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A View Definitely Not to Die For!

Mr G has been beavering away since March 19th when it became obvious that I would never walk upstairs again.

There had been an old boiler room attached to the side of the house when we bought it – a haven for spiders, a toilet for the resident scruffy lap dog belonging to the previous owner on rainy days, a defunct boiler, the remains of an old oil burning stove, and several coats that would have been out of date 25 years ago. He hired a skip and filled it to the brim in hours.

Then came the task of digging out new footings – apparently the previous owners thought that the entire house might slide into the river under the weight of their new boiler if they didn’t give it at least three-foot of solid concrete underneath. Sheesh! Mr G swung a sledge-hammer against that concrete for days, finally enlisting the help of Trev the Trannie. Trev might be midway through his two years of dressing and living as a woman, but he knows how to put a jack hammer to good use. The village was monumentally impressed. (When you live on the main road, you acquire Assistant Site Foremen by the dozen as everyone drags their dog down to the post office for their morning paper).

Eventually four tonne of hardcore was dug out and put into bags – and the task of refilling the trench with er, another four tonne of concrete, began. I think this is like the offside rule, something that women will never understand. What was wrong with the four tonne of concrete you started off with? Eh? *Sighs* Best not to ask.

Eventually the building started leaping upwards as through possessed. A foot high, two foot high. Windows appeared on a lorry and were fitted to the walls. The ribbed framework of a roof appeared looking like the upside down remains of a beached whale – and surprise, surprise, the thatchers who are booked up for two years ahead, turned up one day and announced they had five days free before they started their annual holiday and thought they might just spend it thatching this little bubble on the side of our house…

The plasterers appeared, a rarer sight than traffic wardens in this neck of the woods, and amazingly, they also had some free time before they went on holiday, sufficient to plaster the ceiling – I was beginning to recognise the unseen hand of our friendly but very elderly local builder at work. Favours were being called in, in the rush to get this finished for me.

Mr G was permanently locked in his workshop, machines whirring the only sign that he was still alive. He rushed hither and thither with tape measure, but refused to discuss what he was doing. Since my bed in the kitchen was placed facing the front of the house, I could see nothing of what was going on behind me, occasionally a nurse would exclaim ‘Ooh, it’s going to be beautiful’ and be told to ‘Shush!’ Until finally I was wheeled out to see the semi-finished version. Still the floor to be done…..the oak was ready but the man with the machine needed to turn it into floor boards was due to go to the Isle of Man for the races…would he do it in time?

He did.

And finally I was wheeled out in state into my new abode. It is fantastic. My favourite jugs laid out on the widow cill. All the power points connected up to plug my bed into; a new table (a lash up according to Mr G!) made out of an old desk top to sit beside my bed and hold my computer and all the things I need within reach – tissues, notepad and pen, radio, mouthwash (this medication gives me the most disgusting taste in my mouth) telephone, buzzer to call my carer, everything I need to exist. Even double doors that make it feel as though I am out in the open world.  What more could I want? Mr G is an incredible man.

 

Featured

What is left of IICSA?

Sign-of-the-IICSA-759472This afternoon, Phil Frampton of the Survivors of Organised and Institutional Abuse (SOIA) has formally withdrawn his support for IICSA. This follows the withdrawal of the Shirley Oaks Survivors Association and that of Andrew and Jane Kershaw, two individuals who have worked ceaselessly to bring to the attention of the authorities the child sexual abuse at Forde Park Approved School. Jane Kershaw was granted Core participant status on the 19 August 2016   By the 25th February 2017  this had been withdrawn.

Phil Frampton feels that this leaves IICSA as little more than a box ticking exercise. Those powerful institutions – the church, the local authorities overseeing children’s homes, the Department of Education, the Crown Prosecution Service and the police, indeed the Home Office which had direct responsibility for children’s homes, have been able to fund expensive legal teams and will have both foresight and time to consider the questions that may be posed to them – however survivors will only have a voice where it is provided by pro-bono law firms and no core participation allowing them to pose questions directly.

This is not equality of arms.

Last July, the inquiry’s truth project began. Unfortunately, the statements given to it by survivors have no legal standing – they will appear in the final report, suitably anonymised, much as the girls from Rochdale appeared in Professor Jay’s report on Rochdale.  Tidy little ‘quote marks’ fitted in to the margins to make the page look better. This is not what the survivors envisaged when first David Cameron said, ‘No stone will be left unturned’ nor as series of ‘chairs’ promised to put ‘survivor’s voices at the heart of the enquiry’.

Lowell Goddard went so far as to say that she believed survivors lacked ‘objectivity’, and thus should be excluded. She went on to refer to survivors as ‘the victim community’. This was a woman so sure she was not part of the establishment, that she married a Scottish Laird with a 6,000 acre estate, has given legal advice to 29 different governments, and was both friend of and neighbour to, Lord Brittan.

This is not equality of arms.

I am better known for writing in defence of those falsely accused – it has not blinded my eyes to the fact that there are genuine victims of sexual abuse, nor to the fact that they are slowly and quietly being shafted by this inquiry. They deserve better. 

