life

Worrying About Foxes

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Anyone who keeps poultry tends to dislike foxes. I have nothing against them per se, but they kill my birds so I try to keep them away. It was easier before people started feeding foxes, because they are wild animals and had a natural wariness of people. But now people feed them (I have strong opinions about such people, which I am holding in) the fox has lost all fear of humans. Foxes will positively seek out human houses, looking for food. I have seen foxes walking brazenly across my lawn, right in front of the kitchen window—no fear at all.

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The trouble is that foxes do not kill for food, they kill for pleasure (like cats). If they see birds, they will kill all of them not just the ones they want to eat. Killing is sport.

The main way I protect my flocks is locking them in a fox-proof cage as soon as it’s dusk, and having a dog. For all her annoyances, Meg is good at keeping the fox away. I am careful when we’ve been on holiday, because the fox quickly learns that the dog is away, and our garden becomes part of fox-territory. I always keep the birds locked inside for a few days, until the fox has learnt there is a mad dog who loves to chase things in the garden.

My new problem is that the geese are now in the field next to the garden—which is a bigger area for the dog to patrol. She goes in there a couple of times a day, and I hope that the scent of her will be a deterrent, but I still worry. Most foxes would probably not bother geese and cockerels—much too much bother, because they are big and noisy and fight back. But a big male fox, or a fox with cubs, would kill them in a flash.

Apparently foxes dislike the buzz of an electric fence, so that is one (expensive) possibility to consider for the future. I did once buy a battery-operated deterrent which claimed to make a noise that foxes would hate. I put in the battery and switched it on—no sound at all. Then all my children (who were teenagers at the time) arrived in the kitchen to ask what the horrible noise was! It clearly worked (on teenagers, if not foxes). I will try to find something similar.

I also thought that maybe, if I made a model of a person, the fox would see a human, and decide to go elsewhere. Afterall, farmers have used scarecrows for centuries. I have no idea whether they actually work, but I have plenty of old clothes, I thought I would try. When we were children we made guys to burn, stuffing old clothes with newspapers (this is a tradition which is impossible to explain to Americans without sounding like we’re very weird). However, I wanted something a little more weather-proof. I looked online for a manikin. They were all over £100, which is more than I wanted to spend (because it might not work). Then I thought maybe an inflatable one would work. I can tell you, looking online for an inflatable manikin shows some seriously dodgy sites! However, Amazon sells some, for using as Halloween decorations. I bought a cheap one. I also bought a Styrofoam head, a wig, some reflective sunglasses—all very cheap, but quite good when put together. I now have a tall thin person guarding my field. Not very realistic if one looks properly—I’m hoping a fox will not pay too much attention but will see it and move on. Perhaps I should spray it with perfume occasionally. Certainly the geese were interested, and all came to chat to the strange person standing in their field. I will let you know how things develop.

First Year Review (Completely Terrifying!)

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Hello, and how are you? This post nearly didn’t get written–it has been a hectic week. Please forgive any typos, I am writing in a rush before Monday has gone, and my regular Monday blog doesn’t appear (for the first time since 2015, I believe). Usually I am very organised, and if I’m going away or have a busy time ahead, I post things in advance. But not this time. This time I was much too busy preparing for my First Year Review.

For those who don’t know, I’m currently doing my PhD research, part time, at Edinburgh Uni. Every year, I have a review, to check I’m on track and to prepare me for the final Viva (a spoken examination). However, before you are considered a fully-fledged PhD researcher, you have to pass the First Year Review (which for me, as a part-timer, is after 2 years of study). This is a big deal. I have loved researching, and am learning lots of fascinating things. But if you don’t pass the review, the university recommends that you leave. I was very keen to not be thrown out, but I also was far from confident that I could pass. Most of my interactions with other students reinforces my feeling that actually, everyone else is much more clever than me, with a much deeper knowledge base. I feel very new to all this (even though I am older than most of the staff). I was very anxious about it.

The review begins weeks in advance, when I submit a writing sample and an updated proposal. (A proposal is the document which explains what you plan to research, and how you plan to do it.) I wrote a proposal as part of my initial application to the university, but they often change once the research begins (mine has changed almost entirely). There was also a long form to complete, showing what I have done in the last year, what skills I have developed. It all took a long time to complete, and edit, and rewrite. It was a lovely feeling when it was all submitted.

