a little bit of Joey

Barking Mad

Well the barking has finally got to She-mom.

Well actually it wasn’t the barking; it was the smell.

Well really it wasn’t the smell but what/who had caused the smell.

I am definitely in the dog house.

She was sitting with her feet up and had been trying to identify the smell for a few days but couldn’t work out what it was or where it was coming from. She’d checked the fridge and shut the back windows in case it was drifting in and disinfected the bin too. But it was still there. Then just as we were off to bed, she dropped onto the floor, sniffing like a blood hound. Uh oh. My number was up as she neared the far end of the couch ‘Joey!’ I cowered. She’d found it. I couldn’t look. She was wiping her hand on the couch and the carpet; maybe the puppy eyes would work?

Copious amounts of kitchen towel flowed from her hands like a white bouquet as she dropped it onto the spot where I had pee’d.  She was mumbling something again but I kept well away. All she did was look at me with those eyes. Not the lovey dovey ‘you are my best boy’ eyes but the slightly cooky ‘Hellraiser’ ones.

 I slept on the landing for most of the night before creeping onto the bed and making myself so small in the corner that she wouldn’t notice.

It was still there, the smell that is, so she-mom was consulting the oracle on her ipad. Water then a nose wrinkling vinegar and water were applied, more paper towel and a brick. Success. No smells. I still kept out of the way and made myself busy in the conservatory fly catching; I know this impresses her; cats bring mice, I catch flies, simples. But I mean, it’s her own fault really. If she is going to bring a bloke in here to challenge my male domain, what does she think will happen? Boys will be boys!

I settled down in the sun and relaxed. Life was sweet again, or so I thought.

I raised an eyebrow as I heard my name called. She-mom had my lead in her hand. WALKIES! Excitement and circles and whoops and woofs of delight; WALKIES! Where are we going, it’s evening and we are getting in the car? Oh no. had I blown it this time? Was I going back ‘there’? Now I was scared. I barked.

And I barked and barked. NOOOOO!

We stopped. Where were we? The park? Hmmm no. I sniffed the air. I could smell other dogs. Little dogs, big dogs, puppy dogs and old dogs. Was she going to leave me in a cell again? We were going towards the big doors where a cute little Pomeranian had just gone in.

In we went and there was a big black Labrador. Oh my, he was huge and he just sat there, happy as you like not even taking any notice of me. We walked towards another couple of She-moms, they were smiley and were stroking me and giving me the lovey dovey eyes. This wasn’t a cell place, this was a happy place and I liked these She-moms! Then I saw two Spaniels and another dog I didn’t know, just lazing away by some chairs, napping. She-mom was leading my up some stairs and then we were above everybody. I like this; I can see and be seen and, hello, here’s the cute little Pomeranian: but what’s going on? More dogs were coming in.

Then they were all walking in a circle with the big lab in the middle watching over them with his He-dad. Then they changed direction and walked in circles the other way.  And then…oh…and then… I sniffed…bacon! I smell bacon! Oh yes, treats!!!! I sat bolt upright; I wanted treats but it was all the other dogs getting treats. I gave She-mom the puppy eyes, would it work? Yeah I got a treat too.

But what was I doing here?

brambles rambling in my mind

A clean sheet of paper. The first in quite a long while: too long in fact. Where do I start? We all know that the weather in the UK is currently amazing, that night follows day, that, sigh, where am I heading here?

Joey. Dear little Joey...now even smaller as I’ve had him shaved for the summer [he is a dog by the way not an errant child or heaven forbid husband] can spin me into a complete stress. It’s been a good number of years since I had a dog around and never one adopted at 8 years of age. But Joey has his own pages in my head; such is his personality that he deserves his own space. But I am stressing over his blooming barking at other dogs. In fact I am just stressing.

Why though?

I think I was raised a worrier. My dad certainly was. He would come home from work every night and ruminate over the day’s events and talk them through with my mother. She would listen and let him get it off his chest and ask the right questions. She was his leveller.

A scrupulously fair man he would never do anything rash, everything was carefully thought through and justified and he took full responsibility for his actions and no doubt worried about them too! We were brought up to have respect and to have conviction in our actions, to stand up for ourselves if we believed in what we were saying even if we were a lone figure in a throng.

