FEBRUARY

FEBRUARY 1^ST 1999

I discovered that one of my pipes had been yanked off the wall.  That cockroach can just keep on coming here and doing what the hell he pleases!  What if I went sniffing around his place and just pulled a couple of pipes down or sprayed blobs of blue paint over his rhododendrons?  He’d half kill me; that’s what.

The scumbag has been crawling past in his prized possession on and off all evening.  I went through the formalities of reporting it to police but, typically, when they turned up, smarty-pants had done a runner.  Uniform informed me that they were responding as soon as possible but with only two officers on duty, they were running a tight ship.  So back to square one; they can’t arrest until they catch him in the act; he isn’t stupid enough to make himself available to them and I can’t hold him here, so what now?  Back to court?  What’s the point?

FEBRUARY 2^ND 1999

Jordan and Mel attended the leisure centre crèche while I went jogging along the beach.  I’ve decided I’m now going to train in earnest for the London marathon and that I’m going to lose quite a bit of weight in the doing.  Linzi came along too, but she was perched on her bike.  Andrew and Shell were cycling also – half a mile in front of us.  But all my grand plans soon came to an abrupt and humiliating halt.  I could barely manage to jog and found myself huffing and puffing as I heaved myself along for an embarrassing two minutes.  So I gave up and settled for a more dignified swift walk. Anyway the wind was biting and blowing at a rate of knots and odd drops of menacing drizzle came cascading upon us.  [All the excuses were there.]  After about forty five minutes of this spectacular debacle, me and Linz sloped off to the café for a welcoming slush puppy.  As we sat exchanging gossip, I became aware of my calves throbbing.  It was quite extraordinary since I’d only been walking.  I guess it proves how ashamedly unfit I am.

Linzi and I compared notes on rearing kids.  We agreed that the most important thing you can give your kids is your time, your friendship, bundles of love and complete honesty.  I allow Andrew and Shell to answer me back sometimes because I want them to grow up feeling relaxed and with the confidence to have opinions.  I want my kids to be able to trust me with anything and not to be scared of me or to consider me an ‘authoritarian dictator’.  But I am prone to bullying them if I think they’re being idle.  Some parents, we concluded, are so aggressive towards their kids – forcing them to practice musical instruments daily, attend clubs, do homework every night et cetera, that their kids grow up stressed out and of a nervous disposition.  They end up lacking confidence and being fearful and hating life.

In crèche the babies were described as “shy” because they weren’t in a hurry to part with their double buggy.  I reckon they’re just taking their time weighing up their surroundings and are not prepared to rush into a decision yet as to whether they are in a homely or hostile place.  I don’t think kids should be rushed into ‘socialising’ and that it is sensible for them to be a little ‘reserved’ for a while.  Children and babies are reliably honest with their feelings and are not easily tricked by well-intentioned adults, some of whom are inclined to be too forthright and embarrassing to little people.

FEBRUARY 3^RD 1999

As we sat at the tea table shovelling bangers and mash down our throats, the conversation drifted on to our time with Gareth. The kids came out with things that I never knew had happened, such as the times Andrew had sat up until 2.00 am supping strong lager with Gareth and his son beside a bonfire while I slumbered on.  Andrew said that Gareth was always in a good mood at such times and would sling him coins and cans but then all of a sudden he’d turn really nasty, would start spitting and would order him to “ger a bed – NOW.”  He told me that when I was out of the room, Gareth would often give Jordan sips of grog and that sometimes Jordy ended up swallowing a cup or so of lager.  Shell quickly revealed her revelations, one of which was that they were made to say that Gareth’s dinners were the best and that mine were horrible and that if they didn’t praise him they’d be chucked in the thorns later.  “Good job we’re well rid of the fat b…. std,” came my response.  “No need for secrets now or pretences.” 

A philosophical thought popped into my mind just at that moment.  ‘Every person in your life – for whatever reason – is there because you have drawn them there.  What you chose to do with them is up to you.’  Then another thought popped into my head.  ‘There is no such thing as a problem without a gift for you in its hands.  You seek problems because you need their gifts.’  I wondered why I’d drawn such a bad bugger like Gareth into my life and that although I’d had problems during my time with him I also had gifts – Jordan and Melissa.  Now that I’m still getting problems because of my irksome ex, I wonder if there will be a gift in the end. The only real gift of any significance that I could wish for would be a safe and peaceful world for all children to grow up in.

FEBRUARY 4^TH 1999

Linzi and I had made impressive plans to play tennis, but that idea was given the elbow because buffeting winds threatened to take the ball off elsewhere; so we opted for a run [well ok a brisk walk] instead.  I casually slung Andrew my racquet and politely asked him to return it to the leisure centre for me, but he protested vehemently and came out with a string of obscenities that was enough to turn the air blue.  He’d decided he was too old to run errands for me and that I’d have to take it back myself.  Well that did it!  I asked him in dictatorial tone, “Just who the hell do you think you are?  Don’t you raise your voice like that to me again; now do as you are told or you can go to bed early for a week.  You’ll do as I say until you’re eighteen.”  With that, he stormed off, his face looking like thunder and, armed with my racquet, he had the disposition of a boy on a mission to kill.  I turned to Linzi with an expression of hopelessness on my face, took a deep breath and tried to concentrate my mind on our fitness objective.

As we paced ourselves, she gave me some consoling words along the lines of, “I hate to think how Jamie would’ve reacted if I’d told him to take my tennis racquets back.  Ten year olds go through an ‘attitude’ stage when they think they’re not kids anymore; it’s all to do with their hormones.  Andrew will turn as nice as pie again after a short while and will be all eager to please and then when he’s about thirteen, look out, he’ll go through a horrible phase again.  He’ll be really argumentative and awkward – you watch.”  She is entitled to speak such authoritative words being a mum of three, aged fifteen years, eleven years and nine years.

FEBRUARY 5^TH 1999

I cannot believe the events of today.  One minute I was thinking positively, and excitedly arranging my fitness-training schedule and the next I was sitting in hospital with my kids, accused of being a baby batterer.  I had taken Melissa for her routine eight-month check up at the clinic when health visitor Mrs Browne became alarmed at a red rash on Mel’s shoulder.  I explained that I’d noticed it a few days ago but that I was sure it was eczema as it looked just like Andrew’s whenever his flared up.  I told her that Melissa wasn’t unwell so I wasn’t unduly worried and that I thought it would just clear up as Andrew’s always does; without the use of creams.  I explained that I’ve never been one to rush to the doctor every time I see a rash cos babies get them so often and they can look aggressive one minute and then can virtually disappear the next.  But she wasn’t happy with that and called the clinic doctor [Dr Macareth] who also took a critical view. 

The doctor told me that my baby had been burned or scalded and that if I hadn’t done it to her, then it was necessary to find out immediately who had done it.  She proceeded to enquire as to who else had looked after Melly recently, but by now I couldn’t take in what she was saying, my mind was in ‘blackout mode’.  I heard her vaguely babbling on about Melly going to hospital as a matter of urgency and being examined by a paediatrician and that social services would be called in at once.  I was stunned.  I began to wonder if Mel had accidentally burned herself on the radiator without my knowledge but then I told myself that that was virtually impossible because I’d have heard her screaming and would’ve been the first on the phone to call an ambulance if that had been the case.  I knew Andrew and Shell hadn’t hurt her because they’re never left alone with her and I was damned sure that crèche or nursery weren’t to blame.  So I again expressed my innocence, tried to explain that it was only eczema and that she’d had wisps of it before. 

Overcome with shock and disbelief, I found myself begging Dr Macareth not to contact social services because I was so scared of Gareth finding out.  I worried about the implications of it being recorded.  I explained the problems I was having with Gareth – about his threats that my kids will be taken into ‘care’, all his slanderous vindictive allegations to social services and NSPCC and my custody court battle.  I told her that Gareth had done this to his ex wife and that she’d been denied any form of contact with her own two children.  But the doctor coldly announced that she didn’t need my permission, she was duty-bound to inform social services when there were suspicions of child abuse and that I’d better hurry home to pack some things for Melissa because she’d be staying in hospital for a few nights and the ambulance would be arriving in ten minutes to take her.  By now I was in a state of panic and confusion, and as tears began to well up inside me I squeaked, “They’re not going to take my children off me, are they?”  I don’t remember her reply.  I was in no fit state to absorb anything at this stage.  I do remember thinking, ‘But I’m duty-bound too – to protect my kids from interfering officials and their abusive father.’

