Hivine

Mother Nature, mistress of the seasons, seems to have completely skipped summer this year as autumn tightens its golden grip and the jobsworthy gardeners amongst us will have already planted their daffodil bulbs in readiness for next spring. Yet autumn, the season of decay and mellow fruitfulness has come around far too soon for my liking and along with the falling leaves and the famous song, my hair seems to be following suite – although, it isn’t exactly drifting past my window and neither is it red, or even gold at the moment, as I can’t afford to go to the hairdresser these days the prices they charge, but my once tousled and unruly mane is definitely losing its not so golden grip and shedding all around. Now, I don’t know whether this is down to the new meds, a side effect of which is hair loss, the season of decay and mellow fruitfulness, or my age - a bit like the poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sherlock’s (or sheer locks as we are talking about hair) brother perhaps? -

“The foliage has been losing its freshness through the month of August, and here and there a yellow leaf shows itself like the first grey hair amidst the locks of a beauty who has seen one season too many.”

Well, I may not be a beauty, but I definitely feel as though I have seen one season too many and so apparently does my falling hair, which I hope like the daffodils will pop back up in the spring, although I would look a bit daft with daffodils growing out of the top of my head.

Cost aside, an urgent consultation with my hairdresser was deemed necessary in view of my falling locks as opposed to leaves, but I find as I get older, I dread a visit to the salon more and more. This is down to two reasons. One you have to sit there in front of a mirror and stare at your face for hours on end with your hair scraped back, thus exposing your wrinkles, turkey neck etc. in all their glory and two you are obliged to indulge in polite conversation with your stylist. In other words you have to talk about frivolous things, such as holidays or where you are going that night, which in my case is usually nowhere. So I have to make up some mythical engagement, otherwise my stylist might lose interest in the end result if I am only going to sleep on it - and sadder still, sleep on it alone.

By placing yourself in your stylist’s hands you are also putting yourself in a position of extreme danger, as at some point they will be wielding a pair of razor sharp scissors, so you have to be very careful what you say for fear of annoying, antagonising or upsetting them. The fact that your hair is getting thinner is cruelly and unnecessarily pointed out to you and meaningful questions are then asked, such as, not been looking after yourself lately, or the dreaded and more revealing question of, are you on any kind of medication which could be causing this extreme hair loss? This leads to the quandary of whether or not to reveal to your hairdresser that you are HIV positive. Why should you, you may respond, as hair is hardly a danger, as supposedly it’s already dead, or like mine, about to become an endangered species. However, what if there should be a slip of the scissors twixt hair and lip? Until now I have not given this question much thought, but in view of my public profile, I wondered if my stylist had finally got wind of me, so to speak and if it was time to let it all out, although not the wind I hasten to add, which according to medical advice is better out than in – but definitely not advisable, I would have thought, in a public place.

I’ve been going to the same hairdresser now for years, but unlike me, she never looks a day older and her ever changing underlings and trainees, like policemen and newsreaders seem to be getting younger and younger every time I go and what’s more they seem to speak in some sort of indecipherable young person’s code. I think this aberration of the English language has come about through the use of mobile phones and the national obsession with texting. For example, the word ‘book’ now means ‘cool’ because apparently that’s what your phone comes up with if it’s set to predictive text. Even more confusingly, at least for the likes of me, ‘long’ now means boring or overcomplicated, as in, ‘that short film was very long.’

I’d better be careful then when I ask my hairdresser to keep my hair long, as it might end up being short – or worse being boring.

I didn’t know either that if a person was suffering from ‘fomo’ it was not a new term for being a gay female but a fear of missing out, or that young people no longer have wardrobes, they have chairdrobes, which doesn’t really surprise me considering my son, who doesn’t have either, instead he has a floordrobe. It seems people no longer have what used to be termed as a holiday romance, they have a vacationship, but not obviously with a nillionaire as they have texspectations - as in greater presumably. Nowadays you might come across some strange and mysterious abbreviations on mobile phones, such as ‘focl’ which stands for, falling off chair laughing, or ‘ricl’ rolling in chair laughing. Picnic is no longer a jaunt into the countryside with a hamper; it is short for – problem in chair not in computer. Is that a bit like computer says no in ‘Little Britain’?

But beware if you see the letters ‘tgwig’ inscribed on your husbands mobile phone, he is not talking about branches or wigs for his balding pate, he is saying - thank god wife is gone, or likewise watch out for the letters ‘dnimb’, which mean - dancing naked in my bra, which would be even more unsettling in that they could signify he had suddenly taken up cross dressing. Baggkyko is not a little elf from the hobbit or ‘Lord of the Rings’, it means, be a good girl and keep your knickers on. I think the next example is more likely to be used by a much older texter, possibly an inmate of a nursing home, ‘ihtgttbwijd’ - I have to go to the bathroom, wait I just did.

I don’t know, life was so much simpler when I was young, as was going to the hairdresser, although some of the methods of achieving the style of the day, which at the time was a curly mane or ringlets, were tortuous to say the least. Pride suffers pain, my mother used to say, yanking my hair into sections then rolling it up in knobbly rags which I was then forced to sleep on, or not as the case was more likely to be. I thought this barbaric custom had died out with the dark ages, but apparently not. There are many current websites containing references to the ragging of hair and there is even a You tube video you can watch. To save you the bother, if you fancy yourself with ringlets, although do take care if you are of a certain age as there is a danger of looking like ‘whatever happened to baby Jane’, here are the step by step directions copied from one enthusiastic ragger.

Preparation Work

“First you will need some rags which are strips of cloth, such as an old sheet, one of your husband’s old shirts, or even socks! To make your “rags” simple tear up the cloth evenly one inch by two inches. I have a supply of 40-50 of these strips handy at all times.”

All I can say is with that amount of rags it’s a wonder her husband has any shirts left, or socks for that matter, although to be frank it’s a miracle she’s still got a husband if she goes to bed with forty to fifty socks rolled up on the top of her head.

“Now for the ragging,” she continues enthusiastically, “Ragging works best if you have wet hair, so wash your hair well, use leave-in conditioner and comb through hair. Now your hair is ready to be ragged, although it is best to rag your hair a few days before the event, as your hair may not be the way you planned.”

What does she mean by that, not the way you planned. That sounds a bit ominous to me. Maybe she forgot to add take the socks out.

Now You Are Ready

“Begin at the front of your head, take a strip of your hair and lay a rag, (or sock presumably) then roll up and tie in a knot, or secure with a bobby pin (bobby pin – never heard of one of those but I’ve heard of a bobbys helmet) or by tying off the rag strip with a nice bow. Repeat this all over your head. You can then blow it dry (or presumably get someone to do it for you) or sleep on it. Now you’re ready for a good night’s rest!”

Is she kidding?

“When you awaken in the morning and you are ready to style your hair, take it down out of the pins or rags. Your hair will be free of tangles and should have taken a very nice curl. ENJOY!!

Curls aloud as opposed to ‘Girls Aloud’

“You may have fun experimenting with how tight you roll your curls up. However, keep in mind, humidity does play a factor in how long you keep your curls. On the days that I am not sure of the humidity, I bring a nice barrette with me just in case I need to clip my hair back due to a loss of curl.”

That sounds a bit extreme to me, not to mention against health and safety regulations, wrapping your hair round a sandwich or a bread roll.

“However, if you prefer body and waves over curls, roll your hair up in a tight bun and pin up on the top of your head, but not too high, or you’ll notice a crease in the front of your hair when you take it down in the morning!

You might also find a stray strip of salami or by her reference to buns the odd maraschino cherry.

“As you can see, these clever curls are easy-to-do and can be very convenient towards preventing tangling and a sweaty neck in the summertime. Give it a try some weekend for something fun and a bit different to do! Happy Hair Days to You All!”

I think I’ll give it a miss, thanks all the same and risk having a sweaty neck - sounds disgusting. I think I’ll also give going to the hairdressers a miss in the future, in that way at least I’d be financially much better off. Although there’s one good thing about it I suppose, at least you get to read all the current magazines, the ones you wouldn’t normally bother with, such as ‘Hello’ and the likes and within their glossy pages you can discover all kinds of things. For example, I had no idea there was such a thing as vibrating mascara, imagine the damage you could do with that.

As I left the salon that day after parting with all that dosh on my credit card, I was handed a huge carrier bag with some free samples lurking at the bottom and a couple of boiled sweets. I sucked the sweets on my way home, by way of consolation and the next time I came to wash my hair, I routed around in the bottom of the bag and took the samples with me into the shower. I peered at the sachet marked shampoo with my misted over glasses - sensitive skin formula specially formulated to help relieve skin irritations, moisturise dry itchy skin and promote healing (there, I knew my hairdresser was on to me) although it would take more than a bit of oatmeal, aloe vera and sweet almond oil to heal what’s ailing me. However, I carefully followed the directions; massage into damp fur avoiding eyes and ears and work lather down to tail. Well, I know my hair is long and scruffy and at times hangs over my eyes, but what did she think I was, a golden Retriever, or worse a poodle. I read on, ‘towel dry then brush until coat is completely dry.’

It seems, as I found out after wiping my glasses on the towel, that the makers of the hair products my particular salon uses, has come up with a new range especially designed for pets. What’s more, the new motto inscribed on their carrier bags is - giving back is the new black.

Well how about giving some money back instead, or at least some free samples not designed for canines? It’s a wonder she didn’t give me some flea powder for good measure.

The way things now stand in regard to my falling locks is this, although I am now considerably financially worse off, I have the perfect camouflage for autumn and can blend in with my surroundings with ease with my branches exposed to the elements - not to mention my ears.

My Dad William Alan Seed

ALAN – 1945 By Doreen Seed

Today I travelled back in time
To all those years ago
I thought about those brave young men
And the spirit that there was back then
I thought of you all the times you flew
Not knowing if you’d make it back
Facing all the German flack
I counted the planes as they flew out
You with your gallant crew
And then at dawn when they returned
I looked into the air
And prayed that you were there……

In the early days of his presidential campaign, which today resulted in his glorious victory, Barack Obama on a visit to Kenya publicly took an HIV test with his wife in order to lessen stigma. Obama and his wife, Michelle, entered the mobile lab and underwent HIV tests in an effort to reduce the public stigma associated with testing. He said the results were good news but the most important thing was the control that comes with knowing their HIV status.

`If a U S senator can get tested and his wife can get tested, then everybody in this crowd can get tested. Everybody in this city can get tested,” Obama said.

According to an article in the ‘Advocate’, at the time, Obama’s future plans would be to include increasing funding for HIV/AIDS research, care and prevention and developing a national strategy within the first year of his administration.

Let’s hope, unlike his predecessors he will not let the world down on this vital matter.

Sand Mandala - Body Positive North West

There’s a famous seaside town called Blackpool
What’s famous for fresh air and fun
And Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom
Went there with Albert their son……..

Well, my name’s not Ramsbottom, or any animal’s bottom for that matter and sadly, or gladly, depending on which way you want to look at it, neither am I a Mrs anything anymore - nor, and once again depending on which way you want to look at it (i.e. a tad sadly in my case) is there a current male bottom of any kind on the scene at the moment, mores the pity, or even on the distant horizon, Blackpool’s or otherwise. And in regard to my own bottom, I’d much rather you didn’t look at it at all, if you don’t mind. Although, if I had to be named after any kind of bottom, I would rather it be after my own, thanks very much, even though it doesn’t amount to much these days due to the wasting properties of the meds, so lippobottom or even lesserbottom springs directly to mind. But please, although it may well be the case; never call me oldbottom, even if like some posh people you pronounce it both-hum, because it doesn’t sound right, unless you are asking two people to sing at the same time of course.

