Coronavirus — My Thoughts

When I started this blog it was intended to be a place for me to express myself through my writing. As it turned out I’ve used it more as a book review site, and in more recent times I’ve been posting short stories and poems. I think the beauty of having your own blog is that its use can morph and change and grow with you.

That’s also the beauty of writing. What you write and how you write evolves over time. You hone your skills, you grow, you learn, you change. Your perspective changes, opinions change, what’s important to us changes, sometimes gradually, sometimes overnight.

Our lives changed drastically this year almost overnight. Although I pay attention to politics and world events I’ve never thought of myself as a particularly political person, for reasons that I won’t go into here. Yet today I find myself becoming increasingly vocal about my thoughts on current events, compelling me to write this article.

Purely for the purpose of context let me tell you a bit about my situation. I live in a deprived part of North London with my 22 year old son. He works part time and goes to university. I have several chronic health conditions that affect my day to day life but I find ways of being productive the best way I can. My immediate family live in Wales, including my 99 year old grandfather who now lives in a care home. I have a friend who is a care home worker and a friend who is a primary school teacher.

Much to my surprise I have really struggled mentally dealing with the outbreak of the coronavirus. I’m an intelligent, reasonable, studious person with critical thinking and common sense. I’m not a weak minded person, though I have had struggles at certain points in my life, and I feel no shame in admitting that.

Yet here I am struggling to fight my way out of this mental black hole that had sucked me in. Let me preface the rest of this article by saying I’m doing much better now. I seem to have found my footing and struck the right balance of keeping up with the current, ever changing landscape and not completely losing myself down the coronavirus rabbit hole.

Firstly, let me acknowledge that many people and families are suffering due to the various detrimental aspects of the lockdown, not just those that are infected. Families are struggling to feed their kids, sick people are suffering due to hospital appointments being delayed and thousands of people have lost their jobs, and that will most likely continue for some time. The death toll of this virus will be much greater when we count the “collateral damage” as well as direct Covid-19 deaths.

They ALL matter.

Here’s where I get anxious.

The government did not start testing soon enough or broadly enough. The government has consistently been unable to successfully meet their testing targets, only reaching the 100,000 daily test target a handful of times. Here is a link to an interesting article about testing in the UK written by BBC Health Reporter Rachel Schraer. The government have blindsided people and businesses in England with these hasty changes to lockdown measures even though they have not met their own 5 step criteria for reopening. They have not worked sufficiently with the various sectors involved in order to ensure they are prepared for the increase in traffic whilst still observing social distancing.

Businesses are being forced to fend for themselves, to desperately come up with ways of reopening their business in light of the confusion that now seems to be the standard operating procedure of the government.

This, too, makes me nervous.

We’ve seen the unmitigated disaster that is our care home system with countless unnecessary deaths both of residents and staff due to lack of testing, lack of adequate PPE and, quite frankly, a lack of consideration by the government completely until the damage was already done. Talk about closing the barn door after the horse had bolted!

Yet now they want us to send our children back to school? Even though we know nothing of the long term consequences of Covid-19 on adults or children whether they are actually sick or asymptomatic. We are just beginning to hear of a possible connection with Covid-19 and paediatric inflammatory syndrome. I must say at this point it appears to be extremely rare. However, for those children and families affected, knowing that it’s rare doesn’t help. What helps is facts, transparency and communication, not political wrangling and verbal gymnastics.

During this worldwide humanitarian crisis politics should take a backseat. But I have to say, never has my trust in the government to do the right thing been lower. At a time when accurate information should be freely shared so we can all be part of the solution, simple honest truths seem to be hard to find. Instead, it seems as though the government has shifted from trying to save lives to making peace with acceptable losses.

How many deaths are “acceptable”?

Why are we sacrificing our old and using our children as test subjects? Why are we risking our most vulnerable?

I no longer wait for the government to spoon feed me what they want me know. I no longer blindly swallow all the misinformation and disinformation that contaminates so much of the news. I read, I watch, I listen, I fact check. I educate myself as much as I can. I try to share what I learn with my loved ones. When democratic governments around the world are seemingly tearing down democracy from the inside we must use our voices and our actions to solicit truth. We should not settle for less.

Does that mean that we will always get the truth? No.

But is that a reason to stay silent or inactive? Ask Martin Luther King.

I know I’ve rambled on a bit, but I care very deeply about what is happening all around the world, as I’m sure do you all. Every day those numbers hurt me deep down in my soul to such a degree that I felt compelled to share some of my thoughts on what is taking place.

I’m not an expert, and I’m not suggesting any of us ignore the guidelines, quite the opposite. We all must do our bit. But if we can’t get the information we need from our leaders in order to make informed decisions, we must empower ourselves with knowledge the best we can in order to protect our families and communities. I know that this approach has helped me greatly in dealing with the mental aspect of coronavirus. For me, knowledge is power, and is empowering.

