Bugger the Truth.

We had our day of summer yesterday..huge, high cirrus clouds and blue, blue sky. I went to a friend’s BBQ in a place called Whittlesford. She had a gorgeous 3-tiered garden and a wooden bridge water feature with a lawn that unlike mine, was all grass.

At one point in the sun-kissed, wine drenched, drowsy afternoon I ended up being given a lecture by a white haired architect about the way the Twin Towers had fallen on September 11th ; sliced and collapsed very professionally. This had not been due to the planes but instead to a kind of explosive, thermide and C4, that had been found in the rubble. He drew the foundations of the Twin Towers in the air and made a chopping motion…. ‘there…and there… It’s on the footage of course. You can check it anytime...’

He continued with the BBC report on the collapse of Building 7 ..which had STILL been standing, looming over the female reporter, at the time she had filed her report. It did collapse of course but no one had questioned why she had described it in detail several minutes before it had actually happened.
There was more…much more. The bit of fuselage found by the Pentagon had been too small for the implicated plane. It belonged to an unmanned drone the Americans had been testing in the months running up to September. Basically the Pentagon had been hit by a missile.

Everything pointed to a ‘false flag’ event perpetrated by the US government in order to create substantial grounds for war and subsequently for more control and power for a very small group of Neo Cons and cronies.

He was part of a group ‘The Truth about 9/11’ gathering evidence on this to be presented to Congress and he was sure a date would be announced soon but he worried that the Bush/ Cheney contingent would elicit another ‘false flag’ before the next election which, by dint of the Patriot Act being now enforceable, would mean that Bush would remain in power without having to go to an election.
It was a lot to take in. Not that I haven’t heard some of these conspiracies before. I had just filed them in my mind under ‘potentially Roswell.’ Now, with these more detailed facts and the severity and seniority of the lecturer I felt less flippant.

The man sighed and drank more red wine. The sun jittered and jumped across his glass and a plane droned overhead. His wife meandered past en route to the fridge, looked at him and made a questioning twin tower gesture with her arms at me. I nodded discreetly. She rolled her eyes.

The Truth may be Out There but it is still a Bit of a Bugger.

Today i will mostly be Up The Hill Backwards in New York!

I am guest blogging on my cousin's fabulous site http://upthehillbackwards2.blogspot.com/ today, whilst she is away. (She did ask me you know..I don't make it a habit to blast in and write on people's blogs whilst they are on holiday.hmmm now there's an idea..) .
She does wonderful, ludicrous parenting blogs from her tiny New York apartment..not quite 'Sex In The City' ..more 'Babies and Titty' . She is becoming somewhat of a celebrity in the world of nappies and dummies (sorry - diapers and pacifiers) but there is much, much more going on in there too!
Please do have a peek!

Job Lot.

I have a free day. Nothing to do but job applications and essential gardening and house cleaning. So I pull out my rucksack and gear up for a hike along the river. Only I have to return in less then an hour because my eyes are shit. I stagger and squint and my eyes flic flic flic looking for the safe ground. Defeated and infuriated I retreat to the flat. If only there were no people around. I wouldn’t mind so much. But people drifting in and out of my peripherals with their children and their dogs and their sodding, bloody bicycles…

There is nothing for it. I look through the jobs again. Here are some I did earlier:
Africa News and Current Affairs Producer: BBC
Administrator: Cambridge (x 10)
Writer for agency in Amsterdam. (This position comes with a bicycle. I am very hopeful!)
Part time Lecturer in Creative Media: Bath University
Regional Programme Coordinator: Disabled NGO: Sri Lanka

All these jobs may seem strange to you. You know me as a writer and yet it states in my mini bio up above I am a film maker. In fact I am an Oscar nominated film maker! Oh yes indeedy. (‘Choka- Get Lost!’ 2001) Many people have asked me why I am not still grappling within the industry? Is it because I is disabled?

