Category: Every Day Life

Who’s that guy?

The last of the big pretenders. Phew. Aren’t you phewing too? But there will be many more milling around Fleetwood on Tram Sunday 17th July. This is just the tip of the iceberg. I’ll probably see some familiar faces loitering, or generally sitting. Quite a lot of the scarecrows like a nice sit down and why not, all that stuffing is tiring. I’ll just wave and smile or give them a nod. We’ll have met before.

Anyway, not just one guy here,but two. So a bit of a misleading title there. I do apologise. Have you noticed when people say ‘I apologise’ it gets under your skin, because they’ve never actually said sorry? A cop out. So, I’m sorry. I thought I’d double up today, as it’s getting toward the end of the Festival. A scarecrow sandwich with nothing in the middle. Now I could have put a girl scarecrow in there, but this is a family show.

demon scarecrow
Outside the Mirror Bistro

This one freaked me out a little when I first saw him. A devil worshipper ? The devil himself?

Then I saw what he was wearing. He may  be looking all cool and is chilling and everything but it’s hard to take Satan seriously in a velour onesie.

scarecrow outside electrical store
Outside Mike Sanderson’s electrical shop

I think this guy just worships Cheeto’s. He has some nice jeans on though. Quite trendy.

I saw them close up.

Fleetwood Scarecrow Festival 4th – 17th July

Lion Man

I’ve been travelling up to Fleetwood this week. I’ve gone crazy searching for scarecrows, like a paparazzi looking for celebs, for no good reason, other than, I feel I need to, and it’s fun and it’s community and it’s therapeutic somehow, right at this moment. I don’t normally do stuff like this. Who knows why we do some things, but sometimes you do something because it’s instinctive. It just feels right. There’s something very warm and fuzzy about community…and about scarecrows.

scarecrow shop
In the window of Fleetwood’s Superdrug,

Fleetwood and Cleveleys Lion Club.

Fleetwood Scarecrow Festival 4th July-17th July 2016

Another Fleetwood Fellow

fleetwood museum
Outside Fleetwood Museum

I can’t remember what was written on him. I hope it wasn’t too important.

This is actually a great little museum. One of their very friendly and knowledgeable volunteers took us round the whole place one afternoon, giving us detailed information and narrative on all exhibits and showed us what was in the hangar in the back garden. In it, was a beautiful old Smack (forerunner to the deep sea trawler) called Harriet, the last surviving fishing vessel of its kind.

Fleetwood Scarecrow Festival 4th – 17th July 2016

Searching For Scarecrows

It’s that time again. The annual Fleetwood Scarecrow Festival. I’m searching for and snapping scarecrows until Tram Sunday, when the festival ends. Some good and/or creepy entries this year, as always.

scarecrow barbershop
Outside a barber shop in Fleetwood, aptly named ‘The Butcher’

Fleetwood Scarecrow Festival 2016 4th -17th July 

 

 

How Quote Of The Week Changed My Day

Paul_Newman_1954
American actor Paul Newman.Handsome…inside and out.

People say the most amazing things sometimes. A lot of the time, us ordinary folk say the best things, the most encouraging things, the most enlightened things. Those wise words get spread around like rich, thick verbal butter. It’s yummy and greasy and once you get that quote on your hands, it’s difficult to wash off, so we’re better off just licking our fingers really.

 

Why, just the other day, my friend Mike said to me, ‘A trouble shared, is a trouble doubled’ and I thought that was absolute genius. He has been called a genius before interestingly enough, of the musical variety, but that’s another story.  But back to the point, I thought I should catch up on the Friendship Book before getting down to sorting out my Quote Of The Week. The Friendship Book is one of those thought-for-a-day books, full of philosophical musings, spiritual insights and the occasional uplifting quote thrown in to make a point. Things to warm the heart on a daily basis. It never works out like that and I end up reading two or three weeks worth, all in one day. My heart is toast by the end of it.

