Debbie Viggiano's Blog, page 15

Changing address. It's a moving story...

After some seven months of having the house on the market and achieving one buyer, and one collapsed conveyancing chain, there is still no SOLD sign on our property.  Sigh.  Mind you, trying to find a property that Mr V and I agree on is not exactly plain sailing, so if a buyer with a completed chain were to make an offer we’d be in a bit of a pickle, as currently we have nowhere to go.
          Originally I was very keen to move to Penshurst.  However, daughter Eleanor was adamant about enrolling at a college in Wilmington, which means a move to this pretty part of the world would involve zooming up and down the A21 four times a day.
          I’ve since found a Grade II conversion in Wrotham, a little oasis of quaint paradise and not a million miles away.  Delighted, I shooed Mr V away from the sports channel and ushered him around the show home.
          ‘What do you think?’ I asked hopefully.
          ‘Hmm,’ he replied.
          I found I was holding my breath as we walked on golden wood flooring around the state of the art kitchen.  Please like it, I silently willed my husband.
          ‘So, what do you think?’ I ventured again, as my husband stared out of an upstairs window at the view below.
          ‘It’s promising.’
          This is tantamount to an amber traffic light.  Not a no, but equally not a yes.  I know that I have to play this very cool in order to get my husband to take that amber light to green.  Any hint of pressure and he’ll go swiftly into reverse.  Why can’t he be like me?  Make a decision...go for it!  Instead there’s all this prevaricating.  Thinking about it.  Thinking about it again.  Holding the idea up like a picture and studying it intently.
          ‘Let’s go for a walk around the village,’ Mr V suggested, ‘and get a feel of what living here could be like.’
          Oh my God!  The amber light was flickering.  Not quite a green, but definitely an amber light on the verge of change.  I casually tucked a strand of hair behind one ear.
          ‘If you like,’ I said nonchalantly.
          We set out through the gated entrance.  I had a terrible impulse to skip off down the road, past the ancient church and into the High Street shouting whoopee.  However, I restrained myself and walked indifferently along the pavement.  As we rounded a corner and were greeted by a narrow road lined with twee clapboard buildings dating back to seventeen-something-or-other, I lost control.
          ‘Oh, isn’t it pretty,’ I gushed and instantly began enthusing about the tiny hair salon, an ancient pub serving decent grub, a teeny flint stone Post Office and a small grocer’s shop – perfect for nipping out to for a pint of milk if you didn’t need to do a big shop at the supermarket five miles away.
          ‘It’s okay,’ Mr V acknowledged as we turned and walked back to the car.  ‘But I’m not yet convinced it’s for us.’
          And as is always the case, I felt my hope wobble.  Still, you never know.  The amber light didn’t entirely swing back to red.  He said not yet.  So fingers crossed.
          Which reminds me.  A woman complained to a colleague that her back was really sore after moving furniture to a new house.  ‘Why didn’t you get your husband to help?’ the colleague asked.  ‘Yes, I should have,’ the woman acknowledged, ‘but the couch is easier to move if he’s not sitting on it watching the football.’

Oh Baby...