There were several girls at Duncroft who had been abused – not by the staff, nor whilst they were at the school – so I was never unaware of the horrors of child sexual abuse. Karin Ward had most definitely been abused by members of her family long before she arrived at Duncroft. So was Anita Veale who became a close friend of mine whilst we were both there together. She had felt unable to unburden herself of that memory when we were young, but came to see me years later after she had become both alcoholic and a heroin addict. We talked for hours as she told me of her famous grandfather that she had felt unable to ‘unmask’ as a sexual predator – and I thought I had given her solace and kind words – it was not enough – would anything have been enough? That night she took the train from my house, lay down on Hampstead Heath and drank a bottle of vodka. By morning she was dead. I never have, never will, forget her.

In my work in Wales, I came across many young girls with learning disabilities of varying kinds who had been sexually abused, and received compensation through the criminal injuries board. They would not have received that abuse if there had been sufficient staff to monitor them – so it has always pained me that so much money has been spent chasing false allegations against high-profile names and so little at looking into the institutions that allowed abuse to continue – in all its forms.

IICSA, in its present form will be a ‘talking shop’ for highly paid academics and lawyers to produce endless glossy reports – this is not the answer that the survivors were looking for. They are no nearer to achieving transparency as to the actions of those closed institutions. It is a great shame that some of those with a more ‘vivid imagination’ – the fake ‘victims’ – were allowed to hog all the media limelight, and consume the millions of pounds investigating their ‘fake claims’ leaving people like Phil Frampton still fighting for justice on a shoe string.

They deserve better.

Fleeing Doctors

GPI was quietly dozing to the background of yet another documentary the other afternoon, this time one on the Australian flying doctor service. (well worth raiding the BBC 4 archive facility, some really interesting stuff hidden in there!) when I became dimly aware that almost every Doctor they interviewed was English. No wonder we were so short of Doctors here – the NHS train them, and they promptly take their skills overseas – then we import Doctors from overseas to fill the gaps!

Last year Jeremy Hunt did impose a four year period during which junior Doctors must work for the NHS after receiving their training. Not before time and it should have been longer!

Since the mid 90s, GPs have been required to publish their salaries, so it is not hard to find out whether it is the wage gap that is prompting this exodus.  In Australia they can expect to earn £156,000 -and the sun shines!

This Government wants to widen access to GP services to evenings and weekends. And it is prepared to redirect and add extra money to do so. Is this so unreasonable? The public perception of GPs is that they are wildly overpaid, a figure of £100,000 is often quoted – and indeed some GP partners in some surgeries may reach this figure, but it is not an average figure for all GPs. Many GPs these days are female, and they tend to work three day weeks, combining child care with their job – that means the surgery must pay locums to cover the extra hours. Sometimes two female GPs ‘job-share’ – nothing wrong with that except that the NHS has trained two Doctors to end up with the equivalent of one Doctor working!

The British Medical Association (BMA), the Doctors ‘Union’ has been described as ‘greedy, selfish, petulant, arrogant, pompous, elitist and out of touch’. I can’t expand on that, it cover all angles. The BMA passionately opposed the idea of a state-run health service such as the NHS  from the start, prompting Nye Bevin to later give the famous quote that, to broker the deal, he had ‘stuffed their mouths with gold’.  Sixty years later, the BMA opposed working an average of less than one hour extra each week in return for the best financial settlement GPs have ever been offered.

I think that in looking at the current situation with Doctors, one needs to separate the views of their union with those of the average Doctor, in the same manner that we separate the views of John McDonnell, with his calls for ‘revolution in the street’ from the views of the average Labour supporting working man.

I have talked at length with my own GP – he visits every day, and we usually end up talking about politics. He would love to ‘wind down gradually’ as he comes up to retirement. In order to do so, he must pay a higher rate of insurance premium for working less hours. Confused? I was. Apparently the insurance companies work on the theory that since he is not working full time, he is more likely to make a mistake, less likely to be fully aware of all the factors in a particular person’s care – thus more of a risk. I can just about follow the line of thought there – but it means that he will be penalised for working part time. The figure of £17,000 for mandatory insurance cover was quoted.

Whereas in the past, people were more willing to take the expertise and professionalism of those who cared for them as a matter of trust, today, post Harold Shipman, a better informed and more questioning society requires that trust to be underpinned by objective evidence.

So he must also – at his own expense – be required to revalidate at five year intervals, by producing evidence of his continuing fitness to practise. He must be able to demonstrate a minimum number of hours of continuing professional development; quality improvement activity such as an audit; feedback from 12 to 15 colleagues on what he is like to work with personally and professionally; feedback from between 28 and 34 patients; how he has learned from significant clinical events; and complaints or compliments he has received. Evidence of all these must be contained in his portfolio.

I cannot argue with any of that, all laudable aims  – but I think Shipman’s adoring patients would have ensured that he passed his box ticking exercise, and since his was a sole practice – there would have been no colleagues to put forward another view……..

Then there are the changes being made to his pension. The reduced cap means he will have to pay 55 per cent tax when withdrawing pension from April this year. The one million cap sounds generous – but will only buy a lifetime income, after tax-free cash, of just over £27,000 a year – with payments linked to inflation and protection for a spouse.

