Charity?

(Warning: I apologise in advance because this post contains far too many anyways). 

I went to Morrisons on Saturday morning  and when  I arrived at the till the checkout lady asked if I would like help with my packing.  I declined her offer as I had M with me and although we had got a lot of shopping in our trolley it was not as much as I sometimes have so thought we would cope nicely.  There was (then) no-one behind us in the queue and anyway I always refuse to be rushed, having  usually spent a small  fortune with their company and being a fairly regular customer I will take as long as I like thank you( I even buy petrol  from them too – and it is an 80 minute round trip just to shop there).

Anyway, as we started packing I saw there was a girl at the end of the conveyor belt with the customary bucket and I realised that yet again here was someone collecting from some charity or other.  I still didn’t want help with packing as I had  not that long ago decided not to feel coerced into this from of charity giving.  I am becoming increasingly irritated by these people attaching themselves to the checkouts, getting in my way and trying to make me feel beholden to put money in their damned buckets.  I know I am not alone as several of the borrowers at the library have voiced similar concerns.

Let’s get it straight, I do give to certain charities and like to think of myself as kind and caring. I have even worked as a volunteer years ago for Save the Children.  However, only recently M had to phone Morrisons to complain about the charity collectors approaching him on his entrance or exit from their store –.  I have also been approached and on principle I ignore them.  Anyway, the staff member from Morrisons said that they have a policy of not letting  collectors go within a certain distance of members of the public.  This seems fair enough if it is adered to.  So why have collectors on every checkout right up close with their damned buckets.

Anyway back to Saturday – we finished our packing – M politely asking the girl to move out of our way so we could pack (!) - she only looked about fourteen.  I could then see written on her bucket what she was collecting for, it was the local High School’s Geography and Business Studies department (s)!

Is it me?  I thought we paid for education in our Council Tax – I know the bulk of our council tax goes to education in this area (and it’s a lot of money). Good thing.  Education is, (well should be) the basis of a humane and well functioning society.  So why on earth should I want to give money to a local high school which gets money from the State, one my granddaughters don’t attend anyway and even more to the point -  where and how the hell is the money going to be spent? When I was at school teachers were paid to teach and we learned. End of story.

And Business Studies? Will Morrisons have buckets at their exits asking for charitable donations to run their business next?  It is not exactly entrepreneurial to beg with a bucket while using a form of emotional blackmail to get people to part with their money (or is it nowadays? Perhaps I am missing something). I would prefer it if my grandchildren spent their free time studying (when not relaxing) and not going out fundraising for their education.  Am I missing something here?

I would have thought that these students, if they had to stoop to such activities, would have gained more by going to supermarket and other business fatcats and asking them for money, instead of targeting the low paid, the unemployed and the old age pensioners – this county (and country) is full of them - let those with all the money support proper charities with donations or sponsorship. But isn’t that what the (ex public school boy) Cameron wants – the end of State control and to let Big Business and Big Brother run the world in their own way.  

Anyway, the upshot of this was that when we had finished packing,  M felt sorry for this girl and ended up giving her some money after all –even though  he had no idea what she was collecting for (!) - and on our way home a row about it ensued between him and me -  so it was not a good start to my weekend.

Where will it end I wonder? Should  folk go begging at checkouts for help with dental treatment costs or operations which they being made to wait for because they can’t afford to go private.   Or money to save public libraries or public toilets.

What do you think? Do you think I am heartless?

Go mbeannai Dia duit,

Cait

People Power

I was thinking this morning how everything is being shaken up this year, perhaps 2012 really is the end of something, not the world exactly but perhaps the world as we have always known, accepted or tolerated it.   What is it that they say? You can't make an omelette without breaking eggs?

People's faith has been shattered in so many elements of our society that should be respected and relied upon: bankers, politicians, journalists etc and today of course we are shocked to hear more about the actions of some of the police in this country.  Deception, cruelty and corruption seem to be the order of the day and it almost reminds me of Stalin's Russia.

I have put up a song in a previous post - Read All About It sung by Emile Sande, (she sung it at the Olympics closing ceremony). The words are quite appropriate for our times.

I also found this poem The Justice Bell  online today; it was written ten years ago and it is for all those families who have been deceived and their loved ones vilified. The people of Liverpool have always been special -  fighters who will never give up whether  fighting for their loved ones or for justice, or for both -  after all there are many Irish genes in their blood.

