It’s weird in this virtual community of ours, that along with the warmth and creativity so many people here share, struggles with depression and mental health also seems a common subject. Maybe the two really do go hand in hand, ‘the tortured artist thing’, not that I am comparing myself to any kind of artist, but I suppose what I’m saying is that it seems with creativity comes angst. Deep thought, empathy, an intense interest in other human beings that can lead to fine writing, funny little pieces of hearsay and comical asides, can also lead to melancholy, being over dramatic, extreme feelings and sensitivity.

Having spent 2 years in counselling with a wonderful lady who has changed my life, I have come such a long way, so much so that my therapy ended a few months ago and I’ve been doing really well. She not only helped me get myself back and learn to value who I am , who I was and who I can be, but she also gave me coping strategies to stop the panic, help me to question my situation, my feelings and work out what they are and where they might be coming from, but this time there is something more that I cannot seem to change.

I know I need to go back to my doctors. I know I need to take my meds properly and get back on the Evening Primrose and use my hormone treatment correctly. But all these ‘needs’ and ‘musts’ tend to cause rebellion in someone who has been a ‘pleaser’ all her life, and who felt she mostly failed at it, so I sometimes ignore the practical and the obvious in a way that I know only harms me, but that makes me feel in control in some way.

Sorry if this is an annoying post for you. I know it’s a kind of egotistical thing to share your woes with the world and think that people will want to listen, but I suppose in the end this feels a safe place for me to splurge so I am having a splurge. So much of my worries and low feelings I manage to counter with humour. I love to laugh and I have so many things in my life that make me smile. I am lucky, I know that, but that makes this dark cloud even harder to understand. How can I change this feeling when I’m not sure where it comes from? Why is it that one day I am fine and the next this dark choking dry blackness seeps into the corners of my life and takes away my cheer, my sleep, my energy and my hope?

I know there has to be balance, but I feel swamped.

Ok, sad bit over. I’m going to follow it with some silliness because Miss E is still here, she’s 8 and she’s erm, a little odd at times. Hope you can all cope with the leap from sad to mad, if not, no problem, if so, carry on.

Every year at about this time the Christmas catalogues come thudding through the letterbox and sprinkle our bristly doormat with excitement and magic. One of the regulars that I do occasionally buy from is ‘Studio Cards & Gifts.’

This year’s arrives and Miss E settles down with a large black felt tip (that’s marker to a lot of you) and begins to circle her ‘wants’ with fervent enthusiasm. Sober and in earnest she has the look of a conductor, moulding and shaping a small orchestra that is dotted about the page. Her arms are one minute a whirl of staccatoed movements, then poised, steady, ready to swoop, her lips a line, her eyebrows thrust forward with concentration one minute, then raised with glee the next as she circles, circles, circles.

I watch for a while then get a bit scared, I mean, she has circled pretty much something on every page so far. Santa may have to say ‘no’ to quite a few of them. But it’s early days yet and she will change her mind another 8 million times before Christmas so I think we’ll be ok.

Later on, when my girls are asleep and Mr B and I are ensconced in front of the TV, I reach for the catalogue and begin to read.

The first few pages are a little unexpected. She has circled Pooh Bear stuff, Fi Fi and the Flowertots, In The Night Garden. ‘They must be for Miss M I decide. It’s cute that she thought of her.’

I sweep through the Hannah Montana towels, lunch box, dress up. High School Musical drinks bottle, karaoke, dolls. Bratz hair salon and nail bar, sleepover set, lampshade.

Then it starts getting a bit weird…

You see, well, I expected her just to look at the kids stuff. I mean, the other stuff is boring right?

But no.

This year Miss E has added a few extras to her list.

Firstly she circled every item of make up, jewellery and fragrance she could find including the mens.

Then she circled this;

Lovely isn’t it? Aside from the fact we haven’t got a cat and will never be having one again due to my brother’s serious cat allergy, it’s really quite a bargain.

