Geraldine Firequeen
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Geraldine Firequeen

One day I picked up the phone, and a voice asked "How would you like to stand as MP for Pendle?" Not too sure, to judge by the picture!

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Slimming World Uncovered

6/1/2020

 
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On the left is a picture of the last time I was slim. I was 62 and my husband had left me. That's a great time to slim. Too upset to eat and I went to the gym every morning to stop myself thinking. I worked in the allotment until it was dark and then stayed on to watch the bats.
Like most things, you get over it, the dust settles and so does the weight. On the hips, everywhere. I did nothing about it. Chiefly because nutritionists had started pointing out that every time someone lost weight they put it back on, and more. Looking back at my life, this had happened to me. I couldn't afford to weigh any more than I did now, I thought, and so I left it.
On 12 December, Election Day, I decided I would do something about it. Slimming World meets at the top of my street every Thursday. I would go along. I would lose weight.

Slimming World wasn't exactly what I thought it would be - a place to lose weight. It was like joining a religion - a religion I didn't want to be part of. I told the organiser I had no intention of filling in their inane sheets or following their eating plan but she wouldn't take no for an answer. One thing was good. I found that I had maintained a steady weight for three years. I knew this because when I went for my hip operation in January 2017 I weighed 14 stone. I was only 1.1/2lbs over that now. This gave me hope that if I changed my eating habits I COULD lose weight.
In the first week I lost 2.1/2 lbs by my own methods, not theirs. The second week I was disappointed to only lose 1.1/2. They pointed out it had been Christmas but since I don't do Christmas that excuse didn't apply to me.
Last Monday, 30 December, I had a doctor's appointment. While I was there I asked if they had a facility where I could get weighed every week as I didn't agree with Slimming World's methods. "Certainly," he said and showed me the scales at the end of a corridor. When we sat back down he told me that he himself had lost four stones and showed me an app on his phone. "It really helped me," he said, "and I'm recommending it to all my patients."
I downloaded it. It's called Myfitnesspal and it's fantastic. You enter the foods you eat and it works out the calories and tots them up. I've used it for a week now and I've been under the 1500 calories a day allowance every day. I was apprehensive about the weigh in this morning - just how accurate was this thing? Had it been lying to me? I was delighted to find I had lost 3lbs. Now I won't worry about its accuracy and veracity any more, just keep on logging the foods, getting in the exercise and losing the pounds! If all goes well, by the end of April I might achieve my goal of 11 stones. Here's hoping!

Dipping into the Past

30/3/2016

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Through a strange set of circumstances, today I found myself sitting in the sun on my garden seat reading The Manor House School by Angela Brazil. Her name came up on a Radio 4 discussion programme and I recalled reading her books as a schoolgirl though it was news to me that she was a ‘rebel and a mould-breaker’. Apparently before Angela’s time girls’ school stories featured characters of an exemplary nature, embodying all the feminine virtues and acting as shining role models to young girls (not teenagers, please note, we didn’t have those until the late fifties).
 
Miss Brazil portrayed girls with a bit more spirit, iconoclastic tomboys – no wonder they appealed to me. Curious to know the kind of thing I was reading in my youth, I ordered a copy on ebay. It’s a surprisingly good story, a suspenseful mystery which would have had me on the edge of my seat in the 1940’s, but still able to hold my interest even today.
 
Spurred on by this experience, I began wondering what I would think of some of the books I devoured as a young adult. My father put me to work in a library and this considerably broadened my reading as all kinds of books came into my hands across the counter and each of us had our own drawer into which we could slip anything that took our fancy.
 
Frances Parkinson Keyes and her tales of plantations and slavery in the Southern states of America is my next choice and I have just bought Steamboat Gothic for about two and sixpence old money!


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A Passing in Killarney

12/2/2016

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When my husband died in Killarney I knew the time I had with him was short, but you know that quality time has, how in moments of extreme emotion it can stretch - so that it always seemed to me that I spent days with him in the funeral parlour yet, I told myself, it could only have been two days. Although it was ten years ago it was only last year that I sent myself back in time and reckoned how long it had been. I could not believe it was only twenty-four hours.

Below is a sound file of my take on that.


