JANUARY
JANUARY 1ST 1999
The kids went out on bikes but returned
after only half an hour, so breathless and distressed that they couldn’t get their words out. The quintessence of the scenario is that GW’s daughter lunged towards them and hissed “you
little shits…. tell your mum we’re going to kick her door down and kill you all…. She had better be looking
after Jordan and Melissa and you’d better keep away from them. You don’t
know what my dad’s going to do next.” She then spat out “Shut
up you stupid f…. ing shits…. You dickhead prats…. We are going to snatch Jordan and Melissa tonight.” She then yelled to her dad who was sat smirking in the car “Let’s get
them quick.” Andrew and Shell fled, on their bikes, all the way home. I was seething. Through no fault of their own, they’d broken the bike rule of
which the consequences could have been unthinkable if they’d collided with a car.
That moron has now sunk even deeper cos he’s using his brainwashed daughter directly to antagonise us. I reported it to police although I knew it was a pointless procedure, confirmed when the officer returned
to inform me that GW’s daughter is insisting that it was Andrew and Shell who were picking on her!
In the evening we heard a commotion
outside. Andrew peeped from Jord’s window, saw Gareth and his son scarper
from the backyard, and his daughter scrambling over the gate and heard her yell “Dad when are we going to snatch Jordan
and Melissa?” Not relishing any conflict, we cowered behind closed doors.
JANUARY 2ND 1999
In the comfort of daylight I scrutinized
the external area of my house and was horrified to discover that pebbledash had been scraped off my wall – the full
length of the lounge and that “f …ck you shitties” had been written by GW’s daughter on my front door. I had no idea what to do. It seems he and his foolish children can come here and hack away at my walls and mutilate my
‘safe haven’ and I am powerless to prevent it. I logged it all in
the ‘bumph for solicitor’ file.
I then spent ages dithering with the
dilemma of whether to allow the kids to cycle unsupervised. I can’t keep
them cooped up and wrapped in cotton wool; neither can I risk dragging the babies out in the biting wind. So I reluctantly bowed down to pressure and let them go alone; but after only a short while they arrived
home to announce that he had driven past them and that someone in his car had gestured
to them that their throats would be cut.
JANUARY 3RD 1999
That embittered imbecile just won’t
let up. Today he swerved into the
kerb and caused Andrew to topple off his bike. I’m left with no choice
now but to keep the kids imprisoned and under the protection of my skirts.
Andrew told me that while he sat on
the floor, shocked and nursing his bruises, he heard nan saying, “Are you alright Andrew?” He said a nice smell of perfume had blown over his face too.
JANUARY 5TH 1999
The kids and I trooped down to do
the grocery shopping. On our return, we discovered wet blobs of blue and white
paint on the shed wall. It is alarmingly evident that he or one of his cronies is monitoring our every move and there is not a damned thing I can do about it. The police are powerless [or pathetic] so my only hope now is that the court will
be more effective but I won’t be holding my breath.
JANUARY 6TH 1999
Jordan exerted his authority again this morning. I’d
said it was time to get his coat on as we had to nip out but he promptly dropped to the floor, became rigid and obstinately
refused to co-operate. I took a deep breath, willed myself to refrain from yelling at him or walloping him and forced myself
to adopt the guidelines of an eminent doctor/author who recommends ignoring your toddler when he/she is being pig-headed,
casually continue about your business and be firm when dealing with the child. So
I matter of factly put on his coat, ignored his protests and plonked him in the pram despite his flailing arms and legs. He got the message and soon gave up the struggle.
Eureka!
At teatime the kids were messing about
with their bikes in the shed. I heard tapping on the kitchen window, so I yelled
to the kids that I’d be out in a minute. Ten minutes later I popped out
to ask them what was up but they didn’t know what I was going on about. When
I mentioned the knock on the window, they went blank, we all paled and I felt my blood run cold. That psychotic is so deranged heaven knows what twisted game or vile deed he’ll do next.
JANUARY 7TH 1999
I’d spent all night all agitated
and worried. Despite all efforts to banish disturbing thoughts from my head,
my biggest dread kept surfacing to haunt me. I was terrified of handing my babies over to him
despite the fact they’d be in what should be the relative safety of the church.
The fact remained; I didn’t trust those people. Lorraine had already
told me the congregation are as good as smitten with him, which means that he’s deceived them, and they probably can’t
understand why I’m so fearful – they probably think I’m the wicked witch and that he is Mr Wonderful. I’d got it in my head that he would use the access arrangement to carry out
his heinous threats. He is deranged and determined to destroy me. He’s made it clear on numerous occasions that his only purpose in life now is to get me back and
that he’ll use any means to achieve his depraved aims. He knows he can
only do this through my kids. My mum’s cousin lost her twins when her evil
ex-husband took them to a forest one day and murdered them, just to even the score with their mother. Nothing would convince me that Gareth is not capable of such barbarity too, considering his vengeful frame
of mind of late. It would be so easy for him to tell parishioners that I’d
agreed he could take my babies to his house; after all they seem to believe that everything he says is gospel. What if he simply made a run for it with my babies? He’s
so big and strong he could easily push past anyone and then do whatever he wants with them.
He’s so psychotic he would do anything to hurt me. Who would stop
him? Would the police be my only hope then of saving them? God help me if that’s the case. By now, I had a vision
of walking into a pack of lions and surrendering my babies to the mercy of a schizophrenic.
Maybe in time he won’t feel so vengeful; maybe he’ll even start trying to be reasonable for the sake of
Jordy and Melly. But not now, not now – it is all too soon. I bottled out of the arrangements and cancelled the meeting.
JANUARY 8TH 1999
Some lying prat from the council was
on the radio prattling on about how effective a new CCTV is in the fight against crime in a car park. Judging by the unimpressed and furious flood of callers, including many victims of car crime, it is evident
that such cameras are no deterrent - many are simply dummies; crime is on it’s way up and politicians are turning a
blind eye to the public’s problems. I’m of the opinion that you don’t
get to the top of any council controlled institution such that you have some power to wield unless you are corrupt and will
happily condone corruption in others. Do politicians and public sector high fliers
sign a corruption treaty? And are ‘official’ documents shrouded in
secrecy to cover up wrongdoing? Most politicians lie; statistics are fudged. Clinton clicks his
fingers and Tone jumps.
