Many thanks for the Award! The rules of acceptance mean that I must now tell you 7 random facts about myself...

It’s been a while since I received an award of any kind but what a lovely way to start the New Year! Thank you to Teresa Ashby who has passed this award to me though, I confess, I have never thought of myself as being irresistibly sweet. I have been told I have a sharp tongue at times (I call it wit) and perhaps that is why my blog describes itself as a wry look at life.

It is an interesting thought, though, being irresistible. I suppose everyone is irresistible to someone or something, in some way.

I was evidently irresistible to the young man with Down’s Syndrome who approached me in the hospital café last November. My eldest sister and I were taking a break from keeping vigil at our middle sister’s bedside. As we sat there, probably red eyed from crying and looking decidedly miserable, I dithered over what to do with the tray on which the waitress had earlier placed two hot cups of tea and coffee with some dubious looking pastries that neither of us really wanted. We felt we should eat them for lack of anything else edible to hand. Having placed these items on the table, I was left holding the tray.

The young man smiled across at me from where he sat at his table.

“I will take that!” he said, beaming and was by my side in an instant.

“Thank you, that is very kind of you,” I smiled back.

He looked pleased and I thought he was going to turn and take the tray back to the counter. Instead, he moved closer and bent to give me a hug.

One 

This is the first thing you may not know about me – I am not particularly ‘huggy’. I hug my family, my children and some friends but strangers? Not usually!

However, I had no choice but to accept his hug as he said happily,

“Aah, I love my new friend,” and began stroking my hair.

“That’s nice, it is lovely to meet you,” I replied or something similar. I was relieved that he had stepped back a little, though his hand was still on my head.

He moved in for another hug and repeated the words before slowly walking away, stopping to wave and smile as he went. I waved back and my sister raised her eyebrows at me.

It reminded me of the days when I used to take the bus to town when living near London. Nine times out of ten, I would be listening to someone’s life story as we stood at the bus stop waiting…and waiting…and waiting.

Two

This is perhaps the second thing you may not know about me, I am incredibly patient at times.

It was whilst taking the bus to the cinema one evening, in the seventies, that an elderly gentleman, we shall call him Fred, boarded and sat next to me. He was smartly dressed in a dark suit with a ribbon of medals pinned to his jacket. It was quite a cold night.

“Chilly!” he said.

I nodded and smiled and probably replied politely as I always did.

“I’m going to the British Legion – meeting lots of my old war buddies.” (2^nd World War for those who may not be familiar with the time span here)

“I am 84!”

I murmured that he did not look 84 (indeed, he did not). He then proceeded to regale me with tales that covered his lifetime from birth to the present day. I was not bored. I was about eighteen and he intrigued me.

He got off at the same stop as me and I watched him walk down the road, head held high, a spring in his step – no, he really didn’t look 84.

The following week, I was again catching the bus to town when Fred sat down next to me. I greeted him with a smile but he clearly did not remember me. I sensed what was coming. For the rest of the journey he regaled me with more tales, or the same tales as the week before and again, I listened and chatted as the bus trundled on. As we reached ‘our’ stop, he turned to me and said proudly,

“I am 86 you know!”

“No, you don’t look it!” I parroted.

Two birthdays in one week? I don’t think so. I watched him walk down the street to the Legion – no, he certainly did not look 86.

Three

Being irresistible to dogs – now that was one of my attributes as a child, not a lot of people know that!

The attraction was mutual and I was determined to own a dogs’  boarding kennel when I grew up – the idea of dozens of four legged friends being under my care was extremely attractive to me. I was so taken with the idea that despite having a perfectly lovely family dog of our own, I was constantly on the look out for a stray to adopt.

I would stand at the bus stop (not always listening to someone’s life story) when I was about twelve and wonder if a little dog would wander up to me and practically beg to be taken home. I’d see straggly-haired mutts meandering up and down the road and mentally wish them to come pawing at my door.

This was not an entirely ridiculous wish. I could clearly remember a beautiful, black and white, rough Collie wandering through our back garden in the school holidays, when I was about 6 or 7 years old. Dad allowed us to invite him in when he had been seen wandering around the nearby gardens for some time. The dog displayed no desire to leave and Dad said we could keep him until we found the owners. Dad, being a policeman, put the word out. Mum, asked around. (Her own childhood seems to have been run along pretty much the same lines as far as dogs were concerned – she has told me she often turned up at home with a waggy-tailed stray attached to a piece of string, trailing behind her.)

We children fell in love.

The dog was gentle and well trained and he answered to the name of ‘Prince”. To me, he was a prince among dogs. He watched my little brother empty his Smarties out on the floor and did not move to eat them. He sat patiently while we petted and cuddled him and was happy to play ball or just follow us around.

When no one had claimed him after a fortnight, Dad said that he could stay. Prince became ours. He stayed with us for about 6 weeks. He was waiting by the gate when I came home from school and followed me up to bed at night, sleeping at the foot of my bed until he was called back down to the kitchen by Mum or Dad.

Sadly, all good things come to an end and at the end of the second school week, my eldest sister, who attended the local secondary school, came home with the news that a girl in her class had lost a dog. The description fitted Prince. Dad went to investigate.

With aching hearts we had to say goodbye and Prince was returned to his rightful owners who were, it has to be said, overjoyed to have him home. We had to ask what his real name was, was it really Prince? The owners said no, the dog’s name was Bins. Now, was that Binz or was it Bins? We never did find out. I preferred ‘Prince’.

I suspect that ‘Bins/z’ enjoyed his short stay with us and his Royal title. I suppose, despite the fact that we then adopted a gorgeous Golden Labrador, as mentioned before in this blog, I always wanted to replace Prince.

To get back to the bus stop or the vicinity of the bus stop, I should say that my wish was not in vain. One afternoon, my Father parked the car by some scrubland close to the shops. A car pulled up in front of us. The car contained two small children and two, adorable little puppies. The driver opened the door and let one of the puppies out for what we thought was a toilet break. Indeed, the puppy ran straight to the area of long grass and we smiled before making our way to the shops.

On our return, we saw that the car had gone but the puppy remained, looking lost and confused, at the side of the road. We all tried to coax the puppy to come to us as it cowered, shivering with fright but it refused. Only when the others stepped back and I knelt down, did it crawl onto my lap and lie there. Once again Dad put the word out and we drove around for a bit to see if the car was parked elsewhere. Maybe the puppy had been left behind by accident.

No one claimed her. Dad wanted to take her to Battersea dogs’ home, we wouldn’t hear of it. We kept her. Bess, first cross of a welsh collie, with the same nature as Prince and very pretty, was with us for the next twelve years.

Four

I am also irresistible to people with clip boards, you know the sort, the ones who try to catch your eye as you walk through the precinct and jump out in front of you if you dare walk on. I confess I now look straight ahead and side-step them wherever possible.

Five

I have discovered that it is ok to step on the cracks in pavements but I don’t – just in case.

Six

I do not believe in meddling with the paranormal and I would not go near an Ouija Board, but I have seen ghosts.

Seven

My first love is writing but I am also both an artist and craftswoman – I sew a good seam. I once supplied a private dental surgery with twenty four small cloth figures and several giant-sized versions of the same, to grace their waiting room. My eldest daughter, then three, is pictured with a selection of the smaller of the figures. Oh, and I cannot wait until I can build another doll’s house!

A Motley Crew! Circa 1984

Well, the rules of acceptance of this award are that I must tell you seven things about myself that you did not know before, or have forgotten, or about which you are too polite to say,

“Yeah, we knew that!”

This I believe I have done.

Once again, thank you Teresa for bestowing this award on me and allowing me to bestow it on others who, I feel, are far more worthy than I of receiving it.