In the ambulance I was still in a haze and in silent torture.  The hospital staff were a little more compassionate and offered us juice and sandwiches while we waited.  After a couple of hours, the paediatrician finally examined Melissa’s mark.  He told me that it was “definitely not a scald, possibly a burn and probably eczema,” as he pointed to the wisps on her chest.  He quickly added that it wasn’t so mysterious and nothing to worry about but that since it was slightly infected it was wise to leave her in hospital overnight.

I had no choice but to leave her there alone.  We got a taxi home but I worried and fretted all night. She was still being breastfed and I couldn’t be there to nurse her.  I tormented myself with thoughts that she was crying for me now that she realised I’d gone.   I called dad and he was outraged too at that judgemental overbearing clinic doctor.  He was also so sure that I’d get more sympathy from my own GP.  I hardly slept all night.  The ugly accusation “child abuser” kept ringing in my ears.

FEBRUARY 6^TH 1999

Dad lent me his car to go and visit my baby.  I don’t know what I’d have done if I’d been forced to rely on the buses which is the only form of transport that I could later be reimbursed on.  They travel half hourly [and that’s assuming they’re on time] and connections are appalling, with a half hour wait in between at least.  The Colwyn Bay to Rhyl bus is a three quarterly hour journey and the Rhyl to hospital bus twenty minutes.  If I’d needed to use the Sunday service [God help me] I could expect to wait two hours at least for a bus.  Talk about third world Britain!  Public transport is pathetic.  Prescott should do us all a favour and push off out of his privileged ministerial position and he should compensate us all out of his own personal wealth for gross negligence and incompetence.  To make matters worse was the condition of the weather – icy blizzards.  How could I take an eight-month old baby [plus the other three kids - one of them only twenty three months old] home from hospital with the bus system in such shambles?  Did Dr Macareth think of that when she high and mightily forced my baby to unnecessarily spend a night twenty miles away from me?  Her actions could’ve resulted in Mel getting pneumonia; then she’d have had something to be concerned about.  And all this fiasco was despite the sick stage of our cash strapped NHS.  My baby could’ve taken up resources that a really needy child might’ve been denied.

The nurses were in love with Mel and told me she’s a gorgeously contented baby and that she’s been cooing, laughing and chatting to herself all morning.  The doctors were impressed with her happy disposition too and remarked that she’d gurgled and chuckled alone in her room for ages.  I picked her up and cradled her.  When she realised it was me she fell apart and began wailing.  I thought she was angry at me or something for leaving her but the nurse assured me, “She knows she’s in mum’s arms now and she feels secure enough to be able to show her true emotions – she’s so overwhelmed to see you.”  Thank heavens Jordan was on his best behaviour.  The doctors and nurses remarked how adorable he was because he ate his lunch so nicely and he put his rubbish [even his crumbs] in the bin.  I was allowed to take Melissa home and I spent the rest of the day praying that a good hospital report would filter through to the authorities and that they’d decide social services intervention was unnecessary. 

I recalled the visit with the H/V before she noticed the mark.  She was whittering on about Melly being a bit slow to sit up and that she’d have to check her next month.  For crying out loud, if Mel doesn’t want [doesn’t feel the need] to be sitting up, then so be it.  That’s her business.  What are the professionals going to do about it?  Force her?  It’s no wonder we have a nation of nervous wrecks with all these expected and enforced milestones!  Then, when kids go to school, they are bombarded with a plethora of exams and testing to make sure everyone reaches the expected level for their age!  Where’s the merit of individuality and creativity gone?  The government will be telling us next when and how to visit the loo! 

Mel isn’t a performing circus elephant.  Jordan made it clear to her that he’s no robot or dummy either and he screamed blue murder when she told him to get out of his pram.  It didn’t surprise me. He has good judgement in his opinion of folk – especially officials.  Babies and little kids demonstrate more alertness and intelligence than most adults.  Kids don’t pretend, don’t hate, don’t inflict harm on others, have natural behaviour and a healthy zest for life, until adults change them and make them evil and turn them into slaves - to harmful substances and society.  Even children with ‘special needs’ understand injustice and pretension but are often unable to express themselves except in a negative manner.  As for ‘health’ visitors being an authority on health, I am extremely sceptical.  I remember a health visitor I once had in Australia when Andrew and Shell were babies; the woman was HUGE.  From the moment I met her I thought that if she was a symbol of health I’d rather not pay much heed to that breed.  She even found it funny that some mums put a tot of whisky in their babies’ milk to make them sleep longer.

FEBRUARY 7^TH 1999

My mind was racing.  Dr Macareth now has me feeling so low and inadequate as a mother.  She’d even said that social services need to investigate “for your own good.”  I’d felt like a naughty schoolgirl.  I began to think maybe I should hand over my kids to someone else who can do a better job than me in raising them.  My confidence is at rock bottom.  It is easy to see how innocent people get driven to nervous breakdowns.  Maybe this was her aim; maybe she has been warned by Gareth to be wary of me.  It all seems highly suspicious.  She was extremely overbearing.  Gareth had promised all this would happen, that he’d win and that all my kids would be taken off me. The people that matter don’t believe me; they do not think that I’m a good mum.  They’re listening to him.  How can this be happening?  Who or what is he?  My job with children could now be in jeopardy too.  This happened to GW’s ex wife.  She lost her children.  How?  Why?  I would’ve thought Mrs Browne would be more sympathetic since she sits on the domestic violence forum and must understand how violated and crushed women are who have suffered mental and/or physical violence at the hands of the one person who is supposed to love and protect them.  It is so hard to break free from a controlling oppressive man and to move on.  How can you, when you are still being attacked by him and by the very people who are supposed to help you? 

I began to question our supreme divine saviour; the one they call God.  I decided that there is no God and if there was, then he should be ashamed of himself – allowing all the misery, suffering, injustice and poverty in the world.  I had him incriminated and charged with treachery and I felt he should be forced to resign his post and take early retirement.  But then I lightened up a bit and felt more forgiving as I considered the possibility that God was, in fact, trying his best to relieve us of our torment but that he needed more people on his side and that he was having a real battle defeating Satan – the personification of evil.

FEBRUARY 8^TH 1999

Jordan put me in my place this morning.  After breccy he carefully placed his cereal bowl and spoon in the sink as he always does then he decided to clear up Mel’s things too.  He placed her spoon in the sink then carried her bowl over to the bin.  I hastily shouted, “No no Jord – in the sink, yes?”  But he just looked at me as if I was stupid and proceeded to the bin whereupon he emptied out the dregs from the bowl; then he toddled back to the sink and deposited the bowl.  He then turned to me and said in serious tone, “Ok?”  I just stood there speechless until I managed to mumble meekly, “Good boy; thank you.”  He’s not yet two!

The H/V phoned to enquire after Mel’s health.  I told her in no uncertain terms how I felt about the way she and the clinic doctor had handled it and that it was all so distressing and damaging to us all.  I made it clear that I’d lost confidence in Dr Macareth; that she was tyrannically overbearing and that I felt she’d abused her position.  I told her that she’d taken the ‘erring on caution’ stance a bit too far and that the hospital doctors weren’t worried about Mel and had stated that it was eczema.  I made it clear to her that such an over reaction by health professionals gave the likes of Gareth Williams more ammunition for his seedy little plot.  I let it be known that people like her and Dr Macareth don’t know who they’re dealing with in men like Gareth, that he is such a conniving conman and that it’s one thing having referrals from him – a vindictive vicious ex and quite another from health professionals.  I informed her that I’m now too terrified to play with Jordan in case he gets excited, accidentally falls and bumps himself.  I told her I’m beginning to feel obsessed with safety and that I’m conscious all the time of Jordan not getting any cuts and bruises because I might be accused of child abuse.  I said that Gareth is slyly watching my every move and is on the lookout for any mark on the babies cos he knows he can turn it against me, which is so ridiculous because all kids get bumps – it is a natural part of growing up and the only way that kids learn.  I asked her what was I supposed to do – run to the doctor’s immediately any minor medical mishap occurred?  I ended with, “Why did the clinic wholeheartedly dismiss my claim that the mark was only a rash?”  And I declared that the least Dr Macareth could do would be to apologise and help get me off the hook that she so spectacularly put me on since it has been proven that I’m innocent.  The H/V then asked if I wished to talk with Dr Mac, so I enquired if an apology was forthcoming, but since it wasn’t, I declined, saying that I wouldn’t waste my time.

I sought solace from my solicitor and even Julie Bray wonders if Gareth has put the seeds of suspicion into the health professionals’ heads.