So Kate and William have now registered the birth of their beautiful baby boy, His Royal Highness Prince George Alexander Louis of Cambridge.  I was one of the millions who rejoiced at the birth of the Royal arrival, third in line to the throne.  I was amazed at some of the sour comments on Facebook and Twitter – how can anybody not celebrate a new life?  Yes, one in three children are born into poverty, and certainly this little chap should never know paucity.  But I believe the Royal Family work damn hard and are fantastic ambassadors for our country.  The United Kingdom is envied by many other countries for our Royals, everything they stand for, and the sheer history that is steeped behind The House of Windsor.
          Even my own husband is anti-royal – something that never fails to amaze me considering how very pro royal my in-laws are.  I have no doubt that my mother-in-law is, this very minute, ordering a Prince George porcelain plate to adorn her living room wall. It will sit proudly next to other Royal plates, including our lovely Diana.  But for all those anti-royalists who moan about the cost of the Royal Family and that the money would be better off going to starving children, or the National Health, or Mrs Chav demanding a ten bedroom Council house for her umpteen children because she failed to take her contraceptive pill, let’s look a little closer at the statistics – because I’ve been doing some digging.
          The Royal Family cost Forty Million Pounds per annum to maintain.  But the revenue paid to the United Kingdom from the Royal lands is a breathtaking Two Hundred Million.  I’m not brilliant at mathematics, but even I can work out that this is a One Hundred and Sixty Million Pound profit per annum from the Royal Family.  And that is THEIR land that generates this income, so no you cannot boot them off it anymore than you would snatch away Mrs Horse Mad Person Down the Road who owns a measly three acres.  Quite apart from this staggering amount of money, the Royal Family are a huge tourist attraction.  People come from all over the world to stand outside the gates of Buckingham Palace and visit The Tower of London.  Every year Twelve Million tourists visit the United Kingdom and spend...wait for it...Seven Thousand Million Pounds.  I can’t even begin to write a figure out like that – I’d trip over all the zeroes.
          So people like dear Mr V and all the other whingers who throw out their ignorant comments without pausing to properly qualify their statements should perhaps think again.  I certainly wouldn’t want the Queen’s job.  She’s 87 years old and STILL working and STILL throwing open her doors to Joe Public.  I wouldn’t want her job for all the tea in China, even if it did mean parking my bottom on a gilded chair at the end of the day.
          So long live the Queen and long live our new Prince George.  Which reminds me, why did the Republican cross the road?  To get to the other bribe...

Doctor, Doctor...

I wasn’t able to write my blog last week due to unexpectedly being in hospital.  In May I had a perfectly straightforward operation but encountered complications.  Blood clotting problems.  Haematoma.  A massive infection.  What should have been a two week recovery period took over two months.  I didn’t really give the whys and wherefores a second thought.  But never mind, because the annual summer holiday was looming and that would put me right.  I’d only been on the aircraft half an hour when my ankles swelled up.  I put it down to my age – old lady ankles were surely perfectly acceptable once entering your fifties.  After all, if nobody had invented wax strips, I’d still be sporting an old lady fluffy chin.On arriving at Chania Airport for the return flight home, a holiday rep insisted I see a doctor.  I had to have a ‘safe to fly’ certificate as, by this point, my swollen ankles had also become swollen calves.  Once home in England, I elevated my legs and got back to work.  I was far too busy to trouble doctors.  However, one week later I had two legs like tree trunks.  I finally took myself to the GP to check it out.  The GP suggested a blood test to make sure the kidneys were in good working order.  And that, I thought, was that.Twenty-four hours later I had a phone call with my GP sounding frantic and telling me I must drop everything and go to A&E.  I was horrified.  I was diagnosed with CML.  I can’t spell it and I’m not going to look it up on the internet because then you see all the negative stuff, and I’m not buying into that. On the plus side, I have been told there is a good success rate and although the condition cannot be cured, it can be ‘put to sleep’, which means staying on a drug for the rest of my life.  I’m not buying into that either, and my haematologist has agreed that in three months time I can check out alternative practitioners.  But right now, I’m just tremendously happy to know that I have a future.
Whilst in hospital awaiting results of blood and bone marrow tests, my sister told me to keep calm by meditating.  So I gave it a whirl and, despite being sceptical, actually had some mind blowing experiences.  I simply had to write it down.  So I’m now working on a very short book (or a very long essay, depending which way you look at it) about this one week of my life which spanned both despair and great joy.  I think the meditations may carry a message for others.  It will be called ‘100’ because that number kept cropping up time and again as I wrote.Which reminds me.  A schoolboy told his parents, ‘I got 100 in my maths test and still didn’t pass.’  ‘Oh dear, why ever not?’ asked his mum.  ‘Because the answer was 200...’

