I don’t really watch television. After being married to a man for many years who would turn the TV on the minute he got up, and it would remain on until after I went to bed, I’m afraid TV kind of lost its appeal. Even after Andrew died, my son took over responsibility for the remote control, and on the rare occasion there was something on I wanted to see, I rarely got a look in.
I’ve always been the sort of person who turns on the TV for their programme and turns it off again after. The advent of watching on demand was warmly welcomed by me, I rarely seem to remember to switch on at the actual broadcast time.
I think I’ve only watched two television series so far this year. I rewatched Channel 4’s It’s a Sin, which I have to say was absolutely superb. Such poignant storyline, beautifully acted. The 80s score completely made it. The fact that I wanted to rewatch it speaks volumes.
The other series I watched was Call the Midwife, which to be honest I’ve followed since the beginning. I may not have seen every single episode of the many series, but I have seen enough of each series to know who’s who and what’s going on. For that reason, I would say Call the Midwife is my favourite viewing. It’s probably the only thing on TV I make a point of actually watching weekly. It’s had some amazing characters and subject matter over the years, and I love the nostalgia.
Being picked to test a toy is one thing, being chosen to test a high quality, top end toy is something else. So many thanks to Ann Summers for this opportunity. The Touch Sense range definitely look the part, first impressions were amazing! The packaging is very stylish and appealing.
Opening the box, the clit stim was actually larger than I expected, not that it’s a problem. It has a silky soft sensual silicone surface in a pretty dusky rose colour. Alongside the vibe itself were a magnetic usb charging cable, instruction manual and a suedette storage pouch.
After a full charge I began to experiment with the clit stim. I will admit that it took me a moment to realise that once switched on it won’t function unless it’s in contact with something. Once that twigged I tested the ten different settings against my hand. There’s lots to choose from.
As vibrating toys go, this one is really pleasing. The swipe control to increase or decrease the intensity is positioned just right and very easy to use. It is really easy to navigate the controls when in position, and of course moving the clit stim away from the body stops it instantly as well.
As someone who is not too fond of very buzzy vibrators, this was a pleasant surprise. It seemed different somehow and I’m guessing that’s the floating motor technology. It is incredibly quiet to use, and obviously silent as your move it away from the body, so no need to turn it off immediately while still in position, it can be turned off after.
I can imagine this being excellent for couple play as well as solo, with an element of edging and teasing using the touch sense feature.
I certainly found the testing experience very enjoyable, giving a very intense and sustained result.
I think it’s a good sign that I found myself trying to identify any negatives of the clit stim and all I could come up with was the instruction leaflet was a bit generic. More information about charging time, whether the vibe is waterproof (it says check the box – it is!) and maybe making it clearer that it will only vibrate when pressure is applied.
In all, a lovely toy. It looks and feels the part of the high end product it is. Thanks again AS.
This is a difficult one for me. My parents had two boys before I was born. The youngest of my brothers died within hours of his birth. My mother always told me that she was never given any explanation as to the cause of his death. Only that had he have survived he’d have been severely mentally and physically disabled, and that babies like him would normally abort naturally long before their due date.
When I found out at a much later date that there were theories as to his death spread by my older brother, frankly I was shocked. But then my older brother is both deluded and a liar, so I took those rumours with a pinch of salt. My truth is this; I will never know.
I was often told as a child that I would not have been born if my brother Michael had survived. I grew up with a sense of guilt because of that. And I think it’s fair to say that it’s possible to grieve for someone you never met because I carried a sadness with me, I guess I still do, for the brother I never had the chance to know.
I have no contact with my older brother. Which is sad, but it is as it is. Firstly, I don’t hate him, I never did, in fact deep down I still care about him, but preserving my own sanity is my priority. He showed his true colours when our Dad was in hospital prior to his death. He couldn’t accept Dad was only receiving palliative care, but he had sustained a catastrophic brain injury. If he had survived we’d been told he wouldn’t be able to walk or talk. And my brother decided we could care for him between us. I told him not to include me in his plans. I can barely look after myself, let alone someone with a brain injury.
