New Year, New Hope, All Hail

All hail the revolution that may flourish

When actions, thought, intentions coincide,

A passion plea for peace to nurture, nourish,

Revolution of the minds burst open wide.

A global epidemic of proportions,

Pandemic thus, reliant on the means,

Communicable by communication,

Reticulated, networking at the seams.

Where once upon a dreamscape we envisaged

Peace alignment, massive in its scale,

Let words and actions make the global village,

We can do this, yes, believe, we can prevail.

Wishing you all a peaceful and hope-filled New Year.

May we flourish as one humanity.

Anne-Marie x



You know the type.


Loves to screw your brain.

Messes your mind any way they can find,

Is hurtful and cruel.

Then does it all over again.


It might be an ex or a current,

It could be a female

Or male,

It should be someone

You best, or ignore,

Then their mindfuck might fail.


It could be a boss

Or a neighbour,

A colleague who won’t give you rest.

Or kids in the ‘hood

Who just won’t be good.

Think what to do for the best.


It could be someone in your family

With an ex

Who’s really a prat.

Help make them see that his dick’s really wee,

Then you can both

Laugh about that.


It could be a friend

Who’s no friend at all,

Delights in bringing you down,

Dump them.

No one needs that crap,

A ‘friend’ who makes you feel like a clown.


Whoever they are

Remember your mind

Is yours, not a fairground pot luck.

Demand they desist,

Ignore if you wish

Or tell them you’re having no truck…


Ah, you thought that last line

Just had to rhyme

With ‘luck’ and a word I’ve used before.

Ok, then, we’ll say it again.

No mindfucking here.

Close that door.


My banter is intended as humour

But the message is one

To heed.

No one, not any, known past or in present,

Has the right to

Mess with your heid!


It could be someone

Whose words are no fun

Or actions are designed to convey

Ridicule, stress

Sadistic duress.

Don’t engage then they cannot play.


It might be yourself

Who’s the culprit,

Battering away at your brain.

Ego destroyed,

Validity void

Stop it! Don’t do it again.


A flower with filaments tender,

Seeking to bloom

Where it can,

Nurture your mind,

Stuff others who find

Pleasure in ruining elan.


Give what is due

But whatever you do,

Keep your mind well intact.

Those who insist

On taking the piss

Should know a couple of facts.


Spirit of self is a wonder


A blessing two-fold,

But fucked with for fun

Is just not on.

Resist, persist, be bold.


It could be the politicians

Obvious I know,

That’s their art,

Assisted by media

And spin ,they begin

To screw your head and your heart.


Don’t fuck with my mind, you moron!

My head is my own!

Try that cheer.

Say it again till they believe it.

And then

Say it again, so you hear.

Video reading Mindfuckery

Depression Perceptions

What some people think or say.

‘You’re mental’

‘You’re psycho’

‘You’re crazy’

‘You’re mad’

‘You’re disturbed’

‘You’re evil’

‘You’re pathetic’

‘You’re bad’


‘You hurt those around you,

You don’t seem to care.’

‘What’s your problem, what’s with you?

Is anyone there?’


‘It’s abnormal’

‘It’s alarming’

‘It’s atrocious’

‘It’s harming’

‘You’re not like yourself.

You’re like some devil’s spawn.

Earth to your planet.

What is it you’re on?’


‘No-one can get you

While you’re head is a mess.

Get some help, see a doctor,

See a priest, go confess.’


‘You must have done something

Barmy, I think,

Go see a psychiatrist

Go talk to a shrink.’

‘Someone who’ll listen

And know who you are,

Someone who knows

Why your lid is ajar.’


What people need to hear.


‘Whatever your ache is

Whatever your pain

We’re in this together.

You’ll be well once again.’


What it can feel like.


‘The pain that’s inside

Is pressure on mind

It’s a panic, a fear,

Ahead and behind.