Mind the Step...

Mind the Step...
I have a new book out, The Ex Factor, and it’s like nothing I’ve ever written before.  The prompt for writing this was being a step-parent.  They say being a parent is the hardest job in the world.  I disagree.  I think being a step-parent is the hardest job in the world.My first husband had been married before and I ‘inherited’ a delightful little boy.  His mum was also lovely and I was extremely fortunate to have a good relationship with her.  Indeed we spent many a Christmas and New Year together.  When my first husband died and I re-married, I found myself inheriting another step-child.  Things couldn’t have been more different.Step-parenting can be a joy.  It can also be agony.  In stressful times, family mediation is a Godsend – if all family members can be persuaded to go.  If they can’t be persuaded...well sadly the problems will remain.  Problems that can test a marriage to breaking point.If you have a trawl through step-parent forums, you will find a small army of both men and women with an overwhelming desire to offload about their lot – which in itself is very therapeutic.  Step-parenting is a huge pot of bubbling emotions, and after reading so much ‘out there’, I simply had to put it all into a book.  And if you’re a step-parent reading it, I’m afraid there is no magic wand or easy answer.  As one person said, try and keep love in your heart because, at the end of the day, you can’t fight love.Which reminds me.  A wife said to her husband, ‘If I were to die first, would you remarry?’  ‘Well,’ said the husband, ‘I’m in good health, so why not?’  ‘Would she live in my house?’            ‘It’s all paid up, so yes.’  ‘Would she drive my car?’  ‘It’s new, so yes.’  ‘Would she use my golf clubs?’  ‘No.  She’s left-handed.’   http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Ex-Factor-ebook/dp/B00DDWWB7W/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1373783924&sr=8-2&keywords=the+ex+factor 

Crete

Having just returned from ten nights in Crete, I cannot believe how quickly this holiday came and went.  It was a joy from start to finish.  Holiday moods are always enhanced knowing you will have guaranteed sunshine and a true blue sea on your hotel doorstep.  And what a stunning hotel!  Not to mention the joys of being waited on hand, foot and finger.  To have all your meals prepared.  To have a maid change your sheets every day and sparkle the en-suite bathroom.  Heaven! My only complaint – if you can even call it that – is that the bathroom was a bit of a squeeze when the three of us were in it together vying for the mirror.  The wall mounted hairdryer, right by the sink, had a habit of bursting into life every time one of our shoulders accidentally nudged it.  There was an iffy moment when the hairdryer hose fell into a sink full of Mr V’s shaving water, but no lights fused and nothing went bang.
The hotel entertained the guests every other night.  I was particularly enthralled with the Monday night DJ who played non-stop music from the late seventies.  Suddenly I was transported back in time and, much to my daughter’s horror, dancing in my flip-flops to Chic’s Le Freak, the iconic Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive, and Donna Summer’s Hot Stuff.  Spot the teenager slunk down in her seat thoroughly disowning her mother.  On the ‘quiet’ nights, we entertained ourselves.  This involved a pack of cards and a chess board.  Mr V regards himself as potential World Class Champion.  Sitting down on a backless chair, he re-taught me the chess moves.  By Game Six I’d cottoned on and had his Queen screaming for mercy.  Funny how my husband had a sudden loss of interest in the game.  ‘You’re a bad loser,’ I pointed out.  ‘I let you win,’ he retorted leaning backwards and quite forgetting his chair had no back.  Oops...
Sharing a family room has its disadvantages.  It’s always a race who can get to sleep first in order to avoid being kept awake by Mr V’s snoring.  One night it was me to hit the pillow and instantly zonk out.  Hurrah!  The victory was short-lived.  I was awoken by my daughter touching my arm.  Pat-pat, pat-pat.  ‘What?’ I opened a pair of bleary eyes.  ‘He’s snoring,’ she jerked her head in the gloom, ‘give him a shove.’  ‘Why can’t you give him a shove?’ I grumbled. ‘Because you’re the nearest,’ she replied sweetly before turning over and zonking out herself.  Naturally I was left to stare at the ceiling for the next three hours listening to sounds comparable to a farrowing pig.
No holiday is complete without an excursion.  Ours was a trip on a catamaran.  As the boat made its way out to sea and lurched over some rather big waves, I experienced for the first time a feeling of...well...being a bit poorly.  And I wasn’t alone.  Several people were at the back of the boat in the shade, so I took myself off to join them thinking a little less sun might help.  It transpired that these people were actually in the process of, um, you know, being poorly.  Oh no!  I went swiftly into reverse – straight into the Captain.  ‘You okay?’ he smiled courteously, ‘you no wanna be sick?’  ‘No thanks,’ I trilled.  He smiled again, ‘Happy fish today!’  Oh God.  I fluttered a hand to my mouth and made my way back to the front of the catamaran.  Fortunately, an hour later I had my seafaring legs and my stomach was back to being cast iron.  Which was just as well because the trip lasted six hours.  There were, however, two swim stops allowing for some snorkelling or just bobbing about in deep crystal clear waters, plus a lunch stop in a taverna overlooking the harbour.  And it was then that we all spotted a huge turtle gracefully swimming on the water’s surface.  What an amazing sight!
Which reminds me.  What do turtles use to communicate?  A shell-ephone... 

