On the floor...

At the back of my mind…

Is the thought that I have signed a Terms of Settlement this week which included the clause that carriage of sale of the house would be jointly between the go solicitors and that we would both agree to be bound by that which means they sell our house for whatever price they agree, both solicitors take fees and we have no say in the sale of our home. I sign it, in gut-wrenching fear and trepidation, thinking; this is what I have to do, legally, I am crunched up with anxiety, not sleeping, trying to push it all to the back of my mind, endlessly repeating the mantra which seems futile now;’ everything will work out, everything is happening for  my highest good.. The reality is that I am sleeping, waking anxiety. Out of breath, panicking, wondering what will happen. I’m used to working hard, I’m used to be the one who earns, I’m used to being the one who takes care of everything and now I’m scared. Really, really scared. The house I worked so hard to pay for, my home, MY HOME, I snow under the control of 2 solicitors. And whatever they agree with whatever estate agent ….How has it come to this? There is no conflict with regard to assets, no battle…why should 2 solicitors divvy up what I have worked so hard for, take 2 commissions, sell the house to??? and take their fees? It feels so wrong and I feel so wrong, that we would be bound by whatever price and any means that two solicitors should sell the house for whatever price, via whatever estate agent, and that we should be bound by their decision. I sign the document, and spend every waking moment in fear of what may happen,. I have signed away control of my life…I can’t bear this, yet I must if this is the legal requirement.  More than anything. this gets to  me. I have signed away control of my home, of my life of the last 25years, to 2 solicitors. And it feels wrong, so totally, totally, wrong. It’s not like we were in dispute, I’d agreed a 50/50 split.

I’m scared and I’m not sleeping, not sleeping. Control of my life is now between two solicitors because my solicitor told me this is how it has to be and I know no different, and I’m already upset and heartbroken by all this. And I don’t know what else to do because if this is what the legal process requires then this is what I have to do even if it leaves me lying on the floor in a foetal position, consumed with anxiety and helplessness. That’s the worst of it. I feel helpless. My life my marriage, my home….Now 2 x solicitors control all. And I feel worse than ever. All that I have worked so hard for, all the pain, all my life-handed over to a legal process. I am doubled over with anxiety in my bed, crunched up with the pain in my gut. All I am left with is an irrational hope, a crazy hope, that it will all turn out ok, because it must. It must. Mustn’t it?

Cake

Credits:
Baked by; A.D.
 Iced and decorated by; B.C.
 Eaten  by; M.E.
Merry Christmas everybody

Serious stuff

The Incident

Something happened and I can’t make sense of it. I have tried and tried to remember, I have scraped the walls of my memory but no images, no logic stream, nothing comes that helps me say; yes, that is what happened. I cannot make sense of it at all.

Friday evening; My best friend and I were on a night out. “It’ll do you good to get out” she’d said. “A club, entertainment, a few drinks, a fundraising night for a good cause we both support.” I’d eaten dinner, dressed up, put on make up, high heels.  “You look gorgeous” she’d said when she called for me in the taxi.

The night was fun, music, laughter. We had a few glasses of wine each. Me being me, I’d also consumed a tube of cheese and sour cream potato crisps.  Off she went to talk to some people she hadn’t seen for a while. The place was jammed. I got up to dance in front of the stage with all the others who fancied a bop.

I flopped back down, panting, and people watched. Noticed a man lounging at the door. I thought he was staring over at me, although I didn’t recognise him.  Suddenly I felt a bit unwell.  I went to the loo and it was if the room darkened, as if someone dimmed the lights. I felt really weird. I felt as if my knees were buckling. Something was wrong. I remember taking out my ‘phone and trying to call my friend. I had the ‘phone in my hand, but somehow I couldn’t figure out how to use it. I could not make the connection between brain and hand. I tried and tried to think but I couldn’t figure it out.

She came looking for me and found me in the Ladies. I heard her speak but it was like I was under water – moving and listening underwater. She got a taxi and got me into it. Got me home.  In the garden, the legs went from under me. Up to my bedroom. Legs went again and I fell against the mirrored door of the wardrobe. Got into bed.  I still had the ‘phone in my hand.  

Next day; I eventually struggled up out of bed. My right hip was very badly bruised from falling without any ability to protect myself or cushion the fall.  The small toe on my right foot broken was broken – I knew from the pain. The wardrobe mirror wouldn’t have disgraced the Lady of Shallot. When I managed to make it downstairs, I found my glasses lying in mud in the garden, broken. I was in bits. Worst of all, I had no idea what had happened.  I didn’t have a hangover, which I would have had if I’d been that badly affected by the wine we’d drunk.

Over the course of a long night, 7 pm -12 pm, we’d each had 4 glasses of wine. I’d eaten dinner before I went out. I’d eaten snacks. I’d had glasses of water as well. She was perfectly ok at the end of the night, I wasn’t.

Over the week, I’ve talked about it. A work colleague told me himself and another guy had been in a bar, drinking cocktails. He woke up in hospital, broken collarbone and other injuries; he’d walked out under a car. His friend had made it back to their apartment, where he’d sat in front of the front door, key in hand, but couldn’t figure out how to connect the key to the door… My blood ran cold…

The hospital had told him (they took blood tests) that it was rohypnol…afterwards the police figured it was intended for the two girls at the next table.

I don’t know what happened to me that night. I know I went out, ate, drank, talked, danced…It never occurred to me to have myself tested, even if I had been in a fit enough state to do that. All I know is, I went out to enjoy myself and ended up bruised, upset and wondering what the hell had happened.

Bruises heal, broken toes heal, broken glass and broken glasses can be mended. I stood in the kitchen in desperate need of a hug. I wrapped my arms around myself and gave myself a hug as best I could, desperately wishing for a re-assuring , warm pair of arms around me… What else could I do? There was no one else to give me a hug. Well there was but hugs were not on the agenda.

Cooler heads and psychologists have since suggested that I was drugged (by accident or design) or might have suffered a neurological event. I don’t know. I don’t know what happened to me that night. I set out looking good, feeling good. I will never know.

But in between see-sawing between awful scenarios, I know this; my friend was there, my Guardian Angel was there, I was ok.  And when I’m scraping the walls of my memory trying to remember what actually happened, I wrap my arms round myself and  comfort myself with the thought of what didn’t happen. Thank God.

