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.

Recently read:
The Red Notebook by Antoine Laurain
Transit by Rachel Cusk
Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman
The Present (a poem) by Simon Armitage

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).

Summer of Love

Our summer holidays began with a week in beautiful Kefalonia, where Captain Corelli's Mandolin (2001) was filmed. Romeo sorted the whole trip out in March when he thought we needed some sun. I immediately fell in love with the people, place and food. It was a much needed holiday after the busy term and I really enjoyed swimming everyday in the crystal clear Ionian sea. How can I become a mermaid? Will it hurt a lot? Although, I would miss my cycling then. Seeing so many gorgeous Greek Gods and Goddesses in their swimwear was both wonderful and intimidating. I noticed many people, especially a lot of the young men, proudly boasting a cross around their necks. Is that why I felt so at home? Some of our fabulous desert friends even flew over to spend a whole day with us. They were just across the way in Athens but still, how brilliant to be together again.

My pre-holiday preparations included applying a fairly large self adhesive flower tattoo onto my left breast and another much smaller one on the top right hand side of the nether regions. After all, it's very important to keep surprising one another in a long term relationship. I found it highly amusing when Romeo discovered them. In the pool one day stretching to catch the skim ball, my bikini top revealed a bit too much and Mini-Me was horrified.

'Mum, have you had a tattoo?' He's still unsure about the nose piercing.
'Oh, erm, no it's only a stick on one love.'
'Well, what have you done that for, why are you being a rebel?'
'I don't know, I can't help it.'

Romeo was in for it at the beach.

'Mum, Dad keeps staring at all the women without their bikini tops on!'
'I know, don't worry about it love, it's normal.'
'But why is he staring, it's rude, tell him to stop!'
'It's OK, he can't help it.'

After one late evening meal in Argostoli, I waited patiently in a line of kids for a more semi-permanent henna tattoo, as the salty surf was eroding my surprises away. Choosing a lovely floral design I asked for it around my left wrist as a bracelet. For the older, hippy looking man to do this I had to rest my hand on his 'lap,' rather too high up for my liking. Anyway, I did it and held it there motionless, for about half an hour. Gulp. I busied myself by making small talk with him and pierced any sexual thoughts from entering his brain by looking directly into his eyes with my clear, undefiled, pale blue stare, whenever possible. He was very friendly and spoke good English, so when his mate chuckled something to him in Greek, I said slightly mischievously, 'I hope you are not being cheeky?' To which he replied, 'He is only admiring the design.' Hmm.

My sweaty palm left a Susie sized hand print on his cotton trouser leg which swiftly evaporated in the heat. Then I was free to pay and go. By the way, I didn't take my phone or purse on holiday with me. See how liberated I am nowadays? It also meant that Romeo had to do all the driving around as I didn't have my licence either because it lives in my purse. And you may imagine that I am not domineering in anyway, well think again dear reader.

Yorkshire v Lancashire

We have been honoured and delighted to have been invited to three weddings this summer, two of which were for desert friends and enabled some great reunions. It makes the desert chapter real, as you know how strongly I value the gift of friendship. The brides all looked so very beautiful and happy and I enjoyed sharing in the celebrations with their grinning husbands, friends and family. I could write at great length about each wedding but have decided not to for fear of breaching their privacy. It is only fair to say we had such wonderful fun and thanks so much for inviting us.
Remember: All you need is LOVE.

My charity shop bought outfits seemed to cause quite a stir which I'm pleased about as I love a bargain. My own wedding dress was purchased second hand from an agency and cost £45.00. Sitting together by the altar on the 9th August 1997, Romeo whispered, 'How much was your dress then?' He had a little bet on with someone that I would not have paid more than £100 for it. Quite right, I always will be a frugal Yorkshire lass, it's genetic. It had a beautiful deep green velvet bodice with a cream skirt and I felt just like Maid Marian with the white rose headdress on. The fact that it had Tracey embroidered into it didn't bother me at all. Very superstitious, I'm not. It really doesn't matter what you do or don't wear, including your under garments. It's the state of your heart, mind and soul that truly counts. But, you all know that don't you?

