Raking over the coals ( and anything else you can find)

Yesterday:

• fine weather, supposedly sufficient energy to accomplish proposed task
  
• everything ready for blast off
  
• finally The Fates, the weather and Sodding Condition will allow us to offload all our old tat on to various poor suckers in exchange for scheckels

....sorry, I mean the general populace of Mid Suffolk will be able to avail themselves of the rare opportunity to purchase some fine examples of literature, Fine Arts,objects d'arts and haute couture which, hitherto, have adorned and delighted the Cusp Household i.e. we're doing a Boot Sale.

Now, Cusp is not unknown to visit Boot Sales when the weather is fine and curiosity gets the better of lack of real vim. However, this is usually in the role of consumer and so tis a rare day when I can bring myself to get up early, herd children, dog, table, 'float' ( a professional Booter's term for any old loose change that's hanging around) and partner in to the car and make the 6 mile journey to a field where all manner of hoi polloi buy and sell, trade and haggle under the misguided illusion that they are exchanging gems of history or unspoken treasure that appear to be worthless and yet are surely priceless.

If not obvious tat then everything else at a Boot Sale is 'very old', 'rare', 'a bargin'.

I fall under the spell myself. Who doesn't ? In my case I usually fall for the obviously totally broken and worthless but that which has a certain cache and thus bewitches with its charm.

Last time I came home with 6 tarnished brass buttons and a very small china doll with one arm and one leg wearing an expression that looked as though she had just farted.

Yesterday of course was different:we were on the offensive and loaded with items so obviously glorious that we were going to return home with nothing more than empty boxes and a wad of cash.

What I like and can never get over is the range of people Boot Sales attract.

Yesterday saw young and old, black, white, brown, Chinese, Polish, Czech, French, gay, straight, posh, chav, bright, dim, focused, loony, elegant, slovenly etc. etc. There was a woman dressed in black as if for dressage, a woman who had obviously not always been so, a lovely couple who were as camp as a row of tents (and bought something), a sweet Polish family with a little girl who got the better of me so I found myself letting a toy go for £3 when it was easily worth £5.

There was a grown man who haggled over jewellery like a child:

'You gave that other man a discount for that little car. Why won't you give me one
?......'

'Because you're buying jewellery and there's nothing the matter with it and it's
worth a bit. That little truck was well used and had no doors.'

'Can I have this ring for 75p then ? I haven't got anymore '

'Sorry, no'

'How about a £1 then'...says the same man, withdrawing a magical wad of tenners from a grimey pocket. The same man who didn't have anymore to give me than 75p two moments ago

All human life was there and all strolling past our wares. Of course we had a novel trick and attraction because we stuck our dear old dog in the back of the car (estate) on his blanket with his chew and bowl of tea (one sugar) and once 'They' approached to stroke and coo (because everyone does) we'd got 'em in our clutches.

I love the mix of odd sights and sounds. Love the banter and chat. It brings out all my old people skills and the way I can talk to almost anyone --- like I used to at work, when I was a real person; before I was shut in my kennel and offered tidbits by kindly hands like the dog.

The one thing that does get to me, however, is the meanness of some people and the sight of people raking through our old belongings. One woman picked up a brand new child's T shirt that was hand dyed and decorated:

'How much ?'

'75p ? It's new, never been worn'

'I'll give you 20' --- with a sneer

'Sorry' and she throws it down as if it's a rag.

Some items that stroll away with a new owner matter not a jot to me but there are others that are painful to watch as they leave in another's hand: a brooch that was my mother's; a book that my daughter loved (but we can't keep everything, so it's one that was no.6 in her personal charts and we've kept no.'s 1 &2 in the loft)



Still, all in all it was a good day. The dog was patted and petted to within an inch of his doggy life, the children each made about £7 on their stalls ( separate tables to avoid squabbles) and we made £35 profit after we had paid for our pitch ....and we have more space under the stairs.



And, oh yes, I did have a little wander and I did find another 'treasure.'



