High School Halloween Music Hall

Castle Bromwich Community Festival

The last few months I've had little time to blog as my time has been momopolised by setting up the Castle Bromwich Youth & Community Partnership and planning and organising the Castle Bromwich Community Festival, and what a success it was! The weather was glorious and people flocked to enjoy the weather and activities. It was successful beyond our wildest dreams, with smiling faces everywhere you looked. Perhaps now I will find a little more time to blog.

Time Flies

I never realised it had been so long since I posted anything on this blog. Life has been very busy and challenging in a positive way. Eric and I founded a Youth & Community Partnership earlier this year which aims to improve relationships and understanding between the younger members of our community and the older residents. We have found support from a number of community groups, schools and the borough council. We are currently organising a community festival which will be our launch project and it has created massive amounts of work for me and a very steep learning curve. It's due to take place on 12th September and there's still masses to be done, doesn't seem enough hours in a day.


I always have this enormous fear that nobody will turn up. It's really hard to make people aware of what is going on. We've had good press coverage, have the schools emailing parents and entering teams in the It's a Knockout contest and loads of support from the businesses who are helping to spread the word, but I still worry. But whatever happens on the day, I've learned loads from the experience and despite being totally exhausted, I'm glad that I'm involved and trying to make a difference.

Tackle it Tuesday

"Home is not where you live, but where they understand you."

I have to hold my hands up and say that I'm a bit obsessional. I have two ways of coping with things, I either immerse myself in a task completely and am totally and obsessively organised and tidy or I ignore the situation entirely until things become so bad that I just have to tackle them. Today, I will admit that my house is a mess. Why should this be, it's not as if I have to go out to work even though I do spend a lot of time volunteering? It's not as if I have young children to look after; there's only the three of us and no pets unless you count the spiders in the cobwebs I miss. I could blame it on the fact that it's a very small house that wasn't designed as a building to be lived in, but others manage in equally small spaces. I could blame it on the fact that my son and husband just don't understand the concept of tidy, but I seem to have joined them. More truthfully, I could just confess that I think part of the problem is that I lack the ability to work step by step in a linear fashion, tackling a task at a time. Instead, I'm all over the place tackling things as they catch my eye and everything just becomes too much. I could also confess that we are all hoarders and the idea of actually disposing of something causes intense separation anxiety.

A few days ago, Eric and I had a discussion about how things had to change. Well, at least I talked at him and he just nodded his head and agreed. You know the sort of response, "Well, I think that winning the lottery and moving house would be a more sensible approach. But, yes, go ahead dear. I trust you implicitly, just don't involve me and just remember that Ashleigh and I do still want to live a life, so don't go too mad, will you?"

For too long now I've invested too much energy in hiding the true state of my house rather than tackling the fundamental problem of too much clutter. Things were not helped when Eric's Aunt died and I foolishly tried to honour her wish that nothing should be dumped , but willing and grateful homes should be found for every little item that she had accumulated over the years. Do you know how difficult that can be? So, much of Auntie's "treasures" were added to our own until a more willing recipient could be found for them. Some still remain and add to the ever growing squalor of our surroundings. "Squalor! A bit of a strong word," my husband protests. "This house is a palace compared to those I go in everyday." Hardly comforting words as the houses he goes into are the type featured on clean up programmes on the television.

Over the past few months the state of my house has definitely deteriorated. The small piles of papers have become big piles and then bigger piles which have been shoved away somewhere safe when visitors arrive never to be found again. The mess is begining to cost me as I spend hours trying to find the bill that I have to pay in the ever growing piles demanding my attention, or go out and buy something again because I can't find where I have placed the original in the chaotic clutter of my cupboards and drawers. I invest endless energy concealing the squalor of our existence from visitors, moving the piles of clutter from one room to another in an effort not to be found out. Mount Iron Me grows ever larger, despite regular attempts to demolish it by sending it out for somebody else to do.

I have started to make some attempts to clear things up. I think the dustman may have been slightly alarmed to see the mountain of black bin bags awaiting him the other week. I think the pedestrians who tried to negotiate their way around them on the path may have wondered where so many could have appeared from. I have ordered some new storage for the bathroom which should be delivered today and will hopefully, provide a safe, organised repository for all the jars and towels that currently clutter the room. But, still much remains to be done, so this morning I have decided that every Tuesday I will tackle just one aspect of the problem. I will start with one area at a time, and I have promised myself that it will not just be moved around. I will make some hard decisions to dispose of those things that are surplus to requirements. Well, at least that's the plan.