Don’t know why I’m troubled

Don’t know what’s the root

Can’t find me a reason

Can’t find me a foot

On the ladder that’s up

And if I could ascend

I’d be here fully with you

To heal and to mend.

My mind feels so broken

My hormones gone wild

I feel like an infant,

I behave like a child

Who is hurt, who is troubled

Who feels a great dread,

Love me, help me,

Guide my poor head.

Hold me, caress me

Sing a song so I’ll sleep

The phantoms will flounder

Delve into the deep.

The recesses roar,

Their might is aflame.

My monsters are calling

My name once again.

I’m slipping, I’m sliding,

The path is too steep.

Hold fast beside me

I’m afraid and I weep

For sanity’s safety

Its shores with a pier,

Its harbour, its anchor

To hold back the fear.

I urge you, I implore you

Please persevere

There’s aid for this illness

But I need loved ones near.’


One possible answer.


The pills they provide

Hold a key to the tomb.

Serotonin rises

Despatches the gloom.


Why do some suffer

The pain of the mind?

Why is it hidden?

Afraid to find

No-one will talk?

Or they’ll say that

You’re weak?

So hold it inside

Too  ashamed to speak

Of  mental illness,

The stigma attached.


The sink has a crack

Where the hormone leaks out

The levels diminish

The brain screams a shout

Fix me, repair me,

Do whatever it takes.

Why do you hesitate

Till your body it shakes

With tremors and torments

And rocking anew

This mind that is troubled

With thoughts gone askew?


The answers you seek

Lie in one little bottle

The inhibitor prevents

The desire to throttle

The life from your body

The thought from your mind.

Be assuaged, be helped

So some peace you will find.


There is more than one type of depression.


Different answers may need to be sought.


Help is out there.


Attitudes to mental illness need to change.


Is that even a word? Of course it is. I checked it. You don’t seriously think I would use a word that was made up by me?


I paraphrase.

One who finds it difficult to get to the point without describing everything.


I met a woman down the street today who was pushing a pram. It was a lovely pram; full of beautiful colours and challenging activities for her offspring.

OK. Maybe not that, exactly. But you get the idea.

For some reason, my husband is not interested in the particulars of a case but insists on knowing the point immediately. As in, ‘What’s the point to this story?’

It pisses me off big time.

OK. I’ve got a boring story to tell. Please let me embellish it so that it sounds as if I have a life.   

Is this a man thing?

Or, maybe, ‘Oh God, I’m boring the arse off the world,’ kinda thing?’

Most women I know like to embellish the finer points of a story and do so in an entertaining and self-effacing sort of way.

They make the boring sound entertaining because they observe the details.

Unfortunately, a lot of men do not appreciate the finer details.

‘Get to the bloody point, woman,’ is what they’re really thinking.

I am horrified at this idea. The very notion that a story worth telling is stunted in its prime.

Except for one teensy, tinsy observation.

I have listened to and continue to listen to, ‘stories from school’, and, let’s face it, if there was ever anything created that was destined to drive you to distraction and bore you to death is the story of, ‘She said’, ‘I said’, ‘She did’ and ‘I did back’.

That aside, you can usually pass muster with your kids. ‘Oh, did she? That’s awful. What did you say?’

Slightly different story going on here with your nearest and dearest.

So, OK, darling , I’m sorry that the point of all my stories is lost in the minutiae. But, I’ve been here all day wiping the crap off of shitty knickers and trying to come up with a menu that suits everyone, so forgive me if I can’t just ‘get to the friggin’ point’. I’m trying to have a conversation here.  Made up, for your information, of all the drips that go into making the drops of life. I beg your pardon for not holding your attention in some riveting account of the day in the life of….. well, you get the idea.

I know I talk shit a lot of the time.

This, by the way, is a very profound observation.

I repeat, I know I talk shit a lot of the time.

As opposed to?

Sometimes, I don’t know.

Verbal diarrhoea

I’m thinking about my last post and the fact that I am too verbose.

I have been told this. Repeatedly. So, don’t post. This is not news to me.