So, without further ado, I nominate 7 of my own favourite blogs for the award:

• Catbird Scout
• Go Ask Alice – when she’s 94
• Of Hills and Heather
• JPLanewrites
• Katie Gates: Stories and Opinions
• Patricia’s Wisdom
• Positive Letters

I hope you all enjoy each other’s blogs as much as I do and I look forward to reading them all.

For those I have nominated, the rules, as I understand them are:

1. Thank and link to the person who nominated you.

2. Share 7 random facts about yourself.

3. Pass the Award on to some of your own deserving blog friends.

4. Contact those friends and let them know.

The book in which we wrote was, invariably, a yellow covered exercise book. The pen we wrote with, varied from year to year. Hence, first efforts were in the thick black charcoal pencils that our stubby fingers could grasp more easily, while later efforts were produced with fine nibbed fountain pens that tended to leak in one’s pencil case and stain one’s fingers.

The title could be decorated to one’s own fancy. That was often my favourite part, decorating the letters with coloured pencil. Loops and swirls, tiny flowers hanging from the letter N. There were no rules to how we carried out this exercise,

“Just let your imaginations fly!” we were told.

Mine did.

I had a vivid imagination according to my teachers, essential for a writer I feel. However, I worried about what to put in the news book if nothing much had happened at the weekend. Invariably, nothing much did when you were 9 years old, the age I was when this tale begins.

Entries read much the same each week. I am sure the entire class wrote variations on the same theme.

“…went to see my grandparents”

“played with Jane/John/the dog”

“went to the park and fished in the pond,”

It was a bonus if one had had a birthday over the weekend. Then there would be plenty to write about.

I did try to spice mine up a little by describing events in detail but essentially, nothing much ever happened in the real world.

Luckily, these boring diatribes would be interspersed with the occasional gem, saved up just for this occasion.

With nothing much to say about the weekend on one such Monday morning, I was delighted to write that a black bull had run up our street just as I was leaving for school and my mother had to shut the gate and haul me back indoors. (Monday morning news was allowed as well). I wrote at length about this amazing event (we lived in a town) that eclipsed anything else that had happened over the weekend. I handed in my work, flushed with anticipation.

My teacher flipped through the books, her pen ticking and crossing as she went. At break she came over to me with my book, laid it in front of me and said, not too unkindly, “Deborah, you have a great imagination but news should be what has really happened,”

I was mortified,

“But Mrs Anderson, it did happen…” I began.

I could tell by her face she did not believe me though she did not get me to rewrite the piece.

That evening, the local paper carried a picture of a little black bull who had escaped from its truck and was to be seen running up a familiar looking street at 8.30 In the morning. Apparently, it had jumped out of a cattle truck and was making a bid for freedom instead of heading to Romford farmer’s market.

I was vindicated! Indeed, I think I was first with the Scoop!

I reveled in the questions put to me the next day by the other children, who had now heard about it and I accepted my teacher’s astonished,

“Well I never!” as an apology.

It must have been a couple of years later on another Monday morning, having progressed to writing something we called, Weekly Diary instead of simply, News, that I dressed for school, full of expectation. I had something to write about, it was on the tip of my tongue. I had woken up knowing exactly what to write. I had felt pleased that this item was interesting and looked forward to setting it down on paper. The feeling remained with me over breakfast and throughout the walk to school.

Registration was over, our ‘Diaries’ were handed out and I opened mine. I began writing today’s date. I would decorate the title later. I must start writing before the words disappeared, before the feeling died…before…

…I stared at the paper and realization washed over me.

I was about to write about the trip I had taken on an aeroplane. I wanted to write about the houses and trees looking so small below me, the sun glinting on the wing, how the stewardess had smiled at us and handed out orange squash…

Only she hadn’t had she?

It had all been a dream. I did not have a great idea for my diary, I had not had the most exciting weekend ever and I had never, ever been on a plane.

I stared at the blank page and disappointment flooded through me. But that feeling had been so real, the excitement, the colours, the plane, it had all seemed so real. I sat there for a while feeling foolish.

My imagination had got the better of me this time – or had it?

After a while, I began to write,

“Last night I had the most amazing dream…”

I think I was destined to become a writer of fiction, scoop or no scoop…

I love the darker evenings leading up to it, when we are all snug indoors in front of a roaring log fire – a metaphorical fire at the moment  - the extension that is now our living room, does not have a fireplace. The other two reception rooms do have fireplaces I might add. What a waste!

How did we not remember this vital piece of Christmas equipment when drawing up the plans? I suspect it was due to the fact that the extension was originally to be a dining room – until my brother-in-law pointed out that it’d make a far better living area. We have since been looking at wood burning stoves and by next Christmas we should have one installed – with a chimney it is to be hoped.

The idea of the roaring fire lives on however. We improvise with candles. My husband is besotted with candles. Pyromaniacs Anonymous may be interested in him.

Christmas feeds his obsession to the full. Hence, we have a stock of scented and plain, Christmas and household candles, scattered about the house at all times. (Power cuts do not phase us) Candles blaze in the fireplaces that are not actually being used and teeter on top of dressers in the kitchen (until I tactfully point out the fire risk). Husband shrugs and gives me a long explanation involving a hideous mechanical engineering equation or theory that supposedly means the candles are not going to fall over. I raise other possibilities, candles being subject to high winds (in the kitchen?) candles being forgotten and left burning all night…for this I receive pitying looks.

Nevertheless, it is I who can be found, creeping round the house, blowing out candles while he stays up late to watch a film. I trust him of course but…

So, candles replace the roaring log fire in our house at the moment. Not to worry, my Christmas memories remain intact.

I envisage delightful evenings of family games and reading – lots of reading! This year I was given no less than nine books. I confess I have yet to finish any of them but that has more to do with the fact that the house was particularly busy, with 14 adults, two babies and four dogs (one a very large Old English Sheepdog) taking up residence over Christmas and New year.

A Christmas snap-shot

Despite the advent of computers, iphones, ipads and the Kindle, books remain my number one present. I stockpile them for rainy days, holidays and for the days when a book is all you need to transport you to another world.

Childhood Christmases always yielded a good supply of the latter. Books were my passport to new worlds, full of magic and promise.

It isn’t a book that brings back my most vivid memory however…this honour belongs to something quite different…

Hornchurch, England, circa1961

I believe in Father Christmas. I am five years old and share a room with my sister, Beverly, who is almost three years older.

It is Christmas Eve. We lie in our beds, listening for sleigh bells. Of course we hear them. We even catch a glimpse of a sleigh riding across the sky – I am sure we do. Kneeling up on our beds, pulling the curtains aside to peep out into the black night, our imaginations take over.

The sounds of the grown ups, pottering around downstairs, float up to us and we snuggle down beneath the eiderdown, wondering what Father Christmas will bring us.

We don’t think we will ever get to sleep. We can’t imagine being asleep when he comes so we tell ourselves we’ll pretend…Father Christmas does not come to children who are awake.

Our eyes snap open. Something has woken us. The room is still dark. What time is it? 5 o’clock? 6 o’clock?

Sitting up, the eiderdown still pulled tight across our chests, our breath visible in the air by the light of the street lamp shining dimly through the curtains, we stare at the lumpy pillowcases leaning beside each of our beds. Inching forward, shivering with excitement more than cold, we reach out and touch the exciting bundle. We feel the lumps and bumps and dip our hands into the very top of the sack to extract the strategically placed tin of toffees that lie on top. These are fair game. These are something we are always allowed to open before Mum and Dad are up.

Of course, we can’t help but notice the long, oblong parcel poking out of the top of each sack. What can it contain?

We slip back between the sheets and fumble with the tin of toffees. Succulent, creamy heaven feeds us for a bit.

Dentistry be damned!