Bravery Is Not Being Afraid To Be Afraid

"And yet, what is bravery but the capacity to reject our fears, ignore and supress them, then go on to do whatever it is we are afraid to do." L. Neil Smith

My Dearest Eric,

It hardly seems like yesterday that we met, but somehow twenty-two years have passed. I can't begin to tell you how much you have changed my life. You have taught me so many things about myself and helped me to build a life that I could only previously have dreamed of.

Nobody knows better than you how much fear and anxiety I have to live with. True, that over the years I have learned to hide the visible outward signs of distress from those who do not know me too well, but as you know only too well the physical symptoms of the fight or flight response are still all too apparent. But, despite this, you have supported me whilst I have found the courage to face my fears head on, and have fought for all the things that I believe in and that Ashleigh needs to survive. It's you, who has held me when I've struggled with the response of others or worried about how my actions or requests are perceived. It's you who has taught me to be brave and shoot for the stars. I still quiver inside when I see the looks on incredulity on the faces of people I speak to. I know that I'm like an alien, my beliefs and desires out of kilter with today's society, but you have taught me that the bravest people always back themselves in every situation because there is no one else that they can truly rely on to know what's best for them. I have learned to be brave and fight my corner because you have shown me that you trust me to know the best thing to do for our situations.

Before I met you my life was narrow and constrained by my fears. I went backwards and forwards to work everyday and did a job that I could do standing on my head. That was my life. You took me by the hand and showed me that so much more existed in the world, that there was a life out there that consisted of so much more than just doing somebody else's bidding if only I could develop the courage to face my fears and fight for what I believe in. I have read many articles that say that if you learn to face your fears you will gradually lose the fear. With your help I have faced my anxieties, but for me it has never got any easier, but I have learned that no matter how afraid I am, that worse things happen when I passively go along with what others expect or advise rather than trusting my instincts and pursuing what is right for us.

With your help, I have learned to be brave and to do things despite being afraid or discouraged. With your help, I have learned that "courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day that says, "I will try again tomorrow." With your help, tomorrow I will pick myself up, dust myself down and start all over again, remembering that energy and persistence conquers all things. Thank you for all you've done for me. My life is so much better for knowing you, without you I would be lost.

All my love,

Terrie

It's been a long time since I participated in Heads or Tails, but for some reason I felt drawn to look at it today. Over the past few months anxiety has been my constant companion. There are many reasons for that. The last year has been difficult and l have spent too long listening to the opinions of others and worrying about what others believe rather than just having faith that those who know me will form their own opinions. Thinking about what to write for this post has really helped me to clarify something in my own mind. My mother and my husband will both tell me that I allow people to walk all over me and that sometimes it's necessary to stand up and say stop. But, what do you do when they just ignore you and carry on abusing their power, show you no respect and verbally bully and humiliate you. For a long time I thought that I was just being overly sensitive, that I was misjudging things or that it was me that was creating the situations, but a few months ago several people came up to me after witnessing one particular incident and told me that I should make a formal complaint and that they would support it with witness testimonials.

I have never hesitated to stand up and fight my corner for Ashleigh or for Eric, difficult though I've found it. Finding the courage to do it for myself is somewhat harder, particularly as I am so full of self doubt and I know from past experience of trying to stop the bullying that Ashleigh experienced that the system is very much against you. Much of the advice that I read on the Internet was to just walk away and disassociate yourself from those doing the bullying, most cases that are taken through formal procedures fail because the evidence is just anecdotal.

I am never going to be a person who undertakes grand heroic acts that everybody else admires, but on reflection my life has been full of small moves that for me have taken immense courage and bravery. Whenever I have trusted my instinct to make my decisions despite my fears, I have made the right move. After many hours of soul searching and much encouragement from my husband, I did eventually instigate a formal complaints procedure. Only somebody who has been in the same position will know how difficult it is to put together the letter of complaint, compile the evidence and relive the situations. It took me days and there were many occasions when I thought I would just not bother, but a very small part of me kept reminding me that sometimes even though you expect to lose, you have to stand up and be counted. I eventually did submit the complaint, but as I expected the response I received was that my complaint lacked direct evidence and therefore could not be considered. It did advise that I had the right to ask for a review of this decision.

