INFJs have uncanny insight into people and situations. They get “feelings” about things and intuitively understand them. As an extreme example, some INFJs report experiences of a psychic nature, such as getting strong feelings about there being a problem with a loved one, and discovering later that they were in a car accident. This is the sort of thing that other types may scorn and scoff at, and the INFJ themself does not really understand their intuition at a level which can be verbalized. Consequently, most INFJs are protective of their inner selves, sharing only what they choose to share when they choose to share it. They are deep, complex individuals, who are quite private and typically difficult to understand. INFJs hold back part of themselves, and can be secretive.

/// I awoke, with a startle, palpation-heart at 3:34 am. Red number lights of our alarm clocks being the first thing I recognised. The sweat covered me whole. I dragged myself sideways from the sofa-bed in the shed, hands searching-blind in the dark for the misplaced glass of water.

Slowly recovering, one hand firmly against my chest, I used the free hand to grasp the bedclothes wrapped around my significant other; “I may be having a heart-attack, just so you know”, as flippant a comment that could be made given the circumstances.

Sliding his way with speed towards me from his far side of the mattress, my partner felt my heart beating heavily through my chest, checked my head: prognosis, perhaps: bad dream.

After a minute or two, all was back to normal. As normal as we could envision after a possible pseudo-heart attack at 21 years of age.

I lay cold, sans covers, for what felt like hours. I felt the blood pumping though every vein and limb, like the universe was granting my body a second chance.

I eventually unwitting fell back to sleep, and awoke to a knock on said-shed door.

The grey, forlorn face of my father greeted me.

“Amrick, it’s bad. Grandad died last night.”

The words were soft and psychedelic, almost a hazy-hue of platitudes falling from my father’s mouth. I wasn’t sad, because I knew he had already died, intrinsically, innately.

A week passed by. Outside the funeral, the priest apprehended my self-penned private eulogy, meant for my grandad’s coffin and corporeal form, on the way in to the church.

“May I read, please?” He begged. I did submit. His eyes widened and closed, like a human camera, taking candid shots of my utmost emotions.

Minutes later, his eyes once again met with mine “Would you like to read this to your Grandad at his funeral?” The mere thought of doing such, smashed my faux-composed nerves (purely on behalf of my already fragile mother) to teary-shimmering smithereens upon the cold, concrete council pavement beneath my red-shoe feet.

“No, I’m sorry, I just… can’t.” I nervously adjusted my emblematic Kelly green cardigan and matching pig-tail bows.
“Perhaps you would allow for me to read it, instead?”

“Yes, OK.”

We wept, laughed, wept and sighed. We drank Guinness, raised glasses, laughed, sighed, wept some more.

Then two weeks later, as the world stopped spinning so fast, and we all tried to find our feet upon the still-cold ground, more details were revealed about my Grandfather’s passing.

My mum sat with me around her long, down-lit wooden dining table, drinking icy Baileys in special Baileys glasses, gifted to us from my previous-to-my-Grandad departed Nanna, wife to aforementioned Grandad.

“Well. Uncle Peter says it’s been confirmed as a heart-attack. It’s how your Nanna (whom died a slow, disgusting death via cancer) always wished she would go. He felt little pain, he was gone within seconds.”

I hacked-back a teary sob, keeping such composure I’m so well known for.

“His estimated time of death was about 3:30ish in the morning. We think he got up to get a drink of water, but never made it. Uncle Peter (with whom Grandad was living with, after living with us for a number of months after Nanna had died) found him perched frontwards over the edge of the bed, close to the side table.”

A frank surge of understanding hit me head-long, as I knew, intrinsically, at 3:30am that my grandfather had died of a heart-attack, because, I too, lived it vicariously with him, more than 25 miles away.

In-between working as a professional photograher and being mum to little Winnie and baby-bump, Rebecca has been working hard on a fantastic blog-project called “The Mothers”. Rebecca travels around the North West, mainly Manchester, and takes photographs of mums with their children. She capitalises on basing the photographs in the native surroundings of the family home, giving a real insight in to what it’s like to be a mum. She also adds depth to the beautiful photography with a number of interview-style questions for “The Mothers” to answer.

Below is a short excerpt from our interview. Be sure to click the link to Rebecca’s blog to read more

” Amrick and Yuna

Child: Yunalesca, aged 17 months

Location: Manchester

Expectations of Motherhood: Wow! My expectations of motherhood were vast and crazy, I simply couldn’t wait to have my baby. I was diagnosed with quite severe PCOS (Polycystic Ovary Syndrome) when I was just 18. I’d had irregular periods for about 2 years, I’d also gained a lot of weight in a very short space of time with no changes to my diet or daily activities, and my skin was terrible; I had the worst acne. It took 2 long years of diagnosis, until I was finally told I had PCOS. I was basically told that my chances of ever becoming pregnant were slim, and advised of the miscarriage rate of women with PCOS (which is relatively high in comparison to “normal” women). So, from being 18 years old, I always believed that having a baby of my own wouldn’t be an option for me…”

Visit “The Mothers” Blog.

