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........#

Is this the beginning? Or is this the end?

# I just wanna feel real love...........

And so dear reader, my story is told. This is numpty me. To update you my daughter remains unstable, is in and out of relationships, lives up north still near her father, and is now 19.
She still blames me for what happened. My Mum remains up North also and this is a difficult relationship, although I will always love her.
My Dad remains in my life, although we will never recapture those missing years.
And what about Miss Jones? You want the truth don't you?
I will always remain an enigma, to protect myself. I hope you unnderstand why.
But I will tell you that I am still not truly happy. Is anyone? Can anyone ever be? I really don't know. All I do know is that....

# Theres a hole in my soul, you can see it in my face, its a real big place #

P.s Thankyou for letting me share my story with you. Thankyou for travelling this road with me. It has taken a long time to put this into context and share it. I would like to thank Twitter friends especially @richnank and @jarrowlad2012 who inspired me to write this. Without them this story would never have been told.
All I will say is do not judge anyone, until you know the colour of their eyes.

Twitter friends I love you all and you are my inspiration. I may continue to write a blog of sorts. I will let you guide me.
Your numpty of Twitterville
Miss B Jones
xxx

The return of blue eyes

# Hold me now, it's hard for me to say I'm sorry.....

It was several years later, and I had come across a name I recognised. The one name that mean't anything to me, the one person I had always loved and would never forget.
The memory of those blue eyes had been imprinted on my heart for ever.
It doesn't matter how, but we had got in touch, by chance. We poured out our lives thus far, for different reasons we had unhappiness in our lives. He was very surprised to find that I had never forgotten him, and bemused as to why. I knew he didn't feel the same but both of us knew we had to meet and solve the mystery of 25 years ago.
The first meeting, was like a film, a brief encounter, but warm, no real awkwardness. I explained what had happened with my Mum 25 years before, and why I had stood him up. He laughed and said I had always been a mystery and he had always wondered what had happened to me.
I swallowed hard, looked down at his hand, and in a moment of snap decision I took his hand and held it tight. The tears rolled down my face as I told him I was sorry for what I did. Not looking up for a minute, I felt his hand squeeze mine back. This act caused me to cry out 25 years of pent up pain, love and emotion. No holding back, Miss Jones was wearing her heart on her sleeve, saying what she felt, what she had always felt.
I looked up into those azure blue eyes, and saw he was crying too, I have never felt such a moment as that ever in my life. I asked him why and he didn't know. For a mad moment, I thought he really loves me too and always has. This is the Catherine Cookson moment, this is it, off into the sunset, happy days. I have had very few men cry near me, but I know it is something that they do not do lightly.
We did meet a few times afterwards. I have never met anyone else like him. We do however come from totally different worlds, and he has a social standing. Like my favourite Patrick Swayze song, he's out of my league, he's like the wind. I can never listen to that song without crying my heart out every time, and yet it is one of my favourite songs. He connects with me like he doesn't with anyone else, he has admitted that. But equally does not feel the same for me, cannot feel the same for me. And so on this earth, this relationship will never be.
Despite all of this, I knew in my heart he was the one for me, but equally the one who got away and will never be mine.

