My mother-in-law

Mothers in law occasionally (!!) comes up as a topic of coversation among some of my friends.

It is beyond me why male comedians seem to poke fun at their wife's mother-in-law. I think my women friends, like me, will agree whole-heartedly that there is nothing on earth worse than the mother of your husband, especially if you have married the only or favourite or most useful son. (Mine was the latter)

In point of fact my partner got on very well with my mother, and she loved him to bits. Even my father was heard to refer to me, his daughter, as his son-in-law's wife. Now is not the post to dissect that one.

Moving swiftly on to my infamous MiL. My first words to her were over the 'phone when I was in Australia and we had decided to get married. (Married to my partner, not my MiL, heaven forbid). I don't remember anything terrible about that, so let's move on to her first bout of interference.

We got married in a Register Office in Sydney. Neither of us is/was religious, and we weren't into show. Getting married was for us, quite simple really. We invited two obligatory witnesses and had three gate-crashers. My parents didn't come/chose not to come, and luckily the MiL couldn't either.

Happily married and ensconced in our little flat in Potts Point, we received a letter from her one day. Telling us how she was going to organise a church blessing and a party for us when we got back. Knowing what I do of her now, I'd be surprised if she was going to pay for it. And anyway, it's not the role of the mother of the bridegroom to go around organising stuff. That would have been the prerogative of my parents, who, luckily weren't stupid enough to suggest it. MiL didn't give up lightly.

In the end Partner told her in no uncertain terms that we had absolutely no interest in a church blessing or a party, and she had better not lift a finger to organise a cup of tea - let alone anything else - because we certainly wouldn't be attending.

That first attempt to interfere should have rung warning bells. Maybe it did. When we first met, she looked me up and down, and said, in a very pronounced South Wales accent, "Well, you're a skinny rabbit aren't you?" Possibly I was. Almost certainly I was, but "Hello, daughter-in-law, how lovely to meet you and welcome to the family," might have been a nicer greeting.

What should I call her? "You can call me Mam, or Our Mam," which is what all her children called her. But I noticed her son-in-law called her by her name. She wasn't my mother and I wasn't going to call her Mam. She got her name when I called her anything to her face.

Next up, we have moved to a rented place in Herts just north of Watford. MiL lived further north, we were probably equidistant between her and Watford. One evening she rings up and declares she wants to go to Watford Market the next day. Er why?

What Partner was instructed to do, was to drive up to collect her, then back (past our house) and on into Watford. Followed by a traipse around the shops with her, dutifully carrying all shopping, no doubt paying for coffee at a caff, and then piling her and and shopping into MY car, set off on the return journey past our house, up to hers and finally back to ours. Get the picture?

Hello MiL, how about you ring up saying YOU are driving to Watford and would one of us like picking up? She did drive and had her own car. Dear reader, alarm bells were def ringing on this one. I could see no logical reason for my partner to take my car to his mother's and drive however many miles out of the way when she was more than capable of driving herself.

The words CONTROL, POWER, DOMINANCE, MANIPULATION, sprung to mind. After - amazingly - a reasoned discussion that evening, he agreed to ring her in the morning and explain that sadly he was no longer free to do the Watford shopping run.

Then there was the bags of coal story. By now we had moved to our own house. She had been down to visit her mother in South Wales, and came back with a couple of bags of coal that were no longer needed.

Did she take them home and ring to ask us to collect them? The woman who couldn't drive herself to Watford? Of course not. She was with a friend, and they just happened to be passing our new house - which she had not yet been invited to, I may add. She happened to be passing 20 miles or so north of her own house, on the way back from Wales.

I think she needed a GPS because there was no way our house was remotely on the route between her place and Wales. At all. Nosy old MiL couldn't resist an excuse to come and sticky beak around our house. Like hell. I called Partner from whatever he was doing and he met her at the door, thanked her for the coal and sent her on her way. She didn't get across the threshold. In fact she never did.

Nor did she get to the second house either. But the third one ..... this was where Her Majesty was allowed to visit. I don't know what came over me. We were of course, living in the best part of the city, although in a small terraced house. We hadn't been in long, but we invited her up for autumn. We put a bed in the small bedroom, and tidied it up for her arrival. She was scheduled to stay a week I think.

I did the dutiful DiL thing as best I could. It included carting her over to the Lakes when I had a business meeting so she could traipse around some twee town and enjoy the scenic journey. I cooked for us. We were vegetarian by then. One day I came in from work and she was ensconced in the kitchen - she had decided she wanted cauliflower cheese and had bought a cauli and was preparing to cook. Well, she couldn't cook for shit. Her sprouts were soggy as hell because she put those stupid crosses in them, her gravy was undiluted salt, and any meat she ever cooked was virtually cinders. I quailed. And took over the cooking. Bloody cheek anyway taking over my kitchen without asking. Imperious dragon.

But she obviously liked something about the trip, apart from the cheap shopping trolley that she bought up the high street as a souvenir. Shortly before leaving, she announced that she could live with us in the small room (well until she took over ours no doubt). "I can just bring a few knick knacks, a couple of bits of furniture and install myself here." I was rather diplomatic in those days. Well sort of. I didn't actually say "Fuck. Right. Off. Mother-in-Law."

I developed paranoia about the descent of the MiL demanding permanent residency status. Apart from anything else, she had three other kids who all lived within a stone's throw of her down south. Why in hell did she want to come and live with us? I'm an only child and had both parents at that time, but clearly one would probably be left and it would have first call on being looked after. Not the MiL. Go live with your own daughter or your other two sons.

She announced her next visit would be at Easter. JFC, how much furniture and knick-knacks would she be bringing? And anyway, I didn't want to entertain my bloody MiL at Easter. Just wait until you are asked (not that she would be again).

Partner rang her back and patiently told her we would not be around. It seemed she had some friends visiting the area and she had cadged a lift (she seemed to make a habit of it where possible). Well she could damn well uncadge it.

By now, I was beginning to get the measure of her, say seven years into the marriage. I figured she'd turn up anyway. Partner wasn't so sure. I mean, why would your mother turn up on your doorstep when you had told her point blank you wouldn't be around? Nevertheless he agreed to my precautionary measures.

We stole out of the house incredibly early, bustled the dogs into the car, and escaped up the coast. We stayed out all day and got rather hungry although we had some lovely dog walks on the beach. Eventually, we headed for home. We pulled into the back street to put the car in the garage. Then we went into the garden through the back gate and sneaked into the house through the back door.

I had visions of her sitting on the front doorstep complete with bags, baggage, knick knacks and furniture. I had left the curtains pulled so she wouldn't see us in the house if indeed she had turned up. I ran through scenarios in my head about sending her on her way in a taxi. I skulked up the stairs to 'HER' bedroom to peep out of the window. The coast was clear. I breathed the biggest sigh of relief.

As I walked leisurely down the stairs I glanced through the glass door into the porch. There was something on the floor. Shit! I picked up a letter. In her handwriting. Oh yes, the old dear had honestly had the balls to turn up. I knew she would.

It seemed she was embarrassed. She had told her friends that she was coming to stay with us over Easter. But when they turned up we weren't there. (No, we said we wouldn't be - did you tell your friends that one too?). Can't remember what happened after that. I think she ponced some accommodation from the friends of the friends before they all went back down south again.

Not long afterwards there were snotty letters, snotty 'phone calls, general family interference, and Partner got sick of it. He stopped speaking to her.

Fast forward to a couple of years ago, and he spoke to his sister expressing his condolences on the death of her daughter, his niece. 'Oh, it's your wife's fault that you and mum aren't speaking isn't it?' said Big Sis. 'No,' said Partner patiently, 'Mum and I fell out about something else'.