However, bottoms aside, as the actress said to the bishop, on two separate occasions recently I’ve had cause to visit that very same seaside town, what’s famous for fresh air and fun, where the air was certainly fresh (freezing in fact) and on both occasions fun was definitely had. Even though I didn’t bump into a single rams bottom, although I did manage to brush cheeks so to speak with quite a number of human bottoms, as despite the freezing severity of the night, a disproportionate amount of oversized bottoms were waddling around gazing in wonderment at the lights. But not a sight nor sound of young Albert with his stick with the horses head handle, who thanks to being eaten by a lion on his previous visit to Blackpool, was of course nowhere to be found.

I realise at this point that unless you are familiar with the northern poet Stanley Holloway’s famous monologues, you won’t have a clue what I’m talking about, but I’m sure that regular readers of my blog will often have had cause to experience that same complaint. If you are indeed familiar with the highly comical monologue, ‘Albert and the Lion,’ you will see how it was cleverly adapted by me in relation to my two timing bar fly of an ex husband, although it has to be said, unlike Stanley Holloway’s version, he didn’t find it particularly amusing at the time, especially my comparison of him to the grumpy old lion Wallace as he lay growling in his cage; – ‘He lay in a som-no-lent posture with the side of ‘is face on the bar,’ which was a common enough occurrence and the favourite posture of my ex when he was enjoying a night out on the town. The same applies to his drunken dalliances with women of the night and one in particular called Alice; – ‘So straightway the blind drunken feller, not showin’ a morsel of fear, took ‘is prick with the ‘orse’s ‘ead ‘andle and stuck it in Alice’s ear.’

It’s no wonder, really, my ex no longer wants anything to do with me - and I have to agree that the feeling is entirely mutual.

On a far more serious note, my first visit to Blackpool had nothing whatsoever to do with sticks, not even of rock, or whores or horses heads handles, or my ex husband thankfully and more to do with spiritual matters. But unlike him and his fellow alcoholic counterparts the Ramsbottoms, not a drop of ale passed our lips, or even a freshly cut sandwich if there is such a thing to be found in Blackpool these days, although we did later enjoy a toasted teacake at a typical seafront cafe. Our excursion to Blackpool was to dismantle the sand mandala we had so painstaking and lovingly created over the course of several weekend mandala workshops at Body Positive with our resident Buddha Jan Mojsa of ‘Jandala’ fame and cast it back into the sea, from whence it came. This is to remind one of the impermanence of material possessions and of art, as great as those masterpieces may be (our beautiful mandala included) and indeed of life itself in the ongoing circle of creation.

We dutifully bought a bucket and spade from a sea front vendor in honour of the occasion and then ritualistically swept the now rain spattered mandala into the bright green bucket and solemnly walked it to the edge of the wave battered shore, where we stood for a moment and gazed in meditative contemplation at the pounding ugly brown rollers. Another ugly brown roller (and sorry but Boxers are hardly what you would describe as the prettiest of the canine species) in the form of Cath’s rather eccentric dog Lara, who was lolloping around in the muddy shallows and who had been present at several of our mandala workshops, therefore it was only fitting that she should be there, rushed barking madly (which is probably where the expression comes from) into the sea, trying to catch the sand in her slobbery chops as we each symbolically tossed a handful into the greedy churning rollers. I have to say it was a very moving moment, especially when Lara assumed a yogic pose, squatting directly at my feet, then politely shat on my shoe. This, although causing great hilarity to the other members of the group, was taken all in good stead by me, the owner of the shitty shoe, who saw it as yet another example of the mandala philosophy, as in what goes round comes round - or if one is having a particularly bad day, that life, after all and more often than not, especially if you have HIV, is full of shit - in more ways than one.

The second trip to Blackpool was an excursion on behalf of the hivine group, a support group I run in Blackburn for positive women, to see the lights or the illuminations as they’re called up here, for which my son Ben duly acted as chauffer.

There’s a famous seaside place called Blackpool
That’s noted for fresh air and fun
And me and tut girls fromt group th’ivine
Went there with young Ben my son

We left the car in a huge puddle on the windswept and desolate car park at Squire’s gate, or Stargate as Ben with his predilection for science fiction kept calling it and then boarded a tram, which transported us regally along the illuminated glory of the golden mile. Not that we could see anything out of the windows as they were all steamed up by the breath of shrieking children, who if their doting mothers and fathers had had anything about them, would have already been fed, like young Albert, to the lions. We got off at the tower and then walked, or should I say were blown along the prom, where in order to escape the biting wind we recklessly entered an amusement arcade and played on the slot machines, which was a bit like watching my new tefl actifry which I’d recently had cause to invest in, in an attempt at lowering my cholesterol without, heaven forefend, having to give up chips. It’s a brilliant invention I have to say and well worth the money; the chips taste just like real chips, even though they are cooked with only a teaspoon of olive oil and you can watch them slithering around and trying to mount each other or push each other out of the way to your heart’s content, just like one of those machines in the arcade we were wasting all our two penny coins on.

Arm in arm, we then braved the pier and watched people subjecting themselves to the ultimate in torture, as least as far as I was concerned, of being strapped in a row of seats, which defying gravity, were thrust upwards to almost touch the frozen starry sky and then swung from side to side and round and round like a sack of onions. Then finally, and because no trip to Blackpool would be complete without it, we indulged in the obligatory bag of fish and chips, although to be honest we cheated and had them served on a plate. This was followed by the fitting desert of huge bag of pink candy floss each as we hustled our way back along the prom. We did stop at one point at a stall to purchase some Blackpool rock, although I must say, in my day rock came in the shape of a stick and not in the shape of a man’s or a woman’s genitalia. I was quite shocked, I must admit, by the row after row of huge bright pink bosoms with cherry red nipples, all of varying shapes and sizes according to one’s preference presumably and the lines of red and black, hard or wobbly, men’s willies, once again presumably according to one’s preference - and there was even a complete version of a woman’s front bottom, a fluorescent fandango no less, which looked to my eyes and by its lurid colour, like it was suffering from some kind of STI.

And then, frozen to the bone, thankfully it was time to go home. Unlike the Ramsbottoms we declined the option of paying up to go in to the zoo, as for one reason it was closed and anyway, we’d already had plenty enough to laugh about, as th’ocean waves weren’t exactly small and piddlin, although by this time we were all desperate for one. It costs twenty pence by the way to go for a pee in Blackpool – daylight robbery I say. Anyway, for all my son is a veritable pain in my side at times, I didn’t relish the prospect of him being eaten by a lion, even though he wasn’t exactly dressed in his cap and his Sunday best, unless you count his favourite baggy jeans and his baseball cap, which thankfully he’d left at home. Had that of happened, I think like Albert’s mother I would have been most vexed and acted exactly like she did by exclaiming to the magistrate - “Wot, spend all mi life raisin’ children to feed ruddy lions? Not me!”

Although, on saying that, at times, as I’m sure any over stressed mother will verify, it sounds like not such a bad idea - and let’s be honest mums and dads, it would be far cheaper in the long run, with or without (as in the case of the Ramsbottoms) compensation.

Isn’t it funny how certain people and certain things can affect your life and send you haring off in a completely different direction, for example, if it wasn’t for the fact that I was HIV positive, I wouldn’t be sitting here writing this blog, which has been in existence now for almost a year and although I know in the great scheme of things it can’t really make that much of a difference, as much as I would like it to, every little helps and I hope in its often bizarre and eccentric way, it is helping to raise awareness about HIV and reduce stigma for all of the other invisible women out there, who for one reason or another are denied a voice.

Internet surfers often find their way to this site by accident by typing something into the search engine that is not necessarily HIV related and arrive at hivine completely by chance, which if you think about it and although it is usually an unconscious gesture on my part, is a great way of getting the message across, above all when you consider that even though the statistics of the newly diagnosed continue to rise, especially amongst women and in particular right here the north west, very little is said about it in the media. Let’s see if this World Aids Day it is any different.

Some of the recurrent search engine terms that lead unsuspecting surfers to the ever open hivine door are; spider; get out of bed, bottom enhancer and rather bizarrely the Benidorm bark. The most popular search engine term however continues to be related to knitting, although I feel this might have something to do with the photo kindly donated by a Scottish friend of mine of his magnificent knitted underpants complete with hand stitched diamond crotch. I have only had one slight problem with surfers of a more pervy nature and that was the time I wrote about having my willow tree trimmed. I won’t specify what type of willow it was in case the same thing happens again, but I am sure you can use your imagination.

Anyway, even if I’ve accomplished nothing else with this blog, at least there are an army of arachnophobics, people of a lazy disposition with enhanced bottoms who don’t want to get out of bed, Benidorm barkers and hand knitted willy warmer wearers, who are now better informed about HIV, alongside of course the Knitting Nancy brigade wielding their knitted dishcloths and hopefully, soon, if my cousin has anything to do with it, peg bags.

The knitting blog in question was in fact originally inspired by my lovely cousin of ‘Viv Lives’ fame, who with her stalwart knitting endeavours to get through the awful ordeal of her battle with cancer, was the inspiration for my ‘Knitting Nancy’ piece, which continues to direct random surfers, knitters and possibly even nits to the site and still receives the most hits, so in this way she has also contributed to raising awareness about HIV to the masses and therefore I have sent her an official letter signed by the Queen of the of hivonia (i.e. my good self) that she might well be in line for some kind of award.

Even though thankfully my cousin has lived and survived her ordeal (check out latest ‘Radioactivists - Viv Lives 6’ on links) she has still continued to knit and the other day when I was feeling a bit down because of my recent blip, a brown paper parcel arrived on my mat.
“Who can be sending me a parcel?” I muttered my thoughts out loud to myself, as sadly I haven’t got anyone else to mutter them too, apart from my son, who wouldn’t be seen dead at that time in the morning and to be honest it’s better a case of letting sleeping dogs lie – as in bed, as like any male he can be a bit grumpy on arising.
“I haven’t ordered anything recently from a catalogue have I?” I questioned my short term memory, “And my birthday is now long gone, so who can it be from?”

I had a little feel and a crafty poke (as the actress allegedly did to the bishop) and lifted it up to my ear for a rattle. Then I put it down on the kitchen table and walked over to put the kettle on in order to prolong the joyous anticipation of opening it. However, always the impatient type, I couldn’t wait for the kettle to boil and rushed back to the table and tore off the brown paper to reveal a package within, wrapped in silver paper and tied with a silver ribbon.

I carefully undid the bow and inside the package was a beautifully knitted black clutch bag with a bright red ribbon sewn on one side. I got quite choked when I saw the proud red ribbon and was touched by the time and obvious effort that had gone into the construction and design of the clutch bag.

But wait a minute, I peeped inside the dark interior, there was something else inside the bag - a neat line of old fashioned wooden pegs, sometimes known as dolly pegs, attached to a piece of card. There was also a letter from my cousin Viv explaining the history of my very own custom designed peg bag (so that’s what it was) and describing in her inimitable graphic style the joys of pegging out the washing to dry on the line in the fresh air and how she and her mother before her, always took great pleasure in arranging the washing by size and coordinated colours.

