As the last slice of my super large Christmas cake finally gets eaten, it seems a good time to reflect on how things went this year.
We all decided to eschew (what a fantastic word that is) the Christmas advertising frenzy and do something different. Some presents were made, some bought from charity shops and some taken from our own shelves to redistribute to better homes.
The most surprising hit of all these was a gift wrapped catalogue of industrial signs. I am sensitive to the fact this makes my family sound a) poverty stricken and b) extremely sad, but it was a wonderful thing. As soon as it was unwrapped by the lucky recipient, everyone gathered round, pointing out their favourite warnings (man drowning was very popular for its slightly comic take on personal disaster) and 'corrosive substance' for its no holds barred approach to showing a hand dissolving under a dripping test tube. The old favourite, 'Slippery when wet' is always good for a laugh too. I liked the movement suggested by 'descending counterweight', and felt sorry for the man suspended for all eternity mid-fall from what looks like a bookshelf. I resisted a chuckle at the person foolishly 'pipetting by mouth' obviously expecting to enjoy a milk shake. The surrealism of 'Do not watch arc' was confounding while 'No escape' carried despondent undertones of darkness. We also had a very jolly time inventing personalised captions for other graphics.
It still sounds sad, but was actually very funny at the time - but then some jokes don't travel well out of context. I did suggest my older son write to the catalogue company to let them know their manual was his favourite present, it could give them a new marketing idea for next year, while boosting sales........
Or maybe they would just think we're all a lost cause.
Friday, 14 January 2011
Thursday, 13 January 2011
Supernatural Animation
I arrived in Surburbiden early this morning. It was dark, wet and cold. I clutched my super hot hot chocolate to my chest and hurried towards Prefab Towers. It was then I saw it.
Something chilling.
A glimpse into a bus swinging round a bend in the gyratory system, crammed with the undead. They slewed sideways en masse, packed too tight to fall.
Faces pale and devoid of expression, ghostly apparitions under the neon strip lighting of the 173.
All in need of salvation. Salvation from the grind and pointlessness of the daily commute.
From being held in limbo at the bus stop, on the platform, or in the murky underworld.
I quickly rearranged my face into a contrived joyful expression in case I was mistaken for a walking corpse. Someone passed by, they looked confused.
No one should be happy in Surburbiden at 7.30am on a winter weekday morning, unless they have a lovely cup of hot chocolate to drink, that is.
Something chilling.
A glimpse into a bus swinging round a bend in the gyratory system, crammed with the undead. They slewed sideways en masse, packed too tight to fall.
Faces pale and devoid of expression, ghostly apparitions under the neon strip lighting of the 173.
All in need of salvation. Salvation from the grind and pointlessness of the daily commute.
From being held in limbo at the bus stop, on the platform, or in the murky underworld.
I quickly rearranged my face into a contrived joyful expression in case I was mistaken for a walking corpse. Someone passed by, they looked confused.
No one should be happy in Surburbiden at 7.30am on a winter weekday morning, unless they have a lovely cup of hot chocolate to drink, that is.
Wednesday, 12 January 2011
New Boots and......
Getting carried away in the sales, I did what I do every year. Look at the sales stuff, turn my nose up, and buy things I didn't need at great expense from the non-sale stock.
This year my purchases took the form of two pairs of rather wonderful suede ankle boots. They are identical apart from the colour. One pair is black, the other a resplendent purple. Anyone walking close to me on the way back home would have heard the strains of 'Purple Rain' being sung quietly, but proudly. There is something pleasantly anti-disestablishment about deep purple and I thought they would go well with the mood of my 'urban anarchy' scarf.
The other morning I was getting dressed in a poor light, and you've guessed it, was getting out of the car at work and saw that my feet were different colours. Quite radically different too. I wondered whether I could get away with making a 'fashion statement' but chickened out and put on an old pair of black shoes I had in the bottom of a drawer. This made me grumpy as they didn't go with my green skirt of existential happiness. The old shoes had been discarded as being too uncomfy, so my feet hurt all day and I walked funny as a result.
So your tip for today is to always get dressed in good light, otherwise be prepared to brazen it out as a fashionista at work.
This year my purchases took the form of two pairs of rather wonderful suede ankle boots. They are identical apart from the colour. One pair is black, the other a resplendent purple. Anyone walking close to me on the way back home would have heard the strains of 'Purple Rain' being sung quietly, but proudly. There is something pleasantly anti-disestablishment about deep purple and I thought they would go well with the mood of my 'urban anarchy' scarf.
The other morning I was getting dressed in a poor light, and you've guessed it, was getting out of the car at work and saw that my feet were different colours. Quite radically different too. I wondered whether I could get away with making a 'fashion statement' but chickened out and put on an old pair of black shoes I had in the bottom of a drawer. This made me grumpy as they didn't go with my green skirt of existential happiness. The old shoes had been discarded as being too uncomfy, so my feet hurt all day and I walked funny as a result.
So your tip for today is to always get dressed in good light, otherwise be prepared to brazen it out as a fashionista at work.
Monday, 10 January 2011
How Many More Miles to Go?
A bit of the news caught my ears today. Something about a breeding pair of Landrovers doing well in China.
Maybe I heard wrong?
My father once brought a Landrover home from work in the early 1960's. I was very little, but remember the basic clankiness of chains rattling around, lots of catches and cold metal stuff. It was the most exciting thing that had happened to me up to that point in my short life - sitting in the back of a Landrover. (As I think I mentioned earlier, life was a tad dull in those days). My parents owned a Morris Minor at that time. It was a ferocious beast. It had blue eyes (there was some tinting on the headlamps). I remember having the onerous duty of putting out an empty milk bottle one morning, turning to look up the drive towards the open garage, and being so scared of the evil creature ready to pounce on me, that I dropped the bottle, which smashed dramatically. Maybe I did it deliberately to halt the progress of the creature, subliminally recognising that the tyres would deflate over broken glass.
In a later decade, my brother enjoyed driving a Morris Minor estate. It was a half timbered affair, sort of mock tudor. Frightfully sophisticated, with all that wood, who needs chrome? And a car that you can clean with a can of Pledge and a duster. How quaint is that?