See, the miserable woman had clearly told all the family that everything was my fault. Well, fuck her. Because you know what, we didn't even get a frigging wedding present from her. Or Christmas presents. Or birthday presents (not as though she could forget mine, given that it is the day after Partner's).

Just forgotten the Mother's Day tale. Partner and I don't do Mother's Day. We didn't do it separately before we met, and we didn't do it afterwards. We both figured - before we met each other - that we did enough for our mothers all year round and we were damned if were going to pay through the nose for flowers and buy a silly card. We agreed, on marriage, to continue with this policy.

What happened when we visited his mother's a few days after the dreaded Mother's Day? There was a bloody card signed by my Partner. I was not pleased. When we got home I tackled him. He swore blind he hadn't sent one. So was I supposed to believe that she had dragged out a card from many many years previously, dusted it off, and displayed it so that people wouldn't think he hadn't sent one? Well, knowing her as I came to do, I could easily believe that.

I think that's the lot. Hope it brought a smile to someone's face somewhere. If not my MiL. I lied. There is more. My MiL's generosity knows no bounds. When we first turned up on her doorstep for the Big Reunion after getting married in Aus, she offered us a drink. Well not straightaway. In fact, I think when she offered tea, Partner asked for a beer. She frowned. "What would you like to drink?" she asked me and pointed to her drinks cabinet. "But you can't have the brandy. That's mine." Just as well I didn't like brandy wasn't it?

That same trip, we were naturally sleeping on the floor in the sitting room. One night she was going out with the new old husband, ie it was her third marriage. This was to her second husband who she had married twice because they had got divorced at one point. Sort of like Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. Maybe not quite like them. "Don't take too much money" she instructed poor FiL. "And don't go buying people drinks." We had a nice peaceful night in. Partner's gran was staying too, and took a bottle of lemonade to bed. Presumably to combat the salty food.

Some time near midnight the reckless party animals came in. MiL plonked herself down on the sofa, next to our sleeping bags on the floor and started blethering away. Jeez! Just shut up and clear off to bed. Suddenly she said "Isn't the ticking of that clock annoying you?" "NO!" shouted Partner. "Just the sound of your voice." She went to bed then.

However, we could have stayed there for some time. Unemployed, on the dole, and looking for work. Naturally we would have to pay board to sleep on the floor in the sitting room, accompanied by the noisy clock. We went back to my parents where we had our own room, and didn't pay board.

Sadly, some years later the FiL died. He was a nice guy. We went to his funeral in South Wales. See previous funeral post. MiL had done her usual trick of buying and selling council houses which she always got housed in because she had a registered disability and now had a small two-bed council house back in SW. She had one of the bedrooms. Her sister had been staying with her and had the other bedroom but come the day of the funeral and the advent of the guests, she cleared off to her own place. That left a bedroom free. The guests were us, one of Partner's brothers, and two friends of FiL. Who got the double bed? Well not us. Not the oldest bloke either (nice guy). Just some bloke who no-one else knew. The rest of us slept on the floor.

But the real issue was our two dogs. They HAD to sleep in the cupboard. Huh? Dogs sleeping in cupboards. Locked up in a tiny space?? We didn't rock the boat. Waited for everyone to go to sleep, aka the grieving window, and the guy in the double bed, and then the four conspirators - us, the younger brother, and the guy sleeping on the floor - let the dogs into the sitting room with us. The brother and the older guy didn't have a problem with the dogs so why the hell were they in the cupboard? In the morning we popped them into the porch and told MiL they had been out for a walk.

The dogs of course, were an issue at the wonderful future residence never-to-be of the MiL. When she came to stay, she insisted on waving her hands in the air at the dogs. We said this wasn't a good idea. Being dogs, they thought she had food for them. And jumped up. And knocked her over. So. Don't. Do. It. And don't blame the dogs. It is your fault, their home, and we have explained why they are doing it. Don't wave your bloody hands around.

Then there was the Cardiff trip. We were still in nice mode and Partner had gone to do up yet another of her council houses in South Wales. I arrived somewhat later by train to stay for a few days and travel back with him. It was our birthday week. MiL offered us her car for the day. My birthday. 'We can just pop into town, check on the curtains, blah blah boring blah, do this that and the other, take me back home, and then you can go to Cardiff.' ('Can you just?' should be written on her gravestone, 'Before you go, can you just ... rehang the toilet door, fix the toilet seat, hang the mirror, paint the wall - you name it.') I could see the day evaporating. And did I want to spend my birthday in boring local Welsh town following MiL around? Did I hell. And did I care about going to Cardiff in a Land Rover? MiL might have thought her Volvo was better but I didn't give a toss. We took the Land Rover to Cardiff and left her to her own devices. It was a very nice day. I liked Cardiff. I also liked not spending the day with my MiL.

Now, I really really think that is it. No husbands were harmed in the writing of this post. He has read it and corrected a couple of points. We both had a laugh remembering crap from the past. Lesson to MiLs. Don't fight battles you can't win.

Blogging and commenting and stuffs

I really can't manage to post doom and gloom endlessly so here is something rather more banal. Although not to the blogging community. Friend B posted on facebook about people who read and comment, and specifically about those who regularly read and don't comment. Ages ago, I would regularly read my statistics. Invariably the dog blog got the most hits. And, the hits on the other blogs often came via the dog blog and it was often easy to work out who the readers probably were because of the correlation with the general location and the ISP (partly dependent on whether or not it was dynamic). Some left comments on my personal blogs and others didn't. The Land Rover blog is an exception as that gets loads of hits through search engines. So we'll ignore that one for the purpose of this post. Now, I appreciate the comments from my dog blogging friends both on here and on Itchy Feet, and rarely read the stats any more. Some had/have personal blogs of their own and others didn't. And, although they didn't comment on every post, and some commented infrequently, their comments were invariably sensible and thoughtful. As, for example, have been some of the recent ones on my 'party' and 'funeral' posts. For those of you not in the FB loop, the discussion looked at the etiquette of blogs, commenting, following, adding to blogrolls etc. You all know the sort of thing. But always worth a repeat and a discussion because things move on. And so does technology and so does etiquette - although probably not as fast as technology. So for what it's worth, here are my views on blogs and commenting and following and blogrolling and all the rest of it. I appreciate all comments on my blogs apart from abusive, manipulative and offensive ones. A discussion is ok, scoring points is not. My blog, remember that? If you don't like what I write, don't read it. I also realise that some people are not happy commenting on blogs, don't know what to say, don't have enough time, or quite simply, can't comment if they are at work. I totally admire the ones who not only blog every day or every other day, but get round a zillion other blogs and comment too, and it is not the same comment they leave on each blog. I can't do that. I like it when those of you who don't comment - at all, or very often - at least write and tell me that you do read my posts and find them interesting. Thank you. Someone did that this week, and I appreciated it. Now, why don't I comment on other people's blogs? Well, like everyone, I may read, intend to do it and then forget or get distracted. Or I have nothing to say. Classic examples here are boring posts about your kids going to school (sorry, just alieniated all my parental readership) or mindless photos. Photoblogs invariably have a load of comments on the lines of 'What a wonderful image dahling.' My comment would add no value. Even if I could recognise a wonderful image, dahling. So it's a good image. So what? Better off posting on a camera forum and having a discussion. Or, and this is an interesting one - it may feel too cliquey. I have seen blogs with hundreds of thousands of comments (OK hundreds anyway) where people are fighting to comment to get in with the in-crowd. Dear, dear me. I know most of my regular commenters from other places, our comments may well sound cliquey on each others' blogs. When I have visited other peoples' blogs and everyone seems to be partying on together I am loathe to leave a comment. Which leads me onto the next aspect. Making new contacts - and either a) you forget to get back to them or b) you make a comment on theirs and they don't comment on yours, or don't add you to their blogroll. Or whatever. Followers. One of Blogger's worst ideas. Sounds like sheep or lemmings. I am neither. I will still add people to my list, because truth is, I find it easier to scroll down someone else's list looking for a good read than looking at a crappy follower link. Thank you to those who follow me and/or add me to your blogroll. Blogrolls. As you will have guessed, this suits me more. I obviously don't do new-fangled stuff so I am stuck with blogrolling friends. If and when they want. But I don't chuck people off if they don't add me, and I don't delete them if they stop commenting. While there is some mutuality in blogging, I add - or don't add - what I choose, to my blog. That's probably avoided the crux of the etiquette question. Do unto those etc. Well honestly there isn't time. Not in my life anyway, which is why I admire the ones I mentioned above who find time to blog and comment regularly while still in work and running homes. I don't think there is a need to reply to every comment on my blogs. But sometimes, I like to thank people for their comments on a sensitive post, or reply to questions or points. I have no idea how many people come back to see if there is a reply to their comment. Equally it seems a bit tat to go back to someone else's blog and derail their subject by answering over there - but it so depends on the subject, and how well you 'know' the blogger. A couple of thoughts to leave you with. Thanks again to those who comment regularly or infrequently, or let me know elsewhere that you read my blog. One small reason for liking comments on the blog is that it keeps the discussion - when there is one - in the same place. Having it split between facebook and blogs is difficult. I'm probably the only one who sees all of it. Not everyone who reads my blogs is a facebook friend. I have probably not caught up with some people and I am sorry for that. Actually I know I haven't. And the most important one is, that if you blog, or even comment on blogs, you do what you feel comfortable with without feeling pressurised while at the same time respecting fellow bloggers. And that means to people who do regularly read either this or any other blog, without ever commenting, it would be nice to occasionally say why you are reading. There endeth the homily for today. Except to say, to anyone who is interested, that the person from the UK who found my post so interesting that they clicked on the email linky thingy never did comment. But did I expect them to? Just thought you may all want to know. Blog life huh?