JANUARY 9TH 1999
The kids made my blood boil this morning. I left them instructions to clean up the kitchen.
They were told to: wash and dry up, jif the sides and table and sweep the floor, as the babies and I were abandoning
ship. But I returned after half an hour to check progress and found them fooling
about, embroiled in a tea towel scrap and oblivious to the chaotic state of their surroundings. I flipped, balled my head off and buggered off out. It’s
a good job they got their act together and got cleaning cos my patience had all but run out.
At teatime we heard someone knocking
on the kitchen window. Andrew and I bolted outside all fired up and fit for a
confrontation but were met with only the dead of night. Andrew hopped over our
wall to see if any intruders were lurking in the shadows of the old people’s home next door but merely encountered a
black abyss. Later I heart a thud on the front door and later still the sound
of stones being pelted against the windows. I was in timid mood by then and did
not dare venture out. Instead I crept into bed, rolled myself up into a ball
under the duvet and willed the night away.
JANUARY 10TH 1999
I noticed Andrew’s trousers
had a stripe of white paint on. I examined the wall and found the same paint
daubed here and there. So that’s what the halfwit was up to last night!
At Safeways I bumped into the mother
of my best friend [Sue] at school. We exchanged light-hearted chitchat and I briefed her on the repulsive actions of my malignant
ex. I did say he had some good points though and she chuckled when I said that
he was good with his hands; to which I hastily pointed out that he was good at dismantling things, making them work and putting
them back together again. We discussed families.
She spoke of her sister’s loneliness because she is childless. I
said I felt so sad for her and that I’d be empty without my kids; they are the reason for my living.
JANUARY 11TH 1999
Andrew asked where my money comes
from so I was perfectly frank with him and told him that I get paid by the government because “I’m on my own bringing
up you lot.” I said it was barely enough to make ends meet but as long
as we live within our means and don’t get into debt, we’ll cope. A
budgeting lesson came henceforth. I explained to the kids that it was important
to write down everything that I have to pay for – all the bills such as gas, electric, insurance et cetera plus the
food, clothes, sport and ‘educational’ costs. I told them I have
to keep some aside for house maintenance, emergencies and things that crop up which I call my ‘sundry’ expenses. They soon realised that when all the outgoings are worked out per week and are subtracted
from the pitiful weekly income, they didn’t need to be Einstein to understand why we have no treats, days out or holidays. I also explained that I’m supposed to make a contribution to my house mortgage
but because I can’t afford it, my payments are frozen which means that unless my circumstances change, my mortgage will
never be paid off and in fact the loan will slowly increase because the government don’t pay all of the interest which
I’m charged.
While we were on the subject of the
stuff that makes the world go round I told them that the benefit agency, in all their wisdom have insisted that I owe them
six hundred pounds, dating back to the period before the kids stopped contact with Gaven, because officials say that I was
paid maintenance by Gaven which I didn’t declare. We then got onto a discussion
on maintenance and even the kids decided that it’s no wonder the country/world has gone to the dogs with fools pretending
to run it. I told the kids that the bright sparks at the benefits office say
that it was ok for Gaven to take them to x,y and z every week and spend as much as he wanted to on them; oh and it was fine
if he wanted to give them oodles of pocket money per week; it was even acceptable if Gaven wanted to give me the cash so that
I could take them on those outings instead; BUT it was not alright for Gaven to give the kids four pounds fifty each per week
through my account instead, since those arrangements were more suitable for us both.
The blockhead chiefs label it ‘maintenance’. At nine years
old, Shell concluded that the moral of this tale is, “We must take inspiration from our rulers and be deceitful –
just like them.”
I called the plumber in today to fix
the loo cistern. It’s been slowly going on the blink for a while. The insurance with North West Water covered it.
It’s not a bad deal – less than ten pounds per quarter covers all my plumbing needs: external drainage,
locked pipes, leaking pipes/radiators, water tanks, loos et cetera.
JANUARY 12TH 1999
The government are preaching again
about the need and benefits [for mums and society] of getting single mums into work, giving us help with affordable childcare
and making it worth our while financially to do so. They are implying that just
because you’re only a mum you are a second-class citizen [less than that even.]
Well I’ve got news for them. They can offer me a million quid to
put my kids in someone else’s care and I’ll tell them where to shove it.
Parenting is priceless. No ‘professional’ can substitute a
caring, nurturing mum. It is high time society recognised and valued women whose
profession is ‘mum’.
I yakked for ages today with my neighbour
Linda. She spent ten years married to a ‘man’ who dragged her downstairs
by her hair, kicked and punched her black and blue, ridiculed and taunted her, threatened her with her life if she grassed
or tried to leave him – all similar bully and control tactics used on me and countless other women by vile men. We both had feelings of being weak and powerless to fight our way out. I believed Gareth when he said I was fat and ugly, that no one else would want me and that everyone was
laughing at me. I believed him when he said that no one would listen to me and
that the police wouldn’t protect me [although that bit was true!] Linda
commented that he was always so friendly and courteous towards her but that she had seen right through him, cos she knows
his type all too well. I’m amazed now at how weak-minded I was then, how
I allowed him to inflict such mental and physical cruelty on me and how I was so scared to leave him. Also I’d been kidding myself that he was a great guy really and I did so much want us to stay together. My friends were married and seemingly happy – I wondered what was wrong with
me. Really I was in a state of denial and an easy target for any control-freak. Such rats are cowards cos they never pick on people their own size.