Our wedding photos have been in storage for five years and it was great to look back through them together on our anniversary.
'That's the ugliest dress I have ever seen,' declares Dirtbag, matter of factly.
I'm crying, not because of her comment but because naturally, some people in the photographs are either dead or divorced. Many though, remain vibrantly alive supporting us still, as do our new friends gathered along the way. So, thank you all for that. We will strive to love and support the newly weds wherever they may go and be, in our own far from smug married, crazy way.

The record player was the perfect anniversary gift and I have been spinning the vinyl ever since; finally getting to listen to my record store day purchase, Solid Air by John Martyn. Talk about delayed gratification. Phew! After the hectic, hedonistic wedding celebrations I choose the moment carefully. Everyone is out of the house and I'm alone at last. Pressing the Bluetooth speaker up to full volume I lie down on the sofa, melting into a state of total tranquillity while the title track fills my empty space and I smile:

Release, reflect, recharge,
restore, recall, reconnect
recuperate,
reconcile,
refresh,
relish.

With Love xx

'Don't be so hard on yourself, no 
Learn to forgive, learn to let go, 
Everyone trips, everyone falls,
So don't be so hard on yourself, no'

Jess Glynne

My bedroom circa 1985

Still reading: The Trouble with Goats and Sheep as I have been too busy singing and dancing lately.
Listening to: Solid Air by John Martyn and Romeo's fairly decent vinyl collection. My parents chucked my extensive hip hop, rap and other various artists collections out!
Watched: Moulin Rouge! (2001) Bad Teacher (2011) and Despicable Me 3 (2017) at the cinema with Mini-Me.
Sang and danced with Jess Glynne at Scarborough Open Air Theatre with Dirtbag. I will write this event up as a special solo feature sometime soon.

Super, natural powers

In Rainbows

Wearily cycling home from work one afternoon, I spied an eagle gliding over the ploughed field. It was so beautiful and I haven't seen an eagle on my route before. Just watching it swoop around in circles gave me the extra strength I needed to pedal safely home. Another evening upon the brink of sheer exhaustion, two amazing rainbows appeared, one above the other, outside my kitchen door. The lowest one was so vivid I had to double, triple blink to believe it. Multi-coloured streaks of energy rippled through my blood vessels as though I had swallowed a whole sweet shop full of Space Dust Popping Candy.

As you know weekends are precious. Time seems to speed up for two days and then suddenly you are back at work on Monday morning thinking how did that happen? One recent Saturday, I was feeling particularly exhausted and without energy (recurring theme here); I wondered if I was coming down with something. How many Complete Woman vitamins should I gulp down to reap some benefits? It was a beautifully sunny day, so I swung on the swing seat in the back yard; reading, thinking, reading some more, followed by some more thinking. Selfishly, I delight in the silence as soon as the cricketers leave the house.
And relax.

As you also know, timing is everything. So, I left home in plenty of it later on in the afternoon to walk up to the cricket club for The Great Get Together picnic, in memory of the MP Jo Cox. The super second team which Romeo plays in has never seen such a huge crowd of spectators before now! First though, I wanted to drop off some flowers and a card to a lady from church whose husband had died while they were on holiday together. Approaching the village and its three shops (Post Office, Newsagent and Co-op) I met a woman who was leaning against the stone wall, obviously struggling.
'Would you like some help?' I asked her.
'Yes please,' she replied.
We had begun the slow, slow shuffle downhill towards her house when a friendly jogger stopped to help me, help her. It took us thirty minutes to traverse the 30 yards to reach the safety of home. My friendly jogger and I hugged in the street (we are actual friends, she's the one who set up my Blogger account), thanking each other before going our separate ways. After I had dropped by with the flowers (staying for an hour or so and trying hard to listen, the hugging is easy), I was feeling much less sorry for myself when I eventually arrived at the cricket club, and indeed thankful for my lot in life.