Funerals

I thought Death and Bereavement would be a suitable next topic in the new gloomy stories series, but to write that one, I have to set a bit of context first.

Not really sure when I first encountered death per se. Probably Great Great Aunt Ellen who was an ancient Victorian relic. I think I saw her once at some family tea party, was ushered over for my brief audience with Queen Victoria Great x 2 Aunt Ellen, and then ushered away again when my childish presence failed to amuse. And at some point she disappeared.

A few great aunts and uncles started to fall by the wayside, but my grandmothers were probably the first close relatives I remember dying. I think I was in my early teens and pre-occupied with my own adolescence so I don't remember any huge drama or feeling any great sense of loss. Or maybe I just have a poor memory.

Their deaths were accompanied with long grave faces and much officiousness from my parents. It was all very solemn and serious. I felt however, that in attending my first funeral, that of one of my grandmothers - who I had spent a lot of time with, one of them lived with us, both did at one point - I would be marking a rite of passage towards adulthood. It was not to be. My mother said very firmly that funerals were not a place for children and she had no intention of me going. Dejection. So much for growing up. I went back to my metaphorical corner where little girls were seen and not heard.

Needless to state when the second grandmother died a couple of years later, the same story was trotted out. The youngest of my great uncles died and - you've guessed it. Not a place for children, even though I was by then at university. His widow died a few years later, actually on the day I was travelling back from my stint as a bridesmaid which some of you will have read about elsewhere. I was 24. There 'was no need' apparently, for me to attend my great aunt's funeral either.

At this point I realised the only funerals I was ever likely to attend were my own, and those of my parents. Assuming they didn't put a caveat in their wills saying that their funerals were not a place for their little girl.

Salvation came at work. There I was happily bashing away at some story or other when the news editor assigned me to cover a funeral. I nearly blurted out 'But gosh! I've never been to a funeral. I don't know what to do. How will I cope?' I didn't. I was of course, aged a mere 30 at this point. I went home to change into something more respectful and funereal. Or what I thought was respectful and funereal given that I didn't actually know. My father invariably wore his black and stripes, and KT tie, and my mother wore a rather mumsy grey velvet suit whenever they went to the mysterious and secret events called funerals that weren't for little girls.

I slipped into the back of the church. It was bursting at the seams. A couple of local police officers nodded at me. I should explain that this was no ordinary funeral of a local dignitary. Oh no. My parents' over-protective behaviour in shielding me from the horrors of funerals had resulted in my first funeral being that of a murder victim. It was a very sad and horrible crime. The old woman concerned had been brutally killed, hit over the head as I remember, by a young woman (and/or her boyfriend) who had rented a room from her previously, and was running a bit short of cash. What a terrible way to die. I don't think I embarrassed myself any more than normal. A few tears dripped down my cheeks as the cortege went past and my over-active imagination pictured the woman's last moments. I was told to write as much as I could about it, so I filled most of the page and got a by-line and page lead.

Shortly afterwards, and while still working on the same paper, my partner's step-father died. Fortunately the news editor was sympathetic and gave me two days special leave. It was pretty impossible to get down to South Wales, attend the funeral, and back in a day. This was another eye-opener and exceedingly well done - to my inexperienced eyes of course.

I have very little good to say about my mother-in-law but she certainly arranged a class event. There were two cars for family. I could see a problem with this straightaway. There was the widow (the MIL), the four children (one of which was my partner), the husband and two children of the daughter, me, and the girlfriend of one of the sons. There was also the brother of the deceased and his wife and some other relatives on the same side. Even back then relations between me and the MIL were not exactly cordial. I had visions of her saying ' Well you can just go in the second car while I travel in style with my children in front.' Or maybe tell me to walk. Or whatever. The husband and the two children agreed to go separately.

That still left the thorny issue of who went in the first car, and who got allocated to the second one. MIL inclined herself graciously towards me. 'You will, of course, come in the front car with us.' I nearly fell over. The girlfriend, on the other hand, was relegated. Either to the second car, or she went with the husband and kids. On arrival at the church, MIL reminded me that I must go in the front pew with the family. Dear me. Whatever had come over her?

I should say that I had liked her husband. He was as nice and easy-going as she was unpleasant and cantankerous. It was another full house (ie church), packed with South Walians. And unsurprisingly, some exceptionally good singing. The spread afterwards was held at the brother's house. That was amazing too. His wife (who had the most lovely singing voice during the service) must have been baking for the previous week. The kitchen table was heaving with beautiful cakes and loads and loads of food. And as people chatted and relaxed I realised the ham tea after the service wasn't just a bite to eat. It gave people who hadn't seen each other for some time, chance to catch up, and it provided a more gradual way to get rid of the tension and emotion surrounding the funeral. (Needless to state my parents did not make a habit of attending ham teas after funerals). So at the age of 31, I had finally attended my first family funeral, even if it was the stepfather of my partner.

The next one was another sad work-related one, this time in the health service. There I was, sitting in my office just after eight o'clock, I think it was the first day back after the New Year break. The 'phone rang and it was one of my manager colleagues from the teaching hospital. One of the surgeons had died in a ski-ing accident during the holiday, leaving a widow and two young children. He was talented, young, conscientious, helpful, and had an excellent clinical reputation. We worked closely on a number of cancer-related issues, and he was the sort who would always go the extra mile, contribute whatever he could, and generally brought an awful lot to the service. When I asked him to do a presentation for an evening session I had organised for GPs, he made a superb effort, and his talk was the highlight of the evening. What a loss.