I have to say I was very impressed by her newly acquired skills as an artisan and craftswoman, especially the beautifully crafted wooden pegs which must have taken her ages to whittle – although I’d never had her down as a secret whittler. It’s strange what the prospect of a terminal illness can lead you to take up as a hobby – look at me for example with this blog. I think, however, my peg bag will remain as a collector’s rather than a utility item and stay a work of art, along the lines of Damien Hurst and Tracy Emin of unmade bed fame. In view of that I am encouraging Viv to try for a one woman exhibition of her works, as in this current financial crisis the only thing investors are putting their money in these days is art, therefore Saatchi & Saatchi might well be interested in taking on a new young/old, British/Welsh, artist/ peg bag knitter.

If they aren’t, they jolly well should be, because the general public (at least the visitors to hivine) seem to have an ongoing interest in anything knitted, such as dishcloths, underpants, willy warmers and the like, so why not clutch or peg bags – or even crotch bags if the interest in willy warmers is anything to go by? After all, women need to keep their willies warm too, unless they are suffering from that burny itchy thing called thrush of course, or cystitis. I have therefore asked her, in the interest of art, as well as cystitis, to incorporate in her ‘Viv Lives’ slot, a regular update of her current peg bag progress and works in process.

To be honest, between me and you, I am not quite sure what to do about my peg bag. It’s far too nice to keep pegs in and is, I’m ashamed to say, my very first peg bag, aside from a plastic basket from the hundred peseta shop in Ibiza, where the weather at least afforded one the pleasure of pegging out - and also where I very nearly did!

On the few times when its not raining in Blackburn and I get the chance to hang my washing out to dry, I also take great pleasure in arranging the colours and sizes, which perhaps says something about us as a family, as in artistic, creative and possible sufferers of OCD. But it seems as a family we are not alone with our fixation about how we hang out our washing, as in the process of my research I came across this article on the ‘Good Housekeeping’ website under the heading, “Knickers on the Line - Do You Let It All Hang Out?”, which generated an ongoing debate amongst the country’s washerwomen.

“It’s not that I am a peeping tom or anything,” says one lady, who by her voyeurish tendencies to spy on her neighbours clothesline obviously is, “But I have noticed that my female neighbours never hang their bras and knickers out to dry on the line. I generally do, but I am wondering whether I am committing a faux pas?”

She was obviously not the only voyeur lurking on Britain’s housing estates, because this set off a whole train of discussion.

“My knickers are usually from M&S or Debenhams,” writes someone who is obviously not Twiggy and doesn’t have much of a sex life if her choice of knickers are anything to go by, “Nothing eye-catching and I generally pop them in the centre of my rotary clothes line. My neighbours must either pop theirs into the tumble dryer or hang them to dry inside.” This woman engages in far too much popping for my liking –popping in, popping out. “However,” she continues, “she and others are quite happy to hang out their husband’s Y-fronts and boxers and children’s’ undies, but you never see any of their undergarments. Is it me or is it bad form to let it all hang out?”

Why does she want to see her neighbour’s knickers – her neighbour’s husband’s boxers or Y- fronts possibly, especially if with her obsession with popping he is popping out of them. Honestly, I’m quite shocked by what appears to be taking place on these seemingly innocuous housing estates. It’s like something out of “Desperate Housewives.”

“Same here Rumbletum,” joins in another housewife, whose kids apparently call her knickers, ‘Mum’s applecatchers’. “I am a bit self-conscious about them,” she admits, (no wonder if she uses them to store her cox’s pippins), “But I notice I don’t mind any sexier items being more on display!”

I was right, wasn’t I, there’s far more than meets the eye going on on these housing estates and this one’s obviously an exhibitionist. Talk about desperate housewives, it’s worse than the things that go on in Wisteria Lane.

“I think I know what you mean Glifada,” agrees another desperate housewife, “I don’t hang anything on my little washing line, which is at the side by the utility door, (spare us the boring details please) I may use it from time to time for the floor covers, after my husband has done some messy work then I put them on the line till I’m ready to put them into the washing machine. But getting back to the neighbours…….mine puts her ’smalls’ out with the gusset facing our direction…!!!!!! - and her t-towels are a little bit towards her back door slightly out of view. I would love to ask her to do it the other way round.!!!”

What a lot of exclamation, as opposed to ‘skid’ marks, but maybe that’s what she’s implying about her neighbour - and why are t-towels more pleasing to her eye than gussets? That says a lot about her and her personal habits, not to mention her fruit basket. If it was that other woman who stores her apples in her knickers, she wouldn’t mind, she could keep her golden russets or maybe it should be golden gussets fresher for longer. I don’t know, this lot are all as bad as each other if you ask me as the next washerwoman is in total agreement.

“I couldn’t have put it better myself jambutty.”

Jambutty?- how do they come up with all these daft names?

“I hang mine (and everyone else’s in the family) out, and it’s never crossed my mind not to. What’s more, I even hang them in order of size and colour!”

Ah, at last, a woman after my own heart.

“My knickers go out but not the bras,” declares a more decisive washerwoman, “Not because I’m embarrassed, but my mum always said that sunshine can cause the elastic to perish more quickly. And my knick-knacks go on the inside of the rotary whirligig - modesty prevails - not that anyone can see them, unless they stand on something to look over the fence that is!”

Have we become a nation of voyeurs or what - and who calls their underwear knick knacks - knick knack paddy whack give a dog a bone, I’ll refrain from the obvious play on the word ‘bone’ (as in rude) connection here.

Another woman with less interest in her or anyone else’s knick knacks or whether her gussets swing politically to the left or the right and more concerns about green issues, raises the discussion up a notch, or a crotch, by talking about trying to reduce her carbon footproint whilst being legally prevented from hanging her washing outside. This according to ‘Good Housekeeping’ is an issue that faces thousands of washerwomen living in the UK, although I have to say, not as far as I know in Blackburn, where they couldn’t give a toss about what or whether you hang your knick knacks out on your line, as long as your nets are clean.

“I live in a housing estate,” states one enraged reader, “where all the properties are legally bound to stick to something called the rentcharge deed, which includes the ludicrous provision that no one will hang out washing outside. The rentcharge deed was drawn up in the late eighties and I guess they just weren’t alive to environmental issues then! Do you have any info on the average carbon emmissions of tumble dryers per year, for instance by comparing it to herds of cows farting and might you know whether this prohibition on hanging washing out would mean that properties on our estate would be less likely to be rated highly for HIP purposes?

What have hips got to do with it?

“As you can imagine, I think the prohibition is completley daft and am very keen to get it overturned. The idea that someone could be taken to court for reducing their carbon footprint in this totally harmless way is just absurd! But I know that some people on the estate will take a lot of persuading, so I’d be extremely grateful for any ammo you can give me.”

Watch out for this particular desperate washerwoman, I hope you don’t live on the same estate as her if her method of persuasion is to get her shot gun out.

The Environment Agency estimates that £88m is spent on powering tumble dryers alone in the UK every year. And that if every family in the UK hung out one load of laundry per week it would save around 515,000 tonnes of CO2 emissions, that’s the equivalent of taking 100,000 cars off the road for a year. Every use of a tumble dryer generates enough carbon dioxide to fill 150 party balloons.

So that’s it then, no more children’s parties, at least on that estate, unless it is near a farm and they can utilise the fourteen cows.

This isn’t only going on in England by the way, it’s also happening in the USA where they have something called the Right-to-Dry campaign. For those desperate housewives who live in a flat and aren’t allowed to hang their husbands (as they tend to do on Wisteria Lane) washing out to dry, or send them to the cleaners financially, or even have a balcony to hang them over, or in the worst case Wisteria Lane type scenario push them off, they offer the following eco-friendly solutions, particularly in relation to ex- husbands, such as an overhead drying rack (sounds like a good idea to me) or dryer balls. Although I’d better be careful incorporating the term ‘dryer balls’ into this blog, as it might attract the pervy surfers back.

Apparently in America they have a regular “National Hanging Out Day,” which they say is not about hanging out with friends, or hanging their husbands, although I can appreciate that some desperate housewives might feel like it at times. It’s a day aimed at demonstrating how effective using a clothesline can be in cutting back our contribution to global warming. And as for us, the determined washerwomen of Great Britain, no doubt we will stand up as ever against adversity, like our mother’s before us in the Second World War, who dug and determinedly hung out (in my mother’s case at Tony’s ballroom) and in the words of the once popular wartime song, which she probably danced rather than hung out her washing to – ‘We’ll hang out our washing on the seigfried line – have you any washing mother dear.

I don’t know what all the fuss is about really. The answer seems quite clear to me, if you want to shrink your carbon footprint use a higher setting on your washer, which is guarenteed to shrink anything, even trainers, although I suppose this would defeat the object slightly - but hey, us washerwomen and deperate housewives can’t be held accountable for everything to do with global warming, can we - and if you are a desperate washerman, or a desperate house-husband and want to avoid dryer balls, the solution is quite simple, just make sure you live near a field of fourteen cows.

Did some filming today for Glaxo Smith Kline, the big pharmaceutical company who manufacture our meds. Arrived later than anticipated at Body Positive due to a hold up on the motorway, so didn’t have time to put my mother puckering lipstick on. This is not me swearing, although I must admit I felt like it at the time, it is the name for the new lip gloss I’d bought the day before especially for the occasion, from Boots the chemists no less, who are perhaps not familiar with the expression that goes along with the brand name of - up against the wall. I also purchased some blue eye dew drops for the, what now seems to be permanent fixture of my yellow eyes.

According to the bumf on the label, sexy mother pucker lip gloss is especially good for the ageing face, because as we get older lip tissue shrinks and flattens out with age. “Mother Pucker is no ordinary lip gloss,” the label proclaims , “Due to it’s scientifically proven super fill microspheres that plump up the lips so that they explode in volume up to10x when they come into contact with water.” All well and good I would imagine if I was about to swim the channel or my boat was about to sink and I didn’t have a lifebelt, but what would happen when I had a simple drink of water or a nice cup of tea. Would my lips suddenly inflate to ten times their normal size, in which case it would be more a case of PG lips than PG tips.

“Sexy mother puckers new super fill,” the label professes, “can fool your lips into looking and feeling fuller.’ Of course, I wasn’t daft and neither were my lips, I’d given it a test run the day before so I didn’t arrive for the filming looking like Lesley Ash of ‘trout pout fame,’ but to be honest, it hadn’t fooled my lips into anything. My purse possibly, into paying for it, but my lips remained stubbornly poutless. The only difference was I think I got some on my tongue by mistake which exacerbated my slight lisp. It’s not that I have a very pronounced lisp, aside from sometimes my s’s sounding like f’s, especially on the telephone.
“Could you repeat your surname again madam?”
“Seed.”
“Thank you Mrs Feed.”
“I said Seed.”
“Theed ?”
“No f for thugar and its mith not mithiss, oh never mind, why don’t you just pith off.”

There are different kinds of lisps apparently and I am not quite sure what kind of lisp I possess - or potheth. I don’t think it’s what’s known as a Lateral lisp as according to a lisping website, a lateral or a side ways lisp can sound a bit ‘wet’ or ’spitty’, which would be no good at all with my mother puckering lip gloss, as it would be inflating every time I said anything with an ‘s’ in it. Good job Kate Winslet wasn’t wearing any in ‘Titanic’ when she engaged in that disgusting spitting competition with that filthy commoner Jack. Then again, maybe she was and that’s what kept her afloat, as it does also say on the label, ‘For lips that sail.’

