Bronchiecstasis, Daily Life, Lung condition, Norfolk and Norwich Hospital, Writer's Blog

Bronchiecstasis – updated

My mum was in her early seventies when an already nasty chest condition, Fibrosis, suddenly became so much more. She had been experiencing breathlessness on a regular basis since before my dad, her husband, passed away a few years previously but now it was becoming debilitating.

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Appointments, x-rays and tests at the respiratory clinic of the local hospital revealed scarring on both, but more pronounced on one, of her lungs. Breathing was fast becoming a struggle and everyday tasks became more than just chores, they became almost impossible to carry out. A persistent cough, often resulting in a sticky mucous, prevented this once-confident and proud lady from leaving home much if at all. Not the best condition for a recently-bereaved person who needed the company of others. Fearful that she would cough hard enough to induce vomiting, she ventured out less and less until only the most necessary of trips out were made and, only after meticulous planning.

As a family, we found this difficult to comprehend at first. Why was our mum and grandmother no longer keen to come to our homes and spend time out with us? We pushed her to join us at events such as Christmas or birthdays or a slow walk at the beach but there was always an excuse, a reason not to join us.

Mum’s consultant seemed to evade a lot of her questions, giving the vaguest of responses. I found him quite rude and offhand, initially, but we later discovered he was confused and a little puzzled because of the way in which her symptoms were presenting. This was not a standard fibrosis diagnosis, but every six months further x-rays and scans were taken which were giving a wider picture of the progression of the illness.

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Restricting as the constant coughing and breathlessness were, none of us were prepared for the next phase. For a while before she admitted it to any of us, Mum had been coughing up blood. Just spatters at first, into a tissue, and then slightly larger amounts, at which stage she became more concerned. Having lost her husband to lung cancer, we think she had convinced herself that she was to meet a similar fate, and she eventually confided in us and allowed the consultant to progress further investigations.

One would assume that with the cough, the mucous and the inability to breath freely, the list of symptoms might end there. Surely that was enough suffering for one person to endure? But it was not to be. One morning after a spell of breathlessness, which included the unpleasant sensation of somebody sitting on her chest, crushing her very ability to draw breath, mum woke up with a metallic taste in her mouth. She sat up, intending to take a few sips of water, and instead was presented with blood pouring from her mouth. She coughed and was rewarded with even more blood. She called my sister-in-law who called an ambulance and mum was rushed to hospital. They recorded that she had coughed up well over a 200ml of blood, and that was just the measured amount, so it was in fact much more.

At the hospital, mum was given a drug called Tranexamic Acid which, via a man-made form of amino acid called Lycine, prevents the body from breaking down blood clots, thus stemming the flow on a temporary basis. However, investigations were needed to find out where the blood was coming from. Scans and x-rays revealed the source of the bleeding and the likelihood of a condition called Bronchiecstasis. The irreversible scarring (fibrosis) was nasty enough but this new condition brought with it a whole new ball game. The airways in her lungs, already damaged, had become abnormally widened due to this condition, which had led to a build-up of mucous, this leading to an increased vulnerability to infection. The most common symptoms of Bronchiecstasis are a persistent cough for which there is no cure or alleviation, itself resulting in over-production of mucous and extreme breathlessness and, in very rare and complicated cases such as mum’s, coughing up blood which is caused by one or more of the vessels in the lung splitting open.

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Mum has had many spells in hospital following larger bleeds (called massive haemoptysis) since this condition was diagnosed and there have been some successful treatments of some of the split vessels. The procedure is called a bronchial artery embolisation (or BAE). Amazingly, during this procedure, the radiologists insert a needle into the artery, usually via the groin or inner elbow, and a catheter wire is placed into the artery right up and into the damaged lung, sealing off the bleeding/damaged areas with minute particles. This is all done while the patient is awake and lying on a flat surface, which is extremely difficult when you have a persistent cough. Mum has had a few of these procedures and they keep trying, although the day will come when the bleed is so severe or her arteries so damaged that they can do no more but make her comfortable. The possible future scenarios are dreadful, but we try not to dwell too much on that for now.

