In the club

I’ve not blogged in a while – but I’ve been busy!  Earlier in the summer – on one of the hottest days – my friend Sheena and I hired a car transporter and solved three problems in one day.  Problem one – my daughter’s mini had been assaulted by a badger and had come off worse. Problem two, she had another old car she needed moved as they were moving house and needed the car ‘gone’. Problem three, Sheena had killed her old Ford and it had sat outside her house slowly deteriorating under the trees. 

Have transporter will travel!

The cost of getting the cars moved by a recovery company was horrendous, so we hired a transporter and did the car shifting ourselves.  I’d never driven a transporter (and still haven’t, Sheena got to drive), or operated a winch, or – and this is tricky – driven/guided a car onto a transporter up two narrow ramps before.  This was the day!

Trip one was taking the mini to a garage about 12 miles away to see if it was rescuable (it wasn’t).   Trip two was taking the old car (a Ka, which we could save with a bit of TLC) to Sheena’s – a 75 mile journey.  Trip three was taking her Ford from home to a peaceful resting place for possible rehabilitation or to where, like Miss Haversham, it could wither away gently and deteriorate with a bitter, sly grace.

Chizel in the cab

The transporter club

One thing we noticed when driving all the miles in our transporter, requisite car on the back, was the waves, flashes and smiles we got from other transporter drivers. For one day, we were in the ‘car recovery driver’ club!  What was even better was the sudden change of expression from camaraderie to shock as the fellow transporter realized our truck was occupied by two women (and a small dog).  We didn’t see a single other female transport driver, though we know you are out there!

Waggytails club

Axle in the garden

My story leads on from the dog in the cabin (Chizel) to a whole team of dogs.  I don’t have a dog, haven’t had one since I was a child, but I do love dogs, and luckily they seem to like me.   This year I have become involved with a dog agility club and have been helping out at the agility displays during the summer – mostly being an equipment shifter, but once having the luck to run a dog (or rather let the dog run me), and once as a commentator.  I have taken Sheena’s large and handsome Caucasian Shepherd cross (Axle) and his pal (Chizel) out for walks, and all of a sudden I’m in the ‘dog club’.  Other people with dogs will stop and talk to me.  People without dogs will stop and talk to the dogs. 

The ultimate club!

We’ve been working with my daughter’s dog too, helping improve behavior because… the last and rather corny link to the title of this blog is my delight at the onset of grannyhood. My daughter is, to put it colloquially, in the club.   I am sure I will have a whole new range of things to blog about next year!

Dog days

Life has a way of turning up unexpected challenges, and delights. I haven't owned a dog since I was a child, but I am now in the position of having two dogs (and more!) in my life on a regular basis.

I loved my dog, Petra (pictured here with a slightly younger me), and she would accompany our family on holidays all over the country.  We used to drive to Devon, and I remember stopping at a pub called the Pig and Whistle (I have no idea where it was, but somewhere between London and Devon, and there was no motorway in those days).  This pub was just over a bridge by a river - and the bridge was about 20 foot above the field and water below.  I was in the field, and my brother on the top with the dog. Petra jumped!  I can still remember it now - a flying dog. Amazingly she didn't hurt herself.  Another time after we'd left the pub, my brother said 'Can we have the dog in the back please?' (in a big old Humber Super Snipe there was room front or back for her).  'She is in the back'.  Oh dear.... we turned around and drove back to the pub to find her sitting patiently by the bridge, just waiting for us.  She'd jumped in one open door, then straight out another!

Petra had a best buddy, my cousin's dog Dusty. She was a black mongrel (where have all the mongrels gone?) and was probably a distant relative of a Labrador somewhere along the way.  Her claim to fame was thinking that seaweed was grass and sinking in surprise into a salty lagoon. No harm there either, thankfully.  Petra used to go to the pet shop in Whetstone High Road on her own - travelling there from our house by going up the road, across on the zebra crossing, and then back down to the pet shop where she would get a doggy treat. In those days you let your dogs out on the street, and dog poos dried in the sun in the gutter to a chalky white.

Getting comfy

Now my life is very doggy-ful again. And I am loving it. My daugther has a very cute Bichon Frize (see Two Walks), and I am sometimes left in charge.  She's a real cutie.  And I spend lots of time with Axle (see him in Gift of Snow) and Chizel (see below), my two new best friends.  A couple of weekends ago I assisted at two dog shows. My job was to help move the equipment for an agility display team. I wasn't that slick and had to be prompted more than once, but had great fun watching the pooches perform with their proud owners. And the show dogs watched too, or more often commentated very vocally.

Chizel and I
(Photo by Hannah)

The dogs (and a couple of cats) belong to the owner of the dog training and agility club, and I am now used to being sat upon, going for long walks, finding dog hairs in places where dog hairs shouldn't be, and generally enjoying their companionship.  The coming weekend is a bank holiday, and predicted to be hot. I shall be going to a dog event again, and helping with the display team equipment again.  Later in June I am going to be promoted to (temporary) commentator, talking the watching audience through the antics of the dogs, talking about their histories and what kind of dogs they are.  I am looking forward to that - and hopefully I won't make a mess of it.  Dog days ahead.





