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Monthly Archives: September 2019

Reflections 2019 w38

I went with my son and mum to town today, my son wanted his usual sleepover visit to the play centre. When we got to the basement parking we noticed that it looked like someone had been/was sleeping rough up the corner.

This threw my son out a little, as he could not understand why someone would sleep in a space covered in pigeon poop. “He would rather freeze to death than sleep there.”

He is 8 and does not yet realise it is not just a phrase to say. Rather like his “I would rather die than…”

The look of puzzlement he gave me when I said not to wish that because homeless people can freeze to death, and often do over winter, was one of not knowing wether I was going to say – “Joking” or in fact I was being totally serious. I explained that they may not know any bushcraft skills, he is currently watching them on youtube, so have no knowledge of shelter building, and that they may also have been moved on from somewhere else, and had this as the only dry option.

I explained how London had gone, at one point, as far as fining them and taking their belongings off them, before turning them back onto the street. My mum had not heard this and was bemused as to why they would take their belongings. I explained it was to scare the homeless away from the streets of London, to somewhere else. I also told of the stories of spikes on flat shattered areas if sleepers were common there. Again to move them on.

“Where are they supposed to go then?” he asked. “Nobody knows” I replied. “That does not make sense.” “No it does not, in fact it could even be seen as being cruel at the least” I replied.

We took a look as to wether the belongings were still there wen we came out, they were, so we nipped into the salvation army to let them know. They sent someone out to see if they could get them some food and help.

If an 8 year old does not think moving people on constantly, with nowhere to goto, makes sense; why do the leaders of our community, region and country.

How many have to freeze to death this winter, before there is outrage – once again.

Reflections 2019 w37

Ahh, a day late. To be honest I fell asleep.

We are on the last bits of clearing Uncle Joe’s house, well I say last bits, I kinda added some work to the list by going over his garden and giving it a tidy and the grass a mow. It did not feel right to leave it in an unkept state, I never saw it that way when he was alive, and I wanted the garden area to be playable straight away if children moved in.

Tomorrow should be the last day at the house, and to be honest I am not looking forward to leaving it for the last time, empty and partially gutted. I now only hope that an item or two is accepted at my local museum. I spent many an hour at that place as a child, fascinated at the “modern” items they have on display. I think it would be nice if a piece of my uncle and aunts life got to do the same for other children.

Maybe my son and nephew can play spot the item on future visits.

At least his galvanised watering can that I am turning into a planter, with his fuchsia coming out of the top, will be around for a while.

It is going to my allotment gate, with my plot number on it.

 

 

JOE…#Poem

JOE

 

TV now stands quiet,

We’ve no need now to shout.

For Uncle Joe, he was quite deaf,

When hearing aids fell out.

 

No – “Oh, Hello.”

Followed by a smile.

His chair it sits empty now,

It has done for a while.

 

We’re not here a visit,

But sorting what is left.

Wonder what this item is?

And, Why was this thing kept?

 

Memories we’re a sharing,

Whilst doing this last task.

With fondness and with laughter,

What more can we now ask?

 

What things we find of value,

Will those that we will leave?

More precious are the memories,

To those that do bereave.

 

I hear the clock a ticking,

Just like those at Nan’s.

Noise level is a matching,

Dried peas n shake tin cans.

 

Yes everything is leaving,

All of it must go.

We’ve said  our last fare-well,

To my,

Uncle Joe.

 

Rest in peace.

Reflections 2019 w36

This weeks reflections is going to be a little different, and I apologies in advance for those that read these and my poetry releases – there is going to be a double up.

All of us at some point will have to experience this, in fact it is probable the only thing in life we CAN guarantee…

My heart goes out to those sharing the feelings that this time brings.

So here is the (amended) poem…

 

JOE

 

TV now stands quiet,

We’ve no need now to shout.

For Uncle Joe, he was quite deaf,

When hearing aids fell out.

 

No – “Oh, Hello.”

Followed by a smile.

His chair it sits empty now,

It has done for a while.

