Feel like I’m out of control and spinning around like poor Kylie - don’t know whether it’s an age thing or an HIV thing, but can’t seem to keep up with myself these days. Either it’s because I can’t do as much as I used to in any given day, or that everything just takes longer - especially bending down. I’m sure Kylie doesn’t have that problem, otherwise the words to the song would be, “I’m gonna bend down, get out of my way,” which is what I have to sing, followed by, “Now, help me get up, my knees have got locked.”

Maybe the world is just spinning too fast and everyone, including me and dear Kylie, is trying to catch up with it, because aside from me and my mate Kyles, all my household appliances seem to be spinning around as well; the washer, the tumble dryer, the microwave, my wonderful Tefyl Actifry which should really by rights be worn out by now the amount of chips we consume in this household.

No time anymore for blogging, or anything that rhymes with it - will leave that up to you, but not a word starting with ‘d’ of course. Not really sure what that activity entails actually, think it’s having it off with a stranger in a parked car. How do these people find the time to get up to these extra curricular antics I want to know? I would be far too busy to indulge in such antics, even if I wanted to, which for the record, I most definitely don’t. I’m far too involved with my various projects; painting commissions, running Thrivine our local HIV support group, editing the video diary for the ‘Positive Picture’ project, no wonder my head’s in a spin watching all those clips over and over again and trying to line them up. Mind you, I think I’ve found my new vocation. Spielberg - move out of my way.

I even managed to cram in a quick interview for BBC Radio Lancashire, the day when older people being infected with HIV was hitting the headlines. I find all news reports much too fast these days, the newsreaders and radio presenters trying to cram too much in in too short a time. However, the presenter that interviewed me live on air had no excuse whatsoever for cutting me short when I was trying to inform the local public about Thrivine. Typical DJ, he preferred the sound of his own voice rather than informing the listeners, especially the older ones, about the new shocking statistics regarding HIV - probably thought it didn’t apply to the likes of his esteemed good self. Well, have I got news for him - or I would have had if only he’d of let me speak.

Luis, my Spanish counterpart, is temporarily back in residence so once again I’m forced to contend with the usual language barrier, which is all adding to the confusion in my spinning brain. I simply haven’t got the time to think in another language. I have to keep asking my son (who speaks Spanish like a native) to translate for me. It’s all too easy to get confused when not speaking your mother tongue and talking of mothers, my mum used to hate it when Luis and I spoke Spanish and always complained that she felt left out. “What did he say?” she would keep repeating. Well, she might well have asked, I don’t really know myself half the time.

To be honest, I spend most of my time trying to avoid the men in my household. They sound so bad tempered when they are speaking Spanish and tend to growl at each other, and me - but that’s nothing new, in any language. We attended my cousin’s belated sixtieth birthday party on Friday, which had been delayed due to the horrendous chemo she’d been forced to endure whilst undergoing treatment for ovarian cancer. Thankfully she’d made it through, so I’d bought her a brightly coloured sarong and matching fan for when she goes back to Spain, the dream that had kept her going through the nightmare of chemo. “Que regalo (present) es?” Luis growled at me. “Eees un sarong,” I told him proudly, “And un brightly coloured albondiga.” The brows knotted, the growl intensified and he became quite incensed - “Que dices Adriana? (what are you talking about you mad woman).

I should have said albanica, which means fan. Instead I’d told him it was a brightly coloured meatball. Luis was not amused. The Spanish take the matter of fans very seriously, especially in regard to football - champinones, champinones. I’d better be careful, I think that might mean mushrooms and it should have been campeones, champions. I’d better look it up. Don’t want to cause any more trouble.

The use of the Spanish fan is a whole language in itself, but if used incorrectly, it could get a senorita into a whole lot of trouble. For example, if you touch your right cheek with the fan it means yes and the left cheek no. A closed fan touching the right eye means, “When may I be allowed to see you?” But if you poke it in your left eye, or your right eye for that matter, you’d better go straight to the doctor. If the fan is held over the left ear (note to self - I might need to remember this, especially if he keeps on growling at me) it means, “I wish to get rid of you.” If a senorita suspects her man is being unfaithful, she touches the tip of her nose with the fan, meaning, something doesn’t smell good round here (other note to self, that might come in useful too in regard to men in households feet).

I note they don’t call girls Fanny anymore, which is a good job really as it is now a slang word of course for women’s bits. I looked up the origins of the name and it derives from a book by Fanny Hill called, “Memoirs of a woman of pleasure.” I also discovered that Jack and Danny is the cockney rhyming slang for Fanny.

Equally confusing was trying to explain to Luis what another cousin was saying when she said, “I were agait,” which in the Lancashire dialect means I was saying, or I was talking about.

“Why she say she khis gate? She not gate - gate fence.”

“Well she could be a fence actually,” I began, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

The other day, Luis was lying prone on the sofa watching the bicycling (yet more things spinning around) as is his wont, when he suddenly leapt up shouting and shaking his head from side to side and growling like a mad dog. “Got us Adriana - got us.”

“Got us what?” I replied, thinking he had finally mastered the vagarities of the Lancashire dialect. But he meant gottas (drops) gottas were dripping from the ceiling and landing on his head. Panic stations. Where was the water coming from? Turned out to be a leaking radiator valve in the study.

Never a dull moment!

No time for hula hooping these days. When I was telling my cousin about the acupuncture points on my hula hoop, she asked me aghast if I meant needles. Hardly, you would end up with a perforated waist, which would make it easy to tear yourself in two I suppose, which I feel I’m having to do these days twenty four seven. I’d better be careful I suppose not to keep overdoing it, otherwise I’ll make myself ill and end up at the doctors - the spin doctor of course.

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Lettuce be Silly! 

I am new woman - have just returned from holiday in Ibeeeeza with my sistah, where in pursuit of more brain power and flatter tums we eat nothing but feeeesh whilst at same time (like the silly or mad cows we often is) chomp our way through a veritable field of frilly lettuce leaves. Was amazed by the many variations and spectacular colours of lettuce there are these days;  curly bleached yellowy strands like tangly permed hair, vicious looking pointy green arrow spear heads, girly frills resembling voluminous ballet dresses. A new slang word for frilly lettuce - the desmond tu tu? 

I decided I didn’t know enough about the not so humble lettuce so had a quick Googledoo when I got back. Many different names popped (or cropped) up, sounding more like Brazilian call girls - Lollo Rosso, described as highly attractive and heavily frilled, usually sporting saucy pinky leaf margins. Lollo Biondo, a bright green version of Lollo Rosso. Lovina who is more ‘bolt’ resistant and her mate Loma, deeply toothed with loose leaf tip burn. Sounds painful, I’d stay away from her. Then we get on to the more ominous or masculine sounding names such as the Black Seeded Simpson - he doesn’t sound very appetizing but depends on your taste in lettucemen. Of course we have the more familiar Iceberg, the overrated (at least in my opinion) Rocket, and not forgetting Little Gem (ah bless!) and the Royal Oak Leaf, which unlike me can stand for longer without getting a yellow bottom. 

Lettuce is a source of vitamin K which we all need for a healthy immune system, especially people living with HIV. I’d never actually heard of vitamin K- I thought alphabetically the list of vitamins stopped after vitamin E, but apparently Dam and Doisy (distant relations of Dam and Buggerit) shared the 1943 Nobel Prize for medicine for their work with this lesser known vitamin. Another thing I didn’t know about lettuce is that it is an opiate and produces a milky fluid known as ‘lettuce opium’ which has sedative quality. Those ‘know it all’ Romans ate it at the end of meal to put them to sleep, so you know what to do next time you have trouble sleeping, forget the mug of Horlicks, counting sheep or popping pills, nibble away on a few lettuce leaves instead. 

Another thing I discovered whilst on my hols was that I’d missed my true vocation. Against my better judgment (I’m not keen on water sports of any kind apart from bubble baths) I was forced by my more adventurous sis to venture out on the high seas on a bright yellow pedalo, which we christened Daffodil. To my surprise I found I was a natural pedalower and what’s more I liked to have, in fact insisted on, total control of the rudder. I think this must go back to the time when I was first diagnosed and hallucinating on sustiva or was it efavirenz? I can’t remember now, that time like the sixties, is a bit of a blur to me. Coincidentally, like Daffodil, the huge impossible to swallow pills were bright yellow. After downing those first anti-retrovirals I remember informing my mum that I was a paddle steamer peddling down the Mississippi wearing huge boxing gloves.

This was a typical conversation between me, captain Daff and my even Daffter sis on our bright yellow pedalo - tanks for taking me out today Captain Daff - you’re very welcome misses (for some reason Captain Daff was Irish) however da waves are a bit lively today to be sure, so weasil have to be careful, so it is, not to end up in Morocco.

 I khav no fear, you very good captain Daff - this is sistah’s politician/banker speak and use of crafty motivational skills to make me do all the pedaling whilst she lies prone on back of pedalo sunbathing. I’d like a swim now captain Daff - she informs me. Hang on misses, will pedal you to da blue waters. Whilst sis swims in deep blue waters, pedal protectively round her like big yellow mother duck employing newly acquired rudder skills till sis gets tired. Seriously consider leaving her at one point and hot-pedaling back to shore - legs getting bit tired, but am good trustworthy captain, so don’t abandon her to health freak German swimmers, sharks etc - but oh oh, ship or pedalo ahoy, other pedalo on horizon. How very dare it. All able bodied pedalowers back on board shouts Captain Daff, other pedalo captain maybe not know how to control rudder like me.

Narrowly miss head on collision but me very good captain. Safely steer vessel back to shore. Get off Daffodil and go to eat promised bribe of nice healthy lunch. Oh no, she looking for feeesh again. We look heverywhere in every bar for menu del dia. Many weird sounding feesh. I order sardines because at least know what they are, but they hiss enormous. Chop off heads, one by one, then much spitting out of wiry bones, wiry bones wrapped round teeth like braces. Oh well, always wanted straight teeth.

What we do now asks sis? We tourists so we go shop-hing of course. We go to Spanish version of pound shop, which used to be hundred peseta shop. Sis think I say hundred potato shop, then we laughing and singing and doin arm movements to song, Oh Macarena - but instead singing, Oh las potatas. We think very funny but is because we drinking whole bottle of Pescara.

