Grandma brings the class act

Gulping rats in a den of filth that is the childhood of a barn owl

Beating rats in a den of iniquity that’s the childhood that shouldn’t be allowed

Baying stray dogs in the darkened streets

Better than seeing your brother running from the bobby on his beats

As your mother sways home at nights from her clubbing and her fights

Whilst your father meek and mild takes care of her child, and whispers it’s alright!

Grandma brings the class act and makes you nice and posh

As your mother sits in the corner mouthing it’s all tosh!

Your father sits there tenderly, ignore her, you will hear

As he holds you close to his chest with a love that will endear

As horses are racing on the telly and gran fills your belly

Whilst mother sits and mocks you for turning into jelly

And choking you with her smoke, whilst gran complains it’s bad – get outside in the garden!

My mother shouts its raining are you mad?

Gran says it’s bad for her health!

My mother sits there smugly and says with happy stealth

Take her with you if you are so concerned, it doesn’t bother me!

She gets in the way of my fun – my gran nods and then agrees

She took me home and kept me, for a week or two and this happened regularly

Because of you know who!

And happy I was back then, living with my gran

And when it wasn’t with her, it was with cousins or Aunties June or Jan

I got around a lot when I was very young

Made friends in all sorts of places, where I was bunged

I learned to adapt so readily, to lots of different things

So there was never a song I couldn’t ever sing

That’s how I got to where I am today

In very different places

I’ve changed in many ways

And so I keep on growing

And I keep on learning things

Because I’ve become a butterfly

And I fly on colourful wings

The Eighties

Tuck shops in schools

Hop scotch on the playground and in the streets

Eating space dust

Eating out of polystyrene boxes

Indoors for Saturday night TV

Games in the street with the neighbourhood kids

Helping the elderly across the street

Top of the pops is the bee’s knees!

Infatuations with care bears, my little pony and Teddy Ruxpin

Entertainment in the best decade ever! 

Sweets sold by the penny in every high street – that was the eighties! 

Written 1:31pm 16th March 2023

Creative expression plans

I am starting to think about doing some new approaches to my creativity soon, at the moment it will be difficult to do the changes that I want to do, because of the environment I am living in – but I am hoping soon, in the near future things will be different and I will have more freedom to express myself in an environment that I can thrive in.

A place where I am able to write when I need to and my personal time and space is respected, a place where I can do my art without fighting mess and a place where I practise my music without having arguments about overriding a television or making disturbing background noises because someone wants to listen to their laptop gaming noise instead of music.

Most of all, I am looking forward to an environment that is organised and clean most of the time and where nobody slobs about without a care for weeks on end, until mess gets so out of hand everyone moans and chips in finally for half a day, only for three days later it would seem nothing has changed at all.

It would be good to get back into the habit of watching movies again, because doing that here has always been impossible.  Nobody wants a movie on, unless it’s the same old, same old.

As a former movie buff, this has been a hard pill to swallow.

I haven’t kept up to date with the movie industry since I moved here in the early summer of 2009.

I am very behind.

Right after I have written this post, I am going to write something for myself and myself only. 

I am going to write a list of plans for my creative future and I am going to store this on my computer to read at a later date, a date when I am no longer living here in this environment.

I am doing this because I have been prompted to think about it by a book called “Art for happiness” by Val Andrews – they’ve set a task in which I am to think about any new ways I would like to express myself that I haven’t done already and there is quite a few actually and some I want to combine to create what I believe could be a new creative art form.

I have always had an interest in stage plays and the theatre and it is something along those lines.

I’ve composed music in the past, written lyrics and poems, done some amateur dramatics at college, did some private designs for fashion and dreamt up stories, painted pictures and even danced.  I have been known to decoupage and embroider, knit and crochet.  I have also been classically trained in opera as a child and was the main lyricist and singer of a rap/rock band in college, even though I was always more of a jazz, rock and soul singer in my heart.

Jazz and soul are the preferred genres my family and friends like me to sing.

As a child and into my teens I had always had an interest in burlesque but it was aggressively shunned by my mother, yet my paternal grandmother encouraged it as it was something her own mother did in between being a professional ballet and cancan dancer – my grandmother herself was a majorette and was known to do small amateur dramatic theatre work as a volunteer at weekends, usually to entertain for free the elderly visiting from residential homes and she did this along with two of my aunts and sometimes my dad.

My dad stopped going because mum didn’t like him doing it and she didn’t like my aunts encouraging me to think about joining them in their acts too!

They loved my singing, they said that my voice often moved them to tears and several old people in the audience too as I sang no less than twice for them all.

When it appeared I had some kind of talent, mum soon put a stop to my singing lessons too!

Some of the old people who lived in my street knew my mum did this and their hearts went out to me, because they knew I was home-schooled, they knew the house was noisy and didn’t sound very happy and they knew I lived in the garden.  They were sad when they used to hear me sing on my swing in the garden, people could hear me several houses away. 

Some of them tried to guilt trip my mum by telling them she should let me sing again and go back to her music classes, but she wouldn’t have it.

I lost my confidence when I was around ten years old to sing in the garden, when some new children moved into the house at the back of us and started to bully me for it, because it was opera and they felt I wasn’t cool not to mention I was fat and sad and lonely, as they called me.

Those children became the bane of my life from then onwards, as from 3pm until 8pm most days I would be self-conscious about being seen in the garden by them as they’d deliberately throw balls to bounce off my head and mock me by trying to knock me off my swing.  So I tried to keep nearer to the house, this meant that I couldn’t play with my rabbit called Toffee at the time or sit near the pond, because they’d make entertainment of me.

When I was around thirteen mum wanted more control of the garden and to make it family space as the summers were getting hotter and hotter and so because she was bothered by the children too, she put up a 6ft fence all around us.

This meant I felt free to exercise in the garden again without being mocked at any time I liked again.  I loved netball practise and swing ball, I played squash up against the house too and wasn’t self-conscious in practising my judo either.

I still don’t know when I will move out; I know I can’t really finance that yet.  But I am looking forwards to leaving – I’ve always believed this house is the thing that made me ill.

I never felt easy living here, it was like the house is alive and it didn’t welcome me – ever been in a house where you have an innate feeling you’re unwanted?

Paul told me his house is haunted and that since I moved in, within weeks the spirit seemed to have gone.  I promised him I had done nothing to scare it off, but Paul has always felt it was weird how the ghost seemed to have just vanished when I moved in.

Perhaps I made it insecure?

Who knows?

