I found this on the BBC News website - a really sweet little audio slideshow about the Crossbones Cemetary, which I've mentioned before. It kind of gives you an idea of what the gates look like and what the ceremony's all about...
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-11642938
Sunday, 31 October 2010
A Walk Between The Worlds...
So today is Samhain, the Witches New Year and a celebration of all that is past; when the last of the harvest has been gathered and our ancestors looked forwards, no doubt with some trepidation, to the winter ahead and trying to get through it in one piece. I'm kinda hoping that the next 12 months are slightly better than the last 12 (although there have been some seriously wonderful moments), but although I'm feeling all reflective this is not going to be one of those 'oh do you remember when we...?' posts. Instead, as the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest point tonight and the realms of the living and the dead become intertwined, I'm going to honour my own dead...
My first experience of death (human death, that is; I'd already witnessed The Passing Of The First Goldfish) came when I was 10 years old and my beloved Nanna, my dad's mum, died. She had been 'not well' for a very long time but the end, when it came, seemed to me at least to be very sudden: one day she was in hospital, very ill, and then a few days later she passed over. My Nanna was one of the kindest people I have ever been fortunate enough to know; all my memories of her are of laughter and joy, which push away the ones of her being ill, and to this day I only have to see certain objects or smell certain perfumes and I'm immediately reminded of her. And if I ever happen to see an older lady doing her shopping in her slippers, I have hysterics because my Nanna did that more than once! She was a one in a million, my Nanna, and I'm forever grateful for the early memories of love and laughter that she gave me.
Even after she passed over, however, and as devastated as I was, I knew that she was still part of me. She lived on in my memories, yes, but I knew her spirit was still there as well, watching over us. In fact when my Arhoo, my dad's dad, passed over after a long illness, just before I turned 21, I strongly believe that she was there to take him across. I can't explain it in words, but when I went to see my Grandad in hospital just before he passed, I'm sure she was there because he looked t something or someone that wasn't physically there and he smiled. My Nanna and Grandad were very close, so I'm not surprised that she came for him. I was privileged to have wonderful grandparents - on both sides of the family - and Arhoo was a great practical joker. All the memories I have of him, rather than being of the last time I saw him in hospital, are of a kind, caring man who took great delight in stealing my breakfast and writing me out a bill after a week's stay at their house. What can I say; no wonder I'm broke! There's also the story about him dropping an artillery shell almost on his foot during the war...don't ask. Burying him on April Fools Day was a bittersweet experience, but I know that he's at peace now and that is what sustains me. I was always amazed growing up that so many people in Rochford knew my Grandad and thought so much of him, but as I got older and learnt about his work as the local undertaker it all made sense. Knowing that people whose families he had buried, and the district nurses who'd helped care for him in the last years of his life, were at his funeral is testament to the sort of man that he was, and I am so proud to be able to say that he was my own beloved Arhoo.
My other Grandad, my mum's dad, passed when I was 14 and in that very self-centred 'stroppy teenager' phase. He had been ill for a long time and I think I was in complete denial that he was going to die. I'd already lost my Nanna; to my mind there was no way my warm, funny, adorable Grandad who let me kick ants and drown his precious plants when I was 'helping' to water them was going to die as well. Of course, the Universe never asks us what we want and I found his passing probably the hardest of all. I adored all my grandparents because they were such warm, wonderfully caring people, but we'd lived with my mum's parents since I was 7 and so I'd grown up with my Grandad. He had the patience of several thousand saints, which was tested to the limits when he tried to teach me my times tables, but he never complained about any of the ridiculous games my brother and I asked him to play with us and was exactly the sort of grandfather I would want any putative child of mine to have. In fact I wish every child could have the grandparents I did; all four of them were (and still are, in my Nan's case) among the kindest people I've ever met and even a smidgen of the love and affection that I got from them could go a long way towards helping other children turn their lives around. My Grandad never judged me, even when I was the most obnoxious little cow imaginable and, although he had passed over when my obnoxious little cow phase was at its worst, I know that he was still there: his spirit stopped me killing myself when I was 15. But I owe him more than just my life; I owe him my ability to (sometimes) work out what seven eights are, my delusional belief that my violin playing was completely extraordinary and an unhealthy obsession with digging potatoes out of the earth with my bare hands. His belief in me even when I doubted myself was above and beyond the call of any familial ties, and I know deep down that, when I really start to think I’m a failure or I can’t do something, all I have to do is close my eyes and think of him, and I’ll find the belief that I need.
