Suit of d’Amour Chapter 2; The Dress
18 October, 2018
Suit of d’Amour
Chapter 2
The Dress
“Oh my gawd,” said the Duchess of Sussex in her dressing room, “I’m so flaming fat, now I’m up the duff.” Her Ladies in Waiting, looked at one another, pausing to see who was going to reply. They deferred, to Chief Lady in Waiting, Lady Isabella Chessington-World, who nodded sympathetically, saying, “Perhaps, you’d like to try a different dress, ma’am?” Darker colours are obviously most flattering on us all.
“Do you think I look like a bloomin’ iceberg?” The Duchess continued, pulling at the white ankle-length dress she was wearing.
“No, ma’am,’” came the muted assurances of the Ladies.
“But I do think Isabella has a good point,’ piped up Lady Green Von Gables, “This one is very beautiful on you and it’s Harry’s favourite colour.” There was a understated urgency in her voice, that was barely detectable, to one outside the intimate royal circle. The fact that it was detectable at all, meant something was severely amiss, amongst the Ladies. Surrounding the duchess, they eyed each other uneasily.
“Oh, would you Adam and Eve it? Not more flaming khaki?” the Duchess sighed. This time there was a noticeably enthusiastic response from the Ladies. Gushing words in flattery of the mud-green dress (Primani Couture) and excited requests for the Duchess to try it on. “Nah, you’re alright,” the Duchess continue, “I’m not getting changed, I’ll just wear this.”
The ladies didn’t respond.
Lady Isabella broke the silence, “I’ll get us all some juice, it’s awfully stuffy in here.”
“Luverly.” Replied the Duchess, not noticing the ice-like undertone, in Lady Isabella’s voice. The other ladies suddenly found things-to-do, there was an unease in the room, that only the Duchess was oblivious to.
“I was thinking of carrying a small bunch of flowers” she continued musing out loud, and maybe wearing a little thingy on my head, a little “Markle-sparkle, as they used to say.” She laughed, alone.
Lady Isabella clapped her hands and Peggy, the Duchess’ maid, appeared. “I’ve brought the blackcurrant juice, m’Lady Isabelle”, she said nervously.
“Put it over there.” Directed Isabella, nodding towards a side table, on the opposite side of the room. Peggy walked over and as she passed Isabella, something caught her ankle, for the life of her she could have sworn it was as if she was tripped, although obviously, that was not the case and she, the “clumsy fool of a girl” (as Lady Isabella had rightly shouted at her, many times in the past) lurched towards Meghan, the huge jug of blackcurrant juice tipped and the glasses fell. They were only saved from breaking by the extra deep pile of the khaki polypropylene carpet, Prince Harry had insisted on, for Meghan’s dressing room. To Peggy’s horror, the juice splashed across the front of Her Highness’ full-length white gown. Peggy looked up from the floor, now prostrated at Princess Meghan’s feet. “What da fuck?” Shouted Her Highness.
To Peggy’s surprise, the Ladies were incredibly nice about it. In hindsight, the nicest they’d ever been. They rushed forward, helping her up and asking if she was alright, ever-so-sweetly laughing it off. They even collected the glasses and ice onto the tray, before she had a chance to, still assuring her not to worry. Even Lady Isabella told her not to blame herself, saying “accidents happen”, with a kindness she’d never seen before. Peggy went slowly back down to the kitchen to tell Cook, what she’d done (knowing, Cook’s tongue would be more painful than the carpet burns she was enduring). She was feeling terribly guilty, not just about the dress, but also about all the nasty things she’d thought about Lady Isabella in the past. She stayed out of the way until the ladies swept down the grand staircase and out in the big black cars, to attend Princess Eugine’s wedding in Windsor, later that day. HH Meghan, had changed in a loose-fitting khaki dress (Georgio D”Asda – home delivery item). “She looks lovely in everything.” thought Peggy, as she watched them go.
Later Peggy took the white dress to the Royal Dry Cleaner and arranged for it to be made as-good-as-new. Mr Dyson, the Royal Commissioner for Cleaning, kindly agreed that Peggy could make weekly payments, until the balance was cleared.
