Liz Bentley and our mad mad world, no Tesco Delivery Man

A children's play park, with no one in it

“You need to leave.” Said the masked man.

“Why?” Asked the mother, with two small children.

“Coronavirus.” He said.

I watched while the family left the park and the man locked up.

Opposite the park are flats, full of everyone, families, singletons, couples, pensioners, disabled, with no outside space. As I relish getting vitamin d, sat on my pretty patio, I tried to think what it might be like to be stuck in those flats. It didn’t take me long and I remembered exactly what it is was like for me back then.

28 years ago I was living in a one-bed council flat in a far more run-down kind of a block in Bermondsey. I’d had an MS attack which meant I had to leave my beloved job as a Samaritan youth outreach worker and my job counselling women at Marie Stopes women’s clinics.

I was alone in my flat with neighbours who were drug dealers and had parties with loud music which meant I couldn’t sleep normal hours. I eventually got a social worker who sorted out my benefits (this was so much easier, back in the day). Friends bought me food and helped out when possible. No social media, no disabled community. I felt alone and afraid.

After a few weeks, with the help of NHS crutches, I was able to get down the flight of stairs, haul myself into a taxi and see my private therapist, who had reduced her fees to suit my reduced income. It was many months before I was able to take part in ‘normal’ activities and resume my work as a counsellor. I knew, even back then, how lucky I was to have found a career in this profession. So long as I could listen, I would be ok.

Right now, we are all in unique situations, mine as mental as everybody else’s. I am spending more time than ever on social media, or just sitting, because sorting out everything in one go feels momentous, and as everything changes by the hour, there’s no point in doing too much.  (i.e. I began writing this blog a few days ago, then all I had written became insignificant).

Back 28 years ago, when I was in the cab to my therapist I became elated that the sun was out. I will never forget that moment. I was out, and the sun was out too. ‘The sun had got his hat on’. We may not be able to ‘come out to play’ in the same way, but our internal ‘play’ will come out in ways we would never expect as the sky becomes bluer. As an insomniac, I relish bird song over planes. I am an expert at social isolation. I look forward to allowing my readers into my world over the coming weeks, with or without Tesco delivery man … watch out the Bentley is about..

Empty loo roll whcih reads, time to look at our shit

Here is a Facebook post I wrote last week, it got 16 shares which suggests it was useful, funny or interesting.  I hope you enjoy. My Tesco delivery man did turn up in the end, that story is for another time …..

Psychotherapist by day /Comedian by night ‘Liz Bentley’ helps explain the toilet roll hoarding situation…

Forget sex and death, let’s get back to Freud’s Anal stage of instinct theory, infantile ego development (look it up).

So, my theory, with a bit of Freud’s help, suggests that the ‘hoarders’ are terrified of being isolated with their own shit, nothing and /or no one to project onto. The fear of not being able to wipe it away (ie that old saying ‘brushing it under the carpet’) exceeds any reasonable thinking or thought for others, like any hoarder (and indeed narcissistic), all is based around fear , underlying fear are complex emotions, usually from deep rooted childhood trauma, that many, man, many of us struggle to access….. 
but like an ego , there is a hoarder in us all , part of our survival … 

If you see a hoarder, keep clear, but access your empathy, we can use a watering can on our bits , they are repressing a lot and this could well end up in constipation, then come the laxatives, then come the pain killers, then we have a compromised immune system, then death …. be kind to the toilet roll hoarders and holders (who may be bereft of their rolls ) ….

Now is the time to look at our shit, big time ….

Liz Bentley’s thoughts on International Women’s Day and Crowona virus while waiting for the Tesco Delivery Man


Fancy having a granola named after me. And how exciting that Tesco are matching Aldi prices on some of their ‘own brand’ goods. I’m so excited. Greta would be excited too as my mint tea bags came in a box, just a box, no cellophane package, just the box which went into the recycling. So exciting developments.

International Women’s day on 8th, always brings up difficult stuff for me because my dad wanted me to be a boy. My sister would have been called John Winston, so I guess I would have been called John Winston, but if she had been a boy I would be Mark something. When I used to work at Marie Stopes abortion clinics, women came from all over the world, nearly at that 24-week mark. It is still a tragedy to have a girl in many parts of the world.

Towards the end of my Dad’s life, he really was pleased he had girls to look after him, not that boys wouldn’t have. But gone were the days of him getting involved in rugby.

I had a bit of a difficult experience with the washing this week. I put a tissue in and it dissolved and stuck all over the clothes. It took extra time putting the clothes away. Really irritating.

And then there has been coronavirus, what a load of old shit that is, but a good time to go to hospital, A and E is a breeze right now. I hope you like the photo of my new Crowona mask? My husband’s work colleague bought it for him for me I think, maybe he is worried that because of the MS I’m right weak and vulnerable. But my chest is good, I can breath really deeply, especially at yoga. What poem shall I share with you this time. This one, while I’m talking about hospitals, and it follows on from the food one from my last blog.

Hospital Food

A nice man from the ward domestic staff team gave me a tray of food

“That looks nice” I said

“Believe me, it’s horrible” He said


Woman with a crow's mask on
Crowona virus mask