Just over a year ago I also lost my Great Uncle Ronnie and my Great Auntie Rose, my Grandad’s older brother and his wife. I didn’t know Ronnie and Rosie as well as I knew my grandparents, but whenever they came down to us for family get-togethers or to stay with my Nan and Grandad they always took the time to play with me and enfold me with the same warmth that they extended to their own grandchildren. Again, they were both extremely kind and loving people, and to have had them in my life – even momentarily – has been a blessing.
So tonight, as the walls between the worlds fall away and the ancestors return home for their brief, fleeting visits, I want to honour the people that I have loved and lost over the years, and thank them for their role in shaping the child I was and the woman I am becoming. To my beloved grandparents Margaret and Aubrey Pipe and Denis Ward; to my Great Uncle Ronald Ward and my Great Aunties Rose and Violet, who passed over several years ago.
There are others, too; ancestors whose names I may know but whose stories are a mystery, and all those who stretch back beyond the records we have found to the beginning of human life. Their blood flows through my veins still, and I thank them for it.
To Marie, who passed over when we were still at school and made all of us realise how fragile life could be, I wish peace at last.
And to all of you who may be reading this rather rambling, shambolic thing that I call my blog; to all of you who have lost loved ones, I send you my love and will whisper a silent wish to the winds that they are also at peace. Samhain is a time to look back and honour those who have gone before us, but it is also a time to look ahead to the turn of another year and all the promise that it holds. Happy Samhain, everyone, and may the new year bring you all joy, good health and good fortune. xx
My first experience of death (human death, that is; I'd already witnessed The Passing Of The First Goldfish) came when I was 10 years old and my beloved Nanna, my dad's mum, died. She had been 'not well' for a very long time but the end, when it came, seemed to me at least to be very sudden: one day she was in hospital, very ill, and then a few days later she passed over. My Nanna was one of the kindest people I have ever been fortunate enough to know; all my memories of her are of laughter and joy, which push away the ones of her being ill, and to this day I only have to see certain objects or smell certain perfumes and I'm immediately reminded of her. And if I ever happen to see an older lady doing her shopping in her slippers, I have hysterics because my Nanna did that more than once! She was a one in a million, my Nanna, and I'm forever grateful for the early memories of love and laughter that she gave me.
Even after she passed over, however, and as devastated as I was, I knew that she was still part of me. She lived on in my memories, yes, but I knew her spirit was still there as well, watching over us. In fact when my Arhoo, my dad's dad, passed over after a long illness, just before I turned 21, I strongly believe that she was there to take him across. I can't explain it in words, but when I went to see my Grandad in hospital just before he passed, I'm sure she was there because he looked t something or someone that wasn't physically there and he smiled. My Nanna and Grandad were very close, so I'm not surprised that she came for him. I was privileged to have wonderful grandparents - on both sides of the family - and Arhoo was a great practical joker. All the memories I have of him, rather than being of the last time I saw him in hospital, are of a kind, caring man who took great delight in stealing my breakfast and writing me out a bill after a week's stay at their house. What can I say; no wonder I'm broke! There's also the story about him dropping an artillery shell almost on his foot during the war...don't ask. Burying him on April Fools Day was a bittersweet experience, but I know that he's at peace now and that is what sustains me. I was always amazed growing up that so many people in Rochford knew my Grandad and thought so much of him, but as I got older and learnt about his work as the local undertaker it all made sense. Knowing that people whose families he had buried, and the district nurses who'd helped care for him in the last years of his life, were at his funeral is testament to the sort of man that he was, and I am so proud to be able to say that he was my own beloved Arhoo.
