FOUR FINGERS AND THIRTEEN TOES – EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY

Every picture tells a story.  How true.  They say the camera never lies, and as time goes by, those photographs that we look at from yester-year allow us to cling onto a hazy youth and far flung times, when no-one seemed to have a care in the world.

Just last week, my diary flagged up a reminder that my blue (disabled) parking badge is soon due for renewal.  With the form that comes from the Local Authority, there will a request for a passport sized photograph, for ID purposes.  Fortunately, the photograph for blue badge purposes does not have to conform to passport regulations – thank goodness for that, I cringe every time I look at my passport.  The resultant scramble through the digital images stored on my computer reminds me that whilst the mind still thinks I’m eighteen, the reality is very different!

In this collection of first generation and scanned images there are the wedding photos, with me looking all fluffy and flushed with expectation; The honeymoon snaps that had me looking all … well flushed; a succession of holiday photographs of me looking all lobster-like, the “just given birth” pictures in which I was plain exhausted, and then the “significant” birthday images, which start off all demure and descend into chaos with the debris of many empty bottles visible as the significant celebrations trundle into the night!

One of the biggest problems with the age of digital photography is, that you have to be so conscientious about downloading your photos after each time you use your digital camera.  That, I confess, is where I fall down. 

I have two cameras.  One is an SLR which I use to take “important” photographs and the other is a neat little compact camera which fits nicely into my handbag for those impromptu moments which are, more often than not, the stuff of those magical moments – cute, funny or serious – that we come across so regularly in the media.

Here in Cardiff, there is a wonderful man called David “Dai” Lloyd.  He works for City Motor Services (CMS) who specialise in the adaptation of vehicles for disabled drivers and passengers.  I have known the guys at CMS for over 14 years, and Dai especially, never fails to come up with an idea for making life easier.  When I decided to make a foray into more serious photography, I asked Dai whether he could fabricate a tripod for my camera that would attach to my electric wheelchair.  I had a rough idea of what I wanted, and I particularly like the idea of being able to cut the camera upwards towards the sky and downwards towards the floor!   But had absolutely no idea of how this could be done on a technical front.  Dai asked me to let him give it some thought, and after a couple of phone calls to confirm matters I left him to get on with work on the tripod.  Sure enough, after a couple of weeks, I got a call to go down to the garage, and I was thrilled with the fruits of his labour.  With a few minor adjustments to the arm of my chair, Dai had fabricated an electronic tripod with an actuator which, when plugged into the electrics of my chair, allowed the tripod to rise and lower (with camera in situ) so I could take the clearest images you could wish for.  I can now take photographs of birds up in the trees, and children sitting on the floor.  Every woman should have a “Dai”!

The “happy-snappy” camera is the one which, if everyone is like me, gets left until the memory card is full, and then the panic to download goes into overdrive.  You end up with all the downloaded images being placed in a folder on your PC hard-drive, with some obscure name, and the photos then languish – unloved and forgotten – until you need an image from way-back-when, and you spend half the night trawling through said photographs and having a real good laugh at how much some dim and distant relative has changed since the photograph was originally taken.

I was in this situation only last week.  During one of my rare moments of madness when I decided to change my handbag, and the compact camera appeared from the farthest crevice of my rucksack, I decided to download the photographs.  What a laugh – “Take That” from two years ago; Numerous photographs of my Dad’s dog Max – taken for a reason that I really can’t remember – but I am guessing he was either doing something funny or naughty.  Steve’s first attempt at a Steak and Ale pie (which I have to say was surprisingly good); A photograph of me with Rhydian Roberts (remember him of X-Factor fame) taken at a function a couple of years ago;  A photograph of Steve, James and I with Shirley Bassey taken in Monaco when we were in our 50^th birthday holiday celebration mode; Some photographs of us at last year’s Royal Welsh Show (I learned last year that Steve has a fascination for new farm machinery – you really do learn something new every day!)  To top it off, I found a collection of photographs of Rosie, Steve and James looking less than glamorous in our pyjamas (which have now thankfully been consigned to the recycle bin, thanks to the almighty power of the delete button).

In our own way, all three of us, have a good eye for a photograph, and James especially has taken some really good images since an early age.  When he was about two, he had a toy camera for a present, and used to spend hours pretending to take photographs of everything around the house.

James Moriarty-Simmonds, 2 years old, first photography assignment!

As he got older, he used to pester me to use my first SLR and somewhat reluctantly I agreed.  During a trip to Hereford Museum, where we went to see a gypsy/traveller caravan that Steve’s Great Uncle had renovated, we discovered James’ real talent for photography.  He couldn’t have been any more than eight, but the images taken of the intrinsic renovation work, were far beyond his years. 

Since then, we have all taken some very interesting photographs, and our Christmas cards usually feature a piece of work which James has done during the preceding year.

We have tried our hand at photographic competitions, but James has enjoyed more success than I.  He has been fortunate to have a piece of work accepted as part of the celebrations for the Cultural Olympiad. His work together with other winners will be exhibited at the Norwegian Church Heritage Centre in the heart of Cardiff Bay. On the back of that, the selected image is available as a postcard available free to the public at 25 selected venues throughout Wales. It will also be included in a book.

He has already had a number of great commissions, including a shoot of Wheelchair Rugby Paralympians, which will be on display this year at the National sports Centre for Wales, Sophia Gardens. Further, a number of the images will be included in the welcome packs for Olympians and Paralympians who train in Cardiff during the run-up to the Olympic Games this summer.

James is in the process of establishing a website to market and promote his work. His forté is very much abstract and landscape, but he is equally at home with portraiture.

Every image that we look at really does tell a story all of its own, and when I committed “pen to paper” for Four Fingers and Thirteen Toes, I decided that each chapter would start with a photograph.  The photographs do, like every photographic image, hold memories of happy, sad and poignant times.

February is always a sad month for me, as it marks the anniversary of my Mum’s passing.  This year will mark the 20^th anniversary since the day that my world was turned upside down.  However, Chapter 17 of my book contains a photograph of my Mum on the 6^th February 1992.  It was the occasion of my niece Daisy’s first birthday.  It is the last picture I have of my Mum, and one that I cherish very much. 

Today, Daisy will celebrate her twenty-first birthday, and when she, and her sister Jodie and brother Hugo pose for the obligatory birthday photograph, that photograph will tell a story of a Grandmother who was fiercely proud of her grandchildren, and of Grandchildren who have honoured her memory in the best of ways.

Yes, there will be the raucous photos on Facebook, but as time passes, it will be the photographs of the glamorous Hollywood themed 21st Birthday party which we will all remember – how handsome the boys looked, and how strikingly beautiful the girls were. 

However, make no mistake, in couple of year’s time, from the deepest darkest depth of my computer’s memory, I shall find old photos of gangly teenagers and young adults, posing with grossly overdone lipstick and sporting Spice Girl hair and fashion.  I shall take great delight in reminding my nieces that the camera never lies, and every picture tells a story.  Oh what a delight it will be to make the younger generation squirm, just like our elders did to us!

Which reminds me, I must check my own Facebook pages and make sure that any incriminating photographs of me are removed; for fear they should become encased forever on some mega main frame in Cyber Valley California.  After all, I do have a reputation to maintain – Don’t I?

Now, where can I find the best photo for my new Blue Badge … Ah well, only three million digital images to go!

FOUR FINGERS AND THIRTEEN TOES – THE NEED FOR AN EASY LIFE.

The title of this month’s blog may seem a little misleading.  I’m not wallowing in self pity or vying for an easy life, but rather taking a view on the need to just make life a little less stressful in all sorts of situations.

So, here I sit surrounded by lots of things designed to make life easier.  I have my all-singing all-dancing computer, a phone that I can instruct to “phone so and so” and now I have a music system that allows me to play our entire CD collection without so much as slipping a CD into the CD player. 

More of that later, but let me take you back to early December.

For various reasons, mostly family, the preparations for Christmas in this house were, to say the least, running behind. 

Fortunately, we have never been traditionalists, and so an artificial Christmas tree has always been our preferred choice of marking the festive season.  This choice does avoid the need to go traipsing off to the local garden centre and coming back with something that you imagine would fit in the house, only to discover you need to lop a bit off the top before you can even get it through the front door.

Over the last twenty three years, in addition to getting through a number of artificial trees, we have also gathered an array of festive décor.  You know the things I am talking about – the bauble you bought from a Christmas shop whilst on summer holiday, the remnants of a primary school education, and even (in our case) an inflatable goose (bought when Steve and I went to our first pantomime together back in December 1988).  You’ve probably gathered that the panto we saw was “Mother Goose” and Steve insists that this relic comes out every year, and sits (along with other festive cuddlies) under the tree. 

As our Christmas tree was being taken out of its box this year, Steve and I mused over how our family Christmases were etched with memories of father’s struggling with tree lights that were not packed away neatly the previous year, and so with unerring regularity, the ritual of untangling tree lights would begin in earnest with tempers fraying at the first knot to be encountered on the long road to festive heaven!

I can still picture the scene in our house.  My Dad, having had a long day at work, would come home on the dreaded day of tree decoration.  He would be sweetened with his favourite dinner, and then banished to the front room, and told to stay there until the tree lights were working.  Sometimes my Mum would take pity on him and smooth the rocky path with a glass or two of whiskey, but the outcome was always the same … After a couple of hours, and very many expletives, Dad would emerge from the front room, triumphant, having won the annual battle of the lights. 

But, we all knew it would end in tears on twelfth night.  Taking the lights off again was another battle, which did result in Fatherly defeat.  The surrender would see my Dad, with a mixture of frustration and temper, rolling all the lights up in a ball, grumbling with post Christmas misery, and packing the problem away for another year. 