Andy James, head of retirement planning, at Towry financial planning said: “A lot of them have their eyes on the door.

Many GPs have set up their practice so they can pay up to 28.5 per cent of their earnings into their pension and when they look at the potential tax charge for continuing to do this, they are thinking: ‘What is the point of carrying on?’

You can see the factors mounting up on the ‘do I really want to go on working part time versus retiring all together’ page. I should stress that at no point does he resent the new measures being introduced – he is simply weighing up the virtues or drawbacks of continuing to provide his wide knowledge of patients in this area on a part time basis or retiring altogether.

In total 5,114 GPs have retired in England between 2011 and 2015. Across Britain, 10.2 per cent of full-time GP positions are vacant, according to figures provided by the Royal College of General Practitioners. With an ever increasing population, it can only get harder and harder to get an appointment to see your GP.

I am lucky, my GP is of the old school; this is a small village – many of the inhabitants he delivered as babies. Those he didn’t deliver he has known for a lifetime. When our local builder gashed his arm open helping someone moor a boat recently – it was straight round to the surgery and in between patients, he was duly stitched up and bandaged. Every day when he finishes his surgery he drops in here to see how I am, and to chew the cud over the latest political development and have a cup of tea. Yes, he is aware that I am writing about him – he has given his permission.

He hasn’t made his mind up yet as to what he is going to do. What would you advise him to do?

Truth and Consequences.

cute-animals-sleeping-stuffed-toys-36I slept so much yesterday, after they increased the Ketamine and Midazolam, that by midnight I was wide awake and contemplating the world and all its meaning. As you do.

I spent a fair amount of time debating with myself the meaning of the word ‘friend’. To me, someone like ‘Old Holborn’, David Rose, James Gillespie or ‘Blocked Dwarf’ is a friend. Neither have asked anything of me; I have never had to lend them money, or been asked to lie on their behalf. They have just been there, quietly in the background of my life, ready to share in the good moments, supportive in the bad moments. I trust I have been the same for them. We have met in real life; shared a coffee or two. Met each other’s partners, been welcome in each other’s homes. Neither have run away squealing ‘don’t include me’ when it looked as though being ‘friends’ with me might be inconvenient. That is my definition of a friend.

The Internet, it seems, has a different definition of a ‘friend’. To the Internet, someone is a ‘friend’ if they ‘follow’ you by ticking on a box. This is a strange definition. It has no tangible content. An anonymous stranger ticks on a box – an act you play no part in – and henceforth they are your ‘friend’. You never meet. You do not speak. There is no mutual exchange of goodwill, in fact it would appear that the only part you can play in this game is to be punished for having this person as a ‘friend’. The Internet friends have lots of different names. Janette Scharenbourg is apparently a ‘friend’ of mine because she phoned me on Facetime and talked about her illness. Then people appeared on my timeline saying that ‘the welsh woman’ was my friend, or the ‘tulip lady’ or ‘the dutch lady’. I’m supposed to know who this is. Not only know who this is, but hang my head in shame for this person being my ‘friend’. You start getting DMs explaining that that ‘tulip lady’ is Janette Scharenbourg and that she has been trolling someone called Sonia Poulton who you also have never heard of, along with Simon Just who works with Barbara Hewson and who hates Old Holborn. Then you start getting DMs saying that someone else you have never heard of is never going to speak to you again because you are friends with the ‘tulip lady’.

It’s an odd world. For days I got DMs from someone called addeybob. He was very helpful. Obviously knew a lot about palliative care. Gave me reams of advice about cannabis liquids I think they were, and how they could help me manage the pain. Ever so friendly and helpful. Then suddenly one night he said it made him sick to see me ‘bigging up’ Old Holborn’ (I hadn’t mentioned Old Holborn at all!)  and told me to ‘sort it’ – then blocked me so whatever I was supposed to sort, I couldn’t have sorted anyway! I have no idea what that is all about. Has ‘addeybob’ ticked a box somewhere saying I am a friend of his? Will someone else come along and  hurl abuse across the cyber waves at me for being a ‘friend’ of ‘addeybobs’? Because if Janette manages to be a ‘friend’ of mine for phoning me once, then surely he is a ‘friend’ of mine for DMing me a dozen times?

Both Blocked Dwarf and Old Holborn, and indeed David Rose and James Gillespie, have opinions on some subject that I don’t agree with, but it is just one opinion on one subject, such a small part of the whole person, that it doesn’t impinge on the friendship and warmth I feel towards them. I am sure I hold views on some subjects that they don’t agree with – I have always been anti-abortion, and I know that at least one of them would disagree profoundly with me on that subject, but because we know each other ‘in the round’ as it were, in real life, we manage to stay friends, friends with diverging views. It seems that in cyber land, you must hold identical views or be shunned forever. A strange world with strange consequences if you fall foul of its rules.

Truth is another issue in cyberworld.  I believe in the truth.