We giggle and listen for any sounds of movement from our parent’s room. Baby brother sleeps, he’ll be up soon. Mother will have to get up!

Shall we go and wake our older sister? We dare not! Best to wait.

Someone must have come into the room because the light is on and the pillow slip is visible in all its glory. Colourfully wrapped packages burst out of its tightly stretched top, others strain at the cotton casing, stretching it into impossible, teasing, shapes.

The oblong packages beckon. We are allowed to open them!

Tension mounts as we each pull at the wrapping and at one and the same time, pull out the box within.

Our excitement knows no bounds. The black, hard plastic, doll in the box is beautiful. Her tight curls sit on her head like silk. Her gap -toothed smile warms the heart. In each ear she wears a gold hoop and her dress is a red printed cotton, edged with yellow. On her feet she has a pair of dainty white shoes and she can walk! Tip her up and she cries, “mama!” walk her along and her legs click and her arms move. We are awe struck.

Each doll is identical to the other yet right away we can tell them apart. As always, we name them. Mine is Topsy, Beverly’s is Cindy. Cindy is the name the doll came with and as the elder of us, Beverly is allowed it. Mother helps me choose another.

Topsy

***

I don’t recall what else we had that Christmas in that lumpy, bumpy sack. The doll is what I remember and the mutual excitement with which we each unwrapped her.

I also remember my sister and I, clad in pink brushed nylon pyjamas, shivering with excitement and expectation in the cold, morning light, sharing just a moment of magic…

P.S.This Christmas, I received several beautiful candles as presents. Perhaps the most beautiful in both scent and decoration, was the one from Jonathan Ward’s Russian collection. Zoe designed the packaging and it is gorgeous – don’t believe me? Take a look!

Those of you who know me, will also know that Beverly, the sister mentioned in this post, died on 25th November this year quite unexpectedly, from a massive stroke. This is not meant to be a tribute to her, it is merely a way of remembering the laughter we shared. After my post for World AIDS day, which I had pre-scheduled, I felt the need to lift the mood despite recent events.

I thought I was Queen of the embarrassing moment. Let’s face it, I have had more than a few. There was the unforgettable time I needed to renew my passport photo for instance.

It was busy in Boots the Chemist’s. The queues for the checkout were long but I ignored them and went straight to the photo booth that was strategically placed opposite the longest queue of all.

The black curtain that would shield me from prying eyes was fastened to one side. I tweaked it and it swished to behind me, so that only my legs would be visible. I settled myself down on the little stool and pushed in my coins. The previous occupant must have had a long body, because the stool was set so low I couldn’t see my face in the little screen at all. Painstakingly, I swiveled the pedestal around and around until it began to rise, slowly and very noisily. If I’d had a can of oil with me I would have used it. As it was, it creaked and squeaked until it was at a level with which I could cope. There I was, squarely in the frame – excellent.

The helpful automated voice, telling me to check I was sitting correctly and advising me which background to use, seemed rather loud. It seemed to grow louder with every false ‘flash’ I set off. I was aware that everyone in the queue outside was bearing witness to my pathetic attempt to ‘get it right’. How they must be sniggering, I thought. The voice advised I could have one last try. I pressed the button for the final time and tried to maintain a bland expression while the camera geared up for its final performance. I didn’t look at my feet, peer behind me to check for interlopers or lean forward, squinting at the camera to see if it was still working. No, this time, despite the length of time it seemed to be taking, I sat still.

“Your photos will be ready in 3 minutes,” shouted the disembodied voice from within the machine. With a sigh of relief, I stood up and flung back the curtain. The queue of shoppers was still there, composed of some new faces of course. A few turned to look at me as I came out of the booth, I smiled and shrugged in what I hoped was that, ‘Isn’t it a pain, using a photo booth,’ sort of way. I seemed to be drawing some odd looks so I went to stand by the tray and wait for my photos to appear. The minutes ticked by. I shifted from one foot to another. The queue changed again. A new line of people eyed me with total disinterest. I began to think the photos would never come. In fact, I was so convinced that the photos had been destroyed in some ‘post photo shoot vendetta’, that I decided to cut my losses and pretend I was waiting for someone instead. I made a show of looking up and down the shop as though I were searching out an errant husband or child, whilst slowly, very slowly, moving away from the booth.

10 minutes had gone by and I had reached the far side of the aisle when I heard the tell-tale, “Shloop!” as slightly damp photo paper hit the metal tray. Feeling a little silly, I retraced my steps, bent down and retrieved my photos.

I would complain! This was not good enough … the photos were blurred and over exposed – I couldn’t possibly use them. I was about to take them to the nearest sales person and demand my money back when I looked up at the curtain I had pulled across the booth a few minutes before. There, pinned to it for all to see, was a large sign saying,

“Out of Order”.

I was far too embarrassed to look at the people in the queue or the girl on the checkout who might have witnessed the entire episode. It was as much as I could do to maintain my dignity and walk away, head held high, before I collapsed into helpless giggles outside.

Mind you, this episode pales into insignificance when I recall the incident in the tile shop.

My husband was re-fitting the bathroom.

“Let’s go choose some tiles,” he suggested, “we’ll go to Tiles-R-Us”. Great idea, I thought, so off we went. The weather was changeable. As an afterthought, I grabbed a sweater from the basket of clean laundry, just out of the dryer.

As we drove into the car park, the sun slipped behind a cloud and a cold gust of wind caught my shoulders. I picked up the sweater and followed my husband into the shop. The shop seemed on the cool side so, as my husband disappeared along one of the aisles, I paused to don my sweatshirt. I managed to slip it over my head. I pushed my arms down the sleeves. I began to unravel its body and that’s when the sparks flew and the contents of my lingerie drawer spilled over the shop floor. A cascade of unmentionables tumbled out from within the folds of the sweatshirt, where they had lain since being tumble dried hours before.

With a furtive look to my right and left, noting that no one was nearby, I dropped down to the floor and began scrabbling around for the wayward undergarments. Stuffing as many as I could into pockets and handbag, I could only be thankful that no one had witnessed the spectacle.

Standing up, I removed a stray, lacy number, that had remained glued to the sleeve of my sweatshirt throughout and took a deep breath. Then I saw it – the large, CCTV screen in the corner of the shop, on which I featured, in glorious Technicolor, as the star attraction.

Needless to say, I made a hasty retreat and did not go back for some time.

Today it was not my turn. Today, it was my sister’s faux pas that made the front page of ‘Embarrassing Times’.

The car park was full, the sun was shining. We three had spent the better part of a highly successful hour, in a local boutique. Eager to visit a number of other establishments in our local town, we decided to ditch the cumbersome carrier bags of goodies that we had acquired, before we continued.

Hence, there we were in the car park, my friend fumbling for her keys, my sister trailing behind (or so we thought) as we approached my friend’s car. Opening the driver’s door, my friend bade us throw our bags into the car. I threw mine in and looked round for my sister.

I was just in time to see her open the rear door of the car next to ours and throw her bags on the back seat before climbing in herself. I don’t know who was the most surprised, the little dog sitting on the back seat who found himself covered in designer gear, my sister who was mentally thinking, ‘something is not right here,’ or the driver who was on the phone to his wife at the time and had turned round in amazement as the strange woman took up position on his rear seat, only to shriek in horror when she realised her mistake. To his credit, the driver was charming and found the situation as funny as we did.

“I thought my luck had changed!” he commented as he gallantly, helped her out, grinning at her reddening face.

There’s one good thing about embarrassing moments, most of them make great anecdotes. I don’t think I will mention the other sort. Now that really would be embarrassing!

Until next time,

Debbie

World AIDS Day 01.12.11

June 1966:

The boy in the photograph wears a cowboy hat and carries a toy gun. Feet planted firmly apart, he stands at the opening to a brand new, white tent. The latter is a birthday present. Today he is five-years-old. Life is an adventure!