It's all in the name...

I don’t watch the box, and I don’t properly read the newspapers (too depressing dah-ling).  However, I do skim the bylines and sometimes linger over photographs.  And on Friday I couldn’t help noticing that somebody called Kim Kardashian, a reality star, has given birth to her first child, a little girl. News of a birth always gives a warm, fuzzy feeling, whether the baby belongs to celebrities or Mr and Mrs Smith down the road.  Whenever somebody we know has a baby, our first words are those of congratulations, usually followed up by, ‘What are you going to call him/her?’
          It’s usually at this point that we say, ‘Gosh, that’s a lovely name,’ even if we privately think yeuch.  But you know, even names that are a bit yeuch are more preferable to names that are totally ridiculous.  And when I read that proud parents Kim Kardashian and her partner Kanye West have called their baby ‘North’, I actually found myself re-reading the byline.  Surely that was a mis-print?  Surely they meant Nora?  Or Norma?  But no, it was definitely North.  So...with her father’s surname...that meant this new arrival’s name was North West.  A compass point.  Well isn’t she going to have fun being teased at school!
          I’m not quite sure what planet some celebrities are on when their newborn arrives.  Are the mothers, perchance, still hormonal and not thinking straight?  Hollywood actress Gwyneth Paltrow called her baby Apple.  No doubt Gwyneth was beaming at her newborn and thinking, ‘She’s the apple of my eye.’  Unfortunately the rest of us just think of a green Granny Smith.  Actor Sylvestor Stallone and his wife named their son Sage Moonblood – which conjures up a red moon covered in leaves.  Michael Jackson had a son called Blanket.  Visions of an electric blanket on a cold winter’s night spring to mind.  And Bob Geldoff has three daughters that I swear he possibly mistook for poodles.  Why else would you call them Fifi Trixibelle, Peaches and Pixie?
          I’m just waiting for some wag, or should I say WAG, to name their child Banana, Duvet, Happy Clappy Sunbeam or Sat Nav.  Nothing would surprise me.  There are also some rather funny surnames out there, but there’s not much we can do about our last name.  I can still remember somebody reading my surname upside down and thinking I was Mrs Viagra.  Which reminds me, have you tried that new beverage, Viagraccino?  One cup and you’re up all night...

Happy Father's Day!