If I didn’t believe in the truth I would never have written the original posts on Duncroft. I couldn’t just write ‘Bebe Roberts is lying, Savile wasn’t at Duncroft in 1965′ – I had to write the whole story, how I came to be there, how I knew she was lying’. That cost me dear, because many people were embarrassed at me revealing my background. They didn’t want to be associated with someone who had such an ‘awkward’ family background. It didn’t fit in with their social milieu; they would have preferred that I lied. My family are embarrassed to be seen in a photograph with me because I didn’t go to the right schools, and didn’t follow the right career path. I didn’t have their choices. I did the best that I could with what I had. I’m embarrassed to be seen in photograph with them actually – I know how many lies they conceal. They are still my family, so their photograph stays on my profile. They are the best I have.

Amanda Savile wanted me to lie. She has turned her back on me because I told the truth. She says the truth has embarrassed her and her family. That hurt me greatly because I have supported her for five years. Listened to all her worries and concerns, tried to offer advice that might help her, tried to be a friend, albeit a cyber friend, for we have only met once when she wanted me to take part in a programme to be made by Louis Theroux – then she found out that Louis was planning to tell the truth and she didn’t want to take part in that programme any longer. It was never made.

Then there was Sister Frances. A friend of hers wrote to me asking me to write about her because the main stream media were not writing her story of why she had been banned from the hospice she founded. So I did a lot of research and wrote the story. I linked back to all the documents and newspaper stories I had found so everyone could check out what I said and make their own mind up. As soon as it was published I had Ros Burnett on the phone to me saying Sister Frances wanted the article taken down. Why? Had I got something wrong, left something out? I said if I had, I would issue an apology and a correction straight away. No, I hadn’t got anything wrong, nor left anything out – I had written the truth, and she didn’t like seeing the truth in print. Now Sister Frances is in charge of FACT, the organisation for the falsely accused, and I am in the dog house for writing the truth.

I thought Gloria Smudd was my friend. I have known her for ten years. Originally when I left Anorak, she and I were going to write a blog together, but she had huge family problems, and I spent hours listening to her on the phone trying to sort things out for her. There are some subjects that I have never written about for fear it would upset her, even though they were subjects I should have been writing about.  Eventually they were sorted but another huge family problem arose and I spent another five years or so listening to her tears and trying to help her through it. Eventually that was sorted, and Lo! another family family problem arose. Again I would spend hours listening to her. Ten years had gone by and she had never contributed more than a couple of articles to the blog – but by that time I had become immersed in false allegations – and she decided that she didn’t even want to comment on the blog in case anyone realised who Gloria Smudd was in real life. That hurt. Someone else who can’t face the truth, wants it hidden away behind lies.

I won’t lie for these people.

I won’t pretend that Old Holborn isn’t a friend of mind to please someone hiding behind a false name that I have never met.

I never made any pretence of the fact that the media were welcome to use my ‘story’ in anyway that would publicise the NHS Litigation Fund issue. I didn’t put any restrictions on what they were allowed to say about me, or not say. My only request was that the faces of my grandchildren be pixellated.

The things Barbara Hewson has been saying are beyond offensive. To suggest that Andrew Rosthorne ‘couldn’t be arsed’ to come down to London for the count is simply untrue. It was going to cost him £600 to stay in London overnight. I told him it wasn’t necessary. Then Barbara asked him if she could be his deputy. I thought it was a great idea, she said she wanted to write an article for the Spectator. It seemed a wonderful opportunity for her to meet Jeremy Corbyn. I am shocked that she is mixed up with these people – people who have run vicious trolling campaigns against numerous people.

My inbox is filled with screenshots going back years from people who thought they were alone, frighted people, people with panic alarms fitted in their homes, because they have been cyber bullied for holding the wrong opinion, or being friends with the wrong people. Frankly if the Internet closed down tomorrow I shouldn’t mourn its loss. It was a great idea, but one that has played into the hands of the wrong people.

I shall continue to write. Perhaps not every day. Today I slept most of today, including thorugh most of a visit from some dear friends on their way to Cyprus – I just couldn’t keep my eyes open. After the week-end I shall be moved to one of the several community hospitals in this area. I shall be sad to leave this room, but unfortunately, other people have seen Ms Hewson’s Tweets and more phone calls have been made to my local health authority – whether by Ms Hewson, or by others who thought they would help her campaign along by joining in, I don’t know; they have all been anonymous – but the sum effect is that my Doctor is concerned about the situation and wants me moved somewhere where I can have peace and quiet and write to my hearts content, without worrying about who might be coming to the door next.  She is as angry as Mr G is now.

I am lucky in having had the same palliative care Doctor for some years now, and she is well aware of what a beneficial effect writing has on me, and is determined that I am able to continue to do what I can, for as long as I can, in peace and quiet. I want to tackle the area of Elder abuse, and also the situation regarding GPs leaving in their droves because they cannot afford the new insurance rates for working part time. I want to look at Grenfell Towers and the Corbynistsa move for a revolution in the streets to depose Theresa May and her government – but with the dead still uncounted, it doesn’t seem decent to start apportioning blame.  I shall continue to engage politely on Twitter – I seem to have acquired several new cyber friends on Twitter and so long as they wish to debate politely, then I shall continue to converse with them. I will not be drawn into taking ‘sides’ with anyone. I don’t so ‘sides’. I do truth.

