the Tender Years

The Tender 

Years 

Queenie Tarquin ‘QT’ Saunders 

Self-styled ‘Chief Essex Girl’ 

a.k.a. Simon Richard Lee, BA, MA (King’s 

College, Cambridge, UK) CEng MIEE MIET 

MInstMC 

My story as the survivor of a journey through life 

with many long periods of mental, physical and above all 

spiritual illness and so misery 

Electric Zen Buddha 

(as on Face Book)

There is really no such thing as 

scientific proof, only proof in maths 

(amounts) and logic (qualities). 

Rule ONE of both is that NOBODY 

CAN PROVE A NEGATIVE E.G. THAT 

GOD CANNOT EXIST! THEREFORE 

GOD DEFINITELY EXISTS - BY 

PROOF! 

Truth, trust, joy, peace and love 

follow the Still Small Voice of Calm 

as Day Follows Night!

Take a long hard look on face Book 

at ‘Electric Zen Buddha’ 

(www.facebook.com/ElectricZenBud 

dha/ - ‘Si Li’ is Professor Lee’s main 

reviewer)

ISBN 9798651539567 

Main site: www.womb-tardis.org 

This book is FREE TO READ IN FULL ONLINE AS A FLIP 

BOOK: - 

www.free-book-8-by-qt-saunders-have-a-good-stare.org 

Sold at www.lulu.com/spotlight/authormeuk 

paperback 

- in A4 

Also, sold at most AMAZON Web Sites: - in both A4 

Paperback and Amazon e-book (Kindle) formats : - 

www.amazon.com 

www.amazon.co.uk etc, etc. 

Copyright © 1998-2019 by Simon Richard Lee 

The moral rights of the author have been asserted. 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be 

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in 

any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, 

photocopy, recording or otherwise, without prior 

permission of the copyright owner.

All typing from her totally illiterate mostly scrawled notes, 

100% ghost-writing by him, ALL proof-reading, 

typesetting, and colour photo on front cover, i.e. 100% of 

the editing and production of this book, were by SIMON 

RICHARD LEE. 

Meanwhile QT Saunders is the LAZIEST, FILTHIEST, 

‘CHIEF ESSEX GIRL EVER’ AS SHE EVEN 

BOASTS… 

She kept saying to poor, very ill, Simon Lee, as he 

SLAVED on her very mediocre book, with no real 

ending, while mainly she lounged about doing her 

fingernails again, etc, etc. ‘Hurry up! The sooner YOU 

publish this AMAZING BESTSELLER of MINE – the 

sooner I, QT Saunders, will become FILTHY RICH!’ 

TOUGH, QT Saunders, Simon Richard Lee did 100% of 

the actual work on this book, so HE gets ANY and ALL 

Royalties – you just had a basic obviously all-fictional set 

of ‘notions in note form’ not even typed up, most of 

them… 

If you want a penny of Royalties from my Publishing 

Organisation for this book ‘Zen Buddha’ – produce your 

valid I.D.: - N.B. a valid passport!

This book is dedicated to my twin sons who like me 

shall remain nameless; with a real allegedly ‘maiden’ 

surname like ‘Spike’ 

who can blame me – or them?

Manifesto: - 

Abolish All Money 

• Make everything in the world all FREE 

• The Machine especially now tranSiStorS is 

‘The Beast 666’… 

• Census all machines especially computers 

• License all machines especially computers 

FOURFold il Professori Emeritus Simon Richard Lee 

BA, MA (King’s College, Cambridge, England, in 

Physics, Maths, Chemistry, Biology and Computer 

Science) CEng, MIEE, MIET, MinstMC. Full Kensho 

Enlightenment 2014-2020 is The Cream on the Cake! 

Long career in computer, instrument and control 

system bare-bones design and installation 

engineering; now book writing & Website Promotion. 

Electric Zen Buddha (as on Face Book) 

Allah === JHWH God === ALpha&OmegAH!

There is really no such thing as 

scientific proof, only proof in maths 

(amounts) and logic (qualities). 

Rule ONE of both is that NOBODY 

CAN PROVE A NEGATIVE E.G. THAT 

GOD CANNOT EXIST! THEREFORE 

GOD DEFINITELY EXISTS - BY 

PROOF! 

Truth, trust, joy, peace and love 

follow the Still Small Voice of Calm 

as Day Follows Night!

ISBN 9798651552566 

Copyright © Mr il Professori Emeritus FOURFold 

Simon Richard Lee BA MA (King’s College Cambridge 

England) 

CEng MIEE MIET MInstMC 

Saint George’s Day, Tuesday 23 rd April 2019 

It has been exactly forty days and nights since the 

26 th Anniversary of Simon Richard Lee’s Baptism of 

the Holy Spirit at 8.42pm 16 th March 1994. 

TRAGICALLY SIMON RICHARD LEE HAS NOW 

FINALLY PASSED ON A PAUPER… 

Simon Richard Lee’s work is being continued by 

daddiesforjustice@gmail.com 

www.yumpu.com (FREE - IN FULL as a lovely 

3D flip book!) 

Available to buy at a very good price at: - 

Most Amazon sites: - www.amazon.com 

www.amazon.co.uk etc. etc. …. …

INTRODUCTION 

11 th January 2019 

The Momentous Biblical ‘Sign of the Son of Man – the 

ARCHANGEL’ 1 st -2 nd January 2019 AD has led exactly 11 

days after the Old Moon at the very Witching Hour on 

New Year’s Morning, to THE VERY POLAR SPIRITUALLY 

OPPOSITE DATE ‘11/1/19’ or ‘1111/9’ ie ‘1111/3x3’ - to 

one of the most notorious dates in the whole of (mostly 

recent) history – ‘9/11’ or 11 th September 2001! 

Especially in terms of utter financial instability, yet more even 

worse global violence, aggressive posturing and equally ever 

mounting world warfare. Meanwhile a huge and very evil 

campaign at vast expense has been underway by very weird 

‘people’ to make The Notorious Beast 666 or The Machine 

totally dominant and supreme over us ‘mere’ humans! 

The interpretation of this incredible date is that it marks the 

beginning of the very rapid ‘twinkling of an eye’ imminent END 

of the very many abominable years since ‘9/11’ round the 

world in most respects, getting steadily ever worse. New Year 

2019 was the Start of the Age of Aquarius! 

Will an ideal world soon ‘in the twinkling of an eye suddenly 

emerge like the Utopia described in my own book ‘Manifesto : 

Abolish All Money!’ as at both sites 

www.maam.org.uk 

www.abolish-all-money.org 

Even more astonishing – will we be able to talk freely AND 

them talk back, to the ‘elendila’ of this New Heavens and New 

Earth as predicted in the very last chapter of the Bible – 

Angels, other unseen Spirit Beings, and animals and even 

plants? 

1

The Jehovah’s Witnesses and some other spiritual groups 

actually fully anticipate and predict this miraculous Ideal New 

Word – like ‘Narnia’! 

The odds against an absolutely pristine perfectly formed for 

just once ever, Islamic Symbol in The Heavens AT JEWISH and 

CHRISTIAN NEW YEAR, as on 2 nd January 2019, as it is 

normally irregular even though always visible in the South 

Eastern sky apart from cloud cover, are absolutely infinite – 

this has NEVER happened ever before! 

The strange date that has immediately followed just 11 days 

later is equally stupendous as it is MASSIVELY symbolic that 

right this day is incredibly powerful spiritually. For it marks the 

imminent start of a really quite short sharp Global Spiritual 

Crisis – the BATTLE OF ARMAGEDDON. 

For thousands of years the world has been spiritually 

dominated by a brutally simplistic and misleading such battle of 

alleged only ‘Good versus Evil’. However BOTH ‘sides’ in this 

are based on the totally misleading notion that their basic 

principle is a so called ‘Trinity’ of three HEADS. Most adherents 

of Christian style sects and Churches are taught that the very 

‘Key Saving Phrase’ of their religion is ‘God the Father, God the 

Son and God the Holy Ghost’ even though the word ‘(Holy) 

Trinity’ they use to describe this really very weird all-male 

three-member ‘Godhead’ IS NOT MENTIONED once IN THEIR 

PRE-EMINENT HOLY BOOK, THE BIBLE! 

As also discussed at length in my book ‘This is the Dawning of 

the Time of the End’, the ‘godhead of the OPPOSING “Evil” 

SIDE’ is ALSO a Trinity – called Mephistopheles, with three 

daemonic heads called Satan, Lucifer and Be’Elzebub (or 

Be’Elzebabl). 

Yet the ‘Name of God’ as in the Old Testament of the Bible is 

‘JHWH’ or ‘I am (that) I am’; obviously with FOUR not THREE 

components – which my extensive research reveals very 

conclusively overleaf can be summarised by a DIAGRAM 

showing just what the prophet EZEKIEL saw in his incredible 

2

Vision of the Nature of God in chapter one of his book in the 

Old Testament in The Bible. 

This Vision can be seen indeed to show the CHRISTIAN ‘God 

the Father (the very Spirit of Good and His and Our Lady 

Goodness); God the Son (Jesus Christ – the very Meaning of 

Life) and God the Holy Ghost (FATHER TIME, especially THE 

PAST but with two other whole vast ‘dimensions’ – ‘THE 

PRESENT and THE FUTURE’. COMPLICATED BY AN OVERALL 

fourth DIMENSION OF TIME – ITS ‘SHELL OR COSMIC EGG’ .. 

!!!) 

However, IN ADDITION these three MALE DEITIES (the 

Christian Trinity, mysteriously that word ‘Trinity’ is NOT 

MENTIONED in ANY BIBLE or THE KORAN or ANY HOLY BOOK 

except Freemason ones … … !!!) hide, protect and shield at 

their centre… 

The EIGHT-FOLD (not TRIUNE AS THE Occult ONLY CLAIM 

WRONGLY … !) GODDESS of THE HOLY SPIRIT, the FEMALE 

Fourth Member of the Divine QUARTET TEAM!!! 

Comprised of the THREE Mary’s who were crucified at the foot 

of Jesus Christ’s Cross AFTER Him – the VERY MECHANISM of 

HOW ALL THREE ‘ASSUMED’ TO BE ‘Queens of Heaven’ AT 

ONCE, NOT JUST MARY JESUS’ MOTHER, TOTALLY UNLIKE THE 

ROUTINE RITUALISTIC CATHOLIC MYTH AGAIN ALSO NOT IN 

THE BIBLE OR THE KORAN!!! 

The EIGHT in the COMPLETE team (as in the book of Revelation 

at the very end of the Christian Bible) are: - 

The above THREE Mary’s (THE actual TRIUNE GODDESS of the 

OCCULT!); next Sophia (or Athena or Wisdom) - The 

Counsellor of the SUPREME LORD GOD ‘ALLAH’ OR ‘GOOD’ 

(the word ‘God’ in Anglo-Saxon ALSO means just ‘good’!) … 

WITH ALLAH-SHAH === OUR LADY === HIS LADY 

WIFE(s) === GOOD-NESS! 

{The Loch ‘-Ness’ Monster(s) gets a nod here!} 

3

Along with ‘twins’ Ariel, the Spirit of the Air and the Heavens; 

and Gaia the Earth Mother… Operative numerological numbers 

222-7 AND 222-2 – identities still hidden at present – to 

protect them till the very safe end!!! 

Myself, MICHAEL (ALSO given ALL these OTHER 

SPIRITUAL NAMES by OUR LADY(ies) === Stephen 

Nicholas ‘Pilchard’ ‘Wencheslad’ or SANTA CLAUS!!!) as in 

Revelation Chapter 10-14 … … !!! 

I was born at 1:06am on 30 th March 1957 … I still cannot 

remember myself – so Mum told me! 

Was it GMT or BST? I still don’t know myself, it was all rather 

confusing at 30/03/5+7=1+2=3 (3/3/3!!!) 

What with rock’n’roll emerging from LOVELY BLACK MUSIC 

– JAZZ AND R’n’B … AT THE SAME INSTANT … … !!!!!!! 

Typical Aries? Yes, head and brain so huge I fitted an adult 8½ 

size hat at birth, obviously needing surgery for unfortunate 

Mum – a very painful episiotomy! 

Head and body size comically equal in earliest portrait photos, 

HUGE head - made acceptable by a lovely baby’s smile. I 

was exactly three months old, on 30 th June, 1957; when I was 

baptized at DURSLEY Tabernacle in Gloucestershire. Yes, JK 

Rowling! 

MUM (1 st July 1931 – 26 th August 2007) – died from her star 

sign of cancer, or so the lies went. No, involuntary euthanasia 

is MURDER, especially by SIMPLY JEALOUS CUNNINGSTUNT 

DOCTOR-ER’s on the bleak TENTH floor of hideously clinical and 

cold Godhelpusall ‘University College Hospital, London’… 

With equally EVIL MACMILLAN CANCER NURSES as their 

INSTRUMENT IN INJECTING MUM WITH A vast SYRINGE OF 

UNDILUTED POISON… 

4

Before shooing the grieving, confused family, mostly from a 

vigil apart from me, recovering from hospital yet again myself; 

out of her death bed room – actually murder scene! 

So more weird numerology, JK Rowling, by Planny Plotter here 

– or is it REALLY just as comical ‘Life of Simon’??? 

Or is it as ALL numerology, my and my family’s weird story? 

For on the EVE of her 26 th BIRTHDAY ON 1 st July 1957, 

PRECISELY 26 weeks from the start AND the end of the year 

Mum and the family had me baptized… 

As her soon to become eldest son after first my brother Jeremy 

arrived to utterly torment me from day #1 (16 th January 1959 

– as carefully ‘family planned by Mum’ as a top ward manager, 

since my birth specializing in birth control for the entire 

Welwyn-Hatfield area – specializing in HELPING ALL THE POOR 

CATHOLIC FATHERS ‘BYPASS THE ANCIENT DECREPIT 

POPES’!!!; as her final offspring, my sister Libby or Elisabeth. 

She was born 22 nd February 1961 – a typical ‘Cusp of Pisces’ 

type totally disorganized so domineering to compensate type!) 

My brother, who I have never really EVER even got to know at 

all, kept on ferocious abuse and torment in ‘very naughty a 

way indeed’ by systematically destroying all my beautiful 

creations in ‘lego’, ‘meccano’ and ‘plasticine’… 

I already showed incredible patience and forbearance (I think 

my brother actually TRAINED me in these attributes by his 

appalling behavior. For I just doggedly rebuilt everything he 

kept on smashing up giggling, only striking him in eventual 

anger after about the fifth or even eighth act of utter 

destruction by Jeremy the wicked vandal of all my endless hard 

work rebuilding my wonderful masterpieces over and over 

again. So I was up against sheer jealousy from age two or 

even younger in my life…!!!) 

As a DEFINITE VIRGIN AT THE ALTAR (Dad was her only ever 

boyfriend – they met while both school kids at DURSLEY 

Grammar school, Gloucestershire (JK Rowling!) and fell in love 

just after puberty! 

5

How romantic, compared to my own extremely patchy love life, 

yet typical of most men by my current age of about 62, of 

ABOUT EIGHT REAL LOVE AFFAIRS BEFORE AND AFTER one 

absolutely treacherous wife! 

Who was in a conspiracy with ALL THE FREEMASONS 

INVOLVED (INCLUDING MY OWN SOLICITOR AND HER OWN 

MASONIC FAMILY SIMPLY SAID TO HER ‘HE JUST HAS TO GO’ 

AND SHE FOLLOWED LIKE A SHEEP!) 

TO QUITE ILLEGALLY, DIVORCE ME WITHOUT ALLOWING ME 

ANY DEFENCE WHATSOEVER! 

ANY PERSON’S FIRST RIGHT UNDER THE LAW WAS TOTALLY 

AND UTTERLY DENIED TO ME BY THIS CONSPIRACY OF HER 

MASONIC FAMILY AND ALL THE EQUALLY MASONIC LAWYERS 

– AND IN MY CASE MASONIC DOCTOR-ERS! 

INVOLVED IN UTTERLY STRIPPING ME AND MAKING ME 

DESTITUTE OF ALL MY PREVIOUS CONSIDERABLE WEALTH, 

JUST SO SHE COULD GET A PARTNERSHIP SO MAKE HER 

SINCE INCREDIBLY MASSIVE FORTUNE BY BUYING A 

PARTNERSHIP AS A VET … ! ALL WITH MY NOT HER OWN 

SAVINGS AS SHE HAD NOTHING ON JUST £6,000 A YEAR AS 

JUST A ‘MINION VET’! 

SHE EVEN MADE ME TOTALLY HOMELESS IN THIS TOTALLY 

ILLEGAL DIVORCE - SHE HATED ME SO MUCH OVER A PACK OF 

LIES AS CHARGES … !!! 

For at 6’2” I am the world’s gentlest giant, the world’s gentlest 

“womens’ and childrens’ man” EVER – for I have never 

seriously STRUCK anybody (after Jeremy my brother as a 

toddler – then in despair…) 

NO SENTIENT CREATURES EITHER only even - just a few 

harassing WASPS in my entire life! Despite spending most of 

that tormented time constantly being provoked by extremely 

violent people, especially of course men – almost always for 26 

years now, locked up in British Prison Godhelpusalls! 

6

I am as you can tell, a ‘simplistic not a Simple Simon type’… 

‘Pere Anglestein’! The Chief MALE Archangel (the ONLY – VERY 

alpha – male in the team otherwise of SEVEN as in the BOOK 

OF REVELATION!) and above all my ALSO assumed MUM, 

the Greatest NURSE EVER IN THE UNIVERSE!!!! 

Her unbelievably PERFECT MEMORY let her manage THE 

ENTIRE UNIVERSITY OF HERTFORDSHIRE MEDICAL CENTRE 

with no TYPING OR EVEN notes (SHE COULD NOT TYPE … !!!) 

YET SHE KNEW EVERYTHING ABOUT A ‘tiny ward’ of about 

100,000 staff and students across a large county. AMAZINGLY, 

with utter INTEGRITY ALWAYS about their CONFIDENTIALITY!!! 

THE MACMILLAN CANCER DOCTORS AND NURSES murdered 

my MUM with INVOLUNTARY EUTHANASIA when she just had a 

VIRUS … !!! 

They KNEW her breast cancer was nearly over, just with tiny 

more treatment… THEY KILLED HER OUT OF THAT ANCIENT 

ULTIMATE FOE OF US BOTH WITH THESE ‘doctor-ers’ especially 

‘CUNNINGSTUNTS’ OR ‘CONSULTANTS’ … … !!! 

IN ONE WORD – JEALOUSY!!! 

7

This worst MURDER EVER by MACMILLAN DOCTORS AND 

NURSES of somebody ABOUT TO RECOVER FROM BREAST 

CANCER – merely secured MUM’s ASSUMPTION TO BECOME 

THE ARCHANGEL GABRIEL ON HER DEATH ON 24 th August 

2007! 

The female HERALD or SPOKES-PERSON of this INCREDIBLE 

team === GABRIEL, FAIRY GOD - MOTHER OF GOD - as men 

cannot give birth! 

The True Supreme God(dess)… a WOMAN! 

‘Vengeance is a sweet dish, best served up ICY COLD!’ – 

SPECIAL FORCES ROUND THE WORLD MOTTO, originally from 

the BRITISH SAS AND SBS! 

YET ‘VENGEANCE IS MINE, SAITH THE LORD!’ … 

… THE CREDIT CRUNCH HAPPENED immediately … 

In that SAME AUTUMN – WITHIN A WEEK OF HER MOST 

TREACHEROUS EVER AND MOST VICIOUS AND APPALLING 

MURDER – BY ‘PROFESSIONAL’ COLLEAGUES – HER OWN PEER 

GROUP!!! 

8

9

More weird ‘Numerology’ – 11 th January 2019 

So now I am in a position to explain the profoundly deep 

symbolism of today’s date 1111/9 i.e. 1111/3x3… 

It is the very date of the launch of Armageddon in which I hope 

to play a very large part indeed by working on my existing 

sixteen websites as listed on the next few pages, over the 

coming weekend, and re-launching them with completely 

revised titles, subtitle and keywords. 

For to my amazement shortly after I struggled manfully with 

the vast amount of sheer hard work of putting these sixteen 

many identical websites up on the Web, Mr Satan i.e. Big 

Brother actually instructed Google, Bing, AOL, and MSN, so all 

the major search engines, to DESTROY ALL my very many high 

ranking search entries! 

So the large amount of painstaking work in the next few pages 

of documenting all my many very high ranking (page one often 

#1 or #2) search entries is totally out of date as NONE of those 

high ranking search entries survive! 

I am really hoping that this second time around, I once more 

get highly successful search rankings that hopefully persist 

much longer this time! 

I am also launching EIGHT new websites this weekend each 

giving FREE the complete text of one each of my EIGHT 

volumes of my autobiography: 

10

www.free-book-1-of-7-with-doctors-like-these-who-needsenemies.org 








Finally, this edition of my book ‘Now is the Dawning of the Time 

of The End’ features some incredible new writing that, 

incredible as it may sound, provide a COMPLETE SCIENTIFIC 

PROOF OF JUST WHAT THE SECRET OF LIFE IS AND ALSO 

HOW IT RELATES TO THE WOMB. Hence I am also launching 

this weekend two final 24 th and 25 th sites:- 

www.womb-tardis.org 

www.tardis-womb.org 

The imminent Battle of ARMAGEDDON as according to 

everything you read in the Bible will not involve ‘the Messiah of 

this 21 st Century’ NOR INDEED ANY ‘Person of Faith’ LIFTING A 

FINGER! It is a Spiritual Battle about to be waged by the ‘four 

sticks’ (the ‘1111’ as above) traditionally always used in 

Spiritual Warfare to Defeat Pure Evil Forces, i.e. JHWH or ‘God 

11

the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Ghost’ AND NOW AT 

LAST Gabriel or GOD THE HOLY SPIRIT (OR THE MOTHER OF 

GOD). 

A short sharp ‘twinkling of the eye’ to overturn the tables 

completely and eject cruelty, evil and violence from all the 

positions of power and authority it clings tenaciously, and 

arrogantly and even totally complacently to right now. 

With the aid of all the unseen Spirit Beings on the Side of the 

Almighty JHWH, to turn the tables and end all injustice and 

above all IMPRISONMENT by the Forces of Evil of most of the 

Earth’s population – as at present, at worst under false 

evidence, in mental hospital without trial, and above all in so 

called ‘care homes’ - cruelty centres for VICTIMS! 

To imprison and punish them INSTEAD until they are fully 

reformed – under a ‘totally reformed Lucifer in a Heavens and 

an Earth and no more HELL as it should HAVE BEEN BEFORE 

THE GREAT “FALL” IN THE BIBLE’. 

Their main ENEMIES are both FALSE RELIGION OF ANY SORT 

WHETHER FALSE EVANGELISM (just for money) AND SIMILAR 

FALSE ‘FAITHS’. Plus since the Witchcraft Act 1948 in the UK, 

increasing hordes of ‘Wicca’ or the increasing billions of 

modern witches have completely gone underground and claim 

not to exist! 

My own massive experience of the Evil sort of Wicca by 

comparison to ‘wicca with a small w’ i.e. ordinary people 

especially attractive young ‘lovely wicca’ who have never really 

done anything wrong; reveals that my own main enemies 

among Evil Wicca so the Main Enemies of JHWH AND Good 

Wicca are: - 

• Bone cracker wicca 

• Bald headed (heavily?) tattooed black AND white 

‘Niggerwog’ thugs often in NHS and other less supposedly 

‘caring’ (by such YOBS!) jobs – simply to take horrible 

revenge for their own justified rough times! 

• Bomb making and weapon wielding and abusive and 

aggressive Wicca ABOVE ALL in the police, NHS-HS (National 

12

Horrible Stalin Hitler Service) again, and allegedly disciplined 

military 

• Hard hearted Wicca 

• The incredibly selfish, arrogant, and complacent 

Independent Wicca… 

13

Now is the Dawning of 

the Time of the End 

THE AGE OF AQUARIUS started on Friday 11 th January 2019 or 

‘1111/9’ – the very Polar Opposite of ‘9/11’! 

“THE Revolution” Right Round the World along with the Age of 

Aquarius… To little me falls the unbelievable privilege from 

Gabriel, that is Lady Gabriel the WOMAN GOD, to announce full 

details of this in all of three books all launched today at 

www.lulu.com/spotlight/zenbuddha! Up on The Web high all 

over the search engines as September 2018 in a week? 

At 3:33 1/3 am - the ‘Witching Hour’ on New Year’s Morning 

2019 (Jesus Christ seemingly died at precisely 3.33 1/3 pm 

31 st March 33 AD) there was a complete Old Moon ‘somewhere’ 

on the Earth – almost certainly obscured by clouds. 

Then at 8am GMT on Tuesday 2 nd January 2019 briefly through 

more cloud appeared the BIBLICAL SIGN of THE SON OF MAN – 

THE ARCHANGEL in the South Eastern morning sky. 

For an ABSOLUTELY PERFECTLY POSITIONED AND 

PROPORTIONED Islamic Crescent Moon and Star (the planet 

Venus) appeared for the only time ever in history (usually 

irregular so far from perfect in its ever presence in the sky). 

The moon’s two horns were absolutely perfectly pointed 

towards the absolutely perfectly distanced star (planet) FOR 

THE ONLY TIME EVER! 

With the odds against this INCREDIBLE SIGN IN THE HEAVENS 

VASTLY MORE IMPORTANT EVEN THAN THE STAR OF 

BETHLEHEM starting to be made manifest on Christian and 

Jewish New Year’s Night being vastly higher than any lottery…! 

The Archangel Michael, In Person on behalf of The 

Archangel Gabriel In Person – The Mother of God Herself 

or GOD THE WOMAN! 

14

15

“The Pudding is in the PROOF” 

Sunday 16 th September 2018 

The ‘24½ th Anniversary’ of my Baptism of the Holy Spirit 

in Loughborough, Black Country, 8.42pm GMT on 16 th 

March 1994. 

I am no longer just ‘Number One -#1- on Google’ (and most search 

engines in the world!) for ‘top of page one search results’ for years. 

Searches - abolish all money, abolish machines, abolish all cash, as over. 

As of today, I have gone much further – and may well be ‘World #1 of #1 

search entries’ – at least for being the Webmaster with most entries, 

many #1, for my sixteen web sites on page #1 of the search results. 

This is not only on Google, but also all the other four major search 

engines, Bing, MSN, Yahoo and AOL – so search engines of the World. 

Overleaf I show how this has suddenly become true! 

I list overleaf all sixteen websites I have launched by today; three of 

these mostly for Fraulein Doktor Ima Patience Whistle-Blower. 

With all the ‘page one, especially #1 on page #1’, search engine results 

for the ‘Big Five’ search engines in the world, as above, which most lesser 

engines copy. 

Achieving this on a ‘zero budget’ using experience, wisdom, and long 

hard work, NOT money, has cost me only well under £300 for my all of 

sixteen leading websites for a year! 

16

17

Simon Lee’s Micro Website Search Engine with 

Search Results – his 16 Websites 

I. My ‘Manifesto: Abolish All Money’ Book – GIVEN IN FULL 

Abolish All Money/Cash. Census Machines! 

Machines NB computers and tranSiStorS are The Beast 666! 

Census or abolish them and all their Root of All Evil Money! 


Searches producing page #1 results – rank on page #1 after ‘#’ 

Google abolish all money #7 

#1 #2 #6 #8 Adverts on page #1! There is also an advert opposite 

entry #1 on page #1 for the book contained in these two websites on this 

page, by my supposed publisher, Lulu Inc., who have been selling dozens 

of book titles of mine for over 10 years with hardly any royalties paid to 

me at all, not $1,000’s as should be! I have soon got an Almighty fraud 

case against them by actionfraud.police.uk ! 

abolish machines #5 abolish all machines #2 

Bing – and other Bing-driven engines MSN Yahoo AOL are similar 

abolish all money #2 #3 #4 - Adverts for the book of these two websites 

Manifesto: Abolish All Money/Cash and most machines! 

Machines nb computers and tranSiStorS are The Beast 666! 

Census or simply abolish them and all their Root of All Evil Money! 



Google abolish all money #4 

Advert opposite entry #1 on page #1 for the book contained in these two 

websites on this page, by my supposed publisher, Lulu Inc., who have 

been selling dozens of book titles of mine for over 10 years with hardly 

any royalties paid to me at all, not $1,000’s as should be! I have soon 

got an Almighty fraud case against them by actionfraud.police.uk ! 

abolish machines #1 abolish all machines #1 


abolish all money #2 #3 #4 - Adverts for the book of these two websites 

abolish all machines #1 

18

II. My book ‘Now is the Dawning of the Time of the End’ – 

scientific, and science and religion, searches all for the same 

book WHICH IS GIVEN IN FULL ON ALL THESE WEB SITES: - 

Full logical common sense scientific proof God exists! 

Space IS 8D NOT 3D... Beast 666=tranSiStorS=ALL MACHINES... 

JHWH=ALLAH=ALL(pha-Omeg)AH... Proof God, Real Science, Multi 

Faith, Religions! 

www.silee.me.uk 


Google 

Submitted as long ago as Wednesday 15 th August 2018 – but STILL not 

indexed so appears nowhere in Google search results! Come ON Google! 


Submitted 15 th August 2018 – but all their search entries soon vanished! 

My titles and whole website seem to indeed be TOO SUPERB A 

COMPLETE PROOF for Google and Bing – so MSN/Yahoo/AOL - to 

index - so advertise this website! This seems to clearly be 

MULTINATIONAL POWER POLITICS and CENSORSHIP by Google 

and Bing – and so MSN, Yahoo, and AOL…!!! 

PROOF space EIGHT 8 not three 3 dimensional dimensions! 

Holy Spirit=TIME! 

TIME=MALE Holy Ghost! Lord/OUR LADY God=MAIN Spirit Beings 

Good and Goodness! Holy SPIRIT=8-in-4-in-1 FEMALE Triune 

Goddess! 

www.srlee.me.uk 


Google 

space EIGHT not three dimensions #2 proof space 8 dimensions not 3 

#1 

space EIGHT dimensions not three #2 

proof space 8 not 3 dimensions #1 

proof space EIGHT not three dimensions #1 

proof space 8 not 3 dimensions #1 

proof space EIGHT not three dimensional #1 

space EIGHT not three dimensional #10 space 8 not 3 dimensional #5 


space EIGHT not three dimensions #2 space 8 not 3 dimensions #5 

space Eight dimensions not three #3 space 8 dimensions not 3 #8 

space EIGHT not three dimensional #1 space 8 not 3 dimensional #1 

space Eight dimensional not three #3 space 8 dimensional not 3 #2 

Census BEAST 666=THE MACHINE – 1948-2018=tranSiStorS 



19


www.beast-666-the-machine-1948-2018-transistors.org 


Google 

census beast 666 the machine #1 beast 666 the machine #3 

beast 666 transistors #1 #3 


census beast 666 the machine #1 beast 666 transistors #1 

Charles Darwin DISPROVED HIS OWN Theory of evolution/ 

natural selection! 




www.charles-darwin-disproved-his-own-theory-evolution.org 


Google 

NOTHING in search results from Google despite allegedly indexing this 

site! Come ON Google! 


COMPLETE DISPROOF for Google to index - so advertise this 

website! This seems to clearly be MULTINATIONAL POWER 

POLITICS and CENSORSHIP AGAIN by Google…!!! 


charles darwin disproved his own theory natural selection #2 

charles darwin disproved his own theory evolution #1 

charles darwin disproved theory natural selection #2 

charles darwin disproved theory evolution #2 

Matter is a pure DELUSION - everything is WAVES! 

The late Professor Milo Wolff was a principal Founder of the New 

Physics Movement after 'impossibly' he COMPLETELY solved 

Schroedinger's Wave Equation in 1988 100 years after its 

invention! 

www.matter-pure-delusion-everything-is-waves.org 


Google 

matter delusion everything waves #1 matter is pure delusion #1 


matter delusion everything waves #1 matter is pure delusion #1 

20

Matter and wave-particle duality ARE DELUSIONS! Only 

WAVE energy exists! 




invention! 

www.matter-wave-particle-duality-delusions-only-wave-energy.org 


Google 

Wave particle duality delusion #3 matter wave particle duality 

delusions #2 

matter delusion only wave energy #1 

wave particle duality delusion only wave energy #1 

matter and wave particle duality delusions only wave energy #1 


Wave particle duality delusion #1 matter wave particle duality 

delusions #2 

matter delusion only wave energy #1 

wave particle duality delusion only wave energy #2 

matter and wave particle duality delusions only wave energy #1 

Jesus Christ, ULTIMATE Meaning of Life, helps rule the Universe 

ALL Good Angels sing their 'Dawning of the Age of Aquarius' or 

Freedom Song:- of Love, Peace, Joy, Truth, Reason, Experience, 

Enlightenment! 

www.proof-jesus-christ-helps-rule-the-universe.org 


Google 

I am still awaiting indexing by Googlebot of this website. Come ON 

Google! 


Not indexed! Come ON Bing! 


COMPLETE PROOF for Google and Bing – so MSN/Yahoo/AOL - to 

index - so advertise this website! This seems to clearly be 

MULTINATIONAL POWER POLITICS and CENSORSHIP by Google 

and Bing – and so MSN, Yahoo, and AOL…!!! 

PROOF of Karma Consciousness=matter a delusion! Hare Krishna! 




21

invention! 

www.proof-karma-consciousness-matter-delusion-hare-krishna.org 


Google 

proof karma consciousness #1 proof karma consciousness matter #1 

proof karma consciousness matter a delusion #1, #2 


Not indexed after several submissions! Come ON Bing! 


COMPLETE DISPROOF for Bing, so MSN, Yahoo and AOL to index - 

so advertise this website! This seems to clearly be 

MULTINATIONAL POWER POLITICS and CENSORSHIP AGAIN by 

them all…!!! 

Proof Time=MALE Holy Ghost BUT Holy Spirit is 8-3-1 

Triune GodDESS! 




www.time-male-holy-ghost-but-holy-spirit-is-female.org 


Google 

proof male holy ghost #1 proof holy ghost male #1 


proof male holy ghost #1 

III. Related website with VERY different contents to the nine just 

above 

Avebury, Silbury, Glastonbury, Stonehenge Decoded! 

LOGICAL analysis of Avebury, Silbury, Glastonbury, Stonehenge:- 

Space, Holy Spirit, Holy Ghost, Godhead STRUCTURES:- Jesus 

Christ PREDICTED 2,500 years EARLIER! 

www.electriczenbuddha.one 


Google 

avebury silbury glastonbury stonehenge #1 avebury decoded #3 

avebury silbury decoded #1 #2! silbury decoded #1 

avebury glastonbury decoded #1 #2 #3! 

avebury stonehenge decoded #1 #2 #3! 

glastonbury stonehenge decoded #1 #3! 

silbury glastonbury decoded #1 #2! 


avebury silbury glastonbury stonehenge #2 avebury decoded #3 

avebury silbury decoded #1 silbury decoded #1 

avebury glastonbury decoded #1 

avebury stonehenge decoded #1 

glastonbury stonehenge decoded #1 

silbury glastonbury decoded #1 

22

IV. Websites I have developed for 

Fraulein Docktor Ima Patience Whistle-Blower – 

with my ‘Manifesto: Abolish All Money’ Appended 

neo-Nazi 2 nd Holocaust Injection-Switch Conspiracy! 

Far Right Wing Medics Medicine Medical fatal poison injection 

switching Plot and Conspiracy to End the World! 

www.hearinthenameofthelord.one 


Google 

neo nazi 2 nd holocaust injection switch #1 neo nazi injection switch #1#2 

2 nd holocaust injection switch #1 injection switch conspiracy #10 


neo nazi 2 nd holocaust injection switch #1 neo nazi injection switch #1 

2 nd holocaust injection switch #1 injection switch conspiracy #1 

2nd holocaust conspiracy #2 

Tera Giga Mega Kilo Whistle-Blowing on Medicine 

The Beast 666 sick sick sick World Conspiracy... The Beast 666 is 

THE MACHINE first built in AD 70! NOW Beast 666=tranSiStorS! 

www.simonlee.me.uk 


Google 

tera whistle blowing #1-#4! tera whistle blowing medicine #1- 

#4! 

giga whistle blowing medicine #1-#4! Beast 666 sick sick sick 

#1 

mega whistle blowing medicine #1-#5,#7! kilo whistle blowing 

#3-#7! 

kilo whistle blowing medicine #1-#5! 


tera whistle blowing #2 giga whistle blowing #2 

tera whistle blowing medicine #1 giga whistle blowing medicine #1 

mega whistle blowing medicine #1 kilo whistle blowing 

#3 

kilo whistle blowing medicine #1 

23

BAN lethal money-making EUTHATAL: - 

ALL poison drugs and substances 

The Beast 666 sick sick sick World Conspiracy... The Beast 666 is 

THE MACHINE first built in AD 70! NOW Beast 666=tranSiStorS 

www.ban-money-making-euthatal-all-poison-drugs-substances.org 


Google 

ban euthatal #1 ban lethal euthatal #2 

ban money making euthatal #1 ban all poison drugs #1 


ban euthatal #1 ban lethal euthatal #1 

ban money making euthatal #1 ban all poison drugs #1 

ban all poison substances #1 

V. My spiritual poetry book “A Many Threaded Tapestry” 

GIVEN IN FULL - FREE 

Spiritual poems, poetry book by Simon Richard Lee 

Twenty two deeply spiritual poems in one poetry book spanning 

many moods - funny, sad, bittersweet, poignant etc etc, charting 

his life during the 20 th Century 

www.author.me.uk 


Very popular genre of search INDEED so I found NO page one 

search entries on the main five search engines as above… 

To contact me visit my Face Book pages or call my mobile - 

0044 7747 113 135: - 

www.facebook.com/ATrueSonOfJesusChrist 

‘Simon Richard Lee’ 

www.facebook.com/ElectricZenBuddha 

‘Electric Zen Buddha’ 

24

You can chat with me here at the ‘Electric Zen Buddha’ Face Book 

Group and ask any questions you like of Electric Zen Buddha… 

NOW taken up for Simon Richard Lee by 

daddiesforjustice@gmail.com – you probably have lots! 

25

Now is the Dawning of the Time of the End 

A whole new science with brand new 

i.e. ancient scientific principles 

behind all world faiths especially Christianity 

Has world faith and religion been something that has been at the 

forefront of your mind? 

Do you find that there are large chunks of information missing 

from your knowledge? 

This book aims to correct that for you! 

It is time to rethink religion and to bring it into line with scientific thinking 

so that we can all understand it better. This book, Now Is the Dawning 

of the Time of the End, has been described as 'a brand new so very 

ancient at the same time - philosophy and science of ALL world faiths not 

just one in particular' and within its pages you will uncover ideas that 

include: 

‣ A new science and concepts regarding the Universe 

‣ New and surprising commentary on the Book of Revelation 

‣ A radical new approach to the Book of Daniel 

‣ My Manifesto – Abolish all Money 

Now is the Dawning of the Time of the End provides a new science 

that completely explains great parts of all the world’s major religions, 

giving the reader a greater perspective of them and a far deeper 

understanding. 

It has been written to educate and enlighten and promises each in equal 

measure. 

Get a copy of Now is the Dawning of the Time of the End and open 

your eyes to a new examination of the Universe that binds us. 

This individually laser printed A4 book with many illustrations is available 

from retailers Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Blackwell etc. 

The book is available in full as a FREE flip book at the following websites 

where you can read and preview this amazing book in full: - 


www.gender-holy-spirit-female-seven-sisters-holy-ghost-male-is-time.org 

www.secret-of-life-full-scientific-proof-complete-science.org 

www.scientific-basis-and-proof-of-the-very-secret-of-life.org 


26

Manifesto: Abolish All Money! 

This book tells The World Just Why and How 

to Eliminate the Root of All Evil…!? 

Do you ever imagine a better world? 

Do you think it could be a better place without money? 

Are you ready to experience a ground-breaking idea? 

There is no doubt about it. Money has been the root of all evil since it was 

devised and spawned the greed that we see in today’s society. Now 

imagine that we could abolish it, along with the vast majority of 

computers, and basically start again. 

We can and in Manifesto: Abolish all Money, I will explain exactly how 

we can do it, with ideas and proposals that show you how: 

‣ Computers and money carry most germs 

‣ Money and computers underpin society 

‣ We can increase happiness without either of these things 

‣ The population would have every need catered for 

‣ Crime would reduce 

‣ We can have fair distribution of wealth 

‣ A better quality of life 

‣ And much, much more… 

Once you read the proposals in this stunning strategy for ridding the 

world of the evil that is consuming it, you will never think about money or 

computers in the same way again. 

Get a copy of Manifesto: Abolish all Money now and help to get the 

greatest movement of our time under way today! 

This individually laser printed A4 book is available from retailers Amazon, 

Barnes and Noble, and Blackwell etc. 

The book is available in full FREE as a flip book at the following identical 

twin websites where you can read and preview this amazing book freely: - 



www.abolish-all-money-tame-the-beast-666-ie-all-machines.org 

27

World Medicine or ‘Pskiviatry’ – 

they 

“Doctor - No!” me well… 

This book is a spirited attack 

on medicine and medics! 

If you ever thought that the NHS was the kind of organisation you could 

trust to look after you when you need it most, think again. 

Step inside a world that will make you question all that you have ever 

been told, as author Simon Richard Lee describes the internal workings of 

an institution that continues to fail the people it is meant to help, while 

enduring enormous scandals, manifesting a frightening brand of sadism 

and developing a complete disregard for mental health patients. 

With striking echoes of Stalin’s USSR, Hitler’s Third Reich and George 

Orwell’s 1984, this is a book that exposes one of the most loved of British 

organisations with a wry and witty look at what really goes on behind 

closed doors. 

And with a nod to many of the past few decades’ greatest songs, it will 

leave an impression like no other as you are finally able to understand 

who and what really drives the NHS. 


Barnes and Noble, and Blackwell’s etc. The book is available in full FREE 

as a flip book at these websites where you can read and preview this 

amazing book freely: - 

www.ban-mental-health-law-care-homes-all-fake-evidence-doingtime.org 



www.mega-whistleblowing-medicine.org 

www.racism-racist-migration-immigration-prejudice-stigma-evil-hate.org 

www.the-revolution-and-so-the-age-of-aquarius-started-2nd-jan- 

2019.org 

www.the-revolution-idea-ideal-real-peaceful-non-violent-peacefare.org 

www.the-revolution-real-peaceful-peace-non-violent-peacefare.org 

28

A Many Threaded Tapestry 

A Set of Spiritual Poems from the 20 th Century tracing 

my life then – from early days till my awful divorce! 

One man’s journey set out against the tests and misfortunes of his adult 

life within the 20 th century, this collection of 22 poems is both insightful 

and filled with the seemingly mundane and everyday occurrences that we 

all encounter. But they are seen here with a fresh perspective and 

intellect that comes from a life well lived and seldom understood. 

A Many Threaded Tapestry will make you think about your own life and 

the experiences you have had along the way, while still entertaining as 

only the well written verse can. 

From the hard hitting Social and Security to the heartfelt New Desires, 

each verse has its own place and time and each one delivers a message 

that carries an underlying meaning and significance that we can all relate 

to, somewhere in our pasts. 


Barnes and Noble, and Blackwell etc. 

The book is available in full FREE as a flip book at the following website 

where you can read and preview this amazing book freely: - 


29

30

The absolutely amazingly high performance 

VERY MANY web sites of Simon Richard 

‘Pilchard’ DAY LEE, BA, MA (King’s College, 

Cambridge); CEng MIEE MIET MInstMC 

(FOUR Professor Level Certificates!) 

Phase One – 2015 onwards 

www.scientific-proof-that-god-exists.com 









Phase Two - big push 21/Feb/2019 


www.avebury-silbury-hill-stonehenge-glastonbury.org 

www.beast-666-is-all-machines-from-1947-2019-have-beentransistors.org 


www.beast-666-is-all-machines-from-1947-2019-have-beentransistors.org 

31

www.charles-darwin-evolution-natural-selection-all-total-cons.org 

www.free-book-1-of-7-with-doctors-like-these-who-needs-enemies.org 







www.free-book-8-the-Tender-Years-by-QT-Saunders.org 






www.gender-holy-spirit-female-SEVEN-sisters-holy-ghost-male-istime.org 


2019.org 




32

FULL LIST OF 

WEBSITES 

ENTIRE FREE BOOK ‘Scientific Proof that God Exists’ 

www.scientific-proof-that-god-exists.com 

Full complete scientific PROOF God exists - & the SECRET OF 

LIFE! 

 

 

ENTIRE FREE BOOK ‘Manifesto : - Abolish All Money === SATAN’ 


Abolish All Money Cash Credit. TAME all MACHINES ie the Beast 

666! 

 

 

ENTIRE FREE SPIRITUAL POETRY BOOK 

‘A Many Threaded Tapestry’ 

33


Spiritual poems, poetry book by Simon Richard Lee 

 

 

ENTIRE FREE BOOK ‘Avebury, Silbury Hill, Glastonbury, Stonehenge – 

Decoded’ 


Avebury, Silbury Hill, Glastonbury, Stonehenge Decoded! 

 

 

ENTIRE FREE BOOK ‘THE Revolution AND The Age of Aquarius started on 

2 nd January 2019’ 


mental health acts and '''care'''' homes are a free ticket to LIFE IN 

PRISON UNDER TORTURE! 

 

global medicine,world medicine,psychiatrist,psychiatry,consultant"/> 

ENTIRE FREE BOOK ‘Manifesto: Abolish All Money === SATAN’ 


Abolish All Money Cash Credit - TAME the Beast 666 ie ALL 

Machines! 

 

 



Full complete scientific PROOF of the SECRET OF LIFE ie ORGANIC 

GROWTH! 

 

 




THE Revolution AND The Age of AQUARIUS started on Monday New 

Year’s Day 2019 

content="INNER space is an infinite 4 dimension vast array of wombs or 

Tardis's VERY SLOWLY causing TIME by organic growth forever outward to 

3 dimension OUTER space - this is the SECRET OF LIFE"/> 

 

ENTIRE FREE BOOK ‘Now is the Dawning of the Time of The End’ 



LIFE! 

 

 

ENTIRE FREE BOOK ‘Manifesto : Abolish All Money === SATAN’ 


Abolish all Money TAME THE BEAST 666 ie ALL MACHINES! 

 

 

36

ENTIRE FREE BOOK ‘Avebury, Silbury Hill, Glastonbury, Stonehenge - 

Decoded!’ 

www.avebury-silbury-hill-stonehenge-glastonbury.org 

Avebury, Silbury Hill, Glastonbury, Stonehenge Decoded! 

 

 

37




BAN most drugs as they are ALL POISONOUS ESPECIALLY 

psychiatric narcotics! 

 

 


www.charles-darwin-evolution-natural-selection-all-total-cons.org 

Charles Darwin, evolution and natural selection are all huge 

cons! 

 

 

38

ENTIRE FREE BOOK ‘Which Witch Doctor?’ 


FREE book 1 'Which Witch Doctor?' of 7 in Series "With Doctor-ers 

like these who needs ENEMIES?" 

 

 

ENTIRE FREE BOOK ‘Disabled – by Doctors’ 


FREE book 2 'Disabled - by Doctors!' of 7 in Series "With Doctorers 

like these who needs ENEMIES?" 

 

 

ENTIRE FREE BOOK ‘The Fourth Helen of the Apocalypse!’ 


FREE book 3 'The Fourth Helen of the Apocalypse!' of 7 in Series 

"With Doctor-ers like these who needs ENEMIES?" 

 

 

ENTIRE FREE BOOK ‘Doctor Police!’ 


39

FREE book 4 'Doctor Police!' of 7 in Series "With Doctor-ers like 

these who needs ENEMIES?" 

 

 

ENTIRE FREE BOOK ‘Love thy Neighbour, Julie next door!’ 


FREE book 5 'Love thy neighbour, Julie next door!' of 7 in Series 

"With Doctor-ers like these who needs ENEMIES?" 

 

 

ENTIRE FREE BOOK ‘Always Rise above the Black Art of 

PSEXISTRICKERY!’ 


FREE book 6 'Always rise above the Black Art of PSEXISTRICKERY!' 

of 7 in Series "With Doctor-ers like these who needs ENEMIES?" 

 

 

ENTIRE FREE BOOK ‘TEN YEARS HELL- Halfway, Huge Heavenly Help!’ 


40

FREE book 7 TEN Years' Hell - Halfway Huge Heavenly Help' of 7 in 

Series "With Doctors like these who needs ENEMIES?" 

 

 

ENTIRE FREE BOOK ‘The Tender Years’ 


FREE Bonus Book 8 of 7 – by qt saunders – have a good 

stare!! 

 

 


www.gender-holy-spirit-female-EIGHT-sisters-holy-ghost-male-istime.org 

Now is the Dawning of the Time of the End 

41

Full complete scientific PROOF of the SECRET OF LIFE ie ORGANIC 

GROWTH! 

 

 


Monday 2nd January 2019’ 


Mega Whistleblowing:-Medicine!-Tera Giga Mega Kilo 

Whistleblowing Medicine! 

 

 

42


Monday 2nd January 2019’ 


Racism, racist view, provoked by migration and immigration, all 

prejudice, stigma, evil hate hatred crime 

 

 



The very SECRET OF LIFE, the scientific PROOF and origin of ALL 

ORGANIC GROWTH! 

 

 

census machines,utopia,paradise,world peace"/> 



43


LIFE! 

 

 




LIFE! 

 

 


2nd January 2019’ 


2019.org 

Our Queen and Margaret Thatcher alone NOT The Lords signed 

Mental Health Acts - licenses to freely imprison billions 

44

 




THE Revolution: - GOD's idea for an ideal real peaceful world, with 

non-violent peacefare 

 

 




THE Revolution:- full real PEACE - all non violent 

'peacefare'! 

content="See 'Real Peaceful Rainbow Resistance Revolution' 'Now is the 

Dawning of the Time of the End' etc by Simon Richard Lee at 

www.lulu.com/spotlight/zenbuddha www.silee.me.uk Amazon"/> 

 



Full complete scientific PROOF God exists. The SECRET OF 

LIFE! 

 

 

46

Part One 

An incredible, entirely new approach to many key ‘scientific’, as 

well as ‘spiritual’, aspects of the Universe. 

How, on passing right through the fabric or ‘curtains’ of Space, 

the extremely different, far greater ‘Kingdom of the Heavens’ is 

revealed and reached! 

1. The ‘void’ or space is not three-dimensional, as generally 

thought! Simple proof given here, which is so elegant 

that it is totally convincing, that space in our Universe 

is in fact EIGHT-dimensional! 

2. The vital importance of space in many faiths, especially in 

the Far East, especially Buddhism and Zen, as an object 

of both meditation and veneration. The crucial word ‘mu’ 

in Zen Buddhism, and the closely related meditation, and 

reverence for, space or ‘the void’ in the East and Far East. 

3. The principal scientific view of how the Universe first came 

about, the ‘Big Bang’ theory. 

4. What is time? Where does it come from and where does it 

go to? 

5. Science is very different in its approach to gaining 

knowledge, to the faiths and religions of the world. It is 

wrong to believe that scientists ‘seek the truth’, which is 

instead the aim of every single faith in the world. 

Scientists aim to ‘prove scientific facts’ about the world, 

starting with ‘observations’ of Nature, or experiments. 

These usually strike the general public as being extremely 

cold and indeed ‘clinical’, with little emotion involved. 

Science is very different to world faiths in at least two 

other ways. Firstly, whereas all world faiths are 

concerned with receiving and also giving out ‘messages’, 

astonishingly science nearly totally ignores languages in 

Nature. Secondly, scientists deliberately cultivate often 

very many ‘theories’ about aspects of science, to try to 

accurately predict all future observations in the same 

situation. Instead, all world faiths follow their own unique 

‘Way’ (to God?), usually established by a spiritual 

47

leader. ‘To find the Truth, about life, and usually God’, 

in order to lead an increasingly ‘better life’. The most 

famous man ever, Jesus Christ, is so because so much of 

the world believes that he stood for the above ideals, 

shown in bold, far better than anyone else ever has. 

6. The quite astonishing way, in which the Hebrew ‘Name of 

God’, the four letters JHWH, is actually a totally accurate 

diagram of the Godhead in Heaven, showing precisely 

how interaction happens with our Physical Universe. 

7. A fuller picture is given, by adding to the JHWH diagram 

the Tree of Life, made of the two trees of the Holy Ghost 

(actions) and the Holy Spirit (words and feelings). 

8. How God created light on the first Day of Creation – 

which science tells us, starts with +/- charge, then 

electric and magnetic fields result, then finally these 

make light by combining together in a complex way. 

9. Proof that there is no such thing as ‘matter’! All particles 

have in fact been proven to be made of concentric nested 

spheres, of standing waves made of space, with their 

charge spread all around the surface of each particle. In 

this Section, we look at particles, atoms, molecules, 

macromolecules, and briefly, crystals. 

10. The “Seven Days of God’s Creation”, however long 

they actually lasted, witnessed very much Creation of 

stars, planets, then ‘biological life’ in several stages, as in 

the Book of Genesis in the Bible. We discuss all these 

phases in this Section. At the end of all this discussion, 

we will find that a whole radically new ‘Spiritual Science’ 

has emerged in the process! 

48

49

The LOGICAL BASIS of 

THE VERY SECRET OF 

LIFE 

Sensational 

Supernatural 

Stunningly New 

‘Spiritual Sciences’! 

With NO Equations in them at all! They are in fact as 

old as the hills... 

What follows in the next several dozen pages will 

definitely cause resounding changes to all of our views, 

especially scientific views, of space and time. 

Even more so, we prove that all ‘material’ objects are 

made solely of a Filigree Lattice of Space and Time – 

surrounded by electrical charge. There is no such thing 

as ‘matter’ – ‘matter’ is a pure delusion. 

So we PROVE TOTALLY ‘karma’ consciousness in the 

first Part One of this book! 

50

51

Section 1 

The True Nature of ‘Space’ 

Space is actually an invisible ‘Filigree Lattice’, normally 

seen as ‘three-dimensional’ – but complete proof is 

given below, from first principles, that space is really 

‘eight dimensional’! 

Conventional mathematical, scientific and engineering 

views of space – as ‘three dimensional’ 

We usually start to learn about space (for instance at school) 

as ‘containing three right angles at ninety degrees to each 

other’, in three ‘axes’, ‘directions’ or ‘dimensions’. 

To start considering objects within these invisible three 

dimensions, we are first taught to draw a picture of the three 

axes or directions as below, called in mathematics ‘Cartesian 

co-ordinates’: - 

52

For hundreds, indeed thousands of years, until about 100 years 

ago, science considered space to be an infinite ‘grid’ extending 

uniformly out from a base as above, in all three directions. 

At the start of the 20 th Century, as we saw earlier, Albert 

Einstein, in particular, totally challenged all the ancient notions 

of space as above, when he revolutionised ideas in science of 

time itself – in his two theories of Special Relativity and 

General Relativity. General Relativity theory even proposes 

that space can ‘curve’ – especially near very large, heavy 

bodies like stars. 

More recently, later scientists have tried to develop theories of 

the Universe that claim that space has more than three 

dimensions. Trying to see what space actually looks like if it is 

indeed ‘multi-dimensional’, even with powerful computer 

graphical methods, has, not surprisingly, proven impossible! 

53

Space has EIGHT dimensions – not three! 

Simple and complete proof! 

Firstly, the big problem with the above starting point, 

drawing three axes or ‘dimensions’ through an ‘area of empty 

space’ – is that according to every single science as well as 

every single world faith or religion – space is never ever empty. 

Space is always full of objects, even if so tiny they are invisible 

to the naked eye – fundamental particles, atoms, etc. Also – 

EVERYTHING is CURVED! 

An ‘object’ is obviously very easy indeed to defin e as 

“something with a volume of space containing an inside as 

well as an outside”. 

The outside of objects contained inside a relatively large 

volume of free space or empty space can readily indeed be 

seen to be three dimensional just as above. However, maths 

and science seem to have mostly totally overlooked a very 

curious fact about the inside of all objects – also known 

about in geometry for thousands of years. For the inside of 

all objects contains four not three axes at right angles 

i.e. is four dimensional not three dimensional! 

The very simplest, clearest example of this is a cube – 

often a very mystical object in many faiths and religions – 

almost certainly for the above or similar reasons: - 

1. So, a large volume of free space or empty space – space 

outside objects – has three axes – or is ‘three 

dimensional’. So Outer Space is Three Dimensional. 

54

2. As in the simplest example of the cube, space inside 

objects – has four axes – is ‘four dimensional’. So Inner 

Space is Four Dimensional. 

3. The simplest TWO dimensional view of four dimensional 

inner space is as given by the (UNBELIEVABLY 

tongue-in-cheek by whoever owns that website!) 

hyperlink below: - 

4. https://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=https%3A%2F% 

2Fthumbs.gfycat.com%2FMadeupNiceKawalasize_restricted.gif&imgrefurl=https%3A%2F%2Fgfycat.co 

m%2Fmadeupnicekawala&docid=IWHi3TUZqM5faM&tbnid 

=ARw1nc_WD- 

D1tM%3A&vet=1&w=256&h=256&bih=783&biw=1600&v 

ed=2ahUKEwj78ZemsdLfAhUGhxoKHaSwCGUQxiAoAXoEC 

AEQEg&iact=c&ictx=1 

5. Incredibly, the above hyperlink’s view of four dimensional 

INNER SPACE portrays the very SECRET OF (ORGANIC) 

LIFE ITSELF – the three dimensions of OUTER space are 

naturally slightly more stable in ENERGY terms so FOUR 

DIMENSIONAL INNER SPACE forms an infinite Cosmic 

Dance of points of four dimensional space slowly 

organically growing as LIFE ITSELF and its continual 

ORGANIC GROWTH outward bound - forever progressing 

from INNER space to OUTER space. It is JUST THIS rate 

of organic growth alone that COMPLETELY DETERMINES 

THE VERY RATE THAT TIME PASSES THROUGH AND SO 

SPEAKS TO US – generally GOD speaks to all people very 

slowly and with massive patience and loving-kindness at 

the rate of just one word or syllable a second! 

6. The normal or usual situation, throughout the entire 

Universe, is that Middle Space – Inner Space 

containing further objects within that space – is 

BOTH 3D AND 4D (3D to inner objects and 4D to the 

outer object). 

7. SO MOST SPACE CAN BE READILY SEEN TO BE 

EIGHT-DIMENSIONAL – in ‘octaves’! 

55

8. Likewise, the ‘thing’ which separates ‘inside’ of all objects 

from their ‘outside’ must simply be a likewise EXTRA 

‘SHELL’ OR FINAL EIGHTH DIMENSION OF SPACE. 

THE ACTUAL 8D SURFACE MEMBRANE OF ALL 

OBJECTS! 

‘TREE STRUCTURE’ OF 8-DIMENSIONAL SPACE 

So every single point in the entire vast Universe is in fact a 

TARDIS as in Doctor Witch or fake Time Lords or scientists – 

TIME itself is LORD GOD so is the ONLY REAL TIME LORD in the 

entire Universe made up solely of Lord God Time and Lady God 

Space! Being a Tardis, every single point in the entire vast 

Universe is BIGGER ON THE INSIDE THAN ITS OUTSIDE! 

This simple yet INCREDIBLE fact is the full explanation of the 

Origins of the famous Second Law of Thermodynamics – that 

everything in the Universe is gradually getting more COMPLEX 

NOT MORE RANDOM as it GROWS – so ‘its entropy constantly 

TENDS to increase’ as that Law says. 

The above discussion of the interior four dimensions of all 

space being the very LONG SOUGHT AFTER SECRET OF LIFE 

ITSELF SO all ORGANIC GROWTH immediately yields all the 

bases of all the long term mysteries of just how the WOMB of 

all mammals contains babies BIGGER THAN THE WOMB ITSELF 

SO PROTECTED BY THE WOMB IN A TOTALLY MAGICAL EVER 

DYNAMIC WAY WHICH I HAVE JUST UNRAVELLED! 

Increasing numbers of us scientists have recognised in the last 

few years, especially, that if space is proven to be 8D (in 8D 

56

octaves of solid light, sound and music, with moving or nonstanding 

forms of these waves also flowing EVERYWHERE IN 

THE UNIVERSE all the time!) - not just ‘3D’… - an amazing 

thing will happen! 

Science and all its mathematics will be completed! Science will 

come to a final end, especially physics! 

The PAST keeps flowing steadily OUTWARDS from EVERY single 

point in space into space (the Kingdom of the Heavens)… The 

FUTURE keeps flowing steadily INWARDS from EVERY single 

point in space into space (the Kingdom of the Heavens)… This 

PRINCIPLE is called in ASTRONOMY – Mach’s Principle… 

Well, just my above four pages do exactly prove that space is 

indeed 8D – eightfold octaves not ‘3D’! 

QED 

57

TIME IS 3D (4D within a ‘shell’ or ‘cosmic egg’!) 

SO THE UNIVERSE OVERALL IS 8D+4D=12D !!! 

As my two diagrams overleaf show quite clearly, just as space 

is really EIGHT dimensional (NOT JUST ‘3D’!) solid music or 

light or sound, TIME is three dimensional (with a FOURTH 

dimension or ‘shell’ or ‘cosmic egg’). 

As far better understood already – its FOUR aspects are all 

equally important as well known in astronomy from the above 

Mach’s principle: - 

TIME, THE PAST, radiates outwards EVERYWHERE in TIME 

WAVES with the famous DE BROGLIE WAVELENGTH. At the 

speed of light as Albert Einstein was the first to investigate in 

his famous two Theories of Relativity. However, he thought 

space was 3D NOT 8D as I just elegantly proved on just 4 

pages! 

LIKEWISE the FUTURE radiates into every point in the Universe 

from EVERY OTHER POINT IN THE UNIVERSE in TIME WAVES – 

with the very same de Broglie wavelength! 

The ENTIRE ENCAPSULATED MOST VITAL UNIVERSE OF ALL 

THE only THREE ‘real’ Universes is BY FAR THE MOST 

DESIRABLE … ! 

Above all it is by far the most physically and even spiritually 

HEALTHY UNIVERSE of all three above ‘real Universes’ …! Of 

common-sense or ZEN REALITY of ‘no mind’/’do not care – no 

TIME to!’ or ‘suchness’ – the PRESENT MOMENT or ‘MU / Tao / 

Dao / li / chi / Zen / Spiritual Energy everyday common-sense 

REALITY’ … … ! 

Overall then the UNIVERSE is 8D in SPACE and 4D in TIME – so 

overall the ‘Ultimate Answer’ is it is ‘12D’ overall – Douglas 

Adams! – just like any clock face! 

A nod to Richard Dawkins’ watchmaker is in order! 

However - God IS the watch! 

58

‘GOD’ (Anglo-Saxon ‘good’) IS THE WHOLE UNIVERSE – THE 

‘LIGHT’ NOT ‘SHADY’ PARTS AT LEAST! 

59

60

The above amazingly just four pages form a logical proof from first 

principles that: - 

As the inside of objects is four dimensional, and only the outside the 

traditional three dimensions, overall space is eight dimensional – ‘8D’ 

in octaves! 

As we will be seeing, this is a dream come true for most leading modern 

day scientists, engineers and mathematicians, who have long sought such 

a proof as mine above, that space is eight dimensional - 8D. 

For scientists have already absolutely proven that if space is really 8D not 

3D as assumed for millennia hitherto, all the complex mathematics of 

science and engineering will suddenly start to ‘work properly’ within such 

a 8D foundation for space. They will become 100% entirely accurate not 

just as now a set of approximations. 

My introductory pages above were deliberately ‘slam dunk’, direct, bold, 

brief and terse. A similar proof of anything desirable in maths or science 

on one sheet of paper is normally an ‘ideal triumph’ and my above proof 

that space is 8D not 3D is a classic example! 

61

However, we now need to give more background of the history of 

mathematical science to show that! 

A potted history of the philosophy of space 

For millennia, all civilisations have observed that in the everyday size of 

the world, space indeed contains three right angles or ‘dimensions’ – so 

assumed that the whole of space in the Universe was a grid of such 

everyday space. 

So buildings and vehicles were made of grids of building blocks of such 

everyday space, especially the very familiar bricks as used in buildings. 

Around the start of the 17 th Century in the Western Middle Ages, quite a 

few philosophers and mathematicians worked out drawings and 

‘coordinate systems’ for 2D planes and 3D objects. 

A paper published by the French philosopher Rene Descartes in 1637 stole 

the show. So his notation for describing the two ‘axes’ at right angles of 

2D planes, and the three axes at right angles of 3D objects has ever since 

been termed the ‘Cartesian coordinate system’. 

62

In 1687, fifty years after that paper by Descartes, the book by fellow of 

the British Royal Society, Sir Isaac Newton, called ‘Principles of Natural 

Philosophy’ took those ideas to a dramatic logical conclusion – so starting 

200+ years of The Golden Age of Classical Physics. 

For in his book Newton single-handedly invented differential and integral 

calculus based on the Cartesian system. 

It was not until the start of the 20 th Century, that new discoveries in 

scientific observations, made ‘classical physics’ as started by Newton in 

1687, need drastic revision. 

Notably ‘the ultraviolet catastrophe’ and the two Theories of Special and 

General Relativity of Albert Einstein. 

As a result the new science of quantum mechanics appeared about one 

hundred years ago. However, scientists have been trying to ‘get around’ 

the essential contradiction or duality at its heart ever since, the famous 

‘wave particle duality’. 

The complete solution in 1988 of the famous Schroedinger Wave Equation 

by the late Professor Doctor Milo Wolff, discussed in Section 9 below, 

63

shows that in fact there is no ‘wave particle duality’ – everything in the 

universe is made of waves of space. 

My own proof that space is 8D not 3D, as above, coupled to and derived 

from Milo Wolff’s proofs, in addition to those, should enable science to 

be completed! In a new finalised ‘semi-classical approach’… 

For scientists have recast the many equations of science, only ever 

approximately true up to now in 3D space, into a ‘8D space model’ on 

computers. They found that all the equations are then 100% accurate 

not just partly so! 

Perhaps relying far too much on similar powerful computers, they had 

hopes that were seemingly not fulfilled, that the massively huge and 

expensive Large Hadron Collider (LHC) at CERN in Switzerland, would 

somehow prove space is 8D not 3D… 

My own logical proof from first principles on just two sides of paper above 

in fact does the job perfectly instead! 

The Music of 8D Space 

64

The fact that I just proved that space is 8D not 3D from first principles, 

and music has seven notes or tones (doh, ray, mi, fa, so, la, ti) leads me 

to a perhaps astonishing claim: - 

Space is made of SOLID music! 

A simple diagram illustrates this: - 

65

Deeper notes (doh, ray, mi) correspond to the three dimensions of Outer 

Space, while the four higher notes, more compressed so higher 

frequency, correspond to the four axes of Inner Space. 

