Queen Elizabeth

Did you know that Henry VIII resided over three million citizens?

Let’s put that in perspective.

Queen Elizabeth II, who is our current and longest reigning queen, resides over at least sixty three million people…

…and she does it without chopping off anyone’s head.

Queen Elizabeth II, your majesty, you rock!!!

I’m suggesting that our queen is not only the best queen of our time but also the best queen in the whole history of the world ever.

Henry VIII sent some of his many wives to the executioner, he stole and ravished land from the church and anyone else he could, by legal or foul means. He ruled by terror and fear. Whereas, Queen Elizabeth has seen the royal family and us through periods of war and peace with grace and dignity at all times – even during the chaos which unfolded around beautiful Princess Diana’s death.

As a mother, like most of us, not all her children turned out the way she intended. I don’t think we can blame her for what happened there.

From my own cynical personal stand point I find myself forgiving parents…society has a huge part to play in how our children turn out. We choose to ignore the children of most famous people so I will give our Queen the same respect and concentrate on her achievements.

Queen Elizabeth II came to the throne in England, united kingdom in 1952 making her not only my queen but my parents’, my children’s and my grandchildren’s.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elizabeth_II

 After her coronation she has seen Britain continually grow but I doubt she even realises how much bigger her job is compared to those who came before her. Henry VIII’s Britain was very much smaller!!!

So, I’d like to raise a toast to my Queen.

Bravo to the most courageous, intelligent and patient sovereign ever to rule us.

When the time comes for Queen Elizabeth to rest-up and retire…she does so happy in the knowledge of a job well done.

Thank you.

 

 

TVT Mesh Ongoing Saga – journal entry

My backstory:

I had a TVT mesh implant in 2005, during an hysterectomy because of Endometriosis of the womb through NHS England, in United Kingdom. A TVT mesh implant is polypropylene.

Polypropylene is a plastic.

Since being implanted I’ve had continual pain in the area (the groin) and blood in my urine. I have undergone several surgerical investigations which have all stated that the mesh is exactly as it should be and isn’t the issue causing my pain.

I’ve become intermittently incontinent which means I have days when I can hold my bladder and others when I cannot. However, all days are extremely painful – hard to stand up painful.

My daughter came across an article from America (in 2018) which stated thousands of women had been arguing with the makers of the TVT mesh and asking for compensation for injuries. So, since then I’ve been trying to get an NHS doctor or a consultant to talk to me about this.

Could it be the TVT mesh causing my groin and bladder pain?

Initially, when I challenged my implanting surgeon, the response was helpful. After collecting evidence of continual pain and the many (double figures) investigations/consultations/operations for bladder pain over the last sixteen years and showing him, he agreed that there was a possibility of the mesh injury and referred me to a consultant to look into removal of the TVT and he wrote a letter to that end.

That letter was written in 2018, now over three years ago.

I’m still waiting for a referral to a mesh removal clinic.

My day is spent dying to go to the loo. It doesn’t matter if I’ve just been or not, I still urgently need to go. You’ve possibly had a similar experience if you’ve ever had a sexually transmitted disease. Now imagine the mental torture of decades of that feeling. That is the life of women and men who’ve been implanted with this mesh around their privates.

Things which used to work, like diazepam, no longer work to relax the bladder. There is no release from the pain. Light or dark, the pain seers into the hours, intruding and tainting every single day.

The British Health Secretary, Matt Hancock at the time, apologised in April 2020 and insisted that people like myself suffering with this polypropylene mesh inside us should be listened to and promised us the best care from now on.

The past year I’ve been spent hours on the phone attempting to get the mesh removal clinic and my GP surgery to correspond effectively. Trying to save mental anguish, I’ve been marking a fortnight’s appointment with myself, in my diary between calls and trying to forget it inbetween. Not easy, as my bladder is physically constantly reminding me.

And now, quite frankly, I feel like a cash cow.

My GP surgery requested me to sign forms for extra funding. Apparently being implanted with TVT mesh is outside of the NHS normal remit although I was implanted by the NHS. I signed the forms. My GP then insisted I attend a community gynae clinic where they could refer me to the mesh removal clinic as my GP ‘wasn’t allowed’ to do it directly.

I travel to a face-to-face appointment with a consultant who didn’t bother to face me for the five minutes I sat in his company.

Although apologising for dragging me to the clinic and for the ongoing problems I am having accessing help he couldn’t refer me. The reason? His forms weren’t working. I don’t know who he was. No paperwork – as it was organised by text message. I have requested paperwork, twice.

It was a further six weeks before a referral went off from them, although it is not received by the mesh removal clinic at the University College Hospital London as they refused it because it’s incorrectly filled in. I’ve complained, cried and got extremely depressed but that’s all there is.

I’ve no more news to tell. The referral lies somewhere in the London NHS ether. After all, they don’t get paid extra to do their jobs in the NHS do they? I will call them all again next week.

Tortured soul, Watford, UK.

Thank you for reading about this very personal issue I have to deal with. It helps me a great deal writing about it. To me, the medical profession are extremely ignorant and unhelpful in this matter having also refused me mental health help, leaving me this as my coping mechanism.

The Game – poem

Are you a nun or a whore?
Did life promise more?
Fantasy of black and white
Knights in shining armour, bright?
Keep me fed, warm and secure
Steel cuddles in the night

You need to get back in
Where do I begin?
The world will fall apart,
but then so is my art.
How can I concentrate in all this din?
Just start at the start
Yeah? Tell that to the wall
Where I crawl
Staring at the height

My dreams like Ninja Warriors
See all and glide
I jump over the obstacles and more
Why should I be motivated?
I dig deep, explore and tell you all
Waiting as the world ignores
And then I’m back on the floor
Wondering why I go back
And attack

So I’ll get my head in again
Bleed my heart out for random friends
Playing on the tubes of time
Looking for lyrics and rhythm
Desperate to connect
Pull myself from the depth
Instead I’m picking at the foundations
Scraping nails beneath
The peeled, red crimson relief

End.

By Samantha unextraordinarybint Harris

based in Watford, Hertfordshire, United Kingdom.

Fighting with my mental heath.

Make Your Child’s Next School Holiday or Half-Term a Memorable One

The British education system realizes the importance of time with family and allots kids multiple breaks throughout the school year. While kids may have plans to camp out in front of the TV on video games or spend time with their friends, you should make the time for family and create memories that’ll last a lifetime. 

Take a Cruise 

A cruise on the Thames River is an opportunity for your kid to learn, enjoy a day on the water, and witness the sites on the river, such as the Westminster Bridge.

Specifically, the Red Rover Hop-On/Off River Pass allows 24-hour access to the ship for you and your family. You could also take a multi-day cruise, such as a Mediterranean tour. 

Consider a Museum Tour 

Stop at various museums since the country is known for having some of the most awe-inspiring museums in the world.

For instance, the Natural History Museum in London houses dinosaur bones and marine fossils. The National Railway Museum York gives kids an opportunity to learn about locomotives, and it features an indoor and outdoor play area. 

Think About Multiple Outdoor Day Trips

With the pandemic continuing with no end in sight, you might prefer a trip where you can safely maintain social distance. In this case, consider taking multiple outdoor day trips. This idea also works well if you have to work throughout the break and can’t take time away to enjoy it with family. 

For example, the ZSL London Zoo offers views of magnificent creatures like zebras and pygmy hippos. Plus, you can easily keep your distance between yourself and other visitors. 

Have a Staycation 

Pick a hotel in a city that’s within an hour or two away from your home. Plan one or two activities to do and spend the rest of the time in the hotel room. Splash in the pool, read books, order food in, and enjoy one another’s company. 

Make the Most of Staying Home

If the pandemic has you leery of traveling or you don’t have the time, stay home and encourage the family to spend as much time together as possible. Get in the kitchen and make meals together from scratch. Spend an afternoon or two baking. You could have a board game day where you play games together all day. Learn a new hobby. If you aren’t sure of any that everyone would enjoy, search online for some inspiration. 

Preparing for a Road Trip

Before you head out on the open road, make sure you prepare for the getaway. You’ll not only make the trip better for you, but you’ll also make it more enjoyable for your kid. 

Bring along a high-tech device or two to keep your child occupied on the long ride. A kid’s smartwatch can be easily monitored via parental controls, and it has GPS capabilities and medical ID in the event of an emergency. 

Family Fun for a Few Days for Memories for Life

By spending a few days of their vacation with your kid, you’ll make memories that’ll last forever.  

Guest written by Joyce Wilson from teacherspark.org

photo credit https://unsplash.com/photos/xaG8oaZD7ss

Contentment Amid Chaos – Walk Along School Lane. Journal entry/differently abled article.

Today, 20th October 2021.

 

My fear and insecurity has been attacked by a severe bout of fear of missing out, forcing me into action. Last night I managed an hour at my local Pump House open mic night and still managed to attend this morning’s dentist appointment.

Another tooth must be removed but I’m out two days in a row. Celebrate the small things.

Not wanting to return back to my tower block flat and with the sun sitting low in my windscreen, I drive to the end of Falcon Road. My god it is a beautiful day today. It’s a moderate temperature, the sky is cloudy, there is an intermittent gusty wind and bright bursts of orange light greet me as I drive towards the location.

This Bridleway/public footpath has been here for hundreds of years, at least. When they built the M1 out of London the new road cut straight across the old. This tunnel is big enough for two way traffic and has side pavements. However, it is closed off with no access for cars leading to or from it.

Parking near the entrance I can access the wood on the other side without walking too far along hard (bad for my condition) pavements. Perfect.

The sound is amazing as I go under the motorway, away from the housing estate, I feel a sense of leaving something behind. As I tentatively walk up the muddy pathway which is surrounded with trees clinging on to it’s sides, two cyclists come hurtling down towards me.

Grinning with delight, mud splashed men with red faces and sparkling bright eyes pass me after I move out of the way and continue freewheeling. Standing in the softness of layered pulped leaves I watch them flying down the hill and into the tunnel until out of view.

Further up, I catch the sound of someone behind and turn to see a man running towards me. I move to the side allowing him to pass. He looks happy in earphones. I continue to the brow of a hill around a sweeping bend. There is gate where I rest and look out across the field before me to the motorway. Through the trees I can see the trucks, vans, and cars speeding along. It’s a work day.

Then I find myself crying. Soft, hot tears.

I cry because I’m happy to be outside, by myself, in the forest and have overcome. I thought, at one time, a few years back that I’d not leave my wheelchair again. Now, alone in the woods on a beautiful day, I’m walking, with a stick, gently along a leaf strewn pathway. Quite the lady.

Is it better to have lived and lost or lost having not lived at all? I don’t know who said that but it sure is an interesting question. My envy at cyclists and runners, which became anger for a time, gives way to my own wonderful memories of running and cycling. I smile through my tears.

As I cried it started raining. Composing myself I walk again. Movement in the forest opposite catches my attention, and I stand watching a gorgeous bird busying itself just metres ahead. The Jay with a brown hood, black and white wings with a touch of azure blue on them darted about. It’s large beak was full and it stared back at me through the thicket before moving out of sight when a man and dog appeared beside me.

“Good morning” He said, walking by.

It was at least 12.45 but I still replied,

“Good morning”, and smiled. It doesn’t matter, does it, what the time it is?

The rain was leaking through the tree’s canopy as I walked back along the footpath. The man and dog are soon out of sight and replaced with another. The first man had been accompanied by a white terrier but this gent has a brown cocker spaniel. The cocker, intrigued with some grass on the verge, is making his owner hang around like a suspicious youth outside a shop corner. I do like dogs and miss mine terribly. The man and I smile at each other as I pass. And, for some reason, I also smile at the dog.

As I walk back through the underpass loud barks attack my ears, amplified by the tunnel. One woman being dragged a large dog and another being pulled by a small collection of dogs were barely controlling their charges. The dogs, barking at each other, led their owners past me. The women laughed, I laughed.

I feel so happy I could burst.

Sighing heavily, I get back into the car and feeling very pleased with myself go home. I managed to capture a photo of one of the oaks which line the pathway; large and gnarly, it’s majestic. I’m using it to accompany this entry.

Lessons for the day?..Do not let fear win, and it doesn’t matter what time it is when you have nothing to do.

My aim, over the next year, will be to walk to ‘The Old Fox’ – a public house along School Lane, I fear it may be shut but if not, I’d have earned a drink!

An interesting fact about this route…if they were to open it as a road it would cut the journey time down by twenty minutes.

Journey using ancient bridleway 3 mins.

image shows map with route shown to school lane from garston in Watford under the M1
Falcon Way to School Lane Bridleway.

Journey using government suggested roads which don’t go through gentry’s property 17-24 mins.

Thanks for reading!

 

Mosquito Plea – poem

Mosquito Plea – poem

Oh, mossie bite on my left knee,

Would you please resist itching me?

A world of pain I did land when,

I lost the battle with my hand.

The challenge exquisite.

My skin I need to quit.

End.

