Jenny Burrell

Every year I tell myself that I’m going to be organised and not leave everything until the last minute. Every year I rush around like a headless chicken during the last week before Christmas. Would I never learn?

We’ll, it looks as if I have! This year I am sitting in front of our fire sipping a gin and tonic. All presents have been wrapped and distributed where necessary. Christmas cards were posted on time or delivered.

So what was my secret?

Perhaps the awful weather we’ve had over the last few weeks could have helped? It’s been unbelievably cold and then, equally, unbelievably wet. I haven’t been able to get out every day and exercise. It’s not the time of year to work in the garden. It’s currently a swamp. I don’t enjoy shopping but it beats sitting in the house staring out at a grey and grotty sky spewing it’s surplus water on already sodden earth!

Another reason could be my sister and her husband visiting from Australia. We needed to spread my parents’ ashes which had been denied us in 2020. My father, while still at school, used to help light beacons in Devon during the Second World War. This was where he wanted us to spread his ashes. My mother wanted her ashes to be mixed with his so they were both spread in a little wood near the top of Fire Beacon hill.

My sister loves to shop. This is how we whiled away many hours. I could get ideas for presents so used this time productively. We got caught up in the crowds at the Black Friday sales and managed to get some amazing bargains! Shopping with someone who makes the experience fun is a bonus! I actually had time to meander around and soon ticked names off my list!

So, next year could be back to my usual last minute panic if the weather behaves and I don’t have a shopping buddy. That’s another worry for another day! I’m enjoying this feeling of satisfaction and relief! I can sit back with my family on Christmas Day and watch everyone open their gifts knowing that I put thought and effort into buying and wrapping them. I’ll try and carry that thought through to next year!

So, to all my lovely family and friends I wish you a blessed and happy Christmas and the very best for 2023! Let’s all hope and pray that it will be a good one!

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Chatting to a friend who had recently lost her husband, she asked me how long it would take for her to feel contented again. Did I think she ever could, or was this sadness and huge loss going to remain with her forever?

I was not able to give her a direct answer other than to remind her that time is a great healer. Her life will never be the same again but she will learn to adapt and create a new normal. She will have better days and even find happiness in times spent with friends and family. However, I couldn’t pass any comments on her finding contentment because I’m not sure I fully understand what that means.

Google tells me that contentment is ‘a state of happiness and satisfaction’. I have often felt happy. I have often felt satisfied but I have never combined the two to mean contentment. I’ve always thought that it was a prolonged state of mind, different from just feeling happy and satisfied. I googled synonyms for contentment. There were numerous. Peace, ease, pleasure, comfort, fulfilment, gratification, equanimity, and so the list continued.

Was I wrong in presuming that feeling contented would last for days, months or even years? It would be like living in a kind of Utopia. A place where there is no sorrow or pain, just peace, pleasure, comfort and gratification. It wouldn’t be a transitory state. Once you’ve found contentment it would be yours for as long as you wanted to hold onto it.

I asked my husband what he thought the meaning of contentment was. ‘Just happy with your lot’, came his prompt reply. ‘Of course, it doesn’t have to be a good thing,’ he expanded. ‘Being content with your lot comes with a caveat. It can be a cop out for someone who has no drive or ambition. Hobos could be contented.’ Always the pragmatist.

Perhaps I need to change my long held perception of the meaning of contentment. Have I been too pedantic or pessimistic? Could it be feasible that this blissful state of mind need only last for a very short time? Thinking back over my life, certain things I’ve done or tasks I have achieved have made me feel proud and happy. I called it ‘feeling satisfied’. I was obviously pleased that I had reached my goal. So was I feeling contented? Probably, although it didn’t seem to last very long.

If my analogy is correct, feeling contented doesn’t mean having to rely on someone else. It’s about things that I have done. Neither my husband, children, family nor friends can make me feel contented. They can make me happy or sad. They can add to my sense of well-being but it’s up to me to recognise and hold onto moments of satisfaction and happiness. Dare I say, contentment?

Therefore, I am sure that my friend will feel contented again. She’s experienced it many times so will recognise this state of mind. Unlike me who has probably gone through life waiting to feel contented when it’s been staring me in the face for years!

After completing his A levels in September 1944, my father hoped to join the RAF and went for an interview. Unfortunately he was colour blind so didn’t make the grade. He was conscripted into the Army Infantry. Because he could differentiate between red and green he was later accepted by the RAF selection board as a second pilot in the Glider Regiment.