Good evening!

I sated my lamp obsession today with a little addition from my childhood : the lava lamp. Please don’t be confused by my childhood admission, I wasn’t born in the 1960′s, rather, the 1980′s.  However, as a teen in the early 1990′s, there was a short-lived and oddly genre-scattered resurgence of 1960′s paraphernalia and culture. Grunge, shoe-gaze and the baggy-sound took some influence from drug culture and psychedelia of the sixties. Pop-music (see Deee-lite and Betty Boo) and teenboppers were tinged in retrospective black and white couture of Mary Quant, and huge, horrid bright florals, bastardising the beauty of the sixties flower power prints, in to a nauseous-swirling reproduction.

Many of my friends and I had blow-up chairs and back-packs. Tie-dye t-shirts, fibre-optic lights and… lava lamps.

I loved my lava lamp so much as a teenager. I had decorated my room a rather foreboding, but what I felt was ultimately cool, shade of lipstick red. In the corner of my teenage den hung a poster of Jarvis Cocker, giving the “V” and the Manic Street Preachers, camo’d-up, avec-Richie. Underneath on a 1980′s Habitat TV trolley was my stereo stack-system (the first Sony system with a CD player, I had cunningly acquired from my parents), a framed-photo of my beloved cat, Ben, and my lava lamp.

I would gaze at it for hours whilst my vinyl of choice played on repeat, lying on my bed, perhaps writing some juvenile wistful whimsy in my diary. Boy, I loved my bedroom as a teenager. It was MINE. My place, my own little stamp on the giant world I was slowly realising I was really a part of.

I’ve been utterly obsessed with lamps from an early age, and perhaps this was an influence of my parents. They too have spotted lamps across the household landscape. Lighting up those dim and dull corners and recesses, which would otherwise be ignored in a room.

Since having Yunalesca, my imagination has been piqued to some degree, in decorating her everyday vision of home with odd and novel, and not to forget, exciting, artefacts. This is how I was raised myself, my parents’ house had a pretty piece of porcelain or strange curio in every corner, and it has only effected my aesthetic principles in a positive way.

So, it’s been on my mind to purchase a lava lamp for some time, if not for selfish reasons, to educate Yunalesca in the wonders of decorative lighting!

I was on a short shopping jaunt today, actually to return some wild and bright winter socks I bought for Yunalesca in the wrong size. However on my trip I wandered in to a chain of shops which I admire and love, yet will not name because, I’m not like that. But they always sell awesome stuff, that’s all I’ll say. I wandered through the lighting department, as I tend to do, and spotted before me the most beautiful lava lamp (or Lava Lite, as it were) for just £15, in traditional, truly psychedelic yellow lava, purple liquid colouring. It was only £15 and I knew it was meant to be.

My new Lava Lite and I were immediately united via the checkout and it now sits proudly in my living room, for all, including Yunalesca, to admire and be astonished by.

Through a little research I found that Lava Lite was the original, US trade-name for what is known in the UK as the Lava Lamp or, as it was originally known, the Astro lamp. It was invented by an Englishman (although born in Singapore) called Edward Craven-Walker, whom then went on to sell his US sales rights to a German fellow, whom then went on to proliferate the magnifience of the lava lamp in the US of A.

A beautiful, and still to this 29-year-old, amazing piece of simple-science, presented in your home, for your viewing pleasure.

Thought I’d just share these poems I wrote about celebrities of my choice. They are from about 1994, so I was just 11 years old. They gave me a real “laugh out loud” experience, because I was only a child, and it’s a bit of a surprise to me I could forumulate opinions such as these at that age. Enjoy!

PS. Please ignore my atrocious spelling!

“BOY GEORGE: He is a stereo, on full blast. He is a dog, sharp, yet shy. He is pink. He is lively at night. He is pink Champagne, sparkling and bubbly. He is a bowl of Chilli Con Carne. He is a beret hat, he is a Blue Tit.”

“CILLA BLACK : She is a radio, loud and lively. A Platypus. She is green and bright. She is outgoing, she is night time. She is sparkling white wine. She is a carrot, she is a parrot.”

“JOHN WAYNE : He is a plug socket, full of energy. He is a bird of prey. He is fiery red. He is early morning. He is a double Scotch on the rocks. He is a hot piece of toast. He is a Stetson, he is an eagle.”

“JOHN MAJOR : He is a hoover, boring and life-sucking. He is a tortoise, slow and heavy. He is grey and dull. He is midnight; boring. He is a cold cup of tea. A sausage. He is a top hat. He is a pigeon.”

I’ve decided to write a post about a subject that’s had me in quite a pickle over the past few weeks, I’m in a quasi-costume-quandary, and I can’t seem to find a solution!

In a few weeks time, we will be taking Yunalesca on her first “beach” holiday. You must know by now how much I love Blackpool, and how I want to support the businesses there, so, unsurprisingly, that’s where we’re headed!