Lisping may well come in handy then at times, but who would want lips than can sail, unless you are a lone yachtswoman becalmed on the high seas and you don’t have any wind in your sails, or anywhere else for that matter - and even if you do there are things you can take for that, which you can also purchase from Boots the chemist. Lisping it seems, can also be inspirational, as in the case of the legendary rock band, ‘The Cure’, when as the story goes, they were racking their brains for an innovative name for the band when a loan salesman happened to knock on the door and say, “May I offer you thumb perthonal loan advithe, thir?” and one of the band members allegedly replied: “What kind of loans are you offering?” to which the salesman’s reply was, “Thecure.”

Anyway, like the Titanic the filming went down well, although unlike Kate Winslet and that dirty Jack fellow, we didn’t get paid for our troubles. It never fails to amaze, not to mention annoy me, how people living with HIV are used time and time again for research purposes and raising awareness, but the only people who get paid or benefit financially are the researchers. Some of the questions really got me thinking though, such as how does the medication affect your quality of life and what aspects of your treatment are most important to you. The answer to the latter part of the question in relation to the meds was a clear cut case of can’t live with them, can’t live without them - and as for quality of life, well, to put it bluntly, there isn’t any.

By the time the film crew had packed up their big furry microphones and cameras and headed off to catch the train back to London, I just about made it for lunch, but was late taking my meds. The traffic back was horrendous and by the time I got home I was so knackered I fell asleep on sofa and didn’t wake up until after midnight. Because I had to fast for a hospital appointment the next day, it was by then too late to eat anything. So maybe that’s why what happened, happened. But in truth, I had been feeling off for few days, really weary and listless, so when the nurse was taking my bloods, the next thing I knew, or didn’t know to be precise, I had passed out.

As I came round from wherever I’d been and the world slowly started to swirl back into focus, the first thing I saw were my bright red shoes on the end of my spread eagled legs, which appeared to be glowing like Dorothy’s ruby slippers from the Wizard of Oz. From far, far away, from some distant land, I could hear someone singing in a high wavery voice, la la la la la la la, which could have been somewhere over the rainbow or my lovely health worker singing her strange tapping song whilst employing her EFT skills.
“I’m so sorry,” I apologized profusely, tears springing from my eyes and rolling down my clammy cheeks.
“No need to apologize,” said my health worker, ordering the nurse to clean the blood up off the floor. This made me swoon all over again and I had to be escorted bodily to a room to lie on a bed whilst my notes and last results were found and it appeared I was having a bit of what’s known in the HIV trade as a blip, probably caused said my health worker by my new meds and Billy Rubin.

Who’s Billy Rubin I wanted to know, who in my semi conscious state sounded like a Jewish scrap monger or the boy nobody wanted to sit next to at junior school, or maybe he was a friend of Billy Elliot. Whoever he was, what did he want with me? Didn’t I have enough problems as it was?

Talk about having a bit of a blip - a bit of flip out more like. But there was one thing very clear, there was no way I was going to be kept in that hospital overnight, so I quickly tried to rally myself round.
“There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home,” I repeated, clicking the heels of my red shoes together three times like Dorothy.
“Are you sure you are alright?” asked one of the nurses, probably wondering if she should contact the psychiatric ward and get me sectioned.
“Yes, I’m positive,” I replied and the weight of those words suddenly hit me like a thunderbolt causing very hot tears to erupt all over again, due to the realisation (which sometimes I forget, or at least want to forget) that yes, I am positive and I always will be and therefore blips such as these will continue to happen. The other undeniable fact that hit me was because of HIV I can no longer do the things I used to be able to do. This realisation, like the meds, is a hard pill to swallow, but I clicked my red shoes together (which incidentally I will never wear again) more forcefully this time and hotfooted the yellow brick road out of there.

Talking of red shoes, the Wizard of Oz and the eternal quest to find things like hearts, tin openers and emotions, on the Sky website they had a list of the ten steps you should take in order to find the ‘yellow brick road’ to happiness. The first step was to eat yourself happy, because you are what you eat, in which case at the moment I am a chip butty, albeit not a particularly happy (nor obviously healthy) one. The second step was to have lots of sex, which of course these days is a definite no no for me, but for the ultimate in happy sex they advocate it’s best not to use a condom, although only if you know it’s safe and you’re not worried about pregnancy. Which begs the question, how do you ever really know when it’s safe? Married people apparently are the happiest of all because they have 30 per cent more sex than single folk and probably don’t use condoms, putting them I have to say in great danger if either of the partnership is unfaithful at any time. Anyway, the ‘more sex’ statistic does not necessarily apply to most of the married couples I am familiar with, but what do I know. You would have to ask an economist. Economists have worked out that a lasting marriage equates to the happiness you’d feel if you earned an extra £50,000 a year. How on earth do they arrive at these figures? Do you think Madonna and Guy in their up and coming divorce will take that into the equation – although who gives a toss about them, certainly not me.

Step three, following Madonna’s fine example was to go to the gym, although it hasn’t done much for her happiness or her bulging biceps, at least as far as her marriage and her bulging bank account is concerned. Some doctors have even called for exercise to be offered on prescription to depressed people because it releases their endorphins. I don’t know, all these endorphins which people are keeping in captivity against their will – no wonder they are flipping out, if you’ll excuse the pun, it serves them right. Exercise, they also state, can be a very sociable activity. Well, I beg to differ; I have never felt so alone as I did peddling my exercise bike up a non existent mountain path whilst in reality staring out of the gym window at the outside wall, or on my jogging machine, jogging alone on the road to nowhere.

Step four was to have a good old belly laugh. Well, that’s more like it. I can relate to that. Laughing is really good for you, they say, because it releases even more endorphins, which can only be a good thing as due to people keeping them in captivity, they were on the verge of becoming an endangered species. Research shows that people today laugh three times less than they did in the 1950s. How do they know that? Is it those economists again? What with the current credit crunch and economic gloom, wouldn’t they be better employed keeping their eyes on the footsie instead of coming up with statistics about tickling them. They would be better off becoming footsie fans instead, although in my opinion, there are far too many already and the footsie in both senses of the word has become a national obsession.

Laughing, they say, even when you don’t find anything particularly funny, can be just as good for your happiness levels as rolling around when you hear a good joke. Try it, they suggest, although you might feel a bit silly at first. But if you prefer rolling around on a mat as opposed to the bare floorboards, there’s actually a type of yoga, called Laughter Yoga, which trains people how to laugh themselves to happiness. On their website, the lady in question describes herself as a ‘Laughologist’ and also offers Laughter Facilitation Training, where she trains others to spread laughter and happiness upon the planet, which is obviously part of the campaign to save the endorphins. She is also apparently an entertaining speaker and has given talks for Gerrards Cross Ladies Golf Club (big deal) and The Inner Wheel of Godalming, which I at first thought was some kind of weird religious sect, along with the AGM of Sacro cranial practitioners, who she’s also given a talk to.

“Lets’ do it laughing,” she proclaims, although she doesn’t say exactly what.

A typical laughter session would begin with breaking some ice, although I can’t see what’s so funny about that, you might just as well go and defrost your freezer. You may find yourself talking gibberish, she says, and even singing a song in laughology language and chanting ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha. You may notice, she warns us, that you might start smiling for no reason over the following days. Well, I’m not surprised.

There are no age or physical restrictions apparently to participating in a laughter session unless you have had recent surgery, a heart by-pass or are on long term medication. So that rules people living with HIV out then, although you can do it in prison.
“Laughter really is a drug - but there are very pleasant after effects!” states one satisfied HMP inmate.

If you are not incarcerated at Her Majesty’s pleasure, you can laugh your way to happiness on a weekend retreat in Wales, where after you have tried the Seven Steps to Happiness, you will emerge a new you! Why does she keep insisting there are seven steps to happiness, when Sky definitely says it’s ten? Perhaps she knows a short cut. But before you try to reserve a place, sorry she appologizes, but it’s fully booked. However, she suggests, why not try a laughter holiday in sunny Dahab on the red sea instead.

Why not indeed. After reading people who’ve tried these holidays or sessions comments, I might just sign up for one myself.

“The highlight for me,” states one satisfied customer from Wimbledon, “was looking in on a laughter therapy session with twenty people strutting around the room impersonating chickens.”

Maybe she should sign up for one of the uplifting laughter holidays (as in necks possibly) in Turkey.

“Since I did the course, I do the Ho, Ho, Ho, Ha, Ha, Ha and it sets me off again” says a woman from Workshop (as in laughter presumably) in North Wales.

“Ho Ho Hope we can do this again,” say the stylists of a hairdressing salon, also in Wimbledon.

Step five to finding happiness, according to Sky, was to keep an animal (a chicken or a turkey perhaps - or at least a chicken or a turkey impersonator?) around the house. A study by the University of Minnesota found that having a cat is such a calming influence that it cuts the risk of having a heart attack or a stroke by almost half. In another study it was found that dog owners tend to have lower cholesterol, plus, having a loyal pet such as a dog or cat, or even a chicken or turkey, but only if its loyal of course, makes you feel loved and needed.

Step six was to find God. A study which was presented to the Royal Economic Society, earlier this year (it’s those pesky economists again) showed that religious people are better able to cope with major life traumas, like divorce. Not, I would have thought if you are a catholic.

Step seven was to get your glad rags on, but I’m surprised those money conscious economists didn’t say anything about all the handbags that your granddad also had to sweat to buy, or even Rod Stewart for that matter. Ever wondered why Goths and emos look so miserable they ask? Not really, but apparently it’s because they wear black all the time. Instead, they advise, we should all wear bright colours. A psychological study, probably carried out by those nosy economists again, who probably also work for Primark, has shown that people who wear bright colours elicit positive emotions in other people, while those who dress in dark colours have the opposite effect. People who dress in bright colours, they also sagely advise, are also far less likely to be run over!

If you want to feel happy according to the principles of the ancient Chinese system Feng Shui, you should choose clothes in shades of red, orange and yellow. Although, I say, if you really want to avoid getting run over, you should choose red, orange and green instead, then you could be mistaken for a set of traffic lights.

Step eight was to get some winter sun. Seasonal affective disorder otherwise known as SAD or according to step seven Sadrags (sounds like one of the Dingles out of Emmerdale) is now a well-recognised condition, caused by lack of light on winter days. So, if you want to feel happy, it’s important to expose yourself in broad daylight as much as you can. But be careful where you do it and whatever you do, don’t wear a raincoat at the same time.

Step nine was to make lots of friends, and I can relate to this, because the way I see it, no one will notice aside from you if you don’t have any, whether you are happy or not. Having a close circle of friends they declare protects us against the ill effects of stress and it’s even been suggested that it can ward off germs. Not too close, I would have thought, especially where my particular set of friends are concerned, who are more often than not riddled with them.

Happiness researchers claim friendship has a much bigger effect on happiness than what you earn. One economist, Professor Oswald at Warwick University, devised a formula to work out how much extra cash we would need to make up for not having friends. The answer is £50,000.

Step ten, the final step, was to become a Hairdresser, preferably from Wimbledon if the laughter therapy sessions are anything to go by, although I would prefer to forget the rest and just go for the £50,000 pounds, in which case I’d be laughing all the way to the bank.

picture:©adrienneseed

Me Danny and John Mayall

The fabulous Rhythm Chiefs

I spent my 59th birthday in the Dam compliments of my lovely sister who treated me to a ‘girly’ weekend in the infamous city renowned for its sex shops, coffee shops and chip shops, where allegedly they make the best chips in the world. I can personally vouch for this as at my ripe old age and in my condition, chips are more likely to be on my agenda than sex, drugs and rock n’ roll, unless you change the latter to sex drugs and lemon sole - and even then you can knock off the sex and the drugs, but whatever you do leave the chips.

