Thought for the Day

Olli and Gareth went to Whitby in North Yorkshire yesterday. Just in case you don't know it, it's a delightful old-fashioned seaside town, very scenic and with excellent fish-and-chip shops, formerly home of Captain Cook who discovered lots of far-flung places, and latterly the location of many good Goth shops.

Olli and Gareth have been there every Christmas since they met, so yesterday was their seventh Christmas visit, amazingly. I was worried about yesterday's trip because there was lots of snow on the North York Moors, but they managed to get there and back safely in spite of, as Olli put it, "a bit of Snowy Death on the way".

You can climb up lots and lots of steps to Whitby Abbey, which has wonderful views from the top, and next to it is St Mary's Church.

Inside the church there were lots of messages and prayers that people have left.

Olli texted me with his favourite, written by a small child.

To everyone in the world who has dieded. Merry Christmas.

All My Own Fault

Now I know you'll say it's all my own fault for going back to the same old hairdresser, Mad Barbara.

But, as usual, I'd waited until I couldn't stand my hair another moment and I didn't have time to find someone else. So off I went, teetering along the icy pavements the couple of hundred yards from our house.

She has a new junior. She often has a new junior. They never stay long. I thought of whispering to this one, "Leave now, whilst you're still sane".

Mad Barbara throws up such a cloud of words that it's hard to follow what she's saying a lot of the time.

"Now, you were last here in August - - no, that can't be right - - what does it say on your card?"

"October" I said.

"Oh yes, October," she said, "but I didn't write the colour number down."

Did this surprise me? No. She's in a perpetual fog about the numbers which apply to different hair colours. Once, you may recall, my hair ended up bright ginger and it's always a bit hit and miss.

As a matter of fact my hair - like my mother's - is hardly grey at all, just a few bits round the edges. The reason I have it dyed is not so much vanity, more that in the roleplay I do, I very rarely play my own age, usually younger, and I hope that the lack of grey hair helps with that illusion.

We all peered at the colour chart. Barbara asked me what I'd like. 675? 673? This one was a bit warmer. This one was a bit darker. Barbara mentioned just about every number between 600 and 800.

"I don't care, just get on with it and get me out of here," is not the answer they're looking for, so I picked a colour.

The junior started to put it on.

After a little while, Barbara came over and did the usual thing she does of saying "Is that how they teach you at college? Well they're telling you all wrong, then. Oh, dear oh dear." And then she demonstrates how she'd do it.

Only this time she noticed that the colour wasn't the one I'd picked.

"This is too dark! What have you done?" she asked of the trembling junior.

"Er - - you said 775," said the junior.

"SIX hundred and seventy five, that's what I said!" exclaimed Barbara.

"No, you said 775," insisted the junior bravely.

A small animated discussion ensued, which Barbara won. I had no idea what she had actually said, since she had mentioned so many numbers, and I'm not surprised that the junior was confused.

My hair had to be washed to get rid of 775, and then 675 had to be put on, and this took longer than it took for dinosaurs to evolve into birds.

After it was washed, it had to be dried and at one point I had both of them pointing hairdryers at me. It was like being in a rather warm gale.

"Oh, you are being pampered this morning!" she said.

I said nothing. NOTHING was what I said. I am never more quiet than at the hairdresser's.

Then she started to cut my hair and she said that thing she always says. "It does grow wild, doesn't it? It's really thick, isn't it?"

It's not polite to say "Like you, you mean?" so I never do, but I always want to, and then I always feel bad for wanting to.

Then she moved on to the topic of my mother and how she's really mentally alert for her age. And then came what always comes from everyone - -

"You don't look anything like your mum, do you? And your hair's not like hers at all."

They always say it with a faint hint of accusation, as if I'd somehow swapped myself with my mother's proper baby. It's happened all my life and I always feel somehow in the wrong and that I'm a big disappointment whenever it's said.

