diary of a year in the life of a single mother.

DIARY OF A YEAR IN THE LIFE OF A SINGLE MOTHER.
[SHARON ANN KILBY’S STORY – THE FIRST YEAR.]
sharonzaki@gmail.com
This diary has been appraised by SCOTT MEREDITH Literary Agency; the
comments of which are published here. Also published are the comments of several
other Publishers and Agencies.
SCOTT MEREDITH: This is a terrifying work, a searing and unsparing account of
the torment you have suffered at the hands of a brutal, even maniacal ex-spouse, a
vengeful stalker, ne’er-do-well and sadist who embodies the most fervid and fearful
possibilities one could face. You write of this year of torment without self-pity, with
detachment, control, a notable unwillingness to sentimentalise or make special
pleading for your circumstance and to open this anywhere is to be moved by the
unforced clarity and integrity of the narration.
The justice system – and the “protecting” agencies – are incompetent, venal,
corrupt and essentially against the single mother victimized as you have been by an
errant, abusive and brutal spouse and what has emerged from these pages is an
indictment of the system, handled with courage. The ordeal has been extreme and
you’ve recorded it with unflinching self-awareness and a great deal of insight.
We are taken with many aspects of this manuscript.
ANDREWS McMEEL PUBLISHING: We became thoroughly absorbed in your
manuscript, and in the meantime completely disgusted with your ex-fiance and his
stalking. What a travesty!
We could see women’s magazines and feminist/womanist publications
printing parts of this manuscript as a feature item.
Woman Power and Perseverance.
PEACHTREE PUBLISHERS, LTD: It looks like you have a wonderful idea for a
book and these ideas are presented well. Your diary is important. Good luck.
PENGUIN: Best of luck with finding a home for your worthy idea.
JOHN HAWKINS & ASSOCIATES, INC: Your story is very powerful, and will surely
provide much hope and inspiration for a large readership.
MARION BOYARS PUBLISHRES LTD: We found your manuscript very moving.
WRITERS HOUSE: Your material is interesting and was afforded careful
consideration.
JEANNE FREDERICKS LITERARY AGENCY, INC: This work has its merits.
RANDOM HOUSE: We have given the enclosed publishing proposal careful
consideration.
FREDERICK HILL ASSOCIATES LITERARY AGENCY: We have read your
manuscript carefully …. Your life as a single mother raises some important issues.
DARLEY ANDERSON LITERARY AGENCY: You have been through a terrible time
and have tremendous guts and determination. Sadly we don’t handle books like
this. We receive 120 submissions per week and can only take on two or three new
writers a year.
GRANADA TV: We read your story with mounting horror. You have amazing
stamina and stickability to keep on going. We may be able to turn it into TV at some
stage.
INTRODUCTION
My diary A YEAR IN THE LIFE OF A SINGLE MOTHER details the events in my life
as a single parent of Andrew, Michelle, Jordan and Melissa from 5th October 1998 to
5th October 1999.
It starts with the foreword - a brief background of why I left my older children’s
incompetent and irresponsible father and the alcoholic, violent and abusive father of
my babies.
Much of the diary is fairly typical of an ordinary busy mother - but it raises some very
serious thought-provoking issues, which affect an alarming number of people of all
ages. I speak about myself as a victim of domestic violence, my children as victims
of child abuse, my fight against the control of and molestation from my depraved exfiancé, my continuous struggle with his death threats, evil intentions to snatch my
babies and his vile determination to have all my cherished children displaced. It
exposes my dealings and subsequent lack of faith and distrust in the police. It
covers the harassment I endured from the NSPCC, the lies of my local Council and
my torment at the hands of Social Service gangsters. It reveals my challenges with
local street thugs and an aggressive dangerous dog and my protests at our
Authorities’ inability to protect its decent law-abiding unassuming, peaceful citizens.
It outlines my belief that school is a form of child abuse. It covers my ideas of an
appropriate schooling system and my methods of home-educating my two older
children. My diary tells of the normal everyday hassles and pleasures of rearing
children and the problems and benefits of going it alone. I talk about my court
battles, my feelings of loss for my late mum, my fight with the flab and most
importantly my NEW FOUND FAITH IN GOD.
The diary discloses my thoughts on life regarding the all important issues of:
injustice, corruption and double standards at the highest, most powerful levels of
society and our incompetent judicial system. I refer to the abhorrent handling by
police of such cases as the Stephen Lawrence murder enquiry in London and my
admiration for the sheer grit and determination of his mother to find justice, and the
police scandal regarding the Hillsborough football tragedy. I speak of my desire for
equal status for all people of all races; physical and mental health; and most
alarmingly the all-controlling ‘underworld’.
I have chosen the diary style because I do not proclaim to be an expert or
‘professional’ on any of the topics I write about. It is not the intention to lecture or
advise others – I’m merely a humble mum wishing to develop a camaraderie with
like-minded folk and those who regard themselves as victims of society or who have
suffered a miscarriage of justice. However if anyone benefits from or can identify
with my story I will have been blessed.
I feel this diary is important because I wish to help raise the status of parenthood. I
would like it to be recognised as one of the most important, challenging, responsible
and worthwhile jobs. I want to help raise the awareness of children - of their need to
be nurtured and treasured and that in return their gift is priceless. I would hope that
my experience may help other victims of domestic violence find the courage to break
free and in the doing save their children who suffer in silence. I hope that this book
will help support other lone parents and it would be my deepest desire to help people
stand up for their rights and gain justice. This can only happen when the masses of
‘ordinary’ people challenge our corrupt government, police chiefs and judicial system
in order to eradicate the all-powerful, evil, secret underworld that rules us. Ultimately
it would be my greatest wish for everyone to find God, become righteous and live
according to his rules.
SPECIAL THANKS:
to my four children without whom this diary would not be possible.
This book is written with love, devotion and dedication to Andrew, Michelle, Jordan
and Melissa who greatly inspire and teach me daily and to my parents - my late mum
for her love, wisdom, family values, common sense and strength and to my dad for
his humour, individuality, guidance, love and support.
A MUM IS:
a committed, dedicated worker; on call: twenty four hours a day, seven days a week
- for life. She takes no holidays, receives surprisingly and insultingly low status, no
pay, minimal guidance or support and no training. She is loving, protective,
nurturing, flexible, understanding, tolerant, patient, organised, busy, energetic,
creative, skilful, a Jack of all trades, a proficient nurse, teacher, psychologist and
above all else a guardian angel. She is also fortunate, blessed and honoured.
FOREWORD.
My marriage of five years produced Andrew [now ten] and Michelle [now nearly
nine.] When I was with their father it felt like I had three kids! My ex, Gaven, would
insist on just being their friend. He simply refused to be a father to them. A father in
my book largely meant being an authoritarian figure. However as Gaven proved
incapable in that department I preferred that he just leave me to get on with the
disciplining side of parenting. But being a child himself he’d obnoxiously overrule
me, just for the hell of it, every time I tried to ‘lay down the law’. As littleuns, Andrew
and Michelle quickly learned the art of skilful manipulation and boy could they play
me and Gaven against each other with resounding ease.
After our divorce I naively thought we’d get along better - be more civil and thus be
good role models for the children’s benefit but Gaven’s behaviour degenerated. He
started: drinking, smoking, gambling…. and hanging out with alcoholics and drug
takers twenty years his junior. He’d make access arrangements with his kids then
would: break his promises, be too tired, too drunk or would just forget to turn up. On
the days he did bother to take Andrew and Shell out, he virtually left them to their
own devices or he’d bring them back early complaining that he’d “had enough of
them” or that he “can’t control them.”
After every visit with him I’d laboriously embark on a ‘calming down’ ritual with
Andrew and Shell. My kids behaved as hateful, hyped-up, aggressive, destructive
and belligerent juvenile delinquents. Consequently when they were ages seven and
six, and much to my relief, they decided they didn’t want to see their dad anymore
because “he’s an idiot and so are his mates.”
After a handful of disastrous relationships I met and betrothed my now ex-fiancé
Gareth Williams. Our three-year imbroglio produced Jordan [now nineteen months]
and Melissa [now four months.] For the first eighteen months or so Gareth was
everything my ex husband wasn’t. He had the most important qualities that I’d
desired in a man. He was a kind, caring, loving, disciplinarian figure to my kids and
was affectionate, charming and generous towards me. For a while we were in love
and happy as Larry, until I became aware of Gareth’s possessive, distrusting,
controlling, violent, manic-depressive and criminal side. It gradually became evident
that he suffered a ‘Jekyll and Hyde’ personality and was an idle, alcoholic, swindling
spendthrift. I became a victim of domestic violence and unbeknown to me Andrew
and Shell became victims of child abuse. Eventually I decided I could no longer
tolerate Gareth’s oppressive behaviour; I no longer believed his pathetic promises of
reform and I owed it to myself and my four children to escape the destructive and
terrifying life style that we’d grown accustomed to. So after yet another furious
altercation and the umpteenth threat to leave I finally summoned enough courage to
do just that - on October 5th 1998. Now I find myself single again and with four
children to raise - two of them babies. Here follows the sequence of events and
some thoughts on life.
OCTOBER
OCTOBER 6TH 1998
It is 2.00 am. I returned to my house feeling a whole range of emotions - mainly
relief and anxiety, but nerves took priority as I dragged myself up the stairs, shaking
uncontrollably, to check on my babies - all four of them. I shudder to think what
could have happened because that self-centred b... had followed me out leaving the
door wide open. Thank God they are all in deep slumber, safe and blissfully
unawares of the previous and final night of befuddled thuggery from that loathsome
man. I gazed around the curry-stained lounge with smug satisfaction knowing that
he will never ever again have an opportunity to control, intimidate or violate me or
any of my kids again.
I have no idea where that final outburst of his came from. All day yesterday we’d
been close and loving. I’d helped him repair his guttering, using ladders that my dad
had lent. That evening we’d treated ourselves to an Indian takeout and a couple of
cans of lager. Then out of the blue he accused me of eating his curry. He called me
a greedy fat bitch and told me I was nothing but a whore, slut, local bike. Further
derogatory remarks included the accusation that I’d had sex with a minor. He then
carried on his verbal onslaught to denigrate my family including my late mum.
Enough was enough. I told him to get out, that I’d heard it all before, that leopards
don’t change their spots, so not to bother with any of his usual meaningless
apologies and that the bottle rules him. I reminded him of all the times he’d let me
down. I told him he’s full of hot air and very little substance. But, and predictably, he
immediately backed down, became timid, gave me that familiar ‘naughty little boy’
look, pleaded forgiveness and gushed his repetitive, relentless line of regret.
He’s done it so many times. I’ve lost count of the sickly sweet pitiful begging letters
he’s sent and cards, single red roses and flowers. Then he grabbed me, pulled me
towards him so that my face was touching his and barked, “You’re going to bin me
off, aren’t you? I’ll get you back for this. I’ll destroy you and your family and you’ll
never see Jordan and Melissa again. I’ll see to it that you lose those other two brats
of yours too.” He wouldn’t leave. I eventually struggled free and ran blindly into the
night screaming and crying tears of rage, misery and despair. “Go on”, he boomed,
“go crying to that neighbour of yours, Linda.”
Linda had urged me repeatedly to seek solace in Women’s Aid. I’d laughed it off. I’d
even convinced myself that things weren’t that bad. But she saw through my tough
exterior. She urged, “You recognise the signs, the denial, in others when you’ve
been through it yourself.” She’d warned me to, “Get out now while you’re still strong
because he’ll sap your energy and reduce you to a quivering pulp.” She was right.
He’d made me his possession, his prisoner, just because I hadn’t found the guts to
dump him. I thought back to all the times he was drunk and abusive, the times he’d
verbally abused me with a multitude of degrading insults such as, “Sleep with the
dog where you belong.” He’d hit me [even when I was heavily pregnant.] He’d
thrown me out of his house, locked me out and bullied my kids. He’d broken
ornaments, glass pictures, telephones and some of my personal belongings during
his outbursts of filthy aggression. He’d even stolen from me and lied to me. I’d
stupidly given him money, paid off his debts, helped him to decorate, helped his kids
with their schoolwork, helped him through his illnesses and forgiven him countless
times after his tirade of bestiality. My dad and uncle had reconstructed his dining
area, stairway and ceiling, completely free of charge. I’d believed his promises of
reform and prayed that he’d somehow return to the wonderful man I’d once been in
love with and had planned a future with. I’d supported his application to become a
Special Constable. I’d even written his essay for him. But it seems he is just a
coward, unable to accept love, approval, acceptance and assistance.
The police took him home. A sympathetic WPC told me that I didn’t need to live
with that. I wasn’t sure whether she meant him or the situation. After about an hour,
the habitual telephone torment began. One minute he was begging me to give him
‘one last chance’ the next he was threatening all sorts of bloodthirsty revenge. He
then sanctimoniously declared himself the better, more worthy parent – that I was an
unfit mother and that he’d be down to snatch the babies. In the end I left him
babbling on to himself made a cuppa and flopped into bed.
Three hours later, the kids got up. Andrew and Michelle could hardly contain their
glee that I’d actually got rid of him – for good this time. They skipped and danced
their way to school this morning! Jordan [nineteen months] and Melissa [four
months] slept in. I began the arduous task of cleaning up my curry because that
despicable b…. had smeared it on my new lounge carpet, couch and cushions. He’d
even dunked the baby blankets in it during his act of drunken mania. I then
discovered that the evil scumbag had nicked my diary, address book and Shell’s
birthday money and present – her nan’s watch. Tears welled up inside me. I felt
sick. I couldn’t believe that he’d stoop that low; that he’d be so desperate as to
target his venom on an innocent little girl.
The damned phone went again – it was him. I told him that after today he wouldn’t
be able to pester me anymore because my number and locks would be changed. I
told him we were through for good this time and that whatever meaningless words of
remorse he now came out with he could shove them up his a…. I called him all the
names under the sun as I referred to my stolen valuables. I told him he’d better
return them – and quick, as well as all the other things that belong to me and my
family: dad’s ladders and his two and a half thousand pounds, the kids’ toys, baby
stuff [bath, cot, bedding….] tapes [squash and ‘999’] certificates [aikido dan grade
and parachute jump.] I screamed at him, “How would you feel if I swiped your
daughter’s birthday present?” “Sorry,” came his feeble reply, followed by, “Don’t you
touch those baby car seats – they belong in my car. If you take them I’ll have the
police on to you for theft” and “I’m going to see to it there will be a gruesome
accident when you go to Geronimos on Shell’s birthday and you will die a horrible
death.” I boomed back, “God I should have spoken to your ex-wife – I bet she could
tell me a thing or two about you. ‘Course I should have sussed you out after meeting
that family of yours. You are a two-faced, lying, idle, drunken, gossip mongering,
hypocritical lot. I wished I’d smashed up that car of yours for you – by accident of
course.”
I slammed the phone down and marched out to retrieve my baby seats. I must admit
tho I did hesitate – I was worried he might carry out his threats. Then I remembered
Andrew’s words of support and encouragement in recent weeks. He’d tell me to do
just what I want, that I don’t need his permission and that I have just as much say in
things as he does. The kids knew that I always worried about provoking him and
making matters worse. But they were right in their reasoning that “whatever he
wants to do he’ll do anyway – it doesn’t matter what you do or say.” I examined his
pride and joy and for a split-second an evil thought popped into my head – ‘What if I
just slashed those tyres or ran a screw-driver….’ Then I thought better of it. The
psychopath would just do something sinister to me in retaliation.
However the truth was that I was sufficiently ruffled enough to warrant some comfort
from an authority law-enforcing figure, so I called the police. A sympathetic and no
nonsense PC reassured me that I’d put up with three years of bullying, that he was
only the biological father and didn’t have any automatic rights as regards to my
children and that it would be a civil matter whereupon it is the mother who almost
always gets custody unless it can be proved that she is a grossly inadequate mother.
“And from where I’m sitting,” he said, “you have absolutely no worries in that
department.” He went on to say that I didn’t have to tolerate any more of Gareth’s
vile behaviour and that I could have him arrested for harassment if he so much as:
drives continuously down my road, bothers me or my kids in the street, trespasses or
shouts any kind of abuse at me.
I was starting to feel slightly more relaxed, optimistic and confident until some letters
plopped through the letterbox. My pathetic nervous reaction surprised me. The PC
grinned. His parting words were, “Get witnesses if he starts pestering you; tell
people – neighbours, shopkeepers, friends….”
Dad was over the moon that I’d got rid of idiot features. He came round to help me
change my locks and gave me a peptalk on men. He said he’d vet the next one for
me. I said, “No need. There won’t be any more - NO WAY. I’ve got no time, no
interest, no inclination.” He asked if he could have that in writing!
That nutcase has driven past my house so many times I’ve lost count.
OCTOBER 7TH 1998
I thought a lot about mum today. She departed our world on June 14th 1997, after
suffering malignant melanoma of the brain. Even when she was very close to death
she told me not to marry that man. Funny how mums know these things! She hadn’t
liked him for a while. I can picture her now looking down on me with a gi-normous
beam on her face. She’d told me to leave him lots of times. “Think of the children,”
she’d say. “Put yourself and your kids first. He doesn’t care about any of you – he
only cares about himself. He’s only using you for what he can get from you and your
dad.” She was right of course, and despite the fact he did have his loving, caring
moments and was pretty nifty at such things as: dismantling and repairing my
washing machine, tumble dryer, toilet…. he was really lousy when it came down to
the kids. He just couldn’t be bothered, didn’t have the patience, preferred his can of
lager and yacking for hours on the phone to his mother…. He was pathetically
childish and downright irresponsible when on the booze [which was almost every day
starting around lunchtime and sustained until late evening where he’d drop off
inebriated.] It seems some men just fall apart when little people come on the scene.
A hell of a lot just can’t seem to hack it.
I dropped in at Women’s Aid this afternoon in desperate need of moral support. A
lovely lady there, Henri, made me feel so much better; so less isolated. She made
me lighten up and had me laughing as she recalled tales of other women in my
predicament and how the worm eventually turned. She told me that women suffer
mentally and physically at the hands of their men folk and that the physical scars
heal quicker than the emotional ones. I could relate to that. For a large part of the
latter part of my relationship with Gareth I was in tears – I suffered frustration,
confusion, doubt and anxiety.
Henri said that I was wise getting out now, that it was a relatively short time
compared with the many years some women tolerate abuse. She said that the
longer you stay, the worse it gets and the longer the road to recovery when you
finally do break free. She commented that I was strong right now; that he hadn’t
broken me – yet. She also told me about someone she knows who has been and
still is verbally assaulted by her boyfriend of seven years. This woman has changed
from a bubbly, confident, outgoing person to one full of self-doubt, depression and
introversion and is now too scared to walk away, is a prisoner inside her four walls
and has suicidal tendencies. Amazingly she denies there is anything wrong defends
her man and will not be persuaded to leave.
I sat with my mentor for over an hour. By the time we’d finished we’d declared world
war three on all men folk! Thank goodness Jordan and Melissa were patient in their
pram. Jordan grinned mischievously every time Henri poked him playfully with her
pencil.
As I was leaving I told her I never wanted to be a single mum. I wanted a good rolemodel male in our lives, but since I can’t find him I’m going to be happy with what I
do have. I said I’ve read all the ‘parenting’ books, listened to all the professional
advise on baby/child care and now I intend to raise my children to feel safe, secure
and loved – to the best of my ability and for us to be friends and happy. She
encouraged me to keep up the healthy attitude.
After tea I sat nursing Melissa whilst watching Jordan busy himself with his stack of
beakers. Andrew and Shell sat engrossed at something on the goggle box. I look at
them all with such love and devotion. I feel so blessed and honoured to have them
and to be the beneficiary of their unconditional love. To me they are treasured gifts.
Lots of people have commented on what great kids I have – so well behaved, happy
and intelligent. Some even ask what the secret is and they joke that I can have their
kids to train. That makes me feel so proud. But it isn’t all rosy. Quite often they play
me up and I’m reduced to screaming and swearing my head off, although I do try
very hard to control myself. But on the whole I must be doing something right. My
kids are my life. They are my greatest teachers and my biggest influence and
inspiration. I’d die without them. I reckon I could cope with almost anything that life
threw at me but I know I could not cope if I had to be parted from them or if any of
them were seriously ill, hurt or God-forbid, the unthinkable happened. Their
innocence, wonder and spontaneity is so magical and irretrievable that sometimes I
feel in awe. They trust me with heart and soul and they look up to me for guidance
and protection. What a heck of a responsibility. I could not bear to let them down.
My children are precious gifts. They give meaning to life and transform my world –
daily. If I’ve learnt anything of any real value from having children it is that the self
centredness that I once had has been dislodged by them.
That lunatic has driven slowly past my house – ten times that I saw. Andrew
counted a further fifteen times that he passed a bit later on.
OCTOBER 8TH 1998
Jordan trundled around his new playroom today – he’s a demon explorer. I’m glad
that Andrew suggested we turn the dining room into a rummage room for roamers.
It’s funny how the smallest members of the family have the most personals. Their
toys invade virtually every room of the house. I’ve come to the conclusion tho that
the more tot-friendly a house is, the less stressed out mum is. All my ornaments and
valuables are out of reach for little hands. Not that I’m an ornament enthusiast –
can’t stand the hassle of dusting the damn things, but I did inherit them from mum
and that in itself is significant and they are quite appealing and expensive. It’s just
as well that I only dust once a month or so and that they are out of eye-level. Shell
doesn’t mind profiting from periodically polishing them!
I have a lock on the lounge door so that the inquisitive wanderers cannot toddle in
unsupervised – it enables me to relax when I’m busy in the kitchen [which seems to
be a large percentage of my time.] I’ve erected a temporary door [with lock] on the
under stairs area which serves two purposes. 1: To hide all the junk that gets slung
in because it’s a useful storage spot. 2: To keep out little surveyors. I’ve also
assembled a metre-high door [with lock] on my utility room, which is an extension of
the kitchen. This serves to keep prying fingers out of my: tools, paints and
varnishes, other poisonous or harmful substances and various odds and ends that I
don’t want disturbed. When I do allow myself the luxury of lounging in the living
room, I ensure that the kitchen door is shut [fortunately the handle is out of Jordan’s
reach] so that he has the run of the hall, playroom and lounge which are relatively
safe.
I sat for about two hours on a comfy armchair in the playroom this morning. Jordan
repeatedly stacked his coloured cubes with concentrated precision then promptly
dismantled them with one swift swipe. He bimbled up to me every so often with a
very serious expression on his face. I’m sure he was coming to check on me, to
make sure everything is ok. His vocabulary is virtually non-existent yet but he does
come out with “mum,mum,mum” quite a lot of the time while he goes about his daily
business. He also says “ba” while pointing to Mel and he says “Dougie, Dougie,
Dougie,” but I have no idea who Dougie is!
Melissa snuggled close as she suckled. I love her smell and look of contentment. I
adore the little noises she makes. Her tiny hand cups my breast. She fixes her
gorgeous big green eyes on my face. Sometimes she grins at me while still gripping
my nipple. Sometimes she half looks at Jordan to see what he’s up to and then
she’ll quickly come back for a few more gulps of milk. She then might break into a
fully-fledged smile, which lights up her whole face. Then she might make some
satisfying muffled sound while she nuzzles her whole face into my breast. When
she’s done with playing, her eyelids will get heavy and she gives up the struggle to
stay awake.
I think breast-feeding is one of the greatest pleasures a woman can have. I’m
reluctant to relinquish it and will milk it for all it’s worth yet. I’ve always fed on
demand – all of my babies, and never ever felt it any hardship. The babies fit in with
my plans. I never burp Melissa – never feel the need. She takes two naps a day
and sleeps from 7.oo pm until 8.30/9.00 am. Sometimes she wakes at night. Then I
just change and nurse her while I read or watch the late night movie or heated
debate until she drops off again. Jordan takes a nap from 2.00-4.00 pm daily and
sleeps from 7.00 pm until 9.00 am. He needs his afternoon nap or he gets
unbearably irritable by about 3.00 pm. I need that break from him too – for the sake
of my sanity. I don’t fuss as much as I did when Andrew and Shell were babies. I’m
not frightened to leave Melissa cry sometimes - I recognise the different cries and
know when she needs immediate attention or if she’s just whingy through tiredness.
I recall that it was mum who drummed into me the importance of a strict routine and
regular nap times when Andrew and Shell were babies. It is so tragic she was taken
from us so suddenly – she got so much pleasure out of Andrew and Shell and loved
to see them growing up. I miss her support, advice and words of wisdom and I’m
sad that she hardly knew Jordan – she was too ill - and she never even knew about
Melissa.
I forced myself to stop the melancholic thoughts of the past and to now focus on the
future. What now? Where do I go from here? All the plans I’d made with him can
now be disregarded. We had discussed starting up a business – breeding and
selling locusts. I might still be able to do it on my own – dad would give me a hand
erecting a shed, fitting insulation, building a frame for the cages etcetera. He’s
brilliant at that kind of stuff, but it is all a bit out of the question until Jord and Mel are
a little older as it is such a filthy job and right now they’re my full-time responsibility. I
could ask for my old job as a bank clerk back but that’d mean putting the kids in
nursery. I’d be better off going back to my more recent job of caring for ‘special
needs’ children as it is done in the home, which means I do not need to find
someone to care for Jordan and Melissa. I like working with children – they are more
realistic and less pretentious than most adults. But that too is impractical at the
moment. I certainly could do with some extra pennies. I can’t imagine him ever
helping me out financially or any other way – FAT CHANCE. His only aim in life is to
wreck my life. For now I’ll just be a full-time mum, which is very demanding and
difficult in itself but is extremely rewarding – and I wouldn’t swap it for the world.
I could make use of the local leisure centre crèche – it’s open three mornings a
week. That would take care of the babies’ social interaction and I can get fit [and
slim] again. I’ll have to contact a couple of my old squash partners. I can’t really rejoin the squash league yet as games are played in the evenings and I’d need a baby
sitter. Sitters cost too much and dad wouldn’t oblige unless it was an emergency or
a one-off. For that reason I can’t return to aikido just yet either. Thinking back, while
I was with him I wasn’t allowed to join any club or league. He always insisted that I
take the babies with me everywhere I went because he had no intentions of looking
after them. Come to think of it, he even stopped me returning to my old job [which I
intended to do to help pay off his debts] because he was convinced that I had
‘ulterior motives’.
I could jog during crèche time; but that’s boring – unless there’s a goal. Well I’ve
always fancied having a go at the London marathon…. The training would certainly
be good for my physical and mental health and I desperately need to slim down into
my pre-pregnancy size ten. I get depressed when I think of all the trendy clothes
that are in my wardrobe but that I can’t now wear. Some of them have now
discoloured and have a musky odour.
That pest has driven down my road again on and off all night – about twenty times.
He even stopped the car, walked up to my driveway, peered down it for a couple of
minutes and went away again. Weird! I’m certainly not going to have a
confrontation with him. God knows what kind of mood he’s in and I don’t trust the
maniac.
This evening I wrote out a rough timetable for my intended new daily life. It now
looks a bit more organised and orderly. I feel a bit more secure now that I have
some direction.
OCTOBER 9TH 1998
I spent the morning in the kitchen [as usual.] Melissa gurgled and chortled
contentedly in her moses basket. She has a cute play frame that has Mickey, Minnie
and Pluto dangling down at her disposal, which she kicks and thumps the hell out of.
She shrieks in glee at their disposition. Jordan got himself scientifically involved with
my: pots, pans, bowls and boxes. He gets so engrossed in his very important work
that if something doesn’t go according to his plan, he’ll poker-facedly utter “tut”. That
just creases me up with laugher. He’ll then look at me with an expression of
disbelieving disgust – which make me howl even harder. I’ve twigged through
experience of Andrew and Shell not to bother wasting money on toys until the kids
are around five/six years old. I bought a few toys for Jordan and Mel but they’ve
been cheap items from car boot sales, mainly of the larger object-on-wheels variety.
Jordan much prefers to rummage through my kitchen cupboards. I remember one
xmas spending over three hundred pounds on ‘educational’ toys for Andrew and
Shell when they were toddlers. To an adult they were indeed impressive little
gadgets – one could appreciate their learning capacity. But you couldn’t deceive
Andrew and Shell. Such worthwhile toys were swiftly cast aside and ignored or
dismantled and used for some other purpose – for their own inventions.
Jordan knows the items that he’s allowed to relocate such as plastic, aluminium and
other baby-friendly contraptions and the ones that he mustn’t touch such as glass,
crockery and other breakables. He understands quite a lot and will put things in the
bin when asked – he’ll even dispose of his own nappy without any prompting. He
shuts doors when asked [providing he’s in helpful mood] and is always the first to
slam the doors when the smoke-alarm goes bananas [as is often the case during
cooking.] He’ll even point to the window as if to say, “Open that, you twit.” He’s
affectionate and protective towards Mel and will cry in empathy when she’s upset.
Their moods change at the drop of a hat; but then so does everyone else’s.
They both love it when I burst into spontaneous song. Melissa stares at me wideeyed, whoops and waves her arms wildly as if suffering a psychopathic seizure!
Jordan performs an impromptu rain dance and the three of us engage in a skirmish
for sonic supremacy.
I love to just stop what I’m doing wherever and whenever I please and spend a few
moments; maybe minutes larking around with the little uns. I cherish our moments of
pure unadulterated pleasure, which is instinctive and never forced. They appreciate
and respond so gleefully and wholeheartedly to genuine play. Such displays of
natural, uninhibited delight is priceless and unique only to babies and small children
and is sadly lost on maturity, never to be recaptured. I’ve noticed that if I grudgingly
make an effort to play with Jord and Mel, they recognise my insincerity and
falsehood and are uninterested, even insulted. Youngsters don’t lie about their
feelings and will freely demonstrate their true emotions.
I couldn’t believe what I witnessed this afternoon through my living-room window.
That psychopath spent two hours and twenty minutes fixing his car right outside my
driveway. He fiddled about under the bonnet, disappeared to Motorworld for a few
minutes, returned, eyeballed my house, fiddled some more, studied my gate,
dawdled to the boot, removed some rags, shuffled to the driver’s door, threw a
glance in my direction, stared at my upstairs window then offensively basked in the
aura of my property and presence. The nincompoop then repeated the procedure
several times more until the scenario was completed with the deposition of soiled
spark plugs, distributor lead and oily rags on top of my refuse bin. He is definitely
desperate – and dangerous.
I wittered on the phone for a couple of hours with my mate Mandy tonight. She
informed me that my creepy ex has been stirring again. Mand told me that he
wasted no time contacting her [and God knows how many other friends and rellies of
mine] to say that he had no choice in finally being forced to leave me because he
could not tolerate my behaviour any longer. According to him I am depressed,
destructive, an alcoholic, a schizophrenic, a nymphomaniac, an adulteress, a thief,
liar, baby- batterer and petty criminal. I’m supposed to have fled his house in a
manic drunken state after stealing money from him and items from his house.
Curiously, most of the things he’s accusing me of being fit the description of him to a
tee. Mandy says that if she didn’t know me as well as she does his version of it
would chillingly be quite plausible. She says she told him that he’s an “incredible
bare-faced liar.” She then advised me, “You don’t want to bother with anyone else –
for a while; you’re better off on your own.” I assured her that the only men in my life
from now on and for a whopping length of time are the two that I’m bringing up. I
also remarked that if and that is a monumental IF cupid did miraculously strike again,
the bloke would need to have a lot [but not all] the qualities of my dad. He’d have to
be: loving, intelligent, dexterous, self-assured, shrewd, dependable, supportive,
caring, considerate, sensitive, softhearted, witty – and loaded. That just about
disregards most potential contenders. Mandy quipped that he’d also need to
welcome a challenge. We then proceeded to discuss her lovelife but since she’s
also anti men right now, the conversation swiftly shifted to her job and our get fit
plans….
It is now 2.00 a.m. From about 7.00 pm onwards, that sociopath has driven like a
bat out of hell past my house – thirty two times. I counted them while I was yakking
to Mand. On three occasions he pulled up right outside my house, strolled up to my
driveway, surveyed it for several seconds then slithered off to resume his mission. I
don’t know whether to feel sorry for him or scared of him.
OCTOBER 10TH 1998
Every morning I get up – sort of mechanically, dress respectfully and put on my
‘face’. It’s all a bit of a coping ritual. I figure if I look presentable and operational on
the outside, I should feel healthy and optimistic on the inside. To be honest it’s a bit
of a cover up, a confidence booster. But if it works and it gets me through the days,
that’ll do for me. Anyway it’s just an illusion really. Someone once asked me, “What
are you really like?” At the time I was puzzled, but not anymore – LIFE is an illusion.
The world is a stage with actors upon it. We are all two people or more.
Dad phoned this morning to say that it looks as if we’re going to have problems with
“that imbecile family.” He said he’d had his aunty on the phone whinging on about
rumours that I’m blackening her son’s name - something about him taking drugs.
For crying out loud, I’ve never met her son, I’ve no idea what he gets up to and I
wouldn’t know him if I fell over him. Dad gave her a polite understatement that it is
well known in this community that Gareth Williams is extremely economical with the
truth. What with her and her nutty sister [his mother], no wonder he has problems.
He always did hang on to his mum’s every word; told her everything. He must be in
awe of her.
The kids and I trudged around Saturday’s market. Everyone needed clothes. On
the way home we took the scenic route. Thankfully, Andrew and Shell are so much
more relaxed now. We prattled on about: the choppy sea, the swooping seagulls,
the dog-dirt infestation and the graffiti-strewn ice-cream huts. This led to a chat on
vandalism, which progressed to the wanton destruction and bullying that occurs in
schools and of which decent well-behaved pupils have to put up with. Andrew and
Shell spoke about some of the goings on at school of which education chiefs refuse
to acknowledge. I heard tales of unruly classes, where kids get away with: chucking
screwed up messages such as f…off at the teacher, stealing chocolate from a locked
drawer and remaining undetected, arguing with teachers, refusing to do their work,
falling asleep in class [of which some teachers are also guilty], using fowl language
such as “shut the f…up” and widespread unyielding molestation – during playtimes
and after school. Andrew used to return with filthy clothes. I once had to wash his
uniform daily. Shell frequently came home with blobs of school dinner down her
cardi. Andrew would tell me that thugs and idiots dragged him through the mud.
Shell said there were always some kids chucking food around the dining room and
that she and her pal were caught in the firing line. I’d go to the school to confront
various authority figures [most of whom represented ostriches] and was told ever so
politely and pompously that, “Our school does not have a problem with bullying; we
do not tolerate it; we have suitable combating measures” and “Food is not thrown at
lunchtimes – the children are supervised effectively.” I once questioned officials
about the disappearance of my daughter’s coat and on another occasion, her watch,
to be disdainfully informed “We do not have thieves here,” to which I retorted “Oh yes
you do.” In exasperation I would tell Andrew and Shell to give the bullies “what for
back.” So they did and together with their mates, the good guys were dumped in
detention. And what about the perpetrators? Well they were let off – scotfree of
course because they said they “didn’t do it.” So school bullies learn that their
behaviour is tolerated when they are kids and nothing is going to stop them when
they reach adulthood either. The good ones learn injustice in school and experience
it in society and throughout their lives.
The kids and I have always been close and able to talk openly about virtually
everything and anything. I do not censor their TV viewing [unless it is porn] because
I think it is useful to be aware of the harsh realities of life. I encourage them to view
programmes such as Crimewatch and also documentaries – most of which portray
violence and injustice. I let them watch horror movies because many are based on
real-life stories and I’d rather they be aware of and wise to mankind’s evil doings
than innocent, naïve and thus victimized. The news is practically dominated by
crime in one form or another, which prompts many of our peptalks and discussions.
I’m always on at the kids not to trust strangers or to be impressed or taken in by
others who may have only harmful intent. Periodically we watch ‘999’ survival
programmes, which help me refresh my memory of steps to take in an emergency
and for the purpose of teaching the kids in case I ever need first aid! [They know
how to turn off the electric and gas and how to call for urgent help.] Some excellent
programmes such as Panorama reveal the truth regarding many world issues which
disturbingly disclose the corruption, incompetence, abuse of power, arrogance and
greed that some of our politicians and leaders are shamefacedly guilty of.
The kids and I frequently discuss the importance of doing the right thing, always
standing up for what you believe in and sticking firmly to your principles. We chat
about the value of honesty and strength of character. I admit to them that I’m only
just finding the strength now to do what’s right and that I’ve been indecisive and
intimidated in the past. I’m riddled with guilt; that I put them through the torment of
him and his overbearing family and I tell them so. But they light-heartedly insist that I
must not worry and that “everything’s fine now.” I tell them not to make the same
mistakes as me [I remember my mum telling me the same thing] and that I hope
they’ll be better than me – more successful, cleverer, stronger, happier and better at
forming relationships. They reply, “We think you’re perfect – the best mum ever” and
“We love you just the way you are.” Such reassuring words give me a lump in my
throat, hope and the will to carry on. I really pray though that they haven’t been
damaged by the destruction they endured. Thank God they had the sense to
scarper from under his feet when he was in vile mood. Of course he did have his
good moments and he did occasionally take my kids fishing, but that loving goodnatured side of him did become more infrequent as time passed.
We were all subject to his outbursts of ugly brutality. Andrew and Shell have
witnessed shocking scenes of violence unleashed by him. On one awful occasion
[when I was nine months pregnant] he horrifically attacked Andrew during a drunken
binge. He forcefully hurled Andrew into a door and wall just because Andrew had
carried tales to me about him. Then he threw my son into the fireplace, banging his
head repeatedly on the stone surround. Andrew suffered a large lump on his head
and emotional trauma. We fled that night, but soon returned because of the
imminent birth and because he solemnly swore never to lay one finger on any of my
kids ever again. Thankfully after that episode I didn’t see him smack the kids but he
did often growl at them. He also once lay a heavy dining table on top of Shelly whilst
she slept; this was after he’d yelled at her to get to bed and had not allowed her to
kiss me goodnight. There was also the time when, in a temper, he threw Andrew’s
shoe outside – it was never recovered. The on-off pattern of our relationship was
set. I was reluctant to end it conclusively because I was simply too terrified to leave.
I worried about the threatened repercussions and so I desperately tried to keep the
status quo. Gareth’s daughter also witnessed his vehemence and has even seen
him strike his own face to make it look as if he had been attacked. She has not been
on the receiving end of his wrath to the same extent as the lads but has suffered
emotionally as a result of her father’s possessiveness and tyrannical behaviour.
Consequently she used to unburden her frustrations on Andrew and Shell. At times
I’ve even had to stand in front of Gareth’s own son to stop him savagely kicking and
punching him. No wonder he ran away from home – three times that I know of.
I must admit I did believe that the kids’ submissive and obedient behaviour in his
presence was a sign of respect for their step-dad to be and I was thankful as it made
my job of disciplining them so much easier. But looking back on it all now, I’m
horrified and ashamed to realise that I misconstrued the seemingly kind and
necessary chastisement. He overplayed the castigation – it was abuse. He was in
fact little more than a tyrant, dictator and bully to them. They were oppressed,
helpless and in despair at times. Only now when we discuss that family is it
becoming evident just how much they did despise, hate and fear him. I hope time
and talk will help ease their pain. They do seem to be a bit more ‘normal’ now, more
outspoken and cheeky even. In fact I now have to force myself to resist the
temptation to reprimand them with, “Don’t speak to me like that – you wouldn’t dare if
Gareth was here.”
Children have a right to free speech, to be treated fairly and to feel angry. Children
are truth.
After lunch the babies took their nap, Shell began keyboard practice and Andrew
nipped to the corner shop. I momentarily let down my guard, didn’t check the front
door - and there he was, peering in at me. I startled and he started his usual pleas
of forgiveness. He swore he’d never bark at me again, let alone strike me, and he
begged me for “just one last chance.” “Get lost,” I said, followed by, “I don’t suppose
you thought to bring back the things you stole and my other belongings and dad’s
ladders. Why did you take Shell’s birthday pressie and money or are you going to
deny it?” “Sorry,” he said, and, “I don’t know why I took it – I promise to return
everything.” “Why tell me such whopping lies?” I asked. “I’ve been finding out
things.” “I don’t lie all the time,” he whimpered. “What the hell are you doing
continually driving past at all hours and snooping around my house, and why do you
involve your daughter in your relentless manic mission? She is sixteen; let her go
and get a life of her own,” I urged. “I’ve only been down your road a couple of times
and if I want to park outside your house, and fix my car there, you can’t stop me,”
came the reply. He continued, “Let me see my kids. I’m their daddy – they need
me. You have them for a week and so on. You can’t stop me seeing them. You
always said you wouldn’t deny me my kids.”
“Hang on a minute,” I replied, “I used to say that ages ago – before I realised just
how irresponsible and dangerous you are. You are totally dependent on the bottle.
You drink all day – often into oblivion. You lose your rag so easily and just lash out
and you are a control freak. You are using the babies as an excuse to carry on
manipulating me. You are a compulsive liar and a schizophrenic. How could I trust
you? You never looked after Jordan or Melissa before. You did very little with either
of them. Why now? You never changed Mel. I could count the times on one hand
that you changed Jordan. I’d ask you to check on the babies but you’d say that you
couldn’t be bothered and that it was my job. You never once got up to either of them
at night – the booze knocked you out cold. You always insisted I take the babies
everywhere with me. You admitted you haven’t got any patience with them and that
you are incapable of caring for them. You are too self-centred, vindictive and violent.
You’ve done absurd things under drink. You’ve threatened to shoot me, Andrew and
Shell. You are irrational and insane. How do I know that you won’t get stressed out
with Jordan and Mel and hit out at either of them or worse…. just to get me back?
You’ve threatened revenge anyway you know how and you know the only way you
could ever hurt me is via any of my kids. From what I’ve seen of your venomous
behaviour lately and in recent months, you are capable of ANYTHING. You are like
a demon possessed. You’ve got some damned nerve coming here demanding to
see Jordan and Melissa when you didn’t care about them one iota before. In fact
you proved that Jordan is of little importance to you when you rammed him in his
pram into me – causing cuts, bruising and swelling on my ankles and Jordan to
scream hysterically; and all because you’d unjustifiably worked yourself up into a
jealous rage. Or have you forgotten that day? We’re not talking about dolls here you
know.”
To which he announced, “Right, I’ll see you in court. I’ll be getting custody of Jordan
and Melissa and you will never see them. You are an alcoholic, an unfit mother, a
thief, prostitute…. I will see to it that Gaven gets your two little brats too. By the time
the court has heard exactly what you are and what you’ve done, you’ll be banned
from seeing any of your kids.” I retorted, “The court will also know what a bare-faced
liar you are.” To which he snarled, “Prove it – your word against mine.” I shut the
door in his face. He pushed the letterbox open and bellowed, “And you’re a f…ing
little shit-headed lesbian. I’ll be round later to snatch my kids and I’m going to kill
you.” Eventually he left. I was unnerved.
That raving lunatic is at it again. He’s driven past about twenty times tonight. That’s
a bit of an improvement on last night. I wonder if that is a sign he might concede. I
wish! Then my confident front quickly turned to doubt. Why won’t he leave me
alone? What’s the point in driving past and loitering? What the hell’s he going to do
next?
OCTOBER 11TH 1998
Car boot day today. The place was heaving – I could only stomach it for half an
hour. Managed to pick up some baby books for Jordan – five for forty pence – not
bad. Andrew and Shell took off on their own, disappeared into the masses and
resurfaced a couple of hours later. They’ve now got their eyes on various items:
radios, tape recorders, torches, batteries, and the like. However, on account of the
fact that their weekly pocket money is no king’s ransom, the question of Christmas
was swiftly brought to the fore. They decided that as they no longer believe in
Santa, would it be ok if they had money this year so that they could buy their own
Christmas presents. My reply was, “Oh, so how long have you been pretending to
believe that this generous guy Santa exist?” “A few years but we didn’t want to tell
you because we thought we wouldn’t get anything,” came the reply. I thought about
their proposition and figured it did make sense especially as the dilemma of what to
buy them is just one big headache for me. They said they wanted to buy things from
the car boot sale because they’d get more than if things were bought new from a
shop. “Fair reasoning,” I thought. “Ok, here’s the deal,” I said. “You can have a few
quid every other week to spend but you give me everything you’ve bought so that I
can keep it for you until Christmas. The total you can have is sixty pounds – that is
thirty pounds from me and the thirty pounds that you always get from granddad.”
Then I said, “Aw, what the heck, you might as well keep and use what you buy now –
no point in saving it until Christmas when you know exactly what you’ve got.” Then I
added, “But don’t expect anything else on the day – because I just can’t afford it.”
They were well pleased with the offer and began to plan their future produce.
In the afternoon, the idiot fronted up again. I ignored the doorbell and tapping on
the glass and figured he’d eventually get fed-up with a zero response and just clear
off. Next minute though, he pushed open the letterbox and boomed, “Why won’t you
answer me? You’ve got a bloke in there, haven’t you? Your neighbours told me
you’ve been seeing someone else. So that’s why you dumped me – isn’t it? Well
you’d better keep him away from my kids – or else.” “GO AWAY,” I screamed in
exasperation at him. “There is no-one else here except me and the kids. As if I’d
have the time or the energy even if I did have the interest – which I don’t. Right now
the kids are my full-time commitment. I have very little time for me. Now sod off and
don’t bother me again,” I ordered, as fear and loathing began to overwhelm me.
After what seemed like an eternity of nonsense, he went and in desperation I rang
Women’s Aid. I was shaking and crying. “I don’t know what to do,” I babbled, “he
won’t stay away. He comes around; he drives down my road at all hours, every day.
He won’t accept it’s over. He parks on my road and stands peering down my drive
and at my house. I’m really worried he may come around one day all tanked up and
in a desperate mood – he might kick the door in and carry out his heinous threats.
I’ve never been in this type of situation before and I feel so insecure and unsure of
myself and how to deal with what’s happening. He’s sapping all my inner strength.”
The reassuring voice on the other end explained that this was typical harassment
and that it could continue unabated for months, years even, as has happened to
some women. She said that the world is full of arrogant male chauvinists whose
main occupation is to control and intimidate women. But they do retreat when they
know they’re not getting the desired response - of mainly fear and surrender. She
asked if I could move away for a while – just to let the dust settle; but that was not an
option. She offered me and the kids refuge at the aid centre, but I politely declined.
“Why should I let him bully me out my home?” “The only other alternative,” she
advised, “is to lock and chain-lock your doors and windows and to phone the police
every time he comes to your house, then he will know that you really mean what you
say.” She added, “Carry around a burglar alarm with you so that if he bothers you in
the street, you can activate it in his face. Also, scream your head off – he’ll probably
leg it. And see your solicitor about an injunction. Oh and above all else, remove that
power from him; he no longer has any over you. You’ve left him; you do not intend
to return to him – ever. Get that message across to him – by not communicating
with him in anyway.”
I thanked her for her enlightening words and for my new found positive attitude.
Thank goodness for organisations like Women’s Aid. I reasoned to myself that
moving away did seem a welcoming proposition and a solution but it would only be
temporary and that’s like trying to run away from the problem, which is a sign of
weakness and renunciation. I’m not going to give him and his family the satisfaction.
My heart felt lighter. I found myself singing as I got the babies up from their nap.
Jordan and Melissa responded with shrieks of delight. Melissa received her milk
first. She snuggled up to me and guzzled to her heart’s content while Jordan
perched himself on the couch next to me and fixed his gaze on his teletubby tape.
He loves the theme tune and the little blonde baby with the big blue eyes whom he
bears a striking resemblance to. When Melissa had finished I lay her on her baby
quilt on the floor. She kicked and punched the air and chortled with glee when Shell
appeared and amused her. Andrew and Shell think the world of their baby siblings
and are a big help to me with them.
I left the two girls frolicking. Andrew was busy in his bedroom gathering some items
for his science lesson. His class are apparently doing a project on electricity and
have been asked to produce: batteries, torches, wires and the like. Andrew’s taking
his circuit board in too. Jordan followed me into the kitchen to ‘help’ make tea. He is
like a little lamb following me everywhere. It feels like I have a miniature shadow that
grunts and babbles. I can’t even sit on the loo in peace because a little blonde head
almost always pokes itself around the door to peer at me!
Decisions, decisions – what to have for tea tonight? I remember when I used to
enjoy cooking. I used to spend ages in the kitchen just preparing one meal! I’d have
my head stuck in a cookery book and I’d enjoy experimenting with ‘cordon bleu’. But
that was all before the kids came along, in the days when I used to impress my
boyfriends with my gourmet dinners.
Nowadays I spend ages in the kitchen just plodding through three basic meals a day
– what with preparing, eating, feeding and washing up. It is a rare luxury now if I get
to sit down and eat a meal uninterrupted. I figure if I manage to include the
necessary daily nutrients that are contained in: milk, eggs, cheese, yoghurt, rice,
pasta, potato, wholemeal bread, cereals, meat, fish, beans, fruits, salads and veg in
as simply prepared and as appetising a meal as possible then I’m on the right tracks.
So tonight we’ll have one of Andrew’s favourites – mashed spuds mixed with cauli
and sprinkled with cheese, sausages and baked beans. Followed by bananas and
custard.
Jordan used to be a wizard eater. He’d eat virtually everything I gave him, even
chopped cucumbers and tomatoes but lately he’s been a bit picky. I don’t worry
about it though and I never try the ‘aeroplane’ tactics. All the baby/child care books
that I’ve read bring me to the same conclusion that if you offer a varied, wholesome,
nutritious diet then children will thrive – even if the child refuses a food or even a
meal or two. Babies and kids have a truly remarkable inborn mechanism that guides
them as to how much and which type of food they need for normal growth and
development. Books stress that it is important not to offer an alternative or to bribe,
beg, coax the child to eat because that just sets yourself up for a battle of wills and
one that the child is guaranteed to win. It also sets up the likelihood of a lifetime of
poor eating habits. Child-care experts advise parents to simply remove the meal and
child form the table until the next mealtime. Then offer something different. Never
give the same meal again and never force a child to eat. I certainly learned this
lesson the hard way when Andrew and Shell were very young. If they refused their
food I’d sometimes give them something else, or I might ‘play’ for hours with them
trying to get them to eat just a few mouthfuls. I’d even try to force them or would
punish them by sending them to bed early or I’d make them sit at the table for hours
until they finished but they’d just rearrange the food on their plate, cry or even vomit.
Where did it get me? Nowhere - just as miserable as them. In fact the problem
would just get a whole lot worse and they’d starve themselves then for a day or two
or they’d complain that they were ill.
When I stopped making such a big deal over food, their appetite returned to normal
and they’d eat most of the nourishing foods I gave them - as long as I didn’t overdo
the veggies [of which I became quite good at disguising.] I now have two rules
regarding food. Puddings are of the yoghurt/custard/rice/fruit type variety and high
sugar/fat foods such as biscuits, cakes, fried foods and takeaways, chocolates and
sweets are strictly limited to occasional ‘treat’ times i.e birthdays, Easter, Christmas
and special days out.
After tea, as we were cleaning the kitchen up, I had a horrible feeling that there were
‘eyes’ on us from outside. I told Andrew and Shell to go and play in their bedrooms
while I wiped Jordan and removed him from his highchair. I then turned the kitchen
light off and quietly walked into the dark lounge. Jordan stood in the hall. Just as I
suspected, there he was with his face pressed up against the lounge window,
peering in. I froze in shock and an eerie chill ran down my spine. I wondered how
long he’d been watching us through the kitchen window – probably the whole time I
was in there preparing tea, throughout our meal until now. I was just about to phone
the police when I realized he’d moved away and was now grasping Jordan’s hand
through the letterbox. Gareth Williams cried and whimpered, “It was lovely to watch
you son – you’ve really altered since I saw you last.” I pulled Jordan into my arms.
Still crying, he spluttered, “Sharon, thanks for that performance – you’ve really made
my day.” I stammered, “You’re sick,” then I screamed, “Go away, go away – just
leave us alone.” I heard him go and then, as I watched him through the lounge
window, I saw him look menacingly in my direction before he got into his car. I stood
rooted to the spot for quite a while hugging Jordan and sobbing uncontrollably.
There was no point calling the police – he’d be at home and they’d call me neurotic.
Much later, after I’d calmed down and as I was checking that everything was locked
and safe before retiring to bed I found a note by the front door. It read, “My love –
thank you for the glimpse of you and Jordan – I feel so much happier now.” My heart
sank and my blood chilled. So he’d been back again HERE…. TONIGHT. When? I
had no idea. Was he out there now somewhere? Oh God I couldn’t stand much
more of this. Finally, I got a grip. I made sure all the doors and windows were bolted
and I checked every nook and cranny in the house – I had no idea what I’d have
done had I come across anything untoward though! Satisfied that all was safe and
‘normal’ I took the phone to bed and made a mental note to make an appointment
with my solicitor regarding an injunction. That note would be useful evidence against
him in court.
OCTOBER 12TH 1998
I nipped out this morning for some necessary supplies. I shared my sad story with
lots of women – some familiar sales assistants, some unknown members of the
public. I was surprised to receive so much sympathy and I was flabbergasted to
discover the sheer scale of domestic violence. Everyone I spoke to had either
endured it or is exposed to it now. Many of them have friends and/or female
relatives also suffering alarming abuse at the hands of their men-folk. When I asked
why they stay, most said it was because “I don’t want to be alone” or “I don’t want to
lose my kids” or they are quite simply too frightened to go because of the real and
threatened consequences. Some are not even aware that they are being violated –
many are in denial. A few of us joked that it makes sense to change your boyfriends
every six months because up until then they treat you like a queen! We agreed that
at anytime thereafter, the bizarre male species change into demons, goblins or back
into nappies.
It is early afternoon. Jordan is in his cot in slumber land, Mel is zonked out in the
pram [she hasn’t awoken yet from this morning’s excursion] and I’ve decided to
surprise Andrew and Shell on their return from school with one of their favourite
hearty stews – now that the cold weather is settling in. BUT when I scan the freezer
for the meat I discover that it’s all gone. I know without doubt that the meat
compartment was full. That insufferable, unimaginable, despicable b.… must have
nicked it. I dread discovering anything else that the selfish swine might have swiped.
Oh well, boiled eggs and soldiers it’ll have to be.
I decided to tune into talk radio and eavesdrop into Anna Rayburn’s slot – it’s sure to
cheer me up a bit. I love her show – she’s never short of an entertaining line of
patter and always full of sound, shrewd, no-nonsense advice for the throng of callers
who entrust her with their problems. By the time I’ve listened to everyone else’s
woes, I don’t feel so despondent. Mum always used to say that the quickest way to
forget your problems is to listen to someone else’s. BUT just as I was about to curl
up on the couch with a comforting cuppa, the doorbell rang and Melissa began to
stir. My caller was a representative from the NSPCC no less. ‘Oh hell, what now?’ I
wondered.
Fair do’s the man did apologise for doing his duty but he informed me, “We have to
investigate every allegation of child abuse…. and neglect.” ‘For Chrissakes,’ I
thought to myself, ‘Why don’t they go and question GARETH WILLIAMS about child
abuse…. and animal abuse…. and abuse of women?’ The rep told me that they’d
received an anonymous call stressing serious concern about the welfare of Jordan
and Melissa. I told him that his visit didn’t really surprise me and that my ex or one
of his clan would be behind the call. The accusations are:
1. That I leave Jord and Mel in their cots all day.
2. That Jord rocks rhythmically as a result of boredom.
3. That I leave my older children in charge while I go out drinking.
4. That I overfeed Jord and let him eat rubbish off the floor.
5. That I leave Mel crying for hours.
6. That I’m an alcoholic, lazy and uninterested in any of my kids.
My private reaction was, ‘The lying, slanderous, spiteful, ugly, son-of-a-bitch.’ My
disclosed reaction was, “My ex-fiance is a compulsive liar, malicious, vindictive,
violent and threatening.” I invited my guest to see for himself that he’d be hardpushed to find better cared for, happier and more contented babies than Jord and
Mel. I then proceeded to nurse Melissa. He thanked me for my time and said he
was satisfied that the allegations were as he’d suspected - unsubstantiated. I
remarked, “Can you imagine a VIP like Prince Charles getting a visit from the likes of
you with accusations of him neglecting his boys. Not on your nelly!” I also said, “If
Gareth was genuine in his concerns for Jord and Mel, he’d be supporting me, not
putting me through all this nonsense, provocation and war of attrition. He wouldn’t
be wasting my time and yours.”
After a mere half hour had elapsed, I was graced with the company of another
uninvited, unwelcome guest – my Health Visitor. She came with the news that
Gareth had took the trouble to visit her and express his concerns for Jordan’s and
Melissa’s welfare. Her list of incriminations was practically the same as the
NSPCC’s. My immediate undisclosed response was unprintable. I asked her, “Does
that creep want a medal for being the master of persecutors?” My message to the
H/V was that my ex is simply harassing me with his vicious lies. She wasn’t happy
with just a home visit and [just to miff me off] insisted she needed to see the babies
in the clinic. So just to humour her I made an appointment. I seriously suspect that
half of our public sector workers do not have enough essential work to keep them
busy and the other half are incapable of recognising and dealing with the complex
cases concerning child abuse where it is obviously evident and where outside
intervention is most definitely required. Or they know about abuse but are too
scared to deal with the abusers.
We often hear the feeble excuse, “Oh, the odd few slip through the net.” More like
too many do because the ‘officials’ are too incompetent or fond of a fudge-up. With
the army of state workers that we have in our country, there is absolutely no reason
why any child should suffer abuse, but when we the general public hear stories of
corruption and government cover-ups in various children’s homes and in the wider
community, and no-one is brought to book…. In my opinion, social/health workers
are only happy hassling easy targets.
Andrew and Shell arrived home to tell me that GW has been speeding past their
school during break times and that he stopped a couple of times to watch them.
They told me he’d done it a few times last week too. I was livid. What kinds of
spineless nutter was he – stalking two defenceless, innocent little kids? What if he
grabs them after school? He’s made it clear he can’t stand them. He’s threatened to
“duff-em-up.” He would too; he hasn’t got the guts to pick on anyone his own size. If
he’s been on the grog, he could half kill them and there’d be nothing the police could
do. He knows that’s one easy way he could get to me. Maybe it’s time to pull them
out and home-educate them again.
Andrew and Shell were a lot happier and much better educated when I used to teach
them before Gareth came into my life. Home is a much more natural, flexible and
pleasant environment for them to learn than school. Here they don’t have to tolerate
bullies, idiots, peer-group pressure, thieves and teachers who don’t like them. They
are not treated like sheep; they are treated as mature, intelligent individuals and
respected for their opinions. They no longer get: head lice, everyone else’s virus,
bored and frustrated. They learn about things that interest them and not by drill or
rote. They don’t have to learn quotes or anything ‘parrot-fashion’. They have more
time for various clubs, sports and play and they have a wide variety of friends of all
ages.
School is like a prison. Kids are cooped up more than six hours a day, surrounded
by thirty odd other kids [some of whom smell, spit, swear, scrap, smoke, do drugs,
sniff solvents and drink grog.] They are also oppressively ordered around. It is a
form of child abuse and is a recipe for disaster for the individual and for the entire
human race. When I look back now I notice that my reasons for home-educating
have changed and expanded over the years. It all started when Andrew had been in
reception class for a few months. There were more than thirty five kids in the class.
I used to help out occasionally as did a few other mums and I had a battle ‘teaching’
a group of six. The teacher had an even worse time trying to control so many
screaming, crying, excitable and impressionable youngsters. I soon became aware
that the children who actually learned anything of benefit, that is to read, write, spell
and do sums were the ones who were getting extra help at home from a member of
their family. The teacher would actually ask parents individually if they would work
with their child after school because, “you wouldn’t want your child to get behind.” I
therefore reasoned that the hours between 9.00 am to 3.00 pm were a total waste of
time. I’d also go further to say that those hours at school had a negative influence of
varying degrees on all children.
I had always intended to put Andrew and Shell in high school because I assumed the
class discipline problem would improve as kids matured. I also used to doubt my
own ability to continue teaching at high-school level but now I seriously question the
ability of any school – at primary, junior or high level to deliver their aims and for any
child to gain any real benefit. In fact I think most kids suffer as a result of school and
many fail in life because of it.
I have a sneaking suspicion that our government doesn’t really want a welleducated, well-adjusted nation at all. It does not believe in equality and freedom for
all. I’d go as far to suggest it actually wants the majority of people to be uneducated,
inferior, emotionally screwed up and slaves to: work, alcohol, drugs and ciggies. The
government just wants the protected few to have education, wealth, power and ivory
towers. Many teachers are dedicated, well intentioned, hard-working, admirable,
honest folk trying to do a good job in impossible circumstances. I believe it is the
school system that is failing our children. School only teaches you how to cope with
school – in fact it even does a pretty lousy job of that. School does not prepare you
for life – it sets you up to fail.
Andrew and Shell have always preferred working at home so I’m prepared to support
their home-education for as long as they wish; even up to their GCSE exams if it is
working out well for all of us. I feel confident that I can do a better job of it than
school and it will be a good learning experience for me. I remember going to parents’
evenings after various spells of home tuition. Some teachers and heads gave me
the “you’re doing your kids an injustice” and “you should keep them in school and
support the way we do it” routine. They almost convinced me that I was incompetent
and that I should leave my kids’ education to the experts. But when I complied, I
found that Andrew and Shell failed to learn the basics - reading, writing and maths
and that little or no science was done. In fact their work deteriorated at school. I
also noticed that to survive school they had to become “one of the crowd.”
Looking back on my own school life I was considered ‘successful’ with my handful of
O-levels and my “quiet, polite, friendly, conscientious nature.” In reality I learned sod
all at school. School taught me to feel inferior, lack confidence and have a strong
dislike for learning. My interest in higher education, confidence and motivation only
came long after I’d left school, when I’d turned thirty, at which time I actually enjoyed
studying for A-levels. I found the work interesting and useful and I actually began to
learn. This was because I was studying, free of the time wasting, nonsense and
indoctrination that you have to put up with in school. At school I hadn’t thought
myself capable of doing A-level maths. I now believe that the majority of pupils are
capable of far higher standards than they produce at school. With this realisation, I
became resentful of the failing school system. At school I remember getting a
respectable grade B in literature only because I had a very vague outline of the
stories [although I never read any books] and I threw in a few appropriate quotes. I
passed my other O-levels simply by swatting intensely, two weeks before the exams,
the notes that I’d taken down [but hadn’t taken any interest in] during the preceding
couple of years. I remember going on a school trip to a castle. The whole class of
us spent the entire session in the ground’s café queuing for a chocolate bar.
Although I gained grades B and C in maths and science, I had in fact understood
very little. I have learned more just by reading up science books with Andrew and
Shell and by doing some experiments with them.
The teachers in my day even acknowledged that pupils were ‘spoon fed’. At least in
those days we respected our teachers and were disciplined. Kids these days get
away with such violence towards their peers, teachers and their school.
I’m kicking myself now that I allowed outside pressure such as my ex to persuade
me to send my kids to school. Gareth’s reason was that I didn’t have the time when
Jordan came on the scene. The truth was he just didn’t want my kids under his feet.
Andrew and Shell worked largely unsupervised anyway through various workbooks.
I was only really needed to check their work and to assist them occasionally.
I asked Andrew how his science lesson went and what equipment others had taken
in. He said he was the only one who had bothered to take stuff in and was thus
placed in the “good book” but he wished he hadn’t because everyone just grabbed at
his circuit board and now some things are missing as well as the extra batteries,
wires and bulbs. I asked what the teacher had to say about that. “She just watched
and didn’t care,” came the reply. He said that the class just messed about putting
batteries onto their tongues and that that was their science lesson. He said that they
are just left to do as they want and that if they are tired they are allowed to take a
nap.
Shell agreed that kids often nap in class or are allowed to just talk between
themselves. Andrew and Shell said that sometimes they are told to read alone but
that no one does – they just send notes to each other. They both said that
sometimes their teachers drop off in class and they informed me that most kids don’t
read their reading books at home – they forge their parents’ signature. I asked how
often the teachers listen to them reading. “About once a month for around two
minutes,” was the answer. “You don’t learn much at school, do you?” I queried.
“No-one does,” they both echoed. “Everyone just messes about or plays football or
does naughty things.” “So you wouldn’t mind dropping out of school then – for good
this time?” I enquired. “Wow, brill, can we?” came the emphatic response. Andrew
added, “We learn more with you in half an hour than we do at school all week.”
I told them I’d have a word with their teachers as soon as possible, have a nosey at
their schoolwork and then I’d make a decision. I said that if they do work at home it’d
be for about an hour a day, four or five days a week; that they’d have to do a page of
maths and English daily out of their workbooks and that they’d read and discuss
science daily. I told them that sometimes we’d substitute science for geography and
occasionally we’d do some experiments. I also said that we might read up on
something historically important and that they’ll be expected to watch ‘educational’
programmes periodically. They were more than happy with the deal.
This evening I flaffed around for over an hour fixing up a curtain rail at the kitchen
window. I couldn’t help thinking wryly that Gareth would have had the damn thing up
in five minutes flat. It was an awkward job though and I had to balance precariously
on the stepladders to reach. In the doing I couldn’t believe what I found perched on
top of the food cupboard – his mouldy, funghi-smelling curry. I’m just relieved that it
isn’t summertime and that there are no flies around – or maybe that was his
intention. He was probably hoping that I wouldn’t discover it and then one day I’d be
greeted by a mass of writhing, wriggling maggots plopping down onto my head and
food preparation surface. The thought makes my stomach churn.
I’ve no idea if he has been watching us tonight. The kids informed me that they’ve
seen his car go past a few times. I didn’t particularly feel uneasy, just narked about
the events of the day.
OCTOBER 13TH 1998
I managed to get an appointment with the kids’ teachers at 5.00 pm tonight. The
secretary said that I could have a quick word with the head at about 5.30 pm after his
meeting.
My morning was spent creating some kitchen drapes out of a pair of old curtains.
They’re not brilliant but they’ll do the job. Jordan amused himself unravelling the
cotton but most of it ended up in a mangled heap. Melissa cooed and kicked
fervently as she lay on her quilt contemplating the fiasco.
At lunchtime, dad turned up with his old computer. He has now treated himself to
the latest state-of-the-art model that boasts of bags of memory. I’m always happy to
receive his cast-offs. The kids will have to teach me how to make the thing work
though – they were always glued to it every time they went to their grand dad’s. I
think they’ve worn out the skiing and chess programmes.
This afternoon I curled up on the couch with my nose in Windows For Dummies. I
thought it was going to be all too hi-tech for me but with phrases like “you probably
won’t find a cockroach in your windows” and “if it burps” and “it might give you a rude
reply,” I was soon engrossed.
All the kids and I trooped off to school. I was surprised to discover that Andrew and
Shell are only now doing work that they did with me at home three years ago. The
presentation of both their work is diabolical – it’s about the standard of a four/five
year old. I don’t know if it is because they are just sloppy and bone idle at school
because they lack motivation, feel cheated, bored and frustrated and are allowed to
produce inferior work due to the school’s lack of concern or incompetence. Or
maybe it is because they are being part of the crowd, everyone has substandard
work and school doesn’t care, is incapable of enforcing acceptable work or is ruled
by the kids. I do know that it isn’t because Andrew and Shell aren’t capable of a
higher standard. I also know that such work is unacceptable and I know that I don’t
like it. Andrew’s teacher remarked that she wished she’d met me earlier. I
wondered why – would he have been treated more favourably? Would he have got
more encouragement and more attention from her? If so, that is being selective and
I’d always hoped that no school adopted such a policy. She joked that she was fed
up with him always choosing a weather book to read. I found that strange. I
would’ve thought a teacher would be pleased that his/her pupil had a scientific mind
and took an interest in a serious, factual subject and not just make-believe stories.
My suspicions were confirmed. My mind made up. I informed her that since Andrew
and Michelle are sitting targets for my terrorist ex and since my kids do not seem to
be achieving anything like their true potential at school because of the failings of the
school system, then it would be wise for me to educate them at home as of
tomorrow. She seemed a little ruffled and narrow-mindedly insisted that throughout
her long and commendable teaching career, she hadn’t received any complaints and
hadn’t failed any of her pupils. With such an attitude, I was glad that I’d made the
decision that I had. I politely made my goodbyes. I hadn’t intended any disrespect
or to bruise her ego.
Michelle’s teacher seemed more in the real world. He humbled himself to my
wavelength and agreed that work standards of all kids could be higher and that the
issue of class control was a big problem. He also felt that classes of even thirty
children were detrimental to an effective education for all. He told me about friends
of his who successfully home-educate. Ironically they were teachers themselves. I
admired him for his honesty and thanked him for being frank.
The head’s response was, “Do they have special needs?” I forced myself to refrain
from a sarcastic reply. He ostentatiously informed me that he regularly taught a
class of thirtynine. “Yes, but did they learn anything?” I quipped. He didn’t
comment. His prejudiced opinions prevented him from considering the possibility
that ‘school’ and ‘education’ may not be compatible.
In the evening I began to plan my teaching strategy. I’ll probably contact Education
Otherwise again as they are very supportive and have useful reference texts.
Although the curriculum is not compulsive for home-taught kids, I’ll probably follow it
in maths and science. Assuming Andrew and Shell never go to school again, I’d like
them to take some GCSEs one day, so I’ll have to find out from E/O about the
exams. There will be no ‘continuous assessment’ so I wonder if there is a different
paper for them to try. I began to feel happy and optimistic about the prospect of
Andrew and Shell learning at home again. I wish I’d had the courage of my
convictions in the past and had not listened to outside opinions and pressures. Most
people can only point out the ‘social’ aspect of school that they might miss. My
answer to that is Andrew and Shell have friends and peers of all ages in our area
and in the clubs they attend.
Much later all the kids were tucked up in bed. As I was brewing up my bedtime
cuppa I distinctly heard a knocking sound on the kitchen window, followed by the
sound of someone running away. I momentarily froze in panic then I bravely
grabbed my torch and scurried outside – to find nothing untoward. I grabbed a fistsized rock, stuffed it in a sock and placed it at my bedside. I dropped off that night
dreaming about an unlikely ferocious rottweiler in my backyard and Rambo at my
side.
OCTOBER 14TH 1998
I doodled around with my vision of an appropriate schooling system for all children. I
think schools should just teach English, maths, and science daily. History and
geography could substitute science say once a week. Homework should be set
once or twice weekly for kids aged around eight. At around eleven years, a
language could be studied. It could substitute English say once a week. Homework
could be increased to two/three times per week for eleven year olds. I believe that
an acceptable class ratio of six children to one teacher is attainable if statutory
school hours are reduced to around one hour a day, building up to two hours for
high-school pupils, bureaucracy is reduced, head teachers are obliterated and
teacher training days are scrapped.
I think it unnecessary that teachers need a degree and post-grad training. Six
months on-the-job training is adequate. I believe teachers of children aged up to ten
years should have good grade GCSEs in English, maths, science, history and
geography. Teachers of kids aged eleven years to sixteen years should also have
good grade A-levels in English, maths and science. Teachers of A-level pupils
should possess a degree or higher education certificate.
It will be said that many parents require that their child be suitably supervised
between the hours of 9.00 am to 3.30 pm. Therefore I suggest that such children
could be ‘entertained’ by less qualified staff in larger groups of say forty, during nonschool hours, for ‘fun’ periods. For example - for play, TV or video, reading or
computer games. It could be called a youth club. Volunteers – perhaps leaders
from various groups such as brownies, scouts, army cadets, parents and the
unemployed…. could be encouraged to take groups for: sport, drama, art and craft,
home-economics etcetera. Professional people such as the police, firefighters,
counsellors in alcohol and drug abuse etc could visit during these sessions to lecture
on important issues. Perhaps the government could extend the hours of this ‘youth
club’ until 5.30 pm or even 6.00 pm for the benefit of working parents. A small
charge could be levied. [It should work out cheaper than ordinary child-care.] It
should be made clear that the after hours youth club is available primarily for working
or student parents. Parents not in this category may use the youth club but they will
be charged more.
This evening I had a bit of a play on the computer and for a laugh I decided to type
out a letter to the Prime Minister expressing my concerns that our education system
is failing our children. I told him about my idea for an alternative method, which I
believe will be of more benefit to the children and society and that teachers will
probably prefer. I suggested a teacher’s timetable as follows:
9.00 am to 10.15 am – six children learn English, maths and science.
Fifteen min break.
10.30 am to 11.45 am – six children learn English, maths and science.
Dinnertime.
12.45 pm to 2.00 pm – six children learn English, maths and science.
Fifteen min break.
2.15 pm to 3.30 pm – six children learn English, maths and science.
Fifteen min break.
3.45 pm to 5.00 pm – six children learn English, maths and science.
At about midnight I packed it in. I flopped into bed with a cuppa and heard GW’s car
go past five times. I hadn’t bothered counting the other times I’d heard that car
tonight but there’d been a few. When’s it all gonna stop?
OCTOBER 15TH 1998
After breakfast I settled Jordan in front of teletubbies, Melissa sat in her bouncy-chair
clanging her bunch of keys and Andrew and Shell started work writing a story. I
drilled them about producing neat work and using a dictionary if they’re not sure of
their spellings. Andrew said he was going to write about the fights that he used to
witness in the school playground when there would sometimes be a gang of kids
grappling and occasionally a teacher would get hit. That’s mind-boggling. I’d seen
violence in the classroom on the news but I’d assumed it only happened in run-down
inner-city schools. I hadn’t realised it occurred in my own kids’ schools. The more I
hear about the real goings-on in schools, the happier I am that Andrew and Shell
have opted out.
In the afternoon I had another unwelcome visitor. A woman from GW’s solicitors’
visited to serve me with legal papers. He didn’t waste much time. He’s taking me to
court now for residence of Jordan and Melissa. He can whistle! Good job I have an
appointment with my solicitor tomorrow. He’d threatened all this so it’s no real
surprise. He’s promised he’ll take Jordan off me even if he has to wait until Jordan is
ten. He’ll come out with all the amazing lies under the sun to substantiate his case;
that is that I’m an unfit mother, a schizophrenic – the same accusations he bestowed
on his ex-wife. Incredibly he won custody of his older children when they were
around Andrew’s and Shell’s age. His sister once told me that GW promised his kids
the Sun, the Moon and the Earth if they agreed to live with him. He told me that his
ex wife didn’t want them and that she was unstable…. etcetera. I used to find that
hard to believe and began to take what he said about her with a pinch of salt when I
realised he is a compulsive liar. I always suspected that he’d despicably poisoned
his kids’ minds against their mother because they’d say such dreadful things about
her. I think he’s been terrified that one day they might choose to live with her and
that he’s bullied or blackmailed them into submission. I have a horrible feeling that
his ex-wife has been fully denied any access to her children by him and the
authorities – against her will. Maybe I’ll try and track her down one day and we can
compare notes. I strongly suspect history is repeating itself and if I do get a chance
to talk to her, I’m sure her story will parallel mine. He once showed me the
impressive character reference that he got from the police [who he said he worked
for occasionally] that clinched his custody application. Convincingly and cunningly
he’d conned the social workers, welfare officers and judge. How he obtained such
praiseworthy police credentials in spite of the fact he is a known abuser of women,
children and dogs and a motoring offender and small-time criminal is beyond belief.
Maybe they were as scared of him as I was at times [and still am.] Or maybe he
bribed them.
His cousin and her boyfriend are dubious characters – into the seedy world of drink,
drugs and stolen goods. I’m beginning to wonder if GW is part of the evil underworld
and is being protected. He always managed to get his hands on money whenever
he needed it and always had enough to support his thirty cans of lager a night habit.
His children often seemed troubled. His son was disobedient and disagreeable. He
ran away from home a few times and has been in trouble at school and with the
police. At the time we put it down to him being a typical teenager – trying to find
himself and being in with the wrong crowd – the troublemakers of the town. Now I
realise he feared his dad and was feeling inferior. His daughter had a non-existent
social life and problems at school. I tried to help them both but they’d become
defensive and in denial. I was once told that social services were informed and that
educational social workers were called in but that nothing came of it. Looking back
on it now I can see that Gareth Williams has been controlling and damaging them
just as much as he did me and my kids, but his kids don’t realise the harm he has
done them. They are both of age now and are still loyal to him and protective of him
– or maybe they live in fear of him. I was quite surprised and shocked to find out
only fairly recently that the daughter of GWs cousin hates her home, is hit and spat
at by her mum and granddad and that she wants to live with me. My hands are tied
tho – she begged me not to tell the authorities because she dreads being placed in
care. Under the circumstances there is little I can do for her right now but later on if
she still desperately wants to move out and live here, I’ll seriously consider it and will
set the wheels in motion. She has numerous epileptic fits but considering her homelife, that’s not surprising. I’m already a registered foster mother and ‘special needs’
carer so there’s no problem concerning the necessary criteria.
Gareth Williams had promised to make my life hell. He doesn’t care tuppence for the
babies – they were too much trouble for him when we were together. He’d never
cope alone. He’s addicted to pills and booze and has a zero stress tolerance. He
might just snap one day and lash out at them. He could even kill them. You hear it
on the news. It happened in my own family a few years ago. GW is so bitter,
depressed, determined to regain some control over me and hell bent on revenge that
I’d worry sick about my little uns even if he had them just for an hour without any kind
of supervision.
Andrew and Shell were very reassuring. “Don’t worry, we’ll make sure Jordan and
Mel know exactly what he is as they grow older. We’ll keep telling them the truth;
that he lies all the time, is nasty to us, hits our mum, throws things at us, drinks every
day until he can’t stand up, steals money, hurts the dog and his kids are horrible,”
came the message. Andrew said he fully intends to “get that cowardly thug back”
when he’s old enough to fight him. He said, “That wimp doesn’t dare pick on anyone
his own size. He’ll be begging for mercy by the time I’ve finished with him when I’m
a bit bigger.” I told him the best thing he can do is take studying seriously, join the
police if that is what he still wants to do when he’s older and become the outstanding
police officer that he could only dream of being. I told him not to waste his life
plotting revenge – GW isn’t worth it. Andrew replied, “Oh, don’t worry I’m going to be
a brilliant cop – you’ll see – and I WILL duff ‘im up one day. He needs a good
smacking…. and if he keeps on bothering you, I’m sure Jordan will sort him out too.”
There was no answer to that. My heart was just bursting with pride.
As I prepared the tea, Andrew and Shell played outside with the kids next door.
During tea, Andrew told me that he’d just been chatting with two of his old school
mates who’d informed him that his teacher had told the class that they were off
school because of illness. If that’s true it is unbelievable. I know I’ve ruffled some
feathers at the school but I do expect a bit of honesty from authority figures
regarding my kids’ exit.
A little later, while we were eating, we heard tapping noises on the kitchen window
that sounded like pebbles being thrown. I shone a torch through the window but
could see no one. Andrew shone a torch from Shell’s bedroom window, directly
above the kitchen but found nothing unusual. I didn’t feel brave enough to venture
out so I prayed we’d all just imagined it. Thankfully I didn’t hear any other suspicious
sounds but I was very edgy all night and couldn’t face the thought of going to bed, so
I stayed up until 3.00 am worrying. I never heard GW’s car once tonight but I had a
sinking feeling that he’d been outside some of the time just hiding and watching. I
left the hall light on all night – it gave me a false sense of security. I then endured a
tormented, restless night’s sleep.
OCTOBER 16TH 1998
All the kids and I trooped down to the solicitor’s office. Thank goodness Jord and
Mel sat ever so patiently in their pram – for over an hour. It was as if they knew I
was attending a very important meeting. They sat solemn-faced and quiet and
watched me gabbing on about my last three years of hell. My solicitor told me to get
it all down in a statement, that we’d be resisting his residence application and that
we’d only settle for supervised contact – very reluctantly. As regards to the
harassment, she said to keep notes and dates of everything and that if he continues
to be a pain in the neck we’ll have to go for an injunction. She was confident that “he
who laughs last, laughs loudest.”
Later on amongst an assortment of questions, Shell asked who my best friend was.
My instantaneous answer was, “My solicitor.” She said, “You’re my best friend.” I
positively glowed. Andrew piped up, “Mine too.” I queried, “I thought Shell was your
best mate?” “Ugh no,” came the reply. “She’s a girl.”
This afternoon Andrew and Shell went to their granddad’s for their game of chess.
Well they alternate between chess and dad’s new computer. He keeps himself so
busy despite being sixtyfive and ‘retired’. He happily lives the bachelor life and goes
off all over the show playing bridge, snooker, bowls and he does gliding and
swimming. The kids have been going to him weekly for chess [or maybe they go
there just for the ice-cream and pop.] Andrew in particular enjoys taking lessons and
is always keen to apply his new knowledge in his games against me. So far though
I still manage to beat him – but only just. These days the old grey matter has to work
harder. Dad’s promised to coach the kids in bridge in a couple of years.
I gave the kids the choice of which two days they wanted off every week from their
‘school work’. They chose Mondays and Fridays. They prefer to work weekends
and have two/three days in the week off because they enjoy playing at the park and
beach when it’s quiet and the “riff raff” are in school. They say that all the
troublemakers hang out at weekends just looking for a fight. I’ve promised them the
same amount of holiday time that they’d get at school but that they don’t have to take
it at the same time. They’re happy with that, especially as they know they don’t have
to do any ‘homework’. It amazes me the amount of people that ask me if I set them
homework!
I decided to find out the truth about Gareth’s claim that he is qualified as a Reverend.
He’d stated that he is now Rev G Williams and that Cannon T Davies sat on the
examining board and had congratulated him afterwards on his achievement. He’d
even managed to prove to me [just as he had done so often and so skilfully before]
that he was telling me the truth, by showing me his driving license. There it was! His
title was Rev. DVLC must’ve done their own checks before they bestowed this
honour on such an important document. That was proof enough for me. However
the Cannon told me a different story. I gave him a summary of the background and
of my situation now and I explained my fears. He informed me that he: is retired,
doesn’t know Gareth and has never sat on an exam board. He said there is a heck
of a lot of study involved in gaining a theology qualification. He was very annoyed
and unhappy about Gareth using his name in this way and that he has some nerve
trying to move in such high circles as the church and the police. He agreed that it
would be unwise to expose Jordan and Melissa in any way to the influence of deceit
and violence so characteristic of their father.
The kids arrived home from their chess all breathless and red-faced because they
had run the last leg home. They told me that GW had been trailing them in his car.
He’d driven slowly past them, twice, and had glared “menacingly” at them but had
said nothing. Alarm bells started ringing. Oh God. What can I do? He didn’t stop
them; didn’t talk to them; didn’t hurt them – but he did scare the living daylights out of
them. If I call the police they’ll brand me a hysterical, overprotective, neurotic
mother. Maybe I should keep the kids in for a while until that nutter backs off. But
that’s giving in to him; that’s showing fear to him; then he’s won and that’s what he
wants. Anyway it’s not fair on the kids that they should miss out on their outings.
But what if he does grab them? What if…. Oh I wish some superpower of infinite
wisdom would give me some guidance. If I don’t stand up to him now, he’ll know he
can bully me forever – I’ll have to call his bluff.
During the night I started the laborious task of writing my statement. I wrote down
everything that he’d done during his obscene drunken rages. When I look back now
at all the incidents, I’m horrified that I actually stayed with him for so long. There
must’ve been something wrong with me to put up with it all and to actually believe his
promises of change. I must’ve been weak and desperate. Not any more tho. I
guess deep down I really didn’t want another failed relationship. Despite everything
and incredulously I still saw so much good in him. I must’ve still loved him – or
feared him.
I wrote about the times he’d hit me – he once punched me on the nose, locked me
out of my own house, squeezed my throat and arm and bent my fingers back. He’d
broken my handbag, sports bag and other personal items, he’d ripped some of my
dresses and coats and he’d stolen my: tools, money, freezer food and personal
belongings of mine and my kids. He chucked umpteen household things at me and
he even threw out some edible ‘treats’ that belonged to my kids. My ugly ex used to
sling out some of Andrew’s and Shell’s toys and hide their bikes and then he’d claim
that my kids were irresponsible with their things. If anything went wrong, he’d blame
my kids. He called them liars, brats and bullet shooters. The hate between him and
my kids was mutual.
While I was getting the gist of all this down I heard a scraping sound on my outside
wall and then someone ran down my driveway. I gingerly grabbed my torch and
ventured out to investigate. I saw no one, but I noticed that a load of pebbledash
had been removed and was scattered all over the floor. There were unsightly patchy
areas on the wall. I stood there fuming. I knew the police would tell me there’s
nothing they could do because I have no proof it was him. I decided that I’d have to
consult my neighbours tomorrow and ask them to keep an eye out for GW loitering. I
need witnesses otherwise none of it will stand up in court. I gave dad a quick call.
His reaction was, “B … stard, make a note of everything and we’ll put our trust in the
legal system but if that fails I’ll have to get hold of some heavies.” I told him I felt the
same way but I warned him not to be too hasty with the heavies because with my
luck, “You or I would end up in the nick.” I said, “I have a feeling he wants you or
someone else to go up there and beat him up. I don’t really think that’s the way.
Let’s not give him the pleasure.”
I dropped off with my thoughts racing all over the place and with my stomach all tied
up in knots.
OCTOBER 17TH 1998
This morning I called on my neighbours. Thankfully they were all very sympathetic
and supportive. They assured me that if they saw him on or near my property, they’d
call the cops. One of my neighbours noticed that some weeds had recently and
unexplainably been trampled down in her backyard – proof that he had been hiding
and spying on me. Footprints were evident in another neighbour’s flowerbeds. He’d
probably fled across there one night – it looks like his son or daughter had been his
accomplice. Another told me that her cousin had suffered domestic violence for ten
years at the hands of her husband and that it was a few years ago yet he’s still a
thorn in her side. Another neighbour said that her ex managed to put her in a ‘loony
bin’ for a while because the constant mental abuse that she suffered eventually took
its toll. She said the worse thing about it all was losing her toddler daughter for that
period. She then added with a wry smile that now her three year old flatly refuses to
go to her dad’s. Her child just slams the front door in any social worker’s face and
she’ll hide her shoes, then pretend that they “got lost.” Little kids are a heck of a lot
smarter than so-called officials and experts. Yet another neighbour promised to
keep and eye out for him or his car on our road and that she’d inform me and the
police if he was spotted. To my surprise she told me that her mum is living with a
‘Jekyll and Hyde’ boyfriend and that she no longer bothers to leave him because at
such times her life is made even more hellish than the suffering she endures from his
insults and degradation while she stays with him. I hadn’t realised that domestic
abuse is such a widespread evil. It seems nearly everyone has been affected by it in
some way at some time of their life but many don’t talk about it – they feel ashamed
and find it easier to keep the status quo.
Andrew and Shelly went to keyboard practice. They returned all eager to show me
what they’d learned. I was just about to make all the usual “I’m tired, too busy, not
now” excuses but they were persistent. Shell got me quite involved and I found
myself starting to learn how to play and how to read music. I was chuffed to bits. I’d
always had a secret desire to play piano but had never got round to it and I’d
decided lessons were too expensive. Now I have no excuse – I’ll learn from the kids.
They told me he had passed them down town a couple of times in his car but hadn’t
done anything. I can’t hang him for that.
In the evening, I got my mind focussed on my statement again. Engrossed and
oblivious to anything else, I jumped when Andrew ran in clutching an envelope
shouting, “It’s just come through the letter box.” I grabbed the torch and bolted out,
but again there was no one to be seen. I then surveyed the driveway and yard.
Amazingly the scattered pebbledash had been swept up and left in four neat piles. I
stood there in awe and muttered quietly, “That psychopath is playing games with me
– what am I gonna do? I’ll just have to ride it out – hope he gets bored.”
I read the letter with trepidation. Gareth Williams is going on about being “really
sorry – for everything.” “Please forgive me,” he pleads. “Let’s go to relate or some
sort of counselling.” All the phoney words and phrases were there. He says, “ I love
you…. I can’t live without you…. I’m hurting so much – my life has ended. I promise
I’ll never even say boo to you again and I’ll never stop you doing what you enjoy
doing. I’ve just been so scared of losing you but I’ll never, ever, be possessive again
– honestly. Please give me just one more…. just one last chance. I’ll really make it
up to you. Please let me get you to love me again. All I want is for us to try again. I
haven’t drunk one drop of alcohol since the night you said goodbye – you have my
word on that. Please Sharon, please don’t throw it all away. I know I’ve hurt you –
physically and emotionally. I don’t know why I did – I just get so het up and you,
being the closest person to me always gets on the receiving end of it. You say
you’re scared of me but the truth is I’m scared of you. I’m just a timid little thing with
a loud bark, but you’re not. You’re strong, intelligent, capable…. You always do the
things you say you’ll do and I guess I’m just jealous. But I can’t bear to be without
you. Please don’t leave me. I’ve never loved anyone like I love you.”
I actually pitied him there and then. But not for long. He’s had his ‘last chance’ too
many times. I’m going all the way this time, no looking back. I’m thinking of me and
the kids for once. He’ll never be able to stop kidding himself and lying. He’s got to
be Britain’s biggest bullsh … ter. For once he’s actually done me a favour. This
letter might be useful in court. Wish I’d kept all the others now.
I continued with the statement. Much later I yelled up to the kids to get ready for
bed. Next minute, Shell tore downstairs. “Mum,” she gasped, “I just looked out of
my window and I saw rocks and pebbledash on the shed roof.” Again I darted
outside armed with my torch. I was horrified. All the stones had gone – the four
piles had disappeared. My whole body chilled. I fled up to her bedroom. Shell was
right. There was pebbledash splattered on top of the shed and rocks had been
strategically placed around the edges. I felt disgust, dread and disconcertion. “He’s
trying to send me insane,” I uttered. “He’s really taking the p…. now. He must’ve
done that sometime between me reading the letter and…. Now. He’ll stop at
nothing. He’s deranged. He could still be out there – somewhere – just watching
and waiting and…. sneering.” I decided there was no point calling the police – they’d
call me a loony.
It was almost dusk when I dragged myself reluctantly to bed. I barely slept. My
heart was pounding so loud I had a headache. Tears of defeat trickled down my
face. Then I thought about the kids – all of them. I vowed to stay strong and to
battle on – for their sakes. I told myself that if he’s planning for me to crack up, he’s
got a big fight on his hands.
OCTOBER 18TH 1998
The kids had their noses in books, I was finishing off the pots, Jordan toddled around
my feet and Melly took a nap. Then he turned up, standing boldly at my back door
with my two old mattresses in his clutches. I told him to leave them by the back
door. I wasn’t bothered about them but I did want my other things back. He said
he’d go back now for them. I told him to forget it, that he had no intention of bringing
anything of any value back, he’d have done it by now and that he was just being a
menace. I yelled at him, “Go away and stay away.” So he did, but then he
reappeared at my front door to pester me through the letterbox. I picked up the
phone and told him I was phoning my dad, but I dialled 999. I pretended to talk to
dad at the same time as keeping him yakking – so cops would catch him redhanded. He babbled on and on about his favourite subject – himself – for the next
fifteen minutes. Then the Old Bill showed up. “Bitch,” he hissed, “You called the
pigs out.” “No, I didn’t. It must’ve been one of my neighbours – they’re all looking
out for me,” I retorted. He was threatened with arrest if he bothered me again – at
my house or anywhere else. He protested, but was told he had no excuses. He then
left, promising me he wouldn’t come near me again until court. I glared at him pokerfaced and thought, ‘Yeah, fat chance.’
In the evening Andy and Shelly went off to their weekly swimming club. Usually they
walk up with the kids next door but tonight they didn’t. After class they arrived home
out of breath and in distress. They told me that GW was at the leisure centre on the
balcony with his daughter, watching them for the whole session. He even called
Andrew’s name a few times and waved but Andrew said that the look in his eyes
frightened him. On the way home GW drove at crawling pace alongside them so
Andrew and Shell ran. Then he drove faster, pulled up at the service station and got
out to stalk them on foot. At the top of our road he turned back and headed for his
car. I hugged them both so tight; so grateful that he hadn’t touched them. Then I
began to tremble. “That ugly b … stard is slowly carrying out his threats and he’s
targeting my two innocent, defenceless kids,” I muttered to myself. “What kind of
pathetic, cowardly, desperate, low-life is he?” I was furious. I decided that from
now on, for as long as it takes, dad or myself would have to accompany them to
clubs and if that wasn’t possible – they didn’t go. Also, if they went to town at any
other time, they were going to take a high-shrilled burglar alarm and a weapon – an
iron bar or a rock in a sock. I told them that if he or any of his family come near them
they must scream, yell, use the alarm, make as much commotion as possible and
use the weapon if they have to. I said, “Remember Andrew it was you who gave me
the courage to stand up to him and to fight back; to take the attitude that if he really
intends to carry out his threats he’ll do it anyway regardless of what I do. So we
might as well give him a fight and show him he cannot control us anymore.”
I called police and was told that if my kids are stalked again they should dial 999
wherever they are. They then took off to track GW down and “give him a stern talking
to.” They said they’d pop back to see me or phone to let me know the outcome.
They didn’t and I went to bed feeling alone and even more uneasy than I’d felt
previously. God, I wish Steven Seagall lived with me!
OCTOBER 19TH 1998
I dutifully took Jordan to the clinic so that my health visitor could examine him and
satisfy herself that the previous referral by social services regarding my alleged child
abuse and neglect was unsubstantiated and purely of a vindictive nature. Andrew
and Shell came too. They are both my little rocks – so supportive and very helpful –
always have been. They both do just about everything with the babies including
nappy changing [even the really smelly ones.] They’ve always been my little helpers
even when Jordan and Mel were new-borns. It’s a good job I have my ‘little angels’.
I got virtually no help from GW or his kids.
On route, a panda car stopped and out strode last night’s PC. He said that he was
sorry that he hadn’t got back to me last night but that they were called on another job
and by the time they eventually caught up with my ex at his house, it was quite late.
He said that Gareth admits to being at the leisure centre but that he hadn’t seen
Andrew or Shell at all. “He’s lying,” I exclaimed, “He lies all the time – to anyone.”
PC said he’d warned him to stay away from me and the kids or he’ll be arrested. I
thanked him but I wasn’t feeling very optimistic.
The clinic visit was a total waste of time. Jordan was bemused and wasn’t going to
‘perform’ for anyone. My health visitor tyrannically fulfilled her ‘necessary’ checks,
wrote down her notes, politely thanked me, apologised for doing her job and sent me
on my way.
