Hotel breakfast

So here I am nestled nice and warm in the breakfast room. You could say it’s the best room in the dining experience, as I have a birds eye view of the place. I never wanted to be this old. Its no fun being shrivelled and burnt out. If only I was still smooth and firm and felt really alive. Anyway its no good moaning, I have to tell this story before my time is up. It may be sooner than you think! 

Theres Mrs Classy over there at table number 2. Thinks herself somebody with her airs and graces and blonde coiffeured locks. Don’t get too close though, its only a façade. Her natural colour is 50 shades of grey. She barged past me without a second glance, all too quick to get her “posh” breakfast. Little does she know the fruit salad she deems so healthy was scraped off the floor at 6am and tipped back into the bowl. That chef assistant is such a clumsy oaf. Forgive me if I curl up at her a minute as she nibbles the grapefruit covered in fur! 

And here we have a one nighter at table number 3. Hes here with his secretary. Oh yes you might think you fool me with your notepads and pens pretending its all above board by booking The Willow Conference room. If I sit up a bit I can see her foot in your lap Mr, oh yes! Its not just him getting hot under the collar, can’t someone turn the heat down in here a bit, Im having a hot flush. Must be my age?! 

Next in the rogues gallery is to my right at table number 5. Surveyor Sam. Hes an arrogant so and so. Don’t you just hate those sort who sit on their laptops and mobile phones conducting a business on speaker phone. So you have sealed the deal eh? £50.000. Wowee. Whoopy day. Pity you don’t pay more attention to your long suffering wife who is at this minute finding her own jackpot with Mike, retired schoolteacher from Kent, who she sees once a week in a clandestine affair on floor 3 in room 428. They would be sat at table number 4, only they didn’t have time for breakfast, preferring something tasty of their own making. Put that in your pipe and smoke it smug Sam. (could do with a smoke myself, come to think of it).

 Table number 6 is empty. Well I say empty. Its to be cleared. I would have been there myself but Im glad Im where I am to be honest. In fact I wouldn’t mind being here for life. Life, I hear you say, don’t be ridiculous.. but if only you knew what I had been through, you would understand. Treated rough in my life, neglected, pushed around and finally stripped of all my finery. Catching light of myself in the spotlight above my place Im shocked. I really have some grey streaks in my hair, and doesn’t my bum look big in this? So yes its best I am where I am and not on that table on show to all the world and his wife. 

Table 7-10 is a weightwatchers conference. These poor people have been sucked in by the points mean prizes option. They started off happy people with a zest for life and now they look positively gaunt with their sunken cheekbones and thin frames. Taking pride of place in the centre table is the ceremonial prize. Is it a gold chalice, no. Is it a all inclusive break to the Seychelles to a health spa, no. It is.. wait for this, a set of weighing scales!! I ask you, how sad is that?! For gods sake a bit of fat don’t harm you!! Take me for example, Ive been told Im very tasty indeed, so there. 

Table 8 are a noisy rabble. They have been here since 7am. You know the type, take the all you can eat voucher to the extreme. I have watched them back and forth at least 5 times. Food all over the place, including the walls and floor. I said good morning so many times I got fed up of their rudeness and not answering that I gave up. You just cant educate some folk. I know I have room to talk, I have been here the same amount of time, but I have had nothing to eat, Im just enjoying people watching. But them ruffians just make my blood boil so much that Im positively sizzling.

Table 9 is very different. I have been watching them for some time. You don’t see this very often. They cant take their eyes off each other. It must be love. Their eyes positively sparkle with it overflowing out of each other. A joy to behold it is. The other people are too busy with their own importance to see the glow around them, but I see it. I hope they make eye contact. Im over here. Yes, just little old me. Sitting here minding my own business. Come and say hello. Go on you might enjoy it. Oo they are getting closer. Leaning over me. She, glides off, but he fixes upon me. Oh goodness, Im fair melting, how hot is he! He picks me up twirls me around and Im dizzy. Im seated again now, right next to him. Im looking up at him, gazing, I too am transfixed just like she was. Well who wouldn’t be. And then it happens he gazes me straight in the eyes, my mouth touches his. Hes going to kiss me. Oh I can hardly contain myself. He opens his mouth and…. Im in there! Hes tasting me, oh I know Im going to be swallowed but who cares. The crispy piece of bacon has pulled!!! 

Its gone right to my head

                                         Show me the way to go home...


We all want the best for our children. We want them to be happy, contented, safe and secure. We do our utmost to prevent them sliding down the slippery slope of no return, the mere thought of which drills a sense of fear deep into our souls.
My daughter E did not have the best of parenting in her life, perhaps you could argue. From the age of 6 weeks old she was looked after by her father, as I was a qualified nurse and could earn more - a practical sensible decision. I did have guilt feelings over this at the time, as I lived in a small minded town back then, where it was not the done thing for a woman to have a career. My husband and I had no issues with him being at home. His relationship with E at that time was incredibly close and she still dotes on her father. It was in the early years of our marriage, that I realised that alcohol however, was the main passion in his life. It was not unusual for him to have a house full of drinking buddies, with  crates of Fosters or the cheapest deadliest cider opened and empty cans everywhere. I got used to stepping over them on the way in, cleaning up and spending lonely nights as he slept it off. It was usual for E to have alcohol around her, and still now she finds it comical if anyone has one drink "socially".
My husbands explanation for this is that it was how he was brought up, so what was the problem. Unfortunately E also saw the downside of this unsocial drinking. It was common to see her Dad so drunk he fell in the bath, slurred his words, vomiting, and him sinking deeper into despair by adding a few drugs to the cocktail mix and becoming so depressed that he had an ongoing affair, his first and last heroin dabbling overdose and slashed his wrists the next day. (His explanation, not mine).
Perhaps you are wondering why a relatively sane girl like me tolerated this behaviour, along with the threat of violence, physical abuse at times but far worse the treatment of my daughter. Why did I finish an 8-8 shift to walk home past the pub to see my beautiful daughters face through a pub window and pick her up to take her home. The answer is I eventually came to my senses you could say. I am not asking you to have sympathy, but just see things from another facet of the crystal. I believed that I had to be a good wife, that maybe it was my fault, believing the negative words he called me, also quite scared of what he could potentially do. Above all, I knew the love E had for her father, and that it would break her heart to leave him at the age of 4. We, in time got our own house, a mortgage, but with it the drinking became worse. My husband was often too drunk to pick E up from primary school, so got a taxi there and back, or that she was looked after by my mother. The final straw came when I  came home to find E playing out at the back of our house on the adjoining lane. It was snowing outside and he was comatose on the sofa, surrounded by the usual cans with the front door wide open. Again, he saw nothing wrong with this, and E screamed that she hated me when I made her come inside. She was 5.
When I did take her far away to the other end of the country, the relief of getting out of this situation was immense, but E continued to hate me and blamed me for her having no contact with her father. In essence, I never stopped her seeing her father. I had been separated from my own for 25 years and knew that pain only too well. What I did do, was try and ensure that the court understood the situation fully - that her Dad was an alcoholic, and occasional drug abuser, that there was a danger of her being surrounded with unknown men at the age of 5. She did see her father at a contact centre for a few visits, until he decided he had better things to fill his life with. 


