Open letter/email regarding my love for music.

If you discard 6 Music...


...you rip the heart and soul out of each music-adoring person who loves that station, for whom it is the only station on the ENTIRE radio network worth listening to. Not just for me, 6 Music has accompanied countless nights and days, along with its sessions of such high quality, the brilliantly wide range of music-loving presenters and their obvious desire to play music THEY love, which is what WE love, too.

There are TWO Radio One stations, neither of which commands respect or attention due to its dire and repetitive playlist, and its (mostly) inane and shrilling "presenters". And there are TWO Radio Fives, when one suffices! One of each was enough, so why and how on Earth did anyone think there was a need for another? And another?

To hear the people who present the programmes on 6 Music enjoy the music as much as we do and be so excited by it, is such a thrill for us. They BELIEVE in the music, they LOVE the music and they LOVE the station like we do.
To have that incredible mix of music, the newest possible tracks with the oldest and most varied songs of decades ago is unbelievably good.
To have Guy Garvey, Bob Dylan and Jarvis Cocker presenting on 6 Music along with Andrew Collins, Shaun Keaveny, Marc Riley, Steve Lamacq, Gideon Coe, Liz Kershaw, Richard Bacon... that's not even counting the astounding shows with Craig Charles, the rock shows, the documentaries, the archives... These people are supreme in their field and the output is as varied as it is excellent. And ALL of this is on 6music. That is, literally, amazing.

It is SO GOOD. And good is not found very often these days; satisfactory is not good enough. But 6 Music is better than it needs to be, and that is what sets it apart from the rest, the less good, the not good enough.

The passion, maturity, utterly superb talent and such wonderfully eclectic music that is present on 6 Music are to be found nowhere else in, on or among this country's radio stations. I implore you to think about this ridiculous decision to rid the BBC, this country and its devoted and intelligent listeners of something which doesn't need to be hidden away in a digital world; why is it not an FM station? If people aren't given the chance to hear this wonderful and, at times, magical station, how will it ever become more popular? How will people without DAB radios ever hear it and its wonder?


I love and adore and cherish 6 Music; it's the only reason I wanted a digital radio. I don't listen to anything else on it. It's always and only 6 Music.



We love it. I love it. Please don't take it away from us. Please don't take it away from me.




Lucy Palmer.

Jaffa cakes aren't biscuits...

They dunk well, but go soggy if left too long. And chocolate ends up in the tea, which isn't the point of tea. But still. Good show.

I'm planning a weekend in London soon. I've never been to London for a weekend. The thought of it both excites me and intimidates me. City life is so different to what I know and where I live. It's uncitylike here. I live next to a field. I hear the cows and sheep and cockerels that live on the farm. We don't have a train station. There are 3 very near here, but my town, such as it is, doesn't have one.

My life has never been full of trains and commuting and the hustle and bustle that goes with that life. Because I've never had a job, I've never had to get a train or a bus or drive somewhere, along with everyone else, with responsibility and tasks and meetings and deadlines. Or the like.
And because of the way depression affected me in my teens, it stunted my confidence, thus preventing me from growing into the young woman I wanted to be. And I'm still not that person, because I don't do the things I so yearn to do.
Being around lots of people isn't something I'm used to. I sometimes find it overwhelming, and it makes me feel unsure about what to do or say, if anything. But that's not to say I don't want to be in those situations.

So, the weekend in London is a huge event for me. I shall be meeting new people and seeing new places. I've been invited to a party, which promises to be immensely exciting and such fun. The next day, I'll be meeting yet more new people, when I attend a "do" in a park.

Regarding trains and the journeys, when I arrive at my destination, I see buildings higher than any in the nearby "main" town, hundreds more people than I'm used to, more noise than my ears have heard in my familiar territory of flatlands. "My" town is so small that everyone sees at least 5 people they know when they walk to the shops. There are not that many shops, admittedly. Nor that many people...