The surprising thing is, I’ve often thought of myself as being quite anti-social. I mean, I don’t crave company. I’m quite happy for weeks and months on end to not ‘go out gallivanting’.

So where, if at all, does any social interaction occur with me?



My immediate family. Lots of them.

My extended family, up to a point. They’re busy. I’m busy.

My work. Thirty odd children in a class manage to destroy all desire I may have had for communication and verbal interaction. In fact, I usually need an hour to myself with coffee and cigarettes to get to a place where noise of any kind is tolerated, let alone welcome.

I love my job. I love children. I want to strangle anyone that hurts a child. No matter what form that hurt takes. How dare you?!

That does not make me a pushover. Rather a very patient, considerate teacher with the best interests of my pupils at heart. Seriously.

The problem is, that by the time I’ve given my all to my class, there’s not a lot left. At least, until I refuel. God Bless coffee and tobacco.

This will not please one of the blogs I follow. A beautiful, young, enthusiastic, unjaded advocate of health and well-being.

Despite the title of this page, I have no aspirations to work my butt. My butt started heading south some years ago and had a compass pointing the way. At no point in my fairly-lengthy life has my butt ever professed aspirations to be pert and upright. In fact, I don’t even know why I am using the word butt (except, perhaps because Americans refer to that region as such).

My bum is nothing to be ashamed of after seven kids. But, (and I am pausing for laughter here) It has never tried to be anything other than what it is.

I rephrase. It has never tried to be anything other than what I have been prepared to make it.

And, well, you know, exercise… I’ve just never really been into it. I know in these health-raising awareness days I ought to at least try to like exercise but I just don’t. Can’t.

How do you go about changing the innate characteristics of a person?

If I always, and I do mean always, preferred reading to playing, is that my fault?

I gladly went on walks with my dad because they were fun.

But, if you take the overt fun out of the equation, I just don’t see the point.

So why am I following this fine young lady’s page.

I could just say, ‘Because’.

That’s what all maturity-stunted individuals say when faced with a question they can’t/don’t want to answer. (Note to self: Must stop saying, ’Because I said so,’ to my children.)

There is, actually, a reason.

Here we have a beautiful young woman aspiring to inspire in others a love for what she recognises as wholesome.

I’m a wee bitty past worrying about that. But, I do have children. And I am concerned that they eat correctly/exercise appropriately/view themselves wholesomely. I’ve always concerned myself with these things.

I’ve not always religiously followed them. Sweets as a treat. McDonalds now and then. Swimming whenever I can be arsed.

I do try.

Really, I do.

But, I don’t like mixing much..

I am INFJ. See

Now, I know this stuff. I’ve done more psychometric tests than,,,,Well, I don’t know who than. Someone who’s done a lot.

I don’t really give a shit whether I have company or not. I view solitary confinement as a spa weekend.


I was told recently, by more than one person, I might add, that I ought to do stand up.

Well, that’s just offensive.

That means that while I was raising my glass and wishing ‘salut’ to everyone, they were not taking my words seriously.


I am, and always have been, a very serious person. Ask anyone who knows me. Well, not anyone, obviously. Not the people at that party who thought I was being witty and gay (in the original sense of the word).

Don’t ask them.

They don’t know shit. Which points me to another splendid blog I have encountered. If you like shit. Don’t be obtuse. I don’t mean literally. But, if like me, there are some disgusting things that ….well….you just can’t help laughing at, view this.

I really love this. I’ve tried a couple of times to post a comment to the author to ask permission to email this to others because it is screaming to be out there.

But, every time I have tried to make a comment, my screen has gone do-lally. Not with every post I make. But, certainly every time I try to post here. I have taken this to mean that I am not meant to communicate with this person ; that destiny is keeping us apart. Or some shit like that.

Anywhoo. It’s too good a post to stay on WordPress. I mean really too good. It ought to be out there.. Making its way in the world. Receiving plaudits from people like me that think that shit is funny. Well, it is.