That is me. I am what I am. Don’t read me if you don’t like it.

To those of my commentators who have found me here – welcome. The virtual pub is open and will be as long as I have breath in my body. Your familiar faces are a welcome boost to me.

“You can NOT afford to smoke!”

icandyNo, this is not a ‘Blocked Dwarf’ rant about the Smoking Ban, nor a ‘like Gildas without the IQ’ thesis about some fascinating tit bit of tobacco history;  I save those for Granddad’s site. (where, hopefully, this week, there will appear my humble treatise  on Picardian  Smuggling Dogs of the C19). [Ed: Must Google Picardian Smuggling Dogs.]

“Now you are married, have a child and responsibilities you can NOT afford to smoke!” said my late pietist Prussian mother in law, who obviously mistook me for the German, even Prussian, son-in-law she had hoped for.

Prussians, for those who don’t know, are Germans with a Pickelhaube inserted where ‘die Sonne notten shinen’.   To be fair to the woman, whom I grew to love…after  20 years or so…I was a bit of a heavy smoker back then – up to 5 packs a day when I could chain smoke in an office. Though to put her command into some financial context,  a pack of fags cost 4 DMs, and had for as long as anyone could remember – I’m talking even ‘quality’ brands. 4 DM. Which was, in 1989, about £1.30!

Can’t recall what 20 B&H cost me in the UK then but I have a feeling it was well over twice that.  At the time I was bringing home, net cash, £1k or 3K DM a month and we had but the one baby and we were living rent free-ish with the parents-in-law (NEVER DO THAT! How my mother in law survived the 6 months of sharing a 2 bedroom flat with us I shall never know, I came close to swinging for her on an almost daily basis).

Could I afford to smoke? Probably not, says the older wiser me, but at the time I replied: ‘I work 60 hours a week with 20 hours travelling time in the dark and cold of a Hessian winter. I can’t afford  NOT to smoke!’

Then there was my mother-in-law’s bestest friend, Edda the evangelical Norwegian. For those who don’t know, Norwegians are Germans with a ski stick inserted ‘Solen skinner ikke’ (‘Solen’ from ‘Sol’ or the Latin word for sun I’m guessing?) who, when  The Bestes Frau and I moved into our first flat, admonished us to “save every bean”.  

So, of course, I immediately stopped drinking, smoking and started reusing teabags? No! of course I didn’t.  Both those good ladies had grown up in the aftermath of WW2, both had been through the sort of poverty in childhood that would now be classed as child abuse. Both had started their married child-rearing lives on a budget that involved adding  water to stew to ‘extend it’ and not being able to afford new shoes if the children had inconsiderately decided to grow again. Both had felt themselves blessed to have married non-drinking non-smokers. Not for any pseudo scientific health reasons but simply because a couple of Dmarks a day on beer and a couple more on fags would have meant the difference between having jam, butter and real coffee for breakfast or petrol based marg and ‘Mucke Fuck’ (Ersatz barley based fake coffee). Anyone here over the age of 60 or so will probably recognise what I’m describing.

Life everywhere for young parents was tough back then after the war and in the 50s, 60s and 70s. Hell it remains tough today. The lack of money and lack of sleep don’t change with fashion.

What I’m trying to say is, it is none of my concern what young couples spend their money on. I do not expect young couples (or single parents for that matter either) to bring their babies up in the sort of relative ‘poverty’ we ourselves had to. In fact I believe that each generation should ‘have it better’ and when my youngest and his wife spent the equivalent of my first month’s real wages on a wide screen plasma coffee-making TV I held my peace.  I’m happy that my Grandkids’ Mom and Dad can afford not only to run a car but his big bike as well, and that on fairly low wages. I accept Granddaughter needs a wardrobe full of more clothes than I think or the wife have owned over our entire lives.  And if they want to replace the perfectly good, serviceable and easy clean linoleum floor with carpet hand woven from water proof yak wool then fair enough.

Yet this morning I was chatting to a young, 23 years old, soon-to-be-Father of my acquaintance. He’s what I’d describe as a ‘good kid’, works hard at some just over minimum wage job, treats his equally hard working ‘missus’ well, doesn’t get too drunk too often and aside from the fact he is a Norfolker, speaks ‘Norfolk’ not English, and insists on discussing something called ‘football’ with me and regaling me with the ups and downs (a lot of downs it seems) of ‘his’ team ‘the Canaries’, he seems an all round well balanced young man. Not too bright, not too thick, content with his lot in life, now he has finally gotten his missus in the club and his driving licence. Pretty sure he’ll  make a good Dad.

So this morning he ‘do say he doo’ that he and she had been out shopping at the weekend and had bought a baby buggy. For £500 (in words: HOW BLOODY MUCH?!?!)  I hadn’t had time to pick my jaw off the floor when he added ‘it was 2nd hand, new they cost £1.2K’.  

In what universe does any young couple pay more for a 2nd hand buggy than his or mine car is worth?  I-Candy? I can bloody not!

