A happier Tesco delivery man today bringing my special jar of pickled walnuts for Xmas

img_0647Now I’ve got my pickled walnuts for Xmas I can get on with the rest of my Xmas shopping.  It’s important to put your gas mask on first, then you can help others put on theirs.

This Tesco delivery man is very happy that we might have snow, his little boys love the snow.  How wonderfully different we all are, here I am, enjoying the talk about snow when I hate it.  I don’t like Xmas either, apart from observing others enjoy it.

When I was a child, we had our presents at 3pm when Dad put our tree lights on.  I’ve always been good at saving up things, delayed gratification, one of my specialities.  Those pickled walnuts are likely to remain unopened until boxing day.  Unless my husband finds them when I’m out one day, then I might have to buy some more, and Tesco might have run out.

When I was a child we had a walnut tree in the garden and mum would pickle the green ones.  There were jars of 1996 pickled walnuts in the back bedroom of my parents house when we cleared it, 20 years on and they still tasted good.

(That green thing at the bottom of the photo is one of the kitchen chairs, not a very large courgette)

Waiting for #Tesco delivery man with concern

I am sensing a slight depression, Tesco delivery men don’t seem their usual selves.  I study Tesco prices with interest, most of the basic items I regularly buy have in the last few weeks risen as high as sometimes 10%.  Civil unrest is not far away.

I am going far away to Banbury Therapy Centre next Saturday to perform my new show “Sex, Politics and Men with grey/white beards”.  I was there last in December 2012, performing with Ruby Wax who has done extremely well in promoting mental health.  In the green room under the make up lights, I couldn’t take my eyes off her amazing smooth skin for a woman similar to my age.  Face lifts/Botox etc are extraordinary.  I met with another woman recently who said that HRT keeps her skin looking so young.  I do think about it but am grateful to have my husband who finds me attractive and I favour to look after myself from the inside out, keeping the internal organs working whilst keeping MS at bay.  Medication and  surgery can come at a different price.

If you are ever unhappy about how you look, check out this amazing Canadian man who I am proud to know and have worked with:

#David Roche:  Inspirational Humorist  http://www.davidroche.com

Without taking care of my face with surgery it would be way too late to get on TV,  but I don’t mind, because I have been on TV.  When the BBC news came to Peckham Library mother and baby group in 2000, talking about the compensation that had been offered to Damilola’s parents, I was interviewed and got on the news with the soundbite.  While breastfeeding I said “It’s not just about money, it’s about life”.  I am content with my historical TV presence, it is an important message.

(There is also the subliminal with film and TV e.g. when the film  “Let him have it” came out about Derek Bentley there were posters all over the underground.  Lots of my ex boyfriends got back in contact with me around this time.  It’s nice to be remembered.  Oops, this reminds me, I should be using my time editing my book ..)

 

 

 

 

 

#Tesco delivery man and me experimenting with silvertone photo

img_0637I was so happy that this Tesco delivery man wanted his photo taken with me.  It’s been 7 long days without,  this included two men who declined my invitation and an Amazon delivery man who kindly stood in, lessening my pain.  These rejections are good practise for dealing with future rejections.  Since the cuts rejections have quadrupled, especially in the arts.

Rejection hurts as much as when we experience physical pain, this is now proven through MRI studies.  Interestingly, research also suggests that being rejected by a father leaves longer lasting emotional damage than if rejected by a mother.  If we are to understand Freud’s concept of transference, this means that if the Tesco delivery men were women, my blog may be emotionally less fraught.

 

#Amazon men stepping in, is it that #Tesco delivery men have been told they are not allowed to pose for photos?

img_0628It’s been over a week now and the last two Tesco delivery men wouldn’t have their photo taken with or without me.  I am wondering whether they have been told by their manager not to engage with me, has word got out?  Only time will tell, but in the mean time, I’ve been talking with other delivery men about their terms and conditions and am wondering if this is why Tesco don’t want me to get too friendly with their men?  All this could be my fantasy as I may find that this is just co incidence, however, if it happens again I shall email the CEO of Tesco to find out.

Other delivery men are proving equally as friendly and endeavour to get things delivered as best they can.  I can’t walk round shops so sadly Amazon (e.g.) provides a good service, especially when I need tights.

As I am in a lot, I regularly take parcels for neighbours too, I am always happy to listen to anyone that comes to the door.  When I was 21, I was told I was a good listener and became a Samaritan volunteer, the youngest in New Cross at the time, often more suicidal than the callers.  All delivery men need an ear sometimes, they have a tough job, and road rage is ever-increasing, I hear the tooting and tooting all day.

If I knew how to airbrush and do things with this photo I would colour in my top, do my hair and put make-up on.  I thought the man on the left looked like my husband but he said it looked nothing like him and wondered whether I really knew what he looked like.  I’m not a visionary person.  I’d been seeing my therapist for nearly 6 years and someone asked me what she looked like, whether she wore glasses.  I really couldn’t tell them anything apart from the fact she was always there and was kind.