Last day of hol we back on Daffodil, imagining people on shore watching every day daft hingleesh sistahs. Maybe looking at us through binoculars - pedlophiles says sis an we laughin again.

Sis going back to Holland but Luis comin to hingland with me so course have to eat final steeenky feesh before we get on plane. Bit fed up of feesh by now, but what first thing Luis and me do when get back to hingland - h’eat feesh and cheeps of course. 

I am now back in casa continuing the good work by making healthy miracle juice with cabbage, spinach and lettuce leaves of course for vitamin K supply. Put too many lettuce leaves in juicer and it gets pegado - stuck in Spanish. Miracle juice containing all those lettuce leaves supposed to detoxify body, purify system and clean out colon. Lettuce just hope is not a case of colonic irritation - or eat shites and leaves. 

I saw this on face book – “If you have a passion for pedalo sign up.”   

204 people like this.  

205 now.

You also like to pedalo and want to raise money for worthy charity?

 Take part in Extreme pedalo 2010 16th – 18th of July. An endurance pedalo race along the Thames for ‘City Gateway’ a charity supporting disadvantaged young people.

www.citygateway.org.uk.

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Are you a secret Kellogg’s crunchy nut addict? I know I am although I haven’t yet resorted to wearing my lap top on my head like that daft man in the advert. I am sitting here with a bag on my head though, you know one of those plastic hoods you stick on the end of your nozzle (hairdryer I mean not nose) and I do sneak around in the middle of the night in my mismatched Jim jams hunting for crunchy nuts.  

I have been forbidden by my higher self (as Van the Man would say) from indulging in this nightly practice, but as I am half asleep when the craving hits me the sensible side of my brain (for what it is these days) hasn’t yet woken up. So I arise from my bed like a sleepwalker, usually at dawn’s early light, sneak down to the kitchen, fill a big bowl full of crunchy nut flakes then take them back up and guzzle them in bed.

This is the nearest I get to enjoying my food these days because the meds tend to make me feel constantly nauseous. There is, it seems, nothing I can do about this. I’ve tried taking the dam things at varying times of the day or the night, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference. I suppose I should be used to it by now, but it’s a bit like suffering from a permanent case of morning sickness, unless I’ve had an unusually long confinement of course and I might get a sudden shock like Mimi in the last episode of Shameless. Although eight years is a bit of a long pregnancy by anyone’s standards, even an elephant (almost two years). Then there’s the frilled shark, obviously named because it gets its frills from biting someone’s leg off, or otherwise known as chlamydoselachus anguineus (sounds like a sexually transmitted disease) who is pregnant for forty two months.

I learnt some other interesting facts during my research, did you know for instance that a snail breathes from its foot, an Emperor penguin can be four feet tall - that’s almost as big as me and an oyster can change its gender back and forth. Is that why they are known as aphrodisiacs?

Anyway, back to my crunchy nut addiction, the problem is keeping it a secret, because I make so much racket pouring the flakes out of the packet (new advertising slogan possibly?) I waken the whole household and probably even the neighbours. Who designs this noisy wrapping? Someone who obviously wants to create the optimum racket or wants us crunchy nut addicts to be discovered. Or is it because, as it says on the box, every flake is fortified with iron? It certainly sounds like it and the clanging of the avalanche of iron coated flakes is particularly noticeable in the hush of dawn when nothing is stirring not even a mouse.

Although there might be the odd verminous presence in the semi darkness, following the trail of crunchy nut confetti I have scattered in my wake on the kitchen floor.

But it doesn’t stop there, when I get back into bed, I practically deafen myself crunching the bloody things. Snap crackle and pop is nothing compared to the deafening crunch of a munched cluster of crunchy nut flakes. Another slogan - I obviously missed my true vocation.

Well at least I can console myself with the fact that although my not so secret addiction is fattening, nuts in general are good for me and they allegedly reduce cholesterol, a fact anyone who is on the meds will be interested in. Willo, who isn’t on the meds but lives off nuts and stores them all over the house in Tupperware boxes is doing great for an ageing squirrel (sorry Willo).

I decided to investigate further into the health benefits of nut nibbling and came across this - ‘Welcome to my nuts, upload a sexy photo of yourself and the winner will be featured in NUTS magazine.’

This is obviously a top shelf mag for men or nutty as opposed to nice boys.

Like that old time music hall song - “Hold your hand out you nutty boy.”

I carried on with my nut investigation only to find there is some dispute about whether nuts should be called nuts in the first place, because only certain of them are considered to be true nuts. For example, Brazil nuts are not nuts in the biological sense. So why call them nuts I say - as if life isn’t confusing enough as it is, especially when you get to my age.

I think my hair is probably dry now so I can take this pesky bag off my head. As I can’t afford to go to the hairdresser to get my roots done, I did them myself with some moustache bleaching cream (Willos! This is an ‘in’ joke between me and her) so it will be interesting to see the results. And talking of jokes someone sent me what was described as the best blonde joke ever.

A blonde calls her boyfriend and says, “Please come over here and help me. I have a killer jigsaw puzzle, and I can’t figure out how to get started.”

Her boyfriend asks, “What is it supposed to be when it’s finished?”

The blonde says, “According to the picture on the box, it’s a rooster.”

Her boyfriend decides to go over and help with the puzzle.

She lets him in and shows him where she has the puzzle spread all over the table.

He studies the pieces for a moment, then looks at the box, then turns to her and says, “First of all, no matter what we do, we’re not going to be able to assemble these pieces into anything resembling a rooster.”

He takes her hand and says, “Second, I want you to relax. Let’s have a nice cold drink, and then, “he said with a deep sigh………. “Lets put all the cornflakes back in the box.”

This joke might not be as daft as it seems. Apparently the food giant plans to burn the Kellogg’s signature on to individual flakes using a laser and will then insert a proportion of these branded flakes into every box.

Well that will be fun won’t it, I can’t wait - but then again, I am a blonde.

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Flipping through a magazine I came across an article by some daft woman journalist entitled - ‘Fat Fiddling’ - in which she writes -

“I’ve just been reading about a new surgery which uses unwanted fat from around the body to boost the size of your boobs. Now I’m not a huge fan of surgery, but if I could give my unwanted fat to someone else then I think they could be on to something. Mind you I’m a bit worried that it could get out of control - imagine all the weird shapes people would end up if they kept moving lumps of fat around their bodies, putting them in their cheekbones whatever - let’s talk.”

OK daft woman journalist, let’s do that, let’s talk, let’s tell it like it is. If you were a woman living with HIV you wouldn’t need surgery in order to move your body fat around, the meds would do it for you, although it might not end up where you wanted it.

In an attempt to do some ‘fat fiddling’ myself, I invested in a hula hoop. The Lord Webber’s brother is a fat fiddler isn’t he, or is that a cello he has between his legs, or maybe as Mae West would say, he’s just pleased to see everyone! Whatever it is, it’s not a hula hoop, although hula hooping is all the rage these days, especially in America after Michelle Obama was photographed exuberantly hula hooping with her daughter. Hooping, as it’s called in the States, must appeal to politicians and their wives because the record for the most hoops twirled simultaneously is 132 and that was set by ‘Dizzy hips’ Blair in November 2009. So that’s what Tony’s up to these days - but then again, he was always good at spinning. Wonder if ‘Busy Lips’ Cherie is a rock-a-hula baby as well?

Those who have caught the hooping as opposed to the HIV bug claim it tones the midriff, boosts your mood, livens up your sex life and provides spiritual enlightenment. None of these things needless to say applies to the HIV bug, which adds fat to the midriff by way of lipodostropy, does absolutely nothing for your mental state and completely ruins your sex life.

Some aficionados have gone one step further and taken up fire hooping. Spokes are set into the outside of the hoop and tipped with wicks, which are soaked in fuel and then lit. Johnny Cash must have invented it because he was always singing about stepping into a burning ring of fire.

But hooping isn’t only happening in America - Oh no. Hoop Man a certain John Parnell who is 55 and from Nuneaton is profiting from the craze by manufacturing hoops as well as running hoop dance classes around the UK. The basic technique of keeping the hula hoop (as well as your knickers) from dropping to your ankles is to bend slightly at the knees then sway back and forth rather than circle the hips. Parnell teaches the Cristobel Zamor method (bet that’s not her real name) otherwise Hoop Girl as she is known in the US, who has devised a form of hula dancing that involves mesmeric spinning whirling and thrusting. Thrusting? That doesn’t sound very ladylike does it - and you would have to be very confident that your knicker elastic would hold up.The Nuneaton Hooper (sounds like some kind of kinky pervert) teaches hoopers of all ages and abilities and has sold hoops to people in their eighties - mind you, they haven’t a clue what to do with them. Although in Tahoe California a 102 year old woman recently credited her physical agility to her hula sessions.

In the hooping life - a forthcoming documentary about the craze, a man who suffers from depression tells how the rocking the cradle motion soothes and calms him. Taking up hooping is probably a good idea if you have anti-social leanings or dislike contact with other people, because as Nuneaton Hoop Man correctly points out, when you have a 40in hoop around you no one can encroach on your personnel space.

A woman in the same film enthuses that hoopers say their sex life has improved. Well, hoop hoop hurray for them is all I can say.

However it is deemed unwise to take up hooping if you have back problems or if you are pregnant. Although one pregnant hooper allegedly hulaed for the whole nine months and claims it helped her to tone up after the birth. As she puts it - ‘I’m one sexy hooping momma.’

Another undeniably sexy hooper (although I don’t know about momma) Beyonce claims that hooping keep her abs hard and seriously tones the butt. Even beardy Branson is getting in on the act and Virgin active health clubs now offer hulaerobics classes in their nationwide clubs where advanced hoopers can then graduate to the hula funk class.

The Sacred Circle, a Californian new age hooping organisation describes the ‘whirling sufi dervishness’ of the hula as a tool to access your higher truth. I cannot confirm whether this is truth or fiction, higher or otherwise, as I can’t keep my own particular hoop whirling long enough to find out. This might be because my hula hoop has inbuilt plastic balls which are supposed to give you a massage at the same time, so can be rather painful to say the least. I’m also having a bit of a job keeping it up as the bishop said to the actress because of my lack of hips.