E was seen by many psychologists in her young life. They painstakingly tried to unravel the many knots of her mind. She did have a kind of behavioural disorder. I have lost track of the times that I have relayed our life story and how we came to be here. I had to harden myself to the tutting and comments made when E would have her outbursts and manic episodes. My skin got used to the constant biting, punching and deep scratches that E would administer when she didn't get her own way. She had become used to a 6 pack of crisps being given to her by her father for the day, whilst he entertained his friends. Trying to ration this now and reason with her, was futile and I was just the bad parent for constantly saying no. I just wanted the professionals to help my daughter, to recognise she had a condition and not blame me. I was accused of just wanting a label for my daughter. I tried to explain I was a registered nurse and knew she was mentally ill and needed help. E always had no sense of danger, would hurtle herself into a road in a forward roll, or dash off miles ahead with a manic banshee shriek and cackle. She had issues at every single school she has ever attended, through bullying other children to being bullied herself, but mainly disrupting classes and bad behaviour. 
Her main school in London began with the usual parents joy, first "big" uniform, snapshot on the doorstep, the way you get yourself in a right state, and they just wander off, all nonchalant stylee. 
It was in these first few weeks however that I had a phone call to say she was missing. Missing? What did they mean? Kidnapped? No, she had been enticed out by an older friend and spent the day in a disused house with step ladders to different crumbling floors where adults also frequented to drink or take drugs. She was now 11. This was not the last time she went there. It became a daily occurrence for me to take her to school and for her to walk out of the back entrance. The school had no jurisdiction they said, to stop her leaving. The new "big" uniform, soon faded, dirtied by a new lifestyle, torn by climbing, dusty from sitting on unknown floors. There were periods when she settled for short periods, but this would then break down again. I knew she was smoking, but never smelt alcohol on her. The school knew smoking went on, and she and her "friend" were acquiring money from Arthur Daley deals and buying them in school uniform from the local shop. The headmaster joked how she was quite the entrepreneur. I politely pointed out that I in no way found this situation funny. 
At home I tried everything with E. We continued to see psychologists, had reward schemes, forfeits. She rewarded me by stealing from me, damaging property in the house, constant voicing that she hated me and hoped I died, laughing in my face.
Trying to get her away for a new start, I moved to the coast. A far better school with one to one mentors, but she grew worse.  One day I confronted her over stealing and she took a knife to me, threatening to hurt me. She was now 13. The physical strength of E is unbelievable when she was in one of these rages, it scared me. The look in her eyes as she showed no emotion and became violent, was chilling. 
The missing episodes got worse also, and I got used to calling the police to say she had not come home from school again. It made no difference if you turned up to pick her up as she rarely was at school, just escaped after an hour or so. I knew many policemen on first name terms as they patiently sat on the sofa, taking yet another photo of E to help find her and an account of the latest escapade. My Westie no longer barked when they knocked on the door for the 5th time that week. They sympathised, soothed, assured me it was a phase, that she would grow out of it, that I wasn't a bad parent. Equally though, they pointed out that they had no jurisdiction either over the situation, even when she stole a souvenir bottle of Ouzo from the house and sat with her friends drinking in the park. They did in time say they would no longer go looking for her, as they couldn't keep wasting resources. Most times they had found her, although she did resist being brought home. I tried my best to get social workers involved, drink counsellors who tested E and gave her rewards for not drinking. It wasn't until much more recently that E has told me she had steadily been drinking since the age of 11, and it was normal for her. She accused me of being snobby and posh for seeing fault with it. I was raised on some of the renowned Council estates in Yorkshire by my Mum alone, and do not see myself as posh, only wanting to get a career for myself. I was lucky not to have alcohol issues in my family, but my Mum did have serious mental health issues.
The worst night of my life so far was when E did not come home at the age of 12. She was missing the whole night. I hope you never have to go through that, but I seriously thought she was in a gutter somewhere. It was a winters night and I remember sitting up the whole night chilled to the bone in fear. It turned out that she had got drunk and stayed at a friends house whose parents had supplied the drink. The next day she was returned by the police in a surly manner and resisted the police with violence. As she slept it off, I remember breaking down finally and the police saying that she had said I was not a bad parent and that I was pretty cool actually. I could simply not understand why she was doing this to herself. It was as if she had a finger permanently on a self destruct button. 
The next low point was when she called me (missing again). This time she sobbed down the phone telling me she was not worthy of living and wanted to kill herself. She had taken an 11 year old boy from school out on an escapade with her and he had got so poisoned with alcohol he had collapsed and spent the night in A/E having his stomach pumped and nearly died. I begged her to come home and we would talk and help her through this. Eventually she did and for one of the first times in her life showed emotion and sobbed for an hour. I naively thought this would be a turning point. However the next night E went missing and ended up with another girl in a lock up garage with 3 older guys. Thankfully nothing happened, thanks be to God. 
Again, the social workers told me it was because she wanted to see her father, that it was a normal teenager thing to do. I pointed out she was 12! Also that it was her father who refused to see her, despite my attempts.
I did after much deliberation and a 7 day repetition of missing episodes take her to the social workers office, demanding they take her into care to help her. Have you any idea what that took as Es mother to bring myself to do this?
Was I met with help? I was told I would be arrested for neglect if I left her there and walked away. At this point I begged them to help me and more importantly her, as she had an undiagnosed disorder fueled by alcohol and needed help. 
As always, E had the upper hand, by escaping the office and going missing. I rested my case. 
After this she continued to go missing, and the social workers were quite happy for her to stay in a house of a friend where the parents drank regularly and allowed their underage children to. E went shop lifting and I took her to many chain supermarkets requesting they arrest her and ban her from the shop and see how accessible the drink is to under age children. Again, they sympathised but said they could not do that.


