Liz, The Tesco Delivery Man and The Grape Reset

Liz, The Tesco Delivery Man and The Grape Reset

The Grape Reset

Nearly twenty years ago, with financial help from the Millennium Awards, I set up weekly writing as therapy workshops for people with MS, ME, any other autoimmune disease, and carers. It was called ‘ManuScript Expression’. We met in a pod at the top of Peckham library. My mantra as the conductor of the group – “Whatever you write is right”.

With that in mind, with nothing to say right now, because I feel silenced. I write away. Whatever comes into my head while listening to my rather large Spotify play list. It’s on shuffle. Let’s see what comes up.

Written in Scars – Jack Savoretti

The last blog I wrote was about my visit to a private dentist. My latest visit to my NHS dentist of 25 years was a very different experience and pre-empted another experience I have yet to process. Trauma. The crux being, the Grape Reset and the psychological change in our behaviour from the lockdowns is doing what it knew it would do. Divide and conquer. Chronic isolation, psychological operations, discrimination. Here is what Klaus Schwab writes in his book COVID 19, THE GREAT RESET. July 2020.

“For many people, traversing the COVID-19 pandemic will be defined as living a personal trauma. The SCARS inflicted may last for years…. Humans are inherent social beings. Companionship and social interactions are a vital component of our humanness. If deprived of them we find our lives turned upside down…..In May 2020, the NHS England’s clinical director for mental health told a parliamentary committee that the “demand for mental healthcare would increase ‘significantly’ once the lockdown ended and would see people needing treatment for years to come.’ ”

The SCARS Jack Savoretti sings about are ones of revolution. We will see, as our NHS are offered a 1% pay rise.

That same night I had my recurring dream of my teeth falling out. I’d been to two dentists after all. No surprise, yet I do believe it is about loss, change – and aging. Or perhaps, I didn’t manage to say exactly what I wanted to. Feeling silenced. It will come out with each song. That’s what music does.

Laughing Gnome David Bowie

“I’m a Laughing Gnome and you can’t catch me.”

I am laughing with our dead Dame. I love gnomes. If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. I loved that video of David and his gnomes laughing.

A pause for a cuppa.

I wanna Destroy You – The Soft Boys

“They tell you your opinions and their very good indeed

I Wanna Destroy You”

What next, anger perhaps? Better get that out, if repressed it will give me physical symptoms. The music is more interesting than my writing.

Fat White Family- The Whitest Boy on the Beach

Can you say that? The Fat White Family can say that. They can say what they like. Made in Peckham. I stay silenced. A mask would shut me up further – if I wore one. Do I tell all or no one? No one asks. If I speak, I am judged. Everything is judged. Fear makes more judgement. I don’t judge. I don’t fear. Anything, not death. For sure. I have planned my funeral.

She Sells Sanctuary – The Cult 

“The Fire in Your eyes keeps me alive”

The CULT. The Corona Cult.

Despite having planned my funeral, many years ago, I remain alive. I thought I’d die before my 25thbirthday. A suicide pact with a school friend I snogged one New Year Eve at the Traveller’s Joy in Rayleigh, Essex. My home town of course.

“And the world turns upside down, the world drags me down

Sure the hell you’ll find, sanctuary”

Each Sunday evening, one of our neighbour’s cooks. He is a chef who lost his job during lockdown. It is so exciting to get home cooked food that’s been lovingly prepared and cooked for our community by a talented professional.

One of these things First – Nick Drake 

I could have been, blah blah, a cook? No, not me never. I’m not that bothered about cooking. Only once in a while. I could have been all sorts, had I got my GCSE’s I could have gone to 6thform and done theatre studies. Then maybe drama college. I could have taken too much smack or crack. I could have gone to the dogs. I got a dog. I could have been a spinster. I could have been a drunk. I was a punk. I could have been a lettuce. I am a nut job. The nut that does the job of sewing a seed. Instigating thought and talk. Curiosity. Nick Drake died young. I wonder if he had his funeral planned. My funeral dress is leather. It won’t need ironing. I’m still unsure whether I want a cremation or burial. Can you do half and half?

Relax – Frankie goes to Hollywood 

And breathe. Relax. Not that sort of heavy breathing. Not like a masturbater ringing the Samaritans.

A song all about shagging. Coming. This song was censored. Banned. Loving these old tunes. Laser beam themes. I find it interesting in the series Animal Kingdom after they have sex they just get up and I wonder where the sperm goes. Where does the sperm go? Condoms? Yes? No? It’s not just in Animal Kingdom. It’s everywhere. TV rarely deals with such bodily fluids.

Back to Nick Drake, I’ll leave it here – When the Day is Done

“When the game’s been fought 

Newspaper blown across the court”

What a line, newspaper blown across the court. I wish I’d written it. We will see. Shuffle on Spotify has decided I want to hear more Nick Drake. The Grape –  Reset.

Covid 19 The Great Reset – another Klaus quote quoting someone fomr before July – “As one restauranteur put it, ‘I, like hundreds of chefs across the city and thousands around the country, am now staring down at the question of what our restaurants, our careers, our lives, might look like if we can even get them back’”.

It’s time. I shall go collect our lovely meal from our neighbour. I know how lucky I am. Tonight. The game’s not been fought yet.