# I just want you to know, I could never let you go.....#

The teenage years - again

# And she'll take what you give her, as long as its free.....

Mad panic, why wasn't she in school? The first thing that sprung to mind was that he had carried out his threat. They were gone, I would never see her again. I had been in contact with Relate years ago, just in case, registered her details, a lock of hair, fingerprints, if needed on file.
The police were called, the long stony questions, why, who, what. If I knew the answers none of us would be sitting here. It eventually came to light that another girl was missing with her. She was 11, very disturbing in West London, which is a very large place to say the least. I was streetwise, had grown up on some of the worst Yorkshire estates, and have never forgotten my roots. Unfortunately because of her naiivety and behavioural issues she had no sense of right and wrong, and was vulnerable and far younger than her 11 years.
It got to ten o'clock at night, when the phone rang. My nurse hat went on, don't panic, stay calm, even though inside I was enraged, boiling mad. She had stayed out with a friend in a derelict house. On her return, she told me lurid stories of the inhabitants of this place, addicts, alcoholics, where they had spent the day. I could not quite believe my ears, but then this is all she had ever known. This is how she felt safe. Amongst the mad world of her father. No amount of advice, or conversation, filtered through. I recognised this blank wall, nothing filtrates it, it never had with my Mum, with her father. Could this really be happening again?
I was by now in another relationship, stable, happy. She, however was intent on being unstable, permanently had her finger on the self destruct button.
The long stream of psychologists, behavioural experts, who could find nothing wrong. The CT scans and endless medical tests which were all negative. Once again I was at fault, it was because she wanted to see her father, it was my fault, I needed to be taught how to be a mother. What did I see in my childhood they asked that had led to me being a dysfunctional mother. All I wanted was for her to be happy, which she never was.
She started drinking alcohol, smoking. Yes we have all done it, me included. But at the age of 11? Every single day? No.
She would do anything to get her fix. Steal, lie, from her own home and shops. I fought to get her help, social workers. Every single one blamed me and refused to help.
In desperation, I gave up my job, uprooted my life and moved to the coast. Surely this would help? Sadly no. She went missing so often that even the police refused to go and look for her in the end. Who can blame them, they had real fish to fry. I would take her back to the shops and make her take back what she had stolen, asked them to ban her. She just found other shops. I would take her to school, she would walk out of the exit at the other side. School was fantastic and tried so hard with her, but nothing was working. One day she got a friend so drunk that he had his stomach pumped. She rang me so desperate and said she no longer wanted to live. How do you answer that question from a 12 year old when it doesn't sink in. Yet I continued to battle on. She would scream, damage property, and many a time threatened me with a knife. However social workers were not interested.
The 1st night she never came home, I thought she was in the gutter. She had been put into temporary foster care, had refused to say who she was or where she lived. More parenting "reconciliation" lessons ensued. The next week she went missing every single night.
I made a decision, enough was enough. I took her to Social Services and refused to  leave until we were seen. Surprising how you get seen when you push hard enough. I sat in the room and through tears said please take her, and keep her safe, make her well, get her the help she needs. Some of you may have been through that? If so you have my sympathy, and I never judge anyone ever in life. However if you have not had this situation just consider for a moment what it feels like. So what happened? They threatened me with prosecution if I walked out of there. Before I could answer she bolted. Laughable, she was even in control then. They continued to refuse to help, saying I had the problem, that all kids did this. Did they?!
One summer she wanted to go and stay with her Dad back up north. So I paid her fare, took her up there, after having had Social Services check he was stable.
Then came the phone call that she wanted to stay there and was not coming home.
It was once again rejection in my life, but as I said to her, my job has never been to make you unhappy in life...

But she'll bring out the best and the worse you can be......#

If you don't know me by now

#Just get yourself together, or we might as well say goodbye......

