Everybody needs good neighbours, but that would have been a step too far

It’s time to get back to some sort of normality round these here bloggy parts, so let me start with a tip:

When you’ve got the raging hump and you decide to take it out on something, rather than someone, and you opt to tackle the three foot plus high stinging nettle forest that’s sprung up from seemingly nowhere in the garden at the side of your house to try to get rid of said hump (and nettles), don’t fling a handful of them while standing facing the wind when it’s blowing a hooley.

Because the wind will fling them straight back at you and you’ll end up with a face full of the buggers.

And they fucking hurt.

I consulted Google for remedies for stinging nettle rash – the obvious one being rubbing dock leaves on the affected area. I wouldn’t recognise a dock leaf if one came up and bit me on the bum, so that was out, although with hindsight I could have Googled that too.

Another one was to make a paste out of baking soda and water and apply it to the rash immediately after being stung. A quick rummage through my kitchen cupboards soon put paid to that idea – no baking soda. Ah, bugger.

The third idea, seeing as neither dock leaf or baking soda were handy, was to rub human saliva onto the affected area.

*blink*

I didn’t fancy the thought of standing there hoicking to produce enough saliva to cover my face. Nor, strangely enough, did the idea of knocking on a neighbour’s door and asking if they’d oblige really appeal:

Me: Hello Neighbour, I’ve been stung, could you lick my face please.

Neighbour: WTF??

Me: No, honestly, I Googled it. You need to lick my face.

In the end I settled for a cold, wet flannel.

My brain is a mess, I can’t even think of a title for this post

I’ve got ants in my pants.

Just to be clear, they’re metaphorical ants, but I’ll check anyway…

Yup, definitely metaphorical (good job most of you don’t know what I look like, because there’s a mental image you could have done without. For those that do know me… oops).

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve sat here to write a post* over the last week or so, with my fingers poised above the keyboard, but my each time my brain muttered, ‘You want me to do what now? Concentrate? I don’t feckin’ think so pal’.

So I tried reading blog posts instead.

Rolling its eyes and sighing, my brain said, ‘What part of ‘I can’t focus’ don’t you understand, you pillock?’

So I gave up, which made me miss my blog’s first birthday. My poor blog, sitting here, expecting a few balloons and party poppers, maybe some wine, definitely a cake with a candle, or at the very least a smidgeon of attention from me. Instead it had to hold itself a party for one, because it got nothing else, not even a cupcake.

I feel so guilty.

But wait.

I can go one better than that.

What was worse than forgetting my blog’s birthday?

I forgot my mum’s birthday.

That really did have me hanging my head in shame.

Luckily, she forgave me and totally understood why I forgot, the reason for which is one I’ll get to in a minute or two.

My blog couldn’t give a toss.

It wanted cake, dammit.

My restlessness did take a short break last week when I managed to sit in the hairdressers long enough to lose the Johnny-Depp-as-Sweeney-Todd hair colour I had going on.

I was in the hairdressers for three friggin’ hours. That’s how much grey there was.

The other morning, I looked the front garden with fresh eyes and realised the grass desperately needed cutting, and thought, ‘A-ha! Distraction tactics! Must. Cut. Grass.’ so I inserted my earphones in my ears, put my iPod on shuffle and got stuck in.

For some reason the grass closest to the ditch seems to grow fifty times faster than the rest of it. It was that long and swishy, I was surprised I didn’t discover a previously unknown species of animal amongst it.

At some point while I was cutting swathes through the jungle height grass, I inadvertently became a contender for the street’s She’s Off Her Head Award. My entry was unintentional, but when I listen to music (a.k.a. bangin’ choons), I start dancing. So there I was, lost in a world of my own, cutting the grass, while getting on down and shakin’ ma thang. In the front garden. Totally oblivious. In full view of the neighbours. It was very fortunate I didn’t start singing too.

In the back garden, I was involuntarily ‘treated’ to viewing pigeon porn. One minute there were two pigeons and the next thing I knew, there seemed to be pigeons at it all over the place.

Beak nuzzling and everything.

It wasn’t even pay-per-view.

They had no shame.

Or business sense.

Anyway, the reason for my twitchy, unable-to-concentrate-on-anything-for-any-length-of-time is because over on the other side of the world, Baby Wotsit is due to make an appearance any day now, but Eldest Daughter has put a request in for me to start writing again as she’d like something to read while she’s in labour.

