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Interesting times

My eldest Grandson and I stayed up all night, watching the results of the general election. It’s now almost 4.30pm. I still haven’t slept; I’m buzzing from the excitement. My family are getting together for an Indian takeaway in half an hour, to celebrate a comparative victory.

The results for Labour were better than anyone expected. Although they got less seats than the Conservatives, the Conservatives didn’t get enough to achieve an overall majority. They have 328 seats, having lost 12, Labour have 261 seats, having gained 31. The Conservatives plan to form a coalition with the Democratic Unionist Party, formed by right-wing racist Ian Paisley in 1971. It appears to have became a little less extreme since those early days.

The smaller parties lost out to tactical voting. It was nice to see UKIP being crushed underfoot, but I’m sad that the Green Party didn’t get more votes. The Scottish National Party had almost all of Scotland after the last election, with 54 MPs. They’ve slipped dramatically down to 35, with some areas plumping for labour, and others going for the Conservatives.

I’m with the Green party, but they had no chance of winning this election; the most we hoped for were a few seats, but I was a card carrying Labourite until the despicable Tony Blair appeared on the scene. I couldn’t continue my membership with him at the helm.

I think Jeremy Corbyn is one of the best things that’s happened to labour since the revered Aneurin Bevan was an MP. I wanted Labour to win. Jeremy achieved the highest vote ever recorded in his constituency of Islington; a wopping great 40,086 (in the last general election he got 20,659 votes, so that’s a an increase of 19,427 votes.) Somewhere in the distance, behind him, were the Conservatives, with 6,871, and the Liberal Democrats with 4,946.

That’s one in the eye for the Blairites who tried to push him out of the leadership. The country loves him, and so do his constituants. He’s a good, fair man, who wants the best for he people of this country.

Theresa May and her Cons have blown it. Political commentators and Conservative associates are pointing the blame for the humiliating result at Theresa May, which seems fair. She ran a terrible campaign, making a lot of slip-ups. Jeremy Corbyn is calling for her resignation, but she says she won’t stand down. The general opinion is that the Conservatives are ruthless cut-throats; she’s blotted her copy book so thoroughly it won’t be long before they dump her.

The Conservative Party should be a laughing stock by now; David Cameron chose to hold a referendum to prove that the people of the UK wanted to stay in the EU, then Theresa May announced a general election, with the idea of proving that the country was securely behind her.

David provided the timber, and Theresa constructed the coffin. Will the next Party leader put the lid on it? We shall see…

The Conservatives are feeling quite sore and tender today. I wonder what tomorrow will bring.

These are interesting times….

The Daily Post #Tender

©Jane Paterson Basil

The Author of my Being. Part 2

PaulMcCartney_letter.jpg

More about the trauma that entered my life when I reached puberty. Part 1 can be found immediately below this post, or you can click on the link HERE.

A few weeks after my father rams his tongue down my throat, a fifteen year old boy who lives down the road lures me into a caravan to “show me something”. Once there, he pushes me onto the bed, pins me down, and tries to tear my clothes off. At first, Im too shocked to take in the nature of his intentions. Terrified, I think my life depends on my escape.

Fear is metal-flavoured. Later I will learn about the chemicals released by the body, which prepare us for fight or flight, but at this stage I know nothing of adrenalin.

He’s underestimated the accuracy of my fierce reputation, and the strength of metal. I struggle free, and punch him a couple of times. He reels backwards, finds his footing. Blushing, and staring at the floor as if in search of some small thing he has lost, he stutters a three syllable apology, which repeats. He’s stuck, and doesn’t try to stop me from leaving.

I’m confident that not even a boy five years older than me will dare cross me twice. I’m correct. I have ways, and I take to making his life as difficult as possible. I’m safe from him, but nothing can exorcise the feelings of rage and shame that hit me again and again, every time I think of the attack. I feel no conscious blame, but somewhere deep inside, I’m soon to start totting up the abuses.

Meanwhile, my father and I are avoiding each other’s eyes. He’s floundering, scrabbling to plan a strategy. I spend a lot of time on my own. I’m often to be seen running through the field below our house. No longer is it a joy; merely an escape. When I reach the bottom corner, I crouch down and crawl into my secret, secure space. This den is a miracle of nature, its earth walls dry and lined with tree roots where I conceal my private writings and pictures of Paul McCartney. When I show him my tiny hideout, I’ll invite him in. We’ll sit opposite each other, our feet touching, while I show him all the items I placed here in preparation for his arrival. Everything which belongs to us is here, everything which reminds me of him. This is my shrine to him.