Dad's wildflower garden

Re-energised, I attempted to assist behind the very busy bar but got a bit flustered, so was sent outside to collect empty glasses. This took me an age as I had to chat to everyone from the village who I had not yet seen, since arriving home from the desert one year ago. Suddenly, the one and only tray I held was desperately needed to provide drinks for the thirsty cricketers on the pitch. 'Susie, we need the tray now!' Rushing back to the old club house to deliver this solitary piece of servitude, I found myself apologising for my vivacious social skills. Then the powers that be gave me the job of selling raffle tickets; I loathe asking people for money. What kind of otherworldly test was this that I had to endure? I am not of Amazonian descent. However, my partner and I did a pretty good job, so I felt as though I had positively contributed something to this excellent, all age, village event.

After the match had finally finished and the children's Disco came to a natural end, Romeo attempted a solo sing-a-long in the nearly complete, new club house. Then there was some Karaoke and more Disco. It was all very Phoenix Nights and wonderfully so: lovely people, singing, dancing, some crying, drinking, more drinking, being, living.

I must have absorbed some super powers from watching Wonder Woman at the local cinema with a wonderful friend, as I somehow managed to cycle all the way up to the very top of a 16% hill for the first time on Friday after work. I'm still smiling about this achievement, even though a snail would have won if we were racing. Nevertheless, I'm proud of my pedal power. It could have been a delayed sugar rush from the Fruit Pastilles and Minstrels I had consumed throughout the film?

Trusting that you remain strong even in your weakness and that you courageously face whatever is hurled at you in your very own super, natural way.

'It come to me all on a suddn may be I hadnt ben making connexions I shudve ben making. Mos of the time the peopl youwl talk to are the 1s as think the same as you. If youre easy in your mynd you aint all ways counting up how many think the arper sit way.'

From Riddley Walker by Russell Hoban

With Love xx

Read:The Unaccompanied by Simon Armitage
Reading:The Trouble with Goats and Sheep by Joanna Cannon
Listening, singing & dancing to: In Rainbows by Radiohead
Singing: Lights Out by Royal Blood
Watched/watching: All of Glastonbury (dancing on my magic carpet I feel as though I am actually there). Wonder Woman (2017), Housewife, 49 (2006) and The Handmaid's Tale (TV series 2017)

My magic carpet

M'aider

May began well, with Susie & Nige's magical mystery night (on the calendar in Romeo's script), revealing itself as a trip to Penistone Paramount to watch the Vienna Festival Ballet perform Cinderella. I love dance in all its forms and was enchantedly swept away by both the fairytale and the dancers' discipline and athleticism. It was a multi-sensory experience with colourful costumes, carefully choreographed movements, music by G.A.Rossini and some wine to sip while watching. Romeo had certainly surprised me and after the show we went to a pub where I let him win at pool, as a way of saying thank you. I've also offered to take him on a return date to The annual Harold Wilson Lecture 2017 at the University but he doesn't want to go. It's by Dr Rowan Williams and is entitled: Christianity and democracy: does theology have anything to say to our political crises?
Did he expect something else?

Back to the ballet. It is so beautiful to see and such a different experience as opposed to watching a film, T.V or a play. Thinking about it later, I realise that I find it as equally moving to see the student I work closely with at school, out of his wheelchair for thirty minutes or so each day. I love that time together, it's so special. He has his own unique movements which I try to encourage and support.

Mini-Me went off camping on his first ever school trip: Bushcraft Woods Adventure in Cheshire; on the same weekend as our Shepley Spring Festival. Meanwhile, the lovely Dirtbag was catching up with friends and doing her waitressing shift at a local pub/restaurant. How things change.

Back to the festival. There was so much music, singing and dancing to enjoy; it was impossible to experience everything and it certainly took my mind off missing the little fella. On Friday evening I sang in church with the Shepley Singers, which was lovely. Later on, in the beer tent I bumped into Belinda O'Hooley and had a nice little chat with her, asking how their performance had gone, (O'Hooley & Tidow). I apologised for not being able to listen as I was singing in the church and she said not to worry, they are doing something in Slaithwaite in October and to come along to that. Which, of course, I may do.