I have since learned that one of the people who witnessed one of the incidents that I complained about submitted their own complaint, also citing things that I had no knowledge of as they were occurring behind my back in an effort to undermine me, and asked for an investigation. He received the same response back and has already asked for a review, stating that, unless witnesses are questioned, short of physically harming somebody allegations of bullying will always be anecdotal and he would have thought that his complaint was in effect backing mine and giving reason to enquire and investigate further. I have a meeting today with the Monitoring Officer who I have asked to advise me on how I can present my case for review in a manner that will ensure that it is investigated. I know how silly this sounds, but today is going to be really, really difficult for me. I can write about my feelings, but I can't talk about them. I already feel that those concerned have been given the green light to carry on as the complaints procedure required them to be notified of the complaint against them and who had made it. In the great scheme of things, facing and dealing with this situation is probably not that brave, but for me it will take immense courage. Sometimes, being brave is putting the defeats behind you and marching on regardless. It's about facing your fears, knowing that you'll probably lose the battle, but knowing that it's too important an issue not to fight.

Sounds, Smells & Tastes of Childhood

I was sitting quietly this afternoon drinking a cup of coffee and the only thing that I was really conscious of was the sounds around me. Nothing was very loud, there was no television or radio playing in the background so the gentle whirring of the computer fan was quite apparent and the sound of passing traffic and gusting wind were uppermost in my consciousness. For some unknown reason this set me thinking about the sounds of my childhood and how some noises such as the rattling of the milk floats with their chinking bottles, and the ching of cash registers are disappearing.

My mother recalls that as a very young child I hated the noises made by hairdryers and hoovers. My dislike of them was so intense and I became so upset that in the end she ceased to use them in my presence. I can't recall this so I have to rely on her anecdotes. I do however recall the sounds of my grandparents house. I can remember sitting on the carpet in their sitting room, the material it was made from rough, but warm against my legs and the sun gently heating my skin through the window. The call of the rag and bone man and the sound of the horses' hooves on the road drifted through the window and has somehow become intrinsically linked in my mind with the smell of surgical spirit, a scent that I always associate with my grandparents house due to my Nan being diabetic. The calm of warm, lazy afternoons that my sister and I would spend at my grandparents would often be interrupted by the clattering of trains passing on their way to New Cross railway station and the rumbling of the ground underneath us as they shook the foundations of the house.

Monday was washing day and we would immediate know that my Nan was washing by the wafting fragrance of the soap powder that would permeate our nostrils as we entered the house. There was always something comforting and homely about the smell, it always made me feel secure and loved. Even today, the clean, fresh smell of washing powders makes me feel comforted and evokes feelings of nostalgia. But, coupled with this smell was the rhythmic woosh of the washing machine as it tossed the clothes around the tub. Simple pleasures were the order of the day in the 1960s and being allowed to assist in the household tasks, far from being a reason to complain, was something to look forward to. I can remember being entrusted to sort the clothes into piles. Colours in one, whites in another and then being allowed to put them in the machine and later take them out with the wooden tongs that my Nan would provide. On occasions I was even allowed to put them through the wringer and there was a certain satisfaction in watching the water being squeezed out.

The clatter of footsteps down the side entrance, followed by the clicking of the gate and the slamming of the back door would herald the homecoming of my Uncles from school. This was the signal for my Nan to start preparing tea and the frying pan would come out of the cupboard to cook the chips which she would always fry in butter. I can still smell them cooking now. Years on, my Aunt would recall how her first introduction to my Nan was through those chips which she always tried to replicate, but never quite could.

In later childhood, I was to see less of my Grandparents as we moved away from London and lived some distance from them, but I would always look forward to revisiting the sounds, smells and tastes of their house when returning to see them. My memories of my own home centre more around the things that I did outside the home than what transpired inside. For some strange reason I can distinctly recall the clattering of roller skates moving over the path. My sister and I each had a pair of those skates that you strapped over your shoes and adjusted the length until they were just the right size. We used to race up and down the path outside the house or round the square of grass that sat between the houses in the close. The smell of freshly mowed grass and damp rain would be ever present in the air as all the neighbours seemed to mow their lawns at different times.

Life outside of London was a world away from the restricted lives we lead in the city. We were free to roam and make our own entertainment. I can still picture our home now, a skipping rope or the washing line we used as one, uncoiled in the doorway with boxes of home made Sindy clothes and the dolls themselves scattered nearby, a tray of seedlings or tomatoes wrapped in newspaper to ripen on the window sill dependent upon the season, and outside a hazy blue sky, cooing pigeons, and the scent of the garden flowers that my father would lovingly tend. The sound of children laughing and shrieking and of Greensleeves carrying through the air as the ice-cream man ventured nearer and nearer. I can even recall the sense of panic and the sinking feeling in my stomach when I'd been told that I could have an icecream but my mum didn't give me the pennies quick enough and I'd have to go running to the next close to try and catch up with the icecream van.