He received his pilot’s licence flying a Tiger Moth, a 1930’s British built biplane primarily used for this purpose. By this time it was 1945 and the war was nearing an end. He was made a Sergeant and became a flying instructor. My brother has his log book which showed him flying a number of gliders. The Horsa, which could carry 28 troops and the Hotspur, mainly used for training pilots, were among those documented. From 1946 to 1948 my father was in Germany but spoke very little about these years.

Unlike today, gliders were towed by military transport planes. Once released, they were left to land at an agreed rendezvous with, hopefully, as little damage to crew and cargo as possible. Most landing zones were less than ideal! Gliders were seen to be semi-expendable so were built with common and inexpensive materials. Glider pilots must have been very brave, helped by the fact that they were all young men, fearless and invincible!

One day my father was training a young, cocky Lieutenant from Sandhurst who thought he knew best. Not listening to instructions he performed a manoeuvre which went disastrously wrong. My father subsequently suffered back problems for the rest of his life, worsening as he got older.

On Christmas Eve, 1945, my father was guarding a number of prisoners, German officers, who were returning from working on the land. Over time my father had built up a good relationship with them. They were just the same as any young man, he’d said, with the same hopes and dreams. It was not their war! They were conscripts, just like he had been.

Walking past the officer’s mess that evening, a number of soldiers saw the prisoners being taken back to their quarters. They invited them in for a drink. At first they refused but my father encouraged them inside. The prisoners were obviously uncomfortable, standing huddled together, a distance away from the others. Pints of beer were poured but they didn’t immediately move to the bar. One of them told my father that they wanted to earn their drink and, quietly at first, they started singing ‘Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht’’. A hush fell over the room as the British soldiers stopped talking and stood, transfixed, throughout the singing of the carol.

Silence remained once the singing had stopped. The British soldiers were obviously moved, some wiping their eyes. First one and then more of them went up to the prisoners and shook their hands. The Germans drank their beers and left, as quietly as they had arrived. The frivolity in the mess remained dampened for the rest of the evening.

Once more we are approaching Remembrance Day. We need to show our gratitude to all those young men and women who selflessly were prepared to lay down their lives for their country. Our armed forces continue to protect us and the least we can do is give them our support. Please buy a poppy this year and take a few minutes out of your busy lives to think of them. Thank them all for the sacrifices they made and continue to make so that we can live in peace.

When I visited my son and his family in Boston in the States last month, my son convinced me to trade my old Fitbit in on an Apple Watch. I had bonded with my Fitbit. We had spent four years together. It was a love / hate relationship, more hate than love, but a relationship nonetheless!

I had looked at Apple watches before and decided that they would give me too much information. I didn’t want an alarm telling me that I have exceeded my pulse rate for my age! I didn’t want a warning that the oxygen levels in my blood were dangerously low! By telling me that my heart was beating erratically would give me a heart attack!

Apparently I could turn all those frightening alarms off and only get the information I needed. Now, who wouldn’t want to answer their phone by talking to their watch and read text and WhatsApp messages just by glancing down at their arm? Another big plus was that my exercise routines could all be monitored and the results given every evening would keep me in peak physical fitness!

I did have another very real problem. The Apple watch looked like a normal watch. My Fitbit didn’t. I wore my Fitbit on my right arm. I had a dozen different coloured watches that I matched with my outfits every day and wore them on my left arm. A few years ago we had visited friends in Naples, in Florida. I was taken to a shop that opened up a whole new world for me! I saw row upon row of different coloured watches stretching as far as the eye could see. For day or evening wear, less or more bling, the choices were endless! And they all cost a mere 6 dollars!

Feeling embarrassed I only bought six that day but desperately wanted more! There were stores all around America so the following year, driving through a little town called Kennebunkport, in Maine, my collection of watches doubled! I was in heaven. There were new styles and colours and they were all still only 6 dollars! I could match earrings, scarves and watches to every outfit!

That’s sad! I’m sharing far too much!

So, I got the Apple watch, rose gold with a black strap. I said goodbye to the annoying Fitbit and psyched myself up to do battle with a new, more advanced enemy. Back at my son’s house I mentioned my dilemma. It would look a bit daft, even for me, to wear two watches. And then I was given some amazing news! My son could get any colour strap I wanted that would fit my new Apple watch. A pack of twelve cost only 20 dollars! With huge restraint I tried to control my excitement and readily accepted his kind offer. Two days later they arrived.