Of course, it's not unique to me, this being slightly apprehensive about new places and people. It's not the tall buildings, the unknown roads, nor even the ker-azy disco buses that put me on edge. What really concerns me... is me. My mind. My occasional inability to stop panic attacks. Why? I have no idea. Sometimes, in these unusual yet often exciting situations, I have no trouble and am so relaxed. Other times, even when "things" are OK, By that, I mean, "things" are OK. Lately, "things" have been going fairly nicely. I've been moody and tired and... well, I've been depressed. As now. At least, now as I type.

This is in no small part due to the fact that I'm a hypocrite. I admit that. For example, I love animals but I still eat them in pork, fish (it's a dead animal, so it counts), chicken, beef, et al, form. I'm not brave enough to kill an animal and gut it and pluck it or skin it. I am a hypocrite.
I have told people I know - who are on anti-depressant treatment - who have said they may stop taking their tablets, not to do so. It's not a wise decision to make. Not by oneself, anyway. But then I did that. Well done, Lu. Well. Fucking. Done. I am not, it seems, immortal. I "wobbled". I tumbled down that horrible, bumpy, tearful slope back to depressionville. Hello! Not been here for a while. Bugger. I'd rather be in London...


So, now I'm planning this huge event, this lone trip to London, when I am mid-"wobble". Is it sensible? Possibly not. But I don't really care for sensible. I am careful, but sensible is boring. It is dull. I want adventure and random fun and spontaneity; to go to London and meet my friends, to stay with them for a few hours, or overnight; to eat in cafes and walk around the roads and parks and hidden shops they are so used to, for it is all so new and exciting to me. It's uh-mazing.

That's the life I want. Not for everything to be amazing. Rather, for what I just typed to be what I can do, and not think about it; for me to do it and not study the photos of the stations and the routes I have to take so that I don't get lost; so that I can sleep easily in a friend's spare room or sofa or in a hotel room and not wake with a start that I'm not in my own bed and think OH MY GOD I must have to panic... which is utterly ridiculous. But, rational thinking has never played a part in anxiety and panic attacks. Which is sort of part of the reason they happen: they are not rational. At all. Not even minutely. They also are not harmful, physically. It's all about the depression. Even more fucking annoying.


But... I have to remember that presently, I am getting back to an evenness I so stupidly sacrificed because for a few weeks, I skipped too many tablets. That will take some more weeks for me to feel right, I suspect. Quite touchingly, I was told by a very lovely friend to "TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF". Yes, sir. *Salutes.*
I'm also very confused about my periods. They still hurt like hell but not for as long as before Mirena. They are shorter and lighter, too, but this is not what I'm used to. It's strange. My hormones still seem to be pissing about, somewhat, making me feel even more ugh.
As well as the above, there is a problem I haven't really mentioned before. It's taking its toll, still, months after I thought it'd ended. It's very difficult to cope with sometimes and I don't know what to do about it. It makes me feel physically and emotionally unwell, besides the depression. But maybe that is what's making me feel worse? Or maybe it's all of these things...?
And then, of course, all this cancer crap with The Ma. Which still doesn't seem real.


Inevitably, I feel, I am both incredibly excited and nervous (about IF I'll get anxious. DUH Lu. DUH.) about London. I think it's a wonderful city. It's not just full of some wonderful people, fascinating architecture and important history; it's the city in which a lot of my family were born and raised, where they lived and worked. That's wonderful, to me.


Bumpy, steep hills are not easy to climb. Especially when you live in the flattest area of the country and don't want to break your nails before the party. I have some particularly lovely friends who make me smile, who have kept and will keep me smiling on my dark days, whether they know it or not. Aside from my family and music, they keep me going. And in one case, she's the one who'll get me to London and together, we'll have much London fun. Like Bill and Ted.


You ready, Amanda?

And then there were five.

Cats aren't for everyone. Nor dogs. Nor any animals, sometimes. It's no secret, if you know me at all, that I adore animals, especially cats. A few hours ago on this Sunny, warm Saturday morning, we had 6 cats. Now, we have "only" 5 and it feels cold, and empty in this home of ours. Our family has lost one of its integral parts. It's missing and grieving one of the components which made our home a home, not just a house in which we all reside.