My thoughts go out to all those families who have lost loved ones, to all those in recovery, and to the NHS, Carers and all the frontline workers and their families who have sacrificed so much for us. We owe you all a debt of gratitude that we can never repay. From the bottom of our hearts we thank you.

Stay safe everyone.

The Beauty of Love – by Emma Churchman

Love is as sweet as the budding daffodil,
Love is as bright as the flower on the sill.
Love is the bond between two people, kind and mild,
Love is what tames a person, tames them from the wild.

Love is a happiness, when people love not hate,
Love is a togetherness, a person with a mate.
Love is a life, when married it means new,
Love is what people want, many not few.

Love can bring happiness, love can be sad,
Love is what people want and so it can’t be bad.
Love sometimes may seem sad but never, never fear,
For love when it is used aright brings happiness and cheer.

 

(NB. I wrote this poem 30 years ago when I was 13. I’m posting it today in honour of my friends, Roz and Josh who will be celebrating their nuptials next week. Congratulations guys!)

Belonging – by Emma Churchman

He crouches in the bushes at the edge of the tree line where the forest meets the road, in between two street lights so as not to get caught in their fields of illumination. Slowly he lifts the binoculars to his eyes, the headlights he has been waiting for lighting up the dark road as the car crests the hill. He checks the licence plate – yes, it is his quarry.

Shifting slightly to return the binos to his deep pocket, the loamy scent of the forest filling his nose, he waits and watches as the car slows, pulls into the drive of the run-down cottage and douses its lights. An owl hoots off in the distance, out of sync with the croaking of toads searching for a mate.

He waits as the occupant clumsily makes his way from the car and stumbles up the cracked and uneven path to the paint-peeling front door. He hears a clink and a muted curse, his quarry briefly disappearing from view as he bends to retrieve what he has dropped, before finally reaching and unlocking the front door. The door closes with a tired creak and a slam. A downstairs light comes on.

The man, the waiting man, pulls his hat down low over his brow until his eyes are barely visible, pulls up the collar on his coat and steps out of the shadows without so much as the snap of a twig or the rustle of a leaf.

With cat-like grace he makes his way to the cottage. He hears the tick, tick, tick of the cooling engine as he passes the beat up car.

Treading carefully around the loose and broken paving slabs, he quietly makes his way around the cottage to the back door where the darkness is absolute. His practised fingers make short work of the cheap lock.

With a gloved hand he twists the knob, steps over the threshold. The kitchen, stinking of old grease, is dark but he knows where he is going; preparation is key in this situation. Canned laughter floats on the air, punctuated by the crack and hiss of a can opening, followed by a loud belch.

“Good,” he thinks. “Keep chugging.” After all, that’s why he’s here.

Staying close to the skirting board, he patiently makes his way to the source of the laughter and the belching. The living room door is open, typical of a loner. No one else to disturb. The man sits in a sagging easy chair, back to the door, one meaty fist gripping a can of beer, the other jammed down his stained and straining trousers.

In one swift movement, the man who doesn’t belong steps out of the shadows and fills the doorway, raising the gun he now holds with assurance and fires once, twice. First the TV, then the naked bulb shatter and go dark. Glass rains onto the floor.

The seated man flinches, the half drunk can flies from his grasp, spraying foaming beer as it drops and rolls on the threadbare carpet. His hands fly up to cover his head as he lunges, turning, from his chair.

“What the fuck…?” he stutters as he faces the man who doesn’t belong, but the question dies on his cracked lips when his gaze fixes on the barrel of the gun that is levelled at his face. In one hand the man who doesn’t belong holds a Glock, in the other a photograph which he thrusts towards the confused and frightened man.

“Remember her?” he asks, his voice a low and steady growl.

The drinking man squints and cranes his neck towards the dog-eared picture. Realisation dawns and his face goes slack.

“It…it was an accident!” he pleads, extending his hands placatingly towards the wall of a man pointing the gun at him. “I did my time!”

“An accident?” says the gunman, but they both know it is not a question. As quick as a flash the man turns and fires a single silenced shot at the still dribbling beer can with a phtt! The yeasty, malty smell of cheap beer filling their nostrils is all the answer they need.

The man who doesn’t belong slowly, deliberately, raises the gun back up to the slack-jawed man, waiting for him to make eye contact.

“You call two years ‘time’?” he growls, voice like gravel. “You left my family with a life sentence.” Neither his voice nor his hand tremble. “And here you are, still pouring this shit down your throat.” He nods towards the remainder of the four pack that is now lying on its side on the floor.