I then began to prepare for the review. My supervisor suggested some aspects of my research which might receive questions, so I read around these areas, trying to formulate arguments to justify my approach. (A supervisor is a member of staff who works alongside you, giving feedback and making helpful suggestions–it’s usual to meet with them every few months.) I knew I would need to justify how my research will be used when it’s complete, and why I have chosen to work with the ‘final’ Hebrew texts (because many scholars consider the ‘most original’ text is the best, and the ‘final form’ was written fairly late — and actually ‘final form’ means different things to different people, so there is not really a single ‘final’ form). I also found work written by the people who would be assessing me, so I could understand their own positions on things.

The day arrived. I was terrified. I wore a trouser suit (hoped to look like I had tried). Unfortunately I have gained weight since I last wore it, so it was uncomfortable and I bulged in the wrong places. I walked to the university, allowing plenty of time to find the room, go to the washroom, comb my hair (which was lucky, because the room changed, and New College is beautiful but like a rabbit warren). I was allocated to a tower room. I walked past lots of tourists taking photos (later they will wonder who the woman in their photos with unfortunate bulges was). I stood outside a large door (like a church door) wondering whether to wait or knock. I waited until exactly 10 am, knocked. A voice called me in. It began.

Mostly it was okay, but difficult. The room was hot, so I removed my jacket. A panel of 3 people asked various questions. Nothing was unexpected; I was glad I had done my homework. It wasn’t a smiley interview, but neither was it too horrible, and once I began talking I forgot about being anxious and submerged into the excitement of what I am studying. I love talking about all the amazing things I am discovering, and I had 3 people trapped for an hour, who could not escape while I bubbled enthusiastically about what I am doing. (They looked a lot less bored than most people who I try to tell! Although they did interrupt a few times to ask questions; especially when I got a bit distracted and started to tell them about something which is really interesting but not connected to what they were asking about.)

Then it was done. I left. Felt exhausted.

Recovering with Husband and an espresso martini.

The university send the result within 24 hours, which is nice. I had passed. Marvellous. I could now enjoy the rest of the week with my cohorts, chatting, sharing papers, attending seminars. It was a good week, but completely exhausting. On Friday I gave a paper. (This means you have a strict time slot to read a document about an aspect of your research to a room of scholars, who then ask lots of questions.) I have never presented a paper before, but I found the process very helpful–it made me write differently. I also made a Power-point of visuals, and used AI to produce a couple of pictures, which was great fun (and much easier than expected).

I am now home. I plan to have a week of nothing, reading novels and watching Netflix and walking the dog. Next week I shall start work again. I love studying, and it’s lovely to know that I now have 4 years to complete my work. I will have annual reviews, but they are more for me, to prepare me for the Viva–the university won’t throw me out now. I am officially a research student, albeit an old one. Great fun.

I hope you have some fun too this week. Thank you for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Feeling happy with beautiful New College, Edinburgh University, in the background.
Elementary students taking a science test at desks with teacher monitoring

In the Classroom

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I loved teaching. I enjoyed being with children. Perhaps because they were mostly uncomplicated, and very honest, and you could be uncomplicated and honest in return. If they felt cross, they didn’t try to hide it. If they liked or disliked something, it was obvious, there was no pretending. I like that.

But, occasionally, there was a child who was different. A child who was very manipulative, not a team player, completely unmoved by their impact on the other children, very determined to get their own way. As a teacher, you learnt very quickly to spot these children, and to keep an eye on them. They were not to be trusted. ‘What you see is not what you got.’

Elementary students taking a science test at desks with teacher monitoring
Students attentively taking a test in a classroom setting

These children did not believe they were part of the class, the rules did not apply to them. They were sneaky, and tried to avoid being caught misbehaving–passing the blame onto someone else if they could. They would also create distractions. Some children were unsophisticated, if they wanted to divert attention from something they didn’t want you to see (like that they hadn’t learnt the words for the spelling test and therefore had answered incorrectly) they would just yell. Or throw something. Or hurt another child. Anything to divert attention from what they hoped you wouldn’t see–because these children do not like to ‘fail’.

But some of them were more sophisticated, they would create a phantasy, perhaps get another child involved. Perhaps they would ‘fall over’ when walking to the playground–and it would be because ‘Julie pushed,’ not their fault. And then they would be very brave, very forgiving of Julie. As a teacher, you learnt to notice things. The ‘fall’ would look slightly staged. They would ‘recover’ a little too quickly. They might respond in a pre-prepared way: ‘If I hadn’t been told to walk to the playground, and you had let me play in the classroom, this would not have happened.’ There would be something a little ‘off’ about the situation and their reaction. As the teacher, you would try to be aware of what they might be trying to avoid, the reason for the theatrics. As a teacher you would try to not be fooled by the performance. You might ignore the fall (which would anger them) and instead help them with learning spellings. You would try to notice what was actually happening.