What do you call a hippies wife - Mississippi!

On a more serious note, ‘Hooping for Hope’ is a website for breast cancer survivors which promotes the healing process through encouragement of hope and laughter. Nothing against these brave women (and men who can also suffer from breast cancer) and all the very best to them, but Thrivine our local support group which was nominated for a CVS award, missed out on the much needed cash (by one vote apparently) to a support group for breast cancer survivors.

It’s always the same - HIV unfortunately still suffers from the misguided pre-conception that somehow, unlike breast cancer or other terminal or chronic illnesses, we have brought it upon ourselves.

Here’s ‘hooping’ we are more successful with our next funding venture otherwise we will be forced to fold.

Even though there is money specifically set aside for HIV/AIDS our local council refuses to cough up.

Well ‘hooping’ cough to them and all who sail in her!

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In memory of my dear friend Marc Rushton who passed away tonight after a sudden brain haemorrhage that would have left him paralysed and possibly brain damaged had he survived. The news that his life support machine was about to be switched off came to me by way of a text message from his distraught mother as we were having the first AGM for Thrivine our HIV support group for which he was a founder member and also a trustee. We were re-electing the trustees at the time and I had been unanimously voted in again as Chair.Marc was what I described as my ‘main man’ in regard to Thrivine. I was aware that he was seriously ill and that this was likely to happen, I was ready for the bad news, but where there was life there was hope I believed. I am sure that Marc chose his moment, that he was with us at that point saying goodbye to us all. To his positive comrades in arms.Only days before we’d been talking and laughing on the phone about our plan to start an old folks home for people with HIV. We tried to come up with a name incorporating Thrivine or HIV - HIVEN, CLOSER TO HIVEN, HIVEN ON EARTH. We decided it would have to be in Blackpool so that we could ride up and down the prom on our mobility scooters and go to ‘Funny Girls’ and all the drag shows, play bingo and eat fish and chips wearing our “Kiss me quick if you dare,” HIV hats.

I know how much Thrivine meant to him and how important it would be to him that we carry on. We always laughed together even when he was going through what to other people would be considered as insurmountable health problems. On the many times he was laid up in hospital he even managed to do things for Thrivine, in fact he signed the new constitution when he was having a blood transfusion - and me so squeamish sitting at his side. I could only do that because of his optimism and sense of humour. He could always make me laugh even when I was at my lowest ebb by doing his Dame Edna Everidge impressions.

Marc had an unfailing optimism that denied how ill he really was. I knew how ill he was but somehow I thought he’d survive.

“We made it through the rain,” was Marc’s theme song and we adopted it for Thrivine as our group rallying song. We sang it at my sixtieth birthday holding hands in a big circle. Sadly Marc didn’t make it through the rain, but like his name he did make his mark and I will make sure that his mark, that this Marc, Marc Rushton will never be forgotten. Thrivine will go on and do what we set out to do, which is to raise awareness and combat HIV related stigma.

Marc very bravely spoke out on World AIDS Day and revealed his positive status to the media in order to raise awareness in the hope that it would stop other people contracting this terrible anti social disease. In the newspaper article he said, “I feel like I’ve been given this for a reason and I have to talk about it now.”

I think he knew in his heart he didn’t have much time. His time may have run out but his legacy will never be forgotten. I will make sure of that.

Marc missing you already possum.

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Like a Virgin

Beardy Branson promised it would be seamless - leave Sky today he beckoned from every magazine page, bill board and flier, we will even write the goodbye letter for you. In the interest of economy I made the call. Never trust a man with a white beard - look at father Christmas, he doesn’t even exist. But how pleasant the young virgin on the other end of the line, how polite and concerned she appeared to be about my bills, how everyone, even she, was forced to downsize these days to cut the costs. She was so nice I agreed to everything white beard had on offer, even the mobile phone.

“The engineers will be there on Saturday to change you over - no you won’t need to do a thing, just relax and enjoy your new package.”

Relax? Virgin woman lied, beardy Branson lied, the changeover was anything but seamless. First the engineer lads from Liverpool tried to escape without giving me the HD box included in the package. Luckily caught them in time before they scuttled off like rats up a drain. Unfortunately they’d gone before I realised my upstairs computer wouldn’t connect to the modem. “Plug in cable,” bad tempered woman with non comprehendible accent residing on other side of world screamed at me. “But my computer has wireless connection built in. Do I have to have wire trailing from downstairs?” scream back in disgust. Must admit at this point I was a little confused about the difference between a modem and a wireless router - blame it on the meds or my age or both.

“Plug in cable.” she keeps repeating. “Where I plug cable? My computer upstairs. I didn’t have to plug in cable with Sky,” sulk petulantly, “And can you please put another virgin person on. I don’t like your attitude, besides which I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

Next virgin even more bad tempered than first. “Have to buy wireless router?” I ask horrified. “We are putting wireless router in post you silly old not computer literate English woman.”

She didn’t actually say that, but it was obvious that’s what she was thinking. “How long have to wait?” I enquire. “Four to five days,” bad tempered virgin informs me. “But beardy promised changeover would be seamless. Now will be left without computer for five days. This unthinkable want to speak to complaints department.”

“Complaints department closed madam.”

“Closed? When open?”

“Monday.”

“Monday?” scream. “Right, that’s it, I want to cancel package right now. Don’t want to be a Virgin anymore, want to go back to nice trusty dependable sky.”

 “Must call back Monday.”

 Finally, five virgins later got nice Scottish man with almost comprehendible accent. Turned out I needed a separate wireless router which Liverpool lads weren’t allowed to install or even carry in van for some legal reason about not touching new virgin customer’s computers.

Result was I’ve been offline for a week, hence no activity on blog or anywhere else for that matter. I now shudder at the sight of red. Everything to do with Virgin red. Seeing red. Red rag to a bull. Even gone off the red ribbon because it’s bloody red, besides which I’ve been turned down for the positive women twinning programme for this years International AIDS conference. Will not be going to Vienna after all, only women from the eastern block, not women from the northern block as in Blackburn with Darwen. Us northern pozzers are out of the picture, but at least our support group thrivine got funding for the Positive Picture.

Talking of pictures, have to say my new HD TV is fantastic. Maybe I should approach Beardy for funding? I’ll write him a note and send it up the chimney. And just to be on the safe side, in case he’s reading this, actually now I’m finally online, the mobile cancelled and the picture absolutely brilliant it was worth the changeover after all. Added to which customer services called me today and as a good will gesture knocked 25 quid off my first bill.

Like a virgin? - yes, I do.

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silentlips©adrienneseed.

So this Spanish man who loves his rice is dining at a typical Spanish restaurant. First he chooses ensalada de arroz (rice salad?) followed by arroz a la marinera (fisherman’s rice) followed by paella (rice with a few mussel shells and prawn whiskers thrown in) and of course to finish postre de arroz (rice pudding to you and me). A band was playing that night. “Do you have any requests senor?” asks the camerero.

“Si,” responds the diner, “Something by arroz Stewart.”

“Rice pudding Stewart?Don’t get it,” I tell Luis.

“Arroz - Roth, Roth Stewart,” Luis explains. Spanish can’t pronounce letter d.

“That is stupid joke,” I tell him. “Spanish sense of humour too silly.”

“Well, engleesh humour sorrybull,” he replies.Typical Spanish - they have to bring bulls and donkeyhotes into everything. “Donkey falls down well,” Luis tries again. “What shall we do?” farmer asks wife. Wife replies, “Throw him paja (straw) because agua (water) he is not short of.”

Paja also means stupid person so this joke can easily be misinterpreted. Jack Paja Straw! No offence Jack, have to say that living in Blackburn in case he gets in again.

Luis still laughing at donkey joke, donkeyjokey, but as Engleesh don’t tend to have donkeys, or wells, this joke not go down well (ha ha double play on words!) Rod rice pudding Stewart and rice as in Chinese take-aways far more applicable.

Rice is the most important staple food for a large part of the world’s population including Blackburn. Staple means food that can be stored throughout the year and not famous stationary store. Rice is sometimes tossed at weddings instead of confetti. This tradition dates back to Roman times when the bride carried a sheaf of wheat rather than a bouquet of flowers. The guests tossed grains of wheat at her and she wore wheat in her hair.

Weetabix? Shredded wheat?

On a bad hair day my hair tends to look a bit like shredded wheat, especially if I haven’t been conditioning it properly.

Nowadays I suppose we could also toss Special K or Kellogg’s crunchy nut clusters, or my own personal favourite when I wake up in the middle of the night Frosties. But sadly the shredded wheat tossing custom fell by the wayside under the reign of Queen Elizabeth 1 when instead the wheat was baked into small cakes then crumbled over the bride’s head - and probably used after to make the trifle. In later times rice replaced wheat because it was cheaper and the rice tossing tradition has stuck to this day.

During my rice based research I kept coming upon the intriguing question, “Do birds explode if they eat wedding rice?” - this not another Spanish joke by the way, although it sounds like one. I never did find the answer to that but I did discover there is a charity called Rice and the letters stand for Research Institute for the Care of the Elderly. Made a note of that - it might come in useful.

Condoleezza Rice was another name that kept popping up like a rice crispy, snap, crackle and pop, during my lengthy research and I couldn’˜t help noticing her dazzlingly white teeth. Teeth are currently on my mind because (a) along with the nation I have been watching Simon Cowell’s teeth on Britain’s got talent and (b) due to my advancing years I don’t want to end up with false ones, so I braved a visit to the dentist. As usual as an HIV positive patient I was given the last appointment of day, which did little for my self esteem, but I am used to that by now. My teeth were all fine as it happened, I merely had a build up of plaque and tartar, which the hygienist industriously chiselled off with her ice pick and pneumatic drill, but tutted behind her mask and told me my teeth were badly stained from too much smoking and drinking.

As I can’t afford to pay for a professional whitening treatment as soon as I got home I had a look on the net. where I found - “A simple and cheap recipe for whitening teeth using something everyone has in their cupboard, hydrogen peroxide and baking soda.”

Well, tis a good while since I attempted to bake a cake and the only peroxide I could find was my moustache bleaching cream - maybe kill two birds with one stone? I googled natural remedies and found another recipe of lime and salt, that sounded nice, but they forgot to add the tequila.

