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Tuesday, March 31, 2015

The Wilderness / Silence


As a constraint and an adventure I thought it would be a good idea to revisit the poems that I wrote for the "A Poem A Day In April" challenge and respond to each one .  I will take an idea, phrase, word or picture from these poems and create a new perspective. I am looking forward to finding different ways to inspire fresh creativity. I will always leave the original poem on the same page of my blog so you can see if you can work out what I might have been thinking.

So, the first.....     6th Dec


The Wilderness

Busy, loud,  lives distract,
Hide empty spaces,
Where silence batters senses.
Alone,
In that wilderness,
That desert,
Fearful ,
Off balance,
You meet the now.



And the one I wrote in April:

Day 1:  1st April, 1st poem.
My first poem for the challenge " A Poem a Day in April."

 Being Holy Week these few lines formed themselves:


              Silence

Life -dark -red
drips from
gaping wounds,
drips from
Skin-slashed and torn.
Bent ,
unable to keep upright
Yet with peace,
Peace  beyond knowing
He is silent

Looking forward to getting on with the next one.



Grams

A little grandmother story that bubbled up with all this great grandmother stuff going on in my life:


Grams                                                                      

Eleanor kicked off her shoes, threw her handbag on the table and breathed a sigh of relief, before filling the kettle and falling exhausted into the chair.
Two hours later she woke to the ringing of the doorbell. Stretching, she rose, slowly making her way down the hallway.
“Grams, you ok? What’s that on your cheek?” she asked pointing to the red mark, whilst lifting the baby out of the pram.
“Fine dear.  Patients with problems, that’s all... and how’s my little Patrick today?” She forced a smile and tickled the baby under his chin. She loved the baby but was still a little resentful that it meant she was now a great grandmother.  And , although her friends said, “surely she was too young,” she was still rather sad.
Rachel made tea as Patrick sat quietly on Eleanor’s lap.
“You know, you really should retire.” She broached the subject directly as previous, more subtle attempts had proved ineffective. “ You’ve been at that hospital for how long? More than thirty years Grams, and you’re often forgetful now, you know you are and with getting weaker too, we’re all worried you’ll have an accident before long.
“ I’ve a good few years left  yet,”  Eleanor darted irritably, proving her capability by bouncing Patrick up and down.  “You all think I’m old and doddery. You can all...mind your own business.” She spoke forcefully hoping to put an end to it.
“That’s not true, Grams, but... you could be enjoying yourself,” Rachel persisted bravely “ and it’s not as if you need the money or anything.”
Rachel was right, she didn’t need the money, but her job gave her more than money. She wasn’t ready to face retirement yet.
Eleanor ignored her granddaughter, and changed the subject; they poured more tea and finished off six cream cakes
between them.
When Rachel had gone, she went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror, surprised and upset as usual  by the image that stared wistfully  back at her. A widow now for the last five years, the idea of walking sticks, colostomy bags, falls, dementia and being dependent on her family haunted her thoughts. She picked up her jar of face cream, scooped out a generous amount, and smeared it over the wrinkles, gently rubbing the future further away.




Woman Caught In Adultery

  I wrote this poem last year and have performed it a few times getting great feedback:
   
Woman Caught in Adultery
They drag me through rugged streets,
Men’s hands grip my arms,
Large fingers press into flesh –pale ,  bare
Their words wild, aggressive, accusing,  
Echo, in the chamber of my brain
While he is free,
I am going to die, Yet, I fear not the dying,
But the pain, how will I bear the pain.
Terror travels with blood through my veins
And he is free,
They throw me down, in the dirt, In front of a man,
My nose forced into the rough ground.
My Foetal shape makes no attempt to rise
The raging rogues  roar, ”she has to die , it is the law”
They get ready, reach for large stones,
 But he is free.
While the one man  sits  still,
Ponders, writes in the dust
Then,  lifts his head,
“ Let the one who is without sin cast the first stone”
His words fall like seeds into my aching heart.
Silence,
One by one rocks thud into the earth. The mob, heads bent, Leave.
Left alone with Him,- I dare to raise myself up
His eyes encounter mine, His look warm , accepting,
He Knows me, all there is.
And me, I know that I,
I am free.