Later in the afternoon, I paid a visit to my own doctors’ surgery at Rhoslan.  Melly was seen by a locum, Dr Arthur, who was in no doubt that Mel had eczema.  He said that it was most certainly not a burn and that it had been totally unnecessary to whisk her off to the hospital for an examination.  He said that it was easily treatable at the doctors’ surgery.  I explained the situation, told him about the abhorrent way I’d been treated at the clinic and asked if I was within my rights to refuse to visit that place again.  He told me that it’s a free country and that I was perfectly at liberty to refuse any doctor/nurse/health visitor – whatever – if I so wished.  Phew!  That was a relief to know. I didn’t waste any time contacting the clinic and announcing that my allegiance was now to my own doctors’ surgery only.  [I had to wrestle with myself to stop blurting out, “So you can shove that in your pipe and smoke it.”]

FEBRUARY 9^TH 1999

Oh for gawd’s sake, here come the prying nosey parkers with nothing better to do than pester me just cos some high-handed doctor wants to prove a point – that she can effectively destroy my life.  Two social workers stood at my door demanding an explanation for Melissa’s ‘burn’. I enquired as to whether they’d bothered asking the opinion of the hospital paediatrician and my own GP.  They told me that they wanted my version, so I gave it to them good style and while I was on the subject, I announced that they had some nerve questioning me since social services have one hell of a reputation. I mentioned their own record of widespread child abuse in North Wales Children’s Homes over a period of years and the shameful scandalous cover up by the all the authorities, despite much damning evidence.  One of them said, “Such stories sell newspapers.”  I retorted, “Hang on a minute, such news reveals the shocking truth about many of our public services and if it wasn’t for the press, people like your greedy wicked bosses would be getting away with murder.”  I told them that in my opinion Dr Macareth shouldn’t be wasting taxpayer’s dosh calling in social services so hastily and that she should’ve had a second medical opinion.  I continued, “You complacent do-gooders don’t realise what men like Gareth Williams are like, how powerful they are and what back-up they have.  It is easy to see how crime can not be eradicated.  Not only have we got the problem of lack of witnesses coming forth to testify due to intimidation [many people even being threatened with their lives] but we have the likes of you people and other professionals doing nothing to help and protect the victims.  People like you listen to and obey criminal godfathers and their henchmen because you yourselves fear them and you find it easier to give them what they want.  In the doing, and time again, the poor innocent victim gets punished all over again by OFFICIALS.  You lot are renowned for picking on easy targets – the parents who are dedicated, doting, caring…. Scum like Gareth Williams know how to play the system and how to perform.  They know how to avoid police prosecution and how to shift blame on to others, on to those who wouldn’t hurt a fly.  Those worthless pieces of bacterium are allowed to continue to wreak mayhem and violence, fraud and theft, pain and misery…. with the full blessing of people like YOU and your timid evil bosses.  This is not and never has been about the kids. 

Even my ex’s older children are just puppets to him – props to help conceal his ugly cowardly deceit and lies.  They are bullied into doing what he wants them to do, forced to be his accomplices in crime and to cover up his crimes, and if they don’t comply they suffer the consequences.  They know there is nowhere for them to run - no protection.  His son tried that a few times – and failed.  They know they can only live their lives of confusion under his control; under a charade; but they don’t realise the damage he has inflicted on them.  They have witnessed their dad hitting me and Andrew yet fear drives them to deny it.  I once ran screaming from his house, begging for their help – for ten measly pence so that I could use the phone box, but they both sat glumly shaking their heads.  Their mother was under the misconception that if she succumbed to him and allowed him custody of her children he would leave her alone.  Wrong.  Even today, more that five years on, she remains terrified of him.  She lost her kids, her home and her freedom and all because, like me, she fell for a charming conman.  Gareth Williams is a lying evil-minded crook.  He’s a lazy drunkard who [cleverly] knows how to beat the justice system.  And people like you are helping him and God knows how many others like him.” 

I was on a roll now and added, “Men like Gareth Williams are motivated by easy money  [the root of all evil] and the desire for power by brutal force over women and children.  Gareth is now incensed that I’ve found the courage to dump him and he will do anything to deliver his revenge.  But worse than that is the fact that I am now targeted in order to silence me because the weak parasite is worried sick that one day I just might land him behind bars, where he belongs.  He knows that I’m gaining strength daily.  And that worries him.  Now that you know a little bit more about reality, perhaps you will afford me the courtesy of understanding my frustration and incredulity that your type come here with suspicions that I’m a child abuser, just because some do-good doctor finds a small rash that she cannot correctly identify and thus concludes that it must be a burn.  Just because a professional cannot fathom what something is or how it got there does not give that person the right to make assumptions and point fingers, which could be highly damaging to an innocent person.  Don’t you people realise that a member of your family could be a victim of one of the Gareth Williamses of this world?  By golly!  Then you wouldn’t be so blasé; you’d be wanting big changes; you’d want an incorruptible body of state authorities and you’d be fighting like fury for TRUTH.”

My sermon didn’t get me very far, although the two ‘concerned’ women [concern for who?] did meekly acknowledge that I had good reason to be infuriated.  I then offered the argument, “If I was guilty, do you suppose that I’d take Melissa for a check up at the clinic?  No, I’d make some excuse not to attend until the ‘mark’ had faded.”  I knew I’d wasted my breath on them when one remarked, “It’s unusually quiet in here, considering you’ve got two babies.”  I thought despairingly to myself, ‘So now you’re going to hang me just because my kids are not wild animals?  I suppose you think I’ve got rid of them or something?’  As they headed for the door, I reasoned, “Look, the kids and I have suffered abuse at the hands of a violent maniac.  Now we want to move on in our lives. All I want is to bring my kids up in a safe, happy and just environment.  We just want our FREEDOM.”

FEBRUARY 10^TH 1999

I had the pleasure of another enlightening experience with Vera, the court welfare officer.  This time she wanted to see the babies in action and she wanted to see how they interacted with evil features. Fair play to her, she was more compassionate about the whole ‘burn’ affair and said she’d have a word with social services.  She also agreed that it would be a disgrace if my work with children was put in jeopardy.  The convincing conman passed a message through Vera that dad would have to pursue his ladder through solicitors.  Even she remarked that he was just being bloody minded.  Vera told me that his royal highness spent the whole time smothering Jordan and Mel with kisses until Melly played hell and demanded to be returned to me. 

Typically, everything that I say about him – the TRUTH, he says about me – the LIES.  Vera told me that he says that I’m the alci, that I went to Alcoholics Anonymous for counselling and that he supported me.  The facts are stated in AA’s books:  Gareth Williams is the alcoholic.  Gareth Williams admitted to the AA counsellors and to a roomful of other ‘recovering’ alcoholics that he has this problem.  Gareth Williams went for counselling for his alcoholism at venues in Colwyn Bay and Llandudno.  Why on Earth can’t AA divulge such info? – for the sake of the children who are in danger and for the sake of saving other potential little victims and also for the protection of mothers like me who find themselves up against other Gareth Williamses.  Women like myself need all the help they can get regarding their efforts to discredit the likes of men like Gareth Williams.  More worryingly, Vera even hinted that one prominent AA counsellor supported GW’s assertions.  Bloody incredible!  So even those counsellors are willing to bend the rules when it suits them.  Worse, they are prepared to fib.  Even Lorraine at the church told me that she thought that we had visited the church together wanting help and support because she thought we both had an alcohol problem.  Why can’t Vera find out the facts?  The point is alcoholic parents are a danger to their children, especially when the children are very young.  Organisations should be protecting the children, not the adult’s right of anonymity.  Children depend on healthy parents for their wellbeing.  The alcoholics are the adults and are old enough to look after themselves and to take responsibility for their own actions.  Children’s lives should not be put in jeopardy.  To suggest that alcoholics should be protected by anonymity on the excuse that they wouldn’t otherwise attend is a weak argument.  Either a person is serious about kicking an addiction or he/she isn’t.  This is especially so for those who have children.  They either want to be responsible and capable parents or they don’t.  I have a sneaking suspicion that if I had been the alcoholic and it was my name that was on AA’s books, that fact would’ve appeared on one of Vera’s court welfare reports.  Social services check up on me unannounced every time they get one of GW’s or one of his ‘anonymous’ referrals, I wonder if they are just as conscientious about all calls that they receive.  If they were, they’d soon see for themselves who the alcoholics are and the drug addicts and the child abusers and the paedophiles…. In other words, which parents pose a genuine risk to their children.  Of course, the truth is that such an undertaking would cost far too much and in any case the state does not give a fig about the well being of children.  So instead, they pick on easy targets.  They snoop on the people who pose no risk whatsoever to their children….    