I was essentially a producer so, apart from the fact that the sight loss is a drain on my energy it doesn’t really affect my work at all. …and for those of you who are confused here is the old film school difference between producer and director:

Producer: This is the person who decides the time is right to embark on the bonkers lunacy of making a film; the person who options the book, sources the script, who finds the finance, who brings on the director, polices the casting and soothes the (usually weeping) screenwriter. Strangely it is often a highly creative and nurturing role. However, the buck definitely stops here. The producer hires and fires, signs off the production schedules and manages the overall budgets. And the producer finds distribution outlets, markets the film…gets it sold.

Director. This is the person, usually hired by the producer, who takes the script and visualises the entire film in their head..often ‘reworking’ it to set the screenwriter weeping again. They then find a particular cinematographer and importantly a trustworthy editor who can translate their vision onto celluloid and together they oversee the creative element of the production. The director does not usually have much to do with the finance (apart from the usual fight with the producer about the cost of a crane shot.) This is for everyone’s safety.

The thing is that the producer and the director, although they inspire and support each other, usually have very defined functions. This applies to everyone. The Coen brothers are spooky and finish each other’s sentences but they know exactly who does what on a shoot.

Defined roles are key. Shoots fall apart because creative personalities without defined boundaries crash and smash into each other like sumo wrestlers and this upsets the technicians who freak out, become more introverted and snide and then storm off to better jobs.

To tell the truth I loved film production. I loved creating and developing ideas. I loved pulling crews together and production managing. I found, interestingly, that I could be incredibly effective and efficient both in pre production and on a shoot in complete opposition to my personal life. I loved juggling a hundred things a day and expending every scrap of energy I had and I loved watching an edit coming together.…but I HATED marketing. I HATED schmoozing. This is unfortunate for a producer. With the right budget you can hire people to schmooze for you but sadly I have never worked on a shoot with the right budget.
So I rather lost confidence and then I lost interest. Artisically successful…sure…but that doesn’t buy the champagne darling.

Turns out that in truth I am a writer..with benefits sure. I can produce films. (Did I mention the Oscar nomination?) I can also programme manage for any NGO including those in Sri Lanka, administrate stuff (yawn), teach creative media (errr) and much, much more. (As long as it never involves marketing...) You just need to try me.

Here’s hoping for that writing job in Amsterdam eh! It has a canal view.

Thighs the Limit.

Thanks for the thoughts and really I am fine! In fact I felt so much better that I overdid it in my weights class at the gym and now cannot bend. Funny enough, talking of thighs, I couldn’t help noticing how knock kneed Boris Johnson was at the closing ceremony of the Olympics yesterday. He looked like he had the posh version of rickets. Having said that he didn’t screw up the hand over by dropping the flag (and don’t tell me you didn’t have bets on it) . The Chinese displays were phenomenal and terrifying in their discipline. Human mass as machine. Did you see the Memory Tower? It fair blew my mind.
I was actually pretty impressed with the British bit too….the double-decker bus full of legendary contemporary dance troupes like Candoco http://www.candoco.co.uk/ topped off by the sizzling riffs of Jimmy Page! (Shame about Leona Lewis though when we have so many other legendary female voices to share.. Poor girl. She isn’t exactly blessed with The Smarts is she? Bet her and Beckham got on like a house on fire.)
Oh GAWD!!! Look what I just did?! Celebrity slagging. For Pete’s Sake I haven’t even met these people..now I feel all dirty and immediately need to balance this rubbish out with a real story only I haven’t got one on this cool, breezy, bank holiday morning. I lay in bed earlier listening to the doves cooing and the trees hushing the wind (and Dennis vandelising the bird table again..little sod) trying to cobble together something pithy or witty or warm. But nowt. Over to you Gary Larson.

An Apple a day dear.