Determined not to make the same mistake as our fathers, and to avoid a December Armageddon, we decided that our tree lights would be packed away in meticulous fashion.  And I have to say, it worked perfectly until … and this is where I come back to making life easier (and your patient reading has paid off) after one particularly stressed tree decorating session, Steve decided that trying to balance his bum on the arm of his wheelchair whilst wielding a string of fairy lights and striving for symmetry on all areas of the tree was just too much.  A hasty trip to B and Q was organised, and hey presto, a fibre optic tree materialised that disposed of one Christmas problem.

The next issue that desperately needs to be addressed is how to make wrapping Christmas presents easier.  We have a major problem in our house.  I am Rose amongst two thorns – well actually two blokes – who have absolutely no idea how to wrap presents! 

With me, the small matter of four fingers doesn’t help either, but try as I might; I have not been able to coach my men in the art of present wrapping.  Granted things have got better since those heady days of our first Christmas, when I spent hours on Christmas morning unravelling yards and yards of wrapping paper that had been rolled and rolled and rolled around my presents and secured with copious amounts of sticky tape.  But I always knew the one to leave until last.  It was the one with nice shiny paper and swirly festive twine – that had been wrapped by the nice lady in the jewellery shop.  Need I say more!

It is fair to say that things have moved on a bit.  We have reached a situation where a little thought is given to the choice of wrapping paper.  Now, at least, Steve does try to alternate the wrapping paper that he uses when wrapping presents.  It is an attempt – albeit a vain attempt – to avoid the “production line” syndrome which constitutes present wrapping in the Moriarty-Simmonds household.

Just before our annual wrapping fest started this year, we watched a programme on TV which espoused the virtues of wrapping made easy.  Ha (!) the premise of the programme presupposed a household where the kids were in bed, or down the pub (dependent on age), the partner was manfully hoisting a Christmas tree onto his broad shoulders and marching it into the living room where the log fire was blazing, and the lady of the house was sitting, all designer clad, on a newly waxed wooden floor surrounded by parcels neatly stacked into piles.  Wrapping paper and sharp scissors were at the ready, and the sticky tape dispenser actually worked!

For most of us, as the reality is so far removed from this fantasy, the programme presenter might just as well have come from another planet – and the further out in the galaxy the better.

With us, wrapping is either done during the day, in between work and business commitments or at some unearthly time of night when you’re so tired the sticky tape seems to stick to everything except the wrapping paper. 

There is however, a problem if you have time to indulge in festive wrapping during the day.  And that is you can guarantee the door bell will ring unexpectedly.  Then a panic of nuclear proportions erupts as you try and get the presents hidden for fear that the caller may be the recipient of one of the gifts that you are trying to wrap with such care and creativity!

There are at least two people reading this blog who go to inordinate lengths to produce beautifully wrapped parcels with baubles, bells and bangles.  How I yearn to produce such wonderful creations … Utopia!

This year, I got James to give me a hand to wrap some of our parcels.  I thought a little festive bonding between Mother and Son was the order of the day.  Well, that was the theory.   James has obviously inherited his father’s ability on wrapping.  Let’s just say that the wrapping paper industry will not flounder unless James grasps the idea that unwrapping Christmas presents is not a new innovation in the game of “Pass the Parcel”.  To top it off, we ran out of labels, and had to resort to post-it notes.  Steve’s pressies had yellow ones, and James used what was left.  Lurid green seemed to be in vogue.  If that wasn’t enough, we both got decidedly bored of writing messages on post-it notes, and by the end of the session, my labels had gone from expressing undying love “for my wonderful husband” to “Love Always R xx”.  That reminds me, I must also make a mental note of the need to find a more efficient way of writing labels for next year.

Fast forward to Christmas Day.  The effort of wrapping presents and decorating a fibre optic tree had taken its toll.  You know you are exhausted when your father (remember, he of the fairy lights battle) who stays with us for Christmas Eve, marches into your bedroom at 9.20am and demands to know why you are not yet up and dressed, and if you want tea or coffee to go with the Christmas Day breakfast that he has prepared.

And so, all bleary-eyed with wonder and excitement – well it used to be that way – we trundled up to the living room.  Twinkling fibre optic lights and an array of presents surrounded the base of the tree.  Presents to Steve, Rosie and James, were all easily identified by the psychedelic post-it notes, and were interspersed with those fancy parcels from … I shan’t name you but you know who you are!

There was the obligatory present from Steve, all nicely wrapped, but this time it was wrapped by the shop assistant in the rather expensive perfume shop.  Then I got down to the business of unwrapping my other less elaborately wrapped presents.  The music system to which I referred earlier is one of the most useful presents I have been given for a long time. 

I really do love music, and I will now be able to listen to my CD collection without having to trouble anyone to load or unload the music.  The only problem is that the CDs have be loaded into the system first, and having started on the task, it has quickly become apparent that my taste in music has changed dramatically over the last twenty, maybe even thirty years or so … Aled Jones and the Snowman; Charlotte Church and the Voice of an Angel .. What was I thinking of!

So in the last couple of days, whilst I am learning to operate my new voice activated phone (a present to myself whilst spending wisely my birthday and Christmas money from Dad – he of previously mentioned crumpled fairy lights saga), and Steve spends his evenings loading CDs onto my new music system, we have discussed how we can make things even easier.  I’m told it is going to start with storing the Christmas tree in a Christmas tree storage bag.  The recycling bank will be in for a treat when the old boxes end up in cardboard heaven.  I think a collection of storage bags arrived from Amazon the other day.  There will also be storage bags for all our other festive bits and pieces.  The theory is that by cutting down on unnecessary festive trinkets we will have more time for packing.  We shall see.

Let’s just say that festive gift bags, with tissue paper for protection and labels already attached to the bags become more appealing by the minute as I write this blog.

I am however worried that Steve is taking this make life easier crusade a little too far.  Today he suggested we do away with our lawn in favour of synthetic grass, and has even suggested a “Wallace and Gromit” style machine to help me get dressed in half the time, it takes me to get dressed at present.

If he thinks I am going to be propelled from my bed into my clothes rather like Russell Grant was fired out of his canon on “Strictly” then he can think again. 

Making life easy – whether at Christmas or any other time – is one thing, but the root cause of the problem has to be tackled.  As I see it, there are two solutions to making our festive fun more feasible.  Firstly we hire someone who provides a nice tree decorating service to decorate our Christmas tree, and secondly I enrol my boys on an intensive course on gift wrapping. 

However, to be absolutely honest, I rather like the over-dressed fibre optic tree, with the mish-mash of baubles collected over the years.  Yes, it would be nice if the presents were all wrapped in the style of an expensive department store, but does it really matter how the gift is wrapped … Isn’t it the thought that counts? You can let me have your thoughts on this point, in next year’s Christmas cards please … Or by posting comments on my blog site!

To end this first 2012 blog, I hope the New Year is kind to you and your family, and that all your dreams and ambitions are fulfilled just as you want them to be.

Happy New Year!

FOUR FINGERS AND THIRTEEN TOES – THE BABY BOOMERS OF THE 1960’S COMING OF AGE

Lately, there has been a flurry of activity on one of the social networking sites to which I subscribe.  Such activity has not been about the latest evictee from the Australian jungle; the last to be booted off the British or American version of the X Factor; or even which dainty-toed celebrity has waltzed off Strictly.  No, it is all about my “friends” across the globe, reaching the age which, according to some heralds a new era in life … Fifty is apparently the new thirty.

Now, to someone who is fast approaching the odd number that follows 50, it is comforting to know that many of my family, friends and colleagues are now entering that cuddly comfort zone of advanced middle age.

Since September, my local card shop has done more than a slightly increased turnover in my purchase of birthday cards celebrating that illustrious half century event.  I have enjoyed buying every soppy, elegant and even risqué card, and each (hopefully) having a special meaning to the person who has received it.

It crossed my mind the other day that I ran out of digits to count my decades when I hit forty, and I am guessing that lots of my Thalidomide friends are having the same problem.  But I take heart from the fact that if I use my toes, I have another thirteen decades of blogging to go before I am finally exhausted of things to say!

So where did we baby boomers come from?  Well, if you don’t know that I think you need to redo your school biology course!  Having said that, it began in the late 1950s and there have been a number of suggested causes, with two prominent thoughts. One was increased prosperity, but strangely enough the other was comprehensive contraception. Being able to have babies when a woman wanted, meant that she was free to marry young if she felt like it. And those who married young had babies younger and sometimes went on to have more of them.

The United Kingdom experienced a baby boom during the 1960s, with a peak in births in 1964.  And if you look back in time, there is usually a reason for a baby booming generation.  There is no real consensus regarding the cause of the baby boom: social scientists suggest a complex mixture of economic, social and psychological factors. 

But, in the case of the baby boomers of the early 1960’s it was (as I suspect is usually the case) the weather.  The spring time of 1960 must have been particularly cold, as that would have been about the time that Steve and I were conceived.  All I can say is thank goodness for central heating, one of Steve is more than enough (!) and they broke the mould when they made me (modest as ever!)

1961 saw the UK having a summer much like most British summers, and saw much frivolity at seaside resorts up and down the country.  I am guessing that the colder winter of 1961, as precursor to the terrible snow of early 1962 has much to do with this (now) sudden influx of members to the fifty-something club.

But how do you tell when you are getting old? In a recent article in our daily newspaper, it was suggested that if you hate noisy pubs or groan when you bend down you are getting old. 

So, in the great tradition of poking fun at family members, I thought I would enlighten you as to how my family are progressing on the age stakes.

Here goes:

• Falling asleep in the front of the TV – From the noise that emanates from my Dad’s nose, I’d say he’s getting old.  Consider the scene … Christmas Eve, and all is still in the house.  All guests have left, and my Dad has decamped to us to make sure Santa doesn’t have too many visits to make in Cardiff.  A glass of whiskey on the table, feet up and slippers on … ZZZZZZZZzzzzz(snort).  Yes, he’s passed the test!!