Next I discovered this;

Yeah I know, nice, shiny but erm, it’s a cooker hood. ..

She’s eight, and I know she’s bright, but she can’t possibly be planning on making her own way in the big wide world just yet, I mean, we could get arrested for abandonment or something. Tsk. So, all I can imagine is that she thinks this might be a weird ultra modern pop up penthouse/space rocket for Barbie, one with a very big chimney??

Then I see this…

Yeah, my kid has taste. BAD taste, but taste, cough.

I feel a little sick at this point, but then I turn the page and nearly fall off my own legs from laughing.

The funny thing is, I’m giggling so hard at the fluffy handcuffs I fail to notice the small penis shaped bath salts till I show my mum today. Niiiiice. I am so glad Santa checks his list twice. He’s bound to notice when something isn’t age appropriate right?

What really makes Mr B and I guffaw though, is the following item, and the word she has scrawled across it in stark black capitals. I really feel I have learnt something about my little girl in allowing her to complete this exercise.

1. She likes anything pink, fluffy, shiny, pastel coloured, smelly, girlie, Bratz, Barbie , Disney, doggy, catty, and cooker hoody.

2. She does not like…

..radios shaped like boobs.

Thank Bob. I might have bought her one otherwise.

Rosie: “Mansfield doesn’t have a book shop Jo, it has Whsmiths, which is not a bookshop.”

Me: “It has blumming books doesn’t it? So it’s a bookshop.”

Rosie just shakes her head in mock disgust and grins. You see, though she was born in sunny Mansfield, she lived for 15 years in Guildford, which is…, well, it has proper bookshops. Cough.

One of the hardest parts of coming home (there were good parts too), but one of the hardest parts for her, was leaving behind her beloved Borders. She claimed it was a magical place full of paperback pleasure, hardback happiness and other cool stuff that every girl should have. And I thought, “Yeah yeah, whatever, as long as I can get my books I don’t care where they’re from, I mean most of my books come from Schmesco, and a good few more come from charity shops. What do my surroundings matter as long as I can buy myself literary treats whenever I want them?”

But…

I was wrong.

You see, a couple of weeks ago when I went to visit another friend, she took me to Borders in Cardiff.

It blew my mind.

While Holl looked through kids books (as in, watched my kids), Mr B and I wandered. We browsed, we perused, we examined, we explored, we dug and we delved, we danced, we ran, we skipped, we cheered, we laughed, we flounced and we frolicked through the books.

It was heaven.

And I felt like ringing Rosie and saying, “I was wrong. I didn’t know. Can you forgive me?” But then I calmed down and returned to Holl with my pile of ’stuff’ and began to also look through the kids books because, you know, I have kids who like books.

And to my delight and pleasure I found these…
(Click on pictures if you want to buy them from Borders right now.)

Oh my Bob, it’s like an REM song, but for potty training…

When your nappy’s gone, and your mum,
Sits you oooon a plastic chair.
There’s a hole in it, and she says,
Poop in there.

Just let you’re self goooooooo.
And she’ll buy you a surprise
Cos everybody poooooooooooos.
Sometimes.

You sang it didn’t you?
Oh please say you did.

It wasn’t any of my business either, I would never do that to a mole.

They really should stop giving him so much tripe, but I know my kids would love this. Ok, I would love it too.

I want this book. I want it with all my heart, even the bit that is generally reserved for chocolate. Sighhhhh.

Now, I know some of you might be tutting at this a little. I mean, of all the books I could have chosen I went for the ‘bottom’ orientated ones, but hey, I have a 3 year old who likes trump sandwiches, this is my life people.

But I think what my choices show even more is that I was in a bookshop where I felt comfortable enough to get down on the floor and flick through fabulous books on ANY subject. This shop encourages kids to be ok with poo, pants, the everyday stuff that my generation were kind of taught to leave behind closed doors. Nowhere in sight was the stuffy, don’t touch kind of atmosphere I have found in other ‘bookstores’, but instead the place was bright and inviting. It wanted you to touch the books, taste the books, smell the books. It was just a big hulk of book loving and I could quite easily live there.