Back home I found a candle on top of the dividing wall between my neighbour and
myself. It was of the type GW uses. I reacted with, “Ruddy imbecile, wonder what
the police would think if I called them out to this!” It went in to my ‘notes for solicitor’
portfolio though.
This afternoon I tuned into talk radio to hear Anna Rayburn saying, “Life is not a
rehearsal – you only get one crack at it.” How apt. Just wish mine would brighten up
a bit – everything is such a struggle. I thought things would improve once I left
Gareth. How wrong I was, now I’m more controlled by him than ever.
Now that the kids are ‘schooling’ at home, my routine has changed. I decided to
write out a new daily timetable. If I have a structured day, I figure I’ll get more done,
all the kids and I know where we stand and there’ll be no time for me to feel self-pity
or depressed. I suppose I’m running my household like a business really, but I hate
being disorganised. I’ll put down all the things I intend to do once my life gets back
to somehow being ‘normal’ – that’s if it ever does. That’ll depend on when GW stops
playing sick games with me and my kids. I’ll feel a bit stronger [mentally and
physically], happier and healthier when I get back to doing regular sport. I should
start to slim down then too. I reckon I need to lose about two stone. I’m not going to
climb on the scales yet though – I’m not feeling very courageous! I’ll have to dig out
my old faithful diet book and stick to it religiously again – but not yet. Melly and her
milk come first.
Despite being a single mum of four [two of them babies] and being a schoolteacher
to my kids, I still have quite a bit of time for me – on paper, that is. I now have the
luxury of deciding for myself how to use up my time. I no longer have to put up with
Gareth telling me what to do [as used to be the case] and wasting precious time
arguing when I tried to resist his over-bearing control. My newfound freedom is
glorious.
In the evening the kids and I watched some of my aikido videotapes. They reminded
me of when I used to be a martial arts freak. The tapes began to whet my appetite
for practice again, but I’m too busy right now and I can’t afford a regular babysitter.
In time I’ll get back to it. Andrew will be smitten with it too. I also miss the
meditational side of it and the people – they’re a specialbreed. As we sat there
absorbed, three clear knocks came on the lounge window. We all looked at each
other wide-eyed and ashen-faced. Being the closest, Andrew peered out of the
window – to see someone scarper. I ran out with a torch…. to see…. No one! He’s
really perfected that move now. He ALWAYS manages to HIDE from me. I scanned
the driveway and yard and discovered my bins had been moved a few metres up my
road and that the candle is now jeering at me from on top of my wheelie bin. I found
myself laughing. It was midnight, cold, raining…. I was stood there in gown and
slippers with dripping hair and I was watching a…. Candle. I boldly disposed of it
and went to bed, happy he wasn’t damaging my property and secure in the
knowledge that he must be sufficiently scared of me because he scurries off and
hides.
Andrew said he was too scared to go to bed because Gareth might still be out there.
I told him not to worry because Gareth and his doting daughter are scared of him. I
pointed out, “You only have to look at them and THEY shrink from you – they crawl
into next door’s overgrowth like slugs or they leg it like frightened rabbits. And
anyway he wouldn’t DARE break in to the house – he knows I’d be waiting for him
with a cast-iron saucepan.” “Yeh, you’re right,” came Andrew’s cheerful response.
Minutes later he called out anxiously from his bedroom, “Mum, I just heard Gareth’s
voice – he’s out there now.” I yelled back, “Andrew, I don’t care how many Gareths
are in the garden. They can rot in there for all I care, but they can’t harm any of us mum will see to that, so go to sleep – NOW.” The kids’ bedtime routine has all gone
to pot with all this nonsense going on. I’ll have to regain some order starting
tomorrow.
OCTOBER 20TH 1998
I took Shell and the babies to see my pal and squash partner Lauri and her newborn
baby Jamie. We exchanged horror stories about giving birth, I prattled on about the
dos and don’ts of baby care and then we began making plans to get some games of
squash in before she returns to work in Feb. My next port of call was WHS. I
decided to buy the kids some early Christmas presents – school curriculum
workbooks in maths and English! I’m not bothered about ‘curriculum’ science and
geog yet. I have a good ‘question and answers’ book that covers all subjects, a
good junior encyclopaedia and two different ‘experiment with science’ books that’ll
keep them going for quite a while yet.
At lunchtime I argued with the corned beef – and it won. Those cans are so
ridiculously designed – you have to fiddle around with a silly key, align and roll the
strip of tin so that it is flush and then delicately bend back the lid. Anyway, in the
doing I sliced my finger and thumb which put me in a foul mood.
It was an unusually quiet night. I’d seen Gareth’s car go past a few times earlier on
but apart from that there was nothing untoward – that I knew of. I certainly didn’t
fancy sneaking out looking for trouble. Non-the-less I didn’t get off to bed until my
usual 2.30 am. I tossed and turned until about 6.00 am. When I finally dropped off, I
had nightmares about him pounding on my front door with a sledgehammer. I awoke
– sweating.
OCTOBER 21ST 1998
I had to visit my favourite place this morning – the clinic. Melissa was due for her
vaccines. Like Jordan, she was in no mood to ‘perform’ for any doctor or health
visitor. I robotically answered the ‘developmental’ questions: Yes, she smiles and
gurgles at me, yes she holds her head up, yes she’s started on solids and no I’m not
worried about her – she’s a gorgeous, contented baby. My health visitor then
enquired about my health. “Oh fine,” I said. “My ex is being a pain in the neck
harassing me and the kids virtually every night but it seems there’s not a lot I can do
a bout it except log it all down for my solicitor and try for an injunction. The police
have told me I need witnesses. Gareth make sure that no-one sees him except the
kids but we all hear him and know what he’s up to. He’s been down this road before
– with his ex-wife. He knows how to play the system and he makes a mockery of the
law. But apart from all that – I’m fine.” The H/V handed me a card giving me the
name and tel no of an outreach contact at women’s aid that I can call when the chips
are down. She also informed me that she has quite a lot to do with domestic
violence victims as she sits on the forum. That was welcoming news and I began to
feel that she was supporting me.
On the way home, we stopped off at the park. Jordan was in his element climbing
and sliding in the toddler section. We were the only ones there. The peace was
bliss. Andrew and Shell had a whale of a time too, just messing about on everything.
Shell made the remark that it was nice to be “out of prison – er school.” We passed
the local comprehensive and couldn’t help but notice the high wire mesh surrounding
the building and even the coils of barbed wire on the top of the gate – it was a
shocking sight.
After lunch, the babies had their two hourly nap, Andrew and Shell began to tackle
their new workbooks and I began to demolish the selection of photographs that I’d
previously proudly displayed on my walls. I removed with glee the ones that showed
him or any of his lot. The kids then jubilantly threw darts at them.
Afterwards I received yet another uninvited and unwelcome caller – another social
worker who said she had received an anonymous referral. Inwardly I seethed.
Some spiteful, evil, lying, vicious person has reported me: being angry and
aggressive towards my kids – often hitting them; neglecting the babies – leaving
them to howl for hours; and leaving the kids alone every night while I go out drinking.
I was just gob smacked. I asked her if she believed any of this rubbish. She tried to
convince me that social services have to investigate all allegations and that it is their
duty to prevent child abuse and to protect children.
It was no use protesting. I just simply told her that my accuser was telling a pack of
nasty lies and that Gareth was obviously behind this either directly or indirectly.
“Look, I’m the flipping victim here you know,” I screamed at her. “Why don’t you go
and investigate him. He’s the criminal, the wife and child batterer – the one who
stalks, molests and controls.” I was starting to warm up now. “I’m beginning to think
you people are controlled by the Mafia or indeed ARE the mafia. Why do you insist
on hassling innocent lone mothers – easy, vulnerable prey who are battling against
all the odds to provide a safe, loving, nurturing environment in which to bring up their
children?” I continued, “When I was going through the process of becoming
registered as a foster mother and ‘special needs’ carer, one of your lot commented
that I had “rather strong views regarding education” such that my application almost
failed. Doesn’t everyone have strong views on such an important issue? Surely I
should have been admired for that, not criticised. I fail to understand how you
people work. Your intentions, methods, priorities…. are shamefully and diabolically
dubious. You people are public enemy number one and are a drain on the public
purse.” As I showed her the door I barked, “You don’t even know who this
slanderous individual is. There’s obviously not a grain of truth in it if the coward must
be protected by anonymity.” With that she left.
I had a phone call from the local education authority regarding my proposals to
home-educate Andrew and Shell. He called himself a ‘link officer’. I couldn’t resist
commenting on his trendy title. He said I’d need to fill in a form regarding my
intended schedule and subjects studied, that I’d need to produce two references and
that I’d be visited by an educational social worker and an ‘educational expert’.
Terrific, can’t wait. Well I’ll impress them with my programme of study and powerful
PHD referees.
During the evening as we rotted in front of the TV the invisible prowler[s] was/were at
large again. I heard an almighty thud at the back of my convection heater and loud
footsteps on my driveway. Immediately Andrew and I gave chase but ‘it’ had
disappeared. We surveyed the damage. The flue had been flattened in a concertina
effect. “Oh for chrissakes…. That…. f…. b … stard has damaged my fire…. What
next? A brick through the window?” I screamed. Although I knew it was pointless, I
phoned the police. They were sympathetic but insisted I need witnesses. They gave
me an incident number and details of their crime officer and asked if I wanted him to
visit me. I asked if he was going to be able to stop my despised, crazed ex. The
answer was, “He’ll give advice on crime prevention.” “Big deal,” I muttered. “Don’t
bother sending him. I don’t think he can help me tackle Gareth and his henchmen.
Glossy leaflets are pretty, fighting words are fine but they are pretty useless at
fighting crime.”
I managed to prise the flue open again. It doesn’t look perfect but it’ll do. I can’t
afford to replace it. I racked my brains for a way to trap him so cops could catch him
on my property or to have concrete proof that it is Gareth Williams harassing me. I
drew up a contingency plan with the kids – I’ll nip out at random during the evenings
and if he is there I’ll try to keep him talking while they call cops. At least then he’ll be
arrested. But even then I knew in my heart it wasn’t much of a deterrent for a
psychopath like Gareth.
I got to bed at 3.00 am. All I could think of was that we were all prisoners in our
home – and a home that was gradually being eroded away and I was frustratingly
powerless to stop it. I’d tried to put on a brave face. I’d hoped he would get fed up
and give up the sinister games. But the truth was I feared him and I feared that he
would somehow win. I was reluctant to let the kids out alone. I was losing hope. I
felt despair, lonely, weakened. Dad was angry too but he had no answers and I felt
upset that he was shouldering my burden. I thought about mum. What would her
advice be? My thoughts drifted back to my childhood. It was a happy one. We were
a close family but my brother Malcolm does not think so anymore. He fell out with
me and mum when I was pregnant with Andrew. He blamed mum on something
trivial about upsetting his wife and everything was blown out of proportion. Over the
years mum and I tried hard to make the peace but he wasn’t having any of it. I
foolishly thought we’d made friends at mum’s funeral but only days later he blatantly
told me on the phone that he wanted nothing to do with me anymore, but he couldn’t
tell me why. As my mind raced I found my body all curled up; my knees almost
touching my chin; in fact I was in the fetal position and I felt slightly comforted. As I
dropped off, I could’ve swore I got a whiff of mum’s flowery perfume.
OCTOBER 22ND 1998
We all trudged to kwiks this morning. We have a system where we all do the
shopping [usually two trolleys are required], the kids take the groceries home in a
taxi and I follow up with the babies in their pram. As we awaited the taxi, we saw
three middle-aged blokes sitting on a bench swigging bottles of cider. They were
rolling around, burping and farting. You wouldn’t have seen such a sight in broad
daylight in an ordinary quiet town a few years ago.
This afternoon Andrew confided in me something that made my blood boil. He said
he only felt confident about opening up now because he had been worried that I
might go back to Gareth. He told me that Gareth had been bullying him for the past
year and a half or so. He’d also bullied Shell but to a slightly lesser extent. He told
me he’d been threatened to “shut up, don’t tell your mum or you’ll get another good
hiding.” I hugged Andrew and cried. I felt livid, repulsed and annoyed with myself
that I’d been unaware that my children had suffered so much at the hands of an evil
monster; the person I once thought was my hero, my best friend, my lover. I listened
in horror when Andrew spoke of the times that Gareth had severely punished him
just because he hadn’t eaten his veggies. He’d punched Andrew so hard that he
was winded and then Andrew had been sent to his room. Most of the time Andrew
was attacked just because Gareth was in a filthy mood. Andrew was often pushed –
so hard that he’d always fall over. At other times Gareth smacked Andrew’s head –
once against a rock. GW’s daughter witnessed one assault, was shocked and to her
credit helped Andrew to recover. Gareth once squeezed Andrew around the neck –
he was forced to stifle his cries and ordered to “shut up and get to bed.” Andrew
also suffered similar torment at the hands of GW’s son. Shelly too had been slapped
and pushed around by Gareth. She’d also suffered the torment of witnessing
Andrew’s plight, being powerless to protect her brother and being so petrified that
she too was unable to tell…. anyone. She was even so fearful of him that she
urinated on the bedroom floor and then tried to mop it up with a blanket because he
had ordered her not to get up again to use the loo. I learned that my children were
put through so much hell during the times that I wasn’t there – when I looked after
my sick mum, when he sometimes collected them from school, on the odd occasion
he took Andrew fishing, even during times when I ran errands for him because he
claimed he was too ill to go out. I asked how come I didn’t see any marks on them.
Andrew said, “We got very good at hiding our cuts and bruises but sometimes you
did see them but we told you we’d been scrapping with our friends because Gareth
made us say that.” Looking back I remember that Shell went through a stage of
fainting and of wetting the bed when we were at Gareth’s house. I hadn’t realised
then that it was because she was terrified of HIM.
I cuddled them close and kissed them and I kept saying over and over, “I wish you’d
told me, I wish you’d told me. Now I know why you want to get him back so much.
Gareth Williams is an evil coward, a wimp, a scumbag – picking on you two.”
Andrew eyeballed me and with a stern look vowed to “beat him senseless – one day
– however long it takes.” I replied, “I know you will.” They both agreed that they felt
better now that they’d told me everything. I told them we could press criminal
charges against him. I should even press charges for what he did to me, but
decided not to because I’m the adult and I had choice and stupidly I chose to return
to him and to the violence. I phoned police. They said a domestic violence
councillor will visit me tomorrow or early next week.
Much later Andrew was busy rummaging in the shed. I was busy peeling spuds and
Shell was busy teaching Jordan to play ball. Jordan would pick it up, throw it at Shell
and say, “Ca….”. I heard a knock on the window so I yelled, “Hang on a minute.”
After about ten minutes I went out to Andrew to ask him what he wanted. He looked
puzzled and said he hadn’t called me. I said, “Yeh, you did – you knocked on the
window, a few minutes ago.” He said, “No – I didn’t.” Then we both blurted out, “HE
did.” My heart sank, my face paled. “He’s been here again – tonight – watching you
in the shed and us in the kitchen,” I gasped. We looked around the yard and
driveway and peered into nextdoor’s garden; but we saw no one. There were lots of
dead snails that had been carefully placed on top of my wall to form the words “I love
you.” My bins had again been rearranged. “What the hell am I gonna do?” I asked
Andrew in desperation. “No point calling the police,” he remarked. We went in.
A few hours later we heard the sound of stones splattering the lounge window. I ran
out in my slippers in hot pursuit screaming, “Oi Gareth, come back, I wanna talk.”
But no one came and no one could be found. It was cold, dark, silent and…. Eerie. I
caught sight of a neighbour who had her nose squeezed up against the window, so I
popped over to ask if she’d seen or heard anyone prowling around or chucking
stones. She said she hadn’t but she said she’d ask her son to peek out of his
bedroom window periodically to “keep an eye out”. I expressed my gratitude and
retired to bed.
I suffered recurring nightmares all night…. about Gareth standing in my bedroom
doorway pointing one of his loaded shotguns at me. I kept waking with palpitations
and heavy sweating. Heaven knows how I manage to get on with the routine daily
chores as I’m constantly tired and often anxious and irritable. But I’ll never visit my
doctor for emotional support. I’d only be prescribed sleeping pills, tranquillizers or a
psychiatrist. Such aids will do me not one iota of good. We need a bodyguard.
Mum used to get very depressed, very tearful and troubled. She’d confided some of
her deepest anxieties and doubts with me, but not all. She had her marital problems
and personal inner turmoil, which had been made a thousand-fold worse from the
betrayal of her son. I swear he was a major contributing factor in her illness and
death. She’d turned to drink, as I once did and as dad still does. Yet despite her
problems and self-diagnosed weaknesses, she battled on, never hurt anyone, had a
heart of gold, and was an excellent mum and an honest grafter. She turned to the
‘professionals’ for help and even tried the wonder pills but she knew such things
were of no help and were dangerously addictive, and she had the strength to resist
them. Her own gentle, caring, decent mum was of a similar disposition. My nan had
suffered life’s hardships – mainly at the hands of a selfish, alcoholic, womanising
husband. But despite her ills she too had successfully brought up five children
almost single-handedly in harsh conditions; but it was at a price, for she suffered a
nervous breakdown. Funny thing is, nan’s happiest, most stable ten years or so of
her life came after my granddad died…. when she was in her twilight years.
OCTOBER 23RD 1998
My ‘domestic violence’ counsellor turned up this afternoon. She listened to my
summary of our suffering and then to Andrew’s and Shell’s account of the abuse
they’d suffered from GW. She was sympathetic – made all the right noises but, as
expected, she was of very little help. She informed me that Andrew and Shell could
press “child abuse” charges against him but that it might mean a load of police
interrogation and much prying that could drag on for ages and at the end of it is the
strong probability that GW will escape a conviction. She seriously advised me to
“just be there” if either of them wants to “open up more.”
Then she let me into a little secret. She told me she’d suffered more than ten years
of ugly violence at the hands of her now ex. She described some of the degrading,
vile things he’d done to her and her son but although he was convicted of actual
bodily harm, he did not get a prison sentence, which was warranted. Instead he
escaped with a paltry one hundred pounds fine. Later he was awarded every
weekend with her son with the judge’s blessing. The boy feared and loathed this
man, yet was forced to comply. My jaw dropped. I was at a loss for words. “But….
That’s…. Not fair,” I stammered. “That’s damaging to you and your son.” She
agreed and told me that people [usually men] commit the most heinous of crimes
against the weaker members of their family; yet, and incredibly, when it comes to the
children, the courts always rule that “it is important that both parents play a major
role in a child’s life and a child will always benefit from this.” “Yes, but surely not if
the father is dangerously violent and the child is terrified of him?” I queried. She
assured me that it doesn’t matter what the father has done to his partner or child, he
will always be awarded generous contact – even if he doesn’t really want the hassle
of seeing the child. Such men just grasp the opportunity of further bullying the
family.” “But the father might still be abusive. Leopards don’t change their spots. In
fact he’ll probably be worse. He’ll be all out for revenge. The youngsters just end up
as punching bags – an excuse for him to continue to violate,” I remarked. She
sighed, “It happens. I’ve been through it. If I refuse my ex contact with my son, I’m
threatened with prison! My solicitor says that even men who sexually abuse their
kids get regular contact. I’ve counselled hundreds of other victims – all in the same
boat, all with the same fears – the safety and well being of their children. But the
courts offer no protection. The manipulating monster you tried to escape is given a
license to continue terrorising you and your children. There is no one protecting
them. It is an outrage. It’s no wonder many women stay in destructive
relationships.” “The judge should be held accountable,” I hissed. “Where’s the
justice?”
In the evening I nipped out sporadically to try to seek him out. I felt a bit like
Columbo. I didn’t find him, of course – he’s cleverly perfected his vanishing act. But
he always leaves little clues as to his earlier presence. Tonight I discovered that the
ugly son-of-a-bitch has taken some wire cutters to Andrew’s bike lock that was
supposed to be securing the gate shut. I’ll have to buy a heavy-duty padlock for the
job now.
OCTOBER 24TH 1998
It’s Michelle’s ninth birthday celebrations. Her birthday is tomorrow but her day out
with her mate is today. I’d promised her an afternoon in Rhyl’s Geronimos, followed
by a Kentucky tea. Normally it’d be a straightforward procedure – I’d just nick
Gareth’s car and everyone would pile in, but now it’s a different story. I had to carry
Melissa in her baby-sling; Jordan went in his buggy. We caught a train to Rhyl then,
because of the torrential downpour, took a taxi to Geronimos. Andrew, Shell and her
pal Amy then spent nearly two hours messing about in a mystery maze, on super
slides and on massive climbing frames. Jordan played contentedly with rubber
balls/shapes, a police car and the contents of a Wendy House. Melissa suckled and
slept for the best part of our visit. We struggled home at teatime, gobbled our
chicken and I collapsed in a chair.
Much later I repeated last night’s ritual, but, as expected, discovered no prowlers,
just evidence of some unwanted idiotic trespasser. He’d been playing around with
my gate and now the damn thing has bent and doesn’t shut properly. That’s proof
he doesn’t give a fig about Jordan – he doesn’t care that Jordan could easily toddle
through the gate now. Maybe I should shove some electric fencing on top of the
gate, walls and shed roof; or deposit some wet concrete all over the floor. But that’s
just more expense, more mess, more hassle and…. He would just love me to go to
all that trouble.
As I lay in bed all agitated I heard a thud on my bedroom window. I peered out – but
saw nothing. Ten minutes later I heard the same thud, so I tore outside to
investigate. As usual, no one there, but I found two of Andrew’s tennis balls – the
ones GW had swiped for his dog’s pleasure. I looked up to the heavens and asked
in despair, “When is that numbskull going to give up his relentless manic mission?”
OCTOBER 25TH 1998
Clean up and polish day today [my five/six weekly routine.] I flew around the house
with duster and polish. Every little ornament was attended to and every room was
dealt with ruthlessly. Andrew and Shell had the task of wiping all the baby toys with
disinfectant and jif and then they scrubbed down the kitchen table/chairs and walls
where little ‘sticky fingers’ had left his mark. [It was worth a quid each for them.] I
then bleached and scoured the whole kitchen, bathroom and loos.
In the evening I did my regular MI6 procedure but all is thankfully uneventful – no
unusual sightings, sounds or smells.
OCTOBER 26TH 1998
I managed to do some keyboard practice. Andrew and Shell argued over whether
they’d play minesweeper or go skiing on the computer, so I banned them both and
sent them to their rooms to occupy themselves quietly – alone. Much later I tinkered
about on the computer until about midnight.
The evening passed relatively acceptably…. Until I began checking everything was
locked up and safe for retirement. I ventured towards the back door and came face
to face with him peering in at me through my porch window. I startled, then scurried
off to the phone. I screamed at the police operator, “Don’t waste time calling at my
house – chase after HIM. HE’s just been standing in my back yard, staring at me.”
Fair do’s, the police sent one panda car up to his house and one to my house. They
did commiserate and express bemusement at GW’s antics. When they learned of
his aggression, the second car also took off after him but the message that I later
received was that Gareth had been at his house all night and that I’m just a potty
female trying to cause trouble for him! The police also told me that he is making
similar claims of harassment about me. They wouldn’t give details but apparently
Andrew, Shell and I have “been seen snooping around outside his house.”
Incredible.
OCTOBER 27TH 1998
My pal Linzi dropped in. She’d just been to the gym. Sport and fitness is what we
have in common [or should I say had.] She’s decided she’ll start jogging with me.
She’s a bit of a tennis freak too, so I’ve threatened to give her a game in the
summer. She is also a black belt – in karate although she used to practice aikido.
We nattered about kids, education, her new house, mutual acquaintances, the price
of onions…. She married well – into money – quite handy really because my kids get
her kids’ designer clothes hand-me-downs. She always said her fifteen-year
marriage was reasonably happy although she and hubby weren’t terribly close and
he preferred to spend most of his time out with mates. She figures her husband
compensates by providing well for her financially – they get foreign holidays, posh
cars and their three children attend private school. Her house sounds a dream. It’s
a two hundred and fifty thousand pounds detached dwelling surrounded by acres of
land and fields situated at the top of Penrhynside and affording panoramic views. It
sounds ideal – roomy, comfortable and stylish. She has the luxury of no neighbours,
has peace and quiet and is ten minutes out of town….
Linzi and I ended up planning a theatre night out to see ‘Rocky Horror Show’.
Trouble is I’ll have to scrimp and save for it and I’ll have to seek out a babysitter – I
no longer have the luxury of my mum to baby sit and dad wouldn’t relish the job.
Andrew and Shell decided to put photosynthesis to the test and conducted an
experiment to produce oxygen. They put some pondweed into a bowl of water. An
upside down glass beaker was placed over the weed supported on cotton reels.
They then placed the bowl on the windowsill.
During the evening I periodically nipped out to check for undesirables but fortunately
there weren’t any and amazingly there was no mysterious movement of anything
outside or the sudden appearance of any unwanted extra objects. Nevertheless
sleep came in shallow bursts and during my wakeful periods I worried about what his
next move was going to be and I pondered over why he seems to get away with all
his outrageous lies and vicious claims.
OCTOBER 28TH 1998
Linzi took us around her new pad. It is gorgeous. There are two sumptuous
bathrooms, a huge kitchen boasting all mod cons, a spectacular ‘L-shaped’
lounge/diner, four perfect bedrooms and a massive basement/games room. She has
so much land that there is talk of them erecting a tennis court. Andrew and Shell are
well impressed too and are pestering me now to let them play with Sasha and Jamie
more often.
This afternoon Andrew and Shell discovered that plants do indeed produce oxygen
by photosynthesis. They were well pleased to find that bubbles of gas had collected
in the beaker above their pondweed. They also discovered that their lighted match
glows brighter and for longer when immersed in the oxygen bubbles.
I repeated my now nightly ritual of sneaking out to spy on my loathed and feared
trespasser[s]. I ventured out about six times and was relieved to discover nothing
sinister. I then relaxed, forgot all about him and his crazed family and settled down to
read the local rag. After a half hour or so I heard something wallop my flue again,
followed by quite loud footsteps bolting down my drive. ‘Oh no, not again,’ said the
voice in my head. Somehow I didn’t fancy any attempts to give chase. What’s the
point? I never see the toad and anyway at that particular moment, I felt very uneasy
about any confrontation – with anyone. He seems to be watching me virtually all the
time…. and smirking. So I sat still, silent and subdued. I told myself somewhat
unconvincingly that the arrogant bucket of slop has got to get bored of his warped
teasing and ruthless torment soon. Despite my shattered nerves and deep down
doubt, I resolved never to let him spot even one tiny speck of fear or frustration on
my face.
OCTOBER 31ST 1998
I decided to convert my boiler cupboard into a clothes-drying area. It used to be a
useful spot to ferment my wine in my days of home brewing but now it’s been
thoroughly scrubbed out and I’ve erected rows of bars and clotheslines. This way I
don’t have to face masses of unsightly laundry dangling all over my radiators. My
condensation problem is sorted too now. In the summer I can hang my laundry in
the porch as it’s surrounded by transparent corrugated plastic and is a brilliant heat
trap. I hate hanging washing out on the line – no sooner as it’s out and it ruddy well
rains and since I seem to wash virtually every day, the whole procedure would send
me round the bend. Not only that; when I used to hang out washing, the local yobs
would interfere with it and/or swing from my rotary.
Andrew and Shell spent their pocket money on ghoulish masks. They then set about
converting my bin bags into witches outfits and the like. As the witching hour
approached, they accompanied the throng of local ghosts and ghoulies to bug me
and other neighbourhood victims and menacingly chant “trick or treat.” The monster
mob are pretty adept at forcing folk to part with their readies!
I have no idea if his lordship has been snooping around. One look at the teeny-terror
tearaways in the vicinity and it’s enough to send any prowler packing.
NOVEMBER
NOVEMBER 1ST 1998
It took me all morning just to get the babies ready for a five-minute visit to Safeways.
Just as I was about to plonk them in the pram, Melissa chucked up – all over herself
and me. She wasn’t ill though – she chuckled and grinned at me straight after. She
was amused at my look of concern and because I was fussing. Babies are really
good at that – they posset and throw up with such ease and then they laugh at you –
like it’s a pretty everyday thing to do. She waited until she had clean clothes on –
and then she filled her nappy – good style. I could tell because she had that real
concentrated look on her face and then she went red. I had to give her a complete
change of clothing again because her motions had seeped into her pants, vest and
cardi. Then Jordan decided he wasn’t going to be outdone – he immediately
produced his own specimen to be proud of.
Shell was a real pain in the neck today. She kept arguing with me, answering back
and stomping. So I referred to some of my many baby care/child rearing books [I
have an army of them] for some tips on how to discipline. Andrew and Shell have
had their moments of being downright unruly so every now and again I get the books
out for some expert advice. Some advise withholding a treat or perk if the child
misbehaves, so I tried stopping the next due pocket money but I found it wasn’t
appropriate because the kids and I forgot what the behaviour was and it was
impractical. I realised punishment should be immediate if it’s going to be effective.
Likewise I’d cancel a planned outing but that didn’t work either, because everyone
else missed out and the discipline lacked instantaneity. I remember an old boyfriend
of mine used to discipline his kids by sending them to bed early for a week or even
longer. I sometimes tried this method on Andy and Shell but after a couple of days
I’d forget to execute the order. I also found it inconvenient because I didn’t really
want them to miss out on their regular clubs or for family outings to be cancelled. All
child-care books advise against corporal punishment as this only creates violent
kids.
The only other option is to give orders in a calm, firm, assertive voice and to repeat
the message if you get back answered. The advice is to “keep eye contact with the
child, don’t move, don’t raise your voice, don’t do deals, don’t give in to pleadings or
tantrums, don’t reason.” I tried this on Shell tonight. I said, “Bed now Shell,” She
looked shocked and whinged, “But I’m watching this.” So I repeated, “Bed now
Shell.” She started to whimper and pleaded, “Can I just see the end?” Although I
could feel my blood pressure rising I refused to bellow at her and in the same calm
voice I repeated the same words. She looked confused for a second but then went
to bed. I’m not saying I could use this method all the time – the temptation to let rip
is too great but I’ll make the effort as being cool and calm seems the most effective
way to get the desired result. Sometimes it’s enough just to warn the kids that
something will happen at a certain time.
NOVEMBER 2ND 1998
I traipsed around our local nurseries until I came across one that would take Jordan
and Mel on the occasional days that I have to attend court. Dad has said that he
would baby sit them at a push but I know he’d rather not – he’d be out of his depth
and he wouldn’t be able to tolerate them for long. Everything to do with babies and
kids was always one hundred percent mum’s department. He’d be ok though if Shell
was with him as she’s a real competent little mother. I prefer not to be too
dependent on dad – he’s entitled to a life of his own in his veteran years; he also
might wish to accompany me to court.
I found my future babysitter too. She seems perfect. She’s eighteen, fully qualified –
has an NVQ in child care, has excellent references, seems a nice quiet, mature girl
and she doesn’t smoke, date, party…. sounds too good to be true. Not that I’ll be
needing her that often – can’t afford to go out! But an occasional night out would be
nice – to theatre or pub sometimes. I took Paula’s details and asked her to visit me
– to meet all the kids and for us to get to know each other.
Tried Melissa on baby rice. She really took to it and wolfed about ten teaspoons full.
Looks like she’s going to be really easy to wean.
The kids keep me happy with regular brews. Virtually every evening, they take turns
to bring me a cuppa – often without any prompting. Most of it is a ploy to get me to
let them stay up a little longer!
Someone rang the doorbell at 10.00 pm. I never get social visitors at night – dad
always rings three times – so I tentatively and reluctantly approached the door. I
asked who was there. No one answered. I saw no one through the bubbled glass. I
didn’t dare open it. I daresay it was GW, although I cannot be sure. Nevertheless it
had the desired effect of turning me back into a hopeless quivering nervous wreck
for the rest of the night.
NOVEMBER 3RD 1998
The kids have been sending me up the wall today. Why oh why do they insist on
leaving the lights on and the doors open? I’m constantly harping on at them – and
I’m sick of it. I tell them I might as well chuck a fiver in the bin every so often. I’ve
told them if they’re determined to heat up my back yard and road, perhaps they’d be
willing for me to deduct a percentage of their pocket money as their contribution to
the gas bill. It didn’t go down too well! Slippers are a constant bone of contention.
Why won’t the kids wear the damn things? It’s no wonder their socks are black and
holey. The margarine is another problem zone, as is the jam. The kids insist on
depositing marge in the jam and vice versa. Oh yes and I’m sick of seeing a new
loaf opened when the old is not yet finished. And they’re so flippin’ careless at times.
They spill drinks and chip the best mugs [and they insist on removing the handles];
they’re always tripping up, falling over and bumping themselves; and they constantly
manage to lose things. And how come they get so dirty so easily and their clothes
are frequently grubby? And why are they always at each other’s throats? I’m in a
state of shock if a day goes by without a cross word between them!
At about 8.00 pm, Andrew and I heard the gate rattle. I bolted out with Andrew in hot
pursuit. I bellowed, “Oi, who’s there?” However all my grand plans of keeping him
talking whilst Andrew called cops evaporated when he vaulted over my gate, lunged
towards me, eyes ablaze, neck veins protruding and voice booming. I panicked.
Andrew and I scurried inside to sanctuary. With trembling hands I dialled 999 and
asked cops to tail gate him. One panda car did and one turned up on my doorstep.
Police gave me their sympathies and words of condemnation regarding GW but
admitted there was little they could do but give him another warning. They advised
me to take out the injunction. In desperation I asked what he has to do to me before
they act. I told them he could physically attack, murder or snatch my babies. They
claimed to understand my anxiety but said their hands were tied and that it’s my
word against his.
Later, police informed me that Gareth insists he has been at home all night and that
his daughter is a witness. They then warned me that he is making counter
allegations against me and that he’ll be seeing his solicitor regarding his suffering of
police harassment as, according to him, I am constantly calling them out without due
cause. Words fail me.
NOVEMBER 4TH 1998
I spent ages on the phone to my solicitor. She advised me that we should first write
him a threatening letter as regards the injunction as we do not wish to “aggravate an
already inflamed situation.” She then informed me of the undesired consequences
that another female client suffered when she insisted on an immediate injunction.
Her ex started to camp in her garden. He also broke into her house and stole: light
fittings and power sockets. He wrote graffiti on her walls and his general tiresome
behaviour increased a thousand-fold. I asked about my chances of recovering my
stolen belongings. She told me she can ask for their return but knowing Gareth’s
unsavoury character, the outcome is bleak – he’ll just deny stealing anything.
I tossed and turned all night. My dreams were vivid and horrid. One was about him
gaining custody of my babies and that I was denied all access. I wasn’t even
allowed to talk to them on the phone. I dreamt that they grew up believing the
depraved lies of his and his family’s: that I didn’t love them, didn’t want them, that I
was mentally sick and that I was a nasty, wicked woman. I sat in the kitchen at 4.30
am sipping a cuppa and crying. What if it happened that way? What if the judge
believes him and not me? He gets away with crimes that I never would. It seems
he’s allowed to do anything he wants. No one can stop him. He’s the type who
would get away with murder….
NOVEMBER 5TH 1998
It’s the day a silly bugger called Fawkes plotted to blow up the Houses of Parliament
– actually, that’s not such a daft thing to do. Andrew and Shell trudged off to our
local park firework display. They went with a gang of pals – virtually the population
of our road. I stood with Jordan in the back yard admiring the fluorescent lights and
booming explosions of distant rockets. The kids returned at 9.00 pm to inform me
that GW’s car was parked up there. Well what a surprise! He had followed them
home [on foot] at a distance, despite the fact they were not alone. He’s an out and
out nutter. What on earth does he hope to gain by stalking a couple of kids?
Later the kids and I saw his car speed past numerous times.
My sleep was spasmodic. I had recurring nightmare – about GW grabbing my kids
and torturing them and leaving them for dead on wasteland.
NOVEMBER 7TH 1998
The kids and I accompanied dad and his mate Robin to their gliding club bonfire
party. I think he feels a bit sorry for me because I now have a non-existent social life
and I’m all on my tod. Actually I like it this way. I’m free. I’m not particularly
bothered about going out [I’m too tired anyway] and I have plenty to keep me
occupied and interested. The party was enjoyable; the drink was flowing, the hotpot
delicious and the kids stuffed their faces like it was the last supper. I had a couple of
glasses of dad’s potent home made wine and felt quite tipsy. We were given a tour of
the hangar and the intricacies on gliders and gliding. Andrew and Shell stoked the
bonfire and I engaged in small talk with club members. Dad couldn’t help passing
the remark to me later that his friends were a “different class of people.”
NOVEMBER 8TH 1998
Andrew had the job of emptying bins. He raced in announcing that there were
shreds of wire on my yard. I found my TV aerial slashed and my telephone wire
ripped out of its socket and lying in a mangled heap. A whole range of ripe,
unprintable obscenities spilled out…. “That unimaginable bar steward watched us
leaving the house last night. That contemptible creep must’ve seen you two getting
into Robin’s car and he’s deduced that I have a new boyfriend,” I spat.
Police were a fat lot of good. I was told Gareth can’t be charged with criminal
damage because there is no proof that he did it. I protested that it was obviously
him; that no one else has ever done such a thing. I asked if I’m supposed to just sit
back and watch him: ruin my home, threaten me and my kids and send me insane
with his pathetic games. I told them I have to stomach his death threats and his vile
threats to snatch my babies. I made it clear we are being stalked, watched and
intimidated and that I am appalled there is nothing the police can do; that there is no
protection. I then asked, “Supposing you actually catch him red-handed – you arrest
him – what then?” The answer was, “He’ll be kept in a cell overnight, then released
awaiting court. For a first offence he’ll just get a warning – this could happen a few
times. It’s no deterrent for someone like Gareth. He’s unlikely to get prison – or
even a fine.” I got the distinct impression that the only way to make GW back off
was to hire a hit man.
A cop told me stories of embittered blokes breaking into ex-girlfriends/wives houses
and stealing fittings, such as: boilers, radiators, pelmets, electrical appliances and
the like with the premise “they’re mine – I installed them.” Shockingly, courts do not
condemn such action. The cop allocated me an elaborate incident number, handed
me an intricate leaflet on domestic violence and the law and then treated me to
details of their “special crime prevention officer.” Christ, they wouldn’t need one of
those if the police service was effective. I announced that I didn’t give a fig for his
silly useless numbers and posh pamphlets. I told him the police should do less
paperwork, less chitchat and do more crimecombating. In all fairness, my beef is not
with the local bobbies – it’s with their chiefs [many of whom are corrupt and
incompetent] and the system which is in a shambles, doesn’t work, is a waste of time
and is a drain on the public purse.
Dad was furious at bonehead’s vandalism. He savagely declared his intention to
contact the “heavies.” I actually discouraged him because of the repercussions from
GW and the law. I know we’d never get away with such drastic action, that it is a
certainty that one or both of us would end up in prison and then that evil thug Gareth
will have won. We’d have played right into his grubby, unscrupulous hands.
I made an arrangement with my neighbour to come to our immediate aid if she hears
me trying to bulldoze our adjoining wall. I then nipped up to our local hardware shop
for TV aerial connectors. I also bought a basket that fits over the letterbox and lined
it with aluminium foil. That warped blob is capable of ANYTHING. What next? – A
brick through the window? – A petrol bomb through my letterbox? He’s getting his
revenge in more ways than one – he’s making me spend money I can ill-afford.
NOVEMBER 10TH 1998
My solicitor says keep a note of everything. She is hopeful that he’ll stop when he
gets the threat of an injunction. I’m a little sceptical.
Jordan ‘helped’ dry up this morning. Shell did most of the pots and he pottered
around the kitchen putting things away one by one. The whole operation took over
an hour and now I can’t find anything, but the good intentions were there. He does a
good job behaving like a vacuum cleaner though and painstakingly picks up spilled:
cornflakes, crusts and other bits off the floor and deposits them in the bin.
I find bringing up kids an awesome challenge but it is my greatest satisfaction. I’ve
had a good life. I’ve travelled and worked abroad, explored Australia, stayed in
youth hostels, had outdoor pursuit ventures, met many people…. but now that I’m a
parent I’m learning what life and love is really all about.
This afternoon Andrew and I saw two lads shinning up the drainpipes of the house
opposite me. They got in through the top windows. I don’t know who lives there.
I’ve seen various scruffy down and outs coming and going at all times of the day.
There have been naked women in the windows and some have fled the house in
distress. The neighbourhood kids say drug and gambling parties are held there, and
rumour has if that prostitution is ripe. I informed police but after a two-minute
investigation they told me all is above board. But I wasn’t convinced.
After tea I was busy scrubbing out our yoghurt pots and washing up bottles. I now
keep a range of household items: tubs, bottles, boxes, sticks, elastic bands etc as
they all come in useful for Andrew’s and Shell’s scientific experiments. They’ve
made a yoghurt-pot telephone, a burglar alarm, a guitar, electro-magnet….
During the evening, as I was practicing the keyboard, I heard footsteps on my drive.
I ventured out but found no one there. I tried to convince myself it was just kids as
some of them in this area cheekily run into anyone’s yard. My gate is now padlocked
and everything is kept locked away in the shed. After about an hour, I heard
knocking on the lounge window – not surprisingly I saw no one. After about another
hour, my doorbell rang, but when I enquired as to who was there…. I was met with
silence. I felt panic and despair.
At night I tossed and turned, searching for answers – but none were forthcoming.
NOVEMBER 11TH 1998
Shell struggled a bit this morning with her negative numbers, so I explained the
concept to her the same way that I did with Andrew. [Come to think of it he was
supposed to learn it at school but he learned bugger all there.] I told her to imagine
the kitchen table is zero, all the numbers above it are positive, starting at one and
getting bigger and higher until ten is say half way to the ceiling, twenty is at the
ceiling, one hundred is floating above the rooftop, one thousand is past the clouds,
one million is heading for the stars and so on. Then I told her all the numbers below
the table are the negative ones so that: negative one [-1] is just below the table,
negative ten [-10] is on the floor, negative thirty [-30] is below the floorboards and so
on. I’d then ask her what is, for example, two takeaway five. I’d tell her the two is
just above the table so she has to drop down two places on the table and then
another three places which makes the five places altogether and so she ends up just
below the table at negative three [-3]. She soon cottoned on. I made the point that to
add numbers, you count up and to subtract numbers, you count down. I then asked
her what negative five add ten is. She easily worked out the answer five.
Late this afternoon, the kids and I set our intruders some traps. I figured if I could
somehow surprise my persecutor[s] and cause him/her/them to alert me by making a
noise and then for me to have proof of his/her/their visit, then the police could make
the arrest. So we set to work balancing rocks on my walls and shed bound by
transparent fishing line. We re-painted my gate in black gloss and we dropped
dollops of muffin gloss intermittently in and around my yard. I figured the mess was
worth it if it meant catching it red-handed. I also chucked some stale bread near the
gate. Then we retreated to await action.
Sure enough at about 9.00 pm, the kids and I heard one rock come crashing down
immediately followed by another thud. I grabbed a torch and bolted out with Andrew
in hot pursuit. We saw GW’s daughter vaulting over the gate [she’s some athlete]
and we heard scrambling and banging on top of my neighbour’s shed – presumably
Gareth making a swift getaway. The kids and I hastily scanned my yard for tell-tale
signs and to our smug satisfaction found: squashed bread and a smear of muffin
coloured paint on top of the gate, a mixture of black and muffin footprints along my
drive and smudges of muffin paint on my wall, shed roof and next door’s shed roof.
Jubilantly I phoned police with my ‘evidence’ but was gob smacked when they told
me that they couldn’t race round to Gareth’s house demanding to examine his shoes
for wet paint as proof of his loitering. “We’d be told to get lost,” he informed me. In
disbelief and exasperation I enquired if they wanted me to invite my tormentors in for
coffee while they await arrest – just to make it all a little easier on the police. The cop
on the line almost convincingly stressed that they’d love to catch him on my property
and that in an ideal world he and others like him would be locked up by now. “Aw,
come on,” I protested, “this is really taking the p … now. If this is how you conduct
yourselves catching criminals, no wonder the country’s in the state it is. It’s not
surprising ‘hit men’ are becoming more prolific. Jo Public is driven to using them.
The ‘underworld’ is not so secretive these days – it is thriving and ruling and you lot
condone it and are probably controlled by it – I wouldn’t be surprised if some of your
influential superiors are members of it.”
Dad’s reaction was of incredulity too. He suggested we erect an electric fence in the
hope that a swift sharp shock might be the required deterrent. But he had second
thoughts when he realised that I’d end up being prosecuted if anyone gets hurt trying
to hurdle my wall [never mind the fact they shouldn’t be on my wall in the first place!]
There are some folk who get away with breaking the law and some who don’t.
Unfortunately I fall into the second category – always have done. I once remember
being fined and accumulating penalty points on my license at aged seventeen just
because I parked on the wrong side of the road after dark. I remember a policeman
coming to reprimand me. I told him he should be out there catching real criminals
instead of targeting easy prey like me. [He didn’t like that.]
NOVEMBER 12TH 1998
I try my best to speak to the kids politely. I try to give them a good calm positive
influence; but if I ask them to do something nicely, I sometimes get ignored so then I
have to drop two octaves and authoritatively insist they “get on with it.” Then they
do. I know it’s of the utmost importance to remain in firm control and not to
unwittingly entertain the kids by losing my rag, but this morning I couldn’t help it – I
just flipped. Andrew and Shell were driving me bananas with their constant nit
picking, so I let rip. I unleashed an outraged eruption of venom – much to their
victorious amusement and my annoyance. It didn’t get me the desired result but by
golly it made me feel a whole lot better. Jordan and Mel appreciated the drama too.
They stared at me wide-eyed and straight-faced during my fifteen minutes of
unabated onslaught then they broke into huge grins and whoops of hysteria. I
wondered if next door had been a beneficiary too. We are often in competition for
the “Who can yell the loudest at the kids” awards! Reckon I’m winning at the
moment.
This afternoon Andrew and Shell got stuck into their English. Andrew tackled
comprehension – where you read a short story and then answer the questions. Shell
wrote a story – about her desire for a pet dog. I’ve told her umpteen times that she
can have one when she’s old enough to look after it and support it financially. The
idea wasn’t so attractive to her after I’d finished harping on about the snags of dog-
ownership - that they can turn on and bite/scratch their owners, that you have to take
them to the vet for regular vaccines and treatment when they get ill – all at
substantial cost, that you have to walk, brush, bath and de-flea them regularly, that
they eat a lot, bark a lot and defecate a lot. I did agree though that it’d be nice to
have a guard dog, that’d warn me of approaching enemies and would send ‘em
packing.
I began to dream up the perfect protective pooch – that you didn’t have to: walk,
feed, clean up after etcetera. I visualised a computer-controlled, battery operated,
robodog. Wouldn’t it be great if there was such an animal; an artificial one that
looked and behaved like a real dog, that you could put in cuddly/lovable/no bite
mode for the benefit of babies and children, that you could order to growl, attack and
bite when hostile beings beckon and that you could leave to ‘work’ automatically
during your absence or when sleeping; all activated via a censor and which would be
sensitive to humans only – all at the touch of a button[s]?
GW’s car went past loads of time again, on and off all night. I also heard someone
wallop my flue again. I presume it was him. I didn’t give chase. I tried to convince
myself that if I ignored him he’d give up – some hope!
I eventually got to bed at my usual time – at about 2.00 am. I checked Melly as
usual [she sleeps in my room.] She was in deep, peaceful slumber. I touched her
forehead. She opened her eyes, gave me the most amazing smile and went back to
sleep. I melted. My heart is overflowing with so much love for all my children. I just
wished the world was a safer place for them all to grow up in.
My sleep was troubled [as always.] I wish I could relax – safe in the knowledge that
everything was going to be alright.
NOVEMBER 13TH 1998
I brushed Jordan’s teeth for the first time this morning after breccy. He loved it. I
keep a brush for him in the kitchen and one upstairs in the bathroom so that when I
do mine he can do his as he follows me virtually everywhere.
Popped down town for some sleep suits for Jordan and Melly. Jordan has the habit
of kicking off his blankets and now that the cold nights have drawn in, that’s a
problem. Trouble is they only do them for kids aged up to three – too small for
Jordan!
I bumped into my good pal and neighbour Linda outside Woolies. We had a lovely
long natter about: the world’s problems, life’s injustices, the scandal of government
corruption and double standards, our pathetic judicial system, how bad our road has
become, our personal problems and the trouble with men.
I only got a couple of blocks up the road and I ran into an old aikido practitioner
friend – Chris. We got yakking about his new car and the new three hundred pounds
stereo he had in it that got nicked. I felt gutted for him. But he announced with an
air of confidence and steely bitter-sweet revenge that it’s not a problem, he’s got it
back, has a new windscreen [at no cost to himself] and that the scumbags
responsible have been sorted. I enquired if that meant he’d hired a hit man. I was
right. He assured me it is the only sure-fire way to deal with “imbecile a-holes.” I
told him a bit about the intimidation and harassment that I was putting up with from
my vindictive ex. Chris quickly insisted that he could get all that sorted out for me in
no time at all, that he knows plenty of ‘heavies’ in Rhyl that would do the job and that
it’d only cost me thirty pounds. He told me all I have to do is give the order – just like
that – as simply and as casually as going to the loo. I said, “You do this often, don’t
you?” He said, “All the time; you have to these days cos if you don’t, you’re always a
victim. The police and courts don’t do anything – they’re useless.” I must admit the
temptation was overwhelming, but I hesitated. I feared a backlash. I had a gut
feeling I’d be arrested and charged with GBH [there’s no way I’d get away with any
violence whatsoever] and I couldn’t help worrying that this might be a set-up
because Chris once used to be a family friend of Gareth’s, as they live near one
another. So I declined the offer.
The evening passed pretty peacefully, thank heavens, until about 11.00 pm. As I
was checking that all was secure before bed, I decided to nip out with a torch for a
glance around and was shocked to come across wet blobs of blue paint on my wall.
That pot-bellied imbecile has been here again tonight – playing pee-brain games.
His gall holds no bounds. He could still be here for all I know. I really haven’t a clue
what to do. It seems he can just keep coming around intimidating, upsetting and
infuriating me whenever he pleases. I’ve heard that some men get sent to prison for
harassment of a much milder form.
I crept back in feeling pensive and agitated. I sat for a half hour with a cuppa, just
pondering – and shivering. I searched for a solution and then I searched some more
and some more…. Eventually I dragged myself to bed but first I checked out all the
rooms. I froze in shock horror when I came face to face with Andrew’s and Shell’s
clothes because their outfits were hanging up – complete with hats, gloves and
socks. For a second I thought he was in my house because that’s what he did with
my outfit once – only he’d laid my clothes out on my bed. Then I realised the kids
had been playing at ghosts. Feeling a little less spooked I went to bed. But not
before I’d checked that every little nook and cranny in the house was ‘normal’. I
tossed and turned all night. My throat was dry and I could feel a cold coming on.
NOVEMBER 14TH 1998
I decided to take the kids on an ‘educational’ outing so that when the LEA visit and
preach the importance of such, I’ll be ready with our ‘educational’ trip’s findings. We
visited the Marble Church in Bodelwyddan. I’d often marvelled at the splendour and
magnificence of the place in passing. Inside is just as grandiose. It is rich in marble
and fine carving but I couldn’t help thinking cynically about the ‘VIP’ family behind it
and that something sinister lurked in its history.
On reading the church’s pamphlet, it is clear that lady Margaret Willoughby de Broke
and her wealthy lawyer/Baronet family consider themselves to be at least of the
same importance as God himself in that she desired and implemented this church
“as a fitting memorial to her husband” the sixteenth Baron after his death in 1852.
The church contains too many references to this “important” Willoughby de Broke
family such that the idea of it being “God’s House” is a mockery and the family is
guilty of blasphemy. Lady Margaret “founded, erected and endowed the church at
her own expense in the devout hope that it might tend to the glory of God.” Bulldust!
– more like to the glory of her. At the Bodelwyddan Coat of Arms are the portraits of
Baron and Lady de Broke and on the pillars of red marble “if these are looked at
closely they will reveal the letters of Henry and Margaret de Broke, thus quietly but
indelibly impressing the memorial character for there is no tablet or other writing
stating specifically that it was built as a memorial.” Oh yawn; puke. So we’re all
supposed to be humbled and grateful to this lot? They’d have got more respect if
they’d shut up about their superiority and if their stamp wasn’t splattered everywhere.
Churches are built for the purpose of God only, not to boost the ego of some
supercilious nonentities. Around the base of the lectern is inscribed “to the glory of
God and the memory of Sir Hugh Williams. This is a very fine memorial to a worthy
man.” The font of Carrara marble depict two nieces of Lady de Broke. The pulpit
was a gift of Lady Margaret’s two sisters “who were very generous in their interest
and support of the new church” and the font represents two sisters, children of Sir
Hugh Williams. All this smacks of ugly conceit. A beggar off the street is more
worthy of God’s grace than this contemptible titled bunch. At least the beggar is
unpretentious. Titles do not make people great.
What alarms me and arouses my curiosity the most is the eighty three unmarked
Canadian graves. Apparently there were rumours that Canadian soldiers had been
court-martialled and shot for mutiny following riots. However a Mr Kent QC dispelled
the rumours. He “undertook months of research to clear the memory of those
soldiers who died while stationed at Kinmel Camp.” Apparently Mr Kent was
“shocked to hear a tour guide say the graves contained the bodies of eighty three
Canadian soldiers sentenced to death after rioting in their camp.” The blurb
continues to list various defence departments and war graves commissions etc that
Mr Kent used in his quest to uncover the “truth.” He concludes: “the results of the
investigation confirmed that there was no truth in the original rumour.” Mr Kent
explains how the rumour started: a staging camp was established for soldiers
awaiting return home to Canada after the 1918 armistice. A fight broke out among
men restless from repeated sailing delays. In the disturbance five soldiers died.
Courts martial were held and detentions ordered. Mr Kent claims that of the
eightythree Canadians buried in the churchyard, some died from injuries received in
the fracas and the rest died of natural causes – pneumonia and flu. I can’t help
thinking that a cover-up has been staged. Mr Kent’s “proof” to dispel rumours is very
vague. The soldiers were obviously treated unnecessarily abysmally in the camp for
them to riot. I wonder what the soldiers’ families think about the whole affair. I’m
inclined to believe the shocking rumour. If it is true the facts will emerge in due
course – it is a certainty.
In the evening I got absorbed in The Express. There was a passage about how
proud the police and government are because “recorded crime is down.” What a
ruddy joke. The glaring atrocious fact is people don’t bother reporting crime because
the police and other ‘authority’ bodies are useless. Crime is on the increase and it is
being allowed to flourish. These days murder barely gets a mention in the press – it
is such a common occurrence.
NOVEMBER 15TH 1998
Andrew and Shell decided to make some cakes. I cleared off out of the kitchen and
let them get on with it. Fair dos the sponges were delicious. The kids were narked
about having to clean up their mess tho!
This afternoon I got my feet up the The Mail. I read with horror a piece about a
seventynine year old woman who had been gang raped in her home, beaten and left
in a pool of blood to die and robbed of her life savings. Police are questioning five
youths. Such news makes me and millions like me sick to the pit of my stomach.
There is no excuse for such evil. Police should be given the authority to clip thugs
around the ear when they are kids and gangs should be split up. My neighbourhood
is getting really bad. Yobs congregate off nearby roads and unleash fear and
mayhem on ‘vulnerable’ members of society. These days it is hard to find many
good kids – many are bullied themselves into becoming naughty, some just don’t
know right from wrong. Most go with the crowd – good or evil simply because it is
safety in numbers. Shell once had a pal [when she was six] who led her into
climbing on roof tops and playing ‘knock-a-door run’. This progressed into stealing
from my purse and being cheeky. I soon put an end to that friendship.
The problem is that gangs of kids – from three years up to teenagers, start by doing
daring things to show off, such as running into peoples’ drives, kicking balls at
windows and chucking stones at houses. These youngsters soon realise that they’re
getting away with such behaviour so they get more cocky. They run in houses and
nick things and they chuck rocks at people. Then they boast to your face, “You can’t
touch me; you’ll be done for child abuse; the police are on our side.” I know because
it’s happened to me and they are right – the police don’t do anything. I once took a
football off some louts because they kept kicking it at my window, but the fuzz
ordered me to give it back! Police didn’t care that myself and other unassuming
residents on my road were sick and tired of this lot. Two of my friends and
neighbours have suffered smashed windows and one has been terrorised out of this
area. Blaring music is another headache. We have to tolerate it from nearby
residents and posers in cars. It’s alright saying move troublemakers to a new area;
that’s just shifting the problem. It’s no good even moving yourself to a better area
and crime-proofing your house – crime follows you around – in the streets, in shops,
into different areas. The problem has to be dealt with firmly by our authorities. It is
their duty. It is these pint-sized terrors that grow up into muggers, thieves, junkies,
drug-dealers, rapists, murderers, terrorists….
The lady next door to me won’t allow her eight-year old child outside, even in their
back yard because of street violence. Nearby elderly residents have put up with
teenage scum peeing in their gardens and some have suffered repeated breakins
and robbery. We all have to tolerate the foul-mouthed filth that roam our streets.
We ordinary, decent, hardworking, law-abiding folk have the right to expect a fair and
safe environment to live and for our children to grow up in. If the government,
judges, supremos won’t do their jobs, there is a good case for saying that we have
the right to adopt riotous/terrorist behaviour. We have the right to defend ourselves,
our children and our possessions. We good people live by the rules; we expect
everyone else to. The trouble is, there is no law, only them and us. At the end of the
day it is good versus evil. Evil will be overthrown though. Don’t think it can’t happen
– it will. Good folk will revolt. Right now we have an evil underworld that rules. Our
government is scared of the IRA. It should be scared of its own army and scared of
its citizens. We’ve tolerated corruption, injustice and incompetence, all at the
highest levels for far too long. It’s good folk fight back time. We’ve put up with the
cowardly deceitful evil in charge, now we’re gonna have the good honest
courageous folk rule. No more jelly-baby politicians, no more interfering damaging
social workers, no more incompetent spineless police chiefs, no more pathetic
pompous judges. No more corrupt bars … turds in control anymore – ever. Here’s
to RIGHTEOUSNESS.
NOVEMBER 16TH 1998
Melly awoke at midnight and worked herself up into a right old lather. I got her up
and she suckled. I cuddled her and slumped in front of the late night murder, mystery
movie. Mel lay contented in my arms. Occasionally she’d fix her gorgeous, big eyes
on me and give me one of her heart-melting smiles or she’d turn towards the TV and
focus on the film. Her body was so warm, soft, relaxed…. Perfect. For over two
hours we remained snuggled up together and so in love with each other.
NOVEMBER 17TH 1998
The kids and I spent the best part of the day and night scanning home-recorded
videotapes and reminiscing. They go back to when Andrew and Shell were babies
and we lived in Australia. Many of the tapes cover family holidays and celebrations
so mum features on a lot. The last one recorded shows Jordan as a newborn and
mum very sick with cancer and just three months from her death. I felt quite choked
watching her rocking Jordan. I remember she’d quickly handed him back to me so
that she could steady herself. Not long after, she took another fall. Mum lived for
her family – especially her kids and grandkids.
She was a very good mum and in many respects a good role model for me. She
always had her nose in psychology books and family health magazines and she
knew the value of firm discipline. Despite the fact that she and dad were constantly
at each other’s throats, [they spent a lifetime accusing each other of having
psychosomatic disorders] when it came to reprimanding us kids they always
presented a united front. Mum always had the luxury back up of “wait ‘til your father
gets home” if we misbehaved. It always worked. Before she got ill we had lots of
close chats and she’d give me oodles of tips when it came to raising Andrew and
Shell. She’d say that you have to be confident when dealing with kids – no half
measures. She’d tell me that if I allow my kids to be rude to me, or worse if I allow
them to continue being cheeky while I scold them, then I’m not being definite enough
– I’m showing them I’m unsure. Sometimes when Andrew or Shell misbehaved,
mum would calmly pull me aside and say, “Don’t yell or smack; that won’t change
them, simply tell them clearly how they should behave – and mean it. Don’t allow
them to manipulate you. Be fair but never give in.” There’s nothing like the
experience and wisdom of good ol mum. Yes, I miss her and so do the kids. No one
can replace one’s mum especially if one is lucky enough to have [or have had] a
good un.
That bozo has been at it again. Gareth is still driving down my road – continuously.
I feel hopeful that he isn’t going to hurt any of us – he’d have done it by now. But I
still don’t trust him. He might just kick off one day if he has had one too many and
then do something really stupid.
NOVEMBER 18TH 1998
It’s my birthday. I’m thirtyseven but I feel more like fiftyseven. They say life begins
at forty. I sure hope so because mine couldn’t get any more pathetic. The only
person who remembered me was my aunty Marge [mum’s sister.] She dropped by
with a card and some bath smellies. Marge is one of those who never forgets
anyone’s birthday. If I had my way I’d scrap birthdays…. And Christmas…. And
Easter…. And valentine’s day…. And…. I can’t be doing with any of it. It’s all so
commercialised, habitual and insincere.
Andrew and Shell made their own card for me – complete with touching mushy
message. They announced that they couldn’t buy me a pressie but asked if there
was anything they could do for me. I was just about to list the: tea, dusting, washing,
ironing…. when Andrew piped up that he knew what would please me – a constant
stream of cuppas. He was right too. Where would I be without the kids?
NOVEMBER 19TH 1998
Andrew and Shell made a simple electro-magnet. They got the idea from their
MORE FUN WITH SCIENCE book. They nicked some of my fuse wire, a nine-volt
battery and some paper clips and they bought a packet of assorted iron nails – some
of which were five inches long. They attached one end of the wire to a battery
terminal then they coiled the middle of the wire around the nail quite a few times and
the other end of the wire was then connected to the other battery terminal. They
found that the nail was then able to pick up a paper clip. They discovered that while
electricity flowed through the coiled wire, the nail becomes a magnet. With
experimentation they found that more coils produced a stronger magnetic force.
The kids went roller-blading outside our house after tea. After about half an hour
they came in to report that Gareth had driven past slowly and that he’d stared at
them but hadn’t said anything. I ordered them to stay on their own driveway and not
to venture out on to the pavement with the accursed out there lurking in the vicinity.
NOVEMBER 20TH 1998
I was in surprisingly good mood and found myself singing along with the radio and
dancing. Andrew and Shell were bemused and made a swift exit but the babies
loved it. I picked Mel up, held her close and whirled her around the kitchen. She
shrieked with glee, so I mimicked her and shrieked back. She then chuckled, so I
copied. Then she went “aaah,” so I followed suit. I even imitated her excitable
erratic breathing. She worked herself up into such a frenzy that her arms and legs
began flailing spasmodically. It all ended when she enthusiastically planted a
clenched fist smack on my nose.
Not to be outdone, Jordan insisted on his ten minutes of manic merriment. He was
whisked around the kitchen and, with full sideeffects, became an aeroplane, a rocket
and a motorcar. He chortled and chuckled hysterically until I collapsed in a mangled
mess, exhausted, disorientated and dizzy.
In the evening I watched a TV documentary about widespread child abuse in
children’s homes across North Wales. Senior members of staff and those
responsible for running the homes were guilty. Despite all the alarming evidence,
officials blatantly refused to acknowledge such crimes and an astonishing elaborate
cover-up was staged. Now I’m even more sceptical of public service chiefs.
NOVEMBER 21ST 1998
This morning I read a fascinating article about what you should expect from your
baby/child at various ages in a Practical Parenting mag. It says that at nine months
to one year babies shouldn’t think it ok to pull mum’s hair or slap someone; at one to
two years, toddlers shouldn’t be allowed to wilfully break things or deliberately make
a mess; at two years they should put at least some of their toys away; at three they
should have their own simple chores, such as putting dishes away and emptying
waste bins. Jordan makes a mess – every mealtime. Most of it is deliberate. He
knows how to use a spoon but he always insists on plunging his fat fists into his bowl
and stuffing huge handfuls. All his food then gets deposited: on the table, down the
side of his bowl, all over him, [including his hair] on the chair, wall, floor…. I’ve
considered giving him a bucket…. I’m not going to be heavy handed on him though –
yet.
This afternoon I had the unfortunate experience of catching our proud PM on a news
bulletin, waffling on about something. His predictable mannerisms and smug
expression caught my curiosity and I wondered who he reminded me of. Then it
dawned on me – my brother. A bit later another showman popped up on the set to
perform. President pants down Clinton was banging on about “that Lewinsky
woman.” Oh gawd. I hope Monica makes mincemeat of him.
Pud had me in peals of laughter. While practicing for formula one, he dropped his
little dinky car and with ultra seriousness, uttered “tut” as he slowly and meticulously
bent over to retrieve it. He continued with his all-consuming, single-minded
assignment until the thing sped past my feet and skidded under the cooker. This
little blue-eyed fair-skinned chap with curly blonde locks stood and stared in shock.
In total disbelief he murmured, “Oh.” I slithered up to him, draped a consoling arm
around his waist and explained that his car had gone now but not to worry, that he
had plenty more just like it. I asked if we should choose another one now. He
focussed his concentrated gaze on my face and solemnly said, “Ok.”
I saw a programme on anorexia this evening. It was quite an eye-opener. I hadn’t
realised that victims had such inner turmoil and that they battled constantly with
themselves. During my teen years I was so chubby that I once wished I was
anorexic. Fat chance of that! I’ve always loved my food too much. I can’t seem to
keep myself at a nice size ten/twelve for very long. The pounds always have a habit
of creeping back. Yet some people [my ex-husband is one] can eat and drink
anything they like in copious quantity and not gain one miserable dollop of unwanted
flesh. Such individuals aren’t even particularly active either. It’s just not fair.
NOVEMBER 22ND 1998
This morning, Melly greeted me with her usual ecstatic enthusiasm. It’s as if
someone told her the night before that I’d gone away or something, never to be seen
again.
The kids took off on their own for a traipse around the car boot sale. They returned
laden with: Christmas tree lights, three different sized torches [complete with working
batteries], a radio, cassette recorder, circuit board, wires, tools consisting of –
screwdrivers, spanners, a hammer, pliers and the like. Oh and another set of
batteries. They say most of their purchase will be useful for their scientific
experiments. Andrew plugged the lights in and asked if I was shocked that they
worked. I told him I’d be more shocked if he carted himself upstairs and cleaned up
the hovel that he calls a bedroom. I then gave them yet another stern warning about
the dangers of electricity – that they are not allowed, under any circumstances, to
experiment with anything using the mains electricity from the wall socket and that
they must also take great care with the batteries, as fires can start so easily.
After tea, I plucked Jordan from his highchair, stood him up and we went through our
evening ritual. In anticipation of the next move, he flung his arms around my neck
and babbled, “Rehhh-steh,” which means “ready steady.” He then gets to ‘fly’
around the kitchen with me yelling “super boy” and him having convulsions. I find
that if I give the babies their special time each of just a few minutes here and there
throughout the day, they are happy, contented and…. pliable. I also feel a glowing
immense joy when we spontaneously fool about, usually at changing, feeding, bath
and bed times.
NOVEMBER 23RD 1998
I eavesdropped into a radio discussion on self-mutilation and heard disturbing stories
from exceedingly sad souls who: slash their wrists and arms with glass and razor
blades, burn themselves all over with cigarettes, stab themselves with sharp objects,
starve themselves, head-butt…. And all because they are feeling powerless and
frustrated. Most have suffered some form of abuse – usually childhood. Many are
crying out for help and attention. All feel worthless.
I was just about to breathe a sigh of relief, thankful that I didn’t come into this
category of wretched creatures, until the ‘expert’ on the programme brought up the
business of nail-biting, which they say is another form of self-mutilation. Apparently
if you bite your nails, you’ve probably suffered a traumatic childhood. Well, that must
be me – and millions of others. I started nailbiting at the age of six or seven – about
the time I was forced by my mum to give up thumbsucking. But I was never abused
as a child; quite the opposite, I had a very happy childhood. I don’t bite them just at
times of stress; I think I do it because it’s a life-long habit that is hard to break.
Sometimes I can go for weeks without bothering with them and they get to grow
quite long but then I’ll subconsciously find myself nibbling at them for no particular
reason.
The kids passed a remark this evening that I’m always in a good mood at night and
crabby in the mornings. I informed them that’s because “I have to tell you a
thousand times to: get up, get dressed, brush your hair, get breccy, wash up, brush
your teeth, tidy your rooms, drop your undies in the wash basket….”. I’ve always
maintained that women who constantly harp on have uncooperative families.
NOVEMBER 24TH 1998
I found a novel way today of getting the kids to practice their times-tables in a fun
way and which involves Jordan. We are all allocated ten or so objects – pens or
pennies or whatever. We all sit in a circle and pass a ball. But on the five, the ball
starts to travel in the opposite direction until it comes to seven in which case it
reverses direction again. This continues with the direction changing every time the
ball lands on a number, which has a five or seven or both in it, or is a multiple of the
same. If anyone makes a mistake he/she forfeits one of his/her objects. The game
is in force until someone loses all of his/her items. The loser then has to perform a
job that everyone hates – like ironing or vacuuming. Any number can be used in the
game. Jordan gets to play pass the ball [no one expects him to know his tables yet
tho] and the kids enjoy a light-hearted way of learning their tables which is better
than the boring method of learning by rote.
Shell and I take it in turns to read a couple of pages of Jordan’s book to him just
before he goes to bed. At the moment he’s enjoying Gulliver’s Travels. Long after
we’ve left his room though and just before he drops off, he quite often whinges. It’s
as if he has a kind of hump to negotiate just before he succumbs to slumber. No
such self-perpetrated drama for Mel – she just nods off on my boob.
NOVEMBER 26TH 1998
The kids and I watched Science for Schools. It was about insects and in particular,
locusts. It brought back memories of my Saturdays and bank holidays when I was
twelve until I left school, of working with locusts. It was a filthy, smelly job but I didn’t
mind it in the winter - I preferred to be in the warmth of the locust room than in the
freezing top floor flat that we lived in as kids….
Jordan found Shell’s hairbrush and proceeded to groom himself. Flush with
success, he popped the brush in his mouth. I leaped of the chair and darted towards
him in panic, thinking that he might trip up and send the brush down his throat. I
hastily snatched it from him. His whole world came tumbling down. You’d think he’d
just been told his whole family had been wiped out or something. He just stood
rooted to the spot and howled incessantly. I hugged him and tried to explain that I
didn’t mean to be so abrupt but that I was worried he’d get hurt. But he was
inconsolable. Nothing I did would ease his pain until I grabbed his truck and shoved
it up his jumper. That did the trick. He began to chuckle. We then spent ten
minutes or so playing a game of ‘hide-a-truck’. But soon it was bedtime, however he
didn’t think so. So I picked him up and hauled him off, at which point he promptly
turned himself into a plank. In response, and much to his amusement, I turned him
upside down and carted him off to his cot by his ankles. In his bedroom he became
Po and we pranced around his room singing the teletubby tune.
NOVEMBER 27TH 1998
Melissa chucked up all over me, herself, the couch and cushions. I don’t know what
brought it on. She didn’t seem unwell before or after she’d vomited. I sighed at all
the washing but cheered myself up, telling myself that the cushions needed doing
anyway and that the couch was due for a good clean. I wondered how women
coped years ago when washing machines hadn’t been invented and eight or more
children were the norm.
Andy and Shell were real little blighters today. It was their day off yet they couldn’t
find anything to do. They moaned about the rain, they fought over the TV and with
each other and they complained of boredom and found fault with their food and my
ideas and my requests for peace and quiet. I was ignored. Paper planes of varying
sizes began to zoom in defiance around me. In the end I snapped and ordered the
kids to find something to do – pronto, or I’d find something for them, and they
wouldn’t like it. I give them all buckets of love and consideration; I expect respect
back. I know I should’ve stepped in earlier with some firm, stern intervention as left
to their own devices all kids eventually turn into little horrors. I’m gradually learning
that in order to keep kids on the straight and narrow, they need to be guided lovingly,
firmly, fairly and clearly and with a bit of luck and a lot of God’s good grace, they’ll
turn out happy, confident, likeable, lovable and successful.
NOVEMBER 28TH 1998
The kids went roller blading on the drive after tea. After only a short while though
they bolted back in to tell me that Gareth had driven up, beckoned and said, “Tell
your mum I need to talk to her – urgently.” I was livid. He has no right coming here
bothering my kids with his stupid little messages. But then he has no right doing all
the lousy lies, harassment, victimisation and other criminal offences that he is guilty
of. Not that what’s right ever comes into it with him. He has no respect for authority
or the law; and the powers that be have zilch control over him. He is a law unto
himself and smug with it. He drove off like a maniac when I ventured out.
Unfortunately, now, and much to their dismay, I’ve banned Andrew and Shell from
playing out, even on the driveway. It’s much too risky.
NOVEMBER 30TH 1998
Gareth sent one of his henchmen around to see me – again. This time it was a
benefits agency official accusing me of social security fraud. The allegation is that I
lived with him whilst claiming income support as a single mother. For crying out
loud, why oh why do these people insist on badgering innocent, easy prey? I
explained that I had a three-year on/off relationship with Gareth and that we did
spend some time at each other’s houses and that my children did attend a school
near Gareth’s house at one stage temporarily. I told him that there were a variety of
reasons: extensive renovations of my house, the births of my babies, my mum being
terminally ill, my children being stalked by their father, problems of bullying at
Andrew’s old school and because the tiny sixteen-pupil school near Gareth’s was an
attractive option. I also told him that Gareth is making these accusations out of
sheer vindictive spite, that he’s an incessant liar and that it is his stated objective
now to cause us grief in any way possible. The official offered his sympathies,
apologised and made an exit; at which point I casually informed him that since
Gareth is in receipt of incapacity benefit due to damaged knees, it might be an idea if
a social security agent paid him a visit to inquire about his ability to vault over gates
and walls, scramble over rooftops, run, squat and pass a fitness test enabling him to
become a Special Constable.
I don’t know what was up with Mel tonight. She howled virtually all night. After the
umpteenth time of tending to her and finding nothing obviously wrong, I eventually
[and rather obediently] took her into my bed. As she suckled I told her in no
uncertain terms that she can cry her head off all day tomorrow if she wants but that
she’d better sleep when it comes to night-time. She didn’t listen though. She just
looked up at me and yawned. To my utter horror I lapsed into deep slumber with her
at my side and didn’t awaken until two hours later. We were both in the same
position. I was grief-stricken. What if I’d rolled on top of her? What if she’d rolled
out of bed? What if the quilt had smothered her? What if? What if? What if? Oh
God. I vowed never again to take her to my bed.
DECEMBER
DECEMBER 1ST 1998
Mandy dropped in on me this morning. She’s full of beans because she’s now dating
someone who’s ‘really nice’. I’m happy for her. Deep down I’m a little envious.
Despite my resolute ‘front’, I’d really love one day to find my ‘soul mate’ – if he exists!
But right now I don’t have the time, energy or desire to meet someone and anyway
I’m scared stiff of blokes. Sometimes I look at couples and think that they’re lucky
because they seem so ‘together’ and then I remember that Gareth and I used to
stroll down the streets in just the same way – hand in hand and all lovey dovey. I
gaze beyond the façade and wonder how many couples are in denial, leading
tormented lives behind closed doors. I’d love to be a fly on the wall in some people’s
houses!
This afternoon the kids and I were busy making an ear trumpet as part of our study
of sound. We found that our paper cone served two purposes: when we spoke into
the narrow end our voices were amplified and when the narrow end was placed into
the ear we discovered that sounds became louder. We found out that this was
because, in the second case, the trumpet collects sounds and directs them into the
ear and in the first case, the sound energy from us was more concentrated because
sound wasn’t being lost so quickly.
During our experiment, we noticed some shifty looking characters shinning up the
drainpipes of the dwelling opposite. One by one all eight of them scrambled up and
clambered through an upstairs window. Seconds later one of them emerged
clutching a wad of ten-pound notes in his fist. Suspicions compounded, Shell alerted
police with a very impressive and detailed account of the dubious goings on just
witnessed. Police duly arrived and made their ‘investigations’ but, and just as
before, insisted that the incident was innocent and that nothing improper was going
on. Bewildered, I reiterated our observations and pointed out that since rumour is
ripe regarding drug abuse at that house, the youths must be dealing the stuff. But
police weren’t interested, made their excuses and left, leaving me in a state of
confusion and shock. They’d had such a complacent dismissive and aloof attitude
that was just beyond comprehension. It was obvious they just wanted an easy life. I
questioned the purpose of our police force. Were they a tourist attraction? - A body
of society in limbo? - A theatrical organisation? - A crime enhancer?
DECEMBER 2ND 1998
I received a letter this morning from his lordship’s solicitor threatening legal action
against me! My crime? Harassment of him by me via police! Oh that’s just ruddy
typical innit? I know for a fact that if the boot was on the other foot and I’d been
doing to Gareth and his family what he’s done unto us, I’d have been arrested long
ago, lobbed into some form of penal institution or asylum, and consigned to oblivion.
It’s still a man’s world alright; of that I am convinced.
In the evening I let the kids roller blade just outside our house while I cast my beady
eye on them from the living room window. After a while I bimbled out to beckon
them in, just at the same time as my neighbour was hailing her’s. We exchanged
niceties for ten minutes or so then both of us stood dumb like goldfish as he drove
past us. Bold as you like, he wound his window down and in a sickeningly sweet
tone asked after my health. It was mindless provocation. I did not respond, partly
because I was stunned into silence and also because I wasn’t going to give the
crank the satisfaction. Eventually my neighbour passed a comment on his gall.
Then he did it again. He pulled up to inform me that it was “cold out tonight,”
chillingly followed by “I’ll be back later to collect my babies – you’ll never see them
again.” I made a hasty retreat. Cowering behind the front door I dreaded his next
move. We had no protection. The police had proved themselves to be totally
useless and we now existed on God’s good humour. For the record I diarised the
episode and the kids bravely announced that they’d keep vigil from the upstairs
bedroom.
The rest of the evening passed without further ado, thank heavens, but I suffered
another sleepless night. My mind raced with the same unanswered questions –
when’s he going to stop tormenting us? What can I do to make him stop? Will we
ever be able to relax again – safe in the knowledge that he won’t hurt us? What if I
get ill with stress – who will look after my children then? Will there ever be light at
the end of the tunnel?
DECEMBER 3RD 1998
I unloaded some of my problems on the phone to dad this morning. He too was
incensed at that pot-bellied pillack’s antics, but agreed that short of confronting him
with a baseball bat and sledgehammer [or paying someone else to do the dirty deed]
there was sweet nothing we could do about him. He hoped the justice system would
eventually bring relief and decided that it was about time he sued the slug to try and
recoup some of his two and a half grand.
Andrew and Shelly announced that they no longer fear Gareth, that his bullying has
gone on long enough and that they are now declaring all-out war against him as of
today. On querying what they had in mind and if they had a plan of attack, I learned
that they’d spy from the bedroom windows at various times throughout the evening
and if Gareth was spotted lurking in our back yard then they would fire arrows at him.
But they wouldn’t use the flimsy plastic toy variety that leaps pathetically off its bow,
they’d be making their own precision-aimed lethal weapon – a long bamboo stick
with a nail fixed to one end. Oh and they’d also catapult stones at him – just for
good measure. I was horrified and although I admired their fighting spirit and
chivalrous intentions, I worried about them using illegal, dangerous and offensive
weapons. They did have a point tho when they remarked that Gareth did not obey
the law, that he has inflicted physical harm on all of us and that he continues to
hound us, make evil threats and terrorize. Also, that police are scandalously
inadequate, that I have a right to protect my property and family and that there are
no other options available to us short of surrender or suicide. Their argument had
substance. Why should we have to put up with being prisoners in our own home?
And why do we have to suffer because that worm has a license to do to us whatever
he pleases? I swiftly gave my kids’ idea my support. In fact I was so proud of them,
that they had such spunk, that I found myself grinning like a Cheshire cat.
DECEMBER 4TH 1998
The annual epistle of glad tidings looms menacingly towards us. I decided to write
out my obligatory messages of goodwill. But just as I was about to connect pen with
crimbo card, I pondered the consequences of not sending any…. not one chrissy
card out. After all I didn’t enjoy scrawling those silly festive notes. I positively
loathed the job. What’s the point in buying loads of daft cards with santas and other
convivial characters leering from the forefront and sending greetings of goodwill to
people I rarely, if ever, see, let alone give a fig for? Is it to symbolize one’s
popularity? Might as well buy a box and send the contents to myself – with various
transcribes of love and wit from fictitious friends, family and…. Or stick last year’s
collection back up! I used to worry in case I’d forgotten someone. I’d panic when I
couldn’t find someone’s address or when I wasn’t sure of their children’s names or in
fact how many kids they had now! I used to get annoyed when I received a card
from an unexpected source…. because it was too late to send one back. But not
any more. Triviality and cumbersomeness no longer exist in my little world. This is a
bold new me.
The way I see it Christmas is a pretty damned miserable time anyway. It’s a time for
indulgence and for being ill and hung-over, for being conned and broke, for family
tensions and divorce proceedings, for suffering at the hands of excessive revellers
and for pretending…. So I did the most extraordinary thing. I actually dared to flout
tradition! I did not send out one Christmas card – not one. And what an immense
feeling of power I felt. The buzz was exhilarating. I did however fear an almighty
backlash from the kids, but I needn’t have. They didn’t care much for Christmas
cards either – considered them a waste of time and money. But they did care about
the tree going up and the Christmas decorations and having some good grub – not
turkey and Christmas pud, but chocolates and biscuits and log!
The evening passed quite peacefully. Andrew and Shell spied sporadically from
their bedroom windows. They reported that he had driven past half a dozen times or
so but that’s all.
DECEMBER 5TH 1998
Jordan threw a king-sized wobbly this morning. I’d planned a visit to the market and
was racing to accomplish the trip before the weather changed – high winds and rain
were forecast. But Jordan had other ideas. He was busy organising the teddy bear’s
tea party. And that was one hell of an undertaking. After the zillionth time of yelling
him, I impatiently took hold of his hand and insisted that we have to go NOW. Well
that was it! All hell broke loose. He took in a mega-lungful of air and let out a neverending continuous mega-shrill, at the same time as collapsing on the floor to roll and
lash about in blind fury. Such passion was incredible! I’d never seen anything like it.
He was like a child possessed. He was inconsolable and I felt dumbstruck and
horror-stricken. I tried to restrain him but he just howled and thrashed all the more.
So I walked away and left him to it. Then the little horror shut up. I glanced at him to
find him sneaking a peek at me! I then walked back to him but he again erupted in
fury. So I walked out of the room, slumped onto the floor and sobbed my heart out.
My mind was racing. Was this the start of some disturbing, damaging behaviour?
How was I going to manage this problem? I don’t remember Andy and Shell ever
getting that worked up. What have I done to make him so angry and frustrated?
He’s troubled…. Why? What if he does it outside? I’ll be reported. Oh God. Oh
no…. No…. No…. Next minute, in toddled a little blonde chap all meek and mild, with
tears streaming down his face, red cheeks, quivering lips, snotty nose and a pitiful
“m m m mmmm” whimper. He stretched his arms out to me and looked down. I
pulled him to me, cuddled him close and we snivelled together; him with his wet nose
and face buried in my neck and me with tears dribbling into his hair. After a few
minutes we were both fine and all was forgotten. We didn’t get to the market tho!
This afternoon I told the kids they could read up on anything they wanted – as long
as it was from the science encyclopaedia. Andrew began to study the planets, which
led us all to discussing their sizes and distances from the sun. Shell asked how fast
we whizz around that big ball of fire. I told her I hadn’t got a clue but that we could
try to work it out. This led to us having an impromptu maths lesson on circles and pi.
In the evening the kids went on guard duty upstairs and reported back that
everything was as it should be; that we’d had no visitors.
DECEMBER 8TH 1998
The vigilantes were at work. At about 9.00 pm Andy virtually flew down the stairs
with Shell in hot pursuit. They were so full of themselves that they were almost
incoherent, but the gist of their euphoria was victory. Revenge was so sweet and
satisfying and they’d had a glorious taste of it tonight. Before they revealed the gory
details, I tested the authenticity. I heard their account of the drama separately so
that I could compare each version. I was astonished to find that their stories
matched completely. They’d spied from Jordan’s room. Gareth had appeared from
over the wall. He’d tiptoed up to my kitchen window, pressed his nose against the
glass pane, cupped his hands by his eyes to aid his vision and had stood peeping for
a few seconds. Andrew had held his breath, taken aim and fired his ‘spear’. The
missile had struck Gareth in the ribs momentarily before dropping onto the floor. The
snooper let out a startled anguished cry, looked up at the window to see two kids
splitting their sides. He’d clutched his wound and fled. Andrew said the look of
shock and agony on Gareth’s face made him feel like all his Christmases had come
at once. Shell said she felt “on top of the world.” I was gob smacked, exuberant and
anxious all in one. For a second I wondered if such resourceful kids were mine!
Maybe this tactic would work. I actually began to feel relief and optimism; and it was
all because of my little soldiers.
DECEMBER 9TH 1998
Dad gave a bit of a chuckle when he learned of his grandchildren’s aggression and
he agreed that the only way to deal with Gareth’s type is to fight fire with fire.
This afternoon Andy and Shell got stuck into their maths books. Shell seemed
determined to give incomplete answers – she’d forget to put pounds or metres or
whatever it was and I had to repeatedly prompt her with: ten what? Bananas?
Penguins? What? She also had some trouble remembering what a cylinder looked
like so I told her to think of toilet rolls.
This evening the kids set ‘traps’ out. They tied fishing line onto rocks, which
balanced precariously at various points dotted around the yard. They also resumed
nightly guard duty.
DECEMBER 10TH 1998
I bumped into my old school pal this morning while trying to dodge the throng of
Christmas shoppers. Karen is one of those rare breeds who has been happily
married for eighteen years. I know because I was her chief bridesmaid and I got her
and her hubby Duncan together. They have three boys. She patiently listened to my
‘anti-men’ chit chat – my belief that virtually all men have hang ups, that they’ve been
abused as children and that their mothers did a bad job of raising them! Then we
moved on to the topic of kids. I told her that I was so pleased that Jordan no longer
bangs his head and that he sleeps contentedly through the night. I passed a remark
that I should’ve left that b…. steward ages ago. Karen said that she’d heard that it is
quite common for young children to head bang when a new baby brother or sister
comes on the scene. I told her that the H/V had told me the same thing and that the
advice is to give the older child a bit more attention and they soon grow out of it.
Since Jordy no longer head bangs I’m pretty sure that his behaviour had a lot to do
with Gareth, or maybe pud was just picking up on the tensions between us. Jordy
seems ok now though. Thank God.
The kids repeated last night’s routine – but all was quiet in the back yard.
DECEMBER 11TH 1998
Dad dropped in this morning with some cake for the kids. It had been sent from his
girlfriend. There was also an invitation for the kids to accompany them to a
Christmas panto. This all seemed a touch ‘heavy’ to me. I asked dad if he had
‘serious’ intentions with this woman. His reply? “Good God, no.” “In that case,” I
informed him, “I’m not particularly fussed at playing ‘happy families’ – count us out. I
can’t be doing with any more complications.” “Fair point,” came the reply.
This evening the traps were set and the kids were busy at work. At about 10.00 pm
[ish], Shell’s bedroom erupted in exaltation. Apparently Shell had scored a direct hit
on the trespasser’s rump with her catapulted rock as Gareth Williams scrambled
over our wall after he’d been loitering in the yard. I was surprised he’d visited again
so soon. Maybe he has masochistic leanings too!
DECEMBER 12TH 1998
It’s a pretty sick state of affairs when you have to spend ages at your wheelie bin
emptying the contents of the vac bag! [The poverty status is etched also in the
kitchen’s ‘no-frills’ produce, in the ketchup balancing precariously on its head, in the
second-hand furniture and in the kids’ ‘hand-me-downs’.] My neighbour opposite
noticed me fighting with the dust bag and bolted over to tell me her news. She said
that she and her daughter had been kept awake all night because of the goings on at
the ‘junkie’ house next door to her. The party goers/dealers had been discussing
prices and types of illegal produce. They’d boasted of call-girl dalliances and they’d
cockily counted out wads of tenners during exchanges. There was a constant “thud
thud thud” of their stereo and arguing, yelling and screaming of hysterical girls. I
asked what the police had done about it. She looked at me as if I’d just flown in from
Mars, told me to “get real” and declared it was a “complete and utter waste of time
calling those pathetic pen-pushers out because they just take notes and do precious
little else.” She added, “They sound sympathetic and supportive on the phone but
when they do show up they don’t do anything.”
I sat on guard with the kids from 7.00 pm to 11.00 pm hoping for a glimpse of our
perpetrator but there was no life out there. Not a dickie bird – all night.
DECEMBER 13TH 1998
The kids decided that they’d like to go fishing. Andrew remembered that this time
last year he was catching Whiting galore off the pier and since he hadn’t been fishing
since before we left Gareth, he reckoned it was time he threw a line out again. But,
horror of horrors, when he collected his fishing kit from the shed, we were met with
the most repugnant fishy odour imaginable and we discovered that his bag was
crawling with…. Maggots. I could’ve cheerfully strangled him. The idle oaf hadn’t
bothered to dump his unused bait and clean his fishing tools; nor had he bothered to
take out his woolly hat and gloves and, as a result, there was life in the bag –
hundreds of maggots, an inch long, writhing in and around rotting mackerel, hooks
and line and in his woollies! I spent the next half hour in hysterics. I ranted and
raved at Andrew and demanded to know how many times he needed to be told to
dump his unwanted bait and to clean up all his utensils after every fishing trip. I
ended by giving him the glum news – that he was now banned from fishing –
FOREVER.
The kids kept their nightly vigil but all was quiet in the great big outdoors.
DECEMBER 14TH 1998
The kids kept a beady eye on the outside world but thankfully there was nothing to
report. I was beginning to think he’d got the message and had decided to call a
truce.
DECEMBER 15TH 1998
The first court hearing today. Shell accompanied the babies in nursery and Andrew
tagged along with me to hold my hand. It’s a flaming joke – he’s taking me to court
yet I’m landed with all the expense – of nursery fees and train fares! Can you
imagine him making a contribution!!! Gareth Williams turned up with his alcohol
dependent cousin and her unfortunate child – the one who wants to come and live
with me! In the waiting room I could sense his eyes on me but I didn’t look at him not once. I wouldn’t give the git the satisfaction. My solicitor and his solicitor
bumbled off into another room for a periodic ‘tete a tete’. The devil’s advocate and I
were hauled in front of the resident welfare officer for a grilling as to why we couldn’t
come to amicable arrangements for the children. I lay my case down on the table
and outlined my genuine concerns; he constantly interrupted me with a blatant pack
of vicious lies. We were locked in a battle of words, both getting louder and more
determined with each breath until the officer gave up and turfed us out. Meanwhile
the two kids quietly amused themselves with friendly facial gestures and signals in a
language that only children can comprehend. The question of Christmas cropped up
and I got pushed into allowing him to see the babies on Christmas eve in a
supervised setting – the church that he now attends regularly and where I once
visited with him, in a vain bid to keep our relationship intact and help him beat the
booze. After a miserable three-hour wait, their Royal Highnesses adjourned,
pending a court welfare officer’s report.
The babies had a better day than me and had soon settled down amongst their
temporary new peers and carers. Shell was their main carer and she even ended up
entertaining a couple of other tots at times. In fact it would seem that the proprietor
and staff were so impressed at her maturity and competence and they were pleased
that she was there for the sake of her little siblings that they said she is welcome in
the future without charge. How nice to have some positive feedback for a change
and to be conversing with ‘ordinary’ down-to-earth folk. I feel so happy and relieved
to have found somewhere I can rely on to leave the kids on the occasions that I have
to attend that unpleasant so-called seat of judgment and its associate establishment
– the court welfare office.
All was ‘normal’ beyond the frontiers of my own little castle. The kids manned the
bedroom windows and I glanced apprehensively through the living room window.
DECEMBER 16TH 1998
GW came snooping around again tonight; only this time he got well and truly tangled
up in the kids’ traps. The delay enabled Andrew to shoot two arrows at the
beleaguered antagonist. According to the kids, both spears caught Gareth fair and
square in the chest but since he was wearing a thick coat, the darts soon fell out.
The assault was effective tho; Gareth bellowed a string of vile obscenities, much to
the ultimate pleasure of Andrew and Shell.
DECEMBER 17TH 1998
We duly paid Santa a visit this morning, in his grotto, in Safeways’ precinct. Jordan
wasn’t impressed with the whole charade and couldn’t wait to make a swift exit.
Melissa too looked on bemused. Andrew and Shell waited patiently for us amongst
Santa’s throng of nodding reindeers and cheerful snowmen. They declared that they
were too big to pay homage to this sacred spirit but asked if they could have the
three quid entrance fee instead!
DECEMBER 18TH 1998
While leafing through the local rag and slurping on my brew, I noticed that Cinderella
was showing at the nearby theatre. Thinking the kids would be enthralled with the
pleasures of a panto, I eagerly pointed it out and suggested they go. But they just
looked at each other and, in synchro, screwed up their faces and shook their heads.
Shell piped up ever so sweetly, “Can we have the money though?”
During the evening the kids engaged in guard duty as usual and, thankfully, reported
back that all was well.
DECEMBER 19TH 1998
I spent two hours yakking on the phone to my cousin Sian who now lives in Devon.
We covered the cost of Christmas to our late loved ones, to our loathed ex-partners.
She is a similar boat to me – a single mum and ‘divorced’ from a gambling, lying,
womanising, control-freak of an ex. She passed a remark that almost all the mums
at her son’s school have partners or ex-partners in virtually the same category as our
ex men – self centred b…. stds. She asked how you know, when you’re dating, if
you’ve got a good un – when men are so flippin’ clever at hiding the bad bits about
themselves. My answer? “Pass.”
This evening I’ve clamped down on Andrew and Shelly. I’ve now banned them once
and for all from eating or drinking in the living room because there’s been some
confusion lately, which leads to ‘hot heads’ all round, as to if and when they are
allowed refreshments in the lounge. I’ve been laxi daisy lately and have sometimes
allowed it but since Andrew knocked his glass of blackcurrant flying [all over the
carpet] and I discovered biscuit bits stuffed under the couch cushions, THAT’S IT
NOW! I wondered if I was being too hard on them but then I told myself that they
enjoy more luxuries than me, and that by being inconsistent, I was just making a
massive rod for my own back.