"No, I look like my Dad. And he had curly hair like mine."

"Oh, poor you, inheriting it."

Did I say anything about what she'd inherited and from whom? No, I did not. I said NOTHING.

"And your Mum's so little. Was your Dad really tall, then?"

Okay, now I thought I'd have to say something, because suddenly I felt like a strange, curly-haired giant and it wasn't a good feeling. And actually, I'm quite short - it's just that my mother is tiny.

"I'm only five feet four. I'm not tall. And my Dad was only five feet eight."

"Oh, no, you're not five feet four. You're much taller than that. You should measure yourself. You're much taller. Fancy thinking that you're only five feet four! Hahahahaha!"

"Barbara, you are not only very rude to your staff and remarkably disorganised, but you are possibly the most stupid person that I have ever met."

No, I didn't say it. I paid and I left.

I'm not going back. I mean it.

Contrasting Communication Skills

For the past couple of days, when there hasn't been any snow, I've been working from home and haven't had to go anywhere. I've been pleased with this as I've had a cold as well and have welcomed the opportunity to stay in the warm.

But today, when there's literally - er - inches of snow, in Leeds, I had to find my car under its little heap of snow (Stephen helped) and then set off to the hospital.

I arrived at the Breast Screening department in good time and only managed to get a couple of pages into the well-thumbed copy of Hello before they called me through. I shall never know what Jordan said to Peter now but frankly, I don't care.

I've been having this breast-screening palaver for a few years now. I started younger than most because my mother was given a drug called Stilboestrol when pregnant with me. It was supposed to prevent miscarriages but instead caused womb problems in girl children - and, being one of those girl children, that's why I lost my first baby, until they worked out why.

Also, it doubles your risk of breast cancer, which is a very scary thought.

So I've been having this screening for a few years now. In case you don't know what it involves, basically they squish each boob in something resembling a large-scale vice, or sandwich toaster if you prefer, and then they take a photo that - hopefully - shows any abnormalities. They do each one twice: sideways and horizontally, and then you get the results three weeks later, and mine have always been fine, touch wood. It hurts a bit but as tests go it ain't too bad.

The woman doing it today was efficient enough but was most definitely lacking in smiles and pleasantries and empathy. Because I do a lot of medical roleplays for training purposes, I was tempted to stop her and say "Could we just re-run that bit? Now, what could you do to show empathy?"

"Do you have any problems with your breasts?" she asked grimly.

I was SO tempted to make some kind of wisecrack but I thought no, she'll have heard them all before, and anyway I sense that she's a woman who has no sense of humour at all.

"No, I never have had," I said meekly. "They seem to be okay."

"Ah, well, that's what this test's for," she said. "It detects abnormalities that otherwise might not show up for years. So let's not get too complacent, shall we?"

Well, that told me. But hey, I knew that already. Again I was tempted to say something - - along the lines of "I'm NOT complacent! That's why I'm HERE! And now I'm TERRIFIED!" - - but again I kept my head down and my big mouth shut.

In the afternoon, as a kind of encore to this, I went for my annual Diabetes Check at the doctor's, with a practice nurse who specialises in diabetes.

"Hello, Daphne," she said, "great to see you again. Oh, I do miss your Dad, he was such a lovely man. Always joking - he really used to cheer me up even when he was very ill."

I love it when people remember the Communist in that way. It brings him back to life, in a way.

She was full of praise for the efforts I make to keep the problems of diabetes at bay. She praised my constant efforts to eat healthily and to get slimmer and fitter, even if I don't always succeed. She tested the pulses in my feet and pronounced them excellent, and she managed to make it sound as if I'd somehow worked very hard on them and deserved a prize. She asked if I did any exercise and I told her about the swimming and she said that was wonderful, and sounded as though she meant it.

Finally she took my blood pressure and it was really remarkably low - a hundred and twenty over sixty-four. "Brilliant!" she said. "And you've been under a lot of stress too, I know. That's just fantastic that it's so low. The swimming is certainly helping with that, too."