So I’d like to say thanks.

Thanks Rosie, thanks Holly, thanks Borders Cardiff. Thanks especially to the lovely staff at Borders Cardiff who didn’t seem to mind Miss M and the Thrower charging round the kids area. Who were ok with us taking magazines we hadn’t yet paid for into the upstairs Starbucks to keep the kids entertained while we had coffee and cake, and who were so patient when I put the wrong number in on my card then got all scared that I couldn’t pay, then tried Mr B’s and realized it was just me.

Borders, you are fabulous. Now please, please build that Nottingham branch soon.

NEWS FLASH

I got a post accepted on Blogger’s Annex and it’s up today. Yay.
Blogger’s Annex is a new site that anyone can join and submit their best posts too. The idea is that it will be a place full of fantastic stuff on any subject from all over the blogosphere. It’s a real chance to showcase your writing, find new bloggers and well, just enjoy a good read. The posts so far have been sad, funny, informative, the works so I’m so chuffed they picked me. Pop over and leave me a comment if you get the chance, and if you see a post you love, tell the author to submit it or ask if you can. It’s kind of cool.

It hurts.

It could be something to do with the weather, it could be something to do with the late night at my mates last night. (I wasn’t drinking, I drove so it was definitely not alcohol induced.)

Or it could just be that today it was my turn for a throbbing head, tired eyes and that weird thing where I can only see half of stuff.

So my post tonight is short but you’ll forgive me right?

Good.

Ok. I have these new mugs.  Mr B let me buy them yesterday because I told him they were presents for people.

But, I really like them.

In fact, I want them for me, me, me.

The bottom too especially are calling to me, like a small shrew calls to its mother when it can’t find its favourite colouring book. Only they’re not shouting, “Muuuuuummmeeeeeeeeee” they’re shouting,
“Jooooooooo. You need us. You need to drink Tetley tea from our cute and sassy gorgeousness. You know latte will taste better when sipped from a mug that makes you smile. Keep us. Keeeeeep us.”

Put your head close to the screen, you can hear it right?

So,

• How do I convince Mr B that I need four new mugs when we already have a cupboard full?

• How do I convince him that the start I made on Christmas in buying these will not be in vain as their loveliness will spur me on to find even more fabulous bargain buys to delight our family and friends?

• How do I make them mine without him being all annoyed and grumpy about spending when we’re trying to save?

Anyone??

Oh, and another thing. I wonder if a certain friend will forgive my not being organized enough to post her 30th birthday card. I wrote down her address, I picked a beauty, but, erm, it’s still in the bag somewhere in my very messy dining room. I hope that doesn’t mean she thinks I love her less, or haven’t thought of her, because I have, I swear.

So, instead of a card I have this:

And the pile of gifts waiting for me to have enough dosh to send to her, or to save until she comes over here for that visit.

Love you Kim, hope you have a wonderful day, and I promise being in your thirties is ok.

Mwah.

I’m not complaining, I mean, these are the choices we make, but having had 10 days away with my family, where he has been there constantly, I’ve realized that I miss him.

I miss having that person by my side to share stuff with, and I don’t just mean to help carry the load, you know, sort out the squabbles, tidy stuff away, decide what to have for dinner. I mean someone there beside me to share a joke, a glance, a moment.

When we were in Plymouth my Auntie decided one night that Mr B and I should leave the girls with her, go down to the beach and watch the sunset. I remember looking at Mr B and feeling a little awkward, shy even. What would we say? Would the silence be unnerving? Could we still do this?

When we got down to the seafront the sky was a mixture of low clouds, muted shadow and cool blue. The sun was already hiding behind a craggy hill, painting a shiny white glow over the fields and rocky shore. It was as if the last traces of warmth were being drained from the icy depths, a battle between nature’s elements, and it cast a strange but calming light over the choppy waters of the bay.