The justice bell has started to toll, I hope it never stops ringing from now on.

The Justice Bell



A schoolboy holds a leather ball
in a photograph on a bedroom wall
the bed is made, the curtains drawn
as silence greets the break of dawn.

The dusk gives way to morning light
revealing shades of red and white
, which hang from posters locked in time
of the Liverpool team of 89.

Upon a pale white quilted sheet
a football kit is folded neat
with a yellow scarf, trimmed with red
and some football boots beside the bed.

In hope, the room awakes each day
to see the boy who used to play
but once again it wakes alone
for this young boy’s not coming home.

Outside, the springtime fills the air
the smell of life is everywhere
viola’s bloom and tulips grow
while daffodils dance heel to toe.

These should have been such special times
for a boy who’d now be in his prime
but spring forever turned to grey
in the Yorkshire sun, one April day.

The clock was locked on 3.06
as sun shone down upon the pitch
lighting up faces etched in pain
as death descended on Leppings Lane.

Between the bars an arm is raised
amidst a human tidal wave
a young hand yearning to be saved
grows weak inside this deathly cage.

A boy not barely in his teens
is lost amongst the dying screams
a body too frail to fight for breath
is drowned below a sea of death

His outstretched arm then disappears
to signal thirteen years of tears
as 96 souls of those who fell
await the toll of the justice bell.

Ever since that disastrous day
a vision often comes my way
I reach and grab his outstretched arm
then pull him up away from harm.

We both embrace with tear-filled eyes
I then awake to realise
it’s the same old dream I have each week
as I quietly cry myself to sleep.

On April the 15th every year
when all is calm and skies are clear
beneath a glowing Yorkshire moon
a lone scots piper plays a tune.

The tune rings out the justice cause
then blows due west across the moors
it passes by the eternal flame
then engulfs a young boys picture frame.

His room is as it was that day
for thirteen years it’s stayed that way
untouched and frozen forever in time
since that tragic day in 89.

And as it plays its haunting sound
tears are heard from miles around
they’re tears from families of those who fell
awaiting the toll of the justice bell.


© Dave Kirby 2002

Emeli Sande Read All About It

I Can See Clearly Now - Jimmy Cliff (lyrics)

Welsh Writings

On Wales

Why I love it by Niall Griffiths, author

Because it’s like nowhere else on earth. Because the mountains aren’t remote humps on the horizon; they’re what people live on and among. Because those airborne crucifixes that soar and mewl in the mist are predatory birds. Because water is the country’s blood; the rivers and sea lap at your ankles and elbows wherever you are. Because of the food; the laver bread and cockles and cheeses and lamb and samphire and herbs and fish which have been prepared in the same way for centuries. Because the language’s refusal to die offends those who should be offended. Because of the calmness to be found on peaks and pinnacles. Because of the age of the rocks, pocked and stippled by the movements of the very first multi-cellular creatures. Because you can drive from Amlwwch to Newport in a day and see mountain and marsh and plain and moor and valley and city and mine and dam and lake and river and sea-cliff and bog on that one short journey. Because the country once drove Blair to blaspheme. Because it can be home.

From the Guardian 12th May 2007

One of my favourite bloggers Nan of Letters from a Hill Farm fame has asked me for recommendations for books set in Wales or by Welsh authors so I am beginning by mentioning a few off the top of my head which I have enjoyed reading.  These are just a taster to be going on with but I shall try and post more at a later date as I think of them and I hope other folk will make suggestions. Coincidentally I see that today Nan has blogged about my favourite poet Mary Oliver, I wonder if she has any Welsh genes?

Before escaping to Wales from England many moons ago I read a lot of ‘escape to the country/self sufficiency’ type books. John Seymour (not actually to my knowledge a Welsh writer) was the ‘God’ to people like me in days gone by. Among a lot of others I also enjoyed Jeanette McMullen’s books and must mention the classic Hovel in the Hills by Elizabeth West.  I have to say that being Irish I am more into Irish literature but there are of course many fine Welsh writers.

