NOVEMBER
NOVEMBER 1ST 1998
It took me all morning just to get
the babies ready for a five-minute visit to Safeways. Just as I was about to
plonk them in the pram, Melissa chucked up – all over herself and me. She
wasn’t ill though – she chuckled and grinned at me straight after. She
was amused at my look of concern and because I was fussing. Babies are really
good at that – they posset and throw up with such ease and then they laugh at you – like it’s a pretty everyday
thing to do. She waited until she had clean clothes on – and then she filled
her nappy – good style. I could tell because she had that real concentrated
look on her face and then she went red. I had to give her a complete change of
clothing again because her motions had seeped into her pants, vest and cardi. Then
Jordan decided he wasn’t going to be outdone – he immediately produced his own specimen
to be proud of.
Shell was a real pain in the neck
today. She kept arguing with me, answering back and stomping. So I referred to some of my many baby care/child rearing books [I have an army of them] for some tips on
how to discipline. Andrew and Shell have had their moments of being downright
unruly so every now and again I get the books out for some expert advice. Some
advise withholding a treat or perk if the child misbehaves, so I tried stopping the next due pocket money but I found it wasn’t
appropriate because the kids and I forgot what the behaviour was and it was impractical.
I realised punishment should be immediate if it’s going to be effective.
Likewise I’d cancel a planned outing but that didn’t work either, because everyone else missed out and
the discipline lacked instantaneity. I remember an old boyfriend of mine used
to discipline his kids by sending them to bed early for a week or even longer. I
sometimes tried this method on Andy and Shell but after a couple of days I’d forget to execute the order. I also found
it inconvenient because I didn’t really want them to miss out on their regular clubs or for family outings to be cancelled. All child-care books advise against corporal punishment as this only creates violent
kids.
The only other option is to give orders
in a calm, firm, assertive voice and to repeat the message if you get back answered.
The advice is to “keep eye contact with the child, don’t move, don’t raise your voice, don’t
do deals, don’t give in to pleadings or tantrums, don’t reason.” I
tried this on Shell tonight. I said, “Bed now Shell,” She looked
shocked and whinged, “But I’m watching this.” So I repeated, “Bed now Shell.” She started to whimper and pleaded, “Can I just see the end?”
Although I could feel my blood pressure rising I refused to bellow at her and in the same calm voice I repeated the
same words. She looked confused for a second but then went to bed. I’m not saying I could use this method all the time – the temptation to let rip is too great
but I’ll make the effort as being cool and calm seems the most effective way to get the desired result. Sometimes it’s enough just to warn the kids that something will happen at a certain time.
NOVEMBER 2ND 1998
I traipsed around our local nurseries
until I came across one that would take Jordan and Mel on the occasional days that I have to attend court. Dad has said that he would baby sit them at a push but I know he’d rather not – he’d
be out of his depth and he wouldn’t be able to tolerate them for long. Everything to do with babies and kids was always
one hundred percent mum’s department. He’d be ok though if Shell
was with him as she’s a real competent little mother. I prefer not to be
too dependent on dad – he’s entitled to a life of his own in his veteran years; he also might wish to accompany
me to court.
I found my future babysitter too. She seems perfect. She’s eighteen,
fully qualified – has an NVQ in child care, has excellent references, seems a nice quiet, mature girl and she doesn’t
smoke, date, party…. sounds too good to be true. Not that I’ll be
needing her that often – can’t afford to go out! But an occasional night out would be nice – to theatre
or pub sometimes. I took Paula’s details and asked her to visit me
– to meet all the kids and for us to get to know each other.
Tried Melissa on baby rice. She really took to it and wolfed about ten teaspoons full. Looks
like she’s going to be really easy to wean.
The kids keep me happy with regular
brews. Virtually every evening, they take turns to bring me a cuppa – often
without any prompting. Most of it is a ploy to get me to let them stay up a little
longer!
Someone rang the doorbell at 10.00
pm. I never get social visitors at night – dad always rings three times
– so I tentatively and reluctantly approached the door. I asked who was
there. No one answered. I saw no
one through the bubbled glass. I didn’t dare open it. I daresay it was GW, although I cannot be sure. Nevertheless
it had the desired effect of turning me back into a hopeless quivering nervous wreck for the rest of the night.
NOVEMBER 3RD 1998
The kids have been sending me up the
wall today. Why oh why do they insist on leaving the lights on and the doors
open? I’m constantly harping on at them – and I’m sick of it. I
tell them I might as well chuck a fiver in the bin every so often. I’ve
told them if they’re determined to heat up my back yard and road, perhaps they’d be willing for me to deduct a
percentage of their pocket money as their contribution to the gas bill. It didn’t
go down too well! Slippers are a constant bone of contention. Why won’t the kids wear the damn things? It’s
no wonder their socks are black and holey. The margarine is another problem zone,
as is the jam. The kids insist on depositing marge in the jam and vice versa. Oh yes and I’m sick of seeing a new loaf opened when the old is not yet finished. And they’re so flippin’ careless at times.
They spill drinks and chip the best mugs [and they insist on removing the handles]; they’re always tripping up,
falling over and bumping themselves; and they constantly manage to lose things. And
how come they get so dirty so easily and their clothes are frequently grubby? And
why are they always at each other’s throats? I’m in a state of shock
if a day goes by without a cross word between them!
At about 8.00 pm, Andrew and I heard
the gate rattle. I bolted out with Andrew in hot pursuit. I bellowed, “Oi, who’s there?” However all
my grand plans of keeping him talking whilst Andrew called cops evaporated when
he vaulted over my gate, lunged towards me, eyes ablaze, neck veins protruding
and voice booming. I panicked. Andrew
and I scurried inside to sanctuary. With trembling hands I dialled 999 and asked
cops to tail gate him. One panda car did and one turned up on my doorstep. Police
gave me their sympathies and words of condemnation regarding GW but admitted there was little they could do but give him another
warning. They advised me to take out the injunction. In desperation I asked what
he has to do to me before they act. I told them he could physically attack, murder
or snatch my babies. They claimed to understand my anxiety but said their hands
were tied and that it’s my word against his.