Links

• Waggytails Dog Training
• Sotterley Country Fair
• Why mongrels are a dying breed

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First Aid

I work for a charity that focuses on saving lives. So even as a fundraiser I am trained in first aid. I think this is an amazing attitude for the charity to take, and who knows – one day it may come in extremely useful.

My colleagues and I did our annual refresher today – keeping up to date with changes in practice (such as when to call 999 in relation to a choking – advice that has changed in the last 12 months) to refreshing our knowledge and practice of CPR.

The pace of change that we see in every aspect of our lives, especially technological, is also affecting how first aid can be delivered. There are now some amazing apps you can download on your phone that will teach you more about CPR, that will alert local first responders, and eventually there will be other innovations like drone delivery of urgent medical kit like AEDs (automated external defibrillators – those things that deliver the shock to the heart).  

Stopping the bleeding

In some Scandinavian countries, up to 80% of the general public know how to do CPR and use an AED. In the UK it’s more like 40%.  Given that CPR dramatically increases your chance of survival after a cardiac arrest, the more people who can deliver CPR and are confident in using an AED the better.

What would you do if your loved one had a heart attack? What would you do if your child started choking? If you suffered a major injury that resulted in a lot of bleeding?  If you can find the time, you could save a life.  I feel more confident now that if needed I could do the basic first aid that could buy the vital time you need before the professionals arrive.

If you have an AED in your town or at your place of work, know where it is.  Don’t be afraid - find out how to use it - as our trainer said, you can't do any damage as they are automated to help you do it right, even if you've never touched one before.

Useful links:

UK Resuscitation Council

British Heart Foundation

St John's Ambulance

And do search for First Aid apps on your phone.

The Gift of Snow

When the snow comes, it brings many things. Sometimes it brings real hardship, and for those without homes I felt concern, and for those without water I felt sympathy.  For those who have been cut off without supplies, I am so glad that we have a military who are able to respond not just to conflict but to the needs of our people. However, for me the snow that came in the form of the ‘Beast from theEast’ was a gift.

A snowy lane
in the forest

We live busy lives, and taking the time to just enjoy our environment is not always easy. But when you are snowed in, there’s no option.  Of course, you have to be in the right place to be snowed in, and with the right resources, and I was amazingly lucky.

On the Monday evening I headed to Suffolk so that my journey to Norfolk the following day would be easier. Well, I was wrong there!  The journey to Suffolk was fine, only one briefly worrying snow flurry on the way, but the roads and the weather for heading to Norfolk on the Tuesday (even in a four by four) was impossible!  We were stuck in traffic, and then the weather deteriorated and we headed back to the forest. Oh yes, the forest, near the sea! 

We returned home, abandoning the queues of traffic and the journey back to my friend’s house in the forest was much easier. We had plenty of food, plenty of wood (hardly surprising) and the internet. I could work from my temporary home.

Enjoying the snow

I was visiting my new friend, who I didn’t know that well, but who I instantly hit it off with. The first few times we have met we laughed so much; both with a slightly off beat sense of humour and a sense of the ridiculous, we also both love the natural world.  So being snowed in with someone I didn’t know that well (and who didn’t know me well either) was an interesting test of our friendship. Especially as I didn’t actually get home until the Sunday so it wasn't just a day or two.

My friend has two dogs, and dogs love snow when they can run around in it, play in it, and chase each other through the trees and round the garden.  On the Tuesday I phoned my boss – it made sense to work from home, but I also took some time off too. I was in a snow filled wood, I was going to take advantage! (And most of my colleagues hadn't made it to work either, so a lot less emails than usual.)

The time we had together was a gift – we were able to get to know each other better and indeed had a lot more laughs and fun.  From walking in the woods and trying to find the dog after he’d gone tearing off after some (much faster) deer, or chopping wood in the garden with a chain saw and log splitter, the  

I discovered I chop wood left-handed

beauty of the world covered in snow far outweighed the disadvantage of not getting to work.

Snowy tracks told
their own stories

My delight in Suffolk has stemmed from my childhood when I spent many happy holidays near Foxearth (where I also met my first ghosts, aged just 3).  My week being snowed in near Southwold has only confirmed my love for this beautiful county.

All photos (C) Carolyn Sheppard

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Being intro'd

Telling stories is something we all do – whether it’s that little white lie to avoid going for a second dinner at the in-laws, or an enchanting tale to delight the youngest. So when my friend asked me to do a session on storytelling to her local WI, I wondered how to approach it.

This WI group is different – the average age was younger than me, by quite a few years, and the cakes were mostly shop-bought. Not a jar of jam in sight! (Sorry, trying to bust a stereotype rather than dis cake-making skills here).