By Samantha “unextraordinarybint” Harris

UK Funeral Director blows whistle on Care Homes Covid deaths — Watford London Herts News UK

In a shocking video interview, a man claiming to be a Funeral Services Director of 15yrs tells his experience of what really happened. He was called every Monday from January 2020 by a Govt Pandemic coordinator who asked about numbers of covid deaths. 127 more words

UK Funeral Director blows whistle on Care Homes Covid deaths — Watford London Herts News UK

California’s Sunset Studios Expanding To UK’s Hertfordshire With $1B Film & TV Facility — Deadline

Institutional investment firm Blackstone and real estate outfit Hudson Pacific Properties are planning a $1B film and TV studio development in the UK’s Hertfordshire. The project is an expansion of the companies’ existing facility, California’s Sunset Studios, which has housed shoots including La La Land and Fresh Prince of Bel Air. The partners have purchased […]

California’s Sunset Studios Expanding To UK’s Hertfordshire With $1B Film & TV Facility — Deadline

After Israeli snipers killed 40 Palestinians in 3 months, army chief said, ‘This is not right, relax’ — Mondoweiss

A pro-Israel group held a discussion three days ago that showcased its utter indifference to Palestinian lives. Israeli reporter Ohad Hemo told the Israel Policy Forum, an American Israel lobby organization, that after Israeli soldiers “easily” killed more than 40 Palestinians in the West Bank in two months, the army chief said, “This is not…

After Israeli snipers killed 40 Palestinians in 3 months, army chief said, ‘This is not right, relax’ — Mondoweiss

Pagan Freedom – Poem

Christian, Muslim, Hindi, Jew

Do I need protection from you?

In trade and morals I am ‘fair game’

This thought is slightly profane

Like white man’s drug prices and black man dues

It has no place in an equal race.

I feel persecuted, neglected and used

And, it’s all because of you!

Religious folks speak daily to me across every medium

Our Earth screams with the strain;

Rages as another of us is shamed

Christian, Muslim, Hindi, Jew

Do I need protection from you?

The End

By Samantha”unextraordinary”Harris

Watford, UK.

Today – A Poem

{Observational ramblings of a sick mind}

How much is a reaction worth?

To get those tears to fall down to Earth?

Today I feel back in tune.

The sun shines,

I feel renewed. But,

I’d even by judged by your spirit

As I lived my life for love, innit?

I am a different breed.

One of which you need.

The pressure of legacy haunts me…

And yet, what a beautiful day

Troubles seem further away

Curtains blow gently in the breeze

Sounds of traffic brought to it’s knees

Then driving away with the sound of bees

Bees humming

Engines burbing beneath

Me, raised to the top of the parapet

Can I look down upon

The green suburban scene

A content dream

Hearing families playing?

Unseen to them I see the kytes in the sky,

Viewing them as they soar by.

I see the flies buzzing around my window frames;

Their prescence in my home they wish to gain,

I hear children screaming and the barking of a squeaky dog.

A seagull squawks and flies by my window’s side

I know of the wonderful world where I reside

The End

By Samantha “unextraordinarybint” Harris

In Hertfordshire on the 5th September 2021

Great Britain in the United Kingdom of the British Isles.

Bank Holiday Weekend? – poem

I didn’t even know it was bank holiday weekend

One lives through the day and then it all blends

What stops me from going?

I’ve never been in so much pain yet had so much to live for.

I feel so miserable.

To a depth

I’d never have thought it possible.

Pain stops,

DROps

Plops

Soul is left,

berift,

adrift,

Listening to lives being lived.

End.

By Samantha unextraordinarybint Harris on 27th August 2021 Watford, Herts, UK.

Too depressed to even write what going on. Still no referral for TVT mesh removal or care/treatment.

Insecurity – poem

Will I always be a checkbox of fantasies?
Can I be seen as the whole sum of me?
Do I believe I have what I need?
Will I ever know the peace that they know?
Truly, do they have the peace they show?
Can I be happy, just as me?
As I am?
Are ambitious plans based in reality?
Will success stay beyond me?
Then there is you.
What do I do about you?
You’re a reflection.

The End

by Samantha “unextraordinarybint” Harris

Tuberculosis is at Lowest Levels.

Detected.

request for sputum test
sputum test request showing to exclude TB in fifty year old female within a national health system

Most British people in their fifties were vaccinated against Tuberculosis at school.

I was one of those that queued up and got my TB shot.

But how long does it last?

This was the advice researched and copied on 24th July 2021 from London, UK.

Independent advice from the Guardian newspaper.

TB vaccine BCG effective for twice as long as previously thought.
https://www.theguardian.com/science/2017/aug/31/tb-vaccine-bcg…
31/08/2017 · Benefits of world’s only vaccine against tuberculosis were underestimated as new findings reveal it protects against the disease for at least 20 years.

American Advicewhich is slightly worrying tbh, as a Brit who’s had it.

Vaccines | Basic TB Facts | TB | CDC
https://www.cdc.gov/tb/topic/basics/vaccines.htm
TB Vaccine (BCG) Bacille Calmette-Guérin (BCG) is a vaccine for tuberculosis (TB) disease. This vaccine is not widely used in the United States, but it is often given to infants and small children in other countries where TB is common. BCG does not always protect people from getting TB.

United Kingdom of British Isles AdviceWe have a National Health System.

BCG tuberculosis (TB) vaccine overview – NHS
https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/vaccinations/bcg-tuberculosis-tb-vaccine
It’s less effective in preventing TB that affects the lungs, which is the more common type of TB in adults. Read the patient information leaflet for BCG AJV vaccine (PDF, 272kb) Read the answers to common questions about the BCG TB vaccine. Side effects of the BCG vaccine. Reactions to the BCG vaccine are uncommon and generally mild.

https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/vaccinations/bcg-tb-vaccine-questions-answers
The BCG vaccine contains a weakened strain of TB bacteria, which builds up immunity and encourages the body to fight TB if infected with it, without causing the disease itself. The BCG vaccination is thought to protect up to 80% of people against the most severe forms of TB for at least 15 years, perhaps even up to 60 years.

So why aren’t our NHS testing people with shadows on their lungs for TB??? I know this because I am one of the people who has been in contact with someone who has TB. I went on to have symptoms and diagnosed as COPD, but I’ve never had my sputum tested for tuberculosis because I had a vaccine thirty five years ago.

This worries me. I’m definitely not a doctor but it does interest me because it’s weird.

Just before covid19 hit our countries TB was starting to hit the headlines with a huge transmission in Wales killing at least one person.

A person has died following a tuberculosis (TB) outbreak in a Welsh village.

A further 80 people in the Llwynhendy area of Llanelli, Carmarthenshire, may have also come in contact with the disease and have been told to attend screenings for the condition in June.

And there was this…the first person to get corona virus 2019 was a Welsh teacher.

Connor Reed, 25, caught the strain while teaching English at a foreign language in a school in Wuhan – the epicenter of the outbreak – at the end of November 2019. As stated by the Evening Standard in May 2020.

This all adds up to some questions for me…What about you?

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the geography of the United Kingdom, it includes Wales.

Arbitrary Punishments Given at School

Remember school days? Those days our elders told us we’d miss? I don’t but I have started thinking more about education as I get older. It is no easy task to manipulate children into good behaviour.

A popular punishment at school, after corporal punishment was made illegal, were English writing chores. The irony of this is not lost on me.

I was a smart arse in the 1970s and 1980s. Accepting ‘smart arse status’ in adulthood helps me to understand why I was punished. How many children were forced to read the British encyclopedias their parents were conned into buying?

Starting school late resulted in my adoption of terrible social skills. My short sightedness wasn’t discovered until half way through my middle school which led to unintentional trouble. Labelled a cheat, I’d copy other student’s work when teachers chalked information up on the blackboard.

The first punishment I remember was the unforgiving wooden ruler across my outstretched hand. Anyone going through this punishment will know it ‘builds character’ – a strange British term – conjuring up the courage to hold out your palm for the second and third will help harden one’s soul. I’m glad it’s illegal now.

The bad deed which warranted the violence against me? I was mixing paints. Unfortunately making a brown mess when I was trying to make white paint. At six years old I’d read about light spectrums but hadn’t realised how bad paints were as a medium for experimenting with light.

By the time in was secondary school my smart questions were annoying, and the punishments too. My least favorite was being given thousand word essays on arbitrary things like The Life of a Penny in Teacher’s Pocket or similar themed story, such as The Life of a Cocktail Stick in a Kitchen Cupboard.

As a child, with little experience of life, trying to fill pages with fiction outside of lesson time was punishing. I’d yearn for the simple ‘five hundred line’ tasks heaped on my fellow students. I was so proud of achieving the essay word counts and so devastated by the teacher’s criticisms or lack of feedback.

Towards the last term of school I found the courage to ask for lines instead of essays. I remember the joy of carbon paper (this copied what was written on the top sheet) and sticking pens together so each line was repeated enabling faster completion.

When my children attended school, in the 1990s/2000s, isolation was the school’s line of punishment. Forcing the ‘disruptive’ children to stay in a room in isolation from their friends is punishment but with other disruptive children it is cruel.

For myself, I think the inconvenience and pain of writing lines was a good punishment. Being smacked across the palm with a wooden ruler was sadistic, unnecessarily cruel and ineffective. I suspect the written essays were to entertain the teachers and to stop my questions, which is why I eventually disappointed them.

What punishments were popular at your school and do you remember why?

The 2525 Pilgrimage

Inspired by a Zega & Evans song, released in the 1960s, called ‘In the Year 2525’.

The 2525 Pilgrimage by Samantha “unextraordinarybint” Harris

Centuries since Corona Virus Alpha hit Earth devastating our population, I sit here using a rusty blade, scraping marks in hope that I won’t be discovered by our monitors. We use this ancient fridge for storing clothing; working well for keeping moths out, my up-bringers and I sharing it. Now, it will bare these words for history.

At school, we’re told our ancestors used the fridges to keep carcasses fresh. It was a time when humans battled with each other, spoiling the planet with poisonous weapons. A time when people murdered Earth’s other inhabitants; selfishly eating animals, using them as a source of protein, they’d manufacture products from their carcases and enjoyed wearing animal skins, even using bones for medicinal broths and industrial glues.

I’ve never known a cold fridge. The harnessing of electrical power was outlawed for humans in 2050. For our safety, AI automatic droids maintain our planet’s electrical grids. Distribution and supply is strictly rationed to Necessary For Life organisations and not squandered by people.

I’m told my ‘need to create’ is an escalation of my illness, so I must be cautious. I’m a committed New Beginning Believer but the evilness of bad mental health remains. Managing to physically scrape one word a day has taken discipline. My addiction craves more, risking raising my heart rate to a detectable level.

Weeks after the Corona Virus Zeta variant attacked the planet in June 2030 a cohort study showed how vulnerable humans became when out of their homes. As a major medical discovery it saved billions of lives but had not been welcomed by all. Deadly violent protests spread across the world faster than the virus, destroying cities and towns, cutting utilities and leaving land scorched with fire.

It is history now, how it was necessary for AI to oversee human health for The Common Good and the protection of our species and our solar system. Our homes, for our safety, had to become human cages.

Robots now distribute our care, limiting human error. Armoured vehicles travel streets delivering water tablets and nutrition, monitoring our vital signs so we rarely starve if we are viable. Thankful, we watch through holes we’ve piped into the hives on our windows.

Foxes, snakes, sheep, wolves and deer roam outside our homes on cracked tarmac. The grass verges, left to grow naturally, encouraging wildlife, are now host to the genetic insects released to combat stray humans carrying disease. Building nests and hives around us they are able to monitor movements keeping AI informed of our well being.

State television transmits a basic program service with special entertainment on Saturday nights. Generally television informs us of how the latest health programme progresses, which locations are expecting the Build Back Better vaccination robots and the daily birth rate over death rate graph.

International Communications are impossible for most since the satellites were, for our safety, reconfigured using the same space drones that humans had invented for mining exploration. Anti vaccination terrorists had to be stopped from using the networks to organise resistance and had been blocking The New Beginning Faith broadcasts.

Automatic trucks collect human waste weekly from each street moving it to a collection point where it’s transported by crane into giant airships run on biofuel. These craft transport the sweet smelling load to the ocean where it is released for the marine life to feed upon. Diet, controlled by AI, allows us to now produce nutrient rich waste which is useful until our deaths.

Few natural humans, other than royalty, can safely move around outside. We don’t have the genetic makeup. Crane drivers have outside protective freedoms. Having a skill AI can’t master, they bare witness to how the Build Back Better system is working. I’m assigned a crane operator as my lover. I pray we’ll be fruitful.

Gratefully, I’m able to leave home once in a lifetime. I’ve been researching my Life Pathway Journey on the battery run Ethernet computer. It will be so exciting to see The London Eye. One has to be patient as the current female pilgrimage age is the first month after one’s fifty-fifth birthday.

I pray I will still be considered worthy.

The End.

Comfortable Pants

In England we have ‘pants’.

These are our undergarments. Affectionately called knickers or grots these slips of material with elastic cover our private parts, and clean ones must be worn daily for good health.

Pants must not be confused with the American term for trousers.

This is about comfy pants for females. I suspect men need comfy undergarments too but I’m not in a position to talk on their behalf so I’ll just deal with fanny coverings…and again, fanny in the united kingdom means vagina and only the vagina. (Unless you have an Aunt called Fanny the root of many a joke here in England.)

Without getting into too much detail females have more down in the lower abdomen than males.

