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.

His CT scan (above) clearly shows no internal cell growth.

Sami’s CT scan (above).  The Consultant Neurologist was able to confirm, there is absolutely no internal cell growth.

 

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).

I'm the one in the green cardi on the right.

(Top row; I’m in the green cardi on the right.)

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.”

Image

Donald McDuck in his stockroom. “We shared so many happy meals together.” He says of Ms Hurley.
(Photo courtesy of Salmonella Awareness brochure).

Fish Food

29 June, 2013

“It’s some kind of make-over day,” Gail explained on the phone, “fish pedicure, massage beds, lunch, make up, hair-do and they take our photo at the end.
“Are you sure it’s free?”  I ask, my voice laden with suspicion.
Gail:  “Yes, they only charge if we book and don’t show up.”
Me: “So is there a booking fee?”
Gail:  “No.  I won it, says it’s worth £300.  Weirdly, I won it once before.  I asked my sister to come last time, but she said she didn’t want her photo taken with me.”

A couple of weeks later we found ourselves in a beautiful Georgian building in Cheltenham, sipping “bubbly” (hey, Cava has bubbles).  Momentarily, I was alone, Gail had nipped off to the loo and the Twiglet-like staff (skinny and tanned) were busy.  I got up and pocketed the £2 coin I’d spied on the floor across the room.  Oh yeah, I thought, I could get used to this.

Our first treatment, a fish pedicure was going great, till I put my feet in the tank.  The fish leapt on it, delicacy that it was for them. Unfortunately, this released a dormant childhood trauma within my brain.  Suddenly, my fear-of-being-eaten-by-sea-creatures was back and I was freaking out.  Twiglet was looking at me like I was nuts and Gail just ignored me.  (She works for a mental health charity, so she knows the importance of staying calm around psychotics).

I sat quietly doing a bit of self-healing and managed to ease my feet back into the tank, where a couple of fish chewed my heels.

Me:  “They’re not  very hungry, are they?”
Gail:  “No, not that many of them in there either are there?”
Me:  “Why are they all in such a huge swarm in that corner?”
Gail:  “Is that a dead fish they’re fighting over?”

I watched enthralled, till Gail scooped it out with a net.  She dumped it’s tiny corpse on the teak side table.
“Put it in the bin.”  I said
Gail:  “No, they might want to see it.”

They didn’t.  A Twiglet arrived, took one look at the fish and in a trembling voice said, “I don’t do fish”, and legged it out of the room.

We lay on some electric massage tables for a while, then were taken upstairs to “hair and make up”; where there were two new Twiglets, one each.   I looked down at the vast array of products in front of me.  Like a teenage girl’s dressing table, it was a total mess.  I noticed the make up brushes were used and unwashed.  How many greasy faces had they smeared with foundation, I wondered.  I felt a bit sick, but I let her get on with her “craft”.  A chatty hour later, we both had amazing hair and Gail bore a new, uncanny resemblance to Cher. Her “old” face had been completely hidden behind a slightly orange mask of thick concealer and even thicker foundation.  Looking in the mirror at the end, Gail gasped a little too loudly, “Oh my god, I look awful.”  A moment of awkward silence ensued, then we were escorted on to the next room, by yet another Twiglet.

“Did you bring lots of outfits?”  Twig asked.
“Er, no, I didn’t realise it was a photo-type thing.” I replied.  I was wearing jeans and purple top.  Casual, comfortable and cheap.  Twig looked shocked and disappointed.  We entered the dressing room and I understood why.  The walls were adorned with photos of ordinary people, in extraordinary fake poses, dressed in evening attire; ball gowns, strapless dresses and all that.

Our photographer “Sam”, had had a camera since he was thirteen, he told us.  And he felt lucky to do what he really loved, fashion photography.  Within minutes Cher and I had posed together hugging, then back to back, touching the side of matching aviator sunglasses , under a Minnie Mouse umbrella, leaning against walls, wearing hats, hugging our knees.  Sam went through the motions with all the enthusiasm of someone who does this by rote, all day, every day. “Wow, you’re really getting this modelling thing.” He said to me, with zero conviction, he was wrong.  I wasn’t into it, I was too busy wondering how much the photos would cost.

Our last stop was to browse the photos on a giant screen as our host (Ms Hard Sell) got us some drinks.  There was another embarrassing moment when she returned and found Cher photographing the giant screen with her iphone.  So, she deleted the photos (not) and then Ms Hard Sell could begin.  In the end neither of us wanted a joint photo.  I got one of me and she got two of her, for her mum.

Finally at 6.30pm, we escape the Twiglet tower.
“So do you wanna go out for a drink?” asked Cher.
I was considering finding a karaoke joint and get her singing “Do you believe in life after love,” so we could get free drinks.  Problem was, she was driving.
“Could do,” I reply. “Or we could go round my mum’s and wash it off?”
“Thank god you said that,” replied Cher.