There’s so much on offer in Blackpool that I know Yuna is going to go crazy for, I’m imagining that even the blinking lights of the gambling

WEEEE! THE SANDCASTLE!

machines and the sounds of the roller coasters will be enough to entertain her for a couple of days!
However, one of the most exciting places I remember visiting as a child in Blackpool, is the Sandcastle swimming complex.

I’m slightly ashamed to say that when we finally take Yunalesca to the Sandcastle, it will be her first time swimming… ever. She’ll be about 17 months of age, and I know that my mum and dad helped me make waves in the pool way before I was that age.

Why is it, that I have waited all this time to introduce my daughter to the delights of swimming?! From Yuna’s reaction to bathtime alone, it is clear to me that being confronted with a huge, giant pool of water is going to be a gloriously, gleeful experience for her.

However, there’s something huge and annoying standing between my daughter and her enjoyment of the simple sport of swimming – that being big ol’ me.

Let’s start off with a little bit of background information about why slipping on a costume has become such a momentous mountain of emotion for me to overcome.

Sometimes I feel like a stuck record “When I was 18 I was diagnosed with PCOS and it was at that time I … blah-de-blah-de-blah.“
Yet again, I have to bring up my having PCOS, because it has changed my body immensely over the past 10 years or so. Now, I’m not exactly the vain type. I’m certainly by no means perfect, and never have been, but there was a point in my past when I didn’t have to worry about the aspects of my body that I have to now.

PCOS has done some dreadful things to my physique, figure, hair and skin, plus add to that being pregnant, and the end result isn’t too pretty. Like most women of any age above puberty, I sport the war-wounds of feminine adulthood; cellulite, stretch marks, love handles… I would win a “House” in body-issues bingo, I assure you.

My body is still getting over pregnancy, too, with my PCOS really slowing the recovery process down to an almost snail-like pace.

So, the time has come where I’ve decided I want to enjoy splashing in the water with my daughter, and with this opportunity for family fun, comes the dreaded purchase of a swimming costume.

Now, I have a few requirements on my costume-checklist, that I thought would be quite easy to fulfill, but how wrong I was!
✓ Not low-cut/ preferably no cleavage (i.e. high-neck)
✓ Not high-leg
✓ No midriff on show
✓ Preferably a slightly more flattering (read: less revealing) material than Spandex-type fabric
✓ Styled with perhaps short-shorts or a swimskirt

It would seem, I have stumbled upon a niche. A niche I have deemed “Modest Swimwear”.

I have searched high, and I have searched low. I’ve looked in fashionable highstreet stores (H&M, Topshop, Primark etc), in discount stores (Matalan, Peacocks) and supermarkets (Tesco, Sainsburys, Asda), where fashion is only emulated to a certain degree to save on production costs. I’ve scoured eBay, vintage reproduction stores, specialist swimwear stores. I wondered into a store I’ve not visited since I gained (and have since lost) a lot of weight about 7 years ago, Evans.

These ain't no breast-feeding baby-bags.

All I wanted from just one of these stores, was a modest swimsuit. Not a bikini, or a low-cut tummy-control sex-suit, just a nice, pretty, CUTE but modest suit.
I even visited stores such as Bon Marché and M&S, in the vain attempt to find what it is that little old ladies might wear when swimming.
I was shocked. My quest was so unfruitful, even at Bon Marché… apparently even little old ladies don’t mind getting the puppies out for a quick dip in the pool.

The closest I came to thinking I had found my swimsuit-dream was Sports Direct, where I purchased a plain, sporty Slazenger costume reduced from £22 to £8. However, I danced home and up the stairs, to realise I had missed a little something off my checklist; boob support.

I put my newly acquired suit on, dashed to the mirror, only to be met with a reflection of an 8 year old Amrick, pre-puberty. The shape and fabric of the costume condensed all my lumps and bumps and not to mention, boobs, in to one huge mass on my front. I looked like a little pot-bellied kid. I was horrified by what I saw. Not to mention the legs were a little too high, cheese-wiring my post-pregnancy abdomen.

“HELL. I HAVE GIVEN UP!” I yelled at my reflection, along with a number of other curse-words I’d rather not print.

“I HATE YOU SWIMWEAR! I HATE YOU TO BITS!”

So. Feeling like an utter freak, alone in this cruel, cruel world of swimwear, I decided to search the internet to see if anyone else has suffered the same watery-woe as I.

My search turned up a few things. Firstly, there is something deemed as “modest swimwear” however, it’s just so far to the other end of the spectrum, it’s most definitely not what I had in mind. Obviously for a Muslim woman who wants to enjoy the water, there are Burqinis. It’s basically a wetsuit with a dress over the top of it… I’m self-conscious, but not that much!
I also found one or two other people discussing this subject, one of which was a devout-Christian teenager, who was flummoxed by duel desire to take a dip and stay pure for Him.