Poets to start

Dylan Thomas (of course)
Gillian Clarke,
Gwyneth Lewis
R S Thomas
Dannie Abse
Owen Sheers


Some fiction (and non-fiction)now:

On the Black Hill by Bruce Chatwin
Running for the Hills by Horatio Clare
The Presence by Dannie Abse
Eve Green by Susan Fletcher
Blue Sky July by Nia Wyn
How Green was my Valley by Richard Llewellwyn
Rape of the Fair Country by Alexander Cordell
People of the Black Mountains by Raymond Williams
All Phil Rickman’s crime/supernatural novels – set in Wales/Herefordshire.

I hope this is enough to be going on with, I have had a busy weekend (guests staying) so I  am a little brain dead today.

Bye for now or should I say Hwyl?

Cait.

PS While writing this post I have sadly just discovered that the lovely lady Elizabeth West died two years ago   She used to broadcast about her escape to the country on Radio 4 years ago and she wrote two fine books A Small Country Living and The Wind in the Ash Tree (you would love then Nan). She lived not that far from where I live.

Rest in Peace Jeanine.

Indian Summer

My Indian Summer Day

.

You must have been a gift, a reward, for 

surely some things are earned, or just deserved? 

The martins are breeding one last time, the

bees and butterflies proliferate and 

though full to bursting, even the river

relaxes, glinting so sweetly in the 

sunshine, its tune so melodious, that 

now even the aspens are applauding.

More an answered prayer than a dream or wild 

imagining, you are the summer season’s final fling

before the knife of winter slowly slides its way in.

So it's a wish-you-were-here kind of day,

a red-shoes-on-get-up-and-go kind of day, 

when to be alive or just bathe in the sun is all I 

could ever hope for or would ever, ever need.

Cait O’Connor

Two Very Good Reads

Dear Diary,

I promised that I would recommend some books to you and here are just two of them.  I have more in the pipeline.

The first one is is about a part of the west of Ireland coast I know well as my mother came from quite close by.

The House on an Irish Hillside: When You Know Where You've Come from, You Can See Where You're Going

by

Felicity Hayes-McCoy.

‘From the moment I crossed the mountain I fell in love. With the place, which was more beautiful than any place I'd ever seen. With the people I met there. And with a way of looking at life that was deeper, richer and wiser than any I'd known before. When I left I dreamt of clouds on the mountain. I kept going back.'

We all lead very busy lives and sometimes it's hard to find the time to be the people we want to be.
Twelve years ago Felicity Hayes-McCoy left the hectic pace of the city and returned to Ireland to make a new life in a remarkable house on the stunning Dingle peninsula.

Beautifully written, this is a life-affirming tale of rediscovering lost values and being reminded of the things that really matter.


Here is the second book.

The second is fiction, historical at that, not a genre I usually go for but this writer is special. She is quite a ‘new’ author but one of the most ‘lyrical’ writers I know and I think this one is worthy of the Booker prize. This book is certainly better than last year’s winner The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes which I would class as run of the mill ordinary.

The Silver Dark Sea
by
Susan Fletcher

The powerful new novel from Susan Fletcher, award-winning author of the bestselling Eve Green and Oystercatchers.

A profound tale of love, loss and the lore of the sea.

The islanders of Parla are still mourning the loss of one of their own. Four years since that loss, and a man – un-named, unclothed – is washed onto their shores. Some say he is a mythical man from the sea – potent, kind and beautiful; others suspect him. For the bereft Maggie, this stranger brings love back to the isle. But as the days pass he changes every one of them – and the time comes for his story to be told…

Tender, lyrical and redemptive,The Silver Dark Sea is the dazzling new novel from the author of Eve Green (winner of Whitbread First Novel award) and Witch Light. It is a story about what life can give and take from us, when we least expect it – and how love, in all its forms, is the greatest gift of all.

I recommend all her books, do give them a try if you appreciate poetic writing and a great story, well researched too.

Tribute to Hal David

I'm back

Moon Gazing Hare

Artist Joanna May

Dear Diary,

When a finger points to the moon the imbecile looks at the finger

Chinese Proverb

Apologies for being absent for the month of August; I decided to take a  'vacation' like the French do. I am back now and am being broken in gently as I have been asked by Mac n’ Janet to do the following questionnaire  (she very kindly nominated me for a Sunshine Award).  If anyone else wants to have a go please do. 

What is your favourite colour?

It is hard to choose. I wear a lot of blue, I love purpley shades too. I like pink as well and adore grey. Let’s just say I avoid yellow and don’t do green much or black and I hate brown and detest beige.

Favourite non-alcoholic drink?

