The Third Cottage

On finding herself divorced and once again living alone, a friend of mine declared she wanted to “start over” and move out of the now defunct marital home she had helped her husband build a few years previously, as it held too many memories for her. She had seen an advertisement in a local paper that three cottages which belonged to The Crown were coming on to the property market. They were set in an idyllic location, about 5 miles from where I live, in a small village nestling in the heart of an ancient forest. The agent who had been instructed to sell the properties was holding an Open Day a couple of weeks later for the general public to view at will and we decided it would be worth going, as the guide prices were very favourable.

Finally, the day dawned – it promised to be a scorcher. Having had lunch at my house, my friend and I set off, with the agents selling particulars firmly in our grasp. We were on a mission, we had an objective in mind. The objective was to purchase a house which would give my friend, who had suffered more than her fair share of tragedy over the years, a fresh start. We had high expectations and were determined not to fail.

On arriving at our destination, we parked up and immediately headed for cottages One and Two which were advertised as having the potential to be knocked in to one big family house. In our excitement we hadn’t noticed at the time was that there were very few members of the public there. Either the opportunity to grab a bargain did not appeal, or there were other attractions going on which kept the public away. It was, after all, village fete season. Factor in the hot weather and the British love of the seaside on days such as this meant that it looked highly likely we were prospecting pretty much on our own. We couldn’t even find any agents – the place almost seemed almost deserted except for a few local residents and the occasional dog or cat.

Talking nineteen to the dozen and making a beeline for Cottages One and Two, we were joined by a young man at the front door. He seemed to materialise out of nowhere. To say that he was devastatingly handsome is an understatement. He had golden hair that seemed to glow even though the occasional dark cloud in the sky obscured the sun. He had a physique that only came with putting some serious time in a gymnasium. My friend let out a long sigh punctuated with “Oh My God”. She said later that she had gone weak at the knees and that her heart had thudded in her chest. To help my friend out I casually dropped in to the conversation as we inspected the pair of cottages that I was married, happily married, and that my husband and I were very much hoping to have a baby soon, so paving the way for my friend. To say that she went in to outright flirt mode is an understatement. By the time we had viewed both cottages, they were talking, and play-arguing, as if they had known each other years, not just a few minutes. The talk turned from “If I had this house I would knock down this wall.........” to “If we buy these together we could do...........” It was, or it certainly seemed to be, love and lust at first sight. During the hour that we had spent in viewing Cottages One and Two, we had discussed the finances of buying the two together, the feasibility of ripping out bathrooms and kitchens, and the merits of DIY vs paying through the nose for qualified trades. We had mentally knocked down walls, discussed colour schemes and which bits of their furniture would look good and which wouldn't. As we stepped back out in to the brilliant sunshine and the scorching heat, we discovered that our companion was the owner of a mint condition vintage Austin Healy – colour Red. Our jaws dropped for the second time that day – this was turning out to be too good to be true. My friend and I simultaneously had the same vision – of my friend being driven off in to the setting sun with this devastatingly gorgeous young man by her side in his gleaming car. She wore a beautiful white wedding dress of ivory silk. He wore an immaculate morning suit of the gentlest grey. The car had been festooned with pink heart shaped helium-filled balloons tied to the door handles. It was towing a couple of tin cans whilst sporting a “Newly Married” sticker on its gleaming bumper.

Having told our handsome companion that we were going to view the Third Cottage which was but a short walk to the other side of the village, he replied saying he would take his leave, and bidding us farewell, got in to his car and drove off. Still reeling from our experience, we somehow made our way to the Third Cottage which was set a little apart from the village as if trying to disassociate itself, detached and standing in a reasonable sized plot. Just as we were about to walk in, we were met at the door, he of the golden hair and immaculate body. He said he had decided to change his mind and that he would look at the Third Cottage with us after all. He said he wanted to keep us company. As before, he seemed to materialise out of thin air.

On entering the house, I started to feel uneasy, and detected a distinct chill in the air, but didn’t think anything of it. I told myself it was, after all, a thatched cottage, unlike the other two which had slate roofs. Having grown up in a thatch, I knew they were built to be cool in the summer and warm and cozy in the winter, so momentarily shrugged off my unease. Having looked around the ground floor, we ascended up the stairs to the first floor to view the two bedrooms and bathroom, and that was when I noticed a strong smell of horses. I mentioned this to my friend and our companion, but they didn’t think anything was out of the ordinary. They laughed and told me I was cracking up. They said I had imagined it. I had no choice but to agree. But in my private thoughts I knew that there was something missing. I knew that things were not as they were meant to be. I was becoming increasingly ill at ease and desperate to go back outside to the warm sunshine. We left quickly, having decided there was nothing else to see and that we should explore the garden instead.