We welcomed the orange twosome, Cyril and Charlie, into our home in 1992, a few weeks after we moved in. They were about 10-weeks-old and upped our feline count to 6 bundles of purring furriness. Gilly and Guinness (brothers), Sidney, Thomas and Cyril and Charlie. Most were rescue cats: Gilly and Guinness were no longer able to stay with their previous owners; Sidney was abandoned on a rubbish tip and, despicably, had his nose set on fire; Cyril and Charlie were born and not wanted. Only Thomas was a pet shop cat. Marmaduke, his brother, decided to live next-door-but-one before we moved. Probably, being fed by the neighbour helped to lure him... THANKS.

Feline Infectious Peritonitis struck soon after. It's a terrible disease, extremely distressing for the animal and owner, alike. Sometimes, these things happen. They just do. It's never pleasant and always heartbreaking.

Gilly was the first to show signs. His breathing very quickly became laboured. He wouldn't eat. He was tested for FIP and it was confirmed he had it. The others were promptly tested and the results showed that Sidney, Thomas and Charlie has contracted it, too. Their lives would get worse, rapidly and it was an horrendous decision to make but we all knew the least cruel way to deal with the situation was for Gilly, Sidney, Thomas and Charlie to be put to sleep. How Guinness and Cyril didn't catch it is astonishing. They all mixed together, ate together, cleaned each other, slept in the same beds...

Having only 2 cats around was so peculiar. So empty.
Then, along came T.C., another rescue cat. He was hit by a car, the vet reckoned. He came home, crawled under my brother's motorbike and went to sleep.
Our 2 girls, Emily and Rosie, were the next fluffballs to live here. So, then, we had 4 cats. A better number.
A few years went by and ohh, shall we have another cat? Yes. Let's. In Summer, 2000, Ma and I went to the local rescue cat sanctuary. We saw a stunning ginger cat called Harvey. Homeless, on the streets for months, at least. So timid, so frightened. There was a bouncy black and white boy called Fritz, with the most charming of meaows. And there was a little black cat called Wallace, who was incredibly friendly. I was warned to not put my hands near the cage in case he scratched or bit but I knew he wouldn't. And he didn't.

So, after going there to get A cat, we came home with Fritz (soon after, Fitz - connotations regarding a sort of bestial feline didn't sit well with us) and Harvey. So, we had 6 cats! Lovely. So lovely. But we couldn't help thinking of Wallace. He was an immediate darling of a cat. SO friendly. SO affectionate. SO. CUTE. SO ours. My Little Brown Bear. I'm a cat person. I have to have stupid names for my cats. It's the law.

Pieman was an over-the-road cat. His lovely, kind owner, our neighbour, had become very ill, indeed, and could no longer live on his own, so had to go to hospital and then, to a residential home. So, we took Pieman. Pie. Pieface. Chunky Pie. Fat Pie. Poi maaaan. He loves it.

And so, our collection of cats numbered 8, until Harvey suffered a cardiac arrest and died in my arms in 2005. Guinness was 15 when he died in 2006. And now Mummy's boy Cyril, my little lion, our Squirrel, has gone, too. Just this morning. At about half past ten.

Despite having felt this so many times, it never gets easier. So then, why do we do it? Why do we have animals when we know, when they have to go, it'll be as heartbreaking as ever it was? It hurts. It's so horrid, when you want them to walk in, to jump up on the sofa and nudge you with their face, to make you let them sit on your lap, even when you have no room. You expect them to be there, at the door, asking to be let in or out, drinking out of the sink, eating grass they really shouldn't, clawing the carpets and looping the curtains.

Cyril was 17-years-old. The vet reckons it was cancer of the stomach/intestine. Cancer gets everywhere. I still hate it. And I miss Cyril so much already, even though he's only been gone a few hours. The comfort we have now, is that he's not going to hurt. He's back with Charlie and Guinness, whom he utterly adored.

We have Emily, Rosie, Fitz, Wallace and Pieman. They each know something is wrong, that something is missing. They know we feel sad. They always do. Cats are clever. Sometimes, though, they are stupid. Emily is a good example of this. She is dim. But I love her more than words can say. She is a beautiful, friendly, fluffy bundle of joy and she is sort of clever, really, despite her crossed eyes. She's doing OK, for a 14-year-old, likewise Rosie.

