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Monthly Archives: December 2018

Reflections 2018 w52

Ahh, the last one of the year and it’s late. Routine has been so disjointed I have only just realised it is the end of the week.

So now I write this on New Year’s Eve.

I could wish everyone a happy new year, and hope that next year is better than this one….but there are things in the future, looming overhead. A present that has been hastily wrapped, which may contain a gift, or a turd, no one knows for certain.  I just cannot see any good coming from it if fags, petrol and beer prices go up, it’ll be like a football team loosing a compotition , that already is excuse enough to go on a rampage for some.

No, next year will go down in history because we have made sure the spotlight is on us…

An Englishman, Scotsman and an Irishman walk into the bar…

Which one will be the joke?

And why have the welshmen always been forgotten to be invited into the jokes?

Reflections 2018 w51

Today I had my first visit to a shop called Abakhan, and it has been the best material shop I have been to so far.

The quest was to get better fleece than I have, and look at their fur, also better than I have, and get a more puppet appropriate foam, than what my more local material shop has.

The shop is brightly lit, with loads of space, materials neatly stacked on repacks, and equipment down one large wall. The pricing one has come across with the local stores is by the meter, here it is also by the kilo. Kind of confusing for the novice, but the staff are super helpful.

I must have looked like I had wandered into the wrong store, as I was almost immediately greeted with a “hello, can I help you?”. To be fair one did go woah wen I went through the door. With it being my first time I asked where the items I was looking for lived, and they were either fetched for me or I was shown where they were.

I am so glad I went in with a list, as one already came out with more than what was on it. I suspect it would have been far greater if I had gone just browsing, as it was I overspent. And I know I am going back there often for more supplies.

The lovely staff member who had helped me was the one who served, and commented on my purchases as an interesting project so I showed her a picture of the done puppet, the now usual aaaah response was had. I felt that if I showed what I was doing, and if I go regular enough, maybe in time I go I won’t look out of place (as much) when my sewing prodgects expand and I go browsing.

One has been using the cheap fleece one has to practice with a sewing machine that is as old as me, if not older, I inherited from an aunt. It feels so natural to use one feels like one can try any setting. And one has gone through a few. Problems have been had, but that has been little more than pebbles to overcome, nothing has set me back with using the machine.

Except one plush teddy bear. My fat fingers, no instructions to go with the pattern, and limited space for sewing, I suspect there was no seem allowance on it either, led me to the understanding – one should not make a 5.5 inch tall (sitting) bear until better at using the machine. So I looked for more plush patterns and found a load at, so I made a version of their owl.

So much easier with instructions…but I did not follow all,  I altered to suit what I had and to practice new stitches with the machine. One never knows when appliquéing will be useful on a puppet. Now I have done it I may be using it more.

Soft toys may seem strange for a bloke to practice on, but they offer a wide range of shapes to get to grips with. If the charity shops can sell them – bonus. Later on the skills learnt could be creating clothing or equipment for walking/camping. A travel bed is going to be one of the first for Spot.

The puppet building will be looking better and better with each improvement, bellow is the puppet (base pattern by and the owl plush.



Oh Christmas Time…#Poem#Poetry#Prose

Oh Christmas Time


Oh Christmas time,

what joy be had.

When places known,

in plastic clad.


Arrows are placed,

as Santa’s lure,

Blinking, pointing,

to darkened door.


Corner turned,

I’m face to face.

In grinning Santa’s,

dead eyed space.


Rudolph floats

with ethereal look.

Thought Halloween,

was fears right hook.


They should not be,

we’ve had no snow.

But snowmen move,

and snowmen glow.


We happy told,

this season be.

So fake emotions,

as we fake tree.


And remember,

right present get.

Got no money?

Then he’s some debt.


Oh Christmas time,

for some a struggle.

It’s all too much,

it’s all a muddle.


So feeling anxious?

or feeling Low?

Don’t grip at mask,

just let it go.


Seek some help,

with someone talk.

Before you take,

the sombre walk.


Past light that flash,

from all things drape.

This winter,







Thank You

Over the last week I have passed the 100 mark for followers, something one would not have imagined at the start.

That sounds almost clichéd, and it appears almost everyone who puts work out onto the internet has the same self doubts, but I did this for me. It was my therapy. My work was even hidden from friends and family at the beginning.