“Mash strawberries into a paste then rub all over teeth,” was another - but don’t try this at your local tea rooms, or at Wimbledon for that matter and definitely don’t answer the door when the gas man calleth.

Rubbing teeth with lemon or orange rind was another suggestion as the pith allegedly works like a sponge or rubber. Are they taking the pith? But never do what a colleague of mine did and use a brillo pad.

After the scrape and polish my teeth felt all clean and shiny and I couldn’t stop smiling at myself and everyone else. Smiling makes other people smile as Ken Dodd rightly sings, “When you’re smiling, when you’re smiling, the whole world smiles with you,” or in the words of the poem by anonymouse - a distant relation of dangermouse -

smiling is infectious you can catch it like the flu

when someone smiled at me today

I started smiling too

I thought about the smile

And realised its worth

a single smile like mine

could travel round the earth

so if you feel a smile begin

don’t leave it undetected

start an epidemic and get the world infected.

Please note this does not apply to HIV. Although with poetic licence you could adapt the words.

HIV is infectious

you can catch it like the flu

when someone showed the telling signs

I knew they had it too

I thought about the virus

then realised its worth

a single virus just like mine

could travel round the earth

so if you think you have the signs

don’t leave them undetected

or you’ll start an epidemic

and get the world infected

head off to the G-U -M

and get yourself a -tested

because if knowingly you pass it on

you’ll get yourself arrested.

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Heck - giant clouds of volcanic ash hovering over our heads. What next I wonder?

Good news today however we presented our project for “thrivine” the “Positive Picture” to the Dragon’s Apprentice and we were accepted. So any one living with or affected by HIV/AIDS in the East Lancs area, please come along and take part or contact me for further details.

The Positive Picture - will consist of forty two small canvasses in the form of a mosaic which will depict the challenges of LIVING WITH HIV/AIDS

AIMS - Being part of the project will encourage people living with and affected by HIV/AIDS to address their feelings of isolation, stigma and depression in a safe and confidential setting with people who are all affected by HIV. The participants working with person centred art therapy and visualisation exercises will be provided with the means to express their pent up emotions. 

Skills for life - During the six week project the members will acquire new skills by learning basic painting and drawing techniques.

Outcomes - A sense of pride in the finished product, increased feelings of self worth and of being involved in a joint product, which will go on to raise awareness and reduce stigma. The project overall will help people living with and affected by HIV/AIDS to cope with the challenges both social and physical of living with a long term chronic illness and the side effects of the medication.

The finished product - Promoting change through art. The Positive Picture will be used to raise awareness, especially around World AIDS Day, by being displayed locally in public venues such as Blackburn Museum and Blackburn Cathedral. It can also be used as a resource to present to the media. Body Positive North West has already expressed an interest in displaying the Positive Picture in their centre in Manchester. The finished product can be used for fund raising purposes through the sale of prints and postcards. Because the canvasses will be in the form of a mosaic, the Positive Picture can be easily assembled, hung and transported.

Film - The documentary/video diary which will be made during the six week project, will be used to promote HIV awareness in schools, colleges, you tube and the media.

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It could be the metatonic (sounds like a heavy metal band) but for some reason I woke up feeling happy. I was suitably shocked. What was this strange unaccustomed emotion coursing through my veins? Happiness - and not in the Ken Dodd sense as blessed with more of his share of a penis. Well, at least not the last time I looked.

Maybe its my new meds, but more likely it’s down to the twice daily imbibing of my recently discovered medicinal compound, metatone, which apart from tasting like a delicious liquor, also seems to be doing me the power of good. Perhaps it’s the same one that Lily the pink lady from Liverpool invented? If you are as old as me you might remember the much sung song by The Scaffold, but then again, if you are as old as me and especially if you have HIV, you will probably be suffering from both long and short term memory loss.

Metatone contains vitamin B of course, known to help with depression and is a wonder vitamin as far as I am concerned, so if you are feeling down give it a try and - Let’s drink, a drink, a drink to Lily the pink, the pink, the pink, the saviour of the human race, cos she invented, medicinal compound, most efficacious, in every case. 

Like my famous predecessor Lily, I may be feeling in the pink, which in economic terms means in a good financial position, but where my bank and my credit cards are concerned I am definitely in the red. To be ‘In the pink’ means to be in perfect condition, especially in regards to health, which hardly applies to me. In the nineteenth century being in’the very pink of the mode’ also applied to fashion. The colour pink was chosen to epitomise the pinnacle of quality because Elizabeth the 1st was an admirer of the Dianthus flower (pinks to me and you). If someone is tickled pink, or you tickle someone pink, you cause the recipient to glow with pleasure. This particular recipient sadly hasn’t been made to glow with pleasure for many a while, in fact I can’t remember the last time. Pre HIV I suppose, if I ever had a life before it - I can’t remember what that was like either.

In feng shui terms, pink should be in the south life area (where’s that?) I’ve heard of South Park but to be honest it’s a bit too rude for me, although I love ‘Shameless’ and you can’t get much ruder than that.

In the 4^th Chakra, which is the heart chakra, pink is the colour of emotional love of self and others, as in great universal love - and not the catalogue I hasten to add, although I do believe their summer range this season strongly features pink and flesh tones. When this chakra is blocked there is no need to take out your plunger, call a plumber or even ‘Drains r us’ - simply wear lots of pink. Flamingos are festooned in pink all the time and so was Barbara Cartland, but I wouldn’t fancy lounging my life away on a sofa swathed from head to toe in varying shades of pink like she used to do, or worse still standing on one leg all day with a bent u bend for a neck.

It’s certainly been a hard few months for me (what’s new?) and in the words of yet another song, ‘It’s been a long hard lonely winter.’ Awful, terrible things have happened, beyond imagination, but, ‘Here comes the sun…here comes the sun.. its alright.  

Well, some things are not alright. I lost my driver and I’m not talking Miss Daisy here. I’m talking about my brand new computer. Where did my bloody driver drive off to I wanted to know? Whilst I was searching for it I somehow caused a head on collision, a multiple pile up in cyberspace and the whole caboodle crashed on me. I don’t know about you, but if my computer, or my car, is not running well, then neither am I and I can’t rest until I cure it. But there is no such thing as an NHS help line, alternative remedies or even a pc friendly garage where computers are concerned, you have to consult cyberspace. In the meantime, losing my driver is driving me crazy.

And as for my car, that’s also falling to pieces. The electric locking system no longer works and you have to stand for hours twiddling the key to left and right looking furtive like a car jacker in the hope that it will yield. Eventually it always does, but not today and I was already late for an appointment. I was parked outside the local courts of justice. A group of skinny hoodies were huddled on the steps smoking and waiting for their case to be heard. They watched me with interest from under their hoods, hoping to pick up some new car jacking techniques from this asbo granny. They got more than they bargained for as it turned out as asbo granny was forced to hitch up her skirts and climb in through the hatchback - very ungracefully I have to say, as the hips are not what they were, with much cursing and swearing. Being outside the magistrates court I presume there were CTV cameras in action, so you’ll probably be able to catch me on you tube, this time as the granny jacker. However, aside from all that, I think I’ve discovered the solution to the following - depression, old age, extreme poverty, enforced shopping at Aldi and Lidl and the lack of retail therapy, which every woman needs. It’s easy, aside from imbibing metatone every day, you simply rediscover what you’ve already got - a bit like altzeimhers, when every day you go somewhere and it feels like your going to a different place because you’ve forgotten you’ve been there before. I started with my wardrobe and rediscovered items I’d forgotten I had. That was all jolly good fun, but I have to say, no where near as satisfying as having a good old spend at the Trafford centre.

I then moved on to my appearance, as in my face. The creams and potions do not seem to be working, so I thought I’d try some natural remedies. I recalled the words of the renowned Mexican Philosopher and beauty expert, Hector Ramon Alfonzo Gonzales. Well, Hector to me. Dear Hector was my taxi driver when I was in Mexico for the World AIDS conference 2008, although he didn’t know what I was there for of course. He thought I was just another tourista open for ripping off. But nevertheless a bond of friendship grew between us as we sat sweating together for hours in his non air conditioned taxi in the midst of the traffic jams of Mexico City

“Adriana,” he’d shaken his head sadly, had a quick spit out of the window and sighed in-between honking his horn, “Why you khave so many wrinkles? We have same age, but look me, I khave no wrinkles.”

What he was saying was undoubtedly true, nevertheless, at the time I wished he would concentrate more on the road and less on my arrugas, not to mention refrain from gobbing at passers by.

“Khow you do that Hector?” I asked him in my perfect Spanish, not in relation to the gobbing, “Khow you have mejillones (cheeks I think or it could mean muscles, either way it was a compliment, unless it was the fishy kind of course) as smooth as a ninos culo - baby’s bum?”

“Ees simple,” he took his hands off the wheel and momentarily ceased honking and gobbing to demonstrate his technique, “Every night when I feenish driving my taxi, I put khoney on my face, like thees (he patted his mejillones) and you Adriana must do the same, promeees me you weel do it.”

I promised. I even promised to send before and after photos. I lied of course. It felt quite pleasant when I applied the honey to my arrugas and obviously it tasted nice too, so I plonked a few more dollops on my nariz (nose) and tried to plaster the cracks at the side of my boca (mouth). I then went to bed leaving it to have a good soak in and went to sleep. I woke up in the middle of the night feeling like I was in some kind of torture chamber, my cara (face) stretched tight like I was wearing a mask, my pelo (hair) glued to my mejillones and my moustachio stuck down - only joking - well?

I decided to investigate Hector’s honey theory at a much deeper level and sure enough, there was quite a lot about it on the world wide web. Dear Hector however was not the first to come up with the honey theory, he was pipped at the post by Rasulullah sallallahu alaighi wassallam (I am not making this up) who mentioned the numerous benefits of honey more than 1400 years ago. The Chinese, of course, have known about the health benefits of honey for centuries and believe that it increases longevity.

“Tea made with honey and cinnamon arrests old age and keeps skin fresh and soft. Life span also increases and even if a person is a 100 years old, starts performing the chores of a twenty year old.”

In my experience, twenty year olds perform very few chores and where males are concerned, especially sons, this can extend well into their thirties and beyond.

