The lost-forever tooth of a lovely one

This is my charming child Seamus Villa (here pictured with a full set of shining sparklers). 

Today he has faced an alarming trauma as he had a baby tooth removed under general anaesthetic. Shock and haunting horror for all. 

The little tooth he lost today, although clean and well cared for, was bashed dramatically last year in a head-banging collision with his step-mother. His front left tooth was pushed out of place and an ever-swelling gum almost encouraged an extraction without the need for a dentist. Ouch, and double-ouch.

It has taken almost four months (and a lot of secret wishing that all would go back to normal) to get an appointment for removal. Then the moment charged round. What a roller-coaster ride today has been. Not for Seamus though. He has, like his usual confident-self, taken it all in his stride. He happily woke, dressed and trundled to the hospital with hands suitably doused with anaesthetic cream (much to his delight). The range of health professionals that came to chat to us, dental surgeon, nurse, and anaesthetist were all greeted by my bubbly well-mannered boy.

Seamus complied (a little too well for my renegade-liking) with the health-service circus and actually skipped his way down to theatre. His only minor wobble, apart from his tooth, was when they put the mask over his face to send him to that most magical and alluring of sleepy-slumbers. I stroked, kissed and whispered to him as he closed his eyes.

So now Seamus has a cute goofy grin and has to face trying to eat and drink and adjust to his new mouth and face. The whole experience hasn't phased him at all (evidenced by his short recount of the experience - audio below). He is now running around, his same cheeky-self - well, perhaps a little cheekier!

Good job Seamus you're a real trooper.

  
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Seamus'_trauma.wav (941 KB)

Mothering Seamus through this experience was made easier knowing exactly what it's like to lose your teeth. Here's me, aged 5 with a gummy-grin all of my own. I knocked my teeth out running (and falling on to a hard stone floor) to see my beloved Aunty and Uncle. Triple-ouch.

(The lower body amputation was far more traumatic than loosing a tooth).

 

 

Queenie, queenie whos got the.....New Year's Eve 2010. An Iconic Party.

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New Year's Eve, this time round, was brought in quite formally in the fashion of good ol' Queen Elizabeth II. Fully adopting the royal persona, Stanislavski-style, ensured that not a drop passed my lips and, in keeping with tradition, I delivered a Queen's speech (soon to be shared by @gazcook) to the watching-in-awe-delight of Yoko and John, Marilyn and JFK, Amy and Ozzy, Dorothy, Johny Cash, Kate Bush, Cleopatra, Spider man, Dolly Parton, Supergirl, SuperMario, 118-118 and PulpFiction stars . A right good collection of icons, if ever I saw any. 

The night was wiled wistfully away in the arms of friends (see Kate Bush above) and lovers (@gazcook as Tom Daley coming to a screen near you very soon!). It was a glorious night punctuated with performances and pies. I was utterly delighted to have outed my pea-green, 1950s-vintage dress, gifted to me three years ago by a loving friend.

Happy New Year, one and all (and no, Bruce Forsyth will never be Honoured by me - that's final).

The tantalising Tarn turns to terrible thoughts

Leaving the snow-dusted valley behind, I begin to climb.

Mutli-coloured rocks protrude through a frosty coating;

their staccatoed presence offering steps for weary feet.

Fern corpses, reddening the banks of the path;

bowing down, as sorrowful as the combed hair of a bolding man.

Gushing foams of crashing water to the right;

thundering in to clear pools, creating chaos and delight.

Wolf-like sheep stare as I clamber to the top;

their black beady eyes bore through and beyond me.

The Tarn sumit offering a tranquil place to rest.

Sitting on a rock beside the frozen lake the chill of it all;

creeping within me twisting my heart like the 'Mirror of Reason'

All becomes ugly, distorted and misery sets in.

The waters wash over me as I sink beneath their icy waves;

Lost to the tantalising Tarn and my terrible thoughts.

 

 

Books

As a Happy Post-Christmas self-indulgant gift I bought myself a book. Stephen Fry's 'The Fry Chronicles' was purchased, really, as a much needed something more interesting than a rag to read as I waited for @gazcook to meet me in the increasingly vacumous of soul-sucking shopping centres in Blackburn, Lancashire. As a pawed through the first saccharine sodden pages, the swirling chaos of shoppers and coffee slurpers, about me, were silenced to a dull-throbbing hum. Joy. I had been swept away by another's life and felt that guilty greedy glow of pleasure at reading of Fry's flaws, fragility and gratuitous self annihilation.

  Part way through the book I noticed that the publishers, as with most autobiographies, had thought it of value to supplement Fry's words with images. Now, whilst I am a lover of a great image (illustrous images being a fundamental feature of my love for @gazcook - photojournalist and all-in-all photographic God) once I find a book contains them I become lost to an overwhelming urge to look through all the images instead of working chronologically towards them. So strong is my desire for the photographic imagery that I only managed to reach Chapter 3, page 67 before the dark internal calling engulfed me and I was leafing intoxicatingly through Fry's life in all its black and white, colour and waxy paper glory. On reaching the final page of images (notibly Fry in his glasses, as an almost handsome fellow) I was then hit with the rack of misery I always feel knowing that I had downed the lot in one hit. Silly me. Silly publishers.

  If only the temptation was removed. I could have wallowed, undisturbed, in the delight of Fry's delicious collection of words. Images, as I see it, are far better left to photographic books (like the 'flashes to ashes' documentary photography book @gazcook works to sell - images included below). Where leafing through a collection of images is encouraged - supplemented sometimes by a scattering of words. Or perhaps, in future autobiographies, all the images could be stored at the front so that my ugly craving can be suitably and immediately sated. I can then move gracefully on to the magic of the words with my mind lacing the memory of the seen images in to the tapestry of my imagination. Although in short, I should undo the worry and waste not a second more mumbling on and get back to C is for College......   

Anna Byrom

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Yanomamo: The Jaguar

via youtube.com

one for @cmb_dixon and @CharHarAgain the only one I could find.

Vodka - a tall tale.

This recording was taken over the festive period 2010. 

It's an alcohol induced tale of Vodka.

  
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Vodka_words_2010.amr (116 KB)

Being directionless, finding my life spiraling down a well-trodden path feels sickeningly slow.
A wieldy net harpoons my fast beating wings.
Occasional loosening of the fine ropes tantalises inner spirit.
Yet the quickening race of my heart,
the rapid flurry of feathers
the bright glare of widening pupils
are all in vain.

There is no escape.

The burning grip of reality shears at my face, deep through the skin
I find myself pinned down by some grappling hand of fate.

There is however, the lingering hope.
A secret imagining a captured glimmer of escape.
Yet not beyond the net, the cage
but within it
within me.