I started with using my work as an example. Ask me what I do – and I gave two answers:

I am a data protection specialist and I ask people for money

And

I help save lives every day, by raising funds to keep the … and then I went into much more detail about the charity I work for. Animatedly!  I moved around, I used different voice pitches, I changed tone and volume. All techniques valuable in the oral tradition of storytelling.

Following a discussion of what makes good storytelling (including ‘beginning, middle and end’), I then asked them to pair up and tell a story one to the other in three minutes. When it came to swapping over I gave them 2 minutes 30 seconds. Then I asked them to swap partners and tell their story in one minute (to cries of protest).  The point of this was to show that you have to focus on the key messages of a story, and build from there.

They seemed to enjoy the exercise as the room was noisy and excitable – a good sign in my book.

I finished the session by telling a story, and asking for criticism. They did really well, picking up on some of the key points that I had talked about and then omitted from my storytelling.  I hope they learned something useful.

From my point of view, I met interesting and intelligent women who I enjoyed entertaining and sharing with, and also improved my own performance thanks to their helpful feedback.

And the cake? It was delicious of course!

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Useful links:
Cambridge Storytellers
Cambridge Ladybirds WI

Thesia

It was our monthly Writer's Circle meeting last night and we had a 'write beforehand' exercise that we then shared and critiqued.  The theme was waking from a dream, and everything has changed. We had an extremely disturbing sci fi story, a ghost tale, a wonderful story about 'shoulder people' (from a truly stunning writer) to name but a few. As ever we had a fun night with much laughter and some excellent writing.  Here's my contribution:

My mind tossed in dreams like clouds in a whirlwind. The day before was hurting, tomorrow was a chill wind, brown was a circle and the sound of traffic became a warm touch.  My skin went cold and the prickles rose and grew - I saw a forest sprout from them and flood into a valley that sang.  Although asleep I knew that my world was changing.  The sound of birdsong, struggling to invade the cocoon of consciousness that kept me in that strange world, translated as the worn surface of an ancient oak chest. 

Finally awake, I opened my eyes. Last night I had slept poorly – a broken heart makes a difficult bedfellow.  Strands of dream tugged at my memory briefly as I slapped my phone in an effort to silence the brittle alarm. 

I lay in my bed for a moment, feeling the cool sheets on my bare skin. It felt… like chocolate.  As the night fog cleared from my brain I swung my legs over the edge of the bed to place them on the cold parquet floor. The wood seemed to suck warmth from my soles and sent a jolt like lightning up my legs. It felt as if every hair on them had been commanded to stand to attention, and a snatch of the vision of a forest growing before me briefly distracted my arousal into consciousness.

I stood and headed for the bathroom, my head spinning slightly.  The bathroom window, unshielded by curtain or blind, spilled white light into the room that felt like diamonds scraped across slate. Squinting, I looked at myself in the mirror. I was still me, hollow eyed and wan with sorrow, yet something had changed.  There was a brightness in my eyes that looked back at me with a challenge. There was a new dimension to what I saw, what I heard, what I felt.

Bravely I squirted paste onto my toothbrush and had the strange sensation of a white hare running on heather. I looked at the brush, at my face in the mirror, and started to brush my teeth.  Everything was normal and yet it was completely different – as if as an adult this was the first time I had done any of these things … waking, walking, touching, seeing.  The brush in my mouth was Tuesday’s meeting, my spit in the bowl was block and tackle, rope twisted and shining.

With the whole world evolving weirdly around me, I continued to get dressed and experienced everything on a different level.  My mind was desperately trying to assimilate new sensations attached to old experiences. I wasn’t sure how I’d get through the day. Surely this disorientation would pass?

Dressed, ready for work, I went downstairs and prepared breakfast – where a landscape painting, soft silk and ball bearings all contributed to the experience of eating cereal. Everything looked normal, and tasted normal, yet everything had a new dimension too.

I left the house, thoughts of the unceremonious dumping by my boyfriend, and the tumult of three days before – had Tuesday only been three days ago? – disappearing as I tackled the walk to the tube and negotiated my short commute with a world of new senses invading every single experience.  Could I continue like this?

I exited at Tower Bridge, and joined the throng towards our office. Glass, like a lambs bleat. Concrete, smoke over water.  The roar of traffic, flames on an open log fire. My phone buzzed – and the strong sense of purple was almost shocking. I looked at the message – from Aunt Emilia. Aunt Emilia, who could not say certain words because they felt like bricks in her throat. Aunt Emilia who was sensitive and fey, and yet the most creative, loving and extraordinary person I knew. Aunt Emilia, who – suddenly – I realised I understood. I thought this was a gift, or a curse, from birth. But it seemed for me, that a broken heart (and the smell of old wet paper pervaded) had triggered the condition.

