When Two Worlds Collide

Picture the scene.  A small English town in the depths of Hertfordshire, bathed in warm sunshine.  The picturesque High Street playing host to it`s regular busy Saturday afternoon market being enjoyed by locals and out-of-towners alike.  The glorious sunrays determining that everyone has a skip in their step and a smile on their lips. People browsing in the bustling market place as they choose idly from the array of colourful stalls.  Icecream vans successfully plying their trade whilst queues form for their whipped delicacies. Babies bask lazily in pushchairs with their summer bonnets of many colours strategically placed on their heads.

Tucked away from the main thoroughfare, behind the market, people can enjoy all kinds of gourmet fayre and alfresco eateries.  My daughter suggested a place she had been to once before with her husband.  We headed towards it and were relieved to see one empty table amongst the occupied tables full of customers enjoying palitable delights.

 "Well, this is rather pleasant" I remarked to my daughter as she positioned the pushchair carrying my granddaughter alongside us, facing the table.

 Glancing around I was suitably impressed at the food I could see on the plates on nearby tables, and my tummy rumbled telling me it too was impressed.  The service was good and within minutes we had given our order to the friendly waitress.  The tables were set in a traditional fashion outside the cafe but I noticed their were some benches positioned outside the grouping of the tables where people who were not patrons of the cafe could sit and perhaps eat their own food.  Gradually the benches filled with various people.  Some had salads, obviously bought from supermarkets who were happily enjoying their choice of lunch.  Couples sat together chatting; children laughed, skipped and dropped their icecreams.

Eden sat in her pushchair contentedly crunching the skips Jemma gave her.  She also loved the grated cheese put before her washed down with a generous portion of her bottled water.  It was as I looked around to see if I could spot our food being carried out by our waitress that I first saw them - The Great British Public.

Both he and she were huge! - Squashed onto a bench which visibly bowed under their weight.  He wore a grubby red tshirt, hem rolled up exposing his ample stomach.  His grey jogging bottoms sat underneath his bulging belly.  His dirty grey hair was scrapped back off his crimson face as he inhaled deeply on a roll up.  He had an air of contented idleness and filth.  His partner wore her frizzy long white/grey hair in a centre parting.  Her grey complexion complimented the stained grey tshirt she wore.  The navy blue leggings that stuck to her lumpy legs had been stretched to enormous proportions making them almost transparent.  She also dragged heavily on a rolled up cigarette. Daughter number one, aged about twenty years of age sat on an adjoining wall talking loudly to her parents while daughter number two, a girl of about ten years of age,  stood nearby in her over-sized polyester flowery dress.  Both had their hair pulled into untidy ponytails, large wispy strands blowing wildly in the breeze.

Each member of the family spoke as if they addressing a large crowd.  No need for megaphones; their voices boomed around the seated diners.  Those unfortunate enough to be closest to them appeared anxious and eager to finish their food. 

The area was thinning with a steady stream of diners leaving unfinished meals as their outdoor dining was disrupted by the family from hell. 

Then the ultimate social insult; a massive burp from Mr Slob. The deep-bellied sound resonated for miles.  It was impossible not to look round with a look of disdain on our faces. Two middle-aged blonde, bejewelled ladies sitting closeby looked horrified and shifted uneasily in their seats.   Jemma begged me to say nothing. It was an effort.

Stunned silence resumed until daughter number one let rip with a string of expletives so loud and aggressive, we very nearly took cover underneath the metal tables.  No, it was okay, she was only shouting at someone 100 yards away - something about getting some "f*****g crisps"!

I looked over at the cafe to see if any staff were coming outside to maybe have a word with the undesirables; no, they were no doubt taking refuge in the kitchens at the rear of the building.

My Rose Arch

It`s so tiring being a perfectionist! 

Today I treated myself to a decorative rose arch (for ornamental purposes only) for my garden.  It`s something I have always wanted and today I gave way to temptation when I saw one in a shop in town, for what I perceived to be, a reasonable price.  Before I realised, I had bought it and was happily walking back to my car with my new purchase tucked under my arm.  The dimensions displayed on the box told me it stood 2m high which by my reckoning meant it was of substantial proportions and not a squatty little structure I had seen in other stores.  I was delighted and eagerly looking forward to seeing it in my compact garden.

