Author: Jenny’s Brave New World!

My husband and I are entering a new, frightening decade and have decided to celebrate with our family instead of throwing a big party.

Our celebrations began with my son and his family. My grandchildren had never been to New York so we all decided that would be a good place to start. They live in the States so it wouldn’t mean a long haul flight, just an hour with no change of time zones. We only packed hand luggage to avoid any delays or loss of luggage! I found this challenging, as you can imagine! I’m not one for travelling light!

Day one was a toss up between the Empire State Building and the ‘Edge’, which is the highest outdoor sky deck in the Western Hemisphere. It’s suspended more than 1200 feet above the ground with 360 degree views around New York. This was the children’s choice. The adults had been to the Empire State Building so happily agreed. It certainly was going to be different!

And it was! I am petrified of heights! I walked onto the deck and looked across at the tops of the surrounding sky scrapers. It was a warm day with little wind, the sky was a deep, cloudless, azure blue. The sun beat down on the visitors as they made their way to the glass platform followed closely by my granddaughter. I watched as she strode fearlessly onto the glass floor and looked down at the streets and buildings below. She was smiling and gave me a thumbs up.

I took a few tentative steps towards the edge and glanced down, immediately stepping back and looking up. I felt pathetic! People were posing or taking selfies either sitting or lying down on the platform. It was stable and looked very solid. Had I come all this way just to hang on to the side rails and look up? My granddaughter called out to me. I inched forward, staring straight ahead. I felt the glass underfoot as I stepped onto the platform.

I joined my granddaughter and sat beside her, not daring to look down. My husband took a photograph. Now there is proof of my bravery! My granddaughter decided to lie down on the glass and suggested I join her. In for a penny, in for a pound! I remained transfixed to the glass railing a few yards away. I lay down beside her and felt the warm sun’s rays on my face. I could feel perspiration on my forehead. I shut my eyes, desperately trying to avoid thinking about the 1200 foot drop.

Suddenly I panicked and sat up. Unfortunately I inadvertently looked down at my feet as I stood up. I could feel my heart thumping and felt dizzy. I held out both arms to balance myself. What on earth was I thinking? I had to get off ASAP! I saw my son and husband a few feet away and rushed towards them. I almost collided with a couple holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes. So they also weren’t looking down!

When I was back on solid ground I turned around and saw my daughter in law hanging on to my grandson’s arm as she gingerly stepped on to the platform. The difference was she was looking down at her feet. This is not the way to do it!

‘Stop looking down’ I called out to her. ‘Just keep walking and stare straight ahead. You’re doing really well!’ I felt significantly braver on the other side!

After lunch my son had arranged to meet a friend at the highest rooftop bar located in the heart of New York City. My vertigo challenge wasn’t over yet! We all climbed into a large black uber and headed off to 230 5th street, to visit this chic bar and lounge nestled up amongst the clouds! After waiting in a long queue, then on through security, we climbed into the lift and shot up to the top of the world. The lift ground to a halt and we walked into a darkened corridor, climbed a flight of stairs and out into the open bar area.

There, etched against the still cloudless sky, majestic and proud, was the top of the Empire State Building! I wasn’t expecting that! Luckily a high wall surrounded the bar so I had little choice but to look up or across at happy people enjoying drinks at the end of their working week.

But our excitement for the day was not yet complete. After a couple of drinks we made our way back down to ground level and had a meal in a restuarant before catching a ferry to sail around the Statue of Liberty. We had barely finished eating when my son’s friend told us to leave the restaurant immediately and head towards the river. He’d received a warning that there were riots in Union Square and thousands of youths were making their way towards us. When we got outside a number of helicopters were flying overhead and police cars, sirens blazing, were rushing past. Traffic had ground to a halt and the atmosphere was electric.

My son ordered an Uber and we made our way to the agreed meeting place. Barring my grandson, who was buzzing with excitement and my husband who takes everything in his stride, the rest of us felt very anxious. We wanted to get as far away from the rioters as possible! Apparently cars and shop windows were being smashed as thousands of young people had started moving into the surrounding streets. Our restaurant was targeted within a few minutes of us leaving so we were very grateful for the timely warning and felt we’d had a narrow escape.

A popular ‘live streamer’ had announced a ‘giveaway’ of PlayStation 5 consoles and an assortment of other gifts to any of his fans who showed up. He had advertised this on his Instagram account. He was late. Six thousand plus fans waited impatiently then began to climb on hoods of cars before clambering up lampposts and traffic lights. Several set off fire crackers which caused mayhem. The celebrity eventually arrived but had to escape the crowd and take cover, driving off in his large black SUV, leaving the police to disperse the crowd, the majority of them young teenagers wanting a freebie!

Our eventful day ended with an enjoyable sail along the Hudson River to see New York by night and the magnificent, illuminated Statue of Liberty. She looked resplendent, a neoclassical copper sculpture, etched against the black sky line. This is the statue of Libertas, the Roman goddess of liberty. She holds a torch above her head with her right hand and a tablet in her left with the date, 4th July 1776, the date of the American Declaration of Independence from Britain.

