Curmudgeonly Musings


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In late October this year I became interested in following no grain diets due to serious health issues. Being hypertensive, diabetic and starting to experience bloating and brain fog was a wake up call and I discovered Grain Brain by Dr David Perlmutter and Wheatbelly by Dr William Davis. The science in Wheatbelly read true and so I immediately decided to try the low-carb no grain approach. I didn’t find it particularly difficult since I can’t eat potatoes and have never much enjoyed pasta, rice or sugary things. I took it on faith that eating the foods recommended would lead to some weight loss and I was right.

Along the way, I reviewed Dr Davis’s book on Goodreads and gave him a very favourable review. Due to the viral nature of Goodreads, a friend of mine then suggested I join his Facebook Group and I gladly applied. At first this was great. People offered mutual support and shared recipes, as I did myself. When I managed to get my HbA1c results down to normal in three months I posted that too. I was very happy and wanted to share my good news in the group.

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Then I suffered another flare up of tendon trouble in my right hand. I had been quite foolish in late November early December. I was trying to get the log cabin project finished in case my sister wanted to stay over (she is allergic to my cats) and I spent a lot of time out in the cold using power tools to sand and polish some old pine furniture. That was the point at which the pain started and the tendon began to click. I would wake in the morning unable to straighten my ring finger on my right hand and the pain was excruciating.

The group had been so warm and friendly that I made a brief post basically saying that I was having a serious problem with RSI and trigger finger due to overuse of power tools when doing DIY and did anyone have a suggestion as to possible dietary treatments. Four very kind people responded with suggestions which I acknowledged with a like. Then the post was deleted without explanation.

I could not understand what was wrong here until somebody slipped me the word that DIY in the USA is not quite as innocent as DIY in the UK and that power tools might be misinterpreted as something altogether more seedy. I rephrased the post and many people again responded including one of the group administrators who said she certainly had not deleted any of my posts but maybe one of the other women or Dr Davis had. Next thing I know is that I have no more notifications from the group; puzzled by this, I searched for the page and got an access denied message. I asked a friend of mine if the group still existed. She said it did but I had disappeared from the members list along with all my posts. Hello! I was blocked.

Now I am no teenage troll and I find it very upsetting to have been thrown out of this support network without word of explanation from anyone. This is seriously spineless behaviour. I followed all the rules, I bought the books, followed the diet, behaved politely at all times, was never negative or rude, didn’t ask stupid questions, tried to support new members and now I was banned for reasons unknown. (Or rather, for reasons I suspect that are baseless and silly in the extreme). If I am correct in my suspicions then somebody needs to get their mind out of the gutter and whilst I seriously advocate the low-carb grain-free approach if you want to turn your life around, and whilst I still stand by the good reviews I have given Dr Davis’s books on Goodreads, I cannot recommend that anyone join his Facebook groups to be insulted and emotionally abused in this way by persons unknown.

I seriously hope that Dr Davis gets his house in order and sorts out whoever is responsible for this unacceptable and cruel behaviour towards somebody who needed help and was a good group member, contributing and showing support to others. If he does not, then I would question his sincerity. That is the reason for this very public blog post. Be careful. The truth is out there!

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…British, gay, lesbian, old, teenagers, religious, asexual… substitute whichever descriptor you find fits you best and then stop and ask why I started my post this way. That’s it, my friends, go on, take a minute, two even. Yes? Got it? It is because we pigeonhole our literature and often we pigeonhole ourselves. We file ourselves away so readily it isn’t funny.

It took me a lifetime to break out of my own little filing cabinet. So much more cramping than a closet don’t you think? I keep getting tidied away in different drawers to this day. There is only one label I own that I can’t actually see myself changing, although I attempted to in The Cougar because Berenice is who I would most like to be. Without getting into Berenice too much today, that label is human and with it comes a whole battery of conflicting and disturbing stuff, the worst of which is being mortal and therefore on borrowed time.

When I started out as a writer, I had no ambition to make money. I was just a simple bard, a poet and story teller in touch with the Seasons and the Soul, and by definition I wrote for me. I wrote about love, small love and great love, and I tied it in with the world I breathed in every day. My words reflected the beauty around me and the sheer gratitude I felt for being alive in this troubled but wonderful world. The words were exuberant and for some readers they reflected a simpler, bygone era. I was being a Romantic I now know, and I was a Romantic in an age of Anti-Romanticism so I got some well-earned stick from my critics which I wear as a badge of honour to this day.