Men have guts and bladders. Women have guts, bladder, womb, fallopian tubes, ovaries and cervix all crammed in the same size space.

As with all things in life, once it’s out of the box, it harder to get it back in.

Meaning…

After childbirth the womb has expanded…the area is larger. Fitting back into the garments she wore before children isn’t always an option. In fact, let’s be honest, it’s rarely an option.

As I get older I find comfortable pants are missing from my drawers completely. It is a constant grind that every pair of pants I own have been cut like those shown in the photo accompanying.

Excuse me, I own ‘special’ pairs for my lover. You know, lovely sexy articles to stimulate our carnal juices but I’m not talking about these that are barely on for half an hour.

It’s my ‘day to day’ pants. My ‘bread and butter’ pants. These are the pants that I hope I don’t get knocked over and taken into hospital with. What would the nurses and doctors say?

Anyhow, I’m going to leave this here today in the hope that some undergarment manufacturer hears my moan and does something about it. Please stop putting such a tiny waist into big knickers. If you are making big knickers…who are you making them for?

We have a saying in England,

“Put your big pants on and deal with it.”

Bet you never imagine our big pants would actually look like this.

Have a nice day.

I Have A Sty (hordeolum) – babble

I don’t know what it’s called where you live but, here in the United Kingdom, a ‘sty’ is the name for an eye lid pimple brought on by stress. It starts small, ‘kinda prickly and ends up as a swollen, crusty mess that makes it hard to blink and see properly.

All one can do is manage stress, not cure it.

Could I list my stresses? Probably. The question is, would anyone want to read them…?

I’m being coy as I know what’s done it.

Two weeks ago I submitted a book to a literary agent to ask if they’d consider me. It’s 47k words long and much is riding on it being positively received.

Naively I thought I could submit a book then ‘get on with the next’. Now this mistake seems massive. I can barely concentrate on anything. My head is everywhere negative.

What if I can’t write? What if my ideas are rubbish or they hate the concepts? Doubts continue to bug me along many different paths of thinking. I purged my wp account in case they looked…but what would they be looking for? Will they see me or be coloured by what they read here? Will they find the right Samantha Harris as there are so many of us?

AGGGHHH it’s all too much…hence the eye.

I’m wandering around the flat doing the most stupid things…procastinating for sure, is one of them.

Astragalus root has bizarrely worked to take the sting out of the sty. Initially I was drinking the self prepared astragalus root tea for my chest pain (long story). The small white used roots looked like they could be soothing. Why not take a wild stab at it? I did nothing more than swipe the root gently but directly onto my sore eye lid and it eased.

So, I’ll keep the used roots to keep the inflammation down until the infection goes and I’ve made chamomile tea too in a bid to relax this afternoon. Apparently, it could be twelve weeks before the agent gets back to me with some sort of reply about my book.

TWELVE WEEKS !!!!

I’ll have no eyelids left by then and will need more tea.

Should I warn kids not to mess with herbs? Ah, they’ll be alright.

Thanks for reading.

White Magic is Everywhere – Song.

White magic goes unseen

White magic is in the green

It’s in the trees, in the grass, in the bees

White magic is in the breeze

White magic is everywhere

White magic, I don’t care

White magic floats between

It goes, unseen

White magic lady

White magic, ain’t shady

White magic is everywhere

It floats on every atom on the bright blue air

White magic is where it’s at

White magic, so get on back

White magic is everywhere

It floats on every atom that is in our air

White magic, you don’t have a clue

White magic, what we do

White magic, we spread it everywhere

And it lives in every atom upon our air

White magic is the key

White magic, for you and me

White magic, let’s get on down

And we’ll take down from the air, down to the ground

White magic is everywhere

White magic is in the air

Written today 9th June 2021.

Watford, Hertfordshire, United Kingdom. Europe.

Feeling Persecuted in London

I woke up upset again today.

Recently the sun has been shining. We had a week long, glorious heat wave.

The government released most of us from our homes from covid19 lockdown rules and we’ve been able to move around freely, with or without masks. Most of us made the most of it.

And, we are looking forward to complete freedom on the 21st June.

So, why do I feel low?

Could it be because I’m surrounded by untruths?

As I sit and write this, a mist hangs low over Watford in Hertfordshire and sirens sound loudly on the roads outside my tower block. It is always busy where I live, on the outskirts of London.

Many things bounce around my head, none more than the attack on myself in 2012.

I try so hard to not think about it…so hard.

I went to the fair on Sunday. Three hours of screaming and colour. It was probably the second time I’ve been out with my grandchildren. It was amazing. Everyone was happy and smiling. I was smiling. I was laughing.

So, why don’t I wake up thinking about that happiness?

I’m trying to avoid news channels but I live in London. It’s impossible not to know the news as I’m attached to youtube most of the day.

I check to see if the system is working yet.

For me, this is done by putting a victim’s name into the BBC news search box. Not mine.

No, it isn’t being covered.

He doesn’t matter.

So, why do I feel so upset. They tell he doesn’t matter.

Roll on ‘complete freedom’.

Thanks for reading.

Photo is of german facial protection mask from 1600s currently on display in a Combined Military Museum England, UK. Sorry about my wheelchair being reflected in the glass! I wondered if this mask would protect me from the virus, G7 or G5?

Blimey. Looks like I’m stuck with the TVT mesh.

The last few months have been hard. As hard as the last few years? Maybe not. Probably because my expectation level has dropped to 0.01 above zero.

Those that read my blog will know I had a vaginal polypropylene mesh tape implanted in me during a hysterectomy for Endometriosis. I thought it was, and I was told, it was, an inert material designed to hold my bladder up like a sling which would help with the stress incontinence they said I had.

When I woke up from the surgery in 2005 I felt an intense painful tension across my pubis…which I still have. It feels like I need a wee urgently and feels like something is cutting into me.

It feels like cystitis. I moaned about it since..the implanting surgeon gave me medication to ‘relax’ my bladder…as all they could find in my wee samples was blood, just a small amount.

The medication didn’t work and so ensued a fifteen year investigation as to the cause of this blood, pain and urgency. My GP referring me here there and everywhere to try and find the cause. Me becoming sicker and sicker.

I’ve done tons of physio. I’ve done diet restriction, addition and subtraction. I kept a food diary for two years. I kept an activity diary. I analysed every part of my life….and changed it. Including my work – several times – as everything I did seemed to irritate my groin. I did this for years. I eventually became exceptionally ill and was put on an NHS palliative care program.

My daughter got involved, together, through research we found that the TVT mesh that I’d had implanted in 2005 had left women with the symptoms I was complaining of. But, the kicker was, the longer it was left in situ the harder, almost impossible, it was to remove.

It was not designed to be moved.

It was designed to cause a ‘healing’ response from the surrounding tissue and build a tissue mass within my pelvic cavity. It was this mass which would then, in theory, hold the bladder in place. The TVT mesh’s rough edges were designed to irritate and cause the foreign body reaction which hurts us.

So, my lawyer contacted me yesterday to say until I have a doctor who admits my pain is caused by the TVT I have no case. Fifteen years of investigations and lies amount to nothing but exactly what they are.

I think the cost should be counted. I’m sat at home, on full disability, I’m 52 years old.

I was working full time. I’d retrained to become an electrician to be more physical and left modelling behind – I could no longer stand up in the shoes and it got me no where. Nothing worked.

I don’t complain about not being able to walk as I do have Ehlers Danlos but is this is being used as an excuse not to treat me? I got referred by my implanting surgeon for ‘consideration of removal of TVT’ in 2018 after I presented him with evidence of my continued ignored symptoms since 2005.

I’m no closer to removal now than I was in 2018. Further away really, as the removal specialist to which I was referred left the NHS soon after I saw her in Oxford 2019 (with my evidence) and then the hospital discharged me last month as they said they don’t have funds for TVT removal.

I was hoping to get somewhere with lawyers to go private as I know the government is refunding women who have done this. It seems discriminatory that us poor people reliant on the NHS are being pushed to the back of the queue and, as it appears in my case at least, still ignored.

So, no pay out. No removal as yet…Having been discharged from Oxford I’m not even with a consultant gynaecologist. It looks like I’ll be holding on to this torture device for a while longer.

Yeah, I know Matt Hancock apologised to all of us but he just says the right thing for the camera.

Thanks for reading.

On a good note I did submit my first book to a literary agent. At least I can think straight again.

The Problem with Shagging Sheep.

Comments on the medical device TVT mesh.

There is some talk of TVT mesh implants and how they have ruined women’s lives around the globe, but not enough, in my opinion, as it’s a scandal.

It’s development is interesting. The TVT’s inventor piloted the initial study on sheep. Unfortunately, the gentleman died but his work was continued…He worked for Johnson & Johnson. They recognised the monetary value in a product which would cause problems for life…and also supply Tena lady.

TVT is a questionable treatment for an ‘out of control’ bladder after childbirth and it was promoted as ‘the gold standard solution’.

It was designed to be implanted for life. Essentially it is a long tape placed around the bladder. It replaced existing operations and saved an hour in theatre.

It’s made from polypropylene plastic mesh – the same material the marine life have problems with.

The TVT is wrapped, blindly with needles, around the outside of the vagina, under the bladder and through the pelvic bone – if you are lucky the surgeons will miss your skene gland, rectum and clitoris.

It ought to be mentioned, originally it was designed for ‘awake’ patients so the tension could be adjusted.

I want to go back to the pilot though. I’m assuming that they used the TVT mesh on sheep who’d previously given birth AND who accidentally wet themselves. I pity the research student whose job it was to find suitable candidates for study.

How many days were really spent finding pissy sheep?

A problem with TVT mesh, is as the plastic gets older it shrinks. It can make penetrative sex difficult/impossible and generally it causes severe pain as your other organs move against it.

How did they research the sexual element with sheep? Assuming they bothered.

And then, how would the researchers extrapolate the data? I’m thinking all the comforting cups of tea in China will not get a sheep talking. And, were the sheep checked afterwards to see if they were still dribbling? Did they put smelling salts under their noses to induce a sneeze?

There is also the bipedal thing…I know it’s small but surely an important factor?

How could they check if the sheep could lift something? A sheep has never worked in it’s life.

Whatever, I await removal.

Thanks for reading.

Edited to add cartoon and to say coincidence or not (day after I posted this piece) the media have covered many personal stories as news regarding mesh implants. But they are muddying the waters by suggesting these implants are biological. They are not all mesh is synthetic or synthetic based polypropylene. Also,, there is some suggestion that the implants have just not been fitted correctly…no, it is more than that so all these pieces people are being fed in the media have been bent out of shape to stop the blame falling at the medical devices doorstep – where it firmly belongs.

 

Hard

Is that Samantha Harris?

Yes.

I’m the consultant who took over your case last year.

Oh, hello.

Sorry, it’s taken so long to get back to you.

‘pleasantries’

Bombshell

The hospital can no longer perform the surgery to remove the TVT mesh. We were unable to secure funding.

Yes, we do have the expertise to remove TVT mesh by laparoscopy.

No, the clinic which has been funded doesn’t have the expertise.

I’m sorry Ms Harris.

Yes, I will write to your GP who will need to refer you to the removal clinic.

Bye.

Thank you Doctor. Bye.

Summing up as I can’t write about this. It hurts too much.

The Score – Poem

Down on knees
Feeling squeezed
The silent war
Scores
Those who believe
Push heads up
Breathe
Soul stronger
Fore
Those that know
The wheel turns
History burns
Falore
Land running
Learn cunning
Carry on
As before

The End

by Samantha Harris England.

I hope this resonates with someone.

Interference From Software

Let’s talk about interference. I live in England, UK. We are now post Brexit.

Am I the only one getting frustrated with the interference of programs online while I’m trying to write? From searching to editing, the robot programs ( whom you did not ask for help) interfere.

Predictive search…I can’t stand this.

I can type. I don’t need help….I know what I am going to search for….no matter how often I try I will never understand it’s predictions and it’s results.

I am pretty sure that Google is sexist. I cannot get my site listed for love or money. See the featured image of this article for my search results for my own site… However, I have had problems with google mail and youtube for years. In fact I just paid for google to recieve my emails which they’d locked up…bizarre. I got some messages from five years ago…

Anyhow, it’s not just google misbehaving.

Microsoft was my chosen program for writing and editing my books…I’m 51 years old, it’s familiar.

I’ve had my hotmail account since last century and this is not a stretch of the truth. It doesn’t appear to be working now, at all, I’m trying not to panic. Many of us are affected so I’m sure it will be soon be fixed…

I have faith in you microsoft to fix the hotmail…however Word is lost, I think.

Does anyone know of a writing and editing program which is not cloud based? I am having real security issues with word and microsoft. I’ve been locked out of one laptop completely as I accidently removed it from my devices….no way around this it seems, I cannot get the machine into the BIOS screen to safely reboot.

Thankfully, being an electrical nerd I have a few devices around so can usually manage to get one of my machines online…however, I am not an IT nerd and I am out of touch.

I’m using the paid for version of Word…just incase some of you are judging me lol.

Months ago, I spent days trying to retrieve some writing and editing. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you guys how frustrating and time consuming this is. It also messes with my general work writing planning as I think I’ve edited something but then find out it hasn’t been done after all.