“I…I’m sorry, man!” wails the drinking man. “I’ll stop, ok! I promise! C’mon…I’ve learnt my lesson…ok?” The sweat of his desperation begins to trickle down his face and pastes his thinning hair to his brow as he implores the man pointing the gun at his head once more. But the man who doesn’t belong doesn’t waver.

The drinking man knows it’s over. He looks down as the puddle at his feet grows, and the acrid smell of urine rises and mixes with the already pungent stench of alcohol and filth. His body sags like a balloon with a slow puncture. He raises his head and meets the eyes of his executioner.

“This is for Lily,” says the man who doesn’t belong.

With one last phtt! the silenced gun spits again. The drinking man falls to his knees, a blossoming hole in his forehead. Almost in slow motion the now dead drinking man falls forward, face first, onto the glass covered floor. The man who doesn’t belong watches as a third puddle seeps into the threadbare carpet. He feels nothing much as he looks down at the dead and leaking man at his feet, except maybe for the smallest kernel of relief. Retracing his steps he exits the fetid, broken down cottage.

He doesn’t remember the drive home. His mind is filled with memories of the curly blonde haired beauty from the picture; memories of her squealing with delight as he pushed her higher and higher on the swing he built in the back yard; memories of her running into his arms when he got home from work. She would wrap her arms so tightly around his neck and shower him with kisses on his cheeks. He would tousle her hair before putting his sheriff’s hat on her head and she would giggle when the hat would slip down and almost completely cover her eyes.

He smiles to himself, an empty, dry smile. “Yes,” he thinks. “This is justice.”

The rusty old Dodge eats up the miles as the sun begins to rise. He’s almost home. Leaving the truck on a disused side street with no cameras, he walks the last mile. Home at last. He taps in the code and lets himself in.

“Morning Sherriff,” trills Dina the night nurse, bustling by with an armful of laundry.

“Good morning, Dina,” says the sheriff. “Where is she?”

“She’s coming,” says Dina in her lilting accent, inclining her head to the hallway behind her. “She’s just brushing her hair.”

He looks up at the sound of the now familiar rumble.

“Daddy!” Lily cries as she rolls her way up to him in her electric wheelchair, curly blonde hair shimmering in the morning sunlight and framing those too knowing ocean blue eyes.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greets, bending down to place a tender kiss on his precious daughter’s head before tucking a stray curl behind her ear. There is nothing in this world that he wouldn’t do for her. Nothing. He smiles a real smile and cuffs her playfully under the chin.

“You look different, Daddy,” Lily says, her all knowing, too wise eyes trained on his.
“I do?” he says, tilting his head to one side.
“Mm-hmm,” Lily nods, vigorously.

The man that very much belongs looks out the window as the golden glow of a sunny day lights up the world. Something internal shifts. He smiles again at his broken but beautifully brave daughter.

“Today is a new day,” he tells her, as though revealing a secret. “Anything is possible.”

Shooting The Breeze – by Emma Churchman

Shooting the breeze with friends.

It mends, never ends, 

It sends endorphins round every bend.

It lends itself to health and wealth and wellness

Of soul & mind.

I was blind, now I see

How much my friends truly mean to me.

When the heat of the beat in my feet wants to defeat me,

And the pooling has no cooling

And God, please! 

Never take away that breeze. 

Hello Listeners! by Derek Churchman

The taxi pulled onto the rank outside Glydbourne Station, from where the driver could just glimpse the newly arrived 11.10 westbound train. His fare, who had booked from last night, would be among the dozen or so passengers filtering out. Sure enough, the man who had identified himself on the phone as Sir Alastair Gough-Bowen spotted him and turned in his direction. The driver recognised him immediately from the many times his face had appeared on both television and newspaper as The Right Honourable Sir Alastair Gough-Bowen, MP, Her Majesty’s Principle Secretary of State for the Home Department, or usually just Home Secretary. But in truth, that title no longer belonged to him. Having served a remarkable seven and a half years in that one highly prestigious post, the Tory government had at last lost an election. Sir Alastair chose not to stand in that election, citing “other interests”, and therefore faded somewhat from public life.

“You must be Mr Grudge,” said Sir Alastair, poking his head toward the open window of the cab.
“Sure am, Sir, please climb aboard. It’s a privilege to be sure,” said Grudge.
“You know my destination?” asked Sir Alastair from the rear seat.
“Sure do, Sir, the Bombastic Hotel. Quite swanky.”
“But you understand I need collecting in four hours?”
“Sure thing, Sir, you can rely on me, and that’s the truth. Grudge by name but not by nature.”
“Very good. Now please will you be quiet until we get there?”
“Sure will, Sir, silent as a mouse in slippers.”