No Brainer
22 April, 2016
I sit bolt upright in bed at 2am. My subconscious has processed what the Dr was saying, 5 hours ago in A&E. Sami’s concussion from his bike accident is passing, he can leave in an hour or two, but there’s something else;
“The CT scan has shown cell growth in the left ventricle of his brain.” The Junior Dr. tells me earnestly. Initially, I am relieved; I have been pushing my GP for over a year to get a neurological exam for Sami. I recently got a referral appointment, but my GP has made it clear I don’t have enough evidence to get very far in the NHS.
“It’s great, we have something concrete to go on, physical evidence.” I reply
“Yes, yes, it’s definitely a good thing,” Dr. Young replies a bit too eagerly, a bit too reassuringly.
With hindsight, I realise we were having the classic it’s-nothing-to-worry-about conversation. The slow moving cogs of my own brain have clicked through the night and finally worked it out for me, “cell growth in the left ventricle of the brain”, can also be called a brain tumour. I had a bit of medical training, years ago and I remember random bits and pieces of it. Cell growth can also be described in terms of degradation of DNA. So, if you imagine a cell has a tiny spiral of DNA which is repeated in a continuous chain, billions of times. Each time that cell reproduces (dies and replaces itself), it replicates the entire chain, except it loses one DNA spiral each time. As the DNA chain shortens in length so we experience aging, our skin slackens, our bones dry out etc. This is what aging actually is (and why skin creams called “Age Renewal” don’t work at all). There are only two places you find perfectly replicating DNA chains in the body; the first is in the testes – because to produce a child, it has to be born with a perfectly long DNA chain, otherwise it would be born aged. The second place is in cancer cells. They perfectly replicate, they’re sometimes known as “eternal cells”, while all the so-called normal cells around them deteriorate. They have other functions too, but this is how I understand “cell growth in the left ventricle”. Cells are definitely not supposed to be spontaneously growing in there. I sit up the rest of the night, classically terrorizing myself on google. There is between 5%-15% survival rate at 5 years post treatment – a combination of surgery, chemo and radiation therapy (which leaves lasting detrimental effects on surrounding brain tissue). Not good. High fat, vegan diet (surely, a contradiction in terms?) has been shown to be helpful. He is veggie, so I plan to move us into ultimate vegan health over the next few weeks.
I drive us 5 hours back home the next day, in pieces, hiding my bursts of grief from him behind my sunglasses. He drivels on about the Tour-de-France for five hours, next to me, oblivious. I email his teacher, she writes back “That’s not good, let me know if I can do anything to support you.” I fall a 1000 feet through the floor reading her reply, couldn’t she have written, “We get his all the time at school, it’s perfectly normal in teenagers”. I leave a message for our GP who’s not in the surgery for another 4 days. She calls me within two hours and my heart drops another 1000 feet, she’s on it, chasing scans, being incredibly competent. This is not routine.
I watch my son struggle with basic tasks like walking through doors and answering my questions. I’d been so frustrated with him before, but now I see his neurological impairment, it explains a lot; his outbursts, his inability to be on time, to function at school or communicate. When I drop him at school the next day, he says, “I hate being late for school”. I stifle a laugh; he is late for school pretty much every day. It’s the school’s and my biggest irritation with him, clearly, something is pressing on his brain, because this statement alone is utter madness.
By 9.30am, I am still in the car but I haven’t even finished school run. I cancel my clients for the next two weeks and park at the side of road, in teary devastation. There’s nothing else for it, I have to call Kiki. I have tried not to call her, because over the years we have shared way more trauma than anyone should. We are not friends who do coffee, or go shopping, or remember each other’s birthdays anymore. We might send a text – which invariably sits without a reply. Or, “like” each other’s stuff on Facebook and keep up in vague way, meaning to see each other more than we ever manage. But if one of us phones, like makes a proper old fashioned voice call, we know it’s serious and we pick up. Two hours later she is sitting in my garden, fag in manicured fingers, tapping on her phone as I explain.
“So, what are you going to do?” She asks, pressing “dial” on her phone, as I reply.
“Dunno. Er, wait till Friday then call the GP back?” I say, making it up on the spot.
