Fairy rock mother
I didn’t wear a sparkly satin dress, a bejewelled tiara or carry a magic wand , but today I was the “fairy rock mother”.
Let me explain. For many years I’ve spent hours painting rocks, or should I say beautiful, rounded pebbles collected from Sandy beach on Anglesey. In the past, when we’ve had a caravan-full of foster children, interspersed with some of our own kids, we would often while away the time on rainy days collecting pebbles from the beach. Upon our return to the caravan we would break out the acrylic paints and brushes and paint interesting designs on the rocks. Well, not all of them were interesting, some were just smudges of colour, applied in an impatient mess, but it kept us all entertained for a while.
Now that we have retired from fostering children I sometimes paint stones with my two grandchildren, Ellie who is 5 and Phoebe who is 4. I even go solo and paint stones on rainy days at the caravan when there are no children around. I sometimes just enjoy being creative. I have built up quite a store of painted rocks, some are simple hearts, smiley faces or happy “emoji” faces. Others are more intricate designs, such as ladybirds, cats and tortoises. Ellie and Phoebe always want to see the newest stones when they come to visit.
So today I loaded up my rucksack and set off for “Penrhos Park” in Anglesey. It’s a beautiful wooded area with winding paths and tracks, some leading down to a secluded beach. I wore my raincoat and walking shoes and spent about an hour wandering through the trees placing “rock presents” as I went. At one point I had to hurry past a family with young children so that I could get ahead of them and place stones before they saw me. I usually put them in the boughs of trees, on top of fences, in the cracks between dry stone walls and in the exposed roots of trees. Today I could hear the delighted shrieks of kids who’d discovered the newly placed pebbles just behind me. I smiled as I went about my task, knowing that some kids were enjoying the game, nearly as much as me. Usually, when people find the stones they post them on “Facebook” and comment on where and when they found them, there is a group named “Anglesey rocks“. Today I was even lucky enough today to see two red squirrels, a wonderful sight, as one ran directly across my path.
Of course don’t go assuming that I do this activity for the sake of children, no, no, no. I do it because I need to beat my team-mates in my “Fitbit” group. We usually have a “workweek challenge”, and we have to try to accomplish more steps than the rest of the group in order to win. The others in the group are at least 30 years younger than me, and they have busy jobs. I struggle to match their steps every day, so I have to be inventive. Walking around the woods, or on the beach keeps me in the game, even though I usually lose when the results are in at the end of the week.
So, I need to go now, I have a new batch of pebbles to paint, and I need to dust off my tiara. My pink sparkly dress and festooned wand are waiting, and upon saying the magic word I will be transformed, once more, into the “Fairy rock mother’. Bye for now.
- Published in General
Biscuits
Today I spent a nice few hours with my lovely 84 year old mum. I don’t normally visit her on a Sunday but she’s incapacitated at the moment due to a sore ankle. She had a fall at home about a week ago and although there are no broken bones she has been fitted with a special “boot” and has been told to rest the leg for about 6 weeks.
We went out for a nice lunch, just to have a change of scenery, and we then went on to visit mum’s friends Anne in her care home. Mum was concerned that she couldn’t get the bus to visit Anne because she was a bit “wobbly” on her feet.
Upon our return to mum’s house I put the kettle on and we sat down to tea and a chocolate digestive biscuit. Mum reminded me that as a child I always asked for a chocolate biscuit when I wasn’t feeling very well, and it usually worked. I invariably felt better after a couple of chocolate digestives, and my mum has never forgotten the fact. I suggested that maybe the clue was in the biscuit’s name, and the digestive probably settled my tummy.
I then suggested that maybe all ailments were curable with different biscuits, and we began to explore all the names of the biscuits we knew and what problems they might cure. I immediately pointed at her swollen ankle and said “Hob Nobs”, or maybe a “Club”biscuit.
So, here is the list of biscuits we laughed about;
“Garibaldi” – thinning hair.
“Bourbon” – alcoholism.
“Jammie Dodgers” – menopause.
“Choc chip cookies” – personality disorders.
