Blurred Vision

 

Another trip to Specsavers and this time I find myself coming out with my first ever prescription for some reading glasses. My eyes are also tested for glaucoma as Mum has it and I'm happy to report the optometrist assessed that my pressure was good. That's reassuring, unlike my blood pressure which was sky high when I used my own monitor recently. Was that because I had just had my first wild swim in a local reservoir in April? What hypertension? It was flipping freezing. I will possibly write more of that adventure another time when I have thawed out fully.

Back to the eyes for now. Let's see if we can create a clearer picture for you readers. Blimey, this font size is just as small as the bottom line of the close range reading test I could not decipher at all. I was quite horrified as Dad didn't need his first pair of reading glasses until he was 50. That was also my goal. My mission has failed with 7 months still to go to reach that half-century milestone. Fear not, I have already purchased a new party frock to redress the balance.

Clark Kent (to protect his true identity), was given the challenge of helping me choose my first glasses, poor lad. I was feeling quite giddy by this stage because I realised it signalled yet another sign of ageing that I have to fully embrace. I am desperately trying to transition smoothly and gracefully into this next stage of my life.

Glancing wildly around the store, I saw a poster with a lovely auburn haired female modelling some perfect frames and blurted out, 'I want to look like her!' Clark was probably grimacing behind his mask whilst thinking, fat chance of that you daft woman. He chose instead to remain professionally focused and politely laughed along with me. Regaining composure, I changed tack by suggesting that I wanted to look intelligent instead.

Due to stricter hygiene requirements, every time I tried on some frames I had to put them in a special tray for a super duper deep cleaning process, so I felt a bit guilty trying on lots of them. This further increased the challenge before me. 

It was also going to be very hard to choose my first pair of glasses because I had cycled in, (to defeat the signs of ageing), and therefore my hair was a mess and, of course, I had to wear a face mask. Lovely young auburn haired, perfectly framed goddess looked nothing like me. Was she actually smirking down on me with her effervescent youth and beauty? Watch out, your time will come perfect poster model.

The designer range was my first real hurdle to get over without upsetting young Mr Kent, who was wearing a very nice pair of glasses by the way. Were they real or just for show? I genuinely believe other people really suit glasses, tattoos, grey hair and laughter lines.

Romeo wears contact lenses and glasses but usually not at the same time. Both have great advantages for me because when he is lens free he still thinks I look lovely even at close range. This is brilliant news because we all know how often looks can be deceiving.

'How about these Karen Millen ones?' Clark proffers them forth.

'Agh! NO WAY man, I cannot do designer, it's just not me. Haven't you heard Suzanne by Leonard Cohen. I am the very same charity shop rags and feathers wearing woman.'

'And you want travel with her, and you want to travel blind 

And then you know you can trust her

For she's touched your perfect body with her mind....'

Undeterred he thrusts a pair of Kylie frames towards me with silver encrusted arms.

'NO WAY!! I love Kylie, everyone loves Kylie, but I really can't see myself in them.'

He's finally getting the picture. 'No bling then.' 

Definitely no bling.

We jump down a couple of price brackets to the shop's own range. This is more like it. Why didn't we start here in the first place, I wonder?

'The trouble is Clark, there are so many to choose from. I mean, if there were only two choices it would be very easy wouldn't it?' I can sense him longing for his lunch break which is another galaxy away as it has only just gone 10 am. To help us both, I suddenly whip out my oversized sunglasses from the dazzling yellow cycling jacket I'm highly visible in.

'These are my sunglasses, but I don't want anything quite so big for reading with do I?'

This kickstarts a whole new phase where I can discern progression. Superman hands me some dark tortoiseshell frames which are OK, then another lighter pair. Like the blind leading the blind we are slowly getting somewhere. Finally, I settle on some pale tan coloured, faintly tortoiseshell frames which don't look too bad, I suppose. I'm sure I will be able to fashion my intelligent reading look in time. And really, despite all things vainly appearance related, I do want to be able to read comfortably for the rest of my life. There is so much more to learn, absorb, to be inspired by, and so little time for it all.