He refused to accept that I was Dad’s attorney and not him. He told the medical team that I was too mental to undertake the role and that they should take instruction from him. They ignored him and told me what he was up to. Also at this time, my brother tried to coerce me into a plan to get Dad’s will changed to his favour. Claiming that all he’s ever done is protect me. Which hit hard as he was the first abusive male in my childhood. It was rapidly coming back to me just why I’ve spent most of my adult life avoiding him.
The day our Dad died my brother started helping himself to the contents of his sheds. When I said he needed to wait until probate he casually waved a WW2 bayonet at me and asked what I planned to do about it.
The first week after Dad died my brother spammed me with 2000+ messages, many abusive. He also sent 1500+ messages to my teenage son. Including one particular gem that said along the lines of, “I bet you were so pleased to go into care to get away from your mother!”
My brother kicked off at the funeral directors. He kicked off at the solicitor I employed to execute the will. He told my solicitor I had breast cancer (I didn’t). He also started a rumour that I’d been disqualified from driving due to driving my car the wrong way up the motorway, none of which was true. His pièce de résistance was pulling the mental card again, claiming he was planning to make a legal challenge to my capacity to execute the will. It forced the solicitor to arrange a capacity test for me with a private doctor so they could counter any legal challenge. The doctor apologised to me, stating, “I have no idea why your capacity is in doubt. I’m so sorry I’ve have to put you through this.”
My brother sat sneering at me as I did a reading at Dad’s funeral. When I tried to reach out to him after, he had a go at me. My friend, and the funeral director walked me off in one direction, while his daughter and mate walked him off in the other.
The last contact I had with him was when he borrowed somebody else’s phone to verbally abuse me some more. I already had his number and messenger blocked. It was at the time I sold Dad’s bungalow. I hung up on him after a spell of listening to the same old poison. He is toxic and I refuse to put myself through that. While it makes me sad that my second closest living relative is estranged, I will not tolerate his lies and gaslighting. He’s a very messed up and bitter man. I wish him no malice, I just have no time or energy for him anymore.
I have an incredible best friend! We’ve known each other around 15 years and we met through the dead husbands club (AKA WAY Widowed and Young) *other deceased spouse options may apply. WAY is a wonderful charity and I highly recommend them to anyone bereaved of a partner at a young age.
We have had so many adventures together, and Penny is one of the few people I am comfortable sharing a hotel room with. It was on one of our many trips away that we went to a hotel reception and announced we had a booking in the name of Barlow and Benfield. Or was it Benfield and Barlow? Either way we laughed and decided we sounded like a detective agency. And consequently, Penny has been known as Agent Barlow since. Except for the day when she was, for a limited time, Best Lady.
Over that 15 year period we have become increasingly close. I still can’t get my head around how awesome our friendship is, but if it wasn’t for our husbands dying way too young, we would never have met. Just shows I guess good things can come out of bad.
Agent Barlow is one of the few people who accepts my bipolar disorder and seems to have a knack of knowing how to handle my moods. She’s never afraid to kick my ass if I need it, but mostly she just looks out for me. She seems to be able to read me like no one else. She didn’t seem fazed by visiting me on a psychiatric ward, and that was long before we were as close as we are now.
We’ve watched each other’s kids grow up and blossom. We’ve clung to each other as ambulances flash by. PTSD United! We’ve been through all sorts, and when I came to getting married again, there was no one else I could imagine having by my side. Although I have other friends, I knew categorically that Agent Barlow would be the one could keep me grounded on the big day. And frankly, I couldn’t think of anyone nicer to share it with.
I’m really looking forward to celebrating Penny’s big birthday later this year. And hopefully spending some time with her and seeing the sights in her new location. But most importantly I’m happy she is happy there and part of a lovely community.
I think I’ve reached a point in the writing challenge where it’s starting to be harder to commit the time and trawl my poor dull brain for ideas. So as I only wrote about what makes me happy the other day, I’m going to aim to be brief now. If I can. I realise being brief is a novelty for me. Never use a single word when I can use several. Anyhow, here’s some thoughts.
Happiness is an emotional response like any other, so it amuses me that so many of us hope for it, for ourselves, our loved ones, our children. While joy and gratitude tend to be less dependent upon our circumstances, happiness is temporary. It is often fleeting. If you find it, grab it with both hands. Do whatever it takes to foster its longevity. Do everything in your power to spread it around and share it with others wherever possible.