Mum is on a permanent low-dose antibiotic which is delivered via a nebuliser, as well as having a supply of Tranexamic Acid which she can start at home to control smaller bleeds, the agreement being that if they become worse she must be taken straight to hospital. A massive haemoptysis is coughing up more than 100ml of blood in a 24-hour period. Before this happens, and often as an early warning sign, breathlessness increases, which is caused by blood obstructing the airways. It’s slightly more difficult in mum’s case as she is constantly breathless, but often she feels more poorly when a massive haemoptysis is imminent, especially if it is due to another infection.

If a younger, less fragile, patient suffers with this condition, surgery such as a lobectomy, to remove the most damaged part of the lung will sometimes be offered. This was investigated but the tests showed mum’s heart would not withstand the trauma of such surgery. So, for now, we all simply plod along from day to day. Mum does nothing much because exertion is too exhausting, and she is fearful of leaving her home should an attack happen. If my mobile rings at any point before 7.00am, I can pretty much guarantee it will be my sister-in-law waiting with mum for an ambulance, alerting me to meet mum at the hospital to go through the whole life-threatening palaver again.

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Her care whilst in the Norfolk and Norwich University Hospital has been very good, overall. She has been admitted to various wards and the staff, while over-worked, are always kind and caring. As family, we have been treated with kindness and compassion, especially during her worst episodes.

As I update this article, Mum has now been in hospital for another three weeks, following another massive haemoptysis. She was treated for two weeks for infection via intravenous antibiotics, but the bleeding has not yet subsided. There was talk of sending her home as soon as the antibiotics and tranexamic acid ended so I asked to speak to a doctor while I was on the ward that same day. No doctor came, the ward was extremely busy, and I was not happy with the suggestion of sending her home before they had monitored how she was after the tranexamic acid was stopped. I was worried that the bleeding would return as it often did, and returned home, immediately calling to try to speak to the doctor on the ward, again being unable to do so.

I frustratedly then emailed the Patient Advice and Liaison Service (known as PALS) and explained the situation to them. They contacted the doctors and the ward, and the result was mum being kept in to be monitored. On this occasion I feel justified that I pushed for this because the very next morning (when she would have been at home) she brought up over 250ml of blood. The doctors immediately decided to try another embolization but, irritated that I had complained to PALS, they implied to mum that they were only doing it because her daughter had ‘pushed for one’ which, in fact, I hadn’t. I had merely mentioned that they were sending her home without monitoring her and outlined the various treatments attempted previously. Mum called me in a panicked state thinking the doctors felt it was too risky, but they were acting on my instructions and it took several phone calls to PALS and the ward, eventually resulting in my speaking with the ward sister, before I was advised that this was certainly not the case. Unfortunately, my mum went into surgery on an urgent basis following the bleed, thinking I had sent her to her fate.

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Imagine the relief when she came back to the ward and I was able to reassure her once more. She felt that the doctors had given up on her just because I had complained. As it happens, the embolization was not successful as they could not reach some substantial areas of damage to seal the bleeds, so she continues to bleed even while on the drugs. At this stage, we feel that so much has been done and options are now becoming fewer.

 

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Daily Life, Writer's Blog

How Much Can We Fit Into One Treat?

The early morning fog blanketed the town as my husband and I drove over to collect my niece and take her out for the day to celebrate her 12th birthday. Twelve! How very grown up this young lady has become, so deciding upon a suitable day out was difficult. We didn’t want to travel far, keeping within the county, because my mum is poorly in hospital and we needed to be nearby just in case.

Great Yarmouth on the East Norfolk coast seemed just the right place to head towards. Yes, the fog was quite dense but the forecast was sunny and warm for a late February day.

Wrapped in warm jackets, we headed off on our journey. Within a few short miles, the blinding early Spring sunshine was warming the car and had burned away most of the early mists.

