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.

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.

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.

200 Followers – poem

It’s cracking when you follow

It’s in ter est ing

I always go to see

One hundred posts the same?

How and what is that game?

Marketing is a must

WordPress in sentence with trust

I suspect I’m spam again

So, in my tin I will reign

Thank you to each of who do

Whether through interest

Or trying to covert

I hope I’ve made a connection

You are a barmy collection

And, loved, each of you

I’ve corresponded with some lovely sorts

Every one polite, pleased to report

Manners like gravy make my world go around

Now over two hundred followers I’ve found.

I’m thankful for my blog right now.

Writing from my tower in the clouds.

Fin.

By Samantha unextraordinarybint Harris

Quick note written in thanks for reaching 200 followers on wordpress. Thank you all.

Ugly Beauty – poem

Ugly is interesting

Staring is inclined

Just as beauty draws

It shows equality defined

Ugly shows a character

You’ve not witnessed before

Surrounding yourself with beauty

Can’t keep ugly from your door

Ugliness can teach you

Ugliness shows

Ugliness is not a choice

It, like beauty, grows

Ugly is a part of life

Becoming a decomposition of holes

Without it, you know nothing real

As, one side of life shows

Appreciate the ugly

We have it within

Knowing we all slide

Slowly, regretfully towards aging.

Fin

By Samantha unextraordinarybint Harris .

The Menopause – Blunt Adult View

Menopause – What is the point? This article is my personal relationship view and own body issues with ‘the change’ and I will talk about how it makes me feel sexually, emotionally, physically and mentally. I am going to discuss my fantasy sex life so if you are easily offended you shouldn’t read.

The list of ‘side effects’ which are linked to the menopause are bordering on stupid and could go on for pages so I’m going to concentrate on the main ones which affect me, mainly, of sexual appetite, sexual performance, foggy thoughts, hot flashes and night sweats

How many women go through the change without so called side effects? And can we really call them side effects when it is evident, they happen most of the time?

I’m fifty-one and have been going through the change now for four or five years.

It started, for me, with vomiting. Constant vomiting. I had that for two years.

It was then noted that my ovaries had probably shut down my womb had been previously removed so I didn’t have periods to stop and I was put on HRT.

I was on HRT for two years until I started getting breasts cysts and then advised to come off the HRT by the breast cancer clinic. My symptoms returned almost immediately. My concentrated work flow decreased. My anxiety increased. But the breast cysts did go…

The night sweats have returned with vengeance. The hot flashes and flushes are a real bind too. I now have Cyclizine on prescription for the nausea.

I got to thinking about the purpose of these hot flashes and flushes. The human body doesn’t generally do things unless they are necessary.

Why do millions of women still suffer from these things and would there be an evolutionary reason as to why these two symptoms, especially, are so prominent.

For myself I have not really lost my sex drive, but I have lost the ability to have the energy to do anything about it. In my fantasy head I’m attending the local dogging site regularly and doing trains of men one after the other.

The men I fantasise about are generally strangers. They are usually imagined as overweight and possessing small penises that cum quickly. I fantasise that I am filled with their cum and they are queuing to do me. Then perhaps there is a clean up guy who licks me until I cum then I’m open for business again attending my queue.

Gang bangs were never my thing and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want the reality as some guy with a huge cock who takes ages is bound to join the queue and my pain level would interfere with the pleasure journey. Be assured that Grannie is not about to go dogging.

I have a TVT which makes certain types of intercourse and sex very painful. The fact that the mesh interferes with my fantasy sex life as well as my actual sex life is sad and something perhaps one day the medical profession could look into? However, for the moment, this is the sex life that I have. One where I am wanting and unable to scratch.

Hot flashes. A sudden hot feeling from head to toe. This makes me feel ill and like I am about to pass out unless I completely get naked. I literally have to strip off every time it happens so that I don’t pass out (I have mitral valve of the heart). I live and work from home and live alone so this is not a problem – unless a neighbour calls without phoning!

Evolutionally, it feels like my ovaries are making themselves known and felt, like they are screaming “hey we’re still here, we’re still useful, come and fertilise us!” My skin is bright red like a beetroot so kind of ‘beacon like’. Red is usually a sex switch colour in mammals after all.