As in Far Eastern mysticism, space contains ‘towers within towers’ making 

symphonies out of the ‘tower objects’. Finally, the surfaces of objects are 

8D, separating Outer 3D from Inner 4D Space. It is surfaces that contain 

‘towers within towers’ that is objects within objects. So surfaces 

complete all the octaves of the spatial music. 

66

67

CONTENTS 

1. Introduction. Imagine a world with ‘Money as a thing of 

the past’. With the clock wound back all of 70 years so there 

are only a few computers again. 

2. Money and computers are filthy – they carry 

most germs. “Filthy leukah”. “Filthy rich versus filthy 

poor”? 

3. Money and computers are just filthy dirty middlemen. 

Money and computers underpin our ‘modern 21 st 

Century World’ – but it is unbearably awkward, clunky and 

inhuman. The oil of human relations would run rich in a 

world freed of both. 

4. Resources and possessions. No more force of 

economics. No more “haves and have not’s” – everybody 

happy. 

5. Food, clothing, land, housing and furnishings, 

comfortable environment (decent lighting, temperatures, air, 

water and sanitation) – all our essential basic needs would 

become free for all – even in the undeveloped world – the 

very least that this proposal offers after the abolition of 

money 

6. Work, agriculture, shops and industry 

7. Walking, road, rail, sea, air and space transport 

8. No more need for banks, taxes, gambling, casinos or 

Stock Markets – or charities or state benefits on the other 

hand… 

68

9. The Law – very little crime; so punishment; left 

possible. 

10. Local, national and international Governments 

11. Multinational cultural and language differences and 

Travel 

12. Trade; the fair distribution of wealth once money 

were abolished; the end of the Great International Rich-Poor 

Divide 

13. Children and families 

14. Poverty and debt obsolete – personal and national 

15. Teaching and Education 

16. Science and Technology, especially regarding 

information 

17. The Arts 

18. Entertainment and communications: - post offices 

and services, radio, TV, (mobile) telephones, papers, 

magazines, books; information and computer technology, 

and the Internet 

19. Sport, Recreation Activities and Holidays 

20. Health, Beauty, Hygiene, Safety, Medicine, Hospitals, 

Legal and Illegal Drugs, Social Services, Welfare, and The 

Elderly 

21. The Environment; Natural Resources; Environmental 

Health. Global Warming, ‘carbon footprints’, pollution, 

climate change all made too a ‘thing of the past’ 

22. Nature and Wildlife 

69

23. Politics replaced by true leadership 

24. World Peace and Security replacing Permanent War 

25. Sexism, sexuality, homophobia, ageism, racism, etc, 

etc 

26. Stresses and Strains, the Pace of Life and Mental 

Health 

27. Human or spiritual values and freedom of choice. 

Religion – is it affected at all? 

28. Any counter arguments to zero money are few and 

weak. 

29. Overall - a very simple and high Quality of Life for 

all. 

70

71

1. Introduction. Imagine a world with ‘Money as 

a thing of the past’. With the clock wound back all of 

70 years so there are only a few computers again. 

The current worldwide recession (I share the increasing views 

of many commentators that it is a Second Great Depression 

that may last years if unchecked by a world government 

initiative) started life as the tritely and glibly misnamed ‘credit 

crunch’ back in September 2007. Banks stopped giving out 

vast amounts of cheap credit – around that time the long term 

bubble in massive and escalating property prices on both sides 

of the Atlantic, also burst. 

Since then world stock markets have collapsed in a series of 

drastic falls, notably in September 2008, a year after the start 

of this ‘credit crunch’ cum Second Great Depression. Now the 

world and its leaders are both apportioning blame as ever, 

often quite wildly, and grasping onto straws to find ways to get 

the apple cart of the world economy upright and working again. 

Was it all greedy bankers’ fault – or was it greedy 

homeowners? They ask. 

72

KEY EQUIVALENCES 

Conservative Party of Great Britain = NEO-NAZI PARTEI OF 

GREATER GERMANY IE UK BRITISH GOVERNMENT I.E. 

‘CONSERVATIVE (NEO-NAZI) PARTEI’ 

Labour Party of Great Britain = plain NAZI PARTEI OF 

GREATER GERMANY IE UK BRITISH GOVERNMENT I.E. 

‘LABOUR (NAZI) PARTEI’ 

NATIONAL HORRIBLE STALIN HITLER SYSTEM (NHS-HS) 

EXISTS globally IN BRITISH EX-EMPIRE REGIONS OR 

COUNTRIES ESPECIALLY. 

SPECIFICALLY TO CONTINUE AS A “SECOND (USUALLY 

COLOURED OR BLACK NOW) HOLOCAUST” THE NEO- 

NAZI DEATH CAMPS OR PRISON STIR PORRIDGE 

GODHELPUSALLS (“HOSPITALS”) … … 

… … OF ADOLF’S AND JOSEF’S ATROCIOUS SECOND 

WORLD WAR THAT NEVER ENDED – ANLAGEN 

ARCHIPELAGOS AND GULAG ARCHIPELAGOS!!! 

“OPERATIVE WORTER” ABOVE ALL “KONTROL – NACHT 

UND NEBEL” THE POLAR OPPOSITES OF LOVE, JOY, 

PEACE, TRUTH, HONESTY, DECENCY FOR INMATES. 

ABOVE ALL – freedom … … !!! 

Adolf’s body was never found in that bunker in Berlin in 

1945 and he / it persists as ‘Robo Adolf’ = BIG BROTHER 

– CONTROLLING THE WORLD THROUGH ALL HIS (NEO-) 

NAZI LEGACY OF NASTY NAZI LAWS IN BRITAIN, 

EUROPE, RUSSIA AND AMERICA!!! 

73

“Our Freedom Song” 

As composed by Our Lady The Holy Spirit with Her Elendila, 

with the tune and words inspired by the title of Simon Richard 

Lee’s main book: - 

‘Now is the Dawning of the Time of The End’. 

Now is The Dawning of the Age of Aquarius, 

Now is The Dawning of The Time of the End. 

Now is The Dawning of the Age of Enlightenment, 

Now is The Dawning of The End of Time. 

Now is The Dawning of the Age of Reason, 

Now is The Dawning of the Age of Truth. 

Now is The Dawning of the Age of Peace, 

Now is The Dawning of the Age of Love. 

FREEdom, FREEdom, FREEdom’s what we want… 

FREEdom, FREEdom, FREEdom’s what we need… 

Our Freedom Song, Our Freedom Song, Our Freedom Song, 

Our Freedom Song, Our Freedom Song, Our Free-ee-dom Soo-o-ong. 

74

Now is The Dawning of the Age of Aquarius, 

Now is The Dawning of The Time of the End. 

Now is The Dawning of the Age of Experience, 

Now is The Dawning of the Age of Merriment. 

Now is The Dawning of the Age of Laughter, 

Now is The Dawning of the Age of All Things New. 

Now is The Dawning of the Age of Joy, 

Now is The Dawning of the Age of LOVE. 

FREEdom, FREEdom, FREEdom’s what we want… 

FREEdom, FREEdom, FREEdom’s what we need… 

Our Freedom Song, Our Freedom Song, Our Freedom Song, 

Our Freedom Song, Our Freedom Song, Our Free-ee-dom Soo-o-ong. 

Our Freedom Song, 







Our Freedom So-o-o-ong! 

75

My own answers are extremely radical and totally mindblowingly 

far-reaching: - 

o A lot of the problem is the vast over-proliferation of a 

population of nearly totally uncontrolled, unregulated, 

computers, especially in this 21 st Century, way beyond in 

Size and Complexity, the ability of their designers to actually 

control their design. Above all the Internet. As a computer 

systems designer who first worked on them using paper tape 

and cards back in 1971, I find the current generation of 

systems (a) far too complex and BIG for anybody alive to 

understand let alone manage (b) since ‘9/11’ and the 

ensuing war on terrorism, involved in a global system of 

control and alleged so-called ‘security’ that serves no human 

being any more – only the ‘Great God of MONEY’. 

o I propose here a ‘CCCCCC’ or ‘C6’ – a ‘cool, calm, 

collected complete computer census’. Computers were 

invented between 1937 and 1939 as weapons – the first 

digital electronic computer was based at Bletchley in England 

throughout the Second World War. This ‘Colossus Machine’ 

enabled Britain and so the Allies to break the ‘Enigma Code’ 

of every single German military radio signal during the war – 

and had Prime Minister Winston Churchill taken this work 

much more seriously, it has been said that the result could 

have been a far quicker ending of that terrible conflict. The 

man who published the original design was one Alan Turing, 

a predecessor of mine at King’s College, Cambridge. He got 

into a lot of trouble with the homophobia of the then 

Government about his very precocious early blatancy about 

his homosexuality – and the resulting persecution eventually 

drove him to suicide. I am very glad even in this day and 

age, that I do not suffer from either his homosexual or 

suicidal tendencies… 

o I claim in a future world where we ‘put the genie of 

these computers’ back in the bottle the only computers we 

would need are these limited forms: - 

o (a) Calculation, measurement and control devices – 

but ONLY where humans cannot match the performance, 

accuracy, complexity or need for health and safety of these 

(b) Word processing and graphics (c) Music (d) 

CONTROLLED communications (e) MORE (much) control 

over stored information (data) 

76

o 

o 

The KEY to causing such a counter-revolution would 

seem Luddite and backward were it not for the radical, 

totally idealistic, crazy to some, nature of my own solution to 

the ever-worsening Second Great Depression of our 21 st 

Century, totally out of control and unregulated, ‘computermoney 

complex’. That is: - 

Problem – (the love of) Money is the Root of All 

Evil 

77

o 

o 

o 

o 

o 

Only Logical Answer – ABOLISH ALL MONEY. 

The next two sections, (2) and (3), describe the main 

problems of this ‘computer-money complex’ as I see them. 

The first of these should be blindingly obvious from the very 

description of money by the slang phrase ‘filthy leukah’ - but 

may well shock and even scare some people. In remaining 

sections, firstly in most I describe the ‘Ideal money free 

world’ in all its aspects – and secondly confine my attentions 

to religion and even a biblical basis for all of this – to just a 

few sections at the very end. 

To summarise: - the ‘Root of all Evil’ was planted 

by The Devil right at the very start of things. Satan invented 

money. For the last 70 years, computer automation has 

rocketed in importance and fallen correspondingly massively 

in price to the point of the current Second Great Depression 

having been caused by a ‘computer-money complex’ that 

no longer serves people – only the Great Gods. The Original 

Great God of Money – Satan’s Offspring, the Root of All Evil, 

remember – and The New Second Upstart Great God of IT - 

Machines or Technology. 

It is time that humanity took this Second Great 

Depression as a golden opportunity to make a massive step 

in growing up - into a wonderful New World. As we see in 

this Manifesto, if we Abolish All Money, that is the only 

catalyst we need to provide, to create a world free of 

poverty and greed, yet full of opportunity for all on a truly 

equal basis. 

This Booklet is termed a Manifesto on the cover even 

though it transcends all political views, which are largely 

money-based. It is a Manifesto that seeks to Marshal a 

whole Movement of a Majority of Like-Minded Minds. (an 

MMMMMM??..) To do the following. To dig up the ancient, 

hoary, cobwebbed, part rotting, part fossilized, it is so old, 

Root of All Evil, Money Itself, dripping with oceans of the 

blood, sweat and tears of generations of the povertystricken, 

ironically most of them alive today. Do not burn it 

but completely destroy it in a very modern way indeed – 

recycle all the metal and paper of the coins and notes, and 

re-cycle the plastic of all debit and credit cards. Then 

computers could easily be re-bottled like the genies or Evil 

78

Spirits that they are – only to be let out again under 

extremely controlled circumstances. The ones that were 

scrapped would also provide a wealth of recycled materials – 

especially gold and other precious minerals and metals. 

79

2. Money and computers are filthy – they carry most 

germs. “Filthy leukah”. “Filthy rich versus filthy 

poor”? 

In the next two sections (2) and (3) I give my two principal, 

both devastating objections to the worlds of ‘cash’ and ‘the 

computer-money complex’. The first, in this section, will 

probably strike you as common sense, but nevertheless 

something you will almost certainly never have thought of – 

because society makes money so sacred a Sacred Cow – that is 

actually very shocking. Consider: - 

• Whenever you give and take money in a shop, those 

notes and coins will have been handled by dozens and 

hundreds of people in their time, many with infectious 

diseases. The dirt on those notes and coins, built up 

increasingly with age, carries toxic, infectious, 

microbes, bacteria, viruses and other microscopic 

germs... 

• Money is filthy. Your average wallet, purse, or 

pocket of money is absolutely riddled with disease 

and germs. 

• Especially these days, with ‘chip and PIN’ keyboards 

replacing signatures, the same is only slightly less true of 

debit and credit cards – 20 people an hour touch the same 

keyboard to enter their PIN, passing on infectious germs 

and so diseases. 

• So what about the cash till operators? They typically do a 

two hour shift, handling not only the toxic infected money 

– but all of the goods being sold... Then their shift 

changes because operating a cash till is only allowed for a 

certain amount of time because it is intensive i.e. very 

stressful. Another cash till operator uses the very same 

cash till keyboard – spreading even more germs and 

disease. 

• The same is true of computer keyboards worldwide, for 

the vast majority of these are shared between company 

employees and members of families and their friends at 

home. 

80

I am a quite ‘heavy’ smoker so am well aware of the current 

fierce coercion in my own country England, to initially ban all 

smoking in public places that started two years ago, obviously 

with the long term agenda being to outlaw smoking altogether. 

However I feel that the Government led health warnings on 

tobacco could be used even more urgently on money – notes, 

coins and cards. This would take place in a ‘grass roots way’, 

with at first families, then towns and villages, declaring 

themselves to be ‘money free / cash free / credit free zones’ 

which would be vastly more effective than such communities in 

the past rather ‘pissing in the wind’ by declaring themselves 

rather pointlessly to be ‘nuclear free zones’. Finally whole 

states and counties, then whole countries, would become ‘cash 

free zones’, in this New World. 

Bank notes, debit and credit cards, and keyboards would 

initially be marked with the chemical skull and crossbones 

symbol for ‘poison’, and be inscribed with the warning, 

“Contains toxic, poisonous dirt, microbes, bacteria and viruses” 

Coins are too small for such a warning message – but the ‘tails’ 

side could have stamped on it in yellow and black the same 

‘poison’ skull and crossbones warning… 

My own approach to dealing with the problems of money being 

dirty and unhygienic – it gets worse, see the next section – is 

the human, humane approach compared to the above ‘Beast 

666’ one… 

81

So – we would like to see this sort of desperately over-needed 

measure introduced first in my own country, the UK. So I 

address Her Majesty The Queen in Person : - 

“Ma’am. Message from MAAM. Read on for the rest gets 

better and better after this. Then get your current government 

of whatever slant to read this too – and all of you abolish all 

money starting here in the UK.” 

82

3. Money and computers are just filthy dirty middlemen. 

Money and computers underpin our ‘Modern 21 st 

Century World’ – but it is unbearably awkward, clunky 

and inhuman. The oil of human relations would run 

rich in a world freed of both. 

We have just seen one frighteningly real problem with both 

money and computers as they co-exist in their 21 st Century 

‘computer-money complex’. We now turn to look at how these 

two middle men, the terrible twins in this conspiratorial 

takeover of the world of the last 70 years, increasingly in the 

last ten years, seem to have brought it nearly to a diabolically 

awful conclusion since 11 th September 2001 – ‘9/11’ and 

George Bush Junior’s ensuing immediate launch the very next 

day of the infamous ‘war on terrorism’. So let us compare the 

world now with ten years or so ago, and see how in the Name 

of Progress a ruinous state of affairs has nearly finished 

emerging. 

Please do not think I am some kind of ‘Victor Meldrew’ 

character when you read the long list of severe gripes below 

with the ‘system’ as it has now emerged and seems likely to 

produce only even more of the same dire sort of world. It is 

just that I have long since lost any of my initial enthusiasm for 

computers, but it is they not I that are turncoats, for far from 

their initial, mostly for noble, purposes 70 years ago – now 

they only mostly serve the ‘computer-money complex’. My list 

of severe gripes is as follows: - 

83

• Using the telephone to talk to representatives of more and 

more organizations, especially commercial ones, has 

become, and is becoming, increasingly fraught. You 

usually now get a ludicrously positive, beaming, robot 

humanoid voice, terribly terribly well-spoken, not a real 

person. You are asked to push a series of buttons 

supposed to home you in on the option you want to 

address when you deal with them. Then all too often one 

of two things happens: - (a) you discover to your horror 

that this phone call is being answered in a completely 

inhuman automated way – there is no possibility of 

actually talking to a human being not a robot humanoid 

voice interpretation machine that often mishears you or 

hangs up unexpectedly. (b) You wait ten or twenty 

minutes listening to that company’s taste in piped muzak 

‘on hold’ – most irritating when they play the same 

(depressing?) muzak track over and over again. Then 

when you finally get through to a human voice, and ask a 

slightly difficult question not on their computer screen, 

they say ‘do you mind if I put you on hold for a moment?’ 

which turns into a further ten or twenty minutes, far from 

‘a moment’. They are really saying, were they honest 

about it ‘I do not mind putting you on hold for ten minutes 

when I say ‘a moment’. You are footing the phone bill 

and we ensure it is a premium rate number so we get a 

large payment from the phone company from your bill – 

for keeping you on hold.’ 

• Another form of ‘computer-money complex’ phone abuse, 

also just keeps getting more and more common and 

intrusive. Increasingly when my phone rings, it is no 

friend, not even a real person on the far end. It is a 

recording of another robot humanoid, pleasantly inviting 

you to buy their service or pay for everything apart from 

the actual fare of the Mediterranean Cruise it claims you 

have won. Nobody likes con artist robots ringing you up 

like that. 

84

• My third and final example of what I regard as phone 

abuse is the familiar phrase once you actually get through 

to customer services and real people. How often have 

you heard this, “Sorry please ring back in a few hours. 

Our system is down.” Whereas the first two problems 

above are really just symptoms of a now fully emerged 

“Culture of the computer-money complex” – the “system 

down.” problem speaks to me, as a Chartered Computer 

Systems Engineer with a long history of actually designing 

fully 100% working computer systems years ago, of a 

much deeper problem, as follows: - 

• Probably even now, still the worst offender in this is the 

very market leader, whom I will ironically name by my 

affectionate term for them in this discussion: ‘Megabollox’. 

The above company will have been sold their computer 

system, either to replace a previous paper based system, 

or more likely these days, with the march of time and 

such ‘Progress’ – an upgrade from another earlier version 

of such a system. Megabollox have caused an entire sales 

culture of selling new computer systems by appealing to 

the buyer with the sheer quantity of ‘bells, whistles, 

gadgets and gizmos’ that come with it – generally termed 

‘features’. The trouble is testing all of these vast quantity 

of such ‘features’ on just one system so they all always 

work together or in unison, not just in isolation from each 

other. Again Megabollox have started another major 

notorious trend with their software – they release it to a 

naïve gullible Joe Bloggs public, barely tested beyond the 

pre-production ‘beta’ testing phase – and let that public, 

already hard sold yet another ‘jazzy, exciting Megabollox 

product’ do most of the testing for Megabollox instead. 

Yet for Megabollox, have they already done everything 

technically feasible years ago in 2002 with their ‘Windows 

XP’ product? 

• They were immediately assailed by a dodgy army of 

hackers, and had to spend the next five years introducing 

literally thousands of security features to stop Windows XP 

attracting viciously hostile ‘malware’ - viruses, Trojan 

horses, spyware, worms, and other assaults. That was 

85

five years that stopped Megabollox introducing Windows 

Vista as a ‘replacement’ for Windows XP – but it backfired. 

• Problems were, as I could see them when I bought a 

laptop briefly with Vista Home Basic installed on it in 2007 

when Vista emerged:- 

• Initially and for some months, one could not make Vista 

run any software that ran on Windows XP – apart of 

course from Megabollox software. All software 

manufacturers apart from supreme arrogant Megabollox 

had to rapidly produce new ‘Vista compatible’ versions of 

their packages, at vast expense. 

• However hard I tried while I had my Vista machine, I 

could not for the life of me perceive any real difference 

technically in the internals from its predecessor XP that 

I knew very well. Megabollox emphasised the ‘front end’ 

or ‘(hu)man-machine interface’ and indeed that seemed to 

be where absolutely the only differences lay. What a let 

down after waiting all of five years – just to get a 

cosmetically slightly ‘sexier’ system. 

• Yet the biggest problem with Vista, its downfall it was to 

turn out, was that some of these ‘front end’ features 

required vastly more sheer computing power and 

resources than were available on most machines then and 

even now – especially some of the more ludicrously 

‘snazzier’ features like three dimensional graphics. 

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• Overall then, with Vista, Megabollox were ‘flogging a dead 

donkey’ by introducing this cosmetic, resource-flogging 

successor to Windows XP falsely as an advance. The 

marketing hype certainly led hundreds of thousands of 

gullible punters to do what Megabollox coerced by 

claiming they would be dropping all their support of XP 

once Vista had been launched. They coughed up the large 

license fee often only to feel stranded by the above three 

problems and by the usual cynical Megabollox ploy of 

using the public as guinea pigs to find most of the deeper 

and more subtle ‘bugs’ or faults in the new Vista 

Operating System. 

• Yet Megabollox are planning to flog the dead donkey even 

further into its grave, as it were, by shortly bringing out 

yet another new version of Windows beyond XP – called 

‘Windows 7’. Yet the price/performance ratio for the 

computers it would run on bottomed out at last to £300 

for a complete computer vastly more powerful than one a 

tiny fraction as fast and powerful and large – just 30 years 

ago – when home computing was unthinkable due to the 

cost and sheer size of machines then. 

• Plus many computer pundits have pointed out that 

computers are very near the limits of their design 

capabilities – due to the limitations of physics itself – they 

are rapidly approaching a point where ‘quantum effects’ 

prohibit them getting any smaller and more compact. 

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• For all of 70 years, all world governments have given 

computer designers a total free rein solely in the name of 

‘Progress’ and ‘economic growth’ - whereas computers 

now actually contain most of the world’s wealth. It is 

surely time for computer people everywhere to admit it: - 

“Come on lads and ladettes – the game is up – the world 

governments have at last got wind that they have been 

taken by surprise by us computer nerds for all of 70 years 

now – so have let us get away with our blue murder of IT 

technology. The game seems to be up – we have to 

admit to them that everything possible that can be done 

with conventional computers has already been done. No, 

we have not succeeded by any stretch of the imagination 

in creating a single conscious i.e. truly intelligent 

computer in that 70 years… Our long term, vastly 

expensive game seems to be up.’ 

• Conventional computer design, so its price to performance 

ratio, have reached opposite peak and trough respectively 

for some years now. A great time to reverse as much of 

the damage as possible – for the Cool, Calm, Collected 

Complete Computer Census or CCCCCC (C6) I mentioned 

earlier – at the same time as laws are passed worldwide 

to outlaw and criminalise money. 

• Have computer systems really peaked? Or is it not rather 

the case that they have gone way beyond any reasonable 

such peak – especially in the vast wastelands of 

cyberspace that constitute the newly arrived and already 

nearly world dominant Internet? I speak as a retired 

Chartered Computer and Instrument and Measurement 

and Control Engineer, who from 1971 to 1997 regularly 

used, where regularly millions of computer ‘bytes’ are 

totally wastefully used today, a few hundreds or 

thousands at most of such bytes of program – to achieve 

a perfectly working, hand crafted not machinebutchered 

result. 

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• In a nutshell, I have to work with the Internet to write 

and promote my writings, but LOATHE it. I find it glitzy, 

trashy, grossly inefficient and slow, unreliable – and very 

often either sleazy (with invasions from pornography sites 

and / or viruses etc.) or even sinister next to totally 

respectable (Marks and Spencer are apparently on a par 

with sites run by Al’Quaeda terrorists.) Above all there is 

a total lack of central control by any government’s laws as 

the Internet grandiosely transcends all International Law, 

so totally frustrating the efforts of international 

governments everywhere to regulate the Beast. 

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• My own proposal is the CCCCCC, as we have seen. A 

bottom-up grass roots approach of a global census of all 

computer equipment would tackle the problem of the 

Internet for world governments by taking out the lower 

supporting ‘bricks’ of dangerous individual computers first. 

Come on world, do yourself a favour – carry out just such 

a CCCCCCC. 

• As spending literally hours glued to a computer screen 

and ‘surfing the net’ has become commonplace in recent 

years with the Internet, not just as once the domain solely 

of ‘computer nerds’, so we see, as this growth of ‘cyber 

space’ has taken place, a parallel loss of interest in most 

of society in ‘real’ not ‘cyber’ games, sports, shopping, 

crafts and other recreation activities. Yet I have a 

derisive term for much of the Internet as ‘tinsel town’ – 

unreliable information, illegal drug sites, likewise 

extremely dodgy pornographic sites that often attack you 

with viruses etc. All totally unregulated of course. 

International laws on the activities on the Internet, as we 

just said, are desperately required. As I have found, 

perhaps the most annoying thing that can happen is if 

your email address enters the public domain. Then expect 

a torrent of emails for ‘guaranteed’ get rich quick on the 

Web schemes, pornographic sites, and other spam 

clogging your email in-tray. 

• The Millennium saw a new phenomenon, initially in richer 

chains of shops, but now nearly everywhere. Where once 

the only sound at cash desks in shops was the sound of 

the cash till, now there is a cacophony of new sounds. 

The multiple electronic ‘peeps’ as laser armed cash till 

computers salute all the ‘666’ based UPC barcodes on all 

the items of merchandise as they ‘scan’ the codes. 

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• Money could be described as “the world’s oldest and most 

fiendish weapon for controlling resources and people and 

all living creatures”. Since 1939, exactly 70 years ago, 

with the first computer, it has been joined in what has 

nearly been perfected as what I term the ‘computermoney 

complex’. I studied computer science at 

Cambridge University 1978-79 and our then Professor 

Maurice Wilkes had worked on the first Enigma computer 

in that terrible war. One day he told us a totally 

apocryphal tale. He and a senior colleague on the project 

took a walk together near the computer at Bletchley, then 

the only one in the world still remember, just after the 

War ended. “We might need another one of these by the 

year 2000” was the incredibly lacking in foresight remark 

they made – just look at the uncontrolled supernova 

explosion of computers since, now in every walk of life. 

That first computer led a wave of such computer 

‘weapons’ into a ‘computer-money complex’ with the 

ancient ultimate weapon of money, into whole undreamt 

of ways of controlling resources and people and animals 

now. Yet like all weapons of war and military methods, 

both are almost unbearably clunky, awkward and stiff, 

middle men only – both inanimate servants that would 

dominate, with absolutely zero inherent intelligence. They 

threaten to throttle humanity once and for all as they 

have caused the current Second Great Depression. My 

own views are radical – we need to Abolish All Money and 

put its ally the genie of computers firmly back in the 

bottle – all before it is all too late. The rewards if we do 

that are huge. 

• That is the end of rather a ‘diatribe’ in some places 

against money and computers – now with their 

“computer-money complex” having caused directly the 

Second Great Depression of 2009. In the next 20 sections 

or so, I will be necessarily a lot briefer – because I will 

trying to imagine what the world would be like (dare I say 

will be like one day?) when money has been abolished – 

and the genie of computers put back in the bottle. 

Nobody can fully imagine this, so I will be sensible and 

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confine myself to what the initial changes might be. As a 

young boy, I thoroughly enjoyed the Narnia Books of C. S. 

Lewis, and will paraphrase a ‘shout of joy’ in the final 

book of the series – The Last Battle. He greatly reassures 

us that when the world finally ends, a New World will 

absolutely immediately appear, ready-made, and as the 

heroes of the story enter this New World they cry out for 

joy. In a world with money gone and computers shrunk 

back to their own original size in importance, would the 

shout be, ‘Higher and Further.’ then become ‘Ever Higher 

and Ever Further.’? 

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4. Resources and possessions. No more force of 

economics. No more “haves and have not’s” – 

everybody happy. 

In most of the rest of this Manifesto I look at how the world 

would at least maybe start to be should we as a species, 

probably initially in small pockets, abolish all money, i.e. 

abolish all cash and abolish all credit. That is right: - a world 

with no money, no cash, no credit, I say again, zero money, 

zero cash and zero credit. A money-free, cash-free, credit-free 

world. 

Would resources and possessions just disappear in this New 

World? Of course not – but they would simply have no 

financial or monetary value associated with them or price tag. 

They would instead revert to their essential ‘intrinsic value’ 

which Karl Marx called their ‘use value’ in his essay ‘the 

fetishism of commodities’ in his famous book ‘Das Kapital’. 

A money-free world is the only way to achieve the great Noble 

Aspirations of many of mankind to have a fair distribution of 

wealth i.e. in That World, only resources and possessions, with 

no financial strings attached any more. Neither Capitalist nor 

Communist – but Utterly Liberal with capital U and capital L. It 

would almost automatically apply two principles from the words 

of Jesus in the New Testament in the Bible: - 

• ‘Seek and you shall find’ 

• ‘Ask and you shall receive’ 

In our 21 st Century world it is possible to get hold of anything 

you could possibly want in life – at a price. In a world where 

‘money was no object’ – where indeed money no longer 

existed. – all you would do was seek your heart’s desire till you 

found it – in papers, magazines, books, TV, radio as now – and 

whatever rump was left of the Internet after the CCCCCC I 

keep advocating. With no money involved, nor indeed would 

there be any primitive barter unless you absolutely wanted to 

thank the person with whatever was your heart’s desire. For 

you will simply ‘ask (for it – politely.) and you will receive - it 

– totally free of charge.’ in Our Brave New World. 

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Really it would be that easy. Fascinating is it not? 

94

5. Food, clothing, land, housing and furnishings, 

comfortable environment (decent lighting, 

temperatures, air, water and sanitation) – all our 

essential basic needs would become free for all – even 

in the undeveloped world – the very least that this 

incredibly simple proposal offers after the abolition of 

money 

Forget “seeking and finding your heart’s desire, and receiving it 

if you ask politely for it” for a moment. In our present 21 st 

Century World there is an ever deeper growing global “Rich – 

Poor Divide” and the vast majority of the world’s burgeoning 

population is born into a planet where they do not even have 

the very basics, even clean water – as in the title of this 

section, as I see them. 

Finding a way, as many leaders and politicians try fruitlessly to 

do, to find ways round the stranglehold of the ‘computermoney 

complex’ today to reach out and actually give the 

majority of the world, these basics that some take for granted, 

is impossible. 

To Abolish All Money is to create a world where there would be 

an immediate global rescue operation from West to East and 

North to South – literally - to provide at least the above basics 

to absolutely all of the world’s population. The Western and 

Northern Hemisphere actually already have all the adequate 

resources – it is only the money itself that is currently the only 

obstacle to absolutely a global panacea. 

Taking money itself out of the ‘equation of the world’s current 

mess’ – gives you instantly, literally, a panacea to all of the 

world’s problems. As we see in the sections that follow… 

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6. Work, agriculture, shops and industry 

In a world free of money so of the ‘money motive’, at first 

there might appear to be no incentive for any at all of these. 

However: - 

• Work would become optional or part time or full time as 

you wished – the majority actually enjoy the right sort of 

work. It would be a golden opportunity to abolish not 

only unethical money but unethical and onerous forms of 

work. Also wages. 

• Agriculture would of course remain essential – but would 

be able to be cleaned up, with global ‘slash and burn’, 

‘cash crops’, Genetically Modified Food and Factory 

Farming, etc, abolished. All food would become free so 

far more exotic and varied. Everybody could enjoy a 

healthy balanced diet – free. 

• Shops would only lose their cash tills and become ‘Ware 

Houses’ – with everything in them again free. 

• Industry would lose all money, cash, credit, and most 

computers in this equation. A golden opportunity for it to 

clean up its act – to become vastly ‘greener and cleaner’ 

overnight – as many politicians now are vainly trying to 

achieve. 

96

7. Walking, road, rail, sea, air and space transport 

Of these, all not just walking would become totally free. 

Yippee. Imagine the drive there will have to be to put nongreen 

cars, motorbikes and busses off the road, non-green 

trains, ships, planes also out of action – and to stop everybody 

taking off into space. 

97

8. No more need for banks, taxes, gambling, casinos 

or Stock Markets – or charities or state benefits on the 

other hand… 

In a money-free world this would speak for itself. 

98

9. The Law – very little crime; so punishment; left 

possible. 

About all that would be left of The Law would be the Ten 

Commandments of the Old Testament plus the Two Great 

Commandments of the New. These are, to refresh your 

memory, ‘Love your neighbour as yourself’ and ‘Love the Lord 

your God with all your soul, all your mind, all your spirit and all 

your heart’. 

There might well be two graded punishments, for people still 

using money after it was abolished, as follows: - 

• ‘Insane about money’. Sectioning in a mental hospital. 

• ‘Violently insane about money’. Detention in the 

psychiatric wing of a prison. 

Both punishments to involve nasty, rough, toxic tablets and 

injections administered as now By Law until the prisoner were 

cured completely. 

The basic precept of British Law according to legal practitioners 

themselves, as The Law has been developed largely by the 

Victorians and spread to most of the rest of the world, is:- 

“Possession is nine tenths of The Law” 

These days that might be better put as: - 

“Possession is 99.9% of the Law”. 

99

In a cash-free society the only law related to possession 

would be the Commandment ‘Do not steal’. The Law 

would revert Centuries, Millennia, to an original precept of the 

Ten Commandments of Moses on Mount Sinai: 

“Personal crimes are Nine Tenths of The Law” 

Finally the Ten (Twelve?) Commandments would be 

supplemented by new ones – taken straight from Buddhism: - 

• “Do not hurt, abuse, or even offend any living creature” 

• “Believe only what you yourself know to be true”. 

100

10. Local, national and international Governments 

As I said before, it is inevitable that the way to the first ‘Father 

Christmas State’, the first of a World Union of such ‘Father 

Christmas States’, would be very grass roots indeed. ‘Money 

free zones’ would lead to money free villages and towns – then 

finally money free states and counties, and ultimately the 

money free country then countries. I will now take a tongue in 

cheek look at what would happen to my own country’s 

government here in Britain, when this finally happens. 

Government, both local and national, would be elected but 

unpaid and voluntary, completely no longer to do with money 

and as we just saw, as a direct result, with far fewer laws to 

worry about. It would drastically shrink to just deal with the 

few remaining things that local and national government would 

be left to do in a money-free world, of a Father Christmas 

State:- 

• The Treasury and the Bank of England, like all banks, 

would vanish. They would be replaced by a Ministry of 

Joy, Humour and Generosity. 

• The Home Office and Scotland Yard and The Police would 

have far fewer laws and crimes to deal with. They would 

become the Ministry of Wisdom, Reason and DEEP 

THOUGHT. 

• Any Father Christmas State like that, especially eventually in 

a World Union of Father Christmas States, would as we see 

soon enjoy complete world peace, so the Ministry of 

Defence would become the Ministry of Grace, Peace, Love 

and Creativity (formerly known as hanky-panky.) 

• The NHS would also now offer free hairdressing, chiropody 

and beauty treatments – a Ministry of Health and Beauty. 

• I am open to like humorous suggestions to my email 

address simon@maam.org.uk for what to merge social 

services and the Department of Work and Pensions into – 

something along the lines of The Ministry of Silly Walks 

101

(as immortalized by John Cleese of Monty Python’s 

Flying Circus in the 1960’s) but thoroughly up to date and 

21 st Century, original – and topical. I may well offer an 

appropriate prize for this. 

102

11. Multinational cultural and language differences 

and Travel 

The first money-free zones, then towns and villages, and finally 

Father Christmas Regions or Counties, and finally the first 

Father Christmas State, would obviously be tourist attractions. 

They would have to turn away travelers who were would-be 

immigrants – and tell them to travel back to their home town 

and ‘spread the word’ and make that into a money free zone 

too. 

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12. Trade; the fair distribution of wealth once 

money were abolished; the end of the Great 

International Rich-Poor Divide 

Money free zones would exchange goods free (not barter – 

that would be very backward-looking) without any trade. 

The first full Father Christmas State would probably indeed be 

a very advanced country like my own country of Great Britain, 

and give goods away and expect like treatment in return – 

setting a dramatic example until the full World Union of Father 

Christmas States were established. Once that happened there 

would naturally, as I said earlier, be a free rescue operation, 

from North to South Hemispheres, and West to East – fully 

global – International Rescue. The International Rich-Poor 

Divide would naturally vanish, almost certainly in months or 

even less. 

104

13. Children and families 

In any Father Christmas State, it would be Christmas every day 

of the year – Without Price. Naturally, all families especially 

children, would be over the moon. 

105

14. Poverty and debt obsolete – personal and 

national 

As each Father Christmas State got established, two things 

would naturally happen: - 

• A fair distribution of wealth as in resources and 

possessions would take place – all poverty would be 

abolished 

• All debt would be cancelled out – as there would be 

no money. 

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15. Teaching and Education 

• With money no longer any object, the 

children, and as necessary adults of the whole world would 

for the first time all receive a decent education. 

• Money would either be taught about as a 

history subject only, like computer systems – or best 

forgotten about totally as a Very Bad Thing? 

• Everybody would enjoy their education, 

teachers and children alike, totally unlike the present regime 

around the world. 

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16. Science and Technology, especially regarding 

information 

• With money no longer any object, again, a dream of 

many scientists and engineers could be achieved very 

quickly – Science, Engineering and Technology could be 

completed and finished off - everything possible would 

have been invented and put to good use. 

• The big exception to this would be the CCCCCC I have 

mentioned before – this global computer census would ‘put 

the genie of computers back in the bottle’ and global laws 

would be passed limiting the scope and size of computers 

drastically. 

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17. The Arts 

• With money no longer an object, yet again, works of art 

would lose all financial value so only retain their intrinsic or 

‘aesthetic’ value as art. 

• In the Age of Leisure that would come once work was 

done in five day on five day off shifts, and even be purely 

optional and voluntary, The Arts would flourish. Drawing, 

painting, photography, cinema, pottery, textiles, graphic 

design, architecture, etc, etc, would all flourish – a New 

Renaissance?.. 

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18. Entertainment and communications: - post offices 

and services, radio, TV, (mobile) telephones, papers, 

magazines, books; information and computer 

technology, and the Internet 

All of these are grossly over developed and would come under 

the auspices of the same CCCCCC as for computers – to 

rationalize and simplify them, and change ‘300 channels of 

crap’ on TV, for instance back to far fewer, far higher quality 

output channels. 

110

19. Sport, Recreation Activities and Holidays 

As for the Arts, in the Age of Leisure that would come these 

would all become accessible to all, and to a large extent would 

enjoy a Renaissance – especially with computer games and TV 

drastically ‘having their respective genies put back in the 

bottle’ as discussed already several times. 

111

20. Health, Beauty, Hygiene, Safety, Medicine, Hospitals, 

Legal and Illegal Drugs, Social Services, Welfare, and 

Care For The Elderly 

• The one really appalling thing here, illegal drugs, would 

simply and naturally go out of business once the drug barons 

lost their entire money motive. 

• All the other things in this list would be free for all – under 

the umbrella of a ‘Ministry of Health and Beauty’ as proposed 

before. 

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21. The Environment; Natural Resources; Environmental 

Health. Global Warming, ‘carbon footprints’, pollution, 

climate change all made too a ‘thing of the past’ 

The money motive, nearly everyone agrees, is the main reason 

for the wholesale destruction of The Global Environment – for 

centuries if not millennia. With that Money Motive abolished if 

and when we abolish money, an Environmental Renaissance 

would happen too. 

113

22. Nature and Wildlife 

With money abolished, and a New Age of Leisure, we would all 

have much more time, and the motive, to appreciate Nature 

and Life in General, much more. Would we clean up the whole 

planet? 

114

23. Politics replaced by true leadership 

Politics could be aptly described as ‘electing leaders to act 

mostly by consensus’ in the grim art, mostly, of ‘raising taxes 

then working out how “best” (which political view 

predominates, determines this) how to spend them’. In a 

world without money everybody would much more ‘be their 

own leader’ or ‘be their own Jesus’ and it would be a much 

more mature, grown-up society all round. 

115

24. World Peace and Security replacing Permanent War 

One major long term objective that nearly all politicians today 

are agreed on is of course the cause of World Peace. World 

Peace would indeed come as naturally as Day follows Night 

were money abolished – money and to an extent religion cause 

all wars. 

116

25. Sexism, sexuality, homophobia, ageism, racism, etc, 

etc 

Everybody would have enough of everything they needed – 

initially the basics, worldwide, to be followed by luxuries of 

course. Everybody would be recognized as ‘equal but unique 

and different’ – and these isms and phobias would soon 

vanish. 

117

26. Stresses and Strains, the Pace of Life and Mental 

Health 

Life would be far less full of stress and strain with no money to 

worry about. If everybody lived comfortably and above all for 

free, with no longer any ‘money motive’ to goad us all on, 

especially with work optional, the Mental Health of The World 

would drastically improve. Mental Illness might well even 

vanish entirely. 

118

27. Human or spiritual values and freedom of choice. 

Religion – is it affected at all? 

• There are of course a huge number of religions, faiths, 

churches, and sects and denominations within them in this 

World today. They mostly exhibit huge differences between 

each other to outsiders, and some have most peculiar 

practices, especially in this supposedly modern 21 st Century. 

• The Christian Churches, judging from their speeches back 

in Easter 2009 and since as usual, do at least vaguely agree 

on one thing – the ‘spiritual life’ is vastly more to be 

honoured and sought after than money and material 

possessions. Yet ask a cross section of faiths and churches 

what ‘spiritual’ actually means – and you get an infinite 

range of answers. 

• Religion freed of money would contract and simplify itself, 

quite naturally, and find a much simpler consensus between 

faiths. It would go through a great peaceful revolution, in 

fact. 

119

29. Any counter arguments to the abolition of 

money are few and weak. 

• I have presented a whole range of very strong 

arguments in this Manifesto that we actually all act to 

Abolish All Money. These arguments cover every aspect of 

world society in the post ‘9/11’ 21 st Century World that we 

currently inhabit, and how these would change for ever for 

the good once we Abolish All Money. 

• Only those rich people who actually enjoy and 

luxuriate in their advantages over the poor, while doing 

nothing about that Great Divide, surely, can raise any 

serious objections to what I am proposing here. 

• In every aspect of life that I have described, there 

are no disadvantages, only vast advantages, to humanity 

acting as a whole to Abolish All Money. 

120

Overall - a very simple and high Quality of Life for all. 

The End of Money, then, would bring about a New World, 

a Utopia, where everybody was respected for being the 

individual they are, there would be no rich and poor apart from 

people being as comfortably off as they needed and wanted to 

be. 

At the same time computers and computer-inspired 

activities would be subject to a CCCCCC Census – and life 

without this other half of the current ‘computer-money 

complex’ being dominant any more, would get a lot simpler – 

and Higher Quality. 

Is it possible, then, that a World without Money would be 

for all – the Paradise on Earth envisaged if not promised by 

many religions? 

The key to that great claim is simple really – 

121

Abolish All Money!!! 

122

123

Manifesto: - 

Abolish All Money 

• Make everything in the world all FREE 

• The Machine especially now tranSiStorS is ‘The 

Beast 666’… 

• Census all machines especially computers 

• License all machines especially computers 

FOURFold il Professori Emeritus 

Simon Richard Lee 

BA, MA (King’s College, Cambridge, England, in Physics, Maths, 

Chemistry, Biology and Computer Science) CEng, MIEE, MIET, MinstMC. 

Full Kensho Enlightenment 2014-2020 is The Cream on the Cake! 

Long career in computer, instrument and control system bare-bones 

design and installation engineering; now book writing & Website 

promotion. 

Electric Zen Buddha (on Face Book) 

Allah === JHWH God === ALpha&OmegAH! 

124

Chapter One 

It would never have occurred to me when very young, that through 

the span of life, many twists and turns were lurking to envelop me, 

consume and deliver me to salvation or even hell. Through the 

passing of time and as years advance, one may look back with no 

hesitation at the times you knew a mistake was made, even though 

whilst enduring those problems the outcome was not clear. 

Journeying through the Self and keeping one’s soul intact can prove a 

frightening experience as well as an enlightening one. 

Born under a Sagittarian sky, my earliest memory would probably 

be the time I climbed up into my sister’s pram to take an endearing 

peek at her. Suddenly, somehow I tipped the pram over completely 

hiding Suzanne and myself underneath. We both wailed in terror and 

thankfully, Suzanne had been secured with reins - the accident could 

have proved much worse if she hadn’t been. I told my Brown Bear 

that I was sorry I had done this to my sister. He didn’t say anything 

back. Brown Bear just squeaked at me and it was just as well that 

was all he could do, as I would vent my anger upon him many times 

in childhood. Vomiting over him happened quite frequently. 

Eventually I told my mother to throw him away because he started to 

scare me. 

Within the secure realm of the little box-room in the three-storey 

house in Chiswick, I felt I could escape yet Brown Bear began to 

squeak all on his own. His tummy needed to be rubbed or gripped to 

make his noise. The situation left me a little anxious when he made 

noises and I wasn’t even holding him. This particular action would 

mostly occur at night and having to contend with Brown Bear was 

enough but to not get on with my Rocking Horse made matters 

unbearable. 

It came to pass at that awkward time that I should become an 

Angel. Appearing on a small stage at two and a half, singing 

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star!” was a debut that I was not entirely 

happy with. The wings were huge and I stumbled every other step 

with these artistic creations adorning my shoulders. My hair at that 

age was baby-white blonde and long. Immediately I was picked with 

125

two other small girls with lovely blonde hair to sing this popular 

hymn for a Christmas show at the Nursery school. 

The most I can recall from those very early days were the Nuns that 

ran the establishment. I started there at eighteen months old whilst 

my mother had a job. My ability to read developed quickly after 

attending Nursery. Nanny Eva told everyone that she would hear my 

mumbling in the bedroom and when she popped her head round to see 

what I was doing, I’d be reading the newspaper out loud and I had not 

reached the age of three. 

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do with that littl’un - I can’t get 

enough books and comics for her to read. She’s a right little madam 

if she can’t have her books. Rusty, what are we going to do?” asked 

Nanny Eva. 

“Well if she cries and gets a bleeding tantrum, just leave her and 

don’t go to her, she’ll soon get the message. I can’t buy her all the 

books and games under the bloody sun!” 

“Oh come on, Rusty, you shouldn’t shout and ’oller all the time, 

you make her nervous as well as upset Anne too, for Chris’sake!” 

Rusty was my dad and although he was a bit younger than mum, he 

seemed to me to possess the quality of a pot that was forever boiling 

over. Spilling out his guts would come out as obscene swearing. 

Fucking this and bloody that. I sometimes wondered how Suzanne 

saw her dad. But she would just spend her time playing with dolls 

and teddies, patching them up and knitting clothes for them. It was 

Suzanne with her creative hands and myself with my head firmly in 

the clouds, searching for new words and literary wonderment. 

Chiswick High Road in West London was a place that never 

stopped buzzing with life in the sense of an endless flow of noisy 

traffic and one building that holds dear in my memory, although I 

never visited, was a large church at the end of the High Road. 

Surrounding the church was an imposing expanse of parkland, 

where mum, Suzanne and me would play or sit and have a little 

picnic. As the lorries and vans bustled by, I would read aloud the 

names on the side of them to build up my word power. From early 

on, my method of learning words and spelling them correctly 

developed through a simple phonics system. If, perhaps, I needed to 

remember the word ‘torrential’ as in torrential rain, my system from 

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the age of four to five would have been to say, torr-en-tial. With this 

process, all manner of data, facts and figures including words became 

easy to retain. Nanny Eva kept a large red book with hymn songs in it 

and a smaller book with poems from the classic poets, such as Keats. 

These poems and some Shakespeare pieces were my diet from about 

five years old. 

At the Nursery in Chiswick run by the Nuns, the meal times seemed 

bland in those days. At the age of three and on one afternoon, after 

mum had collected me from school, I ran up to her with an expression 

of disgust on my face, 

“Mum you know what, the Ladies give us soaky meat for dinner. 

It’s horrible!” 

“What do you mean, Marie?” asked mum with a grin appearing on 

her face. 

“When we sit down on the big tables, we get a lump of soaky meat 

on our plates. I don’t like it. I won’t eat it no more. I don’t have to, 

do I mum?” 

“Don’t be silly, Marie, it’s only a small dinner, you have your big 

dinner with us all at home. If you don’t want it, ask Sister and she’ll 

give you something else or some cheese and fruit.” 

She almost broke into a full laugh after our conversation. 

Apparently for a long while I would carry on about having to eat the 

awful ‘soaky meat’. What the meal turned out to be was corned beef 

hash. It took me years to realise what soaky meat really was. It is 

with this innocence of childhood that the first rules of expression 

begin to flourish, almost to the point of being openly blunt and frank. 

All children will utter to adults exactly which they think is right, 

even if it is a trifle embarrassing. 

My dad, Rusty, had a number of jobs to support us and we were 

lucky enough to have our own family room cum kitchen, my own 

bedroom and his and mum’s bedroom. As Suzanne was born three 

years after me, she shared the bedroom with mum and dad. The 

house had three storeys and the uppermost storey was occupied by my 

two uncles. Dad’s younger brother, uncle Bob, was auditioned as a 

baby for a part in a film called ‘Mandy’ which required a baby for one 

particular scene. Uncle Bob was successful in the audition and that 

was his claim to stardom. Dad had part-time work as a chauffeur and 

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his favourite client was Sophia Loren, who has remained a favourite 

actress for him ever since. 

Dad was also in the same class at school with the British actor 

Richard O’Sullivan, the comical character from Robin’s Nest. Dad 

remembers very little about Richard albeit a certain flair for cooking. 

Nanny Eva was cousin to an American actress who was British 

born, the lady being Ida Lupino. I heard that she secured many film 

roles, including those of gangsters’ molls’ characters, in several 

movies in America in the forties. 

Mum’s parents, Nan and Granddad Davey, lived in Hounslow, 

which is not far from Chiswick. Nan worked as an assistant with 

several haute couture houses in the early thirties whilst Granddad 

qualified as an Electrician’s assistant. Painting and drawing was his 

great love, even despite the fact that this inner talent surfaced many 

years into adulthood. Mum was born in 1940 in London during the 

Second World War. Bombs were dropping all around whilst Nan was 

giving birth. A young auburn-haired Doctor attending to Nan said to 

her, 

“Take hold of my breeches, and get on with the job.” 

He covered over my Nan as she gave birth to mum, so that if 

anything terrible happened with a bomb, he could cover them - even if 

this meant losing his own life for theirs. Nan laughed and said the 

Doctor with the ginger hair had huge banana hands. Granddad could 

only imagine and grimace at the fact that after a long and difficult 

labour, Anne (my mum) arrived safely in the world, at the cost of Nan 

nearly dying. Later on, on the evening that she was born, the Doctor 

went to get blood supplies and he got caught in an explosion, which 

blew him off his feet. He struggled back with glass and debris all 

over him. This must have been a truly dedicated man. 

Granddad’s father was a powerful swimmer and used to train with 

Johnny Weissmuller, of the first Tarzan films. A boyhood friend of 

Granddad’s was Charles Hawtrey, the wiry bespectacled man of the 

“Carry On” clan. Being close to the centre of London, the hub of the 

world, mum would climb up on to large bins outside a famous film 

studio. On one occasion, she sloped off with a friend and climbed the 

drums again and caught a rare glimpse of Humphrey Bogart and 

Katherine Hepburn, together in a boat, rolling about in a tank of 

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water, probably for the film “The African Queen”. Mum went out 

briefly with an actor in her teens. They split up after a few dates 

because he was older and wanted more than she was then prepared to 

give. Miss ‘Hula Hoop’ of 1957 was none other than my own mum. 

She met Rusty at the Hammersmith Palais and at the time he was 

working as a cloakroom attendant and bouncer. Sources say that 

when he met her, he had a mouthful of hatpins and as his jaw dropped 

when he saw her for the first time, he swallowed the pins. Nanny Eva 

made him eat cotton-wool sandwiches as a first-aid measure. 

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Chapter Two 

Moving to a new town in Essex was the topic of much discussion 

between mum and dad in the Spring of 1967. He secured a job offer 

and through a scheme, a three bedroom Corporation house would be 

made available to us. At that point in time, Suzanne needed more 

space and our own garden seemed a dream come true in itself. Dad 

needed to travel to Essex to sort out the details of all that would be 

involved, starting dates for the job and moving our belongings to the 

new home. Some of our furniture was shipped ahead in removal 

vans. We did not possess a great deal of furniture, the main concern 

was having a place to call our own and starting a new life, 

independent of relations. Getting out of London proved attractive to 

many people in the 1960’s, as new towns developed after a building 

initiative in the mid-1940’s. 

Our schooling was important, obviously, and as I had previously 

begun infants’ school in Chiswick, the transition could run smoothly – 

I would need to get used to a new school within different 

surroundings. Settling into a new school harboured some anxiety to 

mum, who worried that steady and above average progress might be 

marred in my change over. After the initial first few days, I made 

new friends and discovered that the books at the school far exceeded 

the supply within the first one. Reading skills flourished all the more 

and an inner passion of poetry and stories developed through highly 

professional teachers in a good school. My first serious attempts at 

poetry and creative story writing began at the age of seven. Mum also 

wanted me to learn to play a musical instrument as my cousin was 

mastering the clarinet. 

From the age of eight, my first attempts at playing the French horn 

were to put it mildly, awful. The practice of the scales endlessly 

drove mum and dad up the wall, metaphorically speaking. At first I 

was just a little interested until later, the desire to play increased. 

Eventually, the boys in the class (who were aged sixteen and over) 

encouraged me to give up blowing the horn and stick to books. 

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Suzanne and I were brought up extremely strictly. To the point 

whereby our confidence was a non-starter and the shyness and 

awkwardness could easily be detected. An insurmountable sense of 

anxiety reared at the age of just ten, to the extent of bouts of tears 

revealing worries about starting at secondary school. However, this 

did not alter the fact that a state of anxiety arose early and together 

with puberty starting to unfold, the years of a fairly happy childhood 

would soon fall apart before my very eyes. We were given everything 

we wanted within reason in the way of generous birthday and 

Christmas gifts. Dad worked long hours as a postman and would 

come home ranting and raving about something or someone at work. 

He often used blue language. Something that we were all used to 

listening to and especially in the early years when mum took me to 

live with the extended family from Hounslow to Chiswick. Not very 

fair really. Not very fair for young ears. 

Dad was becoming more aggressive at home with the pressures he 

carried within his work. I think he brought work home with him and 

took it out on mum and then Suzanne and myself. He’d either be 

effing and blinding or go silent and sulk and mum would keep asking 

and asking, 

“Rusty Rusty come on Rusty”. 

He would drive mum wild with this sulky silence routine (but 

maybe that was better than graphically describing what Joe Bloggs 

could do with “those effing dockets!”) He wound himself up day in 

and day out but worked hard to try and keep us in a comfortable way 

of living. 

A bubble was forming. The bubble would explode soon. Inside the 

bubble was a frightened little girl, grasping on to anything she held 

dear to survive. The girl was me. Make-up was something I used 

from age eleven and I could look much older than I really was. Was 

it my blooming into a young woman that caused such forthcoming 

pain? 

Within myself I achieved great things in my schoolwork, yet home 

life took an ugly twist. On a lunch break from school, I came home 

normally as the thought of having dinners at school worried me 

unduly. I didn’t eat a lot of red meat and was very fussy and finicky 

with meals and snacks. This particular day, Hazel, my best friend at 

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that time, walked home with me and we chatted about pop stars and 

the latest trends. After getting inside the house, I noticed dad was 

home. I was not expecting him to be home. A feeling welled up 

inside of me when I could detect that his face had a strange 

expression. 

It was dad. Yet it wasn’t the dad I was familiar with. His eyes 

were all slanted and I could see traces of perspiration on his brow. 

What was the matter with him? Shortly after he silently watched me 

prepare a light snack, a hand tapped me on the shoulder – 

“Marie, you are so much like your mum. Come here. Why don’t 

you come upstairs with me, I want to show you something I’ve 

bought for you. Your mum and I love you, you know. Come with 

me, I’ll show you.” 

With those seemingly gentle words, I started to shrink away and 

freeze in my bones and felt obligated to grasp his hand and see the 

special gift. The gift upstairs was non-existent. Instead I was made to 

sit on my parent’s bed and watch. 

“This is how babies are made,” uttered dad, as he unzipped his 

trousers and started to touch himself in front of me. 

“I want you to know all about it. See that – hold your hand out.” 

After a few moments of being forced to keep my hand held 

outstretched, a stifled grunt came from him as a white gush of stuff 

(semen) came from him and he angled it so that it all went in my 

hand. I felt sick and scared. 

What’s happening? This shouldn’t be happening. 

“Now,” said dad, “Babies come from millions and millions of tiny 

seeds in this. Come on, you have a go.” 

I was then cajoled and manipulated to masturbate him myself. I felt 

disgusted and degraded. This was wrong. This was not happening. I 

remember thinking, where’s mum? This was the start of an initiation 

of things that I did not fully understand. 

As he was such an aggressive man, I felt I had to do what I was told 

or I would be punished. After the first episode, I was told to keep 

things a secret or if mum found out, I would be “lynched”. These 

episodes would occur once or twice a fortnight. I would cry and cry 

bitterly afterwards. With this awful secret, I began to (I don’t know 

how to explain it) withdraw inside my own head. I did not want this 

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messy thing to happen. I felt guilty. I did not tell anyone for some 

six years about this abuse. The immense hurt, guilt, humiliation and 

insecurity of it all, scarred me emotionally for life. I had begun my 

“life sentence”. Essentially I was the victim. Yet at the same time I 

was the criminal. 

As life took this awful turn, my days of innocence were shattered 

and I had become a woman too early. The door to my bedroom had a 

chest of drawers behind it and I had to open these drawers for 

comfort, so that nobody could get to me in my room. The drawers 

acted like a lock. I was constantly aware of a pair of eyes, hungrily 

watching my every move and my confidence fell to zero and 

schoolwork started to fail. 

Could I tell somebody? My first thoughts of telling someone arose 

when I had my first crush on a person. He was the school’s Welsh 

boys’ PE teacher. All the girls fancied him. My idea would be to 

confide in him and I would be set free. I never did put my hands up 

for help. 

Perhaps I should have. 

At fourteen, while girls were mooning over the PE teacher, I was 

busy conjuring up a plan whereby I would seduce him. His flat would 

be perfect. Making love to him was a big fantasy for me and I ached 

for him. Coming from South Wales, he had a cute little gap in his 

front teeth. Something about him stirred a feeling within. I needed 

him and wanted to feel him close. A school trip to Austria was 

arranged. He was going to take a group of us skiing in the Austrian 

Tyrol. That’s where our union would happen. Only in my dreams it 

followed. His girlfriend came too and my tension burst when I knew 

that he had someone already. 

I still think of him now, even though I have not seen him for over 

twenty years. In some respects, if I had told him about my problem at 

home, he may have helped my impending predicament. From an 

early age, an idea of how men ticked was forming in my mind. They 

are each and every one unique. It is the basic human instinct to want 

to perform an act of love. My lessons were different and totally 

uncalled for and unwanted. 

Could I shake off dad? 

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Homicide crossed my mind. I used to imagine that I would creep 

into their bedroom in the dead of night and shove mum out of the way 

and plunge a bread knife deep in his chest. It may finish my pain. I 

could not do it and break all the family into tiny pieces. 

Besides I would probably go to prison. Little incidences of initiation 

included being molested whilst I was trying to have a bath and in the 

small room just off the kitchen. A regular thing would be to be 

pounced on when I came home from school. I was just too weak to 

fight. I would never know what to expect and in some Summer 

months and even Winter, I would take my lunch into the garden, so 

that there would be no way to be attacked in broad daylight. 

Just knowing that the neighbours might be home was comforting 

but the disgust of coming home and seeing him sit in his armchair 

with his underpants on and that look in his eyes - I felt I wanted to 

die. 

An inner fire developed inside. Inside my head. This fire would in 

time ignite and the consequences could be anything you could 

imagine. I found solace in the odd cigarette, stolen from a packet of 

mum’s Number 6. 

When my homework marks dropped dramatically and I failed my 

mock exams, I suppose the teachers could not understand it. How 

could I tell them that as well as all the trappings of school, life had 

become laced with the prospect of me holding the home together in 

place of my mum? She was at home with us, yes. It was her work 

that consumed her time. I would prepare meals for dad and Suzanne 

and do quite a lot of housework too. My maternal Grandmother was 

my guardian angel and as I could not even bring myself to tell her 

what was going on, not even the Doctor when I became depressed and 

was prescribed Valium, the inner despair and hurt grew and grew. 

My descent into The Pit was to follow shortly. The Devil was 

waiting to catch me, consume me and change my life forever. In 

1976, when I was 15, my Nanny Eva died of lung cancer at home. 

Dad’s mum had passed away and it deeply affected him. This was the 

first time that Suzanne and myself endured bereavement. We did not 

go to the funeral and at this time there was a lot of other friction, 

134

together with a steely atmosphere between mum and dad. There were 

rows every day and regular rows at weekends. 

My sister and I tried to put it out of our minds. Suzanne didn’t 

know about the abuse from dad - even when on a certain afternoon I 

was cornered in my bedroom and quietly bribed by him to the tune of 

a one-pound note to masturbate him. Suzanne was only in the next 

room. I felt physically sick and think I refused him and went 

downstairs. Tricking him with a pathetic attempt to tell Suzanne what 

had been going on (anything) to get away from him so I would not go 

through the initiation again. 

Then a bombshell dropped. The friction exploded as mum admitted 

and was found out of having an affair with what she called “a nice 

man” who happened to be ten years her senior. It was also at this 

time that mum summoned the courage to tell me that dad was not my 

real dad. If you can imagine a situation of a 15-year-old’s hormones 

all over the place, coupled with an absolute terror of my trust being 

misplaced by the sexual abuse by dad. 

Verbal abuse from some groups of girls at school and then that! 

I was shattered again - my identity crisis was born out of this 

confusion. My sister was only my half-sister and my nerves were 

shaking beyond the Richter Scale! 

Apparently, my biological father was called Chas and my real 

Grandfather was supposed to own and manage a hotel on the way to 

Heathrow airport. My mum also touched my senses by explaining 

that my Grandfather had dark skin and originated from Grenada. My 

real Grandmother was a dancer and together they produced my father. 

They then divorced and Grandfather married someone else and had 

two other male children, my uncles whom I have heard about but 

never met. 

At that point in my life, I didn’t know if I was coming or going. 

Perhaps that was the start of an inferiority complex within, together 

with a novice rebel. Fighting. I never knew what I was fighting for 

just purely that I had to fight. 

135

Chapter Three 

In the teenage years that were filled with anguish, I had a little 

comfort left in my love of reading and composing poems and short 

stories. A poem written at the early age of eleven was said by others to 

have far exceeded my age, in terms of expression and content. The 

poem was entitled “The Goddess” and came to me in the usual intense 

flash of inspiration. A sensation of rushing blood and perspiration 

would arise whenever I had these flashes of the writing muscle. At 

those moments, I would require total isolation and quiet to produce my 

work. I locked myself away quite often to achieve perfection in my 

work and I still became angry inwardly, if I felt that my offerings fell 

below my own high standards. 

Towards the end of my time at Secondary school, I had applied to the 

local College for a full-time secretarial course, which would lead to a 

Private Secretary’s Diploma, proficient in all areas of office practice. I 

had chosen typing at school for my options, and reached a good 

standard with speed. When I actually entered College in September 

1978, I’d been bashing out text on the old manual typewriters for three 

years. Leaving the secondary school with passes in all subjects and with 

high grades, entering the College ran smoothly and as it was further 

education, the tuition fees were free. The only major things I needed 

were a shorthand pen and textbooks. My lessons would also take in 

Commerce and Accountancy. 

It was three months before my seventeenth birthday that I met my 

first boyfriend. Our class consisted of all girls and a mixture of ages. 

One girl in particular, became a firm friend. She was a young 

Malaysian student staying at the local YWCA. Not being happy with 

her accommodation, I asked mum and dad if she could stay with us and 

then we could go to College together. This was granted and not only 

did we have a good laugh at College, our social life took off like nothing 

ever known before. 

A group of Arab and Algerian students enrolled at the College but 

were attending language studies. They were all young men and 

extremely handsome. All of them had dark hair and dark eyes with long 

136

omantic eyelashes. You would literally melt if one looked your way. 

Three cousins for instance, coming from Israel, took a liking to us. 

Tariq, the shortest in stature (though tall enough for me), made a quest 

for me. He would appear everywhere that I was and eventually I agreed 

to go out with him. Once I had been on a few dates, I then realised that 

I was more interested in his cousin, Anwar. The other cousin, Issi, was 

a target for my friend and the whole bunch of us would hang around 

together. 

The initial period at College whilst I had Tariq as a boyfriend, the 

episodes with dad disappeared. Maybe as I had a friend staying? I 

don’t know. I’d stay out later and later till the early hours and get drunk 

and so stoned that I would get home, but would not know what actually 

happened that evening, only that there was a lot of drinking and 

partying. Something strange was definitely going on and being a young, 

vulnerable and naïve seventeen year old, I could not fathom what was 

happening. Tariq wanted us to get engaged and go and live in 

Jerusalem. I was tempted but had for some time begun to find other 

men attractive as a sense of my sexuality flowered. 

Philip, for instance, was a young black man and a gentle and caring 

person. Before I had a fling with him, if he saw me he would shake his 

head in disbelief. Later he confessed to me that it was because he could 

not accept how beautiful I was and that my eyes began to focus on him. 

As I started to sit with and mix with Philip, I told him that I would call 

him Isaac. This was because I had affection for a great soul-music 

provider, Isaac Hayes. On Valentine’s Day he sent me a little card that 

said “I love you” on the front and in the middle, hand-written was the 

message – “See Why?” and fondly signed was my adopted name for 

him, Isaac. 

Sessions of a lustful nature with Tariq had been intense but it felt like 

I never had full-on sex with him. He would be quite satisfied with me 

giving head and his tension would be relieved. For a brief spell that I 

was involved with Tariq, I was also seeing Philip as well. I needed to 

choose whom I wanted to be with. Isaac came tops and I wanted to 

move to his music. 

My friend and I were invited to a New Year’s Eve party in 1978 and 

as it was a fancy-dress occasion, we both decided to go dressed up as 

tarts. My chosen act to focus on whilst we hastily got ready for the big 

137

party was a French whore, complete with short black mini-skirt and a 

pert little red beret. We’d had a quick drink on the way to the party and 

got lost trying to find the house where it was all happening. Once we 

heard the thump, thump, thump of music we knew where to go. 