We used to spend a lot of time in cars, going on family holidays to Devon, to see Grandad. In those days it was a two day journey. We three siblings would cram in the back of whatever car we had then (I mostly remember the Corsair). Me being the smallest had to sit in the middle with my feet resting on the bumpy bit in the middle. We were fed boiled sweets from the 'sweetie mine' (or glove compartment to normal people), which, when my mother executed an emergency stop (which seemed to happen with alarming regularity) would lodge in my throat. I felt my life ebb away and as I fought for breath, arms flailing, gagging and clutching my throat, my father would utter soothing things like, 'You'll be fine in ten minutes'. This always happened, it was horrible, but he fed us boiled sweets on every journey I can remember for years. I didn't have to eat them I suppose, but you are a bored child on a long journey. A pear drop is the highlight of the day.
Mother's emergency stops were a result of my father screaming 'leap, leap, leap' at road junctions, so she would accelerate hard, lose her nerve and stamp on the brake and then he would remonstrate with her to the next junction. We lurched like this for the several hundred miles (or so it seemed) to Grandad. He never seemed that bothered to see us, and would shuffle in his carpet slippers and oddly out-of-place labcoat to his pantry. He would make gutteral noises in the back of his throat, and shuffle out again, with a catering size tin of honey clutched to his chest. I think this is why I have always enjoyed Winne the Pooh so much.
I wonder how many stories will be unfolding in the Landrovers in China? They will probably cover far longer journeys, with far more exotic landscapes. Wherever they go, a good proportion of them will have children sitting in the back asking, 'How many more miles to go?'.
Maybe I heard wrong?
My father once brought a Landrover home from work in the early 1960's. I was very little, but remember the basic clankiness of chains rattling around, lots of catches and cold metal stuff. It was the most exciting thing that had happened to me up to that point in my short life - sitting in the back of a Landrover. (As I think I mentioned earlier, life was a tad dull in those days). My parents owned a Morris Minor at that time. It was a ferocious beast. It had blue eyes (there was some tinting on the headlamps). I remember having the onerous duty of putting out an empty milk bottle one morning, turning to look up the drive towards the open garage, and being so scared of the evil creature ready to pounce on me, that I dropped the bottle, which smashed dramatically. Maybe I did it deliberately to halt the progress of the creature, subliminally recognising that the tyres would deflate over broken glass.
In a later decade, my brother enjoyed driving a Morris Minor estate. It was a half timbered affair, sort of mock tudor. Frightfully sophisticated, with all that wood, who needs chrome? And a car that you can clean with a can of Pledge and a duster. How quaint is that?
We used to spend a lot of time in cars, going on family holidays to Devon, to see Grandad. In those days it was a two day journey. We three siblings would cram in the back of whatever car we had then (I mostly remember the Corsair). Me being the smallest had to sit in the middle with my feet resting on the bumpy bit in the middle. We were fed boiled sweets from the 'sweetie mine' (or glove compartment to normal people), which, when my mother executed an emergency stop (which seemed to happen with alarming regularity) would lodge in my throat. I felt my life ebb away and as I fought for breath, arms flailing, gagging and clutching my throat, my father would utter soothing things like, 'You'll be fine in ten minutes'. This always happened, it was horrible, but he fed us boiled sweets on every journey I can remember for years. I didn't have to eat them I suppose, but you are a bored child on a long journey. A pear drop is the highlight of the day.
Mother's emergency stops were a result of my father screaming 'leap, leap, leap' at road junctions, so she would accelerate hard, lose her nerve and stamp on the brake and then he would remonstrate with her to the next junction. We lurched like this for the several hundred miles (or so it seemed) to Grandad. He never seemed that bothered to see us, and would shuffle in his carpet slippers and oddly out-of-place labcoat to his pantry. He would make gutteral noises in the back of his throat, and shuffle out again, with a catering size tin of honey clutched to his chest. I think this is why I have always enjoyed Winne the Pooh so much.
I wonder how many stories will be unfolding in the Landrovers in China? They will probably cover far longer journeys, with far more exotic landscapes. Wherever they go, a good proportion of them will have children sitting in the back asking, 'How many more miles to go?'.
Sunday, 9 January 2011
Feeling Waspish
I was sitting on the sofa, enjoying a moment of pointlessness, like you do, when things took an unpleasant turn for the worse. A very large Lancaster Bomber sized wasp appeared, as if from nowhere, and started buzzing around. I could understand this if it had been late August, but it was January for goodness sake.
When I want to enjoy my pointless moments, I light the fire and a small congregation of church candles. The room was illuminated by soothing flickering light, and then this enormous wasp the size of a small county came to terrorise me.
'Why?' I questioned, eyes raised heavenward.
I suffer from intense bouts of inertia once my backside hits the soft cushions of the settee, so I sat, transfixed, hoping the stripey beast would leave me alone. It turned from nudging along the wall behind the telly (it must have been disappointed that magnolia paint didn't offer the fragrant allure of the real thing) and headed straight for me. I was just contemplating the optimum direction for a duck, when it tactically changed course, and flew straight into the flame of the church candle nearest my head. There was an unpleasant popping and fizzing noise, and the wasp was incarcerated in solidified wax for all eternity. My relief was mixed with unease at a living creature committing suicide so close to my head, the unsavoury noises that accompanied it, and pity that while it's ancestors were incarcerated in the much more glamorous bling of amber, this wasp was going to have to make do with cold wax. It would never be immortalised or bejewelled in its afterlife.
But then, I don't suppose I will be either.
Earth and worms...........
Earth and worms.
When I want to enjoy my pointless moments, I light the fire and a small congregation of church candles. The room was illuminated by soothing flickering light, and then this enormous wasp the size of a small county came to terrorise me.
'Why?' I questioned, eyes raised heavenward.
I suffer from intense bouts of inertia once my backside hits the soft cushions of the settee, so I sat, transfixed, hoping the stripey beast would leave me alone. It turned from nudging along the wall behind the telly (it must have been disappointed that magnolia paint didn't offer the fragrant allure of the real thing) and headed straight for me. I was just contemplating the optimum direction for a duck, when it tactically changed course, and flew straight into the flame of the church candle nearest my head. There was an unpleasant popping and fizzing noise, and the wasp was incarcerated in solidified wax for all eternity. My relief was mixed with unease at a living creature committing suicide so close to my head, the unsavoury noises that accompanied it, and pity that while it's ancestors were incarcerated in the much more glamorous bling of amber, this wasp was going to have to make do with cold wax. It would never be immortalised or bejewelled in its afterlife.
But then, I don't suppose I will be either.
Earth and worms...........
Earth and worms.