I don't think I expected things with my Dad to be easy. Once we reached Kent, it was a strange feeling. I suddenly realised the world was a big scary place. My Dad is certainly not a sentimental man. What you see is definitely what you get with him. No artificial colours of flavourings! He did however continue to spin this web of lies regarding his relationship with my Mum. If he had just admitted what he did, told me openly that he never once seeked contact, had just picked up another ready made family and moved on, I could have respected him. The fact that ne never did, merely deepened the long standing scars.
His wife, my stepmum was a staunch character. she openly admitted that she came first with my Dad, and that she had told him he would never choose me above her. I can understand her concern. However I can never quite grasp this hard heart in a person. I am so soft natured, I cry at the slightest thing, someone can usually get around me by tugging at my heart strings. She was however quite instrumental in my finally leaving Yorkshire. She had made me realise I was worth better. Although ours was a difficult relationship, I will always be grateful to her for breaking down my barrier, god rest her soul.
Dad and I just kind of get on, nothing deep, nothing special. Just get on. I can never remake those years, I don't want to. I just accept him for who he is and what he did.
My Mum didn't speak to me for several years. I tried, but she would have none of it. As far as she was concerned I should have stayed near her, never left her, and I was no daughter of hers. My Mum as always the victim, never anyone else. No leeway here, no understanding of what drove me to it. When I really felt she of all  people should understand.
I never stopped my ex seeing my daughter. I did however want her to be safe. A 2 year court case ensued. Painful, my private life exposed for all to see, ridiculed by people who had no idea, lies, twisted stories, solicitors scoring points. A 4 year old child caught up in the midst of it all. My ex pushed for contact once a month. Not a problem, except that he came down, threatened me with taking my daughter and disappearing to Ireland. Threatened me with violence, and I knew he was capable of it. This was someone I no longer recognised, even though we had been together for 9 years. He was determined I would have no life and would never be free. There was never any violence to my daughter, which is why I never stopped contact, this was at first via a contact centre, eventually for a few hours in London, where I had moved to. Once I filed for divorce he eventually got the message. But then the emotional abuse switched to my daughter. He would cancel plans, put the phone down on her, reduce her to tears. However he remained on a pedestal in her eyes, and I was the bad cop. This I took on broad shoulders, as I was an expert in this by now.
I secured a good job in London, got my daughter in school. All seemed a little more settled. Until the day when the school rang and said my daughter was missing....

# You will never never know me...........#

#

Think I'll get my coat

# Did you think I'd crumble, did you think I'd lay down and die?....#

As my Dad drove me the many miles back up north many memories flashed through my mind. The broken promises, some happy times, but more sadness than joy.
I analyse myself far too much.I am your typical deeper than deep Scorpio
I blamed myself. It must be me? My Mum had told me so. All this was my fault
I was still in this vicious circle then, and I truly believed that.
Halfway there, my Dad said "Do you still like horses?"
I was a little startled and admitted it is a main passion in my life, why did he ask.
He went on to explain that he took me for horse riding lessons as a small child. Delving deep into my subconscious I could see it. Me up high on a beautiful black horse, Dad at the side holding the reins. The sun shining,my feet slipping in the huge stirrups, giggling and happy. He also told me about the time when my Mum took a short cut with me in my pram across Epsom racecourse. She was horrified to look up and see and hear the large group of horses and thundering hooves coming towards us. There was a race meeting on!!
I think my parents were trying to tell me something 'eh?!
It suddenly all made sense now. Why I had always love horses. My favourite books and film was Black Beauty and Follyfoot, and I can always be found saying hello to any old Dobbin. I always call myself "freespirit" because that is how I want to be - a horse galloping with a free flowing mane.
On reaching my house I felt a knot in my stomach. Could I really do this? Would he let me go?
My Mum was there, a greeting party. She argued with my Dad, the first time they had seen each other since the split. My Dad was very quiet, avoided the verbal blows. Eventually she left.
My husband and I spent the whole night talking. He admitted he loved someone else, always had, always would. But he then said something that hit a nerve. "You will never leave me, you would never survive without me"
Survive? He didn't know the meaning of the word. I had been surviving since the age of 4. I survived my Dad leaving, my mothers mental illness, lost love, his mistreatment. And brittle and torn I may be, but yes I had survived. So for the very first time, I answered back and said what I thought. "You may think you have broken me, but you have just made me stronger. I will always survive."
The next day I packed my things and loaded them into my Dads car. Strange how you can load up a lifetime into a Ford Mondeo in black plastic bags! I can remember my daughter screaming in the back seat, his face, an expression of disbelief on the doorstep. After that I did not look back. Just calmly said "Just drive Dad please, just go"
My daughter carried on screaming for what seemed like a third of the journey. Unconsolable. I had not done this lightly, I had done it to save her from a lifetime of misery like he had given me. How can you explain this to a four year old? I knew it only too well. I was her, 25 years ago.
As the car drove on, I wondered what would be the next chapter in this numptys life.

# Oh no not I, I will survive. For as long as I know how to love, I know I'll stay alive.............#

Where have you been all my life?

