tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28361124863249769662024-03-05T23:47:52.857+00:00Ladybird World MotherLadybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.comBlogger230125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-82411886578756140172021-09-13T21:37:00.000+01:002021-09-13T21:37:22.000+01:00Radiotherapy Day 15And it's all over! The happiness is crazy and the thankfulness is huge.<br />
Went down with Husband, picking up Daughter on the way.<br />
Beautiful, beautiful morning. Blue sea, light dancing off the water.<br />
Arrived twenty minutes early.<br />
Handed over a box of Celebrations to my chums John and David in reception.<br />
They were delighted, and twinkled at me in their gorgeous way.<br />
Thank you! they said. And we exchanged lots of silliness, before Daughter and I went round the corner to B1. For the last time!<br />
Husband parked the car, and came and joined us.<br />
B1 machine is on time today. Joy.<br />
I'm called in.<br />
The nurses are cheerful, kind and lovely as ever.<br />
It's your last one! they say.<br />
I know! I laugh. Can't believe it.<br />
Up I hop on the bed.<br />
Vicky looks at my boob. I'm so used to this now I don't even notice.<br />
See that prickly heat? she says. Take piriton. Especially before bed. It will make it itch less.<br />
Great idea! I say. And make a mental note to do just that.<br />
There's a student nurse there today. She smiles down at me.<br />
Sorry, she says, I'm learning.<br />
I tell her I'm so glad she's there. They pull me around and up and down. There's a lot of teaching going on, but it's so professionally done, I hardly notice.<br />
Finally they are done.<br />
I have an itch on my forehead. It's ferocious! One of the nurses comes near me again, and I ask her to scratch it for me. Oh, the relief!<br />
And I'm left alone for the last time.<br />
This time I am approaching the end of a marathon. I'm being lifted by hundreds of people, and we slowly surge towards the finishing line.<br />
These are all the people who have been praying for you, says Father God. They wanted to carry you over the finishing line!<br />
I lie there, smiling. Even if there is another persistent itch on my forehead that I can't wait to scratch again.<br />
The nurses come back in.<br />
You're all done! they say. And haul me up for the last time.<br />
Do up my poppers on my robe.<br />
And I get changed, leaving the robe hanging up in the cubicle, all ready for someone else. God BLESS that person.<br />
And hand over another box of Celebrations to the nurses, along with a card and a heartfelt message of gratitude in it, for them all.<br />
And we leave, in the sunshine, waving to John and David on our way out.<br />
And we go to Marmalade, probably the best cafe in the world, which just so happens to be down the road. And I have a latte and a salmon and avocado bagel, Daughter has a boiled egg with soldiers, and Husband has a BLT.<br />
So happy. Thank you, God!<br />
<br />Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-76214958324778592502021-09-13T21:35:00.002+01:002021-09-13T21:35:58.521+01:00Radiotherapy Day 14Today we were rung up as we were about to have lunch (outside! in the sun!) to say that there was such a queue in the radiotherapy waiting room that they were asking people to come later.<br />
Righto, said Husband.<br />
Will they ring Terry? I asked. We are giving Terry, our lovely friend and neighbour, a lift. She's doing her radiotherapy straight after I do mine.<br />
Yes, said Husband.<br />
Terry turned up at 2.30 for her lift to radiotherapy. It turned out that all her phone lines are down as BT are doing exciting things with broadband.<br />
Oh, dear, we all said. And I rang the radiotherapy reception team who said there was an hour delay. Double that and put bells on it, I thought.<br />
So Husband sportingly offered to take Terry down now.<br />
I stay at home and decide to drive myself down for my 6pm appointment.<br />
Husband and Terry ring at 5.30 to say I should get there for 6-6.15. They are leaving to go in the opposite direction.<br />
Which I do. On the button.<br />
I'm delighted to see that I don't need a parking permit after 6. Hooray!<br />
And I wander down the corridor, tell the receptionist I'm here.<br />
Thank you, darling, she says.<br />
And I wait in B1 for the penultimate time.<br />
No sooner have I got my lap top up and fired up the NHS wifi than I'm called in.<br />
I'm so sorry you've had such a long wait, says the nurse, looking worriedly at me.<br />
Don't worry, I say cheerfully. I only just got here!<br />
Oh, she says with a relieved smile. That's good!<br />
And I change. Only one more to go.<br />
As I lie on the bed today I have a picture of Father God, waiting at the end of a running track. There are 9 lines down the field, and I am in Row 5. I run towards him, racing down the track. He is waiting at the end, arms outstretched, his face wreathed in a smile.<br />
Then, he walks down the track towards me.<br />
What?! I'm in a race! He can't do that!<br />
But he does. He stops the race. Everyone is frozen in time. Except him and me.<br />
What have you done? I ask.<br />
Stopped the world, he smiles. And we sit by the side of the track.<br />
And I realise he's stopped the entire universe as well. Everything, just for me!<br />
We're back, say the nurses.<br />
And I reluctantly get up. Smiling.<br />
The journey home is easy and traffic free.<br />
And on my return back, I pick branches of twisted willow for our Easter tree.<br />
And hang my eggs and chicks on it. Place it next to a bowl of yellow tulips bought by my mother.<br />
Thank you, Father God. Thank you.<br />
<br />Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-34276250184558141292021-09-13T21:34:00.000+01:002021-09-13T21:34:10.176+01:00Radiotherapy Day 13Today Daughter took me down. She is on her Easter break from Uni. We zoomed down in Middle Son's car, because Daughter and Middle Son have swapped cars for the week. Daughter is now driving ancient Yaris, inherited from my mother.<br />
We fly into Brighton, the seafront calm, mist still hovering.<br />
The men in reception are cheery as ever.<br />
You want ANOTHER parking permit? they twinkle. We've run out.<br />
No! I say, horrified.<br />
Only joking, they laugh. And write out yet another one for me.<br />
I introduce them to Daughter. We are all smiles. I love this place!<br />
We go to the waiting room. Sit opposite the knitting today. Someone is knitting.<br />
You're knitting! I say, impressed.<br />
The woman pauses and smiles.<br />
I've just learned how to knit sitting here, she says. My mum has taught me. See! Good things have come out of this!<br />
We chortle together. I show her the Very Small Square that I knitted on Monday. Someone has carried it on. It now resembles a Very Small Scarf for a Very Small Rodent. Purple.<br />
The woman giggles.<br />
We wondered what that was all about, she says.<br />
Out comes a man, looking very cheery. He's with his grandson. The woman offers to take him home when her mum comes out. He refuses very politely, and says that the bus is fine. And he's off, in a flurry of goodbyes and smiles.<br />
Do you know him? I ask.<br />
No! she says. It was just that he was so breathless when he arrived. He's got lung cancer.<br />
We make sympathetic noises. We do that a lot here.<br />
What about your mum? I ask.<br />
The woman tells me about her mum. It seems that she has the same as me, with 3 weeks of RT. Finishing tomorrow!<br />
Hooray, we say.<br />
When I go in, I ask Daughter to time me. I could swear it takes about 8 minutes.<br />
I change and wait, sitting in the little cubicle. Down the corridor comes the woman's mum. She looks lovely.<br />
Hello, I say. I've been chatting with your daughter. She's knitting!<br />
Oh, says the lady. She's wonderful.<br />
She is, I say. And we smile.<br />
I'm called in, and laugh as another nurse leaps out to call me in as well.<br />
Wow, you're like a gazelle, I say. She is delighted to be called a gazelle, and does some 'leaping like a gazelle' about the room. We laugh and I step up onto the bed.<br />
This time as they leave the room, I feel Jesus hovering above me. He is on his cross, facing me, inches from my face. Once again, he takes the rays for me. The cross is exactly in the place where the rays are going. How generous and good he is. How amazing that he continues to take away my pain and sickness. How I love him.<br />
We're back again! says the nurse. And helps me with my robe. I hop off the bed, and call goodbye as I leave.<br />
That took 14 minutes, says Daughter.<br />
14?! I say. It seemed like 5!<br />
And we head off home, getting some petrol from Tesco, and chatting about Made in Chelsea.<br />
I simply love my daughter.<br />
And my life.Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-69975790193986505022021-09-13T21:32:00.000+01:002021-09-13T21:32:14.749+01:00Radiotherapy Day 12We were delayed in the waiting room today. My friend Caz took me down.<br />
40 minutes delay, it said, when we got there.<br />
And then a few minutes later, 50 minutes delay.<br />
Oh, well, said Caz. All the more time to do some knitting!<br />
We looked over at the knitting. And decided to chat instead. Much easier.<br />
Out came an old man. He is wearing joggers and an ancient hospital robe.<br />
They needed to recalibrate the machine, he says. He sounds agitated.<br />
I'm sorry, he says to us.<br />
Don't worry at all! we beam at him. We're having a lovely chat!<br />
He shuffles out of the room.<br />
Machine, be recalibrated, says Caz. In Jesus' name.<br />
Amen, I say. And we laugh together, confident in our prayer.<br />
The waiting is filled with laughter and giggles, as Caz tells me about Israel, trips up North, and stories of her life.<br />
After an hour I am seen.<br />
We are SO SORRY, say the nurses.<br />
