2.22 am

I have a sun tan!  . . . In march. In England!? I honestly did begin to wonder if it was normal for March. Maybe I'd just missed it for twelve years through spending too many hours indoors. But no it's not normal, it's the hottest March since 1965.

I decided to take it easy today, well, as easy as you can with three kids.
I sat out on the patio and bathed my feet. Then after a thorough pedicure and a second soaking, I massaged them with cocoa butter and patchouli oil . . . I would've painted my toenails but it's early days in their recovery and they don't need to be attracting attention yet  (much like me ;-)  I did go to the shop in sandals though. So what? So have you seen a junky's feet ?. . . No, neither have they. I swear I didn't "see" my feet throughout those years. I probably didn't "see" a lot of things that I see now, some of which I would like to sweep right back under the proverbial carpet but, as I've said before, there aint room for any more under there.

I'm ok at looking at stuff from within, no matter how embarrassing, painful or shameful it is . . . But when it involves other than me, I do tend to avoid dealing with these issues . . . Sometimes I have an awful vision of being left to care for my Mum in the future when the floodgates burst with the weight of  resentment and unleash fifty (maybe a lot more by then) years worth of whys? and hows? Somehow I can't bring myself to tell her what angers me so. I don't want to hear the excuses. Ok enough of that.

It's almost half two and I need to be up at seven but one thing's for sure . . . I will be awake in an instant. And in that instant I'll remember why I feel so good. That alone is worth waking up for . . .
Sweet dreams and days to all. Thanks as always.

A midnight quickie

I can't believe I haven't had time to write since Sunday . . . On my own blog that is.
It has been a busy, sunny and productive week. I won't list all that I've dealt with as it would be long and boring. With the money saved from not buying gear I've caught up with my bills and set up direct debits so I don't have to worry about getting behind again. That might sound pretty normal to most "grown-ups". It's a first for me. Ever. Maybe I really am growing up . . .?

Hamper G and I have had two three hour lunch time picnics in the park this week . . . Again, normal to most folk, a first for me. Way too many "small but significant" good things have happened to write about just now. I feel blessed and thankful.

I've cleaned all the hamsters out and there are only two new pups . . . so maybe I can make room for them ;-) eh? what's another two?

A few things I've read recently on other blogs got me to thinking about how my feelings towards gear can change from one day to the next. It's complex; how ex-users talk/think about the gear like an ex-lover . . . Sometimes over-romancing . . . other times over-demonising. Often blaming the other person/substance . . . He/she made me do that; the gear made me do that.
I did start to write a post about it which I intend to finish when I have some quiet time. Preferably before midnight.

I've finally started weight training again!! Wayhay! (thanks to Annette and Lou for the inspiration) It's easier than it was the first time round (7yrs ago). Apparently muscles have memory and in no time they were like "Hey yeah this is good . . . Time to wake up and get to work".
Stropster (16) decided to give it another go with me. He was shocked at my strength and began to get pissed off competitive. So I pretended I was struggling a bit to humour and placate him. Boys eh? . . . Men eh? I'm already looking forward to the change in muscle tone.

I'm still working on Higgins (part 3), raking through the memories . . . There aren't enough hours in the day as it is and tomorrow we lose one! Gone. Fast forward and there it was . . .  gone. That always seems weird to me, like, are we allowed to do this?  (I mean turn the clocks forward an hour) I seem to have so much to do these days, I'm sure I could spend fourteen hours a day solid "doing stuff" and not run out.

This is getting long for a quickie (said the act . . . On that note I'm off to bed to dream of  Mighty ships and all who sail in them ;-) Sweet dreams or days to you all and thanks, as always, for reading, joining in and making it worthwhile.

Happy Mothers Day

I presume this is only in Britain (today) and I'm not sure how many British "Mother" readers I have, so to Annie and any others Happy Mothers Day!

I'm almost too late with this as I've had a busy family day. I was amazed by a (perfect) coffee in bed this morning from Stropster who then kept Hamper G happy all morning by playing "Sylvanians" with her. He brought his laptop through to my room and DJ'd some good tracks. We danced to Monkey Man, sang to many more, shared some stories and had a good laugh.

Hamper and I walked up to Mum's house this afternoon with her card . . . I'd taken her out on Friday for lunch as her present and she loved every minute of it . . . apart from the minute when she almost wee'd herself laughing on the way home.