Now then, because I help to teach Communication Skills I knew that what she was doing was all with the aim of making me feel empowered, and as though I have control over my diabetes, and to build up empathy.

But, even though I knew it, it worked. And she didn't do it in an unnatural way - she was just a warm, caring woman who knew how to do her job.

She could have taken the opposite approach - she could have gone - "Now you really must work to keep your blood sugar low or you could be having a leg amputated like your Dad did - - and you could have all the eye problems that he had" - - and all that's true.

But she didn't do that. I went away feeling great. I'm doing well, and I'm going to do even better. Hurrah for the practice nurse.

The Round Robin I've Just Sent

I know everyone always says that they hate those round-robin Christmas letters.

Mostly because they tend to be prime examples of Competitive Parenting coupled with a smidgin of just plain Showing Off.

They tell you how little Petronella has passed her Grade 8 Violin at the age of three. Tarquin has passed his Maths A-level and become a Chess Grand Master whilst simultaneously changing his own nappy with the hand that wasn't holding the chess pieces. The dog, Saucy Snowball, has just won Best in Show at Crufts. Even the goldfish has learned to blow bubbles in French.

The mother in the family mentions in passing how she has somehow managed to win Best-Loved Mother of the Year and modestly admits that she has no idea how she did it, what with simultaneously building up her own little embroidery company to become one of Britain's largest exporters of hand-embroidered cushion-covers. She throws in how her husband, James, has raised two hundred thousand pounds running the Little Giddings Marathon for charity.

And by now we want to hurl their letter in the bin. But we don't, we stuff it on the bookshelf behind all the cards and it comes back to haunt us in March when we realise we haven't dusted there since December. Or perhaps that's just me.

So, therefore, the fact that I've just sent out a round-robin letter to many of my friends and relatives, along with their Christmas cards, may come as a bit of a surprise to you.

The thing is, I've always been the keeper-in-touch, the sender of letters in our family. I do still send lots of postcards but last year I didn't send any Christmas cards because the Communist had just died and - - well, I just didn't. And the year before, I notice from my Christmas Card book, I did send them but with a note of explanation that the Communist was in hospital and had just had his leg amputated.

Many, though not all, learned subsequently that the Communist died - but there are still quite a few cards arriving for him.

So what could I do? Some of my family and friends have been wonderfully supportive this past couple of years but others just don't know what's gone on. And they certainly don't know that I now have a much-loved son called Olli when previously I had a much-loved daughter. Not to mention lovely son-in-law Gareth nearly dying from a burst appendix and then being made redundant, twice. And his delightful sister Jo having appendicitis too, just a month after Gareth. And my mother breaking her shoulder, twice.

So I've put the lot in a letter, and I worked very hard to make it as tactful and as gentle as possible, but I know it will all come as a big shock to many, and I know it's not what they were expecting with their Christmas cards, but I know that if I don't do it now then I never will.

And if I don't do it now then I'll have to field questions about "how's your Dad?" and "how's your daughter?" for years to come, and I just don't think I'm up to it, frankly.

So I want everyone to know what's happened. And then, perhaps, next Christmas it can be back to the cards with individual notes or letters inside, like I usually send. I do hope so.

Goats for Grannies

It's that time of year again. The time when people don't send Christmas cards.

Well, businesses don't, anyway. They send you an email with a photo of a goat, or of the building where the business is located, or of a smiling foreign child, or of a rather naff Christmas tree that they found on the internet somewhere.

And with it comes a Festive Message that says something like We haven't sent any Christmas cards this year. We have instead made a charitable donation to Goats for Grannies, (or Make Foreign People Smile, or Christmas Trees for All, or some such worthy cause.)

Unfortunately, unless I know the sender personally, I then tend to think several things:

1) I bet you haven't

2) How much?

