Finding Magic.

Once in a moon
you walk in a room,
With feelings
like you belong.

Once or twice in a life,
When the weather is nice,
And the sun heats up the sky
You will hear a unicorn sigh.

Just now and then
for a smidgen of time
You believe you are
The subject of a song.

If you lay, for a week and a day,
Watch the sun play in the trees.
You’ll see faeries take up a dance,
On the warmth of the incoming breeze.

By holding the thread at end of your bed,
You get to tug it once in your dreams.
The world turns blue especially for you,
And magic exists … So it seems.

pictures by pixabay

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My First Exquisite Dress.

I love the life of your hat,

I once had a dress like that.
All grace and glamour,
The boy’s would clamour
To glimpse the off shoulder
French fancy.

And me, at sixteen,
I learned how to preen
I perfected a wiggle,
A look over my shoulder,
But under my brows.

The dress held my joi de vivre
My confidence my class.
It was in the lace,
While I hid the blush
Upon my face.

My parisienne dress
wasn’t me.
But in it, I could be,
Entertaining and sweet.
They would fall at my feet,
And I could shoo them away.

Back then, when age was nothing
But a moment in time.
Confidence plucked from air
As the flower in my hair.
It was all so fleeting,
like a clandestine meeting.

A Seat In The Bleak.

writephoto.jpg

Thank you Sue Vincent for the photo this week and the opportunity.  Press here To join in this weeks prompt. #WritePhoto

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Bleak, some say this view is bleak, the empty to me isn’t empty. The sky speaks of things to come and hints at things just past. I gaze thoughtfully while digging deeper into my pockets dipping my chin so the zipper scratches my nose. My quiet contemplating place; perched on crag like a bird with its feathers ruffled. Hair whips my cheeks and stiffens in the biting wind. My eyes struggle to see as far as I want them to. But here, the whoosh of the sea, the lapping of water against rock and the voices on the wind … comfort me.

Hours pass with me inside my head, the imagery sharp as Italic ink on paper.  The sky darkens, reflections flicker, horses lick, their white manes they flash and curl atop the surf and I am reminded of where I am. Cleansed and at peace I raise myself, soles firmly grip into roughness of rock, gouging in to keep me from slipping as I head back.

At first barely a glimmer of light shines from the tiny house creeping between badly pulled curtains. The rusted swing squeaks in the wind; the taste of salt lingers. I open the oak door, stamp my shoes on the coconut matting and strip off the sodden outer layer. His head lifts and kind eyes take me in, his book thumps closed as he makes way for me to join him. Tom pats the cushion next the fire on the double club chair. “Come, let’s get you warm,” his eyes crinkle as they do when he looks into mine. “You look rested now, how anyone comes back from such a bleak unforgiving spot looking as you do … I will never know.” Tom rubbed my feet between his hands twisted a strand of salt encrusted hair behind my ear and said … ” I love you Eve.”

With all my worries blown into perspective, I inhale the stew I have cooking on the stove, the bread Tom has put to warm. “Shall we eat, then I will tell you a new fireside story, one brought to me on a gust of wind.” I say. We clatter to the table amidst the spitting of logs laughing at the days turn of events. Knowing tomorrow my bleak will refresh me once more.

Do you have a place? I would love to know, leave me yours in the comments.

 

A Right of passage #FGM.

She wears the scars of the divine

They think she’ll forget given time.

that she’ll bow to the pain

And pray in his name.

But she won’t, instead,

she will cry in her bed

For God, on a mission,

Or ancient tradition.

The girls In her tribe

Just frown.

At the stain they see

On her gown.

The heat in her face as

Infection slots In place.

Death is often the way.

Not saved from the cut,

Like a kick in the gut,

Her Mother held

Her hand that day.

It happens In a home

Just like yours,

carried-out behind

Closed house doors.

When blood seeps

through the cracks,

it’s covered with a mat

Never to be mentioned

Again.