Asking yourself whether you’ve written this or that for a character and having to read through to find out, takes time and messes with confidence.

I contacted microsoft about my missing files and edits. They ‘fixed’ the software and apologised for my loses. However, as a writer of fictional adventure it’s not so easy to find your place again…especially when you don’t have faith that your changes will be saved.

It’s slowed my writing down and I feel stuck. I’m learning on the job as I’m disabled and it’s the only thing I can currently do in my own time etc when I’m well enough. I get tired easily but am always thinking about plot lines and character plays. I suffer from memory fog so need to be able to write when I can with out too much hassle or remembering where I am.

I’m I really looking at buying a typewriter? Surely not? Where would I get ribbons???

Hopefully someone will see that there is a gap in the market for writers with unreliable broadband and memories.

Until then I write on a laptop which I have disabled the wifi on. The bulk of my work being stuck in word on this laptop. I’m grateful that I did a hard copy, printed off for my alpha reader. However, many adjustments have been made since then.

But it’s not just the logistics now, it’s the feeling of insecurity which is holding me up.

I would love to write offline but with editing assistance, spell check etc. Why is this impossible? What am I missing? Is the interference from software programs necessary? Spellcheck not being on here is bad enough…why not? It’s the simplest thing…

Cloud or nothing? I’m hoping someone will give me some advice here, I really don’t mind paying for the right software but it mustn’t be on a disk as I don’t have a diskdrive (who does now?) Gig pen software doesn’t appear to be a thing yet…? So, I realise I would need to download the software initially…there are so many editing programs but they are all cloud based from what I can see.

Thanks for reading.

Lab Rat Age – Lockdown Poem

Isolating for covid nineteen

All social distancing

It’s now twenty twenty-one

Another lock down has begun

Pfizer, Astra Zeneca and J & J

Motivated with shares and graphs

They wipe us away

Like fleas on an arse

Looking back to where to begin

I came across the story of Aspirin

Linked to Spanish Flu, who knew?

Pharma have us by the balls

Wanting funding for a new cause

Just how many more variants

Can really be found

In residents isolating, gone to ground?

We’ve vaccinated millions

Yet death figures soar

It takes no super sleuth

To unlock the cage

On Britain’s new,

Lab Rat Age.

The end.

Thanks for reading

copyright Samantha Harris (unextraordinarybint) January 2021

No Better – Review Stapled Hemorrhoidopexy. Honest/Blunt.

A week ago I had my appointment at NHS colorectal specialist regarding my butt pain.

This is now the third hospital I’ve been seen for looking into this. I wish they’d share medical records… I’m reminded of how, last decade, I used to go from hospital to hospital over the bladder pain. Then I read an article which told me it could be the TVT polypropylene mesh.

I read through the doctors letters that I had and saw that it was being mentioned as okay when I wasn’t really aware that this was what they were looking at.

Each consultant said the same thing “no erosion of the TVT”. I know now that there is no possible way they could have seen this by these investigations and each one of them lied.

Taking you back to 2005 when I had an Hysterectomy for Endometriosis because of night sweats and crippling pain. I was discharged from the ward six days after my surgery without clearing my bowels. I was re-admitted five days later having still not cleared my bowels.

Four years after that I am having a Stapled Hemorrhoidopexy, which I am unaware is a new procedure. The story of getting to that point is a whole book of horrors for another day.

I wake after the Stapled Hemorrhoidopexy in what the medical profession disgustingly call “exquisite pain”. That is not the correct term. The correct term would be horrific pain that will never be forgotten, worse than child birth. I woke screaming like a banshee. There was nothing exquisite about it. Sick sacks.

If you look up Stapled Hemorrhoidopexy, the gumph will tell you it is a painless, minimal invasive procedure and that you will be back to work the next day. It is not true. Far from it. This is a cut and shunt that you will be lucky to be standing up comfortably the next week, let alone the next day.

It definitely doesn’t suit everyone and if you have Ehlers Danlos like myself I would recommend not having it and demanding the older technique with biological material and a gentle hand. A huge mechanical stapler being shoved up your arse is not easy to recover from.

I have not yet found out what they used to fix the cut, the surgeon told me it was a ‘composite ring’. I am in the process of getting my medical records because of the TVT Mesh case I am trying to bring against the NHS, I am trying to find what this ‘composite ring’ is made of…because of my butt pain whilst I’m there.

It’s been eleven years since I had the Stapled Hemroidplexy to correct my evacuation problems. It didn’t work. It never worked and now it’s incredibly painful and has been for a few years – getting worse as time goes by.

Care is bad for women patients in the NHS. Since closing the women’s hospitals we have to travel hundreds of miles. I’m in so much pain, it is incredibly hard to to travel to several different areas of the country for what is essentially an inch difference on my body.

Common sense seems to have left the building and thousands of people are left on benefits because of operations and procedures like this…it costs the government and the tax payer millions.

During my recent (Dec 2020) consultation I was not asked my history…we didn’t have time. My kind doctor told me that my upper and lower abdominal CT Scan, poo sample and blood results had all came back normal.

To me, that is instantly worrying. They’d done a chest CT too… I have bullous lung disease, or cystic lungs…clearly visible on a scan if any one looks at it. At stage four I have a heavy shadow on my right lung unavoidable to any eye let alone a trained eye of a radiographer.

As a patient being told that they can find nothing wrong when you are unable to sit down during the consultation is an unpleasant situation. I had no option but to have the poor consultant physically examine me. She would be sure to feel the rectroentrocele (or something) to show that I am not mental.

There is no understatement when I say it really fecking hurt.

Like last year at Watford General, it was very difficult and upsetting.

More painful was her finding something, checking with me that it hurt, and then pushing on it…the pressure made my heart flip and my ears pop. I tried to go through the wall on the other side of the bench to get away from her soul pressing finger.

The doctor handed me a wipe and some tissues. Getting dressed I wondered what she had found and how on earth I was going to get through Christmas in so much pain.

The doc has told me I am in pelvic spasm and given me some cream to use until I see her again early next year. I will let you know how it goes. I’m due to see her again in February 2021 – unless we are still in covid19 lockdown and it’s cancelled.

Thanks for reading.

Poor guy.https://www.researchgate.net/publication/51172093_Hemoperitoneum_as_severe_and_unusual_complication_in_the_stapler_recto-anopexy_for_hemorrhoidal_prolapse_Case_report

Thursday is the Day – journal entry

So, I went for my CT scan at Luton hospital last week. The whole thing was utterly exhausting, and it was hard for me to keep things in perspective. I did get through it, I remained polite, I got my scan and left. This coming Thursday I will return to Luton Hospital and find out whether there is something sinister or not.

I find things difficult at the best of times but getting around during the covid19 pandemic is in league of its own, one needs a degree in logistics. To be frank, I’m in so much pain, the drive itself was a chore and I was pleased to arrive in plenty of time and find the disabled carpark fairly easily.

Because I use a wheelchair and/or a trolley seat (a mobility aid which means I can walk a bit and then sit for a bit) I had the foresight to call the hospital to check where I had to go. The information they had sent through the post didn’t include anything for disabled people. I wanted to make sure the scanning dept. was okay with me not having the blood test for the kidney function, as I wasn’t having the contrast.

The lady who spoke to me on the phone was really helpful and assured me that they always see people on time so not to arrive early, else I’d be waiting in the cold and that it was fine about the dye, I didn’t have to had the contrast.

The journey went well, I did arrive early in the carpark and thought it wise see the scanner zone and check out its location. Good job I plan for bad luck as it took me ten minutes to get out of the carpark.

I was not happy. You cannot imagine the pain I am in when I stand up. I have a walking stick and a light weight frame on wheels which pulls out into a seat. I walked around the disabled carpark, twice. I then pulled out my seat and sat down. A white van was parked near me. I could see someone sat in the driver’s seat. I stare at the windscreen.
The window of it starts winding down and a man puts his head out of the driver’s side. He shouts across to me,

“You okay love?”

“Not really,” I reply. “Am I expected to jump this fence to get into the hospital? Where’s the exit?”

He laughed.

Yeah, very funny, I thought, as I was barely keeping the tears at bay. He pointed towards the wooden builder’s hording wall just in front of us and said,

“It’s on the other side of that. Just go around to the right there, around the corner and you’ll see it.”

I thanked him, gave him a smile which hopefully did not say you fucking arsehole for watching me for what seemed like an eternity, stood up with the aid of my stick and pulled my trolley around the white painted hoarding and, yes, I found the exit of the carpark and finally, into the hospital.

How hard would it have been to put a sign there?

It was then a further ten minute journey for me of walking, sitting, walking to get to the zone where the scanner was. I arrived at 9.25am for my 9.30am appointment. The weather temperature was three degrees according to my car. I was glad to be wrapped up and was feeling smug that I had a flask of tea in the car for when I returned to it. My heart was proper pounding in my chest from the effort, but I was pleased I’d not used my wheelchair as it had all been up hill.

I had my mask on. I’ve got a black fabric one as I have lung disease and need to breathe. Since I was little, I’ve covered my mouth in the cold. It hurts less when you breathe in through a scarf or big fluffy collar or cowl. I don’t mind wearing the mask but when I walk, I cough. Nothing clears the pathway faster, like Moses parting the sea as I walked through the hospital grounds, people crossed over the road rather than walk near me.

I found the area where I needed to be as a kindly man could see I was lost and struggling. He pointed out that I was really close, and but for the lack of signs I would have known.
The kindness of strangers is something I’ve come to rely on since becoming sick. I’m thankful that as a tall person I used to help people out when I was able. As a tall person you are obliged to help out shorter people or people in wheelchairs, it’s part of the ‘tall people’s’ code.

Arriving in Area D…the CT scanner. I realized that it was directly opposite Area C, which is the children department. When I say opposite, I mean the CT Scanner door was approximately two metres from the entrance to the children’s hospital.
I only point it out as they were queuing to get in and I had to wait amongst them.

Social distancing rules have seen the hospital remove seats and benches, so I was pleased with my trolley seat and tried to position myself so that when I coughed, I was facing the scanning unit rather than the pathway. I heard several envious comments about my seat.

I feel it is an ill thought out plan to keep people waiting in the same area where sick children are also waiting. It was impossible to social distance. In order to get their temperatures checked before being allowed into the hospital this queue was being pushed passed by people leaving the hospital too.

Also, it is wrong to make people stand in the cold when there is a respiratory illness going around.

Getting temperatures checked before being allowed INTO the hospital. There are too many things wrong with this…I mean the point of coming to the hospital is that you are ill.

I listened as one by one the parents were told that only one of them could attend by the side of their sick child whilst being made to stand next to strangers coughing. There was one nurse on checking them in and she was doing a cracking job at moving the queue along. I cannot blame the staff, but surely common sense would suggest this queuing does not meet the anti-transmission guidelines.

As per a sign’s instruction, I knocked on the scanner unit’s door and waited. Nothing happened so I waited until exactly 9.30am and knocked again. A serious looking man put his head around the door and asked my name. I inwardly cringed as I feverishly hoped someone else would be in there and I’m not alone with him but keep my anxiousness under control smile and give my name. He doesn’t smile back, nods acknowledgement, repeats my name and closes the door again.

A few minutes later he opened it again and tells me that they have a patient in, and it shouldn’t be much longer. Then he squeezed passed me to go get a cup of tea. I will never know whether it was for him or the patient. I did feel that when he passed me with his warm cup of tea, he had a proper smug look on his face.

This is the perceived racism I feel when faced with some health staff since the attack, stuff I didn’t notice before but now take more personally. The sly looks. The extra waiting. The not smiling back when you smile at them. I’m more wary now, that is sad. I used to just accept it but now I cannot help but question if I am waiting longer because of my name or something else I cannot control.

I was coughing pretty much constantly by the time they opened the door, and the patient came out. I was in at 9.50am and was not in a great frame of mind. The tea man introduced himself, as the radiographer and then started to question my unsuitability claim for the contrast dye.

Back in March 2019 I had an MRI and I had contrast. It was awful and the burning didn’t stop for a month. A blood test, taken in A&E in April, showed my kidneys were showing signs of damage. The doctor told me to stop drinking alcohol rather than listen to me (and my daughter) that it was the contrast dye. I don’t drink alcohol. Not all white people like it. It is water usually in my wine glass so that I look like I’m joining in.

I did my own research and found out that people who have undergone lots of surgical procedures may not be suitable for the dye. The burning I was feeling was at the areas where they’d cut into my body at previous occasions and operations. The ions in the dye tend to group together in these areas which can cause burning sensations and pain. I don’t know why it affects the kidneys.

The MRI scan last year had taken over an hour and I’d eventually asked for it to finish as I couldn’t lie on the bench any longer. The report came back as everything okay. They didn’t note my lung disease, the TVT mesh, my leaky heart valve or the rectum staples. The only thing they noted was that I didn’t have a womb, but my referral letter had said I’d had a hysterectomy.

I thought they’d gotten me muddled with another patient, but this was all at Watford last year, now I was at Luton. Different time, different location and hopefully a different outcome.

I hand Mr tea radiographer man, the forms which they’d sent me. These are forms giving consent for use of the dye and for consent for the images to be used in research and the blood request forms.

