#eal deal women

[sporkworld1]

Law and Order

George Hull Shepard Editorial The Long-Islander. January 10, 1873

Law and Character

We read and write and say a great deal about government, society and law.

And what is the end of all our talk- ing and voting and now and then go- ing to war? Simply that each iudivid- ual man may have liberty and encour- ment to live wisely, bravely, honest- ly, for honor's sake—that each woman may be helped and enabled to live pure- ly gently, peacefully, that ignorance and folly and evil passion and coward- ice and all that is cruel and unclean may be put away and despised, and all that is good and kind and generous and honorable may be fostered and held in esteem. Just so far as any government or society or law fails to bring that to pass, so far they fail of their reason for being. Looking around us just now and trying our institutions by this test, have we any cause for pride ? Shall we begin now to make preparation for keeping the Fourth of July? We write not in bitterness or anger now, but sad- ly and sore-hearted. It makes no diff- erence how this ends, and of course it can go to no really serious ending. That is not the point. The shame is not what is to come, but what has been al- ready.

The community has not only failed to honor age, uprightness, purity—not only failed to set them in its high place and fence them about with brave arms and hearts and fight for those in need, it has failed to protect them in the mere- st rights of personal peace and safety. More than that—can we write it down, or believe it ?—it has despised and abused them most shamefully. Look at it. Here is a court of justice, solemnly arraigning our honorable men for doing their duty or part of it, and gravely dis- cussing before our faces whether or not they are guilty of a crime, so chimeri - eal, so monstrous an invention that no intelligent person who knows the par- ties can think or speak of it without a convulsion of laughter. A court of justice ! What terrible irony ! And that is not all nor the worst. That is shameful and senseless enough. But there is much worse than that. Our honorable women — ladies whom hun- dreds hold in such honor as is given to very few indeed, as pure, kind, modest, honest-hearted, as any in the land or in the world, are insulted and made to mourn by cowardly innuendoes and in- sinuations that reek of the foul minds that invent them, harder still to bear by doubts, and questionings of the unin - formed who mean no harm but should think of their own wives and daugh - ters, and think of one doubting them. And why should they do all of this? Because half of their lives has been made a nightmare to them by a Devil of witness and cowardice. That is the reason. That is all. It is incredible, but God knows it is true. And God alone understands.

Oh , men , are you not all ashamed? to think that the grace and honor of womanhood, for which all men should be ready to fight and to give or take life at last necessity, suffers thus in our midst , and that we cannot protect them from things like these ! Are hon- or and chivalry dead ? The good time looks very far away. Almost we des- pair of men. But let them take comfort that we are blind. Perplexed and heart- sick and ashamed, it is our part to be brave, to be true and brave. Better than peace and honor of men is the consciousness of right. Yes, that is better than all the rest. The conscious- ness of right, the conciousness of right ! And these persecuted people have at least that. That and the faith in Him whose evil and good and who knows why He made them.

[signed] K

[nuwfc]

"Newcastle United have announced women's manager Becky Langley has signed a new long-term deal with the Magpies after back to back promotions.

Excitement is building on Tyneside as the women's side prepare to get their Championship campaign under way this weekend, taking on London City Lionesses on the road. Langley led her new-look team, filled with exciting new summer arrivals, out at St James' Park earlier this month, with Newcastle beating AC Milan on penalties as part of the Sela Cup.

Langley joined the club in 2019 and has presided over a meteoric rise, initially backed by former owner Amanda Staveley, and now by the club's current hierarchy structure. Speaking after the announcement, sporting director Paul Mitchell said: "Becky's new contract is fully deserved. I've been in constant contact with her since arriving at the club in the summer and I've been hugely impressed.

...

Newcastle United CEO, Darren Eales added: "A huge congratulations to Becky. We have been delighted by the progress and success that has been achieved by Newcastle United Women, and Becky has done a fantastic job in leading the team.

"We are delighted to acknowledge and reward her contribution in this way and we are excited about what is to come as we embark on an historic first season in the Women's Championship."

...

"I am delighted to sign a new contract and to keep pursuing my goals at Newcastle United Football Club," Langley said after penning the new contract.

"After speaking with Paul Mitchell (Sporting Director, NUFC) and Su Cumming (Head of Women’s Football, NUFC) about the ambitions for the team and club, it just made my enthusiasm even greater for this exciting project.

"I will give everything to achieve our aims together and I am unapologetically ambitious for Newcastle United Women. Here's to an exciting future.""

[whatsonmedia]

Discover London’s Best Dining and Entertainment Offers

Explore the top offers and deals across London, from luxurious dining experiences at iconic venues to unique entertainment events. Whether you're looking for a gourmet meal with stunning views, a relaxing massage session, or tickets to the latest theater productions, these curated deals offer great value for an unforgettable experience in the city. Enjoy a two-course set lunch and drink at Oblix West for just £39. Elevate your lunch experience at Oblix West, located on the 32nd floor of The Shard, offering panoramic views of West London. Every Monday to Friday, indulge in two courses of sophisticated cuisine from its innovative rotisserie and grill menu. Whether you choose the rich black truffle pasta, grilled dry-aged sirloin, or the fresh seafood spaghetti, each dish is crafted to perfection. Finish your meal with a classic dessert like the New York cheesecake, all while sipping on your choice of wine, beer, or prosecco. This is the ultimate lunchtime treat, set against one of the most iconic backdrops in London. Highlights - Breathtaking Views: Dine with stunning views overlooking London from the 32nd floor of The Shard. - Two-Course Luxury: Enjoy a starter or dessert paired with your main course. - Exclusive Offer: A special exclusive for a luxurious dining experience. Need to Know - Voucher Details: This voucher is valid for two courses and a selected beverage (beer, house wine, soft drink, or glass of prosecco) at Oblix West. - Availability: Monday to Friday, 12 pm - 2:30 pm. - Booking: Advanced booking is recommended. Call 020 7268 6700 to book, mentioning your voucher and security codes. - Voucher Redemption: Present your voucher upon arrival. Printed vouchers are preferred. - Validity: Voucher valid until September 30, 2024. - Exclusions: Not available on bank holidays. Maximum booking of six people. - Service Charge: A discretionary service charge of 14% will be added to the bill. - Cancellation Policy: Inform the restaurant of any changes or cancellations within 24 hours of your booking. Late cancellations will result in the voucher being deemed redeemed. - Dietary Requirements: Contact Oblix directly to ensure your dietary needs are met before purchasing a voucher. - Location: The Shard, 31 St. Thomas Street, London SE1 9RY. - Terms: Voucher cannot be cancelled, amended, exchanged, refunded, or used with any other offer. The Massage Company Ealing is offering massages for £39.95, saving you up to £35! Take your self-care to the next level with a visit to The Massage Company in Ealing. Whether you need to de-stress, recover from an injury, or simply relax, their highly-trained therapists are ready to provide a personalized experience. 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Late cancellations will result in the voucher being deemed redeemed. - Location: Unit 8, Ealing Broadway Centre, 1 Oak Road, London W5 5JY. - Terms: Voucher cannot be cancelled, amended, exchanged, refunded, or used with any other offer. Save Big on Flights and Hotels with Lastminute.com - Save up to £300: Take advantage of Lastminute.com’s January sale and enjoy incredible savings on flights and hotel bookings. - Wide Range of Destinations: Whether you’re dreaming of a beach escape or a city adventure, Lastminute.com offers a variety of destinations to choose from. - Flight and Hotel Bundles: Bundle your flight and hotel together to unlock even bigger discounts and get the best value for your money. - Flexible Payment Options: Book now and pay later with Lastminute.com’s flexible payment plans, making it easier to plan and budget for your trip. - Limited Time Offer: Hurry, this sale won’t last forever! Don’t miss out on the chance to save big on your next vacation. Visit Lastminute.com today and start planning your perfect getaway at unbeatable prices! £15 instead of £65: The Lightest Element can be seen at Hampstead Theatre. Set in 1956 Boston, The Lightest Element centers on Cecilia Payne-Gaposchkin, a pioneering astronomer poised to become the first woman to chair Harvard's Department of Astronomy. Her progress is jeopardized by a covert investigation accusing her of communist sympathies and the conservative attitudes of her male peers. A student journalist’s request to profile her offers a chance to control her narrative—if the offer is sincere. Stella Feehily’s drama explores the struggle to defy social and scientific norms. Highlights - Exclusive Preview Offer: From September 5 - 11, preview tickets are available for just £10. - Acclaimed Creative Team: Written by Stella Feehily and directed by Hampstead Theatre's Associate Director, Alice Hamilton. - Time-Limited Offer: Save £40 on tickets, available only until October 12. Need to Know - Ticket Validity: This voucher is valid for a ticket to The Lightest Element at Hampstead Theatre on the selected date/time. - Entry Requirements: Present your booking confirmation upon arrival at the box office. - Re-Entry Policy: Due to the layout of the theatre, re-entry is not permitted if you leave the auditorium during the performance. - Performance Duration: The play runs for approximately 1 hour and 35 minutes without an interval. - Seating: Seats are allocated by the box office. Multiple tickets purchased in the same transaction under the same name will be seated together. - Refunds and Exchanges: Tickets cannot be cancelled, amended, exchanged, refunded, or used in conjunction with any other offer. - Venue: Hampstead Theatre, Eton Avenue, Swiss Cottage, NW3 3EU, London For more exclusive offers on lifestyle visit WhatsOn Enjoy a two-course set lunch and drink at Oblix West for just £39. The Massage Company Ealing is offering massages for £39.95, saving you up to £35! Save Big on Flights and Hotels with Lastminute.com £15 instead of £65: The Lightest Element can be seen at Hampstead Theatre. Read the full article

[ukrfeminism]

1 minute read

Plans to enforce buffer zones around abortion clinics in England and Wales have been backed by MPs.

Under the proposed law, harassing, obstructing or interfering with any woman attending an abortion clinic would become a criminal offence.

Protesters found guilty of breaching 150-metre buffer zones around clinics would face up to six months in jail.

Labour MP Stella Creasy said buffer zones protect "women accessing a very specific type of health care".

Ms Creasy, who proposed the new rules, said: "It does not stop fee speech on abortion. It does not stop people protesting.

"It simply says you shouldn't have the right to do this in the face of somebody - and very often these people are right up in front of people."

The amendment to the Government's Public Order Bill, was approved by MPs by 297 votes to 110.

The bill still has several stages to clear before becoming law, including scrutiny in the House of Lords.

As it now stands the bill would ban influencing, impeding or threatening, intimidating or harassing, advising or persuading, using graphic, physical, verbal or written means to inform about attendees about abortion services.

Anti-abortion protests outside clinics in recent years have included displaying graphic images of foetuses, filming women and staff members, and large gatherings singing hymns.

Similar legislation has been proposed in Scotland.

Ms Creasy said: "Let's be honest, there's nobody praying outside the places you get a hip operation.

"There is nobody offering rosary beads or dead foetuses outside places you might go for an ankle injury.

"There is a time and a place to have that conversation, but it is not when you are dealing with vulnerable women."

Right To Life UK spokesperson Catherine Robinson said that if the amendment becomes law, as seems likely, "vital practical support provided by volunteers outside abortion clinics will be removed for women."

But the British Pregnancy Advisory Service (BPAS) said the amendment would protect women and healthcare workers from harassment.

BPAS chief executive Clare Murphy said: "Every year, around 100,000 women are treated by a clinic or hospital for an abortion that is targeted by anti-abortion protests.

"These groups attempt to deter or prevent women from accessing abortion care by displaying graphic images of foetuses, calling women 'murderers', and hanging baby clothing around clinic entrances, causing women significant distress. Today's vote will bring an end to this activity."

Ealing council established the country's first buffer zone around a Marie Stopes clinic in 2018.

Since then other councils have proposed similar schemes.

[peachscribe]

peach’s summer book list

i had a lot of fun compiling the list of books i read during the 20-21 winter, so i decided i would do a summer one as well! i still have a lot of books i own but haven’t read, so im definitely not lacking in material

if you didn’t see my winter list, how my book list works is basically like this: i read a book that i own but have not previously read, write a short summary immediately after finishing the book, write down my thoughts on the book, and then provide a rating for the book. i also might include background info on why i read this particular book/feelings about the author, but that depends on the book. that’s how each entry works

without further ado, let’s get started!

1. Grasshopper Jungle by Andrew Smith

okay so i absolutely adore another book by andrew smith (written after grasshopper jungle) called the alex crow. it’s one of my favorite books of all time, so naturally i wanted to see if grasshopper jungle would make me feel similarly. just like the alex crow, grasshopper jungle’s plot is. so fucking weird. it stars austin szerba, a teenage polish kid who lives in ealing, iowa, and is often sexually confused regarding his girlfriend shann and his best friend robby. and in ealing, iowa, austin and robby accidentally and unknowingly unleash an unstoppable army of huge six-foot-tall praying mantis bugs that only want to do two things: fuck and eat. and i just have to say: andrew smith’s got an absolutely dynamo writing style. alex crow is similar, where it’s a book about kind of everything all at once, framed in a moment centering around teenage boys. it’s fantastic, and it’s more than a little gross, and i love it. this book made me feel so many things, and i thought austin was such an amazing narrator and main character to identify with. this book has it all: shitty teenage boy humor, fucked up science experiments, and poetic imagery that will make you want to cry. and explicit lgbt characters.

