War

The Great War was the war to end all wars.
It didn’t.

There was a Second World War.

This must not happen again, they said, when it ended.

The United Nations was formed
To unite nations in peace.

But now they seem united in war.

Is the world entering a Third?

The lessons from the past have been forgotten

Power is the only winner.
Arrogance is repeated.
People die.

Where?

Where do you go when no-one wants you?

Who do you turn to when you have nothing?
When everything you owned has been destroyed.

The line between life and death becomes thinner

The need for food and water ever greater
And the journey to safety is fraught with danger.

How do you comfort your children

When you are as scared as they are?

When the Convention of Human Rights no longer seems to apply

When the United Nations are no longer seem united

And the European Union is in disarray.

When the only thing left to lose is your life

And nobody is willing to save it.

Where do you go?

The History of my Hair

My hair is curly. Very curly. It has a style all of its own. I get my hair from my Dad. I have vivid memories of him standing in the living room, in front of the big mirror above the television, combing his short, curly, dark hair. It looked fine on him. But why did I have to inherit it?

I hated my very curly, short and, layered brown hair. It hasn’t always mouse coloured. There’s a photo of me aged about two, with blond curls. “You look like Shirley Temple” Mum used to say. “Look at those lovely ringlets.”

 I didn’t want to look like Shirley Temple, I didn’t want ringlets and I didn’t want short, layered, curly hair. The layers made the curls even curlier. I wanted long, straight hair that would do as it was told.

 

But no. Mum insisted I had it short. “It’s easier to manage,” she said. “It looks lovely. People pay hundreds of pounds to have hair like yours.” So what! I still didn’t want it. And worse than layers, I had a fringe. Curly hair gives a new meaning to the word fringe.

I was eleven before Mum stopped insisting my hair was cut the way she thought it should be. So I grew the layers out and I brushed it to death to make it go as straight as it could.

 

Brushing my hair made it go frizzy and big. I looked like Crystal Tipps from the cartoon Crystal Tipps and Alistair. It looked all right on her. I’m not so sure about me. But it was still better than short and super curly with little ringlets. And big hair was ok. It was the 80s.

I still had the fringe though. I tried to sweep it back, Diana style. It preferred parting in the centre and curling round to the middle. I tried to grow it out but it would get so far and curl into my eyes. It irritated me so much that I gave up, and had it trimmed to what to everybody else would have been a sensible length. Not my hair. It sprung up, the curls got tighter and it sat perched on the top of my forehead.

Then I travelled around Australia, found better things to spend my money on than hair cuts and discovered Alice bands. The fringe grew. By the time I got home, a year later, it was level with my chin. I had it cropped that length all the way round. No fringe made all the difference. I stopped hating my hair.

When I began nursing, I started to grow it so I could tie it back. And, being a student, haircuts weren't high on my priority list. By the time I finished my training, it was down to my waist.

I had secretly always desired hair past my waist. But split ends extended halfway to the top and the only time I had any chance of unknotting it was when it had half a bottle of conditioner in it. So, even though I loved its length, I had about ten inches lobbed off, it sprung up another four and  I was back to a bob. Inside I cried, but it had become difficult to unknot. I was qualified now; it was time for a fresh start.

Over the years I have learnt that the best thing to do with my hair is nothing. Every so often I feel like a change, but I dare not alter the style. I dye it different colours instead. It’s been various shades of purple, pink, red or blonde. I let it grow as long as it will allow me to, and I’ve learnt to embrace its wildness. I never use a brush and I never use a hair dryer. Brushes and hair dryers are evil frizz creating machines.

And the ringlets? I like the ringlets now. They’re long ringlets and I think they’re my hair’s best feature.

 

The Garden in the Sky

Which is the more bizarre? A garden at the top of a building or a building that appears to be wider at the top than the bottom? And can you really call it a garden when it is completely enclosed within the top three floors?

Having whizzed up thirty-five floors, the lift opens into a wide space edged with floor to ceiling windows. The greenery extends along two opposite sides of the building, lining the stairs rising two further levels. You can deviate from the stairs to be between the flower beds under the trees. The view is from a different level, depending on which side of the building you are and the three floors are open plan. It feels very spacious. Although it is busy, it doesn’t overcrowded and there is a relaxed atmosphere. There is a mix of families, business people and tourists.

Directly across the river is The Shard. It erupts from the buildings around it the way its namesake of glass stabs into a wound. St. Paul’s was easier to spot than it had been from the taller building. All the iconic buildings were easier to find and clearer to see. But then, we were only half as high.