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Ten years ago in Killarney

2/2/2016

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Ten years ago tomorrow, in Killarney, a brave soul perished. Blind from the age of 8, he held his own in the world of the sighted. He often said we who can see are at a disadvantage – we rely on sight alone and are blind to all the other senses. Once, cycling through France, I asked him what he was getting out of it. After all, he could not see the beautiful countryside we were passing through.
          “Oh, you’d be surprised!” he said. “I can feel the sun on my face so I know which direction we’re headed in. I know there’s a clump of trees over there because the wind from that direction smells different. We just passed a farm on the right and there’s dust on the road.” He was alive to everything and particularly perceptive about people. “It’s all in the voice,” he said. “Listen to that and you won’t go far wrong.”
          He said we’re distracted by the show people put on – their clothes, hair, expression are all designed to project the image they want us to see. But they can’t hide their true character if you listen to the voice. He was right. The Cuban email pal was a case in point. She was living in Miami when we met and the first time I heard her voice it sent a chill through me. She wanted to move here and we offered to help – she could stay with us until she found somewhere of her own. It took ten months to get her out. She went nowhere unless one of us went with her and she knew no one. Funded by her shaman healer husband she was quite content to laze around our house with all meals provided for the indefinite future! Still, it was an experience I wouldn’t have been without. Life isn’t all a bed of roses.
          He was full of advice and people often sought his help. But it was tough love with him. He was as hard on you as he was on himself and he was brought up without mercy in a German institution for the ‘severely hindered’ as they call it over there. Made to run, play games, do everything normal people do and to fold his clothes into such exact shapes that when I first met him I thought he sent his washing to a laundry.
          He had phenomenal hearing and his aural skills were unmatched. Local singers and musicians came to his front-room recording studio to record their work and declared it far superior to that produced by the professionals. It was lost on me. He would play me an ‘original’ sound clip and then his ‘improved’ version and I could not tell the difference. The muscians could, though.
          He had moved to Killarney only months before his death and the people in the church he joined had known him only seven weeks, yet the church was packed to the doors for his funeral. They all spoke to me of him and the help or insights he had given them and each one said he had told them that all he wanted was for the two of us to be together again.
          So in death he was given back to me over and over by these kind people. And that is why I love Killarney.
          “Good night, sweet prince. May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”
         He was 9 days away from his 51st birthday.


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TERPSICHOREAN

16/1/2016

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I’ve had a word in my head for days – Terpsichorean. Kept meaning to look it up, thought it might refer to turtles! Nothing could be further from the truth. I was astonished to find that it originated in the 18th century and was used to describe a female dancer doing something that resembled ‘The Twist’ – or Isadora Duncan - remember her? Further research into the word reveals that it springs from the Greek Goddess of Dance and Choral Song – Terpsikhore. She was one of Nine Muses of music, song and dance who gave inspiration to mortals.
After pestering me for many days with no result, this word came so strongly into my head as I logged into facebook today that I had to stop immediately and go look it up. Because the word was completely unknown to me  I must conclude that it contains a message for me. Now I am too old to dance, but I have been invited to a drumming group. I’ve not managed to make it to a meeting yet so I shall be sure to go to the next one.
I am reminded of a previous instance of this sort of message. The summer following my husband Wolfram’s death I was sitting in the garden in the sun, thinking about how he built it all for me -  the flagging, the shed, the landscaping and planting, nothing too much trouble or effort for him, thinking of the great gifts he gave me – when I heard the word: ‘Samsara’ whispered in my ear. It broke my train of thought but in a short while I began thinking about Killarney in Ireland where he went to live shortly before he died and how, if he had been alive, I would have been there with him for the summer, doing readings to pay my way. Again ‘Samsara’ was whispered in my ear so I went indoors to look it up.
This is what I found: Samsara is derived from "to flow together”, to go or pass through states, to wander. Mostly a great revolving door between life and death - a cycle of birth, death and rebirth.
If that isn’t a message of love and hope that life continues after death, I don’t know what it is.