The Bombastic was twenty minutes away in a leafy and expensive part of town. Sir Alastair had chosen this venue for his radio interview for two primary reasons, not least of which was it’s obscure location with easy access to the motorway. This was essential as the four by four that he had previously positioned for his post haste getaway was parked but half a mile away. Secondly, crucially, because of the nature of how the BBC made these radio interview programmes, rather than using up studio space, any hotel room would suffice with simply the interviewer, interviewee and the sound man. The tapes would be edited afterwards ready for broadcast.

The Grudge taxi, the only taxi, pulled up outside the hotel. “Here we are, Sir,” said Grudge. “We’ll settle up after I take you back to the station.” Sir Alastair got out without a word.

He was met in the foyer by a pretty brunette who identified herself as his interviewer, Hilda Strobe, a moniker that did not suit her well. She was known within the Corporation for being an uncompromising yet genial host. Sir Alastair immediately took to her. “Excellent”, he thought to himself. “She will do.”

The Bombastic was a sturdy, well made building. With massive thick walls, sound didn’t carry, and this made it ideal for recording radio shows. Amongst other things.

Hilda led Sir Alastair via the lift to Suite 401, the penthouse. It was large, bright and airy with beautiful views from the wall to wall picture windows. The recording equipment was set up on the dining table with chairs positioned on three side. One was already occupied by what appeared to Sir Alastair to be a scruffy, hirsute gnome.

“This is my sound man, Josh,” introduced Hilda, “known as ‘Ears’. Not for the obvious reasons,” she explained, “but because nobody actually knows what his look like. They’re always hidden under his headphones.” Ears waved and garbled a greeting that may or may not have included the word ‘Hi’. “Typical BBC twat,” mused Sir Alastair to himself.

Josh had always been interested in sound. As well as being the drummer, that had been his responsibility when he had been in a band. The group, which delighted under the name ‘Profligate Spendthrift’, had described itself as goth/punk contrapuntal fusion. They played for their own pleasure, mostly to empty rooms.

“Please sit here, Sir Alastair,” gestured Hilda. “We’ve already done the sound checks, so we’re ready to go.” Hilda was a rapidly rising star within the Corporation, with hopes of breaking into television in the near future. It was not to be.

“Are we running, Ears?” she asked. Josh answered by pointing to the spool of tape on the recorder turning obediently. With a nod, Hilda began.

“Good evening, Sir Alastair, and welcome to ‘Probe with Strobe’. Now, when you approached us here at the BBC requesting an interview, you intimated that you had insights into the Home Office as a result of your long and dramatic career as the boss; insights that you claim the nation might like to be made aware of.” Hilda leaned forward expectantly, a technique used to draw her guest in, to make them feel important. “Could you elaborate?” she asked, pointedly.

Sir Alastair also lent in, staring directly into Hilda’s lovely brown eyes. She recoiled. “You have no idea, have you?” Sir Alastair barked, voice rising. “Not a fucking clue!”

Hilda, shocked and frightened at Sir Alastair’s unwarranted outburst, gathered her professionalism enough to attempt to remain in control. “Please, Sir Alastair, I very much want to hear what you have to say,” she said calmly. “But there’s no need to shout and swear.” Ears, seated behind Sir Alastair, was frozen in time, not breathing. But the tape, unaffected, continued to turn regardless.

Thirty long seconds of silence passed. A minute. Sir Alastair and Hilda Strobe locked eyes. Ears still did not dare to breathe.

“I’ve had to do wet work for this country, did you know that?” asked Sir Alastair.

Confused, Hilda asked, “What exactly do you mean, Sir Alastair?”
“Kill them, liquidate them,” he enunciated slowly. “Wet work.”
Hilda was stunned. “Surely not, Sir Alastair, this is England.”
Grim determination was etched on Sir Alastair’s face. This is what he had come to say. The prestigious job for which he had toiled so hard to obtain had turned him into a criminal of the highest order. He’d had very little choice in the matter. This country of ‘Queen’ and ‘Pomp’ and ‘Circumstance’ had done this to him, and he would make it pay. And so too would others.

“I became Home Secretary,” said Sir Alastair, leaning back in his chair and crossing a leg. “I learned that England is under constant attack, from both within and without. The ‘within’ was my remit. For as long as England has had a government it has dissidents, revolutionaries, subversives and malcontents which often necessitates swift and punitive action. At times this can be deemed illegal. I hated it but…well, I got sucked in. Then comes the killer blow, forgive the pun. I found it could be extremely lucrative. Why pay a government hit man at high cost when you could take the job on yourself? My heart turned black. I could see it when I looked in the mirror.