“I’m in labour, fetch my laptop, I must read my mum’s blog,” she’ll command. Somehow, I think not. I’d be impressed if she did though.

Eldest Daughter and I have been chatting daily either on the phone or, even better, via webcam. A while ago it tickled me to learn that Baby Wotsit enjoys listening to Mozart. What tickled me even more, was being told Baby Wotsit also gets on down and boogies on hearing Michael Bublé. Or in the words of Eldest Daughter, ‘Not just a boogie... A full blown roll around, kick mum in the ribs party...’

She’s been asking for my pearls of wisdom regarding labour and childbirth, amongst which I offered this:

Make sure there’s nothing good on tv and that there’s enough petrol in the car.

I speak, of course, from experience. When I was pregnant with Youngest Daughter, I didn’t know I was in labour until my waters broke as I got into bed. I waddled back downstairs, where my ex husband was settling down to watch a boxing match on the tv.

On being told I needed to get to the hospital, Mr Ex woke three year old Eldest Daughter and brought her downstairs. Then you’d expect to read that we all got into the car to make our way to hospital, but you’d be wrong.

Mr Ex made us wait while he set the feckin’ video timer to record the feckin’ boxing.

Do you remember how long it used to take to set a video timer?

No?

Several contractions, that’s how long.

Eventually, the three of us got in the car and on starting it, Mr Ex immediately realised there wasn’t enough petrol to get to the hospital, which was eight miles away. We had to drive in the wrong direction to the nearest petrol station, where I think he filled the car up a drip of petrol at a time, while I was trying not to freak out Eldest Daughter each time I had a contraction.

Reciting all the names from Thomas the Tank Engine, followed by singing endless verses of ‘The wheels on the bus go round and round…’ kept her amused, but I can’t say it did anything for me.

By the time we got to the hospital (with most of the journey spent by me alternately breathing through contractions and swearing quietly because I felt every.single.bump. that we drove over), I was unable to get out of the car unaided, let alone walk. A wheelchair was fetched, which I was helped into and Youngest Daughter was born a short while later.

Not in the wheelchair I hasten to add.



* Just so you know, it doesn’t normally take me very long to write a post – an hour or so. This one has taken me two days. TWO DAYS. Fucking ants.

It Lives!

Look at my orchid!

I’ve had it for twenty six days now; it’s not dead and is showing no signs of deterioration. It is positively thriving on my loving neglect. Who’d have thought it? My mum, that’s who (sneaky Mum, verrrry sneaky).

The day after it was purposefully and intentionally abandoned here, it lost two flowers, causing me to think ‘here we go’ (although even for me, for a plant to do that one day after being bought into the house was a record – I tend to go for the long, slow death method).

But then [dum dum duuuuuum], the rest of the buds began opening. ‘Holy crap,’ I thought, ‘could it be the plant that’s meant for me?’ Having said that, even if it is, I do not want to have a house full of orchids (note to Mum: ONE IS ENOUGH THANK YOU xx).

I received encouraging advice via comments after I wrote a post about it, and also a birthday present via Facebook in the form of a blog post called Orchid Care For Beginners (thank you, it all gave me hope!). I moved it into the bathroom, and it sits on the east facing windowsill, inhaling steam from the shower like a glue head inhales solvents (or like me inhaling the smell of freshly laid tar on a road).

After Youngest Daughter comes back from Majorca in August, it will be positively swimming in more steam - it’ll think it’s died and gone to heaven. (Hurrah! Youngest Daughter is coming home early – my nest won’t be empty anymore. This also means she can tidy her bloody room – I’ve only ventured in there to remove any science experiments in mugs, which I have to say, although disgusting, were impressive. I know now half a cup of tea, left to its own devices, can grow into something worthy of appearing in Dr Who.)

I’ve even gone so far as to name my orchid. “Wotcha Petal,” is usually heard whenever I enter the bathroom. I haven’t decided whether Petal is a he or a she. I’m thinking it ought to be she, as what self-respecting male orchid would want to be called Petal?

If it was a male, and he went to the pub, all his orchid mates who have names like Bruiser or Spike would take the piss out of him and say, “Well hellooo Petal, give us a kiss darlin’ and show us yer buds. What you drinkin’? Babycham?”

In response, Petal would then reply, “Oh feck off. SHE calls me Petal, but my real name is Steve. And I want a pint of Guinness.”

No, Petal is going to have to be a she. Besides, it’s much too pretty to be a he.