I get that every young parent wants to give their child the best; I surprised myself and shocked my own Aged Mother Dwarf by paying £25 for a pair of welly boots for Granddaughter2 not so long back (in my defence, they had pink cats on them and proper pull up handles!).

But five hundred nicker for a buggy? Stroller on, mate! Leave it out….in the porch all night John, not!

Sweet Jesus wept but he was scared he’d get tear stains on the i-upholstery.

The price is what gets me. Not the fact that my young friend was doting enough to part with what must be a week’s wages + for them both for a buggy, a buggy that will be no more serviceable than the one I got for £5 at the car-boot for Granddaughter2 when she is here. That and the fact that there are young couples out there who think that paying £1.2k for a buggy in ‘Thai fusion lime green and pastel grey with McPherson® suspension’  is somehow ‘normal’ or the ‘right thing’ to do – I don’t care how much they bloody earn.

The landlady once recounted how she made nappies for her baby daughter out of old curtains. You can imagine her reaction when I recounted my experiences of this morning to her.

[Ed: Mighty fine nappies they were too, with tasteful brown fern leaves dotted about on the most expensive terry towelling that the Canadian Embassy could run too; sadly, folded in the required triangles, they looked disconcertingly like skid marks….sweet memories!]

I hate to sound like either ‘Heli The Outlaw’ (my mother in law), Edda or even my own Aged Mother Dwarf  but the saying ‘Cut your cloth to fit your coat’ seems appropriate.

Catching the 60s by it’s Tail….

weiser-antiquarian-book-catalogue-110-aleister-crowleyI woke this morning around 4am and watched the mist rolling back across the marsh as the first brave deer led their young out to feed on the new grass. The Marsh Harrier was already swooping low across the dyke in search of baby rabbits for his brood; there must be several in the brood for within minutes his mate had joined him in the hunt leaving the young unprotected, needs must when they squawk so loudly. The Canada Geese strut up and down the purlins on the groyne beside the station box – they violently object to anyone even overflying their territory. Probably what woke me up.

Now awake, I searched for something to take my mind into different areas. The venom directed at me over the past two months is still very fresh and I have to be vigilant that it doesn’t overwhelm me. I found this programme on iPlayer. For anyone born after 1979 it will be educational – for anyone born before then it will be a welcome reminder of how life was in the 60s for teenagers. I do recommend you watch it. It is well researched, and well documented, not a ‘surface feeder’ type of documentary at all. More in the league of Adam Curtis’ work.

It showed how the ‘nature boys’ – a group of German naturists who lived free off the land, and started the first ‘Diggers’ shop in San Francisco where food was literally free (Did you know that Nat King Cole’s song ‘Nature boy’ was written about them? I didn’t) joined forces with what was then the radical left – believing in free love, equality of sexes, even the rights of paedophiles, all came together with the first ‘yippies’ (not hippies at that stage) those following the mystical beliefs of the far east – and even dates the start of the ‘Hippy’ explosion as being January 14th – with a concert in San Francsicso where all three ‘tribes’ were invited to join together and form one movement.

Both Aldous Huxley (Did you know that Jim Morrison’s group was called The Doors in homage to Huxley’s book ‘Perception of Doors’? I didn’t) and importantly, Alastair Crowley with his Satanic beliefs were invited to join in and 100,000 free ‘doses’ of lsd were handed out for the occasion. The idea was that lsd would enable a melding of thoughts amongst those present, so that what would emerge was a single figure that believed in eating raw vegetables from the nature boys; would absorb Crowley’s Satanic beliefs; the Marxist rhetoric of the radical left – now neutered to form the basis of Spiked magazine, where latter day Marxists still expound their views – and present it under a single banner of ‘hippies’ fastening flowers to the guns of soldiers heading for Vietnam.

It was the start of a remarkable counter-revolution that didn’t look towards the traditional working classes to rise up against their masters, but rather harnessed the ideals of a young, well-educated, middle class that had no need of jobs and could afford to indulge themselves. More than worth watching for anyone interested in how that social counter-culture explosion has led us to the present day ‘horror’ of viewing any sexual behaviour between young and old as being repugnant and criminal – at that time, both young and old were being pressured into behaving in exactly the way they did – or being seen as ‘not cool’.

It was only an hour-long so I followed that up with another programme;  A repeat from 1978 ‘Where have all the flowers gone’. It followed the progress of several early hippies who had had to abandon their ideals of free love, free food, and free-living, when they formed relationships and had families. They had finally realised that carrots are only free to be picked if someone – the farmer – has paid for the seed; paid for someone to tend the plants; paid for someone to pick the crops – and that they couldn’t create nirvana in isolation. It was an excellent choice to watch straight after the first documentary.

That took me up to 8am and the first nurse of the day – and I promptly went back to sleep until 2pm when the next set of drugs arrived, so have answered no emails, seen no DMs and am now on the hunt for something to watch this afternoon – suggestions more than welcome.

I think I have finally sorted out the comment facility on this new blog, though as someone pointed out, all the people who were happy to comment on my old blog seem to have deserted me, frighted off by the intimidation and threats, so if you are out there and have never commented before, then please do – it encourages me to write, and that is good for me. It keeps me focussed on what I can do rather than on what I can’t do.