Don't worry at ALL, I say. We've been having fun in the waiting room. Am I the last?<br />
Yes, they say. It's been awful since 4.30. We always feel so sorry for you all.<br />
And they busy themselves with measuring me up, and they leave the room, cheerily waving.<br />
This time Father God wafts a beautifully light silk cloth, and it sinks slowly down onto my skin, covering me from top to toe, protecting me from harm. And I lie there while the rays hammer, quietly loving him.<br />
The journey home is much faster, and we arrive back to see Husband through the kitchen window.<br />
I thank Caz.<br />
I'm going to pray for you, she says. And she does. And I feel such peace and joy fill me as she speaks words over me and through me.<br />
We say goodbye and Caz leaves in her snazzy white mini.<br />
I wave.<br />
And go in for supper, a glass of wine and a bath. Bliss, or what.<br />
<br />Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-44806650928661784002021-09-13T21:30:00.001+01:002021-09-13T21:30:18.951+01:00Radiotherapy Day 11We go down at 3.05. The traffic is awful along the sea front. Husband says over and over that we should have gone the other way. I say over and over that I like coming this way and that we have plenty of time.<br />
Mum is with us. And Terry, my neighbour over the road, over the hedge, she's with us too. She has her 2nd radiotherapy today. I have my 11th. We are both carrying our hospital robes. Mine is burgundy. Really rather fetching. Hers is stripy purple and white. I can't help feeling a bit smug about mine, as it's clearly nicer than hers.<br />
We arrive and manhandle Mum into the centre. Everyone thinks she's the patient, and we the daughters. There's a 20 minute delay today.<br />
We sit ourselves in the corner next to the knitting. We say a jolly hello to the man opposite who twinkles back to us. We saw him yesterday. His dad is having radiotherapy. Last day on Monday!<br />
In the other corner is Ann. From yesterday. The lady who couldn't breathe properly. I had met her this morning in Truffles as I bought 4 cream buns for tea. We had had a very jolly chat about radiotherapy and our side effects (none) and how tired we were (not at all). And there she was, smiling and happy, about to go in for her 4th go.<br />
They call her in. She goes. We all 'thumbs up' her and smile as she walks through.<br />
I eye the knitting next to me. Wonder how to cast on.<br />
Get my phone out and look up 'casting on'. Find a YouTube video of 'How to cast on. Very slowly'.<br />
So I watch that, and get the idea. Pick up 2 knitting needles size 3 and a quarter. Whatever that is.<br />
And cast on.<br />10 stitches.<br />
Decide to make extremely small square. Purple. I enjoy the next few minutes, just knitting and chatting, my small purple square taking shape. Terry is called in. We continue to chat and knit and giggle. Mum is very impressed with my very small square. Husband raises his eyebrows as he reads Hello! magazine cover to cover. I don't think he's ever read it before.<br />
I don't have time to cast off (need another video to show me how to) as I am called in.<br />
Today I have the same picture. Jesus is lying above me, taking all the radiotherapy on my behalf. Just like he has taken everything from me on my behalf. How I love him.<br />
All done, says the nurse. And kindly does up my robe.<br />
We head home another way.<br />
This is better, says Husband. Look, an open road.<br />
Terry and I look at the hundreds of cars on the A27.<br />
But we're moving. And we're home before you can say 'iced bun'.<br />
We drop Terry off and arrive home. Put the kettle on. Get the hot cross buns out.<br />
Heaven.<br />
Mustn't forget to have the iced buns tomorrow.<br />
<br />
<br />Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-57984124050070345402021-09-13T21:28:00.000+01:002021-09-13T21:28:02.789+01:00Radiotherapy Day 10Jackie picks me up today. Lovely sunny morning.<br />
We drive down, sun dancing off the sea. Husband stays at home to walk the dog. Mum comes with me.<br />
We arrive and Mum and I walk down the corridor, announcing to John at reception that I've arrived.<br />
In we go to B1. And wait. There's a 20 minute delay today. We've never had that before.<br />
Jackie comes and joins us, having parked the car.<br />
We sit and chat.<br />
Out comes a lady in an identical burgundy hospital gown to mine.<br />
The man opposite us asks her about her treatment.<br />
Do you have to go back in? he asks.<br />
Yes, she says. I couldn't breathe properly.<br />
Oh, dear, we say from our corner. What happened?<br />
She tells us how she has to hold her breath for 20 seconds and how she couldn't manage it.<br />
We make sympathetic noises.<br />
The father of the man opposite us comes back in. He is ancient, with a beautiful smile.<br />
Well done, we say.<br />
And they leave.<br />
The lady in the burgundy is called back in. My heart sinks. I thought I was next.<br />
So we sit back, prepared to wait.<br />
30 minutes wait, it says on the screen.<br />
Oh well, we say. And chat about things and this and that.<br />
The burgundy lady still hasn't come out.<br />
I'm called in.<br />
The machine does its thing.<br />
I have a picture of Jesus lying just above me, with his chest to the machine. He is taking all the rays on my behalf. I am so grateful I want to weep! We lie there together. Just him and me.<br />
All done, says the nurse.<br />
We go home via the sea front. And Jackie comes in when we arrive back so that we can ring Vicki about our business. Mum sits in the sitting room reading her book while we finish our work.<br />
The dog is walked.<br />
Life goes on. And what a wonderful life it is.<br />
<br />Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-68618780717451321032021-09-13T21:26:00.001+01:002021-09-13T21:26:37.053+01:00Radiotherapy Day 9Today Vicki took me again, but this time my mother came too! She has come to stay for a week, so that she can be here and see for herself how well I am coping. Telephone calls every night simply don't achieve the same thing.<br />
A grey mizzly day. Brighton cold and damp.<br />
Arrived at the RT centre a quarter of an hour early and sit on the opposite side of the room, away from the knitting. There are two lots of people waiting today. One woman in a hospital wheel chair. She is in a lot of pain, and is offered more pain killers. Her back hurts when she lies down, so she's preparing for a painful RT. I think it must be her first.<br />
I'm in and out as quick as ever.<br />
The machine clicks and whirrs and I lie and stare at the ceiling, at the funny little green light above my head. Today Jesus and I are dancing again, Fred and Ginger style. And then I laugh as Jesus starts to play an organ, jazz type music, and I feel his joy as he plays the chords up and down the keys.<br />
All done, Helen, says the nurse.<br />
And I get up and say goodbye, see you tomorrow.<br />
And we drive back home, where we wave goodbye to Vicki, and have a much deserved cup of tea in front of a roaring fire.<br />
Bliss.Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-60529184020797801822021-09-13T21:25:00.000+01:002021-09-13T21:25:22.273+01:00Radiotherapy Day 8Terry took me today. My neighbour from the house I can see over the road, over the hedge.<br />
Clean forgot that she was taking me, and Husband and I were careering out of the village when my mobile buzzed to say that Terry had arrived to take me down to RT.<br />
Back we went, and raced into the drive. I leaped from one car to another, and off we went.<br />
Terry had a very crafty route through Brighton, cutting out some very dull traffic lights.<br />
Brilliant, I said. Quite a few times.<br />
Showed her the ropes with the parking permit, and by the time I'd been in, on the table and back out again, she had barely been in the waiting room for 5 minutes.<br />
Done already? she asked.<br />
I was. Done already. Time goes swiftly in that room. Today Jesus gently kissed the word PEACE onto my skin. On my wrist and on my forehead. Down my arm.<br />
You need a reminder, he said. It's always there. Now you'll see it.<br />
Oh, I will, Jesus. I'll make sure of that.<br />
And we raced home again. The nifty route.<br />
Well done, our Terry.Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-58316184223627387952021-09-13T21:24:00.001+01:002021-09-13T21:24:39.255+01:00Radiotherapy Day 7Husband driving me today. It's another early one, and we arrive about 8.45. I'm shown through at 8.47, precisely 7 minutes early. Result.<br />
Today I have a picture of Jesus and me on the tightrope. This time Jesus tells me to ride the bike across the tightrope. Which I do. We're going faster and faster and Jesus is running ahead of me on the rope. 'Be careful of where you're going!' I yell. He shouts back at me, 'Stop worrying! I AM the way!'<br />
And I stop worrying and revel in the joy of speed and height and Jesus all rolled into one.<br />
The nurse comes back in.<br />
All done, Helen, he says.<br />
And we drive home via the fish shop in Shoreham Port, picking up some pollard and haddock for a fish pie for supper tonight.<br />
Life is good.<br />
<br />Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-25626436890498097902021-09-13T21:24:00.000+01:002021-09-13T21:24:02.977+01:00Radiotherapy Day 6Jackie took me today. She arrived at 7.30 and we talked the entire way to the Sussex Cancer Centre.<br />
The waiting room was empty again. We sat and chatted some more.<br />
RRRRRRRIINNG went the fire bell. Silence.<br />
Slam went the fire doors. All on their own.<br />
Oh, said Jackie. They closed all on their own!<br />
We gazed at the doors.<br />
One of them was pushed open. A man dressed head to toe in black and wearing the squeakiest shoes I've ever heard then pushed open the other door.<br />
Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak. Off he went, walking slowly down the corridor.<br />
