Hivine

If you’ve been wondering where I’ve been all this time, I’ve been off with all the tossers in Ibiza, toss as you probably know by now being Spanish for cough. But this time I did things in reverse. I went out there with a terrible toss and came back without one – well almost. The stack of duty free camels didn’t exactly help.

Living with HIV for the last seven years I had come to the sorry conclusion that travelling, especially to Ibiza, was no longer an option for me as I always seemed to come down with some mysterious ailment whilst I was there. Tanit the island goddess who was supposed to watch over and protect women did not seem to be watching over me I’d decided. But in retrospect I now realise that if I hadn’t of gone to Ibiza that time and been diagnosed HIV positive by the gorgeous homeopathic doctor Luis (not my Luis I hasten to say) who if he is reading this by any chance, thanks once again for saving my life, I wouldn’t be sitting here now writing this blog. So in fact Tanit was watching over me after all and is obviously continuing to do so.

I did have a lovely time in Ibiza I must admit and unfortunately it has awakened the old hippy and erstwhile traveller in me that HIV and Blackburn has suppressed. Or so I thought. I used to say when asked that I wouldn’t swap Blackburn now for Ibiza. Who was I trying to kid? It was wonderful; no pollution, dining al la fresco under the stars, meeting up with all my old friends who are, like me, all older and greyer but still refusing to wear beige and looking good for their age. I was a bit worried that they would notice a difference in me, the ravages HIV has caused to my body by way of lippo etc. and also if my being HIV positive would make a difference in how they treated me. But being children of the sixties to be honest no one gave a toss if I was HIV positive or not, so that was a welcome relief to be totally free of stigma for once. But the sad fact is that yes, if we are lucky and really work at it we can still can manage to look good, despite HIV, but what good is that if no one wants us? HIV deprives us positive people of love and of being loved and that’s the cruellest blow of all and the hardest thing to deal with.

Living on a small island you can almost forget the big wide world and even HIV for a while. You ask yourself and each other searching questions, especially after a few glasses of wine, such as do fishes sleep and if so where? On the river bed of course! And if they don’t sleep how long their endless days must seem, especially of they live in a goldfish bowl or a fish tank, which Spanish fish don’t of course as they have the huge bowl of the Mediterranean to float around in. A lot of people don’t sleep in Ibiza, but that is more a result of the chemicals they have imbibed. I didn’t do any of that, but I did down a few mojitos watching the magnificent sunsets sitting on a sofa on the beach! Sleep is an important issue as you get older and the thought of bed or a sofa is something to look forward to, as is taking siesta, a little nod or forty winks, where just before you drop off you may tax your brain with the puzzle, why is it forty winks and not fifty? And then again, especially if you are in Ibiza, maybe you won’t.

My girlfriends were quite impressed with my ‘lippo’ bosoms I have to say and all had a go at trying on my latest ‘per una’ bra to see if it would do the same for them. I’d treated my bosoms if you remember to a new bra for not letting me down when I had the dreaded mammogram. Talking of bosoms, Jordan, or Katie Price as she is now known, was also in Ibiza at the same time as me. One of my friends bumped into her surrounded by paparazzi in the paper shop, probably looking to see if she had made the front page of ‘The Star.’ With my new ‘lippo’ bosoms perhaps the paparazzi might have mistakenly taken me for her – although do I hope not. Apart from the bosoms, which even with lippo are no where in line with hers, that’s definitely where the similarity ends. Anyway, I would never have two timed Peter Andre!

It was nice to reminisce about the old Hippy days and flower power – did you know that the Spanish eat carnations, but sprinkled with salt? Even in Spain my Spanish was not up to scratch (that does not translate well) and neither did when I tried to tell Luis that my nose was andando (running) due to all that tossing and making my eyes correr (post)

“You nose do not run and you do not put your kheyes in a honvelope,” he correctly pointed out, “And tampoco do words in Spaneesh or in Heengleesh make scratchy.”

Scratchy and Scratchy perhaps - the renowned art dealers?

“Well, tossing means the caber in English,” I dutifully responded.

Nevertheless he kept making bromas (jokes) about me taking my nose for a jog or putting my eyes in the post. Not that I did any jogging whilst I was there or send any postcards or even any tossing in the end. I came back from Ibiza a new woman feeling rejuvenated. More so it has reawakened the painter in me and I feel as though the time has now come to put onto canvas all the crap the last seven years has thrown at me. I can’t wait to see what will appear vision wise once I start. I have found that HIV and my advancing years have given me a new facility to enjoy life that maybe non positive people and especially younger people sometimes take for granted. And yes, it was nice to escape, but I am now back on the case so watch this space and I will endeavour to keep you updated with the life of an aging tosser with HIV.

Not content with blogging and facebook I have now signed up to Twitter. The trouble is I haven’t really got a clue what it’s all about. Twitter is yet another social networking website and ‘tweets’ are apparently text based posts delivered to other users known as followers. I’m not sure whether I am comfortable with the term ‘follower’ or the thought that someone is following me as it smacks somewhat of stalking or being stalked. Stephen Fry is allegedly the celebrity with the most stalkers/followers, along with not surprisingly Britney Spears and also Barack Obama who used twitter as a publicity mechanism in the run up to the elections.

Twitter is defined as a succession of chirps or cheeps, as in that highly annoying and repitious song, ‘chirpy chirpy cheep cheep’ - although ‘chirpy cheep cheeps’ sounds more like a name for an Italian feesh and cheep shop.

Twittering is to talk in an excited or nervous manner as in he or she was all atwitter. A Twit on the other hand is an insignificant or bothersome person which says it all really so what does that now make me?

I know that tweetchers are nature lovers who like to observe the habits of Britain’s wildlife, at least that’s their excuse for loitering in the bushes spying on birds. If you are one of the lucky people who have found lasting love in your life, you will be familiar with the term tweetheart and also the famous song, ‘I’ll be your tweetheart if you will be mine.’ Finding a lifelong tweetheart, whether or not you are HIV positive, is not an easy task and it is reported that almost half of British marriages are set to end in court. One of the top tips for a lasting relationship and the first secret of success to a happy future as revealed on the Sky website was to ensure that you and your partner have matching road maps. I’m not sure what they mean exactly by matching road maps but if you’ve ever had the misfortune to act as navigator for your tweetheart and taken the wrong direction I can understand why. Perhaps there is a new kind of sat nav or Tom Tom on the market for relationships – “In four hundred yards take the left lane and exit this relationship.”

But of all the secrets of a lasting relationship according to Sky ‘niceness’ may be the most important. If you are nice to your partner they will be nice to you. Well I don’t know about you but being nice didn’t work for me.

“Mr and Mrs be nice to each other.”

Unfortunately mine was one of those unfortunate British marriages that ended up in court

“Mr and Mrs Decree nici to each other.”

One click on a website tends to lead directly to another and as I was twittering away to myself I came across this one - Are You Popular? By analysing my facial map they would apparently be able to tell me how popular I was. Was this like the relationship road map I wondered? Of course I had to have a go because thanks to twitter and the fact that I only have one stalker with the highly suspicious surname of somebody Dodge, I am now suffering a personality crisis. I dutifully downloaded my photograph (the photo shopped one of course) and it came back with some very rude comments about putting a litter tray under my mouth and the fact that I had get out of my bed eyes. I now wish I hadn’t bothered. In fact I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t twittered in the first place and so are you probably after listening to me twittering on, so I’m off to bed to slip between the tweets and hopefully have tweet dreams.

Positively Girls Aloud

How many positive women does it take to change a light bulb? Unless you can think of an answer to the age old joke there isn’t one, but if you take out the words light and bulb, then ask, how many positive women does it take to change the UK’s attitude in regard to policies affecting HIV positive women, the answer is simple. The ever growing number of positive women who are members of POZ FEM UK the National Voice of Women Living with HIV who are totally committed to making a change especially in relation to stigma and how the UK views our role in society.

I have just returned from the northern regional coordinators meeting in Newcastle where I had the privilege to spend the weekend with this amazing group of brave and inspirational women. The bond that we share and the strength we derive from each other’s company and shared experiences is totally empowering and gives us the strength to carry on fighting the good fight. In between meetings we all go on living our separate lives but when we get together we are a force to be reckoned with and I for one feel very proud to be a member of such an inspirational group of women.

Newcastle is a city buzzing with life and I’ve never seen so many people out on a Saturday night intent on having a good time. Hordes of revellers thronged the busy streets, packs of men on the prowl, shivering groups of girls dressed in the latest fashions tottering on ridiculously high heeled shoes, stag parties dressed as nuns, hen parties resplendent in fluorescent pink fairy dresses. But everyone seemed happy enough. Maybe the Newcastle Brown had something to do with it. There was a lot of rowdy singing going on, although some of the songs contained lyrics that should not be issuing from the mouths of fairies or nuns.

“Oh I’ve got a great big willy, yes I have,” to the tune of, “She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes.”

We’d heard from various sources that ‘Take That’ were supposed to be kicking off their UK tour that night in the town, but no one could actually tell us where. Stories differed according to which taxi driver you asked and at one point it was ‘Girls Aloud’ and not ‘Take That’ who were supposed to be playing. It turned out that neither group in fact was playing but we did find a bar with a lively blues band where we danced the night away to ‘Hoochie Koochie Man’ and the likes. At one point everyone deserted the crowded bar and rushed out onto the street to witness the sight of hundreds of Chinese lanterns lighting the sky over the river Tyne. It was a beautiful sight to behold with the millennium bridge with its constantly changing colours as a backdrop. As I watched the lights disappearing on their journey to who knows where I thought about us as group of positive women determined to implement change and how when we left Newcastle we would be those shining lights spreading the message and fighting stigma. Although I had supped quite a few halves of Guinness by that time.

I’d received some good news before I’d left for Newcastle which I’d shared with the group as it exemplified the power we have if we do speak out and make our voices heard. At my local hospital they’d been hosting something called the Star Awards where selected members of staff could be nominated to receive Oscars, so some of us had written heartfelt testaments to the role our lovely health advisor had played over the years in supporting us as positive clients. Anyway, the result was that she was nominated for two awards and at the Gala Ball was presented not with one oscar but with two.

What does that mean exactly – well it means that firstly she had received the credit that she so justly deserved, but also it meant that people had listened to us and had taken our testaments as positive people to heart, so we too were the victors. This to me means that having a voice matters, that it does make a difference and that our actions will have a knock on effect by making other people view HIV in a different light.

Words matter, making your voice heard matters, stories matter and we matter although we tend to think when we are HIV positive that we don’t.

So let’s carry on being ‘Girls Aloud’ and ‘Boys Aloud’ of course and continue to make our voices heard on behalf of all the positive women and men who because of stigma cannot speak out.

Talking of voices if you are wondering what has happened to Susan Boyle she has recently been sighted in the form of a vision on my sun lounger!

Don’t you just love it that all those greedy MP’s are having to pay their extortionate and often unfounded claims for expenses back? Most of them it seems have been at it left right and centre and some of them have been ‘at it’ in all senses of the word, but we are used to that kind of behaviour, are we not, from our not so honourable Members of Parliament. Now thanks for once to the media their dastardly deeds are being exposed to public scrutiny and condemnation on a daily basis and many of them are being forced to stand down. At this rate there’ll be none left standing as most of them are in the dog house or the ‘duck house’ as in the much publicised case of the Tory MP who claimed for a floating duck house for his pond.

Pond? Lake more like! When us commoners the proletariat think pond, we think of something from Argos or B&Q where we would be lucky to float a goldfish let alone a fleet of ducks - and it wasn’t exactly a house was it, it was a pavilion, although looking at the photograph the door seemed a tad small for the average duck to squeeze its feathered bottom through. But I suppose that particular Tory MP doesn’t need to concern himself about that anymore as his Daffy’s and Donald’s will be so much thinner now that he can no longer put in a claim for extra bread rations to fatten them up.

I wonder what Gordon Brown or the Chancellor of the Exchequer is going to do with all the money these rip off MP’s are being forced to return to the taxpayer? I wish they would put some of it into an HIV awareness raising and prevention campaign, but I suppose that is too much to ask. When you think about how much money was spent sending leaflets about the dreaded swine flu to every household in the land it does make you wonder why they don’t do something similar in relation to HIV. Their answer to that of course probably would be that swine flu has the possibility to affect anyone - but then so does HIV, but for some reason the ever rising statistics, especially amongst women and young people, are being kept constantly under wraps.

Did you know that you say HIV backwards in Spanish and its pronounced atchy-eeee-oovay, which sounds like an embarrassing female complaint, which it is of course and I should know as I’ve been living with itchyoovay now for seven years. I’m telling you this because I’m having to think half in English and half in Spanish at the moment because Luis is over here and due to his stubborn determination not to master the English Language and my laziness in relation to conquering the mysteries of the Spanish verb, we tend to speak Spanglish. For that reason, confusion might arise and all too frequently does. For example, if I ask him to pass me the pan he might well hand me a loaf of bread. It’s a good job that Tory MP doesn’t have a Spanish maid otherwise his pond would be floating with saucepans. Mind you it’s big enough to float a flotilla of pans as well as the entire contents of the Argos catalogue. I think I might have mentioned before that the word for bra in Spanish sounds very similar to saucepan, so he would have to watch his Spanish maid for that too otherwise he might end up causing more of a scandal and be in more trouble than he already is.