The responsibility of my actions weigh heavily on my own shoulders still; too heavy. But why? Why do I feel so responsible for things that are out of my control? Why do I worry that my words may hurt someone? We are all entitled to our own thoughts and opinions and rarely do I take anyone’s opinions personally. How daft am I?

               

I have just spent over a week worrying about the daftest thing; telling a guy I don’t want to see him again. The first guy in a long time that had seemed ‘normal’. We had a lot in common but there was no spark, no excitement, no nothing. I analysed every detail. Was I just running away because he was close to what I wanted? Would he be upset? Would he accept it? ‘He, he, he...’ was I worrying about me? No. I had to accept that I was getting so worked up about the whole thing that it was obviously not right to be with him and so I did the deed. He said ok, yes ok.

A weight had been lifted off my back. I had my space back. The weekends were once again mine to do what I wanted to do for me. Sounds selfish? No, not really. In my old fashioned married for 24 years head yes weekends were for being a couple but in the 7 year single head, weekends were my space to be me especially with the stress of work. Yes, there goes that word again.

What that short relationship did enforce in me was that there has to be a connection between two people for a relationship to work in my life. Also that I missed being out in the English countryside for the weekend as it does me the power of good. It invigorates and inspires me [lets ignore this year’s hay-fever development] and with the lack of a significant other to throw things around with, it is my leveller.

So, only yesterday, I bought a tent. Nothing too fancy and nothing too small either. Big enough to sleep in and sit in should I need to be inside but small enough to not give me too many issue to erect.

But then I’m off on my stress mission once more. Joey

Since I have only had him for 6 months, his personality keeps coming out and he is a definite bossy dog and use to having his own way. He hates not being by my side when I do anything. Washing the car on the drive he will bark constantly at the window. I just ignore him as telling him off does no good whatsoever. So is he going to be a pain in the butt whilst I am calmly trying to erect the tent watched by the googly eyes of other campers? Then there is his peer attitude. I’ve never known a dog so contrary. Walkies on one day and he can smile and greet other dogs or nonchalantly walk past them. On other days he will bark at every dog he sees, usually with tail wagging. What am I actually worrying about though?

 The barking will stop.

He’s on a lead so can be controlled.

It’s just a bit of noise.

What I should be thinking about is the first brew on the camping stove.

The sitting enjoying the view.

The sunset.

The first night under canvas for more years than I care to remember

 and the smell of bacon wafting across a field to wake me up in the morning and relaxing.

I need to remember what it felt like to sit on the big swings as a kid. Pump your legs getting the swing higher and higher to the point of where you get the slack in the chains. Your heart beating fast, swooping back to the ground, grazing the toe of your shoes on the earth. No one to catch you if you fall but not even thinking that. Just enjoying the rush of adrenalin that left you feeling giddy with laughter and pleasure.

Where do the days go?

Now Janet has given me a friendly nudge, it's good to kick myself into action.

Some of you will know a little about my house purchase in Spain and that i started a memoir; cathartic to a degree but it does need lightening up, characters added in and a whole new feel now that the wounds have healed. So here is a taster of how it all started...roll on the time to rewrite and get to include all the fantastic characters in the town!

PROLOGUE

As the clock strikes 9

Morning chill softens as the sun eases over Town Hall

spotlighting on protective silent cannon.

Martin crosses the main square with Jess and Ben,

tongues lolling after their morning adventures in the campo.

sniffing absently at the benches, weeless cocking habitually.

Martin nods at José, seated, leaning with gnarled

hands on the equally gnarled walking stick.

José’s mirror image seats himself next

coughing from smoking too much Pueblo.

Cut and paste the bench-of-two repeatedly around the square,

change the clothing colours and hue, the odd hat,

maybe a year or two and we have the remnants of the

Franco revolt, openly chatting in habitual defiance.

The women appear now steps are swept and plants watered,

across to the panaderia in housecoat and slippers.

Then back inside to do more chores and straighten antimacassars.

Children scamper and play, screams and giggles and fun

respectfully enjoy the space, safe in the company of elders.

Not a swear word to be heard as balls bounce across the road

niños chase after them.

The winter sun begins to set as

the litter picker silently collects the butts of the day.

The square, quiet once more.

As the clock strikes four.