But I want to hear Cyril jump up on the worktop, like he did yesterday. I want him to stop me typing by walking over my arms and resting his head on my hand. I want him to sit across my legs, awkwardly, so I can't move.


G'night, Little Squirrel.

Really taking the piss...

...goodness. Has it really been so long since my last blog post? Apparently. It's been an interesting, if emotionally and physically very difficult, time.

The one thing that never seems to change is still my periods. This one made me wait 5 weeks until its arrival. I felt drained for a week before, at least. Constant aches all over; it felt like pure ache had been injected into the bones. Insomnia returned, my appetite left and I was a useless hobbling, waddling berk. The period pains were present, as they always seem to be, days before it actually started, which was Friday last week. So this is day 7. Keral is OK. Tranexamic acid definitely helps. It's reduced the total bleeding time from 10 days to 7 or 8, which can only be a good thing. But the pain is still awful and so, I still have to have co-dydramol and for various complicated reasons, I can not keep taking it. I can't do it anymore. I can't explain to you how terrible I feel as I type this, how emotional and unwell I am and how desperately I want my life to not be this way.

I'm so eager to book my next longed for driving lesson but I can't yet, not until I feel OK. Being in charge of a ton of metal in vehicle form is not a sensible act when one is not in full control, or mentally "on it". Since the 8th January this year, I have not had a properly good day. I reiterate what I've said before: I'm not looking for sympathy or pity with this blog. I never want it, it does no good.

But the fact remains that because of my own body seemingly fighting itself, I'm so tired and I hurt a lot of the time. I don't sleep well. I don't eat well (lately). And please know that I adore food. I love food. Losing weight is not something I try to do. Ever. Today my appetite has not been sensed in any great way. I want food! And yet, I don't.


I had an appointment at hospital yesterday for an ultrasound scan. If you've never had one, I don't know how to prepare you for the unforgivable advice you'll likely be given: drink about 2 pints of water and don't pass any urine until after your scan.

It's simple advice, easy to follow, admittedly. (My appointment was at 2pm but I wasn't seen until 2:15pm, which, to me, is not acceptable. It's a fairly widely known fact that holding it in, is not good for you. I know they're busy and the like but with something like that where you have an almost impossible urge and real pain because you need to GO, NOW, I think the appointment should be at the time stated and made by them. I kept my side of the deal. I think they should've kept theirs. If you've followed their advice, you'll be needing to go at least 30 minutes before your intended appointment time. The fact that that appointment was 3 months late and the wrong information "in the system" is pretty rubbish, as well. It was meant to be made 3 months ago to check the Mirena was in the right place; I had to go to a different hospital because the original appointment took so long. Not even I expected to wait this long. Anyway...) According to the trainee sonographer and her superior, all seems fine with my womb and ovaries, or at least as fine as they can be, considering. The cysts have reduced in size: no longer a whopping 5 x 4 x 3cms.

Of course, I still have pains in the ovary area, on my right. I still experience pelvic pain between periods, i.e. now. I still need to take some kind of pain relief for this unexplained pain. Once again, everything seems bleak, so difficult to improve this. I feel it's so hard to change because I know that in a few weeks, I'll be back to PeriodLand: being cared for by my Mum (who can do without all this but, because she is amazing, helps me, still.) because I can not walk or talk or look after myself properly. Because of a period. I'll be in bed or on the sofa for a few days, not dressed, not coherent, not able to get by without taking 4 different kinds of tablets throughout the 3 or 4 worst days.


Again, Twitter and facebook have been my sources of social interaction, continually. The people I "know" through it have been my constant companions. I've been talking to people I still have not met, but to whom I still very much enjoy talking. They've kept my mind off feeling unwell with talk of newly hatched robins, soon-to-be-released books, tours, travel and freelance journalism work. They've kept my mind from wandering to places it shouldn't go, the negative and fields of self-pity. They've kept me laughing and made me speechless - literally - in one instance. They've kept me thinking, asking, playing Bejeweled Blitz.
I see things and people I want but can't have (and to whom I can't get the words out), places I want to visit but can't get to. I want to leave my home and go, somewhere, to stay on someone's sofa, in a spare room, in a tent in a field in Yorkshire, anywhere, to try to forget what has happened and what is happening to me and my family this year. But I know wherever I go, all the pain and trouble will still be within me and there is nothing, it seems, that I can do to stop it. And right now, as I type... I don't know what to do.

