Category: My Writing - Roaming Brit

From a new life in spain, to an old life in britain, 'roaming brit' documents uncertain times!

On 31st January 2016, my partner and I left Southampton to start a new life as Expats in Gran Alacant, on the Costa Blanca. This blog will document our journey, as we navigate the Spanish system, travelling a path untried and untested. With Brexit looming, political turmoil in Europe and an unpredictable future, harsh decisions have to be made. Illness, family bonds and a Change of heart all make for challenging times in a life of a 'Roaming Brit!'

Four Years Blogging - A thank you from me to you!

19/4/2019

It has been four years since I started blogging in 2015 and I am delighted to say I am enjoying it more today than I ever have. Blogging has become an important part of my life, it is the first thing I do when I wake up and the last activity I undertake before bed. Writing is a passion that will never be broken; I look forward to the next four years.

I have learned a lot since I started my first blog 'Bipolarcoaster' in April 2015. 'Bipolarcoaster' was a first tentative step into the unknown. I made many mistakes but always maintained the same desire to record and document my thoughts, feelings and events, which true to form, still remains today.

Thousands of people click on 'Roaming Brit' daily, all wanting to read about my latest endeavours. My life isn't particularly exciting, but the difficulties I have experienced and continue to experience have resonated with those who take an interest in the stories I tell. To all of you who continue to read my entries, I would like to thank you for your commitment and for highlighting the subjects I write about - mental illness, homosexuality, bullying, travelling and life living in Spain. Your loyalty is humbling and you are all responsible for the success of 'Bipolarcoaster,' 'Forever Enduring Cycles' and of course my latest blog 'Roaming Brit!'

As I enter my fifth year blogging I hope to keep your interest alive and tackle many more difficult subjects, close to my heart. As ever your participation is crucial and I look forward to hearing from you, as I do in your messages, texts and emails everyday...You are all 'Roaming Brits!'

Shambles!

31/3/2019

I was lucky enough be able to express my view, on the contemporaneous 'Brexit shambles,' in the Portsmouth News this Saturday. A colleague who writes for this popular Newspaper contacted me and asked if I would say a few words about the current situation and I was of course delighted to do so. As most of my readers are aware, I am extremely opinionated, especially on political matters, so It will come as no surprise as to my thoughts.

'It is important that the Government implement the wishes of the general public, which thus far they haven't. We should have left today no matter what these over paid MP's think. Parliament has set a dangerous precedent. People will only take so much! The whole process has been a shambles from beginning to end... LEAVE MEANS LEAVE!'

It does seem from the above article, that I am not the only one who thinks the way I do. Brexit is the talk of this great maritime city, as it is in every other corner of Britain and the majority of the general public think the same - Brexit is a bloody shambles and the problems that surround our departure are getting worse. The reality is, there seems no end in site to this Parliamentary impasse and Britain appears stuck in a vicious cycle of blame and shame.

Today I don't want to go into the details of Brexit, because I have done so many times before, but I do want to talk about ordinary people, not the useless politicians, the Prime Minister or the EU, just people like you and I, after all we are the ones that will be dealing with the aftermath of our exit, long after Theresa May and her cabinet have gone.

People are incredibly angry that Brexit has been delayed. As a country we voted to leave the EU three years ago and we are still very much a part of this union. Our wishes have been ignored and the selfish rhetoric of MP's in the House of Commons has taken priority. It does feel that everyone of them has their own damn agenda and they couldn't care less about the electorate they serve. As a disgruntled voter, who is disgusted with all those who represent me, I want the whole lot of them to go. Their self serving egotism is a stumbling block to our eventual freedom and I am appalled by
their continual uncompromising, stubborn and tenacious behaviour.

The Great British public are fed up with MP's squabbling and for the good of this country they need to pull together and do what is right for us, the people. That means politicians compromising, putting their own pride to one side and finally working as a team for the good of the UK. People demand a resolution to this ridiculous charade; all of us want to lay this chapter to bed; I urge and encourage all those engaged in petty party politics to start talking about the issues that are important to us - housing, education, the NHS and the cost of living, just a few of the concerns that have been forgotten over the last three years.

None of us know where we are heading, what the future holds and just how we are going to get out of this mess. If Theresa May can't command the confidence of Parliament any longer, than it's time she left and allowed someone else the chance to solve this crisis. Until then expect more of the same, more inaction, more fighting and more inertia until the day finally comes, that we can celebrate our independence once more!