I was with Blister 2, going over it all again. I don’t understand, I said. I’m going over and over it in my mind, but I don’t understand. Build a bridge and get over it, she said. It’s past. You’re ok. And so I have to get over the worry and the shame of not knowing what happened to me, and move on. I know I did nothing wrong, I feel it. But I will never know, never be able to make sense of it

Laughter and Fears

Laughter and Fears

Well, I did it. I stood up in front of about 100 people and did my thing.

I put my name down for the open mic night in the city centre, re-wrote my piece 30 times, learned it off by heart, rehearsed to make it look spontaneous, re-wrote, panicked, re-wrote, rehearsed in front of the bedroom mirror with props and clothes, freaked out, and practised having A POSITIVE MENTAL ATTITUDE and CONSIDERING THE WORST THAT COULD HAPPEN. Considered withdrawing my name, then decided to go for it. If I fall flat on my face, and I will – apart from anything else I haven’t a big chest to stop my nose hitting the floor -then at least I can say I tried. Strike it off the list. 

Some family and friends came. We sat at little tables in candlelight. Have a glass of wine to steady your nerves, some said - more likely to unsteady my feet and make me forget my lines. I asked the MC to put me on early, to get the agony over with.  I was the last “act” before the interval. When he announced me, and said “Now we’ll have some comedy from - “ a huge weight of expectation fell on me.  I stood in front of the mike and began, hoping neither my voice nor my hands nor my knees would shake. Started talking, addressing the front row of little candlelit tables. There was laughter. There was laughter! When I finished, there was lots of applause and cheering, not all of it from my supporters.

Afterwards I was buzzing. High on adrenaline. High on applause.  Delighted and so grateful for the support from my family and friends.  People I didn’t know stopped me on the stairway and in the Ladies room and said kind words to me.

When I got home, the Prince of Darkness was still up, sitting at his PC. How did you get on, he said. So I told him; the MC said I got the biggest cheer of the night. “That’s only because you had rent-a-crowd with you”, he said. My bubble deflated…

The following day, a man I knew to be a part-time actor and director called me. He had slipped in to the Open Mike night unseen and sat behind the sound engineers. He had heard them discussing the acts; apparently I had been their favourite. As for his opinion; your material was brilliant, he said, but your performance was a little bit (a little bit!) nervous. I can help you with that.  If you can write about an hour or an hour and a half of material, why not put on a one woman show in one of the small pub theatres?

I forbore to tell him that present times being what they are, I spend more time crying than I do laughing. But I was thrilled, thrilled, thrilled by his words. Once again, I was as high as a kite and felt good about myself.  I couldn’t wait to tell my friends in the Writing Group. I knew they’d be thrilled for me as well.

I’d done it. I’d taken the leap, taken the chance and it had succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.  Plus I’d put another brick in the wall of self-esteem. Result! Maybe the books were having an effect after all…

Ah here, you want jam on it...

Ah here, you want jam on it…

Today I called in to Blister 2 and explained my needs. Could she lend me a rolling pin? What do you mean; you don’t have a rolling pin? What else don’t you have? Have you a pastry brush to put the jam on the cake even? No I don’t have a pastry brush. Well that’s what you’re getting for Christmas – what else don’t you have? Well I don’t have a vegetable brush either, I said. Bet you don’t even have a bread knife, she said. Well I definitely don’t have a bread bin I said.  Or a wooden spoon, which is what someone told me is ESSENTIAL to every kitchen…What! She shrieked.

By now Niece 2, a witness to all this, is shrieking with laughter. 

What would I use a pastry brush FOR? I ask.   I don’t make pastry. God you’re hopeless, she said.

Not at all, it’s completely logical to me; Plan B; buy packets of ready made marzipan, packets of ready made roll –out icing (no water to be added) icing sugar and more jam to stick it all to my new cake.

I left with a rolling pin and four cake ornaments; a Santa, a fir tree, a “Merry Christmas” sign and a holly leaf. Bring it on!

Nothing would do my lovely Bridge partner but that I bring the cake to her house to be decorated with her help. (Cake decoration under the supervision of a responsible adult?)

Ok - D Day!  I stand amazed. Educated. In awe.  She heated up the jam in a Bain Marie, cut out grease proof paper to the exact measurements of the cake sides/top, and spent ages rolling out the ready made marzo (she learned something too – that there was such a thing as ready made anything) and in one hour the cake was painted with warm sifted apricot jam using a regulation pastry brush and the marzo was applied – and didn’t fall off. Apparently “The Cake” must now reside on her sideboard for a few days while today’s paint job dries.  (Is this what Michelangelo had to do with the Sistine Chapel?  Just askin’)

 In a few days Step 3; the ready roll white icing can be overlaid. According to Bridge Partner, four ornaments are perfect for a square cake- one at each corner. So all will be shimmery and symmetry… I’ll put a photo (with credits of course) on the blog when The Creation is complete. Then I’m going to eat it. Well ok I’ll try to restrain myself till Christmas - Eve. But I’m not making any promises…Or maybe I should break a bottle of champagne over it and launch it…like the Titanic…

The truespirit of Christmas...

The true Spirit of Christmas…

The talk last week in the Bridge Club was all of making cakes, making puddings, making mince pies…I related the tale of my culinary misadventures. North was apparently a master of the kitchen table as well as of the Bridge table, where she certainly takes no prisoners. If you can read you can cook, she said. All you need to do is follow a recipe. I’ve never found it that simple, I say. 

This week said Bridge Master approached me before the Turkey Competition began. See me after the game, she said. Make sure you speak to me before you go.  Am I in trouble, I laughed. Just make sure to see me before you leave, she iterated.

After being blitzed due to the fact that I and my partner were listed to play with the bloody A players, masters, grand masters and what have you, we knew there was no chance of a turkey. Or even the giblets. Or the bottle of wine, or the box of chocolates. There was only one thing for it. Hit the pub on the way home and de-stress/de-adrenalize/drown our sorrows. Before we left, I threaded my way between the tables and waited until the Grand Master addressed me. I have something for you, she said and with that, handed me -a Christmas cake.