However, if it passes from you, don’t allow that to destroy you. Keep your joy and gratitude tank topped up, and allow happiness to do its thing. It’s just an emotion. A feeling. They’re fickle and ridiculously untrustworthy.
As an added piece of advice (feel free to ignore); work on your emotional regulation. Excellent emotional literacy will set you in much better stead to face all kinds of feelings, not just the positive ones. Because let’s face it; life isn’t all roses.
When Martin and I were first messaging each other, before our earliest meeting even, one of the things we did was exchange song lyrics. Although no audible music was involved, I still associate Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing with the start of our relationship. Apparently, long before I met him, posting lyrics to his Facebook timeline for friends to guess was something he did. I guess that’s the DJ in him.
As a small child I used to ride my tricycle round and round our tiny backyard in a small circle, lalala-ing to the tune of Jean Michel Jarre’s Popcorn. Not weird at all. No one in my family knew that tune or what it was called, but at some point I must have heard it and it permeated my being. It was known in our house as Julie’s Little Tune for years until it’s true identity was established.
At primary school I was one of the few who enjoyed hymn practice. Not because hymns particularly did it for me, but because I loved to sing. It lifted me. My headteacher recognised I had a good voice and used to single me out to sing solo in front of the upper school and teachers. I loved that feeling. I wasn’t an especially popular child, but people seemed to enjoy my singing. I joined my first choir there and took part in a local musical production. I was buzzing.
I was less involved in choirs and concerts as a teen, yet music felt like my lifeline at times. I found expression through Freddie, Prince, Boy George, Jimmy Somerville, Erasure and others. I was undeniably drawn to the gay music scene of the time. This said less about my sexuality, although I already had an inkling I was bi, and more about not fitting in. My mental health was extremely erratic and music healed me.
My involvement in the church over 30 odd years gave me untold opportunities to be involved in music, and in particular, singing again. I sang BV with the music group for over 20 of those years. At times when the team was thin on the ground I occasionally led worship, although it wasn’t a role I was really confident in, or suited to. I could just about pull it off when hypomanic. I did however from time to time sing something solo, either to teach a new song to the congregation or as part of a Christmas or Easter concert. I had the amazing opportunity to sing O Holy Night to a packed carol service. It was a goosebumps moment. As I finished singing there was a moment of silence. You could’ve heard a pin drop. Then the place erupted. It was, to this day, one of my proudest moments.
After my stay in psych hospital in 2014 I was drawn to singing as a part of my recovery. I was put in contact with an organisation called Tempo in the Community. They took singing workshops initially to psych wards, but subsequently to community venues. I went as an attendee, but in time as my mental health improved I undertook their training. I would co-facilitate workshops in a small team. It was amazing to see people responding. I was hopeful it was something I could be involved in long term, but sadly Tempo ceased to operate.
Alongside Tempo, for my own wellbeing, I had joined Fusion Choir. I had the most wonderful of times with them. I learned so many songs and we performed in many concerts. I also made some amazing friends. Our tenors section had a social life like no other section!
I again had the opportunity to sing O Holy Night in one of the Christmas Concerts. It was an incredibly spiritual moment. I had my dear Dad and my son in the audience and I’m informed they couldn’t have looked any prouder.
As soon as I heard it, I knew the song I was going to walk down the aisle to. It was a brand new song to me, but it hit me like a brick! We opted to sing to each other at our wedding reception, which was a great opportunity to take some singing lessons. Looking at the video footage I’m more at ease singing into that mic than I probably was for most of the rest of the day. I just let go. And when Martin sang to me, I was moved to tears.
Because that’s what music can do. It changes brain chemistry. It brings hope and energy to people. It evokes all manner of emotions, and memories. It uplifts us, moves us, delights us. Makes us cry, smile, sing, dance, applaud. It truly is powerful.
When I met Martin he would make references to movies that went straight over my head. I thought I had quite a decent knowledge of films until I met him. He would say, “Surely you’ve seen this one?” Or, “You must’ve seen that one?”
