Words for Wednesday.

 

Words for Wednesday.

River has supplied the prompts for this week. The objective is to encourage people to write. Why not visit her to see what others have created?

The prompts are:

shipwreck  hook  unexpected  buttermilk  white-knuckled  buggy

Strange new colours for paints

She was tired of the bland look of her new house and wanted some ideas for unusual colours. The paint samples had intriguing names. Whoever could have guessed there were so many shades of white with such eclectic labels? Apple White, Swiss Coffee, White Dove, Chantilly Lace, Scotch Mist – her head spun. Each one was designated for a different aspect, north-facing requiring something quite different to south-east.

She continued searching for ‘just the right colour.’

‘It will speak to you,’ her daughter had said, but she was rapidly discovering that she was profoundly deaf.

Beauty Berry Purple sounded tempting; it was bright and deep and cheerful, but overpowering. It would be impossible to furnish a room with walls that colour.

Buttermilk was another version of white, a creamy, yellowish colour, a little like vomit. It would be difficult to find accessories that would complement it and not emphasise its less attractive qualities.

She pondered on Shipwreck for a long time. It was an exciting colour, a mixture of green, blue, and grey, but not calming. She could imagine it causing nightmares, so decided against it.

White-knuckled was extraordinary; ivory white with grey overtones. It was too cold for any room in which one hoped to relax.

Hook replicated the colours of fishing hooks – bronze, black, blue, and occasionally red or rainbow coloured. None of those appealed – they were too brash.

Unexpected was exactly that – a startling shade of vibrant pink with underlying pigments of gold and silver. That would certainly reflect the sun, as well as the moon, electric light, candles, oil lamps, or any other source of light. Even a flickering match would trigger a kaleidoscope of blinding, flashing luminosity. It was far too stimulating.

The last one on the paint chart was called Buggy. The name made her think of mosquitoes and midges, and she started to feel itchy. She couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to paint their walls such a muddy, dull shade of brownish-grey, or was it greyish-brown? At least the dirt wouldn’t show, she smiled to herself.

As she drove home, she congratulated herself on her decision. In the boot of the car were several litres of the paint she had chosen. It was every builder’s favourite; Magnolia went with everything. It was bland, yes, but inoffensive. She could always redecorate later . . . again.

On a sunny September day . . .

 

On a sunny September day . . .

 

. . . an industrious spider was at work, centred in her shimmering web, waiting for hapless creatures to wander in.

'Will you walk into my parlour?' said a spider to a fly;
’Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I have many pretty things to shew when you are there.’
‘Oh, no, no!’ said the little fly, ‘to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.’

From the poem by Mary Howitt (1828)

 

First day

  First day

Ariella is four years old, the daughter of my second granddaughter. She is more than ready for school! Here she waits under a tree in her all-new uniform, keen to start the day. I love the boots!

Big cousin Fergus, nearly 11, is looking after her. He delivered her to her classroom this morning. He is starting Year 6, his final year in primary school, and Ariella is starting in Reception class.

It was a lovely sunny morning in Dorset, but Ariella carries her own sunshine, anyway!

Isla joined Fergus and Ariella for a photograph. Isla is twelve and at secondary school. She is my oldest great-grandchild and almost the same age as my seventh grandchild, Frankie. I cannot believe she is wearing a tie. I didn't think schools were still so unenlightened.

Ariella is very fortunate to have her cousins living so close. I'm sure her grandmother, my eldest daughter, appreciates how lucky she is to have all her family near . . . and handy for baby-sitting duties!

I don't suppose Ariella will look quite so neat and tidy at the end of her day. See here for a more realistic expectation.

 Me and my shadow

Sunday afternoon alert

 

Sunday afternoon alert

3:01

The 3:00 pm alert sounded at 3:01! It didn’t last long and was reasonably loud, but could easily have been missed if we hadn’t been near our ‘phones.

Obviously, in a real emergency, the alarm would have continued to sound – well, one assumes that would be the case!

In life, we assume a lot – too much, probably.

For example, NHS blood tests are regularly conducted for all sorts of reasons. Three years ago, Barry had a routine blood test and was told, ‘We’ll contact you to let you know the results.’

To clarify matters, he asked if he should call, and was assured that he would be informed. ‘We’re very busy,’ they said. Time went on and life intruded. No-one called and thoughts of blood test results receded into the background.