Young girl sitting on playground floor crying with injured knee

But I am describing a situation in the classroom. What is more worrying is when I meet or see these people as adults, perhaps as leaders. When they still don’t think the rules apply to them. When they still try to avoid the consequences of their actions by creating a diversion. One which is convincing, yet there is something a little ‘off’ about the situation. Something which makes you wonder what the truth is. I have learnt to listen to my feelings, if something feels ‘off’ it probably is.

In the classroom, these children can be helped–although I am no expert here, and some need specialist help. But they can learn to control their selfishness, they can learn that there are consequences for breaking rules, they can learn not to hurt other people. When they reach adulthood, I’m not so sure… But I’m a teacher, I can only really talk about in the classroom.

I hope your interactions this week are with people who know how to behave. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Meg’s Diary: Pyjamas and Hair Brushing

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1/8/2025

I have had covid (my first time). Not a pleasant experience, and one that I hope to never repeat. I stayed in bed for several days—which is something that I never do. Even when I was feeling better, I stayed in my room until the 10-day-no-longer-contageous deadline, just in case. During this time, Meg was almost constantly my companion.

Meg is not allowed in my bedroom, but she sneaks in sometimes, and if she stays low and quiet, I pretend I have not noticed. For the first few days of illness, we continued this pretence. I would hear the door pushed open, the quiet footsteps of a sneaky dog, then the jolt of the bed as she lay down, leaning against it. It was nice. I woke and slept to the sound of Meg’s breathing (she breathes very noisily when she’s asleep). I have previously doubted whether Meg likes me much—she seems to prefer the rest of the world (who allow her to do what she wants). However, she definitely chose to be with me this week, even with other people in the house. Perhaps she sensed I was ill. It was nice.

After a couple of days, Meg decided she would join me on the bed. This was definitely crossing a line, and not allowed. She placed two legs on the bed, and reached across to lick me. I told her ‘Down!’ No reaction. I told her ‘No!’ Nothing changed. I reached for my water glass—Meg sighed and jumped down. She tried again, a few times a day. If I reached for the water glass, even if it was empty, then Meg jumped down. I like the modern theory that you train a dog with rewards, not punishment (nor threat of punishment). However, with Meg, I am not sure that it works. No treat is ever enough to deter her actions, but the threat of being wet always stops her. I tend to want an easy life, so the water glass it is.

*

We have almost completely stopped locking Meg in her cage during the day. We have left her unsupervised for several hours, and she has been fine. I therefore assumed that having Meg free all day, even if we are out, is now a thing. Yesterday she ate Husband’s pyjama top.

I am a little unclear as to where she found the top—whether it was waiting to be washed, or stowed neatly with his bedding—but Meg found it and decided it would be a good thing to chew into tatters. As he owns far worse clothes, I am assuming this was not a fashion decision. The sad result is that I no longer trust her for too long unattended, which is a big shame. I was not especially upset by the pyjama top, which is replaceable. A chair cushion would be a different matter.

*

I brushed Meg today, and I realised that this is the first time. Until now, she has been much too bouncy for me to even consider brushing her—much easier to just vacuum the house. However today, as I picked her fur from my sweater, I decided to try and brush her.

I have a variety of dog brushes and combs leftover from when Kia was alive. Kia would allow me to brush her, but only if I let her run like a crazy thing round the garden every few minutes. There was also one brush—with very fine metal teeth—which Kia would not let me use. She ran away when she saw it. I was not sure how Meg would behave.

We went in the garden, I told her to sit and ran the brush along her back, giving her lots of praise. Meg tried to take the brush. Meg heard a car and rushed off to investigate. Meg returned, we repeated the exercise. I collected a brush full of hair. I emptied the brush, and put the fur into the bush, as birds collect it for their nests. Meg jumped up, grabbed the fur, ate it.

I then tried using the metal-toothed brush that Kia hated. Meg didn’t seem to notice. The brush ran along her back, vast amounts of fur billowed out, Meg stretched, enjoying being scratched. She heard a car, and rushed off.

For several minutes we continued—I brushed her, until there was a car—Meg chased the car, then returned for more brushing. She tried to eat all the fur, but I managed to put most of it out of reach. At one point she jumped up, knocking my chin so I nearly bit my tongue (it’s a long time since she has done that). Other than that, the exercise was danger-free and not too stressful. She now looks nice and sleek.

Hoping you managed to brush your hair today. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Being The Guest Speaker

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Our town has a community hall, run by the local churches, which provides a space for people to drop in for coffee, or attend a mothers-and-baby club, or meet other bereaved people, and so on. It’s a nice space, not too big, with a high ceiling and a kitchen, furnished with chairs and tables, kept clean by a band of volunteers.