The same could be said for the flushes, full on sweat from head to toe. They happen mainly at night time for me. A time when people are thinking about love (and sleep). The moistness wakes me up. I’ve often perspired from head to toe and the bed sheets are drenched, the duvet is drenched, and the pillows and mattress are drenched. Again, the only way out is to get completely naked and uncover myself.

In order to get back to sleep I have a system of towels, dry blankets and a dry sofa which help me get through each night.

Not the environment for a sexual relationship but I do feel incredibly horny whilst sweating…

Trying to find any research is remarkably hard. Afterall I am a woman and all women go through the change so why isn’t there any research? We are half of the world’s total population at any one time. Why are these things called side effects? Surely, they are just effects of the change?

Also, why is it a blanket HRT treatment with zero look at what is actually lacking hormone wise? Transgender patients get a better service from the National Health Service. Women who still want to feel like themselves are the bottom of the pile it seems.

I’d love to know if other women are horny like me or if perhaps this is a side effect of the TVT? Everything I read tells me I should be getting drier down there…not so. Everything I read tells me that my sex drive will lessen…. not so. So, what is going on?

From the male’s point of view sexually a woman who has gone through the change can have sex without a condom and without fear of getting pregnant but why would women still want to have sex when they can longer get pregnant? Does this mean that women’s sexual organs are useful and necessary beyond the child rearing? Is this why it is denied constantly? Or am I a ‘one off’…?

As a woman gets older the vagina gets narrower. It can often get less wet, perhaps this is why I fantasise about lots of cum, as it would lubricate proceedings…? However, I’m still as wet as I was when I was a teenager, so I don’t fantasise about cum because I need it to lubricate…it’s more than that, much more primal. The cum represents ‘want’.

For me, I do not like a big cock or even the thought of a big cock (remember I don’t have a womb). I don’t need it and it is the sperm which excites me. The feeling of being wanted so much a man is willing to give me his life juice, men cumming super-fast is more exciting as it means he couldn’t control his want for me (in my fantasy).

This is probably the reason so many women join dating sites for an ego stroke and then leave. Women, well I certainly do, need to feel wanted. If my man isn’t dry humping me at every opportunity, I think he’s looking elsewhere.

This leads me to the emotional side of not being fertile. Knowing younger women have more to give, are more beautiful and youthful and that I am going into ‘crone’ stage is depressing. Many of us adopt the name ‘Grandma’ during this period of our lives and the change is more than physical. I’m not a bitter crone but many of my friends are and I cannot bare their company as they sit bitching about those younger. I stay in, a lot.

I spend the day (when I’m not ripping my clothes off) thinking about men and trying to remember what I was doing. I’m writing three books, all on the same fictional theme, and the organisational skills necessary are complicated and unique to my project. I get so confused that I have weeks between being able to write anything conjoined. Choosing to concentrate on shorter easier to accomplish articles seems to be how I cope. I need to feel productive.

Creative frustration is the outcome. I can create constantly, I do but much remains unpublished as it is ‘Bernard Manning Style’ poetry, angry and personal. It is not the complicated building of characters and chapters towards my books…my future, my way out of my TVT situation. I need money to get the removal and recovery treatment. So, not being able to be as productive as I was is an internal torment.

Piles of unpublishable material, ideas for the books, chapters and bits of the storyline for the books lie in different places around the flat, on different formats, laptops, books scraps of paper and every time I go to collate them, I freeze. I often think I need a manager, but I cannot afford a manager. I need myself as I was but that is not possible. That person has gone but her ambition still remains.

Alarms are needed for my memory. If I place something in the oven or start running a bath, I must also grab the digital alarm, put a time upon it and take it with me in my pocket or near where I am settled. This way when the alarm goes off and/ or forget it I will eventually realise that I have the alarm on me for a reason and go and investigate why I have it. This system helps me hugely as before I was always burning my dinner and overrunning the bath.

It is certainly motivation and management for long tasks that I struggle with most. Procrastination is obviously the problem but that comes from fear of failure and I don’t fear failure I am confident, so this frustrates me more and possibly adds to the brain fog as it adds to my anxiousness.

I am considering looking for another lover and am wondering how to word the advert to avoid the obvious physical properties. Something along the lines of Menopausal Woman Needs Man with High Libido and Small Cock would do but seems a little forward for Grandma.

Thanks for reading.

The Day I Met My Mother. Short real life story.