Now, being a pensioner and with our economy in such a precarious state, I needed to recycle my six dollar watches. I couldn’t just send them to landfill! When I approached my daughter to ask if she would take them off me, her eyes lit up! She is now the proud owner of my collection of fancy coloured watches. She has also continued the ritual of matching them to her outfits every morning. Must be genetic!

But there is another down side to my Apple watch. It can communicate with son’s Apple watch and we can compete in our daily exercise routines. Sounded like harmless fun at the time so I accepted his challenge. I am quite active so didn’t feel that I’d be too useless. In fact, I thought it would show me up in quite a good light! The aim was to get 600 or as close to 600 points as possible every day, for a week at a time. There are exercise, calorie and standing rings which need to be closed. Steps don’t even feature!

I won the first week. It was not too onerous and I felt quite chuffed with my performance. My son, however, was devastated! He had been beaten by his aged mother! The start of the second week was very different. Like most men he is competitive. I’m not. Every evening I’d check my points. I’d usually be either six hundred or fairly close. My son is five hours behind us. Every morning I found that his score was either slightly better than mine or he had achieved his 600 goal!

I lost the second week! That was it! Game on! My husband posted a message on our family WhatsApp group. Son, you’ve poked the bear! He had. It became all out war! My husband and I were doing our usual four kilometre walks every day. Three times a week I do a morning dance class, once a week, yoga and regular exercises at home. Some days that wasn’t enough and I’d have to set the watch to ‘indoor walking’ to try to get more points! If I chose’ Other’ I could get points for ironing, washing up, cooking, housework and gardening. I was fast becoming obsessed!

One morning last week my son sent me a video of a man crawling along the sand on his stomach with the caption, ‘Mom, you’re killing me’! I was beginning to feel the strain as well and mentioned having a less energetic day on Saturday. Naively I thought that he would at least give me one day off. But no, Sunday morning he had reached his 600 points. He had walked on his treadmill in his gym at home while watching a film.

Life is not fair. I don’t have a gym with a television screen in my house. I am reliant on the weather behaving so that I can get out and walk. But I am happy to continue along this exhausting, unfair and sometimes stressful path to help my son lose some weight and get back to his peak physical fitness. Mothers show their love for their children in many different ways! This is certainly different!

So, between you and me, getting six hundred points a day won’t always be possible, especially as winter approaches. But I shall keep on trying. Perhaps I might even begin to enjoy this torture! Or, perhaps, the bear will finally stop feeling the pokes and go off somewhere to hibernate👠

I was born in South Africa to a British father and a South African mother. My father had been a glider pilot during the war so had fought for King and country. South Africa, until 1961, had been a British colony. My mother and her family remained staunch royalists after South Africa become a republic. To so many people, losing the Queen as their head of state, was a sad day. The royal visit, in 1947, remained a topic of conversation for many years!

My parents were on holiday in Edinburgh in 1975 and had stood in the crowd when the Queen and her entourage had driven past. According to my mother, the Queen saw her, waved and smiled directly at her! My mother was convinced that she had been singled out and nothing was going to change her mind! Apparently this was one of the queen’s many unique talents when she met people, albeit even briefly. She would focus on them as if they were the only person present. Being shy herself, and very modest, she could understand the overwhelming sense of awe felt by members of the public.

I never met the Queen but have always felt a deep respect and admiration for her. I held a British passport even before I emigrated to England. I had to denounce my South African one which was quite unnerving. I couldn’t hold two passports in South Africa at that time. As the child of a British father, this gave me the right to a British passport. On each of my trips to England I would feel as if I was coming home. Emigrating on the 1st January 1991 was exciting and very daunting but felt right. I love this country and have always been so proud of the Queen and all the pomp and ceremony the British do so well.

Looking back at the thirty odd years that I have lived in England, the Queen was always there. Through good times and bad she was at the helm, dependable, stable and strong. Even social media could not point fingers at her devoted service and unfailing duty to her country and to those of the commonwealth.

The Queen loved bright colours. It had been reported that she wore them because she was small and wanted to stand out in a crowd. I’m sure another reason was that the colours reflected her wonderful zest for life. Those endless rounds of meeting and greeting people, here and abroad, never seemed to phase her!

I know the Queen didn’t have to do mundane housework, had servants and could afford fancy clothes and a lifestyle many can only dream of, but money doesn’t buy everything. In fact, with all the perks it would be easy to become complacent. Taking on the role of Queen at such a young age could have given her an excuse to delegate many foreign trips and patronages. She had a young family to care for. But she immediately accepted the huge challenge and ‘just got on with it’!

