Fran’s School of Hard Knocks

Easter Holidays

It’s the Easter holidays, and I’m taking a rest for a couple of weeks, to be with family and enjoy time off with them. No dramatic trips planned to far-flung destinations, but perhaps a few days “here and there” as hubby likes to say.

For whatever reason, I seem to have had a cold or a sniffle for several months, which I can only attribute to being chronically tired. So I shall take my chance to rest fully, and only visit my blog and social media occasionally.

I used to resist holiday times, thinking, “Darn it, now I’ll have to work twice as hard,” but that is to miss major opportunities to have fun and relax. I have been that woman who has been given a gift, only to look past it and think, “If only I could have that one over there, instead. The one I can’t reach, the one I’m always running to catch up to…”

No more. From now on, I thank goodness for all the gifts that comes my way, noticing how much easier it is to decide, and then allow life to provide.

I was on a train journey, and thought, “I would really love a drink”. Immediately, along came the drinks trolley from which I was served a large cup of hot water. Then, when I had finished it, I thought, “I would really like a dustbin for my empty cup,” and along came another server with a large bag for collecting rubbish. Arriving back at the train station after a long day, I was thought, “I would really love a lift home,” and a friend was there, waiting to collect another friend, and she offered me a lift home!

I really enjoy watching how this process plays out. It seems to work best when I make my request, and then let it go out and come back to me.

This Easter I would like us all to have a peaceful time filled with blessings, joy and laughter.

Thanks for reading and for all your generous support.

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Online services

I notice increasingly, that the convenience and ease of online services so often touted by the banks and public services, the local authorities and the inland revenue, the DSS, is simply a way to pass on a printing job to the end user. Which obviously makes things quicker and easier for suppliers, but not necessarily for us.

It sounds easy, and, with practice and applications, working online can be. We find a computer, click on a link to a service, create an account with an email address, password, and then we have access. Computer literacy is hard-won, not always obvious. And bingo, we can apply for passports and driving licenses on-line. No need to ever leave the house.

But all that does take thought, planning and a printer, preferably with a built-in scanner. And because of the rules about accounts and records, we often find ourselves printing off advice notes, leaflets, ‘how to’ manuals, tax returns, bank statements. “Make it easier!” my bank tells me every time I log on, “Get your statements delivered to your IN box!” Which means, yes, I have to print them. Save them postage, why not? Good idea…

Except that care is required when acquiring services. It is very easy to fall prey to the optimism of telephone selling, (“Only £25 a month…”) which is very hard to verify at the same time with any ‘online paperwork’. You can sign on with a consent, a mumble down the phone, but while doing that, it is almost impossible to verify the cost of international calls, (fifty pence a minute at full rates…What??) The most banal commitments can spiral out of control with equal ease.

So be warned. When acquiring a new, shiny online service, check the small print first, before agreeing on the phone that it is a good idea. Read and check any paperwork first, and think of some useful questions you need to ask, (Eg: does your phone package include the cost of international calls?”) before any agreements are printed off and your “Welcome, New User!” package arrives by online speedmail.

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Energy Misapplied

How much energy have I squandered in the course of my life, being cross, offended, disappointed or depressed? I suspect it has been a great deal, and I reflect with wry amusement – since that is better than mourning, again – that all these negative states also absorb extra energy since, in order to keep them alive, we must insist on them and rehearse our grievances, constantly reminding ourselves why we have excellent reasons for being unhappy. If we simply released them, the worries that underpin our negativity would simply float away.

Energy misapplied can be re-applied in better ways, of course. By refusing to allow ourselves to be derailed into grumpiness, by the realisation that it is fine, it is perfectly allowed to remain content even in the midst of great upheaval. Without noise, the quieter virtues are emboldened to emerge: peace, rest, calm and patience, which can show us a different way to relate to the world’s paroxysms. Like love, peace does not require to be constantly bolstered with declarations of loyalty. Peace, when it is allowed to be, simply is; and reveals itself as the inevitable underpinning, once all the noise has been silenced: We may make a lot of noise, but in the end, it is quietness that prevails.

Perhaps that is why I so like reading, and have gravitated to writing as I’ve got older. These are peaceful occupations that not only allow us to escape from everyday noise, but give us the means to focus on an activity that demands a bit of quiet in order to be effective.