The other lady I found discussing the subject on her blog Rapidlife.
I have no idea if she’s modest for religious reasons or not, but she seems to have the same line of thinking as me.

Now, I’m not religious, but instead I guess I’m rather old fashioned. No matter what size I’ve been in the past, how smooth my thighs or pert my breasts, I’ve always wanted to keep myself covered-up to a certain degree. I, personally, am uncomfortable with the unwanted male attention that comes with having cleavage on show, for example.
This is not a view-point I force upon others, by no means whatsoever. I have friends whom dress “frumpier” than I, I have some friends who have the most glorious chests, and they sport them with pride. They are also OK with the attention this attains, and are confident in handling themselves in a situation.

I dislike the vibes I get from some women that I am perhaps not sexually liberated because of my clothing-choices and opinions on modest dress, however, I decline to rise to this bait. How I function sexually is nothing to do with anyone other than myself and the person I chose to be intimate with. You may take from that what you will.

I’ve been on this quest for a number of weeks now, and yesterday I made an extraordinary, yet somewhat concerning discovery.
I have finally found a range of high-neck swimming costumes, which, yes, come with boob-support! Some even have low-leg lines and *gasps!* some actually have swimskirts!

Despite this discovery, I must draw the line at wearing Masectomy swimwear unless I absolutely have to.

Yes, Masectomy swimwear is, as you would logically predict, high-neck by nature. When a lady is without one of her breasts, she has to make a decision to wear a prosthetic boob if she desires to keep an even-silhouette and body-shape. You can empathise that this might make swimming rather difficult, worrying about your new bosom going astray in the pool, so the costumes are designed with a high-neck to keep everything in its right place. They also feature a built-in pocket on either side of the chest to place the prosthetic breast in.

One of the most alarming attributes of these costumes is how expensive they are. It seems that there is always someone there to cash-in on the misfortunes of others. A simple, tradition swimsuit jumps in price from about £20 to £40-60+, simply for having a high-neckline and little pockets for your new boob. I find this astonishing, and disappointing for women out there whom have already had to endure one of the most harrowing experiences of their lives… they have to pay with their pocket, as well as their body.

I couldn’t really write this blog without mentioning vintage swimwear. I have a small collection of swimsuits in my stock upstairs, they all came from the same estate-sale, and I must say the lady whom originally wore them was most definitely one chic chick. Before I really started on my quest to find my modest-swimsuit I tried all of my stock of suits on. There was one main problem, boobs. Mine were too big, there was serious overflow going on, which wasn’t attractive I assure you. I don’t have mammoth-gloat-worthy-mammaries, I mean… they’re there, and they’re alright and everything… but it’s clear that women from the past definitely weren’t as filled-out up-top as we modern maidens. I also found the suits to be a little too short, in that they were pulling up and pulling down on my body in entirely the wrong way. Again, I’m not sure if I have a freakishly-long torso or something, because I’m only 5′ 4″, so it wasn’t because I am too tall.

Now take a look at this little number:
1920′s Bathing Suit

(image taken from Wikipedia)

Don’t you think it’s gorgeous?! (I do!) It covers everything nicely, without looking boring. It’s cute and stylish, boy I’d love to wear something like this to the pool!

Also of note are these skirted/shorted suits from the 1930′s and 1950′s.

Images from bobbinsandbombshells.blogspot.com

Can you look at these women and tell me they’re NOT sexy or attractive?! Or in the very least, beautiful. Granted, if it were my dream suit I’d have the neckline a little higher, but this is basically what I’m after. Yet, we’re all forced to believe that this amount of coverage when at the pool is somehow too demure and proper for us contemporary women.

So, here I am… I’ve reached the end of my blog post and research, and I am no-further towards finding a suit to wear to the baths with my daughter in just a few weeks time.
What options does this leave me? Shall I just forsake the fun of the pool because I am uncomfortable wearing what is essentially my underwear, in public?
I picked-up a nice pair of polka-dot “board shorts” when out looking for a swimming costume. They’re much like a men’s pair of swimming trunks, but cuter, you know, for a lady! I thought to myself “perhaps, just maybe… I could wear these little shorts with a swim vest of some sort, that would fix everything!”.
So, back to google I stumbled, looking for information about what is acceptable swim attire in a public pool. Another shock-a-doodle awaited me. Women on a forum for new-mums were discussing shorts similar to the one’s I had purchased, and pretty much every one of these women had got to the poolside, only to be told that “women are NOT allowed to wear swim shorts, they MUST wear a costume.”

WHAT?! I mean, conversely to what you might be thinking, I believe in my heart that I am a feminist, and as a modern woman, I am disgusted to hear that women are being told they must adhere to ye olde law of the one-piece, and must not stray from such!

We can see your WILLY!!!