The Spanish word for knickers is braggers, but that doesn’t surprise me one bit, because listening to Luis, everything is so much better in Spain. According to wikipedia the word knicker originated in America and was down to a Dutch settler called Herman Knickerbockter, although I feel in view of what is currently going on with our MP’s ‘knicking’ the taxpayers money to clean their moats and buy floating pavillions for their ducks, wikipedia might be forced to update the information to include the Houses of Parliament.

Talking of things being back to front, did you know that the bubbles in a glass of Guinness float downwards instead of upwards? In order to prove this little known theory, Luis and I set off on a trip to Liverpool the closest point to Ireland we could get without taking the ferry and also with the intent of visiting Crosby beach the site of the Antony Gormley sculpture installations, aptly entitled ‘Another Place’. I say aptly entitled because we’d tried to find them before and ended up in another place entirely. So this time we’d armed ourselves with a borrowed Tom Tom, but I fear Mrs Tom Tom must have been some distant relation of Major Tom Tom of David Bowie fame, because if her sense of navigation was anything to go by she obviously lived on another planet to us. She also had an annoying tendency to nod off when she was most needed.

“Ground control to Mrs Tom Tom,” I screamed at her at a busy intersection, shaking her by the throat and begging her to wake up and tell me which lane to take. But she ignored me and we ended up in a mega traffic jam of Everton supporters.

The Spanish are not renowned for their patience at the best of times, especially in regard to forming polite queues and Luis who was desperate for his pint of Guinness by now was starting to get decidedly agitated. The curses that issued from his Guinness starved mouth were not to be repeated and were mainly directed at Mrs Tom Tom, the traffic lights, which seemed to be constantly on red and the Everton supporters, calling them sons of prostitutes and various parts of the male anatomy, which was not a very wise thing to do, especially when the line of blue and white decked cars were at a standstill. As for Mrs Tom Tom it was all I could do to stop him from hurling her out of the window.

When we finally arrived at Crosby, a bleak, run down seaside town, the weather had deteriorated, ominous black clouds hovered on the horizon and there were no pubs.

“No pubs?” Luis cried outraged, how could this be posseeeblay in the north of England.

In the end we settled for a dilapidated looking hotel called ‘The Grand’ and Guinness finally in hand he calmed down somewhat and settled back to investigate the descending bubble theory. This resulted in him downing two pints of the black stuff in a row in rapid succession. Guinness may well be good for you and beneficial for the heart as it allegedly slows down deposits of harmful cholesterol on the artery walls, but did you also know that it is treated with something called ‘isinglass’ which is made from fishes’ air bladders. Some things I feel it is preferable not to know. I am old enough to remember their original advertising campaign featuring the famous toucans and the accompanying slogan.

“Toucans in their nests agree Guinness is good for you
Try some today and see what one or toucan do.”

Well, Luis who had taken that sentiment literally found what that meant for him was he had to keep disappearing behind sand dunes for the rest of the day in order to relieve his Guinness filled bladder.

We left ‘The Grand Hotel’ and set off around the perimeters of a dismal black lake not dissimilar in itself to a huge pint of Guinness fringed as it was with a ring of sulphurous looking froth, with not a duck or a duck house in sight. But everyone else seemed to be going in the opposite direction. Where were they heading we asked ourselves. Maybe they knew where all the pubs were? Hordes of folk were descending through the gap in the sand dunes looking like something out of a Fellini movie - huge women with strange accents and enormous bosoms, tattooed men with arms like sides of beef nearly being pulled out of their sockets by snarling drug dealer type dogs. We elbowed our way through the gap in the dunes then scanned the horizon for the magnificent bronze sculptures we were so familiar with having seen them on the internet. But all we could see were some rusty looking figures in the distance lurking ominously in muddy puddles with their male appendages dangling and staring forlornly out to sea. We set off bravely across the wide expanse of dirty brown sand to get a closer look and take some photographs, although to be honest I was a bit nervous about getting stuck in some sinking sand and becoming an installation myself.

That fateful trip to ‘Another Place’ resulted in me catching some kind of bug which of course frightened the living daylights out of me in case it was swine flu. So I’ve now got a terrible toss and a bad case of constipado – Spanish for cough and cold.

Anyway for future trips and days out I don’t think we will be borrowing the Tom Tom and talking of Toms, I wrote a message to Tom Waits my musical hero on his website.

Dear Tom will you write a song about HIV?
A rap - a moan - some poetry
For outcasts of society
For ‘invisible’ women the world can’t see

Or failing that just for me.

Not my best effort I have to admit, but you never know, and in these current days of ‘people power’ and getting your voice heard, now is the time to speak out. Look at the wonderful Joanna Lumley and the well deserved victory she has achieved for the Gurkhas.

Maybe if we all keep speaking out about HIV someone somewhere will listen.

What do you think of my new boyfriend?

Speaking Up!

On behalf of all positive women we are proud to announce that Silvia Petretti HIV Activist and founder of POZ-FEM UK has been elected to be a member on the programme Committee for the next International AIDS Conference in Vienna in 2010. We can rest assured that Silvia will do all in her power to bring issues affecting positive women in the UK to the forefront and work tirelessly on our behalf as she has been doing for many years.

So well done Silvia and keep up the good work.

In the run up to the conference Silvia has started a blog where you can keep up with the latest updates and also find information about HIV as well as post your own comments and experiences which she would welcome.

You can find Silvia’s Speak up blog at -

http://www.hivpolicyspeakup.wordpress.com

or click on the link, HIV Policy-Silvia’s Speaking Up! on the blogoll.

I have just returned from the great metropolis of London where along with an amazing and diverse group of other positive men and women we underwent training to be part of The People Living with HIV Stigma Index: UK Initiative 2009. This is a new and exciting research and advocacy initiative that is by and for people living with HIV and which will generate evidence that can better inform and improve policy and practice to address HIV related stigma in the UK. I certainly believe that by reducing stigma we can be one step nearer in our fight against HIV/AIDS and it is one of the foremost hurdles to overcome - that is why I continue to speak out and also why I write this blog.

The training was very intense and it was great to be with other positive people from all over the UK and from all walks of life who are totally committed to the cause of reducing stigma. The hotel some of us were staying in was close to Tower Bridge an area steeped with history and tradition, so I arrived early the day before the training was due to commence in order to do some sightseeing. Aside from the intense training there was also quite a lot of intense bonding and social activity going on and on the second night a few of us decided to venture out of the hotel for dinner. We wandered along Tower Bridge Road looking for a cheap eating establishment, but what with Veritee’s leg problems and pink flowered stick, my wonky hip and poor Sue’s ‘nueropathetic’ feet caused by the meds, we weren’t able to venture very far. Obviously money as always was the deciding factor so our first stop was a handy Wetherspoons pub, only to find they’d run out of everything including bread. The vacant looking bloke behind the bar who possessed little or no English shook his uncomprehending head as we tried to place our orders.

“No cheeps.”
“No chips?” unbelievable, we looked at each other aghast, “Jacket potatoes?
“No jackeets”
“What no spuds in any shape or form?”
“Que?”
“Garlic bread then?”
“No breed.”

What kind of joint was this – no cheeps, no jackets, no breed - maybe he was referring to us and Wetherspoons had suddenly adopted a smart dress code, but although we weren’t exactly wearing jackeets as such, we were hardly dishevelled looking, even if we had become slightly unruly by this time being deprived of our national staple diet of carbohydrates. Before we were physically evicted we marched out of our own accord, on our dignity, with Veritee waving her pink flowered stick and crossed the death defying road to an Italian restaurant, which looked decidedly scruffy from the outside but in this case appearances were deceptive, because inside it was immaculate. Glasses sparkled on the starched white tablecloths; attentive not to mention handsome Italian waiters adorned in silk waistcoats hovered at our elbows eager to attend to our every need. The owner informed us that normally we would need a reservation but tonight we were in luck as he could squeeze us lovely ladies in. And it was true, we congratulated ourselves, we were indeed in luck because the homemade pasta was delicious and so was the house wine, which we made very short work of, and we were nattering away, as you do, when an ominous smell of burning became embarrassingly evident in our direct vicinity.

“Can anyone smell burning,” I looked around. “Must be coming from the kitchen,” we decided and carried on nattering. But the smell was getting stronger and stronger and it was then that we noticed that Veritee’s huge linen napkin was on fire - and not only on fire but ablaze with magnificent blue and orange flames. Completely unphased Veritee grabbed what was now the huge ball of fire and extinguished it with her bare hands and carried on talking. At least we thought she’d extinguished it, but it must have been a good half an hour later when the owner, who was now heralding in group of very posh customers to their table, which was right next to ours, began wafting his refined Italian nose around and sniffing the air over our heads like the Bisto kid in that old Bisto advert, trying to identify where the odious smell was coming from.

The odious smell was in fact issuing from Veritee’s huge handbag under the table where the smouldering napkin had decided to relight itself, like one of those birthday candles that refuses to go out and was now in immediate danger of setting fire to the tablecloth, if not the whole restaurant and rewriting history by setting off the next Great Fire of London. Veritee quickly skulked past the owner clutching her smouldering bag to the downstairs loo where she got rid of the incendiary evidence in a sanitary towel disposal bin. We refrained from ordering desserts and quickly took our leave. Apparently the major conflagration of 1666 started at a bakery in Pudding Lane so maybe it’s a good job we left before ordering a pud before the place burnt down. Talk about London’s burning – call the engines - call the engines - fire fire – fire fire - pour on water - pour on water.

Didn’t hear anything about any Italian restaurants burning down on the local news but did hear that the lift in Tower Bridge, the one I almost went in the day before on my sight seeing trip, had suddenly plummeted to the ground injuring quite a few Spanish tourists who were left with broken legs and ankles. I suggested we all took a ride on the Ghost Bus the next night, but everyone was too knackered after the training and in view of what happened to the lift, maybe it was a good thing – although we could have become ghost-bus-ters.

I was actually sorry when the training came to an end and we were all reluctantly forced to say goodbye. We decided we would stay in touch by forming a group on Face Book. Some names were bandied around and Mark came up with ‘Riddled’ as in riddled with it, which then became ‘Stiggled’ to incorporate the word stigma.

I didn’t want to get off the Virgin train and return to the problems of my day to day and family life. I wanted to ride around forever passing through town to town like some kind of ghost train as opposed to ghost bus. Anyway, my feet were killing me after all that walking which made me think me in regard to the old women’s lib joke of why should there be more women train drivers - a woman’s right to choo choose, that it could be adapted considering my aching feet to shoe shoes, or choo choos in relation to Jimmy Choo. There was a nice man sitting opposite me on the train and I started fantasising about how comforting it would be to have someone like that to come home to – a safe, respectable man with a good job who would look after me, love me even. Most people with HIV I have noted, including me, are desperately lonely and would love a significant other who would accept us for what and who we are and not reject us because of what we have. One of the African girls on the training course mentioned that she would like to marry a British farmer. I have heard this (I won’t say burning in lieu of the flaming napkin episode) desire expressed before from one of the African ladies in my ‘hivine’ group and I have rather optimistically promised to try to find her one. I do believe there is a website with farmers looking for wives, a bit like the old nursery rhyme- the farmer wants a wife, eee eye addy oh the farmer wants a wife, but I have yet to check it out.

Maybe I should start a dating agency here on my website I offered, farmers or otherwise. Sue suggested that as my surname is Seed I should call it seedydating.com. So watch this space, although the seedy reference might encourage gardeners as well as farmers. Oh well, the more the merrier as long as it doesn’t encourage seedy types of a more deviant nature.

The classic moment of the training and the whole weekend for me, apart from Veritee nearly causing the next major conflagration of London, was when she suggested to the woman from the Ministry of Health who was giving us a PowerPoint presentation on the rising statistics of HIV and offering up the advice that if people were concerned that they might be positive they should go for a test, asked her outright if she’d ever had one and if not she should. You should have seen her face. I added that people should go for a test even if they didn’t think they were positive. It was interesting to note that the oldest people in our training group had all nearly died from undiagnosed HIV - so hiviners take note. If you are in doubt and even if you are not – don’t be put off by the stigma associated with taking an HIV test. Fighting HIV related stigma is what this blog and what the research project we are about to embark upon is all about.

I am trying to calm myself after having had a very heated argument, which once again reverts back to stigma, about counsellors who are HIV positive not being able to counsel another person with HIV because their own issues would get in the way. To me that is like saying that a gay person cannot counsel another gay person, or a person who has cancer cannot counsel a person who also has cancer. I would really appreciate other people’s thoughts on this issue or am I alone in thinking that it takes one to know one.

Oh dear, the poor pig must be the most unpopular animal to ever have walked its trotters on God’s earth at the moment as the world stockpiles huge mountains of anti-virals and grits its metaphorical teeth in preparation for the swine flu pandemic. I don’t suppose then, in that case, folk will be queuing up to take out the latest Pinky and Perky DVD, who have just made their long awaited comeback with, “License to Swill.” Or even letting their children gather round their plasma television screens to watch the old family favourite and time honoured classic, “Babe” in case they catch something.

Mothers around the world will no longer be playing with their baby’s toe toes and crooning ‘this little piggy went to market’ - or in the case of the more modern and upmarket mother, “This Little Piggy went to Prada.” This book by Amy Allen of updated nursery rhymes is described as the new must have for yummy mummy’s and features variations on the old classic rhymes such as, “There was an old woman who lived in her Choos.”