All of us must continue to make time for the simple pleasures in life.

Do not underestimate those things which make you happy and feel at peace. Strive for balance in work, rest, exercise and relaxation and try to enjoy all things in equal measure. This is my enlightened vision for my own future health and happiness. 

To fifty and beyond................................Suzz Lightyear to the rescue (of herself).

With love xx

PS If you're struggling to read this blog post please get your precious eyes checked, or simply alter your font size to LARGEST.

Family Affair

When I awake one of the first things I see when my eyes adjust to daylight, is a 10 years younger version of me staring straight back. No, I am not so brave that I dare to gaze directly into a mirror, it would surely reveal the horror that I attempt to conceal with natural looking day make-up. It can only be the other plausible option; that being the family portrait hanging in our home gallery. Interestingly, this could be perceived as being even more narcissistic than observing ones reflection in a pool of water and subsequently dying. 

Surely everyone nowadays owns a family portrait painted on a canvas in acrylic (102cm x 76cm), covering an otherwise blank space in their home? 

If not, get that project on your 'to do' list.

It's quite scary to be honest but does capture us at a specific time in our lives, as a photograph does, but this remains unfiltered and raw, just how I like it. We four sit together on our second-hand sofa in the living room. From left to right we are: Still midlife crisis; myself, no fringe then and obviously wearing an ill-fitting bra; Mini-Me, cuddling the school teddy bear, now upgraded to the infamous Teenage Dirtbag title; Still Romeo, (can't change that one either), looking very stern and grumpy, probably due to what appears to be a dislocated elbow; daughter dirtbag, now blossomed into Psych Undergraduate, perched mischievously on the sofa arm.

A young talented artist painted the portrait for us from a photograph. We could not sit still for that long. He was one of Romeo's students when he taught art at the local high school. I am desperately trying to get a James Joyce reference in here but think it may be too contrived. We bought our beloved Rusty from the same young man in more recent history. 

Rusty currently sits in the garage after being stood still for far too long during lockdown. We all identify with that feeling don't we? She got clamped and un-clamped within an hour one harrowing day, after we forgot to tax her because she had a flat battery. Now legally roadworthy again she needs a new accelerator amongst many other things, including some welding and touching up. Well to be honest she could do with a full blown paint job. Hopefully now you can understand why we are not a pet owning family. I feel a bizarre physical symmetry with Rusty as there are indeed more and more body parts for me to worry about and keep in decent working order at this delicate stage of midlife.

We didn't know where to hang the portrait at first; it seemed to dominate in the living room, yet got lost on the landing. And so it ended up in the loft at the very top of our house. When I study the painting now I have flashbacks through time at high speed. The layers of colour and brush strokes recreate pictures in my mind of adventures already had and summon visions of how I should have been more prepared for coping with teenagers. I have reached the conclusion that it's really just about clinging on tightly to the mast while trying not to fall overboard. Bravely weathering the many frequent and often turbulent storms coming directly at you full force without any warning whatsoever. HELP, HELP ME, SOMEONE HELP ME!

Perhaps try something exhilarating like skydiving or swimming with sharks to remain focused and on high alert. That is, if you can abandon the family ship for an hour or two when the waters are surprisingly calm.

Still dance and sing whenever you can.

With love xx

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=znlFu_lemsU

Rainbow Results

Opening the blinds on the morning of my second stage screening appointment, I catch a glimpse of the faintest rainbow in the otherwise grey, gloomy sky. Obviously, I squeeze as much of the coloured magic from it before it quickly vanishes, then pull my trusty rainbow socks onto my feet. The journey was awful as we were stuck in rush hour traffic despite it being our Easter holiday; other commuters needed to get to work. After a few detours we somehow managed to arrive exactly on time. This is very strange as we are usually always late. There were about four other older but equally miserable looking couples in the waiting room. As soon as I sat down I wanted to cry because I could see the worried looks of love on all the male faces, Romeo's included. So, instead I stared hard at the bright picture of tulips in a perfectly arranged park before me and blinked back the emotions because when I start crying, for whatever reason, it's like a torrential downpour which lasts for an age.