It seems strange that I should remember the sensory associations of life in the past more than I remember specific events. Often a smell will unlock a whole raft of other memories. As a young child, my father used to smoke, although he stopped as I got older. The smell of fresh unsmoked tobacco still reminds me of my father and will bring long forgotten incidents to mind. I wonder what Ashleigh will remember about his childhood in years to come. Life changes so dramatically and quickly now that it's sure to be very different from my childhood memories. I wonder also what I will recall of today, twenty years from now. Will my memories still be stirred by sounds and scents or will I retain details of events more clearly and precisely?

Tastes Like Home

“Food is a central activity of mankind and one of the single most significant trademarks of a culture.”

Part of me will always remain tied to my childhood and life as I lived it back in the 1960s. A major part of that is my stomach and memories of the food that my father would grow and my mother would cook. I don't know why, but memories of childhood foods came flooding back to me as I sat at Carl's wedding breakfast on Wednesday. His reception was held at the Belfry and the food was undoubtedly beautifully presented, but it struck me that such precise presentation was a world away from the hearty meals that my mother would serve up to us as children and yet, essentially the ingredients were the same.

I spent some time musing on the differences between traditional food today and how it was in my childhood. I remember that on winter mornings my mother would always give us porridge and toast before wrapping us up warmly for the walk to school. On the face of it nothing much has changed. I will also dish up porridge on a cold winter's morning and there is something quite comforting and reassuring to cook and consume porridge whilst the snow flutters to the ground outside. But, that's about as far as the similarities go. My mother would cook the porridge in a pot on the hob, stirring constantly to ensure that it didn't stick and burn on the bottom of the pan. She'd make it with half full fat milk and half water and serve it on a plate covered with sugar and hot buttered toast on a side plate. The whole texture and taste was totally different from what I serve up today. I put a scoop of porridge in a bowl, cover it with skimmed milk and pop it in the microwave. The resultant porridge is available inside a minute, but somehow the resultant texture lacks the smoothness and emotional attachment that my mother's always had.



The food that we had to eat on Wednesday was traditional. Salmon and cucumber, Lamb, Raspberry Creme Brulee and Chocolate Cake. It was a meal that could easily have been served in the 1960s and a Lamb dinner was a familar Sunday dinner whilst I was growing up. My father used to grow all our vegetables on his allotment and maybe it's just a distorted memory, but they always seemed to have more taste than anything I eat today. Think about it. Do you really taste what you eat? When I was a child my father grew tomatoes in the greenhouse. I can still smell and taste those tomatoes. I often look at the tomatoes that I buy and long for those that my father would produce. True that those I buy are visually attractive, plump, red and full of juice encased in their unblemished skins, but where is the smell that distinguishes them as tomatoes, and when I put it in my mouth where is the taste? Even more worrying is the preservatives that are sprayed into them that allows them to still look visually perfect when they've been sitting around my kitchen for over two weeks.



Undoubetedly food traditions have changed over the years. The advent of foreign travel has broadened our horizons and food from other cultures now form a main stay of English kitchens. There's absolutely nothing wrong with this. I love variety in what I eat, but I sometimes wonder about whether we are losing some of the traditional recipes from our past. When I had my first home of my own, I took with me crumpled sheets of hand written recipes containing traditional family meals, cakes and puddings. Things that I had loved as a child and wanted to replicate. I added new recipes to these, but would regularly revert to old favourites. As the years have passed, I revert less and less to the old staples and will explore recipe books and cookery programmes for new meals.



It's perhaps baking that has changed the least over the years. The cakes and puddings that I consumed as a child are still recognisable in those that I eat today. Maybe the main change is the ability to purchased mass produced, ready made versions of traditional favourites rather than hand mixing the ingredients and baking the product in the oven so that it can be eaten fresh and warm from the oven. Few of today's children will know the simple pleasure of scrapping out the bowl used to mix the cake ingredients prior to it being washed up or eating warm cake fresh from the oven. Maybe it's time to recognise that it's every bit as important to preserve our traditional foods and cooking techniques as it is to preserve an old church. Our family and cultural heritage is part of what makes us what we are, maybe I should concentrate more on preserving some of it rather than depending upon fast and convenient methods of cooking and mass produced food.

Acknowlegements: Layouts based on sketches from Oscraps

Welcome to the Age of Intolerance

"Where are all the children? It's just like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang after the child catcher's been out." That was my stepson's girlfriend's reaction when she first came out with me around the area where we live. I'm not surprised. It's always seemed to me that children and teenagers are barely tolerated. This is vehemently denied by the aging local population who all insist that they love children and evidence the adoration of their grandchildren, but the evidence does not back up the protests. A survey a few years ago that asked residents how they wished to see the community develop elicited the majority response of as a retirement community.