I might also direct you to one Mr. Billy Connolly, of Scottish extraction, who did a lovely piece years ago entitled, ‘The Jobbie Wheecha.’

I am not familiar enough with the vernacular of Americans (of which this site is full). But, just in case, you need elucidation – jobbie = shit. Wheecha? Well, that’s a bit more difficult to explain. Suffice to say, ‘What does happen to all that keech (shit) that airline passengers can no longer hold until landing?’

If my rather sedate mother, with her completely out-of-character crude sense of humour, can fall off  a chair laughing at this (literally) then I think it’s worth a listen.

I went to the bother of googling this link, so you owe it to me and, seriously, to yourself to give it an ear. (That’s if you can understand it. We Scots have a slight dialect problem. Not for us, just for everyone else.)

As the title of my post suggests – verbal diarrhoea.

If you want shit, I can talk it along with the best of them.

I can’t even remember why I started this post. Now, that’s  no shit. That’s three haufs and pepsi max later.                                                                                                        

I have lots of shit to do tomorrow. We’re all off for summer holidays tomorrow. Oh, joy!!!

P.S. I have no idea what kind of shit is going on with my laptop/programmes but I can’t seem to get it to behave. This is not Times Roman 18 or else the rest of it isn’t. I give up. I’m posting as it is because in the words of Rhett Butler,

‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a —-‘.

PPS This is just ridiculous. I can’t even read the post I’m trying to copy and post. If you know what I mean.

So, I’m sorry. I’m going to have to select some massive typescript here so that this post can be seen by anyone without the aid of a magnifying glass.

PPPS Please, god. Don’t let my computer start being an arse. I already have enough of those in my life. Return my font sizes to the way they should be. And, when I select 14. Let everything be 14.

Nope, you’re just not going to do it, are you?

PPPPS Dear God, I truly am sorry that I disturbed you with trivia about font sizing. But it really is irritating!x

Blog Challenge

  1. Write a love poem and stop in the middle. Change the mood of the poem and see how it ends.

Fingers splayed lovingly

Across a swelling belly

Hands gently patting

The child

That was never born.

 2. If you could remove one thing, person, or place from this world what would it be? Would the intent be beneficial for everyone or just you?

Rats. They scare the bejaysus out of me. I’ve never felt right about the mere thought of them since reading James Herbert’s ‘Rats’ in my teens. Room 101 in ‘1984’ finished me off. I don’t suppose getting rid of them would help medical research much but it would pacify my phobia a lot.

 3. What is the saddest moment of your life? Describe your feelings when thinking on it. Not necessarily relating whatever is that makes you sad, but instead show us what sadness means to you.

No More            

Three months after the fact, realising all the no mores.

No more seeing her.

No more talking life over.

No more listening to her life stories for the millionth time

And always learning something new.

No more hearing her laugh uproariously at something so rude.

No more hearing her sing.

No more hugging her.

No more nana for my children.

 No more Mum.

 Feeling the void around me at the knowledge

 And knowing she was the one

  I always turned to.

  No more.

 4. Describe a happy memory of yours and try to recall something lost from it, or perhaps missed until now. Like when you rewatch a movie and see something for the first time.

Seeing the pride in my dad’s face and hearing it in his voice as he gave the father’s speech at my wedding. He wasn’t big on compliments as a rule and it was lovely to hear him speak so positively about his family. Making jokes about auctioning off my sisters for ‘two camels and a collie dog’ added to his lightheartedness at the time. He made a point of dancing with all his girls and my mum that night. He had more energy than we had all seen in a long time.

Six months later, he was dead.

I think he knew. I wish we had.