When my name was called I had to go into a cubicle and strip off from the waist upwards, depositing my clothes and unnecessary sports bra, in a blue, plastic shopping basket. Then, I wrapped around a well-worn, blue NHS gown and returned to the waiting room. A lovely, young mammographer explained that she was going to take some more X-rays. It was my right breast that was the cause for concern. As she carefully and gently coaxed it into the correct position with her blue gloves on, I imagined she was stretching and twisting some pizza dough. Please don't knead any remaining life out of this piece of sagging flesh, I silently prayed.

After about an hour, my name was called again and I went into a darkened room hosting two nurses and a Polish, male doctor. Disrobing on command and sitting facing him, while the women watched expressionless, was completely surreal. Rainbow socks, rainbow socks, Susie, think about those lovely rainbow socks. At least I didn't have to worry about my underwear today. As he began to juggle both breasts individually (with his BARE hands), I looked behind his head to see a giant, blown up X-ray of my right breast, looking quite perky but HUGE. Anxiety almost got the better of me but somehow I stifled manic laughter when I saw the cause for concern in the pin-up picture before me. It was, in comparison, very tiny. The next phase to undergo was the ultrasound; the only other time I have experienced this was during my pregnancies. Sprawled half naked on my back, on a hospital bed, with my right arm underneath my head and hair tied up, I could have easily been a model posing for either Monsieur Degas, Manet or Renoir in a private boudoir. Then, obviously slightly delirious, I began to have a Dali daydream about a foetus growing inside my breast and the doctor telling me he could clearly see the heartbeat, which was naturally in the form of a melting clock. Commence internal sing-a-long: Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high ........................

Meanwhile, in the waiting room a thoughtful nurse had flicked a switch on the side of the tulip picture, illuminating it into a psychedelic, hallucinogenic feature. It was trying too hard to be cheerful but somehow necessary I suppose. Maybe some Laurel and Hardy or Harold Lloyd films would be a better distraction?
Back to reality and following the ultrasound, my cause for concern now had a pretty pink sticker placed on it for the next round of intimate Pizza Xpress-rays. After a short wait, I returned to the doctor and nurses, this time for my results. It was such a relief to hear the words, 'It's nothing serious, just a lymph node which we will mark on your records.' Phew! At last, I could get fully dressed, go home and relax. Despite feeling a bit shell shocked I somehow remembered to thank the doctor and nurses for their care, rejoined Romeo and we both staggered freely together with my rainbow feet out of the hospital. My hope for now, was that all the other women would be OK too. Statistically, sadly, I knew that some would not be.

It is upon reflection days later I realise that the doctor who examined me is the only other male who has had the privilege to touch my breasts since 1990. He did not, however, manage to make an impression upon either my heart or soul; only very few good men can achieve that. What a revelation to write about and reminds me of a quote from The Great Gatsby:
'Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known.'

To prove that I was alive and well following my ordeal and after watching Everest (2015), I decide to set myself a challenge; to cycle all the way from home up to the top of Holme Moss (524m), one soggy Saturday. Stopping for oxygen at each hairpin bend of the ascent, I felt elated as the fog and rain tried hard to suffocate me. Even the dead hare at the roadside did not deter me. At one steep point close to the summit, painted on the road in fading white I misread Go Froome for Go Home, as both Le Tour de France and the Tour of Britain have also enjoyed this route. Was it altitude sickness, the lashing rain smudging letters or do I need my eyes testing again? The usually magnificent views from the top were completely submerged in thick fog, so after devouring my banana and two small emergency chocolates, I quickly photographed the bike before my phone died and then began the freezing cold descent.