Thank you so much, I said as I hugged and kissed this person I only know from coming up against her in the Bridge Club and coming off worst at every encounter. What kindness. It’s not iced, you’ll have to do that yourself, she said. The cake was large, square and heavy; a real, proper Christmas cake.  I thanked her again, and told her that I forgave her for annihilating me at the Bridge. J

How the drink and drama saga began...then...

Beforemath-How the drink and drama saga started…

There I was in my doctor’s surgery. The blood pressure was ok, how was I keeping? Well actually, Doc, I’m feeling very low, I’m not sleeping and I’m drinking far too much. I just can’t seem to get a grip on things. Can’t seem to climb back up the hole I’ve fallen down into like Alice in Wonderland... Foolish of me to mention the “Drink” word to a teetotaller General Practitioner who is a one woman “Stop Them All Drinking” Campaign. She makes AA look like party central…Anyone, in her view, who drank more than the stipulated maximum units per week was descending the slippery slope to moral turpitude and residence in the nearest gutter. Is there a Weight Watchers for drinkers? I asked. Yes, sez she, it’s called AA. And before I could say knife I was out the door clutching a prescription for anti-anxiety pills, sleeping pills and the ‘phone number of a counselling service.

I filled the prescription. Took it home. Opened the packet of sleeping pills and read through the possible side effects. They ranged from the merely embarrassing (diarrhoea) to the terrifying (hallucinations). In between came allergic reactions, nausea, weight gain, rashes and - I stopped reading. I’d need to take an anti-anxiety tab if I was going to read any further about the anti-anxiety meds. I tossed the tabs into the kitchen press beside the herbs and spices I don’t use either. Unless they’ve been eaten by partying mice seeking an illicit thrill, they’ll be there yet. Out of date. Or maybe drugs improve with age.

I digress. So - back I went to the doc a few weeks later. “Have you given up the alcohol?” “No Doctor I haven’t. I still don’t feel right. Ok,   I’ll see the counsellor you recommended this week.”  Two months later I rang the doorbell of the stone building. Sat in the foyer. There was a sign on the wall that read “Every day is a new beginning”. Beside it hung a garish painting of a fried egg which on closer inspection turned out to be a sunrise.  Along came my appointed counsellor to bring me to his room. As he led me along the corridor, more aphorisms – the Serenity Prayer – and the coup-de-grace; a plaque stating that this centre for the treatment of alcohol and other addictions had been opened by the Minister for Health in June two thousand and splash.. Dear God. That cute hoor of a doctor had me in rehab…

 Some nights I risked half a sleeping tablet, or if I had to be up early drank my coca with accompanying Xanax biscuit. I happened to mention the name of the sleepers to a friend who works in the Department of Justice, aka “The Courts”… I was floored when she told me that the anti-anxiety meds I had were very highly addictive and that the sleeping tabs were even more addictive plus – they were the drug of choice of addicts and fetched the highest price on the black market! That’s great, I said, I can sell them outside your court room and make a few bob- damned if I’m going to take them. The irony of it is not lost to me; Doctor Temperance in her wisdom had sent me to this place while at the same time prescribing the two most addictive drugs in the legal pharmacopeia…

So I talked to the counsellor whom I was convinced was an ex-priest although of course I couldn’t ask. Talked about this, that and the other, how I felt, how much I drank, blah blah blah. Then unexpectedly, the killer blow. I never saw it coming. He asked a very intimate question about my relationship. Blind sided, from nowhere the tears spouted; I shook with the sobs. Finally the truth forced itself to appear.  There was a large elephant in the room. And it was wearing a wedding ring.

Still racked with sobs as I was leaving, the counsellor told me to take it easy. Could I go home? No I couldn’t. I had to go to work. So that’s what I did. I went to work and tried to stem the tears at my desk. Fruitlessly.

The Domestic Goddess does Christmas....

The Domestic Goddess does Christmas…

I have no idea what happened. I followed the recipe although as I don’t possess weighing scales I had to do a bit of guesswork with the quantities. Beat the eggs milk and sugar together, folded in the sifted flour, sprinkled in the handful of raisins, handful of  sultanas and two packets of cherries (because I love sticky red cherries in a fruit cake),  bashed it all round in a big saucepan as I don’t seem to possess a mixing bowl either.…  Lots of whiskey was consumed by me and the cake which meant we were both well moisturized. Into the tin with the mixture, into the oven, time to relax in front of the fire with the remains of the whiskey and the Westminster Choir singing Christmas carols. Lovely.

Anyway to cut a long story lengthways, when the cake came out it had risen to a height of   approximately one inch, despite the weight of ingredients in it. It had the density of a Black Hole. All it needed was an event horizon.  So what, I said to myself. There’s good stuff in it.  I’ll ice it anyway.

So I plastered the rich fruity pancake with apricot jam. Then I rolled out the ready-pack of marzipan using a glass since there didn’t seem to be a rolling pin available. The cupboard was devoid of icing sugar as well so I used ordinary sugar- well it’s white; surely the only difference must be the granular density?

After draping the lovely yellow sweet stuff over the cake, I had to do a tricky bit of cutting and pasting- well it’s very awkward trying to fit a covering over a round cake. The marzipan kept falling off the sides of the cake; it just wouldn’t please me by sticking to the bloody apricot jam. I was beginning to get annoyed – in the end I hammered the bloody stuff into the cake with the back of a steel spoon.

Next; the white icing!  (Never be fobbed off with Dundee cake and the like; if someone offers you Christmas cake, it must have marzipan aka almond paste, white icing and be adorned with  at least one of the following; a fir tree, a reindeer or a Santa. Otherwise it’s just plain ordinary fruit cake.)

I followed the instructions to mix the contents of the packet with water and then spread it over the cake with a flat knife. Well, it sorted of poured over the cake actually. Very messy stuff. Very runny. Job finished, I left it on the kitchen counter to set, and went back to the Westminster Choirboys and the whiskey. Baking in a hot kitchen is thirsty work.

Half an hour later, back into the kitchen ready for the final touches; planting the fir tree, the Santa, the eight little reindeer and the sleigh full of toys onto the pristine whiteness…

A winter wonderland awaited me, but not the one I expected… The icing had flowed down over the cake all right. It had continued flowing down over the cake plate, the worktop and the floor.  Icicles of royal icing hung like stalactites from the worktop. I wouldn’t mind, but it STILL hadn’t set.