Later, police informed me that Gareth
insists he has been at home all night and that his daughter is a witness. They
then warned me that he is making counter allegations against me and that he’ll be seeing his solicitor regarding his
suffering of police harassment as, according to him, I am constantly calling them out without due cause. Words fail me.
NOVEMBER 4TH 1998
I spent ages on the phone to my solicitor. She advised me that we should first write him a threatening letter as regards the
injunction as we do not wish to “aggravate an already inflamed situation.”
She then informed me of the undesired consequences that another female client suffered when she insisted on an immediate
injunction. Her ex started to camp in her garden.
He also broke into her house and stole: light fittings and power sockets. He
wrote graffiti on her walls and his general tiresome behaviour increased a thousand-fold.
I asked about my chances of recovering my stolen belongings. She told
me she can ask for their return but knowing Gareth’s unsavoury character, the outcome is bleak – he’ll just
deny stealing anything.
I tossed and turned all night. My dreams were vivid and horrid. One
was about him gaining custody of my babies and that I was denied all access. I wasn’t even allowed to talk to them on the phone. I dreamt that they grew up believing the depraved lies of his and his family’s: that I didn’t
love them, didn’t want them, that I was mentally sick and that I was a nasty, wicked woman. I sat in the kitchen at 4.30 am sipping a cuppa and crying. What
if it happened that way? What if the judge believes him and not me? He gets away with crimes that I never would. It seems he’s
allowed to do anything he wants. No one can stop him. He’s the type who would get away with murder….
NOVEMBER 5TH 1998
It’s the day a silly bugger
called Fawkes plotted to blow up the Houses of Parliament – actually, that’s not such a daft thing to do. Andrew and Shell trudged off to our local park firework display. They went with a gang of pals – virtually the population of our road.
I stood with Jordan in the back yard admiring the fluorescent lights and booming explosions of distant rockets. The kids returned at 9.00 pm to inform me that GW’s car was parked up there. Well what a surprise! He had followed them home [on foot] at a distance, despite the fact they were not alone. He’s an out and out nutter. What on earth does he hope to gain by stalking a couple of kids?
Later the kids and I saw his car speed
past numerous times.
My sleep was spasmodic. I had recurring nightmare – about GW grabbing my kids and torturing them and leaving them for dead
on wasteland.
NOVEMBER 7TH 1998
The kids and I accompanied dad and
his mate Robin to their gliding club bonfire party. I think he feels a bit sorry
for me because I now have a non-existent social life and I’m all on my tod. Actually I like it this way. I’m free. I’m not particularly bothered about
going out [I’m too tired anyway] and I have plenty to keep me occupied and interested.
The party was enjoyable; the drink was flowing, the hotpot delicious and the kids stuffed their faces like it was the
last supper. I had a couple of glasses of dad’s potent home made wine and felt quite tipsy. We were given a tour of
the hangar and the intricacies on gliders and gliding. Andrew and Shell stoked
the bonfire and I engaged in small talk with club members. Dad couldn’t
help passing the remark to me later that his friends were a “different class of people.”
NOVEMBER 8TH 1998
Andrew had the job of emptying bins. He raced in announcing that there were shreds of wire on my yard. I found my TV aerial slashed and my telephone wire ripped out of its socket and lying in a mangled heap. A whole range of ripe, unprintable obscenities spilled out…. “That unimaginable bar steward watched us leaving the house last night. That contemptible creep must’ve seen you two getting into Robin’s car and he’s deduced that I have a new boyfriend,” I spat.
Police were a fat lot of good. I was told Gareth can’t be charged with criminal damage because there is no
proof that he did it. I protested that it was obviously him; that no one else
has ever done such a thing. I asked if I’m supposed to just sit back and
watch him: ruin my home, threaten me and my kids and send me insane with his pathetic games.
I told them I have to stomach his death threats and his vile threats to snatch my babies. I made it clear we are being stalked, watched and intimidated and that I am appalled there is nothing the
police can do; that there is no protection. I then asked, “Supposing you
actually catch him red-handed – you arrest him – what then?” The
answer was, “He’ll be kept in a cell overnight, then released awaiting court.
For a first offence he’ll just get a warning – this could happen a few times. It’s no deterrent for someone like Gareth. He’s
unlikely to get prison – or even a fine.” I got the distinct impression
that the only way to make GW back off was to hire a hit man.
A cop told me stories of embittered
blokes breaking into ex-girlfriends/wives houses and stealing fittings, such as: boilers, radiators, pelmets, electrical appliances
and the like with the premise “they’re mine – I installed them.”
Shockingly, courts do not condemn such action. The cop allocated me an
elaborate incident number, handed me an intricate leaflet on domestic violence and the law and then treated me to details
of their “special crime prevention officer.” Christ, they wouldn’t
need one of those if the police service was effective. I announced that I didn’t
give a fig for his silly useless numbers and posh pamphlets. I told him the police
should do less paperwork, less chitchat and do more crimecombating. In all fairness,
my beef is not with the local bobbies – it’s with their chiefs [many of whom are corrupt and incompetent] and
the system which is in a shambles, doesn’t work, is a waste of time and is a drain on the public purse.
Dad was furious at bonehead’s
vandalism. He savagely declared his intention to contact the “heavies.” I actually discouraged him because of the repercussions from GW and the law. I know we’d never get away with such drastic action, that it is a certainty
that one or both of us would end up in prison and then that evil thug Gareth will have won.
We’d have played right into his grubby, unscrupulous hands.
I made an arrangement with my neighbour
to come to our immediate aid if she hears me trying to bulldoze our adjoining wall.
I then nipped up to our local hardware shop for TV aerial connectors. I
also bought a basket that fits over the letterbox and lined it with aluminium foil. That warped blob is capable of ANYTHING. What next? – A brick through the window? – A petrol bomb through my letterbox? He’s getting his revenge in more ways than one – he’s making me
spend money I can ill-afford.