La reine des montagnes

I'm almost ready to submit another short story and a poem into a competition and currently reading On Writing by Stephen King. Thanks for reading my diary and I hope you continue to conquer your own challenges, however big or small.

With Love xx

Recently read:
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Carry On Writing

Hi friends! I had to have a blogging break due to the ridiculous stresses and strains of family life mixed with a challenging term at work, which all seemed unbearable at times. It is not fair to bombard you with it all because I would be far too honest and probably distress you too much, or make you feel sorry for me. To subject you, my readers, to both would be pitiful and useless, so the silence was necessary. Anyway, my computer decided to update and crash, subsequently I caught a nasty virus and did likewise. Recognising that we all have troubles in our lives, my main thrust of writing this diary is to encourage you, while recording my own struggles and achievements, hopefully in a bittersweet style that is ultimately a positive reading experience. So, at this Easter time of new beginnings I'm changing tack a bit and writing about how I am persevering in the wonderful world of reading and writing.

I've recently joined an online writing community and a local writing forum at our Huddersfield library, where I met some lovely authors. The support and advice from both are essential, providing a whole network out there to get involved with. Attending a brilliant writing workshop during the Huddersfield Literature Festival inspired me and I've already submitted a short story into a competition and am currently writing another one. There is a novella competition coming up which I am going to enter and meanwhile I am trying to be brave and seek an agent or publishing house weekly. Got to get used to rejection Susie, it's all part of the process. Writing something everyday, which can be challenging after a busy day at work, doesn't feel like a chore to me, it helps me relax and puts things back in order. The letters, words and sentences which I write are completely under my control, they say exactly what I want to and as a true Yorkshire lass, I mean what I say. It's all very carefully constructed waffling. Competitions seem to be a good way forward as then your writing is judged independently and if longlisted, shortlisted or heaven forbid, you WIN, then you have your foot poking through the tiniest of cracks of the thickest door and into the harsh, otherwise seemingly impenetrable world of publishing. Oh, and if you can afford it, an MA in Creative Writing seems to help. The last thing to remember is DON'T EVER GIVE UP! This applies to everyone of us in whatever we are striving to achieve.

On a lighter note I was recently invited to attend an early mammogram, as part of a trial. Some of my lovely friends are also on this VIP guest list.

SPOILER ALERT! DO NOT CONTINUE TO READ THIS UNTIL YOU HAVE HAD YOURS.

'It will feel like you're having your blood pressure taken,' the miserable, matter-of-fact nurse informed me. What a liar she turned out to be; I do not like untruthful people. God, give me the truth no matter how much it hurts! Do I honestly mean that? My goodness me, it felt like someone grabbing my breasts, (one at a time) and ramming them into a cold, metal vice, then tightening it up until I thought my mammaries would actually burst, showering the walls with blood, fat, lymph gland fluid and any impossibly left over milk from those distant, joyous days of breast feeding my children. OUCH!! OUCH!! Even piercing my own nipples with a rusty nail with no ice to numb them would be a sublime pleasure compared to this harrowing ordeal. I hasten to add that I am NOT joking. For any male readers out there, imagine your worst enemy, ex-wife or bitter ex-lover wielding some silver, metal nutcrackers over whatever you have to offer in that department. Your hands are obviously tied up (try not to faint now) as they shove your manhood into the apparatus then squeeze the handles together with all their wrath, literally trying to crush your bits and pieces into oblivion. 'Mercy!' you yell, just before you black out and they release the pressure..........until the next time. Wow, that was fun to write.

