I have an important piece of advice if you are recently bereaved. It's something that people won't tell you but it's important to know. It's something that's quite simple and also something you will want to do. You'll not find it in any book or article on bereavement but it's still part of the process.
You are intrigued now, aren't you? You are wondering what is so important to know that even bereavement councillors forget to mention.
It is simply that you can tell people to fuck off!
Yes, that's right. Add the profanity to your lexicon. Practise it in front of the mirror, so that it rolls off the tongue, without causing days of hand-wringing guilt. You might find you need it.
I know what you are thinking. You think that it would be so much better to be polite and normally I would agree with you but these are exceptional circumstances. No matter how hard you try to be nice an occasional, "Oh, fuck off!" will slip out, so you might as well make it your default answer.
Clearly, banks, building societies and utility companies deserve this response, when they've forgotten that they are dealing with a fragile human being. Their "fuck off" will have been prompted by hours on hold, crashing computers, asking someone who has lost their voice to, "speak up," asking for the same information for the eleventh time, for sending the wrong forms, or for insisting that they don't make mistakes.
It is even acceptable to repeat this phrase to well meaning people. I know it's not nice but true friends should understand and forgive.
If you don't want to talk anymore you should be allowed to say, "fuck off!"
If you don't want to go out, try, "Fuck off, I'd rather watch Gardener's World. I'd like to spend my evening with Nigel."
If you don't want another well-meaning cake or huge lasagne you could say, "Not another fucking cake!"
When people try to hug you it is fine to say, "Fuck off. I don't do hugs."
If they put on a sympathetic voice and tell you that it's the stress you can say, "Fuck off! It's a fucking cold!"
A true friend will understand that this response is a perfectly normal part of grief and just balances out the swearing you are doing in private to the person who has died.
Saturday, 1 April 2017
Tuesday, 28 March 2017
Professional Musician
I have one friend who I met when our both our youngest boys were in nursery. We had nodded at each other for a while, as we rushed to and from the car with our uncombed hair and Weetabix stained cardigans. There was a glint of recognition in our eyes but we had never actually spoken.
Then one day, the letter of the week was F. My son always liked to take something in, which was encouraged and he asked to take in a flute. My friend's son did the same. The nursery owner laughed with me. What was the chance of there being two flute players?
"Did you know she was a musician?" she asked, "Obviously, only part time but still.."
She is a proper, professional musician, rather than a fraud, like me.
Our first conversation was about whether it was possible to be a part time musician.
Music isn't easy. Not even for professional musicians. Despite how things are portrayed on the TV, practice is always part of the unseen preparation. Professional musicians don't suddenly have to stop practising. They may be able to sight-read some pieces but only because they are doing their daily exercises and if they are to play with other people then they will need to rehearse to make sure they are all interpreting the music in the same way.
Sometimes, musicians are asked to do things without rehearsal. They always hate this, as it ends up making them look unprofessional.
Most of my job as a musician is about pretending that everything is fine. To maintain a professional show face, when everything feels like it's going wrong. It's what makes us appear so composed at times of grief or stress.
The rest of it is about moving furniture.
Then one day, the letter of the week was F. My son always liked to take something in, which was encouraged and he asked to take in a flute. My friend's son did the same. The nursery owner laughed with me. What was the chance of there being two flute players?
"Did you know she was a musician?" she asked, "Obviously, only part time but still.."
She is a proper, professional musician, rather than a fraud, like me.
Our first conversation was about whether it was possible to be a part time musician.
Music isn't easy. Not even for professional musicians. Despite how things are portrayed on the TV, practice is always part of the unseen preparation. Professional musicians don't suddenly have to stop practising. They may be able to sight-read some pieces but only because they are doing their daily exercises and if they are to play with other people then they will need to rehearse to make sure they are all interpreting the music in the same way.
Sometimes, musicians are asked to do things without rehearsal. They always hate this, as it ends up making them look unprofessional.
Most of my job as a musician is about pretending that everything is fine. To maintain a professional show face, when everything feels like it's going wrong. It's what makes us appear so composed at times of grief or stress.
The rest of it is about moving furniture.
Sunday, 26 March 2017
Poppets, Polos and Pianos
I've always quite liked a funeral. I think they are quite funny. There's a huge conflict in us humans about death. We feel we need to both be sad and celebrate someone's life simultaneously, which is, let's face it, impossible. They are conflicting emotions, which can only be funny.