The Day I Met My Mum. Short real life read.

I was twenty two years old, married but separated and living in Brighton in the south of England when I first had news of my mother.

Maureen my mother lived in Plymouth, Devon, around four hundred miles from me. Even now, thirty years later, writing ‘my mother’ or thinking of her at all is proper alien to me. I am the beginning and the end of my family.

Knowing where you came from is a biological urge, but it is rare to find anyone in the same boat.

I’ve met many people who didn’t understand their fathers and some who didn’t know them at all but never met anyone else given up by their mother when they were one.

I had a friend whose mother left him with an aunt in Jamaica for eight years whilst she came to England to train to become a nurse. He said that when she did return home, she was like a stranger to him and he always had felt some awkwardness towards her but went on to recognise that she did it for him and his siblings.

I didn’t know how I felt about my mother. What did she leave me for? I suppose I should have been angry. But it’s not that easy. How can you feel anything when you don’t have a picture in your mind of who to be angry with? All I had was back handed remarks from my father and snippets of snide information from my step mother. My birth mother was a taboo subject.

If I’m honest, I don’t remember the drive down to Plymouth that weekend. It’s a journey I used to do more often but nowadays I barely remember the way and now would use googlemaps. Back then, I know I was intrigued and very nervous. Meeting my mother and Grandmother, Gwen, for the first time was an unprecedented life situation. A defining moment.

There was much to look forward to. Over the weekend I was due to meet other extended members of my family. I remember being happy. My partner, at the time was a man called Mike, he was an accountant. We thought we were in love. I was working as a model agent and instructor which kept me busy most days and two evenings during the week.

It was a weekend away. We were using his blue Ford Escort 1.4 for the journey. I loved driving his car. I’d never driven anything with less than three previous owners before and the journey down to Devon would have been quick as I always liked to drive fast.

Arriving at the bottom of Gwen’s tower block in Devonport, was unremarkable but forever indentured in my memory. The old worn heavy wooden doors gave way after I pressed the intercom to announce our arrival. The corridors and lift smelled as all council buildings smell; old, pissy with the faint taint of Special Brew. I live in tower block myself now and it is the same.

We arrived on her floor, the thirteenth, and buzz my biological Grandmother’s door. A small dark haired, wrinkled lady opens it and explains straight away that she isn’t my Nan. Her name is Ruby, and she’s Nan’s best friend. For some reason this flummoxed me briefly and Mike takes me arm. He gives me a nod of encouragement and we walked through the dark hall.

As we get to the end of the hall, a green frog, a soft toy security device, sounds out ‘rebbit’- making me jump but we follow Ruby through to where Nan is sat in her lounge.

I hear Nan laugh before I see her. Ruby sits down on the sofa nearest to Nan. My new/old/unknown Grandmother was sat in a chair to the right of me as I came through the door. In front of me were large picture windows looking out over Plymouth Sound. The view was breath-taking.

Photos were on every side and display collections of thimbles were on the walls. Grandmother Gwen’s short white hair stood up on her head above her pale forehead and almost invisible eyebrows. Her white skin was randomly spotted with light brown patches Her strong liquid blue eyes looked into my brown ones. We both had tears running down our faces as I leant down and hugged her for the first time ever, or at least for the first time since I was a tiny baby. She smelt of warm lavender air and talcum powder.

“Oh”, she said, wiping her eyes with a tissue from a box, “you look just like your photo, just like your mother and how I used to before the diabetes got me.” She referred to her huge size.

“Just like my photo?” I asked. I hoped that I didn’t sound as shocked as I was. My mind was swirling. They knew what I looked like. They had photos of me.  How could they know what I looked like when I didn’t know that they existed until a week ago? Had my father stayed in contact? I quickly saw it wasn’t that. New Nan proudly explained that they’d seen me in the local paper. They showed me the cuttings.

I’m glad I was sat down. I took it all in and Ruby made us all a cup of tea.

They all knew about me. They had the freedom to discuss me.

Nan chatted about biological Grandad and how much he’d loved Maureen and would have loved to see me again if he’d lived. I was shown boxes and boxes of photographs. Each one so important but all so overwhelming. I tried to remember all the names and places. What relation someone was to me, but it was too much. I couldn’t take it all in.