I somehow suppressed the carnal desire to shout, scream, cry and swear all at the same time. Thank heavens it didn't take long. I felt like I was in some sadistic torture chamber, not a touring NHS mobile unit. As if that wasn't painful enough, a week later I receive a letter inviting me to a hospital in Bradford for second stage screening. Allow three hours for this appointment it informs me; I could watch Mel Gibson's film, The Passion of the Christ (2004) with time to spare. Happy Easter! Then I suddenly remember, that suffering is very much the way of the pilgrim's progress. It is how much commitment to the faith we have to keep on, keeping on.
Encouragement is vital. Exercise essential. Hope everything. No doubt, I will keep you abreast of the situation.

So, whatever you are struggling with just now, know that it won't last forever. Enjoy doing the things which make you happy and feel alive, when you can. Keep walking positively on your own unique path with the help of your family and friends. Don't give up, I won't.

With Love xx

PS I always find scrubbing the toilet vigorously clean helps to put things into a much brighter perspective.

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MEN vs Opera

The half-term arrived at last and I collapsed into it like a slowly deflating bouncy castle. Would I be able to bounce back in just a week? I have been feeling the tension of the world in which we live and I also feel it strongly at home between us; daughter against father, daughter against mother, sister against brother = wife distant from husband. Like planets orbiting around one another in disharmony we are all vying for attention. What can realign us? Our nation and our community remains on a severe threat against a terrorist attack I learned in my recent PREVENT training. Is this also what makes me feel so uneasy? Don't give up Susie!

As Storm Brian raged around us we set off with a reluctant Mini-Me, to drive Dirtbag and friend to the Manchester MEN Arena to see J.Cole. We hit Huddersfield Town as the delirious football fans were leaving our John Smith's Stadium after witnessing the home team miraculously beat Manchester United 2-1. Three quarters of an hour later we arrived in one piece in the losers city and literally dropped the girls outside the stadium, leaving them to go through the extra rigorous security checks alone. Gulp. It was a sell out gig of 21,000.

We managed to park up a nearby side street, (obviously still needing to pay and display) and then set about killing time in the city, in the terrible evening wind and rain. Mini-Me was scared about another bomb going off but we managed to distract him with a really leisurely meal in a lovely Italian restaurant and chatted to a young, visiting Austrian couple. After we felt we couldn't possibly stay any longer we thanked our waitress Monika, who cheerfully thanked us for our custom and gave Mini-Me a balloon, 'Sorry it's pink,' she said. 'It's OK, thanks, I don't mind,' he charmingly replied.

Walking the streets of a northern city centre at 10 pm on a Saturday with a sensitive eleven year old is a bizarre experience. He saw some wild hen party women, some happy drunks, a cursing man drop his box of new shoes as he attempted to get into a taxi and of course the homeless. As iron filings are drawn to the magnet so I find myself in spite myself, crouching down to chat. 'What's your name?' I ask the first man, 'Simon,' he replies. 'Most people look at us like we are dirt,' he tells me. 'You're not though, we are all the same, we are all human,' my voice somehow speaks these words to him. Then further along while I force myself to meet Mark sat outside Tesco's, I hear Mini-Me shriek as he lets go of his pink balloon, trying hard to follow its journey into the dark, gaping mouth of Brian. At least he didn't fly away with it and get swallowed up! It was a wonder any of the Halloween pumpkin lanterns still hung on the tree branches as the wind was so strong. Hopefully Mark got his bed for the night.

The time eventually came for the 21,000  trendy, young black/white, rap/hip-hop fans to spill out of the arena in a tidal mass of moving flesh. This was the bit I was dreading, just to relocate each other safely. We had now parked successfully closer to the venue and for free as it was 11 pm. Romeo went to meet the girls while Mini-Me and I stayed in lockdown in the car, witnessing at least ten young men relieve themselves up an alley. Just to clarify they were urinating. I couldn't see a thing but still chuckled to myself as the radio blasted out some 90s tunes to keep us awake. I was happy when we were all back together again in the car and driving us home to bed.

