I hope I make myself clear.

Dear your Majesty the Queen, Gordon Brown, the Chief commissioner of police, the Lord chief justice, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Lord High Executioner, and whoever else it may concern,
I'm telling you now, and I want it on record, that if anyone should break into my house at any time, especially in the middle of the night, I shall be so frightened that I shall do anything I can to stop them from hurting me, including seriously assaulting them if I can. And I shan't be waiting to find out what their intentions are. It might be just some harmless dear little chap, who only wants to steal my money, my tv, computer and car keys, and crap on my carpet, but I aint gonna ask him, or wait to find out if he's going to rape, torture and kill me like all those women I've seen on Crime Watch. No, if I get the chance, I shall drop a heavy plant pot on his head from the top of the stairs. [This is the only thing I can think of].
Similarly, I am informing you that if anyone I love should ever have to endure terrible suffering with no hope of relief until their death, I will do anything I can to hasten that death as sensitively as possible.
Should either of these terrible things come to pass, I would expect the circumstances to be closely examined by my peers. If the society I live in is so cruel and heartless as to consider that I have not suffered enough, refuses to apply common sense, or insists on following some rigid point of law so that I am condemned and punished further, then that is my misfortune.
Just so that you know.

Woss and all the other Bankers

I understand it's been a bad year for Jonathan Ross, what with those nasty people criticising that amusing joke he played on Andrew Sachs with his friend Russell Brand, and then people suggesting he might be overpaid at the BBC, earning 18 grand in 3 years.My heart constricts whenever I think of the poor man.

I used to like him a lot on his Friday night show, and have enjoyed many an excellent interview of his with various "celebs". However, I have discovered that, try as I might, I simply can't forgive or forget the chilling, hard cruel streak revealed by his behaviour in the Sachs incident. Every time I see him on Live Aid or whatever, I can't help thinking that the mask has slipped and can't ever be put back again. He showed that he did not really regret the incident at all in a recent Christmas quiz, when he was teamed up with Brand - a serious error of judgement in itself, in my opinion. The pair of them sat sniggering like schoolboys, and made several references to the Sachs thing, clearly proud of their clever wit, and congratulating themselves for having got away with it, which they obviously had, since everybody in the studio fell about laughing with them. I switched off.

I don't watch films [this is a delight I am saving up for my old age], but I'm sure Ross's Film programme is very good. However, don't tell me no-one else could do this or his chat show as well, or that he will be missed to the tune of 6 grand a year.

No-one is indispensable, neither Jonathan Ross nor all those bankers with their obscene bonuses. I read an admirable letter to one of the broadsheets, written by someone in a fairly exalted professional position, volunteering to take the place of one of these brilliant bankers, should they wish to leave the country in the event of their bonus being cut. Sadly, he concluded that he would not get the chance, since there would be many more highly qualified , capable people ahead of him in the queue.

Let's charter a jet for them all to fly away on - Ryanair should do it!

My very special friend Elvis

I have never ever told anyone this before in my life, but when I was in Las Vegas in 1976, I got lost in this big casino on the way to the toilet, and I came across a lone figure, who engaged me in conversation, and it turned out to be Elvis Presley, trying to escape for a few moments from all the hype. We clicked immediately, and he told me I was just the woman he had been searching for. He took me to his room - not his suite on the top floor, but a lovely little private room, where for the rest of my 6 weeks' stay in the States, we spent as much time as we possibly could together.

Is this story any more preposterous than that told by the egregious Tom Jones in a documentary I have just been watching, called "Elvis in Las Vegas" in which the abominable Jones claims to have been an inspiration to Elvis, and to have had an influence on his career? As if! Get real, Jones. You are not worthy of polishing even one of his rhinestones, even after exchanging your big conk for that silly little one.

Alright, I never met Elvis, and I have discovered that he never toured Britain because the diabolical"colonel" was an illegal immigrant in the States, could not travel abroad himself, and so made excuses for Elvis not to tour abroad.

Have I been watching too much television over the Christmas period?

Joy

I am reading a wonderful book at the moment, called "The Wrong Boy" by Willy Russell. It makes me howl out loud with laughter, but at other times is so painful that I wish I wasn't reading it. Central to the first part of the book is the relationship between the boy and his mother and gran, who love him with the unconditional love I spoke of before, not that he is undeserving of that love, just horribly misunderstood. Anyway, his wonderful gran, [who reminds me of someone, but I just can't quite think who,] tells him that she has never been interested in having fun, but has always wanted joy in her life. How could I not finish a book in which there is a character who voices my exact sentiments? [Well I like having fun, but it pales into insignificance in comparison with joy.]

I hope the word "joy" never becomes trivialised by becoming "cool", like the stupid use of "awesome". Well, "they" won't spoil it for me.

I don't care if this sounds obvious or sentimental, but without any doubt whatsoever, the most joyful thing in my life, never to be surpassed, was the birth of my 2 children, and then grandchildren. My family will always be the central joy of my life.

However, over the years, I have discovered another great joy, after all the years of working, and fitting in with other people, the joy of being me, of living alone, and doing exactly what I bloody well please! Do you know, I absolutely love me - I want to do all the same things as me, and I agree with everything I say!

I still do odd days' work, which make me appreciate my time even more. When I have a day to myself, it starts with the utter joy of having a cup of coffee in bed, and being able to spend as long as I like over it. My stomach actually tingles with joy at the prospect of being able to go back to sleep again if I feel like it. My day at home will be punctuated with joyous moments of having drinks and snacks , and reading magazines or novels. I absolutely adore my home, because it's mine, and am always overjoyed to return to it, especially if I've been away.