No contest there as I have a current craze for chocolate flavour Friji (a milk shake -  in case you don’t know what it is).

Favourite animal?

Another hard choice as I love all animals.  Dogs, cats and donkeys are my top three.  I could not be without a dog and a cat for company.

Twitter or Facebook.

I  really hate Facebook  - I hate the way everyone is addicted to it and  everyone can read everything and can ‘spy’ on people.  I don’t use Twitter but  I need to look again at Twitter because I might like it but  have forgotten  how it works. Can anyone convert me to it I wonder and/or explain how it works? 

Passions?
Hard to choose one (she says again).

At the moment I am into photography and genealogy takes a lot of my time. Books of course have been a lifelong passion.   I could not live without music either.  I love to write and am a fair weather gardener.

Favourite pattern?

I love the herring bone pattern like you see in  tweeds .............and cobbles (I took some photos recently of the latter).  I love gingham too.

Giving or receiving?

Well I suppose everyone will say this but there is a real buzz in giving isn’t there?

Favourite number?

Something is telling me to say seven.

Favourite day?

No contest. Sunday!

That’s all for now then, thank you if you have got this far.

I hope to blog again tomorrow as I have some scrumptious books to recommend.  I am off to read lots of blogs now!

Enjoy the Full Moon tomorrow.

Bye for now,

Go mbeannai Dia duit.

Cait.

The Olympics

Banksy

Dear Diary,

Excellence can be obtained if you:

care more than others think is wise,

risk more than others think is safe,

dream more than others think is practical,

expect more than others think is possible.

Anon.

Here’s a thought, an early morning, listening to the news on the radio thought.

On a day when everyone is (unavoidably) thinking about the Olympics I got to thinking about a word (as you do) – the word is excellence and I wondered (as you do) if everyone probably excels at something, they surely do? What could each of us represent our country at and I am not talking just sport.

What could I excel at?

I struggled here and could only think of spelling and the use of correct grammar and that is not inborn but is the result of an excellent (that word again) South London grammar school education back in the mists of time.  I also have a talent for walking at a very fast speed – I have long legs and walked a lot (everywhere) from an early age and I really enjoyed what I think they now call ‘power walking’. Apart from that I am not sporty at all so could not represent my country at anything in that field.

Tell me one, two or three things at which you think you excel and please don’t be modest. Be objective and reveal your strengths and talents.

Before I go, here is a little bit of excellence from the Poet Laureate, Carol Ann Duffy.

Eton Manor


 The past is all around us, in the air,
the acres here were once 'the Wilderness'-
"Blimey, it's fit for a millionaire"-
where Eton Manor Boys Club came to train;
or, in the Clubhouse, (built 1913)
translated poverty to self-esteem,
camaraderie, and optimism similed in smiles.
Hackney Wick-
fleas, flies, bin-lids, Clarnico's Jam; the poor
enclosed by railway, marshland, factories, canal-
where Wellesley, Villiers, Wagg, Cadogan came,
philanthropists, to clear a glorious space;
connect the power of place to human hope,
through World War One, the Blitz, till 1967...
on this spot, functional, free, real- heaven.
This is legacy-
young lives respected, cherished, valued, helped
to sprint, swim, bowl, box, play, excel, belong;
believe community is self in multitude-
the way the past still dedicates to us
its distant, present light. The same high sky,
same East End moon, above this reclaimed wilderness,
where relay boys are raced by running ghosts.


Carol Ann Duffy


Don’t forget to reveal to me your excellence and hide away all modesty but if you are really stuck then tell me what you aspire to be excellent at (I am sure that 'at' at the end of the sentence is very bad grammatically, so no Olympic medal for me today).  I think it should be at what do you aspire to be excellent? :-)

Bye for now,
Cait.

Poem for today

Artist

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Mary Oliver

All things bookish

Moonlit Flit 

Jemima Jameson

I discovered this wonderful local artist recently.  Hares feature a lot in her work which pleased me no end.

Dear Diary,

Chords

Perhaps, when we’re half-asleep

the same hand that sows the stars

trails across the galactic lyre...

the dying wave reaching our lips

as two or three true words.

Don Paterson

All things books today. Perhaps I am in the mood for escapism from this vile weather. Never mind, a heat wave is coming soon or so they tell me.  I will believe it when I see it.

What is beside my bed?