I thought that my father's funeral would overwhelm me with sadness and I wouldn't be able to see the joy, conflict and laughter but I was wrong. I'm not someone to cry in front of people and my family are naturally funny.
We were all nervous: up early, stressing about not being able to find the right cardigan, shoes or whether we had enough tissues. There was anxious biting of lips, fingernails and hair twiddling (and that was just the Long Suffering Husband.) When the cars arrived we all privately wondered if we could do it but kept our heads down, shuffling our feet until we found ourselves sitting inside. As we drove up the hill we marvelled, silently, at the fitness of John, the funeral director, who walked in front of the cars, without stopping, at a speed of about 10 mph. At the church, we saw there was a queue to get in. The silence was broken as we struggled to recall names.
"Poppet," my sister said.
"Hello, Poppet, how you doing? Haven't seen you for ages." She instructed us how to greet people.
I didn't think I could pull off the 'Poppet' trick.
Mum agreed, "I couldn't call anyone Poppet who was older than about six," she said.
My sister continued to instruct us and we laughed.
We were in a funeral car, behind the hearse with my dad's coffin in, outside the church, laughing about poppets.
Recorded music in the Church has never worked properly for me. I always thought it was some trick to make me use live music; make me practise so that I didn't bring Les (Dawson, whose piano playing I seem to channel) to every school service. For the funeral, we wanted the orchestra to play Children's March but it had to be a recorded version. I had been to the church earlier in the week and we had gone through it, to make sure it worked and everyone was confident. We stood at the back, behind the coffin and waited. I looked up and saw the familiar look of panic, as the technology failed. Usually, when I see that look I get the choir to sing unaccompanied. The vicar apologetically asked me if I would sort it out and just as I started to walk over it sprang into life. I had a sudden panic, as I nearly tripped rushing back to my place, that the piano and music stand weren't ready for the only live bit of music. It was and I was able to regain my composure.
The service was lovely. There were hundreds of people there. The tributes were perfect and even the piano was in tune and seemed to behave better than it normally does.
After the service we went to the crematorium for a quick, private cry, while everyone else went to The Purple Pig for a beer. Funeral cars drive slowly and everyone looks at you. At first, we found the journey difficult. We sat in silence until Mum offered us a polo. Mum likes a polo and it would have been rude not to accept. It is traditional in our family to have a polo sucking competition on long car journeys.
We took it very seriously, poking our tongues out to check at regular intervals. The driver won. On the way back the funeral director tried really hard to equal his employee's acheivement but couldn't beat my sister, who is a world champion polo sucker and still had hers, intact, as we turned onto Limebrook Way, which at funeral car speed was about 45 minutes.
We had laughed and were ready to greet everyone. I even hugged people!
"Hello Poppet, thank you for fighting that dog of a piano and winning," I said to my friend who had accompanied my version of Stardust. We laughed.
Funerals are still funny things and I'm glad about that because life wouldn't be bearable without a little bit of laughter.
I thought that my father's funeral would overwhelm me with sadness and I wouldn't be able to see the joy, conflict and laughter but I was wrong. I'm not someone to cry in front of people and my family are naturally funny.
We were all nervous: up early, stressing about not being able to find the right cardigan, shoes or whether we had enough tissues. There was anxious biting of lips, fingernails and hair twiddling (and that was just the Long Suffering Husband.) When the cars arrived we all privately wondered if we could do it but kept our heads down, shuffling our feet until we found ourselves sitting inside. As we drove up the hill we marvelled, silently, at the fitness of John, the funeral director, who walked in front of the cars, without stopping, at a speed of about 10 mph. At the church, we saw there was a queue to get in. The silence was broken as we struggled to recall names.
"Poppet," my sister said.
"Hello, Poppet, how you doing? Haven't seen you for ages." She instructed us how to greet people.
I didn't think I could pull off the 'Poppet' trick.
Mum agreed, "I couldn't call anyone Poppet who was older than about six," she said.
My sister continued to instruct us and we laughed.
We were in a funeral car, behind the hearse with my dad's coffin in, outside the church, laughing about poppets.