“I served under three Prime Ministers. One was of short stature. Behind her back we called her ‘The Runt’. Another was trying to reintroduce fox hunting. We called him ‘The Hunt’. The other was a Cambridge graduate who studied and sang at Kings College and was a keen boater on the River Cam. We called him ‘The Punt’. They all had something in common and it rhymed. And I hated them all with a passion; their lies, their deceit, their greed. Still, I became one of them and I hate myself for it, but now it’s too late.” Sir Alastair looked to Hilda. “I’m sorry I shouted at you.”

Hilda’s mouth was doing a passible impression of a goldfish and Ears had turned a shade of blue. “Why are you saying all this? On tape.” Hilda, always the slick interviewer, struggled to get the words out. “This may never be allowed to go out.”
“Oh, it will go out,” said Sir Alastair confidently, feeling the need to elaborate. “Look, I have…acquired a small fortune and it is waiting for me in a vehicle I have parked nearby. My escape plan is in place. But before I take my leave I want the world to know about this country and it’s esteemed leaders. I’ve already sold this tape to several countries. When broadcast, this interview will devalue and demote England to third world status while I will be laughing. Good God, this makes me sound like a very bad Bond villain.”

“You are scaring me, Sir Alastair,” said the shell-shocked Hilda, “ but there is surely one problem that you have overlooked.” The tape continued to turn.
“Which is?” asked Sir Alastair.
“This recording is now property of the BBC. You signed the contract,” replied Hilda. “As awful as your story is, it belongs to us now.”
“Yes, I agree with you, Hilda. I cannot fault the legalities, but I must point out that at this particular moment in time we are in a hotel room, just the three of us. Nobody else.”
“Which means what, Sir Alastair?” she queried, at which point Sir Alastair reached into an inside pocket, brought out a hand gun and shot Hilda in the forehead.

Bang!

Sir Alastair briefly turned to former band drummer with ‘Profligate Spendthrift’, Ears. No words in the English language could have accurately described the looks now occupying his face. But something new occurred. He removed his headphones. Surprisingly his ears were perfectly normal, which mattered not when the bullet was shot through one to exit the other.

Bang!

The tape, untouched, still turned, still recorded. Sir Alastair viewed his lethal handiwork and felt just the smallest tinge of regret, but his years of government ‘wet work’ had taught him that there were always going to be innocent casualties. “Shame, though,” he thought. Hilda Strobe was foxy.

Sir Alastair then spoke into the mike. “People of England, this tape is being broadcast to you from an undisclosed location over seas. It is a statement of fact describing how your governments, present and past, have deceived and lied to you through politicians who only have their self interests at heart. They do not care about you. I confess to being one such politician. Goodbye from ‘Probe with Strobe’ with me, Alastair Gough-Bowen and the late presenter Hilda Strobe and her rather leaky assistant, Josh. Good day.”

Sir Alastair stopped the tape, rewound it, removed it from the machine and placed it inside a case that had belonged to Ears and contained a recent picture of his five year old daughter Mildred. Sir Alastair noted it and for just a spark, the briefest of moments, he realised that, because of him, Mildred no longer had a dad.

“Fucking politicians,” he mused.

Grudge had experienced a particular and unusual day since dropping off Sir Alastair. He had actually been rather busy and had made some decent money for a change. But the man had disturbed him. He was odd and frankly quite scary. So when the call came for collection at the Bombastic he dropped everything and was there within fifteen minutes.

“Grudge, thank you,” said Sir Alastair, “but not to the station.”
“Sir Alastair, with respect, the next train leaves in thirty minutes. How will you get back?” asked Grudge.
“That is my concern, Grudge. I wish you to take me to the car park on Deceit Street.”
“Of course, Sir Alastair. Have I done something wrong, Sir?”
“No, Grudge, you are a sweet man,” reassured Sir Alastair.

In due time Grudge pulled the taxi into the Deceit Street car park. “We’re here now, Sir Alastair,” he said.
“Thank you, Grudge.”

Bang!

Sir Alastair climbed from the taxi.

“Fucking politics,” he said without a backward glance, and he went on his way.

Ebony White

Her name was Ebony White. Who could have known how apt her name would be? When she was born her mother took one look at her beautiful daughter – her skin so dark it was as reflective as a still lake on a moonless night – and knew her name was Ebony.

When Ebony was born she had no hair, so it came as something of a surprise to her mother when Ebony’s hair began to grow. As a child Ebony hated her hair. The kids at school would tease her and point their fingers, or whisper behind hands as she walked by. Regularly, Ebony would go home in tears and beg, “Mama, please let me dye my hair! I don’t want everyone to laugh at me anymore!”
And every time she asked, her mother would say in her heavy Ghanaian accent, “Ebony, God gave this hair for a reason. You will learn to love it. Until then, love yourself for who you are, as I do, not for what you look like.”