Isaac was at the party and then Tariq and his cousins turned up and 

trying to hide from Isaac briefly, I was all over Tariq like a rash. Within 

an hour I then moved on to smooch with Isaac. How could I keep this 

up?! Besides I also had some heavy snogging with a couple of others in 

between. As the party went into full swing, I noticed two very tall black 

men standing watching my friend and I from the corner of the room. 

One of them came over. 

“Hey, babe, you look real good – and your friend does too! Can I get 

you another drink?” 

“I might have another drink, I… go on then but get my mate one 

too!”, I replied. 

At the time, I was perched up against the wall with my leg poised 

touching the wall, trying to act the full part of a woman of desire. As 

the mystery man reappeared, he then asked, 

“Listen to me honey, see my friend over there,” he gestured at another 

black character who would also not take his eyes off my friend and me – 

“We thought you might like to come with us to a place a little more 

interesting.” 

“What do you mean?” I asked with an attitude of take it or leave it. 

“Come with us, she don’t have to come, there is a party in London - 

we’ve got wheels outside, what do you say? We can stay there all 

night!” 

“Hang on a minute, I’m not leaving here - I’m having a good time, 

besides my boyfriend is over there.” 

I gestured over towards Philip. Then I twigged it. He was obviously 

looking for a good time girl, I refused and the two men left the house 

swearing. As the party waxed its way to an end, people just slept where 

they fell. My friend slept upstairs with a room full of other partygoers, 

too inebriated to go home. 

I stayed with Isaac in his room. Nobody but the two of us knew what 

happened that night. Chatting away happily for half an hour before I got 

into his bed and he made himself comfortable on the floor, I felt nice 

and woozy and wanted something more. In the way of physical contact. 

138

He got in bed beside me and I thought, ‘this is it!’ We did not have full 

sex but both climaxed in a mutual way. I can now say, that was my first 

real climax and my eyes watered and my body was completely flushed 

with emotion. 

Barely thirty minutes after the first trip to the stars with Isaac, we 

drifted into a deep sleep close in each other’s arms. By morning, 

someone was banging the door and after some breakfast, I bade farewell 

to Isaac and went home to be greeted by an anxious mum and angry 

dad. My friend scuffled upstairs to our room, as she knew we were both 

for the high jump. He could hardly shout the odds at her. The side of 

my face was the target for a resounding, sharp slap. 

“You was out all night. Why didn’t you come home and why didn’t 

you phone, eh? I rang some of your mates and they all seemed to be 

giggling and covering something up for you. What the bloody hell do 

you think you’re playing at, girl?” 

“I couldn’t phone mum and let her know that I was staying with 

friends, because Case didn’t have a phone.” 

“Case. Case - who’s he when he’s at home? Some bleedin’ 

boyfriend I suppose?” 

“No. He’s just a good mate. I did meet my boyfriend there. He felt 

ill so he went home, I didn’t do anything wrong, honest.” 

“Well, Marie, you know what happens when you play silly games. 

Getting mixed up with the wrong sort and you can end up getting 

mucked around or even beaten up, next thing, before you know it”, and 

that is when the slap caught me. 

The immense anger emanating from him and the eyes popping out as 

he was shouting at me while his face and neck slowly turned from a 

pallor to a patchy red, frightened me. Lord above, I thought. What is 

wrong with that man? 

Back at College on the day after the New Year’s holiday, I fell prey to 

a hostile atmosphere, not from my mates in class, but from Tariq and his 

band of Arab princes. In the refectory at lunchtime, each occasion I 

walked by them, they would sing an Arab song. I could not understand 

what the hell they were singing, so I asked a friend in class. She was 

older than me, about twenty-seven years old, and knew something of 

languages. 

139

Her interpretation was something to the effect that I was a **cking 

prostitute. I wasn’t happy with one man, I had to have half a dozen at 

once. With this explanation, I felt small and shrunk away from 

everyone. I felt so ashamed. I felt that I hadn’t had proper sex with 

anyone up to that point. Tariq, however, was sure that I was an 

experienced lover. 

Once, whilst in his room at the YWCA, he had locked all my clothes 

in his closet and when all the others knocked on the door, he let them in 

and they talked and laughed in Arabic but I couldn’t understand what 

was being said. I had covered myself with the sheet from the bed and 

then he flashed my naked body to all of them for a brief moment. I 

know it seemed impossible, I had an idea that they were all familiar with 

my body. Even though I could not recall sharing a bed with any of the 

others, just Tariq. Apparently, I had a nice ‘arse’. 

The only clue I had that something weird was happening was they 

used to offer my friend and me some little sweets, supposedly imported 

from Israel. They tasted a bit funny and had tiny lumps of what looked 

like crystals of a sugary substance. A cloak of mystery surrounded the 

sweets and after thinking of the past few hectic months going to 

nightclubs and parties, I wondered, were they poisoned in some way? 

With the ever-hostile reception from Tariq and co., I started to sink into 

a deep depression. I didn’t want to go to College. Within a couple of 

weeks of the party, where I had stayed with Isaac all night, my life had 

turned completely upside down. 

Most days all I did was slump in the armchair and stare at the gas fire, 

in the hopes of finding a reason to jump back on board life again. My 

appetite dropped and I smoked heavily and was constantly being sick. 

Sometimes I could hardly bring myself to get out of bed because I felt 

so sad and empty inside. The depression had taken a real hold over me 

until one day when dad was home early from work, and just said, 

“Come on Marie. Put your jacket on. We’ll get the shopping for 

mum and go for a coffee in town. It’ll cheer you up. Make an effort, go 

on.” 

“Oh, I don’t know. I just want to stay here and not go anywhere. I’m 

out of cigarettes, can you get me some while you’re out?” 

“Why don’t you come with me and get some fresh air? Your skin is 

looking wrinkly and dry because you’ve been indoors all this time.” 

140

Feeling like a zombie anyway, I said, “Alright then. Wait a minute 

while I get my jacket.” 

It looked like dad was attempting to be a proper dad and show 

concern, so I did not feel anxious about going. We got inside the car 

and dad pulled away. I wasn’t talking much. In fact, I felt quite dozy 

and dopey as the car moved in the direction of the town centre. After a 

further ten minutes we stopped for petrol and the idea occurred to me 

that the town centre was not our destination. A queer look had emerged 

in his eyes, one that I knew only too well and as I hazily looked across 

at him, my body started to freeze as if my muscles would not work. 

Nothing would work. I could not move any part of me. Complete 

fright was in motion and a fluttery scared sensation edged up the nape of 

my neck until at one moment, I could not breathe properly. The car 

slowed down to a stop. We were not in the town centre. We had passed 

it miles away. The car was in a deserted lane leading to a forest. He 

leaned over me and whispered – 

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” 

With those words, a lot of fumbling was going on from him in the 

general direction of my skirt. I tried but with no avail to fend him off. 

The seat flew back and seconds later I was aware of a stabbing pain 

down below. Still struggling to thump him and punch him, I managed 

to hurl him off me, but something bad had happened as I was bleeding a 

little from underneath. From then on I was in shock. This brute, who 

was dad, shoved a hankie in my hand and told me to put it in my pants. 

The screeching of the car starting up again made me jump and within 

half an hour we were at home again, with no shopping and all I wanted 

to do was cry and run to my mum. My eyes were rolling about in their 

sockets and I could not talk properly. 

“What’s the matter with her, Rusty?” mum asked as she was holding 

me and stroking my face. 

“She’s just having a nervous breakdown that’s all”, he answered in a 

sarcastic tone. 

“I know she has been having problems, but whatever has got into her 

and how did she get like this?” asked mum with a concerned frown. 

“Oh go on, take her over the Doctor’s. He will give her something.” 

Hastily she washed my face and was almost in tears herself as she 

ferried me out of the door and walked me round to the Surgery. Once 

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there and I was in the lady Doctor’s room she spoke to me and I slurred 

the words, 

“My dad has raped me. My dad has raped me. Here. Here is a 

hankie with blood on it. Look, look!” 

My mum was called in and the Doctor spoke to her alone and I was 

again called back within the Doctor’s consulting room. The Doctor 

explained to mum what I had said and mentioned that the hankie would 

be sent away to forensics. An injection was administered in my bottom. 

This made my voice slur even further and my eyes were uncontrollably 

rolling from side to side and up and down. A letter was written from the 

Doctor for me to be admitted to the Psychiatric Unit at the local 

hospital. Mum was dreadfully shocked and upset for me as well as for 

her, and within minutes I was being taken to the hospital. As the 

familiarity of the hospital loomed, it was apparent that I was not going 

to the general side, but to a large building towards the edge of the 

grounds. Mum opened the double doors. I could only hazard a guess as 

to what might be waiting for me there. 

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Chapter Four 

A lady greeted us both at the reception desk. We were told to wait 

a while until my admission was signed. An emotional feeling of 

being taken into a strange place welled up in me especially as my 

mum would have to leave me there alone. Was I going to be locked 

up? Like in a prison? Had I committed a crime of some sort? A rush 

of blighted thoughts whirred across my mind. The Pit was opening 

and I was being drawn into its depths. 

Two different Doctors were making notes as some questions were 

being asked. Could I count backwards from 100? What was the date 

and did I know which day it was? Did I have any pain? Why don’t 

you open up my head and take a look inside? There’s pain in there 

and it’s taking me over the edge. (These were my thoughts). Mum 

was told to leave me in a little while but that I should have a bath first 

and change into a nightie and dressing gown. 

After mum and I had an emotional goodbye, I screamed for her to 

come back when I saw the dot of her outline disappear from view 

going down the path from the Unit. Oh, mum, I thought, I’m here all 

on my own. You are never going to come back. Of course, she 

would come back the next day and every day for visiting. After 

crying and sniffing, crying and sniffing for ages, a Nurse took me for 

blood tests and ‘Krystal Nacht’ – the Night of the Long Knives – was 

upon me. 

“There is blood on your nightie,” a strange girl shouted at me. 

“Blood on your nightie. You have your period. Put a pad on, go on 

you stupid cow!” 

“It’s not my period. Something else. It’s something else,” I 

stammered. 

The strange woman was also attired in a nightie and gown. My first 

impression of her was that she was a wailing banshee. Then I 

discovered that everyone was a wailing banshee. 

The taste of the “Day Room” was distinctly flavoured with cigarette 

smoke. A stale, sickly tobacco stench. Clouds of the stuff were 

billowing all about me. I had smoked before, but never inhaled 

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properly. The walls were tinged with a yellow hue. It seemed to 

match the paleness of the patients’ faces. 

All emotions were being expressed openly all at once. Some were 

crying loudly. Some shouting. Some doing nothing but sitting and 

staring with eyes that stuck out from their heads. Most of the patients 

were dressed. A few of us had our nightwear on. My bed for the 

night. Where was my bed for the night? 

After a hot drink prepared by an auxiliary Nurse, I was shown to a 

small room. On entering the door, all that I could see was a 

cold-looking wall with a single bed up against it and a small closet 

with a sink beside. This is a cell, not a hospital ward, I thought. After 

some time trying to settle in the day room with the others, while the 

television blared out a programme that nobody was watching, I 

decided that I would go to bed. My mind was a huge black mass of 

bitterness. A rush of thoughts connecting at random ends left me 

feeling distraught and holding my hands over my face. Purgatory. 

Neither here nor there. I just want to sleep. I need to forget. Help me 

forget. Let me go with grace to a better place, touch the Lord and let 

him deliver me down to earth again, whole with no missing Soul. 

Wandering to and fro in and out of my room, I began to ask the 

staff for something to knock me out. Or rather put me out of this 

misery. I could not bear to be awake and in that place with a 

tormented, tortured and turbulent mind. Give me something. Give 

me something. Eventually after almost nailing myself to the bed with 

my sheets over my gown, I was determined to rest myself, heal 

myself. This would not happen. Oh God, help me. 

In the middle of a restless night, a huge black male Nurse 

accompanied by a female Nurse came to my bedside – 

“Roll over – roll over!” 

“What’s happening? What are you going to do?” 

“Just going to give you a little injection in your bottom. Don’t 

worry - just a scratch, here it comes.” 

“OUCH!” was my reaction. 

Then I felt my bottom go all funny and a feeling of my blood going 

warmer. The sensation carried me into a sleep that was nothing but a 

black velvet abyss. In the morning, somebody was shaking me gently 

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to wake me and as I looked up, I could see a silver-haired man 

perched on the edge of my bed. 

“My name is Dr. Taunton. You are Marie, aren’t you? Tell me, 

what happened to you yesterday? I am told you had a nasty shock. 

Can you try and tell me about it? Were you actually penetrated, 

Marie?” 

“Er… Er, yes.” 

Those first few words to fall from my lips were hard to express. I 

felt as if daggers were drawing ever near to stab me. I had done a 

great wrong. Guilt, if that was what it was, set in from my answers to 

his probing questions. 

Medication would be prescribed for me in a few days. Results of 

the blood tests would be coming back in a week. Dr. Taunton was 

forever asking questions. He was always saying – “Well what do you 

think?” I needed him to tell me, what was the matter. After all, if this 

Doctor was a shrink, he’s an expert in head cases, he should know! 

All manner of tests were taken, including weight checks and urine 

analysis. Blood pressure was taken on a regular basis for some of us. 

At the age of seventeen, I was a person from the funny farm and the 

shove to put me there was given from somebody who I should have 

been able to trust. 

How wrong could I be. All my trust had been misplaced and 

mistaken. I could then no longer trust anyone. Everyone was out to 

hurt me. I withdrew into my head and many days were spent inside a 

veil of painful, sharp flashbacks that came and went with the flow of 

the drugs in my system. I wanted my head to explode, the badness to 

come out. 

THEY COULD PATCH ME UP AND SEND ME ON MY WAY. 

NO ONE COULD SEE INSIDE MY HEAD. LET ALONE, PUT A 

PLASTER ON IT. BUT YOU CAN PUT PLASTER ON A 

BROKEN LEG. 

As I asked my mum, one afternoon, if they had told her the results 

of my tests, she looked at me somewhat disturbed. It seemed the 

results showed what some of the Doctors had described as unwanted 

synthetic substances in my blood. They had asked her where was the 

source of these unwanted substances and was she aware of a drug 

habit? She looked at them with disbelief. She expressed that she had 

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not been aware that I was taking any drugs from College. I had not 

been aware, either. 

A mention of the depression was all they required after my ordeal 

in the car was analysed and chewed up and thrown around a bit. After 

many talks, my mum realised that the unwanted substances may have 

come from something that I had digested. It must have been the 

sweets and chocolates. Some of the worst drugs in the world had 

been fed to me unawares, hidden in the tiny sweets. A suggestion was 

made that I may have been made more receptive and passed around 

like a toy for the boys at College that I had been involved with. 

With hindsight, I had probably been laying on my back for most of 

them. It was always so hazy after the parties. It arose that I could 

have been smuggled from the country and put in a compromising 

position of some resulting harem type place. (Tariq had previously 

said that if I had more fat on my hips, I could easily have a baby. 

What was he about, saying that I would have a baby at nineteen and 

how great it would be?) So Tariq had been nothing more than another 

complete bastard. That would include Anwar, Issi and the other mob. 

In the Psychiatric Unit, it soon followed that I took some forty pills 

a day. This moved along with the hazy hex of injections and all sorts. 

A void was swallowing me up and what would be left was a mess of a 

human being, walking around as a zombie developing a bad habit for 

chain-smoking and becoming mesmerised by a lit match or lighter. 

These weird feelings had been building up for many weeks until one 

day, the bubble was definitely going to burst, and hell-fire and 

brimstone would rule the day. 

Each weekday, most of the patients would sit in a large circle for a 

‘Group Meeting’ to discuss anything, from life on the ward to 

people’s problems and anxieties. Not everyone could express 

themselves, and occasionally there would be fits of crying or heated 

arguments between fellow patients. Meals for the patients would be 

sent across from the general side of the hospital in large metal 

trolleys. There would be three set mealtimes and many years ago, 

you could have cereal, porridge and even bacon and tomatoes. Over 

the years, this had diminished and the hot breakfast was ceased. 

It sometimes felt humiliating to queue up for everything, so 

something that I would say that I gained from this, even though at the 

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time it was a humbling experience, would be a patience regarding 

waiting in queues. Ironic as it is. There were also two breaks for 

morning coffee and afternoon tea, again in the servery. At least 

coming down from the various wards, you would value this time as an 

escape, even though it really was not an escape at all. 

The Unit in the late seventies, consisted of several wards named 

after medical pioneers with an imposing long corridor that went on for 

yards and yards. This corridor had rooms leading from it, which were 

used for the purpose of Occupational Therapy. Other rooms were 

used for consulting purposes. 

I cultivated several good friends within the hospital and a few have 

stayed in my memory. The first person I spoke to in the hospital was 

a young man named Mitchell, whose constant companion was his 

cassette-radio boom box. We developed a friendly relationship, a sort 

of hospital romance, but the closest things we shared were a few hugs 

and a peck on the cheek. Mitchell was a warm and caring man and 

had told me of nothing but a near-fatal suicide attempt. But we did 

talk together, as we were both in the grip of depression and anxiety. 

For entirely different reasons. 

On a trip out to the town centre on foot, our ‘date’ was to buy 

cigarettes and I also remember buying a useless item. It was not for 

me. It was actually a packet of clothes pegs for my mum. We both 

howled with laughter. Another time as Mitchell and I strolled out 

together, I noticed an old lady who had fallen over on the pavement. 

She was lying on her shopping bag and she was turning a bluish-grey 

colour. I knelt beside her and gently moved the bag and took the 

woman’s teeth out to stop her choking and laid her in the recovery 

position. Moments later, the paramedics arrived and said that the 

First Aid had been adequate. Mitchell and I then returned to the same 

hospital, yet we told no one about what had happened. I was 

saddened to hear that my dear friend, Mitchell, died in 1993. It had 

not been a suicide, but a medical complication. 

Another companion was a middle-aged woman called Julie, whose 

problem was unknown to me but gave her severe hypertension. Her 

blood pressure was monitored all the time. She was married to a 

younger man who adored her. Julie and I used to sit on each other’s 

beds and talk about our problems, insecurities, hopes and fears. 

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William was another good friend of mine. He was very tall and goodlooking. 

The two of us found it comical at times, as we used to sit 

together with awfully dry mouths (because of the medication) 

complete with jugs of water beside us to alleviate the problem. 

William and I walked out to the Post Office one afternoon to get our 

money and he always repeated the joke about me buying a pair of 

pink ankle socks with my money. William would often say to me, 

“It’s not, stop the world I want to get OFF, but, stop the world I 

want to get ON!” 

Through the grapevine some years later, I was happy for him after 

hearing that he had got married and had two children. Anthony was 

yet another friend of mine. He’d had a diagnosis of schizophrenia and 

told me he had spent some time in the army. His mother used to visit 

him and bring him cakes but he appeared bothered by his mother in 

some way. When Anthony spoke to me, he would speak very fast - 

hardly pausing for breath. In this manner, he would recite his own 

poems whilst holding my hand and then at random he would suddenly 

get up and walk away. That was just the way he was. He used to 

have a joke about calling money ‘Spondoolicks’. Several years later, 

I learned that my poor dear friend Anthony took his own life by 

jumping in front of a train. 

After I had been receiving medication for a number of weeks, I 

began to feel very strange. It did not matter if I had a moment to 

smile, I would still sense that life was intolerable and became worse 

with each day that passed. I felt as if there was something almost evil 

around me. One day as I was in the depths of despair, a piercing 

scream would have been heard on the ward - coming from the 

dormitory that I was in. A nurse ran in and found my tummy 

smouldering and crackling with little flames. She immediately threw 

water over me and shouted at full strength for help. I had dropped 

several lit matches onto my tummy. 

Later, when all the hurried voices and plasters and everything 

hushed to a quiet, I laid in my bed, looking up to the ceiling and 

begging for my angel to offer salvation. The angel did not come. But 

I did notice the birds outside my window. One small finch offered a 

sweet song and with a little help from an Australian male Nurse that I 

was able to trust in, some light recovery would come my way. 

148

My Nurse companion and his colleagues had asked why had I done 

the self-harm, and I can remember vaguely saying over and over, 

“Because I am unclean, I am unclean”. 

I was observed very carefully from then on and not only had 

emotional scarring but physical scarring as well. It took some 

considerable time for my mental situation to improve. Yet in the end 

after a battle of an on and off kind of existence, I was discharged from 

hospital knowing that even though I had to go home to where Rusty 

was, I was fuelled with a beam of hope that life may change. I might 

even leave home. I did leave home. London, the place of my birth 

was calling me. I did not possess the full confidence to set up on my 

own so I elected to stay with my maternal Grandparents. My 

guardian angel Nan would come into her own. Hounslow would be 

my home and I dreamed that Heathrow would extend my wings. 

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Chapter Five 

Leaving town certainly felt as though one door was closing and 

another thrust upon me to reach and go through. My Grandfather 

Davey spoke from his heart when he said that he always knew that 

one day I would live with them. His sensitive, understanding and 

gentle manner culminated into a man of greatness. On acceptance of 

being disabled, life for him with Nan was ever full. A talent and love 

for pastel painting consumed him with as much passion for my Nan as 

my love for literature did for me. 

After a stroke suffered some years before, his Catholic faith gelled 

within, enabling him to build on the strength he still possessed. 

Semi-paralysis affected his walking ability and one hand would not 

work properly. With the love and encouragement from Nan, the path 

of his life grew richer and richer. He hardly grumbled about his 

condition and always offered advice, indeed impartial, to all. Family 

members adored him, but I can say that I idolised him. In the 

physical sense, Nan and I both took his faltering steps with him. A 

joke between him and me would be for me to leave a bright, ruby-red 

lipstick ‘smacker’ stain on his cheek and forehead when I went out for 

the evening. 

If an item of make-up, handbag or a special blouse was needed, 

Granddad would smile and say that a girl needed to look her best. 

Then he’d slip me some money and I would have to show him what 

I’d bought. He even shared an interest in the music I liked and 

commented how good contemporary music could be. If there ever 

was a Saint on earth, Granddad was he. A power of healing words 

was his forte and the more disadvantaged the person, the greater his 

interest in them. Nan and Granddad shared true love and this was 

plain for all to see. They would laugh together, calling themselves 

George and the Dragon. His favourite pet name for her was ‘Pidge’ 

(short for Pidgeon). A secret code throughout their lives for feeling in 

a romantic mood heralded a saying from either one of them - ‘Miss 

Hay’. She’d call him ‘Tubby’. 

They were absolutely two peas in a pod! 

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In the Summer of 1979, I had signed on in London as unemployed 

but I did not have to keep this registration for long as I took the 

initiative to put my name down in the books of a local recruitment 

consultant in Hounslow. About one month of doing temporary office 

jobs, a permanent opportunity came my way in the shape of a clerical 

vacancy within a large water treatment company in Isleworth. This 

would mean my first ‘proper’ position in the world of work. Working 

in the Estimating department, my first boss was a congenial type of 

man, eager to offer help and advice to set me on my way. He could 

not fault my typing skills. A whole range of other clerical and 

estimating duties were my responsibility and I had the honour of 

being the only woman in an office of a dozen men. 

On the floor below, one would find the Reprographics department 

and in charge of a main Rank Xerox machine, was Patricia who 

became my best friend. (She still is and we have remained friends for 

over twenty years). 

Shortly after meeting her, our social life started to whip up a 

fraction and her circle of friends became mine. I used to get Pattie 

and I to pose by smoking Sobranie black cigarettes at discos and 

nightclubs. The two of us looked striking together, her being a black 

girl complete with low-cut dazzling boob tubes with plenty up top! 

Me, well I’d wear anything with a push. The clothes I used to buy 

were outrageous. I had a white skimpy top with diamante on one 

shoulder and the other shoulder was bare. Pattie howled with laughter 

once, when I met her in a pub and I was wearing a T-shirt with 

flashing lights. Other youthful trademarks that became mine were 

zany, flashy earrings. I did not have my ears pierced double, yet I 

would fit three pairs in one ear. I would have up to six pairs of 

earrings in at one time! 

I shared huge embraces and a few snogs with a couple of fellas 

from our gang, but nothing serious ever came out of it. We were all 

too busy having a damn good time. I received a phone call one day 

whilst at my Nan’s, from a chap that I had only met once briefly. He 

was coaxing me to come back home to Essex for a party at his 

parents’ home. I wanted to keep him guessing and said that I was not 

free for the weekend. Shortly after my feeble attempt at playing it 

down, I agreed to get the tube home on a Friday evening, stay with 

151

him at his parent’s and go to the party on Saturday night. Once I was 

home again with my parents, I hastily packed a small bag for the 

weekend for my stay with Ralph. 

It would be a little like a blind date, I supposed, but I did know 

what he looked like, not his personality. Once the party was starting, 

he introduced me as his company for the evening, and I was still 

reeling from the shock of his parents’ home. It was a huge six 

bedroom detached house with a games room, sauna and all the 

trimmings in between. (Prior to the party, I slept with Ralph’s Gran 

in an ornate four-poster bed). Ralph kept me interested all evening 

and I was aware that he wanted to get closer to me but without anyone 

bothering us. Although he smoked endless cigars for a young man, 

and kept adding his favourite word - ‘unique’ to every other sentence, 

I felt that I fancied him and I knew he expected more. Early on 

Sunday morning, when people had drifted home, he took me down to 

the games room and we cavorted on the snooker table. 

In all of our relationship, when I used to be in Hounslow all week 

and go back to Essex at weekends, we never went the whole way. We 

would just suffice on fellatio. His two brothers had a bit of a play for 

me, but I made it crystal clear that I was not for the taking. 

After four months of to-ing and fro-ing back and forth to Essex 

from London, he told me that he was going to Germany for a 

labouring job to get some ‘serious money’. The weekend soon 

arrived when he would be leaving. His best friend, Liam, was upset 

at him leaving and I was in tears also. I kissed and hugged Ralph 

goodbye and after ten minutes of him leaving, I could not console 

myself even with crying. Liam offered his shoulder for me to cry on. 

Without any real coaxing, Liam started to gently kiss me and rub my 

back for comfort’s sake. We moved swiftly to the sauna room, which 

had a large outer area adjacent. Partly undressed, Liam and I had sex 

twice, and at the vital point, he howled like a vigorous wolf. Leaving 

Ralph’s house, I felt flushed and emotional but satisfied. I had not 

made it with Ralph and instead, made it with his best friend. 

Weeks later, one afternoon when I had time off work, the telephone 

rang for me once more. Ralph was the person at the other end. He 

said that he enjoyed it in Germany, and then admitted that he’d met a 

152

new girl and that I should be pleased for him. As one could imagine, 

this was the end of Ralph and me. 

With an ever-growing sense of fledgling wings, I pursued another 

career move back in my hometown in Essex. I was missing my 

school friend, Hazel. We were inseparable at school although after 

leaving we had drifted apart. However, we still sought each other 

from time to time and I genuinely wanted to see her. On an occasion 

when I had applied for a job in town, I then went back to Nan in 

Hounslow, carried on at the Isleworth Company and awaited my 

outcome. The answer had arrived and because of an administration 

error, I started my new job three days late. Upon leaving all my 

mates in London and other colleagues at work, they all signed an 

autograph book for me. This lay testament to some comical and 

intimate jokes! 

Would dad (Rusty) make me succumb to his behaviour once again? 

This was a situation where I had to face it head-on but with a dignity 

that I could make it, independent of my parents plus the fact that a 

growing maturity had blossomed and defending myself would now, 

not pose a problem. If I had to - I would punch someone’s lights 

OUT. 

153

Chapter Six 

It was a requirement of my new job that I signed the Official 

Secrets Act. Within the establishment where I worked, my particular 

duties consisted of general typing of confidential material and 

shredding unwanted or mistyped work. There were one or two 

characters that I found quite colourful. I worked in a typing pool and 

all the others had an electric typewriter with audio equipment. I 

happened to be the only employee in the office who clacked out work 

on a manual typewriter. The machine did not deter me from 

producing work that was a high standard for the needs of my 

employer. 

However, one or two girls in the office did take a disliking to me. 

One lady I remember who must have been aged about thirty at the 

time particularly made it obvious that I was the odd one out. She was 

having a relationship with someone not too distant in the working 

environment. Problems were arising for her and I did not take much 

notice of a lot of the gossip in the confines of the desks. 

At that time, we were allowed to smoke in the office and I had an 

ashtray at my desk. On one occasion, when a certain male person 

entered the office, he chatted to me and flicked the ash from his 

cigarette into my ashtray. I believe that this action provided fuel for 

the lady in question to make my stay there uncomfortable. 

Meanwhile, in my own love stakes, the path of true love seemed to be 

running smooth in the shape of a young man named David. 

David was a postman and worked at the same office as dad. We got 

together at the post office social club and foolishly got engaged after a 

few dates. Yes, we slept together quite a few times, and I was 

welcomed tremendously into his family. At our engagement party 

(when I was aged eighteen), all my old friends turned up and a riot 

was had by all. As things have a habit of turning sour, our union did 

not stay fresh for very long and six months after meeting and making 

a full commitment by engagement, we split up and I felt as though a 

large black hole had swallowed me up and spat me out. I was upset 

enough getting over David, and so Hazel and her friends set about to 

154

cheer me up. Hazel’s other friend set up a double blind date for her 

and myself. 

The infamous double blind date was upon us. Hazel was having 

kittens at the thought of which she would get hooked with. We 

entered the Epping pub on the fateful evening, and my first 

impression of my date, Ashley, was one of absolute delight and good 

fortune. Later, after the pub had closed, we drove back to Ashley’s 

house and the four of us chatted and nervously became closer to each 

other and paired off in adjacent corners of the living room. Hazel was 

necking her date. Ashley pushed two large armchairs together and we 

plunged on to them and had a very long and passionate kiss and 

cuddle. 

Hazel did not choose to go out with her blind date again. The 

situation with Ashley and myself differed. We went out on a few 

dates, and one evening when I detected an air of seriousness within 

his words and body language, the two of us gelled completely. I 

worshipped the sight of him, he was the most gorgeous male I had 

ever had the chance to be with. Being tall and dark, the recipe for a 

romance was preparing itself with haste. In his bedroom and while 

his mother was out, he asked me a question. 

“I know it sounds arrogant of me, but how comes you are up here 

with me and you have not ripped my clothes off yet?” 

“I suppose I am different to some of the girls you are used to. With 

you, I feel a little, you know, shy and awkward. It just takes some 

time, Ash.” 

“I want you to know, Marie, that we can stop this at any time. But I 

don’t think you want to finish what might be, do you?” 

“Ash, I want you badly but you literally scare me because you are 

so… so different, and the best looking man I’ve ever looked at. 

You’re full of mystery - like a dark horse. Handsome and intelligent. 

You have it all rolled into one. Can we?” 

He kissed with more intent at that point and our caresses became 

more searching until we went downstairs and carried the atmosphere 

with us, on to the living room carpet and then on the sofa. I was 

scared for my life when I saw him naked. I gulped. This thing is 

bigger than both of us, I thought, as I looked at his manhood. We 

fooled around for ages and then penetration took place and the stars 

155

appeared in their glory again. Some while later, whilst playing 

another lover’s game on the contours of the carpet, I found that I was 

bleeding slightly. I mentioned this to him and he commented softly, 

“Don’t worry, that’s just down to a little wear and tear.” 

At the most inopportune moment, his younger brother came in the 

front door and went straight into the living room. He took a quick 

glance at the bodies on the carpet and made a hasty retreat to his own 

room. Ashley and I would talk on lots of occasions about what we 

wanted to do with our lives. He read my poems and suggested that 

there was a lot of pent-up frustration in them. Ashley wanted to do a 

Psychology degree at Manchester Polytechnic, and laughed when he 

muttered something about eventually wanting to become the editor of 

a popular music paper. This was his dream. He arranged to go to 

Manchester Poly as he said, but that he would be back to see me at 

Christmas time. I believed that he would forget all about me and our 

time together. Falling in love with him felt easy and completely 

natural and I would draw down the skies for him if he asked me. 

Whilst I was seeing Ashley, I had been working at a Merchant Bank 

in Gracechurch Street in London. After he had made his good-byes 

and headed off for Manchester, I felt a need to throw myself into my 

work and take my mind off my sad situation of having to meet this 

parting from the apple of my heart, Ashley. 

Commuting to London and back home again became a tiring 

pursuit and what had started about that time was that I would hardly 

eat anything for breakfast and sometimes skip lunch in order to join 

my colleagues in fashionable wine bars. In the afternoons, my work 

would be completed whilst under the influence of drink, mainly rum 

and cokes consumed with friends. Together with the equally 

developing appetite problem, where I would not eat sensibly or 

enough to sustain my health, depression was rearing again. After 

some weeks of hardly touching a proper bite of food, my anxieties 

had crept ahead of me and after checking with the GP, he suggested a 

trip to the Mental Health Unit for another admission. The GP’s 

opinion was that I had ‘relapsed’. 

In the relative safe haven of the hospital, the usual drugs were 

prescribed and a weekly injection of a mood-stabilising drug named 

Depixol was initiated. Side effects of this and possibly the other 

156

drugs involved, were mainly a condition whereby my eyes would turn 

upwards in their sockets and my head would turn upwards to the 

ceiling. This would leave a feeling of soreness in the eye sockets. 

During bad episodes of these certain side effects, I would feel halfblinded 

and would bump into numerous chairs and tables within the 

Day Room. The drug called Procyclidine, which is purely one for 

keeping side effects at bay would be the only antidote for this most 

unpleasant condition and would mostly be given in tablet form or if 

required quickly, in an injection that would be administered slowly 

into the buttock or arm. 

The phenomenon of burning myself with a lit match had happened 

again (inside the hospital). The action of this felt uncontrollable and I 

always maintained that this horrible self-inflicted injury would lend 

itself to certain medications that had been prescribed for me. What 

bothered me after a number of years of these awful happenings was 

that I found out that several other people had done this to themselves 

as well. In actual fact, I was introduced to a lovely girl with similar 

problems, and found out through my Gran, who used to attend a 

certain local church, that she had done the burning injury to herself 

also. She had lifted up her sweater in confidence to my Gran and the 

area of the burn, around and between the breast area and spreading to 

the abdomen was almost identical to my injury. The young girl was 

in church one day, and Gran told me that she had to be taken out as 

apparently my friend had seen the face of Christ on the cross, move 

and sway and she saw real blood coming down from Jesus’ crown of 

thorns. 

If I am correct, my friend is hopefully still alive and living in 

Australia with her family. From my endless analysis and speculation 

in my own mind, how long would it take for a prescribed psychiatric 

drug to work? And if so, when would the point come where the drugs 

were just habitual and causing an actual psychiatric illness or 

disorder? A particular problem may arise within your ‘illness’ and 

after an odd reaction or action would then be noted, and taken as 

being part of the ‘illness’ and more drugs would then be prescribed. 

Did they ever stop to think (the staff) that the drugs might have 

helped, but what about dangerous combinations of drugs, could that 

be an indicator? Psychiatric drugs can be described as a hit or miss 

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‘solution’. Yet through research, any tablet or pill, or whatever, is 

treated by the physical body as a foreign body. You would not 

believe how you may feel after being literally fed up to forty tablets a 

day. 

We were just guinea pigs, some of us had all had a bad time over 

the weeks and months of being in and out of that place. It becomes a 

little disturbing to think of the suicide rate within the hospital or 

indeed other Psychiatric wings of hospitals up and down the country. 

People may think of you as just another ‘nutter’. Maybe we needed 

real healing, like understanding and compassion and not being just 

dished up with pills and potions. 

Generally with the running of the acute admission ward, if a 

patient showed continual improvement, they would be ‘allowed’ what 

was called ‘weekend leave’. What a pathetic thing to call it. With 

this particular admission, my second, my request to go home was like 

the Spanish Inquisition, but this wish was granted before the round of 

Doctors that I had to talk to. 

I had been home for two nights, and sat down at lunchtime on a 

Saturday to eat my dinner of liver and bacon with potatoes and peas. 

After eating a few bites of the liver and bacon, my mouth began to 

seize up and eventually my whole face was contorted and distorted. 

Within ten minutes of gagging and choking, one side of my body 

went into a paralysis. My mum was horrified as she thought that I 

was having a stroke. Quickly and without hesitation, she summoned a 

neighbour’s help and I was rushed back to the hospital ward where I 

had to lay on the bed and have a counter-acting injection to stop the 

stroke from happening. The injection when administered knocked me 

out completely. Yet before I was ushered to my bed to receive this 

emergency treatment, a nurse was sitting beside me in the Day Room, 

near the door. She stared at me and said, 

“Do you know, you look like a rabbit!” 

She said this, as God is my witness, whilst my face was 

twitching and my nose was jerking. What a totally insensitive thing 

to say! And coming from a supposedly trained Mental Health nurse, 

to boot. Personally I did not care much for her disposition and 

comments from her and certainly would not trust her to any 

furtherance of my mental well being. What a bitch, saying that to me! 

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As this setback righted itself, I attended the regular group meetings 

and occupied my mind with Occupational Therapy, consisting of 

typing, art and cookery. Gradually over a period of possibly ten 

weeks, I was granted a full discharge on the condition that I attended 

the day hospital for a specified duration. 

Feeling a new confidence emerging, I sought work in Epping and 

being as it was nearing Christmas, had the pleasure of decorating the 

firm’s tree. Kneeling down to place baubles etc on the tree, I felt 

unusually happy and content and with an overwhelming sense that 

something nice would happen. It was as if it was an omen. Yet as my 

confidence and self-esteem played a game of hit and miss, my work 

started to falter and I could not cope with even the simplest of things 

within my job. Consequently, the job lasted less than one month. 

Would life ever lend itself a hand to a girl who needed a nudge to 

sustain employment and keep sane? 

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Chapter Seven 

It was my nineteenth birthday in early December of 1980, and 

Patricia’s birthday (my best friend) was only three days after mine. 

She was going to have a party at her parent’s home and when the 

invitations were sent out, I was quite chuffed to see that she had put 

me down as guest of honour. This meant a lot to me. We had been 

good friends for just a couple of years at that point in time. At the 

time of writing though, we have remained close confidantes for some 

twenty-two years. (Patricia has now been married for eight or nine 

years to Colin and is just coming up to her 40 th birthday). 

As my sister Suzanne was nearly sixteen and moaning about not 

having much of a social life, I told her that she could come to the 

party with me. We were staying at our Gran’s to get ready for Pat’s 

party. Getting all dressed up and making our faces up, Granddad 

called us into the living room and said that before we went to the 

party, would we accept his Christmas presents a little earlier than 

Christmas Day? We all had a lovely chuckle exchanging our love on 

that evening and I was the grateful acceptor of a delicate, lacy 

make-up bag, something that Granddad had chosen for me himself. 

Ten days after our early Christmas presents as well as heading off for 

the party, Suzanne and I had already gone back home to Essex 

following our visit to Hounslow. We were alone in the house on a 

very cold afternoon, when the telephone rang. At the time I was 

making some tomato soup for our lunch. I answered the phone, 

“Hello?” 

“Hello, darling. It’s Nan - are mum and dad there? I’m sorry 

darling, your Granddad died this morning in my arms at home. I 

wanted to let you and your mum and dad know what has happened. 

Are they at work, love?” 

Stunned and shocked as I spoke, 

“Uh… Yes they are”, was all I could manage to mumble after the 

fateful conversation. 

I telephoned dad at work and as bolshy as he often was, he went 

gravely quiet and said he would let mum know immediately. The 

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tears were tumbling down my face and off the end of my nose into the 

soup that I continued to try and make for Suzanne and I. Mum 

arrived home within half an hour and all of the family was very 

solemn for the first tentative days after Granddad Davey had died. 

Mum did not go back to work for the next three weeks after his death. 

Funeral arrangements needed to be made and mum felt she wanted to 

help our Nan, her own mother. The sense of loss for him was great 

and reminded me of the first bereavement we had all endured, when 

four years earlier dad’s mum, Nanny Eva (my step-Gran) had passed 

away after suffering terrible lung cancer. 

In our childhood, the two sets of Grandparents would travel with us 

to Devon and Cornwall for camping holidays. It dawned on me that I 

had just one Nan and one Granddad left. Rusty’s dad. I had made an 

attempt to meet my natural Grandfather, though. Tracing him on the 

telephone to the hotel he owned. On our meeting, he was indeed 

coffee-black and had wonderful stories to tell of his youth. Through 

making contact with my natural Grandfather, I had the chance to find 

out about my real father. At our first meeting, he was in hospital with 

a stomach complaint. We only spoke very briefly and said that we 

would keep in touch. Only meeting him a few times, he was in his 

third marriage. Thoughts of family conciliation came up and down in 

my mind over those days of bereavement, that we all had to address. 

Suzanne, mum and I decided to travel to Hounslow and stay with 

Nan until the funeral. On the second day after our arrival to the 

familiar house in James Street, Nan expressed a loving wish to see her 

beloved husband in the Chapel of Rest. I wanted to see my Granddad 

as did mum. However, Suzanne felt that she could not go and see him 

like that. Walking into the Chapel, I followed my Gran and mother 

into a small candle-lit chamber, and up to the open casket where he 

was laying at rest. The lid of the casket was on, up to the head, and 

on his dear, sweet face, was a small piece of white netting. I began to 

talk to him, just as I had with him in life and kissed him several times 

on the forehead. I did not cry and smiled for him. When it became 

time for the three of us to leave him, I bade my last farewell and we 

left the Chapel. Walking home, the emotion hit me and I burst into 

tears and could not be consoled for quite some time after. 

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As the day of his funeral came upon us, Suzanne and I were the 

only two of the family and friends that were gathered in his memory, 

who could see our Grandparent’s large, oval and black rimmed 

mirror, sway gently backwards and forwards. We could not believe 

our own eyes at this. Looking back, I believe this was a message 

from him to Suzanne and I, that he was at peace and that he would 

always be with us. That is true and it is even truer today than it was 

back then. 

Mum cried bitterly when she saw the beautiful flowers gathered in 

his memory after the ceremony and her father was cremated and at a 

later date his ashes were scattered beneath a little tree on a secluded 

pathway in the Garden of Remembrance at Hanworth Crematorium in 

West London. Granddad was involved with communications in the 

Second World War, and although this was a ‘ground’ job, he received 

several certificates for his work. Being a loving Catholic man who 

did so much for the cause of disabled people, he and Nan took many 

sick and disabled patients to the Holy Shrines, such as Lourdes and 

Banneux, where the Virgin Mary appeared many, many years before. 

His favourite prayers were the Hail Mary and a prayer that began, 

“Hail, Holy Queen”. 

Nan supported him when he wanted to set up a club for mentally ill 

people, in order for them to meet and have a cup of tea and a chat, 

without the bounds of hospitals around them. Years later, when he 

himself became physically disabled after several strokes, he started a 

Stroke Club and this has developed widely, even today. Being an 

observant type of person, his thirst for knowledge led him to read 

many books on various subjects. Including the lives of Saints, 

Visionaries, Heaven and the hereafter, the Divining Rod phenomenon 

and an extreme Interest in the life of a certain man who recently has 

become a Saint. 

This person had humble beginnings and his name, Padre Pio of 

Pietrelcina, in Italy, is significant. The Padre possessed many gifts. 

Stigmatised (bearing the wounds of Christ), he had the special gift of 

‘bilocation’ (being seen in two different places at once). Reading 

about his life, Granddad told us that if you ever detect an aroma 

around that has no physical explanation, something like nice tobacco 

or very sweet-smelling flowers, the Padre’s presence is said to be 

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around. Padre Pio went to his heavenly reward in 1968 and Granddad 

had collected some ‘relics’ of the Padre, that is, small pieces of cloth 

that had been lain on his tomb. These relics, through strong faith, 

may bring certain favours and answer prayers. 

Granddad’s favourite music was “Love is like a Butterfly” sung by 

Dolly Parton and the theme from the film, “The Deerhunter”, 

Cavatina. At times, listening to those melodies used to make me cry. 

He had a full life and was the most unselfish person you would ever 

meet, regarding others before him and offering his love and time to 

all. I feel that he is always close to me, and protecting me. 

Discussing my future with my mum, I felt that I would move back to 

Hounslow once again whilst at the same time, Nan got over the first 

few months without her husband. 

Living with the two Grandparents for many years, was my Nan’s 

brother, great uncle John. He proved to be a secretive man as well as 

equally eccentric, keeping himself to himself. Being somewhat 

talented at electronics and gadgets, he built from scratch, radios and 

televisions. All he loved, was his cats and to learn German through 

listening to the radio. Never married, he once had a Dutch girlfriend 

many years before, but this did not work out for the two of them. 

When I was small he would throw toffees out of his bedroom window 

and rigged up a swing in the garden for my sister and me. Always a 

keen gardener, the garden at the back of James Street was kept in a 

highly groomed manner. Apple and pear trees adorned the back half 

of the garden and he would grow many different flowers and 

vegetables. He made many little pathways throughout; and had built 

three sheds. 

John, I believe, suffered a bad reaction towards his brother-in-law’s 

death and developed chest problems. He needed to stay in a 

Middlesex hospital for two weeks yet as soon as he was home, he 

would still hop on his trusty push-bike and cycle a couple of miles for 

fish and chips from his favourite fish shop. 

Within the second time of living in Hounslow, I again attacked life 

and searched for employment. This came in the shape of temporary 

positions. I would still sometimes experience strange episodes where 

I would feel my thoughts racing, I’d say to Gran that,“The maggots 

are crawling around again”. 

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This would always happen when on a medication called 

Chlorpromazine or Largactil. A major tranquilliser, it was coupled 

with an ingredient to give a better appetite. Long term ‘side’ effects 

would show in the form of weight gain and another unwanted one was 

that if you were exposed to sunlight for even a short while, you’d 

burn easily and go red quickly. You could feel the top of your head 

burning, and if extremely unlucky, develop a high temperature and 

sun stroke. 

When once the “maggots” were playing up and racing thoughts 

were prominent, my Nan took me to West Middlesex hospital to 

speak to a Doctor for advice. He spoke to me about general problems 

and asked whether I would prefer tablets or an injection for my 

immediate nervous relief. I chose tablets, of course. A little while 

later, a Nurse took me into a small room and said she would call back 

with some medication for me. In five minutes, she had me bending 

over and shot a syringe into my backside so hard, I could not walk 

properly. Feeling dizzy which turned into nausea, I stumbled to 

phone for a taxi with Nan, whilst turning deaf and almost falling 

about. 

Nan was concerned for me and even the taxi-driver took me right 

up to the front path and into the hall - I was practically leaning on the 

stranger! The night was Friday, the eve before the Royal Wedding of 

Prince Charles to Lady Diana Spencer. That night I slept like a log 

for many hours. We both enjoyed the Wedding on the colour 

television in the neighbour’s house next door. The effect of the 

sun-burn which I mentioned earlier, proved to be the case when my 

family and me attended as spectators, a golf tournament at Wentworth 

in 1980. 

Walking around the course, I felt very hot and nearly passed out at 

the end of the day. This did not, however, spoil my enjoyment and 

love of the game of golf, played by the professionals. The first match 

I decided to follow was that of the then young Spaniard, Severiano 

Ballesteros. Seve became my favourite golfer to watch and I 

witnessed several of his triumphs at Wentworth. I managed to get his 

autograph several lucky times and watched his golfing career 

blossom. I began to write to him when I was eighteen and still 

continue to write to him, even today. 

164

Our family attended many tournaments in the 1980’s and saw Seve 

win the British Open in 1984 at Saint Andrews up in Scotland. He 

sent a signed photo to me in 1983 and a further card some time later. 

These are all treasured items of mine. Somewhere buried in our 

house at the moment, is an autographed cap. Every book on Seve 

have I bought, and used to collect cuttings and snippets from 

newspapers and magazines. 

During the time when my illness was at its height and my appetite 

was poor, treading those fairways and enjoying the atmosphere 

certainly improved the situation and boosted my morale into the 

bargain. I felt that I had a lot to thank golf for and thankfully it is a 

sport at which anyone can participate. Golf has played a large part in 

my life and even watching it on the television has been therapeutic 

and a healthy ‘tonic’, in my lesser moments. 

Attending a hospital out-patients department for consultations with 

a Psychiatrist and after, a Psychologist, an Indian lady found it 

disturbing listening to my past history and swore about the infamous 

Rusty, under her breath, when discussing matters. My initial 

diagnosis had been a ‘Personality Disorder’ or possibly schizophrenia. 

The new Doctor in London preferred a term called ‘Manic 

Depression’. It was his opinion that my first diagnosis was inaccurate 

and possibly that I had been prescribed the wrong medication – but 

offered help in the form of going to small group therapy sessions. 

There, I would learn social skills through role-playing under the 

supervision of the Psychologist. 

With the formation of the Hounslow Stroke Club, my Nan was still 

invited to attend functions even though Granddad had died. We used 

to head out with afternoon teas and join in with activities. This is 

where I met an Occupational Therapist who shared the same Christian 

name as me. We became great friends and went out socially with 

some other young people. She came from Northampton and although 

we only knew each other for perhaps, six months, she was a lovely 

person and we had great fun on double-dates! 

In late April of 1981, great uncle John became ill and had a bad 

cough and some breathing difficulties still affecting him. He used to 

leave his bedroom door ajar and we felt he did this because we could 

get to him quickly if he needed help. On the afternoon of the 5th May 

165

in 1981, John was sitting in the living room, coughing and being 

violently sick. Sitting with him, it became clear to me that he was in a 

bad way and I suggested to Nan that I would call an ambulance for 

him immediately. When this arrived, John was placed on the stretcher 

and given oxygen to aid respiration on his way to the hospital again. 

Once there, Nan and I sat with John in the Casualty department while 

waiting for the Doctor to examine him. 

It felt like we had been waiting for ages when a Nurse arrived and 

trundled John down to have an x-ray. Waiting for half an hour for his 

return, Nan and I looked at John and noted that he was in great 

discomfort. Going back into the cubicle, he had still not had a proper 

examination from the Doctor and a group of people that had been 

involved in a car accident had just been admitted. These patients had 

to be attended to. John lay on the bed when suddenly he made a 

gurgling noise. A Nurse rang a bell and his bed was immediately 

placed in a flat position and then we were asked to leave. Nothing 

happened for an hour and then finally the sister took us both into her 

office and told us that everything possible was being done for John. 

Another three-quarters of an hour passed when the Doctor informed 

us that John had died. He’d had a fatal heart attack. 

Nan was numb and so was I. We asked to see him and he was lying 

on a bed with a white sheet across the lower part of his body. His 

mouth was gaping open and his poor, lifeless body looked very thin. 

Sadness quickened in our hearts. We spent some twenty minutes with 

him before being asked to leave. Nan kissed her brother and I kissed 

him several times on his forehead and kept holding his hand, talking 

to him and telling him, even as he lay dead, that we all loved him and 

that he was so very brave. 

That evening, we retired to bed exhausted and numb from the 

night’s experience. In the space of five months, Nan had lost her 

husband and then her brother, yet with the faith she had, life needed to 

carry on and the inevitable funeral plans were to be made. After 

John’s post-mortem, it was revealed that he had a condition connected 

with working with asbestos many years before. John was cremated at 

the same place as Granddad. The house became very large without 

John and Granddad, but with many graces, Nan and I took the time to 

visit many places to cheer ourselves up. Windsor Castle and 

166

Hampton Court were our favourites. Boat trips on the Thames from 

Richmond also featured high on our list. 

Nan and I then started to go to the Thursday night socials called the 

‘Friendship Club’ for people with mental heath problems. It was at 

the Club that I met a charming man called Charles (nick-named 

Notch). He was some forty years my senior and I found him to be a 

warm and understanding character. He invited me to tea several times 

at his home, which was a lovely bungalow at the other end of town. I 

became very close with Notch. Soon and to my surprise, we shared a 

physical relationship. In my mind, he was a sort of Sugar daddy. He 

would take me on shopping trips and buy me any food or fad that I 

had. His own problem was Nervous Angina and this was the reason 

that he had joined the Club. 

At a party, me being dressed as a New Romantic Prince Charming, 

Notch and I danced expertly to a popular 80’s New Romantic record, 

Adam Ant’s “Prince Charming”. Notch took me away on holiday 

with him to the Lake District and he booked us into a luxurious hotel 

with beautiful decor and excellent cuisine. We shared some 

fascinating trips and he bought me a fashionable fur jacket, amongst 

other gifts. Six days of being near Lake Windermere, we returned to 

Hounslow and I felt relaxed and fully fit. I wanted to marry Notch 

but he said it would not be fair on me because of the age gap. To me 

he always seemed young at heart and kept laughing at life. 

He was in the process of getting me a passport to take me to 

America when I went back home to Essex for a visit. Christmas was 

approaching and I began, as people often do, dreaming about what 

would be the route of life to take in at the start of the New Year, 1982. 

167

Chapter Eight 

Suzanne had started a weekend job, selling bingo tickets for some 

extra pocket money and after arriving home had asked if I would keep 

her company on the round of our street. Tapping at doors wasn’t 

quite my cup of tea but once we had knocked at a certain door, my 

spirits were instantly lifted. Just around the block of our street and I 

wasn’t even aware of it, was a young man named Simon, living with 

his parents and younger brother and sister. He practically fell over 

himself to get to the door and chat with us, whilst paying us for the 

weekly ticket. 

The next evening, Simon called round for a chat and it was obvious 

that he was more than just a little interested in me. Shortly after, we 

started seeing each other. He had a nice family and at the time, a 

family dog who seemed extra sensitive to people’s feelings. I went 

back to stay with Nan after Christmas back in Essex and Simon 

stayed with me there for a couple of weeks. It was in Nan’s house in 

Hounslow when Simon’s and my relationship became a sexual one. It 

soon followed that I would move back home to Essex for good, to be 

close to him and develop our union together. Getting engaged in 

February, 1982, with a wedding planned for 1983 became the biggest 

dream for us. 

We had a huge row some months following and I threw my 

diamond solitaire ring in a bush down a country lane and he replaced 

it with another one, to save having to admit that I had lost it. 

Generally, we had a loving time between us but things became 

strained between us when I suffered extremely distressing ‘panic’ 

attacks in the mornings. At home with my parents, things had started 

to go in much the same way as they had in the past, my appetite failed 

repeatedly and I smoked heavily instead. I’d smoke so hard in the 

early mornings followed by a huge amount of water and then I would 

vomit a few times. 

Within a few weeks of this developing situation, a suggestion was 

made for me to have another spell within the walls of the hospital that 

I had, unfortunately, come to know so well - the Mental Health Unit. 

168

Not knowing all the drugs they placed me on, I had a horrible 

sensation of not being able to walk down the corridors or go 

anywhere near any stair wells. It felt just as if I was floating on air 

most of the time. Unusually, a member of staff told me of another 

patient who had the same affliction, a girl named Mary. She became 

a good friend and over the years we ‘bumped’ into each other on 

various admissions to the ‘asylum’. 

Within this admission, I found it an awful struggle to keep my 

weight up. Being five feet eight and only about six and three quarter 

stone, my face looked constantly thin and gaunt. I found a friend in 

the shape of a Spanish male Charge Nurse, who took me under his 

wing and gave me a severe ticking off when I took an overdose of 

Paracetamol. He said with a good command of English but peppered 

with Spanish pronunciation, that he would watch me ‘like a hawk’ all 

the time. He was not wrong. Plenty of others needed keeping a 

constant eye on, but he would literally follow me everywhere for 

hours. Probably so that I would not attempt such a thing again. He 

was a compassionate man and responded efficiently to any crises on 

the ward. 

Other friends that remain in my mind, include some of my fellow 

patients. A dark-haired man with a moustache whose job was the 

owner of a Travel Agency used to keep us all in fits with hilarious 

jokes. He worried me one time, because he said that in the middle of 

the night, some of the patients would be given enemas at random. I 

was disturbed by this and he laughed at me and admitted some time 

later that it was all just a sick joke! He was only on the ward a short 

while and happily for him, he never returned for a second stint. 

Looking back and reflecting on the times that I inflicted pain on 

myself, I began to realise that the ‘evil’ inside of me did exist to a 

certain extent. A Counsellor had tried to gain a picture as to what 

actually was going on inside my mind. The best way of trying to 

explain things was as if another complete person was daring me to act 

and think on impulse. This ‘person’ felt very real to me and I would 

almost see her. She had long black hair and very pale skin. When a 

teenager and trying to get to sleep some times, I’d see this girl 

floating above me. She would mean no harm, just smile at me while 

trying to plump up my pillows so that I could rest. Under her ‘spell’ I 

169

committed dreadful harm to myself, so much so that on occasions I 

could have easily lost my life. 

At seventeen and during my turbulent time at College, my first 

suicide attempt was swallowing a whole bottle of full-strength cough 

mixture. The sensations that happened to me after I drank it were 

horrible. I was floating everywhere and things all slowed down to a 

creeping motion yet repeated themselves. Being very drowsy and 

upset, I was taken to Casualty and given a foul-tasting emetic 

substance. Within twenty minutes I began to vomit badly until 

everything was up and out of my stomach. 

After a short while of rest, I was allowed home on the same day. 

This attempt at my own life became the start of many and each time I 

was saved by the medical team who must have thought I was 

crackers, a real serial-swallower. Being ‘well-known’ in the notes on 

my record in Casualty, was not something that I was ever proud of. I 

felt very guilty. I kept doing awful things but as one of the staff said 

to me, I was not hurting anyone but myself. 

Rusty hadn’t helped my situation that much. I was living on a 

knife’s edge most of the time living at home, supposedly in a trusting 

family environment. Could a girl of eleven understand sexual 

implications coupled with the anguish of being found out or lynched 

by my own family? The secret was kept inside me for six long years. 

When the secret was out, I was already at bursting point and I now 

know that this factor had festered within me and did not help matters 

much. My problems would last many years and I wonder if I would 

have been a hopeless Manic Depressive if I had NOT had to endure 

mental and physical torture at such a young and naïve age. 

Why me? I wished I could have rung someone and spoken 

confidentially, like the Childline charity made popular by Esther 

Rantzen. In those times, there were no direct help-lines for abused 

children. I am sorry that I am not the only person to have gone 

through such a horrific childhood and I’d do anything to help such 

children or perhaps adults that have struggled to survive from 

childhood days. 

Persecution is a terrible thing. Directed at a small child it can be 

devastating and produce disastrous effects. Do beasts know that they 

are beasts? ’Cos is it that they are so sick inside themselves that they 

170

do not know the harm they are causing? My fiance, Simon, would 

visit me in the hospital and finally I admitted to him about dad and 

what had been going on a while before. He was disgusted at the 

whole sorry affair. It was too much for him when I burnt myself 

again. This time I burnt my leg and arm and he was in floods of tears 

when he heard that I had hurt myself. 

Simon’s father told me that he would sit in his bedroom listening to 

the theme song from MASH. The song being ‘Suicide is Painless’. 

Apparently, Simon kept playing the record over and over again. His 

dad had to destroy the record as it became too distressing for him to 

watch his son collapse under the weight of his girlfriend suffering yet 

another nervous breakdown. 

Mum had burnt her own hand trying to stop the flames from 

developing on the morning I had done it. She was not annoyed with 

me but dad was. He shouted at me that if I did anything silly again, 

he would sign the papers for me to be properly ‘committed’ to an 

institution. How could he say that? It was all so cut and dried for 

him. Mum would visit me every day as she needed her dressings to 

be changed on her hand. After this bad episode, I was placed on a 

close-observation ward where you wore your night things all the time. 

A character that I met on the close-obs ward was a young Jesus-like 

person. We chatted many times and he drank an unusually large 

amount of water. Almost to the point where he was intoxicated. He’d 

say, 

“Water, water, I must have some water!” 

It was definitely a problem for him drinking all the water but I must 

confess that the way he would tease himself to drink more, would 

make me chuckle to myself. On an open ward, sometime later, he 

took me for a fish and chip lunch in a local cafe. Boy! Did he eat his 

food fast! The whole plate would be gone in four or five minutes. I 

don’t think he chewed anything but just gulped it all down. 

He was a very depressed man and at times I tried to get him to 

smile for me. I succeeded sometimes, but it would only be a 

split-second flash of a smile and for my eyes only. He would then 

return to his melancholy world. At night, you could hear a man 

scream in the distance of the other wards. It was him. He had to fight 

off an overwhelming desire to commit suicide. 

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I became dreadfully embarrassed on the ward when I found that the 

cleaner for a couple of weeks was going to be none other than Ashley. 

He was the heartthrob that had left me to go to Manchester 

Polytechnic some four years earlier. He apparently did come back for 

me when he said he would but that I was not at home. I was in 

hospital and Suzanne had told him that I had broken my leg. I hadn’t 

broken my leg, I was on the funny farm side. 

I confided in Ashley and said that I was going to escape from 

the ward and abscond. He must have thought it pretty weird to see me 

all trussed up in bandages and everything. Ashley did not try to stop 

me and he would not have found me because I had caught a bus to 

another town. Complete with my blue coat done right up over my 

nightdress and summer sandals. The bus driver must have thought 

something was a little odd and he did not accept my money and said 

he had no change. 

Personally, I thought that he knew I must have been in trouble and 

wanted to help. I managed to keep away from the hospital for one 

week but when I plucked up the courage to return home, a Doctor was 

summoned to assess me at my parent’s home. Guess what! They put 

me back on to the close-obs ward again. This time I would not want 

to escape again. An injection was plunged into my rear and whatever 

the stuff was, I was too dozy and clumsy to attempt it again. These 

injections were given regularly each week, whether I liked it or not. 

I reached a position where I was ready for a discharge from the 

hospital. After a few days together and my Nan speaking to Simon, it 

was decided by him to break off our engagement. I was gutted and 

rigid with sadness. Mum and dad returned home from their foreign 

holiday and frequently had to stop me from running full-pelt around 

the block to Simon’s house. We had been engaged for two years and 

yet another grasp at hope for the future was dashed. 

Mum had become concerned about me being so upset over Simon 

and our split. She decided to contact my good friend, Notch, to spend 

a week with us to cheer me up. He stayed as a friend though, and not 

as a lover. Today and at the time of writing, Notch moved from 

Middlesex and settled in Teddington somewhere. I have not seen or 

heard of him for many, many years. He must be now nearing 

seventy-five or eighty years old. 

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Chapter Nine 

Suzanne had for some time had a close girl friend that she would go 

out and have fun with. Goodness knows what they used to get up to 

but they would often come in drunk and giggly (obviously being out 

with some lads for the night). Her friend was not contented living at 

home with her family and Suzanne had her chance to offer a place 

with us. (This had happened with me years before when I had gone to 

College with my Malaysian friend). Socially, Suzanne was always 

going out. At the time, as she did not have a job, the pair of them 

would sunbathe during the day. 

Admittedly, I felt somewhat left out, as I was still getting over my 

split with my former fiance, Simon, and with all the boisterous fun 

happening about me, I felt lost and hopeless inside. The only thing I 

would say that annoyed me and caused anxiety was the fact that the 

two of them would jibe me over being lazy and not doing much. 

I could not do much anyway as I was still taking tranquillisers and 

from then on Suzanne saw me as something of a misfit. It would 

upset me about the jokes and quips about me. They made a 

homemade chart to stick on the kitchen wall with our three names on 

it. They had made it look like a kind of work rota. Suzanne’s name 

followed by her friends and then my name last. Next to my name, 

they had put across the whole of the chart the words ‘D… LAZY’. 

How cruel… 

Suzanne and her friend tried to find work and soon did in the shape 

of a door to door book-selling job. It did not last long and they started 

to save up for a holiday in Spain. Before they went to Spain, they 

were both involved in questioning by the Police at the hospital after I 

had taken a massive overdose of pills. 

Whilst at home during those summer months, and getting over an 

admission to the Unit, I was taking a drug named Disipal. They were 

small yellow tablets that were an anti-Parkinson’s disease medication 

with supposed properties in it helpful in a tranquillising nature. The 

bottle I kept at home had sixty or seventy tablets of Disipal in it and 

on the fateful morning, I consumed the whole lot with several gulps of 

water from the bathroom tap. Admitting to Suzanne that I had taken 

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the tablets, she called an Ambulance immediately and together with 

her friend, waited for me in Casualty whilst I was being treated. 

In the emergency room in Casualty, the Doctor asked me some 

questions but I can remember feeling very drowsy and queasy. My 

temperature and blood pressure was being monitored every few 

minutes and when I began to feel awful, it was decided that I needed a 

stomach washout. The procedure that they use is this: a rubber tube is 

put in your mouth and down your throat, right through to the stomach. 

During this action, the patient is laid on his/her side. 

If you fight it – and sometimes it is an extremely unpleasant 

sensation – you may gag and retch as the tube goes down. Once the 

medical staff know that the tube is in the correct position, jugs of 

plain water are poured down the tube and whilst this is happening a 

sense of one’s stomach filling up quickly with something cold is 

present. When the stomach is full with the water and it is mixing with 

whatever you have taken, the water comes back out and goes into a 

bowl. 

The staff will have no nonsense with this procedure and will use 

gallons upon gallons of water until they are satisfied that the stomach 

is clean. Checking the bowls, they will find remnants of the drugs 

you have swallowed. It is a horrible thing to have to have done and 

you want it to be over but they need to do it or you may die. When 

everything is completed, the tube is slowly pulled up and out of your 

stomach exactly the way it went in and during this, you may feel like 

gagging and retching again. I had had this procedure done before and 

afterwards my blood pressure was being checked as well as the colour 

of my skin. 

Shortly after and while I was lying on the trolley, I felt sore after 

the pump, and fell asleep. Next, after I had drifted off, my sister saw 

several Doctors rushing about with some Nurses into a room nearby. 

She then saw a young woman on a trolley and wondered who it was. 

She was distraught when she realised that it was I, her sister, with my 

face yellow and appearing crumpled - almost dented in. 

My heart had stopped. The Doctors used a defibrillator to 

resuscitate me and got the heart going again. Then my heart stopped 

and I had ‘died’ for a second time. On the second charging, my heart 

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emained stable and when I eventually did wake up, it must have been 

about a week later. 

When I awoke, my mum was sitting beside the bed together with a 

female Nurse. Immediately I wanted to pee and was trying to push 

myself up out of the bed to go to the toilet. It was explained to me 

that I could relieve myself where I was. It would go into a bag, I had 

been attached with a catheter. Beside me there was a large machine 

monitoring my heart rate. 

Being questioned by the Police, Suzanne and her friend were being 

spoken to very abruptly as if they had fed me the tablets themselves. 

They had said to them that if I had taken just a few more, that I would 

‘have done it well and truly’. The whole nasty time happened around 

the inauguration of the new President of the United States of the time, 

Ronald Reagan. 

When I was allowed to return home, I did not need to be admitted 

to the Psychiatric Unit and recuperated at home, whilst mum took one 

month off work to help look after me. 