# When will I begin, my life again.....#

The letter in my hand, I made a decision. It was a spur of the moment thing. I am prone to these moments of madness. A bit like the impulse advert, sometimes I act, and think after.
A little reckless, I guess you could say!
I had never had any desire to get in touch with my Dad. Mainly because it had only ever been my Mum and me. Perhaps because the taunts I had from school friends about having no Dad had scarred me, perhaps because my Mum always blamed me for his leaving, perhaps because he had never been in touch.
I had seen photos of him. A long dark haired bearded man. The look of a Jack-the lad, carefree, but in essence a stranger. I felt nothing on looking at these pictures.
For some odd reason, I all of a sudden decided to write back to the Salvation Army. Yes my Nan could have my address, etc
Just like that, decision made. I kept this to myself for now. Things were unstable enough at home.
It was about a week later when a letter arrived from my Nan. A picture enclosed of her and my Dad. He was in a wheelchair. They were pictured with horses, a day out somewhere. The letter explained that she had watched me through playground railings after the break-up. She had then kept looking for me, but not found me. The reason my Dad used a wheelchair for long distances was a long term back injury. Gone was the long hair. In fact gone was all his hair! A bald little old man, insignificant. Still no feeling on looking at this photo.
This was all very alien, strange.
She asked in the letter could she pass on my details to my Dad.
I picked up a pen and paper and I wrote. I was 30 years old. 25 years of hurt tumbled out onto those pages. I was crying as I wrote, but it had to be said. Why did he go? How could he just leave? How could he live with himself after just walking away from us? Why had he never been in touch? Did he really think he could just walk back into my life now?
I admit it was a nasty letter in a way. I had to get that hurt out of me, I deserved my rant and I was jolly well going to have it. How dare he do this to me.
Signed, sealed, delivered. I felt a little smug as I put it in the post box. This is a feeling I have never felt before or since, as it is totally against my nature.
It was probably another week before I got a reply. This was to contain even more hurt.
He explained that my Mum had post-natal depression, she had pushed him to the limit. He had seen other women, stayed out at night to eacape this. He denied the house was ever repossessed or that he left us destitute. He had moved in near his Mum, in the space of a year, met someone else. She had 2 boys of her own from a previous marriage. On getting his divorce he had re-married and brought up these boys as his own. He claimed he had tried to get access but the court had refused.
Perhaps at this point you would sympathise? Side with him a little? Me, I was so angry that I wanted to slap him. I was there at the age of 5 with my Mum, I knew the reality of what we went through. above all it hurt so deeply that he picked up a ready made family and never looked back.
He had given a phone number for me to ring. At this point I felt i had to tell my Mum and husband. My Mum went ballistic. How could I go behind her back and believe him or want anything to do with him? She would not listen to reason as I tried to explain.
I picked up the phone and dialled his number. He answered  "Alright darling" As if I was a long lost friend. I let him ramble on, very similar to the letters content. He invited me to meet him and the family. He was living miles away down South, I was then up North.
I made a decision to do it. I had to know. Either to put this to bed once and for all or pursue this other family.
I told my Mum I was going on a course, and asked my husband to back me up. This was because she was so unstable. He promised to look after my daughter, and seemed to uderstand I had to do this alone.
I remember him waving me off at the coach station, he has a strange look on his face.
Victoria Coach Station London, the coach pulls in after an arduous journey. I step off the coach. It was misty. Just like the scene from the Railway Children, there he is. He hobbled towards me. It struck me as hilarious that he knew it was me after 25 years! He hugged me so tightly that it hurt. No tears, no real emotion, but a strange connection.
We went to a cafe, chatted a while about anything and everything. He then drove me to his home. Along the way he explained one of his step sons had tragically been killed in a motor-bike accident, my other step brother was married, lived nearby.
Over the next few weeks we shared life stories, he kept up his side of the story. There were parts of this I definitely knew were untrue, as my Mum had shown me court papers.
I knew he had never ever requested access. I knew he knew where I was all along.
He had made the decision not to see me or even attempt to.
So what did I do? Did I finally stick up for myself? Did I challenge him? Would you?
No, I was numpty me, yet again. I listened, absorbed as he told me these lies.
I accepted him for what he was before me. A liar.
Those years will never be made up. He will never admit what happened or why. He is just my Dad. I will never have the same feeling as if i had been brought up with him. I really don't think he realises that to this day.
It was during this time, I rang home and my husband was as drunk as a skunk. My Mum was in the background, angry. He had told her where I was. Betrayal once again from him.
Why did I expect any different, he will never change. I knew my daughter was unsafe in this environment and I had to leave.
I made the decision, that was it, I was worth better and so was my daughter. I was going to go back up North and pick up my daughter and leave.
My husband however said to me on the phone you will never leave me....