NOVEMBER 10TH 1998
My solicitor says keep a note of everything. She is hopeful that he’ll
stop when he gets the threat of an injunction. I’m a little sceptical.
Jordan ‘helped’ dry up
this morning. Shell did most of the pots and he pottered around the kitchen putting
things away one by one. The whole operation took over an hour and now I can’t
find anything, but the good intentions were there. He does a good job behaving
like a vacuum cleaner though and painstakingly picks up spilled: cornflakes, crusts and other bits off the floor and deposits
them in the bin.
I find bringing up kids an awesome
challenge but it is my greatest satisfaction. I’ve had a good life. I’ve travelled and worked abroad, explored Australia, stayed in youth hostels,
had outdoor pursuit ventures, met many people…. but now that I’m a parent I’m learning what life and love
is really all about.
This afternoon Andrew and I saw two
lads shinning up the drainpipes of the house opposite me. They got in through
the top windows. I don’t know who lives there. I’ve seen various scruffy down and outs coming and going at all times of the day. There have been naked women in the windows and some have fled the house in distress. The neighbourhood kids say drug and gambling parties are held there, and rumour has if that prostitution
is ripe. I informed police but after a two-minute investigation they told me
all is above board. But I wasn’t convinced.
After tea I was busy scrubbing out
our yoghurt pots and washing up bottles. I now keep a range of household items:
tubs, bottles, boxes, sticks, elastic bands etc as they all come in useful for Andrew’s and Shell’s scientific
experiments. They’ve made a yoghurt-pot telephone, a burglar alarm, a guitar,
electro-magnet….
During the evening, as I was practicing
the keyboard, I heard footsteps on my drive. I ventured out but found no one
there. I tried to convince myself it was just kids as some of them in this area
cheekily run into anyone’s yard. My gate is now padlocked and everything
is kept locked away in the shed. After about an hour, I heard knocking on the
lounge window – not surprisingly I saw no one. After about another hour,
my doorbell rang, but when I enquired as to who was there…. I was met with silence.
I felt panic and despair.
At night I tossed and turned, searching
for answers – but none were forthcoming.
NOVEMBER 11TH 1998
Shell struggled a bit this morning
with her negative numbers, so I explained the concept to her the same way that I did with Andrew. [Come to think of it he was supposed to learn it at school but he learned bugger all there.] I told her to imagine the kitchen table is zero, all the numbers above it are positive, starting at one
and getting bigger and higher until ten is say half way to the ceiling, twenty is at the ceiling, one hundred is floating
above the rooftop, one thousand is past the clouds, one million is heading for the stars and so on. Then I told her all the numbers below the table are the negative ones so that: negative one [-1] is just below the table, negative ten [-10] is on the floor, negative thirty [-30] is
below the floorboards and so on. I’d then ask her what is, for example,
two takeaway five. I’d tell her the two is just above the table so she
has to drop down two places on the table and then another three places which makes the five places altogether and so she ends
up just below the table at negative three [-3]. She soon cottoned on. I made
the point that to add numbers, you count up and to subtract numbers, you count down.
I then asked her what negative five add ten is. She easily worked out
the answer five.
Late this afternoon, the kids and
I set our intruders some traps. I figured if I could somehow surprise my persecutor[s]
and cause him/her/them to alert me by making a noise and then for me to have proof of his/her/their visit, then the police
could make the arrest. So we set to work balancing rocks on my walls and shed
bound by transparent fishing line. We re-painted my gate in black gloss and we
dropped dollops of muffin gloss intermittently in and around my yard. I figured
the mess was worth it if it meant catching it red-handed. I also chucked some stale bread near the gate. Then we retreated
to await action.
Sure enough at about 9.00 pm, the
kids and I heard one rock come crashing down immediately followed by another thud. I
grabbed a torch and bolted out with Andrew in hot pursuit. We saw GW’s
daughter vaulting over the gate [she’s some athlete] and we heard scrambling and banging on top of my neighbour’s
shed – presumably Gareth making a swift getaway. The kids and I hastily
scanned my yard for tell-tale signs and to our smug satisfaction found: squashed bread and a smear of muffin coloured paint
on top of the gate, a mixture of black and muffin footprints along my drive and smudges of muffin paint on my wall, shed roof
and next door’s shed roof. Jubilantly I phoned police with my ‘evidence’
but was gob smacked when they told me that they couldn’t race round to Gareth’s house demanding to examine his
shoes for wet paint as proof of his loitering. “We’d be told to get
lost,” he informed me. In disbelief and exasperation I enquired if they
wanted me to invite my tormentors in for coffee while they await arrest – just to make it all a little easier on the
police. The cop on the line almost convincingly stressed that they’d love to catch him on my property and that in an
ideal world he and others like him would be locked up by now. “Aw, come
on,” I protested, “this is really taking the p … now. If this
is how you conduct yourselves catching criminals, no wonder the country’s in the state it is. It’s not surprising ‘hit men’ are becoming more prolific.
Jo Public is driven to using them. The ‘underworld’ is not
so secretive these days – it is thriving and ruling and you lot condone it and are probably controlled by it –
I wouldn’t be surprised if some of your influential superiors are members of it.”
Dad’s reaction was of incredulity
too. He suggested we erect an electric fence in the hope that a swift sharp shock
might be the required deterrent. But he had second thoughts when he realised
that I’d end up being prosecuted if anyone gets hurt trying to hurdle my wall [never mind the fact they shouldn’t
be on my wall in the first place!] There are some folk who get away with breaking
the law and some who don’t. Unfortunately I fall into the second category
– always have done. I once remember being fined and accumulating penalty
points on my license at aged seventeen just because I parked on the wrong side of the road after dark. I remember a policeman coming to reprimand me. I told him
he should be out there catching real criminals instead of targeting easy prey like me.
[He didn’t like that.]
