Category: Life in General

My life in general, off topic.

To Read or Not to Read

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When I mention my To-Be-Read-Mountain, few are surprised. Not only do I buy more books per year than I can usually read, I inherited a good 500 books from my father a few years ago. That’s 500 I kept, discounting those I gave away to friends and charity. He had many genres, including fantasies I’ve longed to read, and several series of which I’d never heard. A few trilogies had the first book only, or book one and two with the third missing, so I went searching to complete those that interested me. These amounted to many novels, adding to an existing extensive collection. My bookshelves ‘double up’.

I’m always amazed by people’s reactions, ‘Wow, books’. Makes me think of the little green men from Toy Story all going ‘Oooooooohhhhhhh.’ With me I can spend an hour in someone’s home wondering ‘what’s wrong with this picture?’ before I realise, there are no books. A house without books, to me, isn’t a home.

Still, I’m left asking can we have too much of a good thing? When having to move, yes, and I’ve carted this lot around twice in recent years. I’ve come to the time where I must be more selective of the books I keep, even purchase. Some writers are exempt from this rule — quite a list of them — will stay with me always. I should surprise no one when I say one of those authors is Terry Pratchett.

I’ve been listing him in my top five for more years than I can recall but it wasn’t until he died it hit me what a long love-affair I’ve had with Rincewind, Death, The Luggage, The Librarian, Sam Vimes, and… well, that names a mere few, though I shouldn’t forget Rob Anybody, my favourite Nac Mac Feegle. Say hello, Rob. Don’t worry; he always looks this grumpy.

This may sound like gobbledegook to many, but not to anyone who grasped the wonder of Terry’s satire. A friend once told me she’d read the first book (in her words: cute, about wizards) without getting that Terry Pratchett wrote satire, that the Discworld was our world, that the University was our government, the clacks system our postal service and so on. I’m not as surprised as I might be. Few know Gulliver’s Travels was also an exercise in parody.

When Terry died, I was already experiencing a rough day during lasting stress. The universe felled another hammer blow. Is it possible to experience genuine grief when someone you’ve never met dies? Absolutely. I won’t be the only one to say so. When you’ve admired someone, their work, kept track for many years, the loss is real. If nothing else, ‘no more Discworld’ is a hard kick.

I’ll soon be picking up another of his books with the bittersweet knowledge I have about four titles to go to and the fantasy books he wrote with Stephen Baxter. Yes, I’ve still a few of Terry’s books to read… and in there is a puzzle. Why haven’t I read them all?

Because I’ve so many writers I love and I like to spend time with Terry’s books.

I wanted the stress to pass and to be settled before I dipped into the last of his titles. I wanted to feel relaxed while reading them.

I wanted to treasure them and also delay because he’s gone from this world and once I read the last few titles, there will be no more.

This sounds ridiculous, but I know many who were reading the last book or two who said the same: once they finished those, there were no more to look forward to. It’s like closing a book, having found it so good, the desire is there to begin again. Given enough time, I’ll do that too. Meanwhile, to Terry, a man’s whose imagination the world was lucky to have, a heartfelt thank you!

Velkommen til Norge!

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I’ve been missing in action, mostly because I’ve been out of the country, and then, when I returned, I spent several days running to catch up. I have… almost. Definitely by next week, if not before the end of this, I’ll return to my WIP. For now, I’m editing a story for a re-release end of this year.

But let’s get back to why I neglected to blog the last three weeks. Blame these little beings:

That’s a Norwegian Troll, this one flying the flag outside of a souvenir shop in Hellesylt. It’s difficult to move more than a few streets without spotting one of these beasties in their various forms. If you’re looking for something to bring home, these pop up everywhere. Most people seem to love them or loathe them (I heard one woman say on this trip, “Such big noses; I just don’t get it.”) Maybe to ‘get it’ you need to look back into Norse Mythology but there’s no question the Norwegian people have taken Trolls to their hearts. We’re told daylight turns them to stone, so all those mountains in Norway are Trolls taken unaware by the sun.

Trolls or not, there’s nothing so breathtaking as the scenery. It’s a place I’ve visited more than once and hope to do so again. Here’s a lovely photo of the mirror-image type which is possible to take on the lakes in the beautiful area of Stryn. The mountains may or may not be trolls, but this kind of landscape makes me want to believe in all possibilities.

Velkommen til Norge! Welcome to Norway.