“Hi, Can I see a paediatric neurologist this week?” She asks whoever she’s talking to, “Ok, if you don‘t have one, where can I get one?” She speaks to them as if she’s booking her Waitrose delivery slot. Within fifteen minutes we have a next day appointment at The Portland Hospital. I’d say we were booked into see a top Neurologist, but there was a bit of confusion with the phone signal and she accidently booked him in with an Urologist, first time round. (The amount of laughter we got imagining a Doctor sticking his finger up Sami’s arse, looking for his brain, made it well worth the mistake though). We agree to meet at the Co-op in Woodstock at 5pm. She is taking over, she is scooping me up, driving to her boat in London, making appointments, buying food. She is my knight in shining armour because she knows how to be good in crisis. She’s had more than a few.
Sami disappears after school for an hour instead of coming home. “Neurological impairment”, I think as I wait, unable to contact him. When he finally appears, he explains he’s been at his weekly, Tuesday after-school club. School call it “Detention”. I understand better what’s going on with him, all this time he’s not being an annoying little git, he can’t help it, he has “Neurological Impairment”.
At 6.15pm I text Kiki to say we’re in the Co-op, he’s hungry.
“What just standing still, staring into space?” She texts back immediately; neurological impairment is clearly on her mind too.
“No, not staring. We’re in the Coop, he’s STARVING.” I reply, checking the autocorrect this time. I look at the basket he’s been filling; four cheese sandwiches, a stuff crust pizza, a loaf of bread, a jar of Nutella, two bags of Wotsits & a Mars Milkshake, veganism will be more challenging than I thought. I grab a bottle of red and a big bag of chocolate buttons, (I don’t feel like cooking) and jump in her massive BMW.
Kiki is a godsend. Years ago we were a vacuous pair, who sat in bikinis by an expensive pool in Thailand, complaining about our fat (they were actually flat) stomachs, wishing our idiot boyfriends would marry us. We imagined our futures with happy little children, who would do well in school and oh, drive us mad! Our Bridget Jones years. Then we grew up. We lost the boyfriends, traumatically. We survived emergency births, ectopic pregnancies, seizures, operations, traumatised toddlers and a few bouts of Post-Traumatic Stress each. Incredibly, we’ve both ended up as single parents with three young children. Mine, a grief inducing, mid-pregnancy divorce – well, that’s what we thought until her husband dropped dead during her third pregnancy. Yes, she’s trumped me at every turn over the years. I am in safe hands because she gets it, she knows exactly what I’m going through and what to do.
We sit in detached luxury, neither of us give a shit about our surroundings. I have a bottle of red, she has a new packet of Marlborough Lights. I feel helpless, like both my arms have been amputated. Sami is behind us, headphones on, watching the Tour-de-France on the iPad. I take a sleeping pill that someone left behind in my house, a long time ago; I give her one too. For the first time I sleep through the night.
I decide to wake her around 11.30am. I notice my bag of chocolate buttons are lying open, next to her bed, thieving cow. Sometime after, she stumbles upstairs to the living room, blonde hair looking like a straw mat, and joins Sami and me. She is covered in brown stains, so I don’t say anything.
“Sleeping pills”, she says, casually lighting up. “Effing strong aren’t they? I woke up in the night with my hand stuck in a bag of melted chocolate buttons, but I couldn’t quite get up and wash. Looks like I’ve shat myself in there and smeared it around the master bedroom. I’d better text the cleaner and forewarn her, eh?”
“Yeah, better had.” we reply casually, as if this is an everyday problem. Then she urges Sami to photograph it for Instagram.
Couple of hours later we arrive at Great Portland St and she dumps her beast of a car in a private car park, somone will park it for her. At The Portland I offer my credit card to the receptionist and Kiki pushes my hand away, blinding the receptionist with the glint of her triple platinum Amex.
“Hey, you’d do it exactly the same for me,” she says. This is not entirely true, I imagine what me doing it for her would look like. They’d be a lot more buses & trains, and a Travelodge (in Hackney). She’d probably have a panic attack discovering there were thousands of people travelling on the Underground, right under her Gucci pumps in Sloane Square.