• Struggling to use technology – My mother-in-law fits the bill perfectly in this category.  She has a mobile phone which lives in her handbag, inside a bag, inside another bag, and then for good measure, on vibrate.  It has been known, that when travelling by bus, she hears the phone, takes an age to find it at the bottom of her bag, and then promptly hits the wrong button and turns it off, rather that connecting the call.  Don’t even mention voice mail – She thinks this is a singing postman.  A definite yes on the age test!!

• Losing your hair – I refer to my husband … Say no more.  Most certainly he is getting old!

• Developing a fondness of sherry or something a little more sophisticated  – Well, that’s me, my sisters and most, if not all, of my friends.  That well worn phrase “a glass of fizz on arrival” is music to our ears.  We are proud to have passed the age test.

• Thinking doctors, policemen and teachers look really young – I am sure many of you will agree such thinking is a wonderful way of persuading your better half to go to the School Parents’ Evening.  What greater incentive to hear how your little darling is doing than to sit in front of a rather dishy maths teacher … and if you deny this one, you are stuck in a time warp – Get real, we’ve all done it!!

• Taking a mid afternoon nap – My lovely sister and her husband have already joined the club on this one!!  Sunday in their house just wouldn’t be the same without the man of the house quietly slinking off for a sneaky duvet session after a rather enjoyable lunch.  Come to think of it, maybe I should include the whole of this side of the family in this category … “OMG” old before their time!!

• Moving from Radio 1 to Radio 2 – Let’s just say the only reason I re-tuned my radio was because of a poor Radio 1 reception.  That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it! 

• Joining the National Trust – Steve’s sister falls into this category – Not that she’s old, but when her school had an OFSTED inspection last week, she was hoping to do well, and retire with top marks – fortunately no “could do betters” on her report.  Watch out John, the treasures of the National Trust will soon be a permanent feature in your living room!

• Preferring a brisk walk to a Sunday morning lie-in — I’m not sure whether it’s getting old, or the fact that my youngest sister and her partner, appear to have a knack of adopting dogs – and lots of them!  Either way, a stay-in-bed Sunday morning is a definite no-no.  Dogs at the ready, walking boots on and there you have it.  A good walk is only surpassed by the obligatory dog shower (on returning from the early morning romp in the woods) to complete the picture of middle aged respectability that pervades the most coveted dogs home in Cardiff!

• Not knowing any songs in the top 10 – Unfortunately, Steve is scoring quite highly in this competition.  Jesse J. was on the TV the other day.  He couldn’t quite understand where the three decades between the spandex of ABBA and the quasi-goth look of Jesse J had gone … Ahh bless him – He’s been a member of this club for far too long!!

• Joining the Women’s Institute – Perhaps not quite the WI, but ladies of the NSPCC Central Cardiff branch, you know who you are … welcome to the age club!

• Realising that your music collection is on Vinyl; Cassette; CD and Download – Makes me feel really old. This obviously means that I have four versions of my favourite music! Must make mental note to keep up-to-gate with technology… God help us!

And finally …

• Choosing clothes for comfort rather than style – We should all be proud to admit to this one.   Lycra this and stretchy that make a wonderful addition to the wardrobe of the fifty-something club member.  If, like me, you’ve given up trying to squeeze a quart into a pint pot, you will appreciate the advantages of elastication.  Go on, free yourself from your inhibition, and seize the opportunity of joining this club … Membership is free and the benefits are enormous.  I want to dedicate this last category of ‘membership to the fifty-something club’, to my brother-in-law José, who celebrates his 50^th Birthday next week.  His choice and style of clothes (especially on Christmas Day) speaks volumes about his exquisite sartorial elegance! 

I would like to be the first to welcome José and all the other new members of this Club to a time of enlightenment; to the delights of Ibuprofen; to looking forward to retirement and to growing old in quite the most disgraceful manner!!  Relax, enjoy and have fun.

What about this as a final thought … If fifty is the new thirty, then seventy will be the new fifty, and in about twenty years time we’ll have to celebrate our half centuries all over again.  Now, that’s a thought to ponder over our ever expanding girths. 

 “Another glass of fizz for anyone?”

FOUR FINGERS AND THIRTEEN TOES – TO GRINCH OR NOT TO GRINCH, THAT IS THE QUESTION!

Yes, it’s official … After an absence of some two months – I’m back. 

Family commitments and other work related matters put the Four Fingers and Thirteen Toes Blog on the “backburner”.  However, with apologies to those who yearned for the next edition of the Blog here is my offering for November.

Officialdom … takes many shapes and forms. I’ve had quite a lot to do with officials over the last couple of weeks, some of it bad (parking tickets are a downer!) and some of it good … I am now officially Princess Seren (well, I like to think I am!) or at the very least I am the recipient, from the Lord Mayor of Cardiff, of the first Owain Glyndwr Seren Award – and what an honour that is. 

Lord Mayor of Cardiff Councillor Professor Delme Bowen, presents Rosie with the Owain Glyndwr Seren Award

However, enough … back to the issue in hand…  One thing is for certain, the “official” run-up to Christmas has started, and with it, the annual emergence of “Grinch-like” partners, who complain about everything festive.  In our house, this ranges from the frequency of the Christmas commercials on television, to the seemingly unending piped Christmas music booming through supermarkets the world over.

But I have to say, yesterday really took the biscuit.  The day started in regular Saturday fashion.  We went through the usual morning ritual of getting up and then there was the smell of the sausage and bacon being cooked in the kitchen – Ahhh …  Junior Grinch dragged himself out of his pit with his nose twitching at the smell wafting down the hallway.  There was a time, not long ago, when he would willingly have volunteered to cook the bacon; and cook mean bacon he does.  However, there is the little matter of “A” level study and the discovery of girls, which has somewhat messed up our routine on the culinary front!

However, back to the kitchen, where some rather nice Irish sausages were sizzling – A La Jamie Oliver style, with honey and olive oil – to be accompanied by the bacon.  Granted it might not have been as crispy as I would have liked, but who am I to complain, as I knew the onset of Grinchness was about to start. 

For readers not from the UK, yesterday (5th November) was bonfire night.  Traditionally a day when, after dark, we Brits get togged up in woolly hats, scarves and other warm apparel to enjoy the spectacle of fireworks lighting up the night sky.  It is also the day when according to the Senior Grinch, we are overwhelmed by the advertising industry with all things Christmassy.

Now, in an attempt to avoid the onset of this Grinchness, I decided to go into town and indulge in some pre-Christmas shopping.

I felt really quite festive. I was wearing one of my bright red dresses (purely coincidental) which added to the aura of festiveness.  As we drove through the University area and Civic Centre, I could see the Winter Wonderland taking shape, which opens in a couple of weeks.  Thank goodness the traffic was too heavy for the Senior Grinch to see.

Dropped off, I had a lovely afternoon.  Browsing through the shops and talking to the shop assistants, it was a really nice way to spend a Saturday afternoon.  A text message to the Senior Grinch summoning him to come and collect me, and all would be well in the Moriarty-Simmonds household.  Wrong!

Feeling all tingly from the chill of a slightly frosty late autumn afternoon, I got into the car.  Enquiring as to whether the afternoon had been as enjoyable in Grinchland as it had been for me, I should have known the response, by the silence with which my enquiry was met.  I gather it had all started quite well.  A pleasant return to the house, waving to a few of the neighbours doing some gardening, and then into the drive.  Out of the car, and then two little faces appeared at the garage door.  “We’re selling scout stamps for Christmas …” 

Apparently mustering all his teacher-like patience (my Senior Grinch comes from a family of school teachers, and, I believe, has hankered after being a teacher himself) he smiled in (I hope) a kindly fashion and suggested that it was perhaps a little too early to be selling Christmas stamps.  Looking a little crestfallen, our tiny neighbours were saved from more Grinchishness by the appearance of the Junior Grinch at the front door.  It was then that Senior Grinch decided he should set a good example to the Junior Grinch and took pity on the stamp sellers.  I am led to believe he took out his wallet (one of many festive outings for the wallet – I have no doubt) and bought something which was Christmas-connected before the fireworks had exploded in their usual cascade of colour over the roof tops of Cardiff.

Now, that was a first – I only wish I’d been there to see it for myself!

Very shortly I will have to broach the subject of the annual Christmas internet shop, with a generous supply of chocolates and other goodies – after all, there is only seven weeks to Christmas.  Great, chocolates to eat that should be kept for Christmas, and the obligatory bottle of cream liqueur that will last about as long the chocolates in the advent calendar!

The downside to this cranking up of the Christmas machine is whether I can survive seven weeks of 2011 Grinchness.

The height of 2010 Grinchness!

 

But, I took heart on Friday.  There was one chink in the armour of my Senior Grinch that became apparent whilst we were having tea.  He did confess that he was looking forward to unpacking the Christmas tree which was destined for our hotel room in New York last year.  Believe it or not, my Senior Grinch had the tree shipped over from New York after last year’s festivities, and promised it would take centre stage as our table decoration, at our annual Christmas Eve lunch.

So thinking about things, maybe he isn’t so Grinchish after all.  The problem is, after he’s unpacked my pre-Christmas shopping and taken a sly look at the receipts, I’m not so sure … Lets just wait and see!

But however you start your festivities – Christmas or otherwise, and whatever form they take, be it Christian, Jewish or marking the Winter Solstice, I hope you enjoy them.

Me … I’m just glad that normal “blog” service has been resumed, and I can’t wait for next month … Until then, Happy Shopping.

FOUR FINGERS AND THIRTEEN TOES – SHORT CIRCUIT

How many of you have experienced the “short circuit” syndrome which so often accompanies an annual summer holiday.  In my experience, it can come in many forms – the stress of trying to clear your desk before you leave; the hassle of packing a suitcase with summer holiday gear (most of which will come home unused); organising the security of the house and maintenance of your lovingly tendered plants – which you know will be as dead as a door mat by the time you return – and finally getting the whole family to the airport, ferry-port or other point of departure for that mystical holiday that is supposed to heal all the stresses and strains of the preceding twelve months – Ha!