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The Rest is Silence

18/8/2015

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We had been apart three years, almost to the day, when my husband died, suddenly and unexpectedly, in Killarney. I received the news late one night when, on the phone to my daughter, my mobile rang in the other room. I went to pick it up. Only one person ever rang me that late and yes, it was him. "Stay on the phone," I said to my daughter, "I'll just see what he wants." But it wasn't him because he had gone for ever. Someone checked his phone and thought I should know.
       He had been in Killarney only seven months but he had settled into the community and found friends who now wanted to do the best by him. With their help I arranged for his body to be taken to a funeral home and then flew out there myself. Tim met me off the evening plane and asked what I wanted to do first. "I want to see Wolf," was my answer.
       "Yes," he said, "but first there's a meal ready for you with our Ministers. They would be so disappointed if you didn't come. Then I'll take you." It never occurred to me, probably because my brain had ceased to function, that the funeral home was closed and everyone gone home for the day. I did not know that while I ate, Tim was phoning ahead to ask the proprietors to come and open up. We arrived to find the place blazing with light and the lovely Michael and Mary waiting with warm smiles to welcome us in.
       "Will it be all right if I play my drums?" I asked. I wanted to send him out in a proper pagan manner.
       "Sure," Mary said with a beaming smile, "They're all dead here, they won't mind!"
       I had never seen a dead person and my mother had told me always to say no if I got the chance. She had been upset at the sight of her own dead mother and never got over it. So it was with trepidation that I followed Tim through the heavy oak door. Wolfram was lying in an open coffin in the midst of a Victorian parlour complete with potted plants and cast iron fireplace. I almost expected a Palm Court Orchestra to tune up. I held my breath. There was nothing about him that was not Wolf. He looked like any minute he might sit up with cheeky grin and sparkling eyes and say, "That fooled you!"

Whenever, in the succeeding nine years, I've thought back to that funeral in Killarney, it seems to me that the time I had with him stretched over a long period, that every morning I ran down to that funeral home like a young girl running to her lover, to be with him. Yet I knew, somehow, that it could not have been longer than two days. It was not until last year that, while out walking, I allowed myself to seriously examine the facts and was astounded to find that from landing in Killarney to the funeral in the Methodist Church was exactly 24 hours. On the rest of the walk I created this poem in my head, committing it to paper when I got home, then revising and refining it over the next few days.

A Passing in Killarney  

It seemed like days, if not weeks, till they came for him,
While I sat at his side and I talked to him,
While I played my drum and I sang for him,
And I placed the green boughs that I brought for him.   

It seemed like days, if not weeks, till they came for him,
Each day, like a bride, that I ran to him,
To sit by his side and honour him,
With the candles and incense I brought for him.   

Yet it was twenty-four hours that I had with him,
From my plane touching down till they came for him.
Over the green bower that my hands had made for him,
They nailed down the lid that they brought for him.   

I had twenty-four hours till they came for him,
And that was the last time I looked on him.
As Husband and Friend I remember him,
As Half of my Soul I remember him.
Each day of my life I remember him.  

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Frozen in Time

14/8/2015

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It was February when my husband left; the day before Valentine’s to be precise. He walked out and went to another woman. I tried to be positive about it and to get over it as fast as I could. Look on it as an opportunity to change, I said, and what a good thing he left me at this time of year, I said, when we’re moving forward into spring and summer, and not at the onset of winter, when I’d have the dark nights to face. 

I spent all the time I could down at the allotment, so that I wouldn’t have to think. I was there early in the morning and stayed until the light went, sometimes later than that. Sometimes in the night when I couldn’t sleep I returned to sit under the stars and nurse my broken heart. 

I tried to widen my circle – I joined a gym and wore myself out on the treadmills. I visited friends’ gardens and marvelled at how early everything was coming out. 

As the year wore on I thought I was healing and in June I booked a cycling holiday. Wanting to spend time with an old friend in Norfolk, I arranged to join the tour bus there. But once out of my comfort zone, my support system broke down. I went to pieces and couldn’t stop crying. I returned home and cancelled the trip. 

In August I was showing some people round the allotment, advising them on what it was possible to grow. 

“Of course there’s nothing growing now,” I said, “because it’s winter. But in the summer it’s a different picture.” As I spoke I became aware of something wrong as gradually, imperceptibly, the black, white and grey landscape of February that filled my mind faded away and bright sunlight crept slowly in at the edges of my vision, lighting up the colourful flowers, fruits and vegetables that surrounded us. 

What could I say to explain my remark? They would think I was mad. I walked away, leaving them to think what they liked. I knew what it meant. My world had stopped on February 13 when I ended up on an emotional ice floe, far out at sea, separated from the living world.