At some point I asked whether Maureen, lived nearby and then Nan said she’d call her for me. Then my grandmother picked up the phone and dialled her up on massive buttons. They spoke together on that telephone that was stood on a little wooden table near her floral arm chair. White doilies adorned both. The doilies were matching white cotton with embroidered roses. Nan gestured to me to come and talk. That was the first time I heard my mother’s voice. Stood on the dark reddish, brown, swirly patterned carpet, looking at my Nan’s elderly, eager face with the slimline plastic receiver in my hand held blaring against my ear.

What can I tell you? What did mum sound like? Well, there wasn’t tinkles and sprinkles of magic singing in my ears. Maureen had a heavy Devonshire accent and sounded like any other woman on the phone. She tells me she is at work and will come over when her shift finished.

I sit there for what seemed like an eternity, looking at black and whites, waiting to see what she looks like in real life. That really was the main thing I wanted to see. Shallow really but it’s the truth. I also wanted to know why she’d left me and what she was really like. Was she a tragic alcoholic who needed to party? I wanted to know her more than I felt any anger.

Finally, the door went. Ruby went to answer it. I looked at Mike. He looked back reassuringly. I was thankful he was there, being supportive, quiet and not intrusive.

My mother enters after the ‘rebbit’ followed by Ruby, who went to put the kettle on again.

Maureen stood across the room looking at me apprehensively. She said,

“Do you hate me?”

“No.” I replied. I looked at the woman who was my mother and my face cracked, so much emotional came forth and I cried heavily. I stood up and walked to her. I embraced her and she embraced me. She was smaller, fragile even. I carried on crying as we hugged. My desperate need for her to show me love overrode everything else and I don’t know how long we stood there like that just holding each other. She pulled away first. Telling me I had a sister and brothers. We sat and talked as Ruby served tea and my new Nan supplied biscuits.

I was shown the first photos I’d seen of myself as a baby. I was told my baby history. ‘Mother’ dropped me with my Aunt Chris on my first birthday so I could meet my father (Chris’s brother) and never went back for me. Maureen told me that she’d been breast feeding and they’d had to bind her to stop producing milk for me. She told me that I cried a lot. And that as my cousin was a Downs Syndrome baby.

It was difficult and their household could not cope with all of us. She was suffering with depression and didn’t want to make the journey back across Plymouth to get me. The longer she left it the easier it became then she met another man and got pregnant again. She tells me that it was difficult to love her new child, a son, because she was thinking about me.

We cried all afternoon. I see that she is similar but much smaller than me. The similarity is around the cheekbones and mouth, perhaps in the shape of the eyes. Maureen’s eyes are green so my browns must be from father. But the mannerisms surprised me. We both do similar things with our hands and heads when we talk or at rest. It was rather bizarre to witness. She tells me people call her Mo, but I decided to call her mum.

She invites Mike and I to her flat so that I can meet with one of my brothers and my sister. All fantasy that my mother had given me up to live a better life perished when I saw her flat and how modestly she lived.  My sister and brother were outstanding individuals and clearly close to Mo. We ordered fish and chips from the corner shop for tea.

My brother and sister were both blue eyed blondes so looked nothing like me. They tell me that my other brother, Matthew, is dark. I’ve yet to meet him to this day. In true Devon spirit my mother gives her bed to Mike and me for the night. The next day I meet the rest of my family from Devon and Cornwall and they make me feel welcome. I felt accepted but I didn’t feel like I belonged.

We were all close for a few years, Mum, her family and I, but by 2000 the relationship became sour, estranged and again, she is now unknown to me.

I’m glad that I know where I came from regardless of the fact that I no longer have a relationship with my biological mother and her family. I don’t belong to her tribe but because of her I never really belonged anywhere else.

Thanks for reading.

The End

Hair Colonies – Poem

Hair Colonies

Long hair is beautiful
But, it is the bind weed of the home
I hate stray hairs
I’m brunette (odd grey)
If I see a hair on the sink or side
Immediately, with it, into the bin I glide
Several reasons.
They wrap around the taps
They gather in the plug
They gather in the vacuum cleaner
Long hair is strong
It will inhabit an environment to which
It doesn’t belong
It will gather other hairs
Any hair
From any region – yuk
Any colour, colonies aren’t choosy
Even greys are acceptable
In their plans to take your hole
Then amazing strength you’ll see
Scissors and knives can shoved down the drain
To remove and attempt to regain
You’ll know the angiush…
Then, there is the hoover.
All that dust
Wrapped hair in colonies of lust
Undo this, undo that
Cut the fecking thing off
And, then put it all back
What a palava
And, you’ve still got the cleaning to do after!
Yeah, long hair is lovely
I could twiddle and twirl it all day
If only, when loose, they would all crawl away.