Honey also allegedly reduces cholesterol, so for those of us who suffer from increased cholesterol thanks to the meds, we could come off those horrible statins and drink lots of brews (Lancashire for tea) and eat honey and butties (Lancashire for sandwich) instead.

This is the recipe and I am seriously going to try it an report back.

2 Tablespoons of manuka honey mixed with 3 teaspoons of cinnamon powder mixed in 16 ounces of tea water can reduce the level of cholesterol in the body by 10% within two hours. It can also help with arthritis, strengthens the immune system and protects the body from bacteria and viral attacks. Does that mean attacks by the HIV virus as well? Wouldn’t that be great if instead of the highly toxic cocktail of pills we have to stick down our necks every day all we had to do was drink a nice cup of tea.

“I like a nice cup of tea with my dinner, I like a nice cup of tea with my tea, and when its time for bed, instead of taking meds, I’ll have a nice cup of tea.”

The HIV Virus ‘In the Pink’

If I want to stay feeling ‘in the pink’ maybe I should dye my hair pink too? It’s better than a blue rinse when all is said and done. I can remember the time when all ladies of a certain age (i.e. mine) had a blue rinse on their permed heads and looked like blue cauliflowers.

Maybe I’m feeling more ‘in the pink’ because I made the decision to change my meds. Which all goes to prove us ‘pozzers’ should take control of our medication and if it doesn’t suite us, insist on a change of regime. Take control of our meds as well as our heads, and our hairstyles.

There has been recent talk of an HIV cure - scientists have discovered some form of, as they describe it, smoking out the virus. Well, I have been trying that for years, but obviously I’ll have to change my brand of tobacco, along with my meds.

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Happy Mother’s day, the day when traditionally children pay their respect to their mothers.

In times gone by young British girls and boys in service were only allowed one day to visit their family each year, this was usually on mothering Sunday. What a great idea. Bring back the old days I say!

Mother’s day is celebrated in many countries around the world in different ways and there are many theories about how it began.

Back in 1938 the German government issued an award called The Mothers Cross, ‘Mutterkreuz’, although this was mainly to encourage women to breed more children for the master race. Criteria against being honoured were unfeminine behaviour, smoking, drinking or doing poor housework. No Mutterkreuz for me then unless it was mutterkreuzing on someone’s yacht. 

If you want to do something different for your mother this year, for £20 you can adopt a word. Some of the words you could choose in relation to mothers were, selfless, care, shoulder, nurture, protect.

Thinking about offspring, in particular sons, they should have added wallet, cash, why not, gimmee gimmee and take.

The charity,’I Can’ is for children who struggle to find words they need to communicate.

Some of the Celebrities chosen words were, Graham Norton- frolic, Stephen Fry - wordy, Paul McCartney- gift, Liza Tarbuck - squit. (oh please!) 

I had a quick look to see if positive was still available and yes it was. 

“Great news, this word is available for adoption. Adopt it now and give it a happy home. Look after it and give it plenty of exercise. It will be exclusively yours for a whole year.” 

I also looked up HIV - that was still available too.

It’s just a shame that after a year

I couldn’t give it back.

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Monday the 8^th of March is International Women’s Day.It should be declared a national holiday and all women should have a day off. But women never have a day off, we all know that. Women go through such a lot, especially mothers.  I read somewhere that a mother is only as happy as her happiest child and that is so true. I had some very heart breaking news this week and I know there is one mother, not to mention one auntie, whose life will never be the same again.

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Tell me you haven’t fallen for it?
Of course not.
Tis big scam.
I know that.
You have, haven’t you?
Well, twas only old wedding ring. Anyway had it shrunk years ago to fit little finger - till found out meant you were gay.
You very stoopid sister, which one you do?
Can’t honestly remember - was it ‘Cash my Gold’ - ‘Postal Gold’ - ‘Gold for Idiots’ - ‘Goldblinger’ - isn’t really one called that but maybe good idea.

Actually, think it was one with Dale Winton. Trust him cos he has regular job on Init to Winnit, innit to winnit.
And pick of pops.
He doesn’t need to make extra money doing adverts.
Wasn’t his mother famous film star with brassy blonde hair like Diana Dors? - and me! I have also now brassy blonde locks after taking up colour discount offer at hairdressers. Fine example of, you get what you pay for and nother reason why needed instant cash.

“I sold my old wedding ring and got more money than I ever hoped for.”
“I sold my gold and got two tickets for World cup.”
What he sell, gold bar?
I sold my old wedding ring and got 22 pounds fifty - and brassy locks.

Should have spent money in Aldi or Lidl or Chinese Takeaway. Was just about enough for a Mr Wok as opposed to a Mr Wonderful.
Never did find a Mr Wonderful, that’s why sold old wedding ring. Didn’t want to pass it on to son if he ever gets wed for fear of passing on
bad luck.
cue for a song.
‘When your old wedding ring was new’ - have to sing it like Billy Connelly when impersonating drunk in Glasgow pub.
Not much chance of finding Mr Wonderful, or pot of gold at end of rainbow, or heart of gold now at my age or in my condition - anyway, don’t want to pass condition on either.
cue for nother song.
“I’ve been a miner for a heart of gold - keeps me searching for a heart of gold - and I’m getting old.”

Talking of condition am about to change meds again. Doc said was at high risk of heart attack and that’s not just because of butter and smoking fixation. Meds cause high cholesterol. Have been saying that all along but doc in denial. Finally admitted could be Kivexa so am changing combination to Truvada.

Who comes up with names for these drugs? Kivexa sounds like posh girl’s name.
“Kivexa, go to your room immediately.”

“Truvada, I’ve told you a million times daddy can’t afford to buy you another pony.”

Kivexa bright orange colour. Who in charge of colour mix additives for meds? Need other more modern minimalist designer on job - all combinations neutral to match carpets. Truvada blue - better than orange I suppose. Maybe will stop looking like been I’ve been tangoed.“Will it make eyes blue again instead of yellow?” ask doc.Not laughs doc - prescribes more statins to lower cholesterol, more pills to combat sleep disorder possible side effect of meds, more pills for stomach problems definitely caused by meds. tis like nursery rhyme -there was an old lady who swallowed a fly I don’t know why she swallowed a fly perhaps she die.there was an old lady who swallowed a spiderthat wriggled and wiggled and tiggled inside hershe swallowed the spider to catch the flyI don’t know why she swallowed the fly

Opportune moment to plug my autobiography -

“The Spider and the Fly” by Adrienne Seed

for sale at www.lulu.com

Am looking at new pill now, is size of horse pill. Who comes up with size chart for pills? Definitely need minimalist designer on job to make them more minimal for people who can’t swallow horse pills. There was an old lady who swallowed a horse - she’s dead of course.

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Just when you think things can’t get any worse - they do.

I was on my way out the door (running late) en route to our ‘Taking the ‘T’ out of Stigma’ tea party and official opening for our Thrivine HIV support group, laden with cucumber sandwiches and artistically decorated fairy cakes.

Son rushes in - has reversed into bumper of four wheel drive, woman going nuts apparently, said bumper was hanging off (slight exaggeration on her part) needed insurance certificate. Gave him what I thought was latest and headed off with Willo.

 

Get there, about to go in, mobile rings, demented woman saying wrong certificate - outdated. Can’t deal with it now, have function, can I ring you later - no can’t, need it now this minute - but no can do, am about to meet and greet guests. Need it now this minute. Will get it for you five o’clock - No good, need it right now - Sorry, as explained, have to meet and greet guests, very important guests, holy men, canon from cathedral, politicians (don’t now why said that) Mayor of Blackburn (that was lie on my part).

Demented woman - scream, scream, scream, down phone at me - am now in tears. Tears dripping on cucumber sandwiches, luckily are wrapped in cling film. In end had to hang up on her as ‘important’ people arriving in droves.

Had filthy rollup first to calm nerves, have run out of camel.

 

Then had to put on brave face and be sociable. Am fed up of putting brave face on, am fed up of being sociable. In fact, am fed up to back teeth of HIV and everything to do with it. Want to be cosseted housewife with kind husband (preferably rich) to make tea for, or better still to make tea for me. Tea party very successful though.

Think it did job and helped to reduce HIV related stigma, but way I feel right now don’t bloody care. Stigma can take care of bloody self.

Wish car would, but lots of money can’t afford to get it through MOT. Then had to pay road tax. Have to do ‘Taking the ‘T’ out of Tax’ party to pay for it or ‘Taking the ‘T’ out of Shit’ party - as in life.

In need of some tea and sympathy. Maybe just take calming cup of tea by self and forget about all the rest - at least for today. Tea cup half full or half empty? That is the question - would definitely say half empty today.

Somebody better take that knife off me!

He’s a little teapot short and stout here’s his handle - but where’s his spout!

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After my last blog I received many touching messages of support and also helpful advice on how to combat depression. For example Viv suggests soaking in a long leisurely bath with a bar of chocolate as opposed to a bar of soap and even taking a bar as in bottle of wine in with you, whereas Willo talks about bird baths (or maybe it was feeders?). Anyway, I decided to take their advice, without the nuts and strings of bacon fat and pamper myself. Fortunately, I have a surfeit of bathing products resulting from my sixtieth birthday and Christmas, enough to last me for years, in fact the numerous jars of wrinkle cream I received (I can take a hint) will probably outlive me. The question was which bath stuff to indulge myself in? I finally plumped for the ‘Soap and Glory’ range the brand that makes my ‘mother plucker’ lip plumper. Their other products also have name play titles such as,’Butter yourself up,’ body lotion, or ‘do your own flirty work’ moisturising mist and of course the ‘Fill monty’ dab on instant wrinkle filler. After an initial soak, as directed, I first used the ‘flake away’ body polish. These polishing products contain hundreds of tiny particles of grape seed or crushed avocado nuts or whatever other seeds or nuts they choose to crush, or maybe just plain grit (so that’s why they ran out?). This stubborn residue refused to be washed off and stayed stuck to my body like sand from the beach, leaving me feeling like I’d been pebble dashed. I think ‘Soap and Glory’ need to come up with a de gritting product, ‘De gritter British public’, for example or ‘Grit Britain’ which is what the snow ploughs should have done instead of leaving us all snowbound for weeks.