Regular readers of my blog will remember our abortive Christmas holiday, which we had to postpone to the summer.  And so, the cases were packed, labelled and secured.  The weather forecast had been checked – no ash cloud or unforeseen snow – and the Moriarty-Simmonds family were set and ready to take a huge chunk out of the “Big Apple”.

The trip to Heathrow was bit of a white-knuckle ride.  I must confess minibus travel is not my preferred mode of transport.  Added to this, the driver (who looked like Sterling Moss) drove like Sterling Moss, meant the journey along the M4 sometimes melted into a hazy blur of countryside.

However, a safe arrival at the airport, a gathering of like-minded holiday makers in Terminal 3, a quick stop in the departure lounge, and “whoosh” we were off.  Seven hours later, and with an ever increasing urge to “powder my nose”, we landed.  American Border patrol was an experience.  Left thumb print; right thumb print, and a full complement of eight other digits was required before the official behind the glass screen would even look at you.  So, how were they going to cope with my petite four fingers?  At this juncture please be assured I did not offer my thirteen toes in substitution … My reasoning?  Quite simple.  I would have been carted off to Roswell quicker than the time it takes for Paris Hilton to make a new best friend!

Fortunately, a photograph was sufficient, and we proceeded to find our shuttle bus driver, who had been waiting patiently for us to negotiate the multi culturalism that can be found around the baggage carousels at JFK.

Our journey into Manhattan was interesting.  If you thought the roads in the UK were in a poor state after last winter, then spare a thought for our American cousins.  The Expressway looked as if it had suffered from the most extreme form of acne, which would take more than a strong dose of antibiotics to fix.

Safely installed in our hotel, we decided an early night was in order.  Some things never change, but I did draw the line at Steve ordering milk and cookies just so he could feel really at home.  After all he is a grown man – or at least he likes to think so!

A night out in New York

Before we left home, we had planned an itinerary of everything we wanted to achieve during our time in New York.  My sisters baulked at the idea and some friends (who we were due to be meeting Stateside) recoiled at the “heavy” schedule.  Military was the operation, and armed with all necessary equipment to see us through the day; we met my good friend Paul to start our first day of sightseeing.

First stop was the High Line, West Village.  Cleverly, a park and walkway has been developed from a disused railroad track.  This walk was an interesting deviation from the glitz of uptown Manhattan.  Here you could get a real sense of life in the Big Apple.  In this part of town, there were no glamorous apartment blocks with efficient air conditioning.   Here you got an appreciation of life in those less affluent areas, that most of us give nothing more than a mere second thought to, when we travel by train, and see the outer areas of a city.  Or the areas we try to avoid in our own locality – as it is just a little too far outside our comfort zone.  This was life in the raw, although just a block or two away from the ostentatious images that symbolise New York. 

Enough of being profound.  Steve was on a mission.  He wanted to go to Tea and Sympathy for a Sunday roast.  Tea and Sympathy isn’t an American funeral parlour, but rather a traditional English tea room in the heart of Greenwich Village.  Some months before our holiday, a certain William and Kate had got married.  Royal Wedding fever had hit New York and resulted in a feature in the Sunday Times about this very gentile of British establishments which boasted the finest Sunday roast in America.  We battled through the crowds in Washington Park, and eventually found this haven of “Britishness” where you could buy fish and chips and all things British to satisfy even the most home sick Brit!

Tea and Sympathy was there like an oasis on a hot and sticky Sunday afternoon.  There was but one problem, the tea room was probably no bigger than your Grandmother’s front room and in order to get two wheelchairs into the dining area it would have meant emptying the whole establishment.  Now, although sympathetic (excuse the pun!) to our desire to have a Sunday roast in New York, the hostess, a rather pretty young lady called Eimear, could only offer iced tea on the pavement.  As it was not really what we wanted, we decided to move on. James was smitten with Eimear, and he and Steve fought tooth and nail to claim ownership of the kiss that had been thrown in our direction by this striking Irish lass, as we walked away from the aroma of Sunday roast wafting from the kitchen. 

Undaunted, we pursued our quest to find all things British, and ended up spending the balance of our evening in The White Horse Tavern, which according to local knowledge is the place where that famous welsh poet Dylan Thomas had his last drink, on the night before he died.  It wasn’t quite Tea and Sympathy, but it was an interesting way of seeing the bohemian lifestyle of Greenwich Village whilst working out which bus would take us back to 42^nd Street.

Our second day saw us visiting the United Nations.  Although not quite like it appears on TV during international state occasions, it is an imposing building, and well worth a visit.  We were fortunate enough to be given a guided tour of the public areas and exhibitions by a young man who was a dedicated “Torchwood” fan (see the Welsh connection again). 

It is a deeply moving experience to view all the good work which the UN does throughout the world, and to appreciate just how a small amount of money can do so much good in under-developed countries.  One such project is the school and sports kit in a box.  For just a few dollars the UN is able to provide a school environment in a trunk, which includes paper, pens, pencils and all the other small items that school kids these days take for granted.  And for just another couple of dollars, they can provide a sports box that contains bats and balls, together with other items of sports equipment to make the lives of children in war torn and deprived area of the world just a little more bearable.

Rosie & James outside the United Nations – must dash, "the General Assembly were waiting for us!"

Just a few blocks away from the UN we came across a small park that doubled as a viewing platform for the East River.  We saw old and young alike enjoying a small haven of tranquillity in an otherwise bustling area.  Like most parks in any country, I am sure it takes on a different persona at night, but for a short while it was a joy to see two opposite spectrums of New York life coming together, and seemingly without a care in the world.  And so it was that we ended our second full day in New York.

Day three started very much like the others, but was destined to be our short circuit moment.  Having had two days of very touristy stuff, we had designated day three as indulgence day.  James and I were determined to indulge our passion for shopping.  On leaving the hotel, it was warm and sunny.  A short stroll up 42^nd Street, took us on to the Mecca of NY shopping – 5^th Avenue.

Saks, Abercrombie and Fitch – oh heaven!!

We had a good time in Saks and after Steve got writer’s cramp – I did tell him to perfect a shorter signature – we loaded him up and headed out on the street again.  However by now, it had started raining.  But, the threesome of welsh origin, weren’t going to be daunted by a little bit of rain, and so we bought some umbrellas.  Onward we ploughed, and the rain started to get gradually heavier.  No problem, if Chitty Chitty Bang Bang can travel through water, so can a SunMed F55 Quickie … Wrong!! 

Steve's very poor impersonation of Gene Kelly, just before the torrents of rain and the short circuit!

It began to rain like we have never seen rain before. Torrents and torrents.  Within minutes Steve was sitting in a puddle of rainwater with a realisation that this is what it will be like when he’s seventy plus and he’s forgotten his conti-pads.  James valiantly shielded me with the umbrella he was carrying.  Despite his best efforts he couldn’t protect me from the ravages of the rain, which meant that when I next went to the bathroom; my legs were tattooed with the floral pattern of my dress.  I looked like an auditionee for NY Ink!  At this point we were about 100 yards from my intended destination, a rather fashionable handbag shop when Steve’s chair short circuited.

Soaking from head to toe, and stranded outside one of the world’s most expensive jewellers, what do you do?  Well, the first thing is to try and persuade the security guard that you are not part of an elaborate heist, and you genuinely need shelter from a rain storm that even Noah would have found it hard to cope with. 

Having overcome that small hiccup we were cleared by security, and ushered into a haven of marble and antique furniture, not to mention diamonds and jewels, the like of which even Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt (as one of the world’s highest paid celebrities) would have found it difficult to comprehend.

Completely sodden, we were not exactly shining examples of the clientele that would grace the lobby of this establishment, but the staff were wonderful.  James was given a dry T-shirt, and an exclusive bag – in which to take his own soggy T-shirt back to our hotel.  The management quickly liaised with the hotel and arranged a shuttle to collect us, whilst a lady attendant cheerfully mopped the pools of rainwater, that flowed from our chairs like the rivers of Babylon.

However, when the rain stopped for a short while, and it was time for our friends to close the store, we had to leave the safe enclave of diamonds the size of large pebbles, and wait for our shuttle on the pavement.

Steve parked himself on the street corner, and tried not to look like an “extra” from Born on the 4^th of July, whilst James and I did what any self respecting wife and son would do … Yes, you guessed it.  We crossed the road to the shop selling those lovely handbags and I finished my shopping!

Two hours after short circuit, a saviour in the form of a Super-Shuttle driver turned up to repatriate three very wet Brits, and one broken wheelchair to the Grand Hyatt.  Now, think Humphrey Bogart – think Casablanca – think that famous quote.  Well, of all the taxi companies in New York, and of all the taxi drivers in the Big Apple, who happened to come to our rescue … None other than the driver, who five years ago brought us to and from JFK on our last sojourn to New York.  Howard, a wonderful driver and an even nicer man made sure we, and our shopping, made it to the sanctuary of the hotel bar.  Well, if we were wet outside, why not do likewise to the inside!

Those of you who use powered wheelchairs will know that if you get your chair wet, you take a hair dryer to it as soon as possible.  However, this chair was way beyond redemption.  Looking rather sad and forlorn, we parked it up in the bedroom and set about hiring a replacement.  It was fortuitous that before leaving we had made arrangements with the company from whom we had hired a shower seat, that if we needed wheelchair repairs, we could call upon them for help.  The following afternoon a hire chair duly arrived.  The first hire chair was a bit like riding a brick, and from what Steve tells me, it’s a good job that we don’t intend to extend our family any more … The second, and more heavy duty replacement, came the next day but was a front wheel drive chair. 

I never have seen anyone make such hash of driving a chair in all my life.  But the new chair was eventually mastered, and at least I can now say that if Steve needs a part-time job, he’ll be OK as a fork-lift truck driver!