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Chapter Ten 

With a seemingly guiding strength and faith after such traumatic 

episodes during my life, I would push myself, time after time, 

dragging my failing spirits out of the doldrums. Suzanne would say 

to me, 

“You always manage to bounce back, Marie”. 

With her saying this statement, I must have bounced back a 

hundred times. Showing a complete lack of security and self-worth I 

would constantly ask of the staff on the Psyche ward, 

“Will I be alright? Will I get better?” 

I needed to be reassured that I would get better and my life would 

improve by someone else all the time. Getting over such crises, these 

questions would be asked less and less. If someone can be so 

unhappy, can they actually get over severe depression with manic 

episodes? The answer comes from within and inevitably the answer 

is ‘Yes’. It may be a bitter life, when you come to a complete and 

utter END. This ‘end’ or being STUCK in a kind of suspended 

animation can shift at some point. This shifting to relieve one’s 

stagnation of depression just needs a spark or kick-start from your 

mind to change the sequence of events and seasons of thinking your 

thoughts. 

MUSIC is a good therapy and very therapeutic if you choose the 

right melodies or songs. If you would hear a favourite song and listen 

to the messages it will often give, this may correct your thinking. 

You don’t need to listen to sombre and jaded melodies. Just songs 

from favourite bands or solo artists that mean something to you. Pick 

a melody and compose your own lyrics and keep it to yourself as 

notes that helped you on your road to recovery. 

Personally, my favourite band is Simply Red. Mick Hucknall, the 

lead singer has a gentle, soulful voice that provides for me a musical 

cradle that I can fall in and drift off listening to a beautiful voice. His 

expression in his songs is something which I admire greatly. Some of 

the songs may be kind of sad, but the up-beat songs are good to dance 

to and lift your mood. Yes, choose music as a therapy and keep 

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listening because a life without melody is near to a flower that 

receives no rain to replenish it. 

Depression may be caused by certain hormonal imbalances in the 

brain and some hormones that relieve this may not even be present in 

the body. One’s mind can play tricks with itself if some hormones are 

lacking. A good idea is to have a brain scan or similar testing 

procedure just to check that everything is OK or if not, something 

may be offered to help the deficiency. I had a brain scan several years 

after having severe bouts of depression and it showed up a brain-wave 

dysfunction. One of the line read-outs was not doing what it was 

supposed to, and going off in another direction. 

This did not mean that I was mad or insane, but I needed to have 

medication in the form of Lithium tablets, which contain a salt agent. 

Whilst taking Lithium, your blood needs testing regularly to see that 

the dosage is correct. When I was taking Lithium, the dosage was just 

one tablet per day, fortunately. 

A new Psychiatrist, Dr Maniels, who I was a patient of, decided that 

I had a problem with extremely impulsive behaviour and actions. 

Whatever it was, I would just go and do it. It would show itself in the 

form of overdoses and then the matches or lighters I would use to 

inflict pain on myself. This pain may have been an excruciating way 

to punish myself but I learned a little of what the ‘impulse’ process 

would show in me. Firstly, I would become very depressed and near 

desperation. I may have dared myself to play with the matches and 

the ultimate aim was to experience pain and then I would know that 

this physical pain was ‘real’ just as the mental pain was real. Perhaps 

this was not the best explanation but it proved a complicated case for 

Dr Maniels to discuss. It was as if I needed to experience real pain to 

express my mental torture. You can see a burnt arm or leg but you 

cannot see a pained mind. 

Another explanation behind the self-arson, was that I had become 

guilt-ridden because of my times being abused by Rusty, my dad. I 

would feel unclean and needed to ‘burn’ away the guilt. Either way, 

it is hard to admit that I set myself alight. I would rather have the 

body I possessed before the onslaught of this ‘self-arson’ at the tender 

age of seventeen. 

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More recently I have looked at links with certain drugs used in 

Psychiatric care, and found out that a self-inflicting behaviour may be 

linked when receiving certain medication. The best way to describe 

it, as my sister told me, is as if patients feel they can do anything. Be 

invincible. Similar to a fast, amphetamine type effect. Nobody can 

stop you. That sort of thing. They can fly out of windows, burn 

themselves or cut themselves to pieces and still come through it. 

Tracking down the medication that I believed may have affected 

me, an ingredient namely FLUPHENTHIXOL comes to mind. It is 

present in several medications used in the treatment of mental 

disorders. Yet looking deeper, if this ingredient is taken whilst taking 

another medication – where the two or three combinations of drugs do 

not mix – the effects could be disastrous. 

Suzanne told me of a lady who went as an informal patient to the 

Mental Health Unit and was mildly depressed and later she walked 

calmly out of the hospital and threw herself in front of a train and 

died. This is all unnecessary. Was this lady on a dodgy prescribed 

drug combination as well? I truly believe that some medication can 

have similar effects on patients that are taking these prescribed 

psychiatric drugs. It is pumped into them and months maybe years 

later, they go off and BANG, they are gone. Died through a suicide 

that may have been prevented. Who knows? 

Looking back with hindsight, I now realise that I will always have 

physical scars although I appear ‘normal’ because I can cover them up 

if I want to. Some people I know who are aware of what I did, say to 

me that I should not try to hide it. Maybe I am self-conscious, but 

thankful that I still have my looks and can turn a head or two. I have 

had boyfriends that must have noticed my imperfections but this 

never spoiled the enjoyment and fulfilment of lovemaking. 

Having problems you usually learn as time passes not to blabber to 

everyone, ‘what I have been through!?’, yet at the outset you may feel 

sorry for yourself and feel that people ‘should know’. Following the 

period of time that mum looked after me at home, I searched for work 

and found a temporary job as secretary for a small firm of Architects. 

I enjoyed this immensely, being in charge of my work and arranging 

things for my boss, who was a very polite and charming man of Asian 

178

descent. If you want to succeed, you will, and this was true of my 

own attempts to seek and secure work. 

In tune with the difficulty of the country’s economy in the 80’s, 

with high unemployment that came to the fore in the years and years 

of Conservative leadership, having been told to ‘get on your bike’ and 

search for a job and not give up, that was a positive message to the 

people. The people just lost the morale of the very life-blood of 

humanity because everything became barren in those years. I was 

always simmering on being anti-Tory but I think that Margaret 

Thatcher was truly an ‘Iron Lady’ and held strong convictions, but 

alas, never took her politics to the people, which is something that 

really counts. Men and women want to see and experience things that 

are successful, not a puff of air. 

Today’s Prime Minister, Tony Blair, may have just got the balance 

right. He cannot untie the mess that the country fell under, in just a 

couple of years. He has his scales of balance to work on and a few 

nips and tucks here and there and the balance of New Labour will 

even out and flourish. Yes, his work is cut out for him and if you 

could look back after, say, eighteen years of a Labour government, I 

think you may see more improvement in crucial areas of society than 

you may have done with the previous eighteen years. You just have 

to wait and see. 

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Chapter Eleven 

When I was twenty-two, my sister and her friend decided, to my 

surprise, to set up a blind date for me with an attractive ‘mystery 

man’. The two girls were aware of my recovery over Simon and felt I 

needed a boost and to regain my love life. After a barren period of 

time whereby I kept myself celibate for a while - I decided, yes, I’m 

going to enjoy myself and on the eve of my ‘date’ - I made sure I was 

dressed to kill, even dressed to thrill! Feeling nervous tinged with 

excitement, as the adrenaline began to pump in my veins as I would 

meet my fabulous new man, imagine my horror and shock when I 

could not back down after being introduced to a complete imp. 

Wimp, maybe. 

He turned out to be six or seven inches shorter than my stature and 

even spouted a funny-shaped nose. He was a young Italian man and 

although dark, he definitely wasn’t tall and only vaguely handsome. 

But he would have to do. I was not desperate for his advances, yet 

being with him may put me in touch with other eligible young men. 

Poor Italian Robert! 

He thought he had died and gone to heaven – when he met the all 

singing and all dancing Marie. Robert’s family invited me to a family 

meal even, and his father uttered between courses, 

“So.... You want to marry my son?” with all the inquisitiveness of 

a paled Da Vinci. 

“Mmm.... Mmm, we’ll just see how things go, Sir,” as I thought (a) 

I didn’t know how to answer him and (b) I could not see myself tying 

the knot with five foot nothing Robert. 

Doubting came early in our relationship, even as we had embarked 

on a sexual one. I wanted someone taller and to feel protected and 

secure – I did not get these feelings from Robert. 

On an evening when Suzanne had suggested a boozy night out 

again, but this time, myself with Robert plus herself and her sidekick, 

I needed an excuse to get rid of Robert the ‘imp’. I think it was 

probably the last date with him, even after receiving a rather generous 

Christmas gift, a silver watch. (Years later, I sold it for a fiver, no 

180

less). As our little crowd were enjoying an evening drink at a local 

Essex pub, Suzanne’s friend (who had been pressed up against a 

young man unknown to us all) was becoming increasingly anxious 

and nervous as this youth became friendly with her. As well as being 

more than a touch drunk. 

“Buy us a drink, darlin’! Go on sexy!” 

“No, get OFF me, buggar off, OK?” retorted Suzanne’s friend. 

It was obvious he was trying to gain her favours into the bargain. 

She wanted to decline this unwanted attention but the young man was 

not receiving the message. After another drink was consumed, he 

became louder and then became annoyed with her and placed his 

hands around her throat. My sister was nervous for her best friend, 

and she did not know how to handle the potential situation either. At 

first it was all thought of as a joke, yet in minutes he really began to 

squeeze his fingers tighter and she began choking, coughing and 

turning a funny colour. Robert who was standing with us did not 

seem to anticipate any move to help her and as I became very 

concerned, yet not saying anything as the youth was possibly two or 

three inches taller than I was and I felt wary of this unknown. 

Within the next instant, I could not put up with Suzanne’s friend 

being violated in public any longer. I remember taking a long, slow 

deep breath and positioning myself in a secure stance and then flung 

myself across this youth, knocking him unawares, right across the bar. 

Suzanne shortly after explained that all she could see was my blue 

coat flying through the air and pinning him to the bar and standing 

over him as he slid on to the floor, bang on his behind. 

Consequently, the young man left us all alone, looking more than a 

shade disgruntled as his pride and prowess had taken a knock. Later 

as we left the pub, the same youth was loitering outside in the cold 

night air and he waited until I was out of sight and then picked a fight 

with Robert, the imp. As the crowd of us got into a taxi, Robert was 

punched on the nose and fell almost to the stony ground. I thought, 

Robert is going to have to go. 

Also sharing the taxi on that evening was a man whom I was 

introduced to as Stephen, who was a mutual friend of Suzanne and her 

friend. He put his arm around her and held her hand after we all told 

Stephen of what had happened in the pub. Stephen said that he could 

181

hear a commotion some time that evening but did not see the whole 

thing, as he was in the gent’s. My new acquaintance said that it he 

had been on the spot, he would have ‘seen to the little chappie!’ I 

would not realise the implication of the chance meeting with Stephen 

until much later. 

Taking a bath one evening and assigning myself to the fact that I 

was not going out for yet another night - I spent the time painting my 

toenails and slobbing out in front of the TV. Shortly after, the 

telephone rang and Suzanne’s friend answered, I heard her saying – 

“Hello, Steve”. Pause. 

“Alright, I’ll tell her, but she probably won’t come”. She then 

shouted up the stairs. 

“Steve has just said – get your butt up to the pub tonight. That 

doesn’t mean me, Marie, he means YOU!” 

She was right. I felt I couldn’t go but felt flattered to be asked and 

in demand to join in with everybody in a new crowd. Suzanne 

cajoled me into going and after perhaps an hour of sisterly persuasion, 

all three of us were clambering in a taxi and heading for the pub. The 

evening went well, all things considered, yet I must have been too 

green to notice at that time, Stephen had designs on me. Suzanne’s 

friend got off with one of Stephen’s mates whilst Stephen and I were 

thrown together. Four of us were in the family home, as mum and 

dad were away for the night. 

I remember the evening so well. The four of us (two couples) were 

having a laugh and I decided to make the proverbial cup of coffee (I 

was a bit afraid of etchings though!) Checking with my sister and her 

companion as to how they wanted their coffee, I glanced at Stephen 

and said – 

“And what would you like?” 

“I’d like a kiss, please!”, answered Stephen. 

With this request, I boldly hugged him whilst giving him a long, 

smoochy kiss yet afterwards he appeared to be sitting on the edge of 

his seat for the rest of the time. 

Flirting for the remainder of our evening, Stephen asked me out on 

a date that he would arrange. I accepted while we were saying 

goodbye at the front door. 

“Stephen, why were you all on edge tonight?” I asked. 

182

“Do you really want to know?” he said with a smile. 

“Yes, if you want to tell me.” 

“What do you think it was?” he asked again. 

“I don’t know go on”. 

“I got an erection and I was very embarrassed and was trying to 

hide it if you want me to be honest!” 

“Oh!” I commented, surprised, 

“Was that what it was - oh dear, whuh.... what can I say?” 

I was more than a little stumped, to be told so directly that I had 

‘turned him on’. We then kissed again and I said goodbye to him, 

letting him have my telephone number. A couple of days later, Steve 

telephoned me to say that he had booked a table for the two of us at a 

country restaurant, “The Hunter’s Meet”. I couldn’t contain my 

excitement at having such a special evening within such an exclusive 

and charming place as The Hunters. 

As I recall, Stephen had roast pheasant whilst I ordered a fish dish 

with a delicious sauce and along with two bottles of fine wine, our 

romance would blossom and with him, I felt relaxed. More 

importantly, wanted. Needed. He was beginning to stir something 

deep within me. A feeling that I was not familiar with. His warmth 

and devil-may-care exterior hid a true Romantic. Where would this 

journey take us? We both weren’t sure on that evening, but our 

smiles were true and as we looked into each other’s eyes, you could 

almost hear a click. From our Souls through the beating of our two 

hearts as our eyes met. He would, in time, become everything, and 

more. 

After we had been seeing each other for a while, we began to 

anticipate our union and on an afternoon, after he had been keeping 

me company at the family home, we walked to where he lived at his 

mother’s home. It was cold that day. We first made love on the rug 

beside the gas-fire in the living room. The glare from the fire made 

my leg very red and itchy and it proved greater embarrassment after 

such tender moments, when his mother came in the front door from a 

shopping trip and nearly caught us. I had to run upstairs with my 

tights screwed up in my hand and hastily re-adjust my clothing in the 

bathroom! 

183

His mother did not say anything untoward but she wasn’t stupid. 

After sitting down and talking to her, I found her extremely charming 

and as I always thought, well spoken. She explained that her 

husband, Stephen’s father, had died some years before and besides 

Stephen, he had an older sister and brother and also one younger 

sister. He’d been the third child born in the family. The family had 

originated from Tottenham, moving to the town after Stephen’s father 

had secured a job. Stephen’s surname was ‘Coochey’, and at first I 

was forgiven as I kept on thinking that his surname was ‘Cooch’. The 

name, as his mother explained, came from Italian stock and started as 

‘Cacoochey’ generations before. 

Stephen had many friends and his occupation was as a Postman. At 

work, all of his mates called him COOCH yet some close, personal 

friends had other peculiar nicknames for him. One was “Cow-Pie” 

from the comic Desperate Dan hero. Another, which I could not work 

out in his exclusive social pecking order, was “Cedric Peaseman”. I 

believe it had something to do with a character from a Peter Sellers 

film. As Steve was a bit of a comedian, he would sometimes burst 

into the character of Inspector Clouseau, pronouncing, “Kato, Kato” 

just as Peter Sellers had in the Pink Panther movies. Another of his 

traits was to add “Don’t you know!” after some of his words. 

Steve’s best friend was a man named Graham, whom he spoke of 

very highly and very often. Before I knew him, a whole group of 

them would holiday together, and Stephen would only share a room 

with Graham, his favourite friend. Although Steve held what some 

may have thought a rather brash exterior, he was pleasantly 

surprising. I learned that he had qualified to practice as a tree-doctor 

(arborist). Other pursuits that he regularly participated in were weight 

lifting (he held certificates to teach), running and cycling. 

Steve also used to be a twenty a day smoker, and confessed to me 

that one day whilst helping a few friends move some furniture in the 

back of a large van, they betted for money that he could not give up 

the habit. Steve being Steve, said he did not need money to bet on 

anything and promptly threw his packet of twenty cigarettes from the 

back of the van and never smoked again. He knew that I smoked, but 

it never seemed to bother him. 

184

Being thirteen years my senior never pricked my conscience as he 

led the dream of a Peter Pan attitude towards life. He looked 

ruggedly handsome for his thirty-five years. He would sometimes be 

mistaken for a Freddie Starr look-alike yet I personally felt that he 

had the jaws and bone structure of the actor, Arnold Schwarzenegger. 

This was the hero that Steve admired and like him, began to 

body-build at a young age. Valentine’s Day occurred in our 

relationship and once again, he surprised me with a romantic meal, 

where afterwards I was presented with a single, perfect red rose. 

Mum and dad had their lives on the move as well. Suzanne had 

already left home and gone to stay in a large house in Bishop’s 

Stortford whilst working as a barmaid. She had qualified as a Display 

Designer or in other terms as a window-dresser. Her talent for 

arranging whatever objects in an attractive manner was very apparent. 

But there was no telling Suzanne. Being as shy and awkward as I 

was, she developed her own confidence with people through the bar 

work and made many friends and contacts. She later passed her 

driving test and I always felt responsible for her. Mum and dad 

wanted to move on and were in the throes of buying a home in 

Stevenage. 

Meanwhile, I had been offered a bed-sit in the old part of my 

hometown. Stephen took me to view the dwelling, which was above 

some shops. I thought at one stage in time, that I would move in and 

start a new life. Eventually, I decided against it and to Steve’s 

dismay, chose to move to Stevenage with my parents. As the path of 

everlasting love rarely runs smooth - the proposed move led to a great 

deal of misunderstandings between the two of us and was followed by 

a dissolving of our relationship. Yet this ending proved to be the 

beginning of something else at a later stage. 

Stevenage was my new home and the area in which we lived was 

quite picturesque although suburban in a peculiar kind of way. Dad’s 

previous unwanted behavioural malingering against me came to a 

final halt, and was never to happen again, as life waxed and waned - 

as much as it does with almost everybody. The victim I had become 

had won a mammoth battle to survive - yet I championed this, only to 

let life tease me with other battles as well as triumphs. 

185

Chapter Twelve 

Being without a job, I had signed on at the then Stevenage Job 

Centre, and found myself in the advantageous situation of being 

telephoned direct from them, if a suitable job vacancy came up. I’d 

gone for a few interviews but nothing was happening. Feeling low 

socially, mum persuaded me to try and make some new friends in the 

Hertfordshire town and I was left wondering as to how I could get out 

and about more. 

At the Stevenage hospital, I attended monthly outpatient 

appointments in their Psychiatry department. Yet at the time I cannot 

recall much of what the Doctor and I discussed or any insight into his 

professional conduct, only that the few times I did attend, I consigned 

myself to the fact that the sessions were really temporary 

psychotherapy of a sort. 

A community nurse was calling regularly at my parent’s new home 

to administer a four-weekly 200mg dose of Haloperidol, for 

intra-muscular use (by syringe and into the buttock). This particular 

drug preparation was supposedly a mood-stabiliser and my nurse 

explained to the best of her abilities that the medication should keep 

me ‘level’, that is, I would not get too low or too high or at worst, too 

manic. It did have a rather unpleasant side effect, whereby my eyes 

were affected and I would sometimes feel dozy and quiet for a few 

days after these injections. 

The drugs that I had been placed on at one time or another were as 

follows. Chlorpromazine tablets and syrup, Procyclidine, Ativan 

(Lorazepam), Droperidol, Haloperidol, Depixol(Fluphenthixol), 

Diazepam (Valium), Stelazine, Temazepam (sleeping tablets), Disipal 

(anti-Parkinsonian effects), Prothiadine, and Lithium amongst others. 

Also administered at certain points especially when as an in-patient in 

hospital were laxative syrups (the inactivity of sitting around on the 

ward in my opinion led to constipation), water-tablets to suppress 

excess water and finally antibiotics if one had an infection. 

I would rattle with tablets at times, and at a peak spread over four 

medication times during the day, of breakfast, lunch, dinner and 

186

evening medication dispensing on the various wards, I found myself 

on some 40 tablets per day. Often and in some special cases, to 

combat taking so many pills, the alternative of injections were given. 

Prozac was, I believe, not being taken by many people, in those early 

years as a patient in the Psychiatric ‘system’. Psychiatric drugs are 

grouped under different headings, there are usually differing 

ingredients within these preparations, mainly to treat many varying 

disorders of the mind or brain, tranquillisers and anti-depressants. 

What might suit one particular person may not suit another, so I 

would definitely express my firm opinion that the mind-drugs (as I 

called them) would either ‘hit or miss’. 

Even over many years of searching for the truth behind powerful 

drugs (not illicit drugs, I must stress), they are only supposed to be 

administered for a few months. Yet you may forget that some people 

have to battle through being on pills, etc., for many, many years and it 

is like being in a permanent-waking coma. A question I was always 

asking people within those walls was “how can you pump people full 

of this and that and then tell them to ‘get on with it’”? What are you 

supposed to do when you feel like a Zombie? 

In between popping my pills, I was flicking through a local 

Stevenage paper, one lunchtime and found an advertisement for the 

local 18-30 crowd. A new-members evening was to be arranged, but 

I could not wait to find companionship and got dressed up and went 

along, well before the first-timers night! I must have been very brave 

as I walked into the function room on my own to a crowd of which I 

knew nobody, but I did it. I introduced myself to some of the others 

and was warmly accepted by the group and as I remember the evening 

was devoted to a young man who was showing off his exotic pets. 

Soon, I was involved in many outings and “do’s”. This opened up a 

new social life for me and then I began to go out with one of the male 

members. He was an ex-army soldier who had served in Belize - I 

fancied him rotten. We’d been dating for about four weeks on a 

strictly kissing basis, which was something I couldn’t understand. 

“Why hasn’t he tried it on with me?” I often thought. 

He was extremely polite and courteous towards me and I was 

beginning to feel a bit surprised as to whether we were actually going 

187

to commit to a more physical relationship. We eventually did make 

love. It was a bit of a struggle, but we managed to make it in his car. 

To be honest with myself, looking back, I feel about this particular 

young fellow, that he was one of the rare breed of actual ‘gentlemen’ 

of professional conduct, that you can meet that have been with the 

armed forces. We had a lot of fun and I fantasised about marrying 

him, but this was not to be and our dates became less and less fruitful 

and he was making it obvious that he was interested in someone else. 

Besides, not only was he being chased, I was often being chased too. 

Our time together was fairly brief but is something that I shall always 

remember. 

Shortly before Christmas, 1985, a card had been re-directed to me 

from Essex and had been mistakenly sent to my step-grandfather’s 

address in an area known as Pin Green in Stevenage. 

As my eager hands opened the card, I noticed that it had a cartoon 

Reindeer looking all cuddly and Christmassy and opening it up, I 

found a hand-written message - “Like Brucie says, if you play your 

cards right - it’ll be alright on the night! You know it makes sense!” I 

giggled at the scrawl. The card was from Stephen, back in my 

hometown in Essex. I was totally surprised by this gesture, as I had 

not seen him for over six months and thought we had finished in 

general. At the bottom of the card was his phone number (as if I 

didn’t know!) 

But I had a tough decision. Do I call him or don’t I? Finally, I 

made the rather tentative call and his mother answered. After talking 

with her, she said words to the effect of ‘it was a shame that nothing 

had gone further with the relationship with her son and me’. This was 

a lovely thing for her to say to me. Stephen was not home at the time 

because he was working, so I rang again in the evening and one of the 

first things he cheekily said was - “Marry me, you know you want 

to!” Persistence was his middle name and during the next few weeks 

from then, we would exchange words over the phone. 

Foolishly, I had told my army boyfriend from the 18-30 club, that 

someone else had jokingly asked me to marry them. It was about that 

time that he had given up the chase and after seeing him briefly, the 

affair with my soldier had fizzled out. I realised he felt he could not 

compete with another suitor, namely Stephen. During those few 

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weeks whilst I had what you would call a telephone romance with 

Steve, I had been dogged with severe stomach pains. These would 

double me up at times and one day I keeled over with the pain and a 

Doctor was called at home. Immediately he wanted me to go to 

hospital as he suspected Appendicitis. Arriving at the Stevenage 

hospital and having an examination, the staff diagnosed that I did not 

have Appendicitis but I needed an exploratory operation to ascertain 

as to what was causing such pain. 

Within two days, the Surgeon performed a laporoscopy and the 

outcome of this showed that I had, in fact, ovarian cysts but the 

message was good. They could be dispersed with tablets and there 

would be no need for further surgery. The cysts were not particularly 

large yet had been responsible for the chronic stomach pains. Within 

the last few days of my week in hospital, mum arranged for Stephen 

to come and stay and I was thrilled when he came to visit me. On the 

day I was due to leave hospital, Stephen and dad came to collect me. 

The nurses carefully removed a few little stitches and then for a 

treat, the three of us called in at a pub on the way home. I just drank 

orange juice and Steve had his favourite tipple, bitter top and dad had 

a quick pint to be sociable. 

Settling in at home, Stephen helped me unpack my case while dad 

went off to work in the late afternoon. It wasn’t long before Steve 

and I were stretched out on my single bed and indulging in love. He 

was giggling at me beforehand, affectionately naming me 

‘Scabby-belly’! 

Those sacred few days with him were idyllic and mum did not mind 

even as Stephen held me in the bathroom to help me get in and out of 

the bath. All too soon the day arrived when he had to go back to 

Essex - but a pact between us was that we should remain friends and 

keep in touch. He was more than a friend to me – as I was yet to find 

out. 

189

Chapter Thirteen 

I hadn’t had very much luck within the employment stakes during 

my time living with my parents in Stevenage. Eventually, though, I 

was offered a temporary position as invoice-checker for a large 

electronics company. The day that I started my attempt at work again 

was the same eventful day that mum embarked on her new job, as 

laboratory technician for a school in Hertfordshire. 

I can remember feeling extremely nervous and doubly anxious as I 

sat at my desk, swamped with endless invoices to check and match 

with corresponding documents. A repetitive position, it did not give 

my mind enough stimulation but as I began with such high hopes of 

moving onto something a little more complex, I started to feel fed-up 

towards the end of the first week there. 

Steve was on my mind constantly. 

Precisely one week after my career move, as vividly as I can recall, 

I got up as usual and was supposed to catch the local bus and make 

the trip to work. I had other plans. Quietly, efficiently and swiftly - I 

hastily packed a few bags, not letting on to my mum and dad. They 

presumed I was going to work and they would see me that evening. 

Not so. With this impulsive notion of running back to Essex, scared 

yet excited, I crept out of the cocoon of the house and caught a train 

to King’s Cross, in order to catch a train back from there to the town 

in Essex. 

Arriving at the station of my destination, my first thought was to get 

myself to the Post Office Depot and try to locate Steve. Once there, 

an old colleague of dad’s spoke to me and mentioned that Steve was 

out on a delivery round but that at the same time, it wasn’t fair to 

deceive my parents as to where I was, that I had run away. He gave 

me a cup of coffee and so many things crossed my mind as I sat 

between a pile of mailbags. What am I doing? I wonder what the 

electronics firm will think of me, not turning up at work? A spiral 

was whipping up inside my conscience. No more waiting around, I’m 

going to catch a cab and head for Steve’s mother’s home. 

190

As the black taxicab turned into the street and edged up to the door, 

almost as if in a dramatic Hollywood movie, Stephen appeared at the 

front porch bang on cue. The look on his face was priceless, surprised 

but happy to see me, he asked, “Don’t I get a kiss, then?” as his 

familiar features went into a broad smile. 

As I returned his delightful offer, I became more serious, 

“Oh, Steve, I’ve left home, I’m not sure what to do - can I stay with 

you.... Please?!” 

“Of course. Come on in and say hello to mum. She’ll put the kettle 

on. Yes, come on with me, Marie!” 

Telling Steve and his mother my story of the job I had deserted and 

niggly problems at home concerning my parents who always seemed 

to be arguing, they both welcomed me. She agreed to my staying 

with them – but that on the strict condition that the very next day I 

should contact my parents, and let them know that I was safe. They 

could not have been more understanding than they were, at such an 

emotional and difficult time. As I telephoned my own mum as 

promised, she was not entirely surprised that I had ‘run away to 

Stephen’, something within the faltering tones of her voice sent me a 

powerful message that it was her intuition had told her. 

Foolishly, I thought I might be able to save my job in Stevenage. 

Contacting them and saying that I had the ’flu, they could not take me 

back. Losing the job was one thing. Changing my life was a forever 

thing. Stephen shared his bedroom with me; that is, we both jammed 

into his single bed at nights. His mother sort of expected it and I 

respected her a great deal. During those nights together with him, we 

confessed our love for each other and toyed with the idea of becoming 

engaged. Within a few days, he had taken me to choose a diamond 

solitaire engagement ring. So after many discussions, I took the step 

of returning to my parents for the last time, as Steve’s fiancee. 

Life at home with my parents felt much the same as usual. They 

seemed to be at each other’s throats half of the time. Personally, I 

think they needed their own space and in my heart, I knew that I was 

changing and my future would take hold down another road. As a 

result of two weeks at my parental home being in the middle of 

slanging matches, dad upset me on my very last evening with them. 

191

“You’ve got to get out more, Marie.” I sat very silent and just took 

it. Looking over at him he really let me have it – 

“You can start by giving your mother more housekeeping and oh 

and, by the way, if you want to live in the bathroom, you need to pay 

something towards the heating bills, OK?” 

As his eyes started to bulge, as they often did, I just remained calm 

and kept it all in. I had telephoned Stephen three times during the day 

and unbeknown to my parents, had accepted the kind offer to live 

permanently with him and his mother. Confessing privately to mum 

that I definitely was going to leave home, her tears tumbled down. 

She was losing me. It was inevitable that I would go, one day. “Your 

dad didn’t mean it,” she said the next morning as she tried to help me 

pack a large case with some of my belongings. 

I was upset but had to keep my dignity and emotions intact to 

enable me to concentrate on my next step. A giant step. I’d had 

difficult times at home as mentioned and embarking on being free and 

charting my own life was important. As I left the home, mum was 

inconsolable. I had told her before I left that I would come back for 

visits and gradually collect all of my personal belongings. 

Moving in with Stephen felt like the most natural thing in the 

world. A New Year had arrived and I had a new person to share it 

with. My troubles seemed to be far away from me then. I did not 

want any secrecy between Stephen and myself, and it was this fact 

that alerted me to confide in him about the troubles I had endured in 

my childhood with my step-dad. Talking with his mother, whom I 

confided in later, she proved to be sympathetic and her philosophy for 

me was to move on and never look back. She taught me a little about 

cooking skills, even though I already knew quite a lot. Showing me 

the best way to poach a humble egg was something I did not know! 

She was what I call a very ‘correct’ lady and on a weekend when 

she would be away with her friends, she made sure that my drill for 

cooking the perfect Sunday lunch for her son and myself was a good 

lesson. One to learn well. 

I shopped for the meat and prepared Yorkshire Pudding, roast 

potatoes and vegetables. But what a disaster! The beef was 

over-cooked and dry, the Yorkshire Pudding was all sloshy (sliding 

192

all over the plate). My gravy was not too bad but my vegetables had 

been cooked to nothing! 

Stephen was so hungry that he ate all of it but was laughing the 

whole time through lunch! I was introduced to the rest of Steve’s 

family, including his older sister and her husband, their daughter and 

son, his younger sister and husband who lived just on the outskirts of 

the town. Steve’s older brother was away in South America working 

as part of a team studying rock formations and was explained as being 

the ‘brains’ of the family. 

In March of 1985, I had a temporary two-week administration 

position locally with a medium-sized firm in the town’s industrial 

area. It was during the second week of my time there that Stephen 

contacted me to break the news that the Council had offered us a 

one-bedroom flat in another part of the town, near a smaller 

neighbourhood shopping centre. Viewing the flat, we both agreed to 

accept it and at about April time, we began to concentrate on 

preparing and moving into this new home. A fresh start and new 

beginnings… 

We could not afford everything brand new and were grateful to be 

offered a second-hand couch. The double bed was, however, brand 

new. Steve’s treasured portable colour TV and stereo system were 

ferried from his mother’s home to ours. Moving was a stressful time 

and in a short while, we completed our first home, by resigning 

ourselves to the fact that we simply did not have enough money for a 

new fridge and cooker. Those two items, we purchased second-hand 

through the classified ads. I needed a washing machine. Stephen 

organized a top-loading one, and I struggled with the damn machine 

so much, it wasn’t working properly, so I insisted on a new washing 

machine. Reluctantly, I agreed to him buying a new twin-tub for me. 

I had visions of a fantastic, fabulous washer/drier. No. This was not 

to be. His mother had a twin-tub - so I should cope with a twin-tub! 

Adding the finishing touches to our home, Steve bought some new 

display cabinets for our books and ornaments, including his 

impressive porcelain collection. Following this and when we had 

enough money, he bought a new two-seater sofa plus two matching 

armchairs. 

193

Everything was falling into place and we were very happy with our 

own place. There was something odd though, our immediate new 

neighbour - who lived just across the landing on the first floor, 

informed us that the previous tenant was an old lady and she was 

found dead in the bedroom. Our neighbour had found her on a 

particular day, lying in her bed not long after she must have died, as 

she was still quite warm. We received mail for this lady for some 

considerable time. 

Stephen and I talked about the previous resident that had passed on, 

in the bedroom that we then shared, and at first found the information 

quite eerie. Yet we soon put it out of our minds. Steve and I shared a 

good social life and most Friday evenings we spent at his favourite 

pub, talking with his circle of friends. They knew him probably better 

than I did and were aware of his passion to be an athlete. It followed 

that he would embark on weight-training sessions at the local sports 

centre. He encouraged me to get involved also but I gave it up 

because I started developing finely-tuned muscles and I did not want 

to end up appearing more male than female. 

Stephen was a man who was sensitive to a girl’s vulnerability in 

general and showed me various self-defence techniques, including the 

best way to punch and alarm a potential attacker. Perhaps the greatest 

gift he taught me was to stand up for myself, and not to be afraid of 

anyone. Something that had eluded me for half of my life… 

“You cannot rely on anyone but yourself…” was his particular 

motto. 

His looks were, if I can explain, rugged and masculine with a very 

strong jaw-line yet with cool, steel blue eyes and fair hair. The people 

that would remind me of him were Freddie Starr, Andy Gray (the 

former footballer), and Arnold Schwarzenegger together with a strong 

overall hint of the American actor, William Defoe. Steve was 

definitely living with a Peter-Pan type personality, that he would 

never grow up and stay young forever. Coupled with this he had a 

very strong sense of humour and had a light-hearted look at life and 

he often said that life was not worth living unless you could laugh 

sometimes. The person that reminds me the most of Stephen, is the 

comedian, Jim Davidson. Not just Jim’s overall looks, but Steve 

seemed to mirror the comedian’s quick sense of humour. The ‘in 

194

your face’ humour. Yes, maybe Steve was older than I, by thirteen 

years, but his experience of life was rich and made him such a vibrant 

character. 

A very popular man with a lot of friends and acquaintances! With 

his impression of me, he would say that I was a ‘good-looker’, knew 

how to dress well and was admired by other men, even if it was ‘to 

look but not to touch’. What struck me as a compliment from him 

was that he told me that I would look good in a potato-sack but he 

would one day, love to ‘dress me in Dior gowns’. Within myself, I 

was always under the impression that I was ‘nothing’ and would 

amount to ‘nothing’. Stephen helped me develop some 

self-confidence and I treasured this fact. 

The greatest employment that I had ever secured occurred when I 

was in my relationship with Stephen. It was as an administration 

clerk in Hertford Civic Centre. Starting there in June 1985, it became 

the most enjoyable and rewarding job of my life. Previously, I had 

been a higher-grade ‘Kelly Girl’, temping in Central London, working 

in various prestigious establishments. The money then was excellent, 

but as I realised, the commuting was a factor I could not tackle for too 

long. It was just too tiring and unreliable at times. Working in the 

City as a young woman, I found it exciting to be amongst the 

so-called ‘yuppies’ and very important business people as I thought. 

Even though I had a tough time in my personal life, I would smile and 

take the plunge and push myself to the limits to try and forge some 

sort of career. 

Looking back at my job in Hertford, it gave me a new sense of what 

I could achieve, even as I only stayed there for just under a year. The 

longest, in fact, I had ever held down a job for. Leaving my job at the 

Civic Centre, I went on to another position in Hertingfordbury, yet 

only stayed for five weeks. I’d worked in and around Hertford for 

just over the year and was never more fulfilled. 

Meanwhile, Stephen was working hard at the Post Office, sorting 

and delivering post in all weathers. This was something I admired all 

Postmen and women for doing. The two of us were planning to set a 

date for our marriage and finally agreed on the 10 th January 1986. 

195

Chapter Fourteen 

I spent Christmas 1985 with Steve and his family and their 

particular kind of traditional Christmas. Presents had all been 

exchanged on Christmas morning with smiles from everyone. His 

mother had served everyone with a succulent and well presented 

Christmas dinner. During the evening, I participated in old-fashioned 

parlour games that my future family always performed at that special 

time of year. 

Steve had bought me a set of ‘Opium’ perfume and toiletries, which 

was my treasured gift from him, amongst others. Consequently when 

New Year’s Eve dawned once again, I absolutely reeked with the new 

fragrance. Putting my make-up on carefully and dressing in 

something a bit sexy - I topped the look off with pink stockings and 

five-inch high-heeled stilettos in a matching colour. 

As usual, Steve was going to take me to the celebrations at our 

favourite pub in the town. We were stressed anyway, as our Register 

Office wedding had been formally booked, yet we felt we needed to 

relax and meet Steve’s friends as normal, something which he always 

did. He truly valued each and everyone of his circle of friends, which 

had become mine. During the evening at the pub, a little row was 

brewing between the two of us, a somewhat ‘loud’ disagreement but 

we made up and he was warmly passing me around his friends, 

showing me off and getting them all to give me a lucky New Year’s 

kiss. That night, the two of us got very drunk and decided to walk the 

journey home with one of his friends, who lived near us. 

I was lagging behind with Steve’s friend because I had the high 

heels on, and as I remember, his friend and I were discussing Egypt 

and the Pyramids. The subject of Tutankhamun and his bride came 

up and we wondered what it would be like to sail down the Nile on an 

open-topped boat beneath the stars. I completely trusted Steve’s 

friend as we chatted quite platonically during the trek home after the 

hue and cry at the pub. Steve, being athletic anyway, was a few 

hundred yards in front of us, feeling so wrecked and eager to reach 

home. 

196

Steve and I fell into our bed early on New Year’s Day of 1986 and 

woke up with a hangover. Our wedding plans were the only thing we 

spoke of for a few days. What about this, and what about that? On 

the evening of 9 th January 1986, the eve of our impending nuptials, 

Steve’s good friend who was going to act as Best Man, called round 

to see me for a chat. We talked about Steve in general and the 

friendship he had held with him over many, many years. His Best 

Man gave me a good-luck peck on the cheek and left shortly before 

my girlfriend Hazel and mum arrived to take me out for an intimate 

drink on my last night of freedom. 

I was suffering from nerves and wedding anxieties even then and 

my stomach began to churn over and over, it felt like it was in knots 

and causing cramps. We’d gone to a wine-bar for a couple of hours 

and they both tried to calm me down. Hazel was going to be my 

Maid of Honour, my attendant, and had been a good friend of mine 

for a long time since school. At the end of our evening, mum and I 

went back to my Gran’s (who had since moved to the town to her own 

flat) to enable me to have somewhere homely to get married from on 

my last night of single-dom. 

At 5.30 in the morning, I awoke and could not stop talking to my 

mum who was desperately attempting to get some rest before the big 

day. She commented that I had ‘verbal diarrhoea’ on that morning of 

my wedding. I could feel the adrenaline pumping as my excitement 

grew and grew. After my trying to eat some breakfast, I climbed into 

a luxurious bath of expensive foam, which I had specially bought – 

and lingered within it for an hour. Hazel then arrived fairly early with 

another good friend who was going to fix my hair for the day. They 

both helped me create my wedding make-up. Gran was fussing as 

usual and Suzanne was going to join us all later that day. The Best 

Man called again to check that all was going well. Mum and dad 

were acting a bit frayed at the edges on my big day and I shouted at 

dad when I was ready in my white gown to get into the car. 

“Come on dad!” I yelled. “Get your act together and be cheerful 

for once!” was what I said. 

The ceremony was set for 10.20 in the morning and when I arrived 

at the town’s Register Office, I noticed Stephen waiting for me. All 

that morning and during the Declaration of Marriage, I felt as though I 

197

was wrapped in a dream, and I was just a robot, mouthing words but 

not really there. That must be what being on cloud nine feels like. 

Unreal. I had become Mrs Coochey. Outside the Register Office 

were some rather delightful gardens and that is where we had our 

pictures taken. Badly craving a cigarette, I tapped Steve’s best friend, 

Graham, on the shoulder and he gave me one of his Marlboro’s. In 

one of the pictures taken of Stephen and myself, I thought long and 

hard wanting to capture ‘love’ in the form of a kiss that would last 

forever. 

After such a special occasion, some of the family went back to my 

Gran’s whilst Steve and myself and some family members spent the 

afternoon at his mother’s house. I remember sitting on the sofa in my 

white gown and the beautiful train was trailing all over the living 

room carpet, and my new nephew was perched on the edge of my 

dress, gazing at me and affectionately calling me ‘Auntie’ for the first 

time. 

A welcoming glass of sherry was passed round and I certainly 

needed it. Steve was very proud of me and we looked forward to the 

evening reception. The wedding car unfortunately did not turn up to 

take us to the hall so at the last minute, a taxi was called to ferry the 

‘bride and groom’ to the reception. I had a difficult job, getting all of 

my dress and me into the taxi, yet we just made a joke of it and smiled 

through. 

After circulating at our reception and attending to a large amount of 

family and friends, the time tipped at ten o’clock, where we had 

planned to change into less formal clothes and say our good-byes and 

thank-you’s to all who had attended. I had changed into a beautiful 

blue dress and Steve was concerned about me as after that time, my 

stomach was in cramps and I almost passed out with the pain. After 

somewhat hastily cutting the cake and a picture being taken complete 

with Steve’s white knuckles as he was literally holding me up, he had 

a couple of other things he needed to do. After a cheeky yet 

convincing speech from him and one last celebratory drink, a close 

friend took us to our honeymoon night hotel where we found a bottle 

of champagne with fruit in our room. 

For our night of wedded passion, I put on something a little more 

comfortable, a white nightdress with matching negligee. But horror 

198

of horrors, my period had started and as we were both exhausted from 

the day, we just shared a long cuddle before flaking out in bed. As 

the morning dawned and we had not consummated our wedding night 

with Sexual Olympics, my only anxiety was the fact that I could not 

find a comb or a brush to run through my hair before venturing down 

to the breakfast room. I managed to flick my hair through with my 

hand and it must have looked OK as nobody took a suspected 

horrified second glance as I thought. 

Consuming a full English breakfast on the morning after our 

wedding, we noticed my best friend Patricia with her partner Colin at 

another table. 

As we had entered down from our room, our friends greeted us, 

half-joking about ‘what we’d been up to!’ We laughed and a rather 

resounding “Nothing!” was our answer. Patricia and Colin had come 

from London for our wedding and were returning home after 

breakfast. 

Stephen and I had entered into married life, yet some of his 

acquaintances had said that our marriage would not last six months. I 

was upset when I found out about these comments and began 

gradually bickering with Steve, feeling sensitive, even slightly 

possessive of him, and within a period of three weeks following our 

wedding, we were going through our first real bad patch. One fine 

day, we were quarrelling over nothing more than our telephone bill 

and this developed further and further to the point of ending in an 

absolutely blazing row. 

Our words became louder until we were both shouting at each other 

and the whole messy sequence carried out on to the street. During my 

temper, I had smashed the communal window to the flats with one of 

Steve’s golf clubs and was just about to swing for his car, when he 

sharply smacked me around the face. I shouted in no uncertain terms 

at him, to “go forth and multiply” with a more colourful blend of 

words. Steve stormed off at great haste and I was left quietly sitting 

on the kerb, sobbing to myself. After a few minutes a stranger came 

up to me and said, 

“Have these cigarettes, love, sorry to have to say this but if he done 

that to you once - he’ll do it again. Do yourself a favour and go back 

inside. Calm down. I’ve got to go, see you.” 

199

With those few words of a kind of consolation, the stranger 

disappeared down the street and I don’t think I ever saw or heard from 

him again. 

Trembling as I made my way back to our flat, I made myself a cup 

of tea but my temper and frustration would not resolve and I set about 

my half-hearted and foolish revenge. Firstly I cut up a shirt of his 

with a pair of scissors. Then I smashed an expensive vase that he had 

belonging to a collection. Feeling worse, I began to turn all his 

various athletic certificates around so that they were facing the wrong 

way and to top the whole unsavoury as well as childish revenge off, I 

spilt all the contents of one of his favourite after-shaves. What a 

wicked cow I must have been! 

On Steve’s quiet return some hours later, we admitted that we were 

both upset and out of order and sat discussing everything in a more 

civilised and focused manner. He was not angry about what I had 

done with his personal things. However, after the affair, I began quite 

innocently, coping with strong feelings of being nervous to sleep with 

him at night. Something which came like a bird completely out of the 

blue. Perhaps I thought he might strike me - I’m not sure. The next 

few nights I did not sleep at all and I found myself experiencing a 

lingering and consuming exhaustion. On the last of those few days, I 

stayed with my Gran and she suggested I see my GP. 

At the surgery the GP asked me various questions and gave me 

some tablets to take for that evening and set up an appointment the 

very next day for a new Psychiatrist to assess me, at the Mental 

Health Unit once more. I could have seen the Psychiatrist that I had 

been used to, Dr Taunton, yet I felt that I could then no longer relate 

to him, so my GP’s alternative suggestion did not seem unfavourable. 

Dr Maniels, the new Psychiatrist, had a long waiting list but at the 

Doctor’s request, I would see him promptly. On the evening before 

my impending referral to the hospital and whilst I spent some time 

with Gran, I was playing an ‘Aha!’ music cassette over and over 

again. Staring at the popular 80’s Norwegian group’s poster which 

for one night only, I had pinned up on the wall, I felt bewitched 

somehow. Their particular song, “The Sun Always Shines on TV”, 

held a profound effect over me. I could not stop listening to the 

lyrics. 

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When a good friend of my Gran’s came round to visit, a Nun by the 

name of Sister Anne, I told her directly and probably delusionally, 

that I wanted to be with Morten Harket, the lead singer of the said 

group. She smiled and nodded at me but at my then age, one would 

not expect someone to be so fanatical about a group of musicians. 

Their music meant something to me and had struck a chord on a deep 

level with the parallels of my life up to that point. 

Gran had been her usual understanding self and as she was aware of 

my childhood problems, etc., with her son-in-law, in her opinion, she 

felt that I was still disturbed by him. She prayed with me before I 

slept that night. 

The emergency medication for the night was swallowed quickly 

and I drifted off to sleep. As the morning came around, I made my 

way to the familiar surroundings of the Mental Health Unit, clutching 

a bag, my tape-recorder and Aha!’s “Hunting High and Low” cassette 

tape complete with their poster. 

Meeting Dr Maniels, it was his opinion that I needed to be admitted 

for a few days’ rest, though my eventual time went into three months 

as an in-patient. Would I settle down again? Time could only tell. 

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Chapter Fifteen 

With the usual referral to the Unit’s Occupational Therapy system, I 

consulted with the Head Occupational Therapist in Psychiatry and had 

a programme drawn up which would include relaxation and other 

therapies to fill my day – although I would have some ‘free’ spaces. 

It was during this time that I became friendly with a Nursing 

Assistant, a charming lady who often wore just plain leggings with 

T-shirts. Her hair was fair and even as I guessed that she was over 

forty, she possessed a young attitude and talked a lot of common 

sense. As a Nursing Assistant, she did not have the authority to give 

medications or injections, just to offer help and support to the 

sometimes difficult job of the Psychiatric Nurses. She became a good 

friend over the years and at times when I was extremely distressed, 

perhaps neurotic and worrying about everything, she would offer help 

in the way of washing and styling my hair. 

However, her attitude was in stark contrast to her colleague, a male 

Nursing Assistant. Being tall, broad and built like a brick barn door, 

in my opinion he seemed to throw his weight around. It was as if he 

found everything a joke and liked to roll his eyes around, probably to 

make you feel uncomfortable. The strength he had, he needed, as if 

any of the patients had an outburst, he would be summoned to restrain 

them. Yes, perhaps he was heavy-handed but maybe that was just his 

way. Between him and myself, I felt he had a dislike of me and kept 

me at arm’s length and would not talk with me. 

Steve eventually knew from the family that I had gone into hospital 

and would visit me every day and as often as he could. He would 

bring my entitlement to sickness benefit to me each week, and he 

would often take me out of the grounds for a walk around the 

town-centre for browsing. Bringing our completed wedding 

photographs in to show me earlier during with this particular 

admission, I flew into a rage, and threw them back at him. Steve also 

gave me some pocket money, a £5 note, and as I was up and down 

like a yo-yo with my moods at the time, I stupidly burnt it in front of 

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him. On some visits I would be pleased to see him and on others, I 

found him irritating (even though he tried his very best to please me). 

A character that I became friendly with shared the same Christian 

name as my husband Steve and he proved to be quite a weird person. 

Yet he must have thought that I was just as weird. The first full day 

back in the Unit, after I had been shown where my bed would be - he 

casually walked into the Lady’s Ward and asked me who were the 

men in the poster above my bed. Striking me as rather rude as he 

barged in like that and promptly sat on my bed and grabbed my 

tape-recorder turning it up full-blast so that ‘Aha!’ were playing 

extremely loud. The music drifted throughout the dormitory and 

down the corridor. 

After the initial acquaintance with Stephen, (a fellow patient, not 

my husband), we became good friends, and I guess that I sort of 

‘loved’ him, yet this could only have been infatuation. We used to 

walk hand in hand around the grounds and would often go to the 

hospital chapel together. 

One night, I crept into his room and cuddled him closely as he slept 

and then sat on his chair watching him. I had been moved to a single 

room next to his and I could more often than not be found in his 

room, as we talked. We shared similar problems at the same time, 

being that we might be hyperactive for a full 24 hours. He was 

extremely manic and could often be found sprawled out on the floor, 

outside many places. He told me that this had occurred once inside 

the maternity department. He believed he was having a baby as he 

had put on some weight! 

He would strike me as hilariously funny on occasions and listening 

to him and watching him would make me laugh so much, I’d be in 

tears. Poor Stephen would suffer with delusions, and I would 

somehow be drawn in with them and we wandered one evening 

around the Management suite, with the two of us strongly believing 

that “something was going to happen”. Downstairs we then trudged 

and were both waiting for an ambulance to take us to another hospital 

for the imminent birth of a ‘baby’ – convinced that we were Joseph 

and Mary. We then had a very strange conversation where he said 

that he wanted to put his head in a bucket of soup! All of this 

confusion lasted almost all night long. 

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This sorry chap would not sleep at any cost and the Nursing staff 

had the baffling position of trying to ‘knock him out’ with powerful 

drugs. None of it worked with him and he became steadily worse. 

He was a real challenge to the medical profession, and serious steps 

needed to be taken to stop Stephen from telephoning large 

establishments and making a general nuisance of himself. He would 

leave garbled messages on various answering machines, asking for 

help, BUPA Head Office being one of them. 

Together, my fellow patient, Stephen, and I made a peculiar couple 

and even my new husband, Stephen, did not mind the funny 

arrangement. He took it all as a polite joke. 

Once, my husband participated in a service at the hospital Chapel, 

myself sitting between the two ‘Steves’. What a strange time it 

proved to be! This patient and mine’s greatest adventure was to 

gate-crash a Nurses’ party where the two of us tried to mingle before 

we were found out and marched back to the ward! 

Life on the Psychiatric ward could be tolerable, if you learnt to get 

used to the routines. On the whole the Nurses understood, but 

perhaps a handful of them proved a little unprofessional in their 

outlook. Patients did not like to be cajoled if they were feeling low 

and irritable. The relationship between Nurse and patient is 

important, yet the balance of trust and confidentiality needs to be 

heeded to. Part of the conduct of certain individuals came across as 

less than perfect and in saying this I must stress that most of these 

individuals genuinely helped the patients. You may not be able to 

fully measure ‘professionalism’ on a scale, but the scale could tip in 

or out of a person’s favour. 

Meanwhile, my relationship with Steve did improve over the weeks 

and during weekend leave intervals, we made the most of the time we 

had together, as usually, I had to go back to the hospital on a Sunday 

morning. This made for some tearful good-byes. I’d feel distressed 

when he left to return home after visiting hours. Visiting hours were 

‘open’, that is relations and friends could visit, as long as it did not 

clash with mealtimes. During the evening, visitors would normally 

have to leave at or around 9pm. Medication was prescribed again 

with this admission, yet after a period of rest, I became more in tune 

with the practice of Occupational Therapy. 

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The ‘OT’ groups that the hospital offered were numerous and 

included volley-ball, swimming, writing-groups, current affairs 

groups, pottery and ceramics, art, printing, typing and clerical groups, 

relaxation as mentioned, music appreciation, keep-fit, cookery and 

gardening. At the back of the Unit, there was a garden with 

greenhouses, etc., and over the years, trees have been planted and the 

hospital garden has taken on a more landscaped appearance. Once 

your concentration would allow, and you became involved with 

something to distract you from problems or anxieties - the therapy 

could help you feel as if you were involved with something 

worthwhile and according to your particular occupation or profession, 

activities were tailored to suit your taste and capability. 

With my particular stress levels, the relaxation class was a favourite 

of mine, learning to breathe properly and to check the body for 

physical tension, and so ease irritability. Within the clerical room, I 

carried on at typing practice thus increasing my speeds and 

proficiency as well as performing light clerical duties, completing 

some small documentation for the Occupational Therapy staff itself. 

A willingness to attend the sessions was not always apparent by 

everyone at all times. It would be more a question of whether or not 

you were feeling up to it, if at all. I can recall clearly on some of my 

bad days, that I might skip sessions, invariably because I was going 

through an outburst or some crisis. Other patients including myself 

would sometimes lie on their beds after the lunch period and had to be 

turfed out of the dormitories in order to attend the various groups. 

One nightmare of mine was to hope not to get in the bad books of a 

certain Nursing Sister (Charge Nurse). She always wore her uniform 

even though the uniform rule for staff had relaxed some years before. 

Being a large woman with the might of a giant, her voice could be 

heard echoing down the corridor, calling after someone and she would 

take absolutely no nonsense whatsoever. People would be scared of 

her but she was fair with you, if you were with her. The method of 

care approach she adopted was a little bullying, yet most of the time it 

would be for your own good. Perhaps this was her attempt to get you 

to cope with things for yourself, which was the ultimate goal. Her 

attributes included being very strong and she needed this, to lift heavy 

patients confined to a wheel chair or bed. Several times an outraged 

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patient may have attacked her, yet she never gave up her professional 

attitude of caring. Even if it was cruel to be kind. 

Meeting her outside the hospital setting some years ago, she told 

me she was sorting a claim out for sickness benefit as she had hurt her 

neck and back. She also said something surprising to me – 

“Stay out of hospital, Marie, you don’t want to go back and forth in 

there taking all those tablets!” 

This was the last thing I expected her to say to me, yet I 

remembered what she said and the lessons she tried to teach me whilst 

on the ward. 

Another charge-nurse that would stay etched in my memory was a 

black lady, fairly young who wore glasses. She reminded me of 

Patricia, my best friend from London. At first I got on well with her 

but then at one time when I argued with her and told her to “***k 

off!” - she retorted, 

“Ah, I can see that you and me are going to fall out. I’m not going 

to talk to you.” 

I tried to apologise and felt guilty for taking my temper out on her. 

She still, however, administered my weekly injections and would say 

to me, 

“Relax, come on Marie, you’ll just feel a small scratch. There, 

OK?” 

I would have thought that she might have got someone else to do it 

or jab the needle in too hard. But she didn’t. She never gave a 

painful injection, and believe me, I have had some. Gradually our 

grievances sorted themselves out and we had a good relationship with 

regular talks and I would never upset her again. Years later, she 

would move on to another hospital to teaching status. 

I believe one of the saddest and shocking things to happen is when 

one learns of a suicide. Many years ago, there was a GP at our local 

surgery that had treated Suzanne and myself for childhood ailments. 

He committed suicide in the end and to prove that fate turns corners, 

if you remember my mentioning reading my first book of poems, and 

the one-time favourite verses being those of Keats. This was the 

actual name of the Surgery at which my family and myself were 

treated for many years. My own mum had to undergo an operation on 

her breast and the Hertfordshire GP who had taken the time and 

206

trouble to investigate initially, putting her forward for the hospital 

consultation, took his own life some ten years ago. This was not a GP 

from our original hometown, but a Doctor who practised in 

Stevenage, where my parents still live. 

Just hearing of someone who felt so distressed and taking their own 

life upsets everyone and shocks everyone. To actually have known 

and spoken to a person in life, maybe laughing and joking or 

whatever, and then to hear the news of a death in this way, is 

extremely devastating. Two patients that I personally knew in the 

hospital, a senior citizen and a younger woman (indeed, both of them, 

women) had been dreadfully distressed and committed suicide. 

The younger woman, who was a robust person and had an equally 

robust personality, complete with dark hair and swarthy complexion, 

took a liking to my husband, Stephen. 

On the occasion when I became agitated because I thought she 

fancied him, and delusionally thought he returned this emotion, we 

rowed. Our argument was all so silly, as she was only talking to him 

and this blew out of all proportion. She was a lovely girl really and 

liked me to help her put her hair up and show me how to best apply 

make-up. Her advice to me was to pull myself together or I would 

lose my husband and she made me aware of this fact. 

“Pamper yourself,” she would say. 

“Get yourself a large bottle of bubble-bath, pour the whole lot in 

and have a good soak, and do yourself up and when he arrives to see 

you, he’ll appreciate you looking nice”. 

Her words about the bubble bath hung in my mind for years. Many 

times, if I was having a bad patch, she would make me a cup of tea 

and try to get me to laugh. I would return the favour to her, if she 

needed it. Years later, I heard through another patient, that she had 

jumped to her death, sustaining serious multiple injuries. She 

survived for a few hours and then died in hospital. The moment that I 

heard of this awful tragedy, I could picture her in my mind and 

reminisced of the times we had laughed together or at each other’s 

throats. Not quite believing that she had gone from this world. She 

had a striking character and could push you over with just one breath, 

yet still, in her way, was the true gentle giant. 

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The other woman that I can call to mind, the senior citizen lady, 

was a very unhappy soul at times. She appeared to have a physical 

problem with her digestive system and bowels. This was a source of 

worry to her almost always and another lady that had become attached 

to her told the rest of us in confidence, that the problem she was 

experiencing could be serious. The poor lady was undergoing tests, 

yet her tummy looked swollen and she commented herself, how hard 

it felt. 

Sometimes, I would catch her looking at me - maybe because I 

reminded her of someone, I don’t know. She would have a giggle 

every so often, especially when a group of us began knitting squares 

for the hospital charity. In the end, there were about eight of us 

ladies, all busy with our knitting needles, click-clicking away most of 

the afternoon and in the evenings. We all enjoyed this pastime and I 

felt it was moulding our state of mind into a better direction. This 

was through the activity in itself and the camaraderie developing 

between the ladies. My friend was due to be discharged, but had 

confided in us that she wanted to stay with us and didn’t want to go 

home and would rather stay a while longer. I believe she went home 

on a Thursday afternoon, and on the Saturday morning, it was 

announced that her body had been found, dressed in a nightie and it 

followed that she had fallen in a shallow stream. We did not learn of 

any other details, just that she had drowned herself. I’ll always 

picture her smiling face and her accent, which I couldn’t place, 

although it was English. 

At the ward group meeting, in which we were again talking about 

what had happened to her, another woman sat and tied herself around 

the neck with a tie or something. This annoyed everybody, as she 

wanted the conversation to come round to her and away from the 

other poor woman who had just died. I became decidedly angry with 

this woman, and shouted at her in temper and stormed out of the 

meeting in a rage of swearing. A few of the other patients did too and 

the Nurses present had to calm the whole situation down as little 

eruptions were developing between patients. 

I choose to write about these individual people as I feel that they 

were important in their own way, fragile in their own way. Nobody 

will ever know what actually went through their minds when they 

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went over the edge, but the feeling of wanting to die, as I have 

experienced, is a strange and haunting feeling. 

Some people may say that with myself, I only attempted it to gather 

sympathy and that it was a cry for help, as I never did it properly, that 

is, I never succeeded. Many people may attempt this self-killing on a 

number of occasions and not succeed and be saved, by their friends 

and family or medical staff in hospitals. An overwhelming and 

consuming feeling of death and leaving the troubles and certain 

people behind can heighten, and only the person will contemplate 

whether they are going to do it for real or not. 

But if only these characters had spoken to someone in the actual 

throes of attempting suicide even, it may have stopped them. It is a 

terrible waste of life and the idea of choosing to leave the world is not 

the end. The family foremost, and friends left behind would be 

devastated and living with the shock and perhaps a form of guilt 

forever. It just tears me apart to think that even if the person had a 

rope ready in the next few minutes, or whatever, if another person’s 

timing could stave this terrible situation arising, a life could be saved. 

Most times, this terrible act is done in secrecy. A person that is most 

likely to actually succeed is the type of person that appears quite 

normal and may have been depressed and anxious, suffering and 

perhaps being treated for depression, yet then appearing as though 

they were ‘better’ and getting back to normal. That is possibly when 

the suicide is becoming nearer. 

The other type of person, is the one who is telling everybody that 

they are going to kill themselves, but never do. They may try but 

never quite mean it. I knew a young man of about twenty-five years 

old, who was seen by a professional person, not in hospital, but 

elsewhere outside and showed himself to be quite happy and relaxed. 

The day after, he was dead. Nobody detected anything and there were 

no warning signs and this may illustrate the facts I have gathered 

above. 

Yet in writing about the attempts of people who are continually 

stating their suicidal intentions, these should never be ignored. You 

just never can tell. The other type of situation, as stated however, is 

the most likely case of an attempt that is going to succeed. I hope, 

anyone who might be reading this does not think I am trying to be too 

209

morbid, yet I feel this subject should be mentioned as the whole 

meaning of it is important and a serious problem amongst young 

people in particular. 

God does not like to receive one into His Kingdom, if they have 

arrived of their own accord and not to his plan, his inevitable 

life-plan. He cries as well after the trials and tribulations of each of 

his flock, and the ones who succumb to terrific heart-ache and 

torment of the mind and soul. You only have to watch the rain 

falling. He knows and sees everything, and one should be aware of 

this fact. His love is unconditional. 

My three-month spell in hospital finally came to a discharge in 

April 1986. Stephen had shown great patience in his efforts to control 

my emotions, when they had affected him. A few times at home, he 

had to restrain me when I had an outburst, or drag me back into the 

flat when I felt irritated and wandered the streets in the evening. 

Returning to our social life was a daunting challenge as my social 

confidence had simmered to almost nothing. Stephen had also 

arranged for my biological father to visit me at home and the three of 

us spent all of one Sunday, just talking and expressing ourselves. I 

had only seen my father on this, and two earlier occasions in 

twenty-three years. The friends that Steve and I shared were very 

sympathetic, and one particular couple took us out and generally drew 

me out of the shell I had become wedged in. 

210

Chapter Sixteen 

Steve had then reaffirmed his passion for running by taking part in 

weekly fun-runs including 6km and 10km races, even competing in 

half marathons. Training hard, he joined in with the local town’s full 

marathon, a distance of some 26 miles. His overall determination was 

second to none and he thought it nothing to run sixteen or seventeen 

miles in the early afternoon or evening as part of his training 

schedule. He had received many medals and certificates for 

competing in such events connected with running and he added these 

to his collection of awards for weight lifting etc. 

His talent for the endurance coupled with the stamina involved with 

long-distance running was very high in my estimation. Charting his 

performance in his own running log, taking into consideration what he 

would call ‘good’ and ‘bad’ days, he’d always have a running 

companion, mostly an older man called Dougie or one or two of his 

work colleagues from the Post Office. Steve was a very popular 

character at his place of work and in general people would accept that 

he would always be joking and articulating with some rather colourful 

words. 

He was happy with his own work ethic. In my own efforts to find 

suitable employment, which was proving difficult, I had at that time 

inquired about a vacancy as filing clerk for a local Accountancy 

practice. Composing a letter and sending it one day led to another 

day when my mood was unstable and as Steve was at home with me, 

he was witness to one of my awful ‘turns’. I had lit a match and it 

slipped out of my hands and on to my upper thigh and as it started to 

singe me, Steve heard the commotion where I was in our bedroom, 

rushed in and put the flickering sparks out. This was one of the very 

few times that he had seen a ‘self-arson’ attack of mine. 

As things calmed down slightly, and about half an hour later, the 

telephone rang - proving to be a lady from the Accountancy firm 

asking me to attend an interview within the hour for the aforesaid 

filing clerk position. Steve and I could not believe the telephone 

call’s timing with what had just occurred, yet within the hour I had 

211

ushed about getting ready for the meeting. The transition between 

my ‘attack’ and composing myself to get on a bus and go to the 

town-centre was seen by Steve to be quietly remarkable. 

At the interview I answered the usual questions about my suitability 

and to my amazement I was offered the position there and then to start 

the very next day! Steve was going to meet me after the interview 

and as he congratulated me with a welcome kiss, I generally thought 

that I had found another niche. 

Yet as the rest of the afternoon unfolded I became anxiously 

concerned about the fact that I was still taking medication and this 

started a vicious spiral of wondering whether I could keep my 

pill-taking secret. (I hadn’t mentioned to my prospective employers 

that I had a nervous disposition and was receiving tranquillisers). 

Steve told me to “go for it!” yet my almost again, neurotic responses 

to what should seem a perfectly normal situation became to get out of 

hand. The constant worry lead into the evening until my anxiety and 

endless negativity started presenting itself with physical signs of 

nerves. As I was shaking, Steve commented, 

“You’ve earned this for yourself - to start a new job. You don’t 

need to conceal anything from anyone. Don’t let the hospital get you 

on a downer. You can win this time, if you let yourself. Think 

positive, Marie, you know you can do it and I know as well”. 

“Oh Steve, I just want everything to be right - I keep on thinking 

about not telling about my tablets.” 

“Yes,” said Steve, “I know. But listen to me, you won’t be taking 

them forever and you don’t need to tell everybody every other minute 

detail about your private life. I think that the hospital has got a hold 

on you, you just have to grab your opportunities with both hands and 

get on with it. You have a life outside of the hospital and together, we 

can make it. I’m proud of you, you know”. 