Saturday, 8 January 2011
Leaning on my Oars and Watching the World Drift By
I went skiffing this morning. It was really great to be out on the river again, although a little bit chilly around the edges. I had the opportunity to sit quietly, leaning on my oars while some teaching took place. The river was flowing faster than I have seen it do for quite a while, and when we weren't rowing, the boat started to drift sideways and float downstream. People walking along the banks smiled as they hurried by. I felt pleased that I was the one on the water. When I used to go for walks by the river, I wished I was in a boat - and now I am. I also love 'The Wind in the Willows', and sometimes it feels like I've stepped into the pages - especially on a beautiful summer evening, with a picnic stowed in the bows. It's also wonderful on a chilly evening, when an ethereal mist settles over the surface and the only noise you can hear is the gentle dipping of the sculls and creaking of wood. The oars leave little full stops on the surface, marking progress.
In the dark, the lights from bars and restaurants cast long reflections in the water and drinkers watch, slightly amused, that people are rowing in the cold and in the dark. Only the fishermen on the banks seem to understand the draw of the water like we do on nights like these.
Most people seem to like being near water though, maybe it's about where we all came from, an acknowledgement of the primaeval soup we once slithered out of.
In the dark, the lights from bars and restaurants cast long reflections in the water and drinkers watch, slightly amused, that people are rowing in the cold and in the dark. Only the fishermen on the banks seem to understand the draw of the water like we do on nights like these.
Most people seem to like being near water though, maybe it's about where we all came from, an acknowledgement of the primaeval soup we once slithered out of.
Wednesday, 29 December 2010
If I Swallow Anything Evil........
When I was in India, I was given quite detailed instructions on how to kill a cobra. Twist its neck, two inches down from its nose. Get it right, you only get one chance at this.
However, it is a different type of snake that causes problems in our urban lives.
Some years ago I had the experience of watching someone try to tell me something difficult. Before they said anything, I could almost sense a serpent winding its way up their oesophagus and twisting out of their mouth - the forked tongue coming out and spitting venom. It was a really, deeply strange experience, quite apart from the distress of hearing the words being delivered.
We have all heard about snakes in the grass, but some people have snakes inside them. They can have smiley faces, but very occasionally you get a sense that there is something wriggling around inside them, desperate to get out. You can almost see them choking on it. It does something to their eyes too. The eyes can't say anything, we all know that, yet we know lying eyes when we see them. I think its the snake, taking a look around.
Don't release your inner snake! Put your fingers down your throat and strangle it. Two inches from its nose does the trick apparently.
Remember, you only get one go at this.
However, it is a different type of snake that causes problems in our urban lives.
Some years ago I had the experience of watching someone try to tell me something difficult. Before they said anything, I could almost sense a serpent winding its way up their oesophagus and twisting out of their mouth - the forked tongue coming out and spitting venom. It was a really, deeply strange experience, quite apart from the distress of hearing the words being delivered.
We have all heard about snakes in the grass, but some people have snakes inside them. They can have smiley faces, but very occasionally you get a sense that there is something wriggling around inside them, desperate to get out. You can almost see them choking on it. It does something to their eyes too. The eyes can't say anything, we all know that, yet we know lying eyes when we see them. I think its the snake, taking a look around.
Don't release your inner snake! Put your fingers down your throat and strangle it. Two inches from its nose does the trick apparently.
Remember, you only get one go at this.
Who's Looking at You?
Life is full of faces.
Faces you look into over many decades.
Faces that see you. Faces that read every nuance of every thought.
Faces that become lined with wisdom.
Faces with tears running down the cheeks.
Faces with big smiles and dimples.
Faces of your friends, you know every line, every blemish, every expression.
Faces coming close for a kiss that raise your heart rate.
Faces shining with love, upturned and open.
Angry faces, eager faces, surprised faces.
Faces that accompany you on your walk through life.
Faces you look into over many decades.
Faces that see you. Faces that read every nuance of every thought.
Faces that become lined with wisdom.
Faces with tears running down the cheeks.
Faces with big smiles and dimples.
Faces of your friends, you know every line, every blemish, every expression.
Faces coming close for a kiss that raise your heart rate.
Faces shining with love, upturned and open.
Angry faces, eager faces, surprised faces.
Faces that accompany you on your walk through life.
Tuesday, 21 December 2010
Hitting Hyperspace
When the computer game Asteroids came out, I was scared of the Hyperspace button, that took your little spacecraft into unknown territory.
It's a truism that the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. Scientists seem confident that they can describe everything by close examination. But if you looked at brain cells under a microscope you would be able to talk about their biological and physiological function but would miss the fact that they are capable of original thought when put together.
If you put a group of people together, and they express their thoughts, again the whole becomes greater than the sum of the parts. So much more information and development of ideas happens. It's the hyperspace factor.
The big society is centred around communities, but seems to be aimed at communities providing services that have historically been delivered by local authorities. Community is a word that has now become quite political. It's lost it's meaning. We need a new word for community, and it needs to reflect the hyperspace function.
Ideas on a postcard please.....
It's a truism that the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. Scientists seem confident that they can describe everything by close examination. But if you looked at brain cells under a microscope you would be able to talk about their biological and physiological function but would miss the fact that they are capable of original thought when put together.
If you put a group of people together, and they express their thoughts, again the whole becomes greater than the sum of the parts. So much more information and development of ideas happens. It's the hyperspace factor.
The big society is centred around communities, but seems to be aimed at communities providing services that have historically been delivered by local authorities. Community is a word that has now become quite political. It's lost it's meaning. We need a new word for community, and it needs to reflect the hyperspace function.
Ideas on a postcard please.....
Saturday, 11 December 2010
Cookies and Clangers
I can't cook. I really can't cook.
Having read 'Feel the Fear and do it Anyway' I decided to conquer this long held phobia and took the Bellringers Cake Sale today to be my watershed. I woke up at 7am, and armed with a BBC shortbread recipe and bell shaped cookie cutters, took to the kitchen with a stiff upper lip and my son's netbook.
The recipe couldn't have been simpler. But with hindsight it would have helped if my scales were accurate to a greater degree than 3 lbs. I swirled the mix around with my ancient electric whisk (my sister donated this to me thirty years ago, having felt it needed replacing), enjoyed cutting the bell shapes out (there is something charmingly reminiscent of nursery school in this activity) and put them in the oven. While they were doing, I did the washing up, and even though the sink is next to the oven, I STILL MANAGED TO LET THEM BURN. With a heavy heart I chisled them off the baking trays, and tasted a corner (or clanger). It was so bad I even had to spit that out.