He looked a bit annoyed.

On the forms I’d written I consented for diagnostic purposes only and not the contrast injection as I have a compromised immune response issue adding it is not suitable for me. And I signed it.

Clearly, I wanted the normal CT scan and as I had already phoned up them about it, I didn’t see why I needed to justify it again to an arrogant radiographer who obviously thought I was doing it just to annoy him. He came around from behind his glass screen.

“Who said you can’t have the contrast?”

“I did” was my response and I went on to tell him what had happened, but he waved his hand at me and went back to his little booth…he shouted,

“Which hospital did you have the MRI at?”

I replied and then watched him call Watford General. I look at him and I’m thinking…WTF. If he thinks for a moment, he can bully me into something which I know will hurt me he is sadly mistaken, and I start putting my coat back on.

I can hear him on the phone…”yeah, Samantha Harris, says she had a reaction to the dye….”

I catch the eye of the female nurse helping him. I tell her silently mouthing the words…”I’m going to go now as I’m not having the dye.”

I start to stand up as he isn’t listening…he is not listening to me at all. I’ve not had the blood tests to show that my kidneys are fine for the contrast dye. I’d had this at WGH, and it had come back okay. It obviously was not okay otherwise my kidneys would not have looked like a heavy drinkers a month after the scan.

He marches over to me and gives me the forms, releasing them just before I get my hand to them.

“You may as well have these back then.” He states as they fall down on floor near my feet.

He returns to the glass screen booth and the nurse introduces herself and helps me get up on the bench. I coughed a lot. I managed to lie still for the few seconds it takes to take the scan. I’m told I can go home as soon as I am dressed.

I make my way back to the car. I pour myself a cup of tea and cry. I then realise I’ve forgotten to get all the blood tests the consultant wanted done. I cry a bit more. I’m too tired to go back into the hospital, I drive home carefully and fall asleep until the next day.

I almost cried when the blood clinic nurse put the needle in my arm for the blood tests. It was nothing to do with her technique, it’s obviously me.

I think this shows that I am a baby. My pain threshold must be exceptionally low to be almost on the ceiling for a little blood being taken.

To me, this has to be a good sign.
Now it’s a waiting game.

I find out on Thursday afternoon what the colorectal consultant thinks about my sore behind…she is called Dr Brown. Bless her.

Confusion – Journal Entry Real Life

 

Don’t read any further if upset by injustice, neglect, poverty and perversion.

This be trigger city for some.

This is your last chance, I’m blunt but not coarse, I am going to discuss a terrible subject in the lightest possible manner.

Confusion.

When I was a child I was assaulted by an adult man (in the worst way). The most prominent symptom, apart from the physical pain was that of severe confusion. I became OCD as a result of trying to come to terms.

The whole thing was so completely and utterly at odds with everything I knew then, I was under ten years old and used to dolls, handstands and dresses. I went off dresses, handstands and dolls.

I’m fifty-one years old now. I love dresses now. Sod the handstands. It may surprise people to know that some actions are never forgotten – no matter how many other, lovely, consensual sexual moments one does experience.

If you were to get complacent and fool yourself, a flash back will remind you. Today I had one, it must have been ten years since the last. His face appeared when I was having wink. I decided to have an imaginary wiss on him. He went.

For a longest time, I thought along the lines of ‘why me?’ But then it became all about recovery, mainly because I have children. Many different pathways of recovery were tried.

I didn’t recover quickly because I was pushed towards forgiveness. No confrontation, no justice and no reasonable explanation. It took ages, as the confusion became anger, festered and grew  to become depression.

How does forgiveness help? If no one is saying sorry, you can only forgive so much.

Attending lots of therapy – when my children were young, I needed to deal with my anger and more recently, I started writing this online journal and some books to help. It really does help too. Whether it helps you or not is another matter…

These days, I feel that I am better, adjusted as much as humanly possible. I’m able to think about what happened back in Widewell Woods with less emotion and I apologise if I cause any harm or painful memories to those reading this. I understand it’s place in my life story.

It does not define me, but it is part of me, unfortunately, a regret out of my hands.

There are no safe places for children if we don’t fully understand. I feel it is not just a sexual fetish with innocence, even ‘perceived innocence’ is not the full picture. Control plays a part. It is a form of soul capture…making an imprint on a person for life. The man who hurt me was playing god.

Perhaps this is why the church didn’t help me. They couldn’t play god any more with me…I’d worked out he wasn’t really there to protect us at all because anyone could come along and trump him.

Obviously, no assault or abuse is the same. I’m going to come out with something controversial and declare that there was nothing sexually charged about the scene of my sexual assault.

It was a moment of ruination.

He wanted to ruin a female life, he planned to ruin it and he had, but it hadn’t ‘satisfied’ him. I suspect he wouldn’t have been satisfied until he’d taken more but a disturbance didn’t give him time.

He wanted to ruin a girl – in order to ruin a woman.

He did succeed for a while, but something was able to absorb the hatred I had, not the confusion, just the hatred. God was my buffer. I thank the ideology for that much, begrudgingly.

No one else cared enough for it to be effective if I was angry at them. It was only the church who had appeared in my life, made me feel some promise and then let me down, that it was worth getting angry with in my child’s mind.

No one promised life would be another way, ever. Since living with Dad and step mum I knew a life of pain. God had promised happiness if I followed certain rules. I had followed his rules.

I could be justifiably angry with him.

The assault shone a light on other confusions. Things my step mother had said some years before. I’d  started at school but was off sick. We had to go out. I’d upset her by slowing the process down. I was crying and she was pulling me about, putting my shoes on.

I said something to the effect that she was hurting me. The shoes were too small and they’d yet to be cut so that my feet could grow. This was a common thing for British families struggling in the 1970s. I had trouble with the buckles, they were too difficult for me to do up, she was angry.

In her defence, she was not my mother, I was yet to be diagnosed. Labelled stupid and clumsy because of the Elhers Danlos and extremely short sighted, it could not have been easy. I mean, it must have been frustrating for her.

It was horrifying for me, but I knew no different.

She spat her words at me,

“You should think yourself lucky, I could be shoving coat hangers up inside you.”

It was an odd thing to say to a five year old.

I had no idea of a vagina, only the vulva. I only knew the outside of my biological self.

My creative inners, ‘my vagina’, womb or ovaries were not on my radar. Biology is good like this, the female genitalia are not exactly accessible. I assumed she meant put coat hangers inside me via my belly button, that was, until Widewell, the man and the sexual assault.

In emotional health terms this is called ‘sexualization’. Children should not be sexualized early, it’s not healthy mentally, emotionally or physically. This is why we use terms like, the bird and the bees, the stork brought the baby and don’t discuss or do sexual things in front of children. We protect their innocence of creation.

The human act of copulation is not a child’s business. Children are just the result…

The man who assaulted me knew this. He knew he had no business going in my pants. I knew too and tried to stop him. It took him seconds to ruin my life, to change my perspective. In that moment, he set me apart from everything. He distanced me from my peers, my step mother, my father and just about everyone I knew.

How could a weak man gain control over strong, healthy and vibrant women other than to sabotage her as a child? This man is a coward, no more. A terminator of women…going back to a weaker point in their biological past to ruin them.

I know now he lacks the respect for women he should have, and his action is that of a misogynist.

I stayed fascinated with sex for decades, attempting to understand it’s dynamics. I can tell what desire is and what is hatred. I recognise love and respect and can see usage and control.

He was looking at my face when he hurt me. His was not a pretty face.

The man who assaulted me did not fancy me. He wasn’t attracted to me…he isn’t attracted to children. I’ll be very clear, he was into ruination, he wanted to destroy, to take my soul – his intention was only to hurt and cause pain.

He knew I was confused, he hoped it’d be hurting me forever, but it didn’t appear to make him happy. His brown, watery eyes were sad and angry as they looked into mine.

Gaining only sour gratification of his bitter hatred for women, he assaulted me, and then walked away. For all I know, back to his wife and children. Sorry, but it could be true – it’s all too late to do anything now and I didn’t do anything then.

The last human bone fuses for adulthood around thirty years old. I’m still confused at how females can be safely ready for child birth or penetrative sex beforehand.

Perhaps a doctor could explain it to me? Vets protect the youngsters from grown adult males in zoos.

Paedophiles are nothing more than human time travelling terminators, murderers of souls. They should not be given an audience at any level other than disgust. They should be kept away from society and not housed near families. I’d go as far to say that they should all be rounded up and put in Chinese style re-education camps until they change their views.


The End.

By Samantha “unextraordinarybint” Harris.

A small part of my own life story.

 

 

 

Destruction- poem

The war machine swims unseen

It slides, drifts in between

Hammer, hammer, hammer

Push, push, push

Making their need a must

Jobs for the many

Death for the due

It could be me

It could be

You.

***

<p id="destruction_poem_samanthaharris" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">by Samantha "unextraordinarybint" Harris.by Samantha “unextraordinarybint” Harris.

The Whiteness and Bloody Americans. Rant.

What is wrong with white people? This is aimed at white people in Europe not the States. I’m English and would also class myself as European. I voted to remain for Brexit.

How can white people not realise they may be a target for hatred? Because, in the same way my (white) ancestors had to scream out for help to London, most are not aware.

The media and social media only tell what it wants, but if you look you will find independent news outlets now giving out the very depressing news. Youtube is worth watching if you can circumnavigate the PR stuff, filters, sexist and racist search results.

Stabbing and shootings in towns up and down the country have increased dramatically during lockdown…they stopped collecting ethnicity as it was getting very obvious. In response, Far right activity rose by 4% to 8% of our countries total terrorist threat. This resulted in a news blackout of the ongoing attacks.

But, I want to talk about our health and the NHS, and a woman called Rano Bains.

Why should you be interested in what she says? Because she is Head of Equality and Diversity for many NHS Trusts and hospitals (national health service) in England. It is her words which drive policy, funding and training in our wards and universities.

Rano Bain’s words…

“The whiteness refers to white consciousness – the ‘silent’, pervasive, cultural norm that informs and shapes our racial ideology. Whiteness is constructed as a formless, empty cultural space that is neutral, natural and normative. Whiteness, because it is an unnamed, hegemonic position of privilege and power, becomes the point of reference for measuring others, unlike “blackness” which has been named in the language of white signification. Whiteness has defied scrutiny as it does not seem like a culture as everyone is apparently the same.”

hmmm…plain English would have been nice…..However, I will attempt to break it down.

Do white people know what other white people think? She makes it sound like we are plugged into an invisible big psychic cloud. Her claims of white consciousness of people in Russia, Israel, Poland being the same as white people in England, Germany or America are terrible.

It shows her racism immediately. The first line says that she is viewing white people from a position of suspicion and it is white people who declare racial identity, to her. Is Ms Bains the type of person who should be running our ‘equality and diversity’ departments?

Current serving Ministers have declared that white privilege has no place being taught in our schools, but are they aware that it is taught in our NHS to our healthcare assistants, nurses and doctors?

White people come lower down the humanity chart to many people in the media, the health care profession and education. This has to change. All lives matter all faiths matter, including those without faith – that doesn’t mean they make the rules.

When people are not offered the same facilities and services it is called discrimination. (eg. TB vaccine). When they are not warned of extra risks to them, (eg. flu vaccine) this is racism.

White people are the only race not afforded the indigenous land protections.

In this manner, the United Nations is racist.

My country – The United Kingdom of the British Isles, is a country RICH in culture and heritage. It is wrong to say we have none. To be frank it is racist to say white people have no culture.

Terms like ‘snowy peaks, and ‘the whiteness‘ are racist. They should not be allowed within training programs in our national health system. They should be discredited by academics within our schools and universities.

Explain to me why white people are criticized for holding positions in predominantly white citizenships or companies? How can that possibly be racist? But, it isn’t racist that African’s insist on their land being owned by black people? It isn’t racist that native American Indians have land that is just theirs?

If white people want their own space, it’s racist?

Explain why Christians can’t say they hate Islam? Both are bad, but Christians have become tolerant and are the standing religion in the UK along with paganism. Religion isn’t even a race but somehow it is being added to our ‘hate crime’ laws, originally designed to protect everyone. Soon I will be unable to say I hate religion!!!

This directly threatens our free speech and our security.

Explain why a black person (from anywhere) is on our national news talking about feeling hurt because she suspects racism? She suspects it was racism…? She may be getting hassled for all sorts of reasons to assume it is racism is not on. Because she is in a predominantly white country she declares racism, but she works within a predominantly non white environment in the NHS in London.

Regardless.

How is this national news when the same day people were stabbed, on UK streets, for being white? Another incident only covered at a local level, as all of these types of murders now.

Murder by colour code. If you are a white murderer or white child killer you will be plastered over the media, if you are black/brown/not English you may not even get arrested if your child dies unexpectantly unless the public pull the police up.

Explain why George Floyd is on BBC but Cannon Hinnant isn’t? Neither murder happened in Britain (BBC stands for British Broadcasting Corp).

I’m scared. I stand as someone who was attacked by people who were not of my colour. I am not imagining the hatred towards me. I’m verbally attacked when I leave my home by an awful Russian woman (white). I’m scared of the doctors and nurses no matter what colour they are, as many view me as spoilt immediately because I am English. White Irish ambulance staff can be especially mean. All white people are not the same!