Down the same corridor came the sound of people. A man and a younger woman came in and sat down opposite us. He was breathing heavily.<br />
I'm so out of breath, he said.<br />
The doors to my left opened and one of the nurses looked out at the man.<br />
Come on, Stephen, he said.<br />
Then looked at me.<br />
Oh, he said. You're here.<br />
I am! I said brightly.<br />
You'd better come first, he said, apologising to Stephen, who wasn't remotely bothered, as his appointment wasn't for 10 minutes.<br />
I changed in the little cubicle.<br />
Walked down the corridor to B1.<br />
There was the nurse, preparing the bed. Without its covering, it looked strange, with holes and black bits of metal.<br />
The nurse covered it with paper, and on I hopped.<br />
This time I had a picture of Jesus and I on a tightrope. Jesus riding a bike on a tightrope, with me clinging to his neck. The tightrope stretched from one mountain to another, and we gathered speed as we approached the second mountain, shouting with laughter and exhilaration.<br />
All done, Helen, said the nurse.<br />
And helped me up and on with my robe.<br />
We drove home in wind and sunshine, getting a couple of lattes and danish pastries (warm!) from the Flour Pot café.<br />
This is the life.<br />
<br />Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-90329896677826437602021-09-13T21:22:00.000+01:002021-09-13T21:22:41.244+01:00Radiotherapy Day 5No one waiting in the waiting room today. Vicki and I arrived 20 minutes early. Very cold and frosty morning.<br />
Helen, another new face, comes to collect me.<br />
My name is Helen, so no excuses for forgetting it, she says with a twinkle.<br />
She hands me the familiar sheet of paper with all the dates and times of my RT on it. There's another highlighted one which means a change of time.<br />
Is that ok? she asks.<br />
Of course, I say. Later on in the morning means a lie in!<br />
The machine does its thing. This time I feel Jesus say that this is the position he died in. For me. Hands above his head. My hands tingle. He's amazing.<br />
Helen comes back in. Helps me with my robe. And off I go.<br />
Vicki and I chat about holidays and healing, not related, all the way to the hospital and back home again.<br />
I'm now officially a third of the way through. Yay!Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-33609669155822545582021-09-13T21:21:00.000+01:002021-09-13T21:21:48.092+01:00Radiotherapy Day 4Got to the RT building today, driven by Husband.<br />
Would you like to have a parking permit until the end? asks the nice man at reception.<br />
The end of what? I wonder.<br />
Yes, said Husband.<br />
Aha, I thought. The end of radiotherapy.<br />
So we got that, and Husband nipped out to put it in the car.<br />
Waiting room has one man in it today.<br />
I sit down and smile at him. We get chatting.<br />
His wife finishes her RT on the 12th April.<br />
But, he says, I have to start my treatment. I just got diagnosed with Non-Hodgekin Lymphoma. 6 months of chemotherapy to come.<br />
I make sympathetic noises. And listen. And listen some more. He's a sweetheart of a man.<br />
It's treatable! he says. And I beam at him.<br />
I'm called in, and so I reluctantly leave him.<br />
This time as I lie on the RT bed, I have a picture of Jesus and I climbing a mountain, with him holding my hand and pulling me up over the difficult rocks. It's beautiful up there. Then we're in a forest and the trees are as high as a cathedral, green and shadowy.<br />
All done, says the nurse.<br />
And I'm finished for the day.<br />
The man has gone when I get back to the waiting room, but the same couple from yesterday are back, the wife having her treatment. I introduce her husband to my Husband. We discover that we are going to the same thing on Friday night at a church nearby.<br />
Hooray! I say.<br />
See you there, he says, with a cheery smile.<br />
And we leave. By the sea front. It is definitely the best way home.<br />
<br />
<br />Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-9789854887841691632020-11-07T23:07:00.000+00:002020-11-07T23:07:29.557+00:00Radiotherapy Day 3Penny came today. Another bright beautiful spring day. We roared with laughter most of the way, and arrived 20 minutes early.<br />
Penny laughed some more when I told her that the parking was free.<br />
Yes! she said, punching the air with delight.<br />
We fetched our parking permit, and put it in the car.<br />
Walked along to the waiting room.<br />
No sooner had I sat down and got comfortable than a nurse calls out my name.<br />
Penny and I stare at each other, amazed.<br />
Really? I say. But my appointment is at 9.30 and it's only 9.10.<br />
It's your lucky day, says the nurse.<br />
In I go.<br />
This time I have my burgundy gown, all ready.<br />
I strip off, put the gown on, open the door and wait.<br />
There's my nurse, calling at me from down the corridor.<br />
I walk quickly to the room, and lie down on the bed.<br />
This time they need to come back in once they've left the room, because one of the measurements wasn't quite right.<br />
I'm not concerned. ABBA is playing Waterloo on the radio, and I'm far too busy not toe tapping or moving my body to the beat.<br />
The nurse disappears again.<br />
Whirr. Brrrm. Click.<br />
Jesus and I are dancing to rock and roll this time. I smile at the thought. Thank you, Jesus, I say.<br />
Back comes the nurse. He helps me up and we sort out the robe.<br />
I'm back in the waiting room in a couple of minutes.<br />
Penny is knitting! With the knitting needles and balls of wool we saw on the first day. She looks up and says joyfully, I'm knitting!<br />
I can see you are, I say, laughing.<br />
And these people are from my church, announces Penny. She is smiling with delight.<br />
We chat, for 3 more rows of knit and pearl.<br />
I'll do one more, says Penny, and then we'll go.<br />
This is a prayer scarf, she says. Look, I've created some light. And she shows me the scarf that has been started. Her chosen colour is a light shade of green.<br />
Cool, I say, grinning at her.<br />
We leave the knitting in the box, and say goodbye to Cathy and John from the church.<br />
Back we go via the seafront. It is definitely the way to go!Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-45872316914019792752020-11-06T23:11:00.000+00:002020-11-06T23:11:21.064+00:00Radiotherapy Day 2Here we go. 18 months on, I am finally posting these. <div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Vicki comes to collect me today. She arrives at 8.15. We decide to go via the sea front.<br />
We arrive 15 minutes early, to find out that B1 is 'on time'.<br />
Hooray, we say.<br />
In comes our new friend from Hurstpierpoint. yesterday. I introduce Vicki to her.<br />
Hello! we cry.<br />
Hello! she cries. She is beaming from ear to ear.<br />
Your last day, I say.<br />
Yes, yes, she says. And I have my son's birthday party tonight!<br />
We all beam some more. In comes another lady and her driver (we all get driven here - part of the instructions). She looks exhausted and thin. She sits.<br />
We chat a bit more with our friend, passing the time most agreeably.<br />
The thin lady chats with her friend about shopping.<br />
Have you got milk, asks her friend.<br />
Yes, yes. And bread. She looks tired. As if such decisions were too much.<br />
Two other people arrive and settle down on the other side of the room. We all smile at each other. My new friend greets one of them, and we find out that this person finishes the following week.<br />
How's it been? I ask.<br />
OK, she say, but I'm very tired now.<br />
I seem to hear this a lot. This is spoken over me by others who have been through RT, or by others who haven't. 'You'll get very tired." "You'll get very sore." "You'll be knackered." Etc.<br />
We'll see.<br />
We wait some more.<br />
My name is called. Through the doors I go. An old hand now. The nurse passes me my robe.<br />
You forgot to take this home, she says.<br />
Oh! I say, I didn't realise. Do I do that everyday?<br />
Yes, she says.<br />
I'm left to get ready.<br />
And so I strip off once more, whack on the robe, open the door and wait. Now that I know what will happen, I feel confident and relaxed.<br />
I'm called in. There's the machine. Good old B1. And a new nurse.<br />
I'm settled onto the bed. Nurses saying numbers and marking my skin once more.<br />
They leave the room.<br />
The machine whirrs and clicks. I remember the picture from the previous day about Jesus and this time we're dancing more wildly together, round and round. But oh, so much fun!<br />
Before I know it, the nurses are back in, and I am helped down.<br />
Do you need the step? they ask. As I leap off the bed.<br />
No, I laugh. I'm down!<br />
And through I go, where Vicki is waiting.<br />
Wow, she says. That was quick.<br />
And off we go. Back via the sea front.<br />
We have DEFINITELY found the right route. Hooray.</div>Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-85154259014111990802020-11-05T17:47:00.002+00:002020-11-05T17:47:31.675+00:00Radiotherapy Day 1So. In 2019 I had radiotherapy on my boob. Breast cancer. No chemo. And each day for 15 days (following my operation), I went into the Royal Sussex Hospital for my treatment. I wrote an account of each and every day but never posted it. Until today. And so, for the next 15 days, I will post each consecutive day, all written 18 months ago. I've no idea why I didn't do this at the time. Perhaps it was just a bit too sensitive. Anyway. <div>Here goes. Day One. <div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Day One</div><div>The first day of radiotherapy has arrived. Husband and I spend the 45 minutes journey to the Royal Sussex Hospital in Brighton talking animatedly about the best way to get there.<br />