Complaints to the police and Parish Council are predominantly about the antisocial behaviour of youths. What is this antisocial behaviour? Kids playing football on the village green, kids getting together in "gangs" and making a nosie, kids skateboarding. Further investigation shows that the vast majority of these kids are not doing anything wrong, they're just being social, in other words just being kids. The residents have called for a dispersal zone and are up in arms because the police and borough council state that there is no evidence of antisocial behaviour to support it and any true incidents of antisocial behaviour can be dealt with by the police with their existing powers.

I often think back to when I was a kid. I would play ball against the wall of one of the houses near where I lived, as did all the other children where I lived. Nobody ever complained and we gave no consideration to the nuisance of the noise created by balls thudding against the wall. We played hop skotch and used bits of broken plaster board from the nearby building sites to chalk the grid on the path, similarly we would use it to chalk tracking signs for our hide and seek games. We would get together in large groups to talk, play or wander the streets. We even modified our environment climbing trees and building camps. We were never in trouble for this.

How have we become so intolerant and afraid of youth and their activities? How have we become so blind to this intolerance? We are always being told that we should respect everybody and practice tolerance. Our government are experts at preaching this message, but then they support the views of anti-social behaviour and encourage the banning of ball games on green spaces in residential areas. Just where is this tolerance and respect? Where is the empathy? A survey conducted on behalf of Barnados last year concluded that there is an unjustified and disturbing intolerance of children in the UK. The survey showed that UK society casually condems all children with more than half the respondents stating that they thought that British children behave like animals. The survey showed that the majority of respondents had a negative view of all children, despite the vast majority making a positive contribution to their community with many involving themselves in voluntary activities.

I have recently talked to a number of young people who feel persecuted by the older population of our community. They accept that a minority of young people behave badly, but feel that they are all unfairly tarred with the same brush. They feel that older people are often unnecessarily rude when talking to them and see them all as criminals, believing that they are responsible for all of society's woes. How did we manage to create a society so intolerant of youth? Do we not realise that these youngsters are the future and the people we will be looking to for support and care in our own old age? Why is it so wrong for the youth of today to play in the same manner that we did when we were younger? Why are we so afraid when they do so?

Having spoken to today's youths, I am pleased to report that there is still tolerance in our society, but contrary to popular reports it is predominantly the youths who are showing this tolerance and respect. They do have empathy for the older people and try and adapt their behaviour to accommodate their views. Unfortunately, I have to concur with the youths, that the same cannot be said of many,although not all, of the older members of the community who are intolerant of others and demand their own way all the time.

Memories of Dad

I don't know why, but some reason whilst I was pondering what to blog about today my thoughts turned to my dad. My father died on the 3rd March 1978 and my memories of him are somewhat faded. He was only young, 42 and my time with him was too short, but I know that despite this I owe him a great deal. Most of my major personality characteristics come from my dad. August 22nd 1935 Ronald Malcolm Laney made his debut into the world in Greenwich, London. He was to become known as Ronnie by his parents and Ron by his brothers and later his wife. He was the second son of Charles Laney and Edith Millicent Neighbour. His early childhood was spent with his parents, but with the out break of war, he and his older brother Charlie were evacuated to Whittlesford in Cambridgeshire. My father always spoke fondly of the time that he spent there and stayed in touch with the couple who looked after him all his life.

It was here that he developed his love of the countryside and the land. I really think that my father would have loved nothing better than to have had a small holding and been self sufficient. My Nan used to tell me that my father hated school and when he returned to London at the end of the war would spend most of his time skiving school. I'm told that he was a brilliant footballer and was offered a contract to play for a professional team, but in those days the money was poor and he was persuaded instead to take up a job in the docks at Deptford where he worked as a meat porter. This was before the days of mechanisation and he would hump the meat around on his back. My mother used to tell me how he would return home with his back black and blue.

When my father and mother married they had some difficulty finding suitable housing. They would rent private hosuing mainly from the church, but it was run down and I have distinct memories of putting out buckets to catch the rainwater that would pour through the roof and using a tin bath and an outside toilet. This continued for some years with the family ever growing and by the time my brother was born, my father decided that the family would need to move from London to Huntingdon where we rented a brand new Council house. My father obtained work in a factory and would spend his spare time either in the garden or on his allotment.

My father was a quiet man. He would never say much and the rule in our house was always "if you can't say something nice about someone, say nothing at all." My nan always said that my father's greatest love was his family and I know that she was right. I have distinct memories of him playing with us, of his carrying my brother up to the school on his shoulders and taking me to spend time on his allotment. His allotment was his pride and joy. Despite not having much money. we were always well fed with fresh eggs produced daily by my dad's chickens and fruit and vegetables that he had grown.

