Blogger Thief

Just a brief plea to anyone who may know what to do about this.  My 'followers' of whom there were 18 yesterday,  have all vanished from my blog.
As a very inexperienced web user I haven't a clue why this might have happened.  Any help would be most welcome.

SQUEAMISH MOI ?

I've just watched a particularly gory episode of the excellent Holby City.  Now when I say excellent I'm not referring to the amount of mangled and bloody flesh to which we are routinely treated.  The storylines are usually believable and the acting good, sometimes brilliant, (even though we are now minus the lovely Robert Powell - but that's another story).  So for me, this usually offers an hour of mostly enjoyable viewing.

Tonight was exceptionally gory and having to turn my head away every two minutes doesn't add much of value to the proceedings.  Every now and then I try to overcome my aversion to gore and force myself to watch only to find myself on the verge of vomitting.

This is not as bad as when I was in school when I used to faint in biology lessons.  If anyone was unwise enough to even mention cuts, flesh wounds or veins (particularly veins) they would have an unconcious teenager to cope with.

Inevitably life has thrown a few encounters with injury illness and accident my way and until I took a first-aid course in the mid 1970s I always tried to side-step too close an acquaintance with them.  Soon after passing my first-aid test - only a matter of weeks - I was unfortunate (with my husband) to be the first person on the scene when a car went off the road in front of us, over-turned and jumped a hedge into a field.

It was a four-seater car with 6 passengers, four of whom were injured - one badly - and that experience stood me in good stead for the following 10 years when I was often the only first-aider in the 8 floor building in which i worked.  I found if I simply tackled the injury without thinking about it for even a second, I could deal with most things, though afterwards I would often sit and shake for half an hour or so.

The most awful thing for me is for someone to throw up while being treated.  This almost always results in copy-cat nausea on my part.  At least I no longer faint, or at least, only when I am in pain myself.

Funny how some people  don't turn a hair at even the most horrendous sight, while we wimps can't even watch simulated gore on a TV screen.

Thank heaven God made us all just that bit different from each other.

Deluged by Appeals

Like (I suspect) most people these days, half the mail I receive consists of appeals from a host of charities. 

It is no exaggeration to say I average around 10 a week.  By no means all of these are charities I have chosen to donate to on past occasions, so I assume my address is passed on (probably with the word "Sucker" underlined in red on the list.)

It irritates me, occasionally elicits a response, and even more rarely is added to those to whom I pay a small amount each month by direct debit.

But, and it is a big but, there is one thing absolutely guaranteed to send me into orbit, hissing and spitting, and that is the appeal which arrives in a suspiciously bulky package presaging the inclusion of some tatty, totally unwanted 'free' gift.

Just as there is no such thing a a free lunch, so is there no such thing as a free gift.  "A spratt to catch a mackerel" is the phrase which springs to mind.

Today, a particularly huge envelope included a shopping bag with 'cute' animals on the front.  It is the sort of bag I would never  be seen with in a million years but that is not my objection.  It is quite strong and well-made w hich indicates it would have cost something to produce - a something which in my opinion would be better used to care for the animals they claim to be trying to protect.

Don't missunderstand me, this is a reputable charity with a good record in animal care and welfare but in my opinion this method of "blackmailing" soft-hearted people into paying what often they cannot really afford is  completely unethical.

I have blogged on this subject before but will just confirm that this particular charity will never again receive a penny from me - yes I will be writing to them AGAIN - and as before, the 'free' gift will go to another charity containing really free gifts.

Is it just me?

Nose Dive

Honestly.  I was just standing there in brilliant sunshine on this very warm evening waiting for the bus to take me to choir practice.

I should mention that the bus-stop is somewhat aromatic, in fact it pongs.  I dread to think what purposes it may be used for in the long dark evenings, but they leave their mark, whoever 'they' are.

It became obvious that I was not the only creature drawn to the area and quite a few flies were in evidence.

Afraid of missing the bus I had arrived five minutes early, and spent most of that time trying to find a shaded corner with fewer insects.

Suddenly without so much as a by-your-leave one flew  up my nose.

I sneezed violently then blew and blew my poor violated nose as hard as I could (did I mention there were two other people at the bus-stop?) and, eyes watering, tried to explain what had happened.

They were laughing so hard they didn't hear a word of my feeble explanation and then thank heaven, the bus arrived.  The driver and I have become good friends over the last twelve months and I told him what had happened expecting a sympathetic response.  Not a bit of it, he laughed even louder than the other two passengers - most of the way into town in fact - and red-faced, cross and with a sore throat I turned up for a really busy rehearsal hating buses, bus-stops and most of all flies.

I just hope it died horribly.  Serves it right!

What's In a Name?

