It would appear most of us suffer from various phobias, but whilst I am not keen on spiders, am not nuts on beetles and bugs and definitely would not enjoy being confined in a small space,it would not be true to say I have a phobia about these things.
As far as I am aware I only have one real phobia and that is Spheksophobia. How impressive is that? I only learned today this is what my phobia is called and I am delighted....I mean it sounds so so dramatic. Come to think of it, people suffering from Spheksophobia are often forced to be very dramatic and can often give riveting and amusing performances all without the benefit of stage school or any kind of drama lesson though, in my case I had plenty of drama lessons at school and I count pretending to be a tree as one of my best performances, but nowhere near as good as the ones I give when suffering from my phobia!
The problem with this particular phobia is no sufferer can be sure exactly when it might strike. You could be walking along the road on a late summer, sunny afternoon when BOO it hits
you and before you know where you are, you are running up the road flapping your arms around and screaming like a banshee.......causing a certain amount of consternation for passers by and much embarrassment for you. Of course as soon as the coast is clear you are entirely back to normal although your street cred might be somewhat tarnished. You don't care much though as at least you weren't harmed....this time!
It is a serious worry however flippant my remarks. When my children were small, usually incarcerated in their high chairs where I would be happily feeding them, well ,
happily feeding one of them as the other two were dreadful eaters, I am sorry to say I would exit the room immediately if one of my phobia makers ventured in...I would leave my babies aaaggghhhh! I could not help it, I would peer anxiously round the door which I held open about an inch and scan the room willing the evil thing away from my children and out of my life preferably through the open window. Oddly, I was usually lucky and the evil bastard would go. I would anxiously retrieve my child from her highchair, scan the room carefully and shut all the windows and escape taking my poor half fed baby with me. The relief of emerging unscathed was phenomonal.
When I was a child I often used to spend part of the holidays with my cousins and my lovely Aunty Hilda, I was extremely fond of Aunty Hilda but she had one HUGE flaw as far as I was concerned and I worried about it................a lot. Aunty Hilda had a lovely garden but in the summer she used to keep a huge tin half filled with water and smothered in jam, it was placed on a convenient log near some trees and it was , it was horrible, the sight which met my eyes, yuk, even all these years on it still makes me shudder when I recall what was in that tin! Was that the start of my Spheksophobia? I really do not know.
But what about my Grandfather? I adored him, he was loving, gentle and very kind and he knew I had a problem so to help me out if he knew I was getting ready to panic as a phobia maker appeared, he would squash the offenders head and then set light to its tail...........it was vile, though I was slightly mollified by how the tail would flare up and burn!
My sister was a rotten liar. Barbs, she would say,once you've been stung by a wasp you won't be scared any more as it's really not that painful. That is SO UNTRUE! I had my first sting at the age of 39 and it was appalling. I hadn't even noticed the nasty beast when it stung me on the upper arm. I had done nothing to it, suddenly I was aware of this acute pain and saw the nasty wasp zoom away out of the window. The next morning my arm was twice the size and I had to take antihistamines.
I heard Chris Packham on TV the other night waxing very lyrical on wasps. OOOhhhh their nests are amazing, made by secreting saliva with their disgusting tongues and sort of licking up wood from your garden fence and then churning and turning it all into a delightful and attractive home. Yes, and usually conveniently built near your home so the perishers have some sport to see them through the summer!
I do not care if in the 'nature of things' wasps do have a place. Not in my world they don't. I hate them, they are mean, evil and disgusting. They sting you, they hurt you and they do it for recreation, they enjoy the chase, they love being flapped away they smell your fear and they sting you not to defend themselves because they feel threatened, oh no, they sting you because they can!
Saturday, 20 June 2009
Saturday, 6 June 2009
Picnics.
Now that we have had some decent weather for a while I imagine lots of people will be double checking the weather forecast and heading out to the hills, downs, forest, beach or even some unsuspecting ( your garden is bigger than ours!) relatives, for a picnic. What is it about a picnic? We all seem to think we are going to have such a fun time but sadly it never really works out that way.