I could not stop the thoughts spiraling out of all control though, and 

despite his trying to comfort me, I just sobbed and sobbed whilst 

nearly going into hyperventilation where I could not catch a proper 

breath. Panic. Anxiety. It was all there. I could not control it. Quite 

late on the same evening, I had a surprise telephone call from my real 

Father informing me that my real Grandmother had just passed away. 

I could not react to the news because I had never known my Gran. 

212

My Father felt that he should call me and said he was sorry that I was 

not feeling well. It was as if he wanted me to cry to him about the 

loss of his own mother. He had been talking shakily and at the end of 

the call I had simmered down, yet Steve believed he needed a second 

opinion about my state of anxiety and telephoned to speak to the duty 

Psychiatrist at the Mental Health Unit for advice. The powers that be 

informed him that it would be better for me, if I was admitted for a 

good night’s rest with no obligation to stay on as an informal patient 

beyond it. 

So one could call it a ‘crisis’ admission. 

It was just after 10pm when I arrived at the ward and after Steve 

and I had talked briefly to the Doctor, he told Steve to go home and 

that I could be collected the next afternoon. Steve agreed to this and 

we both knew that the whole day was extremely stressful, with my 

awful ‘turn’ in the mid-morning as well as strangely, securing a job to 

start the next day. When Steve left me there, a very kind and gentle 

black female nurse administered a tiny little injection to help me settle 

down and sleep. Being a very maternal type of person, she even 

tucked me into my hospital bed and told me to stop fretting and enjoy 

the next day. As it would be the marriage of Prince Andrew and 

Sarah Ferguson and that I might be able to watch it on the hospital 

TV. 

After waking up and taking my breakfast in the hospital, I indeed 

did watch the coverage of the then Royal Wedding. A large screen 

had been set up in the Occupational Therapy rooms. 

With the impending joy of the day of the Wedding of the year, my 

negative thoughts turned to my wish to telephone the Accountants to 

apologise for me not turning up for my filing clerk job. I used the 

hospital’s phone and feeling kind of guilty of where I actually was, 

something of which I did not divulge to the company, I explained to 

the lady who offered me the job that I had the distressing news of the 

death of my Grandmother. So I asked if I could start the next day. 

My excuse for not starting my job that same morning was not good 

enough and it would have to be offered to someone else. I was very 

disappointed but not surprised to hear that I could not rectify the 

matter. 

213

At the end of the afternoon, Steve came to take me home and asked 

me if I felt any better. I nodded the affirmative, “a little”. Once at 

home, I told him about the other day-patients at the ward and myself 

enjoying the coverage of the Royal Wedding on the special TV they 

had rigged up for us. He acknowledged that it was a nice thing to do 

and he wasn’t even annoyed because I had failed once more in my 

search for a job. Throughout the next few months, my health became 

steadily worse. In fact, both of us were feeling under the weather. 

Steve, because he had lost his job at the Post Office unfairly, 

something to do with making a comment about the canteen food. He 

had been a Postman for some seven years. He didn’t fight for an 

unfair dismissal and began looking for work immediately. He 

succeeded by working for an employment agency and his first 

assignment was working in a place clearing up rotten fruit. Not 

caring how dirty the work was, he was just glad of earning a living. 

In between he held down several driving jobs and began, together 

with another man an assignment measuring river levels for a 

Surveyor. 

It was during this time that I had another short spell in hospital for 

perhaps a month. On a weekend leave, home from the hospital, on a 

Sunday afternoon whilst Steve was trying to watch James Cagney in a 

classic film, I found myself with an overwhelming urge to jump. 

Jump where? Feelings became difficult to describe and with an 

impulse completely irrational, I promptly hung myself out of our 

bedroom window, which was one floor up, and quietly let myself go. 

Within an instant I had hit the ground. Doing a head-over-heels 

action before I came to a bump on the grass. I could have broken my 

neck. Somehow I landed on the fleshy part of my bottom and this 

must have cushioned the blow. For a minute I could not move and 

Steve came rushing down the communal stairs to see what I had done. 

Asking if “I could move?” he then helped me up and back into the 

flat. He was very annoyed with me and said that he would tell the 

staff back at the hospital and take me there straightaway. Yes, he 

took me back prematurely to the hospital but did not tell a soul about 

my accident. 

214

The impulse actions were again getting to be a serious problem. I 

then completed my time at the Mental Health Unit, being discharged 

in a shorter than average time. 

Within just a few short weeks, I was lucky enough to get a job as 

clerk-typist at a local business centre in the Community Programme 

department. 

It was a part-time position and I really quite enjoyed it although my 

attendance was not that good. Christmas 1986 came and went and for 

a second year in succession, I spent the holiday with Steve’s family. 

Early in February 1987, a few family members as well as Steve and 

myself went for a lovely meal. It was during this meal out that I shall 

always recall something that my sister-in-law kindly said to me, 

“Marie, don’t let the depression get hold of you like that again, will 

you? We don’t want you burning yourself again, now do we?” 

I promised her that it would not happen again. Back at my place of 

work, my boss called me in one afternoon and was talking in general 

with me about my high standard of work but that my attendance was 

not very good and that it should improve. My reaction was one of 

extreme upset. He had not had a severe go at me, just politely 

pointing out my shortcomings. 

As I secretly sobbed, I telephoned Steve at home hoping to try and 

catch him before he went to work. I told him that I was upset about 

the meeting with my boss. He tried to reassure me that this was 

nothing to become worried about and expressed that I should carry on 

with my day’s workload. After I had placed the telephone down, I 

went into a state of severe melancholy. I was holding back more tears 

and wandered through to the next office, asking if anyone had a box 

of matches, as I was going to have a cigarette break. 

It was all as if it were in a dream. After a man had given me a box 

of matches, I walked through a couple of corridors and found the 

lady’s toilets. Once in there, I relieved myself and flushed the loo. 

Then, one by one came the awful tortuous thoughts. I lay on the floor 

next the toilet. One by one also, I began to light the matches and drop 

them on my upper torso. The first few fizzled out to nothing, but then 

one began to flare violently. My chest was on fire and the jumper and 

blouse that I was wearing were being consumed by great flames of 

fire and smoke. 

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The pain was indescribable, and then I ran, completely blazing on 

my top half, back through the corridors and through another office 

back into my place of work. A man who at the time was standing just 

behind the door shouted at me whilst throwing the remainder of his 

cold coffee over me to stop the flames. 

I then fell on the floor and was surrounded by all the others in the 

office. The young girl working also in the office bent down to me and 

was in tears and trying to get me to stay conscious. I was blacking 

out and coming to for quite a few minutes. My boss telephoned my 

Gran as Steve was not at home. An ambulance was called together 

with a fire engine. The firemen were marvelous and were just 

checking the buildings in case a fire had erupted. They were not 

annoyed with me, just the opposite, completely sympathetic and 

generally trying to make me comfortable as were the paramedics. 

The ambulance sped me to the hospital and I was immediately taken 

to the Accident and Emergency department. 

My injuries were extremely serious. My clothes were cut away and 

my burns were observed. I remember vaguely looking down at 

myself and I could see my bones and some muscle-tissue. Someone 

was saying “worse than third-degree burns”. Doctors and Nurses 

were running ragged around me for about an hour. Being close to 

death, it was decided that I should be taken to a special Burns Unit in 

Essex. Some pain-killing drugs were injected together with a tetanus 

jab, and then two young female Nurses looked after me whilst I was 

being transferred to the Burns Unit. 

The hospital was miles away yet the drivers sped away in no time at 

all. 

At the Burns Unit, I was wheeled into a very hot room and seen 

immediately by a special Doctor with his team of Nurses. A 

photograph of my injuries was taken and my hair had to be washed 

carefully. (Some of my hair was burnt). From then on, the team of 

Nurses started work on me, attending the enormous blisters that were 

forming around the edge of the badly burned area. I noticed 

instruments coming down from the ceiling attached to tubes - these 

were used to treat my wounds. 

After this initial emergency treatment, I was placed in a two-bedded 

Intensive Care Ward. 

216

The chief Plastic Surgeon came to assess me and take observation 

of the area that was burned. He was murmuring that it was too early 

to have an operation, but that I should be scheduled to have an 

operation the very next day. The group of Nurses that shared the 

work within this two-bedded ward were extremely dedicated and 

kind. One in particular, the ward sister, was especially attentive, 

calling me “Poppet” most of the time. I asked the sister the question 

of whether I was the only person she had come across to have burnt 

themselves. She told me in confidence that I was definitely not the 

only one. Apparently, a young man had attempted the same action, 

but was so badly burnt that he did not survive. 

Early on the next morning, the anesthetist saw me and I signed a 

form for the consent and was then wheeled down to the operating 

theatre area. A few hours later, I remember waking up and hazily 

looking around the room. Blood was being transfused into my arm 

and a Nursing Assistant was keeping vigil. My left leg was heavily 

bandaged and my chest area was dressed completely in bandages with 

a vest-type cover all. 

Stephen came to see me shortly after my recovery and only stayed a 

brief while as he could not stand to see me like that and held mixed 

emotions about my actions. I’d had a skin graft, taken from my left 

thigh. The skin was taken from the thigh and placed on to the area 

around my chest. Being a very delicate procedure, I was later 

informed that for the type of operation that I had, a large potato-peeler 

type instrument was used to peel the skin from my thigh, removing it 

for grafting to the burnt area. As a lot of blood can be lost during this 

operation, you invariably need a blood transfusion. To finish off, 

some special plastic is used to complete the grafting. 

A few more days passed by when Stephen returned to see me and I 

was so pleased he came. This time, he was not so emotional and had 

brought a case with some clothes and other essentials - even some 

flowers and cards from good friends. One card from his running 

companion, Dougie, had the words written in it, 

“I’ve heard of someone trying to get out of the washing-up, but this 

is ridiculous!” 

Steve then came to visit me most days during those weeks after the 

operation, yet I needed a second operation to change the dressings. 

217

This was again completed under a general anaesthetic. Within a 

couple of days, I was embarking on physiotherapy to get me up and 

about. Different exercises and walks were recommended. A 

Psychiatrist visited me on several occasions but I confided in him and 

expressed that when I recovered, I did not want to have to return to 

the Mental Health Unit in my local town. 

As I gained confidence and tried to put the weight on my leg for the 

first few days, the pain was excruciating. Even getting on to the 

toilet, the pain would sear up my leg and when I came to get off the 

toilet, the pain would creep up the leg again. This became too much 

for me and one afternoon I just cried and cried. The Nursing sister 

spoke softly to me and comforted me, encouraging me that I would 

make steady progress. An Australian male Nurse also became a firm 

friend, as he was involved with my care as he used to make me some 

special milk shakes for me to drink. A build-up drink, as my weight 

was not too good. My privileges were a daily allowance of three 

cigarettes whilst being observed. The odd time, I was allowed an 

extra two or three cigarettes in a day. My Australian friend proved to 

be a very kind and compassionate man, I shared a lot of laughs and 

anecdotes with him. He was kind and understanding and quietly 

patient with gentle hands with his daily attention to my dressings 

whenever they needed changing. 

When I was well enough, I was moved to a woman’s general ward 

and when Steve visited me there, he brought me a card with the 

hand-written message inside, 

“Can’t wait to get you home!” 

The surgeon informed me that I could either go home and 

recuperate or stay at the Burns Unit for a while longer and be 

observed. I chose to go home to recover. On the day that I was going 

home, I was about to have lunch with my Australian friend who had 

brought a Pepperami stick, when my husband arrived. I left the 

Pepperami stick and fell into the arms of my husband, who was proud 

that I had made a good recovery. 

Arriving at our flat, I then realised that I did not have any proper 

medication to take. This led to a full day where, in line with the side 

effects of the drugs in my system, my eyes were rolling about in their 

sockets and I bumped into furniture etc. This rather unpleasant and 

218

unwanted side effect bothered Steve, as it was distressing for me. He 

then contacted the hospital and eventually to enable me to be 

stabilised, I was admitted once more to the usual place. 

Lots of my fellow patients had heard of my ‘accident’ and were 

asking me various questions that I did not know how to answer. With 

those few days in hospital, I was enveloped in a kind of turmoil. My 

bed was taken away and I was left with just a mattress on the floor, as 

I had been thrashing about and could have hurt myself. At one point, 

a group of Nurses had to hold me down as I was reported to have been 

throwing myself around the room. 

After this awful episode, I gradually calmed down after a good rest, 

which was spent sleeping on my mattress on the floor. Beginning to 

feel a little more relaxed, I wandered out of my room and into the Day 

Room, sat on an armchair - joining in with conversation amongst the 

patients and staff. My purgatory was lifting. Thank God. However, I 

was prescribed the inevitable tablets and injections for my condition 

and the result was that after a longer than average period of rest, I 

participated in Occupational Therapy. Weekend leave was soon 

granted to me. Dr Maniels developed a programme whereby I would 

gradually spend more time at home until I was settled. Firstly I was 

allowed to go home with Steve for the weekends, then an extra day, 

followed by more extra days. 

The target was for me to have spent a week at home with no upsets 

and once I had achieved this goal, I’d need to stay a couple of days 

for psychology tests with a view to a complete discharge. This I 

achieved. It took time and a lot of hard work to earn the trust of the 

staff and Dr Maniels. Times were hard, adjusting to life again, yet I 

still persevered with the faith that I possessed and with my husband’s 

undying support, I made it at last. My only set commitment was to 

attend the Day hospital for a short while to check that I could 

maintain regularity. My wish though, was to set out and find a 

worthwhile job to occupy my mind. 

Against the odds I succeeded and passed an interview and small test 

to work as a typist for a local charity dealing with cars enabling 

disabled people to be more mobile. 

The burn occurred in February 1987. I started work in the June. 

Some people thought that was a rather remarkable achievement. 

219

Personally, I was just pleased with small mercies and my 

determination to defeat my demons was never stronger. I worked at 

the office afternoons only. My employers were aware of my weekly 

attendance to the hospital for continuing therapy and also understood 

the fact that I received medication, both tablets and injections. 

There was absolutely no pretence and I did not have to hide the fact 

that I had an illness. This was one of the happiest places to work and 

I formed many friends and colleagues. I was quite happy to sit during 

those summer afternoons, typing letters and entering data for 

incoming applications for cars. My typing speeds were increasing 

and I could cope with my job very well. As my mind quieted down, 

my thoughts went out to how the psychiatric ‘system’ worked. 

Once admitted you would be receiving probably 100% support 

from the Doctors and staff, (supposedly, I might add). This 

percentage would decrease in so much as gradually you would be 

putting in 50% effort in facing your problems yourself, until the ratio 

went down further. Hopefully at the time of your discharge, maybe 

you would be exercising some 95% effort in controlling your affairs, 

leaving some 5% to develop from within you, possibly at the Day 

hospital or with help at home in the community. One could say that 

becoming the victor of your woes would be entirely up to you. 

Despite everything, my expression was this: I walked into the 

hospital and I will walk out again, on my own two feet. You have to 

want to get better from your troubles. Under such pressures of the 

dreaded mental illness, all the realities of life seem horrendous and 

the way you cope with them appears inadequate. Support for your 

troubles is paramount. One factor that I did not grasp too well was 

the filling up on endless tablets and shots in the buttock. I always felt 

that you should not have so many different kinds of medication 

(perhaps reacting against each other) at one time. 

Through reading articles and the like, I found that some drugs 

would be given for approximately six to ten weeks before they would 

be in one’s system fully but that then, the substance would not do any 

more extra work for you. You’d be taking the drug on a long-term 

basis yet it would not be contributing to all-round mental stability. 

Possibly a patient would then present a noted side effect, the Doctors 

would mistake the side effect as a particular tick or lack of balance 

220

with the mind and place you on yet another drug. This could lead to 

the situation of someone taking ten different drugs at one time. 

I used to disagree with this. 

It would all link up. If you were, say, twitching your legs, you 

would receive a drug to combat this and then when you showed signs 

of another unwanted action, (be it physical or an emotional traumatic 

episode), you’d then be placed on another drug then another. It would 

spiral. Staff might express to you that all the things that you may be 

saying and doing, were part of your ‘illness’. You (if you had any 

opinions left) knew damn well that it wasn’t all that. You’d be 

assessed and admitted to hospital with varying diagnoses and could 

end up joining the ‘others’ - walking around like a zombie on a 

conveyor-belt action. In as a depressed person, developing into, at 

times, a crazed person. 

Drug therapy used in Psychiatry is “all a game of Hit and Miss”, as 

a friendly GP mentioned to my Grandmother many years before, 

when she was involved in a social club for mentally ill people. If this 

GP admitted this, then surely this means that you are placed on any 

drug, hoping that it may do some good. If it does, details are taken 

down and if another poorly person with similar problems came along, 

they are given the drug because it “worked” for someone else. 

Nobody really knows how these tranquillisers are manufactured and 

what is in them, but I became shocked when I accidentally found out 

one of the ingredients in the deep intra-muscular use of the 

medication namely, Depixol Concentrate. Given mostly on a weekly 

basis, it was very thick and yellow looking syrup as you may see it in 

the syringe. The ingredient to make the drug so thick and 

concentrated, indeed, so that the stuff would pump around your 

system slowly until the next dose, was vegetable oil. When I found 

this out, I felt slightly nauseous. Instantly I was thinking that the oil 

that one might fry chips in was helping the medication do its thing, 

via a syringe. What a horrible thought! 

Depixol would be used as a mood-stabiliser in various patients. 

Sometimes, as mentioned before - when my eyes rolled upwards and 

you could see the whites of my eye-balls and my head would be 

turning up as if to look at the sky - some of the staff would firmly say, 

“Put your eyes down, Marie, you’re doing it again!” 

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It would just be put down as part of my illness. I knew different 

and through research I found that I wasn’t going mad as I was 

persistently answering them back, 

“It’s the drugs, it’s the drugs!” 

What I thought was a side effect was actually connected with the 

medication mentioned - Depixol. A certain spasm with a complicated 

name would occur, when on Depixol, which would more than likely 

cause the phenomenon of your eyes rolling and neck arching upwards. 

I knew I was right and I had the proof I needed, yet on and off I 

would take this stuff, and be told that I had to have it to keep me well 

and prevent a relapse of illness. Indeed, some of the high-gloss of 

doctors expressed that I may need to have Depixol for the rest of my 

natural life. 

Passionately, I would disagree with certain individuals’ decisions 

regarding the usage of the drug. The doctor in charge of the care of 

the day patients expressed the possibility of life-long Depixol taking, 

and I was not going to have it period. This particular professional 

would wind me up like a clockwork toy and would upset me often, I’d 

then develop raging temper and end up being prescribed something 

for showing such temper and rage! They must have drugs for 

everything, even hatred and jealousy drugs. It sounds odd and 

pathetic enough, yet it makes you wonder. 

222

Chapter Seventeen 

As both Steve and I were seemingly settled in our jobs, we turned 

our energies into saving up for a holiday. Not a posh holiday abroad, 

but we booked up to go on a camping holiday in Dorset. I had second 

thoughts about actually going because we only had a small tent and it 

would be a squeeze. Consequently, in July 1987, one morning we 

packed the car up with all the paraphernalia associated with the great 

outdoors and made the long trip by road to our chosen campsite in 

Dorset. We stayed away for nearly two weeks when our spending 

money ran out - yet we had visited some interesting places and met 

some interesting local people. 

Arriving back in Essex, we felt refreshed and relaxed and the 

relationship between us was on top form. Our sex life was also on its 

way back together again and we then appreciated each other’s 

company for the few days we shared together just being at home. We 

needed the break away in Dorset and a change of air and scenery 

certainly proved to be the tonic we so badly needed. 

Back at work on the following Monday, I had the great pleasure to 

be asked to work the next three or four weeks on a full-time basis. I 

was very chuffed with my news and when I told Steve he was equally 

pleased for me. He picked me up early from work on this Monday 

and we had a take-away rather than cook anything ourselves. 

The day after, Tuesday, in August 1987, I came home from work 

loaded with shopping and picked out the salad stuff for our tea. 

Going into the living room, I noticed Steve was perched on the edge 

of the sofa, panting. He’d been out on a training run of some ten 

miles duration. Asking him whether he would prefer something light 

for supper - he answered that a salad would be OK as he was 

intending to do a stint on his racing bike, picking out a small training 

circuit he had set himself, as part of his fitness schedule. 

After tea and as he was getting changed, I put on his favourite 

record on the stereo system, the rock group Foreigner’s “I Wanna 

know what Love Is”. He was humming and singing along with the 

melody as he changed into his continental style cycling shorts and top 

223

- complete with aerodynamic protection helmet. He looked 

handsome, as he was about to leave. His hair seemed extra 

golden-blond and his eyes even more cool, steel-grey, as he kissed me 

three times on the cheek, before he left. 

“Don’t be forlorn,” he uttered, “I’ll be back as soon as I can and 

then we can watch East-Enders together at seven-thirty. Bye, love!” 

As I watched him leave with his bike, he appeared totally 

muscular, toned and attractive, and I remember thinking how fantastic 

he looked. His body was in great shape. The door clicked shut and I 

whipped the ironing board up to finish off our ironing that needed to 

be done for the next day. 

I was working away and noticed the clock had turned seven, he 

would only be about another half an hour before returning. I then 

made myself a cup of tea, watched a bit of television and carried on 

with the ironing. Seven-thirty came and went. No Stephen. 

At about 8.l5pm, a loud knock came at the front door. Great, it’s 

Steve, I thought, he must have gone out without his keys. When I 

answered, it wasn’t Steve, but two Policemen, standing upright as 

bold as brass. 

“Mrs Coochey?” 

“Yes?” I replied. 

“Well it’s like this, Mrs Coochey, I’m sorry but your husband has 

had a bit of an accident. An ambulance has taken him to Casualty, 

but at the moment it looks like he’ll probably be patched up and sent 

home before you know it.” 

“Oh,” I commented - not really being able to take in the news. 

“Well… Er, thank you officers, I’ll make my way to Casualty.” 

“That’s up to you, Mrs Coochey, you can see him then.” 

I closed the door after the Policemen had told me of the accident 

and I thought to myself that it wasn’t serious as they said he would be 

patched up and sent home. So presumably I had nothing to be 

seriously worried about. Perhaps he’d had a fall on his bike. Not 

knowing what to think, I panicked a little whilst I telephoned my 

sister-in-law to tell her what had happened. Steve’s mother was away 

on holiday at the time and my parents were also. 

224

Steve’s sister said that she and her husband would meet me up at 

the hospital and then I phoned for a cab to take me to the Accident 

and Emergency Department, where Stephen was. 

I arrived before my sister-in-law and made my way to the cubicle 

where Steve lay on a trolley. He seemed very distant and dazed. I got 

close to him but he pushed me away. At one point he uttered - “Go 

back to sleep, Marie!” He must have been confused because saying 

that, he must have thought he was at home in bed and I had woken up 

and then woken him up. Watching him closely, he then vomited or 

brought up some blood, I could not tell. The staff were concerned 

about his abusive behaviour and one of the Nursing team asked me to 

go with him to his office for a private talk regarding my husband. 

“Mrs Coochey, can I ask you if you know why your husband is 

being so verbally abusive and not cooperating with us, for his best 

interests. For instance, has he been drinking or does he take drugs?” 

“No - no he only drinks socially and he is not on drugs, why do you 

ask me this?” 

“It’s just precautionary, we wondered why he was acting so strange, 

that’s all Mrs Coochey, now we’ll have to get back to him. Please 

don’t worry - we are doing everything we can.” 

I was horrified and shocked at the Doctor’s comments. In my own 

mind, I felt that he was acting strangely probably because he must 

have hurt his head in the fall from his bike. That is what I concluded 

and I believed the Doctors would have known that much, as well. 

Stephen had not been drinking and certainly not taking any drugs, 

prescribed or illicit. 

By then, Steve’s sister and brother-in-law had arrived and saw 

Steve in the cubicle. We were all worried about him but tried to keep 

each other calm and my brother-in-law was marvelous in trying to 

hold our spirits together. We were then informed that Steve should be 

kept in hospital for observation and after some three hours of being 

with him, I went home with Steve’s family for the night, because I did 

not feel like staying on my own that evening. 

Wednesday was my day to attend the Mental Health Unit for 

Occupational Therapy in a typing group, under the general 

supervision of the hospital staff. I explained the situation of my 

husband’s accident and they agreed for me to leave the lessons and go 

225

off to the general side of the hospital to be with Steve. Crossing the 

divide between the psychiatric grounds and the ‘real’ hospital, I made 

my way to the ward that he had been placed on and found him in a 

single room, sleeping. 

Observing him whilst I sat beside him, he appeared (although 

sleeping) to be tossing and turning as well as mumbling from time to 

time. Then he would wake and appeared bothered by the light 

coming in from the window and would turn over, shading his eyes. I 

wasn’t sure if he knew that I was with him. Within an hour or so, he 

suddenly climbed out of the hospital bed, walked past me sitting on 

the chair and proceeded to urinate in the sink in the room. 

Afterwards, he promptly climbed back into his bed. Immediately, I 

spoke of this to the Nurses about him relieving himself in the sink, but 

they did not appear too worried by this particular action. 

I had been sitting with him for three hours and as he appeared to be 

comfortably sleeping, I kissed his forehead and whispered that I 

would be back to see him and I then went to work, as usual, in the 

afternoon. After work, I did not go home, but made my way back to 

my in-laws and shared a meal with them before visiting Stephen. The 

next day and after a great deal of thought, I telephoned my boss at 

work and explained that due to my husband’s accident, I would not be 

coming to work until further notice. 

We again visited Steve in the evening, and the Doctor in charge of 

his care called me in for another discussion. Apparently, my husband 

would not let anyone near him to allow a proper examination. The 

Doctor went on to say that he had tried to conduct an examination but 

that Steve was proving to be difficult and verbally abusive, and the 

Doctor used references to the ‘F’ word. Contemplating this, I told the 

Doctor that if I was with him and encouraged him, he would probably 

let the staff look at him. 

The next thing to do was to get this examination fulfilled. Walking 

into Steve’s room, I gently coaxed him round and pointed out to the 

Doctor some scratches on my husband’s head and a bruise on top of 

one of his ears. I made a comment to the Doctor asking if Steve 

should have an x-ray, after all, he had been kept in hospital for nearly 

three days just laying there and not doing much at all. The Doctor 

then indicated to the other staff present for Steve to have an 

226

emergency x-ray that very evening. Steve was almost immediately 

wheeled down to the x-ray department and his brother-in-law 

accompanied him while the plates were being taken. Afterwards, the 

result showed, as I had suspected, that poor Steve had suffered a 

fractured skull. 

As I mention, he really should have had the x-ray sooner - I was 

always annoyed about this fact. More talks between the staff and us, 

before it was decided that Steve should be transferred to a hospital in 

Romford, which specialised in head injuries. The family gathered 

while Steve was being placed in the Ambulance for the journey to 

Romford. I climbed in the Ambulance to whisper goodbye to him and 

he just looked up at me, quietly smiling. I told him that I loved him 

and that I would visit him at the new hospital the very next day. 

Leaving him in the ambulance, tears began to well up in my eyes as 

he was being whisked away from me, on his journey. Contacting my 

Gran, I said that I would stay with her for a few nights, whilst I 

informed my in-laws that they could collect me when the time came 

to visit Steve in the evening. At our home, I carefully placed some of 

Steve’s clothes and toiletries in a bag - essentials that he might need. 

It was not long before Steve’s sister was calling for me to make the 

trip to Romford. Once there, I helped the Doctor dress Steve in his 

own night things, but as I was doing this I noticed by his bedside, a 

half-drunk cup of tea and whole plate of ice cream, uneaten. This 

made me wonder about his appetite, something must be wrong if 

Steve wasn’t eating very much. He always ate healthily. Posing this 

question to the Nursing staff, they reassured me that he had eaten 

during the day, but I knew that it couldn’t have been very much. 

Generally, the light coming in from the window continually 

bothered Steve – his bed was next to the window. Looking further, he 

had a plaster on his lower back from a lumbar puncture procedure, 

which I had been informed of. Steve, though, could not lie 

comfortably in the bed, yet he was still saying a few words to me. 

At one point, Steve playfully made a cheeky grab for my bust, 

laughing slightly and then asked me to massage his back, just like I 

used to. Another time, I noticed that he was counting something out 

in his mind, using the fingers of his hand. What was he counting and 

227

why? His sister and brother-in-law both had a little chat with him and 

shortly before we left him he turned affectionately to me and said – 

“I love you, honey-chile, see you tomorrow Marie, don’t forget to 

watch East-Enders tonight because I’ll be watching it too. Bye - I 

love you!” 

A Nurse was ushering us out from the ward and informed us that a 

special injection would be administered to Stephen after we had left. 

On the trip home in the car, I felt very quiet but, with faith, I hoped 

that Steve would improve the next day. 

At my Gran’s flat that night, I did, in fact watch East-Enders as I 

felt that maybe Steve would be watching it perhaps with the other 

patients, I’d remembered the words he had said to me. Even though 

we were apart, we would be united together because we would both 

be watching East-Enders at the same time. This somehow comforted 

me. 

I had been to the Surgery the afternoon before visiting Steve and 

told him of the situation and the GP suggested I take some sleeping 

tablets, as I had been finding it difficult to sleep since my husband’s 

accident. Gran and myself got ready for bed after I had told her of the 

progress Steve seemed to be making. She slept in her bedroom while 

I had the sofa in her living room, which was made up like a bed. 

Being a hot summer’s night, Gran had lent me a white, shift-like 

nightie that she had made. Gran went into bed and at 11pm on that 

evening, I took the sleeping tablets and tried to settle down for rest. 

Something suddenly startled me. A crash from the kitchen drainer. 

It sounded like the noise of a saucer slipping off a cup, Gran had left 

to drain. It felt to me as though somehow, someone was trying to 

warn me of something. I immediately felt the strong presence of my 

Granddad, even though he had been dead for seven years. The time 

was then midnight and the noise from the kitchen played on my mind. 

Perhaps five or ten minutes passed by when I heard a knock at the 

front door. Who could that be at this time of night? I heard my Gran 

stirring as I answered the door. 

“Hello, Lynne,” I said surprised. It was Steve’s sister. 

“Alright, Marie? Look listen carefully, Marie, we have had a call 

from Romford hospital. Steve has taken a turn for the worse. They 

228

cannot rouse him. They suggested we get to the hospital as soon as 

we can. How soon can you be ready?” 

Shocked, I told my Gran what had just happened and she told me 

to “get a move on”. Hastily I threw on my clothes and as I was doing 

this, it dawned on me that Steve was in a coma, as he could not be 

roused. Emotions began to creep up in my abdomen, yet I pushed 

them all aside, as I knew I had to get to Steve and find out what was 

happening. In the middle of the night, there was a mercy dash to the 

Romford hospital in an ordinary car with Lynne, her husband and 

myself. Stopping briefly for petrol, it was not long before we sped 

through lonely roads as swiftly as speed would allow. 

When the three of us were shown to the familiar bed by the 

window, we found that Steve had been attached to many medical 

machines. He had an emergency brain scan while we were waiting 

but needed another one to confirm the diagnosis, when the scanner 

broke down. 

The staff said that it was imperative he had a second scan and that 

in a short space of time, they would take him in the middle of the 

night, carefully but speedily to St. Bartholomew’s hospital in London. 

With a short space of time with Steve, he did not move or respond to 

any of us talking to him. Whilst he was being prepared for the 

emergency transfer, we were shown to a courtesy room where we 

could wait and rest. None of us could really settle and sleep and we 

were waiting until about 5.30am in the morning. The neurological 

staff summoned us to say that Steve had returned from the London 

hospital. 

The news was not good. He’d had the second scan at St. Bart’s, but 

had suffered heart failure during the scan. Consequently, we were 

informed that they had stabilised him and that he was now on a 

life-support machine. I managed to see Steve for a little while. There 

were tubes and monitors everywhere. He still did not move. I felt 

like a helpless robot, on autopilot with my emotions. One of the 

machines he was wired to was for his breathing, another for his heart 

and various others. Leaving my beloved husband at 7.30am in the 

morning after enduring such a long and traumatic night, I felt bitterly 

upset and burst into tears during the trip back home. Lynne and my 

229

other-in-law did their best to comfort me. The big question 

looming over all of us was, would he recover? 

230

Chapter Eighteen 

Gran was as distressed as I was when I told her of the news on her 

grandson-in-law. She cried with me but offered prayers and support 

for the difficult times that may lay ahead. I decided to contact my 

sister, Suzanne, who at the time was living and working in Bishop’s 

Stortford. After I hung up the telephone, my sister must have dropped 

everything she was doing as within perhaps ten minutes, she had 

driven from Stortford to where I was. Suzanne arrived at Gran’s with 

her boyfriend, Aaron. They spent their time with me talking and 

comforting me when I could not hold back my tears of frustration. 

Suzanne cried too. For the time being, the two of them, Suzanne and 

Aaron, took it in turns to sit with me so that I could try to sleep. They 

were both extremely supportive and I would never forget this. 

The question was, how could I break the news to mum and dad who 

were on holiday in Portugal at the time - when I didn’t have a clue as 

to where they were staying etc. Aaron took the matter completely out 

of my hands and said that as long as he had their full names and the 

area (the Algarve in Portugal) he would do everything he could to get 

the news to them about their son-in-law. Saying goodbye to Suzanne, 

he left Gran’s flat and disappeared at midnight, determined to track 

down my parents. 

Aaron was on a mission and it wasn’t long before he had come back 

with the full details and a message from my mum. God knows how 

he had done it. Mum and dad were on holiday with my uncle. 

Apparently, dad and uncle could not get a flight back until the holiday 

had ended. Mum, however, was granted a mercy seat on a return 

flight from Faro Airport within 24 hours. Suzanne and myself drove 

to Gatwick airport to pick her up. She was very solemn and quiet in 

the car, expressing her wish to visit her son-in-law with us as soon as 

possible. 

On the next evening, the three of us went directly to Romford to see 

Stephen. Mum went a deathly shade of white when she saw Steve 

being kept alive on a ventilator and attached to all of the tubes etc. 

She began to talk to Steve about the holiday while she was holding his 

231

hand, and kissed him. There was no response. Turning to me she 

said, 

“Look, Marie, see his hand. If you watch his little finger when I 

hold it, there is resistance there, it’s not all floppy - there is resistance 

there, there is hope - he will come through this, Marie”. 

All three of us were crying but we knew that all we could do was 

wait. And wait, we did. Stephen’s own mother returned from her 

holiday, shocked at the news of the accident involving her son. When 

we took her to see him, her knees gave way and she burst into tears, 

expressing that she could not bear to see him like that. Many people 

came to visit Steve. This included Graham, his best friend plus many 

of his pals from the ‘gang’ and colleagues from his old job at the Post 

Office. 

My husband received many get-well greetings and my Gran’s good 

friend, Sister Anne, who had spoken to me earlier, said she would 

love to give me a lift in her car to see him, as long as I didn’t mind her 

seeing Stephen herself. When this gracious Nun and myself entered 

the hospital, we were greeted by many of Steve’s circle, who had 

called in to see him. 

As we all gathered around the bed, which Steve was laying on, 

Sister Anne prayed openly over Steve at the foot of his bed. 

Everybody fell silent as she said her prayers. She then placed her 

hand on his forehead, and turned to all of us and said, 

“Look everyone, look Marie, I can feel a good strong pulse from 

here. Have faith and keep hoping”. 

We all looked at her and for a moment, we shared the strength of 

her prayers. 

Stephen sometimes twitched, giving little jerking movements. It 

seemed that he ‘twitched’ more, if I was near him and talking to him. 

For days he lay silent, being carefully turned by the Nursing staff, 

who also had to give him round the clock attention for all his 

functions, with the aid of the life-support machine. 

As I could normally be found at his bedside, I began to know some 

of the other patients and their families. One afternoon as I watched 

the regular male Nurse attending to Steve for many days, I asked him, 

“Can I ask you something, c... can you tell me - is he holding his 

own?” 

232

“To be perfectly honest, Mrs Coochey, no - he isn’t, he is not a well 

man - I’m sorry but we are doing our very best to make him 

comfortable”. 

Naturally I was upset with his comments, but I would not give up 

on my husband. The day after those serious words, Stephen twitched 

and jerked so much, he looked as if he was about to sit himself 

upright. This made me happy as I held on tight to my emotions. Yet 

again, I was told that these movements were just a reflex action from 

his brain. It was at that time, I was approached by a senior Nurse who 

informed me that my husband was brain-dead. This followed with 

many times when I would cry and sob until the early hours of the 

morning waking up suddenly, thinking Steve was beside me. 

I suppose in a way, he was with me all the time. For two nights I 

decided to stay at his bedside, using the hospital’s courtesy flat to 

seize a few hours rest, when I could. I half-ate my meals in the 

hospital canteen. I found it highly tiring to keep my vigil with my 

husband, but it was something that was dear to my heart - in case 

there was any change. As my husband was so gravely ill, I thought it 

best to have him christened in the faith of the Church of England. I 

could not attend the small ceremony myself, but his mother and sister 

were present, when the Vicar confirmed Stephen into the Church. 

I found comfort in the fact that he was christened, it meant a great 

deal to me and I know it would mean a lot to him. Stephen had the 

accident on Tuesday 18 th August 1987. This was on my mind when 

the Doctors and Specialists called me for a meeting to suggest that his 

life-support machine be switched off at the end of August, if he didn’t 

respond to a series of tests to determine brain activity. At the time, I 

could not accept that Steve might have to die because there was no 

hope of a life for him. I was actually numb when thinking that his life 

hung in the balance of a switch. When the tests were performed (as 

set in the Law) - he reacted quite jerkily causing a type of fit. It was 

then decided to leave the life-support equipment ON. If I am correct, 

the test whereby this reaction was recorded was simply when a small 

jet of water was squirted into his ear. 

At the beginning of September 1987, a team of Doctors and Nurses 

took me aside in an office being that I was his official next of kin – 

the other members of his family were present. They asked me above 

233

anyone else (including his mother) whether I would consider donating 

Stephen’s major organs. The family left it up to me to decide, but I 

felt on the spot with this question and believed it was not right for 

them to ask me. I came to a negative decision on this and informed 

the staff. They did not say anything disregarding my wishes. If 

Stephen, God forbid, was going to die, then I wanted him to have all 

his body intact, for when he would enter heaven. Even though it 

would be his spirit that would enter this place, his body was sacred to 

him, and I wanted to keep this feeling of ‘wholeness’ for him. 

Later, some of his friends divulged that he used to carry an organ 

donor card, but during his time with me, he did not carry one. He 

may have changed his mind. I respected this. My sister-in-law Lynne 

and her husband wanted a meeting with the Specialists to determine 

once and for all, Steve’s condition and to ask whether he would 

recover, if, at all. I was also invited to attend the consultation, which 

was attended by a chief Surgeon. From our probing comments and 

questions, the Specialists answered that Stephen would probably 

remain in a comatose state for possibly another six weeks, but would 

never gain full consciousness and death would probably be inevitable. 

This meeting occurred on about the 3 rd September 1987. 

After a couple of very harrowing days of visiting and sitting with 

my Stephen, I was urged to take a rest from the hospital by friends 

and family. 

The first day away from him, I went shopping with my mum in 

Hitchin, and on the second day away from him, mum took me to 

Letchworth for a look around the shops. My heart was not in it, and 

most of the time I was clock-watching, feeling numb and sobbing 

quietly. Returning to my parent’s home after one particular trip, I 

thought I would telephone the hospital and find out about Stephen. I 

dialed the number hesitantly. I got through to the ward. I inquired, 

“H... Hello… sister?” 

“Yes, is that Mrs Coochey?” 

“Yes, yes it is. I... I just thought I would ring and see how Stephen 

was doing. Is he all right? H... How is he doing today?” 

Pause. “Mrs Coochey - Mrs Coochey, I am going to have to offer 

my deepest sorrows to you. Stephen passed away this afternoon at 

about four-thirty. Mrs Coochey, Mrs Coochey - are you alright?” 

234

“Mmm, er, yes I think so. He has gone, has he sister? Really 

gone?” 

“Yes, Mrs Coochey, I’m afraid he has. I’m so very sorry”. 

After that fateful conversation, I put the telephone down and then I 

am not sure what happened next. My knees gave away underneath 

me and my arms felt like a ton weight was on them, and I must have 

collapsed in floods of tears. My mother came running and grabbed 

hold of me and tried to get some brandies into me as I was in a state 

of shock and she didn’t know what to say to me or do. 

STEVE IS DEAD. HE IS GONE. This was piercing through my 

mind. After many years of inner torment, and I had found happiness, 

it had been taken from me. Even though we had shared some troubles 

together, he was my life. All I could picture was his smiling face and 

his cool, steel-grey eyes looking at me. Was he really dead? No - he 

couldn’t be. For a brief moment during those torrents of tears, I 

thought I could feel his hand on my shoulder. 

It was such a waste of life, and he was only 38 years old. He had 

always laughed at life and tried to make everyone around him giggle 

with a joke. A vibrant character… 

What could I do without him by my side? He had taught me so 

much. How to stand on my own two feet and guard myself? Would I 

be able to do that now? 

I pictured his face again, mouthing the words, “Love you, honey”, 

just as he always used to say it. This made the tears flow more 

furiously. After this initial shock, I rang around the family, including 

Stephen’s mother and sisters. They already knew he had died. They 

were both upset and kept asking me how I was. I could not express 

how I was. Mum was burbling and at the same time, holding me as 

best she could to comfort me. Dad came in from work and I started 

crying all over again. He said he was very sorry. The solemnity 

began in the house. It lasted for days, even weeks. That same 

evening, I was numb and occasionally gasping as a tear tried to fall. 

Were there any more salty drops to fall, left in my eyes? There were 

plenty as the days unfolded. 

STEVE. STEVE. This was all I could think of for a while. 

Mum and myself went to my Gran’s flat back in Essex, and 

Suzanne tried to go to work but collapsed in tears and came straight 

235

over to join us. We sat quietly together with Stephen’s family 

discussing the inevitable funeral arrangements. Stephen had said 

some six months previously, ironically, that, 

“When the time comes for me to die in about fifty years, I want to 

be buried and not cremated”. 

I would never have any idea that he would be gone in such a short 

time instead of after a complete lifetime. We all wanted to respect his 

wishes, so we decided against cremation. 

Steve’s brother-in-law went to the Romford hospital to formally 

identify his body, and then came round to the flat that Stephen and I 

had shared for such a short time. I’d been there on my own, looking 

at some of his treasured possessions. As he walked in the small living 

room, he turned to me and said, 

“Steve looks very old. With some of the make-up they use in the 

funeral parlour, he will look fine. Believe me”. 

Listening to this, I decided I might indeed, view his body before the 

funeral. 

On a rainy afternoon just afterwards, mum and dad took me out for 

a drink at a country pub, looking extremely lost and sad, they both 

said to me, 

“Marie. Marie, don’t go and see Stephen, love. Try to remember 

him as he always was. Keep your special memories, it’ll be for the 

best”. 

I immediately felt let down by my parents. Why should I not go 

and see Steve’s body? Later I found out that apparently Steve’s body 

had deteriorated rapidly after death, and the coffin had to be re-lined 

several times. I wanted desperately to see him - to be sure that he was 

dead. With hindsight, I am glad perhaps that I did not go and see his 

poor body. Yes. Stephen needed to be remembered how he was. 

Muscular and handsome in a rugged way. 

His smile will always linger although I knew it might fade slightly 

with time. His memory will never leave me, but it might mellow over 

forthcoming years. And so a date was set. Stephen would be laid to 

rest on the 21 st September, 1987. 

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Chapter Nineteen 

Stephen and I had been married for a total of nineteen months. I 

was aged 25 years old when I found myself in widowhood. One thing 

that kept coming back to me over and over again was what the 

Policemen said at the door when they told me, 

“He had gone to hospital, probably to be patched up and sent 

home”. 

How wrong they were. The cause of death was a fractured skull 

and torn brain. Stephen had been crossing the main road, Southern 

Way, just yards away from our home, either with his bike by his side 

or on his bike (I never knew). A Saab car had struck him, and from 

what I was told, he had been thrown up into the air from the impact of 

the car and landed, damaging his head. For ten minutes he was 

unconscious. He then got himself up and into the ambulance, telling 

the Police at the scene, 

“Tell my wife, Mrs Coochey, she lives at Longfield”. 

Echoing also in my mind was that it was two nights before the 

fractured skull was discovered. At an inquest, explained later, I was 

not sure at all what had occurred. All I could recall was that the 

driver of the Saab had approximately six representatives with him. 

Was he worried about something? Throughout the few days after my 

husband’s death, I stayed with my Gran but the day was soon upon 

me when I would say goodbye to him forever. 

I had bathed and dressed in a plain black outfit with dark shoes - I 

didn’t put a scrap of make-up on as I knew there would be tears. 

Once I was ready for this most sombre and sad of days, I walked from 

Gran’s around to Stephen’s mother’s home, where I was met with the 

sight of many flowers and wreaths on the grass, outside. I glanced at 

them and noticed that one wreath was in the shape of a bicycle wheel, 

which was kindly sent from the local Cycling dub. Overall there must 

have been thirty or more flower arrangements gathered there. 

Stephen’s mother greeted me and gave me a warm cuddle. When I 

walked into the house, other members of the family were waiting. 

We were all talking about Stephen’s life when I noticed the two 

237

hearses driving slowly up the street. When his mother saw them, we 

looked at each other and cried helplessly with emotion. I could not 

bear to see Steve’s coffin - it upset me greatly… My flowers, in the 

shape of S T E V E, were placed on the top of the coffin. 

As we got into the second hearse, we all fell silent and solemn and 

soon I was crying again. At a close friend’s wish, the coffin was to 

pass by the Post Office, where Stephen had worked for several years. 

As we passed, I was extremely emotional to see the sight that greeted 

us. Many of the Post Office workers were standing in the yard, with 

their caps to their chests, and they all looked sad. I will always be 

very grateful to them all, each and every one of the staff at the Post 

Office, for saluting Stephen, in the way he would best be 

remembered. 

Moving on and as we neared the crematorium and cemetery, I was 

amazed yet proud to see that we had been followed by many cars of 

mourners. 

Arriving there, many cars were parked. They were all there for 

Stephen. What a fitting and honourable tribute to a lovely man. 

Walking into the Chapel, I went first followed by Stephen’s mother. I 

would estimate there were possibly over 100 people, in that tiny 

place. Some were standing outside - to listen to the service. The 

service itself was outstanding, charting Stephen’s sporting triumphs 

and his great sense of humour. I noticed Stephen’s brother, sitting 

next to me - his throat was quivering with emotion. At one moment, I 

thought I heard Steve’s coffin creak or bang or something to that 

effect. It startled quite a few people. 

During the hymn, “The Day Thou Gavest, Lord, Has Ended”, I felt 

very sad and cried and cried. I could not take the pain creeping up 

and into my heart. Once the service had come to a close, I headed the 

queue out of the Chapel to go down to the burial area. As everyone 

gathered around, the burial service started. Stephen’s body was 

committed to the ground and afterwards, the Vicar approached me 

and asked me if I was all right. He also suggested that if I was having 

problems, I should consult a Doctor. A good friend of Stephen’s 

walked over to me from one group of mourners, her legs were 

quivering and turning to jelly, as she was very emotional at the time. 

238

She together with her husband, Steve’s mate for many years, paid 

their condolences and offered their help. 

When the interment had finished, the family left the cemetery 

followed by all the other people who had come to pay their respects. 

As I turned back to look at the graveside, I noticed the outline of one 

of Steve’s other friends, looking down at the coffin in the ground and 

wiping his eyes. Quite apart from the handful of earth dropped on the 

coffin, someone had dropped a golf-ball to mark Steve’s love of the 

game of golf, which he had played during his short life. Family and 

friends then made their way to Stephen’s sister’s home for an 

after-funeral gathering. Lynne had kindly made a few small 

sandwiches but as you would expect, nobody seemed too hungry, yet 

the brandies were flowing and personally I needed two or three to 

help stave off the hurt and upset I was feeling. 

When everyone had left the small party, I decided to stay with my 

parents for a few days before returning to spend time with my Gran. 

During those upsetting times as I stayed with her, a colleague of 

Steve’s from the Post Office called round one afternoon. He spoke 

fondly of my former husband and then proudly gave me the money 

from a collection that they had arranged for me from all at the Sorting 

Office. Even as I was feeling extremely low, I did not know what to 

say to this kind man except to thank him and express my gratitude. 

Later I sent a note to the Post Office workers, thanking them all for 

their kind words and donation. I had earlier received a small donation 

from the local Cycling Club of which Steve had been a member, 

although for only a short duration. 

Generally, many people had sent cards of remembrance, expressing 

their sorrow and regret. As I read those kind words, I saw great 

comfort in them especially in tense moments of sadness. 

To help re-build my life, I made the first step to join an organisation 

known as CRUSE, a social evening for widows and widowers at the 

Town Hall. Most of the members were of pension age and at 25, I 

was the youngest member to benefit from a wealth of experience in 

handling grief and all that’s associated with it from the other 

members. 

As I embarked on getting out and about on my own, I bumped into 

an old friend from school, who was now a bus-driver. Standing with 

239

this young chap on the bus, I found it odd that he shared the same 

Christian name as my late husband. From garbled conversations on 

the telephone coupled with my raw feelings of just becoming a 

widow, I began a relationship with this particular young man, even as 

I felt guilty, for seeing someone fairly soon after Stephen’s untimely 

death. I believe the main problem arising from this was the feeling of 

loneliness, and needing companionship - something I had been used 

to with my husband. I wasn’t looking for a replacement for Steve, but 

I needed love and affection over those troublesome times. It also felt, 

when I was making love with my new friend, almost as if I was 

committing adultery together with a strange sensation of my dead 

husband being able to ‘see’ me with another man. 

Certain people would say and I would slowly accept that life had to 

go on, however, for quite a while I persecuted myself with complex 

guilt feelings and other emotional thoughts. Widowhood proved to be 

a mixed up time. The initial loss being the worst, with the odd day, 

during the next few months after, when I would perhaps remember 

something Steve had said or done in life, and my tears would fall and 

a heavy heart would be upon me again. 

I celebrated my 26 th birthday with my new young man yet 

half-heartedly looked forward to Christmas. It would be my first 

Christmas without Steve, three months after he passed away. At the 

festive season, we spent the holiday with my parents in Stevenage 

together with my lover, the ‘other’ Steven. For six months following 

my husband’s death, I was getting a state widow’s pension. Early in 

the New Year of 1988, I was awarded Stephen’s pension fund he had 

built up when he worked for the Post Office. This award was on top 

of an insurance cheque from the firm he had last worked for together 

with a small life-assurance policy fund. Altogether, the whole 

amount topped to just under sixteen thousand pounds. 

Stephen’s affairs had come to a close and I did not want to spend 

any of the money. In fact I was quite shocked at the windfall. I think 

I was in denial but I needed to bring myself out of this denial. 

Wanting to keep the flat I had originally shared with my late husband, 

I felt that the only way to survive was to completely re-decorate. This 

I did to give the flat a brand new look. In between I purchased an 

electronic typewriter, a few new clothes and the brand new domestic 

240

appliances that Stephen always wished he could have afforded me. 

My flat was empty for a while, although I kept on paying the rent. I 

knew I had to be brave and live there on my own, but as my progress 

developed - I could only manage the odd night there completely 

alone. 

241

Chapter Twenty 

As the year 1988 went forward, I was notified of the date of my 

husband’s inquest into his death which was to be held in Romford, the 

district in which he actually died. All the immediate family attended, 

including myself, and Stephen’s older brother had flown from abroad 

(where he had been working), to be our representative as he requested 

to ask questions regarding his brother’s demise. As touched on 

before, the driver of the Saab that had been involved in the accident, 

arrived at the Coroner’s Court with perhaps half a dozen legal people 

with him. 

I listened as the proceedings started but I believed that some facts 

did not seem concrete enough in my mind and the worst was to 

follow, the harrowing details of my late husband’s post-mortem 

examination. The whole proceedings left everyone feeling wilted and 

at the end, the verdict of ‘accidental death’ was recorded. Feeling 

quite numb on that day, I then began to wonder whether I should have 

had some form of professional expertise (a solicitor) to represent me 

and ask questions that I, myself, wanted to ask. Little doubts arose 

after the inquest and a short while on from this, I attempted to get 

information regarding it for compensation purposes - yet it amounted 

to nothing. 

I could not bring Stephen back - he was gone forever. My doubts 

crept up and down my conscience for a long time. 

Certain facts contradicted themselves, in the form of witness 

statements and the Police photograph of Steve’s ‘damaged’ racing 

bike. The Police photograph showed an almost perfect cycle, not 

sustaining much damage. Yet when my Gran received his bike on 

behalf of me while I was attending to something else, she noted and 

told me that Steve’s bike was bent out of shape and the two wheels 

formed a U-shape, as if they had been wrapped around Steve’s body. 

My mind told me this: firstly, the bike was mis-shapened during the 

accident, straightened up during the Police photo and then finally 

returned to me, all screwed up again. What was going on? 

242

These little inadequacies didn’t add up at all - haunting me for quite 

some time. Another factor that bothered me was the witness 

statements, including the driver’s - distances were swapped from feet 

to yards and then to meters. Where was the consistency and accuracy 

of measurements? If my information was correct, the driver had his 

car serviced and checked before the Police had a chance to look at it. 

Once again, this felt wrong. Supposing the brakes were faulty, they 

would have been repaired before they were found to be faulty. 

Another fact that was never resolved, nobody could tell me if Steve 

was astride his bike, holding the handlebars to the side, when the car 

hit him. It was generally confusing and if the car was slowing down 

to 14 mph, how could Steve have been thrown several feet into the 

air? At the inquest, the first policeman on the scene could not attend 

because he was off sick as well as one of the eyewitnesses. 

Everything seemed to be conflicting with itself. I would never know 

what occurred on that day of days. All my raw thoughts would keep 

coming back to was that I had lost my husband, who was a fit and 

healthy man and still relatively a youth, at 38 years of age. 

In February of 1988, my sister, Suzanne, said that she had 

something important to tell me and offered to take me out to the 

cinema. It was on our way home when she revealed that she was 

pregnant. The baby would be born in September. I thought it was a 

truly marvelous piece of news, even though she held her reservations 

about the pregnancy. Nevertheless, I was so happy for her, even 

though she was not married and it was obvious who the father was. 

It was Aaron. Suzanne’s partner that she had met in Bishop’s 

Stortford and that had been so kind to me (with Suzanne) in those 

tentative days after Stephen had suffered the accident. Aaron being 

the young man who used his quick thinking to locate my parents 

when the seriousness of the accident became apparent. It posed an 

opportunity for me to offer to my sister the chance to move in with 

me in the flat when she was three month’s pregnant, to help her 

prepare for the new baby and maybe my confidence of having 

someone around into the bargain. 

She gave me a kind of chance to try life back in the flat I had shared 

with my late husband, with the odd evening of sleeping on my own, 

when she stayed with Aaron. This was an ideal way for me to get 

243

used to spending nights alone, even though to begin with - it was 

frightening. Suzanne might leave to go out at 8pm, but would come 

back the next day, maybe around lunchtime and it was in this way I 

felt like I was not cut off from other people. The two of us, and 

Suzanne’s ever growing ‘bump’, would spend cosy evenings, knitting 

for the new baby to come and she even helped to make-over my 

hall-way. Sometimes I would come in from a trip and I’d find all her 

needlework items strewn all over the floor as she had been making 

curtains and other little knick-knacks. 

The young man that I had become involved with after my 

widowhood, Steven and I were not getting anywhere fast with our 

relationship and really I had fallen out with my affections for him. 

When I told him I wanted to call it off, he took this very hard. 

Wanting to broaden my social horizons, I joined a club for single men 

and women through which I met two totally different characters. 

Although I admittedly had a hard and fast sexual relationship with 

both of them, it was not a promiscuous situation - far from it. I 

needed physical contact and maybe it wasn’t an ideal solution, and I 

came out of that not feeling used or cheap whatsoever. Even though 

the two separate affairs happened, they did not last long. 

In April of the same year, I was getting ready to fly to Portugal for 

a week’s break and needed to buy new luggage, something which I 

didn’t possess. Gran said that she would enjoy going to the 

town-centre to help me find a new suitcase. Whilst doing the usual 

rounds of the shops, with Gran for company, I was walking past a 

charity-shop and seeing the outline of someone at the till, I decided to 

go in and have a look at the clothes and investigate. Wandering up to 

the till after not buying anything, I caught the eye of the assistant 

working for the charity, a polite and handsome young man with dark 

hair and a moustache. 

“Hello”, I said somewhat hesitantly. 

“Hi, can I help you,” the young man said breaking into a smile. 

“No... No... Er... I’ve been looking around. It’s a lovely shop and a 

good cause too. I haven’t seen you before,” I said searching for an 

answer. 

244

“Well I’ve not been here long, oh, hang on a minute I’ll just serve 

this lady,” as he priced up something, took a lady’s money and put the 

item into a bag. 

“Tell you what,” 

“What?” I asked, intrigued. 

“Meet me in half in an hour and we’ll have a coffee and a proper 

chat. Can you make it?” 

“Yes, yes I can do that”. 

Meanwhile, my Gran was playing secret detective and she ended up 

going home on the bus on her own, while I embarked on my brief 

encounter - beginning with coffee hastily drunk in a cafe to something 

a little more intense. 

For a few weeks, it was not for very long, I had an intimate liaison 

with this man. I got to know him quite well and explained my 

situation. It all felt a bit naughty at times! He’d pop around to my 

flat and we’d muck about for want of a better word. Yes, he took me 

out on a few dates and he reckoned that I needed sexual release. 

Perhaps he was right, I don’t know. If I needed a sexual release, this 

certainly did occur. As all good things come to an end though, our 

whirlwind fling fizzled out. Even though I never saw him again, I 

never regretted what we had shared together. 

I eventually did get to Portugal with my family. Complete with my 

new luggage, and keeping a watch on my ever-pregnant sister, 

Suzanne. Staying in a grand apartment-hotel in the Algarve, I once 

again felt the pangs of attraction when I met the head barman. Being 

a typical Latin-looker, he was well-built and boasted very dark hair 

and extremely good looks. I flirted with him many times during that 

week in the Algarve. I did the usual sunbathing and sightseeing but 

during the evenings, I was consumed with attraction for this man. On 

my last night before flying back to Britain, I left everyone to go to bed 

and met my barman for a night of passion, beginning with several 

Margaritas. There was nowhere for us to go when the situation began 

to develop passionately, so we went into the kitchen and after several 

hours of love-making, we emerged red-faced and smiling - even 

though we had banged against the coffee-machine and broken it! Our 

bed had been the hotel’s kitchen floor! What a night! On the flight 

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ack to England, I felt sad leaving my barman but I would meet him 

again some months later, on a further trip to Portugal. 

After six months of being the recipient of State widow’s pension, I 

decided that I had to move on and try to get a job. Scouring the local 

papers, I was put in touch with a local company of Printers within the 

industrial area of town. I was to be their receptionist and responsible 

for the company’s correspondence using a word-processor and 

maintain business by checking and keeping the clerical side of things. 

Meanwhile, socially, my sister introduced me to her group of friends - 

mainly from Bishop’s Stortford. 

Through her, I met a young man, some six years my junior. He 

shared a house with a platonic girlfriend, who happened to be well 

acquainted with Suzanne. As nature ran its course, I would spend 

most weekends with my ‘toy-boy’. I didn’t want the relationship to 

become a sexual one, yet it did indeed become one. Personally, I felt 

inside that I wanted to slow down and take things more calmly and I 

kept asking myself, was I assuming too much? Am I trying too hard 

with a devil-may-care exterior hiding my personal tragedy of losing 

my husband so young? 

Talking with friends, they said that Steve would want me to carry 

on and embrace whatever life brought into it. Through being with the 

younger man, I went against my wishes and lived life on the edge 

somewhat. I could get drunk with ease and as I was still taking some 

medication, I did not care - I’d swallow my tablets and be reaching 

for the wine. The effects were a lot quicker. You know in your mind 

that you should not mix alcohol with pills, but I kept on doing it. 

Holding a party back at the flat, where two or three of my late 

husband’s friends arrived, I was on a downward spiral. Drinking and 

drinking to blot thoughts out, I passed out and vaguely remember 

being carried to the bedroom - where I was placed under the blanket 

until I recovered. My then, current man of the moment’s 21 st birthday 

had loomed and I was, of course, invited to his party. 

We’d had some wild times together and I thought it best to call it a 

day - I do not think that my partner was entirely surprised at my 

decision. He could have his pick of any of the girls hanging around. 

We parted soon after and except for a number of phone calls, we split 

up – entirely amicably. 

246

Other avenues of thought opened up. My sister was near her time 

to have the baby and I wanted to help her, so I parted company with 

the printing company I was working for and literally watched my 

sister’s every move, in case the baby came. She’d had one false 

alarm. 

On the morning of the 13 th September 1988, Suzanne had spent the 

night in my living room, perfectly comfortable on a bed we’d rigged 

up between us. When I went to see how she was, she explained that 

she was losing from down below, some jelly-type discharge. She then 

expressed her wish to call her good friend who had a car to take her to 

hospital because she knew that ‘this is it’. Later she explained that on 

the exact day to the day that I lost Stephen, her brother-in-law, 10 th 

September, she heard a tapping and scratching at the front door - and 

she was saying aloud, 

“Go on then Steve, you’ve got your wish, the baby’s coming 

today!” 

When Suzanne’s friend arrived to ferry her to the Maternity Unit up 

at the hospital, I promised my sister that I would gather some 

essentials for her and bring them up within the hour. 

Catching a cab whilst clutching new-born baby essentials, I arrived 

where Suzanne had been taken, and as at that time she was on her 

own, I elected to stay with her during her labour. Her contractions 

were being monitored closely and the time was coming ever nearer 

for the baby to be born. I felt helpless watching her go through the 

pain of labour. I encouraged her to do her breathing exercises. She 

was having a difficult time and at one stage, she threw up all over the 

bed - around the time when a Maternity nurse had used a special 

instrument to help break her waters. Suzanne (between contractions) 

was muttering to me that she felt hungry and again approached the 

need for me to get a message to Aaron, the father of the impending 

child. 

With the little coin purse that Suzanne had been collecting 10 pence 

pieces in for the inevitable calls she may need to make, she gave it to 

me and I set about the task of locating Aaron. 

I phoned around various places, and needed to tell Aaron (albeit in 

code) that the baby was about to be born. As the message finally got 

through, I was able to get back to Suzanne who was going to be 

247

moved to the delivery area, and tell her that Aaron would be on his 

way. As another tense hour passed by, I’d had a cup of tea. I was just 

about to go back to my sister and as I walked through the door of the 

special room, I was met by the sight of Suzanne’s legs in maternity 

stirrups, and I could see the top of the baby’s head appearing. 

Talk about fate, Aaron turned up just as I was met with this sight of 

my tired and pained sister. Once the delivery team was aware of 

Aaron, I was asked to leave the delivery room and as I did, I noticed 

that Aaron had brought Suzanne an absolutely huge bunch of 

beautiful flowers. All I could then do was wait. Half an hour ticked 

by on my watch, before Aaron found me and beaming all over his 

face was the smile of the century, my sister had given birth to a baby 

boy and Aaron said, “Come on, Auntie, let’s go and see your 

nephew!” When I saw my newly born nephew, I broke down in tears 

of joy and happiness for Suzanne. 

However, within an hour of his delivery, Aaron needed to make 

himself scarce through other commitments and he had left before our 

parents arrived to see the new baby. 

Suzanne was ecstatic that her son had arrived safely, weighing in at 

about eight pounds. The whole length of time after her son was born, 

and the first few weeks of his life, was a delightful and happy period 

of my life. He was like a little angel and I bought him various things 

to wear and rattles etc to play with. Suzanne involved me in 

everything and I would do anything for her, at that time, if I could. 

A couple of months later, during November of 1988, I had success 

for myself in the shape of a new job in Epping at a large paper 

manufacturing company. I enjoyed my work thoroughly even though 

my position was only as invoice-typist. The people were extremely 

friendly and accommodating and involved me at Christmas time with 

all the usual office celebrations and a most welcome financial bonus. 

I certainly felt part of a good team. 

During my time at the paper manufacturer’s, Suzanne had been 

offered a two bedroom flat in another part of the town. This would 

mean she could have her own space and a separate room for the baby. 

Everybody chipped in to help her move in although it was during a 

particularly cold spell of that winter. 

248

I was then on my own completely in my flat, and had to get used to 

cooking for myself. It seemed strange to ‘live’ on my own. I would 

get up and go to work, come home and cook a dinner for myself. The 

varying creaks that I heard at night would bother me sometimes and I 

was scared, and on certain nights I would spend the night with my 

Gran, who lived about ten minutes walk away. 

Widowhood came in fits and starts for me. Initially, I had begun to 

live again, when Suzanne came to stay with me. Of course, when she 

had a place of her own, the grief feelings crept back and some 

evenings, I would cry to myself, thinking of Stephen and almost 

imagining him there with me as he used to be. To help overcome my 

loneliness, I toyed with the idea of having a cat. 

Searching through the local papers, there was a telephone number 

of a couple who had some kittens to sell. They were pedigree Birman 

kittens, (a bit like Persians, but with fuller faces and long hair). In 

one evening of locating my prospective kitten, I hailed a cab to the 

couple’s home and saw the array of cats and kittens they were rearing. 

I fell in love with one in particular. Being only twelve weeks old, he 

showed such character and was a rather beautiful beige and brown 

colour. His body was a creamy colour, but with a black face, paws 

and feet. This little kitten was extremely cute. I had the money on 

me to purchase my little friend outright, and I was able to bring him 

home straight away. After a few days, I named him ‘Brewster’, the 

name inspired after a film starring Richard Pryor, “Brewster’s 

Millions”. This black actor played the lead role and I laughed to 

myself and thought ‘my cat will be my fortune’. Life certainly 

became fuller with Brewster about and he proved to be so loyal and 

affectionate, talking to me with his miaows, a lot of the time. 

I had been a widow for just over a year, and it really was difficult 

sometimes. The death of Stephen somehow made me tough. I had to 

be, to survive on my own. Even though the Mental Health Unit 

offered their support, I did not need it and I came into my own. It 

dawned on me that I had become, in fact, a great deal stronger. 

Certain individuals believed that I would head straight back to the 

Unit, after Steve had passed away - this proved to be the exact 

opposite. I coped as best I could. On the horizon was the New Year 

of 1989 and along with it, there would come some surprises. 