But life really isn`t that simple, is it?  I had refused to acknowledge one or two important factors: 

 1.  My garden, well stocked and beautiful as it undoubtedly is, is not of mammoth proportions.  Optimistically, I would say it is fifty feet long and forty feet wide, give or take a few inches.

2.  I am absolutely hopeless at constructing anything requiring the tiniest amount of brainpower.  Even with an "idiots` guide to the simplest task", I fail miserably.  My brain just does not function that way!

So, here I was, sat in my den, box at my feet, enthusiasm in my heart.  My eleven year old son was going to aid me in the erection of my latest ornamental decoration. I lectured my son on the importance of staying cool, calm and collected.  It simply wouldn`t do to get hot tempered, impatient and frustrated if things did not go according to plan throughout the construction process. We could do this, and would do it together. How difficult could it be?


A vague, sketchy directions note slipped out along with  ten thousand metal tubes after Cain eagerly opened the box.  My heart sank immediately. That many tubes?
 Right! Off we go! 
The actual screwing together of the tubes was relatively simple once we had grouped them according to size. With the aid of my pink floral screwdriver, it wasn`t long before we had two ladder-type pieces of metal lying on the carpet.  I marvelled at our ingenuity. We decided that although we would start the construction in the den we would, at some point, have to move outside once the structure had reached a certain size.  A two metre high ornament in the den not only would have looked ridiculous but would also make it impossible to move in the room.  Vacuuming would also be a nightmare!


By the time we had got out into the garden, Cain and I were working efficiently.  He put the tubes together and I lined up the holes, inserted the screws and secured them with the help of my trusty screwdriver.  All was well, although in secret, I began to worry a little about the size of our new garden feature.  Where was I going to put it?  Despite one or two hiccups, we finally managed to secure the final screw into the frame.  The top of the arch actually fitted together after a bit of a struggle, and I didn`t swear once (audibly).  After a quick cool drink I was ready to start the task of finding a home for it.


Lifting the arch into its standing position posed several problems however; the first being where to position it.  As my washing line, on the left, stretches from the back of the house leading to the shed at the top end of the garden, my two metre garden ornamentation could not go on that side.  Opposite the washing line, against the right hand side wall, mature and fast-growing trees, attrative in their own right, have now gobbled up a large section of that side of the garden, as they spread across away from the fence, so that was no good either.  I stood for several moments in the middle of the garden gripping the structure tightly as the wind whipped around us threathening to send my arch skyward.  Cain, now familiar with my frequent indecisions in everday life, had long abandoned me and was now playing happily on his X Box in the lounge. 
I then spent the next half hour shuffling to and from various points in my garden, dragging the reluctant structure, to see if I could find a suitable setting for it to enhance my pretty little patch of grass.  Once or twice I thought I had found the ideal spot and tried to force the metal spokes into the hard ground.  As we have had very little rain, this proved impossible and I only succeeded in bending the fragile prongs as I struggled to penetrate the dry, stony, parched soil.  I was beginning to sweat more than a marathon runner at the twenty mile stage and cursed my idiocy. 
With every attempt at forcing the structure into the ground and the constant motion caused by my lack of planning and decision making, the arch was weakening and twisting dramatically.  Several of the screws had been dislodged and the bottom two tubes had twisted so badly, the metal was splitting.  A decision had to be made and I had to make it now!  So I removed the bottom, damaged prong on each side of the arch, shortening it by eight inches.  Success!  It was significantly lighter and easier to manoeuvr. 
Eventually, I settled for a spot central to the garden where my magnificent arch could be seen from all angles. Standing just in front of a rhodedendrum bush, it looked magnificent, almost regal.  Talking of angles - they too were a nightmare! It took forever to set the arch so that it didnt look bowed.   Using the hose to soften the earth, the struts finally bedded down into the sodden soil and at last my efforts were rewarded.  My garden rose arch stood tall and proud, albeit with a few missing screws, slightly wonky left side and two extremely distorted lower poles.