3) Okay then, show me the receipt!

4) And if you cared THAT much about the charity you'd send the donation anyway.

5) You've just fired off that email to everyone in your inbox, haven't you, and sighed with relief and thought "Ahhh, that's the Christmas cards sorted!"

Not very Christmassy thoughts, really. I'm sure that in some cases the charitable donation is genuine - - but really, I don't like the current trend of doing this. Send me a Christmas card if you want to. Give a charitable donation if you want to. Don't send me a Christmas card if you don't want to. The two things - the Christmas card and the charitable donation - are not connected in my head. Or they weren't, until you connected them.

But now, in contrast, here's something that's really Christmassy:

It's a Christmas card to the Communist and my mother. Unfortunately, it doesn't have an address on it so I can't write back to explain that he died last year, and the Communist's address book got lost somewhere in the shuttle between hospitals and nursing homes.

It's from Dawn, who was one of the assistants in the Communist's chemist shop. She always sends him a card.

The Communist retired in 1985, when he was sixty-two. Twenty-four years ago. And she's sent a card every year since, from her and her husband and their children.

He was a good man to work for, the Communist - he always looked after his staff. And it's great to have such a reminder of that.

Feel;ing Sorry for Rebecca

So why wasn't she in the water?

I was watching a programme about The Great North Swim, which, you may remember, I have entered next year.

Sitting on a boat, talking about all the elite swimmers, was Olympic champion and Nottinghamshire lass Rebecca Adlington.

The first thing that I thought was - - oh, yes, that's what happens to your shoulders if you swim every day, very fast, for years and years. It happened to my shoulders a bit, and that's because I swam about twice a week throughout my childhood, though I suspect I did it very, very much more slowly than Rebecca.

And then the second thing I thought was - - pleasant, down-to-earth lass - - but why isn't she in the water? Because if I were an Olympic swimmer, and if lots of the swimmers I knew were competing in the Great North Swim, I'd probably want to compete too.

Also, I thought, if she's a swimmer it's surely because she loves swimming. And, therefore, why on earth wouldn't she want to swim in Windermere, on a lovely sunny day?

But there she sat, in a little boat, showing no desire at all to get in the water. Too cold? You'd think an Olympic champion would be made of sterner stuff.

Finally, one of the presenters of the programme asked the question, on behalf of all the viewers. "Why don't you want to take part?"

Rebecca explained that she never swims in lakes, and she never swims in the sea. Paddling is as far as she'll go. She's terrified of fish and of anything else that might be lurking in the depths.

I was really shocked. I love swimming in the sea: I love swimming in lakes: I love swimming in rivers. To be a champion swimmer, with the ability to get through the water really fast, in the freedom of the outdoors - - oh, it would be wonderful!

So here we have an Olympic gold medallist in swimming who's never swum anywhere else than in a chlorine-filled pool. Yes, swimming in swimming pools is good - - but an indoor pool is a poor second-best to an outdoor pool, and an outdoor pool comes second to the sea, or to any open water that's suitable for swimming.

It's true, I hate it when I tread on a flatfish and it wiggles. I don't like it much when I see a jellyfish nearby. But all that's so well worth it to me for the trade-off of splashing in waves, of watching boats in the distance, of swimming without lane markers or the end of the pool, of hearing the sound of seagulls above me. And, of course, last year in Florida, of seeing fishing pelicans dive into the sea beside me. Just wonderful.

All Rebecca has done for years and years is to plough up and down lanes in a swimming pool at a scarily fast speed: and that, to me, is only one aspect of swimming. Poor, poor girl. Olympic gold medallist, maybe, but she just doesn't know what she's missing.

On a Cold, Dark Sunday Morning

The pool temperature was 27 degrees Celsius, which is just over 80 Fahrenheit.

"That's a bit cooler than usual," said one of the two Friendly Old Codgers I met as I paid. He turned to me. "Too cold, don't you think?"