Anyway, the first day to catch up on was 15th June or something, so I wasn’t too far back. The first words were ‘What are the ingredients that make up a man? And how are they best shown in his words and actions?’ followed by a quote from Tennessee Williams about the deceased actor Paul Newman, ‘You never really know what he’s thinking or what he might do but it always ends in kindness and fairness. A mighty recipe produced this man.’

What I found out, is that  Paul Newman wasn’t just a ‘Hollywood Great’, as they used to call movie stars from the forties to the seventies. He was much more than that. We don’t seem to have ‘Hollywood Greats’ anymore and when he died, he was one of the last to go. (Hold on in there Kirk).

I was never really paid attention to Paul Newman, he was a very good actor but in a way, just seemed like just another pretty  boy to me.  What I learned about him is that he wasn’t like most of the other Hollywood stars, he was different. That’s what turned him from just another pretty boy actor, into a man.

‘He was a philanthropist, who had distributed more money – in relation to his own wealth – than any other American during the 20th century.’

– The Guardian. Paul Newman Obituary

He burned his tuxedo in his driveway and that was the last time he went to a black tie dinner event. He began making his own dressings and sauces in a washtub in his barn. He would tinker away for hours like a mad scientist, until getting the right combinations, flavour and taste, then he would bottle them up, wrap them in ribbon and give them away as Christmas presents. They were an absolute hit with the neighbours and Martha Stewart, now a famous American television personality, was actually one of them at the time. She once did a blind taste test on one of his relishes.

He called up his friend, A.E Hotcher, American playwright and novelist, and he came over and helped him with his mixes. ‘Newman’s Own‘ was born. The sauces went from the barn to the supermarket but that’s not what makes this special. I mean, it’s all very nice and interesting but it’s what he did next, it’s what Paul did next that I love. He started selling his sauces commercially and every cent of the profits went to charity. In 1988 the first Hole in the Wall Gang Camp was set up, helping 288 seriously ill children. By 2012, the camps would reach 384,700 children globally .Paul has been gone from this world now for eight years but the one hundred percent charitable donations continue. It gave me chills when I went to the website for Newman’s Own and it has a countometer thing, counting up the money made from the profits, in real time. Four hundred million dollars and counting. It goes up while you watch! Gave me shivers, but in a good way. The profits of Newman’s Own’s products go to charity , ALL OF THEM, and it made me go in search of the product and buy it. It just makes me feel all warm and gooey inside, a bit like his sauces.

saucy

 

 

 

 

Library Finale

I think reading books in public has gone out of style. Or else, that is just denial speak for giving up. Today, I made the decision not to visit Blackpool Library again, at least not alone. I thought I could beat the system. I thought I could be alone there and not be bothered in any way. It is no longer a solo project. I can go into the gambling den that is Coral Island and there are no problems there. i think because everyone is busy haemorrhaging money. Coral Island is not interested in the sin of sex, at least not until kicking out time. They’re interested in that other addiction.

If I want to be left alone to read, then Blackpool Library is not the place to go. I don’t want to be unaccompanied or un-escorted there, from now on. Or rather I don’t want to be. I thought I could hack it. Unfortunately not. I may have tried to make a joke of it, earlier on, this year, or rather last year. I did the whole bravado thing, but I know when I’m defeated and there were so many people there last time I was there, too many and none of them were reading books. In fact, over in the cafe, there was some kind of open friendship day with the amazing aroma of well cooked, quality meals and all these friendly faces. But I can’t just walk into a sea of strangers, however much they smile so beautifully and smell of delicious food.

So I went into the quieter section but of course, the quieter section has its own problems. Everyone with social issues goes to the quiet section. My niece, who has always been very wise for her young years, advised about negative experiences regarding people. She said, ‘You’ll never see that person again, so don’t stress about it.’ That was always a comforting thing but recently, I discovered, to my horror, that is not strictly true. The straw that broke the camels back was once again, seeing a  Misery style Annie Wilkes (played by Kathy Bates in the original film, based on the novel by Stephen King).