412/10 andrew smith what do you put in your water i just want to know

2. Burn by Patrick Ness

patrick ness has written a plethora of some of my favorite books (such as a monster calls, the chaos walking trilogy, and the rest of us just live here) so when i saw this one in the store i knew it would be a great one. burn is an alternate history fantasy that takes place in 1957 frome, washington, during the height of the cold war, and it begins with a girl named sarah and her father hiring a dragon to help out on their farm. but there’s not just dragons, farm living, and cold war tensions; there’s also a really shitty small town cop, a cult of dragon worshippers and their deadly teenage assassin, a pair of fbi agents, and a prophecy that sarah’s newly hired dragon claims she’s a part of. i think eoin colfer’s highfire was on my winter list, which also featured a story that included dragons and shitty cops, so when i first began burn i thought it was funny to have two books that had both things. you know, if you had a nickel etc etc. but that’s really where the similarities end because burn is entirely it’s own monster (dragon). burn is entirely invested in its world, and its fascinating. not only that, i had no clue where the book would take me next. there were so many surprises and amazing twists that honestly just blew me away. this book also includes beautifully written complicated discussions on family, race, and love - it features interracial and queer romances as the two most prominent romance plots which was such a nice surprise from a book i wasn’t expecting to have that kind of representation. this book is witty, fast-paced, and a very heartening read - i absolutely adored it.

9/10 dragons and becoming motivated by the power of love and friendship are so fucking cool

3. As Meat Loves Salt by Maria McCann

i hate this book! as meat loves salt is a historical fiction novel which takes place in seventeenth century england, which is going through a grisly civil war. the protagonist, jacob cullen, is a servant for a wealthy household and is engaged to another servant in the house. but due to certain events that are almost entirely jacob’s fault, he flees the house and is separated from his wife. from there, he joins the royal army and meets a kind soldier, ferris, and the two become fast friends. jacob and ferris’s relationship begins to bridge past friendly, and jacob struggles with his homoerotic feelings as well as the growing obsession and violence inside him. also, they try to start a colony. listen, i don’t know how to describe the book because so much happens, but it basically just follows jacob and all the terrible decisions he makes because he is, truly, a terrible person. ferris is kind and good, and jacob is scum of the earth. he sucks so bad. the entire time i was reading this book (which took absolutely so long), all i wanted was for jacob to just get his ass handed to him. i wanted to see him suffer. and it’s not like i just personally don’t like him - i believe the book purposefully depicts him as unsympathetic even though he is the narrator. i did enjoy the very in depth and accurate portrayal of what life would’ve been like in seventeenth century england, and i think it was interesting to read a character that is just the absolute worst person you’ve ever encountered and see him try and justify his actions, so if you enjoy that kind of thorough writing, then this book would be perfect for you. however, i did not see that bitch ass motherfucker jacob cullen suffer enough. i’d kill him with my bare hands.

2/10 diversity win! the worst man on earth is mlm!

4. This Savage Song by Victoria Schwab

i know ive had a friend tell me how great one of schwab’s other book series is, but truthfully i bought this book because the cover is sick as hell and it was on a table in the store that advertised for buy two get one free, i think. something like that. anyway, this savage song takes place in a future in which monsters, for whatever reason, suddenly became real and out for blood in a mysterious event nicknamed the phenomenon. august flynn is one of these monsters, but he takes no pride in that fact and only wants to feel human. kate harker is the daughter of a ruthless man and is trying her hardest to be ruthless, too, but deep down she knows it’s just an act. their city, verity, stands divided, and kate and august stand on either side - but when august is sent on a mission to befriend kate in the hopes of stopping an all out war, the lines begin to blur. this book rules. august and kate are such interesting and dynamic characters, and the narrative is familiar while still being capable of twisting the story around and taking the feet out from under you in really compelling ways. this savage song is part of the monsters of verity duology, and i can’t wait to dive into how the story continues and finishes.

11/10 sometimes you can judge a book by it’s cover

4a. Our Dark Duet by Victorian Schwab

this is the sequel and finale for this savage song and i’d figure i’d update everyone: fantastic ending, beautiful, showstopping, painful.

12/10 loved it and will definitely be keeping an eye out for schwab’s other books

5. White is for Witching by Helen Oyeyemi

oh boy. okay. white is for witching is about a house, and it is about the women who have lived inside of it. when her mother dies abroad, miranda silver begins to act strangely, and there’s nothing her father or her twin brother seem to be able to do about it. she develops an eating disorder and begins to hear voices in the silver family house, converted to a bed and breakfast by miranda’s dad; and she begins to lose herself in the house and the persistent presence of her family legacy. white is for witching switches perspective dizzingly and disorientingly between miranda, her twin eliot, miranda’s friend from school named ore, and the house itself. this story is a horror story as much as it as a tragedy as much as it is a romance as much as it is a bunch of other things. oyeyemi brings race, sexuality, nationality, and family into this story and forces you not to look away. this book is poetry.

(like i mentioned briefly, this book heavily deals with topics of race and closely follows miranda’s eating disorder. read responsibly, and take care of yourselves)

15/10 this book consumed me and i think i’ll have to read it another 10 more times to feel it properly

6. These Violent Delights by Chloe Gong

okay. okay. strap in for a ride. these violent delights is a romeo and juliet style story, taking place in glittering 1920’s shanghai. the city stands divided - not only between the foreign powers encroaching on chinese land, but also between the scarlet gang and the white flowers, who are at the height of a generations-long blood feud. juliette cai, heir to the scarlets, has recently returned from four years abroad and is determined to prove herself ruthless enough to lead. roma montagov, heir to the white flowers, is standing strenuously on his place as next in line due to a slip up four years prior and is desperate to keep hold of his title. and in the midst of juliette and roma’s burning history with each other threatening to combust, an unnatural monster lurks in the waters of shanghai, loosing a madness on scarlets and white flowers alike. this book has it all - scorned ex lovers, political intrigue, deadly monsters, and all set on a glamorous backdrop of the roaring twenties. i absolutely was enraptured by this book and the way it plays around the story of romeo and juliet so well that it easily became it’s own monster, but with the punches and embraces of something classically shakespearan. gong does just an absolutely breathtaking job of fitting this fantastical story amid the larger world of shanghai and the real life historical events that had shaken the city to its core. completely immersive and outstandingly heart racing.

17/10 i was chewing on my fingernails for the last thirty pages and will continue to do so until the sequel is released (our violent ends, 16 nov 21)

7. The Antiques by Kris D’Agostino

you ever heard of the american dysfunctional family story? this is most definitely that. at the same time george westfall’s cancer takes a turn for the worse, a hurricane hits the east coast, and suddenly all at once the issues of his health, the hurricane, and all three of his children’s achingly dysfunctional adult lives are crashing into each other. reunited by george’s death, the westfall siblings have to face their grief, each other, and the problems in their own lives they attempted to put on hold while planning their father’s memorial. this is a nice story about grief and loss and love and somehow finding the humor amidst it all.

(this book does include a depiction of an autistic child who does experience several pretty bad meltdowns due to ignorant people around him not understanding how to cater to his needs. im not an authority on what depictions are or are not harmful, but i do believe this depiction is ultimately loving and well-intended.)

7/10 it made me laugh and cry and was generally one of those books that somehow hit you close to home

8. Fierce Fairytales by Nikita Gill

fierce fairytales is a poetry anthology that reimagines classic fairytales from a modern, feminist viewpoint, acknowledging that the line between hero and villain, monster and damsel, are not as clear cut as the classics try to make you believe. this book also includes illustrations done by the author herself, which i think is really cool. my personal favorite story reimagining was the story of peter pan and captain hook, called ‘boy lost’ which looked at how peter and hook’s relationship began and rotted. all in all, i think this collection of stories had a lot of important things to say and said them in frank, easy to understand poetry and prose.

7/10 beautiful message and pretty prose, but at times a little cliche

and that’s all from the summer! my fall semester starts tomorrow, and overall i feel very good about all the reading i did this summer. i even read four other books not on this list for work! so i definitely feel like i made the most out of my time, and im really glad i was able to read so many stories that made me feel a variety of different things

thanks so much for reading this list, and let me know if you read or have read any of these books and tell me what you think of them!

happy reading<3

[publicdomainbooks]

XVII. THE “THUNDER CHILD”.

Had the Martians aimed only at destruction, they might on Monday have annihilated the entire population of London, as it spread itself slowly through the home counties. Not only along the road through Barnet, but also through Edgware and Waltham Abbey, and along the roads eastward to Southend and Shoeburyness, and south of the Thames to Deal and Broadstairs, poured the same frantic rout. If one could have hung that June morning in a balloon in the blazing blue above London every northward and eastward road running out of the tangled maze of streets would have seemed stippled black with the streaming fugitives, each dot a human agony of terror and physical distress. I have set forth at length in the last chapter my brother’s account of the road through Chipping Barnet, in order that my readers may realise how that swarming of black dots appeared to one of those concerned. Never before in the history of the world had such a mass of human beings moved and suffered together. The legendary hosts of Goths and Huns, the hugest armies Asia has ever seen, would have been but a drop in that current. And this was no disciplined march; it was a stampede—a stampede gigantic and terrible—without order and without a goal, six million people unarmed and unprovisioned, driving headlong. It was the beginning of the rout of civilisation, of the massacre of mankind.

Directly below him the balloonist would have seen the network of streets far and wide, houses, churches, squares, crescents, gardens—already derelict—spread out like a huge map, and in the southward blotted. Over Ealing, Richmond, Wimbledon, it would have seemed as if some monstrous pen had flung ink upon the chart. Steadily, incessantly, each black splash grew and spread, shooting out ramifications this way and that, now banking itself against rising ground, now pouring swiftly over a crest into a new-found valley, exactly as a gout of ink would spread itself upon blotting paper.

And beyond, over the blue hills that rise southward of the river, the glittering Martians went to and fro, calmly and methodically spreading their poison cloud over this patch of country and then over that, laying it again with their steam jets when it had served its purpose, and taking possession of the conquered country. They do not seem to have aimed at extermination so much as at complete demoralisation and the destruction of any opposition. They exploded any stores of powder they came upon, cut every telegraph, and wrecked the railways here and there. They were hamstringing mankind. They seemed in no hurry to extend the field of their operations, and did not come beyond the central part of London all that day. It is possible that a very considerable number of people in London stuck to their houses through Monday morning. Certain it is that many died at home suffocated by the Black Smoke.

Until about midday the Pool of London was an astonishing scene. Steamboats and shipping of all sorts lay there, tempted by the enormous sums of money offered by fugitives, and it is said that many who swam out to these vessels were thrust off with boathooks and drowned. About one o’clock in the afternoon the thinning remnant of a cloud of the black vapour appeared between the arches of Blackfriars Bridge. At that the Pool became a scene of mad confusion, fighting, and collision, and for some time a multitude of boats and barges jammed in the northern arch of the Tower Bridge, and the sailors and lightermen had to fight savagely against the people who swarmed upon them from the riverfront. People were actually clambering down the piers of the bridge from above.

When, an hour later, a Martian appeared beyond the Clock Tower and waded down the river, nothing but wreckage floated above Limehouse.

Of the falling of the fifth cylinder I have presently to tell. The sixth star fell at Wimbledon. My brother, keeping watch beside the women in the chaise in a meadow, saw the green flash of it far beyond the hills. On Tuesday the little party, still set upon getting across the sea, made its way through the swarming country towards Colchester. The news that the Martians were now in possession of the whole of London was confirmed. They had been seen at Highgate, and even, it was said, at Neasden. But they did not come into my brother’s view until the morrow.

That day the scattered multitudes began to realise the urgent need of provisions. As they grew hungry the rights of property ceased to be regarded. Farmers were out to defend their cattle-sheds, granaries, and ripening root crops with arms in their hands. A number of people now, like my brother, had their faces eastward, and there were some desperate souls even going back towards London to get food. These were chiefly people from the northern suburbs, whose knowledge of the Black Smoke came by hearsay. He heard that about half the members of the government had gathered at Birmingham, and that enormous quantities of high explosives were being prepared to be used in automatic mines across the Midland counties.

He was also told that the Midland Railway Company had replaced the desertions of the first day’s panic, had resumed traffic, and was running northward trains from St. Albans to relieve the congestion of the home counties. There was also a placard in Chipping Ongar announcing that large stores of flour were available in the northern towns and that within twenty-four hours bread would be distributed among the starving people in the neighbourhood. But this intelligence did not deter him from the plan of escape he had formed, and the three pressed eastward all day, and heard no more of the bread distribution than this promise. Nor, as a matter of fact, did anyone else hear more of it. That night fell the seventh star, falling upon Primrose Hill. It fell while Miss Elphinstone was watching, for she took that duty alternately with my brother. She saw it.

On Wednesday the three fugitives—they had passed the night in a field of unripe wheat—reached Chelmsford, and there a body of the inhabitants, calling itself the Committee of Public Supply, seized the pony as provisions, and would give nothing in exchange for it but the promise of a share in it the next day. Here there were rumours of Martians at Epping, and news of the destruction of Waltham Abbey Powder Mills in a vain attempt to blow up one of the invaders.

People were watching for Martians here from the church towers. My brother, very luckily for him as it chanced, preferred to push on at once to the coast rather than wait for food, although all three of them were very hungry. By midday they passed through Tillingham, which, strangely enough, seemed to be quite silent and deserted, save for a few furtive plunderers hunting for food. Near Tillingham they suddenly came in sight of the sea, and the most amazing crowd of shipping of all sorts that it is possible to imagine.

For after the sailors could no longer come up the Thames, they came on to the Essex coast, to Harwich and Walton and Clacton, and afterwards to Foulness and Shoebury, to bring off the people. They lay in a huge sickle-shaped curve that vanished into mist at last towards the Naze. Close inshore was a multitude of fishing smacks—English, Scotch, French, Dutch, and Swedish; steam launches from the Thames, yachts, electric boats; and beyond were ships of larger burden, a multitude of filthy colliers, trim merchantmen, cattle ships, passenger boats, petroleum tanks, ocean tramps, an old white transport even, neat white and grey liners from Southampton and Hamburg; and along the blue coast across the Blackwater my brother could make out dimly a dense swarm of boats chaffering with the people on the beach, a swarm which also extended up the Blackwater almost to Maldon.

About a couple of miles out lay an ironclad, very low in the water, almost, to my brother’s perception, like a water-logged ship. This was the ram Thunder Child. It was the only warship in sight, but far away to the right over the smooth surface of the sea—for that day there was a dead calm—lay a serpent of black smoke to mark the next ironclads of the Channel Fleet, which hovered in an extended line, steam up and ready for action, across the Thames estuary during the course of the Martian conquest, vigilant and yet powerless to prevent it.