We sit with the Consultant Neurologist and both stifle school-girl giggles when he says he wants to examine Sami. (At this point Kiki makes a swift exit under the pretext of Sami’s privacy, but I know she’s going for a fag and a Costa). It’s ok, the physical is all above board, he is a Neurologist, not a Urologist – I checked his badge when we arrived. Later, I send Sami out, so I can discuss the CT scan, without him knowing about the tumour.
“Have you seen the Radiologist’s report, on the CT scan?” Dr Neuro asks me.
“No, I haven’t been shown a thing.” I reply.
He turns the screen towards me; there is a message from the Radiologist, it lacks any tone of urgency. It mentions a “density” in the left ventricle, it suggests it’s a shadow of the Medulla Cortex accidently picked up in the scan. There is no mention of “cell growth” or “possible tumours”, only a recommendation, again without any urgency, that it’s checked with an MRI.
Between us, Dr Neuro and I deduce that Dr Junior, in A&E, saw the scan and interpreted it himself without reading the radiologist’s report. I no longer feel my son is at risk of cancer, or is dying of a brain tumour. I am angry at what this has cost us, not even financially, but in human emotion. How I would have remained in that traumatised state for three, maybe four weeks, if I hadn’t gone privately. But overall, I am entirely relieved Sami is ok. The sun is shining, my son is not dying and my life is fine again. The lift is full, so we watch fondly, as he almost falls down the stairs on our way out. “Neurological impairment” is no longer an option.

Sami’s CT scan (above). The Consultant Neurologist was able to confirm, there is absolutely no internal cell growth.
Havening; a new treatment for trauma
20 March, 2014
Look! I’m on an advert for something awesome. I didn’t even photoshop it and make it up at all. I know, I know hard to believe. Find out all about this incredible type trauma therapy at Havening.org (or just read the bit I’ve written below the picture).
The first thing you should probably know is that I had to give up my job as a playground supervisor for this. I didn’t want to leave because I loved being a playground assistant. The problem was just that the deputy head didn’t understand that I subsidised my two hours working in school with a second income (known as my real job) as a hypnotherapist. So, when she refused to give me those 2 hours off to go to New York for a week and get certified in Dr. Ruden’s ground breaking Havening technique, I faced a difficult decision. Should I stick with my job working for £14 a week in a rainy playground? Or should I fly to New York in a heat wave, spend a few days at an inspiring conference on trauma, certify in the latest techniques, meet the inventors, their families, have a few days off browsing and boozing in the big apple with old friends? It was a tough choice, worsened by the fact that the deputy head had just offered me a third lunchtime hour each week, yes, she explained if I played my cards right, £21 a week was waiting right there for me.
Let’s talk about Havening. Ok, it’s really simple (no surprises there if I’m teaching it right?). So what you do is basically rub someone’s arms and their trauma goes away and doesn’t come back. I know, sounds dumb doesn’t it? There is actually a bit of science behind it, wanna know?
So, if you think of trauma being a red line memory at the back of the brain. It sits there sometimes quietly dormant, but doesn’t go away. Sometimes, it sits there noisily interrupting everything in your life, popping up in your thoughts all day despite your best efforts to subdue it. The idea is that this trauma is rooted in the amygdala area of the brain. To undo it, you flood the amygdala with your body’s own natural serotonin – by rubbing your face, arms or hands. It’s very simple. Sometimes, people also need to do other things such as hum tunes and count. This is done to distract the more conscious, working memory and to prevent people from getting too overwhelmed if their remembering the bad ole times.
Some of the problems I have treated with a couple of sessions of Havening in my clinic include; rape, assault, shock of discovering a dead body, bullying, a variety of phobias – (dental, height, spiders, jealousy). Blushing, IBS, child abuse – sexual and emotional, drinking, sex addiction, coping with suicide, bereavement, trauma from giving birth, facial tics, physical pain, upsetting childhood memories, abandonment. The list could actually go on and on, I’ve worked with so many different problems with this on adults and children.
The idea is that if someone comes with a range of behaviour that they’re unhappy with – be it feeling low, eating too much, remembering very sad times etc, Instead of treating those things as the presenting problem, you see those things are symptoms of a more fundamental problem (underlying trauma). The skill is in finding the root cause of the problem, which can sometimes be something quite innocuous to us as adults, but may have felt traumatic in our childhoods. If that root cause is treated, with Havening, then the symptoms cease and the person returns to a “normal” sense of well being.