“Nice” – anger management issues.
“Chocolate Fingers” – diarrhoea.
“Jaffa cakes” – false tan issues.
“Custard Creams” – wrinkles.
“Table Water Biscuits” – cystitis.
“Viscount” – posh people.
“Shortbread” – poor people.
“Penguin” – double hip replacement.
“Taxi” – reluctant driver.
“Ginger Nuts” – sunburn.
“Rich Tea” – wealthy people.
I think we did ok with our list, but of course you may be able to think of many more. It was a good day all round, mum fed, watered and cheered up. Job done.
- Published in General
Women’s magazines, poem
Glossy, shiny full of crap
They’re on the shelves, the woman trap
Luring us with shocking tales
Celebrity stories in great detail
“How to”guides- like shedding pounds
Advice on marriage knows no bounds
Recipes for leftover meat
Make curry for a midweek treat
They patronise like we are thick
The smartass comments make me sick
They tell us how to run our lives
By making us be better wives
They teach us how to fake a tan
Put hair up in a messy bun
A bikini body in just 6 weeks
Sun kissed hair not using bleach
How to wear the latest fashion
Your comfy look will take a bashing
Photographs of stupid styles
Your other half would run a mile
Exaggerated killer heels
To us OAP’s they’ve no appeal
Advice they give on keeping fit
Patterns for cardi’s you could knit
Why not make a summer dress?
Ideas to make you bloody stressed
The agony aunts use many pages
About our marriage and how to save it
How to act when he has strayed
If he came back I’d have him spayed
‘Cos castration doesn’t fit this rhyme
But that would be his fate next time
And ‘cos you’re living in a mess
A “how to get the look” , for less
Make jam jars into something cool
And you have a go, you silly fool
Make clever stuff with chicken wire
For friends and Neighbours to admire
Get busy with the pinking shears
Banish all your sewing fears
They tell us we must all de-clutter
And you try, like other nutters
And when it comes to making cakes
You can’t admit you’ve never baked
It won’t look like their spongy trinkets
Yours resembles doggy biscuits
And yet we keep on buying more
Or free ones drop in through your door
But now you know you aren’t alone
It’s all right there in “Woman’s Own”
- Published in General
Sandy Beach
I’ve spent a wonderful day today looking out onto a beautiful Welsh coastline, and I wonder again why any of us bother to travel the world in search of a perfect holiday location.
I’ve been lucky enough to visit beaches in Florida and the Caribbean, Thailand, Bali, Mauritius, Vietnam, The Greek islands, the Middle East and much of the Mediterranean coastline. All of these places are wonderful, often with exquisite beaches of soft, white, sugar-like sand. They also boast azure blue waters, which are clear, warm and calm, and perfect for swimming and diving. Unfortunately they are all quite far away and require much planning in order to visit them.
Yet there is something wholesome about a British beach, with it’s traditions and familiarities that I find alluring, especially on a sunny day, like today. Looking out from the deck of our static caravan in Anglesey, North Wales, I see children digging in the sand, dogs chasing the surf and teenagers riding body boards. There are a variety of boats too, from tiny 2- man dinghys to large RIBs, fishing boats and small sailing boats. Everyone is enjoying the day and I can hear laughter and children shrieking with delight, whilst ice creams are melting, sandwiches are wilting, and dads are banging the posts of reluctant windbreaks into the soft sand.
What is absent however, are the endless lines of sun loungers, regimented and perfectly aligned with the shore. There are often multiple vendors selling all manner of products from fake designer watches to colourful sarongs and jewellery made of shells. Whilst I enjoy buying some of these souvenirs, in the hope of supplementing the local economy, I soon tire of the endless sales patter and intrusions into my relaxation.