On walking around the perimeter of the cottage, we found a door which we hadn't noticed before. Being curious I opened it and went in. The sudden drop in temperature was dramatic. I found myself in a part of the cottage which hadn't been mentioned in the sales particulars. I was in what seemed to be a windowless room which was only accessible from the door through which I had entered. I knew I was on the other side of the living room wall and chimney stack. The room was small in terms of square feet, and it had no ceiling. On looking up I could see the underside of the thatched roof, the floor was earth and well tamped down. As I looked around I felt completely and utterly overwhelmed. I felt as if I had been hit with a sledge hammer. The smell of horses was overpowering. I was filled with sadness. I was filled with fear. I started to hyperventilate. In a blind panic, I pushed past my friend and our companion who had stopped at the doorway, obscuring the brilliant sun-drenched garden outside. I had to get out. I had to escape the confines. I needed to get back to the warmth of the sun. I wanted to sit down. I felt giddy. I thought I was going to throw up. In spite of the heat, I was shaking from head to foot. I had come out in a cold sweat.

My friend asked me what the matter was. She said in spite of my tan gained whilst on holiday abroad recently that all the colour had drained from my face. She thought I looked as if I had seen a ghost. I could tell she was worried about me.

All I could say in response was “Don’t buy this house. Something terrible has happened here. A child died here a long time ago. She was only 5 years old. She died in this room. She was murdered. Her soul is lost. She isn't at rest. She should be, its not right.” I was adamant I hadn’t seen her ghost, but I had certainly felt it. I had felt it the moment I had set foot in the Third Cottage, but at first I couldn’t diagnose what was bugging me. It was something I had never ever experienced, and hope I never do ever again. I wanted to go home. I wanted to leave this place and never ever come back. I wanted to pray. I wanted to cry. I said that the Third Cottage would bring my friend nothing but unhappiness if she bought it. I said if she did decide to buy the Third Cottage she should have it exorcised before she moved in. I said I knew a priest who would do the exorcism for her.

My friend, somewhat alarmed, said we should go. Reluctantly we turned to our companion to take our leave. He asked if I was OK. He said he was worried about me. I assured him that I was shaken but not stirred. I assured him I would be OK. He replied saying his work was done. He said he had been passing through, and that he had heard about the cottages being put up for sale. His car was parked on the track outside the cottage – I hadn't noticed it there when we had wandered over earlier. As he got into his car, we wished him a safe journey, thanked him for his company, and bade a reluctant farewell. As he drove off in to the distance, my friend said, somewhat wistfully “I never found out his name”. I said, quite simply “Simon, his name is Simon”. Not daring to take our eyes off the Austin Healy and its golden-haired occupant, we watched as it vanished in to thin air in the shimmering heat, never to be seen again.

I still live 5 miles from the village that used to be owned by The Crown, the village that is nestled in the heart of the forest. During that time we were blessed with two children, both girls. Following the death of my father, I threw myself whole heartedly in to my career as an analyst specialising in periodic payments in the banking world. I enjoyed being successful at what I did, and had started to plan to apply for jobs which would take me up the career path. But in time I began to struggle with the demands of working long hours and travelling extensively, and eventually retired early following diagnosis of an incurable and degenerative illness. I often drive past the Third Cottage, on my way to local towns and destinations further afield. I never ever stop, but I do occasionally glance over. For a few years it remained derelict, an unhappy home which held an unhappy secret. In time though, it was bought and lovingly restored. I can't tell you when this happened precisely, and I don’t know what happened to the lost soul, but I would like to think she has been laid to rest. I haven't got the courage to go find out who she had been. I should do, but I can't bring myself to search the church records where there would almost certainly be a record of her birth, as well as her death. I know that if I search the local graveyard, I would surely find her tombstone.

And as for my friend? She decided to stay in the house she had built with her first husband. For a while we kept in touch, but eventually we drifted apart. We never mentioned what happened that day. At some point I heard on the grapevine that she remarried. We weren't invited to the wedding. I got the feeling her new husband didn't approve of us or her other friends from her past. I got a Christmas card from her a few years later saying that they had had two children, that they had moved to a house about two miles from where she had been living when we were friends. She told me that she was happy for the first time in her life. 

The importance of "Get it on Time"

I was frankly absolutely appalled when I read the article yesterday afternoon in the latest edition of "The Parkinson" about the treatment that was experienced by David Hutchings whilst in hospital in 2008. In fact, I am so appalled that my customary ability to adequately type at the moment is littered with mistakes and my fingers have gone on strike. The resting tremor in my right arm is as bad as it has been in a long time! I was wide awake at 4 o'clock this morning thinking about this, and as a result here I am, an hour and a half later, at my PC, blogging.