I love Holland, the people are so friendly and laid back and talking of being laid back, after several hours of window shopping, albeit not in the red light district where as anyone who is familiar with Amsterdam will know they prefer a different kind of window dressing which is more akin to window undressing, we were absolutely knackered. So when we chanced upon a shop window displaying a row of what looked like airlines seats advertising, very cheap foot massage, my sister’s eyes lit up.

“You must be coming in,” beckoned the ferocious looking Japanese girl with goofy teeth chewing on a huge wad of bubble gum.
“Must we?” I said, starting to back away, but my sister dragged me back by my coat sleeve. “Just what we need for our zesty pothias (that’s hot feet in Greek) she said, “I’ll treat you.”

We warily reclined side by side on the airline seats, kicked off our boots and presented our white toes, exposed in all their sickly looking glory under the glare of the neon lights to the two other goofy Japanese girls squatting at our feet, who disdainfully and quite roughly I have to say, plonked them directly in wooden buckets lined with slimy plastic of luke warm water. Determined to enjoy my treat, I closed my eyes in anticipation of a relaxing and calming experience, but hang on a minute, there was something wrong. Where was the holistic music, the pan pipes or strains of the mystic orient? The only sounds of the orient were the loud pop of bubble gum merged with the drunken revelry of the passing stag and hen parties on the busy street outside.

Then, instead of massaging our weary feet, as eagerly anticipated, the two ninja turtles suddenly leapt behind the airline seats and started pummelling our temples, whilst rabbitting loudly through their buck teeth to each other in Japanese. This wasn’t what I had been expecting at all. Hope she’s washed her hands after dealing with all those horny feet all day, I was thinking, or worse all those horny men; you never knew in this sex obsessed city. I sneaked a crafty look at my sis as bony fingers manhandled my sinuses, which have never been the same since and even bonier knuckles kneaded my wrinkles as though she was rolling pastry. If that wasn’t bad enough and I have to say I have never had my nose massaged before and it is not an experience I would wish to repeat, the chopping of karate hands then began on top of my head. At once stage it was so painful I swear she was hitting me on the head with a mallet.

At some point whilst my eyes had been closed a very fat man had slunk into the airline chair next to me and I heard him remark to his particular ninja turtle (there seemed to be a whole bevy or bale of them to use the correct collective name for a group of turtles) that he was still feeling the pain from yesterday. I knew exactly what he was talking about, but maybe he was into pain, which I definitely wasn’t. He was later led off into a back room, so perhaps we had ventured into the red light district by mistake, who knows, the boundary in Amsterdam between ’sex and the city’ is decidedly blurred and even more so for me as my vision seemed to have been somewhat disturbed after being repeatedly hit on the head with the mallet. Whilst my sister coughed up the forty euros for the so called treat, I had a sneaky look behind the airline seat for the said mallet, but ninja turtle must have sneakily kicked it under the seat or hidden it somewhere on her person.

The red light district is enough to open anyone’s eyes however with all those loose women standing around in windows like ‘one o Lewis’s’, as my mum used to say, in stockings and suspenders, flaunting their wares - as in under. Not my mum in stockings and suspenders I hasten to add, who even if she had worn them, which they had to in her day before the invention of tights, wouldn’t say anything. And even if she had worn them she wouldn’t have sat showing them off to the neighbours in the parlour window. Who would want to sit in a window all day in their bra and knickers? There’s none of that kind of thing goes on in Blackburn, I’m pleased to say. Just imagine having to sit in your M&S knickers sandwiched between the butty bar and the pound shop, or if your local M&S had live models cavorting around in the window, like they do on their adverts. All they would need is to have Twiggy and her mates wielding a few whips and items of bondage then they could rename the chain (incorporating the chain as an item of bondage of course) to S&M instead.
This is your S&M…….

The next day, we took the train from Amsterdam Central and travelled all the way up to Leeuwarden in Friesland as we were going to watch my nephew and his band the fabulous ‘Rhythm Chiefs’ who were billed as support group for my long time idol John Mayall and the Blues Breakers. His album “Bare Wires,” had been top of my play list when I was an Art student and I could still remember all the words – “These are bare wires of my life, since they were cut, down the middle by yooooo….etc.”

Friesland is right at the very top of Holland and is where the famous black and white Friesian cows originated. The province is also famous for its speed skaters, I read in the travel guide and is the focus of the Eleven cities skating tour where speed plays a major role and where for the poor stressed participants it is simply a question of getting their heads down and riding hard. Such events allow little or no time to visit the places of interest along the route, reads the tour guide, or take a siesta on the sea dyke.

A siesta on a dyke – who would be daft enough to want to sleep on a dyke? Although I suppose that option could be on offer in the red light district.

There is no need however to ride your bike all the way back to Amsterdam if you are in need of a nap, as the Friesland tourist office has developed a more relaxed cycling tour for all those who would prefer to stop and enjoy the sights, admire the varied landscape, or have a siesta, or even abandon your bike and drive one. Although I don’t know what they mean by varied landscape as it’s as flat as the proverbial pancake.

On route they suggest you could visit the statue of the last ‘King of all Friesians’, Pier Gerlof Donia, the fighter of good causes known for his legendary strength and invention of a famous shibboleth. I wonder if he was a distant relation to Bob, or anything to do with Barratts? My sis was certainly enjoying her shibboleth fountain I had brought her especially from England, along with a monster pack of salt and vinegar chipsticks, which she was not disposed of to share.

In the warmer months, according to the tour guide, many Friesians practice wadlopen, the traditional art of wading across the Wadden Sea at low tide, which is probably where the expression going for a waddle, or as we now know it, paddle comes from. Another Friesian practice is fierljeppen, a sport with some similarities to pole vaulting and counselling, in that a jump consists of an intense sprint to the pole, then climbing to the top while trying to control the pole’s forward and lateral movements over a body of water and finishing with a graceful landing on a sand bed opposite to the starting point. This, alongside the potato theory is a little quoted Rogerian paradigm and obviously where the inspiration for the self help book, “Feel the fierljeppen and do it anyway,” sprang from.

According to the travel guide, the English language, although it hardly sounds like it to me, is closely related to the Friesian language. There is a saying which goes; “As milk is to cheese, are English and Fries.”

Do they mean chips or are fries short for frieslanders?

Another version of this saying reads in Friesian: “Bûter, brea, en griene tsiis; wa’t dat net sizze kin, is gjin oprjochte Fries”. Does that sound in any way related to English to you? Translated it means, “Butter, bread, and green cheese, whoever can’t say that is no upright Fries”. They say that the English are obsessed with chips but I think the Dutch obviously are too.

According to legend, the aforementioned Friesian freedom fighter Pier Gerlofs Donia and alleged relation of our very own Bob as in Geldorf, forced his captives to repeat this shibboleth to distinguish Friesians from the Germans.
So that’s what they mean by a shibbolith, its got nothing at all to do with fountains or licourice and more to do with chips. Just to make sure, I got my sis to look it up in wikepedia on her blackberry or blueberry whatever its called. Shibboleths have been used by different subcultures throughout the world, for example in America during the Battle of the Bulge (which by the size of the average American bottom they are still fighting) soldiers used their knowledge of baseball to determine if others were fellow Americans or German infiltrators in American uniforms.

During World War II, some United States soldiers in the Pacific used the word “lollapalooza” as a shibboleth as Japanese people often pronounce the letter L as R. Japanese spies would approach checkpoints posing as American or Filipino military personnel where a shibboleth such as “lollapalooza” would be used by the sentry, who, if the first two syllables come back as rorra, would open fire without waiting to hear the remainder. Poor Cilla Black wouldn’t have lasted long, would she. If I’d only been aware about shibboliths before I went for my foot massage, I would have known that my Japanese ninja turtle was an infiltrator and torturer by the simple fact that she pronounced very as velly. Well, it’s all double dutch to me and Lollapolooza and shibboleth still sound more like something you would buy in a sweet shop.

The thought dawned on me as we were making our seemingly endless way on the train how weird it must be to live in a totally flat place, a landscape without any creases like an ironed sheet. There were no hills on the distant horizon, not even a slight inclination or a hillock. The people of friesland, if they’d never travelled or seen photos of distant lands, or didn’t have a sky dish or a computer, wouldn’t have the faintest idea what a hillock was, would they? A conversation in a local Friesian pub or coffee shop therefore might go something like this.

Dirk, “What is a hillock Hans?”
Hans, “I think it must be English swear word for peasant.”

They wouldn’t have a clue what Julie Andrews was singing about in the ‘Sound of Music,’ when she warbled on about the hills or hillocks being alive. Neither would John Mayall be able to sing his old classic at the gig, ‘Life is just a slow train crawling up a hill,’ because the Friesians wouldn’t understand what he was going on about. They’d be able to identify with his ‘Bares Wires’ album however, as we were certainly passing a lot of those, as in pylons. We also passed a lot of black and white cows, but very few sheep I was curious to note and not a sign of a goat, although goats do tend to live on hills don’t they, in the form of hillbillies, although I fail to understand why they call them Beverly’s.

When we finally arrived at the venue for the gig, I was very excited about meeting my idol. In the foyer an old man with scraggly grey hair was bent over a pile of CDs trying to flog them before the show. “Have you seen John yet?” someone asked me. “No said I,” clutching my backstage pass to my palpitating star struck bosom.
“He’s out there in the foyer; you must have passed him when you came in.”
“That’s not John,” I cried in disbelief, “He wouldn’t stoop to flogging his own cds, surely?”
But sure enough twas the great man himself and he was certainly stooped. Not surprising really as he was getting on a bit, in his seventies in fact. In true groupie fashion I hovered around his stall, trying to engage him in polite conversation, but he kept ignoring me and to be frank gave off the appearance of being in the first stages of Alzheimer’s, unless he just didn’t like the look of me of course. I mentioned to him that ‘Bare Wires’ was my favourite album of all time, to which he looked a bit vague, so I think his wires were a bit bare, or at least crossed due to too many years on the road. Apparently he does a gig every single night of the week, week in week out, so no wonder his wires are crossed - burnt out more like, to the point where he’s had an electrical fault if you ask me. As my sis prophesied, she’s been to these types of gigs in the sticks before; there were an awful lot of men with long grey ponytails in the audience.

You have to give ol’ crossed wires his due though; he could still play that harp, as in harmonica, although he looked closer to playing the other kind of harp, as in angels. As for The Rhythm Chiefs they were fantastic and knocked ol’ crossed wires, to use a northern expression as opposed to a Dutch one into a cocked hat (maybe in Holland that would be a Dutch cap) and they brought the house down. Anyone who likes the blues should check out their website as they really are something else and are justifiably becoming very famous in Holland and soon to be in the rest of the world.

After the show, John boy was at it again trying to sell his CDS. My sis was determined to get a photograph of us together for my album and posterity, but we had to trick him into it by positioning me directly in front of his pile of unsold CD’s, although he did sell at least one to my sis, who bought me one for my birthday, although I have to say, I prefer The Rhythm Chiefs.