We lost about half a day of our planned itinerary, but still managed to do all the things we wanted to do.  We took in a game of baseball at the new Yankee Stadium.  We are fortunate to be able to say that we have seen the New York Yankees play at the old and new Yankee Stadiums.  We dined at the View Restaurant, Times Square, and took in the night-time skyline of those familiar landmarks around Manhattan.  We wandered through Times Square just around midnight – as we had planned to do at Christmas time.  We explored Central Park and marvelled at the peace and tranquillity which is so close to the hustle and bustle of the city.  The 360° view of New York from the Rockefeller Centre is spectacular and we danced in the aisles to ‘Mamma Mia’ on Broadway.  And I never cease to be amazed by that tingly feeling I always get from sitting in Grand Central Station just soaking in the atmosphere and watching the world go by!

We were however, saddened by the number and plight of homeless people.  Their look of anguish and despair will remain with us for a long time to come.

We made friends with some wonderful people at the hotel, who went out their way to help and make our stay such fun, and above all we eventually made our Christmas holiday a reality – even if it was eight months later than planned.

On our last day, Steve and James did a sterling job of getting everything into our suitcases – not to mention my handbags (and yes, from the short circuit day the “handbag” did have a few babies!) for the return journey. 

At JFK we did have a little difficulty in explaining to the airport authorities how to handle a heavy broken powered chair, and the authorities at Heathrow were not much better.  I cannot believe how the definition of “broken” can differ from country to country.

However, when we finally cleared customs in the UK, and the sad sight of Steve’s broken chair could be seen sitting all lonesome in a corner of the baggage hall, we knew we had completed a New York experience of epic proportions.

We got a porter to load the broken chair onto a trolley that is probably more used to carrying Louis Vuitton luggage.  Using my crystal ball, I think that as the good Mrs. Beckham is currently experiencing back trouble, a Louis Vuitton “customised” wheelchair may be required for her transatlantic flights over the next couple of months.  What a precedent we have set – even if our wheelchairs were rather more humble!

Having left the departure lounge, we found that Sterling was waiting to return us along the M4 at breakneck speed.  When we crossed the Severn Bridge, my thoughts turned to what we had managed to achieve in ten very hectic days.

As we turned off the motorway, I was quickly brought back to reality by the most horrendous thought … What if the washing machine short-circuited? How would we manage without the obligatory wash of all things underwear? I have to say the thought of any man without clean underwear, is a prospect that is enough to make even the sanest of us ladies short-circuit in a most spectacular fashion.

I’m glad to say that all was well on planet Zanussi.  The washing machine worked perfectly, and the awful thought of men in congealed “bundies” did not materialise.  Phew!

FOUR FINGERS AND THIRTEEN TOES – Fast forward two years

Looking back through my records today, I noted that it is nearly two years since I started the Four Fingers and Thirteen Toes’ Blog.  During that time, I have shared some of my thoughts on many diverse subjects – some anecdotal; some serious; some poking harmless fun at me and my family and some which I hope have been thought provoking.

 

It has been a pleasure to make this journey in your company, and I hope we can continue this sojourn for a long time to come.

 

When I started writing this Blog I had just completed a revision of Four Fingers and Thirteen Toes; the Thalidomide Memorial Campaign had taken shape; the so-called credit crunch was still biting hard and I had the pleasure of meeting Dr. Valerie Jones who delivered me, way back in December 1960.

 

So for this month, I thought it would be interesting to consider how quickly things can change. 

 

Fast forward two years – The Thalidomide Memorial Campaign continues with its good work, in securing that lasting recognition of the contribution that Thalidomide people and their families have made to society.  We are concentrating on three potential locations for the sitting of the Memorial Plaque.  We have gleaned support for the campaign from Lords and Baroness’, those in Business, Commerce and Law, Celebrities and Sports Stars, Henry Hoare, the eldest son of Sir Frederick and Lady Mary Hoare, and people from all walks of life.

 

I have met with Valerie Jones on several occasions, and a firm friendship has ensued which has allowed me to have a better understanding, of just how poorly my Mum was during the time leading up to my birth.

 

Sadly the global financial crisis, which some predicted would be over by the end of 2009, is still very evident.  And of course there have been dramatic changes in the world of politics and the media.

 

Humanity appears to revolve on an axis.  As a psychology graduate, I believe things are balanced one against the other – Ying and Yang.  But try as I have, I can’t actually find any really significant changes on the world stage, over the last two years to create that Ying and Yang balance.

 

As the world economy struggles to get back on its feet, I fear that the most vulnerable people in society, including disabled people, are still being hardest hit (socially and economically) in the face of our changing world.  When I recently logged onto my social media account, I was appalled to hear of a disabled friend who had been subjected to verbal abuse whilst out and about in her home town.  Having experienced that kind of discrimination when I was a teenager, I know how it feels.  However, as a promoter of Disability Rights, I find it hard believe that in our developed world, such deep-rooted bigotry still exists.  

 

I was also deeply saddened to read last week of a decision in the UK Supreme Court in the case of celebrated former ballerina Elaine MacDonald.  This gifted performer, described as “Britain’s best classical dancer” was appealing against a mandate from her local authority to deny the provision of over-night care.  Instead, this articulate lady is to be required to wear incontinence pads at night.  It is apparently common practice in the London Borough of Kensington and Chelsea to adopt such practices for people in similar situations to Miss MacDonald. 

 

What is interesting is that in 2007, Kensington and Chelsea was listed as the wealthiest borough in Britain.  The problem is that there is a great disparity between the “haves” of the fashionable areas, compared to the “have-nots” in the high-rise blocks in the northern most parts of this most “royal” of London boroughs. 

 

Why has someone in the corridors of power of the Town Hall not realised that if there is fundamental need for a basic Human Right, then where the divide between the “haves” and the “have-nots” is so great, there must be a sensible distribution of services to help those who are in most need.

 

The lone voice of Lady Hale (the dissenting voice of the judges who heard Elaine’s appeal) echoed the sentiments of disgust from many people the length of the United Kingdom.  As a lawyer whose foundations are firmly grounded in the field of family and social welfare, Lady Hale’s condemnation of the other judges sitting to hear this case was forceful.  I can only hope that common-sense will prevail in the interpretation of this judgement, and human dignity will not be sacrificed on the sword of budgetary constraints.  Somehow I doubt it.  And the consequence?  Older, vulnerable and disabled people will fear that their care package (if “care” is the correct terminology) will be reviewed with dire consequences.

 

I’m not entirely convinced that the next two years will see any major changes that will boost optimism in many areas of life.  Rising costs of living will not make things easy by any stretch of the imagination.  The future resolution of the phone hacking scandal will be of little comfort to those who have been affected by this most awful of journalistic actions, and the horrendous effects of war and poverty will continue to be keenly felt.

 

As I conclude this Blog, can I leave you with this thought …

 

This summer, maybe those who are in positions of real power and authority – politicians and policymakers – should forego their luxury vacations, and spend their holiday amongst the people who live in the most deprived areas of the world; make time to interact with people who live in unending isolation due to age or disability and then take time to see just how hard it really is for service personnel, their families and other disabled people, to adjust to a life destroyed by injuries inflicted through war, or more generally though accident, illness or old age.

 

At the end of the summer, these findings could then be taken back – not to some Select or Congressional Committee, but to where real action can be taken to make genuine changes. 

 

Then, when in a further two years, I hopefully celebrate four years of blogging; there will be changes that we can really enjoy.

Four Fingers & Thirteen Toes – The Euthanasia Debate

The whole debate about Euthanasia and Assisted Suicide is very topical at the moment.  Even though the subject deviates from many of the topics I generally talk about in my blog, I feel nevertheless that it is still very important.  Also, I discussed the very issue only last month on my radio programme ‘Telling It As It Is’ on Able Radio.

It is a very deep and emotional subject, and many people feel that it is one that they would rather avoid.  Others have firm views on either side of the spectrum.  So, please find below the complete transcript from that particular radio programme, where you can find out what my views on Euthanasia and Assisted Suicide are.

You can listen to this programme again, this Thursday evening (16th June) at 8:00 p.m. on www.ableradio.com  

**********

Welcome to ‘Telling It As It Is’ with me Rosie Moriarty-Simmonds. 

In this programme I will be deviating from our usual format, and dedicating the whole programme to discussing the very topical but contentious issue of ‘Legalising Euthanasia’, Also, called Assisted Dying, Assisted Suicide and Physician-Assisted Suicide’.

As someone who supports the ‘Right to Live’, I have been struggling to remain impartial and balanced in my quest to gather information, and  interpret the arguments, both for and against Euthanasia and Assisted Suicide.

I will try to be as informative and honest as I can :-

• What are euthanasia and Assisted Suicide? And what is the current situation? - RMS
• What are the main arguments for euthanasia? - RMS
• The main arguments against legalising euthanasia – RMS
• Comments from our listeners – RMS & MJ
• Has my view changed?- RMS

What are euthanasia and Assisted Suicide?

Euthanasia can be defined as ‘by act or omission, the intentional killing of a person whose life is felt not to be worth living’.

Others say, euthanasia is the “intentional killing of another person at his/her request for compassionate motives.”

Euthanasia can be:

Voluntary – where a competent person requests it

Involuntary – where a competent person is not consulted.  The person wants to live but is killed anyway – Do Not Resuscitate Orders by Doctors on medical notes, without consulting people or having any idea of their true quality of life.

Non-voluntary – where the person cannot make a decision or cannot make their wishes known – in a coma, a very young baby, person is senile, has learning difficulties etc.

Euthanasia is usually carried out by a doctor administering lethal drugs, for example, by injection.

Physician-assisted suicide (PAS) is where a doctor prescribes lethal drugs, for the patient to take himself.

In other words, the physician supplies the patient with the means to end his or her life, but does not carry out the actual killing.

Both euthanasia and assisted suicide are currently illegal in Britain.

Yet, proponents of euthanasia want to replace the comprehensive (and independent) House of Lords report that accompanied Lord Joffe’s euthanasia bills in 2005, with a new report compiled by the recently launched “Commission on Assisted Dying.” 