I'm not going to repeat the story here, there is no point. But, if you haven't read it, you should - its on page 20 and is titled "This shouldn't happen to anyone else". On recounting the tale to my husband and my mother, they were as appalled as I was. The treatment David and his wife received was unbelievable and the consequences were frankly catastrophic. Not only that, but the costs which would have undoubtedly been incurred to the NHS were costs that could have so easily been avoided had David received the right meds at the right time. In short, David and his wife were robbed of what should have been a well-earned and happy retirement together.

Unfortunately the older generation, instead of receiving the respect and due care and attention that is rightfully theirs when in hospital, can be at risk of being victims instead. (I would like to point out here that I'm not saying this happens in every case, and I would hope that at best these instances are a rarity.) Last August I found myself in the unfortunate position of witnessing such treatment to a lady in her 90's, when I found myself back in hospital following post-op complications. [I hasten to add the hospital I was in wasn't my usual hospital as we were away at the time with friends.] Had I not been confined to bed having a blood transfusion at the time I would have done something about it. There was a young girl opposite me, who at 20 was young enough to be my daughter, who also heard what was happening. She was as concerned about the way the patient had been treated as I had been. I don't know whether she took the matter up with the Ward Sister before she left or not, but the following day whilst waiting for my husband to come and pick me up, I made sure I did. It was the least I could do.

When I mentioned the article in The Parkinson to my mother, she immediately said to me "Don't worry, I'll make sure you don't get treated like that next time you're in hospital. I'll be on your case straight away". My mother, bless her, is a formidable lady when on the warpath and I am extremely grateful to her for her support over the last 2 years and long may that continue. But, I also have no plans or desire to be in hospital for a very long time.............

OK - rant over. I shall get off my soap box now. xx

Drama Queen Reigns Supreme

Its been a bit of a long road, as can so often be the case with Parkinson's, but at long last I'm starting to feel that I'm back in the driving seat, in control of my movements, enjoying life, not feeling like I'm having to explain my mumbling stumbling self to strangers, whilst trotting out my standard phrase "I have Parkinson's" and wanting to add on "I am not an alcoholic!". Its getting to the point where I feel tempted to have these words tattoed on my forehead. Joking aside, I'm even happier when close friends say that if they hadn't have known I had Parkinson's they would never have guessed. Wonderful - their words are truly like music to my ears.

For the first time in a very long time I am confident, look well, and am enjoying the summer (OK, well not today when it has rained cats and dogs from dawn til dusk....). I try and get to the gym 3 times a week (more like once or twice at the moment). Its a form of exercise I'm really getting in to, and having started off saying that I was only interested in doing cardio-vascular work, I'm now getting more in to the weights training. My shoulder no longer gives me grief, and I can even manage to hop out of bed in the mornings with a twinkle in my eye, a spring in my step and feeling almost as fresh as a daisy, rather than go through 15 minutes of agony whilst I coax my muscles back in to life. Stress is no longer an issue and I feel strong enough mentally to not having to worry as much about the future.

And why this turn-around? Its not because I have been miraculously cured - for Parkinson's there isn't one - yet. Its because I feel satisfied that the drugs combo that I am on is giving me the best quality of life I can get at this moment in time in terms of the Life/Parkie levodopa balance. I saw my consultant just before we went to Dorset and he is happy - he doesn't need to see me now for a whole year. A whole year - again, music to my ears - I'm a free woman! That is, until last week when my ever constant companion tapped me on the shoulder, whispered "Boo" in my ear and gave me the fright of my life.