In the end we decide to go along the A27 and turn right, zooming into Asda to get some petrol. It seems that there are an awful lot of roads in Brighton, and by the time we've arrived at the Sussex Cancer Centre, we are full of bright ideas about how to get here tomorrow. Definitely not THAT route.<br />
Sussex Cancer Centre, behind the Royal Sussex Hospital, is a couple of roads back from the sea, and I am cheered by the sight of the water, just about visible across roofs and between roads.<br />
We swish our way through the automatic doors, and fall gladly on the Free Parking Permit which a very nice receptionist hands over to us, Husband taking it back to the car to display on the rather dusty windscreen.<br />
Machine B1 (my radiotherapy machine for the next 15 days) is '10 minutes late' today. But Husband and I are prepared for waiting, and sit expectantly. Beside Husband is a box filled with dozens of balls of wool and some knitting needles. There's even a piece of knitting that anyone can tackle, if they so feel the need. I decidedly don't, as the last time I knitted anything it was Not A Success. That's a story for another day.<br />
A very kind nurse comes and greets us. We have a brief consultation with her, where she rather alarmingly asks me which breast is being treated. Blimey, I think. Have they lost my notes?<br />
She smiles as she asks, and says that it's just something they have to ask. Phew, I think.<br />
Back to the empty waiting room, and the pile of knitting. We sit, prepared for more waiting.<br />
A lady and her husband enter the room. She smiles over at us, and we smile back. She sits on the other side of the knitting.<br />
Hello! I say.<br />
Hello! she says. My last day tomorrow!<br />
We all beam at each other. Chat begins on when she started (6 weeks ago) and where she lives (Hurstpierpoint) and how she is. (Fabulous!).<br />
A nurse comes through the double doors to my left and says my name.<br />
Up I leap and round the corner I go.<br />
Put this on, says the nurse, pointing to a rather fetching burgundy hospital gown.<br />
Let me know when you're done, she says. And she shows me a cubicle and instructs me to wait, but to leave the door open when I'm ready.<br />
I strip off the top half, thankful that jeans and boots can stay on.<br />
The burgundy gown goes on, and I open the door. No one there.<br />
I sit on the chair.<br />
Wait a couple more moments and then...<br />
All ready? Come on then! says the nurse, and I follow her along a corridor, and round the corner.<br />
And there is the machine.<br />
A bed.<br />
Another nurse. I get the impression of cleanliness and order.<br />
I'm asked to lie on the bed. Stretch my arms above my head. Wriggle down a bit. Wriggle up a bit. Wriggle down a bit more. Perfect!<br />
They do their stuff, saying lots of numbers and marking my skin with a pen. They tell me all the time what they are doing.<br />
We're just going to put the bed up a bit.<br />
Now we're going to leave the room.<br />
You'll hear some noises.<br />
We won't be long.<br />
<br />
Then I'm alone.<br />
<br />
I stare up at the ceiling. There's a bright red light there, shaped like an S. The machine whirrs and clicks. Then it moves to one side.<br />
I stay completely still. I think, Jesus. Jesus. And I thank him for being there. I have this extraordinary picture of him dancing with me. Like a 1940's movie. Twirling round and round, and us both laughing and loving it. And as I have this bizarre and wonderful thought, the machine continues to beep and click.<br />
In a flash, the nurses are back in the room.<br />
All finished, Helen. You OK?<br />
I beam.<br />
Yes. Wonderful, thanks!<br />
They help me up, make me decent, and in a jiffy I'm back in the waiting room, where Husband is astounded to see me so soon.<br />
Are you done? he asks, amazed.<br />
Yup. All done, I say.<br />
And we get our things together, say goodbye to our new friends, and go home.<br />
By another route.<br />
Which we DEFINITELY won't do tomorrow either.<br />
<br /></div></div>Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-18177933964355386582019-04-13T20:11:00.001+01:002019-04-14T16:27:05.226+01:00Lovely friend is 60. A group of us bunched together, as we have for each other over the last 30 years, to buy her a present. A bench. With a smart green cushion.<br />
Two of us take responsibility for this, and are chuffed to bits that the bench is ordered, to be delivered on the day of the birthday. We've even ordered a plaque with all our names on it. Result!<br />
I think we ought to knit her a blanket, says one friend.<br />
No, no, I think.<br />
With lots of squares of different colours, says the friend.<br />
Oh, sweet Lord, I think.<br />
We could all do about 4 each, says the friend.<br />
Over my dead body, I think.<br />
Great! say all the other friends.<br />
Bollocks, I think.<br />
Friend sends each of us a ball of wool, a pair of knitting needles, and some instructions of what to knit.<br />
I read it.<br />
<i>Cast on 28 stitches.</i><br />
Cast on? Isn't that what you do in sailing? (Perhaps I should mention here that I have not knitted since I was 11 years old, when in the Spring Term of each year we were required to knit bootees, cardigans or some other such article for Babies in Africa).<br />
My offering each time was always grey and holey. The nuns (convent school) would sigh with exaggerated frustration at my poor efforts. And then finish it off for me. Every time!<br />
But would someone finish off this offering? Would they heck.<br />
And so I started. I found a YouTube video of someone casting on. I watched it avidly. I cast on one, two, three, four stitches.<br />
I'm knitting! I bellowed, to whoever wanted to hear me in the house.<br />
Daughter came and inspected.<br />
Well done, Mum, she said kindly.<br />
28 stitches. All cast on.<br />
Now what!<br />
I read the instruction. <i>Knit four rows. </i><br />
How incredibly unhelpful, I thought. How do I 'knit 4 rows'? And so back I went to YouTube and watched a kind lady knitting.<br />
Bingo!<br />
I knitted 4 rows.<br />
Only to find I hadn't read the full instructions. <i>Knit 4 rows making sure you purl 4 at the beginning and end of each line. </i><br />
I looked at the 4 rows I had done. Could I get away with it?<br />
With a sigh, I pulled the 4 rows off the knitting needle and started again.<br />
<i>Cast on 28 stitches. </i><br />
28 stitches cast on! I'm getting so good at knitting!<br />
<i>Knit 4 rows making sure you purl 4 at the beginning and end of each line. </i><br />
Right, I thought. This will be a doddle.<br />
Only it wasn't. Because every time I got to the end of a row, my knitting seemed to get longer and longer. I counted the stitches. 32! What the heck?!<br />
I rang the friend.<br />
Explained the problem.<br />
Don't worry! she said. And after all, it's the fact that you're TRYING. That is more important than what it looks like.<br />
I very much doubted that. My 4 rows looked like a triangle.<br />
Righto! I said. I'll get going with the next bit then!<br />
And so I did.<br />
The triangle bit did not improve, and what was even worse, holes started appearing either side of the knitting.<br />
I pulled it all out and started again.<br />
And again.<br />
And again.<br />
And again.<br />
9 times I started again. 9 times it went triangular and got holes.<br />
Bollocky BOLLOCKS, I said, rather a lot. And maybe some worse things than that.<br />
My children found it very amusing.<br />
So did my Husband.<br />
Har har har har har, he said. Needless to say, I didn't find it in the least amusing.<br />
Until I worked out the holes situation.<br />
I wasn't putting the wool forwards (or backwards) after changing from knit to purl.<br />
Ta da!<br />
Oh, the joy.<br />
Oh, the satisfaction of knitting 4 rows and it looking just like a square!<br />
Oh, the joy of not having any holes!<br />
I love knitting!<br />
And so I continued on, completing 2 whole squares, even managing the casting off with the aid of yet another YouTube lady coming to the rescue.<br />
I took my squares proudly up to London where we had a 'gathering to sew all the squares together' evening.<br />
I think I'd rather sew my fingers together.<br />
Friend looks at my squares. I look at hers. They are literally twice as big as mine. Mine are small and tight. Hers are big and generous.<br />
LOVELY, she says. Look, it's NO PROBLEM. I'll just knit some more around the edge. LOVELY.<br />
Another friend, usually very chatty and smiley, is sitting in a chair in the corner of the room muttering to herself as she knits a square. Bollocks. Bloody, bloody hell. Sort of thing. Apparently she hadn't 'had time' to do one before. Aha, I thought. Another rebel against this knitting lark.<br />
Around the room a selection of friends are knitting. All with enormous glasses of Prosecco. That's more like it, I think.<br />
I sit in a chair. And knit furiously. The glass of Prosecco makes it much more pleasant and in no time at all I show my finished square to all and sundry.<br />
Brilliant! they say.<br />
And it is. It's the right size, shape and colour. No holes.<br />
What AM I? Knitting queen?<br />
And I proudly chuck my square to join the other squares waiting to be sewn together. And grab another glass of Prosecco before offering to sew some squares together.<br />
Flipping heck. I've become a domestic goddess.<br />
That will wipe the smile off Husband's face.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<i><br /></i>
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<br />Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-79735070251829888812019-03-05T12:20:00.002+00:002019-03-05T20:35:02.844+00:00Clearing out the cobwebsWow. I'm peering into this old blog and can see a few cobwebs and spiders lurking. Time to blow them off, shoo them out and get writing again.<br />
To my delight, following on from my last piece of drivel posted a few weeks ago, I see a few old blogger friends are still here. How lovely is that! I shall go and visit after posting this.<br />