As an English person I learnt a long time ago to lie about where I am from, but I will never again. I educated myself away from the white guilt, the same as I educated myself away from the Christian guilt and can now see it for what it is. Both are run for greed, envy, laziness, brainwashing and corruption.

I stand as someone who was born in Plymouth, Devon, England. The full history is not covered by the Americans EVER…they remain race blind on the slave trade history because of their own sordid history and because it suits certain people politically.

This lady, Rano Bains (no idea where she is from), has a nerve to say this of England with her Whiteness perspective. However, we are the most tolerant of countries. Perhaps she cannot see a long history or culture within our country, but surely this does not mean there isn’t one?

I read her pdf in 2018 and have been stewing since. I didn’t want to do a piece as I don’t want to add to a rise of hatred towards anyone but it seems I do need to defend myself and my life. A black lady is found online saying all white people are inbred and most of the comments underneath agreed…however, you will not be able to find it.

Search for any attack on a white person and google immediately takes you to black lives matter material unless you know the name of the victim and the date you will not find it on referenced on our news. Google is not relevant and neither is youtube.

White people are not the same, nor do we think we are the same. We are classed as white for measurement of resources for assurances to black and brown people to ensure that facilities are shared equally.

Also, we now appear to have strange advert quotas – air brushing blond people from TV, advertising, film and social media in Europe is also getting very tedious. European people are white. Get over it. Stop telling us we are racist.

White people are just people. We don’t deserve any more or any less than any other human. It is Rano Bain’s term, The Whiteness, that gave birth to many of my poems reflecting as The Blackness….ideally I wouldn’t be seeing the world in this manner. I never used to. But, this is obviously the idea, after all, you cannot capture a culture and it’s resources without upsetting a few people.

Our national anthem has come under attack. Us Brits will ignore it and will carry on with it but for the English (traitors), Americans, Indians, Pakistanis, Russians and African who called for it to be banned, please get a education by reading the following.

The history behind the British song Rule Britannia, UK national anthem.
In the 1600s the seas around Britain were ruled by North African Slavers(who were black). They boarded British ships and carried off the crews (whites) to be sold as slaves in Africa. The situation became so bad that fishermen wouldn’t put out to sea in case they were captured by African Slave Traders.
Between 1609 and 1616, 466 British ships were captured by Slave Traders in the English Channel, Irish Sea and North Atlantic, and the crews were sold into slavery. White crews.

Some other historical news stories from England include,

In 1625, sixty English people (white) who had taken refuge in a local church were dragged out, loaded up and taken off to Africa to be sold as slaves from Mount’s Bay in Cornwall

On 12 August 1625 the Mayor of Plymouth wrote to London for military help after 27 ships had been seized by North African Muslim Slave Traders in just 10 days.

In 1645, 240 people were seized as slaves in Cornwall.

White people – valued by other nations because of the colour of their skin for abuses in other countries. We didn’t value ourselves higher because of our skin they did because they wanted it.

One or two survived, made their way back to England and wrote of their capture, but most didn’t.

The situation only began to improve for Britain after the end of our English Civil War when the Royal Navy was built up under Oliver Cromwell.

By 1700, North African Slavers generally knew better.

It was in honour of this defence of our security, that in 1740, James Thompson wrote ‘Rule Britannia’.

Apathy will not help our children or our grandchildren. I stupidly did not go to the police over my own attack in Kings College Hospital but I did complain and I did go to my GP about my injuries so it is a matter of record. I also took photos of my injuries, they amounted to bruising.

People need to stop talking about racism as if white people are always responsible. Racists are everywhere and you cannot tell them by their colour.

Stop believing that because of colour you should have less and be grateful because you have nothing to feel bad about.

Stop believing that because of colour you should have more and other people owe you something.

The end.

Leave a comment if you like, I suspect this will be filtered out of google and bing search anyway.

Thanks for reading.

If anyone else can decode Ms Rano Bain’s words please enlighten me. Pardon the pun.

Letters 25th November 2020. RE Flu.

So, today I got a letter. Like the recent text messages, it tells me that I need to have my flu vaccine. It tells me that it is my responsibility to get it because of covid19…blah, blah, blah.

Good stuff you may think. I may add that I think vaccines, overall, are a good thing.

However, I am auto-immune deficient because of a foreign body reaction to polypropylene which was placed in my pelvic area during a hysterectomy for Endometriosis. I had my flu vaccine last year as I have COPD and Ehlers Danlos.

I didn’t know last year, that people who are immune compromised shouldn’t be offered the new adjuvanted flu vaccine and, it seems, neither did my doctor and I became very ill with flu over Christmas 2019. Two things –

  1. I shouldn’t have been offered this particular flu vaccine and should have had the normal one.
  2. My reaction to the new adjuvanted vaccine must not have been picked up by the system.

I called the GP. I spent three whole minutes listening to their automatic message telling me to go to the website and do the business online. Whilst listening I did try their online consultation but it is not possible to turn off the tracking cookies so my PC says no.

Anyway, I get to speak to the receptionist and explain I need a COPD check and to talk about the flu vaccine I keep being asked to have. A doctor calls me within the hour which is amazing as I just waited ten days for telephone consultation over my sore rectum.

We speak for around fifteen minutes. She checks my records, see the novel virus diagnosis and logged visits to myself last year after my flu vaccine. She has no problem checking the box which says that I had a reaction and not to be invited for it again. Brilliant stuff.

Having read the recent warnings from the American drug regulators I am wondering if the UK will also issue a similar warning. It is not suitable for everyone. Vaccines are not a one treatment for all and should be used on patients able to cope physically.

As always, thank you for your time.

Ruby Wax and Me – Nipple Poetic Story

There is a woman called Ruby Wax.

A more lovely woman you would not see.

She has cheeks of red which glow, and she hates them so.

Excitable she be and there are none funnier than she.

In earlier days she travelled around England to circumvent our inhabitants.

With Hit and Run, she met me.

Robert Lenkievitz’s model was I with breasts that you could anchor a ship on.

A study of St. Anthony found me naked on the BBC.

The next day, at my work, Boss was grinning like a jerk.

By lunchtime she’d made me coffee and then slyly asked me.

Yes, it was me.

Modelling naked on the TV.

Better though, I said, glowing rather red, was being interviewed by Ruby Wax.

I was immortalised on canvas and TV and that history could haunt me.

But proud, eventually, I would become; of my breasts, nipples and bum.

Meeting Ruby Wax who is a comedy best was the making of that assignment for me.

Afterwards, she went down to Longleat, for tea.

I went back to my bar, as the maid I really was, then I got fired because I’d posed naked for The Painter. See? One rule for one and another for me.

Now, I have Ruby Wax on my Facebook but she does not know that I was the body on which one of her episodes did close.

The End.

Thanks for reading.

https://youtu.be/TqlN3zJUWEY – you tube links are rather unreliable in UK so you could search for,

“Ruby Wax meets Robert Lenkiewicz in Plymouth, 1990. Hit and Run. “

Thanks for your time.

https://youtu.be/TqlN3zJUWEY

It took a year for this program to air – hence the two job reactions.

Ancestors Race – Poem

Ancestors tell me

In voices clear

Be close, but not near.

For centuries they took us

Never seen again

Ancient bones remain hidden

Under greed, envy and pain.

Wrath settles in dust.

Waken state they wake

Soldiers shoulders wide

Enemies show their scales

Poking the bear on the line.

Snakes rattle and spit

Ancestors remind me of it

Pirates of Barbary

Fair freedoms fought

Hold children safe

Whilst history is untaught

As we move into darkness

I hold to brotherly faith

I remember the contest but

Never the race.

The end.

By Samantha Harris

Friday the 13th Flash Adult Horror

Friday the 13th November 2020

The Modelling Assignment.

“Good Luck!” Jessie’s mother shouted seeing her daughter readying herself at the front door. The tall blond girl pulled her Chelsea football scarf from the hat rack and threw it around her neck and put her head around the kitchen door. Her mum was stood at the counter making a cup of tea.

“Thanks Mum. See you later for dinner. ‘love you.”

“Just remember you are as good as everyone else there…better! I love you too!”

Jessie pulled the front door behind her and pushed her scarf up against her chin. It was cold. It was an oddity of modelling work to be ahead of season. Today’s casting was for swimwear. It would be filmed in December for the following Summer.

The beaches will look enticing, empty, and warm because the models will make it look hot and inviting. The reality being that they were usually modelling bikinis and one pieces in between dashes into warm blankets and gulping down mugs of soup. There was always lots of makeup to cover up the red noses.

Today’s casting was in Paddington Recreational ground. Jessie travelled across London on the underground and stood waiting for the 81 bus for the remaining part of the journey. There was another model, Jessie could tell by the portfolio, stood waiting and they smiled at each other.

The woman was tall, blonde with blue eyes just like Jessie but her skin was clear, and her hair was long and extremely straight. She had a different shape to Jessie in that her body looked more toned and you could see a hint of muscle.

“Are you going for the Yellow Studio casting for Weeelo swimwear by any chance?” Jessie asked.

“Yes, I am doing this.” The model replied with thick Eastern European accent. “You doing this also?”

Jessie smiled and nodded as the bus came chugging into the stop and they both got on. The rest of the bus watched as they showed their Oyster cards to the driver and looked for somewhere to sit. A middle-aged man sat on his own stood up and invited them both to take his bench so that they could sit together.

“Thank you, very much.” They both said in unison and laughed together.

More people got on the bus and it threaded its way over speedbumps and through narrow streets until the stop at the bottom of the Park. They got off and brushed themselves over, using each other’s eye to check over each other’s back and hair. Both satisfied that they were as presentable as possible they walked into the leisure block where the casting was to take place.

A woman with a clip board approached them, “Girls! Are you here for the Weeelo casting?”

Her energy was high and contagious, both Jessie and her new friend and competition replied,

“yes!”

They were given pens and led to seats where they could fill out the forms. They were the usual model declaration. They gave the rights of the photos to the photographers but also stated that these were just for casting purposes and could not be used for published work.

A few moment later the employee came back with a selection of swimwear and told them a makeup artist would be with them shortly. She introduced herself as the photographer’s assistant and then said they should wait while she went to get drinks.

Jessie and the other model looked at each other.

They were both thinking the same thing. Why did they need makeup artist on a casting for swimwear? These were supposed to be ‘dummy’ shots. To see if the fit is right and whether they can model. Jessie walked to the end of the waiting room they’d been put in and opened the door. Expecting to see photographic lights, umbrellas, and rails, she was shocked to see nothing.

She looked at her perspective coworker. “What’s your name?”

“Greta Hombronas. What was in there?”

“Nothing was in there. There is no photographic equipment in there.”

“Maybe they shoot it on phone?” Greta responded her eyebrows raising optimistically.

“Maybe. Maybe we should get out of here Greta. After all, I got this lead from The Standard so where is everyone else?”

“True, it is not very busy here.” Greta looked seriously around the place, as if for the first time, “I think, maybe, you are right. Shall we go and get coffee?” She smiled at Jessie with a perfect set of railings and stood up.

Footsteps drew their eye to the door.

“Not going, already are we?” Stated a tall, dark haired man, stood there. Jessie moved closer towards Greta as four more men gathered behind him. The girls looked at each other nervously picked up the forms they’d filled out and tried to walk through the men, out the door. The men blocked their way and pushed them back into the room.

Jessie stood helplessly as two of the men held her arms fast on either side of her. The only man who had spoken took a syringe from his inside jacket pocket and jabbed it into her stomach. He pulled her chin up to his face as he plunged the contents of it into her.

She was aware that Greta was also being held and injected as she slipped onto the floor, between the strangers, into a deep sleep.

******

It was dark when she woke as she could not see through the binding on her eyes. Her arms and legs were bound with rope. Her fingers and skin could feel the familiar touch of wood. But this wood was unfinished and rough. She was in some sort of crate. It felt like it was packed with straw and there was a strong smell of animals and urine.

Trying to shout out for help found her mouth packed with cloth and her throat could only manage a low moan, raspy from thirst. What had they given her? Her head was hurting, and the straw packed between her naked thighs and under her arms was itchy.

She banged her bare heels against the wood at her feet three times. Listening out she thought she could hear three bangs back as engine sounds bombarded the space around her head, hurting her ears with its powerful thrusts.

Jessie tried to sleep, going in and out of consciousness with waking moments where she felt that the crate was being moved. The soft sensation of swinging and men’s voices shouting in the distance before a bone bumping journey which lasted over a day and was unbearably painful. It was three days and two nights before they stopped still, and silence surrounded.

Jessie could hear low whimpering faintly in the distance, she tried to bang on the floor of her crate, but the straw had shifted down under her during the journey and she achieved no sound that Greta could hear and be comforted by. Tears started flowing from her closed eyes as the crate was opened and she felt hands stroke her breasts, her stomach and between her legs.

“She looks good. No damage that I can see. Aww look, she cries. Is there more sedative?”

Jessie felt the prick of the needle as it entered her stomach shortly before passing out again.

***************

Jessie woke up lying next to Greta in a large marble room. The floor was cold and hard. Raising herself up to sitting position she started massaging her legs and arms. Welts were red on her wrists and ankles where the ropes had been but now, she wore a simple white robe.

