Despair/Yeah Yeah Yeahs

 

"Oh despair, You're there through my wasted days, there through my wasted nights, there through my wasted years, all of my lonely tears"

 

"We're all on the edge, there's nothing to fear"

 

"My song is your song"

 

 

 

 

 

NEVER MIND SPREAD THE JOY

 

I SAY

 

SHARE THE MISERY

 

 

Twitter

I’m slightly off Twitter at the moment; nothing particularly awful has happened, but I seem to be getting myself into some awkward situations with people and I need to re-evaluate what it is I’m doing wrong.

 I'm clearly sending out signals that are being misread. Signals that seem to be giving members of the opposite sex reason to think I’m up for it or that somewhere down the line, they’re going to meet up with me and I’m going to tell them everything there is to know about me.

 I am not going to do that.

Perhaps I’m too open, too friendly. However, I’m never overly sexual as some are on Twitter, I’m shy about such things and I never (as far as I’m aware) become overly intimate. I never give too much away about myself, but eventually at some point I’m under a certain degree of scrutiny, not all, but by some. Who am I? Where do I live? What do I REALLY look like? Hints as to how old I am, am I married, alone?

 Are men put under such scrutiny?

 I don’t feel safe, I feel insecure. I worry that someone’s going to turn up on my doorstep. I would never dream of dating anyone I speak to on Twitter, if married couples can never know each other after 30 years of marriage, how am I expected to really know who I’m getting intimate with on Twitter?

 

I hear of women dating people they’ve never met or seen on Twitter or Facebook and I’m filled with horror, how do they know what they’re dealing with, that the person on the other end of the screen isn’t some unbalanced stalker, or someone who’s going to come round and turn up unannounced and murder them in their beds….

 Alright that last one was a little melodramatic. But you see what I  mean…

 Am I the only one who feels this way?

 Is Twitter really as unsafe as I feel it is for me at the moment or am I over reacting? What safeguards can I set up for myself without seeming unfriendly or unsociable?

 If there are any women out there who’ve had similar experiences to me then please let me know. I’d be interested to know if I’m the only woman that feels like this.

I love the LBD; otherwise known as the little black dress. The rules are simple; not too much adornment, simple lines, it can be long or short, but short is better, worn to the knee. No fashionable details that make it too contemporary or too fashionable. It must be the kind of dress you can wear year after year, never losing its style or ability to flatter the figure regardless of age.

 Chanel produced the little black dress back in 1926; it was referred to as the “Ford” in America in reference to the Ford’s uniform black car. It carried on from there as the epitome of style changing over each decade, becoming more glamorous as time wore on. No longer seen as funeral wear the black dress became popular through the 20s, 30s, 40s and 50s and for me it’s still the most beautiful garment to wear. I don’t care whether people are now wearing navy blue, orange or any other colour that seems to be the current “new black.” For me, it’s black all the way.

 And of course the one woman who wore black better than any other; Audrey Hepburn herself. No other fashion icon could wear the black dress the way she did.

 I am no Audrey Hepburn and I don’t own a Coco Chanel black dress, perhaps I never will, but I can rock the look and dream the dream.

It’s also an easy look to achieve, upswept hair or worn casually to the shoulders with loose curls, minimal make up other than a classic sweep of red across the lips. A black caress of black liner across the lid and a flick of jet mascara. The dress is worn to hang simply over the collar bone and hips, perhaps three quarter length sleeves or sleeveless with toned arms.  A hint of something expensive sprayed at the pulse points, a simple clutch and black court shoes, or kitten heels with a strap at the back. No fake tan, simple pale skin is best, blanched white, a stark contrast against the jet black of the figure hugging dress.

 No impulsive behaviour, no overly sexual gestures, an air of mystery matched by a mildly flirtatious smile.

 Of course the look must be matched by impeccable behaviour, no pint glasses or inelegant poses, a glass of wine or champagne will suffice.  To be the girl in the LBD one must be a mystery to be unravelled, an enigma.

I made it Ma, top of the world!.....at least for today

So today I saw a turning point, a little extra work and I started to see the wood from the trees and

perhaps a little hope on the horizon. That's freelancing for you, feast or famine, rich or poor, no one

day is the same as the last. One day you're winning, the next you're losing, one day you're on top, the

next you're at the bottom of the heap, a bleeding wreck with nowhere to go. Today I reached the

summit and tomorrow the top of the world maybe, as long as it doesn't blow right up in my face.