The people who turn a blind eye to
such bullies are also vermin. I remember one night at a party, Gareth started
to attack me right under the nose of his best friend. The friend
just walked away. I managed to get into the bathroom but Gareth came after me,
booted the door in and continued his assault. No one came to my aid. Just as guilty are those who protect and condone such criminality, such as lawyers, barristers, work peers
– especially those in high society positions. There is no justice system
when you have solicitors defending clients who are known to be crooked and since the worst criminals are the best at lying
and charming, they are the ones who get off scott free to continue offending. Meanwhile
decent innocent, harmless folk are made to feel guilty. It’s also disgusting
that we have so-called respected members of society and people in positions of power and authority who “look the other
way” to save others’ reputations. This hidden accepted crime is prevalent
in all countries, throughout all walks of life, from the judge/minister down to the unemployed. Many victims don’t speak out because they feel embarrassed and/or intimidated. I felt both. Linda told me to get hold of some books written
by feminist writer Andrea Dworkin.
JANUARY 13TH 1999
I got a letter today from Blair’s
Department for Education and Employment in reply to my suggested radical changes to state schooling system. Talk about bunkum and balderdash! I quote “You may be
interested to know that the Secretary of State has asked the Qualifications and Curriculum Authority to review the National
Curriculum. The review will focus on ensuring the primacy of literacy and numeracy,
maintaining a broad and balanced education for citizenship and teaching democracy, personal, social and health education and
the spiritual, moral, social and cultural dimension.” It’s enough
to make you weep! They’re big on impressive terminology but useless on
delivery…. of anything useful.
After flicking through the TV channels
I found myself watching George Soros [billionaire speculator] during an interview. It
got me pondering about tinkering with shares myself. Well, maybe I would if I
came into some dosh. It seems such a low percentage of the population dabble
directly in shares – most preferring to use the ‘expertise’ of finance institutions and the relative safety
of schemes like PEPS. I’ve noticed lately that I’ve started taking
an interest in more intellectual programmes and in current affairs. I used to
be fond of soaps – now I can’t stand them. And I used to spend my
life chasing my tail, going to pubs, wasting my time and wishing my life away. I
suppose that reflects the poor opinion I had of myself in the past. I look around
at people coming and going and rushing here and there, making me ponder the profound questions “Why are we here? Where are we going? What are we doing?” All I see is a world in chaos with clowns and crooks running it.
I wish I’d taken more of an
interest in news affairs in the past but I was too wrapped up in my own state of pointless existence. Now I pay more attention to the goings on in the wider world and to the behaviour of our wealthy and powerful
rulers and I’m revolted at what I see. They go on about the so-called Northern Ireland
‘peace process’. There is a solution to the ‘troubles’,
simply convict and punish those responsible for any criminal activity in a court of law and let no one hide behind the shield
of their ‘cause’ – ‘political justification’. But
that’ll never happen because the police and courts are corrupt, the underworld of Northern Ireland is too big, too organised and too powerful and the UK and US governments condone criminality. You cannot judge others’ criminality unless you and all your law enforcement
systems are squeakyclean and are seen to be so by Joe Public. Also governments
at national and local level must not be above the law themselves, must be accountable and must ensure justice, fair play and
equal opportunities FOR ALL. And NO ONE should be above the law. Until that day comes there will always be ‘troubles’ all over the globe.
JANUARY 14TH 1999
I borrowed an excellent book from
the library called The Parent’s Problem Solver by Karen Renshaw Joslin. I’d call it every parent’s bible.
It’s full of advice on how to handle your child from two and a half years upwards. Karen stresses the importance of the ‘poker’ face when you need to be serious with a child
and the preferred positive phraseology such as “keep your feet on the floor” rather than “don’t put
your feet on the couch.” She advises parents not to yell or bully their
kids if they are rowdy but rather, do the opposite; enquire if they “need a hug.”
She insists this isn’t taking the p…. it is helping the child to diffuse their feelings of frustration
and negativity.
Later this evening, the kids and I
heard an almighty thud on my flue and the thing began to resonate. I didn’t
relish running out to investigate, so we just sat tight and waited. There was
an eerie silence after that.
JANUARY 15TH 1999
I discovered that the contemptible
scumbag has squashed my flue. That’s more proof, if it were needed, that
he doesn’t give a fig for Jordan and Melly. Now we can’t use the fire
and I can’t afford to fix it. But does anyone care?
The kids and I trudged off to the
pool. Jordan was in his element splashing
about knee deep in water and bubbles. Mel was a little less carefree and clung
on to me for the most part of the session. Andrew and Shell vamoosed off into
the deep end. As we were leaving, Linzi walked in with her party of ‘special
needs’ people. We nattered briefly and made promises to arrange a get together.
That menace has been slowly driving
past my house again. I counted twenty times then gave up.
JANUARY 16TH 1999
Jordan is a real fusspot lately with his veggies – he simply refuses to eat them. I won’t get into a fight with him about it tho.
I’m certainly not going to start balancing on my head or doing cart wheels around the kitchen while juggling
his spoon and meal to try and coax him into co-operating. I’m just thankful
he loves his fruit. He’ll willingly scoff: apples, peaches, pears, bananas,
strawberries, oranges…. And he rejects anything I add to it such as custard, cream, icecream…. With Andrew and
Shell I have to play the compromise and trick game. I let them choose the fruit
we buy as long as next week they select something different. I agree to their
pleas for icecream as long as they have some peaches or pears with it. I disguise
veg in with their mash or savoury rice.
The kids have found their own method
of studying their science. They read a couple of pages of their Fun with Science text out loud and then they test each other. Sometimes
I test them and sometimes they write about the topic in question as part of their English lesson. If this is the best way for them to gain knowledge and it sinks in, then I’m all for it. Shell later came out with a profound statement. She’d
been busy drawing circles, using pud’s beaker, for her pie charts when she announced, “This has a never ending
number of lines of symmetry.” I was gob smacked. At nine years old, I didn’t even know what a line of symmetry was.
JANUARY 17TH 1999
Melissa gave me such adorable expressions
this morning. Babies and little kids are so open and honest about their feelings
– it’s a real pity that society [especially schools] does its best [and pretty much succeeds] in knocking our
real self out of us. I once read a true statement in a book of illusions that
says “If you practice being fictional for a while you will understand that fictional characters are sometimes more real
than ‘real’ people.” I’m so in love with all my kids
but the youngest and most vulnerable have just that little something extra which tugs at my heartstrings. Mel gives me a pondering frown, then she blows raspberries, then giggles unashamedly as only babies know
how when I return the gesture. Her little body is so full of strength and vitality. She grabs at my hair then squeals in delight.