Levy Mwanawasa died. He was only 59 and turns out he had been doing, comparitively, rather a sterling job as Zambia’s Prime Minister. He had actually told Mugabe where to get off. Sadly he had been involved in a terrible car crash some years ago. Dad was one of the medics who helped get him prepped to be medi-vacced (flown out of the country for treatment) and Dad had said he was very lucky to have survived in the first place. He had managed to recover and run a country but that crash had affected his health and well..one thing and another. Diabetes. A stroke. I am sorry.

What now Zambia?

I went to the doctor later yesterday afternoon. I was the last patient and had to wrangle with the receptionist for her to keep the lights on.

I was feeling under the weather.. Not just tired but ‘stupid tired’ to coin the medical terminology. It had hit me like a sack of custard last week and I was still falling asleep all over the place. Given that falling asleep mid counselling session at Citizens Advice with some poor sod desperately trying to tell me about their house being repossessed was hardly fair. I thought I should just have a check up.

The doctor is a pale wearily posh bloke. He ushers me into his room with the heavy exhausted boredom of the British GP. Adorning his spare chair is a trainee who is rather too old for her hairdo. Pigtails. She too looks terminally bored. Immediately I feel mollified for bothering them in their orgy of ennui.

I am a doctor’s daughter. I want them to know I understand basic general practice. I am not your ordinary punter patient. Oh nooo.. I grew up in a place where people died of cerebral malaria in three days..where friends were gored by buffalo….I have shot films in HIV/AIDS hospices. I know about sickness.

‘I am stupid tired’. I say. Its not going well.

Doc nods patiently. I can almost hear him thinking about the chardonnay in his fridge.

I rethink tactics. First always start with an apology based on the doctor’s default assumption that you are a raging hypochondriac.

‘I am sorry to bother you.’ I get into my stride pretty quickly. ‘I am sure I am absolutely fine but the symptoms came on very quickly last week and I can’t shake them and I just want to rule out any potential parasites including Bilhazia and Giadiasis as I was in Zambia last February. Oh…. and you should know that I have a bad reaction to Flagyll. It makes me hallucinate. There was this one time when I was being treated for amoebic dysentery and they gave me Flagyll! It was hilarious….I wondered around the house locking everyone in their rooms for safety thinking we were being attacked by thieves ..my mother had to follow me around unlocking stuff… I mean I know its not dysentery… obviously,... I am not lying on the floor howling..I am sure it is just a low level thing… not malaria..although I did have that years ago..well anyway...perhaps a blood disorder.. I did have tick fever as a child and something similar recurred in 2002 after I was in contact with bacterial meningitis…’

I trail off. The doctor still hasn’t blinked but now I can see the whites of his eyes. Behind him the woman doc has picked up a scalpel and is trying to hide it under her stethoscope.

‘Ahh..I..er…maybe..anaemia due to a blood dis…’,I start hopefully

Sweat has broken out on the pale doc’s forehead. The other one has distinctly white knuckles.

‘Errmm…I..am ..perhaps I am just getting a cold… ‘ I smile reassuringly at them. ‘You know what..I am sure it’s absolutely nothing. Heh ho. The weather’s been atrocious and all that eh? That’s it. Just a cold. ‘

I edge out of the room with a prescription for paracetomol and just manage to spring for the door before the receptionist locks it behind me. They must have telephoned through.

Strangely I feel absolutely fine now. I AM a raging hypochondriac after all. What a relief! Embarrassed yes but also refreshed and energised. I don’t even need the paracetomol. I feel like dancing. And then I notice that I have left my handbag behind…

Not the olive branch.

I am at the wrong party. Well that’s not strictly true. . I am at the right party but I am wrong.

You see my old school buddy J has thrown an outdoor afternoon party in London but the weather haas turned out truly foul. Since morning it has been threatening to rain; the wind is chill and it is more then gloomy. It is dank.

Consequently all the un-babied people, except me, have stayed in bed nursing hangovers leaving the garden to the breeders who have all bought their orange-juiced-up lunatic toddlers to run unfettered all afternoon. No one wants to talk. They are all too knackered. They just want to sit and get quietly tanked whilst their children turn the garden into a punk rock mosh pit.