Then home later this evening for lamb curry and naan bread that I'd cooked yesterday to give myself the day off today.
So a steady, peaceful Mothers Day with dancing and laughter. What more could I ask. Nothing.

I'm breathing well, feeling well, looking well and all's well . . . So happy "end of Mothers day"  to all mothers everywhere in the world . . . In any language we are truly blessed.
Sweet dreams and thanks as always to all.

My sea legs . . .

This is a random post thrown in, firstly because of my new obsession with boats, ships and Captain Heldt . . . Secondly because I met the Captain of this boat and sailed away with him on St. patricks day 1994.
I won't go into the mess that I was running away from or even what became of  Captain Sparrow as we will get to that all in good time. I will say that he is Stropster's Dad and did eventually settle here in this town to be just that.

Really this is just a quick flash of nostalgia brought on by looking for the "All things Silverhip" photos. I'm really gonna have to sort those photographs out . . . I can't wade through all those years every time I need to find two or three.

We had some great times travelling the country on that boat . . . and met some good "boat folk" . . . and some dodgy ones along the canals. I was content at the time with an easy simple outdoor life. I drew started drawing many pictures, cooked good food and let my creativity run free. Happy days.




Sparrow kept his motorbike chained to the front of the boat for occasions when four miles an hour was not fast enough ;-). Red and black boat, red and black bike . . . Anarchic.

As with the above drawing of the pub, rarely a picture was completed as Sparrow liked to keep moving. No mooring fees.
I need to get scanning as this will mainly be a picture post . . will update real life later . . . Happy St. Patrick's Day to all . . .

Another quick unfinished sketch of Sparrow . . . That thing hanging over his shoulder was a hair extension that I made from some horse tail hair . . . obtaining that was a whole story in itself . . . I then threaded it with hand painted glass beads . . . Long lazy days . . . until we would come across a staircase of six or seven locks. Those were the days that kept us fit, strong and healthy.

 . . . And another copied from an album cover. I would get so into some of these drawings that I wouldn't stop to eat or for coffee . . . Maybe just the odd pull on a spliff.  If I did stop to cook, "man" the locks, stoke the fire, chop the wood or do my steering shift I rarely went back to the same drawing hence all the unfinished business . . .

And one more of Sparrow . . . yes, unfinished! Pity really because that bandana that's (not) round his neck was the bit I was looking forward too. Now I have to post real quick. I'm sorry if this is rushed and with mistakes but Stropster is due in from work and he wouldn't be best pleased that I'm putting up pictures of his Dad. Sparrow would be mortified. On the internet!! Shhhhh ;-)

Ok here goes . . . Publish. Hey I must just say the first photo at the top where the boat looks like it's sailing along a "green" carpet, although the colour has faded, was through Tottenham (London) where there was so much algae it really did look like a green, very littered, carpet.

Mighty ships and all that

I don't know if any of you watch the Freeview channel Quest at night . . . quite late? Maybe someone does. When I say watch, usually it's just left on in the background, turned down after Geekster has watched "How it's made" which is about . . . Yes that's right.

But something caught my eye last night . . .  Mighty ships and they were mighty. The biggest on the seas. I was hooked, totally fascinated and that doesn't often happen I can tell you. I don't ever watch films or much else really but I couldn't get enough of it. During two full hour progammes I sat engrossed.

On the second hour I was so in awe of the mighty ship that I "fell in love" with the Captain. It was almost the old SIC syndrome (Sudden Inappropriate Crushes -  brought on by no gear/lowering methadone) except it was ever so slightly more justifiable than my usual horrors such as. Not by much though, thinking back he was obviously an arrogant sod. He constantly had a "roll up" on the go with an inch of ash falling somewhere every ten minutes. Longish hair and a very direct look. Heavily made-up to hide the broken veined nose of a serious drinker . . . I know, I know, I am over it now. Even if I wasn't quite, I am now I've read this. Though he did have some charm, nice teeth and a certain something. A bit dodgy I sensed but that just added to whatever else it was. He obviously had a fair amount of "Command" too. I doubt that would've impressed me, but I could be very wrong. I'll leave that one there.

O My God . . . It's on again now. Do I want to put myself through that again so soon? Saying that, tonight I remembered to take my normal evening dose of 20ml methadone which is probably just enough to stave off the SICs . . . let's see.