At the sight of the sea, Mrs. Elphinstone, in spite of the assurances of her sister-in-law, gave way to panic. She had never been out of England before, she would rather die than trust herself friendless in a foreign country, and so forth. She seemed, poor woman, to imagine that the French and the Martians might prove very similar. She had been growing increasingly hysterical, fearful, and depressed during the two days’ journeyings. Her great idea was to return to Stanmore. Things had been always well and safe at Stanmore. They would find George at Stanmore....

It was with the greatest difficulty they could get her down to the beach, where presently my brother succeeded in attracting the attention of some men on a paddle steamer from the Thames. They sent a boat and drove a bargain for thirty-six pounds for the three. The steamer was going, these men said, to Ostend.

It was about two o’clock when my brother, having paid their fares at the gangway, found himself safely aboard the steamboat with his charges. There was food aboard, albeit at exorbitant prices, and the three of them contrived to eat a meal on one of the seats forward.

There were already a couple of score of passengers aboard, some of whom had expended their last money in securing a passage, but the captain lay off the Blackwater until five in the afternoon, picking up passengers until the seated decks were even dangerously crowded. He would probably have remained longer had it not been for the sound of guns that began about that hour in the south. As if in answer, the ironclad seaward fired a small gun and hoisted a string of flags. A jet of smoke sprang out of her funnels.

Some of the passengers were of opinion that this firing came from Shoeburyness, until it was noticed that it was growing louder. At the same time, far away in the southeast the masts and upperworks of three ironclads rose one after the other out of the sea, beneath clouds of black smoke. But my brother’s attention speedily reverted to the distant firing in the south. He fancied he saw a column of smoke rising out of the distant grey haze.

The little steamer was already flapping her way eastward of the big crescent of shipping, and the low Essex coast was growing blue and hazy, when a Martian appeared, small and faint in the remote distance, advancing along the muddy coast from the direction of Foulness. At that the captain on the bridge swore at the top of his voice with fear and anger at his own delay, and the paddles seemed infected with his terror. Every soul aboard stood at the bulwarks or on the seats of the steamer and stared at that distant shape, higher than the trees or church towers inland, and advancing with a leisurely parody of a human stride.

It was the first Martian my brother had seen, and he stood, more amazed than terrified, watching this Titan advancing deliberately towards the shipping, wading farther and farther into the water as the coast fell away. Then, far away beyond the Crouch, came another, striding over some stunted trees, and then yet another, still farther off, wading deeply through a shiny mudflat that seemed to hang halfway up between sea and sky. They were all stalking seaward, as if to intercept the escape of the multitudinous vessels that were crowded between Foulness and the Naze. In spite of the throbbing exertions of the engines of the little paddle-boat, and the pouring foam that her wheels flung behind her, she receded with terrifying slowness from this ominous advance.

Glancing northwestward, my brother saw the large crescent of shipping already writhing with the approaching terror; one ship passing behind another, another coming round from broadside to end on, steamships whistling and giving off volumes of steam, sails being let out, launches rushing hither and thither. He was so fascinated by this and by the creeping danger away to the left that he had no eyes for anything seaward. And then a swift movement of the steamboat (she had suddenly come round to avoid being run down) flung him headlong from the seat upon which he was standing. There was a shouting all about him, a trampling of feet, and a cheer that seemed to be answered faintly. The steamboat lurched and rolled him over upon his hands.

He sprang to his feet and saw to starboard, and not a hundred yards from their heeling, pitching boat, a vast iron bulk like the blade of a plough tearing through the water, tossing it on either side in huge waves of foam that leaped towards the steamer, flinging her paddles helplessly in the air, and then sucking her deck down almost to the waterline.

A douche of spray blinded my brother for a moment. When his eyes were clear again he saw the monster had passed and was rushing landward. Big iron upperworks rose out of this headlong structure, and from that twin funnels projected and spat a smoking blast shot with fire. It was the torpedo ram, Thunder Child, steaming headlong, coming to the rescue of the threatened shipping.

Keeping his footing on the heaving deck by clutching the bulwarks, my brother looked past this charging leviathan at the Martians again, and he saw the three of them now close together, and standing so far out to sea that their tripod supports were almost entirely submerged. Thus sunken, and seen in remote perspective, they appeared far less formidable than the huge iron bulk in whose wake the steamer was pitching so helplessly. It would seem they were regarding this new antagonist with astonishment. To their intelligence, it may be, the giant was even such another as themselves. The Thunder Child fired no gun, but simply drove full speed towards them. It was probably her not firing that enabled her to get so near the enemy as she did. They did not know what to make of her. One shell, and they would have sent her to the bottom forthwith with the Heat-Ray.

She was steaming at such a pace that in a minute she seemed halfway between the steamboat and the Martians—a diminishing black bulk against the receding horizontal expanse of the Essex coast.

Suddenly the foremost Martian lowered his tube and discharged a canister of the black gas at the ironclad. It hit her larboard side and glanced off in an inky jet that rolled away to seaward, an unfolding torrent of Black Smoke, from which the ironclad drove clear. To the watchers from the steamer, low in the water and with the sun in their eyes, it seemed as though she were already among the Martians.

They saw the gaunt figures separating and rising out of the water as they retreated shoreward, and one of them raised the camera-like generator of the Heat-Ray. He held it pointing obliquely downward, and a bank of steam sprang from the water at its touch. It must have driven through the iron of the ship’s side like a white-hot iron rod through paper.

A flicker of flame went up through the rising steam, and then the Martian reeled and staggered. In another moment he was cut down, and a great body of water and steam shot high in the air. The guns of the Thunder Child sounded through the reek, going off one after the other, and one shot splashed the water high close by the steamer, ricocheted towards the other flying ships to the north, and smashed a smack to matchwood.

But no one heeded that very much. At the sight of the Martian’s collapse the captain on the bridge yelled inarticulately, and all the crowding passengers on the steamer’s stern shouted together. And then they yelled again. For, surging out beyond the white tumult, drove something long and black, the flames streaming from its middle parts, its ventilators and funnels spouting fire.

She was alive still; the steering gear, it seems, was intact and her engines working. She headed straight for a second Martian, and was within a hundred yards of him when the Heat-Ray came to bear. Then with a violent thud, a blinding flash, her decks, her funnels, leaped upward. The Martian staggered with the violence of her explosion, and in another moment the flaming wreckage, still driving forward with the impetus of its pace, had struck him and crumpled him up like a thing of cardboard. My brother shouted involuntarily. A boiling tumult of steam hid everything again.

“Two!” yelled the captain.

Everyone was shouting. The whole steamer from end to end rang with frantic cheering that was taken up first by one and then by all in the crowding multitude of ships and boats that was driving out to sea.

The steam hung upon the water for many minutes, hiding the third Martian and the coast altogether. And all this time the boat was paddling steadily out to sea and away from the fight; and when at last the confusion cleared, the drifting bank of black vapour intervened, and nothing of the Thunder Child could be made out, nor could the third Martian be seen. But the ironclads to seaward were now quite close and standing in towards shore past the steamboat.

The little vessel continued to beat its way seaward, and the ironclads receded slowly towards the coast, which was hidden still by a marbled bank of vapour, part steam, part black gas, eddying and combining in the strangest way. The fleet of refugees was scattering to the northeast; several smacks were sailing between the ironclads and the steamboat. After a time, and before they reached the sinking cloud bank, the warships turned northward, and then abruptly went about and passed into the thickening haze of evening southward. The coast grew faint, and at last indistinguishable amid the low banks of clouds that were gathering about the sinking sun.

Then suddenly out of the golden haze of the sunset came the vibration of guns, and a form of black shadows moving. Everyone struggled to the rail of the steamer and peered into the blinding furnace of the west, but nothing was to be distinguished clearly. A mass of smoke rose slanting and barred the face of the sun. The steamboat throbbed on its way through an interminable suspense.

The sun sank into grey clouds, the sky flushed and darkened, the evening star trembled into sight. It was deep twilight when the captain cried out and pointed. My brother strained his eyes. Something rushed up into the sky out of the greyness—rushed slantingly upward and very swiftly into the luminous clearness above the clouds in the western sky; something flat and broad, and very large, that swept round in a vast curve, grew smaller, sank slowly, and vanished again into the grey mystery of the night. And as it flew it rained down darkness upon the land.

[cathkaesque]

British politics in 2020 is a mass of contradictions. The outright legislative terror of the early to mid-2010s has momentarily abated but the landmines planted in that period continue to go off (Grenfell, ‘Windrush’, COVID-19 ‘unpreparedness’). Measures designed to align the working class with capital (right-to-buy) produce renters unions and anti-landlordism. Stalinists lead the rearguard action against civic equality for trans women. A government of ultra-Thatcherites sets about hiking the minimum wage. ‘Momentum’ is a synonym for inertia, austerity is over and only just beginning, the ‘spirit of the blitz’ is the reality of immigration enforcement, and we all live under permanent lock-down but everyone’s at work.

In the middle of all of this, AngryWorkers, ‘a small political collective’ based in West London, have published Class Power On Zero-Hours, an account of their six years of organising in the warehouse and logistics corridor of Greenford and Park Royal. The period that the work deals with coincides roughly with the phase of British history dominated by ‘Brexit’, and Class Power deals with some of the ways in which that (non-)event has been experienced beyond the Twitter Janus Face of gammon nationalists and aggrieved liberal solicitors. It encompasses, also, three major workers’ inquiries, an account of the role of food supply chains in the context of global struggles, a new perspective on the relationship of work and automation, a sketch for revolutionary politics today, and an uplifting middle-finger to boring left-wing scholasticism of all shades and varieties. Along with D. Hunter’s Chav Solidarity and Phil A. Neel’s Hinterland, it’s probably the best book about class to come out of the tiny circles of English-speaking anarchists and communists in the last ten years, and everyone who cares about that stuff even a little bit should definitely read it.

The book’s first paragraph gives a flavour of things to come:

We felt an urgent need to break out of the cosmopolitan bubble and root our politics in working class jobs and lives. We wanted to pay more than just lip service to the classic slogan, ‘the emancipation of the working classes must be conquered by the working classes themselves’. Over the next six years, comrades joined us and we worked in a dozen different warehouses and factories. We organised slowdowns on shop floors, rocked up on bosses’ and landlords doors with our solidarity network, and banged our heads against brick walls as shop stewards in the bigger unions. We wrote up our successes, as well as the dead-ends, in our publications, WorkersWildWest, which we gave out to 2,000 local workers at warehouse gates at dawn. We tried to rebuild class power and create a small cell of revolutionary organisation. The book documents our experiences. It is material for getting rooted. It is a call for an independent working class organisation. (7)

These are the methods; what about the conclusions? What do the General Rules of the International Workingmen’s Association of 1864 mean to the working people of Ealing in 2014? How does a working class that is increasingly Eastern European experience UK politics in a period in which the main focus of the ‘national conversation’ is about how to stop them from ‘coming over here’? AngryWorkers acknowledge that ‘the years from 2014 to 2020 in London were a thorny desert’ (35) in terms of workplace struggles. Workers ‘are in a state of permanent suspension: what will happen with Brexit? Will my wife and family get a visa? Will the bank grant me a mortgage if my wife gets her overtime? Will the situation “back home” get better?’ (38) Unsurprisingly, ‘times are getting harder’ for the working classes even as the mood darkens back in the cosmopolitan bubble. There, it’s climate change and ‘global fascism’; here, it’s sciatica and the £4,000 charge to get your baby delivered in the NHS hospital (99). The prospects for ‘Revolutionary transition and its conditions in the UK’ (the title of Chapter 14 of the book) don’t look rosy from either perspective; but AngryWorkers at least have some ideas about how the obstacles might be cleared away.

For this reason, Class Power on Zero-Hours isn’t a defeatist book. The authors love their area. They’ve spent years getting to know it. They want it to be at the centre of a working class movement. The desire is at the root of their impatience with parliamentary reformism, but it’s also what compels them to overcome their revolutionary scruples and to try things that they normally wouldn’t, such as joining big conservative trade unions and throwing themselves into the miasma of their internal politics. The text gives a meticulous overview of what the neighbourhood offers: control over 60 percent of London’s food imports, hundreds of unorganised small and large businesses operating on a low-wage model, and widespread disgust for official workers’ organisations that have sunk into the status quo like an old trolley into a canal. Right to the finish AW remain convinced that Greenford and Park Royal have the potential to exist at the centre of a new culture of class initiative and autonomy, and the dozens of pictures in Class Power on Zero-Hours of pay protests by women workers, occupations of Labour Party offices, IWW organising drives, and scores of workplace newsletters are a beautiful, moving anticipation of how things could be.

Organised around this six-year history are a series of more general claims, dealing with ‘the political’ (prospects for ‘democratic socialism’) and ‘the economic’ (unevenness of automation under capital), and trying to bridge the gaps in-between. If we take the book’s absolute ground level conviction to be that ‘the working class has become invisible’, (30) and has been subordinated to the concerns of an educated inner-city ‘left’ (an argument AngryWorkers share with the other two books I mentioned above), then its other main arguments can be arranged in something like the following sequence:

1) ‘the left’ has responded to the transformation in its class base, not by altering its practices, but instead by changing its theories;

2) the most common theoretical claim on the left is that we have moved from an ‘industrial’ to a ‘service’ economy. The second most common is that ‘unskilled’ and ‘semi-skilled’ manual jobs are being progressively automated away. Both of these claims are untrue (they are psychological projections);

3) a political theory that accepts both claims is likely to conceive of power in terms of trade unions and the state. It will be broadly oblivious to the ways in which both serve to oppress workers and stifle their initiative (this is what ‘democratic socialism’ is);

4) the recent emergence of complex global supply chains servicing the ‘consumer economy’ has required the concentration of large groups of industrial workers in massive central logistics hubs;

5) the workers in and around these extra- and peri-urban hubs are organisationally weak, but have significant ‘structural’ power;

6) a left that wields economic power in the form of independent working class control over productive resources is still the main prerequisite for a revolutionary change in the way we live.