NOVEMBER 12TH 1998
I try my best to speak to the kids
politely. I try to give them a good calm positive influence; but if I ask them
to do something nicely, I sometimes get ignored so then I have to drop two octaves and authoritatively insist they “get
on with it.” Then they do. I
know it’s of the utmost importance to remain in firm control and not to unwittingly entertain the kids by losing my
rag, but this morning I couldn’t help it – I just flipped. Andrew
and Shell were driving me bananas with their constant nit picking, so I let rip. I
unleashed an outraged eruption of venom – much to their victorious amusement and my annoyance. It didn’t get me the desired result but by golly it made me feel a whole lot better. Jordan and Mel appreciated the drama too. They stared at me
wide-eyed and straight-faced during my fifteen minutes of unabated onslaught then they broke into huge grins and whoops of
hysteria. I wondered if next door had been a beneficiary too. We are often in competition for the “Who can yell the loudest at the kids” awards! Reckon I’m winning at the moment.
This afternoon Andrew and Shell got
stuck into their English. Andrew tackled comprehension – where you read
a short story and then answer the questions. Shell wrote a story – about
her desire for a pet dog. I’ve told her umpteen times that she can have
one when she’s old enough to look after it and support it financially. The
idea wasn’t so attractive to her after I’d finished harping on about the snags of dog-ownership - that they can
turn on and bite/scratch their owners, that you have to take them to the vet for regular vaccines and treatment when they
get ill – all at substantial cost, that you have to walk, brush, bath and de-flea them regularly, that they eat a lot,
bark a lot and defecate a lot. I did agree though that it’d be nice to
have a guard dog, that’d warn me of approaching enemies and would send ‘em packing.
I began to dream up the perfect protective
pooch – that you didn’t have to: walk, feed, clean up after etcetera. I
visualised a computer-controlled, battery operated, robodog. Wouldn’t it
be great if there was such an animal; an artificial one that looked and behaved like a real dog, that you could put in cuddly/lovable/no
bite mode for the benefit of babies and children, that you could order to growl, attack and bite when hostile beings beckon
and that you could leave to ‘work’ automatically during your absence or when sleeping; all activated via a censor
and which would be sensitive to humans only – all at the touch of a button[s]?
GW’s car went past loads of
time again, on and off all night. I also heard someone wallop my flue again. I presume it was him. I didn’t
give chase. I tried to convince myself that if I ignored him he’d give
up – some hope!
I eventually got to bed at my usual
time – at about 2.00 am. I checked Melly as usual [she sleeps in my room.] She was in deep, peaceful slumber. I
touched her forehead. She opened her eyes, gave me the most amazing smile and
went back to sleep. I melted. My
heart is overflowing with so much love for all my children. I just wished the
world was a safer place for them all to grow up in.
My sleep was troubled [as always.] I wish I could relax – safe in the knowledge that everything was going to be
alright.
NOVEMBER 13TH 1998
I brushed Jordan’s teeth for
the first time this morning after breccy. He loved it. I keep a brush for him in the kitchen and one upstairs in the bathroom so that when I do mine he can do
his as he follows me virtually everywhere.
Popped down town for some sleep suits
for Jordan and Melly. Jordan has the habit of kicking off his blankets and now
that the cold nights have drawn in, that’s a problem. Trouble is they only
do them for kids aged up to three – too small for Jordan!
I bumped into my good pal and neighbour
Linda outside Woolies. We had a lovely long natter about: the world’s problems,
life’s injustices, the scandal of government corruption and double standards, our pathetic judicial system, how bad
our road has become, our personal problems and the trouble with men.
I only got a couple of blocks up the
road and I ran into an old aikido practitioner friend – Chris. We got yakking
about his new car and the new three hundred pounds stereo he had in it that got nicked.
I felt gutted for him. But he announced with an air of confidence and
steely bitter-sweet revenge that it’s not a problem, he’s got it back, has a new windscreen [at no cost to himself]
and that the scumbags responsible have been sorted. I enquired if that meant
he’d hired a hit man. I was right.
He assured me it is the only sure-fire way to deal with “imbecile a-holes.”
I told him a bit about the intimidation and harassment that I was putting up with from my vindictive ex. Chris quickly insisted that he could get all that sorted out for me in no time at all, that he knows plenty
of ‘heavies’ in Rhyl that would do the job and that it’d only cost me thirty pounds. He told me all I have to do is give the order – just like that – as simply and as casually
as going to the loo. I said, “You do this often, don’t you?” He said, “All the time; you have to these days cos if you don’t, you’re
always a victim. The police and courts don’t do anything – they’re
useless.” I must admit the temptation was overwhelming, but I hesitated. I feared a backlash. I had a gut feeling
I’d be arrested and charged with GBH [there’s no way I’d get away with any violence whatsoever] and I couldn’t
help worrying that this might be a set-up because Chris once used to be a family friend of Gareth’s, as they live near
one another. So I declined the offer.
The evening passed pretty peacefully,
thank heavens, until about 11.00 pm. As I was checking that all was secure before
bed, I decided to nip out with a torch for a glance around and was shocked to come across wet blobs of blue paint on my wall. That pot-bellied imbecile has been here again tonight – playing pee-brain games. His gall holds no bounds. He could still
be here for all I know. I really haven’t a clue what to do. It seems he can just keep coming around intimidating, upsetting and infuriating me whenever he pleases. I’ve heard that some men get sent to prison for harassment of a much milder
form.
I crept back in feeling pensive and
agitated. I sat for a half hour with a cuppa, just pondering – and shivering. I searched for a solution and then I searched some more and some more…. Eventually
I dragged myself to bed but first I checked out all the rooms. I froze in shock
horror when I came face to face with Andrew’s and Shell’s clothes because their outfits were hanging up –
complete with hats, gloves and socks. For a second I thought he was in my house because that’s what he did with my outfit once – only he’d laid my clothes
out on my bed. Then I realised the kids had been playing at ghosts. Feeling a little less spooked I went to bed. But not before
I’d checked that every little nook and cranny in the house was ‘normal’.
I tossed and turned all night. My throat was dry and I could feel a cold
coming on.
NOVEMBER 14TH 1998
I decided to take the kids on an ‘educational’
outing so that when the LEA visit and preach the importance of such, I’ll be ready with our ‘educational’
trip’s findings. We visited the Marble Church in Bodelwyddan. I’d often marvelled at the splendour and magnificence of the place in passing. Inside is just as grandiose. It is rich in marble and fine
carving but I couldn’t help thinking cynically about the ‘VIP’ family behind it and that something sinister
lurked in its history.