Other joyous moments: Shopping - buying lovely cheap clothes, or things I never needed at IKEA.
Listening to the best band in the world ever - the Strokes, or the other million bands that are almost as good. Watching TV, but I am very discerning - only documentaries, Corrie and the X Factor! The S word is in there somewhere, along with jacuzzis, just so as you don't think it's not part of my life, but other than that, it would be far too inappropriate to mention it !
The tiny tiny pats on the shoulder given to me by my son, which speak volumes. The love of Mary and Luke for "Mumsey" which becomes especially expansive at times they don't remember the next day!

But what could be more joyous than singing to your 2 year old grandson "Ruby Ruby Ruby Ruby" , and hearing the reply "ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh"?

Nothing, my friend, believe me , absolutely nothing.

Unconditional Love

It's 9 am and I'm sitting drinking a large glass of whisky, only the first, I'm sure. No, I'm not an alcoholic,[though a self-confessed lush!] I have just dropped my 29 year old son off at the station on the first leg of a journey to Australia, where he may spend a few weeks, months, or a year - who knows? Because he was planning this trip, he vacated his rented house and returned home for the week before he left. Thus, I was inevitably involved in the preparations. He has left my house a complete tip, his things scattered all over the place. Am I complaining? No, he has been gone an hour, and I'm walking round stroking his dear jackets and old socks.

What is it about the love of a mother? My son has not really been very nice to me, never been considerate to me. He has always taken anything he wanted from me, which has always been freely given, but he has always pushed me away if I have threatened to get too involved in his life All this has been tolerated, even fostered by me, in a desperate wish to please him and make him happy, though I'm not saying I'm a complete doormat. I can give as good as I get!

I will not be chastised for the way in which my son and I have allowed our relationship to develop, because that's just the way it is. All mother-child relationships are very different, but there is no doubt that it is a unique one. My own belief is that it is rare for a grown-up child to love its parents as much as the parents love them., or perhaps put another way, parents play a much lesser role in their offspring's lives than the other way round.This is how it should be of course for grown children who have successful lives of their own.

When my son left me at the station this morning, he did thank me for all I'd done for him, but his parting words were that I nagged far too much, and he couldn't wait to get away. Yet I loved him with all my heart, and do you know what?

I know he loves me!

The dignity of labour

A cliche which I have occasionally come across in novels is when the protagonist, who obviously leads a fantastic, exciting life, and whose problems are really important, happens to be on the bus or tube during the rush hour, and they look around them at the drab, tired, clearly desperately unhappy commuters, and think what terrible boring lives these people lead, in fact, how boring they themselves probably are, to have settled for such a life, blah blah blah. This superior arrogance makes me so angry!! How does this "hero" know what's going on in people's minds? I'm sure when I'm returning from work I look dead beat and am not grinning all over my face, but that doesn't mean I'm not elated at the thought of getting home, pouring myself an enormous g n' t, putting my feet up to watch the news or read the paper, enjoy my own company for a bit or maybe see friends or family later on. Other workers may be delightedly looking forward to seeing their spouses and kids, or seeing their mates/lovers later on - what the hell right does anyone have to judge them and decide what they're thinking?

Do you have to do an unusual, high-flying job to be worthy of regard?
Is there something shaming in doing an "ordinary" job in an office/factory/warehouse/school/hospital, sweeping the streets or emptying bins? I totally challenge this. I believe strongly in the dignity of labour, going out in the early morning, hideous though this is, meeting work mates, getting the job done, paying your way in society, even though it might be hard, and injustices often occur, doing a good job,but realising that family and friends are what really count.

I myself work on a temporary ad-hoc basis. On the days that I work I absolutely hate getting up early, but as soon as I'm out and about, I get a real kick out of being part of all those people on their way to work

Am I mad?

An ordinary whistler

I was brought up as a methodist, going to church 3 times a day every Sunday - [Sunday school in the afternoon.] My parents were definitely believers, but it was more a way of life - they had met all their friends and each other through the church, and it was their entire social life. The same was true for me until my mid teens. I remember being absolutely scandalised when school classmates said they didn't believe in God, and vigorously defending my "own" faith. But of course it wasn't my own, as I subsequently found out.

Eventually it was time for myself and a number of young friends from church to attend confirmation classes [in the Methodist church it was called "being taken into membership"]. I can't remember anything at all about these classes, but we attended for several weekly sessions at the manse, and then the minister asked us all in turn whether we wished to go ahead with the service to take us into membership. To my astonishment, one boy said no, he didn't feel ready. I thought, "he must be mad to say no after going through all this".

So the ceremony took place, and we young people took part in our first Holy Communion. When a fellow communicant dropped his glass of wine, I tried hard not to laugh, and I was desperately afraid my stomach would make loud gurgling noises, and then I thought, "hang on a minute, I'm supposed to be thinking about God", and that was when I realised for the first time that I didn't believe in God at all. I didn't choose this. You can't choose to believe if you don't.

At around this time, I started studying for French A levels, and was introduced by a brilliant teacher to the writings of Albert Camus. This did not influence my beliefs, because I already held them by then, but here was someone who agreed with me! I occasionally re-read some of Camus' works, but don't remember or understand them as well as I once did. Briefly though, I think what he was saying, and certainly what I believe, is that this life is all we have, so we must enjoy it to the full. Thus, the enraged doctor during the plague asks the priest how does he know that an instant of a child's suffering is worth an eternity of peace in an " afterlife", and the condemned man Meursault assures a priest that he would rather have a hair off a woman's head than all the priest's "certainties".

Meursault, like me, loved life, ordinary life, just the joy of beingalive. From the condemned cell, he listens to the world outside, decribes its "benign indifference" - one of my favouritephrases in literature - and in the early morning is filled with peace when he hears a man whistling as he walks along the street.

Not for us the fearsome prospect of meeting our maker in the hereafter!