249

250

Chapter Twenty-One 

Suzanne’s birthday was in early January 1989, and she had thought 

of the idea of celebrating it with a few close friends (as well as 

showing off the baby!) in her own flat. Of course I was invited to the 

intimate get-together and within the group of people there was a young 

man named Mick. On first impressions, he did not possess drop-dead 

gorgeous good looks but after talking to him over a glass of wine for a 

couple of hours, chaperoned by virtue of the party, I decided that I 

would meet up with him for a date. Talking deeper with him when he 

met me for a drink in a local pub, he mentioned that he was working as 

a barber in Epping high street and for relaxation, he liked to play the 

guitar. 

Mick explained, as if it was important for me to know that he was a 

born-again Christian. This did not put me off however. He’d come 

over from Bishop’s Stortford, and stay with me at my place on a 

Saturday, and stay with me until Monday. With this said, our 

relationship developed into a physical one, much to his surprise, as he 

felt that it was the wrong thing to happen, but nevertheless - it did. I 

certainly did not mind it when Mick prayed aloud for me as he had 

heard of my bereavement. He came across as very calming and 

understanding, yet his ambition was to become a Minister for his 

church. Later within our time together, he confessed that he was going 

to leave his job as barber, and move for a while to a religious-studies 

establishment in South Wales. 

We parted as very good friends and spoke a few times on the 

telephone, but never saw each other again after he had moved away. I 

would always remember a particular fond memory of Mick, when the 

two of us boarded a train for Cambridge. We enjoyed a rather 

delicious meal in a Chinese restaurant in town, then went on to take in 

a movie in Cambridge and it was also on this date, that I (with advice 

from Mick) bought myself a recorder. A good one with some sample 

music thrown in. (I hadn’t played the recorder since childhood). 

For a few weeks after finishing with him, I was not involved with 

anyone in particular but I had the idea of joining a singles club - 

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hopefully to make new friends. On the very evening that I was going 

to join the singles club, my Gran helped me with my hairstyle. She 

scooped my long hair up into a topknot creation - it certainly looked 

different. My make-up too was carefully applied and seemed to take 

ages before I felt that it was ‘right’. As the cab rolled up to Gran’s, she 

(despite her years) looked at me and said, “Go get ‘em, girl!” in an 

encouraging manner. 

The venue was a dance hall in the old part of the town. Getting out 

of the cab at the other end, my nerves were jangling because I was on 

my own and would not know anybody there. Sorting out my 

membership, I mingled with a crowd of ladies and sat with them and 

danced around the place, making sure that I would cover up my nerves 

by sticking with my new-found group so as NOT to look a loner. 

Grooving and dancing for most of the evening, I noticed a man had 

been watching me for quite a while. 

The blonde-haired youthful Adonis worked his way closer to me - 

making it plain to me that he wanted to spend the last half hour with 

me, if I would let him. To cut a long story short, I let my beautiful 

Adonis take me home that night and into my bed. In my own 

perception of him, I knew that this could only mean a one-night stand. 

Come 6am in the morning, just as dawn was breaking, he got dressed 

and picked up his things. Turning to me he uttered that he would 

telephone me soon. Adonis never did. I never saw him again. Perhaps 

I was the proverbial notch on his bedpost, I really wasn’t bothered - he 

had given me a good time. 

During the next few weeks, making my trips to the singles club, I 

took another man home with me. What I will say about this character 

was that he definitely was a poser. He was highly aware of himself 

coupled with his good looks. Spending a couple of nights with this 

new man on two consecutive Friday nights, our time was very 

passionate. There was no love or anything remotely like it, within this 

affair. It was sex. Pure unadulterated sex. We just hooked up and just 

as easily, unhooked. Again, I wasn’t bothered by the lack of emotional 

baggage that tends to bog you down, with these one-night affairs. 

After our two nights of passion, I never saw the poser again. He left 

me some rather good music tapes though! It felt like I had gone 

through men like hot cakes. My sexual needs were still apparent and I 

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had no trouble in finding friends. Back at the singles club though, the 

disc jockey for one evening flirted with me for a while and then invited 

me to another function to be held at the hall on another evening. 

Taking me out for a drink after this ‘do’, he asked me to join him at his 

flat in Hoddesdon, which was in the next county. This man said that 

he would cook me a delightful dish of roast chicken with all the 

trimmings. 

Suspecting there was more to this home-cooked dinner than I would 

really know, I had to laugh to myself when I saw him pick me up for 

the special evening in his gigging van. Our candle-lit dinner was not 

prepared with what I thought was tender loving care, it was none other 

than a TV dinner hastily heated up in a microwave. What a let down! 

Familiarising myself with this man’s domestic surroundings, I felt that 

at least his flat was fairly clean and tidy but this fact did not entirely 

match up with his flimsy manners. 

A short while after we had shared our rather off-putting TV dinner, 

he put a seedy pornographic tape into the video player for me to watch. 

The video was to put it mildly even, disgusting and graphic in detail 

and I made a strong point of asking him to turn the damn video off as I 

was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the ensuing atmosphere. 

OK, he turned the video off for me but then promptly led me to a 

corner of his bedroom, where he thought he was capturing the moment 

for me to find him worldly wise by showing me his collection of whips 

and other objects for sexual perversions. I mentioned to him that I was 

not into that sort of thing and the whole evening with the video etc, 

swiftly turned me off him. Thinking of an excuse for me to leave the 

place whilst looking at my watch which showed 9pm, the atmosphere 

was punctuated by a knock at my date’s front door. 

As I watched the DJ go to answer, a tall, dark stranger walked into 

the living room. He introduced himself as Barry, a neighbour on the 

estate. My original date suggested quite spontaneously that the three of 

us should go out for a drink in a nearby pub. As my host quietly made 

himself scarce, presumably to sloosh and change, I found a perfect ease 

and honesty in chatting to my host’s friend, Barry. As first 

impressions go, I found him instantly attractive and a genuine nice 

person. He seemed to show excellent manners and didn’t make it so 

obvious as to flirt with me, as his neighbour’s bit of stuff! 

253

As the three of us clambered into the DJ’s car, Barry opted for the 

back seat. Arriving for our congenial drink, I was beginning to wonder 

what sort of triangle was forming between us. I sat with my chap as 

the new friend, Barry, perched himself on the other side of the table. A 

gentle rapport was forming between Barry and myself through our eye 

contact - maybe even body language. The several times that the new 

friend went up to the bar to fill our glasses, my eyes were burning on 

his back, as I noticed that he had nice legs which were wrapped in dark 

jeans covering a pert bottom. As I recall, he was wearing a rather 

smart black shirt, opened up to the last few buttons with obviously, no 

tie. Sizing Barry up, he must have stood six foot two inches tall and 

possessed strong good-looking features. In the back of my mind I 

thought that he must be older than me, but I did not ask his age. 

During the conversation, as the ‘triangle’ unfolded, I touched Barry’s 

hand for emphasis of a point. 

When the DJ had left us alone to go to the men’s room, I felt happy 

to sit and chat with Barry. After he got back from the toilet, I politely 

suggested to him that we invite Barry to the singles club that coming 

Friday evening. A game was starting to play. If only in my head. I 

whispered to my original date, that I would dance with Barry for a 

joke. Yet my full on thought was that I really meant it and wanted to 

dance a slow one with him. My chap whispered back to me that it 

would be a good idea to have a dance with him for fun. But he was too 

naïve to know what was going through my mind. 

As the singles night was upon me once more, the DJ called for me 

again and took me to the club. My sister, Suzanne, was also in need of 

a night out and was going to join us later in the evening. As the 

music-maestro turned the discs, I noticed from the corner of my eyes, a 

man watching me, leaning up at the bar. From the strobe lighting I 

could just notice this man wearing a grey suit with a pink shirt and 

toning tie. It proved to be Barry. At that point, I found that Suzanne 

had just arrived at the dance hall. Taking a breather, my DJ friend said 

that I needed to persuade his friend, Barry, to stay for the evening as he 

had heard that Barry wasn’t feeling very social and was going to go 

home. 

Badly needing something to break a whole iceberg, I sought Barry 

and plainly told him not to leave. To make things easier for him, I said 

254

that he could sit with Suzanne and myself for the rest of the night. As 

we were sitting looking around the hail, a slow romantic record began 

to play and my heart was telling me, this is my cue to dance with 

Barry. I asked him certainly, at the same time of almost thrusting the 

DJ into my sister’s arms, much to her dismay. 

As the romantic song unfolded, I nuzzled closer to Barry and 

whispered the words – 

“I could get used to this!” 

“So could I,” he said. 

We did not smooch heavily, however, because the other chap might 

see us. Barry and I must have danced for three slow records on the 

trot. I soon realised that I liked Barry immensely and after sitting 

down, I got my sister to take his phone number down on a small piece 

of paper. When the evening had waxed to an end, a few of us mucked 

in to collect glasses etc from the tables, and each time I bumped into 

Barry, I smiled and winked at him. So... eventually, the four of us, 

Suzanne, the DJ, Barry and myself agreed on going back to her flat for 

coffee. 

Whilst at Suzanne’s flat, I felt that I could not look Barry in the eye, 

as it would give my feelings away to everybody. My sister was also a 

bit grumpy because she took it that I was trying to pair her up with the 

DJ. When he made a trip to the loo, I whispered hastily to Barry that I 

would telephone him the next evening at 5pm to arrange a date. We 

giggled together as it was supposed to be a secret from the DJ. The 

very man that served me a TV dinner and made this charming, chance 

meeting with a stranger so interesting! 

In the morning, my DJ had planned to take Suzanne, my nephew and 

myself to our parent’s home in his car. My parents were immediately 

unimpressed with this character (presuming that he was my regular 

boyfriend) and dad said in confidence to me, that I should not bring 

him again. As the time was ticking by, Barry was on my mind but we 

did not return home until 6pm. Horror of horrors! I’m supposed to 

ring Barry at 5pm, I thought. The DJ escorted me up to my flat and I 

wanted to get rid of him as quickly as possible. As soon as he was 

gone, I grabbed the phone and contacted Barry. 

255

As luck would have it, he was at home, and we were able to fix a 

date for that very night. He would pick me up and take me for a quiet 

drink and then perhaps to a club. 

I dressed carefully that evening to look as sexy as I could possibly 

make it. I waited at the end of my cul-de-sac and about ten minutes 

past eight, Barry drew up in his car smiling at me and I got in beside 

him and we started off on our first date. He drove me first to a country 

pub and after an hour, followed on to a club, where I danced a few 

times without him. I only danced to up-beat tunes, as Barry watched 

me. He asked me to go back with him to his bedsit. I didn’t hesitate to 

agree and said I could do with some coffee. 

Barry’s bedsit was in the same estate as the DJ’s. As we started to 

chat in earnest, a rapport was definitely developing between us. I 

learnt that he was forty years old and originated from South Wales, 

from a small town called Neyland, in Pembrokeshire. He still held a 

little of his Welsh accent smattered with cockney pronunciation. After 

consuming a couple of cups of coffee we realised that the time was half 

past midnight. 

Suddenly there was a knock at Barry’s front door. It was the DJ, the 

one who had introduced me to Barry. He wanted to know what I was 

doing with Barry. I made up a totally awful excuse so as not to let him 

suspect anything. Strangely enough, he accepted the excuse and left 

after some ten minutes. Barry and I laughed together about the 

situation and went on to have another coffee, as the two of us talked. 

Another half an hour passed by before I nervously made a move to kiss 

him. I tried to make it a very warm and sincere kiss and this led to 

about another half an hour of smooching and cuddling. Again, at 2am, 

there was another knock at Barry’s door. 

Lo and behold, it was the naïve DJ once more. Probably checking 

up on Barry and me. He asked if he could come in. Once he walked 

into Barry’s living room, he asked me if I would have a talk with him 

and told Barry to leave his own bed-sit for ten minutes so we could 

exchange words. Barry didn’t seem to mind about being turfed out of 

his own home. Anyway, he said he would leave us alone and come 

back within ten minutes. 

During the next few minutes, I was accused of being all the tarts and 

low-life’s under the sun as well as a ‘bloody tease’. The DJ even had 

256

the cruelty to suggest that he would need to get an AIDS test as he in 

no uncertain terms, named me a slapper! Barry must have heard the 

hurried voices becoming louder and came back, telling his neighbour 

to leave and politely informing him that I then fancied Barry, and not 

otherwise. “That’s the way it goes, I’m afraid,” Barry said. 

The poor chap left most disgruntled and in a huff. After such an 

embarrassing situation of brief betrayal, we noticed the time was very 

late indeed, so Barry asked would I like to stay the night. He would set 

the bed-settee up for me and he would take the chair-bed. Thinking 

only of the moment, I anxiously commented to him that he could get in 

with me. Going to the bathroom, I checked that I was ready in my 

mind for something unexpected, came back and quickly jumped into 

the bed without any clothes on at all. Barry must have realised what 

this meant and got into bed without any clothes. We began kissing 

with some urgency and after the pinnacle of our lovemaking some two 

hours later, we fell asleep peacefully in each other’s arms. 

We both awoke at about 6.30am and smiling at each other, carried 

on talking with increasing rapture and sharing morning coffee, very 

early morning coffee! Barry started to unwind and we were both 

relaxed as we exchanged words. He had been married before, and had 

been divorced, but had no children from the marriage. He mentioned 

that his mother was over, staying with his friends so that he could have 

room to entertain me if I stayed! He would have to take his mother and 

sister back to South Wales that afternoon and he said he would tell his 

family about me. 

I missed him very much that evening, but invited him to my flat for 

Sunday lunch, which was the next day. Pretty soon we were going out 

regularly and in one certain telephone conversation with Barry, I 

confessed that I loved him. He responded by saying that he felt the 

same way and I then went on to add to the romance by highlighting the 

fact that I had loved him since I had met him. As a week passed by, he 

moved in with me but kept his bed-sit on for a while longer. 

Was this just love on the rebound? Time would only tell. I had 

previously booked for another break in the Algarve in Portugal that I 

could not cancel, so we decided to get engaged before I flew out there. 

I introduced Barry formally to my family including my Gran, and 

they got on well with him and he stayed the weekend before I went to 

257

Portugal. The night before the flight, as Barry and I shared the camp 

bed on my parent’s living room floor, he took out a small gift box and 

presented me with a sapphire and diamond engagement ring. I was 

bowled over by the ambience of the moment, with just the two of us. 

Showing my parents the ring in the morning, they did not look too 

surprised, I guess they knew me only too well! This was the beginning 

of a serious relationship, after all. 

Whilst I was in Portugal, with my sister and my nephew, mum, who 

did not come, arranged for Barry to stay the weekend I was due to 

come home. Barry was at the airport when I arrived back in England - 

waiting for me with mum. I was overjoyed and overwhelmed to see 

him waiting for me. I had bought him several gifts and some items for 

my ‘bottom-drawer’. 

Barry did keep his bed-sit going until the start of August 1989, and 

gave it up to completely move in with me. I explained about the death 

of Stephen and the serious problems that had occurred with dad in 

those tense and tender years - no secrecy was to be allowed if we were 

to be married. I went on to meet his family on my first ever trip to 

Wales. His mother was a dear, sweet soul and so were his sisters and 

brothers-in-law. 

The date of our wedding was set for the 19 th August 1989. I had 

finished my job at the Paper company in Epping while Barry 

commenced work at a local printing and graphics firm in my town. He 

actually started work locally in July, 1989. At this exciting time, I was 

introduced to Barry’s cousin, Terry, who was to be our Best Man. 

Barry’s younger sister was going to be Maid-of-Honour. The wedding 

was to be held at Stevenage Registry Office, in the old part of the town 

with a reception to follow back at my parent’s home in a marquee to be 

set up in their garden. Barry’s family (not his Father, as he had died 

some years before), arrived for the Wedding and stayed with my Gran. 

Barry and I had met and became engaged in two weeks, to be married 

within five months. I was 27 years old and Barry had just approached 

the age of 41. 

258

Chapter Twenty-Two 

On Thursday evening, before the Saturday of our Wedding, I 

arranged a hen-night. My husband-to-be was going out with his 

cousin, Terry, with a few other close friends as well as his 

brother-in-law. Suzanne, my future sister-in-law Jan, and future 

mother-in-law with her childhood friend from Tenby, Esther, and 

finally another close friend of mine, met at a pub and shared a few 

drinks with a small spread of sandwiches with nibbles. Later, we 

were all going on to a nightclub at the town centre. Unbeknown to 

me, Suzanne had secretly arranged for a certain cab driver to pick me 

up on my own to the nightclub, whilst everyone else went in another 

cab. 

I wondered why I could not go with them. Suzanne just smiled 

naughtily and said, “Wait and see!” After my entire crowd had left, I 

was left totally alone standing outside the pub, on the receiving end of 

wolf-whistles etc from men inside the pub. I must have stuck out like 

a sore thumb - all dressed up with a big note pinned to my back, with 

saucy comments on it, written by my sister. A cab did eventually call 

for me and I did not think much of it. But just after getting in the seat, 

the cab-driver started to serenade me as he managed to whip out a 

banjo which he had been hiding! 

Whilst he was doing this, he managed to put on a costume wig! I 

did not know where to put my face or how to act and then I started to 

laugh hysterically. Following this, he proceeded to grope for my 

garter and thigh area, and before I knew it he had un-buttoned my 

blouse and promptly squirted me with a water-pistol. The blouse was 

a thin, slinky material, so everything was showing through! Towards 

the end of the slight detour he had made to my hoped destination to 

meet the others, he then said he would like my telephone number. 

At the end of my experience with this cab-driver aim prankster, 

when I noticed them waiting for me, he completely embarrassed me 

by scooping me up in his arms, whilst groping me! He set me down 

in front of a bemused public, enjoying drinks in the middle of a pub, 

just off from where we were supposed to meet up! 

259

What a night! At this time, my cheeks had flushed to a horrible 

shade of red. Everyone was laughing and joking. Entering the night 

club, it was not long before I had perhaps, one dozen double Bacardi 

and Cokes, before going up on to the stage while being asked 

questions about my forthcoming Marriage. For my effort, I received a 

bottle of bubbly for my guests and myself. To say that I was drunk as 

anything was an understatement. At the end of my last night of social 

freedom, Suzanne went back to her home leaving the four girls 

(including me) to spend the night in my flat. My soon to be 

sister-in-law and I were dancing around the living room with hardly 

anything on and were generally larking about. The two older ladies 

were shattered from the evening and trying to get to sleep but before I 

let them rest, (and still feeling drunk) I did a ‘moony’ in their faces. 

We all then roared with laughter before finally, taking some rest. 

On the next morning (Friday) the four of us had booked a cab to 

take us to my parent’s home in Stevenage where we would prepare 

for the Wedding. I saw Barry, briefly that afternoon - he certainly 

appeared a little worn from his stag night. He added he had the 

mother of all headaches! 

My dress was hanging up ready for the big day and Jan’s pastel 

pink satin gown was also out in anticipation. My beautiful Wedding 

dress was a dream of a gown. The overall look was of a Parissienne 

design, close fitting to the thighs, then flaring outwards into a long 

train embellished with delicate blue butterflies. The bodice was 

spangled with intricate beadwork and the neck was edged with tiny, 

white pearls. To complete the flow of the gown, a large bow was on 

the back with the train trailing from it. The veil I had chosen to wear 

was chapel-length, again, edged with little white pearls, like minute 

raindrops. To hold the veil in place, I would wear a diamante tiara. 

All that everyone needed to do was relax, yet the night before the 

Wedding, my family and I were making haste with last minute 

preparations, falling into bed around midnight - exhausted from 

cooking that day. Mum arose at 5am whilst I got up at 5.30am. Jan 

and I began to get ready and my friend who was a hair-stylist, arrived 

to create our Wedding hair-do’s. Being summoned to the door, the 

flowers had arrived and a little later on, Terry called round to check 

that all was going well. When everything felt just right, I came down 

260

the stairs and Jan and I had our photograph taken in our gowns. Dad 

then, solemnly yet proudly, escorted me to the waiting car with Jan. 

The chauffeur of the car was formally dressed complete with a cap. 

As the registry office was not far away from where my parents lived, 

dad suggested to the driver to proceed around the estate one more 

time so that we would arrive, but not too soon. As the car reached its 

destination, stepping out while holding my gown together, my picture 

was taken with dad and then one was taken with mum. 

Someone had said to Barry, 

“You’re in for a big surprise! She’s here!” 

Barry had previously been photographed with Terry, his Best Man, 

before I arrived. 

When I saw Barry as his bride-to-be, he gasped at the sight of me in 

the dress, telling me I looked like an Angel. The two of us were then 

ushered to a small room to be seen privately by the Registrar, before 

the actual civil ceremony. The civil room was packed solid with 

family members and friends also. Everyone seemed to be cooing at 

me. I felt like I was in heaven, this time for real and could not wait 

for the vows to begin. At about 10.30 am, we were announced 

husband and wife. We then kissed and posed for photographs, 

signing the Registrar book. 

After the completion of the frothy affair, the driver took Barry and I 

back to the house to the waiting reception, and a most welcoming 

glass of sherry, delivered by a neighbour who had kept an eye on 

things, whilst we were out. Drinks were then poured in earnest as 

well as the jokes were flying! I had married my second husband, 

Barry, and entered into matrimony once again. 

Being an extremely hot and balmy day, on the day itself, it was a 

delightful idea to have a marquee in the garden. As the drinks were 

flowing and the cold buffet feast was consumed, Barry and I were 

admiring our exquisite Wedding cake. A three-tier creation with the 

traditional Royal icing and lacy decoration trailing from the top, of 

which I had chosen the style myself. We were then being asked to 

pose for even more photographs from the professional photographer 

as well as the inevitable, impromptu ones. There was even a cheeky 

photograph composed, of Barry biting the garter on my thigh! 

261

We’d received many Wedding gifts, opening all of them at the 

reception. Barry and I were deliriously happy - in fact, he was 

stunned the whole day through. My uncle set up a music-system in 

the garden and the music was played well into the night. At 10pm, 

we changed into the usual, ‘going-away’ attire, for our Wedding night 

- a room booked at a Stevenage hotel. As we left the celebrations 

behind us, in a flurry of confetti, I threw my bouquet to a young girl at 

the reception. She screamed with delight at capturing the gorgeous 

arrangement of flowers. Barry had previously been given a 

last-minute gift, and told it was not to be opened until we had arrived 

at the honeymoon suite within the hotel. 

As we checked in as Mr and Mrs, we found a large bottle of 

champagne complete with fruit and flowers waiting for us. 

Eventually before our night of passion, we carefully opened the gift, 

expecting it to be a vintage bottle of brandy, perhaps. Instead of what 

we thought, as the wrapping came apart, there in front of us was a 

bottle of spray starch and four wooden splints! We both went into fits 

of laughter as we cottoned on to the joke which had been played on 

us. 

After the inevitable first wedding night, the two of us ventured 

down for breakfast, greeted by my best friend and her partner who 

had stayed at the same hotel, as at my previous nuptials. That first 

meal of the day tasted extra palatable and then we bade goodbye to 

our friends before leaving the breakfast room, collecting our bags, 

before walking the half-mile or so back to my mum and dad’s house. 

Greeting us there, were the remaining family and the Best Man and 

Barry’s other special friend. Mum had prepared a light salad with all 

the trimmings to be eaten, al fresco, within the marquee situated on a 

long table. After lunch, we finished packing for our honeymoon and 

loaded the car, which had been loaned by Barry’s employers. 

Unawares to us, the car had been plastered on the front with cheeky 

messages. Saying our good-byes to the family and close friends, we 

ventured off to our honeymoon destination of North Devon in the late 

afternoon. 

The hotel had a grand setting on a hillside and as we had not been 

to North Devon before, we actually arrived at about ten-thirty in the 

evening. Checking in, we were left alone to enjoy a late supper 

262

efore getting to settle in our room. The room boasted a four-poster 

bed with all the usual en-suite facilities. Through our window, we 

could see stunning views of the town and coast. The proprietors of 

the hotel were an extremely friendly and helpfuI couple who could 

not do enough for us. Overall, the decor for our honeymoon hotel 

captured the ‘Olde Worlde’ charm - with excellent cuisine and the 

exceptionally well-stocked bar. 

During our delightful honeymoon week, we ventured out to some 

captivating places of interest and beauty spots including a bird and 

animal sanctuary as well as visiting some breath-taking coastal towns 

dotted around the resort. Before we left North Devon, we had treated 

ourselves to some luxuries for a start to our married life, which 

consisted of two matching natural sheepskin rugs for our bedroom 

and a starter set which could be built up into an impressive dinner 

service. It was nice being able to choose something for our nest at 

leisure, and at the time of our departure we felt relaxed, soothed and 

fit - ready for anything. On our way home to Essex, Barry made a 

detour to his hometown of Neyland in Pembrokeshire, for us to stay 

with his mother for a couple of days. 

263

Chapter Twenty-Three 

Following our marriage in August 1989, we were due to fly out to 

Portugal with mum and dad for a week’s break in October. A couple 

of months before we tied the knot, I had commenced employment as 

clerical assistant for a local cargo-restraint products company. The 

main job was to type invoices and correspondence as well as help with 

the weekly pay-roll system. The first two weeks went swimmingly, 

and at the end of those two weeks, the Office Manager was to go on 

holiday and I was left in the company of another lady employee - 

possibly coming up to retirement, who had worked with them some 

years previously. I took my job seriously and worked what I thought 

was hard and efficiently, yet it seemed for the following couple of 

weeks (without the Office Manager), that an atmosphere was 

developing within the office. My intuition told me that it was directed 

at me from this other lady employee. 

Eventually one afternoon, I decided to speak to a member of staff 

whom I felt I could trust about my feelings. This particular man had, 

that lunchtime, gone out with the lady in question and at about 3.30pm 

after having my private chat, I was called into the Director’s office. I 

was directly accused of “not pulling my weight” amongst other 

completely untrue inadequacies. After this ego-shattering 

dressing-down, I burst into tears and stormed out of the office and as I 

had nothing to lose - I let my feelings come clean to the lady employee, 

who just stared blankly at me as if she didn’t have a care (or a heart) in 

the world. Consequently, I never worked again with the company after 

those four weeks of hard work and can only have gathered the 

conclusion that the lady in the situation probably saw me as a threat to 

her position and made it impossible for me to continue there - hence 

the hostile atmosphere. 

This type of occurrence had materialised before in other companies 

- each time I worked as hard and as efficiently as I could and at the 

end was cleverly and it felt, calculatingly, got rid of. I’m not sure but 

perhaps professional jealousy may have played a part. Following the 

unfortunate episode with the cargo company was Barry’s and my 

264

wedding and once we had returned from our honeymoon, I picked 

myself up and again, set about trying to find work. 

In September 1989, I got lucky and was successful in getting a job 

as Directors’ secretary for a small local engineering test house. Then 

I had a week off whilst Barry and I went with the family, as 

mentioned, for our break in the Algarve. Things were falling into 

place and I found my new employment most rewarding and took it 

that I was coping excellently. However, for the sign of the times, the 

contracts of the firm began to dwindle and at the end of November 

1989, I succumbed again to a very brisk redundancy after a period of 

just three months. The situation differed from before, wherein the 

Director explained that my work could not be faulted but his honesty 

regarding ongoing work that was not forthcoming satisfied me. He 

had to “let me go”. This gentleman gave me a good reference but 

since then, the Company dissolved. I was upset at losing two jobs in 

just a short space of time and I became tired as a result of stress and 

very run-down. 

At about the time I left my job as Directors’ secretary, I began to 

experience severe stomach cramps. It felt to me like really painful 

dragging and stabbing pains and when I went to sign on as 

‘unemployed’ on the very day I needed to, the then “Dole office” 

persuaded me that I was not fit to seek work. If I could find a 

sympathetic doctor, I should sign on as unfit and ‘sick’. I didn’t want 

to hear what they had to tell me but I did what they said but I had 

trouble in getting the benefits that I was due. I enlisted the help of the 

local Welfare Rights Agency - part of the Citizen’s Advice network 

that most everybody is familiar with. After several months, I received 

a giro cheque that we badly needed (even though Barry was working), 

but it had taken a lot of cajoling and telephone calls from a certain 

Welfare Rights person, to put the situation right. 

In early spring of 1990, I began a casual job - delivering Avon 

brochures, the nation-wide home delivery service of beauty products, 

and trying to collect orders. One evening, I had a slight pain in the 

stomach but set out to collect the brochures that I had left previously. 

My new mother-in-law was staying with Barry and I at the time and 

felt pleased that I had some sort of outlet. It was becoming chilly that 

evening as my husband escorted me doing the rounds. When I had 

265

completed my evenings work, we returned home but then the stomach 

pains increased, slowly getting worse by the hour. At bedtime, I was 

washing my face when I experienced what I can describe as 

excruciating pain in my stomach as well as in my lower back, it was 

so great that I collapsed on the bathroom floor in agony. Barry and 

my mother-in-law, Queenie, began talking and they decided to take 

me up to the local Casualty department. It was at three in the morning 

when I arrived at the hospital. 

Once there, an emergency x-ray was conducted and I was asked to 

give a sample of urine. Barry noticed that the sample was a very dark 

colour and even the nurses commented that it was something to do 

with my kidneys. An injection was administered within the kidney 

area of my body. The staff wanted me to stay in hospital for 

observation but the bed situation at that time was chaotic. They simply 

did not have any spare beds at the time. They let me go home again 

but gave me a box of pain-killing rectal pessaries to take with me and 

said that further tests would need to be taken for this type of condition 

at possibly another hospital. A type of special scan would be required. 

They would send me an appointment within the week for this special 

scan. The appointment came through to me to attend a department in a 

Hertfordshire hospital. Together with the appointment, was a leaflet 

containing somewhat strict dietary instructions for the test, namely an 

IVP investigation. 

My bowels needed to be completely empty for this special 

examination so I had to heed to a very bland diet coupled with several 

special sachets to mix with water - to prepare my gut. The day before 

the IVP procedure, I suffered prolonged diarrhoea, which was more 

than likely the result of the sachets clearing my system out. This led 

me to feeling extremely tired and listless. 

Barry took me to the Hertfordshire hospital (the Radiology section) 

where I checked in and then I was finally called to have the procedure. 

In the room there was an Asian Radiographer, an Asian nurse together 

with an Asian Doctor who would oversee the examination. I 

remembered the Doctor saying to me. 

“Now… lay still and relax - we are going to give you the best we 

have got.” 

266

Looking up at him whilst he uttered those words, I felt like he was a 

vampire standing over me with his teeth all white and clattery, trying 

his best to calm me before the procedure. I was a little disturbed 

looking at the three health professionals standing around me, whilst I 

lay on a special bed near some large machines. When I glanced down 

momentarily at my left arm, they had attached a tiny tube going in at 

one point of my arm and leading into another point. Just before 

something was about to happen (although I had no clue as to what it 

was) the three professionals told me to relax again once more before 

an injection was placed in the tube in my arm. At that moment I 

became aware of the most peculiar sensation of a warm liquid going 

through my head and then travelling down my body. 

Plates were taken at various intervals over the next hour and at the 

end of the IVP, I had the mother of all headaches for which the nurse 

offered me two humble paracetamol tablets with a glass of water. 

It was time to go home from my afternoon at the hospital and on the 

same evening, I was very hungry especially after eating so sparsely 

the day before. Barry took me out for a Chinese meal but although I 

was extremely famished, I could not seem to eat very much at all, 

without feeling completely full up. Perhaps my stomach had shrunk - 

I wasn’t sure. It seemed that after this medical procedure, I began to 

have sleep deprivation. I might sleep for perhaps an hour, but would 

wake up and not sleep again all night. In connection with this, I felt 

somehow mentally excited and active at night and it was not long 

before I was surviving on practically no sleep at all. During the day, I 

could not stop charging around as if firing on many cylinders yet the 

upshot of this was I could have periods of irritability and feel in an 

argumentative mood with my husband. Most of the day I would play 

my music exceptionally loud and it was always the same pop group 

over and over, the Norwegian band, A-Ha. 

Once, when a row had been brewing between Barry and myself, I 

bashed him with the bristle side of my hairbrush and at another time I 

tapped him on the head with a small kitchen meat-mallet. My temper 

would be easily roused and the words from my mouth became louder 

and I spoke faster. This was rapidly developing me into a very 

hyperactive state and I kept on going and going as if on 

amphetamines - even though I would never take such a substance. 

267

Curiously enough I was contacted to attend an interview at this time 

up at the Mental Health Unit that I had been a patient almost three 

years previously, to be my own Psychiatrist’s private secretary. It 

was a complete surprise, some may say ironic, that I was placed on 

the short-list for the vacancy. However, although my interview went 

well, I was informed at a later date that I was not successful for the 

position. Meanwhile at home, as I was still depriving myself of 

essential sleep, my feelings of isolation and oppression grew to such 

proportions from my troubled mind that I was feeling, although 

disjointedly, very anti-Tory. 

With problems developing with current affairs on the News 

programmes, I would pretend to ‘shoot’ major characters of the 

Conservative government of the time, mainly Margaret Thatcher, with 

the forefinger of my right hand. Indeed, on what seemed another 

night where I had no need for sleep, I stayed up yet again whilst my 

husband slept, and with a blank sheet of white paper, I drew a 

mock-up front page of a newspaper, complete with pictures and 

headlines with text. Whilst I was compiling my front-page, the actual 

motion of producing it, felt almost automatic, that is, as if it was 

coming from someone or somewhere else - I was just the vessel to 

produce it. The very next day I mentioned to Barry that I was going 

to hang some washing out in our communal yard, but my intention 

was not to peg the washing out. Instead, I snuck out of the flat 

clutching my ‘front-page’ only to dash to the local shopping precinct 

to pin it on a bench with some drawing pins. Dashing home again, I 

had achieved it all in only five minutes so that Barry would not 

suspect anything untoward. 

As my mental activity increased with much excitement although 

I’m not sure what the source was, Barry became concerned about me. 

As in the middle of one particular night, maybe at three or four in the 

morning, he said he got out of bed and could not find me anywhere in 

the flat. Then he grabbed his trousers and ran out into the night to 

find me. I had, in fact, run out of cigarettes and thought I might be 

able to get some from a vending machine at a hotel that was not too 

far away down the main road. I remember vaguely walking out into 

the pitch-black night air and began walking past the Church to the 

hotel with cigarettes on my mind. Soon, I was on my way home and 

268

felt scared as I walked back past the Church, as the crucifix mounted 

outside seemed to be glowing like an apparition in the moonlight. 

I passed one or two people on my night-trek - possibly coming 

home from parties etc. I could have easily met with trouble at that 

time of night, being a female and on my own. When I arrived home, 

Barry met me at the flat-entrance and asked me - “Where the bloody 

hell have you been, Marie, what on earth has gotten into you?” As he 

took me back inside, he made a suggestion that I was becoming ill 

and that I may have to seek treatment at the hospital, but I dismissed 

this option. He then took me in the middle of the night to an all-night 

garage in Hoddesdon for my cigarettes. Barry was showing concern 

as well as annoyance with me wandering about that night. 

The following day, I attended the GP Surgery and my doctor placed 

me on some medication - and if I remember it was a drug named 

Stelazine combined with another mild tranquilliser. With the 

consultation and the eventual prescription - I felt that I had betrayed 

myself as I had been off medication for perhaps one year. 

Still, on the evenings that I stayed up for the duration, I would see 

strange shapes appear on the curtains and the walls, almost like the 

outline of a huge, Goddess-type form. The figures appeared to float 

about and if I tried to lay on the bed with my husband, whilst he was 

sleeping - I would become aware of a large, dark mound beside the 

wardrobe, a form which I could not explain fully with any conviction. 

The strangest phenomenon at the time was when a small bust of the 

now-beatified (canonised) Saint, Padre Pio, which my Gran had given 

me one Christmas, and I had placed on a white unit in the bedroom, 

began to glow all night. For several nights, I would talk to it and it 

seemed to answer me. It may have been very dark yet I could always 

see the bust in the room, on that white shelf. 

The bust’s mouth would open and close, as it ‘spoke’ to me. Barry 

went through some difficult times in his endeavours to get me to sleep 

at his side and admitted he was a little scared of my talks with the 

Padre. Through the Padre, I would sense messages from my dead 

Granddad, Barry’s late father, Stephen - my former husband. Every 

time I spoke to my Granddad, he would answer - “What do you 

think?” 

269

This was something he would say to me during his life when we 

used to talk about anything and everything. These peculiar 

happenings, although weird, did not frighten me much. It evolved as 

natural to me. 

I had brought back from Portugal a delicate bust of an 

old-fashioned lady, complete with velvet hat and decorated neckline 

that I had haggled for from a market there. This ornamental bust 

would also ‘perform’. The bust would turn completely round, and as 

it moved - the porcelain face once turned into the face of the 

American actress, Michelle Pfeiffer. She would smile radiantly but 

never said anything. In connection with the Padre, whose bust was 

spinning around in unison with it, he spoke that Michelle Pfeiffer 

would grow into a most successful actress in years to come and that 

he admired her work on film. 

Perhaps the only phenomenon that Barry actually shared with me 

during this most sensitive time was on one night. When yet again, 

trying to get some sleep, as we faced each other in bed, some inches 

apart, a kick from me jabbed Barry in his front, as if I was pregnant, 

almost. He would say that this was strange and frightening, but he 

would not admit this to anyone. Just as before, when Stephen was 

alive and I entered hospital with my A-Ha music tape, again, the same 

music became part of my life. 

It was nearly prolific. I would play the Norwegian band’s “Hunting 

High and Low” album over and over, very loud and at all times of the 

day and on the head-phones at night when I was usually up. It would 

materialise that I would hear messages over the music sung by the 

three members of the popular 80’s band, to the effect of there being so 

many days before certain chosen people would be put on a special 

rocket and saved from an exploding earth. The messages were not 

imagination - I did audibly perceive them. 

When the time came for Barry to take me to the Hertfordshire 

hospital to get the results of the IVP, I felt very strange on the day. It 

was as if I was in a movie, at the same time of being on a conveyor 

belt, and the other people in the hospital were all part of the distorted 

perception. I told the Doctor, whom I then perceived as an MP - that I 

could detect salmonella in eggs. Looking back, I must have been very 

ill and I also told her that I could taste it in milk and cheese. 

270

After getting the all clear, I was suddenly becoming argumentative 

with Barry at the hospital and became genuinely distressed, and a 

passing porter asked me if I needed a ride on his trolley, as I felt faint. 

After coming back from the hospital, Barry drove me to my Gran’s 

flat for her to keep an eye on me, as he needed to return to work. 

When he had settled me with my Gran and left us, she made me some 

jam sandwiches as that was all I could manage to eat - I was going 

through a phase of hardly eating again. The event that happened 

shortly after my snack was the strangest of all. 

I was sitting on my Gran’s sofa, when I detected as though someone 

was going to enter the living room. As I moved to the table, which 

was near the door to the hall, I could see a blue ‘hue’ of a beautiful 

lady in front of me. She appeared to peer behind the door at first and 

then showed herself in full, within a complete blue haze and slightly 

raised off the floor and reaching up through the ceiling as if about six 

feet tall. She was inclined to one side and her facial features were 

exceptionally stunning as she was boldly smiling at me. 

Through only what I can describe as telepathy between us, the blue 

lady spoke to me and said that she was the mother of Christ and that 

she was aware that I had endured a few awful years. Following this 

she explained that the bad time might continue but that it would 

eventually clear up completely. She expressed her sorrow for me, and 

that Jesus, her Son, also knew of my tribulations for some time. The 

apparition also indicated her knowledge of the physical scars of the 

‘burns’ and explained that it was a form of the devil’s work. The 

words from her lips that I heard most distinctively were, 

“I know you are a marked woman.” 

Within that half an hour, she had materialised some three times 

fully giving these messages through telepathy. Her hair was dark 

brown and she had an extraordinarily beautiful face. I confided with 

my Gran just after this vision and her reaction was somewhat of 

amazement at my personal revelation. She did believe me though 

because she said that she was trying to talk with me but that I wasn’t 

hearing her and fixing a gaze without blinking for some time. I had 

been told by the Virgin Mary, of future troubled times and that people 

should prepare, but not quite necessarily when these tribulations 

would occur. 

271

At home in the flat a little while before, I had noticed traces of dried 

blood spattered in the built-in wardrobe in our bedroom. I didn’t ever 

find it odd, as I concluded that perhaps a workman or decorator might 

have cut his hand or something when painting the walls or doing 

something in the recess. I did, however, become anxious, when one 

morning after another night ‘talking’ with the Padre, I went into the 

bathroom to wash my face etc. As I leaned over the sink, the whole 

sink unit was covered in drops of rusted blood, as though during the 

night someone or something had been cut and had spattered over the 

sink. One or two droplets did seem to materialise as I was studying 

the marks before my very eyes. This did frighten and alert me so I 

called for Barry. He saw them himself and promptly washed them 

away in a hurry, shocked at what he had seen. 

Around this difficult time as well - it appeared that whatever 

anyone would say to me, I heard different words come from their 

mouths. It was not my mind playing tricks, but as if someone, 

somewhere was trying to stifle out what family or friends would say 

to me. A situation arose to illustrate this when I heard my Gran say to 

me that when my first husband, Stephen was crossing the road he 

saw a car about to knock her down and he then threw himself between 

the car and her and that was the resulting accident and his subsequent 

death. Apparently the words emanating from Gran’s mouth, were that 

he had saved her life. I checked with Gran a while after to see if she 

had meant what I heard her say and she replied by telling me that she 

had never uttered those words at all, even though I was sure at the 

time I’d heard her say those exacting facts. 

Over those sensitive few weeks I had experienced many strange 

things. Around the time of what would have been Stephen’s 40 th 

birthday, I was sitting at home drinking a cup of coffee when 

suddenly I heard a tune playing out loud (like from a music box). 

Coming from the small shelf of vases that I had kept of Stephen’s 

which I had placed on the wall. The tune was a very distinctive, 

“Oh, Suzanna, oh don’t you cry for me, for I come from Alabama 

with my banjo on my knee!” 

It was the familiar cowboy tune, heard on Western films. 

As it was such a shock and that I could detect an alarming presence, 

I ran out of the flat and went for comfort to my immediate neighbour. 

272

After maybe half an hour I went back into the flat but felt extremely 

frightened. Some three days later, when my mother-in-law, Queenie, 

and sister-in-law had come to visit for a short while, we were all 

sitting in the afternoon. At about the same time as I had heard it 

previously, the same tune played out loud, and the three of us looked 

up in total amazement as I had explained to them earlier what had 

happened when I had been on my own. 

Two other people had witnessed the tune playing and there was no 

possible explanation for it. Finally, when I had decided a week earlier 

to attend Stephen’s grave, I was sitting in a small alcove in the 

remembrance garden when I heard a mysterious voice utter the words 

- “Help me - help me!” There was nobody standing nearby and my 

body went frozen stiff when I heard those supposed words, quietly yet 

emotionally spoken. Who was trying to gain my attention? 

Could it possibly be Stephen? 

When Barry was at work one afternoon, I thought I would go for a 

long walk to the local pond area, which you could get to by using the 

cycle track. With me, I took my crumpled up A-Ha poster and 

tape-recorder and A-Ha tape, which must have been rather worn out 

together with a sketchpad and pencils to draw some pictures. I then 

lay on the grass by the pond and listened to the familiar music. As 

time drifted on, I went to the pub nearby which was situated by a 

small and ancient Church and graveyard. In the pub, I treated myself 

to a pint of lager with lime - which was not my usual drink - as I 

watched some youths play a game of snooker. It was a long shot but I 

enquired to the group of men of the whereabouts of Ashley, who lived 

nearby (the young man who went to Manchester to study). They had 

vaguely heard of him but didn’t know where he was. After downing 

my pint I ventured out into the graveyard and listened at the old, 

locked-up Church and could hear quiet voices coming from within. 

I couldn’t make out what the voices were saying, I just took it that a 

group of people must be in the Church checking that all was well in 

there. Following on from this I noticed a broken and derelict 

gravestone and proceeded to move it back into place. After a couple 

of moments spent on this, I sensed an eerie atmosphere around me, 

and ended up running from the Churchyard at full pelt, as if 

something was running after me. 

273

It followed that after the ‘vision’ I had experienced in my Gran’s 

flat, certain strange phenomenon would almost always occur on 

Tuesdays and Thursdays. Yet I could never explain this with any full 

conviction to anyone. On one of those days in question, a storm was 

brewing and my Gran together with my husband were at home with 

me when I complained of bad pressure in my head. The pressure was 

so great that my eyes were completely bulging from my head and 

there were very prominent veins on my forehead. In a flash of time 

after, a thunder bolt appeared to go right through me, coming in from 

the window from the storm outside. As soon as I felt the shock, I 

hastily rolled myself into a ball as I had a feeling that I was being 

struck by the thunder outside. Barry and my Gran ran to my aid, 

putting me in bed and then leaving me to rest. The veins and pressure 

eventually disappeared. 

On a lazy Tuesday or Thursday afternoon some days later, I was 

resting on the bed and somehow, although not fully asleep, 

‘transported’ myself into such a position that I actually felt the full 

presence of the Spanish golfer, Seve Ballesteros. I could feel and see 

him beside me enabling me to touch his face and body. Oddly 

though, I was not in the usual sleep-unconscious state as I was aware 

of his clothes, a dark blue sweater teamed with dark-black trousers. 

My ‘experience’ with Seve was an enchanting as well as a strange 

one. I might have dreamt of my sporting hero many times yet this 

happening was totally unique, perhaps an Out of the Body experience. 

On an evening when I had a doctor’s appointment, my Gran came too 

as Barry escorted me to the Surgery, which was close to the 

community’s shops. It felt, on that particular evening, that the sunset 

was unusually bright and to one side of the town, within the heavens 

were patches of orange and pink sky. 

To me - this consumed me with an omen of some kind. A sign if 

you like, of something paranormal perhaps. The doctor after some 

deliberations wanted to administer an injection for me for my 

impending nervous condition and as I recall I swore at him, and 

shouted to give himself the injection, in a rather unsavoury manner. 

After, he was practically running round his consulting rooms and as I 

tried to resist I sought refuge behind his couch. Within moments, the 

gasping for air doctor had caught me and slammed the syringe into 

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my thigh, not in the buttock area. This was the only place he could 

reach at speed to administer the drug. 

As I was on medication, Barry became increasingly concerned 

about me being on my own during the day while he was at work and 

had enlisted support from my Gran - to come round in the mornings 

and go home when Barry returned home from work. On the second 

evening after my almost rejected injection attempt from the doctor, 

Barry took me to get a video to relax and watch. He chose to rent the 

film “The Terminator” (with Arnold Schwarzenegger) - maybe it was 

an inappropriate choice. Eating fish and chips for our supper, we 

settled down to watch the blockbuster film on our video recorder. 

When the film began - it didn’t strike us as normal and appeared to 

both of us, to be completely in a red hue, not in normal groups of 

colours as usual. 

We both looked at each other and thought it odd. We watched the 

film for as long as our eyesight would allow it. Whilst watching the 

first part of the film, where a young man had come to earth to try and 

protect the heroine (being a futuristic film), I truly believed I could 

see my dead husband Steve on the film, and it proved very worrying 

even scary to me. I didn’t admit this to Barry and as there was an 

atmosphere charging up, he turned the film off completely. The tape 

was all in red anyway. Barry took the film back and vowed we 

wouldn’t watch it again. We did. But this wasn’t until many months 

later. 

Following from that weird episode and sitting on my own one 

evening, I felt as if Stephen was saying to me from beyond the grave, 

“I could not keep up with your intellect, so I surrounded myself 

with books to pretend that I was as intelligent as you, even though I 

could not read very well - I’m sorry”. 

It was a most uncanny thing to happen. 

On a day when I didn’t want Barry to leave me alone at home and 

Gran couldn’t come round, I tried to pull him back from going to 

work and this led him to become annoyed and frustrated. Eventually I 

lost my grip of him and let him walk out of the door but this left me 

emotionally upset. At that point I truly sensed as if I was being 

haunted by something. I began to cry unconsolably and was literally 

hanging on the walls for support. I’d had an agreement with my Gran 

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for a long while that if I wanted to speak to her on the telephone, I 

would ring her number and let it ring for three times and finally put 

the phone down. She would ring me back after my ‘signal’ - knowing 

it was I. On this occasion when I was so upset, I made the signal call 

but I received no call back. The fact that Gran didn’t answer my 

signal sent me into deeper sorrow and despair and by the end of the 

day, when Barry returned home - I kept saying and repeating over and 

over again, 

“The problems all started again Barry, it all started with the three 

rings!” I’d say this many times as if to explain a starting point to all 

the troubles of the day. Another strange aspect of those times, was 

that my conversation or what I wanted to express, got down to only a 

few words at a time. It was hard for me to explain, but I would speak 

almost in riddles and kind of, fables, and in the finish I was 

expressing whole sentences boiled down to just a few words. Was I 

losing proper control of my mind and senses? 

Within our flat, a large, damp patch had appeared on our chimney 

breast and I convinced myself that it was ‘holy water’ and that 

everyone should come and see and touch it. Barry must have thought 

that I had gone mad. Myself, well - I didn’t know whether I was 

coming or going. 

Because of my loneliness and my general mental state, Barry 

decided to take me to work with him in his van for making deliveries 

from his firm’s warehouse to various places. As we started off, I felt 

most peculiar indeed. We first drove to Peterborough, yet it felt to me 

that I had been ‘round the world’ in a couple of hours. As Barry was 

driving I thought that all the trees we were passing by were all the 

known species of trees on the earth, and had an indescribable feeling 

that we had travelled from country to country on one journey. At one 

point, I noticed some men doing something on a roof (close to where 

we had stopped for a break). I became almost hysterical as I 

foolishly thought that it was a group of ‘roadies’ getting a roof-stage 

ready for a concert to be given by the group A-Ha. 

Barry had to calm me down and as I tried to run away from him, he 

had to restrain me as I was heading for the men on the roof. On the 

same afternoon, I developed the peculiar sensation that every car or 

lorry that passed us and some on the road pointing in the opposite 

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direction - all the drivers made a quick glance at me while passing. 

Thousands must have ‘looked’ at me that day. A limousine had 

passed us on the motorway and in the back, I thought I saw my mum 

aged about eighteen, smiling and being whisked off to somewhere 

important. For a moment it was as if I was in a time warp. As 

another large lorry passed by - I noticed that in the back there were 

lots of cows packed in, probably on their way to the slaughterhouse. I 

was struck very moved by one of the cows, whose eyes were very 

dark and piercing, nearly full up with large tears. 

I verbally attacked Barry for seemingly ignoring me on the journey 

yet he insisted that he was only concentrating on the motorway so to 

pass the time, I flicked on the radio and sang along to the music while 

the window was wound down. When I was singing and harmonising 

to a certain pop-song, a car with four youths caught up at the side of 

us and as they overtook, the two men in the back were shouting at me 

and waving at me, 

“Come on… Sing… Come on sing - you’ve got a lovely voice!” 

They had been following us in the flow of traffic and after a few 

minutes encouraging me to sing, we sped past them and I was left 

feeling highly embarrassed that I must have been singing so loud, I’d 

alerted this passing car. For quite a few hours as I was listening to the 

radio on that day, I was hearing what I thought were the names of 

famous people announced that were going to go on the rocket, to 

leave the earth and be ‘saved’. Each time a name was ‘announced’, 

there seemed to be loud and grateful cheers and rapturous clapping 

coming from the radio. I really did hear all of this and found it all so 

mysterious. Somehow, it was connected with the ‘messages’ I had 

previously heard on the songs, from the A-Ha album. 

When I was on my own sometimes, I could see things in my mind’s 

eye. One thing that I shall never forget, was a vision of myself, being 

crucified on a cross and I was shocked to experience this whilst I 

could see the anguish and agony etched on my face, as I was hanging. 

Separately, another remarkable happening was when I sensed the 

closeness of a priest complete with dark suit and a white collar. He 

was holding me and almost shaking me whilst openly trying to 

convince me - “Look - I’m trying to save you!” These peculiar 

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happenings did not occur when I was awake or asleep. They occurred 

almost when I began staring and possibly going into a type of trance. 

On a weekend trip to Wales, Barry and I were listening to tapes in 

the car and I made him play A-Ha over and over. We were travelling 

through the night and as we passed the valleys and trees, it would 

appear to me that the trees were, in effect, large giants - beckoning to 

us through the car-window. I also felt that the trip was not just to visit 

Barry’s family but as if I was being summoned to visit a certain group 

of monks. 

Just off the coastal town of Tenby (a half-hour drive from Barry’s 

hometown) was a small place known as Cauldy Island, which was 

home to an ancient order of monks. My beckoning was to me a 

strong mission that I needed to find the monks and tell them of my 

vision of the Holy mother. No one was able to see the monks and 

they never spoke anyway - you could be taken out to visit their tiny 

Island and buy goods from their monastery. Although I was bold 

enough to tell Barry of my strong wish of visiting the monks - he 

firmly told me that it was not possible for me to fulfil this and we, of 

course, did not reach Cauldy Island. 

Barry was becoming increasingly concerned about my health and 

mental state, and summoned the Doctor to visit me at home. A lady 

Doctor called and spoke to me and gave me a prescription for some 

medication again, which Barry got for me. When the Doctor was 

talking to me, I told her outright that there would be a cure for Cancer 

very soon. The feeling was that somehow, I had to tell her this yet I 

was not sure where this kind of revelation came from. To the Doctor 

- she must have thought I was delirious or something similar. She 

would not hold anything back and in front of me, informed my 

husband that I was a “very sick young woman”. During these 

happenings, I had not slept for a period of getting on for four weeks 

and I was at the point of exhaustion, but I still persisted in dragging 

myself on regardless of how I felt physically. 

On the next day after the Doctor’s visit to me at home, my Gran 

came round to keep me company. She was holding out her hands to 

give me my tablets and this unfortunately, irritated me greatly. This 

irritation developed further until I could not take it any longer and 

then I went for my Gran physically. I dragged her outside the front 

278

door and began to punch and jostle her repeatedly. At the time she 

was in her seventies and although very strong and sprightly - she must 

have sustained some bruising. A lady cab driver came up and took 

Gran away from the situation. I had previously booked myself a cab 

to take me to my sister’s when this occurred, and as the lady saw the 

last of what was happening she decided to quash it before it went any 

further. 

I wandered aimlessly back into the flat and was pacing up and 

down, back and forth until I felt that I should go to my Gran’s and see 

if she was alright and offer my apology for the commotion. Gathering 

speed, I then proceeded to run at full pelt, crossing the main road 

(where Stephen had been knocked down). As I ran, my breathing 

grew more rapid as I reached the grass area outside of my Gran’s 

home. I then knelt down beside the spread of three small trees on this 

grass verge and gazed up at the window to my Gran’s flat. What I 

saw was this: the form of my Gran standing next to Adolf Hitler 

complete in his war uniform. I suddenly thought that Gran was 

another anti-Christ, as I guessed Hitler must have been many years 

before. The two figures appeared hazy and then, in the next instant, I 

grabbed a stray branch from one of the young trees, and pretended to 

‘shoot’ the Hitler apparition. My heart was pounding many beats to 

the minute. 

An overwhelming sense of sorrow for my Gran then filled my mind 

and I dropped my ‘rifle’ to run up the stairs to her front door and 

knock and see if she was OK. I tapped on the door and could not get 

an answer and after a gap of five minutes waiting, a presence of 

something extremely evil and powerful seemed to make me run down 

the stairs and out of the flats, down the road and head for my old 

childhood neighbourhood. Everywhere about was quiet and I could 

see no signs of anyone passing by. As I began walking slowly around 

the block of my old street, a police car was parked on the road’s bend. 

Two young police officers approached me from the car. They asked 

me to get in the vehicle and would take me to the police station at the 

town-centre. 

I didn’t want to go with them as I had at that time the sure feeling 

that there was a bomb under the car and I would be blown to bits. 

The general state I was in proved awful and after some gentle coaxing 

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- I sat in the back of the police car and was sped off to the police 

building complex. Once there, a group of other officers began talking 

to me and asked me to empty my pockets. I didn’t have much in 

them, and was told I could keep the articles I had shown them. 

Another police officer then instructed me to be breathalysed twice, 

before I was taken to an office for more questioning. A young female 

police constable was in charge of me and sat on a bench. As she sat 

observing me, she was swinging her legs back and forth almost 

unprofessionally whilst asking me different things which seemed 

irrelevant at the time. Each time I looked directly at the lady police 

officer, her face appeared fuzzy and distorted to me, and this 

culminated into something where her original appearance to me 

changed completely. Looking around the room, I noticed articles 

marked as ‘Sin-Bins’ which were marked up for contaminated sharps, 

and I truly believed that I was at some time, to be subjected to a form 

of torture. The discarded torture implements would then be placed in 

the ‘Sin-bins’. 

I was extremely frightened and wanted to go to the toilet. I 

mentioned this to the young constable and she said that I could use the 

toilet just outside the office. I peeped outside to see where the toilet 

room was and immediately felt that as soon as I entered it, I would 

fall down a bottomless pit. I refused to use that particular toilet 

facility and was then ushered to the cells down below and used an 

open toilet in one of them. The police lady stood watching me from 

the door as I relieved myself. Looking around the police cell, it 

proved to be a cold, horrible and dingy place and I could not get out 

fast enough. I noticed graffiti scrawled on parts of the cell wall. 

Back in the office where I had originally been escorted, I felt faint 

and was told that I could lie on the couch. Again, as I looked at the 

constable’s face, her features grew more hazy and distorted, changing 

almost at times. For a period of approximately two hours, I was 

detained in this office before I was introduced to two ladies, one white 

and one black, who explained that they were from the Mental Health 

Unit, and had come to collect me to take me there. Apparently, I had 

been placed on a 28-day Section of the Mental Health Act. 

Once back at that all too familiar place, I had to sign some forms 

and was provided with a copy of the ‘Section’ details. It was based 

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on the understanding that I was not a voluntary patient, but a 

compulsory one and could not be discharged for at least 28 days or 

after a proper review, the Section might be lifted. Not only did I stay 

in the Mental Health facility for the 28-day duration, I actually was in 

residence for a period close to three and a half months. 

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Chapter Twenty-Four 

Barry was informed of my admission and during the evening, he 

came up to see me with my bag of clothes and toiletries, which was the 

normal procedure. When he arrived, I was laying on my bed in a 

single room, complaining that I was hungry. The hunger for food was 

not entirely normal as I asked him to steal a jar of salad cream from the 

ward’s kitchens. When he next came to see me, he had managed to get 

the jar of salad cream complete with spoon and watched me a while, as 

I ate spoonfuls of the stuff for perhaps half an hour. I finished the 

whole jar, which had started out three-quarters full. Why I felt like 

consuming salad cream by the dollop-full, I do not know. 

In the hour before Barry was greeted with my sudden food-fetish and 

while I was completely alone and staring into space and leaning on the 

bed, I was drawn to look out of the door to my room. As I watched, I 

could see the shape of two Nuns with only their clasped hands showing 

and the tops of the black veil and white collars. They were ghostly 

apparitions yet they never entered my room - it felt like they wanted 

me to know that they were near. 

When Barry was satisfied that I was settled and he left, I wandered 

down to the Day Room. A familiar person (a fellow patient) came up 

to me and asked me how was I doing. Remembering this patient from 

a previous admission, I glared at her and as soon as I was met with her 

brown eyes, I shouted and swore at her telling her where to go and to 

leave me alone. It was a very volatile time for me personally. It was 

as if I had to heed people with brown eyes as being totally evil, as my 

Gran had brown eyes. Later on, when a nurse persuaded me to take a 

small measuring cup of brown liquid (some form of tranquilliser), I 

reluctantly put the liquid in my mouth and then promptly spat it out all 

over a potted plant, which was placed on a coffee table nearby. The 

horrible concoction went everywhere and the staff all gasped at my 

actions. I refused all the medication they wanted to give me as I 

thought I was going to be poisoned by them. 

I did not sleep at all on the first night of my admission and it was on 

the second evening that I peculiarly heard a nurse telling me that I 

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should escape to the General side of the hospital at 10pm. If I achieved 

this without being caught, I would then be discharged. When 10pm 

arrived, I ran at full speed to the said General side of the hospital 

without being detected as missing. Once in the realms of Casualty, a 

friendly nurse began to talk calmly to me and I was not aware of it but 

she had telephoned my ward, to report me as missing. Surely, within 

half an hour, two nurses were escorting me back to the ward in the 

clinic. I explained to the Psychiatric nurse that I was only doing what 

she had suggested I should do - and her reply was that she had never 

urged me to ‘escape’, and that it was only something that I thought I 

had heard. Maybe I was having delusions about what people were 

saying to me after all - who knows. 

On those first few tentative days of the umpteenth time I had been 

admitted, I seemed to know the names of some patients that I had 

never met before. It was like possessing some sort of psychic power 

from within. Even so, I was showing signs of being highly ‘manic’ 

and the mania did not want to disappear by itself, and during the 

middle of a restless night - some half a dozen nurses entered my room. 

Protesting at their intrusion, I gathered they were there to administer 

something to get me to rest properly. As I began shouting and 

struggling for them to leave me alone, I was then rolled over and over 

on my bed. On one of these revolutions, an injection was plunged into 

my bottom and inevitably I did not know very much after it. 

I do not really recall on what day I finally awoke, but it appeared to 

be about 36 hours later. When I washed myself for the first time after 

my ‘knock-out drops’, I noticed a massive bruised area on my left 

buttock - the size of the back of my hand. I showed my husband this 

mark and he became annoyed with the staff who had done this. He 

argued and argued with them but he was told that I absolutely had to be 

‘knocked out’ or I would have deteriorated rapidly. During the 

procedure of my sleep-treatment, I began talking garbled words out 

loud to myself. I was convinced that when the ill-fated Hollywood 

legend, Marilyn Monroe was alive and had suffered a miscarriage, 

which had occurred in her bath, the aborted foetus disappeared down 

the hole in the bath. 

Through mysterious means, it managed to lodge into my own 

mother’s uterus - developing into a baby girl, which was me. Perhaps I 

283

was, in fact, going insane. Yet by the same token, these incredible 

happenings and inner-revelations felt all too true to me. I’d previously 

had a timely delusion regarding Nelson Mandela. I kept telling people 

who would listen that he “was a little man with a big heart”. His plight 

had been highlighted earlier, on my mock-up front-page newspaper 

report that I had produced and pinned up in my local shopping centre. 

Regarding my ever-increasing chain smoking habits of the time, I 

decided to pray to God to ask Him to forgive me, as I could not stop 

continually puffing away on cigarettes. The outcome of this was I 

actually heard a voice, (not inside my head) - it definitely came from a 

corner of my hospital room. I heard the voice, a man’s voice, saying: 

“Do not be so hard on yourself, my child. When I was about to be 

crucified, I scraped about on the grass below and found some roots, 

which I rolled into a dome shape, to smoke. I did this because my fear 

of death was great and knowing that I had to die for mankind, I needed 

some form of comfort in the way of a last request. Do not worry. I, 

Jesus, smoked.” 

I was transfixed by this voice and although I was scared of this 

happening, after a short duration, I sort of accepted it as a message 

from above. Later, I heard the same voice again but this time, the 

message was that if I looked down a certain corridor - I would witness 

the creator of the message. 

It took some time before I did look down the corridor, which led off 

to another ward. When I first observed what was there, I could see a 

man, nailed to a cross - looking upwards to heaven, and appearing in 

intense agony. A crown of thorns was about his head and traces of 

tears could be seen, rolling down his cheeks. I was shocked and 

horrified about what I was allowed to see. Over a period of one week, 

when I went daily to check the crucified man, his image faded a little 

each time. Finally all that I could see was Jesus’ head staring to 

heaven and after the last time, the whole image had disappeared. I 

never went completely near the vision I saw, but kept some distance 

away from it. The ‘message’ I received about the smoking, I would 

always remember telepathically as - “Rolling papyrus to smoke.” 

After a certain amount of time, my medication was increased 

dramatically to the extent that some forty tablets a day were given to 

me to take with water spread over four medication-rounds. I felt as if I 

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was rattling with smarties inside me. I tried with all my might to 

explain these mystical occurrences with certain Doctors and 

Psychiatrists and I suppose they gathered that I was a little strange and 

probably very sick indeed. I wanted to run away from the Mental 

Health Unit one afternoon, and as soon as I had this notion to let my 

legs carry me away, I escaped and ran at an incredible speed it seemed, 

with my eyes half-shut. A couple of nurses were alerted to run after 

me and could not catch me to begin with. When I had tired out and 

these two individuals had tired also, I let them take me back to the 

ward. One commented, that it was: 

“The first four-minute mile they had ever attempted.” 

Probably one of the weirdest experiences I had was what happened 

one night in the hospital when I had gone to bed. As I lay in bed and 

was looking upwards towards the ceiling, I saw the shadow of myself 

laying on the bed, as if a reflective shadow. Completely awake and as 

I watched my shadow, I noticed that I saw myself giving birth to 

something. At the same time, I was having severe stomach pains and 

could almost feel something coming out of my nether regions. When I 

physically placed my hand between my legs, I experienced what I can 

only describe of a phenomenon of a head emerging from me. As I, in 

horror, continued watching this ‘birth’ from the shadows on the ceiling 

- a fully grown man’s head emerged from below and it scared me stiff 

to watch it. The man’s hair was long and dark and had a wispy 

moustache. 

When the full sized body had fully emerged from within me, it was 

completely naked and I could barely notice any more detailed facial 

features, except for the hair and moustache. As this being was ‘born’ 

completely and as naked as it was, the whole man just gracefully stood 

up and walked out of the room and not looking back at me, supposedly 

its mother. This was not a dream, I hasten to add, but yet another of 

the strange happenings that occurred during my stay in hospital. I felt 

upset at this ‘birth’ because this body, my son, had abandoned me and 

left me to my own devices. 

As the days unfolded, I wasn’t transferred from the single-bedded 

room for quite some time, possibly because I was so unwell. Even 

though I felt better one day and quite alert, I found myself on all fours 

on my bed with my eyes closed. I kept on hanging on to the bedposts 

285

and getting into some awkward positions whilst writhing about on the 

bed. Surprisingly and amazingly I did not feel ill during these 

movements, I wasn’t distressed but I was aware of some people 

observing me. During this, I felt I had been transported to be near to 

the group of musicians, A-Ha, whom I had an affinity with. I was 

perceiving that the pop group members were the people watching me, 

yet it was highly likely a distorted feeling and just a group of nurses in 

actual fact. 

So, it followed that after nearly three years since I had last been in 

the Mental Health Unit, I had ended up there once again, and this time 

I was constantly observed, as I was diagnosed as extremely unwell. 

Barry mentioned to the support staff that when he had first met me, he 

noticed that I was on one side effect tablet plus a monthly injection. 