On reading the church’s pamphlet,
it is clear that lady Margaret Willoughby de Broke and her wealthy lawyer/Baronet family consider themselves to be at least
of the same importance as God himself in that she desired and implemented this church “as a fitting memorial to her
husband” the sixteenth Baron after his death in 1852. The church contains
too many references to this “important” Willoughby de Broke family such that the idea of it being “God’s
House” is a mockery and the family is guilty of blasphemy. Lady Margaret
“founded, erected and endowed the church at her own expense in the devout
hope that it might tend to the glory of God.” Bulldust! – more like
to the glory of her. At the Bodelwyddan Coat of Arms are the portraits of Baron
and Lady de Broke and on the pillars of red marble “if these are looked at closely they will reveal the letters of Henry
and Margaret de Broke, thus quietly but indelibly impressing the memorial character for there is no tablet or other writing
stating specifically that it was built as a memorial.” Oh yawn; puke. So we’re all supposed to be humbled and grateful to this lot? They’d have got more respect if they’d shut up about their superiority and if their stamp wasn’t
splattered everywhere. Churches are built for the purpose of God only, not to
boost the ego of some supercilious nonentities. Around the base of the lectern
is inscribed “to the glory of God and the memory of Sir Hugh Williams. This
is a very fine memorial to a worthy man.” The font of Carrara marble depict
two nieces of Lady de Broke. The pulpit was a gift of Lady Margaret’s two
sisters “who were very generous in their interest and support of the new church” and the font represents two sisters,
children of Sir Hugh Williams. All this smacks of ugly conceit. A beggar off the street is more worthy of God’s grace than this contemptible titled bunch. At least the beggar is unpretentious. Titles do not make people
great.
What alarms me and arouses my curiosity
the most is the eighty three unmarked Canadian graves. Apparently there were
rumours that Canadian soldiers had been court-martialled and shot for mutiny following riots.
However a Mr Kent QC dispelled the rumours. He “undertook months
of research to clear the memory of those soldiers who died while stationed at Kinmel Camp.” Apparently Mr Kent was “shocked to hear a tour guide say the graves contained the bodies of eighty
three Canadian soldiers sentenced to death after rioting in their camp.” The
blurb continues to list various defence departments and war graves commissions etc that Mr Kent used in his quest to uncover
the “truth.” He concludes: “the results of the investigation
confirmed that there was no truth in the original rumour.” Mr Kent explains
how the rumour started: a staging camp was established for soldiers awaiting return home to Canada after the 1918 armistice. A fight broke out among men restless from repeated sailing delays. In the disturbance five soldiers died. Courts martial were
held and detentions ordered. Mr Kent claims that of the eightythree Canadians buried in the churchyard, some died from injuries
received in the fracas and the rest died of natural causes – pneumonia and flu.
I can’t help thinking that a cover-up has been staged. Mr Kent’s
“proof” to dispel rumours is very vague. The soldiers were obviously
treated unnecessarily abysmally in the camp for them to riot. I wonder what the
soldiers’ families think about the whole affair. I’m inclined to
believe the shocking rumour. If it is true the facts will emerge in due course
– it is a certainty.
In the evening I got absorbed in The
Express. There was a passage about how proud the police and government are because
“recorded crime is down.” What a ruddy joke. The glaring atrocious fact is people don’t bother reporting crime because the police and other ‘authority’
bodies are useless. Crime is on the increase and it is being allowed to flourish. These days murder barely gets a mention in the press – it is such a common occurrence.
NOVEMBER 15TH 1998
Andrew and Shell decided to make some
cakes. I cleared off out of the kitchen and let them get on with it. Fair dos the sponges were delicious. The kids were narked
about having to clean up their mess tho!
This afternoon I got my feet up the
The Mail. I read with horror a piece about a seventynine year old woman who had
been gang raped in her home, beaten and left in a pool of blood to die and robbed of her life savings. Police are questioning five youths. Such news makes
me and millions like me sick to the pit of my stomach. There is no excuse for
such evil. Police should be given the authority to clip thugs around the ear
when they are kids and gangs should be split up. My neighbourhood is getting
really bad. Yobs congregate off nearby roads and unleash fear and mayhem on ‘vulnerable’ members of society. These days it is hard to find many good kids – many are bullied themselves into
becoming naughty, some just don’t know right from wrong. Most go with the
crowd – good or evil simply because it is safety in numbers. Shell once
had a pal [when she was six] who led her into climbing on roof tops and playing ‘knock-a-door run’. This progressed into stealing from my purse and being cheeky. I
soon put an end to that friendship.
The problem is that gangs of kids
– from three years up to teenagers, start by doing daring things to show off, such as running into peoples’ drives,
kicking balls at windows and chucking stones at houses. These youngsters soon
realise that they’re getting away with such behaviour so they get more cocky.
They run in houses and nick things and they chuck rocks at people. Then
they boast to your face, “You can’t touch me; you’ll be done for child abuse; the police are on our side.” I know because it’s happened to me and they are right – the police don’t
do anything. I once took a football off some louts because they kept kicking
it at my window, but the fuzz ordered me to give it back! Police didn’t
care that myself and other unassuming residents on my road were sick and tired of this lot.
Two of my friends and neighbours have suffered smashed windows and one has been terrorised out of this area. Blaring music is another headache. We have to tolerate it
from nearby residents and posers in cars. It’s alright saying move troublemakers
to a new area; that’s just shifting the problem. It’s no good even
moving yourself to a better area and crime-proofing your house – crime follows you around – in the streets, in
shops, into different areas. The problem has to be dealt with firmly by our authorities. It is their duty. It is these pint-sized
terrors that grow up into muggers, thieves, junkies, drug-dealers, rapists, murderers, terrorists….
The lady next door to me won’t
allow her eight-year old child outside, even in their back yard because of street violence.
