Visiting Sonoma County, California

As I stand here in Sonoma County, California, I think about how far I have come, many years down the line I scan up following the line of the inspiring evergreen pines that surround me and which protrude way up to the sky, I am reminded of their awesome strength and courage. A bird of prey circles and soars high above me and both command power over the cobalt blue sky and others that jointly share the silken hue they glide in. No other twitter graces this elite position or permeates such elegance caressing the skies. Raising my head I look up to the heavens and standing straight I rise up tall and confident and fill my lungs with the clear forest air; the aroma of the pine forest encapsulates my senses with the natural perfume of the forest and I feel worthy, liberated and powerful; elegance and dignity like the eagle have returned.  I give myself up to the awesome expanse above me and I begin to really feel again. I find myself opening my arms wide and raising my hands in praise to universe and freedom engulfs my being. In childlike fashion I spin around and around and around enjoying the cool air washing across my skin until I reel and stagger with giddiness and fall about with the giggles. I roll in the sea of pine needles and thank my creator for bringing peace, happiness and contentment to a new life that is now in a satisfied place of harmony.

Reflecting on a time of no muscle or power, I am happy to say the war is over; I thank my maker for the final bell ending the horrific rounds in the ring; I know the tourney is done. The punches have ceased, the bruises healed, the blood has congealed; no longer a punch bag, verbally, emotionally, mentally, physically or sexually. Thankfully the referee is now redundant, the ring is empty and the judges have declared their ruling; tournament over and unlawful. The opponent is broken, the audience retreated; the auditorium an empty vessel. The sadistic cheering of the spectators is finally silenced and the silent screaming from the target is thankfully hushed and mute. The predator has been deemed incapable; disqualified for breaking the rules. The psychopath is alone and lonely.

The blows have stopped, the pain is managed, the fear suppressed. The prey fled in order to save her soul and the predator was grounded. There are no winners in a sport such as this; no medals or trophies, only sadness and despair. But in time a new peace and a different language emerge from the darkness and eventually a light shines, hope trickles and an emotional river swells and flows more freely. A new sense of trust propagates in the heart and soul. But it takes time, buckets full of time, to transcend the punches, scars, memories and propaganda. Parts of it never heal and the smallest nugget of pain remains buried deep within the brain, as a reminder of the journey. A nugget that is a relic of the past that serves to jump out now and again as a prompt of “never again.”

In the fog that hung between the punches of the senses was a small pleasure called teatime that always felt comfy and easy; peaceful and quiet. Alone at three thirty each afternoon the heavenly ritual of sweet tea and cake was always a comfort and gave light and hope to a hopeless round in the fog. Whether alone, with family or friends there was always something soothingly sweet and comfy about tea and cake in the midst of the chaos and despair.

Leaping out of the fog with a roar and a regained sense of power like I have never known before and mirroring the strong lines of the evergreen pines, I rise  up and stand tall and feel like I am soaring through life again. Fleeing was better than staying; homeless was better than heartless. Standing in the freedom of this beautiful forest, I realise life has become bearable, safe and most of all free of the distasteful violence I suffered for far too long. Regaining my personal power and learning how to respect myself again has set me free. In a flash I could suddenly see beyond the horizon and colour seeped back into each day. After three decades of mental torture and abuse I could smell life, feel emotion, hear serenity and touch peace. I was no longer a contender floundering at the ring side, with blows being thrown at me, bouncing off the ringside padding with a referee counting down time. I have completely regained the control stolen from me during a long abusive marriage and I now rise up like the pines and soar like the eagle through life; I have broken the pattern of domestic violence, survived this distasteful diversion and embrace the contentment and freedom of the soul every day.

Domestic violence doesn’t discriminate, it can be found in every background, upbringing and social class…so don’t judge me when you don’t know me, do not underestimate me until you have understood my challenges  and do not question me when you haven’t walked my journey.

Women's Aid Helpline

 0808 2000 247

helpline@womensaid.org.uk

National Centre for Domestic Violence

0844 8044 999

Victim Support

0845 30 30 900

The Police

In an emergency 999 / Non-emergency 101

The Plague of Parkinson's Disease Medications

For over thirty years I have been fighting this fight with all my might. The tiny bastards of varying sizes and shapes that are said to be required five times a day with food to sustain mobility have destroyed my past and have taken away my future.  They have haunted me for more than half my life. They come in disguise of varying names and generics and are supposedly a friend not foe; but little do any of us know including the consultants, doctors, nurses and helplines the pain, damage and destruction they inflict on innocent people. Honestly, the little bastards do not help with mobility....much....but they help with other nasty’s big time; they give licence to a degrading, dishonest and disgusting way of life.