I swung through the doors into the office and thought about James, his corduroy callousness, and a river of leather swept past.  I thought of how I would like to feel – happy, free, loved, and the painted wooden door of an old stone cottage swung shut in the breeze.  I started to choose how I felt and different images, sensations, tastes and smells pervaded my every step as I climbed the single flight of stairs and into our open plan office.  “Good morning!” I looked around and saw colour, tasted new and familiar things, the air was tangy with orange and pebbles.  A new day had truly begun.

(C) Carolyn Sheppard 2018

Useful links:

Royston Writer's Circle website

Royston Writer's Circle Facebook

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Image (C) Royston Writer's Circle

Where's the fun in leadership?

At a fundraising conference last week one of the things the presenter said about leadership was ‘prepare to be lonely’.  I think depends on what type of leader you are and what kind of organisation you are in.   I think there’s probably a bit of ‘it’s no fun’ in the attribution of ‘lonely’ to leadership. But I’m ready to argue the point.

I am prepared for others to have ‘the fun’ and for me to enjoy that they are having it.  To be a leader you have to delegate, let your team have ownership and control of things that, in the past, you may have not only done, but really enjoyed doing!  Letting go of the detail doesn’t mean letting go of the fun though.

Let your team run with the fun, and I don’t think you will be lonely. You may have to make HR and other strategic decisions without them, but where you can, with their input.  Watching them flourish and create, and deliver on your overall strategy has to be your ‘fun’ – not the doing, but the achieving as a team.

I love seeing my team do great work, and have a boss that appreciates input from everyone. It really makes a difference in my motivation and I hope my team’s too.

I like being a leader. It isn't easy, but thanks to a great team above as well as below, I'm not lonely at all. And I'm having my portion of fun too. 

Feel free to comment below.

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Taking a proper gander

Double dip

Account overvdue

Goodness, its mid-February already and I haven’t blogged yet.  I’ve been busy, and lots has happened, so perhaps a short blog on fundraising is due - overdue!  So here's my account of yesterday's conference.

I attended ‘Fundraising Live’ – an opportunity for fundraising professionals to get together and share best practice, network and see what’s innovating in the sector.  It’s not just ‘another conference’ – I find real value in attending events like this where the content is from peers, not just suppliers and ‘look at mes’.

Two presentations really stood out to me yesterday – the first was from Plan International who realised that the expense and emotional commitment of sponsoring a child meant that it was costing more and more to recruit individuals for sponsorships.  They did some really in depth research that helped them identify a lower cost proposition that would increase sign up and, of course, mean more money for their cause – children in poverty.

Some might argue that spending money on research is taking donors’ money and not spending it on the children, but in fact what they have learned means that more money will reach the children in the longer term. As a sector we can’t spend 100% of donors’ money on beneficiaries – if we do we won’t improve, increase our effectiveness and help those who need it most. The money would quickly run out.

The second interesting presentation was from Greenpeace. They have used Virtual Reality to give people a sense of what it’s really like in environments like the Arctic and the rainforest. Amazing! With causes that deal with issues that are so far removed from our daily lives, something like this is a tremendous way to help bring people nearer to the cause and really understand why their help is needed. And it resulted in more sign ups to support too.

Sometimes people complain that fundraising is turning into just another profession – that it’s full of people who are in it for the career, and the money (really?), and complain that highly skilled, specialists get paid for what they do.  All I can say is that without us, picking up what the government has dropped (so many people I spoke to worked in social care, have lost funding, and are desperately trying to serve people in dire need), and taking notice and making a difference where it’s truly needed, then we would all notice very quickly indeed.

Running a charity, working for a charity, is a demanding and thoroughly difficult job, and it’s getting harder. Yet we all want to do it – because it is so rewarding. 

The final comment that struck home was about taking care of fundraisers. We have a high turnover and we have a high ‘burnout’.   This isn’t an easy profession, but together we change the world and make it a better place.  A day at a conference is not a waste of donor’s money – it’s helping to achieve that change that we all want to be.  I love my job, and I'm not ashamed of being paid to do it.

Links:  

Plan International

Greenpeace

Institute of Fundraising

Civil Society

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When it snows

In the UK snow is a novelty. Sometimes it's a disaster, sometimes it's a welcome diversion. Today it snowed and, being a Sunday, most people seemed very happy to enjoy the opportunity to not do what may have been planned, but to wrap up warm and go outside.

Walking from where I live towards the heath there is a small hill approaching the station. It was slippy and several of us stopped to help push cars up the slope. It wasn't the best day to drive really, but it was quite fun pushing the Porsche (although I did get spattered in grey snowy sludge as it's wheels spun).

There was an air of pleasantry - people tugging kids on sleds, dogs eagerly trotting in smart coats, adults in hats and gloves and generally most people were smiling and willing to say good morning and look you in the eye, conspiratorial in the joy of snow.

When I reached the heath there were lots of people sledging and just having good old fashioned fun. Snowball fights, large mounds of snow being rolled in anticipation of snowmen, and dogs excitedly rushing around, chasing irretrievable snow balls. 