As we made our way back to Amsterdam on the train I was struck once again by the mononity of the flat landscape. Of course in England we are used to hills, especially in Scotland and Wales and we often make films and documentaries or write songs about them. There was that film with Hugh Grant for example, “The Englishman who went up a hill and came down a mountain,” which is about a Welsh village that is offended when English cartographers tell them that their mountain is only a hill. The villagers set out to change that, by raising their hill above the required 1,000 feet to qualify for the mountain label. But I suppose it could get quite boring living in Wales at times and building your own hills could be a useful hobby or way to pass the time. Maybe they could give a few hill building lessons to the Dutch? I would have thought the Welsh had enough hills and mountains to be honest, but then again, I suppose they have to keep them up so to speak in order to justify what has become the Welsh anthem, “They’ll be a welcome in the hillsides.” There was also that famous song by Donovan if you are old enough to remember, “First there was a mountain then there was no mountain then there was.” Mind you, it was written in the sixties and from the obvious confusion sounds like it might have been written in a Dutch coffee shop.

There are various specific names used to describe particular types of hill, peculiar to certain regions, These include: A Drumlin – an elongated whale-shaped hill or something you can find at the side of motorways and comes in a bucket, as in Kentucky fried Drumlin. A Butte – a northern sandwich you can have with bacon on it or an isolated hill with steep sides and a small flat top. A Tor, short for a member of a political party or a rock formation or band, found on a hilltop; And last but not least the Pingo – a mound of earth-covered ice found in the Artic or Antartica, frequented presumably by pingowins.

There is a theory that tall people live in flat countrys and that’s why they have long legs and short people live on mounains so they won’t topple over. The Dutch certainly live up to that theory as you will know if you’ve ever tried to buy a raincoat in Holland without it sweeping the floor, or mount a Dutch bike – and I do not mean that in the derogatory English sense of the word bike, as in a woman who sleeps around.

It suddenly struck me that Friesians wouldn’t be familiar with the expression, over the hill, either. Usually being over the hill refers to anyone over the age of 40. If you are over the hill, but still like playing team games and especially if you live in America, Cleveland OHH are looking for a few good hockey players. Their advert reads; Tired of the “Hack-Me Whack-Me” North America Hockey? Are you between the ages of 30 and 55? Want a good workout? One and a half hours for $20, (that’s right- 20 BIG ONES) and have fun with a good bunch of guys in a “no-hack” league?

Sounds good to me, although I fear at 59, I am just out of their age range, more’s the pity.

“We have ex Lumberjacks, California Golden Seals, ex Buffalo Sabres and numerous (older) guys from the Lethbride Broncos, Brandon Wheat Kings, Medicine Hat Tigers, Sudbury Wolves, London Knights, Bellingham Bulls and Peterborough Petes, just to name a few.”

What about Burlington Berties? Maybe I could sign up to those.

If like me you are over the hill, but still like a saucy read at bedtime, what about ordering yourself a copy of, “Over the Hill and Between the Sheets: Sex, Love and Lust in Middle Age,” A Treasury of geriatric erotica. It got a great review on the net.

“At Last! Winterdale Publishing’s Treasury of Geriatric Erotica is available for exclusive Internet purchasing. That’s right; the famous limited edition erotic book series that took the central Florida retirement community by storm is now available WORLD-WIDE! You can pick from any of the following scintillating titles!

“Granny Trannies” post-op elder action.
“Winnebago swingers” riding the free way of lust,
“Alzheimer’s Jezebel” she mates – and she forgets.

Is that a bit like she moves and charabangs by Ricky Martin?

During my further research into hills and hillocks as opposed to pills and pillocks, I came upon this little known album by Wayne Raney, who I didn’t realise as well as being a famous footballer was also a country and western singer.
His CD, “Songs of the Hills,” features such tender melodies as -
“Why don’t you haul off and love me”
“Pardon my whiskers”
“I love my little yo yo”

I wonder if Colleen knows about her new husbands hidden talents. Perhaps he wrote I love my little yo yo especially for her.

There are, as far as I can see, very few benefits to being over the hill, but there are some, for example -

“As you grow old, you lose interest in sex, your friends drift away and your children often ignore you. There are other advantages of course, but these are the outstanding ones.”

And on that happy note……… I’m off to listen to my “Rhythm Chiefs” CD, which is called “Ships of Wonder” and is available to purchase on the band’s website –

http:// www.rhythmchiefs.nl

and is a much better listen than ‘Bare Wires’ any day.

We had the Poz-Fem conference in Bristol this weekend, where once again I was able to benefit from the enjoyable and empowering experience of spending two days with the other twenty five brave and inspirational positive women who made up our group.

For other positive women and those who are unaware of our existence, Poz Fem UK is the only national network of women living with HIV. We are a network of regional coordinators who are linked to regional groups around England, Northern Ireland, Scotland and Wales.

You can find out more about us and what we do by clicking on the Poz Fem link on the blog roll, where you can also download the report and vision paper produced by the group, which documents concerns and recommendations raised by members of Poz Fem UK on the basis of our personnel experiences and illustrates these with quotes from Poz Fem UK meetings, as well as ICW and Positively Women’s publications. We hope this report will serve as a useful advocacy tool for HIV positive women around the UK.

This report and vision paper was recently presented to Cherie Blair and at the risk of blowing my own trumpet, although as an activist I feel I am duty bound to blow it where and when I can (hopefully I don’t blow it in other ways, although it has been known!) and she made a very complimentary comment about the art work on the cover - which just happens to be one of my paintings.

It was my birthday yesterday and in the slightly hung-over aftermath I find I am given to nostalgic introspection, in other words I am feeling a bit grouchy and sorry for myself. Birthdays as one gets older can be traumatic as well as celebratory occasions because aside from the physical reminder that you no longer have the capacity to recover from a hangover, they also serve to remind us that time is rapidly passing by - yet another year has slipped through life’s capricious net and we must gather ye rosebuds while we may - knees and hip replacements permitting.

Incidentally, you can avoid all that painful bending, stooping and crawling around whilst gathering ye rosebuds if ye must by purchasing a Garden Hopper, which looks a bit like a miniature Noddy Car and can also be used, according to the advert, whilst waxing your car (hello?) painting baseboards (double hello?) fixing your bike or going round to call on Big Ears - now that’s more like it. Mounted on the Garden Hopper you will find yourself seated at a comfortable 12-1⁄2″ off the ground, states the advert, with all the tools you need close to hand, even a canned beverage. You could even carry an extra can or two for Big Ears who I believe is partial to a few lagers when he’s out on a night on the toy town. Although you’d better warn him in advance that you’re thinking of popping round, because ol’ Big Ears can be a bit antisocial at times, at least according to the age old joke, which if you remember, and I’m sure you do, goes like this -

Noddy is on his way to see his best friend Big-Ears, so he puts on his special blue shorts, red hat and red jacket to match his little red shoes and leaves his house.

He meets the Postman.
He says excitedly: “Hi, Postie, I’m off to see my best friend Big-Ears.”
He meets the Milkman: “Hi, Milko, I’m off to see my best friend Big-Ears.”
He sees a delivery man: “Hi, Van Man, I’m off to see my best friend Big-Ears.”
He arrives at Big-Ears gate and cannot wait to surprise his friend.
He knocks on the door and Big-Ears opens it and says:
“Not you again! F*** OFF Noddy!”

Mind you, they’re all a bit odd and prone to antisocial behaviour in toy town if you ask me. There’s those two yobbos, Sly and Gobbo for example, who are always trying to steal Noddy’s car, although they get around those two and I’m sure I’ve seen them hanging around in Blackburn town centre eyeing up the cars on the car park. But luckily PC Plod, who apparently Arnold Schwarzenegger based his character for kindergarten cop, is always close at hand to slap an asbo on them. Then there’s that Dinah Dinah show us your leg, who runs the market stall, where according to toy town gossip, whatever you need Dinah’s got it – and I’m sure she has if she keeps showing her leg to every Sly Dick and Gobbo.

Being one year older is both a good thing and a bad thing in relation to HIV, because if you’ve been positive for six years or longer, as I have, you are classed as a long term survivor. I can now join the Long Term Survivors club, although the only club I thought I would be signing up to when I reached this ripe old age would be the OAP’s club or getting my bleary eyes down for a full house at the local Bingo hall.

Surviving another year living with HIV I feel I can give myself a well deserved pat on, as my positive African girlfriends would say, my buffalo hump and repeat the mantra over and over again to myself, I am a survivor and hopefully with the help of the medication I will continue to survive.

I will survive, the Gloria Gaynor classic favoured by karaoke aficionados and drag queen’s and probably even our very own queen, Her Royal Highness herself, who probably sung it through her annus horribulous - although her mouth might have been a more appropriate option.
Now, ‘ I will survive,’ is the anthem for all us long term survivors, although with poetic license and Royal copyright permitting of course, the words would need to be adapted slightly -

First when I was told I was petrified
kept thinking I could never live with HIV in my insides
I should have changed that stupid lock (change the L for a C)
opted for celibacy
If I had known for just one second
I’d end up with HIV

But HIV aside, Mother Nature is a cruel mistress and does not take the trauma of ageing into account. Anyway, what is it about getting old; there is absolutely no logic to it. Take hair for example, you start to lose your hair at a time when you need it most, to keep warm - why then does it suddenly decide to move off your head, exposing you to the winter chills and leaving you a boldilocks and migrate to other parts of your body where you don’t need it for insulation, such as your big toes for example. Who needs hairy toes? That’s what those furry slippers were invented for isn’t it?

And why would you need three hairs under your armpit or just a couple under your chin, what earthly good would they do to keep you warm. Never mind giving pensioners a Christmas bonus towards heating bills, they should give us a free fur coat – fake fur of course, unless you want to be pelted with raw eggs or subject yourself to involuntary euthanasia by the animal rights brigade. Not that I am a pensioner yet, but am rapidly heading that way and although I don’t want to pop off just yet, I wouldn’t mind a fur coat, fake or otherwise - and the eggs would come in very handy in these financially stretched times.

Gordon Brown in his recent speech at the Labour conference in Manchester promised in view of the energy crisis (which is a syndrome people living with HIV experience every day) to help people with their fuel bills, so why doesn’t he give us all a fur coat instead with a matching Davy Crockett hat and think more green – although I would prefer to think more neutral myself as green doesn’t become me, especially if its furry.

I know Gordon Brown is as Scottish as they come and studied for his degree in Edinburgh, where the saying goes if you are the type of person who puts on a lot of airs and graces, that you are all fur coat and nay knickers. Just a thought here - If dear Gordon did give all the pensioners a fur coat, especially if they came from Edinburgh, they could always supplement their meagre incomes and lack of knickers by working as stripogrammers – or strippograndmas.

The other thing about hair is why does it suddenly lose its colour and start turning grey? It’s like the ink running out of your printer – warning, ink levels are low. I know my parting, rather like the red sea, is getting ever wider. At this rate the only hairs I’ll be left with will be to my family fortune, which is thinning as fast as my locks. Talk about hair today and gone tomorrow. But looking on the bright side, even though I don’t come from Edinburgh at least I’ve still got my heirs and graces to fall back on and my M&S knickers of course. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, although that wouldn’t be strictly applicable to pubicly challenged pensioners. Anyway, Gordon Brown, being Scottish, would be more likely to say a midge in your hand is worth two up your kilt.

Well, I’ll just have to be patient and wait for him to buy me my fur coat I suppose, although I might have to wait a long time, because aside from being a politician and therefore likely to renege on his promises, the Scottish are notoriously tight - as well as having totally incomprehensible sayings. For example this often quoted puzzling toast about hairs.