Olly`s Back!

After last night`s shenanighans, I was somewhat surprised to hear Olly scratching around at the back of the fridge at 7.15am.  I thought he was nocturnal!  What the hell was he doing still awake at sunrise? 

Now, I am not a morning person, meaning I am unable to do the most simple of tasks until I have had my first cup of tea and one cigarette.  I dont even attempt to speak, listen or engage brain - it`s just not possible. So you can image my relief and excitement at the sound of the now familiar scuttling noise coming from the corner where my fridge stands.  Quickly I grabbed the cardboard tube, put aside the night before, and gingerly replaced it on the floor.  I called my son to get the hamster milk drops from the playroom.  I needed to remain calm if Plan B was going to work.  No sudden movements!  My son and I stood to attention; eyes trained on the gap beside the fridge where Olly had appeared the previous night.  I was so nervous.

The milk drops certainly did the trick as it was only a matter of minutes before little dusty Olly surfaced from the dark depths of his hiding place.  Cain and I stood stock still as Olly moved as stealthily as a lion stalking his prey.  His tiny body moved in slow motion, yet his whiskers quivered frantically as the smell of his favourite treats reached his twitching nose.  We held our breaths.  "Go on, go on, go on!" the voice in my head screamed; but not a sound was heard.  "Get in, get in, get in!" - I couldn`t bear it!

At last he reached the mouth of the tube, his hunger and inquisitiveness steering him inside.  Half way in and it was action stations.  Now! I bent down quicker than I thought was possible, tapped his protuding bottom to ensure all of him was in and scooped the tube skyward.  "Got him!" Cain and I yelled in unison.  Running through the kitchen, into the lounge and finally the playroom, I was determined to release our roaming hamster into his deluxe cage with en-suite toilet facilities.

He seemed unphased by his recapture and scurried off to re-familiarise himself with his surroundings.  He scampered up the tube straight into his toilet and head-butted the roof.  Aha! so that`s how he did it!  Once he had gone downstairs for a well-earned drink, I made sure to give the roof to his en-suite an extra hard screw.  No more houdini tricks for Olly!

Olly`s Gone!

It was with stunned silence that my son and I realised the terrible truth - Olly the hamster had escaped!  The evidence was blindingly obvious.  The roof of his toilet suite was laying on the carpet; sawdust exposed for us to see.  I looked in horror, firstly at the cage then at the lid/roof lying like a discarded toy on the carpet nearby. Then peered again at the lid and back to the cage.  It was no good.  Olly was not going to suddenly appear where he belonged in his super-duper all singing, all dancing green hamster cage.

Reality slapped harder when I remembered cleaning the cage the night before.  Damn, I must have forgotten to screw the roof on properly.  My son stood by the side of me, amidst his many toys, books and lego sets in the playroom.  We were ready to leave.  We couldnt spend hours searching for Olly.  Cain had to go to school and I had to go to work.  Reluctantly, we closed the playroom door behind us and left the house - Olly on the loose.

The day stretched ahead of us and I comforted my son by reminding him that Olly was nocturnal and would appear later when the house was quiet and the sun had gone down.  Despite the reassurances voiced to Cain, I spent many moments throughout the day worrying about our missing hamster.  The main thing niggling me was the fact that Olly`s cage sits on a desk in the playroom and I was concerned that he may have injured himself or infact died in his desire for ultimate freedom.  Would he, could he have survived the fall?

On my return home from work, I hoped against hope that Olly would be sat in the middle of the room waiting for me to pick him up and place him back in his cage.  But - Oh No! Our furry little escapee was nowhere to be seen. 

 Extreme situations call for drastic measures so I have devised not one, but two h-itech traps to fox and hopefully encapture our pet rodent.  The first one is a small plastic box with a flap which is specifically designed to ferry hammy around when his cage is being cleaned out.  I have very cleverly made it look more appealing to him by putting in some bedding and a food bowl full of his yummy hamster mix.  I am hoping that he will smell the food and in a moment of complete abandonment, sneak into the container, whereupon I will leap upon the box and snap shut the flap. Caught!                              