Greta was also dressed in white. Her face was bruised. She had been savagely beaten as her face was swollen, both eyes were blackened and her bottom lip badly split. She laid on the floor looking up towards the crystal white ceiling without moving. Blood was spotted on her gown around her pelvis and her feet were bleeding.

Large, golden doors at the end of the room opened and a group of children, lined up in a row, walked through looking straight ahead of them. Behind them, also in a line, came nine women dressed in dark green with yellow sashes and veils. The women stared at them as they walked past and stood, queued, near a smaller door, looking back at the entrance.

Jessie tried to stand up, but her legs were not able to take her weight and she fell over. The women chuckled as the men made their way into the hall. One of the men shouted something out towards the women that Jessie did not understand and they skuttled away still laughing.

“They think your blond pubic hair is very funny. I must admit to finding it a little off putting so my aids will come and shave you to my tastes. It is lucky you are a virgin.”

He walked around them, his shoes tapping on the floor near her hands.

“Your friend was not so good at looking after her honour. He prodded Greta with the tip of his shoe into her torso. She did not react. It was not felt necessary to protect her from the workers. She fought hard, as you can see.”

Jessie tried to say, “What will you be doing with us?” but her voice was still suffering from the effects of the cloth and she needed water badly. Her head spun but she could make out three beds being rolled into the room, scraping lightly along the marble. Greta was lifted on to a white single width bed. Women came in with screens and placed them around the larger bed.

Three women came over to Jessie with a bowl of warm, scented water and a razor. Two of them held her legs open whilst the third shaved her bare. She sat, in shock, just watching them. Willing herself to wake up from this nightmare and be back at home. Time for her tea, sat chatting with her mother. The women continued to talk and laugh. Jessie blinked furiously but could find no words.

The woman shaving Jessie turned to the man and asks him something and the man shakes his head. His eyes closed and a smile dances upon his lips as the woman pinches Jessie’s bud hard between her finger and thumb. She brings the razor down hard across it and in one swift, strong movement, removed it. Blood splattered over the white gown as Jessie tried to kick the women holding her.

Her screams were met with a punch in the face and cloth back in her mouth whilst the women then swiftly stitched up the gaping hole and sprayed it with antiseptic to stop the bleeding. One of the women clapped three times in the air. A white hatted dwarf, his eyes facing the floor, came with a gold dish and collected up the bloody flesh.

The women pulled Jessie up onto the larger double bed. Partitions screened her off from the rest of the room. Her arms were tied up above her and her legs were tied apart to golden attachments on the bed. The women came, and one by one, left a red rose on her stomach.

Jessie’s eyes grew large as the tall man came to the bottom of the bed. He lifted up his robe, “Ah such beautiful body. You will be forever beautiful my lovely.”

He pulled her down towards him, her arms stretching, and shoulders popped. Her screams muffled and she tried to twist her body painfully away. He pushed his fingers into her bloodied vulva, exposing her vagina. He lifted his gown and penetrated her with one sharp thrust, releasing himself immediately.

Raising his hands in the air he raised his hands and clapped three times as he withdrew from the bed, his gown falling back down to cover him. Jessie turned her head to see a young boy come in with a water bowl. Without looking at his master or her the boy reached underneath his gown and sponged him clean of her blood.

The partition was removed, and Jessie was untied from the large bed and placed on a single bed near to Greta’s lifeless body by four of the men carrying each limb. Jessie could feel their hands touching and probing her before binding her again with cuffs attached to the beds.

One of the men approached and stuck sticky tape across her mouth. Forcing the cloth deep into the back of her throat it muted the moaning sounds which had been escaping her.

Silence then descended over the large hall as everyone left. Jessie and Greta were laid head to head, naked and bound for what seemed like hours. Jessie wrestled with her right hand, forcing her thumb to dislocate she pulled her hand free. Working quickly she pulled the tape off her face and spoke to Greta as she worked to free her other hand.

“Greta can you walk?”

Jessie reached out her free hand to touch her new friends face. It felt cold and sticky and she knew Greta was dead. Cold, stark fear flooded through her as the coldness of Greta seemed to seep into her own body and sap her strength.

“Oi. Nah!” Shouted a deep male voice from across the hall.

Jessie saw the tall man. He’d changed his gown to a black robe with white flowing ribbons and was flanked by the children. Jessie looked at his face and at the children’s.

“Please let me go. You have one murder on your hands. Do not make it two. Please. You don’t have to do this…” She pleaded, staring at him deep into his black eyes.

“Ah this is not murder my lovely lady. My Queen. This is ritual. My family have performed this ritual for luck and prosperity for over three thousand years. We feast upon the most honored rose lady and she brings us luck. This year, this is you.”

My children will prepare you for the feast.

Jessie screamed, pulling at her tied hand, as the children open their long red satin coats. They each drew out a blade and ran towards her…

The End.

Still Here – Song

I’m still here.

Waiting around

for you to come round 

if you’re near

I’m still here

Division around

I’m listening for sounds

That you hear

I’m still here. The weakness keep coming and I keep driving it away

I’m still loving you every day

I’m feeling you getting weaker but I keep pulling you my way

I’m still here, I’m still here, I’m still here

I’m still here

Divison around

I’m listening for sounds

That you hear

I’m still here

Waiting around

For you to stop acting

Like a clown

I’m still here

I’m still here

I’m still here

I’m still here

I’m still here

I’m still here

Stlll Here By Samantha Harris written 7th November 2020 Watford, UK.

https://soundcloud.com/samantha-harris-33/still-here-by-samanthaharrissoundcloud if you have an account.

Thanks folks.

Calls for Harrow Council to clarify Harrow Viewpoint works | This Is Local London

https://www.thisislocallondon.co.uk/news/18860123.calls-harrow-council-clarify-harrow-viewpoint-works/

This is an extremely important pagan site.

They closed it off saying they were going to redo the carpark.

However, there is zero access to the public now and it looks like they are redeveloping.

Zero public consultation.

This land is our land!

Leviticus 2-13 Salt

I’m looking into some bits for research and come across this Bible passage.

It has undergone many changes over the centuries.

I like King James version but I suspect believers have their own take.

All the versions are fascinating and say something of the time they are in.

They are all to do with offering meat or grain to God but ensuring it had salt.

Does God have a savoury snack thing going on?

In my country, UK, we have a very popular saying, “I’ll take that with a pinch of salt.”

It means that what you are being presented with is not worth believing.

Funny, as both that saying and the Bible were made/printed and published in England, UK.

Many people have told me that because I live in England I must be a Christian. No, we lived UNDER Christainity for centuries but now the law and the Church are separate.

Most people in the UK are pagan or atheist. The rest is divided by the many surviving different sects of Christianity and other fashionable religions.

Stone Henge is still our cultural spiritual home. Wood Henge, close by, reminds us of the movement/growth of faiths and how they change.

Most of what people read about UK is propaganda. It’s like the shock I got when I went to Israel. The media lie.

Religion has it’s place but it should be taken for what it is, words written by humans.

Leviticus is saying something with this passage and I believe it’s about not taking it too seriously…

Thanks for reading.

By the way, I was researching, ‘How to Make Bible Cake”, when I found the passage.

Could be a good covid19 challenge for you all – boredom is a good motivator.

Stop Discrimination in Medicine

Over and over again we are told only some people can get certain diseases and other races cannot. Even if results come back indicating a blood disorder, sickle cell will not be tested for…maybe even rickets would not be picked up because of your childs genetic makeup…although they don’t know your child’s genetic makeup…they do that on sight, by name or nationality. They = Doctors.

Rickets is a disease where monitoring and treatment is being targeted towards non whites when every child is at equal risk. Here is a medical paper saying it isn’t just non whites who suffer from it…attempting to make racist doctors understand that white children get ill too.

https://www.thelancet.com/journals/lancet/article/PIIS0140-6736(14)60211-7/fulltexthttps://www.thelancet.com/journals/lancet/article/PIIS0140-6736(14)60211-7/fulltext

We’ve accepted racism and allowed it to enter our health professions. As a result Rickets is on the rise and many of our sick children go undiagnosed with painful diseases for lengthy periods.

We must call out racist papers and medical trials. If a drug is to be safe or a treatment, it must be safe for everyone. As genetically we are all different – not all white people are the same, not all black people are the same and there are billions of people inbetween.

Allopurinol – known to have vicious side effects in non whites is not usually prescribed to black folks in England, or shouldn’t be. It was given to me though and caused major rash and major gout attack.

But, much worse than that, I found this video. It doesn’t even warn against giving it to black people…

So, we are all at the mercy of this distrust and it is caused by the Pharma companies.

Please be cautious about any medication given to you and read the small print carefully.

Stay safe.

Thanks for reading.

I wonder how many other drugs are known to cause harm depending on your genetics?

South African Women Be Careful

We know the media do their own things these days and news isn’t what it was. The mesh scandal was quickly swallowed up by covid19 news here in the UK.

The TVT polypropylene – the vaginal sort. It is dangerous and pharma are now going to push it at other countries. In order to make you want it they may tell you it’s worked really well here, it hasn’t.

And I found this…

LIARS

The ban is in place for a reason. You are not being denied something that is good. It was not licenced in your country because it isn’t safe. PR companies will be writing articles saying how wonderful it is. Terms like ‘gold standard’ will be used and they will claim only a tiny percentage suffer side effects.

We have fought long and hard to be listened to in our countries. Many of us are maimed and more of us cannot have sex comfortably, if at all. Plus, we still have the wee problem.

The same firm who makes them, Johnson and Johnson, advertise constantly on our TVs to sell us the pads to clear up after our bladders. Ironic.

However, we organised, we’ve realised that many of us had untreated bugs in our bladder before the operations and that was partly responsible for the loss of control.

Rather than sort this out they claim it’s our physiological makeup and surgically attempt to fix us.

It is always down to the individual but a life without sex is pretty grim. The Gynaes here have dismissed us for decades with comment like “you can still do anal”. (Not everyone likes anal).

Stay safe and please do not believe everything the pharma tells you. Look to traditional methods.

There is an old surgical method which was used for centuries which doesn’t involve shoving plastic in your pelvic region. A couple of stitches in the right place. Could be done with cameras etc still. Do not let them put plastic inside you. It makes you feel ill.

Thanks for reading.

End of today’s rant.

Black/White Magic and Jesus.

The term is not good enough.

The term is wrong.

It ought to be Bad and Good Magic.

How did it become colour coded?

Down the rabbit hole, I look and discover that magic is practiced by all races and all types of humans. Basically it is the prayer device of pagans.

Let’s look into what bad magic is….

Rituals and spells designed to hurt people, often for monetary gain but also from anger, revenge or really poor guidance.

Voodo dolls could be seen as bad magic…

Voodo is rarely practiced in England by pagans (until migrants brought it here) but often practiced in Africa and the Americas. The links will take you to youtube videos of badly performed magic.. If practiced in England it is done on the quiet as it is seen as evil magic to many people.

Sorry, but it is. End of. Does harm = evil.

Magic and religion have gone modern. They use materials available in their environment, and have moved to music and video to spread their message. They have moved on from books and posters.

Sacrifice is another issue – some would say it is good magic and others, like myself, would say it is bad. I’d go further and say it is evil. Killing something to gain advantage somewhere else? Come on!

The word ‘sacrifice’ is used and banded about with little thought as to what it really means.

Sacrifice is supposed to hurt the first person, YOU – ie, you do something to yourself which will mean work or pain in order to attain something of value. It has been mis used, the term sacrifice, by religion and magic and it has to stop. So, just stop it, okay?

I’ve heard terrible tales of sacrifice of animals, children and adults from across the world in the name of magic or religion… This sacrifice is never going to work as there is no sacrifice by the person who is doing the ‘spell’ / ‘incantation’ or ‘prayer’. They are going through zero pain or work – they’ve done it by proxy so, to be honest, it’s just killing life for nothing (money is often involved). You are sad cases.

Real magic or religion should not be about hurting others. I’ve always been led to believe that all bad magic done will come back three fold on the binder (the person doing the spell or prayer).

However, I’ve known large groups of religious and magical orders who use other methods to unsure that their ‘spells’ or ‘prayers’ do work. This is fraud and corruption to attempt to show that the faith put in them is not wasted. They work in gangs, fellowships and brotherhoods.

It is not possible for a person to take evil from another by any method other than kindness. It is only this which can discover truth.

Fear and violence will only ever bring lies. I may add here that I have come across people that the ‘kindness’ may be removing them from society and showing them another life pathway.

People are not kind by colour or faith. That is not a proper way to measure ‘goodness’.

Rabis, binders, priests, imams, witches, pagans, pastors all practise soul searching and self esteem magic. They have a responsibility to keep it good. They have to ensure that it doesn’t become bad or disjointed by judgement and evil thoughts towards others who are different.

There is no black or white magic – just good and bad.

I practise good magic and I happen to be white. This doesn’t make me a white goddess – being black and practising magic doesn’t make a black goddess either.

Yesterday someone attempted to burn me on youtube by telling me that as I am a muzungu he would not talk to me. For those not aware of this term, it is used towards people deemed of ‘priviledge’ given to foreigners in Africa who are white.