A Golden Labrador lies at his feet, gazing up at him in adoration, his faithful companion of the last three years. She dedicates her life to following him round the garden, allowing herself to be dragged outside even when she’d rather be lying by the fire, enjoying an afternoon snooze. The rewards are great, cuddles, curling up together on the floor, boy asleep with his head on her velvet tummy, a slice of his toast when mother isn’t looking.

The boy is the youngest of four children and the only son.

These are the golden days of childhood in the mid sixties. England still has time to win the World Cup, Mao Tse–tung proclaims a cultural revolution in China and the boy’s first day at school is still weeks away. A life-long interest in world affairs has yet to be born. This is a time for fishing for Tiddlers in the lake in the park and making secret dens in the garden. It is a time for running as fast as you can to avoid being caught, playing hide and seek with your friends, a time for picking blackcurrants for mum’s famous pie and eating as many as go into the basket. It is a time for begging for ‘tiger tails’ from the baker who delivers to the door and for playing *“run-rabbit-run” on the top bunk before you go to bed.

The long summer ends and September dawns. The boy is standing at the school gate with his mother and older sister. He watches the other children dash around the playground. He hangs back. When the school bell rings, his mother kisses him goodbye and he walks towards the classroom.

As the last child files into school, the boy turns and runs. He heads for the driveway, running blindly towards the gate where he thinks his mother will still be.

She has gone.

For a moment he is confused. A teacher hurries after him and takes his hand but he is inconsolable. His sister is sent for. His sister is nine years old. She takes his hand and he follows her into the school. He allows himself to be divested of his coat and his sister stays with him for a few minutes until the teacher gently tells her to leave him now.

There are many days like this. The boy does not like school very much. He is bright and quick but school is boring. His sister will always remember the feel of his small hand in hers as they cross the playground, each clad in a gabardine Mac that crackles and rustles as they walk.

Secondary school is no better.

The boy makes a few friends but he seems shy and reticent. He is top of the class but dreads games lessons. He prefers to watch sport rather than join in. His father was an all-round sportsmen in his younger days. Why doesn’t he take after his father? His sister is in the hockey team. He prefers to watch.

One day, his sister will read how he felt he must measure up to her, yet always fell short. She will wish she had known more at the time but hind-sight is a wonderful thing.

He is self-conscious and wears his hair long, curling onto his collar and hanging like a curtain, over one eye. The mirror is not his friend in these turbulent, teenage years and school soon becomes the enemy.

He spends long hours listening to music and teaching himself to play the guitar.

There are days when he is dragged from his bed amidst shouts and screams. His sister hears and tries to help but the boy will not be reasoned with. It becomes normal for the boy to put up a fight and the sister to leave before there is a scene because she knows there is nothing to be done.

The school inspectors visit regularly. They are perplexed. Is he being bullied? Is he very ill? They check with the school. His academic record is good. Even with these extensive absences he is ahead of most of his peers. They relent and let him study at home.

Away from school, there is still laughter and banter shared between the boy and his family. He is clever, funny, articulate and generous to a fault. His interest in current affairs and statistics develops and he holds his own in any conversation with his elders.

His education continues in this way, infrequent visits to the classroom, backed up by home study. He leaves the school with a healthy clutch of GCEs at respectable grades despite all this.

The boy enjoys college and he finds a good job. He dabbles in politics. At last he seems happy. He has a new set of friends from far away places and he travels.

When he is 21, he writes a garbled letter to his sister and admits that he is gay and has met someone special. She phones him, he is apologetic. He had written the letter whilst drunk, plucking up courage to say the words that he thought might shock. The sister knows, has known for some time. It is not a shock but she is sad that he was so afraid to confide in her.

The boy in the cowboy hat no longer plays hide-and-seek. He has found himself.

The family are supportive though the father once dismissed the suggestion that his son is gay as ludicrous, citing his deep, booming voice as proof!

There are long and happy years where nieces and nephews grow and the boy and his partner settle down.

There is a birthday party in June 1991. The boy is thirty. The family are invited and the house is alive with the sound of laughter and music. The boys’ friends come from far and wide. It is a glorious, sunny day. The guests eat and drink out on the lawn and though the boy has known for some time that he and his partner are HIV+, everyone forgets what this might mean for a while. It is a time for celebration and fun.

A dog follows the boy and his partner around as they move through the crowd. This is George, an elderly Springer Spaniel, adopted a couple of years ago. The children love George and George loves the children but he is keen to stay with his masters.

When sore throats occur with increasing regularity and fatigue sets in, the boy says nothing. It takes time for others to notice that he is ill. He is fighting the onset of AIDS.

June 1992

For the past few months, the boy has been in and out of hospital. He has become very depressed. New drugs are being trialed and each time everyone hopes this will be the one that stems the march of the relentless disease.

The boy meets Princess Diana and Barbara Bush. He says Princess Diana is beautiful and kind and Barbara Bush, warm and down to earth.

The boy’s sister wants to take his hand in hers and lead him to safety. She wants to save him from the indignities of this illness and give him back his cowboy hat, his gun and his white tent.

Christmas comes and the boy, now a man, wraps up warm and goes shopping. He takes out his savings and spends them, meager as they are, on presents for the entire family. Everyone will get a memorable gift this year. This, he knows, will be his last Christmas.

He is philosophical. He has had a good life. He has a partner he loves and he cannot complain. He knows his partner will follow him within a couple of years. The family will feel they have lost not one but two brothers/sons.

It is now 1993 and the end is near. Family visits become more frequent.

There are long telephone conversations between the boy and his sister in which they discuss life after death. He is keen to make her understand that he will come back and let her know he is ok if he is able. She jokes. He must not suddenly appear in the darkness of night or corner her in the bedroom when she is alone in the house and scare her half to death! He teases her but agrees that he will be careful and only contact her in daylight. He sees it all as an amazing adventure. He is no longer afraid.

The end is painfully slow. The sister, who was nine years old when she had to coax him back into school and wipe his tears away, holds his hand, such a frail, skeletal hand, in hers. He opens his eyes and smiles at her. She smiles back and tells him, very quietly, that she is proud of him. He looks surprised.

“Are you really?” he asks.

She nods and tightens her grip on his hand. At this moment she could not be more proud of the boy who once had a cowboy hat, a gun and a white tent, who loved music, hated school, and who has fought this illness so courageously.

It is now some weeks since the boy left this world. The house is empty. The sister is sad. She begs for a sign that the boy is all right. She makes the plea aloud as she switches the kettle on and reaches for the teabags.

Carrying the cup of tea into the living room, she looks around in case there is a sign she has yet to see. There is nothing. She sits down and sighs.

The radio in the corner bursts into life. The music that pours forth fills the room. How odd. The radio was switched off, what has made it turn itself on? The sister checks, she gets her husband to check. There is no pre-set timer, no faulty switch.

After that, at the merest thought of the boy, the radio switches itself on. It is as though it is activated by her very thoughts.

The sister chooses to believe that this is a sign that her brother is ok. She finds that she has to avoid thinking about him so that the radio stays silent. Finally, she tells him that she understands. She gets it. He can stop this now.

The radio does not turn on by itself, ever again.

It is scant proof of an after-life but put together with the merest glimpse of someone at her elbow as she spills some milk on the worktop and the sarcastic comment whispered in her ear, which she answers with a laugh, it is enough.

***

“Over the past 27 years, nearly 25 million people have died from AIDS.1 HIV/AIDS”

Did you know any of those 25 million? Chances are, you did.

I did.

He was a boy wearing a cowboy hat, carrying a gun and standing in front of a billowing white tent.

***

Drawn hurriedly, without him knowing, by a 9-year -old me, this sketch in red ink on a postcard, captures John aged 5 watching the television.