Dentistry, bulimia and Nanny State Beer brought to Liz by her infamous Tesco Delivery Man

Liz with Nanny State Beer and Tesco Delivery Man

Liz, Nanny State Beer and Tesco Delivery Man

For twenty-five years I have seen the same dentist in Surrey Quays. I love my dentist. When I first started going her nurse was Jade Goody. Poor Jade. I am proud to remember on such visits to the dentist Jade had her fingers down my throat. This was of course before the sad tale of her taumatic childhood became public and she became a victim again.

At one point, my dentist left Surrey Quays to open a private surgery. A few years later she returned to work two days a week at Surrey Quays. She said she missed her NHS patients. Her private patients were demanding, she said.

My lovely dentist has taken my MS very seriously. She has seen me on one crutch, two crutches and skipping into the surgery. She is interested in my story. She understands I have periodontal damage from when I was bulimic in my twenties. She has given me white fillings on the NHS because she understands that mercury may not bode well with my condition.

This week I needed to go the dentist. Pronto. I couldn’t wait for the nearly three weeks appointment to see my lovely dentist. I couldn’t work or function normally. Fortunately, I was able to afford to go to a private dentist. Not something I wanted to spend my hard-earned cash on, but it was an emergency.

I took a taxi into the West End. I enjoyed the trip. Over Waterloo Bridge I looked into the shops, wondering how all the furloughed staff may be feeling about lockdowns. Wondering which of these businesses would survive the closures. London felt as dead as my tooth, yet as painful as the nerve underneath it.

My private dentist was delightful. Expensive, but delightful. She sorted me out so I didn’t care of the cost. Once home and the numbness of the injection had worn off, I felt in control again. But in control of what? I still have plenty of dental work to be do, and shall keep the appointment at Surrey Quays. My dentist will understand how I had to be unfaithful, even if it does sadden her a little.

During this last visit the private dentist asked about my gum damage. I talked freely of the story of when and why I was bulimic. When I was in my 20’s I was ashamed, this story didn’t come out at all, in fact I sought private dentistry then just so it wouldn’t be on any NHS records. These periodontal problems were hi lighted when I was in Berlin, the Christmas just after I was diagnosed with MS in 1987.

What a shite Christmas that was. One emergency German dentist butchered me and ripped me off, the other told me I needed periodontal work on my gums when I got back to London. The irony, that soon after I got a job through an agent as a receptionist for the Periodontal clinic at the dental hospital of UCH. I got to learn a lot about this matter. I remember Dr Leg from Eastenders coming into to the clinic regularly. I wondered if he had bulimia too. I wondered why he wasn’t going private? Surely as an actor he’d have lots of money? What a lot I had to learn.

If we face our past traumas, they do become less painful but they never disappear. Anything can trigger a memory, a flash back. My private dentist reminded me of this. She could see the scarring, like a brain scan can see damage to my myelin sheath. All trauma based.

This weekend I drove my fifteen-year-old daughter to the park to meet with the same friends as per my previous blog about the altercation with the insecurity man (scroll down to read, I’m pleased with that one and the story has been picked up by a publisher and will be in a book of short Covid stories in the spring, will let you know). Because my daughter’s headphones had been borrowed by her step sister, in order to listen to her music, she had to plug her phone into the car system and allow me to listen.

What an eyeopener. I loved so much of the music she played. Penelope Scott was one of my favourites. My daughter seemed to enjoy me enjoying her music and I wished our journey was a longer one. I knew when she got her headphones back she wouldn’t allow me to listen in again.

One of the songs she played had a reference to bulimia.

“I had bulimia,” I said.

“Did you?” she said. “I didn’t know that.”

In that moment I felt that sense of connection I haven’t experienced since she started her periods. It was like I’d become a cool parent. One that could perhaps understand how hard life is for her and has been during these lockdowns.

“Everybody knows everything about everybody and what they don’t know they make up.” A saying from my ex Scottish boyfriend who is now dead.

What do we really know about anything or anybody until we spend time, proper TIME with someone? Proper, proper time.

I am so aware of how judgmental we have become. We really can’t claim to know. We can control nothing. We can radically accept that we have nothing to control. There is no message in this. What is truth? What can I trust? Who can I trust? Yet for me the most important question.

What are you trusting someone with?

Our responses are all unique and come from way before the womb. As individuals, our teeth give a lot away.

On second thoughts, there is a message. If you are experiencing any dental or gum pain, don’t wait. Get an appointment with your dentist. Even if the pain goes away and you cancel. There are many waiting lists for cancellations who are desperate.

Tesco Delivery Man, a cold Liz and #COVID word search with cognitive dissonance

White woman stadning with a parker jacket with hood wrapped around her face in front of a black Tesco delivery man with a face mask

Cold Covid and Tesco Delivery Man






A five pack of bagels which actually contains six


Dry January, Tesco Delivery Man and coping in the New World Order

White woman in her 50s holding non alcoholic wine brought by a black Tesco Delivery Man

No alcohol in this one – dry January again

My thoughts are with everyone struggling with Covid (my paramedic niece has it right now) or any virus or anything, or anything, or any virus or Covid and/or anyone still recovering from the last lockdown, mentally physically. Anyone dealing with re-traumatisation, bereavement, anxiety, depression, insomnia, anger, frustration. Anyone struggling with eating disorders, binging, alcohol consumption, loneliness, broken hearts, financial worries, unemployment, homelessness and more and more. And, suicidal feelings. That’s everyone?