Trevor our cat!

Run Olly Run!

If that fails I have a large cardboard tube (kodak use to send my prints), open at one end which I have placed on the floor.  I have strategically planted one of his favourite hammy treats,  inside it .  I`m thinking;  Olly will sniff the fruitstick from his hiding place and be so overwhelmed and eager to savour it that he will forget he is on the run and attempt to get it.  As soon as he enters the tube in search of his goodies, I shall spring forward, grab the tube (making sure to hold it the right way up), and empty contents into currently uninhabited hamster cage. Caught! Hook, line and fruity treat!

Fractured Heart

Once again the fragile fabric that helps adhere our relationship together -

 Mother and Daughter

- has been stretched almost irrevocably;

the frail framework splintered,

sending shards shooting into my aching heart.

A fractured heart that beats only for my babies and their babies.

I trod on a thousand eggshells

and tragically cracked one too many;

now, once again, I feel the wrath of my tortured first born.

So many times this has happened;

each time I pray it will be the last.

Hoping for forgiveness for something only she knows;

unable to stop or understand her need to hurt me.

Beautiful memories of proudly loving my eldest;

fending off her bullies, changing schools;

worshipping the ground on which she danced and skipped;

slowly nullified and blurred by a million tears.

Teenage years often painful, but how we laughed!

then cried for different reasons.

Accusations made, excruciating pain beyond belief 

for she hated me.

Never being right - Always being wrong,

yet feeling her misery

none-the-less.

I searched for months unaware that it was she

 who had instigated and orchestrated our separation;

amid hurtful, hostile lies.

Fifteen years on I still search for her;

the child I cherished more than life itself.

For she was my life

and now she wants me withdrawn from hers. 

Our Heritage!

Is anyone else sick and tired of the stereotypical image which we as Brits are portrayed?  It does not seem to matter which international event; be it sport, historical, tourism or media, we are always portrayed and characterized in the same way.

• Bald or sporting a mohican hairstyle; usually with George flag incorporated in design
• Pasty-faced
• Tshirts displaying preference to particular football team
• Acned
• Long flowery shorts that clash dramatically with chosen tshirt
• Beer-bellied
• Sweaty and sweary
• Over-hairy armpits

And the men are even worse!

Commitmentphobic

Women who are unfortunate enough to be married to men who are being destructive within the marriage often resort to a childlike dependency on their partner.  Perhaps they act this way because subconsiously they believe it is easier to relinguish all adult responsibility therefore making it impossible to walk away from the relationship? 

Marriage does not automatically tie a man down or make a commitmentphobic settle comfortably.  Marriage can infact have the reverse effect making a man or indeed, a woman, feel trapped, closed in, restrained.  Common ways in which a commitmentphobic may behave:

• Pretends and believes he/she is not in a committed relationship
• Refuses partner access to various areas in his life
• Refuses to discuss relationship with partner
• Refuses to discuss emotions with partner

 Although commitmentphobics may genuinely love their partner, their over-whelming fear of commitment constantly forms an emotional barrier within the relationship.  The commitmentphobe may  get angry with their partner, subconsciously and irrationally blaming them for putting them in a situation of emotional conflict. 

When trying to convince themselves of their status, infidelity may be used as affirming to themselves, the reality of a "real relationship".  Infidelity may be used to prove to themselves that the relationship doesn`t mean anything to them and they are not infact, trapped.

When people think differently, the ability to judge is hampered by using the wrong criteria.  We assume that others will react and respond in the same way we do, when in reality the opposite is often more likely.  Just because we are human beings does not mean we will all interpret words and behaviours in the same way.  We may assume that he has the same goals and levels of emotional maturity and integrity as us; but how can he?  It doesn`t mean that he doesn`t want us; he just cant handle what we want. 

A commitmentphobic responds more to fantasy than to reality.