We were never told about them; about how addictive they are, how they destroy families, marriages and relationships; how they change personalities. No one mentioned these tragic dangers. No one asked us any questions either; like were there any predispositions of any kind in the family. If only someone had thought to ask that question or mention the side effects of these tiny insignificant little bastards maybe we would not be where we are today. Maybe we would not have lost everything to the vices of these tiny little non-descript and otherwise irrelevant little pills. No different in size or shape to any other little pill but so much more powerful once digested. Doctors and consultants say they only recently knew of the indescribable side effects but research on the net tells me differently; they have known for a long time that some individuals bear the pain of these medications. It is a human right that patients out there know the truth and it is time we became aware. It is time this revolting secret was made public knowledge so no other family has to suffer at the hands of these revolting little tablets. I believe I am one person who is capable and strong enough to share her story.

These small rotten little pills undoubtedly contributed to the breakdown of my family unit and plenty of others which you may have read about over the years in the national press. After 25 years of marriage, I had no choice but to surrender to a traumatic separation, a divorce laced with years of domestic violence and psychological, emotional and physical damage and despair to me, the wife and carer. I was so depressed I lived in a daily fog and just functioned in order to get through the day. In the end my daughter and I fled in exasperation and were homeless. We lost our family home, income and all our belongings; we fled in what we stood up in. It was the scariest time of my life and I had no idea how I was going to survive let alone recover.

Trauma, eating disorders, depression and anxiety affected my child and she had an estranged relationship with her father for over 10 years while she grieved the death of the man she first knew as her Dad. The only way I can cope with the man I know now, is to convince myself that the man I married has passed away and that this is a different person I deal with now. These small so called insignificant multi coloured little tablets are extremely dangerous drugs that, in some patients, bring about and exacerbate Impulsive and Compulsive Behaviours, some of which are drug and alcohol abuse and cravings, excessive gambling and shopping and hyper-sexuality to name just a few.

My ex-husband participated in two of these unsavoury habits and rendered us bankrupt. In one year he blew £200,000 on drugs, women, hotels and sex aids, not to mention how much he gave to the girls to furnish their lifestyle. He gave away items from our home to pay for his needs. His personality changed completely and he was unrecognisable as the man I married. He can’t plan or manage time and doesn’t know right from wrong and is a compulsive liar. He will disappear for days on end.

This story is extremely personal and hard for me to write but it is important that I share my story to endeavour to ensure to the best of my ability that other families never have to suffer the life we have for three decades at the hands of these disgusting medications.

Consequently, I must highlight several important issues that I feel must become of prime concern to all Parkinson’s consultants and nurses and must become obligatory practice in the diagnosis of all Parkinson’s patients.

1. Patients need to be made aware of the side effects of these nasty drugs at diagnosis

2. Consultants need to ask the question: "are there any obsessive traits in the family  
3. There needs to be more research into better drugs
4. There needs to be more support for the wider family and specifically the carer
5. Children need support
6. Patients suffering these side effects need mental health and a treatment programme
7. There needs to be housing support for families that lose their homes and life savings
8. Family history needs to be taken into consideration

I have asked for help, assistance and support and to be listened to and heard from a huge range of support services; Parkinson's UK, Social Care, Vulnerable Adults, GP, Consultant, Police, Victim Support, and Carers Support. No one knows how to help, our story is so complex. I feel very let down by the system, very alone and very insignificant. There was one Parkinson's Specialist Nurse who best supported us when we had to get my ex-husband off the Parkinson’s drug Cabergoline (which was the main drug that was the main problem) but when we fled and my ex-husband moved areas we could not work with her any longer. I have to say she was an incredible person. In different ways both my daughter and I had breakdowns, therapy and relied on our family to see us through. Some friends turned their backs on us because they didn’t believe that my ex-husband could possibly be behaving as I described, he was "Mr Charming" in public (and still can be) and they remembered him as the eminent upright business man of 30 years previous. This has been added pain but I believe in karma and they will have their day, one day.