DECEMBER 20TH 1998
The kids decided they wanted to go carol singing [anything for money] but I was
reluctant to allow it because of GW and all the other night gremlins. In the end I
agreed to it but I warned them I’d be lurking in the background with the babies. I
managed to persuade them to sing solo, reasoning that it would raise the odds of
them receiving money rather than a bucket of water. However despite their bravery
and half-decent singular efforts, every house occupant on four nearby streets either
[a] didn’t bother answering the door [b] grunted “get lost” or words to that effect or [c]
appeared attentive for one or two verses then declared that they had no change. So
much for Christmas bonhomie! An hour later and half a mile further, the kids’ spirits
lifted as things started looking up and they began to reap their reward – ten pence at
one house, twenty pence at another; fifty pence even. They ‘robbed’ Lauri and
Paddy of a couple of quid and raided the pockets of my aunties – Marge and
Margaret. I enjoyed a large scotch in both households too, so all in all it was an
enjoyable, productive evening. The kids had raised nearly twelve quid and I’d
received some medicinal comforts plus some light-hearted banter.
For the remainder of the evening the kids took up their posts as night watchmen but
had nothing to report.
DECEMBER 21ST 1998
A mother’s worst nightmare became a reality for me today in Safeways. Jordan
created ‘blue murder’ as we inched steadily through the masses of grocery
shoppers. He got tired and bored and began to lift tins of this and packets of that off
the shelves. I firmly but politely retrieved them and repeatedly told him “no.” Then
he just ‘snapped’, sent a mound of baked beans tumbling and spinning down the
aisle into oblivion, and unleashed a rip-roaring, incessant, attention-grabbing bellow.
I could’ve died; I could’ve killed him; I wanted the ground to swallow me up; but when
I realised that it wasn’t going to, I scurried around in blind confusion in a desperate
bid to salvage the wayward beans. I became acutely aware of the disapproving
stares around me and hisses of “tut tut – she has no control over that horrible little
brat.” With head down and glaring pointedly at the little blighter, I abandoned my
shopping and made a hasty retreat whilst trying to tell myself that a huge percentage
of the people around me, at some time in their life, have experienced that dreaded
public embarrassment of the toddler tantrum. However Jordan’s was a whopper and
I couldn’t wait to get the little thug out of the shop. I willed myself to march straight
home and told myself not to pay any further attention to his shocking outburst,
praying that he wouldn’t make a habit of such disruptive behaviour and would
hopefully soon learn that his unsociable antics weren’t that powerful or manipulative
anyway, so not to bother doing it again.
This evening Andrew and I stayed up until the wee small hours watching The Omen.
I’d seen it three times before; knew exactly what was coming next, yet I still
managed to jump and recoil in horror at the appropriate parts! Afterwards, we were
both reluctant to go to bed. Much to my annoyance I found myself searching the
house for…. I don’t know what…. But I searched for ‘it’ anyway – all over the place!
Finally I convinced myself that it was ‘safe’ to retire. Andrew pleaded to be allowed
his bedroom light on; then he was certain he’d heard someone walking across the
hall. I asked if he wanted to drag his mattress into my room and kip on the floor –
just for tonight. He didn’t need asking twice!
DECEMBER 22ND 1998
I indulged in a Christmas rum and coke whilst enjoying a two hour session of Anna
Rayburn’s slot on Talk Radio. She has a lovely natural line of patter and brilliant
advice. A lady came on the line with the dilemma of who to put first – her new
boyfriend, who wanted her to go away for Christmas or her son who did not want her
to go because he didn’t want to be parked off onto rellies. Another woman phoned in
with the advice that she should listen to her son because “men come and go but your
children are with you for life.” How profound. Then Anna advised another caller
about how she should deal with the Local Education Authority regarding problems
with her son. She said, “Never get angry or swear; remain cool, calm and dignified
but get your point over clearly and simply and straightforwardly.” I shall have to
remember that when dealing with the authorities. It’s all too easy to ‘lose it’.
This evening that evil-minded manic ex of mine came back for more! I was pottering
around the living room when Andrew flew down the stairs full of euphoria because
he’d fired a missile at the slug and this time had managed to draw blood. Apparently
Gareth had glanced up at the window to see Andrew poised with weapon, and ready
for the kill. The snooper had raised his hand to shield his ugly mug and had received
the implement directly into his flesh. He’s squealed and swore and scurried off to
sanctuary. The kids and I scrambled out after him and found a gruesome trail of his
blood. It did turn my stomach but maybe this time he’ll get the message. I won’t be
putting any bets on it though! Happy Christmas Gareth.
Later in bed my thoughts drifted to mum. She told me ages ago to get rid of the
beast but I never listened. She even warned me that it would be no easy task
because she was so sure that he wouldn’t let me go. How right she was. S’funny
how mums have these things sussed.
DECEMBER 23RD 1998
Well, that’s just ruddy typical! It’s Christmas and both babies are ill. They spent all
morning chucking up in synchro. I don’t know what brought it on; there was no
warning. Jordan sat on the couch and just spewed up – all over himself, the
cushions and the furniture. Melissa looked at him and promptly brought up her
breccy too. I didn’t know who to attend to first. I opted for Jordan cos he was just
about to leg it. I whipped his gear off and hauled him upstairs for a swift bath.
Thankfully Andrew and Shell were on hand to fetch and carry for me. Melly followed
him in. I then spent ages cleaning up the mess. Oh well the cushions needed doing
anyway! I spent the rest of the day with two babies at my side who were sucking on
water and sat next to sick bowls. They were still cheerful in between bouts of
vomiting so I wasn’t unduly worried.
I told Andrew and Shell that if they want to eat over Christmas they’d better go to the
kwikie because I wouldn’t be doing any shopping with the babies off colour. I gave
them a list and a twenty-pound note and said they could use a fiver of that on some
treats for themselves – choccies, a log, Pringles or whatever. They returned in a taxi
with bags full of…. treats and about a fiver’s worth of items on the list! Good job I
already have the turkey on the side defrosting.
DECEMBER 24TH 1998
Jordy and Melly are still off colour and both have got raised temperatures, flushed
faces and coughs. I called in Dr Ratcliffe. Apparently ninety percent of Colwyn Bay
are suffering from the same bug. Does that mean everyone is tired, rundown and….
Stressed? Is that what xmas does to us all? I phoned the church to explain that I
wouldn’t be bringing Jordan and Melly and got into a half hour chat with one of the
leaders - Lorraine. I gave her some background of why I felt so strongly about
refusing GW contact and all the harassment we’ve had to put up with. She listened
in silence, then said that she was praying for us both. She told me he’s a regular
churchgoer now and quite popular with everyone. Thugs like him perfect that art - of
presenting their ‘Mr Nice Guy’ image to unsuspecting acquaintances and associates
and managing to turn all the blame onto their victim. I couldn’t help thinking cynically
that he was using these people just to get himself a good character reference to
produce in court – just like he did when his ex-wife left him; only then his admirable
credentials were from the Dolgellau police, no less. And this was despite the fact
that he is known to them as being a wife and child batterer and small-time crook! I
arranged to take the babies in two weeks time, all being well.
This afternoon Gaven turned up on my doorstep to announce that he was going back
to Australia to live. He offered me a Kentucky – for old times’ sakes. But I politely
declined. He gave Andrew and Shell some money in a crimbo card. They mumbled
their thank yous then made a swift exit upstairs. He then told me that Gareth had
visited him at his place of work a few times to tell him that Andrew and Shell are
desperately unhappy at home, that they want to live with their dad and that I beat
them up and starve them. He said that Gareth has been trying his best to persuade
him to file for custody. Apparently, his cousin had also phoned up and visited Gaven
with the same vicious lies. Fair dos tho, Gaven told him he was a liar, at which point
Gareth [quite characteristically] turned nasty and insulting. “Desperate,” “despicable”
and “scumbag” are not strong enough words to describe Gareth Williams, whose
sole purpose in life seems to be to execute venomous revenge on the women who
dump him. Maybe he is hitting back at his own mother who perhaps he feels let him
down big time.
After a few minutes, Gaven departed and I poured myself a large brandy. Past
thoughts came to the fore and began to swirl depressively around in my head. I
remember the phase Andrew and Shelly went through when they were about five or
six. They were stealing from me to give to Gaven. I caught Andrew in my handbag
with a ten-pound note in his fist. I remember food used to disappear from my
freezer. I later learned that Gaven had ordered Andrew and Shell to nick fish fingers
and the like so that he could give them their tea! I used to dread contact sessions.
The kids always returned hyped up, aggressive, hateful and tearful after every visit
with Gaven. I needed the patience of a saint to cope with them. It is a hard enough
job bringing up kids single-handedly; it is intolerable when the father is a negative
damaging influence on the kids. Judging from the remarks of many mothers I speak
to, the need for women’s refuge centres and the growing trend in domestic violence,
I am not alone. It is clearly evident that many fathers do not have their child’s best
interests at heart or any interest whatsoever in the child; many are simply using their
kids as weapons to hit back at the wives/girlfriends who find the courage to leave
their bad relationships.
It is a disturbing form of harassment and continued child abuse, unrecognised by the
courts and shamefully not acknowledged until a child is a certain age at which point
irreversible damage has often been done to the child. It is appalling that children
who suffer at the hands of violent parents [usually fathers] are then further abused by
a ‘judge’ who forces those children to spend time with the person who has violated
them - who has: kicked, punched and beaten them and sent them to hell and back
for the best part of their lives. They say it is “in the child’s best interests.” The other
scandal is that many of these so-called judges and other highly respected figures of
society are guilty of wife and child abuse, but their crimes are shamefully covered up
because of their ‘status’. Who’s going to listen to a woman or kid against a judge? It
is no surprise that evil is escalating.
After tea, I seasoned the festive bird and slapped it in the oven; then I supped some
sparkling wine while I soaked in the bath. Dad is spending the holiday period in
Turkey! with a group of bridge friends. He took a bridge holiday last Christmas too. I
reckon he just doesn’t want to be at home now that mum has passed on to the
higher realms. Andrew and Shell sat glued to the goggle box. They swigged shandy
and stuffed their faces with chocolate and crisps.
At midnight they opened their Christmas parcel – a sock each containing edible
luxuries including, of course, a mars bar each. For as long as I can remember, every
Christmas, mum used to fill stockings up for my brother Malcolm and me. They
would be overflowing with chocolate bars and novelties; and hidden right at the
bottom would be [without fail]…. a mars bar each. That touching little gesture was
poignant because it was carried on from her childhood Christmases where she
received a stocking containing a mars bar [a real treat in those days] plus an apple
and an orange and a banana and the same doll that was given each Christmas
dressed up in a new outfit that my nan had knitted. The difference was that mum
and her brothers and sister got nothing else whereas my brother and I were spoiled
with sacks full of toys, games, books etc. I reminded Andrew and Shell that they’d
had their Christmas gift – cash. We hugged and kissed each other, wished each
other happy Christmas and then helped ourselves to turkey butties.
I later dozed off recollecting my happy childhood Christmases. Malcolm and I were
always asked to work the bank holidays at the zoo. We’d hike up there at 6.00 am
and do the necessary day’s work in the locust room in less than half the time. The
boss would bring us a mince pie, a glass of shandy and triple pay, then we’d run
home at about 10.00 am, clean up and open all our pressies. Mum would make us a
scrumptious Christmas dinner and we’d all laze about for the rest of the day.
DECEMBER 25TH 1998
The babies are still off colour. They tried breccy but after a couple of spoons full,
pushed their bowls away. They weren’t deterred from inspecting their sacks of toys
though and squealed in delight at their collection of: cars, beakers, teddies, shape
sorters etcetera. [It didn’t worry them that most of it was bought at car boot sales.]
I busied myself in the kitchen. Andrew and Shell wanted just turkey and mash with
cauli plus gravy – without all the frills. I grinned whilst listening to Nancy Roberts on
Talk Radio telling a caller “I never leave the house – I tell my husbands to get out.”
My thoughts drifted to mum. I had planned to visit her at the crematorium but it was
out of the question now. She used to visit her mum there at special times throughout
the year without fail so I suppose I was trying to keep up the tradition. Last
Christmas I stood at her gravestone with the kids and my now loathed ex. I had
been stony-faced and close to tears when suddenly, Jordan who had been in my
arms, giving me a bear hug and also looking solemn, broke into a huge smile for no
apparent reason. His whole face lit up and his little body sprang upright as if he was
preparing to jump into someone else’s arms. Gareth had remarked in utter
amazement, “Your mother is here with us right now, but only Jordan can see her and
she is making him laugh.” I immediately thought that he was a sentimental nitwit but
then I allowed myself to consider the remotest possibility that he could be right; after
all who really knows? I visualised the grave that I’d seen of a baby near to mum’s. It
brought a lump to my throat and my insides sobbed for its parents.
DECEMBER 26TH 1998
Called the doctor again today. He said not to worry that Jordan and Melly aren’t
eating as long as they are taking fluids. Because Melly hasn’t suckled, my breasts
are now swollen and gorged and I’m doubled up in agony. I must’ve picked up their
bug too because I spent all evening chucking up. I dragged myself off to bed at a
respectable 9.00 pm, convinced that sleep would cure all ills but it eluded me cos I
was so tense with pain and sickness. After much tossing and turning, I eventually
resorted to doing something that I’d been too busy to do lately and hadn’t felt the
need to do – meditation. It was something that I used to do quite often because it
totally relaxed me. It removed any type of bodily discomfort and tension and
completely moved my mind on to a totally new plane – a different level of
consciousness. My theory is that if I can deeply relax my mind and body, my natural
bodily defences will find it easier to defeat any invasion of disease and thus the
process of fighting and beating illness is quicker. This is because my body’s little
warriors are in a stress-free zone, have no worries about being overwhelmed with an
intolerable workload and are thus strong and powerful. It usually works after a bit of
perseverance. It always helps me get a good night’s sleep and I love the sensation
of the various natural bodily reactions that occur when I get into this deep state of
tranquillity. Sometimes I have feelings of pins and needles all over, sometimes I feel
as if I’m levitating and floating around the room. Most of the time my head becomes
crystal clear and I get the feeling that it will burst at any moment. I began to
concentrate on…. nothing. It’s a technique that I’ve perfected and is right for me.
Some people suggest another method - of imagining that a brilliant white light is
entering your body through your forehead and is filling you up until it spills out into
the room and into the atmosphere so that you and your surroundings become one
mass of blinding light. My thoughts turned blank, my head cleared, my body relaxed
and I succumbed to blissful sleep.
DECEMBER 27TH 1998
Andrew and Shelly have now come down with the bug and both look like death
warmed up. The babies are still ailing and I’ve had the occasional bout of retching,
but I’m not unduly worried; I know that it’s just a temporary, annoying blip. I have to
cope; there is no one to look after me. Despite all the work and worry though, I’d die
without the kids. I cannot understand why people have such a lowly opinion of
women who are mere mums. Raising kids is THE most important and worthwhile job
there is. Just look at all the consequences if mothers get it wrong. I feel so loved
and blessed simply because I am the mother of my kids.
DCEMBER 31ST 1998
Andrew and Shell spent their chrissy money on second hand bikes but before I
allowed them to go off cycling, I drilled them on the rules: they are not allowed to
cycle on the pavement or roads, they must push their bikes to the promenade and
ride on the cycle track only. They are allowed to go as far as Old Colwyn in one
direction or Rhos-On-Sea in the other, but no further. I reminded them that I’d be
nipping out later to spy on them and that if I caught them breaking the rules, the
bikes would go back to the shop.
It’s new-years eve and Jasper Carrott is taking the p…. out of me. He’s looking at
me from the focal point in the corner of my living room and he’s taunting, “Yes, you
know who you are sat there in your armchair feeling lonely and miserable….
Clutching at your glass of festive spirit and pretending to be having fun. No-one
stays in on new years eve – except you.”
JANUARY
JANUARY 1ST 1999
The kids went out on bikes but returned after only half an hour, so breathless and
distressed that they couldn’t get their words out. The quintessence of the scenario is
that GW’s daughter lunged towards them and hissed “you little shits…. tell your mum
we’re going to kick her door down and kill you all…. She had better be looking after
Jordan and Melissa and you’d better keep away from them. You don’t know what
my dad’s going to do next.” She then spat out “Shut up you stupid f…. ing shits….
You dickhead prats…. We are going to snatch Jordan and Melissa tonight.” She
then yelled to her dad who was sat smirking in the car “Let’s get them quick.”
Andrew and Shell fled, on their bikes, all the way home. I was seething. Through no
fault of their own, they’d broken the bike rule of which the consequences could have
been unthinkable if they’d collided with a car. That moron has now sunk even
deeper cos he’s using his brainwashed daughter directly to antagonise us. I
reported it to police although I knew it was a pointless procedure, confirmed when
the officer returned to inform me that GW’s daughter is insisting that it was Andrew
and Shell who were picking on her!
In the evening we heard a commotion outside. Andrew peeped from Jord’s window,
saw Gareth and his son scarper from the backyard, and his daughter scrambling
over the gate and heard her yell “Dad when are we going to snatch Jordan and
Melissa?” Not relishing any conflict, we cowered behind closed doors.
JANUARY 2ND 1999
In the comfort of daylight I scrutinized the external area of my house and was
horrified to discover that pebbledash had been scraped off my wall – the full length of
the lounge and that “f …ck you shitties” had been written by GW’s daughter on my
front door. I had no idea what to do. It seems he and his foolish children can come
here and hack away at my walls and mutilate my ‘safe haven’ and I am powerless to
prevent it. I logged it all in the ‘bumph for solicitor’ file.
I then spent ages dithering with the dilemma of whether to allow the kids to cycle
unsupervised. I can’t keep them cooped up and wrapped in cotton wool; neither can
I risk dragging the babies out in the biting wind. So I reluctantly bowed down to
pressure and let them go alone; but after only a short while they arrived home to
announce that he had driven past them and that someone in his car had gestured to
them that their throats would be cut.
JANUARY 3RD 1999
That embittered imbecile just won’t let up. Today he swerved into the kerb and
caused Andrew to topple off his bike. I’m left with no choice now but to keep the kids
imprisoned and under the protection of my skirts.
Andrew told me that while he sat on the floor, shocked and nursing his bruises, he
heard nan saying, “Are you alright Andrew?” He said a nice smell of perfume had
blown over his face too.
JANUARY 5TH 1999
The kids and I trooped down to do the grocery shopping. On our return, we
discovered wet blobs of blue and white paint on the shed wall. It is alarmingly
evident that he or one of his cronies is monitoring our every move and there is not a
damned thing I can do about it. The police are powerless [or pathetic] so my only
hope now is that the court will be more effective but I won’t be holding my breath.
JANUARY 6TH 1999
Jordan exerted his authority again this morning. I’d said it was time to get his coat
on as we had to nip out but he promptly dropped to the floor, became rigid and
obstinately refused to co-operate. I took a deep breath, willed myself to refrain from
yelling at him or walloping him and forced myself to adopt the guidelines of an
eminent doctor/author who recommends ignoring your toddler when he/she is being
pig-headed, casually continue about your business and be firm when dealing with
the child. So I matter of factly put on his coat, ignored his protests and plonked him
in the pram despite his flailing arms and legs. He got the message and soon gave
up the struggle. Eureka!
At teatime the kids were messing about with their bikes in the shed. I heard tapping
on the kitchen window, so I yelled to the kids that I’d be out in a minute. Ten minutes
later I popped out to ask them what was up but they didn’t know what I was going on
about. When I mentioned the knock on the window, they went blank, we all paled
and I felt my blood run cold. That psychotic is so deranged heaven knows what
twisted game or vile deed he’ll do next.
JANUARY 7TH 1999
I’d spent all night all agitated and worried. Despite all efforts to banish disturbing
thoughts from my head, my biggest dread kept surfacing to haunt me. I was terrified
of handing my babies over to him despite the fact they’d be in what should be the
relative safety of the church. The fact remained; I didn’t trust those people. Lorraine
had already told me the congregation are as good as smitten with him, which means
that he’s deceived them, and they probably can’t understand why I’m so fearful –
they probably think I’m the wicked witch and that he is Mr Wonderful. I’d got it in my
head that he would use the access arrangement to carry out his heinous threats. He
is deranged and determined to destroy me. He’s made it clear on numerous
occasions that his only purpose in life now is to get me back and that he’ll use any
means to achieve his depraved aims. He knows he can only do this through my
kids. My mum’s cousin lost her twins when her evil ex-husband took them to a forest
one day and murdered them, just to even the score with their mother. Nothing would
convince me that Gareth is not capable of such barbarity too, considering his
vengeful frame of mind of late. It would be so easy for him to tell parishioners that I’d
agreed he could take my babies to his house; after all they seem to believe that
everything he says is gospel. What if he simply made a run for it with my babies?
He’s so big and strong he could easily push past anyone and then do whatever he
wants with them. He’s so psychotic he would do anything to hurt me. Who would
stop him? Would the police be my only hope then of saving them? God help me if
that’s the case. By now, I had a vision of walking into a pack of lions and
surrendering my babies to the mercy of a schizophrenic. Maybe in time he won’t feel
so vengeful; maybe he’ll even start trying to be reasonable for the sake of Jordy and
Melly. But not now, not now – it is all too soon. I bottled out of the arrangements
and cancelled the meeting.
JANUARY 8TH 1999
Some lying prat from the council was on the radio prattling on about how effective a
new CCTV is in the fight against crime in a car park. Judging by the unimpressed
and furious flood of callers, including many victims of car crime, it is evident that
such cameras are no deterrent - many are simply dummies; crime is on it’s way up
and politicians are turning a blind eye to the public’s problems. I’m of the opinion
that you don’t get to the top of any council controlled institution such that you have
some power to wield unless you are corrupt and will happily condone corruption in
others. Do politicians and public sector high fliers sign a corruption treaty? And are
‘official’ documents shrouded in secrecy to cover up wrongdoing? Most politicians lie;
statistics are fudged. Clinton clicks his fingers and Tone jumps.
JANUARY 9TH 1999
The kids made my blood boil this morning. I left them instructions to clean up the
kitchen. They were told to: wash and dry up, jif the sides and table and sweep the
floor, as the babies and I were abandoning ship. But I returned after half an hour to
check progress and found them fooling about, embroiled in a tea towel scrap and
oblivious to the chaotic state of their surroundings. I flipped, balled my head off and
buggered off out. It’s a good job they got their act together and got cleaning cos my
patience had all but run out.
At teatime we heard someone knocking on the kitchen window. Andrew and I bolted
outside all fired up and fit for a confrontation but were met with only the dead of
night. Andrew hopped over our wall to see if any intruders were lurking in the
shadows of the old people’s home next door but merely encountered a black abyss.
Later I heart a thud on the front door and later still the sound of stones being pelted
against the windows. I was in timid mood by then and did not dare venture out.
Instead I crept into bed, rolled myself up into a ball under the duvet and willed the
night away.
JANUARY 10TH 1999
I noticed Andrew’s trousers had a stripe of white paint on. I examined the wall and
found the same paint daubed here and there. So that’s what the halfwit was up to
last night!
At Safeways I bumped into the mother of my best friend [Sue] at school. We
exchanged light-hearted chitchat and I briefed her on the repulsive actions of my
malignant ex. I did say he had some good points though and she chuckled when I
said that he was good with his hands; to which I hastily pointed out that he was good
at dismantling things, making them work and putting them back together again. We
discussed families. She spoke of her sister’s loneliness because she is childless. I
said I felt so sad for her and that I’d be empty without my kids; they are the reason
for my living.
JANUARY 11TH 1999
Andrew asked where my money comes from so I was perfectly frank with him and
told him that I get paid by the government because “I’m on my own bringing up you
lot.” I said it was barely enough to make ends meet but as long as we live within our
means and don’t get into debt, we’ll cope. A budgeting lesson came henceforth. I
explained to the kids that it was important to write down everything that I have to pay
for – all the bills such as gas, electric, insurance et cetera plus the food, clothes,
sport and ‘educational’ costs. I told them I have to keep some aside for house
maintenance, emergencies and things that crop up which I call my ‘sundry’
expenses. They soon realised that when all the outgoings are worked out per week
and are subtracted from the pitiful weekly income, they didn’t need to be Einstein to
understand why we have no treats, days out or holidays. I also explained that I’m
supposed to make a contribution to my house mortgage but because I can’t afford it,
my payments are frozen which means that unless my circumstances change, my
mortgage will never be paid off and in fact the loan will slowly increase because the
government don’t pay all of the interest which I’m charged.
While we were on the subject of the stuff that makes the world go round I told them
that the benefit agency, in all their wisdom have insisted that I owe them six hundred
pounds, dating back to the period before the kids stopped contact with Gaven,
because officials say that I was paid maintenance by Gaven which I didn’t declare.
We then got onto a discussion on maintenance and even the kids decided that it’s no
wonder the country/world has gone to the dogs with fools pretending to run it. I told
the kids that the bright sparks at the benefits office say that it was ok for Gaven to
take them to x,y and z every week and spend as much as he wanted to on them; oh
and it was fine if he wanted to give them oodles of pocket money per week; it was
even acceptable if Gaven wanted to give me the cash so that I could take them on
those outings instead; BUT it was not alright for Gaven to give the kids four pounds
fifty each per week through my account instead, since those arrangements were
more suitable for us both. The blockhead chiefs label it ‘maintenance’. At nine years
old, Shell concluded that the moral of this tale is, “We must take inspiration from our
rulers and be deceitful – just like them.”
I called the plumber in today to fix the loo cistern. It’s been slowly going on the blink
for a while. The insurance with North West Water covered it. It’s not a bad deal –
less than ten pounds per quarter covers all my plumbing needs: external drainage,
locked pipes, leaking pipes/radiators, water tanks, loos et cetera.
JANUARY 12TH 1999
The government are preaching again about the need and benefits [for mums and
society] of getting single mums into work, giving us help with affordable childcare
and making it worth our while financially to do so. They are implying that just
because you’re only a mum you are a second-class citizen [less than that even.]
Well I’ve got news for them. They can offer me a million quid to put my kids in
someone else’s care and I’ll tell them where to shove it. Parenting is priceless. No
‘professional’ can substitute a caring, nurturing mum. It is high time society
recognised and valued women whose profession is ‘mum’.
I yakked for ages today with my neighbour Linda. She spent ten years married to a
‘man’ who dragged her downstairs by her hair, kicked and punched her black and
blue, ridiculed and taunted her, threatened her with her life if she grassed or tried to
leave him – all similar bully and control tactics used on me and countless other
women by vile men. We both had feelings of being weak and powerless to fight our
way out. I believed Gareth when he said I was fat and ugly, that no one else would
want me and that everyone was laughing at me. I believed him when he said that no
one would listen to me and that the police wouldn’t protect me [although that bit was
true!] Linda commented that he was always so friendly and courteous towards her
but that she had seen right through him, cos she knows his type all too well. I’m
amazed now at how weak-minded I was then, how I allowed him to inflict such
mental and physical cruelty on me and how I was so scared to leave him. Also I’d
been kidding myself that he was a great guy really and I did so much want us to stay
together. My friends were married and seemingly happy – I wondered what was
wrong with me. Really I was in a state of denial and an easy target for any controlfreak. Such rats are cowards cos they never pick on people their own size.
The people who turn a blind eye to such bullies are also vermin. I remember one
night at a party, Gareth started to attack me right under the nose of his best friend.
The friend just walked away. I managed to get into the bathroom but Gareth came
after me, booted the door in and continued his assault. No one came to my aid.
Just as guilty are those who protect and condone such criminality, such as lawyers,
barristers, work peers – especially those in high society positions. There is no
justice system when you have solicitors defending clients who are known to be
crooked and since the worst criminals are the best at lying and charming, they are
the ones who get off scott free to continue offending. Meanwhile decent innocent,
harmless folk are made to feel guilty. It’s also disgusting that we have so-called
respected members of society and people in positions of power and authority who
“look the other way” to save others’ reputations. This hidden accepted crime is
prevalent in all countries, throughout all walks of life, from the judge/minister down to
the unemployed. Many victims don’t speak out because they feel embarrassed
and/or intimidated. I felt both. Linda told me to get hold of some books written by
feminist writer Andrea Dworkin.
JANUARY 13TH 1999
I got a letter today from Blair’s Department for Education and Employment in reply to
my suggested radical changes to state schooling system. Talk about bunkum and
balderdash! I quote “You may be interested to know that the Secretary of State has
asked the Qualifications and Curriculum Authority to review the National Curriculum.
The review will focus on ensuring the primacy of literacy and numeracy, maintaining
a broad and balanced education for citizenship and teaching democracy, personal,
social and health education and the spiritual, moral, social and cultural dimension.”
It’s enough to make you weep! They’re big on impressive terminology but useless
on delivery…. of anything useful.
After flicking through the TV channels I found myself watching George Soros
[billionaire speculator] during an interview. It got me pondering about tinkering with
shares myself. Well, maybe I would if I came into some dosh. It seems such a low
percentage of the population dabble directly in shares – most preferring to use the
‘expertise’ of finance institutions and the relative safety of schemes like PEPS. I’ve
noticed lately that I’ve started taking an interest in more intellectual programmes and
in current affairs. I used to be fond of soaps – now I can’t stand them. And I used to
spend my life chasing my tail, going to pubs, wasting my time and wishing my life
away. I suppose that reflects the poor opinion I had of myself in the past. I look
around at people coming and going and rushing here and there, making me ponder
the profound questions “Why are we here? Where are we going? What are we
doing?” All I see is a world in chaos with clowns and crooks running it.
I wish I’d taken more of an interest in news affairs in the past but I was too wrapped
up in my own state of pointless existence. Now I pay more attention to the goings on
in the wider world and to the behaviour of our wealthy and powerful rulers and I’m
revolted at what I see. They go on about the so-called Northern Ireland ‘peace
process’. There is a solution to the ‘troubles’, simply convict and punish those
responsible for any criminal activity in a court of law and let no one hide behind the
shield of their ‘cause’ – ‘political justification’. But that’ll never happen because the
police and courts are corrupt, the underworld of Northern Ireland is too big, too
organised and too powerful and the UK and US governments condone criminality.
You cannot judge others’ criminality unless you and all your law enforcement
systems are squeakyclean and are seen to be so by Joe Public. Also governments
at national and local level must not be above the law themselves, must be
accountable and must ensure justice, fair play and equal opportunities FOR ALL.
And NO ONE should be above the law. Until that day comes there will always be
‘troubles’ all over the globe.
JANUARY 14TH 1999
I borrowed an excellent book from the library called The Parent’s Problem Solver by
Karen Renshaw Joslin. I’d call it every parent’s bible. It’s full of advice on how to
handle your child from two and a half years upwards. Karen stresses the importance
of the ‘poker’ face when you need to be serious with a child and the preferred
positive phraseology such as “keep your feet on the floor” rather than “don’t put your
feet on the couch.” She advises parents not to yell or bully their kids if they are
rowdy but rather, do the opposite; enquire if they “need a hug.” She insists this isn’t
taking the p…. it is helping the child to diffuse their feelings of frustration and
negativity.
Later this evening, the kids and I heard an almighty thud on my flue and the thing
began to resonate. I didn’t relish running out to investigate, so we just sat tight and
waited. There was an eerie silence after that.
JANUARY 15TH 1999
I discovered that the contemptible scumbag has squashed my flue. That’s more
proof, if it were needed, that he doesn’t give a fig for Jordan and Melly. Now we
can’t use the fire and I can’t afford to fix it. But does anyone care?
The kids and I trudged off to the pool. Jordan was in his element splashing about
knee deep in water and bubbles. Mel was a little less carefree and clung on to me
for the most part of the session. Andrew and Shell vamoosed off into the deep end.
As we were leaving, Linzi walked in with her party of ‘special needs’ people. We
nattered briefly and made promises to arrange a get together.
That menace has been slowly driving past my house again. I counted twenty times
then gave up.
JANUARY 16TH 1999
Jordan is a real fusspot lately with his veggies – he simply refuses to eat them. I
won’t get into a fight with him about it tho. I’m certainly not going to start balancing
on my head or doing cart wheels around the kitchen while juggling his spoon and
meal to try and coax him into co-operating. I’m just thankful he loves his fruit. He’ll
willingly scoff: apples, peaches, pears, bananas, strawberries, oranges…. And he
rejects anything I add to it such as custard, cream, icecream…. With Andrew and
Shell I have to play the compromise and trick game. I let them choose the fruit we
buy as long as next week they select something different. I agree to their pleas for
icecream as long as they have some peaches or pears with it. I disguise veg in with
their mash or savoury rice.
The kids have found their own method of studying their science. They read a couple
of pages of their Fun with Science text out loud and then they test each other.
Sometimes I test them and sometimes they write about the topic in question as part
of their English lesson. If this is the best way for them to gain knowledge and it sinks
in, then I’m all for it. Shell later came out with a profound statement. She’d been
busy drawing circles, using pud’s beaker, for her pie charts when she announced,
“This has a never ending number of lines of symmetry.” I was gob smacked. At nine
years old, I didn’t even know what a line of symmetry was.
JANUARY 17TH 1999
Melissa gave me such adorable expressions this morning. Babies and little kids are
so open and honest about their feelings – it’s a real pity that society [especially
schools] does its best [and pretty much succeeds] in knocking our real self out of us.
I once read a true statement in a book of illusions that says “If you practice being
fictional for a while you will understand that fictional characters are sometimes more
real than ‘real’ people.” I’m so in love with all my kids but the youngest and most
vulnerable have just that little something extra which tugs at my heartstrings. Mel
gives me a pondering frown, then she blows raspberries, then giggles unashamedly
as only babies know how when I return the gesture. Her little body is so full of
strength and vitality. She grabs at my hair then squeals in delight. She is incredibly
supple and throws her legs in the air backwards until her knees drop onto her nose,
then she propels herself into bicycle riding mode. Her gesticulations are a delight
and alter with such ease and speed. One minute she has flailing arms and beaming
smiles, the next a wicked grin accompanied by an aura of anticipation….
We all toddled off to the park. Jordan busied himself clambering up and down the
steps leading to the slide, but he didn’t bother with the slide; meanwhile I was being
entertained by a nearby father who was locked in a battle with his youngster, that
reminded me so much of the hopeless way Gaven used to handle Andrew. The
father was doing his utmost to avoid a scene and the conversation went along the
lines of:
Father: don’t you think it’s time to leave?
Child: no
Father: but we don’t want to be late
Child: why?
Father: mummy will be angry
Child: why?
Father: well, dinner will be spoiled
Child: so?
Father: aren’t you hungry?
Child: no
Father: you don’t want mummy to be mad, do you?
Child: [running off] don’t care
Eventually the father raced after his child, walloped him and yelled that they had to
go. But his bemused offspring reacted in justifiable fury and writhed, kicked and
punched his father as he was dragged unceremoniously away. It brought back a
load of frustrating memories of when Gaven used to be similarly dominated by
Andrew [even when Andrew was only two and a half.] I could never get the point
across that he mustn’t ask, he must tell Andrew in a friendly [but firm and confident]
manner. With Jordan I find it best to be very ‘matter-of-fact’, to help avoid a lengthy
protest-appease battle. I’ve learnt the hard way that kids need [and want] clear
guidance and that they are more secure and comforted when I’m showing solid
leadership. Through bitter experience I now realise that the more I succumb to the
kids’ demands [whatever their age] the more argumentative, cocky and difficult they
are. It is a human trait that people [especially parents] will be put on by others
[usually their kids] if they allow themselves to be dominated.
JANUARY 18TH 1999
I got strict with Mel today. I sat her on the floor amongst a pile of teddies and
explained that she had to play alone while I spoke to granddad on the phone. She
didn’t understand what I was saying but she was content because I was in control
and relaxed. She was tuned in to my tone of voice and facial expression and cooed
back as if to say “fine, get on with it then.”
Andrew and Shell are driving me bonkers with the Titanic tape. I treated them to it
after Christmas and they are transfixed with it. Every time I walk into the lounge it is
on and I am not disciplined enough to ignore it. I must’ve seen certain bits of it over
fifty times, yet it still commands my attention!
Mel had me chuckling tonight during bath time. She mischievously and repeatedly
provoked her brother by playfully kicking him – and he just sat there and took it with
a bemused look on his face. I couldn’t resist telling her, “That’s right Mel, keep it up;
don’t let any bloke knock you around; don’t be soft on ‘em like your mum; give ‘em a
hard time – they’ll love you more for it.”
JANUARY 19TH 1999
We had to get up at a quarter to seven this morning in order to get to court on time.
It half killed all of us but what I found rather telling was the fact that comparing
Andrew and Shell, he complained bitterly and had a harder time heaving himself out
of bed than her. Comparing the babies, Jordan expressed his discomfort and
displeasure in far louder and more prolonged terms than Melly, who resigned herself
to our unpleasant early rise more graciously. That little scenario would suggest that
females have an inbuilt edge on males in terms of endurance of hardship. This is
evident in the fact that it is largely women who manage the home, bring up the kids
and take on a myriad of other commitments; whereas men on the whole flounder
under such pressure and simply cannot hack the responsibility demands and
sacrifices of full-time parenting, housekeeping….
Andrew and I trudged off to court for a showdown with the devil’s apostle. I was
supposed to be seeking an injunction to stop that loathed thug molesting us, but I
had to make do with an undertaking because my solicitor talked me into agreeing to
the lesser, in case we were refused the greater, which would’ve undermined our
credibility as regards the big issues – contact and residence. It didn’t seem fair
though; what has his crime of harassment got to do with who my babies should be
living with? Why am I having to tread carefully? I’m not the guilty person, Gareth
Williams is. My solicitor, Mr Owens, said that there was no guarantee that I’d get the
injunction and that if that was the case then I would look bad in the eyes of the court.
That’s just not bloody fair. How can I be made to look bad [that is, guilty] for Gareth
Williams’ crimes? Mr Owens then said something that knocked me for six. He said
there was just one small snag – that I was expected to sign the same undertaking
which stated that I was to promise to stay away from him. Jesus wept. I hadn’t
bothered him – not once. But before I could protest, he was quick to bully me into
believing that it didn’t mean that I was admitting guilt to any of GW’s accusations,
which couldn’t be proven either way as this was about his word against mine, but it
would prevent further inflammation of the tensions between us and, after all, that was
the purpose of us being in court today. He also pointed out that the court recognises
the fact that I am the one instigating the proceedings.
My insides were hurting. I felt betrayed. I told him that I didn’t want to sign it. I
pointed out that this wasn’t about my word against his because the police obviously
knew that he was lying regarding his claims that I’d been harassing him because
they’d never questioned me. John Owens slapped me down saying that the police
don’t take sides. Then he looked me in the eye and insisted that it was no big deal
anyway; it was only a formality. Then his face softened and he said that we’re
playing this the right way as we have to keep focussed on the bigger picture…. on
the things that really matter. He told me that my signing is a bit of a good-will
gesture indicating that regardless of what has or has not happened between us
regarding allegations and counter allegations, I am giving my word that I won’t, in the
future harass him. He said that it puts me in a good light as far as the court is
concerned. When I mentioned all the harassment I’d suffered re Social Services
because of GW’s referrals which had proved to be unfounded and malicious, my
solicitor said that there was nothing I could do about that. Eventually and very
reluctantly I allowed Mr John Owens to talk me round. He was the man of
experience. He knew what he was doing…. I’m just the client, taking his
‘professional’ advice.
Once before the magistrate, that unimaginable b…. std actually had the gall to
whisper to his godfather solicitor Chris Hind of Amphletts that he was not guilty of
harassing us; and the henchman repeated such to the so-called JP. In any case,
today’s little pantomine was doing me no good whatsoever and it didn’t really matter
what that piece of paper was called, the fact is it won’t stop that deranged vengeful
bacterium bothering us. Only a sledgehammer will suffice.
Afterwards I got nattering with some other poor mother who was also desperately
trying to protect herself and her babies from her ugly git of an ex. During the
conversation, she told me that at least she gets her nursery and travelling expenses
paid whilst she attends court because she’s on benefit. That was all news to me. I
enquired about the same with my solicitor and was told to keep all bus tickets and
nursery receipts and that he’d apply to the legal aid board for relief. Andrew was a
real brick to me throughout the hearing. I don’t know where I’d be without my little
rocks. At his age I’d never even heard of a solicitor. These days most kids know all
about lawyers, courts, court welfare officers, social workers et cetera. Andrew
quipped as we left court, “Royal Court of Justice? More like Royal Court of
Corruption.”
On the way home I felt subdued. Today’s proceedings had made things worse. I
would’ve been better off not taking that slug to court. Somehow he came away the
winner. The way it is all being portrayed, we’re both as bad as each other…. We’re
just playing games. If I’d got an injunction, it would’ve been clear that he was the
guilty party, but now it is all neutralised. It’s as if it was all planned this way
beforehand!
JANUARY 20TH 1999
I heard on the radio some child care ‘professional’ prattling on about the importance
of parents, child minders and leaders making their charges feel special by: making
photo albums and scrapbooks of their family and drawing pictures of their pets etc.
What rubbish! Children feel valued, included and loved when they are treated like
everyone else – spoken to in truth and corrected when doing wrong. They just want
to be part of the family and have an important role to play. All they need is kind,
honest, competent adults around them. A doctor with a bit more common sense
came over the air and stressed the need for letting the child dictate terms of play.
He said too many well-intentioned parents and carers interfere in child play and do
great harm. Parents complicate matters by taking over a ‘game’ such as sending a
wound-up train around its track. The toddler will just grab hold of it and proceed to
yank it apart – and the track. The parent thinks the kid is then being ungrateful and
destructive, but he isn’t, he is just too immature to appreciate the adult’s perception
of the matter. Or the kid will wander off and leave mum or dad playing alone with the
train. The doctor urged parents/carers to let the child decide what he can/can’t do
and when. He said to play only when invited to and only ever at the child’s level –
never ‘teach’ or ‘takeover’. Parents who do, only encourage a child to become
infuriated, frustrated and a failure.
I was busy singing the titanic song My Heart will Go On when I realised Jordan was
providing the back up and was humming along with me. My heart melted.
JANUARY 21ST 1999
I took Andrew and Shell for a game of squash. Jordan and Melly attended the
leisure centre crèche. I gave strict orders to the playgroup leaders not to allow Jordy
and Melly out to anyone especially if anyone turns up posing as their daddy wanting
to collect them. I was told later that my two had sat quiet like mice in their pram, just
watching all the activity around them. Maybe they’ll be a little bolder next time! It
was a nice feeling being back on the court again – it brought back memories of my
squash-mad days of playing league matches and friendlies virtually every day. The
kids couldn’t hit the ball for toffees tho, but not to worry, there’s always another day.
JANUARY 22ND 1999
After a wearing day with the little uns I was despairingly greeted with a toy-strewn
playroom. I was just about to stretch myself to the boundaries of my endurance and
race about in there tidying and clearing when my thoughts drifted back to Andrew’s
and Shelly’s days in their Aussie nursery and the effective methods employed there.
The staff’s advice was like gold dust to me. They stressed the importance of
teaching toddlers [even as young as eighteen months] to put their things away and to
sort and store things appropriately. It should be an enjoyable ‘chore’ – more like a
game and the idea was to get the child to: put all the soft toys in one box, the cars in
a drawer, the blocks stacked in a corner, the things that go on a shelf…. Such
regular repetitive behaviour makes tidying up second nature and is supposed to
make kids grow up to respect their belongings and those of others. I was always
well impressed with the well-behaved nursery youngsters and tried to follow their
example with Andrew and Shelly. It did work – eventually, although they do have
their fairly frequent ‘off’ days. So I put Jordan to work but he only managed to put
two teddies on the shelf before parading himself smack amongst the debris, refusing
to budge. I ended up soldiering on, single-handedly sorting his room out. Still, it was
only an introduction…. and practice makes perfect.
JANUARY 23RD 1999
An impressive package plopped through the letterbox this morning. It was from the
Welsh Education Department and was an introduction to the school curriculum.
There were sixtyfour pages of authoritarian waffle – and that was just to whet your
whistle! For example it was titled: A broad introduction to the National Curriculum
and its associated assessment arrangements. This was followed by a sub-title: The
national curriculum is a starting point for exploring and understanding the
requirements contained within the national curriculum. What? All I can say is, thank
heavens the curriculum is not compulsory and it’s no wonder that kids switch off at
school or bunk off. Amidst this bureaucratic bunkum is a series of targets and key
points. That’s not learning, it’s a poor attempt to pass exams and is enough to drive
any kid to misery and to put anyone off education for life. And anyway, what’s the
point in learning about history when history is repeating itself; when war and
destruction occurs daily all around us and when it is just a sick reminder of the
corruption and capitalism so evident today, globally? What’s the point in learning
about issues such as global warming when our double standard, hypocritical
politicians actively damage our planet?
Instead, teachers would be better employed if they taught their pupils about the real
world and the evils of mankind – about sleazy, greedy, phoney politicians, about
gangster corporate directors, about corrupt police chiefs and bent judges and our
disgraceful ‘justice’ system where crooked wealthy lawyers defend known criminals
and cause innocent people to suffer and to be robbed of their freedom and where
judges condone criminality and are anything BUT justices of the peace. Teachers
should teach pupils about the power of protest…. against state injustice and they
should teach children about campaigning for what is right. For example how to lead
a movement which would bring about the closure of all weapons manufacturers.
Bombs shouldn’t be dropped on people, they should be dumped on arms factories.
Weapons kill and maim people…. civilians and military alike. How would the men
giving the orders, the leaders of the rich powerful countries, like their own angry guns
to be used against them and their families? How would the men, who make obscene
profits from the manufacture of weapons and related merchandise, like to be in the
path of one of their own bombs, which is being dropped from one of their own fighter
planes???
By telling pupils the reality, our youth would grow up more able and prepared to
challenge our so-called democratic government. Of course, teachers will probably
be given the boot for enlightening their pupils but if all the teachers did it then there’s
not a lot the Education Authority could do about it! Let’s have a couple of teachers
leading such a movement. It could be called ‘Power to the Pupils’.
I reckon we should sue them anyway for failure to deliver and administer an
appropriate education for our children. While I’m on the subject, we should sue for:
damage to the environment, negligence, deception, human rights abuses, racism,
sexism, theft, abuse of power, extortion, freedom restrictions, terrorism, poverty,
unjust laws…. In a nutshell we should seek damages for their promotion and spread
of the world’s evil and destruction of our planet. Basically we should sue the
government for being white b…. studs.
JANUARY 24TH 1999
Mum popped into my thoughts quite a bit today. We were quite a close-knit family,
although it was largely left to mum to bring us up – dad was out at work or pursuing
his interests for much of the time. Mum doted her life to her family and provided me
and Malcolm with oodles of love and guidance. She always maintained that if kids
are loved and disciplined, they grow up to be loving, kind, helpful and considerate. I
remember when I was about six years old, and we were living in Billinge, looking at
her with such adoration and saying, “I really hope that when I get married and have
children that I’m as good a mum as you are.” I remember saying it with such
sincerity and I was actually shocked when she hugged and kissed me and
whispered, “I’m sure you will be one day.”
Who needs psychologists, psychiatrists, counsellors, social workers…. Who needs
these ‘experts’? All you need is a loving mum. Mum had her deep self-doubts, her
‘inner demons’, but she had a strong mind too and could challenge her inner
tormentors without the need of professionals and crutches who, she believed, did
more harm than good. Despite her doubts, she had a strong will and was a well
liked, hardworking woman. Shelly often says to me words along the lines of, “You’re
the best mum – one in a million. I hope I’ll be just like you one day. You know
everything.” Andrew too echoes similar sentiments. I tell them I’m flattered and
touched but that I don’t know everything and that sometimes I’m unsure of myself,
but I can only do my best. They reassure me that, “You’re doing fine – really.” I get
quite choked up at these times because of the fact they hold me in such high regard.
Andrew left four mugs containing a tea bag and a dollop of milk in each, all lined up
on the sideboard for me before he retired to bed, cos he knows I’m a tea-aholic and
that I hate making my own brews. Bless him!
JANUARY 25TH 1999
The radio phone-in covered the use of drugs. Apparently it’s up eight-fold and kids
now as young as five are educated in schools about the effects. This is shocking.
Five year olds! Many despairing parents phoned in to complain that the drugs
culture is ‘glamorised’ and that their kids and many like them are now caught in a
downward spiral. When are the ‘authorities’ going to stop wasting time and
resources on ‘educating’ kids and concentrate instead on halting the influx of illegal
substances and prosecuting and punishing drug smugglers, dealers and pushers?
When? Never. The government want to keep the flow of drugs – it is far too
lucrative. I’m glad Andrew and Shell aren’t subject to the school peer-group
pressures of trying this filth just to look big and be accepted by the crowd. They
know that it is a sign of weakness to be hooked on such poison. I just hope and pray
that they remain sensible and self-confident enough to resist experimenting with
drugs or fags or solvents at any time in the future.
Oh, God bless the day when people take back the power and REFUSE to buy drugs.
That’ll stuff the lying, greedy pigs of politicians up – the same politicians who bang
on about morality and who own shares in all things bad; bad for us and/or bad for the
poverty-stricken disease-ridden multi-millions who exist mainly in the ‘third world’
countries. They have shares in: alcohol and tobacco companies, arms companies,
pharmaceutical companies, oil companies and other multinationals who profiteer on
the backs of little slave children.
JANUARY 27TH 1999
I threw a freaky today with the kids. I was so pumped up that I began tripping over
my words and spluttering out claptrap. In a millisecond, I boomed, “Shut the light off,
switch the doors, put your hook on the coat, chuck your rubbish in the porch and
shoes in the bin – NOW.” They looked at me as if I’d grown two heads, so I
bellowed, “Get on with it – NOW.” It brought back memories of mum’s frequent
gobbledegook. She’d confuse me with, “I won’t tell you again,” and “I’ll brain you,”
and “I’ll teach you to show me up like that again.”
Lin and I had one of our heavy, over-the-wall gasses. We harped on about the fact
that all governments waste money because evil, greedy, destructive, self-centred
power hungry criminals are in control. We reckon that if there was no corruption, no
crime, no selfishness, no egotism and greed, there would be virtually no tax and we
would all live happily together. There would be no suffering and poverty and no
ailing planet; and there would be an abundance of money in the public pot to pay our
intelligent members of society to do scientific research into: cures for diseases,
mysteries of the universe….
I later fell asleep contemplating the state of the world and the ugliness of many of the
people who inhabit it. I thought that if only everyone could live according to the rules
of the bible. If only we could change the way people think and behave so that they
become righteous. This can only be done if some people in positions of power set
an example. The government would have to be squeaky clean and also the royal
family and then the chiefs of commerce and public office. This would have a knockon effect throughout everyone. After all, the structures and organisations are all in
place to provide a perfect world but unfortunately the people in positions of power
are self-serving crooks. Can you imagine Prescott binning off his jags, travelling by
bus everywhere and urging all other ministers to do likewise or Blunkett insisting that
all politicians’ sprogs attend inner city comprehensive schools or the Queen giving
away the bulk of her wealth to good causes…. just to set a good example!
Come to think of it, how can she call herself a human being, let alone her majesty
when she is not allowed to express her political opinion? And what is a political
opinion anyway? In my book, politics covers everything, so therefore it is a point of
view on anything. For that reason alone I’d have to abdicate if I was sitting in her
seat. I simply could not go through life without giving my opinion on things. Her maj
represents a country of democracy – of free speech, does she not? Then why
doesn’t she speak out and support all her ‘subjects’ and not just the rich and
powerful? Why doesn’t she demonstrate this by giving away her millions to: help the
poor, finance a SAFE public transport system, which provides an acceptable
alternative to the car, finance hospitals and schools…. What an example this would
be to everyone. She’d soon shame her government. Anyway, if she had any go in
her and any dollop of respect for other members of her own sex, she would insist on
there being at least fifty percent of women in top jobs, including local and national
government. Better still, she should campaign for an all-woman government [for a
trial period maybe] and let’s see if that’d make a difference because the men in
power right now are leading us on a downward spiral of hopelessness. Blair bangs
on about his ‘moral’ crusade! He should demonstrate this by giving up his money to
really help the destitute. Maybe then he’ll get serious about the corruption and waste
in his cabinet and in councils…. and maybe then we might just believe him.
JANUARY 28TH 1999
Paula [my babysitter] turned up to meet the family. We had tea and biccys, chatted
for about an hour about her qualifications, experience, hobbies and pals and then I
took her on a tour. We discussed payment and I agreed that she could stay
overnight since her place of work is only a ten-minute walk away and it would be
difficult for her to return home late at night. She seems perfect for the job and I feel
happy now about arranging a night out with Linzi. The kids seem to like her too and
say that they’ll keep an eye on her! They say they’ll make sure that she doesn’t
drink, smoke or ‘party’ while on duty! Poor girl probably won’t want to return a
second time.
A section in a women’s mag caught my eye. The passage was about parents and
children and the importance of parents presenting a ‘united’ front to their kids to
avoid confusing them and to enable goalposts to be erected and shifted which set
the boundaries of acceptable behaviour. How true! I can heave a sigh of relief now
that I no longer have the hassle of fathers in my house that played dangerous games
with my kids just to serve their own spiteful ends. Gaven would get them up
because “they want to watch TV” [Andrew was three, Shell was two.] I’d insist that
they sit at the table to eat; he would find it amusing if they decided to get on the table
during a meal. He’d make no effort to correct them, saying, “They’re only little, let
them do what they want.” He even let them steal from us and from shops, while he
laughed it all off and said that it didn’t matter. Fair play to his mother, she did try to
talk to Gaven to make him see the error of his ways but he wouldn’t or couldn’t
change, and I couldn’t cope. The more I tried to discuss the problem with him, the
more bloody-minded and critical of me he was. I got so despondent and so doubting
of myself as a mother when we lived in Australia that I sought advice from the ABC
nursery. They told me that kids are bright enough, even at a very young age to know
how to play their parents against each other. They know if their parents are in control
or if indeed they are and they even know when they’re being naughty and that the
adults around them are allowing them to continue to misbehave. They also know
that they want to be stopped and that if they are not, they become confused,
frightened and even more destructive.
Leanne, the assistant manageress of the ABC, told me that kids who grow up in a
‘controlled’ environment end up being polite, happy, likeable folk who have values.
She told me about two brothers [aged seven and eight years] who she once
fostered. They came to her as “spoilt brats – a real pain in the neck pair” who
constantly bickered and fought. She knew that their parents were submissive
permissive types who didn’t like inflicting punishment, which meant that the boys
were allowed to “get away with murder.” She took it on board to impose firm, clear,
management on them and it wasn’t long before they’d turned into “the most
affectionate, happy, self-confident, caring, kiddies you could hope to meet.”
Unfortunately they had to return to their own family and they soon regressed.
Leanne said that it was easy to spot the parents who manage their kids with
confidence and instill good values, and the ones who are tireless slaves to their
offspring. She said that the parents who allow their kids to walk all over them do
them a grave disservice because as soon as those kids encounter kids who do know
correct and appropriate behaviour, they find hostility and intolerance. Selfish and
spoiled children then have to learn the hard way how to get along with others. Many
fall by the wayside and end up alone and miserable.
She did speak words of wisdom and I’ve largely tried to follow her advice. I do feel a
surge of smug satisfaction when I get complimented on Andrew’s and Shell’s
behaviour, such as when they don’t create a scene in a shop if I’ve refused them a
chocolate bar. I had rather naively thought that once I’d divorced Gaven, he’d stop
playing his destructive games with Andrew and Shell and would stop using them as
weapons, but he didn’t. He started to operate in a more subtle sneaky way. He
would creep down our drive to entice Andrew and Shell with sweets, fizzy drinks and
money; he’d get them to steal money and food from me and would then buy lavish
gifts for them or spend it all in the arcade.
Gareth on the other hand is just plain deceitful and vicious and will lie relentlessly to
boost his own image and achieve his own sordid aims. He cares not one jot about
his kids – any of them, and will force his older two to lie to save his own skin. His
sole mission in life is to continue controlling me and his ex wife. The children are his
tools. I’ve lost count of the times that I’ve told Gaven and Gareth that our children
are not playthings [dolls or teddies] or to be used as pawns; that they need to be
nurtured, the righteous way, and that we have to influence them by setting the
correct example. But it always fell on obstinate selfish ears.
In the evening the kids and I heard scuffling noises in the yard and a rock moving. I
bolted out with all guns blazing to find Emma peering out of the window of the old
people’s home. Emma lives at the top of our road and helps her mum Donna who
works at the home. Emma told me she must’ve startled the prowler [a bloke]
because she saw him scarper as soon as she turned the light on. So the detestable
louse is back to haunt me again? So much for a court undertaking!
JANUARY 29TH 1999
I had my first meeting today with Vera, the Court Welfare Officer. Jordan and Melly
attended nursery and Andrew and Shelly got busy with tea and choccy biccys and
toys in an adjoining room of the offices. I had to stomach being in the same room as
the Lucifer himself with Vera doing her best to keep the peace between us as we
insulted each other and rubbished each other’s testimonial with dogged
determination. The big difference was that he lied his ugly head off whereas I simply
stated the truth. He declared he was finally forced to leave me because I’m a
schizophrenic and an alcoholic! I told her to enquire with the police since they had to
take him home on the night of the 5th October because he was blotto. I also told her
to check out the AA centres in Llandudno and Colwyn Bay where he sought help for
his addiction but soon gave up. [The stupid idiot even arrived today smelling of
alcohol.] He insisted that he used to be Jordan’s main carer and that Andrew and
Shell are little delinquents, always in trouble with the police and had even been seen
recently letting horses out of stables at the back of his house. I was gob smacked at
his unflinching barefaced lies. I told her to check with the nursery regarding Shell’s
credentials and to ask to see Gareth’s driving license whereupon she’d notice his
title as “Rev” and that if she checked with the church, she’d soon discover he most
certainly is NOT a reverend.
Strangely though, he declined the invitation to prove me wrong and made a feeble
excuse about his license being “elsewhere.” I asked him when he intended returning
dad’s ladders and if he had any intentions of making even a token gesture towards
repayments of the two and a half grand that he owes dad. He ostentatiously insisted
that the matter would need to be handled through his solicitor since my dad was, in
his opinion, “dubious and not to be trusted” and “an awkward, pompous prat.” “Well,
he didn’t fit that description when he was good enough to lend you that money, since
no-one else would help you out and you were desperate,” I reminded him. I couldn’t
believe that he’d show himself up in front of Vera. I really thought he’d give up the
pretence and would start making a conscious effort to right the wrong that he was so
guilty of. But he just dug himself further into a deep black hole. I was so shocked
that he had so much ill will inside of him and that he could invent such rubbish. I’d
stupidly thought that by leaving him for good would’ve jolted him into making some
big changes for the better; to try and get on the right side of me and win back my
friendship and respect for the sake of Jordan and Mel. But no, he obviously has
warped deep-rooted psychological hang-ups [one of which is a dread of and an
inability to deal with rejection] that I hadn’t realised were quite so embedded and
disturbing. It was becoming worryingly evident to me that this guy was going to be a
real thorn in my side for a long time to come and was going to cause me real grief. I
could only pray that officials would see right through him and that he’d eventually
give up his desire to control me.
I felt some smug satisfaction when he then dropped himself in it. Vera asked him
why he hadn’t alerted Social Services since he had been so obviously concerned
about my parenting abilities. He was pleased to inform us that he had – in
December 1997. So it was him behind that malicious referral after all, where social
worker Anne Campbell had visited me on New Years Eve to tell me that Gareth
Williams was worried about Jordan because I wasn’t looking after him et cetera. At
that time Anne had phoned Gareth from my house but he had denied reporting me
and had even been verbally abusive to her [so he told me later.] I remember that
she had come over all faint afterwards. So I wouldn’t be surprised if he had given
her a mouthful at the time. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised if the reptile
had specifically chosen to report me to social services when he did – on new years
eve at around 7.00 pm because the b…. was hoping that Anne would find me drunk
on festive spirits and incapable of looking after my baby.
I was happy that his credibility was beginning to take a momentous dive and that
Vera had something concrete to investigate. She asked if it would be alright for
Gareth’s daughter to see the babies. I enquired as to how we’d police it and then
suggested she could visit them at my house if she really wanted to see them, but
before I could get another word out, Gareth snarled, “Like hell.” So I think Vera got
the general picture. I wonder if he was seriously worried that maybe [crazy as it may
seem] I could’ve talked her into siding with me and coming clean with the truth about
her dad. She and her brother know a lot more than I do about Gareth’s violence
against women, children and animals and about his seedy little ways. I hope for their
sakes that they can one day find the strength to break free of his offensive control
and tell everyone the truth. Her brother has made some attempts but has not yet
succeeded.
JANUARY 30TH 1999
I hit the roof with Andrew. His room was a pigsty, so in rip-roaring rage I lobbed
everything of his that was left lying around into the middle of his room, which formed
a pile of garbage. I then ordered him in to clean it all up, that he had fifteen minutes
to do it and that he could use that time from his own ‘play’ time, not mine. I then felt
really angry with myself cos I’d told myself not to lose my rag with the kids. I knew it
was easier to get results if I remained calm and unmoved and I was trying to
encourage them to be self-controlled. My outburst was an abysmal example to them
of how NOT to behave. Now they’ll start screaming at each other to “get here….
NOW.” I was so close to clouting Andrew then but I had to force myself not to cos I
know they’ll just think it ok to beat up on each other and the kid in the street [tho
maybe that’s not such a bad idea.] It’s a real effort to curtail my swearing when I’m
at the pinnacle of my passion; often the kids end up rebuking me if a line of
unprintable dialogue unwittingly escapes me.
I’m ashamed to say that only half an hour earlier, I’d been lecturing them about
talking to each other rather than doing the grinding bickering that they had been
lately. I’d been harping on about them cooling down and refraining from calling each
other names. I’d been preaching about the nasty way they bully each other
sometimes and I’d stressed the need to be assertive, strong and reasonable – not
aggressive, and that outsiders would respond to them more favourably if they
remained dignified and in control rather than ranting and raving, like loonies. I’d
explained that people who spout off just get laughed at and dismissed as insane.
And now I’ve just given them the social gratification of ‘losing it’. I can’t help blowing
a fuse and so my great intentions of setting a good example has been blown straight
out of the window. Terrific!
JANUARY 31ST 1999
During the evening I was perched at the kitchen table engrossed in the letter I was
writing to my pal Sue when I heard someone hoof it down my drive, followed by a
thud on my corrugated porch. I peered out through the plastic but saw nothing. Not
relishing a full-blown investigation, I bolted the inner door and slumped in my chair.
My heart was heavy, my body icy cold and my mind now blank. I pushed the letter
aside, dropped my head in my palms and began to cry – tears of fear and defeat. Is
that perverted insect ever going to leave me alone?
FEBRUARY
FEBRUARY 1ST 1999
I discovered that one of my pipes had been yanked off the wall. That cockroach can
just keep on coming here and doing what the hell he pleases! What if I went sniffing
around his place and just pulled a couple of pipes down or sprayed blobs of blue
paint over his rhododendrons? He’d half kill me; that’s what.
The scumbag has been crawling past in his prized possession on and off all evening.
I went through the formalities of reporting it to police but, typically, when they turned
up, smarty-pants had done a runner. Uniform informed me that they were
responding as soon as possible but with only two officers on duty, they were running
a tight ship. So back to square one; they can’t arrest until they catch him in the act;
he isn’t stupid enough to make himself available to them and I can’t hold him here,
so what now? Back to court? What’s the point?
FEBRUARY 2ND 1999
Jordan and Mel attended the leisure centre crèche while I went jogging along the
beach. I’ve decided I’m now going to train in earnest for the London marathon and
that I’m going to lose quite a bit of weight in the doing. Linzi came along too, but she
was perched on her bike. Andrew and Shell were cycling also – half a mile in front of
us. But all my grand plans soon came to an abrupt and humiliating halt. I could
barely manage to jog and found myself huffing and puffing as I heaved myself along
for an embarrassing two minutes. So I gave up and settled for a more dignified swift
walk. Anyway the wind was biting and blowing at a rate of knots and odd drops of
menacing drizzle came cascading upon us. [All the excuses were there.] After
about forty five minutes of this spectacular debacle, me and Linz sloped off to the
café for a welcoming slush puppy. As we sat exchanging gossip, I became aware of
my calves throbbing. It was quite extraordinary since I’d only been walking. I guess
it proves how ashamedly unfit I am.
Linzi and I compared notes on rearing kids. We agreed that the most important thing
you can give your kids is your time, your friendship, bundles of love and complete
honesty. I allow Andrew and Shell to answer me back sometimes because I want
them to grow up feeling relaxed and with the confidence to have opinions. I want my
kids to be able to trust me with anything and not to be scared of me or to consider
me an ‘authoritarian dictator’. But I am prone to bullying them if I think they’re being
idle. Some parents, we concluded, are so aggressive towards their kids – forcing
them to practice musical instruments daily, attend clubs, do homework every night et
cetera, that their kids grow up stressed out and of a nervous disposition. They end
up lacking confidence and being fearful and hating life.
In crèche the babies were described as “shy” because they weren’t in a hurry to part
with their double buggy. I reckon they’re just taking their time weighing up their
surroundings and are not prepared to rush into a decision yet as to whether they are
in a homely or hostile place. I don’t think kids should be rushed into ‘socialising’ and
that it is sensible for them to be a little ‘reserved’ for a while. Children and babies
are reliably honest with their feelings and are not easily tricked by well-intentioned
adults, some of whom are inclined to be too forthright and embarrassing to little
people.
FEBRUARY 3RD 1999
As we sat at the tea table shovelling bangers and mash down our throats, the
conversation drifted on to our time with Gareth. The kids came out with things that I
never knew had happened, such as the times Andrew had sat up until 2.00 am
supping strong lager with Gareth and his son beside a bonfire while I slumbered on.
Andrew said that Gareth was always in a good mood at such times and would sling
him coins and cans but then all of a sudden he’d turn really nasty, would start spitting
and would order him to “ger a bed – NOW.” He told me that when I was out of the
room, Gareth would often give Jordan sips of grog and that sometimes Jordy ended
up swallowing a cup or so of lager. Shell quickly revealed her revelations, one of
which was that they were made to say that Gareth’s dinners were the best and that
mine were horrible and that if they didn’t praise him they’d be chucked in the thorns
later. “Good job we’re well rid of the fat b…. std,” came my response. “No need for
secrets now or pretences.”
A philosophical thought popped into my mind just at that moment. ‘Every person in
your life – for whatever reason – is there because you have drawn them there. What
you chose to do with them is up to you.’ Then another thought popped into my head.
‘There is no such thing as a problem without a gift for you in its hands. You seek
problems because you need their gifts.’ I wondered why I’d drawn such a bad
bugger like Gareth into my life and that although I’d had problems during my time
with him I also had gifts – Jordan and Melissa. Now that I’m still getting problems
because of my irksome ex, I wonder if there will be a gift in the end. The only real
gift of any significance that I could wish for would be a safe and peaceful world for all
children to grow up in.
FEBRUARY 4TH 1999
Linzi and I had made impressive plans to play tennis, but that idea was given the
elbow because buffeting winds threatened to take the ball off elsewhere; so we
opted for a run [well ok a brisk walk] instead. I casually slung Andrew my racquet
and politely asked him to return it to the leisure centre for me, but he protested
vehemently and came out with a string of obscenities that was enough to turn the air
blue. He’d decided he was too old to run errands for me and that I’d have to take it
back myself. Well that did it! I asked him in dictatorial tone, “Just who the hell do
you think you are? Don’t you raise your voice like that to me again; now do as you
are told or you can go to bed early for a week. You’ll do as I say until you’re
eighteen.” With that, he stormed off, his face looking like thunder and, armed with
my racquet, he had the disposition of a boy on a mission to kill. I turned to Linzi with
an expression of hopelessness on my face, took a deep breath and tried to
concentrate my mind on our fitness objective.
As we paced ourselves, she gave me some consoling words along the lines of, “I
hate to think how Jamie would’ve reacted if I’d told him to take my tennis racquets
back. Ten year olds go through an ‘attitude’ stage when they think they’re not kids
anymore; it’s all to do with their hormones. Andrew will turn as nice as pie again
after a short while and will be all eager to please and then when he’s about thirteen,
look out, he’ll go through a horrible phase again. He’ll be really argumentative and
awkward – you watch.” She is entitled to speak such authoritative words being a
mum of three, aged fifteen years, eleven years and nine years.
FEBRUARY 5TH 1999
I cannot believe the events of today. One minute I was thinking positively, and
excitedly arranging my fitness-training schedule and the next I was sitting in hospital
with my kids, accused of being a baby batterer. I had taken Melissa for her routine
eight-month check up at the clinic when health visitor Mrs Browne became alarmed
at a red rash on Mel’s shoulder. I explained that I’d noticed it a few days ago but that
I was sure it was eczema as it looked just like Andrew’s whenever his flared up. I
told her that Melissa wasn’t unwell so I wasn’t unduly worried and that I thought it
would just clear up as Andrew’s always does; without the use of creams. I explained
that I’ve never been one to rush to the doctor every time I see a rash cos babies get
them so often and they can look aggressive one minute and then can virtually
disappear the next. But she wasn’t happy with that and called the clinic doctor [Dr
Macareth] who also took a critical view.
The doctor told me that my baby had been burned or scalded and that if I hadn’t
done it to her, then it was necessary to find out immediately who had done it. She
proceeded to enquire as to who else had looked after Melly recently, but by now I
couldn’t take in what she was saying, my mind was in ‘blackout mode’. I heard her
vaguely babbling on about Melly going to hospital as a matter of urgency and being
examined by a paediatrician and that social services would be called in at once. I
was stunned. I began to wonder if Mel had accidentally burned herself on the
radiator without my knowledge but then I told myself that that was virtually
impossible because I’d have heard her screaming and would’ve been the first on the
phone to call an ambulance if that had been the case. I knew Andrew and Shell
hadn’t hurt her because they’re never left alone with her and I was damned sure that
crèche or nursery weren’t to blame. So I again expressed my innocence, tried to
explain that it was only eczema and that she’d had wisps of it before.
Overcome with shock and disbelief, I found myself begging Dr Macareth not to
contact social services because I was so scared of Gareth finding out. I worried
about the implications of it being recorded. I explained the problems I was having
with Gareth – about his threats that my kids will be taken into ‘care’, all his
slanderous vindictive allegations to social services and NSPCC and my custody
court battle. I told her that Gareth had done this to his ex wife and that she’d been
denied any form of contact with her own two children. But the doctor coldly
announced that she didn’t need my permission, she was duty-bound to inform social
services when there were suspicions of child abuse and that I’d better hurry home to
pack some things for Melissa because she’d be staying in hospital for a few nights
and the ambulance would be arriving in ten minutes to take her. By now I was in a
state of panic and confusion, and as tears began to well up inside me I squeaked,
“They’re not going to take my children off me, are they?” I don’t remember her reply.
I was in no fit state to absorb anything at this stage. I do remember thinking, ‘But I’m
duty-bound too – to protect my kids from interfering officials and their abusive father.’
In the ambulance I was still in a haze and in silent torture. The hospital staff were a
little more compassionate and offered us juice and sandwiches while we waited.
After a couple of hours, the paediatrician finally examined Melissa’s mark. He told
me that it was “definitely not a scald, possibly a burn and probably eczema,” as he
pointed to the wisps on her chest. He quickly added that it wasn’t so mysterious and
nothing to worry about but that since it was slightly infected it was wise to leave her
in hospital overnight.
I had no choice but to leave her there alone. We got a taxi home but I worried and
fretted all night. She was still being breastfed and I couldn’t be there to nurse her. I
tormented myself with thoughts that she was crying for me now that she realised I’d
gone. I called dad and he was outraged too at that judgemental overbearing clinic
doctor. He was also so sure that I’d get more sympathy from my own GP. I hardly
slept all night. The ugly accusation “child abuser” kept ringing in my ears.
FEBRUARY 6TH 1999
Dad lent me his car to go and visit my baby. I don’t know what I’d have done if I’d
been forced to rely on the buses which is the only form of transport that I could later
be reimbursed on. They travel half hourly [and that’s assuming they’re on time] and
connections are appalling, with a half hour wait in between at least. The Colwyn Bay
to Rhyl bus is a three quarterly hour journey and the Rhyl to hospital bus twenty
minutes. If I’d needed to use the Sunday service [God help me] I could expect to
wait two hours at least for a bus. Talk about third world Britain! Public transport is
pathetic. Prescott should do us all a favour and push off out of his privileged
ministerial position and he should compensate us all out of his own personal wealth
for gross negligence and incompetence. To make matters worse was the condition
of the weather – icy blizzards. How could I take an eight-month old baby [plus the
other three kids - one of them only twenty three months old] home from hospital with
the bus system in such shambles? Did Dr Macareth think of that when she high and
mightily forced my baby to unnecessarily spend a night twenty miles away from me?
Her actions could’ve resulted in Mel getting pneumonia; then she’d have had
something to be concerned about. And all this fiasco was despite the sick stage of
our cash strapped NHS. My baby could’ve taken up resources that a really needy
child might’ve been denied.
The nurses were in love with Mel and told me she’s a gorgeously contented baby
and that she’s been cooing, laughing and chatting to herself all morning. The
doctors were impressed with her happy disposition too and remarked that she’d
gurgled and chuckled alone in her room for ages. I picked her up and cradled her.
When she realised it was me she fell apart and began wailing. I thought she was
angry at me or something for leaving her but the nurse assured me, “She knows
she’s in mum’s arms now and she feels secure enough to be able to show her true
emotions – she’s so overwhelmed to see you.” Thank heavens Jordan was on his
best behaviour. The doctors and nurses remarked how adorable he was because he
ate his lunch so nicely and he put his rubbish [even his crumbs] in the bin. I was
allowed to take Melissa home and I spent the rest of the day praying that a good
hospital report would filter through to the authorities and that they’d decide social
services intervention was unnecessary.
I recalled the visit with the H/V before she noticed the mark. She was whittering on
about Melly being a bit slow to sit up and that she’d have to check her next month.
For crying out loud, if Mel doesn’t want [doesn’t feel the need] to be sitting up, then
so be it. That’s her business. What are the professionals going to do about it?
Force her? It’s no wonder we have a nation of nervous wrecks with all these
expected and enforced milestones! Then, when kids go to school, they are
bombarded with a plethora of exams and testing to make sure everyone reaches the
expected level for their age! Where’s the merit of individuality and creativity gone?
The government will be telling us next when and how to visit the loo!
Mel isn’t a performing circus elephant. Jordan made it clear to her that he’s no robot
or dummy either and he screamed blue murder when she told him to get out of his
pram. It didn’t surprise me. He has good judgement in his opinion of folk – especially
officials. Babies and little kids demonstrate more alertness and intelligence than
most adults. Kids don’t pretend, don’t hate, don’t inflict harm on others, have natural
behaviour and a healthy zest for life, until adults change them and make them evil
and turn them into slaves - to harmful substances and society. Even children with
‘special needs’ understand injustice and pretension but are often unable to express
themselves except in a negative manner. As for ‘health’ visitors being an authority
on health, I am extremely sceptical. I remember a health visitor I once had in
Australia when Andrew and Shell were babies; the woman was HUGE. From the
moment I met her I thought that if she was a symbol of health I’d rather not pay much
heed to that breed. She even found it funny that some mums put a tot of whisky in
their babies’ milk to make them sleep longer.
FEBRUARY 7TH 1999
My mind was racing. Dr Macareth now has me feeling so low and inadequate as a
mother. She’d even said that social services need to investigate “for your own
good.” I’d felt like a naughty schoolgirl. I began to think maybe I should hand over
my kids to someone else who can do a better job than me in raising them. My
confidence is at rock bottom. It is easy to see how innocent people get driven to
nervous breakdowns. Maybe this was her aim; maybe she has been warned by
Gareth to be wary of me. It all seems highly suspicious. She was extremely
overbearing. Gareth had promised all this would happen, that he’d win and that all
my kids would be taken off me. The people that matter don’t believe me; they do not
think that I’m a good mum. They’re listening to him. How can this be happening?
Who or what is he? My job with children could now be in jeopardy too. This
happened to GW’s ex wife. She lost her children. How? Why? I would’ve thought
Mrs Browne would be more sympathetic since she sits on the domestic violence
forum and must understand how violated and crushed women are who have suffered
mental and/or physical violence at the hands of the one person who is supposed to
love and protect them. It is so hard to break free from a controlling oppressive man
and to move on. How can you, when you are still being attacked by him and by the
very people who are supposed to help you?
I began to question our supreme divine saviour; the one they call God. I decided
that there is no God and if there was, then he should be ashamed of himself –
allowing all the misery, suffering, injustice and poverty in the world. I had him
incriminated and charged with treachery and I felt he should be forced to resign his
post and take early retirement. But then I lightened up a bit and felt more forgiving
as I considered the possibility that God was, in fact, trying his best to relieve us of
our torment but that he needed more people on his side and that he was having a
real battle defeating Satan – the personification of evil.
FEBRUARY 8TH 1999
Jordan put me in my place this morning. After breccy he carefully placed his cereal
bowl and spoon in the sink as he always does then he decided to clear up Mel’s
things too. He placed her spoon in the sink then carried her bowl over to the bin. I
hastily shouted, “No no Jord – in the sink, yes?” But he just looked at me as if I was
stupid and proceeded to the bin whereupon he emptied out the dregs from the bowl;
then he toddled back to the sink and deposited the bowl. He then turned to me and
said in serious tone, “Ok?” I just stood there speechless until I managed to mumble
meekly, “Good boy; thank you.” He’s not yet two!
The H/V phoned to enquire after Mel’s health. I told her in no uncertain terms how I
felt about the way she and the clinic doctor had handled it and that it was all so
distressing and damaging to us all. I made it clear that I’d lost confidence in Dr
Macareth; that she was tyrannically overbearing and that I felt she’d abused her
position. I told her that she’d taken the ‘erring on caution’ stance a bit too far and
that the hospital doctors weren’t worried about Mel and had stated that it was
eczema. I made it clear to her that such an over reaction by health professionals
gave the likes of Gareth Williams more ammunition for his seedy little plot. I let it be
known that people like her and Dr Macareth don’t know who they’re dealing with in
men like Gareth, that he is such a conniving conman and that it’s one thing having
referrals from him – a vindictive vicious ex and quite another from health
professionals. I informed her that I’m now too terrified to play with Jordan in case he
gets excited, accidentally falls and bumps himself. I told her I’m beginning to feel
obsessed with safety and that I’m conscious all the time of Jordan not getting any
cuts and bruises because I might be accused of child abuse. I said that Gareth is
slyly watching my every move and is on the lookout for any mark on the babies cos
he knows he can turn it against me, which is so ridiculous because all kids get
bumps – it is a natural part of growing up and the only way that kids learn. I asked
her what was I supposed to do – run to the doctor’s immediately any minor medical
mishap occurred? I ended with, “Why did the clinic wholeheartedly dismiss my claim
that the mark was only a rash?” And I declared that the least Dr Macareth could do
would be to apologise and help get me off the hook that she so spectacularly put me
on since it has been proven that I’m innocent. The H/V then asked if I wished to talk
with Dr Mac, so I enquired if an apology was forthcoming, but since it wasn’t, I
declined, saying that I wouldn’t waste my time.
I sought solace from my solicitor and even Julie Bray wonders if Gareth has put the
seeds of suspicion into the health professionals’ heads.
Later in the afternoon, I paid a visit to my own doctors’ surgery at Rhoslan. Melly
was seen by a locum, Dr Arthur, who was in no doubt that Mel had eczema. He said
that it was most certainly not a burn and that it had been totally unnecessary to whisk
her off to the hospital for an examination. He said that it was easily treatable at the
doctors’ surgery. I explained the situation, told him about the abhorrent way I’d been
treated at the clinic and asked if I was within my rights to refuse to visit that place
again. He told me that it’s a free country and that I was perfectly at liberty to refuse
any doctor/nurse/health visitor – whatever – if I so wished. Phew! That was a relief
to know. I didn’t waste any time contacting the clinic and announcing that my
allegiance was now to my own doctors’ surgery only. [I had to wrestle with myself to
stop blurting out, “So you can shove that in your pipe and smoke it.”]
FEBRUARY 9TH 1999
Oh for gawd’s sake, here come the prying nosey parkers with nothing better to do
than pester me just cos some high-handed doctor wants to prove a point – that she
can effectively destroy my life. Two social workers stood at my door demanding an
explanation for Melissa’s ‘burn’. I enquired as to whether they’d bothered asking the
opinion of the hospital paediatrician and my own GP. They told me that they wanted
my version, so I gave it to them good style and while I was on the subject, I
announced that they had some nerve questioning me since social services have one
hell of a reputation. I mentioned their own record of widespread child abuse in North
Wales Children’s Homes over a period of years and the shameful scandalous cover
up by the all the authorities, despite much damning evidence. One of them said,
“Such stories sell newspapers.” I retorted, “Hang on a minute, such news reveals
the shocking truth about many of our public services and if it wasn’t for the press,
people like your greedy wicked bosses would be getting away with murder.” I told
them that in my opinion Dr Macareth shouldn’t be wasting taxpayer’s dosh calling in
social services so hastily and that she should’ve had a second medical opinion. I
continued, “You complacent do-gooders don’t realise what men like Gareth Williams
are like, how powerful they are and what back-up they have. It is easy to see how
crime can not be eradicated. Not only have we got the problem of lack of witnesses
coming forth to testify due to intimidation [many people even being threatened with
their lives] but we have the likes of you people and other professionals doing nothing
to help and protect the victims. People like you listen to and obey criminal
godfathers and their henchmen because you yourselves fear them and you find it
easier to give them what they want. In the doing, and time again, the poor innocent
victim gets punished all over again by OFFICIALS. You lot are renowned for picking
on easy targets – the parents who are dedicated, doting, caring…. Scum like Gareth
Williams know how to play the system and how to perform. They know how to avoid
police prosecution and how to shift blame on to others, on to those who wouldn’t hurt
a fly. Those worthless pieces of bacterium are allowed to continue to wreak
mayhem and violence, fraud and theft, pain and misery…. with the full blessing of
people like YOU and your timid evil bosses. This is not and never has been about
the kids.
Even my ex’s older children are just puppets to him – props to help conceal his ugly
cowardly deceit and lies. They are bullied into doing what he wants them to do,
forced to be his accomplices in crime and to cover up his crimes, and if they don’t
comply they suffer the consequences. They know there is nowhere for them to run no protection. His son tried that a few times – and failed. They know they can only
live their lives of confusion under his control; under a charade; but they don’t realise
the damage he has inflicted on them. They have witnessed their dad hitting me and
Andrew yet fear drives them to deny it. I once ran screaming from his house,
begging for their help – for ten measly pence so that I could use the phone box, but
they both sat glumly shaking their heads. Their mother was under the misconception
that if she succumbed to him and allowed him custody of her children he would leave
her alone. Wrong. Even today, more that five years on, she remains terrified of him.
She lost her kids, her home and her freedom and all because, like me, she fell for a
charming conman. Gareth Williams is a lying evil-minded crook. He’s a lazy
drunkard who [cleverly] knows how to beat the justice system. And people like you
are helping him and God knows how many others like him.”
I was on a roll now and added, “Men like Gareth Williams are motivated by easy
money [the root of all evil] and the desire for power by brutal force over women and
children. Gareth is now incensed that I’ve found the courage to dump him and he
will do anything to deliver his revenge. But worse than that is the fact that I am now
targeted in order to silence me because the weak parasite is worried sick that one
day I just might land him behind bars, where he belongs. He knows that I’m gaining
strength daily. And that worries him. Now that you know a little bit more about
reality, perhaps you will afford me the courtesy of understanding my frustration and
incredulity that your type come here with suspicions that I’m a child abuser, just
because some do-good doctor finds a small rash that she cannot correctly identify
and thus concludes that it must be a burn. Just because a professional cannot
fathom what something is or how it got there does not give that person the right to
make assumptions and point fingers, which could be highly damaging to an innocent
person. Don’t you people realise that a member of your family could be a victim of
one of the Gareth Williamses of this world? By golly! Then you wouldn’t be so
blasé; you’d be wanting big changes; you’d want an incorruptible body of state
authorities and you’d be fighting like fury for TRUTH.”
My sermon didn’t get me very far, although the two ‘concerned’ women [concern for
who?] did meekly acknowledge that I had good reason to be infuriated. I then
offered the argument, “If I was guilty, do you suppose that I’d take Melissa for a
check up at the clinic? No, I’d make some excuse not to attend until the ‘mark’ had
faded.” I knew I’d wasted my breath on them when one remarked, “It’s unusually
quiet in here, considering you’ve got two babies.” I thought despairingly to myself,
‘So now you’re going to hang me just because my kids are not wild animals? I
suppose you think I’ve got rid of them or something?’ As they headed for the door, I
reasoned, “Look, the kids and I have suffered abuse at the hands of a violent
maniac. Now we want to move on in our lives. All I want is to bring my kids up in a
safe, happy and just environment. We just want our FREEDOM.”
FEBRUARY 10TH 1999
I had the pleasure of another enlightening experience with Vera, the court welfare
officer. This time she wanted to see the babies in action and she wanted to see how
they interacted with evil features. Fair play to her, she was more compassionate
about the whole ‘burn’ affair and said she’d have a word with social services. She
also agreed that it would be a disgrace if my work with children was put in jeopardy.
The convincing conman passed a message through Vera that dad would have to
pursue his ladder through solicitors. Even she remarked that he was just being
bloody minded. Vera told me that his royal highness spent the whole time
smothering Jordan and Mel with kisses until Melly played hell and demanded to be
returned to me.
Typically, everything that I say about him – the TRUTH, he says about me – the
LIES. Vera told me that he says that I’m the alci, that I went to Alcoholics
Anonymous for counselling and that he supported me. The facts are stated in AA’s
books: Gareth Williams is the alcoholic. Gareth Williams admitted to the AA
counsellors and to a roomful of other ‘recovering’ alcoholics that he has this problem.
Gareth Williams went for counselling for his alcoholism at venues in Colwyn Bay and
Llandudno. Why on Earth can’t AA divulge such info? – for the sake of the children
who are in danger and for the sake of saving other potential little victims and also for
the protection of mothers like me who find themselves up against other Gareth
Williamses. Women like myself need all the help they can get regarding their efforts
to discredit the likes of men like Gareth Williams. More worryingly, Vera even hinted
that one prominent AA counsellor supported GW’s assertions. Bloody incredible! So
even those counsellors are willing to bend the rules when it suits them. Worse, they
are prepared to fib. Even Lorraine at the church told me that she thought that we
had visited the church together wanting help and support because she thought we
both had an alcohol problem. Why can’t Vera find out the facts? The point is
alcoholic parents are a danger to their children, especially when the children are very
young. Organisations should be protecting the children, not the adult’s right of
anonymity. Children depend on healthy parents for their wellbeing. The alcoholics
are the adults and are old enough to look after themselves and to take responsibility
for their own actions. Children’s lives should not be put in jeopardy. To suggest that
alcoholics should be protected by anonymity on the excuse that they wouldn’t
otherwise attend is a weak argument. Either a person is serious about kicking an
addiction or he/she isn’t. This is especially so for those who have children. They
either want to be responsible and capable parents or they don’t. I have a sneaking
suspicion that if I had been the alcoholic and it was my name that was on AA’s
books, that fact would’ve appeared on one of Vera’s court welfare reports. Social
services check up on me unannounced every time they get one of GW’s or one of
his ‘anonymous’ referrals, I wonder if they are just as conscientious about all calls
that they receive. If they were, they’d soon see for themselves who the alcoholics
are and the drug addicts and the child abusers and the paedophiles…. In other
words, which parents pose a genuine risk to their children. Of course, the truth is
that such an undertaking would cost far too much and in any case the state does not
give a fig about the well being of children. So instead, they pick on easy targets.
They snoop on the people who pose no risk whatsoever to their children….
On the way home, on the bus, I got nattering with an old lady about government
cock-ups and incompetence. She informed me that folk who are addicted to alcohol
actually get paid thirty pounds extra per week for the privilege of feeding their
alcoholism. Crazy, isn’t it? Next, they’ll be paying junkies to snort coke or school
kids to go to school.
On our return, I discovered that some joker had shoved something sinister inside my
shed padlock so that I couldn’t stick the key in and the lock was effectively useless. I
had no choice but to force if off by pounding it with my axe. Now I’ll have to stump
up for another one. So the skunk has been sniffing around here again, has he?
Maybe he wasn’t too happy about today’s events.
FEBRUARY 11TH 1999
I took Melissa for another professional opinion on Mel’s mysterious rash. Dr
Thackray was in no doubt also that Mel had eczema and he prescribed creams. I
unburdened my thoughts about the debacle and the implications. He seemed
horrified at the way we’d been treated and agreed that the involvement of social
services was overdoing things a bit. He looked genuinely shocked when I informed
him that Gareth had promised to wreck my life and that he’d thwart anything I ever
did in the future.
Later in the afternoon Andrew and Shell were followed by GW’s daughter and her
friend as they walked out of the leisure centre. The two teenagers childishly taunted
my two with names and threats such as, “Na na na na na Andrew and Shelly, you
are dickheads. We’re gonna get ya – ha ha.” Andrew and Shell took to their heels
and ran as fast as they could all the way home. I told them that they did the right
thing and that if they see her again they should just ignore her and her equally
immature pal and hopefully she’ll soon give up. I hope it won’t get so bad that I have
to escort them everywhere but there’s no other protection. I don’t see the point in
calling incompetent cops, and the court has little clout. So much for court
intervention! I think the stick insect forgot to tell his silly daughter that the
undertaking included her too. In my opinion, the only reason we have courts are to
make fat cat lawyers and judges fatter.
FEBRUARY 12TH 1999
Mel’s eczema has progressed to her chin. I took her to see Dr Ratcliffe for another
professional medical opinion. I told her that in the past I’ve been advised to just
bathe rashes in cool boiled water and they usually disappear quite quickly. I told her
that Andrew has recurring eczema that clears on its own because creams don’t help
him. I explained that I’ve never been one to rush to the doctors willy nilly and since
Mel never showed any signs of being unwell I didn’t want to bother doctors or be
considered a neurotic over-protective mother. I declared that if I’d known
accusations were awaiting us at the clinic I would’ve whisked Mel to Rhoslan in a
flash before confronting heavy-handed clinic staff. Dr Ratcliffe was sympathetic,
surprised at the clinic conduct and positively discouraged me from running to see the
doctor for every minor ailment. I joked that I might have to start asking her for some
valium or something to calm my nerves and that the unwarranted over-the-top way
we’d been treated was enough to send anyone to the psychiatrist’s couch. She gave
me a stern look and said, “You’re not going to crack up; are you?”
I told her that I was worried sick that my case will now be weakened in court against
my unscrupulous ex and that my job with children may now be in jeopardy. Close to
tears, I blurted out that I’m beginning to suspect a conspiracy to have my children
displaced – on Gareth’s authority, because he’d for-warned me that this would be the
pattern of events until he finally got my babies and I was denied anything to do with
them. I told her that he’d callously warned me not to try to break free from him
because he’d see to it that I’d be denied all my kids. He’d said that he’d make sure
that Andrew and Shell would be in ‘care’ or living with their dad. I said that he’d
already tried to get my ex husband to file for custody of them after he’d told a pack of
vicious lies. I informed her that he would remind me that he’d masterminded his ex
wife’s fate just because she’d dared to run from him. The authorities had listened to
him then and are doing so now. I babbled on that Dr Macareth doesn’t realise how
ruthless some men are out there and how damaging her actions are under the
circumstances and that as such I truly believe that I am entitled to an apology. Dr
Ratcliffe could only listen in shocked silence, but then remarked that events had
been blown all out of proportion.
FEBRUARY 13TH 1999
Andrew has developed an annoying little habit lately. He keeps nicking my tools to
mess about on his bike and then he leaves the darned things lying around outside.
I’m sick of coming across spanners scattered here and there in the yard and I even
found my hammer perched on the windowsill today. There’s only one solution; I’ll
have to ban him from them until he learns to put things back.
Shell came out with a deep and meaningful statement today. She announced that
she’s glad she lives with me because “You’re strict on us all – for all the right
reasons”. She reckons that I harp on at them to “brush your teeth, don’t eat sweets
and chocolate, heat healthy foods – fruit and salads, not sugary or fatty foods, do
exercise, get on with your work books and keyboard practice, keep your rooms tidy,
change your undies daily.” But she says that I don’t nag them because I’m
“controlling or nasty” but to “help us grow up healthy, confident and clever and well
prepared for anything that life throws at us.” She continued, “Gaven always used to
buy our love – he bought us gifts, sweets and treats and he took us to fairgrounds
and arcades. We could do what we wanted and used to run around all over his flat,
jump on his bed with our shoes on, throw food around his kitchen…. We drank all his
lager; we played all day in the arcade with money he told us to steal from you. We
used to take fishcakes and bread from your freezer for him to cook up. We would
argue with him and call him names. Andrew kicked him and spat at him. His
neighbours always rowed with him because we were so noisy. We thought it was so
funny at the time but I can see now that it was a bad way to behave; but he never
stopped us. He just used to laugh and tell us to do it all the more.” She then said,
“You don’t have to prove that you love us by buying us things – we know you can’t
afford much. You give us much more than money could buy any day. You give us
your time and your brain; you guide us and know what we need and what’s best for
us….”. By the time she’d finished I felt as if I was walking on clouds.
The kids and I watched a film tonight based on a true story that had us all perched
on the edge of our seats from beginning to end. It was the tearjerker of the century
and every parent’s dread. An eighteen-month old baby girl fell down a well in her
back garden and got lodged fourteen feet down. There is no word in the dictionary
that could adequately describe the feelings of helplessness and despair of the
parents. It’s alright some people tutting and asking why the toddler was
unsupervised for the seconds it took for her to tumble in or indeed why the hole
wasn’t covered. Tragic accidents can happen to ANYONE – it only takes seconds
and a slight oversight. Within minutes, emergency services arrived and a
microphone dangled down to the child. Mum and dad took it in turns to talk to her
and reassure her, while rescuers battled against the clock. Minutes turned to hours,
hours into days as it became evident that tunnelling would have to take place, feet
away. Crowds and the media appeared from miles around and people from
everywhere offered their services and help in any way they could. The delicate
operation was risky but there was no alternative. Everyone was on tenterhooks –
vibrations from the drilling could have caused her to slip further down at any moment
and there was anxiety as to her exact location. Time was of the essence.