"Well, er, actually - - " I said, "I'd like it a bit cooler. I'm preparing to swim in a lake."

He gave me the look of a Yorkshireman beholding a lunatic.

We met again in the room with the lockers.

"Are you really going to swim in a lake?" he asked.

"Yes, Windermere, in September next year," I said. "It's the Great North Swim. A mile across Windermere. I've entered and now I need to make sure I can do it. Though the temperature might be below fifteen degrees. Which is why I'd like this pool to be a bit colder."

"You're bonkers," he said cheerfully, though perhaps with some accuracy.

It was cold and dark when my alarm clock went off at seven o'clock this morning and I was very tempted just to turn over but I though no, I've planned to go swimming and that's what I'm going to do.

Scotthall, my usual pool, is closed for refurbishment (oh boy, did it need it!) and I went to Fearnville, which is a bit confusing as it's exactly the same design, though I considered it to be slightly cleaner, which pleased me.

I thought I'd do a mile, which is 64 lengths, as that's what the Great North Swim is. My regular swim has always been a kilometre - 40 lengths - but I thought I need to up the distance a bit.

After about eighteen lengths, rather to my surprise, I heard people shouting my name. To my absolute joy, it was my lifelong friend Jo and her younger sister Deb. Jo's father Syd was at school with the Communist and was his friend right until the Communist's death: Syd's still in good form at nearly eighty-six. Jo and I have known each other ever since she was born, four months after me, and I remember the big fuss when her sister Deb was born four years later.

We went swimming together throughout our childhood. For many years we went to Leeds Ladies at the Olympic Pool on a Thursday night. Jo, who is a tiny four feet ten, is a faster swimmer than I am and Deb, who is an even smaller four feet nine, is much faster than both of us. She swam competitively for years and the other swimmers always underestimated her because she was so small - but she's a little powerhouse of energy.

Deb, in an interesting bid to bring the nation back to average height, is married to a man who's six feet six. Their son, who is fourteen, is a superb swimmer who swims eight times a week, and is the thirteenth fastest in the country in his age group in breast stroke.

So I wasn't going to even try to keep up with Jo and Deb but I kept on going. When I entered the Great North Swim, on the form you have to estimate the time you think the one mile will take you. I put the slowest time you could choose - between an hour and a half and two hours, because I think the cold water might slow me down. Though perhaps it might speed me up in the hope of getting out of it faster!

However, when I'd done sixty lengths I looked at the clock and found to my delight that exactly an hour had gone by - so I was swimming at my old speed of a length a minute. My target was sixty-four lengths but when I'd done that I felt fine so thought I'd do a few extra lengths just to make sure, so I did seventy. And then I did an extra two just in case I'd counted wrong - I always do that!

Jo and Deb got out at the same time as I did - they'd just swum for an hour without counting lengths. We agreed to meet up for more swimming soon.

I was home by quarter past ten and I loved it! I've never been a fast swimmer, though my style's pretty good which is why I can keep on going. But this morning I thought - well, perhaps I don't think I'm a very good swimmer because the people I've often swum with just happen to be really good! At Tenby I used to swim with two brothers and they always beat me by a greater margin every year - - and then the older one popped up, swimming for Scotland in the Commonwealth Games. And it was years before I could beat my mother in a race - - but then, she was a strong competitive swimmer being coached as a possible Olympic hopeful in the thirties - - until Hitler bombed the swimming pool!

It's been a hard few weeks for various reasons: I've been feeling very tired and I was beginning to think - - hey, Daphne, are you sure you can still do this swim? I saw a television programme this week about the actor Robson Green swimming in open water and finding it all really difficult and really cold and I thought - am I deluding myself? He's young and fit and I'm - - well, not so young and not so fit. But I've always swum in open water: I'm used to the cold, though always slightly nervous about getting cramp in my bad leg.

But this morning's given me confidence. I'll carry on training. Bring it on.