’ in the form of an enlarged, easy to read road atlas. It is far better than the rude interruptions from the voice of the sat-nav in the middle of a conversation and making me lose my drift. It’s more reliable than the sat-nav, as well.

We used a sat-nav, or whatever it is on my husband’s phone when we were touring in our caravan last summer. Travelling from The Machars in Dumfries & Galloway to Maybole in Ayrshire, I wasn’t looking forward to the A77 and A78 which are always busy at any time of day. I wasn’t driving, but it’s still worrying as a passenger, ahem, back seat driver. I was saved the anxiety by the route the sat-nav chose to take. Miles and miles of single-track, harem scarem road, cutting through the lesser known depths of Galloway Forest Park, eventually releasing us into the freedom of rural Ayrshire. Not the best road for towing a caravan and we felt relieved to be unscathed, and alone. In all those miles we hadn’t encountered another vehicle. Drivers were either wise to avoid that way, or they knew we were out. It was a bad experience which made us wary of the sat-nav and we kept to the A roads after that.

On a visit to the Outer Hebrides – no caravan, just car and cottages – we travelled north from touring the Uists to base ourselves in the Isle of Harris to explore Harris and Lewis. We were in a hilly area. The highest mountain in the Outer Hebrides was near, The Clisham at 799 metres, standing majestically over our cottage. Out one day for a drive and a look around, I was navigating using an OS map. We were aiming for the west coast. I was struggling with reading the tiny details on the map and soon thought we’d – I’d – gone wrong somewhere and couldn’t find any landmarks matching the map. We were on the cliff-edge road of a mountain and I was so scared that I couldn’t speak. I was literally stunned into silence. There was relief eventually when we found ourselves descending towards a small beach, a couple of cars and a handful of people. With map in hand, I explained that we’d become lost and sought their help. This lovely family came to our aid, turned the map the right way up, and pointed to where we were. They set us back on the right track, which involved a return journey back up the mountain road, but at least we were on the inside lane this time. I hope they didn’t ridicule us too much when they went home to Scandinavia. Oops. Don’t trust me with a hard to read OS map in the Hebrides, or anywhere in the world.

When I was in junior school, probably aged nine or ten, we were tasked with doing a project on something of our own choice. Girls favoured pop music or fashion. Boys chose cars or the armed forces. There were other things picked, but looking back, how gender categorised we all must have been. Of all the things in the world, I picked compasses. This was because there was a picture of a mariner’s compass on the front of a world atlas at home, and it fascinated me. The project didn’t get beyond two items, the mariner’s compass and a Girl Guides one. Good drawings, though, even if I say so myself. We’ve come a long way since navigating by a compass was all we had, especially at sea. The digital era has taken us over in the name of progress.

I’ll stick with the easy to read road atlas, even if it does weigh a ton on my knee in the car. I’m about to navigate us to Scotland then to Warwickshire, so I’ll be missing, but hopefully not lost. Back soon.

 Navigation

Lost in South Harris
When the map was upside down
And we got mixed up.

Study the road map
Give confident directions
And have a Plan B.

Work out the distance,
Choose where to make cmfort stops
To break the journey.


Rude interruption,
Strict, assertive instructions.
Who needs a sat-nav?

PMW 2024

 Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

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Childhood Secrets - Dreadful Child

It took ages to pluck up the courage to tell my mother that I was being picked on and bullied by my supposed ‘best friend’. The tears came before I got any words together. I was only nine, perhaps ten and I can still feel the misery, anxiety and fear that filled my life because of her. My mother calmed me, soothed me and told me the best way of dealing with the situation was to stand up to this girl and her army of followers who were turned against me. I can’t remember her words but I remember feeling my worries melting away and my confidence building back up. I put her plan of action to immediate effect and it worked. My mother had wisdom and understanding.

Unfortunately, her understanding didn’t stretch as far as ‘the lipstick incident’ when I was twelve, well, twelve and a half. In the summer season of 1968 our main residence was a pub and hotel on Central Promenade. On Sunday mornings I would be in charge of my younger sister as we got the bus to our other pub at South Shore then a short walk to Rawcliffe Street where we went to Sunday School. Girls my age had started to wear lipstick for church. I wasn’t allowed to but I’d discovered that Rimmel cosmetics in Woolworths was affordable and used my pocket money to buy some. I kept it hidden, only taking it out with me on these Sunday trips. Safely on the bus I would put it on then on the way back I would wipe it off. I don’t know how I managed to forget to clean it off one day. It didn’t end well. My mother’s eyes were blazing as she sent me to wash my face. I didn’t think the colour was much brighter than anyone else’s, not really.