Periodically her parents could hear her faint cries, but when she remained quiet for
hours on end, it took divinely courageous helpers to calm them and convince them
that she was only sleeping. After a nightmare fiftyfour hours and a painstaking
delicate procedure, involving teams of men working shifts, the little baby was finally
reached and brought to safety, suffering only relatively minor injury. After a few days
in hospital, she had fully recovered.
I’d never got so choked up over a film before like I did this one. I looked at Andrew
and Shell and said, “Your nan used to say that you don’t know what real love and
sacrifice is until you have a child.” There is never a truer statement. Kids make you
selfless; they make you realise what total unconditional love is. The quote at the end
of the film, “Volunteerism and the meaning of love,” wrapped it all up and made me
think that there are so many people out there with kindness and love in their hearts
but that there are also many with hatred and evil intent in their souls. When you see
such films it brings it home to you. Why can’t we all be loving and helpful to others,
instead of being selfish, greedy, wicked and destructive? Unfortunately, the majority
of good folk are ruled by the few evil ones.
FEBRUARY 14TH 1999
Jordan had me in stitches today. I was busy sewing up a mattress and he was busy
nudging and prodding me to get my attention. So I grabbed the beaker that he was
clutching and balanced it on my head. For some reason he found that hilarious and
laughed heartily in a way only infants know how. He then proceeded to transfer the
beaker onto his own head. This little game went on for a few minutes, with both of
us creased up until pud found a way of defying gravity and holding the beaker
against his face. He’d discovered the power of suction, and like a true scientist, he
expressed his euphoria by running around in circles creating a right hullabaloo.
FEBRUARY 15TH 1999
I eavesdropped into a radio discussion on parenting. The ‘expert’ outlined the dos
and don’ts and that it is imperative to concentrate on positive commands for children
rather than the negative versions, such as “walk” not “don’t run” and “keep clean” not
“don’t get dirty.” She then stressed the importance of not calling your kids names
such as “you idle prat” but rather explain that you are unhappy with your child’s
behaviour not him. I vowed to make a conscious effort to adopt their rule and stop
calling Shell a “little cow” and Andy a “twit.” Other advice was geared to stopping
kids using whiny baby talk when they can talk perfectly well, for example, “I can’t
understand that voice and I don’t know what you want.” She says to be full of praise
for your child when you are pleased and to express thanks where it is due. She
advises that you should warn kids that bad behaviour won’t be tolerated by saying
something like, “If you are silly, we will come straight home.” Then, she says, give a
second chance such as a glare but that if misbehaviour continues simply say, “I can
see you have decided to go home,” and do just that. Further tips were that you have
to teach kids how to behave correctly which is time-consuming and demands
patience but that the results are well worth it. It wasn’t long before I put her methods
to the test. Shell was being a right mouthy madam just because I asked her to
remove her butt from the armchair and help out in the kitchen. My first reaction was
to growl: “Oi, don’t you dare back-answer me you cocky little….”. Then I got a grip
and commented coolly, “Shell, don’t you think that sounds really nasty? Don’t you
think we should all pull together, especially as I get tired too and need to get my feet
up now and again. Shall we try again?” She looked bewildered and gob smacked
then managed to ask, “What?” I repeated my request firmly but softly: “You may
watch TV after tea. You can tape CITV if it is so important, but right now I’d like your
help in the kitchen please,” and with that I swivelled on my heels and strode out.
Before I got to the kitchen I heard her shut the living room door and follow me.
Nothing more was said about the matter, but I had a Cheshire-cat grin on my face all
evening.
FEBRUARY 16TH 1999
I told Andrew and Shell that they could write a story on anything they wished as part
of their English lesson. I told them I wanted a title, capital letters and full stops in the
correct places and that they had to use their dictionary/thesaurus to check their
spellings and to find some alternative words to express themselves. In the past
they’ve written about: days out to fun places, swimming in the sea, animals…. But
today they both decided to log details of the goings on opposite and nearby our
house. Andrew focussed on the house of drugs and Shell turned her attention to
street gangs. I was a little hesitant at first about them actually writing about the more
sinister aspect of life as I was fully aware that we’d be due a visit from a Local
Educational Authority ‘inspector’ at any time to check up on Andrew’s and Shell’s
work. I felt a little daunted about the probability that he or she would be rather critical
of me allowing them to write about [or even be aware of] evil. But then I reasoned
that it is a free country and Andrew and Shell are entitled to write about anything that
is in their heart and that they were only speaking the truth regarding the seedy area
that we inhabit. I figured that it would be wrong of me to suppress their thoughts and
to pretend nothing bad happens and I decided that if anyone is to blame it is the
authorities for allowing crime to manifest and thrive, for turning a blind eye and for
lying when they claim to be cracking down on criminals. I told myself that if the LEA
pick on me for letting the kids write about the grubbier realities of life, then their crime
is bigger than mine. I decided that they would be guilty of denial or, worse,
promotion of criminality. As Andrew allowed his thoughts to spill out through his pen,
he declared that he was going to keep a journal of the “evils of the world” and that
he’d try to get it published.
He chose the title ‘A fly on the Wall’ and spoke about himself as being the fly and
witnessing the most horrendous scenes such as murders, violence and rape. He
wrote about the drug dealers that he sees coming and going in the house opposite at
all times of the day and night; about the naked women at the windows who are being
forced to have sex and the young girls who run from there screaming and crying. He
stated, “One day I’m going to join the police force and root out corupshun. The
bastads in that house get lots of money for selling drugs. People are ill and dying
because of drugs. It is blood money and bastad police wont do any thing about it.” I
was a little shocked at his terminology, but rather than correcting him for using such
explicit language, I found myself merely correcting his spelling and I thought, rather
brazenly, that the LEA can lump it if they don’t like it – at least Andrew is being
honest. And anyway, more to the point, he shouldn’t have to put up with all those
louts sneaking in and out of that house doing dirty deals, and junkies breaking into
nearby houses stealing from and terrorising old folk. Furthermore, I’ll invite any
official to show me a kid around here who doesn’t use such language and I’ll call
him/her a liar.
Shell also used the rather blunt approach to her street terror awareness. She spoke
of, “Sick gangs of kids chucking rocks at windows, bloody minded ring leaders
spraying paint on peoples walls and bastuds skwurting super glue into keyholes.”
Hers also ended with a finger pointing at police. She mockingly enquired, “Why can’t
the idle prats break the gangs up and stop the idiots?” Scornfully, she asks, “Are
they scared of three year olds?” Then rather philosophically, she points out that PC
stands for “perfect clown” not ‘police constable’. The kids don’t beat about the bush.
They know that it is evil to glorify evil and that ‘bastard’ is the correct word.
Tonight I had my first night out in ages with Linzi. We’d booked Llandudno theatre
seats for The Rocky Horror Show and had planned a swift half in the pub before
catching the last bus home. My babysitter Paula showed up straight after work. She
had tea with us and told me all about her day at the nursery. Afterwards she insisted
on washing up while I put Jordan and Melissa to bed. [I’d kept them up all day and
had worn them out so that they would be ready for bed a little earlier than usual.] I
didn’t want to burden Paula on her first night with having to go through the babies’
bedtime rigmarole. I then returned to find her sat on the living room floor with
Andrew and Shell engrossed in deep conversation about which video[s] they were all
going to watch. I like this girl. She seems to be an angel. I sloped off to doll myself
up. It’s months since I had a night out and I began to feel school girlishly excited. At
7.00 pm I was just heading for the door when I decided to give Paula a recap of the
dos and don’ts and to remind her to help herself to supper and to make herself at
home.
The bus came on time and Linzi boarded at the bottom of her road in Penrhyn Bay.
We flattered each other on our appearances and rabbited on about all sorts, such as
working with ‘special needs’ folk. She now has a part time job with ‘special needs’
adults. I recalled the ‘special needs’ children that I cared for and that a couple of
them were so challenging and virtually out of control that I’d once asked to sit in at a
‘special’ school to learn how to cope, but was refused. At theatre we had twenty
minutes to kill before the show started, so we headed for the bar and bought two
glasses of coke. Linzi then proceeded to remove two miniature bottles of bacardi
from her handbag, thrust one in my hand and we began to chill out. She then
dropped a bombshell and announced that after fifteen years of marriage she was
getting divorced. I was stunned since I thought they were one of life’s few happily
married couples. She told me that they’d had problems recently and had been to
Jamaica on hols to try and sort out their future. But it was there that her hubby
admitted the affair that she’d suspected, but worse still was the knowledge that his
girlfriend is pregnant. I really felt for her. She was close to tears and began puffing
nervously on a ciggie. I’ve never seen her smoke before. It all came spilling out
then. I never realised things had been so bad for her. She’s always listened to my
woes in the past but has never even hinted that anything could be wrong in her life.
It seems it’s not the first time that he’s had other women and he’s also quite fond of
using his fists.
By now we had progressed to the auditorium and found ourselves surrounded by
fishnet-stockinged men and women in frenzied exultation. We sort of watched the
show and during the quieter periods, steadfastly continued with our intense
conversation until the people behind us got pretty narked after gentle hints to shut us
up. So we hoofed it to the Washington. She told me that she’s going to find a flat to
rent and move in with her kids, that he can keep the beautiful big house, the
expensive cars and the money. I remarked that she had her priorities right. Then
she declared with dogged determination that she is going to find his new floosie and
“smack her in the gob.” After half a dozen bevies and chitchat covering a multitude
of topics, we called it a night.
The kids and the babysitter had spent an intriguing night hooked on Hellraiser and
Bloodsport. Paula and I enjoyed a hot chocolate before retiring to bed.
FEBRUARY 17TH 1999
I began toileting pud again. He had an introduction to it a few months ago. Now I’m
hoping he’ll pick it up quite quickly. Watching him like a hawk, I let him run around
half naked. Noticing a couple of dribbles, I whisked him off to the loo where he
dutifully obliged. It’s a lorra work keeping an eagle eye on him and trying to
anticipate his next toilet requirement. I did try him on the potty but he protested
vehemently and preferred to use it as a storage container for his cars. During one
concentrated toilet visit, the little character surprised me by humming ‘The
Woodchuck,’ a song Andrew had been practicing on the keyboard.
Jack Straw says people who have a “personality disorder” should be locked away
whether they’ve committed a crime or not because they are a threat to the civil
liberties of others. In that case I’ll book Gareth in immediately. Seriously tho, many
who are ‘mad’ become so because of some unjust treatment they have received,
usually at the hands of authorities. Locking them up is not the answer, locking up
corrupt lying officials is.
Andrew began to give me some lip just because I asked him nicely to fold the
laundry and sort everyone’s stuff into neat piles. I was just about to give him what
for back when I remembered the new strategy and I whispered the request to him.
He looked at me as it I’d grown two heads, then, shaking his head he began to
collect the clothes whilst whispering, “Why can’t Shell do it?” I answered in a
whisper, “Because she has the ironing to do – not that it’s any of your business.”
Jordan can be quite the little helper when he chooses to be. A loaf fell off the table.
He immediately retrieved it without prompting then he helped me with the drying up
by storing all the bowls and mugs.
FEBRUARY 18TH 1999
Talk Radio covered the crime of Domestic Violence. Women from all strains of life
phoned in with the most horrific stories that had one thing in common – the absolute
fear they all felt of what he would do to them and their kids if they tried to escape.
Many stay with their men because of the shear terror they feel if they do not obey
him. Some had tried to flee but had been tracked down – and punished. Women
put up with domestic violence because it is better than being alone…. and dead!
Some simply do not have the confidence to go because their men folk – the ones
who proclaim undying love for them, have bled them of all their self-worth through
years of mental torture. One brave lady relayed her sad story through floods of
tears. After years of appalling physical abuse that had resulted in her being
frequently hospitalised, she eventually ran for her life to a women’s refuge. But to
save her life, she had to sacrifice her children and to this day [ten years on] she has
not seen or heard from them and is still too terrified of him to make contact with
them. With that, she broke down in heart-wrenching sobs.
Just listening to those stories made me hiss “b…. std” through clenched teeth,
repeatedly. I have a theory that if ALL the women of our world who have been/are
being mistreated by a man, turned the tables on him and successfully prosecuted
him for GBH and/or CHILD ABUSE, we’d gradually see a decline of evil and the
beginnings of righteous rule. All those mega-rich and powerful criminals out there –
the warlords, mafia, drug barons, drug dealers, gangsters, hit men, grubby politicians
et cetera all have wives and girlfriends past and present who know exactly what
crimes these men are guilty of. The chances are that these men have a string of
women who have ALL witnessed the same crimes that HE has committed, and who
can ALL testify in court against HIM. Now, if all the women of the world and that
includes the women associated with ‘royal’ men [men who place themselves above
the law] could to that, we’d soon have the setting for world peace. Of course, us
Western women have to start the ball rolling for the sake of our Asian and African
sisters. So, some on girls find out who his ex wife/girlfriend is and plan your
onslaught. Women power and perseverance; what a magical dream.
I watched the film of the Stephen Lawrence murder. Stephen was just an ordinary
black teenager out with his pal when he was attacked for no reason and fatally
stabbed by a gang of white youths. The metropolitan police were shamefully
negligent. All the evidence was there yet the guilty louts still walk free today – six
years on. It was branded a racist attack. But hang on; this is not just about race,
this is about crime and the police/legal failure to tackle it. The injustice of this case
[and thousands of other crimes] makes my blood boil. It highlights the mockery of
our ‘justice’ system and repugnant police corruption. Killers and other vile criminals
repeatedly get off scot free, simply because our judicial system is seriously flawed
and corrupt. The likes of Jack Straw ask for public support in catching criminals.
What a ruddy joke! Criminals, repeatedly, are not brought to justice, mainly because
there is ‘not enough evidence’. If you get involved, somehow the tables are turned
on you and you get charged – it is supreme idiocy. Decent law-abiding harmless folk
are sitting ducks for harassment by social workers, police and other government
bodies. Governments are either blind to reality or corrupt or both. I don’t know much
about politicians but I know that most are liars. Conmen and persistent criminals
know the ‘system’ and by Christ can they work it to their advantage. I have such
admiration for Stephen Lawrence’s mum. She has such strength and stamina - one
woman almost brought down the entire Scotland Yard police force.
‘Sir’ Paul Condom [or is it supposed to be Condon? Anyway, the first version is
more fitting!] YOU, ‘sir’, should hang your head in shame. Do us all a favour and
resign. You should be in prison for gross misconduct and so should your equally
bent grubby ‘officers’. You have some gall calling yourself by that title. You are no
worthier than a woodlice under a stone. I hope Mrs Lawrence never leaves you
alone and I hope she never goes back to her homeland. We need her here – as an
ambassador for British Justice. I’ve got news for ‘sir’ Condom and others like him in
powerful positions of society. They’d better hurry up and become virtuous or it will
simply be a matter of time before they are forced to pay their heavy debt to society.
If they do not change their behaviour dramatically, they are doomed to an eternity of
hell beyond the grave. I believe God is speaking through Mrs Lawrence. Where
else does she get that power?
FEBRUARY 19TH 1999
Shell has been a right git lately when it comes to getting up in a morning. So this
morning, rather than nagging, coaxing and shouting at her, I simply said calmly,
“Shell you’d better be down here – washed, dressed and hair brushed in ten
minutes. If not, you’ll go without breccy – there are things to do.” It worked!
Andrew reported that the beast’s daughter is up to her old tricks. Apparently she
went up to him in Safeways precinct and snarled, “You little shit.” He said that he did
not return her aggression. He just looked at her ‘poker faced’. “Perfect,” I said.
The kids and I had a deep and thoughtful discussion on the value of money. We
asked how many cars one needs and decided that many people don’t even need
one, let alone four or five per family. We asked the importance of an expensive
flashy car and we figured it was simply to symbolize one’s wealth and was suitable
only for show-offs. We agreed that such cars do not impress us and that people who
own them do not know the meaning of life and probably have a worthless existence.
We pondered the use of owning a mansion and reckoned it would be a headache to
maintain, clean, decorate et cetera and that we’d always be living in fear of being
robbed - and we saw little point in living in a fortressed palace. Although it is nice to
look wellgroomed, we decided it is unnecessary to walk around dripping in gold or
strutting about in expensive designer gear because it doesn’t make you look any
more attractive and such money could be better spent elsewhere. Finally we were of
the opinion that holidays are definitely necessary but that to benefit from them, they
should not be taken too often and should be earned. We were a little sceptical that
an expensive holiday to some exotic land was a better one than a simple cheap
rucksack and tent job. We felt that everyone needs money to live comfortably but
anything above that is sheer greed and often leads to destruction. We concluded
that money obviously brings power but it doesn’t bring happiness unless used for the
good of others. Unfortunately the sad fact is money always falls into the wrong
hands; often attained by violent means.
FEBRUARY 20TH 1999
Andrew arrived back breathless after slipping to Kwikie for me. Apparently the snail
is back on the stalking trail again. He tailed Andrew all the way home. Has the
psycho got nothing better to do than gawp at my son while driving along the main
road at crawling pace?
Melly got up at midnight to party but there was only milk on the menu. As she
suckles I gaze at her with such love and devotion even though I’m tired out –
exhausted even. She grins at me, goes, “Aah,” and I’m like putty in her arms. She’s
nosey too and releases her grasp to peer around my bedroom. I think about all the
kids, about the fact that it would be impossible to love them more; but I do – daily.
Love is a funny thing. How do you measure it? Sometimes they drive me round the
bend and I often lose my patience; but I can’t be angry with any of them for long.
Mel studies me as she nurses. Then she grins. A big beam radiates all over her
face. I just melt – she is so gorgeous. I love to smell her and listen to her breathing.
She grabs my breast, my hair, my face. I could eat her.
FEBRUARY 21ST 1999
I nearly choked on my carrots today. I’d cooked up a sumptuous Sunday roast – for
no particular reason. We all agreed it was scrumptious. So much so that Shell
actually asked for more veggies!
FEBRUARY 22ND 1999
This morning I was in melancholic mood for some reason. The film about the
trapped baby down the well wouldn’t leave my mind. I gave Andrew a long close
hug and told him that I’m sorry I get so snappy, that it’s because everything gets to
me after a while and that I can’t stay strong all the time. I explained that I sometimes
worry about things and that influential people seem to be ganging up on me, that I
feel so alone in a sea of confusion and that I’m scared stiff that social services will
one day come to take my precious children away. Doing his best to reassure me he
insisted that I mustn’t worry, that I’m doing just fine and that, “If anyone tries to take
us away, we’ll just come running straight back to you.” I cried. I began thinking
about the violent unjust corrupt world in which the majority of us humans exist. The
rest live it up in luxurious sumtuousness, but I wouldn’t call most of them humans;
they’re not even worthy of the title ‘maggot’. Those who surround themselves with
security and splendour; who own acres of land, smart cars, mansions and yachts,
who call themselves ‘sir’ and who stand in smart suits making speeches to the world
about moral principles are undisputedly NOT honourable. They are self-indulgent
pleasure-loving hypocrites. It is not surprising that most of us second-class citizens
suffer with a condition labelled ‘depression’. And, anyway, what is the ‘third’ world?
What do they mean by ‘developing’ countries when they clearly want anything BUT
other countries to be ‘developed’ and more’s to the point to pose a very real
challenge to their rule. Come to think of it, where’s the ‘second’ world?
This afternoon I was graced with a visit by Noella, an Educational Social Worker.
My, what a grand title! Fair dos, she had a bit of common sense and seemed quite
supportive of what we are doing. I stipulated my criteria to her in case she had any
ideas about trying to convince me that school is a better alternative. I told her that
my conditions would be: classes containing six children maximum per teacher; a
teacher who is competent, who sets a good example, who doesn’t fall asleep, who
has time for my child; a teacher who doesn’t lie, who doesn’t allow stealing and
bullying to occur under his/her nose and who commands respect from his/her
students and expects respectful interaction between pupils. I continued with my
minimum subject requirements, which are: English, maths, science [including Earth
sciences] and that my child be taught an instrument of choice and a sporting activity
of choice, such as tennis or squash. Then I pointed out that the school would need
to be within walking distance and then we would consider it, if, and only if, my
children were happy and safe there and that they LEARN the above subjects to my
satisfaction and are not merely lectured to. She nodded. Predictably, she raised the
‘social interaction’ argument. She stated that her only concern about homeeducation was that my children would be denied the chance to ‘socialise’ since
school seems to be the only place that this ‘socialising’ occurs for children. I no-
nonsensically assured her that school is just about the worse place for children to
socialise and that my children have no problems addressing anybody of any age,
gender or colour. Anyway, why do these state stooges state that they are
‘concerned’ about my children? BULLDUST. The only person concerned about my
kids is ME.
FEBRUARY 23RD 1999
Strange as it may seem, Scott on Talk Radio covered a debate on the failings of
schools. Apparently two thirds of all primary school children are not meeting targets.
Well, I don’t agree with this idea of ‘targets’ and ‘testing’ anyway. The ability to pass
a test does not symbolise education. And what is education? It is not about
reproducing some boring facts and the ability to answer some silly questions; it’s
about having the confidence and desire to find out things for yourself because it is of
interest to you and because it is a useful thing to do. It is about studying someone
else’s ideas and forming opinions and theories of your own. It is about thinking and
experimenting for yourself; about anything. It is about individuality and creativity. It
is about making sense of the world about us and having the freedom to explore.
School fails in all these areas. How many children are so disillusioned and damaged
because of school that they are driven to committing suicide? How many children
suffer mental illness because of school? How many truant because school is a
terrible place for a child to be? How many are expelled because schools are a
dismal failure? Children are not safe in school and cannot trust their elders. How
many schools fail to prevent bullying? How many teachers/heads claim dishonestly
that their school does not tolerate antisocial behaviour? The government fudges the
real number of alarming incidences at school. Heads and LEA officials preach to
parents what is best for their children, but these people don’t give a monkeys about
the children. Kids are powerless, vulnerable, uneducated, confused and abused AT
SCHOOL AND BECAUSE OF SCHOOL and most remain so into adulthood and for
the rest of their lives. Leaving aside the appalling statistics [which do not paint the
true picture], just look at the behaviour of the majority of school kids – violent or
timid, lacking in individuality and creativity, immature, lacking confidence….
Politicians are in charge for setting standards in schools and raising education, but
who in the government is not a liar and can be trusted? Schools fail, ministers fail,
yet no one is held accountable. We parents should be compensated for their failure
to provide an acceptable learning system and for the abusive schooling system that
kids now endure. Moreover, now that parents are increasingly being forced to opt
out of doing it the traditional way, we should be paid the equivalent amount that it
costs the government to put a child through school, since we are saving them
resources. Failing that, home taught kids should at least be allowed to take exams
for free if they wish.
But the truth is, the government don’t want the electorate to be good, law-abiding,
intelligent and wise. They want to herd their sheep into submission. They do not
want people-power because they fear challenge, they just want the ‘low-life’ to be
screwed up - running around, beating up and murdering each other…. and
manageable. They even try to stop our well-respected journalists [brave men and
women who risk their lives in the name of duty] from bringing us the truth about their
dirty dealings and those of other governments. Instead they cram our airwaves with
silly soap operas, frivolous films and daft ‘dating’ shows - and they charge us for it
too! They are terrified of allowing us any serious viewing because then we might
start to think – too risky. Keep the masses brainwashed and uneducated and under
control, is their motto.
Straw bangs on about a “walk on by society” – more like a “turn a blind eye
parliament” or even an “encourage and support corruption and crime” government.
Andrew announced that some of the kids in our area “don’t like us because we’re
different.” I told him that was their problem, not ours, and that people feel threatened
when anyone in their midst dares to be unconventional. I reminded him that it wasn’t
just the kids, that some ignorant adults think there is something wrong with me and,
according to some, my kids have ‘special needs’. I encouraged him never to be
ashamed of being unique and that it takes guts and strength to be different. I
explained that if you want to be a leader and not a follower you need to be assertive
and self-reliant. I’ve always encouraged the kids to think for themselves and I’ve
tried not to interfere too much in the way of advising or judging them because I think
that stifles them.
I used to have a lot of self-doubt about my own ability to teach them. I’d panic,
thinking that I have all those subjects to cover and that I have to keep at it for six
hours per day. Then I gave myself a stern talking to. I told myself to have more
faith, that I am capable and I told myself that an hour a day is sufficient and that it’s
only necessary to cover maths, English [with emphasis on reading and writing]
science and sport. I reminded Andrew that he is a lot tougher than me and that I
admire the way he and Shell stick to their principles and stand up to people. I told
him not to forget that many kids will be jealous of them because most kids, given the
choice, would prefer to learn at home. I added that it is quite usual for most kids to
be fickle – one day they like you and want to be your best friend, the next minute
they can’t stand you. Also, most kids are terrified of being the odd one out, the one
that gets ribbed. It’s called protection in numbers; most people feel the need to be
the same as each other and are scared to disagree with the group. Andrew said that
one of the things he couldn’t stand about school was the way everyone worshipped
soccer and that they didn’t like you if you didn’t support a team. I recalled that it was
the same when I was at school. My friends would ask who I supported. My reply
would be, “Same as you.” I never took any interest in the daft game – still don’t. All I
see is millions of fans making a handful of players and bosses filthy rich. How do
you justify those kinds of earnings? Andrew told me that a couple of his close mates
at his old school hate football too but they just pretend to like it. I told him that most
people are like that – it’s called survival. I said it’s best that they concentrate on their
proper friends, the ones who don’t feel the need to go around in gangs and who
don’t get up to mischief. I made the point that it is hard to find true loyal friends –
people you can trust, and that many people can’t wait to just stab you in the back. It
seems to be a human trait. I told him that the kids who are nasty and who follow the
crowd are not worth bothering with. He politely informed me that he knew all that
already.
Pud and his police cars! Every time I open the cupboard door to grab a pan I find
Jordan’s cars lined up on the shelf and my pans balancing precariously in a back
corner.
FEBRUARY 24TH 1999
I stood at the most frequented spot in the house peeling spuds and as usual got
thoroughly absorbed in the radio discussion – parenting. It is amazing how many
parents put their own kids in care, genuinely believing that someone else can do a
better job and that it is in the child’s best interests. How sad. How far removed from
the truth can you get? I must admit I too had such thoughts from time to time when
Andrew and Shell were babies and we lived in Oz and also when they were little
kids. I used to doubt my own parenting ability. In fact I used to look to my
boyfriends for guidance in raising them. [That’s probably why my relationships didn’t
last!] What a mistake. It took me a while to realise that most men are too selfish and
emotionally screwed up themselves to take on board the huge responsibility of little
people [especially ones that aren’t their own.] They advised me to dump them in
school and against my better judgement I allowed myself to be talked into doing just
that. Now I have the courage of my convictions. I guess it takes a few hard knocks
to grow up and to realise that my kids are the most important things in the world to
me and that I’m the only one they can trust. Thinking back, how could I possibly do
a reasonable job of raising them when I hadn’t even grown up myself?
After a few laps of the living room on all fours with Jordan perched on my back
shrieking hysterically, I eventually collapsed on the settee, my head swirling. He
then ran off to pester Shell.
Much later I had a pep talk with the kids about them pulling their weight more around
the house. I eventually got them to understand that it doesn’t matter who does what,
when, the point is that if we all pull together doing whatever needs to be done, we’ll
get through the chores a whole lot quicker and we’ll all have more time for ourselves.
FEBRUARY 25TH 1999
Today I’m shell-shocked! Usually the kids moan, “I did it last time –it’s not my turn”
or “That’s not fair” or “I’m doing something else.” But since yesterday’s sermon,
they’ve turned into angels. [Don’t know how long it’ll last tho.] Without any kind of
prompting they’d: washed and dried last night’s pots, got the babies’ breccies ready,
made me a cuppa, taken the bin out, hung the laundry up, cleaned up after breccy….
They’d even got pud to “help” them put stuff away. I’m amazed. I haven’t found
anything yet that I can shout at them for!
The papers are full of this European Integration business. His eminence Tony Blair
tells us it’s for our own benefit and that “we’ll let the people decide.” Yeah, right! We
don’t decide anything. We have no democracy. Our government is corrupt and can’t
govern for toffees. They lie and steal, have rules for themselves and rules for us,
they pretend to be working but all they do is push pen and paper around, talk waffle
and blame others for their failures. They are sleazy and secretive and guilty of
cover-ups. They employ MI5 agents solely to serve their own positions of wealth and
grandeur, and will seek to exterminate any potential threat – from armed persons or
those peacefully demanding righteous rule and the protection of our planet.
They claim to assist refugees but it is never the genuine people who benefit – we are
influxed with young fit crooked men who leave their women and children to die in
their harsh homelands, such as Somalia. They talk about gun control, yet UK arms
still fall into the clutches of the so-called evil dictators, despite embargos. Racism is
still rife despite their lies of the contrary. Hardworking decent people with real values
are denied the chance to foster or adopt children because of stupid stringent criteria
and bureaucracy. And now we’re going to join a pile of other countries which are in
a worse state than ours; and to top that lot is the power-hungry, greedy, corrupt
Brussels committee who are gaining more and more power and control, making laws
to suit themselves and secure their own position and making the rest of us more
vulnerable and destitute.
Linzi and I yakked on the phone. We got on the subject of Mel being rushed to
hospital in an emergency. God, I’m still reeling about that. Dr Macareth should’ve
been told off for wasting public services and I should’ve received an apology from
her. I had to suffer bloody social services checking up on me. They should be
questioning her, the arrogant madam.
Then the discussion shifted over to Linzi’s job. She enjoys her non-profitable parttime job with people who are classed as under privileged and yet are more worthy
than most of the rest of us. Such folk genuinely enjoy the simple pleasures of life
and appreciate the company and care of decent carers. They are the most
vulnerable to society’s unjust treatment. I like working with ‘special needs’ kids
because they are more honest and decent than many ‘able-bodied’ folk.
Linzi says she has to show up for various meetings, which are all a waste of time.
She just wants to give her time and energy to the people who need it. I told her that I
didn’t bother fronting up for any of the meetings that I was asked to attend either
because none of them were of any benefit to the kids that I looked after. The only
one that I begged for, I was refused. I just wanted to sit quietly at the back of a
classroom and observe the professionals for some tips, but I wasn’t allowed to –
even for five minutes. Makes you wonder if the school had something to hide –
maybe they thought I was a spy or a journalist.
Around 9.00 pm I got a visit from a sergeant and his PC pal. I tell you, talk about
taking the p…. This beats the lot! The sergeant stood in my living room holding a
letter from Amphletts [GW’s solicitors], which I wasn’t allowed to see, and he
threatened me to stop wasting police resources. It seems that they’ve only just
twigged that I had to call them out more than thirteen times, just because they failed
to deal with Gareth and his persistent stalking/harassing. It is not my fault that police
are flippin’ ineffective and incompetent. Now the cheeky devils are threatening me
with being “bound over the keep the peace” if I call them again! No one gives a fig
that Gareth Williams could be hammering his way in through my door. The truth is,
police daren’t take on the big boys and have a real fight – there’s too many big bad
buggers out there. Police prefer to just appease those fellas; but they don’t mind
picking on a vulnerable defenceless female. Says it all really. Some fat cat
superintendent must’ve seen the number of call outs and groaned, “Oh no, we can’t
have this type of thing damaging our reputation. We don’t want the public to find out
how useless we are at our jobs and risk losing our fat pay cheques.”
So the moral of the tale to all the women out there who have been/are being
knocked about by a depraved thug is: don’t expect the police to enforce the law and
protect you if you try to run. Your ex has a license to continue: harassing you to hell,
walloping you in the street, doing whatever he pleases to your house at any time of
the day or night, prowling around your garden and peering in your windows, following
you and your kids around and terrorising you. The message from the police is, “Don’t
call us; we won’t help you; you are a nuisance; you are to blame and we will charge
you if you continue to bother us.” Well I’ve got news for them. I’ll keep on calling
and being a pain in the posterior until they decide to do the job that they’re being
paid to do.
FEBRUARY 26TH 1999
After breccy Jordan and Mel got engrossed in one of their games. She sat in the
high chair and, one by one, he brought her various toys. She gurgled and cooed
uncontrollably. I was mesmerized.
Later I played “peek-a-boo” with pud. He got so excited and shrieked with laughter
when I went, “Boo.” I don’t think anything is more magical and treasured than a
happy baby/child. They give one hundred percent commitment and feeling. Jordan
then put his arms around my neck, kissed me and said, “Baby.”
I read in the local rag that a bloke of high regard has been given three months for
harassing his ex-girlfriend. He had been driving down her road, phoning her and
sending letters. Blimey, my ex has done that and heaps more and he’s only a boneidle swindler! Would he ever get that? Pah! No chance. He wouldn’t even be
prosecuted. He always told me not to cross him; that I didn’t know who he was; that
the police would never touch him…. I used to think all that was a bit of hot air, but he
does seem to get away with things that most people don’t. I’ve seen him stopped for
speeding and reckless driving a few times, only to produce some sort of
documentation and he was immediately waved on. On one occasion he’d been
drinking heavily but wasn’t even breathalysed and was casually waved on. So how
come he has such immunity and why did the Dolgellau police give him such a good
character reference when they knew of his violent tendencies towards his ex wife,
son, dogs…. ?
I tackled the laborious task of washing my nets and cleaning the windows. Thank
goodness it is a once yearly ritual – unless it’s begging to be done sooner. Andrew
and Shell insisted on helping and, not to dampen their spirits, I welcomed it.
However, although the odour from Mr Muscle was appealing, the evidence of their
labour was questionable. I sprung into action.
I watched the harrowing story of a man trying to find justice on behalf of his mentally
handicapped eighteen-year old daughter who lived in a ‘care home’. He had all the
necessary evidence that she was being ill treated, such as being left in her own
faeces; yet incredibly, a massive cover up was instigated, all allegations were denied
and no one was brought to book.
News night showed a clip of an inner city school where pupils receive help with their
reading from some of the parents; nothing unusual about that. BUT, by their own
admission, these parents could barely read themselves! Beggars belief.
FEBRUARY 27TH 1999
I flew off the handle this morning listening to Andrew and Shell. They were bickering
over breakfast cereals. I bellowed, “If you two are going to squabble over who ate
the most crunchy nuts, I shall stop buying them and you can make do with
cornflakes. You’re lucky you have food and a comfortable home; some kids around
the world are starving to death, suffer diseases and have no homes.”
Shell came running in crying and complaining that some lad had hit her. I asked if
she’d clouted him back. She said she hadn’t because he had his gang with him and
she was too scared. I told her that if she gets cornered and can’t run, she’ll have to
smack one of them. I said to choose the ringleader – the biggest, ugliest, most
threatening one. I told her that he’s the coward cos he needs his henchmen around
him. I told her to, “Punch him as hard as you can in the mush or kick him hard in
between his legs - you know where – and watch his mates flee. He won’t bother
you again.” She said she couldn’t do it. I told her she may have no choice one day,
so she might as well have a go. I said, “If someone wants to get you, they will. So
you might as well go down fighting.” I told her to always remember that bullies are
really only cowards who need their ‘guards’. I shouted, “Look what Andrew gives
you – bruises on your arms and legs. I told her and Andrew that according to the
films, if you’re fast enough, you can defend yourself from a gang – kick and punch
them while moving around all the time in circles. But you have to mean it. You can
be really powerful that way. They both said that they couldn’t wish for a better mum
and Shell said that she didn’t know where she’d be without me. We all had a little
hug.
MARCH
MARCH 1ST 1999
There’s a load of hullabaloo about the teletubbies! They’re saying that Tinky Winky
is gay and that the sexual connotations of the tubbies are a bad influence on kids
and that parents should be on their guard. Good God! Teletubbies are harmless.
Talk about a storm in a teacup! What about the bad influences that kids are exposed
to that are very damaging such as corruption, injustice, violence….? Even at a very
early age kids are aware of more than they are given credit for. They know about
injustice, hatred, lies and double standards. I remember when I was very young I
constantly questioned my parents about things and tried to make sense of
everything. I knew when I was right and they were wrong and that at times they
were not being sensible or making sense, or that sometimes my idea or method was
better than theirs. But I didn’t have a voice because they were bigger and older than
me. I knew that they controlled me and that I didn’t get a say because I was ‘just a
kid’. Dad wanted me to be a good obedient little girl. I thought that I was treated
unfairly at times. Of course, I too am guilty of the same crime with Andrew and Shell
at times and will say, “Because I say so.”
Vera Nolan visited to make sure that I have the necessary criteria for raising my
babies. She wanted to know how many bedrooms I have, what provisions I have in
the way of equipment necessary for small children and toys available to them etc etc
etc. Well in my view it really wouldn’t matter if you lived in a virtual shoe box and
had very little in the way of stimuli, as long as you possessed that all important
quality – love for your children, and that you treated them with respect. Then they
will thrive, no matter what. Andrew and Shell were on impressive behaviour and
brought Vera and myself cups of tea and chocolate biscuits. [They’ll do anything if
there’s a quid in it.]
MARCH 2ND 1999
I received a NSPCC begging letter. They are trying to highlight the plight of the child
and how child abuse in British homes is rising. Many people do indeed donate and it
certainly is for a good cause but in my opinion the money raised by the caring public
does very little to help children who are in need. While we have un undemocratic
deceitful government, a corrupt incompetent police force, a judicial system that
supports the criminal, social workers who shy away from trouble and find it easier to
persecute the innocent, we haven’t got a hope in hell of helping abused children; in
other words, whilst the underworld and evil rule, children and the helpless will
continue to suffer. When are the authorities going to stop lying, bullsh…. ing,
protecting criminals and start doing their jobs? That is, when are they going to
enforce law and order fairly for everyone? When are they going to stop the influx of
drugs and punish those guilty instead of perverting the course of justice of which
they deserve jail? When are they going to stamp out racism? When are they going
to ban the gun? When are they going to stop wasting money and spending it on
themselves? When are they going to tighten loopholes that make a mockery of our
law? When are they going to practice what they preach and start setting the right
example? When are they going to stop hoarding the money that they’ve stolen off
hard working honest folk? When are they going to stop destroying our planet?
When are they going to stamp out the mafia and other wealthy warlords? When are
they going to bring the big fish to justice? When are they going to stop punishing the
innocent? When are they going to be held accountable? When are they going to….
? When? Never! Worldwide anarchy WILL arise first – in the not too distant future;
and then there may be hope….
My thoughts keep drifting back to that awful day at clinic where overbearing Dr
Macareth abused her position. Her callous words keep haunting me: “We need to
enquire at nursery and crèche to find out who did this to her; I need to send for an
ambulance immediately.” There I was tying my damnedest to put the past behind
me and move forward and some judgemental doctor puts a spanner in the works.
Her accusations threaten my relations with my child carers. Terrific! The NHS is in
crisis. Well that’s not surprising when you have the likes of Dr Macareth hogging it
unnecessarily. Health visitor Mr Browne is a bit of a nitpicker too. She told me Mel
has a squint. Does she hell. She told me Jordan is shy. Rubbish, he’s just choosy
about who he talks to. She questioned a mark on Jordan’s face. Bloomin’ hell! He
tripped up when he was running cos he was excited. ALL kids fall over, trip up,
bump themselves, refuse to speak to strangers…. If they are just allowed to develop
of their own free will, in their time, they usually turn out happy and well adjusted.
Professional intervention can be so damaging. To me, these health visitors are
largely just a bunch of busy bodies with nothing better to do.
MARCH 3RD 1999
I had a nightmare of a morning. I was hauled into the DSS and interrogated about
my living arrangements during my three-year relationship with insect-features. I only
received the letter yesterday requesting my presence yet the lying bureaucrat
insisted it was sent out last week. I was led to believe that I’d have a chance to see
the allegations of fraud before my interview; but no, I was read my rights as the tape
rolled and was asked it I wanted a solicitor present. Sleazebag Williams had
collected various bits of information to try and get me into trouble. I again explained
the reasons for my temporary stays at his house and his periods of time with me. I
also told the B/A official Mr Drew that I had enquired with the B/A beforehand just to
make sure that we weren’t doing anything illegal and that I’d been reassured that we
were not. I was questioned about my use of Gareth’s doctors. I explained that
Gareth and I had intended to use the Dolgellau village hospital for Jordan’s birth but
that I ended up in Wrexham. I remarked that Gareth forgot to mention that he and
his son used my doctor, dentist and two local hospitals. I was asked about phone
calls from his house to finance advisors. Again I admitted it but said that I didn’t
think it was wrong because I was just helping him get the best deal during his house
sale. I was asked why Andrew used Gareth’s address for his fishing permit, so I
explained that it was because the pool is in Llysfaen, where Gareth lives.
It’s funny that I wasn’t questioned about the loan that I took out to help that woodlice
buy his bedroom furniture since he wasn’t creditworthy. Nor was I questioned about
the considerable amount of time my dad, my uncle and I put in helping him
reconstruct his stairway and hall and decorate and the fact that he didn’t have to part
with a penny for our labours or materials! I then tried to tell interrogator Drew that
Gareth is a vicious vindictive liar whose only aim is to make my life hell. But I was
rebuked and informed that there were ‘witnesses’ prepared to say that I was living
with my ex and that I was seen there on a daily basis. A bit later on, he reminded
me about these ‘witnesses’. Later on again the B/A man asked me if all these
‘witnesses’ are “malicious and evil.” And yet again he let me know that he had
‘witnesses’ who were prepared to come forward to say that I was living with GW and
that these ‘witnesses’ would be giving statements. In the end, I asked, “What
witnesses?” The lying official Drew wouldn’t [couldn’t] say. The only thing that
popped into my mind regarding GW’s neighbours was what my lying ex had told the
welfare officer - something about Andrew and Shelly letting horses out of his
neighbours’ stables and that the police had been called. Such lies – there was no
evidence and no enquiry. And in any case, according to my enquiries, people don’t
trust and can’t stand HIM. After about an hour’s grilling, I was eventually turfed out.
As I left, I remarked that my only crime was falling for a sweet-talking conman.
The malicious authorities are prosecuting the Bramleys for abduction. Well, social
services should be prosecuted for harassment of these two wonderful loving parents,
since all the Bramleys wanted to do was care for and love their little girls. But they
were appallingly forced to take drastic action and run away with them when gangster
social workers came to snatch them. Someone should explain to social services that
they’re supposed to protect children not abuse them and that they’re supposed to
remove children from WICKED parents and place children with caring competent
loving ones. But they always get it the wrong way around [and they are getting paid
for this scandal to boot!!!] Social service chiefs should go to prison for this disgrace
and social workers should be sacked. What brave people the Bramleys are and
such an inspiration to us all. They know that the love of and care for their little girls
justified their actions and they proved that the law is wrong. They did the right thing
and listened to God’s law. More people should do what these heroic people did –
the public support for them was phenomenal. Authorities should realise that it is the
PUBLIC who are judge and jury and that the PUBLIC are watching THEM and
putting THEM on trial.
MARCH 5TH 1999
The events of today rocked me to the core. The kids had gone off on their bikes for
their weekly game of chess with their granddad. To my complete surprise they
arrived home in less than half an hour, breathless and distressed. Andrew blurted
out that a policeman had got very cross with them, had sent them home and had
said he was on his way to see me. He said they’d stopped to play by the pier for a
few minutes before going to granddad’s but that they weren’t near the sea. The cop
turned up then, all guns blazing. Looking stony faced, he sat Andrew and Shell
down and began shouting at them and wagging his finger. He told them that they
were very lucky that police had spotted them on CCTV cycling under the pier and
that they should be grateful that he had raced around to send them home. He yelled
at them, saying they were in grave danger from the rough sea and that they could’ve
been dragged out and drowned. He asked them if they were trying to commit
suicide. Stunned into silence they shook their heads. He then pulled out a pad from
his pocket and solemnly threatened that he would have to “place them on this at risk
register for their own good if it happened again.” “Hang on. Hold your horses for a
second,” I butted in, “I smell a rat here. Number one, CCTV is supposed to be for
catching criminals, not spying on a couple of kids playing innocently on the prom.
Number two, considering they were supposed to be risking their lives such that it
warrants you chasing after them like a headless chicken and then coming here all
high and mighty, how come they are not wet? Even their feet are bone dry! And
number three, it is not your job to threaten me with ‘at risk’ registers – that is social
services department.” He quietened down a bit then and nodded sheepishly in
agreement that Andrew and shell were completely dry. PC 1651 insisted that the
sea was rough, such that they were considering closing the prom as the tide was
coming in. I replied, “I daresay, but all this smacks of a set-up. Something is going
on here and I wouldn’t be surprised if my troublemaker ex is behind it because he
has some connections with the police. I bet this is the secret seedy underworld at
large and it is operating at a much higher level than you. I’ll get to the bottom of it
eventually. This just isn’t kosher.” I asked to see the evidence. He informed me
that I’d have to contact the council.
When he’d gone the kids told me their version. PC 1651 arrived in a police van with
sirens blazing to tell Andrew and Shell to “Get home you stupid brats – you idiots; I’m
all wet now, you twits. Why aren’t you in school? That’s suspicious; are you trying
to kill yourselves?” The kids said that other kids were there soaking wet; adults too,
but no one else was bothered by the officer. They told me that earlier, a bloke in a
red mondeo had spoken to them, but not nastily, and that an ugly old man [the same
bloke that had threatened them once before] who reeked of alcohol, had told them
off and had then gone to the phone box.
I called dad to put him in the picture. He agreed it was all a bit suspect and said he’d
pop over via the prom to see for himself. He told me that the tide was going out and
was not too rough and that the camera did not move and was focussed on the pier.
After an hour or so, I took a little walk to the scene of dispute and spied on the
questionable camera myself. I fixed my eyes on big brother for twenty minutes solid
and it didn’t budge. I then reasoned that even if it was working, it certainly
wouldn’t’ve picked the kids up if they were under the pier. What with today’s
questionable incident, the clinic’s over-reaction, the court welfare officer seemingly
believing Gareth’s version of events, the bungling police bound-over threat and the
fate of GW’s ex-wife, I began to think that Gareth has some very powerful murky
mates - men who are above the law. I began to panic and worrying thoughts popped
into my head; thoughts that I too seriously risk losing my children and that his
warnings are no idle threats. I realised that if that was indeed the case then I could
be murdered at any minute, just so that I’d be ‘sorted’.
In the evening I got to work phoning around old neighbours and associates of
Gareth’s to see if I could find out who or what he really is. The general consensus is
that he’s dubious, a bone-idle swindler and a liar. No one around there likes him.
People were always after him for money. Bailiffs were always sniffing around his
place. They said that he has mainly enemies, who fear him. They said people kept
out of his way and that he bullied his two children. He battered his son and abused
his ex wife [beating her up on occasions.] Folk around there couldn’t understand
what he had over the Dolgellau police but that something was going on cos he was
always committing motoring offences – speeding and even drink-driving. He was
always on the fiddle and no one else got away with the things he did. They said the
Dolgellau police are incompetent and corrupt. They said that the police didn’t like
him; they knew of his crimes and yet they seemed to fear him. They said that he
treated his dogs cruelly and that they always ran off to cause mayhem. They knew
that his dog had killed sheep and hens, yet no one could touch him. I told the
neighbours that I’d seen a good character reference from the police, which secured
his custody application and yet the police knew of his crimes. I told them that I’ve
seen police turning a ‘blind eye’ to his drinking and driving, speeding, dangerous
driving, illegal parking, attacking his son and his son’s friend. I once witnessed
Gareth’s son and his pal phoning the police to report the attack. GW’s daughter told
me that GW punched himself on the chin and then told the police that his son’s pal
had done it. The police took no action. I also told them that his son had done
criminal damage to a rail carriage, that there were witnesses but that after Gareth
had spoken to a senior policeman, charges were dropped. His son was also let off
other minor offences including vandalism to his school.
I told the Dolgellau people that I once saw Gareth attacking three complete strangers
in Colwyn Bay. GW had boasted that the police would do nothing; and they didn’t,
when the men reported it. GW had boasted to me beforehand that he could do
whatever he wanted and that police would never charge him. I told Gareth’s old
neighbours that I feel I have the right to demand a full public enquiry into police and
social services dealings before my court case goes any further. It is widely believed
by the locals that he should’ve been prosecuted for child abuse. Some said that his
kids were always left on their own even when they were very small, that they were
not happy and were quite disturbed. I learned that his kids did in fact love their mum
but they had no choice in where they were going to live and with whom. Their
mother had fought hard for custody but all her efforts failed and she was even denied
access. No one could understand why.
Unfortunately no one was prepared to testify for me in court should they be required
and no one would put anything in writing to support me either. Everyone feared he’d
turn up on their doorstep with a gun because GW had already pulled a gun on his
ex-wife. This, I learned had been witnessed by a few people who had reported their
concerns to the school head and to social services. The neighbours told me that
they and the school staff knew there was obvious neglect of Gareth’s children. Both
had been prevented from seeing their mum by GW and he had turned them against
their mum. He also used to discard her letters to them and he would not allow her to
phone them. I witnessed that myself. Both took numerous days off school. They
said that his son is terrified of GW [I witnessed his terror too] and that he and his
sister weren’t happy.
I got the feeling that they knew quite a bit more but weren’t prepared to tell. There
was a shroud of secrecy. My imagination went into overdrive. What if he has
murdered? What if he is a professional hit man? Where did he get all the money to
support his one hundred and fifty cans of lager per week habit? Is he an illegal
dealer? Where did he really go when he used to slip off at various times throughout
the day and night? Lots of people have different sides to themselves; how can you
really know if your partner is secretly living a sordid double life? They’re always so
good at secrets and lies and are always so conceivable to outsiders. Such people
rule by terror and can easily silence witnesses. How did he manage to stop his kids
seeing their mum? Why did the authorities side with him against her? Gareth used
to boast that his ex called police on him loads of times but they just laughed at her
and called her the liar. He even scoffed that the school continually sent social
workers sniffing around but that he’d just bark at them and show them the door. If
social services were involved so much and the school, police and everyone else
knew that Gareth was such a controlling, violent b…. towards his children, why on
Earth weren’t those kids taken off him? Why isn’t he in the nick for assault [towards
his wife and son] and child abuse? Was his ex-wife, as their mother and who also
has parental responsibility, even informed of his ill treatment of her kids? Does that
slime bucket bribe the police/social services? Did he pay the ruddy ‘judge’ to award
him custody? What the f ….s going on?
MARCH 6TH 1999
I phoned around a few people in the Bay who I know are associates of Gareth’s. I
discovered that he has managed to obtain some good character references but that
certain people signed under duress, regret doing so and would like to withdraw their
statements, but fear a backlash. It appears social workers are involved in the school
that his daughter now attends, that there is an unnatural relationship between father
and daughter and that he is very possessive of her [as he always was.] I even had
my suspicions confirmed that it is Gareth’s mother who is the wicked schemer. It is
she who calls the shots and whom his whole family [especially Gareth] fear. I
remember GW’s cousin telling me once that his mother is evil. At the time I’d asked,
“Why bother with her then?” “I just pretend,” came the reply. I answered, “No, you
fear. You either like someone and want to keep company with that person or you
don’t – there are no half measures. To pretend is to show weakness.”
I managed to track the ex wife down. I remembered Gareth and his mother talking
about her previous jobs and they’d named the various towns where she’d worked, so
I made some enquires. We chatted very briefly, exchanged addresses and she
promised to write. She was shocked that I’d found her works number. It would
seem that our lives with Gareth have been a carbon copy of each other. I would tell
her a few things, she’d say, “Yes, I know all about that – I’ve been there, done that,
got the t-shirt.” She remarked that it is he who is the schizophrenic. I told her that I
wished she’d told me what I was getting involved with. She wished she had too.
She added that I probably wouldn’t’ve listened to her tho. I told her that I really feel
for her because she lost her children to that evil b…. and that I knew that he’d
blocked her efforts for contact. She seemed to go deep in thought and then said, “I
thought if he got what he wanted he’d leave me alone; but it didn’t work out that way
and I’m still terrified of him.” I enquired if she meant that he still hassles her. She
said that he does. I told her I never even knew. She also said that her son is still
petrified of him and that he and her daughter are very much under his control. I
briefed her on the torment we’d suffered – all the harassment, stalking, NSPCC,
social workers, inadequate police et cetera and I asked if she suspected a
conspiracy to swing the custody battle of her children his way. I asked if she
suspected that Gareth has underworld connections and that he is protected by police
corruption. She told me that she was puzzled as to why he got awarded custody and
that she was allowed only indirect contact which turned into no contact. She said
that the school could not understand what he had over the authorities either. She
said she’d fought tooth and nail for her kids but was blocked at every post. I begged
her to help me fight him for both our sakes because I believe history is repeating
itself and because, “We have to stop the b…. std controlling us.” I pleaded with her
to testify in court against him but she said she couldn’t because she was still having
a battle to see her son and she didn’t want to jeopardise that. She told me she
daren’t support me publicly because Gareth would turn it all against her and she’d
lose her son altogether. I told her I understood her fears but asked if she’d give is
some thought anyway and to drop me a line.
I discovered that Andrew and Shell feature on the front page of the Daily Post. They
are pictured on the prom with massive waves lashing behind them. The blurb is
titled: “School’s Out.” I regarded the article a bit of a coincidence considering
yesterday’s debacle and the PC’s over-reaction. I began to wonder if Gareth
intended showing the clipping to the court welfare officer, and if so, that he’d
probably casually mention the fact that he was aware that police had been called out
to my kids and that Andy and Shell were sent home because they were at risk from
the stormy sea. This was ideal ‘proof’ to back up his claim that I am an unfit mother.
Three times during the day, the kids and I trundled off to the pier to scan the CCTV.
I studied it meticulously for around half hour each time and it did not move.
Shell and I had quite a philosophical discussion today about the power of the brain.
Apparently we can only understand and use one percent of it. Is that all? Many
people probably use considerably less of their brain than that! Quite a few exist in
zombified mode or in a negative, unproductive state. But what about the other ninety
nine percent? My God what if we could learn how to use the bulk of the brain. What
on earth [or in space even] would we be capable of? We reckoned that if we could
up our brain usage capacity we’d be able to achieve superhuman capabilities. Shell
and I made our predictions.
At two percent usage I said that we’d see our intelligence levels rise, we could
probably look at things and make them move slightly. At five percent capability,
Shell reckoned we could interfere with electrical appliances and: change TV
channels just by thinking the required channel, turn lights on and off at will just by
looking at them, turn on the kettle without even having to move from our
armchairs…. She thinks we could probably fix things just by looking at the broken
item and concentrating on it righting itself [a bit like Uri Geller!] At seven percent I
predicted we could read other people’s thoughts [perish the thought.] At ten percent
I suggested we could move fairly large objects, quite simply by just concentrating on
them; I fancy we could even move a car if we wanted to - just by powerful thought. I
drew the line at a house moving at this stage tho – you’d probably need to be at level
thirty to forty percent brain usage for that kind of power! Imaging the catastrophe we
could create by playing chess with other people’s cars! I also had a feeling we would
probably be able to fly short distances. By around fifty percent brain function, Shell
and I envisaged we would be of super human intelligence and beyond that of genius
– we’d be able to scan and fully comprehend the most intricate of academic manuals
in seconds. We believe at this stage we’d have the capacity to protect ourselves
from attack by having an invisible, un penetrative shield around us, such that knives,
bullets, fists and the like could never make contact; even harmful bacterium, poisons,
nuclear materials et cetera could not enter our protective aura – we would not be
susceptible to disease. At half a brain usage we’d probably be able to create things
– out of thin air – by the power of the mind. At sixty percent brain efficiency we
would not need the media – we would just know and understand everything. At
seventy percent brainpower we wouldn’t need to eat or defecate. At ninety percent
we could make people disappear [what a wonderful thought], we wouldn’t age, time
would not exist, we could fly in space and beyond the furthest galaxies – we’d be
entering new dimensions and transgressing frontiers. All our knowledge of and laws
of science would be challenged. At one hundred percent? Wow! We could be and
do anything – change into a dinosaur, worm, ghost or atom or an imagined species
or a particle of dust even. We’d be indestructible, supreme, in heavenly paradise….
It isn’t such a crazy idea. Shell and I were almost in a frenzy by now. The
implications are unquantifiable. Just imagine if only a few people possessed this
magical power and that the rate of progression and awareness varied, the world
would soon see a shift of power. My guess is that those who have the potential to
tap into and expand their own brain aptitude are the spiritual folk, those possessing
true faith in God and belief of our existence beyond the grave and who live their lives
according to God’s rules. If we could learn to use [and not abuse] more of our
brains, just think how awesome and efficient we would be. It would signify the end of
materialistic money worshipping politicos and their cronies, the end of pain and
suffering, the end of the chains that binds us into futile and despairing existence, the
end of evil rule. But it would not be the end for those powerful millionaires living in
luxury at our expense on Earth now. They would be locked in their own egocentric
man-made hell and that is where they’ll be for eternity when they are exterminated
from this planet. Those ruled by money would find it impossible to begin the road of
discovery and enlightenment. I would visualise that the only possible way to begin
this journey of awakening is through the cleansing powers of meditation.
MARCH 8TH 1999
I got the most amazing claptrap I’ve ever heard in my life from the council. I phoned
them for clarification regarding the CCTV tape and got through to the control room.
A cowardly male [who would not reveal his name for ‘security’ reasons] said
enthusiastically, “Two kids on bikes were picked up on CCTV, playing dangerously
close to the waves. The sea was extremely rough. They could have been dragged
in. We had to send police out to them for their own safety.” He then said, “The road
was closed and the tide was coming in.” I asked if I could see the tape. He replied,
“It’s been taped over; it’s standard procedure; we only keep the tapes for twenty four
hours.” He added, “There is no evidence of the incident.” I spat, “I small a rat. This
is a set up.” He said, “No rats.” I asked, “What time were my kids seen on tape?”
He replied, “About 1.30 pm.” He continued, “13.06 was high-tide, then it was
going out.” I said, “My children were not as risk. They were bone dry. There was a
man [in shorts] on a bike, a man [in shorts] jogging and two other kids there –
drenched.” I added, “That camera didn’t budge.” He went quiet, then tried to tell me
that it rolls all the time. He asked how I’d got through to the control room and then
said that he’ll try to find out more for me and that he’d phone me back He didn’t
At 1.45 pm, I tried to phone control room to ask about the connection between the
CCTV and the picture in Saturday’s Post. The switchboard said, “the CCTV room is
busy,” that “they’re not taking any calls right now” and to “phone back at 2.30 pm.” I
phoned at 3.00 pm. I was put through, but the phone just rang its head off. At 3.15
pm I phoned again and got through to the control room. A bloke said [in sickly sweet
tone], “The supervisor says he’s tied up right now, he’ll call you back.” I asked if the
supervisor was the bloke that I’d spoken to earlier. He answered, “Yes; I can’t give
you his name for security reasons.” At 3.20 pm, the unnamed bloke called back. I
asked if he was the chap that I’d spoken to this morning. He said he wasn’t! He
continued, “I’ve heard that the police said that a member of the public rang them – it
was an emergency call regarding your kids.” I asked what he saw on the tape. He
said, “Two children riding bikes. The waves were coming over the prom. The
children were riding under the pier.” I asked the time that this happened. He said,
“12.30 pm.” I asked if anyone else was there. He said that there wasn’t and that the
tape will be here now for thirtyone days. He said that he’d watched the tape for two
minutes. I asked why he’d said twentyfour hours earlier on. He waffled on about
real time tapes [twentyfour hours] and time-lapse tapes [thirtyone days.] I asked why
he didn’t just say earlier that it was kept for thirtyone days. He said, “Because you
didn’t ask and anyway, only the police are allowed to view it.”
This is called taking the p…. You’d think the insects in the council and the police
grubs would’ve got their story straight before stitching us up. I told him that one day
this would all come out and that everyone will know that the cowards in the control
room at the council need to hide behind anonymity because they are such liars. I
told him that the public will be interested to know how their hard earned council
contributions are spent and that they will be furious to learn that their taxes are used
to frame innocents.
MARCH 9TH 1999
I had quite an interesting chat with the head teacher of the school where GW’s
children attended before they moved to Colwyn Bay. I’d met the Head once before
when Gareth and I were together. At that time, Gareth’s daughter had been
experiencing problems with various teachers and with her schoolwork and as the
dutiful step mum-to-be, I’d tried to help her. I explained that Gareth and I had now
separated, that I faced a bitter court battle and that I was aware of his ex-wife’s
shocking misfortune because of that evil monster. I told her about Gareth’s violent
behaviour towards me and the kids, especially his son and mine and that GW’s exwife was also treated abominably by him and by the authorities. I told her of my
fears - that Gareth might get custody of my babies because he seems to be able to
bully anyone to get what he wants. I informed her that Gareth always boasted that
police would never touch him and that he’d smirk when he told me that social and
welfare workers were soon shown the door if they tried to intervene. She confirmed
everything that I already knew and agreed with me that it was puzzling as to why his
ex-wife lost her children and was denied all contact and that it was odd that social
services took no action considering the fact they were heavily involved as were the
police. She said that she had reason to believe that something at home was
seriously wrong and that that was why she’d called in social and educational welfare
workers. She told me that Gareth had battered his son and his ex wife and that I
should get him charged with child abuse. In my innocence I asked how I go about
doing that. She replied with a wry laugh that I’d need to contact social services. I
asked if she would testify or write a statement, which would assist me in court. She
said she’d have to check with the school governors. She asked for my solicitor’s
details.
Throughout the day I made impromptu visits to the prom to spy on big brother, but he
still hasn’t budged! The kids also scrutinized him at different times but he remained
asleep. It is pretty obvious that the CCTV in question is not and was not in operation
on Friday 5th March but does anyone give a toss??? They are conspiring against
me. They are framing Andy and Shelly. They want my kids registered on the Child
Protection ‘At Risk’ register. They are helping Gareth achieve his evil aims. They
want to take my children off me. Why else would they play these sordid games?
Are they trying to send me mad? Do they want to destroy me? What the hell’s going
on? Damn it. Who the hell is he?
My thoughts then drifted back to my time with Gareth Williams. He’d say such
sinister things to me whenever I threatened to end our relationship, such as, “You’ll
never be free of me. I’ll block everything you try to do and then I’ll kill you – or
someone else will. You’ll just be attacked in broad daylight in front of everyone –
you, your horrible kids and your dad. And no one will help you. No one cares. You
won’t know what’s hit you. And then you’ll be dead.” I would chill to the bone. But
then he would see my expression of horror and would immediately be apologetic and
would [incredibly] try to reassure me that he was only joking.
MARCH 10TH 1999
I had to take my babies to the court welfare office so that they could be observed
interacting with my archrival. I had to sit outside and mind my own business. In
discussions beforehand, Vera told me that ours was the most acrimonious case
she’d come across. She’d never seen such hatred between parents. I made it clear
to her that the difference was I was battling against all adversity for the truth to come
out about Gareth Williams whereas he was spinning everyone a pack of lies about
me. The problem is that all this is largely about his word against mine and with the
way my mind is focused on plots and cloak and dagger stuff, I’m convinced he is
getting all the professional help he needs. It is easy to see now how criminals get
away with murder and that our world encourages immorality. One thing is for sure,
crime pays, and in order to survive you have to lie.
Dad popped by to inform me that his girlfriend [a councillor] had made enquiries on
my behalf regarding the authenticity of the CCTV incident and that he too had
spoken to some people in the council about the matter and that everyone says the
same thing – that my kids were seen on CCTV on their bikes dodging the waves. He
even breezed that various people offered this information before he had even
mentioned it and so that proves they’re telling the truth and that it is Andrew and
Shell who are lying. He urged me not to believe everything they tell me, as all kids
lie. I was furious. I stormed, “Dad, I can’t believe how gullible you are. Of course
they all told you the same thing – they’ve had a couple of days to get their story
straight. They are lying through their teeth. They changed their story and
contradicted the PC’s version; the kids clothes were completely DRY and that
camera is still not working now – go and look at it.” He then told me that the camera
does sometimes remain still for quite a while but that it doesn’t mean that it isn’t
working. He also said that his mate at the council informed him that it was focussed
in the direction of Old Colwyn for ages on Friday without moving. I replied, “Yeah,
right. Get him to put that in writing – he won’t. You even saw for yourself that it was
focussed ON THE PIER.”
Dad crossly told me to stop being so paranoid and that no one is going to take my
kids off me, that the courts always let children live with their mum especially ones as
young as Jordan and Melissa. I said that I wished I could be so trusting and let
justice run its course but that I had a horrible sinking feeling in my stomach that my
worst fears might come true and that I had some very powerful enemies. I even
added that I wouldn’t be surprised if someone tried to bump me off. Then I made a
casual remark that if that did happen, I hope that he would allow Andrew and Shell to
continue learning at home, that they wouldn’t be a burden to him as they work largely
unsupervised. I also said that should the unthinkable happen – and nothing is out of
the question considering the state the world is in, I pray he would contact Gareth’s ex
wife for her support and testimonial and order a full public enquiry into police, social
services and council business because there is definitely something sinister going
on. Dad was not very convincing when he tried to tell me that I was only fighting one
man and that Gareth is no big fish.
Again I made my ritual lengthy visits to that controversial camera and again it
remained perfectly still and focused on the pier.
MARCH 11TH 1999
I unloaded a bit of stress on the squash court during a bit of a knock around with
Andrew and Shell. Jordan and Mel spent half an hour in crèche.
I read an interesting piece in a mag today. It said, “In order to live free and happily,
you must sacrifice boredom. It is not always an easy sacrifice.” Normally I’d agree
with such a statement but although I’d certainly never class myself as bored, I
couldn’t say that I was free and happy either – far from it. I would say though that I
never get depressed – because I just don’t have time to be.
Andrew was ultra cooperative today – he tidied up without being told to and he
brought me cup of tea from time to time. I asked him if he was ailing.
The kids and I made our regular repetitive intrinsic survey of the controvertible
CCTV. Still it remains fixed in the same position as it was last Friday!
I traced the previous owners of Gareth’s house because I remember Gareth did the
dirty on them and forced them into dropping another few thousand off the price at the
last minute or the deal would be off. I know the owners wanted to plant one on his
nose for that. I also remembered that their son-in-law worked for a carpet shop and
that he could provide a perfect testimonial for a particularly brazen insurance fraud
that Gareth perpetrated soon after he took residence of his new pad. I explained
that I needed witnesses as to Gareth’s unsavoury character as I am locked in a
bitterly contested court battle. They were happy to lend their support where
appropriate and said they would consult their solicitor for directions.
MARCH 12TH 1999
It’s Jordan’s birthday today. He is a big two years old. Dad dropped by with a fluffy
mobile phone for him then the kids and I took off to the pool for a celebration swim.
Guess who just appeared out of the blue, followed us up to the leisure centre and sat
in the café gawping at us for the hour we spent in the water! I didn’t give the
repugnant rat the satisfaction of acknowledging his presence. Andrew and Shell
busied themselves diving in, racing each other and fooling about. The babies and I
busied ourselves in the shallow bit where Jordan splashed and shrieked for most of
the session and Mel watched him with wide-eyed wonder. We walked home via the
prom and pier so that I could check up on the camera of intrigue. Not surprisingly its
position had not altered one jot. We later enjoyed a nice quiet tea of all the naughty
but nice stuff and an extra special cream gateaux with two candles on for the
birthday boy. Andrew and Shell made us all some choccy rice crispy cakes too.
MARCH 13TH 1999
Andrew and I discovered that some unpalatable prat [no prizes for guessing who]
had again shoved superglue in the keyhole of our super-heavy shed padlock. I
spent the next twenty minutes hacking away at it until the thing broke off. It’s at such
times that I could do with a bloke around the house. Not that Andrew would let me
date again – he reckons he’s the man of the house now and that I’m not allowed
another man – ever. No point buying another padlock when Mr Detestable is bound
to come along and wreck it again.
Jordan came out with a few mumbled incoherent words. The only clear word he said
was, “Christ.” It knocked me for six and it didn’t help matters when Shell quipped,
“You’ll have to watch what you say now mum.” “Smarty pants,” I hissed.
Well surprise, surprise, the debatable CCTV is now in fully-fledged flow! The council
crooks have only just decided that they’d better turn the damned thing on. Maybe
they got wind of the fact that I wasn’t going to shut up about it. Those tricksters
know who they are and they’d better be aware that their lies will come back to haunt
them. It is only a matter of time.
MARCH 14TH 1999
I caught the tail end of a bible program. I never used to be a religious person; I used
to tell schools that they shouldn’t teach RE because God does not exist and the bible
is a myth. Thinking back that was a bit arrogant of me – how the hell do I know?
How does anyone know if there is God, heaven, hell….; if Jesus is God’s son and if
he did perform miracles…. It really is a matter of opinion and of individual
experience. But I’ve always felt that a true Christian is an admirable person and that
if we could all live our lives according to bible rules, the world would indeed be a
much happier, healthier and safer place. Genuine Christians do seem to be happy
folk with marriages intact and children who are seemingly without vice. I’ve always
been put off the idea of going to church, singing songs and reading bible parables
and I think there is too much hypocrisy in the church especially among Christian
elders and leaders. Strangely I was prepared to sacrifice my own feelings and make
church a big part of my life for Gareth’s sake as I believed the church was the only
thing left that could help us make our relationship work, help calm Gareth’s vile
aggression and keep him off the bottle. But after one visit [during the latter months
of our relationship] he refused to attend again. Ironically now that we’ve parted, he is
a regular and active member of the parish. I wouldn’t classify him as a Christian
though! I’m often in two minds as to whether God really does exist. Since all of our
bad experiences of late make me question our authorities’ integrity and purpose and
my belief that there is no justice system anywhere on earth, I am looking more and
more to the divine for answers. I know my own behaviour is more ‘God-like’ daily
and my desire to challenge the wicked grows stronger all the time. I have faith that
the evil of the world will one day be eradicated forever. I believe that some people
genuinely feel that they have an important role to do in promoting God’s word and
that they achieve this in various successful ways according to their personality.
Some are happy to knock on doors and hand out leaflets, some write and sing
Christian songs, stories and hymns, some preach the bible and visit the sick, poor
and imprisoned and others act out their religious message. I must admit I find it
intriguing that there is so much faith, so many followers and that the bible is so
widely read worldwide. Dad calls them all [all fifty percent of the world’s population]
crackpots! He’s a devout atheist. I suppose I’m one of these who need hard facts
and evidence to be one hundred percent persuaded. A lot of what the bible says
about the evils of money and the ugly selfishness and destructive greed of mankind
is true and there is much wisdom in its teachings but I’m a bit sceptical about the
idea of Jesus’ resurrection, his one hundred and forty four thousand future faithful
anointed followers, a one thousand year long judgement day etc et cetera. If the
bible really was written by God, I reckon a heck of a lot of it has been distorted by
man to somehow make us sceptical so that Satan can continue his reign. I reckon it
is more likely that Jesus’ purpose on Earth was to overthrow the corrupt government
where he lived and grew up in so that everyone could share in the land’s wealth and
prosperity and that pain and suffering would be no more. I believe that his promise
of righteous rule was an unwelcome challenge to the evil men in power and as such
they had him executed.
It would’ve been a bit like someone now toppling Tony Blair and more importantly Bill
Clinton and setting a pure example of honest rule in an honourable government so
that everyone benefits. What a perfect dream. If that happened we’d gradually see
the decline of courts and associated staff, police forces, prisons, hospitals, mental
institutions, social services…. I think many people become mentally ill because of
some injustice that they’ve suffered and lies that they’ve been fed. Many people are
unfairly imprisoned because they have: taken the law into their own hands when our
judiciary failed them, taken the wrap for someone else’s crime, been the wrong
colour, spoken out against corruption and oppression…. I suspect that many of our
prisoners are in truth our very brave saviours. I guess if we could all somehow find a
way of turning anything bad that has been done unto us into something positive
[which would give us back some control, however small] then maybe we’d have hope
for a radical change towards peace and prosperity in the future. I believe we all have
to suffer some type of hardship to make us kill complacency and get off our
backsides to fight for Godly rule.
MARCH 15TH 1999
Andrew had a bit of a giggle about Jordan’ collection of cars that he safeguards by
hiding them all under his mattress. I passed a remark that he used to collect breccy
bowls and hide them under his cupboard. Anyone would think I never fed him – he
was only four or five too!
Talk Radio covered a discussion on the failings of schools. I couldn’t resist a bit of a
knowing smile when a headmaster came on to give his point of view and despite
much prompting could not get his opinion over. This head kept referring to a piece
that he’d read in the Observer but we were none the wiser and after a quarter hour of
senseless waffle, he was cut off. Numerous people phoned in with remarks such as,
“With heads like that, no wonder our schools are abysmally deficient.”
MARCH 16TH 1999
The kids and I visited our hairdresser. As usual the chitchat drifted on to home
tuition. I was asked if I set the kids homework! Funnily enough it is quite a common
question. Andrew and Shell nagged me to give them the key so that they could let
themselves in as they were bored waiting for me. Since the salon is at the top of our
road and only a few doors away from our house, I grudgingly agreed. But despite
my warnings, the silly buggers ended up leaving the keys on the table and going out
to play on the drive. We got locked out. Luckily dad was at home and [armed with
spare key] came to the rescue within minutes. From now on I’ll carry a spare with
me so that the kids can let themselves in if I get nattering to any of the neighbours
[which happens quite frequently.]
Lauri and baby Jamie dropped in. She said she’d seen Andrew and Shell in the
paper and I briefed her on recent dubitable events. Lauri wondered if, considering all
the flack I’m getting with social services and police, that maybe I’m being targeted
because I unconventionally teach my kids at home and maybe the powers that be
think I’m a little odd. She advised me to stick them back in school. Dad also
dropped a large hint that maybe under the circumstances I’d be better off with the
kids back in school. I really can’t understand that kind of attitude. No one is
considering what’s best for Andrew and Shelly. Maybe I am being victimised
because I do things a little differently but that’s not going to stop me. To put them is
school would be going against everything I believe in and Andrew and Shell would
be miserable, bullied mercilessly, uneducated and troubled.
Shell likes to do shape sorters with pud. Trouble is he has a habit of removing the lid
and then lobbing the shapes in; or he’ll just stack them up, one by one.
I gave the kids a little pep talk abut being happy with themselves because of all the
things they can do but not to be big-headed. The prince of lies then cropped up in
the conversation. I said, “Gareth is a tiresome bragger who spouts off about his
exaggerated self-centred experiences that mostly prove to be lies.” I told them it’s
important to love themselves in order to love others and not to put others down to
make themselves look good. I said it is healthy to be proud of your achievements
and to acknowledge that you’ve worked hard. I told them to, “Be happy when you
master something but don’t say you’re better than others.” The kids seem to have
grown up overnight. I have such admiration for them – they are tough little
creatures. Half the time I find myself looking to them [especially Andrew] for strength
and support when I’m feeling a little weak and defeatist. They have such awareness
and maturity for their ages and they know the way the world works. They scorn
social services and mock the police and they know all about hypocrisy, corruption
and injustice yet they still know exactly how to behave when anyone in a position of
authority addresses them. Smart kids. I was quite the opposite at their age – I was
a shy and giggly trusting schoolgirl.
There was a disgusting ‘ash’ type smell in the playroom. The kids denied causing it.
I wondered if it was Andrew’s cap gun but when he fired it for me it was a totally
different ‘smoky’ smell. It didn’t even smell like a typical ciggy stench or even stale
ash but it was repugnant and even gave me a dry feeling at the back of my throat. I
opened the window, sprayed air freshener and after half hour or so, it had
disappeared.
MARCH 19TH 1999
Well would you flamin’ believe it? A letter came this morning from the legal aid
board to inform me that there is no money in the pot – not one bean – to help me
with expenses relating to court visits that I am being dragged through by my
unscrupulous ex. Their reason is that my case is “neither unusual in its nature nor
does it involve unusually large expenditure.” All the more reason for coughing up to
help the likes of me who need it the most. I’ve heard that some people on benefit do
get aided but I’ve no idea what the criteria is to qualify. I heard a rumour that there is
no consistency in the board’s decisions and that it all depends on who opens your
letter or if the decision maker happens to be feeling in generous mood on the day
your letter lands in his lap! The letter continues, “If you consider that the expenditure
is necessary you may incur the disbursement but it may be disallowed.” Well, thanks
for nothing.
I plonked pud on the loo and began to play games with him to relax him so that he’d
pee; but he had his own ideas – he pulled me towards him and plunged his paws
down my jumper to feel my boobs!
Talk about entertainment on our road when the pubs shut! Move over Eastenders.
It was getting on for midnight and I’d decided to have an early night for a change but
just as I was dropping off I heard a couple coming down the road screaming and
bawling at each other and calling each other the most vulgar names under the sun. I
couldn’t resist peeping from behind my bedroom curtain. The exchange of insults
increased in intensity and frequency until she, clad in mini skirt and high heels, did
an impromptu pirouette and, aided by centrifugal force, swung and caught him ‘clunk’
on the side of his head with her shopping-bag sized handbag. Makeup went flying,
keys and combs went careering into the gutter, perfume and hairspray headed for
the sewers and her spare pair of knickers ended up on the windscreen of a passing
motorist. Her bloke’s specs spun off and ended up smashed to smithereens under
the car’s wheel. She then kicked her shoes off and ran hell for leather screaming
and sobbing hysterically while he stood still and dumbfounded with his hands on his
hips and his face like thunder.
MARCH 20TH 1999
I decided to phone around some of the devil’s old neighbours again hoping to get
some supportive statements but no one wants to get involved. The feeling is that
Gareth was disliked and greatly feared around there and that no one trusts him and
they’re worried that he’ll turn up and do God knows what to them. I was virtually
begging people to help me because I’m so worried that he’ll win in court with his
sweet-talking charm and ugly but plausible lies. But I was politely asked not to
phone again. So much for trying to get witnesses when you need them! It is
incredible that the prince of darkness can get good credentials from respected
persons in society including the police and can even be awarded the responsible job
of raising his children by the justices, yet he is known to many [including officials] as
being a violent offender. Fear is a powerful deterrent. Evil will continue to flourish
while the forces of fear and submission are greater than the power of courage and
challenge and where lies dominate truth.
Gareth used to warn me not to cross him or his family. He’d say the local bobbies
are no threat – it’s CID you have to look out for. How did he know so much? He’d
tell me one of my ex boyfriends would be banged up soon, that the police were after
him for various crimes but that they had no hard evidence, that he has too many
seedy pals and that he was too intelligent and careful to be caught. I’d tell him he
was romancing. He’d say, “Just you wait and see.” Now I realise he was talking
about himself. How many bad barstuds get let off scotfree because there is
‘insufficient evidence’? BULLDUST, there is plenty of evidence but these evil scum
are well protected by the terrorist underworld and corrupt officers. You can’t have
one rule for those who are a terrorist threat or/and the wealthy [including royalty and
government officials] and another rule for Mr/Mrs Average. It is a recipe for world
war three. In fact I’m damned sure there will be a third world ‘war’ but it will be the
good people versus bad people and the righteous will win. Stephen Lawrence’s
murderers are not just racists; they are evil thugs who are protected, along with their
criminal associates. The police and government can’t/won’t combat crime; they are
ruled by and associated with powerful underworld gangsters - millionaires who
pretend to be honest honourable businessmen. I recollect Gareth always used to
preach to me about right and wrong and that I would one day have to answer to the
most supreme for all my crimes. The irony is he is the one who has much to fear in
that department; my slate is clear. I’ve been no angel; I’ll admit that, but I’ve righted
all my wrongs and will sin no more. Can the likes of ‘Sir’ Condom say the same?
Mrs Lawrence opened a can of metropolitan worms in her drive for justice but
Condom and cronies just about managed to slide the lid back on. But it won’t stay
on for long. The law-abiding, respectable, humble, harmless folk upon this Earth
won’t put up with it for much longer. Everyone wants justice. People die for it.
Righteousness is possible if you really want it and are prepared to fight for it. Where
there is truth and justice, there is freedom.
I’m starting to make sense of the confusion and misery, which is all around us.
People will call me mad but I believe we are all here for a purpose. Events in our
lives are no coincidence. We all have a duty to stamp out the scourge of evil and
resist Satan, so that God’s will be done and uprightness ultimately reigns. I think
God needs human help to revolutionise the world. It makes me sick when I see
political leaders and royalty honouring our war dead and taking part in religious
services. Such hypocrites. Actions are louder than words. They should SET AN
EXAMPLE – use their money for some genuine good. Right now the politicians are
leading us into more war, which means more death and destruction and suffering
and poverty. Governments should not privatise public services. People are sick to
death of fat cats making HUGE profits for being failures whilst Joe Public is left to
pick up the tab. Services are shoddy and unsafe and getting worse. Governments
should be TRANSPARENT AND ACCOUNTABLE. There should be no need for
charities in wealthy countries such as ours. People who can least afford it pay into
them time and time again whilst millionaires turn into multimillionaires and
billionaires. Come on you ‘ordinary’ people stop throwing good money after bad.
You’ve slogged your guts out and earned your pittance honestly. Use your pennies
to fight corruption and expose the fat cat crooks. Stop wasting your time watching
the soaps and watch documentaries instead. Don’t be taken in by propaganda. Find
out the TRUTH. Start challenging the money managers.
A phrase from a book I’d read popped into my head, “Why do clouds move in a
certain way and at a certain speed? Only the sky knows that. Why do events
happen in your life? You understand when you lift your head up high enough to
understand the signs and patterns.”
MARCH 21ST 1999
Andrew had his pal Malcolm around for dinner. They used to be close mates when
Andrew was at school, so I told Andrew and Shell they could have their old school
chums around for dinner or tea periodically and maybe even for an occasional
overnight stay. They decided they are going to wage war on the neighbourhood
hoodlums and they nagged me into teaching them some aikido techniques. I
actually found myself outside showing them some stick movements, throws and
holds. I pointed out that if they are going to fight with one hundred percent
determination they need to use their breath power, which serves two purposes: [1] It
makes them pumped up and gives them more energy [2] The explosive shout which
comes from the depths of oneself is sometimes enough to make any aggressor leg
it.
I then found myself giving lessons on how to kiai. Over dinner the boys were
reminiscing about how they tried to fight back at school when bullies attacked them,
yet they were the ones called liars and who ended up in detention and the
troublemakers received no punishment but were allowed to carry on causing trouble.
That’s just typical of how society works. They both recollected separate similar
incidents where they were attacked by louts in shops but no one came to their
rescue, they were just booted out and ordered to “continue your fight outside lads.”
This afternoon we all went up to the park. Jordan took his football along and was in
his element hoofing it all over the green until another little lad came up and asked if
he could join in the fun. Jordan declined, promptly snatched his ball back, sat on it
and refused to budge until the intruder had retreated.
At teatime we all dropped into the local hospital to visit my uncle Em. My aunty
Marge was up there too as she always is every day busily knitting and helping him
with meals and his personal needs. The visit brought very sad memories back of
mum because she spent her final two weeks of life in that place. She was happy
there though which was a blessing and the staff were brilliant.
Melissa melts me. Tonight, during her bedtime feed she was in peels as I gently
tickled her ears.
MARCH 22ND 1999
Andrew and Shelly split water up today. They sharpened both ends of two pencils
and suspended them in a glass of slightly salted water using a piece of cardboard.
They then connected a battery using wires to the lead bits of the pencils [called the
electrodes] and found that gas bubbles collected around the lead of the ends of the
pencils immersed in water. They found that the electricity had split the water into its
two constituents, hydrogen and oxygen, which are gases.
This afternoon we were inspected by Mr Dafydd Thomas, a Local Education
Authority official. Fair dos he was down to earth, likeable and supportive. I’ve got no
qualms about the way he conducted the visit and I felt he was satisfied with
everything that we are doing. He brought up the importance of the internet and I
agreed that it is a useful tool if you want up to date information or even specialised
info that can only be accessed via the computer, but for the purposes of being
educated in the fundamentals of maths, science and English, I think too much is
being made of computers by schools. To keep him happy tho I did tell him that
periodically the kids use their granddad’s outfit to surf the net. I could’ve cheerfully
strangled Shelly tho. She was a little too relaxed about the inspection and showed
herself up [and me] by having a fit of the giggles half way through. Andrew threw her
a stern penetrating look in an effort to shut her up but he just ended up in peels too.
Our guest didn’t seem phased tho. All I could blurt out was, “That’s a good start.” I’d
always taught the kids to be honest, to show their true feelings and not to be afraid of
speaking their mind or to be intimidated by others. On this occasion Shell took the
view that the visit was totally unnecessary, that she is learning much more than she
could ever hope to at any institution, no matter how good it was or what it cost and
that she is educated in happy, relaxing circumstances and is treated as an important
individual such that the education expert should be sorting out the problem of
schools not coming here to waste our time and bore us with trivia. Andrew
impressively announced that he is writing a book. Our caller excitedly enquired as to
the book’s content. Andrew replied, “The evils and corruption of the world.”
The news is full of our intentions to bomb the Serbs. Bill shouts “jump” and Tone
jumps! What about exhibiting some of that same aggression towards our own
terrorists? Good Friday ‘peace’ deal? Terrorists are terrorists. A thirteen-year old
boy was badly beaten with nailed baseball bats by four paramilitary thugs. That isn’t
politics. It is pure and simple thuggery. They are criminals and need to be brought
to book through the courts. They don’t even represent the people as they claim.
Most citizens want peace. There is no place for paramilitaries. But that cannot be
achieved until the police and justice system are squeaky clean. Violence will not
achieve that. Exposure of the ruling underworld will. There is no place for
‘organised’ crime. War of any description only hurts the innocent people. The power
of truth and goodness is far mightier. Publicity is our ‘weapon’. Name the evildoers
and those in authority who protect them.
The kids and I got enthralled by a superb film called Baby’s day out which is fairly
representative of the pathetic society that we inhabit. A baby is snatched by
hardened criminals who persistently elude police. They intend to sell the baby for
five million pounds but the baby has other ideas. He embarks on a day of pure
unadulterated pleasure in an adventure of a lifetime which sees him riding up and
down a few hundred feet of scaffolding on a building site and which repeatedly
results in the bad guys suffering numerous mishaps. At the end it is the baby who
victoriously and single-handedly nails the crooks and cops are left red-faced.
MARCH 23RD 1999
This morning’s radio discussion covered unsolved murders. People phoned in to
complain that many murders are not investigated by police and that, for the large
part, police make up stories surrounding a person’s death that suits their own
purposes and that would imply that the victim had brought it upon him/herself. One
caller said that her daughter was branded a hitchhiker meaning that she was
behaving ‘foolishly’. The implication being that she’d asked for it. The family
maintain that she had only been on a night out and was abducted and that if she had
been hitchhiking she would’ve at least carried an overnight bag. There were other
stories where people accused the police of lying and of covering up to safeguard
their reputation.
The phone-in then moved to contract killers. It amazes me that society somehow
condones this ‘profession’. Underworld hit men admit to journalists that they murder
and maim for money. Police know them. Yet it is all accepted. Murder is murder.
There is no such thing as ‘professional’ killing. It is all very well having worthy
programmes like Crimewatch who help police nab criminals but when there is
widespread corruption in the police force and a laughable justice system, there is no
hope of justice; only an escalation of evil. Thank goodness that we do have
extremely brave men and women who do snitch on these evil crooks and then give
evidence. They are putting themselves in a perilous position since society refuses to
safeguard them. Anyway with all the intelligence that we powerful Western countries
have and the vast sums of taxpayer’s cash spent on ‘intelligence’, it should be a
simple matter of locating terrorists and JAILING THEM. The public can’t stomach
the fact that easy targets are caught and jailed, such as the relatively harmless
vulnerable souls who become victims in society, get hooked on drugs et cetera and
commit petty crime. You don’t persecute the powerless, you chase after the big fish,
the real masters of crime and evil – the ones with blood on their hands and selfcentred cravings for money and power. But it is a well-documented fact that our
powerful and wealthy public servants and politicians are liars, corrupt and pally with
wealthy unscrupulous business leaders.
It’s all very well having masses of decent ‘ordinary’ folk working, volunteering and
donating in charitable schemes and bodies such as NSPCC, Childline, et cetera
working tirelessly to help vulnerable and needy children, but this is largely a case of
good money being thrown after bad and time being wasted. Children will continue to
suffer and the problem will escalate until the structures of society are questioned.
We good oriented citizens need to get to the consciences of powerful people and we
need to put our effort and cash into challenging the greedy and immoral and
downright corrupt. The controlling b…. at the top cannot continue when the foot
soldiers no longer play ball. When the ‘little’ people refuse to co-operate, the evil
men will soon find their empires crumbling, their support waning and their protection
diminished. How long do these egocentrics think they can live in their guarded
fortresses and with their police protection? Their criminality breeds more. They
can’t hide in their ‘safe’ havens that their money buys them forever. They need
enlightenment and the protection that you get from doing God’s work i.e. by doing
Good in society, being honest and upright and exposing those who do wrong. They
can start by giving away their ill-gotten gains. Don’t the evildoers and their
protectors realise that crime follows them around and will eventually engulf them?
We, the ‘underclass’ don’t want charity, hand outs, sympathy, crumbs from the rich
man’s table…. We WANT and are ENTITLED to have a just world, a world where
rules are FOR EVERYONE AND ARE OBEYED BY ALL. We want a world where
our children are safe and are treated fairly. We want an incorruptible world, where
people are judged according to their deeds and not by class or colour. I reckon that
those who fall from grace, exposed as crooks, stripped of their wealth and are
publicly humiliated in our world have been spiritually saved. They have been
privileged to be touched by God, but whether their egos allow such recognition and
can make them change into lifelong people of honour is another matter. I think that
God must exist and that he reaches out to us in different ways. I am convinced that
it is the poorest and lowest ranked members of society that can create change. I
discovered this truth in the workplace when I was a bank clerk. As the lowest grade,
lowest paid and most inexperienced of staff, I was transferred to a branch that had
the most appalling overtime record and it was all due to bad organisation. Before I
joined them they regularly left the office at ridiculous times i.e. between 6.00 pm and
6.30 pm, but because I became quite efficient at my own lowly job, the domino effect
created a situation where staff found themselves leaving at around 4.30 pm most
evenings. The manager was pleased with the lower overtime payments. People
must not underestimate their power. It will be the ‘ordinary’ folk who will bring about
Godly rule.
The plumber turned up this afternoon to sort my drains out. There had been a build
up of sewage and the poor bloke spent two solid hours prodding, poking and diluting
the gunge before it slid off into obscurity. Andrew and Shell helped to fetch and
carry buckets of water for him. He was so efficient, courteous and jolly throughout –
he quite restored my faith in the human race. The humblest folk are by far the most
admirable. Top marks for North West Water’s home service insurance scheme.
MARCH 24TH 1999
Horror of horrors! Jordan has just sussed out the technology of the back door bolt.
Now he can open it and wander off or he can lock me out! Time to tighten up the
security.
Andrew and Shell asked it they could go camping but I was horrified at the idea and
reminded them that little Sophie Hook was taken from her back garden. I did think,
rather cynically though, that under the circumstances [with the Gareth games] they’d
be far safer camping out anywhere but our back yard. They hastened to add that
they meant they wanted to ‘camp’ in pud’s playroom. I breathed a sigh of relief. I
told them maybe next year I can save up some money for us all to have a couple of
nights in a caravan at Butlins. That brought some smiles. Blankets and sheets came
out from nowhere, wardrobes and mattresses became tent poles and walls. I was
swiftly banished from ‘their’ room, which was just as well considering the chaotic
transformation. No doubt this’ll become a bit of a habit. I’ll probably be turfed out of
the living room next – or my own bedroom.
Stupid cops and some prat of a head teacher came on the news to tell parents that
their children are in no danger, yet minutes earlier a gunman had shot a bloke in his
car just outside their school.
Dad and I yakked on the phone. I was wittering on about how pleased I am with the
progress his grandkids are making on the keyboard since he stumps up one hundred
and forty pounds every ten weeks for their lessons. He told me that he always
wanted to play piano but couldn’t grasp it. I was telling him that Andrew and Shell
can read music and that they just naturally remember a lot of the tunes and can play
them without the book, which is the beauty of young brains. I then bored him to
tears with my sermon that people don’t realise the importance of childhood and that
it should be valued and nurtured more. I babbled on that young brains should be
protected from the burden of negative influences such as the frustrations and
anxieties of school, abusive parents, ill-natured persons and other bombardments of
time-wasting bad vibes, so that they are free to develop their capabilities to their
most creative and beneficial. During our natter, I noticed that my nitwit ex had driven
slowly down my road more than fifteen times. He just doesn’t give up!
MARCH 25TH 1999
Andrew bolted in to breezily announce that a group of kids off another road had been
bothering him so he’d smacked the ring leader, walked calmly on and had heard the
shocked smaller bullies encircling their chief asking, “Are you alright, boss?”
Shell and I watched a chat show about parenting and in particular whether parents
should allow their daughters to play with traditionally male toys and vice versa. I’ve
always been liberal minded about ‘suitable’ toys and don’t think it matters if Andrew
and Shell want to play with eachothers’ stuff as they do. It would appear that the TV
‘professionals’ and audience took the same view and that children grow up ‘normal’ –
happy, competent and well adjusted, regardless of the gender-type preferred toy.
I’m glad I’m not the only one who worries about the ‘goal posts’ of parenting and at
what point/how far they should be opened. There was much debate about how
much pocket money is fair and suitable, when bedtime should be, how much TV is
reasonable…. I concluded that it’s a good idea to have routine but without rigidity.
Sometimes I let the kids stay up until 2.00 am if I’m still up and they are wide awake.
Occasionally I allow them to stuff their faces with all the wrong foods – choccies,
cakes et cetera. I think the most important part of parenting is to just love them and
be there for them – to be their friend as well as their mum. I always comfort them,
hug them, encourage them, give praise where it’s due and gentle chastisement when
necessary. I tease and fool about with them too and play fight. Jordy and Melly love
the showerings of affection especially when they don’t expect it or don’t ask for it.
I can’t believe how I used to look to Gareth for guidance on good parenting. I used
to listen to his lectures on right and wrong! I’d wanted a man that I could look up to –
a leader that I could take directions from. Now I rely on me and my own judgement
and I feel stronger daily. I even read the bible for guidance on morality. Amazingly
the prince of lies used to blacken the name of Jehovah’s Witnesses, branding them
evil. Now I know he was just trying to discourage me from living virtuously. The
bible has helped me get everything into perspective and to just be concerned with
things that really matter. Now I don’t panic if my house is ‘upside down’ or the kids
look a bit scruffy; I realise everything gets ‘sorted’ eventually and that you need to
make time for things – even for rest and relaxation. I’m not a slave anymore; I do my
fair share and try to live the correct way. I have the courage of my convictions and
I’ve learned to listen to my body’s teachings – when I begin to feel off colour, I slow
down.