It was very depressing, having more washing up to do, no cookies and a glob of sugary dough stuck around the shift key on the netbook to try to disentangle before my son sees it.
Luckily I have two boxes of mince pies in the cupboard.
At least I felt the fear and tried.
Having read 'Feel the Fear and do it Anyway' I decided to conquer this long held phobia and took the Bellringers Cake Sale today to be my watershed. I woke up at 7am, and armed with a BBC shortbread recipe and bell shaped cookie cutters, took to the kitchen with a stiff upper lip and my son's netbook.
The recipe couldn't have been simpler. But with hindsight it would have helped if my scales were accurate to a greater degree than 3 lbs. I swirled the mix around with my ancient electric whisk (my sister donated this to me thirty years ago, having felt it needed replacing), enjoyed cutting the bell shapes out (there is something charmingly reminiscent of nursery school in this activity) and put them in the oven. While they were doing, I did the washing up, and even though the sink is next to the oven, I STILL MANAGED TO LET THEM BURN. With a heavy heart I chisled them off the baking trays, and tasted a corner (or clanger). It was so bad I even had to spit that out.
It was very depressing, having more washing up to do, no cookies and a glob of sugary dough stuck around the shift key on the netbook to try to disentangle before my son sees it.
Luckily I have two boxes of mince pies in the cupboard.
At least I felt the fear and tried.
Saturday, 27 November 2010
Mind Blowing
Are you ready for it?
It's going to come soon.
It's going to be big. Bigger than anything you have ever felt before, yet all the while silent and tranquil.
You'll feel it glowing in your solar plexus, it will be warm and wonderful.
It will feel so delicious you will almost taste it.
Prepare yourself.
Be still.
Be calm.
It doesn't care if you're old or young, thin or fat, rich or poor.
It's not bothered if you're about to lose your job or about to have an operation.
It might come through your friends and family, a stranger on the tube, a colleague. It might come from your God or my God. It might even already be inside you.
Can you feel it?
The celestial breeze?
Unfurl your sail and run with the wind.
It's going to come soon.
It's going to be big. Bigger than anything you have ever felt before, yet all the while silent and tranquil.
You'll feel it glowing in your solar plexus, it will be warm and wonderful.
It will feel so delicious you will almost taste it.
Prepare yourself.
Be still.
Be calm.
It doesn't care if you're old or young, thin or fat, rich or poor.
It's not bothered if you're about to lose your job or about to have an operation.
It might come through your friends and family, a stranger on the tube, a colleague. It might come from your God or my God. It might even already be inside you.
Can you feel it?
The celestial breeze?
Unfurl your sail and run with the wind.
Friday, 5 November 2010
Let's Reorganise Everything!
I'm currently a 'victim' of the NHS.
What I need is one specific examination. I have so far had two pointless appointments, where both doctors have said, 'you need this specific examination'.
'Yes' I reply, 'I know'.
Trouble is, having written a rather tetchy letter to my GP, I feel obliged to keep attending the appointments he sends me for so I can't be criticised for not playing my part of the game.
The last appointment I had for the wrong examination even sent out the wrong preparation letter, so I couldn't even have the wrong examination I was scheduled for.
Yesterday, I became foolishly excited by another letter from the NHS, thinking it would be for the right examination. No, it was for an appointment to have the right wrong examination, if you follow my drift.
The most frustrating thing is that no-one seems to be communicating with each other, so in desperation, I wrote a letter to my GP, explaining my diagnosis, possible 'hidden' factors and which examination I should be having. I couldn't help thinking, as I put pen to paper, that maybe this is what the consultant I saw a month ago should have done.
The parts of the NHS that I am now familiar with have the aura of a third world facility. To get an early appointment with the GP one has to queue on the pavement outside the surgery for at least 20 minutes, followed by a further 20 minutes inside. There was something of the 'Spirit of the Blitz' in the queue, with one kind person actually queueing for an elderly neighbour who couldn't stand up for long. It was raining too, which added to the abject misery of the experience.
At the hospital I was kept waiting for over an hour - which gave me ample time to contemplate the 'we aim to see everyone within 30 minutes of their appointment time' notice. Another poster declared that the NHS valued my opinion, and would like me to fill in a patient survey form 'to be found in the waiting room'. My friend and I played Hunt the Patient Questionnaire for a while, and then I asked at the desk about their whereabouts. The chap looked confused, not having heard of them. He suggested I tried downstairs, and they hadn't either. Giving up hope, I did come across a pamphlet entitled 'Poems to Read in the Waiting Room'. My friend and I had a rather amusing time adding to these with little ditties, which I have to confess erred on the side of irony.
In the hour or so I was kept waiting, no one came to tell us what was going on, why we were waiting or how long it might be. All this coupled with the apparent complete lack of communication with the GP's surgery or myself was beyond comprehension. An organisation that prides itself on generally keeping its customers waiting 'only' thirty minutes in the twenty first century has much wrong with it.
I have to say that once in the consultation, everything was very well done and as pleasant as it could be. What a shame that seriously hopeless customer care and administration lets these brilliant teams down so badly.
What I need is one specific examination. I have so far had two pointless appointments, where both doctors have said, 'you need this specific examination'.
'Yes' I reply, 'I know'.
Trouble is, having written a rather tetchy letter to my GP, I feel obliged to keep attending the appointments he sends me for so I can't be criticised for not playing my part of the game.
The last appointment I had for the wrong examination even sent out the wrong preparation letter, so I couldn't even have the wrong examination I was scheduled for.
Yesterday, I became foolishly excited by another letter from the NHS, thinking it would be for the right examination. No, it was for an appointment to have the right wrong examination, if you follow my drift.
The most frustrating thing is that no-one seems to be communicating with each other, so in desperation, I wrote a letter to my GP, explaining my diagnosis, possible 'hidden' factors and which examination I should be having. I couldn't help thinking, as I put pen to paper, that maybe this is what the consultant I saw a month ago should have done.
The parts of the NHS that I am now familiar with have the aura of a third world facility. To get an early appointment with the GP one has to queue on the pavement outside the surgery for at least 20 minutes, followed by a further 20 minutes inside. There was something of the 'Spirit of the Blitz' in the queue, with one kind person actually queueing for an elderly neighbour who couldn't stand up for long. It was raining too, which added to the abject misery of the experience.