We all slept well that night, exhausted yet grateful that we were safely tucked up in bed. We were far away from riots or having to plough through masses of people who all seem to be walking in the opposite direction! Our first day had certainly been a memorable adventure! And that had only been the start! 👠

We have Stonehenge under construction at the bottom of our garden. It started life as a rockery with ferns and a spectacular tree fern in the middle. For years my husband spoke about expanding it. For years his pipe dream remained just that. But then we had a bad winter last year and the spectacular tree fern died.

The family mourned with my husband. We still hoped for a miracle and regularly checked the frondless trunk and prodded inside. We hoped to find hard buds waiting for spring so that they would erupt into life. Our joy was short lived because the small hard lumps turned soft and finally, after a few weeks, we had to accept that the beloved tree fern had not survived.

So my husband ordered a new one. When it arrived it was even more spectacular, significantly bigger and more robust. And there were a host of buds waiting to burst open as the warm weather replaced the freezing dark days of winter. The old tree fern was laid to rest at the bottom of the garden, behind the rhododendron hedge.

My husband is an engineer. For days he wandered around the rockery planning an expansion. A tape measure and iron poles were used to plot the extension. He still hadn’t given up on the original tree fern, not yet. He needed to get a place ready just in case we were all wrong and had misjudged the fortitude and determination of the one currently laid to rest behind the rhododendron hedge. The man who had delivered the new tree fern told us that they can lie dormant for months and then spring back to life.

So, to this end, ‘Stonehenge take two’ now stands proud and majestic at the bottom of our garden. A Herculaneum feat undertaken by one man to immortalise his pride and joy and, like Lazarus, hope tree fern number one will rise again from the dead.

There were, however, a number of difficulties delaying the start of the build. Vast amounts of soil, soil enhancer and compost were needed as the rockery was going to be significantly enlarged. These had to be found at the best price and with affordable delivery charges. Then my husband needed more stones or rather, boulders. These had to be seen and examined for size, colour and thickness. I went along to different reclamation centres and building sites to search for two rocks that would complete the construction. A sack barrow had arrived to move everything dumped on our driveway from the front of the house, down an incline, through a narrow gateway to the bottom of the garden. This would be no mean feat! I was convinced that there was absolutely no way my husband was going to manage on his own! He would have to wait for our son in law who was visiting in a few weeks.

There was also a slight problem for him but a significant one for me! Wasps had made a nest beneath one of the ferns. No one wants to be stung by a wasp. My husband, however, reacts very badly to wasp stings! When he was stung on the arm a few summers ago it blew up like a balloon! My concern is a sting around his throat or eyes. Piriton would not work quickly enough to stop major swelling. He was dicing with death not getting rid of the nest before starting on his mammoth project. But he had decided that, if they left him alone he would preserve the nest. Really? Apparently there were so few wasps about this year and they were good for the eco system.

I found this magnanimous decision illogical! How does one relay the message to wasps that you come in peace? You don’t sting me and I’ll not disturb your home! Well, for the first week I was impressed. This symbiotic relationship seemed to work! Alas, on Saturday afternoon, a rogue wasp hadn’t received the message and stung my husband on his hand. I saw him running down the lawn towards the house. I heard him turn on the outside tap and thought he must have hurt himself but hadn’t noticed any blood dripping from wounds. When he came into the kitchen and I saw his hand I knew what had happened.

It was huge. I have a few tablets in a bowl in the kitchen. I was convinced that I had piriton and, when I found the pack, popped out a tablet and gave it to him with a glass of water. He decided that he needed another one so obliged. He went outside and packed away his tools. He barbecued meat and we settled down for the evening. His hand was very red, very hot and very swollen. I remembered my daughter telling me that she had been rushed to hospital a few years ago because she had suddenly developed a serious rash after having paracetamol. She was given piriton intravenously and also loratadine. Apparently you can take these two together. I gave my husband another tablet. There was no improvement to his hand but it wasn’t getting worse. He googled wasp stings and used frozen sweetcorn as an ice pack as recommended.

The next morning his hand was no better. I went downstairs to get another piriton. I took the blister pack with me and a glass of water. My husband read the label.

‘This is a pack of Buscapan Cramps’ he laughed. I don’t have IBS!

I went downstairs after having a chuckle and looked for the piriton. There weren’t any! Yesterday I had inadvertently given him two Buscapan Cramp tablets! Is there any wonder they didn’t bring the swelling down? I felt awful. Luckily it wasn’t a life or death situation!

‘Maybe the time has come for you to read labels’, was my husband’s response when I told him! Between you and me I did find it quite amusing especially when he said that he’d not had any stomach cramps during the night! My daughter wasn’t amused. She told me to make a note that if it happens again Dad will need a piriton, a loratadine and an ibuprofen tablet and to ensure that I have these tablets in the house at all times!

