When Huey met Susie

Keep on Moovin

I settled on my flowery pink and turquoise lucky top with a pin badge attached saying IMAGINE, bright pink yoga leggings, trainers, mint green painted nails, various bracelets, rainbow beaded hoop earrings, lots of make-up, some glitter and a pink flower in my hair to cap it all off. Stage one complete. Feeling quite extra for a sabbath, I whizz off to pick up daughter (with her hangover in tow) from nearby digs and we make a pit stop at Tesco's for a much needed meal deal. It's not far at all to our destination and I'm super excited to be going to this festival again after we had such a fantastic time there together last year. 

Walking through Etherow Country Park passing families moving in the opposite direction pushing prams, looking at ducks etc, I notice most eyes veer towards my daughter's bounteous cleavage and I feel a mixture of emotions: WoW! She looks amazing, EEK! She is being oggled at lasciviously, AGH! I used to be leered at like that and OOH! I am becoming old and haggard despite being young at heart. Note to self: Do not judge a book by it's cover. And more importantly do not judge anyone. 

We soon catch up with others on the way to Whitebottom Farm where the festival is staged and have our day wristbands attached. We've arrived. Off we trot to the first of many trips to the portaloos. My outfit this time was perfect for portaloo usage. Last year I thought I looked great in my dusky pink jumpsuit, yet it was very impratical with its buttons and belt restraint whenever I needed the loo. Earlier this year I went to Let's Rock Leeds (the retro 80s festival) which was fantastic. As a group we all dressed in dungarees paying homage to Dexy's Midnight Runners. Another tricky outfit for the portaloos there. My lesson learned, I had no trouble whatsoever in the latrines this time. And remember, I was wearing my lucky top. More of that later.

It's a three day festival but who can afford such luxuries these days? This meant I had to choose our day very carefully, which was no problem at all as Huey Morgan was scheduled for bank holiday Sunday. His Saturday morning show on BBC Radio 6 Music is my favourite and I have danced and sang along with pure abandon at his DJ sets in Holmfirth, Manchester, Keswick and at this Moovin festival last year, with either bodyguard Romeo or psych undergraduate daughter for company. 'Money don't matter tonight,' because I know I'm getting, 'Lost in music,' dancing and trying to sing along to at least the chorus of Rappers Delight. 'SAY WHAT?'

We were chilling near the Mini Moo tent, devouring our bratwurst for dancing fuel, when eagle eyed daughter nonchalantly says, 'There's Huey Mum.' YES, sure enough there he was just walking along, heading for the back of the tent for his upcoming set. The current DJ suddenly started playing, 'I Wanna be Your Lover,' one of my favourite Prince tracks and one which Huey usually plays in his set. I was very annoyed with this track hijacking and remained seated on the grass in protest trying to spy Huey behind the scenes to make sure he was ok.

Time passed by as we crowd watched, got another toilet break in, stayed hydrated, chatted etc. I think I'm observant but darling daughter suddenly spouts forth again, 'There's Huey Mum.' Here we go again some weird chain reaction occurs, it's happened before wearing this lucky top when I met the band a-ha. This time I spring to my feet and chase after him down the field, (great decision to wear my trainers). Poor Huey flinches slightly as I hurtle towards his blind side. 'Where are you going Huey?' I ask him, slightly breathless. 'I'm going to the bathroom girl,' he replies, probably a bit annoyed with me and rightly so.

I'm suddenly ashamed of myself for not giving him his personal space and allowing freedom and privacy. What is it with me and this flower power top of confidence? I'm a bit sad that I may have upset him and talk it through with my beautiful psych undergraduate daughter, who questions why I did indeed run after him like that. As did my good friend when I pounced like a lioness seducing her mate upon poor Magne Furuholmen in his gym kit in a hotel foyer, pre a-ha farewell gig in Sheffield in 2010. I'm not even going to mention the tension between Morten Harket and myself over an old bedsheet. Oh well, just so you know I'm not misleading you, my good friend and I had created a banner out of an old bedsheet and politely asked the band to sign it for us. Morten struggled somewhat with this task telling us we had to, 'Hold it tight,' which to this day makes us laugh hysterically every time we remember it.

Moving back to the question very simply stated, 'Why did you do that?' My answer remains the same, 'I don't know?'

To be honest by this stage of the game I'm also feeling a bit giddy because Huey called me girl. Although this could have been in a slightly remonstrative way as in, 'I'm going to the bathroom, LEAVE ME ALONE YOU CRAZY WOMAN!' which is quite understandable. And more likely it's just an American turn of phrase.

I'm so sorry Huey. I was worried that you were leaving before doing your amazing set because I love what you do and I just wanted to say Hi.

I can't quite remember whether the above happened before or after a yellow hula hoop came hurtling towards me in the field, which I caught and expertly rolled back, (I have become highly skilled in hoop throwing having been taught by one of our SEN students at school over the past couple of years). As soon as the yellow hoop left my hand I was swiftly rugby tackled by an exuberant male who grabbed onto my waist really tightly whilst laughing manically in my face. WOW! My job at school has prepared me so well for such unexpected happenings.