Recorded music in the Church has never worked properly for me. I always thought it was some trick to make me use live music; make me practise so that I didn't bring Les (Dawson, whose piano playing I seem to channel) to every school service. For the funeral, we wanted the orchestra to play Children's March but it had to be a recorded version. I had been to the church earlier in the week and we had gone through it, to make sure it worked and everyone was confident. We stood at the back, behind the coffin and waited. I looked up and saw the familiar look of panic, as the technology failed. Usually, when I see that look I get the choir to sing unaccompanied. The vicar apologetically asked me if I would sort it out and just as I started to walk over it sprang into life. I had a sudden panic, as I nearly tripped rushing back to my place, that the piano and music stand weren't ready for the only live bit of music. It was and I was able to regain my composure.
The service was lovely. There were hundreds of people there. The tributes were perfect and even the piano was in tune and seemed to behave better than it normally does.
After the service we went to the crematorium for a quick, private cry, while everyone else went to The Purple Pig for a beer. Funeral cars drive slowly and everyone looks at you. At first, we found the journey difficult. We sat in silence until Mum offered us a polo. Mum likes a polo and it would have been rude not to accept. It is traditional in our family to have a polo sucking competition on long car journeys.
We took it very seriously, poking our tongues out to check at regular intervals. The driver won. On the way back the funeral director tried really hard to equal his employee's acheivement but couldn't beat my sister, who is a world champion polo sucker and still had hers, intact, as we turned onto Limebrook Way, which at funeral car speed was about 45 minutes.
We had laughed and were ready to greet everyone. I even hugged people!
"Hello Poppet, thank you for fighting that dog of a piano and winning," I said to my friend who had accompanied my version of Stardust. We laughed.
Funerals are still funny things and I'm glad about that because life wouldn't be bearable without a little bit of laughter.
Thursday, 23 March 2017
Friends
It looks like there will be many people at my dad's funeral tomorrow, which isn't a surprise, as he knew everyone. It has left the rest of us in the family wondering if we need to get more friends. My sister thought that her funeral might be like an episode of Jeremy Kyle if her clients came.
"And how do you know her?" we would ask
"She took my first baby away dinn't she?"
"Nah, F off. She took all me babies away!"
Then there would be a punch up over who had received the most of her attention.
Before he died I went to the funeral of a friend that was also very well attended. I felt almost guilty for going because even though we were good friends at one time I hadn't seen her for a few years. Her death and my dad's have made me question what kind of friend I am.
Although, I write about stuff, I am quite private and I don't really go out. I have friends who I don't see from one year to the next and I think that maybe this year I should try to put that right.
I've decided that friends are precious.
"And how do you know her?" we would ask
"She took my first baby away dinn't she?"
"Nah, F off. She took all me babies away!"
Then there would be a punch up over who had received the most of her attention.
Before he died I went to the funeral of a friend that was also very well attended. I felt almost guilty for going because even though we were good friends at one time I hadn't seen her for a few years. Her death and my dad's have made me question what kind of friend I am.
Although, I write about stuff, I am quite private and I don't really go out. I have friends who I don't see from one year to the next and I think that maybe this year I should try to put that right.
I've decided that friends are precious.
Tuesday, 21 March 2017
Social Worker Poem
Today is both world poetry day and world social worker day so here is poem for my sister.
It's short because I can't write poems but I hope you appreciate the effort.
My sister is a social worker
She's a funny, silly, smirker
Even though her job is hard
She really is quite the card
I hope her clients get to see
Just how funny she can be.
It's short because I can't write poems but I hope you appreciate the effort.
Monday, 20 March 2017
Dress Code
When did a dress code for a funeral become a thing?
Obviously, I know that there are traditions about what convention dictates you should wear, which vary from country to country and change over time but in the last few weeks I have been asked (sometimes by strangers) what they should wear on Friday. My answer is always, "clothes," but I think they want me to be more specific.
In England it all started with the Romans, who would wear dark togas to express their grief. This continued with most people wearing dark colours as a mark of respect until the Victorians came along and made their rules. In Spain, they wore white. At the end of the Victorian period mourning clothes were a family's outward sign of their grief. The rules were outlined in household manuals.Women had it hard they had to wear black for a specified length of time , avoid satin, lace or embroidery and wear dresses or hats trimmed with crepe - a hard scratchy material. Men were let off much more lightly and would wear their usual suit with black gloves, hatbands and cravats. Children were not expected to wear mourning clothes. Widows were expected to wear full mourning for two years and half mourning for another two. It was a year for parents grandparents and siblings and four weeks for cousins.
I can see why people want to kick back against all those rules. I've been to funerals where we were told to wear bright clothes, something red or butterflies. Friday is red nose day, so maybe we should insist on red noses.
However, none of us have any particular desire to tell people what to wear.