Then, around the same age, there was ‘the bra incident’. I expected the worst, but my mother was kind. School P.E. lessons had become my nightmare.  A vest wearing, bra-less nightmare. So I smuggled one of my mother’s bras to school and put it on when I got there. It wasn’t ridiculously massive. I’d had a practice at home. The folded sides were held with safety pins and the cups tucked in making a neat shape. This neat, feminine shape was noticed at home when I’d forgotten to remove my made-to-measure bra. I can feel my blushing to this day as my mother tugged a loose shoulder strap with a “What in Heavens is this?” I held my breath. This was far worse than lipstick wearing and I expected a slap – that was normal punishment if you crossed my mother. Anyway, all I got was sent to take it off and to stop being so silly. Auntie Kathy, who looked after my sister and I, was given the task of going shopping for a couple of Berlei Teenform bras. I was overjoyed.

And there was the ‘A Taste of Honey incident’. The film was on television in our lounge and my mother was watching it in between popping down to the bar. I’d already been sent to bed once but I was spellbound. I didn’t hear my mother come back up but there she was, shoo-ing me to my room with “This isn’t a film for you”. I can’t imagine why. I only wanted to know what happened to Jo. The baby bit and her friendship with Geoffrey went right over my young head. I crept back and watched it by peeping round the door frame behind her. I was really chancing it. My mother was certainly not one to be messed with. Yes, she caught me and dealt punishment, but she didn’t kill my love for Shelagh Delaney’s brilliant work. Dora Bryan was amazing and perfectly cast.

My chosen poem takes me back to ‘the chocolates incident’. It wasn’t Moonlight that got the better of me, but a bag of Thornton’s. It was a smallish bag starting off with maybe eight huge chocolates. It was a gift to my mother and I found it, unopened, in the sideboard drawer.  I kept nipping back for ‘just one more’ until I realised there was only one left and I’d better leave it. I didn’t own up straight away either. Dreadful child.

I was going through some school stuff belonging to my grown up children when I came across the reams of printed out My Space conversation. I think it was My Space. It was something before the days of Facebook, anyway. This conversation was evidence of one of our children being bullied online and school had been given a copy. The power of the written word is far stronger than the spoken word in this sort of thing and re-reading it upset me as much as it did more than ten years ago when it happened. It was dealt with by school, not to my full satisfaction, but between us we put a stop to it. A new generation, a new way of bullying.

 

CHOCS
Into the half-pound box of Moonlight
My small hand crept.
There was an electrifying rustle.
There was a dark and glamorous scent.
Into my open, moist mouth
The first Montelimar went.
 
Down in the crinkly second layer,
Five finger-piglets snuffled
Among the Hazelnut Whirl,
The Caramel Square,
The Black Cherry and Almond Truffle.
 
Bliss.

I chomped. I gorged.
I stuffed my face,
Till only Coffee Cream
Was left for the owner of the box-
Tough luck, Anne Pope-
Oh, and half an Orange Supreme.

 

Carol Ann Duffy

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Last Day Nerves.

The football season has reached its climax and by the time you read this, it will likely all be done. The final day of the year never fails to excite and ignite us as supporters, whatever end of the table you're looking at.
Today, it happens to be the top as anything but a West Ham victory (with Andy Carroll surely the man to do it) will see Manchester City crowned victors at the expense of the long suffering Liverpool fans. For them, the hangover from the bank holiday looks set to be a memorable one.
I'm a fence sitter as to which way I want it to go, I'll admit but, given that I support a football league club rather than the top flight behemoth, I've had a very different experience this year.
As it happens,  the mighty Blackpool got out of jail by accident and after a decade of promotions and 'best trips we've ever been on' to quote the song, it was a massively tense encounter. So for Bristol Rovers' sunken pirates, Birmingham's escapees, the wandering Wycombers and everyone else whose beloved side had a last day twitcher- this poem is for you.

Last Day Nerves

The scarves are on for one last time,
silent prayers made not to be beaten
as we gather in the turnstile lines
for the last game of the season.

The tables checked and checked again;
each contender for relegation.
When the whistle goes at three o'clock
we know every permutation.

This scene played out across the land
from the South West to North East.
It might be in other people's hands
on this day of destiny.

The ups and downs at various grounds
bring updates with every goal.
Hellish minutes as rumours spread around
and you're reaching the end of the road.

So for chewed fingernails and tearful grown men
next year, please start out as you ought to.
These sleepless long nights and taunting from friends
are just pain for the football supporter.



Thanks for reading,
S.

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Anxiety and Me

At four I push myself to the middle of a privet bush.

At five I stand frozen at the edge of the swimming pool.

At seven I lock the car door at traffic lights, and unlock it when we're moving.

At nine I start biting my fingernails.

At ten I never put my hand up.

At twelve I press my forehead against a radiator and pretend to be ill.

At thirteen I run.

At fourteen I write my mind into a diary.

At fifteen I fracture into a thousand pieces.