On Saturday I attended a lunchtime concert with meine Freundin (Romeo was playing cricket) where we saw Stepling, Nightfall and Megson; all brilliantly captivating. The evening concert was awesome with Nordic Fiddlers Bloc then Kelly Oliver, (followed by a short break in the beer tent for me) before the amazing Eliza Carthy and the Wayward Band. If you get chance to see them live I encourage you to do so, you will not be disappointed. You can blame me if you are though. Purchasing her deluxe CD afterwards and while she signed it for me I said, 'That was absolutely BRILLIANT Eliza! Thank you for coming to our festival again.'
She replied, still out of breath from her exuberant performance, that it was a pleasure. She is certainly an individual and unashamedly rocking the folk scene with the Wayward Band, in my humble opinion. I doubt whether the traditionalists among us approved and some people did leave the tent. Jigging around at the back behind the sound system with Romeo, I was at home in my own village and at a folk festival; in other words, in one version of my own personal heaven for a few hours.

Then the darkness descended, first in the form of a severe sickness bug which seemed to affect quite a few members of staff from work. Mayday, Mayday! I somehow manged to sing but felt terrible and couldn't really support Romeo with his ceramics stall on Sunday. On Monday I stayed at home sleeping and starving myself. At tea time there was a huge family row and a heaviness hung in the air. As I was ill, I didn't even have the energy to weep. Hibernating upstairs, I glimpsed a faint rainbow trying its best to shove the dark grey clouds aside. Struggling to sleep I kept tossing and turning. At around 10.30 pm I suddenly started crying and sobbing for no apparent reason. Knowing that something was really wrong somewhere I began praying for my friends and family. My heart felt as though it were being pressed down upon heavily with two giant fingers. It happened twice and hurt. When the sobbing had subsided I somehow fell asleep. Awakening the next morning to the news that there had been a bomb at Manchester Arena with some deaths and many injured; the tears came tumbling down again.

                              X X X X X X X X X X  X X X X X X X X X X  X X

Nature has its ways of trying to cheer us up and the sheep stopping our train in its tracks scenario was amusing. The train driver and conductor jumped off with their orange Hi Vis jackets on, heroically rescuing the 7 or so sheep from the barbed wire fence at the side of the railway line. It could have been a real life episode from Postman Pat, except the train driver was called Steve, not Ajay. The photo below of two woolly jumpers is courtesy of my fellow friendly train traveller.

'As long ago as 1086 SCIPELEI (Shepley) was mentioned in the Domesday Book, so there must have been some kind of settlement before the Norman Conquest. The name SHEPLEY, often thought to mean 'a clearing where sheep are kept' (but possibly connected with ley lines!) would indicate the early settlers were Anglo Saxon, 'ley' being Saxon for clearing.' From SHEPLEY  Believe it...... or Not! by David Billington.

On a sporting theme, I am attempting to do my bit in the cricket tea hut, making either chip butties for junior players or helping prepare a full on buffet for the second team players. There are many stalwarts in the club who consistently give so much time and energy, it's very admirable and humbling. Reality seems to be slowly sinking in for the many fans who witnessed Huddersfield Town being promoted into the Premier League at Wembley. As you know, I am not a fan of football, but I did watch the match on T.V with Romeo, Mini-Me, my brother and his family, our parents and sis-in-law's parents. The overwhelming joyful feeling of the win was the polar opposite of deepest, darkest despair from exactly a week ago. Do we have to live in such extremes now? Does theology have anything to say about how we should live our lives now? Maybe Dr Williams and I can thrash that out together. Politique, Oui.

Peace, Love, Joy & Hope.
With so much love it hurts xx

Reading: Riddley Walker by Russell Hoban
Listening to: the birds singing and the rain splashing down
Singing: Why Can't We Live Together by Sade off her brilliant debut album Diamond Life (1984)
Dancing to:www.youtube.com/watch?v=hN5X4kGhAtU
Watched: Later...with Jools Holland and The Book Thief (2013)

A proud Terrier fan