Disappointment seems to follow swiftly on the heels of disappointment in my little life. Closely followed by a swift kicking . Are you detecting a particular tone to this post? Sorry about that. It seems that despite suggestions from our social landlord that due to our circumstances we may be eligible for an early move it now seems that we are not and that by the time we do move there will be none of the new houses that are suitable and adaptable left.
I know I shouldn’t have
trusted the woman in the office gotten my hopes up but I just wanted something nice to look forward to.
In an attempt to cheer myself up I was playing old TV themes – it’s a game we used to like to play, our own version of Name That Tune, but during the course of this little interlude it emerges that John can no longer remember that Jason King drove a Jensen Interceptor. The only reason I have ever heard of a Jensen Interceptor is because John used to bang on and on
and on and on and …. about Jason bloody King and his Jensen bloody Interceptor. I feel bereft.
I have a lovely report from the lovely psychologist to tell us that actually after all the brain mashing John is still average with some particular difficulties thrown in for good measure but was highly superior before. I had actually worked that one out for myself but ho hum. There are whole chunks of our life and of his own that he can no-longer remember and every time I am confronted with it I feel gutted again. It is almost seven years since this nightmare began.
I now have Carly Simon’s dulcet tones ringing in my head but reflection on what’s gone and what’s yet to come seems to befit this time of year. This time last year I was in a very bleak place emotionally and my confidence was at a low ebb worn away by months of high anxiety. 2011 for all its slings and arrows has been quite healing in many ways. We have had help from a lovely psychologist specialising in brain injury who has helped us to have a better understanding of what’s going on. It doesn’t always help to know why something is happening but it never hurts.
A combination of this and my own craftiness (you can take this as cunning or my incessant need to make things) seems to have had
the desired effect an inspirational effect on John and his initial small decorative efforts have stretched his artistic muscles to the point where, as I write, he is in the shed painting again. Not only that but he has renewed his Minigallery subscription and has done most of the adminny bits he needed to do to get it to go live. These are huge, seven-league-boot steps forward and I don’t think any of them could have been achieved if I was still going out to work.
I am sharing my own personal favourite which I am linking to – not everyone is comfortable with the human form, so if you aren’t don’t click please. This was painted back in 2005 from a drawing done of me back in 2004 or 2003 and it sold very quickly, too quickly to a lady in London. I wanted to look at it for a bit longer; who doesn’t want to see themselves so beautifully depicted?
My photo doesn’t really do it justice because this little picture and the others like it are, to me, little miracles.
I went to meet a new friend on Saturday; a lady I’d never met before and only briefly spoken to on the phone. Somehow we had found each other – we are broadly the same age, broadly similar levels of education but the thing that binds us is both our husbands have had strokes and those “brainquakes” have devastated our lives; we both have small children.
I won’t begin to bore you with the minutiae but if you would like to see how strokes affect younger people and their lives have a look at the Different Strokes website: www.differentstrokes.co.uk.
John has now had four major strokes and there doesn’t really seem to be an end in sight, so it’s a bit like living with a time bomb.
The little miracles are currently being painted by him for my craft stalls – the miracle is that there is enough of him left to achieve this. These can be found (along with equally bad photos) in my etsy shop over here, and examples of his work especially before his strokes can be found over at www.artbyjohnmorris.co.uk.
I’m hoping that Wendy over at Handmade Monday won’t mind me including these. Go and check her things out and all over the other lovely Handmade Monday club items
It’s been a strange week with the premature death of a friend and more problems and devastation caused by student finance England. So I thought some virtual pudding was in order.
James Martin does a Black Forest trifle over here; this is not that.
It was a pudding that my Mum used to make back in the 70s and 80s as a family favourite (for which read one of dad’s favourites). It probably came from Family Circle. This was inspired by a post over at Amy Bakes.
Take a large shop bought chocolate swiss roll, cut into slices and arrange around glass dish. Take a can of stoned black cherries in juice (or if you’re feeling flush a jar of black cherries in kirsch) and a blackcurrant jelly. We used to use black cherry jelly but I haven’t seen one for a long time – if anyone knows where I can buy them please let me know. Make the jelly as per the instructions replacing most of the cold water with the juice from the cherries.
You can give the swiss roll sponge a bit of a soak with liqueur if you like, then arrange the cherries over and around the slices of swiss roll. Add the jelly and chill until set. Take about a pint of double or whipping cream (whipping cream has slightly lower fat content than double cream: 35% as opposed to 48%). Whip until soft peaks are achieved, we used to whip to pipe but that was all a bit passe; who knows the cup-cake craze may bring back piping! Decorate with soft peaks of cream, some reserved cherries and shavings of dark chocolate. Send everyone out and enjoy with a large spoon.
Tomorrow I will be appearing fashionably late to Handmade Monday 37 (just waiting for my phone to charge to take some piccies).
Apparently there’s no point crying over it but to be honest I haven’t felt like doing much else since last Friday. Now, probably, the way I’m mostly feeling is down to that annoying little visitor, you know the one that ruins your good knickers and turns
you me into a straw-brained, hay-haired scarecrow of a woman.
Or perhaps it’s to do with my visit to the Harbour Centre; this is not a place for the faint hearted and I’m not sure if it’s a place with any answers. I wanted it to be a magic bullet and I suppose I have realised that there isn’t one: something I have known since atleast 1988. You would think that that would be long enough for something to sink in.
Magic bullet or not, answers or not, it is now this long since I had a drink:
I don’t want to become a booze bore any more than I want to be, but fear I am, a stroke bore. Maybe I just worry about being a bore? Things have been a bit different in our house. Apparently, according to the woman who did my assessment last week, I’m doing well: avoiding triggers, changing routines, trying to occupy my time differently. I know that, if I challenge the voices in my head, this is the case; it doesn’t stop those voices shouting loudly at me about the wasted time, wasted life, wasted money.
How the hell do I do this forever?
In other slightly less bonkers news, trailer tenting will be resuming the weekend after next.
I would just like to wave at Him Up North and say how much I enjoyed his post this morning.
- steam cleaned the kitchen
- reported our broken boiler and am awaiting boiler repairman (no mean feat when you are not even inclined to let your own mother into the house of doom)
- tidied the living room (almost took down tree but twelth night paranoia stopped me)
- made lentil soup with Christmas ham stock
- phoned Carers Champions
- phoned Simply Counselling (a counselling service for stroke survivors and their families)