I didn’t think it could be,

Because I was too blind to see.

Not in a house that’s

Next door to me.

The piece below was taken directly from Feb 2017 ITV news.

A case of female genital mutilation (FGM) is either discovered or treated in England every hour, according to the analysis of NHS statistics by a charity.

Between April 2015 and March 2016 there were 8,656 times when women or girls attended doctors’ surgeries or hospitals and the problem was assessed – the equivalent of one every 61 minutes.

Did you know this barbarity was so prevalent in the UK?

Can ordinary people like me, with art, stories and poems be heard … make a difference?

Any acknowledgement or comment on this will be responded to with honesty and speed.

Liking Autumn

I love the crunch beneath my boots,

Crisp mornings and coloured trees.

Fingerless gloves and owl hoots,

Long scarves down to my knees.

Conkers burst their, spiked armour,

Spill their seeds for conker wars.

Scarlet and golden paint a scene,

To cover paths and forest floors.

Without Autumn there’d be no respite

a harvest moon would not appear.

No Halloween or cosy suppers

To bring us all our Autumn cheer.

So many of you asked, ‘what are conkers?’ I have popped this link for you. Here . The shaddow fighter picture above was found un credited on the internet and depicts a conker war. All other shots are of my own making.

What do you like about Autumn? Have you played Conkers? I’d love to hear … go on, you know you’d like to.

A Frantic photo.

Capture 1

 

I watch a very attractive twenty-something girl, (youth is beauty after all) she poses outside a well-known emporium in London. I sip my tea as I catch a glimpse of the figure through the steamy window, across the street. Her task became clear as pedestrians moved on, leaving her in view.

She shot five, ten maybe twenty or more snaps, all with different sections of shopfront. The window dressing backdrops, all varieties of poses. There was lipstick on and off, a chin down and up, head to the right then left. One which surely was one side only with a book covering one eye. Hair combed, twisted, tucked and pulled.

My tea finished I walked across the street curious to see her closeup. I couldn’t help it, I smiled and said ‘the first one, you were far more beautiful in the first one.’ She came after me; touched my arm. ‘Sorry. but how do you know?’ She was agitated not quite cross but rattled. I pointed across the road ‘I was in the tea house and saw you clicking, taking shots with your phone … you were perfect in the first one.’

She scrolled fast through her gallery as she tip-tapped alongside. Until she shoved her i phone under my nose. ‘This one … why would it be the best, my nose looks long at that angle and my lips look dry, it isn’t the best at all.’ She was quite frantic, rushing her words, pushing her chest forward. ‘But your nose is the way it is, besides in the first one you were twenty-five minutes younger than the last, so it must be the best.’ I left her baffled as I went about my day. We are what we are regardless of the persona we show the virtual world. Our looks constantly change so each picture depicts a flash of what was; not a perfect shot of what is. The worry on the face of the young woman bothers me. Why the image was so important, it appeared imperative so stressful that I swear I heard palpitations and saw a fear in her eyes. I suppose the term ‘selfie syndrome’ will soon be another condition that parents have to watch for. It seems appearance is all, and ageing humans such as myself, women and men that have lives and deaths etched on our faces will be invisible. At least to the people

We are what we are regardless of the persona we show the virtual world. Our looks constantly change so each picture depicts a flash of what was, not a perfect shot of what is. The worry on the face of the young woman bothers me. Why the image was so important, it appeared imperative, so stressful that I swear I heard palpitations and saw a fear in her eyes. I suppose the term ‘selfie syndrome’ will soon be another condition that parents have to watch for. It seems appearance is all, and ageing humans such as myself, women and men that have lives and deaths etched on our faces will be invisible. At least to the people whose faces, they believe are the measure of them.

thank you unsplash for the use of the picture.

I would love your answer to the question … why was the perfect shot so important?

Genetically Challenged.

We moved away to Somerset, we didn’t find our forever place so after four and a half years we sold up and moved back to Suffolk in the east of England in May 2017.