My family has been destroyed and my daughter and I have had to build a new life. Thirteen years later we are just about healed but the pain and memories will never go away. The man I married 35 years ago and who is the father of my child, died a long time ago. Accepting the past as a bereavement is the only chance I have of coping with the past, living the present and moving forward to a brighter future. I am a strong woman and a survivor and I will survive. Please never let this happen to another family that is my one lasting request; please share this post and help me to get the message out there to save families. Share this far and wide.....often.
                                  
                                   I will survive, for as long as I know how to love, I know I'll stay alive,
                                    I've got all my life to live, I've got all my love to give and I'll survive,
                                                                                          I will survive
                                                                                                          Gloria Gaynor

Further support
Parkinson's UK 0800 800 0303
Parkinson’s Magazine with article about Impulsive & Compulsive Behaviours February 2014
Parkinson's Specialist Nurses & Care & Share for Carers

Victim Support 0845 30 30 900

Christmas in the Arizonan Desert

December 18 2013, one week before St Nick slips down chimneys all over this beautiful city and here I am preparing to celebrate the festivities in the Arizonan Desert. Holidaying with the daughter and long standing friends, it is a busy but enjoyable and moving time of the year especially here in this very dear place that is close to my heart. The sun rises about 7.30am and sets about 5.30pm with vermillion and amethyst brush strokes painted across the horizon, it’s an exquisite sight with Camelback Mountain silhouetted against this beautiful backdrop.

As dawn evolves the Arizonan sun and blue skies flood the day, together with a cool desert chill morning and evening filling the atmosphere and where, surprisingly, light jackets are required even though the temperature is still 75 degrees Fahrenheit. A road runner runs here and a quail scurries there; a hummingbird hovers and darts to my left and a desert robin sits proudly high atop a saguaro surveying the festive landscape. Venturing out I enjoy observing the merriment and hustle and bustle of families preparing for their personal celebrations…fall or one day only (yes one day only) here in the US. No Boxing Day here. Though our American friends pretend to celebrate BD day, even though they do not really know what it is all about; they like to observe it for us two Brits, Mrs Teacup and daughter. Sadly, on Boxing Day the working population usually return to their corporate desks.

The Malls are frantic with families buying food, decorations, gifts, wrapping paper and ribbon. Monstrous evergreen Christmas trees are sold on street corners in the “Tree Patches” all over town and families load their car roofs and make their way home to overload such tree with sparkly decorations and lights of every shape size and colour you can imagine. Shop windows are beautifully and tastefully overdone; prices are low, or lower than usual, with bargains to be had on every corner of the Phoenix grid system where businesses hope to rake in their last sales before the New Year is rung in with Should Old Acquaintance be Forgotten. Coffee shops sell Christmas shaped cookies and pastries, snowy frothy winter lattes and cappuccinos and Christmas flavoured tea with cinnamon and seasonal spices, all very yummy and moreish. Families look festive (and silly in some cases) wearing reindeer ears or jingle bell antennae as they go about their Christmas business; even some of the cars and trucks are sparkled up for the Season of Good Will and wear “ears” or “sparkles” or “lights” of some description or another.

Every other house and garden twinkle with coloured lights of every colour of the rainbow; gardens are a glow and covered in decorations. Competition is high to see who can put the most lights up or who can do the most outrageous display; electricity bills must be high too! Neighbours outwitting neighbours in the Christmas spirit in some streets.  Cactuses, bushes, trees and plants are all elaborately adorned and flashing. The downtown trolley bus will take you on a tour of the grandest displays if you so desire. House parties are in full swing on each street corner with Cadillac’s, Hummers and Station Wagons parked kerb side and I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas blaring. Restaurants have Christmas everything; decorated ice creams and puds; napkins and table centres; waitresses and waiters are bedecked with tinsel and flashing earrings, Santa hats and festive antennae. Christmas flavoured ice teas, Christmas smelling candles; in fact everything you ever wanted can be Christmas coloured, flavoured or decorated right down to the Kleenex box , kitchen towel…..and even the loo rolls!

There are places to go and things to see; Lights at the Zoo, Luminaries at the Botanical Gardens with Chihully, Christmas Markets by the Waterfront, Christmas Craft Making Parties, the Nutcracker at the theatre, carols at the Philharmonic, Swan Lake at the ballet, Native American Storytelling and children’s theatre of some description all over town. No traditional Pantomime; they do not understand Pantomime! The Public Art is festivitied up with holly and ivy wreaths, bows and baubles. Everything that can be decorated is decorated.