He backed this up by saying that I was very well in spirits at the time 

and also divulged that after knowing me for a time, I had come off all 

medication for one year. Personally I knew that during the drug-free 

year, I was better than I had ever been. A friendly Charge Nurse who 

came to know Barry and myself very well, was discussing the drugs I 

had previously been prescribed and the name of one in particular, 

Depixol, came to mind. A conclusion was met by the medical staff, 

that the reason I had become so unwell mentally, was because of the 

fact I had been off medication for that one year, and should really have 

continued with it. I did not agree with the ‘year-off’ theory. I knew I 

was ill but I was sure in my own mind that after many trials and 

tribulations which had occurred within such a short space of time since 

my first husband Stephen’s untimely accident and subsequent death, 

this must have been the main reason for the problems to return. Again, 

I was diagnosed as ‘manically depressed’ with ‘severe mood-swings’ 

and had truly suffered a complete nervous breakdown. The time I 

shared with my new husband, Barry, was perfectly acceptable and I 

was happy, yet certain situations had arisen from outside the home 

environment, which threw me eventually. Including physical illness 

and the IVP procedure (an investigation into kidney problems) and the 

loss of what, maybe three jobs in a row - one or two inappropriately. 

The level of anxiety was high and together with the ever-growing 

stress factors - I was lucky to have got away with physical and mental 

collapse alone, things could have been much worse. Anybody, man or 

286

woman, from any walk of life, so I was told from a specialist, would 

have crumbled completely under the pressure I had endured. Dr 

Maniels, the main Psychiatrist looking after me almost fell out of his 

chair when I finally told him that I nearly became his private secretary. 

He said quite strongly that I would have made an excellent medical 

secretary. 

To my dismay, I was prescribed weekly injections of Depixol once 

again. Receiving the endless round of syringes I began to ponder the 

thought of myself never being able to live a normal life without some 

form of medication. I wasn’t looking forward to the horrible side 

effects of the drug (rolling eyes and bumping into things). These 

episodes did occur again and did NOT happen when I had been off the 

medication for that one solitary year. I had failed. I could not survive 

without medication. 

Following a spell of rest and recuperation, I went the usual route of 

attending the various Occupational Therapy classes and being released 

to go home for weekend leave. Not having to take 40 tablets per day, 

the injections would be the main option of managing or maintaining 

stability - mainly of my severe and erratic mood swings. I’d 

prematurely attempted to discharge myself against the wishes of the 

medical staff because I just wanted ‘out’ but was persuaded to stick it 

out after many hours of talking and debate. An idea was that one of 

the major reasons for this episode of psychiatric demise could be 

attuned to that I had not properly grieved for my first husband leading 

to a very real although delayed post-traumatic period. This explanation 

sounded appropriate to me and I had really become too inwardly tough 

within my outlook surrounding and after Stephen’s death - without 

realising it. 

In June of 1990, I was fit as ever to be formally discharged from the 

hospital and looking forward to some form of breathing space at home 

with Barry. They did not see that an overly long period of attending 

the Day Hospital would benefit, so I only attended for a short while for 

observation of routine. As for the weekly shots of Depixol, it was 

arranged for me to receive the medication within the Community 

Nurses’ rooms at the Doctor’s Surgery. To be honest, I was happy 

with the arrangement of discreetly having the injections there on a 

weekly basis and everything seemed to be coming along up until 

287

October time. There was nothing I could place directly on my feelings, 

albeit that I began to get the fluttery feelings of being irritable and 

anxious with silly things at home. A kind of strong jealousy of my 

husband regarding that he was in continuous work reared its horns. Of 

course, I wasn’t working for my living and kept doing the route of why 

haven’t I got a job or that it was so unfair. This caused several 

disagreements. 

The jealousy of the mere fact of Barry working wove itself into 

possessive jealousy of a kind linked that he was having affairs with 

different women, left, right and centre. The accusations went from the 

receptionist at the firm Barry worked for through to the lady that 

delivered our milk, even to the intricacies of him having an affair with 

my mother or my sister, Suzanne. This sounds completely bizarre yet 

at the time, my mind was playing definite tricks of distorted values 

connected with the strong emotion of suspicion. Even the senior 

citizen that lived below us on the ground floor that had a divorced 

daughter that visited her - the daughter became a victim to my 

possessive suspicions of an illicit affair with Barry. 

I then discovered that I had been missing various weekly injections 

which might have lent itself to the development of severe violent 

withdrawal symptoms, to the point where I occasionally thrashed 

myself about around the flat and banged into the inner doors and 

furniture. I might even have bruises to my arms and legs through 

losing control of emotions whilst throwing myself about. The one 

factor I could not tolerate was the sensation of my eyes rolling upwards 

in their sockets almost until the whites of the eyes were showing. 

These side effects or withdrawals, whatever, were beyond my control 

and might last anything from half an hour to two hours to pass. 

Distressing times had come upon me again. 

The hospital had prescribed sleeping tablets for use at night when my 

mind would not switch off in the form of Temazepam tablets. Firstly I 

used them properly but then it went on that I would take four or five of 

them in the morning after my husband had gone to work. Probably so 

that I could have a good sleep and perhaps escape another day of 

experiencing unpleasant side effects etc of the Depixol medication. 

Pathetically, I relied upon the tablets both night and day. 

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Lonely and distressed one afternoon, I foolishly swallowed a spare 

bottle of Procyclidine pills, which you would take purely for 

combating side effects. Guilty after some twenty minutes of taking the 

glut of pills, I contacted Barry’s employers and it was their receptionist 

that contacted the emergency services for an ambulance. When the 

paramedics did arrive, I was cowering on the floor in a very drowsy 

mixed-up state and kept asking about the welfare of my pet, if I was to 

be taken to Casualty. They checked that all was well and secure before 

taking me to hospital. Barry must have been informed because he 

arrived at the hospital to find me placed in a cubicle and was with me 

when the nursing team required me to have a stomach pump procedure. 

Unfortunately, being that I had maybe four stomach-pumps in the past 

- I begged them to give me an emetic (a foul-tasting concoction) to 

make me vomit the drugs up. This was OK’d by the senior nurse and 

the liquid was administered but I experienced delirium throughout the 

time while I was waiting for the emetic to work, even after my insides 

had spewed out. I felt that I was still at home and flicking ash from a 

cigarette that did not exist into the actual sick-bowl. 

After being in an observation bed for the night, I was released to go 

home but was not admitted to the Psyche ward as thought. I 

desperately wanted to pull myself together and as my 29th birthday 

was looming - I sort of kicked my subconscious to let myself ‘grow up 

and get on with life’. Christmas was looming ever nearer and Barry 

and myself spent it with my parents together with Suzanne and her son, 

Scott. Gran also shared the family get-together. 

New Year’s Eve was spent at the Golf Club function rooms that dad 

was a member of. As the celebrations reached their peak while Big 

Ben counted down to greet the New Year of 1991 - huge streamers and 

balloons swept the ceiling to the floor. Everyone was shaking hands 

and kissing affectionately. All the family gathered and we all 

expressed the hope of the New Year bringing health and a greater 

prosperity, better than the last. 

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Chapter Twenty-Five 

After the celebrations and a little into the New Year, I decided to 

inquire about a job-placement on a scheme run by a mental-health 

charity that was originally attached to the hospital. The charity was 

specifically aimed at people who had suffered mental health problems 

of one kind or another. The Centre was located in the grounds of my 

old secondary school which had long since closed its doors to pupils 

and was then flourishing as a local business centre. It wasn’t far from 

our old family home and within walking distance of my Gran’s flat. 

After visiting Gran I plucked up the courage to walk down the 

familiar road, and re-traced the steps I used to take to school many 

years before, to find someone at the Centre who might be able to help 

me. Being greeted by the Centre’s reception, they soon directed me 

to the correct department I was seeking and I was then introduced to a 

lady named Cheryl. In conversation with her, she explained that not 

only was there a place on the scheme, the charity was searching for a 

proper employee to help run the new offices which were based in 

Bishop’s Stortford. Cheryl encouraged me to apply and gave me 

various forms to fill in, so I did no more than to take them to the 

business centre’s canteen (years before my old school-dinner hall) and 

proceed to fill them in. This was very convenient and I handed the 

completed forms back to Cheryl and returned to my Gran’s. 

After chatting away to her about my afternoon, I began to feel 

weary and so I returned home. In my mind, I was fine when I first 

went back into the flat, pleased with myself that I may possibly have 

found a new job. Yet within half an hour of being in a good mood, 

the doom and gloom of an empty flat and ever-increasing negative 

thoughts, as had happened before - my mood changed to one of 

feeling very down and edgy. Looking back, I couldn’t fully 

understand the transition between being suddenly happy at one point 

and turning sour at another. The mood swing syndrome proved 

severe and apparent again. After the sensitive strips of my conscious 

unwrapped, I began to cry and sob up to the point where I impulsively 

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took and counted out exactly ten Paracetamol tablets and took them 

one after the other. 

It seemed that I wanted to do myself harm but not enough to cause 

great problems. Religiously counting the pills to ten was what had 

occurred several times before. The usual guilty feeling of what I had 

foolishly done came up again and I innocently telephoned the 

Doctor’s surgery and had a word with a sympathetic GP. Barry then 

arrived home from work and found me in a sombre and sad state and I 

admitted to him what I had done, once again, and quietly reminded 

him that a doctor would be calling to see me. Within ten minutes of 

Barry coming home, the GP had arrived to listen to me and discuss 

what options were open to me. He then suggested writing a letter to 

the Mental Health Unit for a further voluntary admission. With the 

GP’s letter of crisis and notes, he felt that I needed support and further 

appropriate treatment. The GP wasn’t with us for very long and after 

his departure, Barry asked me in earnest whether I wanted to go into 

hospital once again. I had to answer to my husband that I could feel 

myself losing control and that perhaps, hospital would be the best 

option for me. I accepted this, even though I was reluctant to leave 

my home and him. 

As soon as Barry drove me to the Unit - like he had done several 

times previously - I waited a short while to see a lady Registrar to 

discuss problems and my admission. It was then confession time and 

I admitted that I had been practically living on sleeping tablets both 

night and day. During our discussion, the busy Doctor was bleeped 

and ran off in a hurry to a reported coronary arrest in the Geriatric 

Unit, which at the time was based downstairs from the acute ward. 

She returned a short while later and carried on taking notes and 

taking me through that all too familiar procedure. Barry left me to my 

devices as usual and as I was introduced to a new female Scottish 

psychiatric nurse on the ward, she administered me with the brown 

liquid to rid my stomach of the Paracetamol I had swallowed earlier 

in the day. You need to drink a lot of water with an emetic to be rid 

of an overdose, to help speed up the reaction whereby the water mixes 

with whatever you have taken and it comes back up the way it went 

in, however foul it sounds. 

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Over twelve years of being ‘unwell’ on and off, I had taken 

possibly a dozen overdoses, which really would be overstepping the 

mark. Whatever the mark would prove to be. I’d received four 

stomach pumps, several emetics and taken certain smaller overdoses, 

which went untold of, and one near-fatal attempt that I have touched 

on earlier in this story. The next morning in the hospital, I awoke at 

about 7am and to an initial breakfast of caffeine and cigarettes, but 

nevertheless by measuring previous admissions, I didn’t feel totally 

consumed by depression coupled with purgatorial feelings. 

Going down to the servery for breakfast at 8.l5am - I generally went 

in with the swing of things, knowing that the routines were familiar to 

me and I would just have to knuckle down and help myself get better. 

However, I was placed on a certain medication and had seen a 

Psychiatrist for a brief discussion and it was in his first opinion that I 

would not be in hospital for very long this time. Conserving my 

strength through rest was the order of the day and I attempted to 

occupy my mind with pleasant thoughts rather than time-consuming 

negative ones. Although I was subject to an amount of physical 

inactivity, this didn’t bother me then and as I was trying this more 

positive avenue - I still had to make a concerted effort to take charge 

of my mental health on my own steam. 

Showing signs of early progress, routine and mood-wise, I was 

directed to spend a couple of nights in what was known as ‘the 

practice flat’ in a ward downstairs. I did feel a little strange being on 

my own at night in the ‘flat’ but I could spend the day as normal, in 

the acute mixed ward I’d been used to. After two nights of sleeping 

alone but occasionally watched over, I was invited back to spend the 

remaining nights back on the ward. 

A feeling of pride and an increase in confidence washed over me, 

and it was mentioned by several sources that I would just be passing 

through, and would be going home shortly. It was as if this chapter in 

the book of my illness would end and I had just required a few days 

help and support. A senior nurse mentioned that my name was down 

for a discharge the coming weekend. This meant that I had been an 

in-patient for just one week. What progress! During the 

Psychiatrist’s ward rounds on the first Thursday after my admission, I 

was full of good intent when I went into the room to see him. A 

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‘ward round’ for the Mental Health Unit usually meant seeing the 

Psychiatrist concerned with your care plus other professionals who 

may ask questions and may be involved with other care factors. With 

this positive good intent attitude when entering the room, I did 

however find it daunting to be greeted by the Doctor plus probably 

another dozen people seated around with a chair for me in the middle. 

Trying to express my mind and feelings to the Consultant, all eyes 

were upon me and then my heart began to jump beats and I generally 

felt as if I was under heavy scrutiny - as if being magnified under a 

microscope. Answering questions, I soon became tongue-tied and 

easily distressed. As the eyes were watching my every reaction to 

probing questions, Dr Maniels then proceeded his opinion that I 

would not be going home after all. I would have to stay as an 

in-patient until I had several successful weekends at home and could 

prove my well-being on the domestic front. I could hear that ring of 

‘successful weekends’ rolling off the tongue of Dr Maniels, similar to 

a snake hissing ‘Ssss’. My positive attitude was dashed as I left the 

consultation period, affecting me even when I walked out of the door 

- I felt betrayed and upset knowing that my feelings would start to 

spiral in a downwards fashion. 

Even though I was under the previous general impression of an 

almost immediate discharge after only one week, and after the 

bomb-shell opinion of the Doctor, I was fairly happy that I would be 

allowed to go home for the coming weekend. However, hidden 

anxieties began bubbling under about another hill to climb, to make 

my way out of the hospital yet again, with the diagnosis I was given. 

The only way in was the only way out, and I had an intense vision or 

delusion if you like of people going into the Mental Health Unit as if 

on a conveyor belt, drugged up to the eyeballs and turning into a 

zombie. Only if they got lucky, to come out at the end of it - through 

the familiar large reception doors. I wanted to be a hero for myself 

yet a hero for others as well, I wanted to get the hell out of there for 

good and help ‘rescue’ the other patients so that they could come 

‘out’ likewise. What ambitions I had! Would they ever come to 

fruition? I could only wait and see. 

Barry did collect me to take me home on the Saturday morning but 

I would have to return to the hospital on Sunday evening and would 

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have to take medication home with me as was the usual routine. My 

mother-in-law, Queenie, was staying with us for a while and was also 

there to greet me. She was well aware of my nervous disposition and 

wanted to help out and keep Barry company because I was sleeping 

away. My pet cat Brewster was also pleased to see me and curled up 

on my lap for most of Saturday afternoon. Barry told me that my pet 

had been pining for me - that he’d been off his food and slept on my 

pillow each night I was not home. 

However the day was running, it felt though, that I could not wait to 

go to bed at home on the Saturday night and looked forward to taking 

my Temazepam pills. After a meal and watching some television, I 

expressed I was tired and Barry saw me into bed and then went back 

into the living room and obviously spent the rest of the evening 

talking to his mother. He’d join me later for sleep, but he would find 

me knocked out when he came to bed, because I was having what I 

nearly sarcastically called ‘a Temazepam sleep’. That is, even if the 

whole world blew up, I’d be blissfully unaware. 

As Sunday morning arrived and I very groggily woke up, the dinner 

would need to be cooked, but I felt that I could not cope with this as 

on my mind was the nagging fact that I would be clock-watching each 

hour that passed. Counting the time down to when I’d have to return 

to my prison - the hospital mental ward. I wanted to stay in bed for a 

lie-in but this turned into a situation where I was still tossing and 

turning in bed well past 2pm in the afternoon. Barry didn’t mind that 

I wanted to stay in bed. I kept on getting up and meaning to stay up 

but would then retire back to bed. This yo-yo effect lasted about six 

or seven times of getting up and disappearing back in bed again. How 

could I remain asleep for twenty hours, I do not know! I managed to 

pick at my Sunday dinner and then guess I went back to my hiding 

place, the bed. As Sunday was slowly ticking away, I began 

irrationally begging Barry to let me have a couple or just one of his 

own sleeping tablets, saying desperately to him that if I had one or 

two, I would feel better. He strongly and surely said ‘NO’ to me but I 

persisted in asking him for this tablet. Later, he had to go out to the 

local corner shop for something, leaving me alone with my dear 

mother-in-law. Horrifically, whilst Barry was out, I had wildly 

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stubbed a cigarette out on the back of my hand in a desperate state of 

dread and distress. 

My mother-in-law actually witnessed this and although she was 

shocked - she couldn’t do anything and could only gasp (even with 

sympathy) at my singeing hand. In her opinion, she told me that she 

was so very sorry that I felt so dreadful and had resorted to such a 

thing and she would not tell Barry what I had done to myself. As 

Barry was still out, and I had a solitary moment, I hastily found his 

bottle of sleeping tablets and quickly swallowed two of them. I knew 

he would be angry at my taking some of his own Temazepam so I 

never said anything when he got back from the shop. 

As I lay in bed for maybe three-quarters of an hour, I began to 

experience a euphoric even slightly ‘high’ state and agreed to Barry’s 

idea of letting him wash my hair, fresh to return to the hospital. I did 

indeed feel better after my shampoo and blow-dry, almost highly 

excitable. But then I was under what I now know to be a false state of 

limbo, of fighting off the need to sleep, which is what happens with 

Temazepam and going through the threshold and feeling absolutely 

wonderful and brimming with light and a little more elevated mood 

and confidence. But this was a drug-induced state, which I would 

regret much later. I reassured my husband that I was feeling OK to 

return to hospital shortly and told him not to worry about me, even 

though I knew he always was. The three of us would watch 

‘Lovejoy’ with Ian McShane and then it became time to return to the 

clinic. 

I returned somewhat late to the ward yet hardly anyone noticed me 

slipping back into the day room to heed to the normal evening 

gathering sociability of fellow patients chatting amongst themselves, 

watching TV and waiting for their evening ‘meds’. Barry didn’t stay 

for long as he was going to work early the next morning. God must 

have forgiven me that evening because even though the burn on my 

hand was visible - I told patients and nurses alike that I had burnt my 

hand on the cooker whilst cooking the dinner. One could say that it 

was a white lie but even I knew that it was just a cover-up to avoid 

confrontation and speculation with the nursing staff. 

Sitting with two male fellow-patients that evening, we were 

chatting and passing the time away as they both cracked jokes and 

295

anecdotes as to what had I got up to at home during my recent 

weekend leave. 

“Well,” uttered one of them, “did you do the washing?” 

“And the old man’s dinner and darn his socks, eh?” commented the 

other. 

“What do you mean, you two - I just had a rest amongst other 

things!” 

“What other things - oh you mean you done the business, uh? How 

about doing some business around here - we both need cheering up!” 

“You two,” I said, “you’re a right pair of goons, what’s the problem 

- you just couldn’t wait for me to come back, could you?” 

The tallest of the two spoke, 

“No we just couldn’t wait for you to return - we were counting the 

hours, weren’t we mate?” 

As he glanced at his shorter friend with a nod-nod and kind of 

wink-wink humour appearing on both of their faces. One of them was 

called by one of the staff for something and I was left talking to one 

of them and about the only fact I knew of him that he was a bus-driver 

yet he hadn’t yielded as to what he ‘was IN for’. This particular 

character boasted a shock of ginger hair and as he kept scratching his 

head, I read into it that he had something on his mind. He usually 

spoke to me if he did. The two of us then were in deep conversation 

about relationships in general and before the ward began its shutting 

up for the night, my companion turned to me and said, 

“Marie, you are really good to talk to, we don’t really mean to take 

the piss out of you - yeah but you talk a lot of sense and no messing. 

Though you’re a woman, you don’t judge me personally ’cos I’m a 

man, you seem to understand men and don’t irritate anybody. You’re 

all right, you’re OK!” 

I’d had this kind of comment or compliment if you like several 

times from different men, not necessarily people that I’d been 

involved with relationship-wise. 

With the remains of the evening on the ward, I was in fairly good 

spirits when I went to my bed that night. The only factor that had 

worried me a little was because my quarters had been changed during 

my absence. I didn’t like the area my bed was in, which was behind a 

partition next to a window, facing the old building next to the 

296

hospital. Florence Nightingale had once been in residence there and 

there were rumours that the place was haunted. The building was in 

use as an administration block as well as a medical library for all 

hospital staff, including students and all doctors with their specialties. 

The niggly feelings of my bed having been moved must have affected 

my sleep pattern. 

Once the morning had arrived with its shining glory for all, I had 

woken up with the awful feeling that I did not want to get up. I’d felt 

so good the evening before but then I was consumed with a tunnel of 

dread completely wrapping me with anxiety and fear of something. 

In the night, I had started my periods and was feeling low anyway yet 

the tingly and edgy feelings just grew and grew along with the 

slow-turn of dread and a melancholy distress. My name was called 

for morning medication and I’d already missed the routine of going 

down to the servery for breakfast. By the time I had scooped myself 

up from my quarters and wandered into the day room, I was 

emotionally upset and sobbing. 

As I recall, I went to talk to another female older patient that 

morning, kneeling beside her and her trying to console me with a hug. 

I told her that I felt upset and didn’t really know why and she said that 

perhaps a nurse should see to me. After five minutes of being in the 

day room, I wandered aimlessly back to my bedside. Tossing to and 

fro and forcing myself to sleep (maybe to shut out the world), I could 

not settle down again. The inner spiral of dread and growing 

depression came to a distinct head and I reached out for my cigarette 

lighter. 

As before, I then started to flick the lighter on and off. Like being 

taken over by a possessed spirit, I even began to flick the flame to get 

a spark on my nightclothes. As if in a trance, and during several 

attempts of igniting my clothes, the fifth or sixth time - succeeded. 

Worse than before, during my job at the business-centre when my 

first husband was alive, I was then ablaze. The top half of me was 

flickering and beginning to flame away violently and as the pain 

wretched through me intensely, I screamed for my life and proceeded 

to run, still alight, down the ward’s corridor. Entering the day room, I 

was shoved to the floor in the corner by the TV set, by my two 

companions whom I had chatted to the night before. They were both 

297

instantly patting and stamping out the flames with their own bare 

hands. All this happened within a few seconds and all I was then 

aware of was the staff running to me from all directions and my 

consciousness began to fail as I watched the other patients horrified 

and shocked faces as to what they had just witnessed. 

Drifting in and out of consciousness, the whole lot of the other 

patients were told to leave the room and the only two allowed to stay 

were my two male companions who had bravely put out the flames. 

All of the nurses were on an alert drill and once when I opened my 

eyes, I slowly looked down at myself and was met by the sight of 

some of my chest area completely black on my skin and bits of my 

own human muscle tissue were exposed. A very good friend of mine, 

an Asian charge-nurse named Abdul, was the nurse in charge of my 

immediate care as I lay there in a heap by the day room’s TV set in 

the corner. With the help of a few female nurses, they tried their best 

to make me comfortable but my body was losing fluids quickly and 

they would rush me to the Casualty Unit on a stretcher to assess the 

seriousness of my ‘accident’. I heard blurred words in Casualty about 

that there was not much that they could do but keep my vital signs 

constantly monitored. Waking again, two female nurses were also 

instructed to clean me up down below as I had flooded with menstrual 

blood and they were fixing sanitary protection to my nether regions. 

Coming to and blurrily looking around a rather stark and clinical 

room, I heard voices saying that I would need morphine for pain relief 

and I would definitely need to be transferred to a special Burns Unit 

for immediate specialist attention. It comes to mind here that this, the 

second near-fatal self-arson attack, had occurred on the second day of 

my menstrual period. Notes must have been made but to this day I do 

not know whether the experts attached any relevance or importance to 

this fact. 

After several stings of the pain-killing drugs and initial wrapping of 

the serious burns, I was soon aware of an extremely quick and pacy 

transfer to the Burns Unit. (The same Unit I had visited about three 

years before). The head of the team was the Chief Plastic Surgeon 

who had been involved with the last skin-grafting procedure. He was 

not a pompous and over-zealous man and quietly told me that I was a 

‘daft twit’ coming back to have him patch me up again. 

298

He was actually trying to make me laugh as he knew as well as 

everyone else that I might have died. Trying to put me at my ease for 

the big operation I’d need, he held a sympathetic expression on his 

face when I looked up at him and emotionally blurted, 

“Oh no, what have I done? I…I’ll never have a baby now. I won’t 

be able to breast-feed. What have I done, what have I DONE?” 

He leaned close to me and taking my hand in his, he summoned a 

smile to his face and quietly said to me, 

“Marie... You will one day have a healthy baby and you WILL 

forget about all of this. So… Stop fretting and let me do my job, OK? 

Now I’m going to ask you to count backwards from ten.” 

That was all I remember before waking up for a moment attached to 

many machines including a blood transfusion slowly pumping 

through. This time, the skin was taken from my right leg as on the 

other occasion, my left leg had been primed for ‘donor skin’. Much 

later my husband informed me that when he had heard the awful news 

and managed to get up to the Burns Unit with his mother to see me, I 

was in my own room with two nurses adjusting machines and 

watching me. They were only allowed to watch me from outside the 

glass partition to my room, and Barry and my mother-in-law were 

both in tears because they were told that at one point in time, the 

situation was “very touch and go”. He also later told me that I looked 

gravely ill and all tubes going in and out etc and that my body had 

heavy bandaging in certain places. 

When I did come out of the drug-induced coma to effect my 

recovery after such major surgery, the team of Nurses did not treat me 

any differently because I had tried to take my own life. Although I 

was barrier-nursed, because of the risk of serious infection, I got to 

know them extremely well and each and every one of them were 

diamonds to their profession, with a calm yet efficient and totally 

understanding attitude. 

Within a few days I was introduced to a female Canadian 

physiotherapist who would put me through the paces of moving my 

legs off the bed and walking and on to a comprehensive range of 

gentle exercises as well as trials on an exercise bike. As I was young, 

my blood circulation would have to be stimulated through the intense 

therapy so that I might effect a more total and acceptable recovery. 

299

The physiotherapist was a very sweet and encouraging lady – but then 

all the individuals within the hospital were. Even the auxiliary nurse 

would escort me for the occasional walk around the grounds or take 

me for a nice cup of tea and a bun. 

My parents visited me but were not allowed in my room and I was 

allowed out into a small ante-room to see them. This was, again, to 

closely follow the strict rules of contact because of the risk of me 

getting an infection in my leg. For some reason as I recall when I sat 

down with Barry, my mother-in-law who was sitting next to my dad 

and then my mum on the end, I turned to my dad and said – 

“Well - are you going to say SORRY now - are you?” 

Waiting for a reaction as Barry and I discussed much later, dad just 

stared at the floor solemnly and nodded his head in the affirmative 

and quietly but plainly, he said, “Yes”. 

Barry and his mother visited me every evening whilst I was in the 

Burns Unit and it must have been very tiring for them because the 

round trip would take maybe one and a half hours plus a couple of 

hours sitting with me. They were the only two visitors allowed into 

my room as they initially had swabs taken that were quickly 

processed to see if they had any possible germ or infection that would 

pass on to me. Once the OK was given, my husband and 

mother-in-law were my two main visitors. 

To pass the time during the day when I was not undertaking physio, 

I listened to music on my personal stereo or watched something on 

the TV in my room. I made an attempt at knitting but I was not very 

good at it and I kept in touch with my Gran by the telephone in my 

room. I was allowed ‘smoke breaks’ but this was under the strict 

discretion of the nursing team. This would usually be allowed if I 

took a little walk in the grounds but I always had to be chaperoned, 

either by a member of the nursing staff or my husband. I continued 

with the physiotherapy for my leg and even attended a few 

Occupational Therapy sessions which would consist of mainly games 

and sedentary activities, mainly to get my mind to focus on 

something. 

Sometime during the second week at the specialist Unit, I needed a 

second general anaesthetic to enable the staff to undertake a complete 

and full change of the dressings to my chest area. (It would have been 

300

too painful a procedure to do it otherwise). They had brought a 

portable machine to my room and after being attached to it and given 

a drip, I was ‘out’ for some thirty or forty minutes whilst the delicate 

procedure was undertaken. 

At nearly the end of two weeks within the Burns Unit, the sister 

from the familiar psychiatric ward had telephoned me direct to say 

that she had been informed of my physical progress and that I would 

be transferring back there. This gave me mixed emotions. Yet I 

knew that this was inevitable and in the end I was quite excited to be 

going ‘home’ even though it wasn’t my real home. I’d be moving on. 

I had progressed and come through an extremely traumatic time. On 

my last night, I began to pack all my things and all the magazines I 

had collected and one nurse, whom I had made a firm friend of, 

decided to give me a laugh. She was larking about with a beautiful 

blonde wig and put it on and said she would fool her colleagues with 

her new identity. Would they notice her with the wig? A whole 

group of giggling yet professional nurses ended up in my room and 

we all generally laughed and made fools of ourselves for the best part 

of an hour. They had all been so kind to me and I shed a tear when 

they left. 

After lunch on the day of my hospital transfer from the Burns Unit 

back to the Essex hospital, two young male ambulance drivers came 

to collect me and my baggage and secured me in the ambulance. I 

was not lying down but strapped on to a seat. They were chatting to 

me the whole time of the journey. Yet, one thing I felt I had to do 

before I was whisked away was to wholeheartedly thank the staff for 

looking after me and in return they expressed their wishes of good 

luck for the future and my continuing recovery. 

301

Chapter Twenty-Six 

After the hospital transfer, it was decided that I should spend two 

nights on a ward within the general side of the hospital to monitor the 

dressings etc before the move back to the Psyche ward I had come 

from. A surgical team visited me late on my first night back and 

checked that everything was as it should be. In my mind though, I 

was still troubled and a decision was made to administer some 

Thioradizine medication to help me relax before I went back to the 

familiar ward. 

On the day I went back there, a general nurse escorted me from the 

surgical ward in a wheelchair which took just a few minutes journey 

through the hospital grounds. Many of the patients on the ward were 

staring at me and talking on my return. As I had been in a dreadful 

state anyway and the attempt on my life, a special Nurse was assigned 

to me and I was placed on what was known as a ‘Scale I Par’. This 

meant that I was to be observed closely at all times and followed 

wherever I went, even to the toilet. Spending the first couple of 

nights in a four-bedded dormitory I was then placed in a single room, 

one room that I knew only too well. 

It seemed almost like there was an evil presence in this room and I 

began to experience strange feelings and eventually my personality 

changed again and I started to throw myself around the room which I 

could not stop myself from attempting. Irrationally, whether I was 

alone or not, I might crawl under the bed and out the other side and in 

general make a complete and utter nuisance of myself. This episode 

of thrashing about became violent at one point and a group of staff 

needed to restrain me from hurting myself. One male Nurse in the 

end needed to practically sit on top of me to stop me banging myself 

all over the place. After two hours of this particular inner-misery and 

physical outbursts, an injection of Valium was given to me and a 

while later, I was sufficiently calm and tranquil to receive my 

husband, Barry, for his evening visit and sharing evening drinks. The 

ward would often make my husband a drink too. 

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During the next couple of weeks I would go to bed at nights with a 

feeling that I knew I would not want to get up and face the world in 

the mornings. The staff would rouse me to get up for the routine of 

breakfast and invariably I’d roll around in the hospital bed trying to 

get extra sleep, probably to help escape my troubled mind, and arise 

around midday or later. The staff moved my quarters to a six-bedded 

dormitory and I had the chance to make friends with the other 

lady-patients. Two of them would often try and encourage me to get 

up in the morning as one of them would say that I’d feel better if I got 

up at a respectable time and start the day as normal. Some evenings, I 

would have the strong conviction that the next morning, I would get 

up in the morning with a bounce, but when the morning dawned each 

time - I would still languish in bed. Over those few weeks because of 

certain medication, I’d again experience unwanted side effects, 

particularly the one explained before where my eyes would roll up 

and stay up. Becoming possibly neurotic regarding absolutely 

everything, even to the point of worrying about when I should wash 

myself, do my hair and brush my teeth. Every normal action turned 

into an emotional drama. Under other situations I’d normally cope 

but I wasn’t then and I would also break down into tears many times. 

A welcome hook to a spark of hope of lifting the dreadful thought 

patterns came one day when a male fellow patient (a rehabilitating 

alcoholic I later discovered) introduced himself to me and sat down 

beside me with a book to show me. The book was all about crystals, 

how they formed etc. The illustrations were stunning and provoked 

conversation with me. This small action from someone else literally 

changed, indeed, lifted my train of thought. This chap was some 

considerable years older than I was and although he had quite a 

serious problem - he was charming and sensitive with me. The 

interesting non-fiction books led to many games of Scrabble with him 

and other fellow patients. A little light was appearing at the end of a 

very dark and sombre tunnel. Someone did care. This man helped 

me more than he would ever know by giving me that all-important tug 

back to normality. (Incidentally, I turned into an adept 

Scrabble-maniac!) 

Slowly with graduation, my mind was coming back to me but the 

fact that I was on a Section with a Scale I Par (observation) meant that 

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I did not ever go off the ward. Patients that were considered too 

unwell were not allowed to even go downstairs to the servery for 

meals. Instead, others and myself would take our meals on one of 

three large long tables just inside the entrance to the day room. I 

think perhaps my mobility-confidence was at a low level, because 

when I was allowed off the Scale I Par, and it was OK’d for me to go 

with a fellow female patient a few minutes walk to the town-centre 

for some cigarettes etc - I found a need to almost cling solid onto her 

arm. Within the town’s shopping Mall, if my friend let go or turned 

in another direction to me I would experience a level of vertigo. This 

felt like that there was air under my feet and I was floating and my 

legs would falter beneath me, as if I would fall backwards. To put 

this sensation into a way that would probably be hard to understand, I 

felt as though a piece of string was attached to my back and the string 

would pull backwards and I would be left feeling that I may fall over 

or stumble into the road. I had suffered this experience before. 

The mornings did improve but I had at least got up a bit earlier, at 

10.30am or so. One morning I did literally ‘bounce’ out of bed for 

want of a better word. I had walked down to breakfast quite 

confidently and happily and returned to the ward for the medication 

call. After smoking a couple of cigarettes, I decided to go and have 

my morning coffee (served between 10 and 10.30am) as usual. 

Besides, my new found freedom of being ‘allowed’ to walk about 

freely around the Mental Health Unit was still a boost for me. Maybe 

too much of one. My legs carried me confidently down the stairs to 

the ground floor going past the entrance door to the psycho-geriatric 

ward and on down the long imposing corridor. Pacing down it with 

great strides I had got level with the small row of seats just outside the 

servery door. Everything was just fine and dandy as I remember a 

good friend say to me, “OK, Marie - today?” “Fine, thanks!” 

Within a few seconds duration however, as if I was practicing a 

second ‘take’ in a movie, I had promptly walked around the familiar 

rail to the serving point, and suddenly threw myself over the end of 

the counter impulsively, diving in mid-air and landing on the other 

side. I’d landed in a hunched position next to two horrified kitchen 

assistants actually in the kitchen and had knocked the large metal 

coffeepots off their stands and had badly scalded my arm with hot 

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coffee. What on earth had possessed me to do that? It just felt that I 

had to attempt a somersault. Impulsive/compulsive behaviour again? 

Taken over to the Casualty angels once again, they smoothed my arm 

with cream and jabbed me with some Pethidine for the pain. 

On my collection back to the ward, my soiled clothes were in a 

carrier bag under my bed and for a couple of hours, I just dozed in my 

bed, well out of it. In and out of a split-limbo, hovering on the brink 

of my mind wanting to explode with whatever gunk was going 

through it, I was being a nuisance once again. Before the evening 

light dimmed, I tried impossibly to dive over the railings holding the 

curtains around my bed to hang myself. I did not hurt myself but 

instead had badly pulled the metal curtain railings out of shape. 

Within another turbulent epoch of time, I apparently, was trying to 

strangle myself with the damn curtains that were left hanging and 

trailing along the floor. Some five or six staff were summoned to 

restrain me and my heart was pounding faster and faster, I felt as 

though I was stuffed full of speed or something and did not know 

when or how to stop myself. 

Getting away from the six, I then was reported as hurling my body 

headfirst at the glass door of the medicine room. Thrashing about 

violently for ages and when the heavy squad caught me again, I began 

saying loudly and in a distressed tone, “I must die tonight, I must DIE 

tonight”. In the end of a most distressing time for the staff and me, 

they secured me in a single room on just a mattress on the floor. 

Finally after the several hours of torment I had put myself under, a jab 

of Valium was shot into my buttock and I was later left to recover 

alone on the mattress. The jab did not put me to sleep but for a while, 

all I was aware of was my heartbeat continually pounding at some 

speed. Barry was coming to visit me in the evening, I was later 

informed, and I guess they needed to make me more presentable and 

in a more receptive mood. 

After some considerable time, I managed to be referred to 

Occupational Therapy classes, coping with my attendance after a few 

false starts. Occasionally when I felt strange (which I persisted was 

an unwanted side effect of Haloperidol) I’d gather speed and dive 

head first at the large swing doors leading to the dormitories at the 

other end of the Day Room. My head was covered in bruises but 

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some unsavoury people just re-iterated what was said before, in a 

couldn’t-care-less arrogant attitude of, 

“Well… Marie - you’re not hurting us - you’re just disturbing 

everybody while hurting yourself”. 

I was always arguing medication issues with all levels of the 

Psychiatric hierarchy, from nursing assistant to Consultant 

Psychiatrist and so on. 

I had mentioned to higher levels of staff that I did not want to 

continue with the drug Haloperidol. As with personal experience of 

taking such medication, within maybe half an hour of taking it, I’d 

experience a weird force of amphetamine-type action. Until it would 

wear off, I’d really have to be strong and keep myself from barging at 

break-neck speed from a point A to a point B. I did not want to run 

and hide, run and bang myself or otherwise, it was more of an 

unwanted chemical reaction in my brain - maybe this was just down 

to the tiniest miniscule ingredient of the drug. I’d tell them. They 

didn’t listen. 

Getting back to a form of normality if I can say it, I was pathetically 

allowed to go for home weekend leave with my husband. On the first 

weekend home, and after arguing again about my anxieties of the 

Haloperidol tablets, I had an extraordinary afternoon on the Sunday 

that was similar to an experience I had before when my Stephen was 

alive - it was almost identical. As before, in Stephen’s company, 

Barry was watching TV and I was supposedly resting on the bed. He 

heard me shouting his name and when he entered the bedroom, he 

found me half-hanging out of the first floor window and witnessed me 

nearly falling out. I was struggling to let go and go crashing to the 

grass down below - Barry took all his might to lift the weight of me 

back in, not so much because I weighed many stones but more of 

because of the angle I was hanging from the window-ledge. As Barry 

reeled me in, my abdomen got caught on the rusty old window-catch 

and my tummy was cut slightly when Barry had rescued me 

completely. 

Meanwhile on the home-environment front, the people in charge of 

my care (mainly Dr Maniels) had communicated to the Senior 

Housing Officer at the Town Hall requesting alternative 

accommodation for Barry and me. We had filled some forms in that 

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we were sent and my Gran had offered her moral support and written 

to the Council as well. Whilst I was still formally an in-patient, we 

received a letter stating that we would definitely be offered alternative 

accommodation but that there would be an indefinite wait. Several 

weeks down the line, Barry came rushing to see me at the hospital 

saying that we’d been offered a spacious one-bedroom flat within 

another part of the town. We quickly viewed the property, which was 

on the ground floor of a five-storey block and sent our acceptances etc 

to the council. 

In earnest we set about organising the move from the flat that I had 

originally moved into with my first husband, Stephen, who’d 

tragically died. During some evening and weekends, at the discretion 

of the hospital I was allowed to go to our prospective new residence 

and complete the decorating to how we wanted it. A date was set to 

finally leave the old property and enter the new one. In a consultation 

with Dr Maniels, when Barry informed him that he had two weeks 

leave from his work, the Pshyciatrist suggested that if I could cope 

with the potential two weeks of stress associated with moving home 

(provided I carefully took some medication) I would be granted a full 

discharge from the hospital. On the condition that I commence at the 

facility of the Day Hospital for groups and observation, once Barry 

had returned to work. This seemed a good idea and was a clear goal 

for me to achieve. In my mind, I would endeavour to keep on an even 

keel, so as to effect this formal discharge. 

After the wheels had been in motion, Barry and I finally moved to 

our new flat on a Saturday morning checking that the amenities were 

switched on and that we had a new telephone line. We only had one 

night sleeping in our new flat initially and might I add, christening a 

new double-bed, before thanking Barry’s mum for staying with us 

during several difficult months and her having to be taken back to her 

South Wales home in Neyland. The three of us were making the trip 

to Wales, one which I had got to know very well and Barry and I 

spent two nights with his family before we returned home to the 

prospect of a new and fresh start in the Essex town. For the last few 

days of Barry’s time off, we together put the finishing touches to the 

flat and on the first Monday of him returning to work, I had an 

appointment to see the Psychiatrist. He formally discharged me and 

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issued papers for my admission or start of attendance at the Day 

Hospital. I would be under the wing of a new Consultant, one who 

would specifically deal with the needs of the Mental Health Unit’s 

Day patients. This was for this particular Doctor, a separate yet heavy 

caseload. 

I embarked with the faith and strength that I knew I did possess, 

wholeheartedly in following the instructions of Dr Maniels, mutually, 

to put in the building blocks of hopefully a better and more stable 

personal mental health. The date of the formal discharge from being 

an in-patient (or as I would call it - the Order of the Golden Boot) was 

in March 1991. I soon became involved in regular classes at the Day 

Hospital and would return home at half past three in the afternoons. 

Receiving my Depixol injections weekly, it would be in one buttock 

and then in the other buttock alternately. To complement the Depixol, 

I was taking two other different oral medicines at the time but after 

several weeks, it was decided to narrow it down to just the syringe 

plus the Procyclidine tablets (for side effects). 

At periodic intervals I would attend a consultation with the Day 

Hospital Psychiatrist whose ‘list’ was extensive. Certainly I became 

familiar with the Doctor but found that I could not gel with him 

completely. Being an extremely clever individual (he needed to be 

for this job) he would tell you what was good for you and what was 

not. During his ward rounds, I would express to him how I genuinely 

felt from week to week but it seemed that my reactions etc would 

somehow get twisted around and he’d assume certain facets of my 

illness to be reactions. I would have a clear mind as to what I was 

going to discuss yet I’d leave the room irritated and frustrated - like 

being subjected to perhaps a mind manipulation game. I would shout 

and yell after I had come out of the room. I would always have the 

opinion which I would share with others, that he only needed to 

suggest something negative and you would end up coping with this 

negativity on top of your own foibles and anxieties. 

This Doctor sent many patients into upset or rage and personally, I 

found him patronising and pompous and I didn’t really like him. He 

held the opinion that I should more than likely need to take some form 

of medication for the rest of my natural life. Backing his opinion up 

with being on DEPIXOL or some other staple diet, he said pills would 

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prevent relapses. I wasn’t really sure but it was his decision to carry 

on with a ‘maintenance dose’ for me (regular injections) and I would 

be able to talk to the day hospital support nurse, whom I would be 

introduced to. If I had any day to day worries and if it was not a day 

to see the Doctor, I could report to the support nurse with any 

problems. 

My support nurse was an Italian male nurse (a qualified Mental 

Health staff member). He proved to be a most friendly and helpful 

man, never patronising and treating me like an equal person. 

Sometimes he took me for a coffee in the hospital’s staff canteen and 

did his utmost to make me feel as normal as anyone else. This was 

his gift - he genuinely cared for his charges. When I needed to travel 

to the Romford hospital for a brain scan, he came to pick me up from 

home and travel with me in the booked hospital car. Whilst he and 

myself were waiting for the appointment, we went to a small cafe on a 

side street completely off the Romford hospital grounds, and he 

bought me a coffee and a cake. 

He was so sweet to me yet never let his guard of professionalism 

escape him. He had a job to do and I believe he wanted to get on with 

everybody and he did. What I admired most about him was the mere 

fact that he would put you at your ease and attempt to back you up 

when he escorted me and others in front of the weekly ward rounds. 

During my time at the day hospital, I participated in typing and 

clerical work. Another favourite of mine was the creative writing 

group, namely word appreciation, and a media group, discussing 

differing topics such as radio, books and current affairs. I also joined 

in a lunchtime cookery group, art class and helped in the Unit’s 

gardens which was based at the back, facing on to the geriatric and 

terminally ill Unit. 

At the beginning of July, I was offered an ‘interview’ at the hospital 

to commence work in what was then known as the ‘Work Assessment 

Unit’. This was a separate area within the Occupational Therapy day 

hospital Unit. The hospital used this new Unit to assess patients who 

had some degree of recovery through light work, and would report on 

and discuss with you issues of attendance, concentration, behaviour 

and general attitude. The suite boasted three main rooms, including a 

printing room and a meeting area plus a smaller room where the 

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‘employees’ could relax, have a coffee and a cigarette. The main goal 

of the staff in this department was to get you into some sort of routine, 

just as if you would be going to a proper job. You would make your 

own way as usual to the hospital by bus or whatever and receive an 

allowance of £1 per day for the days you actually attended. You 

would also qualify to get back your bus fares on a weekly basis. My 

days were to number four a week and the hours were as near normal 

to a working day as possible, 9am to 3.30pm. 

This would include two breaks and a one and a half-hour lunch 

break. On my first day I was introduced to the others and in particular 

to a young man named Nicholas. He had formerly been an in-patient 

and was possibly about 25 years old. Being quite small in stature, this 

didn’t take away his infectious grin and laugh. Even though his hair 

was prematurely thinning out, he had good features and impeccable 

manners. To be honest, he had a fine physique. Nicholas would be 

the one to show me the routine of the manual assembly of light 

fittings which was one of our assignments. He became a firm platonic 

friend of mine. A whole group of a dozen of us would share some 

laughs together whilst working at the laborious task of fixing the 

light-fittings. Another ‘job’ on certain days was the inserting of 

exactly three dart-flights into re-sealable polythene bags, and another, 

assembling components in small bags to be finally returned to the 

firm who had kindly donated the work. 

The easiest job was packing the dart-flights, I could pack many in 

one day. This was in stark contrast to those blasted light-fittings, my 

manual dexterity wasn’t nimble enough to do them, they were so 

fiddly to complete. I might attempt and re-attempt to complete a 

dozen per day. This was terrible in comparison with another chap, 

who was so fast - he could finish some sixty or seventy per day! My 

fingers could not seem to get round the wires properly to insert into 

the sockets and after many weeks of doing this laborious job, it 

became a most boring even soul-destroying pointless occupation. It 

didn’t do much for me. Eventually I would resent attending the 

Assessment Unit and my general attendance fell and I would not 

complete many full weeks. 

The ‘employees’ took it in turns to make morning coffee and 

afternoon tea though more often than not, the task was usually done 

310

y just two or three within the group. Admittedly, I was not the only 

person to get cheesed off with the work, morale could get very low, 

being as we only received a paltry £1 incentive payment per day. We 

would wonder that if we were doing our work for practically peanuts, 

we could probably leave and start a ‘real’ job and stop wasting time as 

we had ‘proved’ ourselves. Yet the negativity we all used to talk 

about was an invisible stigma attached to people who had suffered 

mental illness, be it as an out-patient or as having spent time as an 

inpatient. Could one shake off that you’d ‘done’ Psychiatric time 

‘inside’? Did we have large labels on our foreheads, saying ‘I’VE 

BEEN IN A MENTAL INSTITUTION’? Did we look different? Act 

different? Did we actually belong anywhere in society? 

All these things would mull in our minds, when the staff were 

absent, and come out in our conversations with each other. The £1 

per day was not really an incentive for any of us and certain members 

of the group spoke of feeling down or depressed and I would hazard a 

guess, that it started from the actuality of the sometimes boring work 

we had to undertake. In fact, I likened it to a form of cheap labour but 

I suppose we were not there to enjoy ourselves. I really wonder 

whether it did anybody any good? 

With the running of the working day in the Assessment Unit, 

perhaps two days a week one of us would volunteer to steer the others 

into a relaxation group. There would always be a member of staff on 

hand. Nicholas, my friend, showed a keenness and professionalism in 

the way he held the relaxation group (even though he was an 

ex-patient). He would get us to calm down, breathe properly and 

relax each part of our bodies. (Even though our group numbered 12, 

it was usually Nicholas or myself that would direct the relaxation 

therapy). 

Running alongside the relaxation, some of us attended a Social 

skills group, learning for instance, interview techniques etc. As 

December approached and I had spent several weeks in Work 

Assessment, my 30 th birthday came and went and once again, I began 

to look forward to Christmas with renewed hope and faith. Staff at 

Work Assessment arranged an informal Christmas lunch with a party 

afterwards at which each of us received a small gift. We all thought it 

was a nice touch. 

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Chapter Twenty-Seven 

The year 1992 had arrived and as I had formally left the Work 

Assessment Unit within the Mental Heath Unit at the Essex hospital, I 

was asked to attend an establishment in Watford to further assess my 

aptitude and attitude to work. I would need to attend for 2 days and 

undertake various activities and informal tests for all-round ability 

combined with tests as regards my concentration. The report that 

came back on me from the Watford Training Centre was generally in 

my favour and suggested that I would definitely benefit from a period 

of working for the Stort Trust. This was a charity organisation 

helping people with various mental heath problems to gain experience 

in an office or factory environment to gain confidence with the hope 

of getting back to the workplace proper. The contract for me to work 

for at the Trust was for six months. I would need to travel to Bishop’s 

Stortford where the charity was based and I would receive 

reimbursement for my bus-fares and an attendance incentive of £5 per 

day. As my days per week initially numbered three, my ‘wages’ 

totalled £27 per week. You would get a cheque (one week in arrears) 

for the amount of days you completed. 

Unfortunately and completely out of the blue, I had accidentally 

found out just before I left the Work Assessment Unit, that one of our 

‘gang’ there had sadly died on Christmas morning at his home. His 

name was Colin, and he was such a nice, warm and friendly young 

man of about 31 years of age. I had sat with him many a time, even 

when he used to be frustrated and even crying out loud if he was 

bothered with something. Colin was taking certain medication like 

most of us were. Apparently, an opinion was that he had lost his 

appetite somewhat and the supposed reason for his death was the fact 

that he was taking the tablets without sufficient nutrition for the 

medication to act on. 

He had not taken an overdose and we were informed that his 

mother had found him laying on the sofa, where he had obviously 

passed away during the night. As I pictured his face when I heard the 

sad news - I remembered his laughing smile and his determination 

312

that he would get things right and get better. His death was such a 

shock and I couldn’t take it in that he was not with us any more. 

Meanwhile as I got stuck into the routine of working at the Trust, 

my duties were mainly clerical and some typing. Using electric and 

electronic typewriters as well as VDU’s and setting up a database on a 

computer. I made and received calls on behalf of the Trust and was 

always the person called for to type hunch-ads of envelopes sent to 

various businesses for the mailing list. My days were then approved 

to move up to 4 days per week. Yet as time advanced, more often 

than not - I would not complete a whole week’s attendance. Just as 

before, at the Work Assessment Unit, my poor attendance had 

become apparent. 

The problem on my mind was that even though I was fairly happy 

to offer my services for the sessions at the Trust (I left school and 

college highly qualified) and being that my work was of a very 

productive and high standard, I wasn’t in a ‘real office’ and 

embarking on a ‘real career’. I became extremely disheartened with 

the place and felt pathetic wondering when I would be ‘ready’ to get 

back to the world of work. After all, I was working in a sheltered 

workplace and my resentment started to grow. In part of my working 

life previously, I had worked at some very prestigious places, both 

locally and in the centre of London. So it was a bit of a comedown to 

be working almost a full day and only receiving £36 per week, that 

was IF I completed the four days. 

Gradually I would sly off attending the Trust and over a period of 3 

months, I probably only completed three or four complete week’s 

work. As my resentment grew, my incentive to work dwindled and I 

then possessed a lazy attitude to going there and I started having 

many days off when I just couldn’t be bothered. I was called for 

meeting after meeting with Cheryl, the Employment Adviser within 

the Trust, regarding my patchy attendance and each time I promised 

that this would improve. Again, I felt that my work was yet another 

form of available cheap labour. 

At Easter time of that year, I had to take two weeks off working at 

the Trust anyway, as I had my appendix removed when it had flared 

up unexpectedly. I was in the surgical ward for four nights after the 

operation. 

313

On a more personal note, my sister, Suzanne revealed that she had 

found a new boyfriend named Matthew and that she was expecting his 

child. Another baby in the family would be arriving sometime in 

August. However, she had many problems during the pregnancy and 

needed to spend time in the ante-natal ward on many occasions. For 

she had developed quite a serious condition known as placenta 

praevia (whereby the placenta had lodged in a dangerous place and 

could cause the unborn child some distress). Suzanne had to be 

monitored closely. This happy news of a second nephew or niece for 

me was in contrast to some very sad news about my good friend 

Nicholas. (He was the one that had been so good to me in the Work 

Assessment Unit). It was shocking to hear of his sudden death in 

April of that year. 

Someone said that on the day before he had killed himself, Cheryl, 

the Employment Adviser within the Trust, had come across him, 

chatted to him and she maintained that he appeared relaxed and 

happy. Come the following day, his body had been found in his car in 

the garage. He had died of exhaust fumes through a pipe he had 

placed in the car. I was deeply hurt by the news of his death 

especially as he was such a good friend and I shed some tears, 

certainly. This was a waste of a good man who may have achieved so 

much later on in his life. Nicholas was dear to me and I said many a 

prayer for his soul. The loss of my friend tainted my feelings for a 

while and I thought a lot about him. 

As my six-month stint at the Trust was coming to an end, the 

powers that be decided that I would benefit from an extension of three 

months. I didn’t relish the thought of the extension and wondered 

seriously about where my life was then going. Certainly I was 

looking forward to the expected addition to the family and feeling 

genuinely pleased that Suzanne had found someone to love. After 

meeting her young man, Andrew, in my mind (although I never told 

her) I believed that she had met her match. Being that he would take 

no nonsense from her - she could be feisty and change to being 

stubborn. She was delighted to tell me that they were going to get 

married yet we were all puzzled how the marriage would take place as 

Suzanne was constantly in and out of ante-natal because of the 

pregnancy problems. 

314

A date was set for some time in May and swift plans were in 

motion for the proverbial shotgun wedding. Anyway, these days, that 

kind of situation is not unheard of. Gran was tinkering in her 

excellent tailoring skills to make Suzanne a beautiful shorter length 

wedding dress and measured me up for a shorter length, lemon, Maid 

of Honour gown. It was a major task for our Gran, she was about 

eighty at the time and still managed to drag her old Singer sewing 

machine out and plan and make up the gowns for Suzanne’s big day. 

Suzanne was officially in hospital when the day came for her to 

marry Andrew at the local Register Office. So at the discretion of the 

maternity staff, she was allowed a couple of hours off, as long as she 

did not spend too much time on her feet (just enough time to make her 

vows to Andrew). Scott, her other son from a previous relationship 

was three and a half at the time, but generally on the day he was fairly 

well behaved. Barry could not get time off work for the wedding but 

the whole day was not without its surprises. 

When we returned to ante natal back at the hospital, a flock of 

expectant mothers were cheering and clapping to her return. As 

Suzanne and our family and a handful of close friends walked back 

into the ward, there was a delightful sight in store for her. Some 

maternity staff had adorned her bed and the surround with masses of 

ribbons and frilly flings. Another touching gesture was a lovely little 

spread of buffet-style food for us to enjoy as well as the other 

expectant mothers to join in. Mum had ordered a two-tier wedding 

cake for the newly-weds and quite a lot of it was consumed by them. 

Photographs were taken of Suzanne and Andrew with Scott perched 

on the edge of the bed, whilst they were cutting the cake. It was an 

extraordinary day and one that everyone would not forget in a hurry. 

The staff in Maternity had done a grand job in participating in 

Suzanne’s marriage and yet still adhering to monitoring her because 

of her complications. 

The baby arrived in July at about one month after their wedding. 

Suzanne was delivered by Caesarian section and although premature, 

her new son gained weight and following several problems with him, 

the new baby, whom she named Roy, showed as much progress as 

full term babies. I now had two nephews and the whole business of 

watching Suzanne with the way she loved and nurtured them, gave 

315

ise to an exceedingly emotional and broody time for me. Would I, 

with all my previous troubles and mishaps, ever have and hold my 

own child? The odds did seem at the time to be stacked up against 

me. Yet I loved being an Auntie and if that was what I had to settle 

for, then I would assume it fully and always be there for my nephews. 

All in all, the year was not so good for my parents though. Firstly 

they had troubles with their mortgage and it reached to such a point of 

their home being re-possessed. But then again the home-repossession 

rate of the time under the political administration did fluctuate to an 

all-time high. Their situation was not uncommon for those difficult 

years of boom and bust, both at a domestic and economic level. Mum 

and dad finally realised that all they could do was to be taken in by 

my uncle, (dad’s brother) who offered them a room and a little 

stability, which probably cost them some dignity. For the first time in 

their lives, they were on an emergency waiting list, yet another horror 

was just around the corner. With their home gone and most of the 

larger items of furniture in storage, imagine their horror and 

disappointment when all that went up in smoke in a supposed arson at 

the Watford storage centre. Double jeopardy, no home and some 

recently purchased items of furniture gone too! 

Mum and dad had lost nigh on everything and this was no wonder 

that dad (I was later told by his older sister) had been on the verge of 

swallowing a cocktail of pills and booze. Mum stopped him in his 

tracks and tried to reason with him, with the facts that even though 

they had a chance in life to build up again, uncle would not probably 

live very long as with another blow to the guts, dad’s younger brother 

was diagnosed with lung cancer. This was not a good time for both of 

them but the philosophy of mum was, well, you can’t take everything 

with you when you go, you can’t shove bricks and mortar, cars and 

whatever in a coffin, can you? 

Dad listened to the doctor for once in his life and that must have 

been a turning point for him in realising that mum did indeed have 

substance. She was his anchor. (As well as golf widow). She’d also 

have to put up with my pent-up anger and frequent tantrums from the 

past and in the future as would happen. 

As the year moved on, my attendance at the Trust in Bishop’s 

Stortford was worse than shoddy, it was pathetic to say the least. 

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After completing nine months there, the people organising it were still 

hankering for me to hang on and stay for one last month of work. I 

did not want to continue with it. Strings had been pulled for the last 

extra month made available for me so I grudgingly said I would 

attend for the last time. Still having the odd polite dressing-down 

from Cheryl, I left the establishment for good in November 1992 after 

a grand total of ten months, pretending I was a shit-hot secretary. 

Believe me, the fantasy was needed to push me out of my pit in the 

mornings and begin the walk on the treadmill. 

Jobs and opportunities. Jobs and opportunities. They were not 

forthcoming. Cheryl advised me that maybe I should seek some form 

of voluntary work to keep me occupied and then perhaps I could seek 

part-time work. She was sanctimonious in the way that she laid down 

that going straight in and applying for full-time work was out of the 

question and could be dangerous. Maybe the career advice was partly 

true but I needed a reason, other than housework, to bounce out of bed 

and start the day with a crunchy cereal! I was a little annoyed at not 

having a job at the end of my time in Bishop’s Stortford, as I was 

under the impression that my chances would improve to gain 

employment. Had it all been just a waste of time and talent? 

Within a few days of seven weeks with the Trust, I found a 

voluntary opportunity at a local charity, specifically aimed at helping 

sexually abused children. After meeting the main coordinator - my 

help for them would come in the form of clerical work to tidy up their 

stock-cupboards with many donated items to help boost finds at fetes 

etc. Originally at my interview, I had explained that I was, myself, a 

victim of childhood sexual assault and I learned that some of the other 

staff had themselves been affected in that way in their differing 

childhoods. Although I could only offer several weeks of my support 

for their noble effort and even though I was lucky enough to have 

someone to pick me up by car to take me to their base, I found the job 

extremely rewarding. I could also sympathise with the cause they 

were trying to strive for. 

At the same time as my services at the charity, I made an attempt to 

meet a lady within an employment agency in the town-centre who 

specialised in seeking and trying to secure work for physically 

disabled or mentally distressed individuals. Her name was Anne and 

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on our first meeting, she needed to know what I had been doing and at 

what stage I was at with my well being. She had a desk with all her 

papers and contacts etc, integrated within a normal agency, which I 

found most acceptable. Anne, who originally hailed from Ireland, put 

me completely at ease, showing determination as she took details and 

my CV for reference in case a suitable position would come up. 

Her colleague, a man representing the agency proper, suggested that 

I could do some evening packing work whilst waiting for Anne’s 

searching for a suitable secretarial vacancy. The wages would only 

be £3 per hour for five hours work per evening for two night’s work. 

For several weeks I did the stint at a plastics factory in town and quite 

enjoyed myself, mainly chatting away as I worked with students from 

College who were all, like me, earning some extra money. 

Early in December I turned 31, and for the first time in what 

seemed ages, I had a realistic feeling that life was taking on a much 

better shape than of previous times. My independence was coming 

back to me and I also was happy to attend an informal Christmas 

party in 1992 back at the children’s charity who had literally given me 

back some real and consistent self-worth. Spending Christmas in 

South Wales with Barry’s family went swimmingly and I had only 

just then begun to experience contentment. There was happiness in 

my life and as my loving Gran said, 

“You have to take a little piece of life for yourself, if everything 

goes right over a long spell, accept it and don’t let that demon tell you 

that you don’t deserve it, because you DO deserve it!” 

As the year 1993 arrived, my prospects appeared to improve when 

Anne at the agency had arranged for me to attend a large company in 

the afternoons to gain some hands-on computer training and a spell of 

work-experience within that company’s sales department. I did not 

get remunerated as such, but it felt like a ‘real’ opportunity for me and 

would boost my self-confidence into the bargain. In fact, the head of 

the sales section commented that he had never seen anyone input 

information on a computer as fast as he had seen me do it. What a 

compliment! I knew I could do it and I had finally proved it I was not 

a complete and utter failure. Another feather had appeared in my cap, 

at last! 

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Anne had in effect done more good for me than Cheryl at the Trust, 

and not only had become a work counsellor but a firm friend too. 

Then, out of the blue, I was sent a questionnaire relating to the Trust 

and its hopes of whether working there had helped me. Consequently, 

I could not fill the form in as I was disappointed at the lack of them 

finding a stepping-stone on the road back to work as had originally 

been promised. I had found a link back to work entirely on my own 

steam as it had turned out. 

A serious thing that happened in January, 1993, was the final battle 

for my uncle in his battle against cancer, he had died and hadn’t even 

reached the age of 50. During his life, he was a down-to-earth 

character and named a spade, a spade. He could be sarcastic if he 

wanted to but he never really meant it. I missed him and cried on 

several occasions when I imagined that we would never find him, 

enjoying his music sitting on his favourite armchair. In his final 

months, uncle was very brave as he must have been in awful pain but 

during my last conversation with him, he urged me to carry on doing 

what I do best, writing. It sounded funny coming from him, as l never 

thought he knew of my attempts at writing or was even bothered by it. 

Uncle left three grown-up children and several grand-children, but I 

guess that his ex-wife (whom he had split with many years before) 

was still affected by his passing. 

319

Chapter Twenty-Eight 

As the dark shadow lifted of losing uncle, it followed in the New 

Year of my husband’s and my thoughts turning to starting a family of 

our own. We had previously had no luck in my conceiving a child. 

The time was right for us to think about having a little one but I must 

be realistic and say that as my biological clock had been ticking 

longer than average, my time of being ‘unwell’ with manic depression 

had caused problems with my periods. In that I had spaces of time 

with no menstrual periods. I wasn’t ovulating obviously and had no 

natural rhythm for my fertility. This was down mainly to the tons of 

tablets and drug-therapy I had been on coupled with my hormones 

sending out too many intense and unwanted stress factors. I needed to 

stabilise and at the time of considering a family, I was grateful and 

lucky enough to have had regular as clockwork periods for eighteen 

months. This was what I was aiming for, a more natural bodily 

function and then maybe an all round health would follow. 

A neighbour in the block of flats we were then living in showed us 

her baby boy in passing, and we had a conversation with her and she 

confessed that she had the help of conceiving her baby using a special 

procedure at a private fertility clinic. Seeing her baby made me even 

more clucky and broody, and after getting information about the clinic 

Barry and I had booked an initial consultation at the same clinic for 

the end of January. We paid close to £80 for the private consultation 

and as we made our nervous way to the private clinic, which was near 

Burgess Hill, we were armed and prepared for all possibilities. 

Meeting the fertility specialist, he immediately placed us at ease 

and spoke to us thoroughly and honestly for one hour, to mark out 

possible options. He took details from both of us regarding our health 

etc and explained the special drugs that may be involved, yet one 

thing that was important and that I needed to mention from the start 

was my previous nervous history. The specialist’s opinion was that I 

needed to clear myself of using tranquillisers. I had already begun to 

do this to maximise my chances at contemplating fertility treatment. 

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Firstly I would benefit from having a hysterosalpingogram 

procedure, this would determine whether my fallopian tubes were 

blocked or clear. This would cost about £100 and would be carried 

out at an Enfield hospital in the April. The specialist went on to 

explain that if my tubes were clear, then the treatment could be started 

but the pitfalls were that the drugs involved would cost privately up to 

£900 and the fertility procedure just under £2000. 

As we were both so desperate for a baby, we felt that it would be 

worth the money and prepared to scrape the money together 

somehow. The specialist Doctor explained that the burden of paying 

the enormous price of the fertility things might be reduced greatly to 

NHS charges (of about £5 an item then) if we had an understanding 

GP. With this in mind, I had a chat with my GP at the usual surgery 

that I had been going to from a small girl aged six, since moving to 

the Essex town. He promptly and honestly explained that it was not 

the policy then of the surgery to undertake such a request for the 

fertility drugs to enable my chance of conception to be started. Our 

hopes had been dashed. Although I had been under the care of this 

particular GP practice for many years, and they had borne witness to 

my nervous illness, I was not always entirely content with all of the 

team there and on occasions, a certain GP would leave me more 

stressed and coming out of the surgery in floods of tears. I made the 

conscious decision to change to another practice with another GP, 

which was located nearer to our home anyway. I signed on officially 

under my new GP in the spring of 1993 becoming the patient of a 

completely new and, finally, understanding Doctor. 

Before the actual appointment to ask the new GP about prescribing 

the drugs for the fertility treatment on NHS prescriptions to reduce the 

costs involved, one day I had a strange visitor to the front door. It 

must have been an omen. About one hour before I needed to leave for 

my appointment, I answered the door to a gypsy woman. She was 

trying her hardest to sell me heather with little bits of blue and pink 

lace borders. Eventually, I let her in the flat and as she sat on my 

pedal-bin (which she unfortunately broke) which was situated in the 

hall, she spoke of special insight into my future. Her final words 

were, 

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“Look, my love. Just buy these two little blue-ribboned lacy 

pieces… You are going to need them. You are going to become 

pregnant, my love. You will sail through your pregnancy and when 

your family is complete, there will be three other mouths to feed. I’m 

telling you, there will be a storm in your labour. Just go with it - 

you’ll have a little injection and the storm will be over. That is what I 

have to say to you.” 