Today, in the UK, it is Father’s Day.  This is a day of celebrating the love we (hopefully!) have for our fathers, but also our husbands who may be fathers too.  However, celebrated days like this one can be a bit of a double-edged sword if your father, or the father of your children, is no longer in this world.  Whilst I’m very lucky to still have my father, my children are not so fortunate.  So for them, they will be thinking of their dad with a tear in their eye.  However, they are fortunate to have a step-father who has been very good to them.  And to show their love and appreciation, later on this afternoon we shall treat my father and Mr V to an excellent lunch at the local Italian restaurant.
          Have you noticed that the card shops now do a Happy Father’s Day from the cat card?  And naturally, if you have a pooch, there is a card to be bought on behalf of the mutt too.  Dear Dad, here is your pipe, and here are your slippers, sorry one is chewed, and the other resembles shredded flippers, love from your faithful hound.
          Our pooch is nearly twelve years old.  It would be fair to say it has taken Mr V ten of those years to bond with her.  So when our cat, Dolly, joined the family a few months ago, she was very much on the starting line for winning my husband’s affection.  Not that she hasn’t tried.  It’s just that her idea of endearing habits aren’t shared by the head of the household.  Like curling up on the suit my husband had carelessly flung across the bed... and covering it in hair.  Or pouncing on his socks...with toes still inside.  Or shimmying up legs... whilst wearing flimsy cotton pyjamas.
          I’m not one to watch television, but last Thursday the newspaper headlined an experiment with cats wearing tiny cameras and trackers on their collars.  The idea was to monitor where a moggy went after jumping through the cat flap.  As Dolly has just started venturing outside, I was quite keen to watch the programme.  Mr V managed to pause The Sopranos for a full five minutes in order for me to watch a bit about feline behaviour.  And just when it got to the interesting bit, he pressed the remote control button and man with the weirdest hair-do I’ve ever seen (dark brown with side silver panels) filled the screen.    Anyway, I digress.
          What I did learn from my five minute viewing, is that the average female cat only strays fifty metres from her home.  Which was music to my ears as I’ve been totally neurotic about Dolly (a) getting lost or (b) finding the road and getting...let’s not go there.  Suffice to say Dolly hasn’t actually ventured out of the garden, preferring instead to spy on sparrows or chase gnats, leaves, and the dog’s tail, but not necessarily in that order.  And as neither the cat or dog are drivers, I will take a trip to the local card shop and buy a Father’s Day card on their behalf.
          Meanwhile, if you want to tell your father a joke on Father’s Day, try this one:
          Teacher (on phone):You say Michael has a cold and can’t come to school today?  To whom am I speaking?
          Voice: This is my father...

We're All Going on a Summer Holiday

The summer holiday is FINALLY booked.  Talk about lastminute.com, but at least we can now rest assured that ten days will be ours within the beautiful island of Crete.
          The last time I visited Rethymnon was 24 years ago with my first husband.  I still have a clear memory of walking the Samaria Gorge, a little under ten miles of stones, stones, and more stones, hopping across the river several times over as it threaded its way through a breathtaking landscape.
          ‘How marvellous,’ I gushed to Mr V, ‘we can walk the Samaria Gorge.  We mustn’t forget to pack our hiking boots.’
          My husband looked horrified.  ‘You can do what you like,’ he put his hands up in a backing off gesture, ‘but I’m doing nothing other than lying horizontal on the beach.’
          Well perhaps I’ll persuade him to go for a walk along the beach instead.  It is, after all, the longest in Crete and stretches a distance of some three miles.  There is something blissfully peaceful about leaving footprints in sand and listening to the ocean whooshing backwards and forwards.
          And hopefully the holiday will be drama free.  Unlike one previous holiday where my son went back to the apartment to use the loo, left the keys inside and slammed the door shut as he strolled back to the pool.
          ‘Did you remember the keys?’ asked my husband.
          Cue hysterics of the unfunny kind as Robbie paled at the implications of us being locked out.  One hour later my husband was dangling from a neighbour’s knotted sheets while a Spanish lady and I grimly hung on from the balcony above.  There was a horrible crash and the knotted sheets suddenly went slack.  I stared in horror at the Spanish lady and said, ‘I’m a bit squeamish, would you mind terribly looking over the balcony for me?’  ‘No, no,’ she protested, ‘or I vomit.  We do together.’  My husband was star-fished out on a demolished plastic table.  But he did live to see another day.
          Or the time our children took it upon themselves to rescue a frog that a group of Spanish children were tormenting.  This resulted in an almighty ding-dong between me and the children’s mother, even though neither of us could understand a word the other was saying.
          Or the time my daughter had a ten foot wave crash down on her and I ran into the sea to save her – doing the breaststroke.
          Or the time we drove to a Spanish village for a meal but spent hours trying to leave the place, driving over and over down the same street until I was convinced we’d stumbled upon the set of The Prisoner.  We got home at four in the morning.
          Meanwhile I’m embracing what appears to be the start of British summertime and will later wheel out the barbecue from the garage and cremate a few bangers and burgers.  The fact that we will still be wearing jeans and sweaters is neither here nor there.  The main thing is we won’t also be wearing coats, scarves and gloves.
          Which reminds me.  What is the definition of an English summer?  Three hot days and a thunderstorm...