Churches of every denomination are in full swing and sparkle up with crosses and stars, mangers and nativity scenes to praise, be thankful and welcome the Kings of Kings birth on the 25th. Carollers sing The Holly and the Ivy and Hark the Herald Angles in quiet corners of shopping malls with donations going to charities. Schools celebrate with parties and concerts for proud mums and dads to shed a happy tear in honour of their children’s successful year at school. Charities sell paper angels in a variety of prominent spots, in order that children less fortunate can receive a gift over the Christmas period. Soup kitchens and youth hostels serve up free meals and food bags so most do not go hungry.

Its fun, a blast, cool, awesome and certainly different and I love every minute. You cannot get much more Christmassy and outrageous than spending the Christmas Holiday Season in the Arizonan Desert alongside the Saguaros, Jumping Chollas, Cactus Wrens, Hummingbirds, Road Runners, Quails, Poinsettia’s, Cowboys and Native Americans. What a fantastic juxtaposition this whole adventure and season always is here in my heartland.

Merry Christmas and a Happy and Prosperous New Year to you all.

God Bless.

Say NO to Bullies

Do the memories and trauma's associated with bullies and bullying stay with us into our middle and old age? I believe they do. Not only was I, Mrs Teacup, a victim of bullies and bullying most of my school life but worse still I can remember the taunts, name calling, whispers and abuse like it was yesterday. And even worse than all that, is the lifelong emotional and psychological damage that can haunt a child. As an adult, teacher and trainer in early year’s education, I do not suffer bullies in my classrooms wherever I am in the world and I role model respect, kindness, fairness and tolerance.

Forty five years ago I was teased because my dad was a successful and talented artist and architect. We lived in a nice house down a country lane and he drove a Jaguar. I had a middle class accent from middle class England and I wore middle class clothes. But as a small child and teenager none of this was my fault (if there is ever any fault with anyone) and the comments and taunts were scary and hard to comprehend. Because of these outrageous individuals and ghastly comments I hated my school days, and have traumatic memories, but despite it all did well enough to gain a place at university.

The taunts and bullying were so bad I would never let my dad drive me to school; I would rather walk or get the bus. If he did insist on driving me, he had to drop me in an obscure back street far enough away not to be seen or my day and life at school would not be worth living. I would walk the last part of the journey, often alone, in order to survive the bullies and the forthcoming day in school.

It was not just me who got it in the neck, there was a few of us. One girl who had been adopted was bullied and often beaten to a pulp. I would stick up for her and then they attacked me too but I didn't care, I have never been one to hold back or be frightened to speak up. But that probably made it worse for me as I was not afraid to stand up for me, others and the poor adopted young girl. Still am not even now.

The funniest part is that these kids had no idea how they made me stronger; more determined to show them who the “daddy” was. I am a survivor, a fighter, and I come back stronger and more determined every time I am knocked back. But can you imagine where I may have ended up (and where some poor individuals do end up) when the bullies get the better of them and confidence and self-esteem is knocked. Difference is what makes the world go round and what makes us all interesting and unique, why would we tease and taunt someone cause they are different?? But we all know "difference" is an easy option for a bully.

I have encountered bullying behaviour all over the world in all cultures. Bullying and bullies do not discriminate and we could all find ourselves at some point in our lives the victim of an individual or individuals that can't resist having a go or a “pop” at us about something or another. Have the confidence to have a comeback and stick up for you in an honest mature but assertive manner. Walk away and don’t beat yourself up about their undignified behaviours. Stand tall and know you are special and have greatness within you.   

So my advice to the bullied is fight the good fight, rise up and show 'em what you've got. Don't be beaten, come back stronger than ever, fulfil your dreams, hopes and wishes. Stay true to yourself, set an exemplary example; shame the bullies. Have a mind of your own and do not succumb to such disgusting behaviour, always be the one to teach those around you the right path. Do great things for the world and, where possible, those within it.

Remember my opening paragraph that after forty five years I still remember the words, taunts and associated feelings as strong today as all those years ago, consequently, so will the little people we have the privilege of teaching in our early years settings. Be aware of, and wise to, unwanted negatives in your classrooms. Nip in the bud quickly behaviours that damage self-esteem and confidence and role model fair balanced honest and trustworthy relationships.