I need an early night anyway as I'm taking Mum out for lunch tomorrow for an early Mothers day. Tomorrow being the only time I can get Hamper G looked after but that's ok. She wouldn't mind what day we went. It's the first time I've offered to take her out for lunch and I think she's pleased.
It's been a busy week with Hamper G's fifth Birthday, five more very unexpected hamster pups . . . mostly good stuff but a few too many mental battles for comfort.  I've no idea why I didn't battle for the first few weeks . . . Maybe it will pass again; No maybe about it . . . It will pass again.

I'm off to bed before it's too late to have an early night.
"Beautiful dreamer" . . . I love that song. My Dad, a former merchant seaman, used to sing it. So beautiful dreams and all that. Thanks, as always, for reading.
.

Silverhip (part two)

I learnt a lot from Silverhip, good stuff began to sink in slowly and to rub off on me. I smiled more, talked and listened more. I learnt to forgive; to let go of some of the hurt, the anger, the bitterness. He taught me how to see my parents from a new perspective. I saw for the first time who they had been and who they had become, with their own wounds. The cruelty and violence of their childhoods. The desperate hopeless hope of loving each other without knowing love. The disappointments and failings. I understood how and why it had all happened. I suppose I started to love them or at least feel for them. He assured me another way was possible.

I tried, failed, then pretended I'd read the Hobbit, The Lord of The Rings, The Hitchhikers guide to the Galaxy and other books that he and his friends had read, analysed and deemed worthy. I couldn't get past the second page of most of them. I swear I tried. I remember reading the same line over and over. The same names over and over. Stupid names . . . They meant nothing to me. How come they meant so much to them.

I hadn't the foggiest idea who I was, but I was sure if ever I did find out it wouldn't be someone like them. I didn't dislike them, I wouldn't go that far . . . I just didn't connect with them, or anyone else really. I could only think, at the time, that it had to do with intelligence . . . They were well spoken, I wasn't. They'd been to Uni, I hadn't. They read . . . But I just didn't get it. I knew I wasn't stupid. At least that's what exam results showed. Why did I not feel as good as these people.

These people being Silverhip's friends. I'd never seen a true friendship close up let alone experienced one. I was fascinated, it was like studying another species. Ok they drank some, usually of the homemade ale or elderberry dishwater wine variety, they smoked spliff and chilums but they managed to be wholesome throughout. Wholefoods were their thing. Brown rice. Brown bread. Brown stone storage jars. It was all a bit too healthy for me. I had, of course, absolutely nothing to say to them. And when I did "test" an opinion a comment (I didn't own an opinion) it sounded so wrong to me. Imagine how it sounded to them. What the fuck was wrong with me? I was baffled by them and their opinions of everything . . . Yes everything. They knew so much, I presumed they were right. As far as I was concerned the fact that they had an opinion meant they were right . . . where had they learnt to do this? What was it called?

Politics?? . . . Now you might not believe me here . . . then again you might . . . I had no idea that a government "ran" the country until I was 16 . . . I'd never heard of politics.
Art? . . . what art? . . . did they draw I wondered. No, no, Art . . . you know . . . yes of course you do, theatre, museums, literature. Well I didn't know. What I did know for sure is that I was "less than" them and it was obvious to me that they knew this too. Weirdo.

After improving a few bedsits and flats we ended up renting a quarter of a huge country mansion about ten miles from the city. It was freezing cold, we had way too many rooms and could barely heat one. A bedside drink would freeze over in the night. Silverhip bloody loved it there; he possibly fantasised that he was Lord of the Manor. We drove to the city every day in a Cossack dnepr 650, a Russian ex-military bike with side-car . . . on the wrong side, so I was in the middle of the road. He was eccentric but not mad and eccentric. It was the madness I missed. He might have started "reading" The Guardian around this time . . . I noticed he didn't tackle the crossword in that one.
We shared roughly the same taste in music. I can't say I enjoyed The Alan Parsons Project but I probably pretended I did. We went to real ale festivals, classic bike rallies, live music events . . . I worked in the nearby city training in accounts, played bodrhan and added vocals in "No Strings attached" and showed signs of progression. I was almost civilised. All was well . . . So well we planned to marry. . . On the fifth day of May.