Unfortunately my husband was no longer ‘Mr Nice Guy’! The wasps haven’t got a home beneath a fern in a rockery that has almost doubled in size. Despite my reservations my husband moved everything on his own! Stonehenge take two was single handedly built by an intrepid, determined engineer as proof that nothing was going to prevent him from completing the task! Despite being of a certain age, for him that meant nothing ! Call it foolhardy, dogged determination or just stubborn pride! Whatever moniker fits I’m impressed and so will the family be when they see it too! For him, age definitely is just a number!👠

Earlier this week I went shopping with my husband. We had to drop his car off at a garage a short distance from a large department store so had a couple of hours to kill. My husband went upstairs to the men’s clothing section and I stayed on the ground floor.

I wandered around the aisles looking at the brightly coloured summer clothes. I had a vague idea of what I wanted to introduce a few trendy pieces for our pending holidays. A special birthday is coming up in October and we have booked time with our son and his family in America and my sister and her family in Australia.

I chose a few tops and walked past pairs of combat shorts hanging stylishly on small hangers in the casual clothes section. I haven’t worn shorts for years. In fact, I also haven’t needed a bathing costume since pre pandemic times but that would have to wait. I’ll have to psyche myself up before trying on those! So I chose a couple of pairs of shorts and headed to the changing rooms.

Now, I cannot understand why shops do this! It’s not rocket science to make changing rooms a pleasant experience, one that entices people to buy their clothes. For a start. How about the lighting? Why put a spot light directly above the mirror? Would it not make sense to have it on the other side of the cubicle? The less light shining on parts of the body, rarely seen, the better? There is also no need to have the lights so bright. Dim ones would work wonders for most women and, trust me, if your body looks good, clothes will look good too.

Another piece of advice. Have decent mirrors. My daughter has a mirror in the bedroom my husband and I use when we visit. This mirror is wonderful and a marvellous confidence booster. No matter how bloated or jaded I feel, it always shows me looking slim. Over Christmas when the pounds piled on, that mirror made me believe that it was all in my mind and nothing on my hips or bottom! I could go back down to the dining room and get stuck into the next meal with no feelings of guilt or recriminations.

But alas, when I took my pile of clothing into a cubicle last week it was not a good experience. In fact, I can honestly say that it was downright traumatic and not one to be repeated anytime soon! Not only was there a ‘body dysmorphic’ mirror in front of me with a spot light shining down on my imperfect body, but there was one behind me as well! Why? There was no need for that! I wasn’t only hit with the sad, naked truth that I was a women of a certain age, well past my use by date, but, those mirrors in that ludicrously bright, tiny, claustrophobic cubicle did it twice! Just to ensure that I got the message loud and clear and to cover all and every angle! I felt violated! Perhaps I should sue!

I quickly got dressed and scuttled out of the torture chamber! Handing the clothes back I made my way upstairs to check on my husband. As I walked past mirrors I glanced across and was pleasantly surprised to see that I looked like my normal old self again! I ignored the huge billboards tormenting me with pictures of young, gorgeous, slim models. All just eyes candy now in their prime but their time will come!

And this is where I have to reiterate how much I really hate shopping! I couldn’t find my husband, anywhere. I walked up and down the aisles, my patience beginning to wear very thin. I phoned him. No reply, I closed my phone and then somehow managed to do what my son calls a ‘butt dial’ and rang him at 5:00 am his time in the States. I grabbed my phone and ended the call. I rang my husband again. Still no reply. I put my phone back into my handbag. I heard it ringing and saw that I had ‘butt dialled’ my son again!

This time a sleepy voice answered. ‘You ok Mom’? ‘ So sorry, Love’ I apologise profusely. ‘Oh, butt dial.’ He mumbled something beneath his breath. ‘Cheers. Speak later.’

I send my husband a text message then wait a while and ring him again. This time I hear a mumbled ‘wait’ before the line goes dead. A short while later he calls back, equally annoyed, to tell me that he’s trying on clothes and the signal in the changing room is bad. Can I please stop calling him. He’ll be out shortly.

To crown it all the garage didn’t have the necessary part for the car so the whole trip had been an annoying waste of time! Perhaps I’ll buy clothes, try them on at home then take them back if they don’t fit. Not very ‘green’ but far less stressful! Or I could patent my idea of a perfect changing room? That’s an option! 👠

As the Australian soap opera reminded us, for thirty seven years, ‘Everyone loves good neighbours because good neighbours become good friends!‘

Of course we would all love good neighbours! Goes without saying! But how often do we get this wish granted?

Before I moved to my present address we lived on an estate near a small village not far from where I worked. The neighbours were fantastic! We had just arrived from South Africa and they all made our family so welcome! I soon made good friends and still communicate with some of them over thirty years later.

Every Sunday we’d be invited to one of their homes for coffee. I soon bought into this practice and happily took my turn. Whenever I worked in the front garden I’d have to add time on for chats because invariably someone in our street would be passing by and we’d exchange pleasantries. When my parents visited from South Africa they were warmly welcomed as well and used to leave feeling comforted that their family had built a strong support system if required.