He had this inordinate patience and would take us out of the way when we were wearing my mother's patience thin. I never really remember him raising his voice or losing his temper. Apart from his love of the land, my father's other favourite way to spend his time was watching horse racing. He would study form and have little wagers on hem from time to time. I can remember being reluctantly dragged along to the National Stud at Newmarket and much to my surprise being utterly fascinated. It's strange the memories that are evoked when you start recalling incidents, like most teenagers I had little conception of dressing to suit the occasion and I had very few clothes any way. I can remember going on this trip in a pair of high heeled pink suede open toed sandles, don't know what was in my head.

There are always some things that as children we never realise about our parents. Things that they would rather we never knew. Such was the case with my father. During his last few weeks the Doctors at the hospital showed a fascination with the scar he has running down his right arm. I have to confess that it was something I hadn't been aware of until they pointed it out. Neither was I aware that he couldn't fully close or utilise his right hand. I had always thought my dad was left handed, but in fact he'd always been right handed until he had an accident and was told that he would never use his right hand again. What was this accident? Well, it was only recently that I found out that he'd been climbing trying to obtain some pigeon eggs and fell through a roof. He was so badly injured that the Doctors had to use pioneering surgery to reconstuct his arm which they thought he would never use again. My father was determined that this would not be the case and enrolled on a course to learn how to make wicker baskets to try and increase his use of that hand. In the meantime he taught himself to do everything with his left hand. Such was his determination that he managed to regain sufficient use of his right arm and hand to hide his disability from others, although, he was never able to completely close his fingers or clasp small objects again.

So what do I owe to my father? The answer to that is too much to mention. He taught me consideration and patience. He taught me to look for the good in others and to be grateful for what I have rather than whine about what I can't have. He taught me to perservere and not to accept that life has to be a particular way just because you're told so. In the 31 years since his death, my memories of my dad have faded, but I have never forgotten his inherent goodness and it's something that anyone who knew my father always mentions, your father was just too good for this world is something that my older cousins and my uncles would often tell me.

Lazyitus

It seems that every day the news reports on some frightening statistic that shows that the health of the nation is declining. There is always some new initiative aimed at making us more aware of preventative measures that will protect us from heart disease, cancer, diabetes and a whole host of other diseases. It was only a few weeks ago that I read about plans to tax chocolate as some bright spark seemed to think there was a link between its consumption and the development of type 2 diabetes.

I have to admit that in my own household all this seems to have been counter productive and instead of taking on board the message and adapting our life style and undergoing numerous tests to tell us what's wrong with us; we seem instead to have adopted a laissez faire attitude, turned down the sound on the television and immersed ourselves in living a life to the full.

But, in pursuing that life which is packed full of meetings and commitments to voluntary organisations we have found the need for a safe haven where we can just relax and do whatever we wish with no pressure. The end result is that I seem to have fallen victim to a new disease that is sweeping the nation, but which as yet remains largely unreported........Lazyitus. The medical dictionary lists the following symptoms:-

Pronounced: Lay - Zee - Eye - Tuss
Symptoms: Refusal to get out of bed, inability to complete simple tasks, appear to be glued to a chair.

This serious illness affects many people regardless of age, sex or intelligence. Most common after a hard day at work, or a large meal.

I did decide a few weeks ago to take myself in hand and do something about it. I seemed to have grown roots into the chair and bed and wanted to do nothing at all. My paperwork was building up, the ironing pile had become a mountain and it was difficult to find a space to put anything with all the clutter that was building up. Things have improved slightly, I paid someone to do the ironing, tackled the mounting pile of paperwork and set about clearing up the clutter and the house is now beginning to look more habitable, although there's still a long way to go before it looks right. I still seem to find every reason not to do house work and to immerse myself in the myriad of other activities that I would rather be doing.

In order to try and overcome the ever growing symptoms of the debilitating Lazyitus, I have decided to spend the next few days tackling a project a day. Wanting to start small and build up, I'm going to spend today tidying the sitting room. This seems to have become the repository for numerous little piles of Eric's paperwork which seem to breed over night at an alarming rate. My biggest problem is finding some where to house them, my usual solution ..... the bin, has met with loud protests from my husband who as yet does not seem to be able to offer a more practical or acceptable solution.

Is my case of Lazyitus terminal? Probably not, but it does seem to be particularly difficult to cure. According to the medical dictionary the most effective way to cure Lazyitus is to withhold privileges until the task is done. This remedy has been tried and failed, so maybe in my case the illness is chronic rather than acute.