Things came to a head when she came home drunk at the age of 13 and threatened me again. I called the police myself. They arrived and again said they could do nothing, until she swore at me. The police woman saw red and picked E up with a single hand and placed her against the wall, her legs dangling, saying she was arresting her for potential breach of the peace. 
I can remember standing in the police station another time terrified of the unknown process as she had been caught shop lifting and bragged about it. Instead of a cell, the police relented and kept her in a holding room with me. The shame burned on my face as she was finger printed, yet looking at her she merely shrugged her shoulders, smirked saying it was cool.


I was beginning to wonder where this was going to end. As always, E made her own choice. She had gone on a holiday to her fathers as agreed by social workers. I had paid for her to go. She rang me and said she wanted to live with her father permanently and that she was not coming home.
Her father smugly said he would keep her safe and she would come to no harm. 
E had always put her father on a pedestal, and I know she always will. What did I do? Drag her back? What would have been the point. I told her I had only ever tried to do the best for her, and that it was not my job as a parent to make her unhappy. My own mother did not agree with me and stated I should have made her return.
E was now 15. I knew I had to let go. I had done my utmost to show her a different way, take her on holiday, encourage her to read, get an education, take pride in herself. 
In the end we all know the consequences of our actions and we have to take responsibility for them. I am a mother, a nurse, but I am not a qualified psychologist and that is what she needed. But not just any one. The one who flatly told me the only way she would ever function in life was to be locked up for a period of time on treatment. But this never happened, she simply slipped through the system. She never fitted a text book definition, but then what is "normal behaviour".
I don't blame anyone for this, I merely wished at that time there had been better education for professionals and schools and parents in how to deal with these problem kids. We dump them in different areas, we lock them away. But does anyone really understand why they do what they do?


In truth I do blame myself. I will never forgive myself for not getting her away sooner. I will never know if this would have made any difference whatsoever. As we all know in hindsight we would all do things differently sometimes, but as parents we can only do what we think is best at the time.


What is she doing now?...
She stayed with her father, the episodes continued and in fact got worse. 
She is now 20, has been in violent relationships and is now still in one and pregnant.


What can we do as a parent?...
Simply be there to pick up the pieces.


All I would ask is, don't judge anyone in this situation and that they are not bad children and we are not bad parents. There needs to be continued support and help for anyone in this scenario. I know that in Es case that the following is true


                        "You will always find me singing this song"......

Thanks to a Twitter chat with @craig_caerdydd about this subject for the inspiration for this blog, and thank-you all for reading
x

Mr Darcy with a large dose of Hugh ~ Follow you, Follow me

#.......In your arms I feel so safe, and so secure.....

Well, it has been some time since my last scribing
Much has happened in my Numpty life
Make yourselves comfortable and I shall begin.

There was a night when I was going to leave Twitter, this had been building for some time, and I had every intention of never returning and tweeted this in a roundabout way.
That night, one DM arrived, in my inbox. This was from someone I had followed for a while and we had called each other "kindred spirits", sharing love of literature, music, humour and sensitivity.
I was drawn deeply to open the new avi picture of the man on the account, and as it opened fully, my heart pounded. The most amazing smile and eyes I had ever seen, but with a story behind the smile. For some reason I was compelled to find out what his story was, which I did over many months, and knew that his face had captured my emotions so deeply, that night.

     "Write a message from the heart, it might just be where the future will start"  (JD)

Our love of reading and writing had meant we had read each others blogs and been drawn to each other by an invisible thread of destiny, written in the stars.
Who followed who on Twitter was unimportant, the meeting of minds was the key. One followed the other, the other followed back.

Whilst I am here, thank-you dear readers for patiently waiting for Ms Jones voyage of discovery to pick you up. I know I have left you standing waiting in the dark, but if you would like to pick up your cases, carrier bags, pampered pooches and the like, we can still make the train of life with a few minutes to spare.
Has everyone got a seat? I can see some standing in the aisles and one perched on the overflowing litter bin and the couple sitting on each others lap in the luggage rack. Alas, even with a season ticket of life, I am unable to guarantee you a comfortable repose.

We are off! Hold tight, it is a bumpy ride, I know we have obstacles in our way, but have no fear, as it is nothing that cannot be overcome with a little perseverance. The way to the new world ahead is lit with such blinding glowing rays at the ende of the tunnel.
This journey seems to have taken years, but then it really has, a real voyage of self discovery. During this journey, I have not changed, I have merely shed many outer protective layers  revealing my true inner self.
This train is so cramped, only 2 carriages with the old fashioned slam doors and push down windows. You see me standing amongst umpteen holdalls, rucksacks, bags and I fear I may disappear in an ever increasing pile of bags. I giggle as a group of around ten guys jostle past - a stag party en route somewhere whose non dulcit tones of badly copied pop songs fill the air.
As the fields of destiny pass me by on either side of my carriage, I am led back to poignant parts and conversations in my life, afore mentioned. Whereas before, I had always been filled with dread at the track ahead that was my life, I am now aware of an overwhelming excitement as the train trundles on.
This excitement built to fever pitch and I feared my heart would burst out of my chest.
At last the train ground to a halt, only I stepped off, as if it was meant to have always been that way.