We were back at the Dorset coast, same set of friends, different campsite - Durdle Door this time. Tim had a name change and became Tom for the week - same husband, but that's what this particular set of friends call him. We had had a wonderful week and my children looked more like ferral children for having been living in the great out doors. It was Elise's second week of camping with the exception of 24 hours home, as she had been away at a Guides camp in south Wales. We had with us for the week a friend of Elise's from school, she was a wonderful guest and can come camping with us any time. All nine children had got on very well, we had hardly seen them as they only returned from their day's roaming the camp site for food, drink and sleep. We were coming to the end of our stay - with our friends plus their kiddies having packed up and gone home, back to their respective lives, leaving us on our own until the Sunday. Tim had decided to go in to Dorchester for a change of scene as the weather wasn't really conducive for the long trek down to the beach. On the way back in to the camp site, Tim parked so that I could nip in to the camp shop to get a bag of ice, as our nice new three way fridge had given up before we even had a chance to use it in anger. And that was when it happened. One second, I was walking towards the shop, the next I saw the ground coming up at me, almost in a dream like sequence. I heard someone screaming - and then realised that the screaming was coming from me..... And I would like to add at this point that I am not a screamer - except in my sleep that is! I had fallen over on the road outside the shop, in full view of a lot of people, almost as if I had been a pin in a bowling alley. The inbuilt motor reflex of putting my arms out to break my fall had failed, and I had landed smack on to my face. There was blood pouring from my nose and on to my white top..... I was panicking that I had lost my two front teeth, and couldn't see where I was for the tears. In short, I was being a total Drama Queen about the whole thing. It seemed to me ages before Tim got out of the car and bundled me back in - everything was in slow motion. His first reaction was to go back to Dorchester, back to the hospital where I had spent 5 days exactly a year ago, but I managed to persuade him I was OK. We are both well aware of what to look out for with head injuries - we had been there when Antonia was ko'd at her 5th birthday party a couple of years ago.


Instead, I was taken to the ladies loo's so that I could get myself cleaned up and to calm down. I was in a state of complete and utter shock, it was my worst fear come true. I was always falling over as a child, constantly sporting scabby knees but on reaching my teens had grown out of it. It was the first time in all those years that I had fallen over - OK I've had a few stumbles now and then, but nothing like this. At this point I would like to say a huge thank you to the very kind lady who was in the loos with her grandchildren, and who came to my rescue. Elise was rather at a loss what to do with her hysterical mother and was probably somewhat shocked herself, whilst Elise's friend started ministering to my cuts and grazes. Antonia, bless her, was doing her very best to cheer me up by patting and stroking my back. I was terrified I had lost some teeth, but on close inspection they had survived intact! A relief, as I really wasn't relishing the prospect of my dear husband seranading me with "All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth...." My nose, on the other hand, didn't seem to be broken but did have a rather nasty graze on it, as did my chin and both knees. My hands, meanwhile, got off lightly - the traitors - along with my brain, what there is left of it. The following day I went back to the scene of the accident and looked for evidence of anything that might have tripped me up, but didn't find anything. To say I am feeling somewhat of a fool is an understatement. And to cap it all my favourite pair of sunglasses were ruined beyond repair!


So, its now a week on. I had originally planned to stay a second week at Durdle Door on my own with Elise and Antonia whilst Tim went back to work, but decided against it. I have lost my confidence a bit since the fall, and having looked at the weather that the Dorset coast has had yesterday, I think we could have possibly lost the tent in to the bargain! Added to that, Elise was keen to get home, she had had enough of camping and wanted to sleep in her own bed for a change. I know precisely where she was coming from. After my rather spectacular fall, I had been struggling to get moving in the mornings. My scars and scabs have healed and almost disappeared apart from one scab on my chin, and a rather nasty infection on my right knee which so far has resisted antibiotics. I went back to the doctors today and am now on a different course of penicillin. I really do hope these ones do the trick, as I know that Tim is concerned about MRSA. (At this point I need to add that on my first trip to the Doctors at the start of the week, I saw a locum who remarked on my rather interesting combination of drugs - he said he would never have realised I had Parkinson's - yay!)

So, having always been rather irritated by Drama Queens, I can now say that this Drama Queen is off back to bed, hopefully for some sleep which has been elusive since we got back home.

"Jim'll Fix It" (Part II)

For the third time this year, I find myself dedicating a blog, this time to someone I barely knew but for whom I had tremendous respect - known on PD Junction as "Pauli", of which he was a much loved and well-respected member. Even though I never had the opportunity to meet Paul in person, we had chatted a few times on-line and he very generously sponsored the 86 walk I did along the Kennet & Avon Canal during the Easter Holidays as well as providing me with some extremely sound advice. His wit and wisdom are missed by all on PDJ and our thoughts are with his family.


On reflection, I think the title of this post should be "Dawn Fixed It for us" - for reasons which will become obvious.

At last, the day had finally arrived when the Collinge family were going on an adventure which had been postponed from last September. Not only that I was to realise a dream that I had been harbouring since I was a child. It came about as a result of being in the right place at the right time last July - something which doesn't usually happen to me. Normally I'm either in the wrong place at the wrong time, in the wrong place at the right time, or the right place at the wrong time. (Elise will be more than happy to testify when I tried my best to drop her off at a birthday party 24 hours too early a couple of years ago!)