Images: (c) Sharon Bidwell

An Haiku for You

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Do you remember a typical English summer? No, neither do I. These days we seem to follow the pattern of a few hot days followed by a storm, a few drab days, rain, sun, rain, drab, maybe some sun, and then the expectation of another storm. People are taking breaks and flowers have struggled into bloom. I write little poetry but while I step back for a few days and until I post again, I thought I’d leave you with a Haiku.

Watch out, he’s behind you!

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It’s just as well only my husband is present during our recent binge ‘catch-up’ watch of The Walking Dead. Like a participant in Gogglebox — a show that invites the audience to watch people watching television (though I’ve only seen adverts for it, some reactions can be to great comic effect) — I’m not a silent viewer.

This is a trait that once drove my relatives to gritting their teeth with irritation, much as I do when an inconsiderate cinema-goer persists on talking during a film, or won’t put their phone away. I appreciate the frustration; however, in the cinema I restrict myself to a few gasps or loud laughter when appropriate. It’s an entirely different experience with an unspoken rule of no talking. I’ve paid for a ticket and want to be submersed. I have never, unlike when a grandmother of mine went to the cinema, made not only a public faux pas, but done so twice in the time to run through a single showing.

The film was The Time Machine, the classic version starring Rod Taylor made in 1960. She went with her husband and her adult children, and they arrived just as the film started. Although only the opening credits were rolling, my nan, intent on not missing a minute, gaze glued to the screen, fumbled her way along a line of people already seated. I heard the story of how she stopped one seat short of her own chair and plopped herself down on a bald man’s lap. I’m unsure as to the significance of his being bald other than that being the way she forever thereafter described him amidst general hilarity, but I am confident it as surprised him as much as it surprised her. My nan made everyone switch seats so she could sit as far away from him as possible and then sat hidden and, she hoped, forgotten in the darkness…

Until ‘George’ makes his way into the Morlock cave and we see their gleaming eyes. While the hero tries to creep around and the Morlocks brace to launch an attack, my grandmother gasped, put her hands to her face and shouted out, “Watch out, he’s behind you!” The cinema audience on this occasion met my nan’s outburst with a round of laughter adding to the collective enjoyment.

I once worked with a woman who never understood this. When I referred to laughing or crying over stories — viewed or read — she always shook her head. Strange from someone who read all the time and professed to be a bookworm.

“But… but… but…” I stuttered, “how can you not cry over a sad scene?”

“But it’s not real,” she said.

As one who understands that stories are our way of examining and learning how to deal with reality, I beg to differ. As someone who has had to put a book down in a crowded train carriage owing to the risk of a tear or two escaping among strangers with no easy-to-explain reason, I cannot understand this lack of emotional attachment. Thrill seekers get on roller coasters looking for that up and down ride of a lifetime; book lovers take more tight turns and steep slopes lasting far longer than your average amusement park ride. Our pulses speed up, our stomachs grow tight, our throats close, we cry, and scream, and shout… with anger, with pain, with frustration, and with joy. Even when it hurts, we consider ourselves lucky.

Watching a beloved character’s harrowing death the other night (even though through reading the graphic novel I had a sense of what was coming), make no mistake, I was vocal about it. Feel free to share whether you experience a story without emotion or find it next to impossible not to laugh when something is funny, cheer when the outcome is good, or scream when it’s the end you were dreading.

Pityriasis Rosea

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I’m going to talk about a personal topic in the hope it may come up in a search and help another sufferer. About this time last year, I was suffering with a rash; one I’d diagnosed before I saw a doctor because it began with what they call an ‘herald patch’. This is a single oval patch of pink to red scaly skin that will appear a couple of days or more before the full rash breaks out.

Mine was tender, a little itchy because it was where clothes rub and I thought that was all it was — I thought it would go away. Within a week I had a widespread rash all over my chest, neck, back, and it kept spreading (I was dreading in case it went to my face and scarred), reaching to my arms and the back of my hands. NHS advice was if went to the back of my hands, it was imperative I saw a doctor. The doctor didn’t see it this way — said ‘that’s nothing’ with a dismissive attitude. I love contradictory information.

After much consideration and a blood test that revealed nothing, the doctor decided I had what I said I had: Pityriasis Rosea. Emphasis on the ‘pity’ for good reason. I haven’t included photos here because of copyright problems, but also because I don’t want a visual reminder. Do a search — photos will readily appear.

