On working through trauma

 On working through trauma

Tis the season to work through trauma. Or should I say life experiences that may have not been quite as nice as one might like. The idea is, as far as I can make out, to bring out such experiences into the cold light of a reading lamp or candle. To look at the aforementioned experiences and how they make you feel. What they make you feel. How your nervous system responds to  those feelings. This process is supposed to be good for you and help process bad shit. Or slightly uncomfortable incidents as us emotionally illiterate like to put it.

And therein lies the rub. Emotional illiteracy. When I was young we didn’t have anything as namby pamby as emotions. How you felt about stuff was utterly irrelevant . So long as you were a good girl, didn’t fart in church and obeyed all the rules including -

 Keeping your elbows off the table, 

Saying ‘please’, ‘thank you’ and ‘please may I be excused?’

Adhering to a high level of hygiene

Not killing your siblings

Not killing your parents or torturing them in any way (torture ok for siblings)

Not killing yourself.

There were hundreds of other rules which are probably so ingrained that I don’t even recognise them. Like emotions. I don’t recognise those either.

So when asked ‘How are you?’ I give the standard reply ‘Fine’. Nothing else is required is it? We are British after all. Then a weird thing happened…

I wandered innocently onto a retreat. Nothing new there. I’ve done retreats. Yoga, breathing, perhaps the odd dip into a hot tub. Or a game of Ti Chi or Qi Gong or Mah Jong. For the non retreaters of you these are ancient oriental games of balance and chance. At this retreat there was something called Pods. I knew it was on the programme because I had read the programme. I was thinking of something along the lines of peas, beans or maybe camping. I had also entertained the idea that it might be something to do with podcasts, gatherings of Whales or walking (but that’s Plods, but typos were not beyond the realms of possibility). I was of course too embarrassed to ask.

Here’s what happened - The massed group of about 30 of us separated into Pods! The Pods were small groups of 5 or so people. So just like peas. My first assumption was correct! Ha! But instead of putting on green outfits, curling into small balls and cwtching up to each other in a line we were going to talk about feelings!!!!!! Shit. I was unequipped for this!

Did you know that young people, or at least young people on retreats, know how to talk about feelings? They were so incredible and honest and vulnerable and able to cry! I then admitted that no one ever asked me how I felt and actually wanted a real answer. Not just ‘fine’. I was a pod virgin. An emotional virgin. My instinct was to retreat. It was a retreat so surely that was acceptable. 

This sort of retreating is familiar to me. It’s simply a matter of hiding. In most situations the best place to hide is in the loo. Other good places are lifts, under-stair cupboards, kitchens, ends of gardens, sheds, behind trees and rabbit holes. 

As far as I recall I think I might have said something quite honest about being lonely. Ha! There! Being brought up in the sixties be damned! I expressed an emotion!

Upon Encountering Contemporary Art

 Upon Encountering Contemporary Art

 

A woman walks into a gallery. This is an ordinary, down-to-earth woman who may have simply strayed into a modern art gallery to escape the rain. She contemplates the piece ‘Iron Bar’ it has a label so she guesses that it must be part of the exhibition. It’s just a bar of metal on the floor. She concludes that a particularly witty janitor decided to create a label rather than hurt his back picking up and clearing away the heavy object. She leaves with a wry smile.

 

Another woman walks into the gallery. Sees the same exhibit. This woman likes art, has an interest in art and came to view some art. She scrutinizes the ‘Iron Bar’ believes that it must mean something but has no idea what. She shrugs and leaves the exhibit a tad disappointed.

 

A third woman walks into the gallery. This woman is familiar and au fait with the concepts of Modern Art. She stands spell-bound by the ‘Iron Bar’ knowing that it must represent man’s struggle against the tyranny of industrialism. That the rectangle form shows how people have been forced into homogeneous uniformity. The glean of the metal reflects the tears of generations of women. Even the shadow of the bar evokes the darkness mankind has suffered from. She leaves the gallery full of emotion, a changed person, and thinks that art is even better than sex.

How to Live Alone

 How to Live Alone

 

I used to live together. Now I live alone. As my dedicated bots and readers know I had a man, two children and a cat. I thought it was great. I knew nothing. The glories of living alone are myriad.

 When you live alone everything takes on no meaning. Everything is optional.

 

Cooking - if you feel like it but cereal is always good.

Cleaning - no one knows if you have become obsessively clean now no one makes a mess. Time spent polishing light switches is time well spent.

Laundry - down from two loads a day to once a fortnight and that’s only if you remember to put on clothes.

Smiling - only when you actually want to.

Being pissed off - only if a mechanical device goes wrong.

 

There is also the glory of flouting social convention. No danger of embarrassing the kids or being a bad mother. No danger of driving the man into the arms of yet another woman. Such joys include -

Never bothering to close the bathroom door.

Not bothering to get dressed.

Feeling free and unfettered by bodily functions, farting, belching, snoring at will are all now de rigour.

Making noise (see above).

Making more noise, like singing out of tune, talking to inanimate objects and illustrating one’s every move with appropriate grunts, moans and squeaks.

 

‘But,’ I hear you say, ‘aren’t you lonely? Even bots live in social groups!’

Yes, I confess I do have a new man in my life whom I spend weekends with. He’s with me all the way on the flouting. He’s free with the bodily functions, he’s an expert on making noise and he loves naked weekends. We’re very compatible. He’s three years old.

Understanding Bots

 Understanding Bots

 

A strange thing happened. I Googled myself. I know that this can be common practice among the vain, paranoid or bored. I did it as a diversionary tactic. I’ve decided to embark on more education. Thus diversionary tactic was needed.