In the end I used a breadknife to prise the cake plate away from the worktop. The imploded cake supernova was transferred to the waiting plastic container. I stuck my little figurines into the top with all the force of a mountaineer abseiling down a crevasse, and hoped for the best.

I was back with the sofa, the whiskey and the choirboys when a thought struck me; maybe I’d better sample it. Just in case….

What can I say. It tasted as good as it looked.

Compliments of the season, if not compliments to the cook….

Discomfort Zone...

Discomfort Zone

Right. Back to the self-improvement. Disciple. Focus.

I removed self-help book #11 from its spot holding up the offside leg of the bedside table. 3 deep breaths, Centre yourself. Read and absorb.

Task 1# Move out of your comfort zone. Think of something that appeals to you, that you might dream of but which you’d never actually attempt – and do it.

Ok. I like fun and laughter – and company. I love comedy. I admire people who can make other people laugh. What would bring me right out of my comfort zone- stand up comedy? Right. That’s what I need to do.

What have I got to lose? Face, that’s what. A lot of it if I fall flat on it. Stilll- people say my stories are funny. Why not try to perform them? Yes why not. If it works, it’ll be great. If it doesn’t well I'll have learned something. That I’m not that funny. Suppose I freeze….No I couldn’t do it. Yes I could try it. Re-write some of my stories for performance? Work out a little comedy routine? Yes. No. Maybe.

THE ANNUAL DOGS DINNER

I’m talking to a human dynamo, a go-getter, someone who’s not afraid to express opinions/do things/be out there. I confide my desire to step out of my box, have a go at it, how afraid I’m am of making a fool of myself. Go for it, she says. You’ll regret it if you don’t try…

Please help yourself to some self-help...

Please help your self to some self-help…

Please help your self to some self-help-I’m giving it away free…

Seven of my self-help/improvement/enlightenment books are doing a terrific job- holding up my bedside lamp. The eighth is giving stalwart service as a coaster for the bloody camomile tea. To add insult to injury, it was suggested that I save the cold camomile tea bags and use them as eye masks. Well they are organic…?!

I feel as though I am standing facing a blank wall with my nose nearly touching it. I can’t magically spirit myself through the wall, I can’t knock it down and there seems to be no way round it. Life shouldn’t be like this; waiting for something to happen, even when that something is specific, and even more so if it’s something that is surrounded by mists of fear.

All the affirmations and admonitions to be patient, to relax and allow life to unfold/evolve/ (or bloody evaporate at this rate) are falling on impatient ears.

My determination to create a CV and take a small step into the world of theatre has fallen by the wayside.  My note to self to finish the play I started a few years ago (about a wedding, there’s a surprise) and maybe even try to put the damn thing on somewhere, have subsided in a stew of apathy – or more truly endemic lack of confidence. Okay, back in the saddle – or rather back on the yoga mat- and gallop across fields of meditation, mindfulness and being in the bloody moment. Again, it strikes me that it’s not so much that  my mind is a machine that  always plays the same  looped tape , but a  permanent   minstrel wandering the fields with the fairies half the time and the other half  wondering when the next bottle of wine and bar of chocolate will be along.

Good MORNING! Dahhlings!

GOOD MORNING DAHHLINGS!!

Shakespearean Saturday

Fell out of bed at 7. On to the early bus, feeling and looking like a wreck who’d spent the last 3 days fasting, being bombarded with gamma rays  and running out of hospitals in a backless paper gown..  Of course I was far too early for the Workshop. (I’m pathologically prompt). Into a nearby “cool” café (never been there before, turns out that “cool”=expensive) for a banana and café latte. Then back to the hotel to register along with the other 49 wannabees sorry participants, most of whom hovered around the teen/early 20s mark and many of whom also seemed to know each other.

So; First exercise; We had to stand up in front of the class, introduce ourselves and tell one thing about ourselves that would surprise every else. Really, that one could backfire! Then onwards to a day filled with vocal exercises, pretending to be a tiger or an elephant, walking around the room en masse while all shouting gobbledygook, playing games…

Lunch couldn’t come quickly enough. Out the door and in for a burger with 2 other participants; a nice woman who was already big into musicals – she sang in a choir. The other lunch companion was apparently some sort of movie extra –and psychopath…. I nearly ended up feeling sorry for her internet acquired dating partners, about whom we learned far too much. If I ever meet a guy called John from Tipperary who suggests – never mind.

During the course of a very long afternoon we had to read aloud, form threesomes and enact improvised plays. It became apparent that the definition of “good sight reading skills” was open to interpretation. There was a huge difference in abilities and those differences were not consummate with confidence.  Modesty forbids...  ah to hell with modesty. I was brilliant. “Warm”. “Funny”. Engaging”. “Authentic”. Thus was I described. Thin, hungry, demented I’d have said. Legend has it that really good actors find the core of character in themselves. Makes sense. After all, if you think you’re someone else, you’re probably in need of psychiatric attention.

Staggered off the bus bone tired, with only enough energy left to consume a Chinese takeaway and a bottle of wine before I hit the bed in a most dramatic fashion.

Stage-struck Sunday

Thank God this session didn’t start till 10am.

Today we learned how to do up CVs, introduce ourselves, and the importance of a really good show reel. More improv. More jumping around the room doing mad stuff. Then we were individually filmed speaking to camera, and then we had to enact a scene with another person who of course tried to hog the camera and speaking time…

At the end of the day, we all swore undying love to each other and I passed a sheet of paper round (I know, I know) with the promise of circulating a list of our ‘phone numbers/email addresses. Of course we were all going to go home and immediately start researching speeches for our show reels…and typing up CVs making sure to include the fact that we could skydive or ride bulls or do a great Transylvanian accent…Then we’d be ready to start persecuting sorry contacting agents with our thespian skills…

 I don’t know if I have the energy to be a drama queen – although there is a certain gentleman who’d say I deserve an Oscar for some performances…

Patience...patience...

Patience is a virtue.

Patience is a virtue…I possess very little of. The days and months are flying by. It’s now late summer or rather late what-passed-for-summer. I’d been told it could all be done by autumn, possibly a court hearing in October. Now autumn is closing in and the documentation is still not completed, never mind a date set.  It’s hard, living in limbo and all the while wishing and hoping and wondering if you’re doing the right thing. If a thing is the right thing to do, why is it so hard to do it?