This looks like an excellent read - the kind of class struggle politics the British left has lacked for some time!

[cynicalrainbows]

Six Fic Prompt Chpt 3

I feel like canonically, Cleves would be the nicest and most emotionally healthy of the queens because unlike the others, she had time and space to work through her trauma. The others... I sort of feel they’d be just about keeping things together.

Also thank you for the lovely, lovely messages about this fic! It’s so nice to hear that people are enjoying it!

She does enjoy the trout (although she also notices that Cleves, for once, does not finish her own food) but it’s still hard to sleep later that night, and so she’s still awake when there’s a knock.

‘Yes?’

‘I saw your light on…’ Anna pushes the door open but hovers on the threshold. ‘Can I come in?’

Jane nods, even though is all new territory, uncertain territory. They live together but socialising still mostly takes place in the communal kitchen, the shared living room- they’re all slightly wary of one another, the ghosts of old scars and old resentments lingering and unacknowledged. 

She hasn’t sought out any of the queens in their own rooms yet, other than to call them for dinner, (it feels too intimate) and they haven’t really come to hers either.

 For the most part.

 The exception is Kitty, who has several times turned up at her door after everyone has gone to bed to ask if she’s left something or other in Jane’s room since she can’t find it anywhere.

If the voice of the youngest queen is a trifle shaky when she makes her request, Jane does not bring it up, and she doesn’t question Kitty’s need for her hair straighteners, her body glitter, her running shoes, at gone 11pm either, nor mention that since Kitty only ever comes to her room to look for things, it’s unlikely she’ll find anything of her own there.

 She does however make sure to offer to help Kitty search her own room again ‘in case she’s missed it’. 

(Walking down the landing with the girl trailing at her side, she sometimes has to fight a bit against the urge to do more- to take her hand, to wrap an arm around her thin shoulders. She never does, of course.)

Once they’ve both given up- which never takes long, she’s taken to waiting until Kitty is safely under the covers before she leaves. 

That she always leaves the door ajar, the landing light turned on, is coincidence and no one can prove otherwise.

(She sometimes wonders if they’ll ever get to the point where she’ll be able to offer the girl a hug, if Kitty will ever feel confident to come to her for comfort without the need for fabrication: will she ever be bold enough just to ask if Kitty is alright, rather than enquiring about whether she thought to check under her bed?)

(She hopes they will. One day)

Other than Kitty’s visits though, her room has been pretty much sacrosanct. She’s privately curious about the rooms of the other queens (god knows what Boleyn has done to hers) and she can see Anna eyeing her things, her clothes, the cushions on the chair, the framed pictures on the walls, with interest. Clearly, the feeling is shared.

‘It’s nice-’ She moves closer to the nearest frame, squinting at the birds of paradise fanning their tails in intricate patterns. ‘This is lovely’

‘Thank you- it took me such a long time.’

‘You...made this?’

‘Yes’

‘You sewed this?’

Anna’s wide eyed approbation is a little embarrassing.

‘I like embroidery. Always-’ she flushes slightly: referring to her past life sometimes feels almost shameful, like she’s showing off how easy things were for her by making reference to the fact that she spent her time as queen pursuing quiet hobbies and accepting congratulations on her pregnancy, rather than in frantic prayer or enforced seclusion.

 (She wonders if it’s divine justice that the tables are being turned on her now, if her struggles are something she has inadvertently stored up for herself via an unwitting life of leisure.)

‘They said you were good but never-’ Anna tips her head. ‘That you were… you know. That good.’

Jane smiles. ‘That’s kind of you. I’m so glad it’s something I can still do here.’

‘Yeah. Harder to go hawking in Ealing. Unfortunately.’ Anna grins ruefully. ‘I like that we all got to come back with our same tastes and skills and stuff though. Even if it’s sometimes a bit inconvenient.’ She pauses. ‘I always liked riding, myself- especially at court. Felt such a relief it was something I could do that didn’t require language.’

She’s wondered to herself sometimes if it was difficult for Cleves, coming all the way from Germany, mostly alone, in much the same way that she’s wondered how Aragon coped without Mary or if Cathy was afraid to marry a man who’d already killed two of his wives…. but she’s never thought of actually asking any of them. It feels far too personal, too intimate.

Anna though doesn’t appear to be remotely self conscious as she talks: ‘I couldn’t speak more than a few words of English when I arrived, you know. I felt like such an idiot half the time. Most of the time. I could never tell what people were saying, what they wanted; I felt like everyone was irritated with me because they had to keep repeating themselves and rewording things so I could understand. I mean obviously they couldn’t say much- not that I’d have understood if they did!- but you know how it is.’

She does- she might not be the most literate of women but she’s fluent in the wordless, secret language of resentment, of irritation.

‘It sounds like things were very hard for you.’

‘Yeah, it was a fun few months..’ Anna pulls a face. ‘It was mostly just exhausting.’

She nods- she knows how that feels. (She’s tired all the time now, and she knows it’s nothing to do with the show.)

‘Also-’ Anna looks thoughtful for a moment. ‘I think I made it a bit worse….just by being very hard on myself.’

‘What do you mean?’ She’d expected Anna to say it was because she’d been lazy- because she hadn’t tried hard enough to learn English as a child, because she hadn’t tried hard enough to learn on her own while at court.

(If only she’d tried harder at her lessons. If only she hadn’t be so stupidly, idiotically happy when she was allowed to stop practising her writing. If only she wasn’t so stupid now that no matter how much she tried to practise in private, her progress was stuck at zero. If only, if only, if only-)

‘Because on top of having to deal with other people being annoyed with me, I kept blaming myself. Rather than just accepting that they were being dicks and that it’s really hard to learn a whole new language from scratch, I kept thinking that there must be something wrong with me for not picking everything up more quickly.’

Cleves is looking at her intently. ‘I wish I could go back and tell my old self that I was doing the best I could. Also I wasn’t really honest, even with my German ladies, about how hard I was finding it all. I’d like to go back and tell myself that they would have been on my side.’

‘It-’ Her throat is thick. ‘It would have been hard to do though. To admit to being stupid-’ Suddenly she realises what she’s said- that it’s Cleves they’re talking about, not her- and claps a hand over her mouth guiltily. ‘Oh- goodness- I’m sorry! I didn’t mean-’

(Now Cleves will hate her for sure, and she’ll have ruined everything, all beause she’s stupid, she’s stupid, she-)

‘It’s ok.’ Cleves smile is very gentle; she doesn’t look upset in the least. ‘I mean, it’s what I thought too at the time. It wasn’t true though, obviously. Hardly my fault if no one had bothered to teach me English.’ She looks at Jane, waiting for her response. ‘Right?’

‘I- I suppose.’

‘It sucks that we don’t always know exactly what we need to know before we need it….but it’s how things are. I got through it.’

‘How?’

‘Practise, mostly. I eventually had to swallow my pride and ask one of my laides to actually properly teach me too- you can pick up a lot through just being around a language but sometimes you need actual help as well. And I stopped caring so much about what people thought- or at least I tried to. I kept reminding myself they could wait a minute for me to finish what I was trying to say, it wouldn’t kill them-’

‘And….it helped?’

‘Well sometimes. It was definitely healthier than me telling myself I was a total idiot every time I had to ask someone to speak more slowly. I mean, I also fantasized about setting my dogs on them if they kept rolling their eyes and huffing at me… but mostly the first thing. Definitely.’ Anna’s expression is so funny Jane can’t help but laugh and Anna laughs with her.

‘Most importantly, I just tried to be more patient with myself. It’s a lesson I’m trying to teach Kitty, actually. She’s hard on herself. We all are, really.’

Jane nods.  She’s seen how Kitty looks whenever she makes a mistake in rehearsal- as if she wants to punish herself, and she’s seen Aragon pushing herself past the point of exhaustion so that the same thing never happens to her. 

She’s seen Parr’s light on well past midnight as the girl denies herself food and sleep in favour of work, she’s seen Anne forcing herself to remain perfectly still as the makeup artist brushes her scar by mistake and then quietly excuse herself, her face white and drawn. She’s even seen Anna suppress a flinch when they passed a child whinney-ing like a horse  as they played in the street.

 (She wonders what they see in her?)

‘She’s a sweet girl. She...deserved better.’ Making a reference to something so raw feels almost indecent, but Anna doesn’t look shocked.

‘I think we all did.’

When Jane swallows a yawn, they both reflexively glance at the clock and Anna gives a little start. ‘Oh my god, I’m sorry, I only meant to come in for a moment-’

‘No, it was...nice-’ She’s telling the truth. She feels surprisingly better. Lighter. 

Stop being so hard on yourself.

‘Thanks for….telling me about your time at court. It was interesting.’

‘You’re welcome. Thanks for listening- I’d like to hear more about you too one day. If you’d like.’

‘That would be nice.’ Surprisingly, she means it.

Anna stands up to go and then pauses.

‘I just wanted to say… I know we’re all sort of getting used to things and getting used to each other and it’s all kind of uncomfortable still…. But you know we’re all….supporting each other right? Even if we’re still really awkward with each other….you know we’d all have your back?’

Jane manages a nod and Anna smiles. ‘That’s all I wanted to say. And if you ever….want to do this again? The talking, I mean? My….um, my door is always open.’ She pulls a face, ‘That sounded way less cheesy in my head….’

It breaks a moment of tension and Jane is able to relax enough to laugh.

‘Thanks. I would.’

Anna grins. ‘Thank god. It would have been super awkward if you’d said no.’

And with that, she shuts the door behind her.

(It’s unexpectedly easier to fall asleep after Anna leaves.)

[lastsonlost]

 The Victoria Derbyshire programme has been to meet one of the men it is helping.

"She was quite controlling, she always used to take my money out of my bank account when I got paid," says "Dean".

"She threw stuff at me. She basically kept me away from my family for the last 10 years."

Dean - whose real name we have chosen not to use because of concerns over his safety - has been living at one of the refuges.

He was abused by his female ex-partner for a decade.

"Most of it was mental abuse, so she'd be shouting at me," he says.

"Things were chucked at me. I did actually get plates chucked at me. I've got a dent on my head from what she was doing."

'I wasn't allowed to eat'

The refuge is run by the Northamptonshire Domestic Abuse Service (NDAS), and Dean was referred there by hospital staff after he collapsed at work.

He says his partner had been stopping him from eating, and he had become seriously dehydrated.

"They don't know if it was a fit, or through dehydration, but I basically wasn't eating. I wasn't allowed to eat at home," he says.

It is estimated that one in six men will be a victim of domestic abuse in their lifetime, with very few ever seeking help.

"I know it sounds silly, but you think if someone hurts you, just 'man up and get on with it'," he says.

"I didn't realise there were people out there to actually help."

Male domestic abuse: Not enough support for victims, says charity

'My abusive wife battered me over letting the cat in'

Alex Skeel: 'My abusive girlfriend threatened to kill me'

Matthew Cunningham works in the refuge and says that this confusion is not uncommon with male victims of domestic abuse.

"It's so under-reported," he explains.

"Males don't recognise they are victims sometimes at all, and don't see what domestic abuse is, and have never known the right paths to go down to get help."

'Turning away men'

The refuge was set up 10 months ago, and has space for three men and one child who are fleeing domestic violence.

 It is the only male refuge in the county.

Its three rooms have been full since a few weeks after its launch, and according to NDAS they have had to turn away 50 men who have been referred there because they do not have the space.

But despite the demand, the service, as well as four women's refuges, faces closure unless NDAS can raise £100,000 by next March.

The charity had been relying on winning government funding to help sustain its services.

It applied for it with Northamptonshire County Council - which is facing severe financial problems - but the request was turned down.

The council said it "takes domestic abuse very seriously and is committed to supporting vulnerable people in our communities and reducing risk in families".

It added: "With our partners we continue to fund services that deal with domestic abuse and sexual violence in the county."

In July this year, the government committed an extra £19m to expand services for survivors of domestic abuse in England.

But, so far, NDAS has not been able to access this money.

Northampton Borough Council has offered to provide some financial support - but the level of investment is not known.

One of its councillors, Terrie Eales, says if the refuge did close, it would be "an absolute tragedy for domestic abuse victims".

She added: "We've got one of only nine male refuges in the country. If that's not out there, the best outcome would be [Northampton] Borough Council has to pick up the slack for the emergency accommodation.

"Worst case you're looking at deaths from the abusers, and they're not going to get the help they need."

Dean is hoping that the refuge will be saved, for people like him in the future.

"I'm hoping I'm going to get myself back into employment," he says, "hopefully get myself in my own little place and live a simple life to myself.

"I just want to be on my own, living how I want to live."

IS LIKELY BEEN SAYING THIS THE WHOLE DAMN TIME.

[brianandthemays]

Love is a Polaroid (Roger Taylor x reader) Part 10

A/N Wow I feel like I”m finally picking up some sort of fan base for this fic! Which is fun! I really hope y’all are enjoying it! I know I’m enjoying writing it, every chapter just gets more any more fun! 

Anywho I wanna actually start a spotify playlist so if you have any song ideas please send them here

I’d rlly love y’alls input so please send me some asks!

As always! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REBLOG AND SEND ME SOME ASK! IT MAKES MY DAY EVERY SINGLE TIME SOMEONE SENDS ME SOMETHING ABOUT THIS FIC AND I’D LOOOOVE TO DISCUSS IT WITH YOU!

Also! HUGE shout out to @sweet-ladyy​ who, with everything going on in her life, took the time to read and edit this. Y’all neeed to read Matters of the Heart it’s SPICING Up omg... 

Word Count: 3.4+

Warnings: Fluff, i guess angst, its cute

Other parts: 1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9 

______________________________________

That was how you somehow ended up in Roger’s car, heading to his family’s home in Norfolk. You were not ecstatic about the offer at first. 

               “Why don’t you come home with me?” His lips were soft on your neck but that didn’t stop you from turning in his grasp and scoffing at him. 