The carriage was full

Only one stepped off and faced

The other who waited

Bags dropped, they both embraced  (JD)


The moment I had only dreamed could happen in my wildest dreams happened. That look, that smile, those words, it was as if the world stood still and here he was in front of me in real life. Before we had met, I had always known he was "the one" no doubt in my mind, and trust me when you realise that, then you know, and whatever happens hold tight and never let it go. These opportunities come but once in a lifetime yo! (thank-you Eminem!).
We have had difficulties and it was to be expected that some people could never understand this situation or how it came to be. As with a lot of life situations you soon find who true friends are and who remains loyal. This is all old news now, but all I want to say here is that we had come to be in this place after being open and honest and true to our selves. It was not as it appeared to some, and for those who judged wrongly they have a right to their opinion, but I also exercised my right to choose not to listen to their slander.
To those who stood by us, I just want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for being there and for knowing the real me and not wrongly judging me.

I have never ever looked back since that day on the platform. My life now has meaning, I am happy for the first time in my life, I look at the man by my side and feel an incredible pride and furnace in my heart for him. Although it hurts dreadfully to be apart for long, we also have that freedom and independance of spirit individually to be who we are.

I truly hope that if you have not already found such love, that you do, and I do believe it is there for all of us.
I do feel this is a spiritual event and I will thank God every day of my life, and above all, I thank my gorgeous man, for coming into my life, showing me what love is, and I will be indebted to you for the rest of my life.

@jsdax - I love you, I love you, I love you

xxxxx




"Every day is such a perfect day to spend, alone with you....I will follow you will you follow me?.....#



This is the end of this blog, but I will be continuing my numpty rambles in a new one.
Will you be aboard the next train?


All my love

Ms J

XXX







You can't choose your family

# Theres a place for us.......

Hello my lovelies. How are you? Good I hope. You find me in a far better place in my life.
The road ahead seems less arduous, I have on a sturdy pair of boots and more importantly a guiding light, which I know will never fade. The sun through the trees is so dazzling, that I have my sunglasses perched on my head, ready for the amazing moment when I start to reach the bright part of the road.

For this blog, I thought I would share with you my family history. I got interested in it after watching a "Who Do You Think You Are" programme. Following this I did a little bit of research around different available websites on the subject. As you know my family was not stable, and so I knew this would be difficult. I decided to start with my maternal side. I contacted my mum and started to ask questions. I knew my own details, and gathered data about basic dates/names/places for the next couple of generations. I remember from my childhood the Auntie I grew up with having a box of photographs. In this box of photographs, I remember a photo of youngish children with skullcaps, dark hair, skin. A little bedraggled, the most striking thing, their dark eyes. She talked a lot about her mother Annie Rebecca. My mother talked a lot about the Jewish link in my family. It was mentioned that a Great Uncle had to prove he had Jewish Heritage to marry his second wife who was from a strict Jewish family. Great Uncle George took himself off to Somerset House and duly returned with paperwork to prove just that. I felt that I was not taking the usual route along genealogy, but following stories, instinct. I started looking at the censuses from back in time on my mothers line, using what information I had. This was awe inspiring, I never knew what a Land of discovery lay behind a computer screen. I found my Great Nannie Emerick as a young child, born in Stoke Newington, a true Eastender. I also found her mother Hannah (Mitchell). This surname jumped out a little, as I felt a Jewish link was here (my 6th sense). Her father was a shipwright, in earlier years, on the London docks. This led me to wonder if there was some immigration link and then some settling by a port of arrival, using a known trade.
The story of my great grandmother Annie Rebecca Emerick had always been epic. My Mum had told me she had left home at an early age, was headstrong, brave. She had gone into service as her mother Hannah died at a young age, and she hated her step mother. She went into the Salvatian Army and met her husband George. They were two of the youngest Captains, in time. She had worked with homeless single parent mothers in the true East End of London, and was also a Governess before this. I felt an intense bond with this woman. On seeing her photograph, I saw myself instantly. A tough exterior with a vast vulnerability and sensitivity within. You could say a strawberry cream in a chocolate box.

 (Annie Rebecca on the right hand side)

My profile I see. My "cutesy nose, so I am told

The story was that she and her soon to be husband went to Ireland at the turn of the 19th century.There they worked in the Salvatian Army, somewhere and got threatened and stoned for their beliefs.I was intrigued by this story and wanted to find out more. I found her mother Hannahs death certificate in time, she had died very young after a long TB illness. She also lost a son at a very very early age. These two things struck a deep chord within. I am as you know a nurse and know the terrible suffering of TB patients in the old days. I have also suffered 2 miscarriages, so also know that intense pain also. I felt a deeper connection with my maternal female line. This is where I get my strength of character from. I delved furher into my maternal line. My mother mentioned there was German Jewish on one side and Armenian Jewish on another. This is a little poignant. I have always been drawn to the Jewish people. On holiday I love to seek out a Jewish quarter. In Paris I did this. I found the most amazing area. I wound my way through the streets, passing shops, people, tabernacles, and loving the buzz and the warmth I found there. I have a Jewish star of David symbol necklace and a Jewish candelabra. These are 2 of my most treasured possessions. I also have a love of Turkish style food, music, furniture. My mothers sister visited Armenia a few years ago and apparently wanted to stay there, she found such a strong emotional bond that it brought her to tears. This is on my "bucket list" I know i have to visit there.