She is incredibly supple and throws her legs in the air backwards until her knees drop onto her nose, then she propels
herself into bicycle riding mode. Her gesticulations are a delight and alter
with such ease and speed. One minute she has flailing arms and beaming smiles,
the next a wicked grin accompanied by an aura of anticipation….
We all toddled off to the park. Jordan busied himself clambering up and down the steps leading to the slide, but he
didn’t bother with the slide; meanwhile I was being entertained by a nearby father who was locked in a battle with his
youngster, that reminded me so much of the hopeless way Gaven used to handle Andrew.
The father was doing his utmost to avoid a scene and the conversation went along the lines of:
Father: don’t you think it’s time to leave?
Child: no
Father: but we don’t want to be late
Child: why?
Father: mummy will be angry
Child: why?
Father: well, dinner will be spoiled
Child: so?
Father: aren’t you hungry?
Child: no
Father: you don’t want mummy to be mad, do you?
Child: [running off] don’t care
Eventually the father raced after
his child, walloped him and yelled that they had to go. But his bemused offspring
reacted in justifiable fury and writhed, kicked and punched his father as he was dragged unceremoniously away. It brought back a load of frustrating memories of when Gaven used to be similarly dominated by Andrew [even
when Andrew was only two and a half.] I could never get the point across that
he mustn’t ask, he must tell Andrew in a friendly [but firm and confident]
manner. With Jordan I find it best to be very ‘matter-of-fact’,
to help avoid a lengthy protest-appease battle. I’ve learnt the hard way
that kids need [and want] clear guidance and that they are more secure and comforted when I’m showing solid leadership. Through bitter experience I now realise that the more I succumb to the kids’
demands [whatever their age] the more argumentative, cocky and difficult they are. It
is a human trait that people [especially parents] will be put on by others [usually their kids] if they allow themselves to
be dominated.
JANUARY 18TH 1999
I got strict with Mel today. I sat her on the floor amongst a pile of teddies and explained that she had to play
alone while I spoke to granddad on the phone. She didn’t understand what
I was saying but she was content because I was in control and relaxed. She was
tuned in to my tone of voice and facial expression and cooed back as if to say “fine, get on with it then.”
Andrew and Shell are driving me bonkers
with the Titanic tape. I treated them
to it after Christmas and they are transfixed with it. Every time I walk into
the lounge it is on and I am not disciplined enough to ignore it. I must’ve
seen certain bits of it over fifty times, yet it still commands my attention!
Mel had me chuckling tonight during
bath time. She mischievously and repeatedly provoked her brother by playfully
kicking him – and he just sat there and took it with a bemused look on his face.
I couldn’t resist telling her, “That’s right Mel, keep it up; don’t let any bloke knock you
around; don’t be soft on ‘em like your mum; give ‘em a hard time – they’ll love you more for
it.”
JANUARY 19TH 1999
We had to get up at a quarter to seven this morning in order to get to court on time. It half killed all of us
but what I found rather telling was the fact that comparing Andrew and Shell, he complained bitterly and had a harder time
heaving himself out of bed than her. Comparing the babies, Jordan
expressed his discomfort and displeasure in far louder and more prolonged terms than Melly, who resigned herself to our unpleasant
early rise more graciously. That little scenario would suggest that females have
an inbuilt edge on males in terms of endurance of hardship. This is evident in
the fact that it is largely women who manage the home, bring up the kids and take on a myriad of other commitments; whereas
men on the whole flounder under such pressure and simply cannot hack the responsibility demands and sacrifices of full-time
parenting, housekeeping….
Andrew and I trudged off to court
for a showdown with the devil’s apostle. I was supposed to be seeking an
injunction to stop that loathed thug molesting us, but I had to make do with an undertaking because my solicitor talked me
into agreeing to the lesser, in case we were refused the greater, which would’ve undermined our credibility as regards the big issues – contact and residence.
It didn’t seem fair though; what has his crime of harassment got to
do with who my babies should be living with? Why am I having to tread carefully? I’m not the guilty person, Gareth
Williams is. My solicitor, Mr Owens, said that there was no guarantee that I’d
get the injunction and that if that was the case then I would look bad in the eyes
of the court. That’s just not bloody fair.
How can I be made to look bad [that is, guilty] for Gareth Williams’
crimes? Mr Owens then said something that knocked me for six. He said there was just one small snag – that I was expected to sign the same undertaking which stated
that I was to promise to stay away from him.
Jesus wept. I hadn’t bothered him – not once. But before I could protest, he was quick to bully me into believing that it didn’t mean that I was
admitting guilt to any of GW’s accusations, which couldn’t be proven either way as this was about his word against
mine, but it would prevent further inflammation of the tensions between us and, after all, that was the purpose of us being
in court today. He also pointed out that the court recognises the fact that I am the one instigating the proceedings.
My insides were hurting. I felt betrayed. I told him that I didn’t want to sign
it. I pointed out that this wasn’t about my word against his because the
police obviously knew that he was lying regarding his claims that I’d been harassing him because they’d never
questioned me. John Owens slapped me down saying that the police don’t
take sides. Then he looked me in the eye and insisted that it was no big deal
anyway; it was only a formality. Then his face softened and he said that we’re playing this the right way as we have to keep focussed on the bigger picture…. on the things
that really matter. He told me that
my signing is a bit of a good-will gesture indicating that regardless of what has or
has not happened between us regarding allegations and counter allegations, I am giving my word that I won’t, in the future harass him. He said that
it puts me in a good light as far as the court is concerned. When I mentioned
all the harassment I’d suffered re Social Services because of GW’s referrals which had proved to be unfounded
and malicious, my solicitor said that there was nothing I could do about that. Eventually
and very reluctantly I allowed Mr John Owens to talk me round. He was the man
of experience. He knew what he was doing…. I’m just the client, taking
his ‘professional’ advice.