She had returned. The first time, I saw her, she followed me around and then took photos, when she’d got a good full frontal shot. I think it was her blatant over confidence which disturbed me most, just like Annie Wilkes. She was defiant, confrontational and self important, like she had a right to stand in front of me and take photos without my permission, just like Annie Wilkes. You can get arrested for that in Dubai.

Why couldn’t I just laugh about it, why take it all so seriously? This is a woman with thoughts and feelings and hopes and fears, just like everyone else, but I’m sure Annie Wilkes has thoughts and feelings and fears. It all just felt too much of an invasion of personal space. The fact that she was holding up an envelope and not a camera, means nothing. It was the fact that she felt it was a camera and that’s all that matters. What if she felt it was a knife and came at me with it? An A 4 jiffy envelope might not do that much damage, if she tried to stab me with it, but still, imagine the trauma. It’s the intention behind it, that’s the important thing. If they think it’s a knife, then in their mind they’ve stabbed you with it and are trying to cause serious harm.

But this time, thankfully, I had a witness. ‘Look,’ I said, to my husband, ‘there she is. There’s the woman who’s been taking photo’s/videos of me with an envelope.’ It was a huge relief to be able to prove there was a woman, who, as we spoke, was indeed taking pictures with a big brown envelope and really meant it. When I produced a witness, she ran off. She ran last time, once she’s cottoned on, that I’d cottoned on. One moment there, one moment gone.

My husband had to go off for half an hour and he leaves me here precisely because he thinks it’s a nice safe, quiet place for this hothouse flower to be, but I was grabbing at his shirt sleeve and saying ‘Please, don’t leave me!’

This is a library. I shouldn’t be saying things like that in a library. That sad truth was, I was scared of this woman. I theorised that she was mentally ill and not some undercover journalist, as I’d first fantasied. And that made me feel guilty but no less afraid, as there seemed to be a certain maliciousness in her actions, like Annie Wilkes. So I now had guilt, as well as fear, to add to my arsenal of negative emotions. I wasn’t relieved that she may have mental health issues, obviously, but I was relieved that she wasn’t a conspiracy person. Yet, things were coming to a head, because I was thinking of the infestation of P.U.A’s and all the intoxicated, middle aged divorced men and disenfranchised people, all of us, hovering like lost souls, among the books, but not really reading them. One thing I did do here though, as well as hovering like a lost soul, is read books, but no-one else seems to think that’s what this library is for.

Ninety percent of the visitors here are in the multi media section, on the internet, right next to the cafe. No-one’s interested in books, really, not the smell of them, not the look of them, or the touch of them. Am I the only one that has this fetish? For years, men have read newspapers in libraries. I remember them, hidden behind their gently rustling ‘Daily Mirrors’ in my youth. So, I understand, that’s a thing, I get that, that’s a library staple, but why isn’t anyone here reading the books?

And then it hit me, not only is everyone on the internet and not only is no-one reading the books, I’m the only woman in the reading sections, apart from Ms Envelope Camera. It’s always all men. Middle aged men reading newspapers, not books. P.U.A‘s pretending to read, not reading. No women, at all, unless they are there for social purposes, in social groups, or in the cafe, making friends and eating wonderful food, or taking pictures of people with envelopes.

Oh, why do I want people to read books so much. Why?

I love the uniqueness of this library but not the unpredictability. Perhaps I should welcome that in this mundane, greyed out world, but I don’t like surprises and I had a bit of a panic attack last time. So instead of sitting quietly and reading, which I didn’t feel able to do, I went to Coral Island and gambled.

But the gambling den was a breath of fresh air, especially when you’re just on the Two Penny Falls. A lot of fun to be had and you do win stuff. I wasn’t down by more than seven pounds fifty by the end of it all, and with a couple of cheap but nifty plastic key-rings to show for it.

No one will bother you at Coral island and you’ll be able to spend as much money as you don’t have there. It’s so noisy and chaotic and Earnest Hemingway is nowhere to be seen and yet…even if you love books, you will feel safe. It’s like a library should be, but without any books. Safety comes in numbers and bright lights, never forget that.