That day I was depressed was apparently the most depressing day of the year. How predictable of me. But at least it was good to know I wasn’t suffering on my own. Grumpy Luis who is now back in Ibiza after his Christmas sojourn on my sofa is also feeling depressed.

Hello? or maybe I should say Hola? How can you be depressed in Ibiza? But according to him everyone is deprimida (Spanish for pissed off) and blaming it on the creesis, “All people in Ibeeeza talking bout creeeesis, everyone in creesis, bars in creeesis, Luis in creesis, whole world in creeesis.”

Well, I didn’t want to listen to anymore of that, so I decided to play the new CD by a popular Spanish band Luis had bought me for Christmas, only to find one of the songs was about bloody creesis. Luis right, even Spanish bands in creesis, even had creesis por el chulo (pronounced cool o) Chulo means bottom. Imagine singing about a creesis in your bottom, although anyone taking HIV meds will be well used to that. I have creesis in my sheets because I am too lazy to iron them. I have creesis in my face when I get up in the morning, but unfortunately I can’t take the iron to them, but if there was any way?

My son has taken to playing online poker. All I can hear all night is ping ping ping as he places his bets. The sound is invading my dreams. He sits there till morning sometimes with his new pingo as opposed to bingo obsession, wearing his poker face even though no one can see him. The definition of a ‘poker face’ is the bland expression adopted by a poker shark determined not to betray the value of his hand. To be honest, my son’s poker face isn’t much different to his normal face, especially if I’m asking typical mother like questions. I think he’d better take it easy staring at that screen, otherwise he’ll end up seeing poker dots in front of his eyes.

Talking of p p p p poker faces Lady Ga Ga herself recently paid a surprise visit to Body Positive in Manchester. Unfortunately I wasn’t there that particular day because Lady Ga Ga holds a strange and perverse fascination for me. I loved that huge surreal bath she was wheeled in for The Royal Variety Performance in front of the Queen. Shame it wasn’t a toilet then she could have had a Royal flush.

I am not a one for card games especially poker, as my face always gives me away. Poker? no she wasn’t my type. The only poker I’m likely to have in my hand is one to attack the fire with. I do love a good poke now and then. In fact, my sister once wrote a poem about me.

Two sisters went to live ont moors, they planned to take their share oft chores, till one found out her ‘arts desire, was just to sit and poke tut fire.

But sadly I no longer have a fire to poke anymore - and you can take that any way you want. If only I was an Indian squaw like pokerhontas I could sit outside my wig wam (thank you maam) and poke to my hearts content. But as for sending smoke signals - I am seriously trying to cut down. Pokerhontas was an Indian princess and supposedly a virgin, but her name in the powhaton language means Little Wanton, which I think is just outside Preston close to Wanton le Dale. Hiawatha on the other hand sounds like a remote village in Yorkshire. Indian names tend to be descriptive of what you do, Big Chief Running Water, for instance, or Running Bear, which I did after my bath.

My HIV support group Thrivine is giving a ‘Taking the ‘T’ out of Stigma’ tea party. Maybe we should have a ‘Taking the ‘Tee Pee’ out of stigma party instead, because that’s what everyone will be doing after drinking so much tea.

Although I was a dancer in my time, as in ballet, tap and flamenco, I have never actually danced the poker. I’m quite good at pokercrastination though - especially in regard to paying off my credit card bills. Not to mention being a counsellor and pokering around in other peoples business. You can understand why I’m not currently practising!

Anyway, as you can see I have cheered up a bit and thank you all for your kind concern. They say the country is emerging from financial crisis so maybe that has got something to do with it, although I wish I could say the same about my own financial crisis. I hope this blog doesn’t find any of you in crisis - aside from hopefully with laughter.

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Hate it hate it hate it - hate January. It’s always the same, the black dog gets me. That’s what Churchill used to call his depression. Mine is called HIV and at the moment it’s got me up against the wall. HIV is the rottweiler, the pit bull of depression and like a pit bull, it attacks with the bite release, bite release principle. Sometimes it lets me escape but not for long. I’m always on the run - some days I can manage to put some distance between us, but right now its got me cornered and is snarling its ferocious teeth at me.

Like all predators, HIV is a big bully and waits for the opportune moment to pounce, such as now, when I’m suffering from the after Christmas blues, overspending and the miserable weather - and now the snow has melted there is no excuse to stay in anymore and shut myself away from the world.

“So sorry, can’t make colpooscuppy, colthuscapoppy colcuscposcopy appointment this morning,” I lie to nurse on the phone, “Can’t even say it, lips frozen, snowed in, can’t get out of thouse (that’s Lancashire for house) thousebound don’t you know.”
She didn’t, “Roads clear at hospital,” nurse informs me coldly, her lips obviously frozen too. Truth was I simply couldn’t face it, too depressed for camera exploration of my nether regions - nether regions impassable today.
 

Back to bed, but rottweiler or bullydog won’t let me. Churchill was known as the British Bulldog and he used to build brick walls in an attempt to combat his depression, maybe to keep the black dog out? But for me HIV is the wall - my prison wall and today is just another brick in that wall.

Is HIV a male or female bully think to self - hmmmm, was bullied by husband, but was also bullied at school by big fat girl who sat on me under lamppost. Can still see her yellow face sneering down at me. Looked a bit like Dawn French (sorry Dawn) my dad had to come and rescue me. Miss my dad - miss my mum, want her to bring me some Heinz tomato soup with ducks in. Luckily still have my sis but she gone back to Holland now - no walls in Holland only dykes. She called me on phone - put metaphorical finger in my dyke of depression, but still about to leak and overflow.

What to do? Some retail therapy perhaps in form of the January sales - go down town, first pop in to bank only to find was hideously overdrawn. Cannot be right - print out out again. Shouldn’t have signed up for new computer or ordered some more glasses.

But new glasses essential as was throwing bread to a plastic bag on the iced over canal the other day, quacking at it, swearing at stupid ruddy duck in an attempt to wake it up, thinking it had frozen to death. It might not have been a ruddy duck (wasn’t any kind of duck was plastic bag!) am not that well up on breeds of ducks, but there are some ruddy ducks up north apparently, who according to wikipedia came over from America to the west midlands but have since spread further north and are now endangering the Spanish white-headed duck by mating with their female senorita ducks.There was the much reported case a few years back about the hundred ruddy ducks who had taken up residence in Wigan and who at the request of the Spanish Government were facing the death penalty.

Well, that was a bit extreme wasn’t it, they can’t blame the ruddy ducks for wanting to have a bit of a holiday romance - they don’t mind us British tourists having a holiday fling with their ruddy Spanish waiters, do they, in fact it’s almost obligatory.

However, the warmer weather in England, even up here in the frozen north, has resulted in the ruddy ducks as well as the ruddy package holiday tourists breeding closer to home, so another good thing about global warming you can tell that Jeremy Clarkson who’s always going on about it. When a ruddy duck mates it raises two tufts of feathers on his head, cocks his tail, inflates the air sack in his neck and drums on it with his bill, making lots of bubbles and an impressive hollow noise - sounds like a good description of Jeremy Clarkson to me.

A ruddy duck in Italian is called a Gobbo Rugginoso Americano, change the nationality to British Gobbo and you’ve also got a fitting description of Mr Top Gear himself. On saying that I love Top Gear and once had an erotic dream about Jeremy much to the disgust of my cousin Viv of ‘Viv Lives’ fame.

Putting my mind to global issues and off Jeremy’s gear stick I thought I’d better tackle the mountain of rubbish and recycling as the ruddy bin men obviously weren’t going to. They haven’t been since before Christmas and we’ve been playing bin hokey kokey for weeks, putting it out and taking it back in - you put your rubbish bin out - your rubbish bin in - in out - in out and shake it all about (all over the street usually). Went to the ginnel (Lancashire for back passage - no pun intended)where my bins are ‘thoused’ only to find my back patio, as opposed to my back passage, under four inches of muddy water after the torrential rain last night which caused all the snow to melt. The drain was blocked thanks to all the overflowing recycling bags and the water poised like a waiting tsunami. Nothing for it but to roll up sleeves and get the plunger out - but plunger very small and drain very big. Bail out with mop bucket, toss water over already waterlogged flower beds washing all spring bulbs away. Filled boot of car with dripping stinky rubbish bags and off to recycling centre to find the whole world and his black dog (maybe everyone depressed like me) with the same idea, hurling bags left right and centre. New therapy, rubbish as opposed to caber tossing, it was great, singing to self - my old man’s a dustman, he wears a dustman’s hat, he wears gor blimey trousers and lives in council flat, he looks a proper nana in his great big hob nail boots, he has such a job to pull them up that he calls them daisy roots. On subject of roots must go to thairdressers (Lancashire for hairdressers) as my daisy roots are desperately in need of attention. Would make me feel like new woman or new dustbin woman - never heard of dustbin woman have you? Alas cannot afford thairdressers, will have to try to do it self with moustache bleaching cream and some tin foil.

But no tin foil - foiled again, will grit teeth and go to Lidl to pay penance for overspending at Christmas. Buy recycled toilet rolls in name of economy and chicken so small looked like bloated sparrow. Least not a ruddy duck, although duck breasts were on offer. Got quite a lot for my money at Lidl have to say, I am impressed. Will become a Lidl-ite, oh ying tang lidl-ite to.

See it’s worked, feel more like old self - oh dear, shouldn’t have said old. Have to go back to bed now and start all over again.

painting:the secret garden- copyright - Adrienne Seed

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A very snowy New Year but who cares, I have a new love in my life to keep me warm. My old love is now redundant and cast aside like the empty cracker tubes and Christmas wrapping paper. Well, the time had come, we’d been through a lot together over the last ten years but it was time to move on. We’d been driving each other mad and one of us had to go.

I never intended it to end in this cruel and abrupt manner but I received an offer I simply couldn’t refuse. What’s more I could take my new love home with me that very night and best of all, unlike my old love who was becoming a financial liability, I didn’t have to pay a penny for him - well, at least for the next six months. I took my new love home with me that very night and we’ve been getting on like a house on fire ever since.