Our first stop was an attraction I had first visited with my parents and grandmother over 46 years ago, the Merrivale Model Village. I had no idea if this would be something a game-playing, music-loving almost teenager of 2019 would find interesting but there was one way to find out. We had our photos taken which would appear in the giftshop later and allow us to be superimposed as miniatures of ourselves, and entered the tiny world.

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Parts of the attraction were as I remembered them from previous visits with my own children and parts were updated to keep the areas interesting and topical. My niece discovered the push button sounds and interactions and was keen to hunt out more of the same. The delights of a modern-day NASA rocket and a suspension bridge over a pond of giant Koi Carp, giant by our standards not miniature standards, mixed well with old fashioned funfairs, maypole dancing and even medieval jousting and dipping. My niece especially enjoyed the sensory garden, although picking and tasting mint and herbs was unavailable due to the time of year.

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We steered little bumper cars around a driving area, another old-fashioned style of beach entertainment, watched a makeshift wedding party at a church, a fire engine rescue a girl from a burning window, with ‘real’ smoke emissions and then headed to the gift shop where we purchased a picture of ourselves in miniature.

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The Merrivale Cafe yielded treats such as homemade soups and pasties and traditional favourites such as tea and toast and cream teas. Refuelled, we used our day pass and re-entered the attraction to play a round of crazy golf.

At risk of overuse of the word ‘traditional’ we spent an hour playing the old-fashioned slot machines and 2p games, spending only £1 each, as the winnings just kept coming!

By this time, the sun was unseasonably warm so we grabbed some bags from the car and, stopping for ice cream cones along the way, made for the beach and a spot of kite flying.

My husband, an avid kite flyer, wanted to teach our niece how to fly his stunt kite. At over twenty years old, his ‘Top of the Line’ kite was in perfect condition and he had brought along a tail, 150 feet in length, which he had made himself.

To begin, he positioned our niece in front of him, allowing her to feel the pull of the kite while he held onto the straps for safety. She soon mastered how much movement was needed to create whirls and patterns against the bluest of skies and even had a turn at flying it herself. Giggles of delight and gasps of astoundment when she almost whipped an onlooker with the tail, were lost in the breeze as the kite danced and gave the onlookers a welcome aerobatic display.

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An hour of beach kite flying under blue skies, surrounded by a light breeze and we were ready to find a gift shop before returning to Norwich for our first ever meal in a vegan restaurant.

Trinkets and the obligatory Great Yarmouth rock purchased, we drove back to Norwich, parking the car at my workplace – a school in the heart of the city and set in the beautiful grounds of Norwich Cathedral.  My niece had never visited this part of the city and was awestruck by the cathedral’s dominance. We were a little early for our table booking so decided to go into the cathedral and show her around.

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The choice did not disappoint and we were treated to the Cathedral Choir singing their hearts out, while my niece photographed tombs, stained glass windows and historical plaques. Even my husband noted there were parts of the cathedral he had not been into before.

My niece and I spotted the prayer candles and lit one for my mum, her grandmother. It felt a nice gesture and we included a donation.

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We arrived at The Tipsy Vegan in time for our table booking and were pleasantly surprised. A lovely restaurant with friendly staff and a cozy atmosphere, previously undiscovered. Our option to choose a vegan venue was largely dictated by my niece’s vegetarianism and the lack of dedicated vegatarian restaurants available, when we searched. Pleased with our choice, we feasted on Saffron Risotto Balls, Korean Ribs, Sweet Potato Curry and Ricotta-filled Pasta Parcels, accompanied by home-made lemonade infused with charcoal, sour apple Palomas and blackberry and mint lemonade.  Our tastebuds were treated to a number of new delights, and all of them well presented and filling.

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Even though we were full to bursting, we greedily walked to Sundaes Gelato, an ice cream bar, for desserts which we surely didn’t need.

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Needless to say we didn’t finish our desserts, a food coma for all was almost induced, and apart from some picture taking of the Cathedral at night, our journey home completed our day of fun. Even if our niece didn’t sleep well, we were ready for bed by half past nine!