The funeral was the following week. As it was winter, it was freezing. I had a black suit, hat, and gloves, but no black coat. I had a brown one, and a Barbour. It fell to me to represent the authority as well as to turn up on a personal basis. I needed to buy a black coat. I poured through a couple of catalogues I had - but no black coats. Or none that could be sent in time. The following Saturday was spent going around the shops looking for a decent black coat that would pass muster in front of hundreds of consultant surgeons. I should point out that the main role of the authority was as scapegoat for anything and everything. Lack of presence at meetings was always criticised. Not turning up to a funeral would be bleated about forever. Turning up in the wrong clothes would probably be worse.

I found a decent coat. Luckily. Perhaps it should be an interview question. 'Are you prepared to spend all day Saturday traipsing around the shops and buy a black coat for £400 if you need to go to the funeral of a work colleague?' And when I got to the church, was I ever glad I had done. There wasn't a person there in any other colour apart from black. If the other two funerals I had been to were packed, this was jam-packed doubly. And it was a BIG church.

There can't have been a clinic running that morning as surgeons, physicians, nurses, GPs, admin staff, radiologists, radiographers - you name it - filled the pews. A group of medics who I worked with squashed themselves up so I could join them in the pew, otherwise I would probably have been standing at the back. I think we sang Jerusalem. Or at least I did until my voice faltered in the second verse and I had to shut up. Tough managers don't break down in church in front of all the city's health service staff.

Afterwards, the widow and children stood in the freezing snow and ice outside the church receiving all the guests (or whatever it's called). Another first. I'd only seen that one done at weddings. I shook hands dumbly - what the hell do you say? I couldn't think of anything. My colleague did, 'Terrific guy,' she said sincerely. 'Thank you,' said the widow.

There we have it. Three funerals by the age of 40. One for my in-laws, and two sad work-related ones.

And the whole point of this amazingly interesting saga is that it serves absolutely no purpose at all in shielding children/ teenagers/adults from death and funerals. It is a part of life, and it would be better to introduce them naturally as and when they happen.

Because it has to be said that going on your own to cover the funeral of a murder victim isn't exactly the best intro. Thanks mum and dad for yet another whacky decision in my upbringing.

A fool's tale

It is, as people know, the custom for journalists to write spoof stories on 1 April. I remember colleagues vying with each other to write the most ridiculous stories possible.

At the same time, these crazy stories had to have a grain of truth in them somewhere, or at least, to be potentially credible. A spaceship landing in the market place was a bit too obviously fictitious. But this is not going to be one of those sort of tales. In my characteristically unconventional fashion, I shall buck the trend and write a serious post.

Chatting with a friend a few weeks ago, I realised that I paint a somewhat rosy picture of my life, flitting backwards and forwards between two homes in the sunshine as a lady of leisure without a care in the world. Perhaps that is the Public Relations Manager in me coming out, presenting the good side of life. Or perhaps I think it is more interesting and rewarding to write about. Still, in an attempt to redress the balance, I propose to write a series of gloomy posts. Naturally these will cover the usual issues - money, health ie ill-health, relationships, friendships, work, unemployment, death and bereavement of course, crime, bureaucratic nightmares, redundancy - what have I left off the list? Oh yes, divorce. I can't manage that one, although there have been occasions when it could so easily have made the list. The sunny posts will continue of course, on Itchy Feet.

So where to start? Perhaps with something that has had a disproportionate effect on me. I was flicking through some old emails - if one can flick through emails - and enjoying reading them. I'd forgotten the content of so many of them, just had a hazy reminder of a - mostly - enjoyable exchange. It was rather like looking at old photos, you don't realise how much you forget until you look back at something tangible.

I was obviously in a ghastly nostalgic mood, sadly thinking 'all in the past, there'll be no more of that again, ever.' Now if I was dishing out really helpful practical advice to someone in the same position, it would be on the lines of 'Do snap out of it. This person has made it clear they no longer have any interest in you. Enjoy the memories if you want, but realise that's exactly what they are. If someone's ended a friendship, accept it, go forth and find new friends, and stop wishing things were different.' Or some such crap.

But whoever takes their own advice? A number of friends have complimented me on my level-headed practical approach to problems they have had. Thanks for that, although I don't think I said anything more valuable than anyone else could have done. If it helped though, I'm pleased. I've also received some excellent and sound comments from people on here. It's easy to look at someone else's problems and give advice when you are cold and objective and not involved in the situation. Not so easy when you are in the midst of it.

Advice is the wrong word. One I don't like. It smacks of 'I know better than you, so why don't you do what I say?' I hope whenever I have suggested anything to someone that they didn't take it as bossy advice. Option appraisal on the other hand I can live with. I considered it a rather high-faluting management term when I first met it, but now, everything is subject to option appraisal. Even the tiniest domestic situation - which causes problems in itself but this isn't the time for that gloomy post. At least it prevents a knee-jerk reaction doing the first thing that comes into your head. And I have realised with age, that time to think can bring different solutions. Or options.

I used to like pros and cons lists. When I was considering getting married, I cleared off to New Zealand for a holiday and happily made out the list. The cons list was longer but I still got married. At least the (short) exercise had given me chance to think through the implications. Option appraisals are even better though. You get to do a P&C list for every option.

So what options do I have in mind? Well I could snap out of it (as above). That would be a good idea. It hasn't worked so far, but maybe one day? I forgot the classic one to start with - Option 1 is always Do Nothing. But no, I don't think that will serve. It's relying on time, and how long will that take? I could waste even more time reading endless emails from the past and indulging in maudling and totally unproductive sentimentality. I could continue bleating about it on here. Wah! Wah! Someone doesn't want to be friends with me! Maybe not. I have other things to write about on here.

But I could start a new blog using those millions of old emails. Sort of like 84 Charing Cross Road. Or as I wouldn't be publishing the other side, maybe more like Letters from a Fainthearted Feminist. Most appropriate. What I really want to do is pick and choose some good bits and write about them rather than copying them. And maybe a few not-so-good. Then it becomes more 'Emails I've written, never meaning to send,' with apols to the Moody Blues. A blog with draft emails that I could write, wanting to share them with the one person who would understand them - and because he doesn't want me to contact him again, ever - I could never send them. A one-sided conversation in fact. No-one to answer me back or tell me off or criticise me or misunderstand me. Maybe I would get so bored with that I might even snap out of my soppy nostalgia.

If I was doing my level-headed approach to a friend, I would probably only offer two options. Option 1 - The snap out of it one. Option 2 - Or if you want to do something and try to salvage something, send a mail saying you think there has been a misunderstanding, and explain why. Then you have two further choices - either say it might be nice to contact each other occasionally (birthdays, Christmas and New Year?), or at least to agree to part on more civil terms than the last acrimonious exchange. And what are the disadvantages of that option? Well, you don't know if your ex-friend would even read the mail, let alone reply. You could get yet another cold rejection or no reply at all. You could be lucky and get a nice response. Unlikely, but hey you would have made the effort.

Would I do that? Would I hell. Because every time I think about it, I remember those last words he wrote and my fingers freeze up. So dear readers, if you have got this far, I shall not be taking my own sound advice. But I may start a new blog. All interested readers who need something soporific can let me know if they want the url, either on here or on facebook.

One of our neighbours in Spain stopped by the other day to tell us her younger brother had died. Four months from diagnosis to death (from cancer). News like that always seems to put apparently petty squabbles into perspective.

And yet ...... ever still seems such a long time to me. More fool me. And not just an April one.