When I say all was well, I mean almost all. All except my infidelities. Although I was honest and he was forgiving almost to the point of turning a blind eye, I had a feeling this was wrong; it shouldn't be happening. I tried and failed to change my behaviour. I couldn't stop it so I had to stop the relationship instead. I couldn't stop it because as much as I liked Silverhip, he didn't really do it for me . . . O no, he was far too normal and nice for that. The problem was that none of my "indiscretions" did it for me either. I'd made a promise not to contact Higgins and I kept it for three years.

We moved into separate flats back in the city to see how things went. I'll tell you how things went . . . I was on the phone to Higgins the next day. Any feelings of concern I had about contacting him after three years were bowled off course by feelings of a different nature when I heard his voice. O that voice. Yes of course he could come over . . . When? . . . Tonight? Yes tonight is fine . . . Perfect. Of course tonight, yes. Good Lord . . . Yes!
Three years had passed . . . It was mid-afternoon, only three more hours to go. I hadn't been this excited in years. Chain smoking my B&H . . . Smiling like a Cheshire cat. It was Spring 1982.

********

Photos to be added as soon as I've found them . . . I promise. There are a lot to go through.

Progress report . . .

Well there's not much I don't know about dentures now. I've studied over-dentures, partial dentures, permanent (fixed dentures), dental implants, bone resorption, Wolff's law etc etc . . . I won't pass on what I've learnt in the last few evenings as I don't expect anyone to share this obsession interest.

Suffice to say I'm off to get a second, third, maybe fourth opinion . . . also to get a price to have the work done privately . . . Yes, I know, I'm expecting it to be in the £5000 region . . . But where there is a will there's a way. I managed to find £5000 every year (minimum) for the past twelve years to fund my habit so I would willingly spend that amount on my teeth.
I have been watching You Tube clips of Harley Street dental technicians crafting realistic prosthetics that look, feel and sound like teeth. Each tooth is lovingly sculpted separately then fixed onto the denture base . . . Beautiful . . . It's a true work of art. Ahhh one can dream. Ok no more teeth talk . . . For now. I'm quite convinced something good will happen and you'll be the first to know.

I've done a few more hours gardening and bought some grass seed to re-seed some bald patches. Slowly but surely it will be transformed.

Hey . . .  I've just noticed the date . . .  The ninth.  Well I can't just ignore that can I?
That's a whole month off  Heroin, I would say clean but I know some folk don't consider even a small methadone script "clean" . . . Who cares? . . . I don't much like the implication of a user being "dirty" anyway so lets just say I've had a month free from heroin addiction and it's been wonderful . . . Free being the operative word.

Sometimes, usually as I'm cooking dinner at about 6pm, I get a fleeting anxious moment . . .  A strange mixture of dread and excitement and I wonder what it is. It's a habit. A month ago it would've prompted a string of mostly unanswered texts until 8pm . . . if I was lucky, nine or ten if not, and a whole load more anxiety, panic, exasperation and general jumpiness until I finally got a bag of mostly post-drought quality Heroin . . . to smoke . . . and fall asleep . . . Every night!? Was I nuts?

I can hardly believe it.

Now, that moment is immediately followed by a relief, a lightness, almost a floaty feeling as it quickly sinks in that I don't need to act on it. It's gone as fast as it came. Click. Gone. And as much as I'm thankful that it disappeared so fast, I'm also thankful that it happened . . . to remind me, even if only for a split second and to make me more aware of the moment that follows . . . To heighten the sense of release . . . The feeling of freedom. 

I still eat my dinner, get hamper G to bed, go on-line for a while  . . . and fall asleep . . .  In peace . . . Not worrying about money, chances of scoring, quality of gear or possible impending drought . . . Just that bledy denture :-)

O well, I've spent way too much time looking at this screen today so I'm off to bed. Shit I just woke up . . . I still manage to fall asleep face down on the laptop, dribbling,  and I could've sworn that was the drugs.

Silverhip (part one)

In the chilly hours and minutes of uncertainty . . .

So . . . Silverhip. He was everything I wasn't and more. He tried so hard to reach me, to teach me how to be. To be good and kind; to forgive. He was only 21 but an old soul from another time. I'm not sure if he intended this mission. I doubt it  . . . unless he was an angel. He did have a good heart . . . and eyes that saw way before they were told  . . . And patience. If ever I had needed an angel in my life, it was then. If ever he needed  patience in his life it was then.

