Just Me And My Flip Flops

I'd like my funeral to be on a Friday. Monday's are miserable enough aren't they without adding to the desolation. I toyed with the idea of a Wednesday, 'hump' day as it's called by some. But Friday. End of the week. End of a life. I came into this world on a Saturday so it seems fitting to leave it on a Friday. I mean, I guess, or should I say, I hope I would already have left prior to party day, it's not like we can do a quick turnaround here like they do in some parts of the world where weather, religion and sometimes both, dictate. "Ooh she's getting a bit morbid, our Jayno", I hear you cry! No, not really. None of us are here forever, however harsh that sounds, we have to face it at some point. I've experienced more than my fair share of funerals, which, after time gets you thinking about  your own and how that might pan out. The problem we have here is that it happens after we're gone so, unless we make our wishes known, we co

Those that know me well will know that I dislike winter. Despite being born in the midst of it. In fact, dislike is is too tame a word: I loathe winter. Where others take delight in the dark early evenings and relish the thought of cosy nights snuggled up indoors in front of a roaring fire, I despise it. The mere thought of it fills me with disdain. I mean, I can deal with the cold: I don't like it but, layer up, add another jumper - it's manageable isn't it? I detest snow. No, what I actually detest is the chaos that comes with snow. It's beautiful at first, waking up to virgin snowfall, streets of white, the eery sound of silence.... Yeah enough of that nonsense. We're 4 days into BST and I am LOVING it! British Summer Time. Even it's name makes me happy ☺ British - red white and blue, rolling hills, Marmite, Last Night of the Proms, Brighton/Skeggy/Barry Island, Big Ben, cream teas, the Red Arrows. Ahhh ❤ Summer - the smell of freshly cut grass, days

"West backing south 4 or 5, occasionally 6 for a time" You know where you are with the Shipping Forecast. It's up there with bangers & mash, Wimbledon, Marks & Spencer, roast beef & Yorkshire pudding, queuing, rain... Good old British staples that are missed by & yearned for by expats in all four corners of the globe. I was brought up listening to it, despite living 63.9 miles from the closest coast! It was, on father's good authority, the weather forecast to be relied upon, regardless of whether you were bobbing along in a boat on the English Channel or Bob on a roof in West London. I guess if you spent all your working hours out in the elements 30-40ft above ground, you would appreciate advance warning of a gust getting up! I've been fascinated by it ever since. 2017 saw the 150th anniversary of the Shipping Forecast. Issued by the Met Office on behalf of the Maritime and Coastguard Agency, it's broadcast by Auntie Beeb on Radio 4 f

"First they take your pride." When I sit and look back on my life I begin to realise there's been a whole lot of chaos and it really is a miracle I've ended up as sane as I am. 26yrs after being born in the same bed in which I was likely conceived, we had to vacate the family home, my birthplace, at very short notice. I won't go into details other than to say it was a situation I wouldn't wish on anyone and years later the loss is still taking its toll. Faced with an Aladins Cave of 50+yrs of junk (our mum had lived there since she was 3mths old) it was like The Generation Game meets The Hunger Games. "On the conveyer belt tonight we have your teenage record collection aaaand your childhood cuddly toys..." Or do you save the lead crystal fruit bowl your siblings and you gifted your parents on their 25th wedding anniversary? "Happy Hunger Games!" The records made it out as did the fruit bowl (hmmm), Tiny Tears and a couple of teddies but,

I guess some sort of intro is how I should have started this blog? I don't know. I'm new to all this. Not writing, I've written for a long time but more recently since it was  suggested as a therapy following a traumatic event a couple of years ago. Talking is supposed to be therapeutic too and boy do I love to talk. I've got an ology in talking! "Talk!" Said the therapist. "It will help! " But the people I wanted to talk to, the ones I yearned to comfort me, were no longer around. And so she suggested writing. I poo-poohed it at first. As if the counselling wasn't mumbo jumbo enough, you now wanted me, hard nut Jayno, to write down my FEELINGS?! Nah. Uh-uh. Nope. That's not me. But then I thought. COULD it possibly be me? Let's face it, I'd been doing it for years on Facebook and years before that in diaries, poems, & letters to my Smash Hits penfriends. Not necessarily feelings, but outpourings of words and thoughts. And so it g

I love March. I love that we've waved goodbye to February and the little tell-tale signs of the approaching spring start to surprise us. I love waking up with the sunrise and leaving the house whilst the family is still sleeping. I love hearing the birds tweeting in the bare branches of the trees as I walk down the hill: chirping their songs of happiness that a new day has dawned. I love witnessing the days battling to claw back the light from the nights and finally winning. I love my most treasured role in life, being a mother, being celebrated by my beautiful daughter. I love that in a week's time we'll be back on British Summer Time and that I will start to thrive and feel alive again. I love March. I hate March. I hate that over the last few weeks every shop I enter reminds me that I am motherless. I hate that for 19yrs I have had to avoid 'those' aisles because my loss is still so raw. I hate being reminded that for 7yrs before that when, she was only