With this terrible gloomy half light, mogul horde and no peripheral vision my defences are low and I am terrified. I spend four hours hiding behind the hostess. She is wearing a sexy pink wrap dress with just enough cleavage showing, holding a glass of wine in one hand and an elegently rolled ciggie in the other and is completely unfazed by the riot. Occasionally she wades into the melee to scoop up her own son and deposit him on safe ground but she doesn’t interfere.

'It’s a bit of a nightmare isn’t it,' she says thoughtfully, deftly toeing a discarded nappy into the bushes.

Later I find a seat and immediately am besieged by a small monster covered in a mixture of dirt, blackberry juice and snot. Its hand is outstretched towards my face.

‘Olive’ it demands.

I glance uneasily over its head to its father who is sprawled, relaxed and unconcerned on a wooden chair opposite. He winks at my breasts and carries on drinking.

‘Olive’ growls the Animal Sam look-a -like.

As the dad seems not to be worried (about anything really…what IS he smoking?) I carefully place a green olive into the monster’s hand. It disappears into its mouth.

‘Olive’. Back comes the hand. Blimey is this is a middle class toddler party or what? . What’s it going to demand next.. ..’marscopone’…’organic goats milk’?

‘Olive!’ screams the child its gory fingers reaching for the jar.

I become curious. How many olives will it take, with their salt water and sourness, to make the child queasy? There are what seem like several hundred children here, all under three and each one as screamingly hyper excited as the next. They have been chowing on crisps and berries and bread and peanuts and pizza and more crisps. They have been jumping up and falling down, rolling in the grass and fighting. I feel like the John Cleese waiter in Monty Python’s ‘The Meaning of Life’ just before the fat man explodes. . ‘ ‘It’s only wafer thin,’ I say handing the child another few olives.

The dad smirks. He did this a while ago whilst watching his other child battering the hostess’s partner to his knees with a whippy branch.

I lean down with the olive jar. ‘Here’, I whisper to the kid. ‘Fill your pockets for Daddy. He might want some later…’

Don't bother with the audio description..

I love-love-a-love films where famous film stars play blind people. Badly. They stare at fixed points. They have very stiff necks, they turn their bodies slowly and carefully like they are very, very old…or zombiefied. This is called ‘doing blind’.
Usually their character’s blindness means they seem a little learning impaired. Certainly they have been horribly abused or suffered great trauma so are withdrawn and tend to sit silently in rooms and scare people. They can be bitter. But really, once you get to know them, they are very wise..oh and sometimes even funny…but mostly very w I s e. Ohh and tragic…and very easy to stalk.

I have just sat through the gut gimacingly appalling ‘The Eye’ where Jennifer Alba plays a blind woman who although, traffic-stoppingly attractive, lives alone and has no friends or lovers except an inept sister (Parker Posey? What were you thinking?)

Alba, although she doesn’t really seem to care one way or the other, is given a cornea transplant and is immediately able to see dead people. She meets a random and really unpleasant shrink who keeps shaking her and telling her to ‘pull herself together’ and leaving her alone in dark buildings. Together, they discover that her eyes were donated by a young Mexican woman who could - guess what…also see dead people. The Mexican woman it seemed lived in a medieval land called Mexico where she was accussed of being a witch and killed herself. Alba and ugly shrink ..oh I am bored now....get dead woman to forgive herself, save a bus full of people from an explosion and following a very plasticine plot line whatserface then loses her sight again.

But don’t worry about old Alba..no oh no.. She may be blind but she will always have her looks and music..oh did I forget to mention she plays the violin. We leave her gloriously lovely on lead violin performing Strauss to ugly shrink and audience. She is better off blind apparently. At least that seems to be the moral of the story. Oh now damn…I ruined the plot for you…am I bad?