La Streisand

Last night had been much anticipated for months.  Barbra Streisand was playing at the O2 Arena and my father, sister and I just happened to have tickets. The fact that these tickets had cost us mumble mumble pounds and weren’t even in the front row, was neither here nor there.  This woman was a legend.  A superstar.  When I was growing up, I devoured all her films and had a collection of her songs.  While other women wanted to look like Cindy Crawford, I wanted to look like Barbra Streisand.  I grew a fairly impressive nose in my teens, but that was where any similarity ended.
Just before we were leaving for the O2, a drama contact said she had some free places in front of the stage, and I was lucky enough to secure a couple of seats.  I immediately rang my son and said, ‘If you want to see an icon, get yourself over to the O2 now.’  I heard a startled squawk and the call disconnected.  Thirty minutes later Rob and his other half were there, seven rows from the stage and sitting next to Graham Norton and other ‘faces’.  My sister, when she found out, was furious.  ‘Fancy not letting us sit there.’  My sister has never had children and doesn’t understand that when it comes to your kids you sacrifice all.  She was still grumbling about it when we were puffing our way up the steps to Level Four – the area where numerous printed signs warn of the seats not being suitable for vertigo sufferers.
          ‘How much further?’ Janice asked.
          ‘Keep going,’ I said grimly.
          ‘How much further now?’
          ‘Almost there.’
          ‘But we’re practically touching the ruddy roof of the O2!’
          ‘Er, yes, that’s our seat up there.’
          ‘The very top row?’
          ‘Yes.’
          ‘We paid all this money for the highest row in the O2?’
          ‘Yes.’
          ‘And to think we could have been on the ground floor.  Unbelievable.  I can’t see a thing up here.  Did you bring binoculars?’
          But at that moment I was incapable of answering my sister’s question because, as I made my way along the very narrow platform to my seat, I’d had the misfortune to look down.  Suddenly the O2 tilted on its axis.  Forget experiencing a hot flush.  At that moment my entire body went into meltdown.  I clung onto the back of plastic seats as I edged, inch by inch, along the platform. My palms were so sweaty, they’d have been virtually useless at gripping anything if I’d tripped or fallen.  And then, ahead, another nightmare loomed.  A little gathering of people were standing up, pressed back against the wall so that we could squeeze past them.  My father seemed to think this was all terribly funny and laughed his head off as I shuffled along the ledge at a snail’s pace.  My sister was still fuming which was doing wonders for averting any vertigo of her own.  I reached the point of having to work my way around the people and instead ground to a halt.
          ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I croaked, ‘but I don’t think I can move.’
          ‘Yes you can dear,’ said a little old lady of about ninety.  She took my hand and helped me along the ledge all the while assuring, ‘You won’t fall dear, and if you do I’ll catch you.’  I thanked her from the bottom of my heart and cracked a small smile.  Angels come in many guises.
          And thus we were finally in our seats.  I clung on to the sides of mine until the Arena stopped rocking about and by the time La Streisand came on stage, the vertigo had gone.  I was in my own private bubble.  And I could see her perfectly – I had my specs on!  What a voice, and how fabulous did she look?  We met her sister and they sang a duet together.  Her son, Jason, also came on stage and, again, there was another duet.  Barbra also sang with a trumpet player and a young violinist whose talent went off the radar.  There were songs from musicals and Yentl, and of course classics like Evergreen and the more bouncy No More Tears which, back in 1979 Barbra sang with disco queen Donna Summer.
          And now you must excuse me.  I have a sudden urge to listen to the great lady singing.  Perhaps you’d like to listen too? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6zHYlQ_o09E