I dread to think what she got to rhyme with hickory dickory dock, or what her version of wee wee wee all the way home makes reference to - Tena lady pads perhaps or incontinence knickers.

In my case, as I am long past the stage of playing with my baby’s toe toes as he is twenty nine, or anyone’s toe toes for that matter, it will definitely be a case of this little piggy stayed at home, as we are all advised to stay indoors and indulge in as little human contact as possible - although, as a positive person I am well accustomed to that. I’m getting worried though that all this advice about avoiding physical contact with people in case they are infected with a dreaded lurgy will start off all the paranoia about touching or having close contact with people with HIV again.

Swine flu is such a horrible name for an illness. Imagine telling people you had swine flu. It would be almost as bad as telling people you’ve got HIV. No one wants to be associated with a pig and some people it has to be said don’t want to be associated with people who have HIV. Although throughout the ages pigs have often featured as popular icons, such as Miss Piggy for example from the Muppets. Whatever happened to her? I remember munching on sugar pigs as a child which apparently are still available in some sweet shop outlets or alternatively you can buy them online, although I wouldn’t think business will be going to well in the current climate.

There’s an old saying, pigs sweat, women glow and men perspire, although there is some dispute as to whether pigs do in fact sweat, however I wouldn’t think anyone in their right mind would want to get close enough to one right now to discover whether they do or not.

In some ways people with HIV have a lot in common with today’s pig, if positive people who are reading this will forgive me for saying, as quite often non positive people don’t want know us, or hear what we say, which begs the question - If a pig loses its voice, is it disgruntled?

To make up for this irreverent take on the swine flu pandemic I will now add a recent update from the CDC with some serious advice for positive people.

Interim CDC Guidance

April 30, 2009

The US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) today issued the following interim guidance entitled, “HIV-Infected Adults and Adolescents: Considerations for Clinicians Regarding Swine-Origin Influenza A (H1N1) Virus. The International Association of Physicians in AIDS Care (IAPAC) is circulating the CDC’s interim guidance as a service to our global membership.

Background

Human infections with a swine-origin influenza A (H1N1) virus that is transmissible among humans were first identified in April 2009 with cases in the United States and Mexico. The epidemiology and clinical presentations of these infections are currently under investigation. There are insufficient data available at this point to determine who is at higher risk for complications of swine-origin influenza A (H1N1) virus infection. However, adults and adolescents with HIV infection, especially persons with low CD4 cell counts, are known to be at higher risk for viral and bacterial lower respiratory tract infections and for recurrent pneumonias.

Evidence that influenza can be more severe for HIV-infected adults and adolescents comes from studies among HIV-infected persons who had seasonal influenza; these data are limited. However, several studies have reported higher hospitalization rates, prolonged illness and increased mortality, especially among persons with AIDS. Thus, immune compromised persons, including HIV-infected adults and adolescents and especially persons with low CD4 cell counts or AIDS can experience more severe complications of seasonal influenza and it is possible that HIV-infected adults and adolescents are also at higher risk for swine-origin influenza complications.

Clinical presentation

HIV-infected adults and adolescents with swine-origin influenza would be expected to present with typical acute respiratory illness (e.g., cough, sore throat, rhinorrhea) and fever or feverishness, headache, and muscle aches. For some HIV-infected persons, especially persons with low CD4 cell counts, illness might progress rapidly, and might be complicated by secondary bacterial infections including pneumonia. HIV-infected persons who have suspected swine-origin influenza A (H1N1) virus infection should be tested (see Guidance on Specimen Collection), and specimens from HIV-infected persons who have unsubtypeable influenza A virus infections should be sent to the state public health laboratory for additional testing to identify swine-origin influenza A (H1N1).

Persons with HIV infection should remain vigilant for the signs and symptoms of influenza, as outlined above. Persons with HIV infection who are concerned that they might be experiencing signs or symptoms of influenza infection, or who are concerned they might have been exposed to a confirmed, probable or suspected case of influenza infection, either seasonal influenza or swine-origin influenza A (H1N1), should consult their healthcare provider to assess the need for evaluation and for possible anti-influenza treatment or prophylaxis.

Treatment and chemoprophylaxis
The currently circulating swine-origin influenza A (H1N1) virus is sensitive to the neuraminidase inhibitor antiviral medications zanamivir and oseltamivir, but is resistant to the adamantane antiviral medications, amantadine and rimantadine. HIV-infected adults and adolescents who meet current case-definitions for confirmed, probable or suspected swine-origin influenza A (H1N1) infection (see Guidance on Case Definitions) should receive empiric antiviral treatment. HIV-infected adults and adolescents who are close contacts of persons with probable or confirmed cases of swine-origin influenza A (H1N1) should receive antiviral chemoprophylaxis. Antiviral chemoprophylaxis with either oseltamivir or zanamivir can be considered for HIV-infected persons who are household close contacts of a suspected case.

These recommendations for treatment and chemoprophylaxis are the same ones used for others who are at higher risk of complications from influenza. As is recommended for other persons who are treated, antiviral treatment with zanamivir or oseltamivir should be initiated as soon as possible after the onset of influenza symptoms, with benefits expected to be greatest if started within 48 hours of onset based on data from studies of seasonal influenza. However, some data from studies on seasonal influenza indicate benefit for hospitalized patients even if treatment is started more than 48 hours after onset.

Recommended duration of treatment is five days. Recommended duration of prophylaxis is 10 days after last exposure. Oseltamivir and zanamivir treatment and chemoprophylaxis regimens recommended for HIV-infected persons are the same as those recommended for adults who have seasonal influenza. Clinicians should monitor treated patients closely and consider the need to extend therapy based on the course of illness. Recommendations for use of influenza antivirals for HIV-infected adults and adolescents might change as additional data on the benefits and risks of antiviral therapy in such persons become available.

No adverse effects have been reported among HIV-infected adults and adolescents who received oseltamivir or zanamivir. There are no known absolute contraindications for co-administration of oseltamivir or zanamivir with currently available antiretroviral medications.

Other ways to reduce risk for HIV-infected adults and adolescents
There is no vaccine available yet to prevent swine-origin influenza A (H1N1).

The risk for swine-origin influenza A (H1N1) might be reduced by taking steps to limit possible exposures to persons with respiratory infections. These actions include frequent handwashing, covering coughs, and having ill persons stay home, except to seek medical care, and minimize contact with others in the household who may be ill with swine-origin influenza virus. Additional measures that can limit transmission of a new influenza strain include voluntary home quarantine of members of households with confirmed or probable swine influenza cases, reduction of unnecessary social contacts, and avoidance whenever possible of crowded settings. If used correctly, facemasks and respirators may help reduce the risk of getting influenza, but they should be used along with other preventive measures, such as avoiding close contact and maintaining good hand hygiene. A respirator that fits snugly on the face can filter out small particles that can be inhaled around the edges of a facemask, but compared with a facemask it is harder to breathe through a respirator for long periods of time. Interim guidances regarding means to decrease the risk of getting swine-origin influenza virus are available. These guidances will be updated as more information becomes available, including information on the risk of swine-origin influenza-related complications among HIV-infected adults and adolescents.

Patients should be reminded of the importance of maintaining their health as a means of reducing their risk of infection with influenza and improving their immune system’s ability to fight an infection should it occur. In particular, patients who are currently taking anti-retrovirals or antimicrobial prophylaxis against opportunistic infections should be reminded of the importance of adhering to their prescribed treatment.

If anyone with HIV is worried about swine flu, please read this article below. It’s taken from Poz magazine and was sent to me by Fiona from ICW.

April 27, 2009

Swine Flu and You by Tim Horn

The threat of a swine flu epidemic in the United States has many people living with HIV concerned about their health and safety. POZ and AIDSmeds check in with WHO and the CDC for the latest. In short: While there are reasons to be cautious, there’s no reason to panic.

What is swine flu?

Swine flu is a respiratory disease common among pigs. Though people are not usually susceptible to swine flu, animal-to-human transmission has been documented, notably among farmers working closely with pigs. What’s unique about the particular strain now under surveillance-dubbed swine influenza type A/H1N1-is its ability to spread from person to person.

Is swine flu deadly?

All types of influenza that cause disease in humans can be deadly-approximately 200,000 people are hospitalized and 36,000 people die from flu-related complications every year in the United States.

There is no reason to believe that the swine flu being reported is any more deadly than the regular seasonal flu. Of the 40 confirmed cases of swine flu in humans in the United States as of April 27, none have resulted in death. In fact, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), all cases reported in the United States thus far were associated with mild symptoms of illness, with only one patient requiring brief hospital care.

What is of concern to public health experts is the fact that the disease is caused by an animal influenza virus that doesn’t normally infect humans, and the fact that the virus has been documented in a number of North American communities. Plus, many of those who died of influenza-like illness in Mexico appeared to be otherwise healthy young adults; in contrast, seasonal influenza tends to be most serious among the very young, the very old and people with other chronic health conditions.

Is swine flu a threat to people living with HIV?

People living with HIV-as well as those with other chronic conditions, such as heart disease, asthma and diabetes-are believed to face an increased risk of serious influenza-related symptoms. According to the CDC, there is often a spike in the number of heart- and lung-related hospitalizations among people living with HIV during the winter influenza season as opposed to other times of the year. Studies also indicate that influenza symptoms might be prolonged and the risks of influenza-related complications-including death-are higher for certain HIV-positive people.

It is not clear that this strain of swine flu poses any more or less of a risk to people living with HIV. One theory: Given that, at least in Mexico, swine flu mimics what was seen during the 1918 influenza pandemic-it appears most serious among people between 18 and 35 years of age; those with healthy immune systems that become hyperactive in response to the virus and causes serious respiratory inflammation and disease-and may be less of a threat to those with compromised immune systems, such as people living with HIV. Unfortunately, it is not clear if this theory will hold up, given that many HIV-positive people are responding well to antiretroviral treatment, compounded by the possibility that a hyperactive immune response to HIV, not the virus itself, is responsible for HIV disease progression and a heightened risk of non-AIDS related health problems.

To help prevent seasonal flu, an annual vaccine is recommended for people with HIV to lower the risk of infection or serious disease if infection does occur. Unfortunately, a vaccine has not yet been developed against swine influenza A/H1N1. But people living with HIV can take steps to prevent infection.

How can I protect myself?

The CDC and other public health experts list fairly simple ways to prevent the spread of swine influenza A/H1N1. These include:

* Cover your nose and mouth with a tissue when you cough or sneeze. Throw the tissue in the trash after you use it.
* Wash your hands often with soap and water, especially after you cough or sneeze. Alcohol-based hand cleaners are also effective.
* Avoid touching your eyes, nose or mouth. Germs spread this way.
* Try to avoid close contact with sick people.
* Very little is known about the benefits of wearing face masks to help control the spread of flu. Whenever possible, instead of relying on face masks, try avoiding close contact and crowded conditions-particularly if swine flu reaches pandemic status.
* No evidence shows that swine flu can be transmitted through food. Eating properly handled pork-cooked to an internal temperature of 160 degrees-is safe.
* If you come down with influenza-like symptoms, contact your doctor’s office immediately and stay home from work or school.

What about medications against swine flu?

Good news. Initial tests suggest that swine influenza A/H1N1 is sensitive to two widely available antiviral medications: Relenza (zanamivir) and Tamiflu (oseltamivir). The flu medications Symmetrel (amantadine) and Flumadine (rimantadine) are not effective against this particular strain of influenza.

These medications work much like antiretrovirals do against HIV-they prevent the influenza virus from reproducing in the body. If someone becomes ill with influenza, including swine flu, Relenza or Tamiflu can minimize symptoms and speed up recovery. They may also prevent serious flu complications. For treatment, these medications work best if started soon after getting sick-within two days of symptoms-so call your doctor immediately if you experience flu-related signs.

According to the CDC, people at high risk of serious influenza-related complications-including people living with HIV/AIDS-can take Relenza or Tamiflu if they are likely to be exposed to other people with influenza. For example, if a family or household member is diagnosed with influenza, the exposed person with HIV/AIDS should take either drug for seven days. Relenza or Tamiflu prescriptions might also be a good idea for HIV-positive people who live in institutions experiencing an influenza outbreak.

POZ and AIDSmeds will continue to report on swine flu as it relates to people living with HIV-stay tuned for more information as it becomes available.

Pull the other one

Woke up this morning and as it’s that time of year when one is automatically programmed to start thinking about summer holidays and travelling to foreign climes I decided to do something about my expanding trunk. Not talking luggage here - but baggage i.e. the kind that is permanently strapped around my waist thanks to the meds in the form of body fat, as opposed to a body bag, which would come in much more useful as I could keep my money in it - or is a body bag something you keep a corpse in? Maybe I mean a bum bag, which would come in even more useful as it could double up for my lack of bottom, which the meds have redistributed for some reason best known to themselves around my trunk.

I got out of bed and decided I would try some light exercise in an attempt to get my waistline back in shape, like touching my toes for example, and guess what? I could actually touch them. Admittedly, I fell over because of the vertigo – but hey, I’m used to that. At first I was ecstatic, then the thought suddenly struck me – oh no, it’s because my legs have got shorter. This didn’t happen overnight I hasten to add, I knew it was happening because recently I’ve had to keep shortening my jeans or turning them up. But now there was no further doubt about it, I was definitely shrinking at a rate of knots, so I immediately got on the internet and checked for sites with information about shrinking leg syndrome and also for diets or exercises to reduce the waistline- preferably sitting down ones so I wouldn’t keep keeling over.