“Hair’s tae us! Wha’s like us? Damn few, and their all deid! More’s the pity.”

Mind you, the Scottish have many confusing sayings, such as “Lang May Yer Lum Reek…” which translated means, long may your chimney be hot and fed with good coal…”
I do hope Gordon Brown is familiar with that particular saying. He did mention chimneys in a roundabout way at the Labour Conference and helping working mums, but perhaps I misheard him and he said reeking lums. Then again he might just have been slagging off the Tories. Anyway, whatever he said let’s hope he does what he says he will.

So, on the aftermath of my fifty ninth birthday, aside from along with Gordon Brown wishing everyone a reeking lum, I would like to quote this final confusing toast to all my loved ones, especially those who are already confused dot com and suffering from short term memory loss. In order to confuse them even further I raise another hair, as in hair of the dog and say -

“Here’s to all those that I love.
Here’s to all those that love me.
And here’s to all those that love those that I love,
And all those that love those that love me.”

And I’d just to add my own special dedication -

Especially those living with HIV

Of late, usually very late and often well into the early hours, I have been burning the midnight oil whilst over taxing my dubious computer skills trying to improve the look of the hivine website. Regular hiviners might have noticed that in the process some things might have gone a bit awry at times, like my blog roll for example, which like its counterpart Andrex the never ending bog as opposed to blog roll, rolled right off the page at one point and disappeared into cyberspace. Talking of bog rolls, do you think that singer Lou Rolls called himself after a roll of Andrex on purpose? It’s only just dawned on me, but I can be a bit slow at times, especially where computers are concerned.

Luckily, without the help of a cute golden Labrador puppy or even a Labradoodle, I eventually managed to retrieve my blog roll, only to find some things had mysteriously duplicated themselves and when I tried to delete them, they all disappeared, Tommy Cooper style – just like that. I always believed this kind of thing couldn’t happen on a computer and that nothing was ever truly deleted, or lost, but not so. In fact I got a telling off from wordpress my blog host – you were warned that if you delete a post or link on your blog it will be lost forever.

Was I? Like my ageing lap top I must be out of memory at stack one - whatever that means.
Stack of what? Well stacked in slang terms means a woman with big bosoms, which thanks to lipodostrophy I may well be, but big bosoms are more of a hindrance than a help, especially when it comes down to computer skills where they are no earthly use whatsoever. Someone recently emailed me a poem by Pam Ayres entitled, “Oh, I wish I’d looked after my tits,” which in one verse goes like this -

“Cos tits can be such troublesome things, When they no longer bounce, but dangle and swing
and although they go well with my Bingo wings, I wish I’d looked after me
tits.”

I know exactly what Ms Ayres means.

The reason I started the whole tortuous procedure of trying to improve my blog in the first place was because a regular hivine reader mentioned that the lay out of my posts made them difficult to read, especially for someone with bad eyesight. So rather than tell her to go and get her eyes tested, I had a look at the other wordpress themes available to me. However, the one I use is the only one with four columns, which meant if I decided to stick with it, I would have to start messing around with my widgets.
Because my sister originally set up this site for me, I didn’t really know what a widget was to be honest and always thought it was some kind of gadget in a beer barrel or something that put the fizz in Guinness - or was that a penguin?

My sister, when she calls me on the phone, now refuses to talk about widgets, or even to me if I mention them, or in fact anything at all to do with the computer. So I was forced to twiddle with my widgets alone and finally managed to add some mysterious headings that seem to have no purpose in life, (rather like love) other than to disappoint, because when you clicked on them nothing appeared -and still doesn’t.

I have since written my own version of the Pam Ayres poem, “Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits,” in relation to widgets -

“Oh, I wish I ‘adn’t twiddled me widgets
I should have sat on me fidgety digits
Cos with one flick of me finger
I hit the wrong pinger
And lost the whole bloody thing-er”

The burning (although not of CD’s) question still is, whether to change themes or stay with the devil I know. As you may have gathered from my previous blogs, being a Libran I am highly averse to change and therefore at times can be a decidedly unpositive (I wish) woman. Sometimes, as my mother always said, it is best to leave well alone and in the case of playing with my widgets, or anything else for that matter, she was probably right. There are some things I would like to change of course, like the weather for example, or my sticking out tooth, not to mention my positive status - and now and then my only son, who at times can drive me mad. In fact, he is so unlike me that I sometimes wonder if we are related at all. If it wasn’t for the fact that he is the living reincarnation of his father, without even having the dubious pleasure of having him around to act as a role model, I would be seriously forced to consider the possibility that he might have been a changeling.

A Changeling according to ancient folklore is the offspring of a fairy, elf or troll that has been secretly left in the place of a human child. A troll is described as being a fiendish giant who lives undercover, either in caves or underground and are easily recognizeable by their oversized ears and noses, which just about sums up his dad, especially in relation to having to live undercover. According to Nordic literature most trolls live in a far northern land called Trollebotten, which I believe is twinned with a small village in Yorkshire, which funnily enough is from where his dad originally heralds.

But beware - trolls are not only fiendish ex husbands from Yorkshire or any other northern county for that matter, they can also live in cyberspace. To “troll” means to allure, to fish, to entice or to bait, so not only are they living in cyberspace they are also walking around in our midst cunningly disguised as fishermen, in which case watch out next time you meet a man in waders, especially if he starts slinging his cyber hook in your direction.
Internet Trolls can inflict a great deal of damage, one website warns, such as disrupting your email list or online groups, stealing money or the rather quaintly put caddish behaviour of building false hopes. The term “troll” can mean a number of different things, but in essence, a troll is a person who aims to have ‘pleasure’ at your expense. Yet more caddish behaviour forsooth.

There are also “psycho trolls”, people who pretend to be someone that they are not – and I’m sure we’ve all met our fair share of those in our time, whether in cyberspace or sitting on the banks of a canal (or Canal street for that matter) looking for bait. Then there are the “Playtime Trolls”; so not even the school playground is safe, in which case try to keep a healthy distance from dinner ladies and lollipop men, not to mention keeping an eye out for the Domination Trolls, who are also most likely to be found on Canal Street - unless you like having your bottom smacked of course.
Just as in a park or a zoo where you see the sign, “Do not feed the animals,” on the web you might come across the warning, “Do not feed the troll” as part of a follow up to troll postings - so best to save your stale bread for the ducks and not your lap top.

In days gone by it was most often thought it was faeries who exchanged children for changelings, and simple charms, such as an inverted coat, were thought to ward them off. Well, it’s no good finding that out now. Why didn’t someone tell me sooner. It’s far too late for me to start wearing my coat, my cardigan or even my pyjamas inside out. Although it has been known.

The best way apparently to get rid of a changeling if like me you think you may have been saddled with one, is to make them laugh. Although, in my son’s case, I fear this would prove to be an impossible task, especially first thing in the morning.

There is a legend in the north of Spain about the Xana, who were female fairies who could deliver babies, or “xaninos,” that were sometimes swapped with human babies. So that’s what Abba were singing about in their song Xanadoo. The legend says that in order to distinguish a “xanino”, or in Abba terms a “xanadoo”, from a human baby, some pots and egg shells should be put close to the fireplace. A “xanino” or a “xanadoo” would then say:

“I was born one hundred years ago, and since then I have not seen so many egg shells near the fire!”

Which if you think about it sounds very similar to another Abba song, “Knowing me knowing you - ah ha.”

“I was born one hunderd years ago - ah ha -and since then I have not seen so many egg shells near the fire - oh ho o.”

I know the words don’t quite fit but it might be worth trying to sing along with them at your next kareoke session at your local pub or at the cinema when you go to see ‘Mamma Mia,’ especially if you are a mamma who wants to get rid of a changeling - or even if you don’t.

I don’t think my particular changeling would sing along to anything as he only likes techno and hates Abba and on seeing the egg shells would be more likely to remark, “ Mum, I told you I wanted boiled eggs and soldiers.”

If you are having similar doubts about any of your own offspring being changelings, according to the website, changelings can be easily identified by their voracious appetite, malicious temper, and other unpleasant traits – although that sounds like any normal teenager or obnoxious child to be honest. Changelings can also be identified by a greenish tint to their skin, but that’s usually after drinking ten pints of lager or the equivalent number of alcopops.

Changelings are apparently picky eaters unless offered something they like and they also dislike shoes. Well that rules out my son then, as he lives both for and in ridiculously expensive trainers.

Changelings allegedly are also very wise and will talk with highly intelligent words when they do speak – so that rules him out as well.

You can also identify one by their hair which is usually very messy – no doubt whatsoever there though.

In one tale of the Brothers Grimm there’s an account of how a woman, who suspected that her child had been exchanged, started to brew beer in the hull of an acorn. The changeling uttered: “now I am as old as an oak in the woods but I have never seen beer being brewed in an acorn”, then disappeared.

Changelings speak quite posh don’t they – but my problem is, I’ve got a can of lager, but where can I find an acorn?

In Wales the changeling child (plentyn newid) initially resembles the human it substitutes, which I would imagine would be very confusing, especially if it calls itself Jones, but like many Welshmen, or men in general, it gradually grows uglier in appearance and behaviour and is often bad tempered and given to screaming and biting – especially whilst playing rugby. The common means employed to identify a changeling in Wales, according to the information I acquired on the net, is to cook a family meal in an eggshell.

How, pray, does one cook a meal in an eggshell? I will have to consult my dear cousin who lives in Wales and is married to a Welshman, who I hasten to add is neither ugly nor bad tempered. Perhaps Jamie Oliver could shed some light on the matter, or Nigella might know. That Delia’s no good because she openly admits in ‘How to Cook: Book 1′ - that she can’t even boil an egg, thereby publicly admitting that she knows nothing about them and even less presumably about their shells, so for all she knows she might well be catering to a whole nation of changelings. After presenting the meal to the changeling child, it will then allegedly exclaim, “I have seen the acorn before the oak, but I never saw the likes of this,” and vanish, only to be replaced by the original human child.

Alternatively, if this doesn’t work the age old advice is to mistreat the child by placing it in a hot oven or by holding it in a shovel over a hot fire, as the fire would cause it to jump up the chimney and return the human child, but please don’t try this at home or you might find social services at your door. On saying that it might kill two birds with one stone as they would presumably take the changeling away and put it into care.

Another ancient remedy was to bathe the changeling in a solution of foxglove. I haven’t got any foxglove to hand but I’ve got some Radox and I think there’s an old bottle of Badedas in the bathroom cabinet - do you think that would do? Maybe that’s what they meant in the advert- things happen after a Badedas bath. What kind of things I always wondered and now I know.

When changelings are detected in time, their parents have to take them back. Unfortunately, if like me you would desperatley like to take yours back, the website didn’t give me an address.

picture:marinella©adrienne seed

For all the brave and inspirational people I had the privilege to work with over the last few weeks completing our initial training as Positive Self Management Programme Course Tutors at Body Positive North West in Manchester. And for anyone else who is following their dream -

“Only as high as I reach can I grow, only as far as I seek can I go, only as deep as I look can I see, only as much as I dream can I be.”

And for those who were on the course with me -

“A goal is a dream with a deadline.” – in other words an action plan!

You might have noticed if you have clicked on the ‘Positively Women’ site recently, that I am this season’s cover girl. It’s not often that one (at least this one) gets asked to be a cover girl, so I agreed to be the public face of ‘Positively Women,’ less for reasons of vanity than for awareness raising purposes. Seeing as it was the first and probably last time I would ever be asked to front a magazine, I asked my good friend and neighbour Willo, who as well as being an accomplished artist and sculptor is also an experienced graphic artist, to digitally enhance me.