 

 

 

 

Writer's Blog

Short story: Our Bench by the Sea

Our Bench by the Sea
The strains of the carousel punctured my thoughts and brought me back to the moment. Sitting here on the bench, lovingly donated to this public walkway overlooking the beautiful bay by the family of Joan Walker, who was sadly missed every day, apparently, the gentle warmth of the sun was making me sleepy.

Many years before, we had asked made our children promise, when the two of us had died, they would do the same for us. They would install a bench and lovingly add a plaque with our names on it, locating it somewhere near this bay, giving them, and anybody else, a place to rest while walking in the sun…or the rain…whatever took their fancy. A place for the children to remember us and for us to feel together for eternity.

My husband and I had agreed that if it were possible we would seek each other and meet here in the afterlife. It had long been our favourite place to walk, hand in hand, chatting about anything and everything, or watching and quietly criticising passers-by for not controlling their dogs, their children, the fumes from their cigarettes, anything that took our attention. We just loved watching people and making up stories about their lives and could often be seen giggling at some shared joke or cheeky comment. Obviously, nobody knew that we were talking about them, but it was ‘our thing’.

It is one of the things I really, truly missed about being with him. Our people watching walks together in the sunshine. Of course, I missed everything about being with him. We had enjoyed a wonderful life together. We knew what made each other tick, knew each other’s failings and had put them aside creating a perfect life for ourselves.
Behind me, the fenced-off green beside the old car park had recently undergone a transformation into what a huge sign promised ‘An Old-Fashioned Experience – The Thrills of a Child from Years Gone By.” A funfair at the beach for the duration of the summer. Squeals of delight could be heard from the children as they spun around in brightly coloured teacups which had goofy faces painted on the sides, looped the loop on the mini rollercoaster and circled the carousel, riding on exquisitely painted, galloping horses, their little arms folded tightly around equally beautiful twisted poles which shot unnaturally through the horses’ manes. It was many years since our own children had grown out of these family funfairs, preferring instead the fear and adrenalin of rides appropriately named ‘Queen of Speed’, ‘Oblivion’ and ‘Spin Ball Whizzer’. Rides, which were more likely to inflict a feeling of pure terror than mere butterflies in the tummy. They were welcome to those rides. When our children were at the age that they still needed accompanying to theme parks, it was scary enough just to be holding their coats and taking the photos. In fact, I argued that it was far scarier for the bystander than being on the actual ride itself. I had never been a fan of funfairs – the carousel was enough for my fragile stomach, thank you very much but, these days, the young children could keep it all.

Those days were long gone now. I was on my own and it was a comfort to come and sit here in the sunshine and remember those good times. My husband and I had enjoyed so much time here, but I had lost touch a little, over the years that had passed, and I was alarmed to see teenaged boys and girls hovering, yes, hovering, along the promenade below. What was I missing? They appeared to be unattached, nothing grounding them at all. My eyes were not what they used to be, I told myself I was just unable to see what was keeping them those few inches from them ground. Dogs no longer appeared to have leads to control them. Instead, when they strayed more than a few feet from their owners, they were pulled back by a seemingly invisible force. The dogs didn’t seem bothered by whatever was controlling them, they just knew that it meant they needed to stay close to their owners. Everyone seemed to be drifting or hovering around peacefully. The café along the promenade, hugely popular in our time, still drew lots of custom. It looked different from this angle but had probably changed a lot over the passing years.

Some movement along the pathway caught my attention. A truck was being driven scarily close to the edge, its reversing beep alerting all around to its presence. A couple of middle-aged people were walking directly towards the truck. Faces I recognised were starting to come into focus. Watching them closely, I realised they were fading out of focus because of my tears, my children. My so grown-up children! They were standing at a spot where it looked as though a new bench was about to be placed. My daughter was holding a plaque. They clearly had not spotted me or thought I would be late as usual so didn’t look around for me. I had planned to be here early just to spend some time alone with my thoughts. I slowly walked along to where the truck driver was depositing the new bench and I stood quietly beside them. They both knew that I had wanted to wait until my husband and I were both together in the afterlife and I am sure they sensed my disapproval, but they also wanted to pay their respects, so I had decided to stay out of it and ensured that I kept quiet.