The sound on the heath was beautiful - the shouts and calls of happiness: people having fun in the open air,  and the echoes of voices bouncing off the low cloud whilst it continued to snow.  In the woods the sound was muffled, with the occasional 'swoosh' of snow falling from branches (and catching me unawares sometimes as if snowballed by the trees); the call of a wren, a robin, and some great tits dancing above me backgrounded by the distant calls of humanity.

I felt so peaceful being on the heath, walking through the woods in the snow.  I have many happy memories of being on the heath with my children - sledging and building snowmen - and I cherish this wonderful place that is fabulous for people and wildlife both winter and summer.

More photos here: Flickr All pictures (C) me.

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The perfect (American) Christmas story

Miracle on 34th Street (C) 20th Century Fox

Having watched a few – I have to say ‘schmaltzy’ – Christmas movies, I’ve come up with a formula for the perfect story.  The ingredients you need are:

• Small US town
• Snowy region (preferably near Minneapolis, Milwaukee, Buffalo etc – cities in the ‘snow zone’ or miraculous snow in New York)
• Single parent family (this facilitates the inclusion of children whilst permitting a romantic storyline)
• The children are polite and well behaved 
• A problem (St Nick has lost something, one of his elves is in trouble, his ‘magic’ is being depleted, family home about to be repossessed etc)
• A ‘miracle’ themed object (star, angel, animated snowman, special house etc)
• An ‘unbeliever’ (cynic who has had a negative Christmas experience, loss of family, etc)
• A supporting cast of friendly uncles, aunts, neighbours, friends
• A reluctant romance
• A penchant for choosing the rural career over the city life
• The conversion (cynic is provided with undeniable evidence that ‘Christmas miracles’ exist – whether Santa is real or that against all the odds lost family members are found)
• The ‘spirit of Christmas’
• A happy conclusion

And by observation, it seems to be a largely white, middle class cast of characters - though I think we can dump that in the ‘historical’ bin and be a bit more inclusive!  Sometimes (but not always) there is a bit of religion.

By contrast, UK Christmas stories seem to contain a mix of the following:

• Disaster (sometimes averted)

  

  'Nativity' 

• Unlikely romance with a specific challenge (societal, etc)
• Badly behaving kids
• A nativity play
• A supporting cast of idiots/comedians
• Cynicism in the majority
• Conflict resolution
• A happy conclusion

What’s do you think – do you have a ‘top ten’ (or top three) ingredients for Christmas stories? Post your thoughts in comments below. 

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Two walks

On Saturday I took my daughter’s dog out for a walk in nearby woods. She snuffled amongst the undergrowth, sniffing each piss-glistened leaf, rummaging through the debris for scents and stories – doggie social media.

I crunched along the path, beech nut husks brittle, new fallen leaves crisp, earlier casualties slippery with dew and ripe for rotting.  The ground was green with nettles and ivy, and the wind turned from autumn chill to cold winter gusts. 

On Sunday I took her on a walk in the fields of Hundon.  The sky was bright, the air clear and clean – lacking only the hint of snow to make it perfect.  Let off the lead the little dog ran helter skelter along the muddy path, letting off steam whilst also stopping to investigate each intriguing odour.

Tonight she lies sleepily – doggie dreams twitching her paws. Whilst my cat awaits his chance once again to show her that she is the interloper. It won’t be for long, she’ll go home soon, but she’s had a few adventures with me.

Photos (C) Me.

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Troublesome angels

This week's Writers Circle exercise was to write something inspired by a paragraph from 'Girl on a Train'.  As usual, all the stories were different - from childhood memories to attempted murder. Here's my contribution.

My head was slowly fogging as the muggy air in the carriage warmed up my cold face and hands. I was lucky, I’d got a seat today.  I sat at the end by the window, with the luggage rack at my back and, as was my preference, facing forwards down the carriage. Humanity before me.  I watched the Hertfordshire countryside fly by as we drew nearer to London; at each stop more bodies piled in. Long, smart black coats on shaven headed men; scarves wrapped around skinny necks to defy the heat loss that fashion was gifting them. They swayed like winter trees as the train took the huge curve by the golf course.  Dead eyes, the audible beat of music from headphones. They looked at phones, newspapers, laptops – anything but the other commuters.

Women in short skirts, thin tights and high heels. Woollen coats and cardigans, coloured scarves and bright pom pom hats. Severe suits and emulation. Cheeks as red as their lips from the cold winter air until they hit the ambient temperature of the heaving carriages, and then their faces burned with the warmth of too many, too close, and no space to shed a layer or two.

Here we come King’s Cross.  A red kite, a buzzard, and a football pitch teamed with pigeons and gulls. These drew my lazy eyes as I struggled to stay awake.  The rich green fields, the skeleton trees on grey horizon, replaced by the silhouettes of suburbia. My head nodded, and I snatched it up again with a startled jerk.