“I don’t suppose you could do something with my crooked tooth whilst you are at it, could you?” I appealed to the graphic artist in her. Throughout my life I have been tormented by the fact that one of my front teeth sticks out more than the other. This is because the day before me and my family moved to Singapore, my grandma stood on my brace. Ever since then I have always been envious of anyone with straight teeth and feel my grandma deprived me of the gleaming straight toothed Simon Cowell like smile that was my right. But when you have a friend who has mastered Photoshop, who needs braces, I say, invisalign or not, which cost thousands of pounds – although I have considered it, even though I would look ridiculous in braces at my age, especially the ones that hold your trousers, or worse, your socks up.

Encouraged by the literally ‘uplifting’ mental as well as visual results of Willo’s airbrushing (which is not Lancashire for doing my hair) I asked her to enhance my Heidi photograph for the Mexican blog, which I also wanted to put up on face-book. Because of this, Willo has now become my professional toucher upper and recently made the following slightly put out comment, “I spent over two hours last night touching you up,” which could have been taken the wrong way if unsuspecting ears had chanced to eavesdrop on our conversation. I consider myself extremely lucky that I have a friend and neighbour who is prepared to spend that amount of time touching me up, as I never found a man prepared to invest that amount of time on foreplay, digital or otherwise. Of course, anyone who knows me well, such as close family and friends, or for that matter anyone who has been close enough to me to witness my true crows feet, are under no illusions that my unaccustomed wrinkle free likeness had not received the benefit of a bit of airbrushing.

Talking of close friends, another friend of mine, who is also positive herself so should therefore know better, made the following unfortunate remark the other day when we were discussing how I was doing on my new meds.
“Anyway, it was the right time to change meds and it’s a good job really, because you were starting to lose your femininity.”
A stunned silence whilst everything I held dear, like my unquestioned womanhood, was forever challenged.
“What do you mean exactly?” I asked her through gritted real life un-digitally enhanced sticking out teeth.
Good job, more like, that I hadn’t resorted to wearing braces then, especially on my pants.
“I could see that you were losing your femininity,” she continued blithely, some people just don’t know where to stop, do they; “There were visible signs.”
“What kind of visible signs?” I demanded to know.
“Well, your neck was starting to thicken up for example.”

Grotesque Images of me as Frankenstein or worse a rugby player flashed through my mind.

”You said yourself that your body fat was starting to change,” she persisted, “So you know what I mean.”

No, I didn’t know what she meant. The fact that I was developing a rugby player’s neck was news to me, so what else had she noticed. I knew that lipodostrophy had caused me to lose my bottom, but then again, all my bottom fat seemed to have gone directly to my bosoms and big bosoms are the height of femininity, are they not, at least in the eyes of most men?

Her unsettling comment chunnered around in my brain all the next day – losing my femininity, how do you lose your femininity? You can lose you virginity, you can lose your wallet and your house keys, you can also lose your figure, your looks and your youth, not to mention if you are HIV positive your bottom. I had slowly grown accustomed to the indisputable fact that we must all grow old – show me a rose that never fades and dies etc. (not that I am comparing myself to a rose), but my very womanhood had been severely challenged and I hadn’t even had my hysterectomy yet. What would happen when my women’s bits had been taken away – would I suddenly transform, if I didn’t play my cards right, into Bruce Forthsyth?

To make matters even worse, that very same night when I logged onto face book, there was a comment posted on my wall under my Heidi photograph by another so called close friend, although I do forgive her as she was only making a joke, I hope.
“Adrienne, that’s sooooo camp, are you sure you’re not really a gay man in a frock?”
My gender was once again being questioned and I was now beginning to have serious doubts about my fashion sense.

Then came the third and final blow - I went to a Gay Pride party that weekend at my friend Peter’s house, where admittedly most of the men were gay, but a straight neighbour popped in with his wife and when introduced to me said, “Hello luv, are you one of those trannies.”
Now I’ve been called a ‘fag hag’ in my time, which is the slang term for a woman who either associates mostly or exclusively with homosexual men, but never a transvestite. However nowadays, the fag hag reference would be more likely to appertain to my dismal attempts to give up fags not hang around with them and the effect a lifetime of smoking has had on my wrinkles.

The male counterpart of the fag hag, in other words men who have similar interpersonal relationships with lesbian women, are called dyke tykes, or Dutch boys; furthermore people who associate with gays, lesbians, and bisexuals may be called fruit flies regardless of their sex. The foreign equivalents of the fag hag are the Spanish “Mari Pili”; the “Mari Liendres” (”Mary Nits”) and on a more pejorative tone, the French: “Fille à Pédés” (”fags girl”) although no self respecting French girl would describe herself as such, apart from Bizet’s Carmen I suppose, or even though I’m not French, me. Then we have the German: “Schwulenmutti” (Gay mommy), which reminds me of the old butterfly joke.

Frenchman discussing language with German man –
Frenchman - German ees very ugly language.
German man - Vot do you mean?
Frenchman - take zee word butterfly, in French it ees pappillon; in English it ees butterfly; in Greek it ees petaloutha and in Spanish it ees Mariposa.
German man - And vot is wrong with Smetterlink?

Incidentally, the Japenese equivalent of the word faggot, which is the deroggatory term for a gay man is “Okoge”, meaning burnt rice that sticks to the bottom of a pot. Not sure what to make of that one.

Anyway, that did it, I was now seriously depressed as even wearing a frock and lots of jewellery didn’t seem to detract from the fact that I was, heaven forefend and unbeknownst to me, turning into a man. Direct action obviously needed to be taken in regard to my appearance so that I didn’t metamorphosis overnight, against my will, into an Action Man.

First course of action was to take the masculinity/femininity test on HelloQuizzy.com.
After a nail biting wait, my results flashed up on the screen.

Logical Female.

Phew! Relief that I was definitely a female, but a logical one?

Wasn’t aware there was such a thing – and if you listen to men there definitely isn’t.

The next part of my action plan was to have a surf on the worldwide web to update myself on the latest fashion trends to make sure I hadn’t been left behind style-wise in a bygone era. Here, according to an up to the minute fashion article in the American Tribune, I found to my horror that in order to look feminine, bows were back - and back with a vengeance if the article was to be believed.

“A bow is one of the first accessories for a woman. It’s the rare baby girl who hasn’t worn a bow in her hair. Expect to see more adult attention to bows as the trend gains momentum. Bows also help provide the perfect accent to a more masculine piece of clothing, such as a motorcycle jacket or pin-striped suit. The trend won’t be going away anytime soon. Expect more ahead in fall and winter fashions.”

Oh no – please spare me. I can’t be doing with bows and age wise, there is a definite time to stop wearing them if you don’t want to look like, “Whatever happened to Baby Jane.”

The re-emergence of the dreaded bow was bringing to mind Oscar Wilde, which wasn’t exactly helping matters - but maybe that was bells. I was now forced to step up my research into femininity and take it to a deeper level, during which I came upon a website called eHOW – How to do just about everything. I clicked directly on the instructions on how to look feminine, which were described as being in terms of difficulty; Moderately Easy.

Moderately easy for some no doubt, but obviously not for me, nevertheless I would give it a go.

One of the first steps was to wear shoes with pointed toes and high heels because they make a woman look more feminine - so out with the sloggies and M&S comfort shoes then.

Step 3 was to wear a blouse because a blouse screams femininity.

Does it really? That was indeed news to me

Step 4 - try a new style with tasteful shorts. Complete this outfit with a frilly silk blouse. Show a little cleavage.

Screaming whilst wearing a frilly blouse with your bosoms hanging out and wearing hot pants didn’t sound very feminine to me, coupled with the ultimate step of wearing a flower in your hair, batting your eyes, whilst not forgetting to smile - but what did I know.

I then clicked on another site called positively feminine, as opposed to positively women, to get the religious slant on femininity. Femininity; A Biblical Perspective. If anyone knew how to define the word, God surely would, as he created us, or at least according to Carolyn Mahaney who declared – “The God who created femininity has a beautiful purpose and plan for women.”

What was it? Whatever it was I wanted to sign up before it was too late and I had transformed into a reincarnation of Bruce Forthsyth.

“Without God’s Word as anchor, modern women drift to extremes. Secular feminist Susan Brownmiller evidences the confusion in her book, Femininity: “Women are all female impersonators to some degree.”

This was not helping one iota.

“The Lord said, “It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him” (Gen 2:18). God created Eve from Adam, indicating that she was created to help him in the task God had given him. Although femininity looks different depending on one’s marital status, all women are called to display their femininity in a variety of relationships. I encourage single women to ask the Lord for creative ways to inspire men to lead. Meanwhile, wives, we all have the same job description: Our husbands’ helpers. When wondering whether to pursue some particular endeavor, ask yourself: Does this help my husband? Usually, that one simple question will make your decision clear.”

Is that where I went wrong?

Under the heading ‘Made to Nurture’ she writes – “As women, we are created to be life-bearers. One way we express our femininity is to embrace gratefully every stage of childbearing, receiving and nurturing each child as a gracious gift from God. But motherhood is a huge responsibility, an enormous task. As one author wrote, “It can be back-breaking, heart-wrenching and anxiety-producing — and that’s just the morning!”

In regard to Domesticity — “Devotion to the quality of home life is an essential facet of femininity. Single women, may I advise you not to wait until marriage to cultivate this? I have talked to many married women who admitted they didn’t value domesticity before they were married.”

And presumably even less so afterwards.

She then goes on to give some Biblical examples.

Domestically Feminine - “She watches over the affairs of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness.”
-Proverbs 31:27

Frugally Feminine - “She sees that her trading is profitable, and her lamp does not go out at night.”
-Proverbs 31:18

Sounds like a hooker to me.

Maternally Feminine - “Her children arise and call her blessed.”
-Proverbs 31:28a

Mine doesn’t.

Well, that was the spiritual and fashion version of femininity taken care of, stop eating idle sandwiches, making sure I never ran out of light bulbs, wear a frilly blouse adorned with bows if I felt like screaming. Now all I had to deal with was my actual physical attributes, such as body shape. In relation to this I chanced upon an interesting article on the Sky health page on how to get a great body by incorporating sexercise into my daily regime. I read on with interest, even though there is no current man to practice with, but its always good to keep yourself informed, just in case.

“Having sex uses every muscle group and is isn’t only good for toning up; it releases mood-boosting endorphins that are highly effective painkillers. The NHS even recommends it as a way of combating heart disease and reducing blood pressure.” All well and good, but then they go and spoil it all by adding, “Not only does sex aid a healthy body, it unleashes tension and boosts testosterone the hormone required to create sexual tension.”

Isn’t testosterone that hormone that makes women start growing a moustache or a beard? Perhaps that’s why I was having trouble with my femininity, trying to impersonate the painter Frieda Kahlo who had eyebrows that met in the middle and a clearly pronounced black moustache.

Before embarking on sexercise however, we were offered the following helpful advice.
“You and your partner may want to warm up before you start, by stretching and working up a sweat together, which can be a real turn on and is great foreplay and helps you limber up for more adventurous sex. You might need to persuade your partner to give it a whirl,” they advise, “But what better bribe is there than the promise of sex?”

A nice cup of tea and a cuddle perhaps.

No chance of that, you have to sit opposite your partner holding hands, with your legs open as wide as you can (hip replacements permit