Strangely almost exactly the same film was made with the more attractive and much more convincing Madeleine Stow in the early 90’s. That film was called ‘Blink’ and was rather well directed; experimental, rough and weirder. And had a serial killer in it. Maddie played blind with Doc Martins on. Literally. And believe you me if one is any way visually impaired in New York, Doc Martins are the only boots to procure. She was tough and vulnerable but mostly bloody tough. …Strangely she also played the fiddle. (It must be a blind thing..i wonder if I have to get one.)

Who else has been daft enough to thump around with a cane? Al Pacino of course. Hoo Haa. ‘The Scent of a Woman’. For f***s sake! Morgan Freeman’s done blind. He showed us this by wearing dark glasses and being a piano tuner. Val Kilmer’s done blind (the end of a career Val) , Richard Pryor, Uma Thurman’s done blind and been stalked by a serial killer as has Audrey Hepburn (and they wonder why I’m paranoid?) and don’t tell me you’ve forgotten Mary in Little House on The Prairie?.

I think my very favourite was Ben Affleck doing blind in Daredevil. He could see with his ears! I watched it on video in Lusaka with a bunch of my mates. They got very quiet and embarrassed on my behalf until they notice I was rolling around on the ground holding my stomach with glee not sickness.

In honour of ‘Daredevil’ I have my own superhero outfit that I get out at night when there is noone around. It looks a lot like a pair of old pajamas..but it has really, really deep pockets for all my superhero tools..tisues..pencils, Japanese rice crackers (when push comes to shove there nothing more deadly then a rice cracker if handled correctly so says my inner psycho ninja). I am, however, still working on my secret powers. How about this… ‘by day a timid visually impaired loner..by night a gin fuelled fantasist!’… now there’s a film.

Airpors R Us

There is a woman on telly. She is trying to get from Gori to Tbilisi. The car she was in swerved and turned over and they are all lucky to be alive. Her hands shake and she touches her chest as if to reassure herself her heart is beating. On the other channel is a programme hosted by a female twit with a desperate lear. Its called ‘The British Suck in Bed.’ I think the title is supposed to be clever. Dear God. I turn back to watching terrified people weeping. I feel like I am floating in an enormous empty ocean.

I flew back from the wedding on Sunday night. I had started flying on Sunday afternoon but as we began to descend to Heathrow the captain announced we were holding. Nervously we looked out of the windows for smoke... What was wrong down below in heathrow??
Then, after half an hour, he announced we were diverting to Gatwick. We landed safely and after driving down the runway like demons get out of the way of the other diverted flights landing all around, we parked up and the captain informed us that as the fire alarm in the control tower had been switiched off...
1. we were going back to Heathrow but not for two hours
2 .we couldn’t leave the plane
3 .and what the f*** the bar is open even for the poor sods in economy.
Phones blazed as people desperately tried to tell families they were safe but stuck.
The trolley dollies (and I call them this with venom as they were nasty and hopeless) were dragged, attached to the booze trolley, up and down economy until there was nothing left. Not even a pringle.

My dear pal travelling with me …did some work!! (Earlier we had discussed our dating dilemnas...hmmm. Might want to look out for that one J.) Appalled at his lack of excitement and engagement in the situation, I made friends with the delightful saxophone player on my left who had just done a beer addled tour (no – he couldn’t believe I had just been to a dry wedding either) and was desperate to get home before his two year old went to bed. Her name..get this..Mathilda Florence! 'What a wonderful name', I say trying to get an air hostess in a headlock so we can pillage the bar. '.Mattie Flo..Mo Fo... ' The saxaphonist looks troubled. I shut up.

We flew from Gatwick back to Heathrow in 15 minutes at about 250 feet. The captain was really taking NOOOO shit anymore.
When we landed I wanted to ask the captain to dinner and tried to grab him as we exited the aircraft but found myself gripping a seething trolley dolly instead….these damn eyes…I released her back in the plane.
I had to rush off to catch the bus to Cambridge. Another three hours on a creaking, stinky National Express coach and I was only a taxi away from bed.