Alas, after nine years some moved out and we got new neighbours with young children. I have nothing against children if they are well behaved and respectfull. But times have changed and so too has parenting. Some parents cannot believe that their little darlings do anything wrong! Not even when there’s strong evidence to prove otherwise.

Our house had a steep driveway. Hearing a noise one Saturday afternoon I looked out of a bedroom window and saw a group of young children on scooters pushing them up our driveway. They used our cars to propel themselves down the drive and into a side street. No one was waiting at the bottom to warn about passing cars. Not only was this behaviour annoying as they were very noisy, it was also dangerous!

I went outside and asked them, politely, to leave. I pointed out all of the above and warned them that they could get badly hurt or even killed by an oncoming car. They found this highly amusing but eventually left passing rude comments and showing off to their friends. This happened again the following weekend so I went to speak to their parents. I was told that children would be children and wasn’t I a child once? Both my son and daughter were at university so explained that I had children myself and would have been horrified if they had behaved in such a manner.

Things gradually became worse. Young lads on bicycles discovered our driveway. They used the garage door as their launch pad to propel themselves forward and sail over the terraced rock garden and onto the street below. We heard them banging against the garage door and wild whoops as they shot forward. This time my husband went outside to complain and threatened to call the police if it happened again. Our garage door became badly damaged as apparently this game continued after school in the afternoons when we were both at work.

We had often spoken about moving half way between my husband and my jobs as he had over an hour’s commute by car and I only had ten minutes. This, on its own, would not have been a deciding factor, but the garden was very small and the new neighbours had begun to make our lives a misery. Down the one side of the house I had planted shrubs and alpine plants and filled in the gaps with pebbles. This also became an attraction to the smaller children as they would scoop out handfuls of these pebbles and spread them over the pavement. I could never understand this logic so just put it down to wilful destruction.

We could have escalated the problem to the police or the local council but decided to make the decision to sell and move to a house with a larger garden and closer to my husband’s workplace. Having good neighbours would always be a gamble but a risk worth taking!

That was twenty years ago. Our new neighbours didn’t initially appear as friendly but we were only home at weekends and kept ourselves busy. There has never been any damage to our property or anti social behaviour. For years I missed our old neighbourhood and the good friends we had left behind. Since I’ve retired I have been able to build good relationships with a number of our close neighbours.

I have found this very rewarding and so important, especially as I’ve got older. Having this close network goes a long way to maintaining a healthy quality of life. And yes, neighbours can and have become good friends. I can vouch for that!👠

There are morning people and there are evening people. I definitely identify with the latter! Getting up early is not in my genes and it’s far too late to change! My spots are indelible!

I worked for many years and, sadly, my life has been ruled by an alarm clock. My own body clock never worked as it’s set for a good few hours later than required. No matter what time I go to bed, my natural mornings start between 9:00 and 10:00 am. Definitely not earlier! Yet, for most of my adult life, my alarm clock has had to wake me up before 6 o’clock!

So, for years, I had a morning routine which I’ll share with you!

When the alarm clock’s piercing shrill heralded the start of a new day I could never just turn on a switch and wake up! I have no switch, only a soft button that I gently press. I feel the brain fog slowly begin to lift as my eyes adjust to the dark bedroom. I have barely enough energy to breathe but finally begin to feel movement in my limbs. I test the water by easing off the duvet and slowly sitting up. I wait until the brain fog has cleared enough to focus, then ease myself up and, holding both arms outstretched to prevent any collisions, stumble to the bathroom. The cold water goes some way to shocking me into first gear. This is where I stay for a while!

Hanging on to the bannister I shuffle slowly into the kitchen. The bright, fluorescent light initially blinds me before my eyes begin to adjust. I’ve now shifted into second gear. I boil the kettle for my first caffeine fix of the day. I walk into the sitting room and open the curtains, often exposing a black, starless sky or one with varied shades of grey. Only sunshine can inspire me and have any effect on my soporific brain.

My next challenge is getting to the television and turning it on. I place my coffee carefully down on the floor before falling back into the sofa, which happens to be soft and very comfortable, much like my bed! The television whirs into life and I choose the news channel. The heating is beginning to warm up the room so I close my eyes and desperately want to go back to sleep.

But, having the news channel on keeps me awake and focussed. Different noises and voices in degrees of volume brings me back to the present. I take hold of my warm mug of coffee and cradle it in my hands. The effects of the caffeine does soon kick in and my body slowly revs up into third gear!

By this time I have been out of bed for half an hour. I am now beginning to feel awake. I finish my coffee, turn off the television and climb back upstairs. Make up is applied, hair brushed and I get dressed. My husband is still gently snoring where I left him earlier. His alarm will signal the start of his day over an hour after mine.

Yet, he still leaves the house a few minutes before me. He’s always claimed not to be a morning person but is not in my league! In fact, I have yet to find any competition in this field!