Once before the magistrate, that unimaginable
b…. std actually had the gall to whisper to his godfather solicitor Chris Hind of Amphletts that he was not guilty of
harassing us; and the henchman repeated such to the so-called JP. In any case,
today’s little pantomine was doing me no good whatsoever and it didn’t really
matter what that piece of paper was called, the fact is it won’t stop that deranged vengeful bacterium bothering
us. Only a sledgehammer will suffice.
Afterwards I got nattering with some
other poor mother who was also desperately trying to protect herself and her babies from her ugly git of an ex. During the conversation, she told me that at least she gets her nursery and travelling expenses paid whilst
she attends court because she’s on benefit. That was all news to me. I enquired about the same with my solicitor and was told to keep all bus tickets and
nursery receipts and that he’d apply to the legal aid board for relief. Andrew
was a real brick to me throughout the hearing. I don’t know where I’d
be without my little rocks. At his age I’d never even heard of a solicitor. These days most kids know all about lawyers, courts, court welfare officers, social
workers et cetera. Andrew quipped as we left court, “Royal Court of Justice? More like Royal Court of Corruption.”
On the way home I felt subdued. Today’s
proceedings had made things worse. I would’ve been better off not taking
that slug to court. Somehow he came away the winner. The way it is all being portrayed, we’re both as bad as each other…. We’re just playing games. If I’d got an injunction, it
would’ve been clear that he was the guilty party, but now it is all neutralised.
It’s as if it was all planned this way beforehand!
JANUARY 20TH 1999
I heard on the radio some child care
‘professional’ prattling on about the importance of parents, child minders and leaders making their charges feel
special by: making photo albums and scrapbooks of their family and drawing pictures of their pets etc. What rubbish! Children feel valued, included and loved when
they are treated like everyone else – spoken to in truth and corrected when doing wrong.
They just want to be part of the family and have an important role to play. All
they need is kind, honest, competent adults around them. A doctor with a bit
more common sense came over the air and stressed the need for letting the child dictate terms of play. He said too many well-intentioned parents and carers interfere in child play and do great harm. Parents complicate matters by taking over a ‘game’ such as sending a wound-up train around
its track. The toddler will just grab hold of it and proceed to yank it apart
– and the track. The parent thinks the kid is then being ungrateful and
destructive, but he isn’t, he is just too immature to appreciate the adult’s perception of the matter. Or the kid will wander off and leave mum or dad playing alone with the train. The doctor urged parents/carers to let the child decide what
he can/can’t do and when. He said to play only when invited to and only
ever at the child’s level – never ‘teach’ or ‘takeover’.
Parents who do, only encourage a child to become infuriated, frustrated and a failure.
I was busy singing the titanic song
My Heart will Go On when I realised Jordan
was providing the back up and was humming along with me. My heart melted.
JANUARY 21ST 1999
I took Andrew and Shell for a game
of squash. Jordan and Melly attended the leisure
centre crèche. I gave strict orders to the playgroup leaders not to allow Jordy
and Melly out to anyone especially if anyone turns up posing as their daddy wanting to collect them. I was told later that my two had sat quiet like mice in their pram, just watching all the activity around
them. Maybe they’ll be a little bolder next time! It was a nice feeling being back on the court again – it brought back memories of my squash-mad days
of playing league matches and friendlies virtually every day. The kids couldn’t
hit the ball for toffees tho, but not to worry, there’s always another day.
JANUARY 22ND 1999
After a wearing day with the little
uns I was despairingly greeted with a toy-strewn playroom. I was just about to stretch myself to the boundaries of my endurance
and race about in there tidying and clearing when my thoughts drifted back to Andrew’s and Shelly’s days in their
Aussie nursery and the effective methods employed there. The staff’s advice
was like gold dust to me. They stressed the importance of teaching toddlers [even
as young as eighteen months] to put their things away and to sort and store things appropriately. It should be an enjoyable ‘chore’ – more like a game and the idea was to get the child
to: put all the soft toys in one box, the cars in a drawer, the blocks stacked in a corner, the things that go on a shelf…. Such regular repetitive behaviour makes tidying up second nature and is supposed
to make kids grow up to respect their belongings and those of others. I was always
well impressed with the well-behaved nursery youngsters and tried to follow their example with Andrew and Shelly. It did work – eventually, although they do have their fairly frequent ‘off’ days. So I put Jordan to work but he only managed
to put two teddies on the shelf before parading himself smack amongst the debris, refusing to budge. I ended up soldiering on, single-handedly sorting his room out. Still,
it was only an introduction…. and practice makes perfect.
JANUARY 23RD 1999
An impressive package plopped through
the letterbox this morning. It was from the Welsh Education Department and was an introduction to the school curriculum. There were sixtyfour pages of authoritarian waffle – and that was just to whet
your whistle! For example it was titled: A
broad introduction to the National Curriculum and its associated assessment arrangements.
This was followed by a sub-title: The national curriculum is a starting
point for exploring and understanding the requirements contained within the national curriculum. What? All I can say is, thank heavens the curriculum is not
compulsory and it’s no wonder that kids switch off at school or bunk off. Amidst
this bureaucratic bunkum is a series of targets and key points. That’s
not learning, it’s a poor attempt to pass exams and is enough to drive any kid to misery and to put anyone off education
for life. And anyway, what’s the point in learning about history when history is repeating itself; when war and destruction
occurs daily all around us and when it is just a sick reminder of the corruption and capitalism so evident today, globally? What’s the point in learning about issues such as global warming when our double
standard, hypocritical politicians actively damage our planet?
Instead, teachers would be better
employed if they taught their pupils about the real world and the evils of mankind – about sleazy, greedy, phoney politicians,
about gangster corporate directors, about corrupt police chiefs and bent judges and our disgraceful ‘justice’
system where crooked wealthy lawyers defend known criminals and cause innocent people to suffer and to be robbed of their
freedom and where judges condone criminality and are anything BUT justices of the peace.