Monday, March 30, 2015

A poem a day in April

I have just signed up for the first time for the NaPoWriMo poem a day in April.
I hope that it's going to motivate me to actually write every day and then post on my blog.
I am a bit apprehensive about whether or not I'll manage to get the 30 poems written, but I'm going to have a go.
So, everyone, watch this space for the next few weeks.

Sunday, March 29, 2015

Grams Ramblings: Leah - a little story

Grams Ramblings: Leah - a little story: Something I wrote a while ago: For Leah .                                                                                             ...

Leah - a little story

Something I wrote a while ago:




For Leah.                                                                                                     

February was particularly cold that year. We’d arrived in the middle of term and I stood at the school gate with the other mums edging uncomfortably towards the group. We’d left family and friends behind and hubby was working long hours to pay the mortgage.
Every morning for five long weeks my eighteen month old daughter, Anna and I turned away from the gates and trudged home to a cold, empty house.  With long, black hours in front of us we baked, did jigsaw puzzles, painted pictures and read stories trying to occupy ourselves until three o’clock, when we could fetch her big sister.
It’s not that I was being snubbed. I just didn’t feel that I fitted in. People nodded, said hello, then hurried away to their busy lives as the wind blew sharp icicles around them.  Every day my head hung lower and the lonely ogre in the pit of my stomach grew as my confidence ebbed away. Anna worried, too, as some days the book I read to her would be wet with my tears. And when even my voice seemed to have turned against me, I snuggled on the sofa with her, mind numb , children’s TV washing over us.
Then one morning, you, my dear friend now for more than ten years, spoke words of kindness. Words that enriched, strengthened and consoled me, planting a flame of hope in that bitter winter and bringing my vulnerable self back to life.
Seemingly so ordinary, everyday and simple and maybe they were, but in the place that I was in, they had such force. They said to me, you’re important. You’re likable. I want to spend time with you. You are interesting and I value you.  You’re ok.
Those eight words, full of grace and magnanimity, your gift to me, were:
“Like to come back to mine for a coffee?”
Now, I felt belonged , was  accepted.
I’ve never told you how timely and precious that Kind act was, so I’m singing your praises now. Thank you, Leah, for your powerful gift to me. A gift that, when unwrapped, took on its own momentum, bringing, health, friendship, warmth and love.   A present that you had no idea you were giving, yet it altered my life.
What a joy to have met you on my way. Your inspiration stays with me and I hope I use the wondrous talent of speech wisely and in a generous way as you did and still do. It is a gift.



A song????





Enjoying the Dance                                    

Embracing, Gliding likes swans on a lake,
We took to the floor, a couple to make.
Quick stepping through galaxies, up with the stars,
Fox trotting on Saturn, Jupiter and Mars.

And they said we could never be
Happy together, you and me.
But we’re still here, proving them wrong,
Enjoying the dance and singing our song,
Enjoying the dance and singing our song.

At times we twirled and danced too fast,
 Feet hardly touching the floor, such a blast.
Our feet would be bleeding our body’s sore,
But we carried on across the dance floor.

And they said we could never be
Happy together, you and me.
But we’re still here proving them wrong,
Enjoying the dance and singing our song,
Enjoying the dance and singing our song.

Our dance has slowed but we still glide,
Gently moving, side by side,
Our adventure will come to an end one day,
But we’ll move on, we know the way.
Chorus


Palm Sunday . Were you there???

This is a personal reflection about being there at the events of The Passion.