                       "He finally got to the top of the world and it blew right up in his face."

If I do go up in a cloud of smoke and white heat, at least it'll have been a blast..yes I know that was bad, but I would like a dramatic exit, like James Cagney, all explosions, loud noises and shouting. Just so everyone knows I was here.

"There's more to this than I thought Charlie!"

"I coulda had class, I could have been a contender, I coulda been somebody!"

Hell yeah!

Copywriting - six months on, a review.

When I started out I felt like I had it easy, from my perspective it was a win win situation from which I couldn't lose. Six months later I feel bowed and almost broken, but stubborn and unwilling to give up. Somewhere somehow, I've realised there's no way back for me now, too much freedom perhaps, but going back to working for an employer is too awful to contemplate, although I realise if things  really do go bottoms up, it's a reality I'll have to accept.

 

At the  moment things are fairly rocky and I'm wobbling slightly. This is mostly my own fault for making mistakes that could have been avoided. You know, the ones that every seasoned copywriter advises you against and I'm too cowardly and ashamed to confess on here. But it's a learning curve, you learn from your mistakes and I guess the one thing that splits the wheat from the chaff is whether or not you have the staying power to keep on trying. To get up and to keep fighting again and again, refusing to give up, and I've got plenty of staying power, believe me. I'm like a weeble "weebles wobble but they don't fall down" and neither do I.

 

If I can look back on this six months from now and say I did it, I made it, then I'll feel justifiably pleased with myself. My moods have been up and down of late, one minute I'm unnaturally happy, the next my heart's in my boots, I'm constantly anxious and my nerves are frayed. But after 10 years in the NHS that's nothing new and if this all works out, then it'll have been worth it. I learn fast and I'm a fighter.

 

So watch this space, and in December, if I'm still here and I'm alive and still doing the do, then do buy me a drink darling, mine's a large glass of red.

 

 

www.taith.net/

Two years on: Am I glad I left the NHS?

When I left the National Health Service nearly 2 years ago now, I breathed a sigh of relief, for months I'd been feeling tired, stressed, anxious and completely burnt out, it was 8 months since my mother's death and I'd come to the decision to leave after 2 failed attempts applying for VERS, the voluntary early release scheme. This was my last attempt and if I'd failed, I would have had to search for work and in the economic climate at the time (which hasn't improved since), I would have found it difficult to find another job. My mother's death had left me bereft, it was sudden and I'd not seen her before she died for a few weeks due to the snow in the winter of 2010. We'd cleared her house slowly, my mother was a compulsive hoarder, and clearing it was a painful and difficult process for all of us. My sister and her family bore the brunt of it as I lived 20 miles away and was still working full time, we uncovered painful memories, but we eventually got the house cleared.

With this going on and the stress of my job, I was at breaking point and although both friends and work colleagues tentatively asked if I was doing the right thing, I continued with the process until eventually I was accepted. Doing anything in the NHS is never quick or easy, everything is a long and painful process that has to go through several different levels of bureaucracy that would test the patience of a saint. In comparison to regular redundancy packages though it was a fairly attractive offer, a year's salary and non taxable if under £30,000.

So with a reasonable amount of money under my belt I left to start my M.A. in Creative Practice, the devil or be damned I was going to succeed at some sort of writing career and I thought I'd give myself a fighting chance. It was nearly 20 years since my first degree and a million miles away from early modern history (my first degree), but I felt comfortable with the choice. It was a little different to a more conventional creative writing degree, embracing different elements of film, media, and an in depth look at research led creative and creative led practice.

When I left the NHS, it was in the middle of a large scale organisational change it hadn't seen for many years, it would eventually lead to the creation of one of the largest Health Boards in Wales, doing away with the local health boards and creating the beast that became Betsi Cadwaladr. And what a beast it was to become - while staff waited to have their jobs reassessed and reinvented they sat at their desks waiting for news, some as long as two years, being paid for a job that technically no longer existed.  Sickness rates rose as staff become demoralised by a process that seemed to have little focus or structure and a management that kept its distance, showing little remorse for the stress  it was causing people lower down the line.  Whole new departments were created and others disbanded, staff promoted, while others were given generous packages to leave.