ETA: Thanks to Bren for posting this sad but so relevant poem on her blog here

My own fault

I have taken the last post down. The reason for that is nothing to do with the content but because I noticed someone had clicked onto the 'send an email' link. It's the only one of my blogs that had permissions enabled to do that, and that was my fault however it happened, so I have now changed the settings. I really don't like the idea of people mailing my posts around the place, particularly if they don't comment and I don't know who they are. So to whoever it was from the UK, if you find my post so riveting that you consider mailing it to someone else, I would appreciate you possibly telling me exactly what was so interesting by leaving a comment. And if you don't want me to publish it you can mention that in your comment. Thank you. As I said on the previous one though, have a good weekend people.

To party or not to party?

Some of my friends will know that I am considering a trip to the UK later this year. In a few months to be more precise. I say - 'considering'.

A week ago I received a surprise invitation from a very old friend, I mean I have know her for more than 30 years, rather than that she is ancient and decrepit. Both her and her husband are two of my friends from university. Since my sole remaining schoolfriend dropped off the map a couple of years ago, my university friends are my longest standing relationships.

There is something unique about the relationship that you built up with people so long ago in that period when you all first leave home, well, in term-time anyway. You spend three years in each others' company virtually every day, and after you have graduated you keep in touch and visit them for overnight stays.

Thirty years on and with far less contact you probably have very little in common except those first three years together, but it's still nice to see each other from time to time.

So, the invitation is to visit the UK in June for a house-warming. I say house-warming, but from the photo I have seen, mansion-warming would be more appropriate. And I am, of course, welcome to stay with them. In fact for his 40th birthday party in London, they not only put us up, but also our two dogs, in spite of the fact they had a couple of cats at the time. Whenever I have visited London - I have always been welcome to stay with them. And not usually just a night's kip - a visit to the theatre, restaurants, mutual friends invited around invariably got thrown in as well.

This is the couple for whom I was bridesmaid more than 25 years ago. I've spent time working with her on an archaeology dig when we rented a flat together, and we've been youth hostelling together. Would I specifically visit the UK for anything - or anyone - else? Unlikely. But we go back years with a lot of shared experiences, and sometimes that means a lot. And if that gives me an opportunity to visit the people I don't know, who I have pretty regular contact with on the internet, I think that would be good too. It's looking like a good plan and a nice trip.

So where is the dilemma? In my head obviously, although that probably goes without saying.

Let's start with the house-warming. It occurred to me, as I was thinking about it wandering to the shops (a very good time for pondering life's dilemmas) that I wouldn't know anyone else at the party. Our social circles are at extreme ends, if that's not a mixed metaphor. In fact I don't have one, so that's easy.

I started to play through in my head the typical sort of conversations that you have at these functions with people who you don't know. Stranger - 'What do you do then?' Me - 'Nothing.' Embarrassing pause. When one does nothing, one is expected to be busy doing nothing. You can't just do 'nothing.' I can. I can do nothing amazingly well. The art of being an only child is to ensure one is never bored with one's own company. And I am not. You should be busy doing voluntary things, or working on a consultancy basis, or at least dabbling at something to justify your existence. I could say that I hung wallpaper last week with my partner. 'Oh, so you're an interior designer then?' (says Stranger, vaguely interested in arty work). 'No. He's a painter and decorator.' Now this is where the non-existent conversation goes even further downhill. When mixing in fashionable middle-class professional and arty circles, confessing that one's partner is a skilled tradesperson is akin to sticking a pig's head in the mosque.

Perhaps I should play the game and tell them that I went to university with the hosts, have a Master's degree, a qualification in journalism and my last job was being in charge of cancer services for half a million people. Well the last one's a turn off to start with. Who wants to talk about cancer at a party? The journalism might get me a couple of points. Then they would want to know why I wasn't successfully writing loads of freelance stuff, or a really exciting book about my time abroad. I would like to know that too.

Having exhausted the work convo, the next inevitable one is ... or in fact perhaps it might have preceded the work convo given that I am a woman ... 'How many children do you have/what are they doing/where are they/blah meaningless blah questions about kids?' 'I don't have any children.' I could go further and say, 'I never wanted any.' We are now all but dead in the water and haven't even been chatting five minutes, so Stranger comes up with one last effort.

'You must have pets then?' (despairingly). I can actually answer yes to that one. I can tell him/her that we rescued a stray Spanish dog off the streets in our village. They can tell me about their pedigree Bichon Frise or Burmese cat which cost them a small fortune to buy. I can tell them about our dog nearly dying from tick disease and watch them squirming in front of me. At that point they would definitely see one of their old friends on the other side of the room and excuse themselves.

Of course, there may be other potential conversations that haven't worked themselves out in my head yet.

Moving swiftly onto meeting up with internet pals. Now, there is a decent handful of nice people within an acceptable radius of London. There is another decent group of people in Scotland but I haven't factored Scotland into the visit, so I'm sticking with the south (east).

But how to do it? Should I announce a date and hold court at King's Cross/Euston/Liverpool Street/Paddington or whatever main-line station would be most convenient for everyone or easily reached? That would give everyone the chance to meet each other as well as me. Or, should I plan an itinerary and travel around meeting up for a couple of hours with each person, and find myself nearby youth hostels? I think they still take 50-year-olds.

People who I have never met have already offered me accommodation. I don't know what to say, to say that I am touched sounds inadequate. I certainly appreciate people's willingness to open up their homes to a total stranger. It's the sort of thing you do when you are young and travelling around the world, but at 50? I can't even offer the favour back as we have a one-bed flat (without a bed), and a sofa for the dog. It's pretty tight on space.

And then, what about the whole food thing? If anyone doesn't know by now, I'm vegetarian. That doesn't mean I eat fish either. Having said that, everyone who has ever cooked for me has gone out of their way to ask what I did/didn't eat. Even the most obnoxious mother-in-law in the world bought a few veggie things from the supermarket. The only one who refused to cook for me was my own mother. Eso va la vida.

There is smoking too. I loathe it. I don't want it in my lungs, hair, clothes or anywhere remotely near me. Pop music and television are also on the no list. If I stay the night, please can I go to bed at 9pm and get up at 6am? Whereupon I should like either some very nice ground coffee, espresso or filter is fine, or Darjeeling or Assam tea. I do not like Nescafe. I do not like PG Tips or Brooke Bond either. In fact I would prefer a glass of heavily chlorinated tap water rather than drinking crap hot drinks. Mineral water would be nice though. I would bring a sleeping bag of course, and as I sleep on the floor in my flat, a bed isn't really necessary at all.

So you see, dear internet friends why I have a slight dilemma. I like my internet friends. I also have the mentality that when things are going well, don't fiddle with them, if it ain't broke don't fix it. These are people with whom I've shared emails, blogs, mutual woes, Christmas cards (well, not many of those), dog tales, and some good laughs.

Some time ago I had a hypothetical conversation with my-no-longer-internet friend and said I didn't know if I would want to meet him if he ever visited anywhere near. That wasn't because I didn't like him, but because I didn't want to spoil what we had. Irrelevant now of course. I think we agreed that the best way to meet internet friends (not specifically us) was to try a couple of hours on neutral ground and take it from there. But not staying with people and being in their face and all the rest of it. So that's the worry to me. Meet up - and - not get on. Everyone has a crap time and you lose a good internet friend. I've already lost one, and I wish I hadn't. In spite of everything I wish we were still friends. I'm not the only one who has been on the receiving end of an internet-initiated relationship that has gone sour. None of us like receiving mails that mis-judge us, or say they want nothing to do with us ever again. It's not pleasant at all. I'm honestly not sure I want to take the risk of that again.