Happy New World Order! That’s how it feels now. Whatever that means.

When not feeling like one of the above, I have heard some say they have begun to experience something they call ‘boredom’.  Can this be framed as a kind of ‘de-pression’? A state where you just can’t think of what to do. Is this a good state to be in? How can you be bored when there is so much going on in our world? Is it better to experience depression and acknowledge it? Wonder what the reason is? Or is it better to remain cautious, fearful, or terrified? Do we fight like it is described when we fight cancer and battle with dis-ease? War on terror. War on the virus. Or should we accept, and live with the anxiety that death could be imminent? Or a long way away but in a prison. Whichever, it is again, like last lockdown, time out, to look at our shit. Look within. That’s all we have. It’s painful. Confusing. Yet our individual stories are very real. Spiritual even.

Our new world. How could it be? How will we behave with each other? How will we be allowed to behave, be with each other? At the moment, there is no let up. What will happen if we are let out? Or we go out? Unmasked. As ourselves.

‘I promise that I will do my best

To do my duty to God

To serve the Queen and help the people

And to keep. The Brownie Guide Law’

The Brownie Guide Law, ingrained in my mind from the age of eight. Serve the Queen and country (check out the history of one of the psychologists of SAGE advising Mr Hancock and Mr Johnson. Her name is Susan Michie, she is a behavioural experimental psychologist, forty years in the communist party), while everything but everything is taken away. Everything. Apart from the sun. Yet that was nearly denied me on Saturday. Here is my real, short story.

I was driving my daughter and I to the park. To meet a friend and her daughter. When I go out, I wrap up warm and sit on a bench in the sun to get natural vitamin D. I have a stick seat, so when the bench isn’t free (which is a lot of the time these days) I can still sit.

On Saturday, I arrived at the entrance of my local park, to find (although I could see plenty of cars parked up as normal) the entrance was blocked and guarded by a security man. Fortunately, and only just, I found a space to park in the road opposite (this road was later blocked too). My daughter walked off to find her friend and I approached the security man.

I asked him what was happening. My fear, this would be a permanent closure because of lockdown, making the park inaccessible to me. The man told me the park had been booked by a film company. I could not drive in. At this point my friend arrived. No hugging, of course, we are good Brownie guides, and, anyway, I was in mid-conversation with the security man.

I told him I had a blue badge and wondered if he would let me in to park in the car park as my walking is limited. It is a long way to get to the actual park bit. The man got cross with me. He ranted, and repeated that the company had booked the park etc. I sat on my stick seat, now feeling vulnerable and upset.

I’d had a really difficult week, like most of us, like him. I’d been looking forward to this all week. It was such a sunny afternoon. The stress went straight to my legs, as it always does. They fizz up, and the numbness that is normal to me just gets worse. My legs weaken, and sometimes I collapse.  It is a sign, a psychosomatic manifestation of when something extremely unpleasant is happening. The man then said, with my friend to witness.

“I’ve seen people with blue badges who come and park here and do personal training.”

At that point I lost the plot. I cried. Hysterically. My friend could not hug me but she had a flask of herbal tea with honey that she gave me. She sat on the pavement, acknowledging the abuse I had just experienced. I told her how difficult my week had been and how this really was the last blow.

The security man returned. He apologised, profusely, three times. He realised what he had done. I talked with him about my condition. I told him what I had been doing all week. My work in mental health. He told me he had been on this job just a few days and that he was getting abuse from all over. I explained how the abuse he had experienced he had projected onto me. He told me he had now spoken with ‘the boss’ and he would let me in, providing he took a photo of my car.

After I parked in the park, I asked another security man what they were filming.

“An advertisement for Halifax Building Society,” he said.

In the park I bumped into another friend. Don’t incriminate me for that. We didn’t actually bump into each other. It’s a turn of phrase. I cannot believe what I am writing, I really can’t. If police had seen me, I may have been fined. Talking with two people. I really cannot believe I am writing this. Anyway, this friend works in advertising, where redundancies have been soaring since March. He needs to stay strong. He cannot have a day off sick or admit to anxiety. He will be deemed not to be strong, and then high on the list for the next redundancies. He needs the job. Darwinian.

What is happening to our human race?

Be kind. Be human. Be alert, but not to the virus, to human suffering. Morality. Blue Monday is coming soon.

In Sylvia Plath’s words:

You ask me why I spend my life writing?

Do I find entertainment?

Is it worthwhile?

Above all, does it pay?

If not, then, is there a reason?

I write only because

There is a voice within me

That will not be still

Liz Bentley with the Tesco Delivery Man, Prodrome, and The Great Reset

White woman in her 50s stands holding a green crate and a book called the great reset, while a black Tesco delivery man stands at the door

I’m reading The Great Reset

I’ve started a YouTube channel. It’s called Prodrome – The Liz Bentley Show. I love the word prodrome. It means ‘an early symptom indicating onset of a disease or illness.’ My trainee paramedic niece (who is right now dealing with mainly stroke, heart attack and mental health) told me that Chinese airline stewards are being advised to wear nappies – I’ll leave that one there. I didn’t believe her but it was on the BBC News, on the tel lie vision. It’s mad, MAD I tell you. I’m not mad, THIS IS.