#  One day I'll fly away, leave your love to yesterday ....#

Should I stay or should I go now

# If I stay there will be trouble....#

Once the haze in front of my eyes cleared, I switched into nurse mode. Grabbing tea towels, stemming the flow, wrapping them tightly around his wrists. Alerted my mum who lived across the estate and where he had dropped my daughter off 5 minutes earlier. Called an ambulance, waited..
My mum brought my daughter to the flat, this was not a good idea for obvious reasons, but she was not of firm mind also as you know!
Sitting in the ambulance, asking him why? He just sat staring into space in a substance influenced dazed state. The anger whelled up inside me squashing my chest so much it hurt. Choking back tears of hurt, anger, distant memories of this past hurt from my childhood back tenfold in front of me.
Whisked into A/E, into a mass of people I worked with, who with professional attitude carried on regardless, with knowing looks and sympathy.
The psychiatrist who breezed in and breezed out. Advice to contact the emergency clinic to arrange an appointment if he got unstable again. The so called caring NHS, who didn't seem to care less, was blaringly obvious.
Home, trying to sympathise, talk it through, understand. When all I really wanted to do was scream "How could you do this to me and why?"
My mums words echoing in my head "You never say how you really feel"
Why was this? Why could I not just stand up and say how I felt?
He sat there with bandaged wrists, and out tumbled a long story. Suffice to say things were revealed that I had never known had happened from this man in front of me.
This was so alarming, that I looked at him and realised I really knew nothing about him at all. You can have what you think is stable, and it can be swept to the floor in one fell swoop. I felt as if the ground from under me was being swept away.
He really had never cared for me at all. I had been the ultimate numpty, entrusting in someone who had never been truthful from day one.
He said he only loved this girl, and never me.
What would you do? Walk away? Forget him? Thats what I should have done. It was handed to me on a plate. He said "Tell me to leave"
But no, I begged him not to leave. this was re-enacting the episode from my Mum and Dad, like a BBC repeat.
He refused to see a counseller even though I tried so hard to make him see sense.
We went and bought a house, started again you could say. Except this was papering over the cracks. The drinking got worse, although thankfully the violence did not. I feel this was by luck rather than chance. However, the emotional abuse was far far worse. To this day those words stick in my mind and you will find that I rarely look in a mirror, as those scars will never ever fade.
My daughters behaviour problems worsened, many psychologists again saw her. Again nothing solved. I despaired of ever getting help. She was, is such a beautiful girl but 24 hours a day with a full time job, mentally unstable husband and Mum, I was bending, ready to snap.
Something had to give. There were so many days when I just wanted to run and never look back.
One day a letter arrived. It was from the Salvation Army. It was my paternal grand-mother. She was writing on behalf of my Dad. Could she find out my address as he wanted to meet me? This was 25 years after he had left me and Mum in Manchester. There had been no contact. I knew nothing about this man. He was a stranger. I had never wanted to meet him. It had never entered my head.
But as I sat there with this paper in my hand, a thought entered my head.... should I?