Blogging is a funny old business, but so much more rewarding than the instant Facebook, which becomes duller the more scrolling down you do. How much of LOOK AT ME NOW can I cope with?!<br />
So. Here are a few details of the latest.<br />
I've had a spot of breast cancer. Lumpectomy. Lymph node removal. All clear. Radiotherapy to follow. This is a new 'club' I am now a member of. One I didn't ever want to join, but oh, my goodness, the people in this club are so amazingly nice and kind and generous and brave. And I'm totally in awe of the NHS, who deal with truckloads of women like me per week, all pale and wan from worry. Each person is dealt with so kindly and wisely. Made me feel very grateful indeed. And the support! I had to ring the Breast Clinic to ask a couple of what I termed 'stupid questions'. The patience! (Can I walk the dog yet? Can I put ice cubes on my armpit as it feels all 'burny') All in all, top marks.<br />
Children are all growing up. Well, obviously. That's what they do! From Eldest to Youngest, we still have overwhelming bouts of laughter. Wish I'd written more of them down, but I still get such a lot of joy (and so do they) when I read what I've already written in this blog. Memories that warm the heart! Even the really poo'ish ones.<br />
I've written a book! And got an award! And I still do far too many exclamation marks!<br />
Very happy about book. I'm trying to keep this blog anonymous, so that I don't have to edit what I say, hence not saying what the book is about. Or what it's called. But it's been a lifelong ambition to write one, and now I have.<br />
And am now on to my next book. How fabulous is that!<br />
Right. Off visiting some of you folks now. I'll leave a calling card as I go. (Hoping that isn't rhyming slang or a weird idiom for something unsavoury).<br />
Have a beautiful day, one and all.<br />
xx<br />
<br />
<br />Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-66207319052310162552019-01-29T12:48:00.001+00:002019-01-29T12:48:29.489+00:00PE kit retrievalYoungest is now 14.<br />
This morning we hugged fondly as he made his way to the school bus.<br />
'See you later, Mum. Love you,' he says, as he leaves the house. I wave and wave as he trudges up the drive and round the corner. I can still hear his crunching feet on the gravel.<br />
The phone rings a few minutes later. It's Youngest.<br />
"Oops. Have you missed the bus?" I say.<br />
"No. But I thought it was Monday."<br />
I think for a bit. It's Tuesday.<br />
Youngest continues. "And on Tuesday it's PE."<br />
Oh, dear, I think.<br />
"What shall you do?" I ask. Our parental mantra is not to dash about and save the situation.<br />
"Can you bring it down to school?" asks Youngest.<br />
So I dash about and save the situation.<br />
"Where's your kit?"<br />
"Go into my room, " says Youngest. Which I do.<br />
It's chaos. Clothes are scattered everywhere. Piles of them. I sigh deeply.<br />
"My PE shirt is on the floor. Under a grey sweatshirt. By the chair. At the end of the bed."<br />
I look on the floor. By the chair. At the end of the bed. I pick up a grey sweatshirt.<br />
There's the PE shirt!<br />
"Found it!' I say. "Where's the shorts?"<br />
Youngest's deep voice (did I tell you his voice broke? He sounds like my dad now) tells me to go to the pile over by the window and look under the blanket next to the chest.<br />
I go to the pile by the window, and look under the blanket next to the chest.<br />
There are the shorts!<br />
"Got 'em! Shoes?" I ask, deeply impressed by his chaotic order.<br />
"Downstairs by the front door," replies my boy. "Next to the mat."<br />
I thump down, two stairs at a time. There they are!<br />
And cram the whole lot into a bag, and drive the 3.8 miles to school.<br />
"Thanks, Mum," says Youngest, lifting the bag out of the passenger seat. "Love you."<br />
"Love you too," I say.<br />
And off I go home. PE kit delivered. Situation saved.<br />
And a new sense of awe that despite the live ecosystem that is his room, Youngest can remotely direct his mother to locate and assemble a forgotten PE kit.<br />
Impressive.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-26110470306331601142019-01-26T13:02:00.001+00:002019-01-26T13:02:05.105+00:00Wasp Mystery Solved at LastIt appears that we have some wasps in our kitchen. 15 or 20 seem to be having a right old time climbing up the window, sliding down and then climbing up the window again. I am having a right old time catching 15 to 20 of them as they climb up the window, and hurling them out into the garden, only to find 15 to 20 of them climbing up the window again.<br />
<div>
WHERE DO THEY GET IN? </div>
<div>
Sat for several minutes staring at window yesterday, attempting to use peripheral vision to work out their entry point, as it were. Must have looked a little bit Special, sitting there staring so hard at nothing, one eye slightly out of focus and looking decidedly to the right. </div>
<div>
Heard buzzing! </div>
<div>
Jumped up and threw self towards area of sound. There was a wasp! Looked up, down, left, right.</div>
<div>
WHERE DID IT GET IN?</div>
<div>
Sat again. </div>
<div>
Stared at window again.</div>
<div>
Buzzing AGAIN.</div>
<div>
Leaped up again, and saw ANOTHER wasp, doing its thing on the window. </div>
<div>
Had brilliant idea that I could take video of window as I got on with something very useful.</div>
<div>
Got iPad out. Spent some minutes setting it up. Put it on. Pressed little red button to start video. </div>
<div>
Brilliant, I thought. Saving lots of time! </div>
<div>
Went off and wasted lots of time, and then came back to watch video.</div>
<div>
Watched blank window on video for 5 minutes. </div>
<div>
Right, I thought. Time for some action. </div>
<div>
<div>
Rang Pest Control at our local council offices. </div>
<div>
Kind lady explained that the wasps would all be dead by the end of November. </div>
<div>
Oh, I said. </div>
<div>
The Queen, she went on, had gone off to hibernate.</div>
<div>
I hoped she wasn't talking about our dear Elizabeth.</div>
<div>
All these other wasps would drop off slowly as it got colder. </div>
<div>
How much to get someone out? I asked.</div>
<div>
£50, she said. </div>
<div>
And then I saw it. One dastardly wasp COMING OUT OF THE LIGHT FITTING! </div>
<div>
Aha! Gotcha!</div>
<div>
Said brisk but fond farewell to kind lady from the council, grabbed chair under light fitting, and yelled to Middle Son to come and help. Made him stand on chair and remove light fitting.<br />
Wasps.<br />
Lots of them. Oozing out of light fitting and dozily careering off across the kitchen to climb up the window. More and more. Kitchen thick with buzzing.<br />
Had most satisfactory time opening window and wafting them all out in the cold night air. The lazy ones who lay on the floor were swept up and thrown out too.<br />
We are now officially a Wasp Free kitchen.<br />
Now to deal with the rats in the chicken run.<br />
<br />
NOTE: This was written a year ago last October. But I forgot to post it. And so I'm posting it now.<br />
<br /></div>
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Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-72732124820532937082016-10-27T20:30:00.003+01:002016-10-27T20:30:36.420+01:00In which Youngest saves the dayWent to the cinema the other day. Took Youngest who was very keen to see The Secret Life of Pets. I was very keen to see the latest Rom Com, but I think it's going on twenty years since I managed to see one of those. Nowadays it's Disney, Pixar or else very noisy action films where the villain has a very deep voice and the hero just stands about looking hero-like. And runs about a lot. And sweats.<br />
Anyway.<br />
Was fearfully organised, and had ordered tickets online, arriving at the cinema with fifteen minutes to spare. Perfect time allowed to collect the tickets and buy horrendously expensive popcorn and fizzy drinks.<br />
Rather smugly arrived at ticket machine and punched in our card, which kindly spewed out our tickets.<br />
Youngest most impressed with organisational skills. His own. This was all his plan. <br />
Noticed that harassed mother and young daughter, aged about 5, were at the next ticket machine. Was very clear that mother had NOT pre-ordered tickets because young daughter was saying, "But Mummy, I really WANTED to see The Secret Life of Pets." Mother stabbing away at keyboard, valiantly offering other films. Daughter becoming quieter as the reality sank in of not seeing her film.<br />
There you go, I thought uncharitably. Goes to show us mums need to be organised.<br />
"Give them our tickets,' hissed Youngest, digging me somewhat painfully in the ribs.<br />
I turned to him, and back to the little girl. Her face was hidden by her mother's sleeve, still desperately offering alternative films.<br />
"Give them our tickets!" hissed Youngest again, this time close to my ear, and actually making my ear a little bit damp. "Go on, give them OUR TICKETS."<br />
"Are you sure?" I asked. Illogically somewhat disappointed that my ultra organisational uber mother mode was going to end in giving the tickets away.<br />
"YESSSS," hissed Youngest, getting rather agitated now, as the mother looked like she might move away.<br />
I turned to the mother and daughter. "Excuse me, Youngest here would like you to have our tickets. We already have two, so why don't you have them?" Once I was in my stride, I was rather pleased. This was fun!<br />
The pair looked totally taken aback. In a good way. The mother's face changed from depressed resignation to joy. "Are you sure? What will you do instead?"<br />
"Well," said Youngest, with infinite logic, "It's a cinema. We'll go and see a film!"<br />
We all laughed a bit. Awkwardly trying to bridge the offer with clinching the deal.<br />
The mother was decisive and generous at the same time. "We'll pay for you to see another film," she said. "What would you like to see?"<br />