This week I was invited to be the guest speaker for one of the clubs– ‘Place of Welcome’. My Mum attends each week, so I knew they had regular different speakers but the main focus was having tea and cake with friends. I was asked to speak about being an author, which is not something I have done since I started my studies several years ago.

I was very happy to speak, and it provided a chance to give away a few books. I spent 10 years writing books and selling them to cover the cost of publishing (and then, after they were paid for, sending money to Tearfund) but then I stopped. I still have stories in my head, and one day I shall write them down, but I have given myself permission to stop publishing and selling books (because I always hated the selling part).

I do however, still own a LOT of books — rookie error when I started and ordered hundreds of copies (optimistically thinking that all my family and friends would buy them, whereas in reality, no family ever bought them nor many friends, so mostly I sold to strangers, which was okay but not fun). I did cover my costs fairly quickly (due to lots of hard work selling them in shops and at fairs) but I still have boxes of books, sort of taunting me, stacked in a cupboard. I would love for them all to be read, so at any opportunity, I give them to people. I wasn’t sure how many people to expect (I think it ranges from 4 to 30) so I loaded up a pull-along bag with books, ever hopeful.

The talk was, I think, okay. I always feel very nervous before speaking (no idea why, nothing bad was going to happen if I fluffed my words). I took little cards with me, with happy/sad faces on each side, thinking they could flip them as I described the journey from idea to published book, showing whether they thought they would enjoy the various stages. This did not work at all–they either didn’t understand what I had intended, or (more likely) thought it was a silly idea. Which meant they just had to sit and listen to me. But they were an easy enough group (there were about 20 people) and they laughed at the funny bits, and no one heckled or walked out.

After the talk, I left my heap of books on a table, and tried to mingle. I’m not very comfortable doing this–chatting aimlessly to people–I much prefer to have a job. But it felt rude to just finish my talk and leave, so I tried. One lady told me she hadn’t heard my talk, because I had held the microphone too low, so I wasn’t loud enough. I’ll know next time to do a ‘sound check’ at the beginning.

Then the tea and cakes appeared, which was the main reason for people being there, so I took my things and escaped. All the book were taken, which is marvellous–one more empty box. I hope they enjoyed my talk (those who could hear it) and I hope they enjoy the books. But really, it wasn’t about either of those things. It was about supporting the workers, who give up time every week to provide a place of welcome for whoever wants one. I think community groups are great, and should never be underrated or taken for granted. So if ever you are asked to help at one, I think you should accept. But don’t forget to start with a sound-check.

I hope you have a great day and hear everything that’s worth hearing. Thanks for reading. Take care.
Love, Anne x

(I love how the AI that generated this image from my blog assumed I was an elderly man!!)

Although I no longer actively sell my books, they are all available online. They are worth reading if you fancy relaxing for a few hours.

Do be kind and add a review to Amazon, that always makes me smile.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/stores/Anne-E.-Thompson/author/B07CL8HV95?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1&qid=1769256601&sr=8-1&shoppingPortalEnabled=true

https://www.amazon.co.uk/stores/Anne-E.-Thompson/author/B07CL8HV95?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1&qid=1769256601&sr=8-1&shoppingPortalEnabled=true

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Parades, Books and Decent Telly

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Hello, and how is your 2026 going so far? Last year whizzed past, so I might keep the Christmas decorations under the bed this year to save me scrabbling in the back of the cupboard. But maybe that (the time-whizzing thing) is just because I am getting older—time definitely goes faster as we age.

We went to an event this week which would suit any age—the annual town Tractor Run. I’m not sure if other rural towns do this, but where I live, every year all the local farmers decorate their tractors with lights and tinsel, and parade through the villages honking their horns and flashing their lights. It’s brilliant! I dragged Husband along this year; I could tell he wasn’t keen as we stomped through the dark lanes, and risked the cars whizzing along the main road, to the nearest viewpoint. There were lots of other people—families and couples and people walking their dogs. My town is good at community events.

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We stood next to the road, in the dark, waiting. After a few minutes we could hear horns, way off over the fields, and we knew they were coming. There were a few cars, and a motorbike flashing his lights (not sure if he was part of it or just entering into the general mood). Then the tractors arrived—I’m guessing about 200 of them, giant ones, ancient ones, tiny ones; some looked not much bigger than our lawn mower, others could have moved a house. It was terribly exciting—I’m not sure why. Perhaps it was the lights and noise in the dark lane, maybe it was the size of some of the machines (maybe it was all the hunky young farmers!) I thought it was brilliant. I do enjoy a good parade.