There's the shiniest soul just behind these eyes..

Since Asleep In The Back, I've adored elbow. I've not heard one track of theirs which I did not like. I've only just bought The Seldom Seen Kid and only just starting listening to Leaders Of The Free World, despite owning it for at least 6 months. I just didn't get round to it before. And I'm so annoyed with myself for not having done so sooner. But sort of not bothered that I left it so long, regarding Leaders Of The Free World. The songs are devastatingly good. Some "speak" to me, others leave me wordless, such is the power of their music.

I've had a music-buying frenzy - it's been a frenzy compared to what I've bought in the way of music in the last few months, which is nothing. Lily Allen's 2 albums, Alright Still and It's Not Me, It's You, Mark Ronson's Version, Bat For Lashes's Two Suns and the aforementioned latest offering from elbow. At the time of writing- sorry, typing - I've not listened to The Seldom Seen Kid yet, as I wanted to listen to and know completely (or as much as I could) the songs on Leaders Of The Free World. Already, this seems like a column for various album reviews. It's not meant to be. And hopefully won't be. I already know I'll be as passionate about it as I am their other albums. But, as happens with underlying depression, my hobbies and favourite ways of passing time (not necessarily in the most productive of ways) got pushed aside, my eagerness to listen to music and to sketch anything and everything seemed to dissipate. I just wasn't bothered. I'd do it later. And regarding the Art, I still haven't.


(Although, right now, as I type, I am listening to The Seldom Seen Kid and am on track 3, Mirrorball..... and now it's Grounds For Divorce...)


What prompted me to listen to music again after Mirena was taken out was that I felt better and wanted to get on with the housework I'd not done for months. So, I wanted a soundtrack of either elbow or doves to accompany me while dusting the front room and a friend suggested (via Twitter) that 2 good albums would be Leaders Of The Free World, followed by Lost Souls, by doves. I listened and was amazed. Truly. Amazed. In recommending elbow, he was crucial in getting me back into the kind of music I love so much: devastatingly affecting music, which makes me shiver with awe. I have not gone a day without listening to it since that day, about 2 or 3 weeks ago. The chord changes in My Very Best are so wonderful, the lyrics to Great Expectations so stunning, the vocals of The Stops so honestly sung. And Guy Garvey sings with his accent. I love that. Perfect qualities for an excellent band, to me: Craig and Mark playing and singing and Pete and Richard each play their respective instruments and sing so brilliantly; Guy sings so exquisitely. It's all so unconditionally brilliant, to me.

I LOVE elbow.


And again I hark back to the wonders of the internet, specifically Twitter. If I hadn't followed the suggester-of-elbow, and he hadn't followed me back, would I have had my immense passion for them reignited? Possibly. Another of my favourites on Twitter - and other places, besides - is Marsha Shandur (@marshamusic) who is a wonderful person, with such stellar passion for music. She posted a "tweet" on Twitter about elbow and Great Expectations. So, maybe if s-o-e hadn't said it, I may still have welcomed elbow back to my world. And it's been a hell of a welcome. A constant, never dull, achingly astounding few weeks of elbow elbow elbow. I just can't get my head round how good they are. How do they do it? HOW? Incredible stuff.

It's that passion and excitement that I've missed in my life, if "only" from music. That avid listener to my favourite albums, non-stop, having to turn it off or down when someone comes home, that not hearing what someone says to me because I've got my earphones in, when I'm completely lost in my world of music. I've missed that. I've missed that part of me. And that passion is very much a part of me, it's an integral part of who I am and what I do. Music is so important to me, I have no words to express how much. All the adjectives and adverbs I could think of before to describe my thoughts and feelings about elbow are still not sufficient. The same is true for my Art. And not just my Art, but others' Art. And how it is created and why.