I’m also thankful that today I did not need to arrive at an airport at 5 am, stand in long queues of tired and bewildered passengers, haul luggage across vast expanses of tiled flooring and then face the dreaded security line. I never understand why sometimes I’m asked to remove my shoes, belt, sunglasses, coat, cardigan, phone, watch and kindle, and other times I’m not. We stand in the queue, watching the passengers ahead of us and passing on tips to our friends that it’s “shoes and watches off’, or “jackets on”. There seems to be no standard protocol for this area of the airport, it’s feels like a bit of a lottery. Then when I’m finally squashed into a seat fit for a pigmy I have to hope that by the time the food trolley reaches me they still have a vegetarian option to offer. The plane which we were so eager to board earlier has lost it’s shine now and we are desperate to get off. We can’t wait to retrieve our squashed hand luggage and push our way to the luggage carousel and play Russian roulette with our ankles, or someone else’s.
I really do understand that for many of us it’s all about the weather, and I tend to agree. Sunshine is often in short supply and many a British holiday has been ruined by heavy rains and manic winds. I get that, and I’m no stranger to a tropical beach and a strange looking cocktail myself, but some of the time It’s just too much hassle. I like the fact also that everyone speaks to me in English, I’m not likely to catch rabies and I don’t need to re-set my watch, twice. The ice is safe to consume and It’s improbable that I’ll get a dicky tummy, or an ear infection from a dodgy pool.
Having said all of the above my next holiday, booked for next January, is to Singapore, Malaysia, Cambodia and Hong Kong. I do have a bucket list to get through and I want to see the world, however difficult that may be. The first destination on my list however is Belfast, a city which houses the “Titanic museum” and is travelling distance to the “Giant’s Causeway”, two of my must-do places to see before I die. For the rest of this summer though I intend to spend as much time as possible on “Sandy beach” in Anglesey, enjoying the company of my family.
- Published in General
Beauty Queens
I spent many years in my incarnation as a beauty queen and loved every minute of it. Many people may have ill perceived ideas of the pageant world, so I’d like to set out my views of those happy times and what they meant to me.
In my late teens we took a holiday to a ‘Butlins” camp with my auntie Jean and her kids, there were no dads on the trip. The weather wasn’t so great and to fill our days we had a policy that everyone must enter a competition. These events were varied and included the knobbly knees contest, the most glamorous grandmother, the cutest baby and the table tennis tournament. Having few skills I opted for the “Holiday Princess” contest, here I simply had to walk around a pool in a swimsuit. I won my competition and was awarded a free weekend at another “Butlins” later in the year for the semi finals. I hadn’t realised that this bit of fun was destined to go further.
Mum and I went off to Blackpool in the November to a nice hotel, all paid for, and I thought it was great. Upon arrival however I soon realised the intensity and seriousness of the other competitors. There was to be a rehearsal on the first day in the ballroom and all 50 or so girls were summoned. I wasn’t worried because we were all just there for the free holiday, weren’t we? What a shock I had when statuesque beauties appeared in stilleto heels, make up and back-combed hair. They knew how to stand and walk erect, and smiled at every opportunity. I was dumbstruck and felt like a mouse standing beside them.
Later that day mum and I dashed out the shops to buy high heels and false tan. We then moved the furniture in our bedroom and I began to practice the walk I’d watched the other girls do. There was another rehearsal the next morning and I was gradually getting the hang of it. When I was 16 my mum had sent me on a modelling course in Manchester to improve my deportment, because I was very shy and round shouldered. This course gave me a little bit of experience so I wasn’t completely clueless. The other girls were friendly and helpful, giving me advice about my walk and standing in the line. The compere, Tony, and the 2 organisers Ron and Alan were also friendly and put us all at ease. It was however very obvious who were the proper beauty queens and who were the novices like myself.
By the time the actual semi final began I felt fine, and just enjoyed the experience, looking out for my mum in the audience as I paraded around the catwalk. The time went too quickly and I was sorry when it was all over. We were all sent backstage to await the judges verdict. I wasn’t at all nervous, unlike many of the other girls who were chain smoking and pacing. It apparantly meant a lot to them, but to me it was just a bit of fun.
Finally the results were announced, 10 girls being selected for the grand final in Brighton the following March. I learned then that the top prize was to be a brand new car and £1000. I had no idea that it was possible to get rich at this. Amazingly I was one of the 10 picked to go to Brighton, and I couldn’t believe it. The real beauty queens seemed pleased for me and I was on cloud nine.