Naively I felt I would discover this "Jewishness" but of course it is a religion, a way of life. They had to be as little mystical, in and out of the shadows. A race tormented and still, sadly. I made contact with a distant cousin who turned out to be related to the Emericks. she had no knowledge of my line, but also told the same story of Jewish links, and apparently the family having to move from a ghetto part of London, and tragedy. She is also researcing alongside me and we hope we will find that link one day.

I did a tour of Annie Rebeccas birth place and life in Stoke Newington and Clerkenwell. I must say, I feel a connection with that part of London. I have pictures of her houses which are very precious. It took me many years to find her birth certificate, when I finally held it, the tears rolled down my face.

Intrigued by the name Emerick, I did some reasearch around this line. On a major genealogy page, I discovered a photograph, of interest, it seemed a group of brothers.

The gentleman at the front intrigued me, the Navy uniform jumping out. Not knowing this was my direct family, I filed the photo, knowing by my 6th sense this was significant. Once I made contact with my cousin Ros in Australia, she explained these were my Great uncles, and sent me THE very same picture!

The Emerick brothers. I knew by my reasearch they were butchers in Clerkenwell. On digging as little further, I discovered their Navy records. I have always had a love of sea. I adored the historic boatyards at Portsmouth. The wreck of the Mary Rose drew me to tears. I have an intense fascination with the Titanic and its stories and that exhibition drew me to tears (I'm always crying lol, I'll be over it, don't worry, its just Miss Jones Numpty side, you know me by now). The HMS victory, I found stunning. I leant against the rope and inhaled deeply and that smell has never left my psyche. I love anything naval. In recent years my troubled daughter was helped so much by sea cadets and found such focus. I never knew until recently the strong naval connection. Again I saw the profile, the same apparently "cutesy nose" amongst these Emericks.

I did manage to trace back the family to Germany. The area they come from is somewhere near the Rhine, again another place on my "bucket list" for more research.

On my Great Grandads line (Annie Emericks husband) George, I have already mentioned he had to prove a Jewish link. Was this on his mothers line or his fathers, I am still trying to discover it. My mother feels there lies the Armenian Jewish line. I did however discover a Welsh link from the Barry Island. Strange that I adore Gavin and Stacey, which is placed there in part!!

He was born in Bury Lancashire, and worked in the cotton mills from a very early age.

I know that he adored the Great Annie Rebecca, they were never apart, he carried a lock of her hair, and died broken hearted not long after her. They were true kindred spirits, a very special once in a lifetime relationship. The kind you simply must follow by destiny.

The comical thing was I couldn't find a wedding certificate for them. I hunted high and low. It took years, but I never give up. I now know that they married in Belfast, amid all the troubled times they must have clung together and never let go. Their bond so strong, that therein lies a message for 2 people seriously in love.

On my mothers paternal line, the Foot family were historically from Norfolk/Dorset. They went to to become master plasterers, apparently some of their original work in Town Halls, which I also must visit.  They were also staunch Salvatianists. My Grandad broke with tradition a little, and was a gas scientist, working in laboratories, as well as callouts (strange I am now working in the Microbiology lab side alongside my Specialist nurse role)

My fathers line was as you can imaginee due to our separation something I shelved for a long time. When I got to know my Dad, I was warmed by the fact that he was intrigued by it, as I am. I found out for him, that his Grandad was in the Army, and got his army records. My Dad alsways said his family were Gypsy, tinkers, the "Shaves" there was also the rumour of Irish somewhere in there too.

Starting with my Dads certificates I started to research. This led me on a journey of discovery. I found the Shaves were from Hackney, another London link. I have yet to find the Irish or gypsy link..... I do have a fascination with these too, the Celtic music, influence, way of life.

On the maternal side I found the Weinerts. This was an interesting name. It led to Bavaria, pork butchers. I had to laugh, with Dad as I shared this. In true Hackey Dad style he exclaimed " Cor blimey, no wonder me and your mavvarr never gort awwn, Jewish and German, bleedin `ell !!! "  We laughed so hard together, it was priceless.

It explains why I love the Sound of Music, as the scenery. A recent programme on Bavaria also blew me away. Another "bucket list" place. it will take me a lifetime to do all of this.

One of them was a surgeon, which I find interesting, given my medical career pathway, and want to explore more.

I have touched on the Italiano link in my paternal line, my grandmas mum having an affair with someone from Lake Garda.

This picture of my Nan on the left with my stepmum (god rest both their souls) shows her Italiano I feel.

I was lucky to know my Nan for a few years before her death. She was so like me in looks, non judgemental, mischievous, spoke her mind, a beautiful soul who I hope I am like. She had a tough life, and got through a lot. She was also the reason I found my Dad, as she contacted of all people the Salvation Army to try and find me after 25 years. Strange how they played a large part in my ancestry and future.

So there you have it ~ the story so far.

Some could say I have the pedigree of a Numpty, a mongrel not a thoroughbred.

I see myself as having the Jewishness, in my forever demonstrative hands to prove my point, having the Italiano eyes and hair and love of music, the gypsy that longs to travel and be a slightly freespirit on a bareback horse along a beach, the Bavarian love of mountains & water once again, the Lancashire love of Eccles cakes, and Manchester tarts, the Armenian soul of feeling for Humanitarian causes and empathy of people displaced and immigrant, the love of the Southern Coast, one of my favourite places amongst others Devon, esp Brixham so far, another favourite possession a hand painted picture from there....  

Mainly I feel the soul of My Great Grandma Annie Rebecca Emerick, I see in those eyes the pain of her childhood and loneliness, the strength of character to be stoned and threatened with death for what she believed in, the true love for her partner. I just know I will follow that, I know this road is leading to that eventual peace and a kindred spirit. The vulnerability in the eyes are being replaced by a spark so strong, the light ahead so bright its blinding. So I am ready to push down my sunglasses which are perched on my head, onto apparently "cutesy nose" and walk further along this beautiful road of destiny.

# Hold my hand and I'll take you there

Somewhere......... #

Let me in at your window

#Oooo it gets dark, it gets lonely....