Plus; the sums aren’t adding up. (Surely it would be more appropriate to say; minus; the sums aren’t adding up?). If the house is sold for x, it will take a lot more than half an x to buy another one. Unless, of course, I take a sudden fancy to living in a Mongolian yurt. But since I hate camping (tried it once, didn’t like it) it’s highly unlikely that I’ll take to life under canvas or yak skin now. Courage, Môn brave!  Today’s affirmation is “All is well. There is more right than there is wrong”.  Hello? Hardly one hundred percent positive.

 I’ve had a break of a week away but I’m still bone tired. Plough on. Get up, dress up, and show up. Hit the marks. Go to work. Go to evening class. Go to the cinema. Here’s the thing; I always loved films but now I find thoughts intruding even as I sit in a darkened cinema watching a film and eating jelly babies. Unbidden, thoughts pop up in my brain like jack-in-the boxes. Same things over and over again.

This week’s task; find something that I’ve always wanted to do but never had the courage or confidence to, and go for it. So I’ve signed on for a weekend “Acting Boot Camp”   Voice, movement, agents, CVs, and that entire sort of theatrical thing. What’s more it’s for serious actors, not just people who want to be extras on “Game of Thrones”.  Then I can be officially a drama queen.

Wednesday; A visit to a different kind of theatre – a hospital theatre. I am required to fast from midday Tuesday and have not even a drink of water from midnight. Into the hospital at 7.30 a.m. on Wednesday half asleep and parched. By 7.30 p.m. I have a raging headache. Before they take me to theatre at a quarter to eight in the evening, they have to put me on a drip because I’m completely dehydrated… 

I’m in my tracksuit ready to go home and eat the doors off the fridge when the doctor tells me he wants me to have a different test on Thursday. Which involves another fast. Oh. Ok doctor.

Thursday 9 a m. “It won’t be long now, you’ll be seen to soon” said the nurse At 10 am in I go, under the scanner. Suddenly a very loud alarm goes off. Nothing to do with me, luckily. It’s the hospital fire alarm. So up I have to get off the scanner bed, and walk to the designated assembly zone in a paper hospital gown… OMG

False alarm. Back in again. This time all goes smoothly.  The two-days-thinner me is now back in the tracksuit and fantasising about a Full Irish Breakfast. But the consultant has other plans.

Back in on the Friday, fasting again…

Home, feeling like the wreck of the Hesperus, but fine, for which I give thanks. The consultant puts the huge weight loss down to “stress”.   J

Tomorrow, the theatricals. Darling!

Family Pets...

There seems to be a general assumption that a family pet must have 4 legs and a great deal of fur. That’s not true. People keep lizards, snakes and tarantulas, even if you can’t take any of those for a walk. Or even bury your face in their fur. Well, you’d just squash the tarantula, wouldn’t you. As for the reptiles; you’d just exfoliate your skin, and not in a good way.

I find that people look askance at me when I say yes, I have 2 pets; they’re goldfish. They live in a garden pond. I frequently sit in the garden and talk to them. They don’t answer, but then neither does God when I talk to Him. Well not directly. Neither do the fish.

The generic name of my pets is “The Goldies”. I christened them Porgy and Bess. They‘re Olympic Gold Medallists in synchronized swimming, up and down they go, always in unison. So devoted are they to each other, that when they rest, they cross their tails. How lovely it is to sit and watch them holding hands, or rather holding fins.

Of course I don’t know whether they’re boy and girl, girl x 2 or boy x 2. So far there have been no baby Goldies, but then the last 6 summers have been very cool.

I hope they’re not bored in the pond, but then again as they allegedly only have a 30 second attention span, probably every minute they’re finding something new to look at, or even falling in love all over again.

One day I thought I’d lost them; I glanced out the kitchen window as I was cooking dinner and was horrified to see a huge heron standing on the hedge gazing down at the pond. I chased him away, but the pond seemed empty. I thought he’d gotten them and I was broken hearted. Three days later they surfaced. They must have been terrified to stay down so long.  Some instinct unrelated to their attention span had kept them safe.

Of course, yes, it would be nice to be able to bring them places, but unless I can get hold of miniature aqualungs and strap then to a skateboard it’s not really practical. So unlike dog lovers who regularly end up chatting to strangers in the street, you don’t really get a social element with the Goldies. You never end up saying”I met someone interesting walking the fish today”. Although; the other evening, as I waited for my Chinese takeaway, I chatted to the goldfish in the tank on the restaurant counter. With that, the Chinese man behind the counter whipped out his Smartphone and showed me videos of his own fish swimming in a large aquarium in his home. I have no idea what type of fish they were, as I don’t speak Mandarin. Of course I was very complimentary – well if someone showed you photos of their children, you’d wouldn’t say “That’s a very quare looking child”, now would you.  Needless to say, I felt obliged to whip out my antique Nokia and show him a photo of a black plastic garden pond with two small yellow blurs in it. The picture doesn’t do them justice; they’re 6 inches from nose to tailfin and built like Czechoslovakian body builders. And not from steroids I might add.

As I say, people look askance when you say your beloved pets are piscine. Sometimes you don’t need something that will curl up on your bed or bark at strangers. Sometimes you just need restful companions who will hear your secrets in silence.

BAck in the groove...

Back in the Groove

I tell you, all this spiritual self improvement would wear you out. Today I have to say yes to the Universe. Nod my head up and down and say yes. So the commute is spent nodding yes. I’m at my desk nodding yes. By lunchtime I’ve a crick in my neck and my shoulders are tight.  My mind is wandering away from work and all round the houses of whats, ifs and ands. It’s enough to drive you to drink. Stop! Mindfulness, Ghráinneog! Place all unpleasant thoughts in File 13 and shred. Mindfulness to the present, which is lunch. Pay attention to drinking the tea. Bite of the ham sandwich. Savour the flavour. Drat. There’s no fecking mustard on it.

“WHEN I LOOK IN THE MIRROR I DON’T EXPECT TO SEE THE SAME PERSON. THE PERSON IN THE MIRROR IS THE OPPOSITE TO ME, THE INVERSE, AND EVERY MORNING…”  ?