You can do it on yourself too. I don’t recommend you do big traumas without a trained person to help guide and protect you. Sometimes the memories can feel incredibly powerful and overwhelming. But if you feel a bit stressed, then try this. Just rub your arms from your shoulders to your elbows saying “calm, calm, calm” in a gentle voice, but out loud, as you do it.
Ok, gotta go, my kids, I mean My Public, await.
H x
Hurley Comes Clean
6 February, 2014
Liz Hurley issued an unequivocal apology in a statement from her press office today. It read:
“I want to apologise to Mrs Hilary Clinton and to the American people. The rumours circulating about myself and former President, Bill Clinton, are true. He is one of the few men I have not slept with. It was a reckless oversight on my part and one I regret deeply, now that I see how much publicity it would have generated for me.”
Miss Hurley later tweeted the names of other famous men she hadn’t slept with in a bid to prove unfounded the allegation that (former) President Clinton had been discriminated against. She tweeted:
@mennotyetshagged; Fred Flintstone, President Clintstone. oh god I’m sure there are a few more, they’re just not in the papers enough for me to remember their names. Oh, what about wasshisname, thingy, with the red shoes, er, Ronald McDonald, that’s him! Oh no, I did him, I forgot. Sorreeeee.
There has been outrage across America. Head Boy of the UK, Dave C., has held round-the-clock talks with the American Ambassador in London, in a desperate bid to repair the political damage this scandal has caused. He was quoted as saying;
“We’re all shocked, especially those of us who know Liz. I mean know her socially, only when our wives are in the same room and never leave us alone with her. Ever.”

Donald McDuck in his stockroom. “We shared so many happy meals together.” He says of Ms Hurley.
(Photo courtesy of Salmonella Awareness brochure).
Shopping in the Free World
25 June, 2013
I read a report on Women’s emotional responses to retail therapy today (K. Pine, University of Hertfordshire). They sent the survey forms out in a trendy women’s magazine and then branded the results as “Sheconomics™” (gettit?). I found the report pretty fascinating, but probably not in the same way as K. Pine did. According to the results, here are the top reasons that women go shopping.
I want to cheer myself up 79%
I want to treat others 75%
I feel I’m looking good 61%
I’m feeling a bit low 61%
I’m feeling happy 53%
Brilliant. So, 61% of women go shopping because they’re feeling a bit down, and 53% of women say they go shopping because they’re feeling a bit up. Now, maybe I’m wrong about this, but this looks to me like pretty inconclusive proof that anything much is a happening when women go shopping. Other than they’ve got:
a) got nothing better to do.
b) er, that’s it.
Interestingly, none of the respondents cited “getting something I genuinely need”, as a reason to go shopping. If I spent long enough on t’internet I could probably find a research project where some student got a £130,000 grant to study her own serotonin levels when she went in and out of Top Shop and we might have some more conclusive evidence, but obviously, I’ve got better things to do.
The “Sheconomics™” survey then probes more deeply into the underlying causes getting respondents to ask themselves, “Why-oh-why do I do it?” (Let’s have a look shall we?)
Sheconomics asked over 700 women to finish the following question:
“I would spend less than I currently do if:…
I had more self-control 70%
I understood how my moods affect my spending 55%
I had other ways of cheering myself up 55%
I had more hobbies and interests 45%
I could break the shopping habit 41%
I felt happier with my life 38%
I felt happier about the way I look 38%
I didn’t worry or get anxious 34%
I had a more fulfilling job/role 32%
I didn’t experience cravings 28%
I was thinner 22%
Love this. There are a couple of things about this that really stand out for me. The first is the tone of the questions, so freakin’ dependent. Just go back up to the list and insert “Oh, if only..”, said in a resigned tone, in front of every question.
“Oh, if only ……I had other ways of cheering myself up.” Look lady, where do you live? Are you chained up in a department store? Do they give free frontal lobotomies with your facial now, or what? Haven’t you heard of a “t’internet search?” Yep, you just type in the place where you live, or work and then write next to it, “what’s on?” Then, (if it’s after 5.30pm and the shops are shut), you can just go along. Honest, it’s true, I’ve read in glossy magazines about people who’ve done it.