It's difficult enough without a particular thing being imposed. I wanted to wear black. I wear black all the time, so I should have just been able to open my wardrobe but all my dresses looked tired, like me. Several trips out and I have found a dress that looks nice and I will wear again. In Miss Selfridge I got quite excited because I thought I'd found the perfect dress: a dress with pockets. Unfortunately, it had a split to the thigh, which somehow didn't seem like appropriate funeral attire. The Long Suffering Husband has used the funeral as an excuse to get a new suit. He has a brown one, which would have been fine but it was a bit snug and he really hankered after a blue suit. The lady in the shop wasn't too pushy but she was friendly. She told him that he looked very nice in it, "Are you going somewhere nice, wedding, party?" she asked.
"Funeral," I whispered, not intentionally (it happens when you lose your voice)
"Pardon?" (That's what they all say)
The LSH told her and her brows knitted together.
"Oh? Blue? For a funeral? That's. I mean. That's. Well, I wouldn't have asked. Normally it's black or charcoal grey. Are you sure, you're allowed to wear blue?"
We assured her it would be fine.
"Have you asked?" She was clearly very concerned about the LSH making a huge social mistake.
"Asked who?" I wondered.
"The relatives." She was certain that we should have checked the dress code.
"Oh," I said
"Darling," the LSH questioned, "Do you think it would be alright if I wore a blue suit to your Dad's funeral?"
I assured him that it would.
The lady briefly stepped back but recovered her composure quickly.
"That's why you've lost your voice," she said, "It'll be the stress."
One of the conversations I'd had with Dad in the last week had been about dress code. The Youth Orchestra had agreed to do a concert for the Mayor, who was more particular about what the audience should wear than the quality of the music they were to listen to. He had made quite a big deal out of it and had made comments like, "I know how you ladies like to dress up." Dad thought this was all quite funny. He asked me to post two pictures on out committee chat page, which is what he thought we should wear.
I'm not sure it's how he'd interpret a funeral dress code but who knows?
Obviously, I know that there are traditions about what convention dictates you should wear, which vary from country to country and change over time but in the last few weeks I have been asked (sometimes by strangers) what they should wear on Friday. My answer is always, "clothes," but I think they want me to be more specific.
In England it all started with the Romans, who would wear dark togas to express their grief. This continued with most people wearing dark colours as a mark of respect until the Victorians came along and made their rules. In Spain, they wore white. At the end of the Victorian period mourning clothes were a family's outward sign of their grief. The rules were outlined in household manuals.Women had it hard they had to wear black for a specified length of time , avoid satin, lace or embroidery and wear dresses or hats trimmed with crepe - a hard scratchy material. Men were let off much more lightly and would wear their usual suit with black gloves, hatbands and cravats. Children were not expected to wear mourning clothes. Widows were expected to wear full mourning for two years and half mourning for another two. It was a year for parents grandparents and siblings and four weeks for cousins.
I can see why people want to kick back against all those rules. I've been to funerals where we were told to wear bright clothes, something red or butterflies. Friday is red nose day, so maybe we should insist on red noses.
However, none of us have any particular desire to tell people what to wear.
It's difficult enough without a particular thing being imposed. I wanted to wear black. I wear black all the time, so I should have just been able to open my wardrobe but all my dresses looked tired, like me. Several trips out and I have found a dress that looks nice and I will wear again. In Miss Selfridge I got quite excited because I thought I'd found the perfect dress: a dress with pockets. Unfortunately, it had a split to the thigh, which somehow didn't seem like appropriate funeral attire. The Long Suffering Husband has used the funeral as an excuse to get a new suit. He has a brown one, which would have been fine but it was a bit snug and he really hankered after a blue suit. The lady in the shop wasn't too pushy but she was friendly. She told him that he looked very nice in it, "Are you going somewhere nice, wedding, party?" she asked.
"Funeral," I whispered, not intentionally (it happens when you lose your voice)
"Pardon?" (That's what they all say)
The LSH told her and her brows knitted together.
"Oh? Blue? For a funeral? That's. I mean. That's. Well, I wouldn't have asked. Normally it's black or charcoal grey. Are you sure, you're allowed to wear blue?"
We assured her it would be fine.
"Have you asked?" She was clearly very concerned about the LSH making a huge social mistake.
"Asked who?" I wondered.
"The relatives." She was certain that we should have checked the dress code.