John (left) and Eric (right) relaxing in their garden, 1989

Do Remember:

At the Millennium Summit in September 2000 the largest gathering of world leaders in history adopted the UN Millennium Declaration, committing their nations to a new global partnership to reduce extreme poverty and setting out a series of time-bound targets, with a deadline of 2015, that have become known as the Millennium Development Goals. The sixth of these goals is:

Combat HIV/AIDS, Malaria and other diseases

*Run-Rabbit_Run – a made-up childish game in which one person lies down and tries to catch the other person’s leg between their ankles and trip them up as they ‘run’ (dance)

I shudder to think what other folks have overheard from my own conversations. How many things have I said that could be misconstrued? Still, this thought does not stop me from storing up the snippets of chit-chat I hear as I walk down the road or stand in the queue at the supermarket checkout.

It is a fair-game kind of eaves-dropping in my eyes, way superior to phone hacking I might add. The News of The World might have done better to stand in a queue at Sainsburys or hang around a bus stop or two. Their stories might have not only been richer but a lot more interesting too!

There is of course, a knack to recognizing the gems when you hear them and in committing them to memory when notebook and pen are nowhere to be seen. These moments do not normally present an opportunity to request a repeat performance.

I cannot imagine myself saying,

“Oh excuse me, would you mind saying that again? I didn’t quite catch it,” to my boss in the 70s declaring herself to be ‘incessed’ by the demands of the faculty finances.

One of the most amusing conversations I have ever ‘overheard’ occurred while I was lying on a local beach, reading a book. Lying close to the promenade, I was within earshot of anyone passing by just above my head.

Not consciously listening out for such conversations, I overheard the following on this, a particularly windy day,

“Daddy, it’s b—ing,” said a small voice, the last word being carried away on the wind.

Daddy was evidently not in the mood for any whingeing,

“Boring? It’s not boring, there is the sea, there is the sand, there are ice cream stalls and look over there, there are lots of things for children to do!” he protested, “You can’t be bored!”

The child gathered all her strength to bellow the words that her father might hear her,

“No daddy, I didn’t say it was boring. I said it’s BLOWING!” she corrected him.

I looked up and just made out two pairs of feet passing by, one wearing large white trainers, the other, two steps behind, clad in tiny pink plastic shoes. Somehow, that cameo has stuck in my mind more than most. I didn’t hear his answer, I don’t know what they looked like. By that time they had moved on.

At the supermarket checkout back in the summer, I was queueing behind a group of ladies who were very excitable.

“That’ll be enough for the BBQ,” one declared, indicating a conveyer belt piled high with all things Barbequeable including several packs of burgers and sausages, chicken wings and about 4 dozen burger baps, not to mention dips and shakes and fizzy drinks and half the salad bar.

“Do you think so? What about breakfast tomorrow, are we doing breakfast?” asked her companion.

“Breakfast? No, no, I’m not giving them breakfast as well – they can fend for themselves in the morning,” responded the first.

A third woman threw a bag of porridge oats onto the conveyer belt.

“Breakfast,” she said.

I half wanted to intervene but the other women said it for me,

“Not doing breakfast – so we wont want that sliced loaf either,” she handed the other woman the loaf, which had also found its way onto the belt.

‘This’ll come to quite a bit,” observed the first woman.

“Have you got enough?”

“Oh yes, I have my card on me – don’t worry, but I’m not doing breakfast as well,”

A fourth lady joined them.

“Breakfast?” she asked innocently, waving a bag of croissants in the air in triumph.

“No!” the other three cried in unison. (I thought croissants would be very nice in the morning)

The four women laughed uproariously and the checkout assistant smiled at them as they approached.

“Shopping for a crowd?” she asked.

The spokeswoman, who also appeared to be the oldest of whom I surmised to be four sisters, was evidently excited,

“Thirteen of us eating tonight,” she offered.

“Yes, we’ve only just got here,” said another

“Travelled down from Lincoln this morning,” said her sister.

“All staying with her!” said a fourth, indicating the eldest one with a nod of her head. The checkout woman smiled.

I smiled because they were including the entire queue with their banter now. I wondered what the occasion was. My writer’s brain leapt into action and a short story was woven there and then. Alas, without a notebook and pen I could only hope I would remember it later.

The question I really wanted an answer to was,

“What is everyone meant to do at breakfast – eat out?”

Observing couples in shops is always good sport. One particular experience springs to mind.

We were in Fowey as it happens, in Boots The Chemist. Heading for the checkout, we were beaten to it by a young woman with a pushchair in tow. It was evident that she was not in the best of moods. One could just tell by the way she slammed her basket down on the counter and sent the pushchair skidding back across the floor, towards her husband. Her husband, evidently not too impressed with being there at all, dutifully grabbed the handle of the pushchair, which was now his to mind, and hung back.

“I forgot the deodorant!” wife yelped, her basket already half unloaded, ”get me one can you?”

Husband wandered to the back of the shop and made a show of looking for deodorants. Wife became agitated. The cashier had almost finished running the contents of her basket through the till.

“Quick!” she called, “any one will do!”

Husband picked up the nearest deodorant stick and deftly bowled it across to his wife who failed to catch it and berated him for his stupidity. The deodorant rolled across the floor, landing by another customer’s feet. Husband apologized and retrieved it, depositing it into the basket himself and saying nothing.

They left the shop without speaking though you could tell, by the way the woman’s lips were firmly clamped together, that there would be fireworks at any minute.

Irate shoppers can be found in most supermarkets I find. I hope I am not often counted among their number!

Our local supermarket was recently refitted and it took some time for people to get used to its new layout which, for a time changed daily. On one occasion, as I wandered down the skin-care aisle, I heard a fellow shopper stop a sales lady who was kneeling on the floor, re-arranging the face creams.

“Can you tell me where the sweets are?” she asked.

Sales lady sat back and looked around.

“Sorry, I am new here and I am not sure which number aisle it is but I can take you there…” she smiled.

How kind, I thought.

“Don’t bother!” the customer replied and stalked off. Sales lady and I exchanged bemused glances.

As I turned the corner, the same lady was speaking to her companion,

“How rude!” she was saying, “I only asked her where the sweets were!”

I was perplexed. What could she have thought the sales lady had said? I was tempted to ask but experience has taught me not to interfere. I doubt I shall ever know now but if you recognize yourself as that woman, do let me know!

Finally, one from me:

I dread to think what anyone who happened to be passing our half open hotel room door would have thought at the weekend as we prepared to check out. I had re-packed my overnight bag and it seemed to have far more in it than when I arrived, as is the way with bags. Where it had zipped up so easily before, it now bulged and required brute force to close.

“I’m sure it was smaller when I started, I don’t know what it is I’ve done to make it grow so big,” I complained to my husband. He looked at me, eyebrows raised.

I knew what I’d meant but I am pretty sure there is someone out there who only caught that one line and came to quite a different conclusion. Well, one would wouldn’t one?

Well, isn’t that just the way of things? I was awake early. I had all kinds of plans, beginning with taking the dogs to the woods. My day’s diary ran like this:

8.30 am

…and the dogs are in the car waiting for me to drive them to the woods (easier than walking round the fields here where Flossie has to stay on the lead). I have put some laundry in the machine, cleaned and tidied the kitchen and made the beds. The rest can wait!

8.45pm am

The woods are a glorious mix of red and gold. The floor, carpeted with leaves piled so thick that walking through them makes a delightful rustling, rushing, sound not unlike that heard when wading through water, are a picture waiting to be taken. I stop to take a few snaps with my iPhone. I don’t believe I can capture the beauty of it all so I bob down, to ground level and try to snap the leaves as they lie on the forest floor. I have tried this before only to look up and find someone staring down at me in surprise. Today, no one else is around.