At the hospital I was kept waiting for over an hour - which gave me ample time to contemplate the 'we aim to see everyone within 30 minutes of their appointment time' notice. Another poster declared that the NHS valued my opinion, and would like me to fill in a patient survey form 'to be found in the waiting room'. My friend and I played Hunt the Patient Questionnaire for a while, and then I asked at the desk about their whereabouts. The chap looked confused, not having heard of them. He suggested I tried downstairs, and they hadn't either. Giving up hope, I did come across a pamphlet entitled 'Poems to Read in the Waiting Room'. My friend and I had a rather amusing time adding to these with little ditties, which I have to confess erred on the side of irony.
In the hour or so I was kept waiting, no one came to tell us what was going on, why we were waiting or how long it might be. All this coupled with the apparent complete lack of communication with the GP's surgery or myself was beyond comprehension. An organisation that prides itself on generally keeping its customers waiting 'only' thirty minutes in the twenty first century has much wrong with it.
I have to say that once in the consultation, everything was very well done and as pleasant as it could be. What a shame that seriously hopeless customer care and administration lets these brilliant teams down so badly.
Monday, 18 October 2010
I am Middle C
I play the piano. That's part of who I am.
I can't walk past a piano without giving in to the temptation to hit a chord or two.
I've always been like that.
There is something ultimately satisfying about the feel of the keys going down and springing back up, like miniature seesaws. The feel of triggering the hammer to bump the string.
Middle C. It's where it all starts.
The first note you find when your hands are still too small to reach an octave and your legs too short to reach the pedals. When you stood up, your nose was level with the bits of the keys that stick out a little further which older, taller people don't notice.
Middle C, defined by its wavelength, its tone. It can be sustained or dampened with the pedals. It can be part of a delightful melody when played in a particular order. It can be discordant when played against the wrong notes. A gifted composer can transform the discordant sound into something brilliant. It can be part of an orchestra, it can be part of something that evokes strong memories and emotions. But all it is is middle C.
I am middle C.
Who are you?
I can't walk past a piano without giving in to the temptation to hit a chord or two.
I've always been like that.
There is something ultimately satisfying about the feel of the keys going down and springing back up, like miniature seesaws. The feel of triggering the hammer to bump the string.
Middle C. It's where it all starts.
The first note you find when your hands are still too small to reach an octave and your legs too short to reach the pedals. When you stood up, your nose was level with the bits of the keys that stick out a little further which older, taller people don't notice.
Middle C, defined by its wavelength, its tone. It can be sustained or dampened with the pedals. It can be part of a delightful melody when played in a particular order. It can be discordant when played against the wrong notes. A gifted composer can transform the discordant sound into something brilliant. It can be part of an orchestra, it can be part of something that evokes strong memories and emotions. But all it is is middle C.
I am middle C.
Who are you?
Saturday, 2 October 2010
How to be Happy
On my holiday this year, I spent quite a lot of time sitting on rocks on windswept Hebridean beaches. It gave me the opportunity to think. Or not to think for that matter.
If I chose to think, I could go for light and fluffy thoughts, 'what is that cow doing?', 'Is the tide coming in?'. Alternatively I could go for thinking extra-plus, 'is what I'm seeing really here?', 'how many micro-organisms are milling around under the rippling water'. I do acknowledge that my thinking extra-plus probably isn't that heavy duty compared to other people, but it felt weighty. So weighty in fact that I feel the urge to share it, and one of the things I thought was that you have to follow your urges (within reason, and therein lies the rub).
I think we all have inbuilt wisdom. You might not have noticed it yet, but every so often it will give you a little shake. I describe this best as having antennae that wiggle. Once you learn to recognise the wiggling sensation, you are starting out on being a bit happier. If you do something not in right ordering (with the cosmos - remember we're thinking big here), something will disturb you a bit, or maybe a lot (depends what you're thinking of doing really) and you might notice a virtual tremour.
The next thing to do is to PAY ATTENTION to the wiggling. Don't just discard the feeling, it is a gift that is helping you live your life better. It takes quite a while to trust the wiggles, but once you learn to trust them, stuff gets easier. It can be a bit bothersome at first, but persevere.
As a beginner, you might find it hard to differentiate the real wiggles from fake ones. Fake ones tend to happen when you are being a bit vain, or greedy - basically when you are suffering an unexpected attack of one of the seven deadly sins. There is an art to telling the difference, generally speaking real ones won't be advising you to do something for personal gain or to hurt someone else.
Once you start to get the hang of this, the wiggles become clearer, and you find you have some direction developing in your life. The antennae will point you towards what makes you happier, and properly happier.
Give yourself a few minutes every evening to think about what made you happier that day and think about why. Have integrity in all that you do.
If you're not sure where to start, think outwards. That is, think about what you can do to help other people. It takes you away from being self absorbed, and hopefully the other people will become more smiley and friendly towards you, giving you a bit of a warm inner glow. Random acts of kindness go a long way in building the inner glow. Just do a few off the cuff things, as easy as making someone a cup of tea or doing a chore for them. Something a bit unexpected and small works best. Unexpected big acts of generosity might make them suspicious and are to be avoided at first.
Try to be positive, say positive things to people, focus on the positive things in your life. If there is nothing positive to think about, it's time to make significant changes. Be adventurous and creative, but plan well and take advice.
The wiggling will help you start to express yourself better. This can help make you more creative. Being creative will make you happier because you will start to do things you feel passionate about. If everyone is busy doing things they feel passionate about, they will do them well. If we are all doing things well, the sum total of the human experience will improve and we will all benefit.
I do acknowledge this advice comes from the advantageous point of being free from pain, having enough food to eat, a roof over my head, freedom, a regular income and living in a democracy. With all these things, what right do we have not to be happy anyway?
If I chose to think, I could go for light and fluffy thoughts, 'what is that cow doing?', 'Is the tide coming in?'. Alternatively I could go for thinking extra-plus, 'is what I'm seeing really here?', 'how many micro-organisms are milling around under the rippling water'. I do acknowledge that my thinking extra-plus probably isn't that heavy duty compared to other people, but it felt weighty. So weighty in fact that I feel the urge to share it, and one of the things I thought was that you have to follow your urges (within reason, and therein lies the rub).
I think we all have inbuilt wisdom. You might not have noticed it yet, but every so often it will give you a little shake. I describe this best as having antennae that wiggle. Once you learn to recognise the wiggling sensation, you are starting out on being a bit happier. If you do something not in right ordering (with the cosmos - remember we're thinking big here), something will disturb you a bit, or maybe a lot (depends what you're thinking of doing really) and you might notice a virtual tremour.