Now, fifteen years later, here she stood, moments away from her biggest job – the ‘Vogue’ cover. She looked at her reflection and loved all that she saw; her smooth black skin glistening with oil like polished obsidian, her wide mocha eyes highlighted with kohl pencil, her lean but shapely 5’11” frame, and her natural hair, her crowning glory, so blonde it was almost white and picked into the biggest, brightest afro it looked like a halo.

“Thank you, Mama,” Ebony whispered under her breath, as she did before every job. Then Ebony White took her place before the camera.

The Fat Ballerina

Patty was fat.

She’d always been fat, ever since she was a little girl. Her sister used to tease her mercilessly as a child, calling her Dumbo or Miss Piggy at some point throughout the course of each day.

As the sisters grew up and left childhood behind, while her sister was out on yet another date with another boy, Patty would mostly stay home and curl up on the sofa with a bag of iced finger buns and a tub of salted caramel Häagen Dazs. On her way out the door in her skimpy skirts and killer stiletto’s, her sister would call out, “You’ve got the fat bit down, Patty, where’s the jolly?” and off she’d clip, out the door and into Harry’s or Miles’s idling Mercedes without a backward glance.

It was true though. Patty was fat. And she wasn’t jolly. Not even the cakes and the ice creams and the Thornton’s chocolates made her feel better anymore. If anything, she hated herself even more as she sat there eating them, stuffing them in as fast as she could swallow. Eating the evidence, she thought, hating the feel of it sliding down her throat, but needing something, anything, to fill the ever expanding hole she felt consuming her from the inside out.

Now, though, there was one thing that did make her happy, made her feel…light, and the irony of that was not lost her. Perhaps the irony itself was one of the reasons it made her feel that way to begin with. You see, when Patty’s sister would go out on a date or to the pictures with her friends, Patty would push the furniture out of the way, put on Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker, or Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet, she’d put on her pointe shoes, reverently lacing them around her surprisingly delicate ankles and then she’d dance. She’d start with her positions – first through fifth, then she’d pirouette and plié away the night. Patty would pirouette en pointe, she would arabesque, rond-de-jambe and jeté. She’d imagine she was Margot Fonteyn dancing Giselle with Nureyev – oh! The pas de deux was simply divine!

Her body – the anchor that weighed her down at all other times – suddenly became her tool, her weapon, her artists brush with which she painted pictures, pictures that no one would ever see.

What no one knew was that Patty had been taking ballet lessons online for three years. No one other than her teacher had ever seen her dance but she knew she was good, she could feel it. She would close her eyes and her body would simply flow with the music, leaping and spinning and twirling like a dervish. Patty would swing her arms and point her toes in ways her sister would never believe. She didn’t tell her sister for fear she would tease her as she had her whole life. She just knew that her sister would forever call her “Patty the fat ballerina,” and to Patty her ballet was the only pure joy in her life. She wouldn’t lose it. It was sacred to her.

So imagine Patty’s surprise when, on finishing Stravinsky’s “Dance of the Firebird” one Thursday evening, panting both from exertion and excitement, she opened her eyes to see her sister standing in the doorway to their shared living room, a tremulous hand covering her mouth and a lone tear trailing down her cheek.

I’m Back!

Hi all,

I know it’s been a long time since I’ve posted anything, and it’s been even longer since I’ve posted regularly. I’ve missed it, and I’ve missed you guys. Sometimes life gets in the way, sometimes life doesn’t go the way we plan it to. What I can tell you is that I haven’t stopped thinking about and developing my writing skills. I’ve been taking some online courses which I’ve thoroughly enjoyed, and I’d like to think I’ve learned a thing or two along the way.

As part of my writing rehabilitation I’ve been writing some short stories, and I must confess that I’ve enjoyed it more than I imagined I would, so much so that I’m going to keep writing them. There is a theme to the short stories I’m currently writing. The theme is clichés with a twist. So keep your eyes out for the first few short stories that I’ll be posting in the very near future.

Until next time, peeps. Happy reading. 

Ehlers Danlos Syndrome Awareness Month

In a break from the norm I’m posting an article that has nothing to do with books or writing. Don’t worry, I’m not changing the focus of my blog to my health. And I’m not in search of sympathy, either. But my health has seriously impacted my ability to write. I’ve been working hard this last year to gain control of my health and you’ll be pleased to know I’m making progress, and I very much hope this will positively impact my writing, as well as many other aspects of my life.

I’m posting this in support of Ehlers Danlos Awareness Month. Many people, including health professionals, have never heard of this condition, much less understand it and how it affects sufferers. For treatment and the understanding of this group of conditions to improve it’s essential that we discuss it more openly. This is my contibution, and thanks in advance for taking the time to read it.