Well we meet again, for this little journey you may want to pack a tape recorder, a notebook, but most of all open your eyes and ears to what is around you. That is all I ask of you.

I wanted to share with you some of my mystery side, delving a little deeper into Miss Jones psyche.
At around the age of 8 years old, I went on a school trip to Harewood House. It was a lovely day, memories of a stately house with a stunning interior, peacocks and malted milk biscuit sandwiches. These were a quirky favourite of mine and I can still be found to enjoy the occasional nibble. But you won't tell above two will you?
Anyway, I digress...
On the coach home I was sat on the back row. Always a dreamer, I sat facing away from my friends with my elbows on the window sill, gazing out.
At the side of the road on the journey back to Halifax, I saw a windmill. At the side of it, a lady. She was smiling and waving, a pretty dress, in a field full of wild flowers.
I waved back and the coach went on its way. It felt a little strange, a ripple went all through my body, a little coolness and goosebumps.
On returning home I told my mother about this story. Knowing me to be a day dreamer she just glossed over it. However, I continued talking and described the ladies dress in great detail. All of a suddent there was a crash, my mother had dropped the glass she was drying and was standing with her mouth wide open.
She took me to sit down and explained that this was not just "a" lady. The dress I had described was worn by her mother, I had actually seen my grandma.
Nothing unusual you may think, if she lived in a windmill, between Harewood House and Halifax....
However sadly my grandma had passed away when I was around 2 years of age. I had sadly no memories of her. One picture of her where I am sat on her knee, but not in "that" dress. I felt a little scared, what did this mean? What was going to happen to me. My mother expained there was a 6th sense, some psychic power in our family on the female line.

This was the first encounter.
The second was in the house in Halifax where I lived with my Mum and Auntie at around the age of 9.
I hated the bathroom there. For some reason, I would run in, do what I had to and run out again. One particular day I was brushing my teeth, when I was aware of a young girl stood in the corner. She stood in an old Victorian nightdress -  long, simple, holding a candle, blonde hair, unkempt, bare feet, silent. Just tears pouring down her face. I saw in her eyes such sadness, and fear. I ran out of the bathroom and leapt into bed, pulling the covers tightly over my head, shaking from head to toe.
It probably didn't help that above my head was a poster of Rumpelstiltskin. My mother placed it there telling me if I banged my feet on the floor, he would appear and I would fall through the floor. I still shiver at the sight of striped stockings to this day!!
These psychic feelings in the bathroom came and went. I used to hear sobbing, low, soft, but heartbroken sobbing in the distant background.
One morning, I woke up in bed and was staring at the ceiling of the bedroom I shared with Mum. I was by now around 11 years old. I sensed a noise, a crack appearing, and dust.
The ceiling was actually not moving, in real time.
For some unknown reason, I leapt out of bed and ran to the other side of the room, where my Mum was. I couldn't quite believe my eyes when I heard a very strange ripping noise, we looked up, a crack appeared in the ceiling above my bed, and dust. wood and debris poured down, right on top of my bed! It was lucky my Auntie had gone downstairs from her Dormer bedroom above. The structural engineer who came to see the damage, could not understand why this had happened.
It was about a year later when my mum was talking to a neighbour across the road. She was talking about the history of the street. She went on to say it was well known that the house we lived in had been used as a place for orphans, with a very strict governess. She was very cruel to the girls who lived there.
In her older years, she had an accident in the house and passed away there.

These memories stayed with me, I never shared them with anyone. For the rest of my life, there have not been any major revelations, but I do have a 6th sense. I can walk in a room, and know it is not a good place, I can sense what people feel. I sense people who are hurting deep inside. For this reason, I am drawn to certain people with such intensity that it scares me at times. I know a persona they may display hides deep hurt/suffering.
For me eyes are the most important part of a person, and these are what I am drawn to.
I often know by looking at a photograph if a person is alive/dead for example or have some flashback to events on a rare occasion.
I often know what someone needs or senses without them telling me.

I adore Mia Dolan, have read all of her books and met her in real life. She is a deep beautiful soul. I love anything to do with psychic powers/astrology/destiny.

I do truly believe its written in the stars. I believe you are shown signs and it is up to us if we follow or ignore these.
As my Great Grandad used to say, "If you can't see anything beautiful around you, look up"

# Oh, let me grab it, let me grab your soul away
You know
Its me....#      

Bonjourno.....

 Welcome back to my little part of the world. Today, I am going to take you on a little flight. I hope you remembered your passports, sunblock, flipflops and a knotted hankie. Here is your boarding card, enjoy the ride, and the view.

I have not travelled as widely as I would have liked in my life. But I love airports, the build up to a flight, the packing. I don't get stressed or worried about it. I feel travelling is in my blood. There is a rumour there is Romany in my family which could explain a lot. More about my heritage in another blog.
I do have this side to my character which means if I could, I would catch a plane at the drop of a hat and blow the consequences. In truth I want someone special to travel with me.
I do get a little grumpy and overheated in blistering heat, so certain places appeal more.

Since I was as young as I can remember I always loved Lake Garda. I have no idea where this originally came from, it may have been a book/programme, but I used to make my mum laugh by saying it was somewhere I had to go, like an obsession. I am prone to an occasional obsession, so be warned, if I have one deep enough, it never ever stops!

I had been to other parts of Italy, Sicily, etc, but when it came to my 40th birthday, I felt this was the right time. This was in November, so the climate was cooler.
If you remember I had met back up with my Dad after 25 years, and by this time I had investigated a little family history. A few surprises, but later! Stop pressing the air hostess button, all in good time!

As the plane touched down, I thought well isn't this nice, the flight had shown some impressive mountain and lake views, but still a bit misty, so not crystal clear.
The flight arrived at some ridiculous O'Clock and I think it was a couple of hours journey by coach to the hotel. Cheap flight so airport nowhere near the hotel, you get the idea, bucket seats cheap as chips.