This inquiry into the issue of assisted suicide, which is not a formal remit from government, was launched with funding from the author Sir Terry Pratchett, who was diagnosed with a form of Alzheimer’s in 2008.

He is to appear in a BBC documentary about assisted suicide this summer.  And says, “I believe everybody possessed of a debilitating and incurable disease should be allowed to pick the hour of their death.”

The same programme will also feature footage of a man with motor neurone disease travelling to the Swiss euthanasia clinic Dignitas and will show him dying on screen.

The ‘Commission on Assisted Dying’, Chaired by Lord Falconer, is expected to deliver its recommendations to MPs over a change in the law this autumn.

But its findings are already a done deal.  Lord Falconer is a well-known advocate of euthanasia, who has already tried to introduce it into legislation in the Lords. 

At the last count, nine of the 12 “Commission” members are on record as supporting some change in the law to allow some form of euthanasia in the UK, (the remaining three are best described as neutral-to-wobbly, so there are no actual opponents of a change in the law here).

The lobby group Dignity in Dying (formerly the Voluntary Euthanasia Society) is now attempting to build momentum for its next attempt to change the law to allow ‘assisted dying’.

This will not be an easy task. Three attempts to change the law in Britain over the last six years have been singularly unsuccessful resulting in defeats.

Opposition is building all over the world with euthanasia bills being defeated in Canada, Australia, the United States, Israel and France, all in the last twelve months.

What are the main arguments for euthanasia?

There are three main arguments for euthanasia.

• Ø We want it - the autonomy argument
• Ø We need it - the compassion argument
• Ø We can control it - the public policy argument

The debate in the 1990s centred on the compassion argument, but because of cultural changes and success in palliative care, has moved to arguments based on autonomy.

Autonomy means ‘self-determination’ and the language heard now in the euthanasia debate is often that of choice, control, freedoms and rights.

The euthanasia lobby’s push, has moved from euthanasia as a ‘needed response to symptoms’ to euthanasia as ‘an autonomous choice’ by those with, for example, degenerative neurological disease.

Those in favour of euthanasia often state that euthanasia and assisted suicide should be a matter of free choice.

Autonomy is important but we have laws because autonomy is not absolute . We all value living in a free society but also recognise that we are ‘not free’ to do things which threaten the reasonable freedoms of others.

Supporters of the “Right to Die,” or of the concept of “dying with dignity,” would argue in favour of an individual’s right to, maintain the ability to opt for a humane and controlled end to his or her life, when that life is felt to be unbearable due to physical pain.

Physician-assisted suicide and euthanasia are topics that tend to stir up a lot of emotion in the people advocating or opposing them.  The fear of living in unendurable pain, or watching a loved one suffer, is for many an incredibly gripping one.

And of course there have been a number of high profile cases in the past couple of years.  Notably Diane Pretty and Debbie Purdy.

Although Assisted suicide remains a criminal offence in England and Wales, (punishable by up to 14 years in prison);       The Director of Public Prosecutions, Keir Starmer QC, issued new guidelines in 2009.

These guidelines said that, decisions about prosecution would be based on the circumstances of each case, and would focus on the motives of those assisting the suicide.

Debbie Purdy, who has multiple sclerosis, won an historic judgment in the House of Lords, which ruled that she had a right to know if her husband would face prosecution in such circumstances. 

It was ruled that if her husband was judged to have acted with compassion, he would not be prosecuted.

Ms Purdy said: “Two years ago, when we won in the House of Lords I was halfway through preparation to go to Switzerland, because I was losing the use of my arms, and I was terrified of what that would mean for me.

“The thing is I haven’t made up my mind about what I want to do because my life is not unbearable.

“But I would have been dead for two years by now if we hadn’t have won.”

Ms Purdy said following the ruling, she was confident enough to cancel the plans in the knowledge that, her husband would not be held accountable for her death in the future.

British people have travelled with friends or family to the Dignitas clinic in Switzerland, where people suffering from terminal illness can end their lives.   Although police investigated the cases, none were taken to court.

In America, the state of Oregon, legalised physician-assisted suicide in 1998.

In the Netherlands voluntary euthanasia and assisted suicide are still criminal offences, but doctors are exempt from criminal liability in certain circumstances.

Those in favour of euthanasia think that there is no reason why euthanasia can’t be controlled by proper regulation, but even they fear that regulations won’t deal with people who want to implement euthanasia for bad motives.

 

What are the main arguments against legalising euthanasia?

The main reasons given for not legalising euthanasia are that it is:

• Ø Unnecessary – because alternative treatments exist
• Ø Dangerous – putting vulnerable people at risk
• Ø Wrong – contrary to all historical codes of ethics

 Those against ‘assisted dying’ and ‘assisted suicide’, like the campaign group Not Dead Yet UK, an international network of disabled people [with physical and sensory impairments, learning difficulties and mental illness,] are actively opposed to moves to legalise assisted suicide, assisted dying and euthanasia.

Not Dead Yet UK say that cases like that of Debbie Purdy, will have far reaching implications in seeking to invalidate the current law, by highlighting a lack of enforcement and legitimising the status quo of generally not prosecuting those who assist another person to die.

Requests for euthanasia and assisted suicide are extremely rare when people’s physical, social, psychological and spiritual needs, are properly met. 

Anti-euthanasia campaigners within the medical profession, say that… The key priority should be to build on the excellent tradition of palliative care available in this country, and make it more readily accessible to all who need it.

There is a postcode lottery of palliative care in this country.  We should be promoting care rather than killing.

The vast majority of people in the UK, dying from diseases like motor neurone disease, do not want ‘euthanasia’ or ‘assisted suicide’.

The very small numbers of high profile cases of ‘assisted suicide’, which are regularly and repeatedly highlighted in the media, are the well-publicised exceptions to the rule.

The real question therefore is, whether we should change the law for a very small number of people who are strongly determined to end their lives. 

To do so would place the lives of a much larger number of vulnerable people in danger, and mean that pressure, whether real or imagined, is felt by sick, disabled and elderly people to request an early death.

If the law is ever changed to allow so called ‘assisted dying’ it is possible that economic pressure will be brought to bear on people, openly or more likely very subtly, to request early death in order to save money for the use of relatives, society or a health service short of resources.

Killing is very cost effective – it doesn’t cost much for an ampoule or barbiturate. That is why there needs to be promotion of care, not killing, and hold onto laws which protect vulnerable people.

Some disabled people have become increasingly anxious about the dangers associated with the call for ‘assisted dying’ to be legalised in the UK. 

The idea that disabled people, including those who do not have long to live, are “better off dead” is not new. 

It is believed that individual disabled people’s suicidal cries for help come from a lack of proper practical, emotional and medical support needed to live dignified lives, rather than from the ‘suffering’ they experience as a result of a medical condition. 

Such loss of hope – which forces some to see death as their only option – is easily misinterpreted in a society that continues to see and treat disabled people as second class citizens. 

Over the last 10 years there have been 134 British cases of ‘assisted suicide’ at the Swiss Dignitas suicide apartment. 

Eight of these have been referred to the Director of Public Prosecutions, for a decision as to whether a prosecution is needed in the public interest. 

They include the case of Daniel James, paralysed from the neck down after a rugby accident, who travelled to Switzerland only 18 months after his injuries were sustained.

In that case the Director of Public Prosecutions, took the view that it would be totally wrong to prosecute his mother, who had been punished enough by her experience.

She had tried everything in her power to stop him seeking ‘assisted suicide’ and is still haunted every day by eventually relenting and accompanying him to Dignitas.

The problem here is that his severe impairment was seen as the rationale for his desire for an assisted suicide.

For Daniel, the fact that he would be permanently disabled was seen as justification for the decision of a previously fit, active and outgoing young man.  

Not Dead Yet UK believe the majority of people who would be affected by assisted dying legislation, are disabled people. 

People already have the right to refuse unwanted treatment. Suicide is no longer illegal. 

Making it legal to assist someone to die, does not give that person a ‘new’ human right – it provides a new immunity from justice for those who provide the assistance.

Assisted suicide should not just be another medical treatment option, and it should not be made any part of routine health care.

Opponents to ‘euthanasia’ believe that legalising ‘assisted suicide’ will inevitably lead to increasingly adverse judgements about the quality of life of disabled people. 

They say, this will undoubtedly begin to affect the many disabled people who cannot speak for themselves and who have not requested death. 

If society as a whole gives in to the demand to assist in a suicide, then they are  reinforcing attitudes that say that ‘the lives of disabled people are not worth living – that they are a particular burden to themselves, their relatives and friends, and the state’. 

These negative attitudes are faced by disabled people all the time.

This discrimination does not just happen at moments of crisis or imminent death.

It is the underlying reason why society is so inaccessible and systematically excludes and isolates disabled people.

As Baroness Jane Campbell, Convener of Not Dead Yet UK, commenting on the prospect of legalising euthanasia says:

“This is the beginning of a process and policy, that can be steadily opened wider and wider, until any person may assist another disabled person to die without consequence.

We believe state sanctioning of ‘assisted suicide’ will inevitably switch the traffic lights from red to green on this issue.”

Comments from our listeners- RMS & MJ

Rebekah [age 37] says :

I believe that there is no right answer. It is a matter of personal choice. Many people have amazing quality of life with serious physical or mental impairments. I do not believe that these alone are reason enough to commit suicide. However, there are extreme circumstances when I think that if that is the path the person wishes to take, (after counselling and full understanding of the impact their choice will have on their loved ones), they should be supported in their choice. I have seen family members battle cancer and given days to live, see every inch of their life pass by in agony, but as they “hang on”, pleading for peace and ending, I just have to stand by and watch. However, I think it would be very very difficult to actually participate in assisting someone. My own feelings are that I would like to remain in control of decisions about my life. It should be my choice. I plan to “book my ticket to Switzerland” if necessary – but hopefully not for a while yet!!