               “I don’t think that's a good idea.” 

But after awhile, Roger wore you down, convincing you to come with him. 

               “They’ll love you!” he insisted. “Think about it, just us for a week.”

You couldn’t deny that the thought of being alone with Roger in his hometown for a week was nice. But you still felt like things were moving quickly. So, you shook your head, wrapping your arms around yourself.

               “It’s too soon, we’ve only been together for a few months, Roger!” 

He frowned at you.

               “We can go slow! We have a guest room, you can stay there!” His eyes were pleading you, his lip jutting out in a pout. “Please?” 

And that was it. Now you were sitting in his passenger seat with the window rolled down and the music blaring some Fleetwood Mac song as the wind blew through your hair. Roger’s hand was clasped tightly over yours, with his thumb rubbing absentmindedly over the back. You look over at him as he drove, his dirty blonde hair was scattered in the wind and all you wanted to do was run your hand through it. He wore his sunglasses which he insisted helped him see better but you just scoffed at the fact that he bought prescription sunglasses because his normal ones made him look “like a tosser”. 

               “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” He smirked, glancing over at you. You blushed but didn’t look away. Instead you raised your eyebrows at him and squeezed his hand once before releasing it to scrambled around in your bag. 

               “Good idea!” You presented the Polaroid that you had snatched from his room before leaving that morning. He flashed a wide smile in your direction as you flashed the camera. “Eyes on the road.” 

He grumbled at you but looked back towards the road. He flipped his hand back over, inviting you to hold onto it. You looked down at his hand an roamed over the course calluses over his fingers. You reached your fingers out and brushed over them softly. His hand was so rough from scars and scratches from various fights and gigs. 

               “They don’t hurt.” 

You glance over at him. His mouth was skewed to one side and his head was tilted as if he were thinking. You looked back down at his hand and shook your head. Your boyfriend could not have rough hands. You reached down in your bag again and this time come up with a small bottle of lotion. 

               “What are you doing?” he questioned, turning his head to look over at you. 

You move his face back towards the road with your hand, giggling softly. “Eyes on the road.” 

He humphed but obeyed. You poured a dot of lotion over his hand and slowly start to rub it in. You moved it over each finger, making sure to fill every crack and rough spot. Roger let out a small groan at the feeling of the cool lotion over his rough hand and you smiled over at him. “Feel nice?” 

               “Yeah…” he responded, stretching out his fingers. You slide yours in with his and squeeze slightly. A silence fell over the two of you once again, comfortable and relaxed. It didn’t take long after that before you started to see signs and buildings leading to Norfolk. You began to feel nervous again. You were meeting Roger’s parents after dating him for 4 months. What were they going to think of you? 

               “Hey, relax.” Roger kissed your knuckles softly. “They’re gonna love you.” 

               “Are you sure this is okay? I could find a hotel nearby. I could--” 

               “Stop.” He cut you off quickly, knowing where this rambling was going. “You’re coming home with me and that’s final.” 

You bit your lip, still feeling uneasy.                                                                                   

  “You’re the type of girl they’ve been begging me to bring home forever,” he mentioned. “Smart, respectful… everything they wanted me to be.”

You looked over at him. Roger was one of the smartest people you knew, he just wouldn’t let himself see that. Respectful wasn’t exactly the word you’d use for him but when it came to you, he was a perfect gentleman. Well, not perfect. There were often times he would say crude things in your ear while you were in public that would make you blush, but he treated you well and never pushed you too far. 

               “Roger, I think you’re being hard on yourself,” you told him. “Your parents love you.” 

He didn’t respond. He did, however, grip his wheel a little tighter. 

Eventually, you and Roger pulled up to a house a little outside the main city.  It was a quaint house, that didn’t quite match Roger’s look. But it was cute and you felt a little more relaxed in the comfortable area. You stepped out of the car and stood in the front lawn. There was a soft breeze flowing and it felt nice, it felt like home. 

               “Ready?” 

You turned and saw Roger holding yours and his bags, smiling softly at you. You nodded and let him take the lead up to the door.  He knocked on the door and came to stand next to you.

“It’s gonna be okay, love,” he insisted, placing a kiss on your temple. “Everything is going to be okay.” 

A moment later, the door opened revealing a women you assumed to be Roger’s mother. A big smile broke out across her face when she saw you. 

               “Roger!” she cried, pulling him into a hug. He grumbled before loosely wrapping his arms around his mother. 

               “Hey, mum.” He kissed her cheek before pulling away and taking your hand, tugging you towards him. “This is (Y/N), remember I told you about her.” 

She smiled at you, glancing up and down over you. You swallowed hard and held out your hand before introducing yourself. “It’s so nice to meet you.” 

               “Oh, honey, you don’t know how happy I am that Roger’s found a nice girl like you.” His mother ignored your hand and pulled you into a big hug, squeezing you tightly.  You yelped slightly before hugging her back, letting out a nervous chuckle. 

               “Mum, please don’t suffocate my girlfriend,” he groaned, embarrassment evident in his tone. 

               “Oh, leave me alone, child.” She released you letting you take a few steps back. You smiled at her, letting her know you appreciated her kindness. “Now, Roger, why don’t you take your things upstairs while I introduce (Y/N) to your father.” 

Roger glanced over at you, checking to see if you’d be okay on your own. You nodded at him, giving him the answer he needed before replying. “Sounds great, mum.” 

She lead you inside, Roger turning right to go up some nearby stairs. You watched him go, trying to shove your anxiety down and out of your brain as you followed his mother into the living space. 

               “Michael, come meet Roger’s girlfriend!” she called into the house. “Why don’t you sit here while I put some tea on you.” 

You nodded, sitting on the couch awkwardly, as she disappeared into the  kitchen. You sat alone in the quiet for a few minutes, looking around the room. It was a nice living space with a few couches and TV sitting on a shelf. It reminded you of what you had at home and a pang of guilt shot through you. You tried to ignore it by looking over at a picture sitting next to the couch. It was a picture of a young Roger that made you smile. He was so young and wild looking. His hair was shooting in all directions and his smile had a mischievous glint in it. 

               “So.” 

The new deep voice startled you, causing you to jump from your seat. You looked over at the new man in the room and saw him smiling at your reaction. 

               “Didn’t mean to scare you, dear. I’m Michael, Roger’s father.” 

Your eyes widened and you stood quickly to come shake his hand. “I’m (Y/N), thank you so much for letting me stay at your house this week, Mr. Taylor.” 

He waved you off, coming to sit in the cushioned chair next to the couch. “It’s Michael, Mr. Taylor was my father. And you’re always welcome here, dear.” 

               “Thank you,” you said you him. “Michael.” 

He smiled at you, and motioned for you to sit. “So, tell me about yourself.” 

You cleared your throat “Well…” desperately trying to think of something to say about yourself. “I’m studying at Ealing… for Public Relations with a minor in Design.” 

               “An art school!” He huffed. “Interesting. I don’t know how I would trust Roger there. Your parents must be very trusting.” 

You looked down at the floor. “Actually, my parents wanted me to stay home. Didn’t think I should bother with a real job.” You laughed lightly, trying to make it seem that you’re not as nervous are you are. 

               “Well, then it was kind of them to pay for your college education,” Mr. Taylor responded. 

               “Actually, I’m paying for myself.” 

               “What?” Roger’s voice came from the doorway. Your head whipped up to his, your eyes meeting. You had tried so desperately to keep your family struggles away from him, it wasn’t his problem. “You’re paying for yourself?” 

               “Um, yeah…” You shifted in your seat. “I’m on a lot of scholarship, though. It’s not a big deal.” 

He didn’t look convince, but as he opened his mouth to say something more but at that moment his mother walked in with a tray of tea and biscuits. You glanced at Michael who was staring apologetically at you. You took one of the cups of tea gingerly into your hand, avoiding Roger’s gaze. You could feel his eyes burning into your head as he wondered why you had left a major detail about your life out of your conversations. 

The rest of the evening went relatively smoothly. Creating conversation easily with his parents and avoiding the subject of school and your parents all together. Over dinner, Roger keep his hand on your knee, rubbing smooth circles into the soft skin on the side. You appreciated the gesture, resting your hand on top of his. 

               “So, how did you two meet?”his mother asked near the end of the meal. You looked over at Roger, smiling at the story. 

               “Well, I had just finished visiting my sister, who goes to Poly, and I had just sat down to read my book when Roger came running around the corner being chased by some--” 

               Roger’s hand squeezed your knee tightly, and you glanced over at him. His eyes silently pleading you to leave out some details of that story. 

               “By some… friends… and he saw me and tripped,” you finished. 

               “Guess you could say I fell at first sight,” Roger joked, trying to take attention away from your slip up. 

His mother cooed affectionately, going on about how romantic it was and how you were just destined to meet. You couldn’t help but stare at Roger, thinking about how circumstantial your meeting was. If you hadn’t been in that exact spot, at that exact time, you would never had met Roger. It made your heart ache just to think about that. 

               “Yeah, we really are lucky,” you murmured thoughtfully.  He looked over at you and gave you a gentle smile, a similar thought probably going through his head. You turned his hand over and slipped your fingers into his, loving the feeling of his hand in yours. 

               “Well, you seem good for him, (Y/N),” his mother concluded finally, pushing away from the table. You went to follow her actions, beginning to pick up your plate but she took it from your hand. “Please, you’re our guest!” 

               “I’m going to go show her around a little bit, ‘kay mum?” Roger pushed away from the table, resting his hand on the small of your back. 

               “Alright, don’t stay out too late, Roger Taylor,” she commanded, putting a hand on her hip. 

               “Mmhmm, alright mum.” He began to lead you out of his house, back into the open air.  He closed the door behind him and took a big breath. 

               “They’re sweet.” 

               “You don’t need to lie to me.” 

               “Roger!” 

He laughed loudly, grabbing your hand and dragging you down the street. You walked closely together, your his head bent to be near yours as you chatted and laughed together. His neighborhood was very small and nothing like the city of London. You liked it though. It was a place you could imagine settling down in. 

               “So this is where Roger Taylor grew up,” you looked up at him, grinning widely. 

He nodded, glancing around, looking fondly at the buildings. “Yeah, this is home.” He pointed at what looked like a primary school. “That’s where I played the drums for the first time. They had a little kit in the music room, and I just liked to make noise so my music teacher let me play.” He smiled at the memory. “Mum wouldn’t let me take my kits to Uni… so I just bought a new one when I got there.” 

               “That’s a cute image,” you commented. “Little Roger banging away at his little drum kit.” 

               “That’s not the only thing I can bang.” He wiggled his eyebrows at you. 

               “That is the dumbest thing you’ve ever said to me.” 

               “C’mon, you walked right into it!” 

The two of you continued on, him pointing out buildings and telling stories along the way. You loved hearing his stories about his childhood. All the places he got in trouble, places he grew up and learned about life. It’s weird coming to his childhood town, he was so different now, at least when he was around you. 

Eventually, you came upon a bridge that was over a road next to a field of flowers. He climbed up on the railing then helped you to sit next to him. He kept his arm around you, helping you feel more stable on the railing as you leaned into him. His fingers brushed your arm softly as the wind blew smoothly through your hair. 

               “Why didn’t you tell me about your parents?” 

You knew the question was coming but it didn’t help you feel less uneasy about the topic. You looked down at your hands, twisting  your fingers around each other, leaning slightly away from him. 

               “It wasn’t important,” you deflected. 

               “Not important? Are you joking?” You couldn’t decipher his tone. Was he angry? Upset? Annoyed? Either way you felt yourself closing in again. You looked back up at him, still feeling uneasy. 

               “No, Roger, I’m not. You don’t need to know about my issues with my family,” you argued. 

               “Yes I do, that’s how a relationship works, isn’t it?” he shot back. “We have to tell each other things.” 

               “And how would you know how a relationship works, seeing as you’ve never had a real one.” 

As soon as the words left your mouth you regretted them. Your eyes widened at your own words as you watched his shoulders deflate. He moved his arm from around your shoulder, bringing his hands to rest in his lap. 

               “You’re right.” His voice was quiet, and it reminded you of that night 4 months ago when you put him to bed after his fight. “I don’t know what I’m doing here, with you.” He looked over at you. “But I’m trying my damn hardest not to let you get away.” 

You felt your eyes glass over as a tear dropped from your eye. Roger reached up and brushed the tear off your cheek. 

               “I just want to know what’s going on up there.” He taps your temple lightly, drawing a small laugh out of you. You wipe your nose, willing yourself not to let anymore tears fall. 

               “My parents… didn’t see the point in me going to a real college,” you began glancing over at him. He nodded, encouraging you to continue. “They just wanted me to go to some community college and get a basic education then settle down somewhere and have five kids.” You chuckled slightly at that. Imagining yourself doing just that, becoming the perfect trophy wife. “So when I told them I wanted to study Public Relations maybe minor in design or journalism. They told me that if I left, not to bother coming back.” You gauged Roger’s reaction. Confusion flooded his face, mixed with some anger so you rested your hand on his leg. “So I left. I’m on almost a full scholarship at Ealing and its grade based. Which is why I can’t afford to fail.” 

               “What about your sister? Isn’t she studying medicine?” He asked, his brain going through everything you told him. 

               “She was the oldest. She got to go to school and live her life. But my mother sheltered me. Thought I was her perfect little girl.” You shook your head. “Guess I’m just a disappointment now.” 

               “Hey, that’s not true.” He cupped your cheek and made you look up at him. “You’re bloody brilliant. You work so hard, and are so determined. You saw right through me the moment you met me, and had me-- quite literally -- speechless. You’re something I’ve never seen before, and everyone around you can see it.” You felt your lip quiver, as your struggled more and more not to break down right there. “You make me want to slow down and watch the world.”

You stared at him for a moment longer before leaning your forehead on his chest. He wrapped his arms back around you, rubbing up and down lightly. 

               “I just want to be here with you, Roger. I don’t want to think about anything else.” You kissed his chest softly. “Not school, not my shitty parents. I just want you.” 