Chapter One

I watched the builders arms display what his words were saying as we stood in the mule shed under my house. Eyes raised to the rafters, elbows raised to shoulder height, he was gesticulating to the carpenter, his hands dropping down to the floor. As with all Spanish people, his voice accentuated the urgency of his words. Then there was a shrug and an open handed gesture. I knew immediately what he was saying without understanding the words; the whole house was in danger of collapse. I felt sick.

Welcome to my new home. My retirement dream. Five years dreaming, three years planning. Two minutes to cast a lead weight into my belly.

 Chapter Two

I kept myself together; mentally stepped outside this beautiful little village in the Alpujarras and like a matador with a cape, drew it around me to cloak me from the news. It all should have been so perfect, but today everything was falling apart; my relationship with my boyfriend had run its course, the previous builder had not done as instructed and now this. The chestnut beams were rotten to the core, a concern I had raised but been dismissed by the previous guy who accompanied me when I viewed it, who said that that they had been treated and were ok. He had poked at them in places and to be fair, the holes were only surface deep. Gut instinct didn’t cut in at any time. Now this qualified builder was telling us that if the beams weren’t replaced immediately, the house was in danger of collapse. I turned my back and walked away as Carl tried to tell me what Miguel had said. ‘I was told two weeks ago that a couple needed doing and I thought they had been done before I got here’ I said; so much should have been completed before I arrived. ‘And how safe is the hole in the wall for the new double doors without acrow props to support it?’ all three of us looked towards the rear of the building at the gaping hole. No lintel. No temporary supports. I already knew the answer. What was above? Three more storeys of house, all reliant on these original chestnut beams and the back supporting wall. For the second time in as many minutes I felt sick. Carl and Miguel looked back at me with sadness in their eyes; it wasn’t looking good.

We locked up the mule shed and arranged for Miguel to quote for the work to be done as soon as possible. I went upstairs, slid open the lounge door and gazed out into the beautiful view of the Sierra Nevada. I could just see through the mountains to Morocco on my left and to my right the sweeping undulations of the Lujar. The sun was going down on what should have been another beautiful day in May but I felt like it was my last day on the planet. I couldn’t face clearing up the debris that surrounded me, I needed to run and escape what was happening. But I wasn’t at home. I couldn’t just call up a friend and escape into their lives with my tales of woe. I had to face this on my own. A drink was required and some company and light banter; time to let Fernando tell me his worst jokes.

The next morning, with no one to turn to, or so I thought at the time, I set to, cleaning up the mess in my Spanish home. The lounge had someone’s smelly work clothes perched next to the television and a pair of boots kicked into the corner. Old bedspreads acted as dustsheets over my couch. The lower terrace was covered in sawdust, no wonder I was coughing in the night, the dust had been blowing into the bedroom. The kitchen was what can only be described as a builder’s yard. Tile off cuts were on every work surface from where the builder had been cutting them whilst doing the bathroom, all my plates were stacked, filthy dirty amongst the debris and a grease laden frying pan; it was like someone had been living here whilst I was away. With the clothes in the lounge, maybe they had. The rubbish bag was in the same place it had been five weeks previously and was oozing something from the bottom onto the marble tiled floor. A line of wine bottles snaked its way around the base of one cupboard and for some reason, there was a gaping hole where the cooker should have been. This was down in the entrance way, snuggled up to the over laden mini skip, old door frames, breeze blocks and capa fina bags full of rubble. The neighbours rubber tree plants were coated in a thick layer of cement dust; she must have been cussing me since the day I moved in.

Being May, the weather was warm and sweeping and mopping had to be done at a steady pace not British pace; I was learning the tranquillo way of the Spanish. The only place you got by rushing was stressed and tired. At 11.30, sweaty and weary I decided to go down to the bar for a coffee. I looked down at myself; dusty from head to toe, I wasn’t going to get changed just to go for coffee, so I sauntered down town and seated myself in the sun. Cafe con leche and tostados, perfect. I leant back and absorbed the rays and began to relax and remember why I wanted to be here.

Second Hand Dog

A new life

Prologue

There are people everywhere.

All above me; ignoring me.

They are around Mom’s bed.

She is being taken, not roughly and she’s not protesting.

But she can’t.

I need to stop them.

But I am too small. But I try.

I am picked up; I kick and I scream. I’m being soothed; held tightly and cuddled.

I quieten as the other people leave.

