A Close Shave

This is Restormel Castle, where Viv, Titch, Molls and I went for a wonderful walk on Sunday.

On Monday I got back around 6pm to find an answerphone message asking me to call the automated department of the Santander Fraud Prevention Scheme.

It’s a scam, I thought. Surely if it was real, they wouldn’t ask me to ring an automated service? But I rang one of my brothers, who’s into this sort of thing. He said, “Shall I ring it for you and find out?”

So he did and reported back that they weren’t asking for any bank account details. So I rang. Pressed the 1 of this and 2 for that to answer security questions. And then I was asked if I’d made a payment of nearly £2,000 to a stranger. Press 1 if you have, Press 2 if you haven’t and need to talk to an advisor.

I pressed 2 quicker than you can bet, and talked to someone who said they would freeze my online banking and make sure the money was back in my account within 48 hours. Could I run a virus scan on my computer and ring them back?

I did that, but talked to Niki, my brilliant computer man who snorted. “No point in running a scan on your computer,” he said (with a Russian accent). “You ‘ave no virus on your computer.” There was an intake of breath as he inhaled his ciggie. “These people are stupid,” he continued. “Nowadays they get caught straight away. Ees waste of time.”

Somewhat mollified, if not confused, I did run the scan, rang back the bank and held on. And on. Until an automated message said they would ring me back when an advisor was free. I went to bed.

Next morning, repeat of last paragraph, without going to bed. I put the phone down and at 10am got a phone call from the bank. No one had made notes on my account so the bloke didn’t know what had happened the day before. I told him about the virus scan, about bank account being blocked, and having rung but no one getting back to me.

“Oh, you need to ring another number,” he replied.

At this point, not having slept too well, I exploded. “My husband has died, I have already rung three times and I am not ringing any other numbers. YOU sort it out,” I cried.

There was an infinestimal pause and he said, “Of course, Mrs Jackson. Absolutely.”

At this point, for some reason, I burst into tears. Relief I think. “So I don’t need to do anything?”

“No, of course not. We’ll sort this out Mrs Jackson, and I do apologise.”

I don’t think he probably knew what he was apologising for by this time, but that didn’t matter – the problem was being sorted. And thank god Niki was right and the bank were alerted to this amount of money whistling out of my account in time. And, more to the point, will replace it.

So while that was a near miss, I’m very fortunate. Even better, my dear brother in law came round last night with a boot full of wood he’d chopped up for me. We spent half an hour unloading it and stacking it and then retired to the kitchen for a glass of wine or two.

You know me – give me wood and wine and I’m happy.

Time Travel and Walks book

This is Rosemullion Head, taken last week in the glorious sunshine....

Last weekend Molls and I went up to Devon see one of my older brothers and my nieces, who are both at university and a joy to be with – intelligent, thoughtful and attractive young women. We don't often meet so it was wonderful to spend time with them and hear about their views on life, what they're doing and wearing. We placed bets on the National (no, won nothing) and went out to the pub for a meal.

Unfortunately I had several sudden and totally unexpected waves of missing Pip that knocked me off my feet. (At home it's more manageable somehow as I don't have to worry about other people.) A resurgence several hours later erupted like a volcano – just after we'd finished eating in the pub – and I shot off into the dusk with poor Molls for a howl and a Long Walk. (It's not always advisable to let family witness what you're really going through, particularly younger members.)

Next morning, I checked myself over gingerly. I was scarred and scraped, bruised and battered but alive. My sense of myself bubbled up to the surface and I smiled at the warm spring sunshine. Outside I could hear the tap tap of a woodpecker, the whinnying of a horse. A dog barking.

Around me life was going on as normal. My family were happily dozing in different rooms, Molls snoring on my bed. All was well. I had been gone for how long? Weeks or months – days or minutes – seconds or a lifetime? It didn't matter. I was back.

And that's enough of the difficult stuff. I have two bits of good news: the first is that, having got Pip's new camera out and practising with it (see above) I'm loving it and have booked myself on a photography course starting in a few weeks time.

The other thing is that, having had several disappointments on the work front this week, I have signed a publishing contract with Sigma Press for a walks book. I'm delighted to be working with them, and look forward to its publication next year.

Unexpectedly Happy Days

I had the most amazing week – Regent Cottage is lovely with a wonderful secret garden, and going somewhere on our own (me and molls) with no former associations was just what I needed. I felt happy and secure there and fine on my own – in fact relished the time I had to myself.

I missed Pip, of course: we had been to Penzance on many occasions, but it felt fine to be there without him. Partly what made the week so good, I realised, was that I wasn't constantly worrying about him. Whether his cough was bad, was he OK on his own, should I hurry back to be with him. Did he want to go for a drink, had he got a video to watch, enough to read etc. Was he feeling down, was he too tired? What did I need to do? Going away made me realise how much of a strain the whole of the last year was - not just the last few months.