My EDS Story

May is Ehlers Danlos Syndrome Awareness month. My friend Cassandra Campbell, who is also a fellow EDS-er, encouraged me to share my story to help highlight this condition and the impact it has on sufferers lives. I don’t have any qualms talking about my illness but I do struggle when it comes to expressing how it truly affects me in my day to day life and how it makes me feel about myself. I often downplay it or laugh it off, mainly because I feel embarrassed or misunderstood (“But you don’t look/sound disabled!”), or guilty because I’ve missed yet another friends birthday/dinner/night out, or my son has had to help me up off the floor again, or stay home to help with chores instead of going out with his friends.

So here goes. Here’s my story. Today I’m not going to downplay it, but I can’t promise not to laugh it off. Sometimes it’s the only way.

Throughout my teens I was always injuring myself. Sprained ankles, torn ligaments, broken bones, aches in my legs and arms. But I was very sporty and put it down to that. I thought everyone was the same at that age. A combination of growing pains and clumsiness. I was always active, always out. I went back to work after my son started school and enjoyed a full and busy life. I suffered from IBS but was dealing with it reasonably well for a time. But soon I was in constant pain and discomfort. Sitting and walking became very uncomfortable. I had pain from my back and abdomen down my leg. Then in 2009 I was diagnosed with Endometriosis. I had major surgery that year to remove cysts. But I still felt unwell. The following year I lost my mum and my job. The cysts came back. I had keyhole surgery, but I just wasn’t recovering. My whole body hurt, I was constantly fatigued. The cysts came back again so finally, at 35, I decided to have a hysterectomy in 2011. And still I couldn’t recover. My body felt like lead. I was lost, swallowed up by this black hole of pain, fatigue, fear and confusion about what was wrong with me. My GP was no help. He told me I was depressed and accused me of being addicted to painkillers. I probably was depressed but that was not the root of my problems, it was a result of them.

It wasn’t until 2012 that I was finally diagnosed with EDS, by a Benefits doctor of all people. I was then able to get referred to Prof. Rodney Grahame’s hypermobility clinic at UCLH (Prof Grahame has now retired but the clinic is still there). I spent much of the next few years being farmed out to numerous doctors all over London; gastroenterology, uro-neurology, neurology, podiatry, physiotherapy, occupational therapy, dietitian. I had bladder tests, nerve conduction tests and the dreaded Tilt-Table Test. It all confirmed that I had EDS, POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome) which is a form of dysautonomia, and secondary Fibromyalgia. And I learned that my IBS was connected to the EDS.

I suffer nerve compression in my elbows and sciatic area. I’m starting to get nerve pain in my fingers and toes. I have bladder urgency and frequency. I get up 4-6 times at night to go to the loo. My joints feel loose and are constantly slipping, or subluxating (partially dislocating) with occasional dislocations. I subluxated my shoulder 18 months ago walking my Yorkie Russell when she was a pup. I ended up tearing part of my rotator cuff which still hasn’t healed properly. My fingers, wrists and elbows pop out almost daily, sometimes just from combing my hair or brushing my teeth.

I find the POTS very hard to deal with, maybe more so than the pain from the EDS. In fact, this was one of the main reasons I got rid of my car. My body doesn’t cope well in the vertical position. My temperature doesn’t regulate well. I have poor balance, constantly stumble. I get very dizzy, experience visual and auditory distortions. Sometimes I black out. My heartbeat palpitates and races (90-120 bpm), blood pressure crashes (90/45) or spikes (170/135). My hands and face go numb and spasm. I have blacked out in public places several times so I now wear medical badges around my neck when I go out. Or sometimes I feel Potsy and have to lie on the floor before I collapse. Mostly, I just tend to not go out very often, especially alone. It’s scary and embarrassing for me and for the people around me.

If I want to go out I have to make sure I have 2-3 free days before and after so I have time to rest and recover. I can’t really do multiple things in a week as one outing can wipe me out for days, sometimes weeks. If I do go out I have to plan strategically who’s coming with me, how I’m getting there, how far I may have to walk, how long I have to be upright for, where are the toilets, will I have to negotiate stairs. And as I have stairs at home, I frequently sleep on my sofa instead of going up to bed. But the toilet is upstairs so I have to use a commode in my living room. I struggle getting in and out of the bath for a shower so I mostly wash in a bowl downstairs. All these little indignities add up so it’s really important to have a thick skin and a sense of humour.

I don’t sleep well, usually 2-4 hours of broken sleep at night if I’m lucky. Sometimes I sleep all day. I have to be vary aware of my pacing or I have massive crashes or flare ups that can last for weeks. When I’m having a flare up I tend to hide away from everyone because I worry they’ll get fed up with me bailing on them or not having the energy to talk. Sometimes I go too far the other way and try to emotionally support everyone all the time because I feel it is the only thing left that I can do for the people I love, and then I have nothing left for me.