As you get older, time diminishes. Twenty years is still twenty years – but it no longer feels like a lifetime; it feels more like a fleeting moment. The months seem like days and the days have fewer hours in them. We all should know our time here is precious and it passes ever more quickly. Add to that the little bits of wear and tear. I went from fit athlete to fat diabetic in the blink of an eye and the shock was overwhelming. At twenty, you can’t see it coming; at thirty you are still blind to it; at forty you are too busy doing whatever must be done; at fifty you start to realise most of your life is behind you. Then there was Berenice…

If I could transport my home from sunny Bracebridge Heath to the moody temperate rainforest of British Columbia; if I could walk from garden to forest in a breath; transform into any shape I chose; be young and beautiful; swim in pristine lakes whenever I wanted without feeling the cold and love with all my heart and soul I would be Berenice. She came to me in a dream and said “Tell my story” but her story belongs to us all. It is a story of love and loyalty, temptation and deliverance, conscience and awakening to love. It is a story of coming out to one’s own self, of realisation that gender is an accident, compassion is learned and love is all that matters.

I don’t want to stray too far from the opening premise of this post though. I had a long and friendly conversation with a young lesfic writer on Twitter about the dos and don’ts in the genre. It was quite enlightening. I mentioned earlier about pigeonholing ourselves and pigeonholing our literature? It keeps us in our comfort zone but here we have Berenice, bisexual, late awakener, and proud. Should I write about all her experiences? Her great love was a man, her new love a woman. Should I write in the modern way about all the sexual encounters in this story? Should I tone it down, a la Radclyffe Hall, and have no contact at all? No, that would be timid. I chose to go the D.H.Lawrence route and be straightforward and honest. All encounters are equally valid in this novel.

How do I assign a genre to The Cougar ? (Or that matter to The Wings to Fly ). In all honesty I can’t. I tried fantasy and paranormal but the lesbian and trans scenes are no go areas for the usual swords, elves and kingdoms reader. If I go LGBT I will be disappointing the M/M fans who seem to dominate the genre and if I try lesfic, even though it has a lesbian romance at its very heart, I will be upsetting those readers who don’t like to read about straight sex. Biphobia and bi-erasure are still so widespread. There is a non-con marital scene in that has disturbed some readers although I think it needs to be in so that we can understand Owen and Angela’s situation and what motivates their later actions.

It seems that I have a story that refuses to fit in anywhere and yet it is an honest story, written from an honest perspective. Perhaps you will read The Cougar and decide for yourself but only if you are prepared to be open to the desire for immortality and the notion that love is all and all is love.

I spend a lot of time on Twitter. Possibly (very likely) more than I should and that is possibly counterproductive in terms of time management, but I have grown my following by being real and interactive. Occasionally I am tempted to schedule tweets and I do find they can be effective for reaching people in the middle of the night. If I do, I always respond to follows and retweets as soon as I can.

Lately I have been seeing a lot of relatively small accounts growing their own followers by offering random retweets and telling you this is the way to go. It is almost like a follow train (another thing I won’t do) and while still within the rules it is only a matter of time before Twitter reacts to it and makes it harder to do. Already it is impossible to access your own likes for pinning to your profile later, you used to be able to keep them for years, now the limit is days. Favourites have been replaced by “moments” and I am not even sure what “moments” are. (Perhaps someone who is a real person can tell me in the comments?) That has been done for a reason, most likely to stop automation of this sort. It is very annoying when measures taken to discourage automation stop the user from sending real messages that quote your own old tweets… but there you go… It is the price we pay for these cheating Autotweet apps.

I know lots of people who used to interact personally and reciprocate RTs are now using random apps instead of spending time on Twitter. They no longer respond or reciprocate so I no longer retweet them. In my limited time I want to interact with real people, not be overlooked by third party apps. So, that is my curmudgeonly musing for the day. If you ARE a new retweet app user you are losing the impressions my RTs would have given you. I prefer the real deal!