'Look what you're doing to me, I'm totally at your whim all of my defences down.....' We sing and dance along together with everyone else, spellbound under Huey's set. A group of Liverpudlian lads had latched onto us, twirling us round and around when we let them. Psych undergraduate escapes for a solo toilet break and one of them asks me, 'Where's your friend gone?' I laugh, look him straight in the eye and reply proudly, 'She's my daughter.'

Seemingly unaffected by Grand Theft DJ Wainwright, Huey sticks to his guns and plays the aforementioned track. I dance and sing my heart and soul out, while silently giving thanks for Prince and his amazing music. It's all over far too quickly, it always is, but there's still Roy Ayers and his band on in the barn before The Magnificent DJ Jazzy Jeff and so we hurry once again to the toilets.

'No way to control it, it's totally automatic whenever you're around.....' My lucky top magic strikes again when I least expect it just five minutes or so after the set had ended.

Huey was stood right in front of us by a car, presumably his getaway vehicle, (it's so tempting to write a Fun Lovin' Criminal reference in here but I'm going to resist). He was really close to our preferred toilets of choice. Seriously, I could not believe my eyes. He was chatting to another woman, or more likely, the woman was talking to him. She then asked for a photo which she gratefully received. I own a great photo of Huey and myself outside the Picturedrome in Holmfirth from 2019, so there is no need to pester him for another. I just want to offer him my sincere apology.

'Great set Huey, I'm sorry about before, you know bothering you when you needed the toilet.' He was kind and said it was ok, he just needed the bathroom. The other woman then asked him for a hug, which he obliged, so I politely jumped on that bandwagon. 'I'm Puerto Rican I hug everybody,' he said and gave me the biggest, friendliest bear hug ever. It was almost a good as the ones my Dad gives me. Gracias amigo.

You have to imagine the smile upon my face at this point beaming up to the heavens and back again, possibly re-routing any satellites straying off course. I love meeting people, especially those who bring me joy and happiness through music, literature and the arts, whether they are famous or not. I can only hope and pray that when I bump into them, as I sometimes seem to do, that I can make them smile a little and know they are valued and appreciated.

To think that I almost put my lucky top into the last charity bag collection. Fate knows better, she always does.

Keep smiling, keep singing, keep dancing and keep on moving forwards.

                         With love (& peace too) xx

Rusty still in repairs

Walking Home with an unexpected special guest appearance

I began to feel the strong urge around the middle of the week. By the time Friday arrived it became a compulsion and so I sensibly prepared by pacing myself throughout the school day. Walking home is something I really enjoy and can take up to two hours but is so worth it as it's such a lovely route with beautiful views. It's mostly uphill for the first hour with birdsong, sheep and lambs for company. Feeling a bit weary as I approached The Golden Cock, I considered stopping for a swift half by myself but decided against it. No rest for the wicked and upon reflection a brilliant decision. Up to this point I had only encountered five people, two of those were at a distance, which meant that I had only chatted to three other humans in the last hour.

My cheeks were naturally a bit flushed and thank heavens I was wearing my best bra. Did even my underwear drawer have some psychic powers that fine morning? I was proudly wearing my purple school T. shirt with its badge hovering over my properly supported left breast; Victoria Tower and the rainbow moving in natural rhythm with every step I made. Having changed into some comfy flowery trousers and walking boots at work, shouldering my rucksack and carrying a Co-op plastic bag with my school trousers and shoes inside, I was merrily on the straight and narrow as the landscape flattened a little at this stage.

There is NO WAY upon earth that I was expecting what happened next.

As you already know I only need glasses for reading and the optometrist said my long vision is very good. Spotting a couple up ahead walking towards me along the thin path, I had already decided that I would step aside to let them pass when we got too close for comfort. Do not fear fellow travellers, I have gratefully received both of my vaccinations. 

We were fast approaching a chance meeting on a collision course seemingly set by fate herself.

They walked nearer,

I stepped closer. 

They continued, 

so did I. 

As we gravitated towards one another

they came into clear focus. 

OH MY!

My face erupted into a gigantic grin when I recognised it was none other than my local literary hero and travelling companion, (possibly his wife). Here is a transcript of our brief encounter:

Susie: All Hail Poet Laureate (in a sing-song voice with a hand sweeping flourish)

Simon & companion: both snigger/laugh at me

Susie: I always hoped that I would bump into you again someday around here.

Simon: (smiling) It's a dream come true.

Susie: (also smiling) It is! (raising both arms above her head in elation)

I complete the second hour of my walk home in audible giggles and bouts of laughter. There is always a million things I could have said but I think I handled it pretty well this time. I'm proud of my minimal communication with my literary hero and his companion. I have met him a few times after various poetry readings/book signings and also in the local record shop (read my Poet DJ in motion blogpost for more). It was beyond brilliant to bump into him again though, especially out in the fields, in nature, at the end of another busy and tiring week at work. Just the inspiration I needed to fuel the writing, to keep persevering, to keep believing. Simon Armitage's future ignited when he won a poetry competition and this is what I cling onto when I need extra courage, or a spark of faith in my own scribblings.

After all, it really does seem that dreams can come true.

With love xx

PS Keep walking

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

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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