We had just pulled into Finsbury Park and the carriage suddenly hummed with life. People were moving, collecting, shifting, departing and joining. A rearrangement of humanity.  Two men dressed in long white robes boarded. I thought it odd. Angels, I mentally tagged them.  Both beautiful, but no wings.  A Christmas party in the offing, no doubt.  They moved towards a four square in front of me and, without a word, the incumbents vacated, finding other places to stand or sit, too close, too near to others.  The fancy dress duo took their places opposite each other and spread out in relative luxury in the jam-packed carriage.   I watched them carefully, they intrigued me.  I was sure my surveillance was obvious but the one who was facing me did not catch my eye.

King’s Cross. This train terminates here. Please take all your belongings with you.

I never hurry as the heaving mass surges to the doors even before we’ve hit the platform. My office is only five minutes’ walk away; plenty of time.  Dead eyes, deaf ears, cold legs and cold heads milled and spilled from the opened doors. With only stragglers remaining, I stood and stretched. The two angels were still there, deep in conversation.  I passed them on the way to the open door and muttered “better move or you’ll end up back where you came from.” A heinous crime, talking to a fellow passenger without invitation, but I didn’t care.  They looked up at me and back towards where I had been sitting, but I ambled on and out onto the platform. Hi vis and helmets constructing bicycles from confused concentrations of metal cluttered the platform briefly. Clattering suitcases dragged towards an unknown fate added to the cacophony of the station’s morning routine. A few slow movers – casual with age or indifference – were the last to join me as I hitched on the tail of the flood towards the exit gates.

Ticket in hand I was nearly at the gate, ready to swipe my season ticket, when I felt compelled to turn and see if the two idiots all in white had left the carriage. They had. They stood on the platform and were waving at someone.  It wasn’t a goodbye wave, but a come here, urgent flapping of perfect hands.  I’m not sure why but I felt they were waving at me. I pointed to my chest and mimed “Me?”  They indicated the affirmative.  I looked around – it had to be me. I stood for a second and then knew they wouldn’t come down the now almost deserted platform, so I trod my curious way back to them. Past the door – to the other side of the window where I had sat.  I looked in.

They gathered round me and put cool hands on my shoulders. Not a bad way to go, I thought, as I looked at my body, still at rest in the train as if sleeping.

Photos (C) Carolyn Sheppard

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Ghost stories

Photo from Amazon.com

I like to tell stories, and I was asked to do two sessions with ghost stories this week. The first was at a bar in Norwich (all adult audience), and I told a personal story about Maurice, the ghost we used to live with.  It was an interesting experience, because it took me into very personal, emotional territory. Not something I'm used to doing!

But last night I was storytelling outside, to families at a camp site in Swanton Morley.  The first story I told was of the ghostly US airman on the nearby airfield, but given an audience of children in fancy dress, and after singing ‘Old MacDonald had a Haunted Farm’, I decided that some more ad lib stories involving the kids would be better.

I asked what they wanted, and the small boy dressed as a mad professor wanted a monster story. So we told the story of Frankenstein and his monster, and the kids acted out some parts. I had a 10 year old ‘zombie’ do a pretty good impression of the monster - lying on a picnic table as we 'winched' him up the tower to the lightning. Oh, I also got Burke and Hare involved too – but no historians on hand to correct me so I got away with it.

The second story we told was about Dracula (the small boy dressed as a vampire actually dozed off), and the final story request was for one about a skeleton. With no immediate skeleton stories in my memory, the ‘Skeleton who couldn’t sleep’ was born. The kids joined in and the adults joined in (their costumes adding to the cast of characters) and there was even a running race to see who go to sleep in the king’s bed.

I really enjoy story telling and though last night’s event was very unplanned, I knew that if I had enough kids, it would work. And I’m pleased to day it did.

Choice

Me and Bella last summer

I’ve just spent a week working on my own choices. How? Well, as I said it took a week, so I can’t really explain it all here in a short blog post.  But the nub of it is about choosing how we feel – because all the feelings in the world that we want (and don’t want) are accessible to us – we already have them all inside*

It sounds a bit simple, doesn’t it, that you can just choose how you feel? But when it comes down to it, choice is an important opportunity that many of us do not take advantage of.

For example, if you had the choice between feeling confident and feeling nervous, you’d choose confident.  Now this may seem glib and even insulting but once you are taken through the thought process and set some hard challenges (about self), it’s actually really powerful.

There’s a ‘voice in my head’ that says I’m not good enough, unloveable, ugly, fat, old, stupid, that the future I want is impossible… the list of my own failings to me is quite a long one. But that’s not how others see me. That’s not how I want to see me, but I have been choosing to believe the negative voice and ignoring the opinion of everyone else.

In other words, I’d rather believe a lie because it makes me feel bad, than the truth, which is about who I really am.  So after this week, I’ve chosen to believe the truth about who I am and be happy with that – warts and all – and tell that voice in my head to ‘shut the f*ck up’ (or at least turn it down a bit).