Flossie races by me, splashing me with mud and river water. (She loves to swim).

I call her back just so that I can retrace my steps and take some more shots of the wizard’s staff that features in my latest children’s story. I have shots of it in all weathers now. I am just waiting for snow…

9.00 am

We meet some fellow walkers and canine friends. There is the usual hustle and bustle as owners retrieve puppies (everyone seems to have more than one dog and all want to play) and Flossie goes into her subservient pose meaning,

“I wont hurt you if you don’t hurt me,” Keano goes right up to the biggest dog and sniffs him before emitting a low growl and walking off, leaving the poor dog staring after him in bewilderment,

“What did I do?”

Keano is just warning him to lay off Flossie I think or maybe just being miserable.

9.20am

Here comes Rose. Rose is often in the woods when I am, with walking stick and two small, black, long-haired dachshunds who yap at Flossie as she approaches. I see Flossie run past the dogs and I see the elderly Rose, white hair topped with a red woolly hat, wobble a little and lean on her stick for support. I rush forward and grab her free hand to steady her.

“Did she knock you?” I ask in concern,

“No, no, she just made me jump. I was blowing my nose and was caught off guard,” Rose explains with a smile, gripping my hand tightly. I am uncomfortably aware that if Rose has one hand on her walking stick, she has only had one free with which to blow her nose and I am now holding that. To my credit, I hold on until I am sure she is steady enough to walk on.

I think I have some baby wipes in the car…

9.30am

Time to get back to the car with wet and muddy dogs. Enter left, sudden realisation that I am supposed to be in a meeting right this minute with our Graphic Designer. The office is on the way back but I can’t go in dressed like this. Wellies are not a good look for business.

9.45am

Home again – wash a very muddy Flossie. Shampoo needed. Hose tangles and half way through the exercise, rears up like a snake and attacks me with a shower of water. Change of clothes needed.

Email Designer and apologise for running late (wont tell him I have only just remembered the meeting – not good time management!)

10.00 am

Changed and equipped with notebook and pen, jump back into car and head off to office.

11.00 am

Well, that went well, I almost got away with it but just had to admit that I’d actually been walking the dogs instead of listening to updates on Designer’s satisfaction with work/life (the purpose of our monthly meetings) He has a great sense of humour luckily.

I am supposed to be helping him with his work/life balance among other things – hmmm think I need some of that myself!

Head off to the Co-op where I purchase some sorry looking salmon for tonight’s dinner and wrestle with a pile of ‘hard-to-open’ carrier bags (have left all my recyclable bags in the car) The lady in front of me has bought Britain. Cashier can talk for Britain. Fascinating stuff and good for a writer to store away for later use. I try not to look as though I am paying as much attention as I really am.

Leave Co-op and walk to car next to which a group of elderly men and women are swapping chit-chat.

“He’ll get a ticket – look at that, completely over the path!” one man says with just a little too much enjoyment. They are indicating the car next to mine. Good, at least mine is parked a safe distance from the pavement.

As I pack away my carrier bags, one man is measuring the distance by which the other car’s bumper overhangs the kerb, with his foot. He then walks round the car to check whether it infringes any other rule. I must be careful not to run him over as I reverse.

11.30am

Arrive home to cowering dog who hates fireworks and wants to hibernate for the whole of November. Cowering dog, AKA Keano, greets me briefly and then hides under the table. Flossie, suffering from separation anxiety because we were away at the weekend, follows me everywhere for the next half hour as I put away shopping, make a cup of tea and hang washing on airer to dry.

(She is supposed to be drying off in the kitchen but I relent out of guilt and so she leaves damp patches on the carpet here and there.)

12.00pm

Phone my mother to take her weekly shopping order. (Flossie is now curled up as close to my feet as she can be). No conversation about missing letter opener today and the mysterious delivery never arrived. Mother now believes she must have dreamt the entire thing. Phone my mother back to check the code she has been given for a discount because her last order was twenty minutes late. (She gets £10 if it is as much a minute late) I input the code and £10.00 is wiped from the bill immediately. Maybe this week’s will be late too – she can hope. I tell her we are visiting her next Saturday and confuse her by explaining our plans to stay at a nearby hotel and call in on her again Sunday morning before driving down to my sister’s house.

Further confusion arises because our eldest daughter is also visiting her on Sunday with husband and son. I explain everything again and one more time before I go.

12.30pm

This thing called Social Networking requires some input from me. I tweet a bit and answer new followers, thank them for following and click through some very interesting blogs. In doing so, I come across some old friends and just have to stop and read those too. Emails flood in and those too need sorting.

Have been tweeted a link to The Memory Palace – interesting! I was about to insert a link here but have forgotten where it is…Maybe it would help me and my mother. Maybe just me, it would only confuse mother.

I glance at the clock and am amazed that it is now 2 o’clock.

2.15pm

Have popped up to ‘Budgens’ to get the dog food that I forgot earlier. (Memory does not improve) Poppy seller stands by the checkout. I put my money in his tin and he offers me a lapel pin instead of the normal paper poppy. It is very posh and looks good on my coat. I seem to have lost all the others I have been given. This one is here to stay.

Have to show extreme patience as I maneuver trolley out of shop through a small crowd gathered to chat, especially since the trolley I have chosen has the wobby-wheel syndrome we all dread.

I stop for petrol on the way home, giving way to momentary panic when I think I may be using the diesel pump by mistake. Thankfully, I am not. I am reminded of the time when my friend and I borrowed my husband’s car for a business trip and got as far as Guildford before she stopped for fuel and put petrol in the Diesel engined car. Needless to say, husband was unimpressed. The garage staff were unimpressed and the people in the cars behind us were equally unimpressed. (45 minutes later, the breakdown man laughed and pushed the car to the side before winching it up onto the back of his truck) My husband picked us up in my car and said very little.

Today, there are no mistakes.

3pm

Finally, I can sit down and write.

The phone rings. The phone rings five times and only one call is genuine. My mother. The others are from people who seem to know me very well and must speak to me because they have some important news for me. These are definitely not sales calls and no, they wont take long. I am polite but I am firm, I tell them all they have the wrong number. I speak to my mother of course.

4pm

Time to put more laundry out to air and to answer some more emails.

5pm

Finally, I can sit down and write. Um, what shall I write though? Where has that idea gone that I had this morning? Everyone will be home soon, the house will be buzzing and I need to begin preparing some food. Well, in the absence of that brilliant idea that is lurking in the recesses of my mind, I have written this.

Tomorrow, I will write…tomorrow I will be more organized…tomorrow I will remember that idea and tomorrow I will have all the time in the world!

I mean it!

Oh, just remembered, Memory Palace 

I wonder if there are others, born in the 1950s, who have traditional comics and snail-mail to thank for their first contact with anyone from abroad?

From the age of seven, I looked forward to Thursdays because that was the day my weekly comic landed on the doormat. The comic was called, ‘Judy’. I read it from cover to cover and each year, on my birthday, with the 7/6d (seven shillings and sixpence) I accrued in birthday gifts from my Great Aunt and my Grandparents, I would purchase the Judy Annual from the local news agents.

My birthday falls the day after Halloween, hence, the shop still displayed unsold Halloween masks and witches’ hats, stacked high like so many traffic cones, as I walked in. With Guy Fawkes’ night only days away, an array of brightly coloured fireworks would lie beneath the glass-topped counter while posters adorned the walls with the message,

“Remember, remember the fifth of November!”

My eyes would feast on these only for a moment.

The Christmas annuals would rest in a pile on the shelf behind, freshly in from the printers. The shopkeeper would pop mine into a brown paper bag and hand it to me with a smile. In return, I would proffer the five shiny shillings and the silver half-crown that I had received from my relatives and believe it to be a worthy trade. For this was the jewel in the crown –  an annual dedicated to my weekly magazine.