On the way home, on the bus, I got nattering with an old lady about government cock-ups and incompetence.  She informed me that folk who are addicted to alcohol actually get paid thirty pounds extra per week for the privilege of feeding their alcoholism.  Crazy, isn’t it?  Next, they’ll be paying junkies to snort coke or school kids to go to school.

On our return, I discovered that some joker had shoved something sinister inside my shed padlock so that I couldn’t stick the key in and the lock was effectively useless.  I had no choice but to force if off by pounding it with my axe.  Now I’ll have to stump up for another one.  So the skunk has been sniffing around here again, has he?  Maybe he wasn’t too happy about today’s events.

FEBRUARY 11^TH 1999

I took Melissa for another professional opinion on Mel’s mysterious rash.  Dr Thackray was in no doubt also that Mel had eczema and he prescribed creams.  I unburdened my thoughts about the debacle and the implications.  He seemed horrified at the way we’d been treated and agreed that the involvement of social services was overdoing things a bit.  He looked genuinely shocked when I informed him that Gareth had promised to wreck my life and that he’d thwart anything I ever did in the future.

Later in the afternoon Andrew and Shell were followed by GW’s daughter and her friend as they walked out of the leisure centre.  The two teenagers childishly taunted my two with names and threats such as, “Na na na na na Andrew and Shelly, you are dickheads.  We’re gonna get ya – ha ha.”  Andrew and Shell took to their heels and ran as fast as they could all the way home.  I told them that they did the right thing and that if they see her again they should just ignore her and her equally immature pal and hopefully she’ll soon give up.  I hope it won’t get so bad that I have to escort them everywhere but there’s no other protection.  I don’t see the point in calling incompetent cops, and the court has little clout.  So much for court intervention!  I think the stick insect forgot to tell his silly daughter that the undertaking included her too.  In my opinion, the only reason we have courts are to make fat cat lawyers and judges fatter.

FEBRUARY 12^TH 1999

Mel’s eczema has progressed to her chin.  I took her to see Dr Ratcliffe for another professional medical opinion.  I told her that in the past I’ve been advised to just bathe rashes in cool boiled water and they usually disappear quite quickly.  I told her that Andrew has recurring eczema that clears on its own because creams don’t help him.  I explained that I’ve never been one to rush to the doctors willy nilly and since Mel never showed any signs of being unwell I didn’t want to bother doctors or be considered a neurotic over-protective mother.  I declared that if I’d known accusations were awaiting us at the clinic I would’ve whisked Mel to Rhoslan in a flash before confronting heavy-handed clinic staff.  Dr Ratcliffe was sympathetic, surprised at the clinic conduct and positively discouraged me from running to see the doctor for every minor ailment.  I joked that I might have to start asking her for some valium or something to calm my nerves and that the unwarranted over-the-top way we’d been treated was enough to send anyone to the psychiatrist’s couch.  She gave me a stern look and said, “You’re not going to crack up; are you?” 

I told her that I was worried sick that my case will now be weakened in court against my unscrupulous ex and that my job with children may now be in jeopardy.  Close to tears, I blurted out that I’m beginning to suspect a conspiracy to have my children displaced – on Gareth’s authority, because he’d for-warned me that this would be the pattern of events until he finally got my babies and I was denied anything to do with them.  I told her that he’d callously warned me not to try to break free from him because he’d see to it that I’d be denied all my kids.  He’d said that he’d make sure that Andrew and Shell would be in ‘care’ or living with their dad.  I said that he’d already tried to get my ex husband to file for custody of them after he’d told a pack of vicious lies.  I informed her that he would remind me that he’d masterminded his ex wife’s fate just because she’d dared to run from him.  The authorities had listened to him then and are doing so now.  I babbled on that Dr Macareth doesn’t realise how ruthless some men are out there and how damaging her actions are under the circumstances and that as such I truly believe that I am entitled to an apology.  Dr Ratcliffe could only listen in shocked silence, but then remarked that events had been blown all out of proportion.

FEBRUARY 13^TH 1999

Andrew has developed an annoying little habit lately.  He keeps nicking my tools to mess about on his bike and then he leaves the darned things lying around outside.  I’m sick of coming across spanners scattered here and there in the yard and I even found my hammer perched on the windowsill today.  There’s only one solution; I’ll have to ban him from them until he learns to put things back.

Shell came out with a deep and meaningful statement today.  She announced that she’s glad she lives with me because “You’re strict on us all – for all the right reasons”.  She reckons that I harp on at them to “brush your teeth, don’t eat sweets and chocolate, heat healthy foods – fruit and salads, not sugary or fatty foods, do exercise, get on with your work books and keyboard practice, keep your rooms tidy, change your undies daily.”  But she says that I don’t nag them because I’m “controlling or nasty” but to “help us grow up healthy, confident and clever and well prepared for anything that life throws at us.”  She continued, “Gaven always used to buy our love – he bought us gifts, sweets and treats and he took us to fairgrounds and arcades.  We could do what we wanted and used to run around all over his flat, jump on his bed with our shoes on, throw food around his kitchen…. We drank all his lager; we played all day in the arcade with money he told us to steal from you.  We used to take fishcakes and bread from your freezer for him to cook up.  We would argue with him and call him names.  Andrew kicked him and spat at him.  His neighbours always rowed with him because we were so noisy.  We thought it was so funny at the time but I can see now that it was a bad way to behave; but he never stopped us.  He just used to laugh and tell us to do it all the more.” She then said, “You don’t have to prove that you love us by buying us things – we know you can’t afford much.  You give us much more than money could buy any day.  You give us your time and your brain; you guide us and know what we need and what’s best for us….”.  By the time she’d finished I felt as if I was walking on clouds.

The kids and I watched a film tonight based on a true story that had us all perched on the edge of our seats from beginning to end.  It was the tearjerker of the century and every parent’s dread.  An eighteen-month old baby girl fell down a well in her back garden and got lodged fourteen feet down.  There is no word in the dictionary that could adequately describe the feelings of helplessness and despair of the parents.  It’s alright some people tutting and asking why the toddler was unsupervised for the seconds it took for her to tumble in or indeed why the hole wasn’t covered.  Tragic accidents can happen to ANYONE – it only takes seconds and a slight oversight.  Within minutes, emergency services arrived and a microphone dangled down to the child.  Mum and dad took it in turns to talk to her and reassure her, while rescuers battled against the clock.  Minutes turned to hours, hours into days as it became evident that tunnelling would have to take place, feet away.  Crowds and the media appeared from miles around and people from everywhere offered their services and help in any way they could.  The delicate operation was risky but there was no alternative.  Everyone was on tenterhooks – vibrations from the drilling could have caused her to slip further down at any moment and there was anxiety as to her exact location.  Time was of the essence.  Periodically her parents could hear her faint cries, but when she remained quiet for hours on end, it took divinely courageous helpers to calm them and convince them that she was only sleeping.  After a nightmare fiftyfour hours and a painstaking delicate procedure, involving teams of men working shifts, the little baby was finally reached and brought to safety, suffering only relatively minor injury.  After a few days in hospital, she had fully recovered. 

I’d never got so choked up over a film before like I did this one.  I looked at Andrew and Shell and said, “Your nan used to say that you don’t know what real love and sacrifice is until you have a child.”  There is never a truer statement.  Kids make you selfless; they make you realise what total unconditional love is.  The quote at the end of the film, “Volunteerism and the meaning of love,” wrapped it all up and made me think that there are so many people out there with kindness and love in their hearts but that there are also many with hatred and evil intent in their souls.  When you see such films it brings it home to you.  Why can’t we all be loving and helpful to others, instead of being selfish, greedy, wicked and destructive?  Unfortunately, the majority of good folk are ruled by the few evil ones.

FEBRUARY 14^TH 1999

Jordan had me in stitches today.  I was busy sewing up a mattress and he was busy nudging and prodding me to get my attention.  So I grabbed the beaker that he was clutching and balanced it on my head.  For some reason he found that hilarious and laughed heartily in a way only infants know how.  He then proceeded to transfer the beaker onto his own head.  This little game went on for a few minutes, with both of us creased up until pud found a way of defying gravity and holding the beaker against his face.  He’d discovered the power of suction, and like a true scientist, he expressed his euphoria by running around in circles creating a right hullabaloo.