# So come on and let me know should I stay or should I go?.....#

China in your hand

# Don't push too hard, your dreams are china in your hand...#

So back to the party. Me a student nurse, he was a friend of my best mates boyfriend.
Not my usual type, blonde, same height (Miss Jones has a penchant for tall, dark you understand..although its hard to generalise, I have to be honest here!)
He was I suppose the "bad boy", was in care as a youngster, skirmishes with the law, you get the idea. It wasn't the best chat up line of all time, "Can you show me where the bog is like?" That should have really told me something, but you know what young love is like, we've all been there?!
Anyway Cyndi Lauper always reminds me of that party, my mate and I loved her at the time, and I think that album was on repeat all weekend. We were quite unseparable that weekend, but I wasn't bowled over if I am honest, perhaps attracted to someone down to earth. It wasn't long before I was spending weekends at his flat, or he at mine. This was a whirlwind time of late nights, studying for nursing exams and partying.
It was a year later he was drunk in a pub and on Valentines Day said "Hows about thee and me getting engaged?" again, not smooth or that much of a compliment but I was taken in.
We moved into our own flat, got married and thats when the problems escalated.
To say he liked a drink was an understatement, I would come home from work to find the lounge piled high with empty cans, various "mates" in residence and a general free for all.
All to their own, but after a 12 hour shift, this was a little wearing!
One day I overheard a conversation I shouldn't have, when he told his mate "I only married her to have kids"  This sent me reeling emotionally, though I never told him I had overheard it. The drinking continued, but along with it a rage that would escalate in him putting holes in doors/cupboards etc. I knew this was bordering on something, but they say love is blind?! I knew there was something underlying this rage, but could not work out what. I had always told my mother as a teenager, "I will not tolerate a partner hitting me, thats it"
In time, I found out I was having my daughter. This time period was good, and he was supportive immediately after. However the drinking escalated to all time heights along with other substances.
My daughter in the midst of this mayhem, was growing up fast. However she seemed to be displaying worrying behaviour. I remember taking her for vaccinations and on the way home her screaming. Not just a toddler tantrum, this lasted half an hour. There was just no controlling her. Biting, scratching me, screaming. I can see the peoples faces on the bus now. One woman said to me "my child is handicapped, and she does not make a noise like that". This embarrassed me so much that the tears were pouring down my face. This behaviour however became a daily routine. Getting called away from work because she had hurt someone at playgroup/bitten them/punched them etc. My husband comatose on the sofa, my mum still suicidal. Madness around me, like a Dr Who credits tunnel I seemed trapped in. I had to wrap her in a blanket to stop her hurting me or herself, and got used to the stares and comments on a daily basis. The "experts" so called as I am afraid I have seen so many in so many places that I feel let us down so badly, told me it was my fault, I was a bad mother, there was nothing wrong with her. I was accused of wanting a label for her. This angered me. I was a professional, I knew this was not "normal behaviour" and was something of the ilk of autism/aspergers etc. The help and support however was nowhere to be found.
She tried to jump out of windows, would run off ahead without warning, in front of cars, was aggressive, screamed constantly and it was like Jeckyl and Hyde when she could be a little loving and was a very intelligent child.
My husband was so drunk one day that I flipped, I had had enough. I tried to reason with him, but when he said "You have too much to say for yourself" that was the final straw.
Still calmly, I stuck up for myself saying he needed to get himself sorted out. With that he put his hands around my throat and pushed me back so hard my head hit the wall.
Did I stick to what I always had said? Did I leave? Well its easy to tell someone what they should do. But with a small child and someone you love, in reality that is impossible.
One night he didn't come home. I knew where he was. Across the road on the estate with a girl half his age. Everyone knew.
The next day he rolled in, just as I was ready to go to work. He admitted what he'd done.
I did what I always do, coped with it on my own, went to work, pretended nothing had happened, never told a soul.
That night I came home from work. As I opened the door, the next few minutes were like a film still..
He was stood in the bathroom, blood pouring from his wrists. Timed exactly for when I would walk through the door. The one thing he knew my mother had repeatedly done to me as a teenager. The only person I had ever shared this hurt with. The one thing he knew would scar me yet again.