And then, why am I even thinking about going to a party? I am no longer a party animal. Was I ever? Maybe once. But my idea of a good time is a walk with the dog, a meal at home, and a good book. Perhaps that has always been my idea of a good time though.

Comments, suggestions, answers on a postcard, all more than welcome on this one .....

Working woman's woes

It's nearly ten years since I quit work, which is virtually the same period of time I spent in my last job, ie working for the NHS. Has the time flown? Yes.

It has flown faster than an afternoon sitting in my prison cell office wondering what on earth I was doing with my life. Five o'clock, or 5.30pm depending on what bus I had decided to catch, couldn't arrive soon enough for me.

This from the woman who, a few years previously, cheerfully stayed until after midnight writing documents - and then hand-delivered them to the board members who needed to see them as soon as possible. I'm sure they didn't get up at 1.30 in the morning to read them, but the effort had been made.

And do I miss work? No. There has not been one single day when I wished I was back there.

Am I bored? No. In fact the only reason for even considering working again is the obvious one. Money.

So this week, I have put in an amazing effort and worked four days in a row. Well, that's not strictly true. I didn't go on Tuesday, although my partner did.

We were decorating a new flat in one of Gib's rather up-market developments, hanging wallpaper to two feature walls. The paper was expensive and very stylish.

Day one was spent lining the walls. The walls were almost nine feet high, (nearly three meters) and the sitting room was 20 feet long (six meters). So there we are, standing on two step ladders with a huge long piece of lining paper that needed to be hung horizontally nine feet up. And the only way to move across the room was to start hanging in one corner, and then one person holds the concertina-ed lining paper while the other person moves their step ladder, we stick the next section, hold the paper, move the step ladder, etc etc. It took ages.

At one point, in the bedroom, I was standing awkwardly on the ladder and my head started swimming and I could feel the balance going. Not physically, just in my head with the sensation of falling backwards. I leaned forward, and it went away.

Day two was sizing the lining paper, which was why I got a reprieve.

Day three was hanging the expensive Parisian paper with a 64 inch pattern repeat. Paperhanging is like dressmaking, or making curtains - it's all in the measuring, the setting out, and - the cutting. One wrong cut, and you are stuffed.

I spent ages deciding on the best place for positioning the flamboyant pattern, and, just before we were about to start the cutting, I changed my mind about how to position the six pieces of paper, ie 1) centre it, 2) start from one corner and just work across, or 3) have two slightly narrower pieces at each end so that there was a virtually perfect match right across the wall. To me, a feature wall is just that, and it needs to look good.



Including measuring, matching, cutting, hanging, replacing the electrical fittings, washing out, and clearing up, it took us nearly six hours to complete the wall. My head was overflowing with measurements and calculations.

While we were waiting for the paste to soak I started working out the number of drops for the large sitting room wall. Basically there wasn't enough paper. We hadn't ordered it and we hadn't measured it, so not our responsibility - but ours to sort it out.

The wall needed nine full drops, two short pieces over the door, and a narrow drop on the side of the door frame. We would have to cut and splice the narrow piece. It also meant we had absolutely no margin for error, and if there was a fault in the paper, we would be nowhere.

I woke up at 3am with visions of an unfinished wall if we cut the paper wrong, or snagged it, or there was a fault, or ... or ....or.... I tried to work out a way of making a full length drop behind the door and couldn't. Then I started calculating drops for another job we had been asked to do. Ten drops, I thought to my insomniac self, got to be four rolls. I so did not want the stress of worrying about running out of paper. And why am I waking up at night fretting about work? That's one of the reasons I chucked it in the first place.

When anyone ever says that decorating is easy - they should try doing it for a living.

Day four had already begun, and when I woke up again, I did not want to go. It felt like one of those days where you have to chair a difficult meeting. I insisted on double-checking the measurements of the wall, even though they were ingrained in my head. We laid the paper out and made the cut.

Then I insisted on putting it against the wall, just to check it was right. Pretty fatuous waste of space really, because once we had cut one piece of paper, there wasn't anything we could do. If it was wrong, ie too short, we couldn't finish the job anyway. I just didn't feel like finding out we had got it wrong after nine pieces had been cut. It was OK.

We finished the wall in almost the same time as the previous day. It was a straight match so the cutting and hanging was easier, even though there were more pieces.

And this morning, I woke up so pleased that it was not another work day. Phew. I was mentally and physically drained when I had finished work on the past two days, for 'just a bit of paperhanging' as people invariably say. That's before you even take into account keeping an eye on the cat who seemed to think wallpaper was the tastiest delicacy ever invented. Nicely chewed edges would look really good.

Now, if you have waded through hanging those two walls, here are a few points about working for yourself which are not related to the job above, rather, on years of self-employed working.

Working for yourself means just that. It means that, you choose what hours you want to work, obviously fitting in with clients' hours where possible. While we would prefer to start at 7.30am or similar, clearly it's not practical when people are rushing around getting ready for work. That's assuming they are even out of bed at 7.30am.

But when we say we are finished for the day, that's just what we mean. No, we are not working a standard eight-hour day just because you do. Or because you want the job finished faster. Because as the day goes on, we get slower and slower. And more and more tired. Then there is more chance of making mistakes. And if we finish it quickly you think we are too expensive.

We give a price for the job. We don't charge by the hour, by the day, by the roll, or by the gallon. It is up to us how we complete that job to the best of our ability in the time we want. We give a written fixed-price quote. When people accept that, we don't expect them to complain later if we finish the day's work by early afternoon (as happened a while ago). We do tell people that the job will be done over a specific number of days, but we won't necessarily be there all day. Clearly in one ear and out the other in a lot of cases.

Truth is, we are running a business, not a charity service. If we are fast at the job, surely it should be to our advantage? It doesn't mean a cheaper price for a client because we complete it quickly. What they are paying for is a good quality job. Easy. Isn't it? People can always say no to the price we quote.

On one job, the client was out until early evening, so she told us we wouldn't see her until the next day. Fine by us. Next thing we knew, she was ringing up in her lunch break asking where we were. Amazing that she could manage to find the time for a lunch break to pop home after all. And really, there was nothing else we could do that day, so what did she want us to do? Sit around doing fuck all to make her feel she was getting value for money?

We can, and usually do, work quickly. We take our time with the measuring and cutting. We could work slowly. And what is the added value in that? The job is the job, however long it takes.

I don't think people realise that when there are two people working that means the hours worked are multiplied by two. I don't think people realise the cost of setting up a business. Vehicle insurance, personal and public liability insurance, office costs, consumables, materials, capital equipment, and in Gib, annual trading licence and employment department certificates. No holiday pay included of course, social security to pay, and no pension rights unless you provide your own.

All people see is someone working a short day and they add up the cost of the job and divide it by the number of hours to work out an apparently expensive rate.

Then of course, there is payment time. There are those wonderful customers who just give you the cash or a cheque straightaway. Some of them even think to say that they like the job. We like that, it is nice to think that someone appreciates a job. When someone says 'Fantastic!' that is even better. Then there are the ones who hang you about, and it doesn't matter that you write payment on completion on the quote. On occasion, I have been known to say, after listening to a load of woffle 'So where's the money?'

But none of this compares with some of the people we know who have far worse experiences. As I wrote earlier, being self-employed, in theory, implies that you have some control over what you are doing. You give a price to do the job the customer wants, to a good standard, and complete it in a mutually convenient time. You are providing a skill, expertise and labour in return for the money you consider it to be worth.