For once all I had to do was look after myself and that made life so much easier. Freer. I bumped into all sorts of people I knew – all to do with writing – including Peter, who's organising the Penzance Literary Festival which he's asked me to take part in again. I met another journalist who belongs to the same journo forum as me. I visited the wonderful Book Cafe in St Just and got talking to more writerly, book loving types who were fascinated to hear that I write walks.

Viv and Titch came and we did three wonderful and very long walks, getting lost along the way. At one point we met this red haired sprightly fellow who was also pounding the coastal footpath – we'd bumped into him the previous day but he seemed to have shed his girlfriend and gained two walking sticks.

“How come he's so sprightly?” said Viv as he whizzed up and down the granite strewn path.

“He doesn't have two dogs, three guide books, a map, a tape recorder and a camera,” I muttered. As Viv has just had a Significant Birthday, I didn't add that he was also 30 years younger.....

So the week was productive, exhausting and fun. Coming home was tricky, suddenly hit by an avalanche of emotions that crashed over me like the waves at Land's End. And since then I am beset by sudden plunges of grief that hurtle me down like a tombstoner. But that's bound to happen. I take a deep breath and swim underwater. Go with it, don't fight it. It passes and I reach dry land again.

When I went to pick up Bussie from the vets they said, “You can't have him back! We love him!”

Needless to say, His Lordship has been horribly spoilt but has become very affectionate and has taken to sleeping on the bed as well as Mollie. So there I am squashed somewhere in the middle: a Flowerpot Sandwich. I was wondering about getting a smaller bed now, but have decided it's just as well we have a King Size bed......

Cheers!

(This is Himself, Not Entirely Sober, which befits the ending of this post.)

There is better news this week, I'm glad to say, after The Week From Hell.

Poor Bussie (large black and white moggie, sole male resident of Flowerpot House) had to have a second operation to stitch him up following a bad cat fight. He's been in the vet hospital for a week now but hope he can come home soon although Molls and I are away in a few days – my dear brother in law will be looking after Bussie though. I am trying not to think about The Bill which has reached £200 and add on that another week of vet hospital fees plus food and flea stuff etc......

But I have two bits of good news: I have got a commission to interview Bill Bryson in June. And I have just been to have a meeting about a possible project with Cornwall & Devon Media.

The third thing is that Molls and I are going on holiday on Saturday. While I know I need the break, I am a little apprehensive about how I will manage. Here, at home, Pip is all around me. Where will he be in Penzance?

But I have deliberately chosen a cottage we've never been to before and it sounds ideal. It has a garden, parking for two cars and is close to the sea front. Near the pub where we went last time we stayed there. It is round the corner from a friend of mine and from our dear cousins.

So I have a support network in Penzance which is good to know, and a very good friend is coming to stay, as is my mum for a few nights.

And I do have this very strong feeling that Pip is with me. It's nothing as clear cut as walking along beside me, but he is around – on the outskirts of my emotionally peripheral vision. I can neither see him nor touch him but he is definitely there. A friend who came to stay the other weekend commented on it, unprovoked, so it's not just me.

Life is full of Firsts right now - the first time I do things without him. Now it's going on holiday. Bill Bryson. First trip to London in years.

So Molls and I will go to Penzance and Pip will come with us. He will even come walking, which he would never do normally. But I think I will take a photo of him with me just in case.

A few (good) things are happening, and as Helen Keller said, “When one door of happiness closes, another opens: but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened for us.”

I can hear Pip rejoicing at my good news. “Come on Flowerpot,” he will say opening a bottle. “Push the boat out!”

This rollercoaster called Life

Three months on – how have I managed that long without him? Though in fact it's six months since Pip was here and we had what passed for a 'normal' life.

But life goes on. I get good days and bad days. Tears are never far from the surface. On good days they recede, like a low spring tide. As I write, they spring to my eyes like leaks and dribble down my cheeks – just as well I don't often wear make up. And yet people say I'm brave, have courage. What does that mean? All I do is get up every morning, though sometimes that is a feat in itself.

Just when I think I am used to him not being here, I get a bad run of Life which makes me acutely aware of my vulnerability – on these days I feel as if I have shed several vital layers of skin. I am aware that I see the world differently. I feel it in another way, but I'm bound to.

This week has been One of Those Weeks. A promised commission from a glossy mag fell through – the editor changed her mind. My youngest brother sent a picture of me and Pip outside a pub in the sunshine last year looking so happy – so unaware of the future. Then my computer got a virus and I couldn't find anyone to fix it for days. And now, just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, Bussie has come in with blood pouring off his haunches – a cat fight I suspect - so I am just about to take him to the emergency vet.

But I am also aware of the good things in life. A beautiful day with a pale promise of sun. The unexpected kindness and thoughtfulness of another new friend who makes me laugh and only lives round the corner. "Come in for a cuppa," cries Colin, and his huge beam can't help but make me smile and lifts my spirits. A commission – for work is normal and I badly need that.