It's the fault of the media of course. The rug is laid on a beautiful lawn, Mummy is carrying a huge wicker picnic basket ( for years I have hankered after one,) two attractive, well dressed, pleasant children are helping Mummy unload said hamper, smoked salmon, lobster, cold roast chicken, assortment of salads carefully placed onto real china plates and attractively garnished. Oh look, here comes Daddy, he is smiling and looking fondly at wife and well behaved children, he takes in all the lovely food and licks his lips...what a lucky man I am, he thinks. Mummy asks Hugo, her attractive and pleasant son, to fetch Daddy a garden chair whilst she and Primrose her attractive and pleasant daughter, carry on with laying out the wine and a huge trifle, oh yes, and some homemade lemonade for the children, (none of that fizzy pop rubbish in this family!) Soon everything is ready and Mummy kneels on the rug by Daddys feet in order to be conveniently placed ready to serve him! The sun is shining ( well in this scenario it would be,) the birds are singing ( surprise surprise) and, oh wait, what is this? How lovely,Grandma and Grandpa have just turned up in their Morgan, silly Daddy forgot to tell Mummy.
Of course the reality is very different. For a start,has anyone got a designated picnic rug? (For years I have hankered after one!) Alright I grant some of you may actually have one but, I bet it's not tartan. Next the venue, in my considerable experience of picnic sites you have to drive at least 50 miles to somewhere you have never been before. Once you get there ( and ignoring the kids shouting, crying, fighting and being sick in the back of the car,) you drive for another 20 miles or so trying to find the perfect spot. At last, the kids fall out of the car, your wife is in a shitty mood, it is way past lunch time, you unload the boot. Carrier bag after carrier bag are lugged to the perfect spot and you are soon all tucking into curled up egg sandwiches, Mums famous picnic pie ( don't ask!) warm salad and tea that has sat so long in the flask it's gone a strange purple colour. Finally, replete, and trying your best to have fun, the kids cajole you into playing cricket or taking them for a walk, Mum can't join in as she's too busy piling all the uneaten food back into the carrier bags and eyeing the darkening sky warily. Things tick along nicely for a few minutes but suddenly it all goes pear shaped, little Johnny has fallen over whilst fielding for Dad ( Dad whacked the ball too hard and it's gone miles into the forest,) poor Johnny is covered in sheeps poo, and little Sally is screaming as she was pretending to be a ballet dancer and pirouetted into a huge bush of stinging nettles! What fun! And the problem is, next time someone suggests a picnic you will have forgotten all the previous ones and the whole disaster will happen all over again!
It's the fault of the media of course. The rug is laid on a beautiful lawn, Mummy is carrying a huge wicker picnic basket ( for years I have hankered after one,) two attractive, well dressed, pleasant children are helping Mummy unload said hamper, smoked salmon, lobster, cold roast chicken, assortment of salads carefully placed onto real china plates and attractively garnished. Oh look, here comes Daddy, he is smiling and looking fondly at wife and well behaved children, he takes in all the lovely food and licks his lips...what a lucky man I am, he thinks. Mummy asks Hugo, her attractive and pleasant son, to fetch Daddy a garden chair whilst she and Primrose her attractive and pleasant daughter, carry on with laying out the wine and a huge trifle, oh yes, and some homemade lemonade for the children, (none of that fizzy pop rubbish in this family!) Soon everything is ready and Mummy kneels on the rug by Daddys feet in order to be conveniently placed ready to serve him! The sun is shining ( well in this scenario it would be,) the birds are singing ( surprise surprise) and, oh wait, what is this? How lovely,Grandma and Grandpa have just turned up in their Morgan, silly Daddy forgot to tell Mummy.
Of course the reality is very different. For a start,has anyone got a designated picnic rug? (For years I have hankered after one!) Alright I grant some of you may actually have one but, I bet it's not tartan. Next the venue, in my considerable experience of picnic sites you have to drive at least 50 miles to somewhere you have never been before. Once you get there ( and ignoring the kids shouting, crying, fighting and being sick in the back of the car,) you drive for another 20 miles or so trying to find the perfect spot. At last, the kids fall out of the car, your wife is in a shitty mood, it is way past lunch time, you unload the boot. Carrier bag after carrier bag are lugged to the perfect spot and you are soon all tucking into curled up egg sandwiches, Mums famous picnic pie ( don't ask!) warm salad and tea that has sat so long in the flask it's gone a strange purple colour. Finally, replete, and trying your best to have fun, the kids cajole you into playing cricket or taking them for a walk, Mum can't join in as she's too busy piling all the uneaten food back into the carrier bags and eyeing the darkening sky warily. Things tick along nicely for a few minutes but suddenly it all goes pear shaped, little Johnny has fallen over whilst fielding for Dad ( Dad whacked the ball too hard and it's gone miles into the forest,) poor Johnny is covered in sheeps poo, and little Sally is screaming as she was pretending to be a ballet dancer and pirouetted into a huge bush of stinging nettles! What fun! And the problem is, next time someone suggests a picnic you will have forgotten all the previous ones and the whole disaster will happen all over again!