# But they're only dreams, and you shouldn't push too far #

 Theres a place for us, you know the movie song...

At the very same disco the same year on New Years Eve, I found myself dancing with the most fantastic guy.
Eyes of blue that encaptured me and mesmerised me to the spot... A close dance, a kiss to welcome in the New Year that left my head completely spinning like never before.
This relationship touched me deeply, so deeply that I would never forget him ever in my life, or the true love I felt for him.
Sadly events with my mum worsened and she became very jealous and critical of friends.
I was to meet this fantastic person one Saturday and my mum was in such a poor state that I dared not leave her. In the good old 1980s we had no mobile phones, and so in essence I stood this person up. On that day he never knew what really happened and we lost touch.
This person would reappear later in my life....
At a fair I met my next brief encounter - Darren, 12 years older, loved soft metal, leather jackets, loving, caring. A whirlwind of patchouli oil, some of my still favourite records and a lot of growing up!
The next boyfriend I had was the real life boy next door. This was a tempestuous relationship of 2 years interwoven with naiivety, ill matched, again tainted with my family events.
One day a note on my doorstep - "Sorry, I have fallen out of love with you"
This relationship breakdown was at the time one of the final straws. On finishing school I decided to be a nurse, throwing myself into training. I also left home at 17, moving into bedsit land, deciding that I needed my own space away from home. These times were another growth spurt and I enjoyed some freedom away from home.
Nursing was the only career I ever wanted to do and I was hoping this would be a positive chapter in my life.
A few days into my training, I met who would become my first husband at a party
Would this be the one for me?

When you gonna realise, it was just that the time was wrong.....