I had come back to the Midlands for a weekend  to see my Mum and her man. As far as I can remember the last time I'd seen them was in Bangor Hospital after they'd driven up to Wales to see "The Baby" . . . I don't remember having said a word to them on that occasion . . . or to any other visitors, hospital staff or patients. Not out of ignorance, or anger . . . I honestly just couldn't find any words. I was speechless. Dumbstruck.

I spent the next ten months saying as little as possible.  I was sent to stay with my Dad's sister near Oxford. She'd been an excellent loving foster Mum to so many kids . . . She'd know what to do with me. She didn't.

I ran wild and hungry. Something was burning up inside of me. And where it burned away it left a pitch black hole that nothing could fill. I tried like a starving child to stop those hunger pains but I tried in silence.  Every which way I could find . . . the more mind altering it promised to be, the more I persisted. That was, after all, my intention. But nothing altered my mind. And nothing killed the pain. I wouldn't find the real anaesthetic for another 20 years . . . Just as well.

Then on a visit to a country pub for a quiet few drinks with Mum and her man . . . I met Silverhip at the bar. He was calm and gentle . . . well adjusted, balanced . . . a happy hippy. This was all new to me. Happiness. He smiled often and I liked him. He'd inherited his father's sharp-wit minus the forked tongue; he made me laugh . . . I relaxed with him. He sensed my pain and thought he understood. I laughed, relaxed and began to talk.

We spent the night at his friend's house. I needed to be with him. I was in no desperate rush to sleep with him, I wasn't sexually attracted to him at all but it was what he wanted; I was used to giving men what they wanted without being attracted to them . . . In fact for the most part so far I'd been thoroughly repulsed by them. So indifference was a bonus.
I insisted on the lights being turned out. Such an early pregnancy had striped my body with silver lines. Deep red wounds and no baby. A pitch black void.

He laughed, said I'd done him a favour asking for lights out as he was wearing "the world's worst underpants" orange with a white Y front . . . I couldn't see what was wrong or funny with that. I had no idea what men's underwear should look like. In Oxford I'd found sanctuary with a "bedroom cross dresser" a whose underwear put mine to shame, The baby's Dad had always been a quickie in the back of his car half dressed . . . and before him were a bunch of "peedos" who, from what I could remember never removed their own clothes. O well I laughed anyway and he laughed some more. I wasn't sure if laughing and sex went together; up until now they never had. Should they? I was willing to try . . . He was sorry he had only lasted two minutes . . . I wasn't. I was relieved; now I could get some more of what I was here for. Comfort, talking, laughter and tears. More talking and more crying. Brollyman called me the weeping willow. I called him a prick.

I was allowed to sleep on my Mum's man's sofa for two weeks whilst I looked for somewhere to work and  live. I didn't dare to ask what would become of me if I couldn't find anywhere. That wasn't an option, I needn't worry . . . right there in the village where Silverhip was born and raised was a live-in vacancy at the local hotel. . . running the carvery. Perfect.

Until it wasn't perfect. It was too good. Good things like this didn't happen to girls like me. I was broken and this was whole. I was damaged beyond repair. Torn, filthy and empty. His Father had seen it and didn't want it in the family . . . Higgins had seen it and wanted it but not in the family. No, I wasn't fooling myself for one sweet minute. I couldn't love Silverhip or anyone else. I couldn't love. He tried to show me how to love and be loved, I didn't feel it. I was out of reach. O well I'd come this far without it and survived. Survived. I'd constantly been told God loved me too and I couldn't feel that either so maybe it was just me.
I obviously didn't need it. Not this love anyhow. Or God's love. Where was the good in love you couldn't feel. . . . No I needed something altogether different. The black hollow was starting to yawn; restless and aching for a shot of real love. I knew another kind of love that killed the pain. Fed the burning hunger for a while. That's what I knew and that's what I needed. I was addicted to abusive sex and called it love.

And on a quiet Monday morning in an empty hotel as I tried to revive Sunday's salad that's exactly what I found.