So I decided to do what an extremely successful and famous entrepreneur does… he stands in front of the mirror first thing every morning and tells himself he’s wonderful. Amazing Brilliant. Sexy. Whatever you’re having yourself. So that’s what I’m going to do. Every morning.  Also the Tibetan Rituals the yoga teacher showed me. The whirling like a dervish. The camel pose. The plank and down dog combo, I think comes next.  The flinging your legs up over your head. He swears they change your life. Well that’ll be fun. Better not do those in front of the bedroom window. The neighbours will think I’ve finally gone round the twist. Oh yeah. In order to do all this good morning stuff, you’d want not to have a hangover. That might be the trickiest part….

Day 4;goodbye to the mountain

Up at 3.45 am again and not feeling wrecked! Working hard at acquiring serenity and spiritual whatever.

Later in the morning, I made my way, on my own, up to the Cross. Heard noises as if something were coming up the path after me. Alone on the mountain, my heart was in my throat. Indeed, something was coming up the path after me- two somethings. A pony and a donkey. The donkey was in pitiful condition. His hooves were so overgrown that he could barely walk. The poor thing was in need of urgent veterinary attention.  (Later enquiries ascertained that the mountain and any animals thereon belonged to a local woman with a reputation for being difficult.)

I made my way down to the Guesthouse, packed and tidied up in preparation for an early afternoon departure. I was leaving feeling not very different to when I had arrived. I had met some very interesting people (to say the least!) and gained huge respect for the strength of belief that kept this community of monks in this life day after day, year after year.

Final task; donation envelope to be filled. The advice given was to donate whatever you would pay for Bed and Breakfast in an ordinary guesthouse. Or less - whatever you could afford. I gave what I thought a hotel would cost; I thought it the least I could do in return for the experience I’d had. I also added a note requesting the Brothers to please, please, look for the little donkey and have it attended to. I’d have made reference to the little donkey of Bethlehem if I’d thought it would strengthen my plea.

Goodbyes said and envelope slipped into the Guest master’s post-box, I was heading out of the secret garden when I heard my name being called. The Guestmaster was hurrying down the path, robes flapping. Very taken aback, I wondered what could be wrong.  Had I not left enough money for my stay? Had he taken offence at my requesting help for the poor creature on the mountain? This is what he said when he caught up with me: “I couldn’t let you leave without complimenting you on the state you left your room in. It was spotless. Thank You. You left me very little to do.” 

Hello? The fact that the elderly Brother practically ran down the garden to thank me, begs the question; what state do other guests leave their accommodation in? Are they partying and trashing the rooms? Perhaps he finds rooms lined with tinfoil tacked to the walls in order to keep the mind readers away? The thought of him having to shovel piles of anti-demon salt away from the doorsteps had me in convulsions of unseemly laughter.

My four days and nights had not been silent, quiet, or enclosed, as expected. On the contrary, they’d been action packed. I’d climbed, gotten up at 3.45 am, had chocolate cake for breakfast with a monk, met people who talked in tongues and made day trips to castles and the seaside. And that wasn’t the half of it.

I left the monastery and drove home, singing along to the Gregorian chant cd, until I took a wrong turning. After that, only The Eagles could help me fly along when I eventually got back on track.

Day 3 at the Monkery...

Day 3 at the Monastery; the Silent Chapel

When the bells rang at 3.45 am, I staggered up out of the bed and dressed in the warmest clothes I’d brought; i.e., ALL the clothes I’d brought.  A tee-shirt under a sweater under a fleece. Jeans, socks and trainers.  Quietly I unlocked the door and peered out into the corridor. Empty. Good! Off I ran on silent feet through dimly lit corridors and down staircases to the unlocked door in the wall. Into a tiny chapel where the only light came from still-burning candles now flickering down to their wicks. On into the main church building, where only the main lights over the nave gave illumination. The church was very cold. There were just two of us in the pews. The monks filed into individual choir stalls and turned on little reading lights attached to the lecterns. The praising of God began.  My new friend Henry of the Levitation Lessons sat beside me, whispering explanations of the order and parts to the singing.  As it ended and the monks filed out of the church, dawn was beginning to light the stained glass windows of the apse. The ceremony had been beautiful. Praise and thanks for a new day. Grand. Now I could flit back to bed. Oh no I couldn’t! It seemed Henry and I were going to hear Mass.  Apparently a very elderly monk who liked to do his own thing, said Mass after the first prayers of the day, the Invitatory Prayers I’d just witnessed. So back in the small chapel, the two of us sat in the light of flickering candles and waited for the swish of robes…

                                                                                                                

After the Mass (attendance; 2), breakfast was chocolate cake and tea in the guesthouse kitchen. The Maverick Monk who said his own Mass in the chapel came. So there I was at 5.30 in the morning eating chocolate cake with a monk and a fellow guest. Let’s just say, I learned a lot about the monkly life. It was daylight when I fell into the bed, full of calmness, spirituality, and chocolate cake. Still hadn’t sorted out my head, but, well, there was time yet.

Later in the day I brought my book to the Summer House. Ordered myself to sit quietly and just read. Be spiritual. Reflect. Breathe deeply.  What I didn’t know until I entered the pretty little building was that the Summer House was the Smoking House, and not for kippers or salmon. It reeked. I sat on the verandah. Still coughed – but this was due to the fact that two smokers had taken up residence on the bench beside me….have people no consideration? The damn cottage was already ruined, why not just go in there for a puff and leave the outdoor benches for non-smokers?  Stop... I’m here to learn Patience. Charity. Unselfishness….  Feeling very impatient and very uncharitable, I made a beeline for to the car and took off so impatiently that I practically did a hand brake turn. Another spiritual exam failed! I won’t be getting canonised any time soon. Ah, but there was compensation for my failure;  fish and chips by the seaside.

The bells...the bells..

DAY 2 at the Monkery

Ah the bells, the bells… They rang at 3.45am for the first prayers at 4am. Not that I had slept much. Someone, somewhere, was snoring their horrible head off. Despite earmuffs and exhaustion, the noise of the bells woke me good and proper. In fact, I thought there was a good chance that the residents of the local cemetery had been woken up as well…

Did I want to get up and flit through the Guesthouse, through the secret door, across the silent chapel, along the cloister and into the big chapel for the 4 am prayers? No I did not. I wanted the bells to stop, I wanted the snoring to stop and I wanted to sleep.