Youngest piped up. "We could see The BFG, Mum. Shall we?"<br />
"Brilliant," I said.<br />
And we did.<br />
The mother punched some more keys, and bought us our tickets. We did a swap, there in the swirly carpeted foyer, and said a fond farewell to each other.<br />
"Thank you SO much," said the mother, looking at Youngest as if he were a total hero.<br />
Which in her eyes he was.<br />
"Pleasure," said Youngest. "Enjoy the film!" And he led the way across the foyer to the popcorn.<br />
He astounds me, this boy of mine. Generous and wise. Kind and thoughtful.<br />
And he's only twelve.<br />
Am very proud Mother.<br />
Especially as I'm such a mean old cow that didn't want to give the tickets away.<br />
Glad I did, though.<br />
The BFG was awesome!!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-79689546526077243502015-11-01T22:35:00.000+00:002015-11-01T22:35:12.879+00:00TeresaIt isn't often that I post something sad. But I really need to at the moment. You see, my dearest, funny, sweet, loving sister has died. Cancer crept in and finished her off in seven months flat. Although it was probably a lot longer than that. Cancer tends to be very quiet at the beginning, and by the end it is deafening.<br />
What can I say? Sadness is exhausting. We are all exhausted. And yet, amongst all of this grief and red-eyed living, there is something else. You see, I really prayed that she would get better. Some days my belief was so strong that I could almost taste the healing, and feel the happiness it would bring. I prayed that she would be totally healed from cancer. That she would never be a victim to fear or anxiety ever again. That she would grow old bones.<br />
But she didn't. She died.<br />
That should make me angry, shouldn't it? That should make me enraged with the God I was praying to?<br />
Well, I'm not angry or enraged.<br />
I'm deeply sad but I'm not angry.<br />
What has happened is that I have come to know God in a way that I never knew him before. I have spoken to him, virtually every minute of every day, for months and months.<br />
I have discovered that he is funny. Smart. Fearfully honest. Extremely loving. He doesn't give a brass farthing for rules and regulations if they don't suit him. He would prefer a party full of drug addicts in a squat to a smart cocktail party with the elite. He doesn't like it when people are judgemental, and he hates it when we are 'holier than thou.' He can't STAND social injustice.<br />
In short, he is daring, fearless and ridiculously loving.<br />
So why would a God like that kill off a sister like mine?<br />
Impossible. He simply couldn't.<br />
And so I have to re-think my thoughts about God. He clearly isn't someone who will immediately heal someone. Because he didn't. I still don't know why. But what he did do was to push himself RIGHT INTO my life, so that I could no longer ignore his gentle whispers or constant encouragement. And he pushed himself right into my sister's life, what was left of it. There was no ignoring him. That was NOT an option.<br />
My sister is not here any longer. So where is she?<br />
She's with that God I was talking about. That daring, fearless and ridiculously loving God that I have come to know. And that knowledge makes me...happy.<br />
I'm sad, so sad, that I won't be able to talk to her in her kitchen, or wander around her beautiful vegetable garden with her, and sit on that little seat at the end in the sun, and chat about all of our children. We have eight between us. Quite a feat. When I think that I won't see her again in my lifetime it feels utterly, utterly bloody awful.<br />
But I can look ahead. To after that.<br />
Yes, I'm one of those crazy nutters that believe in Heaven.<br />
And I'm very, very glad I do. I just know that we WILL be together again. We WILL walk about in a vegetable garden one day, with a little seat at the end. We WILL chat about our children and laugh about stuff. We WILL live and live and live. And there won't be any cancer because God and cancer cannot live side by side. And there won't be any worry or anxiety because God and worry and anxiety cannot live side by side.<br />
And so there isn't really any need to worry, is there?<br />
But for the time being I will have my red eyes, and I will cry a lot, because I MISS her.<br />
Who wouldn't? She was the best sister anyone could ever have. The best wife. The best mother. The best daughter. The best friend.<br />
And after I have cried a lot, and some years have gone by, I won't be so sad. We won't be so sad.<br />
And always, in all of that, we will know that we will see her again.<br />
God IS good. It's just that we don't always get to know him because we are either too busy, or he just doesn't seem that relevant to our world. Only he is. Relevant. Vital. Real. And now that I am beginning to know that, I know that he would NEVER take a life. He would only give one.<br />
Thank God.<br />
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<br />Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-18460880561587473122015-08-19T13:54:00.000+01:002015-08-19T13:54:06.947+01:00I am SailingHave had simply marvellous fun sailing in the Mediterranean.<br />
Well, not exactly Port Grimaud in large luxury Yacht.<br />
More like very small 'Fun Boats', suitable for two people. Who are very small indeed.<br />
But such fun!<br />
Husband and I, plus Middle Son, Daughter and Youngest all holidaying in the South of France in the most idyllic of settings. Gorgeous pool, cicadas doing their thing day and night. Hot, sunny days lazing in the pool. Warm, sultry nights lazing in the pool.<br />
Heaven.<br />
After about ten extremely lazy days lazing by the pool. decided that Youngest was probably getting rather bored. This followed a conversation at breakfast (lazing by the pool) when he stated that holidays like this were probably more for 'old people'.<br />
There was a brief pause.<br />
'Are you saying that you are a bit bored?' we all asked, collectively feeling the punch of the word 'old'.<br />
'Well, it is rather boring just eating and swimming and then lying down to sleep.'<br />
Right, we thought...<br />
And that is why we decided to go sailing...<br />
Three boats (Fun Boats), all bright yellow and more like bath tubs than sailing boats. But they had sails on them and lots of ropes, so that was alright.<br />
Husband was extremely excited and leaped upon the first Fun Boat, along with Youngest.<br />
There was absolutely No Wind At All.<br />
I clambered on to the next Fun Boat.<br />
Middle Son and Daughter got on the third one.<br />
Off we went!<br />
Except that there was No Wind At All.<br />
We sort of drifted around a bit, and occasionally there would be a tiny breeze that wafted us along rather nicely.<br />
It was heaven. I sunbathed a bit more and we trailed our hands in the water and jumped off the boats a few times. Just because.<br />
When we arrived back two hours later we had all decided that we needed to come back when there was a little more wind.<br />
Which is why we returned two days later.<br />
The only thing was that the wind was howling. Like in almost a gale. Like in Lots.<br />
Beaucoup de vent, as they say around there.<br />
The Fun Boats were available, every single one of them, and we clambered on board, this time swaggering a bit with our massive previous experience.<br />
Within minutes our knuckles were white with the exertion of holding on to the flipping ropes, sails were crashing across (gybe ho) and we were SCORCHING across the water. It was marvellous!<br />
The sun peeked through the clouds and then decided to come out completely and all was transformed. Sparkling water, a nice breeze and fast boats!<br />
Well. It would all have been perfect if it hadn't been for a minor point.<br />
Husband capsized. Not once. Not twice. Three times.<br />
We never got to see the first capsize, as Husband very quietly righted the boat round the corner from where we were all dashing backwards and forwards across the water.<br />
The second one was as Daughter and I were going at cracking pace across the same part of the bay. One moment there was Husband ahead of us, boat at jaunty angle.<br />
"Hope Dad doesn't capsize!" chuckled Daughter and we shared a fond giggle. The next moment, Husband's boat goes from jaunty to jiggered and the entire sail disappears, with a small shout from Husband.<br />
Daughter and I turn about (nautical terms coming out of our expert ears by now) and tear across to where Husband and boat are bobbing about. We are beaten there by Very Fast Rubber Sort of Boat with man from our sailing yard, who scoops Husband out by the shoulders and lays him flat, like a landed fish, on his Rubber Boat. Husband can't seem to get up due to tricky angle, so we see if we can help. Wind packs into our sail with a thump, and we are taken off, like a fierce tango dance, to the opposite side of the bay. <br />
Daughter keeps reporting back.<br />
"Dad is nearly sitting up."<br />
"Dad has fallen back into the boat."<br />
"Dad is being put back onto the Fun Boat."<br />
Sort of thing.<br />
Finally we see Husband flailing around with sails, but definitely the right way up, and in the right direction. Hooray!<br />
With all sorts of shouting and sign language we decide that enough is enough, and that it is definitely time for a large Verre de Rosé for the adults and Lemonade for the children.<br />
But not before Husband, with a tremendous roar of protest, capsizes for the third time, the boat whipping him off and into the water before you can say Domaine de Grange Neuve, Bergerac Rosé 2011.<br />
With the deepest of shame I remember laughing heartily. So did Daughter. So did Middle Son. So did Youngest.<br />
And after we'd laughed enough, we raced over to him, where Middle Son was extremely helpful and abandoned Youngest and their Fun Boat to assist his father in righting his wretched little dinghy.<br />