It had all come about when I had the good fortune to meet Dawn, who at the time was visiting her relatives who lived in my village. She had taken her children to the village hall playing field to run off steam before they went home. During our conversation I told her about living with Parkinson's Disease, and how my husband in particular and our children had struggled at times to come to terms with the "life" sentence that had been handed down to our family unit through no fault of our own. At this point she mentioned that she works for a charity called "Fly2Help" where she and her colleague arrange a day to remember for children and their parents/carers who had similar experiences to ours, for a multitude of reasons. The aim of the charity is to provide a day like no other so as to promote a sense of well being and confidence whilst encouraging children to think outside the box. Its done by arranging with private owners of light aircraft or helicopters who are willing to volunteer to take the family out on a trip where they, quite literally, reach for the skies and see a world which they know from a totally different angle so leaving their troubles, quite literally, behind.

A date was set for a few months later for a helicopter ride and lunch courtesy of Fly2Help, shortly after the start of the new term in September. However, on hearing that I had been ill during the summer holidays, where I had walked the precarious tightrope between this world and the next, Dawn decided  to postpone the outing to Spring/Summer 2011. The illness had quite literally knocked the stuffing out of me, my weight had gone down to just below 8st, and it took me 5 to 6 months to properly recouperate.  To say I was disappointed at having to postpone the day is an understatement, but thankfully Tim and the girls weren't, as they were blissfully unaware of the surprise that had been organised for them.

So, at last, the day arrived - a year late, but very definitely well worth the wait. Dawn had phoned me the previous evening to confirm that the weather reports looked favourable, and that she also arranged for us to be taken out for a spin in a vintage Austin Healy. Having told Tim a few weeks before about the surprise (so that he could take a day off) I finally spilt the beans to the girls after Dawn's phone call, during a conversation where I asked Elise and Antonia what they would like to do the next day. Back came the usual responses - swimming, a walk in the woods, picnic lunch at the village hall playing field and so on. I started to suggest more "outlandish" ideas, and eventually told them what was in store. They were surprisingly subdued, but I think they thought I was joking to start with. Antonia, bless her, on being asked where she would like to go to in the helicopter, suggested Stockholm!

On our arrival at the airfield where the charity has its base (we were late - as usual) we met Dawn and her colleague Jonathan. Whilst filling out the required paperwork and listening to a safety briefing about the "Do's and Dont's", the owner of the Austin Healy arrived - and without further ado Dawn, Jonathan, Ian (the photographer) and I waved Tim and the girls off. Before too long though disaster struck as the car had got, quite literally, stuck on a speed ramp, with the result that the exhaust had come off bringing that part of the day to an abrupt end!

The helicopter arrived shortly after this, piloted by John and David. In a whirlwind of activity, we were soon strapped in, headphones on and take off cleared by the control tower. Up, up and away we went, waving frantically to Dawn, Jonathan, Ian and John who were left earthbound, and before too long the fields and lakes of the surrounding area looked more like pieces of patchwork, interspersed with villages looking like toy towns. Antonia, true to form, was busy chattering and giggling at how strange it all looked, whilst Elise and Tim took some really fantastic pictures for us to remember our flight. Travelling at 120 mhp (how fast) David flew us to familiar territory and pretty soon we were hovering over our house, where my poor ancient and battered car (aka "Harry") looked more like a forgotten remnant from Antonia's toy car collection, abandoned and left outside rather than put back in the box with the others. Over Antonia's school we flew, and onwards to the secondary school that Elise will be starting at in a few weeks time. It all looked so familiar, yet so strange, as we looked out at tiny people going about their daily lives whilst we flew over without a care in the world.

Back over the lakes and fields we flew, looking down at the marquees and staging erected, ready to receive the thousands due that weekend at the Womad festival (World of Music and Dance). Back to the airfield and before too long we were landing - back to reality, where the tiny world we had glimpsed at from the skies returned to normal, and we were back on terra firma, full of smiles and excitement, with a tinge of sorrow that the hour we had in the skies above had come to an end.

The day wasn't over though, and after a hearty lunch we were taken up to the control tower, from where we waved a sad farewell to John and David, whilst Antonia donned earphones ready to talk to other pilots who were calling in (and yes, given half a chance, she would have as well!). All too soon the day was coming to an end after we visited the airfield fire station and we were reluctantly saying goodbye to Dawn, Jonathan and Ian, whilst the girls were given one last surprise - a goody bag full of treats. Reluctantly we made our way back home, not wanting such a wonderful day to end whilst armed with stories to tell and photographs to show. It was, truly, a day that will live on forever in our memories.