I could not believe her words and I never spoke to the strange gypsy 

woman of my impending plans either, I hadn’t volunteered any 

information about babies or anything. I gave her £1 for two small 

lacy ribbons and then she left my hall and left me in a peculiar state of 

bemusement and disbelief. 

At the new GP’s consulting room some time later that same 

afternoon, my prayers were answered when he said that he would 

indeed, supply me with the drugs that I needed in order to try for a 

baby, with no hesitation. I was so pleased and happy and extra 

pleased because it was this Doctor’s opinion that he wished that in 

general, the NHS could do more in helping couples having difficulties 

conceive, and bear more of the burden of cost. Dr Frith, as he was 

called, had all my case notes and was aware of my previous 

psychiatric history including past episodes of my ‘Manic Depression’. 

As soon as I had secured the bidding and confidence of my new GP, I 

contacted the fertility specialist at the private clinic to arrange a cycle 

of treatment. Barry and I would have to pay as mentioned, just under 

£2000, which we had managed to get for the operation but the costs 

would have been much higher without the help of this most 

understanding GP. My fallopian tubes were not blocked after all and 

with this special cycle of treatment, using drugs to stimulate the 

ovaries to produce many eggs, I would have an operation involving 

eggs and sperm coming together outside the uterus during the month 

of May. Barry and I were both fully aware that the procedure had 

only a success rate of about 35%, but we had to feel optimistic that it 

would work. The only factor was, we could end up with triplets! 

Nearer my booked assisted-conception operation date, I had safely 

weaned myself off all medication including the regular injections of 

Depixol, receiving the last ‘shot’ in perhaps March of 1993. I took it 

upon myself to stay on Procyclidine for some time until I was sure the 

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tranquillisers were well and truly out of my system (and to eradicate 

unwanted withdrawal symptoms). Appointments had been made for 

me to attend the clinic of a lady locum Psychiatrist on a monthly 

basis, however with this spell of enduring well-being, I only attended 

once or twice. Other appointments were made for me yet I found that 

this wasn’t needed and when I did attend on those rare occasions, I 

had nothing of an anxious or worrying nature to pour out to the 

Doctor. My new GP had been sent a letter stating that I had missed 

meetings with the Psychiatrist, but with the continual support and 

understanding nature, he only wished the best for Barry and myself to 

be able to conceive this much-wanted child. 

Come the day of the fertility-procedure operation, Barry drove me 

to Buckhurst Hill and would need to stay for an hour whilst I was 

prepared for the delicate procedure. In my mind, I kept on thinking 

that two weeks later from that day, I could be pregnant and this was 

my focus. Going under the anaesthetic, obviously the specialist team 

had performed the procedure many times, which would include 

collecting the many eggs that my hormones had been stimulated by 

injection to produce. Sperm would be mixed with the eggs outside, in 

in-vitro fertilisation, and replaced in my uterus. When I came round 

slowly, I was informed that there had been a slight complication with 

my becoming dehydrated during the operation and that was why I had 

been attached to certain drips. The Doctor reassured me that I had 

produced some twenty good egg follicles, and that he had replaced 

three and would save some for the future, which would be kept in a 

special frozen atmosphere. 

The private hospital staff would not release me to go home until the 

drips had run through and final notes were made all before Barry was 

allowed to help get me ready to go home. Once home, I was very 

groggy for a couple of days and kept occasionally looking at my 

home pregnancy testing kit that I would use in time, to test if I had 

actually become pregnant as was the norm. The couple of weeks 

following the operation were the hardest and most anxious I needed to 

get through regarding success of the implants I had received. Would 

it be realised at all? I would just have to keep my fingers crossed and 

say a few prayers wholeheartedly. 

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On the day I was to test for pregnancy, I was very keyed up. It was 

quite early in the morning and once I had collected my water sampler 

‘wand’ and did what I was supposed to do with it, I waited for three 

long minutes to check for a positive or negative result. Horror of 

horrors, it showed negative. I was deeply upset and needed my good 

friend to comfort me and indeed, to drive me to the private clinic to 

double-check the result by way of a blood test. A few hours later, I 

was contacted at home with the news that it was definitely negative, I 

was not pregnant. The news felt like a kick in the guts for both Barry 

and myself. We went back to consult the fertility specialist and he 

suggested to us taking a holiday or something and to come back 

positive for another procedure, more straightforward involving merely 

replacing an embryo into my uterus, using a fine catheter. 

The break was exactly what we needed and the fine, sunny weather 

of Majorca left us relaxed and fit and hopefully, ready for anything. 

We had a goal in sight. About the end of July 1993, and after we had 

refreshed ourselves on holiday which really was a second honeymoon 

for us, we embarked on the embryo-transfer that had already been 

explained to both of us. Again, though, after another absolutely 

agonising two weeks wait, the result proved to be negative once more. 

Barry and I then began to doubt whether any treatment would be 

successful. We did not feel we could put ourselves through the 

anxiety again after becoming frustrated and upset at another failed 

attempt to conceive this baby. 

After such an emotional and challenging time for Barry and myself, 

we tried to put other things on hold in our minds but it had been 

finally suggested that we try an even simpler procedure to start in 

September of 1993. We would have some real hard work ahead - the 

success rate of this would be a lot lower than before but it would be 

our last chance. This alerted us and we were informed that we would 

have to set ourselves up for up to nine months of cycles-of-treatment. 

Performing these every month without a break would therefore 

increase our chances of success. 

The procedure would involve each time, stimulating egg production 

by injection and regular scanning of my uterus to check on the 

development of my eggs, to determine the exact right moment for 

conception. In August I had started a part-time cleaning job at a local 

324

social club and needed this to keep me in a routine and steadily 

focused. The main benefit from the job was increasing confidence 

and a renewed sense of self-worth and I was fairly happy in the 

knowledge that I was contributing a little to the household and to our 

expenses of private treatment that would need financing. It wouldn’t 

all have to fall on Barry’s shoulders. I never spent my wages during 

the whole time I worked there, I just let it mount up as money to be 

able to use around Christmas time or to help pay for the continuing 

treatment. 

The treatment in earnest began in September, I would receive my 

special injections from the Nurse at the GP surgery and have my 

uterine scans booked in the mornings to fit around my work in the 

afternoons. What also had crossed my mind was that I had gone from 

clerical-secretary to a Mrs Mop! I never once felt that cleaning was 

beneath me and tried to concentrate on more of a positive outlook for 

Barry as much as for myself. 

When the actual day arrived for the first attempt at the procedure, I 

was quite nervous as I did not know what to expect. However, the 

specialist was extremely reassuring and made me feel as comfortable 

as possible throughout the attempt. After the statutory two weeks 

wait, the result was negative for the third time. Barry and I were still 

fully resigned to keep trying until we conceived together eventually. I 

would have the treatment done in the morning and still go to work and 

clean in the evening. The next ‘try’ would fall in November and we 

were agonising over this yet again. We had everything crossed, not 

just our fingers, in the hopes that it would work. 

This particular time though, in November, about one week after the 

procedure, I had come home from work and sat down on the sofa and 

could not move for half an hour due to an excruciating pain in my 

lower right side, in the abdominal area. Then, when I had done the 

usual test and the fourth result was another negative - once more my 

period showed. Perhaps the weirdest thing about my menstrual period 

at that time, was that the bleeding was very scanty and only lasted for 

two days. Nevertheless, it was straight on to the December cycle of 

treatment and it was during a visit to the clinic that the lady doctor 

scanning my ovaries confirmed that I had definitely not conceived but 

strangely asked me if I would be geared up for twins. She had never 

325

said this before, and I wondered whether she may have had an inkling 

that the attempt may work the very next time. I had just celebrated 

my 32 nd birthday in early December and was looking forward to an 

early Christmas celebration party in Town by the company my 

husband was working for. (Remembering that my treatment was 

carried out in the middle of December and I would have to wait for 

two weeks before I could test for a possible pregnancy). 

My last evening to work before the Christmas holiday break was on 

Christmas Eve, and a little earlier in the month, we had gone to 

Barry’s family in South Wales to ferry the Christmas presents home 

to his mother etc. Christmas was on the whole, well-planned. My 

beloved Gran would be with Barry and me for Christmas Dinner and 

on Boxing Day, whilst Gran would visit her own friends, the rest of 

my family would come for dinner - this would include mum and dad, 

Suzanne with Andrew and the children. 

Barry and I opened our presents on Christmas Day itself and when 

Gran arrived, she opened hers and loved the ones we had given her. 

Dinner was excellent and after the three of us partook of pudding and 

a few mince pies, we settled down especially to watch the Queen’s 

speech. Once we had all chatted most of the rest of the day, Barry 

took my Gran home. In his car and whilst he was gone, I fancied 

something spicy and found a box of pizza snacks from our Christmas 

hamper. I ate the whole box of the savoury snacks in five minutes 

flat! They seemed extra tasty to me somehow. Maybe it was wrong 

for me to do so, but I sneakily did a pregnancy test about five days 

before I should have done. 

This time, when I had waited the full three minutes, I could see a 

very faint greyish line in the result window on the urine test-sampler. 

Asking Suzanne to double-check my discovery on Boxing Day, as I 

showed her the test-sampler, she said that she could vaguely see 

something as well but for me not to raise my hopes up. 

On the morning of the 29 th December 1993, at about 7am, I 

proceeded to take the sampler out of the packet and undertake another 

test. I placed the ‘wand’ under the flow of urine for the required five 

seconds and then held it for a few moments before placing it down on 

my bedside table. Something was appearing after only one and a half 

minutes, a clear blue line could be seen in the result ‘window’. The 

326

esult was positive! I was pregnant at last! Barry looked at it and 

began jumping around with glee and made me a cup of tea in a mug, 

but when I looked in the mug, there was no tea in it! That was the 

extent of his excitement probably and we carried on doing other silly 

wayward things on that morning. Barry and I were literally whooping 

about and the two of us were on a cloud nine for ages. I saw my GP 

on that very same morning at 9am. He suggested that I wait to begin 

antenatal care, once the pregnancy had been duly confirmed by the 

specialist at the private clinic who had helped us. 

Within two days of the test, I telephoned the private clinic and they 

happily told me that I should attend for a special scan at about six 

weeks into the pregnancy and then again, at twelve weeks. Attending 

the clinic in Buckhurst Hill for the first scan, I needed to relax and the 

scan was conducted up and into the vagina via a special cone-shaped 

probe. This was a highly technical piece of scanning equipment that 

the clinic regularly used as well as the normal ultrasound scanner. 

The specialist confirmed and indicated on the screen that I was 

indeed, expecting a baby. It was there in black and white this time! 

On moving the vaginal ultrasound around, he further confirmed that 

Barry and I were, in fact, going to be the parents of twins. Barry burst 

into tears of joy and took his glasses off his face, and let the emotion 

just carry him. Unfortunately though, the specialist then detected a 

third embryo that was nearly missed. It was so small in comparison 

with the other two shadows on the screen, this other little mite would 

not make it. This third embryo as was explained, would disintegrate 

within my body most probably by the twelve-week scan. The twins 

would be what is known as paternal twins. That is they each had their 

own individual fluid-filled embryonic sac and own umbilical cords 

attached to the placenta. Identical twins are the result when a 

fertilised egg splits in two and forms then implants sharing one 

embryonic sac. Non-identical twins, as I would then be expecting 

though I wouldn’t know the sex, would be the result of two eggs 

being fertilised by two separate sperm and occupying their own sac as 

I have mentioned. 

Seeing my GP for a special appointment, he told me that the 

fertility clinic had confirmed with their delight that I had conceived 

twins, by letter, and that he would formally fill in forms etc for my 

327

outine ante-natal care. Dr Frith then explained a little of the changes 

I might expect within my body and informed me that a mid-wife 

would call on me. When she called round, I was told that I would 

need a blood test at l5 weeks gestation and a routine scan (a structure 

scan) at about 18 weeks to establish an all-round assessment of my 

babies’ physical development. Things were happening and it was the 

start of a surprisingly healthy pregnancy. 

328

Chapter Twenty-Nine 

At five months into the pregnancy, I felt marvelous and to relax I 

would listen to lots of music and maybe pen some poems and short 

stories. A feeling of being very aware of my environment surrounded 

me, so much so that sometimes, I could detect a presence with me in 

the flat, even though there was nobody there but me until Barry came 

home from work. This feeling came in the form of increased 

sensitivity with my emotions and thinking a great deal of the people I 

loved who I had lost, and then quietly reflecting on my little miracle 

approaching after many upheavals and bad times during my life. 

One day when I had gone to the town-centre with Gran to look at 

prams, as we crossed the square leading to the baby-store, my sight 

was immediately drawn to an estate-agent’s window which was just 

next to the store. All my sense of time stopped for some brief 

moments and I could not believe what I saw. I turned to Gran and 

said, 

“Look Gran… look over there next to the baby shop. Can you see 

him?” 

“See who, love? Where are you looking, over there?” she pointed 

with her index finger to where I was gazing. 

“I’m looking but I can’t see anyone standing there, Marie.” 

“It’s uncle, Gran. Dad’s brother. I’m seeing him now. I… I don’t 

believe it!” 

For some brief yet somehow equally eternal and divine moments, I 

saw my dead uncle (who had died not long before) standing casually 

outside of the estate agent’s, looking in and then ending his gaze upon 

me. I could pick out his features as I had known him in life, and 

perceived that he now looked as though he had put on weight and 

appeared a healthy stature. He was wearing a favourite pair of bike 

jeans and a casual shirt with no tie, and as I was witness to this, he 

was holding and enjoying a roll-up cigarette (just as he used to). 

Uncle, whom I was staring in amazement at, did not utter any words 

but seemed happy and relaxed. 

329

But then, inexplicably, his form disappeared right before me. I had 

seen the supposed ghost of my departed step-uncle. This promoted a 

deep conversation with my Gran and did not end until we had finished 

our afternoon in the town-centre, looking at prams and buying pieces 

for my unborn babies. What did strike me was that uncle was not in 

some kind of hazy smoke or laughing at me, whilst holding chains 

and trying to frighten me, but just appearing as solid as he was in life, 

not what you might read in some accounts about ghosts. Gran left me 

with the thought that my sensitivity had come full-circle and could 

probably have been coming on for years, even from a small child. 

She never used the word ‘psychic’ but told me briefly about an 

incident that had happened when I was five years old. 

Apparently, when she took me on a bus for a short journey down 

Hounslow high street in West London, another passenger on the bus 

was a short and silver-haired old man perched on the edge of the bus 

seat. Looking at him intently, as Gran recalled, she noticed me bend 

forward and looking at the man’s hands, which were badly scarred, I 

said to him, as I looked at his hands, 

“Do they hurt you?” 

The stranger looked down at me and quietly smiled and uttered, 

“Not any more”. 

Gran then went on to recall that the man was in fact, a survivor of 

the horrors of the Second World War. He could regularly be seen out 

and about in Hounslow. This man had been tortured on a 

concentration camp, the perpetrators had disfigured his hands by 

ripping off his nails. This was one of many anecdotes that Gran 

would tell me, with even more vigour than before because I had the 

time and lots of patience during my pregnancy. 

During my routine scans, the attending Doctors were content that 

the overall bone-structure and formation of my unborn babies was 

excellent. However, I was worried as well as tense and needed the 

reassurance of the medical profession mainly due to previous 

accidents with prescribed drugs. Would my kidneys carry the burden 

of the babies and not fail me? Save for the reassurance, I still 

possessed an anxiety surrounding my burning myself which I had 

always put down to dangerous reactions coming out of drugs that 

maybe I should not have been taking in conjunction with others, 

330

although I didn’t know which ones spelt the danger. Although I did 

not like it, Dr Frith had written in large letters on the top of my 

antenatal notes, something on the lines of - “ALERT - SETTING 

HERSELF ALIGHT”. 

When I needed to sit with my notes at the surgery, I would always 

hold the antenatal card down so that nobody could read this alert 

message. Yet as I sat many times waiting for different and vital 

aspects of antenatal care, which is important for all women, my mind 

settled down about the big red letters on the card. Dr Frith must have 

made a conscious decision to help me at some point as I would not 

have got that far, nearing the arrival of the twins. He did say to me 

initially when I first met him that despite my turbulent past, that I was 

sufficiently well at that time to consider a family. I had also put 

myself on Folic Acid tablets about two months before I was 

confirmed as pregnant. Up till the three months mark, to ensure that 

those tiny dots in my tummy would have the best start. 

Morning sickness consisted of just two bouts of eating a lunch for 

example and then having to run to the bathroom and throw up. It 

hardly had an effect on me at all. I was lucky. My skin and nails 

including my hair seemed brighter and sex was not a problem, just a 

bit awkward as I got larger until I was the size of half a house. 

Perhaps the bugbear during the time was night time cramp in both 

legs. I had cramp quite severely and each night I’d wake and shout 

and shout, the neighbours might have thought it was the sounds of 

passion but it wasn’t - just pregnancy cramping pains. 

I was gaining weight and ended up at around 14 stone, could hardly 

fit in the bath and I actually broke the toilet seat with my weight, 

when once relieving myself! 

At 36 weeks pregnant, during a final scan, the black Doctor in 

charge of my care, suggested that I come into Maternity on Sunday 

evening of the 14 th August 1994, to be induced for labour and 

hopefully deliver the babies some time on the Monday. This was the 

labour, would I get through it, would I be the most difficult and 

hopeless mother and scream the place down? Yes, I did scream the 

place down eventually. My mother saw me a short time before I was 

booked to go into hospital and said that I looked strong and radiant to 

331

walk into Maternity. (Yet I did not walk out of Maternity looking 

stunning and radiant, I can tell you). 

After nearly 13 hours of a very painful labour, where I had the use 

of gas and air and nearly three epidurals for pain relief, which Emma 

the midwife wasn’t happy with its introduction into my spine cavity, 

two babies were born. One popped out and began screaming at about 

7pm and the pains came again whilst the other baby wanted to get out, 

and arrived some twenty minutes later. I needed an assisted delivery, 

as I had become very exhausted, and the again, black Doctor used a 

kind of suction-cup to help me push the babies out. 

Phew! What a day, on the 15 th August 1994! Being torn during the 

delivery, the Doctor sutured me and said he would do a good job and 

give me my shape back - what a darling man, I could have kissed him. 

But then, that day, I could have kissed and hugged everyone - I was 

so blissfully happy and contended. Two baby boys and I had brought 

them into this world and that was when I realised what life was really 

about. 

Our sons were jaundiced at birth and needed attention under a 

special lamp but other than that they were absolutely fine, just a little 

small but not requiring care in an incubator located in the special care 

baby unit. 

For several days following their birth, I could not settle any time for 

sleep whatsoever. I’d say to myself at various intervals, “Oh well 

then that’s 48 hours without any sleep. When will I sleep - when will 

I rest?” A Doctor had called to see me after four days to check with 

me whether I was feeling OK as regards my mental wellbeing and 

(although physically exhausted) explained that I felt fine in that way 

but mentioned my complete lack of sleep. He made some notes but 

was satisfied in his opinion that I was mentally sound. I did not feel 

at that precise time that I’d need further Psychiatric support. Anyway, 

hopefully I would be going home with our sons as soon as their 

jaundice had subsided. 

On the 19 th August 1994, our 5 th wedding anniversary, I was still in 

Maternity with the babies by my side going through the routine of 

feeding and bathing them with some assistance. Being it was a 

Friday, I thought that after all the checks etc and now that our sons’ 

jaundice was not a problem, I could go home but that was not going to 

332

happen. After various members of my family visited clutching cards 

and a few celebratory balloons, I kept a front up - I was completely 

knackered and was still counting the days that I had no sleep 

whatsoever. 

When Barry had left me after visiting on Friday afternoon, the day 

sped by. Finally, after sneaking a couple of puffs on a cigarette just 

outside the door to the post-natal ward, I locked the door for the 

maternity staff and would make an effort to settle for sleep that night 

by hook or by crook. How long could this go on? I hadn’t even had 

any naps of any sort. I had given birth to twins and needed the usual 

rest, but I had consciously counted nearing six days and nights 

without respite. Were the maternity staff keeping me under their 

wing until I had rested properly? When oh when was I going to go 

home if I couldn’t sleep in hospital? I was sure that I could sleep for 

a couple of days if I was released to go home with Barry and our new 

family. 

On about the stroke of midnight, I really thought I might close my 

eyes and drift off. Being the middle of August, the weather even that 

night was heavy and sultry. I lay on top of my bed looking at my sons 

in their cots. I had my curtains drawn around me and the curtain over 

the outer window was drawn as far as it could go. I remember 

looking at the moon one more time, which I could just see through a 

chink in the curtain. A peculiar sensation came over me and I put it 

down to hormones after the birth and recall looking towards the 

window again. 

Shockingly, I was suddenly met by the sight of a strange man 

peering in at me via the outer window. A few seconds of disbelief 

and then I screamed out, “AHHHGH - HEEEELP SOMEONE, 

THERE’S A MAN OUTSIDE - THERE’S A MAN HEEEELPP!’ 

When the woman in the next bed heard me, she yelled and ran for 

help at the nurses station whilst I instinctively dived over to cover my 

babies. Another young mother must have been feeding her baby 

quietly at that time as at the moment of my screaming, she somehow 

wrapped her and her baby in the curtains surrounding her bed. Then 

there was a lot of action on the ward that night. A lady had gone to 

my window to check the peeping tom had gone. He was hanging 

around but was picked up eventually by security. But as the lady was 

333

checking all was OK just outside the window, and as I was going 

through shock, the man was grunting and making horrible noises. My 

back was killing me as I had lurched from my bed to end up 

spread-eagled covering the cots. 

Half an hour later after the incident, I was having a cup of tea with 

some other shocked mothers, feeling safe sitting with them and the 

array of night maternity-staff. This incident left me in floods of tears 

and was the last straw being that I was almost nearing much-needed 

sleep. I would not sleep at all then, would the peeping tom come 

back? They reassured me that he had been picked up and marched off 

the hospital grounds and I began to recall his features during the 

moments he had obviously been watching me even before I turned my 

head on the pillow and yelled when I saw him. A horrific picture of 

him gelled in my mind, during the moments he was a few feet away 

behind the window. It was definitely NOT the same man that 

everyone had commented of having been found in Maternity 

reception area, trying to get a coke from the machine. Apparently, 

this man had been making a general nuisance of himself and ended up 

trying to drag blankets through the children’s ward windows. The 

man I saw, from what I could make out in a few seconds, was wearing 

a dark leather jacket, had darkish curly hair with a beard and 

side-burns and was smoking a cigarette. How long had he been 

planing to scare me? The consequences could have been much worse 

as you could imagine. 

For the weekend, and as Barry was made aware of the incident with 

the stranger, I was moved to a single room where Barry could stay 

with me at night if he wanted to. Still I could not attempt sleep and 

grew more and more exhausted. Physically. Spending two nights 

with Barry in the special room with our babies, I began to feel 

strange. At the request of the maternity staff, my GP Dr Frith was 

called to see me. Then to my dismay, two Psychiatrists were at my 

bedside to determine if I needed help in that way. As I had been 

deprived of sleep for then, seven days and complete nights as I told 

them, anyone would be talking and acting irrationally. They with 

their infinite wisdom decided that I would benefit from moving to the 

Psyche ward but I just kept shouting and saying, “I just want to go to 

bloody sleep, can’t anyone understand?” 

334

It was down to Dr Frith who asked me finally, 

“Do you want to go and have a few days rest over there? I know it 

is not what you want, but I promise, it’ll only be for a few days. 

Come on, Marie, tell me”. 

I gave in and answered swiftly, 

“Yes I suppose you had better take me, but hurry Dr Frith, I feel I 

am close to collapse!” 

“I’ll get you in this wheelchair and push you over there myself”. 

There was then an emotional scene of my husband having to say 

goodbye to me and escort my week-old sons home with my sister, 

Suzanne. My mum was running behind Dr Frith as he was swiftly 

pushing me in the wheelchair from Maternity to the Psychiatric Unit. 

Going through the side entrance to the Unit, a social worker whom I 

had been under the care of some time previously, Emma, was also 

running alongside. I looked up at her and thought to myself, is she 

going to be my social worker again? The words that came out of my 

mouth then just hurled from nowhere and were automatic - “Tina, 

TINA, Tina died on the 5 th September. Tina died on the 5 th 

September!” 

What was going on? Tina disappeared and ran off after I had 

uttered those words. Dr Frith then had the job of transferring me over 

to the acute admissions ward. One that I knew only too well. What 

was more strange was that later at home, after a period of time when 

Dr Frith had called to check on me and the babies, he’d admitted that 

he couldn’t believe it but Tina’s husband, (whom 1 had been shouting 

about on my transfer) had lost her husband exactly one year before on 

the date I had been screaming out at her. This must have been 

controversial and also difficult for my GP to admit and yet more 

difficult for me to hear and indeed, accept. 

335

Chapter Thirty 

The few days rest as promised by Dr Frith lengthened into exactly 

what I didn’t want, a 28-day Mental Health Act Section. 1 would be 

under the care of Dr Maniels as I had been before. I would not 

remember much of what happened within the first three days of being 

on the ward, as I had been given an intravenous drug to put me to 

sleep almost immediately. On gradually waking up from this 

controlled and monitored sleep therapy, my legs were heavy and 

when I tried to speak, my jaws were stuck and I could not articulate 

any words for a while. 

Nutrition was to be sorted out forthwith and yes, the powers that be 

had placed me on tranx once again. What a pitiful sight people saw of 

me wandering around the ward, my two-week old sons were being 

cared for by Barry and my mother, whilst I was screaming and 

wailing all over the place, 

“My babies, my babies - I want to cuddle my babies - where are 

they, I WANT MY BABIES!” 

Post Natal Depression had been diagnosed but I attacked this and 

explained to Doctors that any human being with no sleep for a week 

would have been acting and taking irrationally. The hospital had 

caught me again. I had got myself sufficiently healthy and off 

medication to fall pregnant and remained healthy during the 

pregnancy, happily walking into Maternity to be induced for delivery 

and after a week, being whisked over to my favourite place, the acute 

Psychiatric Ward. Didn’t that just take the biscuit! It seemed to me 

that whenever I had reached a level of life going well and a 

sustainable happiness, the Psyche department would cut me back 

down to size each time. Many times I had the thought of the staff 

saying nearing every three-year period, probably delusionally, 

“Oh - we haven’t had Marie in for a while, let’s get her in here and 

we can all take a look at her”. 

Also, I had a very good friend that had nervous problems, and I had 

‘done time’ with her over the years in there, who had a baby and they 

336

plonked her in the Psychiatric Ward ten days after she had delivered 

the baby girl. 

With this particular time in hospital, I had many heated rows with 

all levels of the staff regarding them dishing me out with medication 

that I felt was unsuitable for me. A couple of drugs in question that I 

knew were not right for me. Even Dr Frith was annoyed and declared 

his opinion as he agreed that I should not be given Fluphenthixol or 

Haloperidol. Suzanne divulged to me that Dr Frith had raced up to 

the Ward and had a go, 

“What are you giving her? I have told you NOT to dispense her 

with THAT drug!” 

What I obviously should have been getting was something 

Maternity called a ‘Codis cocktail’ of pain-killers etc, dispensed for 

easing back-pain and associated disorders after giving birth. For 

Christ’s sake, I thought and fought, I have been OK’d for pain-killers 

for my bad back, I’ve just bloody well given birth to twins and you’re 

not giving me what I should naturally have and feeding me all kinds 

of tranquillisers. I’d scream and shout the place down. Sometimes in 

anger at the staff and in distress because I missed my baby sons. 

I would noticeably walk around bent-double with severe back-pain 

and be denied Codis cocktail and plied with all the things that would 

not suit my system. How cruel! A male patient had the sufficient 

mentality to realise that I was needing pain-relief after the birth 

experience. He made a compress for my back in full view of the staff, 

after they had witnessed and took no notice, mind, of me walking 

about in the early hours of the morning, clutching my aching back. 

What did anger me was that they thought I was putting the symptoms 

on, how could I be - I’d just had a long and difficult labour. “OK, 

Marie - OK we’ll give you something later,” then just when I thought 

the bloody stupid nurses were understanding me, one nurse came to 

me at what, four o’clock in the morning and offered me none other 

than a Haloperidol tablet. I told her to stuff it and demanded pain 

relief. 

Even though I was a Sectioned patient, Dr Maniels gave special 

discretionary measures for me to have nights home and several days 

at a time. However, this being wonderful, was not quite the package I 

wanted because I’d have and hold my young baby sons and would 

337

have to leave them again. This coming and going was emotionally 

draining and ruined the natural bonding process. But it was like, 

you’re full up with drugs but hey, go now and care for your sons! 

How could anyone devote their time doped up like that - it was a 

Catch 22 situation? 

There was talk of my going with my sons to a special Mother and 

Baby Unit somewhere in Watford, for me to be monitored with my 

babies! I categorically refused this and stood fast to finish the blasted 

28-day Section, keep my nose to the grindstone, swallow the damn 

tablets whilst keeping my mouth shut and thus effect my formal 

discharge which was in September 1994. I would need to attend a 

special Discharge Ward Round with a Psychiatrist, my GP (who was 

none too pleased to attend) various members of the care team, a social 

worker and one lady that I was unfamiliar with. Barry would need to 

be at the meeting too. 

At the meeting, everyone was gawping at me and then the all too 

familiar whir of words associated with ‘release’ were upon me. 

Answering articulately all of their concerned questions, the person 

leading the meeting had asked me if there was anyone in the Ward 

Round that I was not familiar with, and I pointed at one lady sitting 

half-way in the semi-circle of professionals gathered. She had been 

scowling at me throughout the hearing while taking notes - I indicated 

out loud that I did not know her. An atmosphere emanating from her 

distinctively favoured in the negative towards me. This particular 

lady though I would never quite catch her name would later play a 

part in my sons’ immediate future. 

After completing the formalities, I was discharged on the promise 

that I would continue with prescribed medication and I would be 

assigned a social worker to help sort out the relevant social security 

benefits etc and generally help. I welcomed this and agreed to a 

second review of my welfare to take place one month from my 

discharge. Barry was allowed special leave from his job to stay with 

me for a couple of weeks, but was nearing the time to go back to work 

and the hospital were concerned about me coping alone with the 

babies. I was coping as best I could and waited for the social worker 

to come round for help and filling in forms etc (as promised). Instead, 

there was a grand knock at the door one sunny afternoon and I let into 

338

the flat a social worker named Lesley. She wasn’t an ordinary social 

worker but an official of the Social Services Children and Families 

team. Lesley made this the first of many visits that month and had her 

trusty clip-board with her on most occasions. I felt obligated to go 

along with these seemingly polite and helpful chats with Lesley. 

Through her I was assigned a personal helper, Sandy, to help on odd 

days with the babies. 

The whole situation turned horribly sour when sometime in October 

1994, I received a letter stating that our sons, whom we had named 

Michael and Edward, were possibly going to be placed on the Essex 

‘AT RISK’ Register. This letter went on to say that we could attend a 

special meeting to decide the outcome of our sons. As I remember, 

the meeting was on practically the same day as my mother’s birthday. 

For some good reason, we did not attend the meeting with Social 

Services and several days after, received a letter stating that Michael 

and Edward were officially on the ‘AT RISK’ Register within the 

category of possible ‘neglect’. This letter literally ripped both Barry 

and myself apart. It hit us hard like a low punch. The two ladies’ last 

words, responsible for the two signatures required for placing our 

sons on this ‘register’ were none other than Lesley and the unfamiliar 

lady I had mentioned who was present at my discharge meeting. (I 

suspected that she might have it in for me by the way she scowled at 

me). 

Once Lesley had come around on a regular basis, the interference 

became worse and produced great stress and tension within our home 

and to both our families. They simply could not understand the 

underhanded way that Barry and I had been treated. Of course, I 

would never neglect or attempt to ‘hurt’ my own sons. I would tell 

Lesley from Social Services to her face that on looking around the 

way I kept the flat and with all the baby equipment etc, did it really 

look as though I was geared up to neglect or God forbid, hurt my own 

tiny babies? She would often just pretend to listen. 

At the several meetings to discuss some hideous reports made on 

myself with my sons, (which had been constructed from visits from 

Lesley, Sandy the support worker, my health visitor and eventually a 

Community Psychiatric Nurse, I did not stand a chance with battling 

against the ‘AT RISK’ categorising neglect). I would be sent copies 

339

of all reports made on our home life and found this a most baffling 

procedure and outcome. A couple of things that were absolutely not 

true were signed and countersigned by these biased individuals, one 

that I “had left Edward on the floor and neglected to continue to clean 

and change him”. I found this a most scandalous statement to 

comprehend. There was even a reference made to sound like a Great 

Judgement that the toys I had made available for my sons were “not in 

keeping with their development”. 

The stress of Social Services interference did take its toll upon 

Barry and myself, and I was yet to be surprised when a new 

Community Psychiatric Nurse called around unexpectedly without 

appointment. He was genuinely from the hospital team but I had no 

indication from anyone back in the hospital that I would have to resort 

to weekly injections again. By the end of the initial visit from the 

CPN, he had introduced himself - proceeded to talk things over with 

me and by the end of his surprise visit, I’d bent over and was the 

recipient of a rather sorely given syringe of a drug named Piportil. It 

was explained that I had not had it before and they had forgotten to 

state that receiving this medication was part of the deal of my being 

given the discharge off the 28-day Section. Piportil would act like 

Depixol, in that it would keep my moods level, so that I would not get 

too low or too high (hyper). 

Week after week, my CPN would administer these jabs. Then as 

Social Services had rather pulled Barry’s hands behind his back and 

suggested he give up his job to look after the babies and me, I later 

found out by accident that if he had not given up his job to ‘look after 

me’ at that delicate time, the babies may have been entirely removed 

from our hands. That made me angry when this fact came out. 

Eventually, after constant battling and talking it out with certain 

people, Michael and Edward were only on the ‘AT RISK’ Register 

for a period of just under one year. That was one hell of a year. 

Barry and I celebrated when the day came on which our beloved sons 

were taken off this list. It was a hard slog and an uphill climb but we 

remained as calm as we could under immense pressure and could only 

look forward after some difficult times with what appeared as biased 

and prejudiced opinion from the sources mentioned. When I was 

settling at home yet still amongst the emotional trauma of various 

340

odies interfering, I did as much as I could possibly do in caring for 

Michael and Edward’s first needs. That is, bathing and changing 

nappies – every aspect. 

Back pain was a problem I endured for several months after their 

arrival and initially although I had two cots set up in our bedroom for 

the babies, we placed them top to tail in just one cot for a while. One 

night I was laying down my head to rest at possibly two or three in the 

morning (whilst Barry was sound asleep beside me) when a spark of a 

thought came from somewhere of my being just aware of John the 

Baptist. Looking round the bedroom and turning on my side to check 

the babies in their cots, I was not frightened but the intensity of the 

presence of John the Baptist threw me a little. I could not visibly see 

him but I knew he was near me. Moments later, my eyes were still 

fully open, I could make out two tiny little cherub-like entities 

hovering above me and eventually making their way to the facing 

bedroom wall. Their skin was like alabaster, pure and untouched and 

if I remember - they possessed silvery-white tiny wings. After this, 

all I can explain is that the cherubs took me away somewhere. I 

thought I was just asleep but in fact I would be coming out of an Out 

of the Body Experience. 

A major one I might add. The sensation I felt after the John the 

Baptist awareness, followed by the cherubs flitting about was one I 

will never forget. I had been ‘somewhere’ eternal and it felt like the 

ecstasy of this experience would need to be erased somewhat as the 

next thing, I found myself laying in the shape of a cross, that is legs 

and feet pointing down as usual and my arms with palms outstretched. 

The feeling I was allowed to enjoy to the full was an experience of 

coming down vertically through the evening heavens, down and down 

through the roof of the flats and through each ceiling. As I was 

coming down slowly, the cool air I was cutting through with the 

weight of my body felt truly wonderful and delicious. I was not 

frightened and then whoosh I landed back in the shell of my own 

body, but at the precise moment of coming back, my babies were 

cooing and crying at me as they had a major wee in their nappies and 

had soaked the cot. 

Barry was still sound asleep, so I happily and calmly tended the 

babies, cleaned and fed them and completely changed the cot sheets. 

341

I spent the rest of that night in a state of tranquillity and inner peace, 

as I kept going over and over in my mind the cool air as I was brought 

back down to earth. If this ever happens to you, the reader, don’t be 

afraid - you will love the feeling of coming down as if in the safe 

palm of an enormous hand and experiencing the cool and scented air 

of the heavens. 

342

Chapter Thirty-One 

Even though I was allowed to experience this ecstasy, I found that 

after several nights - I needed to sleep with my night-light on as I 

began to have frightening feelings. One of those eerie nights, I had to 

wake Barry up and practically get him to hold me down as I had the 

horrible sensation of being ensnared by a huge spider the size of the 

room. Mum reckoned that this was not unlike the kind of ‘trip’ that 

would occur with an illicit drug, perhaps heroin. I do not know what 

it was exactly but the night with the enormous spider scared the shit 

out of me! By the time of the boys’ first birthday in August 1995, we 

had been living in a neat terraced council home for about four months. 

The house was in the older part of the Essex town and we put the 

finishing touches by decorating etc to make our house into a nice little 

home for our children and the two of us. Our home has two bedrooms 

and we live there still. The children as expected came off the ‘AT 

RISK’ register but by the beginning of 1991 I began to feel a little 

low and depressed yet again. 

The way I knew that I was going down again was because my 

appetite was failing, I started losing a lot of weight and would take 

maybe an hour to consume two pieces of toast. Money worries were 

on my mind and I blew them up out of all proportion and physically 

started to have palpitations with my heart action. Being under the 

care of a new psychiatrist, a fairly young and extremely polite man 

whom I came to know as Simon, he decided to give me the drug 

Propanalol, which is a beta-blocker to help combat such palpitations. 

But then a bombshell dropped in the family anyway, Barry’s Queenie 

and my beloved mother-in-law had been diagnosed with terminal 

bone cancer. The specialists explained to the family that if she had 

part of one of her legs amputated, this might give her more time. Yet 

she would need chemotherapy and was extremely ill and went 

through a bone biopsy, which would provide the precise diagnosis and 

treatment. 

Worrying about Barry and his heartbreak of his mum’s cancer, 

money worries and other niggly things, I went into hospital for a 

343

two-week rest. This was hurried by Simon, my Doctor, as for some 

time I had been waking up in the mornings feeling very panicky as if I 

was on the gasping down-ride of a roller-coaster ride leaving my 

stomach in knots. Six months later, during 1996 1 had another 

two-week stint in the hospital, around September time in fact. Feeling 

so low and frustrated I stupidly threw myself down the stairs at home 

when the balance of my mind was most disturbed and badly bruised 

my back, arms and legs. Then, by chance, a lady Psychiatrist wanted 

to get me off Propanalol, as in her opinion, being on them for longer 

than a year could possibly exacerbate depression, i.e. make it worse. 

It was also around this time that I was summoned for a brain scan and 

they found a small cyst on my pituitary gland within my brain. It 

would not kill me, or act like a tumour, but the whole time was deeply 

worrying for everybody. In time the small cyst would disappear. 

Because I was concerned about my eating habits and failing weight 

(I was practically surviving on heat-up dinners) Simon, my shrink 

arranged for some tests, firstly a barium meal to detect if there was 

anything going wrong with my digestive and stomach system. The 

results proved there was nothing wrong there. I then went to a 

London hospital to have a Bone Density examination. This turned out 

to be OK as well. On reflection, once the depression began to lift, my 

moods became more level and in the end, my appetite came back to 

normal and I gained weight. Christmas 1996 was just around the 

corner and after the mentioned two-week stay in hospital, I visited my 

GP, Dr Frith and generally felt quite a lot fitter and better. One of my 

Christmas presents in 1996, was a Simply Red cassette tape. This 

was chosen for me by Terry (Barry’s cousin) who was more like a 

brother anyway. Actually, it was probably Terry’s grand-daughter 

Rhianne who chose the tape for me. I didn’t really go much for what 

my first husband, Stephen, said was a middle of the road kind of pop 

group. Ironically, as I was always from the age of seven fooling 

around with making tapes of family get-togethers and reading 

passages from books for my Granddad, I conducted an interview on 

tape in about 1986. On this particular tape, I questioned my maternal 

Gran, my first mother-in-law and finally my first husband, who died 

so tragically in 1987. 

344

It was strange finding the tape and listening to it again especially 

when Stephen was mucking about doing Marlon Brando and a variety 

of impressions from celebrities. Listening to the dialogue from 

Stephen, he had the opinion that Simply Red would go a long way 

and sustain their popularity because of the band’s ability to appeal to 

all audiences, young and old - not conforming to one particular 

musical genre. Stephen’s mother, however, thought that the pop star 

Paul Young of those years in the 80’s had “gone all druggy” yet I 

suppose because of her years was not always sure of what was in or 

out, bless her. Of course, the front singer of Simply Red is Mick 

Hucknall and I remember always finding the song ‘Holding Back the 

Years’ a most haunting and apt track of my life, if you like. The 

words that struck home within the song’s lyrics were - “Strangled by 

the wishes of Pater… Hoping for the arms of Mater”. Even though I 

had the tape as a present, I put it to one side and never bothered with 

it for several months. Then I probably listened to a couple of tracks, 

but got a bit fed up with it and switched it off. Suzanne’s husband, 

Andrew, liked Simply Red and I remember thinking, well if he likes 

them they must be OK. At the time, I enjoyed music from Wet Wet 

Wet, Bruce Springsteen and Bryan Adams and my old favourites were 

The Eagles. But later, Simply Red would simply blow me away and 

in a big way. That’s another story. 

When the New Year of 1997 emerged, I was feeling more normal 

and held a real strong conviction that the year would be better for all 

but as time would tell, something terrible happened in 1997 and 

would affect us all - no matter who we were or were not. Things 

began to calm down during the latter part of 1996 and the beginning 

of 1997 - I was 35 years old and had two demanding toddlers to keep 

me on my toes and they certainly did. What I did next though was 

probably quite deceitful. Because I still kept my appointments with 

Simon, my shrink, with the words that I was still taking the 

medication all the while, I was not taking them and after one year off 

tranx again, I eventually came clean to Simon that I had stopped. He 

was not angry with me, in fact he was the opposite. Simon actually 

agreed that I may just have cracked it with my mental wellbeing and 

even commented that he could not see a situation arising with any 

injections again. 

345

Throughout 1997 and free of pills, I felt never better and was 

turning my thoughts to the coming General Election after John Major 

had given up being the front man for the Conservatives. As we all 

know, in May of 1997, Tony Blair became Prime Minister and we 

would have a ‘New Labour’. 

I used my vote wisely as many times when there was a vote of 

some kind, I always seemed to be in the nutty ward and hadn’t voted 

as many times as I should have over the years between 1979 and 

onwards. 

The world was ripped apart in August 1997, to be precise, on the 

31 st of that month. Switching on the bedroom TV fairly early on that 

Sunday morning, Barry was shaking me and telling me that reports 

were coming through that our Princess Diana had been killed in a 

Paris car crash. That must have been the absolute worst Sunday of 

everyone’s lives. We had the TV going all day, which was devoted to 

Diana, who had, indeed, died in tragic circumstances. My thoughts 

were, 

“Oh no… not Diana. Please not Diana”. 

Writing in the book of remembrances that abounded everywhere, I 

wrote that the world had lost its most precious jewel. On the day of 

her funeral, and hearing some of the women wailing and calling her 

name, I broke my heart and sobbed and sobbed. I prayed so hard for 

Diana. I prayed to Jesus that would he let the world witness a miracle 

that would be seen by everyone. My prayer was that Diana would let 

us know where she was somehow or even come back among us. We 

all loved and adored her, even through her difficult times and Barry 

felt the shock too. Bless him. He watched the skies for signs that the 

Princess of Wales’ body would fly over us and he was so sure that it 

did. Barry cried bitterly and when I telephoned my sister, she was in 

shock just as everyone in the world was. How could this have 

happened? I think a large piece of all our hearts was ripped out when 

Diana passed away. Barry’s mother and the rest of his family were 

also mourning the loss of their Princess. He said that all of Wales 

loved Diana dearly. 

September of 1997 began with a tummy-ache that would not go 

away. My periods were all over the place, that is, not regular and I 

suffered from continual period-type cramps. The pain felt more to do 

346

with my reproductive organs rather than with a bowel problem. At 

the same time as deteriorating physically with constant pain, I had to 

cope with visual disturbances, which at times were quite worrying. 

The visual disturbances varied from me watching a light rain-fall in 

the house to wispy shapes wherever I looked. 

Often I would go to bed early to try to rest because I had these 

pains. I was shocked, even amazed, when I saw what I thought was 

the outline of three small crosses on the bedroom wall covered by a 

shadowy facial feature of a man, not unlike the supposed outline of 

Jesus Christ’s face on the Turin Shroud. Every night for months and 

months it would be there and the wispy shapes and shadows grew 

more intense and in the end I was clutching at straws and even asked 

my younger twin, Michael, if he looked at the wall, could he see 

anything? He answered with no prompting from me, 

“I can see crosses Mummy, crosses!” 

“You mean you can see something on the wall as well, Michael?” 

“Yes Mummy - but don’t worry”. 

With all the pain I was going through, I could only grab three or 

four hours a sleep each night because of the tummy ache. After a 

month of tummy pain, I consulted a Doctor whose opinion was that I 

was suffering with Irritable Bowel Syndrome and that I should be 

prescribed with some special fibre drinks to bulk up my food and 

maybe the problem would diminish. Just to be sure, the Doctor 

suggested I attend a sexual health clinic to check in case I had a 

pelvic-inflammatory problem. Barry had to be checked as well. 

However, after several smears were taken - everything appeared to be 

quite normal and both of us were on antibiotics for a couple of weeks 

duration. I also had painkillers prescribed to help me try to get on 

with life as normal. 

So… I had a diagnosis of Irritable Bowel Syndrome, visual 

disturbances and then to cap it all, the sleep that I did achieve, would 

be peppered with very vivid dreams. I went to see the Doctors four or 

five times to try and manage this problem and Barry had to call 

several Doctors out at different times when I was practically writhing 

off the bed in intense pain with it all. 

In December of 1997, Barry’s mother stayed with us for Christmas, 

she had part of one leg amputated and sadly, this would prove to be 

347

her last Christmas alive. She was concerned about my problems but I 

gained a lot of strength from her encouraging words and helping in 

little ways with the boys (being she had a false limb) when I could not 

even bear them to sit on my lap and cuddle me because of the pain. 

The Doctors said that I was also showing symptoms of having 

intestinal cramps, which were horrendous to endure. Twice, I was 

taken to Casualty, but just checked over and given some painkillers 

and peppermint mixtures. Dr Frith put me on a waiting list to see a 

Gynaecologist just to check if there was a ladies’ problem. My 

appointment came up in March 1998 and it was suggested that the 

pain was probably bowel-related but I would be put on another 

waiting list for an exploratory operation that might take a year to fit 

in. 

I finally begged Dr Frith that if I had to wait to find out what was 

wrong, could he help me manage the pains? He suggested taking a 

mild sleeping tablet called Zopiclone and another large bottle of 

painkillers. I got through all the painkillers and the whole time - the 

disturbances with visions became worse. Sadly though, on March 

19 th , 1998, one day following dad’s birthday, we were telephoned 

from Wales with the sad news that Barry’s brother, John, had 

collapsed in my sister-in-law’s garden and died with a sudden heart 

attack. He was only 61 and had been staying in Wales to be closer to 

his mother as of course, her illness was terminal and naturally he 

wanted to spend time with her. Barry had been estranged from his 

brother for many years through a family row but they had made up 

their differences when they met again and John saw Michael and 

Edward, his nephews by Barry. 

About one month after John’s death, I was sent an anonymous and 

tacky Get Well card with horrible pansies on it, postmarked with 

Stevenage on it. All over the envelope were scrawled some minor 

obscenities. Inside the card were some very suggestive words from a 

stranger who obviously knew my name but called me ‘Carla’. The 

card offered a few more surprises and said I was beautiful and that I 

should pursue the clues and meet up with this stranger somewhere in 

France or Spain, I couldn’t make out which. The card was obviously 

from someone so stupid to cook up such a thing and my mother put it 

down to an anonymous person’s idea of an April Fool’s joke card 

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gone wrong. After one month I tore the card up and gratefully didn’t 

receive any more surprises by post. 

Talking about strange experiences that occurred around this time, I 

am going to mention a few. This all happened when I was suffering 

with my bowels. Each time I took a bath, I could smell the musky 

smell of a wolfhound eerily lingering about me when I was in the 

bathroom. One night, I had what I can only describe as another Out 

of the Body experience when I was suspended upside down, from the 

bedroom floor through to my living room. Coming back to lay 

vertical again, I could hear the distinctive voice of Doris Day singing, 

“Happy Birthday Sweet Sixteen” close to my ear. Yet I always 

thought, that the hit song was made famous by Neil Sedaka. With 

these increasingly eerie happenings, I believed I was slowly going 

insane or something to that effect. What was happening to me? I 

didn’t have a clue. 

Waiting for sleep to come one evening, I was laying on my left side 

and within the crook of my left arm, an intense smell of 

cream-crackers developed. I thought this was weird and from 

somewhere came a ‘message’ of Jacob. (You know that there are 

Jacob’s cream crackers!) It seemed from somewhere way up high 

from that moment on that I needed to find out about Jacob, the 

biblical Jacob - particularly Jacob’s ladder. I told my Gran of these 

happenings, and after this one, she felt it was very weird and strange 

equally. Also in the crook of my arm one night, was the strong aroma 

of curry and a vivid sensation of my deceased first husband, 

Stephen’s presence, telepathically suggesting to me that if I needed a 

good clear-out, I should eat a good curry rather than take laxative 

remedies etc. 

Listening to the vague noises of night outside and in the house one 

night, as I was laying and not sleeping because of the pains, I felt the 

close presence of my deceased Granddad coming through to me. I 

heard him say, 

“Hold on - I’ll try to help you, Marie”. 

With those quietly uttered words, I then felt pressure and prodding 

from directly underneath me, coming from my side of the mattress of 

our bed. Granddad hinted telepathically that he would gently massage 

my back and certain points and maybe that would promote some 

349

physical relief for me. I could not believe all these things were 

actually occurring, but they were and this is completely true. 

Possibly the last three ‘experiences’ that would affect me were 

when I saw the shape of a wispy and grey shadowy hue of a man’s 

face, seemingly peep through the bedroom window for a few 

moments. His face was the whole size of the window, was he a giant? 

I then interpreted this as I pondered, this was God’s face and I was 

lucky to witness his presence and felt a strong message that He visits 

every single human being on the planet, letting some people be fully 

aware of it or erasing the memory as He chooses. I was a vessel to 

hear voices outside my head, not I kept telling the Doctors, the kind of 

paranoid voices you might hear inside your head with the symptoms 

of schizophrenia. A male’s distinctive voice came through to me and 

said that the day would come when I could start utilising a Psychic 

Internet. That is, I could pit questions and gain answers from people 

that had passed over. 

Following this came a blur of whirring flashes of cures for cancer 

coming very soon and I was even subjected to a couple of flashes of 

Einstein’s head and shoulders. I wasn’t scared but I laughed at him 

and he didn’t mind me laughing, because I found him slightly batty 

(not mad) and highly eccentric. Finally, a raised M initial 

materialised on my left forefinger on the side of the digit. It would be 

more prominent on some occasions than others. Revealing this 

phenomenon to my sister, Suzanne, she thought maybe it would 

signify the first initial of our Gran’s name, Mary. Throughout these 

eerie and often baffling times, I would usually talk about them with 

my Gran, mum and Suzanne. 

Perhaps I was a crackpot after all! Within three months of March of 

1998, when Barry’s brother John had collapsed and died in my 

sister-in-law Joan’s back garden, Barry’s beloved mother lost her 

battle with cancer. She had been in a Pembrokeshire hospital for 

several weeks and in and out of a coma, and being constantly 

monitored and receiving increasingly larger doses of diamorphine etc 

for pain control. Her body was shutting down and her major organs 

began to fail one by one, and when she developed complications, time 

was running out for her. We lost her on the 15 th May 1998, and Barry 

was inconsolable, as we all were for quite some time. 

350

The last thing she ever said to me, whilst she was slipping in and 

out of consciousness was, “Marie, don’t forget to always wear your 

lipstick”. I cried at her bedside when she uttered those words. Whilst 

she was obviously dying, I used to sing to her my rendition of ‘Blue 

Velvet’ and although she was not fully awake - a little smile would 

appear on her face. There was an intimate memorial service for her 

and at her funeral, the next day, Barry’s sister, Joan, was absolutely 

broken in two pieces and it took several family members to console 

her as she clutched and lay almost on top of her mother’s little coffin. 

She was a sweet-natured old-fashioned lady and the mould was 

definitely broken when they made her. Such is that of many ladies 

from that generation. Barry went through his grieving for his mum, 

and all of the family, including little Michael and Edward, were 

affected. Each of us, though, would carry her memory, her laughs 

and her smiles, within our hearts for the rest of all our lives. 

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Chapter Thirty-Two 

In August of 1998, mum and I decided to take Michael and Edward 

to London for a special day out to celebrate their fourth birthday. The 

day before their birthday, in fact the last day that they would be aged 

only three, we boarded the underground train from Epping and 

traveled to Regent’s Park for a visit to London Zoo. The boys were 

marveling at all the different kinds of animals they were seeing and 

when we were in the butterfly house, inquisitively I said to mum that 

if we were quick, we could scoot across town and maybe catch a tour 

of Kensington Palace. So we managed the two places in one day and 

it truly was unforgettable. 

The tour of Kensington Palace would start at about 4pm, so mum 

and myself and the two boys had a nice picnic on the grass before 

freshening up to enter the Palace. The apartments that were open to 

the public were exceptionally stunning and the tour guide was most 

informative and asking questions etc. Mum and I answered several 

Royalty-connected questions. The tour guide mentioned to the 

particular group of about 50 of us, that our two boys were on their 

birthday treat and Michael and Edward were a bit shy when everyone 

gave them a round of applause and said Happy Birthday to them. 

What an honour! But horror of horrors, during a visit to one of the 

Royal bedchambers, Michael almost jumped on a Royal bed and went 

over the security rope. This resulted in an alarm going off and an 

extremely concerned young lady came running to see what was 

happening but there was no trouble. The lady mentioned that this had 

happened before with some little ones. 

Meanwhile an appointment was corning up for me to see a bowel 

specialist at Epping hospital on Wednesday, 7 th October 1998. When 

the day actually arrived to see the specialist, Mr. Preston, I thought I 

would be getting somewhere with my severe abdominal problems. 

Barry accompanied me and after a short wait, we went in Mr. 

Preston’s consulting room (I had written a brief reminder of the 

history of the problems plus a rough drawing of where the pains were 

etc.) 

352

Talking to him, it was with his opinion that it was most probably a 

chronic Irritable Bowel problem, which can be stress-related. He 

went on to say that there were basically three stages connected with 

the Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Step One was where the physical 

discomfort would be vague yet manageable. Step Two was when the 

physical discomfort would cause more serious problems and finally, 

Step Three was the type of Irritable Bowel Syndrome whereby you 

could not stand putting up with it any more. He said that I fitted into 

this category. Mr. Preston was not backward in coming forward and 

put a scenario up front that yes, he could give me morphine etc, for 

the pain but that would more than likely lead to a drug dependency. 

His idea was more to tackle the possible causes and even suggested 

attending proper Psychotherapy at a colleague’s clinic in London, if 

Dr Frith’s budget would allow it. Mr. Preston performed an anal 

examination on me with a Nurse present, using a telescopic-type 

instrument. I asked whether I had something serious and he indicated 

that I did not but then proceeded to ask me what my childhood was 

like. I stuttered a bit at first, and let slip about the problems I had 

experienced with my step-dad and this seemed to upset him. Barry 

mentioned that when Mr. Preston had gone back into his consulting 

room and while the Nurse was helping me get dressed, he said to 

himself, “Oh, no... Not another one”. 

Mr. Preston had then taken his glasses away from his face and put 

his head into his hands. When I was back in the room, he was 

extremely sympathetic and tried to say but in a professional manner 

that he had seen numerous different people, men and women, with 

varying physical problems. Some of them, when he had probed with 

a set of questions had innocently been through some form of 

childhood abuse, mostly sexually related. Physical problems that had 

been exacerbated by stress and a fear deep within. Even several men 

he was helping with their physical problems had been subjected to 

childhood sexual abuse, and strangely enough for him when he asked 

about patients’ childhoods, some reluctantly mentioned their 

problems. 

Mr. Preston made it clear that not all Irritable Bowel problems were 

connected with sexual-abuse problems stemming from childhood but 

353

a small proportion were from his findings and he genuinely wanted to 

help. 

During the last bit of time with Mr. Preston, he was going to send a 

letter to Dr Frith and find out about funding for me to attend a private 

Psychotherapy clinic and he also suggested that I could try distraction 

from the pain by listening to some favourite music. 

I felt more positive somehow about what he was going to try and 

arrange but categorically said to him in return, 

“I don’t mind having therapy but as long as I don’t end up on the 

Psychiatric ward again!” 

What timely words they turned out to be, as I later found out. Mr. 

Preston kept my pain-diary and body-sketches and we parted on a 

positive note. I would not see him again, yet I would wait for the call, 

for possible Psychotherapy initiated by him. 

Barry truly felt that someone was going to help me get this physical 

problem sorted and myself, well, I did turn to music for pain-relief for 

the bad times I went through with severe abdominal upsets. On the 

day after, on a Thursday, I happily clutched some money to buy a few 

early Christmas presents, and headed for the town-centre and busy 

shopping mall to maybe buy a new cassette or CD for my therapy. I 

went on the bus alone whilst Barry minded the boys and I enjoyed my 

freedom, waking around the shops and including the shopping mall. I 

treated myself to a new top and another spark of a thought was to buy 

Simply Red’s new album entitled, “Blue”. After finishing my jaunt to 

the town centre, I returned home to find Barry mowing the front lawn 

and Michael and Edward playing with some new toys. 

As I mentioned, I didn’t really go much for Simply Red’s music but 

when I hastily ran up to our bedroom to check it out, I listened to all 

of it and immediately I was hooked on the beautiful voice and equally 

haunting melodies. Listening then to Simply Red was easy but over 

six days, that was all I did. Play his album, Blue, over and over again. 

I could escape into a magical world when I heard Mick Hucknall’s 

voice and my pain would not seem so bad. With hindsight, what I 

probably did was hypnotise myself with the music. At least, I like to 

think that was the case. 

354

Barry later said that I was acting strangely and would never come 

down from the bedroom and all he was aware of was Simply Red’s 

music playing nearing about 100 times over. 

One week later, to be precise, on Wednesday 14 th October 1998, my 

sister, Suzanne, came to visit and when she called I was still in my 

blue dressing-gown and all I was doing when she called was criticize 

her and shout at her. I caught her saying to Barry that she thought I 

was becoming unwell again. She practically ran out of our house and 

the next thing, Barry was telephoning the GP, Dr Frith. 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING, BARRY?”, I yelled. 

“Look, love... I am getting the Doctor - you’re… you’re not well as 

Suzanne says - you’ve been doing weird things and repeating yourself 

time and time again, I’m worried about you.” 

“Barry, I don’t need the Doctor, PLEASE, and just because I threw 

your portable radio across the room, you didn’t have to come upstairs 

and smack me around the face. It was just my way of telling you that 

I can’t put up with this bloody guts ache any longer - not even the 

music is working now, for heaven’s sake!” 

“Marie… Look - I recognise the signals that you are not well, 

besides Suzanne can.” 

“Suzanne what?” I interjected. 

“Suzanne doesn’t know effing anything. I just cannot stand these 

pains - Barry I have only had maybe three or four hours of pain-free 

sleep for one year, I am bloody knackered. Yes I agree I am not well, 

but physically not well – I am not having a mental relapse, can’t I 

make YOU understand me?” 

As Barry was then through to the Doctor’s surgery, I was quietly 

crying whilst clutching my stomach. 

“OK then Marie, Doctor Frith will be round very soon. Don’t 

worry now!” 

“Don’t worry - don’t worry - you know what will happen, he’ll get 

the wrong end of the stick and call Simon, and who knows where I 

will end up. Is that what you really want, Barry? I have been trying 

my hardest to function as normal with this bowel problem I’ve bloody 

got. What about the time you came in from somewhere and because I 

didn’t want to let you down, I did a pile of ironing while I was bent 

double in pain. I checked and I was bleeding from my back passage, 

355

it’s all to do with it. Don’t you see? Yeah, but what did YOU do, 

you came in the living room and said that I’d probably been sitting on 

my arse doing nothing and waving a cigarette about all day. I needed 

a break from the ironing. That’s when you came in, I swear!” 

“Marie, Marie, I only have your welfare at heart, believe me,” said 

Barry. 

Dr Frith was just pulling up outside in the street. 

From then on, I began to shake in anger and temper, I could sense 

something that I did truly not want to happen, was going to happen. 

Just the opposite of my wishes, when taking quite confidently to Mr. 

Preston, just a week before. 

Dr Frith came into the house and I began ranting and raving at him 

quite loudly, and I witnessed him sitting down in the armchair, as I 

gave him a verbal battering. After twenty minutes of a discussion of 

sorts, Dr Frith left and little did I know that Simon, my psychiatrist 

was summoned to see me at home. This was unusual and even I knew 

was only for emergencies. 

Simon did enter our home to ‘assess’ me. To cut a long story short, 

in the space of only a couple of hours where I was being persuaded to 

go willingly to the acute Psychiatric ward for a couple of days rest, 

there were possibly 20 to 30 people in the house - all gawping at me. 

Michael and Edward were a little distressed and were told to go and 

play in the garden. It was a horrible day and resulting night. The 

police had even turned up and I was shouting and swearing at 

everybody, and even more annoyed when a certain lady Social worker 

arrived, summoned for advice by Simon. In my mind, I knew what 

was going to happen, they wanted me desperately to go into hospital 

and I was defending myself with every breath I had left in me that I 

was OK. I just wanted some sleep and relief from the physical 

problems I had been suffering from, which they were all aware of. 

Finally, two females cornered me and practically threw me in a 

wheelchair, banging my big toe in the process. With all my might, I 

tried to defend being taken away whilst still in my blue dressing 

gown. The neighbours could hear the commotion and as I was 

bundled into the ambulance with a police escort, I thought I could see 

little Michael and Edward crying and running down the road calling, 

“MUMMY, MUMMY!” but I wasn’t sure. 

356

Inside the ambulance, I pleaded with them one last time that IF they 

took me to hospital once again, that I would never recover and I 

would never be the same again. And that is exactly what happened. 

Since that fateful day in October 1998, my life has changed - even 

turned upside down. 

As I am now, in July 2001, I am a different woman. A changed 

woman. Frustrated. Sometimes I am angry which can come from any 

trigger, turning into aggression and even violence towards my 

husband or I turn inwards upon myself. Too many things about the 

events surrounding this last particular 28-day Mental Health Act 

Section did not add up in my estimation. Currently, I am back on 

medication, consisting of a tranquilizing drug named Sulpiride (a drug 

to help treat psychotic disorders) long after that gloriously happy day 

when I believed real help might be offered me for a real physical 

problem. The day when I skipped up to the town centre exactly one 

week before the emergency Section, when I felt free and truly 

liberated, having a good time on my own, going into Smith’s and buy 

Mick Hucknall’s latest album. For medicinal purposes. 

One day I would like to have answers. Answers. That is what I 

would really like. Barry has been in full time work for almost two 

years but it has been a struggle for us all. He practically has got the 

boys ready and taken them to school, which is only two or three 

minutes walk away, for perhaps one year. I do collect them from 

school but I now wake up every morning feeling terrible and my 

mood elevates during the afternoon, so that I get to an even keel with 

peacefulness late into the night when Barry wants to retire to bed. I 

simply cannot get out of bed in the morning. 

My beloved Gran passed away with cancer, like my mother-in-law 

in November 1999, aged 88. I grieved terribly over her. She was 

more like a mother than a Grandmother, to me anyway. Yet I have 

remained philosophical about life yet possibly over-analyse things too 

much. I seem to have pondered everything tough in my life, from the 

tiniest entry to the end of the world. I even confided in the local 

Catholic priest, who amazingly came to visit me when I was going 

through a particularly difficult time. I needed to tell him of my 

strange experiences and of my most strange set of words from the 

357

Lord above. I was told words and heard the Lord’s voice loud and 

clear, that I must - “Run the last gauntlet”. 

I do not know what this means but I suppose I will know, in time. 

As for the healing process, I still play my music. Mostly, Simply 

Red’s haunting melodies from ballads to upbeat dance numbers. 

Now as we are all in the entrance of the 21 st century and whatever 

will come after it, I personally may have to contend with Manic 

Depression for some time to come. I do not like to admit it, but I was 

the recipient of a message from the late Princess Diana, which was a 

most powerful yet uncanny experience. She came through to me in 

her familiar voice, one which I was only acquainted with on the 

television. Diana said of her new existence, that she enjoyed romantic 

waltzes with Dodi in the Palace at Versailles. But what she wanted to 

say to everybody was that if you cannot at least try to do something 

for yourself, then do it for your children. For, as she carried on, the 

children are our way forward. 

358

As I try to make my own way in life, and one that I know may hold 

many downs as well as ups, all I can say is: where there is faith, there 

is strength, hope and the Future. 

359

360

The Tender Years 

QT Saunders 

‘The Tender Years’ is my autobiography, a true and 

honest account of my life from birth to the present day. 

It takes in what for many, are taboo subjects: - 

childhood sexual abuse, self-harm in various measures, 

and psychiatric care today – as we leave the 20 th 

Century. 

My own psychiatric care takes in the hub of ‘the System’, 

the receiving end of in-patient and out-patient or ‘client’ 

services – which is still much in need of improvement. 

I try to describe the many mistakes that may be made in 

this ‘hit and miss’ side of medicine. The book embraces 

a host of emotional feelings, captured in a format that 

adults should find inspirational to read. 

One of the key reasons for writing the book is that it 

hints of the physical as well as the emotional scars. 

Hopefully my later years will successively become less 

‘tender’ from these. 

In offering a light at the end of the tunnel, if QT 

Saunders got through a tough life and is still standing – 

anyone can – and against all the odds. 

Electric Zen Buddha (as on Face Book)

the Tender Years

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