Andrew yelled at me to, “Come quick the kitchen is full of smoke.” Fearing he’d
accidentally started a fire with the toaster or something I flew in to find the same
repugnant smell that had been in the playroom a few days ago. Thinking he was
playing the practical joker I crossly accused him of causing the revolting whiff and
ordered him to, “Pack it in. It’s not funny.” But he was adamant that he didn’t have a
clue how it had got there and that he doesn’t have anything that would make that
kind of stench. Next minute Shell shouted that there was an awful smell of burning
in the living room. I ran back in to find the lounge reeking of the same fowl smell as
the kitchen. I shouted at her, “Not you as well; come on you two, the joke has gone
on far enough. Now just show me what you are doing and using to make such a
pong.” But she just kept saying, “Mum, you’ve got to believe me, I haven’t done or
used anything. The smell just came from nowhere.” I was so angry and upset
because I was convinced that they were lying to me and trying to make an idiot out
of me, so I legged it upstairs to the loo. If I’d stayed, I’d’ve smacked one of them.
But the same goddamned ugly odour was in the bathroom too. I had no idea what
was going on or if they were behind it or not. I fled around the house but thankfully
all the other rooms were ok. Air fresher was sprayed freely in the offending rooms
and eventually everything appeared quite normal again.
MARCH 26TH 1999
I received a copy of Vera Nolan’s court welfare report. The recommendations from
this report largely determine the outcome of the court case. My solicitor thinks it is
quite favourable but that the implications are that Gareth and I should stop fighting
and should work together for the children’s sakes. But how can you work or mediate
with a spiteful vindictive controlling liar whose only aim is to destroy you? The report
states that Gareth calls me an alcoholic and says that I’m unfit to care for my babies.
He reckons he’s been Jordan’s main carer and that he’s concerned for the babies’
physical and emotional wellbeing! Apparently he’s purchased a vast range of
equipment, clothes and toys in preparation for my babies moving in with him.
Cheeky blighter.
Vera states that many referrals were made to social services, some via the health
visitor and NSPCC and that they “all originated from Mr Williams or other members
of his family.” She states that social services took the view that they were malicious
and social services requested that he refrain from wasting their time. I wasn’t happy
with the next bit. The ‘burn’ fiasco was mentioned and the fact that Mel was
hospitalised. Vera states that doctors were unable to establish the cause of the
mark. LIES. Three doctors and the hospital paediatrician stated it was eczema and
she was treated for such. The report states “Social services carried out a Section 47
investigation.” A what? Also, that they held a “Strategy meeting.” Oh for
chrissakes, social services are worrying themselves about an innocent mark when
there are real child abusers out there and kids in children’s homes being abused
while social workers and their bosses look the other way. There are also dictators
out there who threaten our lives daily. Wars are global, corruption and unease ripe,
‘natural’ disasters and severe weather [largely caused by man] cause large-scale
death and destruction and there is real risk to every soul on earth regardless of their
class, colour or creed; yet these prats are busy shuffling silly bits of paper around
their offices, having stupid insignificant meetings and chasing their tales over a
harmless humble soul like me who poses no threat whatsoever.
Anyway how come the details of the educational social worker’s involvement with his
nibs’ kids [where referrals came from genuine and professional sources] didn’t
appear on this vital report? Ok, they are not my kids but their father is the father of
my kids and if there is any whiff of child abuse [physical, mental or sexual] having
been perpetrated by my vile ex on official records then I think the court and I are
entitled to know. The report further states that “there was no definite evidence to
suggest a non-accidental injury – no further action was taken. A social worker will
make a further unannounced visit and assuming she is satisfied, the case will be
closed.” Oh for heavens sake, the ‘case’ should never have been opened. Why am
I under scrutiny? I’ve never hurt my kids. Gareth has. Why aren’t they investigating
him? Vera recommends that the babies should develop a “close and loving
relationship with him.” Hang on, Vera only saw Gareth twice with the children, in
unnatural circumstances, and with him on false exemplary behaviour just for the
purpose of the visit; how can he be judged fit for any form of contact?
The report then states that Gareth is “opposed to Jordan and Melissa being
educated at home.” That b…. is opposed to anything I do just for the sake of being
awkward and yet there were times when we were together that he was full of
encouragement and support for me teaching them. That’s more proof [if proof were
needed] that he doesn’t give tuppence about the kids and what their preference
might be. Most kids, if given a choice between school and home, would choose the
latter. Further along she states that Jordan “does not communicate verbally” and
that there are “concerns about Jordan’s developmental delay.” What nonsense. The
H/V can’t specify what delays, and Jordan understands fully and responds
intelligently. He doesn’t talk yet cos he doesn’t feel the need and is happy to just
observe. Furthermore, why do the lying prats use that word ‘concern’ when they are
clearly NOT concerned about any of my kids! Vera states that I rely on Andrew and
Shell to help entertain Jordan. Well, I think he doesn’t need ‘entertaining’ and
anyway I was busy chatting to her and breast-feeding Melly. She states, “Both
parents should address the issue of stimulation for Jordan.” Well, in my view it is an
insult to ‘stimulate’ kids or encourage them to ‘play’. They explore and play when
they want to and are able [even at a young age] to form an opinion of someone such
that they may not wish to communicate with that person.
Vera says that we “did not appear to agree on anything” and that nothing positive
was mentioned by either of us in respect of the other. Well, actually I remember
saying that he is a good cook, good at DIY and that we did have some good times;
and anyway we couldn’t ‘agree’ because he is a lying evil little man whereas I am
struggling to get the truth out about him. She states she “isn’t convinced that either
parent could keep their personal feelings from Jordan and Melissa.” Well, it is wrong
to pretend that the other parent is something he is not. Children have a right to know
the truth and the court should consider that a liar [as Gareth has been proved to be]
is an unfit influence for a child. Vera states that it would be “emotionally damaging”
for the children to be denied either parent. Oh, come on. It is more ‘emotionally
damaging’ to expose a child to the malevolent malicious immoral man that Gareth
Williams is.
She says she has no evidence to suggest my babies would be at risk in the
unsupervised company of Gareth. Well there is ample evidence. All she has to do is
contact Colwyn Bay and Dolgellau social services regarding Gareth’s older two and
she should be allowed to access information from Alcoholics Anonymous. It is
scandalous that AA protects the alcoholics and thus exposes children to further
abuse and danger. There is a real risk that children [especially babies and toddlers]
would suffer significant harm and could even die because of a drunk parent. Yet this
pales into insignificance as far as the court is concerned. Where is the logic?
Women like me have fled dangerous, drunk, violent men and we remove our children
to safety until some ‘judge’ and an illogical and flawed so-called ‘welfare and justice’
system forces us to place our children right back amongst the very danger and
abuse that we fled. But it is worse for the child because he/she is completely
vulnerable since there is no-one else overseeing the forced contact sessions; and
the likelihood is that the father is even more violent because of his desire for revenge
and because he no longer has control over the woman. Also he probably drinks
more heavily and more often as he ‘drowns his sorrows’ over his changed domestic
situation. The kids are in great danger since, more often than not, the father doesn’t
really want them and doesn’t care about them; he just wants an excuse to continue
abusing their mother.
It is a crying shame that children’s lives are viewed so callously. It is no wonder that
many women stay with vicious men. If it wasn’t for Andrew and Shell, the chances
are that I too would still be with Gareth – for the sake of Jordan’s and Melissa’s
happiness and safety because while we were together the babies were rarely left
alone with him and he didn’t particularly want much to do with them. Vera states,
“Their hostility towards each other is interfering with their ability to make rational and
appropriate decisions about their children’s futures.” This is outrageous. I am
struggling against all adversity to bring my babies up in a safe and loving home
whereas Gareth Williams is a compulsive liar, wife and child batterer and a control
freak who cares not one iota about either baby. It is all very well officials watching
their backs and taking an unbiased view but they have a duty to do their job properly
and TAKE SIDES for the sake of the children. Fair play, Vera did mention the fact
that he smelled strongly of alcohol. But then she goes on to state that she “isn’t
convinced that either parent is willing to meet the children’s emotional needs.” How
ridiculous can you get? I certainly DO meet these needs – that is why I am trying to
protect them from harmful contact sessions with GW. Vera concludes that the prince
of revenge should have contact with Jord and Mel for a few hours initially and then
two or three times a week after a few months because, she says, it will benefit the
babies. Well she wouldn’t be making such recommendations if we were talking
about her babies and the father of her children was another Gareth Williams [or an
even worse character.] I just feel sick to the pit of my stomach now. To me, the
whole idea of a welfare report is a ruddy farce. How can it be the basis by which
some ‘judge’ makes such an important, even life-threatening decision?
MARCH 27TH 1999
I was horrified with what greeted me when I went to collect Jord from his afternoon
nap. He’d decided he wasn’t going to soil his nappy so he’d removed it and had
smeared his motions all over his cot, clothes, blankets, hair…. It took around two
hours and two bottles of disinfectant to clean up.
MARCH 28TH 1999
Shell took great pleasure in informing me that I’d stupidly left tissue paper in my cardi
pocket and had washed it along with a load of other clothes and now white bits of
paper were dotted everywhere. [I usually play hell with the kids for not emptying
their pockets before lobbing their stuff in the wash.] My first reaction was to bin the
cardi cos I couldn’t be bothered to painstakingly pluck all the bits out. But I
immediately visualised ten-pound notes heading for the bin, so I hastened to work
with pieces of masking tape.
MARCH 29TH 1999
There is a bit of a hoo ha surrounding benefit claimants. Apparently the dept of
social security don’t bother to check identities. Strange how they don’t seriously
investigate serial and/or big time fraudsters either but they’ll happily use up
resources chasing after easy little targets. They also have an absurd rule that just
because cash is paid from an absent father to a child for the purpose of pocket
money and hobbies, via the child’s mother’s bank account [for convenience], it is
considered maintenance; yet the law states that it is perfectly acceptable for the
father to visit weekly or so with the same amount of cash for the same purpose and
plonk it into the child’s hand or his/her mother’s! Such illogical nonsense
encourages secrecy and deception.
‘Sir’ Paul Condom is still lying. He is now in hospital with what he labels
‘gastroenteritis’. Rubbish! He is suffering stress – brought on because of his own
corrupt work record. GOOD. I hope he dies and rots in hell and all the other selfservers like him who abuse their positions of power.
Blair comes on Newsnightt to bleat, “The Kosovans pleaded with us to act.” What
about the Timoreans…. ?
MARCH 30TH 1999
Dad came with me and Andrew to court. My solicitor told me that the good news is
that the smarmy git has dropped his residence demands but the bad news is that I’m
going to have to agree to some form of contact. I asked what the magistrate would
award him if I left the decision solely up to the court. Apparently there is an unwritten
rule that the bloke gets a full weekend every other week plus an evening and that it
didn’t matter if the father was the most violent of sex offenders. I mournfully
informed my chuffed dad and smiling solicitor that Gareth had no intentions of
dropping his residence application and that he was just playing games as usual and
biding his time. The solicitor said that once the contact arrangements were settled,
Gareth couldn’t apply for residence again [unless he foots the bill himself.] But I’m
not convinced of that either. Gareth is a law unto himself. I asked about disclosure
of social services’ records regarding his kids. I made the point that although they
aren’t my kids, their father is the father of Jord and Mel and that whatever is on
record should be made available to the court. I was assured that we can obtain
them but right now we are heavily obliged to offer him some contact. Just like that!
It’s just an everyday deal to them. In their eyes, we’re not talking about children
we’re talking pound notes. Jesus wept.
After much persuasion and legal wrangling I reluctantly ‘agreed’ to two hours a week
supervised at the church. I’ve been pressured into following the guidelines of the
welfare report. At least they can’t accuse me of non-compliance. They can see that
I’m not the awkward one or the liar, but that my concerns for my babies are genuine.
The welfare report is so unfair tho. Vera only met the b…. three times and he’s a
most convincing liar.
I awoke suddenly after a lovely dream, which was so vivid. I don’t normally
remember dreams – that’s if I dream at all, but this one kept lingering in my head and
the song kept recurring, keeping me awake for the rest of the night. It was the hymn
There is a green hill far away…. I was walking hauntingly and alone across fields
and I assume that, had I not awoken, I would’ve eventually stumbled upon the hill
that Jesus was crucified on. I wondered if the dream had any meaning. It was so
poignant.
MARCH 31ST 1999
I’d stayed in deliberately because a social worker had written to tell me she’d be
visiting at 11.00 am. But guess what! It is now 12.30 pm and there is no sign of her
– not even an apologetic phone call. God, that really infuriates me.
At around 2.00 am, just as I was about to drift off into slumber land, I ‘sensed’
something to the left of me which wasn’t frightening. I looked in that direction and
smelled a lovely ‘perfumed’ fragrance that puzzled me and that I couldn’t identify. I
turned to my right and inhaled but could smell nothing unusual. I then faced my left
again and could smell the beautiful ‘perfume’. I then sat up and sniffed around
above my head but everything was ‘normal’. After a few minutes of this inquisitive
inhalation, the strange aroma remained in the one spot to my left. It was as if this
transparent thing/person was sitting on my pillow. I had the strongest belief at that
moment that mum was with me; after all she had forwarned me years ago when she
had the same experience with her dead mother that it might happen to me. She’d
told me then not to be afraid and that it would just be her paying me a friendly visit.
I’d laughed it off at the time thinking mum was suffering with a fertile imagination. I
found myself smiling broadly and I actually said, “Mum, is that you? Hi.” Then I
dozed.
APRIL
APRIL 1ST 1999
I miserably got Jordan and Melly ready for their contact session with the reptile. I
dressed them in nice gear considering they were going to church and the fact that I
was never going to give that sly git the satisfaction of being able to tell people that
my babies arrive dirty and unkempt. I then threw on a pair of shorts, sweatshirt and
my running shoes. At the church Jordan clung to me hopelessly and sobbed heartily
when I tried to hand him over. Mel sat in the pram looking like her world had fallen
in. I just had to leave them like that. I felt like the world’s biggest betrayer. I wished
they were older so that I could explain that I’d soon be back for them. I hated the
stupid court, the ignorant so-called ‘welfare’ officer, police for not putting GW in
prison where he belongs, social workers for not taking his kids off him and rendering
him unfit to be a father, the smug b…. td that stood in front of me but most of all I
hated ME for being so blind and trusting and so ruled by Mr EVIL.
On my way out I spoke glassy eyed to Lorraine’s husband John Dowel [another
church leader.] I asked him to make sure that Gareth is supervised and that he is
blocked from taking my babies off anywhere. I explained that Gareth is devious,
smooth talking and not-to-be-trusted. I gave him a brief low down of his vile
behaviour and John just looked at me as if I’d arrived from another planet. It is so
inconceivable that people don’t realise that scum like Gareth walk the Earth amongst
us – people who seem to be so polite gentle and generous but who are in fact
dangerous despicable fiends. But then again I suppose that if they looked like the
devil no one would go near them! When I think about the throng of strangers in the
streets that we all walk amongst so often I wonder how many of the women are
suffering in silence in their own homes and are scared stiff of the man in their lives;
probably the very same decent and amiable guy who we see at her side helping with
the shopping or driving her into town. She knows she’s living a life of terror behind
closed doors, unable to escape. She knows that she’s as risk and that no one gives
a damn. She may be a neighbour, work colleague or relative. She also knows that
the next beating he gives her could be the last one. She could end up dead. But
who cares? The attitude of society is, “So what? It’s just one of those things.”
There are so many such female victims and therefore so many such beastly men.
It’s a shocking reality.
I thanked John for his support and that of the church and hauled myself off for a run;
but my heart wasn’t in it and my thoughts were on the babies. I prayed that they
weren’t unhappy. Andrew and Shell zoomed off in the distance on their bikes.
Amazingly I ran for the whole session without the need or desire to take a rest. It’s
as if my body was trying to pound the hurt and turmoil right out of my heart and mind.
The babies were overwhelmed on my return – Jordan came tearing towards me.
Gareth grabbed him in a bid to kiss him goodbye but Jordan let out a high-pitched
shrill and turned himself rigid, like a plank, with arms waving up by his ears. I
cuddled him, he relaxed and we made our exit. At home the babies wanted lots of
cuddling.
My neighbour told me that while I was out a gang of teenage girls had been down my
drive peering in at my kitchen window. She said she’d shooed them off. We got
nattering about the problem kids in this area that go around in gangs from nearby
roads. She said she’s sick of them being rowdy, chucking litter, ringing the bell….
Her elderly neighbour caught one seventeenyear old yob peeing on her wall.
Two hours after we left the church I got a phone call from a social worker to tell me
they’d been contacted by NSPCC by an ‘anonymous person’ who is worried about all
four of my children. This ‘concerned’ member of the public has apparently told the
NSPCC that my children are abused and neglected and various other things, which
the social services have asked for details of in writing. The social worker informed
me that she will be around to see me about this in due course. I screamed down the
phone, “Why won’t you lot leave me alone? This is purely and simply harassment.
You know who is behind these so called ‘anonymous’ calls – GARETH WILLIAMS
and his nasty lying family.” I continued the onslaught, “Your superiors have already
hauled that vengeful venomous little man in to request that he stop wasting your time
and mine. Isn’t it long overdue that you force him to cease provocation?” I informed
her, “The repugnant bullet-shooter had not long ago spent two hours with the
children on his contact session and something to do with that must be bothering him
since he is backbiting to you people now.” She grunted polite apologies but lamely
insisted that social services are obliged to follow up all allegations of maltreatment
where children are concerned. I hissed, “You do-gooders should start doing your job
and investigate the real child batterers – scum like the very same G Williams who
sends you scurrying round to scrutinize me. But strangely those hardened criminals
continue to elude you. You should find out the identity of all complainants [you don’t
have to reveal it to anyone else.] If you are refused, you should not pay any
attention to the call, as it is obviously malicious in nature. It should not be too difficult
to ascertain which calls are genuine and which are not and then you should
prosecute the muckrakers.”
APRIL 2ND 1999
Andrew and Shell spent the afternoon with a couple of pals at the Eirias Park
fairground. During the babies’ nap I gave the house a bit of a dusting and then ran
around with the vac. I heard the bin crashing over so I flew to the window to see
some little prat scarper. He couldn’t’ve been more than six years old.
From 7.00 pm onwards the kids and I vegetated in front of the set while munching on
choccy eggs. At about 11.00 pm Shell announced she was off to bed, but barely had
she opened the lounge door when she screamed, “Mum, mum the house is full of
smoke.” I tore out with Andrew in hot pursuit yelling, “Everyone out, quick – Andrew,
you grab Jordan, I’ll get Mel.” Then Andrew and I shouted in synchro, “Hang on, let’s
find the fire first.” The three of us sped about the place hunting high and low but
there was no fire. The alarms were silent. There was just this strange acrid smoky
stench lingering all over the house. Bewildered, I checked up on the babies – they
slumbered on unphased. I ventured outside. The air was clear and healthy. Back
indoors, the sooty stench loitered.
I was just about to zoom around opening all windows when another aroma seeped in
to replace the soiled smells. The new sweet scent was beautifully bouquetfragranced and quite uplifting. It was the same as the one that I was convinced
embodied my mum and it was spreading everywhere and engulfing the whole house.
My imagination leaped into overdrive. Is mum with us right now? If so, how can she
be all over the place or has she brought some divine pals with her - angels? And if it
is mum with us – she who personifies comfort and goodness, what or who was with
us before? The thought horrified me but I decided that we mustn’t tell anyone about
this because we would be branded lunatics. Andrew and Shell asked, “Now do you
believe us? We didn’t cause the rotten whiffs earlier.” I apologised for doubting
them and for being unable to answer their questions as to where the smells were
coming from. I told them we mustn’t be worried though and that a perfectly
acceptable explanation is bound to surface in due course. They said they were
scared that the bad smells might return so I told them to bunk up on my bedroom
floor. As they slept soundly I prayed for the unexplained phenomena to stop and I
made a mental note to log any strange occurrences down. I tossed over the idea of
contacting a priest for some divine intervention.
APRIL 3RD 1999
It’s such a gloriously hot day that I find myself sprawled on my sun bed with cider in
hand enjoying the rays. My thoughts drift back to my lousy time with GW, of all
things. I can’t believe that I actually allowed him to dictate to me. He banned me
from joining the squash league. He’d threaten that if I joined I’d have to take the
babies with me cos he had no intentions of looking after them. Maybe it was just as
well that I didn’t go – anything could’ve happened to my cherubs. I remember the
time where I’d fled his house after he’d stolen all my money, smacked me about my
head and shoved me through the door with such force that I’d tripped and stumbled
down his drive scraping and cutting my arms and legs on the wall while I struggled to
keep Jordan in my arms. He’d refused to let me take my own pram and, desperate
and destitute, I’d been forced to stand begging in a second hand baby shop for a
dirt-cheap pram. I’d been too proud to ask dad for help and I’d dreaded him telling
me, “Told you so.” Staggeringly I actually went back to my tormentor after a week
because I believed his protestations of remorse and his promises of reform. Just
shows how worthless I felt, how much I believed his belittling insults and how much
authority he exerted over me.
Andrew is in a right stromp. He reckons all his Llysfaen mates are at the Eirias fair
and he really wants to join them. I made it clear that he can go by all means but not
to expect a penny more. I reminded him that he’s already had more than a fiver out
of me plus Easter eggs and his pocket money.
I awoke in the middle of the night after another powerful dream, which kept me
awake pondering its significance. I’d been a solitary figure amongst the hustle and
bustle of masses of tourists and townsfolk in en enchantingly beautiful and
picturesque unknown foreign place - a place where the air was pure, streets
unpolluted and where a snow-capped imposing gargantuan mountain stood. Gazing
at its majestic demeanour in awe I had felt an enormous compulsion to climb it. It
was beckoning and daring me with what seemed like a promise of untold
unimaginable riches at the top.
APRIL 6TH 1999
Isn’t that just typical! Just as I was about to embark on the kwikie excursion, Melissa
filled her nappy to overflowing level. Then, once changed and ready for town, she
posited all down her jacket and jumper. Don’t babies just love to share their
regurgitated food with you at the most inappropriate moments!
Ol Tone is on the news preaching about “proper standards of civilised conduct.”
Well, I don’t call releasing convicted terrorists from jail ‘civilised’.
That damned putrid smell returned this afternoon and loitered in the downstairs
rooms. I can’t blame Andrew and Shell; they are browsing around the market. The
‘smoky presence’ just as mysteriously sloped off after a few minutes.
APRIL 7TH 1999
Dad is taking the stick insect to court to try and reclaim his two and a half thousand
quid. He had to pay eighty pounds tho for the privilege.
APRIL 8TH 1999
I took the babies for their contact session with the spirit of darkness. He snarled that
dad won’t get a bean back because he has mum’s diary and she has written that the
two and a half grand was a gift [so he goadingly claims.] The creature with his
brains in a bog roll then smugly insisted that I’ll have to see my solicitor about the
return of my stolen items. I asked, “How can you call yourself a Christian? Go back
to the bowels of the earth where you crawled out from.”
I completed an obstacle course avoiding dog excrement during my jog to Llanddulas.
All the crackpot council do is erect ineffective silly little signs warning about dogfouling fines. No one gives a sh…. I reckon they should employ someone to
photograph owners who allow their dog to defecate on the pavement. Give that
culprit an on-the-spot fine and publish the photo in the local rag. It’d be cheaper in
the long run than paying some poor guy to sweep the matter up.
Late afternoon the kids complained that the ‘smoke’ was in the upstairs hall. It was,
but not as strong as usual. Nevertheless it still bothered me.
During tea the now familiar sweet flowery fragrance flowed into the kitchen. I t had a
soothing effect and we all smiled at each other. I wondered if mum had come down
to keep a beady eye on us and calm our fears about the earlier sinister stench. I
mumbled something about a whiff of flowers wafting in from outside.
The five suspects of Stephen Lawrence’s murder were interviewed on TV to “give
their side of it.” Lying thugs – they should be prosecuted NOW. What are the police
scared of? The father of one suspect is a violent drug trafficker – there’s a clue.
They live in a big posh house – says it all. The Mickey Mouse Met say there’s not
enough evidence! Despite the huge public enquiry, unparalleled publicity and
massive public outcry spanning years, the top crook of the metropolitan police keeps
his job and the murderers continue to walk free to commit more hell on Earth. God
bless the Lawrence family for hounding the Met. I hope they never stop. I wish
more people would follow their example and DEMAND JUSTICE. It’s no wonder
people don’t bother reporting it - our so-called law enforcers are on the side of the
criminal. But the police then have the gall to tell us that crime statistics are down.
Beggars belief. It gives some insight into how untrustworthy and undependable our
‘crime fighting’ force is and it isn’t difficult to work out why thousands of crimes are
never solved. It is a grim state of affairs when so many gruesome crimes barely get
a mention, never mind hit the headlines.
The European commission is institutionally corrupt; commissioners are forced to
resign in disgrace. Fudge up after fudge up occurs; and they want a Eurocurrency
and a Eurosuperstate!
The British medical association want to reduce the spread of alcoholism by labelling
bottles of grog with unit levels and the recommended daily intake. Do they seriously
think that’ll do a fat lot of good? Are they going to label methylated spirits too?
APRIL 9TH 1999
Social worker Elaine Berry showed up with details from the NSPCC to question me
about violating my children. The caller states that Melissa is two years old; she is
ten months old – it is pretty obvious that she is a baby. The caller states he has
witnessed me slapping Andrew across the head, hitting him with a broom stock
handle and that a “social worker named Rowlands” is involved. Only GARETH
WILLIAMS and his hateful family know about Mr Rowlands because it was Mr
Rowlands who reprimanded Gareth about wasting social services’ time! The
‘concerned’ caller states that my children are “left home alone regularly” and that the
younger two are often alone. He states that he contacted police but that they didn’t
respond. How the hell does Gareth Williams know that the police didn’t respond?
Does this mystery man watch my house continuously? GW has police connections;
maybe they keep him posted. With all the bullsh….t I’ve had to put up with it’s about
time police put CCTV on my house and then maybe the idiots will CHARGE my
malevolent ex with HARASSMENT. [There is more chance of me winning the lottery
tho, despite the fact I don’t play it!] The depraved nonentity says: “The two year old
girl was hospitalised last month for burns.” Gareth Williams learned about this fiasco
from Vera’s report and social services know that Mel had eczema. Three doctors
and a community physician diagnosed eczema. It is stated on the NSPCC letter:
“Mother is white American.” No one knows I’m American except my preposterous
pig of an ex and his equally detestable family. To her credit, Elaine did say she
believed me but that they do have to investigate all accusations and referrals. But
this trash makes a mockery of social services. The b…. making these atrocious lies
[and it’s pretty obvious who the venomous culprit is] should at least have the
decency to reveal himself; and if the coward won’t, then he shouldn’t be taken
seriously. If he is proved to be a lying troublemaker, he should be charged with:
slander, harassment, wasting public services…. That should carry a nice jail
sentence. The way things stand, where’s the protection for women like me – the
victims?
Ironically there is quite a scandal surrounding social workers in the news. They fail
to find adoptive parents for kids who are in ‘care’. In one authority, out of three
hundred and ninety kids in care, only one was placed in adoption. Barnardos say
that ‘care’ is as abusive as child abuse and that social workers turn down huge
numbers of suitable caring people who are desperate to adopt; making race, religion,
disability et cetera the excuse.
The news is also full of benefit swindles. Fraud surrounding housing benefit is bad
enough but councils are exposed as incompetent and idle. Only fifty percent of all
councils have anti-fraud strategies of which eighty percent ignore the government’s
basic checking scheme, despite receiving massive grants to set up the schemes!
Some councils don’t bother investigating any fraud; thirty five percent don’t
prosecute or recover cash where fraud is detected and the investigating council
employees are poorly trained. So much for the clamp down on crime!
The disgusting Hillsborough football injustice was exposed on TV tonight. Ten years
on and relatives still want the truth to come out. Police chiefs are guilty of gross
negligence concerning crowd control and of a shameful cover-up. Constables
warned senior officers of the looming disaster – of crowding into a cramped area, of
dreadful crushing…. But immediately afterwards, senior officers embarked on a dirty
tricks campaign. While fans lay dead and dying, relatives were asked if alcohol had
been consumed. Police passed the buck and blame was shifted on to the victims
who were accused of being drunk and troublesome. Astonishingly, during the
enquiry, statements made by police constables who witnessed the whole thing were
changed by the special unit set up to investigate the police so that police action was
deemed favourable and they were cleared of any blame. Staggeringly the Lord
Chief Justice knew about the changed statements and, to add further insult to injury,
one major player in the corrupt proceedings was promoted to chief constable.
Well, the guilty won’t get away with it – the public know the truth and so does GOD. I
think school kids should watch programmes such as Panorama, Dispatches,
McIntyre undercover, The Cook Report, Trevor McDonald’s Tonight…. as part of
their curriculum – then they’d grow up hungry for change and with the awareness
and confidence to challenge corruption. Most of the stuff they are forced to learn
now is as boring as an oral hygiene pamphlet anyway. Schools are the State’s tools;
their purpose is to stifle kids’ spirits and mould them into slaves of society. And they
even want to get them indoctrinated earlier. They want to get their clutches into
babies now – they want three year old tots in full time school.
APRIL 10TH 1999
The kids asked me about their uncle Malcolm today who they met only once at their
nan’s funeral. We thus embarked on a heart to heart about my family. I reminisced
that mum suffered inwardly with feelings of hopelessness and helplessness. My
brother blames her for his own faults and for causing the family rift, which started
over ten years ago with his wife Carol. I was dragged into the conflict which was so
trivial but which festered. Dad remained neutral. Over the years mum and I tried to
patch things up with Malc but he didn’t want to know. It seems I am only worthy of
condemnation. He shunned mum over the years, which cut her to the core so
deeply that she’d often say to me, “If my family don’t want to know me when I’m well,
I don’t want to know them when I’m dying.” But, just to save face, Malcolm did the
very thing that she had always said she didn’t want, he showed up during her final
days. I strongly disliked him for that and for the way he and dad carried on just
before she died. I can see them now in dad’s house supping brandy and behaving
as if there had never been a rift and as if they were masters of the universe. Mum
barely got a mention. I’d felt quite uncomfortable in their company and told them
they had more faces than Big Ben, but they dismissed me as being a typical
emotional woman talking a load of old flapdoodle; just in the same patronizing
manner that mum had often been subjected to. She hated that show of superiority
and would say, “Bloody Larges; who do they think they are?” I see a lot of good in
dad but the pompous attitude and showy façade at a time of such distress and with
the son he never sees and who caused mum such grief and heartache just made me
feel so sick and despairing. Dad actually accused me of causing trouble with
Malcolm at that time.
It’s hard to believe that Malcolm and I used to be so close – the best of friends.
There were times when I too would tire of mum’s depression and would threaten to
“do a Malcolm” and shut her out of my life because I was fed up of trying to counsel
her when she constantly went on about the same thing. Despite the fact she and
dad loved each other in their own strange ways, divorce was discussed many times
but somehow they never got round to it, so they ended up miserably coexisting in a
largely unhappy marriage. My nasty threat cut her to the bone but at the time I didn’t
care – I simply couldn’t cope with her burdens. At the funeral Malc and I consoled
each other and agreed to let bygones be bygones, but only a few days later he made
it clear he wanted nothing more to do with me. He couldn’t even speak to me on the
phone. Months passed until I phoned him to ask if he and Carol would like to be
godparents to Jordan and Melissa but I was given short shrift as they brought up
years old grievances. What got to me more than anything was that despite the fact
they’d only met once [at mum’s funeral], Malcolm was happy to chat openly to
Gareth about me after we’d split up last October. Dad had to intervene.
APRIL 11TH 1999
The bizarre smoky ‘presence’ came again tonight. It seemed to seep in to the
lounge from under the door. We were being regular couch potatoes when the eerie
unknown entity gatecrashed. It was about 11.00 pm. This time it seemed thicker
and more menacing and we all began to complain of ‘tickly’ throats. We explored the
house and found the same repulsive odour in all rooms except for two – Jordan’s
and Melissa’s. Strangely theirs smelt of Roses and they slept soundly. Within
minutes the enigma had disappeared and the house was back to ‘normal’. Even the
flowery scent had gone. They mystery was unnerving and we all piled into my
bedroom for an uneasy night. The two cots were put at the foot of my bed, Andrew
crashed on my floor and Shell hopped into bed with me. I am still reluctant to tell
anyone – I’ll only be called a liar or a nutcase. They say suffering is good for you – it
produces strength and stamina. We’ll see. I know one thing; something spiritual
visits us but I’m not sure of the significance. I sense an evil omen and a good force
and that there is a power struggle between the two. My belief and trust in God gets
stronger daily now. I feel there is nowhere else I can turn.
APRIL 12TH 1999
The Authorities are cheeky devils. They’ve now banned a church from advertising
the healing miracles of God because they say there isn’t enough proof and they have
to protect ‘vulnerable’ people. They’ve got some nerve. They should go and pick on
their own type and leave the church alone. It is sacred and should be respected as
such. Proof is not required. Faith is. God does not want people to make him prove
how powerful he is. He just is. People should believe it and live according to his
rules. The council like to control but they’ll get a rude awakening one day when they
realise that they can’t control God. The truth is, the ‘vulnerable’ need protecting from
officials. Governments just want the poor, weak and disadvantaged to stay
dominated; like slaves. The truth is, officials are terrified that the ‘good’ guys will win
and the bad guys, such as control-freak councils, will lose power and be crushed.
This evening I watched Jailbirds. It featured a desolate victimized frightened girl
called Star. She is in prison for minor offences relating to drink and drugs because
evil predators targeted her and, like thousands of other susceptible youngsters, she
became hooked. Behind bars, she self mutilates because she already hates herself.
She’s been abused all her life – sexually and otherwise. But she is treated worse by
the prison authorities. The guvnor gave her an opportunity to say why she selfinflicts, but when she, shaking uncontrollably, attempted to explain her feelings, he
just slapped her down and treated her like a two year old. She’s been controlled and
bullied all her life; she doesn’t need more injustice. She shouldn’t be in prison.
Those wealthy, powerful upper classes who fail in their duty to bring to justice real
criminals and, worse, those who protect hardened criminals should be locked away.
For all the ‘Stars’ of this world just give them love, kindness and fair play. Jail is not
for them. How many drug barons, drug pushers, drug smugglers, gangsters,
dictators, Mafioso…. do we have in prison? And how many bent officials [the
protectors of evil people] do we have in prison? Why are the oppressed, such as
Tianamen Square students, behind bars???
APRIL 14TH 1999
Andrew and Shell came out with something this morning that took the wind right out
of my sails. They said that they now understand the ‘smells’ because God has
explained everything to them. They told me that the horrible smells represent devils
and that the nice smells mean angels. Apparently Satan is trying to stop us
spreading God’s word by spooking us. He does not want me to write this diary. The
kids continued with, “ God says we’ll be able to see the devils soon – they are red
and ugly, have horns and black eyes and smoke is all around them. We have to get
rid of them. He says the best way is to spray them with air freshener immediately –
they hate that. Soon we’ll be able to destroy them with our thoughts.” I stared at the
kids, open-mouthed. Of course I did consider the possibility that they were just
fantasizing, like all kids do, but then I contemplated the unthinkable – that they could
be right and that maybe God did speak to them. Anything is possible and no one is
an expert in the field of spirits. After all, I’d already decided that mum visits us. The
kids confirmed that “Nan is one of the angels and comes down to help fight the bad
spirits – she guards us. Jesus watches over the babies.” This was all a bit farfetched, but it did offer one explanation for all the unexplained phenomena.
What Andrew said next nearly made me choke on my tea. He went very serious and
declared, “God says we have to defeat the evil on Earth. We have to help change
the bad people into good ones. He says we only have six years to do it because if
we don’t, doomsday will be here and we’ll all be in hell when we die.” I asked him
how he knew about doomsday. I asked if he’d read the bible. “No chance,” came
the reply, “The bible is only twenty five percent true.” He said that God had just told
him. I asked how. He said, “His voice comes into my head.” He got irritated then
and said that he has told me before that he speaks to God. He complained, “You
don’t take me seriously. You don’t believe me.” I told him that I am listening now.
Both he and Shell explained how it all started. It was during a BBQ party at
Gareth’s. Their friend [GW’s cousin’s daughter] and my two were miserable because
all of us adults were getting drunk and rowdy. The three kids escaped into a field
and the friend showed my kids what she does when things get bad for her at home.
They sat in a field holding hands and concentrated hard. God had come to them and
said, “Thank you for having faith in me. Don’t worry it won’t always be like this –
everything will change for the better soon.” I did wonder if the kids had been
watching too much science fiction! A lot of it makes sense tho. It is true that greed
and evil rule and that the world is deteriorating daily – just like all the Watchtower
pamphlets state. I’ve watched Colwyn Bay going to the dogs. My road alone is
more violent now than it has ever been.
The kids tell me that God needs human help because Satan is winning upon Earth
right now. They tell me that God talks to other people and that many are working
unobtrusively towards righteous rule but that he is unable to reach most people
because they choose to follow Satan’s weak and wicked way. God also tells them
that people who do nothing to stop the spread of evil are also the devil’s followers,
despite their prayers and church worship. They say God will reveal more in due
course when we are ready to learn, but for now I’ve been told to press ahead with
this book. I’m keeping an open mind. What else can I do? I told the kids not to
speak about this to anyone because we’d only be laughed at or booked in for a
psychiatric consultation. To think I used to be a devout atheist; just like dad!
APRIL 15TH 1999
Jordan cried when I left him with the brute from hell. It breaks my heart to see his
little angelic face so strained and troubled.
When I collected him afterwards he ran hell for leather to greet me. Gareth grabbed
him but Jord let out a terrific scream and turned himself into a board. He refused to
calm down until Gareth released him and he was allowed to run into my arms.
Tonight I watched a hard-hitting programme about kids who are forced by courts to
see their loathed fathers. If such a child refuses, the mother could end up in prison.
Children go through hell during visits with brutish fathers, yet courts say this can only
be beneficial to the child! One child said that a welfare officer gave her trick
questions. One woman said her ex had threatened her with losing her kids if she left
and that he’d kill her. Instead, as soon as a judge awarded him contact, he killed the
two children [one aged three years and the other aged four years.]
The so-called children’s act fails children. Courts abuse kids, yet the judge cannot
be held accountable. It is scandalous. There was a hotline number for Domestic
Violence victims and women who fear for their children’s safety at the hands of their
ex partners. I spent all night trying to call but failed to get through. It gives some
insight into the enormity of the child cruelty problem in the home. Well, brutal
cowardly fathers had better start thinking long term and realise that little Johny is not
going to be so little one day and that his merciless childhood naturally needs to be
avenged. Big bad daddy is already weak in mind since he can only pick on women
and children. He daren’t challenge anyone his own size. One day he’ll be an old
man. He’s in for a surprise when he cottons on to the fact that what goes around
comes around.
APRIL 16TH 1999
I love the greeting I get from the babies when they awake from a nap. They get so
excited – they bounce about and flap their arms. You’d think I’d been away on
holiday.
APRIL 17TH 1999
I read an alarming piece in the Mail about Moscow’s deadly germ weapons. In 1972,
Moscow [along with one hundred and thirty nine signatories] pledged that they
wouldn’t develop biological agents for offensive military use. But in the same year
Moscow developed hundreds of tons of anthrax, plague and smallpox to use against
the West. US cities were named as targets. One hundred kilograms of anthrax can
kill three million people. Moscow developed six hundred kilograms a day. In 1979
there was an ‘accident’ in a deadly secret factory. One hundred innocent workers
died. The government staged a cover-up. They destroyed the hospital records and
the KGB, disguised as doctors, produced falsified death certificates. Yeltsin and
other Soviet officials hid the truth from the world; but in 1989 the US and UK
governments protested and in 1990 fifteen Westerners ‘inspected’ Soviet germ
factories. However the Soviets weren’t bothered. They had a timewasting and liquor
befuddling strategy; which worked. Our diplomats were fed obvious lies yet they did
nothing. The deadly germs are still there and could wipe out half of humanity.
Typically our meek incompetent ‘officials’ couldn’t find enough evidence for any
concern. God help us!
APRIL 18TH 1999
Those hideous things turned up to haunt us again. The smell was ghastly. Andrew
and Shell paled at the sight of the devils and began to tremble with fear. Of course I
did wonder if their imagination was getting the better of them, especially when they
described our horrible guests; but there was no mistaking the death-like stench. I
quickly tried to play the whole thing down and suggested we get spraying with the air
freshener. It worked and before long, things were back to normal. But after about
an hour the sweet heavenly scent appeared. The kids described the apparition that
they witnessed as “shapes of dancing white light.” I was in no hurry for these
welcoming beams to leave us, but they didn’t hang about for long.
APRIL 20TH 1999
The high court at the Hague was set up six years ago to try war criminals. Only six
people have been convicted though so far and none of them come anywhere near
bigwig status. Anyway, since the court is controlled by the West, no Western leader
will ever be put on trial for war crimes. How totally one-sided can you get? Carry on
dictating USA/UK.
APRIL 21ST 1999
Mel has me mesmerised. All her movements are so slow and deliberate, and
delivered with such concentration and intensity.
Linzi popped in with some of her cast offs for the kids. That’s the beauty of having
rich pals. I joked that when I’m rich and famous, I’ll remember her. She reckons she
won’t be that well off for much longer, what with her looming divorce and new living
arrangements. She joked that she’ll soon be rummaging around the charity shops,
like me.
That ruddy awful stench slithered in again. It’s a pity Linzi wasn’t around to witness
it. It only occupied the living room tho and thankfully wasn’t as intense as it has
been. The kids were outside with friends. I quickly sprayed the place with Lavender
and soon the unwelcome monsters had sloped off. The friendly spirits didn’t come. I
still don’t really understand it all. The kids say that I will when the time is right, but for
now I’m told to just press on with this book.
APRIL 22ND 1999
Jordan broke his heart when I left him at the church. My ‘run’ turned into a halfhearted stroll. I decided I’m too heavy and that today is the day I’m serious about
slimming down to nine and a half stone, which means that I have one and a half
stones of blubber to shift. Out came the portion allowance guidebooks and mini
scales. I already know the ‘right’ foods to eat – I just eat too much of them. I’ve no
intentions of setting silly time limits though.
There is more bad press for social services. Fifty thousand kids are in ‘care’
because local authorities turn down suitable adoptive parents in the name of ‘political
correctness’. They say it is wrong for children to be placed in families of different
ethnic backgrounds despite proof to the contrary. Some suitable adopters are turned
down because they are too middle-class, working-class, or they live in a remote spot
or they are too fat, too old…. Social workers insist that no matter what barbarity is
evident at home, a child is better off with natural parents. Our scandalous adoptive
system is in shambles because of bureaucracy, high costs and incompetent social
workers.
Prince Charles is in the papers. He’s backing a private school’s attempt to replace
funds, lost when the ‘assisted places’ scheme was scrapped by Labour. There are
only thirtynine pupils at the centre of the controversy. With his wealth, power and
position he shouldn’t be just concentrating on the few academics, he should be
striving for a suitable education for ALL kids.
I watched a real heart-rending documentary about a British woman who was driven
by a dream to help poor and abandoned Vietnamese children. She may not realise it
but I truly believe that God instructed her to do so, just like he did Mother Theresa.
God can only reach most of us in our dreams.
Around 10.00 pm my doorbell rang a couple of times but no one was there. Don’t tell
me the sly snake is up to his old tricks. Then again it could be neighbourhood
morons with nothing better to do but play ‘knock-a-door-run’. They’re a pain in the
a…. in this area.
A gang of yobs [some in their teens] attacked Andrew and Shell and their pals Emma
and AJ [from no 7.] The four of them screamed down my drive with rocks and mud
balls chasing them. I ran out to see what the commotion was, played hell with the
louts, and they fled, except for two. I grabbed hold of one [a teenage girl] and
shoved her through the gate and then I pushed the other [a little lad] out after her. I
was yelling so much that staff from the old folk’s home darted out to tell me to shut
up. A few of those little buggers live together, largely unsupervised, near me. They
are persistent troublemakers and some are runaways. I’ve seen police, probation
officers and social workers sniffing around them a few times but it makes no
difference. The public purse pays for these ‘officers’ to do nothing.
The flamin’ remote control wouldn’t work for me all night, yet it behaved for Andrew
and Shell. It’s as if there is a curse on it for me.
APRIL 24TH 1999
I watched a moving channel 4 documentary about Martin Luther King and his fight
for black equality. During his Washington DC speech in June 1963, he says, “I have
a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be
judged by the colour of their skin but by the content of their character.” Quite right. I
remember being told at school to research someone famous so I wrote about Martin
Luther. But I never realised the battle he’d had against a lawless FBI and
Whitehouse corruption. The documentary revealed evidence of a dirty tricks
campaign at the highest level of American government to try and destroy him. Dr
King not only spoke out against racism, he spoke about God and righteousness and
gave thousands of his followers hope for the promised land, which he had personally
seen.
APRIL 25TH 1999
Andrew and Shell ran in to inform me that the doorbell won’t work for Shell but that it
will for Andrew. I had a go at it and sure enough they were right. It wouldn’t work for
me either. Andrew must have magical fingers. It’s a damn nuisance. I wonder if it
has anything to do with our mystical visitors. Nothing surprises me any more – it just
annoys me.
Jordan’s being a real pain in the neck lately when it’s time for bed. He simply
refuses to stay in it. Time to scan the baby books for the experts’ advice. They say
you should just carry him to bed; if he gets up, put him back. Repeat this every time
he gets up. If he drops off on the floor or in the hall, just pick him up and calmly put
him to bed. Don’t shout, threaten, smack…. This may continue for a while but it will
start to subside and will stop when junior realises there is no reward i.e there is no
joy of negative power over mum. Here goes!
APRIL 26TH 1999
We had a day of recurring visits from the unwanted paranormal. Some visits were
more acute than others. Each time we dutifully sprayed air freshener in the
offending areas and all was clear for a short while. We were only visited once by our
‘guardians’. I hope this doesn’t mean that the evil spirits are stronger and more
powerful than the righteous ones. The kids told me that they’d glimpsed their nan
fleetingly and that she was smiling to reassure them. I’m not sure how long I can
hack all this. In my mind I’m pleading for it all to stop. I’m still thinking about
contacting a priest but something is holding me back. I guess I’m scared of being
ridiculed or, worse, being referred to a shrink or, worse still, being referred to the
authorities and losing my children. It’s also quite uncanny but a lot of the time now
Andrew’s and my thought patterns are on the same wavelength. Quite often I’ll say
something and he’ll remark, “I was just thinking about that,” or he’ll ask me a
question about something that is on my mind at that precise moment. It’s never
happened in the past. Now it seems to be a common occurrence.
The damned remote was playing up on me all day too, yet Andrew just looks at it
and it works immediately for him. It’s quite eerie – as if the thing’s alive.
ARPIL 27TH 1999
Don’t babies and toddlers have such strong emotions about everything! Just
because I told Jordan he couldn’t play with my crockery, you’d think the end of the
world was nigh. He threw himself face down onto the floor, kicked his legs in frenzy
and howled.
I got my nose stuck in the bible this evening for some spiritual wisdom. It says that
by observing the law of the land, no one will find justice. How true. Many of our laws
are unjust. Mahatma Gandhi aptly said, “An unjust law is itself a species of violence.
Arrest for its breach is more so.” I like the bible bit that says, “Bless those who
persecute you – do not curse; don’t take revenge. Overcome evil with good.” Sound
words of advice. I’m not one hundred percent confident that I can obey it though.
It’s human nature to swear, curse and fight back if someone wrongs you and I think
some people have to be physically defeated or locked away since they will simply
refuse to change their ways and behave in the right way. I have a belief though that
true Christians and those who genuinely work for the good of others and towards an
upright world have angels protecting them from physical harm so that they can
continue to exert good influence. I think the good ones who do die do so for a
special reason – to highlight some atrocity and/or heighten our awareness. I think
that they are now in heaven working with all the other good spirits to try and get
through to everyone [especially the wicked people] with the message of God. And I
think that they are giving their loving loved ones the strength and protection to fight
for justice, since it is up to the relatives on earth to do God’s work and kick up a fuss
with the authorities. Despite the very real risks for their safety [since all courageous
people who stand up for righteousness face a constant life sentence of death
threats], I reckon Stephen Lawrence’s mum and dad are carrying out God’s work
superbly and that Stephen is so proud of his parents.
Andrew said to me tonight, “Imagine having a friend for life.” I replied, “It’s called
your mum.” Then I told him that some people do have friends for life but that I’d
found that friends come and go according to the circles in which we move.
APRIL 28TH 1999
Something strange happened while I was vacuuming the house. I’d just finished the
lounge floor when I nipped out to empty the wastebasket, but on my return I spotted
a birthday candle leering at me through the hairs of the carpet. I also found two bits
of paper rolled up into strips, like tapers, next to it. I stood motionless, stunned into
silence. There was no question of anyone else being responsible – the kids were
outside playing and the babies were asleep. I worried about what was going to
happen next.
Detectives hope that the revulsion over Jill Dando’s murder will make the underworld
give up her killer. Oh, for heaven’s sake, get real. Killers don’t give a brass monkey
who dies or who cares as long as they get paid. If they did they wouldn’t be
murderers. Experts say that the gun that was used on Jill was the type used by a
‘professional’ hit man. Jesus! We just accept these ‘professional’ criminals. The
world is bloody insane. Such guns were supposed to be banned after Dunblane but
there are hundreds still in circulation – surprise surprise. Judges and police may as
well hand out badges and trophies to law-breakers – they do enough encouraging of
it. In my view if you’re not a vigilante you are a victim. Anyway I have a hunch that
CID know who killed her and are covering up. There will be another miscarriage of
justice when they do finally convict and hang out to dry some poor vulnerable
innocent soul. The authorities are fond of their record on miscarriages of justice. Do
they think the people are gullible? Does anyone trust a judge, police chief or a
politician? They should be thrown to the snakes; they are such a disgrace. And in
any case why can’t we read the report on Dunblane? Why is it that some reports are
locked away from the public eye for thirty, fifty years or so? And anyway, I wonder
when we’ll find out what it was that Jill Dando knew, that the powers that be were so
fearful of her telling us lot, that she had to die. What secret was so important that
she had to take it to her grave?
I was incensed at what I read in the Daily Post. John Lewis and Haydn Gough are
jailed for three months because they gave a thief and his mate a good hiding,
because THE AUTHORITIES FAILED THEM. In the name of God, salute these
vigilantes and free them – they are our heroes. We need more like them. Do us all
a favour for once and JAIL the JUDGE and then sack HIM.
I tried to phone Gareth’s ex wife but she’s off work, so I wrote her a letter instead,
begging for her help. I want her to help me expose GW for what he really is. I’m
terrified that he’ll get unsupervised contact eventually. I poured my heart out to her.
I told her that he’s always threatening to get my babies off me. I told her of his
threats and that he’s already carried out some of them. I said it is not about the
babies, he just wants an excuse to continue making my life hell. He did very little
with them beforehand. Most of the time he was drunk and couldn’t be bothered. I’m
worried that if he has them unsupervised he might do something really bad, just to
get me back or because he’s drunk. I told her that he left Jordan toddling around the
house alone when he’d dropped off drunk. He was rarely alone with the babies but
when he was I’d return to find Jordan sleeping uncovered in a cold room. He’d
always have a dirty nappy on and bad nappy rash. Or he’d be left alone in his
playpen picking up fluff and dirt off the floor and eating it.
I told her about the times that he hit me, bent my fingers back, punched me in the
face, squeezed me around my neck, locked me out of the house [mine and his],
stopped me taking Jordan when I tried to leave him during one of the times that I
was staying at his house. I told her about the times he would throw things at me
including a wine glass, which he smashed on me. He often smashed up ornaments
and picture frames and just left broken glass lying around not caring who got cut. I
used to find bottles of spirits that he’d hidden around his house. Every morning I’d
find discarded lager cans dotted all over his garden and the bin would be full of
empty beer cans.
I told her about all the stalking [including the fact that he involves his daughter and
also gets her to harass my kids.] I spoke of all the officials that he and his family
[including his aunty and cousin] had sent to investigate me, such as those from
Social Services and NSPCC. I told her that he makes totally untrue vicious
allegations to the authorities, including the police, and I said that he and his cousin
lied to my ex husband in the hope that he would apply for custody of Andrew and
Shell.
I mentioned the time GW swerved his car into Andrew. I spoke about her own two
children and about all the crimes that he gets away with. I mentioned his debts and I
said that I’m sure he is part of the underworld because he seems to have a lot of
protection and the police can’t touch him. I said that he used to tell me that I didn’t
know who he was. I asked GW’s ex-wife if what I’d written was familiar to her. I also
told her that it worried me that the head mistress of her children’s old high school
had made a comment that I should get Gareth charged with child abuse and that
she’d been sufficiently worried about problems and violence in his household that
she’d called in the authorities on numerous occasions, as had the primary school
teacher. Also, the authorities had recently been called in to her daughter’s new
school because of concerns about her daughter. I ended my letter by saying that I’m
praying that she will testify for me in court; not just for my sake re custody of my
babies and contact issues, but to stop the rot. We need to stop the lying b…. from
abusing other women and children. I encouraged her to contact her own solicitor to
push for a public enquiry into police and social services dealings regarding her own
children. She should demand to know why they failed in their line of duty to protect
her children, why her ex husband was given a good character reference by the
police, and why she was denied anything to do with her children by the authorities. I
stressed that not only were the local people very worried about their welfare but so
too were senior teachers of the primary and secondary schools. So much so that
numerous referrals were made to the welfare agencies. I offered to pay her
travelling and other expenses.
As I got pen to paper, my thoughts were racing. I’m utterly amazed when I recall the
horror that my children and I endured at times and how difficult it was [and is] to
break free of that controlling monster. Thank God I got out when I did. If I’d stayed
with him any longer or [perish the thought] had got married to him I’m sure I would’ve
ended up hospitalised or even dead. The violence and threats were getting uglier
and more frequent towards the end. I’d been too scared to leave him even though I
didn’t live with him and did not have many overnight stays with him in the last few
months. Even dad had warned me not to stay overnight with him as he feared for
my safety. I also feared for my babies. The Beast promised that I’d never see my
baby again. He’d say he would destroy me, that I’d never work again and that I’d
lose Andrew and Shelly too. He would promise revenge for years to come. Yet,
astonishingly, even then I’d been clutching at straws, hoping he would give up
alcohol altogether as he had so often promised and that he would turn back into Mr
Nice Guy again. He also managed to play on his various ailments.
He was a secret drinker. I once asked him to give up alcohol just for one week. He
boasted that he could do it. But I caught him drinking alone in the twilight hours; he
didn’t even go to bed. He said he needed “just the one” because he was in pain with
his knees. After every argument or upset with anyone, he’d drink more than ever.
Then he’d do things, which he would later deny when he was sober. He’d even
throw away my children’s favourite foods when he was drunk or he’d chuck out
condiments and other items off the dining table just because I hadn’t cleared them
away. He once got in such a rage that he snatched a full bottle of brasso [that I’d
bought] from my hand as I was helping him to clean his brasses, and he slung it with
such force at the shed that it splattered and dripped down the shed wall from top to
bottom. He also got into a furious temper when I was perched up a ladder in his
house, painting his dining room ceiling. He turned abusive, began bellowing and
swearing at me and ordered me to stop painting and to “put the brush down NOW.”
So I did, collected my belongings and my kids and left.
On other occasions [under drink] he threw me out of the house and locked me out.
He locked the kids out too, even his own son. When I was heavily pregnant with
Jordan, he turned violent and attacked Andrew. He smashed Andrew’s head
repeatedly against a wall and threw him into the fireplace. He then hit me, told me
he couldn’t stand me, told me to get out, pushed me out, threw my bag out and
broke my handbag. On other occasions he kicked and thumped my dog and then
ordered me to rescue him as he cowered by the gate. If my dog fouled the porch
area, Gareth would pull me out of bed and order me to clean up the mess, even if I
was asleep.
During one night, after Gareth had spouted off, he locked me outside. I was in my
dressing gown. I phoned my dad to ask him to collect us but Gareth went berserk
and stood in the doorway refusing to let me take Jordy. He ranted on at me and dad
saying, “You haven’t seen violence yet but you are about to be on the receiving end
of it. You won’t know what’s hit you by the time I’m finished. You’ll pay for this for
years to come. There will be the biggest bloodbath you’ve ever seen.” I begged him
to let me take Jordy. But he pushed me away with such force that I scraped my legs
on the wall. Eventually the police brought Jordan out to me, and the b…. then
caused my dad to be breathalysed. He took eighty pounds from my purse and my
house keys that night.
On other occasions I would find that he’d stolen or smashed up some of Andrew’s
and Shell’s things. For example: batteries, stationary and books, a watch and even
their microscope. He stole tools from me including a brand new set of spanners and
a heavyduty staple gun. During one Christmas period he and his son got blotto on
neat spirits. GW began calling me names such as: “two-faced, bitch, tart, frigid.”
Later I found him sitting in darkness, just staring wide-eyed at the Christmas tree.
He seemed to be in a stupor and totally oblivious to anything. It was late and unsafe
to leave with the children, so I went to bed. I awoke half an hour later to face a
terrifying torrent of mental torture. Rigid with fear, I lay trembling when he yanked
the quilt off me and bellowed, “Go home; get out of my sight. I can’t stand you, you
slut, cow, f….ing lesbian. You are known as the local bike. Even the police mock
you and have got it in for you and your pompous prat of a father. Everyone hates
you. Bloody Larges think they’re so good, so intelligent, so smart. They’re not.
They’re conceited little pricks. You’re all twats.” He was something possessed. I
tried to calm him and whispered that he’d wake the baby. I pleaded to be left alone.
He barked, “I don’t care. I’m not in the mood to worry about Jordan. I can’t be
bothered with him right now.” Eventually he left. Two hours later, he returned in
floods of tears saying he was in pain, ill and dying and begging forgiveness. He was
like a little boy lost; so meek and mild. He admitted being alcoholic and pleaded
with me to help him, saying that he was petrified of losing me. He said he drank
because I wasn’t there for him and because he felt insecure about our relationship. I
went to make a cuppa. I later found him with his son supping more beer. He
snarled, “Piss off will you and take those idiot kids with you. I can’t stick them. I
can’t make it any clearer to you.”
The next day I left with the kids. I had to tell him that I just wanted a temporary break
[just like I’d done on various other occasions until he’d managed to sweet-talk me
round.] He wouldn’t let me take my pram or the present he’d given me. He stole the
kids’ rechargeable batteries and he ordered me to give him all the money in my
purse. Then he snatched my engagement ring off my finger. He also refused to let
me take my dog’s food. When I grabbed Jordan and legged it with Andrew and Shell
in hot pursuit, he came after me yelling obscenities and making awful threats. In my
haste I stumbled, scraping my legs against his garden wall, and I almost dropped
Jordan. We went home in a taxi while that male chauvinist pig called the pigs on us!
He’d phoned the police to complain that I was a hysterical woman, causing a
disturbance.
At other times, he would threaten me with hit men if I tried to bin him off. He said I’d
be crucified. He said the police would never protect me and that I wasn’t worth
bothering with. When I was heavily pregnant with Melly, he became furious just
because I spoke for a few seconds with an ex boyfriend. He threatened the ex,
ranted and raved at me and then pushed me outside, ramming Jordan’s pram into
me. Jordan [who was screaming hysterically] was sat in it. I suffered cuts and
bruises to my ankles.
He constantly accused me of affairs and he hated me talking to other men, even
though they were only the fathers of my kids’ friends. He’d cause a scene in the
street and would squeeze me by the arm causing intense pain and bruising.
Another time, on the night of the christening, Gareth kicked off. He smacked me
hard about my head and I tried to get away from him. His dad intervened and
ordered his son to leave me alone. I then attended to the two babies. Whilst I was
upstairs I could hear Gareth’s mother, his sister and his daughter and Gareth running
me and Andy and Shelly down. They were planning how they were going to stop me
seeing Jordan and Melissa ever again. They said that they knew the best judges….
During his sober periods he’d be the perfect family man. He was loving and helpful.
He’d cook delicious meals, he’d do odd jobs around my house [he could pull apart
and fix anything] and he’d be the ideal father figure to Andrew and Shell. But those
loving moments and happy family times would be so easily shattered. We might be
in the car driving back to his house after a day out, perhaps after having a lovely
meal at my parents’ house, and he would just turn nasty without any kind of
provocation. He would be hurtful, insulting and frightening. He’d even threaten to
stop the car and just abandon me and the kids [including baby Jordan] on the
roadside. We might be in the middle of nowhere. I learned to just clam up at those
times and let him get it off his chest because if I’d argued he probably would’ve told
us to get out or he would’ve started driving like a maniac.
During his nicer periods he managed to get me [and my parents] to help him pay his
debts so that he didn’t lose his house because his ex wife still had a claim on it. I
would scrimp and save on my own bills and on groceries and I’d work to give him all
my money. Later I found out that he’d secretly bought himself a thousand pound
shot gun and gun case and new fishing equipment. One of his debts had managed
to creep up from eleven thousand pounds to seventeen thousand pounds. He even
failed to keep court appointments regarding his debts; thus incurring more.
I cannot stop the thoughts and the feelings of shame. I’m so ashamed that I allowed
that despicable deceitful fraudulent selfish ogre to dictate and control me. In the
doing, not only was I putting my own life and health [especially my mental health] at
risk, but I put my own kids’ lives in danger; even my two vulnerable little babies were
at risk from him. That is unforgivable. Why was I so weak? Looking back I really
didn’t realise that I was living such an oppressed and destructive life style. I blamed
myself for his behaviour. I was so controlled by him and so influenced. I actually
believed his insults and that I wasn’t worth any better. When I did see sense and did
try to break free, he would immediately change into Mr Charming, Mr Wonderful, Mr
Full of Promises…. I’d wanted so much to hang on to that good side of him.
Incredibly I tried to change my own behaviour so that he’d be nicer to us all. I
learned to back down when I saw that he was getting irritable and angry and I would
try so hard to please him. I tried everything to help him control his temper. I’d
encouraged him to attend AA, to do Tai Chi relaxation and meditation, to go for
counselling, become a regular church goer…. I was even prepared to go along with
him in support. I’d even phoned the Samaritans in desperation. But the more I did
things for him and the more I gave in to him and ignored and suppressed my own
needs and the needs of my children, the more he abused us all. I couldn’t see the
reality. It was a vicious circle – destructive, damaging, sick…. The longer I left it, the
harder it was to do the right thing. My confidence was becoming more and more
eroded. It was so hard to find the courage and self-reliance to finally break free once and for all. Little did I realise that once I did decide to finally break free of him
for good and go it alone with the children, that he had other ideas. He had no
intentions of letting me go. And he even had, and has got now, the support of the
State in his evil mission to continue to control us. God, I hope that monster’s ex wife
helps me.
APRIL 29TH 1999
Church again today. Mr Fabricator informed me that Andrew was seen by three
people yesterday risking his life by carrying shopping home on his bike, as he’d
taken a tumble. He insisted that I was irresponsible allowing it to happen and that
he’s only warning me because he cares about Andrew. I glowered at him and
replied, “Oh, I get it; I’m to expect more NSPCC/ Social Worker visits, am I?” On the
way out, Andrew hissed, “Lyin’ b…. std. He wants me dead.”
Jordy and Melly were their usual ‘reserved’ selves in his company and reluctant to
see me leave. Jord has backtracked into nappies since these sessions started. I put
it down to anxiety. After every visit with heinous-features, pud’s pull-ups are
saturated. But does the court care???!!!
The little blighters from across the road and their idiotic mates were catapulting rocks
and they didn’t care where they aimed. Missiles landed in my yard, on my shed roof,
at car windows and other residents’ windows. I went out to scream at them and
threaten them, as did a few other neighbours. They scurried off smirking.
I watched a moving documentary about a remarkable disadvantaged baby who,
despite all odds, simply refused to die. God bless him and his parents who bravely
fought medics and judges for his right to live. Baby David was born premature and
handicapped. But David clung on to life and much of it was spent in and out of
hospital. The hospital decided that it was in the baby’s interests if he died. The
family took the matter to court, only to be told by a judge to “leave good judgements
to doctors.” How overbearing and clinical can you get? The family had no ‘voice’; no
one cared what they wanted. Doctors acted unlawfully when they gave David a
harmful drug – but the baby survived it; and he struggled on when he was removed
from a ventilator, much to the medics’ surprise [and disappointment.] This harrowing
tale exposes the power of love between a mother and her baby. David was meant to
live. He was determined - a little fighter. I reckon God is working through him.
David couldn’t communicate but his message is the power of God.
MAY
MAY 1ST 1999
Andrew and Shell and the kids next door were making a hell of a din. They were all
as bad as each other. Mud balls were flying all over the place. I saw red, wiped the
floor with Andrew and Shell and ordered them in, then I asked the kids next door if
their mother was in. I was told, “Mum isn’t here – I’m in charge – anyway she
doesn’t talk to strangers.” Then they leaned right over the adjoining wall, started
effing and blinding and being really insulting. I told them to quieten down and to go
inside. One spat on the wall and cockily asked, “Why should I?” That did it. I
stormed up to her and shoved her into her house. Perhaps that was wrong but I just
blew a fuse. Andrew and Shell told me that the neighbours had started it all and that
they were just defending themselves. I told them to just keep away from any trouble.
But then they made the point that they can’t even play in their own back yard now
because of other kids. Andrew said, “We have to fight back, otherwise they think
that they can do what they please.”
I don’t know what the answer is. Police say that they patrol but they don’t seem to
notice what goes on and they won’t split the gangs up. A lot of parents seem pretty
useless and haven’t a clue half the time where their kids are, let alone how to
discipline them.
Andrew and Shell asked what I’d do if anyone broke into the house. I told them that
I’d give them a good hiding with a metal bar and I pointed to the sticks and bars that I
store behind my doors.
MAY 2ND 1999
Some little louts came running down my drive again hurling sticks and stones. One
narrowly missed Jordan. Shell quickly shoved him inside. God knows where half of
them live. That lot aren’t from our road. I gave chase but they split and dived over
walls and into people’s gardens. For what it was worth, I phoned police. They
turned up after half an hour, but of course all was calm. I suggested they circulate
more in our area and split the gangs up because the kids are mild and even quite
likeable on their own but they become bold and daring with their pals. But the police
just fed me that old line that they just haven’t got the manpower, that there is only
two of them on duty…. One said he has been dealing with juvenile calls all day.
‘Sir’ Condom was making a speech about the recent race hate bombing. Condom
stresses, “Communities defeat terrorism, communities defeat crime and the
community will defeat the racists.” So, what on Earth are the police being paid fat
pay cheques for?
The vile smells are back. They showed up in the downstairs hall and moved upstairs
into shell’s room and the hall. Andrew duly sprayed them and sent them packing.
The kids found a couple of those weird ‘tapers’ and I picked up one off the stairs. I
did wonder if the kids were planting them and I grilled them about it but they swear
their innocence.
MAY 3RD 1999
The flippin’ remote wouldn’t work for me, no matter how much I pleaded with it. I
even stuck new batteries in but it still refused to co-operate. In the end I had to ask
Andrew to make it work. Astonishingly he took it from me and held it for a few
seconds while he focussed his concentration on it. And hey presto it worked. He
nonchalantly passed it to me and said that it wouldn’t give me any more problems –
not today anyway.
I found more of those peculiar ‘tapers’. This time they were rolled up pieces of toilet
roll. I found two on the kitchen table, one by the wastepaper bin and three on the
stairs. One had been burned at one end. It smelled odd – a bit like stale smoke/ash.
It stank like the smells that have been haunting us of late. I hauled the kids in and
demanded the truth but they vehemently denied knowing anything about the curious
objects. I began to store them in a jar for future reference.
Jordan now insists on trying to dress himself. He struggled to get his pyjama pants
on and was as pleased as punch when he finally succeeded. Trouble was, both his
legs were in one side. Never mind, the effort was there. As I got the littleuns ready
for bed I could hear a right rumpus in the back yard. I peered through the bedroom
window to see a well-known teenage pest and his half a dozen followers kicking my
shed, laughing and mouthing. So I banged on the window and ordered them to hoof
it. I then found the kids and Emma and AJ locked in the shed. Mud balls were
splattered down the drive and on the kitchen window. Fuming, I phoned police who
assured me that they’d go and see the lad’s family. Cops admitted being powerless
and stated that their presence might even make matters worse. I vowed there and
then not to let those loud-mouthed yobs get the better of me.
I decided that I was entitled to defend my kids and my property and I’d just jolly well
take a stick to any lout who comes around here. I knew Andrew and his friend were
no match for a gang of big streetwise lads. [Neither am I really, but I’ll have to have
a go.]
I told dad all about it on the phone. He said he’ll come round and duff one of them
up – as a warning to the rest. He said his road [in affluent, respectable Rhos-OnSea] has gone downhill too – yobbos chuck rubbish on his drive, climb on his garage
and make a racket all night with their partying and bang, bang, music.
MAY 4TH 1999
I popped over to see Donna [Emma and AJ’s mum.] She’s going through the same
torment as me and said she’d fled exactly this kind of problematic neighbourhood in
Manchester and that she didn’t expect to find it in sleepy little Colwyn Bay. I joked
that the ruffians had followed her over. She has her own problem neighbours. They
have music blaring out at all hours, doors banging, kids screaming and arguing and
a yapping, biting dog. Some of her neighbours’ kids have beaten up on her three.
She said police are always around there and that there have been calls for their
removal. We stood on the doorstep commenting about the many houses on our
road which have or have had broken windows.
During tea, Melly slipped down into her high chair and began to cry. Jordan
immediately leapt to her aid and tried to pull her up but he failed so he looked at me
as if to say, “Come on quick, help us,” and then he soothingly stroked her hair and
forehead as he said, “Don’t cry.” It was so touching. In a few months though he’ll
probably be smacking her around.
After tea, the kids next door stood on my shed catapulting stones down at Andrew
and AJ. One big one caught AJ on his head and made it bleed. Donna and I played
hell with them. Emma later managed to get an apology and a promise that it
wouldn’t happen again.
MAY 5TH 1999
Oh no not again – there were more bloody brats sitting on my wall goading and
threatening the kids. There was about ten of them ranging from around nine years to
fifteen years. Fags hung from their mouths, some were waving sticks, some had
rocks in socks, a couple had knives, all had stones in their hands and the lad that
locked Andrew and Shell and pals in my shed was there too. I just snapped,
grabbed my six foot stick and, wearing skirt and flip flops, stormed out yelling, “Oi,
clear off you lot NOW. Go on.” As I approached them I was aware that most had
fled but a few stayed there defiantly. I knew I had to go for it. There was no point
threatening if I didn’t have the guts to carry it through. They’d never let me forget it
and they’d never leave us alone. So I let them have it. I raised my weapon over my
shoulder and let it swing freely with natural force. It caught one lad across his arm
and side. He screamed and cried and ran off with his mates surrounding him, all
looking shocked and concerned.
Five minutes later two fathers turned up on my drive with faces like thunder, waving
fists, making rude gestures and threats and shouting obscenities. One lives next to
Donna and the other [the father of the lad I hit] is related to him. Eventually they
sodded off after I’d told them to clear off since their wayward kids won’t get the
message any other way. I walked away, leaving them swearing to themselves. I
later noticed a panda car outside their house. I presume they were complaining
about me. Cops didn’t call at my house tho, fair play. Give them their due, the local
bobbies are fine – my gripe is not with them. It’s the police hierarchy that are
nauseating and criminal. I began to wonder if my diarrhoea-headed ex was bribing
this tiresome lot to give me grief. I’ve never had this many problems with the town’s
troublemakers before.
The Mickey Mouse Met are banging on about there being no intelligence linking Serb
atrocities with Jill Dando. Why do they call it intelligence? Police aren’t intelligent
enough to nail criminals – they should employ five/six/seven year olds to do their
‘intelligence’ work.
I checked Mel at 1.00 am. She looked up at me and smiled. I pulled her blanket up.
She pulled it up further, over her face. I pulled it down again. She yanked it up
again, over her face, and giggled. I tugged it down and said, “Oi, no games.” She
laughed.
MAY 6TH 1999
Gareth was surprisingly polite, meek and mild. That probably means he’s
sweetening me up before he slaps me down – as was the trend when we were
together. No doubt he’ll be barking mad later or pulling some sleazy strings from
behind the scenes; only to be revealed in the dark and distant future. I jogged to
dad’s to meet up with our American rellies. My Godparents Audrey and Ross are
visiting for three weeks and are staying with dad. In one hour we covered a plethora
of topics including my tinderbox existence.
This afternoon the kids went swimming with their friends. I made some enquiries
with the bus companies as we were planning an ‘educational’ visit to Wylfa power
station on Anglesey which is roughly an hour’s drive away. I discovered that we’d
need three buses and that if they were all on time, the trip one way would take at
least three hours. So much for the government’s suitable alternative to the car! I left
the kitchen briefly to check up on the babies and when I returned and saw what was
on the table, my blood ran cold and my spine chilled. Three ‘tapers’ with burnt ends
ogled me. They were not there a couple of minutes ago. I couldn’t blame Andrew
and Shell and there were no doors or windows open. I was in a shocked stupor and
at a loss to know what to do next or where to turn. I felt as if I was in limbo –
hovering between this world and the next. I decided not to spill the beans yet. I felt
it all so ludicrous and that I was a nut even contemplating a priest. Exorcisms only
take place in films, don’t they? Anyway, if heavy-handed officialdom get hold of this,
I’ll be branded insane and they’ll take my kids off me – too risky.
For some reason my mind began to ponder the plight of people who hit rock bottom
because of alcohol and drugs. Some are so ‘possessed’ that they hallucinate – they
see menacing, monstrous worms, snakes, spiders, demons…. I am convinced that
such unfortunates are under the damaging hell-fire influence of destructive Satan
because they have been too weak to resist the devil’s temptations and have now
fully succumbed to him, much to his enormous pleasure. I swear Satan is laughing
his socks off at the rapid growth rate of losers and dependants and that he is
confident that he will one day rule the whole world in misery and wretchedness. As I
studied the puzzling tapers, the air around them seemed sinisterly warm.
MAY 7TH 1999
Mohammed Al Fayed had a slot on Talk Radio. I was so gripped with what he had to
say that I tried several times to phone in; but every time the staff answered, the line
went ominously dead. Al Fayed is convinced that the British secret service, French
and US governments and Buckingham Palace conspired to kill his son and Di. It
wouldn’t surprise me. I just hope he can prove it one day. He says the driver was
not drunk – security would not have allowed him to drive. That makes sense. There
is power and safety in numbers and they’d better realise that their numbers are
dwindling and Al Fayed’s supporters are RISING. He says the b…. got away with it
but that God will help him find the truth because God is more powerful than them.
That’s true too, and the truth will come out one day. Far too many ‘ordinary’ people
are sick of crooked, hypocritical, politicians and they salute courageous Al Fayed for
exposing our double-standard government – the powerful upper classes who treat us
as slaves. We all know that the seedy underworld rule all governments and that
there is no democracy in any party. He knows corrupt politicians want him dead and
that Scotland Yard won’t protect him, but he isn’t scared and quite right too because
he is protected by the supreme ruler. In fact I believe Mohammed Al Fayed is one of
God’s main employees. He rightly states that if he was murdered, they would have
to kill a lot more besides. Also there will always be other powerful people who dare
to challenge corruption. Is he the only person in the know who has the spunk to
expose these self-righteous self-serving governing sinners? Why don’t the
oppressed minor ministers speak up too? And isn’t it time that the Royal set up is
challenged? They should abide by the same laws as everyone else. The good
ordinary poverty stricken folk will help Al Fayed force the truth out and bring about
the downfall of the ruling powerful b…. stds – Blair and his corrupt cabinet cronies.
Don’t give up Al Fayed; you are here to do a very important job. We are all behind
you.
All the little sods around here are being ultra sweet to Andrew and Shell now – even
the buggers that sat on my wall, cowing. There’s a rumour going round that I’m a
mad woman, not to be messed with! Even our road was on best behaviour. I called
my two in at half past eight and everyone else followed suit – all the kids went in. It
was the quietest Friday night on record.
I read an interesting piece in the paper about Paco Rabanne, the world famous
fashion designer who prophesises. He says he’s met God. He predicts a third world
war where the world is in flames. He sees Paris on fire – people jumping off bridges.
He says negative power is now dominating for the next seven years and that today’s
obsession with sex is a conspiracy to bring the anti-Christ to power. Wow! Andrew
and Shell said ‘judgement’ day will be in six years if the evil upon Earth is not
eradicated before then. That’ll be in the year 2005. I called the kids over to read it.
They were unperturbed, as if it was a well-known fact. Andrew then said that God
had just told him that it is not enough that people worship God and live Christian
lives; evildoers have to be removed from power and transformed. Good people have
to fight for a honourable world. The kids pointed out that change should preferably
be achieved by non-violent means within the law. I casually remarked that it didn’t
really matter because we’re all going to die anyway and that the good people will
then be in heaven whereas all the baddies will be in hell. “Not so,” he corrected me.
“God says that if Satan is not defeated on Earth now, then he’ll continue to rule us
when we are dead because the bad guys will outnumber the good guys and hell will
overflow into heaven and take it over. God cannot crush Satan alone.” What a
sobering thought. Rabanne reckons women will fight male domination and that in
the forthcoming era of Aquarius [the age of justice], women will seize power.
Astoundingly he warns us to beware of the pope because he is the reincarnation of
Kasfa, the high priest who put Jesus on the cross. I am confident that Paco
Rabanne is pretty accurate. Come on girls; we have work to do – fight the b…. that
you live with, who proclaims undying love for you and has the adulation of outsiders,
but who puts you through hell.
MAY 8TH 1999
Two thousand teachers are the victims of violent pupils. The school’s answer to that
is to expel the troublesome ones. But that just shifts the problem on. The unruly
have their prayers answered – they’re no longer penned inside a boring classroom
and now have unlimited freedom and a license to wreak havoc in the community.
I read in the paper about Church of England bishops living in luxury. It is quite
staggering. They enjoy pay and perks packages averaging one hundred and thirty
five grand. Parish priests get just fifteen grand. While churches close down, the
cost of bishops’ palaces, chauffeurs and gardens doubles to almost nine million
pounds. Such lavish luxury is unchristian and those guilty should hang their heads in
shame. Archbishop of Canterbury, George Carey and Archbishop of York, David
Hope, take note.
I went for a leisurely stroll to the park via the dingle with Andrew and Shell, Emma
and AJ and the bubs. It brought back happy childhood memories of climbing up
through undergrowth, swinging from trees and days out with my cousin Karen and
her charge Elizabeth [two-years old] and my neighbour’s two-year old little girl,
Melanie. I even pointed out the hotel [which is en route] that I enjoyed working in
when I was eleven. Now the dingle is known as ‘skid alley’ and junkies, alci’s and
gangs occupy it.
Later Shell, Emma and her sister Danielle busied themselves in my backyard,
arranging baskets of flowers for me.
MAY 10TH 1999
Dad, Audrey and Ross dropped in for a cuppa. They brought gifts for the kids –
American coins and teeny beany babies. Ross and I clashed on racism. He told me
that ninety percent of prison inmates in the USA are blacks. I pointed out that it
doesn’t mean that they are all criminals. Many suffer appalling miscarriages of
justice because of prejudice. We got onto the subject of religion. Audrey is ‘fifty fifty’
regarding her belief in God, but dad and Ross patronizingly stated that they don’t
believe in fairies. I mentioned the supernatural smells that we were getting but no
one took me seriously so I moved the conversation swiftly on.
We got yakking about Princess Di. Dad and Ross started to ridicule her about her
lack of GCSE’s. I couldn’t resist mentioning the fact that she’s famous – worth
millions, had great inner strength and character, was a good woman with values and
was a survivor. She had the support of millions [and you can’t class all of them as
nuts] and she had power. I enquired if either of them could’ve coped with the
enormous public pressure that she was under. Despite all her so-called
weaknesses, she was a fighter and a person worthy of admiration. She exposed the
selfish and money grabbing royals for the liars and hypocrites that they are. She
shamed the government with her successful land mine awareness campaign, her
work with the: homeless and destitute, aids victims, D/V victims and single mothers
and her ability to generate huge sums for charities. Charles’ camp labeled her
‘mental’. The lying lizards even tried to have her silenced and ‘sorted’ by shoving
her into some sort of ‘mental’ institution. Well, men do label ambitious successful
women mental so that they can continue to suppress them, have them locked away
and kept safely under control. Not much has changed in that respect in the last
century. In truth, anyone who had to put up with the Royal reptiles would be driven
mad anyway.
Diana’s ‘sin’ was that she had courage and dared to tell us the truth about her inlaws. She challenged the royals and they didn’t like anyone to rock the boat. She
was a ‘loose-canon’ and the royals feared her popularity – she threatened their
demise. The Establishment are very wary of those who stand alone and speak out
for what’s right. I believe she is one of God’s main angels. She had a special role to
carry out for God in her short life and she answered his call superbly. Di asked John
Major about being an ambassador for Britain. He discussed her proposal with the
royal family and the answer came back - “no.” Di was furious, and rightly so. She
would’ve been a perfect ambassador but the Establishment couldn’t risk that; they
couldn’t allow her to have any more power and influence. But they didn’t reckon on
the power of the people. The public respected her honesty and her genuine good
works and they gave her the love and the power that she so rightly deserved. The
people admired her fighting spirit and her down-to-earth attitude. They don’t like the
other upper class toffs.
Dad and Ross mocked her, saying she was just a fashion icon and that she was a
‘manic depressive’. I remarked that she had a lorry load of insecurities, which was of
no surprise considering the fact that she was a lonely soul in a sea of snakes. I
acknowledged that she was bulimic, but that she only succumbed to Bulimia at
certain times, usually when she was suffering severe stress. The point is, most of us
would’ve cracked up if we had to live with the media attention that she endured and
also if we had to be a part of that family – a family of lies, secrets and greed. The
royal parasites made Diana’s life hell. Diana walked God’s narrow road, a road
fraught with difficulties. She would’ve made a brilliant Queen; she put our present
one to shame. I just hope that the two young princes can find some of their mother’s
strength and can also find a way to walk the path of righteousness. Right now under
Charles’ influence and the rest of the clan, they are heading down Satan’s path of
money and materialism – the road to hell. You don’t get the power and adulation
that Di had unless you are doing a special job. Her message was truth and
goodness. She was here to make changes – for the good of society. According to
the men in power, that wasn’t in the plan, and as such, she had to die.
This afternoon the kids accompanied dad and guests to Conwy castle. At least I can
tell the LEA that they’ve been on an ‘educational’ trip this year even if they did spend
a lot of the time in the sweet shop. During their absence the lovely sweet aroma just
appeared out of the blue and seeped around the whole house. I felt chilled but not in
a scary sense. It was an enriching experience but it only lasted minutes.
Much later the putrid pests were back. The sickly stench of death slithered all
around us. We felt uncomfortably warm and our breathing became more difficult. I
commented to the kids that the nice smells were here earlier and that I’d felt a
distinct temperature drop. They replied simultaneously, “That was God.” It was
quite uncanny. Shell said that God must’ve visited with his angels.
MAY 14TH 1999
Andrew duffed up the little twit that once ripped Shell’s hood off and he reclaimed the
fifty pence that was stolen.
I watched with mounting horror the story of Chantalle McKorkle on the Tonight with
Trevor McDonald show. She is a British woman who became a millionaire in
America by selling glamorous videotapes detailing how to get rich – the McKorkle
way. Now, she and her husband are in a Florida jail serving twentyfour years for
deception. Ok, the tapes were hard sell, contained lies and misleading information;
and for that perhaps some kind of punishment was due. To be stripped of their
assets would be sufficient, but a jail sentence? A twentyfour YEAR jail
sentence???? What on Earth is going on? These people are not in the same
league as murderers or rapists. In my opinion they’re not even criminals – they
didn’t force people at gunpoint to buy the tapes, they’re not violent and they didn’t
hurt anyone. Devious they may be but the majority of businesspersons are on the
fiddle. The self-satisfied prosecutor and judge should be in jail - shame on them.
I retired at 2.00 am. Mel woke up as I began checking her and faffing with her
blankets. She smiled, farted and turned over. Then she spent the next hour or so
nattering to herself at the foot of my bed.
MAY 15TH 1999
Mel’s favourite pastime is to blow raspberries during mealtimes, especially when she
has a mouthful of food. Jordan just creases up watching her. Then she does it all
the more.
MAY 17TH 1999
Andrew got bitten on the bum by a mongrel. He had been playing opposite our
house with friends when the mutt bounded towards them causing pandemonium,
and all the kids screamed and scattered. Andrew turned away and felt a set of teeth
sink into his behind. If it wasn’t for Emma who kicked it off, the dog would not have
let go. AJ ran in to alert me. I fled outside to find the black scruffy thing scampering
up our road, Andrew slumped on the pavement crying in agony and concerned
neighbours surrounding him. All the kids knew the dog and knew where it lived
because it was greatly feared since it had bitten before. I half-carried Andrew in to
inspect the damage. Thankfully the bleeding eased and the doctor said that stitches
weren’t required but that it would take a couple of weeks for the bruising and
puncture wounds to heal.
I found out that the dog spends a lot of its time on the doorstep next to Donna’s
house. This is because its owners have relatives living there. I also learned that the
dog’s owner is the father of the boy that I walloped off my wall with a big stick.
Donna informed me that her whole family had been bitten by this dog and that
Donna’s own dog had also been attacked by it and left for dead. I was told that it
had bitten another family too, before Donna’s. Apparently the dog is well known to
police and courts. Oh flamin’ hell…. that’s really terrific, innit?
I marched around to confront the dog’s owners but was greeted by a barrage of
vulgarities. I raged at the woman at the door, “How would you feel if my dog sank its
teeth into your bum, and I refused to accept responsibility?” It was a waste of time
arguing and I was soon shown my way out by the dog’s ‘dad’. He vomited fury and
followed me off his land with a string of ‘F’ words….
I phoned the police and let rip. “That dog is known to you people, you have taken it
off the owners twice before but somehow they got it back, you’ve ordered that it
remains on a leash yet it is regularly seen wandering into people’s gardens and
terrifying the kids. It should be put down; it has drawn blood; you have received
numerous complaints about it; people have been threatened by it. What are you
going to do? Are you waiting for a baby to be attacked? Killed?” But they didn’t give
a fig.
Hats off to Antonella Lazzeri for her report in the Mail about illegal drugs. She has
moved amongst the jetset, rich, super-snob upper classes and has seen heirs to
powerful titles and world famous pop stars snorting coke. She describes it as a
“disgusting, degrading spectacle.” Top London nightclubs insist they are “zerotolerated” but if that were true they’d go broke. Drugs cause worldwide violence and
misery. Royals, lords, heirs, showbiz and pop stars are all guilty. Antonella says,
“Sadly the few of us who don’t touch the horrible, revolting drugs are getting fewer.”
Pity she didn’t name names.
MAY 18TH 1999
There were a load of crows in my yard but strangely there was no food there for
them. Immediately my thoughts focussed on Hitchcock’s thrillers The Birds and The
Omen.
Incredibly that dog is still roaming around our road. I was so incensed that I
contemplated taking the law into my own hands. I stormed off to see a male
neighbour but another, a council employee, calmed me down and assured me that
she would contact the dog warden. However, two hours on and the mutt is still
worrying residents on our road and there is no sign of any warden. I called them
myself to discover that both wardens were out on jobs. I thought to myself wryly,
‘Yeah, probably chasing their tails after harmless dogs.’ I wondered how the council
could catch an aggressive dog when they can’t even enforce dog-excrement laws.
An amiable WPC [Sophie] turned up for a statement. She informed me that there
needs to be three separate cases of a dog biting before it goes to court. Oh for
heavens sakes! And what if it kills someone next time? It seems quite partial to the
taste of blood. Who makes up these crackpot laws? I’ll sue him. Sophie agreed
that something needs to be done but that the RSPCA can’t take it – their hands are
tied, and police have very few powers. So it’s all up to the court. When I uttered that
the whole drawn out court procedure could take months, meanwhile that potential
killer runs free, probably causing all sorts of mayhem, she nodded. She remarked
that even then the judge might not order its execution. In my opinion if a judge rules
that a dog that has already tasted human blood should not be put down and it does
bite someone again, then the judge should be held accountable. But we all know
that there is no justice. You can produce all sorts of evidence of a crime and who
dunnit, but even then, somehow, the onus is turned onto you and you’re the guilty
party, and the criminal is let off.
Donna said that was exactly what happened to her when she went to court regarding
this very same dog. She was made to feel responsible for causing the dog to bite all
of her family because she beat it with a broom. It’s called self-defence. She was
trying to get it off her dog and kids. Then it turned on her. You then get all the
bloodthirsty threats off the owners just cos you got bitten by their mutt! Sophie
stated that Andrew has got to give a statement in the company of an adult who
cannot be me or a police officer. How ridiculous can you get? I had to make
arrangements for her to interview him at my neighbour’s. Then came over half an
hour of form filling covering my version of events. She said that the police need
details of: what the bite looked like, how I would describe it, if Andrew was crying, if
he was in agony, if he was very shaken…. Oh, please! The poor boy was bitten on
the bum. The dog sank its teeth in and wouldn’t let go. Andrew was bruised and
bleeding. That dog should be dead. One bite is one too many. There should be no
court and no questions. Virtually the whole road witnessed it and named it.
Everyone knows it is vicious and uncontrolled. Where is the protection for the
people? As usual this is about some folk making lots of dosh from a crazy system.
When the officer had gone I placed one of my metal bars under the pram. I’m taking
no chances. If Muttley threatens any of the kids again, I’ll swing for it.
MAY 19TH 1999
Jack Straw’s got some bloody nerve removing the jury from our courts. The judicial
system is already fatally flawed but new rules will make it even more unfair. He says
he’s doing it to save costs. He should try saving cash in other ways: cut
bureaucracy, corruption, incompetence and wastage in his own cabinet for starters.
Laws are made by them to control us, we have no say, there is no democracy; laws
are there to protect so-called VIPs only and the hierarchy’s attitude is, “To hell with
the underdogs.” I’d rather be tried any day by a bunch of ‘ordinary’ men and women,
rather than a pompous prig of a magistrate who persecutes the innocent and
protects the criminal. Magistrates are the devil’s disciples.
So Tom parker Bowles thinks he can get away with anything, including drugdealing,
because he is a celebrity? He is a goodtime party-loving upper-class chump and so
are his shallow glitterati pals. He reckons the Establishment will protect him. I’ve got
news for him, the Establishment wouldn’t be there except for ordinary folk’s support,
and we slaves are sick to death of self-indulgent, privileged toffs like him.
Customs chiefs are recruiting pensioners as ‘spies’. They are asked to keep an eye
out for suspicious boats to help crack down on drink and drug smugglers. Jesus
wept!
An angry group of Scots attacked the home of a serial paedophile. The sex beast
had to be rescued by police and social workers and taken to a secret location. He
had been jailed six times for lewd offences, the most recent of which he only served
eighteen months of a three-year sentence. He is repeatedly released only to violate
again, then gets police protection when the public, quite rightly, protest. How many
victims of such monsters get police protection? The sick system sees him as the
victim. Praise be for the Scottish villagers – wish there were more like them.
The phantasmal decomposed smells descended upon us in fury and the unknown
seemed to be smirking at us because of some ominous doom. We sprayed Jasmine
and Orange around in a frenzy but the filthy phantoms were reluctant to leave us.
They seemed to be gaining strength by the minute. I didn’t really know how much
longer we could tolerate this insane occurrence. I decided that tomorrow I really
must try to find a priest. But where on Earth was I going to find one? It’s not like
shopping in Safeways and lifting a tin of tomatoes off the shelf! How many
reverends really have faith and are not just showy self-servers? And is anyone
qualified? I thought about talking over our problems at the church that we use for
contact but I dismissed the idea. I didn’t fancy Mr Troublemaker getting wind of it all.
‘Oh if only we could move,’ I thought despairingly.
MAY 20TH 1999
Nothing could’ve prepared me for the shock I was to receive when we returned with
the babies from the church. Someone or something [and since there were no signs
of a break in, I can deduce it was the latter] had written spine-chilling death-threats
on my kitchen door and ‘jotter’ board and had turned the lounge and my bedroom
upside down. The kids and I stared in stony-faced silence and utter disbelief. After
what seemed like an eternity I calmly walked around the house photographing
everything that had been disturbed or was alien. In the lounge the wastepaper bin
was upside down – the contents strewn across the floor. The babies’ toy box was on
its side – toys were scattered everywhere. My books [including this journal’s first
draft] were removed from a table and left haphazardly on the floor. Burnt tapers
[some still smouldering] were found dotted about here and there. In my bedroom I
found my bed all dishevelled. All my vases of flowers – artificial and real [including
the basket arrangement the girls had given me] had been tipped out. All my
perfumes and jewellery were lying around on the floor. Framed photos of mum, me
and Andrew and Shell as babies were placed facedown on the bed and two of my
chest of drawers were open with nighties and slips draped out. Ash was doted on
my bed and floor. It was as if everything that personifies ‘goodness’ had been
tampered with, seemingly to try to eradicate them and that which signifies sex and
evil intent were revered. In the kitchen [in green ink] was the writing on the glass
part of the door, “You will die, ha ha ha.” On the notice board [in red] was written,
“Death is your destiny.” I defiantly found myself rubbing out the offensive writing and
I wrote, “Evil and corruption will die, justice is our destiny, righteousness will prevail.”
There was no point calling cops. I hardly have any faith in them and anyway they’d
only label me a loony, liar and attention-seeker. I figured I’d contact some churches
once I’d cleaned up and got the babies sorted out. But various things got in the way.