Denis [age 71] says :

I definitely think that euthanasia should be legalised.  I have seen too many people suffer, or no longer know who they are.  I don’t want to ever get into that situation.  If I did, I would want somebody to end it for me.

Kevin Fitzpatrick, from Not Dead Yet UK says :

You cannot legislate for compassion in advance, so it’s a nonsense to try (as though it might even be possible that every time someone was assisted to die, it was only ever a family member helping a ‘loved one’ out of pure(??) compassion).  There is no such thing as complete autonomy (no individual patient is purely autonomous but is always influenced in some way, whether negatively or not) the phrase ‘right to die’ is misleading and is really only shorthand for the right to choose manner and timing which already happens and so needs no legislation and that disabled people’s lives will be put at serious risk if some botched attempt is made to legalise euthanasia.

The debate so far has not reached any great depth having focussed on pleading several individual painful cases. We do not wish to enter the ground of using people’s misery this way, so for this and other reasons, we don’t comment on individuals’ lives.

We do want to question the way in which disabled people’s lives are (not) valued by non-disabled people who will ‘assist’ them to die. That’s to say, non-disabled physicians understand nothing about the lived experience of being disabled but still make the judgement that we have lives that ‘are not worth living’! I think we can all tell some of them, until we’re blue in the face, that we are happy to be alive and they won’t ever be convinced – but maybe the majority can be brought to understand that simple fact……..and that they are in no position of any authority whatever to judge our disabled lives as worthless.

Has my view changed?

Even after spending quite some time researching this subject, I still feel that life is precious.

I am relieved to have read that – In 1994 a House of Lords’ Select Committee reported on euthanasia, and unanimously recommended, no change in the law.

Its Chairman, neurologist Lord Walton, later described in Parliament their concerns about such legislation:

‘We concluded that it was virtually impossible to ensure that all acts of euthanasia were truly voluntary and that any liberalisation of the law in the United Kingdom could not be abused. We were also concerned that vulnerable people – the elderly, lonely, sick or distressed – would feel pressure, whether real or imagined, to request early death.’

I agree with Lord Walton that, people who are dying often feel a burden on relatives, carers and a society short of resources.  

A law allowing euthanasia would place them under huge pressure.

Like many disabled people I too am in constant pain, and experience frustration, anger, distress and discrimination.

It is difficult to measure pain because it is subjective, and yet experience of pain is one of the main reasons used by advocates in favour of euthanasia.

I don’t know how I would feel in the future, or how I would feel if my circumstances changed or degenerated rapidly.

But at this moment in time, despite being a severely disabled person, who although independent of mind, is quite dependent on other people for physical support – I enjoy life too much to even contemplate ending it.

Some people might say, well it’s okay for you to say that, you are happily married, have a beautiful son, a nice home, a job, a close family, lots of friends, good support and a busy social life.

What they don’t know is that I have had to fight hard, work hard, be determined, brave and forthright in order to enjoy the quality of life that I do have.

It would be all too easy for me to sit back and wallow in self-pity, as are the expectations of some people when they first meet me.

Quite often incorrect assumptions are made about me when others meet me for the first time.  Often people say “I feel sorry for you”, or “I would hate to be in your situation”.

Often members of the medical profession are surprised when I tell them about my life and all that I have achieved.

So to have such people make a decision about me and my life, and to have the control and power to end my life legally, would be for me utterly abhorrent.

And as for asking a loved one to assist me to die, it would be unthinkable.

Having experienced the heartache of losing people I love through illness, accident and old age.

I simply could not possibly conceive adding guilt on top of that heartache for the people that I love, by asking them to assist me to commit suicide.

I am firmly of the opinion, that life is for living, life is already too short, make the most of it while you can.

Final sound bite …

 ”If you want to tell me what you think of today’s programme, then please email me -

Rosie@ableradio.com

So until the next time, its good bye from me, and all the team on Telling it as it is …”

**********

Just to remind you that, you can listen to this programme again, this Thursday evening (16th June) at 8:00 p.m.  on www.ableradio.com

FOUR FINGERS AND THIRTEEN TOES – RITES OF PASSAGE

There are few things that direct the mind to the march of time than the arrival of a new baby. 

I can almost hear the gossip now … “She kept that quiet, and fancy at her age!”

Well, I’m pleased to say it’s not me, but Steve’s niece who gave birth to a healthy baby boy a couple of weeks ago.  Baby Luke heralded the start of a new generation in our family, a mantle that James has been proud to hold for almost as long as he could talk.

When the news came, I suppose I was just a little melancholy at the memory of all those rows of baby clothes that lined the wardrobe, the boxes of disposable nappies that filled the boot of the car on each shopping trip, and the thought of all those lovely little semi-spoonerisms that kids utter with such ease.

Of course like most parents, we wished we had taken the time to write them all down, if only to cause major embarrassment at significant times of teenage and young adolescent life.  But alas, we will have to rely on memory to “eke” just a small amount of fun from those happenings and events that cause such great merriment to those of us now in the middle-age and older generation.

Rites of passage are a funny thing.  They can create great pride, cause mayhem or make you realise how time flies.

At around about the time that young Luke made his entrance to the world, we received a letter advising that – as a pending school leaver – James would need a national insurance number.  OMG (!!) it suddenly dawned on me that my once dependent child was soon to be old enough to start contributing to the household budget that he had single handedly sent through the ozone layer; and this had been achieved by him consuming vast amounts of food, cost us inordinate amounts in sports club subscriptions and polishing off enough trainers to provide an emerging economic nation with sufficient footwear to get them through at least three Olympic games!

My once dependent child!

Whilst sitting at the dinner table that evening, I realised that James’ Saturday afternoons out with mates, were slightly alcohol filled forays into early adolescence and a little extra use of his Dad’s aftershave was designed to impress the opposite sex.  Everything I had done (not using my Dad’s aftershave I hasten to add!) to a greater or lesser extent over ?!!@?!!  years ago, my son was now doing and enjoying every moment.

A few days later, after I had sort of regained my composure over this rite of passage, I was slapped in the face with another.  The last official school day was over, and a triumphant return from full time education was marked with the school polo shirt signed by all manner of friends and acquaintances – and there were even some teacher’s signatures sending wishes of good luck for the future.

Now, I must confess I cried my eyes out when the primary school polo shirt came home in much the same fashion five years ago, but to see “smiley faces” replaced by “Luv U ” next to the names of kids I could remember on the first day at school was just too much to bear.

So the polo shirt got lovingly parcelled up and placed with all the other childhood memorabilia and then it was onto the next rite of passage … Preparation for the school prom.

Having bawled my eyes out at the signed polo shirt, I can tell you that the Gents outfitters to which we went to acquire the dinner suit resembled the swimming pool at our local leisure centre by the time we left the shop.  The whole experience was made all the more emotional by the sound of the Alison Moyet track “All cried out” blaring from the HMV store next door.

That left me wondering whether I could cope with the next rite of passage in the form of the holiday “with my mates”.  A couple of weeks ago I had a conversation about this very subject with a few of my “girly” friends, and was reassured when told, that “so long as Mum and Dad are paying, the kids will still want to come away with you”.  But hopefully, I will not have to consider this rite for at least another year.

My now very independent child!

 

I could go on and on about these rites which keep cropping up and how I will cope with them, but I won’t.  Instead, I shall take this opportunity to remind Steve that theatre tickets, romantic weekends and meals out will now be the order of the day. 

So I guess that MY rite of passage has been from “tummy” mummy (and yes, you did read it correctly!) to proud Mum and hopefully in the future (and I sincerely hope the more distant future) to “Nana”.

For the time being I shall have to practice at that latter role with young Luke – ranking behind his Grandma and Great-grandma of course… But hey, the attraction of being transported around on the back of a large dodgem car, by his rather eccentric Great Aunty Rosie, will I hope be just as attractive to the newest generation of the family, as it has been to James and all of his friends. 

We are soon off to meet Luke for the first time and I hope that his Mum and Dad have as much fun at parenthood as Steve and I have been fortunate enough to enjoy.  It’s not over by a long way, but I am reminded of a saying that my Mum told me many years ago “Parents hold their children’s hands for a while and their hearts forever.”

How true that is.

FOUR FINGERS AND THIRTEEN TOES – A RIGHT ROYAL DAY

The carriage pulled up outside the Abbey, and Bride’s father lent a gentle helping hand to his eldest daughter as she stepped out of the limousine, and then the ceremony began. 

For one moment, I was transported back nearly 23 years to the day I got married.  It only seems like yesterday that I had my bridal moment and, just like Kate Middleton, embarked on a new life which would bring many challenges and its fair share of sadness, but yields an overwhelming sense of happiness that is hard to put into words.

Dad giving me away... literally!

Most of us have wedding days that are a world apart from the spectacular event that we saw last Friday, but at its heart the sentiments are the same.  A wonderfully uplifting ceremony, people wishing you good luck, a collection of wedding presents that you are not entirely sure what to do with!

It is a day that most Brides never want to end, and just to bring everything back to reality … A hefty bill for the whole event!

It doesn’t matter whether you have been married six months, six years or sixty years; values may change over the years, but the very essence of getting married is to seal your commitment to each other, which of course is marked by a day to remember long after the confetti has been swept away.

In keeping with this sentiment, I think it is important to mark special or significant occasions in a way that you can remember.  For people of my generation, it will be the investiture of Prince Charles (as Prince of Wales) in 1969, the Queen’s Silver Jubilee in 1977 and of course, the great celebrations surrounding the marriage of Prince Charles to Lady Diana Spencer.  I’m not going to bore you with details of what I did on those occasions, but if you read Four Fingers and Thirteen Toes, you will find out how the marriage of Charles and Diana was celebrated in a small part of Jersey!