               “You have me, love.” He kissed the top of your hair. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

So there you sat, on the railing of the bridge, wrapped in each other. You sat there until the sun went down behind the trees and the stars began to specle the sky. At that point, he helped you off he railing and guided you back to his house. He guided you up the stairs and into his guest room. He stood, leaning in the doorway watching you walk around the room. 

               “I’m just down the hall if you need anything,” he told you, quirking his lips to the side. 

You walked back over to him, placing your hands on his chest. “Okay.” 

He leaned down and pressed his mouth to yours. You reciprocated for a minute before pulling away and smiling at him. He nodded before turning and walking down the hall away from you. You watched him for a moment before closing the door and settling in. 

You couldn’t sleep. You closed your eyes, tossed and turned but sleep would not come. Your fight with Roger kept playing over in your head. You didn’t know why you said those things. You didn’t know why you always shut people out. You really liked him. You were beginning to think maybe even love him, but it was still too soon. Now, Roger was the only person besides Freddie who knew about your parents. You rolled over again and looked at the clock. It had barely been an hour since you laid down. This was not going to work. 

So you got up. You rolled out of bed and walked down the hall to where Roger told you he would be. You opened his door quietly, trying not to wake him. When you opened the door, he was still awake; his arms behind his head, staring at the opening door. 

               “Can’t sleep?” he asked. 

You shook your head. “I’m sorry.” 

He furrowed his eyebrows. “What for?” 

               “For what I said earlier…” You rubbed the back of your neck. 

He stared at you for a moment and then rubbed his eyes. “C’mere.” 

               “What?”

He opened his arms, and you realize what he meant. So you obliged, crawling in between his arms. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tightly to his chest and kissing your forehead softly before settling in.  Being in his arms felt so right, so natural and you never wanted to leave.

_______________________

I hope y’all liked it!

Tag list (SO VERY OPEN): @dove-turned-destroyer @16wiishes @angiefangirlworld-2 @queenismyrealdad @blondecarfucker @perriwiinkle @chlobo6 @wolverinesbeer @onevisionliz @catnissprior-blog @thewinchesterchronicles 

[lokbobpop]

Deal dealer

to carry on the business of buying or especially selling (something) dealing drugs. intransitive verb. 1 : to engage in bargaining. 2 : to sell or distribute something as a business or for money dealing in real estate deal in stolen property. deal.

You can score a deal in the bargain basement. Deal comes from the Old English dǣlan, meaning "divide" and "participate."

Deal steal de al d eal

Writing the word deal dealer

To get a deal a bargain i love a good deal but sometimes you think you’ve got a deal but you haven’t and you should have done your home work better i see come up where ive seen myself as being ripped off by someone

To be a drug pusher a dealer someone to buy your shit off i see these people as chancers even though i have sold hash twice in my life which was a very scary thing to do for me i wanted to make money but the fear was so big doing it I couldn’t do it.

Reading the word deal dealer

No deal a tv program where you say no deal i don’t really know this program i just can hear the voice saying deal our no deal

Car dealer i went out with a car dealer comes sex manic he had problems sex addition id say just couldn’t stop all day long what was wrong i dont know i feel though now he is dead i tried to look for him on fb but nothing im sure he’s dead the amount of women he must of slept with i think i was 160 ot 70 something he must of been in his thousands he fit me it hurt my chin knocked it put and tried to strangle me in the car said if he could have me nobody could have me many he’s even in jail didnt think of that.

Big deal when something is a big deal like its a big deal that i came out here to be with chris and leave the girls things that have been big deals in my life like to travel round the world but hte biggest deal is right now with my change with who i an becoming ever nearer to myself

Drug dealer i think of in America who push class a drugs and young children take it and you see her ion addict and crack addiction these people can get out or over it i see the trauma of there childhood hangers over them its killing them we need to all get over our childhood traumas so we can live love and be happy.

Having to deal with the mind isnt easy it has to be the hardest thing to actually walk i know it can be done in a slit moment really and seeing it as hard is just another hurdle to get over but dealing with the mind day in day out is no easy task you have to always remember its not you its a program its a system ive aloud within myself to grow and take control of me thats all and i can drop this system at any given moment as long as i see thsi point within who i am ive got this i can live my life to its fulliest and im excited about that im remolding myself right now.

Saying out loud deal dealer

Deal with it my mum saying it to me and me saying it to my girls i just say deal with it get over it not offering any advise just deal with your shit i used to be like that i didnt want to help deal with there shit i just wanted my own shit but now i offer advise to deal with what they have to best i can.

To get a good deal on something loving the best deal but always fearing theres a better deal to be had and being ripped off

Car dealer how they rip you off how i dont trust a car dealer for nothing they would sell you a car that was no good they dont care about the customer they just want the money

Card dealer at a casino they make good money here in macau dealing cards im just not quick enough to do it or smart enough you have to be clever to play and the people you would meet would be crazy.

Having to deal with my mind how i find it hard sometimes how i see its up and down all the time good and bad getting over the next hurdle i thing ive done well but slow in my process but im getting there slowly

Sf

Does this definition support me no fear of car and drug dealer i see not wanting to get ripped off or murdered lol and dealing with my mind how you get over one thing to find another thing waiting for you to live out move through

Deal heal

Dealer healer

Deal

To be able to deal with all situations with common sense and stable

To sell a product that is best for all

I will live these word with healing myself to deal with and then heal with i can heal me with dealing with me and my thoughts and emotions the more i deal with myself the more i will heal myself dealer healer to only sell preach say sell whats best for all to be the healer within the dealer to bring back respect within dealer to heal all to become a healer to all with living words of self respect self responsibility self determination

[the-master-cylinder]

Madeline Smith was born in Hartfield, Sussex. Her father owned an antiques shop and painting restoration business in Richmond, suffered a nervous breakdown early on in her childhood. She and her mother moved to Kew. Madeline went to Broomfield Primary School and then Queen’s School on Kew Green. When I was around 15 years old I discovered a youth theatre in Ealing called the Questor. At the time I was at a convent school – the same one Dusty Springfield had been at – and the nun who was responsible for us forbade me from attending the theatre group so that was that. She was very cruel and put me off pursuing acting for quite some time.

 Several weeks later Madeline was modelling for catalogues and looking like – in her words – a cadaver. She polished things up at the Lucy Clayton Modelling School before moving to Paris in 1968, meeting Georgie Fame, the iconic photographers of the era and several bands along the way.

 “It was a different era. It all sounds very implausible now but back then the most unlikely opportunities seemed to arise and it suited me. I wanted an adventure. I went out every day determined to experience life to the full,”

 It all sounds racy to say the least but just when you think you are building a picture of what was then called a Dolly Bird, Madeline  delivers a fact that turns all your perception on its head. Her first boyfriend – like her – was a young Catholic, who is now a Monk at Downside. I think this is precisely what keep her young – a disarming ability to constantly surprise.”

 So just when her career as was on the highest possible trajectory in the Glamoursphere, Madeline decided to upset everyone’s assumptions and study English Literature at Goldsmith – but only after tutoring herself through the English A Level she was too rebellious to sit at Convent School. Of course.

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One of your early jobs was working for the legendary fashion store Biba, is that right? Madeline Smith: Yes I took a temporary job there in 1967, first of all as an assistant in one of Barbara Hulanicki’s shops. Barbara spotted me and I appeared as a model in her very first catalogue. That was how I got into modelling. London in the Sixties was a marvellous place to be – if you wanted to go out and do something you just did. I was cheeky and just asked to do things, more modelling and catalogue work followed and I loved it all.

Tell me more about your first professional acting role? Madeline Smith: In the 1960s in London you could get spotted in the street and offered modelling work or small parts in films. The very first film I appeared in was called Escalation (1968) and it starred among others the actress Claudia Auger. It was fun to do, just a few days, but most of the films I made back then were very slight, fun but nothing to them. Eventually my agent at the time asked if I was serious about acting or wanted to continue as a model. I decided that although I loved modelling, I wanted to concentrate on acting and hopefully get meatier parts.

What’s your earliest memory of Hammer? Madeline Smith: Taste the Blood of Dracula – wonderful – we made it in 1969. For that one I did audition, and was beyond joy to get the part. I had secretly yearned to be in one of these horror films, but because I was so innocent, gormless and untried in every sense I had no idea what a bordello scene was, or why I was in that extraordinary little outfit… but I knew how to pull gormless faces. Shortly after, I was given the part in The Vampire Lovers.

The Vampire Lovers (1970) was a much more adult direction for Hammer… Madeline Smith: I have to remind you of my previous remark about being completely gormless and innocent – we’ve only moved on about three months. I got a very worried phone call from the producer who said he was concerned about my lack of bosom. He said ‘we like you a lot, but we don’t think you are voluptuous enough’. I reassured him, and then I scuttled off to Hornby and Clarke dairy round the corner and I bought every yoghurt I could find and stuffed myself like you might fatten cattle, and it worked!

Hammer’s boxoffice grosses had been declining in a competitive market. Fading out their sexual subtleties, the company’s regime infused their product with nudity and more pronounced lesbian trysts. THE VAMPIRE LOVERS (1970), debuting as the first Gothic horror film to garner an R-rating, obligated its actresses to slip out of the trademark diaphanous nightgowns and cleavagehugging corsets. Only three years out of convent school, Smith was cast as the virginal “Emma”, who’s chastity appeals to lesbian vampire Carmilla (Ingrid Pitt).

 “I auditioned for THE VAMPIRE LOVERS, and I got the part during Christmas of 1969,” Smith explained. “But I got a terribly embarrassing phone call from the producer. He said, ‘We do want you, but we are not sure that you are voluptuous enough.’ So I was determined that, by the end of the Christmas holiday, I would be voluptuous enough. I ate myself silly! I put on a lot of weight, but was still frightfully thin. But at least I had a bosom. That was the important thing because, as you know, the whole plot was the vampire biting the bosom and all that. The producer, Michael Style, was delighted. I had absolutely no bosom until that day.

 “The one thing that was difficult for me was the lesbian aspect of it. I really couldn’t be less lesbian than I am. I mean, I am totally disinterested in females. In that way, I really felt it was distasteful. I hated doing that, loathed doing it. Ingrid did too.

 “THE VAMPIRE LOVERS was very steamy and I can remember Michael Style running around saying, “The audience is going to fall asleep if you don’t inject something into it.’At that time, I was still very innocent and I didn’t know what to inject into it.

 I recounted my conversation with Derek Whitehurst, the film’s assistant director, who told me that some of the crew members were a bit embarrassed by the nude scenes. “Oh, no, I think they enjoyed them!” laughed Smith. “I mean, there were these two lovely girls in bed. Why shouldn’t they enjoy it? I think possibly Derek was a bit embarrassed. He’s a good friend of mine, he lives just around the corner from me. He’s the dearest, sweetest man you’d ever want to meet and he may have been embarrassed. I don’t think the rest of the crew were.”

 Although Smith wasn’t exactly “over the moon” in regard to the nudity, she plunged into the role: “I was very naive and innocent, I really was. The character I played was very innocent, so I didn’t have to do much acting. But I had a lot of fun on the film. Director) Roy Ward Baker was very patient and understanding-and working with Peter Cushing, he was a most lovely man.” Smith shared many of her scenes with a youthful Jon Finch who, only one year later, was cast as MACBETH in Roman Polanski’s controversial spin on Shakespeare. Finch’s acting skills had been honed on the stage, whereas Smith admits, “I didn’t really have any training. I did modeling, then I did films. Hammer was always on the lookout for young women. Since then, I’ve gained a lot of training through experience.”

Looking back at films like The Vampire Lovers, do you feel you were exploited? Madeline Smith: I was a very willing exploitee – I didn’t mind at all. My main point of existence is to make people laugh and I was able to use those bosoms later for comedy, I was the foil in a lot of comedy shows and sketches and I have absolutely no regret about being ‘sexploited’. Others I know take against it. I didn’t mind looking womanly, that’s not ever been concern of mine – but it is for others, and good for them.

What are your memories of making the film of Up Pompeii (1971)? Madeline Smith: It was another delightful experience. Bob Kellett was the director of that film and he was such a lovely man to work for. Bill Fraser was one of the stars of the film and he was an absolute joy – I had been a fan of Bill’s for a long time and used to watch him in Bootsie and Snudge on television. Bill brought us champagne for the first day of filming and it certainly all went very well after that!

You worked with Frankie Howerd a great deal I believe. What was he like to work with? Madeline Smith: I got on very well with Frankie and worked with him often, quite a bit of it on television. I was part of the furniture, didn’t offer opinions or try to steal scenes because he was the star. He was such a talented man and there were never any problems. He was very kind to the women on set and those who worked with him. I don’t know why they no longer show his work on television today – he did so many things for both the BBC and ITV and it’s such a shame he’s not shown, apart from the odd documentary.

I must ask about the filming of Carry On Matron (1972). What was that like and what were Barbara Windsor and Hattie Jacques like to work with? Madeline Smith: When I got the part in Matron I was about to give up acting. I had a place to train to become a nurse at St Bartholomew’s Hospital. However my father was very proud of the bits of acting work I had been getting and when he found out about Carry On Matron, he insisted I did it. It was a joy to make the Carry On, I was only there for half a day and gone before lunchtime which was a shame. The atmosphere on set was delightful and that was mainly down to the genius of director Gerald Thomas. He was such a nice man, genial with a sunny personality and loved making films and everyone he was with. Hattie and Barbara were really kind and easy to work with and the lovely Joan Sims was there too doing reaction shots to what the three of us were filming. Jacki Piper was also on set although I didn’t do anything with her there. She is an adorable person, really lovely and a great friend. Even though I didn’t train to be a nurse I did eventually go to University to study English when I was about 30 – I really loved that experience.

Would you like to have appeared in more of the Carry Ons? Madeline Smith: Peter Rogers wanted me to come back for more of the films and I would have loved to, Matron was such a good experience. However by the time the next Carry On was going into production I was contracted to do a theatre tour with Patrick Macnee as the star. The tour was awful, the play was bad and the reviews meant nobody came to see us. Dinah Sheridan was also in the play and we were both so miserable. I really regret doing that tour now as it stopped me taking on other lovely jobs like more Carry Ons. Once the tour was finished offers like that had stopped coming in, at least for a while.