I spent a lot of money on this course, money I could have spent on a holiday, or the home, but I’m glad I spent it on me; there’s only one of me in the whole world, just like there’s only one of you. Our uniqueness is something to be treasured and celebrated. Is this an explosion of ego? No – it’s a great step forward in finding and being my authentic self. 

If you want to know more about this course, or the people who run it, check them out on Facebook.  You may find it a bit whacky, out of your comfort zone, but it took three years to get me to even think about attending this course, and it is likely to be the most important decision I have ever taken. Cool, huh?!

* You may wish to point out that there are people who do not have every feeling available to them, but let’s face it, a true lack of feeling (even hate) would be pretty hard to find in any conscious human.  Oh, and any sentence you start (in your head or in voice) with ‘Yeah, but…’ is usually working hard on behalf of that negative voice, so beware!

PS - I did not have to build bridges, climb trees, wade through rivers, walk over coals, live in the wild or even eat raw insects  - but I did make new, amazing friends.

Photo of me by Anna Langley

Hey Phil, I get it.

In a helicopter. 

I found you on Facebook as you accepted Nick’s friend request. I did a bit of stalking.  I’d looked before, but you were so totally under the radar on social media and online that I didn’t think to look again.

I’m pleased to see you are doing something interesting at the radio station – and still using that moniker (I looked under Bilko too, of course).  Good to see you are alive (I didn’t know) and sad to see that you have health issues. 

You have reinvented yourself as a person from where you are now. You’ve put your past well and truly behind you and moved on.  You have always been able to contact me if you wanted. You don’t want to and, finally, I get it. I’m going to move on too. A bit later than you, perhaps! But when asked by others why I don’t try and find you – I try to explain that I am respecting your wishes.  I can’t think of anything worse than some ‘blast from the past’ turning up and causing lots of awkward questions, or nosiness from people you don’t want to talk to about that stuff.

I’ll let you know when mum eventually passes on – she’s 85 now.  Interestingly she looks back on the past and has regrets when it comes to it. She’s said some very self-aware things about our childhood that, although way too late, is amazing that she has recognised, and cares about.   

I will make this my last letter to you – though I guess I know you haven’t read any of these any way. So goodbye Phil, but I’m always here if you do ever want to make contact. 

Get well soon

Earlier in September I heard David Beeney talk about mental health at work, and he used an interesting example:  The staff member who has a broken leg gets get well soon cards and contact from colleagues to see how they are doing.  The staff member who is off with stress is usually ‘left alone’ and there’s little or no contact, and no get well soon card. Yet which of these is most likely to need the contact, support and to know that others are thinking about them? (NB - make sure you read the comments below that followed on from this post)

One point that David wanted to make is that it is OK to share – to tell others if you are having issues around mental health, just as we would if we had – say – a bad back, diabetes or a headache.  But that involves a huge culture change; since Victorian times the British (I can only speak from what I have heard, read or experienced here) have been very good at the ‘stiff upper lip’.  Prior to then, the British were known for being rather emotional – perhaps better at sharing how they were both physically and mentally – than we are now.

As someone who has depression (sometimes quite a big black dog, sometimes a puppy, sometimes it’s away in the kennel) I find it hard to share what is going on in my head, because – as an example – depression makes you lose perspective. You won’t share, because no one will care anyway.  You won’t share because they might ‘find out’ you are not as amazing and indestructible as you want everyone – including yourself – to believe. Sometimes the logic of the dog is not logical at all.

The purpose of this post is the same as David’s talk – to get the conversation out in the open, to be prepared to talk about an issue which, as a nation, we seem to try and keep hidden.

There are many statistics around mental health, such as one in three adults, and more recently 25% of teenage girls. In other words, there's a lot of people who are contending with mental health issues.  Sometimes individuals might have an ‘episodic’  issue, but, if you think about mental health as a spectrum (as we do with autistic or other developmental states), then we have probably all had an issue at some time or another. The question (or perhaps diagnosis context) for me is how much it affects everyday life.

Help and references

• www.mentalhealth-uk.org/

• Mind  

• Sane 

Teenage mental health resources

• www.stem4.org.uk

• www.respectyourself.org.uk/

• Youngminds - reports on mental health for younger people and charity

Resources

• Historical context of Victorian attitudes – V&A Museum

• A beautiful mind - history of the treatment of mental illnesses

• The age of emotion (Radio 4)

Photo: from Pinterest (no credit identified)

Footnote: since first publishing this, a comment came in that it isn't always appropriate to contact someone who is off work for mental health reasons.  Yes, that's true, and contact may in fact increase problems rather than offer comfort, but the very principle that people off sick because of a mental health issue is 'taboo' is what is challenged here.  If you have a colleague off sick for any kind of mental health reason, check before contacting them with your HR department or boss.  Maybe a get well soon card could be the best thing they ever got.

