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....   #

Its only me!

Well hello, again, hello, just called to let you know,
This has taken a long time, 42 years in fact, so lets just hope its worth the wait?!
Its also because I am no good with things technical so my internet providings were really not providing and my profile has taken all morning to load doh! Bored yet? Oh you've gone....
Oh no you're still listening. I can see you there looking absolutely gorgeous. Well gather round on the carpet in front and Miss Jones shall begin....
The enigma that is Miss Jones, who is she? where is she? and what makes her tick tock?
I guess I should start at the very beginning. My instability in myself is deep within. This is down to having my Dad leave home when I was 4 and a very mentally unstable Mum which on reflection left a major scar. This rejection and instability and loneliness led me to withdraw into a shell in my younger years and create an imaginary friend. This friend became the topic of writing as a very young child. This writing seemed to be a talent of sorts I was told and became a major part of my young and teenage years. I went on to write poetry as a teenager,won some writing competitions and a grade A in english language.
I love all things written and spoken, which is probably why I am addicted to Twitter and thats my excuse and i am sticking to it!!
You would always find me with my head in a book, losing myself amongst the pages and disappearing into an imaginary world.
At school I have to confess I was a lonely child, bullied due to being part of a single parent family - a crime in those days it seems!
I remember days of things stolen, name calling and a humungous lump on my head from a boy who hit me round the head with a football boot. (Maybe thats why I am a rugby fan non?)
I think this bullying led me to study deeper and I am so deep that I sometimes drive myself around the bend. I am a "whydowe?" Why do we do that? Why is that so? etc. Deeper than an incessant pool 'tis Miss Jones.
Are you interested to know more?
Are you sure?
Maybe now I have started I may not stop> I will let you guide me.

# I think about you every day, and I couldn't wait, hello....#