My new love is a joy to be with and is so easy to turn on and somehow knows instinctively just what to do to please me and aside from that does exactly what I say. I don’t have to curse and swear anymore or hang around waiting for this one to boot himself up. I feel regenerated and can’t wait to wake up in the morning to turn him on and play with him and each new day is a day of discovery and delight.

My new love is called Sony although to be honest I would have preferred his mate Mac, but he was too expensive and according to those in the know, more moody and difficult to manage, an arty type and past experience has taught me to stay well away from those. Sony and I are still in the throes of young love and not really aware yet of each others faults and failings. I did make a pledge that I wouldn’t smoke in the same room as him as I would no longer be suffering from the stress and frustration my old love caused me, but that’s gone by the by of course. However, I think Sony understands my human failings and weaknesses, anyway he has to as I am the boss in this new relationship and intend to keep it that way. I do regularly tell him how much I love him though and sing our special song to him - ‘Sony, yesterday my life was filled with rain, now the dark days are gone and when I log on, Sony oh so true, I love you.’

My new Sony toy boy lives side by side with old Sony, but although he’s no longer needed I can’t bring myself to throw him out on the street or recycle him. He’s been too much a part of my past and knows too much about me. Anyway, he might come in useful for something I suppose as old lovers (as opposed to husbands) often can. My blog headers might be a tad boring for a while until Sony toy boy and I get to know each other a bit better as at the moment we are still in the experimental stage of our relationship. But unless the bailiffs are called in for non payment or I have to take him back where I found him (Comet), you can expect new and exciting things from us working together as a team. We will put our heads together and continue to raise HIV awareness and fight stigma and hopefully sometimes make you laugh in the process. So here’s to the New Year, a new love albeit only cyber love and computing happily ever after - and not forgetting Comet of course!

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A very Happy New Year to all Hiviners

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What IS she doing now? I think all that activist stuff she did before Christmas for World AIDS Day, giving speeches, pontificating in cathedrals, cohorting with Canons, rubbing shoulders with celebrities in the Green room on ‘This Morning’ and rabbitting away on the airwaves has totally gone to her head, because she’s still talking away to herself. Doesn’t she realise she no longer has an audience? There’s only number one son who’s been working nights in the run up to Christmas in a noisy plastic factory so is now partially deaf and who never listens to her anyway. Neither does that grumpy old Luis who is over for the festive season and still refusing to speak English, insisting on calling it Navidad and telling her she can’t have her present until after the Kings. 

“Bugger the Kings,” she swears at him, “Here in England there are no Kings only Queens and plenty of them and it’s called Christmas not friggin navidad.

Now now, there’s no need to resort to bad language is there? I think she’s suffering from DCSS delayed celebrity stress syndrome because she’s acting most peculiar, routing around in the dustbins in the frosty air with her rubber gloves on. I know she’s a pensioner now and times are hard and Christmas can be a costly business, but surely things aren’t that bad are they? Actually, I’ve heard about people like her, they did a television documentary about them on channel 4 hanging around supermarket bins in the dead of night extracting all the past their sell by stuff and claiming they can live for nothing in these financially challenged times. But it’s broad daylight and she’s rummaging around in her own rubbish bins, so what’s that all about and more to the point, whatever will the neighbours think if they catch sight of her.

OMG she’s started on the recycling bin now, elbow deep in Christmas wrapping paper tossing number one son’s hundreds of scrunched up coke cans over her shoulder. It’s a wonder he’s got any teeth left, but it’s her own fault he’s hooked on the filthy stuff, rumour has it that she used to let him drink it out of his bottle when he was a baby. But he’s a grown man now who can make his own tooth rotting decisions and who is working and contributing to the housekeeping and weekly shopping bills so she shouldn’t have to be resorting to scavenging around in her own bins, should she? Nevertheless, I think I’ll have to report her to the bin police, not to mention the DSS as there is clear evidence of luxury items such as M&S ready meal wrappers in there. She should be shopping at Lidl and Aldi like the rest of the impoverished ageing population.

You can tell a lot about a person by the content of their bins. For example, in this household, aside from the embarrassing collection of empty wine bottles, there is a veritable mountain of potato peelings, which shows how many chips they eat. No wonder she’s got high cholesterol, she can’t keep blaming it on the Meds and no amount of statins can cope with the amount of saturated and unsaturated fats she ingests, even with the benefit of her tefyl actifry, with which I have to tell you she often cheats by adding more than the recommended one teaspoon of oil. There are also hundreds of mouldy old tea bags. Why isn’t she composting? And talking of compost there are dozens of empty camel packets in there, but she keeps saying she’ll give the stinky habit up for New Year, although she says that every year. There are empty Kivexa packets and pill boxes by the score, as well as damming evidence in the form of discarded carrier bags from Top Shop - isn’t she bit old to be going round impersonating Kate Moss? She should be ordering dressing gowns and thermal underwear from the Daxon catalogue.

I think she’s totally lost the plot this time because as she’s foraging she keeps muttering to herself and swearing out loud, “Where are you bloody Tom Tom?”

Whoever Tom is, surely he’s not hiding in the bin? Although one could hardly blame him. Thankfully, she’s gone back inside and is now prowling round the house muttering under her breath, trying to be quiet to avoid waking up number one son, opening drawers, looking in the wardrobe, banging cupboard doors. Apparently she took this Tom Tom character to Manchester with her the other day to help her find the way and according to her, he definitely came back with her in the car because he was sitting right next to her on the front seat. But seems he’s nowhere to be found. Done a runner by the looks of it. She’s lit up a filthy camel, even though smoking is strictly forbidden upstairs and is still muttering away to herself, fag in corner of mouth charlady style and is bent over like Mrs Overall peering under the bed. “Come out come out wherever you are you.”

There’s no one there, obviously, so she picks up the phone and calls Willo her neighbour and partner in arms, who’s nearly as daft as her. These arty types, mad as hatters if you ask me. She’s asking Willo if she knows where Tom Tom is and if she gave him back. Apparently he belongs to Willo. What’s going on? Are they sharing him? “

“I know you’re in this house somewhere,” she continues her fruitless searching; “I will find you wherever you are hiding, even if it takes all day.” It does.

Surely she’s got more important things to do, like peeling the sprouts or conjuring up a nourishing stew out of the old turkey bones. But no, she’s started communing with the spirits (as well as drinking them) talking to her father’s portrait and asking him to help. On computer next chatting to sister,“ Can’t find bloody Tom Tom - has disappeared off face of the earth.”

Sister not interested, too busy messing around with lulu.

“Which button you like best?” asks sis.

“What button you mean, belly button?”

“Don’t be seely beely, Lulu button for blog so can sell many more books.”

“Can’t concentrate on belly buttons or Lulu till have found Tom.”

They often chat in this daft form on computer so am not really surprised. Sister has no excuse as is much younger and not yet senile pensioner, but both supposed to be intelligent although never think it to hear them chat.

“Me got severe shoulder shake,” types in sis, “stop make silly jokes otherwise fall off chair.”

She shouldn’t make sis fall off chair, that very cruel, but obviously has cruel streak, that’s why Tom Tom buggered off probably.

Back on phone now to ‘their’ Janet making feeble excuses about not turning up for Jim because she is too busy looking for Tom. Jim will have to wait till after Christmas she tells her, or better still after New Year. If Jim’s got any sense he won’t hang around till then, he’ll take a leaf out of Tom’s book and run a mile.

In the end she found Tom Tom hiding behind the desk in the mess that is their excuse for a sitting room and handed him straight back to Willo. Maybe now she’ll get her priorities right and start cleaning up after Navidad and getting down to the sales where she can rummage around, albeit on the rails as opposed to the bins, to her hearts content. But she’s an extremely disappointed and bitter woman, as people especially children often tend to be at this time of year after not getting what they want, as she was hoping to wake up on Christmas morning and find a Tom Tom of her very own in her surgical stocking then she wouldn’t have to keep wife swapping him with Willo. What’s going on in that street I want to know.

According to local hearsay, Willo also chucked her car keys in the bin and the bin men came before she had chance to retrieve them. Well that’s her story.

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December 1^st was World AIDS Day and it was a special day for positive people like me to celebrate the fact that we are lucky enough to still be alive and to honour those who have sadly died.

But on that day I found myself well out of my comfort zone. After a sleepless night I’d woken up in a strange hotel in the heart of London and a big silver chauffer driven car was waiting to take me to the television studios to appear on ITV’s ‘This Morning’ programme with Doctor Chris, Philip Schofield and the lovely Holly Willoughby, to talk about living with HIV. Practically comatose with fear and with knees literally knocking I asked myself over and over again - why was I doing this?

The enormity of what I was about to do suddenly hit me. Millions of people would be watching me, maybe even the Queen, who I believe often tunes in to ‘This Morning.’ Would I be able to get my message across and in fact, what was it?

My message actually was quite simple - to raise awareness about HIV and by speaking out about what it was like to live with HIV myself, hopefully put and end to HIV related stigma.

Sitting on that famous sofa with Doctor Chris, whose bedside manner or maybe I should say sofa manner in real life is as genuine as he appears to be on the telly, calmed me somewhat and I managed to get through it. I was hoping my mum was looking down on me as she’d always loved Doctor Chris from his early days with Richard and Judy and I know she would have been so proud of me, as were the rest of my family and I have received so many lovely messages of support I feel quite overwhelmed, so thank you everyone who took the time to email me.

Incidentally, disappointingly I didn’t get any of that face crack filling makeup which was embarrassingly evident, nor a hair do and I wished I’d worn my sparkly jacket even though I’d been advised against it, because the gorgeous Jason Gardner (featured above in the picture giving me a big kiss) was doing a fashion slot and guess what was being featured  - sparkly jackets. 

The previous day I had been in the Houses of Parliament for the roll out of the Stigma Index, the first project of its kind in the UK - run totally by and for positive people. The findings were very clear - HIV related stigma still exists in a big way and our message was - To Give Stigma the index Finger. Annie Lennox who does so much valuable work for HIV/AIDS was there to give us her backing. Let’s hope our findings make a difference. 

The other message I wanted to drum into the nation on television and also here in this blog, is to remind everyone that HIV has not gone away, that the statistics are ever rising, especially amongst women and heterosexuals and yet HIV is hardly talked about in the media - even on World AIDS day. 

WHY? 