The following evening we drive exactly the same route but just the two of us, in the calm after the storm. The bright crescent moon anchored above seemed a fitting tribute for the band we were going to see on Quay Street. It had taken some persuasion to actually get Romeo on board because my long ago planned treat unfortunately clashed with the cricket club's Harvest Festival. I had said on many recent occasion that I would take a friend instead as that would be better than him coming along unwillingly. However, he chose to voyage with me after his spot singing with the band in the club while I was at home resting.

The Opera House is the ideal venue for a band as well as the many musicals and ballets it stages. We sat up in the circle with a perfect view in the intimate 1,920 capacity crowd. Most of the audience were middle-aged and obviously enjoyed a beer or two. Dressing to impress anyone who noticed I settled on my green, hippyish patterned frock, purple tights, brown ankle boots and daringly sealed my pout with a bright red lipstick called 'Alarm.' The crisis is continuing so it seems, although I thought I looked just right for such a night out and a lady did tell me she loved my dress. 'Oh thanks, I like yours too!' My siren smile replied. There were small bars on each floor which felt quaint and lovely and I was happy to sip a soft drink in one despite it being extortionately over priced.

The Waterboys carried me away into a safe and happy place, where I was free for two hours, just to be. I felt so peaceful and liberated away from the stresses and strains of the world. When the band first came on stage to a rapturous welcome Mike Scott said, 'Thanks for choosing to spend your evening with us.' Our pleasure Mike, thanks for realigning us, I thought. They played a lot of their new songs off their latest album called Out Of All This Blue. It is quite different to their folk roots but I liked it, especially live. You can really feel the passion Mike has for his new Japanese wife, through his music and lyrics and I thought how lovely it is that he feels like that and how love can turn your world upside down at anytime. Usually when you least expect it. I sang along to the songs I knew, When Ye Go Away, How Long Will I Love You, A Girl Called Johnny, and of course the brilliant encores: Whole Of The Moon and Fisherman's Blues.

My all time favourite song of theirs is from the fabulous Fisherman's Blues album and is called We Will Not Be Lovers. I love this so much for it's full of longing and tension which so clearly expresses to me that feeling of wanting to be with someone that it seems you cannot be with for whatever reason. Or that's my interpretation of it anyway.

Whatever is on your horizon I trust that it is full of hope and happiness.
And remember: Prevention is better than cure. Although, surely this saying just applies to illness and teeth and not matters of the heart?

With love xx

/www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vu65eMTuqsQ&list=RDVu65eMTuqsQ

The annual Harold Wilson Lecture 2017

I bet you were wondering if I actually did attend this free event. Of course I did, what woman of substance would not? Leaving work in my rainbow striped jumper and with my multi-coloured, sparkly LOVE necklace in place, I felt ready for some mental stimulation. Walking towards the new Oastler building at Huddersfield University, I read the poem Let There Be Peace by Lemn Sissay, which is permanently displayed on the Creative Arts building. He inspired me as 14 year old schoolgirl, I recall, when he came to do a workshop in an English lesson. Thanks, Lemn.

It's quite comical to find myself in the entrance of this venue surrounded by a swarm of elderly people and clergy. Mind you, this is a typical demographic trend of the much smaller Sunday morning congregation to which I belong. The many white collars look pale and boring compared with my singular, sparkly LOVE charm but I'm not one to judge. Soon I cross paths with some familiar faces who make me feel less like a goldfish out of its bowl. As I sit down next to a lady I know, I confess that I can't believe this talk is going to last three hours. She instantly absolves my fear and dread by telling me there was a misprint on the ticket. Praise the Lord indeed, I thought.

The stage is set with a perspex lectern taking centre position, flanked on either side by display stands full of psychedelic gladioli. It's a blooming full house tonight Dr Rowan Williams. A University based fellow, the Vice-Chancellor in fact, appears at the lectern bang on time to introduce the special guests. The first being the honorary Professor Robin Wilson, son of Harold Wilson. As he stands up turning to face the audience, there is an audible gasp as he is the spit and image of his deceased father. It is almost as if the statue which stands outside the train station has come to life and walked across town, just as I had done this very evening. Surreal, for real and we applaud his presence.