Another thing I have enjoyed this week is a book by Richard Todd. He’s no relation, although I have met him a few times because two of his brothers married two of my aunts. When I heard he’d written a book, I bought a copy (partly because I happen to know that publishing a book takes a lot of courage). He was the head gardener at Anglesey Abbey, and the book describes his career, interspersed with how he believes God has guided him. It’s not a complicated book (which is very refreshing after reading lots of theology books, which do tend to make religion seem very complicated). If you are interested in gardening, or just want something nice to read at bedtime, I recommend it.[1]

Do you have times when you read certain books? I do. At bedtime, I like something that’s easy to read, nice and relaxing. But if I wake in the night and I can’t go back to sleep, I tend to read theology books—which tend to be slightly boring, but also make me feel I’m not wasting time so it doesn’t matter if I’m sleepy the next day. This does not work for the few theologians who write well (like Moberley or Clines) because then I become engrossed in the book and the night disappears. In the afternoon, when on holiday, I like something interesting—my favourites are John le Carre or Joanna Trollope—which are very different authors but they both have a nice turn of phrase. Their books are like sipping a good red wine next to the fire.

I don’t watch much telly, although Husband and I do enjoy watching certain series (usually on Netflix or even DVD—remember those?!) Our big secret is that several years ago, Husband gave me the entire boxset of The Good Wife and we have already rewatched it THREE times! It’s disappointing how much we have forgotten each time—especially when we watched it for the third time. Whole plots are like new. Which I guess is one of the many good things about growing old—bad memory means you enjoy the same films and books more than once. I hope you enjoy something this week—whether it’s a parade or a book or a television series.

Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

PS. For those who follow my blog regularly, my last two venesections were both cancelled because my iron levels have remained normal. I am extremely thankful for this and hope it continues. I am always cautious when talking about ‘answers to prayer’ (because what about the prayers that appear to be ‘unanswered’?—how do we explain parents who have lost children, drought-ridden areas when people pray for rain, those praying for the end to war, etc?)

[See my blog for further clarification: https://anneethompson.com/2015/11/19/prayer-doesnt-work/]

All I can say is that I did pray for the impossible and ask to not need more venesections, and the last two have been cancelled. Make of that what you will. I’m due for another one this week, so waiting to see what the blood test says…

[1] https://www.amazon.co.uk/Walking-God-Garden-God-Given-Purpose/dp/B0G7F14GWP/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2LLRXGRB55S7X&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.xV9dKDMs3Ak8Aw9-hPn1O3ZOldwCyiAMOfOmU42n7VRpLO8Vl8b8d1ItvpXIVoN6GTZq_44b_royZ4Pt0XXgmWFkceKC7PKH9YefUErtSq43Z9voA9rckbNJgTJMmCZjqzzXvcESRlTYOOAVIlbZTEPJ5ON3BCUdyetrjRCQw3yisQyAQCv6hSGDM6wJiEaLPeHbRL-AumyZgHKeCVlcgY-UdTMh29fJBkElK9toySc.0FZzvnVk7k73ODroPM1a-vkoSicpZJyQPxcFaQVvKc8&dib_tag=se&keywords=richard+todd&qid=1767200622&sprefix=richard+todd%2Caps%2C135&sr=8-1

Thanks for reading.
anneethompson.com
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Feeling Pointless?

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Feeling Pointless

Hello, and how are you? Here is a blog I wrote a few years ago, but never posted (perhaps because it was too ‘raw’ at the time). Hoping it helps someone.

***

I have been struggling this week with the feeling that I am, to be frank, fairly pointless. This is something that has dogged me throughout my life, as I have never managed to motivate myself when things seem pointless. ‘Where is the point,’ said my 16-year-old self, ‘of learning French, when I cannot afford to ever leave the country?’ If I couldn’t see the worth—the  point—of something, then I didn’t do it. To feel that one’s self is pointless is therefore bit of a problem, and not one that is easily solved.
My children have all grown up, they have independent lives and have studied things I don’t understand and all work in offices (whereas I only know classrooms) so their conversation is smattered with words like sprints and neds and nids, and difs and dofs (okay, I made up the last ones, but you get the idea?) I feel left behind, a little bit stupid, and really rather pointless.

There have been times in my life when I felt like I mattered too much. A working mother, with a husband who was always in the city and three young children and a house to cope with, life was so busy I didn’t have time to wonder whether I was pointless, I just had to make it through the day. Perhaps therefore this introspective issue is one reserved for people with too much undirected time. Perhaps busy people don’t stop to wonder. (Perhaps they should.)