Norway 1: Zambia 1

I am in a taxi with the mother-of the –groom, Toni, and the groom’s sister,T. We are holding our breath. The taxi waited five minutes to collect us and the meter already reads Kroner160.......£16…....$32. I croak something about 'hellfire' and the mother-of the-groom turns, eyes blazing to the driver. The groom’s sister, and my partner in crime from childhood, looks at me and grins. This driver is going to need therapy.
By the time we are back at the hotel the groom’s Mum has reduced the driver to a quivering, whimpering wreck. He tries to explain it is just the Norwegian economy. He tries to explain that he has nothing to do with the oil barons of the North Sea. He tries to explain it isn’t personal but there is no escape from the tongue lashing from Toni, especially on this of all days; her son’s wedding.
The 5 minute ride still comes in at £30 but Toni gets out feeling slightly vindicated as the terrified driver does a hand brake turn and peels out of the driveway.

Very Best Man and Mother of the Groom!

In case you haven’t guessed I am in Norway for a wedding this weekend. I grew up in Zambia next to the groom and our family’s lives have been intertwined ever since. He is marrying a Norwegian Christian evangelist and they are going to live in Germany where he will teach in an International School and she will continue her missionary work in Dortmund. They have more languages between them then the UN.

The whole Christian thing has caused a slight dilemma amongst the Zambia Diaspora contingent. The wedding is to be held in the couple’s church with the nuptial dinner in the church hall. There is to be NO BOOZE. Consternation!
‘Didn’t Jesus turn water into wine?’ someone wails.
‘How long can a Zambian go without beer?’ Worries another, wide eyed.
‘What the f** shall I do with the bloody champagne I bought?’ growls his sister.
All of us formulate highly strategic hipflask experiments but in the end behave ourselves and stash it all back at the hotel for later.

The groom’s mother, sister and I have dressed more prudently then usual with the religious element in mind. I had, in blind panic bought a ridiculous blue number from the end of bin sale at Debenhams. Between the changing room at the shop and the hotel I seem to have got some perspective back and realise the dress is disgusting. Luckily I have my job interview dress which, although from behind makes me look like a wardrobe made of jelly, looks from in front vaguely presentable. Also, it isn’t black. T and T also dress sombrely, mother in blue African print and daughter in dark blue shirtdress.

However, at the church we find ourselves dwarfed and over shadowed by endless contingents of tall, willowy blonde Norwegian women in designer wedding dresses some of which end coquettishly at the thigh or sweep elegantly all the way down to their designer 4 inch heels. . As more and more of them trip trap across the parquet T, T and I begin to resemble a posse of hobbits among elves.

Actually, considering the profoundly evangelical belief of this particular church community, the church service is brief and sweet with lots of religious pop music sung live from the stage. No one talks in tongues or handles rattlesnakes. The Zambian contingent meet briefly in the gaps and check each other for religious conversions but there are none.
A couple of us are evangelised briefly over the dinner. The funniest attempt being on the groom’s adopted uncle Mr. M.
‘Have you found Jesus?’ asks a huge bosomed woman in a black and silver chiffon number, grasping his hand tightly and stroking his palm. She is, apparently, the church architect.

Mr. M, from Tanzania, craggy and dignified and 75 years old, replies’ That is awfully kind of you my dear but I am Muslim. .’

‘There is a place even for you in Jesus’ heart. .. ‘,begins the woman just as the bell is sounded for coffee.

‘Ah,’ says Mr. M, extricating his hand. ‘Perhaps we can talk more of the saviour after cake?’