I know my hormones are still on their arse(s) and that my body is still getting used to life post-Mirena removal but it dunnarf get a girl down sometimes. I'm starting to feel tired more lately, which I've not experienced for some long months. Insomnia is not a part of me I like. At all. And so it is now, at 02:11 on a Monday morning, that I attempt to sleep. And then wake and get up at that "reasonable" time. I'll finish listening to elbow first though. Obviously...

Art isn't here...

I didn't "do" Art. I just... didn't. I spent much of the weekend being really very tearful, for reasons I shan't go into. I have to say, crying so profusely while washing my hair - which means over the bath, therefore my head is upside down - is far from practical. Tears stayed in my eyes and my nose ran the wrong way, i.e. sort of out and then partly up my head... I don't recommend it.

Two birthday cards must be made before the end of the week. They need to be made tomorrow, really. My Dad's birthday and that of my Uncle are at the very end of May. What news is this? May is nearly over. Already. I have been aware that it's been May, and before that, April. And before that, March. However, since my Mum's cancer diagnosis, the hours, days, months and dates have had significance only in that they were being wished away so we could find out the results of tests, scans and biopsies. The fact that, for example, Tuesday was nearly over only meant that we had another week to go until the appointment to hear the desperately hoped for words that meant "clear".

The days are getting warmer. The birds have already nested and are raising their young. And the squirrel babies are still intermittently making a bloody racket in my loft. (That's not a euphemism.) The one constant for me in these strange time has been facebook. And Twitter. The two constants in my life have been facebook and Twitter. Python. People I don't know but via the internet keep me occupied with stories about their fantastic charity fundraising trips to China, about their holidays to Spain and about their newspaper columns. Columns about Twitter, as it happens...

I've been talking with and to people, some I know and some I don't, without spoken words (save for a giggle and a guffaw here and there). Instead, we communicate all manner of messages with typed letters and all of it has helped keep me on a decent "level", so to speak - an even Howard Kiel, if you will. We talk about their lives and what they're doing, where they're going, why they're going there; all the things that I haven't really been able to do for some time. This is partly because of Mirena (obviously) and partly because of looking after Ma. I know some of these people I shall never meet, while there are a select few I very much hope to and some I hope would like to meet me. If they did meet me, though, I'd still be concerned I wasn't up to a decent standard, that they'd be disappointed with what I am, even though the way I am online is the same as I am "in real life".

Times are tough for us all - by "all" I mean us four: Ma, Pa, brother J and me - with moods, tears, short tempers, tiredness, headaches and the rest. The emotional effects of cancer and all its shitness on the patient (how clinical) and the closest people to them are not to be underestimated. Ever. These things we call crutches (or is that just me?), whether they are "real" people, conversations with relative strangers via technological media or other completely different means, help us get through and cope with all manner of very difficult situations. Where would I have been without my phone, to exchange texts with friends about anything other than cancer? What would I have done without the late night company on facebook from newly acquired "friends"? And how would I have been without Twitter, the odd online medium which has grabbed me and dragged me into hashtag crazes? I went willingly, of course. Word play and puns are silly fun, they get the mind working a bit more than it might usually and you can interact with people you never would before. I must say, I like it very much indeed.


Ultimately, all this techy talk has been immensely helpful to me; perusing the pages of the online world to think about anything - ANYTHING - other than the fucking shit that is cancer and what it's done, physically, to my Mum, and to us all, emotionally. I've said before that I don't generally "do" hate. And, for the most part, it is still true. But I do hate cancer. Mum has had "the all clear" result but that only applies to the lymph nodes in her armpit and what they removed. It says nothing about the other side. Cancer could develop at any time in her other breast and/or in her armpit. It could start as DCIS - ductal carcinoma in situ - at any time. It could begin as the other, aggressive type of cancer they found, aside from the DCIS. She will need hormone treatment, which will be decided very soon. The type of treatment is dependent on the type of cancers found. This or perhaps that chapter seems to have finished but another is beginning. And after that, the healing will hopefully commence. Hopefully.