My other Grandad, my mum's dad, passed when I was 14 and in that very self-centred 'stroppy teenager' phase. He had been ill for a long time and I think I was in complete denial that he was going to die. I'd already lost my Nanna; to my mind there was no way my warm, funny, adorable Grandad who let me kick ants and drown his precious plants when I was 'helping' to water them was going to die as well. Of course, the Universe never asks us what we want and I found his passing probably the hardest of all. I adored all my grandparents because they were such warm, wonderfully caring people, but we'd lived with my mum's parents since I was 7 and so I'd grown up with my Grandad. He had the patience of several thousand saints, which was tested to the limits when he tried to teach me my times tables, but he never complained about any of the ridiculous games my brother and I asked him to play with us and was exactly the sort of grandfather I would want any putative child of mine to have. In fact I wish every child could have the grandparents I did; all four of them were (and still are, in my Nan's case) among the kindest people I've ever met and even a smidgen of the love and affection that I got from them could go a long way towards helping other children turn their lives around. My Grandad never judged me, even when I was the most obnoxious little cow imaginable and, although he had passed over when my obnoxious little cow phase was at its worst, I know that he was still there: his spirit stopped me killing myself when I was 15. But I owe him more than just my life; I owe him my ability to (sometimes) work out what seven eights are, my delusional belief that my violin playing was completely extraordinary and an unhealthy obsession with digging potatoes out of the earth with my bare hands. His belief in me even when I doubted myself was above and beyond the call of any familial ties, and I know deep down that, when I really start to think I’m a failure or I can’t do something, all I have to do is close my eyes and think of him, and I’ll find the belief that I need.
Just over a year ago I also lost my Great Uncle Ronnie and my Great Auntie Rose, my Grandad’s older brother and his wife. I didn’t know Ronnie and Rosie as well as I knew my grandparents, but whenever they came down to us for family get-togethers or to stay with my Nan and Grandad they always took the time to play with me and enfold me with the same warmth that they extended to their own grandchildren. Again, they were both extremely kind and loving people, and to have had them in my life – even momentarily – has been a blessing.
So tonight, as the walls between the worlds fall away and the ancestors return home for their brief, fleeting visits, I want to honour the people that I have loved and lost over the years, and thank them for their role in shaping the child I was and the woman I am becoming. To my beloved grandparents Margaret and Aubrey Pipe and Denis Ward; to my Great Uncle Ronald Ward and my Great Aunties Rose and Violet, who passed over several years ago.
There are others, too; ancestors whose names I may know but whose stories are a mystery, and all those who stretch back beyond the records we have found to the beginning of human life. Their blood flows through my veins still, and I thank them for it.
To Marie, who passed over when we were still at school and made all of us realise how fragile life could be, I wish peace at last.
And to all of you who may be reading this rather rambling, shambolic thing that I call my blog; to all of you who have lost loved ones, I send you my love and will whisper a silent wish to the winds that they are also at peace. Samhain is a time to look back and honour those who have gone before us, but it is also a time to look ahead to the turn of another year and all the promise that it holds. Happy Samhain, everyone, and may the new year bring you all joy, good health and good fortune. xx
Saturday, 30 October 2010
Strictly Shallow...
Today's post will be short but sweet. And very, very sexy...
In summary: tonight's Strictly Come Dancing was a Halloween special and I was ultra looking forward to it because there would be Argentine Tango and Paso Doble's being danced, which are my two favourites. Imagine my surprise, delight and down-on-the-knees-thankfulness, then, for the opening number, which saw five of the pro dancers doing a paso. I can't tell you what anyone else did, not even Ann and Anton (and I concur with Bruce - they're my favourites), because of this number. Not only did it feature the return of my favourite dancer, the very sexy Matthew Cutler, but the also very sexy Robin, Artem, James and Brendan were also involved. It was heaven. I don't care how shallow and tragic this post makes me sound, or how much like a teenage girl I look when I say 'phwoar' - this was something special.
Thank you, Strictly producers, and thank you, gentlemen, for showing everyone what a paso is supposed to look like. And for making my temperature shoot up. Phwoar.
In summary: tonight's Strictly Come Dancing was a Halloween special and I was ultra looking forward to it because there would be Argentine Tango and Paso Doble's being danced, which are my two favourites. Imagine my surprise, delight and down-on-the-knees-thankfulness, then, for the opening number, which saw five of the pro dancers doing a paso. I can't tell you what anyone else did, not even Ann and Anton (and I concur with Bruce - they're my favourites), because of this number. Not only did it feature the return of my favourite dancer, the very sexy Matthew Cutler, but the also very sexy Robin, Artem, James and Brendan were also involved. It was heaven. I don't care how shallow and tragic this post makes me sound, or how much like a teenage girl I look when I say 'phwoar' - this was something special.
Thank you, Strictly producers, and thank you, gentlemen, for showing everyone what a paso is supposed to look like. And for making my temperature shoot up. Phwoar.
Thursday, 28 October 2010
Lorem Ipsum...
And so November is almost upon us, which means several things...
1) Lots of complete and utter idiots with fireworks.