The next thing to do is to PAY ATTENTION to the wiggling. Don't just discard the feeling, it is a gift that is helping you live your life better. It takes quite a while to trust the wiggles, but once you learn to trust them, stuff gets easier. It can be a bit bothersome at first, but persevere.
As a beginner, you might find it hard to differentiate the real wiggles from fake ones. Fake ones tend to happen when you are being a bit vain, or greedy - basically when you are suffering an unexpected attack of one of the seven deadly sins. There is an art to telling the difference, generally speaking real ones won't be advising you to do something for personal gain or to hurt someone else.
Once you start to get the hang of this, the wiggles become clearer, and you find you have some direction developing in your life. The antennae will point you towards what makes you happier, and properly happier.
Give yourself a few minutes every evening to think about what made you happier that day and think about why. Have integrity in all that you do.
If you're not sure where to start, think outwards. That is, think about what you can do to help other people. It takes you away from being self absorbed, and hopefully the other people will become more smiley and friendly towards you, giving you a bit of a warm inner glow. Random acts of kindness go a long way in building the inner glow. Just do a few off the cuff things, as easy as making someone a cup of tea or doing a chore for them. Something a bit unexpected and small works best. Unexpected big acts of generosity might make them suspicious and are to be avoided at first.
Try to be positive, say positive things to people, focus on the positive things in your life. If there is nothing positive to think about, it's time to make significant changes. Be adventurous and creative, but plan well and take advice.
The wiggling will help you start to express yourself better. This can help make you more creative. Being creative will make you happier because you will start to do things you feel passionate about. If everyone is busy doing things they feel passionate about, they will do them well. If we are all doing things well, the sum total of the human experience will improve and we will all benefit.
I do acknowledge this advice comes from the advantageous point of being free from pain, having enough food to eat, a roof over my head, freedom, a regular income and living in a democracy. With all these things, what right do we have not to be happy anyway?
Tuesday, 6 July 2010
Nuclear Picnic Anyone?
I've just spent an afternoon in an old people's home, helping my mother move into their new premises. While we waited for her belongings to catch up (which they didn't) things became surreal. I was reading celebrity cellulite articles to her to try to dispel her anxiety about the whereabouts of her toothbrush and nightie. 'Did Alex really want to marry Jordan?' we wondered together. This lead me to ask her about her own long marriage to my father. What were the happiest times?
The reply sounded like something straight out of The Simpsons. 'Oh, I most enjoyed visiting the nuclear power stations for picnics. We used to go to all of them you know.'
I marveled at how a picnic at a nuclear power station could possibly rank as the high point of anyone's marriage, while gazing pointlessly at Posh's extensions ('she wouldn't leave my salon looking like that' - angry hairdresser to the WAGs).
'What are meal times like?' I asked, wondering whether a gastric band was really a good idea. I was regaled with a story detailing surprising aggression from a ninety year old with a stick baggying the adjacent dining chair for his wife. One brave gent (new kid on the block) had foolishly tried to sit in the chair and had faced the aforementioned walking stick being brandished menacingly from the arthritic oldie. The 'victim' had to resort to a particularly steady stare to dispel the attack. My mother was obviously impressed by the stand off and said it would have 'looked very good in a film' - I tried quite hard to imagine who would be interested in a film about old people arguing over the care home seating plan, but failed to think of a suitable market audience. I looked up from 'has Christine Bleakley had cosmetic surgery?' and asked whether my mother was 'sweet' on the gentleman with the dynamic 'look'. I noticed her blush and decided I didn't want to know any more and went back to 'boob jobs of the stars'.
There seemed to be an awful lot of staff helping to create total chaos in the home, with huge pieces of furniture being lugged into the one small lift by hefty removal men, who always had to wait for someone on a Zimmer frame to get out first. It was the slowest way you could possibly move into anywhere. I noticed an electric keyboard had taken up position in the lounge and resisted the urge to bash out some blues to the assembled hoardes of bored oldies. I later regretted this restraint when a helper started launching into 'All Things Bright and Beautiful' - all verses - several times.
I was sympathising with an elderly inmate about being further away from the sea, and nearly died of embarrassment when she said she was a volunteer. I made a mental note that if I was ever a volunteer in an old people's home, I would avoid a blue rinse and go for dreadlocks. Maybe even blue dreadlocks, just to be sure.
The reply sounded like something straight out of The Simpsons. 'Oh, I most enjoyed visiting the nuclear power stations for picnics. We used to go to all of them you know.'
I marveled at how a picnic at a nuclear power station could possibly rank as the high point of anyone's marriage, while gazing pointlessly at Posh's extensions ('she wouldn't leave my salon looking like that' - angry hairdresser to the WAGs).
'What are meal times like?' I asked, wondering whether a gastric band was really a good idea. I was regaled with a story detailing surprising aggression from a ninety year old with a stick baggying the adjacent dining chair for his wife. One brave gent (new kid on the block) had foolishly tried to sit in the chair and had faced the aforementioned walking stick being brandished menacingly from the arthritic oldie. The 'victim' had to resort to a particularly steady stare to dispel the attack. My mother was obviously impressed by the stand off and said it would have 'looked very good in a film' - I tried quite hard to imagine who would be interested in a film about old people arguing over the care home seating plan, but failed to think of a suitable market audience. I looked up from 'has Christine Bleakley had cosmetic surgery?' and asked whether my mother was 'sweet' on the gentleman with the dynamic 'look'. I noticed her blush and decided I didn't want to know any more and went back to 'boob jobs of the stars'.
There seemed to be an awful lot of staff helping to create total chaos in the home, with huge pieces of furniture being lugged into the one small lift by hefty removal men, who always had to wait for someone on a Zimmer frame to get out first. It was the slowest way you could possibly move into anywhere. I noticed an electric keyboard had taken up position in the lounge and resisted the urge to bash out some blues to the assembled hoardes of bored oldies. I later regretted this restraint when a helper started launching into 'All Things Bright and Beautiful' - all verses - several times.
I was sympathising with an elderly inmate about being further away from the sea, and nearly died of embarrassment when she said she was a volunteer. I made a mental note that if I was ever a volunteer in an old people's home, I would avoid a blue rinse and go for dreadlocks. Maybe even blue dreadlocks, just to be sure.