So, fellas, you’re alright wearing shorts, but women, it’s a big NO-NO. I say if women MUST wear a swimsuit, then men MUST wear Speedos! No choice!!!
Ah-ha, that wouldn’t happen though, would it? Most men shrivel (both inside and out) at the mere idea of packing away their junk into skin-tight budgie-smugglers, but we women must accept our fate of being thrust into the public in a sheath-like coating of spandex, for all to see.

In my life-time I’ve had many, numerous, possibly-at-this-point innumerable ideas to produce items in this world that no one has yet thought of. In spite of my ideas, I have little of that thing we all rely on; money. I have the style, fashion-knowhow, even brief industry-experience to create a range of “modest” swimwear, but, as always, no money.

These items need to be CUTE. FUN. PRETTY. BEAUTIFUL. There should be fantastic, tactile and flattering fabrics. Exotic and dreamy prints. BOWS. RIBBONS. FLOWERS. All the colours of the glorious rainbow. But most of all, they should be MODEST.

I’m not immersed in the world of vintage through fashion you know, it’s because in some ways, I’m just kinda old fashioned in my mind, too.

A charming French gardener gives me flowers, despite me being fully-clothed.

Being from Manchester and living here all my life, I often meet lots of creative people, they’re a bit like fish… they tend to scurry in and out of my life stream, some I end up working with, others I socialise with, some we just commune and eat stuff… Most I only become acquainted with for a short time, and, like a fish, we feast on the creative morsels of the Mancunian landscape together, then they dash off to indulge in creative commitments elsewhere.

Recently a lovely little minnow happened upon my life stream, and I have to say Helen Makes quite unusual artefacts with her creative skills!

With the tiny part of my brain that is actually devoted to being a business woman (because, let’s face it… my work ethic is most definitely more artistically minded, than fiscal!) I’ve always known that “personalisation” is fantastic niche to sell anything. I think this realisation came to me as a small child. My name is Amrick, and I would glare with envy when my friends at primary school would come back after Christmas with their own personalised pencils, their names emblazoned in gold print against the chunky coloured wood. Or perhaps they’d go away on holiday, and come back with a neon Mediterranean-themed t-shirt with “CLARE” in Collegiate-print on the front.

I wanted perhaps nothing more than a set of pencil crayons with MY name on them, I would have cherished them dearly! Alas, due to the uncommon nature of my name, it was not to be.

However, now with the help of the internet, and perhaps cheaper manufacturing costs, I can get almost anything with my name on it. Mugs, t-shirts, pencils, perhaps even a small cat, with my name shaved into his side, if he would allow.

However, of all the wonderful personalised items I’ve happened upon in my life-time, I will admit that I’ve never seen anything quite as original as the personalised monsters that are created by Helen Makes!

Helen is a qualified artist, having studied Fine Art in the early 00′s, she has since developed her own ideas about the type of art she wants to produce… the sign of a real artist in my books.

Helen will do a wonderful thing if you give her a couple of yarns of wool and photo of you; she’ll create you your very own Helen-interpreted vision of yourself. The end product is a bit like looking into a psychedelic, woolly mirror.

I think they make great gifts, especially for something like a wedding. Or if you fancied indulging in the unique-mind of Helen, a little present for yourself… To me, commisioning Helen to create her vision of myself would be a bit like being a mum, and waiting patiently for my daughter to talk and spew-forth her innocent interpretations of life as she sees it. To receive one of Helen’s pieces of art would be akin to that exciting and original thought-pattern of someone whom is seeing life in their own specific way.

Below is a small selection of the wonderful monsters Helen has made, and if you’d like to visit her sparkly, new website, you can do so here www.helenmakes.co.uk or follow Helen on twitter as @helenmakes

I thought I would grace you with an update to how things are progressing here in my life…

I won’t be the first person in history to point this out, but did you ever consider exactly how time-consuming it is to raise a little human-being in an adequate manner? Perhaps you have produced one of these tiny humans yourself, and if so, you’ll probably know where I am going with this.

I have many friends whom will openly admit that, bluntly, but earnestly put, are too selfish to have children. And despite having a child of my own, I understand this selfish outlook.

I think I had a “one-up” so to speak, on most people of my generation when it comes to the desire to procreate. As I’ve mentioned previously in my blog, I was told at 18 that having children would be a real struggle, if not impossible for me.

So perhaps this being told that I simply couldn’t do something, brought out the rebellious side of me that doesn’t like being told what to do. I’ve always wanted to have children, and was determined in my heart that it would happen one day (whether it be naturally, scientifically or via adoption).

Whilst pregnant with Yunalesca I was given gentle, humorous nudges from other mothers, that childrearing wasn’t something to be taken lightly. That it was going to be hard work, time-consuming, a delightful chore… the “hardest days work you’ll ever do”.

I brushed aside many of these comments as being the mutterings of tired-out experienced mothers, and took on-board only the positive comments about parenthood.

However, now Yunalesca is in the world, I now understand why these mothers were off-loading on to me at the time… the burgeoning mother-to-be.

Once you bring a child in to the world they become the epicentre of every tiny choice you will make from that point onwards. These tiny choices are beyond anything you could even fathom until you’re a parent.