I’ve bought a Selfie Stick Tripod so I can film anytime anywhere. Oh, what fun. I’ve begun a book club too. We are reading The Great Reset. Covid is the excuse to transform our civilization. The Great Rest reads like a foul plan.


As a result of the lockdowns, the pandemic had immediate effect on every possible industry around the world. This impact is ongoing and will continue to be felt in the coming years. As global supply chains are reconfigured, as consumer demands change, as technology disrupts, companies will be forced to continuously adapt and reinvent themselves.

Looking to the future, governments will most likely, but with different degrees of intensity, decide that it’s in the best interest of society to rewrite some of the rules of the game and permanently increase their role.

GAME??? It’s a game.  What is being done to our humanity during this game? Just a question.

I haven’t been out of the house for days. I was considering going into East Dulwich to go into a shop but heard there were queues everywhere, of which there were. Everywhere. Oh dear. More online shopping. Thank goodness for my cheery Tesco delivery men.

My step-daughters are watching 60 Days In, a documentary drama of life inside prison. One of my ex boyfriends (No. 31 in From Essex to London in 101 Boyfriends) was in prison for nearly three years for trying to do a post office job. Him and his friends concocted the idea the night before, they were all off their head, smack. They stole a car early morning (after no sleep). My boyfriend went into the post office wearing a grubby tracksuit and a balaclava hat. He carried a sports bag with a baseball bat in it. When they got to the post office, just outside of central Edinburgh (one of them knew because his friend cashed his giros there), one stayed in the getaway car outside while my boyfriend and the other went inside, got the bat out and said to the man behind the counter “Give us the money”. The man shook his head and said “Times must be hard” and hit the button which alerted the police. My boyfriend resisted arrest and the police got the dogs out. The dogs chased him, he got caught and his track suit ripped to shreds.

I received two letters a week from my boyfriend during his time in prison. One of my regrets was getting rid of the shoebox full of the thin blue envelopes I collected from HMP Saughton, Durham, Brixton, Wandsworth and Send. I was one of the first Samaritan volunteers to go into Brixton prison. It worried me that my boyfriend might be suicidal too. He was okay, that time, a few decades on, his death a long slow suicide from heroin addiction.

Our lives are now full of prison terminology, lockdowns, curfews etc. Forced to do what we are told in such a way our human rights are fading fast. Govern (Control) Ment (Mind) Brain washing us into thinking it is OUR fault that the virus is spreading. Our prison guards are our neighbours.

A week ago, in the pub, six of us discussing The Great Reset then a 7th joined us and was asked not to sit on our table so he sat on a different table but was nearer us. The bar manager was drunk and thought we were Covid deniers. How can anyone deny that Certificate Of Vaccination ID – set into action in 2019 is not a reality? We haven’t started on the 2020 new variable mutations to keep us in fear, distanced, masked and vaccines forever. COVID has only just begun. I’d love to be a denier, but I wake with anxiety every morning. Hoping it has all been a nightmare.

The bar manager got drunker, clearly he is struggling. As we go into Tier 3, his world has gone upside-down, again. I hope he doesn’t drink too much over Christmas. What else will he do? If he can’t resist it while he’s working I feel for him. Poor him. Poor pubs. Poor world.

This song is for anyone struggling, or going to be struggling with booze this Xmas. I’m still off the booze. Am enjoying a Nannystate Brewdog every now and again. Nanny state. I am infantalised. I wonder in the future whether guards will be checking our nappies as well as our masks and bibs. Merry Xmas blog readers. Do subscribe to my Liz Bentley channel for Xmas joy weirdness.

liz bentley – YouTube

My boyfriend’s got gout

What’s it all about?

Is it cause he’s stout?

I doubt – it

He’s just a red wine lout

He can’t eat cheese, sardines or sauerkraut

Or trout

He gives me nought

That’s why I pout

I’m just gonna point him out

That’s him on his way out

He’s got the gout

I’ve got the pout

Lets all shout

He’s just shout

He’s just banged his toe on the way out

Last night he went out

With the gout

Came home, gave me a clout

He’s given up the snout

Because of the gout

Taken up snuff

What’s that all about?

Gout, gout, let it all out, these are the things we can do with out

So come on

Freek gout…..

Free gout…..

I predict a diet

#Tescodeliveryman, I didn’t order Daz and a return to the #SELF

#TheCrown #darkwaters #miscarriage #bulimia #trauma #I’mexperiementingwithhashtags #secretmessage #theyarediggingupgravesinnunheadcemetaryasthetreerootsareunearthingthemeverythingisbeingunearthed

Black male Tesco delivery driver gives a thumbs up while a white woman in her 50s holds a huge box of washing powder

Tesco Delivery Man with me holding huge Daz, their substitute for no bio Tesco powder

This Tesco Delivery Driver was happy to come in and help with my shopping, good job too, my family eco non-bio washing powder wasn’t available, this was Tesco replacement. I can hardly lift the box, my legs nearly gave in.

A dry lockdown for me this time round. I wanted to be as alert, as aware and ON it as possible. To respond and be as true to my feelings as I can be. I’m returning to my SELF, whilst trying to stay grounded.

As a psychotherapist working continuously during 2020, the more the lockdowns, the more isolation we suffer, whoever we are, and whoever we are with. It is those who have been abused, and are aware (or are becoming aware) of emotions in relation to their abuse and abuser, recognizing intensely, the continued abuse this year brings, with Government threats of more, all across the world.