Teachers should teach pupils about the power of protest…. against state injustice and they should teach children
about campaigning for what is right. For example how to lead a movement which
would bring about the closure of all weapons manufacturers.
Bombs shouldn’t be dropped on
people, they should be dumped on arms factories. Weapons kill and maim people….
civilians and military alike. How would the men giving the orders, the leaders
of the rich powerful countries, like their own angry guns to be used against them and
their families? How would the men,
who make obscene profits from the manufacture of weapons and related merchandise, like to be in the path of one of their own
bombs, which is being dropped from one of their own fighter planes???
By telling pupils the reality, our
youth would grow up more able and prepared to challenge our so-called democratic government.
Of course, teachers will probably be given the boot for enlightening their pupils but if all the teachers did it then there’s not a lot the Education Authority could do about it! Let’s have a couple of teachers leading such a movement. It
could be called ‘Power to the Pupils’.
I reckon we should sue them anyway
for failure to deliver and administer an appropriate education for our children. While
I’m on the subject, we should sue for: damage to the environment, negligence, deception, human rights abuses, racism,
sexism, theft, abuse of power, extortion, freedom restrictions, terrorism, poverty, unjust laws…. In a nutshell we should
seek damages for their promotion and spread of the world’s evil and destruction of our planet. Basically we should sue the government for being white b…. studs.
JANUARY 24TH 1999
Mum popped into my thoughts quite
a bit today. We were quite a close-knit family, although it was largely left
to mum to bring us up – dad was out at work or pursuing his interests for much of the time. Mum doted her life to her family and provided me and Malcolm with oodles of love and guidance. She always maintained that if kids are loved and disciplined, they grow up to be loving, kind, helpful
and considerate. I remember when I was about six years old, and we were living
in Billinge, looking at her with such adoration and saying, “I really hope that when I get married and have children
that I’m as good a mum as you are.” I remember saying it with such
sincerity and I was actually shocked when she hugged and kissed me and whispered, “I’m sure you will be one day.”
Who needs psychologists, psychiatrists,
counsellors, social workers…. Who needs these ‘experts’? All
you need is a loving mum. Mum had her deep self-doubts, her ‘inner demons’,
but she had a strong mind too and could challenge her inner tormentors without the need of professionals and crutches who,
she believed, did more harm than good. Despite her doubts, she had a strong will
and was a well liked, hardworking woman. Shelly often says to me words along
the lines of, “You’re the best mum – one in a million. I hope
I’ll be just like you one day. You know everything.” Andrew too echoes similar sentiments. I tell them I’m
flattered and touched but that I don’t know everything and that sometimes I’m unsure of myself, but I can only
do my best. They reassure me that, “You’re doing fine – really.” I get quite choked up at these times because of the fact they hold me in such high
regard.
Andrew left four mugs containing a
tea bag and a dollop of milk in each, all lined up on the sideboard for me before he retired to bed, cos he knows I’m
a tea-aholic and that I hate making my own brews. Bless him!
JANUARY 25TH 1999
The radio phone-in covered the use
of drugs. Apparently it’s up eight-fold and kids now as young as five are
educated in schools about the effects. This is shocking. Five year olds! Many despairing parents phoned in to complain
that the drugs culture is ‘glamorised’ and that their kids and many like them are now caught in a downward spiral. When are the ‘authorities’ going to stop wasting time and resources on
‘educating’ kids and concentrate instead on halting the influx of illegal substances and prosecuting and punishing
drug smugglers, dealers and pushers? When?
Never. The government want
to keep the flow of drugs – it is far too lucrative. I’m glad Andrew
and Shell aren’t subject to the school peer-group pressures of trying this filth just to look big and be accepted by
the crowd. They know that it is a sign of weakness to be hooked on such poison. I just hope and pray that they remain sensible and self-confident enough to resist
experimenting with drugs or fags or solvents at any time in the future.
Oh, God bless the day when people
take back the power and REFUSE to buy drugs. That’ll stuff the lying, greedy
pigs of politicians up – the same politicians who bang on about morality and who own shares in all things bad; bad for
us and/or bad for the poverty-stricken disease-ridden multi-millions who exist mainly in the ‘third world’ countries. They have shares in: alcohol and tobacco companies, arms companies, pharmaceutical
companies, oil companies and other multinationals who profiteer on the backs of little slave children.
JANUARY 27TH 1999
I threw a freaky today with the kids. I was so pumped up that I began tripping over my words and spluttering out claptrap. In a millisecond, I boomed, “Shut the light off, switch the doors, put your
hook on the coat, chuck your rubbish in the porch and shoes in the bin – NOW.”
They looked at me as if I’d grown two heads, so I bellowed, “Get on with it – NOW.” It brought back memories of mum’s frequent gobbledegook. She’d
confuse me with, “I won’t tell you again,” and “I’ll brain you,” and “I’ll
teach you to show me up like that again.”
Lin and I had one of our heavy, over-the-wall
gasses. We harped on about the fact that all governments waste money because
evil, greedy, destructive, self-centred power hungry criminals are in control. We
reckon that if there was no corruption, no crime, no selfishness, no egotism and greed, there would be virtually no tax and
we would all live happily together. There would be no suffering and poverty and
no ailing planet; and there would be an abundance of money in the public pot to pay our intelligent members of society to
do scientific research into: cures for diseases, mysteries of the universe….
I later fell asleep contemplating
the state of the world and the ugliness of many of the people who inhabit it. I
thought that if only everyone could live according to the rules of the bible. If
only we could change the way people think and behave so that they become righteous.
This can only be done if some people in positions of power set an example. The government would have to be squeaky clean and
also the royal family and then the chiefs of commerce and public office. This
would have a knock-on effect throughout everyone. After all, the structures and
organisations are all in place to provide a perfect world but unfortunately the people in positions of power are self-serving
crooks. Can you imagine Prescott binning off his jags, travelling by bus everywhere
and urging all other ministers to do likewise or Blunkett insisting that all politicians’ sprogs attend inner city comprehensive
schools or the Queen giving away the bulk of her wealth to good causes…. just to set a good example!