On her first televised Christmas broadcast in 1957, she said these words with absolute sincerity. They weren’t idle words which sounded good at the time but would soon be forgotten. She went on to prove that she meant every one of them.

‘I cannot lead you into battle. I do not give you laws or administer justice. But I can do something else. I can give you my heart and my devotion to these old islands and to all peoples of our brotherhood of nations’.

And so, sadly, after seventy long years, our Queen has left us. She has joined her beloved husband, sister and parents. Now we are left to grieve the loss of a wonderful monarch and a truly exceptional human being.

Her funeral was spectacular, yet solemn, respectful and so well organised. Seeing those crowds lining the streets was humbling. So many had also spent hours waiting in queues to pay their respects when the Queen lay in state in Westminster Hall. Her family can be in now doubt that she was much loved and will be sorely missed.

King Charles has huge shoes to fill. I hope, for his dear mother’s sake, that he gets the support and help he needs in the months and years ahead. Never have times been harder for the Royal family. I’m hopeful that we’ll all stand by our King and give him every opportunity to shine, as his mother did. We owe it to our dear queen in appreciation for all her years of devoted service to us.

God Save Our King!

Over the years we build memory banks. Some we store but a number go into the recycle bin. If we kept them all our poor brains would explode from information overloaded! Sometimes, however, something happens that remains firmly fixed in our minds. It could be either a good or a bad experience. The good experiences get recalled time and again and make us feel happy. They create a positive effect, but it’s often the bad ones that remain to cause the most problems. These bad or unhappy experiences can shape or change our lives forever.

I am no different to anyone else and have carried a number of these life events with me. Some were traumatic and I am glad that time has diminished their impact. I can look back more objectively but they remain filed away, never completely forgotten.

I used to live on a farm in the Northern Cape in South Africa. I was young and naive and found farm life very challenging. I had always lived in cities, surrounded by people. This farm’s nearest neighbour was twenty miles away. The house was in a field about four hundred yards from a large river. There was a narrow river bank with a sheer drop of about twenty feet to the water below. The pump house for the land irrigation system was built right on the edge of the bank. It had been heavily reinforced after the last severe flood which had resulted in the house, barns and a number of fields under water for weeks.

Inside the pump house was dark and intimidating. I’d feel a magnetic force almost dragging me towards the edge. I’d take a deep breath and glance quickly down into the swirling black abyss. I have always had a very vivid imagination and was convinced someone or something was trying to force me into the water! When the pump was running the noise was deafening and the heat, during the long summer months, stifling. The only time I went there was to relay messages or bring refreshments if the pump broke down.

I had a love / hate relationship with the river. Early on a summer’s morning I’d sit on the bank and psyche myself up to face each day. I’d watch the water, quite still, sparkling in the sunshine, not in any hurry. I could take some comfort in this natural beauty and find peace. Just the river and me. Occasionally fish would leap out and cause ripples to mar the smooth surface. The sound of birdsong, the occasional barking of baboons on the hill opposite, the clacking of moorhens and ducks, were part of a rare, happy memory, filed away but not forgotten. Then I’d be either supervising the sorting of potatoes, weighing cotton or driving trucks filled with vegetables to the market. I had to learn how to drive tractors and tow trailers. I was not a natural and often really struggled to adapt.

When storms raged through the valley and sluice gates were opened to control the volume in the dam, the river morphed into a wild, raging animal! Huge torrents of water roared downstream, demolishing all in its path. The noise would be deafening. Fear would instantly replace those quiet, idyllic mornings spent sitting on the bank, mesmerised by the stillness. I wouldn’t have to walk far from the house to see the deluge surging past at an alarming rate.

One year there had been a significant amount of rain and the lower fields surrounding the house were under water. My daughter was ten months old and I had just found out that I was expecting my son. I had driven back from the hospital ninety miles away and felt exhausted. I saw the police car outside our house and didn’t think much of it. We knew him well and he would often pop in for a coffee on his way back to the police station. I walked through the front door and was amazed to see that the sitting and dining rooms were empty. I couldn’t put my sleeping daughter in her cot. Her bedroom had also been stripped! I walked through the house to the back door and saw two tractors with trailers filled with our belongings!