Selected Poems by Don Paterson

Peaches for Monsieur Le Cure by Joanne Harris a kind of follow-on (a return) from Chocolat which I adored).

The News Where You Are by Catherine O’ Flynn

The Life of Rebecca Jones by Angharad Price.

What have I been reading lately?

The Lifeboat by Charlotte Rogan.  I took this with me to France recently and read some of it while I was on the ferry to St Malo. Probably not the book to read while you are at sea but I did survive. Like the sea, this book can be disturbing, dark and deep and it certainly got me thinking; it might be a good choice for my book group to read. Do try it.

I have been back from Brittany a few weeks now but I left a part of me there so I have read a few books with a French theme. I can heartily recommend The Price of Water in Finisterre, it’s not new and I did hear parts of it on Radio 4 a long while ago but the book is fantastic. More of a memoir, it is beautifully written by a poet, do try it if you haven’t already whether you love France as much as me or not.

I am starting to listen to Book at Bedtime this week which is Ancient Light by a favourite Irish writer of mine, John Banville. I am hoping that I will benefit from some early nights and listening to a story being read to me is lovely except that this one ends far too soon, fifteen minutes is just not long enough.

I have ordered from the library:

Sightlines by Kathleen Jamie (another poet) who has written a memoir.

Wild Geese and Swan by one of my most-favourite poets Mary Oliver (re-reads of course).

Witch Light by Susan Fletcher, she of Eve Green fame, that was such a good book and this newer one promises to be the same.

Now I have given up my job at the library I have all the time in the world; I just wish the sun would shine and the rain would stop. My plans for a lazy summer in the garden have gone out of the window – my roses are plentiful but they just rot on the bush they become so sodden. Plans to go off on jaunts with my camera have also gone awry.

 I have been given (by my borrowers) a big book token and would love suggestions as to how to spend it.  I am tempted to get all of Mary Oliver’s poems but am open to ideas so do tell me what book(s) you would choose to own if you were in my position. I know I will enjoy browsing in bookshops but need to get geared up for a journey as we have no decent bookshops close to where I live.

Before I go, if you haven’t yet read The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce or Mr Rosenblum’s List by Natasha Solomons do check them out  – they are both very ‘feel-good’ stories, slightly quirky and I recommend them highly for summer reads.

Time to restart the blessings again I think. How many a day?

The weather is set to improve.

For the first time in my life I have all the time  in the world....for  me. What is there to hate about early retirement? (apart from being broke).

I will be able to blog more and read comments.

The river has not flooded in spite of torrential rain yesterday.

My lovely friend and hairdresser who cut my hair, she lives close by, works from home and always cuts so well. I always used to hate going to the hairdressers but V is a treasure, now it’s just like visiting a friend for a chat and coming away feeling ‘lighter’.

I can smell the coffee.................

Before I go here are some words for a special someone whose birthday is today. Often on my mind, always in my heart, I wish we had been able to meet.

Vincent.

Vincent

Starry starry night, paint your palette blue and grey
Look out on a summer's day with eyes that know the darkness in my soul
Shadows on the hills, sketch the trees and the daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills, in colors on the snowy linen land

Now I understand what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for you sanity. How you tried to set them free
They would not listen they did not know how, perhaps they'll listen now

Starry starry night, flaming flowers that brightly blaze
Swirling clouds in violet haze reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue
Colors changing hue, morning fields of amber grain
Weathered faces lined in pain are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand 

For they could not love you, but still your love was true
And when no hope was left in sight, on that starry starry night
You took your life as lovers often do,
But I could have told you, Vincent,
This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you

Starry, starry night, portraits hung in empty halls
Frameless heads on nameless walls with eyes that watch the world and can't forget.
Like the stranger that you've met, the ragged man in ragged clothes
The silver thorn of bloody rose, lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow 

Now I think I know what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for you sanity How you tried to set them free
They would not listen they're not listening still
Perhaps they never will.

Don McLean

And guess what?

The sun is out.

Bye for now,

Go mbeannai Dia duit,

Cait.

  

PMQs: Anne Marie Morris's outburst in House of Commons

Don't you despair when you see how our parliamentary representatives behave in the House of Commons?  They were discussing education - if children (or teachers) behaved like that (or come to think of it anyone in the real world at any kind of meeting)what would we think?