The Collinge family would like to take this opportunity to thank Fly 2 Help and in particular Dawn, Jonathan and Ian, for arranging such a magical day for us. A huge thank you goes to the owner of the Austin Healy - with an apology from me as I have forgotten your name, sorry! We hope you got home in one piece.

And last, but by no means least, a tremendous thank you to John and David - without whom the day would not have happened! It was and will always be, a day like no other.

"Jim'll Fix It" (Part 1)

This is a tale of two halves, the first half having its roots in my childhood, so it feels sensible to me that I start at that point, way back to when I would have been about 8 or 9. Being the early 1970's, Bell Bottom trousers and mini skirts were all the rage, as were hotpants, and platform shoes. In the first half of the decade there had been opposition to the Vietnam War, whilst the music scene saw the rise of bands such as Fleetwood Mac, The Eagles and The Doobie Brothers (and yes, I am still a fan). The Beetles had split up, with Paul McCartney relaunching his music career with Wings, whilst John Lennon was singing songs about peace and love with Yoko Ono. The early part of the 1970's also saw the untimely deaths of Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison and Janis Joplin.

My Dad, being an officer in the Army Air Corps at the time, had been asked to fly the then reigning Miss UK to a spectacular event taking place at Roundhay Park in Leeds, landing his helicopter in the centre of the showground in front of thousands of people. How on earth he wrangled that one, I really don't know, but obviously it was an opportunity he was not going to miss out on. 

So that we could go watch this momentous event, we had been invited to stay with our ex-neighbours from our Netheravon days who had moved to Leeds. For me, the journey “up North” was very exciting – to my knowledge we had never travelled further than the “Watford Gap” - whatever that was! When we lived “next-door-but-one” to them in Netheravon Jim and my Dad were based at Netheravon airfield, and this period in our lives saw the start of a good friendship between the two men which was to last until the day my father died in 2002. As a child I adored Jimmy, and to be honest I still do! Whenever the two returned from exercise it was not unusual for me to run up to Jimmy, with the question “Did you miss me?”. Jimmy's wife, Joan, has never once failed to remember my birthday, and as usual, the card which arrived from them this year was addressed to “Little Jo”. This had been preceeded a few weeks previously by a package from Joan containing some old black and white photo's of the day at Roundhay Park.

Joan was a constant in our lives during those Netheravon days, and without batting an eye-lid took in my brother and me when my big sister suffered a serious skull fracture after falling off her bike. Needless to say it was the days before cycle helmets. What did two more children matter when she had successfully raised 5 of her own? We pretty much spent every spare minute we had in each other's houses and gardens anyway, playing games such as “Cow Boys and Indians” with the two youngest children, Richard and Andrew, who were about the same age as us.

Going back to the show at Leeds, what Jim and my Dad had both failed to mention to their respective wives was that Jim had “fixed it for himself” to meet and greet said Miss UK when she landed in my Dads helicopter at the showground, and escort her to her appointed place in the events. So, you can imagine Joan's surprise when Jim, having muttered to Joan that he “wouldn't be long” was next spotted striding towards where my Dad had landed the helicopter. It was, truly, a momentous occasion in the lives of the two families, one which has never been forgotten!

It was about this time that I started to hanker after a trip in a helicopter, preferably with my Dad at the controls. But the nearest I ever got to even sit in one was when I fought my way through quite a few boys so as to manage a brief look at one which was on display at an Army Air Corps event somewhere. Needless to say there was quite a bit of jostling going on, but I remember being completely bedazzled by all the different dials and switches.

So, this ambition of mine has lain dormant all these years. And then, at last it surfaced 40 years later, when purely by chance and "being in the right place at the right time" I met Dawn from the charity "Fly2Help". I was to finally realise my childhood dream..........

Destiny's child

This blog was originally written about three weeks ago, but since then events overtook its publication. The historical facts I have written about here are, the best of my knowledge, correct. But I would like to point out that I am no historian, and the facts have been pulled reluctantly from my memory and dusted down.



Last night I dreamt I was Jewish. Not only was I Jewish, I was also living and working in Poland in the late 1930’s at the time when Hitler’s anti-semitism movement was really gathering pace. To be honest with you, it was bloody with innocent victims indiscriminately picked out and slain in the streets, their only crime being born Jewish. In my dream I was absolutely petrified as I was herded in to a cattle wagon, separated from my husband and young children, and shipped off to some God-foresaken destination only to be slaughtered like an animal on arrival. In my dream I was there, I could smell the fear of my fellow travellers. I not only saw their suffering, I shared it. When I woke up, I can’t begin to tell you how relieved I was to find I was Jo, living in the UK, in the early part of the 21^st Century.