"Oh," I said
"Darling," the LSH questioned, "Do you think it would be alright if I wore a blue suit to your Dad's funeral?"
I assured him that it would.
The lady briefly stepped back but recovered her composure quickly.
"That's why you've lost your voice," she said, "It'll be the stress."
One of the conversations I'd had with Dad in the last week had been about dress code. The Youth Orchestra had agreed to do a concert for the Mayor, who was more particular about what the audience should wear than the quality of the music they were to listen to. He had made quite a big deal out of it and had made comments like, "I know how you ladies like to dress up." Dad thought this was all quite funny. He asked me to post two pictures on out committee chat page, which is what he thought we should wear.
I'm not sure it's how he'd interpret a funeral dress code but who knows?
Just Keep Swimming
I've lost my voice. Again! I know, it's becoming a bit of a habit. Not one that I enjoy, which is a shame. Most habitual occupations are ones that you secretly enjoy, like sucking your thumb, drinking too much gin or reaching for a cigarette as soon as you get out of work - you get some pleasure from them. I can't say that I get any comfort from not being able to speak.
"It'll be stress," people have said to me this week, "don't you think?"
If I could answer them then I would say that I don't think so. I don't feel very stressed. I was tired but I've slept well for the last five nights (unheard of). You are now thinking that I'm in denial and am not acknowledging the fact that my Dad died at the end of February and the funeral is next week. You think that has to be stressful. I'm not sure it is. It's sad but as I said before my overwhelming feeling is still pride at having had such a wonderful father. I do think it's wrong that crematoriums are so busy funerals can't happen for at least a month but it's not stressful, in fact it takes some stress away because you don't have to rush to do everything. Tears will have been a factor but it doesn't explain all the other times I've lost my voice (every 4-6 weeks for the last fiveyears). I haven't been stressed or sad, everytime. Speech therapy gave me a list of things to do, like not cough, drink only water, eat very little chocolate, yoga, have neck massages and a raft of vocal exercises. I do all of those and it makes no difference. The camera up the nose gave my vocal cords a clean bill of health and I'm even more laid back than usual at work at the moment because none of it really matters.
Louise Hay, alternative health guru and all-round-annoyingly-super-positive-person, has some ideas about health issues that become habits. In her world, you have to embrace the symptoms as a clue to what is going on with your psyche then you say (ha) affirmations, to deal with it. As I've tried everything else and people keep telling me it must be stress I thought I'd look at it with an open mind.
She says that problems with the throat are to do with blocked creativity. So, I just need to unblock my creativity, give me that plunger, I'm ready to go for it. Just how you do that is a mystery. I wasn't aware that it was blocked. She says that laryngitis could also be to do with not speaking up for yourself and resentment of authority. I know I said I was going to keep an open mind but seriously? I just can't help saying what I think; it just pops out. It's true, I'm not exactly a fan of some authority figures but I tend to find them funny, rather than resenting them. Mostly, if people tell me what to do I will do it if I want or pretend to agree but do my own thing if I don't. Do I need to actually start telling people their ideas are rubbish, rather than showing them my better ones? Writers always know it's best to show rather than tell but I'm willing to give it a go.
The other piece of advice people give me is to rest. Sitting around doing nothing doesn't help. I worked that out four years ago, in fact it just makes your neck and shoulders tense, which doesn't help. Taking people's advice, I had a day and a half off work. I didn't speak. The first half day I lay on the sofa feeling sorry for myself. It was boring. The next, I did silent housework. I was bored beyond belief. If I was meant to be standing up for myself then I was going to be at work. If people didn't want to hear my hoarse, whispery, breathy voice then that was their problem not mine. I made some signs. Kids like a challenge. A silent teacher can be fun!
While I was having my silent housework day I came across a photo of me and my Dad at a holiday park in Hayling Island. It's a cute picture.
It reminded me of how much I like swimming now and how if I'm asking for what I want, it's to just get back to swimming (physically and metaphorically). What the picture doesn't show is the level of my terror. Both Dad and I are smiling but I was frightened; scared of everything, especially water, dogs and bees and all of them had been there that day. I wanted to be able to do it but I couldn't. Dad took me to Gloucester Park for swimming lessons. My cousin also went. I remember looking at her swimming across the width of the pool and being awestruck at how she wasn't clinging to the side in terrified tears. Her dad, my jolly green giant of an uncle (his joke, not mine) always tried stories to take away my fear. During a thunderstorm, he told me that it was just Bugs Bunny falling down the stairs. It never worked because I just wanted to know how a cartoon character had got into the sky in the first place. I wasn't a quick fix. It took patience and logic. For thunderstorms I needed statistics and counting and for swimming I needed hours of practice, gently letting air out of armbands and cajoling assurances that I could do it, which took more patience than a swimming teacher could manage so he started to teach me himself. He gave me mantras to say: "Look at me, I'm a gymnast," before jumping in and, "I won't drown if I keep going."