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Writing Fiction

4/8/2015

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I’ve often asked myself why it is that I can’t write fiction? Is it because I was taught as a child that lying is wrong? No, because when I was at school I wrote lots of stories purely from imagination. So what went wrong along the way? Why did I lose this ability? I drew a complete blank – until today.  

I saw the ad as a pop-up on facebook – a course in Creative Writing at Craven College. This might interest my son, I thought. He has had to give up work through ill health and has begun writing in earnest. I passed the link to him, then the Voice in my Head said – Why don’t you do it? The Voice is right. I am always passing on information that might help other people, yet I never do it for myself.

It turned out not to be a simple course, but a full-blown University degree – BA (Hons) in English and Creative Writing, taken over three years. Well why not? I never got a degree and though I definitely don’t need one now, it would be interesting. The main attraction though was the mental stimulation it would provide. No harm in applying: I filled in the application form.  

Today I went for interview. I saw a lady called Jane. She told me a) the course probably will not run as only three of us have applied; b) she did not know what else they could teach me that I did not already know, and that I would probably end up teaching them; but that c) she loved my application and wanted to meet me!  

Like the Walrus and the Carpenter we talked of many things (of shoes and ships and sealing wax and cabbages and kings – and why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings) and I told her that I do not know why I cannot write fiction but that I hoped to learn.  

On the way home I thought of a strange set of circumstances that has recently occurred and how it would make an ideal beginning for a spooky story. Three people I met in the last two weeks, on completely unconnected occasions, turned out to be involved with each other in a web of intrigue. Sitting on the bus I tried to imagine how this story might develop – and I could not. I asked why not - and the answer was: because if I start doing that, the things I invent may come true – and this makes me afraid. And at the same time I was whisked back to when, in my twenties and trapped in an unhappy marriage, I was faced with a one-year wait before my youngest would be old enough to go to Nursery School and I could leave. I decided to spend that year in writing a novel. I enjoyed doing it and my imagination worked perfectly. Then the things I invented started to happen in real life. One or two minor incidents and then the big one: my father worked in a foundry and I had one of my characters fall to his death in the furnace. It was when Dad came home ashen-faced and reported that this had happened to one of his workers that I gave up writing my novel. This had completely vanished from my conscious mind until today, when I pushed my imagination to do its work – and it informed me why it could not.

Now I have identified the problem maybe I can start writing fiction agai
n.





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Remembering William Bell

8/3/2015

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In 1992, while fully immersed in the allotments and writing my 'Muck & Magic' column in the Nelson Leader, I received an enquiry from a gentleman named William Bell. Having reached the age of 91, he felt it was time to write his memoirs and he thought I might be able to guide his pen, so to speak. Always up for a challenge I went to meet him at his home in Hibson Road. I found him a most entertaining gentleman, with a great gift for story-telling. I drank tea with him once a week from then on, he spouted his yarns and I returned home to write them down. At first I took a tape recorder with me but this inhibited him so I came to rely on my memory and the notes I made while he talked. William was a perfectionist and was always concerned that his stories should be completely accurate. I took a more liberal view - "There can't be many people as old as you William." I would say. "No one's going to be arguing about it."
   
After a time, this obsession of his became a problem and instead of acting the part of the engaging storyteller he undoubtedly was, he began writing down his stories, resulting in something that lacked the sparkle of his narrative style. Luckily I could usually get him to begin reminiscing after we had dissected his efforts, and that was what went down on paper. Given my respect for his age, I was not strict enough in enforcing what I knew to be best and in the end the sessions became too onerous and I gracefully bowed out.
    I have kept William's stories in a file with the intention of publishing them one day and that time has now come. I have written a letter to the Nelson Leader to try and contact his relatives in the hope they can provide some photographs and perhaps some stories of their own they remember William telling.

William Bell was born on 25 April 1901 and had vivid recollections of his childhood in Skerton, a suburb of Lancaster. I would ge grateful to hear from anyone who knew him and can provide more information about him and the stories he told.


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 The Green Train by E V Rieu

19/2/2015

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This poem from 'Puffin Quartet of Poets'
always intrigued me when I read it to my children: it gave me shivers up and down my spine. I never knew what it meant until my husband died: then I knew it was about death.
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    Geraldine is

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