Your freedom is no longer just yours, but a shared freedom. I think it harsh to say that your freedom is quashed completely once you have children, because if you have a supportive family and network of friends, you can still work time to do exactly what you want, but that time just won’t come along as often.

Daddy and Mummy out for a drinkie-poo!

Hangovers are a serious no-no. If you know me even remotely, you’ll probably know that I like the odd drink or 5 (haha! 5?) and I still have the freedom to go out and drink and socialise with my friends, however, again, this is a pre-arranged, organised affair (no nipping for a quick pint on a whim!).

Even when we do chose to drink, it is lodged quite firmly in (perhaps, the back of) our minds, that although we can appreciate this free time in the evening, our little chicken-pie will be with us again come morning, needing our undivided attention.

Still drinking post-pregnancy! BFF's Stag Do.

However, parenthood can conversely be a rather selfish affair. Let me take this opportunity to express how rewarding bringing-up your own flesh-and-blood is though! I don’t want to bring down anyone who is planning on parenthood (or otherwise!) and is reading this.

Yunalesca, although time consuming, is an absolute sparkle on this dreary, dull planet. Her unwitting enthusiasm for the day is the kind of emotion that we adults have beaten out of us over time, due to misfortune, bills and weight-gain. She is oblivious to the fraught and fearful factors of existence. Perhaps if her dummy has done astray, her teething gums are causing her pain or her tummy is pre-emptively rumbling before I’ve made her dinner, she might feel something remotely like sadness, but she has little to no concept of sadness, pain or disappointment.

I have the honour, as a mother, of viewing life from her very specific, innocent perspective, and it is an absolute gift.

My flowery yard!

Yunalesca delights in walking around our humble and tiny yard, touching each and every flower she sees. She talks with them, about what I sadly have no idea. Yunalesca will do this in a cyclical manner, starting at the Gazanias, moving on to the huge colourful Dahlias, chatting with my home-grown lettuce, perhaps visiting the Catmint, the soft Phlox, stroking the various shades of Lobelia I’ve planted… until she finds herself back at the Gazanias again, utterly as pleased to find them as the first time she laid-eyes upon them.

Everything is new and amazing to a small child, and this astounding fresh perspective on the world is something you’ll never have yourself again once you reach adulthood, perhaps having rushed experiencing everything you dreamed of once you became self-aware as a teenager.

Yet, having a child you get just a small glimpse of this glorious lack of self-awareness. It is unadulterated beauty. It is pure innocence. It is “joie de vivre” on the purest level, and should be cherished by all of those whom are lucky enough to witness it, even vicariously.

For the love of books!

Yunalesca simply adores books. People often comment on how bright she is, how amazing it is that she can busy herself with a pile of books for hours upon-end. And I agree wholeheartedly (she is my daughter, of course!) that she is sparky. She’s fiery, and has a personality entirely of her own, a personality that is part hereditary, part environmental, and part just naturalistically her own.

It is mind-boggling and life-affirming to watch Yunalesca develop in to a being in her own right on a daily-basis.

As much as I loved my childless freedom before Yunalesca came-along, my life would have been down-right pointless without being given the chance to relive (to some degree) the bliss of childhood via my daughter.

The weekend just-passed I spent in the glorious-greenery of Derbyshire… right up in the singing-hills, amongst the sheep, cows and … donkeys. The lady I was staying with made a comment about my make-up, on how much lighter and natural it is these days. She was right, I have taken to unveiling my blemishes and facial misfortunes of late, and that is partly to do with my daughter. However, this make-up revelation prompted an interesting conversation about self-awareness.

As a child, and right up until my late teens, I was blissfully (important word) unaware of my “self”. I had a vague idea that perhaps I wasn’t the prettiest girl in the school, people pointed out that my red hair wasn’t desirable to them. Even that perhaps my breasts were not big enough, or that my taste in music was “uncool”, yet, as hard as this is for me to describe, all I can say is at that time I was, again, blissfully unaware of my “self”.

It wasn’t until I reached college that I started to actually realise why some women were attractive, and some labelled as being otherwise. I heard more adult conversation. I heard about thighs, bottoms, breasts, girls being “fit” and beautiful… and slowly, over time, I was cursed with self-awareness. It was at that point I took to make-up, covering-up my apparently “unacceptable” body, and most importantly, worrying

Joie de vivre

about what people thought about the decisions I made. I was no longer “free” to wonder through life trying whatever I liked, trying to

achieve anything I decided to, because I had become so aware of my faults that I was afraid to reveal them through my failures.

Yet, here I am today, a mother of an innocent, and it makes me realise what a wonderful job my mum did of helping me retain my lack of self-awareness until my later teen years. It has made me determined to assure that my daughter is free from the restraints of adulthood for as long as sanely possible.