No. One of our friends has, on more than one occasion, given a price - and then his customer turns round and tells him what he is prepared to pay. And what does said friend do? He accepts it. He needs the money and his customers know that. He's also been asked to do extra work on top of the original job and just not been paid at all for the extras. This is most definitely not being self-employed. Nor is giving a set price per day or per hour. You are basically working for wages. Or when he was walking down the street, a previous customer said 'You still painting? Be at my house in five minutes.' He was there of course. An order is an order. Even when given by someone who later negotiates the price down.

This is not a one-sided post though. There are occasions when the customer does not get a good deal. A painter we know went to do a job painting a couple of rooms in a flat. When the clients arrived home after work, he was happily asleep on the kitchen table having drunk a couple of tinnies, and three-quarters of a bottle of vodka. He hadn't done any work of course so he didn't get paid. But it didn't cost him anything for a drink that day.

Colour me .....

.... Autumn. I have a confession. This may surprise and shock some of you, but I have actually been colour analysed or whatever it's called. For someone who finds putting on make-up a drag, and rarely wears it, and spends most of her time messing around in casual trousers and boots - my hedonistic moment (actually nearer an hour) may sadly diminish my standing in your eyes. I was wandering around Selfridges in Oxford Street, as you do. I was dreamily looking at fabrics when I should really have been buying notions or whatever they are called. Interfacing, buttons, thread, etc. There was one of those promotional stands. Colour Me Beautiful in fact. I looked idly at it, and flicked through the book. It looked quite interesting. It basically said that people look better in some colours depending on their skin tone and hair colour. I could buy that theory. There was a practical chapter about colour wheels and tones and blah blah blah that all made sense. There was even a consultant relatively near me. I bought the book but didn't make an appointment. I didn't make an appointment for another three or four years, but finally, with a lieu day from work and in the north of England, I bit the bullet. The price had gone up of course. I think the astronomical sum of £25 had shot up to £35 or £40. Still, I had a day off and it was time to get this out of my system. I was sure I was a Spring, or maybe even a Winter, looking at my wardrobe full of strong colours. Blacks, bright reds, whites, greys, bright pink, royal blues. I figured I wasn't summer, or autumn with all the bright orange and lime green colours. Off I went through glorious North Yorkshire scenery to a lovely house reached by an exceedingly long drive. I was dutifully wearing a white top so I could be draped with scarves in varying colours which showed me to my best/worst aspects. They all looked the same to me, and so did I. I could not tell the difference between one colour next to my face or another. Also I had frosting on my hair apparently. Why do Americans call everything frosting? Icing on cakes is frosting and so are highlights in hair. (My consultant was American). I was not to wear grey. This was a no-no. Especially with the frosting. If I went back to dark blonde/light brown I could consider it. Bit of a bummer as most of my work clothes were based around grey. Serious, sober, and professional. Somewhat unlike me I suppose. It turned out I was a sludgey autumn. NO bright colours. No shocking pink. No burgundy. No black. No white. The list of NOs was endless. The amount of clothes I would have to discard would be endless too. At least my lovely olive green Barbour was a Very Good Colour. As was my mother's chocolate brown coat which I stole at every opportunity. I was such a wimpy autumn I 'flowed' into summer. Hmm. Not sure about that one. I skipped off with my portfolio and wondered if this woman even knew what she was doing. I suspect she did actually. Incidentally she was one of the models in one of the official books. And I did get coffee and biscuits (which I didn't eat) included in the price. Do I stick religiously to 'my colours' after all these years? Of course not. But I do think there is still some basis to it and most of my clothes are built around the palette for my muted and broody autumn. Why did I do it? Curiosity primarily. I couldn't for the life of me work out what 'season' I was and I wanted to find out. And, as someone working in PR and journalism, it's difficult not to admit to the fact that first visual impressions matter, especially when advising people on what to wear on television, or for a press conference. So, there was some professional interest in it too. How can you knock something when you don't know enough about it? When I was working in London, I went on a management course and one session was directed towards telling advising us what to wear. I thought it was ridiculous. I didn't need to be told what to wear to look good. After all, I wore home-knitted pullies, silk shirts, expensive skirts, had a couple of tailored suits, and otherwise dressed - eccentrically? I certainly didn't want to look like the overly made-up dressed-up woman jigging around in front of us all telling us we should aim to dress like her. A few years later on, I started to buy Vogue Designer Patterns. The suits, in suitable autumnal sludge colours, flew under my fast fingers on the sewing machine. And there I was. Finally, still frosted, I mean blonde highlights, suited in suitable autumn suits, and even wearing the make-up. By then I could have given the lecture myself. Not sure I could ever have successfully done the colour analysis for anyone else though. Post Script I have just looked up the American site and see perhaps I am not in such dreary, drudgey, sludgy, company after all. Seems like Julia Roberts, Angelina Jolie, and Jennifer Lopez are all gloomy autumns too. I also think Angelina Jolie's hair on the CMB website is frosted. Wonder what her consultant said about that?

The one that got away

Here is the post I started writing nearly four weeks ago, and then, wasn't really sure what to write. Or even why I was writing it. Or whether to. Time helps with most things, even writing blog posts, and mulling them over for weeks. To the extent that I know now that I am writing it because I like neat and tidy endings, and writing it provides that for me. Also because, it meant something to me for those years, it merits a post. And at least this post will be much shorter than the ones I was writing in my head three or four weeks ago. We started emailing on a pretty regular basis a few years ago. We'd mailed occasionally beforehand, and fallen out occasionally too. We were worlds apart - literally and metaphorically. Our lives were totally different, and we probably held opposite opinions on virtually everything under the sun, but I liked him. He was funny and he was interesting. He also had (has) a lovely dog which I suppose should be a minor point, but never is with me. There were lots of laughs and lots of grief. Who on earth could fall out about Sploofus, Scrabulous and Farmville? Er, we did. We fell out about sharing photographs too. Perhaps, on reflection, over the years, there wasn't much we didn't fall out about. It was, to say the least, an up and down relationship. Either we were up and laughing and having a good time, or we were down and arguing and one of us was walking away. Initially it was me, later it was him. Meeting people on the internet is like meeting people in real life. Except it isn't. There are similarities. You meet, you exchange conversations in common places, and then you drift elsewhere. But you don't really know these people, do you? It's not like socialising with neighbours or work colleagues. You can't share enough information in enough time. There is something strange about receiving a mail that says, 'don't contact me again, ever.' There was a please in front of it, but an order is an order, which is what that was, and adding 'please' makes no difference at all. An attempt at fake politeness. No more, no less. Initially, I was annoyed that someone else thought they could dictate terms and conditions of what I mistakenly thought was an equal relationship (in my dreams huh?). But should I respect that? I pondered long and hard. What about the times I had said I wanted to stop communications and my request had been ignored? Hey, when a woman says 'no', she never really means it does she? I don't like being told what to do, but what really stopped me from trying to explain that maybe we had, not for the first time, misunderstood each other, was someone telling me they wanted to have nothing to do with me again. Ever. That's pretty powerful, and it worked. So I never did write back, didn't seem much point. And in a way, there was a strange sense of relief. No more fall outs to worry about, no more thinking I'd say the wrong thing, no more looking for messages that weren't there. Every other time we'd fallen out, I'd been sad or upset, but this final one was different. Yes, I still look at my mails to check them out of habit, but knowing there won't be one. Why would there be? And maybe I breathe a sigh of relief that there isn't. I don't have to decide whether or not to reply. Yet, there are times when I miss him. When everything was stolen from our vehicle in Spain last year, he was the only person who offered practical help. Kind thoughts and good wishes from my Facebook friends (who no doubt will all be alienated at this point) are all well and good, and I did appreciate them. But how many people offer to send cash to someone they have never met and never will, because they trust it will be repaid? He did. And when I was fed up or wanted to moan, he was, in the early days, always there with a laugh, and a cheerful word. He would dish out the same sort of pragmatic advice that I do to others, but mostly he would try - and succeed - at making me smile. Things always change though. Maybe that's why I decided to clean up the finca, start blogging again. Do something that doesn't involve looking for mails that will never be there. Perhaps some good came out of it after all. Edited to add: Ironically my post here was written a couple of days before our final disagreement. A premonition? Or just co-incidence?