Most abuse (Including my experience as a survivor) occurs, and recurs behind closed doors, either alone or in a group (who are also being abused, in various TIERS!). The more isolated we are, the more oppressed we become and the more we ‘go along’ with what we’re told. The more we hear words like TRACK, TRACE, LOCKDOWN, NEW NORMAL, CONSPIRACY THEORIES, MANDATORY, LAWS, DISTANCING, KILLING YOUR GRANNY (where are grandads?), OVERWHELMING, AUSTERITY, WORST RECESSION … the abuse runs and runs and runs deep, like a needle in an arm…INJECT HOPE INTO MILLIONS OF ARMS…There’s another from Mr Hancock. That’s not a sign of hope, that’s a sign of torture to me, re what’s to come. The nearest I’m getting to a needle is going through the eye of one on my spiritual journey of love.

More recently, I saw a photo of a younger beaming Mr Hancock with the man himself, Klaus Schwab, also beaming at a WEF conference. Our government are looking for volunteers, scapegoats, to administrate our Christmas and New Year present of THE NEEDLE, oh two needles, then more because as Hancock said, there will be vaccines for viruses we don’t even know about yet. Our chance to be Captain Tom’s, and the Government are bringing in celebrities to help, dread to think who will buy into that one. I despair again, yet I know, behind the scenes (unseen in mass media) there are growing protest groups and the World Dr’s Alliance, triumphing over laws worldwide. Fighting for human rights.

Saturday night I watched Dark Waters, a film I recommend. It gave me some great insight into the enormity with what we’re dealing with right now. I’m putting my hope into the likes of Robert Bilott to save us (DuPont are selling PPE of all things). The Social Network, and Human Nature, both documentaries on Netflix, fabulous, I’ve never taken so much in, in my life.

And then there is the drama of The Crown, of which I have watched with delight. A friend on Facebook wrote:

“All Lady Diana does on the Crown is watch Bagpuss and pukes posh cake down the lavatory! Was she a Bagpuss fan?”

I replied:

“By watching Bagpuss and puking up posh cakes, Diana was busy putting bulimia on the map and by doing so has saved lives…

Watch Bagpuss

Throw up

Save Lives

I’m delighted that The Crown shows what it’s like, the shame and inner disgust. Diana helped me, that’s for sure. Before she came out about bulimia, I honestly thought I was the only person in the world who was that disgusting, at times I felt suicidal. Long may Diana puke on TV and watch Bagpuss which I believe may well have represented a time when she was a child and felt safe, before her mother abandoned her.”

Poor Diana, I was such a fan. Got beaten up by four girls on her wedding day and was on a day trip to Paris when she died (more about that another time).

Moving onto Meghan, who has now put miscarriage on the map with a more permanent marker I hope. Nice one Meghan. I am thrilled, yes, shame, pain, grief and inner torment, I know this pain only too well. Here is the song I wrote after my third miscarriage. I was too traumatised to speak after an appointment. I was at a friend’s house who was busy cooking for her three kids. She sat me down, got me a piece of paper and a pen and said “write a poem”. And here it is, I’m hoping to record it, post it on YouTube, maybe send to Meghan? I never got a chance to send my bulimia stuff to Di. The music of the song is like a cross between Nelly the Elephant and a Gang Show jolly ditty.

Recurring Miscarriage Clinic     Suite 8, third floor

Didn’t we have a lovely time at the recurring miscarriage clinic

You must admit it’s improved a lot with the new consultant Mr Jerkoff

And when he’s about the ladies shout aloud with glee

Didn’t we have a lovely time, all of the girls and me

Big long shiny probe right up your fanny

Searching, searching in every nook and cranny, oh!

Didn’t we have a lovely time at the recurring miscarriage clinic

You must admit it’s improved we see with new magazines and daytime TV

And when we all see a heavily pregnant celebrity

We all shout out aloud in joyous arouse, all of the girls and me

Pictures of foetus’s lining the corridor walls

Old ones, new ones and some in fallopian tubes, oh!

Didn’t we have a lovely time at the recurring miscarriage clinic

You must admit it’s improved the loss with the new receptionist Mrs Toss

And when she’s about the ladies shout aloud with joy

A fabulous time, I wonder what sex, a girl or a boy?

La la la la, la la, la la, la la la la, la la….etc

Didn’t we have, a wonderful time at the RECURRING  MISCARRIAGE CLINIC….My Charles and Diana tea caddy

Charles and Diana on my tea caddy

I watched 1984 last night. I recommend that too.

There is truth and there is untruth

To be in a minority doesn’t make you mad

Thank you Mr Orwell for those words right now

Tesco Delivery Man, from Shielder to non Shielder

shopping on the floor

shielding shopping

This Tesco delivery man didn’t want to be photographed, nevertheless, I showed him my blog and photos of many of his colleagues which he enjoyed. Because of lockdown, delivery men aren’t allowed into houses to help with shopping so I sit on the piano stool by the door and take out all items of the crates, some one by one, because they are heavy.  I don’t have bags because that’s not saving the planet and rightly so, it’s an extra 40p.