Now it's time for the former Archbishop of Canterbury to begin his discourse. With all due respect he resembles the lovely Albus Dumbledore minus his hat and cloak. Of course, I'm not going to paraphrase his lecture in any way, shape or form because most of it belonged to another realm of supreme intelligence, which after a busy day at work my poor brain could not fully comprehend. I was trying to write notes though, as I am a bit of a swot and love to learn but my pen was playing up. Looking back over the scribbles now I can just about decipher the following: The Republic by Plato, Thomas Aquinas, demos, history of democracy, echo chamber, judiciary, enemies of the people and finally encourage/promote debate. Phew! Put that lot in your pipe and smoke it Harold.

There was a moment or two where, to be honest, I had visions of Dr Rowan grabbing some fluorescent pink and orange gladioli and swishing them around himself on stage, as Morrissey did indeed do. Were they gladioli or chrysanthemums? Susie, focus on this charming man, come out of that cruel reverie and concentrate, I berate my subconscious self. So, once again I am smiling and slightly nodding in agreement at whatever philosophy, ideology, theology, democracy, pedagogy, I actually do understand.

There was a short time slot given after the lecture for any questions. However, I did not feel my concerns would be clever enough so kept quiet for a change. I was really impressed with how the good Dr did consider carefully and respond thoughtfully on the spot, to the five or so questions fired at him. After the rapturous, lengthy applause, I gladly took up the offer of a lift home from the lady I know. We were walking quickly alongside one another, discussing the lecture and sermons in general when I could feel someone's presence gathering speed behind us. Glancing over my left shoulder I was slightly startled to see Professor Dumbledore and an associate scurrying towards us. Yikes, did he want to ask me how we could encourage more young people into the Church of England or had he been transfigured by my dazzling smile, auburn halo and sparkly LOVE trinket? Being me, I had to speak to him. Bigmouth strikes again, get your flowers ready to swish Suze.
'Oh, thank you, I really enjoyed your lecture, it was really good,' I said not wanting to boost any clever male more than is wholly necessary.
'Thank you,' Dr Rowan replied, smiling with his twinkling eyes, before hurriedly turning around and speed shuffling off to meet his taxi in the other direction. See, even really clever people lose their way sometimes. Or was he going for a swift pint in the Head of Steam with Harold's son? What difference does it make? Hopefully, we shall all get to where we need to be in the end.

With sparkly

XX

                                                                                                           

Jess Glynne at Scarborough Open Air Theatre, 11/8/17

'Is everyone alright?' Asks Jess.
'Yeah!' We shout back.
'Are you ready to get down with me and my band?'
'Yeah!'
'Are you feeling the love?'
'Yeah!'
'If you feel it like I am, join in'.............some giant lyrics appear on the huge screen behind her and we all sing together,

'This is real, real, real, real love'

                                                                      💌       💌       💌

This was a girls outing only, featuring Mid-life crisis and Dirtbag.
It had been booked since January and even though the music is 'not her cup of tea,' Dirtbag agreed to come along. The drive to Scarborough took longer than expected due to it being really busy around the York turn off. Were the masses going to pick fruit in the strawberry fields, pray in the Minster or walk around the city walls? All the motorways and roads in England seem so congested these days, which makes getting anywhere quickly quite frustrating. Oh, for a huge open desert highway and cheap fuel. Never mind, we ain't got far to go.
When we do eventually arrive, I have to pay £6.00 to park the car. It ain't right.
All car parking was free in Kefalonia.
After our early evening meal together, fish and chips of course, we stand in line with the Collector Tickets dangling around our necks. I purchased these by mistake but I do like them.

Suprisingly, I had bought tickets for the standing area so we could sing and dance, remembering that I almost seized up after sitting down dancing at The Cure last November. The Open Air Theatre (Europe's largest one apparently), is an unusual venue in that the standing area consists of decking constructed over the lake.