Today at Holy Mass we heard about the Passion of the Lord, those last days that he was on earth from his jubilant entry into Jerusalem to his  crucifixion and death.
IAs I went over it again in my mind I found that I am, at different times,  all the people portrayed in the narrative:
One of the disciples going off to the village to find and prepare the room. What must they have talked about as they did what Jesus had told them. They would have joyfully been getting ready for the big feast and talking about how well Jesus was being received by the people.  They would not have realised what was about to be set in motion.
That still happens today. Jesus asks us to do something and we thing we know what the outcome will be, the best result , so to speak and we are full of joy following , being a disciple.
And then, at the last supper, with Jesus being so serious, which wouldn't necessarily have alerted them as it was a solemn celebration in the Jewish calendar.  But as I sit at table with Jesus and the apostles I feel that love that he has for me and know that these are very special moments. Often during Holy Mass I reflect on this love and my response to it.
I find myself, also, being Judas. Isn't it true that we can't understand what he did , this person who spent so much time with Jesus, betrays him. But he is all of us, well me anyway. Don't I find myself giving him up into the hands of the enemies of today, betraying love itself, my heart cold and far away from the fire of the Holy Spirit. What joy when I realise this and turn back again to my Jesus, ready to be like Peter, that faithful Apostle.
But wait a minute , Peter denied Jesus three times as he had been told he would.  But he came back and became the strength for the others. He had been afraid, I know the feeling. I too , out of fear, deny my love for Jesus. I just hope that as I come back again I get the courage that Peter eventually showed and persevere till the end.
Often I am sleepy like the  disciples were in the Garden of Gethsemeni when Jesus went to pray. Yes, sometimes it's difficult to keep my eyes open to the truth , impossible to pray and I spend a lot of time "sleeping". I need to wake up spiritually and accompany Jesus in his prayer to the Father, especially during this Holy Week.
I even identify myself as Pilate , washing my hands of the responsibility of know Jesus. But not for a long time and hopefully , never again.
Who I would like to identify with is Simon of Cyrene who helped, albeit reluctantly, Jesus to carry the cross. I am often reluctant too but like Simon, when I do take it up the cross is a joy . I just have to remember that to keep me taking it and carrying it along these pathways of our world.
Like Joseph of Aramathea and the women who went to the tomb, I would like to think I would care for the body of my Jesus in a loving and attentive way, generously giving time and means to do so. In my life firstly I think of Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament who waits for us to come and spend some time with him. How much care do I take of this. And do I visit him often, being generous in giving my time . Also, it brings to mind that we are called to see Jesus in all who we meet. Am I loving and caring for others and their needs. And do I , hopefully, sometimes I do, go out of my way to look after those in need .
Am I just many personalities and do I have a problem or are we all capable of being all of these characters and more besides.
My resolution is to love more...more... more.... more... And hopefully not give up.

A really different blog for me today.
If you have read this far ...
Thanks so much and God Bless.
XXXXXXXXX

Saturday, March 28, 2015

Am I Being Clear - poem for slam



A poem I wrote tongue in cheek when my grandson came to live with us for a year.
I have performed it many times, receiving knowing nods and chuckles and huge applause.
Hope you like it:

Am I Being Clear


Am I being clear?
Things have changed around here,
Life was more peaceful, less stressful,
The three of us, Pottering about, Knew where we were.
Then you came to stay!
Didn’t realise I was so controlling,
But, three eggs for breakfast (with bacon, saved for the carbonara),
And after a large bowl of porridge and along with four slices of toast!
The budget doesn’t run to it!
Am I being clear?
Then we were told that when we were out,
The two of you , made dinner,
Used all the chicken breasts, and had a whole pizza,
Without a second thought - Too much at one time,
Am I being clear?
And the washing machine – it goes on at night-we save on the l‘ectric ,
And can you not be in the shower for more than twenty minutes?
Am I being clear?
And the towels and the toothpaste and the music…..
But heh, it’s lovely that you're here...



Monday, March 23, 2015

Great Grandmother


21st May 2017

The Miles Now Separate 

More than two years have gone by since this posting
There is another great grandchild, a brother for little Rose,
nearly ten months old already.
 The family have moved away and we rarely get to see them.
We miss them so much it hurts.
 But that's the way it goes.