Saturday, 24 April 2010
The P***** Off-ice
The toys in the back pages of the mail order catalogue that I used to study intently as a child always included a toy post office. It seemed to be the ultimate in happiness. I visualised myself tearing off rows of stamps and putting plastic change in the plastic till.
As we all know, life can be cruel, and nothing demonstrates this more harshly than the experience of the real life post office.
As most of the sub-branches have closed, and the main post offices no longer inhabit grand buildings with large, free flowing spaces, you now have to queue for about 40 minutes crammed between racks of party poppers and Doritos in the back of a newsagent. I am going abroad soon and had to send off a visa application. With a grim heart I headed for the local Post Office. True to form, my lunch hour ticked away while I stared despondently at tired looking jiffy bags. When I eventually made it to the front of the queue the ‘helpful’ assistant tried to sell me a polythene bag for my passport for £5. ‘No’ I said firmly, ‘I just want a recorded delivery stamp on the envelope and the return envelope inside’. He tried again to flog me the bag. ‘No’, I said more firmly and held what I hoped was quite an effective Paddington Hard Stare. He relented and did as I asked and charged me £2.35, which seemed a better deal..
Off I went, pleased everything was sorted and relieved I wouldn't have to step inside one of those places again anytime soon.
Never be too pleased with yourself I realised later in the week when the visa office rang to say they didn’t take cheques, only postal orders. I didn’t even know you could still get postal orders. With heavier heart I made it to a different main branch PO and queued again. This queue was more edgy, I think it was the metal struts forcing us into the grim zig zag queue that had the effect of making you feel like cattle being herded into the slaughterhouse that didn’t help. The metal bound corners proved tricky for women to negotiate with pushchairs, and a chap who looked like his last qualification was an ASBO swore at a mate on his mobile phone, using plentiful words that the women in pushchairs probably didn’t want their children to hear. There were about twelve counters in the post office. Three were used for an imaginative display of home made toys. I didn’t hold out much hope for those being opened up to relieve the queue any time soon. The other counters were manned by three staff, as spread out as possible. One chap on the bureau de change counter was hidden behind a pillar, and when he needed to call the next customer, had to walk round the back of the counters to attract our attention. Customers in the queue helped each other recognise when a teller became available, and we all waited less and less patiently while women untangled buggy wheels from each other and soothed children that were nearly catapulted out of their seats when the wheels snagged on the metal restraining bars holding the angry hoarde back.
I had low blood sugar, and no patience at all left by the time the man from the bureau de change walked round the pillar again. ‘I want a £32 postal order please’, I muttered through clenched teeth. When he told me that would be £35 I could feel my blood pressure rising. I went to put my card in his little money sucking machine. ‘We can’t take the card’ he said helpfully, ‘too much fraud around’.
This is a card I have used in most of the shops in the town and never had any problem. It is also a card that uses a bank that operates via the post office. ‘You can use it to withdraw money first, and then give me the cash for the postal order’ he said helpfully. I realised this was why the queue was so long, every single transaction had to be done the most labourious way possible. The man behind the counter was sitting back with a self satisfied grin. I didn’t like his attitude, but then I didn’t like anything anymore.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked, the question laced with acid.
‘Mike’ he said and glared at me challengingly.
‘Do you have a surname?’ I asked, struggling to sound rational.
‘I don’t have to give you that’ he said, wearing an expression familiar to me from the chap with the ASBO back in the queue.
‘What is your manager’s name then?’ I asked as sweat began to break on my brow and I started to wonder whether I needed anger management classes.
‘I haven’t done anything wrong’ said 'Mike', ‘it’s the Post Office’.
He didn’t help at this point by sitting back, delaying everything even more. Trembling, I reached into my bag and thankfully found the money in cash.
‘Who do you want it paid to?’ he asked, scowling at me.
‘The Syrian Embassy please’. He looked confused for a moment, and then asked,
‘C-I -…..?’.
‘No, not C, try S’ I said helpfully.
‘C?’ he went again as his finger hovered uncertainly over the keyboard and the furrows on his brow deepened.
It was lucky there was armoured glass between us at this point, as I almost spat out, ‘S_Y_R_I_A_N’. I was aware of the eyes of all the people in the queue boring holes into the back of my head.
I wondered why the post office employed people to work on the bureau de change counter who couldn't spell the countries of the world.
It all went on far too long, and I was probably out of order. I had a stab of sympathy for the chap as I left, it can’t be any fun dealing with frustrated customers all day.
As I stepped outside, there was a whooshing noise as my childhood dream of post office happiness evaporated.
As we all know, life can be cruel, and nothing demonstrates this more harshly than the experience of the real life post office.
As most of the sub-branches have closed, and the main post offices no longer inhabit grand buildings with large, free flowing spaces, you now have to queue for about 40 minutes crammed between racks of party poppers and Doritos in the back of a newsagent. I am going abroad soon and had to send off a visa application. With a grim heart I headed for the local Post Office. True to form, my lunch hour ticked away while I stared despondently at tired looking jiffy bags. When I eventually made it to the front of the queue the ‘helpful’ assistant tried to sell me a polythene bag for my passport for £5. ‘No’ I said firmly, ‘I just want a recorded delivery stamp on the envelope and the return envelope inside’. He tried again to flog me the bag. ‘No’, I said more firmly and held what I hoped was quite an effective Paddington Hard Stare. He relented and did as I asked and charged me £2.35, which seemed a better deal..
Off I went, pleased everything was sorted and relieved I wouldn't have to step inside one of those places again anytime soon.
Never be too pleased with yourself I realised later in the week when the visa office rang to say they didn’t take cheques, only postal orders. I didn’t even know you could still get postal orders. With heavier heart I made it to a different main branch PO and queued again. This queue was more edgy, I think it was the metal struts forcing us into the grim zig zag queue that had the effect of making you feel like cattle being herded into the slaughterhouse that didn’t help. The metal bound corners proved tricky for women to negotiate with pushchairs, and a chap who looked like his last qualification was an ASBO swore at a mate on his mobile phone, using plentiful words that the women in pushchairs probably didn’t want their children to hear. There were about twelve counters in the post office. Three were used for an imaginative display of home made toys. I didn’t hold out much hope for those being opened up to relieve the queue any time soon. The other counters were manned by three staff, as spread out as possible. One chap on the bureau de change counter was hidden behind a pillar, and when he needed to call the next customer, had to walk round the back of the counters to attract our attention. Customers in the queue helped each other recognise when a teller became available, and we all waited less and less patiently while women untangled buggy wheels from each other and soothed children that were nearly catapulted out of their seats when the wheels snagged on the metal restraining bars holding the angry hoarde back.