Anyways, its pitch black as the coach sets off. It went through tunnels, so long and so deep it was strange, another world. I took in the scenery, stunning houses, the most beautiful flowers I had ever seen. I have always had a connection with Italy, it gives me goosebumps, I never knew why. I have inherited a 6th sense, this is another of my traits. No you can't get up to see that blog, sit down and buckle up!

The light started to come through, a beautiful sunset across a the first view of the lake. I was stunned by how big it was. I had imagined it smaller, but that was as a younger small person!

The coach continued and I happened to look up, It was like enlightenment, a strange feeling, I realised the tunnel was actually going through the mountain, and the awesomeness of it hit me. I felt so in touch with something. My eyes filled with tears and I sobbed my heart out. You know me by now, the numpty who cries at the drop of a hat. This was different, like my heart depended on it. The tears just ran and ran and ran. It was a very deep intense connection.

The destination was Torbole. Beautiful hotel, on the lakeside, welcomed by the family staff who prepared food as if we were family, the most kindest people you could imagine. Cooking for us travellers, at a ridiculous hour still, I have never known that in other resorts.
An exhausted sleep and dreams ensued.

Something woke me a little later, a duck outside on a bit of the lake. It was a noisy little bleeder and never stopped quacking the whole holiday. No alarm clock needed for Miss Jones. But it was as if it was saying, "Come on get out your lazy bed and look"

I tumbled out of bed (please don't imagine it, seriously, I look like the Wreck of Esperance
after a spring clean!) pulled back the curtain and I stopped breathing for a minute I am sure. I felt as if heaven was in front of me. The lake, the sun, the foliage. But it was the mountains, The most stunning range I had ever seen. I had been to Corfu, I love the Greek islands with a passion, so know what floats my boat.
This range absolutely blew me away for a different reason. I had connections here, I just knew it.

I just stood on the balcony with shivers down my spine. The sad thing that struck me, however, was that the person with me, was not the one to share this with me. It suddenly seemed poignant that he was snoring through the tunnels, and was now.
The tears rolled again, because I really hadn't learned my lesson. The numpty had not been her true self. Here I was again, somewhere beautiful, the most special part of my life, and I felt lonelier than I had ever been. I knew I was 40, and things had to change. Somehow, I had to find the right path and make it to the other side, without looking back this time.

The holiday remained beautiful because of the scenery, the people who I found to be awesome, the air which was refreshing, the food which was out of this world. Although I have to admit I am not keen on the real Italian pizza. Maybe because I made the mistake of ordering one and it was delivered, it was the size of the table. I nearly fell off the chair. I looked around and giggled, as I caught sight of people laughing looking as if to say. "we did that, but only once!"
My personal favourites are lemon risotto, and spaghetti/pasta dishes. Seafood doesn't really float my boat (apart from prawns, sardines Greek style etc) - sorry fishermen, for that reason, I'm (mostly) out, (but not fishing).

Another strange passion of mine is a little opera. I'm a bit fussy, Carmen, Nutcracker Suite, anything with a real passion within it (like me).
My main love is Bocelli. I adore his music and am actually listening as I write.
On a day trip to Venice (sorry this did not float my boat. I have a phobia of rats and the sight of them at high tide put me off for life. I felt trapped in the alleys and although I  am open to try something new, it was not for me). Another comical thing is that the person with me adored it and always has (you get me?!)
Anyway the gorgeous Italian guide Maria (they are all called Maria) said on the way back, lets have some music and put on her favourite CD. On came the dulcit tones of Bocelli. The mountains at twilight, the voice I loved, and snoring next to me. For that reason on came the tears again. But again realisation of where I needed to go in my life.

Well that is a little flight of discovery.
Hold tight we are preparing for landing my lovelies. Please put your seat upright madam,and gently, do not upset the mans coffee in the seat behind you, Joan Collins style. Miss Jones ensures you are all sitting comfortably and buckled up and takes her own seat.
The landing is a little bumpy, with the memories of realisation, but hope for a better future.

A little later, my Dad came to visit me. I shared the holiday photos with him and he absorbed it all, he has a love of similar things. He had brought me some family documents for my family history research. I explained my feelings whilst I was there. He smiled and said "Its not surprising" Confused, I asked why. He then said you can search all you like but there is one bit you won't find in the documents. He went on to explain that apparently my Great Nan had met an Italian man, who lived in Garda, had an affair, and that is how my paternal side had continued! The family spent many happy times in Garda, and it was always "their" place.
I asked him why he hadn't told me before I left for the trip. He just laughed. I knew he wanted me to feel it for myself.
Perhaps that explains my dark hair, my love of mountains, plus water, as that is where I am truly happy. Maybe it explains my love of a bit of opera, the language, the people. It could be why people tell me my eyes are my main feature. Who knows.
But I found myself there, and I will never forget that experience.

Its not all sad. Recently I am beginning to see a new path. There are mountains ahead. But I am looking through the trees, I can see the lake. And this time, however rough the terrain, however steep the climb, I will not give up.
The sun is always shining through the trees. Look hard enough, its there.
This time I will not look back

(your only homework, Miss Jones is not that strict - translate to find the ending....and if you have never listened to opera, indulge..

 

#  Ogni volta che si raggiunge per me, che farò tutto quello che posso

Stiamo andando per qualcosa, da qualche parte non sono mai stato

A volte sono guidata ma io sono pronto a imparare per il potere dell'amore

 

Anche se ci possono essere periodi, sembra che io sono lontano

Ma non chiedo mai dove sono io, perché io sono sempre al tuo fianco    #

 

 

 

From me to you

Much love, eternally

 

BJ

xx

These are a few of my favourite things......and pet hates

# When I'm feeling sad, I simply remember my favourite things.......

Firstly welcome back. Well I say back, I never really left if I'm honest. More like sat back on my heels to watch the dust settle, John Wayne style.
Secondly, thankyou for inspiring me to write more of my numpty thoughts. And so I'm back for a second series, by popular demand which makes me smile.
For this blog, I thought I would share with you some of my favourite things. They aren't highfalutin or high class, you know me by now, simples.com. Also some of the things that don't float my boat...