We threw ourselves into the refurbishing of our house. Well the truth is I didn’t actually do very much as I was exhausted The husband, who can turn his capable hands to most things  began the project working flat out to make our home warm and dry.

Eventually, we thought to find a doctor, a dentist and an optician etc. A week of changing addresses, doing paperwork, joining electoral roles and collecting information took place.

During my new Doctor consultation (I thought him very thorough), a gamut of questions were fired at me, from under an arched and knowledgeable brow. Lots of poking and prodding, weighing, measuring and listening occurred. Squeezing, knocking and the questions went on for an exceedingly long time. Next, I was given bottles and forms to both fill and present to the hospital. This is where I cut to the chase and leave my usual shaggy dog story peacefully in its dog bed.

I had been to the doctors over the last four years with, the pains in my joints, falling asleep, that we all laughed about, the getting lost and my words muddled, the misty or foggy headedness, the heartburn and the chills I had when everyone else was warm, bouts of cystitus that I just couldn’t clear up.

All the above were individually poked fun at by family and friends, none more so than by me. Silly me, getting old, winding down getting a bit quirkier than I was before. It seemed, the harder I tried to get myself fit, the slower and crappier I felt … the more often I stayed in my pyjamas the more it became an Ellen thing, to be laughed at, I stopped saying I am too exhausted to get dressed.

I had my thyroid checked several times, my blood, cholesterol and sugars, to no avail. I was told to lose weight, about 20lb was suggested for optimum fitness. At this point the doctors (I had seen a few) I felt, were beginning to think I was lazy and  wasting their time. They said, maybe it was taking early retirement, or I was depressed missing family and familiarity, but losing weight and getting fit would help. So on I struggled a sleepy, chilly, foggy headed woman who was more and more muddled, weak and in pain.

Well, I can tell you with some relief, that I am not lazy, fat or a hypochondriac, I have a genetic condition that has been very gratefully spotted by my new GP. How lucky was I to have moved  and to have seen someone who knew what he was looking at. He noticed my bronzed skin which incidently makes me look super healthy. When your looks don’t pitty you it is hard to get acknowledgement. Then listened to my account of severe tiredness and sent me for the blood tests. Six hours later he phoned the house to explain that a DNA test was required to confirm the diagnosis. After weeks of waiting it was confirmed. I have Haemachromatosis, the Celtic disease, bronze diabetes or the Viking curse. For a condition that I had never heard of there are plenty of names.

Basically, I store iron, my blood then chucks it into my organs and tissue, the brain, liver etc. This toxic stuff causes havoc where ever it lands. There is no cure … but there is a treatment for which I am very grateful. And though scared, I will suck it up and get on with it. I won’t let it win or change me, it won’t define who I am. Still I smile, with damp eyes and a fighting spirit.

Since August, I have had needles and cameras in orifices I would have preferred not to, I’ve seen pictures of a few places … even I hadn’t seen before. I have been humbled by the kindness of medical people and scared by the condition and the vast amount of knowledge that I am unable to take in, but I am loved thoroughly by those who matter.

Here is the joke, you knew there would be one … I have a needle phobia, always have had and the treatment, the only treatment is Venesection. Blood letting, phlebotomy, removal of my toxic blood. Before we left for the first treatment the husband thought he would … relax me, he wore a wicked grin when he searched You Tube and had to wipe his eyes for the thirty minutes he played me Handcocks Half Hour, a comedy radio skit from 1961, where Tony Handcock donates blood.

One Venesection down and I didn’t disgrace myself, I am sucking it up! What the hell else can I do? So I guess right now, according to Tony Handcock I have an empty arm ‘Tah Dah boom!’

Every seven days a pint has to be removed until numbers drop and stabilise (how long is a piece of vein/ string). Then the gaps will widen to monthly and in a few months or years, maybe I can get down to four times a year with monthly blood tests. For now my toxic blood can’t be used and gets poured away. Once I am in maintenence it will be used and my donations will eventually help others.  But basically … ‘If you want to live and be healthy, you got to bleed … forever.