While I take out each item, the delivery man tells me his story. He isn’t quite sure of his delivery man protocol because he was shielding during the last lockdown, but this lockdown he was told he wasn’t ill enough. I asked him why this was. He told me because he hadn’t had his usual consultations and that he was off his medication, “It was the medication that stuffed me up in the first place. They gave me steroids for five years and it was that gave me…” The man proceeded to tell me a list of his ailments, diseases, diagnoses, conditions, all of which I have forgotten, I’m not one for remembering labels, people YES, thoughts and feelings YES, acknowledging pain YES. But NOT labels. This delivery man was upset, angry, frustrated, exhausted and I suspect in physical pain. We’re all in some pain and/or anxiety, life is hard at the best of times, some of us are more aware than others, expressed in different forms, all pain, all dis-ease tells our unique story. My story is in the making in the book I am writing/editing, gosh it takes forever the edits.

(By the by the way, a friend asked me why I wouldn’t want a vaccine of any sort when I was a user of recreational drugs in my youth. Firstly, I don’t want bits of male foetus in me, secondly, I have worked so hard on my body with the help of the most wonderful homeopath akin to the Queen’s, and thirdly, I took recreational drugs to relieve emotional pain, but then came the physical pain and MS numbness and blurred vision, my brain couldn’t listen, and then came the therapy to help me see. The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel Van Der Kolk explains this well. I’m sure Mr Van Der Kolk has a few things to say about this plandemic.)

Back to Tesco. How totally patronising, mind numbingly insulting is this email I received from them today, just take a look …

Santa’s making a
list and checking
it twice

Have you been naughty or nice this year? Whether it was a dodgy DIY haircut or making up homework for the kids to get a little quiet time, have you had any naughty little slip-ups year?

37% I’ve accidently given a relative a dodgy home haircut

5% I’ve made up homework for the kids

48% I’ve forgotten to sing Happy Birthday while washing my hands

10% I’m guilty of sneakily cheating on a virtual quiz

Fuck off, fuck off,  fuck off … I immensely value your Tesco delivery men, and am very grateful that (unlike last year) you have pickled walnuts on your shelves, but I object to this shit – fucking quizzes, happy fucking birthday hand wanking and oh, the hilarity of cutting hair when we’re not qualified. I’ve never read such tripe and been so insulted, that’s what you think I do Tesco, or even think about, this is some of the worst advertising I’ve ever come across, is it supposed to be funny? That’s what has been difficult this year? Really?

Fuck off mainstream media, fuck off mass media, just fuck off. It’s time to change Mr Tesco, no room in the bunker for you mate, stop tittle tattling over last lockdown. We have been locked in, shut down, had our human rights and livings eroded, mental health and economy devastated due to the disproportionate fear-based response to this virus. We’ve been kept in isolation, prevented from spending time with our friends and family and like the economy, most days I feel I could be on the brink of collapse.

The fight in me at least relieves symptoms, writing helps, I know this because I used to run a writing as therapy group for people with MS in the Peckham library.  I was in Peckham Rye park yesterday and Alice Cooper’s song “Don’t give Up” came up on my Spotify. It helped me enormously, Alice originally wrote the track about suicide, but then Covid came and the lyrics seemed to just fit…. And, of course, suicide rates have increased and will increase, just wait until those 2020 figures come in this time next year, in my work and life communities, every week I hear of another young person having taken their life.

Here is a poem I wrote about fucking on the bowling green in Peckham Rye Park


I complained about his dick tion

But I loved his stroke

He was paralysed right down his right side

He could do double with his left

With slurred speech he told me to fuck off about my complaint about his dick tion

We walked through Peckham Rye Park

I hate walking.  He loves walking with three-pronged stick

Like Jake the Peg, diddle, diddle, diddle, de

Hung to left

It was a full moon.  We fucked on the bowling green


Peckham Rye Bowling Green Sign

A good place to fuck in the summer

Masked Tesco Delivery Man suggested I hold something phallic

White man in Tesco Delivery outfit with a mask next to a white woman in her 50s holding a bunch of bananas

Every year, my parents and my sister would go on our annual family holiday and stay in a caravan in Cromer, Norfolk. One year, the Gibbons family joined us for a day. The Gibbons had three children, two girls the same age as my sister and I, and a younger boy. It rained all day so the nine of us spent the day in the small caravan. As far as I can remember, we played cards.

The boy, who then was probably about five, asked questions during the day, like – Why were we scared of the lightning? How did the funny little gas lights work?  Why did Dad win at cards?  After each question, Mr and Mrs Gibbons, stopped what they were doing, and answered the boy. I was intrigued by these parents taking so much interest in their child, I enjoyed listening to their exchanges. My parents, however, found the interruptions extremely irritating. “Bloody little nuisance,” “spoilt child,” “they’ll make him into a little monster,” that kind of thing.

I’ve talked about this memory in therapy. My childhood was one to not question, to accept, to believe teachers, to go to Sunday school. I bunked school and Sunday school, none of it made sense. Back then, I knew my parent’s irritation came from a place of envy, and being around difference. They never asked me questions, and I stopped asking them questions, years before the incident with the Gibbons.

In my early thirties, years into my therapy, I tried asking my parents questions again, I was met with defensive, sometimes angry responses. I learned my relationship with my parents, would always have such limitations, but we got on, I accepted this.

Looking at the world now, with my child’s eyes perhaps, I want to know answers that the young Master Gibbons felt able to ask. Therapy allowed me to develop my voice, even if I’m faced with an angry, defensive voice, I will continue to ask.