Thanks for reading…

Sex and poetry

A warning first and foremost as this post digressed hugely into talks of so-called sordid activities and smut, when it was namely about my poetry. 

Sometimes I write poetry and delete it thereafter because I am ashamed and I don’t want anyone to ever see it; other times I write poetry and I can’t bear to destroy it, but I am also slightly ashamed to want to publish it anywhere, so what do I do with those?

I put them into my cloud in a file called “Never Publish”.  What is the point of this you may ask?  I may as well delete them like I have others, what makes these ones so special?

Honest answer is I don’t really know and for some, I know that I need to verbally read these poems out to people for their opinions before I publish them.

Most of the ones I lock away in shame are about sex and some other non-sexual but dark views, views beyond suicide or graphic detailing of body horror, many of which are from my past bad memory stores. 

Some of these poems pertain to the BDSM lifestyle and others to the occult – and because some people can’t understand a writer who can write from different perspectives of their own and they often label the author as being “whatever” label fits at the time pertaining to the subject they’ve written at the time; I am quite nervous to be branded a “whatever” wrongfully.

My point is.  I believe a whole caboodle of things and I write from many perspectives; I am able to separate another person’s point of view away from my own and write as though those were my thoughts and feelings and I think to be a good writer, this is an essential skill to learn but it is fraught with difficulties and discrimination from others who may misinterpret you as a person.

This is why I don’t share a few of the things I write and I won’t even do so under a pseudonym.

Some poems are created and burned alive screaming, some are written and hidden in shame and others published online or waiting to be sent to a poetry magazine when I feel confident that I am a poet.

I’ve been in denial of being a poet for years, how is that for amusement?

I have often been heard saying “I’m not a poet, I just write poems from time to time because I am bored, I’d rather liken myself to a lyricist who can’t compose because I can’t access my software anymore”; Look really darling it’s the same thing, but try drumming that into me… it doesn’t always register.

Tonight I wrote one of the NEVER PUBLISH poems and they won’t even be published, why?  Because it pertained to quite graphic sexual acts of sodomy and I knew that for some people this could be offensive.   I just wanted to write something dark and sordid because I am feeling more than a little playful and dirty tonight and yes, I am quite open to say that sodomy for me is not a sin – so that’s what I came up with and I didn’t mean to offend anyone with it but rather entertain lustfully – but I had my reservations because of the sensitive people in society who will think that I am just either simply disgusting or that I am offensive to their sexuality.

Whereas to me, I was merely celebrating it in true revelry and the poem really showed the primal urges of humanity at their most base and animalistic level, but I know in some ways I went too far! 

Sex can sometimes make us feel dirty, make us feel like unwonted creatures and this is what was portrayed in the poem I stashed away.  True delicious filth and yes a woman can relish in homosexuality of men and sodomy in general, I relish in pleasure by definition and I enjoy observing the pleasures of others, is that so evil of me? 

Don’t answer it, I don’t want to hear those dogmatic views. 

I don’t think that’s an act of evil, do you?  Not if I love it, not if I don’t judge it, not if I don’t hate it… what do you think?

I have personally done a lot of art over the years pertaining to sex and what some people in society would call “Sleaze or smut”; I like drawing sexual figures, sometimes in abstract, sometimes in caricatures and I get immense pleasure from it.  But, I was raised to feel ashamed about being proud of sex and my sexuality and you know… stay a quiet good girl and don’t show public feelings for whoever you are with.  Shocking girl!

Who do you think you are to constantly be touching your partner as you are out and about, don’t you care that you might embarrass them?  But for me, no… it’s not like that, I like touching and being touched, if I give a person the permission to do so that is!  Being in a sexual relationship with someone, why not?  It’s a given, isn’t it?

I like the protective reassurance of a man who constantly touches me in public if I am his – holding my hand, guiding me to places, snuggling up against me and warning the world off with one glare over my shoulder as he embraces me from behind.  Why not show the world how you feel about each other? 

My only concern with this is that I am so easily turned on the whole world will know I am gagging for it and can’t control myself, that’s my only fear with it! 

My whole life I have been a very sexual being from quite young – mostly with myself as pitiful as that sounds – ha-ha!

Time and again I have entered relationships where the other partner has not been very tactile and to find someone who likes to be touched in my experience seems rare and few and it’s disappointing to say the least and it affects my confidence as a lover and often makes me feel rejected by them and used – I say used because it is like they can touch me when the feelings catches them but I can’t touch them!

I’ve got out of the habit of being tactile myself and now I am free and available again to look for a new relationship I am afraid that I may come across as rigid as over the years the touchy touchy me has been trained out! 

Yes anyone can be sexual and they can have lots of sex and talk about it whilst they drool, but do they really understand it?  Do they really have what it takes to be a genuinely sexual person who isn’t shy about it?  I am no exhibitionist, but I am proud of my sexuality. 

For me sex is more than just dip and go or rather in my experience with men I’ve had dip and collapse in five minutes flat! 

I am no whore and I am not constantly gagging for it with any Tom, Dick and Harry, no offense to any Thomas, Richard and Harold’s out there – however, I am not a person who is just all talk either, like most potential and actual lovers in my past appeared to have been.

I’ve had lovers who are look but don’t touch, I can penetrate you, but you can’t do a thing to me, I want you to suck me but I won’t suck you types.  Selfish lovers, lazy lovers… I am not like that.

I am a snuggle type too, I don’t like going off to my own side of the bed clutching a pillow and not touching my partner whilst I sleep – I expect to be snuggled most of the night or be touched in some way – I don’t like how people join and then separate so readily like they don’t matter to each other.  The only time this is marginally ok is if it is a super heat wave!

I don’t like the fuck and sleep aspect either, where’s the pillow talk and the extra tease?

Why is sex always rushed a two minute breast fondle, a five minute dip and an all-night collapse… what the heck is that all about? 

One of my exes once told me that my drive is too high, I need to get it seen to, it’s not right and it’s not natural.

I’ve been told so many times that “It’s not right or natural for a woman to like porn; it’s not right or natural for a woman to think about sex so much to the extent of writing about it or talking about it or drawing lewd pictures of people having sex as often as you do”, apparently.

It’s not natural for a woman to be overly sexual, talkative about being overly sexual and proud of it either and being very open about what she likes and dislikes regarding it. 

But the thing is it is; only few women do, because most aren’t brave to voice it and do it, because of backlash.

Because as women we are meant to be docile and discreet and good little girls!