I am at a ‘funny age for a woman’ so some of my feelings might be due to hormones rather than actual fact, but I see it in other people too. I look at what I have achieved in my life, and feel that it is all finishing, and I am left with nothing to do that’s worth doing, and I don’t want to be that frivolous person who has hobbies. I want to be up there, with the nurses in casualty, with the politicians making decisions, with the artist who produces something that affects people. I want to matter.

I suspect that lots of people felt pointless during the time of lockdown. Many people were stuck in their homes, possibly furloughed from work, not able to use their skills and talents. We feel pointless, we need to feel that what we do, our lives, has some worth. And sometimes, frankly, they don’t.

This is a problem that I also see with older people. As people approach the end of their life, when their body doesn’t quite manage to do all the things it used to do, when they can no longer be the person who goes up the ladder to fix the light, or carries the shopping, or caters for the crowd, then they start to feel a bit pointless. When the time comes to stop driving, it hits even harder. If you can’t do things, then what is the point of living? I hear this voiced (in different words) by people suffering a major illness. If you’re in so much pain that you can’t function, then what is the point? Why not end it now?

Even busy people actually, are fairly pointless. They work hard, they strive for wealth—but they never have time to enjoy it; or they want to be promoted to positions of power—but after a while someone else takes over and they retire and it was all for nothing. It is like chasing the wind. There is no point, not really. You work hard, you earn security, and then you die and someone who hasn’t worked, who doesn’t deserve it, enjoys everything you have achieved. So, why bother?

Before you all go and throw yourselves under a bus, I have a few thoughts.

I think that actually, on our own, we are all pointless. Time passes very quickly, and you will grow old, and lose your abilities, and die, and in a few decades you will probably be forgotten. So, as the writer of Ecclesiastes wrote, you should find work that you enjoy, and make the most of the life that you have.

We were all created for a purpose, and I believe that even more strongly than my feelings of despondency. Therefore there is a plan for my life, and if I manage to follow that plan, then my life will not be pointless, it will be part of a whole wonderful eternal plan. Which is what I want, need, long for. And this, in case you were wondering, is why I am a Christian. I want to be on God’s side, because he is eternal; following him is not like chasing the wind, and he gives my life meaning now, and will give my life meaning when I’m older. I might not see the whole plan now, some things will only be clear with hindsight, when I look back; sometimes I might lose sight of the plan altogether and wander off a bit. But if I keep trying to follow God, to every day ask him to guide me along the right path, then what I am will be worthwhile. My life is a tiny, but useful, essential, part of the whole. And that is worth living for.

Thank you for reading. Take care.
Love, Anne x

PS. When I initially wrote this, after a few days of absolutely everything going wrong, plus it being my dad’s birthday and I always miss him on his birthday, I had a mini explosion and told my family how I was feeling. They were all super-supportive, and I received flowers and loving messages and felt thoroughly loved (and a little guilty for having exploded). If you are feeling pointless, perhaps you should be brave enough to tell someone close to you. It might help.

Thanks for reading.
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When a Company Sends Extra Items

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Dear John,[1]

Thanks for your email, which made me and my family and friends laugh. Soo kind of you to offer to collect the excess boxes at no cost to me. Please, allow me to recap, as I’m sure you’re busy at this time of year and maybe are unaware of the chain of events. (You can verify the details in the email chain.)

  1. 15th November, I order one set of teacups and teaspoons.
  2. 16th November, (company name) emails to say there is a delay, do I want to continue or cancel the order (very polite of them).
  3. I reply, saying I would still like to receive my one set of teacups and teaspoons (because they are very pretty, and I don’t mind waiting).
  4. 25th November, My one set of teacups arrives, with an unexpected three extra boxes, which were not ordered, not paid for.
  5. Against the advice of family (who said, they’re lovely, just keep them, it’s not your mistake) I email Carol (who told me about the initial delay) and inform her of (company name)’s mistake.
  6. 26th November, Carol kindly replies, saying she will find out how this happened and arrange collection. She asks when I can be at home, Monday to Friday.
  7. 27th November, I send two days 2nd Dec and 3rd Dec)when I am at home. I receive a date for DPD to collect them on a different day (1st December). I reschedule my work.
  8. 1st December, I wait at home all day, DPD never arrive, and their tracking note (0048 031 900 5) says they were told there was nothing to collect (am assuming they went to the wrong address, as I was here all day and other delivery companies had no problems).
  9. 1st December, I contact (company name) to inform them of the situation.
  10. 3rd December, (I believe this is where you entered the drama). I am asked for another day I can be at home.
  11. 4th December, I send a date (5th Dec).
  12. 5th December,  I wait at home all day, DPD never arrive. I email to inform (company name)  I have stayed at home for another day, with no collection. I write, again, to inform (company name), and suggest it could be collected on 9th Dec.
  13. 7th December—Today—such a treat to be told that (company name)  will not charge me for the privilege of storing their boxes of unordered crockery, or the failed collections. Thank you so much. There was I, worrying that perhaps you send random boxes of stuff to people, so they can inform their many visitors (because it is that time of year) not to trip over them, and they can keep the dogs locked in the kitchen so they don’t spoil the boxes (which are too large for window sills or cupboards and need to be stacked on the floor) and they can stay at home for multiple days waiting for a non-arriving DPD collection service, and that perhaps there might be a charge for this pleasure. Phew! What a relief to know I will not be charged for this delight.