I heard a mother yelling at her daughter who was running ahead getting dangerously near the kerbside of a busy A41 this morning.  "Get here Sian" she yelled.
Apart from the "Get" as opposed to come here, it suddenly struck me how many little girls, less so with boys, I think, are given the 'name of the moment', rather than one chosen for other reasons.
Since names appear to have a fashion rating all their own, it will surely make it easier to discover the age of a child by the popularity of their given name in a particular year than by simply asking.
In my many years in public service much documentation passed through my hands, containing personal data about many thousands of people and the odd names donated by thoughtless or uncaring parents often seemed to me a way of marking their children for life.
I have lost count of the Glorias, Dawns, Graces and similar optimistic names given to unlikely small infants, along with the names (titles) given to children of other ethnic origins : Blossom, Beauty and Princess, being but a few.
My own parents (the excuse being that they were Welsh), did me no favour when choosing my name.
I have spent and still do spend, half my life explaining that Ray is not abbreviated, it is all there is.  Every hospital, government dept, local authority to name but a few, either list me as Mr Ray Barnes or query my name every time I fill in a form.
For years going to the polling booth to vote with my husband was a nightmare and I even considered changing my name by deed poll at one stage.
When exasperated to the point of spontaneous combustion, I asked my mother why, on earth, she had chosen such a name for her first-born, the reply was a slightly puzzled "we were so delighted to have a daughter we thought 'ray of sunshine' "!!
I replied, somewhat testily that one of my less pleasant nicknames at school had been "Death-Ray", which caused much amusement to my parents - not, to me.
Perhaps, since some forms of Christianity do not believe in Baptism for children, but only for those old enough to choose, something similar might be organised for naming children.  Perhaps a temporary name given until at a certain age the child could choose its own name.  Or how about a number?
Seriously, if you give a child a name which aims too high, or which later becomes risible you are doing them a serious injustice.

Mothering Sunday

Today's All Age Service included the baptism of three children.  The church was unusually full, baptisms and Mothering Sunday had produced an even bigger congregation than usual.
It was a lovely service and was to be followed by a coffee/tea and cake celebration.  Not something i would normally stay for but I had half decided to do so when the children came round and handed out sprays of daffodils to all those they perceived to be 'mothers'.
This was something I had not forseen and I asked the boy who handed some to me to give them to someone else.
He put them instead by the end of the choir stall so I had no alternative but to accept them.
This was not intended as a slight on my part it was instinctive and is the same impulse which makes me shrink when someone I have never met before makes the assumption that I have children.
Having changed out of my robes I handed the flowers to another member of the choir and fled, close to tears out of the church and round to my taxi.
Not every woman has children.  Some never want children, others want them but their partners/husbands do not, and yet others are  unable to have them.  The number of women without children is considerable, yet still the assumption is that all women must be mothers.
I have never at any time in my long life felt more of an alien than at that moment and have never shed tears previously for such an apparently meaningless and purely habit/ritual offering, indeed, I would never if asked, have considered it to be anything other than just another date in the calender with no relevance for me.
My own mother was a wonderful woman, endlessly patient and tolerant of even the worst excesses of behaviour of her children, particularly her intransigent - always - out - of - step daughter.
Despite losing her sight for the last 25 years of her life, having a pace-maker to keep her heart going, and at the end of her life having lost almost all of her hearing too.  She was good-humoured, broad-minded (incredibly so for a woman born in 1905), witty, quiet, self-effacing, and though not a Christian, a thoroughly good woman.
When she broke her hip in the last year of her life, she was no longer strong enough to return home and died in hospital in Eastbourne on Christmas Eve 2008.  She was 103, she was my best friend.  She was my mother and I loved  her and miss her.

Using God's Gifts.

This evening's choir rehearsal was exhausting in the extreme.  We have a huge amount of music to learn for Easter and have only Friday evenings to practice.  Additionally there is the music for the next Sunday to run through.
To my tired ears, it sounded pretty good but I may be proved wrong.
When I think that it had been 24 years since I last sang, it seems impossible that I've managed to reestablish some of the old quality though these days there is a lot less power than previously.
When my lovely friendly neighbours encourage me saying how far I've come since John died I always feel they are 'stroking my ego' and tend to take it with a hefty pinch of salt, but even I have to admit I never expected to sing again at all, never mind every week and at Easter 4 days in succession. 
This is a parish church not an opera house or concert hall, but the amount of work needed is just as great and considering we are a fairly motley crew the standard is surprisiongly high.
The neighbour I blogged about a few days ago, whose daughter was baptised, had not been to church for quite a time and was surprised by the friendliness of the congregation, while the little girl was transfixed by the singing.  Theirs was an Ecumenical Church and the music was rather different from that at St. M's but the
little girl loved it, joined in enthusiastically and is now insisting on going to the All Ages service.
With no previous intention of becoming a regular church-goer again her mother and father have now agreed to attend the family service for their daughter's sake.
God moves in mysterious ways.