“Oh, if I only…..I had more hobbies and interests.” Yep, shame that avenue is completely closed off to you, isn’t it? Don’t forget, the amount of clothing and equipment you’d need to buy if you take up a new hobby though, especially if it involves exercise. Feeling a little more motivated now?
The last one that I’m going to draw your attention to is this little beauty.
“Oh, if only………..I was thinner”. Sorry, Katie Price, did you write this survey in English, this century? Or is this a study from another era, like when Reuben was alive and chubby water nymphs were all the rage? So, women answered this survey saying if they get thinner they’d shop less? Right, they’ll get all slim and then decide to wear all their fat clothes, the ones they felt so awful in. Really? Ladies, have you answered this survey completely honestly?
There are a few questions I would like to add to the end of the survey, just for purposes of clarification.
Has a partner (gay/straight/bi/hermaphrodite) ever described you as;
1. Dependent?
2. Boring?
If your partner (gay/straight/bi/hermaphrodite) “agrees strongly” with either of the above, you’ll need to immediately buy yourself a “life”. (Prices can vary; from £29.99 in Hull, to £9.7 million in the Bahamas).
Y’know, it’s crossed my mind on more than one occasion; if the suffragettes could have seen womankind 100 years on, would they really have bothered?
What if instead, they’d just said, “Fuck it, we’re going to the haberdashers.”
Bye x
Goodbye my lover
24 February, 2013
My tears and anxiety over leaving the old house didn’t last as long as I’d expected. Surprisingly, I was over the horrendous loss of home and hearth a mere 24 hours later. The first house I viewed was great so within ten days we’d moved on, moved in and pretty much unpacked (except for all the stuff we pretended didn’t exist).
The new house happened to be almost exactly the same as the old one, except for a few small differences. Fantastic I thought, we’ll learn to adapt to the changes, but this could be brilliant. And adapt we have. Central heating, an upstairs bathroom – which is heated, a brand new kitchen, tidy low-maintenance garden, double glazing, wooden kitchen floor and beautifully painted, yes I’m coping with the changes. Also, we’re in Witney now instead of being an inconvenient £15 taxi ride home after a night out. Ok, we’ll miss getting cut off by snow and flood water through the year. We’ll miss those AA call-outs when I’d forgot to put petrol in the car before driving home. When I’d have to pretend there was some “unknown” problem with my car. Ok, maybe the breakdown guys pretty much always found me out, but they were very nice about it. The thing with the AA is, if you just act really dumb they totally believe you have an IQ of about 20 and work around you. One time I was taking care of my friend’s car and all I had to do was move it from one driveway to another before she came back from holiday. So the fated evening came when I went to move the car and predictably, it wouldn’t start. She was in the AA so I had to pretend I was her when I called them out. So the breakdown guy arrives, checks the engine and announces to my utter amazement that my car has an immobilizer – situated on the dashboard. What could I say but, “Really, has it?” So the guy just stares at me and says, “What’s the code for it? You need to punch the code in and then your car will start”. So, obviously, like any normal car owner with an immobilizer I replied, “Really, will it?” Now at this point, I think that a normal person might have a teensy weensy intuitive suspicion that I had possibly not driven my car much/ever. But no, the AA man didn’t bat an eyelid when I explained that my er, husband, always er, starts the car for me if I’m going anywhere and that I’d have to, er, call him and ask him for the immobilizer code in order to drive my er, own car off my er, own driveway. Nope, Mr AA though it was completely normal thing to happen – I suspect to a woman. The RAC, on the other hand, are not quite so un-judgemental, understanding or helpful. They chucked me out of the RAC for what? Locking my keys in the car five times in the first month. Unreasonable or what?