I had low blood sugar, and no patience at all left by the time the man from the bureau de change walked round the pillar again. ‘I want a £32 postal order please’, I muttered through clenched teeth. When he told me that would be £35 I could feel my blood pressure rising. I went to put my card in his little money sucking machine. ‘We can’t take the card’ he said helpfully, ‘too much fraud around’.
This is a card I have used in most of the shops in the town and never had any problem. It is also a card that uses a bank that operates via the post office. ‘You can use it to withdraw money first, and then give me the cash for the postal order’ he said helpfully. I realised this was why the queue was so long, every single transaction had to be done the most labourious way possible. The man behind the counter was sitting back with a self satisfied grin. I didn’t like his attitude, but then I didn’t like anything anymore.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked, the question laced with acid.
‘Mike’ he said and glared at me challengingly.
‘Do you have a surname?’ I asked, struggling to sound rational.
‘I don’t have to give you that’ he said, wearing an expression familiar to me from the chap with the ASBO back in the queue.
‘What is your manager’s name then?’ I asked as sweat began to break on my brow and I started to wonder whether I needed anger management classes.
‘I haven’t done anything wrong’ said 'Mike', ‘it’s the Post Office’.
He didn’t help at this point by sitting back, delaying everything even more. Trembling, I reached into my bag and thankfully found the money in cash.
‘Who do you want it paid to?’ he asked, scowling at me.
‘The Syrian Embassy please’. He looked confused for a moment, and then asked,
‘C-I -…..?’.
‘No, not C, try S’ I said helpfully.
‘C?’ he went again as his finger hovered uncertainly over the keyboard and the furrows on his brow deepened.
It was lucky there was armoured glass between us at this point, as I almost spat out, ‘S_Y_R_I_A_N’. I was aware of the eyes of all the people in the queue boring holes into the back of my head.
I wondered why the post office employed people to work on the bureau de change counter who couldn't spell the countries of the world.
It all went on far too long, and I was probably out of order. I had a stab of sympathy for the chap as I left, it can’t be any fun dealing with frustrated customers all day.
As I stepped outside, there was a whooshing noise as my childhood dream of post office happiness evaporated.
Monday, 12 April 2010
Looking behind the Door
I've always wanted to be one of those really cool people who can sit at a piano and improvise away for ages with lovely, bluesy stuff. I've been trying to do this for about thirty years, and as soon as anyone says anything remotely like, 'ad lib around E flat' my fingers seize up and I can't do anything at all. I even attended a jazz piano course that made a whooshing noise as it went right over my head - how was I supposed to know what an 'open sus 14' was? I had sadly considered blues style piano was something I really just wasn't capable of, until this weekend.
I was staying at a friend's house and having a go on her rather wonderful piano. She had said something (mildly stinging) about my limited repertoire, which made me decide to try and play different stuff for a change. I was just twiddling around and suddenly, there I was, doodling on the ivories in BLUESY style. Everything was starting to make sense, 'arpeggio with a diminished seventh' I found myself thinking, 'improvise around C, E flat, F sharp and G' I remembered the piano teacher saying (with the spiteful chaser that it was so easy anyone could do it), 'pentatonic scale - just keep to the black notes' my son once said.
And there they were, in front of me, my fingers skipping around and the noise that was coming out SOUNDED PRETTY GOOD. Even my friend came in and said how good it was. 'Me', I thought, 'Me, playing blues'.
It was as if a very large and creaky door (like the seriously huge ones in the British Museum) had finally opened and some sunlight was shining through the gap.
It was fun. It was very fun indeed.
I was staying at a friend's house and having a go on her rather wonderful piano. She had said something (mildly stinging) about my limited repertoire, which made me decide to try and play different stuff for a change. I was just twiddling around and suddenly, there I was, doodling on the ivories in BLUESY style. Everything was starting to make sense, 'arpeggio with a diminished seventh' I found myself thinking, 'improvise around C, E flat, F sharp and G' I remembered the piano teacher saying (with the spiteful chaser that it was so easy anyone could do it), 'pentatonic scale - just keep to the black notes' my son once said.
And there they were, in front of me, my fingers skipping around and the noise that was coming out SOUNDED PRETTY GOOD. Even my friend came in and said how good it was. 'Me', I thought, 'Me, playing blues'.
It was as if a very large and creaky door (like the seriously huge ones in the British Museum) had finally opened and some sunlight was shining through the gap.
It was fun. It was very fun indeed.
Friday, 2 April 2010
Is this the right platform?
You might be sitting at your computer, but really you are on Hampton Wick Station. I wonder whether the right train is coming yet?
Ah, here comes the train now.
Have a good journey!
|
Ah, here comes the train now.
|
Have a good journey!
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
Waiting for this Madness to Pass
I've been feeling very happy lately. I felt so happy, and it felt so unusual, I actually caught myself wondering whether I was in fact going mad. I did meet someone in the lift (unusually I knew them already) and he agreed he too was unfashionably happy. We had a very jolly conversation about the wonders of waking up (good news, means you're alive), being free, not being in pain and having a job (food and shelter as add on extras). It was an eight floor conversation. It beat the three floor conversation I had with a stranger in the morning. He said he didn't like the rain. I said I didn't like the sun, and then heard myself explaining this was because I was, in fact, a vampire and dissolved in sunshine. Unsurprisingly, he didn't seem to want to talk to me after this.
You can see why I might think I'm going mad.
I was more relieved than usual when the woman who spends all her time sitting on top of the lifts announced the doors were opening.
******
They're coming to take me away, ha-haaa, They're coming to take me away, ho-ho, hee-hee, ha-haaa. To the happy home. With trees and flowers and chirping birds and basket weavers who sit and smile and twiddle their thumbs and toes and they're coming to take me away, ha-haaa!!!
You can see why I might think I'm going mad.
I was more relieved than usual when the woman who spends all her time sitting on top of the lifts announced the doors were opening.
******
They're coming to take me away, ha-haaa, They're coming to take me away, ho-ho, hee-hee, ha-haaa. To the happy home. With trees and flowers and chirping birds and basket weavers who sit and smile and twiddle their thumbs and toes and they're coming to take me away, ha-haaa!!!
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