Childhood Remembered

Eric is one of those people that can do anything he tries. At least that's what he tells us. It isn't a case of his working at it until he learns the skill, according to the stories, he just believes he can do it and so can. Eric didn't learn to swim like the rest of us. His cousin Janet was a County swimmer and he followed her to the top of the diving board from which she pushed him in. Unlike the rest of us who being non-swimmers would founder and need rescuing, Eric struck out and swam his way out of the pool and from that moment on his swimming only improved.

The first time he went ice skating, he tightened the laces on his boots, stepped on the iced and was away. He never needed stabilisers on his bike, he just got on it and rode it. To be fair, Eric has always had excellent balance and sporting ability. He was County standard in many sports and recalls how when Carl was a teenager his school boy long jump record still stood.

What Eric doesn't recount, is that he has no manual dexterity what so ever. DIY is not something that you would ask him to do. His friend David used to recall an occasion when he and Belinda visited Eric whilst he was trying to hang wall paper and pulling it all out of shape. David took over and hung it for him leaving juts one short sheet for Eric to do. According to the story, the missing sheet was never put up, the settee was just strategically placed to cover the gap.

Eric's childhood was not easy. He spent most of it being sent out to different relatives or foster parents and rarely lived in one house for longer than a couple of months. He found solace in sport and spent many hours practicing after school rather than having to return home. Sport has continued to be important to Eric throughout his life and the competetive element is as important as the exercise itself. This love of sport is not something that either Ashleigh or I share.

SW America 2005

Eric and I like to travel and it is our hope to visit every state in America. We have been lucky enough to have already travelled extensively throughout the South Western states which we love. In March and April 2005 we spent three weeks ttouring around. It had been our intention to fly into Phoenix and then travel south to Texas and Big Bend National Park, but on arrival the weather forecast for Texas was poor and Death Valley was in bloom for the first time in living memory. After a brief discussion we decided to turn our itinerary around and spent the first day of holiday driving to Las Vegas via Sedona and the Grand Canyon.



We had planned to bbok into a hotel in Las Vegas, but hadn't realised that there was a conference on and that all accomodation for miles around was booked. We spent the night sleeping in the car in a casiono carpark some miles away from Las Vegas.The next day was my birthday and we had breakfast in a garage, the only place that we could find serving food. We drove to Death Valley following the diversions where the roads had been washed away by the excessive rain that had ressurected the long dormant plant seeds in the valley itself. I'm not sure what we expected Death Valley to look like but it was very different from the way we had experienced it on previous visits/ Eric preferred the rough, brash non-plant version, but I like the wild flowers showing their heads in unexpected places.



After a few hours we left and drove towards Utah and Zion National Park and then Bryce Canyon where we spent the night in Ashleigh's favourite motel, the Ruby Inn. The rest of the first week was spent touring the red rock national parks, all of which are incredibly spectacular. The only disappointing part was that we experienced the best and most spectacular sites early on and the later days were therefore somewhat disappointing by comparison.





I have always wondered why some people say that America has no history especially since they havecave dwellinhs from ancient inhabitants. As the week progressed we travelled back into Arizona and visited some of these dwellings.

What is love?

Before I met Eric I never thought that I would spend my life with somebody. I was content with my life and I wasn't looking for anybody to share it with. Eric and I met through work. When Eric first joined the firm where I worked he was married, but his wife was terminally ill. After Brenda died we used to have lunch together and sit and chat and that friendship grew into love; although Eric says that for him it was always more than friendship.

Eric can hardly be called the last of the great romantics. Before he died his friend David would tell me that Eric tried to teach him chat up lines when they were younger. His wife Belinda tells me that they were not likely to be successful. I can understand this, Eric's first proposal to me was when we were driving back from one of his Aunts where we'd spent the day with his cousins. As we chatted, he said to me, "I suppose I'd better marry you as they all seem to like you." Eric had always told me that he would never remarry and such a proposal wasn't one that I was thought was what he wanted so I laughed it off. Some years later when I was expecting Ashleigh he told me that his child needed a proper father and we'd have to get married. We laugh about it now and he tells me that it was what he really wanted, he's just not good with words.

Eric and I have been together for 22 years. It only seems like yesterday that we first met. My life has changed beyond all recognition in that time, mainly thanks to the support that Eric gives me. He encourages me to follow my dreams and to fight my anxieties. He supports me when I'm finding things difficult and talks me through my doubts. Eric is my best friend, somebody who I can rely on totally, who accepts me warts and all and loves me no matter what. We often disagee on matters but rarely argue. We have different outlooks on life, different politics, different ways of resolving problems, but we respect each others views and usually compromise on the most contentious issues.