And likes – everybody loves likes…

Well I’m – not sure, because the likes usually come with a connection. Something I have written has struck a chord with someone else, and from the comments I have had, sadly not for the better.

My work has found people that also struggle, that also find help; lacking.

I can only hope, and one does not use this word lightly, hope, that at least a sense of not being alone has helped at least one person to trudge on a little further, when your dragging a black dog behind you, one can only trudge. Or at least put into words what is felt so that it can be read by someone who does not know.

It is sad when kinship can be formed more easily after suffering, when a group of others suffering have found the place and security to drop their masks and be. But get the right group…And we can not only heal, but also grow.

One thing is for sure – without looking we will not find.

So please keep looking, and thank you for reading.


Reflections 2018 w50

It’s been puppet time again this week, things didn’t go as planed, so the sowing machine, pins and needles came out. I’m not entirely sure if it’s not a form of self harm, I can probably play catch with a cactus and have less holes in my hands.

But the puppet has now got its character starting to show, those that follow my Facebook page will have seen the photos, and I now have to go shopping for an outfit to match.

With this being my second puppet, and of a different design, mistakes are present. However, he is turning out alright, next time it will be worth travelling out further afield to get supplies. As there will be more made. Puppets are escaping my subconscious, vying for my attention, one in particular would not let me see her face for hours after staring at the materials I had bought to build her, I just knew the parts had to be got at the time.

But I know why I have an affinity with them.

It’s not due to a love of Sesamea st, the Muppets, or even Finger mouse, and even though I was a fan of Basil Brush and Hartley’s house none are connected.

It was a glove puppet named pipa, named after a polar bear named Pipaluk who was the second successfully reared polar bear at London zoo at that time (1969).

My pipa was brown not white, and the material in the head was rather hard and scratchy, not a plush toy by any means. And it was not because it was made by Mum that made it special.

No, it was that no matter how bad the bullying was, in school or out, no matter how much hurt was inflicted from the taunts, the rejection, not fitting in, or not being myself – trying to fit in, the shame of being singled out in class by teachers, no matter how crummy the day. I could go back home and pipa would be there to listen.

If the feelings we’re overpoweing, we would hide under the bed covers as we whispered, fearing the power the words could have if they were picked up by the wrong person. Hiding in the makeshift cave, not daring to breath, lest the monster on the outside would hear, and we would have no escape, nowhere to run. Pipa all too often went to sleep wet with tears.

So no, I am hypnotic surprised they are “talking” to me now.

Reflections 2018 w49

This week I write just to keep my routine going, if one had a shell I would be in it I think.

My mind won’t focus and my body aches, I am begginning to think the pain is mind made to keep me inside, it’s worked. At least I stayed away from the bed.

Sometimes you just have to ride out the body shots and just get through, it’s group tomorrow so that means I have to go out. It should get the ball rolling again, and it should be dry, it’ll be a long walk for Spot and myself if it is I think.

Even when I don’t want to do anything, I still don’t want to not do this. One just has very little to say this week.




Panic when the pens not here,

Tis what all the writers fear.

When idea comes to mind,

Grab ones notebook look and find.

Has pen in holder,



Reflections 2018 w48

Can writing be away to get rid of things that plague the mind? Even those we do not know are there.

Since writing poetry, as part go my self improvement, a note book and pen have always travelled with me, for those times one requires a distraction for my anxiety. I just need to find a place to sit and write – even if that is what I am currently thinking – literally anything will be written down. Sometimes it is like removing a blockage and a poem flows out.

Sometimes the shadows move to the fore and grab my attention, but with a sharp pointy object already in hand, they seem to be dealt with easier than when without.

But occasionally something comes from nowhere, gets written down and then disappears. With no indication that it was ever there – apart from the words written down.

Now many years ago I was told to keep a daily journal, to be honest it was never kept on. I was never told the purpose or point of it, and I still do not understand what use one is. But writing stories and poetry has me recording for a reason, a purpose. And taking notes has a point.

Taking notes did not come easily, for at the start, one was told what the theme for the next weeks poem would be. So ideas went into the book for that theme. Only becoming more diverse when the poetry bug had taken a hold and I was writing more than what was required by group.

Now if one has a journal like entry it is solely to get past a writing block. And will be kept for a future poem idea.

So when the bolt out of the blue comes, gets acknowledged, written down, there is a feeling of relief, that follows it; it does make me wonder –

how long has that been there?