You will probably be shocked to know that I have witnessed bullying with a child as young as two years old, so much so that when the toddler arrived in my class her hair was falling out, she was mute and her confidence and self-esteem were at an all-time low. In her previous setting she had been pushed and poked, hair pulled and persistently bitten by one particular child. She moved to my setting and my staff team gradually built up her confidence and self-image until she was able to speak eloquently, participated with her peers and began to have fun. That precious and delightful bundle of joy grew and matured into the eminent woman she is today and who now imparts her experiences to others around the world.

So say NO to bullies, in fact sometimes it is ok to say something stronger to a bully, but best of all, role model positive ethical respectful behaviour and expose the bully as the coward that they actually are. We should all be working together to make sure all children have a safe and fun world to develop and grow in. #justsaying

Children of Africa

With many of the older generations being illiterate, having never had the opportunity to go to school, it is hard for the younger generations to gain support in their homes with school work and is more obvious in rural African villages.

When I arrived in Africa it was interesting to witness children who had limited concentration skills, lacked listening skills and didn’t know what phonics was, couldn't read or write no IT skills, hadn't played a board game and had never had a story read to them. A beautiful ebony skinned talented seven year little girl presented me with her journal filled with wonderful drawings depicting her life with friends in Africa. Although this little one was a talented artist she was not proficient in literacy or math; we spent many hours together “reading” her drawings and her telling me in depth stories about her childhood through her pencil drawings. Asking open ended questions of her work, her imagination ran riot and I had a hard time ending these wonderful stories spewing from her mouth for hours on end.

When I sat down to spend time with each little doe eyed child, they were so active and willing to learn. They wanted and craved one to one attention and fought to be up close to me; it was often claustrophobic. Every piece of learning I offered was sucked up and their appetites could not be sated. Like the traditional American Indian Storyteller, I was clambered over constantly and suffocated with excited children craving to get more of me and my teachings...it was an exhaustive pleasure to work with these little people. My lap was full to overflowing. If they heard I was not appearing for a day or so sad whispers, cries and sighs echoed after my departure and if they heard I was returning tomorrow, hurrahs, laughter and whoops resounded as I entered the room and no minute of the day was my own.

One handsome little boy of five years took a shine to me and wanted my total attention. For the first time in his short life he found learning and began responding to his homework and suddenly began to enjoy engaging with books and conversations positively. He couldn't read or write when I arrived, nor could he count or sound letters, he knew no colours and his family spent little time giving him support. Living with his grandparents who were illiterate and spoke limited English, it was almost impossible to complete his school and homework. His family were aware and saddened they could not help and did their very best but with no schooling themselves it was nigh on impossible. By the time I left he could write his letters and numbers, had begun to sound his letters and had a hunger to learn and asked for a story every day. It had been a pleasure to get to know this boy and to be able to see him develop.

The classrooms were old fashioned, basic and tired in decor. Often run down and shabby but teachers did their best and at least there was school. Teacher training was an issue, very limited and backward....no EYFS here, no safeguarding, no behaviour or social networking policies and discipline was antiquated and harsh....let's just say we would not be allowed to practice it and I was extremely uncomfortable with their methods and thinking. So embedded in their culture, way of life and upbringing, the teachers had no understanding of my concerns. Indoctrinated by spiritualism and often the witch doctors they had entrenched beliefs that to us Westerners are wild and weird. In class they sat in formal rows behind old fashioned wooden lift top desks with ink wells, facing a traditional large grey blackboard, that desperately needed blackening. No interactive white boards, PC's or laptops in these classrooms and limited paper and pencils, fascinating to say the least. My large array of paper, colouring pencils, story and exercise books, that I had carried in my suitcase, did not stretch very far but for those children it did reach, it was appreciated and thoroughly enjoyed.

In rural schools the same meal is delivered every day, beans and rice, rice and beans and sometimes egosi may be thrown in for good measure. Children eat because they have to eat, it maybe all they get that day. Phenomenally, they all had mobiles, but often nothing else and were out of proportionally addicted to all the latest technology. Materialism was part of the mind set and culture in many ways. Few clothes, no school books, no reading books, limited food and money but always the current technology.