 

The stranger thing was I found my blog. This blog. It still exists! I am alive! Or Live! The very strangest thing is that, according to the stats, people are still reading it. Or at least bots are. Now I feel guilty. (Yes I was previously indoctrinated in the whims of Catholicism.)  Out there, in the ether, or cloud, or somewhere, there are bots missing me. I’m touched. The highly innuendoed pearls of wisdom I used to dribble from my lips are amusing bots, possibly AI and probably very lost internet cruisers.

 

You must be wondering about my silence since 2018 my darling bots. What have I been doing if not amusing you? To tell the truth I can’t remember.

 

Now I know my audience I have done some research into my audience in order to know you.

 

Bots were first born in 1988, as was my eldest daughter, the physicist. So I know that these bots are now having adorable bot children, being run ragged by the pulls of childcare, work and insanity. The job of bots are to gather information for the Great Bot Head in the Cloud. This is no easy task a requires a deal of commuting. Lets take a look at a typical bot’s day. This particular bot is called George.

 

After rising early from his little bot bed in the cloud he enjoys a brief repast of bot food (I think probably that fizzy yellow sherbet but such detailed in formation is highly confidential). George now collects his assigned task, which in this case is reading my blog, and jumps, without any of the safety gear enjoyed by humans, out of the cloud. He has to navigate to the nearest telecommunications hub. He then shows his season ticket and climbs aboard the wire for his journey to my house. Since I live in the middle of nowhere this can be a long journey with many changes of wire along the way. He arrives at my hub. George then does the short hop through the air into my computer. He then reads the appropriate, or sometime inappropriate, material, makes a note in his bot notebook of any salient points and heads back via the same route to report to the Great Bot Head. By that time it’s time for cocoa, pajamas and bed.

 

I appreciate that the life of a bot is busy and has insufficient nourishment. From now on I will leave fizzy lemon sherbet by the router and urge others to do so. Night night bots xx

How Not To Do Your Self Assessment

As January once more swings its merry way into our lives we discover it’s time for Self Assessment.

Many scrungled up pieces of paper must be retrieved from pockets, car doors, wallets and cats’ beds. All year we wonder where all the money went and now we’re about to find out. Maybe. Equipped only with an iron, a magnifying glass and many totally valid distractions we set to. Or find yet another legitimate distraction like those spider webs on the ceiling, that amazing pattern the raindrops make on the window, or spring cleaning the entire house, garden, shed and car.

Despite the futility of spending many many hours ironing receipts, getting intimate with bank statements and deciphering government dialect we know it is all worth while. Yes, we then get to give the powers that be lots of money to squander on sparkly weapons, essential expensive lunches, and trendy palaces. Yes, we hope against hope that some of the hard earned cash we give them will be spent on Grandma’s knee, upgrading Granddad’s corridor hospital room or even fixing the pothole that killed cousin Ray. But look! Lo! Behold! The house is clean, the shed tidy, the silver polished, the unknown grungy thing is removed from the oven, the cats are groomed and well patted and the iron has had its annual outing and really enjoyed itself.

And now that Self Assessment is achieved the real Self Assessment can begin – Why am I here? What’s it all for? How did I spend so much money on cleaning materials?

How to Cope with Challenged Technology

My computer is on a go-slow and my phone is on a no-go. So forgive the sluggishness of this post because… this … is … as …fast … as the words are appearing on the screen.

Slowness is not an unusual state for an elderly computer operated by the hormonally challenged. Either I’ve forgotten what I was about to say, or Computer (whose name has slipped my mind) has a hiatus of recollection betwixt keyboard and screen. We work together in a harmony of pauses.

Phone (whose name is Xiomina) is in a curious state of decay. Every time I ask it something, like ‘What’s the weather?’ or ‘Is it bedtime yet?’ it turns itself off. Xio, however, struggles on and reboots. Until the next tricky conundrum. If I ask her to do something really complicated, like call the chemist, she comes over all hot and cuts me off mid sentence –

‘Newport Pharmacy, Betsi speaking’ (Betsi is a Welsh name)

‘Hi, I’m calling to…’ Xio cuts us off.

Betsi is an elderly woman of possibly delicate construction. I’m concerned she may misinterpret this rather abrupt banter, think there is some sort of pharmaceutical emergency. Only twenty minutes later I arrive, breathless and flushed.

‘Betsi, I called earlier but my phone cut out.’ I panted. ‘I think Xio is having panic attacks’

Betsi, unfazed, hands me my HRT prescription and offers some Rescue Remedy for my friend.

Router Rescue

I had a phone call. A friend needed her router rescuing from its alternative drop-off venue. The doorstep. Of her cottage, In the Middle Of Nowhere.

I was the ideal person to help because that’s exactly where I live. Nowhere is a big place ergo the Middle Of Nowhere is fairly sizable too. Undaunted and ill-equipped I set off. It was a dark and stormy night. Which rapidly became a dark and stormy and foggy night. Undaunted and many miles of meandering, dark, stormy and foggy lanes later I found it.

The router was completely unharmed. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

I had been instructed to locate the spare and hidden key and put the rescuee in the house. The key was too well hidden. Or I had failed to remember properly to my instructions. No problem. There was a backup plan. To leave the poor lost router in the shed. The shed was also too well hidden. I was impressed by my friends’ ability to hide things. However the router was beginning to look a little despairing. I considered just leaving it where I had found it but my reputation for cruelty has yet to be established.

I muttered a few there theres and bundled the whimpering piece of electronics under my coat. I took it home and stored it cosily next to mine.

I have texted my friend ‘Router safe’