Paul is going to save me. One day his limousine will choose a scenic route to a nearby gig. While passing a gate at the top of the field, he’ll spot the clump of trees close to my den. With a strange sense of destiny burning in his chest, he’ll ask his driver to stop, get out of the car, leap the gate, and eagerly sprint down through the field toward the trees. Like a sprite, I’ll reveal myself.

Only then will he know that the hollow emptiness that has always stirred in his soul was due to the lack of me in his life. We’ll spend the rest of our lives climbing trees together, playing tag in warm shadows and running in the sun. On sleepless nights we’ll talk to each other about our perfect world, our silver voices flowing across the small gap between the separate tents in the field where we sleep.

This is my deepest secret. It’s the reason why I smile as I write in honour of him.

It will happen. Soon. It has to.

Our lives will be serene.
Our love will be clean.

I was ten years old, traumatised by sudden, unwanted changes, both in my horribly blossoming body, and in my  life. I dispised and feared the bulging bits, the blood, the bending cramps, and a future which may be filled with bastards who squeezed me as if I was a squeeky toy. When I was in my den, I lived out a fantasy. At all other times I continued to pretend I was a boy. It seemed like my only defence.

My innocence clung to me as tightly as I clung to it.

to be continued…

©Jane Paterson Basil

Unravelled

You pursued me, pretended to love me, when all you wanted was control.

The day you met my kids in that cafe, you encouraged them to misbehave – made believe it was a harmless game. You played like a fun guy to make them like you, but you were a fungus of the most poisonous kind, killing my mind.

Your behaviour changed on the day you moved into my place, taking control of every corner of my life. You held the money and you chose my clothes. Soon I was clad in ugly rags. You bought the food, yet said we had no money for my children’s shoes.

When I wanted to stop eating meat, you bought half a pig.

When I planned to give up chocolate, you showered me with the goo. You even bought me a man’s tee shirt that said “Dip me in chocolate and throw me to the lesbians”. How could I possibly have worn that?

You bought me another that was steeped in chocolate fragrance.

You asked me what was my favourite fragrance, bought it for another woman and made sure I saw it. You wanted me to think it wass for me, and I did, giving you the opportunity to tell me it was for Kaye.

You had fun with that nasty little game, and Kaye always played along. I was meant to see the expression on your face when you spotted her in the street, and you both intended to make me feel humiliated as you flirted with each other.

I saw Kaye try to play the same tricks with other men while their wives were present, but none of them played along.

You made me sell my house, and we moved. You adult son came to live with us, and the two of you made it clear that me and my children had no rights. You ganged up on us, making the most unreasonable rules. We were there for over a year before I discovered that my name was not on the deeds. You had stolen the home that I paid for. Meanwhile your son was stealing money, and you were blaming my oldest child. I laid a trap, and proved it was him. When I spoke to you about it, you stammered, looked lost, and then became angry.

“What abot Sarah,” you yelled, “she left her bag in the hall when she came home from school.”

That was one of the rules; my girls were not to leave their bags in the hall even for a moment. Sarah had gone to the bathroom before putting her bag away.

You fathered my two youngest children, and used them as a weapon against me, spoiling them and bullting them in turns, being deliberately inconsistant, making empty threats so that they ended up confused and warped by you.

You made me feel ugly and unappealing. I did my best to please you, but that only made it worse. Other men found me attractive, and even tried to steal me from you. At least three of them went to great lengths, but ai came to the conclusion that they were all crazy – why would they want someone as disgusting as me?

I shut myself off from friends as you humiliated me whenever there was an audience. If anyone came to dinner you would push you plate away, saying the food I’d carefully cooked looked too horrible to eat.

If I made an effort to look nice, you’d glance at me then turn away, as if my repulsiveness made your eyes hurt. The more I tried to please you, the worse you became. I could tell a thousand stories of your dirty antics, but I’m bored with talking about it.

You denied your warped psychology – tried to make me believe I was paranoid, and it worked. For a long time I felt too pathetic to leave you. You made me think I was too useless to survive on my own. It was only after I finally got away that I found out the worst of your crimes.

I must have been blind not to have seenwhat you were. The clues were there every time we walked down the street.

You should have gone to prison; for a while, that was what I wanted, but it was not my choice to make. When the secret reached the ears of the man who broke your ribs in revenge for what you did, you thought his sin was greater than yours, which goes to show just how sick you are.