Barbara Hewson and on line trolling.

Ms Hewson has taken it upon herself to write to my election agent in the following terms:

Sue has been issuing some quite threatening messages on social media directed at all manner of people including an academic at Edinburgh.

Threatening to expose them etc etc

I do indeed intend to get to the bottom of where precisely the 50,000 euros went to – a not unreasonable goal, given that I have been openly accused of having ‘pocketed it’ on my own behalf.

I would say that ‘threatening to expose them’ conjures up a slightly different and more sinister description of my desire to know what has been going on.

Given that when I asked for a backup copy of my blog, they were neither able to supply it, nor did they make any further replies to me. They have now replied to David Rose saying that they do have it safe – but I have yet to hear from them personally.

Ms Hewson has also claimed to my election agent:

She is now openly associating with the worst type of conspiracy theorists and lunatics on Twitter – including those with criminal records for harassment – so the potential for serious mischief is grave.

I am not in a position to know who has a criminal conviction and who hasn’t. Until this latest saga, I had never paid much attention to Twitter apart from publicising my latest article. Frankly I was too busy researching the next article to engage in the endless Twitter spats. They seemed to be a complete waste of time and breath to me.

Given that Ms Hewson is alleged to be associating with Mr Simon Just (I trust Ms Philmore will forgive me for quoting from her blog)

15/01/17 I email Ms Hewson’s solicitors requesting confirmation that I can serve any application for an injunction at their offices. I say I am very concerned that Ms Hewson is in contact with two men who have just been arrested for stalking Esther Baker and an unnamed journalist. These men are Simon Just and Darren Laverty.

and that if you Google “Simon Just” you will come up with numerous blog entries complaining about his Twitter trolling and in his guise as @majorleak2017 that I ‘prove’ my true identity:

@majorleak2017 to @barristerblog: There are concerns that the account @AnnaRaccoon2017 is not really Anna. Do you have any Q’s that may prove one way or other?

@AnnaRaccoon: I have just posted a lengthy reply to addeybob. Yes, it is mine, set up by me, no one else has access. Old Holborn did have access to the Lettuce Prey account which he renamed Anna Raccoon.

@majorleak2017 Sorry until you answer my specific questions regarding 3 emails to Real Troll Exposure then your response is not good enough for me.

@AnnaRaccoon: Suit yourself.

@AnnaRaccoon (showing an identity card) This do you?

@majorleak2017 Nope, I asked specific questions.

@majorleak2017 No answer to specific questions = no belief.

@AnnaRaccoon: Given that I haven’t a clue what the questions are, then you have a long wait for me to answer them!

@majorleak2017: Yes I did. You chose to ignore them. What did you say in those emails? But for the benefit of doubt: Emails on 6th December 2016, 25th November 2016, 12th November 2015 to Real Troll Exposure

@AnnaRaccoon: Absolutely no idea whatsoever. Don’t have copy of them to refer back to – do remember an exchange regarding Old Holborn, and would have said as I’ve always said to many people that he has an ego the size of Luxembourg, has caused me grief in the past, specifically over being his agent when he stood for election, but I’ve always forgiven him. Something along those lines, but whether in those specific e-mails couldn’t tell you. Don’t have them to refer to. I don’t have his teeth either. Er, by the way – who are you? You ask me to prove who I am – but you hide behind ‘Green Bottle’.

To which I responded:

Oh my oh my – so connected to the Barbara Hewson who sent the local vicar round to my door this evening? Who’s connected to rabbit and moor and Amanda and Jervis – this just gets better and better. Why didn’t he just ask Barbara? As in ‘did she have big buck teeth when she was lying in her bed grandma’? Pass the popcorn…..!

Around the same time, this exchange appeared between Dame Alun and Ms Hewson – though her tweet was shortly afterwards deleted:

Accusing me of ‘associating’ with the “worst type of conspiracy theorists and lunatics” on Twitter would appear to be a bit ‘rich’. 

Mr Just and Janette Scharenborg would appear to have an ‘association’ in that they were jointly named in a cease and desist letter some time ago. Janette Scharenborg has a long and exotic history on Twitter that I certainly wouldn’t want to be associated with. (Interestingly that last link refers to a woman named as Susan Melrose which was one of the names used by ‘Fiona of the fake Savile letter’ – gets ever more confusing by the minute doesn’t it??)

Hewson goes on to say:

She has talking of trolls being able to go after people

Sadly I can’t make sense of this sentence. Unless of course, she is referring to trolls she is associated with who have a long history of tracing and harassing people? Like me? Can’t be sure given the syntax.

She holds a vast amount of highly sensitive and confidential material – she once said that Savile alone generated 30, 000 emails and this was some years back so her mountain o f sensitive personal data must be much greta now. I am not sure if she is even registered with the ICO.

All information that I have held over the past five years has either been passed to Edinburgh, IICSA or destroyed, precisely because I was concerned about the material being held in private hands. Further, I have cleaned my computer of all old e-mails, (which is why I was not in a position to refer to the emails Simon Just wanted me to produce) contact details, and old blog articles.