As well as Olbas Oil and Breathe Easy nose strips, my new good friend is Ralgex. Potentially. I managed, somehow, to hurt my back a hell of a lot last night, while not really sleeping. At all. Save for not moving, I am more comfortable crawling along on all fours than walking on two legs. I look like Tom Good, but without the lovely wife. My other new good friend is a cold pack. It is cold. Very cold. One is meant to apply it for 10 minutes, and then remove it for 10 minutes, then repeat a further 2 times. So it should be done for an hour, in all. It's currently in the freezer, for my morning hour of coldness. I, however, am now going to get into my lovely but lonely warm bed and hope that I get some sleep, as opposed to almost none. Wish me luck...?

Artistic licence.

I've never had full faith in myself (does anyone, really?), owing mainly to the depression and periodical nuisances. Confidence - or lack of it - in myself as a person was affected fairly early on, but again, I owe that to depression. Belief in my abilities as an Artist came later, when I went to college.

I knew I could draw but when I learned the skills, techniques and methods to create simple sketches, it was like an entirely new world to me. I did something, the "authoritative" person approved, and I felt good: when I sketched, I loved it. And when the Art tutors told me how good I was, I believed them. Granted, it took me a while (a few months) but once I saw other people's reactions, it sort of cemented my faith in myself. And yet more was to come, when I got the highest achievable grade - Distinction - for my GNVQ (General National Vocational Qualification) work over 2 years.

We, the students, were told our respective grades in pairs in the tutors' office, after the "outside" judging chap had left. When my 2 lovely tutors, P and K, told me and Gemma (one of my most prized possessions... I mean, friends, she's a friend...) that we had each been awarded the best grade possible, we both said "What?", smiled, grinned like loons, hugged each other, thanked P and K a lot, left the room and said "Oh my God!!" a lot. The other students knew what we'd got without us having to utter a word. I hugged another student (most unlike me to do that: I'm not a huggy bear... no, person), initial of H, as she got a Distinction, too. And then I went to the toilets and cried. My first ever tears of happiness. Previously, I'd only ever known tears to be a sign of sadness and dread and horror and fear.

Today, Ma had yet more visitors in the form of her Auntie D and her sister (the latter we'd never met). So, of course there were more flowers! They are, seriously, beautiful. Roses are always lovely to me, anyway, as they happen to be my favourite flower. But I do rather love an English Rose. Those which are not to messed about with, not the sort where it seems like just a massive head on a stick. That's not my idea of a rose. They are pretty, the flowers Ma got today, though. They are. So, now we have 2 more vases of flowers, which is OK spacewise, as I had to remove 2 vases of just going/past it flowers in vases. Rotate and restock.

As usually happens with visitors ("guests" sounds wrong to me. Visitors sounds medical, though. Anyway...) I was asked to show my Artwork. I love doing it and it's a tremendous ego boost when someone sharply takes in breath when they see my Jimmy Stewart picture, which is possibly not something to which one should admit but I know my work is good. Is that bad? To admit that? It possibly is but I feel I'm "allowed" to feel that way; it's like I'm still in debt to myself for all the years I doubted everything I did, everything I felt, like everything I was was meagre.

Retrospect, is of course, a marvellous thing. Oh, what we would've said, what we would've done, had we known. But we didn't know. We could never have known. I would have offered a hug to my 13-year-old self, told her she was not useless, she was not deserving of the situations in which she found herself. Oddly, though, I wouldn't change what happened. The fact that I can't is neither here nor there... nor over there... but if I changed anything, I wouldn't be me. I still find days hard, sometimes, not least these last few months. But the low times show how great the good times are. One can appreciate the OK days when one has had a lot of proverbial shit thrown in one's direction.


Basically, then, it took a long time for me to appreciate my Artistic talents. I haven't done anything remotely Arty for months. And I miss drawing and sketching. I really miss it. It has been such a long time since I did even the simplest of sketches, I worry that I've forgotten how to do it. Or maybe that I'll not be as good anymore. Watercolours. Pencils. Ink. Swan feather. Expensive waterproof pens for sketching that really do the job. Textured paper. Ooh. I love it. I love it. My passion for Art is sometimes dampened but it's always there. This weekend, I shall endeavour to do something Artistic. I shall draw or paint with watercolours or make a birthday card each for my Dad and Uncle with multicoloured card and paper from the pads I got from Lidl at superbly cheap prices. Dawn Bibby ain't got nuffink on me. Let the creativity commence...