So what if she doesn’t kiss a boy (or girl) until she’s 16 (like myself). So what if she’s uncool and wants to spend her school-life studying (isn’t that

what education is all about?!). I don’t care if she turns out like me, because she is part of me. I may have my (all-too-noticeable-to-myself) faults, but if Yunalesca can harbour that innocent joy of life, that ability to feel the freedom to do whatever she feels she wants to do without fearing being chatised by her peers, then I can only see that is a worthy thing.

I was delighted to find last week that Domestic Sluttery had made Kittynation.com their “Shop in the Spotlight”!

The ladies at the blog had lots of lovely things to say about Kitty’s Emporium, mostly taking note of the value for money we offer here at Kittynation.com

There are lots of shops that sell great vintage now online but it’s not so often that’s paired with great prices. Kitty’s Emporium is a new discovery to me that seems to pull off that feat.

The store definitely leans towards the kitsch side of retro but there are some 100% pretty things in there too

I can’t help thinking there will be a whole load of this booty coming down this way very soon. An extra incentive, should you need one, is that you get a free compilation CD with every order. Music and vintage? Surely my perfect new shop.

Read the whole article here!

All cat-lovers and general pet-owners alike will understand that during the time Steve was missing, I was transformed from a normal, sane mother of 1 human baby, 3 furry babies, into a delirious, inconsolable wreck.

Steve is my middle cat, yet in many ways, despite his 9 years of age, he is very much the baby of my cat family. He was found in a wheelie bin when he was only 2 weeks old, had a terrible case of Cat Flu (of which we were told he would never recover) and because of the illnesses he suffered, and being taken from his mother at such a young age, he has always been a little rinky-dink when it comes to feline instincts.

He’s a real homebody and absolutely OBSESSED with food, some days to the point of driving me crazy (breakfast/lunch/dinner for us is also scavenging time for Steve!), so when Steve didn’t appear for his breakfast on Tuesday last week (22nd of March 2011) I knew straight away that he was lost. Steve will never miss the opening of a Whisker’s foil, or anything his poor-hearing perceives to be so!

After a few hours of Steve being missing I fired up the old internet and started my quest to get him back home. I was determined that he wouldn’t just go running away on some Springtime cat pilgrimage somewhere, because I knew him too well. That just wasn’t his kind of thing to do (either of the other, more adventurous, “normal” cats – yes).

My first feeling beside despair of him being lost, was utter confusion. I was overwhelmed by all the lost cat websites available, I just didn’t know where to start. Instinctually my first step in my plan of action was posters. POSTERS EVERYWHERE! I fashioned an A4 lost poster on the computer, and before the Tuesday was over I had already placed a few posters around my local area. I also made the posters in to A5 flyers and later that day managed to post as many as possible in the doors of my immediate neighbours.

The response I got before Tuesday was out was amazing, so many neighbours were phoning up, saying they had seen Steve (albeit -before- he went missing) and just generally saying they’d keep an eye-out for him, check their garages and cellar-grates etc. At this point I was convinced that Steve had become trapped somewhere, and I thought to myself that perhaps, since he was missing from some point after 10:30pm on Monday evening, he was stuck in the garage of someone who had gone to work, and that when I awoke on Wednesday morning he would be home… alas, Wednesday morning arrived, yet Steve did not.

So with the arrival of Wednesday we stepped-up our flyering / poster campaign. I photocopied even more posters and flyers, and started spreading the word slightly further than my immediate neighbours. This was a real task to complete, as a lot of the streets where I live are huge, long tree-lined roads with grand houses set-back from the pavement. It took us hours every evening, Yuna in tow in her trolley, getting the word out about Steve.

I encountered so many kind and friendly people during my flyer-walks, all with advice and compassion about my missing moggy. I was phoned several times to go and see random cats that people had found that they thought to be Steve, however none of the cats were Steve, and that was so hard to deal with. There were also the dreaded “We found a little black cat who had passed-away” phone calls which I had to deal with whilst looking after Yuna in the daytime. I had to keep my composure, but thankfully none of these cats were Steve.

Finally, on Friday 25th of March I was given a “day off” by my mum. She whisked Yuna away which left me to really get on with my search for Steve.

I started at 9am, firstly phoning my local vets (within about a 6 mile radius) seeing if anyone had brought a Black stray cat in. From here I was directed to so many other charities and businesses that deal with missing pets I was lost in information. I will list all the people I phoned below, and the further steps I took to report Steve missing.

Finally, on Friday evening, about 9:30pm we received a phone call. I didn’t answer as I was sat at the computer, teary-eyed, searching the internet frantically looking for further websites to post my information about Steve.

As Seth answered the phone I could hear a ladies voice on the other end, she said, with glee “WE’VE FOUND STEVE!”. I know Seth was a little taken-back at first, as we’d had so many calls I think he just presumed it would be another Steve-look-alike. The lady on the phone read the tag on the cat’s neck, “It says “Kittynation.com” on it! Is that Steve?!”.