23rd March 2015

Becoming Great


The day had come, more planned than she would have liked. But the medical experts, not happy with some of the measurements, did not want her to go past her "due" date. So Grandad took them, with their bags, packed many weeks before, to the hospital early that Monday morning.

I made myself a drink , sat down, took up my phone and text them to say that I was here if they needed me and waited. It felt a bit odd but we are the only family they have near so it seemed the right thing to do.
For the whole of that day I went around fidgety, in a bit of a daze, wondering what was happening to them, half doing jobs, picking up books already started, and putting the kettle on numerous times. So whenever my grandson contacted me it put my mind at rest. And, to be fair to him, he did keep me informed. I won't go into the details of the process , just to say that it was induction. Some of you will know what that means and those that don't are not ready to understand it yet.

On that first night, although I was a little unsettled, I was peaceful. I knew I would be told if anything had happened, but I didn't expect much to be happening yet. And my lovely grandson did let me know. She went into labour in the early hours of the next day. I went about life as normal, going to my creative writing group and speaking as if this was just another " ordinary" day. But just below the surface it seemed to be anything but normal as my emotions were having a little party of their own, giving me quite a rocky journey. It was a long day and I couldn't concentrate on anything.
Every time a text came I would rush to see how things were going. The last text came about 5.30 pm, they might try .... and then nothing.
Nothing...
such a long passage of nothing.
Nothing until the phone rang at 1.45am the next morning .
I knew during those hours that things must have hotted up and I found it impossible to sleep, so when that phone call came I was relieved. The baby, a girl, was healthy and arrived about 12.30 am on the morning of the 18th of March.
I was relieved,elated,and then excited. I had just been made a great grandma. So many thoughts. Five generations now in my family with my own parents still very hale and hearty. Does that happen to many people? How many Great, Great Grandparents are there? Are we unique - probably not.

I imagined the generations of our family moving forward and growing and felt a certain pride in that. In fact, I thought I had already understood quite profoundly the depth of family but this has brought a further layer to it that I had not expected, making me feel closer than ever to my own children and so grateful for them all. I feel like a mother lioness, or great grandmother lioness, gathering all the cubs about her. It's hard to put into words this enormous change that has happened to us.

Back to mum and baby:
I thought about how awake you feel after having the baby as the adrenaline courses round your body, even if you've had very little sleep. I wanted to go immediately to the hospital to see them ,bring some chocolates for the new mum who would be breastfeeding. I remember enjoying many chocolates, sweets and biscuits in the middle of the night while breastfeeding my own. However,common sense prevailed, I turned over in bed and tried to go back to sleep while thinking how this is going to change the lives of the new mother and father forever. We're never prepared for that are we??

Phone calls came one after another the next morning as family wanted to find out what was happening. Some made plans to travel to Kent as soon as they could. Two aunties to the new little princess arranged to come that day. One from Oxford, the other from London after college.


I'll keep you posted with the unfolding of this story.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Eleanor



I will soon be a great grandmother:

Eleanor


Eleanor kicked off her shoes, threw her handbag on the table and breathed a sigh of relief, before filling the kettle and falling exhausted into the chair.

Two hours later she woke to the ringing of the doorbell. Stretching, she rose, slowly making her way down the hallway.
“Grams, you ok?” asked Rachel, noticing the red mark on her grandmother cheek whilst lifting the baby out of the pram.
“Fine dear, patients with problems, that’s all... and how’s my little Patrick today?” she forced a smile and tickled the baby under his chin. She loved the baby but was still a little resentful that it meant she was now a great grandmother. And , although her friends said , surely she was too young, she was still rather sad.
Rachel made tea as Patrick sat quietly on Eleanor’s lap.

“You know, you should retire.” She broached the subject directly as previous, more subtle attempts had proved ineffective.

“ I’ve a good few years left yet.” Eleanor darted irritably, proving her capability by bouncing Patrick up and down. “You all think I’m old and doddery. You can all...mind your own business.” She spoke forcefully hoping to put an end to it.

“That’s not true, Grams, but... you could be enjoying yourself,” Rachel persisted bravely “ and it’s not as if you need the money or anything.”