Paul rushed over to me. ‘We have to leave the house within the hour. Sluice gates higher up the Vaal river in the next catchment area have been opened and the house is probably going to get flooded. They’re taking our possessions up to Jannie’s barn.’

I felt as if I’d been hit with a pole. ‘Where are we going to stay?’ It’s two and a half hours to your other farm. Are they expecting us?’

‘Stop fretting! We’ll go over the bridge and get there in half the time!’

I had recently driven over that bridge and the water was already a few inches deep. I mentioned this and Fanie, the policeman, backed me up when I voiced my concern.

‘Don’t risk the bridge,’ Paul, he said. ‘It’s not worth it.’

‘We’ll be fine. The pick-up is high enough to get through at least a foot of water. Beats another hour’s travelling!’

I was too tired to argue. I just hoped that the policeman was proved wrong! We set off after I had fed my daughter and I closed my eyes as the pick-up bounced along the uneven dirt roads.

We got to the bridge and slowed down. l opened my eyes and and saw that it was completely submerged.

‘Please turn around, ‘I pleaded. ‘It’s taking an unnecessary risk.’

‘We’ll be fine! Stop being such a coward!’

I closed my eyes and held my daughter tight. She must have sensed my anxiety because she began to cry,’ Soothing her, I found her dummy and gently rocked her.

We were half way across the bridge when the pick-up stalled. ‘Damn!’ Paul shouted as he turned the ignition off then on again. ‘C’mon. You can’t stop now!’ He tried again and again but to no avail.

It was then that I heard a dull roar, gradually getting louder. We didn’t have to say anything but knew that the wall of water would soon be upon us.

I saw Paul’s ashen face as he tried to restart the pick-up. ‘Damn you! C’mon! Start!’ Screaming in fear and frustration he banged both hands on the steering wheel.

I shouted above the din. ‘Should we get out and try to make our way to the bank?’

‘Too late, we have a better chance of survival staying where we are!’

The roar intensified. Nothing moved as time seemed to stand still. My daughter had fallen asleep and the frantic sucking on her dummy had ceased. I watched, spellbound, as a huge wave rushed towards us. I was prepared for the worst. I’d heard that drowning was one of the better ways to die. I looked down at my daughter, beautiful in my arms, fast asleep. I placed my hand on my stomach and quietly apologised to my unborn child. Leaning forward I held my daughter tightly in my arms. I prayed silently for strength and asked God to please not let my children suffer.

I vaguely heard another noise but didn’t take much notice.

‘Come on, come on, please keep going!’ Paul pleaded.

I opened my eyes just as we reached the end of the bridge. With his foot flat on the accelerator, Paul got the pick-up over the bridge and up the hill just as a gigantic wave rushed past us. It flung the pick-up sideways into the scrub on the side of the road. I hit my head hard against the door and cried out in pain.

Paul had fallen onto the steering wheel and knocked his head on the hooter. It sounded muffled against the tsunami as it crashed past us, engulfing everything in it’s path. After a few minutes Paul composed himself and we drove, without further incident and in silence, to the other farm safely away from any rivers.

Even though this happened many years ago, it’s a memory that is filed away but will never be forgotten. Life has moved on. I never did go back to the river as the farm was sold. I know, without doubt, that my prayer was answered that day and will remain eternally grateful. This traumatic experience has changed my life and made me very risk averse. But that’s a small price to pay. Miracles still do happen despite the foolhardy behaviour of others ! 👠

When I lived in South Africa and our children were still very young, we moved to a town in the Transvaal, about eighty miles from Johannesburg. My husband had started working for a large chemical company. We bought a lovely house and the children soon made friends at their new school. My husband used his previous scouting experience and took on the role of Scout Master. He was held in high esteem by both scouts and their grateful parents. I became known as the ‘Scout Master’s wife’. This was not ideal as I’d always been rather proud of my own identity! However, we soon became part of the local community which helped with the settling in process..

The first thing anyone noticed when arriving within a few miles of the town was the truly awful smell. Apparently it was a mixture of many different types of chemical processes, all, we were assured, completely innocuous! I was always convinced that it was a health hazard! When it rained and the wind blew in the ‘wrong’ direction, this hideous stench seeped into everything, hair, clothes, curtains, even our bedding! After a while, thankfully, we hardly noticed it. Our olfactory senses had became inured to the pong!

There was a very mixed society in this ‘new’ town.We were a varied bunch, hailing from all corners of the globe. The majority were South Africans but there were Brits, Dutch, Polish, Germans and even Mexicans and Egyptians, all cohabiting well together. I made some very good friends in the two and a half years we lived there.