But then I retired. Oh what bliss not to be ruled by an alarm clock! Or so I thought. Alas, I do exercise classes on some mornings and still depend on the loud shrill of my nemesis. It’s rarely before 8:00 am which gives me a couple of extra hours to get the body clock adjusted to daytime.

I still have coffee in the mornings and watch the news but there is one significant difference. I have a choice. I choose to do morning classes so it doesn’t feel quite so intrusive. I have breakfast after exercising so there is far less rush to get out of the house. I still put makeup on and brush my hair but I wear casual clothes. Less choice. And it’s not every weekday morning.

So, I never feel guilty lying in bed on a Monday morning when I have woken up on my own accord. I pity those already in work, stuck on motorways or fighting traffic. I have been there, done that and got the T-shirt. I have earned this delicious luxury and long may it last. I agree that being outside early in the morning, when the weather is fine, can be refreshing and exhilarating but, for me, nothing beats a warm bed and good night’s rest! 👠

Why do I do it?

A question I have asked myself for years! As far back as I can remember I have done some form of exercise. When I was young my mother insisted that I cycle to school unless I could somehow get out of it. I would have to be at death’s door before I was allowed to catch the bus! In my final two years at school my boyfriend had a car so my sister and I ditched our bikes and got a lift from him. This was after much haggling and pleading. My parents finally met with his and received confirmation that he was a safe and responsible driver! And I could get up half an hour later every morning! Bliss!

When at school, sport was an integral part of our curriculum. We had to play tennis, netball, hockey, do some form of athletics and swimming! Never been a sporty person I partook because I had to and never because I wanted to! A very guilty secret I’ll finally share. In desperation to get out of some classes I learned to forge my mother’s signature. It meant that I could often avoid swimming and gym. I’m sure leaping over that horse has caused permanent mental and physical damage! And we had to wear our giant bottle green school knickers and a T-shirt. Luckily I went to a girls only school but being shy and self conscious, this two hour weekly session was torture. It was to be avoided at all costs. I didn’t need to swim and get my hair wet at school. We had a pool at home!

But I always loved to dance! I did classical ballet and highland dancing until we moved to the other side of town and it became impractical. My daughter followed this path until she was about fifteen. She has suffered from problems with her feet ever since. A family doctor once told me that mothers who loved their daughters would never allow them to do ballet. I found this quite harsh as my daughter, who can be dramatic, often told me that dancing was her life! We still tease her but I think the doctor was being equally dramatic by making such a sweeping statement.

My sister and I were in a number of dance concerts throughout our early years and my mother would drag my father and brother along, kicking and screaming. My father had an aversion to ballet and could never understand why grown men wore ridiculous outfits and pirouetted around the stage! Apparently, at one of these concerts, my sister and I were two little Dutch girls in a garden. I remember seeing photos of us wearing Dutch style starched caps and black and white checked skirts. I think we were about four and six at the time. I apparently embarrassed my parents because my sister made a mistake and I reprimanded her loudly on stage and then slapped her!

Dancing has always been my most favourite form of exercise. The only kind that I truly enjoy. Many times over the years I have played music and danced around the house, in the garden, even, in later years, up on stage! I did some go go dancing in my final year at school until my father saw me practising and it was immediately banned! He was horrified that I was prepared to make such an embarrassing spectacle of myself and nothing, not even my mother, could change his mind!

So, in answer to my original question. Why do I exercise? I exercise for a number of reasons. I like to feel healthy. I don’t want to get fat. I’m vain. I like having a routine and exercise is part of that. I can’t remember not doing some form of exercise. I used to jog until I retired. I had planned to continue this torture for as long as possible but then decided that life was too short to dread hitting the road every day. I walk instead. Not just a casual stroll but a brusque serious walk, thanks to my husband and his ‘one pace fits all’!

I know that my routines have changed and possibly lost some of their intensity. A big difference is that I now have a choice. I’ll never honestly be able to claim that I enjoy exercising per se but I’m going to continue for as long as possible.

If I can stay active and healthy there is not much more I can do to stave off the ravages of old age. I do feel satisfaction and a sense of achievement after a class or a walk. I’m waging an age war and, come hell or high water, I am going to go down fighting! 👠

Before I started this blog I needed to understand the difference between ‘loving yourself’ and narcissism. I have struggled with loving and being more understanding of myself and my shortcomings for as long as I can remember.

When googling this question I read that self love is a healthy relationship, being the ‘unapologetic act of being proud and confident in your achievements’. You need to readily accept your flaws and be thankful for your strengths. Narcissists are in love with themselves, generally have low self esteem and very critical of others. Those who can love themselves don’t need constant validation but a narcissist feels incomplete without it. Self love is beneficial to the individual and relationships. Narcissism has the opposite effect.