The more we know, of course, the less we understand, but the process of trying to understand, holds with it, human communicating, striving for what is right and true to each, even if all our truths are different. As a psychotherapist, it is OUR story that is the most relevant in understanding, our story will always differ from the next, even if we are born in the same household, as indeed my sister and I were, our experience was very different, but often the same.  I wonder if she remembers this day in the caravan?

If my father hadn’t cheated on my mother, and they’d had a good relationship, perhaps I would be more trusting, believe everything I hear, be content and be a ‘good’ abiding citizen with government guidelines? But when nothing makes sense, I cannot, will not. The questions in my family were never answered, and the world’s questions may never be answered, people die with secrets, but the legacy of the burden (i.e. Jimmy Saville’s victims) will go on for lifetimes. The gut always tells us that something is up, whether in an unconscious, perhaps physical manifestation, or a feeling, all are linked.

London, where I live, moves into a new lockdown. Lockdowns were a term I remember being used by my boyfriend Keevan (partner, No. 31, in my book ‘From Essex to London in 101 Boyfriends’), when he was in prison. How can it be, I am locked up, have been locked up? What have I done? At least Keevan knew when he would be free from his imprisonment and was guilty of a crime.

Halloween, the full and blue moon and Jimmy Saville’s birthday, brought about news of the lockdown, Guy Fawkes night begins the lockdown, we think, if the Tory backbenchers go with it, will it depend on the US election?

Here is my poem and then below, lyrics of a song by Ewan MacColl (Kirsty McColl’s Dad) and Peggy Seeger, it’s a beautiful song, I recommend a listen or two.

Scene but not Herd – Liz Bentley

“Moo!” said the solitary cow

“What’s your intention?” asked the drama student with intentions to direct

The Ballard of Accounting – (Ewan McColl and Peggy Seeger)

In the morning we built the city

In the afternoon walked through its streets

Everyone saw us leaving

We wandered through our days as if they would never end

All of us imagined we had endless time to spend

We hardly saw the crossroads and small attention gave

To landmarks of the journey from the cradle to the grave

Did you learn to dream in the morning?

Abandon dreams in the afternoon?

Wait without hope in the evening?

Did you stand there in the traces and let ’em feed you lies?

Did you trail along behind them wearing blinkers on your eyes?

Did you kiss the foot that kicked you, did you thank them for their scorn?

Did you ask for their forgiveness for the act of being born

Act of being born, act of being born?

Did you alter the face of the city?

Make any change in the world you found?

Or did you observe all the warnings?

Did you read the trespass notices, did you keep off the grass?

Did you shuffle up the pavements just to let your betters pass?

Did you learn to keep your mouth shut, were you seen but never heard?

Did you learn to be obedient and jump to at a word

Jump to at a word?

Did you demand any answers?

The who and the what and the reason why?

Did you ever question the setup?

Did you stand aside and let ’em choose while you took second best?

Did you let ’em skim the cream off and give you the rest?

Did you settle for the shoddy and did you think it right?

To let ’em rob you right and left and never make a fight

Never make a fight, never make a fight?

What did you learn in the morning?

What did you know in the afternoon?

Were you content in the evening?

Did they teach you how to question when you were at the school?

Did the factory help you grow, were you the maker or the tool?

Did the place where you were living enrich your life and then

Did you reach some understanding of all your fellow men

All your fellow men, all your fellow men?Two white women wearing tin foil hats on halloween

tin foil hats for halloween

Tesco Delivery Man has arrived and I’m still in my dressing gown. What on earth is going on?

White Tesco delivery man standing next to a white woman in her 50s in a dressing gown

Tesco Delivery Man and I’m still in my dressing gown

What a few weeks. Where shall I begin? Insomnia. Two weeks of waking up two hours after I went to sleep, then spending the rest of the night thinking, putting two and two together to make four, four and four together to make exactly eight, a hundred and a hundred, and so it went on. Then it dawned on me. The Great Reset, and I researched more, about the founder/author, Klaus Schwab, who was brought up in Nazi Germany, then I’m thinking about Alice Miller, ‘For Your Own Good: The Roots of Violence in Child-Rearing’. And then I make more sums about Klaus Schwab’s childhood, he is 83 now, the book came out in June, how did he write that so quickly? ‘All the world’s a stage’, what are we really playing in the name of ‘For your own good’? Some think that the sequel to this book is known to all world leaders. It sounds like utopia but how will it happen? However it happens, whatever happens, it’s likely to be in the name of ‘For your own good’.

Our world has been gearing up for this. I became aware in mental health when our Southwark (and everywhere else) holistic therapists were got rid of from primary care. We fought to save our services, to no avail, of course. I didn’t lose my job because I did a CBT course at the Maudsley, and for the rest of my time in the NHS, I pretended, I complied, I made up the stats in order to keep my job, whilst offering my patients my ‘true self’ in the room. I was complicit to use this method, going along with something I resisted so much. It’s not surprising I became ill and had to leave. CBT is useful for a symptom, but it often stops there, mind control, changing your thoughts, why should we change our thoughts? CBT rarely explores, and EXPOSES the cause. Many years ago, I performed at a conference on ‘hearing voices’ at the Wellcome Trust, curated by the wonderful Dolly Sen. “We want our voices heard”, sung the crowds of patients and carers alike. In my CBT course I cried “What about dreams?” the tutor said “Dreams? We don’t do dreams”. Like we can’t sing in a church now, and I can’t swim butterfly in a public pool because my splashing may infect someone with Covid.