You tried to unravel me, and for a while it looked as if you had, but I survived, and now I understand, it was you who was unravelled. My mother once said you were inadequate, looking sad as she spoke those words. She was a kind woman. I wonder if she knew what an understatement she’d made.

The Daily Post #Unravel

©Jane Paterson Basil

Every evening with Laura

Last night, Laura and I made savoury tarts – a heavenly melee of aubergine, tomatoes, peppers and onion on flaky pastry, topped with delicious mascarpone. For accompaniment, we prepared creamy coleslaw and potato salad in vinaigrette. A salad of baby leaves, rocket, sundried tomatoes and olives finished off the meal.

It was quick, easy and delicious. We followed it up with a high quality shop-bought Cicilian lemon cheesecake which left our mouths feeling as if they had been spring-cleaned, then brewed coffee and settled down to watch a movie while the milk for this week’s yogurt slowly heated to 200 degrees in the slow cooker.

This may all sound like pretty routine stuff, but in the company of Laura it becomes supreme fun. Every evening spent with Laura is a treat.

©Jane Paterson Basil

Circle

territory

See my feet?

Imagine them being at the centre of a circle two meters in diameter.

Intimate friends and family and may stand toe-to-toe with me, within the ring. They may reach for my hand, put an arm round my shoulder, and in greeting or for comfort, give me a hug.

Those in need are also welcomed in, if my presence may help.

Aquaintances and associates may place their heels several centimetres within the line, but not come too close without my willing agreement. Fake affection is not permitted.

Those who would do harm to me, my loved ones or even an innocent stranger, must stay away from my territory, lest I invade theirs with my tapping fingers.

Written for The Daily Post #Territory

©Jane Paterson Basil

How high is the fridge

 

I was with my friend, Elaine, this afternoon, when my son rang me to tell me about an achievement. He had some free time on his hands, as his girlfriend, who likes to be called Krusti, (though she’s not crusty) wasn’t around. Mid-sentence, he suddely started making “Ugh! Errr! Yuck! What the…” noises. I asked him what was wrong, and he shouted:

“The cat’s done a crap on the fridge. What’s going on? Why would she do a thing like that? It’s horrible. It’s a classic cat-shit – you know, the kind that can’t be anything but cat shit. I’ve got to go now. I have question her about it. She’s got some explaining to do.” (He has a close relationship with his cat, and thinks he may have been a cat in a previous life, so he was probably serious.)

He came out with a few shock-horror expletives, then tried to excuse her by saying that maybe she’d been unable to get outside in time. He repeated that he was going to find Rusty and interrogate her about it, and put the phone down.

Roaring with laughter, and with tears in my eyes, I told Elaine what had happened. My explanation went something like this:

“(Ho ho hee hee), Rusty (gaffaw), Rusty’s done a (hahahahaha) crap on the fridge, and Paul has gone off to (roar, choke, cough) question her. I expect he’ll try to make her clear it up.”

Elaine looked at me stonily. “I don’t think that’s funny,” she said.

I carried on laughing, at the same time trying to remember Paul’s exact words, so that she’d share the joke. I mentioned that he thought Rusty may not have been able to get outside.

Now she looked puzzled.“Jane. It’s not funny… how high is the fridge?”

I’d never seen Elaine so po-faced. She usually laughs at the things I find funny. Being too slow to come up with “Dunno, but it smells pretty high right now,” I stood up, and held the side of my forefinger against my forehead.

“How did she get up there?” she asked.

I explained. “There’s a window beside the fridge. She’d have jumped onto the sill, and then onto the fridge. She often gets up there.”

“What?” She shook her head as if to loosen the dust of disbelief. “Has she ever done anything like that before?”

I couldn’t understand why she was so upset by my hilarity.

“No, she’s usually very clean, apart from all the hairs on the carpet. She’s long-haired, so it’s a bit of a nightmare hoovering up after her.”

“What?” she said again, but she must have decided to gloss over the hair issue, since she added “Why would Krusti crap on the fridge? Is she mad?”

That finished me. It took a while to splutter out the words “not… Krusti… Rusty…. the cat.”

Finally she saw the funny side, but by then, I almost needed medical attention, and by the time she’d stopped laughing at the misunderstanding, so did she.

You may call me squeamish, but in the interests of good taste, I chose to forego an image for this post. 😉 🙂 😀

©Jane Paterson Basil