Apparently, to get the most out of living in this modern society we need to understand our feelings, who we really are and how we can best fit into our surroundings. We also need to ‘be in tune with our emotions’! Social media plays a big role in lots of people’s lives. It becomes difficult to navigate through all the negative feedback readily offered by so called influencers. They try to fit us into a ‘one size fits all’ box and, if that box doesn’t fit, make us feel inadequate and useless. I think some of these influencers have narcissistic tendencies so how can we be sure that we want to take their advice?

Healthy self love needs two basic requirements, self respect and self esteem. If we have self respect we would never have narcissistic tendencies and self esteem would help us better understand when we are being manipulated. It would also encourage us to surround ourselves with healthy relationships.

How many times through the years have I been told to love myself? And there’s the old adage, ‘if you can’t love yourself you can’t love anyone else’! None of these statements are useful and only cause more anxiety and feelings of low self esteem. I have also been told that self love is a choice and this choice is mine alone to make. Far too simplistic!

I realise that self love is important and can understand how it could help pave the way for a happier and healthier life. But these are just words that we hear or read in books or manuals. Getting down to the nitty gritty of learning to understand my emotions and being sympathetic and not so judgemental about my short comings, is easier said than done!

Low self esteem, or lack of self worth, can originate from childhood. It can also be the result of an abusive relationship, whether it be with a friend, parent, sibling or partner. Being told often enough how useless, ugly and stupid you are eventually becomes your reflection of reality. In fact, this is only your perception and not at all accurate.

But there is some good news! Self love can be self taught! But, like alcoholism, the first step is accepting that you have a problem. Throughout our lives we go through a multitude of emotions. We feel sad, happy, angry, lonely. By recognising and questioning negative emotions as they arise and taking the time to sit and digest them, is fundamental in starting the self love process!

Another idea would be to try and put yourself in a loved one’s shoes. What would you say to them to dispel their negative emotions? We usually treat others differently. Almost a case of ‘do as I say and not as I do’! We try to be positive when dealing with their problems but find it unnatural when dealing with our own.

So, I’m going to make a concerted effort to be less critical and more compassionate towards myself. If I don’t try I’ll never know. It could be the beginning of a brave new world! 👠

I hate going to school but there is nothing I can do. There’s no on I can talk to, no solution to pursue. So every Monday morning that feeling is back again. My life is just so awful and my heart so filled with pain.

As I wait for the school bus I’m already feeling sad. If they caught the earlier one, then it won’t be so bad. But no, I see their faces and soon I hear their jibes. Here we go, another week. I sit down and shut my eyes.

Sticks and stones don’t break your bones, I hear my mother say. But words do really hurt me. The pain never goes away. I hear their words, they stay with me and cut me like a knife. There is no escape from this, my lonely, awful life.

My parents are so busy, they just don’t have the time to sit with me when they get home. Being bullied’s not a crime! Why can’t I just be brave and strong, not let them get me down? Why can’t I stand up for myself? Feel like the village clown!

Tired of thinking what I could do to take this pain away. My mind goes round in circles as night turns into day. And back on that same treadmill, while waiting for the bus, knowing they’re going to be there and I dare not make a fuss.

And so the days turn into weeks, holiday time soon here. Looking forward to going away, long to disappear. I don’t ever want to come back and face this awful trial. For two months I can forget, but just be in denial.

So I fly off to sunny Spain, holiday with my Gran. And leave this awful life behind, I really hope I can. My cousins will all be there and we get on really well. Can’t wait to meet up once again and leave this place of hell!

Every morning as the sun comes up, before the tide is in, we run along the beach then feel the cool water on our skin. Each day brings so much pleasure and is such a lot of fun. We swim, surf and play volley ball in the hot Spanish sun.

I’ve made so many friends here, joined the local football team. I’ve learnt to fish, play crazy golf, yet often I still dream of those who make my time at school a truly awful place. It’s just not fair, makes me mad, their behaviour’s a disgrace.

The more I think about their taunts and how they make me feel, the more it seems so unfair I’m getting this raw deal. Why do I put up with it? I must be such a coward! I need to stand up to those boys, need to get empowered.

As the weeks pass happily by, feel my confidence grow. Those far off miserable days seem a life time ago. I’ve had to shop for new clothes, my others are far too small. This glorious Spanish sunshine is a boon for one and all.

Finally the holiday ends, have to go back to school. It’s time to catch the bus again, don’t want to feel a fool! I know I’ve grown much taller and I’ve even put on weight. Slowly I walk to the bus stop. I don’t want to be late.

The bus pulls up, I climb the stairs, feel my heart is racing. I slowly walk down the aisle, can’t appear self effacing. I hear the first shout from the back, drop my bag on the floor. I’ve had enough, must sort this out, not going to wait for more.

Four boys all sit together, filling a row at the back. They nudge each other and snigger. I walk straight up to Jack. He’s the ring leader, the loud one, and always been the worst. I hold my ground, no going back, it’s all been well rehearsed.

I kick his satchel out the way while glaring down at him. ‘Jack, you are pathetic, you’re a bully and you’re dim. You’ve made my life hell for so long, I’m not the only one! So, get up, Jack, you’re on your own!’ At last my time has come!