“Oh, Mum’s here!” my daughter smiled tightly but turned her attention back to the bench and plaque and my son gave a nod in my general direction, clearly upset by the whole process. I smiled and held back to allow them to get the bench in place. It was no mean feat. The bench was going to be located on a slope so needed a permanent wedge in place. That done, they both stood back to admire their handiwork and looked extremely pleased with themselves. I gave my own nod of approval as I checked it out from a few feet behind them. My son, I could not remember him ever handling a screwdriver, let alone a drill, secured the plaque in place confidently and I swelled with pride. He was frowning and trying to work out if he had secured it completely level on the bench. My daughter tried to reassure him that it was fine and to remember that the bench was still on the slope and itself was not entirely straight.

It was then that I saw him for the first time since we had been parted from each other, and goodness knew I had tried! Walking, almost drifting, slowly towards me. Was he hovering too? Typical of him, the old show off! I smiled. I was not entirely sure how this worked. Would he be able to see me? I was not sure that my children could see him. They did not even acknowledge him, so I assumed not. Stupid, cancer! Stupid, bloody cancer! It was too soon for us to part, far too soon! As he got closer to where I was standing, I could see that his eyes were full of a desperate sadness. He ignored the children, probably didn’t see them, and knelt by the bench. Then the sobs began, wracking his whole body. I wanted to be able to comfort him, to tell him we would be together again soon, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t touch him.
“Mum is here,” my daughter whispered to him and he took a small step backwards, looking around him but his eyes never resting on mine. It was at that moment that I was able to read the inscription on the plaque.
“Judith. Loving mum and wife”. That was all it said. Simple. As if reading my mind, my daughter grabbed my husband by the arm and said, “I know we said we would do this for you both, but there is plenty of room to add you to the plaque one day, hopefully not too soon”. Mum understands and wants you to have somewhere to come and sit with her, whenever you want to.

He stood up and my son and daughter put their arms around him and hugged him tight. They were all crying now but they were all together, which was a great comfort to me.
They chatted, and he asked if they would mind leaving him here on his own, so my children headed off towards the other car park, hugging him tightly and arranging to see him soon. He sat down on the bench, our bench, and I sat myself down beside him. I placed my hand in his. He looked down at his fingers. I held onto his little finger in the way I’d always done, and he moved it. I knew he was able feel me there with him. I stroked the back of his head and let my hand linger on the nape of his neck. He tilted his head back in acknowledgement. It had worked, and we were back in contact with each other again!
“I miss you so much, Judith,” he murmured, his eyes slightly closed, “but I knew you would come.”

Daily Life, Work, Writer's Blog

Spinning

The last three days have been an almighty mess. I have been unable to go into work, which some may see as a bonus, instead opting to work from home, helping my technicians remotely, as much as I am able.

Monday was an ok day, an average working day. Nothing major to report except one of my technicians had clearly succumbed to the germs being spread by the other the previous week and was fighting a dreadful cold.

Tuesday morning began as most Tuesday mornings in winter, with me struggling to haul myself up and out from under the duvet, having been rudely awoken from a precious slumber by Greg James of Radio 1’s Breakfast Show. I stumbled with eyes semi-closed to the kitchen, popped the kettle on and headed to the bathroom. Dressed and ready to leave ten minutes later, I bent to pull on my boots and fell into the wall. Telling myself I am a daft bat, I sat down to continue with my outerwear application. Keeling to the side, I realised something was amiss, and dragged myself into the living room, slumped onto the sofa and dropped my spinning head into my hands. The room was turning around me and I started to feel nausea rising.