I was deliberately leaving this post for a week, post election, to allow for some clarity and time to think. In the course of that time things have changed and not for the better. A week is a long time in politics, and in that week I have come to terms rationally with my own disappointing result. It could have been worse of course but it wasn’t great. I will start there because emails and phone calls I received after showed that voters were more upset by the result than I was. You don’t fight an election to lose although you might fight it to “fly the flag” in a seat where you see little chance of success.

Bearing that in mind, when things go to plan there is always the chance of a political upset. Not so in the recent General Election. A few seats swung by a small margin between the first and second placed political parties last time round. One or two targeted seats were won by huge effort, others were lost despite it. On the wider front, analysis showed both main parties increased their share of the vote dramatically and squeezed third party, smaller parties and independents out –
resulting in hundreds, if not thousands, of lost deposits nationwide.

“Good,” say some (usually left-wing) activists. “They should shut up, or grow up and join one of the main two parties.”

“Good,” say some journalists. “It shows they are irrelevant.”

I say “Bad!” because democracy suffers the more we polarise party politics. There is no room for the Middle Way or for rational discussion. There is only “What can we do to win Murdoch’s readership?”

In Britain we have been brought up to believe consensus politics is bad and certainly coalitions have always been bad for one of the partners but many other countries cope really admirably with their hung parliaments. It filters out extreme policies and wild swings one way and then the other. It better represents democracy.

The trouble is that the system we have and the influence of hard-hitting political journalism on the results is actually polarising our nation at a time when it badly needs to be united. This takes many forms, but the most extreme example for me this time round was the treatment of Tim Farron on television. This man, a decent and honest working class liberal Christian, has effectively now been bullied out of his leadership position simply because he is decent and honest. He did not lie about his Christianity, nor did he allow his Christian beliefs to define him but he was castigated for those beliefs. Those of us within the Liberal Democrats who identify as LGBT or allies had no issue with Tim’s Christianity but the media did.

A defining moment of journalistic nastiness was Andrew Neil’s so-called “interview”. On the proposed referendum on BREXIT terms, Farron was constantly shouted down mid answer and then blamed for running out of time. That way, the party policies were kept under wraps and a whole political party made irrelevant to those who did not know the policies. It is easy to suggest after the event that he might actually have done better to walk out saying “I thought this was an interview, not a speech by you.” It might have got him press coverage for what he wasn’t allowed to say.

I would have been disgusted by Andrew Neil’s arrogant and rude interview technique whichever leader he had turned his venom on. His approach is often boorish and I have to say extremely narcissistic. I am really so sorry that Mr Farron feels he has to leave the political stage because of this bully. I am even more sorry that there will be political activists out there in the main two parties who think it is fair game to be intolerant of religious differences. Now the same blinkered journalists are trying to make out that the election was about BREXIT; it wasn’t, for vast swathes of people it was about social justice and the Labour Party were not the only proponents of that. They just cashed in on a lot of tactical votes.

Finally, I honestly believe it is time for the BBC to move away from pretty graphics, endlessly looping sound bytes and egotistical, bullying presenters and move back towards what the licence fee we all have to pay was intended for – public SERVICE and public INFORMATION. There should be no place for the cult of “The Great I Am” in an organisation that claims to be politically neutral and every place for informed comparison of policy differences. This is happening on the internet through new apps which will, in time, make main stream journalists superfluous unless they grow up and stop showing off. Democracy is not about THEM. It is about the people.

Imagine the situation. You have a serious medical condition that holds you virtually bedridden for most of the time. It is an invisible illness that saps every ounce of your strength. You are painfully thin. Sometimes you can’t lift a fork to your mouth to eat and even if your carer does it for you you can’t swallow your food without a huge effort. You can’t have a bath without help because you no longer have the strength to get in and out unaided. You are only free from pain when you sleep and the pain stops you from sleeping. Your GP has retired. The new one doesn’t want to know.

For years you have been receiving Disability Living Allowance then with one slip of the pen you are thrown into the category of “new case” and new rules come into play. Despite the reassurances you have had in the past and old rules that the DWP stuck to for a while you now have to prove your level of disability, that you are unfit for work and deserve PIP at both levels. A “nurse” comes to assess you at home where you are so ill with a migraine that you can’t even speak, let alone answer the questions.