Walking Down The Same Path, I've Trod Many Times Before!

9/3/2019

Blogging has been a powerful tool, helping me through some terribly dark days. My mood is always reflected in the words I write. Sometimes deep and dark, more often positive and looking forward, to a new and exciting chapter; cautiously making my way along this rocky road, I do what I can to make sense of my life. The biggest gift a blogger can receive is from their followers; commenting, commending, commiserating and in a few cases criticising, sparking debate. This week I heard from a reader, whose story struck a chord, taking me back to a time I thought had passed, but poignancy has dictated an old path to cross...Somethings just can't be forgotten!

The Darkness

15/11/2018

Everything was white; the walls, ceilings, floors and furniture, all pure and clean, sparkling in the morning sun. Streaming through the expansive aperture at the end of the large open planned room, the brightness of the day beckoned forth. In the corner, a colleague was chatting to his superior; smiling, with cheerful expression and a jaunty wink of his left eye, they both shook hands. Embracing like Brothers they patted each other on the back, concluding their amicable discussion, finally walking their different ways, waving to one another as they went. In the hall I could hear the tea lady singing her way up towards the office door, which sprang open, allowing her to pass through without hindrance. She waved enthusiastically towards everyone in the space and was greeted by an equally passionate crowd, fervently welcoming her into their world. Music played calmly through the pubic announcement system, ‘Chopin, Spring Waltz,’ quietly celebrating the day ahead. This was a typical day, always perfect, always sublime, always serene, unlike the World outside.

The darkness came quickly that day, as I left the security of my life behind. I dressed in my coat and hat, black three quarter length tunic, grey scarf and suitably coloured gloves. My umbrella sat neatly on peg number 24, a great expanse of empty coat hooks spread out around me, as far as the eye could see. I was the last one to leave, the last to turn out the light and the last to see this perfect, flawless enclave, my escape from the harsh realities that dominated all our lives. As I approached the revolving door at the front of the tall foreboding building where I worked, the soft glow began to fade behind me. The door stopped rotating; gently I placed my hand on the right hand side of the surround, agitating it ever so slightly, illuminating the mayhem outside. I breathed mournfully on the glass, rubbing it with the side of my wrist; stooping, I moved my eye downwards, gazing outside. Fires burned in the distance, shadows engulfed the city skyline outside and the occasional figure ran past, everyone attired the same, just like me, merging into the tenebrosity of the night.

I took a deep breath, stood up straight, adjusted my scarf, wrenched my hat down towards my nose and buttoned up my coat as high as I could. One more push of the door and I was outside, shivering from the cold, disappearing into the night along with all those who were left. Looking ever upwards, mindful of what was to come, I cautiously pressed on, walking faster, pulling my jacket ever closer, clasping the collar tightly with my left hand,

Turing the corner into victory boulevard, I noticed lights in the air, shards of rock, burning, falling downwards, crashing to the ground. The explosions sent dust and debris into the dark, still burning, shining brightly as it crackled and sputtered, igniting into a plume of orange smoke. The avenue was deserted, apart from a few faint cries in the distance; this could be the day we were waiting for or maybe just another false alarm. My head darted from side to side, eyes squinting, hoping to focus, trying to find a safe place to hide. The intersection of this wide, now desolate promenade, faded grandeur all around, offered a chance of cover from the evening onslaught. An opening, through which light could be seen flickered dimly outwards, a beacon of hope in a city of despair. The luminescence oscillated back and forth; I had to get there before it disappeared never to be seen again. One last look around, making sure my direction was clear, I ran faster than I had ever ran before. Reaching the entrance, grabbing hold of the frame, I screamed loudly as a pair of bulky wooden shutters crushed my fingers, slamming abruptly in their wake.

For a few moments, I stood their tears streaming down my face, happy to have secured my escape, but smarting from the pain. I kicked the shutters open, releasing my hand; a sharp throbbing feeling shot up my right arm as I forced my way inside, gingerly trying to find my footing, broken floorboards underfoot. I could hear water dripping from the ceiling above. Looking upwards I could see the bombardment through a large hole in the roof, fallout cascading downwards, whistling towards my head. I could hear detritus dancing loudly on the tiles above, I had to find shelter before I became just another casualty in a sea chaos, that now engulfed the world.

Versatile Blogger Award!