The girl who talks about it a lot must be a whore, must be dirty, must be tarnished goods – they don’t believe that a sexual woman can actually be good and loyal and clean and not whores at all.

I’ve had many partners in my time who had their sexual pleasures with me, but not many of them ever actually penetrated me, surprise, surprise and not all of them have been same sex partners either.  Most of it was heavy petting and BDSM games without any vaginal penetration outside of toys.

If you think about how many sexual play partners I have had there would a few, but how many were penetrative and actually performed proper traditional sex with me?  Two consensually!  That’s all, two – but to think about my sexual experiences and the number I have played with, you’d think I was a whore, because you would have wrongly presumed they all put their member inside of me somehow and they hadn’t.

Primarily because I do not like taking contraception, but that’s a different subject altogether! 

Women will have a hard time believing that there are men in this world who can be around a naked woman playing with her bits and never being tempted to thrust into her within minutes, but in my experience they do exist and they appear to be quite common actually.

I’ve slept with several men who never touched me too, just sleeping with them and never doing more than just kissing a little and a hug now and again, women too.  Yes this can happen, no sex. 

Sex shouldn’t be taboo, it’s the most ancient activity in the world and we’ve been doing it for millions of years and if we hadn’t have, we wouldn’t exist, would we?

Societies are prone to trying to hide their most primal instincts and they shouldn’t – it’s not healthy, in fact it’s very mentally damaging.

I am contemplating getting a smaller bed in my bedroom so I can bring my art table upstairs so I can do more art – because as I am getting advanced in years, I am becoming much more shameless and a lot more embracing my true self and the art I want to produce is not really something for a thirteen year old boy to feast his upon! 

I want to write more sexual poems and I want to draw more sexual pictures.  I accidentally took the wrong sketchbook with me to the dentist a few years ago and dropped it, a woman picked it up for me and wide eyed saw the nudes and the sexual art I had done inside the book and she said to me – Oh my goodness, you are just like Tracy Emin only better!

At the time I had no idea who Tracy Emin was, but when I researched her, I liked her ballsy art, but mine does appear to be more graphic and doesn’t leave much to the imagination! 

When I was quite young, I was unprotected from the adult world and sex was thrusted into my face at most angles, my innocence to these sorts of things went when I was around four or five years old; things on the TV, sordid parties I observed through the bannisters my parents had all sorts of things and I often found things around the house that were quickly snatched from my hand only to learn they were mummy’s toys.    

A huge contradictive upbringing I had, devout religious parents who literally believes in beat the devil out of the child, spare the rod and spoil the child and children should be seen and not heard types – but at the weekends getting pissed in front of the said child and partying like we’re in Babylon!

Oh and don’t forget the small one serving bottles of babycham for the kids to make them grow up more human!  You get that from the age of five, after your fifth Christmas and every party thereafter! 

When I was a lot younger I thought I’d have healthy lungs to pollute so I can smoke, because I have a smoking fetish and I always saw myself as one of those ladies who had cigarette extensions and called everyone Darling and wore a red silk turban with a brooch in the centre and laughing like a kookaburra at cocktail parties.

I used to watch late night TV alone in my bedroom on my black and white TV, mostly looking for Godzilla but oftentimes there were adult movies and gameshows on channel 4.  I watched them as a child without a real bedtime when I was home educated and nobody bothered me after 2am. 

I’d watched all sorts of things that would make a decent parent cringe!  I was told never to reveal my favourite shows to people outside the family if they ever asked, because I liked things such as “Tall guy”, “the man with two brains”, “euro trash” and “band of gold” as my childhood favourites, the latter is a program about prostitutes! 

I remember sitting with neighbour kids and cousins some nights watching these shows and we used to have big discussions about it all and what we’d do when we grow up!  Some of those were suppositions of whether or not we would sell ourselves or not if we were adults! 

I fully planned to grow up having all sorts of cheeky things around my house like penis ornaments and big red lips leather sofas and all sorts of funny, quirky things just for a laugh. 

You’d be surprised of the imaginings of a 10yr old that was raised unprotected from the adult world!

I tried smoking as soon as I became of legal age and after just six weeks I gave it up because of a chest infection, I was sad, because I had only just perfected blowing circles and got into the fun hobby of blowing smoke into bubbles!

I always liked a smoky room until I developed asthma in my early 30s. 

How I got into talking about all of this when this post was meant to be about what I am doing with my poetry and art, I have no idea – but I am having fun with all these revelations and no I am not drunk.  I haven’t had a glass of wine since Christmas!

And you can stop the “yeah but what else have you had in the meantime?” snipe too, I have behaved myself, so now so should you – you naughty, naughty readers you! 

So there you have it – well you are lucky, lucky people if you do…

So now you know, that there is more to me than just snuggles and rainbows, there is a very passionate woman inside of me who is learning to embrace the idea of coming out in full fervour and using her passions for both sex and creativity to the fullest of its potential and to Hell with the prudish shoot downs from a society who is waiting to suppress my most primal expressions!

I’ve been trying to behave for decades and its boring as heck!  I am bored of men who just don’t have it in them!  When I want a pervert they are either excessively so to the point my stomach churns or they are just all talk! 

It takes a lot to make my stomach churn by the way, believe me! 

Now, does this mean that my poem about sodomy is going to get published now, right here, at the bottom of this post (no pun intended). 

No.

Spoil sport, I hear you say!

Sorry, maybe someday, but not today…

You’ll get some smut eventually, but goodness knows when!

Thanks for reading and remember… God said go forth and multiply!  I often wondered if that was translated exactly true to word?  was it actually “I deleted my true idea of the translation due to the idea that an atheist (Paul) heard it and though it was blasphemous for some people and I am not an atheist at all but found it funny, so I got into a flux and deleted it! 

P.S There is likely a similar and more edited version of this on my blogger account in a day or so.

Horror discrimination

One thing I have found very true about being a blogging author is that there is a lot of discrimination about horror writers.

You write poetry, fantasy and other things, even lifestyle things and your blog has a healthy flow of new followers daily and you grow and grow and no sooner had you mentioned just the once about going back into horror, you lose twenty to fifty overnight and you are left stumped as to why?  Until you realise what you have done.

This has happened to me the other day.

I am not complaining because I have made it abundantly clear in several of my previous posts that I was first and foremost a horror author who lost her mojo and was always endeavouring to rediscover it.