Move Your Money UK · Bank On Something Better

Move Your Money UK · Bank On Something Better

Patchwork

She wore  a medieval patchwork dress,

honest and unpretentious,

its shapes and colours appeared to be random

with squares and triangles, stripes and stitches,

silks and gingham, checks and flowers,

all recycled treasure, a respected art from a byegone day.

She chose this dress for her wedding  on

a Full Moon day, a forget-me-not day,

a kaleidoscope day when anything seemed possible,

when even a rainbow might pale into insignificance.

She refused to wear white,

no earthy muted shades for her either;

instead she wore her joy like Joseph’s coat in a a riot of colours,

sexy scarlet, forest green, lapis lazuli and robins egg blue.

She wore a wreath of cornflowers in her hair.

She held a patchwork of flowers close to her heart:

bluebells, anemones, peonies and violets

lightly laced with scented herbs, criss-crossed with ivy for eternity,

all gathered from the meadow which was

part of a patchwork of greens, yellows and gold.

They met upon the mountain with their friends and kin.

Their hands fastened with patchwork ribbons

they leapt over the fire and later

when they lay down  on their marriage bed,

they kissed and pledged their love,

Casting aside the patchwork quilt

which would become their heirloom from this day,

he teased her in his very special way.

We need nothing but our love, my sweet soulmate,

you are my patchwork coverlet,

we are betrothed, we overlap,

we have now become as one,

.

Cait O’Connor

Le Minihic Sur Rance, Brittany

Dear Diary,


I have just returned from a lovely holiday in a beautiful part of Brittany (on the genealogy trail) and I have to say that part of me is still there.  What a civilised country France is; they definitely have life sussed; would that the UK was the same.


I returned to even more bad news on the banking front and to learn that the head of my own bank, Barclays, is accused of being one of the worst fraudsters.  If it is proven that the banks have been manipulating the interest rates and diddling people out of lots of money shouldn't that mean that everyone affected by this manipulation should be reimbursed or compensated? And surely criminals who commit fraud should be behind bars? Why on earth should there even be a debate about an enquiry for God's sake?  I have been fuming at the seriousness of the latest banking criminality which is what it is. And another thing - Barclays have been fined nearly £300 million by the Financial Services Authority - so who gets that money, in whose pockets does that money land in the end?


To brighten my mood I was looking on the Internet for this pic which a friend had posted on his Facebook page (and I loved it) 

I stumbled on this pic too which I also loved and which I should perhaps try to concentrate on but it is hard sometimes.

Perhaps if it would stop raining we would all feel a little happier?


How is your Sunday?


Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Mother is a verb, not a noun. Proverb

Dear Diary,

A mother is one to whom you hurry when you are troubled.  
Emily Dickinson

Artist Marie Witte

This is a continuation from my previous post.

Now Cherie Blair is getting her oar in and has criticised women who give up their career when they have children, labelling them unambitious and suggesting the decision impacts negatively on their kids.

I often meet people who say they could never have a dog because they work all day and it ‘wouldn’t be fair on the dog’.  How ironical that many of today’s parents are quite happy to leave their children every day with strangers.  These children will never have the one to one relationship and social life which is vital for proper development.  I would also think that these parents will come to regret this decision later in life once their children have flown the nest, which happens all too quickly.  Childhood is precious and child rearing is probably the most important job in the world.

I visited one of these nurseries once, when I was a student nurse. Parents ‘dropped off’ their children every day and some of them were quite young babies.  Some of them would be there for twelve hours. It reminded me of a dungeon, underground and windowless, I couldn’t believe it – I wouldn’t have left my dog there all day for one day let alone for the duration of a good part of her growing up life.

Many schools now have breakfast clubs which is really sad, they may have been set up for the right reasons but what sort of message is it sending out?  And surely many working parents will also use them just to lengthen the time spent away from their children. And now David Cameron wants to lengthen the hours of the schools’ babysitting service even more (see previous post). Perhaps I am cynical but the phrase social engineering keeps coming to mind, 

I know some folk have to work because, for whatever reason, they are really struggling income wise but I believe that the majority of parents who farm out their children are just plain greedy.  I escaped to Wales from the south east of England back in the nineties and even at that time the sole aim of a lot of people was to get an even bigger house and to do so they were taking on huge mortgages; their desire was to outdo their neighbours in every way and to acquire more and more materialistically. What many take for granted now I did without (and still do) but I worked as a mother full-time and stayed home with my children -  and they were the happiest days of my life.