My computer is now fixed by a lovely fellow who patiently stayed for hours running scans, told me what to do in future and charged me very little. I have sold Pip's boat to a lovely couple and I know Pip would approve. And always there is my Molls, who patters alongside me and sleeps, glued to my hip. (Right now she is dozing on the bed behind me after a long walk.) For that I am most thankful of all, for she provides me with the love that I need to get through each day.

Last weekend I was privileged to meet a very enterprising man who runs The Chicken Hotel. He has a maths degree, did Finance in the city, became a cabinet maker, got made redundant and retrained as a maths teacher, and now he combines that with his Chicken Hotel. His mind is just like Pip's – inventive, imaginative, flexible and a great sense of humour. Meeting him, and those lovely chickens, was a real tonic. So you see? There's often something unexpected round the corner.....

And just when I had another of Those Days – my dear brother in law rang to say he'd chopped up six bags of the wood I'd collected. Some women like chocolate. Some like bags, some shoes.

Give me some wood for the fire and I'm a happy bunny.

Stylish Blogger Award

Debs has kindly nominated me for this award, and in return I have to tell you 7 things about me. Well the ones that are printable are minimal so after a lot of thought, here they are, in no particular order.

1. Despite years of depression when I was younger, I am by nature a fairly cheerful person.

2. I have Raynaud's disease so when I'm cold my fingers and toes turn an attractive purple colour. When they get chilblains, they swell up and look like undercooked sausages. So attractive, though they're not as bad as they used to be when I smoked.

3. It was my birthday last week and despite the circumstances, I had one of the best birthdays for a long time. Sunshine and friends did a fabulous job. The downside was that I had my first hangover in I can't remember how long...

4. This flat has a name plate outside saying Flowerpot House.

5. I envy those who believe in an after life. It sounds such a comforting idea. But given what I've seen of life so far, I think that's far too simple. However, I do believe that those you love never leave you.

6. I am hopeless at exams. I have avoided them ever since school.

7. I have few regrets – I don't think they help in life. But I do wish when I was younger, that someone had said, “You must sing. Write. Dance.” That would have saved a lot of years of angst. Still, on the bright side, I can appreciate it all the more now.

And as you are such a discerning lot, the first seven people to make comments are entitled to this award. Go for it!

Who am I?

Last weekend was supposed to be a relaxing one – taking the train up to Devon to see my mum for the first time in six months. So my dear brother in law, Pete, dropped me off at the station on Friday afternoon and offered to see me off. “Don't worry, Pete,” I said, giving him a hug. “We'll be fine.” And Molls and I set off to check the train and get a ticket.

It wasn't until I was standing in the queue for tickets that I thought – where's my bag? My stomach plummeted and I checked – got Molls, got my holdall and my wellies – but no bag.

I shot out of the ticket hall, ran outside, heart thumping, to see if Pete had gone. The February drizzle dowsed the afternoon but there was no sign of Pete's grey Fiesta. I walked back with a sense of utter disbelief. I stood there shaking, and realised I had no money, no phone and no keys. Nothing. No form of identification (though this didn't hit me until later). It was too far to walk home (12 miles) and I had no wherewithal to get a train or bus back.

But I have great faith in Pete, was convinced he'd see my bag lying on the back seat of his car. He'd swear, under his breath, and turn round and bring it straight back. So I thought. I knew I'd be OK – I just wasn't sure how.

As it happened, Pete didn't notice my bag until 8pm that night – this was 2.30pm. But after various phone calls from borrowed mobiles, a dear friend roared down to the station, paid for my ticket and gave me some cash for a cup of tea, and Molls and I got the 3.30 train. Dear Nancy also rang my mum to tell her what had happened and that I'd be on a different train, and left a message on Pete's answerphone.

Once on the train, I relaxed – though I could hear Pip saying, “have a brandy Pop.” If there had been any form of refreshment, I would have grabbed it, but typically there was nothing – not even one of those little trolleys. However, someone had left a half empty can of fizzy orange so I downed that.

In the middle of that night I awoke feeling very unsettled. The next day the feeling of dislocation continued and I realised that losing your identity is a very scary thing. I was no-one and nothing.

Although I don't use my mobile much, it has a lot of numbers that I can ring if I need to. Without it, I had no recourse to many of my friends. My diary is full of reminders and work dates. Without that I'd be lost. My keys were in my bag too – so I couldn't even get into the flat even if I did get home. I had a bottle of water for me and Molls, biscuits for my low blood sugar (which was also plummeting) – also in my bag. I have my trusty notebook and pen for when I think of things that I have to remember – which is about every five minutes. Lastly, I have an envelope where Pip wrote, “I love you,” which is my talisman.

One thing's for sure – I will never, ever, leave my bag in the back of someone's car again.

But I was fortunate that I hadn't actually lost the bag, and that I had friends and my mum to lend me money. I was struck by the kindness of many people – one lady in particular who let me use her phone for countless calls. I will not forget her, and if ever there's a time when I can repay her kindness, I will do so.