 

We’re not here a visit,

But sorting what is left.

Wonder what this item is?

And, Why was this thing kept?

 

Memories we’re a sharing,

Whilst doing this last task.

With fondness and with laughter,

What more can we now ask?

 

What things we find of value,

Will those that we will leave?

More precious are the memories,

To those that do bereave.

 

I hear the clock a ticking,

Just like those at Nan’s.

Noise level is a matching,

Dried peas n shake tin cans.

 

Yes everything is leaving,

All of it must go.

We’ve said  our last fare-well,

To my,

Uncle Joe.

 

Rest in peace.

Reflections 2019 w35

6 hours ago one was in my allotment picking weeds, and apparently nettles. But here is the difference when someone has neuropathic issues, I feel, now, as though I have elbow length nettle gloves on. A thousand stiletto wearing ants are dancing on my skin.

My legs are different, I can walk through nettles and not be sure whether I have, or whether it is just my nerves playing up.

I’m lucky for, others it is much worse.

And it is something we give no thought to until it happens to us. We here its like nettle stings up my arms and think we know the sensation, most of us have had that sensation at some point. But we usually have that point pass. It is not the intensity that gets to you – it is the consistency of it.

For those of you that dislike marmite/vegemite, imagine having that taste consistently no matter what you drink or eat. For those of you that love the above, you are probable salivating at the thought; go with a kick to the nethers, as I cannot think of a more foul taste, I am not saying that there is not one, I cannot think of one, but no one likes a kick to the nethers.

The Japanese knew of the negative effect on a person to be subjected to a “harmless” drop of water, again and again and again. It is even called torture.

Is it in the mind? I have had one doctor say my mind is creating the pain, he did not say why, or how to stop it though, so pretty useless information. Or is it in the body, where we cannot escape it and we carry it around with us day by day?

And if it started for no apparent reason, and medication side effects have been dismissed. Why has the body not developed a control for it? Just what are the benefits to ones survival having this effect?

The human body is a wonder ours thing, but sometimes it just makes you wonder.

As I cannot sleep – again, a quick update…my hands are still tingling like I have freshly picked the nettles only minutes ago even though it has been closer to 12hrs ago. This has gotten old very quickly.

I feel for those who constantly suffer. And I hope you find rest-bite from it.

Box…#Poem

Box

I sit and I look,

inspiration t’ cook.

Poetry subject,

in my little book.

Scanned all around

for something to see.

Something of interest,

to set my pen free.

Blankly I look round, 

it then caught my eye.

A – foreign language,

in printed black dye.

Box made of cardboard

that once did hold fruit.

Having a move round,

by bloke in a suit.

Fruit came from Egypt,

to sell at this store.

Box is well traveled, 

But wait – there is more.

Box was made elsewhere,

Italy the start.

I shop in England,

now think of my part.

I will recycle,

to think myself green.

This sent to China,

reports one has seen.

How many miles,

does a box clock?

Time bomb a ticking.

Tic Toc,

Tic Toc,

Tic; Toc.

A § M 

15/06/2019

Reflections 2019 w34

Sometimes I have little to say, sometimes a lot happens, and this week I do not feel as though events have yet sunk in.

So with that in mind, I will write about that another time, and just whinge about the docs.

I went to the doctors the other day for the results of my blood test, which I thought was for my thyroid, turns out it was for my antipsychotic meds. So as to not have a wasted journey I asked if the rash/whitening/itchy blotch on my hand was anything connected with the blood test results/thyroid going out of whack – and I was told to see the psychiatrist.

And I bet the psychiatrist will tell me to see the doc.

Once can only conclude that it has something, in his mind, to do with the anti psychotic medication, as the doctors will not touch medication prescribed by he psychologists.

Luckily I am seeing them in the next fortnight because there is no way they would book an emergency appointment for a skin complaint that the doctors have not concluded that it is a side effect.

The end result…I do not go to the docs until I have no other option not to.

An all too common scenario fo many people.