A gang of kids came back again slinging mud balls down my drive, so Andrew shot
at them with his toy gun, using plastic pellets. Next minute, the dog’s ‘mother’ [the
woman who is the mother of the lad that I’d walloped off my wall] turned up on my
doorstep to complain that my lad had done her “lad’s face in.” I asked her what her
lad was doing coming down my drive and I told her to keep her kids and her dog
under control, so she spewed out a stream of ‘F’ words. Later I nipped up to
Donna’s and found the woman and her sister next door still spouting off. All I heard
was: “Effing…. Effing…. and effing…. you upper class toffs.” I thanked her for the
compliment and she saw red. “Wanna fight?” she enquired with fists up by her nose.
I laughed and walked away. With a cuppa in one hand sloshing about and spilling
out over her hand and her ciggie in the other, depositing all down her frock, she
began to follow me. Frothing at the mouth, she turned the air blue and everyone in
the vicinity [including all the kids and especially her own] gawped and then dissolved
into peels of laughter. Meanwhile, the milkman stood at my door engrossed in the
drama. “And you thought the war was in Kosovo,” I cracked, as I approached him.
Before I knew it, it was 9.00.pm and I’d only just got the babies in bed. My holy call
had been put off again for another day. The kids slumped in front of the small
screen and I got to work in my bedroom on the computer. At around 10.00 pm the
kids ran up to tell me that the stale smoky stench was filling up the lounge and hall.
As we were half way down the stairs, we found bits of ash dotted about. Then
Andrew tore off hell for leather. He screamed, “God says there is a fire in the
kitchen.” Horrified I followed him to find the rim of the potato bag on fire. Andrew
promptly swatted it out and we doused it in water. I then got very cross and accused
him of lighting the bag for a bit of fun. He repeatedly and solemnly swore that he
wasn’t guilty. Then he pointed out some facts. He asserted, “Yeah, like I put those
tapers on the table when you were alone and I’m causing all the smells and the
messy rooms and writing on the walls…. I was with you, remember?” That’s true; he
hadn’t been responsible for all that. I considered the unthinkable – was this
spontaneous combustion? No that’s impossible; but then so were all the other
unexplained events. Maybe this thing is trying to kill us. If fires can start just like that
then our ill-willed spirit could burn the whole house down – with us in it. Oh my God.
Andrew broke into my thoughts and warned me that God had just told him there
could be another fire.
I began to discuss with the kids what we’d do in the event of that becoming a reality.
Thankfully I had smoke alarms – one in the utility adjoining the kitchen, one in the
downstairs hall and one in the upstairs hall. I decided I’d buy more tomorrow. I had
a fire blanket which I placed on the kitchen table; then I found myself filling up pans
of water with the kids – just in case. I also made a mental note to purchase a fire
extinguisher and to locate a suitable priest. I brewed up then quadruple checked that
all electricals were safe and socket switches were off. We all then trooped off
upstairs to check out all windows for escape routes. We began in Shell’s room,
which is directly above the kitchen. I added ‘rope’ to my mental shopping list and
decided that for now, if we had to, we’d substitute it with sheets. I even drew up a
plan of Andrew climbing down first and then me lowering the babies down to him.
Oh God, this was all so scary - so unreal. Andrew remarked that the devil was
craftily making it look as if he and Shell were to blame and that Satan’s evil
intentions were to cause a rift between the kids and I. Ultimately, they’d be removed
from me and taken into ‘care’, which would cause me more problems and heartache
and would stop me writing my book. It would also weaken my resolve to fight for
worldwide justice and righteousness. As we spoke, Andrew glanced through Shell’s
window and saw, horror of horrors, a reflection in the home’s French windows - of
bright orange flames dancing across our kitchen window. Andrew tore downstairs
with me hot on his heels. We burst into the kitchen to find it full of thick black smoke
and an area of six feet by three feet of drawn curtains ablaze. We didn’t stay to find
out what else was alight. Only then did one of the alarms start to shrill. I gulped,
“Everyone out – quick grab the babies.” Andrew pulled the kitchen door shut and the
second alarm began to shrill. I pushed Shell outside to tell our neighbour to call the
fire dept; Andrew ran up to rescue Jordan while I grabbed Melly.
For the next twenty odd minutes; maybe more; we all stood barefooted in the old
people’s home watching our kitchen burning. We sipped sweet tea and I remember
that I couldn’t stop shaking and gibbering incoherently. I kept telling the staff, “I don’t
know how it happened. It started on its own. There’s something evil in the house –
it’s trying to kill us.” The staff were really kind and helped calm me down. Firemen
were initially full of praise for Andrew and had him up for a bravery award until they
became puzzled as to the source. At first they suggested the kettle was to blame –
that it had exploded, until I stupidly commented that it was switched off. Oddly, they
insisted that it was definitely switched on. Then a fireman called Brian asked if I
suspected anything that might’ve caused it. I mumbled something about an
electrical fault maybe; then I made a big mistake and asked if I could tell him
something in confidence. I was so overcome with all the good v evil supernatural
power struggle and the prophesies that were coming true that I entrusted him with
some of our unexplained experiences. But even as I spoke, I regretted it. Deep
down I knew he’d blab; but it was too late.
By this time Donna’s family had seen the fire truck and had come to offer help. We
accepted her offer of spending the night at her house and as we walked wearily up
the road, Gareth appeared from nowhere and asked if we were all ok. The callous
creep even tried to take advantage of my vulnerable state and asked if we could get
back together. I walked away. As I sat breastfeeding Mel in Donna’s lounge, with
Jordan at my side and Andrew and Shell settling down in bed in AJ’s and Emma’s
rooms, police turned up wanting to question Andrew. They didn’t have much to say
to me except that they believed Andrew is the culprit because he is too “cool, calm
and mature” about it all. I explained exactly what had happened and said that they
cannot accuse Andrew just cos I brought him up to hold his own.
Later I sneaked into my house to collect some essentials and found my kitchen
crawling with senior policemen and firemen. One policeman had stolen my
preternatural diary notes and was reading them out. He claimed that we’d intended
starting a fire because I’d written it down, until I corrected him, saying that the word
he’d read was “fine” not “fire.” The cheeky monkey then patronizingly said, “You
might as well tell us everything.” Police are the world’s worst for withholding vital
information and for misleading courts so that innocents get charged and the guilty
walk free. POLICE are the crooks. I was asked about the strange happenings that
we’d experienced and why I felt we were being targeted by spirits. So I found myself
telling the men that I believed we were being asked to spread the message of God
and that I was to write a diary of my life which would cover my family’s experiences,
including our attempts to tackle corruption within the authorities. I hastened to add
that I wasn’t implying that all bodies in society are corrupt and I teased them a little
bit by saying, “I’m sure you guys aren’t corrupt, but there is a lot of it about,
especially in some police forces, and if we can stamp it out, it would be so much
better for society.” I said that we were just doing our little bit to make the world a
more moral place. I felt a bit of an idiot standing there amongst them talking about
ghosts; but it was the TRUTH. They thought they had a weirdo on their hands. I
pointed out that if I’d intended making a killing on the insurance I’d have done a
better job of it. I enquired as to why Shelly or myself aren’t arsonist suspects. They
had no answer. They demanded I forfeit my keys and informed me that CID would
be searching my house in the morning. Oh for heavens sakes. I said, “Look, the fire
is unexplained, I don’t know why all these things are happening to us. They just are.
I don’t like it and I wish it would stop. We are not CRIMINALS.”
MAY 21ST 1999
CID treated us like sh…. I wasn’t even allowed in [even under police escort] to
collect baby items. They seized Andrew’s workbooks and one [Chris Walsh]
commented that Andrew is too intelligent and not at the expected level of a ten-year
old. I replied that I make the kids aware of the unglamorous reality of life. He
disagreed with my view that the world is evil and corrupt, so I told him he was either
naïve or corrupt himself. I told him about the drug-pushers, vandals, juvenile
delinquents, thieves, muggers, alcis…. on our road alone and I asked him, “What are
you lot doing about it?” He said that the police do all they can to catch criminals and
that the courts let them off. I remarked that with the amount of police in circulation
surely it’s about time pressure was put on the judicial system for appropriate change.
He said nothing. I told him that police behaviour regarding cases such as the
Stephen Lawrence murder and Hillsborough are a disgrace and that the underworld
rules. He said that that was my opinion only. I corrected him that it was a hell of lot
of people’s opinion. I remarked that I bet they know who killed Jill Dando. He said
they didn’t. [How would he know if they did or didn’t?] I was firing on all cylinders
now and said that there shouldn’t be such things as Irish paramilitaries and contract
killers. Walshie passed a remark that I’d mocked Jack Straw’s rhetoric “we have
become a walk-on-by society.” He then made a comment that I watch the news - as
if that wasn’t the done thing for single mothers and as if it implied that he found it
somewhat threatening. He then cleared off with his camera and little plastic bags full
of ‘criminal’ evidence – some of the tapers, Andrew’s work, my rough notes of
supernatural incidences and my typed pages of the start of this book. Why on Earth
would he swipe those? Had my little ‘sermon’ last night tweaked a nerve? Did those
men have something to hide about their own professional behaviour?
Even dad is against us. He told me to keep an eye on my son and he poo poo’d the
bizarre happenings. Just because I can’t explain the fire, we are now branded
criminals. Right now I feel so alone and victimised. I’m also mentally taxed. In a
moment of exasperation I turned on him and said that he shouldn’t be so
judgemental and that mum was right when she used to call him weak because he
was behaving just like the police and finding an easy target – a child, to pick on. I
felt that he didn’t really care about us and what was happening, and that he just
didn’t want me to be a burden to him. I told him not to underestimate these
unfamiliar forces and that they are, worryingly, more powerful than anyone can
comprehend.
Later we made it up and he said he’d been for the first court hearing to try and claim
back his two and a half grand and that afterwards Gareth had threatened him with
his life. Gareth had said, “ When all this is over I’d watch your back if I were you – I
won’t do it but I’ll make sure you won’t go anywhere for a long time.” Dad said he’d
retorted, “Don’t threaten me pal.” I asked if we could kip over at his place just for the
night because we really couldn’t face a night in my haunted house. But he refused
saying, “I have guests here – there is not enough room. We are busy.”
It struck me as rather naughty that CID burst in, took what they wanted and moved
my things around as they pleased. I think I had a right to at least be allowed to take
my own photos at the same time as them. Who knows, they may prove my
supernatural claims, and since I don’t trust ‘officials’, I want my own records of the
aftermath AS IT WAS, not of their re-arranged version. Nevertheless I took my own
photos of the debris. I discovered that, much to my surprise, none of the clothes that
were damp and hanging in the porch were even slightly smoke affected. They
smelled as fresh as daisies, yet dense smoke had billowed out through them when
firemen had stood by the back door extinguishing the fire. The walls and ceiling
were fully covered with black soot though. The kids and I began the clean up. I was
surprised to find that the food cupboard, directly above the washing powder, was not
smoke damaged either, let alone singed; yet flames would’ve been licking at it from
the curtains and washing powder [which was a large box.] I found myself sighing
with relief when Andrew informed us that God says there won’t be any more fires
now. The loss adjuster noticed the boxes of eggs that were by the part-destroyed
kettle and washing powder, and joked that we can have boiled eggs for tea. My next
job was to change the locks – I don’t trust those crooked cops.
I was so terrified of sleeping in my spooked house and so in need of a battery recharge and to get away from this road that we booked into a local B&B. It felt like
heaven, and the professionalism, respect and friendliness of the proprietors made us
feel like royalty. I guess all guests are treated like that, but to us it felt ultra special,
what with our hideous experiences and the incriminations from ignorant people.
MAY 22ND 1999
Andrew was hauled in front of Chris Walsh [CID] for an interview on tape and under
caution. A social worker sat dumbly on the side listening in. The whole thing was a
farcical affair from start to finish. Andrew wasn’t happy with the accusation of being
a liar and arsonist without good reason – just that it’s some big shot CID’s subjective
opinion. And neither was I. We all had better things to do than sit in a police station
exchanging useless gossip, especially as the likes of his interrogator should be out
there doing some real work and catching real criminals…. So Andrew swiftly gave
him what he deserved. He subtly took the p…. Walshie asked Andrew if he knew
what a lie was and if he could give an example of one. I thought that was a bit rich
considering the reputation of the police as regards lies and cover ups and I
wondered if Walshie knew the answer himself; but I forced myself to keep my gob
shut. I had a little chuckle though at Andrew’s answer: “I’m lying when I say I have a
gun in my pocket.” Walshie kept referring to Andrew’s stories with the inference that
Andrew is obsessed with fire and evil. But Andrew pointed out that he wrote about
fire because he was answering questions from his text. He also said, “Not all my
stories are about bad things; it’s just that you didn’t take my stories about all the
good things that I write about.” Andrew was asked about God and the devils and he
was asked to describe them but he didn’t go into detail because [he told me later]
“police don’t deserve to know – they don’t believe us anyway.” I agreed that divine
information is privileged and only available to genuine followers of God who behave
according to the holy book’s rules. Walshie then said, “You write about becoming a
PC when you’re older and sorting out corruption and showing police how to do their
job.” Andrew boldly replied, “Yes.” At the end Walshie asked me if I had anything to
say. By this time I was so appalled that CID were making such a fuss about a tiny
fire and a few phantoms and that they fail miserably in their own line of duty and,
worse, waste a lot of other people’s money in the doing, that I joined in the satire. I
quipped, “Andrew is God’s chosen one.” You’d think we’d just murdered the Queen!
The social worker looked like she’d swallowed a spider.
Dad showed up to ask me to stop all this talk of God, evil, corruption, injustice…. I
told him that I’ll shut up about it when the world has changed to Godly rule and all
things negative are no more. I told him that I just speak the truth and that it isn’t our
fault that all these things are happening and that we didn’t ask for it. He got angry
and said, “I wish you’d stop saying things like the police are liars and that you don’t
trust them. Don’t trust ANDREW.” That felt as if a spear had just gone into me. It
hurt deeply. I told him that I’ve witnessed enough of the unexplained to know that
Andrew speaks the truth. He turned to go and said, “Let me know if you need
anything.” I said, “I did ask if you’d put us up last night because we felt uneasy.” He
said that it was impractical. I pointed out that if the boot was on the other foot and he
wanted to stay with us because he was terrified of something, I’d be only too happy
to help. He then replied, “No – it was impractical. Sorry.” I said, “So am I; that’s not
family, love or support – mum would be shocked and angry with you.” He shouted,
“I’m bloody glad she’s not here.” “Well, she knows more than you think,” I yelled
back.
Later I took a bottle of wine up to Donna, and Shell gave her a bunch of flowers.
Then I wrestled with the drill and stepladders as I struggled to fix smoke detectors to
the ceilings. I have one in every room now. I then cracked open the eggs, fully
expecting them to be cooked, but they weren’t. They were in exactly the same
condition as they were when I lifted them off the Kwikie shelf. How odd! Now we are
all too petrified to sleep upstairs, so I put Mel’s cot and some mattresses in the
playroom for us all to crash out there.
I phoned the Cannon Trevor Davies to ask about an exorcist. He referred me to a
reputable reverend in Dyserth who has many years experience in this field. Already I
feel like a tonne has been lifted off my shoulders.
Andrew was a little melancholic when he said that he wasn’t that fond of granddad
anymore because “he blames me for the fire and says I’m not to be trusted and that
you shouldn’t believe us.” I gave him a long hug and said that I was upset with him
too, but that he didn’t mean to be nasty, that he calls all kids liars, that he’s just trying
to find a suitable explanation and that “you just fit the bill.” I told him that I was so
proud of the way he’s coping with it all and that I wished I had his strength.
MAY 23RD 1999
I nattered with my elderly neighbours across the road. They said they’ve been
burgled three times, that louts give them cheek and kick footballs at their windows,
that they politely ask for loud music to be quietened but are just fed verbal abuse,
that they’ve seen drugs and cash change hands on our road, that they caught a
teenage girl in their hall – stealing, and that chimneys were once stolen from their
garden. They said they gave up reporting it all to police because no one cares and
nothing is ever done – crime is on the increase. I commented that the police’s
answer to crime is to install a few more CCTVs, of which many are dummies, and to
print up pretty pamphlets preaching to us how we can avoid being victims. I
remarked wryly that if we listen to them, we’ll all build ourselves a fortress and
hibernate.
MAY 25TH 1999
My computer won’t work. I turned it on and a rude message told me to boot the
drive. I don’t like all this techno-babble.
MAY 27TH 1999
At church Mr Obnoxious fixed his eye on my metal bar and hissed, “That’s an
offensive weapon.” I retorted, “The only thing offensive around here, is you.” When I
later collected the babies, the bar had gone. Heinous-head said, “Police came to
collect it.” “You are the most pathetic lying son-of-a-bitch I’ve ever met,” I retaliated.
Jordy was unusually quiet on the way home and for a while after we’d returned.
MAY 29TH 1999
Three hooligans kept sneaking down my drive hurling stones, rubbish and mud. I
would shoo them off until one yob had the brass neck to creep into my back kitchen
and nick Andrew’s toy gun. I chased after the git, rammed him against a wall and
put a bit of pressure on his neck with my left hand. I held my right hand up near his
face as if to punch him and he paled and began to tremble. I asked him if he
intended coming down my drive again. With tears gushing down his face and
shaking like a jelly baby, he sobbed that he wouldn’t. I remarked that his pals don’t
give tuppence for him – that they were cowering in the distance. He spluttered
something about having me for child abuse. I put more pressure on his neck and
hissed, “Shut it.” After I’d let him sweat for about ten minutes, I released him. A
nearby bloke who had watched the saga handed me Andrew’s gun then yelled after
the yobbo that he and his pals were scum and needed teaching a lesson. I gave the
bloke a hug and said that I wished there were more like him. But that wasn’t the end
of it. Police turned up to rap my knuckles. A story emerged that I just ran after the
kid for no particular reason, that I’d strangled him and slung him backwards over
someone’s wall. I wish I had – maybe it would’ve shut the lying brat up. Oh and
according to him, Andrew had lent him the gun! I was told that I’m not allowed to
threaten a kid, never mind touch him. If I do, I will be charged – with child abuse. I
enquired as to the law that says you can protect your property and family by
reasonable force. Wrong again! Not in this day and age. I asked if I’m supposed to
let any lout do whatever he pleases to us. The answer was that I am to call the
cops. Oh terrific…. Christ…. Now I’ve heard it all! Little blighters know that the law
is on their side, so they offend all the more. None of them have any reason to do
otherwise.
MAY 30TH 1999
Mel loves it when I cuddle her and blow in her ear. She giggles and then pauses in
anticipation.
All the European Commissioners, forced to resign after widespread corruption, are
still at their offices, drawing their salaries, expenses and allowances and being
chauffeured to the finest restaurants in their official limos. Bloody hell!
Dad and I yakked on the phone – all the harsh words have been forgotten now but
deep down I’m still stinging because he doesn’t believe that our paranormal
experiences are genuine. He is so sure that Andrew caused the fire and is lying.
JUNE
JUNE 1ST 1999
Social workers Eva McKenzie and Pat Williams turned up. “Here we go again,” I
moaned. I began to kick off as I usually do with these time wasters until I twigged
that they weren’t being judgemental - they were actually considering the unthinkable.
They did not dismiss my spiritual and spiritualism beliefs and they did wonder if we
had been subjected to some extraordinary power as they surveyed my kitchen with
curiosity and studied the surprising one cm deep scorch mark that the kettle had
caused on the sideboard et cetera. I described the distinctive ‘V’ shape that the front
of the washing powder box ended up in, which shows where the kettle was touching
it. I reasoned that if the fire had spread from curtains to powder box to kettle as is
the suggestion, well, unless they are saying that Andrew somehow caused the kettle
directly to ignite, the back of the box would’ve burnt – but it didn’t. I asked if the
experts are saying that the fire somehow jumped backwards from the curtains and
skimmed only half the washing powder to partly destroy the kettle. I pointed out the
untouched food cupboard despite the half mangled kettle etc and that fire burns
upwards.
It was then lovely to hear a bit of support when Eva butted in with, “Especially as
washing powder is highly combustible.” Then I said, “Either way, there is no proof
that it was started deliberately and none of us should be blamed. I find it astonishing
that you people are even here. There was a social worker with CID two days after
the fire; surely that should be enough. If she had ‘concerns’ why didn’t she raise
them then?” Eva felt that home-tuition is a good idea but that under the
circumstances it might be an idea to put them back in school to “shut up criticism.” I
told her that that would be giving in and going against our beliefs and our rights and
it wouldn’t be in Andrew’s and Shell’s best interests. As I showed them the door, I
surprised myself by apologising for the earlier hostilities.
AJ went off with his other mates and they all turned on Andrew. They were calling
him names and kicking him, so Andrew ran in all het up and shouting that he’ll never
be pals with AJ again.
JUNE 2ND 1999
AJ and his mates kept running into my yard, mocking and hounding Andrew and
Shell for a scrap. I heard Andrew chase them off. Emma started on Shell soon after
and before I knew it Andrew and Shell had darted in, and around twenty kids were
milling about outside my house in my yard and on my gate. They were all ganging
up against my two, yelling and egging for a fight. Some started lobbing stones at my
windows. I chased outside to shoo them off but they stood and chanted, “Ha ha; you
can’t touch us – police are on our side. You’ll be done for child abuse.” I pulled
Andrew and Shell away from the window and called police, but as usual the buggers
had gone when police arrived. I was reminded that I’m not allowed to hit a kid. I
enquired if I’m supposed to just allow a frenzied mob of youths to walk onto my
property and beat the lights out of my kids. One cop said that there would be an
enquiry…. “What are you blabbing on about?” I asked in utter incredulity. “It’d be
too late then. I’m not going to let any scumbag touch my kids. They’re not
troublemakers, thieves, muggers, vandals…. that lot are.” I yelled at him, saying that
if the crowd of yobs aren’t dealt with now, they’ll be lying in wait for my kids and
every time Andrew and Shell go out, even to the corner shop, it’ll be like walking into
a pack of wolves for them. But all he could do was reiterate the rule that, “You don’t
threaten a child – it’s abuse. You will be charged – not them.” It’s a bloody scandal
that I have to keep the kids inside now and away from the windows. I figured that
from now on I’ll just continually call cops and they’ll soon get fed up of me and then
they’ll have to do something.
Later, one of the care workers in the home next door told me that she won’t allow her
daughter to play outside, even in the grounds, because of the street violence.
JUNE 3RD 1999
Six crows eyeballed the bread that my little feathered friends were tucking into, so I
flapped a tea towel at them and the good birds were left in peace.
At church there was no ‘normal’ greeting from reptile-head, not even to the babies.
All he could snarl was, “You told me you’re not seeing anyone….”. What? I civilly
replied, “What I do is not your business.” Then he started ranting about me sending
CID to see him. So I said, “Well don’t blame me.” Then he started blubbering about
suing dad, so I just informed him that dad was simply trying to recoup the cash that
“YOU OWE HIM.”
Lorraine and I nattered. She was going on about the bible being one hundred
percent true. How the heck does anyone know that? What if it isn’t? Aren’t
Christians open-minded enough to consider that possibility?
I went for a run and couldn’t help noticing a sign stating a one thousand pounds fine
for dogfouling…. and eight blobs of dung directly under it!
Emma and her gang were flocking around again asking for trouble and demanding
fights. I heard Donna and others calling their kids in but after only two minutes, they
were back out again and up to no good. This was the pattern until I bowed to
pressure from Andrew and Shell and decided to allow them to fight on a ‘one to one’.
I’d listened to their reasoning that they have to fight back otherwise they’ll always be
picked on and I thought [against my better judgment] that if it was done in a
controlled and supervised way [so that things didn’t get out of hand] it might just
solve the problem and all the kids would clear off and find themselves something
better to do.
Emma challenged Andrew since she is just a few months older than him. It was hard
to tell who ‘won’ as it was so evenly contested. But Emma eventually ran off in tears
with her supporters. Then the nine year olds slogged it out. Everyone agreed that
Shell was the clear winner as AJ also ran off sobbing. Nobody had any cuts or
bruises [thank God] but they all appeared chastened. I naively thought that they’d
now be ‘sorted’ and that the others would realise that Andrew and Shell are not
pushovers, but Donna had other ideas. She appeared on my doorstep all up in
arms. I tried to explain that I thought it would stop all the talk about fights if they got
it out of their system but that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all. We ended
up having a ding-dong and she booted my door and called the cops on us.
I was threatened with being charged with “Section one….”. One bobby said,
“They’re streetwise – you’re not.” So I asked, “Does that mean all the other kids are
allowed to do what they please with your blessing, while my kids and I are seen as
the criminals? We are the victims. Just cos you lot won’t/can’t do your job you get
heavy with the easy targets – the quiet individuals who just want to be left alone.
What a cop out.” He said that if her kids damage my property, I can call the council
and they’ll make her homeless. Typical; talk about passing the buck … A lot of these
kids hang out in gangs because they’re scared of each other. No one dares to stand
up to the bullies because they’re scared that the gang will turn on them, and the
parents are intimidated by the kids. Individually those kids are timid and can barely
eyeball anyone when they’re alone. Cops bleat about us not living in an ideal world
but it could easily become one if the law enforcement bodies DO THEIR JOBS, CUT
OUT CORRUPTION AND ENSURE JUSTICE IS DONE.
JUNE 4TH 1999
I stood at the kitchen window and watched Emma, the lad that I’d walloped off my
wall, and a couple of other little sods sneaking slyly down the old folk’s drive; then
they began pelting my windows with stones, bars, mud balls and rubbish. A four
year old then appeared in front of my window, grabbed my bin and tipped it over. I
duly called police who promised to have a word with the parents, but I won’t be
holding my breath for any miracles – they’ve probably told their brats to come
bothering us.
Late afternoon, I caught sight of the back end of a big lad as he boldly strode out of
my back door, vaulted over my wall, trampled over next door’s seedlings and sped
off. Andrew gave chase with his toy gun and fired a few pellets at him. I then
realised that the friggin git had made off with my loose change that was on the table.
Now I have to keep windows and doors bolted.
JUNE 5TH 1999
I went with the kids to see their music teacher Alec to find out if lessons could be
switched to a period during school hours because the kids are now too scared to
walk through gang-ruled Colwyn Bay. We chatted for ages. He was very
sympathetic and it seems has suffered the same sort of problems and he also had to
bear similar injustices. We transferred to a Wednesday morning and I was so happy
when he offered to give the kids a lift in future. People like Alec are a beacon of
hope in this world of hatred and selfishness.
JUNE 6TH 1999
I put my new washing machine to the test and brewed up with my new kettle and
imagined how nice it’ll all look when the walls are decorated, the doors are finished,
the floor is newly tiled…. I joked to Shell that if the fire had been caused by Satan, he
must be feeling pretty cheesed off now since his aim to destroy us and our home
seems to have somewhat backfired – he has, in fact, done us a favour. Shell
mocked, “He’s blushing.”
There was an alarming piece in the paper about Freemasonry in public life and in
particular within the police. Figures in the Ulster security services are protected by
Masons. Regarding serious malpractices of the West Midlands serious crimes
squad, it was revealed that eight Masons belonged to the group. Two of these faced
allegations of corruption but were never charged or disciplined. Eight Masons and a
very high-ranking former Mason were involved in the Birmingham pub bombings
investigation, which led to one of the worst miscarriages of justice seen in Britain.
Jack Straw suggests a voluntary register as a means of identifying Masons in the
police. What clap trap. That’s proof if it were needed that the government are ruled
by the underworld.
JUNE 8TH 1999
Dreaded court day today. My solicitor pushed me into giving the slug-head more
concessions, as it is supposedly “always a good idea to be seen by the court to be
offering something.” I had a gut feeling that I was playing this ‘game’ the wrong way
and that I might be better off representing myself and sticking to my guns of saying
“no” all the way. The way things are going, it all might rebound – I’d get no sympathy
because I’d ‘agreed’ and my detestable ex would probably get the babies for at least
half the week, if not full residence. I learned that Mr Two-face has got a good
character reference under his belt from one of the church leaders – John Dowell no
less. I knew it! That smarmy git knows exactly what he’s doing and everyone gets
taken in by him. I wonder how the likes of John would feel if one day his daughter
dates a guy like Gareth. He’d soon be begging the likes of me for my testimonial. I
was forced to give that b…. Parental Responsibility, which lawyers try to tell you
means nothing. But it darned well does. Now he has a big say in the kids’ education
and he is making it clear to all and sundry that he opposes home tuition – well he
sodding would, wouldn’t he? He’s promised to do anything to thwart my future plans.
He doesn’t give a dickie bird for the babies – it’s me he’s interested in and the
amount of suffering he can cause me. It also means that he now has a say in their
medical needs and I know for a fact that he’ll look for any opportunity to cause
trouble in that department. Oh and I’m also not allowed to go abroad for more than a
month without that toad’s permission.
JUNE 9TH 1999
Melissa is a big one year old. Dad popped in with a cuddly for her then we spent
some lazy time in the park – it was a glorious day. Later we indulged in our usual
‘treats’ and the kids helped Melly blow out her candle.
At about 8.00 pm, the crowd of numbskulls were gathering again on my walls, on my
gate and in my yard, and they began to chuck rocks and anything else they could get
their grubby little paws on, at my living room window. Andrew and Shell had been
inside all evening. I dialled 999 and told the officer that they’d better get themselves
over here quick or they’ll have a murder on their hands. After about the third call and
over an hour later the fuzz eventually showed up. Some louts were caught in the act
but all the police did was ask them nicely to stay away from my house. The little
thugs just ran off grinning and jeering that they’d be back later. Well, they would,
wouldn’t they? The police force is a laughing stock and a license for the sadistic
enjoyment for today’s youth. During the rumpus Andrew and Shell had the nous to
take some photos of the assailants. Maybe the local rag will name and shame these
well-known rascals.
There is a lot to be said for the bringing back of corporal punishment. Wouldn’t it be
brill if we had laws that permit the public humiliation of people [kids and adults] if
there is clear evidence that someone has committed a crime. It would save the
taxpayer from the expense of flawed and lengthy court hearings and prisons and it
would stop the scandalous lining of pockets of fat cat judiciaries. People could then
see real justice being done and the guilty wouldn’t be in such a hurry to re-offend. A
public hiding would work wonders. If Joe Public played detective and put his
camcorder to better use than You’ve been framed, he could catch plenty of crooks in
the act. Those silly, ineffective CCTV cameras would soon be obsolete and the
sooner the better because right now they are used selectively and are open to
abuse. You can bet your bottom dollar that if there was the possibility of officials or
wealthy businessmen or ‘underworld’ characters being caught on CCTV doing
wrong, the camera in question would be: not working or not providing a clear enough
picture or pointing the wrong way! CCTV is not used for tackling crime. It is just
another tool to be used against the underclass when it suits the authorities and to
bring revenue in to government coffers. If our authorities were trustworthy, Joe
Public would feel confident that CCTV is money well spent and that they significantly
help in catching criminals. Since this is not the case, we need civilian detectives.
The ‘ordinary’ person in the street could take photos of criminals red-handed and
send them to the newspapers – it wouldn’t be long before identities were known and
appropriate physical punishment could be administered immediately. The ridiculous
re-offending lark where cons get eighty odd convictions et cetera is a farce. The
public are fed up of it. We have a God given right to walk this Earth safely. We live
in a so-called democracy and therefore we supposedly elect politicians to manage
our money, make our laws and enforce them. They should get on with it and if
they’re too spineless, incompetent or corrupt they should get out, stop claiming their
fat salaries, go on income support and give the job to someone who will do it
effectively. All our existing politicos want is our votes and our adulation. Well they
can go to hell. The expensive and wasteful bureaucracy of our present so-called
justice system is criminal and is wide open for abuse. Revolutionary change is
needed and we ‘ordinary’ mortals have to force it. The police boast that recorded
crime is down!!! If all of us poor victims constantly hound them, they’ll soon find their
figures rising and big changes will have to happen. Furthermore, the police
hierarchy should be jailed for corruption, perverting justice, professional misconduct
and fraud. So too should guilty politicians, judges, magistrates, council and social
services bigwigs….
JUNE 10TH 1999
There was a touching scene at breccy. Mel dropped her beaker and began to cry.
Jordan rushed to her aid, handed her the cup, stroked her hand and said, “Ok?” She
then grabbed hold of her toes and he exclaimed, “Ah baby.” Then he kissed her on
the forehead. Typical little charmer – just like all males!
As I sipped at my cuppa it occurred to me that I haven’t heard anything from the LEA
about their home-education inspection in April. I thought it would’ve been polite to
acknowledge in writing that everything was at least ‘satisfactory’. I suppose no news
is good news though. But you can bet your life that if there were any ‘concerns’, I’d
have been pestered mercilessly by the ‘experts’ by now.
This morning I ran four miles. The first one took me eight minutes, the second took
ten minutes, the third took eleven minutes and the fourth twelve minutes. As I
basked in the blazing sunshine and sipped at my orange, I was stunned to read
some writing on the wall, which said, “Andrew and Sharon will win and Shell also.
Ha ha.” What a wonderful boost.
Eva popped in to tell me that that I’m invited to have my say at a child protection
conference where a team will decide if any action needs to be taken regarding the
safety of my children as they have decided that the fire was maliciously started. My
world was turned upside down. I began to babble, “Just because a lousy fireman
called Brian betrayed me…. I could’ve lied about the pans of water. I could’ve said
they were a scientific experiment. I could’ve made up a story about the tapers – that
I’m a smoker and too idle to clean up. I could’ve said my diary notes were complete
fiction – just ideas for a book. I should’ve agreed with those clowns that the kettle
was on, that it caused the fire, that it was an accident - end of story. But I didn’t
because what we experienced was unnerving and literally out of this world and
although people should know about the existence and power of spirits, I can see now
that some are not ready for such awareness. And in any case I couldn’t lie; I had to
tell the truth.”
I wailed, “But it is being used against me. This is all somehow working out for
Gareth – just the way he planned it. I’m fighting a bitter court battle with him and
now all this is just the ammo he needs. I’m sure that if there hadn’t been all those
vicious unfounded allegations against me and the over-reactive doctor’s incorrect
prognosis, there wouldn’t be a ludicrous ‘conference’. Even my job with children
may now be jeopardised. Anyway, as far as they’re concerned, the ‘devil-talk’
shouldn’t come into it – it’s a personal experience. The point is they can’t prove any
of us started that fire – deliberately or not. So we shouldn’t be accused. It is an
unexplained fire.” Eva was very sympathetic and supportive and agreed that if we’d
just had the fire, there almost certainly would not be a conference to decide if my
children need to be placed under the care of the Child Protection Authorities. My
head was buzzing with confusion, outrage and utter disbelief that they can go this
far. Eva tried to reassure me that the worst outcome of conference would be that my
children are registered ‘at risk’ but she was pretty confident that it wouldn’t come to
that. I felt dazed and sick just thinking about the looming nightmare meeting.
Glassy-eyed, I smiled when Eva said she was a lateral thinker and that she believes
that we did experience something from the higher realms. She agreed with my
observations that it’s always the innocents that get hounded and persecuted and that
the bad guys are left in peace. I told her about the illegal activities Gareth gets away
with and the clout he has over the police - I informed her of his good character ref,
his son being let off criminal damage, and the fact that he is known by police as
being a wife/child batterer, yet no action is taken and he gets awarded custody whilst
his wife is denied all contact with her children [whom she loves to bits] by the
authorities and court. I mentioned all the referrals [from senior school teachers and
the Dolgellau locals] concerning social services, the EWO and GW’s older kids - and
the authorities’ inaction. I told her about the neighbourhood louts, the dangerous
dog and the fact that authorities turn a blind eye. I mentioned the appalling police
threat that I’d be bound over to keep the peace and the suspicious circumstances
surrounding the CCTV incident in March. I informed her that the officials are right
when they express concern that my kids are at risk. They are – from arrogant
bureaucrats, mad dogs, out of control juveniles….
Late afternoon the little lad that I walloped off my wall, and his pint-sized pals turned
up again slinging stones at our window; so Andrew darted out and thumped him. He
screamed and slithered off to get an adult [any would do], who dutifully obeyed the
nine-year old troublemaker and came banging on my door demanding to see me.
Andrew yelled back through the letterbox at the stupid bloke on the other side, “Mum
doesn’t want to speak to you – she doesn’t talk to strangers.” The bloke stormed off
swearing blue murder.
After a couple of hours, the same lad and about twenty other little brain-deads were
back. One slashed my TV aerial, others emptied my bins and pelted rubbish at my
windows. Some of it missed and hit the neighbours’ cars and windows. They were
egging each other on, laughing and brandishing various weapons – knives, bars,
catapults, bows and arrows…. After four emergency calls to cops, they eventually
showed up well over an hour later at which point the people next door scooted out
and screamed at me with such rage saying that I should handle it myself and that
Andrew is to blame, that he’s so naughty he’s been expelled from school…. I walked
away from them – there’s no point trying to talk sense to folk who refuse to let go of
tradition and consider alternatives. Most people are so scared of being different and
most only feel comfortable when they are behaving like ostriches. Police moved the
crowd on – for now. But the problem has not been dealt with – none of them were
even ticked off! Police waste time and money pretending to do their jobs. One cop
even admitted that they just want an easy life.
JUNE 11TH 1999
I bumped into my cousin Carolyn down town. She’s got problem neighbours too.
One spiteful menace now slashes her tyres and allows his dog to contaminate her
pathway just because she politely asked him to take responsibility for his hound. We
discussed the problem of kids who don’t know right from wrong and the parents who
are too drunk or drugged to care what their offspring get up to. We talked about the
boundaries that kids cross just because they are in gangs and feel pressured to
impress and be the most daring. We decided that society condones anti-social
behaviour. Society allows police officers to be beaten up and killed. We concluded
that the government, police chiefs and justices will be at the top of Mr and Mrs Lawabider’s hit lists as widespread anarchy breaks out which will be a certainty if the
current trend continues and those guilty people at the top don’t change their ways.
A really helpful guy in a DIY shop demonstrated how to fix my tap after it had come
off in my hand! I even managed to do a bit of plumbing under the kitchen sink when
the pipe spouted a leak. It’s wonderful when that little voice that says “eureka” pops
into your head!
As I walked down my road, a mother ran out to rescue her kids, yelling, “Is she
threatening you again? Keep away from her – she’s a nutter.”
Everyone refers to Jonathon Aitken as the disgraced minister and the lag but he is
one of the fortunate ones who has found God. He admits that he used to call himself
a Christian but that it was just external show and that nothing in his heart was
Christian-like. Those in high places who sneer at him now should take a look at
themselves and ask themselves just how saintly their own behaviour is. Ok, they
may not have lied on oath but ALL high flying politicos lie incessantly to the public for
their own self-gain which is a huge sin and in my opinion also deserving of prison.
God will judge them.
Around 9.00 pm a gang played footie right outside my gate. Their ball twice thudded
against my window and they continually and cockily strolled into my yard whenever
they pleased. So I confiscated it. You should’ve seen their faces and heard their
pathetic bleats of protest. A police officer ordered me to give them their ball back. I
was numb with shock and disgust. “Aren’t you going to reprimand them?” I gasped.
He said he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of a row at the moment – he’d do it
later. ‘Fat chance,’ I thought. Then he sternly reminded me that I’m not allowed to
steal their things! I informed him that those kids have broken Andrew’s belongings
and that police are making themselves look quite ridiculous appeasing the
nuisances. I told him to just take a look at the nauseating glint of victory in their
eyes. Carry on ruling kids….
JUNE 12TH 1999
It’s official! Ninety per cent of people live in fear of crime, a disturbing report shows.
My yard was full of crows. I was somehow drawn to watching them and I shuddered
as I looked into their eyes and felt a powerful negative force. It was as if I was being
warned of some impending doom. Images of horror films overwhelmed me such as
The Omen and I began philosophising that all good stories come from someone’s
experiences or dreams and that some dreams are highly prophetic. I worryingly
reasoned that, despite my earlier conviction of its purely fictional status, The Omen is
probably not such a crazy idea after all but is in fact based on a sinister reality and
that we are witnessing the increasing evil now and Satan’s coming to power.
This afternoon I dropped my old school pal, Sue, a swift page. She wrote at Easter,
so it’s about time I got back to her. Unfortunately my news is mainly doom and
gloom.
After tea we endured another completely unprovoked attack. Rocks came
catapulting over, landing on my porch and shed roof and in my yard. Andrew and
Shell climbed on the shed to investigate and caught next-door’s kids with their
weapons, in the act. Andrew told them to pack it in, but was struck by stones. In
self-defence he and Shell hurled a couple back, then dived in. But police were called
on us, and a right mouthy, overbearing PC [939] turned up to intimidate and threaten
Andrew. Waving a finger at Andrew and looming menacingly over him, he boomed,
“You and I will be going for a chat in the police station. You’ll be going into care
soon; I’m not coming to this house all the time. You’ve been threatening kids with
this dangerous stick – it’s even got a nail on the end of it.”
Stunned and infuriated I interrupted him with, “Oh no; you get those streetwise
delinquents in and have a chat with them – the ones who terrorise old folk and mug
old ladies and vandalise property and steal handbags…. My two are ganged up on;
GANGED UP ON, by that mob. They’ve been kicked and punched and hit with
sticks and stones and have had their bikes and toys nicked and their clothes torn.
The kids around here make such weapons and fire them AT MY TWO. Andrew and
Shelly have only fired back with toy guns; the same type that ALL the kids around
here use. Those yobs pick on all the good kids and on nice quiet residents. Lin, up
the road has frequently fled her home in fear and has suffered broken windows and
the retirement home are forever banging on their windows trying to get rid of those
pests.”
He butted in, “Don’t you raise your voice to me; your kids are the problem; you need
to learn to keep them in and control them.” He kept telling me that this will all end in
tears and that my kids will end up in ‘care’. He said, “It’ll be the ‘at risk’ register next
– you’ll see.” I informed him that it was strange that my ex had warned me that the
police have got it in for me and that this ‘at risk’ threat was a little familiar. I said
there is something sinister going on behind the scenes. By now, Andrew was upset
and in tears.
The PC asked if I believe in an eye for an eye. What kind of stupid question is that?
Is he insinuating that we should just lie down and let any bloody fool do whatever
they please to us and our home? I ordered him not to wave his stupid finger at me
and I made him aware in no uncertain terms that he should be aiming his impressive
zeal on the yobs that need it – the real troublemakers. I also angrily enquired as to
why he wasn’t picking on Shell, since he is determined to get at us and she too was
on my shed roof trying to DEFEND OUR PROPERTY.
I mocked the force, saying that it is a farce and that everyone knows they have no
authority and are just a complete waste of time and public money. I said, “You lot
are a bunch of bent jokers.” I pointed out that three and four year old mites play out
on streets two or three blocks away at 10.00 pm at night and the police pass them
during their patrols. I told them that police should take those kids home earlier, give
their parents a telling off and report it to social services. I enquired as to why
authorities allow such young kids to roam the streets especially late at night. I also
asked him why the police were picking on us.
As he left he said, “Your kids will be taken off you – just you watch. I’ll be reporting
this to social services.” I boomed back, “And I’ll be reporting YOU to your superiors.”
When he’d gone, Andrew and I hissed in harmony, “Bloody ba …...std.” I wailed to
the kids, “It’s not fair. How come those kids can get away with near murder and we
do nothing wrong, but get blamed?” “Because we’re good and they’re bad,”
answered Shell.
Now I’m even more convinced of a murky conspiracy to have my children removed
from me. Police have definitely got it in for Andrew – they’re trying to frame him.
Why? Do they consider him a threat? Just cos he can see through their bullsh…. I
know that some police officers [well quite a lot] are corrupt, but this is unreal. Is the
corruption systemic or just confined to a few barrels of rotten apples? Does it pollute
all forces? I looked back on all the incidents, all the times that police should’ve
prosecuted Gareth for harassment, yet despite everything, he wasn’t even arrested –
not once. I recalled the scandalous ‘bound over’ threat and the out of order police
threat of the ‘at risk’ register during the CCTV incident. I remembered the CID
interrogation and the fact that Walshie blames Andrew for the fire. I wouldn’t be
surprised if it is CID who are calling for the conference. I look back in incredulity at
police attitude regarding the attacks by gangs and their failure to protect us and
[worse] their accusations that we are to blame. I’m beginning to wonder if police are
bribing those little horrors into provoking us. It is staggering that I’m threatened with
child abuse charges. And now this latest threat: ‘at risk’ register – kids in care –
end in tears. My mind was racing. Ugly underworld want me and Andrew dead or
destroyed. Andrew sees gangs attacking us and nobody in authority doing a
damned thing about it; he sees me challenge the thugs only to be reprimanded by
the authorities; he sees the police allowing other kids to commit criminal activity yet
when he fights back in the name of justice, he is reprehended and told that he’ll be
taken away from his mother and his home.
I try to guide the kids by telling them not to be violent like all the thugs, but then I also
believe strongly in justice and Andrew knows that you have to give idiots ‘what for’
back. That’s fair and will stop evil controlling. But bureaucrats tell us not to engage
in “eye for eye” tactics. No wonder so many adults and kids are traumatised,
confused and mentally ill. Emma receives official mixed messages – on the one
hand she is forced by social workers to attend ‘anger control’ counselling and on the
other she is effectively encouraged by police to continue misbehaving, since they
refuse to correct her and her friends. We low-life are abused by authorities and told
to lump it. Many parents and children give up the fight for justice and turn to the
bottle and other props. Can we sue the government for mental torment? They win
elections with ‘family values’ and ‘tackling crime’ campaigns but the truth is, they and
top civil servants are the CRIMINALS and they encourage crime. Kids turn to crime
to survive because if they stay pure they are bullied mercilessly. Even decent
parents are giving up and letting their children befriend the baddies because there
aren’t many good uns left – they’ve all been changed. And so the rotten domino
effect continues. If the government stop the hypocrisy and fudge ups it’d be a start
and there’d be hope for us all. I wish I’d got that loudmouthed bully – PC 939 on
tape. I could’ve reported him to the Police Complaints Authority. No point now
because he’ll only lie his head off and deny it.
JUNE 13TH 1999
Over breccy, pud watched me with half open eyes; so I mimicked him. Then he
abruptly shut them; so I copied. He then puckered up his face; so I mirrored him.
This entertainment went on for ages with no signs of him getting bored. It’s amazing
the concentration and stamina that tots possess during one to one games with a
loved one. Mel also got in on the act with her impressions.
I was just about to get my feet up on the sun lounger when I was bombarded by
stones from all directions. Some even came hurling over my roof and some came at
me from over the home’s roof. I saw one lad [who wouldn’t have been much older
than five] agilely climb down from a nearby roof, clutching a catapult; then he
disappeared into some overgrowth. It was a good job Jordan wasn’t playing outside.
Andrew and I got showered by missiles as we attempted to identify the culprits. We
were forced to retreat inside – me nursing a red nose and forehead and Andrew
suffering a cut head and bruising. As usual the police were useless but at least
today’s bobbies didn’t have an attitude and said that this is a widespread problem in
Colwyn Bay which cannot be dealt with. Now I am unable to enjoy the sunshine on
my own doorstep and I have to keep the kids locked up inside like jailbirds. This is
an atrocious state of affairs and we’re not the only casualties. It’s getting to the
stage where I have to watch my back now even during a short walk to the shops and
that I’ll have to keep the babies’ pram rain cover on when we go out.
Around 10.00 pm we got a faint whiff of the stale smoke again in the hall – it was as
if the unknown ugly creature was laughing at us and warning us that he intends to
create more trouble and cause us grief. Then again the ‘smell’ could’ve been quite
‘normal’ and harmless and it might’ve seeped in from outside when the door was
opened.
JUNE 14TH 1999
Dad and I sorrowfully reminisced that it was two years ago today when mum died.
Life is such a struggle that I’m ashamed to say that I sometimes half envy her [I
didn’t tell dad that tho.] It is only the kids that give life meaning, and me the strength
and will to battle on. We got on the subject of slime ball and his shotgun threats and
I assured dad that I’m number one on his hit list but that he’d have to kill a heck of a
lot of people if he wants to stop resistance.
This afternoon we all trooped off to the zoo. It made a welcome change and gave us
some respite from all the onslaughts and hostilities. Three different schools were up
there on trips and the kids couldn’t resist commenting that they’re glad that they’re
not part of a school party. Shell said it’s so much nicer to come and go as you
please and sit and eat when you want [in peace] and not be herded from place to
place like sheep within the restrictions of a rigid time-table. I piped up that it is safer,
more beneficial and more enjoyable this way for all of us and that some kids go
missing on school outings and some kids even get horrifically raped or murdered
when they go away.
JUNE 15TH 1999
The kids and I walked into the bowels of the conference room and were greeted by a
table full of devils. I’d gone there thinking that they’d be reasonable and I hoped that
I could trust them to make sensible decisions but it soon became apparent that no
matter what common sense and truth I spoke, the bigoted bureaucrats were
determined to wield a heavy stick and crush me. The annihilation was led by
Walshie. The other puppets paled into insignificance and lamely voted in agreement
with CID that all four of my children must be placed on the child protection ‘At Risk’
register – “for their own good” – because they are categorized under the “likelihood
of Physical Harm.” All of them supported this gross violation except for enlightened
Eva and Pat who were astonished at such abruptness since a fire representative
hadn’t bothered to grace us with his presence or a report filed in his absence and
that an unidentified out of hours social worker [supposedly present on the night of
the fire] hadn’t fronted up either or made available a statement. In their wisdom, the
Gods even felt it necessary that my children should not return home with me this
evening and should be placed immediately in the ‘care’ of social services – until the
Chair decided to check out the legalities with their solicitor and discovered that that
was too drastic a step and that an urgent ‘Core Group’ be set up immediately to keep
a beady eye on me.
‘Spiteful’ is an understatement! Who the hell do this lot think they are? If this is the
mentality of persons making important decisions, no wonder the country is in the
gutters. Walshie kicked off with his ‘concerns’ that although Andrew is a “very bright
child,” he “sees demons,” urgently needs to see a psychiatrist and had started the
fire maliciously. He was worried that Andrew writes about corruption and evil and
that he used words such as “bastard.” He added that more importantly was the fact
that I’d merely corrected his spelling of the word “bastard” rather than the use of it
and he inferred that I was a negative influence over my children. The toffee-nosed
group had hollow expressions of horror painted on their faces, so I informed them
that Andrew is merely being honest about what he sees in the world and that I
challenge any of them to show me a child who doesn’t use the word “bastard” [well,
one who lives around here anyway i.e. in the real world.] I explained that I think it’s
important that my children are aware of the not so congenial realities of life so that
they are more prepared for life’s challenges and are able to stand their ground. I
glared at Walshie and said, “It is improper of you to incriminate a harmless innocent
child on the strength of your biased opinion, since you have no proof that any of us
started that fire. I’d rather you accuse me than to put such a burden on Andrew’s
shoulders. If you had experienced the paranormal phenomena that we have been
subject to and in fear of, you would want support and a little respect. You would not
want high-handed narrow-minded officialdom, and you would be furious if you were
accused of arson and of lying and of the inference that your psyche is abnormal. We
do not need and do not deserve any more hardship. We’ve been frank about it all;
we expect you to be more open-minded.”
Dr Groves put her tuppence ha’penny worth in and brought up Dr Macareth’s ‘burn’
blunder. Dr Groves babbled on about a mark on Melissa’s shoulder which was an
“issue of some concern” to Dr Macareth and that since Dr Macareth was unhappy
with my explanation of it being eczema it was suggested that Mel be taken to
hospital for treatment. I clarified the issue, saying that I was forced to take Melissa
to hospital. I also made it clear that the hospital paediatricians and three general
practitioners were in no doubt that it was eczema and that she was treated for such.
I made the point that the above stated medics felt that there had been an overreaction and that it hadn’t been necessary to call in social workers or send her to
hospital.
I don’t know what came over me but I was so enraged at this stage at this high and
mighty lot and their put downs and I was so convinced that they had it in for me, no
matter what, that I heard myself saying, “Dr Macareth is incompetent and overbearing; she should’ve thought twice about rushing us off to hospital and she
should’ve got a second opinion before squealing to social services and causing us
unnecessary hassle and stress. You people don’t realise or don’t care how
damaging all this is. I’m fighting a very crafty ex-partner in court for residence of my
two babies. He is a genuine RISK to them because of his alcohol dependency and
violent tempers. My ex has battered his ex-wife, his son and my son and is known to
police and social services as a violent and abusive man. Referrals came from
professional sources as well as from worried locals, yet amazingly he was awarded
custody of his children and his ex-wife was denied all contact.
There is something very shady and secret going on here. HE is protected by the
authorities, whilst I am being victimised. There seems to be a conspiracy to displace
my children, and my vindictive and malicious ex partner is getting all the help he
needs from men in high places who are themselves protected by a wall of silence.
This happened to Gareth’s ex wife too.”
The others put in their two bob’s worth and astonishingly even all the past malicious
allegations from Mr ‘Anonymous’ himself were brought up - to be used against me. I
was livid and told them that it was about time they concentrated their ‘grave
concerns’ where is it required and that they started pursuing real problem families
and evildoers, and leaving the innocent easy prey alone. I asked when they
intended to start supporting the victims and when they intended to start wielding their
heavy stick against the bullet shooters. They repeatedly bleated on about being
interested in the “safety and protection” of my children. I boomed, “Look, you lot may
be hypocrites and liars, but I’m not. Let’s get this straight. The only person
protecting and caring for my kids is ME. You people want to put my kids in your socalled ‘care’ where abuse is ripe and where your type look the other way and are
never brought to book Many children are bullied relentlessly at school and at home,
yet the likes of you don’t give a fig. Some kids are driven to such despair that they
commit suicide. That’s manslaughter and your sort should be held accountable.
You lot don’t care. You are self-righteous and self-serving. This is not democracy.
I’ll tell you something else too. I’ll tell you what malicious is – a doctor who calls in
social services because she is incapable of recognising eczema and you people
registering my children without due cause and causing me to lose my childminding
job and of caring for disadvantaged children and maybe even of causing me to lose
custody of my babies to a very dangerous man. This is NOT about the safety and
well being of my children; it is all about pig-headed control. This conference is a
kangaroo court-like event. It is nothing more than pure and simple SPITE. Explain
that to the people who pay your wages.”
It was quite out of character for me to erupt and boil over in this way, but something
seemed to be speaking through me and I was incensed at such arrogance and with
the threat of losing my children. These dummies came out with such trivia that I
found myself raising my eyes to the heavens; then holding my head in my hands.
Some smart Alec [I think it was the Chair - Seale] suggested as a precautionary
measure that I keep all lighters, matches etc on “Mrs Kilby’s person.” Yeah right, I’d
probably be charged with carrying an offensive weapon! I asked the morons if they’d
never noticed all the lighters that lie abandoned in gutters and that any kid could
easily start a fire if he so wished, even without the use of such tools. Their worships
conclude that my kids should be registered ‘at risk’ but they admitted not knowing
from what exactly. I assured them that they were not at risk from me and that a fire
can happen to anyone. Now they insist on a very urgent core group to look at ways
of offering us “protection and support.” I remarked that social services and a bunch
of ‘child welfare experts’ are not the people who can help us. The Chair, rather
patronizingly, tried to convince me that this wouldn’t jeopardise my work with other
children; but even I know that those are weasel words. I asked him to sign a
statement to that effect. He wouldn’t.
As we were preparing to leave, everyone commented on how patient and well
behaved all my kids are and that they’d never seen anything like it. So Andrew
enquired, “Then why are we all being registered?” Dr Groves even had the neck to
try and befriend Melly by smiling at her and offering her a doll to play with – yet
minutes earlier, she was doing her utmost to cause me problems, get my kids taken
off me and into the hands of someone who would not care one jot about them and
may even hurt them. Even Mel [only twelve months old] instinctively saw right
through her façade, frowned, pushed the doll back at her and looked away. Melly
had probably picked up on my distress and had realised that these strangers were
the cause. Also, babies and children know what is inside a person’s heart.
After that taxing hour and a bit I was so shocked and in a state of disbelief and
confusion that I had to ask Eva if the kids were actually registered now. She must’ve
felt the same way because she had to double check with the Chair. She tried to
loosen me up a bit and explained that they’re just erring on caution because, due to
past mistakes, they daren’t take chances. I protested that it’s alright them watching
their backs, I too have a duty and the desire to protect my kids from that interfering
closed-minded smug bunch. I told her that those piranhas will send Andrew mad
and in need of a psychiatrist with all their talk of core groups, social workers,
psychiatrists, conferences…. I said it is a scandal and a violation of rights and that if
they are so sure that Andrew is guilty, why aren’t police prosecuting? I told her that I
believe CID fixed all this and that the police were going to get my kids registered
come what may. I said that Walshie was too quick with his hand up when everyone
was asked for a decision and that he was the most insistent that all four of my kids
be declared ‘at risk’. I remarked that I’d seen all this coming; that the police had told
me that they’ve got it in for me…. At least Eva spoke some truth when she remarked
that psychiatrists are “more loopy than anyone!” She also felt that being
unconventional had put the ‘experts’ on their guard.
As soon as we got out of that place of hell, the kids told me that if anyone tried to
take them away, they’d hold on to me and wouldn’t let go and they’d scream and cry,
kick and spit on any social worker who came near them. I told them that NO ONE is
going to break us up and woe betide anyone who tries.
All I could think of on the way home was that those barstewards had effectively
signed my babies over to the control of their alcoholic and abusive father. The
writing was on the wall. I’d seen it all coming three or four months ago. My ill willed
ex has got exactly what he wanted and has achieved it with the full support and
compliance of civil service bigwigs. I’ll be crucified in court now over this.
I immediately phoned my solicitor, but John Owens told me that they’re not doing
anything illegal and that we have nothing to challenge them on. He agreed that it
was all a bit heavy handed but that they can’t afford to take chances because of past
failures. He said that assuming they find no snags during the so-called
Comprehensive Risk Assessment and they find nothing wrong with our brains, then
“more power to your elbow.” I wasn’t convinced and I sobbed my heart out all night.
My nightmares are coming true. There’s a strong chance that I could lose all of my
babies - yet all I did was tell the truth. How in God’s name can this be happening?
What the hell did we do to deserve all this?
JUNE 16TH 1999
Still reeling from the ludicrous ‘at risk’ label I contacted the fire department to discuss
their findings. I was hoping that they’d tell conference that there is no evidence of the
fire being set deliberately. But they say that the fire is suspicious, although they’re
not pointing fingers. I asked if someone would take another look at my kitchen to
reconsider their view that the fire started in the curtains and somehow skimmed only
part of the soap powder box to partly destroy the kettle. I pointed out that it is
strange that the cupboard above the box was totally unaffected despite the fact that
fire burns upwards and ours was burning for over twenty minutes. I informed them
that the kettle was initially blamed but because I’d said that I was so sure that it was
off, they looked elsewhere for a source. I also said that I’ve since contacted an
electrician who states that a fire can start in a kettle or other electrical appliance if
there is a fault in it or in the socket wiring, even if it is turned off. I described the
bizarre ‘V’ shape on the front of the box where the kettle had touched it but that the
back of the box had not burned. I also said that the firemen had thought that the
washing machine could have been the cause. But their attitude is that they’ve done
a report and that’s final.
I then remarked that you cannot accuse someone of arson simply by subjective
opinion without any concrete proof - that it wouldn’t stand up in a court of law. The
fire official slapped me down with, “You’d better have a good lawyer.” The bully then
bluntly informed that no matter how many calls I make to them, their findings and
report would not change.
I also phoned the Chair, Graham Seale, to invite him to see for himself the uncanny
circumstances surrounding the fire but was gob smacked when he told me that even
if he did secretly agree with me, he has to remain neutral in conference. I asked him
to forget council rules for a moment and to take off his ‘Child Protection Coordinator’s’ hat and consider the unthinkable – that a fire could start spontaneously
by unnatural means and that if this was confirmed by the aftermath photos or by
someone else’s observations then the implications would be far-reaching and too
powerful for any human to comprehend and control. But he wasn’t interested. He
was happy with the opinion of the ‘experts’ and that was that. Well, they’ll have a
bloody shock when unrest and fighting breaks out around them and they find their
offices wrecked and their houses and cars burning; and crazy weather patterns
creating death and destruction and when the world suddenly comes to an abrupt end
because of doomsday in the not-too-distant future.
This evening my much-welcomed visit by a holy man took place. It was so
reassuring to learn that we’re not alone and that the Reverend Robert Rowland has
two large books full of people’s varying spiritual experiences, which are comparable
to ours. He even told me about some of his own experiences such as bad smells….
and perfume smells after his mum died and also the presence of his fellow priest
after his death. Much to my amazement he even informed me that he has heard
about spontaneous combustion and he said that he will dig out some literature for
me. He agreed that conference members were being rather judgemental and
presumptuous and that they shouldn’t underestimate the power of God and the
church. He did an exorcism on the whole house and even he felt a distinct change
for the better afterwards. He told me that he’d felt a “bad force” when he’d entered
the house earlier. As we stood at the door I said, “Nobody has the authority to
question the existence or strength of spirit forces and the government and civil
servants had better grasp that fact pronto. They like to think they’re Gods but they
are the Earth’s Hell’s Angels. Our supreme deity is a formidable force which won’t
be silenced and which will win.”
JUNE 17TH 1999
At church I chatted a short while with Lorraine about our transcendental encounters
and street thugs and she prayed for us, asking for Jesus’ protection. We discussed
the deterioration of our town and the increase of hatred amongst people. She
believes that if we have God one hundred percent in our hearts then we have all the
protection we need and that God does not ask for more. She discouraged me from
carrying a stick when I run, saying that it breeds violence and is not the way. But
when I asked if it was ok to do nothing while an old lady nearby is suffering an attack
by a handbag mugger, she said that you have to leave it to the police. I told her that
the police leave it to us and that anyway they respond too slowly [if at all], are
powerless to act effectively and many are corrupt. Criminals are caught in the act by
Joe Public and are witnessed by Joe Public and it is Joe Public who dishes out the
punishment. You might as well make the entire police force redundant – they are a
complete drain on the economy. I told her that it was our duty to challenge
wickedness because all it takes for evil to flourish is for good people to do nothing. I
so admire people who battle for years [a lifetime, even] to get justice. It takes guts
and stamina. Not only are they fighting on behalf of their loved ones but they are
doing society a favour too.
Schizophrenic-head was in sickly-sweet mood today. I played along with the
charade; it won’t last long and I prefer this than the constant sharpening of knives.
The only way I could keep him like this would be to let him think we might get back
together. But I’m too honest for that and no good at games [maybe that’s where I go
wrong] and I know that underneath it all he’s going for the jugular. I’ll try to be nice to
him for as long as possible but I’ll never trust him – not on any level. Come to think
of it, there are very few people who I do trust.
That damned schizo dog came down our road again, creating chaos. Cops picked it
up but no doubt its irresponsible owners will demand its release and, of course, their
wishes will be met and to hell with whoever gets bitten next.
Andrew gave the downstairs loo a lick of paint. It looks much brighter now.
JUNE 18TH 1999
As I stood at the sink washing up, stones came flying in. One narrowly missed Melly
in her highchair and caught pud on his head and another clipped Andrew. I
struggled to slam the window shut and more stones appeared from all directions, like
hailstones. It was terrifying. We’re not even safe indoors now! “Ooooh, what I
would love to do to those nasty little louts if I could get hold of them – and get away
with it,” I seethed. A WPC turned up. Fair play, she had some spunk and insisted
that this can’t go on and that there will have to be more patrolling of this area to root
out gang members from their hiding holes. Tough words, but will she deliver?
Patrick O’Flynn brought a smile to my face when I read his column in the express
titled “Delivering support for hard-bitten posties.” Postie Billy Ace was nipped by
terrier Ria while on duty, so in retaliation he booted it one but it landed on its head
and died. Now the nation is up in arms in defence of the poor dog and heartbroken
six-year old owner. BUT O’Flynn writes, “Oh happy day when a private member’s
bill goes through parliament to hold dog owners directly responsible for the injuries
caused by their pets. It would ensure that if your dog defecates in the street, the law
charges you with gross indecency and if your dog mauls a postman, you get charged
with GBH.” He says that with such laws our posties wouldn’t need to “Give our
canine compatriots a boot up the Ria.” Here here. Enforcing it, however, would be
another matter.
At midnight, a rock came hurtling at the playroom window and smashed the outer
pane to smithereens. Andrew had been getting a drink and had seen a lad leg it. It
was a huge noise and the kids and I stood shaking in fear, wondering what was
going to happen next and if anyone was going to break in. Then I got a grip and
grabbed a bar ‘just in case’. Police showed up and I was promised surveillance on
this road. That’s just an impressive but vague word for “We’ll let you think we’re
going to do something to tackle crime, but the truth is we’ve got no intentions of
doing anything of the sort.” At 3.30 am I was still up, supping my tenth cuppa,
nibbling at a cheese cracker and trying to work out how to solve this problem. I
wondered if I should just board up the window and have done with it. Whatever
nasty little sod did it must know that we all sleep in the playroom. Maybe psychofeatures is bribing kids to torture us.
I checked the sleeping babies. Mel was a picture, in deep slumber, with her legs and
one arm in the air! It’s amazing the positions that babies can actually manage to
sleep quite soundly in.
JUNE 20TH 1999
Andrew is eleven today. He got a sports gun that shoots pellet and darts, so we
spent about an hour trying to beat each other in target practice – it was pretty level
pegging. He’s under strict orders not to use it on any kids [although the idea is very
tempting] but I’ve told him that if anyone breaks in the house he has my full
permission to shoot.
This evening I watched a film based on America’s crime of the century where a baby
was brutally murdered and an innocent man [Bruno Hauptmann] suffered a gross
miscarriage of American justice. He died in the electric chair. Police were under
pressure to convict someone – anyone. The whole trial was a joke where police, the
baby’s father Colonel Limberg and others lied and bribed witnesses. After the
shameful execution, the governor was not re-elected and another plotter ended up in
a mental home. Good. All those other guilty people will suffer hell too. Bad buggers
will pay eventually. Hauptmann showed amazing strength by refusing to confess to
a crime he didn’t commit. His wife also showed great stamina and determination to
clear his name. They said, “The book – it will never close.” You can believe it.
Andrew and I have developed a little game lately. I’ll sling a cushion at him when he
least expects it but he’ll hurl it back with precision accuracy. Fluffy toys end up flying
between us, and this continues until I yell, “Come on, stop now – someone’s gonna
get hurt – me.”
JUNE 21ST 1999
We all had a day out at Jeromino’s in Rhyl. Jordy and Melly busied themselves
amongst plastic balls and various inflatables, while Andy and Shelly disappeared for
over an hour amongst a labyrinth of near vertical slides, climbing frames, tunnels….
Later we munched on lunch at a nearby chippy. Jordan cheekily pulled the bottle of
orange out of my bag and shoved his beaker under my nose to fill it up.
I read about the amazing survival of Martin McGartland who was shot six times by
the IRA for being an informer. Paramilitary thugs of all sides simply laugh in the face
of authority. The issue is not who governs or whether there is a united Ireland but
[as in all countries], of equality and fairness for all citizens, with government and
police, judges etc being without reproach – trustworthy and scrupulous so that
criminals get caught and punished. The public don’t buy the guise ‘political
motivation’. Laws are there for everyone to obey, especially so-called VIPs and
anyone else who thinks he/she is too important/wealthy/powerful to be immune.
Anarchy breaks out because rules are not enforced fairly for all. Those responsible
for enforcing the law but who fail should be charged with gross professional
misconduct.
I reckon brave people like McGartland survive in order to do God’s work. I think
things happen in our lives for a reason. God guides us and prepares us for the
ultimate truth – the realisation of him and righteousness. There are times in my life
when I feel so defeated and as if I just can’t go on, but then I feel a jolt as if God is
saying, “Have faith.” And when I look back I realise I’ve never been asked to cope
with anything beyond my endurance – it’s as if God knows my limits and doesn’t ask
for the impossible. Life is like a big jigsaw puzzle, gradually being pieced together.
My resolve to do God’s work strengthens daily and the more knocks I suffer, the
more determined I am to fight evil. Many people do good work but refuse to
acknowledge the presence of God. I believe that that’s ok and that God works
through them without their knowledge. They will know God when the time is right for
them. Sometimes when I’m feeling a little sorry for myself, I think of people who
suffer real hardships – those who lose their home, who lose their family, who suffer
disease and illness and dire poverty and who constantly live under the threat of
attack…. Then I feel ashamed and I pull myself together.
I think Nick Leeson, who was imprisoned for his part in the Barings’ fraud, is also one
of God’s survivors and is guided now to do God’s work. Many fail the test, such as
Leeson’s bosses who cowardly escaped punishment but who will suffer in the
afterlife. So many choose life’s easier path – Satan’s way.
Day one of Wimbledon. Brilliant. Two whole weeks of glorious tennis. I don’t care
who wins as long as the matches are close and the big names are on court. It makes
me laugh though when an enthusiastic commentator makes comments such as, “He
knows his way around a grass court.” Sure hope he does as that level!
JUNE 22ND 1999
Jordan followed me around like a little lamb. I ran around with the hoover; he found
his toy hoover and copied me. I then pegged up some washing, while he stood by
my basket handing me the clothes. Later I scrubbed the table and chairs down with
Jif while Jordan made his contribution to the cleaning with his cloth. Meanwhile Mel
occupied herself nearby as she sat surrounded by pans. Her movements are so
precise, deliberate and unhurried. She sits with straight back, straight legs and with
arms moving as if she’s performing an Egyptian dance. I ask her questions in
tuneful rhythm and she goes, “Umm.”
The kids get glued to The Bill. I reckon the gruesome bits should be shown explicitly
so that everyone knows the realities and horrors of crime. News coverage should
also reveal the full extent of blood and gore so that people might just wake up and do
something about the world’s atrocities. Those who complain are probably those who
inflict pain.
JUNE 23RD 1999
First Core Group meeting [oh groan.] I have new social workers now – Maureen and
Debbie. The spiteful buggers wouldn’t even let me hang on to Eva. Anne represents
Health and Noella is the chief social worker on behalf of Education. Maureen filled in
her questionnaire and asked how I can help speed up the ‘assessments’ with an aim
to removing my kids from the Register. I asked what she wanted to hear, and was
told that I should co-operate. So I told her to “write that down then.” I was under the
impression that this impressive little group were going to offer practical suggestions
and guidance on how to become a better parent and how to reduce the risk that they
say I am to my children. But something tells me that these people are just going to
bug me with never-ending visits and useless gossip. Noella’s input was that Dafydd
Thomas was more than happy with Andrew’s and Shell’s education [thank God], so
that makes her effectively redundant. If the education experts don’t have a problem
with Andy’s stories and didn’t think my kids odd and in need of a psychiatrist, that’s
one in the eye for Walshie and his conference cronies. The health visitor said she’ll
be doing her usual ‘development’ tests. I don’t like this uninvited interference in
children’s abilities, especially in babies and toddlers. I think it is unnecessary, an
intrusion and a waste of time. Anne tried to convince me that they have ‘specialists’
who know what to look for in kids who are ‘slow’ or have ‘behavioural’ problems.
Nonsense. I reckon the ‘experts’ should be assessed. Kids have ‘behavioural’
problems because of ‘experts’ – teachers, psychologists, social workers and the like.
A GP is qualified enough for me as regards my children’s well being – mentally or
physically. Kids are not performing seals. Why do the ‘experts’ expect them to be?
They ‘play up’ or don’t ‘perform’ quite understandably due to boredom or dislike of
the adult ‘monitoring’ them; often because the professional dictates to them or talks
down to them or at them and does not afford them due respect or does not listen to
them.
What a wonderful letter the Rev Emyr Owen wrote in the local rag entitled ‘Fight the
Right Fight’. He writes that Gareth Jones, the new Conwy Welsh Assembly member
expressed his views that the British National Party caused distress to the families of
the six murdered children by printing their photos in their pamphlet regarding their
policy on law and order, without the parents’ permission. The good Rev makes the
point that the offending factor is not the BNP but the perverted monsters who were
and still are responsible for slaughtering the innocent, raping the harmless and
torturing the meek. The Rev made the most important point that with our total
breakdown of law and order, permission to print disturbing pictures is insignificant in
light of a political victory when we achieve the dream of millions by removing from
office spineless politicians who fight for the right of degenerates and not the victims.
Jordan was quite resourceful today. I’d left soap and shampoo on the stairs for
whoever goes up next to put away. It was me and Jordan. I opened the gate and he
just matter-of-factly and without any prompting picked up the items and delivered
them straight into the bathroom.
As I was doing my nightly round of checks before bed, I nearly died. I was pottering
about barefoot in the darkened hallway when I trod on something big and slimy,
which squelched under my foot. I hopped over to the light switch and discovered a
mangled…. Slug.
JUNED 24TH 1999
At church Mr Sickly-sweet had the audacity to ask me and the kids for a day out with
him somewhere, so I sweetly told him where he could shove his invitation. He then
began to blab on about wanting Jordan and Mel to go to school when they’re older,
so I enthusiastically informed him of the favourable comments thus far re Andrew’s
and Shell’s Home Education, but [and predictably] he wasn’t interested.
At the end of the contact session, as I collected the kiddies, Gareth bent down to kiss
Jordan but he raced towards me with his arms stretched up and going,
“Muuuuuuuummmmmmm.” I hugged him, he relaxed, nestled his head into my
chest and tapped his hands against the back of my neck.
We now have to endure the spectacle of Cook, Shea, Blair, Clinton…. gracing the
world stage, smugly declaring victory. Rubbish. Kosovo is alight with terror – for
Serbs and Albanians. Our so-called ‘heroes’ can use all the propaganda they please
– but the people aren’t fooled and it’s about time politicians took note. A brave
soldier is more of a man than any government pretender. But the sooner these
brave men quit the army, the better. In some countries there is conscript, but some
men choose jail rather than military service, on ‘moral’ grounds. Quite right too.
Mel is so supple she never ceases to amaze me. With straight legs she lies on her
back sucking her toes.
Jord would not settle at bedtime. So I sat on his bed, cuddled him close, rocked and
sang him a lullaby. He fought with all his might to stay awake but his eyelids got too
heavy for him.
Why is it that when I walk into the bathroom at night time and the light is already on,
and I can see that it is ON, I turn it OFF? It only happens in that room!
My heart goes out to foster parents Jeff and Jenny Bramley and their two little girls
Jade and Hannah. They’ve had such a battle with social services and it was an
absolute disgrace that they were forced to flee when all they wanted to do was care
for and love their children. Social services could only air ‘vague concerns’ about the
Bramley’s parenting skills and they decided that “it was not going to be in the
children’s interests” if they all stayed together. Shame on you social services. Liz
Railton, the director, should resign her position. The authorities should be held
accountable for the appalling suffering they caused these model parents. Social
services elsewhere, pay attention too. There are children living in dreadful
circumstances, exposed to all sorts of evils. Many New Age travellers’ and
Glastenbury revellers’ kids could hardly be described as living in acceptable
circumstances where the “needs and protection” of the children are of priority
consideration. The truth is social workers daren’t take on such groups – there’s too
many of them, and they won’t interfere with individual ‘problem’ families either
because of the fear of retribution.
JUNE 25TH 1999
I greeted Mel this morning and found her sitting in her cot just studying her hands. It
was as if she was trying to work out what their purpose was.
One cheeky mother at the top of our road told Andrew to stay in his “half” of the road
but he turned around and said that he has every right to use all of this road and that
she should concentrate on her own kids; keeping them under control and off our
drive.
At teatime, the hooligans [about thirty of them] came circling my house, lobbing
stones at all of my windows. Soured milk was splattered on my front door and yard.
So much for ‘surveillance and patrols!’ Cops turned up after one and a half hours to
tell me that there’s nothing they can do and that they’re so short-staffed with only two
of them to cover Colwyn Bay, Llandudno, Mochdre, Old Colwyn, Llysfaen…. They
were pleased to tell me that this isn’t a problem area and that in the bad places, folk
board up windows. When I asked why they don’t get with their peers and put
pressure on the chiefs for tougher measures to tackle crime, they laughed and said,
“No one listens to us.”
At around 9.00 pm I walked outside and was hit in the face by stones. It’s as if some
little blighters were lying in wait – hiding in trees, hedges etc.
JUNE 26TH 1999
Andrew came up to me with the cooker lighter and said, “This is supposed to be
hidden.” So I replied, “Hide it then.”
Mel fixes her big eyes on me constantly. As I potter about the kitchen I can ‘feel’ her
studying me. I turn to look at her periodically and she sits there beaming and
clapping. She’s so adorable.
JUNE 28TH 1999
Flamin’ benefits agency are now demanding to see my utilities bills as part of their
investigations. I hope they’re doing as thorough a check up on the Prince of Deceit.
The way my luck’s going they’re determined to have me hung, drawn and quartered.
Better check this one out with John.
I love the special grins and knowing looks that Jordy and Melly and I share when we
are in shops etc. Mel catches my eye and laughs. Jordan looks at me with a glint in
his eye.
I saw a video nation about a four-year old boy who had moved to Ireland from
England. At school he was the only catholic. He knew nothing of sectarianism,
prejudice, religion and politics, yet he was targeted and bullied relentlessly, even by
teachers. His message is, “I’m not catholic, not Irish, not British, not White, not
English…. I’m HUMAN.”
JUNE 29TH 1999
I had to front up at death’s door again because the council are so worried about the
“considerable risk” that my children are exposed to. They had immediately
summoned all the experts together for an urgent conference to work out what should
be done. This time there were more devils sat around the table, including the
honourable fire expert. Their horns were sharp enough to draw blood and deadly
enough to deflate the toughest of challenges to their dictatorial regime. The council
had decided that they needed their solicitor at their side too. Strange that no one
had told me that I was allowed one. But there was one person missing – their
elusive ‘out of hours’ social worker. It turns out that she hadn’t paid us a very
important visit on the night in question after all. She must be so much in demand
that she was needed elsewhere.
As conference progressed their horns grew longer and sharper. The authority on fire
was the first to cut a gaping wound. In his eminent opinion the fire was caused
deliberately by me, Andrew or Shelly which left us all in an “extremely dangerous
situation.” ‘Well, you’d be in danger if a fire started in your house, you fool,’ I thought
to myself but I restrained myself from blurting it out. He produced his photos, which
shows that everything had been moved and I recalled that my photos were quite
different. I asked if I could have copies of theirs and was told to contact CID. He
was adamant that the fire was started – maliciously - in the curtains, and of course
the ‘expert’s’ view carried a unanimous vote of support. Their snotty cow of a
solicitor then went for the jugular when she supremely declared that this case is very
close to care proceedings. She was perched so high on her pedestal that I’m sure
that if I’d poker-facedly glared at her just a little bit harder, she would’ve toppled off.
The patronizing predators asked me and Andrew about the “evils of the world” and
why we don’t believe that there is anything good. So I told them that evil rules, that it
is getting bigger and more powerful and that the good people are being oppressed.
They all expressed their ‘concerns’ that my kids are picking up negative feelings from
me and are suffering emotionally. I told them they’d misconstrued my argument and
I clarified that my children have good in their lives – me and their granddad, but that
they are aware of the truth of mankind’s worldwide legacy of greed, power and
hatred since they watch news bulletins and some documentaries. Andrew brought
up the gang violence and drug dealing on our street, which he explained is getting
worse. I used the example of Serb atrocities – gang rapes, violence and
indiscriminate killings and of Irish Paramilitary thugs and that it is the underworld who
rule. But the way everyone looked at me - stunned and disbelieving with their
mouths gaping - you’d swear their news stories consisted of oranges and lemons,
puppy dogs tails and pretty maids all in a row.
I said, “I find all this staggering. You people of such authority spend so much time
and energy, using other people’s money, crushing the likes of me – a harmless,
peace-loving, law-abiding individual. Why is this when there are real dangers out
there – people who belong to sophisticated private armies, who have stashes of
guns and ammunition and who pose a very real threat to each and every one of us
here.” I was firing on all cylinders now. “God bless the day when those of you who
sit in judgement declare war on powerful CRIMINALS – gangsters, mafia, drug
smugglers and dealers…. and on the corrupt men who protect these evil beings and
not on respectable modest non offenders. We had one small lousy unexplained fire,
for heavens sakes, and there are twelve of you highly qualified, high ranking, highly
paid professionals sat before me now debating my future and that of my four
defenceless children. You intend to do some fantastic ‘Comprehensive Risk
Assessment’ on us which you say will take some months, you need to bring
psychiatrists into the picture and there will be meeting after meeting after meeting….
For crying out loud, go and do some proper work. Where on Earth do you think it is
going to get us all at the end? What do you hope to prove?”
The wise ones again offered their useful suggestion that I keep combustibles on my
person, with the inference that it will alleviate the chance of Andrew being tempted to
start another fire. But it was rather amusing when, not long after, Andrew returned
from the loo saying that a lighter had been left on the sink and that he’d brought it
down in case a little kid finds it. The justices were worried that I fail to acknowledge
the possibility/probability that the fire was started by one of us. I couldn’t get the
facts through to the numskulls that the fire is unexplained and since we’ve
experienced other bizarre phenomena [which is not that unusual] there could be a
connection.
I was then asked about the weird circumstances surrounding the fire; so I mentioned
the untouched eggs, unaffected laundry and the surprising fact that the alarm didn’t
activate until we walked into the room, despite the fact that the alarm was in the
kitchen which was already full of thick black smoke.
They implied that I was making a fuss over nothing regarding my childminding job as
I’d deregistered in 1995. But I made them aware that I cared for ‘special needs’
children during my pregnancy with Jordan and that I had intended applying to foster
a child, which is out of the question now.
Conference then began to make plans of forthcoming procedures since I “agreed to
co-operate.” Why can’t they at least afford me a bit of honesty and say that they are
forcing me to go along with all this appalling nonsense because if I don’t they will
take my children away. Stupid me, I forgot, people who sit in judgement wouldn’t
know what honesty was if it came up and smacked them on their noses. They stated
that Andrew urgently needs to see a child psychologist. More like they need to! I
said that I wanted to be with him, even if I was just in the background. But they all
chorused “absolutely not” because “even if you don’t say anything you’ll still be an
influence.” ‘Bloody b…. ’ I thought to myself, ‘They’ll make him say something which
they’ll turn against us. I don’t trust this bunch of ill-willed malicious hypocrites.’
At the end, they all commented again on what lovely children I have and that they’re
all so well behaved, which posed the obvious question but neither the kids nor I
could be bothered asking it. Jordan’s and Mel’s behaviour revealed the truth about
these insincere evil people – they both looked away, protested and refused to play
with any of the devils. Their level of hostility was self-evident; yet if a kindly complete
stranger in the street socialises with them, they always smile and respond with glee.
As we were leaving I recalled that the Chair always starts the meeting stressing the
confidentiality aspect, which of course is to ensure that their grubby, bullyboy tactics
and seedy secrets remain hidden. They involve whomever they please in their dirty
dealings and they send reports to various other professional members of their
phoney gang, without asking my permission. So it suddenly occurred to me that
here is going to be one lowly individual who will blab about the corruption of them to
the world. HAH! As I walked away from them I again hissed, “There is a stench of
corruption here. I’ll get to the bottom of it, one day, no matter how long it takes
me…. And then I’ll be blabbing to the world.”
I told the kids that I was worried that I might’ve unintentionally gone over the top
again, but they assured me that I was meant to say such things and that if I’d timidly
backed down, God would’ve given me a kick up the backside. I then turned deadly
serious, stopped firmly in my tracks, grabbed hold of Andrew and Shell and held
them close as tears began to sting my eyes. I sniffed, “If ever the unthinkable
happens and those despicable insects do take you away from me, always
remember, it won’t be for long; stay strong, stand up to them, don’t let them break
you, look after Jordy and Melly and don’t forget that I’ll be fighting like crazy to get
you back.”
At home I frantically searched for the photos of the fire aftermath but they’ve
disappeared. All the others are there – even some from the same film. How odd.
Don’t tell me this is no coincidence and that the bad spirits are causing trouble again.
I desperately want to compare my snaps to the officials’. I phoned Walshie to ask for
copies but I was refused because Andrew is not being charged or reported. I offered
to pay but was again refused and told to pursue it through my solicitor. He said he
didn’t know what my problem was. So I explained, “Being registered is very
damaging. I risk losing all my children and I’ve effectively lost my job. This stigma
will hang around like a bad smell for years to come.” I added that if the photos
reveal anything ‘odd’, then I’m sure they will be of interest to everyone.
My mind was buzzing with the nauseating awareness that so many arrogant selfservers abuse their positions of power. I reckon people become powerful as a test to
see which superpower they serve. Are they God’s servants or Satan’s? It would
appear that the majority back the latter. There is no point in people pretending to be
Christians if they don’t behave impeccably. God knows the truth. I am more
determined than ever now to fight evil. It’ll be a lifetime’s job, but I’d rather work for
God any day than any human living on this planet. I’ve noticed that during moments
of weakness and indecision, something unquantifiable reassures me and tells me
what to say and what to do and how to do it. I believe that the truly saintly folk are
actually angels with human exteriors who have one mission only – to free the world
of evil, suffering and despair, and to make it righteous rule. I believe this can be
achieved if we all kick up one hell of a fuss with whoever has wronged us. We all
need to become zero tolerating. When I think of defeat and surrender, I feel a jolt
that reminds me that such a path is weak and cowardly - Satan’s way. We all need
to do our bit to help the good guys win. Think formidable and you are.
I now know that God works in mysterious ways to get his message out but many
ignore him. Some have the gift of song, drama, preaching, journalism…. and some
have spiritual guiding dreams. But however we choose to recognise and express
our love of God according to our personality, it is meaningless if our hearts don’t feel
it and we don’t behave in a principled manner and in a way that will free the world of
hatred and malevolence. If we don’t have faith and the fight in us for freedom, our
alternative is eternal misery and fear. Freedom is never handed out on a plate; you
have to battle for it. It’s alright witnessing gruesome scenes on TV, sympathising
with victims and thanking God that it isn’t us; well it very soon will be if we don’t fight
back. We shouldn’t have to keep our kids in behind locked doors simply because it
isn’t safe for them to be outside. We aren’t even safe in our homes, schools, shops,
anywhere.
JULY
JULY 1ST 1999
Mel makes me laugh. She drops her bottle then peers over her high chair as if to
say, “Where did that go?”
Slime ball couldn’t wait to hurl it in my face. He brought up the fact that all my kids
are registered ‘at risk’ on the council’s Child Protection Register. How the hell did he
find out? Oh, and he was only too pleased to inform me that the police have got it in
for me. Well, that wouldn’t surprise me. I’ve known it anyway, ever since the day
they lied about Andrew and Shell being caught on CCTV in grave danger from the
sea. I reckon police are feeding him information and vice versa.
JULY 2ND 1999
I’m so uptight at this latest gross injustice that I’m liable to fly off the handle at even
the slightest misdemeanour. I flipped this morning just because the kids’ rooms
were slightly untidy. Poor Andrew and Shell took my full, frustrated misdirected
wrath. I ranted, “Keep these rooms looking perfect – don’t give the slugs the
satisfaction of picking us up on anything. Those stupid social workers can come in
here at anytime and snoop around. They’ll jump on anything to incriminate us and
strengthen their case.”
This afternoon we all went to Llandudno to choose the kitchen floor covering. It was
a breath of fresh air to be treated with such politeness and respect. They made me
feel so important that I felt quite overwhelmed. We then enjoyed a McDonalds.
People were so kind on the buses. A few went out of their way to help us on and off
the bus with the pram and littleuns. There’s no snobbery there.
At home we did a little experiment with the toaster to see the effects of smoke when
the back door is opened. We burnt quite a bit of toast until the kitchen was quite
smoky. As expected, when we opened the back doors, the smoke billowed out.
After a while we smelled the damp laundry, which hung in the porch and found that
some items did smell smoky and did need re-washing. Yet there was a hundred
times more smoke on the night of the fire, which gushed through the wet laundry and
it did not affect any of it. Amazing! Fire alarms had not immediately activated on the
night of the fire either; yet today, they shrilled at the first whiff of smoke.
JULY 3RD 1999
Linda and I had our usual over the wall gas. She asked if I’d considered going into
politics. “No chance,” I said. “I think we can make more effective changes from the
outside.” We agreed that no one bothers to vote because all the parties are the
same – greedy, corrupt and self-serving. We began to take the mick out of upperclass highflying ministers who sit toffee-nosed in their glam London pads, lying
through their teeth and prattling on, thinking they’re so important - above everyone
else and unaccountable. We remarked that they always sit with a rather attractive
lamp at their side turned ON when it is broad daylight. None of them gives a dickie
bird about unnecessary fuel consumption, global warming and the destruction of our
planet. We decided that it’s all very well people like us being global friendly because
we can’t afford to burn gas, electricity, petrol…. But by the same token, the wealthy
aristocracy should be prosecuted if caught burning fuel unnecessarily, and selfishly
adding to the harmful greenhouse gasses that will create catastrophic worldwide
ruin. We agreed that they should be taxed heavily for use of their fleet of
superpower cars, for heating and lighting their luxury palaces…. We reckon that in
this life, nothing is about right or wrong or the law, it’s about how powerful your
friends are – or your enemies. We concluded with the realisation that politicians are
in office for a very good reason, which is nothing at all to do with running the country.
It’s for keeping comedians in business. We added that they should be referred to as
Devil’s servants not public servants and that they are too greedy to realise that
wealth doesn’t make you happy, it turns you into a smug worthless piece of sh….
Little do they realise that God knows what they get up to. God is watching them and
GOD will make them accountable.
Lin patiently listened to me moaning about how contact is doing the babies no good
at all. She listened to me whinging about Jordan’s toilet training being hindered
because every time I collect him after contact, his pull-ups are saturated – so either
he’s too tense to use the church loo or his father can’t be bothered to take him.
Either way it’s affecting Jordan because his toileting has now regressed and my job
has been made all the more difficult. I also told her about them both being whingy
and clingy when they come home from church and that they need lots of reassuring
hugs and cuddles. I guess a lot of it could be due to shyness and the newness of it
all though.
I read about the decision to drop manslaughter charges against train driver Larry
Harrison and his bosses Great Western trains when seven passengers were killed in
the Southall rail disaster. This is another disgusting case of profits over passenger
safety and of parliament failing to plug the loophole after a law commission report
called for corporate management to be held accountable for gross negligence after
the Herald of Free Enterprise ferry disaster. Well done Maureen Kavanagh [another
of God’s angels] who lost her son and is now fighting for justice and a change in the
law. It is people like her who challenge government for all our sakes, who we need
to make the right changes. Don’t give up Maureen. Wars are won in the mind and
your strong and determined attitude is a winner. God speaks through you. What I
find an absolute disgrace are these so-called investigations into such tragedies. The
guilty parties know immediately who or what is at fault, they just need this time to
engage in damage limitation. They concoct a semi-feasible story or they create the
circumstances that will be acceptable for the all too common ‘not enough evidence’
claim or the ‘with the benefit of hindsight’ speeches, to enable guilty men to climb off
the hook and walk free so that they can keep on putting other people’s lives and
livelihoods at risk. Lying, cowardly, b….stds.
JULY 4TH 1999
We all traipsed up to Eirias Park’s dinosaur world. It made a pleasant change. Then
we sat by the boating lake, munching chips. Andrew and Shell ran off to collect
newts and God knows what. I was happy to just relax and reflect.
JULY 6TH 1999
I read the shocking tale in the Mail of how a dangerous and predatory convicted
paedophile was allowed to manage children’s homes for over twenty years and that
executives at Lambeth council knew of and covered up for his crimes. Michael
Carroll abused and raped boys yet, despite worried staff writing to Lambeth’s director
of social services David Pope, nothing was done. Incredibly two senior officers from
Lambeth social services asked for Carroll’s criminal documents to be falsified. It
took a lowly social worker’s objections to make Lambeth council take note but even
then the director of social services and four senior officers allowed him to continue
working with boys. Lambeth officers are accused of being grossly unprofessional.
Scotland Yard are now opening enquiries into allegations of ORGANISED ABUSE
stretching back over twenty years at South London ‘care’ homes. All the Lambeth
social services and health directorate’s Judith Brodie can now say is, “The council
regretted the abuse children suffered. We are now both sadder and wiser about
paedophile activities.” Lying cow. If she is only now aware of what a paedophile is
and does, WHAT THE HELL IS SHE AND ALL THE OTHER TOP COUNCIL
BACTERIAL PARASITES DOING IN JOBS CONCERNING THE HEALTH AND
WELFARE OF CHILDREN??? It beggars belief. Are the executive going to stand
trial?????
JULY 7TH 1999
The Core Group puppets turned up to waste my time. These useless sessions of
bureaucratic paper-shuffling chitchat remind me of why I pulled Andrew out of school
when he was four years old. I felt then that school is a form of violence, partly
because the kids had to do stupid boring tasks which TAUGHT THEM NOTHING but
which showed them up dreadfully if they failed a task or exercise through boredom.
There was a test called ‘eye/hand’ co-ordination which Andrew failed spectacularly,
just because he didn’t see the point of doing some little magical trick of threading
some special beads onto a piece of wire. This concern over Andrew’s ‘fine motor
skills and comprehension’ caused his teacher to become so alarmed that she
suggested he be referred to an ‘expert’ on child development for an assessment. In
my opinion these ‘experts’ should be shot. THEY are the health hazard. Kids fail
abysmally – in EVERY way, BECAUSE of school. If kids took to heart all these
‘assessment’ and ‘key stage’ failures, by the time they leave school, they’d be
running for the nearest psychiatrist’s couch or tallest skyscraper.
I used to notice that the newcomers at school arrived bubbly, spontaneous, natural
and full of life – you could see the gusto and enthusiasm in their first Christmas
panto performance. But as the months dragged on I was aware that all school kids’
spirits became subdued. Kids become bored, frustrated, angry…. and naughty. At
their second school xmas panto, the kids were disinterested and they displayed
blank faces - haunted even - as they parrot fashionably recited their lines/songs.