“No,” I’d answer despairingly, knowing that meant I would be educated to the delights some time soon. I sat through about 72 hours of hobbits. That was ok. It’s at least ticked off the bucket list I didn’t know I had. But I did put my foot down after the first Harry Potter. It’s just not my thing, and reassuring me that they get better as the precocious kids get older wasn’t enough to convince me otherwise. I totally get this is an unpopular opinion, but I like what I like, and I know what I really don’t like.
I love musical films. Frozen, Mamma Mia, The Greatest Showman, Joseph, Les Miserables, A Star is Born. Or a good rom com like Pretty Woman or Four Weddings and a Funeral. I also like Christmas films but fairly strictly in December only. Of so many varied movies that I’ve enjoyed over many years, the one I always come back to is Love Actually. I watch it every December without fail and it usually marks the beginning of Christmas for me. I never, ever tire of it.
The wonderful sub-plots and how they all interplay still have to power to entertain me, even after so many viewings. The sheer volume and quality of acting talent in that one film is breathtaking. It has the ability to take you on an emotional rollercoaster. It doesn’t get old and it still gives me the warm fuzzies every Christmas. I know I’m a hopeless romantic, can’t help it, but maybe love actually really is all around.
I’m trying not to overthink this one, but I’m struggling to recall a time when I was single and happy! I started dating Andrew (my first husband) when I was 17 and we were married when I was 19. So I didn’t do the single, dating, experimenting, growing up that many people have the opportunity to do before settling down. With hindsight perhaps I’d have done things differently, but no regrets.
I was with Andrew until he died when I was 37. My grief, and the demands of lone-parenting a child with additional challenges meant that dating was 100% off my radar. So technically I was single (widowed) at that period in my life, but categorically not happy.
A few years on, after a mental breakdown and my son going into care, I was finally in a place where I was ready to dip my toe into into the waters of online dating. The promise was plenty of fish; shame most of them were piranhas! I did change my status back to single at this point, because I learned the hard way that widowed is a magnet for scammers, attracted by an imagined life insurance payout.
I have to confess that I was incredibly sexually frustrated, and also hypomanic, so I ended up meeting a string of men who only wanted sex. While it temporarily scratched an itch, I wanted a relationship. So I’m not going to claim I was happy then.
Eventually I met DT who was my friend with benefits for two years (on and off). I would pretty much have done anything for him. We had the most amazing of times and although the dynamic was primarily sexual, we did also have a strong bond. People who met us thought we were married, so comfortable were we in each other’s company. He believed I would never leave him, quote, “because the sex is too good!” But he would lie to me, gaslight me, and accuse me of being mental when I suspected him. Endless deception and chaos was more than I could bear. He was never going to commit to me. So I left him. For the third time. And although we kept in touch for a bit after that, I resolved to never return. I realised I deserved the whole package, not just sex and the occasional snatched times together.
Leaving DT hurt like hell. I had fallen for him big time but felt strong and empowered for walking away. I had a handful of casual but trusted sexual partners I’d met when swinging who I could call upon when I needed them. This period of my life is probably the closest I’ve ever been to single and happy. I started online dating again, which was mostly awful, but did ultimately result in my meeting Martin, who has become my lovely second husband.
So I’m currently married and happy. If I could, I would change some of our circumstances, but I wouldn’t change us. I’m content to be his smol wife and he my person. Forever.
What to say about my parents? Firstly, I guess, they are both deceased. My Mum died in 2013 after a 5 year struggle with Alzheimer’s disease. My lovely Dad passed after a fall in his back yard, in which he sustained a catastrophic head injury. That was August 2019. My life has never been the same since. The losses of my first husband and subsequently My Mum have somehow intricately weaved themselves into my being. I still miss them, but it’s a dull ache. The loss of my Dad is still like a knife to my heart every time I allow myself to feel the feels.
I have both parents’ ashes here. I’m undecided what to do with them. Maybe one day I’ll know. I have a bottle of my Dad’s aftershave on my shelf. It still smells like him. I only occasionally indulge myself because tears inevitably flow. The sense of smell can evoke such intense memories. I have some of my favourite pictures of him around the flat, interestingly none of My Mum. And that wasn’t planned. Probably just a reflection of my still actively wanting him here. As much as I loved My Mum she was difficult to live with, and growing up with her toxic brand of parenting gave me shedloads of problems and insecurities to deal with as an adult. Like me, she struggled with her mental health. Unlike me, she inflicted it on those closest to her, by not getting help. It wasn’t pleasant. Unlike my brother, I don’t believe she went out of her way to makes us suffer. I believe she was personality disordered. I think she was ill and lacked any clear parenting guidance. And as much as I put my Dad on a pedestal now, when I was kid, he was a workaholic, and I longed to have more time with him.