Nearby elderly residents have put up with teenage scum peeing in their gardens and some have suffered repeated breakins
and robbery. We all have to tolerate the foul-mouthed filth that roam our streets.
We ordinary, decent, hardworking,
law-abiding folk have the right to expect a fair and safe environment to live and for our children to grow up in. If the government, judges, supremos won’t do their jobs, there is a good case for saying that we
have the right to adopt riotous/terrorist behaviour. We have the right to defend
ourselves, our children and our possessions. We good people live by the rules;
we expect everyone else to. The trouble is, there is no law, only them and us. At the end
of the day it is good versus evil. Evil will be overthrown though. Don’t think it can’t happen – it will. Good
folk will revolt. Right now we have an evil underworld that rules. Our government is scared of the IRA. It should be scared
of its own army and scared of its citizens. We’ve tolerated corruption,
injustice and incompetence, all at the highest levels for far too long. It’s
good folk fight back time. We’ve put up with the cowardly deceitful evil
in charge, now we’re gonna have the good honest courageous folk rule. No
more jelly-baby politicians, no more interfering damaging social workers, no more incompetent spineless police chiefs, no
more pathetic pompous judges. No more corrupt bars … turds in control anymore
– ever. Here’s to RIGHTEOUSNESS.
NOVEMBER 16TH 1998
Melly awoke at midnight and worked
herself up into a right old lather. I got her up and she suckled. I cuddled her
and slumped in front of the late night murder, mystery movie. Mel lay contented
in my arms. Occasionally she’d fix her gorgeous, big eyes on me and give
me one of her heart-melting smiles or she’d turn towards the TV and focus on the film.
Her body was so warm, soft, relaxed…. Perfect. For over two hours
we remained snuggled up together and so in love with each other.
NOVEMBER 17TH 1998
The kids and I spent the best part
of the day and night scanning home-recorded videotapes and reminiscing. They
go back to when Andrew and Shell were babies and we lived in Australia. Many
of the tapes cover family holidays and celebrations so mum features on a lot. The last one recorded shows Jordan as a newborn
and mum very sick with cancer and just three months from her death. I felt quite
choked watching her rocking Jordan. I remember she’d quickly handed him
back to me so that she could steady herself. Not long after, she took another
fall. Mum lived for her family – especially her kids and grandkids.
She was a very good mum and in many
respects a good role model for me. She always had her nose in psychology books
and family health magazines and she knew the value of firm discipline. Despite
the fact that she and dad were constantly at each other’s throats, [they spent a lifetime accusing each other of having
psychosomatic disorders] when it came to reprimanding us kids they always presented a united front. Mum always had the luxury back up of “wait ‘til your father gets home” if we misbehaved. It always worked. Before she got ill
we had lots of close chats and she’d give me oodles of tips when it came to raising Andrew and Shell. She’d say that you have to be confident when dealing with kids – no half measures. She’d
tell me that if I allow my kids to be rude to me, or worse if I allow them to continue being cheeky while I scold them, then
I’m not being definite enough – I’m showing them I’m unsure.
Sometimes when Andrew or Shell misbehaved, mum would calmly pull me aside and say, “Don’t yell or smack;
that won’t change them, simply tell them clearly how they should behave – and mean it. Don’t allow them to manipulate you. Be fair but never
give in.” There’s nothing like the experience and wisdom of good
ol mum. Yes, I miss her and so do the kids.
No one can replace one’s mum especially if one is lucky enough to have [or have had] a good un.
That bozo has been at it again. Gareth is still driving down my road – continuously. I feel hopeful that he isn’t going to hurt any of us – he’d have done it by now. But I still don’t trust him. He
might just kick off one day if he has had one too many and then do something really stupid.
NOVEMBER 18TH 1998
It’s my birthday. I’m thirtyseven but I feel more like fiftyseven. They
say life begins at forty. I sure hope so because mine couldn’t get any more pathetic.
The only person who remembered me was my aunty Marge [mum’s sister.] She
dropped by with a card and some bath smellies. Marge is one of those who never
forgets anyone’s birthday. If I had my way I’d scrap birthdays….
And Christmas…. And Easter…. And valentine’s day…. And…. I can’t be doing with any of
it. It’s all so commercialised, habitual and insincere.
Andrew and Shell made their own card
for me – complete with touching mushy message. They announced that they
couldn’t buy me a pressie but asked if there was anything they could do for me. I was just about to list the: tea, dusting,
washing, ironing…. when Andrew piped up that he knew what would please me – a constant stream of cuppas. He was right too. Where would I be without
the kids?
NOVEMBER 19TH 1998
Andrew and Shell made a simple electro-magnet. They got the idea from their MORE FUN WITH SCIENCE book. They nicked some of my fuse wire, a nine-volt battery and some paper clips and they bought a packet of
assorted iron nails – some of which were five inches long. They attached
one end of the wire to a battery terminal then they coiled the middle of the wire around the nail quite a few times and the
other end of the wire was then connected to the other battery terminal. They
found that the nail was then able to pick up a paper clip. They discovered that
while electricity flowed through the coiled wire, the nail becomes a magnet. With
experimentation they found that more coils produced a stronger magnetic force.
The kids went roller-blading outside
our house after tea. After about half an hour they came in to report that Gareth
had driven past slowly and that he’d stared at them but hadn’t said anything.
I ordered them to stay on their own driveway and not to venture out on to the pavement with the accursed out there
lurking in the vicinity.
NOVEMBER 20TH 1998
I was in surprisingly good mood and
found myself singing along with the radio and dancing. Andrew and Shell were
bemused and made a swift exit but the babies loved it. I picked Mel up, held
her close and whirled her around the kitchen. She shrieked with glee, so I mimicked
her and shrieked back. She then chuckled, so I copied. Then she went “aaah,” so I followed suit. I even
imitated her excitable erratic breathing. She worked herself up into such a frenzy
that her arms and legs began flailing spasmodically. It all ended when she enthusiastically
planted a clenched fist smack on my nose.