 

Who’s Afraid Of Naomi Wolf?

I have a strange and rather emotionally tense relationship with Blackpool Central Library.

Before I begin, I need to make a few things clear. It is a wonderful library. It boasts beautiful stained glass windows. It is clean, organised and well run by friendly and efficient staff. There are also many worthwhile and thriving social groups that meet here that are important and richly beneficial to the community, which is typical of British libraries, central and local.

There are also a lot of books.

The vision of libraries for most people is a place where the quiet and shy will be in their element. It is a place where there is peace and quiet, for the studious and those hungry for knowledge and those in love with books. It is also a place, this place in particular, where young men will continually attempt to pick up women and where middle aged men frequently go to peruse a newspaper and socialise with others of like mindedness and similar circumstance.

I have taken my natural paranoia into consideration, and weighing up all the facts carefully and doing controlled experiments to prove it, no, not really, but I’ve been there enough times to weigh up the social ambience. I’ve done enough social experiments of my own now and the pick up thing was not a one off, as I thought, hoped, imagined. I only know because I returned and the same kind of things happened. Lone young men will begin by hovering and pretending to pick a book. They will go away for a few seconds then return, and hover round again, and again. This will happen several times until it becomes unbearable. At first, it was a novelty. It was quite exciting, at first, as a mature married women, to be given that attention, but it has become an irritation. If I’d have wanted to flirt, or I was sociable, or the Mae West type, or I wanted to commit adultery, or I wanted to cop off, I’d have gone to a nightclub. Look, I came here to read all right? It just shows you how naive I am. It is interesting though, I mean it’s an interesting place and I do love conspiracies.

They will be wearing sports wear or be the complete opposite, really scruffy and badly dressed or completely uniquely dressed, kind of like Mystery. They will make the mistake of pretending to pick a book from the girl-y self help section or the cooking section and then when you don’t look up or act like you’re alive or take your nose out the book, they will rattle the metal bookshelves, so they nearly come down on you. I’ve tried ignoring it but the steel bookshelves vibrating noisily by my ear got too much.

Anyway, by that time, I’d already devised a cunning plan. I had premeditated. If I started to feel uncomfortable in the event of abnormal hovering, I decided  I would get up and move around. They can’t get you while you’re transient. And that’s the word that kept going through my head ‘transient’. Keep yourself moving, it really puts people on the back foot when you keep moving. Anyway, I suddenly stood up very suddenly and walked away. I completely threw him.  A triumph! I went down the aisle and several bookshelves later, I find myself in the ‘SEX’ section (there is none really, but it sounds good, I think, well it is kind of like a sex section. I will tell you more later)

I pick up a book, any book, and start to read. As I read, I stand with my legs apart. Girls, if you ever feel intimidated or afraid, or harassed or upset, or vulnerable, stand with your legs apart. It gives you instant grounding and it says, ‘I’m standing with my legs apart, okay? Wanna make something of it?’

The man who had been hovering was totally thrown, as I said, and it was wonderful, very liberating. I had devised a plan and it had worked. He followed me down to where I was, and I have done the puffed up cat thing many a time in the past, walking home from a nightclub, in my youth, at 3. a.m. It also helps to have your house keys in your hand, with the biggest, sharpest key, held point down, between forefinger and index finger. Instant opportunity to gouge out the eyes, or crotch, or the nearest softest flesh of any imagined or possible attacker. Just remember the puffed up cat, if you find yourself walking home late, although I hope you don’t, as there’s no substitute for a taxi and a plan. When there are no taxis and no plan and no money and it’s late and you are alone, (God Forbid, but yeah, it happens, it happened to me plenty of times) just think, puffed up cat and keep the sharp point of your front door key between your index and forefinger. Oh, I forgot, you have mace and mobile phones as well, these days, don’t you?