Eventually I dozed off, to be woken by the next Carillion heralding the 8am prayer and chanting. I gave in and got up. Sat in the church with my head on my arms, trying not to fall asleep - and out of the hard wooden pew. All I wanted to do was go back to bed.  As soon as the religious observances and breakfast were over, that’s exactly what I was going to do. The reflection, meditation and whatever you’re having yourself would have to wait till I was less tired and less damn cranky.

Breakfast was a buffet affair. Jugs of orange juice and packets of cereal from which you helped yourself, were then followed by heaps of bread, butter and jam and gallons of tea. Like the Dormouse in Alice in Wonderland, I was in danger of falling asleep with my head stuck in a teapot. Breakfast conversation proved to be as interesting as the previous night’s supper conversation; this time it was the likelihood of aliens as well as foreign governments watching us, and whether tinfoil was sufficient to keep their alpha waves out of our brains so we didn’t inadvertently get brainwashed… A very nice man took an  interest in me; he offered to sit with me in church and explain all about the psalms, chanting, and so on. He also said he was going to give levitation lessons in the pretty Summer House on the lawn. “Isn’t there a health and safety issue there?” I said. “Shouldn’t crash helmets be obligatory in case people hit their heads off the ceiling?”

So…dishes handed back in through the serving hatch and table wiped, I headed for the bed.  I stayed there till lunchtime alternately dozing and reading “When things fall apart” – the accompanying book recommended to me by the person who had recommended I come to the monastery.

I got up in time for dinner served at lunchtime; hearty vegetable soup, heaped plates of potatoes fresh out of the ground with bits of clay still sticking to them here and there, bowls of steaming cabbage freshly picked and boiled, and dinner plates holding 2 thick slices of bacon followed each other out of the hatch. Delicious. Followed by home made apple pie and lumpy custard, just like you’d make at home. Well, I would. Some people’s custard isn’t lumpy. Their lives probably aren’t lumpy either.

Afterwards I sat in the garden. Too antsy to stay there long, I hopped in the car and went for a drive. So much for sitting in the tranquil grounds and meditating. I went to the seaside instead. Then I did a tour of a castle. Then I went to an Art Exhibition. Then I stopped in a village and bought sweets. Then I went back to the monastery, arriving just in time for the 4 pm session.

The sun streamed through stained glass windows. The monks chanted, their voices rising and falling. My new friend sat close beside me, sharing his Psalter and explaining what each section of plain chant signified. I left the church feeling very peaceful.

All the guests walked back to the Guesthouse Kitchen for a cup of afternoon tea. Somehow things ended up in a heated discussion. Somehow I ended up in the middle of it. I couldn’t sit there and hear people deny that child abuse had gone on in church-run schools. I couldn’t listen to them state that victims were only people looking for a way to get money. I had to speak up.

I found myself in a minority of one. Luckily the conversation changed to people who can talk in tongues. (As opposed to with tongues in the normal way of things?) Some of the guests had witnessed such happenings. More stuff about spirits and demons! I was getting very spooked. My newfound but short-lived serenity shredded along with my nerves.  What did my new and learned friend and the young priest with the penchant for ballet pumps think?  They were of the opinion that you had to invite such bad things in. So I was safe, apart from the fact that I was beginning to think I was surrounded by lunatics. And I’d been worried about coping with 4 days of silence and retreat from the world…Things were getting more bizarre by the minute.

My new friend asked for my room number. He wished to escort me to the 4am session next morning…apparently it was something special to be part of… As a child I’d gone to the 6am Christmas Mass with my father. I wasn’t mad about that either. But yes, it certainly would be special for me to be getting up at 3.45 am.  I’d only ever gone to bed at that hour and then only after a night out on the tiles.

So…No thank you, I said, the bells will wake me (nothing surer) and I’ll fly along the corridors and make my way to the chapel myself. (Thinking; if I can manage to rouse myself). 

I went to bed, having double checked the door and windows locks. If I‘d had salt I might well have sprinkled it on the doorstep...

The Monkery and Me...

I drove away from Dublin listening to a CD of Gregorian chant in order to get myself in the mood for where I was going. Problem is, that kind of stuff is very hard to sing along to and it doesn’t shorten the journey the way a CD of The Eagles or U2 will. After taking 3 wrong turns (it’s difficult to drive and read a page of directions lying on the passenger seat at the same time) I arrived in time to hear the bells for 4 pm prayer. So I rocked up for my first experience of chanting and prayers. Very peaceful. I could feel the calmness already.

Next - tea in the Guest Refectory. The evening meal was “Tea”. Apparently “Dinner” was served at 1 pm. Heaps of scrambled eggs and doorstep slices of bread and butter to be washed down with pots of tea were handed out through a serving hatch. You were expected to help tidy up but not wash up. As someone who would normally have dinner in the evening and who hadn’t eaten since breakfast, I was very hungry. I’d brought fruit and water but nothing else. I ate the scrambled egg while covertly observing the other guests; a motley crew of lay and religious, men and women, 30+ age group? Having tidied up and handed all the plates and cutlery back through the hatch to the religious washer-uppers, I made my way to the Guest House.

 I had been given a key by the male Receptionist and pointed in the direction of a high wall behind the church. There was a door in the wall. I turned the key and entered - a secret garden! A white robed, elderly, clerical Brother came down the path. He greeted me very warmly and escorted me into the Guest House. Here was the communal kitchen. Here was the internal door to the church, to be used for the night time and 4 am ceremonies. Upstairs we went – here was my room. Back down. Rules; the Guesthouse door was locked each night at 9pm. Here was the Common Room where one could sit and read etc.

 My room was lovely and more importantly, ensuite. So far so good. Ok! Here I am- ready for 4 days of silence, prayer and reflection. As long as I didn’t meet with any misogyny – I’d be out the door if there was any of that in this house of men. The Catholic Church is not known for its pro-women stance- the Hierarchy is a Men’s Club. But I was here to spend time in silence and reflection on my life and where I was going, not where anyone else or any institution was headed.

Down in the Common Room, men and women guests chatted. Where was I from? Was I a regular visitor? I explained that no, I’d never been here before. Never stayed in any place like this. A lady asked if I’d like to join her in climbing the hill, going for a walk, visiting The Cross. I’d love to, I said. Another guest joined us and up we 3 went, past the gardens, past the  fields, past streams and paths, up and up through woodland. After 25 gasping minutes I reached the top of a hill where I flopped down at the base of a concrete Jesus. The view was beautiful…a pastoral scene reminiscent of those 19^th paintings of farmland and gently undulating hills bathed in golden evening sunlight.