For our kids, their generation have only seen one or two major state occasions that they could remember.  Sadly two of them relate to the passing of much loved members of the Royal family – Diana – Princess of Wales, and of course the Queen Mother.  But most recently was the Queen’s Golden Jubilee in 2002.  The Golden Jubilee was the first time the residents of our locality got together and organised a street party.  We were fortunate to have a couple of born organisers who were happy to take on the role of getting the whole thing off the ground and what a day we had … Lots of food, lots of drinking, lots of fun for the kids, and at the end of it, a real sense of belonging to a friendly neighbourhood. 

Unfortunately, time marches on, neighbours’ move, different priorities mean you are drawn in different directions, and so sadly there was no street party to mark this Royal Wedding. 

However, never despair – Rosie is here!  With warm thoughts of how I spent those Royal occasions in the 70’s and 80’s I decided we should organise a Royal Breakfast, where we could munch and drink our way through this memorable event.

We mustered a Moriarty and Simmonds coat of arms, agreed the wording for the invites, and sent them out.  It was to be primarily a ladies event.  After all, no-one enjoys a wedding more than the girls.  So, with tissues at the ready we prepared for the big day.  The table groaned with an array of breads, pastries and “breakfasty” things.  The fridge was packed with the stuff that makes you “hic” very easily, and we even managed to decorate the garden with bunting and Union flags.  It was all very patriotic. 

Our guests arrived in time to see Boris Johnson bumble along the pavement to the Abbey, to see David and Victoria glide gracefully into their pew, and to view the Bride’s mother in all her Middle-England glory lay claim to the biggest prize in wedding one-up-manship – and become mother-in-law to a future King.

We ran out of tissues midway through the morning, a few of us stood as the National Anthem was played, and the few male guests in the house ogled at the second national treasure of the day … the Maid of Honour, and what a Maid she was.

I was quietly triumphant, the Bride was dressed and styled exactly as I’d predicted.  Those of you who have taken time to listen to Rosie “telling it as it is” on Able Radio will know of my predictions; and to those of you who have not – then shame … My viewing figures are dependent on your support!

But I digress – back to the wedding.  I was quite surprised at how patriotic some of my guest really were, and even more surprised that some, who – let’s just say don’t regard the institution of marriage too highly, were moved to tears by the sight of the event.

After the last drop of fizz had been drunk, the last crumb cleaned from the table, and the last guest had left, my mind wandered back to my special day.  Maybe my “Prince” is a little less svelte, and a little thinner on top than he was all those years ago; and my wedding dress wouldn’t flatter my figure as it did way back then, but what does it matter.  At the end of the day, it’s all about happiness.

My wonderful husband Stephen & very happy Rosie on our wedding day.

I hope for William and Kate the memory of their special day does linger long after the confetti has gone.  I hope they are strengthened by the trials, tribulations, good times and bad of their life, even if it is a life less than ordinary.

Whether a Prince or a Pauper, the pathways of life need careful navigation.  For them, as much as for the future of our most British of institutions – the monarchy, it would take a hard, perhaps a heartless person, not to wish them the best of good luck in their future.

And as we packed away the bunting I was just glad that everyone who came to our Royal Breakfast enjoyed themselves, and will be able to look back and remember where they were the day “Wills and Kate” got married.

FOUR FINGERS AND THIRTEEN TOES – RECYCLING, LIFE AND THE ENVIRONMENT

This morning, I had rather hoped to wake up to a stream of sun light pouring into our bedroom through the crack in the curtains; And when my PA opened the window I should have been greeted with the wonderful sound of birdsong that signals that the real start of British summertime.

Instead, what did I get? Grey skies and the merest hint of birds rustling around in the evergreen tree just behind the bedroom.  It’s the last week of March, and for those of us in the northern hemisphere, we should be looking forward to long sunny summer days, when you can open the patio doors and let in the fresh air.  Even if you can’t dine al fresco every evening, you should be able to look forward to a glass of whatever takes your fancy – viewing your freshly manicured lawn, or in our case the freshly manicured portion of green that passes for a lawn, so long as you don’t look too closely for the weeds.

It also appears to be the time of year when (posted through our letterbox) we get an abundance of recycling bags from Charities, some of whom you never knew existed.  These are usually asking for bric-a-brac, pairs of shoes (tied together by the laces of course), good quality clothes – but no books, CD’s or tapes (now is anyone out there willing to admit to owning cassette tapes any longer … No, it really gives your age away doesn’t it!)

Like many local authorities the world over, our local authority here in Cardiff have a penchant for changing their recycling policy every time someone further up the local authority chain says “Ozone”.  Consequently, we currently get black bins, green bins and green bags.  We are told to recycle garden and food waste in a green bin but we dare not put a large tree branch into the gardening green bin, for fear that the Recycling Reich will single our bin out with a label that tells us we will be hauled before the Garbage Gestapo if we ever transgress again.

The net result of our local recycling policy is that paths, driveways, back lanes and previously delightfully pretty front gardens have become homes for polycarbonate pods, that are unsightly at best, and a massive nuisance to wheelchair users, older people and parents with buggies at worst.

Now, I fully appreciate that recycling is the way forward and, in our house we have embraced this process with enthusiasm.  Steve has organised that we have bins for this and bags for that.  In fairness the system does work well, but woe betide anyone who puts the wrong item into the wrong bin.  Suddenly, this relatively tame man becomes a recycling psychopath obsessed with not having one of those stickers that tells the neighbourhood we are failed recyclers.  I have caught him trawling through the green bag at some unearthly time of the night for fear of officialdom honing their environmental antenna in direction of our front door.

There is however, a serious side to the need to protect our environment, the world community, and preserve the natural resources that surround us. 

Listening to the radio earlier on this month, it struck me how many days throughout the year are designated to promoting some area or another of our lives.  Setting aside Patron Saints days, there were twenty nine days in March designated to promoting life, wellbeing, culture and the environment.  I had the pleasure of taking part in two of these event days – World Book Day on the 5th March, and International Women’s Day on the 8th March. 

For World book day, I spent an afternoon with tenants from a local housing association talking about my book, and persuading them that setting up a book club would be a really good way of enhancing the community spirit in the Association.  Then later in the week, I spent the day at the National Assembly for Wales to celebrate International Women’s Day.  Both occasions were very different, but I had the pleasure of meeting some very interesting people.  It occurred to me that those events did much to promote the fact that well being and an appreciation of culture can do so much to enhance quality of life.  And, more importantly, this need to promote a good quality of life transcends race, gender and religion.

A cursory glance at the internet led me to a couple of very different websites on awareness days.  The United Nations webpage promoted a whole host of “world” environmental and cultural days, on topics that we wouldn’t ordinarily think about … Remembering victims of slavery; the promotion of copyright and intellectual property; days to promote environmental issues such as water and meteorology; And the promotion of health matters in the third world – addressing illnesses like tuberculosis and malaria.

Closer to home, I found a site promoting awareness days and events in Britain.  What surprised me was the depth of awareness there is on things that are so relevant to us … Coffee Break Day was held on the 4th March to promote the work of the Meningitis Trust, and World Glaucoma week was concerned with the prevention of blindness.  These are some of the lesser known causes that were celebrated this month, alongside our regular days supporting cancer charities and the work of those involved in other health related research foundations.

Having ambled through the world-wide web, I realised there are many thousands of people who are genuinely concerned with the world that we live in, and in making life better for the millions of people who live in the poorest of conditions.  These unsung heroes quietly go about the business of promoting the wellbeing of the environment and of people who live with illness and impairment the world over.

There is no doubt that recycling is big business.  By 2015 the UK Government expects local authorities to recycle at least 33% of our rubbish.  So it is a fair bet that we can probably expect more of these charity bags to appear in our hallways.

Until recently, I had hesitated to put my old dresses, coats and cardigans into recycling.  After all what would anyone do with a garment altered to accommodate four fingers, or a pair of leggings to fit thirteen toes!  Now, it gives me a good feeling to think that at some point in the not-too-distant future, some of my old psychedelic dresses will be used by a woman in a village in a needy third world country. 

Perhaps, with rose-tinted spectacles, I have this picture in my mind’s eye of such a dress being paraded at a tribal event bringing colour to that occasion in much the same way it would have done on a cold damp day in South Wales.

In thinking about these “World” and ”National” days, it has struck me that anyone can make a difference to life and our environment – no matter what their position.  But, before we can all truly subscribe to the recycling ethos, I believe that “recycling snobbery” has to be eradicated.  What do I mean by this?  Well, certainly in our area of Cardiff, there appears to be a certain sense of “one-upmanship” in the number of green bags you can manage to fill your pavement with on recycling day, and I bet it happens in your area too!

And so, where has all this musing led me.  Ironically, to remember a young Brazilian girl named Rafaela that I met in 1996 – whose story I mentioned in my book.  As one of the second generation of Thalidomide children discovered in Brazil, she and her family lived in the Favelas of Rio de Janeiro and came to the UK for the fitting of prosthetic ears.  Rafaela is now a young woman in her middle twenties, but is unlikely to have escaped the poverty that is so very evident in that South American city. 

I understand that Carnival time in Rio is a time when those who live in the Favelas supplement their income by collecting aluminium cans for recycling.  It saddens me to think of Rafaela possibly having to collect, for a living, what we regard as a bit of a nuisance to put into a green bag for recycling.

It has done me a power of good to think about recycling in new light, and given me an appreciation that it’s not just about landfill and saving the planet.  It is about improving life chances for so many needy and deserving people. 

But be warned … I have already said that recycling is big business, and with that in mind there are rogues out there who are anything but charitable or environmental in their intentions.  Any of those charity bags that are remotely suspicious should be discarded.  But why not, if you don’t already do so, use those unscrupulous bags for your non-recyclables.  That way, those who have no regard for the environment, or our fellow human beings, are consigned where they belong … In the rubbish!

And, just one final thought … wars, natural disasters and conflicts aside, what a wonderful world we are privileged to live in … I hope you agree, and if so you might like to know that World Earth Day is celebrated on the 22nd April.