You wouldn’t have me as an author if it wasn’t for horror, that’s how I started out.  Ten years old writing the goriest stories I could muster to the extent a proud English teacher at school wrote to my parents about my amazing writing talent and how gory it is for a child and whether or not they knew I wrote such ghastly things?

They said that they did and they were thoroughly open about me watching horror movies since I was five years old!

I stand by what I’ve said – horror is still in me and although currently I have more fantasy projects than horror ones, you must expect horror to pop out now and again because it’s a large part of who I am.  In social media I have joined several online fan clubs specifically in the horror genre, it’s me – sorry!

I have even made a couple of celebrity friends who are pretty big in the horror industry and no, I won’t drop their names!  I don’t do things like that! 

But they are very supportive of my work and one of them likes to cajole me every few weeks and remind me not to forget my original genre and that I scare them to death at times!

From March my finances will stabilise hugely, especially when I can get my online business starting off.  This means I can do a lifelong dream of going to Horror Con, Comic con and Fantasy con events some day!  Wonderful, it’s very exciting I could practically live at those places from what I have seen of them!

But to stop reading my blog because I mention horror on a one off is a bit drastic in my opinion.

But never mind.

Thanks for reading! 

Isolation & cabin fever

I have a very boring life.

Seriously, since Covid hit the world my life has been boring and extremely isolating!

I have a weak chest, I have asthma, but I have also survived pneumonia four times over the past eight years the second from last bout nearly killed me!

Therefore this has meant I am one of the few thousand vulnerable who is so scared of going out that I haven’t left the house since July 28^th and that was to have a tooth pulled!

I didn’t start going to the library like I said I would at the end of November.

Though I caught Covid19 on Thursday the day before Good Friday 2022, I did pretty well – I wasn’t hospitalised at least and it was around 9 weeks after my first ever Covid vaccine. 

I am sharing this because there are rumours going around that I no longer live with Paul as nobody has seen me in months!  Believe me I am still here, I am just hiding from all the germs!

Because I can’t find a mask that is safe enough to wear whilst having asthma, my asthma is still pretty bad and I don’t breathe very well through my nose because of sinus issues – so it’s really not an option to wear a mask.

I was starting to think about going to a gym and going back to the library weekly starting from January, but now I hear there is an even deadlier new strain coming out of China again and China is opening their international doors again!

So I thought, aw fuck it, why now?  Just as I was about to risk going out at least once a week and without a mask! 

So I am in limbo again and this is part of the reason why my depression hit me hard the other day – I just want a normal life!

I don’t trust the NHS to save my life if I were to get the new strain of Covid – especially as the NHS can’t seem to get me my second dose of Astra Zeneca and they agree with my health issues the other two are a no-go option!  Yes, for nearly ten months I have been waiting for them to contact me about Astra Zeneca for my second shot, I am not fully protected!

The NHS is also struggling to get me a much needed appointed for something else – an overdue appointment, I won’t mention what.  But should it take a year to try and get a simple appointment and still there are none available?  We try every single day in hope of a cancellation, but to no avail and I am in pain whilst waiting!

So we decided to go to the pharmacy and buy the kit to do it ourselves, but when they heard I had a symptom with it, they said, no you really need the hospital to do it… WTF? 

The pharmacist thinks it’s urgent, the NHS doesn’t!

I’m glad I am not any sicker than I was the last time the doctor saw me, because based on what the doctor feared, I could have been dead by now – but that’s really not important apparently!

So because I haven’t worsened in the three months, six months and nine months the doctor contacted me by phone, they are presuming it’s not cancerous.  That’s all I am saying on the matter, yeah so for cancer they are still dragging their heels with appointments.  But that’s not all, I have relatives and friends of relatives tell me that cancer patients are more or less considered the walking dead now as the NHS is bankrupted and cancer diagnoses have a two year waiting list and guess what?  Most people are dead by the time they get checked out!

But right now I don’t care about all of that – I care about getting out and about again!  I can’t go into my own garden thanks to the twat that lives next door and his vicious dog!  I haven’t felt the breeze on my face or wind in my hair or the rays of the sun for months!

Months!

I feel like an indoor caged animal, left in a cold room all alone and forgotten! 

I can do lengthy isolation, my childhood trained me for it, but I have never ever in my entire life gone more than three weeks without leaving the house, before Covid came about and during those times we were always guaranteed at least three to five different visitors per week on average! 

Paul and I are hardly speaking these days without arguing, we get approximately thirty minutes a day to talk now – Henry is too absorbed in whatever he is absorbed in at the time that I generally get less than fifteen minutes with him, other than the house rabbit Ray – I have no one I can verbally talk to anymore and guess what?

I am embarrassed to say, its causing some of my long forgotten speech problems to come back – I stammer occasionally again and my lisp can be caught every now and again, problems I thought I got rid of in college!

Why?

Because I am not talking enough to anyone!

So as crazy as it sounds, I told Paul – you will hear me talking to myself in the bedroom because I need to keep practising my speech, as problems are reoccurring.  So I record myself again, yabbering on to myself in the bedroom like a crazy woman, to try and prevent the speech problems from coming back!

I am talking about everything, doing running commentaries on anything I can see and hilariously I forget to shut up when I am in the company of both Paul and Henry occasionally.  They think I’ve lost the plot and I know they’re right!

So with that being said…

I love you all… I am going round the twist… and I hope I make it to the other side in one piece!

At least I know I can last five months before cabin fever starts setting in!

Thanks for reading!

My forsaken vampires

One of the most painful things about being a creative is the idea that you love to write things that the world tells you time and time again, they are sick of seeing around!

I love writing stories about vampires and for the past five years there is a lot of discrimination against vampire authors.

I join new creative communities and as soon as I mention that vampires are a third of my creations, well, let’s just say the respect is dropped greatly, shall we?

So, around five years ago I lost my confidence in writing about my vampires, which put a huge hollow in my heart virtually overnight – I used to write my vampires with excitement and pride and now when I do venture to write them I kind of do it with apathy and shame.

I mean why bother writing about vampires when you know the majority of the world is growing sick of them?

It hurts, it hurts a lot because up until this realisation a few years back, my vampires meant everything to me – I mean the reason why I wrote anything at all was because my primary focus was my vampires and I have been writing them since I was ten years old.  I know them, like long lost family, it is part and reason for the emotional experience I have known as “Hiraeth”. 

Hiraeth is Welsh for a longing or a home sickness for a place that doesn’t exist or a place you want to find in order to feel emotionally whole again.

I spent a third of my daily daydreams in my vampire stories, trying to ignore them and think of something the world would like.