Come to think of it, how can she call
herself a human being, let alone her majesty when she is not allowed to express her political opinion? And what is a political opinion anyway? In my book, politics
covers everything, so therefore it is a point of view on anything. For that reason
alone I’d have to abdicate if I was sitting in her seat. I simply could
not go through life without giving my opinion on things. Her maj represents a
country of democracy – of free speech, does she not? Then why doesn’t
she speak out and support all her ‘subjects’ and not just the rich
and powerful? Why doesn’t she demonstrate this by giving away her millions
to: help the poor, finance a SAFE public transport system, which provides an acceptable alternative to the car, finance hospitals
and schools…. What an example this would be to everyone. She’d soon
shame her government. Anyway, if she had any go in her and any dollop of respect
for other members of her own sex, she would insist on there being at least fifty percent of women in top jobs, including local
and national government. Better still, she should campaign for an all-woman government
[for a trial period maybe] and let’s see if that’d make a difference because the men in power right now are leading
us on a downward spiral of hopelessness. Blair bangs on about his ‘moral’
crusade! He should demonstrate this
by giving up his money to really help the destitute. Maybe then he’ll get serious about the corruption and waste in his cabinet and in councils….
and maybe then we might just believe him.
JANUARY 28TH 1999
Paula [my babysitter] turned up to
meet the family. We had tea and biccys, chatted for about an hour about her qualifications,
experience, hobbies and pals and then I took her on a tour. We discussed payment
and I agreed that she could stay overnight since her place of work is only a ten-minute walk away and it would be difficult
for her to return home late at night. She seems perfect for the job and I feel
happy now about arranging a night out with Linzi. The kids seem to like her too
and say that they’ll keep an eye on her! They say they’ll make sure
that she doesn’t drink, smoke or ‘party’ while on duty! Poor
girl probably won’t want to return a second time.
A section in a women’s mag caught
my eye. The passage was about parents and children and the importance of parents
presenting a ‘united’ front to their kids to avoid confusing them and to enable goalposts to be erected and shifted
which set the boundaries of acceptable behaviour. How true! I can heave a sigh of relief now that I no longer have the hassle of fathers in my house that played dangerous
games with my kids just to serve their own spiteful ends. Gaven would get them
up because “they want to watch TV” [Andrew was three, Shell was two.] I’d
insist that they sit at the table to eat; he would find it amusing if they decided to get on
the table during a meal. He’d make no effort to correct them, saying,
“They’re only little, let them do what they want.” He even
let them steal from us and from shops, while he laughed it all off and said that it didn’t matter. Fair play to his mother, she did try to talk to Gaven to make him see the error of his ways but he wouldn’t
or couldn’t change, and I couldn’t cope. The more I tried to discuss
the problem with him, the more bloody-minded and critical of me he was. I got
so despondent and so doubting of myself as a mother when we lived in Australia that I
sought advice from the ABC nursery. They told me that kids are bright enough,
even at a very young age to know how to play their parents against each other. They know if their parents are in control or
if indeed they are and they even know when they’re being naughty and that the adults around them are allowing them to
continue to misbehave. They also know that they want to be stopped and that if
they are not, they become confused, frightened and even more destructive.
Leanne, the assistant manageress of
the ABC, told me that kids who grow up in a ‘controlled’ environment end up being polite, happy, likeable folk
who have values. She told me about two brothers [aged seven and eight years]
who she once fostered. They came to her as “spoilt brats – a real
pain in the neck pair” who constantly bickered and fought. She knew that
their parents were submissive permissive types who didn’t like inflicting punishment, which meant that the boys were
allowed to “get away with murder.” She took it on board to impose
firm, clear, management on them and it wasn’t long before they’d turned into “the most affectionate, happy,
self-confident, caring, kiddies you could hope to meet.” Unfortunately
they had to return to their own family and they soon regressed. Leanne said that
it was easy to spot the parents who manage their kids with confidence and instil good values, and the ones who are tireless
slaves to their offspring. She said that the parents who allow their kids to
walk all over them do them a grave disservice because as soon as those kids encounter kids who do know correct and appropriate
behaviour, they find hostility and intolerance. Selfish and spoiled children
then have to learn the hard way how to get along with others. Many fall by the
wayside and end up alone and miserable.
She did speak words of wisdom and
I’ve largely tried to follow her advice. I do feel a surge of smug satisfaction
when I get complimented on Andrew’s and Shell’s behaviour, such as when they don’t create a scene in a shop
if I’ve refused them a chocolate bar. I had rather naively thought that
once I’d divorced Gaven, he’d stop playing his destructive games with Andrew and Shell and would stop using them
as weapons, but he didn’t. He started to operate in a more subtle sneaky
way. He would creep down our drive to entice Andrew and Shell with sweets, fizzy
drinks and money; he’d get them to steal money and food from me and would then buy lavish gifts for them or spend it
all in the arcade.
Gareth on the other hand is just plain
deceitful and vicious and will lie relentlessly to boost his own image and achieve his own sordid aims. He cares not one jot about his kids – any of them, and will force his older two to lie to save his
own skin. His sole mission in life is to continue controlling me and his ex wife. The children are his tools. I’ve
lost count of the times that I’ve told Gaven and Gareth that our children are not playthings [dolls or teddies] or to
be used as pawns; that they need to be nurtured, the righteous way, and that we
have to influence them by setting the correct example. But it always fell on
obstinate selfish ears.
In the evening the kids and I heard
scuffling noises in the yard and a rock moving. I bolted out with all guns blazing
to find Emma peering out of the window of the old people’s home. Emma lives
at the top of our road and helps her mum Donna who works at the home. Emma told
me she must’ve startled the prowler [a bloke] because she saw him scarper as soon as she turned the light on. So the detestable louse is back to haunt me again? So much
for a court undertaking!