As for ambition, my only ambition was then and is now for my children (and now my grandchildren) to be happy.

If I am old fashioned I take it as a compliment.

Bye for now,

Go mbeannai Dia duit,

Cait.

A Rant

Dear Diary,

Children are the living messages we send to a time we will not see.  

Neil Postman
The Disappearance of Childhood 


One wonders why some people have children?  A fashion accessory perhaps?


 Read this article in the Telegraph - child abuse I call it.


On top of this David Cameron thinks parents (from an underclass in society only?) need to be taught parenting skills (this comes from someone who has always had a nanny for his own children and who, along with his wife, leaves his eight year old in a pub toilet and goes home without her).


This farming out of children is a time bomb waiting to go off because these children will be affected psychologically. We should be aiming for a society where one parent is able to stay at home for a few years (and that is all it is out of one's life) and give children the proper care they deserve. 


Rant over,


Cait

Molly's Blog

Dear Diary,

It is Sunday and I am having a day off from blogging. My cat has offered to stand in for me. Be gentle with her if you do comment; Molly is a novice and this is actually her very first attempt at writing (please leave a few comments though or she will lose confidence).

My Name Is Molly

My name is Molly (she had to choose an Irish name for me even though I’m Welsh!).

Once a farm kitten, I am now a proper cat and as I said I am of Wales.  I live in an old blacksmith’s cottage on a small holding of land by a river.

I am white, I am wild and I am very, very wise.

I am pure white (all over) and no I am not an albino, I am not deaf and I am not blind. And my eyes are not pink, they are the clearest green.

I live with Cait, my familiar, the ‘witch’. Yes I know most witches own a black cat, trust mine to be different. I think she got confused being a white witch and all (well I think she’s one and I'm not alone there I can tell you).  She wonders how I stay so white living in this grubby, muddy, area, I have never been otherwise; it is a Big Mystery.

What follows is what they call on these blog things an 

About Me

I am no longer a youngster and my days of motherhood are long gone. I appreciate nowadays a slow and rhythmical routine. When I was young and in my prime I raised two litters and gave birth to a mix of all black and all white babies each time and in equal numbers. And I’ll tell you something else, very coincidental.  My twin sister Mia (who lived with me) had litters at the same time and she did exactly the same. Yes it was the same father and you’ve guessed it, he was a pure all black’un.  Tom cats are sooooo promiscuous.  It would be racist to say that black ones are even more so and anyway I know that males are all the same. My familiar says she wouldn’t have a tom in the house as they are always straying or spraying (I don’t know which is worse). He was a handsome fella though....... 

Anyway, quite a while after my second brood were found new homes in the area I was taken to that place where they do things to you to make you better if you are poorly. I don’t know what they did to me though because I had a long sleep and when I woke up I didn’t feel that good. Soon recovered though and didn’t have any more babies after that.  She called it being ‘spayed’. 

In case you are wondering what happened to my twin Mia, this is where you may need a hanky, I know that humans are prone to ‘leaking’ from their eyes when they are moved emotionally. (Unlike cats who never reveal their deepest feelings). Well one day my dearest Mia went out the catflap, never returned and was never seen again. She was a tad wilder than me but she always came home. There was no sign of her. She had not been run over. Foxes were blamed, locals with guns, we just hadn’t a clue.  We were all devastated. She and I used to lie like yin and yang on the armchair by the old Rayburn, after Mia disappeared I never went near that chair for over a year and between you and me it broke my heart losing my other half.

Patience is my middle name, my fur has never flown, I never scratch or bite, never have but then my familiar is (usually) a gentle soul and we get on well together. I love children and tolerate dogs, in fact I loved Finn the dear old lurcher who sadly moved on to Animal Heaven quite recently, God bless him. 

I only just about tolerate the collie though.

Cait (my familiar) tells me often that she wants to come back as a cat in her next life and to live in a nice home with loving owners. I take that as a compliment. Did I mention that she talks to me a lot? She talks to the dog too (and plants!). Better keep it quiet.  I do question her sanity.