 

 

Re yesterday Helen Mirren/Karen Millen kerfuffle and Tesco delivery man declining to have his photo taken

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…… and thinking about stocking fillers, this book is an excellent idea.  I wrote it as part of my swimming pool show I did at Edinburgh Fringe in 2008.  I’d received a £5,000 award and wrote a ten line poem, hence the title.  The excerpt below was written as a voice over while I was underwater with a small air tank built and kindly donated especially for me by #Chrystal Palace diving shop.  I went underwater in my sons dolphin duvet and when the voice over ended I came out of the water, like I was coming out of an embryonic sac (if you were on acid/mushrooms or E’s).  My Scotsman review went something like “a peculiar cross between Tracey Emin and Josie Long”.

I was thinking about this when I was looking for Karen Millen yesterday, that’s why I got in a muddle.  There is always a reason.  In the light of this, and in the light of the press about Boris this week, here is the extract of the book (past performances underwater) that includes Helen and Boris.

 

Birth Story

Thank God it’s nearly over, its been really stressful here these last few months, growing, sudden UV lighting and shit music. If I ever hear “Building baby’s brains” or “Mozart” one more time I’ll do a stillbirth.

I wish she hadn’t given up smoking. I could do with a fag and I could murder a drink. Three glasses of shit CAVA at a wedding then dealing with her guilt for 8 months. That was worse than the gastroenteritis.

I’m really looking forward to going through that deep dark tunnel and getting into the pool. Soon I’ll be pissing in someone else’s water rather than my own stinky sac, and it’s getting pretty stinky in here. Just got to hold off from shitting, just for a few more minutes otherwise it could all go horribly wrong and I’ll end up with Dr Bari doing a ventouse, that’s what happened to my brother and he’s never recovered. They took him to a cranial osteopath but he’s still got a flat head. It’s difficult to air brush baby’s heads.

I’ve done my stretch in this old cell, some have made it through the other side – some haven’t. It’s pretty hardcore to survive in these conditions. It’s dark all the time and very basic. She could have done it up a bit, she’s 41, she’s had plenty of time, some pictures on the womb wall, wouldn’t have to be anyone too raunchy, Helen Mirren perhaps. An internal tattoo would have been nice, but maybe that would have stopped my concentration and deep exploration of my inner child.

Thank God the sex stopped. Most unsettling. Then all of a sudden, it began again and she started taking it up the arse. That was only two weeks ago and by then it had got so tight that I couldn’t move around, my arse was right by her arse.  Doesn’t matter so much these days if I develop a liking for it, well, at least in this country, at the moment.  But who knows what my life will be like.

I think I’ll be a poet when I grow up.

I’m a baby stuck in a womb
I’ll be out soon
Thank God they rolled the dice again
Otherwise Boris would have been my name
Apparently Boris Johnson’s buttocks are similar to those of Adolph Hitler’s
I heard that at a gig she did
That’s when the arse thing kicked off and my kicking stopped
Now it’s my turn to help her out
Otherwise she’ll have to shout – more
So, here we go, I’m really shitting myself now.

Looking for #Karen Millen

Yesterday I went to Bromley shopping centre.  Not because I wanted to, but because I had to go to the Apple shop to sort out why no one can hear me properly through my iPhone 5s, when I can hear them perfectly.

This was the first time I’ve been to Bromley on my own and I’d sussed out it’s accessibility with my husband earlier in the year.  In fact I was feeling so confident that he’d suggested I go to Karen Millen and see if there was anything I would like for my Xmas present, he said her stuff was good quality, expensive, but there might be a sale on.  He knows about these things and I want to look nice for us.

When I came home, despite the phone working fine in the shop, it failed to work again.  I figure that this a sign.  My voice not ready to be listened to just yet.

“Did you buy anything for yourself?” my husband asked.

“No babe,  I asked lots of people where it was but they just looked at me like they’d read one of my books.  Are you sure there’s a Helen Mirren in Bromley?”

To be continued  tomorrow ……….img_0620

#Fires and washing machines and Tesco delivery men bring me washing powder

img_0611It’s Saturday, 4th November, am thinking rain, fireworks and sparklers yet pondering over the washing powder that these two chirpy young delivery men have bought me.  (As you can see from the clock I haven’t put it back from last Sunday because it keeps us all on top of things and Tesco Delivery are even less likely to be late.)

There has been a lot in the press this week about washing machines catching on fire.  I was aware of this a long time ago when I wrote one of my first poems published in my first anthology “Tales in the Deep End”, even Amazon have a 2nd hand copy of this unique book which includes tales of assault by a charity London marathon runner dressed as a St Trinian’s girl with false bosoms, wig and hockey stick  to yogic internal cleansing poetry and illustration.

Separation and Anxiety

My washing machine caught on fire

I will never leave it on its own again

People laughed when I performed this wearing a swimming hat, but as usual, this poem had come from my personal distress and PTSD and OCD around washing machines.  I used to pay the babysitter an extra 50p an hour to keep an eye on it.