I look at the bed. There is a dent where she was. A warm spot I would sometimes curl into. Smell her scent, relax and fall back to sleep until I am called for breakfast. I try to scramble free to get to that spot. To smell her scent. To feel warm and safe. But I’m held close and taken from the room.

I cry.

IN THE BEGINNING THERE WAS JOEY

Chapter One

I shiver and curl up tighter: it’s minus two degrees and I’m not in my comfy bed.

I’m not snuggled up in my warm room

I’m not even in my house

Or with my family

I’m in a cell.

Concrete walls and floors. A smell of disinfectant and a warm breeze from somewhere.

It’s dark. I can hear others breathing but no one is here with me. I curl up on my bedding; at least this is mine. It smells of me and of Mom.

Chapter Three

I can hear activity. Footsteps coming along the passageway and I blink at  the winter sun coming through the bars on the windows. The latch is lifted on my cell. I edge back into the corner frightened of what is to come. Two bowls are placed before me. My nose twitches. Biscuits and water. I blink. The girl smiles and leaves; onto the next. I sit. Wary. I edge my way towards the bowls... it’s ok. Smells good and I take a small mouthful. I’m not overly hungry as I’m more sad than anything. But I eat and curl back into the corner.

Chapter Four

The daily routine is the same. The nice girls come in and feed me, I don’t understand what they are saying but they are kind. They take me out for fresh air and exercise, feed me and look after me.

They are nice.

There’s a new lady. Noisy.  Laughing. But she seems nice too. She doesn’t mind me walking in the mud and the puddles. In fact she likes doing it too! Then she’s gone. Who is she?

She’s back again. Yes! And this time...hey, what’s happening here? I’m getting into her car, wow, look at all this space. I want to sit in the front seat but she won’t let me but that’s ok.

Oops, we’re moving, where are we going? I watch the trees and bushes as we weave down the rutted lane. I say goodbye to the sodden horses in the field, glad to be inside in the dry as I have no coat like they do.

I wonder where we are going?

[Charlottes World]

Episode One

‘Bloody phone when I’m trying to draw’. I look at the caller; Jayne.

‘Hi Hun, are you still interested in a dog?’

‘er, yes course. Why?’

‘think we’ve found you one. Owner has died and he’s in the kennels. Want to see him?’

‘Er yes course.’

‘come to the pub and we’ll take you over.’

The phone went dead. I did that daft thing and looked at it..then down at myself. Pj bottoms and a sweatshirt. Well it was Sunday. But I had better get dressed.

CHAPTER Five

Fox.

There’s a bloody fox. And it’s daylight. This is my walk down here mate, what are you doing? Quit scavenging on my patch. Go on, get lost.

The little bugger. He’s ambling across the yard like he owns it. he hasn’t seen me, he hasn’t even scented me. This scrag end of a town fox in its brindle coat isn’t even taking any notice of the workmen on their fag break. I pull towards him, but She’s not having it. Damn. I want that fox.

I follow his scent down the track, weaving this way and that. She isn’t amused.

 Tough.

Where has he come from?

Where is he going?

All the way around the block I’m thinking of that fox. I’ve lost his scent now. Damn.

EPISODE Two

After last nights whining on the way home, a quick round the block should ease Joey’s bladder without me having to stop off ‘just in case.’

Blooming heck, it’s daylight and there’s a fox, brazenly strolling across a factory courtyard. He takes no notice of us or the bunch of men in their hi viz. He’s resolute.  Joey pulls towards him, nose twitching in the air. I flick his lead and walk on, leaving the workers to gaze gormlessly through the railings at this rough looking urban parasite. Nothing like the countryside fox in its titian splendour, this beast is an urban scavenger, hyena in its lack of beauty.

Joey pulls, tracking the scent this way and that from where it had come. I sidestep potholes and rein him in a little and once we turn onto the main road the scent is gone. We return to the unit and I slip his lead off as we enter, assuming he would go straight in, but no; playtime. He’s off. Exploring the yard, not wanting to come in the door. He stands just outside, daring me to approach. Shit..come on Joey, there’s a good boy. He stands and stares. The panic starts to rise within me and I try to keep my voice calm; we are 20m away from a main road, it’s getting dark and he is mostly black. I push the thought to one side as he heads for the gates

CHAPTER Six

‘JOEY!’

