Almost as irritating as James Martin’s Asda campaign, furniture adverts which state a series of numbers instead of a proper British price. “It’s just eight nine nine!” enthuses some grinning moron.


It’s eight hundred and ninety-nine pounds.

Stop it.


The beginning

The walls were thin, to the point that they seemed to suck in and then relax when the door was opened and then closed behind her. The small room was fairly dark, lit by a window directly opposite, so that everything in the room appeared in shadow to her. A yellowing plant, long forgotten, sat dryly at one end of the windowsill.

The man was tall, athletic, probably in his early 50’s, though it was hard to tell. He was clean shaven with a full head of wavy brown hair. He smiled, muttered something about being with her in a minute, and then pivoted back to his computer screen. She unwound her scarf and shrugged off her winter coat. The room didn’t seem to have heating, but the pictures on the walls and the items on the shelves were somehow warming. Right ahead, a picture of something abstract but probably organic, in oranges and browns and reds. Then, just behind the man, a bowl, almost, but not quite spherical in green and grey. Scraps of curling, yellowing paper pinned to the wall around his desk, scribbled and sketched, the odd flash of purple paint, sepia, gold.

“Well, thank you so much for coming,” he said, smiling at her again “I’m really sorry about this, I’m just not sure what to do with her.”

“That’s okay.” She replied, settling down with a notebook and a pen. “Tell me the story.”

He kicked back in his office chair, clasped his hands behind his head, elbows out to the sides. “Well. Where to start? Yes. It all began last summer….”


Crisis of Blog

I love my blog, even though I’ve neglected it of late. It is a good release of “sensible” writing that is different to the somehow disposable Facebook posts I write pretty much every day. When I first started a blog, back on the 20six platform about a hundred years ago I had several things to talk about. Firstly, I was newly separated from a husband I did still love, but had to escape from, and so I had a new life to begin. Secondly, I had lots of time on my hands to reflect, formulate and craft my posts. Thirdly I had quite a lot of emotion and illness to put down and I was never that bothered about reaching any kind of audience at all. I wrote it, pretty much as an online diary. Some very kind people from all over the place commented and were supportive. And that was nice.

These days, life is very different. It’s much more positive, I have way less time to write as my days are filled with life, I’m less emotionally wrecked, less ill (though I still have my moments) and I am now confident in who I am. In short, I’ve grown up.

And with that, I find myself a little lost in what I’m doing with my blog. Should I just archive this whole thing, close (as it were) the book, and start afresh somewhere else with a new purpose and a new look? If so, what theme have I got to motivate me to write? On the other hand, do I just amend what I’ve got here, keep the archive, draw a line and then start with something new with the next post?

I just don’t know.

Am I expecting anyone to answer? Do I think anyone cares? I’m not talking to anyone but myself here. Probably.

What, these days, sums up what I’m interested in?

  • People and how they work together in teams, how they are led and managed
  • Language, writing, communicating, the English Language.
  • Teaching, training, developing others
  • Medical stuff

I think that’s it.

It doesn’t look very impressive now that I’ve written it out.

I need to think about this.




As a small child, I had confidence. I was ‘bossy’, which was always seen in the negative back then, but I like to think I showed ‘great leadership potential’. (I see the same trait in my little girl, funnily enough). At secondary school, somehow that got knocked out of me and I spent many years not being sure if anyone liked me, not being sure if I was doing the right thing; generally being uncertain.

When I got to work, I realised there was a place for me. I was an organiser, a networker and a communicator and someone others would follow…. and slowly, slowly when I realised what I could do, back came my confidence. Apart from a small blip where a bad relationship squashed me back down again, I am now in a good place where I believe in myself, know who I am and know my own limitations.

At work, a promotion has come up, for a job I reckon I could do. And, when I think about the job itself, I am confident in my ability to do it. I would enjoy it, and I could really make a difference. But. Two of my colleagues and a handful of external people think they could do it, too. As soon as I think about the competition, my confidence wanes…. Maybe they’re better than me….

On the other hand, may be they’re not.

I know what I must do.

Winging it

Remember: no-one’s really ever paying much attention to what you’re doing. Most of the ones you’re bothered about are so wrapped up concentrating on their own stuff, there’s no time for them to be that fussed about you. We’re all just winging it. Cut yourself some slack!

Only the F word

There are some times when only the F word will do. It creates a release of something that helps to soothe and calm. I don’t fully understand the science of it, but I do know that it is real.

Like when you twist under your foot and rip open some ligament under the skin, when you pitch forwards, unable to save yourself, your right arm, bent up and caught in the strap of your handbag fails to save you from crashing to the pavement like a bag of wet, useless meat, the cement bricks slamming mercilessley into elbow and knee…………

When the agony swells and rushes back through the silent, efficient nerves to the spinal cord and the brain, and they seem to burn and scream and cry…….

That’s the time for the F word.

Don’t tell me to mind my language. Because you can fuck right off.

Cries for He-lp have been answered…

Penelope Pitstop has been released.

Finally, someone pointed out to her she could no longer be in this particular race.