 
 

Blood Blog!

It’s been a bit of a week as I continue to recover from an operation that encountered blood clotting problems and a walloping great haematoma.
Being a parent trains you to deal with pretty much any crisis.  Feeling ill?  Mum’s here.  Want to throw up?  Mum’s here.  Missed the puke bowl?  Never mind, Mum will clear it up.  Funny tummy?  Mum will see to your tail.  From the moment a mother gives birth, she’s programmed to stomach dirty nappies and sicked-on sweaters.  But blood?  Um, no.  I can’t do blood.  So when my daughter uncertainly said, ‘Er, Mum, did you know your hair has gone very red?’ all common sense went out the window.  Going from blonde to redhead without a trip to the hairdresser, is not something I ever want to deal with again.  In the last 7 days I’ve had eighty-something mils of blood syringed out of me and, in the process, endured heart palpitations, rubber legs and an upper lip covered in sweat.  What is it about blood that sends some of us keeling over?
The first time I was aware that I wasn’t a fan of blood was w-a-a-y back in my school days.  I can still remember sitting, cross-legged, on the hall’s parquet floor during assembly while the headmistress enthusiastically told us about a visitor.  This visitor stepped up onto the stage to have ‘a little chat’ with us all.  Basically the gentleman was a scientist exploring beating heart patterns and looking for volunteers.  I can still remember him smiling and saying, ‘THIS is what a beating heart sounds like!’ before pressing the play button on his tape recorder.  Instantly the hall was filled with the sound of boom-boom...boom-boom.  Gosh, that’s interesting, I thought, and listened rapturously to the sound of an anonymous person’s heartbeat.  Except...what was that?  A duet was going on with another more persistent noise.  A sort of...squelchy gumboot-stuck-in-runny-mud noise.  And as I sat there in my pale blue cotton uniform, I suddenly felt distinctly odd.  I can still recall a teacher tapping me on the shoulder.  ‘Deborah!’ (Nobody called me Deborah other than teachers and the very way it was uttered was enough to instil the deepest fear of being in trouble).  ‘Deborah, come with me, you’re not well.’  I was amazed at my teacher’s ability to deduce how I was feeling.  ‘How do you know?’ I asked.  As I stood up, swaying, I realised my cotton uniform was wringing wet and had completely stuck to my body.  And no, I didn’t volunteer for the visitor’s project.  Nor have I ever been a blood donor.
 My mother, a retired nurse, had always hoped my sister and I would follow her into the nursing profession (she harboured hopes of us bagging eminent surgeons as husbands and living out a Mills & Boon happy-ever-after future).  However, much as helping others appeals, the thought of assisting a handsome doctor in Theatre is something that would have me swooning for all the wrong reasons.  I wonder what it is that makes some of us cope so well with blood, and others run off with the screaming heebie jeebies? 
Which reminds me.  What do vampires use to sail cross the sea?  Blood vessels...