'Mum, is it safe?' asks Dirtbag, before the support acts begin. I do a little impromptu dance/jump routine in our spot right here, about six rows from the front of centre stage, much to her embarrassment.
'It's fine love, don't worry. Anyway, you're a good swimmer aren't you?'
Meanwhile, I'm scanning the crowds for any suspicious nutcases or terrorists in the seemingly 'normal,' slowly growing audience. Thankfully, it looked like we were all clean bandits.

After being pleasantly warmed up by trio, The Tailormade, then energised by upbeat Mullally, the main event began with the band taking to the stage first. After a couple of minutes, the shiny cloaked goddess appeared through the smoke, sporting shades, a super sleek ponytail and huge silver hoop earrings with LOVE written in the right one and ME in the left.
'You do realise that you are stood on a lake?' Jess laughs at us.

Her band were fantastic with tons of energy to compliment her amazing voice and stage presence. They included three male brass players performing in shiny, silver/purple tracksuits, reminding me of Balthazar Bratt from Despicable Me 3. The backing singers (two female, one male), shone brilliantly in their black outfits and Jess gave them all a chance to shine even further.
'Do you want to hear my backing singers?'
'Yeah!'
They each sang a short solo which we loudly cheered and applauded.

In the news, the day before, I had seen some photos of Jess Glynne, looking fabulous in her bikini. During the gig she commented briefly on how very sad she was about the invasion of her privacy while on holiday with her family. Don't be so hard on yourself Jess, I wanted to shout, but didn't. Then she sang, Take Me Home asking everyone to switch their phone lights on, which looked lovely in the night sky.

Note to self: Delete all holiday pics with me wearing my bikini off the computer files. Unless, of course, they are taken from long range and are slightly out of focus.

It was lovely to spend the evening with my beautifully blossoming, daughter. She sang along really loudly to the songs she knew and loved punching the giant glitter filled orbs as they whizzed over our heads during Hold My Hand. I trust that she will always know that when I am with her there's no place I'd rather be.

'Is everyone alright, do you feel safe?' Jess kindly checks with us.
'Yeah!'
'Good.' She seems really genuine and concerned but in a calm, unassuming way. All her energy goes into her precise performance and I identify with the gorgeous ginger perfectionist. No rights no wrongs.

When the brilliant gig was over and we had to leave, we found ourselves trapped in a travelling tide of over 7000 people. This was stressful for me and I didn't like it at all. The flow fed from one small exit off the standing platform above the lake, into the trickling tributaries coursing downhill from the raised seated areas. I thought of Hillsborough and how terribly, dreadfully awful that must have been. Dirtbag was ahead but I wanted to wait until there was more space to move myself. We had a minor altercation and I told her you can find me by the car if we get separated; which thankfully, we didn't.
Then I challenged her as we walked the short distance uphill to the nearby car park.

'What would you have done if there was an emergency? Where would you have gone if a bomb went off? There was nowhere to go! Perhaps you could have jumped over the fence into the lake?'

How terrible that we have to have such discourse with ourselves and our kids in times like these. Why me? I can clearly hear my own mother's voice in my teenage head, when I was about to embark on my fortnightly trip to the village library, not even half a mile down the lane.
'Suzanne, mind the road when you are crossing it. Be careful love.'

Despite being beside the seaside we didn't have an ice-cream and I wouldn't have chosen the saddest vanilla anyway, rather Save Our Swirled or Karamel Sutra by Ben & Jerry's. What I did devour was a hot chocolate and chicken wrap to set me up for the drive home. Just when tiredness was beginning to distress me, the dark black, night sky, gave me something to guide us safely home; the first shooting star I have seen since leaving Qatar.

Love Me xx

All words in italics are song titles from Jess Glynne's debut album, I Cry When I laugh, (2015).