It has got so bad my avoidance of writing for them that I have forsaken the movies and books I used to consume pertaining to vampire mythology in order to train myself not to want them anymore.

It is a huge upheaval and it is a little emotionally damaging as stupid as that sounds!

Literally, vampires were everything to me growing up.

It was more than an obsession, is there a stronger word for that?

Since last month, the urge to write anything pertaining to vampires has got out of control – yes, I have a children’s story I am working on where there is a small vampire scene so I haven’t completely given up on them – but I miss the focus on vampires as a whole theme.

Today in particular is really bad, today I have the energy and the emotional space to write and potentially write at length, but all I can think about are those vampires I have abandoned.

Finishing their stories, seeing new scenes, writing stories for minor characters within the books and just generally getting them out there; I am trying so hard to ignore it and as dumb as it may sound to you, it brings me to tears to think it would be a waste of time writing them like I really want to – because nobody would want them and I only write because I want my stories to appear on TV someday – there is no other motivation for it, other than the pleasure of it.  I can’t waste three hours a day on my vampires if it were to affect my writing for other things that would be published and adored.

Because I would hardly write towards those other things, so I have to choose my secondary and third loves.

But my secondary choice is getting to the extent where people are getting tired of those too – dragons.

I will now share my main ten themes with you, that I enjoy, the first and second have already been mentioned above.

My third one is gaining popularity right now and I am hoping that society won’t be bored of them before the series is published and that is anthropomorphic animals.

My fourth favourite theme are anything pertaining to childhood wonder, Christmas and Easter stories, Santa, The Easter Bunny, nursery rhyme worlds, toys coming to life, that sort of thing.

My fifth favourite theme to write are stories about inventors and gadget creators in a post-apocalyptic world.

My sixth choice has never really been a hugely popular theme, giants – but I am hoping my style will change that.

My seventh favourite theme are stories about descent into madness or haunting memories.

The eighth theme is anything with regards to circus performers, carnivals, fairgrounds, fortune tellers and clowns.

The ninth favourite theme to write about is stereotypical war between gods and the underworld and the battle of control over mortality and or power.

The tenth theme are stories about magical water/sea creatures or sea life, such as pirates, mermaids, kelpies and sea monsters.

Those are the themes I love the most to write.

Before I got self-confident about writing my vampires, I would write my vampires a third of the time I wrote per day and I wrote every day because I really looked forward to spending time with my vampires and it was what got me up every morning!

Nothing else excites me in the same way anymore and it’s really disheartening.

As idiotic as I may sound, to me it is like I have betrayed my whole existence and theirs by not paying attention to them (the vampires) anymore!

My vampires in my opinion are sort of unique to the world of fiction, but sort of already done in other parts too – but I can’t help but think that they are getting old-fashioned or they are overdone and that not many people would want them.  My vampires are not violent enough or are too unethical to be wanted so it leaves me in a state of overwhelming confusion.

I am fortunate enough to have friends who love vampires and demand them from me, but hey they are friends and they are gothic, of course they would – but I am not dissing my friends, but just how many people would want these vampires?

I know the vampire fandom is pretty big, but the vampire fans that are occurring these days are less and less about traditional vampires and more and more into what I regard the slasher kind of vampire and I am sorry to say but my vampires are far more refined than that and romance with mortals is rare or unheard of in their world.

So there it is…

I have said what has been on my mind for months – I want to write vampires.

But they will have to come after Project AD and the Easter project now.

Thanks for reading!

Memories of granddad

On Twitter today someone randomly asked that if I were fortunate to have known any of my grandfather’s what is the first thing that I would think of when I think about them!

I wanted to say a lot more than I did, because I doted on my granddad!

So I thought it would be a lovely post to share here and I can get to talk about him in more depths, these memories are happy memories, probably some of the few I had growing up – but there are only two things that I remember which were not so happy and none of them were my grandad’s fault at all!

Up until I was six years old I lived next door to my maternal grandparents, Granddad Leslie and nanny or nonna Dolly! 

Between the age of six and nine I never saw them, not once – because my mum moved us away due to a vicious argument which broke into a physical fight she had about my brother and aunt.  The physical fight was in their living room between my auntie Julie and her, it was quite a scary physical fight I never saw because I was at school at the time and honorary auntie Sheila (which is rumoured to really be a third or fourth cousin to us) had to pick me up from school because mum was in hospital over it. 

Both my mum and my aunt had scarring to their faces over that fight.

Before this fight my grandparents were part of my everyday life, I lived in an area in North London where I had a relative almost on every street and there were at least thirty households related to me within that small square mile, everyone else it seemed was some kind of family friend who looked out for everyone!

My granddad was an avid gardener and was always out in his garden talking to me about the flowers and nature and giving me updates on his breeding hobbies of tropical fishes, budgerigars and love birds!  He loved gardening so much he rented four plots at the local allotments (a gardening community) where he’d grow lots of food to share with the whole family. 

My granddad was a greengrocer once, before he lost his business to thugs and he met my grandmother when he was a farm worker on a farm her parents worked on in Enfield.

Sometimes granddad would pass over step ladders for me to climb up high enough for him to reach me to carry me over into his garden to help him with the fish and the birds – mum knew if she couldn’t find me in the garden that I’d be with him or passed onto Sheila who lived on the other side of my grandparents to play with her daughter who was only a year younger than me!

In my street there were four other households of family and only thirty yards away from the house was a shopping complex of ten stores, which whenever we’d pop round the corner for milk you’d have to anticipate forty five minutes before you got home again because of the amount of people you’d meet and talk to on the way!

I remember sitting in the window waiting for people I knew to walk pass the house and telling mum who was there, especially if mum wanted to talk to someone, she’d rush out immediately and they’d talk.  Most of the time she had hoped my older teenage cousins would be passing so she could bribe them to take me to a park or go swimming with them at the community pool nearby!

All of this ended when I was six, from the time mum moved away from all of that I was in pure isolation and I didn’t cope well at all with that arrangement!

My mum was ostracized by most of our family when the fight happened, but there were still people who spoke to us and visited, but only a small margin from that point onwards!

It’s funny to think that because three households crammed together in a line became the forerunner of huge family Christmases – where everyone visited those three houses and kept swapping and changing dining rooms to socialise with as many people as possible on Christmas day, literally eighteen people per house and then going from that to just me, my parents and brothers and a cousin until I was twenty years old.

You can imagine the culture shock and to be honest… no, I have never recovered from the loss.