The day before I’d left the old house I’d got an unexpected call from “Fearsome Reenie”, my landlord’s right-hand woman. Now, Reenie has evicted tenants at Xmas with newborn babies, so I was rightfully a bit scared to find her on my phone. What’s coming now, I thought. Reenie said “Joe wants to come and see you, to say goodbye, is that ok?” I could hear Joe barking in the background – he doesn’t do phones (and no, he’s not a dog, ok?). “I’d love Joe to come and see me” I said with heartfelt enthusiasm, Reenie laughed. Y’see, Joe was my secret love, you didn’t know about him, in fact, I don’t think anyone knows about me and Joe (ok possibly Reenie). He arrived in my life when I moved into the house and despite grumbling and moaning every time I broke the shower, taps, stair rail, light fittings, cupboard doors, kitchen drawers etc, I was his love and he was mine. He’d sit in my kitchen drinking coffee and shooting the breeze with me about the state of the world (according to the Sun) for an hour or two, before looking at any task he was going to undertake. Then he’d go off to get parts and come back the next day and have another hour or two of coffee with me before he got started. And many a day he’d have a coffee with me before he finished at 3pm. And, in the course of ten years of damage that we inflicted on that house, Joe and I built ourselves quite a friendship. Sure, there was a lot of scorn and deprecating humour on his part (nice), but beyond that Joe and I came to a fine understanding of the world – one we shared. Now on paper there wasn’t much about us that was a match. Bad matches between me and Joe include:
- He was married – to Fearsome Reenie (and still is).
- He had four children all of which are my generation.
- He is interested in the news – whereas, I visit the Daily Mail online (but only to look at the plastic surgery gone-wrong photos).
- I break stuff; he fixes stuff.

Btw, my fav bad plastic surgery remains Priscilla Presley (this photo is of her, not Joe).
And here’s some things you should know about Joe.
- Joe is very honest and has no time for BS. We shared this quality (I like to think). We pretty much agreed on the general state of play of the world (er, it’s full of BS).
- He had a great sense of humour (well, I assumed he was joking when he said those things about me).
- Every year he gave Reenie the same birthday card, when it came down off the mantle piece he’d put it away for the next year. After 40 years he noticed it was getting a bit worn, so he got her a new one as a surprise (a couple of years ago).
- Joe went abroad once and didn’t like it, so he didn’t bother with “abroad” ever again.
- I didn’t think Joe could read (the Sun doesn’t count), but I found out he reads historical novels for pleasure, which I have to say was quite a shock.
- His youngest son died in a car crash at 17. He said they just cried for months; but eventually he found himself laughing about all the wild things his wild child had gotten up to while he’d lived life to the full.
- Joe fixed things, not people, but he always gave great parenting advice.
- If you crossed Joe, he’d never forgive you. He’d speak to you, but he wouldn’t forget it.
So, Joe came over for a last chat round my kitchen table, I interrupted my rubbish attempt at packing-up my rubbish and had coffee with him instead. I have to say, I’ve learned a lot from him over these years, he’s given me a lot of advice – while coarsely laughing in my face. Joe and I both know I’ve left that house a different person from the girl who moved in, and we both know there are a lot of memories I’ll happily leave behind. But you know what? All my memories of Joe are good. As we parted he told me to call him if there is anything I need, anytime. He always had this catchphrase he used to say as a goodbye to me, in his broad Oxfordshire accent. But weirdly, he didn’t say it this time, dunno why not. So when he reached the door I said to him,
“Goodbye my luvvur, I’d best get on.”

++ Another Joe says goodbye ++
Attachment II: home and hearth
29 January, 2013
I’m being kicked out of my home. We’ve done nothing wrong, no rent arrears or anything, but my landlady has given my home to her darling daughter, (Princess) Fiona. Although they own a massive farm, an industrial park, a waste dump and a laundry and at least 15 rental farm cottages, some of which are even empty; (Princess) Fiona decided that she wanted mine. Possibly, it’s in part due to the fact that I’ve repainted it, re-carpeted it and turned a run-down old cottage into a home; one she liked, a lot.
When I got the letter I cried. Then I rang Dolly Fish who is always there for me, as a single parent she can’t afford to go out. She calmed me down. Ok, maybe she didn’t actually make me laugh, not that I’m complaining or anything, but she’s studying comedy at University now and they haven’t got to the “being funny” module yet, so it’s not allowed. They grade them at Comedy Uni like this;
Absolutely Hilarious – (First). Careers include senior management in either the NHS or Local Government and designing high-end fashion.