Not to be outdone, Jordan insisted
on his ten minutes of manic merriment. He was whisked around the kitchen and,
with full sideeffects, became an aeroplane, a rocket and a motorcar. He chortled
and chuckled hysterically until I collapsed in a mangled mess, exhausted, disorientated and dizzy.
In the evening I watched a TV documentary
about widespread child abuse in children’s homes across North Wales. Senior
members of staff and those responsible for running the homes were guilty. Despite
all the alarming evidence, officials blatantly refused to acknowledge such crimes and an astonishing elaborate cover-up was
staged. Now I’m even more sceptical of public service chiefs.
NOVEMBER 21ST 1998
This morning I read a fascinating
article about what you should expect from your baby/child at various ages in a Practical
Parenting mag. It says that at nine months to one year babies shouldn’t
think it ok to pull mum’s hair or slap someone; at one to two years, toddlers shouldn’t be allowed to wilfully
break things or deliberately make a mess; at two years they should put at least some of their toys away; at three they should
have their own simple chores, such as putting dishes away and emptying waste bins. Jordan
makes a mess – every mealtime. Most of it is deliberate. He knows how to
use a spoon but he always insists on plunging his fat fists into his bowl and stuffing huge handfuls. All his food then gets deposited: on the table, down the side of his bowl, all over him, [including his
hair] on the chair, wall, floor…. I’ve considered giving him a bucket…. I’m not going to be heavy
handed on him though – yet.
This afternoon I had the unfortunate
experience of catching our proud PM on a news bulletin, waffling on about something.
His predictable mannerisms and smug expression caught my curiosity and I wondered who he reminded me of. Then it dawned on me – my brother. A bit later another
showman popped up on the set to perform. President pants down Clinton was banging
on about “that Lewinsky woman.” Oh gawd. I hope Monica makes mincemeat of him.
Pud had me in peals of laughter. While practicing for formula one, he dropped his little dinky car and with ultra seriousness,
uttered “tut” as he slowly and meticulously bent over to retrieve it. He
continued with his all-consuming, single-minded assignment until the thing sped past my feet and skidded under the cooker. This little blue-eyed fair-skinned chap with curly blonde locks stood and stared in
shock. In total disbelief he murmured, “Oh.” I slithered up to him, draped a consoling arm around his waist and explained that his car had gone now
but not to worry, that he had plenty more just like it. I asked if we should
choose another one now. He focussed his concentrated gaze on my face and solemnly
said, “Ok.”
I saw a programme on anorexia this
evening. It was quite an eye-opener. I
hadn’t realised that victims had such inner turmoil and that they battled constantly with themselves. During my teen years I was so chubby that I once wished I was anorexic.
Fat chance of that! I’ve always loved my food too much. I can’t seem to keep myself at a nice size ten/twelve for very long.
The pounds always have a habit of creeping back. Yet some people [my ex-husband
is one] can eat and drink anything they like in copious quantity and not gain one miserable dollop of unwanted flesh. Such individuals aren’t even particularly active either. It’s just not fair.
NOVEMBER 22ND 1998
This morning, Melly greeted me with
her usual ecstatic enthusiasm. It’s as if someone told her the night before
that I’d gone away or something, never to be seen again.
The kids took off on their own for
a traipse around the car boot sale. They returned laden with: Christmas tree
lights, three different sized torches [complete with working batteries], a radio, cassette recorder, circuit board, wires,
tools consisting of – screwdrivers, spanners, a hammer, pliers and the like. Oh
and another set of batteries. They say most of their purchase will be useful
for their scientific experiments. Andrew plugged the lights in and asked if I
was shocked that they worked. I told him I’d be more shocked if he carted
himself upstairs and cleaned up the hovel that he calls a bedroom. I then gave
them yet another stern warning about the dangers of electricity – that they are not allowed, under any circumstances,
to experiment with anything using the mains electricity from the wall socket and that they must also take great care with
the batteries, as fires can start so easily.
After tea, I plucked Jordan from his
highchair, stood him up and we went through our evening ritual. In anticipation of the next move, he flung his arms around
my neck and babbled, “Rehhh-steh,” which means “ready steady.”
He then gets to ‘fly’ around the kitchen with me yelling “super boy” and him having convulsions. I find that if I give the babies their special time each of just a few minutes here
and there throughout the day, they are happy, contented and…. pliable. I
also feel a glowing immense joy when we spontaneously fool about, usually at changing, feeding, bath and bed times.
NOVEMBER 23RD 1998
I eavesdropped into a radio discussion
on self-mutilation and heard disturbing stories from exceedingly sad souls who: slash their wrists and arms with glass and
razor blades, burn themselves all over with cigarettes, stab themselves with sharp objects, starve themselves, head-butt….
And all because they are feeling powerless and frustrated. Most have suffered
some form of abuse – usually childhood. Many are crying out for help and
attention. All feel worthless.
I was just about to breathe a sigh
of relief, thankful that I didn’t come into this category of wretched creatures, until the ‘expert’ on the
programme brought up the business of nail-biting, which they say is another form of self-mutilation. Apparently if you bite your nails, you’ve probably suffered a traumatic childhood. Well, that must be me – and millions of others. I started nailbiting at the age of six or seven –
about the time I was forced by my mum to give up thumbsucking. But I was never
abused as a child; quite the opposite, I had a very happy childhood. I don’t
bite them just at times of stress; I think I do it because it’s a life-long habit that is hard to break. Sometimes I can go for weeks without bothering with them and they get to grow quite long but then I’ll
subconsciously find myself nibbling at them for no particular reason.
The kids passed a remark this evening
that I’m always in a good mood at night and crabby in the mornings. I informed
them that’s because “I have to tell you a thousand times to: get up, get dressed, brush your hair, get breccy,
wash up, brush your teeth, tidy your rooms, drop your undies in the wash basket….”. I’ve always maintained that women who constantly harp on have uncooperative families.
NOVEMBER 24TH 1998
I found a novel way today of getting
the kids to practice their times-tables in a fun way and which involves Jordan. We
are all allocated ten or so objects – pens or pennies or whatever. We all
sit in a circle and pass a ball. But on the five, the ball starts to travel in
the opposite direction until it comes to seven in which case it reverses direction again.