Silverhip had a woodwind repair workshop in the nearby city. We would move to the city together. get away from that village . . . that Higgins . . . I could get a job in the city. He could make me feel safe and mend me. Fuck what his friends thought or said. He knew they were wrong. He hoped they were wrong. Fuck what his father said too. Middle-class bourgeois ponce. Silverhip had delusions of working classness. Inverted snobbery I think he called it. He read the Sun newspaper and dropped his consonants to prove it. No, he would show them all. He could see the progress already . . . Ok, granted I couldn't hold a conversation or engage in small talk yet but I could answer questions, alright, some questions. . . . Nothing too complicated but I would at least offer an answer, of sorts. He could see the potential and was in no rush. He'd prove them all wrong. They needn't know about Higgins. Need they?  . . . Did they? In a village this size! . . . It won't happen again. Will it? . . . Do the other Hotel staff know? . . . Or the boss??  . . . I might have winced slightly there.
No. How would they? I don't talk to them and it wasn't usually at the hotel.
Usually? . . . It?
Erm.
Then where? why? when  . . . and who?
He looked right into my filthy contaminated soul with those eyes that saw way before they were told . . . I saw what he saw  . . .  a man's gold watch. Bastard. On the shelf above the sink. Bitch. A while back . . . The Boss? Higgins?  . . . Silverhip had taken a good look at the watch at the time but had said nothing. He knew the boss and he knew Higgins. He didn't know either of them well . . .  well enough to know that one and one made at least two.

Off to the city we will go and we will tame this animal. We had hope. He had hope. I'm not sure what I had but I knew it was too good for me. I hoped it was what I wanted. I knew it wasn't what I needed.

*************

 I put a link to "The baby" post as It's an important part of the story that I'd already written about  and below is what became "our song" at the time. Donovan . . . Ah but I may as well try and catch the wind.

The right teeth!

In the words of Pam Ayres (sp?) O I wish I'd looked after me teeth! O Booo Hooo Baaa Hoooo. Woe is me. I actually did look after my teeth. I still do. These pictures are 13 yrs ago . . . just as I started on Heroin.
I don't suppose for one minute there is a dentist reading this who can tell me this is possible. I can have these teeth. Surely it's possible to make false teeth any size?
Sure, I din't expect them white, I'm almost fifty and I'm more than happy with the shade the dentist chose for my new top teeth . . .  he got that right.
I'm sorry to go on about this. I'm not a vain person by any means . . . But this matters.

Ok I'll leave it at that that for now. I realise it's not exactly fascinating . . . but I need a record of these things.
I'm part way into Silverhip (part one) . . . For obvious reasons Silverhip and Higgins will run concurrent for a while.

The wrong teeth

Just a quickie . . . The dentist phoned to say my teeth were ready for collection . . . Off I went pretty excited at seeing a replica of my teeth, plus missing ones, and being able to imagine them replacing what's left of the real thing . . . Until I got home and inspected them . . . They are tiny! I'm not at all pleased. I don't know what to do.
The first thing I have to do is go speak to the dentist. He did say that the first "temporary" set would not be what I wanted and would not fit properly until the gums had healed. Then they do a second permanent set to the shape of the healed "shrunk down" gums (yuk) . . .  But he only implied the second set would be a better fit . . . not better teeth . . . Certainly not bigger teeth
If they are intending to use the same small teeth on a better fitting denture then I can't do this . . .  I will have to re-think.
Do I presume that the impressions are only taken to get an idea of gum/mouth shape . . . not of existing teeth? There is no way they have made these teeth from the cast that was taken of my front teeth.

So I've gone from being excited and looking forward to new teeth . . . to wondering what the hell I'm gonna do? I am certainly not being "put to sleep" to wake up with that "joke" in my mouth.

I know this is partly my own doing for being afraid and leaving it for so long . . . But that doesn't mean that I don't care how I look. Quite the opposite, I now care enough to do something about it . . . And enough to not compromise.

Until two days ago, my biggest fear in the "tooth department" was not waking up from the anaesthetic . . . Now it's waking up with a row of even, straight baby teeth. Good Lord I'd rather keep what I have.

OK I'm gonna do the lottery today for the third time in my life. If I just won enough to go "private" and get the teeth I want and need to look like me, that's what I would spend it on.
I mean it's not like I'm 83 or something . . . I could be wearing these teeth for the next 30 (?!) . . . Ok, 20? years with my new healthy lifestyle ;-)

So apart from my teeth worry . . . All is fine . . .  All is more than fine. Twenty-Three days Clean!
I'm enjoying raking through memories, photographs, letters and drawings with a view to writing more "from the archives" . . .  I was very pleasantly surprised by the reaction to my first attempt (Prof Higgins - part one) . . . Thankyou all for reading and for your encouraging comments.