Valentine's Day

I logged onto Facebook and Twitter on Monday, the day of soppiness and teddy bears holding hearts, to find a strange mix of posts decrying dismay for the day, dismissing it as commercial nonsense and exultations of love and how great it was to share such a day with their beloved. Something struck me about this; I could be wrong, but this is how it appeared: the majority of those people writing in the former category were single, the latter, in happy relationships (obviously). Make of that what you will.

I spent many years in that former group. Indeed, the last two VDays in particular were pretty awful, as both years I was dumped just a few days before, having bought cards and presents. And buy the same bloke both years too. But that's another story, and he's long gone now. So I'd never had a good experience of this most flowery of days. Until this year, and I warn you now, the gushing starts soon, so read on at your peril.

It started quite inauspiciously; the boyfriend had gone off to uni and I was in the flat. I walked into the front room around 11 o' clock, expecting, I don't know, flowers? A card? A present? And I found nothing, that is, but a messy room. Feeling somewhat deflated, I decided to go back to bed, seeing as I'm able to do that being the lady of leisure I am (I think the Twitter tag here would be #sarcasm) where I remained for a few hours, must've needed that nap. I ended up in the living room again around 3, not really sure why now, and was probably heading back to bed, when in the boyfriend comes, an hour earlier than I was expecting, brandishing a lovely bunch of red roses.

Are red roses clichéd? Maybe they are, but you know, most clichés are clichés because they work, are popular, or are just the best. And red roses are the best type of flower.

Later I was treated to a sumptuous three-course candlelit dinner cooked again by him, which consisted of baked camambert cheese with home-made garlic bread and chorizo and thyme bread to begin, salmon and leek filo pastry parcels with salad for main, and (get this) bowls of melted milk and white chocolate, with fresh strawberries, raspberries and blueberries to dip. Then he gave me a card and my present.

This was no ordinary present, however. No bear holding a heart for me, oh no; along with his flatmate, he'd composed a beautiful piece of music, which his flatmate had recorded himself performing on the guitar, and my boyfriend serenaded me by singing one of my favourite poems to the music. It was just...wow. We then slow-danced to the music and...well, what followed I'll keep to myself (hehe), but it was truly amazing day. This time last year (and the year before), I couldn't have imagined such perfect romance existed, but it does. And I know I'm one lucky girl.

Paradise lost?

I wish I was seven again. Yes, seven was the perfect age for me; no illness, parents still together and happy. There was the nasty big brother, but can't have everything. Weekends were the best, when I'd willingly be up by 8 o clock (tell me an adult who happily does that?!) and downstairs, curled up on the best spot on the sofa in front of the cartoons and kids TV that makes me cringe nowadays. How I had to force myself to wait till 10 before I could run upstairs and wake my dad, the boiled egg for breakfast in that special little egg cup of mine that turned the egg into Humpty Dumpty.

Life was simpler then, and easier; of course it was, what do you have to worry about when you're that age? I loved those early years of my life, I wish I could rekindle some of that lovely bright joy to now. Every kids deserves those paradisal childhoods, but I'm wondering, are they being lost?

I've seen society change a lot even in my lifetime. Constantly I'm hearing, for example, about childhood obesity, and there are initiatives to improve school dinners and stop crips eating unhealty food. But that's not what's doing it. Of course, there were the fat kids when I was little, but obesity? No, that was something I never encountered. And I think the reason is how we lived. We played, played in the old fashioned way, not exercising our thumbs on games consoles.

I have a friend who's a teaching assistant, and I was incredulous to hear some of the things that go on there. For instance, in the winter, children who didn't have hoods on the coats weren't allowed outside; and when there was snow, they weren't allowed out at all! Preposterous, utterly. Snow is one of those enchanting wonders. You may grow up to loathe the stuff, but it's magical to children, a true wonder, especially when you first encounter it in its purest form. Playing in the snow, throwing snowballs and getting them in your face, and doing it for so long that your hands go numb and you're so cold you want to cry, that's a right of passage. Ok, maybe we can dispense with the last bit, but robbing kids of the childhood magic of the snow?

It's a crime, and unfortunately sums up quite a lot of faults in today's society. But it goes deeper even than the health and safety brigade. It wasn't just in the playground we used to play, but outside in the streets. Every day I'd be out, climbing trees, riding my bike, having the time of life, as it indeed turned out to be. But that's a rare thing these days, and I can understand that; I think right now I wouldn't want my children playing in the streets beyond my sight, and that's because I'd be afraid. There are gangs roaming the towns, child murderers and paedophiles lurking on every corner, even children turning on other children in the most horrific way. Parents are simply too scared of letting their kids out into this dangerous world, they'd much rather have them sitting in front of a TV screen and being safe than risking it. I would be the same, I have no doubt. Whether society has really changed in the two decades of my life, or we're just made more aware of these bad things, I don't know, but either way, how sad is it? How truly sad that this generation of children, and who knows how many more, are going to miss out on all those experiences that I wouldn't change for the world.

So many possibilities, probably only one outcome…

Now that I’ve got my book review-cum-obsessive waffle out the way, here’s a ‘proper’ blog post. If there is such a thing. And yet again, it’s been longer than intended since my last one. I really want to be a regular blogger, truly I do. It seems like it would be fun. Problem is, my life just isn’t interesting enough. What would my posts be filled with? Ranting about how poorly I feel, how much doctors annoy me, how much people in general annoy me. And that would get tiresome after a while, tiresome to read and probably even tiresome to write (considering I’d be writing much the same thing, constantly).

So, that leaves me two choices. Persevere, or give up. The latter is probably the best option. But, as quite often is the case for me, I’m not going to  take it. I’m going to persevere, either in hope of finding more interesting things to write about, or no longer caring whether or not there’s even the slightest bit of interesting content and just doing it. Again, probably the latter.