Anyway I digress as usual. Here are my:

Hobbies and Interests

I am fully qualified in Zen.  My days usually pass pleasantly and are interspersed with:

spells of meditation and meal-breaks,

miaowing,

nightime forays into the wilderness which surrounds this old cottage (paradise for cats),

birdwatching from the windowsills,

serious sleeping,

lightly dozing,

sun basking, (rare lately),

rolling over and over (it takes me back to my youth),

chasing shadows,

purring,

posing,

being superior to the collie,

catching birds, mice, and lots more creatures but this is never appreciated,

sitting on Cait’s lap and watching the thing by the computer which moves a lot and she calls a mouse (she is mad),

acting unruly if I feel like it, refusing to be ruled, tamed or authorised in any way,

not always answering to my name being called (it depends if there is a chance of food),

enjoying being self obsessed,  ‘sufficent to the self thereof’,

jumping on certain people’s laps whether they want me to or not,

ignoring folk I don’t take to.

jumping on my familiar’s bed in the mornings and gently ‘nudging’ her into getting up to feed me my breakfast crunchies.

Nocturnal in my habits, I sleep by day on an armchair beside the old Rayburn on a cushion and I have my very own multicoloured blanket of crocheted wool. I sometimes (since Finn has died) curl up on the rug with the collie.

Humans have much to learn from my ways, don’t you think?

Miaow...........................

Molly.

Ty yr Gof

Dear Diary

It has been such a long time since I have blogged properly.Today I just want to draw attention to the school meals blog called Never Seconds written by a nine year old girl Martha Payne - her local council did try and ban her from continuing with it even though her school were encouraging her and this is partly why I am promoting it.  She has raised a lot of money for charity along the way. Do visit, the idea is brilliant and what a great way to start her career in journalism. More power to her and to the freedom of speech..........

I am sorry I have not been visiting blogs of late but am pleased to say I am back to normal wellness now and I have given up my job so I shall have more time for writing and pursuing my many other interests. I shall miss the borrowers at the library and the books but hope to retain my links with both.

I shall finish with a poem. It is about my home in Wales but the picture (above) is not of my cottage it is in fact a cottage in my spiritual home (Ireland).  I stumbled on this very fine artist Donald Curran - do check out his paintings.

There I have given you two very fine places to visit on this wet and windy summer's day.

More power to you,

Cait.

Nearly forgot....................

Ty yr Gof

(Blacksmith’s Cottage)

I’m old now, set in stone and slow to heat,

needing a flame within,always burning,

to warm my heart and circulate my blood

but mine’s a kind of beauty that can snare

those with a soul.

I sit beside the Dulas bank, I watch

her waters rise and fall; for ever and

ever over stones without end she will

whisper or roar, she will amble or race.

Centuries of heartbeats have drummed down deep

within my walls; births, deaths, peace, war, through storms

and calm and all that bravely goes between

I have been loved.

Did I neglect to mention the mountains?

They surround me on all sides, they fold me,

they hold me and they share all my secrets,

strengthening my spell with the power of  peace,

cast beneath the magic of the Dulas moon.

Cait O’Connor

Leeds, (it's just a poem).

Leeds

I don’t live in Leeds, I die there, slowly

Banished there by my peers, or shall I just

be kind and call it my fate.  Leeds left deep

scars in my psyche when their team beat mine in

the FA Cup:  (Leeds 3, Crystal Palace 1).

Then, when a girl from Leeds joined my school

I learned what bluntness meant; it stayed with me.

My energies drain now in its suburbs.

At night I dream of the Kingdom of Elmet,

the forest of Loidis, sheep producing

white woollen cloth, flaxen fields of yellow-grey.

Finishing mills, giving way to foundries,

iron and industry incarnating to

Leeds and its locals; Loiners, blunt of speech,

hard of eye.  My southern softness  seems so 

out of sync so I walk by the Aire,

look to the Atlantic, escape to the

Pennines, my heart just  longing  for Wales.

Cait O’Connor

Ode to a Donkey

Ode to a Donkey

I first saw you in a Breton field,

recognised a familiarity.

We were adoptees, overly-laden,

our mothers were both beasts of burden too.

Like my dog and me we did not need to speak.

Scarred, haunted somewhat, sad-eyed and stubborn,

our pasts were a fable of sorts, a legend

but you wore a holy cross for all to see.

Your back carried my children but you would

not be overloaded.  Long-lived and much

longer-loved, you were the bravest and the

best of beasts, a dear and darling donkey.

Cait O’Connor