For all their jumping up and down on the right bits, it didn't seem to be working, and so the very kind man who had already hauled Husband out once before, came dashing over again, and proceeded to do more hauling and righting of boats.<br />
Youngest was now in a Fun Boat on his own, but with marvellous timing and grit, managed to expertly guide it back into the yard; this was no mean feat as the wind was feisty, to say the least. Daughter and I managed to get ours back too, and then we all watched as Husband and Middle Son brought theirs back. Would they capsize again?<br />
Disappointingly, they didn't.<br />
And we all piled into the car and drove to the nearest restaurant, where we partook of local Rosé and Lemonade, and laughed a bit more at Husband's expense. Who took it all on the chin.<br />
"Shall we come tomorrow?' we all asked.<br />
Husband looked a bit green. " I think we might leave it there for a bit," he said, slurping up a large mouthful of Bergerac Rosé 2011. And so we will leave it there. For a bit.<br />
Looking forward to next time, when the wind will be kind and the boats will behave.<br />
Even Husband's.<br />
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(photo NOT of Husband, but very very similar!)Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-46405652663697234322015-07-31T17:07:00.002+01:002015-07-31T17:07:20.805+01:00On taking sixteen bags to the Charity ShopStaggered into local charity shop with ten bags of books this morning.<br />
In bright voice to brisk lady behind the counter,<br />
'Would you like these? I do have rather a lot.'<br />
Realise that I sound like Margo from 'The Good Life.'<br />
'I've only the two pair of 'ands,' says the brisk lady, who appears to be very cross. I'm not sure if it's my books, my Margo voice or the fact that she is battling with the price gun.<br />
'Right,' I say, and think about asking where I should leave the books, or does she actually want the books, or should I sidle out again and try the other charity shop down the street.<br />
I try again. Nice and polite.<br />
'Shall I leave them here by the door at the back?'<br />
'You can't go in the back. 'Ealth and Safety.' She glares at me, beady eyed, price gun raised.<br />
'OK, well, I'll leave them here, shall I?' I am determinedly polite, although my cheeks are beginning to ache with all the smiling. Perhaps I should just look as bloody cross as she is.<br />
She doesn't answer, just crosses the shop and takes the bag from where I have put it on the floor.<br />
I go back outside, across the road and down the street, where my car is waiting, boot gaping open like a landed fish.<br />
I drag in another four bags, fingers cut through by the thin plastic handles.<br />
'I've got some more!' I beam at the lady.<br />
She looks positively fuming. Oh, dear.<br />
I attempt to placate her again.<br />
'Would you like me to take these books away? I don't want to burden you with them.'<br />
She grimaces. 'We tike the yellow ones and put them out the back in the recycling.'<br />
For a moment I feel rather like grimacing back. 'I don't think there are ANY yellow books in my bags, unless you mean, of course, Yellow Pages?'<br />
She looks a bit blank.<br />
Out I go. Across the road, down the street. My car boot gapes open, and I retrieve the last of the bags of books. There are six bags of Daughter's clothes. I pick up three. I hope she folded them all nicely. I can't be bothered at this moment to check. Back I go. Lady doesn't look up. I dump the bags and go and collect the last of Daughter's clothes and a brand new dog lead that we don't want. It's supposed to stop dogs pulling but kept getting in our dog's eyes. It is bright red, and very new looking. I hope that she'll be pleased with THIS, at least.<br />
In I go. Heaving and panting with the last of the bags.<br />
She barely looks up now, but grabs a bag from my hand and puts it by the door.<br />
'Oh, I brought this.' I hold up the red lead.<br />
'What's that?' she asks,' Is it a muzzle?'<br />
'No, no! It's a dog lead that stops them pulling but it didn't work on our dog.'<br />
'Does it go across their face and into their eyes?' she asks.<br />
I am delighted. We seem to be getting on much better!<br />
'Yes, yes! It goes over their nose and across their...'<br />
She cuts across my explanation. 'Goes in their eyes. Very bad for them. They can't see.' And with that she walks away to the counter, grabbing the price gun, as if she would like to shoot me with it.<br />
Well. Am by now feeling that I shouldn't have bothered carrying in sixteen bags of stuff but had thrown them at force through the door and scarpered.<br />
I muster up the last bit of good will.<br />
'Well, I'll see you soon. Bye! Have a good day!' The good will is almost killing me. I rake up a smile and nail it to my face.<br />
She doesn't look up and I leave the shop.<br />
For some reason I am filled with giggles. A lesser mortal would have clocked her one.<br />
But needs must, and all that. I'll be back there with another sixteen bags next Saturday after clearing out another bedroom or two. Must make sure that one bag is heaving with yellow books.<br />
And perhaps will take my own price gun with me. Pistols at dawn, and that sort of thing.<br />
Might make the headlines.<br />
'Charity Shop Drama. Local woman covered in £1.99.'<br />
Hummpphhh.<br />
<br />Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-32430448396791800392015-03-18T14:09:00.001+00:002015-03-18T14:09:06.956+00:00It's been a long time!Oh, dear, I've disabled my chicken.<br />
I'll explain.<br />
We had a rather nasty visitor the other night in the shape of a fox.<br />
He stole into our chicken run in the dead of night, and I awoke to the most appalling sounds of terrified birds and carnage at 4 o'clock in the morning.<br />
After fifteen rather unpleasant minutes of chasing a fox away, and comforting those hens who were left, I and Husband, (who had joined me after hearing me yelling rather rude words to the fox) retired back to bed, leaving the poor old girls shocked and battered in their shed. All locked up. Again.<br />
Anyway...<br />
Two hens had died, and so we went about getting two replacements, who duly arrived a couple of days later from a very nice chicken farmer who lives down the road.<br />
Our two new girls are extremely nice; one is called Margot, and the other one Betsy. Just don't ask why. They just ARE, OK?<br />
Well.<br />
Margot has taken to 'getting out' of the chicken run EVERYDAY.<br />
How? The wire is high, there are no holes in the fence. She is clearly a Ninja chicken.<br />
And so we, my husband and I, clipped her wings. Grabbed her while she was enjoying a perambulation around the vegetable garden, and with the use of my nice bright kitchen scissors, cut a couple of inches of wing off. On one side. Put her back into the chicken run and slammed the lock across.<br />
Good job, we said, as we went back in for a cup of tea.<br />
Looked out of window ten minutes later. Could see Margot BACK IN the vegetable garden, having a right old go at the left over mouldy old carrots.<br />
???<br />
Out we went again. We examined her wing, and reckoned that we needed to take two inches off the other wing.<br />
Out came the lovely bright kitchen scissors again. Off came two inches of second wing.<br />
Back we went to have another cup of tea, chuckling away at our wayward chicken. Ho ho ho!<br />
Washing up my mug a few minutes later BLOODY Margot was back in the vegetable garden.<br />
Well.<br />
Out we went, Husband and I, determined that this chicken should not escape from the chicken run EVER again. What did she think she was; an ex film star from the film of that name?<br />
Off came more wings. By now the poor chicken was looking decidedly dodgy, with tiny stumps of wings on each side.<br />
'That'll do it,' muttered Husband as he chucked the feathers into the dustbin.<br />
'That'll do it,' muttered I as I threw the chicken over the fence to fly down into the run.<br />
Oops, I thought.<br />
The poor chicken, having no wings, plummeted down like a rock.<br />
Oh, dear, thought I. Have killed chicken.<br />
But up she got, and started pecking away at another imaginary insect.<br />
Phew, I thought.<br />
Back we went inside.<br />
Only to glance out of the window at the rather lovely sunset only MOMENTS later to see Margot BACK in the vegetable garden.<br />
Right. THAT'S IT, we said.<br />
We stomped out and grabbed the chicken and remembered just in time NOT to throw her back in the run.<br />
??<br />
How on EARTH did she get out?<br />
It had now crossed our minds that the poor chicken was not so much Ninja as getting through fence somewhere.<br />
It turned out that the fox had made a hole in the fence just next to the gate in his mad dash for freedom on being discovered. It didn't look broken at all, unless you stuck your nose a couple of inches away from it. Which I did.<br />
Poor old Margot. She looks a mess. Tiny stubby wings like a new born chick.<br />
Mind you, am very glad that we realised finally that it was a broken fence that had her escaping like a chickeny sort of Steve McQueen, and not her flying out again. Goodness knows what we might have cut off next.<br />
All's well now. Fence is mended, and Margot is quite content with the chicken run.<br />
Now we wait for a hen to produce the first egg since the Fox Incident. Am missing my boiled egg in the morning.<br />
We'll keep you posted. xxx<br />
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<br />Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2836112486324976966.post-5738165947902753862014-01-01T14:49:00.004+00:002014-01-01T14:49:59.235+00:00Village Pantomime<br />
<br />
For my sins, once every couple of years or so, I produce and direct our Village Pantomime.<br />
And this year it was time to do it again.<br />