This dismal recollection sprang to mind as I watched these health and welfare
professionals sitting in my lounge filling in their silly forms and asking me stupid
questions about Andrew’s and Shell’s ‘health and educational progress’ so far. It’s
alright for them, they’re getting paid to come here and bend my ear. I should sue the
council for unnecessary stress and loss of earnings and employment. Isn’t it enough
for the clever experts to realise that Andrew and Shell are doing pretty well? The
education inspector is happy with their ‘education’ and the kids can hold their own
with anyone and more importantly they don’t suffer negative traits. But such
reasoning seems to be beyond these bureaucrats. If they can’t measure the ability
to do something, which is set by ‘experts’ and grade it, they are stuffed. Just cos a
child can shove a full-stop in a sort of reasonable place, put a couple of capitals in
and spell half a dozen words or so, he can ‘pass’ key stage two English and junior is
considered to be doing well et cetera. I don’t call that progress. Even now, Andrew
and Shell have some school ‘assessment’ methods ingrained and will ask what
grade I’d award them for a piece of work. I tell them that their ‘grade’ is good if their
mistakes are few. I think one of the worst things about school is that children are not
expected to learn from their mistakes. I know I went through school making more or
less the same mistakes and so did Andrew and Shell for the short spells that they did
attend school. Now I make sure they do not repeat mistakes, to save them the
bother of undoing all the wrong later. Even Dafydd Thomas from the LEA
commented that I correct everything. The kids remarked that most of the time their
work wasn’t even marked at school.
JULY 8TH 1999
My social worker Maureen turned up to bug me. At first she seemed quite
supportive and said that she was shocked that conference members had almost
taken my kids off me after the initial conference. I asked, “Since when are innocent
kids ‘registered’ just cos there is one unexplained fire and some unexplained
happenings? The spiritual side of it is none of the council’s business; or is this
council control at all costs?” Mo said that she was surprised that conference
members were so abrupt, especially since a fire report wasn’t filed at that point and
there was confusion over the ‘out of hours’ social worker. She agreed that it is unfair
and a nuisance for me and that if there was just the fire incident and none of the
previous referrals by anonymous persons and others, it would not have got to this
stage and there wouldn’t even have been a conference called. She also felt that
there were coincidences when I told her that Gareth had threatened all this. She told
me conference members were being harsh. Even she didn’t say anything when I
remarked that it doesn’t pay to tell the truth and that in this life it would appear that
you are respected and liked if you lie and get up to no good.
I asked what would happen if I simply refused to co-operate and allowed them to
take me to court on the reasoning that at least then it would be less one-sided. She
partly agreed with my line of thinking that I am at present on my tod and up against
the big bad mighty council, which is quite unfair. But she then pointed out that I
wouldn’t get much sympathy because my actions would be interpreted as a sign that
I have something to hide. So here I am lumbered with all this and there’s not a
damned thing I can do about it, except appeal of course, which will get me absolutely
NOWHERE and will just mean more of the same heavy weight one-sided officialdom
persecution. Nevertheless I will appeal. And all this is because of one Gareth
Williams. Jesus! Why won’t they listen to me? Hello! Is anyone listening? HE is
the b…. std that my babies are at risk from. Are they trying to drive me nuts so that I
would then be a danger to my kids? Then they can turn around and say, “Hah, he
was right, after all.”
Mo asked if I still felt frightened in the house because of the fire and other
peculiarities. I said, “I think everyone worries about house fires or other harmful
possibilities, especially when you have children; but I’m sleeping upstairs again to try
and bury some ghosts. Fear can only hurt you if you surrender to it – then it can kill
you.”
There were some slight errors in the minutes of both conferences which I wanted
altering, such as the fact that the “diaries” were not Andrew’s as stated in the
minutes, but were mine, and the fact that it was not suggested that Mel be taken to
hospital regarding the ‘burn’ as presented in the minutes, I was FORCED to send her
there, as I had already stated in the meeting. I also highlighted the error on Jordan’s
date of birth and on my title which is Ms not Mrs. Maureen made notes of everything
and said that she’d bring it to the Chair’s attention.
She then started her Comprehensive Risk Assessment. I naively imagined this to
entail her talking to me about safety issues and practicalities such as how often I
bath the kids, what I give them to eat, if they are suitably dressed for the weather, if
they have enough blankets on at night et cetera. I.e: useful, practical suggestions.
But I was stunned into silence when she started delving into my long and distant
past. She began by asking the full names of my mum and dad, what kind of
marriage they had…. I thought all of this a bit too nosey, so I began to object until
she said, “I need to get to know you and your family background.” I told her that the
only way she’d get to know me is if she moved in with me [not that I was inviting her.]
I said that you can’t know anyone in a weekly two-hourly session. She curtly
reminded me that I’d agreed to co-operate. I politely pointed out to her that the
reality is I’m being forced to comply and that her line of questioning is totally
irrelevant to the issue in hand and it is a waste of everyone’s time. She wasn’t
listening though and continued her onslaught and in the doing gradually chipped
away at my privacy. I thought social workers were paid to do something useful for
society, not to have one-sided gossip with folk who would rather scrub toilets with a
toothbrush than talk to them. I kept my answers as acceptably short as possible,
bullsh ….ted a bit and kicked off a bit until she eventually got the message and
sodded off with all her notes.
I got the bubs up. Both got so excited and began dancing. Mel threw her arms up to
me and began clapping. I wish I felt so carefree. As I began the tea, I was thinking
that all this wouldn’t be happening if I hadn’t left Gareth. It just proves how strong
you have to be to break away from and fight evil. I just have to ride it all out now –
go with the flow as they say. I know one thing; evil does not support evil if it is
threatened. Evil people are cowards and will back off if they get seriously
challenged. Evil people turn on their accomplices when they have no more use for
them or if they fear being exposed and being punished. Evil people will make
scapegoats of their former friends and associates to avoid punishment themselves.
That’s what happens when you sup with the devil; he turns on you eventually. Good
people are strong though and stick by each other. They don’t desert. That’s why
God will win ultimately because he speaks the truth and is good, strong and
intelligent. Satan is a lying coward. He is also evil, weak and stupid. God’s power
of goodness will defeat Satan’s present reign of wickedness because Satan’s
supporters will abandon him when they realise that they are in the minority group
[since they like and need to have protection in numbers and the ‘club’ of good people
is growing bigger and stronger and more powerful by the minute.] More and more
people are realising that their ‘protection’ is in serving God, which means being
honest and virtuous and doing good for the benefit of everyone. It means striving for
justice for everyone and bringing to justice those who do wrong no matter what their
‘position’ in society is.
Mel sat in her highchair tapping her spoon in anticipation and excitement – what a
character. Despite everything, I surprised myself by breaking into spontaneous
song, much to the babies’ delight. I guess you’d call that the power of love. It’s as if
something is telling me to relax, have faith and that it’ll all come good in due course.
I feel as though something is telling me that it’ll never get so bad that I can’t hack it.
JULY 9TH 1999
I bought a tiny tape recorder with sensitive microphone so that I can now keep my
own records of them, and that includes all conferences and anyone who invites
himself or herself into my house that I don’t like the look of.
I heard some of the kids yelling that ruddy mutt’s name. They were saying that it is
here again – perched on the driveway next to Donna’s. As it happened I had my
camera in one hand since I’d previously taken some snaps of the kids, and I had a
cuppa in the other. So I strolled up the road to see for myself, and felt absolutely
disgusted when I saw it there growling and threatening. When that mongrel is on
this road, all the kids are too scared to move and no one can go anywhere until it is
removed. Obviously the police don’t intend sorting the thing out so I decided I’d
send a photo of it to the local rag. Just as I was about to take the photo, Clive the
butcher came down the road, and the dog sprang at me with teeth glaring.
Instinctively I jumped back behind the nearest safe object I could find and it
happened to be Clive. The mad mutt sank its teeth into his leg, ripping his trousers
and causing bleeding; then it fled. I was mortified. But Clive was very kind and very
brave and told me not to blame myself. Police arrived and statements were taken.
Maybe this time they’ll put the damned dog down. But I won’t be holding out for any
miracles. I never did get the photo. But the dog’s ‘gobby’ ‘dad’ showed up with
some other geyser threatening Clive and me and Andrew with all sorts of bloodthirsty
revenge. The way he was carrying on I was convinced that police had already
taken his dog and shoved a noose around its neck. Wishful thinking or what? The
filth that rolled out of that man’s mouth is unprintable but the message was that we
were all going to die. Half an hour later, he came around telling Andrew that he’s
“f…. ing dead” and “your bitch mother is next….”. Fair play his pal came back later
on his own to tell me that he’s sorry about the behaviour of Mutley’s owner. I
thanked him. Next minute, the dog’s ‘mother’ came hammering on my door
threatening the end of the world. Andrew bellowed at her through the keyhole,
“Clear off; mum doesn’t talk to idiots.”
Out of curiosity I took a lighter to an old kitchen cupboard that was in my shed. It
was similar to my kitchen units. I was amazed to find that it took only three minutes
to singe badly, crack and then burn ferociously. I was shocked. How come then my
kitchen unit wasn’t even scorched on the night of the fire? It was directly above the
burning washing powder and the fire had burned for over twenty minutes.
Dad agreed to let me simulate our kitchen fire in his yard. I told him I’ll choose a day
when there is no wind and that I realise circumstances will obviously be different
because of the weather factor but that I’ll be able to see for myself how fire reacts
and maybe it’ll shut me up. He said if it does that it’ll be worth it. He said it won’t
prove anything and that they’re the experts. We got on the subject of the CCTV
incident. He said he’d heard from an independent person, who doesn’t know him,
that Andrew and Shell were caught on bikes on CCTV. I barked, “That proves it;
they were guarding their backs and ready with a story. They wouldn’t tell you unless
they knew you; it would be unprofessional. Now, I’m even more suspicious.” I said
there have been too many coincidences and that I’m sure there is a conspiracy to
give Gareth what he wants and that the police are helping him. Dad agreed that they
should’ve shown me the tape because I have a right to know exactly how much
danger my kids were in. He dropped a few large hints that I should stop being so
aggressive towards the authorities; but I told him that to back off is a sign of
weakness and that I have to listen to what my ‘insides’ are telling me to do. I told
him that it is ‘ordinary’ blameless folk who can and who must challenge heavy
weight officialdom. I said that if I didn’t kick off I’d go insane, and then Gareth would
get my babies and he would have won. I told him I’m not too perturbed with all this
inconvenience because I know that one day real justice and righteousness will reign
supreme as God will win and the world will then be so much nicer, safer and
peaceful. Dad passed a remark that I was talking a load of old cobblers and that the
world has always been the same – full of wars, injustice and poverty and that it’ll
never change and that there’s nothing we can do about it…. [Sometimes I wonder if
dad is on their side and knows more than he’s letting on about the unsavoury goings
on.]
The kids and I had a tete a tete about how they were treated by Gareth’s children.
Things come out every so often in drips and drabs about how badly they were
treated but they couldn’t talk about it because of the sinister repercussions. On
occasions when GW and I used to leave his daughter in charge, she’d order Andrew
and Shell around – make them wash and dry, sweep the floor and make her coffees.
They had to run to the shop for her or the chippy. If they refused or argued she’d
bully them or she’d tell her dad terrible lies about them and of course he always
sided with her and gave my two a hard time. I did see some things for myself about
her sly behaviour and I’d correct her but it always caused eruptions with Gareth,
which is what she intended. She was a spiteful troublemaker whenever she got the
opportunity. Even her nain and aunty had warned me. According to Andrew and
Shell, GW’s son was also a sly bully at times and would sling Andrew in thorns or
beat him up if he refused to obey. If Shell refused to obey Gareth’s son, he’d mess
up her room so that Gareth would smack her. There were times when Gareth and I
constantly rowed over the kids but then he’d end up hitting me. I encourage the kids
to let it all out now. I never realised quite how bad things were for them and how
they were too scared to tell. I’d been so blind to so much, not realising such
wickedness and control existed. We talk openly about all the things that have
happened and about the way we are being treated now – as if we are the criminals.
I make them aware that they are not to blame for any of this and that the police and
other top nobs are in the wrong, accusing us and threatening ‘care’. I told them that
even Gareth’s kids are not to blame; that they are victims too, being controlled by a
vile bully and not yet strong enough to fight it.
Andrew was too scared to go down town alone because there were gangs on bikes
after him. He said that some had asked him earlier to be friends and to join them but
he told me he couldn’t be ‘friends’ with lads who steal – handbags, cash et cetera
and who bully little kids and old people and who cause damage to people’s houses,
cars…. I gave him a cuddle and told him that he has a good strong attitude and that
those lads were wimps hanging out together but being afraid of each other, not
enjoying the bad things that they do but too scared to refuse. I told him that we’ll all
go to town together later.
JULY 11TH 1999
The Lawrence family are now offered compensation by the Met police for failing
dismally to do their job. If everyone fought for justice like Stephen Lawrence’s
parents and shamed organisations like the police, the ‘big boys’ would soon be out of
pocket with the compensation payouts. Then we’d see the balance of power shifting.
No doubt the government would just increase taxes to pay for more bent senior
policemen and bungled dealings, but at least their shameful practices would be
exposed and there would be too many for society to tolerate.
JULY 12TH 1999
I phoned the headmistress of the school where Gareth’s kids used to attend. It felt
like she was the only friend I had; the only one who genuinely seemed willing to
acknowledge right from wrong and to speak the TRUTH. I was virtually begging her
to help me expose Gareth Williams for the wife and child batterer and crook that he
is. She was surprised that my kids are registered and said that it isn’t easy to get a
child on the Child Protection register. She told me she’d have a word with my social
worker about Gareth, which would put her clearly in the picture as to the kind of
character we’re dealing with. She said she’d strongly encourage Maureen to contact
Nia Smith, the Educational Welfare Officer, who was heavily involved with Gareth
and his children, since she was called in to do an investigation. The head teacher
and I are both questioning what on Earth social services are playing at since they
were called in to intervene when Gareth’s children were at primary/junior schools,
they were called in by their high school on a number of occasions and they’ve been
called in at the school that his daughter attends now. Yet, not even one conference
was called and no action taken. I reckon there is something very seedy going on
here and that if they’d done their job, those kids would probably have lived with their
mum; and rightly so. She had parental responsibility too, why wasn’t she notified?
The head agreed. I was shocked when the head teacher informed me that she’d
been threatened by Gareth with court for defamation of character; just because she’s
been talking to me! That’s proof if ever it were needed that he has something rather
murky to hide. The head said she’d respond to my solicitor’s letter.
In town, I had an unfortunate encounter with the mad dog’s owner. He came up to
me, stuck his face close up to mine and yelled, “Slag.” So I bellowed back,
“Arsehole.” I wasn’t best pleased with myself, especially as others stopped to stare;
but it was the first word that popped into my head. I gave myself a stern talking to. I
told myself that such language was inappropriate down town and that if I saw that
man again, I’d force myself to keep my gob shut, no matter what he said to me. I tell
myself that I mustn’t use filthy language in the home either. But sometimes, I really
can’t help it, and anyway, it’s better that I let off steam by swearing rather than by
some other form of violent outburst.
JULY 13TH 1999
The kids and I fronted up for round three of the ‘at risk’ fiasco at the council office
battleground. I didn’t have a hope in hell of winning the appeal, particularly as it was
hosted by DCI Loftus of North Wales Police. He sat there looking so smart and
smug. I bet he’s got some seedy secrets. He’s bound to be bent and an expert
perverter of justice. The other two women sat there looking so important with their
noses virtually pinned to the ceiling. The three of them and Seale looked at me as if
I was something worth squashing under their shoes. I couldn’t even get my solicitor,
John Owens, to sit in with me. For the past two weeks he was never available to
take my calls and he didn’t get back to me after I’d left him messages.
Jordan and Melly were full of beans and chatted their heads off while Andrew and
Shell tried to shut them up for the sake of the whirring tape recorder, which Andrew
had stuffed in his bag. I put my case forward that had we been talking about just one
incident of a very small fire, without all the other allegations or ‘spiritual’ happenings,
the chances are that I would not have been called to any conference, let alone have
to suffer the injustice of my kids being registered ‘at risk’. They were in agreement. I
also made the point that since the so-called ‘burn’ on Melissa was stated to be
eczema by hospital paediatricians and three GPs, the decision to register my kids ‘at
risk’ lay largely with CID and because of all the referrals. I pointed out that Chris
Walsh had given misleading information to conference when he reported that
Andrew writes about evil and fires. I explained that Andrew writes stories on many
different issues - good and bad, and that he was answering questions in his text
about a fire. I referred to the tapers that CID said were in Andrew’s room and I
informed panel that the tapers were found all over the house and that according to
the Rev. Robert Rowland, our supernatural experiences are not that uncommon and
are certainly not criminal. I said that the fire department could not prove that the fire
was started deliberately. I showed my photos and outlined my theories and even
mentioned the fact that an electrician had stated that a fire could start in a kettle
despite it being switched off. As for the referrals, I pointed out that they were all
unfounded.
But it was all to no avail. They insisted that the source of fire was scientifically proven
by investigators and that they’d done a report which was final, at which point I
snapped. “Rubbish! There is nothing scientific about their prejudices version of
events.” They kept pretending that they were concerned for my kids’ safety, so I
said, “So much so that you didn’t send a social worker on the night of the fire, and
you lied when you said you had.” At this point, Graham Seale began thumbing
frantically through his mound of papers to try and ‘prove’ that one had visited. As I
watched the silly man I thought to myself, ‘Didn’t you tell me that you were neutral?
So, how come you are singing the council’s tune so passionately now?’ I stated
angrily, “You lot don’t care about the more important issue – that my violent ex may
now be awarded custody of my babies because of this obscene ‘at risk’ label. In fact
you people only apply the law when it suits you. My ex should be in jail by now for
harassment, GBH and child abuse. But the likes of you have given him your
blessing to do anything he wants. There is something very seedy and sinister
simmering in the background. I’ll uncover the truth one day. You lot don’t give a fig
about kids; in fact your actions today and the threats from your solicitor that my
children are close to going into ‘care’, suggests that you support child abuse. The
council, police and social services have got one hell of a record for promoting child
abuse since they scandalously refused to stop the revolting paedophiles attacking
and abusing kids in Local Authority Children’s Homes, such that those kids are now
so damaged that some have killed themselves. The truth is my kids are AT RISK
from people like you, mad dogs, gangs of juvenile delinquents and criminals that
your type fail to bring to justice and, worse, protect and associate with.”
I continued, “I’m fully aware of the implications all this has now on my court fight
against Gareth. Don’t you realise that by now I’d have come clean if I thought that
Andrew or Shell did or could have set the fire? I have too much to lose by making up
silly stories about spirits.” I enquired if they were in the business of breaking up
loving families and causing them grief, inconvenience and injustice – just because
they are honest and decent. I asked if they are so hard-pressed for work that they
must create ‘at risk’ families. I told them that the council fail miserably to deal with
the kids who genuinely are at risk and I enquired if it was because officials are
scared of being threatened with a gun at their heads from violent fathers, or is it
because there is no money available since tax payers’ cash has been gobbled up
and misused by greedy, lazy, fat-cat councillors, other council and government
officials and associates. Or is it simply because paedophiles and other child abusers
are protected. I pointed out that they succeed in dismantling perfectly able
functioning thriving families. I also informed them that I’m not just kicking up a fuss
for my own family’s sake but I’m speaking on behalf of all the innocent people who
are persecuted, oppressed and suffer injustice.
They then disappeared into a little room to pretend to decide my fate – as if I didn’t
already know it. They knew it too, long before stepping inside this hellhole of a
building today – lowlife liars.
They waltzed back in to inform me, “The children were at risk on the night of the fire
and remain at risk, whether it be from someone within the household setting fire or
from some other force.” I blasted, “Anyone is at risk from any fire, no matter how it
started. You would be. It doesn’t mean my kids should suffer again by going on this
damaging piece of paper and having to put up with you lot bothering them and
nastily threatening to take them away from me, and we shouldn’t now be living with
the very real worry of Jordan and Melissa being forced to live with a violent alcoholic
abusive man.” I was beginning to question my own understanding of right and
wrong. It was all too disgracefully evident to me that despite all their ethical
proclamations of the care and welfare of children, this was a clear case of spite and
self-preservation. I boomed, “This is outrageous. People are sick of council, police
and social services liars and self-servers. This will one day hit the headlines and will
come back to bite you. I don’t know when; but it will. You are nothing but blundering
bureaucrats – useless, time wasting, cash-grabbing, power-hungry, penpushing
CROOKS. You are from planet evil.” At this point something seemed to take me
over and I surprised myself by jumping to my feet and ushering the kids out, telling
them that we were going NOW. I erupted again – “You people have the power to
overturn this gross injustice but your bureaucratic prejudice and cowardice prevents
you from being reasonable and fair.” I was politely informed that I could appeal
again; but I snarled, “Don’t waste my time. You may have nothing better to do than
waste taxpayer’s dosh, but I do. Oh, and I hope your consciences eat away at your
insides.” And with that I swivelled on my heels and marched out, only to catch four
horned faces staring at me from around the table of hypocritical officialdom. Their
expressions were a picture. Their faces were all the same – shocked, paled and
with mouths agape such that their bottom lips almost reached the table. Anyone
would swear they’d just witnessed a murder. I popped my head back in to find them
still dumbfounded and paralysed. “Start doing the right thing for once,” I blasted.
After tea, Shelly came hobbling in crying that she’d fallen off the pavement and hurt
her ankle. It was slightly swollen and she said she couldn’t walk on it because of the
pain. But knowing how kids love to exaggerate, I told her to rest it for now.
JULY 14TH 1999
Shelly said her ankle felt better but that it still gave her pain when walking, so I
whisked her off to the GP whereupon she was sent for x-rays. It turned out that she
has a slight fracture, which meant that she needed to have her foot in plaster. By
this time I was feeling a little guilty about not calling a doctor out last night, but was
reassured that it wouldn’t have made any difference.
I read in the paper about Blair’s ‘Third World Britain’, which represents the quality of
life for twenty five percent of Brits – the poverty trapped underclass. Britain has the
worst railway and road system in Western Europe, the worst rate of adult and
numeracy in Europe, the worst health service in Western Europe…. The government
should stop wasting money on empty talk and spin doctoring and get on with serving
the people – doing the job it’s elected to do. It should cut the crap and cut out waste
and corruption. An ideal world is easily obtainable if those at the top did their jobs
properly. The government should be held accountable and should not just be forced
to resign or lose elections for their failures but should face criminal charges. If
corruption and Masonry was rooted out and annihilated within the police and other
bodies of society, and laws enforced fairly for everyone, with everybody being
treated as equals [INCLUDING the royals], it would be a start. The Police
Complaints Authority should be completely independent to the police and should
investigate thoroughly all complaints – not refer them back to the police! Police
officers should face criminal charges if guilty of failing to do their job, even if they run
away and retire. And all police disciplinary hearings should be open to public
scrutiny. Those in the judicial sector should also be held accountable and if it can be
proven that a lawyer has represented a client who he knows is guilty of criminal
behaviour, then that lawyer should face criminal charges also. If the powerful and
wealthy were scrupulous [which would take a miracle – indeed WW3] there would be
no need for charities; and anarchy would be eradicated. The question is, can we
fight the fight? It seems we have no choice.
Some stupid mother attached her finger to my doorbell and complained that Andrew
is calling the other kids names. I told her to shove off, but after a couple of hours, a
teenage girl who lives with pals turned up with a gang of her devoted supporters.
They were swearing and yelling, belting the windows and ringing the bell. I had to
remove the doorbell batteries. Both babies awoke and began to scream. A strong
urge came over me to drench the loudmouthed pests with a bucket of cold water, but
I resisted it and called cops. They were surprisingly polite to me and insisted they’d
have strong words with the mouthy madams.
JULY 15TH 1999
I spoke for all of about twenty seconds to GW’s ex wife on the phone. She made it
clear that much as she supports me and would like to help me fight our worst
nightmare in court, she really can’t become involved due to Gareth’s unabated
controlling fearful influence. She remarked that her son is due home on leave soon
but she knows that the chances of him visiting her are slim. I left my phone number
with her again in the vain hope that she would reconsider.
I stopped breast-feeding Melissa. She’s over a year old now so I can put her straight
on cow’s milk.
JULY 16TH 1999
Dad and I attended court to challenge goblin-head for the return of dad’s two and a
half grand. Beelzebub came out with a pack of barefaced lies, but at the end justice
was done and the blockhead was told to repay twelve pounds per month. As we
walked away, the antichrist came up to us and started to accuse dad of having
affairs when mum was sick in hospital. Dad’s face turned to thunder, his eyes
narrowed and his body tensed as he prepared to land a punch on Gareth. But
fearing that the despicable creature would put dad in hospital, I swiftly took his arm,
turned him towards me and insisted that it was “time to go now dad.” Since the
woodlice had lied on oath, dad reckons we can have him for perjury. I’m a little
sceptical since I’m highly suspicious of the police. I doubt whether he’d be
prosecuted for anything, even if a copper witnessed him murdering someone. He’s
still blaming his debt predicament on his ex wife, saying that she left him the children
to bring up and that he took over her debts. But dad produced evidence of GARETH
WILLIAMS’ court judgements, which show the two that I paid off for him in June 1997
and a new entrant dated May 1996, which is still outstanding and which I had no
knowledge of until dad obtained the info fairly recently.
JULY 16TH 1999
Busybody Maureen fronted up this afternoon for another grilling session. She was
half an hour late so I made my displeasure known to her. If the boot had been on
the other foot I’d have known about it. I got the distinct impression that her superior
[a man] had given her orders to spin me a line because she told me that if we’d just
had the fire and none of the other malign referrals, there would still have been a
conference called because the experts had said that it was deliberately started. I
reminded her that last time she’d stated the opposite. I got the feeling social
services would go to any lengths to watch their backs and I felt Maureen had been
told to find something – anything - to incriminate me on. I was extremely guarded
after that [not that I’d ever been her fan before but I had felt that she would genuinely
try to help us, because she had seemed at first to be supportive and understanding
and on our side]; now it appears that she just wants to catch me out. I considered
that if our situation was an example of the stringent criteria used by councils for the
welfare of children, just about all the kids in Britain would be registered.
I asked Mo if she’d spoken with the Head teacher as I had asked. I was told that
they did speak briefly but that she doesn’t see the point in contacting the EWO Nia
Smith. I got the feeling that Maureen really didn’t want to linger for long on this
subject and that if I hadn’t badgered her about it, she would not have acknowledged
her conversation with the Head. I reminded Mo that we’re talking about Jord’s and
Mel’s violent, controlling father and that I’ve every right to know exactly what the
three schools’ concerns were. She tried to convince me that if there was anything to
worry about, Social Services would’ve taken action and it would have been
documented in the Court Welfare Officer’s report. Oh Jesus! Beggars belief. I told
her that I’m cynical and that there is a stench of a conspiracy of secrecy and that I
wouldn’t be surprised if the Council are guilty of a cover up. I mentioned the
beatings I’ve witnessed Gareth inflict on his son and the rough treatment he
bestowed on my kids and the off-hand disregard he has of officials, plus his very real
fearful threats to anyone who challenges him. I told Maureen that it is her duty to
protect my children from harm and that means helping me to expose the truth about
Gareth. I said that the schools were sufficiently concerned about Gareth’s older
children and their well being on a number of occasions and were astonished that
social services hadn’t intervened appropriately.
But she preferred the easy job of wasting one and a half hours of my time, prying
into my mum’s and dad’s lives and their marriage, my childhood, my marriage, my
brother and his family and my past work record; while all the time insisting it is all
about getting to know me better. I protested that this is an invasion of privacy and
will benefit no one. I said, “You’re going to create something out of nothing just so
that you can give us a damaging report. Whatever I say will be misconstrued. I
don’t trust social services.” She had the gall to say that nothing would be used
against us! Yeah right, I used to talk to the health visitor Mary B because she
boasted about being on the Domestic Violence forum; and look where that got me –
in hospital, with Mel, accused of burning my baby! Why won’t these officials
concentrate on fixing the problem families rather than breaking up the good ones?
JULY 17TH 1999
Jordan tried to make music from an empty toilet roll. Fed up with that idea he started
whacking me over the head with it, so I threw him an alarmed glare and he
immediately stopped and began smothering my face with kisses.
Mel often makes a rather amusing sound now that goes something like, “Whoosh.”
Andrew reckons he’s found a novel way of being allowed to skip the meals he
doesn’t like. He excused himself to visit the loo, disappeared outside and found a
crawlie. Then he made out that he’d just found an insect in his dinner! It only
worked once. I told him he can eat it next time.
JULY 18TH 1999
As it was a calm evening, with not a hint of wind around, I experimented in the back
yard by burning a large box of half full washing powder - similar to the type and
amount which burned on the night of the fire. It was indeed highly flammable and I
was amazed to see flames shooting up two to three feet off the floor. Why then did
the real fire not even lick at the cupboard when it was only a couple of inches above
the burning box? I presume that the curtain [which was behind the cupboard]
scorched the cupboard door half way down but the back of and underneath areas of
the cupboard were not even black with soot. My earlier experiment had seen the
same materials burn quite vigorously after only three minutes of me taking a lighter
to it. Extraordinary!
I caught part of the BBC2 programme The Mayfair set which exposes Britain’s
control over oil rich Middle Eastern countries. What an eye-opener. British
mercenaries were a secret organisation who made sure that these countries were
ruled by the people that Britain approved of. This was achieved by bribing Arab
countries for billions of pounds worth of corrupt trade. Britain was responsible for the
Rwandan genocide because of arms deals. This hypocrisy was exposed by
Jonathon Aitken.
JULY 19TH 1999
At last I have an appointment with my solicitor. He’s so busy that I have to make an
appointment to have a telephone conversation with him! I spent an hour with John
Owens. Thank heavens Andrew and Shell are competent enough to look after the
babies in a downstairs room. [It costs me a couple of quid tho!]
John said that he’d write to the opposition solicitor, Chris Hind of Amphletts, in a bid
to obtain clarification of social services’ involvement regarding GW’s children and
that if we are refused we’ll seek an order for disclosure through the court. That
sounded more like it. After all, I had been asking since the end of March. I said,
rather ideologically, that if there is a whiff of corruption surrounding Gareth and social
services’ reports, it is our duty to expose it. John remained silent for a short while,
then he said that he wasn’t frightened of me. How odd! I was so shocked, puzzled
and confused that I said nothing. Did he consider me his enemy? For a brief
moment I recalled another earlier comment of his. He once said quite nastily that I
didn’t have to use the courts. I’d remarked that I had no choice because I was being
dragged through them by my ex partner. The point is, why the offhanded manner?
And why was he on the defensive? Was he scared of me? Why? I didn’t like to ask
him tho. He then carried on about me being lucky that I’m not black and that it’s not
up to us to change things…. Such arrogance! Maybe he doesn’t want to upset his
own cosy little set-up.
When he saw my photos he did agree that it was strange that there was very little
damage considering the fact that the fire had burned for over twenty minutes. It
looked to me as if the only things that had burned were more or less the ones that I
saw burning when I first saw the fire. It was as if the fire had remained stagnant for
the twenty odd minutes that it took for the fire department to arrive and start
extinguishing it. It is very odd. John said that there would now have to be one
hundred percent proof from someone other than me that the fire was not deliberately
started if the registration is to be overturned. He agreed they were making a big fuss
over a tiny fire. I told John there is no justice in this life and that conference
members will one day have to answer to a higher law. John said that he believed in
God too.
I asked him to obtain the official photos because they might prove the fire dept
wrong. I also asked for the tape recording of Andrew’s interrogation by Walshie, but
he said that we’re not entitled to request them unless there is something concrete to
challenge them on, and supernatural theories do not count. I remarked that I wished
everyone was as conscientious. I whinged, “Why can’t those heavy weights leave
me alone and go and pester some wealthy, powerful crook instead? I’m a nothing –
a mum with four kids. I’m just a housewife; well, not even that! How come the bad
buggers get the authorities eating out of their hands, while vulnerable women and
children get further abused?”
I told him about the dangerous dog debacle; the fact that it had bitten four families
and that it is known to the police and dog wardens as uncontrolled and aggressive
and that since they won’t act, surely I’m entitled to challenge them legally. He
recited the dog law. I thought that that was quite strange, since he knew it off the top
of his head. He seemed prepared, as if he’d known about the incident beforehand
and that I would be bringing it up with him. He agreed that, technically, I’m right, but
added that fighting authorities is another matter because they have more powers of
leniency. In other words, they have the right to get away with murder. That’s a
dictatorship. Lastly he told me that he’d request the benefit agency’s tape-recording
of my interview, before going any further in that dept. As I was leaving he passed a
remark, rather condescendingly, that it is my attitude that has landed me in trouble
with Social Services and the Benefits Agency. I found that to be another odd
comment from a solicitor. They’re not supposed to criticise and put down their
clients like that, are they? It was as if he’d been speaking to the relevant people
before seeing me. He just seemed to know too much. Then again, maybe he is just
your typical community solicitor who gossips with everyone.
JULY 20TH 1999
Jordan gives me a chuckle. He pushes the loo door in shouting, “Mum whe d’ya
go?” I told him to phone his granddad and wish him happy birthday. Andrew helped
him dial the number but when his granddad answered, Jordan looked surprised,
opened his mouth, found nothing to say and so he shut it again and legged it.
I again phoned around some of Gareth’s old neighbours to beg for their assistance. I
wanted people to confirm the truth about Gareth Williams in order to discredit him,
but because of his violent record and his threats, all were too scared to. I urged folk
not to fear him because he is a coward who has threatened all sorts of ugly revenge
on my dad and myself but that he doesn’t dare carry them out. I wasn’t convincing
enough though, and as expected, I got lots of sympathy but no help – just polite
rejection.
JULY 21ST 1999
Jordan fiddled with Shell’s radio/tape recorder and got quite a surprise when he
made it work!
Shell came in to tell me that she’d just seen two doves sitting on God’s shoulders in
the tree and that it meant nothing bad was going to happen today. She said that the
doves are God’s messengers and they bring peace and good luck. What a heartwarming thought.
Andrew, Jordan and I broke out into a spontaneous play fight in the kitchen. I found
myself throwing in some aikido moves with these two whizzing around me in all
directions.
Later, the kids and I fell into serious mode as we discussed the nuisance social
workers and looming psychiatrist visits. They said they didn’t want to talk to anyone
because “no one believes us.” I told them that they didn’t have to talk about the
strange goings-on if they didn’t want to because closed-minded officials refuse to
consider anything out of the ordinary. I agreed with the kids that ignorant bigots do
not deserve spiritual talk and that it’s best to shift the conversation over to the black
and white stuff that they can follow, simply because they are too pompous and
judgemental. We decided that it is their snobbery which prevents them progressing
into the higher realms of awareness and that since they are incapable of
contemplating the divine, they have no right to question it, particularly as they do so
in scorn.
JULY 22ND 1999
After church Jordan was very clingy and he virtually attached himself to my leg for
much of the rest of the day.
I tried to phone Gareth’s ex wife again but I was told that staff are not allowed
personal calls. They said that I can write to her c/o of her work, so I dropped her a
swift line. There are so many things that I want to know. The trouble is, she didn’t
reply to my other correspondence. Maybe she didn’t even get it. I wonder if one
Gareth Williams or any of his henchmen have warned her not to associate with me.
JULY 23RD 1999
I had the enlightening experience of a visit by health expert Anne, who came to do
Jordy’s two-year ‘developmental’ assessment. He passed the ‘stacking blocks’ and
‘puzzle’ bit but was a total flop at pointing to items in her book and talking. Anne said
that he should be saying at least ten words by now and pointing to some of the
objects and that since he is ‘slow’ in this area, she really needs to refer him to a
‘specialist’. Oh for heavens sakes! I explained that I don’t teach Jordan ‘parrot
fashion’ stuff but that he understands things in context and will respond intelligently.
For example when we are going out he’ll point to his shoes and jacket and will make
some attempt to put his clothes on. He’ll empty his slops in the bin and place bowls,
spoons etc in the sink. He’ll slam the door shut when the fire alarm activates. He’ll
give me the phone when it rings. He’ll put his toys away when asked and will ‘help’
with the drying up. Jordan preferred to use her book as a tent for his teddy to shelter
under and then he wanted to roll his cars down its slopes and learn about gravity
rather than name items or point to them when asked. He just lined up Anne’s
toothbrush and spoon and began to compare their shapes. The only thing he did
mumble to Anne about was the picture of a ball, which he found of interest. He
wasn’t interested in the chair, table, clock, etc.
I told Anne that I wasn’t worried about his development and that I remember that
Andrew and Shell were very similar at this age and didn’t speak, as such, until they
were three, at which point they came out with tangible sentences and intelligent
questions all in one go. I said that children learn by watching and doing and they talk
when they feel like it. Right now Jordan is happy just observing. I said that I don’t
think it proves anything if they can point to objects and that those skills are for circus
animals, not children with powerful brains. Kids aren’t fussed about pointing to their
eyes, nose, mouth etc – how boring. I said it’s more important that kids are secure,
guided and loved and included in ordinary day-to-day activities for their capabilities.
I said that I’m sceptical about specialists. Ok, so they may be highly qualified
professionals…. but qualified in what? Half the time I think babies and children can
teach adults and psychologists a thing or two. Anne was worried that Jordan didn’t
seem to understand some things. So just to pacify her I agreed that I would sit with
him and play her game. I asked if she’d give us more time before referring him to
the clinic paediatrician. So she agreed to do another ‘assessment’ in three months
time but stated that she’d have to check first to see if her boss is in agreement. Oh
for cryin out loud!
JULY 24TH 1999
I playfully chastise Mel, saying things like, “You’ve been playing on the floor and you
got all dirty, didn’t you?” She gets so excited that she slaps her hands down on the
floor with such gusto.
JULY 26TH 1999
Good on the one hundred million Chinese followers opposing their government’s
oppressive rule. A priest was chucked in prison for twenty years for worshipping
God. For Christ’s sake! That reminds me of the council who banned a church from
advertising God’s healing powers. They lied, saying they were protecting the
vulnerable. Rubbish. The truth is, the council are scared stiff of people power. They
fear large numbers of people uniting in a common cause – whether it be unity in
religion or some other interest [political or otherwise], because a united people have
the power to challenge governing bodies.
Jordan created a right scene in Kwiks, just because I refused him a choccy bar. He
shrieked, threw himself spread eagled on the floor and kicked his little legs in frenzy.
I could’ve died; but since I didn’t, I picked the little blighter up as calmly and as
dignifiedly as possible and plonked him in his pram, whereupon the little sod
screamed all the more.
JULY 27TH 1999
Another day at the so-called court of justice. Why can’t they at least be honest and
call it the court of abuse? I detest the way those magistrates sit there looking all
authoritative, while looking at us lot as it we are pieces of sh…. Who do they think
they are? We have to rise when they enter, and we even call them “your worships.”
Hells bells!
The smug slug’s equally smug solicitor Chris Hind couldn’t wait to inform the panel of
Gods that an issue of some concern has now cropped up in the proceedings. He
said that my children are now registered ‘at risk’ [at which point hideous features
piped up “all four of her children”], and that we are currently undergoing a social
services Comprehensive Risk Assessment. John pushed me into giving him
Saturday mornings unsupervised, saying that it’s not wise to leave the decision to
the court. He insisted that if Gareth fouls up – arrives with alcohol on his breath or
plays silly buggers, for example if he fails to return Jord and Mel on time et cetera,
we can stop the Saturday sessions immediately. He warned me that we have very
little choice and that we’re playing this the right way since the ultimate goal is for my
babies to remain with me and for him to have limited contact. But he said that we
have to be aware that there’s always the chance that it could swing the other way. It
was an ominous reality and I’d been aware of it ever since that nightmare
conference, when my little ones were so unjustly and diabolically registered. I’d tried
to shove the dreadful gut-wrenching worry to the back of my mind, otherwise I’d have
made myself ill, but now that my solicitor is stating the hard facts and advising me to
tread carefully because our case is weakened, I’m frightened to death. Bloody hell,
it’s just not fair. Why am I having to tread carefully? He’s the bad bugger, not me.
I’m terrified of losing my precious babies. John said that he’s had twenty years
experience in the job and that if we consent to small amounts of extra contact
periodically, we’ll be playing a wise game. I put my trust in him and, trying to find a
lighter heart, joked, “Let’s see you put your money where your mouth is.” He grinned
and gave us a lift home.
I read about Lindis Perry in the Guardian. What an amazing woman; what a pearl;
what a heroine. She is presently serving nine months in prison for protesting against
American global domination and she’s had other spells in the nick for trespassing
and campaigning. I feel like a coward compared to her. She’s doing it for all our
sakes in the name of righteousness. God bless her. You can jail folk but you can’t
shut ‘em up. She describes prison as “wretched” but is prepared to stomach it to
highlight world wrongs. She tells how she refused a strip search, saying that she
doesn’t want to hear “alright luv, drop your knickers and give us a twirl.” She says it
degrades and dehumanises and it’s nothing to do with searching and everything to
do with control. Lindis is terrified of prison but won’t let it crush her. She says, “They
cannot stifle the human spirit.” She knows that her method is the only way to raise
awareness and highlight the need to “ask questions of those in authority.” But
sometimes the light fades and she wrote to a friend, “I felt my voice so tiny at such a
dark time in history.” Her wise pal replied, “Yes, but there are lots of tiny voices and
together we can shout.” Oh, how right you are. Lindis, your light will never go out.
You already shine like a beacon and put the majority of us to shame. You are one of
God’s chief angels – on a mission and on your way to victory. Stars like Lindis, who
suffer for others’ crimes, are our hope for the future and our leaders in the fight for
goodness defeating evil.
Satirist Salmon Rushdie mocks all governments. In Satanic Verses, he asks, “What
kind of an idea are you? Do you compromise, do deals, accommodate to society,
find a niche, survive in society? Or are you cussed, bloody minded; would you rather
break than sway with the breeze? Are you the kind that will ninety nine times out of
one hundred be smashed to bits or imprisoned BUT the hundredth time will change
the world?” The Lindis of this world come in to the hundredth time bracket.
Rushdie’s books have been translated into thirty languages. I wish someone would
translate the English publication of Satanic Verses into a simpler version with easy
terminology. I got the gist of it but found it very heavy reading, so I sought some
assistance in Malise Ruthren’s book Salman Rushdie and the Rage of Islam.
Rushdie’s message is: name the unnameable, point at frauds, take sides, start
arguments, shape the world and stop it sleeping and “if rivers of blood flow from the
cuts his verses inflict then they will nourish him.” Quite right! We all have to stop
being blind and complacent. It isn’t others’ job/problem. It is OURS.
Rushdie highlights the truth about the Islam religion; that the rulers [radicals of Islam
law] are merely corrupt oppressors masking their wicked behaviour behind religion.
He says the Arab people are slaves to their rulers rather than to religion. It is the
leaders who are the blasphemers. For instance, Islam law says that God permits
men to have as many wives as he wishes and that it’s ok for men to beat up their
wives, keep all the money and control women’s movements. Corrupt Asian rulers
use God to justify the unjustifiable. They fuck women as they please and treat them
worse than dogs. They believe they have God’s full blessing. I reckon British men
don’t bother hiding behind religion – many openly treat women like dirt. Muslims say
a woman’s testimony is worth only half of a man’s in court. Oppressive Asian rulers
do not allow their people free speech. Their religion states that if someone forms an
opinion that opposes the ruler, the ruler has the right to kill that person because God
says so. Islam law says it is right for the rulers and radical government supporters to
have all the wealth and privileges of the land and that ninety percent of the land are
fated to suffer in poverty, disease and injustice. It is not a punishable offence
because God condones it.
Actually our own Western governments are just as guilty of the punishable offence of
lies, oppression and stealing off their own subjects. They feel it is ok to increase the
wealth, freedom and privilege of their own governments and close supporters and to
plunge their people into poverty and near slaval conditions. I wish more Rushdies
would come forth and ruffle feathers. His book is so intended for the ordinary
population of Arab countries but the sorry state is that it didn’t reach the ordinary
Muslims – the thousand million, innocent, brainwashed, poor, oppressed slaves.
The truth is that some governments so repress and mislead their subjects such that
the people believe anything they’re told regardless of whether it is right or wrong as
long as they believe it is God’s word. Salman Rushdie exposed the corruption that
Ayatollah Khomeinei and his henchmen engage in, in the name of the Islamic cause,
and he exposes the British government’s racism and hypocrisy referring to British
mass demonstrations against the police [particularly in the case of racist incidents]
and police ineffectiveness. He also highlights the deception surrounding the police
being portrayed as the hard-done-by lot. Rushdie accurately describes London as a
“crusoe city marooned on the island of its past and trying with the help of a man
Friday underclass to keep up appearances.” Salman Rushdie says politicians have
got very good at inventing fiction which they tell us as the truth. It then becomes the
job of the makers of fiction to tell the real truth. ‘Sir’ Geoffrey Howe has got some
brass nerve speaking on behalf of the British public. He said, “The British people
don’t have any affection about the book which is extremely critical and rude about
us.” Well I have news for that arrogant prat; the British most certainly do support
Rushdie and agree with his criticisms.
If the Islamic scriptures were true they would withstand any critical opinion. Folk like
Rushdie wouldn’t get such books published, let alone be so influential as to warrant
a death sentence. If the holiness Imam Khomeini wasn’t such an idiot and hadn’t
made such a big deal of Satanic Verses, Mulims wouldn’t’ve taken offence, not many
would have read it and Rushdie wouldn’t now be so famous and wealthy. His
reaction is a sure sign of guilt. Rushdie asks how does any believer distinguish
between God’s voice or the devil in disguise? He questions Islamic religious truth
when hundreds of thousands are tortured and murdered in God’s name. Andrew
and Shell say that the Christian bible is only twenty five percent the true word of
God; the rest has been added on and altered by self-serving power hungry men. All
I can say is that the likes of Khomeini and his fellow devil disciples and all the others
who feel they have the right to savagely control and sit in ruthless judgement of
others will have a very rude awakening when they realise the barbarous place they
are heading for soon. The difference being that they are committing themselves to
this future torture for eternity whereas their broken victims on earth now will soon be
in heavenly paradise forever.
Salman Rushdie decribes the world as gods going to wars – in the eternal struggle
between the world’s beauty and its cruelty, with the latter gaining ground daily.
JULY 28TH 1999
In the twilight hours, Shell startled me. I hadn’t heard her get up for the loo and our
paths crossed in the dim light of the hall. All I saw was her white nightie floating
towards me. My little ticker was going hell for leather. Shell laughed her head off
and asked why our hearts race when we have a shock. I said it’s the fight/flight
syndrome. In this case I was preparing to run!
JULY 29TH 1999
Cretin head really took the biscuit today. He asked, “When all this business with
court is done with, can we get back together?” Don’t they just make you spit? I’ve
spent the last nine months trying to assert my rights and regain control of my life; I’ve
fought hard for some dignity and freedom and he wants to invite me back to the very
same bowels of misery and despair. I didn’t give him the pleasure of a response, not
even a flicker of emotion. I just collected the babies and left.
Mel fed herself for the first time. Well, she held the spoon proudly in her left hand
and used the right one to grab fists-full of food, which she stuffed excitedly into her
mouth. Afterward, she was in fits of giggles as she watched Jordan laughing
hysterically as I half tickled him to death.
Andrew and Shell are growing cress. I have various pots of cress seed lined up on
my windowsill now. The kids are comparing them to find out the best conditions for
growth.
The kids went camping in the back yard. Hellish reluctantly I agreed to it “just this
once.” I was so worried about them that I gave them a smoke alarm and a burglar
alarm that they could alert me with and I placed a mattress on the kitchen floor for
myself where I could see them through the porch. But I didn’t go to bed. They had a
brilliant time. They’d secured the guy ropes with bricks in the absence of grass in
which to anchor their pegs and they’d taken in torches, cans of coke and a plate of
butties, plus Shell’s radio. They said that they awoke to the heavenly sound of birds
singing while perched on their tent. I told myself I wasn’t going to put myself through
another night of torment though, no matter how much they nagged me.
JULY 30TH 1999
We had a day out at Llysfaen pool. Andrew and Shell did some fishing while the
littleuns and I played on the grass in the sunshine. Afterwards we tucked into fish ‘n’
chips [from the chippy.] It made a lovely change. The kids made me feel ten feet tall
when they told me that they’re glad I’m their mum because I’m the best!
Dad suggested putting the kids back in school just to “shut ‘em all up,” but I told him
I’m through with doing what everyone else wants me to do and that I’m not doing
anything illegal. I told him, “They don’t like me cos I’m different – well that’s their
problem, not mine. I know what’s best for my kids and will stand up for what’s right
for us.”
JULY 31ST 1999
The brute has got my babies now from 10.00 am to 1.00 pm every Saturday. I was
in such turmoil about him having them at his house that I paid him an unexpected
visit, which served two purposes [1] to check up on Jord and Mel and [2] to ask him
to return dad’s ladders. He was in a surprisingly good mood and went out of his way
to show us his toy-dominated house. He’d put a brand new swings and slide set in
the garden, there were various toys of all shapes and sizes and a foldaway playpen
and baby bouncer in his huge lounge, his spare room contained another vast array
of toddler stimulating stuff and a large upstairs bedroom was kitted out with a new
kiddie bed and matching units plus toys of all descriptions. He was overly keen to
show me all the brand new gorgeous outfits that he’d purchased for both Jordan and
Melly that hung neatly on hangers and lay beautifully folded in drawers awaiting the
day that he says Jord and Mel move in with him. Angry thoughts of ‘over my dead
body’ and ‘how the hell does he afford all these things?’ swamped me. When we
arrived, Jordan had been playing alone in the lounge and Melly was virtually dozing
in a high chair; some empty cans of lager stood on his table. I felt deeply disturbed
by that visit and, being powerless to intervene, can only hope and pray that God
keeps a beady eye on them. They weren’t upset though, which is a blessing. The
prince of lies told me that various garden items had recently been stolen including
dad’s ladder and he produced a police letter itemising his loss. As for my diary and
address book, he sneered that his solicitor had them and won’t return them until the
end of the case. There are no words to adequately describe that despicable
deceitful reptile. I’d been a fool going to his house; I’d succeeded only in giving him
an opportunity to further rub my nose in it.
I read an alarming passage in the Guardian about the plight of the East Timoreans
and the West’s failure to act except for token gestures asking for Indonesian
withdrawal, which the US consistently voted against. Throughout Indonesian
massacre, the US, Britain and Australia turned a blind eye and even encouraged the
atrocities because Australia signed with Indonesia for joint exploitation of Timor’s rich
oil field. Britain approved ninetyone arms licenses to Indonesia and sold them
sixteen Hawk fighter-bombers. The women of E Timor are so stoically resilient –
they are raped and violated by the militia, and their husbands killed but they say it’s
necessary for the independence of their country. The E Timoreans say they are
afraid but that they will not break because they are united in resistance. Our dirty
dealing governments didn’t reckon on the formidable spirit of these disadvantaged
peoples or the media interest. They even tried to cover up the murders of six
Australian journalists by the Indonesian army. E Timor has not yet had its moment
but pain and suffering from death disease and starvation is necessary in the struggle
for freedom. So where is NATO now?
Well done Baron Melchett, leader of Greenpeace, for leading the attack on GM crops
and for challenges to the government on issues important to the public. He says that
we are dominated by giant multinationals and authoritarian governments who like to
fix things conveniently and secretly. He said the crop was a fake science project, a
shoddy field of living pollution, paid for by taxpayers. He asks, “Where is the
democracy in a landowner and a multinational corporation secretly planting the crop
and consulting the village only afterwards?” Here, here. He stressed the power shift
to huge corporations and that no one is accountable for global destruction. He used
his unwanted hereditary title to enter government but had seen enough of “the lying
game of Westminster – the necessary falsehoods, toeing the party line, short term
thinking….”. So he resigned and instigated change by protests such as against the
Tianamen Square atrocities. The Greenpeace party now have assets frozen; some
protesters are in hospital; some are in prison and if they lose court battles, they’ll go
bankrupt. But Melchett says, “A sign of a healthy democracy is an energetic
movement of citizens trying to change society for the better. As long as it’s
done non-violently and openly it’s a cornerstone of democracy.” Well said,
Melchett! He makes the point that he has no quarrel with the law and he feels that
what they did was lawful because it was justified. He says the pollution that crop
would cause was unlawful. The world needs more Melchetts. What a hero.
AUGUST
AUGUST 1ST 1999
I was subconsciously nibbling at my nails whilst being absorbed in my newspaper,
when Jordan zoomed up to me, pushed my hand away from my mouth and gave me
a stern look as if to say, “Tut tut, naughty naughty!” He then saw a pregnant woman
on TV having an ultrasound exam and he pointed at her saying, “Ahh baby, ahh
baby.”
AUGUST 2ND 1999
The Core Group coco clowns came bothering me again. The lounge was so full that
I was asked where I was going to sit; so I replied, “On the floor where I belong.”
Andrew and Shell served us tea. The group talked such bureaucratic bunkum that I
sat there thinking that it was no wonder folk need to attend temper controlling
courses. They went on about school, tests, mile-stones…. They tried to say that
school is important because it not only gives you an education but it prepares you for
the world of work afterwards. Such brainwashed people! I told them that I disagree
and that my kids have natural confidence because they don’t attend school, such
that they’d be able to walk into almost any work environment and cope with people of
all ages and dispositions. They didn’t like it when I said, “They do it now; they can
handle you lot, bring you tea, and tell you what you want to hear. They know how to
behave in front of others, especially if those people happen to be important, such as
you guys. In fact you ALL commented at conference on what lovely kids I have and
that you’d never seen children so well behaved. It’s funny, though, how such
favourable comments didn’t crop up on the minutes.” I informed them that Andrew
and Shell happily chat with my solicitor and help out at nursery…. I explained that a
school’s only obligation is to provide lessons for a child; whether that child learns
anything of value or not is up to chance. I spoke about the growing trend and
benefits of home education and referred to ‘common sense’ books on education,
written by like-minded authors such as Jean Bendell and John Holt. I asked the
team why so-called ‘experts’ on education can’t be big enough to admit that
someone else might have better ideas than them about learning.
Mel sat at my feet, so engrossed in her animal-sounds cloth book. Her look of
concentration was a picture. Her eyebrows came right down and closed in as she
examined the texture and listened to the various noises. She caught me watching
her and broke into a huge grin. Then she pulled me towards her and babbled on
about something. Our visitors laughed and again commented that all my kids are
always so well behaved – such “busy little bees.” I was beginning to wonder that
maybe if my kids were rowdy little troublemakers they wouldn’t be registered. Maybe
these professionals had begged their bosses for easier families to ‘assess’ because
they simply couldn’t cope with the troubled ‘difficult’ kids!
In the afternoon I waltzed Shell around the clothes shops but we ended up coming
back empty handed and I found myself sorting through my gear for something to give
her. I parted with two pairs of jeans, two pairs of leggings and a couple of jumpers –
and she’s only nine!
On the suggestion of the Head teacher of GW’s kids’ old school, I wrote to the MP
Gareth Thomas, asking for his intervention in our ‘at risk’ injustice.
AUGUST 3RD 1999
A racing bulletin came on the TV. Shell asked why prix is pronounced “pree.” I said,
“Dunno; stupid really cos you get laughed at if you call it grand pricks; when really it’s
the folk who insist it is pronounced ‘pree’ that should be mocked. Crazy English
language – no wonder half the population is illiterate.”
AUGHUST 4TH 1999
At 1.00 am Andrew was doubled up with stomach gripes. He was yelling and
moaning in agony. I half suspected constipation and urged him to use the loo, but
he said he couldn’t walk. He got worse by the minute so, just to be on the safe side,
I phoned the hospital and was sent an ambulance. I called dad to hold the fort here.
Glan Clwyd were busy. There were drunkards all over the show yelling f…. ing this
and f…. ing that, and fall victims. By 3.30 am Andrew still hadn’t seen a doctor but
he managed to do number twos and felt instantaneously better. I knew it. We
discharged ourselves and on the way back I gave him a right talking to about the
importance of a healthy diet: wholemeal bread, wheat or oat cereals, fruit and veg,
meat and fish. I said that I’d got into a bad habit lately of buying biccys, cakes,
crisps and sugary cereals but now it’s all going to stop. I told him that when you eat
healthy foods you have more brain-power, which means you get through your maths
and science a lot quicker and your body is stronger, which means you can beat up
those twits who start on you. As a sweetener [pardon the pun] I said that he and
Shell could have some of the money that I’d save each week by not buying ‘junk’, as
long as it is not spent on rubbish. When we got in, Andrew immediately dumped the
biccys and cakes, saying that he couldn’t bear to look at them.
All this hype about Hague’s new image! Who give a fig? No one cares what a
politician looks like as long as he/she is honest and does the job.
AUGUST 5TH 1999
Mr detestable was in right provocative mood at church. He insisted he’d found a
lump on Jordan, which needed attention immediately. I reminded him that the lump
was a harmless cyst, which I’d shown him about a year ago and that two doctors had
said that it is nothing to worry about. But as usual he obnoxiously insisted that three
other people had felt it, that it is an emergency and that Jordan needs to be seen by
a doctor NOW. He said that since he now has parental responsibility, he’ll take
Jordan to the hospital at once if I won’t. He also insisted that he’d found another
lump, but was unable to show me where. So I was bullied into taking Jordan to
emergency surgery in the morning. In all fairness to Lorraine, she sprang to my aid
telling Gareth, “It’s no wonder Sharon gets on the defensive the way you get at her
and order her….”. I hissed, “This is just another form of harassment and the parental
responsibility talk is just an excuse.” Gareth started yelling at me and being insulting
and offensive. Lorraine and a couple of the other churchgoers had to calm him down
and hold him back while someone else ushered me out.
Mel fell apart trying to get to me. She cried and reached out to me. Jordan clung on
to me in a bear hug. Mr Awkward shouted, “Jord, come to dad.” But pud just
tightened his grip on me.
As I was preparing tea, I got a lovely perfumy whiff and the distinct impression that
mum was peering over my shoulder. I understood that to mean, “Don’t worry about
the archrival and don’t get upset.” I felt heartened, and prayed that I wouldn’t be
visited by any dark spirits. I made myself a delicious garlic and onion salad and I
smiled as I thought to myself that the beauty of being single is that no one cares
about the smell of my breath.
I watched a programme on Channel 4 about the Kennedy clan and their involvement
in organised crime. It revealed the scandal of America’s FBI and their so-called
‘investigations’ of Mafia bosses – men who were powerful and wealthy because they
just killed anyone who got in their way. When one gangster helped Jack Kennedy to
become president, the FBI were ordered to back off. The motto was “don’t make
waves.” It’s high time we do create a fuss and drive the truth out. The guilty hate
that; and then we can set about change. We need to get to the consciences of the
half-decent Masons and other members of secret seedy groups. Get them to start
doing the right thing and to whistle blow on other members, so that such
organisations are totally obliterated. We need to get them to understand that those
who break away from these ‘clubs’ and snitch on those who insist on keeping such
murky places alive will be considered heroes and worthy of the title ‘man’. God will
also be pleased with them. Whereas the ones who refuse to leave will be
considered low-life cowards.
The Tonight show featured Sally Whitaker from Coronation Street fame drawing
attention to the horrors of Domestic Violence and the stark disgraceful fact of it being
such a common practice. Well done, Sal. Keep raising awareness. The official
figures are that at least twenty five percent of ALL women will experience D/V at
some time in their lives. And that is violent crime. The stats are much higher for
milder forms of domestic abuse. The real figure of sufferers of violent crime is
probably around half of all women, if not more. Many simply won’t talk about it and
others won’t do anything about it. The State ignores it, covers up the true extent of
the problem and further suppresses women.
Andrew and I got into a discussion about the world’s wars and how it is always
mainly the innocents who get slaughtered and whose families suffer. It is never
those who give the orders, those who pretend to be combating terrorism or fighting
‘ethical’ wars. There is no such thing as an ‘ethical’ war anyway. And also, it doesn’t
matter whether you are Christian, Moslem, Protestant, Catholic or any other
religion…. None of it matters. It’s what’s in your heart that’s important. Are you
good? Do you behave righteously? Do you abhor evil? Right now the world is a
powder keg – a rumbling volcano waiting to erupt in monstrous ways. The fact is
there will be another world war. But it will be the one between good v evil as GOD
intends and you can rest assured that God will win over Satan because the good folk
will defeat the bad. But they won’t be using the gun; they’ll do it by TRUTH AND
JUSTICE. The equation is quite simply that straightforward. The question is which
side are you on? Much of the ‘war’ will be about women rising up against male
domination.
AUGUST 6TH 1999
I dutifully took Jordan to the doctor’s where the archenemy was waiting. The only
thing concerning Jordan was the ball that he spied in the waiting room. He ran to it
shouting, “Ah tis a ball, a ball, a ball, a ball….”. As expected, Jordan got a clean bill
of health. The doctor said he is very healthy and full of life and that the cyst is
nothing sinister. The doctor said she wouldn’t get involved in any domestic dispute
and, to avoid further problems of this nature, I should sign a letter authorising the
disclosure of medical records re Jord and Mel to his lordship. On the way out, the
cockroach warned, “You’d better tell me if any of my kids have to go to hospital.” I
enquired, “Why? To give you another opportunity to bully me further? I’m sure one
of your ‘spies’ will inform you of my whereabouts. So go suck eggs.”
After tea Jordan and Mel got engrossed in a game of ‘peek-a-boo’. Jordan hid
himself behind Mel’s high chair and kept springing out on her to go “boo.” She was
in peels.
AUGUST 7TH 1999
The antagonist turned up in a filthy temper for Jord and Melly. Before I could say or
do anything, he was wagging a finger at me and, with a face like thunder, warned me
that I’d better keep my boyfriends away from his kids. Heaven knows where all
that’d come from but I tried to diffuse the situation by saying, “Look I know we’ve had
our disagreements but can we please just focus on the kids and their safety?” I
asked him to drive carefully since the roads were so badly flooded with torrential
rain. But he just bellowed, “We’re going back to court early because I want more
hours.” And with that he roughly grabbed Jordan and shoved him carelessly in the
car, then came back to snatch Melly off me in a temper. My babies sat in the back of
his car looking shocked and upset, and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about
it. He took off like a bat out of hell and screeched around the corner. I stood
watching, helpless, with tears streaming down my face.
After contact Jordy went through a spell of tears and screams; then he sat sucking
on his finger. Later he bit Shell on her hand. It’s all because of the malign ex of
mine, and there is bugger all I can do about it. Both Jordy and Melly have bruises on
their legs too.
Andrew’s pal Rob turned up for the afternoon and tea. The two of them sat in front
of the TV watching videos. Shell helped me in the kitchen.
Just before bed I checked the bubs. Mel is such a doll. She was in a deep sleep,
but as soon as I touched her forehead, she smiled. I asked the little peach what she
was smiling at; she grinned, took a deep breath and continued to doze.
AUGUST 8TH 1999
Linzi dropped in on us. She’d been for her usual workout in the pool. We discussed
how hard it is to really break free from violent controlling men and that it takes guts to
make the move but that by then the bloke has usually managed to sap every bit of
confidence out of the female. We agreed that it’s not nice having to draw benefit and
that [just like everyone else] we want the decent loving guy, who is a good father to
the kids. We want the happy and stable family home, but when the man turns out to
be a bad influence on the kids, a crook and a tyrant, it is a mother’s duty to protect
her kids and herself. We are flabbergasted as to why courts insist that it is in a
child’s best interest for him/her to have contact with a father who is: an alci, a liar, a
thief, a child and female batterer and worse. This illogical scandal just sends a
message to the father that he may continue with his harmful, unlawful, negative
behaviour and that the kids are encouraged to copy dad’s criminal, deceitful ways.
We progressed on to some profound ideas of stopping this trend of criminality and
violence and we worked out that the poorest people are probably the easiest to
change for the better since they have very little to lose. We reckon that if ‘lowerclass’ folk listen to their conscience and become clean living and can challenge
wrongness in others [including their bosses], this new righteous way of living would
soon progress up the social/wealth scale until those at the top are either shamed into
becoming virtuous or are forced into it because their evil support systems and
personal protection would gradually be chipped away.
We got nattering about our favourite subject – kids. We decided that we hope that
they grow up to be more aware than us, more intelligent, wiser and…. powerful. We
also prayed for a safer world for them.
That bloodthirsty mongrel is running loose again. I was horrified when the kids said
that it had bounded down the drive to the back door baring its teeth and growling
ominously. Shell was just about to shut the gate when the horrible hound brushed
past her and headed for Andrew who was standing with Jordan just outside. Andrew
held Jord and told him to stay still. Luckily they were unharmed but if Andrew hadn’t
been quick thinking and remained calm, heaven knows what that mad mutt might
have done. That was especially brave of him considering the nasty bite that he
received before [which has now caused him to be afraid of all dogs, not just this
vicious one.] I glimpsed its tail as it legged it back through the gate. We then heard
some kids on our road chanting, “Kill them, kill them – go get them.” It wouldn’t
surprise me if they were the owners’ kids. The unfortunate thing is it isn’t the dog’s
fault; the problem lies with its owners - the people who just let it roam the streets,
getting up to whatever it pleases.
The policewoman on the end of the line enquired if the dog had bitten anyone now. I
boomed, “Would you like it to kill someone?” She sweetly informed me that she’d
send someone to see me. I snapped, “Don’t waste my time – go after the dog.” She
insisted that if I want to make a complaint, an officer has to come to see me. “For
chrissakes” I hissed, “there are other people around here too scared to walk out of
their houses because of that thing. What are you lot going to do about it?” When I’d
finished, Shell informed me that PC stands for “prize clown.” Police turned up to tell
me that the dog’s owner has changed his mind now about putting the dog down and
that he wants to keep it and defend it in court. Typical isn’t it, his wishes and rights
come before those of the victims and many others who are terrified of his dog. It is
in everyone’s interests that this dangerous dog is dealt with, immediately. It isn’t just
my complaint. Everyone living in and visiting this area is at risk. Now we all have to
wait for a court date, which could take months. Meanwhile the horrible hound rules
the streets. Does a dog have more rights over a human? What about charging the
irresponsible owners with failing to control an aggressive dog? Why isn’t the dog at
least kept safe by some responsible authority and well away from its owners until a
decision is made in court? And in any case, what kind of crazy cash wasting system
is this?
I gave dad a late night call. The conversation centred on the question of hiring a hit
man to sort out my problem ex – duff him up a bit. It was so tempting that I began
shaking but then I suddenly came to my senses and whispered bleakly, “We’d never
get away with it. You or I or both of us would end up in prison. That’s what he
wants. He can get away with it but we can’t. Don’t ask me how; but his type always
do.” Dad agreed. He was furious about the dog debacle and said that the
authorities’ failure to deal with it is pathetic.
Afterwards I began thinking that the only way to deal with problems is the lawful
route, but if everyone kicked up over an injustice or complained formally where it is
due, there’d soon be sweeping changes. The large majority of people have major
grudges about the same things but it is only people-power collectively who can force
action. The powers that be don’t want to deal with crime – they are criminals
themselves. So they devise lengthy timewasting, drawn-out, expensive systems for
those trying to get justice in a devious plan to put people off. I used to be of the
‘leave it to someone else’ brigade, but not any more. I kick up a stink wherever
possible. The world needs all the little fighters it can get. It is high time that the
good people started fighting the baddies with an attitude of: No let up, no
compromise, no weakness. What the authorities want is for us lot to fight between
ourselves. What is needed is for us lot to challenge them.
AUGUST 9TH 1999
I walked into the spare bedroom that used to be Shell’s and found a mass of little
black flies dotted about the walls and ceiling. With mounting dread I began to search
for the source of these unwelcome pests and soon found their breeding ground – two
rotten grubby spuds that lay decomposing in a warm dormant fridge. Stupid Shelly
had used her spud gun some months ago and had casually stored her remaining
ammunition in my spare fridge. It was crawling with white grubs one centimetre long
and flying insects. I freaked and called Shell all the names under the sun. Of course
she didn’t realise what would happen to rotting potatoes and she simply forgot they
were there but the sheer revulsion that I felt made me insane. I was tempted to
make her clear it all up but decided that that was not a good idea, so I sprayed the
whole place with fly killer and waited until the wretched things stopped moving.
It took me almost two hours to clean them up. At the end of it all I decided that the
fridge really had to go. There was no way now that I could put any food in there, no
matter how much scrubbing I did or how many bottles of disinfectant I emptied.
Andrew helped me cart it out.
In the afternoon the coco clowns Deb and Mo turned up to harass me. As if I haven’t
got enough on my plate. Dad sat in on the meeting. The social workers were
supposed to be here at 3.00 pm but at 3.30 pm I received a phone call to say that
they’d be another fifteen minutes because an emergency had cropped up. They
were late last time too! I showed them my fire photos and those of the aftermath and
suggested that the fire couldn’t have started the way the fire dept claim but their
closed response was that they’re siding with the experts. I asked for their opinion
and asked if they couldn’t just consider that the experts might just be wrong. But the
puppets remained silent. Then they told me not to focus on the fire but on the future
and on getting a ‘normal’ life. I barked, “Yeah right, how the hell am I supposed to
do that with all this injustice and intrusion? When we get justice, then I’ll get on with
being ‘normal’.”
Mo then began to blab on about Gareth phoning her to express his ‘concerns’ about
Jord and Mel. He says that they arrive for contact sessions dirty and that last
Thursday Mel had only a dress on. He says Mel often has a filthy nappy and bad
nappy rash. I belched out my rage that Gareth is not ‘concerned’, he is a vengeful
and hateful, barefaced liar whose only aim is to cause me problems. I recalled that
Mel was in fact wearing shorts, t-shirt and a jumper at church on Thursday. Mo
continued to question me about more of Gareth’s ‘concerns’. For example, that I
leave Andrew and Shell alone in the house. I admitted it but that it only rarely
happened, and only just for the time it took me to walk to church and back.
Sometimes I’m too honest for my own good but if I’d lied, no doubt I’d have been
caught out. Anyway what’s he doing spying on me?
I began asking her again if she’d contact social services in Dolgellau about their
involvement with Gareth’s elder two but she said that she didn’t feel it would be
useful. No, not for her but it jolly well would be for me. I told her that I have a right to
know because two schools were sufficiently worried about those kids and one was
worried about his daughter. I told her that I’d seen GW’s son being kicked and
punched all over by Gareth – suffering bruises and cuts all over his chest and back.
I told her that his teenage daughter behaved like a little mother to him fetching him
pills, quilts and hot water bottles and that she’d stand outside the bathroom for ages
waiting for him. She also constantly wanted to attend to his nightly needs as if this
behaviour had been the norm from the time her mother had fled the family home. I
recalled that his son had once been interviewed under police caution but was let off
because of who his father is. I also mentioned the cannabis plants that his son used
to grow and that Gareth had boasted about that to me and about the fact that he
takes drugs. Gareth also told me that his son drinks heavily; so much so that he has
grave financial problems.
But Maureen butted in; she didn’t want to hear any more about the schoolteachers’
concerns for Gareth’s children and how astonished they were regarding social
services’ inaction and failure to ensure their safety and well being. She didn’t care
about the teachers’ incredulity that he was awarded custody and their shock that his
ex wife was denied all contact. Mo just wasn’t concerned; she preferred to
concentrate on Gareth’s so-called ‘concerns’ about me being an unfit mother. She
said that since my kids are registered ‘at risk’ and the house is unsafe, it is unwise to
leave them even for five minutes. Talk about nit picking! I told her I feel more
relaxed about them being at home where they ARE safe rather than at the mercy of
juvenile gangs, mad dogs, muggers…. I asked if the council would be held
accountable if my kids get harmed on the streets. Fat chance! I told her that I have
a dream whereby the world is one day ruled by the righteous and that evil of any
shape, form, degree would simply cease to be and that there will be justice and
equality for all. Unphased she continued to badger me with useless questions about
various aspects of my life. In a bid to catch me out she even repeated questions that
she had asked on previous visits.
Later, dad warned me to watch how I speak to the social workers. He said that I
must stop attacking the authorities because [he fears] the way I’m going I will lose all
of my children. I informed him that I’m compelled to speak out against this wrong
and that I’m only telling the truth. I reminded him that the sins of the authorities are
far greater than mine.
AUGUST 10TH 1999
At breccy Melly dropped her sludgy weetabix on the floor. Jordan immediately
sprang up, grabbed some toilet roll, picked it up and binned it [just the way he’d seen
me do it.]
It was a perfectly calm day so I took possession of dad’s driveway for the afternoon
and simulated the fire. I put a half full washing powder box on top of my old kitchen
worktop. I placed a cheap kettle [similar to the one that perished in my kitchen fire]
next to it on a metal pan stand. Various part-filled plastic bottles [similar to the ones
that were engulfed by flames on 20th May] stood nearby, as were three boxes of two
or three eggs. I lit some old curtains and dropped them onto the washing powder
box, which is the way the ‘experts’ say the real fire happened. But I was surprised
by the fire’s behaviour. I let it burn for twenty minutes by which time considerable
damage had been done. All the bottles containing only water or air exploded, yet the
ones in my kitchen fire had only partially melted and blackened. The whole
detergent box completely burned today, yet in the real fire only around one third of
the box burned and there was a distinctive V shape scorch mark where the kettle
had been leaning against it. Today my kettle completely melted and did not explode,
yet in the real fire it half exploded leaving one side completely untouched [not even
slightly melted.] The eggs and boxes were reduced to ashes today, yet on the night
of the kitchen fire flames had not even licked them even though they were only
inches away from the highly combustible washing powder box. The worktop was
badly burned today, yet on the night of the kitchen fire it had distinctive scorch marks
only where the kettle had stood on a pan stand. It certainly strengthened my belief
that our kitchen fire was no ordinary fire.
Dad wasn’t having any of it though and said that it proved nothing; but then he hadn’t
even bothered to look at my photos of the fire debris. Of course it wasn’t exactly
comparable; today’s fire was outside and therefore there was an abundance of
oxygen. Even so I remain intrigued. I would love to have been able to simulate the
fire in exactly the same circumstances as on the night of the 20th May…. Why didn’t
any of my damp laundry need re-washing? Thick black soot had billowed out
through my hanging laundry in the porch as it escaped outside. Smoke seeped out
via the porch all night. Why didn’t the alarms activate until after we had seen the fire
and had left the room?
Every now and again I lose heart and faith and try to ignore all the bad things that
are happening to us. I feel weak and defeated and compelled to turn from God, but
at such times Andrew gives me a jolt and reminds me of what needs to be done. I
couldn’t keep going without his strength. He tells me that everyone has to be strong
in character and do their bit to strive for Godly rule. He says my bit is this journal. I
asked him if he would still feel so determined if I just suddenly dropped dead. He
replied that it would be more difficult and would take longer but that he’d get there in
the end because it is God’s will. I feel as though I’m working for God and that
Andrew is my medium and supporter.
AUGUST 11TH 1999
Like everyone else we were caught up in eclipse mania and stood in the back yard to
marvel its occurrence.
Melly has developed a really tiresome habit lately. She crams her mouth full of
dinner, then, with a twinkling eye, she shares it all with us cos she loves to blow
raspberries.
AUGUST 12TH 1999
Lorraine signed a statement to confirm that Jordan and Mel always arrive at the
church clean and well cared for. It seems a necessary request but I felt as if I was
asking for a sick note for my teacher! We got yakking about home education. I told
her that even the most expensive of schools wouldn’t be good enough for me. You
just can’t beat a natural home environment for learning and a one to one teacher –
pupil ratio. We began gassing about the bible and her faith and she quoted a couple
of apt verses. I touched her on the arm and told her that she’s “a good un” and that
there aren’t many true believers and even less still people who actually live ‘Godly’
lives.
Sometimes morbid thoughts plague me and I worry about what would happen to my
cherished children if I became terminally ill or just dropped dead. If mum was alive
she would welcome them all with open arms but dad would not want the burden of
Andrew and Shell. Oh I know he’d raise them if he had to but he wouldn’t relish it.
It’s one thing being an occasional grandfather and quite another being a grandfather
guardian. It would clip his wings and he’d resent it and anyway he’s getting on a bit.
Andrew and Shell probably wouldn’t be overly happy at living with him either. They
get on fine as it is now but dad is of the old strict disciplinarian and rules school and
is not really family minded which the kids would find rather stifling. My beloved
babies Jord and Mel would immediately find themselves under the full-time
guardianship of my antagonist. The only thing I can do is place myself on God’s
good humour and pray that nothing happens to me until Mel is at least eighteen
years old.
Britain is in the throes of a Heroin epidemic. Our wayward government spend
millions on gimmicks such as the drive to warn all school children of the dangers of
drugs. As if a kid would pay any attention! The most natural thing for kids to do is to
rebel against anything school tries to teach. They’d listen though if a pop star
banged on about the dangers or if warnings together with graphic consequences
were repeatedly filtered through the soaps. Why oh why won’t they spend resources
combating criminal drug barons and dealers instead? Is it because the big fish are
too dangerous and powerful and the law-enforcement bodies too feeble and corrupt?
Or is it because, without drugs, the economy would collapse!
My social worker phoned to inform me that the psychiatric social worker would like to
assess me and that she’s requesting that I visit her at the clinic. She asks that I
bring another adult to supervise my kids so that I can talk freely. I replied that I’ve no
intentions of troubling dad and that since I don’t trust anyone else, she would have to
visit me here, unless of course she wishes to foot my nursery fees. It was agreed
that she’d visit me here. Andrew and Shell reckon social workers, health visitors and
the like are deadbeat dummies. Andrew keeps threatening to ask how their strings
are lately. I warned him and Shell not to be cheeky towards them because they are
the ones with the power; we have none – yet.
AUGUST 13TH 1999
My solicitor has at last written to Amphletts solicitors requesting full details re the
reports on GW’s kids. He told Amphletts: “they may reflect strongly upon the present
proceedings.”
Little missy was busying herself with my metal goblets. She suddenly caught sight of
me spying on her and then broke into a fully-fledged smile. Precious little pearl.
AUGUST 14TH 1999
It was a gloriously hot day. I took Andrew and Shell fishing at Llysfaen’s fresh water
pool. They had it to themselves and were in their element dangling bits of bread and
kernels of corn that they’d nicked off me. Andrew caught two small carp. I crashed
out in the field next door with my Mail and flask of tea while nearby sheep looked on
bemused.
On the way home the kids asked me about my old school days. I recalled one
incident when I was about six years old. We were all doing craft work, I was feeling
thoroughly bone idle and bored at the time so I asked my pal if she’d ask the teacher
for more felt for me. I knew my mate would be given a message telling me to politely
ask for things for myself and I knew that it would be for two reasons [1] to help me
get over the shyness that my teacher thought I suffered and [2] to teach me
manners. I was right. I had to say, “Please miss, may I have some more felt.” Her
sickly sweet smile and the glint in her eye said, “I’ve succeeded in giving you the
confidence to ask for what you need and I’ve taught you courtesy.” At that tender
age it bothered me that I could see right through her and predict her moves so easily
– she was supposed to be my teacher; an authority figure. Even at such tender
years I knew that school stood for oppression and pretence and that pupils were just
a flock of herded sheep - there to be given orders but considered ‘problematic’ if
opinionated. I nearly puked when she said in over-emphasised politeness, “Of
course, Sharon, you may have some more.”
No wonder school kids revolt. Forcing kids to behave like robots and to be ‘good’ is
abuse. The school ethos is: don’t form an opinion, don’t rock the boat, behave like
an obedient parrot and you’ll have success [of sorts.] Society wants to rear slaves –
people who will work their socks off for peanuts; unless of course they’ve been ‘star’
students, then they’ll get better jobs [perhaps in an office] and a bit more money.
Society doesn’t want school kids to have healthy minds, challenging attitudes and
confidence. When kids try to justifiably assert their needs and complain [usually in
some form of frustrated violence, which is the only way they know how] they are
branded ‘problem’ children. The ‘experts’ don’t understand why they’re not happy,
and an expensive team of social workers, psychiatrists and educational ‘experts’
then have the nerve to label them as having ‘behavioural’ problems. Some poor kids
even get prescribed ‘calming down’ pills. The abuse that all school children suffer is
magnified one hundred fold for those kids who are unhappy at home or have
unsupportive or [worse] abusive parents or parents who simply don’t have the time to
listen or the understanding to help.
We then discussed academic standards. I recollected my maths experiences and
told the kids that I was as thick as two short planks in that dept until I got to the
second year at school when I was twelve and it all changed because of my brilliant
teacher Mr Christian. He knew how to teach and he knew who kept up with him and
the ones who didn’t pay attention because he would have us out individually in front
of the class working out problems [or trying to] on the board. My grades jumped up
from E to C and by the fifth form, I was in the top group of six in maths. But I
remember us having an impromptu test not long before we took our mock ‘O’ levels
and the standard was abysmally low. I got the highest mark of thirty eight percent
and the rest averaged between fifteen and thirty percent. I managed a grade C ‘O’
level. Nowadays standards have dropped even further, partly because the grading is
easier due to continual assessment.
The kids say school is about getting silly marks for being punctual and good so that
you get into the ‘good’ book and then get to stand up proudly in front of everyone. It
is about filling in the blanks on sheets of paper, being treated as a nothing…. How
can a bird that is born for joy sit in a cage and sing? The chicks in the nest don’t
need a classroom to make them fly.
AUGUST 15TH 1999
Andrew began protesting when I told him to sew up a hole that I’d spotted in his
socks. He declared that it’s “women’s work.” So I informed him that these days men
have to do a lot more of the domestic duties, particularly since more and more of the
idle slobs are finding themselves booted out of the family home. I told him he can
learn how to use an iron today too.
I have to hide the door key now cos Jordan has figured out how to open locked
doors. At teatime he stuffed three bananas and was so pleased with himself.
Later on in my bedroom I could smell a lovely baby powder fragrance. It was quite
overpowering. My door had been locked all day!
AUGUST 16TH 1999
I began leafing through the Hutchinson encyclopaedia and came across some
befitting remarks from famous men and women past and present:
Thomas Paine [1737] - English political writer says, “Government even in its best
state is but a necessary evil; in its worst state an intolerable one.”
Ma Zedong [1893] – Chinese political leader says, “Political power grows out of the
barrel of a gun.”
Rosa Luxemburg [1870] – Polish born German communist says. “Freedom is always
and exclusively freedom for the one who thinks differently.”
Honore do Balzac [1799] – French novelist says, “Equality may perhaps be a right,
but no power on Earth can turn into a fact.”
Clement Attlee [1883] – British politician says, “Democracy means government by
discussion but it is only effective if you can stop people talking.”
Ludovico Ariosto [1474] – Italian poet says, “Cruelty ever proceeds from a vile mind,
and often from a cowardly heart.”
John Arbuthnot [1667] – Scottish writer says, “All political parties die at last of
swallowing their own lies.”
Kurt Vonnegut [1922] – US writer says, “There is no reason why good cannot
triumph as often as evil. The triumph of anything is a matter of organization. If there
are such things as angels, I hope they are organized along the lines of Mafia.”
Robert Salisbury [1830] – Third Marquess of Salisbury says, “No lesson seems to be
so deeply inculcated by the experience of life as that you should never trust experts.”
Georges Pompidou [1911] – French politician says, “A statesman is a politician who
places himself at the service of the nation. A politician is a statesman who places
the nation at his service.”
Janet Frame [1924] – New Zealand novelist wrongly diagnosed as a schizophrenic
says, “For your own good – is a persuasive argument that will eventually make man
agree to his own destruction.”
AUGUST 17TH 1999
On the news, a stupid Indonesian government spokeswoman said, “If the Aceh
people intend to fight to the end – so will we.” As if it is an equal and fair fight! She
lives in privilege and luxury in a corrupt government at the expense of the
POVERTY-STRICKEN OPPRESSED PEOPLE. They should put her and all the
other no-good mouthy snooty politicians like her, who surround themselves in wealth
and grandeur AT THE EXPENSE OF MASSES OF SUFFERING PEOPLE, on the
battleground and let’s see her type FIGHT FOR HER LIFE.
Maureen arrived to hassle Andrew and Shell. She gave them some forms and
asked them to fill them in, write her a story and draw her some pictures for the next
time that she visits. Andrew told me he’d draw a picture of Maureen with a gun
pointing at her head. Shell said she’d make aeroplanes out of her papers and aim
them at Maureen.
Public enemy number one then pestered me with more ‘concerns’ of Gareth’s.
Apparently he had phoned her this morning bleating about the fact that Melissa had
a bad nappy rash on Saturday and a filthy nappy. He says he was worried about
Andrew because he’d somehow lost me and had gone to the church looking for me,
and he says that a friend of a friend saw Jordan wandering alone in my yard with
no pants on. I asked Mo, with flagging patience, why she bothers me with tales from
that lying troublemaking evildoer and that she should be assisting police with
prosecuting him for harassment and wasting social services’ time. I told her to
contact the church to find out if Jordan and Mel are dirty and uncared for…. To her
credit she did say that she’d told Gareth that just because I’m not with Andrew and
Shell it doesn’t mean that I haven’t made other arrangements and that it isn’t his
business. She also told him that Andrew had done the right thing looking for me at
church and that she’d asked Gareth if he’d brought the dirty nappy problem et cetera
to my attention. But it would appear that Gareth won’t discuss anything with me
because I’m the liar and I’m unreasonable and I give him verbal abuse! Mo insists
that she has to discuss Gareth’s ‘worries’ with me.
The issue of me leaving Andrew [eleven] and Shell [nearly ten] alone in the house
occasionally for the short time it takes me to drop the babies at church cropped up.
Mo is not happy about it and insists that the kids are at risk in my house. Yet she
says it is ok for them to cycle to their granddad’s in Rhos-on-sea or to go on their
own to the park or beach or to the pool for an hour or so and that it was acceptable
to the school and authorities last year that they used to take a bus on their own to a
school three miles away. So, on the same reasoning, they are safe spending an
hour or so alone in their back yard [as long as the house doors are locked.] Where’s
the f…. ing logic in that? I couldn’t seem to get it through to Mo that the kids face
very real dangers out on the streets from loopy adults, gangs and ill-treated angry
dogs. Social services doesn’t seem to run on logic though because they seem to
think that having a social worker visit me once a week for an hour or so for idle
blabber [that doesn’t incidentally include any suggestion on how I can reduce the
risk that I am or my home is to my children] somehow helps to make my children less
at risk.
The supremos have this idea that their professional intervention is necessary and
that by putting my kids’ names on this magical ‘at risk’ piece of paper and having a
group of people gather periodically to sort of discuss it will somehow solve the
‘problem’ of my children being in so-called danger. Well bloody hooraah. They
justify wasting thousands of pounds of other people’s dosh on a fiasco of a system
by saying it protects society’s children [and yet we all know that THEY looked the
other way when there was overwhelming evidence of children BEING
INTOLERABLY VIOLATED IN THEIR ‘CARE’. And what about the thousands of
children who are exposed to drugs and other harmful substances on a regular basis
from their parents who take them to places such as rock festivals? And what about
the children of society’s ‘opt outs’? Why aren’t the authorities concerned about those
kids? Also what are social services doing about all the teenage pregnancies? It’s as
if youngsters [even as young as ten] are encouraged to have sex. What are social
services doing to protect kids from vile paedos? Every day kids are snatched from
the streets and used as sex slaves.] Shame on all of you who are in positions of
authority; especially those of you men collecting your fat cat cheques. And those of
you barsturds who hide behind seedy secret organizations protecting
YOURSELVES, whilst others [the innocent and VULNERABLE ] suffer in wretched
silence. You are the biggest COWARDS on Earth – nothing but SCUM.
Lin dropped in on me, so we had a glass of wine and discussed our woes. She’s
having a hard time with her latest fella. He’s just like her ex hubby – a violent control
freak. So I told her to bin him off but she’s worried about his threats. I said the only
thing to fear is fear itself. We got yakking about the wonder of dreams and what a
heavenly escape noddyland is after a troubled day. We reckon there is more to
dreams than the human’s limited understanding and that they are not just magical
thoughts about freedom, peace and happiness but that they contain the truth of a
divine nature.
I told her about my battles with the heavy weight authorities and that it’s strange
because not long ago I used to feel shy of and intimidated by officials, but not
anymore. Now I speak my mind and I don’t care who I say it to. I said I’m through
with bullsh. …t. Trouble is though, they have the power to wreck my life – at the
moment. I said, “The more I argued with my oppressors at conference, the more I
put them on trial, the nastier they got and the more determined they were to shut me
up and cause me problems. It was an unfair fight because there was nine of them
against little old me. My own solicitor said that it was my attitude that lands me in
trouble and that even my aunty had once warned me not to complain about things
like the junkies opposite or I will risk losing my children. But if no one creates a fuss
we’ll continue to be ruled by evil and it will spread until there are no good people left
amongst us. People who stand watching and do nothing are just as guilty as the
perpetrators of wickedness and those who feel virtuous just because they sing in the
church choir and preach the bible are no different than the sinners.” I told her I’d
naively thought Gareth would improve his behaviour once I’d left him but that he’d
just got worse, which proves how weak and pathetic he is.
We started rabbiting on about politicians not doing their jobs and their love of hiding
behind statistics. We decided that no one gives a brass monkey how many millions
they say they’re whacking into x,y, or z and that we want to see results – better
education, good public transport, ZERO crime and NO corruption. We’re fed up of
all this political jargon: the left, the right, the middle, safe seats dangerous seats,
brown seats…. What does it all mean? NOWT - just expensive political waffle. We
have judged them to be a law unto themselves. And for that they will meet their
prosecutor when they’re dead [unless someone sorts them out first in this world.]
We now feel justified in answering only to the law of the higher realms. We all know
the government steal from us, lie to us and murder us…. so off with their heads and
into hell where the real criminals belong.
We decided that although ‘rebel’ armies and freedom fighters might be justified in
their argument that they have the right to kill and maim for their cause - to protect
their families et cetera, violence is not the answer. Violence just breeds more
violence and we all end up very dead and the planet ends up very destroyed. The
truth is we attract whatever we dish out, so we should send out love. We agreed that
the time has come for the ‘little’ people to take back the power that they already have
but are too timid, oppressed, brainwashed and brain dead to use. Bring back the
‘flower power’ protesters and the ‘civil disobedience’ practitioners.
We got yakking about the CCTV incident. Lin told me that when she was attacked
by a bloke on Station Road, and it was caught on CCTV, officials were falling over
themselves to show her the stills. Wonder why they weren’t so obliging in my
case!!!!
Then we got into a heart to heart about family. Linda is glad that she has the support
and friendship of her good-hearted brother nearby. I told her my sadness at how my
brother has turned against me yet we’d grown up together so close. I said how
Malcolm and I had felt oppressed at home at times when we were kids and that we
weren’t treated fairly. I was the rebellious child though – mum used to get angry with
me and said I had an answer for everything and dad was cross at my defiance.
Malcolm was the opposite of me. He would never answer back and just accepted
everything but he suffered inwardly, was a nervous child and stammered. Despite
everything though he ended up doing quite well. He got a science degree and now
has a well-paid high-flying job and seems to be happily married I told her how I
shamefully turned on my folks when they visited us in Australia and that I’d blamed
them, particularly dad, for my shortfalls. Dad had been strict and distant with us and
had often said that he didn’t want us. I said that I don’t hold it against him anymore
and that I realise he was brought up the same way. We were brought up to obey
and respect authority at all costs. But I didn’t. Dad and I get along much better now.
Linda and I started nattering on about destiny and our belief that all our lives are
mapped out with the ultimate goal of each and everyone of us finding God’s path and
spreading his word. I definitely feel something has guided me through life for a
reason. Looking back I can see that I fought against its compelling force and feebly
chose Satan’s road. But I’ve finally been brought to the reality and truth of God,
righteousness, honour and courage. I think we are given hardships to endure to
MAKE us get off out backsides and FIGHT for a perfect world. I quoted a couple of
sayings that I’d remembered - “Here is a test to find whether your mission on Earth is
finished: if you’re alive it isn’t.” Also “We all have dreams and we all have the power
to make them come true. We might have to work for them though.”
AUGUST 18TH 1999
Jordan is a right little cleverclogs. He was rummaging through his toy box, found an
empty nappy bag and promptly lobbed it in the bin. He has a thing about towels and
tea towels at the minute and likes to stuff them into his lorry and drive them into the
tunnel [my tipped over laundry basket.]
I heard the flu being walloped hard and the windows being pelted by rocks so I flew
out to find “YOU ARE DEAD” scrawled on my wall and a note dangling out from
under my bin lid saying “YOU ARE GOING TO DIE.”
My psychiatric social worker Anne Campbell had made an appointment to grace me
with her presence. She was over half an hour late, which is ok for her since she’s
being paid to miff me off. I spied through the window, saw a car drive up and
deliberated as to whether it was her or not. I remarked to the kids, “I can’t see much
life in there; mind you I can’t see much life in any social worker – they’re all brain
dead.” Anne was ok and I felt myself warming to her as she seemed quite
sympathetic. The trouble is, they all do to your face; but you don’t know when they
are going to turn around and stab you in the back. I just repeated the same old
things that I’ve told all the other heavy weight welfare officials. She asked how I deal
with all my anger and if my doctor prescribes anything. I told her a bottle of pills
won’t cure a gross injustice and that this kind of tyrannical intrusion is enough to
send anyone bananas. I said I battle to keep my head above water by thinking
things through, by talking to the kids, by writing my thoughts down, by running and
by meditating. I added that a good diet helps since I need to keep myself healthy in
order to fight back. As she was leaving I asked if she’d afford me the courtesy of
recommending to the powers that be that I be left in peace to get on with using my
time productively.
This evening I went over the blood system with the kids. Every day I fire questions
at them to see how much they remember of recent work covered and if they
understand it. This time Andrew decided he’d test me. I was dead chuffed to get all
the questions right except for one, despite the fact I’d only previously skim-read the
page and briefly looked at the illustrations.
AUGUST 19TH 1999
As I was jogging my mind kept going over the unreal situation I find myself in. My
kids are under the ‘care’ of the local authority, with the threat that they may be taken
off me altogether, I’ve lost my job and I could lose my babies to a brutal man. What
on Earth did I do to deserve this? I found myself thinking seriously about asking for
parenting lessons from some of the parents around here, whose kids steal, terrorise
and vandalise the community, where under fives wander alone into the main road,
go off by themselves to the park, stay out playing on nearby roads until 10.30 pm
and survive on a diet of sweets. None of them are registered ‘at risk’ or face the
threat of being removed from their parents.
Heinous Head wouldn’t return Mel’s shorts to me. He barked something about not
being Gaven.
Jordan was really hyped-up for most of the afternoon and evening. He insisted on
throwing his toys around no matter how much I tried to stop him and he obstinately
refused to settle for bed. It was after 10.00 pm before he dropped off. I feel I can’t
be too hard on the littleuns now because of Mr Malevolence. They need my love
and support and understanding more than ever now. Blockhead judicials don’t care
about the severe strain that they put on us poor mums who are left despairingly to
pick up the pieces after disruptive and trying contact sessions.