You now ask that I suggest a date from Wednesday onwards for collection (at no cost to me—I can’t quite get over that little gem). Okay, I am always ready to gamble, how about Wednesday? Wednesday 10th December 2025 (just in case there is confusion over the year). I will stay at home in eager anticipation of a DPD collection (at no cost to me).

Please inform the driver that if he knocks at the door of my house (address written, just in case) then I am really good at opening the door and handing over boxes, but if he just drives past on nearby roads we might have a problem.

I will now go and decorate the boxes with lights and tinsel, because to be honest John, I’m not that confident that they will be collected on Wednesday. I think it is reasonable, that if they are still here on Thursday with no further instructions from (company name), I will consider them my property and wrap them up as gifts.[2]

Hoping you have a great week.

Best wishes,

Anne[3]

[1] This is an email I sent in December. Names have been changed.

[2] Ithink that in UK law, if a company delivers items by mistake (rather than as advertising spam) then they can reclaim the cost of the goods for several years after the event, therefore selling/gifting items is not a good idea unless you have permission. They are not considered ‘unsolicited goods,’ it is a mistake.

[3] Guess what, the boxes were not collected that Wednesday. Thursday I received an email, giving permission to keep the items (which made me very happy). Hence the anonymising of the company’s name.

You Only Get One Life

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I don’t have time to write much this week, but I was wondering—do you have an ethos for life? A sort of ‘code’ that you try to live by?

The thing that I most often try to remind myself is this: You only have one life. Life is short. Live well.

Of course, ‘living well’ is open to interpretation, but for me it means trying to live each day in a good way, a way that makes the world a better place, the way that I think God wants me to live. I realise that living well will be different for different people, but I still think that as a whole, this is a good aim in life. I also try to evaluate how I am doing, to spend a little time at bedtime assessing whether I think I have managed this. Usually I have not, and there are things I wish I hadn’t said or done. But again, I think this is a helpful thing to do—not to beat myself up, but so I can be deliberate about trying to change in the future. I think it is possible, as we get older, to live better lives than we did when we were younger. (Not, I hasten to clarify, better lives than other people—of whatever age—but better than we used to when we were younger.) Maybe, if I live to be a thousand, I might be a holy person.

This time of year is especially important for me to remind myself of this aim (to live well, not to be holy when I’m a thousand). It’s very difficult to prioritise our time as we near the end of the year, and Christmas looms ever nearer, and there is so much that I want to do. Days are not long enough.

Therefore, as I juggle the building stress of knowing I still need to buy lots of gifts, and I ought to clean the floor, and I really need to spend a few hours studying, and I haven’t had my eyes tested for ages and I need to sort that, plus all the regular stuff that has to happen in order to live. Sometimes it’s too much, and I need to stop, and remember. I need to decide what is important today. What needs to go on a list for tomorrow, and what can be fitted in but only if there’s time. And when I am doing stuff—going to the optician or rushing into the supermarket for milk or walking the dog—am I doing it well? Am I making the world, my little bit of the world, better? Sometimes it’s not so much what we do, but how we do it.

I will leave you with that thought for now, because I am trying to decipher a book about Hebrew punctuation, so that I can then decipher the Hebrew. It’s very interesting, but quite complicated, and not many people seem to explain it so I’m rather pleased that I managed to find a book about it. Reading Hebrew is very like reading a secret code, and you need to look for clues beyond the words sometimes. Meg is less interested, and keeps coming to poke me with her nose, so I shall have to walk her soon. But I shall try to do both things well. Because I only have one life, and life is short.