Social Networking
I admit, hands up, I am addicted. Firstly in the good old days it was chat rooms (don't say you didn't do it, you lot!!) A right mixed bunch of funny characters. More funny peculiar than funny haha.
Then came Friends Reunited, where you caught up with school friends, many of whom you couldn't remember, or hated, or who bullied you. I did get a shock to see a bully who bullied me, who didn't even remember it when I told her. She was horrified.
You chat, exchange pleasantries, discuss the weather, old school stories and teacher memories, and then what? It then becomes a tad strange, you are totally different people now, you no longer share no the same fears/aspirations. There are long stony embarrassing silences and then it stops, you have no more to say.
Next was Facebook, I was so excited by this, and would spend hours on Farmville, the Zoo thingymajig and Mafia Wars. I loved the power for a while, then the strain of being a gangster by night with a huge ranch and a safari to tend during the day finally brought me to my knees. So there my account lies, abandoned, like a ghost town, my crops withered, my zoo animals running wild, my enemies will have "iced" me a thousand times over by now.
Then Twitter arrived. This passed me by for many years. I never really got it. At first I joined to follow an old friend, added a few celebrities, who never tweeted back or acknowledged anything I asked them. I went on it momentarily, but it was nothing special. But now WOW its like a major part of my life. The penny just dropped. A few interesting people arrived and the rest is history. I love its diversity of people, the humour from people who don't even realise they are funny, whose tweets get me through a day when its difficult or I am down. I have made what I consider to be true friends there. I feel warm in its company, supported, loved and surrounded by happiness. There are times when I think I am too sensitive for it, but I know I can never leave! Its under my skin.
I can be who I am, a numpty flirt! There are people going through such awful life crises there that it makes me count my blessings and thats no bad thing. So Twitter I adore you and long may you reign

Suits
I'm sorry I just don't "do" suits. Its generalising, I know, but i make no apologies for it. They just do not float Miss Jones boat. I don't care how smart or well pressed or shiny they are, they're just all wrong. As soon as I see one, my hackles go up, they irritate me. What are they all about anyway? I don't understand this power dressing malarkey. I tend not to trust a rep at work dressed to the nines any more than someone in a polo shirt and slacks. Its the person I am interested in and what they have to say. I always want to unloosen the tie, unbutton the shirt, they look so impracticable and uncomfortable!
Many of the "suits" I have encountered are during periods of commuting to work. They barge into the seat next to you, elbows out, non-tabloid newspaper halfway across your seat as well as their own. Or they cover spare seats with briefcases and other paraphernalia, and look as if you have asked for their wallet, if you say excuse me.
After a few months, I got fed up with these bad manners and I now stick my elbows out back, smile sweetly and remove their baggage to the table if they refuse, plomp down in the seat with a wry smile to myself.
Manners cost nothing and you do not have to wear a suit to have them.

Jeans and T-shirts
Now you're talking, this floats my boat. A guy in jeans and a T-shirt or polo shirt. Gorgeous, simples. I cannot emphasize how much I adore these. I will gaze at these all the time I am afraid, admiring the casualness of them. Not the baggy hip slung ones though (shiver) I'm sorry I just want to hoik them up so I don't have to admire their Calvin Klein label or more!! Any other jeans are fine. I love any shape/size as it is about a person within, in my eyes. I also have a thing for a guy who is in workmen apparel/uniform especially firemen (swoon). I do not go for smooth, a little rough around the edges is just fine.
To go with these, I adore aftershave. You can never put too much on for Miss Jones. I have been known to follow a guy just to inhale the aroma! My all time favourite is Acqua di Parma (inhales deeply and imagines.... mmmm)

Heat
"I'm just not cut out for this heat"
Miss Jones does not do blazing sunshine or blistering heat. It makes me very grumpy and discombobulated. I remember getting off a plane in Corfu, my first trip abroad, down the steps onto the ground. I thought to myself, why have they left the heaters from the Jet on, as I felt this furnace hit my face, to realise this was actually just Corfu in July, 35 degrees, I felt very daft. That holiday I loved the scenery, the people but hated the intense heat and burning sand. I get all hot and bothered, and my very pale skin burns if I am not careful. Strange, as I am very dark haired but pale skinned, a sensitive soul.
I panic if there is no shade, or a breeze and can never withstand those temperatures for long. I would love to go to Africa, as I would love to see the beautiful scenery and animals in the wild/Australia but I think I may swoon and have attacks of the vapours! Someone would have to scoop me up (that could be a bonus?!?!)

Old films and programmes
These I adore, I like nothing better than to curl up and ogle Cary Grant or admire Marilyn Monroe or Audrey Hepburn. I have been told by friends that I look a little like Audrey Hepburn. I dont see this myself, I do have almond shaped eyes though. I would love to have her beauty and vavavoom, I really admire her features and gracefullness and real attractiveness.
As a child I was brought up on Norman Wisdom and musicals. I would put my Mums swing coat on and dance around the room pretending to be a film star. I also believed if I climbed into the old wardrobe I would reach Narnia. I used to push the back of that wardrobe so hard that one day the back fell out! Alas I didn't find Aslan, but just a wall of woodchip behind.
I also loved Little House on the Prarie. I read all the books and connected with Laura, a bit of a numpty in pigtails. I follow the actress on Twitter and she is very vivacious. For those of you who read my diary, you will know why I loved Michael Landon, what a beautiful man inside and out.
I also loved Tony Hancock and Carry on Films. Numpty fun but an escape from the mad reality at times.

Well there you have it, a few of my favourite things.
Tune in next time when we will discover why Miss Jones has an Italian connection as well as other nationalities

# And then I don't feel so bad........#