Clive found me and insisted I message work to let them know I would be working from home. I am glad he did as the dizziness has persisted for a third day snd shows no sign of abatement. I suspected an ear infection, the aching one one side of my head being a give away, but that has now disappeared and I am left unable to move my head one way or another.

Each time I move, the world starts moving faster and I become disoriented. So much so that on Wednesday I stood up, walked around my bed and fell over sideways. I couldn’t prevent it and the only reason I didn’t smack the floor was the wardrobe kindly catching me by the arm, leaving me bruised and quite sore.

I feel as dizzy today, although everything else seems to be in place and working as it should. My eyes ache a little but that’s more to do with staring at my laptop,  connected remotely to my work computer.  It feels a little lame to be stuck here but I have no intention of falling over my desk or up the stairs at work. I have been able to do lots of work from here and am keeping on top of things so it’s not too traumatic.

I am unlikely to go back to work tomorrow, I need this dizziness to subside and I will have to be careful when our granddaughter comes over to visit on Saturday. I don’t want to be dropping the four year old beauty.

I am lucky to have a fabulous husband who has been cooking in the evenings and checking in on me throughout the day.

I am very much looking forward to this spinning dizziness retreating me and taking me back to some semblance of normality. Until then, I will be sitting here, a dizzy blonde, in my living room, working, writing and resting.

 

Daily Life, Poem, Work, Writer's Blog

Published!

Imagine my surprise to come home today and find a poem I wrote for my four-month-old granddaughter, in print in a beautiful photobook.

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When Harper was first born, I wrote her a poem which I was so honoured to see displayed in a frame not only in her nursery but in one of her other Nanny’s kitchen last week.

Having spent two whole days with them last weekend, I felt I had enough content to write another one and the finished result was a ten verse, forty line poem, which I was reasonably pleased with.

I posted it on my blog and shared it on Facebook, little knowing that my daughter-in-law to be (let’s call her my daughter-in-law), enjoyed it enough to have it printed along with some relevant photos and made into a book.

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The front page, which I cannot resist sharing with you all, read as follows:

“Dear grandad Clive and nanny Julie. I loved the poem you wrote me that much I asked mummy to put it in a book for me.

Please will you bring this with you when you come visit me and read it to me and Winnie xx”

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I opened it and couldn’t read it straight away as my eyes were filled with tears. Such a thoughtful gift to come home to. Katie (to give my daughter-in-law a name) had chosen pictures to illustrate each verse of the poem which added to the personalisation perfectly.

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The whole situation was made even better when, as an actual ‘step-nanny’ I was immediately made to feel one of the grandparents when Harper arrived. There was no ‘step-nanny and step-grandad’ for anyone not blood related, only three sets of grandparents.

The image above shows my ‘stepson’ Kurt and his fiancee, Katie, with baby Harper. They live just under a two hour drive away and, so far, we have been able to visit them on a monthly basis. When we are not around, and almost every day, Katie sends us photos, videos and text updates, keeping us involved in Harper’s milestones. For example, yesterday brought us a video of Harper sucking happily on her first rusk. Beautiful.

If you want to re-read the poem, you can do so here:

Harper at almost four months

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Thank you, Katie (and, of course, Kurt and Harper). Xxx

Daily Life, Places to write, Writer's Blog

Writing and blog progress almost a year on…

As is traditional at the beginning of a New Year, I have been pondering the progress I have made with my writing and, more so, planning over the past year.

In February 2018, I made the decision to take a refresher course in writing before fully embarking on the planning of whichever direction it took me. I signed up with The Writer’s Bureau and enrolled in their Comprehensive Creative Writing course. I chose to tackle the fiction writing part of the course first, thinking it would be my strongest and, therefore, the easiest, to start with.

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A published author, Sheila Bugler, was assigned to me as my tutor and I have been infinitely grateful for her kind words and constructive comments throughout. At this stage in the course I am feeling quite pleased with myself, verging on a smugness, as my feedback has been filled with comments such as ‘excellent’ and ‘superb’ and the criticism has been over minor points which I have not found difficult to put right. Much of my grounding in grammar has stayed with me in the many years since I left school, leaving me with the energy to concentrate on content. I sailed through the fiction half of the course, even managing to have some stories and an article published.