Rachel was right, she didn’t need the money, but her job gave her more than money. It gave her a reason to be living. She wasn’t ready to face retirement yet.

Eleanor ignored her granddaughter, changing the subject; they poured more tea and finished off six cream cakes
between them.

When Rachel had gone, she went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror, surprised and upset as usual by the image that stared wistfully back at her. A widow now for the last five years, the idea of walking sticks, colostomy bags, falls, dementia and being dependant on her family, haunted her thoughts. She picked up her jar of face cream, scooped out a generous amount, and smeared it over the wrinkles, gently rubbing the future further away.


Saturday, March 14, 2015

Poetry as a friend



To Poetry
My faithful friend,
Always there
Even when my loyalty is fickle .
You can be trusted to be around, when I
Need you.
Demanding - you give me headaches-
Sometimes.
I don’t always understand you
And I avoid you for a while.
Other times you transport me - to
A land of dreams where
Hope glows warm,
Or you inspire me to be
Who I am
Or, you bring such joy
I feel will burst.
Spending time with you
Is to move beyond.
And best of all you take me as I am.






Poetry as a Friend.
Through study we met - poetry and me - I was doing exams
My head ached- too much thinking - Metaphors, alliteration, imagery
Completely foreign to me.
But, I felt an attraction.
The seed planted in my soul, and grew.
The well was empty – thirst was born.
He understood me, knew me well, bided his time - Always there.
Years later, a mother, I broke open, watered, that kernel ,
Robert Louis Stevenson among others, brought
Joy and happiness to delight small children’s lives.
Later Tennyson - adversity overcome with human warmth
Brought them to tears.
Now, I can rely on my friend
My blanket of comfort - he takes me as I am
I become who I am
We travel , together - In country - colour - company.
Time - inspiration -hope
Is ours.

Story in 100 words

Flash fiction:
A story in exactly one hundred words:

Family, friends and neighbours crowded into the large, dim room. She was loved by so many. Even her tally man Mick, clean shaven for the occasion peered over the coffin. She always had a thing for him. Some of the family thought there was more to it, saying the last child, my aunt Maura, looked a lot like him.
Everybody took turns to be with her, each with their own stories of her goodness to them.
I waited and at last she was alone. Tears dropped on to white as I placed my rosary in her joined hands. “Goodbye, Nan.”

I will add some more soon...



Friday, March 13, 2015

Poem by Myra Welch


My daughter just introduced me to this beautiful poem.
Hope you like ti too:
:)


Touch of the Master’s Hand," by Myra Welsh


T’was battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But held it up with a smile.
"What am I bidden, good folks," he cried,
"Who’ll start the bidding for me?"
"A dollar, a dollar," then, two! Only two?
"Two dollars, and who’ll make it three?
"Three dollars, once; three dollars, twice;
Going for three . . . "But no,
From the room, far back, a grey haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow;
Then, wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening the loose strings,
He played a melody pure and sweet
As a caroling angel sings.
The music ceased, and the auctioneer,
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said: "What am I bid for the old violin?"
And he held it up with the bow.
"A thousand dollars, and who’ll make it two?
Two thousand! And who’ll make it three?
Three thousand, once; three thousand, twice;
And going and gone," said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried,
"We do not quite understand
What changed its worth?" Swift came the reply:
"The touch of a master’s hand."
And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd,
Much like the old violin.
A "mess of potage," a glass of wine;
A game, and he travels on.
He is "going" once, and "going" twice,
He’s "going" and almost "gone."
But the Master comes and the foolish crowd
Never can quite understand
The worth of a soul and the change that’s wrought
By the touch of the Master’s hand.
--

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Jeremy Clarkson

I have had a request to write about Jeremy Clarkson on my blog. I did say I would try to write on anything "within reason"!!! ???