Yeah, yeah, I can hear you but I need to see.

FOX.  FOX.  FOX.  FOX.  come on foxy, where did you go.

I sniff a patch of oil

‘JOEY!’

I take no notice, I’m fine, and I know what I’m doing.

I.

Want.

That.

Fox.

She’s coming. I sidestep into the gates. Least she isn’t running. Good, I can get him.

I hear the gates close. But she can’t see me. She’s still calling.

The scent is gone. The fox is gone. Damn. Another day. I amble along the units as if it’s normal. Knowing I am going to get a roasting. But she’s not shouting, why not? Does she get it?

Lead on we amble back to work. Not a word spoken but I can hear her mumbling. I can’t quite make it out. Sounds like you little shit.

Chapter Seven

Nearly the end of my first week with Hu-mom. And its kinda ok...oh, here we go, I’m in the back of the van again. Where are we going today? Surely after that lovely lie in, we aren’t going to work again? Sigh.. I whine at the grill in front of me, straight in hu-moms ear.

It’s ok, we’re only going down the road, we’re going to see Aunty Laura. Aunty Laura has a shop. A lot of noise is coming from it; squawks, squeaks, squeals: a tinkle of bells and voices. All sorts of voices.

And smells.

Oh what smells! My nose twitches in delight. I raise my nose and sniff. I can scent, ...I twitch again, straw, that’s it; straw. A high pitched squawk makes me wince as a beady eye watches me enter. Who are you then you noisy bugger? Nose down I follow the scent of the straw, ignoring hu-mom and all the other humans. I bump noses with a bit of wood, then a mesh and, ooh, hello a pink twitchy nose..and whiskers .. and fluffy fur. But not a dog... not like me; no. Hmm. He twitches again; oops no, he is a she, she bops me on the nose through the mesh for being so nosy. Hmmpf, I moonwalk backwards affronted. What do I do? I’m excited by this, what is this creature? Dogs I know [even the big ugly ones and the small yappy ones. Cats I know, I think I grew up with them but I can’t remember. Foxes I know, they smell awful and they spray on my garden. My garden, how dare they? But what is this fluffy thing who challenges me? I slide forward paratrooper style on my belly. Low down I’m sure she can’t see me so I will have the advantage. I reach the wood and raise my nose to the mesh...boff! she got me again. I skitter backwards starting to quiver in excitement then bark. Then a little squeak like two balloons rubbing together. My head snaps to the right and the next bit of mesh...a russet and white face with a twitchy nose...who is this little chap?

2days, 2nights, 6weeks

I quickly bopped the alarm clock off before it woke my husband. 

I stretched as I left that lovely bedwarmth and roam my hands subconsciously over my boobs. Contrary to popular belief, we women do fondle our bits like men, it’s just that our bits are a nicer thing to fondle in the morning than theirs! Find me a man who disagrees!

Hang on a mo, what’s that?

Hmm. I look at my right hand. Nope, nothing strange there. I put my right hand to the left boob and pressed gently.

Fuck fuck fuck.

My stomach swiftly left it’s normal location and entered my throat. I glanced over at my sleeping husband. Oh dear God, can’t be.

I dressed.

I sat on the loo with my head in my hands.

Nah, can’t be.

Kissing my husband goodbye I left home and entered denial.

2 days avoidance 

2 nights of no sleep

2 days acting normal

2 nights silently fearing death

I pick up the phone.

‘ is it an emergency?’

‘course it fucking is you silly cow’ I want to say ‘ I think so yes’ I mutter

‘can you tell me what it is?’

deep breath. ‘i’ve found a lump’

‘Doctor can see you in the morning’.

Doctors.

Stomach once more returns to it’s new location. Throat

I get the lady doctor. ‘ok, lets have a look then, go behind the curtain and take your top off’

Top off, and she pops her head around the curtain ‘ok, don’t tell me where it is, arms above your head’

She stands there looking from left to right, then dives for THE spot.

‘is it there?’

‘Yes’

‘Bingo!’

Bingo? Bloody bingo. Jesus Christ!

After probing and pressing and delving her hand into my armpit, she declares that she thinks it’s nothing too much.

 ‘Can you tell that to my imagination  please?’ I say.

‘Appointment will be in about 6 weeks’

6 weeks? But but.

I check the post daily, waiting for the appointment. I still haven’t told my husband.