The End.
by Samantha “unextraordinarybint” Harris. Written 25th September 2020 Hertfordshire.UK.

 

Over A Thousand Likes

It’s a lovely thing

To hit a theme

To raise esteem

To be liked.

 

By Samantha “unextraordinarybint” Harris

Many thanks to all those who helped me achieve over one thousand likes on my blog.

Watch “NHS Going Going Almost Gone: David Halpin at UKIP SW -High Res” on YouTube

Let’s Sing a Spell for Happiness – Song

Let’s sing a spell for happiness

Let’s sing a song of love

Let’s toll the bells for all that’s well

Let’s shout it from above

I realise not everything is how it ought to be

Let’s not forget we have a voice

And lots of us believe

 

Let’s sing a song for happiness

Let’s cast a spell for love

There is no other worthy cause

That we’ve been dreaming of

Let’s sing a spell for happiness

Let’s cast a song for free

Remembering the love we have

For all humanity

Let’s sing a spell for happiness

Then, you never know

Let’s sing a song of harmony and

Watch the comfort grow

 

Let’s heal the wounds of everyone

Make everyone complete

Let’s push away the darkness and

Give hungry ones relief

Let’s sing a spell for happiness

Let’s cast a spell for joy

Let’s send it in direction

Of every girl and every boy

 

Let’s sing a spell for happiness

Let’s sing a song of love

Let’s toll the bells for all that’s well

Let’s shout it from above

I realise not everything is how it ought to be

Let’s not forget we have a voice

And what we can achieve

 

Twice at least to gain real affect.

By Samantha “unextraordinarybint” Harris.

 

 

 

Thank you guys.

 

Ode to My Daughter

Ode to My Daughter – poem

 

My girl is a gem

There is not person

Who can measure up to her

Not another child I’d prefer

She’s seen and accepted

All of me

Even the ugliness that I see

A more grounded individual

Cannot be found

Better organisation skills

Than Capability Brown

Her logistical brain outstanding her peers

Accompanying, caring attitude with plenty of cheer

A prouder mum cannot be found

When my daughter is around

I feel so privileged to be in her life

I never assume that I have that right

She is my hero

My life and my light

As always, a button shining bright

That turns on the future

And allows me to see

How familiar love can be

Mother’s shouldn’t have a favourite

But they do…

So, credit where it is due

My beautiful daughter,

I love you.

 

Fin.

By Samantha “unextraordinarybint” Harris.

 

To my beautiful daughter, whom I’d be lost without.

A Viral Plead – Poem

A Viral Plead – Poem written April/May 2020 England.

 

Please don’t take my sight from me!

This beautiful world I’d long for

All this wonder and depravity

The green canopy

Horizons of misty blue hue

Occassional days of misty grey

The three valleys garden floor

Lines of brown roofs and doors

Green crowns and temple mounds

Huge white cubes blast through

Straight roads

Straight rows

Cars file endlessly along

Occasional rebels look front on

Dominating the space they belong

In each little window

One can imagine you sit

I’d fight with you all,

Just to see it.

Seagulls guard my town

Circling in thermals, up and down

Bullying the Kytes

They chase and play around our skies

A freedom unknown to you and I.

We know where they go, not what they see

How reliant those birds are

Tweeting on the cables near the school yards

I see the flies, yep they see me

Buzzing high above the world

Listening to the noises from the ground unfurl

Flying erratically,

However, easy to herd

Back to safety

Back out into the world.

I understand now what darkness is

The spaces between

Darkness is not being blind.

Blind can walk in a light that’s bright

One we cannot perceive

The lack of sun

Already begun.

We are neither from Venus or Mars

That earthy we are, in every way

Otoliths hold us, to our dying day.

We can feel the mud between our toes

Sense that nature’s tides grow

Though I cannot like the lessons learnt

I fear and understand them.

Gulls flutter like ribbons

Crows squawk loudly

Their defence mechanisms

Proud to show their tribes heroism.