18/5/2018

My sincere thanks to Mr Paul Robertson for his correspondence today nominating and confirming me as a winner for the Versatile Blogger Award. I would like to thank him for his support in reading my blog and for taking time to aknowlege my writing as a source of inspiration for him. It's readers like Paul that make all the difference in what we do as bloggers!

As part of the awards process, I am required to include 7 interesting facts about me and nominate a further fifteen bloggers to join the growing list of winners.

7 Interesting facts about Luke Martin-Jones!

1. I have been writing since the age of ten!

2. I have never won anything in my life, so this is a first, well actually a second, I have won the award before in 2015.

3. I live in Spain, on the Costa Blanca in a small friendly urbanisation called Gran Alacant.

4. I have been in a relationship with my Australian partner for twenty-three years, getting married on our twentieth anniversary in 2015.

5. I am a Royalist and am looking forward to the Royal Wedding of HRH Prince Harry and Meghan Markle tomorrow!

6. Still on the subject of Royalty.....I met Princess Diana in the 1990s while working in Portsmouth.

7. I am a trained Mentor and Advocate for children who have no voice. I strongly believe in empowering kids to achieve everything they desire in life!

15 Blogger nominations for versatile blogger of the year!

1.   Once Upon A Wren.

2.   That Cat Blog.

3.   Carry On Blogging.

4.   Bootleg Betty.

5.   The Hectic Cook.

6.   Royal Central.

7.   Expats Blog.

8.   Escape To France.

9.   Tom & Katie Down Under.

10. Young adventuress.

11. Spanish Sabores.

12. Huffington Post.

13. The Meow Blog.

14. I Have Cat.

15. Chez Le Rêve Français.

The Streets - Margaret's Story, Part 4!

26/3/2018

Tommy salvaged what he could, gently sitting Jerry on top of a bin liner, full of clothes; the only one Margaret had left, after the contents of the shopping trolley had spilled into the street. Jerry quickly curled up and started to close his eyes; he was tired after his ordeal. Tommy sat diligently on the side of the curb, waiting for Marg to return. He didn’t have long to wait, the doors on the back of the ambulance opened and she carefully walked out, guided by one of the Paramedics. She was glad to be in the fresh air, fearing a trip to the Hospital had been inevitable.

The ambulance left and Margaret and Tommy were alone; Marg sitting down next to the young boy. She looked tired and rather despondent, trying to hide her pain from Tommy. He knew there was something on her mind, but didn’t know what; an almost childlike coyness, avoiding the truth. You could see her thinking and rethinking, over and over again, mulling over what to say.

“I’ve been around a long time youngen and yes I grew up next door to Annie, your neighbour. We were really close friends, playing with each other everyday. I suppose you could say we were inseparable; nothing lasts forever as they say,” Margaret explained.

Looking confused, Tommy moved closer. Margaret was quietly spoken; the harsh conditions she had experienced living on the streets had left her a shadow of her former self, her voice had gradually deteriorated over the years; today she hardly spoke a word, especially to people she didn’t know.

“What changed,” asked Tommy eagerly, wanting to hear the rest of her story.

“Annie met a new group of friends. They were a year older than both of us and were not the nicest people in the World youngen. All of a sudden, we had gone from friends living next door, to enemies in the playground. Annie changed; she became distant, angry and worst of all a bully.’ she continued.

“Did she hurt you Lady?” Said Tommy.

“Cuts and bruises heal youngen; the mental scars run deep!” She replied.

Margaret became the victim of bullying often, after suffering as a young girl. Even when she and her Mother moved away from Dockside Mews, she found herself in the same situation, time after time. As she grew up, she hoped the bullying would stop; if anything it got worse. Her traumatic experiences haunted her, following her around, like a great weight around her shoulders. She just couldn’t shake off the spectre of abuse; even her own Mother couldn’t help her; the memories ran too deep! When her Mum died twenty years ago, Margaret was left alone, unable to cope with the daily rigours of life. Mum had always tried to protect her from these harsh realities; consequently she had very little concept of the real World. In the end, she preferred to walk away.

Tommy sat there, listening earnestly, as Margaret opened her heart. This was the first time she had ever done that, but today was the right time; it’s what she needed to do. He looked sad, but finally understood why she didn’t want to see Annie. Even at her advanced age, the agony of what had happened was still etched on her face. She had forgiven Annie for what transpired in her life, but she just couldn’t forget what had happened in the past.