The husband, he suggested leeches, we have a well in the garden so it could be an option. Someone actually said ‘You must wish you could self-harm.’ Then some people are sick! I became upset when a family member said ‘So what, it’s not a biggie,’ easy to say when it’s not you, said from that place of comfort. Another writer/ bloggy person unbeknown to him gave me an idea.

An advert!

Wanted! A Gentle Male Vampire with sharp teeth.

The successful applicant would be required to come to my home under his own steam. To be dressed in traditional uniform and to specifically partake of dinner twice a month, until further notice.

Wages will be in the form of warm B rhesus negative

Iron enriched the oxygenated blood.

Conversation will not be necessary,

Though good oral hygiene is a must.

The applicant/ Sanguineoue being, will not be permitted, in fact, will be forbidden to partake of any other beverage from any source whilst in my employ, or my home.

Once the task has been completed he will depart the way he arrived, leaving no sign that he ever attended.

If interested in this position please reply by email/ sonar or echolocation … at your soonest opportunity. Only experienced thirsty practitioners need reply.

P.s. no sympathy required I am lucky, I at least can be helped. Sometimes I can’t focus enough to grab my words and writing or talking coherently is not happening. It hopefully will improve and I will be back, talking, writing and reading  and laughing regularly.

P.S. When the specialist said, “You’ll see, we will get you back feeling normal, it will take time; we will improve things.” He was looking into my eyes holding my hand. That’s when The husband laughed aloud and said: “That will be novel, nobody’s accused Ellen of normality in years.” Both men were in hysterics, I think that says it all. I have always risen to a challenge and Genetically challenged will be no different.

Hemochromotosis the most common genetic condition that is also the most undiagnosed and least talked about there is.

As a writer, a teller of stories I get through with my tongue firmly i my cheek.

Absent.

Wait for me when I’m gone,

Don’t forget I was here.

Come and read a while

There’s nothing to fear.

Life has other idea’s

That keep me away.

But please don’t

stop coming,

I still have a lot

To say.

I am having to take a break for a while. I can’t say for how long, but I hope to pop back and read any comments and reply when I can. I look forward to continuing to read your posts and banter on your blogs where possible. I will be back once I am fit and able.

But when life gives you lemons … you need to stand back and take in the scent, look at the whole tree; not just the fruit.

A Suffolk Festival.

The motorhome thumped up the lane rocking and jerking over the hardened earth that shook our jaws. As the last curve was negotiated the campsite spread before us. Flags flapped against the mackerel sky. Swags and flags swirly Twizzlers rattled and spun as did novelty air filled sperm. Campers tugged miniature trailers, all polished looking their best. Unicorns flapped, bunting tangled and faces lit up and grinned.

We strolled around, caught a knowing look or two. Smiles and nods tossed our way, a greeting of strangers linked by destination and sounds. Kids and pups were happily pulled along in trailers packed with stuff for the day.

A squeal from the stage shocked our ears as the thump thump of a base backed the ‘ one two, one two’, called over the mike.

Flowers and glitter in hair and on faces caught the light as hula hoop girls spun in tiny sequined shorts. Toned bodies of aerial dancers arced and rolled precariously. Dancing under steel frames, suspended on strands of purple ribbon.

Goods displayed on trestle tables and rails spewed from the mouths of canvas shops. Old tut from dusty lofts became prized merchandise once more. Hats, bags, wigs and wings, wands and make believe; all at a price. Clothes from eras past with stories sewn into the weave. Love’s lost and consummated in the seams of an old mini skirt and psychedelic clothes. Cheese-cloth shirts and bell-bottom jeans, wait in hope as rushing winds flap at hems, like silent adverts vying for attention.