In tune to ways I never knew

Historical cyclops

Coming through.

Fin.

By Samantha ‘unextraordinarybint’ Harris

___________________________________

This poem is fairly self explanatory so I’ll keep it short today:

I got a virus in my eyes in March and then again in April this year. It took a little of my sight but without antiviral treatment it would have taken more.

I was lucky and I feel proper grateful to modern medicine that I didn’t have to make a poultice of garlic or anything else antiviral I may have had lying about in the kitchen. Shoving that on my eyes and hoping for the best would have been the ‘go to’ for medieval wenches.

I didn’t end up as cyclops, but I scribbled this poem when I was fearful of losing my sight and feeling quite poorly. Recently found whilst I was clearing up my piles of paperwork; along with the drawing, I tend to draw when I can’t write or do much else.

Docs told me, over the phone, it was shingles…those pesky viruses eh?

If it’s not one virus out to get you it’s another! Watch yourself and stay safe from covid19 or any other virus which is around.

As usual, thank you for reading.

 

Caught In The Net – Poem

Caught in the Net – Polypropylene Mesh

My anger today will not go away
It is so hard to live
Every movement a reminder of what they did

People assume choice

They only listen to their same voice

Paint me with the colours that they know

Advice to look outside

Oh, that wondrous place,

The one I would reside?

Have you ever considered it’s not my wish to hide?

In my mind I glide across the countryside

My feet barely touching meadows grass

As I breathe in deep of green and wooded forests

I jump the trickling streams,

Wandering in leafy, brambled, brackened dreams

I miss

That I can see but no longer touch

The things that I love so much

I close my eyes to remember the smells,

The feeling of air on my skin

The prickle of sweaty regret begins…

The anger wells inside, that stupid trust

On which I had relied…

Taken from the forest of extremes

Where humans do good things.

Yes, they took from me.

They’re crooks who take liberty.

From Thalidomide to HIV

Between the Witz family and the Public Health Authority

They maime us

They kill us

With impunity

In perpetuity

Because victims you will not see

The End

20th August 2020 by Samantha Harris (unextraordinarybint)

Fresh Horizons – A Poem.

In Callow Land

Owls screech

Down Fall the Roe

Submission  

Into light so bright 

Burning without

Moons healing shadow

 

Press hands 

On mercy knees

Smiles spread 

On face of He

Return to a place

Secreted in history.

 

We sense they come.

One sole hangs in the scales

Nought one shoe can do.

Beg Humanity to see

The beauty that surrounds us

In a leaf or a humbler tree?

 

So, although they silence me

And, cut me deep too

I bleed blue, a blackberry hue

I will come back and take

My land,

That’s promised you.

 

Your fear too real

Endangering

Life you would steal

I lay down the lavender

To placate, replicate

For You and Its late,

Ones at the gates 

 

Staring lusty eyes search for holes

Greedy to trade the souls 

They sayeth devil be blamed

Just Gods on side, and

Under his wing

Opportunists will hide.

 

Less married women!

Single breeders evil be.

Feed the children you have sown.

Become the Father

It’s your place to own.

Or should be! (If you took responsibility.)

 

The innocence of soul be free,

Stop taking it for thee.

Filling youths’ heads 

With catastrophe 

And calamity,

After calamity.

 

To survive I must desist.

Disappear into the mist.

My love, I leave you

Upon freshly axed logs

Scented of woodland fresh

Surrounded in bluebells

With honey and primrose breath 

Where dragonflies flutter

Unwritten but uttered.

 

The end

By Samantha unextraordinarybint Harris

 

 

Dandelion Wishes – Poem

Dandelion Wishes by Samantha Harris

 

In you drifted

Eyed upon the kitchen top

Decided a wish I’d drop

I held you gently

Wished out loud

Outside I put you

Swiftly back in you flew

A second chance

For less selfish a wish

I hold you gently

Relocate thee

Place you out

My wish I did shout

Instantly I wished you returned

For pride in me still burned

I could have wished for more

You float away…

I’d wished for me

I wish for family

Dandelion if you could repeat

There is one wish left to complete

Please keep safe all that be

As well as my family and me.

 

The end.

 

Written 9th August 2020

Watford, Hertfordshire.

England, United Kingdom of the British Isles