The early years - like Adrian Mole

#  Halfway up the stairs is the stair where I sit. There isn't any other stair quite like it...

Probably the very first memory I have is of sitting in my high chair, with a non currant teacake. I say non as the currants lay around the edge of the plate. "Dirty little flies" I told my mother, refusing to eat them. Strange how I now adore all this kind of fruit.
Another sitting on a huge log (my pretend horse) on Wimbledon Common. This deep love of horses stayed with me all my life. It was not apparent to me why, until much later in my life, (be patient dear reader, you will discover why!) 
The next is sitting halfway up the stairs of a house in Manchester, around 4 years of age, my mother at the bottom pleading with my father not to leave, screaming at the top of her voice. He, faceless in my memory, however hard I tried to remember, as he slammed the door with its beautiful stained glass window and left, so loud that the stairs shook.
I remember crying and running back to bed pulling the Camberwick (remember them?!) bedspread over my head and staying there for quite some time, falling asleep hearing my mother howling in the next room.
The next memory is of seeing a large "blue bird" in my face and screaming.
 "Its just a blue-bottle" soothed my mother. Peace ensued.
Another memory of my mother on her knees in what seemed like a vast front garden cutting the grass with a pair of kitchen scissors. As the sun caught her auburn hair, tears glinted as they rolled down her face soaking the grass below. Me, fetching my play scissors and joining this task, "I'll help you Mummy" . Mum always tells me now how I was a helpful child, but that I never open up and should say what I feel. Few people in my life have ever recognised that in my persona, seeing and believing the happy, smiling Miss Jones to be the real me. Those who do break down that outer cloak and see below the surface know who they are in my life.
Another memory of my mother making toffee in a huge saucepan, and eating it with it all over my face. The fact that my mother said thats all there was in the house, not making sense at that time.
The hard smack of an umbrella across my cheeks as my mother screamed "its your fault your father left, you are so like him"
Leaving that house as it got reposessed, crossing a major road in Manchester struggling to keep up with my mother (which is probably why I still walk like a Seargeant major), as the belt holding her suitcase broke spilling the contents all over the floor.
The next memory  have is being in a grand hotel, with a huge spiral staircase and a Christmas tree on the landing. No, mother did not meet a sugar daddy, this was a temporary accomodation from Manchester council. In this place, I remember Kentucky fried chicken, tree cones at the side of my bed half opened (my mother always taught me to love nature). Christmas morning with a pile of presents from the long term wealthy residents staying there. One man of whom was like an Adonis, tall, dark, long hair and a smile like Michael Landon, as he swept me into the air, dancing and singing to Christmas tunes.
I crept out of bed one evening, as my mother slept, down the glamourous staircase, to a door marked "kitchen" , knocking on the door, and as it swung open, proclaiming "I'm hungry". The chefs in their tall hats smiling and a lovely waitress who piled a silver platter with sandwiches taking me back upstairs. My mother horrified that I had embarrassed her so.
I have to confess I could be a devilish child at times. The main memory of primary school is of a girl who annoyed me in class so much, that I held aloft a huge striped tin of Copydex glue above her head. The satisfaction of that glue pouring out all over her beautiful black shiny hair, I am afraid still raises a smile! I was frog marched to the heads office, and taken back home by an irate mother. The poor child had to have her hair cut elfin style and for some reason never sat next to me again!
Another devilish moment is of a boy on whom I had a small crush who kept pulling my skirt, over and over again. I warned him nicely, but on the 20th pull, I turned and slapped him full pelt across the face, knocking him to the ground. Let that be a lesson to you guys, this lass has a sting in her scorpion tail!
My mother continued in her depression and had many suicide attempts, often asking me how she should do it. We were by this time living with my auntie in Yorkshire.
Here I learned how to knit at the age of 9, and loved the huge radiogram in the corner of the room. The dulcit tones of John Denver, Glen Campbell records, as well as the vast collection of soul and Motown of my mothers collection.
I continued to devour books, reading my aunties Readers Digest collection of Catherine Cookson ilk at a very early age.
As my mother was always ill, I spent a lot of time with my Auntie. She was a feisty character and taught me to protect myself form the world outside. Fun loving she also liked to dance and sing, which ensued this passion for music, still now.
One day my mother was very unwell and when I came home from school she was not there. For a week we had no idea where she was. I remember looking out of my bedroom window, watching the snowflakes drift past, the sky go dark, then light, not wanting to miss her return.
A while later she had turned up in Guys Hospital, after another attempt on London Bridge.
I threw myself into my studies but did not fair too well with a lot on my mind.
My best friend at the time proved an escape. We disappeared into the 80s whirl of Wham, Duran Duran, with our "clunk" cassette recorders of the day in the local park. Drinking her uncles rhubarb wine until we spinned into another world.
Her mother, love her, adored me, making up apple dumplings for my overnight stays. She used to annoy my friend by saying "Why can't you be more like your friend, she's such a sweet girl and looks after her mother"
Happy days spent in Liz's garden, with her vicious rabbit who always escaped! Her next door neighbour Ian, who I adored who we used to try and impress by playing his favourite bands tapes Status Quo and our girly giggles.
My first kiss was in a school disco with a lovely lad in a Herrington jacket and chinos! Michael you rocked my world, even though your braces got in the way. My mother was non-plussed with the lovebite on my neck on my return.
More happy days with Michael on the waltzers at the local fairs, and his name all under my fablon coated exercise books.
My friend dated her next door neighbour, which hurt quite a lot at the time, but then this fizzled out. I remember making up a 4 some date with my friend and her next boyfriend and her neighbour. We were watching Prince in concert, sat on the sofa. I remember sitting with arms crossed next to Ian who was doing the same. All of a sudden his warm hand held mine, arms still crossed so no-one knew. The shared smile, the warmth of love washed over me during very difficult times for me.
This all came to pass on Valentines Day. Armed with a daft card full of hearts I knocked on his door to go for the school disco. His face said it all, we could not be, he was sorry, he was confused about someone else in his life. As I always did, brushed myself down and attended said disco. Drowning myself in pernod and black, I caught his eye across the floor and he stood, a tear in his eye. The glass in his hand, crushed by his frustration, smashed to the floor. For that moment I knew he did love me, but that we just were not mean't to be.

It's not at the bottom, it's not at the top. But this is the place where I always stop....   #