“What happened to your eye?”
Excuse me? I’m here because I’ve been vomiting blood and you want to talk about my eye?
To do a quick rewind: I was put on Naproxen for the pain in my feet. Not only did it not help in the pain department, but mysterious bruises began to pop up all over my body.
Last Thursday I woke up, got out of bed and struggled down the stairs. The moment I sat down, Dom asked me what on earth I’d done to my eye. Well, I hadn’t done anything to it at all; I hadn’t fallen over, I’d not thumped myself in my sleep (which I am apparently quite prone to doing) and certainly nothing had happened to drive my glasses into my face. Continue reading
Posted in 2014, Accusations, Adapting, Attitudes, B12 Deficiency, Calcium, Disability, English Hospitals, Epilepsy, Hydroxocobalamin, Illness, Injuries, Naproxen, Pain, Vitamin D, Vitamin Deficiencies
My doctor’s eyebrows shot up considerably when I mentioned that I was used to Restless Leg Syndrome. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember – that itching, burning, tickling, almost-pain coming from inside my limbs – and so I couldn’t quite fathom the possible significance of this. I would soon find out. Continue reading
Without you, I wouldn’t be the person I’ve become. Without you, I would have a very different view of the world. Perhaps I would not be so kind, or so fond of Nature. Perhaps I would have grown up selfish, as opposed to selfless. Financially I would definitely be richer had I never witnessed kindness and compassion such as yours, but my life would have been so much poorer for not having that warmth of heart and the kindness of soul that you taught me to own and use. Continue reading
Welcome to Baroosh, the city centre tapas bar which is perfect for friends, colleagues and groups of like-minded people to meet up, chat, have nibbles and
get tipsy enjoy a drink or two. You can always tell which table the book club is occupying; it’s the largest, noisiest one in the place and there’s often a blonde wearing a hat (that would be me then). Hats are useful for when I’m under the weather and can’t really tend to my personal appearance.
Well, that’s how it used to be anyway. Continue reading
I haven’t exactly been “dying of ennuii” since you last saw me here. I’ve been laid up quite ill for a while and so my blogging has gone right out of the window.
In my absence I’ve been reading the complete works of Louisa May Alcott (who I really must write a piece on at some point – a feminist ahead of her time). I’ve put my two largest Tarantulas (my Mexican Red Leg and Honduran Curlyhair) into larger tanks, and I now have a juvenile Red Leg, who I bought because a friend needed a new washing machine and had to sell a good portion of her collection off to be able to pay for it. Little Rogue – or “Dot” – has settled in beautifully.
I’ve been reading scripts for an actor who wishes to write for Doctor Who, and am being a friend to another actor who is a little bit down at the moment. I stick by all my friends, and so the idea of dropping one just because they’re an actor who isn’t working doesn’t quite compute with me – I don’t have to see this particular friend on TV to remain friendly, any more than they have to read anything I’ve had published.
But, as the title of this blog has probably already hinted, I’m not here to talk about any of those things today. I’m here to talk about when the needle in your brain skips the groove and creates havoc. Continue reading
You see this lady? A peaceful looking lady minding her own business whilst cooking? She’s a Romany Gypsy – or Roma.
Being Roma doesn’t automatically mean that you come from Romania or anywhere else that people think the Roma come from. Roma is a race, a lifestyle – not a nationality. Each Roma community has its own ways and its own language, depending on place of origin. No two Roma families are the same.
So imagine my shock and distress when I commented on a news thread and received this lovely message in response:
“You and your family should go back to wherever it is you crawled out from. You’re not English and you don’t belong here.”
I spelled the above quote correctly; the abuser didn’t.
I have never experienced racial abuse before. Not ever. Not being a racist myself, it never entered my head that a show such as Benefits Street could cause anybody to hate my ancestory – the ancestory that my maternal family and I are so very proud of. To hate me without even meeting me, just because of my maternal roots.
I have news for the racist bigots out there. I am English. I was born to an English mother and a Welsh father – in England.
I am also Roma. I was born due to an honourable and dignified bloodline. Whatever a racist might think, I can have these three (and more) bloodlines all at once.
I have blonde hair, fair skin and blue eyes. If I chose not to tell you of my Roma ancestory you would never know. But why on earth should I hide who I am and where I came from?