I find the email to my election agent, coupled with the attempt to involve our local vicar in this affair, both frightening and intimidating.

Ms Hewson claims that she was writing to him thus because she wanted to disassociate herself from my campaign on the subject of the NHS on the grounds that she was concerned that her home address would be revealed – from what I have read of Mr Just’s alleged predilection for revealing people’s home addresses she might be well advised to look closer to home before she emails my election agent saying that my:

social media output has become utterly irresponsible‘.

Pot, kettle!

I’ve never had to delete my late night Twitter output in the morning.

For anyone wondering why I am finding it hard to work out who I can trust and who I can’t, who I can believe, and who I can’t – they only have to read the above.

Since I publicised my new email address yesterday, I have received three emails from former commentators on my blog who had watched with horror the public ‘baiting’ of me by both Ms Jervis and rabbit – and read both as being deliberate attempts to create unhappiness, so it’s not just in my ‘imagination’ – given that I have also been battling with a very difficult family reunion after 50 years apart; given the enormous physical and emotional impact of going from being a walking, talking, human being to someone who requires a team of nurses to turn, wash and relieve me of bodily waste, in a single week-end; given that I have been betrayed and lied to by two people who I have supported for many years, and given the Twitter onslaught I have endured, and had tried to mount a campaign on behalf of the NHS – I would say my mental health has stood up pretty well. Ketamine or no Ketamine.

IF you think you could do better, or indeed know of anyone who has encountered such a set of difficult circumstances over a two month period and has done better – do please pass on my contact details. I am happy to take advice.

Now, whatever will tomorrow bring? Excuse me, I’m going back to watching the swans – and the Marsh Harrier, he’s busy trolling a baby rabbit. Pass me my binoculars.

Edited to add: Comment facility now appears at top of page immediately underneath ‘author’ – no idea why, and can’t be bothered to figure it out right now. but you can comment if you wish to by clicking on that link.

Reply to tdf since moor larkins site will not accept response from me.

tdf – you can email me on susannecameronblackie@gmail.com and I will give you the background to recent events and the Caroline Robinson story. I have laboriously typed out a response to you three times, and three times it says the comments has been published and I get an e-mail from wordpress saying that my comment has been published, but it does not appear on the site. Not as Susanne Cameron Blackie, not as Anna Raccoon, not as Anonymous. I don’t know why.

123…gone

And when you go looking for it to find something else to steal – it just ain’t there!

Try rabbit’s blog – she’s the expert….I just write ‘fiction’ – or I did in the good old days….there you go ‘tdf’  – I referenced rabbit’s blog just like you wanted.

Ring a ring of roses…going to leave a comment on her blog telling her to reference me?

Oh, you can’t of course, because she just deletes comments she doesn’t like. Blocks anyone who disagrees with her. Me, I used to let any old fool comment on mine.

Switches from being an expert on Duncroft (that she’s never set foot in), to being an expert on the NHS – in the blink of an eye. Well, the blink of two or three eyes, after the rest of them had done their dirty work.

Ask her about Cleveland and Savile if she’s an expert on the NHS – she’ll know all about it.  I’m told she chaired the meeting in Leeds with Amanda – that came from what I thought was a reliable source, but not corroborated so can’t be sure now. Difficult to tell when everyone hides behind false names.  Don’t believe any of them now. They could all be the same person – is rabbit really Jervis in disguise? Or Hewson? Nope, can’t be Hewson ‘cos she was at meeting in Leeds too.

Good to know that Jervis doesn’t think I’m mentally ill – neither do mental health professionals. Just ‘wounded’ – as she well knew, and knew just how to make thing worse. It’s a game to them.

Keep the Savile flag flying – more like a helium balloon than a flag and its flown all the way up to IICSA.

Not what they intended but you can never tell which way the wind is blowing…

They’ve got a mole in their camp and they haven’t got a clue who it is!

That’s the trouble with all these false identities – you can never be sure – never trust anyone – and the mole is still happily chuntering away, telling me everything.

My, what a lot I didn’t know! To think I could have ended my days happily writing about the NHS – thinking I was doing some good, making the best out of a shitty situation.

Instead of which – a whole can of worms opened up. You can thank Jervis for that – other people were watching and shocked at what they saw.  So shocked they started talking – and when they found out just how wounded I was, and that Jervis knew all along, knew I’d never sued the NHS, knew I’d never worked for them, knew I’d already had PTSD after being trapped before, knew I was trapped in this bed, knew that those exchanges weren’t just innocent ‘perfectly justifiable’ enquiries from a voter hundreds of miles away from Corbyn’s constituency  – they weren’t just shocked, they were appalled that anyone could be so cold, so calculating, so callous – then they really started talking.

Oh, they know that I don’t really trust them – I’ve told them straight – ‘don’t trust anyone now’, nothing personal, but they are OK with that, they understand – said they wouldn’t really trust anyone if they were in my shoes either.

Mind you – I haven’t been in my shoes for over two months now….*joke*…march 18th 2017, last time I ever stood up.

Sigh…but what do I know about the NHS? What do I know…