FEBRUARY 15^TH 1999

I eavesdropped into a radio discussion on parenting.  The ‘expert’ outlined the dos and don’ts and that it is imperative to concentrate on positive commands for children rather than the negative versions, such as “walk” not “don’t run” and “keep clean” not “don’t get dirty.”  She then stressed the importance of not calling your kids names such as “you idle prat” but rather explain that you are unhappy with your child’s behaviour not him.  I vowed to make a conscious effort to adopt their rule and stop calling Shell a “little cow” and Andy a “twit.”  Other advice was geared to stopping kids using whiny baby talk when they can talk perfectly well, for example, “I can’t understand that voice and I don’t know what you want.”  She says to be full of praise for your child when you are pleased and to express thanks where it is due.  She advises that you should warn kids that bad behaviour won’t be tolerated by saying something like, “If you are silly, we will come straight home.”  Then, she says, give a second chance such as a glare but that if misbehaviour continues simply say, “I can see you have decided to go home,” and do just that.  Further tips were that you have to teach kids how to behave correctly which is time-consuming and demands patience but that the results are well worth it.  It wasn’t long before I put her methods to the test.  Shell was being a right mouthy madam just because I asked her to remove her butt from the armchair and help out in the kitchen.  My first reaction was to growl: “Oi, don’t you dare back-answer me you cocky little….”.  Then I got a grip and commented coolly, “Shell, don’t you think that sounds really nasty?  Don’t you think we should all pull together, especially as I get tired too and need to get my feet up now and again.  Shall we try again?”  She looked bewildered and gob smacked then managed to ask, “What?”  I repeated my request firmly but softly: “You may watch TV after tea.  You can tape CITV if it is so important, but right now I’d like your help in the kitchen please,” and with that I swivelled on my heels and strode out.  Before I got to the kitchen I heard her shut the living room door and follow me.  Nothing more was said about the matter, but I had a Cheshire-cat grin on my face all evening.

FEBRUARY 16^TH 1999

I told Andrew and Shell that they could write a story on anything they wished as part of their English lesson.  I told them I wanted a title, capital letters and full stops in the correct places and that they had to use their dictionary/thesaurus to check their spellings and to find some alternative words to express themselves.  In the past they’ve written about: days out to fun places, swimming in the sea, animals…. But today they both decided to log details of the goings on opposite and nearby our house.  Andrew focussed on the house of drugs and Shell turned her attention to street gangs.  I was a little hesitant at first about them actually writing about the more sinister aspect of life as I was fully aware that we’d be due a visit from a Local Educational Authority ‘inspector’ at any time to check up on Andrew’s and Shell’s work.  I felt a little daunted about the probability that he or she would be rather critical of me allowing them to write about [or even be aware of] evil.  But then I reasoned that it is a free country and Andrew and Shell are entitled to write about anything that is in their heart and that they were only speaking the truth regarding the seedy area that we inhabit.  I figured that it would be wrong of me to suppress their thoughts and to pretend nothing bad happens and I decided that if anyone is to blame it is the authorities for allowing crime to manifest and thrive, for turning a blind eye and for lying when they claim to be cracking down on criminals.  I told myself that if the LEA pick on me for letting the kids write about the grubbier realities of life, then their crime is bigger than mine.  I decided that they would be guilty of denial or, worse, promotion of criminality.  As Andrew allowed his thoughts to spill out through his pen, he declared that he was going to keep a journal of the “evils of the world” and that he’d try to get it published.

He chose the title ‘A fly on the Wall’ and spoke about himself as being the fly and witnessing the most horrendous scenes such as murders, violence and rape.  He wrote about the drug dealers that he sees coming and going in the house opposite at all times of the day and night; about the naked women at the windows who are being forced to have sex and the young girls who run from there screaming and crying.  He stated, “One day I’m going to join the police force and root out corupshun.  The bastads in that house get lots of money for selling drugs.  People are ill and dying because of drugs.  It is blood money and bastad police wont do any thing about it.”  I was a little shocked at his terminology, but rather than correcting him for using such explicit language, I found myself merely correcting his spelling and I thought, rather brazenly, that the LEA can lump it if they don’t like it – at least Andrew is being honest. And anyway, more to the point, he shouldn’t have to put up with all those louts sneaking in and out of that house doing dirty deals, and junkies breaking into nearby houses stealing from and terrorising old folk.  Furthermore, I’ll invite any official to show me a kid around here who doesn’t use such language and I’ll call him/her a liar. 

Shell also used the rather blunt approach to her street terror awareness.  She spoke of, “Sick gangs of kids chucking rocks at windows, bloody minded ring leaders spraying paint on peoples walls and bastuds skwurting super glue into keyholes.”  Hers also ended with a finger pointing at police.  She mockingly enquired, “Why can’t the idle prats break the gangs up and stop the idiots?”  Scornfully, she asks, “Are they scared of three year olds?”  Then rather philosophically, she points out that PC stands for “perfect clown” not ‘police constable’.  The kids don’t beat about the bush.  They know that it is evil to glorify evil and that ‘bastard’ is the correct word.

Tonight I had my first night out in ages with Linzi.  We’d booked Llandudno theatre seats for The Rocky Horror Show and had planned a swift half in the pub before catching the last bus home.  My babysitter Paula showed up straight after work.  She had tea with us and told me all about her day at the nursery.  Afterwards she insisted on washing up while I put Jordan and Melissa to bed.  [I’d kept them up all day and had worn them out so that they would be ready for bed a little earlier than usual.]  I didn’t want to burden Paula on her first night with having to go through the babies’ bedtime rigmarole.  I then returned to find her sat on the living room floor with Andrew and Shell engrossed in deep conversation about which video[s] they were all going to watch.  I like this girl.  She seems to be an angel.  I sloped off to doll myself up.  It’s months since I had a night out and I began to feel school girlishly excited.  At 7.00 pm I was just heading for the door when I decided to give Paula a recap of the dos and don’ts and to remind her to help herself to supper and to make herself at home. 

The bus came on time and Linzi boarded at the bottom of her road in Penrhyn Bay.  We flattered each other on our appearances and rabbited on about all sorts, such as working with ‘special needs’ folk.  She now has a part time job with ‘special needs’ adults.  I recalled the ‘special needs’ children that I cared for and that a couple of them were so challenging and virtually out of control that I’d once asked to sit in at a ‘special’ school to learn how to cope, but was refused.  At theatre we had twenty minutes to kill before the show started, so we headed for the bar and bought two glasses of coke.  Linzi then proceeded to remove two miniature bottles of bacardi from her handbag, thrust one in my hand and we began to chill out.  She then dropped a bombshell and announced that after fifteen years of marriage she was getting divorced.  I was stunned since I thought they were one of life’s few happily married couples.  She told me that they’d had problems recently and had been to Jamaica on hols to try and sort out their future.  But it was there that her hubby admitted the affair that she’d suspected, but worse still was the knowledge that his girlfriend is pregnant.  I really felt for her.  She was close to tears and began puffing nervously on a ciggie.  I’ve never seen her smoke before.  It all came spilling out then.  I never realised things had been so bad for her.  She’s always listened to my woes in the past but has never even hinted that anything could be wrong in her life.  It seems it’s not the first time that he’s had other women and he’s also quite fond of using his fists.

By now we had progressed to the auditorium and found ourselves surrounded by fishnet-stockinged men and women in frenzied exultation.  We sort of watched the show and during the quieter periods, steadfastly continued with our intense conversation until the people behind us got pretty narked after gentle hints to shut us up.  So we hoofed it to the Washington.  She told me that she’s going to find a flat to rent and move in with her kids, that he can keep the beautiful big house, the expensive cars and the money.  I remarked that she had her priorities right.  Then she declared with dogged determination that she is going to find his new floosie and “smack her in the gob.”  After half a dozen bevies and chitchat covering a multitude of topics, we called it a night.

The kids and the babysitter had spent an intriguing night hooked on Hellraiser and Bloodsport.  Paula and I enjoyed a hot chocolate before retiring to bed.

FEBRUARY 17^TH 1999

I began toileting pud again.  He had an introduction to it a few months ago.  Now I’m hoping he’ll pick it up quite quickly.  Watching him like a hawk, I let him run around half naked.  Noticing a couple of dribbles, I whisked him off to the loo where he dutifully obliged.  It’s a lorra work keeping an eagle eye on him and trying to anticipate his next toilet requirement.  I did try him on the potty but he protested vehemently and preferred to use it as a storage container for his cars.  During one concentrated toilet visit, the little character surprised me by humming ‘The Woodchuck,’ a song Andrew had been practicing on the keyboard.