By the time the grand final came round, I’d honed my skills, dyed my hair, false tanned my body and I was ready. I came second overall with a cash prize of £500, quite a lot of money in 1972.
I went on to compete for another 8 years, entering many different contests. I was runner up to both Miss England and Miss UK, I won the Miss Britain title in 1976 and many other big titles, making a healthy wage, supplemented by modelling jobs. I made many friends on the “beauty circuit” and are in touch with several of them to this day. After many attempts, and several second places I won the “Butlins Holiday Princess” in 1980, after which I retired from competing. Job done.
During my competition years I had a fantastic time travelling the world, I improved my self confidence, made life long friends and made my family proud of my achievements. Yes there were a few “bitchy” girls, but there would be in any competitive arena, even office based situations where many woman are together every day.
I could never understand the people to sought to condemn us as immoral, stupid, empty headed, manipulated or exploited. I always maintained that I had a choice to use either my brains or my looks to make a living, and I chose to use my appearance for a short time, able to fall back on my brains later on. The public were fascinated by beauty contests in those days, the national ones regularly attracting TV audiences of over 20 million. We were minor celebrities and enjoyed the trappings of success. I knew that the “job” was only for a short time so I made the most of it. I certainly didn’t see it as immoral in any way. What woman hasn’t done her hair and applied make up to improve her appearance? and how many have walked around the pool or beach wearing a bikini? Many have, and will continue to do so. At interviews and in many other situations where a woman needs to look and feel her best she will try to improve her appearance. Most of us try to enhance ourselves by smiling and looking the best we can, and it doesn’t mean that we are manipulated or vacuous. I’ve seen many young girls in night clubs wearing more revealing outfits than we used to wear on the catwalk.
I also want to add that because we won contests it definitely didn’t mean that we considered ourselves to be prettier than the rest. There were many more beautiful girls who didn’t want to learn the “trade” and parade about in a swimsuit, it was a learned skill and as much about experience and knowing how to play the game as it was about appearances.
- Published in General
How I began writing
The idea of writing a book has always being there on a kind of dynamic bucket list. It has sat alongside many other silly ideas such as learning a new language, learning to play a musical instrument and walking the great wall of china. I doubt that most of the list will become a reality, but the idea of actually writing a book began to take shape when I stopped fostering and went through my old notes.
Whilst fostering for the local authority we were encouraged to keep diaries, make notes in the “blue books” [ a record of daily events which travelled from place to place with the child] and fill in numerous forms during each child’s stay. I also came across all the payslips, in a neat ordered bundle, so that I had the names and dates of each child we had cared for.
I also kept various notebooks about the funny things the children said. I’d always intended to do this with my own girls, but never quite found the time to do so. It was these notebooks which drew my attention, 5 years ago, and I decided to reproduce the notes so that I had a record of all the times that we had laughed at the funny incidents. I wanted to preserve the memories for myself and also for my daughters who may ask about the many fostered children later on in life.
I began to write about our first foster child and weave the story together to make it more interesting. Soon after I forgot all about the notes because our older daughter, Lexi, became pregnant and subsequently we had 2 beautiful grand-daughters and a big wedding, all in the space of 3 years. I settled into the life of being a grandma, which I loved, and the notes were forgotten.
Last summer however in May 2018, I fled to our caravan in Anglesey, following a big row with Peter, my husband. I was upset and wanted to be alone to lick my wounds. I took with me my notebooks, thinking that I might take the time to look through them again.
As you may remember it was a hot and sunny summer and I spent lazy days gazing out at the sea and sand and clearing my mind. It’s amazing how the changing conditions can change your mood. On days when the sea was calm it looked turquoise and tranquil, and the sand was golden and smooth. I imagined a quiet orchestra playing gentle music in the background, enabling gentle thoughts and feelings to flow from my mind and onto the page.