Anyway, to cut a long and tedious story short, it transpired that Barry’s kidneys were showing signs of damage. That was apparent from the blood test in 2022, but no-one told him. Had he known, he would have adjusted his diet accordingly. Fortunately, we eat a largely salad-based diet, but there are some things he shouldn’t eat or should limit, like tomatoes, dried fruit, avocado, wholewheat bread, brown rice, dairy milk, olives, apricots, and potatoes, among other things.

Adjustments are now being made, too late to undo any damage done in the last three years, but enough to prevent further deterioration.

The lesson we have taken from this is to follow up every test, even if rigorously assured that we will be informed of results. In other words, we have to be ‘squeaky wheels.’

On advice, Barry takes his blood pressure every Monday and sends the results to the organisation that requested them. Recently, he discovered that the results are in a vacuum somewhere, his medical practice having no knowledge of them.

Again and again, this pattern is repeated. There seems to be no connection between one department and another, and if there’s a crossover between NHS and private medicine, life becomes even more disorganised.

Individually, administrative and medical staff are good – diligent and dedicated to their excellent work - but they agree that the system is broken and urgently needs overhauling.

Questions are answered and problems resolved eventually, but it all takes too long. I think the answer is to always carry a sharp stick and poke the sleeping beast that is reputed to be the envy of the world. Not everyone has the time or the capacity or determination to ask the right questions, or move to ‘the next level.’

 

Broadmoor alerts

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Broadmoor Hospital is one of three NHS high security psychiatric hospitals in the UK. We live half a mile away from it. It houses about 230 men, aged eighteen and above. Not all the inmates are criminals. Some are hospitalised under the Mental Health Act because of mental illness or personality disorders which, untreated, could lead to them harming themselves or others.

In 1952, following a breakout by a dangerous individual who then murdered a young girl, a network of thirteen sirens was established to warn residents of nearby towns and villages in case of further escapes.

The sirens used to be sounded every Monday morning at 10.00 and could be heard across a radius of two miles. People would set their clocks by them. One Monday, when they went off, people realised their timepieces were slow. They muttered and reset their watches only to discover later that an escape had been effected, just moments before the alarm was due to be tested.

If the sirens sounded while children were at school, the doors were locked and the children retained until their parents or carers could come to collect them. Once, an inmate escaped and was so terrified by the noise and freedom that he went into a police station and gave himself up. Another time, the escapee hid in a local resident’s shed.

Overall, there have been few escapes.

In 2018, the wailing sirens were decommissioned, to be replaced by a digital alert system, which can relay through television, social media, and messaging services. The hospital, now in new premises, relies on double perimeter fencing, more than three hundred cameras and special coordination with Thames Valley Police.

Occasionally, we meet some of the staff when we’re out with the dogs. They are tough, interesting individuals with many a tale to tell. Broadmoor is not a workplace for the inattentive or faint of heart.

My daughter-in-law’s mother was a psychiatric social worker who used to visit Broadmoor from time to time.

I miss the sirens.

Alice Grace

 

Alice Grace

The Mindful Narrowboat is a series of vlogs filmed and narrated by Vanessa Thomas. She has lived on her narrowboat, Alice Grace, for six years, accompanied by her yellow Labrador, Zephyr.

Vanessa was a teacher for twenty-five years, and a head teacher for the final five years of her time in that profession. Now she travels the canals and waterways of Britain, recording the wildlife, and sometimes domestic, farm life, and some history of the places she visits. She also keeps a journal, in which she documents and draws the things she has seen, accompanied by poems she composes.

Her life seems calm and measured, and obstacles are met and overcome with aplomb. Even when the weed in the water clogs the engine, or the water level drops perilously low, she is steadfast and cheerful, but realistic. Lashing rain and beating sun are treated alike as part of life, to be borne and accepted.

Towards the end of each video, Vanessa makes tea in a china teapot, places biscuits carefully on a plate and takes mug and plate to her drawing desk. She sits and writes and draws, making everything seem so effortless.

Watching her videos is almost an exercise in mindfulness. Each episode lasts about thirty minutes. To live comfortably in a relatively small space takes considerable organisation. Alice Grace is a welcoming craft, though I have to confess that it is not a life I would embrace.

Vanessa publishes her journals periodically. The photographs I have taken are from her 2022 work.