You are given a painkiller and it takes seven attempts to swallow it. The “nurse” notes this down as “Capable of swallowing, drank a glass of water in my presence.” Your carer, when attempting to answer questions is repeatedly shouted down and told to “Shut up and let her answer”. Every question is a trap, every answer is a minefield and you are given the very lowest benefit level possible and you are now subject to regular “assessment interviews” because of her skewed and unfair assessment.

You phone a stranger, reaching out in desperation because you can’t cope with the stress of the next interview. All that stranger can advise is that you record the interview. Let them KNOW you are recording it for your records (or for the Press perhaps). She will try and contact them to delay, rearrange or reconsider your case but has been told they will not discuss anything due to confidentiality.

This is a situation that is playing out day after day across Britain as a group of “Jobsworths” being paid to do the ugliest job possible do their best to deliver efficiency and cut benefit bills. Everyday, sick people are being driven to desperation, some contemplating suicide even, because of CAPITA’s Disability Assessments and Disability Work Assessments.

“Was this the creation of wicked Conservatives?” you might ask. No, it was the brainchild of a Labour minister but they did nothing to stop or reverse it. Somewhere in this cruel scenario that plays out like a Kafka story the people have been lost, humanity and compassion have gone out of the window, common decency is moribund if not dead. It is a scenario that probably costs more to administer than it could ever save, even if those people did not desperately need the help that a decent society should ungrudgingly provide.

Never mind Theresa May’s “money trees”, what we have here is a screening process that probably costs more to deliver than it actually saves. We witness untold pain and suffering caused to vulnerable people. There is actual fear of the bullies (and yes they often are bullies) employed to enforce benefit cuts on people with terrible and almost totally incapacitating conditions they never chose to have. Does this make you feel proud to be British? Personally, I think politicians of both Red and Blue varieties should hang their heads in shame at this vicious travesty of justice.

Please share. Please comment if you have been treated in a similar way. Somehow we HAVE to make them leave their ivory towers at Westminster and listen.

The wheels on the bus go round and round – unless you were with me this morning. I found myself car less when Theresa May called the snap election she had said she would never call. Getting to a meet and greet session with Age UK in Horncastle is not so easy if you are car less. Although Horncastle actually has a better service than, say, Louth or Mablethorpe it is still limited to one bus an hour. Evening services in Lincolnshire are virtually non-existent. You could travel to Louth in the afternoon and easily find yourself having to stay overnight if you miss the last bus back at around four.

Nobody who actually lives here has ever claimed that public transport in Lincolnshire is adequate, of course. Our rail services are limited and indirect, thanks to Mr Beeching, which is terrible news for our coastal resorts. Compared with London, Sussex and Kent we are undoubtedly a poor relation and an embarrassment. You can travel until midnight or even later on trains in South England. Busses run well into the evening to connect London with towns nearby. How can you have a busy city and a great night life without public transport? Well, in Lincolnshire you don’t travel far at night, to party or otherwise, unless you have a car and a designated driver. No wonder we are a sleepy lot!

So, my trip to Age UK for a meeting and coffee morning involved two busses. One to take me to Lincoln and that arrived at eight in the morning. I kicked up the dust and trialled my shooting stick – a necessary travelling accessory as there are no proper benches at Lincoln bus station. (I suppose because they don’t want to make it easy for our rough sleepers). At nine, I gratefully got on the Skegness service, which stops at Horncastle amongst other places, and sat back to enjoy the beautiful scenery en route.

We were well on schedule until, having just left Wragby, I heard a colossal bang.

“Jimminy cricket!” I exclaimed (the way you do). “What in tarnation was that?”

I didn’t think domestic terrorism had travelled to rural Lincolnshire just yet. Perhaps some oik who was bored on half term holiday had fired an air rifle at the window? A few seconds later we heard the unmistakable whine of a slipping clutch and the bus slowly ground to a halt in the middle of the back of beyond – or somewhere very farm-ish between Wragby and Hatton.

The driver was efficient, polite and tactful in the emergency, he called Lincoln and Skegness for mechanics and a replacement bus. He allowed parents with small children and a large dog to stroll along a farm track. He let me use his mobile phone as I couldn’t get a BT signal to use Skype on my notepad. Shortly after the mechanics had arrived, declared the bus undriveable, and the ten o’clock from Lincoln had passed us by, we all piled into a replacement double decker and cheerfully set off. The driver even told us to claim a refund of our fare because of the inconvenience.