When I was nine years old I was thrilled to be back in my grandparents lives again, but I didn’t realise at the time it was only meant to have been temporary because my granddad was diagnosed with lung cancer. 

So I have got the horrible bits out of the way now, now it’s time for me to show you what my granddad was like as a person!

My granddad came from Greenwich and he had a very strong husky East End accent, he was a short stocky and muscular man who was half Jewish and half catholic and had tattoos all the way up both arms!  He had a widow’s peak hairline and silver white hair, when I was little I used to think my granddad looked like a mesh between grandpa Munster and Pop-eye! 

Because my granddad smoked a pipe, had muscles, ate spinach had a rough husky voice, and loads of tatts!

He was the most muscular man in the whole family and quite a formidable character too!

He was a true man’s man but he was a man who was out of his time really, because my nanny Dolly didn’t have a domestic bone in her body – he did all the laundry, all the cleaning and all the cooking!  My granddad always said it isn’t my Nan’s fault, she isn’t lazy cocker, he told me – she has had a hard life with her heart troubles so she got spoilt and I am mostly to fault for that he said.

I remember my granddad having two large 6ft fish tanks in the living room and he put them like an L shape to each other and he placed his armchair in the corner facing the TV directly in the opposite corner of the living room he had so he could watching every wrestling show on Sky TV he could!

I would always sit on his knee watching the TV with him, even when I was as old as ten, even when he was dying, I remember that.  Clung to him for dear life, I loved my granddad!  I couldn’t do that with anyone else, he was the only one who’d let me snuggle with him like that and so it was a novelty I relished every time I visited him!

I remember when we had to go home I was often kicking and screaming as I didn’t want to leave him.

My mum was a J-witness off and on growing up, so I didn’t learn much about the families catholic ways, so granddad always tried to put in lessons every now and again for me and got his rosary out and showed me that we moved the beads in prayer, look see…

I wondered how my granddad kept his faith with the Catholic Church when he experienced so much racism growing up – the nuns at the school he went to often gave him a hard time and caned him regularly because they said he was born in sin because his mother was Jewish! 

Growing up with him telling me things like that and he was making excuses for their behaviour and being generally nice about it all – surprised me.  He told me that it never bothered him you see, because Jesus was a Jew and he thought that those nuns were ridiculous for what they were saying about him.  I told mum what he said and she didn’t receive that very well!

But it always stuck in my mind; Jesus was a Jew… wasn’t he catholic then granddad?  That made him laugh so hard it bought on one of those deep dense and awful coughs of his!

My nan would look over and laugh too and then say “Out of the mouths of babes hey Les”?

My nan was in every way similar to Catherine Tate’s nan depiction, honestly, anyone who knew her said that they were sure that the character was based on her!

It still sticks in my mind today… Jesus was a Jew and it was only recently that I learned not only was he a Jew but he was also a fierce rabbi who tried hard to steer people back into the old faith of Judaism as he felt people were losing their way – food for thought I can tell you!

My granddad was a backstreet wrestler and boxer in his youth to earn extra rations and money for the family, he told me. 

My granddad and I had a very similar life to each other in some ways – both of us were into combat sports, both of us were stocky in comparison to the others in the family though only 5ft 4, both of us were deaf due to the same condition (mastoiditis) and both of us were discriminated against for our mixed religious heritage and deafness and both of us loved our gardens!

Granddad was the only person I strongly connected to in most things in the family.

He would often sing to me all kinds of traditional London songs, some for kids and others not!  Bouncing me on his knee and he always greeted me as “Cocker” whenever I visited him – “alright cocker”?  He’d ask as I walked into the room!

Cocker means many number of things to an East Ender – mostly “Mate” or “little cocky one” or “fellow cockney” or something you called your descendants, usually aimed at personal favourites rather than generic – well in my family it was!

He would regularly give me cash in hand money to go the local shops with so he could have private chats with my parents, knowing I’d be gone for up to an hour because the family and extended family would watch out if a kid was going to the shops alone!  There were lots of eyes in those streets and you always felt safe as you knew almost everybody down there!

There was one particular shop I used to love going to a lot and it was a health and safety nightmare for how the candies were stacked in piles around the whole store, but it was a great store with every kind of candy you can think of, chocolates, crisps, sodas and ice-creams – it was called Lucky Sweets and was run by a really lovely and elderly Hindu lady.

My granddad would often talk about the wrestlers on TV and we are related to a wrestler who now has a wrestling family and that was my granddad’s pride and joy in pointing that out to me!

My granddad often bought dinner from the fish and chips shop as well when I visited him; it was always cheaper than it should be because there were rumours that the owner was a distant cousin from our Greek roots as we also have Greek in us.  In fact our Italian relatives from Naples are mostly Greco-Italians they say, but we have had family in Naples since 305BC on both sides of my family actually.

But I do know when I was growing up and visiting my nan a lot when granddad died, that the local teenagers who were not associated with my family in anyway were really nasty to me in the school I went to purely because of the knocked off price of our fish and chips dinner because of family discounts.

My granddad gifted me his budgerigars every couple of years and one of them I loved so much lasted for nearly three years called Bobby.  The other, funnily enough was called Henry.

But when I talk about Henry on my blog, be sure to know it is my son I am on about and not some record breaking old budgerigar – lol!

He is also the reason why I love tropical fish keeping, because to me a house isn’t a home without a tropical fish tank and a dog.  I don’t have a fish tank here… tell a lie… I do… but there is nothing in it because Paul won’t help me set it up.

I always felt safe with my granddad because nobody messed with my granddad and I could tell him anything my mum did to me and knew he would be the retribution she’d get!

When he died she got more cocky about things and wielded it like a power.

I moved in with my grandparents when I was ten years old, for a few months whilst granddad was dying of cancer, until his death.  Then my nan was required to come and stay with us whenever she felt lonely, which was about four times a week until she was hospitalised and died fourteen years later.

When I got the flu when we lived with him, granddad wanted to know how mum took care of me when I was at home and had the flu in the past and I was brutally honest with him about it.  He was not happy and he rang his bell which always sent mum into a panic running into the room to him.  He said, cocker over there isn’t well; she needs a drink of water, not Lucozade!  She went and made a drink, he then rang the bell again and told her that I was hungry and not to just pass me candies but to get some chicken soup into me!  She got angry at this point, but he kept ringing the bell for me and made sure I was cared for properly and not dumped with bags of candies and bottles of Lucozade and left for hours on end like normal!