Making pretty things

Over the years I have enjoyed making small pieces of jewellery for myself and for friends. I have loads of pieces now, and I can't possibly wear as many as I make and though giving them away is what I usually do, I've decided to try selling a few via the web.

So - wish me luck! And if you get a chance, visit my webshop. I'd also appreciate ideas and feedback, of all the commercial undertakings I've ventured into, selling jewellery is not one I've done before.

Now to try and add a buy button!  I think it's worked...

You can visit the full shop on Facebook at: Carolyn's Jewellery

Four wounds and a bruise

From the end of March I started to have pains – pains like nothing I had experienced before (yes, worse than childbirth).  My whole guts felt like someone had put a steel band around the inside and was slowly turning a handle and increasing the pressure and the pain.  The first time it happened I thought I had eaten something bad – the attack lasted about three hours and eventually I fell asleep, exhausted.  Thinking that was it, I was more than perturbed when it happened again – at work – and I had to lie down in the Finance office whilst my colleagues stepped over me until the attack passed.  Only an hour this time though, so not too bad.  But it happened again and again, and along with the pain came the vomiting  – the night of one attack that started at around 8pm had me still being sick at 3am.  Exhausting!

Cows - because you don't want to see this post illustrated!

It kept happening and during one attack at a training session at work a kind colleague drove me to the doctor, and waited with me until I was seen before taking me home.  I have to say I was delighted with the diagnosis!  Gall stones. Yes – horrible little lumps of solidified crud that build up in your gall bladder. Usually triggered by eating, when one of the stones decides to take a trip down the ducts, you end up with that excruciating, un-relievable pain. The doctor put me forward for a speedy gall bladder removal much to my delight.  I was happy to be diagnosed because I knew the solution – laparoscopic cholecystectomy.  It was a procedure I could also spell without looking up because I’d written a patient brochure all about it when I worked at the hospital back in the early 2000s. 

Given how ill I was and how much it was interfering with work and my eating (not the best way to lose weight, but a good few pounds departed as I became almost frightened to eat), a speedy operation date was welcome. Then came the call – the operation was cancelled. The distress and upset in my voice were not ignored though, and instead of a date a month later, my operation was brought forward to that week.

A call on the Monday, a pre-admission appointment on the Wednesday, and the procedure on the Friday.  One of my operation wounds is rather larger than anticipated as I think there were a lot of stones to come out – must have been a bit of a tug with that bag of marbles in my tum!

So this post is to say thank you – to the wonderful GP for diagnosis and referral, to the fantastic NHS for getting me into the system and offering me the choice of speedy consultation dates, and the efficient team at the Pinehill Hospital who managed to get me my operation quickly and looked after me so well during my overnight stay.  My lovely friend Chris spent the week with me afterwards, cooking and caring for me whilst my brain was addled and my body not functioning properly.  And more friends and family have visited, helped me with shopping and checked on me to make sure I am OK.  One more week of rest, and then I’ll be back on form and independent as ever.

I’m not good as asking for help, but I have needed it and my friends, family and colleagues have been wonderful.  And the cat - he's been keeping me company a lot. Thank you.

Time management

Work! 

"I need more time!" Well, more time doesn’t exist, what I need to do is manage my time better.  For example, I love writing yet haven’t been to Writers’ Circle in a few months and haven’t blogged in ages either!

So why am I so busy?  Could it be the fact my new job is time consuming, and also highly absorbing?  Well, yes (see here!) But then I still have other hours in the day.  Train journeys, for example. 

Last week I got on the train to home from King's Cross and had just opened my computer up ready to draft something, when a man sat opposite me.  As luck would have it, he was a friend of mine who - up until the previous week - I hadn't seen in about 18 months.  Twice in one week, sort of happens that way doesn't it?

Caroline's pigs

We got chatting and he told me about his day - a 'scenario planning' session on an imagined Ebola outbreak in a war zone - fascinating stuff.  I also shared my day's event with him - a data protection conference! I think I got the better end of the deal.

So no blog written that day, but what about all the other days, evenings, etc?  Oh I have plenty of excuses... I am still managing to play bowls occasionally, still managing to visit the occasional storytelling session (this one at the British Museum), and visit friends who have animals!  But all of this leaves me little time to think, and I need to think to write.

My job means I spend a lot of time in the car, and during that time I come up with lots of ideas, but writing and driving don't mix.

A card from Sarah

Finally, I also have evenings (sometimes days) when I can't do a thing because my gall stones have decided to play havoc with my innards.  Well, some potential then for writing because at some point I will have to have a laparoscopic cholecystectomy (so glad I learned to spell that back in 2000), which will mean no driving and no gadding about for a while I'm sure.

In the meantime, here's some ramblings (above), and some pictures. I will make time in my schedule to write, because without a Tardis, I'm not going to make any more hours in the day.

Watch this space, and let's see if I really can get better at time management.



Photos: (C) Carolyn Causton.  Gallstone artwork (C) Sarah Hockey.