It's a cardboard box full of bits of old camera. I cannot identify what type of camera, its age or whether the various bits and pieces go together but it cost me £3 (down form £4) and I love it.



Quick...make more room under the stairs.

An uncomfortable realisation

In many ways I'm writing this post for myself rather than anyone else to read. It's an aide memoire to self about how ill I can be.

What I find in this M.E. world is that in the midst of all the symptoms and the coping and the strategies for managing I get myself into a 'nice' little routine where
I do and don't do things,
commit and don't commit to things,
think and don't think things,
expect and don't expect things,
hope and don't hope things
in order to survive and carry on and try to keep up with The Rest.

These various activities and inactivities eventually become second nature. Everything is measured carefully ----
time,
energy, food intake,
food stuffs,
vitamins,
medicines,
noise levels,
light levels,
chemicals,
smells,
cleaning materials,
and on and on
and this regimen is repeated day in and day out until this precarious and 'safe' little routine becomes second nature.

I limit myself without thinking so that,
eventually,
I do not even notice
sometimes
that everyone else is rushing past
whist I creep along.

In this way I keep some kind of grip on a reasonably tolerable existence and I am able to be quite bright and amenable with myself and those around me
and less of a burden.

And then sometimes circumstances dictate that I am shaken out of my cradle.

The bow breaks.

No longer can I maintain my fledgling bird existence, safe in my little feathered nest.
I have to fly with the big birds and keep on flapping my wings lest I fall to the ground.

This weekend past was such a fall from the nest.

Partner was feeling the need to fly the nest for reasons of recreation and change of scenery and, after discussion, it was agreed that a brief sojourn with two friends from Friday afternoon until Sunday afternoon might be manageable for me whilst I stayed behind and cared for our two children on my own.

My children are lovely, bright, and...well children with normal expectations and social lives and by Saturday evening I was on my knees. Many symptoms that have only shown a passing interest lately decided pay a Grande Visite and I have been shocked at how bad I can feel when I try to fly too high and too long.

From time to time I am tempted to apply for DLA. Indeed I did apply about 2 years ago but was turned down. In order to come to terms with the horror of completing the form (which entails a full deconstruction of all the things you cannot do, the places you cannot visit, the ambitions which are dead ends and hence leaves you feeling like the washed up husk you are and there fore thoroughly miserable) I thought that the failure of my application was due evidence of my lack of need.

After all, I manage don't I ?
After all, I am still able to be there for other people, aren't I ?
After all I can still manage to rustle up the odd cake when I feel up to it can't I ?.....even though I cannot cook a full meal from scratch without feeling like death by the time it is ready and time to eat it (the form asks you if you are able to complete such a task).

I can wash and dress myself now....even tie my own shoe laces and I can drive the car.
BUT... who knows about how I only have a bath every few days because every day is too tiring and standingin the shower makes me feel giddy and vulnerable
and who knows there are days when I just bung on any clothes (sometimes over pyjamas) in order to feel and looked 'dressed'
and who knows that quite often when I drive the car 2 miles to town, because I have to go there, that I sometimes, whilst driving, think
'You shouldn't be doing this....you're not really in a fit state'

Me thinks there has been enough ducking and diving, weaving and self-deception and the next time I apply for DLA or have to ask for help, I should remember this past weekend and bear in mind that I need to measure my abilities' --- such as they are -- against other people who are well and fit and not against my own skewed reasons for trying to pretend I am more able than I am ------ damn and blast it ! I've been found out again .....by myself.

The Sun King and stair lifts

My dear blogging chum Seahorse is very chuffed at the mo because she has finally had a stairlift installed. In the process of telling us all about this addition to 'Seahorse Villas' she reveals that she has a model called The Mondrian. The lift is made by a Dutch company and apparently all their models are named after painters: Rembrandt, Van Gogh etc.

Some of her Commenty Pals have suggested that there may be other models too such as the Rubens for the fuller figured, the Picasso which leads somewhere unexpected or the Dali which is made of jelly (thank you Goldfish)



This has sent me of a train of thought for I have always been intrigued by the utterly ridiculous names that manufacturers of everything from nail polish to houses give their products --- presumably in order to give them a certain mystique and seduce us into a purchase. Little do they seem to know that most of us just snigger.