The reason for the changes was supposedly to save money (no surprises there then), but there was little evidence that this was the case, any staff member losing their current position had 10 years pay protection, so high level executive staff removed from their former positions would still get the same salary for the next 10 years, regardless of what they were doing, so not much saving going on there. Theoretically, you could have removed executive staff from their jobs to clean the floors and they'd still be on the same salary.  Staff from primary care were quickly slotted into secondary care management posts following interviews, regardless of experience, with little regard for the experience that more seasoned secondary care managers brought to their roles. Ironically, some went off sick after taking over, clearly overwhelmed by the pressures of secondary care management. Many posts including senior and executive positions were moved to Wrexham leaving what was meant to be the headquarters in Bangor with hardly anyone at an executive level in charge. Interviews were held, but many knew these were merely a formality. We could guess with almost eerie accuracy who would be getting the most juicy posts on offer.

My own post had changed radically after my former colleague left a couple of years before. I took over his duties as well as  my own and although I had an assistant for about 12 months I could barely cope. I relied heavily on the guidance of my former colleagues in the East (Wrexham & Glan Clwyd) when more complexes cases came in, and complex they were, usually involving data protection and confidentiality issues that couldn't be solved in an instant. Freedom of Information requests were coming in thick and fast from both MPs and journalists searching for answers as to what exactly was going on. I felt isolated and I wasn't sleeping at night and I was often close to tears. It was hard and it took its toll, we knew that things would change and probably not for the better. Eventually, the managers I'd worked with in the East left and so did I. The department was taken over by former primary care staff and I wish them luck. I don't envy the pressure or the stress of their job, but there are some good people there, people who made the job so much more bearable, I know that information governance has been left in safe hands.

For me life moves forward. I now work as a freelance writer and copywriter and I won't lie, it's been hard and I'm struggling, but if someone asked me to go back, I don't think I would. I certainly don't envy them what with the current situation and no immediate solution to hand. I can't say I'm a great fan of Edwina Hart, but the organisation itself has to take some of the blame, something has gone desperately wrong somewhere.

I also feel a little saddened by Plaid Cymru's role in this, because at no time did I see them make a stand against the changes, many of which have seen  local community hospitals closed in order to save money leaving many elderly patients with Welsh as a first language having to travel miles for treatment, add to that the dangerously long waiting lists including those at A&E at Ysbyty Glan Clwyd and the future does not look rosy. I keep asking myself, why didn't they oppose the changes?

So two years on I don't regret leaving the NHS and I look to the future now, with hopefully better things ahead. Working for myself has certainly given me time to think hard about a lot of things and I don't regret leaving it all behind.

Paris, cats and me

When I went to Paris, I never wanted to come back. Gertrude Stein once said that cats cross the road differently to other cats, they stroll across as if they own the street. I am cut from the same cloth as a cat and when I am in Paris, I always cross the road at a leisurely pace, and when I am in Wales I cross the road like a nervous wreck waiting for truck to run me over.

When I am in Paris I don't need to rush, I don't rush, I walk at a leisurely pace, like I own the street. I think and feel like a Parisian cat with attitude. I have no such thing here. Here I am less unique, I am average.

I want to go back to Paris and die one day and they can lay my tired bones next that of a Parisian cat.

Quand je suis allé à Paris, je ne voulais plus jamais revenir. Gertrude Stein a dit que les chats traversent la route différemment des autres chats, ils se promènent à travers comme si elles possèdent la rue. Je suis coupé de la même étoffe comme un chat et quand je suis à Paris, je croise toujours la route à un rythme tranquille, et quand je suis au Pays de Galles Je traverse la route comme une épave nerveuse attendant camion pour me faire écraser.


Quand je suis à Paris, je n'ai pas besoin de se précipiter, je ne vous précipitez pas, je marche à un rythme tranquille, comme je l'avoue la rue. Je pense et je me sens comme un chat parisien avec l'attitude. Je n'ai rien de tel ici. Ici, je suis moins unique, je suis moyenne.


Je veux revenir à Paris et mourir un jour et ils peuvent poser mes os fatigués suivante celle d'un chat parisien.