I don’t know the answer to that question, but I do know that there is a constant need to speak out, to make people, especially young people, aware of the dangers. So that is why I spoke out on television on World AIDS day and why I will keep on speaking out, because I know that every time I do it makes a difference in raising awareness and in combating stigma and if I can prevent one person from contracting this terrible disease it will all have been worth it.

After Sofa sitting I got the train back to Blackburn and went straight to the World AIDS Day Vigil at Blackburn Cathedral where I gave a speech. The following day I stood in the pouring rain at the Preston Flag Market and gave another one - then a couple of days after I was on the panel for two hours on BBC Radio Lancashire. Over doing it? Maybe. Over exposing myself (as the actress said to the Bishop!) possibly, but someone has to do it and fortunately many of us are. And this is no disrespect whatsoever to those who can’t speak out, forced into silence as they are by a society where unfortunately stigma and discrimination still exists. Where HIV related stigma is concerned there is still sofa to go. By reading this blog you are helping to combat stigma so many thanks to all the hiviners who visit this site and please continue to do so, it means a lot.

Always remember, HIV unlike other chronic and terminal illnesses is preventable - by raising awareness and by putting an end to HIV related stigma - by practising safe sex and by getting regularly tested and knowing your status - together, we can wipe HIV off the face of the planet.  

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December 1st World AIDS Day

I am on ITV ‘This Morning’ speaking to Doctor Chris

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My autobiography, “The Spider and the Fly,” is finally out and available to buy on lulu.com.
 
I started it when I was first diagnosed in 2002, and over the years it has undergone many changes, but I believe the final format reads well. 

My wonderful literary agent Robert Smith was very close to getting it published by Random House, but in the end they decided against it. It seems a story about an older woman with HIV may only appeal to a limited market.

Unfortunately, statistics prove that the target market is growing daily.

However, not one to give up, I have always been determined one way or another to get this book out on the market and in the public eye. This is not an ego thing on my part but because I truly believe it could save lives.

As it says on the cover, “This could never happen to you - or could it?”

Yes it could. HIV can and does affect anyone and everyone, as the recent statistics of the newly diagnosed prove. I am also hoping that reading my story will reduce HIV related stigma which unfortunately is still rife. I am fortunate in the fact that I can speak out, as so many positive people can not. 

Regular readers of hivine will know that my goal, from the outset, has been to raise awareness both by writing this blog and speaking out on behalf of those who can’t. I never thought I would end up being an activist but I will continue with my quest until this bloody disease wipes me out, because I don’t want it to wipe out anyone else.

I am very lucky that I have a supportive family.
I am lucky that I have a wealth of inspirational positive friends who have given me the motivation and the courage to carry on.
I also consider myself extremely lucky to be living with HIV because so many people don’t. They either die through lack of access to medication or through sheer ignorance.
 
So please buy the book and recommend it to your family and friends. Let’s try to put an end to HIV/AIDS through the raising of awareness, the message of practising safe sex and getting regularly tested.
 
Finally I would like to thank all hiviners who by visiting this blog and website have kept me motivated over the last few years to keep writing and updating the site and hopefully will continue to do so.
 
Also, a huge thanks from my heart to my sister for all her help with the editing and complicated formatting and without whom this book would never have come to fruition.

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Travelling Light

 ’Got no bags and baggage to slow me down’ just like old Cliff Richard’s song, but tell a lie, not strictly true actually. Did have one small airline bag that didn’t need to be checked in, orders of my sis, international business woman and traveller who I was meeting at Schipol airport. As trip was purely for work purposes i.e. final book blast on ‘The Spider and the Fly’ was only allowed to pack minimum clothes allowance (wear the rest ordered sis) and my lap top, which as now antique weighs a veritable ton. Therefore am swaddled in big black all weather smoking/sleeping bag coat over totally impractical calf length turquoise tartan skirt and thick coordinated mohair cardi. Have successfully managed to squeeze tiny suitcase lid down on lap top, camera, various cables and sandwich box containing meds. Great, won’t have to go to collect baggage, will be able to walk straight off plane like true international traveller and business woman like my sis.  

First, have to strip everything off at custom control, coat, mohair cardi, belt, bum bag, boots, but luckily not tartan skirt. Fortunately am wearing matching socks, not mismatched holy heeled sports socks of son - where do those other socks go? Socks are embarrassing shade of pink and clash with tartan skirt, also not sure if remembered to shave legs. Slink guiltily (as ever) through scanner without pinging, but then, “Who does blue bag belong to?” surly butch prisoner cell block H security guard demands. “Me,” I raise tentative finger in air whilst frantically retrieving mohair cardi, boots etc. off rolling conveyer belt. Security guard thrusts ham like arms with rolled up sleeves in tiny suitcase and triumphantly extracts sandwich box containing meds complete with ice cooling packs - wonder if she knows what they are for? Disdainfully routes around in toilet bag and starts fishing out items one by one then depositing them in tray. What is she doing? “Can’t take these items,” she declares viciously, “Are not in plastic bag.”

“Do you have plastic bag can buy?” ask politely.

“That not plastic bag that shiwer hit,” security guard gives sarcastic snarl and with sweep of burly arm sweeps lot into bin.

 ”You can’t do this to me, please, I beg you,” but she already has. My life’s necessities, my costly clarins age defying foundation, sexy mother pucker lip plumper, brand new mascara, preparation H (just incase). I am speechless - dumbfounded, cut to the quick, hurt to the core, bewitched bothered and bewildered. Feel as though vital organ has been severed. In one fell swoop prisoner cell block H security bitch from hell has stripped me of my identity.

Stand there looking pitiful in tartan skirt and pink socks, hopefully not hairy legs, but too distressed now to care. “She’s binned my clarins,” I say tearfully to other security guard with friendlier face and anyone else who cares to listen. Nobody listens. Nobody cares.

Eventually forced to put boots, mohair cardi etc. back on in case I miss flight but am now suffering from shock and victim of post traumatic stress syndrome. Wander in dazed fashion to departure lounge. What am I without my age defying foundation and sexy mother pucker lip plumper? Daresay can manage without preparation H but sure security guard from hell can put it to good use. Bet she’s got a stall on Liverpool market selling off confiscated clarins and brand new mascaras.

“No comb and no toothbrush,” hum ruefully to self, “I’ve got nothing to haul, I’m carrying only, a pocketful of Werther’s Originals, a few scrunched up tissues - “and they weigh nothing at all,” unlike my stupid airline bag which keeps toppling over with weight of antique lap top. Luckily remembered had thirty pound gift voucher in bag from sixtieth birthday, so go to Boots to restock. Unlike Cliff am definitely not travelling light as am now wielding stupid topply over airline bag, heavy smoking in all weathers coat and stuffed Boots carrier bag. Sweating profusely in unladylike manner join on to Easy Jet cattle queue lined up on stairs, lower heavy bag step by step, keep tripping over stupid tartan skirt which due to lack of hips (thanks to meds) is slowly descending floor wards, as are knickers. Take part in mad dash for seats and overhead locker space, then try to lift bag into locker. Impossible, cannot lift it no matter how I try. Easy Jet rule - have to be able to lift bag into locker without help, so no one offers, not even to newly diagnosed pensioner like self. The days of men acting like gentlemen are definitely over, at least in Liverpool. Eventually young man with dreadlocks comes to my aid. Thank God for Rastafarians I say, where would old ladies like me be without them? Wish I was sitting next to Rasta locks but am sitting next to a strange eccentric middle aged man in yellow corduroy jacket. Fall asleep as becomes my age, also to avoid talking to yellow jacket. Dribbling probably - wake myself up with an unladylike snore. Have landed already. That was quick. Am dreading trying to lift bag down, so jump up and position self next to overhead locker three rows down, which means have lost sight of handbag with money, cards etc. Everyone rushes off plane. Am convinced yellow corduroy jacket has made off with handbag having completely forgotten handbag also had to be squashed in ridiculously small airline bag. Yet another Easy Jet rule. Luckily stopped myself from screaming, “Stop thief! Stop that man in yellow corduroy jacket.”

Now seriously worried about short term memory loss and travelling capabilities, am obviously not fit to venture out alone. Perhaps am going senile or suffering from onset of HIV related dementia. Think am totally traumatised by daylight makeup and preparation H robbery and still in shock, added to which mohair cardi seems to have accumulated static on route and get electric shock every time I touch anything metal, like stair rail. Not doing anything for hairstyle. Look like Jedwood of X Factor fame’s sister. The missing triplet.

Haul heavy suitcase up stairs trying to hold on to tartan skirt which is determined to trip me up and electrified rail which keeps giving me shocks. People giving me funny looks but no one offers to help. Motorised car waiting at top, “Ooh good, can I have ride?” ask hopefully.

“Only if name is Macdonald,” says lady driver. Point to tartan skirt but doesn’t wash, “ f*** off then,” swear at her and stalk wearily off. Hear car approaching behind me. “Give you lift as far as can,” offers lady driver. Accept offer and clamber aboard. Limp next two kilometres to arrivals gate but no sis. Feel abandoned, will now have to negotiate Dutch train system by self. Calming camel immediately in order so make directly to closest exit. Mobile rings - is sis - where hell r u ?

“At door,” tell her.

“Which door? Are many doors. “ Don’t know,” sniffle.

Sis tuts - stay there will come to you. Phone rings again, where hell r u? Sis angry not good start. “Will walk to next door,” tell her. Finally see sis through swing door, is standing on concourse with face on - push trolley through swing door. Sis standing alone - crowd giving her wide berth. Is clutching string with huge helium balloon of black and white cow beaming over shoulder with silly smiley face - cow not sis. We hug, sis gets shock from mohair cardi - I cry, we laugh, we walk to car park with cow flying over our heads getting tangled up on passing trolleys.

 We finish book, we finally agree on cover, tis done and dust covered. We take helium cow out on dyke for symbolic launch and make celebratory video to put on you tube and send to agent. Cows have been ongoing theme in our correspondence over last six years it has taken to get book “The Spider and the Fly” to completion. Book will shortly be for sale. Watch this space and also watch silly cow video by clicking on blog roll, “Cow Kiting (sorry Kyterman)”and “Cow Kiting, what happened next” if you want a laugh.

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