There are other stair lifts of course.

The Lucien Freud is for people with mottled skin and the Beryl Cook is for ladies who like jelly and ice cream on the way up and a sticky bun on the way down (this model to feature a pull out, back lit, tray-ette.)



The Warhol goes up the stair very slowly and falteringly and then finishes at the top with the pop of flash bulbs and recordings of 'oohs ' and 'ahhhs' for 15 minutes.



The Goldsworthy is a more pastoral version with a ring of stones all around and a bijou streamlet with leaves floating down the stairs. It takes ages to construct and the process of installation itself must be documented and published in a large coffee table book.



The Whiteread is fashioned in concrete and is a negative version of the usual stair lift. It goes up when you want to go down and vice versa



The Hirst has accompanying wallpaper for the stairwell featuring half a dead cow and it has small pots if paint underneath so that when it reaches the top of the stairs and spins round furiously you have a unique spin painting on your upper landing



The Magritte is accompanied by a plaque with 'Ceci n’est pas une chaise' and keeps going past the top of the stair into the wild blue yonder



Apparently, the least popular is the Bosch. It takes you into other realms and you find yourself on your upper floor surrounded by terrible demons and flying monsters.



The most practical is the Duchamp because its dual purpose --- you can go upstairs and piss in it



The most popular is the Rigaud. Originally it trailed behind in the popularity stakes because people couldn't place the name but then they cottoned on to the fact that it came with free upgrade whereby you had your stairwell gilded and filled with mirrors and chandeliers and your garden was also 'made over' into a facsimile of the Gardens of Versailles with fountains:

a little 'de trop' pour moi, je pense.

a bientot..............

Marty Feldman-Lightning coach tours

Emerging again....................

Well my dears, what can I say. Its been a long time --- too long ---- and my absence has been as much to do with a kind of mental malaise and topor as much as any physical blight. After Christmas I was full of hope and expectations. I was considering doing the Lightening Process and then....and then...well I just kind of lost hope. The more I looked into the LP the more I knew it wasn't for me and at the same time the wretched insurance stuff raised its very ugly head. Really I just got tired of the fight, tired of trying, tired of the brave face and decided not to try for a little while. I just couldn't be bothered to do anything other than that which I had to and there was plenty of that in any case.

During this phase I watched a very interesting programme about Marty Feldman who I loved in the 60s. Amongst all the smiles and laughter was a little film of a coach trip and the experience of Marty just summed up how I often feel as I reach and grab, stumble and fall in my attempts to keep up with the rest of the world


I don't feel very eloquent at the moment but there are two people who seem to have been feeling similar to myself in past months so I shall point you in their direction:

First there's Marianne who recently wrote a post about the stresses of maintaining a positive outlook whilst juggling family life and chronic illness like M.E. Look here if you want to read more. Marianne has been trying the Perrin Technique --- a kind of osteopathic approach to coping with M.E. She has been writing a diary of her progress and in reading it, something has chimed with my own experience of osteopathy. In the past I have only had treatment when my back has been bad but there has always been a sneaking suspicion that the feeling of lightness and well being after treatment could benefit me in a more general way. To this end I have spoken to my osteopath who is not trained in the Perrin Technique but knows the theory. I trust this man implicitly for his honesty and gentleness and so we have agreed to meet every two weeks for a couple of months to see if osteopathy can help me. I have tried to find a Perrin practitioner but the nearest one is 40 miles away and that trip is impossible for me.

The other person who summed up my feelings of late is Michelle at BehindtheSurface who wrote this very eloquent piece . Just the feeling of struggle and trying and falling and picking your self up is so bloody wearing sometimes that you can't try again for a little while.

And now the Spring really is beginning to arrive. I sit here with the windows open and the sun shining and birds singing. No matter how I feel in a general way, who couldn;t be moved towards hope and a more positive outlook on such a lovely day.