A lady from Manchester led the singing. We sang “The Wheels on the Bus” and “If you’re Happy and You Know It”, much to delight of a three year old boy who had been positively angelic all through the journey. Then she launched into a cumulative rugby song about boils on noses of the women of the harem of Caractacus which frightened the little soul, probably because he was as confused as I was trying to figure out the words.

Well, they didn’t mind that I was an hour late. We joked about making this a social media opportunity about the poor public transport links in Lincolnshire. It wasn’t traumatic or stressful. There are much worse things happening in the world than a bus breaking down in the countryside on a glorious sunny day but we really, really need a decent transport infrastructure in this county.

There was a time, not too long ago, when to have a well-rounded liberal education was considered a good thing. I grew up in such a system. My education in areas of health, careers and financial management was non-existent but I could read and speak a little in three languages, knew a little Latin and dabbled in music and poetry while studying towards maths and science A-levels. That was the point at which things started to change for me.

I was blessed with a Maths teacher who was somewhat of a genius mathematically but not very gifted as a pedagogue. He expected us all to understand instinctively what was needed to solve problems. For the A* students that was no problem but most of us struggled. For me, it fell apart with integral calculus and that, I was told, was essential for A level Chemistry. Without Maths and Chemistry my best subject, Biology, had to be dropped much against my protests and those of Mr Howard my Biology teacher. Why? Well, in those days one science A level was apparently no use to anyone when it came to University entrance so when I dug my heels in and refused to give up A level Music and have extra maths homework I was reassigned to taking English and French midway through my second term.

I suppose I had these difficulties because I was a bit of a polymath which was fine up to year twelve (sixth-form we were called then) but afterwards you had to think about University and careers. Had my Maths teacher been more imaginative I could possibly have conquered the little block I had on integral calculus; at that time I could do it mechanically but didn’t understand its application to real life problems. I would have completed my science courses as planned, but I didn’t. In such circumstances I would probably have gone on to study music therapy, which needed science and music, or psychology which fascinated me then and still does – or even both – but as it was I was left with arts subjects and no ambition.

The whole experience was demoralising and I dropped out for a while after passing those exams. What followed was two years in the retail trade, then a four year degree in teaching and a lifetime drifting through the education system in various incarnations, cover teacher, class teacher, college lecturer and peripatetic music teacher. It was a good career but it never set me alight. I spent my free time variously scribbling poetry, stories and scripts, making musical arrangements for guitar, writing songs and composing my own serious “classical” music.

So many years later, I regret nothing. I did what I had to do and followed the paths I was told to follow by my elders and betters. Now I find I am still torn by many interests; history, politics, science, the environment, animals and nature – not to mention a spiritual side I usually keep under wraps. I am content if not happy. In this life nobody can be completely happy if they are aware of the plight of others. We all experience loss, which we learn to accept, and horror at terrible events, which is perhaps harder to cope with. I have fans who listen to my music on internet radio. I sell musical arrangements and compositions worldwide. I have just published my second novel which, until last week, was selling and being read. I have four books of poetry under my belt and I am working on several projects when the cats allow me some free time.

Why do I write this now? Well, as an author, I am daunted by the importance of genre and tropes. I see specialism is not confined to the sciences now but has filtered through into the arts too. Authors are expected to use pen names when they write in different genres. This is a process that is all about selling and targeting readers. The great writers of history did not confine themselves in such an unnatural way. Shakespeare wrote tragedies and comedies. He toyed with history and the paranormal. Edgar Allen Poe dabbled with detective fiction, science fiction and poetry although he is remembered for horror. Oscar Wilde dabbled in horror, moral tales and poetry although he was best known for satire, wit, and the theatre.

Take a look at my page at Author Central if you want to see diversity:

Lisa Gabriel on Author Central

If you travel over to iTunes and look me up there you will see my music is not particularly specialised either:

Lisa Marie Gabriel on iTunes

It’s just that sometimes creative people need that bit of freedom just to BE. The selling is something we would hope, often in vain, that others with entrepreneurial abilities might do for us and in this day and age that becomes less and less likely. So please forgive the polymaths of the world, the multi-genre authors and the fusion musicians. We are not trying to deceive you, we are just who we are. I hope you all had a wonderful Easter, Ostara or whatever else you like to call it and may your God/dess bless and keep you whoever He/She is.

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