“Think you have too much junk in your trunk,” proclaimed one site advertising swimwear for a store in Wyckoff. Yes, Wykcoff as opposed to Fykcoff.

Well, I did as it happened, my trunk was definitely packed to its limits and the junk was probably in the form of the odd MacDonald’s I have indulged in from time to time (too many times probably) with my son.

As for the legs - one yoga website advised that the best time to stretch your back and your bones and your legs presumably without doing any damage was when you wake up first thing in the morning whilst you were still lying in bed. So I got back in bed (any excuse) and lay there doing the equivalent of the hokey cokey trying to stretch my legs and make them a bit longer by pulling on imaginary strings tied to my toes.

Is this what is meant by the expression having your leg pulled, or toeing the line, or pull the other one it’s got bells on – no, don’t be silly, that was just my alarm clock going off.

You put your left leg in
Your left leg out
In out in out and shake it all about
Knees bent arms stretched
Raa raa raa

The Italians apparently call it the hoky poky – say no more. At least I was doing it alone in my bed and not in a conga!

Feeling depressed about ‘shorty’ legs all day, but then wore them down even more by walking round ‘Camelot’ a local theme park, accompanying son for a job induction as a go cart attendant.

Camelot – sounds like that posh women’s joke about Max Factor.

Max Factor? Did he?
Camelot? Did she?

As they perform regular medieval enactments throughout the summer at Camelot, I thought I could possibly get in on the act so to speak and apply for job as a serving wench, or even a court jester. According to wikipedia, a jester, joker, fool, buffoon or bollocks (now steady on wikipedia, jester minute, I know you must get fed up of people asking you questions, but there is no need to be rude) is a type of entertainer who wore brightly coloured clothing in a motley way. Well, I certainly fitted that criteria and I could soon weave my thinning locks into hundreds of tiny old ladies plaits and attach bells to the end. But it seemed all the jester posts were already taken.

Maybe I could be a knight in drag I suggested? The Moody Blues were always droning on about knights in white satin, weren’t they, although I always thought knights wore chain mail. It would have been fun to be a knight, although I couldn’t really see myself in chain mail, but in my role as an HIV activist I could have done some sexual health awareness raising and HIV prevention whilst I was at it for the visiting groups of schoolchildren by incorporating the old playground rhyme.

In days of old when knights were bold
And condoms weren’t invented
They stuck a sock upon their ****
And HIV was prevented

Oh, in days of old indeed, before HIV reared its ugly head and women wore chastity belts, men were more courteous and knights were expected to follow the code of chivalry and courtly love – or is that a film star?

The first rule of chivalry and courtly love is as follows -

“Thou shalt keep thyself chaste for the sake of her who thou lovest”

Forsooth, if only the men folk of today could be persuaded to abideth by those same strict values of fidelity as they held back in the middle ages. Although if I’d of had my choice, I would have opted for a younger knight myself, rather than a middle aged one.

Cowboys it seems also had trouble with unfaithful wenches, or cowgirls, at least according to Roy Rogers the singing cowboy and most famous cowboy of them all. In his song, ‘A four legged friend’, he advises his fellow cowboys to forget all about women and get a dog instead, or maybe he was singing about his horse Trigger.

A woman’s like cactus and cactus can hurt
Cause she’s just a tight waisted winky eyed flirt
But a four legged friend a four legged friend
He’ll never let you down
He’s honest and faithful right up to the end
That wonderful one two three four legged friend

Tight waisted? Huh, that particular cowgirl obviously wasn’t on the meds, although the winky eye sounds a bit suspicious and can also be a side effect of the medication - as can a shot of red eye.

At least I hadn’t grown any extra legs; I think four would be overdoing it, even for Roy Rogers. The touchy subject of legs came up yet again as my son and I meandered round the Easter Fair and when we passed the stall where the folk all had their heads down playing Bingo, the caller suddenly yelled out – ‘Legs Eleven.’
Was he talking about me?

Apparently, you can play something called ‘Posh Bingo’ now, which they keep advertising on the telly. But I think it’s aimed at those upper class women who ‘Camelot’ and past conquests of that rampant Max fellow. You can also play ‘Virgin Bingo’ for girls who obviously didn’t have it ‘orf’ with Max, as well as Elvis Bingo, Kiss my Bingo and Sharon’s as in Osbourne’s Bingo. But you have to be careful not to develop Bingo wings, which is a known syndrome of the game - as is legs eleven.

I heard recently on the news that daffodils contain a compound that helps with the alleviation of memory loss symptoms for patients with Alzheimer’s. I remember visiting a friend in hospital who had recently come round after being in coma for several months and when I presented him with a bunch of daffodils, he ate them. He must have known.

Did you know that human’s share 35 per cent of their DNA with daffodils? At least according to one particular website where they proclaim -

“You’re one-third daffodil” this and other REALLY useless facts from Britain’s most upmarket intellectuals.

Pull the other one - it’s got blue bells on.

Well, I’m just off to have a number 3 – that’s a cup of tea in Bingo terms and maybe I’ll grab a bunch of juicy daffodils out of the garden to put in my salad so I will be able to keep my wits about me the next time I’m playing Bingo, either posh or otherwise and not become a number twenty eight, overweight, or a number 8 – one fat lady, or worse still, an 87 - a fat lady with a crutch.

Did anyone watch “Britain’s Got Talent” over the Easter weekend? If you did you will have been amazed, like I was, by that incredible group of male dancers, “Flawless”. I’ve never seen anything quite like it - at times it was almost like watching an old black and white movie the way they flickered from movement to movement, from frame to frame of their brilliantly choreographed dance routine.

A bit like when we were kids drawings cartoons in a book and then flipping the pages to make them appear to move. Some people, such as the younger generation for example, probably won’t have a clue what I’m on about with the wondrous graphics we have now in the days of wii - as opposed to yore. The royal wii – I wonder if Charles and Camilla have one. I can just imagine Charles playing ‘Rock Star’ and giving his Royal Variety performance of the Deep Purple classic, “Smoke on the water.”

bam bam bam, bam bam ba bam, ba ba bam, bam bam.

Wham bam thank you maam.

Talking of performances and dance routines, I fear my days as a choreographer and dare I say it as an erstwhile flamenco dancer, are finally over. This is not an age thing as some robust older people carry on dancing until they drop, Bruce Forthsyth for example. But sadly, dancing is yet another of life’s pleasures that HIV has cruelly deprived me of - that and not being able to sit in the sun, so I can’t get tangoed in either sense of the word.

Recently, I’ve been accompanying my best friend Willo to salsa dancing lessons. This is more for her benefit than mine, because as I can’t twirl around anymore, thanks to vertigo caused by the meds, I can only take part in the initial part of the session, which is more for old crocks and no hopers like me and where there is very little twirling involved. I suppose I should really try a gentler form of exercise with no twirling whatsoever, swimming for example, which is all up and own in straight lines, but I’m not keen on getting wet.

There are other reasons why dancing is no longer an option for me; my wonky hip, my lack of bottom thanks to the dreaded lippo also caused by the meds, which means unless I wear trousers my knickers have a tendency to fall down, like my pinny – not that I would ever wear a pinny to salsa. Although some of those longer pinnies that the more trendy Italian and Spanish waiters wear look quite cool, so maybe I should start a new trend - pinny dipping as opposed to skinny dipping.

Oh, those happy days when I used to whirl around the stage doing my Carmen circle. The only association I have to Carmen these days is my reluctance to give up fags and if financial matters don’t improve, a very strong likelihood that I will end up working in a factory or hanging around in a bar like she did – although it would have to be Yates Wine Lodge on the once notorious Barbary Coast in Blackburn, rather than in Sevilla.

Our salsa dancing teacher is a really cool African guy who was once a World Champion. He has evolved his own style and unique way of teaching where he talks us through the various salsa moves – “You take de girl to the door, you twirl de girl around then you trow de girl out, then you bring her back again.”
Well, the poor guys who have to partner me, when it comes to the part where they have to throw me out the door - it’s a bit like a bouncer chucking out a drunk at closing time as I will more than likely, after an attempt at a double twirl, end up on the floor in a heap.
Willo gets twirled around like a veritable spinning top, but me; I can just about accomplish one pitiful twirl if I’m lucky without losing my balance.
“Sorry, I’m strictly a one twirl girl,” I have to constantly apologize as we swap partners.

Salsa can be quite a vicious dance and some of the terms to describe the various movements say it all; Whiplash, the Hammerlock, the Arm Fan and the Broken Arm, the Challenge Position and the death defying Head Loop. You can end up getting tangled up in knots and strangling each other if you’re not careful.

Willo and I went to an Argentine Tango lesson the other night. Now that was more like it, hardly any twirling, especially if you were forced to take on the male role as I was due to the lack of unattached men. There was one step where you have to put your leg between the woman’s knees and force her legs open like a pair of scissors. Well, I must say I quite enjoyed that. I would push Willo around the floor for a bit, then when she was least expecting it, perform the scissor move on her. She recently confessed that she is still harbouring a burning desire to do the splits, which for a woman of her age is an unusual and not I would have thought a particularly wise ambition. But if we carry on tangoing together, the chances are she will do just that whether she wants to or not, at least if I have anything to do with it.

Remember that film, ‘Last Tango in Paris’ with Marlon Brando, which caused such a furore at the time because he used butter. Well I don’t know what all the fuss was about really, because now, it is a known fact that butter is actually good for you, much healthier than margarine. I don’t know about last tango in Paris, the only tangoing I’ll be doing these days is sliding up and down the aisles around Aldi with my trolley. Last tango in Aldi!

The weather up here in the north has been glorious this Easter, but tragically for me, the other feel good factor I can no longer indulge in and this is once again thanks to the meds which have given me hypersensitivity to the sun, is wallow in it. I can wallow in mud if I so desire to my hearts content and I can wallow in misery, which I quite frequently do, but not the sun. So I have to remain an unhealthy pasty white colour, without even a chance of getting slightly sunburnt or tangoed like David cheap as chips Dickenson, although at least I can still eat them thanks to my wondrous Tefyl Actifry which continues to whiz around on a nightly basis like a whirling dervish. But even watching that spin round makes me dizzy.

Did you know that when a woman performs one of those sexy backwards kicks when she is doing the tango, she is really feeling for the size of the man’s wallet – good job for the Argentinean gaucho that she isn’t checking the size of his other credentials.

Another dance that we have started to learn is the Merengue – “Would you like a cake or a merengue - no you’re right, I’ll have a cake.”

Don’t worry if you don’t get it. It took me years to work it out. The trick is to say it with a Scottish accent.

“Would ye like a cake or a meringue? No ye’re right, I’ll have a cake.”

This one’s a bit easier – “Would you like a rock cake – well take your pick.”

Oh well, I might not be able to dance anymore, or get a suntan, but at least I’ve still got my sense of humour. HIV will never deprive me of that, no matter how hard it tries. I will simply have to refrain from twirling, or like Johnny Cash, make sure I walk the line. Although staying in line, or towing it for that matter, has never been one of my strongest points. Speaking of which, I received £100 fine yesterday (£50 if I pay within 28 days) for contravening the law by parking outside of the lines on the Staples and Matalan car park.

Can you believe it? The car huge park was virtually empty at the time so I reversed into the nearest slot without noticing my back tyre was slightly over the painted line. When I came back out, I found a fine poked under my windscreen wiper. Absolutely furious and outraged, I stormed back into Staples clutching the fine to my heaving bosom to complain.
“This is happening all the time,” the shop manager told me, shaking her head sorrowfully, “We’ve even put an article in the local paper about it, but there’s nothing you can do. You can contest, but it’s written here in black and white,” she pointed to section seven, “That you have contravened the law.”

The ‘line police’ apparently hide in a grey metal box (for fear of reprisals) somewhere on the vast car park, waiting to pounce on the unsuspecting car parkers who have no idea they run the risk of a fine as it isn’t a pay and display and there is no sign up to say it is owned by NCP.

I drove around the car park in slow menacing circles looking for the box where they hide, but they had obviously moved it to a more inconspicuous place to avoid being beaten up by the angry, as opposed to nosy parkers.

The wonderful graphics for this blog on this occasion have been provided by Salsa Queen and I’ll do the splits one day if it kills me Willo Williams herself – artist, sculptor and graphic designer of considerable renown. You can find more of her amazing art work by clicking the link Willo Williams on the blog roll.

Shhhh – cannot make a sound. Have to be as quiet as mouse as others are already asleep and is only eleven o’clock - am used to tapping away on lap top till early hours but instead am banished to bed at ten thirty, therefore forced to write by torchlight under unfamiliar duvet. Have escaped to Land’s End on very toe nail of Cornwall, as far as is possible to go without ending up in sea with two positive friends for week of respite, which think in HIV terms means holiday, though not really sure what respite entails, or if indeed am getting it. But apparently people with HIV need it at regular intervals (talking about respite here) and some institutions such as GHT even provide it free of charge, but unfortunately in order to qualify you have to be a gay man.

We do have gay man in midst as it happens, of quiet and gentile nature who from ordered behavioural habits displayed up to now, not to mention retiring early to bed habits, would probably prefer to remain anonymous, so for purpose of rest of blog will call him Jack Nicholson, like in film, ‘As good as it gets’, which if you have seen it you will know exactly what I mean.