“Will I see you again Lady; will you keep walking up the road?” asked Tommy, not wanting to lose touch with his new friend.

“I will from time to time, youngen. I wont forget you and who knows one day, I even may knock on Annie’s door; just not today,” she explained.

Tommy nodded his head, lifted his arms and put them securely round Margaret’s neck, hugging her tightly. That was the first time she had received such a gesture of affection, since her Mother had died. She barely knew how to respond; briefly lifting an arm, patting the young lad on the back.

Tommy lifted himself up, standing on tip toe, smoothing Jerry, who was now fast asleep, before he went. From his pocket, he took out a crisp five pound note, his Mum had given him for refreshments, handing it to Margaret. “For Jerry Lady!” he said, knowing she wouldn’t take it otherwise. Margaret thanked Tommy, grasping his hand one last time; smiling, she said goodbye. She knew this would be the last time they saw each other; it was time she moved on, uptown away from her old stomping ground. She felt happy to have met the young boy; he had shown her, that not everyone is bad, there are good people out there and bullies are few and far between. After years of running away from the difficulties of the past, she had began a process of healing. At least now she would finally begin to trust people again.

The Streets - Margaret's Story, Part 3!

22/3/2018

Jerry came bounding across the road, barking loudly, jumping up into Margaret’s arms, licking her face, scratching her coat with his paws. After a few minutes of affection, he jumped on to the pavement, devouring what was left of the dog biscuits, the majority of which were strewn across the busy road. Not wanting Jerry to run further than he should, Margaret called him back, to where she was sitting. Jerry settled eagerly on her lap, burying his head into the lining of her jacket, trying to get comfortable. He was the most important thing in her life; gently a tear spilt from her eye as she squeezed her friend tightly, not wanting to let go. ‘Just you and me against the World Jerry. We’ll live to fight another day,’ she murmured in his ear!

Margaret could see Tommy as he reappeared from the top of Dockside Mews. Lifting her head as high as she could, trying to look through the group of onlookers, she could just make out his waving hands, followed by a thumbs up. Tommy turned his back, this time waving in the opposite direction; finally he turned, facing Margaret once again, running around the corner of Tesco and across the road, still waving as he went. ‘It’s OK, it’s OK, Mrs Marsh is OK,’ he bellowed, shouting louder and louder, as he ran towards her.

At that moment an ambulance turned into the road. The lights were flashing, but there was no sound, as the paramedics parked along side Margaret and her upturned trolley. With a sigh, she looked down, not wanting to make eye contact with the crew, as they alighted the vehicle.

“Hello Marg, how are you?’ Said the driver, as he hopped out of the cab.

“I’m fine thank you, just a bit of bother, you know how it is. A quick spruce up and I’ll be on me way,’ she replied, still looking at the pavement floor. If she caught his eye, he’d know she was worse than she claimed. Margaret was well known in the local area and had been picked up by the emergency services before; all of them knew her by name. Marg kind of liked the attention, especially as she had very little contact with people throughout the day. Fiercely independent, she always refused to go ‘inside,’ as she called it. At her age, she may never get out again; the streets were her domain, it’s all she knew!

“Let me be the judge of that Marg; this is Mary, she’s new on the job today; she’ll clean you up, while I just run a few tests. Lets get you in the back of the ambulance,’ the Paramedic instructed.

Retorting defensively, Margaret argued her corner. As a proud Eastender, it’s what she did best “What about Jerry, I can’t leave him out here on his own. I wont go unless he can sit with me,” she demanded!

Winding his way through the crowd, Tommy reached the back of the Ambulance. "Shift, get out of my way, I need to make sure my friend is OK." he cried pushing his way to where Margaret was perched. "I look after ya dog Lady; just let them check you over; I have some news for ya." he continued.

Marg gingerly moved her head towards Tommy, looking up towards his face. They both smiled at one another; instantly she knew it would be alright. She had no idea who this young boy was, but despite his age, she felt she could trust him. He had looked out for her, not something she was used too. The younger generation of today would have walked on by, but not Tommy!

She picked up Jerry, ever so gently and handed him to the young lad. "You be good, you hear. Hold him tight youngen, he’s a feisty one." she warned.

"OK, OK I will, just do as the Ambulance man wants. Jerry will be safe with me; then we can go and see Annie." Tommy replied, grinning from side to side. Margaret shook her head as she was escorted into the back of the van.