At sixteen I fail my English oral exam.

At seventeen I faint.

At eighteen I feel like I'm drowning on dry land.

At nineteen I try a cigarette for the first time.

At twenty-one I sit in the dark.

At twenty-three I start biting my fingernails again.

At twenty-four I f**k up my first year exams and forget how to spell 'literature'.

At twenty-five I listen to Simon and Garfunkel's I Am a Rock on repeat.

At twenty-six I look at an unopened envelope for over three hours.

At twenty-seven I feel like an ant in a wind-tunnel.

At twenty-eight I grind my teeth while I sleep.

At twenty-nine I cut myself off from the world.

At thirty I start smoking again.

Thank you for reading, 

Lara

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The Heeby Jeebies

Like Vicky I suffer from episodes of anxiety, and again usually after the storm has died down after a negative life experience. Unlike Vicky I haven't yet found tools that help me with this. But my pure panic sets in during public speaking and more so during tests such as my driving test. I'm a capable driver but have failed my driving test 7 times, my Scooter test once, and the feeling is always the same. Terror.

I have a similar fear of reading my work out and writing on-line, but it's more manageable. I think the reason for this is because as a teen I wrote to deal with things in my life I couldn't change. Home was very difficult. My mum was an alcoholic and my dad couldn't deal with it in any other way than anger and violence. So every day I went to the library at school before school, during breaks and dinner, and for as long as I could after school. And I wrote. There was no real structure, I wrote whatever my imagination told me to. I claimed to be writing a book but would probably cringe myself inside out if I had to reread it now. It was clichéd, without any real plot-line and had stone circles and mystical elements. It was shite but it was what got me through every day. Which is why I continue to write whenever I can, to regain that elation of being completely lost in what I write. I'm now daunted by plot-lines, structure, and literary writing a little but I'm keen to keep learning and actually finish something that isn't a rambling ream. I write to escape, and it's the only thing I really know that helps when the shit around me gets too much. So I write and will keep writing, even if it is a bit crap.

In other news here's a comic wot I found on t'interwebs.

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Between a rock and a morpheme

Anxiety seems to have been a companion throughout my life.  When stressful events occur, anxiety is usually lurking around the corner, waiting for the fireworks to calm down.  At that point, when the initial danger has passed, anxiety will step in and attempt to prevent me from leaving the home or communicating with someone who isn't my immediate family (or a pet) ever again. 

There are tried and tested methods of coping with anxiety.  Mindfulness is something which is helping me at the moment.  My brief instructions for mindfulness would be that whenever you notice anxiety creeping in, whether it be a panic attack or just those horrid negative, self-abasing thoughts, then turn your attention to your senses.  Eat or drink something and really concentrate on the taste.  Become aware of your body; touch something and notice its temperature, how it feels beneath your fingertips.  Close your eyes (assuming you're not driving) and listen to the noises which surround you.  You get the idea. 

Another method of coping with anxiety, for me, has been language.  When I was around five years old I first started suffering from asthma attacks.  The sensation of your chest closing up, of being unable to breathe, is particularly anxiety-ridden.  I had recently learned my alphabet and I would intuitively begin to recite the alphabet when I couldn't breathe.  Sometimes I would try to recite it backwards to make it even more challenging.  I didn't realise what I was doing but it was an effective method of distracting myself from the scary sensations and allowed my body to relax, which would have actually improved my breathing at the same time.

In my teens, I took to writing word lists.  These years are notably filled with worry and were no less so for me.  When there were too many thoughts in my head, I would take up a note book and pen and sit with a thesaurus, chasing words.  This involved browsing the pages until I found a word that sounded pretty.  Then I would write all the related words in a list.  When I came to the last word I would look that up in the thesaurus and write down all the words beneath that.  And so on.  I'd still recommend that as a way of changing your mood.  If you start at a word which has positive connotations and maintain that path, the words seem to wash through the mind as you write them, spreading a little positivity with every letter.

Later again, in my late twenties, I had a minor breakdown which resulted from a long period of stress and illness.  I was incredibly anxious.  At one point I could barely open my mouth in the mornings, my jaw had been so tightly clenched in the night.  I reached the point where just talking to anyone was too much.  At this point I used the double-whammy of self-medication: sudoku and Pratchett.  By applying myself to difficult sudoku puzzles or dipping into a well-loved Pratchett novel, I found I could shut out everything that was tiring my mind while allowing it to recover.  Pratchett's Discworld is a particularly harmless place to dwell.  The characters are warm and he writes with enormous humanity and humour.  I know I can return to that world, and escape the bite of reality, any time I want.  There's a real comfort in that.

Anxiety is, as I said, something that has always been with me.  But words have long been my other companion.  Between the two there is a balance and, despite the odd blip, I know the anxiety won't ever take me away.   Not for long.

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