My son is an avid fan of Top Gear, even watching episodes over again, so I do know who he is. However, writing about him is another matter.
He is in the public eye and for that reason is somebody that we cannot really know.
I wonder how many television personalities show their true selves in front of the camera.
Not many, I guess. Us mere mortals hardly throw any light on to who we really are.
One of my sons did performing arts and played many roles very well. He was in many productions, including Oklahoma and Les Miserables. When my daughter was getting married we decided to ask him to be the MC for the wedding reception, thinking he would be the obvious choice. How wrong we were. This boy who found it so easy to learn lines and perform amazing parts was terrified of speaking out at this family gathering. When I spoke to him about it he said it was easy to do the performing because he was being someone else but when he had to be him as himself he lost all confidence. I understood him perfectly.
So, as I only know Jeremy Clarkson from watching him in his "performance" on Top Gear, I hardly feel qualified to have any opinion of him whatsoever.
He does get to meet the most interesting people though, lucky thing.


What do others think????

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

A poem ...Getting Through


Getting Through

You pick your way through dim shadows,
Stumble over piles of debris- black bags-
Each new layer crushing, compounding,
Hiding sadness in cold, confused chaos- don’t think...
Step between battered suitcases
Hinting of pain, places in grey -  forget...
With lonely lethargy you upturn photos, lost in dust
Try to give some body, some connection- dismiss...
                                                                 Space- brown, size- muddy, time- fuzzy.
What?  How?  Why?
You notice,
you notice - for the first time
Sour air – heavy, oppressive- think...
You cough, make your way to the window
Fold by fold, hands shaking, you pull back the curtain - remember...
 A rainbow of light washes slowly through the room
Reveals belongings – unknown, long forgotten,
Hesitantly, deliberately, you push the window
Open.
You,  are still – accept...
A robin sings – you see him, red breasted, puffed,
Sitting on a branch just outside.
You drink green dawn, deep into purple lungs
A breeze - soft, silent -sweeps away cobwebs.
You’re here...
Lifting your head skywards
You watch a plane unzip the blue.

                                                                                             



Sunday, March 8, 2015

Egg Sandwiich

He sat wedged in the doorway just outside Sloane Square Station. I'd seen him there before. I slowed my pace, swept my damp hair from my face and stood in front of him. The grey clouds were mirrored in his face which was smeared with the dirt of the roads and hidden under his matted grey hair   His tartan  blanket,  wrapped around him like the shell of a snail, was also half exposed to the fine mist.
For a few moments I stood in front of him with my  bag in my  hand. He didn't make a move or look up.  In front of him was a plastic cup with a few pennies in it. I reached into the bag and brought out an egg sandwich, egg with onion and mayonnaise, I'd prepared that morning as I did every Thursday when I went to London. I wondered whether to take it out of it's wrapper and give him half my lunch. I thought that was reasonable as I would still have one sandwich to myself.
Leaving it wrapped I bent down to his level and offered him it to him saying, " Are you hungry? I have a sandwich here . Would you like it??"
He opened  his eyes, piercing blue eyes, and stared  into mine. Nervously I tried  again to give him the sandwich. A smile crept along  his lips and he slowly raised himself up.  " Thank you , yes, thank you, how kind." It was certainly not an accent I expected from a homeless person and it made me wonder how someone so well spoken could end up on the streets. A hand, thin, bruised, appeared from under the blanket and stretched towards mine. An overpowering scent -body odor, urine, damp clothes, street rubbish, -  came in with my next breath and lodged itself at the bottom of my lungs. I couldn't contain the cough that it brought on.
 I managed to control it after a few minutes and sat myself down beside my new friend.
It wasn't easy. I was extremely uncomfortable and a little scared. I wanted to have a conversation with him, but where to start. Also, he seemed a little unsure of what to do too. I felt like a right chump, sitting there in the rain, well, the ground was wet and the fine mist was getting worse. I started asking him how he came to be homeless. And while he enjoyed my sandwiches he told me his story.
Michael had  lived in Oxford with his wife and two daughters. He'd had a good job with an IT company and they  had everything they wanted - big house ( with huge mortgage), two cars, lots of activities for the girls. All seemed well.
That was until, one day, out of the blue he was made redundant. He tried to get another job but months went by and only rejections came. After a year the house was repossessed as the mortgage was not being paid.
His wife's mother took the family in while they got back on their feet, but the shame he felt and the difficulty living with his in laws made him depressed. Finally, one day he just up and left with just a rucksack and headed for London. He vaguely thought that he would find work in London and then go back and sort things out with his family.
That was two years ago. He didn't feel he could go back as he was so ashamed.
I asked him if he had contacted his wife to tell her he was alive at least. He said he hadn't and that she wouldn't care, that she had no time for him since he lost his job.
I offered to contact his family for him, to let them know he was ok.
"No, " he shouted, and then more softly, "Thank you, but no."
"Well, look, I have my phone here, why don't you talk to them yourself."
Without answering he turned away from me. The space between us became a gulf that couldn't be crossed.
That was the end of our conversation.
He was obviously not ready to return to his life.
I went on my way with mixed feelings.
I had been able to help a homeless person by giving him food, but I wasn't able to help him move on and off the street.
I wonder if he'll be there next week.