Facebook - Now you see me ..

Now you don't. For those of you who don't know, I have deactivated my Facebook account for a while, to take a break from my busy round of internet social networking. There are a number of reasons for this so I thought it was worth writing a post, seeing as how so many people (ie 600+ million according to checkfacebook.com) use Facebook, and of those approximately half (depending on what stats you look at) use it for gaming. To start at the beginning, I joined Facebook for no particular reason, just that I noticed others were doing so, and I thought I would have a look and see what the attraction was. There didn't seem to be any, so I promptly left it alone. At the time, most of my internet time was spent writing my own blogs and visiting and commenting on others. And I spent time on forums too, and to be fair, some of that was actually useful. I went back on Facebook to start playing Scrabulous - and it was good fun. Luckily it was constrained to his lunchbreaks and after work which meant a) we weren't playing all day and b) I had plenty of time to think about what word to make with my seven letters. I needed plenty of time. And then, while I was playing Scrab, I noticed quite a few of my (dog) blogging friends were on Facebook. So I acquired some friends. And a few more. Then I noticed a popular game - the inevitable Farmville. I hit on a lot of other games, played them, chucked them, and blocked them - the games, not the friends. (See earlier post here about my views on games, and an interesting read here that puts me in my place for my somewhat derogatory comments about mindless games. And here is a short read about why people play games on Facebook). The friend list continued to expand, again mostly based on my blogging contacts, but some were added in the need to gain extra pals for the latest farm upgrade, but even they were mostly dog people. I hadn't met any of these people, nor do I ever expect to. Well, that was true until last year when one of them did visit Spain on holiday and we met up. The exception that proves the rule. But if one of the main Facebook activities is keeping in touch with friends and family, or refinding people from the past - I haven't used any of that. The few friends I keep in touch with tend to - occasionally - email me, send cards, or write letters. Remember letters? those old-fashioned things that arrive in the post. I got one the other day, an aerogram, or rather air mail letter as I see it is called, and it was a lovely surprise. Nor would I want to share exchanges with my 'real-life' friends in public on my Facebook wall. So what do/did I share on Facebook with hundreds of people I don't know? Not very much really. A few photos, links to updated blog posts, bushels and strawberry pigs (they are worth 15,000 coins so a good one to share). I made flippant comments on some posts, and admired the odd photo. I made a few serious comments on dog posts, and once in a blue moon on some posts by feminist friends. I did use the pm service quite often though. But the more the list of friends grows, the harder it is to keep track of people. You wonder if you have missed something. In fact, I often did. Kind-thinking friends would pm me to point me to a post about something so that I didn't put my booted foot in it. Instead of relying on the news feed, it seemed to become important to click on individual profiles. Gah!!! How many clicks was that? Especially if you needed to go back to it all over again. Too many clicks. Too much time. Feeling there is a need to interact with people, or they will be offended if they don't hear from you. How many people asked where I was when I deactivated, some of whom wondered if I had blocked them? More than one, to my surprise. I'm one of the types who invariably accepts a request from people who want to 'friend' me. If they have enough decent friends in common I do feel slightly guilty about saying no. Most people accept my friend requests that I make, so why should I not accept the ones who ask me? Here is a brief summary of a study which I found interesting. I really don't care about gifts or reciprocity or anything like that but I do have an occasional guilt twinge. Occasional. When I look at the profiles of a lot of my friends, they are so different to me. Many of my American friends are the 2Rs (there are probably 3Rs but I can't think of one right now) - Republican and Religious. So not me. My profile says/said very little. Perhaps if I put up my left-wing, animal rescue, vegetarian, feminist, environmentalist, ethical, agnostic/atheist views etc etc etc on Facebook I might not have quite so many friends. Or at least I would have them long enough for everyone to expand their farm, and then be discretely deleted. I mentioned that most of my friends are from the dog world. There was soooo much drama recently on there when it seemed Facebook was suddenly policing those people who, shock! horror! signed up as dogs. Well, they didn't sign up as dogs, but they were basically an extension of a dog blogging persona eg Rover Collie. It is apparently outwith the T&C to sign up as a dog, or hamster, cat, guinea pig, pet python, you get the idea. It is also not allowed to use a false name. Yeah, so I don't know anyone signed up under either of those? And do I care? People harmlessly sign on under an alias, or play at being their dog/cat/whatever. So what? If Facebook wants to protect the image of the site from serious abuse, I do not think animal identities are the place to start. Or maybe they are. One friend suggested that sex abusers/paedophiles may well try and lure teenagers with cute animal pix. Another friend suggested that maybe parents should monitor more closely what their children are doing on the internet and on Facebook. Moving onto more dog-related stuff. I am well sick of seeing posts about the Westminster Kennel Club Show. I had to look it up to discover what it was, but apparently it is something like the American equivalent of Crufts. I am not into showing dogs, at all. To me, it doesn't seem to be all about the dogs, it is all about the vain people behind them. And, although I may well be missing something, whenever I have seen those shows - yes I did watch Crufts as a kid - it does rather concentrate on pure-breeds, doesn't it? Pure breeds are very nice. I have lived with three pedigree ones in my life in the family home, and two in my adult life that we rescued from shelters. Their temperaments are no better or no worse than a rescue cross-breed. We've rescued two of those as well. But some of the other type of posts, that sadly I see a lot of on Facebook, are requests to adopt all the unwanted dogs who have only a few days left - or even hours - before they are gassed in a kill shelter. I wondered for some time why people put these posts up. I couldn't see any point to it, so I asked a small group of friends via pm what they thought. And one of them answered that she knew of one or more dogs who had been rehomed via a Facebook post. Whereupon I stopped feeling offended about seeing a lot of beautiful dogs who might well not be alive much longer, and hoped somewhere, someone, would give them a home, and if that was via Facebook then it was worth the posts. But I got my knuckles rapped recently for commenting about breeders making money. Apparently very few do. They are only breeding dogs because they love them. Really? If they love them that much - why aren't they out there rehoming all the dogs on Death Row? And because to me, every puppy bought from a breeder potentially means one dog less that is rescued from a shelter, whether breeder specific or otherwise. And that means one more unwanted dog killed unnecessarily. So, I looked at the time I was spending on Facebook, and wondered why on earth I was doing it. Yes, I had enjoyed a few laughs and made some new virtual friends, outside the blogging ones I already knew. And I had a large virtual farm with lots of points and mastery signs. According to today's Daily Telegraph, Facebook is worth around $50bn, and Zynga (Farmville) has been valued at between $7 and $9bn. What are they doing for me? Nothing. So why am I wasting time on them? And feeling overwhelmed with stuff that is nothing to do with my life apart from the virtual circuit. Fortunately I have certainly not put real cash into Zynga, because get this:

users can also buy Facebook credits to purchase extra features. These ‘virtual goods’ provide more than 90 per cent of Zynga’s revenue stream,

from this article here. If I want to avoid doing chores, put off essential tasks, whatever, I can just as easily write blog posts and comment on others as I used to before the lure of Facebook hit. If anyone wants to email me, they can. I usually reply. Or I can pick up a book. Cold Mountain, Charles Frazier is the current one. So that my dears, is what I shall be doing, for a while at least.