2) An excuse to wear snugly jumpers, curl up with a hot chocolate and a good book and not go out because "ooh, it's a bit parky out there and it's raining".
3) My annual attempt to render myself even more insane than I already am begins.
Yes, it is indeed *that* time again. National Novel Writing Month, or NaNo, as it's affectionately/grudgingly known, kicks off on November 1st and once again yours truly is going for it. Write a novel of at least 50,000 words in a month, you say? Certainly, my fine fellow; in fact, why don't we make it two for the price of one and I'll throw in some apples as well!
One month, 50,000 words...except make mine a double because this year I'm attempting two novels. Oh, as well as having two or three rehearsed readings with my writer's group, setting myself the challenge of writing a poem a day for a year (starting on Samhain) and holding down a full-time, stressy job, among other things. Oh, and blogging. I may end up shooting myself at this rate. But it will, as always, be an experience.
Luckily for me, I have a vague idea of where my stories will go this year. One is to attempt to turn a short story I wrote into a fuller-length novel (thanks to kds at the Emilie Autumn forum, otherwise known as published author Kathryn Smith, for making me think I could do it. Read her 'Brotherhood of the Blood' books; they're amazing). The other is a modern retelling of ye olde Arthurian legends, set in the 1960's and reclaiming Morgan Le Faye from the 'incestuous whore' tag she's been saddled with over the years. It'll be interesting. I think. Come back to me on Tuesday and I'll probably be pulling my hair out and screaming that I can't write anything ever again, but for now I'm upbeat and positive.
In fact, to get my itchy fingers sorted out and attempt to engage my brain, I set myself a bit of a challenge: write a 26 word story in alphabetical order. Et voila the result...
A Little Piece of Heaven
At Beachy Cove, dawn echoes from ghostly hideaways immemorial. Jack kissed lucky me near open pools; questing, reaching, searching the undulating valleys, watching xanthic Yellowbill’s zooming…
It's short but sweet, and certainly made my brain work. Right, bring on November...
1) Lots of complete and utter idiots with fireworks.
2) An excuse to wear snugly jumpers, curl up with a hot chocolate and a good book and not go out because "ooh, it's a bit parky out there and it's raining".
3) My annual attempt to render myself even more insane than I already am begins.
Yes, it is indeed *that* time again. National Novel Writing Month, or NaNo, as it's affectionately/grudgingly known, kicks off on November 1st and once again yours truly is going for it. Write a novel of at least 50,000 words in a month, you say? Certainly, my fine fellow; in fact, why don't we make it two for the price of one and I'll throw in some apples as well!
One month, 50,000 words...except make mine a double because this year I'm attempting two novels. Oh, as well as having two or three rehearsed readings with my writer's group, setting myself the challenge of writing a poem a day for a year (starting on Samhain) and holding down a full-time, stressy job, among other things. Oh, and blogging. I may end up shooting myself at this rate. But it will, as always, be an experience.
Luckily for me, I have a vague idea of where my stories will go this year. One is to attempt to turn a short story I wrote into a fuller-length novel (thanks to kds at the Emilie Autumn forum, otherwise known as published author Kathryn Smith, for making me think I could do it. Read her 'Brotherhood of the Blood' books; they're amazing). The other is a modern retelling of ye olde Arthurian legends, set in the 1960's and reclaiming Morgan Le Faye from the 'incestuous whore' tag she's been saddled with over the years. It'll be interesting. I think. Come back to me on Tuesday and I'll probably be pulling my hair out and screaming that I can't write anything ever again, but for now I'm upbeat and positive.
In fact, to get my itchy fingers sorted out and attempt to engage my brain, I set myself a bit of a challenge: write a 26 word story in alphabetical order. Et voila the result...
A Little Piece of Heaven
At Beachy Cove, dawn echoes from ghostly hideaways immemorial. Jack kissed lucky me near open pools; questing, reaching, searching the undulating valleys, watching xanthic Yellowbill’s zooming…
It's short but sweet, and certainly made my brain work. Right, bring on November...
Saturday, 23 October 2010
A Passion For Fashion
Technically I suppose that’s a bit of a misnomer, since you could never in a million years accuse me of being a fashion victim. The whole purpose of “fashion” as far as I can make out is to ensure that you blend in with the rest of the herd; Gods forbid that you should step outside “the rules” and look different to anyone else. And it seems to me that it doesn’t matter which ‘clique’ you’re part of, even the metal community; if you dress differently it’s not fashion and you, shameful blight on humanity that you are, will never be ‘in’.