He defended me even though he hardly had the breath to do it; he had a mischievous nature which I adored!

He got told off really bad by my nan when he used blackmail on my mum by switching his own oxygen off to cause a panic and stir when mum tried to tell him off!  As he did it he winked at me but it really scared me to see that!

I had a nightmare the day before granddad died, I woke up knowing that that day would be his last – even though the doctor said he would have four months at least before that stage came, I was right.

He died three days shy of his birthday and it was supposed to have been a huge family reunion party too – the party still happened but it was more morose than it should have been!

My granddad would be 100yrs old on August 15^th of this year.

Thanks for reading!

Devil’s feral child

I was raised like a feral child

Though my playground was a cage

I was kept away from others

I could not with others engage

I could look on and wonder

What it’s like to play

With the other children

I see from my garden each day

But never be a part of their society

Because I was never meant to be free

No one to hug me when I cried

Not when people went and died

I had to do it all alone

Alone and lonely in my home

Without any comfort or kind words

Their only touch was to hurt

Constantly berated for my heart

Don’t be weak we’ll tear you apart

Go back upstairs in your cage

No way to ever assuage the pain

Just you remember, don’t be vain!

You are the devil’s child

Don’t do it again!

Vanity & suppression

I have been thinking about the YouTube channel I am going to set up after Christmas a lot, I have been trying to think about what it should be mostly about.  People like themes, they don’t like random people no matter how authentic they are, or do they?

I mean, I like a lot of stuff and I would like to do a lot of stuff – I don’t want to be bored with the same old same old, you know?

I want to sometimes read out my poetry to people, I want to share gardening tips and recipes and my journey through weight loss and other things.  I don’t want to just be a gardening vlog, or a beauty and fitness vlog or a writing vlog.  I want to do the whole caboodle, now people say, sure you can do this but have multiple channels, but I don’t really want to do that.

If I had multiple channels, then I will need to film and edit every day for a once a week post on each and that is taking up more time than I want to do.

Plus I am none too thrilled about the editing process, I hate doing anything technical for too long.

One of my biggest desires in having a YouTube channel is to visibly show people my weight loss, fitness progresses.  But contrary to that there are two things I hate about it… the fame this could give me and the fact I have to show my fat ugly body and face on the camera, or else, what am I showing?

I’m paranoid enough without being famous!

Seriously, you have no idea how paranoid I am when a stranger points and looks like they are talking about me.  I mean… I can’t cope now, let alone when I know they know me… you know… at least right now I can put it down to me being a schizoid, of course they aren’t really pointing at me…. Until they then call me fat ass to my face and I am like… ok I guess they were then, rude!

I keep my mouth shut to people who shout that at me, primarily because I want to live.  But inside I want to shout out “Like your lip will be if you carry on mate”!

If people knew the attitude that goes on inside my head, I would have been murdered years ago!

I don’t like the idea of going out dressed up in a headscarf and huge sunglasses and learning to turn my head away from anyone as I walk past them like some super international spy!   

I just want to dawdle down the street in my scruffs on a lazy day, walking a dog, without it being splashed on the papers “TC bad hair day” or “TC midlife crisis” you know.

But then again, there are days where the attention whore comes out and it’s like “for goodness sake notice me, notice me, stop ignoring me, why am I being ignored when I have just walked down the street looking like a bowl of fruit”?

Thing is, I do like attention if I have to be honest with you.  But the problem is, on my terms and the world doesn’t work like that!

Fame scares me because of the stupid lengths some journalists will go to for a good pic and a front page position in their newspaper; it’s disgusting what some people will do to advance themselves.

When I was little I was famous for a few months in North London as being a pageant queen stripped of her rightful prize because of nepotism in the judging panel.  I remember someone taking me by the hand to pull me away from my mum so they got a perfect shot of me, The Angel of Burnt Oak!

That scared me, let alone the incidences with a couple of my more famous relatives.

The universe has wanted me to be famous for a long time, but I have always fought it.  My grandmother and some of the Romany relatives we have often sat down having fortune telling annuals for the family and from the age of seven they have all been convinced I will be a huge name in the world someday; though they said I will be late in getting that name.  I will be in my early forties.

They suggested even back then, that I am destined for greatness, I will find greatness myself, but I will find someone equally great to spend my life with.  They warned me I would have a child with a man but then I would leave him to start a second family quite late in life. 

Though I would start all this late in life, my legacy would be huge and I would be like Shakespeare or Charles Dickens in how long my fame will last.

Vanity, I know – I know its vanity and I would hold my hands up and say, you think I am bad for this now?  You should have seen me when I was thinner and I felt prettier than I do now, then you’d know how vain I really can be!

I even have a playlist called “Vanity” where you will find songs on it such as “keep young and beautiful” by Annie Lennox, “You’re never fully dressed without a smile” by the musical Annie and “beautiful and dirty rich” by Lady Gaga!.

So yes vanity has always been part of what I call “my true” personality, but it has been badly abused and supressed over the years.  Make no mistake, I don’t think I am beautiful, but I do know there’s a lot of people who said I am and although I don’t believe them, I take their word for it; as the world isn’t generally nice about that sort of thing, unless it’s true and I know a lot of beautiful people who hate themselves too.

I used to obsess over my looks a lot because I can’t stand it when another woman notices; you forgot to do your eyebrows today, omg you have no lip liner, just lipstick? 

I can’t afford to be vain anymore; I don’t have the budget for it.  But when I got sick in 2014 I totally let myself go because my illness made me bedbound and for a while we thought I had some type of cancer, but it wasn’t. 

I also thought, nobody is interested in me with a child and I am approaching forty, why bother?  Especially with my baggage. 

But I have been doing a lot of inner child therapies lately and its waking the true me up again – I love it, but I also hate the idea of people seeing my changes and thinking I am trying too hard to impress others or that I am being pretentious, when in fact I am actually becoming my more authentic and very supressed self! 

As a child, before my mother started to peel me apart from the age of 7yrs I used to love standing in front of people performing for them, singing, acting, dancing, showing off and being my beautiful self in such cocky little way!  This I believe is one of the reasons behind why my grandad called me “cocker” because I was cocky before my mother got her nails into me!

It’s funny but I started to get fat around the time mum started to hate me and supress me, before that, when I had her love and support, I was blooming marvellous and hadn’t a care in the world, I could move mountains with my confidence. 

She insisted she needed to hold me down though, or I was going to the devil, she especially freaked out when I got the notion of burlesque – a thing I saw on TV thanks to my grandad and uncle watching it and predicting that will be me when I am older, mark their words! 