So, if you see me in the pool muttering to myself. I could be repeating the mantra, "I am free to ask for what I want. It is safe to express myself. I am at peace," which is Louise Hay's mantra for laryngitis.
One of the problems of this mantra is that when anyone asks me what I want, I think of food. The Long Suffering Husband is the same. When I gave up chocolate for my voice, I asked him to tell me something nice because I was feeling miserable. "Chocolate eclairs, they're nice," he said after some thought. Dad used to take me into the upstairs swimming pool cafe for a cup of bovril and a slice of hot buttered toast. Maybe, that's what I'll ask for. It's a long time since I've had Bovril.
"It'll be stress," people have said to me this week, "don't you think?"
If I could answer them then I would say that I don't think so. I don't feel very stressed. I was tired but I've slept well for the last five nights (unheard of). You are now thinking that I'm in denial and am not acknowledging the fact that my Dad died at the end of February and the funeral is next week. You think that has to be stressful. I'm not sure it is. It's sad but as I said before my overwhelming feeling is still pride at having had such a wonderful father. I do think it's wrong that crematoriums are so busy funerals can't happen for at least a month but it's not stressful, in fact it takes some stress away because you don't have to rush to do everything. Tears will have been a factor but it doesn't explain all the other times I've lost my voice (every 4-6 weeks for the last fiveyears). I haven't been stressed or sad, everytime. Speech therapy gave me a list of things to do, like not cough, drink only water, eat very little chocolate, yoga, have neck massages and a raft of vocal exercises. I do all of those and it makes no difference. The camera up the nose gave my vocal cords a clean bill of health and I'm even more laid back than usual at work at the moment because none of it really matters.
Louise Hay, alternative health guru and all-round-annoyingly-super-positive-person, has some ideas about health issues that become habits. In her world, you have to embrace the symptoms as a clue to what is going on with your psyche then you say (ha) affirmations, to deal with it. As I've tried everything else and people keep telling me it must be stress I thought I'd look at it with an open mind.
She says that problems with the throat are to do with blocked creativity. So, I just need to unblock my creativity, give me that plunger, I'm ready to go for it. Just how you do that is a mystery. I wasn't aware that it was blocked. She says that laryngitis could also be to do with not speaking up for yourself and resentment of authority. I know I said I was going to keep an open mind but seriously? I just can't help saying what I think; it just pops out. It's true, I'm not exactly a fan of some authority figures but I tend to find them funny, rather than resenting them. Mostly, if people tell me what to do I will do it if I want or pretend to agree but do my own thing if I don't. Do I need to actually start telling people their ideas are rubbish, rather than showing them my better ones? Writers always know it's best to show rather than tell but I'm willing to give it a go.
The other piece of advice people give me is to rest. Sitting around doing nothing doesn't help. I worked that out four years ago, in fact it just makes your neck and shoulders tense, which doesn't help. Taking people's advice, I had a day and a half off work. I didn't speak. The first half day I lay on the sofa feeling sorry for myself. It was boring. The next, I did silent housework. I was bored beyond belief. If I was meant to be standing up for myself then I was going to be at work. If people didn't want to hear my hoarse, whispery, breathy voice then that was their problem not mine. I made some signs. Kids like a challenge. A silent teacher can be fun!
While I was having my silent housework day I came across a photo of me and my Dad at a holiday park in Hayling Island. It's a cute picture.
So, if you see me in the pool muttering to myself. I could be repeating the mantra, "I am free to ask for what I want. It is safe to express myself. I am at peace," which is Louise Hay's mantra for laryngitis.
One of the problems of this mantra is that when anyone asks me what I want, I think of food. The Long Suffering Husband is the same. When I gave up chocolate for my voice, I asked him to tell me something nice because I was feeling miserable. "Chocolate eclairs, they're nice," he said after some thought. Dad used to take me into the upstairs swimming pool cafe for a cup of bovril and a slice of hot buttered toast. Maybe, that's what I'll ask for. It's a long time since I've had Bovril.
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