Jack just sits there, his face all red, and doesn’t say a word. ‘C’mon Jack, I taunt him, you’re already looking absurd!’ He mumbles something to his mates, I wait for him to move. ‘Have you nothing to say to me? Not have anything to prove?’

I kick his satchel one last time, tell Jack he is a fool. I sit down next to Annie, the most popular girl at school. She smiles at me, says ‘we’ll done, Tom, he needed to be told!’ My hands are shaking, my mouth is dry, must remain controlled!

Slowly I begin to relax, I’ve done the hardest thing. I’ve faced up to those bullies! That wasp has lost its sting! By standing up to Jack at last I’d recognised the traits. A bully’s just a coward and nothing without his mates!

It is common knowledge that music can help us feel better. Whether it be depression, anxiety or illnesses such as dementia, music definitely creates a sense of well-being. And special tunes are linked to special memories which can have the same effect as taking antidepressants! Research backs up this theory. There is clear proof that music supports our physical, mental and emotional health. Apparently listening to, or making music, can increase blood flow to the brain and this, in turn, helps to control our emotions.

My mother wouldn’t let me hang posters on my bedroom wall but I was allowed to hang them inside my cupboard. Davy Jones took pride of place! When I opened the cupboard door and sat on my bed I could gaze lovingly into Mike’s eyes. And he would gaze lovingly back into mine! This secret crush lasted a number of years until I actually went on a date with him and realised that looks can be skin deep!

Music is often used as therapy for pain management. We all know how debilitating pain can be especially if it’s continuous and medication doesn’t bring relief. Music can activate sensory pathways to compete with pain pathways. This stimulates emotional responses which, in turn, helps to alleviate pain.

The other evening I heard Phil Collin’s version of ‘Groovy Kind of Love’. It transported me back to a world where there were no pandemics, no recessions, life was simple and the sun always shone. I used to imagine dancing cheek to cheek with a boy I really fancied when I was about thirteen. Mike was so handsome and looked like Davy Jones, a member of the band ‘The Monkees’.

My mother always enjoyed dancing and, when we were young, my sister, mother and I would put on a long playing record, open the front door leading to the porch and dance for hours! My brother and father could never understand this strange behaviour and definitely didn’t join in the fun! Dancing has always been my most enjoyable form of exercise and that has a lot to do with those happy memories and the music.

During the pandemic a good friend, an ex PE teacher, kindly offered to hold dance classes on the green in front of our house. This finally moved to a neighbour’s driveway and is now into its third year. We meet three times a week and the kind neighbour’s husband cleared his garage so the weather doesn’t even hold us back. Listening to the music of our youth, learning dance moves and socialising with neighbours who have become good friends, is something money can’t buy. It’s exercise, therapy and companionship all rolled into one.

This same friend and I used to give exercise classes to residents at my mother’s care home when she was alive. They were all in varying stages of dementia, the cruelest of diseases. Music gave then brief respite and they would sing along to songs I’d downloaded from the forties and fifties. We encouraged them to do gentle chair exercises but a number of residents just sat and listened to the music, broad smiles on their faces. Apparently the atmosphere in the care home was vastly improved every Wednesday afternoon after these classes. The residents seemed so much more settled and happy which made our time there really worthwhile.

So, when a friend mentioned starting a Folk Club in our local park room I thought it an excellent idea. This group is primarily about playing music using different instruments and singing a wide range of songs. As mentioned earlier, music is so important and a huge reason why these evenings are so enjoyable. But they also bring together many different talents. Music is an art form and can be appreciated as such. But this same art form comes in various guises. It doesn’t only mean having to play an instrument or sing a song. It can be the rhythm of a poem, the undulating voice of someone sharing an adventure or experience, or the laughter when our resident comedian tells his jokes.

The Folk Club highlights and encourages all these different talents, creating a broad spectrum of people who otherwise would never have socialised together. And then we have our very important spectators who come to support and appreciate the performers. Without their inspiration and encouragement these evenings would not have lasted as long or been as enjoyable and diverse as they are.

I have learnt so much from these gatherings and never thought that I could ever stand up and read something I have written in front of an audience of strangers. It has definitely given me a focus and encouraged me to keep on writing! And enjoying the power of music!

During the Easter holidays in 1990 my husband, children and I visited England from South Africa. We wanted to see if, financially, we could settle in this country. The violence in Johannesburg was creeping ever closer and burglar bars, high spiked walls and guard dogs were becoming the norm. We had a good quantity of life but the quality was fast diminishing.

My husband’s grandmother lived in Haslemere in Surrey. We were spending a few days with her before going back to his parents in Leeds. One cold morning we set off for what was the children and my first ever trip to London. We agreed to take the children to Hamleys before going on to other places of interest. Only being there for one day we needed to make the most of our time and build up as many memories as possible.