My grandma said if I turn out like that, I’d definitely be following her mother’s footsteps as she was a cancan dancer and burlesque performer!  Imagine that, my great grandma a cancan performer! 

As a child my biggest career dream was to be a fashion designer but my mother worked like a woodpecker on my confidence when she found this out and wouldn’t encourage anything that might be connected to fashion and destroyed my sense of self love as much as possible to get this stupid dream out of my head.

Yet, ironically, it was she who’d force me into the pageants until I became embarrassingly fat for her and she told me she was ashamed to be seen in public with me because of it.

So yes, given the right environment, the right sense of self, I am a vain creature and attention whore to boot and my mother did everything possible to knock me off the pedestal I was on, because she felt the way I was going my life would be filled with sin if she didn’t act cruel to be kind.

But I have tried hard not to be vain, narcissistic or to reach too high – because I can’t stand the reactions from people like my mother who are vitriolic and jealous or greedy to try and do something to you to either destroy you or make entertainment out of you.

I have to say it has been a battle that’s been with me my whole life.  I want to be this great person that everyone admires and to be beautiful and loved, but I also don’t want the evil that comes with it.  You know?

I am on a weight loss journey, so I can be whoever I want to be unashamedly and with a little extra confidence – I will never have oodles of confidence, but I am going to fake it until I make it and I want to be a butterfly or better yet, a peacock!

As I’ve said before, I have had to learn to do everything on an emotional level alone – no support – no friends, nada.

It’s scary to think of what I could be if I am still alone, you know?  I need security, I mean emotional security.  Yeah sure, physical security, physical assistance is in abundance in the world, but it’s the emotional security that really counts.

I’ve never been taught to cope with grief or have my grief acknowledged by anyone.  I was always made to feel bad and selfish when I was sad and grieving a loss.

Told I am a stupid girl who needs to snap out of it, snap out of the idea my grandpa has just died, the same grandpa who I lived with for the last 3 months of his life as he died of cancer right before my eyes!

10yrs old and all I got was a pat on the head from my dad, nothing else from anyone else, when grandpa died, when I was still tearful after three days, people became aggressive with me – get over it you stupid girl stop going on trying to get attention for yourself!

All I wanted was a cuddle, some kind words, but being raised by adults who are all self-absorbed, obviously they don’t think about anyone but themselves.  They might have been a close family in that we had a massive family extended for five or even six generations that still maintained contact, but they were not supportive of each other.  They were not the kind of family that pulled together to grieve and help each other, they all go off into their own small groups or by themselves and the children usually end up forgotten.

When raised by people like this, is it any wonder then, why I cry when a stranger shows me kindness and goes out of their way to be nice to me and sympathetic?

Because I am genuinely not used to being treated with any kind of humanity!

I was raised like a thing, not a person.

I remember when I was in therapy groups as a teenager, I remember joking with my peers about how I wasn’t raised I was dragged up and spat out, reeled in and clout, clout, clout.

My peers though knowing it to be tragic laughed, the therapists cried and some refused to treat me as my case was so specifically hard, they needed a lot of mental time off from work, as hearing what I went through, broke them.

It happened to a lot of therapists, I often had them in tears when I recalled my normal daily life and they’d have to end sessions early.  I tried my best actually to hold back a lot because I needed the therapy, but some of them insisted I didn’t – my mother did.

I remember one therapist in particular was so aggrieved by what I went through, she broke all protocol just to give me a long, long tight hug as she cried and she told me, she so desperately wants to get me away from my parents and adopt me.  Then she came to her senses and she couldn’t be in therapy with me alone anymore, she had to have a colleague with her to maintain a professional standard.  This woman worked tirelessly to try and have me removed from custody of my parents, but she failed.

I was weirdly happy with quite a bit of my childhood until I realised that my parents weren’t normal, after seeing so many professionals break like that.  I really thought it was normal that at 7am you’re kicked out into the garden until lunch time, made to entertain yourself when you’re not at school with only a dog and a rabbit as company or the elderly neighbours talking to you over a fence.

At 12:15pm daddy comes home for lunch, perfectly normal to cook for him and yourself, eat your lunch and get out into the garden by 12:45 again until you’re called in for dinner at 4pm same routine, mums working night shift, you got to cook for everyone – then outside again until 7pm.

I thought it was perfectly normal to only bath once a week and nothing else and that in the summer your bath became the kids paddling pool, but with soap!

Of course it’s not, I know that now, but back then, it’s normal life!

I remember my mum when I was of legal age to drink getting excited that I was of age to become her drinking partner at nightclubs, but I was terrified of going to places like that and refused to go.  She was disappointed, but still tried to have drinking nights in with a slap up meal with her mates and tried to make me drink alcohol with her – “here love, drink more of this, you are more human after you’ve got a drink down you, you’re so tight otherwise… go on have another and another”.

She nearly poisoned me one night when I gave in to every temptation.  I got so ill I nearly needed the hospital, the hallucinations were really, really bad – she said it was only alcohol, but I never really knew.

Dad was furious.

I still went with mum to her mates, but I started to insist control in my drinks and never trusted anything given to me after that – I wanted to know my orange was just orange and not some exotic new type that mysteriously contained vodka or gin that they didn’t tell me about.

I am not tight; I will drink, but not enough to get drunk.

So yeah, all sorts of things could end up on my vlog, but I won’t make it a sympathise with me vlog.  It will all be upbeat or informative, nothing dull, nothing depressing; it will be my happy place.

I was thinking about being 100% authentic on there, no matter how tragic it is.  Doing all sorts of things, whether I get laughed at or not, because no doubt I will because I am cheeky – I am self-deprecating and I do stupid things, I am accident prone, I am just not graceful and clueless… it will be hilarious. 

I mean the other day, I was putting on something really tight and I struggled and I was hopping around the room like a Chinese vampire, trying to heave these darn pants on and I fell ass over tit on my face!

Don’t be surprised if that happens in the vlogs if I am brave enough to show my face!

Henry forgot his password to his Roblox game review channel he had, where I’d comment from time to time funny little quips now and again, interrupting his shows and he said if it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t have had as many views – because a lot of people loved the mum stuff.

We thought at the time, Henry was a budding “Morgz” because he did a lot of stuff with his mum didn’t he?

Well this post is getting a bit long now, so I think I had better end it here, sorry about that, just so much on my mind tonight.

Thanks for reading!