However, before I get too jubilant about Petal’s healthiness, there is a yang to this yin.

The Boston Fern is not a well thing. It’s looking sorry for itself and I fear it’s beginning its long, slow journey to that compost heap in the sky, via the recycling bin.

Oh well, one out of two ain’t bad.

Mind Your Own Damn Business!

Or should it be 'Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here'? Ah well, whatever.

I've found that since acquiring widow status, aspects of my life now seem to be up for discussion, with me, by people who I would class as acquaintances. People who are on the edges of my social circle and with whom I do not, and don't want to have deep and meaningful, personal conversations. I have family and close friends to do that with.

The main culprit is a retired widower, who feels particularly qualified to talk to me (or rather, at me) about 'moving on', because he knows exactly how I feel (er, no you don't, see 15 Things Not To Say point number 2) as he's been there, done it. 

I also get the impression that being female (i.e. weak and feeble), Widower thinks I have shut myself away and sit here weeping and wailing all day - well pal, I haven't and I don't and trust me, I use the term 'pal' very loosely. Also, just to clarify, there is no sign above my door that says 'Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here'. I am however, considering a sign saying 'Sod Off!' for the door, to be used as and when necessary.

I've been given unwanted and unasked for advice on when and how I should sort through Significant Other's clothes, because "the best way is to sort through things like that is as soon as possible".  

Other topics recently have included sorting and clearing the contents of my garage and shed (which are mammoth tasks - another day, another post perhaps) and Significant Other's ashes. They should all have been dealt with by now, after all, it's been over a year since Significant Other died. Oh, how stupid of me, I hadn't realised there was a time limit.

Then it moves onto the biggie. As a weak and feeble female I shouldn't be on my own, I should now start a search for a new man.

As an aside, I firmly believe friendship and love are to be found when they're least expected and can be found in the most unexpected of places. I have a friend who was desperate, with a capital D, to find a life partner. He tried bars, clubs, online dating - you name it, he tried it with no success. What happened? He went shopping in a supermarket and met a lady with whom he is now very loved up. Not unusual enough? Try this. I know of a couple who met while they were both patients staying in hospital. They've been together for years now. So you see, don't go looking for it; when the time is right, friendship and love will find you.

Enough of that, back to my spleen venting.

I have been told the time is right to move on. 

I have been enlightened on the fact there is nobody decent to be found in a pub, or a club.

I have been warned online dating is a big no-no.

I have been informed the way forward is to look at personal adverts in the Telegraph because "you get a better class of person there, rather than one of the red-top newspapers".

I have been regaled with stories of who he met and how unsuitable they were for him (eh?). 

Guess what? Widower met a lady, who he now lives with (well, isn't she the lucky one...), not through a personal ad, but by pure chance at a golf club. See? It comes back to the point I made above.

But anyway...

Excuse Me? W...T...F...??

Why should I search for a man? Putting that to one side, the bigger question is, what business is it of his? I'm sitting here trying to coherently write my thoughts on this, but all I can think of are numerous expletives, varying from the mild to the outrageous, although truth be told I'm leaning heavily towards a stream of the downright offensive.

I will sort through the rest of Significant Other's clothes - a few months ago I went through them and took several bags to a charity shop. There are still some items to go through. The garage and shed have been started.

I almost scattered Significant Other's ashes a few weeks ago in Cornwall but it was too windy - I would have ended up wearing them. I had visions of being asked what I was covered in and replying, "my husband"! Cue horrified faces and much backing away. How to clear a bustling harbour in thirty seconds or less. Forgive my black humour.

When I am ready I will do what needs to be done. I have no intention of living in a time capsule, but I do not need to be told what to do, particularly by someone I don't know too well. I know myself and I know when the time is right for me to tackle things. Anybody who possesses more empathy than a toenail clipping would understand that. I will not be pushed into anything by anyone.

End of rant. Phew.

15 Things Not To Say

There are many things said to someone who has been bereaved to offer comfort. I've had all sorts of things said to me. However well-meant most of them were, some of them just rubbed me up the wrong way. Big time in some cases. If you find yourself faced with a newly bereaved person, I can't tell you the 'right' thing to say, perhaps apart from "I'm so sorry". But I can tell you what not to say.

Everything listed here has been said to me;  I think many of them are pretty much bog-standard words of consolation given to someone who's grieving. Bereaved people are very sensitive to what's being said, particularly in the early days.