Jack Straw says people who have a “personality disorder” should be locked away whether they’ve committed a crime or not because they are a threat to the civil liberties of others.  In that case I’ll book Gareth in immediately.  Seriously tho, many who are ‘mad’ become so because of some unjust treatment they have received, usually at the hands of authorities.  Locking them up is not the answer, locking up corrupt lying officials is.

Andrew began to give me some lip just because I asked him nicely to fold the laundry and sort everyone’s stuff into neat piles.  I was just about to give him what for back when I remembered the new strategy and I whispered the request to him.  He looked at me as it I’d grown two heads, then, shaking his head he began to collect the clothes whilst whispering, “Why can’t Shell do it?”  I answered in a whisper, “Because she has the ironing to do – not that it’s any of your business.”

Jordan can be quite the little helper when he chooses to be.  A loaf fell off the table.  He immediately retrieved it without prompting then he helped me with the drying up by storing all the bowls and mugs.

FEBRUARY 18^TH 1999

Talk Radio covered the crime of Domestic Violence.  Women from all strains of life phoned in with the most horrific stories that had one thing in common – the absolute fear they all felt of what he would do to them and their kids if they tried to escape.  Many stay with their men because of the shear terror they feel if they do not obey him.  Some had tried to flee but had been tracked down – and punished.  Women put up with domestic violence because it is better than being alone…. and dead!  Some simply do not have the confidence to go because their men folk – the ones who proclaim undying love for them, have bled them of all their self-worth through years of mental torture.  One brave lady relayed her sad story through floods of tears.  After years of appalling physical abuse that had resulted in her being frequently hospitalised, she eventually ran for her life to a women’s refuge.  But to save her life, she had to sacrifice her children and to this day [ten years on] she has not seen or heard from them and is still too terrified of him to make contact with them.  With that, she broke down in heart-wrenching sobs. 

Just listening to those stories made me hiss “b…. std” through clenched teeth, repeatedly.  I have a theory that if ALL the women of our world who have been/are being mistreated by a man, turned the tables on him and successfully prosecuted him for GBH and/or CHILD ABUSE, we’d gradually see a decline of evil and the beginnings of righteous rule.  All those mega-rich and powerful criminals out there – the warlords, mafia, drug barons, drug dealers, gangsters, hit men, grubby politicians et cetera all have wives and girlfriends past and present who know exactly what crimes these men are guilty of.  The chances are that these men have a string of women who have ALL witnessed the same crimes that HE has committed, and who can ALL testify in court against HIM.  Now, if all the women of the world and that includes the women associated with ‘royal’ men [men who place themselves above the law] could to that, we’d soon have the setting for world peace.  Of course, us Western women have to start the ball rolling for the sake of our Asian and African sisters.  So, some on girls find out who his ex wife/girlfriend is and plan your onslaught.  Women power and perseverance; what a magical dream.

I watched the film of the Stephen Lawrence murder.  Stephen was just an ordinary black teenager out with his pal when he was attacked for no reason and fatally stabbed by a gang of white youths. The metropolitan police were shamefully negligent.  All the evidence was there yet the guilty louts still walk free today – six years on.  It was branded a racist attack.  But hang on; this is not just about race, this is about crime and the police/legal failure to tackle it.  The injustice of this case [and thousands of other crimes] makes my blood boil.  It highlights the mockery of our ‘justice’ system and repugnant police corruption.  Killers and other vile criminals repeatedly get off scot free, simply because our judicial system is seriously flawed and corrupt.  The likes of Jack Straw ask for public support in catching criminals.  What a ruddy joke!  Criminals, repeatedly, are not brought to justice, mainly because there is ‘not enough evidence’.  If you get involved, somehow the tables are turned on you and you get charged – it is supreme idiocy.  Decent law-abiding harmless folk are sitting ducks for harassment by social workers, police and other government bodies.  Governments are either blind to reality or corrupt or both.  I don’t know much about politicians but I know that most are liars.  Conmen and persistent criminals know the ‘system’ and by Christ can they work it to their advantage.  I have such admiration for Stephen Lawrence’s mum.  She has such strength and stamina - one woman almost brought down the entire Scotland Yard police force. 

‘Sir’ Paul Condom [or is it supposed to be Condon?  Anyway, the first version is more fitting!]  YOU, ‘sir’, should hang your head in shame.  Do us all a favour and resign.  You should be in prison for gross misconduct and so should your equally bent grubby ‘officers’.  You have some gall calling yourself by that title.  You are no worthier than a woodlice under a stone.  I hope Mrs Lawrence never leaves you alone and I hope she never goes back to her homeland.  We need her here – as an ambassador for British Justice.  I’ve got news for ‘sir’ Condom and others like him in powerful positions of society.  They’d better hurry up and become virtuous or it will simply be a matter of time before they are forced to pay their heavy debt to society.  If they do not change their behaviour dramatically, they are doomed to an eternity of hell beyond the grave.  I believe God is speaking through Mrs Lawrence.  Where else does she get that power?

FEBRUARY 19^TH 1999

Shell has been a right git lately when it comes to getting up in a morning.  So this morning, rather than nagging, coaxing and shouting at her, I simply said calmly, “Shell you’d better be down here – washed, dressed and hair brushed in ten minutes.  If not, you’ll go without breccy – there are things to do.”  It worked!

Andrew reported that the beast’s daughter is up to her old tricks.  Apparently she went up to him in Safeways precinct and snarled, “You little shit.”  He said that he did not return her aggression.  He just looked at her ‘poker faced’.  “Perfect,” I said.

The kids and I had a deep and thoughtful discussion on the value of money.  We asked how many cars one needs and decided that many people don’t even need one, let alone four or five per family.  We asked the importance of an expensive flashy car and we figured it was simply to symbolize one’s wealth and was suitable only for show-offs.  We agreed that such cars do not impress us and that people who own them do not know the meaning of life and probably have a worthless existence.  We pondered the use of owning a mansion and reckoned it would be a headache to maintain, clean, decorate et cetera and that we’d always be living in fear of being robbed - and we saw little point in living in a fortressed palace.  Although it is nice to look wellgroomed, we decided it is unnecessary to walk around dripping in gold or strutting about in expensive designer gear because it doesn’t make you look any more attractive and such money could be better spent elsewhere.  Finally we were of the opinion that holidays are definitely necessary but that to benefit from them, they should not be taken too often and should be earned.  We were a little sceptical that an expensive holiday to some exotic land was a better one than a simple cheap rucksack and tent job.  We felt that everyone needs money to live comfortably but anything above that is sheer greed and often leads to destruction.  We concluded that money obviously brings power but it doesn’t bring happiness unless used for the good of others.  Unfortunately the sad fact is money always falls into the wrong hands; often attained by violent means.

FEBRUARY 20^TH 1999

Andrew arrived back breathless after slipping to Kwikie for me.  Apparently the snail is back on the stalking trail again.  He tailed Andrew all the way home.  Has the psycho got nothing better to do than gawp at my son while driving along the main road at crawling pace?

Melly got up at midnight to party but there was only milk on the menu.  As she suckles I gaze at her with such love and devotion even though I’m tired out – exhausted even.  She grins at me, goes, “Aah,” and I’m like putty in her arms.  She’s nosey too and releases her grasp to peer around my bedroom.  I think about all the kids, about the fact that it would be impossible to love them more; but I do – daily.  Love is a funny thing.  How do you measure it?  Sometimes they drive me round the bend and I often lose my patience; but I can’t be angry with any of them for long.  Mel studies me as she nurses.  Then she grins.  A big beam radiates all over her face.  I just melt – she is so gorgeous.  I love to smell her and listen to her breathing.  She grabs my breast, my hair, my face.  I could eat her. 

FEBRUARY 21^ST 1999

I nearly choked on my carrots today.  I’d cooked up a sumptuous Sunday roast – for no particular reason.  We all agreed it was scrumptious.  So much so that Shell actually asked for more veggies!

FEBRUARY 22^ND 1999

This morning I was in melancholic mood for some reason.  The film about the trapped baby down the well wouldn’t leave my mind.  I gave Andrew a long close hug and told him that I’m sorry I get so snappy, that it’s because everything gets to me after a while and that I can’t stay strong all the time.  I explained that I sometimes worry about things and that influential people seem to be ganging up on me, that I feel so alone in a sea of confusion and that I’m scared stiff that social services will one day come to take my precious children away.  Doing his best to reassure me he insisted that I mustn’t worry, that I’m doing just fine and that, “If anyone tries to take us away, we’ll just come running straight back to you.”  I cried.  I began thinking about the violent unjust corrupt world in which the majority of us humans exist.  The rest live it up in luxurious sumtuousness, but I wouldn’t call most of them humans; they’re not even worthy of the title ‘maggot’.  Those who surround themselves with security and splendour; who own acres of land, smart cars, mansions and yachts, who call themselves ‘sir’ and who stand in smart suits making speeches to the world about moral principles are undisputedly NOT honourable.  They are self-indulgent pleasure-loving hypocrites.  It is not surprising that most of us second-class citizens suffer with a condition labelled ‘depression’.  And, anyway, what is the ‘third’ world?  What do they mean by ‘developing’ countries when they clearly want anything BUT other countries to be ‘developed’ and more’s to the point to pose a very real challenge to their rule.  Come to think of it, where’s the ‘second’ world?