Boris Johnson belittled Muslim women not so long ago, we are now all letterboxes. Well, I’m exempt so I’m not a letterbox. I will not have rubbish put into my box. It’s time to stand up for ourselves, but how do we do it? Liverpool did it, they wouldn’t let the police shut down their gym, their fines paid by supporters. They are safe places and promote health and wellbeing. This is madness and is pushing us to our limits, how far will governments, the WHO and whoever else is pulling the strings go? It is far easier to comply and remain hostage, than challenge. Our internet sets us up to divide, algorithums take us to places that fracture our relationships, confuse us, keep us in fear. The vaccine, like Prozac, like CBT never was and never will be the solution.

Our world is reacting to a symptom, wearing the masks, washing the hands, it’s as insane as the sanitizers used, every few hours, or in some cases, every few minutes. It reminds me of working with an OCD hand-washer, red rare hands, a symptom of self-harm from childhood trauma. The world trauma, decades, hundreds of years of abuse, is coming out. The amount of people searching for mental health services is taking its toll. It’s overwhelming. I have never been so inundated with people asking for help. Today I needed to call BT, it didn’t take long before the Scottish technician picked up on my empathy and told me his story. He has been on a waiting list for 3 months to talk with a mental health nurse. His 20 minutes phone consultation is at the end of November, we were on the phone for 40 minutes. My daughter’s school ‘Place to Be’ has a waiting list too long for her to wait. The kids are saying they feel ‘dead’ inside. The older ones are getting drunk and having accidents, or rather ‘onpurposes’ (I studied the psychosomatics of accidents in my Masters degree), turning up in A and E. And I’m getting calls from as far away as Harrow, as us therapists are all so busy. And that’s just talking therapy, with the new lockdowns coming we will be more overloaded as body therapists will no longer be able to work, again, their businesses still not recovered from the first lockdown.

During my insomnia, I have become acutely aware of a higher consciousness, I am an interpreter of the unconscious afterall, it is my duty, it is what I was put on this planet to do, I cannot stop this process. Once you become aware of something, you can’t put it back, it’s out there, but others don’t like it and attack. “Stop watching all this conspiracy theorist stuff”. I will not let the lies seep into my body and become ill, I will not pretend, like I did when I worked in the NHS, obscure statistics so I obeyed the NHS ridiculous (sometimes harmful) protocols, and believe me, they are so ridiculous that the patient, the human, could get lost, and that was over a decade ago.

For the last 6 months, I have felt like the little boy in the Emporer’s new clothes, now I feel like the prince in sleeping beauty, trying to cut through the dark forest to wake up the sleeping kingdom. I have found myself praying and when the new moon came, my insomnia subsided. My homeopath calls me the ‘Unsleeping beauty’. While I am unsleeping, I am continually asking questions, why? why? why? Why did they put covid on my friend’s dad’s death certificate and then change it when she challenged them? Why is it that the press tells us hospital beds are full when some hospitals have as few as 8 covid beds anyway and NHS staff are saying otherwise? Why doesn’t the BBC tell us when the deaths are very low in one day? Why doesn’t anyone remind us that the flu has a vaccinne yet still kills between 45 and 65,000 a year. I could go on and on, but I’m cooking a nice organic chicken in a bit. Ultimately, I haven’t a clue what’s going on, but I’m exploring what’s going on in my mind.

Below is a photo of the print ‘Mad Bonce’ I bought from the amazing artist and editor of DAO, Colin Hambrook, it depicts exactly what has been going on in my head during all these sleepless nights. It was a no brainer to buy from his website, the last time I had so much fun shopping was buying underwear from John Lewis with my husband, just before lockdown. Blue Water was dead, that will be the last time I shall be trying on underwear in a shop. But, Colin’s website is very much alive. We can’t stop being human, our dreams are very real right now, I’d love to tell you mine but there are too many. Oh, sod it, here’s one, I go back to my old family home, my kids are expected to arrive and when I go up to the attic space where I should be staying with my family, there is no roof, I question the parental figure downstairs who I don’t seem to know anymore “How can we stay there, what happens if it rains? Why have you had no roof on this house, for so long?”

My friend has put a bet on that Doris will get on his Santa costume and ‘give’ us Xmas. All I know is that my two friends, one a Selfridges Santa, one a Legoland Santa, have no work this year.

I wrote this poem in 1988, it goes well with Colin’s print, methinks. And below is the original picture I drew for the poem. Call me a nut job, shame or blame me for not wearing a mask, tell me to stop reading conspiracy theories – but it is the nut that sews the seed, the’ nut’ that does the ‘job’. My nut is connected to my gut. My gut says this is NOT for our own good. We need to socialize with our loved ones, be at their sides when dying in hospital beds, care not control and protocol, connectivenesses has never been so important. I am the sanest I have ever been. The strategies and tactics for this great reset are alarming, but that’s for another time, right now I’m thinking of roast chicken and I want a good nights sleep.

Living in a Squat with Uncle Pervious (1988)

An opening head

An exploding brain

Is keeping me sane

Diidle which reads an opening head, and exploding brain, keeping me sane

An opening head, brain sane, not sanitisedIllustrated artwork showing the cross section of a head with people in different rooms inside it

‘Mad Bonce’ by Colin Hambrook