What's written below is geared towards the death of a spouse. I cannot comment about talking to someone who is grieving the death of a parent, sibling or child, because that's outside my experience, although I would think a few of the points listed may be said and the reaction would be similar.

I've written how I felt about these comments to show you how easy it is to unintentionally cause offense. After speaking to other widows who received similar comments, I now know my thoughts match theirs. Please, please, please take note of the list below and don't say any of them.

1. Time is a great healer
Someone said this to me in the presence of another widow. We both looked at each other and said 'that's bollocks'. Yes, somewhat curt, but very succinct.

Time gives you the opportunity to adjust, to learn to live with it. It does not heal.

2. I know how you feel
No. You. Don't. You have no idea how I feel, the same as I would have no idea how you'd feel, if it were you. We are all unique, we all feel things in different ways.

From the relatively newly accquired perspective that I wish I didn't have, I now have an inkling how another bereaved person may feel if their spouse dies, but I would never presume I know what they feel.

3. Everything happens for a reason
You know this personally do you? Who gave you the authority to make this assumption? If this 'happened for a reason', explain it to me, because I sure as heck would like to know what it is.

4. You're still young and attractive, you won't be on your own for long
I have big, big, major issues with this one. It made me want to slap people. Hard. I found it extremely offensive, insensitive and insulting.

Incredibly, the first time this was said to me was just over a month before Significant Other died. Yes, before. Made my jaw drop. Significant Other was laying in our bed, not quite morphined up to the eyeballs, but still very much alive.

The next time I heard it was at the funeral. And in the weeks after. All by different people. Was this supposed to make me feel better in some way? Give me something to look forward to perhaps? If people want to speculate about this with their husbands/wives/partners/boyfriends/girlfriends, then fine. But do not have that conversation with me. Ever.

Eventually I started responding by asking if they thought Significant Other was equivalent to a goldfish who'd died, been flushed down the loo and should therefore quickly be replaced while shouting, "next!"

5. You've been so strong / amazing
No, I'm not, I'm just winging it.

6. I couldn't have coped the way you have 
I've had to cope, I wasn't given any option or choice.

7. If it happened to me, I'd die
Hang on, does this mean I didn't love Significant Other very much, as I am still alive and so therefore you must love your husband/partner/boyfriend that much more deeply to not be able to survive his death? There must be something wrong with me.

8. You've lost weight / You're so slim now, I wish I could be as slim as you
My response? I call it the 'I'm Sorry, Your Husband Is Terminally Ill Diet'. I really don't recommend it. I'd rather have the two and a half stone and Significant Other back than be the weight I am now.

9. How are you / Are you okay?
Duh.

How do you think I am? Do you really want me to tell you, or do you want me to tell you "I'm fine" to make you feel better?

Do you think I'm okay with all this? Of course I'm not okay.

Stupid questions.

10. If there's anything you need, let me know
While I understood the sentiment behind this, it wasn't helpful. My thoughts were: what I need is Significant Other, but that ain't gonna happen. Apart from that, at times I can barely remember my own name, or how to brush my hair, let alone think of something I need.

11. You're doing / coping so well
Again, just winging it.

12. Will you move house?
Said shortly after the funeral. Move house? I'm having trouble moving my head off my pillow at the moment.

13. I'll help you clear Significant Other's shed / garage out
Timing not great on this one. The 'offer' was made three days after the funeral. I politely declined. Even though I felt like I was wading through treacle that was above my head, I recognised what they actually wanted was first pickings. Haven't heard from that particular person since. No loss there.

14. You're lucky, you've experienced the sort of love that many people don't, I've never had that
Might as well say 'good for you. Even though you've witnessed the deterioration and death of Significant Other and your life has now changed forever (and sucks), you've still had it better than I ever have'. Thanks, so glad you feel envious of me. Makes me feel so much better about it all. Not.

15. She lost her husband (on being introduced to someone)
No, actually I wasn't careless enough to lose him. I didn't misplace him. He died.

I know it's difficult to know what to say. A few months ago, even I, when faced with trying to find the words to say to someone grieving for their father, struggled with it. But I knew what to avoid saying.

Lastly, but also as important, this last bit of advice is for any male readers out there:

Don't hit on a grieving widow

I'm not entirely sure or convinced on the motivation behind this. Another way of offering 'comfort'? Yeah, right. I called them Offers To Console A Grieving Widow (and that's the polite version), but all I can say is: Just. Don't. Do. It. Or you'll be labelled a twat of the highest order and treated accordingly.