This afternoon I was graced with a visit by Noella, an Educational Social Worker.  My, what a grand title!   Fair dos, she had a bit of common sense and seemed quite supportive of what we are doing.  I stipulated my criteria to her in case she had any ideas about trying to convince me that school is a better alternative.  I told her that my conditions would be: classes containing six children maximum per teacher; a teacher who is competent, who sets a good example, who doesn’t fall asleep, who has time for my child; a teacher who doesn’t lie, who doesn’t allow stealing and bullying to occur under his/her nose and who commands respect from his/her students and expects respectful interaction between pupils.  I continued with my minimum subject requirements, which are: English, maths, science [including Earth sciences] and that my child be taught an instrument of choice and a sporting activity of choice, such as tennis or squash.   Then I pointed out that the school would need to be within walking distance and then we would consider it, if, and only if, my children were happy and safe there and that they LEARN the above subjects to my satisfaction and are not merely lectured to.  She nodded.  Predictably, she raised the ‘social interaction’ argument.  She stated that her only concern about home-education was that my children would be denied the chance to ‘socialise’ since school seems to be the only place that this ‘socialising’ occurs for children.  I no-nonsensically assured her that school is just about the worse place for children to socialise and that my children have no problems addressing anybody of any age, gender or colour.  Anyway, why do these state stooges state that they are ‘concerned’ about my children?  BULLDUST.  The only person concerned about my kids is ME.

FEBRUARY 23^RD 1999

Strange as it may seem, Scott on Talk Radio covered a debate on the failings of schools.  Apparently two thirds of all primary school children are not meeting targets.  Well, I don’t agree with this idea of ‘targets’ and ‘testing’ anyway.  The ability to pass a test does not symbolise education.  And what is education?  It is not about reproducing some boring facts and the ability to answer some silly questions; it’s about having the confidence and desire to find out things for yourself because it is of interest to you and because it is a useful thing to do.  It is about studying someone else’s ideas and forming opinions and theories of your own. It is about thinking and experimenting for yourself; about anything.  It is about individuality and creativity.  It is about making sense of the world about us and having the freedom to explore. 

School fails in all these areas.  How many children are so disillusioned and damaged because of school that they are driven to committing suicide?  How many children suffer mental illness because of school?  How many truant because school is a terrible place for a child to be?  How many are expelled because schools are a dismal failure?  Children are not safe in school and cannot trust their elders.  How many schools fail to prevent bullying?  How many teachers/heads claim dishonestly that their school does not tolerate antisocial behaviour?  The government fudges the real number of alarming incidences at school.  Heads and LEA officials preach to parents what is best for their children, but these people don’t give a monkeys about the children.  Kids are powerless, vulnerable, uneducated, confused and abused AT SCHOOL AND BECAUSE OF SCHOOL and most remain so into adulthood and for the rest of their lives.  Leaving aside the appalling statistics [which do not paint the true picture], just look at the behaviour of the majority of school kids – violent or timid, lacking in individuality and creativity, immature, lacking confidence….

Politicians are in charge for setting standards in schools and raising education, but who in the government is not a liar and can be trusted?  Schools fail, ministers fail, yet no one is held accountable.  We parents should be compensated for their failure to provide an acceptable learning system and for the abusive schooling system that kids now endure.  Moreover, now that parents are increasingly being forced to opt out of doing it the traditional way, we should be paid the equivalent amount that it costs the government to put a child through school, since we are saving them resources.  Failing that, home taught kids should at least be allowed to take exams for free if they wish. 

But the truth is, the government don’t want the electorate to be good, law-abiding, intelligent and wise.  They want to herd their sheep into submission.  They do not want people-power because they fear challenge, they just want the ‘low-life’ to be screwed up - running around, beating up and murdering each other…. and manageable.  They even try to stop our well-respected journalists [brave men and women who risk their lives in the name of duty] from bringing us the truth about their dirty dealings and those of other governments.  Instead they cram our airwaves with silly soap operas, frivolous films and daft ‘dating’ shows - and they charge us for it too!  They are terrified of allowing us any serious viewing because then we might start to think – too risky.  Keep the masses brainwashed and uneducated and under control, is their motto. 

Straw bangs on about a “walk on by society” – more like a “turn a blind eye parliament” or even an “encourage and support corruption and crime” government.

Andrew announced that some of the kids in our area “don’t like us because we’re different.”  I told him that was their problem, not ours, and that people feel threatened when anyone in their midst dares to be unconventional.  I reminded him that it wasn’t just the kids, that some ignorant adults think there is something wrong with me and, according to some, my kids have ‘special needs’.  I encouraged him never to be ashamed of being unique and that it takes guts and strength to be different.  I explained that if you want to be a leader and not a follower you need to be assertive and self-reliant.  I’ve always encouraged the kids to think for themselves and I’ve tried not to interfere too much in the way of advising or judging them because I think that stifles them.

I used to have a lot of self-doubt about my own ability to teach them.  I’d panic, thinking that I have all those subjects to cover and that I have to keep at it for six hours per day.  Then I gave myself a stern talking to.  I told myself to have more faith, that I am capable and I told myself that an hour a day is sufficient and that it’s only necessary to cover maths, English [with emphasis on reading and writing] science and sport.  I reminded Andrew that he is a lot tougher than me and that I admire the way he and Shell stick to their principles and stand up to people.  I told him not to forget that many kids will be jealous of them because most kids, given the choice, would prefer to learn at home.  I added that it is quite usual for most kids to be fickle – one day they like you and want to be your best friend, the next minute they can’t stand you.  Also, most kids are terrified of being the odd one out, the one that gets ribbed.  It’s called protection in numbers; most people feel the need to be the same as each other and are scared to disagree with the group.  Andrew said that one of the things he couldn’t stand about school was the way everyone worshipped soccer and that they didn’t like you if you didn’t support a team.  I recalled that it was the same when I was at school.  My friends would ask who I supported.   My reply would be, “Same as you.”  I never took any interest in the daft game – still don’t.  All I see is millions of fans making a handful of players and bosses filthy rich.  How do you justify those kinds of earnings? Andrew told me that a couple of his close mates at his old school hate football too but they just pretend to like it.  I told him that most people are like that – it’s called survival.  I said it’s best that they concentrate on their proper friends, the ones who don’t feel the need to go around in gangs and who don’t get up to mischief.  I made the point that it is hard to find true loyal friends – people you can trust, and that many people can’t wait to just stab you in the back.  It seems to be a human trait.  I told him that the kids who are nasty and who follow the crowd are not worth bothering with.  He politely informed me that he knew all that already.

Pud and his police cars!  Every time I open the cupboard door to grab a pan I find Jordan’s cars lined up on the shelf and my pans balancing precariously in a back corner.

FEBRUARY 24^TH 1999

I stood at the most frequented spot in the house peeling spuds and as usual got thoroughly absorbed in the radio discussion – parenting.  It is amazing how many parents put their own kids in care, genuinely believing that someone else can do a better job and that it is in the child’s best interests.  How sad.  How far removed from the truth can you get?  I must admit I too had such thoughts from time to time when Andrew and Shell were babies and we lived in Oz and also when they were little kids.  I used to doubt my own parenting ability.  In fact I used to look to my boyfriends for guidance in raising them.  [That’s probably why my relationships didn’t last!]  What a mistake.  It took me a while to realise that most men are too selfish and emotionally screwed up themselves to take on board the huge responsibility of little people [especially ones that aren’t their own.]  They advised me to dump them in school and against my better judgement I allowed myself to be talked into doing just that.  Now I have the courage of my convictions.  I guess it takes a few hard knocks to grow up and to realise that my kids are the most important things in the world to me and that I’m the only one they can trust.  Thinking back, how could I possibly do a reasonable job of raising them when I hadn’t even grown up myself?

After a few laps of the living room on all fours with Jordan perched on my back shrieking hysterically, I eventually collapsed on the settee, my head swirling.  He then ran off to pester Shell.