Doctors aren’t entirely sure what causes this rash, though stress can induce a breakout, and I was going through a lot of stress. Though not painful, it can itch… and boy, did it itch! It got so bad I would wake up realising I’d been scratching in my sleep. They prescribed me a small tube of cream I forget the name of now, but some patches dried. Trouble was, I still itched, and I wasn’t meant to use this cream for more than a few days; the tube was so tiny I didn’t think it would even last that long. I was also advised that the rash, even when/if it stopped itching, could last 6 months before it completely disappeared.

Second doctor gave me a prescription for antihistamines, which were cheaper over the counter. They also gave me an enormous bottle of E45 anti-itch cream, cheaper on prescription as it would have cost me over £30. By then I’d tried most creams I could find and, desperate for relief of any kind, I slathered the damn stuff on. The doctor had told me I really couldn’t use enough of this stuff. I went to bed, hoping and looking forward to some rest after too many sleepless nights. I was up within the hour, wanting to rip off my skin. Unable to bear it for another second, I jumped in the shower, frantic to wash away the cream. Said cream later went in the bin. I’d followed Doctor’s advice only to make the rash ten times worse. When removing skin seems a good idea, there’s a real problem.

I’d done lots of online reading, of course, and I know they say don’t play internet doctor but when there’s no help and advice makes the situation worse, there’s little alternative. I’d found some things to wash in that were helping, but none were killing the itch for more than an hour. I was so miserable I moaned on Facebook and ‘friends’, close and not so close, chimed in. I have to thank my friend Cheryl for telling me to try washing in Bicarbonate of Soda.

After the debacle with E45, I patched tested first and, after my experience, would advise this with anything prescribed or otherwise anyone uses to ease a rash. I used the Bicarbonate as a sort of salt scrub (I’d tried one of those too but it hadn’t worked), lightly rubbing it on and showering off, but you can put a cupful in the bath and soak. Note: anyone with diabetes or other medical issues may need to check whether this is safe.

I saw an improvement almost immediately. I used it twice a day for about a week and also bathed in Aveeno bath and shower wash and used Aveeno cream. While it took a few weeks for all the marks to fade, the itch eased within hours. So that’s my advice. Check it’s safe to use medically, and do a patch test, but try Bicarbonate of Soda and Aveeno, though I hope you never need to; this rash may not be serious but it makes a person miserable.

To the Moon and Back

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I’d like to introduce you to an artist.

Last summer friends took us on a long drive out for the day along the top of the North Devon coast. Our main destination was Dunster Castle, but we wandered and meandered for a long stretch of the coastal highway. One of our stop off points was Lynmouth, a place I hadn’t visited for more years than I can remember. There I discovered Maurice Bishop and wanted one of his paintings at first glance. Not until several weeks later did I return to buy one, my most difficult decision, which one to choose.

Maurice speaks of being in a perfect location for a creative environment and he’s not wrong. The wild and rugged terrain of Exmoor with deep valleys of wood and moorland skirted by the sea is a walker’s paradise.

There’s no need to travel to enjoy Maurice’s work as he has an online gallery, though it’s not a delightful as wandering around his labyrinth of a shop with new delights at every turn. With our grey/blue themed living room and my favourite colour being red I had to choose one from his Red Trees in the Moonlight Collection. After a long deliberation we chose To the Moon and Back and it is now looking fine on our wall.

I’d like to introduce you to an artist.

Last summer, friends took us on a long drive out for the day along the top of the North Devon coast. Our primary destination was Dunster Castle, but we wandered and meandered for a long stretch of the coastal highway. One of our stop off points was Lynmouth, a place I hadn’t visited for more years than I can remember. There I discovered Maurice Bishop and wanted one of his paintings at first glance. Not until several weeks later did I return to buy one, my most tough decision, which one to choose.

Maurice speaks of being in a perfect location for a creative environment and he’s not wrong. The wild and rugged terrain of Exmoor, with deep valleys of wood and moorland skirted by the sea, is a walker’s paradise.

There’s no need to travel to enjoy Maurice’s work as he has an online gallery, though it’s not as delightful as wandering around his labyrinth of a shop with new delights at every turn. With our grey/blue themed living room and my favourite colour being red, I had to choose one from his Red Trees in the Moonlight Collection. After a long deliberation, we chose To the Moon and Back and it is now looking fine on our wall.

As much as I love his more contemporary paintings, the traditional works were hard to pass by and I have my eye on at least one. I wouldn’t refuse this one of Clovelly but I’m undecided. I’ll happily pop into his shop when that way again to buy some of his wonderful scenes on cards to send to friends, if nothing else. It’s a good thing I have only so much wall space.