GSOH – (roughly equates to a 2:1). Career options include; Big Brother contestant, WWE wrestler or Dentist.
Lol – (2:2) Careers include receptionist at a doctor’s surgery, car parking attendant and Jehovah Witness.
Fun! – (Third). Career: Page 3 girl or Christian rock band.
Jim Davidson – (Fail). Graveyard attendant.
The next nightmare on the moving scene was breaking it to the kids. I approached it positively. I explained about (Princess) Fiona and told them that it was nice for her (to steal our home) and we should feel happy when good things happen (even to bad people), cos then it means good things might also happen in our lives. Then I asked them where they wanted to live. We have three choices Witney to the West of us, Eynsham to the East or stay in this village and move three doors down, to one of the houses that wasn’t good enough for (Princess) Fiona. Their answers were as follows:
Sami: “Eynsham”
Amba: “Witney”
Asha: “This village”
Dumb question or what?
(Princess) Fiona
How to Leave Feedback
26 April, 2012
My basic rule of thumb with leaving feedback has always been; the worse the event – the better the feedback I leave it. Sort of like leaving reverse feedback actually. So if I go to something that I think is utterly, mind blowingly shite, then I often just feel sorry for them and tell them it was good. I mean if they don’t know how crap they are, then they’re a long way from change. So, instead of shattering their reality and spending months resetting their dysmorphic self belief (back down to zero), I tend to leave them happy in ignorance.
I once received a copy of Oxford Montessori’s school brochure (when I only had one child and actually cared about that sort of thing – his education and stuff). It was full of spelling mistakes, incorrectly used words and even a map which had one of the schools located on the wrong side of the street. Here’s a quote I remember;
“We will inform you if your child is illegible for the government voucher scheme”.
Illegible instead of eligible? I think they were offering my child the chance of their amazing education skills for only £5,000 a year. I thought the brochure was the best indicator of the school they could possibly send out to be honest. I didn’t ring up with corrections, I rang the local state school and had a look round instead.
With workshops I’ve enjoyed, I’ll often leave a bit of feedback on small things that could be improved like, “move the venue from East London to Birmingham” etc., all helpful stuff. Generally speaking, it’s received by the host with, er, hostility. This happened recently, so I’ve decided to have a bit of a re-think on feedback and how to leave it.
My new forumla for feedback is based on my many years of research, trial and, oh-s0-many errors. I think I’ve now developed an exciting new approach which will give you incredible results. Soon, you will find people hanging on your every word and inviting you to be a public speaker at their events. Please feel free to copy it, or expand on it in your own intimate style. Although no two situations are ever exactly the same, with this method you will get massive-results-which-blow-your-mind. The conversation should typically go along these lines;
Host(ile) facilitator: Hey, How was my workshop?
You: “Oh your workshop……” (pause for thought, like you’re thinking back to the actual day, instead of remembering your lines. Basically the more you pause at this stage the better the overall effect. So fill that pause with something like imagining yourself walking backwards through your whole house – include garage and/or sheds). Then when you’ve done that, you can begin…
You: “Oh it was, well, really fantastic”
Host(ile): Really? Do you really think so? I mean I know I’m relatively new to this but….
You; (interrupt with enthusiasm) “Oh, yeah, you’re not the biggest, that’s true, but OMG! you’re so the best, the best, it was fan-tas-tic. Really, really good.
Host(ile): Wow, that’s so nice of you, I’m so glad you liked it. We’ll be doing some more later in the year…
You: (interrupting enthusiastically) More! (a slight scream should enter your voice now) Oh, yeah, I’d like more, yeah more. I’m just going to keep coming again and again and again it was sooooo amazing. Thanks. (Deeply exhale and if light up a cigarette if you’re outside).
Host(ile): You’re welcome (he looks happy). I’ll tell you what, shall I put you on our mailing list.
You: Yes, Yes, YES!
I guarantee, you’ll get a much better result if you use this method anytime you’re asked for feedback. If you need to practise this complex technique before you use it then write some feedback about my blog below. (Just scroll up if you need help remembering the formula.)
Introductory price: £7,777.99 (cash/paypal)
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