The three of us are residing in upper part of tiny grey stone cottage split into two and now nicknamed ‘the barracks’ as has SS 679 scrawled in big letters over door and can only be entered by surmounting permanently damp salty wooden staircase, which according to brochure is supposed to be festooned with fishing buoys, but disappointingly since we arrived, not a fishing boy in sight, although plenty to be seen festooned in bright orange waders at local pub.

Sleeping arrangements in barracks in order of rank are Cath and boxer (as in dog opposed to Henry Cooper) in only bedroom, Jack Nicholson on bed settee which when unfurled takes up whole of tiny lounge and me on mattress on floor under exposed rafters in roof, which have christened the ‘toblerzone’ as feels like and is same shape as a toblerone packet. Rafters are so low have to get down on knees at side of mattress like fervent religious person to get undressed then slide myself into bed. Can see tip of Jack Nicholson’s balding and recently sunburnt head through slatted staircase. So unnaturally peaceful can hear a pin drop and every intake and outtake of breath or other bodily emissions. First night wind howled so much (wind as in gale) feared roof would blow off and swirl mattress away like magic carpet. Luckily Jack Nicholson doesn’t snore but Boxer does.

Smoking prohibited in barracks of course so have to loiter around on staircase in pyjamas and raincoat, so good job really aren’t any fishing boys hanging around to witness me. At dawn’s early light crawl out of bed and across floor like army manoeuvres then stagger down rickety stairs with bent back looking like Julie Walters in her part as Mrs Overall in Acorn Antiques – no pinny but sporting two pairs of thick woollen socks as very cold in cottage without luxury of central heating.

Respite then in this instance means lots of healthy fresh air, apart from smoking breaks of course and the intake of many wholesome not to mention fattening Cornish pasties. Respite also includes the taking of afternoon naps, too much napping for my liking as barracks have to undergo strict rule of silence. Unaccustomed to silence during the day, however through course of week have caught up on lots of sleep.

Highlight of trip was visiting the lovely Veritee who has recently started an HIV support group for Cornwall, but seems to be fighting losing battle because people down here are refusing to come out. Mind you can’t really blame them in this weather. Veritee and hubby reside in glorious higgledy piggeldy house in heart of Cornish countryside crammed full of colour, art and hospitality and the best roast beef and Yorkshire pudding have ever tasted – although think cow had a name, but best not to go there, which is what Cath and Jack Nicholson said when I offered in my role as Mrs Overall to cook boiled eggs again for breakfast as overcooked last lot.

When we got back to barracks found note pushed under barrack door from Nazi cleaning woman in number 14 about dog poo and fag ends. Paranoid now about taking boxer out for last starlight fag in pyjamas as can’t see through creeping sea mist where poo is landing.

On final respite night Cath disappeared into creeping sea mist in car with boxer to visit interesting sounding friends, leaving me with Jack Nicholson who refused point blank to accompany me to local pub for last pasty, preferring beans on toast in barracks and a programme about euthanasia on postage stamp sized telly and lights out for ten o’clock. Did briefly consider going to pub by self, but wary of appearing to be likely looking catch to fishermen. Decided instead to stay in barracks and pretend was at health spa, but night was long and stomach accustomed now to regular ingestion of pasties not fulfilled, so crept down to kitchen to make some toast. Stabbed around with finger in semi darkness to light ring on hob for kettle which has stupid electric cooker with no knobs and have to press barely visible signs with finger to put kettle on. Meanwhile toast starts to burn and sets off smoke alarm, never heard such a racket in life - must have woken entire hamlet if not whole of Cornwall. Tried to waft smoke out of door with tee towel over Jumping Jack Nicholson’s head. Ear splitting racket finally stopped, but every time ventured back down corridor, set off again. Nothing for it but to put coat over pyjamas and stand out in creeping sea mist for a calming camel, but in low visibility kicked over ash bucket. Light immediately flicked on in Nazi cleaning woman’s house and net curtains twitched. Another curt note to follow probably.

All in all, aside from staggering beauty of Cornwall and its magnificent coastline and rugged pasties was quite glad to get home, but when walked through door found brown envelope lurking on table from hospital – results of mammogram no doubt. Heart sank, stomach turned over, was not in mood for being recipient of bad news. Would not open till next day decided, but could not get it out of mind. Spent restless night dreaming of Kylie Minogue and wigs. Was convinced would have to have bosoms lopped off at earliest opportunity.

Next day arose and clutching envelope to palpitating bosom tore it open with trembling hands. But for once good news, “You’ll be pleased to hear,” the letter read – hurray.

Feeling unaccustomedly fond of bosoms now – have been very loyal it seems and stood by me, unlike other parts of my body and have not let me down apart from gravity wise. Will be kind to them from now on – might even buy them a new bra, perhaps take them out for a cream tea, although will have to be in M&S in Blackburn town centre as is a bit far to go back to Cornwall, but convenient nevertheless for purchasing of new bra.

I have finally got round to uploading the film featured on you tube, “Mandalas, HIV and life threatening illness,” in which both Cath and I took part. The film was made by Jan Mojsa (or Jandala as she has since been re christened) and describes the Mandala Project at Body Positive North West a centre in Manchester UK for people affected by HIV.

The Tibetan sand mandala is used as a tool for gaining wisdom and compassion and is believed to effect purification and healing. Over a number of days the design is filled with millions of grains of coloured sand. On its completion the grains of sand are swept up and dispersed in flowing water to enact the impermanent nature of existence.

According to Buddhist scripture sand mandalas transmit positive and healing energies to the environment and to the people who view them offering enlightenment, the liberation of all beings and the development of compassion and insight into the nature of reality.

A mandala’s healing power extends to the whole world even before it is swept up and dispersed into flowing water. I would therefore like to pass these mandalas on with love, peace and healing intention for anyone who needs it.

You can view the film by clicking the link on the blog roll – Mandala video – HIV and life threatening illnesses.

picture:voyageofmotherhood©adrienneseed

Happy Mother’s day to all positive mammas and also to all mammas who may be feeling decidedly less positive about their own decision to have offspring and wishing they’d never bothered – as well as all the lucky mothers, as they say in America, of course who are fortunate enough to take a great delight in their children.

In the huge furore caused by one particular mother Julie Myerson and her widely criticised decision to write about her son in her book ‘The Lost Child’, everyone is talking about the violation of her son’s human rights. But what about a mother’s human rights; a mother who was being mentally and physically abused by her son in her own home as a result of his drug taking. In cases of domestic violence is it right to protect the rights of the instigator or should that person’s human rights be protected by the victim keeping quiet? Most women would say not – but there are many instances where women feel too frightened to speak out either through fear of reprisals or some sort of womanly or motherly inbuilt guilt. I defend any woman’s right to speak out about any kind of human injustice either to herself or to any living being as well as the right of any woman living with HIV to be able to live a life free of prejudice and stigma. Unless people have had personal experience of either having their lives destroyed by HIV or a child whose life has been or is being destroyed by drugs, they shouldn’t be so quick to condemn and make judgements.

“Mamma mia, here we go again,” is phrase often uttered by parents living with the psychotic behaviour of their offspring caused by taking any drug including the smoking of cannabis and skunk. That child whether nineteen or twenty nine will sell their soul and their parents down the river to buy drugs, whether it be a few grams of heroin or cannabis. It’s a never ending story that has affected Julie Myerson’s life and the lives of her family, so why shouldn’t she tell it?

On a lighter note, but still on the subject of mammas, grams and Abba songs, I went for my first mammogram the other day – I know……. a woman of my age, I should have been going for regular checkups, but I was too busy dealing with other health related issues, HIV for example and there are only so many things a body can cope with at the same time, especially this body. Anyway, I’d heard all kinds of gruesome stories about how painful the procedure was and I don’t tend do pain, well at least, not if I can help it

The directions on my invitation for breast screening said I had to make my way to a caravan which would be parked opposite KFC. Luckily they added on the old hospital car park, otherwise I might have swanned off to a caravan site in Blackpool.
I nervously mounted the rickety caravan steps and took my place with the other women seated in a line on the brown corduroy covered banquette, which in the caravan’s pre breast screening days had probably doubled up as a bed. It was quite cosy in the caravan and reminded me of rain soaked childhood holidays in windy bays. As none of the other women felt inclined to speak or even make eye contact I was forced to stare at the wallpaper and coordinating flowered curtains whilst trying to avoid listening to the piped music. My wavery nerves were not helped by the fact that the floor of the caravan was constantly moving and I can’t be doing with unstable ground these days thanks to vertigo caused by the meds. But at least it reminded me not to buy one which I’ve been considering of late - must be my age. My cousin of Viv Lives fame is whizzing round NZ as we speak in a caravan, well a camper van actually. If she is reading this now I loved the vision of you canoeing down the rapids like mini ha ha and felt quite envious, although I would rather be in a mini cooper myself.

However, I wasn’t in a canoe or a mini cooper I was stuck in a static caravan opposite KFC and about to have my bosoms manhandled by a bossy Scottish nurse. One by one the other women were led off to cubicles, only to remerge later with pained expressions and a curt goodbye to the receptionist and I was left on my own listening to Abba on the piped music.
A new woman mounted the steps and tentatively sat on the brown banquette.
“It’s my first one,” she addressed me crossing herself.
“Me too,” I did a mental crossing with my eyes, but as new woman was a bit cross eyed, I hoped she didn’t think I was mimicking her
‘Dancing Queen’ was now blasting out of the speakers and new woman began silently mouthing the words to music.
“Should be mamma mia,” I joked but it didn’t seem to register.
“Ready for you now Miss Seed,” bossy Scottish nurse barks, “Take off your top and your bra and wait in the cubicle.”
It’s a long time since my bosoms have hung free or even been exposed to daylight for that matter. Hoped bossy Scottish nurse wouldn’t notice Kivexa rash. Would she know from notes that I was positive?
“Pop your right bosom on this plate dear. Now walk your feet backwards.”
Bosom was efficiently rearranged, “Now I’ll just lower this and tighten the plate a wee bit.”
Hell’s teeth.
“Ok, that one’s done.”
“Only one left to do now,” I joked.
“No dear, there’s another two.”
Wasn’t aware that I’d grown extra bosoms, but then again it wouldn’t surprise me with these bloody meds and the dreaded lippo.

Well, at least that’s over, now all I have to do is wait for the results. I may be imagining it but after all that squashing I’m sure my bosoms are marginally smaller – a bit like deflated balloons - and I’ll never be able to look at a KFC or listen to Abba again, especially ‘chiquitita’ or chicken tikka as French and Saunders rewrote the lyrics in their version of mamma mia for red nose day, without being reminded of the whole painful procedure. Oh well, the things us women or mammas have to go through.

I may be mistaken and correct me if I’m wrong, but I do believe Spring has arrived. According to the astronomical definition Spring begins in the Vernal Equinox usually on March 21st in the northern hemisphere, which I take to be the general Manchester area, Bolton, Blackburn with Lower Darwen and possibly parts of West Yorkshire.

Meteorologists generally define the beginning of Spring as March 21st; however it is still only the 19th of March. But apparently, according to wikipedia, many signs of Spring are occurring earlier in many regions, such as my back garden for example. This of course, like everything else they put down to global warming and point out for those who may not have noticed that in recent decades season creep has been observed. There is some current dispute on the world wide web however as to who this season’s biggest creep is, but if you want to take part in the survey you can sign up to the ‘Biggest creep ever’ on Face Book. According to some, although here I would have to beg to differ, it’s Simon Cowell. The most hated man alive of any season or decade apart from maybe Hitler is George Bush. Well, all I can say it’s about time this season’s alegedly biggest creep Mr Cowell got his act together and put the next edition of X-Factor back on the box, because I am bored silly by the current television programmes and constant repeats.

Talking of which, the worst ever poet renowned for his awful prose and tendency to repeat himself is the Scottish poet William McGonagall who is widely hailed as the writer of the worst poetry in the English language, but whose poems for some hold a certain quizzical if not downright hilarious charm. There is even a fan club and website glorifying his long winded but rhyming (??) much derided poetry - and if his following ode to Beecham’s pills is anything to go by I would have to agree.

What ho! Sickly people of high and low degree
I pray ye all be warned by me
No matter what may be your bodily ills
The safest and quickest cure is Beecham’s pills

They are admitted to be worth a guinea a box
For bilious and nervous disorders, and also smallpox
And dizziness and drowsiness, also colds and chills
And for such diseases nothing else can equal
Beecham’s pills.

William McGonagall

Shame he’s not still alive really. He could write a rhyming ode to our HIV medications. Unfortunately he passed away in 1902.
Oh well, as he’s no longer around I will have to do it myself.

What ho! Sickly people who have HIV
I pray ye all be warned by me
No matter what may be your bodily ills
The only (don’t know about safest) cure are these anti-retroviral highly toxic pills

So what ho! Positive people of the nation
I recommend this toxic libation
Made by Glaxo Smith and Kline
If you take your meds you’ll soon be feeling just fine.