This continues with the direction changing every time the ball lands on a number, which has a five or seven or both
in it, or is a multiple of the same. If anyone makes a mistake he/she forfeits
one of his/her objects. The game is in force until someone loses all of his/her
items. The loser then has to perform a job that everyone hates – like ironing
or vacuuming. Any number can be used in the game.
Jordan gets to play pass the ball [no one expects him to know his tables yet tho] and the kids enjoy a light-hearted
way of learning their tables which is better than the boring method of learning by rote.
Shell and I take it in turns to read
a couple of pages of Jordan’s book to him just before he goes to bed. At
the moment he’s enjoying Gulliver’s Travels. Long after we’ve left his room though and just before he drops off, he quite often whinges. It’s as if he has a kind of hump to negotiate just before he succumbs to slumber. No such self-perpetrated drama for Mel – she just nods off on my boob.
NOVEMBER 26TH 1998
The kids and I watched Science for Schools. It was about insects and in particular, locusts. It brought back memories of my Saturdays and bank holidays when I was twelve until
I left school, of working with locusts. It was a filthy, smelly job but I didn’t
mind it in the winter - I preferred to be in the warmth of the locust room than in the freezing top floor flat that we lived
in as kids….
Jordan found Shell’s hairbrush
and proceeded to groom himself. Flush with success, he popped the brush in his
mouth. I leaped of the chair and darted towards him in panic, thinking that he
might trip up and send the brush down his throat. I hastily snatched it from
him. His whole world came tumbling down.
You’d think he’d just been told his whole family had been wiped out or something. He just stood rooted
to the spot and howled incessantly. I hugged him and tried to explain that I
didn’t mean to be so abrupt but that I was worried he’d get hurt. But
he was inconsolable. Nothing I did would ease his pain until I grabbed his truck
and shoved it up his jumper. That did the trick.
He began to chuckle. We then spent ten minutes or so playing a game of
‘hide-a-truck’. But soon it was bedtime, however he didn’t
think so. So I picked him up and hauled him off, at which point he promptly turned
himself into a plank. In response, and much to his amusement, I turned him upside down and carted him off to his cot by his
ankles. In his bedroom he became Po and we pranced around his room singing the
teletubby tune.
NOVEMBER 27TH 1998
Melissa chucked up all over me, herself,
the couch and cushions. I don’t know what brought it on. She didn’t seem unwell before or after she’d vomited.
I sighed at all the washing but cheered myself up, telling myself that the cushions needed doing anyway and that the
couch was due for a good clean. I wondered how women coped years ago when washing
machines hadn’t been invented and eight or more children were the norm.
Andy and Shell were real little blighters
today. It was their day off yet they couldn’t find anything to do. They moaned about the rain, they fought over the TV and with each other and they complained
of boredom and found fault with their food and my ideas and my requests for peace and quiet.
I was ignored. Paper planes of varying sizes began to zoom in defiance
around me. In the end I snapped and ordered the kids to find something to do
– pronto, or I’d find something for them, and they wouldn’t like it.
I give them all buckets of love and consideration; I expect respect back. I
know I should’ve stepped in earlier with some firm, stern intervention as left to their own devices all kids eventually
turn into little horrors. I’m gradually learning that in order to keep
kids on the straight and narrow, they need to be guided lovingly, firmly, fairly and clearly and with a bit of luck and a
lot of God’s good grace, they’ll turn out happy, confident, likeable, lovable and successful.
NOVEMBER 28TH 1998
The kids went roller blading on the
drive after tea. After only a short while though they bolted back in to tell
me that Gareth had driven up, beckoned and said, “Tell your mum I need to talk to her – urgently.” I was livid. He has no right coming here
bothering my kids with his stupid little messages. But then he has no right doing all the lousy lies, harassment, victimisation
and other criminal offences that he is guilty of. Not that what’s right
ever comes into it with him. He has no respect for authority or the law; and
the powers that be have zilch control over him. He is a law unto himself and smug with it.
He drove off like a maniac when I ventured out. Unfortunately, now, and
much to their dismay, I’ve banned Andrew and Shell from playing out, even on the driveway. It’s much too risky.
NOVEMBER 30TH 1998
Gareth sent one of his henchmen around
to see me – again. This time it was a benefits agency official accusing
me of social security fraud. The allegation is that I lived with him whilst claiming
income support as a single mother. For crying out loud, why oh why do these people
insist on badgering innocent, easy prey? I explained that I had a three-year
on/off relationship with Gareth and that we did spend some time at each other’s houses and that my children did attend
a school near Gareth’s house at one stage temporarily. I told him that
there were a variety of reasons: extensive renovations of my house, the births of my babies, my mum being terminally ill,
my children being stalked by their father, problems of bullying at Andrew’s old school and because the tiny sixteen-pupil
school near Gareth’s was an attractive option. I also told him that Gareth
is making these accusations out of sheer vindictive spite, that he’s an incessant liar and that it is his stated objective
now to cause us grief in any way possible. The official offered his sympathies,
apologised and made an exit; at which point I casually informed him that since Gareth is in receipt of incapacity benefit
due to damaged knees, it might be an idea if a social security agent paid him a visit to inquire about his ability to vault
over gates and walls, scramble over rooftops, run, squat and pass a fitness test enabling him to become a Special Constable.
I don’t know what was up with
Mel tonight. She howled virtually all night.
After the umpteenth time of tending to her and finding nothing obviously wrong, I eventually [and rather obediently]
took her into my bed. As she suckled I told her in no uncertain terms that she
can cry her head off all day tomorrow if she wants but that she’d better sleep when it comes to night-time. She didn’t listen though. She just looked up at me and
yawned. To my utter horror I lapsed into deep slumber with her at my side and
didn’t awaken until two hours later. We were both in the same position. I was grief-stricken. What if I’d
rolled on top of her? What if she’d rolled out of bed? What if the quilt had smothered her? What if? What if? What if? Oh God.
I vowed never again to take her to my bed.