Dotted around the lower level are chairs and tables, other seats and old bicycles. They are fixed to the floor and painted entirely yellow, green or orange. There is a bar in the middle. We bought expensive cups of tea in paper cups. The seats are not designed to make you stay long. But the view is good. And for a free space, although you do need to book tickets, it is a pleasant way to spend a couple of hours.

Eighteen months on and where are we now?

It was a 9am start for the Eighteen Month assessment. That meant an early start and a train journey at peak commuter time. Thank goodness I take my own seat with me. Actually though, I live far enough down the line that the train is still half empty when I get on it.

It was a different story when we arrived into London though. The man with the ramp couldn’t place it. There was a never-ending stream of people getting off the train and hurrying down the platform to the exit. He smiled. “It doesn’t help that they don’t look where they are going,” I observed. “Quite!” he said.

When I arrived at the Centre the doctors were ready for me. Usually I have to wait for them to arrive. So it was straight into the EDSS (Extended Disability Status Scale) assessments and all the others. I do hate the nine hole peg test. My fingers would not behave themselves. They kept trying to throw the pegs across the room, instead of picking them up and putting them in the holes.

I mentally monitor the changes since the last assessment. I’m not supposed to discuss it with the assessor as he is supposed to be doing so blind. That’s the point. It’s meant to be objective. But it doesn’t stop me doing so.

What’s interesting is the fluctuations. If I’m having a better day than I was the last time I came, then there seems to be a slight improvement. At least, it seems that way to me, although it usually turns out not to be enough to register on the scale.

But I’m sure the pegs took longer. It was definitely more frustrating.

My best test, despite my difficulty in holding the pen, was drawing the six shapes from memory after having looked at them for about twenty seconds. I had to do that three times, then remember and draw them again after a fifteen minute break. I got full marks and Mark was amazed. “You are so good at this,” he said. I’ve always had a good memory. That’s one thing MS hasn’t taken from me.

 

The things cats eat

When buying cat food, have you ever considered the choice of flavours? Beef. Really? When was the last time your pet caught, killed and ate a cow? Then there’s lamb. I can see the attraction. They are covered in wool. Although my moggy would be more interested in trying to catch a sheep to play with its coat, than trying to eat its owner.

Whoever thought cats might like to consume such things? You never see mouse flavour cat food. Or sparrow. That makes far more sense. But then again, what do I know? My cat loves Thai Sweet Chilli crisps!

MS Walk 2015

It was bright and sunny as Julia and I made our way to the start and the registration. We knew we were in the right place, because Butler’s Wharf, under the shadow of Tower Bridge, was awash with orange t-shirts. Everyone was excited, taking photos and getting themselves ready. We put an orange legwarmer on each arm of my scooter and one on each crutch. I’d bought them on Amazon for 20p a pair! I couldn’t resist at that price. We tied orange ribbons to the basket and stuck flags in the bag hanging off the back. I think my orange leggings was possibly overdoing it a bit, but what the hell. My orange MS nails though went down a storm!

Off we set, under Tower Bridge, round City Hall and onwards. First stop... coffee. Great minds think alike. We weren’t the only MS Walkers in the very long queue. We got talking to a whole family on the walk. Refreshed, we carried on. Time for a photo stop to post on Facebook. Those we overtook earlier passed us by. But we overtook them again further on when they stopped. By St Pauls we met the first MS Society stewards, cheering us on and waving orange inflatable sticks with the Society logo. Weird, I thought. What’s wrong with flags?

Walking in the other direction were other people on sponsored walks for diabetes and Refuge. Their t-shirts weren’t as bright as ours. I love walking along the Thames Path. It’s always busy with so much to look at. When people had asked me how long the walk would take, my estimate had forgotten to take that into account. It’s a walk to take your time over.

As we approached Vauxhall Bridge, I was pleased to discover that the tide was low enough to be able to see the climate change sculptures. They were somehow smaller than I imagined but beautiful to see. They were a temporary exhibition until the end of September, in view of Westminster across the water and slightly round the bend. When the tide came in, they disappeared beneath the Thames.

Crossing the river, we were into the final stretch, along to Battersea Bridge, back across the river, in view of the now abandoned power station and into Battersea Park for the finish. 10k is a long way, but it felt good to have done it. Best of all, when all the pledged money comes in, I will have raised £623! Thank you to all those who had faith in me, and thank you to Julia for joining me on the walk. It was a wonderful day and lots of fun. Here’s to next year!