Stoppin’ an a statin

Did you do anything funny for money for Comic relief? Can’t say I did but I did walk round Asda with a red nose, but that was caused by sneezing and the possible onset of Hay Fever. The total raised was over 57 million pounds which was fantastic and will buy an awful lot of mosquito nets. I actually used my bridal veil as a mosquito net to put over my newly born son’s cot and cut my bridal gown up to make net curtains. Now there’s an idea, maybe all the stars and celebrities, such as Jordan and Posh and any future footballer’s wives, after their WAG as opposed to white weddings, and only after they’d been featured in ‘Hello’ of course, could donate their designer gowns to Comic Relief.

Watching those heart rending film clips about those poor children dying from lack of medication for Malaria, not to mention AIDS which hardly got a mention, once again reminded me of how lucky we are to have access to anti-retroviral drugs in England.
Talking of medication, I have finally given in and started taking statins to lower my cholesterol. I have been putting it off for months, if not years, as I’d heard stories about the people who were taking them turning into manic depressives, demented psychopaths and the likes and those are just the good side effects. Of course, I tend not to read the possible side effects of any medication on the packet anymore, because it can totally freak you out. On my box of Kivexa for example there is an alert card ordering me to carry this card with me at all times and warns me I should contact my doctor immediately if I get a skin rash or one or more symptoms from the following groups – fever, shortness of breath, nausea, diarrhoea, severe tiredness or generally feeling ill – well that just about sums me up and that’s on a good day. Should I discontinue to take Kivexa due to a reaction, the directions go on to warn me, I must never take any medicine containing abacavir, as within hours I may experience a lowering of my blood pressure - or death.

Well, tell it like it is why don’t you GlaxoSmithKline.

I recently took part in a film for GlaxoSmithKline about the side effects of HIV medication and made my usual point, of course, of why did some of my pills have to be blue, when we all know that blue colorants can cause hyperactivity and ADS in children – not that I am a child by any stretch of the imagination and mine is such a small complaint in comparison to watching ‘Red Nose’ day and those poor people dying through a lack of any kind of medication – blue or otherwise.

Anyway, the statins don’t seem to be having an adverse effect on me, in fact the opposite and I’m actually feeling quite positive at the moment - which as a positive person there is no getting away from I suppose. But recently I have been feeling the faint stirrings of hope (statins to get my hopes up?) and a new lust for life - mainly caused by fact that there has been some interest expressed by a publisher in regard to my book – now wouldn’t that be fantastic. Also my son has gone off to Manchester today for an interview to train as a plumber. It’s a shame I didn’t christen him Danny, like my nephew, otherwise I could have packed him off singing ….the pipes the pipes are calling.

On another positive note, to use that word again, I have been recently elected chair of our mixed support group in Blackburn which is called Thrivine, a spin off from Hivine my women’s support group, and we numbered twenty at the last meeting. The word ‘thrive’ in itself is uplifting - and I’m sure that as a group of positive people we will. Our next drop-in is on Tuesday if anyone who is positive wants to come along and join us, but you would have to contact the centre first or send me an email.

So as you can see, all is well in my world at the moment and all I have to do now is give up smoking. But I keep stoppin and a statin. I seem to be dropping all my G’s today, as long as I don’t start dropping anything else! I’m a bit concerned to tell the truth because I have been having some strange dreams of late and can only presume it’s because the first stirrings of Spring are in the air and the sap is rising – although I sincerely hope mine doesn’t I have to say. I might start having erotic dreams about Jeremy Clarkson and Simon Powell again.

My best friend and neighbour’s adorable Chinese granddaughter was in trouble from her granny on her last visit to England, not for dropping her H’s but for not pronouncing them properly, so when asking for someone to pass her the brown sauce she took her granny literally by dropping the H completely and asking for the pee sauce.

Isn’t it brilliant that the Osbourne family have supported Body Positive North West’s GO-4it campaign by wearing the green ribbon on the cover of the Spring edition of Positive Living.

RAINING CATS AND BLOGS

Article for Positive Living
by
Adrienne Seed

January is a miserable month at the best of times, but if you are HIV positive and living on your own, it can be one of the bleakest times of the year. You could always try internet dating of course, or failing that start your own blog like me and spend your life locked away with only your laptop for company. Then again, you could get a lap dog, or a lap cat for that matter, instead, which would offer you all the love and support that your computer cannot; besides you can’t stroke your computer to help relieve stress, in fact you are more likely to kick it, and it doesn’t exactly welcome you home wagging its tail. At least mine doesn’t. On the other hand, you don’t have to buy it expensive tins of Chum, so there are two ways to look at it I suppose.

If you are feeling alone and sad, the constant rain doesn’t help and living in the Manchester area we are used to it raining cats and dogs on a regular basis, although I’m still waiting for mine to fall out of the sky. A Labradoodle preferably, as unlike Graham Norton and Jeremy Clarkson, I can’t afford that particular designer breed, as much as I’d like one, so I will just have to be patient and either pay a visit to the local dog pound or wait to see what the next heavy rainfall brings.

Apparently, there really is such a phenomena as ‘raining animals’ and there have been reported incidences in certain parts of the world of it raining fish, crabs, bats, worms and ducks. Even here in England back in 1894 jelly fish were reported to have fallen from out of the sky and landed in Bath – they didn’t say whose bath it was, but it must have given them quite a shock. Good job it wasn’t electric eels.

More recently in Norfolk in the year 2000 apparently the heavens opened unleashing a storm of sprats, which was highly unusual as being a seaside resort it was usually a storm of brats, wielding their buckets and spades. Reports of falling fish, frogs, tomatoes and even coal date back to the dawning of the millennium and according to weather experts, this was likely to have been caused by mini-tornadoes, which can suck up frogs and even frogmen according to some reports. Talking of Frenchmen a noted French physicist in an attempt to explain this phenomenon suggests that at certain times of the year, frogs roam the countryside in large numbers (especially when there is a football match on) and violent winds pick them up and carry them great distances. In the case of football hooligans, French or otherwise, the further the better I would say.

Tornados and water spouts are also capable of capturing animals and possibly even football supporters and lifting them into the air and carrying them over large distances then allowing them to fall in a concentrated fashion in a localised area – back to whichever country their team heralds from hopefully, especially if you are an England supporter. Some tornados can suck up the entire contents of a pond then let the water and animals fall some distance away in the form of a ‘rain of animals.’ Luckily this doesn’t tend to happen on our village ponds and waterways, or canals for that matter and as far as I know has never happened on Canal Street, where it would definitely be a case of, “Its raining men, hallellulya.”

Maybe it has and that’s how the song originated?

There have also been incidents of animals exploding due to a natural build up of gas, but this could be a myth purely related to cows who are known to suffer from an excess of flatulence. However, there was the mysterious incidence of the exploding toads in Germany, where thousands of amphibians died in a pond in Hamburg after their bodies had expanded to twice their normal size and swelled to bursting point. Scientists were completely baffled by this occurrence but the possible explanations included a fungus in the pond or an unknown virus. Well, living with HIV we are all too familiar with peculiar funguses and the damage a virus can do, but thankfully at least ours doesn’t make us swell up to twice our normal size and explode. Mind you, that would depend on which meds you were taking I suppose.

Coincidentally, my intellectual hero Stephen Fry mentioned the exploding Frogs on last week’s QI. I wonder if he’d read this article – I’d like to think so. I’d also like to think that the Positive Living magazine was lying around on the Osbourne’s coffee table seeing as they were kind enough to front the cover and support our Green Ribbon campaign. Well, you never know - anyway a big thank you to the Osbournes from Body Positive North West and all who sail in her!

Remember my Pussy Willow tree? The one I wrote about in my blog, “Two’s company and tree’s a crowd”. The one I paid that tree surgeon a fortune to trim and give a special makeover and a new hair/foliage style last summer?

Well, I woke up this morning and stepped out of my conservatory to see if the first buds of May had appeared, even though I know it’s only February, but in these days of global warming you never know when things are about to sprout and make a sudden appearance. Such as my ex husband for example, who regardless of the changing seasons or global warming might just show up one of these days to pay a long overdue visit to his son. Well, you never know, strange things are happening weather wise and it’s a well known fact that weather affects behaviour as well as trees. In Greece for example when they all go a bit doolally when the Sirocco blows or right here in Blackburn where we all suffer from constant depression because of the rain. I was also curious to see if the birds had finally come back, tempted by their fat balls – as in the kind you dangle on a piece of string or specially designed hook from the branches of a tree.

But shock horror - no tree and no balls. The tree had gone - disappeared without a trace and the old fat balls had also disappeared, although in this case I am not referring to my ex husband.

Yesterday afternoon it had come to my notice that my new neighbour on my right hand side had employed the services of a rather dubious looking man wearing a dark anorak and a red bobble hat, because his ruddy face suddenly appeared over the top of our adjoining fence. He was obviously standing at the top of a ladder, if not he was an extraordinarily tall man, and he was wielding a saw in his dirty great mitt and quite a lot of the tree, the trunk of which unfortunately was situated in her garden although most of the branches hung over my garden, had already disappeared.
“Hey, hang about,” I yelled, “What do you think you are doing?” I asked aghast.
“Trimmin tut tree,” he mouthed in a surly and unfriendly Lancashire accent. “It’s cuttin’ out tut light fromt tut neighbours garden.”
“Well don’t take any more off my side,” I wagged my finger in an authorative manner, “I love that tree and besides, I paid £120 pounds to have it professionally trimmed last year by a tree surgeon.”
“‘Undred and twenty quid?” bobble hat scoffed, “They saw you coming.” then carried on lopping.

“Tree surgeon my arse,” I thought I heard him mumbling as I beat a hasty retreat to the safety of the conservatory to light a soothing camel. Oh dear, what to do, there would be nothing left of the tree if I didn’t do something quickly and besides, where was I going to dangle my new balls? Although I knew where I would have liked to dangle his.

“Trees are a protected species you know,” I announced from behind the door, “And it’s illegal to go round chopping them willy nilly,” hoping that he would have a sudden careless slip of the chainsaw and chop off his own willy nilly.
“Not this one,” Bobble hat proclaimed nastily, waving his saw, but thinking that I might cause trouble, promised to leave some branches on my side at least and told me that the bits he had already lopped off would soon grow back.

I was not convinced

My son who’d been practising his DJ skills upstairs in his bedroom had witnessed the ugly scene from above and being a green thinker obsessed with saving the planet, abandoned his decks and came down to my aid.
“Don’t worry son,” I told him, “I caught him just in the nick of time and half a tree, like half a sixpence, is better than no tree at all,” and off I went to Adsa to do the weekly shop, while he went back upstairs wondering what a sixpence was and to play a relevant track from his vinyl collection aptly entitled, ‘Chainsaw Massacre.’

It was dark when I got home and late so I immediately set about making dinner, then it was time for bed and it wasn’t till the next morning, as I said, when I went to hang the new fat balls for the birds (on offer six for two pounds) and to my shock and horror there was no bloody branches to hand them on. Bobble hat, obviously on my new neighbour’s orders, had waited till I’d gone out then chopped down the poor defenceless tree right down to its very stump. How sneaky was that.

“I hope your grass dies,” I shouted feebly over the fence.

How I loved that Pussy Willow tree, it’s been glorifying and presiding over my garden for the ten years that I’ve lived here, and I don’t know how many years before that. Its cooling canopy of sweet green leaves always provided a welcome shade in the hot summer months (before global warming set in that is) and as I can’t sit in the sun anymore or sunbathe thanks to hypersensitivity of the skin cause by the meds, yet another pleasure not to mention feel good factor HIV has deprived me of, as well as lack of vitamin D, I am now fully exposed to the sun’s deadly rays, as well as the prying eyes of the neighbours windows in the houses backing on to mine. Luckily I am not a naturalist and do not as a general rule sit naked in my deckchair.

But most of all, the tree was a joy to look at and a haven for the birds.
A nightingale used to like to sit in its branches and sing its heart out, especially for some reason when I played Van Morrison. Now it would have to sing to and along with someone else.

No more birds – no more buds. No more leaves changing colour to mark the seasons – no more rustling. Nothing to tie a yellow ribbon to or a red one for that matter.

Prophetically, only the day before I had been crying my eyes out whilst watching Edward Scissor hands. If only bobble hat had sculpted something beautiful and eccentric out of the leaves and branches, or even the trunk. Now here I was crying over my lost tree, which feels like the loss of a much loved friend and I am in mourning, weeping over my willow instead of my willow weeping over me. Now all that is left is a bleak patch of sky and a row of windows looking down over me.

My best friend and also neighbour four doors down on the other side, whose artistic name coincidentally is Willo, suggested I should paint a tree and hang it there in its place. Maybe I should stand her on a ladder instead as she’s often up one having been forced to become ‘Bob the builder’ since her beloved partner Pavlito’s untimely death. He was our neighbourhood protector and righter of all wrongs on the street. I am sure that his green and ever present spirit will be suitably horrified by the unnecessary felling of the tree and will act phantasmagorically.

picture:seasirens:©adrienneseed

Goodness gracious – great balls of what?

My son in traditional male fashion bought me a load of balls for Christmas and by balls I mean those things that fizz in the bath. As things haven’t been going too well of late, especially financially, I thought a long hot soak in the bathtub might do the trick and like Archimedes before me, help me find a solution to my various problems. So I tossed a handful of the said balls under the running taps and tentatively climbed in, but it was a bit like being on a firing range as the fizzing pink cannon balls shot across the surface of the bathwater like bouncing bombs then spiralled under the surface and disappeared without a trace. Typical, I thought disgruntledly; like all the best things in life, they only lasted for a couple of seconds. Might just have well chucked in a couple of Alka-Seltzers, it would have been a much cheaper option and one could always drink the bath water if one was suffering from a hangover, or an upset stomach, which thanks to the meds one invariably was.