School uniforms were curious too; often brightly coloured, the girls wore oversized calf length dresses, with white starched "peter pan" collars, thick ankle socks and chunky badly fitting second hand shoes and carried traditionally shaped brown leather satchels. The boys wore brightly coloured oversized knee length shorts, stiff starched white shirts, ankle socks, chunky trainers and carried the same satchels as the girls. In their masses these brightly clad children walked, sometimes for miles, to and from school each morning and evening in the blistering heat only to begin housework and washing when they arrived home. Uniforms were washed each day, by hand on a ridged wash board over a metal pail, and hung to dry on ropes on patios; shopping, cooking and cleaning had to be completed and the children were expected to assist. If there was a few minutes to play, they played in the dusty crater filled streets and gutters with handmade cars and trucks recycled from trash while rusty scooters, cars, trucks and buses wove their way around them.

Every evening I had a hard time dragging myself away from these gorgeous little ones; their little faces with wide eyes said it all, “please stay, don’t go; don’t leave us.” They never wanted me to leave and I often did not want to go but I was usually exhausted by the end of the day from the intense pressure to continually sate the learning appetite of these under nourished brains, the constant mauling of my body and calling of "miss" all day. If the only thing I had done was to stimulate the passion for books and learning then my mission was accomplished.

I lived many miles from where I was teaching and the traffic was heavy and slow, the electricity was non-existent, water was in short supply, no washer or dryer, antiquated air conditioning units, corruption all around me and the pressure of constantly being asked for money or a “dash” was draining. Everything about living in this part of Africa was hard work and exhausting. No one could be trusted and so called friends hung around me because I was white and rich…or so they believed. Everywhere I went I had to be accompanied by a body guard to ensure my safety, that was exhausting in itself; I could never go out alone or with a girlfriend. Even the police could not be trusted. There was a constant fear of kidnapping.

At the end of my day I was driven back to my very basic hotel room; I doused myself down with cold water in my make shift shower, hand washed my clothes and hung them to dry and retired for some well-earned rest to recharge my body and brain for another day. I snuggled down with my book and a good strong cuppa before the electricity was pulled and darkness obliterated all sense of meaning and I retreated into the land of nod. What seemed like only a few hours later I was woken, at 5.00am, to the sound of wails calling the locals to prayer, one hundred percent humidity and bitten to bits by mosquitoes and sand fly? And so starts another teaching day in Africa.

The Arabian Beauty Salon

Other than the large hotels mostly set on the beach and the odd excursion to one of the major cities, there is very little to do in for expat teachers in rural Arabia. Once you have experienced the glamour and glitz there is little else to do week after week. As westerners we had to be very careful to abide by the local rules and laws and also careful not to offend, so our western way of life had to be carried out in the lounges of such hotels and more or less from behind closed doors. This is the only place we could eat, drink and be very merry, so for four very English teachers, Sunday afternoon visiting the local beauty salon to have a manicure or pedicure was a treat and a half and believe it or not…a big event.

We loved this outing every Sunday, apart from the fact that we ended the afternoon with beautiful nails and toes; we also loved it because we were able to experience a vision and flavour of the Arabic women’s world that we could not watch anywhere else. We were able to surreptitiously get inside their world and be part of the intimacy of Arabic women and experience the harem clique and striking atmosphere. As western women we were not supposed to become close to the local women in case we influenced them in some negative manner. Some of us had, over the months, made close friends with local women only to find, sadly, the relationship died a very quick death once their men folk became aware of the relationships, consequently the women back peddled and didn’t turn up for coffee again. Sadly, we never made friends with an Arabic woman.

The beauticians are, generally, young Pilipino women who have left their families in their home countries and travelled to the Middle East to make a better life for themselves and their extended family. We got to know many of these Pilipino beauticians and were privileged to have many deep and difficult conversations with them over the years spent working in this rural town. One extremely young beautician shared her very sad story with us whilst filing and shaping our finger and toe nails. She had not seen her two year old baby for two years and missed him terribly; she just worked long hours and sent most of her money home in order to help take care of her son and give him the life she felt she never had. Quietly shaping she shed quiet tears.

The beauty salon we attended was large and must have employed over twenty of these young girls who were all supplied with very basic accommodation and employed by a wealthy Arabic madam. The girls would shed a few tears reciting their life stories to us and were so grateful that someone listened with empathy and compassion. The girls looked forward to our visit and made us very comfortable and welcome and over time we all became good friends.