Why did I have such a dream? I have absolutely no idea. Yes, I have read Anne Frank and I’m sure I read it as a teenager, although I cannot be 100% certain about that. But I have read it recently, finishing it a couple of months ago. Anne was indeed a most courageous young lady, a heroin of her time. And as time went by, she seemed to know what her fate was going to be. It wasn’t of her choosing and given a choice she would have been free, on her way to becoming a famous author/journalist as life had originally intended for her. It is ironic how she achieved her ambition, albeit posthumously. It is due to Anne, and others like her, that we can understand how terrible it must have been for the Frank family and their co-dwellers, having to live cheek by jowl, keeping absolute silence, hardly daring to breath in case of being found. Somehow they managed to survive, in spite of eating scraps and mouldy potatoes as food became more and more scarce. It is so sad that they nearly made it. Victory and release from their self-imposed prison was a matter of months away. For them, there was no industrialist giant such as Schindler to give them shelter, a sanctuary, a possibility of escape. But at least they had help – and those who helped them risked just as much as Schindler did.

So why did Hitler do it? Why did he hate a race so much that he not only wanted to punish it, he wanted to eradicate it. Why, when as far as I am aware, he was part Jewish himself? Why was he obsessed with his Aryan ideal becoming the master race? What would have happened had he succeeded in his ambition to wipe the Jewish race off the planet? Would his creation then have turned on him in the end, destroying their creator? I think so – but I’m sure there are people out there who would disagree with me. Why did he do what he did to a race that contributed so much to the economy of Europe at that time? The Jews were successful in every walk of life. They were Doctors, Dentists, Lawyers, Architects, Accountants, Musicians, Teachers, even Butchers, Bakers and Greengrocers. Was it that he did not have the capacity to achieve what his countrymen did that made him turn on them – his history, the very stuff his genetic makeup embodied – that made him want to destroy so many? Someone told me recently that Hitler had Parkinson’s. I don’t know íf this is true or not, and maybe as a result of his inability to control his own body he became obsessed with what he felt should have been rightly his.

And in spite of all that was witnessed when World War II finished, why have others gone on to do what Hitler did - turning on fellow mankind in a bid to eradicate them because of their religious beliefs?


Had I gone on to study History at University and fulfil what at one time seemed to be my destiny to teach the subject, as my Aunt had before me, I would have then been able to answer my own questions. Would I have been as successful a teacher as she was? I feel it necessary to explain at this point that as a child I was sent to a Catholic Boarding school courtesy of Her Majesty's Armed Forces. My Aunt at the time, having entered the Convent as a Novice about 4 years after my mother had left school, was living and teaching at the sister Convent in Surrey, hence why I was sent to Dorset. But in spite of the best efforts by my parents to avoid the embarrassment of Helen ending up at the same school as me, fate laid its cards out and and she ended up as one of my teachers. She was gifted at teaching and she made the subject come alive even to the point of embarrassing me with stories of my mother as a child, much to the delight of my classmates, upon which I used to open my desk lid and try to hide under it. It was undoubtedly my most favourite subject at school though, and it goes without saying she was my favourite teacher in spite of everything. (I would like to add at this point that although I wanted to teach, I had no intention whatsoever of ever becoming a Nun!)

But instead of treading a path similar to hers I chose to turn my back on my destiny and I chose to leave school at 16, to do a year’s not so hard study at college to become a Secretary. Having met and married my husband I ended up working in banking for 23 years and studied in my spare time for a degree with the Open University. I also managed to make the precarious leap from Secretary to Analyst - which at that time seemed practically impossible due to the old fashioned way in which the male-dominated Bank was run at the time. But made it I did, and without wishing to sound immodest, I was damn good at what I did - until the Parkinson's struck that is.

So, here I am, fulfilling my destiny - alive (just about!), married, two children, a degree with the Open University together with a smattering of O and A levels, a handful of other qualifications relating to my profession, and 23 years loyal service to the bank with the Black Horse and a Scottish Widow. I had for a number of years been in a role I found fulfilling and that I was good at. My intention was always to retire at 50, which I managed to achieve two years early, but not for the reasons I envisaged. I always thought that when I retired I would be at that lovely stage in my life when my children are spreading their wings and being income independant would abandon the parental nest, leaving Tim and I to enjoy our well-earned retirement in peace and financial security, travelling the world and enjoying our Grand-Kids before infirmity struck us down in our old age. Instead though, fate has dealt us a curved ball, with infirmity striking before I had a chance to finish enjoying what should be my prime of life. Instead I am fighting a loosing battle against my mate Parkie (in spite of rigorous sessions at the gym) and coping with a brain at times befuddled as if drunk on life itself. On top of that is the prospect of one day in the future being dependant on my family and/or strangers for assistance in the fulfilment of my everyday basic needs. Horror of horrors - not if I have anything to do with it!