Hope you manage to live well this week. Thanks for reading and take care.
Love, Anne x

When the Week is Difficult

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Hello and how was your week? Mine was difficult—one of those weeks when you look in the diary, and wish you could zoom straight to next weekend. Which, given how short life is, seems a shame, but sometimes the whole week just looks horrible. I survived, fuelled by having had a lovely rest in Crete, and supported by my wonderful husband and friends, I have made it to the weekend and it was not as bad as feared. (Excuse the ** below, the AI censors won’t allow certain words. Don’t read this if medical details upset you.)

My main problem is my health, which I find very irritating. I feel like I had my ‘thing’ when I had the brain tumour, and now it should be someone else’s turn. But life is not like that. As you will know from previous blogs, I have haemochromatosis (my body stores too much iron) which means I have to have monthly venesections (they remove quantities of bl**d) with a bl**d test a few days before. I am a complete wimp when it comes to having things stuck into me, so it never goes well (though I am pretty much used to the bl**d tests now). But however much I pray/recite poetry in foreign languages/ breathe calmly, at about 300 ml my body goes into shock, decides it does not like what is happening, and I go all woozy, and the poor nurse who is struggling with my dodgy veins has to stop. Last month the nurse decided she needed help, so she pushed the ‘emergency’ button (I was in a separate room—usually I am just parked in the corner of the oncology department with all the patients receiving chemotherapy). Soo embarrassing! An alarm sounded round the hospital (Husband, in the waiting room, thought it must be a fire alarm which everyone was ignoring) and my room filled up with people. Really, I cannot describe how embarrassed I was. There were hundreds of people in the room—the ‘crash team’ had arrived, complete with trolleys to resuscitate patients, and oxygen, and monitors—the whole works. I kept apologising, telling them I was fine, but they told me I was completely white, and strapped an oxygen mask to my face (I think mainly to make me stop talking) while they checked my heart hadn’t stopped and things like that. Of course, everything was fine except that my silly body had panicked and sent all the bl**d to my vital organs, leaving nothing for the poor nurse to drain and not enough for me to remain vertical. They gave me a cup of tea and sent me home.

Therefore, this week, my first venesection since my crash-team experience, was not on my list of favourite activities. Monday was the bl**d test. The lovely nurse tried to use my left arm (because the nerves are damaged in the right arm, and it hurts my wrist, even when working at elbow level). Left arm is empty, so right arm it was. Survived. Monday night, the hospital phoned to say they could only see bl**ds for liver test (another thing that seems to be a bit broken, which my GP is trying to fathom) so please could I go back for another bl**d test on Tuesday. Tuesday, second bl**d test, in hospital, and clever nurse managed to find enough bl**d in left arm. Then I had two days off, hoping they would phone and cancel my venesection (like a child, hoping an exam will be cancelled). Friday, I went for the venesection.

All went well, no crash-team involved, clever nurse (a different one) managed to extract a full pint (which never happens). Yaay!

So that’s my week, fully survived and less bad than I feared. Life is often like that isn’t it—the things we dread turn out to be not as bad as we thought—and the absolute sense of relief when they are over is wonderful. I now have three weeks of ‘normal,’ spending time studying, and sorting the animals, and pootling round the house—these are my favourite weeks. My next venesection is on 21st November, but I will be less worried next time—they are never fun, but at least I know the crash-team will not be a new feature each time.

I hope your bad weeks are less awful than you fear. Sometimes, we just have to get on with stuff we hate, knowing it will pass in time. But it’s never fun. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

My Tips for Coping with Bad Health:

  1. The time actually being treated is relatively small, so use the rest of your time well. The journey to the hospital can be a fun chance to sing loudly to favourite songs or chat to the person driving. The waiting room is a good place to read a novel, learn a foreign language, write shopping lists—whatever you want to spend time doing. Don’t just sit and wait, that’s very dreary.
  2. The time not taken with medical stuff is yours—so don’t waste it with constant worry/talking about health. (Not easy!) Decide what you want to do, and focus on that. If I have lots of medical appointments, I try to fit them round the rest of life, rather than living life around medical stuff. Most appointments can be changed slightly to fit round other events.
  3. Plan a little treat for afterwards—and remind yourself of it when you enter the treatment room. A cup of coffee and a cake, a bar of chocolate, a visit with a friend—something to look forward to.
  4. Pray—whatever you believe, this is always good. (There are examples in the Bible of people praying for things they did not expect to receive—and they didn’t![1]—but it’s still a good principle, because you never know what might happen, plus it’s good to dump your worries/hopes/wishes somewhere.) I am praying to be healed of haemochromatosis, which would be a miracle because it can’t be ‘cured’. I’m not expecting this, and I certainly don’t deserve it, but there’s no harm with asking.

[1] 2 Sam.12:16-22.