JANUARY 29TH 1999
I had my first meeting today with
Vera, the Court Welfare Officer. Jordan
and Melly attended nursery and Andrew and Shelly got busy with tea and choccy biccys and toys in an adjoining room of the
offices. I had to stomach being in the same room as the Lucifer himself with
Vera doing her best to keep the peace between us as we insulted each other and rubbished each other’s testimonial with
dogged determination. The big difference was that he lied his ugly head off whereas
I simply stated the truth. He declared he was finally forced to leave me because
I’m a schizophrenic and an alcoholic!
I told her to enquire with the police since they had to take him home on the night of the 5th October because
he was blotto. I also told her to check out the AA centres in Llandudno and Colwyn Bay where he
sought help for his addiction but soon gave up. [The stupid idiot even arrived
today smelling of alcohol.] He insisted that he used to be Jordan’s main
carer and that Andrew and Shell are little delinquents, always in trouble with the police and had even been seen recently
letting horses out of stables at the back of his house. I was gob smacked at
his unflinching barefaced lies. I told her to check with the nursery regarding
Shell’s credentials and to ask to see Gareth’s driving license whereupon she’d notice his title as “Rev”
and that if she checked with the church, she’d soon discover he most certainly is NOT a reverend.
Strangely though, he declined the
invitation to prove me wrong and made a feeble excuse about his license being “elsewhere.” I asked him when he intended returning dad’s ladders and if he had any intentions of making even
a token gesture towards repayments of the two and a half grand that he owes dad. He
ostentatiously insisted that the matter would need to be handled through his solicitor since my dad was, in his opinion, “dubious
and not to be trusted” and “an awkward, pompous prat.” “Well,
he didn’t fit that description when he was good enough to lend you that money, since no-one else would help you out
and you were desperate,” I reminded him. I couldn’t believe that
he’d show himself up in front of Vera. I really thought he’d give
up the pretence and would start making a conscious effort to right the wrong that he was so guilty of. But he just dug himself further into a deep black hole. I
was so shocked that he had so much ill will inside of him and that he could invent such rubbish. I’d stupidly thought that by leaving him for good would’ve jolted him into making some big
changes for the better; to try and get on the right side of me and win back my friendship and respect for the sake of Jordan
and Mel. But no, he obviously has warped deep-rooted psychological hang-ups [one
of which is a dread of and an inability to deal with rejection] that I hadn’t realised were quite so embedded and disturbing. It was becoming worryingly evident to me that this guy was going to be a real thorn
in my side for a long time to come and was going to cause me real grief. I could
only pray that officials would see right through him and that he’d eventually give up his desire to control me.
I felt some smug satisfaction when
he then dropped himself in it. Vera asked him why he hadn’t alerted Social
Services since he had been so obviously concerned about my parenting abilities. He
was pleased to inform us that he had – in December 1997. So it was him behind that malicious referral after all, where social worker Anne Campbell had visited me on New Years
Eve to tell me that Gareth Williams was worried about Jordan because I wasn’t looking
after him et cetera. At that time Anne had phoned Gareth from my house but he
had denied reporting me and had even been verbally abusive to her [so he told me later.]
I remember that she had come over all faint afterwards. So I wouldn’t
be surprised if he had given her a mouthful at the time. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised if the reptile had specifically chosen to report me
to social services when he did – on new years eve at around 7.00 pm because the b…. was hoping that Anne would
find me drunk on festive spirits and incapable of looking after my baby.
I was happy that his credibility was
beginning to take a momentous dive and that Vera had something concrete to investigate.
She asked if it would be alright for Gareth’s daughter to see the babies.
I enquired as to how we’d police it and then suggested she could visit them at my house if she really wanted
to see them, but before I could get another word out, Gareth snarled, “Like hell.”
So I think Vera got the general picture. I wonder if he was seriously
worried that maybe [crazy as it may seem] I could’ve talked her into siding with me and coming clean with the truth
about her dad. She and her brother know a lot more than I do about Gareth’s
violence against women, children and animals and about his seedy little ways. I
hope for their sakes that they can one day find the strength to break free of his offensive control and tell everyone the
truth. Her brother has made some attempts but has not yet succeeded.
JANUARY 30TH 1999
I hit the roof with Andrew. His room was a pigsty, so in rip-roaring rage I lobbed everything of his that was left lying around into
the middle of his room, which formed a pile of garbage. I then ordered him in
to clean it all up, that he had fifteen minutes to do it and that he could use that time from his own ‘play’ time,
not mine. I then felt really angry with myself cos I’d told myself not
to lose my rag with the kids. I knew it was easier to get results if I remained
calm and unmoved and I was trying to encourage them to be self-controlled. My outburst was an abysmal example to them of how NOT to behave. Now they’ll start screaming at each other to “get here…. NOW.” I was so close to clouting Andrew then but I had to force myself not to cos I know they’ll just think
it ok to beat up on each other and the kid in the street [tho maybe that’s not such a bad idea.] It’s a real effort to curtail my swearing when I’m at the pinnacle of my passion; often the
kids end up rebuking me if a line of unprintable dialogue unwittingly escapes me.
I’m ashamed to say that only
half an hour earlier, I’d been lecturing them about talking to each other rather than doing the grinding bickering that they had been lately. I’d been harping on about them cooling down and refraining from calling each other names. I’d been preaching about the nasty way they bully each other sometimes and I’d stressed the
need to be assertive, strong and reasonable – not aggressive, and that outsiders would respond to them more favourably
if they remained dignified and in control rather than ranting and raving, like loonies.
I’d explained that people who spout off just get laughed at and dismissed as insane. And now I’ve just given them the social gratification
of ‘losing it’. I can’t help blowing a fuse and so my great
intentions of setting a good example has been blown straight out of the window. Terrific!
JANUARY 31ST 1999
During the evening I was perched at
the kitchen table engrossed in the letter I was writing to my pal Sue when I heard someone hoof it down my drive, followed
by a thud on my corrugated porch. I peered out through the plastic but saw nothing. Not relishing a full-blown investigation, I bolted the inner door and slumped in my
chair. My heart was heavy, my body icy cold and my mind now blank. I pushed the letter aside, dropped my head in my palms and began to cry – tears of fear and defeat. Is that perverted insect ever going to leave me alone?