We had borrowed my father in law’s car so my husband drove to Turnham Green station and we caught a train into central London. I was feeling very anxious. What would happen if we lost one of the children? My husband suggested that they head back to Turnham Greene station. They had sufficient taxi fare. We repeated this a few times and also as we walked into Hamleys. None of us had mobile phones. Had they even been invented?

I felt anxious walking through London. There were crowds of people milling around which I found quite daunting. I hung onto my husband’s hand and kept a close eye on the children in front of us. I hooked my handbag tightly under my arm with the strap over my shoulder. I had the money, car keys and our traveller’s cheques. This is how I walked around in South Africa, always on my guard. I had been on a number of safety aware courses so usually held the car keys in my hand with the keys facing outwards. If I was attacked I could force them into the attacker’s face.

Hamleys was fascinating. I began to relax and actually enjoy the experience! We were on the fifth floor when my husband vanished. At first I wasn’t too bothered as he had this habit of wandering off and then remembering that he was not on his own. We waited a while and then I started to get anxious. We went around each of the floors and got back to the fifth. Still no sign of him. I asked my son to check the men’s toilets. Nothing!

Finally I decided that something must have happened to him. He wouldn’t just leave us. My years of living in South Africa and a highly overactive imagination made me immediately think the worst. He had probably been frog-marched out of the shop at gun point and was lying dead in one of those huge wheelie bins on the side of the road. Or he had been drugged then stabbed and dumped in a gutter somewhere, fatally wounded.

I felt panic begin to take hold. We went to the information desk and asked them to page him. We waited for ten long minutes and then I decided to go outside. Perhaps he was waiting at the entrance.With the two children in tow I spoke to the doorman. I gave a detailed description. Alas, no joy there either. We went back inside and waited. In South Africa I would have immediately contacted the police.

So that is what I did. The kindly doorman, although surprised, pointed out directions to the police station. Luckily it was just down the road! By this time the children were quite upset, seeing their mother so overwrought and three tearful faces presented themselves at the desk. After explaining how my husband was there one minute and gone the next and how we had searched all over Hamleys, the policeman calmly told me that grown men do not get lost in London.

That was all I needed to share my biggest fear. He must have been abducted! He had little money on him so was probably dead by now! By this time I was in an advanced state of shock and had begun to shake uncontrollably. He left me briefly to call another police officer, a woman who came out from behind the desk. She explained that London wasn’t like South Africa so she was sure my husband was fine and would be in contact soon. She looked across at her colleague and I noticed a smirk pass between then. This made me angry as I felt that they weren’t taking me seriously. She asked if I had any family in England then suggested I call my father in law in Leeds.

My father in law was very understanding and helpful. He also tried to calm me down which was a bit more difficult. He told me to get a taxi to Waterloo station and catch the train to Haslemere. My husband’s aunt would collect us from the station. When my mother in law arrived home from her WI meeting later that afternoon she was asked to sit down and told ‘we have lost our son’. The poor woman became distraught until she heard the whole story!

I shared my panic on the train, to complete strangers! Looking back they must have thought that my husband had probably run away from a mad woman and who could blame him! My son had mentioned earlier that perhaps we should get a taxi to Turnham Green station. I had ignored this piece of advice wrapped up in my nightmare world of suspense and intrigue. He made the suggestion again when we were on the train. This advice was once more ignored.

We were collected at the station and taken to my husband’s grandmother’s house. She seemed to have a problem understanding why we were there without her grandson. We also had a visit from the local policeman who had been contacted by the London office. I had to give a description and remember pondering over a small scar on his cheek. I couldn’t remember if it was on his left or right one!

Gradually the thought of never seeing him again brought on a new flood of tears! I needed to prepare my children for this possibility. Somehow I had to find strength to take control of this awful situation! We went for a walk in a little wood at the bottom of the garden. I really couldn’t think of anything to soften the blow other than warning them that we might never see Dad again.

It was then that my husband’s grandmother called me. I was wanted on the telephone. My immediate thought was that his body had been found. I didn’t want to answer. I held back but she was insistant so made my way slowly into the house. It was my father in law telling me that my husband had contacted him and was on his way to Haslemere.

While we had all been in Hamleys he had popped to the gents quickly but not quickly enough to avoid the ensuing debacle. Finding no sign of us in Hamleys he had made his way to Turnham Green station. He had finally given up waiting at the car so had walked to a cousin’s house.

My father in law had hidden a key in the wheel arch of the car so we would soon be reunited. The first thing my husband said to me as he walked through the door was ‘why didn’t you get a taxi to Turnham Green station’? My son piped up that the suggestion had been made but ignored!

To my huge embarrassment this became a much repeated story over the next few years. I can now look back and laugh at my bizarre behaviour but still cringe when I think about it! I’m no longer a small town, naive young woman. I’ve lived in England for over thirty years. The constant fear of being attacked and the very real concern for our personal safety has diminished. And we all have mobile phones!

And no, my husband, of all people, would never have got lost in London! 👠