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Of course they are talking about making another Carry On at the moment… Madeline Smith: Yes every so often they come up with the idea to make another but I knew some of the people in the last of the original Carry Ons – Emmannuelle and Columbus – and they weren’t fun to make or to watch because the innocence had gone. I have watched some of the comedy series they have remade recently on the BBC and I wish they had left things alone. They all had very talented actors in them but I wish they could do new things with the talent that is around today.

You also appeared in the film Theatre of Blood (1973). What are your memories of that production? Madeline Smith: I remember that the part I was originally offered was much bigger than what I played but I really just wanted to be in the film to be with that cast! There were so many revered actors in that film that it was just great to be there with him all around me. It turned out to be a good film and I think it’s now a bit of a classic. It was made on a tiny budget, all out on location in the freezing cold with no studio work. It was quite uncomfortable but just great to be with all those wonderful people.

You were in the Bond film Live and Let Die (1973)? Isn’t that the one when Roger Moore undoes your zip with his magnetic watch? Madeline Smith: I loved that scene and I love him. I made the Bond in January 1973. I think that was the first scene that Roger shot in his new go at Bond.

I’d already had a part in The Persuaders with him and Tony Curtis – and I’ve been told since that he suggested me for the part in the Bond. Madeline Smith: I don’t even remember auditioning. And suddenly there I am shooting it with that divine being. He’d cut his hair off and lost a lot of weight by the time he was Bond. I think he looked smashing.

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What was that like to film and what was Roger Moore like to work with? Madeline Smith: Roger was absolutely adorable. He had slimmed down a bit since then, had shorter hair for the part of Bond was just as professional and lovely to be with. I may be wrong but I think Roger actually suggested me for the part in Live and Let Die. I was only there for three days I think but it was great. They had created Bond’s very 1970s flat in a corner of one of the big studios at Pinewood and it felt like a real flat – the attention to detail was superb. It was great to work with the lovely Bernard Lee (M) and Lois Maxwell (Miss Moneypenny) too – she was such a nice lady and there was no fuss with any of them. I knew Michael Caine for a while around that time and the set of the flat always reminded me of his flat at the time.

Did you enjoy working at Pinewood Studios? Madeline Smith: Oh yes! I worked at the beautiful Pinewood many times – it was a very comfortable place to work and you were always very well looked after there. The dining room at Pinewood is beautiful too. Very happy times.

Cast as “The Angel,” Smith once again appeared seraphic in Hammer’s Frankenstein and the Monster from Hell (1974). Though her visibility stretched through much of the film’s running time, Smith’s role was performed sans dialogue. Peter Cushing, in his swan song as Baron Frankenstein, cooks up a scheme to mate Smith’s character with the monster (played by STAR WARS’ David Prowse). “I really enjoyed working with Peter Cushing again,” Smith wistfully smiles. “But I noticed such a difference in Peter this second time around. It was made shortly after the death of his wife, and he’d become so gaunt and pale-looking. But he was still a wonderful man, and so great to work with. Of course, we had a great director-Terence Fisher-on that film, too. I think it was his last film. And he was one of the kindest, most easy-going directors I’ve ever worked with. He would always ask you what you wanted, how you felt about something, and that’s rare in a director. It was the same with Peter Cushing. No matter what you wanted, he was willing to listen.”

  During the ’80s, Smith frequently surfaced on British television. Why Didn’t They Ask Evans? (1980) and The Steam Video Company (1984). She was a member of the regular cast of the BBC2 series The End of the Pier Show (1974) and In The Looking Glass (1978) alongside satirists John Wells and John Fortune and composer Carl Davis. One of her last film credits, The Passionate Pilgrim (1984), turned out to be the final screen appearance of Eric Morecambe.

 Matter of fact, Smith “had a screaming part” in another film credited as a Vincent Price vehicle, Bloodbath at the House of Death (1984); but, once again, she wasn’t introduced to its star: “Kenny Everett and Pamela Stephenson were also in it. I just had a small role in the precredits sequence. I just have a long, endless scream that goes on for what seems like ten minutes. I’m being chased by a madman.”

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“In 1974 I met the actor David Buck while making the TV show Crown Court. He was 15 years older than me and very bright, but not an easy man. We had our daughter, Emily, in 1984.  Having given birth to a daughter, she gradually wound down her acting career. She married another actor, David Buck, but within ten years was widowed when he died of cancer, leaving her with a daughter, Emily, who was still too young for school. It was a bleak time and she remembers wanting to hide away. But Madeline possesses a brand of resilience and optimism which is hard to break. She forged ahead with her writing and acting.

If you could choose between film, television and the stage, which medium would you prefer to work in? Madeline Smith: This might surprise you but I prefer television. It’s quick to do, you don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn so you’re not tired all the time and I like being in a studio, particularly with a live audience. I did a lot of satire and children’s television later my career and I think those were my favourites.

What do you think are the main differences with the acting profession now compared to when you were in the business in the 1970s? Madeline Smith: I think actors are expected to go a lot further with certain things now – particularly in terms of love scenes and nudity – it always seems to push things further than they need to go and if it was my time now I don’t think I’d be completely comfortable with it. Having said that, there is a lot of great stuff being produced these days and I’d certainly say the quality of the drama we see on television now is definitely much better.

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CREDITS/REFERENCES/SOURCES/BIBLIOGRAPHY news.bbc.co.uk carryonfan.blogspot Samhain#39 Femme Fatales Magazine (October 1996 – Volume 5 No. 4)

SELECTED FILMOGRAPHY The Mini-Affair (1967) – Samantha The Killing of Sister George (1968) – Nun (uncredited) Some Like It Sexy (1969) – Miss Beaufort-Smith Pussycat, Pussycat, I Love You (1970) – Gwendolyn (uncredited) Taste the Blood of Dracula (1970) – Dolly The Vampire Lovers (1970) – Emma Morton Tam-Lin (1970) – Sue Up Pompeii (1971) – Erotica The Magnificent Seven Deadly Sins (1971) – Guest Appearance (segment “Sloth”) Carry On Matron (1972) – Mrs. Pullitt Up the Front (1972) – Fanny The Amazing Mr Blunden (1972) – Bella The Love Ban (1973) – Miss Partridge Theatre of Blood (1973) – Rosemary Live and Let Die (1973) – Miss Caruzo Take Me High (1973) – Vicki Frankenstein and the Monster from Hell (1974) – Sarah Percy’s Progress (1974) – Miss UK Galileo (1975) – Young Court Lady Fern, the Red Deer (1976) – Mrs. Gordon The Bawdy Adventures of Tom Jones (1975) – Sophia Why Didn’t They Ask Evans ? (1980) – Moira Nicholson The Passionate Pilgrim (1984) – Damsel

Madeline Smith: Selected Filmography/Interview Retrospective Madeline Smith was born in Hartfield, Sussex. Her father owned an antiques shop and painting restoration business in Richmond, suffered a nervous breakdown early on in her childhood.

[realifemakotoniijima]

Queenified (Part 1)

Hey guys! I went from posting absolutely nothing (and because my gc asked for it) to posting my first Queen fic! It’s a very silly idea I got and it wasn’t meant to be published anywhere. This is my own version of Queen’s story in an AU where Brian and John are female for no particular reason, so I’m not accepting any kind of childish blacklash, but useful to also show some things about women in music and in the seventies from time to time.

Also!!!! English is not my native language and I’m very insecure about writing in English, so I’m expected to have some mistakes that maybe I didn’t realize about idioms and that kind of stuff. My biggest inspiration is tumblr! (lol) That’s it, if you’re interested, enjoy!

Chapter one: Freddie.

Trigger warning: not for now. Chapter song: Doing All Right (Smile/Queen)

The sun was setting in the beautiful city London was. He wasn’t still used to it, but adored it nonetheless. The chaos the Bulsaras left behind in Zanzibar became now the caos of moving and starting again, or something like that.

It wasn’t so difficult to Farrokh, actually. Of course, the whole shock hit him too, but going to England was a whole new deal he absolutely loved. Thanks to his high grades he had been accepted in Ealing Art College and started studying graphic design. But not long after graduation he moved to the fantastic London, with all its possibilities. He then had a place in Kensington Market and sold second-hand clothes, specially Edwardian clothes, with his girlfriend, Mary Austin, and an acquaintance of his, Roger Taylor.

But he wouldn’t have met Roger back then if it hadn’t been for his college mate Tim, who had a band called Smile with him and a girl, Brianna, who shut every toxic masculinity’s mouth with her amazing skills with the guitar. Brianna, also, was friends with Mary and the one who introduced her to Farrokh. There was kind of a lesbian energy, but he had never been sure about it; Brianna always claimed to be straight, not even bisexual. Maybe it was just him.

Anyway, nothing of it was getting into his mind right then, during his way back home after a tiring shift at Heathrow. Not even his name, which now was Freddie. At least then he was going to London instead of Middlesex, and didn’t live on his own. Brianna must have been making the greatest dinner he had ever had.

It was almost night when he took the keys out of his pocket and opened the door of the flat. He quickly hung his coat up on one of the hangers, being Tim’s the only one empty, while the aroma of tomato sauce was invading the room. Roger was sitting on the couch, watching tv.

“Hey, Fred!”, Roger called, his mouth full of chips, and held the packet high while he half-turned his head to see his flatmate. “Want some chips?”

“Not on the couch, Christ!”, a feminine voice complained at Freddie’s left. It was Brianna, holding the wooden spoon.

“What’s the deal, whatsoever?”, Roger questioned, raising his eyebrows towards Brianna while Freddie took some chips out of the packet, standing behind the couch. He enjoyed watching Roger and Brianna argue from time to time, they made it somehow funny and sometimes he liked to think there was some chemistry between them. “We always make a mess. Even you do”

“Yeah, but I’m the only one that cleans up since I got to live with three mommy babies”, Brianna answered, pointing at them with the sauce-tainted wooden spoon. She was a funny image compared to them, wearing the kitchen apron and her messy curls all around her head with no control. She did her best to cook decent food with the little they had. “We have a gig tomorrow and I also want to sleep my ass off before evening. You two work, I work AND study”

Looking at the clock on the wall before going back to the half-made dinner, Brianna pinched her eyebrows. “Where the hell is Tim, by the way? He should be here by now”

Obviously, everyone in the flat had almost learnt everyone’s schedules by heart. One of them missing mysteriously is easy to find out sometimes. And as far as they are concerned, Tim wasn’t seeing anyone to go out without telling them. Maybe he bumped into someone?

Both Freddie and Roger made gestures showing they knew less than her.

“Oh, Fred, how was your day?”, Brianna asked then, going back to the food.

“As shitty as working at Heathrow could be, love. But thanks anyway”, Freddie replied. He walked towards the countertop and slipped his hand into the pot to take a bit of sauce into his mouth. He didn’t care about the heat when he licked his finger, and after that he kissed Brianna’s cheek. “Your spaghetti, however, can change anyone’s day. And even more if you add a little bit of salt”.

“Hey! You never ask how my day was!”, Roger’s jealous voice could be heard from behind, crossing his arms. He could be such an angry furby sometimes.

Brianna incredulously turned around and stared at the blonde. “I don’t need to. Your face gives me enough information every time”

It wasn’t long until Brianna finished cooking, and she decided they couldn’t wait for Tim any longer. Freddie helped her setting the table while Roger was forced to clean off the salt grains he dropped from the couch. During dinner, Brianna and Roger arranged the next day’s gig with Freddie’s humble opinion; they also complaint about the daily life and Roger chatted about his sex life (with Brianna’s silent eyeroll).

A few minutes later, there was a key noise at the door. Tim Staffell, the missing flatmate, appeared from behind the door.

“Mate, where the hell have you been?”, Roger inquired, suddenly raged. He hadn’t been particularly scared, he just squeezed his brain trying to figure out his friend’s whereabouts. Brianna didn’t say anything, as well as Freddie. But in her mind, it was the fourth night Tim arrived late. “It’s Bri’s spaghetti night!”

“I didn’t realize about the time, but I’m here, safe and sound”, Tim said after hanging his coat up and approaching Brianna to kiss her curls. He knew she was angry as soon as he saw her face. They are not even a couple, but he knew her since high school and without her, that flat would be a fucking war; she was pretty important. “Sorry, Bri. I’ll try to remember it next time”

“I hope you have a good story, at least”, Brianna replied, returning to her own spaghetti. “Friendly reminder that we have a gig tomorrow night”

They didn’t make a fuss about Tim’s late arrival, but he surely finished his dinner alone. After helping Brianna with the dishes, Freddie left for the night. Dragging his feet to his bedroom, he started to feel all the tireness he fought against during the day. His room wasn’t messy, but it had some things out of place. Posters decorated the walls as well as the courtains did the windows; he and Brianna are the only ones that have rooms with big windows while Roger’s and Tim’s had windows little enough. Some clothes were discarded all over the floor, his acoustic guitar laid against the wall with no extra support and his piano was located as a headboard, being a bare mattress his bed (although Brianna got him some sheets and a comforter for the winter).

There were some pictures, though. On the chest of drawers he had a picture of his family, his parents and little sister, who were still living in Middlesex. There was also one of his first cat. People he held dear and didn’t have with him. He was planning on having a picture with the flat gang, too. He had other friends, of course, but they were slowly becoming his family and deserved to be on his wall. They didn’t even laugh at his teeth and that is saying too much although they disagree.

“Dude, it’s a human thing to do”, Roger would’ve said. Roger, who was practically perfect physically speaking. What was better, he would’ve even thrown hands at Kensington Market if someone had said something about it.

Laying on his bed, Freddie felt grateful for a moment. Although he was introverted and shy when being in private, he had supportive friends who had fun with him instead of making fun of him.