Wednesday, March 4, 2015

Little Stories...





A little story that was accepted for a website:  littlestoriesnow.wordpress.com

Check it out. Mine should be on there in a couple of days.


 On the Underground

I occasionally travel to London from Kent.  As I travel on the underground it’s not 
uncommon to see homeless people hunched in any little space where they can 
rest and beg for sustenance. I always wonder whether or not I should give anything. 
  Many say that they would only use the money for drink. Yet it always causes a dilemma in my 
heart.  I've been  meaning  to have food with me that I can offer, but I've yet to get into that habit. It’s hard to see people in need and do nothing.
So last week, when a lady came down the carriage I was in, leaving a message on the seats,
 I did take a second look. She'd stuck a piece of paper onto a small packet of tissues on 
which she'd written a note which explained that she was a young mother with a small
 child who had no work although she was trying to get some. She needed money to pay the rent 

or she and her child would be homeless.
Well, normally, when confronted with such a story I would want to ask all sorts of questions
 finding it hard to trust what she was saying. But, for some reason, my heart
went out to her and when she came back down the carriage to collect her tissues, I stopped
 her, took out my purse and gave her something. I hadn't, up to then, seen anyone else take any
 notice of her.  In fact most people turned away, pretending she wasn't there. She looked in my eyes
with tender gratitude, took my small donation and tried to give me the tissues,
 which I promptly passed back to her.She could use them again, after all. Meanwhile, a man 
sitting a few seats away from me got out his wallet, maybe gaining courage from my action,
 and handed her five pounds. 
Who knows if her story was true or not. What I do know, is that it made me feel good.
  And I’m sure my neighbour also went on with his day more satisfied with himself.
End

And here are the two Posters for the London Underground in case you didn't see them on facebook:



Two posters for the London Underground





Sunday, March 1, 2015

Going Out for Lunch

What a lovely morning it is. Bit, cold, but sun streaming through windows, warming everywhere it falls.
We took a small chicken out of the freezer yesterday with a view to asking our Grandson and Grandaughter-in-law to come and have dinner with us. We see them on Sunday mornings at church and usually have coffee with them after. We looked forward to having them round but...
This week , however, the grandson has an essay to finish so, much as they'd like to they won't come for dinner.
Ah, what to do with the chicken?
I know, I'll ask my daughter and her family. They'll polish it off and we haven't seen them for some time all together.
No, they have already got their plan, with son-in- law cooking, but would we like to go to them.
Well, there's a turn up for the weary.
A much better solution.
After offering the chicken and it being refused ( they've got everything, thank you) I put it in the fridge. I'll cook it tomorrow for youngest son. Maybe grandson can come tomorrow evening as well.
My plan of looking after the others and feeding them has backfired a little . I don't mind, though.
On the contrary, it's such a delight to go to the children now that they are all, well mostly all, settled in their own homes.

Our move has restarted and seems to be going forward.
More on this in later blogs.