"We’ll see youngen, we’ll see. Don’t move, stand just where you are, so I can see you," Marg said. The doors closed and the group of onlookers began to disperse. Finally just Tommy was left at the side of the road, holding Jerry close, trying to pick up the contents of Margaret’s cart. With Jerry under one arm, he used his other hand to retrieve what he could, piece by piece, placing each item neatly into the back of the trolley; Tommy just wanted to help. Margaret was his new friend and he was hers; it’s what mates do for one another! Both of them felt close, brought together through circumstances: a bond formed through adversity, another story to tell!

The Streets - Margaret's Story, Part 1!

19/3/2018

My back was in pain, eased briefly propped up against the side of Burger King; Margaret one side, Geoff the other. The three of us tended to stay close these days; safety in numbers was important, especially after Marg was attacked. We were always the targets of abuse; living on the streets wasn’t easy, but things were getting steadily worse. At times we felt almost hunted, like animals, driven from where we sat, day after day, trying to survive.

Marg was walking past a group of lads, early one Sunday morning. They were all heavily intoxicated, jostling each other; goading, shouting, gesturing; throwing beer cans and debris from the side of the road, towards anyone who passed by. Most people simply crossed over to the other side of the road, avoiding confrontation, keep their heads down, not making eye contact. Marg was pulling a large shopping trolley, full of the last vestiges of her life, not ideal for retreating; she would have to make the best of a bad situation. Clothes, a sleeping bag, suitcase, a few old photographs and sitting right on the top, Jerry her little Yorkshire Terrier, who had been with her for ten years, through good times and bad; these were her most prized possessions. In the back of the rusting, old cart, was a bag of dog food, a large sack, far too heavy for Margaret to carry on her own. She had managed to save enough small change, begging outside Embankment, her usual patch; making sure Jerry was alright. She could fend for herself, Jerry couldn’t!

Margaret pulled the hood of her grey duffle coat over her head, closing the nape tightly around her neck, holding the opening shut with her hand. The jacket, frayed, adorned with holes, no longer had any buttons, the zip had long since broken and she had lost the piece of string, that usually held it together. Confronted by a gang of young lads, unable to drag her haul across the busy road, she just hoped to avoid an altercation. Just one of the daily hazards, living on the streets!

Panting with fear, perspiring from her brow, she started to speed up, walking faster as she approached the drunken group. One of the wheels on the carriage, was playing up; it had a life of its own; rotating, wobbling uncontrollably in circles, pulling it to one side, making her journey even harder. The more it pushed her into the curb, the harder she fought, pulling it back towards the pavement. Her anxiety was beginning to get the better of her; starting to panic, she slipped on the side walk as the cart veered off course. Knocking her hip, she stumbled, her knee gave way; Marg only just managing to save the contents from spilling into the road.

As Margaret buckled, Jerry jumped off his vantage point, running around her legs, barking, trying to help, but making things worse. The group of lads pushed aggressively past, each one kicking the trolley in turn. Staggering at the rear, a short young man stopped in his tracks, swaying from side to side, pointing his finger at Margaret; laughing loudly, grinding his teeth. Spitting into her face, he poured an open can of beer over the top of her coat. All the while, she faced downwards, not looking up; she had been here before and knew just what to do. he grabbed her hood, roughly pulling her head backwards, exposing her traumatised face, Jerry barking, growling around his feet. Without a second thought he finished emptying the contents of the can over Margaret’s hair, crushing it into her forehead. Then he turned his attention to Jerry, snarling back at the scared dog, kicking him into the middle of the busy thoroughfare, right in the path of oncoming traffic. Limping and yelping, the little Yorkie managed to scramble over to the other side of the road, narrowly missing vehicle after vehicle, leaving Margaret, kneeling on the floor.

Covered in stale beer, Margaret fell forwards, unable to see where she was going; with a thud the trolley collapsed on top of her legs. Stunned, she laid there, in shock and pain; kicked in the head and spat on, one last time. She could hear Jerry calling for her, from the other side of the street; agonised, she tried to get up, only to fall back down under the weight of the cart. Everything went black as her eyes rolled to the back of her head. Jerry’s bark began to dwindle away; the sound of a Royal Mail delivery truck, breaking heavily, as it approached the scene, barely audible; the light of the morning faded to dark as Margaret closed her eyes!