The non-fiction side of the course started well with assignments dictating the content but when faced with which publications to write articles for I flailed around wildly. ‘Write about what you know’ was the new mantra. I felt that people wouldn’t want to read about my interests, thought they would find them boring and lacking in pzazz. I am pleased to say I was wrong, and articles ranging from my cravings during pregnancy to my addiction to dancing did spark some interest. I even received feedback from my blog posts about my husband’s kite flying.

Blog posts. Now there was a thing I hadn’t given any thought to. I didn’t even have a blog until midway through 2018. My course advised setting up a blog, Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, anything through which I could publicize my future work, even if I didn’t plan on self-publishing. I duly trotted off to my faithful friend, the World Wide Web, researched some blogs and started planning my own. I wanted a neutral colour scheme for my site, so I opted for an almost neutral pH of green/blue. I needed a header which was different but stood out as me. Having cleared my spare bedroom of as much clutter as I could, I had purchased a screen to hide the remainder of my junk. The screen was so beautiful I decided it could be my feature image. And so it is!

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In the past few months I have been slowly building my followers and have over 120 blog subscribers, over 1100 twitter followers and my Storytellingdancer facebook page receives lots of likes (when I remember to share my posts). Sharing posts can become a habit and I try to tailor them to the right social media, while trying to build a suitable audience. I follow lots of wannabe authors like myself and it is great to read and share attempts, successes and failures. I started with Pinterest but without having too much to ‘sell’ I have dropped away from the medium, dipping in only now and again when I can be bothered.

In summary, my writing is starting to go from strength to strength, with published articles and short stories accumulating on my desk. My novel, or should I say novels as I have four which I have started, is still very much a work in progress but one day I will settle to it. Maybe when my course is finished and I have more time for it.

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I continue to add some of my unpublished poems and short stories to this blog and the relevant pages and the plan is to actually HAVE a plan for my blog in 2019. Watch this space – might still be empty in a few weeks time and then my gears will kick in with a vengeance. All suggestions and tips greatly received from fellow bloggers. I need to plan my blog time, moving between poems, stories, general daily life, dancing, kite flying (my husband not me) and I don;t want to post more than five or six posts a month for fear of driving my audience away rather than encouraging new readers.

For now, as I am on my lunch hour at work, I will be content with one poem per month, one Ceroc dancing post per month and then a topical post too. Even that looks messy – I definitely need to plan this more methodically!

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Ceroc, Daily Life, Kite flying, Moving house, Places to write, Poem, Writer's Blog

Goodbye 2018

Clear away the giftwrap,
Remove baubles from the tree,
Time to close another year,
Reflecting back, a summary.

Its easy to remember,
The bad times which passed by,
But don’t forget the good times,
For 2019, standards are high.

The weather, it was varied,
In March,  we were snowed in,
For just a few short days and then,
In May, a heatwave did begin.

Increasingly warm weather,
The heat which we were blessed,
Some found it very hard to bear,
Was novel not to need a vest!

The summer months were endless,
The time was slow to pass,
We spent much time meandering,
On the beach and in the grass.

Kites were held aloft, up high,
The breezes light and few,
Time for me to ponder then,
To write, I began anew.

With still much time for dancing,
The air-con a mighty draw,
To cool our bodies as we moved,
Around and over the dance floor.

Family bringing changes to,
Our lives both far and near,
New homes acquired, a baby too,
New jobs, loved ones, a busy year.

Life is filled with tragedy,
Events we can’t control,
So keeping close those dear to us,
Is our friend and family role.

Never letting loved ones,
Through our fingers slip,
For hold tight onto those who care,
Will never lose our faithful grip.

The year of 2018, done,
Its time to start anew,
And as the clock strikes midnight here,
I wish a Happy New Year to you.