While we took turns with the binoculars seeking out tiny vessels disappearing over the horizon, the light changed and the sea was met with an orange gold glow, a last kiss from the sun’s rays.

Then the clouds slowly moved on revealing yet more blue and a day not quite ready to give itself up to night, and we were quiet, and calm and comfy. There was no awkward, no effort, we just were.

We stayed till it was dark and cold, till there was no heat left in the sky. He put his arms around me and we soaked up the sounds of the waves pulsing their regular beat on the shore, the chattering crickets, the pleasant crunch of tires along a pebbled track.

When we climbed back into the car he kissed me then smiled, and as we drove slowly back up the hill I thought, ‘yes, we can still do this.’

Now we’re home, I’m hoping that we make sure we find the time.

As for the place, well the sun sets everywhere doesn’t it?

As most of you know I’m not a political blogger.

No really. I know my site is often full of , environmental opinion, historical insight and world news...but I see myself more as the voice of a British woman overwhelmed by the amount of times the word ‘poo’ comes up in conversation when you’re a parent, rather than anything else.

I wasn’t going to mention the Olympics because the situation of many people in China is terrible and overwhelming and sad and it disturbs me that some people have lost their homes, livelihoods and freedom and had their Human Rights ignored and trampled.

But,

..as many of you know I live in an ex-mining town. My hometown has taken many beatings over the years both economically and socially, and has many battles ahead. There is high unemployment, high crime rates, poor health and low expectations, so I can’t ignore this.

19 year old Mansfield girl Rebecca Adlington swam her heart out to win Gold in the 400m freestyle. Tomorrow she begins her journey towards the 800m final, an event in which she currently holds the world record so there are high hopes for another victory. Hooray.

Sorry if you’re not into sports but I’m just so chuffed for her. It’s not often Mansfield is in the news for something so positive and wonderful and even though I’m not happy with many aspects of this year’s games I am very proud that this young girl went out and achieved her dream. Rumour has it they will be naming Sherwood Colliery Swimming Baths after Rebecca as she learned to swim there. This is especially fabulous as a certain blogger learned to swim there may years ago too so it holds a special place in her heart.

More news, my round of catch ups begins tonight but I have promised Mr B I will stop at 10pm as I am doing a carboot sale tomorrow and have to be up early. We are seriously brassic what with weddings, holidays and birthdays, so I’m hoping to make a packet or at least get rid of some junk.

Please pray for sunshine, or a great big invisible umbrella to hover over my stall tomorrow. And also for people to be mysteriously drawn to my little trestle tables full of, erm, magic, and for their pennies to leap from their pockets and into my little plastic container, and for me to not need the toilet while I’m there and for those annoying people who do this to stay away…

Annoying person: How much do you want for that vase.

Me: 20p.

Annoying person examines vase for about a minute, frowns, scratches his/her head, makes a little humming noise as if in deep thought.

Then,

Annoying person : Will you take 15p?

I HATE THAT SO MUCH.

This is Snorkle. 

She’s a blind and epileptic leather-back turtle and she currently resides at the National Marine Aquarium in Plymouth.

Except.

She isn’t there anymore.  I have stolen her.    I slipped her in my pocket and replaced her with an upside down mixing bowl strapped to a leather slipper.  They don’t seem to have noticed yet but it’s only a matter of time. 

Shhhhhh.

I’m alone.

As I walk past the security guard I glance at the kiosk inside the door and suddenly I have an urge. A little voice inside my head is whispering, ‘Do it. Buy one.’

I ignore it at first. I walk on past the end-of-day flowers that are beginning to nod and droop. I avoid the toy aisles, I have no child with me today so there is no insistent tug on my sleeve or little voice making promises of perfection if I allow them just one look, just for a minute.

Then I see the thing.

The wanted thing.

The needed thing.

THE thing.

And the little voice begins again, ‘Do it, buy one’ and I think, ‘maybe it’s a sign?’

So…

I do.

Bugger.

Still no Wii.