 5. What is more important reading the knowledge left by others or leaving our own opinions behind?

I don’t think I can separate the two. Reading and life experience have helped form my opinions and who I am and I hope that some of those have helped form my own children and those I teach. If I thought that nothing I did made any difference I would give up the ghost. Part of my job is to try to inspire a love of the written word. Some children genuinely don’t like reading and may never garner the knowledge found there. If I can pass it on, I hope it will help children learn to form their own opinions. I don’t think my opinions are more valid than anyone else’s but they’re usually informed and they matter to me. So, nope, I can’t separate the two.

 6. What motivates you? What truly inspires you to physically push forward and work harder? Is it a movie, book, person, or quote?

Any and all of the above. This morning you, OM, pushed me. I like a challenge. Or maybe I just like homework!

 7. When was the last time you said “that is just my opinion? ” Was it necessary to label a thought as simply your own? Do you still feel that way now?


See above. I don’t say ‘just my opinion’. It is mine so it matters to me. There’s no ‘just’ about it. I   may say, after heated disagreements, ‘Well, that’s what I think. We’ll just have to agree to differ.’ Then you can get on with life.


8. What is the most exciting place you have visited? Do you have a photo?

I remember excitement. That was before I married and had seven children and couldn’t afford to go anywhere exciting. Fun, I do. Sometimes. But excitement? Isn’t that what books are for?


 9. If you had the choice between the last names Butts and Pecker what would you take?

How about double-barrelled for twice the fun? Pecker-Butts. Butts-Pecker. And, if I had to choose one, what would my choice say about me?!


10. If you wrote my blog what types are articles are missing or would you still like to see?

You mean there’s something you don’t write about or have an opinion on? I’m still enjoying reading through all your posts. I think you must operate on rocket fuel. As fast as I read, you publish. If I exhaust all your posts and I notice anything missing I’ll be sure to drop you a line.

And thanks for the homework. I might have ended up doing washing or cleaning this morning. Instead of which I’ve sat on my proverbial and typed merrily. Cheers.


(Sun. 22/2/09)

A long, long time ago in a land far away a princess awoke from a deep sleep.

Daylight had begun to filter through the windows casting a tentative finger into the darkened room. Lucy lay still, waiting. Furnishings in the turret room were still in shadow. She could identify every piece without much thought. There, over in one corner, was her mahogany dressing-table with the ornate gilt mirror hanging on the wall above. To the left her wardrobe stood guard, massive in its presence, the four doors stretching over most of that wall reaching almost to the door. To the right of the window a large desk covered in neglected papers occupied all of that side of the wall. From her position she had a clear, unobstructed view of the window although she could see nothing through it for the filmy curtains allowed in light but no image of the outside world.

She waited. Would the sun grow stronger and brighten her waking hours as she hoped? Or were there clouds without that she could not see? She waited. Immobile to any action other than this.

She did not think of anything while she lay staring at the window. All thoughts were kept at bay, locked in a separate tower in her mind. Time would determine further thought and action. The clock sitting on her side-table ticked by the minutes while she lay inert.

Faint noises from the outside began to permeate her senses. The sound of an occasional vehicle passing in the nearby street. A voice not too far-off raised in command to a dog which responded with an obedient bark.

Outside, the world was beginning to come alive.

For Lucy the world could wait a little longer. Perhaps forever.

Still she did not stir. Waiting had become a perfected occupation. If only she knew exactly for what she was waiting.

No night in shining armour would rescue her from this place. She shunned the thought. The light darkened imperceptibly. No one in the room below was demanding her attention. She had nowhere that she had to be other than the space she occupied.

The room had grown darker still. Clouds had begun to encroach on that little measure of light and Lucy tensed her body expectantly waiting for the onset of further gloom.

She was not disappointed. As each tiny, obtrusive thought began to find a foothold in her consciousness the room seemed to grow darker and darker. The ever-present bubble of fear in the belly of her being began to expand. It began to effervesce, shooting thousands of smaller bubbles along her limbs and through her torso. She gulped nervously, knowing that if she did not get a hold on her thoughts and control the spreading fear she would lose this day too.

It was already too late. The bubble from which the others had emanated and spread had grown so large there was nothing for it to do but burst and it did.