Eventually I have to as I’m avoiding any contact. Problem is with men, they see our boobs as a comforter so lack of contact means all manner of things. Usually that you have a headache!

5 weeks later and I’m entering the hospital

‘clinic three’

I turn a corner and see row upon row of people. It was like a tube of smarties. Every colour, every race, every age and even men and not just ones accompanying their spouse. I squeeze into a seat and try not to look around too much.

 Can you spot someone with breast cancer? 

Can you see the ones that have no hope? 

Is that me?

I came prepared and pull out a book to read. Every time a door opens we all look up from our own little worlds. You can’t help but stare at the person that comes out of the examination room. All carrying a slip of paper; some pink, some white, some yellow.

‘ Mrs Edwards’

I crease the page in the book though god only knows why as I’ll have to reread it all later, and follow the nurse.

‘go behind the curtain and slip your top off please, doctor will be along in a minute’

The door closes and I sit on the bed that is resplendent in blue paper cloth from top to bottom. There is a strange peace as you wait. The Doctors are obviously working a shuttle system from one room to the next. Faces must not register only boobs, boobs and more boobs. I wonder if they are ‘boob men’ out of hours? I look down and am aware of my vulnerability and that these things are precious to me and also sexual to men. How do I sit here, half naked and present myself to a completely strange man without it looking, well, you know, odd? I straighten my spine and suck in my tummy. Gradually the posture slips but as I hear the door open, I straighten up again

‘Ah, Mrs Edwards, tell me the problem then’ says the ‘Mr’ as two specialist nurses stay in the background .

I’m told to lay down with hands above my head and the prodding, poking, manipulating begins. And I was worrying about coming across as a half naked lady? No fear there. His hand seems to disappear into my arm pit. I felt like it was going to come out of my throat like a Paul Daniels magic trick. He’s kneading my boobs like they were bread dough, slowly edging towards THE spot. I’m starting to cringe as I know that if he carries on like this, it’s going to…

Youch! He found it.

I bite my lip rather than give him some verbal.

‘we’ll just take a sample for tests’

will we indeed!

A sample means a gleaming long needle heading my way.

Gulp.

‘You’ll just feel a slight prick’

where have I heard that before? 

A sharp intake of breath and it’s in.

The nurses are still looking on, and, to my surprise, do look like angels. Leaning in with faces full of sympathy in their statuesque silence.

Then the needle is being plunged up and down, exploring my inner self.

My eyes were growing wider and wider. The pain was immense; but then I’m a woos! I must stop concentrating on the pain

‘ If this is how you get your kicks with a woman then I’d hate to be your wife’ I said through gritted teeth

The elastic holding the heads of the nurses as they bent over me pinged them back to erect very swiftly. The concerned Mona Lisa smiles disappearing to horror. Mmm.. surely McMillain nurses come across humour sometimes?

The oncologist found it amusing thank god and apologised for his probing. It went on and on

‘ if you do much more I’m going to retaliate in kind’ I said, and I meant it. If I could have grabbed him where it hurt I may have been tempted never to let go until his eyes looked like a bullfrog!

Eventually it’s over and it’s off for a mammogram. Bliss. Nothing can hurt like the aspiration.

Wrong.

Have you ever had your boobs crushed between two cold plates and then squeezed some more just to be sure? Then you get berated because you aren’t standing just right when your head just wants you to pull away. Then I had a funny thought; if the fire alarm went off now, would I be left in a burning building with my left tit in a vice as the radiographer ran to escape? 

But maybe I’d be rescued by a dashing fireman?

Feeling ragged I was sent on to another department. I was now getting use to the ‘strip off behind the curtain’ routine and wondered why I bothered getting dressed again at all. Ultrasound next. Would this one hurt too?

I lay topless in the dark and felt like going to sleep. That was until the wicked woman covered me in incredibly cold gel. It was like the KY gel factory had exploded! All over my boobs, my armpits and sliding slowly down my sides and stomach as this shower head contraption took pictures from every angle as it slid over my boobs. How do they tell anything from these black and white images? I was tempted to ask if it was a boy or a girl but found myself instead asking for a picture.

I was handed more of the blue cloth and wiped myself down, trying to remove every trace of gel. Time to go back to normality, well, that was what I hoped. Clutching my scan I left the nightmare, well, at least until the afternoon when I’d be back for the results.

