Noel Harrison, MyT Blogging, Circles and Spirals

This is a song that has been going round my head over the last few days. It was strange to look it up on YouTube and see Noel Harrison who I remember as being a heart throb of my older cousins. Innocent times. Mind, it was, I think, part of the soundtrack of the original Thomas Crowne Affair with Steve McQueen and Fay Dunaway, a film that did much to make up for the lack of adequate sex education at school. The film was a lesson in attraction, desire and seduction; a world away from the diagrams of rabbits we had to copy and the Latin names for body parts that seemed a world away from our pre-pubescent selves.

It’s probably a sign of age that the song has not been summoned to memory because of a new or prospective lover, but for reasons of cuisine and technology.

Long, long ago, I had my first blog on My.Telegraph. Some of the people I follow here I first met there. OK, the Torygraph didn’t exactly reflect my political views despite its cracking crosswords, and that should have sounded big warning bells, but I was so pleased to find a blogging site where I could see how you interacted with other bloggers and it didn’t feel like a windowless white room, that that seemed a minor concern. I shan’t go into all the drama, the Sturm and Drang of MyT; at times it was exhilarating, at times it was fun and the best place to be; but there were a lot of very angry people being angry and the site was taken down and our posts transferred to a new site hosted by WordPress. But it was all a bit of a mess, and then was when several of us cut loose and like little fledglings tried to navigate our way around WP. I still have a link to my old blog on my blogroll, but I realised quite quickly that pictures had gone missing, and it wasn’t very satisfactory.

Anyway. It was only rarely that I returned, though I did reblog some early posts on this site. The other week, I had an email saying that MyT was being taken down again. I gather from the grapevine, aka Twitter, that some of the usual suspects who loved to troll and hurl abuse had made continuing the site untenable. Writing that, I am rather wishing I had been there recently to read some of the Trump and Brexit posts. Basically it was a much smaller pond that WP, and some of the pond’s habitants were aspiring crocodiles.

I duly exported my blog to this one. It was supposed to arrive complete with the pics (well, obviously a problem there) tags and all the other bells and whistles. It didn’t. Between working I have exchanging emails with WP, only to get a message today saying they couldn’t help and I needed to conatct My Telegraph, whose contact page seems to have been taken down.

OK. It’s only a blog. But those early posts of mine were when I was adapting to Mother’s dementia, learning about having das Boot, and Cat was accompanying me on both these journeys, so this was a pretty important time of my life, and the support of other bloggers, who seemed to put their anger aside, was invaluable.

I’ll get over it. But if you look back through my archive and find posts with titles and no content, no tags and comments, you’ll know why.

Back to Noel Harrison. Continue reading

Mother

I had to make a detour to reach Mother. There had been an accident and the police closed the road. It must have been nasty as the road was still closed several hours later when I came back. There was a fire engine there too.
The usual smell of air freshener met me as I buzzed to be let in. In some ways reaching Mother is like going into a prison. Without the razor wire. I am not allowed the codes, and can only move into one area before needing help to access the next. Not that anyone ever asks who I am.
Mother clutched me and said she had been worrying. Nothing new there. Mother could win Olympic gold in worrying. I kept calling her Mum, but she didn’t call me Isobel, so I doubt if she knew who I was. She was looking very summery in light weight pink and white check seersucker trousers I got her last year, with a mauve t shirt and mauve fleece. Her feet were in fleecy pink socks.
We went to her room. She needed the loo, so I took the tops off the hangers, folded them up and put them in the chest of drawers.
She wanted a drink and asked for hot chocolate. A good choice as she drained it immediately and did the same with the second cup I requested. I trimmed and cleaned her nails. She worked the lavender hand cream into her skin obediently. I sprayed us both with the new lavender eau de toilette I had bought her for Easter. Continue reading