As white people are usually good and fair in life most people in Africa USED TO BE very curtious towards people who do not look like them. Mzungu used to be a good term…it is not now.

This gentleman, as well as others, decided that as I was a muzungu, I shouldn’t be on the BBC youtube page and commenting on ‘black things’. Shouldn’t I? What are ‘black things’?

I would like to point out again that the BBC means British Broadcasting Corporation and Britain is a Caucasion country, that is until the influx of mass migration – so I am the indigenous citizen in my land and am allowed to have an opinion on my national TV channel, surely?

American race politics trying to gain black fascist power in England…by saying that we are racist. This woman actually attended Oxford University. She is very privileged compared to most of us…England’s history is white sorry, it just is. African’s history is black and Europe’s history is white – generally.

Putting up all this stuff in the name of God…btw. The internet is full of this stuff and most white people are totally unaware of this battle of good and bad or black and white. They are unaware of them being evil because they are white.

Like Voodo this damage is being done on the quiet using language that Europeans do not know.

Europeans don’t understand that these ‘race’ soldiers are running our NHS services/schools/councils etc. My country is completely unaware of the spells and prayers being said against it. I was unaware of the hatred towards me because I am white until I dated a black man. He was Ugandan and really sweet, his family, however were racist AF.

Please be kind. Please remember that you are human before you are black or white.

Being Jesus’ name into this battle is wrong. Jesus was not a racist as far as I am aware….

Also, BLM’s claims are wrong, I have always know Jesus was black – we know that – he was from the Middle East/North Africa so it is more than likely he was not pure white.

Black religious fascists should be called out. Using the internet and secret codes is as bad as doing voodo behind our backs. Saying prayers and moving against a whole nation of people because of their colour is wrong…these ‘soldiers’ should stand down. There is no fight other than the good one.

They are not harmless. Just because they are doing it in the Lord’s name doesn’t make it right.

– mzungu, look it up.

Is this Black Magic or BAD magic ?

I think it’s all very bad air.

Thanks for reading.

https://www.express.co.uk/news/uk/662564/Dentist-who-killed-Islamic-exorcist-at-London-voodoo-clinic-to-be-indefinitely-detained https://www.express.co.uk/news/uk/662564/Dentist-who-killed-Islamic-exorcist-at-London-voodoo-clinic-to-be-indefinitely-detained

In Dice We Trust – Poem and Article

We’re going down

The shadow found

Yet, faith in each other

Will scupper others, and

Harmony will ground

They are thinly around

With barks lesser than bites

In mobs they attack

The Sportsman’s ship

Having taken sail in the night

Throw out your arms

Do rituals and charms

Say a prayer if you must

Once the needle is in

Changes begin

In the NHS we all trust

Tonight we strike up a light

We remember what is right

We put pay to the false narratives

All the chiroptera and fedoras

And NHS board room snorers

Will burn into the history of the Brits

The End.

By Samantha unextraordinary Harris.

*Remember, remember!
    The fifth of November,
    The Gunpowder treason and plot;
    I know of no reason
    Why the Gunpowder treason
    Should ever be forgot!
    Guy Fawkes and his companions
    Did the scheme contrive,
    To blow the King and Parliament
    All up alive.
    Threescore barrels, laid below,
    To prove old England’s overthrow.
    But, by God’s providence, him they catch,
    With a dark lantern, lighting a match!
    A stick and a stake
    For King James’s sake!
    If you won’t give me one,
    I’ll take two,
    The better for me,
    And the worse for you.
    A rope, a rope, to hang the Pope,
    A penny of cheese to choke him,
    A pint of beer to wash it down,
    And a jolly good fire to burn him.
    Holloa, boys! holloa, boys! make the bells ring!
    Holloa, boys! holloa boys! God save the King!
    Hip, hip, hooor-r-r-ray

Thanks for reading. First poem is mine the second is a traditional one – pagan. Pagan meaning ‘villager’ of course, it’s true meaning.

The 5th November celebrations in my country. They remember the time that religion attempted to overthrow our government. Back then, in the 1800s, we didn’t have newspapers or the media. We remembered things with poems and songs.

It was the Catholics back in the 1800s – hopefully no other religion would be so stupid.

Us English like our freedoms.

Every 5th November we celebrate by burning a dummy ‘guy’ on top of a bonfire. We usually have lots of fireworks too. This year, I don’t know what will happen. Large gatherings are illegal. Anyone found outside could get a fine up to £10,000.

But, this is England, our united kingdom spirit will not be soured.

Recent celebrations of Guy Fawkes night have found great entertainment in burning a likeness of anyone who happens to be really annoying the British public…

one of my favs

I think you get the idea.

It’s a great release and way to get celebrate without harm. It also is a celebration of continued free speech in our country. I know that the English will still find a way to celebrate. Things may seem really dark right now, and soon the nights will be coming in.

The sun will go down around 4pm and many of us will be happy to be home in the warm. Those of us still lucky to have work will be cursing the cold winds and rain. They will be turning their collars up, wrapping those scarves around their masks and looking forward to the Spring weather. In the mean time there is much to be thankful for in an unmaterial way.

Freedom and happiness, it’s not either or – it’s not a choice, both are essential for life. I’m grateful to live in a country where I have both. Long may it continue.

Today I am hoping warmth and peace to everyone, everywhere.

Thanks for reading.

2020 5th Nov 6pm

Watch “Special report: Infected Blood – The search for truth” on YouTube

So, while the world is looking at blood transfusions to fix the ‘covid19 nightmare’…this is going on.

The link above is for the youtube coverage of the NHS blood scandal which started in the late 1970s and continued – disgustingly- until the 1990s, accidently killing thousands including Anita Roddick who was The Body Shop founder.

It has taken forty years to get here and they have been investigating for some years now.

But was it really an accident?

I’ve been listening to the inquiry and it’s rather sickening. It’s more than sickening. It’s criminal.

At the time in the 1980s, 1990s, the patients’ questions were ignored, children were diagnosed and treated with large amounts of factor 8 after it was known to contain American prison drug users blood infected with the AIDs Virus.

After hours of questioning, the doctor did, when asked if he had anything to say, broke down and said, “It’s bad isn’t it, it shouldn’t have happened”.

Too right it shouldn’t have happened. Thousands lost their lives and children. No one lost their job.

How he did not lose his job is astounding.

Yet, here we are again. Using blood products supposedly safe for use in covid19 patients if the originator has recovered from covid19…is the blood being super heat treated to make sure no other viruses or diseases are present?

If you listen to this inquiry you’ll realise that there is no guarantee of that.

Thanks for reading.

worth watching as not being covered in national media

Begum Bucket – Poem

There is a woman like a bulldog but meaner

She is so ugly no one should see her

Travelling far, against the law of this place,

Disgraced

She married an Islamic over believer.

Now, this believer was no achiever

Realising she was so displeasing on the eye

He blew himself up in order to leave her!

The proud widow then married a train of men

One after another the husbands came,

Her legs were bandy from the game

They sacrificed themselves to allah in the sky,

Rather than look daily at her, by on by.

Three blessed children, died one by one

Starved by her, or one of her many husbands.

No remorse does she feel.

God told her not to feed them, she says.

Many know her as Shamina Begum.

Fin

By Samantha ‘unextraordinarybint’ Harris

Regarding the Banglasdeshi/British (unfortunately) terrorist islamic fighter Shamina Begum who will be facing trial soon I hope but not in my country. She should go back to Bangladesh – or Afghanistan, or even back to Syria – which ever muslim country would take her. She wants to come back to Britain but she hasn’t shown she’s a Brit. All she’s shown is that she is a nasty piece of work who’s willing to say anything to make people forget her past and the terror she pushed.

She is not the only ISIS fighter who has been refused entry back into the country. Our government warned everyone here that anyone who left to join ISIS and use violence against our way of life would lose their citizenship.

Pull the Other One, it has Bells On! – Short Poem

Both Bing and Google are broken.

The internet spews up facts that are not.

People stare into a screen abyss forgetting their ability to recall.

Pathways are now built with feelings and walls.

If this is the new normal then I’m having none.

Falling out of love with the internet has begun.

End.

Samantha “unextraordinarybint” Harris

 

Sofa So Rubbish – Short Story

A seagull pecked at the open stitch on my arm, removing food left by baby. It gobbled down the biscuit, pecked at my frayed fabric more before flying off, out of sight, into the cloudy, blue horizon.

It was busy, the dump usually was. Large machines worked to break down the rubbish, moving methodically around the yard. Skips came in at one end, pulled by mud encrusted trucks, and were turned out at the other, onto an already huge pile.

Iron machines then gather around the edges, and eat.

This scene, which I look upon now, is different to how I’ve spent most of my time. Rarely I’ve been so wet, or the glue between my joints felt so soft. My struts and bindings hang loose and slack but I still remember when I was taut and strong; my springs young and full of bounce. Now they are rigid with age, they hold the frail fabric, stretched across me. Fabric which was once deep grey, Teflon coated and hid every stitch I had.

All my dignity has gone. It faded with the material that clothed me, replaced with years of memories of bums, bodies. Colourful lives lived on, off and around me.

Before my family found me I stayed with other sofas. If I try really hard, I can remember the smell on the shop floor. It had had an odd odour of acrid fire retardant chemicals, a mixture of nice and nasty which made people sneeze. The gleaming windows smelled strongly of vinegar that would permeate the air. This is mixed with memories of the families who trailed past me with their children crying, and sometimes laughing.

I’d watch those parents clutching their offspring’s tiny hands. My young springs enjoyed the challenge of little feet jumping on me. There are echoes of scolding voices travelling in the air around me, recalling the parents’ wary, caring warnings.

The day my owners found me was a special day, an adoption of sorts. I stayed with them and served them until the paramedics came and found them without any warmth left within their bodies. There was half a century between the day the bought me and they day they left me. Fifty glorious years that went too fast.

Mr and Mrs Gold, not long married, came into the shop one cold, bright spring day. They’d saved money from their wedding day and, as they were expecting their first child, decided to buy a sofa. They saw me, looked at each other and sat down. As we touched the joy which swept through me was intense. I understood my desire and purpose was to serve them. Then, worryingly, they got up and walked away.

Devastated, I watched as they spoke with the man who walked around with the clip board. He and I had a strange relationship. He didn’t sit on me. He used to come up, almost sneaky like, push on my pillows then poke me. Perhaps he’d write down something on his clip board before walking away and doing the same to another of the waiting sofas.

They all sat together around the shop desk, and according to the wall clock, it was an hour before Mr and Mrs Gold stood up again, shook hands with Clipboardman and left the store. Afterwards, Clipboardman laid a notice upon me and no one else sat on me for the rest of the week.

On Saturday morning, the rosy cheeked packing women came with a large trolley full with bundles of packaging cardboard. Laughing and joking they moved around me. I felt special as they pulled up my cushions to place them in plastic bags. I was being protected. They wrapped the plastic from my cubed feet up over my back by running around me with massive roll which was almost as big as they stood!

Still chatting loudly, they heaved me up onto a trolley and wheeled me out of the shop. The light outside was harsh but the air smelt different, fresher and sweet. The sun heating up the plastic and I soon felt uncomfortable standing on the hard, dirty ground.

Then a noise I’d heard often before, suddenly, loudly surrounded the air around as the furniture truck backed up to the warehouse loading bay. I was hoisted up and slid ungraciously onto it. Clipboardman gave the truck driver a nod as he took the trolley away and pulled down the heavy metal door, leaving me in the dark.

My fear at being bundled off the dirty truck and manhandled through a doorway, which, at first, was seemingly too small, was forgotten when I realised I had arrived at the home of Mr and Mrs Gold. This was my family. They had chosen me! At full price too. Their home smelled of vanilla and roses.

Very different to now.

The smell of the decreasing pile of garbage, I am currently part, wafts up my nose and makes me want to vomit. The seagull is back tugging at something buried deep in my back. Squawking loudly, it’s attracted four others. Hungrily they rip me open. I feel the half-eaten chocolate, still partly covered in foil, jerked out from between my springs. I feel sad, as I’ve lost my treasure.

Remembering the intense feeling of devotion I breathe in the memory of how I used to feel, there was no furniture in The Gold’s house as important as I. The mother would sit to feed and cuddle the baby. The father would sit playing with mother and baby for hours, days and weeks. They’d sit together watching television or reading books day after day, week after week, month after month, then years and onto decades.

The baby had grown to a child. She’d felt so safe, so secure that her dropped snacks would be secure. She trusted that I would I look after them. For twenty years I did guard them with my soul. There were times when I thought she’d come back after she grew up and moved away but she never did. Too late now. Perhaps she’ll never know how I failed her.

The gulls fight over their prize. Squabbling in the sky. Teasing me with their cries. As if I wasn’t aware of where I was. I see their freedoms. The machines are getting closer. Beneath my left foot is nothing but air. I hang on. I see men with orange, hard hats pointing up at me and see their mouths move in serious speak.

This was the last place I can stand. Soon I will tumble down the pile and be pulled apart by the metal mouthed monsters. I defy gravity and hang there, just for a moment longer, swinging freely in the wonderful air. I view the world in one glorious flash as I fall.


By Samantha “unextraordinarybint” Harris

We're the sum of ourselves.

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