And so we sat down and sort of wrote a play called 'She Ain't No Cinderella' back in March, and then sort of wrote a bit more in April. And carried on doing that during the Summer Months, until... hey presto! A play was born.<br />
Everyone in the village was very excited (we don't get out much) about the new Panto, and our meeting in September to 'gauge interest' was an enormous success with hundreds of villagers clamouring to be in it. (Exaggeration needed as 25 villagers sounds rather dull).<br />
And when we started to rehearse in October, all seemed to be going rather swimmingly. Each Scene had someone in charge who would report back to me how it was all going. <br />
Easy peasy!<br />
In November I managed to visit various scenes and do my best to make some sense out of the somewhat baffling scenes some people had concocted. (Eight Sugar Plum Fairies, four of which were men)<br />
In December we had big rehearsals for all the cast, taking place at the venue where the play would be performed on the 20th and 21st December.<br />
And finally, on December 15th, we held our Dress Rehearsal! All too exciting!<br />
The next day the stage was built, the lights were going up; it was all going wonderfully!<br />
That afternoon I was sitting comfortably having my hair cut, while Middle Son reclined on the sofa in the sitting room, recovering from Pneumonia. Hadn't I mentioned that? Or the fact that I was covering at work for a colleague who had had an operation? Or that I had done no Christmas shopping owing to sick children and colleagues? No? Oh, well. Suffice it to say that I had been a tad Busy. <br />
No, not busy. <br />
Frantically, horrendously, tortuously Busy.<br />
And so, sitting in my kitchen while having my hair cut was a total Luxury.<br />
Until the phone rang.<br />
It was Graham, fondly known as Boxy as he was in charge of the Box Office for the Panto.<br />
'Proddy?' he asked.<br />
Yes, I know. Nick names are naff, but we like them, OK?<br />
'Proddy?' he asked. (short for Producer. DO keep up)<br />
'Yes?' I answered in a dreamy kind of way. People fiddling with my hair always makes me go a bit cross eyed.<br />
'Bit of a problem. Our venue for the play doesn't seem to have a Licence for the Entertainment.'<br />
And so began the Nightmare.<br />
Apparently, everyone needs a Licence (french accent) for any Entertainment they might be providing to their unsuspecting audience. And the place where we were setting up for the panto Had No Licence.<br />
Full Stop.<br />
I won't bore you with the 'maybe we could put a stage in the barn' or 'what about the pub, could we fit it in there?' or 'Sod it, let's do it in my house' sort of thing.<br />
Because WHEREVER you want to put on a play, even if you WROTE the BLOODY thing yourself, it makes no difference. You have to have an Entertainment Licence. And we Didn't Have One.<br />
Oh, joy. <br />
Oh, thrills. <br />
Oh, bugger.<br />
After I had had my hair cut and dried, and I had collected Youngest from school, and waited until Daughter was brought back by Very Kind Friend, I went for a walk with Milo, our dog.<br />
It rained.<br />
Very hard. <br />
And as I walked in this Gale and Downpour I attempted to ring various Village Halls who might have a Sodding Entertainment Licence around and about who might be able to let us perform our weird and wonderful Panto.<br />
No answer. From anyone. <br />
'Leave a message and we'll get back to you in March' sort of thing.<br />
Arrived home battered from rain and hair looking distinctly Uncoiffured.<br />
Message from Dial Post Village Hall. Could I ring Alan Childs.<br />
Yes, I could!<br />
Rang Alan Childs.<br />
Who said, 'Yes, alright, you can have do your Pantomime with a cast of forty five, with a 7 x 4 metre stage for two performances at the end of the week in our village hall.'<br />
'Really?' I asked, a little stunned.<br />
'Yes,' said Alan Childs.<br />
'One thing,' I asked. <br />
'What's that,' he said.<br />
'Have you got an Entertainment Licence?'<br />
'Yes,' he said.<br />
'One more thing,' I asked.<br />
'What's that?' he asked.<br />
'Have you got a drinks licence?'<br />
'Yes,' he said.<br />
At this point I think I told Alan Childs that I loved him and could I have his babies.<br />
Which might have caused a problem as am distinctly menopausal, and have perfectly good Husband who has already provided plenty of rather splendid children.<br />
Anyway.<br />
He took it all in his stride and continued to tell me the 'slight problems' that we might have to sort out.<br />
'Oh?' I asked. Full of optimism that any problems could be sorted. Hadn't we just found ourselves a Village Hall at the eleventh hour?<br />
'Well,' he began. 'You won't be able to have your Dress Rehearsal on the Thursday night because there is Bowling in the hall.<br />
'Oh,' I said.<br />
'And you won't be able to get into the hall until 12.00 midday on Friday because of Badminton.'<br />
'Oh,' I said.<br />
'And you can't go into the hall on the Saturday as there is a party from 1.00 until 6.00. for twenty five four year olds.'<br />
'Oh,' I said.<br />
'And while you are setting up on the Friday, there's an Old People's Lunch in the meeting room.'<br />
'Oh, 'I said.<br />
'And on the Friday night there is also a Bingo Christmas Party in the meeting room where you would be changing, so you'll have to change in the hut outside.'<br />
'Oh,' I said.<br />
'But apart from all that, it shouldn't be any problem at all.'<br />
Fabulous.<br />
But do you know, it wasn't! A problem at all.<br />
We went to the village hall the next morning to check that it was going to work with our stage there. Me, Boxy, Chas and Nick. Chas was one of us who wrote the play, and Nick was doing all the sound.<br />
We enthused and cheered as we saw that it Might Actually Flipping Well Work.<br />
We cheered a bit more when we saw the hut where we would all be changing on the First Night.<br />
We cheered again when we saw the immaculate kitchen where we could flog all the drink.<br />
We clapped when we saw the meeting room, where we could change on the Second Night.<br />
We clasped Alan Childs warmly by the hand as we told him how grateful we were.<br />
And then Chas had to ring the Scaffolders who had just spent four hours putting the stage up in the old venue. And ask them if they could they take it down and put it up again in another hall?<br />
'Yes,' they said.<br />
'When?' they asked.<br />
'Friday,' Chas said.<br />
'Fine,' they said.<br />
Honestly, aren't people flipping gorgeous?<br />
Boxy got the lights. Nick sorted the sound. I emailed everyone to say there was No Need To Panic but we weren't in the old venue owing to an Entertainment Licence Absence, and we were now in Dial Post Village Hall. Could anyone help on Friday? <br />
Tsunami of offers back to help on Friday.<br />
The unbelievable kindness was extraordinary. These people are seriously SERIOUSLY nice.<br />
By Friday our stage was up, our lights were up, the sound system was up, our spirits were up, and the doors opened at 6.30 to welcome the first of our audience.<br />
Oh, did I mention that Boxy and his wonderful Wife rang around to make sure that everyone who had bought tickets knew of the change of venue? Or that the stage people took another 4 hours to set up the new stage with not One Cross Word. Just smiles and hard work.<br />
Did I say that the entire cast turned up at the dress rehearsal and calmly got on with it without lights, or a stage? Because we had to practice in our old Venue owing to the Bowling in the new one.<br />
Did I mention the small fact that NONE of us had actually REHEARSED on the STAGE before the actual PERFORMANCE?<br />
The Panto brought the house down. I sat with Boxy who was also doing the lights. (Did I mention the fact that he hadn't been able to practise the chuffing lighting cues until the FIRST PERFORMANCE?)<br />
And while I sat with him, watching his careful moves with the lighting cues, seeing the terrified faces of the cast through the makeshift curtain, hearing Nick behind us muttering about the next sound cue, doing everything PERFECTLY, watching Scene One as it started, the Ugly Sisters (Husband was one... black wig and lipstick....) and Pantomime Cow (as you do) doing their utterly crazy but hilarious Scene, I felt SO proud of my wonderful, mad, generous DEAR cast. .<br />
That can be told on Monday that their entire play was to be moved to another venue. And to carry on with all changes so calmly and with such good humour.<br />
We added a bit to the play. At the last minute. Simon, our Village Tenor (has the voice of an angel, so does his wife Sarah) started the play by becoming a member of the Horsham District Council,. and demanded to know it we had a Licence for the Entertainment.<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Dunno, said Chas (Step Mother). 'Audience, do you call this entertainment?'</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">'NO!' came a roar from the audience, already somewhat lubricated by the extremely well stocked bar.</span><br />
Horsham District Councillor was then gagged and 'frogmarched' down the aisle by myself and Mandy (Fairy Godmother).<br />
Brought the house down.<br />
The applause at the end was thunderous. And I looked over at the cast (I was up on that stage as well owing to a small part in Scene 3) and every single one of those darlings was smiling fit to burst, gazing out at their friends and relations who were yelling their appreciation for a fourth curtain call.<br />
And I thought to myself that it doesn't get much better than this.<br />
Because, quite frankly, it doesn't.<br />
Thanks, Cast! Here's to the next one.<br />
And can someone sort out that BLOODY Entertainment Licence before the Dress Rehearsal.<br />
(Exit Producer, followed by Horsham District Councillor with clipboard)<br />
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<br />Ladybird World Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04410236464722005178noreply@blogger.com12