But there was a darker side to this cosmopolitan community. A father shot his wife and two children and then turned the gun on himself. A mother gassed herself and her children in their car because she couldn’t live without her husband who had recently died. These children were in the same class as ours and this really affected them. Depression was common amongst both teenagers and adults. There were a number of suicides or attempted suicides. Looking back, sadly, there was little if any support and we just had to learn to ‘get on with it’!

One day a child found a charred finger in the playground. Many theories abounded, one of which was witch craft. This was quite a common practice amongst the indigenous people and accepted as part of their culture. My cleaning lady used to have her bed raised on bricks to protect her from the ‘Tokoloshe’.

The Zulu and Xhosa nation believed in this dwarf-like evil spirit. There were many descriptions of him, none pleasant. The common theme was that he was short, either a humanoid or a primate creature and very dangerous. Apparently he had a big head, large, bulging eyes and a small torso. Much like Gollum in ‘Lord of the Rings’. And he’d cause havoc wherever he went! He could become invisible by drinking water or swallowing a stone. If you had upset or annoyed someone they could call upon the Tokoloshe to wreak havoc on family and friends.

Another part of African culture that I discovered, was their belief in traditional healers or ‘Sangomas’. They are highly respected prophets and still form the backbone of many Bantu tribes. They connect to ancestors who give them healing powers. They work themselves up into a trance by dancing, drumming and chanting to allow the ancestor to take possession of their body. This offers the patient direct access to their family member. They get advice on health and well being and even marital or other family matters. Sangomas are often called on to neutralise the malevolent forces of witchcraft and to protect and exorcise the evil Tokoloshe.

My daughter befriended a lovely little girl who was in her class at school. Her mother invited me for morning tea. I was met with a very different kind of smell! Her sitting and dining room was filled with little bowls of drying flowers and herbs. She explained that she made healing potions as she was a ‘White Witch’ and had been able to help so many people. She was passionate about her ‘calling’ and I never felt threatened or uncomfortable in her company. I just found her ‘odd’.

So, after two and a half years I learnt how to play golf, ice cakes, did a writing course and lived the life of a lady of leisure. But it was time for my husband to move on. We went back to Johannesburg and a completely different lifestyle. I’ve never regretted taking that time out but I was ready to get back into the rat race and my old job again.

I learnt a lot about different cultures but realised that we are all very similar. We aspire to the same goals and aspirations. I felt lucky that I had been given this wonderful opportunity to meet such a diverse number of people and left the little town with mixed emotions. I never did return but my time spent there was not wasted and has not been forgotten! 👠

A while ago I explained the dilemma I have with access to our lofts. I shan’t recap for embarrassing personal reasons! But my husband’s insistence to sort out my endless bags of ‘stuff’ hasn’t gone away.

We needed to reach a compromise. There was no way I was going back up there! So, we agreed that my husband would go into the loft and I’d stand on the top rung of the step ladder and inspect the boxes, cases and bags which he’d bring to the entrance. But then I had an even better idea. Why not just bring down all the boxes containing shoes and clothing and I’d sort them out, once and for all! I’d be ruthless and give most of them to my daughter’s charity that she works for in Scotland.

The soft bags were thrown down, landing unceremoniously at the bottom of the step ladder. I moved them to one side and helped lift the heavier containers. Soon the landing had filled up and I had to start moving things into bedrooms. I was beginning to feel rather embarrassed so tried to push as many as possible out of view!

It reminded me of the day we moved into this house from the Wirral. The removal company did all the packing. Clothes were hung up in cardboard boxes and everything was clearly marked. We were moving from a four bedroomed house to a four bedroomed house so that was easy. We had taken the day off work and my son and parents-in-law had offered to help.

After the usual stressful exchange of contracts the keys were collected and the unloading could begin. For insurance purposes everything had to be unpacked and checked. We worked together as a good team downstairs and had unpacked all the glass and china by the time the bedrooms were being filled.

My mother-in-law and I went upstairs to start unpacking and that was when my nightmare began. Box upon box marked Mrs Burrell Clothes or Mrs Burrell Shoes began to fill the main bedroom. There were not enough cupboards and gradually no place to put the bed. I instructed the men to start using bedroom number two. I went downstairs to make tea and overheard two chaps laughing together.

‘Imelda Marcos wants us to start leaving her clothes boxes in bedroom number two. There’s still a load more to come so I bet bedrooms three and four will also be filled.’