Image

Gail

Someone else; not her.

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.”

"Oh, Agamemnon, I've got nothing to wear!"

“Oh, Agamemnon, I’ve got nothing to wear!”

Bye x

Take a Break

20 June, 2013

I was reading about the top selling magazines in the UK.  I mean,I don’t actually read any of them, unless I’m at the Doctors or somewhere like that.  I tried to read one in Specsavers at the weekend, it was on technological advances and they did a list of their top 40 fav products on the market.  So there’d be a  picture of say, some speakers.  You know the type of thing, doesn’t look like a speaker, that’s half the joy of being technologically advanced isn’t it?  Having things other people don’t know about.  Anyway, next to the speakers they wrote; Capabilities:  does an x4r with a JBNK and has 2rpb which makes it unique.  Honestly, I just couldn’t understand a thing.  I felt old.  Then, I went in for the eye test and it was confirmed.

So, I was reading about magazine sales,  c’mon, see if you can guess the top five selling magazines in the UK?  I’ll give you some ideas shall I?  You’ve got Cosmo, Vogue, House and Gardens (pretty, pretty),  Brides, Nuts, TV Times, Health and Fitness.  Any ideas yet?  Ok, here’s a little clue – it’s none of them.  Think of the magazines you read, maybe?  Ok, I’ll put you out of your misery:

Top 5 selling paid for magazines in the UK

1.  TV Choice
2.  What’s on TV
3.  Radio Times
4.  Take a Break
5.  Saga (retirement)

Now, I personally don’t watch TV and part of the way I’ve brought that into the children’s lives is to ensure we never have a TV guide.  Yep, they have unlimited access to the telly, but they never have a clue what’s on.  Of course, they could go use the TV itself – it has an electronic programme guide on it.  But, they seldom do.  I think actually they’ve just forgotten we’ve got one.

The other surprise in there is Saga Magazine, which, I think is subscription only.  My mum used to get it and I always read it because it was well written and they didn’t make all the articles up, unlike some other magazines.  But the biggest shocker on the list, for me anyway, is Take a Break Magazine.  Have you ever read it?  Own up now, it’s got a  circulation of 740,00 copies a week?  Someone is buying it.

For now, I’m going to assume you don’t read Take A Break very often and give you a little look at the uplifting stories they publish.  This week they are offering insightful commentary on a range of real human issues (with photos):

The headlines on last week’s front page were:

*Finace nicked my cash to wed secret lover
*Was he lying or dying?
*Caught on camera: Rape at eight months pregnant
*Big day shock: I had my wedding without my groom
*Our beautiful prom queen:  Why I couldn’t tell her the truth.

a web_tab_cover_25_4

Nice isn’t it? The fourth best selling magazine in the UK.  So, with this in mind,  I’m going to start re-working this blog to include a bit more sensationalism, drama and violence, in an attempt to move it into a more commercial market.  The story (below), is about a stabbing in our kitchen (please don’t read on if you’re squeamish).

“We were a happy family, just myself and my three children after my husband had left.  Yes, things didn’t always go our way, but we kept a cockney cheer about us.  Often, you’d find us out in the streets where we lived, spontaneously performing complex choreographed song and dance routines with the bin men and passing strangers.  Hard times, but my, they were happy times too.

Things were tough, but we always made time for a song and a dance (routine).

I had no idea at beneath that cheery grin, how troubled my beautiful little girl was.  I never sensed what must have been building like a volcano inside her.  Perhaps things weren’t going well at school?  Although I’ve searched for an answer, I’ve never got to the bottom of it.  But, I’ll never forget the day it all happened.

I’d just cooked tea, no matter how tight money was, I always made sure the kids ate well.  They were halfway through their tottiglioni arabica served with organic rocket salad and a hazelnut and fresh pomegranate molasses vinaigrette, when it all began.  Without any warning at all, Amba picked up her fork and started stabbing her food. “Stop it, stop it!”, I pleaded with her, but there was no stopping her.  She just kept on stabbing it, like she was possessed or something.

fork

An artist’s impression of the fork.

I’d never seen her like that before, the boys and I were shocked and appalled.  I felt sick watching her, could this really be my beautiful angel?  I don’t know how long it lasted, it’s hard to tell, it was like time stood still.   Eventually, something inside me just snapped and I shouted, “For god’s sake Amba, just put the fork down!”

Somehow, I’d finally gotten through to her.  Her frenzied attack slowed, soon she’d put the fork down. Later, we worked out, she’d stabbed her tottiglioni over 20 times.  Even more shocking though, she acted as if nothing had happened.  She looked up at me and just said;
“I’ve finished.  Can I go out and play?  Amy is waiting for me.”

I was choked up and appalled. I couldn’t reply, it broke my heart to think of her with such awful table manners.  How could I let ever allow her to go for tea at someone else’s house again; when I knew what might happen?