Silence? Nah busy!

Well it's all happening here! Higgy is in the final stages of being a Christmas card in 4 different images and I'm about to illustrate a book! So writing is taking a little bit if a backseat while in working on the commission!

All good before Christmas!

KEEP TAKING THE TABLETS Chapter One

I've dipped into the darker humour side of my tiny mind for this one....

‘So’ there was a pause, ‘have you ever thought about suicide?’

I continued staring at the piece of paper before I looked into his eyes, ‘Have I thought about suicide? Hmm…’

I let the words linger; if I said no, would he think I was in denial and a high risk? If I said yes, would he think I was a fruit loop and send me to the funny farm?

Had I thought about suicide?

Well yes but.. no.. hmm…not really.

 If I had, how would I do it? Would I drink myself stupid and take tablets? A covert alcohol buying trip to the supermarkets spirits section. But when I get there I wonder, what is the best spirit to use? I suppose you’ve got to enjoy the taste, so whiskey and brandy would be out as I only like those diluted or in coffee. Southern Comfort?  Love it but too sweet. Vodka, gin? Sigh…and how much would I need? How long before the alcohol blots me out? The cost of spirits is ridiculous if I’m going to need more than one bottle that’s for sure. And at what point do I take tablets? Do I have to be totally with it and shovel them down my neck at the beginning of the session or half way or just before I pass out? But when do I know I’m going to pass out? Hmm and what tablets? Parecetamol? Ibuprofen? Anti depressants? Nah I’d be sick; think of the mess I have to clean up if I survive and boy, that would be a hangover to end all hangovers!

Would I hang myself from a tree? Where could I go that I could rig up a decent amount of rope, pre ‘noosed’? I’d have to go and have a rekkie, determine the height of the branch and its suitability. Mathematical equation to determine ‘dangle length,’ velocity of drop and strength of branch. But apart from working out how I would get myself into a suitable position for neck stretching how big does the noose have to be so you don’t slip out and drop to the floor; breaking a leg on the way? ‘Yes, ambulance please; where? Hmm, top of Carrs Hill, the big oak.. what was I doing? Erm… erecting a swing rope for the kids, the branch broke and I fell and think I’ve broke my leg.’ Oh the humiliation. That would hurt! Of course it would have to be somewhere scenic really and have a suitable chair handy. And how do I explain to the two little boys running past with their football that no, they can’t play on my swing as it’s for me and not little boys; I’d probably get my shins kicked!

Slit wrists? Although I wield a scalpel most days and am not squeamish, I hate to see a scalpel cutting flesh. My ex husband in his youth use to proudly tell me that a girl said she’d slit her wrists if he didn’t go out with her: he gave her a piece of glass and walked away. And how quickly do you have to slit the second after the first is spurting and redecorating your lounge? Do my beta blockers make me bleed out quicker or slower? Or would I be in a warm bath? Nah, hate baths and I’d be a wrinkled prune before anyone found me with beetroot coloured skin; and cold from the water. What? It doesn’t matter that I’m cold ‘cos I’d be dead? Hmm…good point. In bed maybe: Decisions, decisions! Scalpel or old fashioned razor blade? How about one of my lovely kitchen knives? Point in or slice? Nah, hate pain: and the mess! Boy I’m getting a headache just thinking of the options.

Carbon Monoxide poisoning? Haven’t got a garage to drive my car in and hook it up to the exhaust. Also think I would get bored waiting; it must take a while surely? Mind you, the irony is that I could have snuffed it accidently when a neighbour installed a log burner and the smoke and fumes came down my chimney: thank heavens for a CO meter or I could be dead!....Can it work with diesel?

Drive off a cliff… I thought about this for a moment: that feeling of weightlessness as you glide off the top in slow motion like Thelma and Louise before gravity pulls you crashing into the sea. That point where you can’t suddenly go back as you remember you left the iron plugged in; heaven forbid you burnt the house down: a Fred Flintstone ‘air walk’ is not going to get you back onto terra firma. Then the jarring ‘thud’ as you hit the water and slowly sink. I’m imagining this takes time too? Nope; hate going under water.

And of course, at the point of death when all your muscles relax into silence and calm after all the reactive twitching; do you defecate?

‘Suicide? No not really’ I replied.