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
Beggar off!
A few days ago I walked up to our local shop ( all of five minutes away ),it was a lovely sunny evening and just as I reached the shop a woman of about forty stopped me and asked if I had any change, I said no and joined the back of the queue, soon there were other people behind me and the woman kept asking various people if they had change. An older man ventured to ask her what sort of change she wanted and began to dig in his pocket and peer at his coins,' any change you can spare me', she said very politely. With that the man put the money back in his pocket and ignored the woman. Eventually, I emerged from the shop only to find the woman had now been joined by two of her cronies who looked to me like hard faced madams' with too few clothes and way too much makeup on, all three were stopping passers by and requesting change, when they got some they were polite but when refused they resorted to foul language and insults. I felt intimidated by them and so walked home the long way round so I didn't have to pass them. Cowardly I know.
Half way home I realised I had met the first woman a year or so before, I had just got off the bus and she stopped me and tearfully told me her purse had been stolen and she needed 70 pence to be able to get home............what did I do? Gave her 70p as I believed her and thought she was genuine.
Remembering this incident made my blood boil, I was just relieved I hadn't parted with any money. But what I should have done or at least wished I had had the guts to do, was tell the woman to get off her considerable arse and go out and get a job so she didn't have to stop people for'change'.
Trouble is there are 'beggars and 'beggars. There used to be a lovely man who sat on the pavement in the summer and as you went by he would chat about this and that but never asked for money, one day I saw someone give him some change so, now and again, I would get into a conversation with him and pass over a 50p. I gave it to him because I wanted to and I hadn't been intimidated by him and 'no' I didn't give a damn about what he was going to use it for!
Some people consider buskers as beggars I don't. I think it takes a lot of guts to stand in some grotty underpass or street corner playing a guitar, banjo, or violin. We are fortunate to have a Chinese man who plays the violin beautifully in our local precinct and for icing on cake he even wears full evening gear, I always put money in his violin case and am delighted to do so. Come to think of it, banjo man is very good too and well worth some small change!
Of course we should all be able to traverse the streets without being stopped by beggars especially aggressive ones, but I have noticed buskers being moved on by the Police probably because they are easy prey due to performing in one place, wheras these other pesky ones can shoot off down a side street or back alley at the first sign of the Law. I remember once being shocked to the core in Glasgow. I saw a poor old man, clearly blind as he was holding a white stick and had a little dog with him, I gave him some change and walked away. A few moments later he dashed past me folding up his white stick as he went and looking behind him to make sure the Police hadn't spotted him!
Naive or what!
Half way home I realised I had met the first woman a year or so before, I had just got off the bus and she stopped me and tearfully told me her purse had been stolen and she needed 70 pence to be able to get home............what did I do? Gave her 70p as I believed her and thought she was genuine.
Remembering this incident made my blood boil, I was just relieved I hadn't parted with any money. But what I should have done or at least wished I had had the guts to do, was tell the woman to get off her considerable arse and go out and get a job so she didn't have to stop people for'change'.
Trouble is there are 'beggars and 'beggars. There used to be a lovely man who sat on the pavement in the summer and as you went by he would chat about this and that but never asked for money, one day I saw someone give him some change so, now and again, I would get into a conversation with him and pass over a 50p. I gave it to him because I wanted to and I hadn't been intimidated by him and 'no' I didn't give a damn about what he was going to use it for!
Some people consider buskers as beggars I don't. I think it takes a lot of guts to stand in some grotty underpass or street corner playing a guitar, banjo, or violin. We are fortunate to have a Chinese man who plays the violin beautifully in our local precinct and for icing on cake he even wears full evening gear, I always put money in his violin case and am delighted to do so. Come to think of it, banjo man is very good too and well worth some small change!
Of course we should all be able to traverse the streets without being stopped by beggars especially aggressive ones, but I have noticed buskers being moved on by the Police probably because they are easy prey due to performing in one place, wheras these other pesky ones can shoot off down a side street or back alley at the first sign of the Law. I remember once being shocked to the core in Glasgow. I saw a poor old man, clearly blind as he was holding a white stick and had a little dog with him, I gave him some change and walked away. A few moments later he dashed past me folding up his white stick as he went and looking behind him to make sure the Police hadn't spotted him!
Naive or what!
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