Giant robotic installations jerked and flashed to the beat. Bubbles shot across the giggling crowds and flames intermittently roared from an arm that shot skyward. Ooh’s and ahh’s join the music at each glow of the flame.

A folly watches from her view point snuggled in the trees. The festival and its entourage playing at her feet. Not so far from the days of Jousts and Jesters that took place in times gone by.

Girls danced with a freedom I long since lost. Dreadlocks and rainbow dyed hair mingled, with the French plaited girlies. Shaved heads bump and grind with hipster bearded men. Some smoke weed or swig artisan gin together. One place, one time, a shared experience. The music built up and bodies moved in unity, the youth and the aged together. All made new connections and memories alike.

Rain splashed bodies ran for shelter and kids tried to catch drops on their tongues. Even the weather became a game. Sticky and tired we turn in and watch the sun setting over Suffolk.

Until sizzling bacon awakened our taste buds then the enthusiasm bubbled up, begging us to do it once more, at a Suffolk festival.

#WhiteNoiseVwFestival #EaustonHallSuffolk

 Dr Who?

This week there were tweets and news reports, conversations and flips about the New! Doctor Who. For the first time ever, or so I have been led to believe, a woman is to take the starring role. I have watched many Dr Who’s come and go my favourite has to be John Pertwee, mostly because I adored Worzel Gummidge.


Anyway I digress, The lovely Jodie Whittiker, ‘I know her from Broadchurch’. Just saying, anyway she has got the title, won the coveted prize, stepped up to evolve the cult programme further into the realms of wonder. Now don’t shoot, my hands are up. I became bored witless at the naysayers, the chauvinistic complaints and the Agg-Gh ahh! It was everywhere, the moaning. So I switched off unplugged and refused to look any more.

Personally, I think she will be an iconic Dr Who. A conversation with a good friend had some days after the self-imposed ban,  was to bring up the question once more of should the Doctor be a woman? That was when we took it to the pub. Yes, two women took a convo to the village pub to do what men have done for centuries,  and why not! If a woman can be The Doctor… we ordered fizz as we would, a pint of John Smiths (any other beer could be substituted in this spot) is not our taste after all. The following is my version, maybe embellished, but mine none the less. Of an overheard conversation.


Two Men In A pub
.

Stan was slurping the froth from the top of his beer when this exchange took place.

Stan looks at Tom… ‘I suppose it will be exfoliate what they say now’. Wipes his mouth on his sleeve and sniffs loudly.

Tom. ‘What, what do ya mean’

Stan. ‘Them Dalek’s … now it’s a woman doctor’

Tom. ‘Ave you gone doolally, exfoliate’.

Stan. ‘Instead of sayin exterminate as they’ve  always done’.

Tom shakes his head slowly ‘Tha’s a daft bugger; exfoliate’.

A few minutes pass, both men finish their beers and Stan says. ‘You for another’?

Tom nods, and as Stan lurches unsteadily towards the bar you can hear a penny drop when Tom begins to guffaw.

Tom. ‘ Dalek’s exfoliate that’s reet funny that’.

I would like to thank a dear friend Anna, you know who you are, for the gift. Nuf said, “I owe you some fizz now we have moved back”. The pictures courtesy of pixabay  and unsplash and the land of lost internet photos. And you tube for the marvleous vid of Dr John Pertwee, forever in my heart as the undeniably wonderful Worzel Gummidge and in this bit Una Stubs as Aunt Sally.

P.S.

For Dr Who aficionados out there…  the relevance of John Smiths in the pub is that it  was the name the Dr took while being a human in The Family of Blood. Coincidence? Or did some helpful blogger (Gary Jefferies ) unaware of my dastardly dealings let my coincidence become a clever twist? Thank you  cue time lord music and …cut!

I couldn’t resist writing this post and I hope I captured the scene. What is your opinion on women taking it to the pub? Or woman being the lead in a cult programme? Have you ever overheard a gem when you least expected it. Leave me a comment I love to talk.