I’m constantly struggling to find where my line is. I’m learning. It’s important to push, but only up to the line, not over it. After spending 3 weeks in Stanmore Hospital’s Pain Rehab I think that maybe, sometimes, I’m even winning. I learnt so much, and met some amazing people there that have become very important to me, a little network of people who I don’t have to explain to, or make excuses to or feel guilty around. It helps so much. I met others who have it much worse than I do and yet still laugh, still smile, still live their lives to the fullest of their abilities. I’m now exercising (very carefully) and getting stronger. I’m pacing better. I’m planning nice things to do with my friends and family. And, God knows, I’m blessed to have friends and family that support me, even if they don’t completely get it. To those of you who have been by my side every step of the way, I give you my thanks. I wouldn’t have remained intact without you. You have my deepest love and appreciation. My son, Akira, is my biggest source of support and he never complains. He works, goes to college and helps me out at home. He comes with me to my hospital appointments. We plan fun days out at least every couple of months so we have nice things to look forward to. We make memories. And we laugh. A lot. I hope he knows how much I love him and value him, and how proud of him I am.

That’s really why I decided to share my story. Perhaps I’ve been too scared of being pitied or embarrassed by my limitations to really explain to the people I care about exactly how this condition affects me. Perhaps I’ve stepped away from people out of fear they’ll step away from me. That’s something I’m working on. Let me say right now, I neither want nor need your pity. Or sympathy. Just understanding and compassion, your friendship. Some of you I don’t see much of anymore, and that’s largely on me. I miss you. Please don’t be afraid to come over or invite me places, and please understand if I have to say no that it’s not because I don’t care. And though I may not be able to do all of the things I used to do there are other things I can do. Maybe you could come have a cuppa with me and laugh when I fall over and then help me up off the floor. Maybe you could come with me when I take the dog out on my scooter instead of meeting for a drink, or do a workout session instead of going dancing.

And maybe sometimes we EDS-ers just need time and patience and an arm around the shoulder while we grieve for the person we were, and accept, adjust and embrace the new version of who we are now. Don’t give up on us. We’re still us, just a bit different. And who says different is less?

The Tournament by Matthew Reilly, Book Review

Goodreads Blurb 

The year is 1546.

Europe lives in fear of the powerful Islamic empire to the East. Under its charismatic Sultan, Suleiman the Magnificent, it is an empire on the rise. It has defeated Christian fleets. It has conquered Christian cities.

Then the Sultan sends out an invitation to every king in Europe: send forth your champion to compete in a tournament unlike any other.

We follow the English delegation, selected by King Henry VIII himself, to the glittering city of Constantinople, where the most amazing tournament ever staged will take place.

But when the stakes are this high, not everyone plays fair, and for our team of plucky English heroes, winning may not be the primary goal. As a series of barbaric murders take place, a more immediate goal might simply be staying alive

My Review

Rating: 3.75*

For many years Matthew Reilly has been my favourite action story writer. I’ve happily jumped on board both the Scarecrow and Jack West Jnr trains, and thoroughly enjoyed every crazy ride. Say what you will about the plausibility of his stories, but you cannot deny they are fun. That’s why I read them.

Which is why I’m still unsure how I feel about The Tournament. Mr Reilly has certainly been expanding his repertoire over recent years with books such as Hover Car Racer—which has children as the main protagonists—and The Great Zoo of China—fronted by a female lead—which digress somewhat from his usual fare. But both of these books still pack a punch on the action front, even if the packaging is vastly different. The Tournament, however, is uncategorically historical fiction, centred around a very young Elizabeth I and her tutor Roger Ascham. I will admit that history is not my strongest suit, but the older I get the more I love it, and it was fascinating to learn that Roger Ascham was a real person and really did tutor the young Elizabeth. Mr Reilly seamlessly weaves fact and fiction, and really captures a sense of the era.

The story is set in Constantinople and centres around a chess tournament arranged by the Sultan himself. Both the Roman Catholic Church and Islam feature in this story, not especially from a religious point of view, more from how intrinsic they were to the time and place the story was set, and I liked that. I liked how they were part of the story and yet not the focal point of the story, and I liked how the conflict was about the people and not their religious orientation or beliefs. The writing was clean, the research thorough and the dialogue felt authentic to the time, but I found the story itself to be a little weak. Perhaps this was because I’m so used to Mr Reilly’s usual fare of relentless edge-of-your-seat action, perhaps it was in part because The Tournament has a bit of an identity issue. The story, I felt, would have been better suited to a younger audience, but the sexual content rules it out of that genre. It leaves the book rather betwixt and between.

Which pretty much sums up my feelings about it. All told, a good one time read but I’m not sure who I’d recommend this too. I’d rather have had another helping of Scarecrow. That being said, I’m very interested to see where Mr Reilly goes next…