Then I KNEW! This wonderful couple had found my Steve! I was elated! I rather dramatically (as is my wont) dropped to my knees and started to cry. I was filled with relief, joy, excitement and everything inbetween that Steve would finally be coming home.

I knew it was Steve because firstly, they knew his name and it was not written on his collar-tag (they had seen my posters around town, and had been keeping an eye-open for him) and secondly I never once mentioned on my posters or flyers that on the opposite side of Steve’s collar-tag I had engraved my website address.

So, finally Steve was brought home to me, miaowing like a crazy-boy and ran inside and started scoffing down his dinner like he hadn’t eaten the whole time he’d been away.

Pink house shows our house, the pink line is the main road. The black cat is where Steve was found.

He wasn’t hurt, damaged, obviously still had his collar – so what he was up to all the time he was missing I’ll never really know. All I know is that he was found about 5 streets away, just a little further than I had managed to poster/flyer by the time he was found on Friday evening. I think he had just got himself hopelessly lost. The area he was found in was across the main road from where we live, so perhaps something had spooked him on the Monday evening and he just ran and ran, in very much the wrong direction!

There are several morals to this story, the main one being that you should NEVER give up hope. There’s a good chance your puss is just lost in a place they don’t understand!

Second is to get flyering / putting up posters as SOON as you KNOW your cat is missing. Even if you end up looking a little pre-emptive and foolish, it’s better than your cat being lost for longer than necessary. Get your flyers out just that little bit further than you think your cat would be able to travel, because they are surprising little travellers (even the one’s like Steve who never usually leave the yard!).

Thirdly – MICROCHIP! My word, if I’d have got Steve microchipped my search would have been made a lot easier in terms of who I had to phone. Basically, if he had of been microchipped and found by a stranger, all they would have had to do is take him to a vet to get scanned, and he would have been returned.

Below is a list of helpful organisations and people I phoned to register Steve missing, all of whom offered me great advice and support whilst he was missing.

If your cat is missing, I hope this information helps, and I hope that your wonderful puss is home purring very soon.

(Please note a lot of this information is specific to a cat missing in the Manchester / South Manchester area)

• RSPCA -  0300 1234 555 – they will place a description of your lost pet on a local area register, and try and match it up with any strays that have been found. (http://www.rspca.org.uk)
• Cats Protection – 0300 012 1212 – this is the national number, they will offer lots of advice and direct you to your local Cats Protection. I have to say though that I didn’t get any response whatsoever from either of my local Cats Protection, possibly due to an overwhelming work-load. (http://www.cats.org.uk)

Manchester specific phone numbers:

You may notice a lot of these numbers are just barely in what you might strictly deem as “Manchester” – this is because I found during my research, that there isn’t actually any animal sanctuaries based completely on Manchester soil, so these are the one’s closest where your puss might end up if they are classified as stray.

• Heatons Animal Rescue – 0161 975 0784 – they put Steve’s details on file in case he showed up there. (http://www.tharg.org.uk)
• Humane Education Society – 01625 520 802 – very helpful, full of advice and kind words. Again will put your cat’s details on file in case they are brought in “lost”. (http://www.humaneeducationsociety.co.uk)
• Otterspool – 0161 456 8515 – I’m afraid I didn’t get a response from Otterspool, however left Steve’s details on an answering machine. (http://www.otterspoolanimalhaven.co.uk)
• Millstream – 0161 683 4194 – Left Steve’s details in case he was handed-in.

Websites: (National)

All of these websites gave great advice and support, and moreover, piece of mind. It sometimes feels like you’re quite useless when your kitty goes astray, but posting on these forums and websites definitely gives you a sense of getting the word out.

• http://catchat.org/forum.html – a great, supportive forum where you can post the details about your missing cat.
• http://www.gumtree.com – Gumtree have a local “Lost and Found” section. You will find it your local area, then the “Community” section.
• http://mymoggy.com – A wonderful website run by a lady called Sue, full of information about both lost and found cats.
• http://www.lostmycat.org – Another place to register your lost puss.
• http://www.nationalpetregister.org – Register the details of any lost pet.

Also, if you use Twitter or Facebook – get the word out as soon as possible. Ask for “Retweets” and page “likes”. I had such a wonderful response from Twitter in my local area, and made some new friends, too!

A sad but important note : I was advised to contact my local council’s “Street Care and Cleaning Team”. This was the toughest one. I made Seth phone them to see if they had been asked to recover any black cats RIP. Luckily no black cats had been found in our local area. It’s an awful phone call to make, but it may give you closure if your cat has been missing for a long time.

• Manchester City Council Environment Team – 0161 234 5004 / 0161 957 8402 (http://www.manchester.gov.uk/info/200089/street_care_and_cleaning/3636/street_care_and_cleaning/4)

Lastly – put posters EVERYWHERE! Bus stops, on bins, phone boxes, telephone posts, road crossings, traffic lights – even your postman! My lovely postman was happy to take a poster, and said he is often down all the little alleyways in my area delivering post.

GOOD LUCK.