Anyway, I discover that the book I am reading, with legs apart, puffed up cat stance, is the one and only, ‘Vagina‘ by Naomi Wolf. So, there I am, reading a book called Vagina, in puffed up cat stance, when he comes down to look for me. Perfect.

There is really  nothing more that acts like a natural shield than puffed up cat and Naomi Wolf’s ‘Vagina’. One, on its own, may have been inadequate, but the two together…invincible. There was something about reading a book called ‘Vagina’ that created a wall. I felt suddenly protected. Secure. Safe.

He goes away, the young stranger. The magic of the Vagina and puffed up cat, a volatile combination has magicked him away. He has gone. Or so I think, more on that later.

I start to read, in acting mode, but then I actually begin to read. Oh, this is good, I think, really good, suddenly I’m not acting any more. I could never get a book like this out, I think…I could never look the librarian in the face when I handed it over, but wait a minute, that’s in the old days. Nowadays, we have machines, the equivalent of the brown paper wrapping for the soft porn mag of the rain-coated old man.

Hey, wait a minute. I’m not a rain-coated old man and vagina is not a dirty word. So WTF?

So, I’m thinking, this would be a no go normally, I would never get this book out. I would have to process my ‘Vagina’ book through a middle aged lady librarian (I know, stereotyping, but it’s true) And she would be thinking, ‘Oh, you just got a book out called ‘Vagina’  Well really! What kind of a woman are you?’ or ‘Ooh, fancy!’ while looking you up and down, but thanks to the non judgemental machines that allow you to scan your books, non humanly,  a few hours later, I’m at home reading it. I laugh, I cry. I learn. Ahem.  This is a good book. Recommended reading for EVERY woman…and every man.

Thank you Blackpool Library for being so…weird…scrap that…unique. Well, here’s the thing, when my husband met up with me in the library, I discovered said P.U.A hovering around another woman a bit later on. He was just up to his old tricks again, I guess.

But Naomi Wolf…now I was herded towards her, inadvertently…I was chased towards her Vagina, and it worked. It was a silver lining….every cloud has one.

Blackpool Library…we may still have one more chapter.

 

 

 

 

 

The Game

I wrote the following verse a while ago, about ten years ago. This is how I felt at one time, but I don’t feel like this now. A wise friend said to me lately that our writing from the past is still valid, still important, simply because we felt like that at one time in our lives, so it’s still a part of us, and we shouldn’t dismiss it. (Thanks Mike. You inspired this post).

His advice got me into thinking that our past writings are like part of our photo albums. Would we cut photos out of our albums because they are no longer relevant? I’m sure some people do and have, but they are denying themselves their life story. It’s certainly a part of us we shouldn’t deny, as we need to know where we’ve been, in order to know where we’re going. We can learn from our writing from the past. What I’ve learned, is that hope is real and it does manifest. It’s very easy to feel that the future is bleak, and we may feel suicidal at times, I’ve had their number on my phone before today. www.samaritans.org 116 123 UK or Suicide Hotline.

The problem with suicide is, it’s short sighted. We can’t predict the future. However bleak things feel and how almost supernaturally impossible it is, to see past the darkness at times, the future, unbeknown to us, can hold untold wonders. Moments of this darkness will come back and try to prove us wrong I’m sure, but all in all, there’s nothing quite like looking back at bad times with a detached eye and thinking, things did get better, after all. Regardless of what unfolded, a time line of your happiness levels can be very useful.

Keep your old writings as a measure of how far you’ve come, and dip into them after several years have passed. It may trigger you to make important changes in your life. That snapshot, just like the snapshot in a family album, might finally allow you to see where you were in the past, where you are now and how far you need to go to achieve your hearts desires.

 

Life’s a lonely game

you shake the dice and your number comes up.

And in the aftermath of carnage

hope hides, a dream stirs, clinging to the dust

The devastation of the explosion

will only make you miss a turn

and you’ll have to go back –

five paces.

Well, you know, I don’t want to play on this board no more

Cos no one plays fair

I’m going to bed, turning in

Throwing in my hand

Too many snakes

Not enough ladders.