We’ll see how it goes. The case will more than likely prove to be that I never write here again, or at least not for a few months, and then I’ll come on and write all this again.

So until then, I suppose I shall bid you…adieu.

Obsessed, me?

What immediately springs to mind when you think of Stephen King? Horror, in some form or other, I’m guessing. Maybe the creepy-as-shit clown in It or vengeful psychic Carrie. Certainly it was that sort of terror that first came to me, and, being the terrible squeamish wimp I am, resolved that I would never touch Stephen King, not with a hundred foot barge pole.

I realise now I was missing out. There is so much more to King’s repertoire than chills and screams. Perhaps his greatest work –certainly in my mind it is – is The Dark Tower series, an epic tale of the struggle to save reality itself – alongside deep questions of what reality is that you’ll be left pondering for weeks to come.

I struggle to define what The Dark Tower is exactly; what genre does it fit into? Fantasy, perhaps; there’s plenty of magic and sorcery and evil creatures that aren’t quite human. Sci-fi maybe; multiple worlds, metaphysical questions about the nature of reality. Horror? There are certainly aspects of it (the Doorkeeper from The Wastelands possibly my favourite example of horror in TDT). Arguments could even be made for western. And yet it doesn’t quite fit into any of these categories. It’s something so unique, so totally different to anything else, that it almost creates and fits into a genre entirely of its own.

I can’t pontificate and gush enough about the merits of these books. I can’t summarise them for you; they are beyond summary. I can’t explain them; they’re beyond explanation. Read them. If you’re not hooked after the first one (it had me wriggling on the end of the ling after the first sentence!) then…I don’t know, I can’t imagine that happening enough to think of what would happen then. The Dark Tower is waiting for you, go to it.

The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.

Well that didn't last long...

So much for keeping up the blogging eh. I'd say I'm going to try to blog more, but we all know I won't stick to it, so I'll keep schtum. Late nights (4:32 am, no sleep as of yet) leave me wanting to share thoughts, so we've all got something to be annoyed at late nights for eh?

A comment first on the NHS: how can it's staff be so different?! Early Sunday morning, for long-winded reasons, an ambulance was called for me, and oh the paramedics! Not exactly the cheeky but compassionate people you see on Casualty. The bloke went snooping round the flat, looking at my boyfriend's uni timetable, not showing a great deal of interest in the patient, while his colleague treated me like I was a nuisance! Not one nice word of reassurance did she give me, simply an air of "Fine, let's get you to the hospital so we can get rid of you." It was a nasty feeling, and didn't exactly make me feel any better considering the amount of pain I was in.

But this stands in starkest contrast to the staff at the hospital, the majority of which were lovely. The nurses and doctor I saw in A&E were kind, considerate and seemed to actually want to help me, even if they were rather clueless about what was wrong with me (a doctor I saw late in the observation ward even had to go and ask the nurses what ME was!). Clueless, but they had plenty of pain relief to give me, and at least acted as though they cared.

I suppose some understanding can be had for the paramedics; it was early Sunday morning (around 6), so they'd probably had hours of drunkenness and hudlums and time-wasters. But in their attitude I found a distinct lack of professionalism; surely as someone dealing with the sick, ill and injured, a caring nature is part of the job?

You want this, do you?

So, here I am again. Two posts in, what, seven days? Impressive.

Something has been playing on my mind the last few days, something that, really, has always been there, but had faded in more recent times.

On Friday night, I was speaking on the phone to a friend, who asked me what I'd been up to lately. So I told him: nothing, except for spending 80-90% of the day confined to my bed. He laughed, replying that he'd love to be able to spend all day in bed.

Ha. Such total ignorance angers me. If it was from a person who knew nothing about me, didn't know I was ill, OK, understandable, but from someone I've known for years? I tried to control my ire, but put him straight with something along the following lines:

"OK, so, you'd like to be lying in bed having to wear an eye mask because any light, even that through closed curtains is like knives to your eyeballs, your head throbs with such pain you think your skull my implode and feel so weak that you can barely even lift your arm an inch? You'd really like that, would you?"

As you can imagine, that somewhat had him choking on his words, and to his credit he was apologetic and very considerate and, dare I say it, kind thereafter. But still, it grates on me that even people I've known for years, who are aware of many of the details of my condition, can still make such truly annoying and yes, hurtful remarks, undermining my suffering and thinking I'm somehow having the time of my life indulging in total sloth.

That's certainly one sin I won't be going to hell for. Much of the time, I feel I'm already there.

Return

Wow. It's been a long time since I posted here, I'd actually forgot it was here. But as I lay in bed one night, filled with so many emotions that were bottled inside, like the boiling magma in the volcano, I knew I needed a place to release them freely, where no one would be upset or angered or insulted by them, where I would not face scrutiny by those close to me, where I can most be myself...yet never truly known. Oh I do love a good paradox.

So, how long's it been? Two years? A hell of a lot has happened since then. Health, illness, love, hurt, joy, pain... The things that make up our lives more than anything. I fell in love, my heart was broken, and broken again, and again, because I was foolish and to coward to do what I should have done. I got past that, eventually, and fell in love with someone far more deserving. I've made friends, I've lost friends, and there are people... I have no idea what they are to me. I'd like them to be friends but... who knows? There have been family bereavements, too many, far too many. My health has deteriorated. I have new passions in life, I've moved on from old ones. I've developed more as a person. I have new outlooks on the world, not all as bleak as once they were, some bleaker still.

I don't know how long this will last, it's very likely it'll be another two years till I return. But it's here for me, right? At least it will always be there.