On the days when the sea was rough and the waves were crashing and boiling I felt more anger and the desperate need to right the many wrongs that I had encountered. The sound track in my mind was crashing cymbals and percussion instruments. I began to write furiously as the different moods affected me. There are few distractions at the caravan, there is no dishwasher or washing machine to beep and announce that it’s finished it’s programme, no landline to ring incessantly with people selling me PPI or double glazing, and no one knocking at the front door to ask for directions or convert me to their religion. I am sitting here again today, glancing at the tide making its journey towards the shore, slowly concealing the rocks in the middle of the bay, which we call “crab and lobster”.
The stories began to take shape as I remembered the children and the various incidents of the previous 10 years. There was no coherent structure, I simply wrote thoughts as they came to me, and sorted them into sections, or chapters, later on.
In all I probably spent 5 months putting my thoughts together, but didn’t know what to do next, so the stories sat on my laptop, recorded but homeless. It was Christmas last year when my daughter’s boyfriend’s mum asked about the fostering we’d done and I mentioned my “stories”. She said that she knew a publisher who might look at it for me, I took his details and many weeks went by before I summoned the courage to contact him.
I finally sent Gareth some of the stories and he said that he was impressed and thought that people would be interested in reading them. I went across the country to meet with him and the idea of publishing a book became tangible. I feel like a bit of a cheat because I’m not a “real” author. My studies of ‘A’ level English were well over forty years ago, and I don’t know how I got to the threshold of publishing a real book. Let’s see what happens.
- Published in Books
Shoes
I think that I may have a serious habit which my family knows nothing about, and I think they might be worried about me if they did. They would probably insist that I seek help in the form of some kind of therapy. So here is my confession, and explanation.
I’ve always loved shoes, but have kept my obsession within the realms of normality. However in recent years the need to own footwear has begun to seep out into everyday life. My theory is that my face and body have begun to age and deteriorate, bordering on unsightliness, but my feet, and lower legs still look fine and have therefore become my “best bits’.
My body doesn’t look great anymore so clothes have lost some of their appeal. My face has begun to crease and lose it’s firmness, so I’m obliged to focus on my feet. I also reckon that at my age of 63 I care not what anyone else thinks of me, so I wear what makes me happy. I don’t seek to impress anyone else. It is also true that unless I’m focused with one eye trained on a nearby mirror, I cannot appreciate my clothing. It’s the same reason why I’m not too impressed with hats or necklaces, because I can’t see them. I dress for myself, not anyone else.
A few days ago I attended a rather boring meeting, about a subject which didn’t really involve me. However, I wasn’t bored because I was able to stretch my legs forwards and spend the next 2 hours admiring my new, and beautiful, emerald green suede shoes. Theses shoes have a fuchsia pink suede heel and piping in black and white – luscious. This pair of gorgeous shoes were given to me by my very good friend Christine, who understands about the love of shoes. Christine has been suffering from an ankle problem and is no longer able to wear heeled shoes. Along with the green shoes, she has gifted me several other pairs of pretty shoes in various colours. How lucky am I? If I’m being honest, and I will try, I estimate ownership to be in the region of over 40 pairs of shoes, and about 15 pairs of boots. Many of the more special pairs reside in their original boxes. What may surprise you is that I haven’t spent a small fortune on my interest, Imelda Marcos I am not.
I shop mainly in the sales, outlet shops, for special offers, at markets abroad and even in charity shops. I am running out of places to house my collection though. I’ve taken over space in the guest room and my daughter’s wardrobe as she has now bought a house of her own.
I sincerely hope that my affliction does not have a genetic element to it. I’m not too worried about my younger daughter, but my older daughter, and my honorary daughter may be affected I fear. The 3 of us are all a size 7 so it would be possible to pool our resources, if we didn’t live a prohibitive distance apart. My younger daughter is only a size 4 or 5 so has escaped the grip of the size 7 “hunt”.
I feel so much better for getting rid of the guilt by talking openly about it, thank you for listening. I wonder if I could speak to you again about my love of rings, and handbags?
Bye for now.
- Published in General