Despite the joy of owning the annual, the pleasure I got from reading those weekly comics remained undiminished. The wait for the latest instalment of a long running serial was made deliciously unbearable. Who wanted the story to ever end? Not me, that’s for sure. Ballerinas fighting for a place at ballet school in Prague, mysteries surrounding school trips to Budapest, all kept my imagination in fine shape with Bobby Dazzler’s antics guaranteed to make me smile.

It’s a shame we all get so much junk mail these days. I believe it has almost spoilt the thrill of finding a letter or long-awaited publication on the mat. Most of my mail is electronic now, though I do subscribe to a writers’ magazine that is delivered monthly, and I still feel that frisson of excitement when I see it lying there, pristine, untouched and ready to be read.

By the time I approached my tenth birthday, I had replaced ‘Judy’ with ‘Bunty’. Previously my sister’s preferred read, it had long been my favourite of the comics and was an inheritance from her when she moved to something more worthy of her teen years.

Some time in 1968, I was reading the letters’ page when I spotted an article, just a paragraph deep, offering readers the chance to find a pen friend in America. I filled in the form, included details of my preferred hobbies and begged a stamp (a second-class English stamp) from my mother and posted it. It didn’t matter that the address was a foreign one. It did not occur to me that the postage would be too little. I felt confident I would receive a reply.

The weeks went by.

I all but forgot about the form I had sent off.

The letter that dropped onto my mat, many weeks later, carried an airmail sticker and a foreign looking stamp. I gazed at it with mounting excitement. I expected it to be from the Pen Friend Association. Opening it carefully, I was stunned to see that the letter inside had been written by an eleven year old girl in Minnesota, USA. This letter was from my very first pen friend!

Kathy was my age and apparently shared my interests in reading and writing. She had a younger sister and a younger brother. I drank in this information and marveled that my letter had found its way, not only to the address I had sent it to, but also to this other girl in the United States who had written back to me. The concept was amazing.

This is Kathy and her younger sister, Beth in 1968 – the first photograph she ever sent me. I do hope they wont mind me publishing it here.

Our correspondence outlasted our school days and it wasn’t until the birth of my third child that I lost touch with Kathy for a while. She had gone on to University and was now a journalist working on a local newspaper. We moved house too and somewhere, along the way, me busy with a growing family, her with a burgeoning career, our correspondence lapsed.

In the meantime, just a few years later, the internet invaded our lives and I became aware that it might be possible to track down my friend via the various websites devoted to journalism. I sent queries to a couple of sites and to my amazement, the Dean of one of the universities, himself a member of the site, wrote back to me. He remembered Kathy well and gave me the name of the company for which she now worked, GANNETT the publishing giant in the USA.

I was about to track down my pen friend.

Gannett’s website was vast. It was fortuitous that Kathy was actually listed on the roll-call of Staff Recruitment Managers. The Dean had thought to tell me that she now went by the name of Kate rather than Kathy. There she was, in black and white, Kate Kennedy. I hoped this was the same Kate who had sent me the photo aged eleven.

My email was sent and within a few hours back came a reply.

Yes, it was she. We were in touch once again.

Kate was married now and had a son the same age as my youngest. The boys attempted to correspond for a while via email. They were only four years old so their correspondence was sporadic at best. Here is one missive my son sent to Kate’s son, complete with typos and suspect spellings:

While the boys’ correspondence lapsed, ours moved up a notch. I no longer had to wait weeks for a reply to a letter. I could expect a reply within the day. We swapped news and photos at will and vowed not to lose touch for so long, again.

More recently, we have renewed our acquaintance through LinkedIn and Facebook. We follow one another’s lives through the social networking sites and no longer wait for the sound of a letter dropping onto the mat. The little boys who struck up an email conversation aged 4, are now both at University. Kate is a Media Relations Manager, for the Society for Human Resource Management. I am a writer and Director of a Design and Communications company, and, most recently, a Grandmother.

We have still to meet in person. One day, we will we hope. Meanwhile, I look back at our correspondence across the years with a smile. How far we have both come!

To me, as an eleven-year old child, America seemed a distant part of the world. It was fantastic to think that someone living in Caledonia, Minnesota, knew of my existence. The presents we swapped, the news we shared, all were done at a pace we might laugh at today.

Yet, as I browse the social networking sites or pick up an email, I feel a nostalgic yearning for the old days, when sealing the envelope and sticking on a stamp before walking down the road to pop it into the post box, made one feel as though one had achieved something. I savour the memories of finding a small white envelope lying on the mat, adorned with an airmail sticker, and scooping it up in anticipation of having questions I had asked weeks ago, answered, of finding photographs connecting me with my friend across the ocean.

I can be confident that Kate will read this post. I am sure she will agree that we have both come a long way since being eleven-year old girls but there is something very comforting about the fact that we have followed each other for much of that time both with and without the aid of the internet.

All this because of Bunty.

I still have a stack of those old letters, stowed away at the back of my wardrobe in a box. So, I was able to pull out a couple for the purpose of writing this post. I see I have steamed off stamps from the earlier missives – testament to my days of stamp collecting – and the envelopes are now yellowed and fading but I scanned a few in, just to remind us of the children we once were and of the wonders of snail mail!

Today, I phoned my mother to collect her weekly shopping order. This is always a humorous affair. Who knew there were so many varieties of tissues?

My mother has a friend who is now bedbound and has Dementia. She often orders items for him that she likes to take round when she visits. Hence, I am asked to source ‘Vimto’ and special rice puddings and on occasion, things like ‘a big slipper’. (This when he could sit in a chair).

The other things she regularly orders are bananas.

“Do they look big?” she asks.

I peer at the web page which shows a generic banana.

“They don’t say how big they are,” I reply.

“Oh, well, never mind, the last lot were so big I couldn’t eat a whole one at a time.”

“Do you think the strawberries will be sweet?”

I am very patient as we go through the list and I use my psychic powers to determine what she is describing when she asks for;

“That thing, now what’s it called, oh you know…oh dear, it’s gone right out of my head…”

At this point, I recognise so many traits that are threatening to emerge in myself, it is quite scary!

Today, the shopping order completed, my mother changes the subject to the letter opener.

The letter opener has been the subject of several conversations this week, ever since it disappeared from the little side table by the sofa, on which it is always kept.

“It was there when the painter left, I’m sure of it!” she told me the other day. “Do you suppose he might have rolled it up with his rags, by accident? He wouldn’t have thrown it away would he?” I assured her that this scenario was unlikely.

“It’ll turn up, just when you least expect it,” I advised. I then treated her to my own much tried and proven method of locating lost items. I stand in the room and say aloud,

“Well, I wont see that again!”

Nine times out of ten, maybe 9.9 times even, I will turn around and go straight to the place where the lost object is lying. It has happened so often that even my sons and daughters have adopted this method now.

I read somewhere once that if you say this aloud, the mischievous spirits who have hidden the object, will let you find it. Fanciful but it works!

“Yes, I will try that,” she said.

The painter has gone and the carpet fitter is due tomorrow. My mother has emptied the sideboard to make moving it easier for the carpet-man.

“I took everything out except for the bottle of sherry that’s been there for ages and the Cinzano – there was only a bit of that left – I like a drop of one or the other now and then,” she admits, “but then I thought, when he moves the sideboard, the bottles will rattle and he will think I am a drunkard!”

I laugh at this logic.

“So, I carried them upstairs and hid them in the spare room under a table,” she confides.

I point out that this would make her out to be more of a drunkard than having them in the sideboard but after a giggle about the consequences of the carpet fitter using the bathroom which entails passing the open door of the spare room, she returns to the letter opener.