If I was asked what was the luckiest day of your life. I'd have to say that it was the day I met Eric. All the best parts of my life are due to him. I'm so lucky to have a friend and husband who I adore and who I enjoy being with. We spend most of our time in different rooms doing our own thing, but without him my life would only be half complete and I would not be doing half the things that fill my mind and days.

A Time to Reflect

We're always told that we should consider how we would want our funeral to be, well in advance of old age. Having arranged and planned Auntie Vera's I have to agree. It is really hard trying to put together a ceremony when you don't know what the person would have wanted. I'm told by everyone who attended Auntie Vera's funeral that I got things right and she would have approved.

I have always hated going to funerals where the eulogy is delivered by somebody who had never even met the deceased, but it's not easy delivering it yourself when you're emotional. I do though, think it's worth the effort. At my Uncle's funeral recently my cousin's son played my Uncle's favourite tune on his guitar, such personal contributions give more meaning to the service and make it seem less false and remote.

Eric's cousin sent me some photos that he took at the dinner after Auntie Vera's funeral. His mum Forence met up with her old childhood friend who she hadn't seen for nearly sixty years. They'd lost contact after Florence moved away from Birmingham and only got in contact again after Eric and I met Margaret when representing the Council at an Age Concern Christmas Dinner at few years ago.

See How I've Changed

I was fifty in March, hardly seems possible as inside I still feel like the 18 year old that left school 32 years ago. In many ways I have changed beyond all recognition from the person I was then. I will now speak occasioanlly something that might surprise my teachers who would consistently write on my reports, "Terrie really must learn to speak." But, although outwardly I may appear to have more confidence than then, inside I'm still usually a gibbering wreck. They say that body language is always the give away and when I sought out photos to illustrate how I'd changed over the years, what struck me was not so much the differences in my appearance, but the similarities and particularly the body language. Even now I will still sit nervously holding my hands, it was difficult to find a photo where I wasn't doing this, even when standing.

Photoshop

Although I do a lot of digital scrapbooking, I have to admit to having always struggled using Photoshop, preferring to use the much easier user friendly Digital Image Pro. However, I recently decided that Photoshop was just something that I would have to learn and as I now have a computer that doesn't protest as much at its need for so much memory have found my efforts far more successful than in the past.

So far, I havden't attempted anything too complicated, but I've been pleasantly surprised at what I have achieved and what I'm remembering.

Charles George Laney

My Family Tree

Edith Millicent Laney nee Neighbour

My Uncle died recently and my cousin has found some photos in a shoe box that I've never seen before. He's sent me copies of some of them and they've evoked some memories of my Nan who I was always really close to.

Whenever I needed support, it was my Nan I would turn to. She had this way of guiding you to the solution without ever interfering or deciding for you. She was unconventional, never cared what others thought about her, but lead her life on her terms and with an enthusiasm that even years after her death I can only admire. My Nan's greatest love was her bingo. I remember days when we would go together, walking from her flat past the Cutty Sark to the bus stop, where we'd catch the bus up Greenwich High Street to the bingo hall housed in the old cinema building. My Nan was always winning, and would inevitably end the year with more money in her bingo jar than she started with.

My Nan also loved reading. Grandad worked for Maybanks the waste paper people and the small bedroom was stacked floor to ceiling with comics and books that he'd brought home from work. He would rummage in this treasure trove and present me and Nan with our reading material for the week. His ability to add to the pile, far outweighed our ability to read everything in it.

What my cousin didn't find in the box of photos, is one of my Nan with her beehive hair do. My first memory of her is with her hair piled up high and a hair net over the top keeping it all in place. She used to dye it blond for as long as I can remember and it was only about ten years or so before she died that she eventually decided that the time had come to allow the grey to show. Hopefully one day such a photo will come to light.

Photographs

My Nan always used to tell me that when he was younger my dad would be happy as long as he had well maintained hair and a clean shirt. She'd say that he would stand at the mirror combing his hair and telling himself how good looking he was, but that behind the words was an insecurity as though he was really trying to convince himself. I was recently given a copy of a photo of my dad at quite a young age that I'd never seen before. I remembered my Nan's words and spent some time just looking at the photo and trying to remember the man who was my father. It's 31 years since he died and, if I'm honest, I often struggle to remember what he was really like. I remember a quiet man who would spend hours on his allotment, happily growing vegetables and tending his chickens and rabbits. I remember him walking up to the school carrying my brother on his shoulders. But, other than that my memories are blurry. I remember too clearly the bad times when he was dying and doubled up in pain, but the everyday memories of our life before that have faded into obscurity.