Letter From Verruca - Hiding The Evidence!

15/3/2018

It’s been a stressful few weeks here in Spain, having to once again deal with the fall out from yet another scandal at OXSCAM. There’s been many times, I’ve just wanted to throw a brick at the television set, as my blood pressure has reached boiling point. Just as I thought it couldn’t get any worse, a letter dropped through my mail box this morning. I instantly knew this envelope spelt trouble. It was addressed in pink, scrawly words, pointing downwards. There were indistinguishable marks and blemishes all over the white self seal envelope. Just to the left of the stamp, there was a black cigarette burn hole. As I held it up to the sun, I could see right through. Somebody had been smoking, whilst writing this correspondence. On the reverse there was a large red stain in the bottom corner; it looked like tomato sauce, raspberry jam or worse, I really couldn’t be sure. I pressed it against my nose; a faint whiff of rum, woodbines and cheap nail polish punctuated the air. This was no ordinary note, this was a Verruca Almond note; the words of anxiety written in haste; tension in the air!

Awight Darlin

It’s V; I’m in a bit of a bind; troubles a brewing at OXSCAM House and it has my name all over it. I don’t mind tellin ya, I’m in a bit of a mess lovey. The rozzers are pokin arand looking for evidence. Not sure what they exactly want, but they are combing through the lot; paperwork, call logs; even my cheap knock off Versace bag. I arrived early yesterday, just before the Misappropriation of Funds Department opened. The head of HR had tipped me off; there was going to be a raid. I needed to get there before them, just to tidy up me desk and stuff, but I was too late. Some large butch lesbian police officer had already gained entry and was fingering her way through me filing cabinet.

Of course, I had no idea what to do, I just had to get her out of the office. I had fings of a personal nature, that I had to remove, fings that they couldn’t see. There was no way I woz goin inside again.

You remember the trophy I won for Manager of the Year, for diverting funds to the less needy; the golden charity box? Well it was just sat there on me desk, next to the silver serrated penknife I used for opening me mail, so I just grabbed it, knocking the knife to the floor. The noise it made was deafening and the bloody WPC looked rand, facing me square between the eyes. Quickly I hid the box behind me back, gripping it tightly with both hands and carefully walked over to her, all sweet and innocent like; just like Mary Poppins….Remember you used to call me that lovey?

Smiling sweetly, I asked if I could help her with her pokin arand me draws like. She didn’t say a bloody word, shaking her head turning rand, carrying on with her meddling like. Well you know me lovey, I can’t stand being ignored; I just lost it, smacking her rand the ead with me trophy. I panicked, I didn’t know what I was doin….NO ONE TOUCHES ME DRAWS; you know that right?

She went dan like a tonne a brix, smacking her ead on the corner of the cabinet. Now you know how sharp that corner is, I was forever cuttin myself on it. It totally gashed her forehead, blood spurting out all over that new carpet, all those donations paid for. Awight, that made me even more angry and I hit her again and again with the golden charity box. ‘Don’t bloody bleed on my bloody new carpet,’ I shouted. It just came out me mouth; she had really hacked me off like.

Not a sound, she was still and motionless. I gave her one last kick with me pointy witches boots, as you used to call them; there was nofink, not even a murmer. ‘See no one touches me draws; look what you made me do; it’s ya own fault!’ I must ave sounded deranged, talking to a corpse on the floor; well I fink she was dead anyway. Luckily it was eight in the mornin and no one else was in, so did me best to clear up the evidence and get out as fast as I could, leaving her, lying by the cabinet….Well she deserved it!

Here’s the thing lovey, I need to lie low for a bit. I’ve taken some garden leave, while the police investigate what happened and all the other crap at OXSCAM House. So far they don’t fink it was me. I turned up at 10am, all refreshed, dressed head to toe in Lara Ashley, all innocent like. I was told of the attack and put on a bloody good show; shock horror, why oh why, how could someone….you know the sort of fing. After an interview with CID; (he woz gorgeous by the way, you would ave loved im,) I was allowed to leave, distressed, alone, shaking, all part ov the act!

They’ve given me leave for a bit, so I thought I’d pop over and see ya; it’s been a long time right! I have tried phoning, but ya been outta range. I ope that’s OK lovey?