The older woman chatted away. She had children and grandchildren. Was I married? Had I children? No, I said. But I had nieces and nephews. In fact, yesterday I’d gone to see the new Harry Potter film with my youngest niece. And with that, I unleashed a torrent. The Harry Potter films were satanic. The Harry Potter books were satanic. No, no, I argued gently; like Lord of the Rings, they show the triumph of good over evil, after much suffering and conflict. That’s a good moral tale for children. Apparently not so. Lord of the Rings was satanic as well. While babysitting her grandson, she was afraid demons would come out of the Harry Potter books and the Lord of the Rings DVDs in the child’s bedroom. So she’d taken the whole lot of books and DVDs into the garden, poured nail polish over them and set fire to them. Her son wasn’t pleased with her. He wouldn’t let her babysit any more. But she’d do it again. You couldn’t be too careful. There were bad spirits everywhere. Sprinkling salt on the doorstep would keep them out of your house. That’s what she did to keep the demon alcohol out of her house. 

The other lady nodded agreement with a lot of that, although she drew the line at burning children’s books. She was of the opinion that it wasn’t just spirits you had to look out for.  There was technology that meant our conversation could be heard through our mobile ‘phones, even if they were switched off.   Spy agencies had it. The good thing was, they could be outwitted with tinfoil…but the aliens couldn’t…

I sat on the concrete plinth of the statue wondering if I should make a dash for my car before the Guesthouse door was locked and the monastery gates closed. I’d have to get my stuff and the car keys from my room first. How long would it take…?

Just then, the church bells rang the call to the last prayers of the day. It was my excuse to leg it. I flew down the paths faster than an alien could fly- or so I hoped.

In the church I said all sorts of prayers I’d never said before – including prayers for safety from demons and spy agencies… But...after prayers, back in the Common Room, people made tea. Life shrunk back to normality. Tea. Biscuits. Chit chat. Ordinary talk. I relaxed a bit.

 I was standing at the kitchen sink washing my teacup when a smiling monk came into the room. (The ordained monks don’t usually enter the Guesthouse, according to what I was told). This one made a beeline straight for me. “Are you the Rose of Tralee?” he asked. “What?” I said, bewildered. “Are you the Rose of Tralee? We heard there was a lady who was a Rose of Tralee staying, and we thought it must be you”. “No, I’m not the Rose of Tralee, Father” I said, even more bewildered. “Oh, well, goodnight” he said, turned on his heel and left.  Hello? What was going on? The enclosed monks must have seen the guests arriving and had decided “The Rose” had to be me. Which was very flattering in a way. But…gossip in the cloister?  Funny to think of them behind closed doors wondering who the most likely candidate for Rose of Tralee was…Events were getting more bizarre by the minute.

A young secular  priest guest sat at the table beside me. I really like your shoes, he said. What type of shoes are they? They’re called ballet pumps, Father, I said. Oh, do you do ballet?  No, I replied. It’s just what they’re called…

I said goodnight, went up to my bedroom, checked the door was securely locked (twice) and closed and locked the windows for good measure. I hadn’t been in the place six hours…and I’d booked myself in for 4 days of this…stone cold sober…

The days of wine and cocoa...

Weeks 14 to 16

The days of wine and cocoa…

Weeks have passed in a haze of work, tears and drink.   Severe and frequent attacks of the Poor-me’s, If-only’s and Why-couldn’t-he’s were driving me mad. Keeping mindful and repeating affirmations, going to the gym and doing the “right things” weren’t cutting it. I added lunchtime meditations to the list of practices. So now I was starting the morning with hot water and lemon, whilst hot-penning 3 pages of whatever gobbledegook came out of my head. Trying to get the required 3 pages done I found myself  repeating things over and over again while trying to keep thoughts of breakfast and the journey to work and this and that and the other at bay.   Then positive vocalisations in the car on the way to work. (You get some strange looks at traffic lights.)  Meditation at lunchtime. (My colleagues took to eating lunch elsewhere). Then the gym on the way home. Dinner, talk to the fish, do the chores, go for a walk, have a chat. All the time wondering how things will work out. Then distraction with yoga, evening class, film on television, cheese and onion crisps, supper and wine, camomile tea and cocoa.

The bad feelings just wouldn’t dissolve in alcohol. No matter how hard I tried, and I tried hard. Climbing inside a bottle and hoping the world outside will look warm and fuzzy doesn’t work for long. Maybe if you could climb back into the womb you could make the world go away but otherwise you can’t.  You just end up in the morning dissolving painkillers in water, in order to make the hangover go away.

Solicitor Me wrote to say Document XYZ hadn’t been received back. Solicitor Him would be written to, as The Respondent was obviously dragging his heels in signing it and returning it to Solicitor Him so that Solicitor Him could then forward it to Solicitor Me.  This round the houses stuff drives me round the bend. So I asked The Respondent out straight, since he was sitting across the room from me; he had signed the document and returned it to Solicitor Him weeks previously. Back on the telephone to Solicitor Me to follow up… It seems he HAD done it weeks ago, and Solicitor Him’s  secretary had placed it straight into a file…So more legal telephone calls, emails etc. racking up the charges even though it was the fault of neither of us…

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

A group of us were sitting chatting at a wedding. “I need a break, a quiet place where I can just rest and think” I said. “But where can I go to get away from radio, TV, internet, noise, ‘phones, traffic, everything?  Apart from the moon?”

“I know the ideal place”, a friend of a friend said. He recommended a monastery in the country. “I go every year” he said. “Plus, I’ve brought each of my kids there for a few days before they sat their exams.”

I knew of the place. I knew they took women guests as well as men and that it was a safe place I could go to on my own. That night I googled it and emailed the Guestmaster asking if I could stay 4 nights, any time after 19^th July. He replied that certainly I could stay 4 nights, why didn’t I come and stay from the 14^th to the 18^th July?  Eventually we settled on an arrival date of 21^st.

I could now look forward to a quiet time of rest and reflection in a place with no distractions of any kind. Or so I thought.