[oqaxl-blog]

Shopping for Indian Designer Outfits In London Along with the Uk

Indian garments procuring in the United Kingdom (British isles) is easier than in a great deal of other places beyond India. The key reason why? Indians happen to be settling in the UK For lots of generations and you will discover deep cultural ties in between the nations along with the people of your nations around the world. The result? Curry is the united kingdom's favorite dish (err, it is a food items class therefore, but lets not go into semantics) and there are numerous shops to obtain Indian dresses. A person naturally assumes that offered the volume of stores selling Indian outfits, you will discover sufficient selling Indian designer clothes also - but This is certainly an assumption that is usually confirmed wrong when one particular tries to look for these shops.

The shops that market real Indian designer garments are couple of as well as less amongst these in fact stock the most recent collections. The main element metropolitan areas in the UK that have a substantial proportion of Indian population and that's why outlets that sell Indian garments and Indian designer clothes are (in alphabetical buy):

Birmingham

Cardiff

London

Leicester

Manchester

New Castle

In Every single of those towns the big Indian community signifies that there are retailers that promote Indian clothing. Outlets that offer designer apparel are typically concentrated in London, largely as a result of population dimensions.

Let us look at the instance of London to be a spot to acquire Indian clothes. The very best neighborhoods to show to include,

East Ham

Ealing

Ilford

Southhall

Wembley

These parts Possess a focus of outlets that sell a considerable choice of Indian clothes which includes sarees, Salwar Kameez satisfies, and wholesalebazaar so on. Indian apparel are available in all colors, sizes and price factors - but the standard leaves a good deal to generally be wanted. These are wonderful to get products which will be worn just at the time or only some times. Shop with caution when you are looking for that wonderful bit of Indian designer outfits that will almost certainly make a stunning entrance at your ally's birthday occasion.

For serious designer apparel, you have choices in North London and West London - but Many of these are men and women (not even businesses) who invest in products and solutions in India and re-promote in London. The Indian clothes they offer will not be officially sourced and these persons are not formally working with the designers. The implication is that there's hardly any customer care and the costs tend to be pretty significant when compared with the Indian retail selling prices.

A lot of people have started to shop on-line at retailers like Strand of Silk for getting genuine and correctly priced Indian Designer Outfits. This kind of online merchants get the job done instantly with Indian designers and provide authentic Indian designer apparel. They offer a volume of support that's not matched by some of the offline shops. And Additionally, They're accessible from any Component of the state!

Get the latest assortment of Indian designer garments from main Indian manner designers from Strand of Silk

[wanderingaunt]

False Evidence Appearing Real

What stops you from coming to the edge and putting out your work—creations, offerings, visions? What are you afraid is going to happen? What are the voices in your head telling you about sharing your [fill in the blank]?

I woke up this morning thinking about my last blog post, How Would You Like to Be Remembered? It was late when I was writing the post. I had intentions of writing a completely different post about an exciting offering I have, and I didn’t write that. I had written the whole post in my head and when I sat down to actually write it out, the words simply weren’t there. It was after 10 PM at that point so I opted to write what could more easily be translated into words.

This morning when I woke up, the post I had written in my head, the post I’ve been hanging onto, was beckoning me. I laid in bed for a while allowing the words to take various forms. I began to expand upon last night’s post.

If I’m going to be remembered how I would like to be remembered, it’s time I wake up. What a shame it would be to leave this earth with all of my creations tucked away in my mind, journal, or hard drive.

Bear with me here as I attempt to translate into writing what I’ve been wrestling with deep in my mind.

I’ll start from the top and answer the questions for myself that I posed at the beginning. Listen for yourself if anything here resonates for you.

What stops you from coming to the edge and putting out your work—creations, offerings, visions?

I’ve been thinking about this one for a while. I’ve invested thousands of dollars in trying to gain more clarity around this answer. The best response I’ve come up with is FEAR.

There are many definitions and interpretations of what fear is. The one that resonates with me is False Evidence Appearing Real. Fear is so good at making things appear real. Fear causes our worst nightmares to feel like they’re going to come true. I’m not talking about healthy fear here. Yes, there is a reason that fear exists. It exists to protect us from harm or danger.

I’m talking about the kind of fear that is deep in your psyche. The fear that tells you that you’re not good enough; that you’re undeserving; that you will fail; that no one will want what you have to offer; the kind that tells you that you should give up now and stick to what is comfortable.

There is a saying that goes, “Feel the fear and do it anyway.” I’ve used this many times in my life to move through physical challenges like bungee jumping, climbing mountains, solo traveling the world, cliff jumping, and so on. Yet, when it comes to more personal challenges like sharing my creations or my heart with others, it’s not so simple.

You can feel the fear and do it anyway. But, if you haven’t worked through the internal blocks that are keeping you safe, your fear will likely be mirrored back to you.

For example, last year I launched my first paid group program - The Empowerment Challenge. With the support of my coaches and a friend who is a master with words, we created a beautiful, compelling sales page. When it came time to launch it, I felt the fear and carried it with me. I kept delaying the start date. July 1, July 7, July 15. Finally, I committed to a launch date. I felt the fear of putting my services out there and shared with my audience. 4 people signed up—3 friends and 1 new client. I was excited and shocked that people actually signed up and were paying me money!

When the challenge started, I was feeling nervous. I was doubting my ability to guide these 4 women (impostor syndrome). I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to deliver the promises of the program. I allowed these fears to carry me through the program. In the end, the challenge was okay. I survived, my clients made it through, and hopefully gained some more empowerment in their lives. Yet, I felt like I failed. I beat myself up for not giving more of myself to the women who entrusted me to guide them.

The challenge was not a complete wash. I learned many lessons about my worth, my empowerment, and how to trust in my gifts and use my gifts to guide rather than be led from my head.

Fear may have blocked me from fully showing up, but it didn’t stop me from gaining new insights and awareness.

What are you afraid is going to happen by sharing your creations with others?

After that challenge, I began to learn more about my intuitive gifts and what I have to offer. I know that I have technical skills like writing, communicating, and providing services like designing trips for others. Yet, I wasn’t quite aware that I had intuitive gifts. At the beginning of my yearlong coaching program, my coach opened my awareness of being intuitive (someone who possesses the ability to understand or know something without any direct evidence or reasoning process; instinctive).

From My Values:

Intuition: I believe that I hold the power within to access inner guidance to make clear decisions and unveil a deep knowing. I understand that intuition sees what the logical mind cannot. I listen to and trust the answers revealed through my intuition and take aligned actions inside of that deep knowing.

In 2018, I received my first deck of Oracle cards. They were gifted to me while on a meditation retreat in Mexico. Prior to that, I had a very skewed vision of what Oracle cards are. I remember sitting on the couch when I returned. I pulled a card for my sister and knew what card she was going to get before I had even turned it over. I have a gift for channeling the messages that are meant to be heard and using my inner guidance to interpret the messages in a safe and loving way.

I started pulling Oracle cards for friends and random people I met in my travels. I’d meet people and they’d see my cards and ask if I could pull a card for them. I started to gain confidence and tap into this side of me that I didn’t know existed.

I’ve kept my spiritual, intuitive gifts at bay to protect me from judgment, ridicule, and lack of approval. I’ve played it safe with whom I share them with and where I share them. While I do have the offerings listed on my website, I’ve held back from publicly advertising. Why? Fear.

What are the voices in your head telling you about sharing your creations?

This is where Fear gets clever. Fear likes to create interpretations and assumptions about what I think others are thinking or saying about me. I fear that I will be shunned, told no, or that what I’m offering is not worth being compensated. The voices tell me that if I fully put myself out there, I won’t survive. It’s better to keep quiet and keep my creations as a hobby or only share with those who I believe will approve of it.

This chatter and noise block my light and creations from shining in this world.

I still don’t know the full reason why I was called to take on this challenge of writing 30 blogs in 30 days. What I believe is that I’m being asked to peel the layers of the onion. Strip my bark and allow more of my heart to be seen and known. Yes, it’s prepping me to write my book and get in the habit of having a more consistent writing practice. But it’s also asking me to Come to the Edge—to face my fears of sharing my deepest insights, spiritual and intuitive gifts, and step into the spotlight; to strip down to the core of who I am and allow my beautiful soul and work of art to be seen and experienced.

Prior to writing this blog, I pulled the Come to the Edge card from my Wisdom of the Oracle deck. The card was reversed which means, I only pay attention to the Protection Message.

Fear is leading the way into places you don’t need to go. Most of what you fear at the moment is an illusion stemming from an old belief that isn’t even true. Now is the time for courage. You will not be lost at sea; you will not watch everyone else get what you want while you are left alone and unloved—oh, the drama of it all!

False Evidence Appearing Real is hovering over you. The more you dwell on fear, the more real it will become. Ask yourself, Who in me is afraid? Love that part of you. Ask, is this true and real right now? The answer, most likely is no. Give yourself a hug. It’s okay to be scared. Courage must be summoned. In spite of your fear, even when you’re not feeling confident, Spirit will always catch you.

We all have different fears rooted deep within us from conditioning, old beliefs, and illusions.

You may look at my fear of putting my spiritual, intuitive gifts out into the world and think, “What’s the big deal? Just share what you’ve created!” Yet, my background and how I was conditioned from a young age is different from yours. The common thread is Fear—False Evidence Appearing Real. We all have our own version of “I’m going to die if I Ask for what I want or Ask for money!” We all hold our own illusions, old beliefs, and reasons that keep us safe in our cocoon, and safe from exposure.

The question then becomes: What am I gaining by keeping my creations to myself?

Come to the Edge. Confront your Fear. Feel it. Ask yourself, Who in me is afraid? Is this true and real right now? If the answer is No, what are you waiting for?

Experience Connection, Purpose, & Fun by hosting a Girl’s Night Inward

In August, I am on a mission to impact 100 people by Asking for people to host a Girl’s Night Inward. Girl’s Night Inward is a fun and enchanting evening for your tribe to come together in safe space for individual oracle card readings. We live in a world where at the core of our being, we all want to be seen and heard. Girl’s Night Inward provides a safe space for you and your tribe to be seen and receive messages tailored to each specific person. Would you consider being a host and inviting your tribe for a unique, fun, and enchanting evening via zoom? Send me a message or if you know you’re ready to host, reserve your spot here.

Love Donation

If you’ve been enjoying my 30-day Blog Challenge, would you consider offering a Love Donation? I write and produce all of my content for free. While I enjoy writing as a self-expression, I would appreciate any financial support you wish to offer. Thank you.

[arts-dance]

John William Waterhouse (1849-1917) 4K 

John William Waterhouse (6 April 1849 – 10 February 1917) was an English painter known for working first in the Academic style and for then embracing the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood's style and subject matter. His artworks were known for their depictions of women from both ancient Greek mythology and Arthurian legend.

Born in Rome to English parents who were both painters, Waterhouse later moved to London, where he enrolled in the Royal Academy of Art. He soon began exhibiting at their annual summer exhibitions, focusing on the creation of large canvas works depicting scenes from the daily life and mythology of ancient Greece. Many of his paintings are based on authors such as Homer, Ovid, Shakespeare, Tennyson, or Keats.

Waterhouse was born in the city of Rome to the English painters William and Isabella Waterhouse in 1849, in the same year that the members of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, including Dante Gabriel Rossetti, John Everett Millais and William Holman Hunt, were first causing a stir in the London art scene. The exact date of his birth is unknown, though he was baptised on 6 April, and the later scholar of Waterhouse's work, Peter Trippi, believed that he was born between 1 and 23 January. His early life in Italy has been cited as one of the reasons many of his later paintings were set in ancient Rome or based upon scenes taken from Roman mythology.

In 1854, the Waterhouses returned to England and moved to a newly built house in South Kensington, London, which was near to the newly founded Victoria and Albert Museum. Waterhouse, or 'Nino' as he was nicknamed, coming from an artistic family, was encouraged to become involved in drawing and often sketched artworks that he found in the British Museum and the National Gallery. In 1871 he entered the Royal Academy of Art school, initially to study sculpture, before moving on to painting.

Waterhouse's early works were not Pre-Raphaelite in nature but were of classical themes in the spirit of Alma-Tadema and Frederic Leighton. These early works were exhibited at the Dudley Gallery, and the Society of British Artists, and in 1874 his painting Sleep and his Half-brother Death was exhibited at the Royal Academy summer exhibition. The painting was a success and Waterhouse would exhibit at the annual exhibition every year until 1916, with the exception of 1890 and 1915. He then went from strength to strength in the London art scene, his 1876 piece After the Dance being given the prime position in that year's summer exhibition. Perhaps due to his success, his paintings typically became larger and larger in size.

In 1883 he married Esther Kenworthy, the daughter of an art schoolmaster from Ealing who had exhibited her own flower-paintings at the Royal Academy and elsewhere. In 1895 Waterhouse was elected to the status of full Academician. He taught at the St. John's Wood Art School, joined the St John's Wood Arts Club, and served on the Royal Academy Council.

One of Waterhouse's best-known subjects is The Lady of Shalott, a study of Elaine of Astolat as depicted in the 1832 poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, who dies of a mysterious curse after looking directly at the beautiful Lancelot. He actually painted three different versions of this character, in 1888, 1894, and 1916. Another of Waterhouse's favourite subjects was Ophelia; the most familiar of his paintings of Ophelia depicts her just before her death, putting flowers in her hair as she sits on a tree branch leaning over a lake. Like The Lady of Shalott and other Waterhouse paintings, it deals with a woman dying in or near water.

He may also have been inspired by paintings of Ophelia by Dante Gabriel Rossetti and John Everett Millais. He submitted his 1888 Ophelia painting in order to receive his diploma from the Royal Academy. After this, the painting was lost until the 20th century. It is now displayed in the collection of Lord Lloyd-Webber. Waterhouse would paint Ophelia again in 1894 and 1909 or 1910, and he planned another painting in the series, called Ophelia in the Churchyard.

Waterhouse could not finish the series of Ophelia paintings because he was gravely ill with cancer by 1915. He died two years later, and his grave can be found at Kensal Green Cemetery in London.

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