But like Archimedes with his scientific ruminations, instead of ruminating about my financial problems I set about ruminating on what chemical concoction actually makes for a fizzy ball? Well, the answer to that, I later discovered, is a combination of citric acid, cornstarch and baking soda and you can easily make your own fizzy balls according to the website by adding vegetable oil, fragrance and a touch of colouring. But be mindful what colour you choose, or how much, if you don’t want to come out shocking pink, which I do after a hot bath either with or without colouring, or end up bright orange and looking like you’ve been tangoed like Dale Winton. Mind you, on the same website there were also instructions on how to make your own gun powder, so try not to confuse the two issues unless you want to blow yourself to smithereens. There was also a kit you could buy called, “The Bath Bomb Factory,” which hardly seems politically correct in these troubled times but which also included a pair of safety goggles - so say no more.

But how to make your balls round you may ask – well, it’s easy, apparently, all you have to do is wrap them in cling film, but I would advise not to try this at home chaps. Alternatively, if you don’t have any cling film you could place them in a mold instead, then after letting the molded ball sit for a minute or two, tap the side of the ball firmly with a tablespoon then repeat this on the other side. Once again chaps, unless you are of a masochistic nature, this particular practice is not to be recommended. “Even with your mixture perfectly balanced,” the instructions read, “you’ll occasionally get a ball that will crumble. No problem,” they say, “Just crush it up, put it back in the bowl and remold it.”

Ouch! I’ve heard of the credit crunch but that sounds particularly painful.

Most people like to soak in a hot bath when they need to chill out, which seems like a bit of a contradiction in terms, but as far as I can see having a bath these days, especially for women, is hard work and anything but a relaxing experience, because there is so much you feel pressurised by women’s magazines and places like the Body Shop and Boots to do in there. Detoxifying the skin for example; gone are the days when a rub down with a humble flannel and a simple bar of soap would suffice. Now we are encouraged to rid our bodies of toxins by scrubbing them from head to toe whilst wearing a pair of sandpaper like gloves using various products which contain crushed grape seeds or avocado nuts which feel like the equivalent of bits of gravel in order to rid ourselves of free radicals. But these products, unlike our radicals, are not free; in fact they are very expensive and to my mind an outright rip off. The alternative of course, if you don’t happen to have a gravel drive or a nut crusher would be to use a brillo pad and some Ajax.

Applying a face pack whilst in the bath is yet another added complication, because aside from the tortuous pain as it starts to tighten up, a face pack will also prevent you from singing. When I am not depressed, which is rare these days, I am one of those annoying people who like to sing in the bath, but as my favourite sing a long tune at the moment is “Run” by Leona Lewis, when I get to the bit where she sings - light up…. light up…. the only thing I can think of is lighting up a camel and as you know I am trying to give up, or at least cut down, on my smoking habit. There’s one good thing about having a bath I suppose, at least I can’t smoke in there, although it has been known.

The most traumatic thing about having a bath, especially if you are HIV positive like me and taking medication, is witnessing the awful body shape changes that are taking place on my once lithesome form, the evidence of which is usually concealed beneath my clothes. Getting naked for me these days is not a pretty sight and I think I could do with a consultation from that creepy GOK fellow on his programme ‘How to look good Naked’ and thereby become one of his Gokettes – I don’t think. Perhaps this is where the goggles from the bath bomb making kit would come in handy, so I wouldn’t have to look at myself, or even the gunpowder.

It is only when one has finally completed all the supposedly beautifying tasks whilst bathing that one can finally relax and lie back exhausted to ponder on the current problems that are troubling one. Oh dear, I keep referring to myself as ‘one’ this and ‘one’ that and fear I’m starting to sound a bit like the Queen. I’ll be mentioning the royal ‘we’ next – but never in the bath of course.

But the problem is that when you do eventually have that eureka moment in the bath and inspiration strikes, there is nothing to write it down on. You could always carve it on the bar of soap I suppose, that’s if you happen to have such an outdated item immediately to hand. Soap carving is a real art in some countries, especially in Thailand where they fashion exquisite sculptures of flowers and birds out of soap. There are other carvers of a more historic frame of mind I read about on the web who have taken up Gargoyle carving. The only gargoyling I would be taking up however was with TCP to ease my poor sore throat. The golden rule about soap carving, or any carving for that matter, according to ‘top tips for soap carvers’, is to always remember you cannot put something back once you have carved it off. The same rule applies to cutting your own fringe, which is not advisable to do in any circumstances and least of all in the bath when the hair is wet, because once it has dried, it will rise up like a bride’s nightie and end up on top of your forehead, which is obviously any new bridegroom’s intention.

Of course, I shouldn’t really moan about baths as I count myself lucky to have one, as I can remember all too clearly the days when my mother used to force me to stand in the kitchen sink and be swabbed down with a wet flannel. Thankfully, I was only a child at the time and would hardly fit in a sink these days, although I fear it won’t be long, as thanks to the meds, I am losing weight at an alarming rate, albeit mainly on my arms and legs which have taken on the appearance chop of sticks. At the rate it’s going in regard to weight loss, I’ll have to take care not to pull the plug out whilst I’m still in the bath incase I disappear down the plughole. Remember that song by Cream, A Mother’s Lament?

Your baby has gone down the plughole
Your baby has gone down the plug
The poor little thing was so skinny and thin
It should have been washed in a jug – in a jug

I don’t think I was ever washed in a jug, but I can recall the days of the tin bath, which are making a comeback apparently, at least according to an advert for tin baths which boldly proclaims, “As seen on the Alan Titchmarsh show.” But probably only for use in the garden as in the poor man’s Jacuzzi perhaps?. If you still have one hanging around in your garden shed you can always use it to enter the ‘World Tin Bath Championships,’ which takes place annually on the Isle of Man. But nothing really surprises me about that island and I think you would have to be quite odd to live there in the first place as they chop off the tails of their cats, failing to take into account the golden rule of soap carvers around the world that you cannot put something back once you have chopped it off. But they do what they want on the Isle of Man, as they are a self governing island and their emblem is a man with three legs – a bit like Jake the peg, diddle diddle diddle dum, with his extra leg, diddle diddle diddle dum. Although the three legs have nothing whatsoever to do with a man called Jake, or Rolf Harris for that matter and relate directly to the island’s motto, which translated from the Latin means, “Whichever way you throw it, it will stand.”
I don’t know about in the Isle of Man but in England this rule I have found does not always necessarily apply, especially in relation to hurling whatever it is at your loved ones in a fit of pique or temper.

Anyway, in regard to bathing, at least living in England we don’t have to feel obliged to beat ourselves with birch twigs like the Finns, or jump in a frozen pond, or roll around naked in the snow after taking a sauna or hot bath. I dread to think what my neighbours would think of me should they perchance look out of their windows to witness me rolling around naked in the garden. Some Finnish women even choose to give birth in the sauna, which would finnish most English women off I would imagine.

My good friends Anne and Derek are getting wed in Bali next week. How romantic is that? In Bali I believe they scatter rose petals in your bath. If you are reading this Anne and Derek, congratulations and I wish I could be with you - but not in the bath of course

My current problems prevented me from going down to London this weekend for the ICW POZ-FEM meeting, so to all the inspirational and hardy women who have made it, sorry to everyone, but as you all know only too well, sometimes life gets in the way. As positive women we have to juggle life and HIV and often they are not happy bed (or bath) fellows.

The origin of the term eureka, which derives from the Greek word heureka (I have found it) dates back to Archimedes the great mathematician, when he found what he was looking for, whatever it was, whilst taking a bath.
Well on this occasion, I didn’t exactly find what I was looking for, which was a solution to my problems. But eureka – no I don’t actually, thanks to the fizzy balls.

A very happy Valentine’s day to all Hiviners even if the only HAARTS you are going to see today are your meds. But do not despair if you don’t receive any flowers or cards. I’m not expecting any as my horoscope, which presumably applies to all Librans, informs me that Jupiter, the planet of luck and creativity, has finally re-entered my chart after twelve long years - but as the expression goes, lucky in cards, unlucky in love!

If you are single and hate Valentine’s day because it is a painful reminder that you are on your own, don’t worry because you can celebrate SAD instead, Singles Awareness Day which is also celebrated on February 14th and is the day on which single people gather together to celebrate or commiserate their single status. A common greeting on this day is, “Happy Sad!” - which is a bit confusing for the likes of me and a contradiciton of terms and perhaps the reason why these singles are still single.

Failing that you can become a “Quirkyalone” person, in other words a person who actually enjoys being single but is not opposed to being in a relationship. International Quirkyalone Day is also celebrated on February 14th and was started back in 2003 as a ‘celebration of romance, freedom and individuality.’ The Quirkys are annual awards similar to the Oscars in such categories as, best Quirkyalone movie, Lifetime Quirkyalone Achievement Award etc. Examples of people who are Quirkyalones as listed on the website include: Cher, Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, Oprah Winfrey, Oscar Wilde, George Clooney and Morrissey - athough I don’t know about you, but I think that Morrissey is taking his quirkyaloness a bit too far these days.

Some claim that the first recorded association of Valentine’s Day with romantic love was Chaucer’s love birds in “Parlement of Foules”, but this claims the website may be the result of misinterpretation. Sounds to me more like he was talking about the House of Lords, especially after I read the verse.

“For this was on seynt Volantynys day, whan euery bryd comyth there to chese his make.”

A verse which makes about as much sense as some of those Lords do - when they are awake that is.

Unrequited love can be the most painful kind of love and also has a long cultural history. The 1st century BC Roman poet Catullus wrote about his unrequited love for Lesbia - but you would have thought he’d of gathered he was barking up the wrong tree by the object of his desires name.

Abraham Crowley wrote of unrequited love -

“A mighty pain to love it is, And ’tis a pain that pain to miss, But of all the pains, the greatest pain, It is to love, but to love in vain.”

Valentine traditions vary greatly around the world, for example in South Korea women give chocolate to men on February 14th and men give non-chocolate candy to women on March 14th. On April 14 (Black Day), those who did not receive anything on the 14th of February or March go to a Chinese restaurant to eat black noodles and ‘mourn’ their single life.

If you have an aversion to noodles, in particular black ones and happen to be in Las Vegas, performers from Las Vegas’ biggest shows will apparently be getting ‘naked’ this Valentine’s Day to raise money for people with HIV/AIDS. This year’s bare-as-you-dare event takes place appropriately enough on the Strip.

Shame we don’t have anything like that going on in Blackpool which is supposedly the Las Vegas of the north - but then again, it’s too bloody cold.

Hope you’ve got your love to keep you warm this Valentine’s Day, but if not, don’t respair, because as the sign in my local hairdresser’s said -

LOVE IS IN THE HAIR.

It wasn’t as if one day it just happened, I didn’t wake up one morning and suddenly notice that my body was starting to change shape, or maybe I did, but it was too terrifying a thought to contemplate. I probably put it to the back of my mind and got on with things like you have to do when you are HIV positive. It must have crept up on me gradually, sneakily, like the furtive, lurking monster HIV is and it’s true that in these last six roller coaster years since I was first diagnosed, my body is something that I view differently. I don’t feel the same way about it, I am wary of it, it is no longer something I flaunt or even cherish. In fact, I’m a little bit scared of it to tell the truth. I don’t really know what’s going on in there. Something else is in control. HIV and the meds of course, although it’s debatable as to which of my bodily dictators is causing the most damage. 

The first major sign that something was going drastically amiss and lipodystrophy was starting to set in was when my apron or ‘pinny’ as they’re called up north kept slipping off. Not that I’m a typical housewife type, far from it, I’m an artist, although I do wear an apron sometimes when I’m painting or when I’m cooking. But no matter how tight I tied those proverbial apron strings, the dam thing kept slithering down to my ankles and tripping me up, which can be quite a health and safety hazard especially when wielding a hot chip pan. The same thing kept happening with my M&S knickers, guaranteed to last a lifetime, so it was hardly a case of faulty elastic, although aside from the sheer embarrassment factor, losing control of your knickers, especially in my condition could also be considered a health and safety hazard.  

No, the fact was I no longer seemed to have any hips, but when had that happened? I can’t pinpoint exactly when the dreaded ‘lippo’ as it’s known in the trade set in. Before HIV lippo to me was something I kept in my makeup bag. However, I do remember noticing the veins starting to stand out on my wrists, but I’m a bit squeamish, I don’t like veins, so I took to wearing long sleeves. Quite the opposite had occurred with my bosoms, which had taken on monstrous page three girl size proportions, a double‘d’ cup the assistant informed me reverently when I was forced to invest in a new bra. But it was the day I looked in the mirror and noted with horror that my head was starting to shrink and my cheeks were getting that caved in look, as though I’d had sucked too many sherbet lemons, that I decided the time had come to change my medication. When I mentioned this to a friend, who is also positive, she said it was a timely move because I was starting to lose my feminity. Whatever did she mean, I’d asked her aghast, being a woman who had always taken pride in my looks. The thing was, I knew there was truth in what she was saying, my neck had started to thicken up, but as for losing my femininity – what about the monstrous bosoms? 