For the first time since leaving college aged 17, I am out of work, nothing doing apart from the odd bit of gardening, earning no money, stony broke but at least a roof over my head which is all paid for and which belongs solely to me and Tim. I can't even afford to replace my car, which is slowly falling to bits - like its owner! The day I retired I put my life plan through the shredder then on to the compost heap at the bottom of my garden, slowly being mulched away to become organic matter for my vegetable patch. Am I bored? Not yet, and I hope never to be. I have to take each day as it comes though, each morning on waking I fight a battle to gain control of my motor and non-motor functions, from the moment I fall out of bed and shuffle like an old lady to the bathroom to carry out my morning ablutions, to the moment I fall in to bed at day end, dog tired. Yet as I drift off into sleep, it is in the certain knowledge that as I hand over control of my mind and my body to my mate Parkie I face yet another night of either sleepless restlessness as tonight, or a night of nightmares and hallucinations, at times even thrashing about so much I inadvertently injure Tim. I seem to recallbeing told the night before last that Yes, there was a white cat sat on top of our bedroom door, and last night Tim telling me to jolly well shut up and to go back back to sleep! He was somewhat fed up, and I can't say I blame him, so am I!

I once heard Bryn Williams describe Parkinson's as being like having one's body slowly encased in concrete. A horrible prospect, but unfortunately true if Parkinson's isn't stopped in it's tracks and kicked in to touch - back into its box where it belongs!

Last Thursday

Last Thursday was, for many of us, a day like no other. Together with old friends and work colleagues, we paid our last respects to Professor Tony Atkinson. Tim and I had both worked for Tony, myself only a year, Tim – quite a few more than that. We knew it was going to be a well attended affair, but hadn't quite prepared ourselves for just how many people were there. On the way over, Tim and I tried to predict who we hoped would be there, and who maybe wouldn't. During the time that Tim worked for Tony he said that he didn't ever once recall Tony loosing his temper.

Tony had a great many friends and acquintances, and during the service as various individuals who knew him well stood up and spoke about Tony I began to realise just how little I knew – for example I didn't know he was a Queen fan. In a bizarre way the eulogies are a part of any funeral service I enjoy, especially if that someone is as colourful a character as Tony was. To say that he let the grass grow under his feet would definitely do him an injustice – he was a true trail blazer.

For many of us, it was a reunion quite unlike no other – old friendships from a good 20+ years ago renewed, gaps in our knowledge filled (for me this was particularly true and I have Mike H to thank for that one), quite a few faces forgotten dragged out of reluctant memory banks. I don't recall when we all started drifting apart, it seemed to happen gradually over the years as we left to pursue new avenues and achieve our destinies – so it was good to spend those few hours together again and recapture the closeness and friendships.

Typical of the team Tony had 25 years ago, we were the last ones standing whilst others around us left and went back to their own lives. There was a kind of reluctance to finish what had been a perfect day and hasty arrangements were made to adjourn to the Wyndham Arms in Salisbury. Tim and I declined – we needed to get home for Antonia (Elise was staying at a friends overnight), and I was beginning to feel the usual fatigue begin to set in. Basically, I needed my bed!

So, who was there that we hadn't seen in a few too many years? Roger H, Rigger, Ray, Dave S, Bob and Jean, Dave C, Roy, Paul, Nigel, Mike H, Sue, Zain, Alex, Helen, Melanie, Meg – these are just a few out of the so many, too many to mention! There were lots of hugs, lots of laughter, and a few tears. There were stories of great success, bought about by words of wisdom and encouragement from Tony. I think to me the one who made the greatest impact was Alex – if my memory is correct when we worked together Alex was a laboratory assistant, but on encouragement from Tony she went to University, got her degree closely followed by her PhD. As a result of that encouragement, Alex has had quite frankly an amazing career and has travelled the world many times over. For us it was especially good to catch up with Dave C – we haven't seen him since before Antonia was born, he was our Best Man when Tim and I married over 25 years ago.

A few people I recall from those days who were not there, for whatever reason that was – Sarah, Karen, Eric, Steve, Iqbail and a few others whose names I have forgotten!

To quote an e-mail received yesterday from Zain with which I whole heartedly agree:

"It's a strange thing to say but I actually enjoyed (!) the day and the fact that it was such a great send off for a truely lovely guy. I can only guess that Tony would have been hugely chuffed to know how much of an impact he had made on so many of us."