I am, very happily, not ‘in’. I wear what the hell I like; sometimes I’m a jeans and band t-shirt kinda gal; other times I go for full-on Goth; sometimes I channel neo-Victorian, other times I dress like a Woodstock-going hippy and sometimes I wear something so odd that it makes even my nearest and dearest go ‘eh?’ (Ducky Dress FTW!!) I mix high street, vintage and charity shop finds and if you were to ask me to define my style, quite honestly I’d struggle. So explain to me, please, why I spent the day at the ExCel Centre ‘up tahn’ (in London, for those of you who haven’t seen ‘This is Essex’ and don’t speak the lingo) at Britain’s Next Top Model Live?
Actually, for all that it was a shallow girlie-fest of clothes, beauty, shopping, makeovers and celebrities I’d never heard of (with the exception of the charming Mr James Nesbitt, who actually IS that fabulous in real life), it was pretty good fun. The people-watching opportunities were fabulous, both the so-called celebrities and the ‘real’ shoppers and wannabes. I saw vintage vixens, goth girl glamour pusses, high street cuties (I nearly said ‘high street honeys’, but that’s a whole ‘nother kettle of fish…) and designer divas; women of all ages (and a few bored looking men and some very excited GBF’s) strutting their stuff, most of them wearing whatever happens to be ‘in’ at the moment. It was a joy to see the occasional gem standing out from the crowd in whatever she felt comfortable in rather than the same old, same old, but it was a helluva time, I can tell you. We had VIP tickets (darling) and so, with air-kisses all round (sweetie) I channelled my best Anna Wintour impression (I can’t think of any other fashionista phrases) as we took in the fashion show. I have no idea which of the models on the catwalk were actually in the last series of BNTM (never watched it) but the clothes were pretty amazing. And yours truly was very, very good and only bought two very cute little vintage-inspired dresses and a very dinky little thing that goes over the button of your jeans, shaped like Dorothy’s ruby slippers. What can I say? It might not be fashion, sweetie-darling, but it’s very, very me…
Oh, and FYI…I was wearing Ducky dress, black leggings, a black cardi and my tartan shoes from Ness. Proper glam. Not…
I am, very happily, not ‘in’. I wear what the hell I like; sometimes I’m a jeans and band t-shirt kinda gal; other times I go for full-on Goth; sometimes I channel neo-Victorian, other times I dress like a Woodstock-going hippy and sometimes I wear something so odd that it makes even my nearest and dearest go ‘eh?’ (Ducky Dress FTW!!) I mix high street, vintage and charity shop finds and if you were to ask me to define my style, quite honestly I’d struggle. So explain to me, please, why I spent the day at the ExCel Centre ‘up tahn’ (in London, for those of you who haven’t seen ‘This is Essex’ and don’t speak the lingo) at Britain’s Next Top Model Live?
Actually, for all that it was a shallow girlie-fest of clothes, beauty, shopping, makeovers and celebrities I’d never heard of (with the exception of the charming Mr James Nesbitt, who actually IS that fabulous in real life), it was pretty good fun. The people-watching opportunities were fabulous, both the so-called celebrities and the ‘real’ shoppers and wannabes. I saw vintage vixens, goth girl glamour pusses, high street cuties (I nearly said ‘high street honeys’, but that’s a whole ‘nother kettle of fish…) and designer divas; women of all ages (and a few bored looking men and some very excited GBF’s) strutting their stuff, most of them wearing whatever happens to be ‘in’ at the moment. It was a joy to see the occasional gem standing out from the crowd in whatever she felt comfortable in rather than the same old, same old, but it was a helluva time, I can tell you. We had VIP tickets (darling) and so, with air-kisses all round (sweetie) I channelled my best Anna Wintour impression (I can’t think of any other fashionista phrases) as we took in the fashion show. I have no idea which of the models on the catwalk were actually in the last series of BNTM (never watched it) but the clothes were pretty amazing. And yours truly was very, very good and only bought two very cute little vintage-inspired dresses and a very dinky little thing that goes over the button of your jeans, shaped like Dorothy’s ruby slippers. What can I say? It might not be fashion, sweetie-darling, but it’s very, very me…
Oh, and FYI…I was wearing Ducky dress, black leggings, a black cardi and my tartan shoes from Ness. Proper glam. Not…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)