“I just can’t think what’s happened to it!” she sighs, “It’s not valuable, just very pretty, you know the one, it has a little turquoise bird on the handle,”

I know the one well. I am sure she will find it and that it has not been whisked away by the hapless painter.

This afternoon, the phone rings again.

“Debbie?”

“Oh, hello Mum…”

There is a pause and a giggle on the other end of the line.

“You’ll think I’m mad, I’ve found it!”

She is inordinately pleased and so am I. We need not have another conversation about a letter opener.

“So, where did you find it?” I ask.

“You’ll never believe it, I went up to find my glasses and as I passed the spare room door I saw the sherry bottle. I thought it looked a bit skew-whiff, so I knelt down to push it further under the table, in case the carpet man does come upstairs,  well, you wont believe it but there was the letter opener! The sherry bottle must have been standing on it all the time.”

We laugh of course.

There is a pause,

“I could do with a sherry after all that,”

“Yes mum, so could I!”

So, another mystery solved which just leaves one for the day: what is it that my mother ordered last week, that she has forgotten about? That is another question she has for me that I cannot answer. She has received a note today to say that her order will be delivered some time tomorrow but she does not remember what it was she ordered. Apparently, it might be a chest for the end of the bed…or not.

She has prepared the bedroom in case.

Hmm… maybe it is a drinks cabinet?

Why this sudden foray into the scientific and the philosophical? Well, I have just been reading a report on ‘out of body experiences’, a subject I am more than mildly interested in, since I am not without personal experience of such phenomenon. The report, written in 2011 and published in the Guardian, http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/2011/feb/17/people-virtual-reality-avatars raises even more possibilities than its earlier counterpart, written in 2007, by English and Swiss Scientists, which lies in the archives of the BBC website. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/6960612.stm

Both reports carry research results from Olaf Blanke, a neurologist with the Brain Mind Institute at Ecole Polytechnique Fédérale de Lausanne, in Switzerland.

The 2007 report reads:

“Experts have found a way to trigger an out-of-body experience in volunteers.

The experiments, described in the Science journal, offer a scientific explanation for a phenomenon experienced by one in 10 people.”

N.B. I am not in the business of proving anything really but just because one can create an experience artificially, does not mean that it does not occur for real, through entirely different means – does it? “There is more than one way to skin a cat!” as the saying goes (apologies to cats everywhere)

The report continues:

“In the Swiss experiments, the researchers asked volunteers to stand in front of a camera while wearing video-display goggles. Through these goggles, the volunteers could see a camera view of their own back – a three-dimensional “virtual own body” that appeared to be standing in front of them.

When the researchers stroked the back of the volunteer with a pen, the volunteer could see their virtual back being stroked either simultaneously or with a time lag. The volunteers reported that the sensation seemed to be caused by the pen on their virtual back, rather than their real back, making them feel as if the virtual body was their own rather than a hologram.”

Interesting enough but I was pleased to read that:

“Their work suggests a disconnection between the brain circuits that process visual and touch sensory information may thus be responsible for some OBEs.”

I emphasise the word, some. This report does not claim, all.

In contrast, the 2011 report printed in The Guardian claims:

“Researchers use virtual-reality avatars to create ‘out-of-body’ experience

The research is aimed at understanding how the brain integrates information coming from the senses in order to determine the position of the body in space. But the results could also be used in next generation computer games or for people who want to transport themselves, digitally, to other locations.”

(Clearly, the film ‘Avatar ’ was not all fantasy according to this report.)

“Olaf Blanke said the work on inducing these experiences artificially, proved that they were nothing more than a brain malfunction.

 ”Instead of it being a spiritual thing, it is the brain being confused,” he said. “Why do we think that it is spiritual when we don’t think a phantom limb when one is lost is an example of the paranormal?”

Now that is a disappointing conclusion. Simply because the effect can be crudely reproduced, the second report claims that all instances can be put down to brain malfunction. I have to raise the possibility that this is not the case.

For one thing, the people volunteering for this experiment, already held certain expectations of the world, the way it looks and feels. They had experienced far more than a small child for instance.

How would Olaf attribute an OBE experienced by a child of under two I wonder?

Would that child, suffering a temporary brain malfunction, be capable of imagining himself somewhere alien to anything he had previously seen or experienced? One hears of ‘near death experiences’ where people find themselves on the ceiling looking down at their bodies on the operating table. Those people are able to visualise such a scene because they know, or can imagine, what it would be like to look down on someone or something. They have an awareness of the world and all its possibilities that a very young child has yet to achieve.

I have a young child in mind when I write this. Myself, aged somewhere between one and two years.

I am in the corner of the bedroom, somewhere up by the ceiling, looking down at my baby self. My baby self has somehow got her head stuck between the bars of the cot. Of course, once my worried mother appears in response to my cries, I am at once returned to my body and feel myself being rescued.

A memory or a dream? I don’t know. I once asked my mother if she recalled the incident. At the time, she did. She remembers me getting my head stuck but whether I later embellished the memory or actually had an out-of-body experience – who knows? I was only small – not even two years old.

I remember no more such out-of-body experiences until a few years ago when I had gone to lie down on the bed with a migraine headache. (Yes, a brain malfunction at this point is easy to imagine) I made room for myself between the boxes of books that we had just packed in readiness for re-decorating the entire room. The room was messy, to the point where there was hardly any floor space on one side of the bed save for a path to the window.

I had lain there for some time when I suddenly became aware that I had got up, walked to the window and looked out. It had grown dark while I slept and the room was now filled with moonlight. I turned back to survey the room and was surprised to see myself lying on the bed, apparently still asleep. I was stunned but filled with curiosity, not fear. I studied the ‘me’ on the bed in detail. From this angle I could see my back and a thread hanging from my cardigan where it must have caught on something. I remember thinking, ‘that’s a shame’. Next, I noticed all the boxes and the books that seemed to have overtaken the room. Everything seemed to be just as I had left it when I first laid down.

After a short time, I walked towards the bed, curious to know if I could wake myself. I leant forward and touched my sleeping body.

Of course, as soon as I did that, I was back in that body. I sat up on the bed and looked around me. The full moon lit the floor. The boxes of books were still there. I stared at the window and got up to check. Looking back to the bed I saw it exactly as I had seen it moments before except that I was no longer recumbent upon it.

I took off my cardigan to inspect the back of it. There was the hanging thread…

Ok, it proves nothing does it? I know that. I could have seen that thread in the mirror earlier. I could have felt it being pulled then forgotten. Yet, the experience left such a profound impression on me that, even now, I can recall seeing myself lying prone on the covers and remember the utter astonishment at the predicament I found myself in.

I am glad I had the experience, brain malfunction or not. I am glad that the first reports do not claim to have solved the phenomena but merely claim to be able to recreate it artificially. I am glad about that because, the baby me, thrown up to the ceiling to escape the terror of being trapped, did not understand about disconnection between brain circuits, though the older and wiser me accepts that this could have been the cause.

The grown-up me, could possibly have recreated the scene in minute detail and thrown in an image of herself on the bed. I could have known about the pulled thread but forgotten. However, could the baby me have recreated such a scene? I am not so sure.

Presumably, I had not been on the ceiling before and therefore could not even pre-suppose what it would be like to look down on myself from that height. Could I? Would it not make more sense for the baby me to find herself somewhere within my experience – the corner of the cot maybe or on the floor?

This can be my downfall at times. On the one hand I am open to there being an explanation for everything, yet on the other, I believe that some things cannot be explained from our earthly perspective. At times, I am in danger of babbling incoherently. Perhaps, in retrospect, a scientist I would not make!

Maybe the reports are right and all those near death experiences that ordinary people have, really are just a result of the brain playing tricks. Maybe. Personally, I shall keep an open mind.