Sunday afternoon at the salon was amazing for many reasons including outlandish expanses of mirrors, leather and crystal but watching the Arabic women paint themselves from head to toe for weddings, parties, dinners and just to please their men folk was an incredible sight and privilege. Kohl eyeliner, bright eye shadow, vivid lipsticks, hair extensions, dyes, gel nails and jejazzles were everywhere, not to mention frills, petticoats, sashes, stilettoes, beads and bustles bedazzling us. We sat surveying this exotic opera for hours as they paraded back and forth in front of us. No expense was spared and the adornments glittered and sparkled bright enough to blind any spectator watching this spectacle.

Four very English teachers sat, hands splayed, with our Pilipino friends busying away at making our nails gorgeous while we were entertained by these amazingly beautiful women and young girls in their magnificent makeup and attire. Sunday afternoons transformed the salon into a local meeting place for chatter and gossip, laughter and tears, playfulness and teasing; a tranquil setting for Arabic women to come together safely and allow their reticence and restraints to be shed for a short while, and bare their hearts and souls in a culture where this is hard to ensue. Thankfully, for us very English educators, we were fortunate and blessed to be able to witness this beautiful pastime and be a small part of it too.

Waiting for our manicures to dry, we sipped sweet black Arabic tea from crystal clear miniature mugs; it was a pleasure.

Visiting a Market in Lagos, West Africa

Health and safety would have a field day...no licenses, no cling wrap, no vacuum packing, no sell by dates...visiting an African open air market place.

Full of pulsating colour, fabrics, kerosene, curry and hair products; large personalities, buxom females and colloquial dialogues, I was thrust, as a very English Mrs Teacup into a world that was fascinatingly unintelligible. Tin shacks lined muddy alleyways that wove their way amongst boldly and elaborately dressed Nigerian women manning stalls and shacks selling everything you could possibly need, from cosmetics to fresh tomatoes and hair extensions to the tail of a cow.

No concrete, tarmac or linoleum covered the earths floor, so dodging puddles, ditches and craters, my African companion steered, guided and protected me along the narrow alleys, weaving in and out of black African's who tried their best to touch and stroke me.....me, the only white face in a sea of ebony.....and again the whisper of "white woman, white woman" cascaded through the alleyways, shacks and shoppers. These whispers went before me, like a river, I never overtook these words; they went before me. As they flowed and wound their way,  inquisitive black faces peeked out, around corrugated tin walls, to view this unusual mirage that had descended upon this mind-blowing place.

Vibrant and vibrating with chatter, music and richly coloured traditional dress, the market was alive with Africa. This was Nigeria at its best. Fascinating, awesome and truly an experience made in heaven, I loved it. Jaw open, eyes wide, head lurching from side to side, I enjoyed the African-ness of it all as my companion held on to me tightly and guided me to the relevant lean-tos to realise our purchases. We bought fresh fruits and homemade hot freshly made chilli tomato sauce. We watched the animated African mama squish the tomatoes, chop the onions, slice the chillies and add all to a massive antiquated aluminium blender and pour the pureed sauce into a lidded pot we supplied ourselves. No health and safety regulations here.

On we continued to purchase meat.....Oh my.....was this an eye opener and an over powering stench as we entered the meat market. On ancient rickety wooden benches, upon a mud laden floor, were slabs of goat, cow, pig and chickens laying and hanging for as far as the eye could see. There were pig totters, strung up chickens, cow legs and cow tails decorating every part of the corrugated tin roof along with masses of flies and mosquitoes that buzzed irritatingly and persistently around us and the carcasses. I don't know how I didn't vomit; the stench was horrific, the atmosphere like a free for all abattoirs. Machetes lay nonchalantly everywhere and excesses of blood ran under our feet into ditches, gulley’s and puddles, where large fat mossies’ feasted hungrily.

My jaw dropped further open and I knew I had to get out of there. My companion purchased his large slabs of goat, beef and a chicken and feeling sick to my stomach and faint, I was whisked through the mud and puddle ridden alleys back to the flooded, car infested main road where our car awaited and where the "white woman, white woman" whispers now lagged and faded behind me.

I could not stomach cow tail, goat, beans and hot red sauce for dinner; Nigerian porridge and a cuppa tea was my preferred supper.