 

 

 

 

 

Can I leave? Can I leave, really?

You should write your own version of the chameleon that is in all of us. Don’t be ashamed or embarrassed at all, at how we change like chameleons, how we like certain people and then, not like them so much. It’s not our fault. It’s not their fault. Everything is transient, including our moods. Our values and principles should stay the same of course, but our everyday feelings and emotions are allowed to change. For a long time, I thought this wasn’t allowed ! I thought there was some kind of law that said I wasn’t allowed to change my mind, or change my opinion of someone or something, with good reason of course. I thought appropriate responsiveness to a situation was illegal, that I shouldn’t/couldn’t open a can of worms, or tell that person to remove his hand from my knee, or walk away from an aggressive or unreasonable person, or walk out of a restaurant that didn’t get to you within their accepted in-house time limit.

I don’t go to pubs much now, hardly ever, and I haven’t dined out for a good while, but now that summer’s here and eateries and pubs seem to be doing a bit more business than usual, it just made me think. Have you ever walked into a pub and not been served, even though you’ve felt the bar person’s eyes go over you every five seconds and he served people who got to the bar after you?  Of course you have. Have you ever walked into an empty pub and not been served within ten minutes because the barmaids are chatting in the corner and looking over occasionally giving you smug, self-satisfied smiles?

There’s nothing wrong in walking out of a cafe, pub, bar, restaurant that doesn’t serve you in a prompt and timely manner. I’ve sat in a restaurant for a good while with friends and we haven’t even been acknowledged, granted it was busy, but just a nod to say, I’ll be with you soon, is common courtesy and should be in-house policy. There’s nothing more beautiful than walking out of a pub, or a restaurant, when you’ve been ignored for a good while. I was afraid to do it for a very long time. I think a lot of people just put up and shut up, especially if you happen to be British. Lie back and think of England. It’s almost like there’s an invisible boundary stopping us from walking away. I must not go over that line ! I have to stay imprisoned!  Imprisoned by what?

Working in such establishments, is not an easy job, it’s hard work, but if a service isn’t provided within a reasonable amount of time, the customer has the right to call time. If a restaurant is being overwhelmed by too many customers and they can’t cope, then we are doing them a favour by walking away. They are a victim of their own success, and hopefully, at some point the business owner(s) will sit down in a board room somewhere and ruminate over this issue and provide more tables or staff, or whatever it is that’s needed, to accommodate more customers at their busier times.

When you’ve been ignored for longer than is acceptable, then just walk out, don’t stay with it and think things will get better. It very rarely does. I’m sure you’ll have plenty opportunity to try this soon and the best part, is this, to be aware of all the other people watching you walk out. ‘Oh, they’re walking out!’ they will say, looking at you with shocked faces. How shocking ! How anarchic! So Sex Pistols. So un-British, wait, God damn you, wait, I don’t care how long you have to wait, but wait!

You haven’t committed yourself in any way, shape or form, but it seems you were born to wait and be ignored at the same time, and suffer. Oh yes, suffer, while I torture you by not acknowledging you even exist. But this is simply not true. What will happen is, you will think ‘I’ve waited this long, I may as well wait a bit longer.’ Try not to fall into this trap. This will never help you, or work to your advantage. The more you think this, the longer you will wait. Once a precedent or a certain mood has been set, you’re on to a loser. It’s just a bad time at that establishment. Bad Time Establishment Blues. It’s not going to get better. So, do the sensible thing, move on and don’t think ‘but this is where it’s all happening!’ That’s just the desperation bell going off. Ignore the desperation bell. You are above that.

No, but seriously, don’t be afraid to walk out of anywhere, at any time. I’ve been learning appropriate responsiveness lately. If you are an assertive person, this will be old news for you. If not, then hold tight, you will discover true freedom this way.

Soon, you won’t just be doing it to faceless public establishments, you’ll be doing it to individuals who invade your personal boundaries or who cross the line with you. Practice makes perfect and the more you do it, the more comfortable it will feel.