Since then, fortunately, we’ve moved on as a family.  We don’t discuss that day, we’ve put it behind us.   And I never make Tottiglioni Arabica with pomegranate molasses vinaigrette anymore, too many painful memories. Even now, sometimes when she picks up her fork, a sense of utter panic comes over me.  I’ve often asked myself, where did I go wrong?  Yes, of course, I blame myself for what happened.  What mother wouldn’t?”

I'm too frightened to cook proper meals

We eat more simply now, cooking brings back painful memories.

 

 

Bye x

Planet Organic

19 June, 2013

Last weekend saw the Festival of the Chariots go through London, from Hyde Park to Trafalgar Square.  It’s a traditional hindu festival imported to London from Puri, a city in the State of Orissa, on the North East Coast of India.  The festival revolves around three huge brightly decorated chariots being pulled by ropes along the streets.  A deity sits on each one.  The meaning of Ratha-yatra, is fairly literal.  The Journey (yatra) of the Chariots (ratha).  Ok, maybe it should be called Yatra-ratha, but it’s not, ok?

Rathayatra London. If you think this is busy, you should see it in Orissa

Stupidly, one time I must have mentioned to the kids that there is an Indian myth that if you die beneath the wheels of one of the chariots, you will attain liberation.  I can’t remember telling them this, but god do I wish I hadn’t.  All day long, I got this sort of thing;

Amba:  “Oh, I can’t look, has someone died yet?”
Me: “No, no one is going to die.”
Sami: “If someone fell and died under the wheels, would everyone be happy for them cos they’re liberated or sad that they’re dead?”
Me: “No one is going to die under the wheels, it doesn’t happen, ok?”
Sami: “But if they accidently fell near the wheels and didn’t get up in time, and the wheels crushed them flat like a pancake. Would their family be happy or sad?”
Me: “Neither.  No one is going to fall under the wheels, it’s doesn’t happen, do you understand?  It’s just a nice family day out, at which no one ever dies.”
Asha: “When are they kill someone under the wheels, do we all get pancakes?”
Me:  “There’s no dying and no pancakes.  Do you understand me?”
Asha: “That is so rubbish.  Sami, when’s the killing bit on?”

Rathayatra in Orissa. Did anyone die? Who knows.

The festival came to a close and we went back to the car in Queensway.  Sami waited with our friend, Sri, while I took Amba off for a desperate wee.  She was running out of time, I dodged round a couple of skinny chicks in designer jeans, strolling in front of us, and ran across the road into Planet Organic (PO) with Asha following behind me.  I found the loo for Amba, then browsed the Organic Pizza Tofu Fillets (£2.99) with Asha, while we waited for her.  At this point, the two chicks in skinny jeans passed us.  Unexpectedly, one of them launched into a tirade about what a shite parent I was.  Apparently, I’d crossed the road and accidently left Asha on the busy street outside, when I rushed Amba in.  She made it clear that people like me shouldn’t be raising kids, because we’re too stupid (and I suspect a bit too “high street”).  It was a full-on sneery bitchfest, with a  “I’m so much better than you” undercurrent.  Initially, I was just shocked, not at what she said, just at the nastiness that it came with.  I brooded over it, as I considered the Green Spelt and Hazelnut Cutlets (£3.39).  It required a response, I considered chucking a Dr Hauschka Deoderant (£11.99), at her.  But it was too risky, they might make me pay for it.  I considered coming back  with a devastating put down, but the real problem was  she was right, I wasn’t watching him properly.  Ok, it maybe a reoccurring theme in his life, but hell, she didn’t know that and she’d been a total bitch about it.  Then, I remembered the festival.  I remembered that in conflict the spiritual position is to use humility to disarm the ego.  I was still wearing a sari after-all.  So I went over to them, I drained all irritation from my face and anger from my body; and with all the sincerity I could muster, I said “Thank you”.  She was more than shocked and tried again to tell me what a crap parent I was.  So again, I listened and just said “Thank you.”  Nothing more.  Then the other one had a go too, but she was a bit nicer, so I gently put my hand on her arm and said, “Thank you so much.”  I left them wide eyed and totally speechless, as I walked off to find Amba in the loos.  Oh yeah, top-that bitches, I thought.

Amba had made it to the loo, just in time. If the last person in there had only left the seat cover up, not down, then there it would have worked out so differently for her.  It was flooded, there were no staff around and no mops.  So, I held my head high, passed the bitches again and swooned out of there, sari swishing, Amba’s shoes sloshing.  Self esteem in pieces.

We got back to the car, found Sami and Sri, and said our goodbyes.  Amba made me promise not to tell Sri what had happened.
“Is she coming back to our house?” Asha asked as we drove off.
“No, she’s getting the train to the airport, she’s going home now. “ I replied.
“No. “ said Sami, “She’s going to use the loo in Planet Organic first.”

Planet Donut

Bye   x