The church service and after dinner speeches are translated concurrently by a ridiculously beautiful Norwegian doctor and his wife. Everyone is polite and loving whilst keeping reserved and sensible. (This is possibly due to the lack of booze)

However, after a marathon 7 hours I am wilting. Everyone is wholesome to the point of Stepford Wife. I feel like I am in some kind of promenade theatre. I begin to stop believing them. The sweetness level is so high that the groom’s insulin dependent cousin starts checking his blood sugar twice an hour. I am finding the smile on my face keeps sliding and I actually walk away from the man trying to show me scenes from bible study on his camcorder. Previously he had insisted on showing me nearly 15 minutes of the wedding which I had just sat through.

Back at the hotel we all gather around the stash of champagne and compare taxi bills. The couple are toasted until we are all toasted and a very merry day, it is agreed, has been had by all, (except perhaps that poor taxi traver...)

Clouded Vision

Today my eyes are full of smoke and cotton wool and just a short walk out of the house leaves me nervy and stressed.
A middle aged American woman runs over to me ‘Excuse me, excuse me?’
I think she is going to ask me about my cane or why I am lurching around instead of walking straight but she looks past my face…she is pointing at my feet.. At my sandals actually.
‘Please’ she is desperate. ‘May I ask where you got your Merrils from?.
Holy shit think I, there are people out there that can recognise shoe brands from 50 paces. I am so impressed I walk into a pillar.

‘I got them in Canada.’ I watch her face alight with respect and admiration. I am enjoying myself. ‘They are certainly the most comfortable sandals I have ever bought.’ Actually they are. She nods and sighs as if she has just been goosed by David Tennant. . This is new territory for me. Style icon. She is still staring at my feet and then I notice her face has changed ever so slightly. A tiny drawing back of the upper lip. I glance down. I have dirty feet..and worse my toenails haven’t been painted for some time. My cover is blown. The woman awakes as if from a dream. ‘Ah yes.’. She shakes her head, trotting off. ‘Great ..err.. well done’.

My sight distorts and clouds and my brain CGI’s amazing things in to fill the gaps in my vision. I have mentioned before that I will see polar bears in the aisles of Asda or just glimpse a ten foot tall skinny man getting out of a car. The top layer of my brain knows it isn’t true so there is no sense of panic or confusion..well perhaps a slight cringe or twitch if I think I see a baby leaping at me from an open window or a tree branch that isn’t there. It isn’t even dream like. No my brain is able to understand that it is just messing around..but it is intriguing just the same.

I don’t have Charles Bonnet Syndrome as far as I aware..although so little is known about it I couldn’t be sure.. At ophthalmologist told me that what freaked out the ocular scientists was the fact that many people with Charles Bonnet syndrome would have the same hallucinations..certain dense patterns, Victorian children. Creepy. I wondered if people in different cultures and different countries have the same visions. He couldn't say.

RNIB website: 'Charles Bonnet syndrome (CBS) is a term used to describe the situation when people with sight problems start to see things that they know aren’t real. Sometimes called “visual hallucinations”, the things people see can take all kinds of forms, from simple patterns of straight lines to detailed pictures of people or buildings.A Swiss philosopher named Charles Bonnet first described this condition in 1760 when he noticed that his grandfather, who was almost blind, saw patterns, figures, birds and buildings that were not there. Although the condition was described almost 250 years ago, it is still largely unknown by ordinary doctors and nurses. This is partly because of a lack of knowledge about the syndrome and partly because people experiencing it don’t talk about their problems from fear of being thought of as mentally ill.'

Luckily for me I know I am already mentally ..um..lets say special so I am happy to whitter on at length.. In fact some of my photography explores the magic-real of my brave new world. This photo is dedicated to the memory Angela Carter, to the Eleven Million Mile High Dancer and especially to all of you that visit me here. With love.

Chips on shoulder

Apologies for not much blog this week. I have been fretting over money and job applications and haven’t been able to write anything without whining.

Upside of being broke:

Reacquainting oneself with the marvels of the potato.

Rediscovering the needle and thread.

Even more quality time at home.

Downside of being broke:

Cutting down on loose men and liquor.

Becoming allergic to potatoes.

Not being able to sew