‘I thought my wife was bad’! The other chap laughed. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this!’

Unfortunately I have my mother’s hoarding gene. Alas, I didn’t inherit her ‘careful with money’ gene which, according to my husband, would have been far more useful! So, back to the present. I open the first large plastic tub. Taking out a jacket I mutter, ‘This will probably be back in fashion next year’, I sigh. I mustn’t be too gung-ho! I’m a pensioner now and can’t justify spending money on fashion clothes!

I lay out two tops on the bed. They were quite tight and my style has changed. But, before anyone makes an assumption that I have probably gained weight, let me hastily clarify that this is not the case! I just prefer feeling comfortable! The tops went into the charity bag and the jacket remained on the bed. When the container had been emptied the bed was full and the charity bag virtually empty!

I felt very stressed and needed some direction. No one who isn’t a hoarder can understand the pain and suffering I felt looking at a jumper, holding it lovingly in my hands, full of happy memories! That jumper and I go way back. We have a history. It’s not just any old jumper! I looked around at the boxes, bags and plastic containers filling the spare bedroom and would have sat down on the bed if there had been any space! I felt emotionally drained!

This sounds dramatic but I was desperate! There was no way I could get my long suffering husband to take everything back up into the loft! I doubt he would have even considered it! Chaos does not worry him! He’d step over the ‘stuff’ in the hallway and ignore it! I would really struggle! Everything has its place and currently, these containers should be in the loft, out of sight and out of mind!

I sat on the floor, head in hands, feeling pathetic! I stared at one of the charity bags, empty, lying on the floor. Why was it so hard just to fill them and move on? Most of these clothes hadn’t been worn in years! I’ve not needed them so why would I suddenly need them now?

It was then that I remembered seeing Ukrainian women and children arriving in Poland with only the clothes on their backs. Guilt set in and I suddenly felt really mean! That jumper, and the many others, would bring them comfort and keep them warm. How could I deny those poor women that basic human right? I have enough in my cupboards to cope with any climate!

Guilt overcoming my hoarding addiction was not a miracle cure! I lapsed many times during that clear out and had to buy more clothes hangers. But I managed, embarrassingly, to fill seven charity bags. I’ve sealed them and left them in the spare bedroom. We’ll take them to my daughter on our next visit.

I’ve taken this first giant step. My cupboards are next! Not yet, but in the not too distant future! My husband is happy that the loft is emptier. I have been charitable and given away clothes and shoes that will be used instead of wasted. Giving and the satisfaction of knowing that I will make someone else’s life better is a good feeling. I’ll try and hold that thought when I start on my cupboards!👠

It’s been almost four years since I bought my Fitbit. It’s very basic and just gives me a step count and reports on how badly I’ve slept. I’ve not upgraded because the information he shares with me is ample for my requirements!

Fitbit complains when I don’t do some form of exercise every wakeful hour. He sends me rude messages when I’m sitting in a car or watching television. As I am writing this I have been told to feed him! A bit later he’ll get more explicit and tell me to get up and go for a walk!

A lot has changed in almost four years. That’s as long as I have been a lady of leisure! Yet my relationship with Fitbit has remained constant.My son linked him to my phone so he lets me know when I receive a text message. I can actually read the message on my arm! However, maybe if I rushed to find my phone I’d be getting steps!

Fitbit also rings to let me know that I am receiving a phone call. If I’m sitting in my office with my iPad, laptop and phone to hand, all four ring at the same time! The din is enough to waken the dead! And all I have to do is reach out and answer. Once more, no steps required! Own goal, Fitbit!

Initially I found him intimidating. Every day my main goal was to get ten thousand steps. If it rained or there was a reason why this couldn’t be achieved, the evenings would find me completing an indoor circuit around the house. This, alas, is a sad but true admission of the hold Fitbit has had on me!

My Yorkshireman husband would remind me to change my route so that I didn’t wear out the carpets! He also found this behaviour, even for me, over the top and regularly questioned my sanity! Running on the spot didn’t count. Fitbit wasn’t satisfied until I moved. Whether it be a slow shuffle or a run, it was immaterial.

And Fitbit can be mean. Very mean! On a number of occasions, just as I am about to retire to bed, his battery runs out. He uses a selective warning system. If it’s during the day, he’ll send me an email. While he’s getting recharged I can sit, uninhibited and guilt free! Steps can be made up and all is not lost! But, if it’s 11:00 o’clock at night and the step count shows 9,947, that is just downright cruel!