Thanks for listening.

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Beware social care

After Mum had spent three weeks in a medical ward at the Western General with a great deal of assiduous help to get her medically fit, she was advised that she was no longer a medical case – there was no more medical help they could offer – so they needed her bed back.

Fair enough. Doctors need to treat sick people. And the wards at the Western on which this is done, are relatively benign. The spaces are open and well set out, visitors are welcome and encouraged, there are things to do and people to see, variety of a sort in the scenery, and things to see out of the windows. Brave souls are allowed – nay, encouraged – to venture to the café’s on the ground floor, or even outside if the weather is clement, they have their zimmer and are warmly wrapped in the company of their sons and daughters, siblings… The care is thoughtful and optimistic, and the results are outstanding.

Then one morning a doctor visits and advises that yes, you are well enough to go home. But, since in a moment of caution, it has been suggested that a care plan is needed – though, in the event, my mother was deemed capable of managing most things independently, so her care plan was minimal – they would move her to another bed in another building until the care plan was in place. The caller who phoned from the medical ward to advise me of this situation indicated that this was “a step in the right direction” but was unwilling to say how long the stay on the new ward would be, though a murmur of two weeks escaped her reluctant lips.

Mother phoned immediately afterwards, in tears. She had a very different picture of her eventual destination. There I was, supposing a ward on the ground floor – nearer the exits – nearer the shops, nearer eventual normalisation. My mother’s advices abruptly put a stop to my delusions, and she asked me to visit her as soon as possible, and get her out of there, please…?

I visited the new ward the next day, armed with books, a few items of clothing. And found my eventual route to a building out of the way, at the back. Dark, approached through a narrow entrance with an air of abandonment, up two flights of winding stairs. I begged admittance to a locked ward, pleading my case past ‘protected mealtimes’ to a nurse on duty. The ward was a shock: tucked up in the eaves and back out of sight, away from any prospect of easy access to the outside world; no flowers, radios, tv noises, no internet access, no banter of relatives or friendly visitors. No views past the thick stone battlements; a single long, long corridor with business rooms off, and no-where to go.

My resolution hardened very quickly, and when Mum approached the orderly on duty to say, “I’d like to go home” I backed her to the hilt.

What is the point of an NHS treatment plan that gets people well, then shunts them sideways onto wards with nothing to do, no motivation, no reasonable prospect of access to the outside world? While it might not be intentional, the impression is inescapable that getting out of the ward at any time is discouraged, as are visitors, noise, or anything approaching intrusion. The message is clear: get well, stay well, and stay independent as long as you can.

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Watching de-clutter programmes

I’m currently obsessed with watching de-clutter programmes. But then, I love to de-clutter, and am always looking for new ideas and inspiration. Why, you might ask, when I have never had a problem with accumulations?

I’ve watched Maria Kondo, and another Canadian offering, ‘Consumed’, both of which offer insights that are salutary. For example, that our things can weigh us down; that we should either love, or use, what we own, and if we don’t, then why are we keeping it? Why not have a house-full of things we love? Or an empty house that we can fill with things we love… Why not, indeed? Sometimes I think that we go away on holidays to simply get away from the weight of our possessions.

And coming to the end of series two of ‘Consumed’ I felt a flush of regret, of shame, almost, that I’ve never had much opportunity to accumulate things. I have perhaps turned a necessity into a virtue, because to do anything else was too painful. First in a diplomatic lifestyle in which the family was constantly moving, packing and moving again, then at boarding school with its term times, holidays and limited trunk space, and even, dare I say it, in hospital during the long summer holidays, with its long wards and neat bedside lockers so clearly demarking small expectations.

It’s all very well for me to decide I’m a minimalist, but it is truly unfair of me to expect others to agree. It is sometimes very necessary to feel the security of generosity, of knowing that we can keep many things we choose, because we love them. If that means we have four pillows instead of two, then that’s fine.

I know that less is more. And I agree. But there is a place for knowing we can collect things, and expect our collections to be respected. So I’m not going to be badgering my husband and daughter any more, and I’m happy to leave my sister to accumulate what she wishes. Having gone through the same minimalist tests, she has swung rather to the other end of the scale, which is just fine and dandy with me.

Thanks for listening.

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