Much later I had a pep talk with the kids about them pulling their weight more around the house.  I eventually got them to understand that it doesn’t matter who does what, when, the point is that if we all pull together doing whatever needs to be done, we’ll get through the chores a whole lot quicker and we’ll all have more time for ourselves.

FEBRUARY 25^TH 1999

Today I’m shell-shocked!  Usually the kids moan, “I did it last time –it’s not my turn” or  “That’s not fair” or “I’m doing something else.”  But since yesterday’s sermon, they’ve turned into angels.  [Don’t know how long it’ll last tho.]  Without any kind of prompting they’d: washed and dried last night’s pots, got the babies’ breccies ready, made me a cuppa, taken the bin out, hung the laundry up, cleaned up after breccy…. They’d even got pud to “help” them put stuff away.  I’m amazed.  I haven’t found anything yet that I can shout at them for!

The papers are full of this European Integration business.  His eminence Tony Blair tells us it’s for our own benefit and that “we’ll let the people decide.”  Yeah, right!  We don’t decide anything.  We have no democracy.  Our government is corrupt and can’t govern for toffees.  They lie and steal, have rules for themselves and rules for us, they pretend to be working but all they do is push pen and paper around, talk waffle and blame others for their failures.  They are sleazy and secretive and guilty of cover-ups. They employ MI5 agents solely to serve their own positions of wealth and grandeur, and will seek to exterminate any potential threat – from armed persons or those peacefully demanding righteous rule and the protection of our planet. 

They claim to assist refugees but it is never the genuine people who benefit – we are influxed with young fit crooked men who leave their women and children to die in their harsh homelands, such as Somalia.  They talk about gun control, yet UK arms still fall into the clutches of the so-called evil dictators, despite embargos.  Racism is still rife despite their lies of the contrary.  Hardworking decent people with real values are denied the chance to foster or adopt children because of stupid stringent criteria and bureaucracy.  And now we’re going to join a pile of other countries which are in a worse state than ours; and to top that lot is the power-hungry, greedy, corrupt Brussels committee who are gaining more and more power and control, making laws to suit themselves and secure their own position and making the rest of us more vulnerable and destitute.

Linzi and I yakked on the phone.  We got on the subject of Mel being rushed to hospital in an emergency.  God, I’m still reeling about that.  Dr Macareth should’ve been told off for wasting public services and I should’ve received an apology from her.  I had to suffer bloody social services checking up on me.  They should be questioning her, the arrogant madam. 

Then the discussion shifted over to Linzi’s job. She enjoys her non-profitable part-time job with people who are classed as under privileged and yet are more worthy than most of the rest of us.  Such folk genuinely enjoy the simple pleasures of life and appreciate the company and care of decent carers.  They are the most vulnerable to society’s unjust treatment.  I like working with ‘special needs’ kids because they are more honest and decent than many ‘able-bodied’ folk. 

Linzi says she has to show up for various meetings, which are all a waste of time.  She just wants to give her time and energy to the people who need it.  I told her that I didn’t bother fronting up for any of the meetings that I was asked to attend either because none of them were of any benefit to the kids that I looked after.  The only one that I begged for, I was refused.  I just wanted to sit quietly at the back of a classroom and observe the professionals for some tips, but I wasn’t allowed to – even for five minutes.  Makes you wonder if the school had something to hide – maybe they thought I was a spy or a journalist.

Around 9.00 pm I got a visit from a sergeant and his PC pal.  I tell you, talk about taking the p…. This beats the lot!  The sergeant stood in my living room holding a letter from Amphletts [GW’s solicitors], which I wasn’t allowed to see, and he threatened me to stop wasting police resources.  It seems that they’ve only just twigged that I had to call them out more than thirteen times, just because they failed to deal with Gareth and his persistent stalking/harassing.  It is not my fault that police are flippin’ ineffective and incompetent.  Now the cheeky devils are threatening me with being “bound over the keep the peace” if I call them again!  No one gives a fig that Gareth Williams could be hammering his way in through my door.  The truth is, police daren’t take on the big boys and have a real fight – there’s too many big bad buggers out there.  Police prefer to just appease those fellas; but they don’t mind picking on a vulnerable defenceless female.  Says it all really.  Some fat cat superintendent must’ve seen the number of call outs and groaned, “Oh no, we can’t have this type of thing damaging our reputation.  We don’t want the public to find out how useless we are at our jobs and risk losing our fat pay cheques.” 

So the moral of the tale to all the women out there who have been/are being knocked about by a depraved thug is: don’t expect the police to enforce the law and protect you if you try to run.  Your ex has a license to continue: harassing you to hell, walloping you in the street, doing whatever he pleases to your house at any time of the day or night, prowling around your garden and peering in your windows, following you and your kids around and terrorising you. The message from the police is, “Don’t call us; we won’t help you; you are a nuisance; you are to blame and we will charge you if you continue to bother us.”  Well I’ve got news for them.  I’ll keep on calling and being a pain in the posterior until they decide to do the job that they’re being paid to do.

FEBRUARY 26^TH 1999

After breccy Jordan and Mel got engrossed in one of their games.  She sat in the high chair and, one by one, he brought her various toys.  She gurgled and cooed uncontrollably.  I was mesmerized.

Later I played “peek-a-boo” with pud.  He got so excited and shrieked with laughter when I went, “Boo.”  I don’t think anything is more magical and treasured than a happy baby/child.  They give one hundred percent commitment and feeling.  Jordan then put his arms around my neck, kissed me and said, “Baby.”

I read in the local rag that a bloke of high regard has been given three months for harassing his ex-girlfriend.  He had been driving down her road, phoning her and sending letters.  Blimey, my ex has done that and heaps more and he’s only a bone-idle swindler!  Would he ever get that?  Pah!  No chance.  He wouldn’t even be prosecuted.  He always told me not to cross him; that I didn’t know who he was; that the police would never touch him…. I used to think all that was a bit of hot air, but he does seem to get away with things that most people don’t.  I’ve seen him stopped for speeding and reckless driving a few times, only to produce some sort of documentation and he was immediately waved on.  On one occasion he’d been drinking heavily but wasn’t even breathalysed and was casually waved on.  So how come he has such immunity and why did the Dolgellau police give him such a good character reference when they knew of his violent tendencies towards his ex wife, son, dogs…. ? 

I tackled the laborious task of washing my nets and cleaning the windows.  Thank goodness it is a once yearly ritual – unless it’s begging to be done sooner.  Andrew and Shell insisted on helping and, not to dampen their spirits, I welcomed it.  However, although the odour from Mr Muscle was appealing, the evidence of their labour was questionable.  I sprung into action.

I watched the harrowing story of a man trying to find justice on behalf of his mentally handicapped eighteen-year old daughter who lived in a ‘care home’.  He had all the necessary evidence that she was being ill treated, such as being left in her own faeces; yet incredibly, a massive cover up was instigated, all allegations were denied and no one was brought to book.

News night showed a clip of an inner city school where pupils receive help with their reading from some of the parents; nothing unusual about that.  BUT, by their own admission, these parents could barely read themselves!  Beggars belief.

FEBRUARY 27^TH 1999

I flew off the handle this morning listening to Andrew and Shell.  They were bickering over breakfast cereals.  I bellowed, “If you two are going to squabble over who ate the most crunchy nuts, I shall stop buying them and you can make do with cornflakes.  You’re lucky you have food and a comfortable home; some kids around the world are starving to death, suffer diseases and have no homes.”

Shell came running in crying and complaining that some lad had hit her.  I asked if she’d clouted him back.  She said she hadn’t because he had his gang with him and she was too scared.  I told her that if she gets cornered and can’t run, she’ll have to smack one of them.  I said to choose the ringleader – the biggest, ugliest, most threatening one.  I told her that he’s the coward cos he needs his henchmen around him.  I told her to, “Punch him as hard as you can in the mush or kick him hard in between his legs -  you know where – and watch his mates flee.  He won’t bother you again.”  She said she couldn’t do it.  I told her she may have no choice one day, so she might as well have a go.  I said, “If someone wants to get you, they will.  So you might as well go down fighting.”  I told her to always remember that bullies are really only cowards who need their ‘guards’.  I shouted, “Look what Andrew gives you – bruises on your arms and legs.  I told her and Andrew that according to the films, if you’re fast enough, you can defend yourself from a gang – kick and punch them while moving around all the time in circles.  But you have to mean it.  You can be really powerful that way. They both said that they couldn’t wish for a better mum and Shell said that she didn’t know where she’d be without me.  We all had a little hug.