She gulped just as the internal explosion occurred. Her mind imploded simultaneously and one great wracking sob escaped in response to the release of pressure. A giant hiccough. A major bout to follow.

Lucy was no longer still. Or waiting. Her body now moved to the tune within. No harmonious melody was this. An orchestral feat of disassembled notes crashed within her mind, clamouring noisily and creating havoc where a tentative peace had existed a short while ago. To this timeless cacophony her body found a steady rhythm of rocking, an infantile attempt to find soothing comfort from regular tempoed motion.

Rocking was only interrupted by short, moaning periods of turning and twisting as she tried in vain to shake off the phantom that presided and filled her with fear.

If this were only a nightmare she could scream for her mother and, in doing so, awake from deathly dreams and be comforted in the arms of one who could soothe and wipe away the fears and tears.

She wept louder because she was not five and this was no dream. She wept louder but still tried to smother it because her mother lay below and Lucy did not want to see her pain mirrored in the eyes of one she loved so well. There was nothing her mother could do. Nothing anyone could do.

These were her dark days. The days of never-ending nights. Of winter without end. Of sunshine never reaching her soul. The mere thought of endless winter nights shook Lucy to her core and her terror and torment were complete.

How could she live in a world where nothing held any hope or sunshine for her? How could she move from this bed, shrouded in blankets but not cocooned in safety? How could fear and loathing and dismal phantoms find her here? She had hidden herself so well, she thought, from the outside world that filled her with dread. Here in her bedroom in the home of her family she ought to feel safe and secure. That had been the thought all those many months ago when she had all but retired from the living. A refuge in this place of safety surrounded by love was supposed to have been the antidote to her malady. But this zombie existence where her half-life only frightened herself and those she let near had never been the intention.

There was no place of safety, no hermitage where she could dwell in harmony with herself. She was her own fears. Everything that filled her with terror lived within her not in that world she had shunned. The torment and the tears belonged only to her. Her spectres were inside her mind, her heart, her soul. They had flowed through her blood and reached every part fed by it. She was the living embodiment of her own nightmare.

She screamed then. ‘Leave me alone! Give me peace!’

A sudden sound below made her realise her anguished cry had not been internal. Her mother soon would appear and Lucy could not bear, even in these extremities, to inflict that pain.

She gathered every ounce of will she could muster to control her precarious mental balance.

A light knock and the door moved swiftly inward. In seconds her mother was on the bed beside her, cradling her in her arms, rocking her and shushing gently in her hair.

Lucy wept louder. They both knew this physical comfort was only that. Mental anguish is not so easily assuaged. But still, there was comfort.

Wrapped in the arms of love the sobs subsided gradually. Petted and patted, the gloom dispersed. Each, ‘there, there’ chased the phantoms to their hidden closets. In her fingers, in her toes, in her belly, in dark, secret corners of her mind and the blood vessels within her heart. They crept away, diminished by the presence of love.

Only this immediate presence of love had that effect.

She knew they would return, that they would wait for a vacant moment, a vacuum to fill. In the dark days. In the lonely hours. In the empty minutes of each day. They would stay hidden till the next time. Shorter and shorter periods between each time. So short now, they seemed ever-present.

These enemies of life, these fear-filling suckers of life source were resident in her body. She had given them house room. Only she could evict them.

All this now known to her. The ever-eluding question was how? How to banish the deepest darkness? In the absence of sunshine? A bulb? A candle? One small match? A flint to strike the first blow?

A reason to live. A purpose to her being. A command to which her mind and soul would respond.

The now tiny bubble in her belly fizzed hesitantly. Dare it? Was this a good moment?

Still wrapped, but no longer shuddering, in her mother’s arms, she sighed deeply. One huge sigh. And another.

‘Mum, I have to find my purpose. My reason. For being here, I mean.’

‘That’s a good place to start,’ whispered her mother and tightened the hug for a few short seconds before releasing her to start a new day.