My Mum came from a sleepy Hampshire market town. The first child of the milkman. My grandad drove the milk lorry. When war broke out his work was considered essential and he joined the Home Guard. My grandmother, we discovered many, many years later was going nightly to the Isle of Wight working in the production of munitions. They had two children, Rosemary and Clifford.
After an abusive marriage, and a probably equally abusive long term relationship, My Mum, Rosemary, met my Dad, Dennis (aka Chris). She was a telephonist for the General Post Office (now BT) and he an engineer. He only ever worked in telecommunications, from being a telegram boy at 15, during his national service in the Signals Corp, and until his (early) retirement at 59. He shunned promotion and an offer of a career in the army, and although he led a team at BT, he had no desire to ever move into management. Like his own father, he was an engineer through and through. He was technically brilliant. His colleagues, at his funeral, described him as, “A legend in his own exchange” (telephone exchange). I’m told no one knew the running of Southampton telephone exchange like my Dad. When a new manager came in and threatened to move my Dad out to a different location, Dad’s line manager said they’d better send him too, because he couldn’t do his job without Chris.
My parents were married in December 1964. By 1965 my brother was born. And although I forget the date without looking it up, my other brother was born, who tragically didn’t survive, dying just hours after his birth. I arrived in 1971 and my Dad told me he was so glad I was a girl, because he didn’t think he could cope with another boy like my brother.
I fully believe now that my Dad was on the autistic spectrum. He was a loner, a perfectionist, and he really struggled with emotions, both his own and other people’s. Especially My Mum. Her emotions were big and loud and demanded attention. I don’t think my Dad had a clue how to handle her. I think the reason my Dad worked so much, as much as his desire for financial stability, was to avoid My Mum and her mental illness, and my brother and his behaviour. I just kind of got overlooked as a byproduct.
I feel like I became My Mum’s emotional crutch. I was leaned on far more than I should have been as a child. She was manipulative and used emotional blackmail to get what she wanted. She fully had me convinced as a child that no one loved me and cared about me like she did. Not even Dad. She had a way of vilifying him to persuade me to feel sorry for her.
When I started my therapy journey at 17, I began to realise how messed up my childhood had been, but it took many more years of counsellors and therapies before I was able to not be angry with her anymore.
My Mum loved to dance, play table tennis, travel and drive her car. As a child I never shared her enthusiasm for going for a ride in the car. I wanted to go somewhere, not just ride. Especially as I got carsick! Things improved when she traded in her daily ride for a Transit camper. I felt less sick being higher up. And there were adventures to be had.
One of the complaints My Mum made about Dad was that he was always at the pub. The reason for him spending so much time at the pub, was because he loved to play darts. He was not only technically good at it, he was brilliant at the maths. He knew shots out others wouldn’t have even dreamed of. He was always happy to chalk, unlike most of his peers. He told me had a mentor when he was young, who tried to persuade Dad to go professional. Dad turned it down in favour of a dependable career in telecommunications. My Dad gave up playing darts when My Mum’s dementia progressed and she couldn’t be left alone. He never played again after she died.
I particularly cherish the times Dad and I spent together after My Mum passed. The endless lunches, coffee dates and visits to mine. I had the privilege of advocating for my Dad at his various hospital appointments. And until the day of his fall, Dad was still the man who could fix or sort out almost anything for me. He was an absolute treasure.
Interestingly, a while back, I attended an online event with Jane Wallace of The Psychic Sisters as a total sceptic, purely because I was curious. I was trying not to even make eye contact, yet she singled me out from among many others all on a group Zoom call, and told me she had a message from my Dad. I’d never met her, or exchanged any information with her and she tells me all this stuff that was personal to me and Dad. I was overcome with emotion, the floodgates just opened. If I’m honest, I do sense him with me.
I miss both my parents in different ways. After losing a spouse I didn’t fully believe anything could hurt as bad. Yeah.
pinkpalaceangel 