It took some courage to change my meds, as anyone who has suffered from the debilitating side effects they can sometimes cause will tell you. I had been on Trizivir for five years, which according to my specialist is not as lipid friendly as some of the newer anti retroviral drugs, but he’d felt there’d been no point in changing me as I’d  been doing so well on it. Anyway, I’d never asked – and if you don’t ask you don’t get. 

Six months into my new regime and do I notice any difference, unfortunately not, as the damage has already been done, but hopefully it won’t get any worse. I’ve grown accustomed to the yellow eyes, the possibility of kidney stones and according to the latest reports on abacavir, the added risk of a heart attack or stroke, but what can you do? Swings and roundabouts - hopefully not a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire.  

So where ‘lippo’ is concerned, there is no magic wand to take it away, so inform yourself of all your options and don’t let your specialist gloss over the facts.

Nothing lasts forever, not our cars, not our carpets and least of all our bodies, especially if we are suffering from a chronic illness such as HIV. Things tend to wear out and drop off, although hopefully not from our bodies (although they do tend to drop off my poor old mondeo) but there comes a time when one has to renew one’s material possessions. In this case I am talking about ‘ones,’ as in this ones, stair carpet, which over the years, a bit like me, possibly because throughout my life I have let too many people walk all over me, has become threadbare and subject to bald patches.  The comparison to my own thinning locks was starting to depress me every time I either climbed or descended my stairs, which I do on numerous occasions throughout the day – and also during the night if I’m having one of those nights when I can’t sleep. So I decided the time had come to take action and this action had to be taken immediately, because according to the voice over by Chris Evans in the latest advert for ‘Allied Carpets’, the sale was about to end and I had to hurry, hurry, hurry on down there if I wanted to buy my ‘stairway to heaven’ so to speak, and besides, according to the words of the timeless song by Led Zeppelin, which are inscribed upon my heart, I knew only too well what would happen if I didn’t. 

“When she gets there she knowsIf the stores are all closedWith a word she can get what she came for.” But a word where? I’d never really understood that line and anyway, in whose ear? I didn’t think Chris Evans would lend me his, because rumour has it, or at least according to his ex wife, he is supposedly quite tight. Besides, he never stops talking and when he’s not on the radio he’s too busy advertising carpets to listen to the likes of me. And I don’t think poor old Led Zep are currently in good enough shape to ask them about my stair carpet, as one of their last musical compositions was entitled, “I’m gonna crawl” – unless they meant over the carpet of course. 

But little did I know when I embarked on this course of action, what deep inner issues were lurking within me and which would arise to meet me during the rocky road, tufted course, underlay, as in on the road to (or was that Mandalay?) and other associated carpet terminology, when finding my personnal stairway to heaven. I made it down to Allied Carpets just in time for the end of sale bargains, but I was cautious of being taken in by the money saving claims of the advert as Led so aptly warns us when in the act of negotiating any kind of deal on a stair related issue – 

“There’s a sign on the wallBut she wants to be sureCause you know sometimes words have two meanings.” Exactly, Led, just as you pointed out. The sign was saying one thing and the salesman was saying another. I decided to go ahead anyway; regardless of the cost, but what colour to choose and what would it say about me? Obviously, a patterned carpet was not an option, as according to ‘Changing Rooms’ and the likes, we have a moral obligation these days to be minimalists. However, I am not a minimalist, no matter how hard I try; I even hang on to my cobwebs like Miss Haversham, although not my wedding dress which I cut up years ago for net curtains. I’m a maximist through and through, which is not a follower of Max Clifford, nor a political party, although I’m thinking of starting one in opposition to the Laurence Llewellyn Bowens of this world and their carpetical beliefs. 

The huge carpet warehouse was an absolute nightmare for a maximist, or member of any political party for that matter, not to mention a Libran, as we are renowned for not being able to make up our minds. So many colours to choose from and so little time – up until midnight as it happened, which was when the sale ended. I felt pressured from within, torn with indecision. I flicked through the coloured square samples like the heavy cloth pages of a children’s book again and again. The hour was drawing nigh – I had to choose. So what did I do – I went for the safe option of a totally neutral colour. What had happened to me? Being a counsellor had obviously got to me and overtaken my bohemian artistic tendencies and love of outrageous colours.  “Can I change my mind about the colour, or should I say lack of colour, if I want?” I asked Mr Allied carpets when he came to measure up the following day. “The thing is, I can’t get excited about it and as there is very little excitement in my life these days, apart from twiddling with my blogs of an evening, re-carpeting my stairs is all I’ve got to look forward to. Sad isn’t it?” I looked meaningfully at carpet man, “Maybe I should go for a more exciting option, what do you think?” I sincerely hoped carpet man didn’t think I was coming on to him by pointing out the lack of excitement in my life, or by hinting about ‘other’ more exciting options. I also hoped he was computer literate and knew what a blog was. But if he had misunderstood my intentions, he gave me no sign, instead simply shrugged his carpet measurer’s shoulders, which were slightly hunched after spending his entire life bent over his tape measure in dusty corners and with a sigh, wearily wiped a stray bit of lint off his chin (at least that’s what I hoped it was and nothing more suspect). “Trouble is,” he said philosophically in a broad

 How true, I thought sadly, especially in relation to art, which has become so mediocre these days its virtually non existent.  For some reason carpet man’s comment upset and disturbed me and stayed twirling round in my brain all night like the pattern of an old cinema carpet. I even dreamt about bloody carpets; well, I dreamt I found a stray dog actually whose tightly woven coat resembled a carpet, in fact, it was exactly the same colour and texture as the one I’d chosen for the stairs, a bit like a poodle with very tight curls that were bumpy and not at all pleasant to stroke. Somehow, by the end of the dream and don’t ask me how this came about, carpet dog had magically turned into an old man in a raincoat, who I had brought home with me and wasn’t quite sure what to do with. Unlike carpet dog, stroking the old man’s coat (or anything else for that matter) was not an option, although doubtless to say the old man probably wouldn’t have objected. Well, I thought, never mind worrying about appearing to come on to Mr Allied carpets. Things were really getting bad on the relationship front, or lack of it, if I was dreaming about bringing stray men home. Especially old ones - what was that all about and what would a psychiatrist make of it? I will refrain here from making the obvious and rather crude reference to a certain type of carpet known in the trade as shag pile, although no doubt the psychiatrists would, as they have all been brainwashed by Freud and think everything from an umbrella down to a carpet probably, has got some kind of sexual connotation. I was obviously mixing up my issues here. Yes, I wanted a new stair carpet, but what I really wanted and I didn’t need a psychiatrist to tell me that, was a dog – what I most definitely did not need was a stray man, old or otherwise – although chance would be a fine thing in my condition.  

Talking of old things, my stair carpet dates back to pre war days having been donated by my deceased partner from the time of his first marriage, so no wonder it was worn out and probably by this time riddled with carpet bugs. Did you know that however scrupulously we endeavour (or not in my case) to keep our houses clean, bugs still reside in our carpets and are much more common than we think. People even write books about them, for instance, ‘How Clean is Your House’ and of course the best selling blockbuster from the sixties by Harold Robbins, ‘The Carpetbuggers’, which was also adapted into a film of the same name, although at the time it suffered some terrible reviews. For example in the New York Times the reviewer complained that the plot was merely, “an excuse for a collection of monotonous episodes about normal and abnormal sex.” Sounds like a good read to me and so did a lot of other people apparently, because on the date the review was published, ‘The Carpetbuggers’ was already at number nine on the ‘Times’ best seller list and was eventually to sell over eight million copies and is estimated to be the fourth most-read book in history. 

Perhaps I should take a leaf out of dear Harold’s book and mention a few bugs in mine – although I’m already half way there, as it is called, ‘The Spider and the Fly’. But maybe I should change that to ‘The Spider and the Carpet Buggers’, maybe that way I can get it published without having to do it myself.Hint hint to any publishers out there  Talking of dirty books and by that I don’t necessarily mean mine, in what’s known as ‘Dirty Talk’ on one website in direct reference to the fearful Kim and Aggie’s ‘How Clean is your House’, I chanced upon the following top tips on cleaning your carpets. “

 At least I think its carpets they were referring to, although on second thoughts it could have been acne I suppose. “After anything has sat on it for any length of time rub it with an ice cube and it pops back up.” 

There again, I think it was carpet pile they were talking about - or it could have been piles, or even impotence for that matter, but probably not, as cold water is reputed to have the opposite effect. Carpets, either with or without bugs, have often been featured in literature and in particular magic carpets, which have appeared in various tomes dating from biblical times through to the present day. The popularity of “One Thousand and One Nights” brought magic carpets to the attention of western audiences, not to mention the west end with David Essex and his accompanying tune, “On this night of a thousand stars” and not forgetting Bobby Vee’s famous classic, “Cos the night has a thousand eyes.” 

The literary traditions of other cultures also feature magical carpets. Solomon’s carpet (not currently available in the Allied Carpet sale I must quickly point out - at least at the time of going to press) was reportedly made of green silk with a golden weft, sixty miles long and sixty miles wide. “When Solomon sat upon the carpet he was caught up by the wind, and sailed through the air so quickly that he breakfasted at

Media.” Is that a bit like having a drink in the ‘hospitality suite’ or the ‘green room’ before the Jonathon Ross show, who I am pleased to note is now back on the box on Friday nights having been dragged over the carpet, or was it hauled over the coals, by his bosses at the BBC for his rude phone call. In Russian folk tales, a chap called Baba Yaga supplied someone called Ivan the Fool with a flying carpet as well as, according to wikipedia, “other magical gifts, for example a ball that rolls in front of the hero showing him the way, or a towel that can turn into a bridge.” 

Well the latter could come in very handy especially if you’ve left the taps running and you’ve just had your bathroom re-carpeted. “Such gifts help the hero to find his way ‘beyond thrice-nine lands, in the thrice-ten kingdom’.” 

So that’s why mums go to thriceland, along with Ivan the fool, who if his name is anything to go by is not to be believed and that’s probably why they didn’t use him in the advert, aside from the fact he hasn’t recently featured in ‘I’m a celebrity get me out of here’ - although there have been many other fools who have.  Carpet baggers as opposed to buggers is also a term widely used in politics in the US to describe outsiders’ attempting to gain political office or economic advantage, especially in areas thematically or geographically to which they previously had no connection. In 2004, Republican Alan Keyes was called a carpetbagger when he moved to

 According to wikipedia the term carpetbagger has the generic meaning of a presumptuous newcomer who enters a new territory seeking success. It derived from ambitious northerners who flocked to the south carrying their clothes and possessions in a handbag made of carpet material seeking opportunities to help newly enfranchised citizens run for political office in return for various favours.  Well, I know in general southerners don’t think much of us northerners, but that’s going a bit far and what do they mean by in return for various favours? Although I believe from today’s news that in The House of Lords no less, that kind of thing does go on and by ‘ambitious’ northerners to boot, as in the case of our own Lord Taylor of Blackburn, who is in big trouble today by allegedly being prepared to change the law for cash. However, when questioned by the reporter, like Churchill the dog, as opposed to Churchill the Prime Minister, he replied in a broad Lancashire accent, “no no no no no – you don’t do things like that, that’s stupid.”  His carpet bag would have been stuffed to overflowing with pound notes should the deal have gone through – one hundred thousand as opposed to one thousand and one nights worth of them – but  luckily the rug was pulled from under his feet by the reporter. I’ll bet he’s wishing for a magic carpet right now to carry him away or for the floor to open and swallow him up. 

In Mark Twain’s “Captain Stormfield’s Visit to Heaven,” magic carpets areused to instantaneously travel throughout heaven – so that’s where Led got the inspiration for stairway to heaven - I always wondered. Oooooh and it makes me wonder 

Anyway, In relation to my own particular stairway to heaven, there is no going back now as the deposit is paid and the colour decision i.e. boring neutral is now set in stone, or carpet if you prefer - and I have to say that all the stress has not helped with my attempts at trying to give up smoking - Although allegedly, our Janet has, so if she is reading this - well done our kid. I have still to give up the filthy habit and so does my son, although we are both pretending that we have. My son can’t fool me however because once again to quote the words of Led’s song - “In my thoughts I have seen…..Rings of smoke through the trees….” 

But it wasn’t in my thoughts; it was in fact my son having crafty smoke in garden And I’d just like to add for my neighbour’s benefit – 

“If there’s a rustle in your hedgerow- Don’t be alarmed now.” It’s only me lurking in the bushes doing the same. But old habits of a lifetime are hard to break and in the words of mark Twain – 

“A habit cannot be tossed out the window; it must be coaxed down the stairs a step at a time.” But I’ll wait until I get the new carpet.

picture:thelastunicorn©adrienneseed

“The unicorns were the most recognisable magic the fairies possessed and they sent them to those worlds where belief in the magic was in danger of failing altogether.
After all there has to be some belief in magic - however small - for any world to survive”.

Terry Brooks, The Black Unicorn 

After the unanimous decision was reached by the Trustees of my deceased partners Estate that they did not ‘wish’ to support my application for art funding, even though through their ‘Charitable’ Trust they are supporting other artists, I am finding it hard to believe in unicorns, in magic or indeed that there is any justice in this world. My painting above, “The Last Unicorn,” I donated to charity many years ago, but it seems in the case of the Trustees, charity does not begin at home.

However, “No door closes without opening another” – “Better than gold is the tale well told” so I’d better get on with finishing my book and last but not least,“Never play leapfrog with a unicorn.”