So, embarrassingly, I do appear to be ruled by a small black band on my arm. I don’t think I’m usually so gullible. Or is this the effect retirement can have on some people? Or maybe, as my husband has suggested, there is a deeper, more sinister reason? Therapy has been mentioned, but I’ve ignored that asinine comment!

I do really enjoy seeing the total steps I have walked every week. There is satisfaction in feeling the vibration on my arm when the daily ten thousand step count has been reached. That would mean that I have been active and burnt calories to counter my very healthy appetite! It’s good to get an idea of the hours I’ve slept. Or haven’t, which is usually the case! Anyway, that’s the reason why I take notice of Fitbit. It’s for my own good! Well, isn’t it?

Then I got covid and my energy levels plummeted! I felt constantly exhausted and apathetic! It was not good! And that was when my relationship with Fitbit changed forever! No matter how many messages he sent and the strange noises he made to attract my attention, there was nothing I could do to obey him! He would just have to learn to go without! The ignored messages on my arm became more insistent! Feed me, let’s go for a walk, easy peasy nice and easy, get up, let’s go! Messages I had never even seen before!

So, how did I feel when I ignored Fitbit? Slight panic at first because of my inactivity. My appetite had vanished. Just getting out of bed felt like a Herculaneum task! But, and this is the important bit, I stopped feeling intimidated! This was replaced by irritation and a constant reminder that I was doing nothing. Gaining confidence but also gaining weight!

I’ve survived covid and am sitting in the conservatory nursing a cup of tea. I get a message from Fitbit. I ignore him. I don’t even look at my arm. I feel empowered!

‘Starve, you greedy, useless machine’! I mutter beneath my breath. ‘Or why don’t you just go to sleep and never wake up’!

‘You’ve finally flipped’. I look up and see my husband staring at me. ‘I knew this would eventually happen. It was only a matter of time!’

With a flourish I release Fitbit’s strap and plonk him, unceremoniously, down on the table.

My husband finds this amusing. ‘And finally seen the light! Took you long enough!’

‘Watch it,’ I glare back at him. ‘Yes, I have seen the light and I’m on a roll. One down, one to go!’ 👠

After years of doing everything humanely possible to avoid catching covid, it tracked me down in Norway! Booking a cruise was always going to be a gamble! When we spoke to the travel agent early in February, everyone sailing needed proof of a negative PCR test. Unbeknown to us, this rule changed a month later. My husband and I printed copies of our vaccination status as backup but these weren’t needed either!

When we boarded the ship on a cold Monday evening, we discovered that were no open windows in any of the cabins despite showing photographs of balconies. All cabins were hermetically sealed. Deck six, the deck we were on, had the only external access around the ship but the doors shut as soon as you went outside. The dining area, lounges and bars were all indoors and temperature controlled. Comfortable and warm but a breeding ground for viruses!

The only precaution the staff insisted on was sanitising hands before meals. Breakfast and most lunches were self service. Coughing, sneezing and blowing of noses has a very short term effect on the efficacy of sanitised hands! No masks were required, or worn and everyone looked relaxed and filled with joie de vivre!

At the induction meeting we were asked to stay in our cabins if we felt unwell. As time progressed I heard more and more coughing. Initially I presumed these passengers were testing themselves so tried not to become too paranoid! Surely no one could have forgotten the serious and debilitating hardships experienced over the last couple of years? But there were people, not taking any precautions, clearly displaying symptoms of covid! Some were not looking very well at all!

We had booked a number of sight-seeing excursions which involved travelling in coaches. I was becoming more uncomfortable with these trips. My husband and I looked forward to seeing as much of Norway as we could. We hadn’t planned to spend every day on the ship! By the end of the second week, I cringed as I watched people coughing, most holding their hands to their mouths and then hanging onto chair handles for support! Paranoia was definitely setting in and the joy of these excursions were fading fast! When one was cancelled, due to bad weather, I breathed a sigh of relief and spent as much time on the outside deck as possible!

Last weekend, luckily back at home, my husband and I tested positive! Despite being fully vaccinated this virus has knocked us for a six! My energy levels have still not recovered. What has made me feel even worse is that I’ve had to miss the funeral of a dear friend.

There were a number of old and infirm people on the ship. Hopefully they have all survived! Covid is here to stay but everyone should continue taking precautions and show consideration for their fellow men! Sadly, too many just don’t care!👠