Sees ya soon

V

Well I wasn’t expecting that. I knew OXSCAM was in a mess, but Verruca had just murdered someone. Oh I knew she was wayward and unhinged, but even I didn’t think she was capable of murder. The last thing I want is her making waves in Spain. OK, she was my friend, but what else could I do. I’ve just got off the phone with the police, who are on the case. I am not in the habit of protecting killers and believe she has to be stopped. OXSCAM has a lot to answer for; Verruca is just the tip of a wobbly iceberg that is about to collapse and I for one can’t wait.

I know this wont be the last I hear of Verruca; she’s a crafty one. Ever since I have known her, she has managed to get out of every situation she has put herself in. Whether it has been a combination of good luck or OXSCAM protecting their reputation, I just don’t know; whatever it is, I hope she finally gets the help she needs. We did have some great times, her and me; she taught me much about life and surviving in a harsh World. Verruca also had a soft, sensitive side and would do anything for those she loved. Her biggest downfall was her childhood, unloved and uncared for. She has a vendetta against everyone, because of what she went through as a young girl. Verruca Almond will always be a big part of my life, because of the experiences we shared; without her I would not be here today. She was most definitely the carer who cared too much!

Until next time Verruca!

Betty's Revenge Part II!

27/2/2018

In July 2015 I wrote a series of short stories entitled 'Betty's Revenge.' 'Betty's Revenge,' describes the turbulent, terrifying relationship between a Headmistress and her secretary. Betty had worked at the school for many years, suffering bullying and abuse on a daily basis. As her predicament reaches crisis point, Betty finally snaps!

In total I wrote three short stories about Betty and never finished the series; something I aim to do in 'Spanish Views.' I have readjusted the words and tidied up the grammar, for a new readership. 'Betty's Revenge,' was written at a stressful time, published in my first blog 'Bipolarcoaster;' as such a rehash is needed.

'Betty's Revenge,' in part refers to the difficulties I was experiencing whilst, working for Oxfam, under a sociopathic boss. My writing then, very much centred around what was unraveling in my life and documents a very grueling twelve months. Betty was a way of offloading my frustrations and anger, without incriminating Oxfam employees, who at the time were under investigation.

Betty's Revenge Part II

I had always planned her murder, I knew one day I would; if she just pushed me enough, I would crack. I could not take any more, could today be the day; could I really do it, push that letter opener straight through her cold heart. Yes I could, I would, for me, for Frank, for the children and School, for the damn good of humanity. I really will do it this time, she had it coming to her....

For a brief second she nearly had me, down at heel, at her level of immorality and lack of self control; temporarily I had reached such depths of depravity, that I became her. I AM NOT HER! I am a good, moral and truthful person, who only seeks to right her wrongs. I may be just a secretary, but I am a damn good one and she knows it; I stay because of circumstances, not out of loyalty.

She stood there, towering above me, as I lay on the floor. I had such fear and loathing, I was unable to distinguish between the two; a momentary loss of faculties, that could have quite easily turned bad; I must practice self control. I am better than her, she is but a spineless shadow, manipulating her way through life, through the misfortunes of others; give me strength!

Her alcohol soaked breath, engulfed my senses; the disgusting smell of a drunk, nothing more, nothing less. Her strength came in a bottle, her control through hate and her violence through lack of character. She could barely stand up and her voice was racing; virtually inaudible. Suddenly I felt strong, better than her, above her warped deeds and for the first time, she was lower than I'd ever seen her. She was an old, near blind middle aged spinster, caught up in her own game of power and control. What the hell was I doing on the floor, confronted by this shell of a soul.

I placed my arms firmly on the floor, my nails dug vigorously into the parquet wood beneath; gripping onto all the wrongs that she had done to me and others. The more I thought about her terrible acts, the firmer I gripped, the angrier I became and the more determined I felt. One nail broke, followed by another, then the rest. My perfectly manicured hands, turned into those of a navvy; I had always looked after my fingers, they were my livelihood, but today it did not matter, they became the hoist to lift me from the depths of despair; suffered all these years.

Arthritis or not, there was no pain today. I stood taller than the cheap heels on her feet, firmer than the bottle in her hand; I was now in charge. As I pushed my self upright, I noticed, just how small she was; a fake person, stooped over through years of abuse and bitterness. Her clothes were soiled, unkempt and her sarcastic grin became a quivering lip of submission. She actually looked scared of me, the woman she took great pride in destroying, for her own satisfaction.

This was my time and I wasn't going to let it go........

First Written 18 July 2015