AUGUST 21ST 1999
We all spent the afternoon in the park. The kids took their nets on the boats and
fished for newts. On the way home a car coming towards us was all over the road.
The driver was laughing and waving to people as he drove like a nutter at great
speed. I made a swift mental note of his registration number and dived into a phone
box to report him to police but the silly girl on the other end wanted details about me.
I said that I am a member of the public reporting a maniac driver. Incredibly she
said, “If you don’t give your name, we can’t chase it.” I spelled it out, “There is a
madman on the roads. I’ve done my duty, now you do yours. Do you want him to kill
someone?” Then I hung up.
AUGUST 22ND 1999
Andrew and Shell disappeared among the throng of car booters and re-surfaced
after about an hour clutching a Nintendo game and grinning like Cheshire cats.
They’d paid ten pounds and it appears to be money well spent, cos they spent
virtually all day on it perfecting their skills.
Why does football dominate the ‘sports’ channel? To me it’s just a silly group of
male chauvinists being paid obscene amounts of dosh to kick a ball around a muddy
field. Soccer is shrouded in secrecy and corruption and its bosses represent powerhungry selfish greed.
I watched a shocking documentary on channel 4 called ‘Divorce – Iranian style’. It
revealed the self-sacrifices Iranian women make and their constant struggle in a
man’s world against harsh unfair Islamic laws. In Iran a man can have more than
one wife and can divorce any of them whenever he pleases but a woman must have
extremely special grounds for divorcing her husband. No matter what a man does to
her, and many men are pigs – selfish, liars and abusers, she is forced to obey and
respect him. Most men are boozers, smokers and partygoers. They keep all the
money for themselves and own the car, house and all the other possessions. The
women are treated badly by their men and the authorities. In court a judge will
always side with the husband and will just order the wife to make herself look pretty
for him so that he will treat her better. You could see the look of determination in the
women’s eyes in the courts to fight like hell for their rights, and they will do anything
to keep and protect their children. Typically though Iranian men claim the children as
their right. But, and as familiar to us western women, they don’t want them, they just
want to hurt their ex wives. Women ask, “Who needs men? They are bastards.” In
the report a little girl in court pretended to be a judge and asked a man, “Why do you
treat your lady so badly when she is so good and respectful to you? You agree you
behave badly; why do you continue?” He had no answer. The women have such a
tough life yet they have such inner strength and principled values. They won’t remarry even if they are in love with another if their husband says it would mean losing
their children. Iranian women say, “When you’re a real mother you sacrifice
everything.” There is never a truer statement. I know that if I lost my kids, my life
would be over. There is nothing more important than your own flesh and blood.
AUGUST 23RD 1999
I have a large shiny world map on the wall in my kitchen. Every so often I point a
country out to Jordan and tell him what it is but he doesn’t really take much notice!
Talk Radio’s discussion was about the right to use reasonable force to protect one’s
home and oneself and send burglars/muggers packing. Well that’s fine if you’re a
young healthy bloke who doesn’t mind giving an intruder/attacker a taste of his own
medicine. But what about single women, the elderly, the frail and ill people? We
need tough vigilantes to give criminals a jolly good hiding so that they won’t re-offend
and at least then the rest of us vulnerables in society will get some protection. Since
the law won’t protect us, vigilantes should be allowed to.
Piglett pud ate his rice pud then helped himself to Mel’s. We all rebuked him semiseriously which prompted him to put on a proud display of drama. He pulled silly
faces and began to sway his body, performing just like he’d done for the H/V. Only
then, she’d misconstrued him as being inattentive and backward. But the truth was
pud had the intelligence to realise that she was somebody important, so he’d put on
an act just for her.
AUGUST 24TH 1999
Thank heavens for programmes like The Cook Report. Tonight’s show covered
corruption in the medical profession, revealing doctors who are guilty of gross
professional misconduct. The General Medical Council are negligent because they
fail to strike off the guilty and safeguard the public; they prefer to protect their own.
Victims of abusive doctors are victimised by the GMC. They fight years for justice
and many end up suicidal. How can the director of the GMC call himself ‘Sir’? One
former major [in the army] and magistrate, Paterson, was jailed for three and a half
years, but wasn’t struck off. Within months he was back as a top consultant in
haematology despite being formerly guilty of selling stolen blood. Unsafe and
untrustworthy fraudulent doctors appallingly have the full blessing of the GMC.
These unscrupulous and unprincipled doctors from hell are using the health service
to further their own sordid ends.
AUGUST 25TH 1999
Jordan stood at the kitchen sink with Shell, helping to dry up. So I shouted to him,
“Hey, does mummy get a kiss?” He ran up to me smiling and planted a sloppy
smacker on my chops.
AUGUST 26TH 1999
Keith Waterhouse wrote an excellent column in the Mail about counting criminals
instead of catching them. He writes, “What bothers people is that law-abiding
citizens – those who were law-abiding until something snapped, seem increasingly
more likely to end up in jail than their assailants who, as often as not, seem to get
away scot free.” He then refers to a “lovable rogue” – a persistent thief [nothing bad
says his mum] since he was twelve; never had a steady job, known to police….”.
Waterhouse refers to police tardiness and a woman who dialled 999 after confronting
two rough looking trespassers – ten days later police rang to enquire if they were still
there! He speaks of plodding time-consuming bureaucracy in taking police
statements. Police stations are closed down in the name of centralisation and
people don’t bother reporting daily crime and vandalism. Lastly he tells of an
elaborate new Home Office counting system, which will increase paperwork, wasting
more police time….
Leo McKinstry also wrote a hard facts column about where our money is really
going. He says, “Of the three hundred and thirty billion pounds the government is
spending, only thirty six billion goes to the NHS and just thirty nine billion on
education. The truth is a fortune is squandered on bureaucracy, self-serving
intervention and waste. Almost one hundred billion pounds goes on the vast edifice
of irresponsibility and dependency created by the welfare system. The public sector
employs five million people yet too many of them are not involved in any genuinely
productive role. New officialdom sneaks into every aspect of our lives, creating a
wealth of opportunities for interfering and politically correct bureaucrats. The
Guardian’s jobs section reveals where taxpayers’ money is going – on jobs such as:
a principal anti-poverty social exclusion officer, a sexual health worker, a drug action
team co-ordinator, a corporate equalities officer…. Management in the public sector
is rightly notorious. The compensation culture is strongest in the public sector – last
year the NHS ran up an astonishing bill of almost three billion pounds for clinical
negligence. The massive social services industry costs almost eight and a half
billion pounds yet the more social workers we have the worse society’s problems
such as juvenile delinquency, drug abuse, family breakdown, neglect of the
elderly…. are.
Tonight with Trevor McDonald revealed the furore over cancer causing depleted
Uranium, which was used in the Gulf war. Our soldiers were exposed to this
radioactive nuclear waste yet our government and the US incredibly state that DU
poses no danger. Now deformed babies are being born to affected US and UK
soldiers and babies born in Iraq suffer dreadful deformities – some are born with one
eye in the centre of their foreheads. The documentary should have filmed the poor
little victims to bring home the full grisly truth about the horror of DU and the
despicable fact that our government and the US knew six months prior to the war of
these dangers. Is any one listening? Western governments are guilty of these
shameful unforgivable war crimes. They lie, cover up, shirk responsibility…. THEY
SHOULD BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE.
More than six years on and the Stephen Lawrence murder still makes headlines and
only because one strong lady won’t let it drop. Mrs Lawrence puts all of us timid
mice to shame. She has to face ugly threats and mountains of trouble and strife in
the name of justice. We can all be like her and together we’ll force b…. std
authorities to revolutionise. What kind of society do we live in where police
investigate police wrongdoing and the medic elected GMC examine unscrupulous
medical practitioners? How can they justify the huge costs to the taxpayer of public
enquiries, which reveal serious required recommendations, only for the government
to totally ignore them? Not only do we need laws holding company directors
accountable for manslaughter and GBH, but we need the same for the government,
who fail to implement safety recommendations. Governments and councils need to
be stripped of their powers of leniency.
AUGUST 27TH 1999
I read an alarming piece in the Guardian about the shameful silence of the Rwandan
church in the Tutsis genocide in Rwanda in 1994. The Roman Catholic and
Protestant church hierarchies remained silent when eight hundred thousand Tutsis
were murdered. When religious leaders did speak, their statements were so
misleading that many Rwandans saw it as an endorsement of the slaughter. Even
today, the Catholic church ducks responsibility through denial and evasion. It
believes in racism rather than morality. Eight hundred thousand Tutsis were
massacred or sent to jail accused of murder by the lying corrupt Hutu government.
Priests and religious leaders endorsed Hutu domination. It took two years for the
pope to condemn priests who killed, and even then he blamed the individual not the
institution. Even more alarming is the fact that when a Catholic bishop went on trial
for genocide, the Vatican described it as an attack on the church despite the
evidence against him. Misago, charged with dispatching children into the arms of
the Hutu militia, which led the killings, explained away the slaughter of unarmed
Tutsis with the lie, “They’d brought it on themselves by hiding guns.” All the church
care about now is the exoneration of the hierarchy and the institution at all costs. I
call that corruption and devil-worship, not God-living.
AUGUST 28TH 1999
The ogre turned up reeking of alcohol. It was pointless questioning him – he’d just
flatly denied it!
I caught Melly sucking ferociously on both thumbs. She’s obviously anxious during
contact sessions but does anyone care about how the CHILDREN feel? Jordan had
cuts on his knees and he went into ‘destructive’ mode for about an hour or so not
long after he’d come home. He even bit me on my arm straight out of blue.
Dad and I got blabbing about home education. He was trying to tell me that exams
are important because that’s the way society judges you. Maybe, but it doesn’t
constitute learning. In fact, studying for the purpose of passing exams prevents real
learning. Also examiners fudge results to make it appear as if the school and
government are successful, which is another area of deception and lies. But the
public aren’t fools and we detest these powerful criminals. I told dad that there’s
nothing wrong with the systems that we have in place, it’s just that we have bad
buggers in positions of power and wimpy ignorant government supporters.
AUGUST 30TH 1999
A gang or halfwits including the lad I half throttled and half slung over a wall came
around bothering Andrew and Shell. As I pelted to their aid I could see my kids
being pushed about and punched. Shell’s hands were tied behind her back and
stones were swirling about all over the show. Enraged I threw a caution to the wind
and grabbed the nearest moving object and booted it out. The rest fled. I heard
taunts of, “We’ll have you for child abuse.” Once inside, the woodentops returned to
swing on my gate, ring my bell and wallop my window. Loads of other decent
families have complained umpteen times about those morons and all the other
gangs of messed up losers; so what are the authorities doing about it???? If police
did their job, gangs of pests wouldn’t dare re-offend. They know no one will stop
them. Andrew used to be in a gang when he was at school because if he refused he
was targeted. He watched all new recruits go through the same initiation agonies as
him. He’d been bullied into: climbing high trees, scaling a horizontal rope twenty feet
high, climbing down steep gulleys….
AUGUST 31ST 1999
I bumped into Brian [a Christian] at the library. We compared notes on life’s
injustices and he urged me to press ahead with this book at all costs and not to
surrender to uncertainty or fear. He said, “Remember the motto – if you believe you
can do something, you probably can.”
The Australian government should hang their heads in shame, and people should
boycott the Olympic games in protest at the two hundred year genocide of Australian
natives – the Aborigines. The Oz government are a racist disgrace and so is the
international governing body that checked it out for its suitability to hold the games.
It is repulsive white imperialism at its worst. Aboriginals, who are courageous and
strong, are treated abominably. They are star sportspeople yet they do not get the
same opportunities as the whites. Many commit suicide in despair, many are
unjustly locked up for being black and poor and many are MURDERED in their cells
by POLICE who are never brought to book. Two Aborigines a week die in custody.
The hypocrites in government promise big changes but they then betray the black
people by slashing their cash entitlements and stealing their land. Land rights of the
wealthy are never questioned but those of the Aborigines are. Australia’s
barsteward of a Prime Minister John Howard didn’t even have the decency to come
on ITV’s 10.00 pm documentary film to explain himself – weak crook. John Howard
and your pal Kerry Packer [Oz’s richest person] and all you other cowardly criminal
members of government and influence, go and ROT IN HELL where you belong.
Our new world has no room for your type.
SEPTEMBER
SEPTEMBER 1ST 1999
I was hauled in front of the court welfare officer for my account of recent events.
Vera agreed that the ‘at risk’ stigma is damaging and that it has lengthened the court
proceedings and will always rear its ugly head and thwart any future desires I may
have to work with children. Even she believed that if we’d just had the fire there
might have been a conference but the kids would almost certainly not be registered.
She offered me a glimmer of hope that she feels my repugnant ex has dropped his
residence demands because he hadn’t mentioned it to her during his interview. I
informed her that Gareth deceives everyone and that no matter what he says or what
he doesn’t say, he has no intention of dropping his residency request – ever.
It was a warm sunny day yet the whole building was, appallingly, centrally heated to
such intolerable levels that all windows yawned open!
On our return, teeny terrors from up our road sneaked down my drive and slung mud
and rocks. It was a completely unprovoked attack. I vomited fury at them and they
scarpered, delighted at my reaction.
SEPTEMBER 2ND 1999
After tea the same kids and the lad that I’d walloped off my wall with a big stick came
around hurtling rocks and messing with my bin. I called police but they didn’t bother
fronting up. At about 8.00 pm the imbecile nitwits came back to lob more missiles at
us. Again police didn’t bother showing up. Later I heard the little cretins in my back
yard, so I barged out with a metal bar but they’d hoofed it. I found red paint on my
kitchen window and door. Again I called the clown cops but was feebly informed that
they’d been down my road, saw no conflict, so had driven off. I named the culprits
but they said that it’s all quiet on my road now so there’s no problem. They ignored
me when I urged them to visit the parents and play hell, otherwise this nonsense
would just continue and I’d be forever calling out police….
I saw a bleak documentary called ‘Eyes of a Child’. One in three kids live in poverty
– three times as many as in 1978. One in eight kids have ‘behavioural’ problems by
the time they are three. One in three fourteen year olds has tried drugs. Britain
locks up more kids than any other country. Kids commit more than fifteen thousand
crimes daily. A teacher is physically attacked in school daily. Social workers don’t
bother with the troubled/troublesome kids and don’t bother providing them with an
education…. The kids are crying out for the government to crack down on things that
are wrong such as corruption, crime, drugs and alcohol so that their parents stay
good. One little girl said, “If you have a good parent and a bad one, the good one
turns bad.” Says it all. And Blair bangs on about a ‘moral’ crusade!
SEPTEMBER 3RD 1999
Linzi and I got together for a chinwag. She’s in the midst of her divorce proceedings
but her ex is not happy about it and is already being a b…. d, pulling the kids out of
their private school and hanging on to their luxurious pad while she has to live as a
pauper in a rented flat. I told her to fight for the house especially as she has the kids
but she doesn’t care about such materialistic things and just wants to be free of him.
Typically, now he’s going through the ‘grovelling’ routine and bombards her with
letters of remorse, red roses, invitations out for candlelit dinners and the best wine….
It’s a very familiar story!!!
SEPTEMBER 4TH 1999
The numskulls turned up again taunting, waving sticks and catapulting rocks. One
stung me on the leg. That did it. I gave chase, waving my eight foot stick, not caring
who I clouted and where. I’d decided that if the police question me I’d tell them that I
was being threatened by those thugs with GBH and that I’d just reacted in selfdefence. It is not child abuse since they wouldn’t leave on my orders and they just
continued tormenting me with weapons. Police can’t hack real problems, they prefer
to fill in forms, take umpteen statements, make empty promises and blame everyone
else for their failures. All they want is their fat pay cheques and to hell with what’s
going on around them. Well the police hierarchy will have a hell of a shock when
they find that they and their families are victims of violent crime. And it will happen –
it is a certainty.
SEPTEMBER 6TH 1999
The coco clowns Deb and Mo came to bend my ear again. They were twenty
minutes LATE too! I was largely asked to repeat the same things discussed at
conference, then the idle natter shifted to considering what is acceptable for kids
aged almost ten and eleven to do alone. Mo did another U-turn and is now saying
that the kids should only stay half an hour maximum in the park [previously she’d
said an hour was fine.] Blimey most kids that age [and younger] spend all day in the
park. Is she suggesting that all those kids are registered ‘at risk’? When I was
eleven I worked in a hotel during the holidays and when I was twelve I was regularly
responsible for my neighbour’s two-year old daughter. I’d take her out most
Saturday afternoons for more than three hours. Were we more mature as kids than
today’s youth? It’s got to the stage where I’m terrified to let Andrew and Shell do
anything alone for fear of being reported by the devil’s disciple and getting into more
trouble with the authorities. I told her I’m so close to falling off the tightrope and that
I certainly do not want to find myself prosecuted for something and in court.
I’d always believed that you shouldn’t wrap kids up in cotton wool and that it is
healthy for them to just explore and play without adult intervention. But now I’m of
the opinion that I need some clear guidelines in writing from social services on what
is considered acceptable for my kids to do alone, where they can do it and for how
long. Mo said that I’m not allowed to leave the kids playing in the back yard but that
it would be acceptable if it was just for the time it takes to drop the babies at church
and return as long as I left the back door open but locked the inner kitchen door.
She was not prepared to put this and other recommendations in writing though
because if anything did happen to the kids I’d be prosecuted. Yet if my kids get
hurt/killed by known thugs/vicious dogs that the authorities fail to deal with, they’re
immune from criminal charges!
My future position working with kids is also hazy. Graham Seale tells me the ‘at risk’
register won’t affect my job, another official tells me it will. No one will put the facts
down in writing. This is my work we’re talking about here. They’ve got no right to
snatch it from under my nose. Am I a prisoner/slave with no rights? It all stinks.
The majority of us second-class citizens lead a perilous existence. It is just a matter
of luck how long you remain alive in the jungle.
Afterwards dad again hinted heavily that I should stop antagonising and should get
along with the authorities. But again I insisted that I have a voice and must use it. I
told him that if I didn’t speak my mind my insides would get all knotted up and I’d be
physically ill.
SEPTEMBER 7TH 1999
The government’s ‘get people back to work’ crusade was discussed on the radio.
Many phoned in to say women who stay at home with the kids are treated
abominably by the government and are classed as underdogs. But the truth is
parenting is very demanding and extremely important work and many shirk their
responsibilities. It’s about time mere mothers were given recognition for their
admirable achievements when they bring up their brood successfully.
It costs fifty pounds a week to ‘educate’ a child in a state school. Since I’d be
entitled to free school dinners, free uniform and heavily subsidised ‘educational’ trips
for my kids if they were in school, I reckon I should be paid one hundred pounds per
week at least for doing the State’s job. [My pay should be increased to two hundred
pounds when I begin educating Jordan and Melissa also.] In addition I should be
compensated for their failure to educate my children satisfactorily. Not to mention
the compensation due for being on the receiving end of council corruption…. But
since that’s never going to happen, I shouldn’t feel guilty about receiving my state
benefit pittance. In New Zealand the State pays parents to home educate their kids.
SEPTEMBER 8TH 1999
Talk Radio covered the scandal of innocent people finding themselves charged by
police for offences when they were merely trying to protect their property and family.
All the callers spoke about themselves stopping a potentially violent situation or
running out with weapons to remove thieves and trespassers. BUT it is always the
victims who end up arrested and chucked in jail…. and the criminals run off laughing
their socks off - to re-offend. It is outrageous. We householders have the right to
use ‘reasonable force’ against these criminals; but hang on, what exactly constitutes
‘reasonable’ and is the bunch of bone idle buzzards creeping around, pinching all the
silver and other worldly goods acting ‘reasonably’? Are we supposed to politely tap
on an intruder’s shoulder and say, “Excuse me, would please give me my things
back and then wait here for the policeman?”
The NHS say thirty six million pounds would be saved if everyone had a dog. Oh
please! Their logic is that people would be forced to walk more and would thus be a
lot healthier. Rubbish, those dogs would cost the government more. Most would
end up as strays because the owners would soon tire of the four-legged thing in the
porch/shed, on the end of a chain…. The mutts would end up defecating everywhere
and threatening pedestrians and….
SEPTEMBER 9TH 1999
I did something today that I never thought I would. I ruthlessly removed the bulk of
mum’s ornaments into a box – for sale. I decided that I hate dusting, I need the
space and I need the cash.
The government are threatening to sneak the “importance of marriage” into the
school curriculum. Oh for gawd’s sake!
SEPTEMBER 10TH 1999
I received some encouraging words from two publishers. At least I haven’t received
any letters unopened labelled “return to sender.” The strange thing is though my A4
sized packages both arrived opened. They were haphazardly torn open and no one
had made any attempt to re-seal them. Perhaps it was just a coincidence and they’d
got ripped as the postie shoved them through the letterbox. Two other letters – one
from my solicitor and one from my building society arrived sealed. I hope this
doesn’t mean that the letter sent from a publisher that says “yes” is somehow
prevented from being delivered to me. I decided I was being paranoid.
SEPTEMBER 11TH 1999
Some sly git shoved superglu into my yale lock. More expense, more time wasting,
more anger and frustration…. I would so love to just up sticks and clear off
somewhere – far away from here.
Andrew got stuck into his maths. He remarked that he’s so happy that he doesn’t
have to go to school cos when he was there he had to behave badly just to survive
as just about the whole school were naughty and stupid. Forty percent of secondary
schools fall below the required standard – and that’s the official statistic! It’s pretty
grim.
Jordan simply refused to use the loo. Every time I attempted to put him on he
screamed and tensed up. My bone idle ex can’t be bothered to make sure Jordan
uses the loo – he finds it easier to just shove him back in nappies. It’s not surprising
Jord is confused and angry about using the toilet now. But do the courts care? Do
they hell.
So Robin Cook announces an embargo on arms to Indonesia. Bit ruddy late isn’t it?
- By about twentyfive years.
SEPTEMBER 13TH 1999
I watched a deeply disturbing, heart-wrenching documentary about a fifteen-month
old baby who died because social workers at Islington council failed unforgivably in
their line of duty. The parents were unimaginably despicable in the way they lived
and abused their children. They were given a new house, new equipment and cash
yet they trashed the lot almost immediately and lived in the pigsty of their own
making. The older children occasionally gave a filthy bottle of sour milk to their little
brother when they remembered but the little guy was so weak and badly burned all
over from his own urine and faeces that he couldn’t reach up for it and he died
whimpering. Astoundingly, after the baby’s death, social workers strongly
considered placing the older children back with their wicked parents. It defies belief.
Robin Cook offered his son Peter the chance of a high-flying job in the arms trade.
The Foreign Secretary planned to use labour party contacts to seek a graduate post
at British Aerospace, the firm at the centre of controversy over UK arms sales to
Indonesia. But Cook’s son, a long standing anti-arms activist, refused on principle.
Well done, Pete. Your father is a self-serving hypocrite – gracing the world stage
taking credit for assisting Kosovar refugees on ‘moral grounds’ while selling Bae
Hawk jets to Indonesia to assist in the carnage of E Timoreans.
SEPTEMBER 14TH 1999
My solicitor wrote to me enclosing a letter from Amphletts who stated that they had
“brought your letter to the attention of the court welfare officer.” Amphletts also
“suggest that if you have strong concerns, you write to the court welfare officer
expressing the same….”
I felt quite chuffed cos I slipped into my size twelve shorts with ease. The
diet/exercise plan is at last working.
A radio discussion on the Royals cropped up. I think they are a wealthy, privileged,
dysfunctional family who cost a mint and do the public no good whatsoever. I do not
serve the Queen and am most certainly not one of her subjects. The only good un
they had amongst them was Diana and they got rid of her. They killed her because
she was honest and decent. The rest are such fakes. Diana genuinely did her best
to right so many of the world’s wrongs and improve life for the impoverished and
suffering. In the doing she was shunned by the royal family but greatly admired by
‘her’ people; so much so that she stood head and shoulders above the rest [literally,
and in more ways than one.] God worked through Diana and for that reason Di will
continue to plague the royals from beyond the grave. They didn’t really think they
could silence one of God’s angels when they plotted to kill Diana, did they?
Maureen is a cheeky monkey. She’s now discussing me with my dad as if I’m a four
year old! She told dad that the next fire we have could be fatal. No, you don’t say!
Jesus any fire can be fatal, an electric shock can be fatal, falling [even stepping] off a
ladder can be fatal, choking on a boiled sweet…. Does she actually expect any of us
to believe that they care about my kids? She asked dad if I am a good mum and if I
do live in a rough area…. All she has to do is enquire with the police [on second
thoughts those lying crooks would probably tell her that there’s never any trouble on
our road.] She should just stand one night at the top of my road and observe. But
she wouldn’t dare because she probably already knows that it’s a no-go area and
she’d be scared of being hit by a flying rock. Haven’t these social workers got any
proper work to do?
SEPTEMBER 15TH 1999
Some yobbo has hurled white powder in my yard and on my door and wall. Don’t
those dimwits have anything better to do?
Maureen showed up to antagonise me. She was adamant that the fire was
deliberately set, so we got embroiled in a battle of words. She argued there is no
question of the fire being accidental and that the ‘experts’ had proved it. “On the
contrary,” I retorted, “those so-called experts have proved nothing. The police CID’s Chris Walsh was determined to have us registered at the first conference
when there was no information available at that time from the fire authority. Walshie
couldn’t wait to thrust his eager little hand into the air when the Chair asked for
votes. He reminded me of the smug little schoolboy who is always first with his hand
up, eager to tell the teacher that he knows the answer. I watched him more closely
than the others. I could see he was itching to get us registered. There has to be
something sinister going on. I don’t care what you say; all this is the work of some
secret criminal set-up and Gareth is at the centre of it and is being protected, by the
authorities.” I continued, “Of course the rest of the dummies dutifully followed suit
and priggishly voted their ‘yes’ for us to be in this obscene predicament. All except
two – Eva and Pat.”
Mo continued to insist that the fire was started deliberately. I said, “This is so wrong.
It was such a tiny fire. We did everything correct as far as getting everyone out was
concerned and calling the fire dept immediately. If the public get wind of this story
they’ll be too scared to contact the authorities if they suffer something similar, for fear
of being blamed. Most would probably try to tackle such a fire themselves. I can’t
explain to you the shock I feel at the panel’s attitude and how much stress we are all
under now because of it. I now suffer the constant worry that my abusive, alcoholic,
violent ex could quite conceivably get custody of my babies and I am terrified of
anything else untoward happening because I know it will mean my kids being
removed into ‘care’. Having a fire is absolutely horrendous but all of this is just as
bad, if not worse. It is persecution. Don’t you ever try to tell me that all this is doing
my kids some good.”
I bulldozed on, “What I want to know is why aren’t the authorities doing anything
about the problems in our street, such as the intolerably high levels of Cocaine and
Heroin, which is sweeping sleepy Colwyn Bay? Not only are these dirty disgusting
drugs responsible for most of society’s crime, but more and more victims are
becoming hooked on the deadly weed. It is outrageous. The powers bang on about
their ‘war on drugs’, well if they were serious, our airwaves would be saturated with
adverts and chat shows telling us about the dangers of taking them. I’ve never seen
such warnings. They would also be targeting the smugglers and dealers and Mafia.
The complete flow of drugs and even production can be stopped if that is what
governments seriously want. It CAN be done; if nations can successfully organize
armies to go to war against each other, they can successfully deal with the drugs
problem. The truth is Satan’s servants are liars; they don’t want to stop the masses
spending their money on drugs. And the more people that they can get hooked on
such filth, the better.”
I continued, “The council spend lots of dosh putting little ol’ me through HELL. They
employ you and Deb to torment me weekly with up to two-hourly sessions, they
employ you, Deb, Noella and Anne to pester me monthly with your useless core
groups, they employ a psychiatric social worker to bug me and a special psychiatrist
to waste my time, plus they employ another specialist psychiatrist and his side kick
to harass my kids, and not content with all that, they employ twelve or so highly paid
professionals to gather around a table periodically to discuss ‘proceedings’. What a
scandalous drain on the public purse. They should be using that money to combat
crime and clean up our streets of drugs. They’re going to have to explain
themselves to the public one day because the people will revolt and they will refuse
to pay their taxes. They won’t care if they get lobbed in prison for it; around half of
all prisoners anyway are not criminals, they are political prisoners or victims of
injustice. The council WILL be held accountable and WILL have to answer for their
crimes one day in the not too distant future…. Don’t you realise that if there was no
corruption, people would have hardly any tax to pay anyway.”
Maureen then made my day by informing me that she and Deb are only half way
through their ‘Comprehensive Risk Assessment’ due to various snags. She insisted
that two of them need to visit me weekly but that it hasn’t always been possible
because she or Deb have been absent due to: leave, hols, sickness, Deb’s child
being ill…. I grunted, “I have no choice but to put up with all this nonsense; but one
day I’ll have my say. I’ll never let it drop. The overwhelming anger and sense of
injustice eats away within me, like a growing cancer. This sort of ugly control
freakery cannot be allowed to continue. There must be some big changes and there
WILL be. GOD will decide when.”
She then started asking me if I have ‘support systems’ and that she wouldn’t want
me to be feeling ‘isolated’. I told her not to bother pretending to be worried about
me. I said, “I don’t exactly have much time for me and to do things that I enjoy, such
as sport or having a night out with friends. My time is wasted because of you lot,
court welfare officers, solicitors, local yobbos, idiotic adults, savage dogs and
ineffectual police…. Now, my court fight with my intolerable ex is more complicated
and is dragging on because of your peccadilloing. But, for your information, you can
write down in your note book that: yes I have friends and squash buddies…. and if
you nitwits would leave me alone I could go out and enjoy them, become relaxed
and happy again and a better mum to my kids. Don’t you realise that this intrusion is
not healthy for me and doesn’t exactly put me in a brilliant frame of mind?” Well, she
jumped on that, didn’t she and asked if I needed social services’ assistance –
someone to take the kids off me occasionally to give me a bit of a break. I barked,
“No chance. Not in a million years. Do you think I’d trust you lot? Hells bells, I can’t
believe you people. I’ve heard it all now. You’re just not listening, are you? If I just
dropped dead now, you’d still be coming here bothering me and blabbing on about
nothing whilst everything around you has gone to rack and ruin. You know, Hitler
was allowed to continue his murderous campaign because people had their heads
stuck in the sand. They thought his behaviour wouldn’t affect them, and when they
did finally realise that they too were going to be victims, it was too late to do anything
about it.”
She began bugging me with questions that I’ve answered repeatedly before, such
as: What’s Andrew’s middle name? Were you married to Gaven? Bloody incredible!
Astonishingly she even began to preach that I shouldn’t blacken Gareth to the kids. I
boomed, “Oh yes I should – I’m no pretender like you people. Andrew and Shell
know all about Gareth’s lies and wicked ways. They deserve the truth and will never
get it from the likes of you. It’s high time that all the agencies/individuals who purport
to be members of the ‘welfare’ and ‘justice’ system stop the lies and cover ups, and
condemn and punish the evil ones. It is scandalous that public servants buck pass
and seek to make their jobs easy rather than solve society’s problems. It is a
disgrace that they try to find an ‘equilibrium’ and that they’re fond of fudge up,
compromise and appeasement. Everyone should be doing their bit to stop the
spread of evil, which means bringing to book the real offenders. Better still let’s see
the ‘ordinary’ people challenge the corruption, which is endemic in society. Let’s see
mass demonstrations and demands for transparency and public scrutiny of ALL
dealings regarding all governments – local and national, and all government
agencies. Then we might start seeing justice and peace.”
Mo was adamant that my including the kids will have a damaging effect on them and
that I am influencing them negatively. I barked, “You lot have put my kids in this
obscene predicament. The only thing I can do for them now is to explain that they
have done nothing wrong and are not to blame and that the police and fire ‘experts’
should not accuse Andrew. If I didn’t talk about all this and explain where the blame
really lies, they WOULD crack up and go off the rails. That’s what happens to people
who suffer an injustice. They go insane in the end. Kids should know about
corruption; then they can do something about it. If I’m sinning in my outlook, then
the likes of you are far greater sinners. You, yourself, are committing a crime
against humanity because you refuse to challenge your guilty superiors. Instead you
work for them - you are on their pay roll; also you urge me to help you spread the
evil. You do that by persecuting me and by asking me to lie to my children.” I
informed Mo that her daughter/sister might one day date the likes of Gareth and that
afterwards she’d want all the help she could get to expose him for what he is and
have him punished. She would also want to expose the bent bureaucrats who are
his protectors. Maureen did have the decency to agree. She went quiet and just
nodded. I tried to get her to understand that this is not about revenge; it is about
doing the right thing and stopping the rot – for everyone’s sakes. And that means
attacking the people at the top of the tree – the ones with ultimate responsibility for
the destruction, degradation and dehumanisation that our world is in right now.
I again banged on about the dirty drugs and baccy scandal and said that I fear for my
children’s futures. I told her that I’m terrified that my kids might start taking weed and
other dirty drugs etc when they’re older. They are bound to at least try it because it
will be pushed on them, just as it is with all the other kids. I banged on about all the
evil influence out there and the amount of kids who are already addicts and heading
for the gutters…. I said that no matter how good parents are at parenting, they are
powerless to stop their kids trying harmful substances because kids are influenced
from their peers. You can’t wrap teenagers up in cotton wool and keep them
indoors. I reminded Mo that it is the duty of the authorities to clamp down on the
dirty drug business. But Maureen’s ‘concerns’ for my kids’ welfare didn’t stretch that
far. She wasn’t listening. She just wasn’t interested in the wider picture - in the
things that really matter.
She then progressed to the alterations of the minutes that I’d requested and
informed me that Graham Seale won’t agree to it because he says that whatever
was spoken in the minutes was correct. I retorted, “Which goes to show that those
meetings should be taped because there are inaccuracies such as the reference to
Andrew’s ‘diaries’ – he has no diary and I made it clear they were my diary notes.”
She also informed me that they’d chased up the identity of the so-called friend of a
friend of Gareth’s but that they cannot disclose it to me. Bloody liars, did they hell. I
spat, “Well bloody surprise, surprise! No prizes for guessing why! Social services
surround themselves in a shroud of sinister secrecy. It’s staggering that we allow
our public servants to operate in this closed way. You don’t need to be a bright
spark to work out why such organisations are a sordid safe breeding ground for
corruption. The truth is social services simply cannot deal with, do not have the
resources to deal with and don’t want to deal with the real problematic families and
evil buggers like Gareth. Just like the CSA, they can only cope with decent meek
families who volunteer information – the very people who don’t want/need/deserve
such authoritarian harassment. It seems to me that they waste grotesque amounts
of the public’s money on persecuting and suppressing the peaceloving harmless and
law-abiding - the ones who love their children and only want to protect them. Social
services do the exact opposite of what they’re supposed to stand for. God bless the
day when people in their droves refuse to co-operate with officialdom. They can’t
lob us all in jail. And especially God bless those who challenge officialdom and bring
to book the evildoers.”
When my aggravator had gone, Jordan planted himself behind me and rolled his
tennis ball up my back. Oh it was a heavenly massage! I told him to do it again.
It was quite ironic when I read in the local rag that “foster carers are to be paid fees
in a new scheme by Conwy County Council because of the crisis faced by the local
authorities in finding sufficient numbers of foster families.” That is atrocious since
there are oodles of fit and proper carers out there willing and able to do the job but
who are turned down for petty reasons. And, worse, there are perfectly suitable
people willing to do the job but are deliberately and mischievously prevented from
doing so for no particular reason other than spite.
SEPTEMBER 16TH 1999
The Core group crowd came to cause me more inconvenience. I kicked off about
the scheduled 6th October conference arrangements pointing out that since Mo and
Deb hadn’t finished their program of harassment and the psychiatrists’ hadn’t exactly
started theirs, what was the point in all of us gathering around a table to discuss
something which hasn’t exactly progressed anywhere, especially since their bit of
circus entertainment is a waste of everyone’s time and the taxpayer’s cash. Ah ha! I
won a little victory. They all agreed with me and Mo decided she’d try to get the
session postponed. Anne mentioned that eczema is cause for concern and that it is
a factor that determines whether a child is registered. That’s another lie but I
couldn’t be bothered arguing the toss. We got yakking again about corruption and
injustice and the evils of the world and I said that I wasn’t getting at any of them per
se and that my anger and frustration is directed at society’s systems, the money
priests and bent bosses. I told them, “You are mere puppets in the scheme of things
– meekly obeying your masters. I obey a higher boss who knows all about truth and
lies, good and bad.”
Melly woke up, did not want to socialise with the people in my lounge and buried her
face into my neck. They all remarked that she’s shy. What does this word ‘shy’
mean? In my book it means you don’t want to talk to someone for a variety of
reasons. Everyone feels this at different times. It doesn’t mean you’re scared of
someone – it just means you’d rather not bother with somebody [or more than one
body] because of the mood you’re in sometimes. Eventually they all sodded off.
Later dad and I argued. He said I must stop filling the kids’ heads with spirit talk, that
people who believe in God are cranks and that all kids are liars. He said, “If Andrew
did start that fire, I jolly well hope he’s learned his lesson.” I told him that he should
not accuse on a mere whim and that these social worker gangsters are succeeding
in bringing us all to blows. I said that I can’t prove that we didn’t start the fire and
they can’t prove that we did and that the whole stupid situation is stagnant and
getting us nowhere. He again said that I should be careful what I say to Mo and co
and again warned me that the way I’m going, I will lose my kids. I asked, “Do you
want me to surrender? I have a right to speak out against this farcicalness. How
else are we going to achieve changes? We have to challenge the authorities. It is
long overdue for the worm to turn.”
In the evening Andrew told me that God says that I must now back off from attacking
the authorities. He said, “God told me to tell you that you’ve got your message over.
Now you must change tactics - become mild, play their game.” He continued, “God
says: don’t bother getting all angry anymore. Shouting, screaming, throwing yourself
around is all negative energy and does you no good. God says such behaviour is for
the under fives and that you need to keep your cool in order to do the job he expects
of you and has entrusted you with.” I’m so shocked and confused with events so far
that I found myself staring at him open-mouthed and then meekly nodding in
agreement. Quite often, when I speak to those in authority, it isn’t really me
speaking anyway. It’s as if I’m being taken over by something and the words just
tumble out. I start off by behaving myself and being like dad wants me to be but then
something happens and I just change and then there’s no holding me back. I just let
rip. I can’t explain it really.
SEPTEMBER 17TH 1999
Dad showed me the envelope that birdbrain had sent his twelve pounds monthly
payment in. It had a two pence stamp on it! The archfiend won’t set up a standing
order because he has every intention of defaulting.
Dad then asked me for a copy of the first two or three months of this diary so that he
can show my manuscript to his writer friend. Apparently this friend has had some
success as a writer and knows what agents/ publishers et cetera are looking for with
a view to taking on new writers. This bloke is prepared to give me some advice.
Well, that’s mighty decent of him. I’ll take all the help I can get, especially as it is so
hard to get work published.
Vera’s second ‘welfare’ report arrived. It states almost immediately that we had a
fire and that all four of my children are now on the “Conwy Child Protection register
under the category of risk of physical harm.” Oh terrific. This is going to go down
like a ton of bricks with the court. The welfare officer writes, “The fire on 20 th May
was brought to the attention of the social services department by the fire service who
also referred the matter to the N W Police. It would appear that having dealt with the
minor kitchen fire, the fire officer became concerned by comments made by Ms Kilby
about the supernatural happenings she had been experiencing.” So there you have
it in black and white – fire fighter Brian is my betrayer and the reason we now have
to endure this relentless witch-hunt. Summut told me I was making a big mistake
entrusting him.
Fair play Vera says that his nibs makes spurious and unfounded referrals and that
his watching and apparent knowledge of my every move is considered harassment.
Vera also writes, “It is Mr Williams’ perception that Jordan and Melissa do not wish to
return to their mother and that this leads to arguments at handovers.” Lying b…. std.
I don’t bother arguing with the evil-minded little man anymore. Anyway I daren’t; it’d
only provoke him. I take the babies and shut the door in his face, leaving him
complaining to himself. More often than not tho, sometime during the day or evening
on a Thursday or Saturday, one or both of the babies is upset, whingy, clingy, hyper,
destructive….
She enclosed a copy of the police’s input, which states, “The police attended to
domestic differences between or emanating from these persons; suitable advice was
preferred; there were elements of exaggeration on both sides.” Well that doesn’t
paint a very honest picture. The truth is their so-called ‘advice’ was merely buckpassing to solicitors. They should’ve instigated harassment charges. Chief
superintendent L Davies’ way of dealing with a menace like Gareth is to threaten the
victim with ‘bound over’ charges! And I did not exaggerate about the annoying
behaviour of Gareth and his vengeful family. The report continues, “Mr Williams
chose to resign of his own volition having been advised that the parties difficulties
and continued involvement of the police in their differences was not compatible with
the role.” Which would imply that the police do believe me and support me, and if
that’s the case why the ‘bound over’ threat? If they are taking Gareth’s allegations
against me seriously, why didn’t they query his complaints with me? They didn’t;
which suggests that they know he’s lying; yet whenever I called police out regarding
him, they responded, so why wasn’t such acknowledged in their report? If he was a
good special constable, and if he enjoyed his job and they valued him [and the police
are certainly crying out for staff], then why would he be asked to resign? Supposing
I am the liar and he isn’t harassing and stalking me. If that was the case it would be
astonishing that an innocent man had to resign. Also, why do authorities hide
behind vague terminology such as “parties difficulties”? The fact is I am the only one
experiencing ‘difficulties’ because Gareth Williams is making false allegations
about me and is harassing me yet the powers that be refuse to stop him; they
prefer the easy option of remaining neutral. What a cop out. Gareth has no
‘difficulties’. We’re not damaging his house, snooping around his yard, lying our
heads off about him to: NSPCC, Social Workers, Police etc etc etc.
Vera adds, “Ms Kilby and Mr Williams are actively involved in collecting evidence
which they hope will denigrate the other in the eyes of the court which is unhelpful
and focuses their attention away from the children’s needs.” Again this is a neutral,
incorrect comment. The facts should be stated and sides taken. I am forced to
collect ‘proof’ of his blatant lies and I’m fighting to keep my head above water. In my
case it is sink or swim whereas he is just being a bloody-minded troublemaker. My
attention is always focused on the children’s needs, which is why I’m desperately
trying to limit contact with their alcoholic abusive father.
She writes, “Ms Kilby’s parenting ability is being looked at by social services. The
court will be concerned that the fire incident is largely unexplained and risk of future
problems while the children are in their mother’s care cannot be discounted. Mr
Williams’ parenting ability is not in question.” How bloody outrageous can you get?
By now social services’ records on GW’s older children [referrals which were made
by head teachers of three schools] should be revealed in detail on this court welfare
report for scrutiny by the court since the father of those children is also the father of
the two children in question now. If any of these so-called ‘child welfare workers’
really cared about the welfare of children, they’d be falling over themselves trying to
get social services’ and Nia Smith’s [the EWO] records on Mr Williams’ older
children. Also they’d be harassing the head teachers of the three schools
demanding further information in detail. This is especially so since GW is not
willing to disclose the information himself i.e. to prove to everyone that despite
investigations into his alleged abuse of his children he has been found not guilty and
is therefore a good parent. Since he is not prepared to let us see the official reports,
we can conclude that he has something to hide. That makes it all the more reason
why the ‘child welfare workers’ should insist on their disclosure. Why the reluctance
to get to the truth? I have a sneaking suspicion that if the boot was on the other foot
and I had been investigated following referrals [especially since some of them came
from school head teachers] regarding my suspected abuse of my children, the
reports on such would have been available for scrutiny by all and sundry long before
now!
Moreover why is it not stated in this report that the so-called ‘burn’ concern, which
was mentioned in Vera’s first report, was in fact merely common infantile eczema as
stated in the conference minutes? She states that I’d do well to comply with social
services instead of resenting their involvement. Well she can go take a hike.
Anyone with an ounce of self-respect would kick up a stink under such
circumstances. Vera does acknowledge that my abominable ex told her that he has
me “watched” and that his behaviour is making matters worse, which may have a
knock on effect on the children. But she says, “Neither Ms Kilby or Mr Williams
appear willing to accept responsibility for the situation and they should work together
for the welfare of their children.” Which gets back to the point that he is the troubleshooter and begs the question how can you work with someone who lies and
engages in criminal activities?
Vera concludes with the remarks that, “Contact is benefiting Jordan and Melisa.”
How on earth can she be in a position to pass such a judgemental and influential
remark? I know how unsettled, insecure and problematic Jordy and Melly are
because of contact with Gareth Williams. If Alcoholics Anonymous divulged
information to the court about his alcoholic dependency, if Social Services in
Gwynedd and Conwy came clean with their disturbing knowledge of Gareth’s
violence and abuse of his children, if the Police were honest about their knowledge
of Gareth’s criminal activities…. the Court would agree with me that any contact with
such an unsavoury character is a further unforgivable abuse.
I was amazed to hear a discussion on Talk Radio about external examiners bending
the rules with marking to give kids a more favourable grade. Some examiners
resigned in disgust. The SATS tests are a joke because teachers help their pupils
out. No one takes SATS seriously since most kids cheat. Many parents phoned in
to say that lots of university graduates are illiterate. Teachers and their assistants
state that school kids are failing at reading/writing and numbers and that GCSEs and
‘A’ levels are worthless. Sobering thoughts. The discussion progressed then to
some bright spark from the ‘education’ department insisting that there is no evidence
to suggest that smaller classes are more beneficial. Oh for heavens sakes. If this is
the mentality of our ‘experts’ then God help us. How about the evidence of common
sense?
SEPTEMBER 18TH 1999
Over breakfast Melly abruptly stopped everything that she was doing, began to
concentrate in earnest, went red in the face and made little noises. After a few
seconds she broke into a huge smile, said “aaah” and continued with her cornflakes.
Just as I was about to go off on my regular jog, I noticed a handbag abandoned by
my wall and the contents strewn all over my drive. Some poor woman had lost her
prize possession. Amazingly nothing appeared to have been stolen because I found
her license, make up, comb, keys, letters, photos and even fifteen pounds in cash. I
promptly handed it in to police.
When I opened the door to greet my babies after contact, Jordy was [as usual] in a
hurry to come in. I noticed GW giving him a sharp tug by the hand. He’s done it
before. I’m sure he does it to make pud cry so that he can claim that Jordy doesn’t
want to come home. As he passes Melly to me he says, “Sorry, you’ve got to go
back to your mum.”
SEPTEMBER 19TH 1999
A documentary about the CSA reveals the shocking truth that the CSA admitted
giving up chasing hard targets. They pursued easy prey – people they could extract
cash from and [worse] they demanded obscene amounts off willing payers just to
recoup losses and reach targets. They had a shameful secret change in policy of
dropping all non-profitable stuff. Maybe that’d explain why I have only received one
letter from the CSA regarding my despicable ex and why I haven’t yet received a
solitary bean off him, yet Jordy is now two and a half years old.
SEPTEMBER 20TH 1999
Alistair Darling prattles on about causes of poverty. That’s a bit like querying the
causes of crime! It’s called dishonesty and greed of the filthy rich i.e. the top ten
percent of the population and the injustices they cause others. And if Darling and his
cabinet cronies can’t grasp that, they should stop claiming their hefty pay packets
and go on benefit.
SEPTEMBER 21ST 1999
John Owens told me that despite Vera’s views we can’t use her as evidence against
the beast for harassment charges. He keeps telling me this is all “part and parcel” of
the family court proceedings. [I bet that wouldn’t be the case if I was the guilty party
though!] Here is a situation where a Welfare Officer believes GW is harassing me,
yet we can’t use her evidence. I’ve read in the papers that some blokes have been
jailed for cases of harassment and yet there has never been any mention that a
welfare officer or social worker or other professional considers the man’s behaviour
to be harassment; the evidence was just that the bloke made a few unfounded
referrals, together with other minor things, such as that he made a few nuisance calls
to his ex, had driven down her road a few times…. Owens also tells me there is
bugger all I can do about him reeking of alcohol during contact sessions. So he
could be drunk as a lord and the message seems to be “tough.” Regarding social
services’ records on his kids, John told me that Amphletts stress that it was only a
matter of truancy, which was resolved. “Yeah right – and the rest,” I hissed, “If that
was the only problem then why not reveal them? He has nothing to fear and nothing
to hide and neither do Gwynedd County Council.” John assured me that we’ll order
them through the court on Tuesday next. I asked about the fire aftermath photos
from CID. John is puzzled as to the delay. I’m wondering if he did request them or if
he is lying to me. He agreed that with regard to my ‘Comprehensive Risk
Assessment’, social services are making a mountain out of a molehill since they
seem to be doing very little regarding their so-called assessment.
Mel’s eating habits are atrocious. I’m just glad her granddad never comes for tea –
he’d be depressed. With her it’s a case of ten fistfuls with the left hand and one
spoonful with the right. Then she slyly picks up her half-full bowl and sneakily slings
it over the side! She and Jord are really into carrot cake at the minute and gobble up
seconds and thirds….
Little Jamie Bulger’s parents are in the European Court of Human Rights fighting for
justice. They have been through hell and back because of evil Venables and
Thompson. This tragedy is an extreme example of what eventually happens when
kids [and adults] are not stopped in their wrongdoings. All child offenders start by
indulging in little pranks which they get away with, so they get more daring until they
turn out to be downright dangerous. They know that the police won’t stop them, that
Jo Public can’t teach them a lesson, that social services are useless and that courts
merely slap them on the wrist and send them back out on the streets to re-offend.
The way the world is heading, evil will triumph because there is nothing to stop it.
The authorities are aiding and abetting evil. It is so hard to fight for justice and so
easy to just give up. I love to hear stories of the worm turning where, after much
perseverance, the victim eventually wins and changes for the better are achieved.
Unfortunately such stories are becoming less and less frequent. Nevertheless, God
bless all the people who do battle for years [lifetimes even] for justice, because their
fight is everyone’s fight.
Why all the hype regarding the millennium dome? Who really gives a fig about that
bloody big monstrosity? The seven hundred million quid could be better spent
elsewhere. And who really cares about a new year/decade/century/millennium
anyway? What’s different? Nothing; except more pain and suffering and death for
more and more innocent people. Anyway January 1st 2000 doesn’t even constitute
a new millennium, January 1st 2001 does. Since when have we started a new
decade at the start of the tenth year?
Andrew and Shell bought some balloons for their science experiments. They began
blowing them up but when a couple went bang, Jordy got scared, jumped on my lap
and cried, “Bad baloo.”
This afternoon a PC [1302] came to my door to play hell with Andrew for stealing and
injuring a valued horse at some stables in Llysfaen at the weekend. He started
wagging a finger at Andrew and he began to sternly reprimand my son, saying that
the vet had to be called three times…. I was so livid my blood began to boil. This
seemed to be a repeat of the PC 939 farce and the CCTV fabrication, where on both
occasions Andrew was undeservedly incriminated. I cut him short and demanded to
know exact details: When did it happen – the day, date, time? What exactly
happened to the horse? What was Andrew feeding the horse? What did Andrew
steal? Where are the stables? Did police see the injured horse? I told him that I
have a strong suspicion that we are talking about the stables that back onto Gareth’s
back garden and that Gareth is behind this seedy little set up somewhere.
PC 1302 was quick [too quick for my liking] to assure me that this has nothing to do
with Gareth. I said, “It’s a bit strange that police didn’t query this with me at the
weekend. Why wait until Wednesday?” He was not too hot on the details but
stressed the point that it was definitely my kids who had been seen up there by a
Mrs Cooper and that my kids had often been seen by others in that area too,
recently. I asked if he’d seen the sick horse. He said he hadn’t and that he hadn’t
spoken to Cooper but had just been given a message to question me about it and to
warn my kids. I informed him that because of all the problems I’m having with my ex
and the authorities, my kids are barely out of my sight….
He told me he knows all about the ongoing hassles I’ve got with Gareth and even the
schizo dog and that he’s shocked that nothing is being done for me. I told him that
something secretive and sinister is going on and that it would appear that Gareth has
got the full weight of the police, social services, council and possibly even my
solicitor on his side. The officer told me of an incident where a woman had only left
her partner a few weeks ago and that her ex has merely driven down her road a few
times and sent her some letters yet he’s being charged with harassment statements have been filed and the court date already set.
We got nattering then on a more level pegging. He wasn’t surprised to hear that all
of my kids are registered ‘at risk’ and he told me that someone he knows is going
through the same thing and that it is purely personal and vindictive on the part of the
authorities. He joked that they’d lock me up because I’m a pain in the neck to the
council. He agreed it’s always the good folk who get targeted by social services and
police and that hardened criminals are left alone. I joked, “So if I threaten GBH with
serious intent to social workers, do you think they’ll back off and remove my kids’
names off that vile piece of paper that states ‘AT RISK’ and which spells out
corruption, control and council power abuse.” He laughed and nodded.
SEPTEMBER 23RD 1999
The kids and I paid Mrs Dewi Jones of Wylfa Dafydd riding centre, Llysfaen [next
door to Gareth’s] a visit. I had my mini tape recorder in my bag. She was taken
aback and flustered. She said that Shell had been seen by her husband feeding the
horses a feed that they shouldn’t have had and that her employee, Mrs Cooper, had
seen my children at the weekend…. And then she made an excuse to escape to the
sanctuary of her home to seek her husband’s protection.
While the kids and I waited ten minutes for her return, we gazed around at their
riches – the vast amount of land, the large stables, the sumptuous house, the
collection of expensive cars…. And we wondered why this family had concocted
such a vicious lie in collaboration with the police. We heard the phone ringing
periodically and we saw a woman polishing. Mrs Dewi Jones returned to feed us a
pack of lies and to deny that anyone else was in the house. She accused Andrew of
sitting on her goat field gate last Monday and she said that this was definitely nothing
to do with Gareth and that it was not her horse but Dafydd’s. She was very hazy
about what had been stolen and then ended up by saying that she wasn’t one
hundred percent sure that it was my two children. I was invited to meet with her
husband at the weekend.
Dad was incensed when he heard the tape and said that we’ll chase it up.
It’s not often that you get your MP sitting in your lounge but this afternoon, to his
credit, Gareth Thomas sat with me and dad discussing my dilemma and my
concerns of losing my babies to a child batterer, my kids into care and my loss of job.
He was extremely supportive and agreed that the authorities are making much ado
about nothing and that I was suffering an unfair stigma. He assured us that he’d
write to the council’s chief executive asking that my children be released from this
unwarranted ‘at risk’ label, and he commented that I’m a bit of a thorn in the council’s
side. On asking whom I thought responsible for registering my kids, he didn’t seem
surprised when I informed him that, without doubt, the police were to blame.
Shell stood at the kitchen sink quietly washing up when, for no apparent reason, she
suddenly asked, “What does revolution mean?” I was quite taken aback. Where
would such a complex word come from? It didn’t seem normal for a ten-year old. I
enquired as to why she wanted to know and she said it had just appeared strongly in
her head and that a voice had told her to “ask your mum.” “Wow” I responded, “It
means big changes – as in masses of people fighting and conquering the people in
government.” This isn’t the first time the kids have prophesised. They’ve spoken of
divine intervention and the ultimate doomsday [in six-years time] if we haven’t by
then changed [preferably by verbal persuasion] the majority of the world’s population
into Godly citizens. If we fail and doomsday arrives, we will all suffer eternal hell
when we die because hell will spill over into heaven since Satan will not have been
defeated on Earth. God bless protesters who risk their lives and freedom
challenging authority; and God bless journalists who risk all to tell all.
SEPTEMBER 24TH 1999
Dad phoned police asking to speak to a senior officer and explained that since
Gareth is such a deceitful troublemaker and is having me watched, we feel he is
connected to this latest incident and that we want it investigated.
Almost immediately a constable was sent around to see us - PC 1651 no less – the
same one who had accused my kids of being in grave danger from the sea, had said
they’d been spotted on CCTV and had threatened the ‘at risk’ register. Dad and I
told the PC that we want details from the police of: Who made the allegations?
What time? When? Did police visit the farm? Did the police see the injured horse?
What is the incident number? Et cetera. We also made it clear that since this is
slander and harassment, we want statements from Dewi Jones and his wife, Mrs
Cooper and Dafydd.
Talk about being fed a cock and bull story! The PC said it’d take a while to find out
the police details. He said, “I’ll have to sift through Saturday to Wednesday…. It’ll
take me three hours.” We pointed out that since the crime is so serious and that a
valued horse has been injured, it is inconceivable that my kids weren’t kept there so
that police could catch them red handed. The officer thought they may change their
mind after he’s visited them and that it could be a case of mistaken identity. PC said
he’ll have to speak to Gareth first; until we told him that PC 1302 had categorically
stated that this has nothing to do with Gareth; then he quickly added, “No but I need
to locate this Dewi Jones. I know where Gareth lives.” He said he’d go immediately
and ask Dewi Jones when they reported it…. “Bloody lying pigs,” I snarled to dad. “If
any of this was genuine, he wouldn’t be rushing of to speak to Dewi Jones, he’d be
checking out the police notes.”
After about an hour, PC 1651 returned to gush, “She spoke to police; she wants to
see you Sunday. Get your facts together; she wants you to take your daughter to
make sure it’s her.” I said I’d do that but that I still want all the details of the police’s
version. He insisted it’d take too long but that if I got details off Cooper and a
specific day, he’d do it. He babbled on, “It’d only take half an hour; there’s only a
couple of us on.” He said that the family had found some of the lost things and that
Mrs Jones didn’t want to see my kids up there again. He repeated that he couldn’t
check up the police details because Mrs Jones hadn’t said what day the crime took
place. [I struggled to keep a straight face at what I was hearing from this idiot. For
starters PC1302 had said that the alleged crime was committed at the weekend.
Why didn’t Police Clot 1651 find out more from his colleague? I didn’t mock him or
argue with him because I wanted to get as much incriminating evidence against him
as possible. If I had, he would’ve just buggered off.] He rambled on about the horse
not having been poisoned but something vague about receiving a “feed that it
shouldn’t have had,” getting colic and running mad. He made a point of saying that
she stresses this has nothing to do with Gareth. He assured me he’d show me the
incident if she has phoned police; then he emphasized that nothing will come of it
except suitable advice and that it is not a criminal matter so it doesn’t involve police.
I got the whole lot on tape for future use.
SEPTEMBER 25TH 1999
For no reason the devil’s disciple aggressively greeted my with, “You’d better watch
Andrew and Shelly because friends of mine have caught them up to no good and the
police are watching them.” I poker facedly replied, “If you or any of your henchmen
are targeting any of us, look out. If anything happens to my kids, I will kill you; if
anything happens to me, dad will kill you.” I was surprised to see him back off a little
bit then.
The kids and I went fishing at Llysfaen. They didn’t even get a bite for the whole
session but just as we were about to leave, Andrew exploded with excitement,
announcing that he’d caught one and that it was a Perch. So I said he could perch
himself over that gate cos we have to go NOW.
When the babies turned up at 1.00 pm, Jordy tore down my drive like a bat outa hell
yelling, “Mum mum mum.” He would not look back and doggedly refused to kiss his
father goodbye. Melly too was all smiles and her fit little body pulsated with emotion
as I took her into my arms. She also turned away from him when he tried to kiss her.
Jordy and Melly were hyped up for most of the remainder of the day. Jordan was
screaming hysterically and thrashing and Melly sucked ferociously on her fingers.
Jord rigidly refused to use the toilet. Obviously something has happened [or is
happening] in Gareth’s house that bothers them. They often display disturbing
behaviour after being with him but they’ve not been quite so bad. It doesn’t matter
what agonies a child goes through during visitation sessions though, judges always
rules their continuation and that it is “in the child’s best interests.”
SEPTEMBER 26TH 1999
The kids, babies and I climbed into a taxi and, armed with secret tape recorder,
confronted the wealthy liars of Llysfaen – Dewi Jones of DJ Construction, his wife
and two employees. Talk about contradiction, evasiveness, verbal abuse,
aggression and falsehoods! And in the doing they didn’t even have the courtesy to
offer us a cup of tea! Apparently they all saw Andrew and Shell coming and going all
day Saturday and Sunday and Monday afternoon. My kids were also supposedly
seen up there a week prior; and even a year ago they were [according to this lot] told
off about messing with their hosepipe in their stables. They’d allegedly been giving
the horses a “feed.” I was told that police didn’t visit the farm and that the horse cut
herself in the stable because she was writhing in agony – she needed stitches.
Cooper said she’d tried all weekend to get hold of police and only managed it on
Monday when she reported it to PC1302. I asked why they weren’t claiming
compensation since they know the culprits and the horse is a champion one worth
fourteen grand, but the answer was, “We’re not like that.” Dafydd told me there was
no incident number. Then he said, “They must know themselves that they’re guilty.”
Mrs Jones balled her head off at me telling me to, “Shut up and listen.” [That’s a
sure sign of defeat.] Then she had the gall to order, “Tell your kids to stay away.
Make sure they don’t come here again.” Getting louder and more anxious, she
screamed, “I’m very busy; I haven’t got time; they’ve been identified by two people;
they’ve been seen here a lot. If they are here again, I’LL call police. Now GET OFF
MY PROPERTY.”
Graciously I made my goodbyes and remarked to the lady of the house – Mrs Dewi
Jones – that this kind of wanton vandalism against a defenceless horse [and a
valuable one at that] and theft of horsy items simply cannot be tolerated. I told her
that these two naughty look-a-likes of Andrew and Shell must be caught since they
are creating such havoc in Llysfaen amongst residents and may move on to create
mayhem in other areas and amongst other prize livestock or even people’s pets. I
explained that I’ve had many dealings of late with the police regarding juvenile
delinquents and that I’ve found the authorities to be totally incapable and slip-shod
and that to that end I think it is a good idea that I write to the papers to expose our
concerns. I said that with her condemnation of our incompetent police and my views
on the same in black and white in the local rag, together we should help force the
drive toward a real crack down on crime. But for some reason, she paled and wasn’t
very enthusiastic….
After our enlightening encounter, the kids and I headed towards the bus stop and
waited…. fifty minutes, but since no bus was forthcoming, we ended up walking the
three and a half miles home. It took us an hour. The kids took it in turns to push
Jordan in the pram while I carried Mel. Thankfully it was a mild, dry day but as soon
as we stepped into the house, the heavens opened. It was as if God was holding the
rain off just long enough for us to reach our safe haven!
I tried to locate PC 1302 but was told that he’d been transferred to Holywell and that
he’s on leave now for a few weeks. I then spoke with PC 1651 to tell him the date
that the crime was reported. He said he’d get back to me. I also asked if he’d give
PC 1302 a message to phone me.
I told dad of my findings and said that my confidence in the police is absolutely zilch
now. I said, “Lets not beat about the bush, they are a sham and have sucked us into
this gross charade. I hate knowing that they won’t protect us and that [worse] they
harass us with fibs and fabrications.” Even trusting ol’ dad is shocked at this latest
incident. He told me that a friend of his [who owns horses] says that horses don’t get
ill because of a ‘feed’. I told him that this isn’t the first time that Dewi Jones has
called cops accusing Andrew and Shell of fictitious crimes and that according to
Gareth Williams [who alerted Vera with his ‘concerns’], my kids have been seen up
at the stables before letting the horses out and that police were involved.
I told dad I must be within my right to sue the council and associated agencies for
uncalled for severe stress, harassment and child abuse since all of this is putting me
and Andrew and Shell under considerable strain. So much so that we all now have
complete disregard for officials. I then said, “Strangely and despite everything, my
experience with Gareth has done me good and has made me stronger. Before I met
him I used to be so trusting of everyone. I never understood the meaning of
malicious and vindictive and it’s opened my eyes wide to the questionable activities
of our administration. I now believe the ‘top brass’ are evil thugs. But this is not a
joke. It is reality. And it is worrying.”
I told him of my recent post being intercepted and that all publisher’s envelopes plus
unusual looking letters and packages arrived either open [slit down one side] or with
evidence of someone’s half-hearted attempt of a re-seal. I said, “I swear the
establishment want me mentally and physically ill and in a mental asylum; which will
mean more expense for the taxpayer – for medical and institutional fees and the fees
of a children’s home for Andrew and Shell.” I ranted, “It makes me furious that in the
cases of ‘disruptive’ children who are expelled from school and whose parents beg
for officialdom intervention and local authority ‘care’ for their kids, SOCIAL
SERVICES TURN A BLIND EYE.” I bleated, “There is no one in authority that I can
turn to. They are all out to get us. Even a solicitor can’t help us. We are prisoners.
Police and social services watch our every move. We can barely live off our measly
income and I’m now denied the opportunity to work for pocket money. If they can do
this to little old me, what the hell is going on behind closed doors – at boardroom
meetings, council offices, and the like?” I bellowed, “B…. sts all of you. Burn in hell
where you belong. God will save only the worthy. You evil scum can torment
yourselves in the roaring fires of hell.”
Hundreds of years ago if you questioned authority you were chucked in prison. It’s
not much different now – your life is made hell, you have no freedom and the more
problematic you become, the more you suffer and the bigger the death threat. The
government think they can combat any challenge to their self-seeking, gold-digging,
dictatorial regime by murder and by employing more police to protect themselves but
they don’t realise that more and more little warriors are protesting vehemently.
We’re all going to die anyway. Might as well go down fighting - and cause some bad
barstewards a few problems in the doing. The real saints are the ones working
quietly behind the scenes towards real change.
Dad tried to calm me down but he was on a losing streak. I continued, “It’s long
overdue for the top brass to be forced to reveal their dubious dealings in detail for
public scrutiny. They MUST be held accountable. We must stamp out secrecy and
sinfulness and they must be obliged to explain their expenditures and actions. There
should be no such thing as ‘spin-doctoring’, just pure and simple truth. Our
government care more about their spin doctors than they do about real doctors.” I
told him, “I never realised I had such strong feelings and willpower but then again
I’ve never been threatened with losing the only things that matter to me – my four
babies. I’m just so grateful that Andrew and Shelly have the maturity and insight to
deal with all this and that we know that all these things are happening for a reason
and that there will eventually be light at the end of the tunnel – for all humankind.”
As I spoke of God, he scoffed and told me that the world has always been like this. I
said, “If you were oppressed you’d fight for freedom and righteousness then.” He
agreed. I added, “One day you may come to know God.” But he jeered, “Pigs might
fly, but if by some remote chance I do start to believe, I’ll come to you and admit I
was wrong.” I told him that he didn’t need to do that but that I’d sincerely be very
happy for him.
SEPTEMBER 27TH 1999
Jordan must be in love with teletubbies. He was so engrossed in them that he was
totally oblivious of the fact that his little sister was playing with his sacred cars.
I took the heavy artillery [my dad] for a meeting with the solicitor. We briefed him on
the Dewi Jones slander incident and the role of the police and I gave him copies of
the tape recordings and transcript. John is aware of my suspicions of a conspiracy
to displace my children and that I feel the police have an active role in the murky
proceedings and that this latest questionable affair just strengthens my belief that
Gareth is pulling strings and that the police are guilty of wrongdoing. Dad and I
asked about suing the Jones family for slander in a bid to get to the truth of the
matter and that a public enquiry into the police side of it is warranted particularly as it
smells of an abuse of power. John informed us that libel cases are for the rich and
famous who have reputations at stake and that even if we did have the ten thousand
quid or so to chuck away, the other parties are perfectly entitled to remain silent
throughout the proceedings. [That little ‘right’ is glaring proof that the State doesn’t
want to stop criminality. Accused persons should be forced to answer questions and
if they still refuse, they should receive a hefty prison sentence for contempt of court.]
He told me to stop looking over my shoulder and to get on with my life. He said that
you can’t challenge the police authority and that they have certain powers of privacy.
He suspects it was just a couple of Gareth’s police pals having a joke on me and that
the only thing we can do is complain to an inspector who will be able to create a stir
amongst the lower ranks, but who doesn’t have to divulge details of the case. He
said that it won’t be on any computer file or any other record.
I got a sick feeling in my stomach at that moment that John really isn’t on my side all;
that he is more of a ‘community’ solicitor, protecting the interests of the authorities.
He is too quick to fob me off; too quick to tell me that I can’t challenge the authorities
- that they have the right to withhold info…. Andrew has doubted John for a while
now and says that I should get rid of him because he’s working for Gareth. I brought
up the special number that Gareth shows police whenever he is stopped for
speeding or reckless driving and which always guarantees his release with no further
questions asked. John wonders if Gareth is afforded some special privileges simply
because he has done some specialist work in the past for the police. He said that if
that was the case he wouldn’t be allowed to overuse or abuse such a perk or there’d
be a scandal.
He says he still hasn’t received the photos from CID. [I’m convinced now that he
hasn’t even requested them.] I remarked, “I wonder why it takes so long for
institutions to release info. Is it the hope that the requester simply gets fed up of
waiting and drops it? Is it to hide corruption or incompetence or are they just too idle
to respond?” I updated him on the ceaseless prying of social services and that I
believe that this is not about the care and welfare of my kids but more to do with
control and intrusion and that I must be within my rights to object. I protested,
“Protecting privacy is a fundamental democratic principle. The pressure they put us
under and the way we are unjustly incriminated is intolerable and scandalous and
enough to drive anyone insane.” John says that my problem is that I don’t conform.
Maybe; but that’s no excuse for oppression. They cannot be allowed to get away
with this.
I’m seriously suspecting that John is my enemy despite the fact he keeps claiming to
be on my side. I think he must be firmly in the evil clutches of them. My belief
compounded when he did a U-turn on the official social service records on GW’s
kids. Now he says that he doesn’t feel it necessary to ask the court for them
because we have nothing to suggest that he has abused his kids except for gossip.
I’m almost convinced that he’s either been bribed or threatened by Gareth or his
henchmen to fob me off because this is a big come down from his earlier sound bite
that disclosure of the records could “strongly affect the proceedings.” I’m wondering
if I should now consider looking for a new solicitor; but maybe I’m over-reacting and
being too critical; after all he’s the legal beagle, not me. I think I should give him
more time. I guess I’m finding it hard to believe that John could be doing the dirty on
me. You hear about corruption within the police and social services etc, but you
don’t hear about many solicitors being corrupt. I asked him to phone the
headmistress himself to find out what she knows as it isn’t gossip since there are
official records. He said that he wouldn’t phone but that he would write to her.
I read about the extreme hardships of the ordinary Arabs in Saddam Hussein’s Iraqi
male society. Hussein just wants to sell Iraqi oil for cash to spend as he pleases –
on weapons. Iraq export over five billion pounds of oil from its battered oilfields. Yet
because the government must pay thirty percent of its earnings in reparations to
Kuwait, cover the cost of the UN’s monitoring programme and repair its oil industry,
the sum available for food, medicine, civilian reconstruction, household and school
goods was only one hundred and twenty pounds per person for six months. The
special commission Unscom has failed in its aim to locate and destroy the regime’s
chemical and biological weapons. Civilians were forced to sell off all their material
possessions to buy their children tickets out of their country, while brand new police
vehicles dominated pot-holed streets. All but Hussein’s favoured sections of the
civil service and military have been reduced to penury, where university graduates
become little better than cab drivers.
A boy named Raad touches the heartstrings in his cries of, “The other students said
run after the English reporter and tell him our problem. It is unfair. We cannot even
get Thomas Hardy. You must tell your government to let us have books. You must
tell you government to let us visit. We are human beings aren’t we? For God’s sake
let us come.”
An injustice is an internal powerful silent attacker, which grows stronger and more
deadly daily. It has the power to kill its perpetrator or it victim. The bigger the
injustice, the bigger the potential for violent retaliation, or self destruction. It is
unforgivable and inconceivable that the few in our world have so many riches that
they destroy it while one billion people globally earn less than three hundred pounds
per year. Such greedy creatures [especially the royals] should hang their heads in
shame and should take note of the poverty-stricken suffering mortals who also share
this planet. Money doesn’t buy you happiness; it buys you self-destruction.
Materialism is worthless greed. Happiness is friendship, love, freedom, family and
everything in moderation.
It’s all very well wealthy world leaders, corporate bosses and business executives
living the high life at the expense of ‘ordinary’ beings, but have any of them stopped
to think about the kind of diseased destroyed deadly domain they are leaving to their
own children and grandchildren? Businesses control economies, their directors have
easy access to government trade ministers, more and more businesses are merging
to become even more dominant and powerful. They think money talks. WRONG.
GOD talks…. Fifty of the world’s larges economies are corporations. The sales of
the world’s largest companies exceeds the GNP of the world’s smallest countries….
Alarmingly globalisation is spiralling out of control and is a recipe for worldwide
catastrophe as we witness massive consumer unrest and revolt. Greedy corporate
bosses and government tyrants, who are all murderers, had better understand - and
swiftly - that they are NOT more powerful than the world’s people collectively.
They’d better realise also that they and their families stand to lose just as much as
us peasants in terms of loss of life, home and environment; and that if they continue
along this road to ruin, ALL of our children of today and the tomorrows face
intolerable suffering in the abode of the damned. Oh, God bless the day when
countries are governed by wise, honest and humane rulers, leaders who bestow
fairness and propriety on ALL citizens and who class all subjects as equals.
SEPTEMBER 28TH 1999
Another dreaded day in court. It was a nightmare beginning. I arrived at the bus
stop at 9.20 am, but by 10.00 am the bus still hadn’t arrived and I was now flapping
since my appointment was at 10.00 am. I scrambled to the nearby phone box,
hoping dad could take me, but just as I was dialling, it came. I was in such a state of
panic and relief that I dropped the phone and ran, but as I paid the driver I
remembered my pound coin abandoned in the phone box. The driver kindly insisted
that I go back for it and he promised that he wouldn’t take off without me. We arrived
in Abergele at 10.20 am and the bus driver obligingly dropped me off outside the
court. He said, “I’m like a father to you today.” I replied, “You’re an angel.”
Desperately in need of a battery re-charge I headed for the tea machine when I
learned that my solicitor had just nipped back to the office. But no matter which coin
I tried to feed the obstinate thing, none were swallowed and all were spat back out at
me. Next minute my tormentor appeared out of the blue with a fistful of coins to
assist me, followed by his solicitor who was also offering help. Can you believe it?
Men in smart suits behaving like gentlemen! [But only in public, of course.] Behind
closed doors and in the comfort of secrecy, all is quite different. I grabbed my brew
and legged it.
Later John told me that Gareth is pushing for more contact now and wants residence
ultimately. He said the ‘at risk’ label is a vital part of the proceedings and that the
Comprehensive Risk Assessment will largely determine final decisions for contact
and/or residence. Although I was very well aware of all that I still felt a lump spring
into my throat and a knot appear in my stomach. He told me that the opposition
have agreed to ask the school for records on social services’ involvement regarding
his kids. ‘Yeah right! These are just more delay tactics. They’re hoping I’m going to
give up asking for them,’ I thought to myself.
My nagging doubts about John returned. Why is he fobbing me off re the records?
He then piled on the usual pressure urging me to agree to more contact, rather than
asking the court to decide. Extremely reluctantly I agreed to extend the Thursday
visitation at church and have now been ordered back to court in two weeks time for a
hearing to decide if the anti-Christ should get more contact at this stage. I have to
write another statement outlining why I bitterly oppose further contact. Oh for crying
out loud. This is all so wrong and unreal. I feel as if I’m existing in a bottomless
black abyss which just gets blacker and bleaker. I would be deliriously happy if the
daughter of the fiend’s solicitor or the daughter of the pompous magistrate dated
Gareth. They’d soon realise that she has no support when she tries to get rid of him
due to his hellish behaviour. Police won’t protect her and incompetent authorities
side with her tormentor. Maybe then we’d see some changes. Lawyers and judges
allow vermin to pray repeatedly. If their family were directly affected, there’d soon be
eruptions. But it will happen soon because those people support criminality, and the
present trend is that decent people are vanishing in droves. The mere fact that John
refuses to request those social services records through the court makes me almost
convinced that John is working for Gareth and not me.
On the way home I again asked him to ask for the records through the court. He
said he would next time we were in court. Could it be possible that I am at the mercy
of a secret underworld gang? I know that the police are up to no good and are
aiding and abetting Gareth, but is John a ‘member’? Is the fire chief? Is Mo’s
manager, John Evans? Is the anonymous security bloke at the council’s CCTV
room? And what about the mysterious person[s] in Royal Mail who is/are vetting my
post? And what about the benefits official, John Drew? If my hunches are correct
and they [or some of them] are Masons, I hope to God that one day these despicable
creatures’ wives/girlfriends and those ‘brethren’ who do have a sense of morality and
whose consciences overrule their cowardice, will show strength of character and
blow the whistle. God does not want secret seedy dirty dealers on his planet. He
HATES liars and evil-doers. Just think; that lot would be in jail for gross professional
misconduct and perverting the course of justice. Now that WOULD be justice and a
monumental step forward into God’s new righteous world.
As I collected my precious little babies form nursery, the fat b…. sailed past in his
car, smirking. There was no reason for him to be in that area; he just wanted to rub
salt in the wounds. He knows that the court’s final decision could swing either way
and that I’m desperately hanging on by my fingernails. As I walked down my road,
the skunk breezed past me again with his stereo blasting out through the window.
Andrew and Shell had a bit of a trying time too – at their granddad’s. Apparently dad
had pumped Andrew about ghosts and had insisted that there are no such things
and that there is no God. It would seem that he’d gone around the houses trying to
get Andrew to admit that he’d started the fire. Dad mockingly asked if the spirits
have wings, if they could fly, if he could have their autograph… Shell too was grilled,
with the implication that the kids had in fact been up at the stables and were guilty of
injuring that horse and of stealing. Andrew and Shell straight-facedly told their
granddad that they have seen God and the devil and that they weren’t at the stables.
Andrew insisted that he wasn’t responsible for the fire. Then in a bid to drop the
interrogation he tactically made an excuse that he had to visit the toilet. I joked, “I
wish the devils would make their acquaintance with granddad. Then he’d believe us.
Then again he’d probably just think he’d had one too many whiskies.” I wasn’t going
to clash with dad over it. I think the kids handled him pretty well. I was a little
surprised though that he is still so trusting of the authorities and that he believes
Andrew and Shell are guilty despite black and white overwhelming evidence of a
fabricated horsy story. Just shows how hard it is to grasp the possibility of our police
being corrupt and that it is easier to blame kids – just because they’re kids. Proving
corruption is another matter though.
I watched a documentary about London’s ‘smog’ problem in 1952 where twelve
thousand people died but only four thousand were officially recognised. The rest,
they said, had been killed by a flu epidemic. Churchill’s government didn’t care that
burning coal caused it. One conservative MP declared, “Although I may be told that
the smoke from my coal fire assists in poisoning the people outside, I prefer that very
much to being poisoned myself by a gas fire inside my own home.” Nasty geyser.
Most politicians these days have the same attitude.
SEPTEMBER 29TH 1999
We were visited by another LEA official; the person responsible for inspecting the
progress of secondary school home scholars. Dewi Williams turned up to check
Andrew’s work. As they shook hands I couldn’t help thinking in amusement that you
wouldn’t see that kind of polite interaction between pupil and head at school. I was
pleasantly surprised by the visit. I’d earlier been bracing myself for hostility and
opposition and I dreaded more battles, but Dewi Williams was very supportive and
encouraging. He acknowledged that Andrew’s standard of work is very good and
that both he and Shell are mature and able to speak out freely. At the end I felt that
the session couldn’t have gone any better and I found myself thanking my lucky
stars. At last a ray of light was shining down on us.
After tea I sat with Jordan and his ‘What’s that?’ book. He’d been doing quite well
with it last week but tonight he only managed to get three objects right. Hope he
doesn’t repeat tonight’s dismal effort when the H/V inspects him!
It is the labour party circus. At the rostrum they rabbit on about nothing and ridicule
the opposition. They should jolly well be ashamed of themselves backbiting like a
bunch of unruly school children. Blair is spending cash on causes of crime and free
locks for pensioners. He emotionally insists he wants to set Britain free. He wants
to reduce poverty. He’s so unhappy about it. He’s on a moral crusade. He
preaches that the class war is over. They reckon he’ll still be PM in another ten
years cos he has so much charisma and commands such a rapturous speech. The
people don’t give a brass monkey about rhetoric or pretty politicians who think they
are masters of the universe – they’re more like masters of the deadbeat dummies.
We want truth, equality, transparency, fair rules – for ALL.
Prescott flatters himself prattling on about his ‘security’ reasons for taking a
chauffeur-driven car ride to conference. Who’d bother attacking that insignificant
lying self-serving arrogant bloater? The only people who live in genuine fear for their
lives are those who courageously challenge our corrupt government. And it is those
people who are in danger – not from Joe Public, but from the government itself and
its lackeys. God bless the day when all government and civil service documents are
laid open for public scrutiny. It will happen one day when more and more ‘yes’
agents and those swearing allegiance to the queen and obedience to the
establishment get sick of the abhorrent goings on in secret and find the strength to
do the right thing - obey God and snitch on their masters. What a field day we’ll
have when the press get hold of top secret files…. And real justice begins…. Blair
can demonstrate his desire to reduce poverty by digging deep into his own pockets.
Straw proudly announces that he’s putting five thousand police on the streets. He
can put five million on but it won’t make a scrap of difference. We need LAW
ENFORCEMENT – for all. The government can’t fix anything, they band-aid it. No
one bothers to vote cos all parties are the same self-servers – people who are pally
with and who answer to gangster business chiefs. All they care about is what money
buys them.
Their good life accelerates global warming which doesn’t concern them; but they will
care when the polar ices melt, the seas are flooded with fresh water, the ‘conveyor’
system [which brings warm seas up from the equator and keeps Britain temperate]
STOPS, Europe is plunged into an ice trough and the world’s destructive weather
patterns cause mass mayhem – FOR EVERYONE. Then they’ll be sorry.
SEPTEMBER 30TH 1999
At church, bonehead accused me of dating a jungle bunny. He flew into a rage and
grabbed Jordan from the double buggy. The pram seat cracked as Jordan was
jerked from it. Jord’s foot got trapped. Both babies looked shocked and close to
tears. Melly fell forward. I just caught her before she toppled out. I wanted to hug
and comfort them both and take them back home with me immediately but the beast
snatched them from me and stormed off yelling some kind of obscenity. I could only
stand and watch with tears stinging my eyes and a lump in my throat. One of the
other mothers came up to comfort me.
OCTOBER
OCTOBER 1ST 1999
Deb and Mo showed up. Deb told me that Mr Mammoth Liar had phoned her on
Wednesday to say that Andrew and Shell had been up at the stables which are
behind his house, throwing saddles around and bales of hay on Sunday evening 19 th
September between 7.00 pm and 8.00 pm but not to quote him on the exact time.
He said that my kids had fed the prize horse pellets, that it had got colic, went
berserk, lacerated its leg and that the vet was called. Gareth had told Deb that my
kids were seen in other neighbours’ gardens too – in one swinging on a swing, and
in another letting out a rabbit. He’d said that he couldn’t give names but that he
understood they’d reported it to police.
Well, well! Now we seem to be getting somewhere near the truth. I knew that
malign cockroach was behind it all. I told the social workers the full story and that
the Dewi Jones family, PCs 1302 and 1651 had all made a point of stressing that it
was “nothing to do with Gareth; nothing to do with him.” I showed them the
transcripts and they agreed it was all questionable and that I should get the police to
investigate and respond in writing. Deb was shocked that I was told to visit the Dewi
Jones family myself and do my own investigations as to: the details re the day/date
of the ‘crime’ et cetera. She agreed that if it was genuine the family would be
claiming compensation. Mo recalled that Gareth told her that my kids were seen up
at the stables previously. I informed the women that I had a meeting arranged with
an inspector because dad and I have already demanded an investigation. They both
asked the question, “Why are the police not doing anything about it considering the
fact Andrew and Shell are alleged to have been seen causing trouble on other
occasions up there? You’d think they’d sort it out once and for all.”
Well the question has to be asked – why aren’t the police doing anything about law
and order anywhere? Ok the lower classes of the force do their bit, as far as they
are allowed to, in fighting crime. My beef has never been with them; but what are
the likes of detectives, inspectors and their superiors doing? There seems to be an
army of them but it would appear that they are just members of an elite club –
enjoying prestige and privilege while being pally with and protecting violent criminals,
paedophiles, corrupt businessmen and top seedy greedy public servants. North
Wales police supposedly did an investigation into alleged child abuse in children’s
homes. NO! They did a cover up. Why are they not held accountable? Were the
Masonic brethren at work again, all protecting each other when their conduct came
into question and their cosy lifestyles threatened? No wonder it’s a man’s world.
Men in their secret organisations won’t let women anywhere near the top of any
structure of power. We’re just body parts for their pleasure. Come on ladies, let’s
get challenging. Until we do, we might as well let the lions have a feast, at our
expense. Are we going to fight back or are we always going to be satisfied with
making do with the crumbs off our rich masters’ table?
The social workers and I got on to the subject of all the referrals to social services
against me. Mo informed me that they’re taking the ‘burn’ incident seriously. I
bellowed, “This is profoundly outrageous. It was NOT a burn. It was only eczema.
On whose authority do any of you have to make judgements on respectable
unoffending folk? What kind of message does this send to my kids who I once
taught to look up to authoritative persons? Now the only bit of relief they get is when
they see me ruffling a few high and mighty feathers.” I again let them have my views
on government corruption but Mo just sighed and said, “That’s politics for you.” I
said, “That’s a bad attitude. No wonder evil thrives. You have to do your bit, you
know. If you’re not going to question your superiors then go and do some proper
work; go and do something useful and find some kids who are at risk and who do
need your protection and leave us to get on with our job. Truthfully, you do not give
a brass farthing if my kids die or come to harm. If you did, you’d pull together with
me and help me do battle with the council crooks. You’d be helping me strive for
propriety and protection of our planet….” But all Deb could mumble was, “We’re
never going to get to the bottom of who started the fire and why.” Mo announced
she’d like to have another chat with my kids but Andrew [who had recently made us
a cuppa and who had sat in on the latter stages of the pantomime] sighed, “I’ll only
be telling you what I’ve already told you.” I looked at him and smiled.
When the time wasters had gone I thought about my mum and I recollected the red
rose-fragranced heart-shaped mini soap which I’d given her during her final days and
which I still have today. It reminded me about some words of wisdom that I’d read
about in a book on ‘success’. It said, “Remember the red rose. Do what makes you
happy – have goals, save money, do not fear yourself or your capabilities - you have
nothing to lose.” It strengthened my resolve to do everything in my power to
overcome immorality.
OCTOBER 2ND 1999
The Lord of the Flies enthusiastically gushed, “Your kids were seen feeding a horse
at the stables behind me. I don’t know the details but I know my neighbours were
lived. Your kids have been seen up at Llysfaen quite a few times lately bothering
people.” I stood stony-faced and hissed, “Go and crawl back into the gutters where
you belong.” He smirked and scoffed, “Police won’t touch me – they wouldn’t dare.”
Then he stepped inside my door and poked his finger so hard into my chest that I
stumbled back. He snarled, “They’re after you though. They can’t stand you. You’ll
be taken care of soon and your kids will just disappear one of these days.” I glared
at him and hissed, “Get out. If my kids get hurt, YOU will suffer. You or your
henchmen don’t scare me; God will protect us and will keep you evil men at bay.”
I went back in to find Andrew making explosives with my kitchen cleansers. I’ve
always encouraged the kids to be scientifically minded and to experiment for
themselves but there is a limit regarding the safety aspect. I raised the roof with him
and boomed, “Hands off my disinfectants, bleach, white spirit….”
Linda popped by and we had a good old moan over a glass [or two] of wine. [Well
actually I did the whinging, she the listening.] I told her that something must be
bothering the babies when they go to their dad’s because lately I often see them just
sitting and sucking on their fingers and thumbs; sometimes quite ferociously. I told
her that usually after contact, both are whingy and hyper and Jordan screams,
becomes destructive and he chucks himself and his toys around in frustrated rage.
He runs into the walls and furniture. He’ll even try to bite us and he hits Mel. He
bangs into things. Sometimes he’ll come in and just lie on the floor in the hall face
down, crying or he’ll sit there screaming or he runs and crouches under the table.
Lin listened with intent while I just let it all out. I moaned that quite often both the
babies return with cuts and bruises on their bodies and even animal scratches. I’ve
even seen such scratches on their faces and at the back of their necks. Melly also
angrily chucks toys around and lies on the floor, just screaming. They’re often
almost uncontrollable when they come in for the first hour or so.
Now it’s a real headache trying to get Jord to use the loo. He cries when I try to put
him on. When I do succeed, he just sits there refusing to go. He is really disturbed.
Sometimes he returns with motions in his pull-ups or they are soaking wet and on
the other days he has toileting accidents. He just walks into the kitchen or living
room and will urinate or defecate in his undies. It is heartbreaking because he was
doing so well with me and was pretty much dry by day before the Saturday sessions
started. Now he’s confused.
I told Lin how difficult it is to get Jord to settle for bed. He runs and jumps about and
when he is in bed he thrashes his body against the mattress and pillow and
sometimes bangs his head. I hear him head banging and I’ve heard him saying,
“No, no, no” and “Stop, stop, stop” in his sleep. Melly sometimes wakes up,
screaming, in the night now. I pick her up and she just clings to me, trembling. I
have to spend ages now calming them down after visitations and reassuring them
with lots of love and cuddles. They cling to me and want carrying around. I see all
the same signs in Jord and Mel as I did in Andrew and Shell when they were little
and had returned after spending time with their dad.
It upsets me at pick up time when I see how distressed Jordan and Melissa get.
They cry when he turns up or they hold back or run away. It breaks my heart when I
have to pick them up and insist that they go and then I have to prise their little fingers
off me before I can put them into their father’s car seats and strap them in. They
look at me with such sorrowful and disbelieving eyes and then they cry. I cry too.
My insides are splitting and tearing. What can I do? They know that they have to
go. I tell them that if I keep them home, the judge will send me to jail. But they don’t
understand. They are suffering like the little mites who get bullied at nursery or
school. Those kids don’t want to go to their abusers either but they have no choice.
They just have to find a way to cope. I say very little to their father. Sometimes I say
nothing, I am just civil towards him. It is tempting to just let rip; to let him and
everyone else and even Jord and Mel see my full hatred and anger towards him and
my frustration. But I don’t, partly because I fear him and also because if I showed
my real feelings Jordy and Melly would be even more upset and even more
emotionally disturbed. Also, you can guarantee that the ogre would somewhere
down the line turn it against me. Even Andy’s little pal Anthony, who was himself
abused a few years ago, remarked that Jordan doesn’t like going for contact and that
he knows when it’s time to get ready because he’s always reluctant to get cleaned
up and changed beforehand. He fights me when I try to put clean clothes on him.
Linda commented that surely the court should take notice of behavioural problems
and stop the contact sessions. Not so. The solicitor and welfare officer tell me that
the court does not take any notice of behaviour changes so it isn’t worth mentioning
them. They say that the child welfare experts only care about physical abuse; that is
of the type that gets a kid hospitalised. They say that most children show signs of
anxiety and insecurity when passed between parents, even when the separated
parents are good friends with each other. And I am told that you wouldn’t expect a
two and a half-year old to be toilet trained. They just don’t want to acknowledge that
mental abuse exists. It is scandalous. Suffer the little children.
I also moaned on about how hard it is to get people to back you up. People are too
scared to speak out about the evildoings of others. The secondary school head is
the only useful bit of support that I have but even she can’t speak freely and hasn’t
yet put anything in writing for me. She said she had to check with the school
governors before writing any kind of statement in my favour and it would seem that
they are not happy about her doing anything of the sort. Wonder why! Jesus it is so
frustrating. Who the hell are those governors protecting? If they cared about the
well being of children, they wouldn’t hesitate in allowing the head to tell me, my
solicitor and the court all of her worries and that of her staff concerning GW’s
children and the details of why they felt the need to repeatedly call in social
services. You’d think that if society was serious about stamping out crimes against
children, people would be falling over themselves to help. Especially those WHOSE
JOB IT IS to protect the welfare of children. A Head shouldn’t really need the
approval of governing bodies. But there again if by letting the cat out of the bag
there was a chance that the Council might be exposed of any wrongdoing and of
being corrupt then it is easy to see why there would be this need to exercise caution
and why teachers/heads can’t breathe, fart, piss, whistle without consulting the
school governors first. We might ask what the real purpose of school governing
bodies is. Are they there to cover up any misdemeanour or inaction on behalf of
schools and/or local education authorities? Do members gather together in secret to
discuss how best to protect a school’s reputation rather than deal with the real
underlying problems i.e. of children being at risk or having other difficulties? Could
the governors [or at least the ones with any clout] be just another branch of the old
boys network?
The Headmistress is now saying that she will be able to testify if she is subpoenaed.
But Gareth [and almost certainly because of collaboration with his bent buddies] has
already threatened her with court for defamation of character, so she’s going to be
very guarded about what she says. She’s not going to want to risk her job and she
knows that they can make things very difficult for her if they so choose. She
probably won’t be able to say enough to be of any use to me. God, it is so bloody
unfair. When I first spoke with the Head she told me that I should have him for child
abuse. I remember that I’d asked her in all seriousness how I go about getting him
charged; she’d said ‘social services’ and then she’d laughed wryly, knowing full well
that I’d be up against a brick wall straight away where they’re concerned. I get the
feeling now that she regrets getting involved; she probably wishes that she’d told me
during my first phone call to her that the matter was referred to social services. That
would have been the easy way out for her, but she didn’t. Unlike most, she stuck her
neck out for me. That takes guts. She’s another of God’s little helpers.
In the evening the kids were glued [as usual] to Zena Warrior Princess on TV.
Normally I never watch it, thinking it is just for kids and their fertile imaginations, but
tonight’s episode made me realise that it contains much wisdom and truth. I learned
my biggest and most valuable lesson when Zena revealed the secret of how to
obtain the power necessary to win. She preaches, “To conquer others is to have
power; to conquer yourself is to know the way – it is the biggest hurdle. To learn the
way you must get rid of all hate in your heart. You must love your enemies; giving
your strongest love to those you hate the most. You must be nice to everyone.
Don’t be sarcastic or patronizing, but get your point over. Always be polite. If you
are right and they are wrong, that is their problem. You must stop willing and stop
desiring. Just be patient and serve others. You will get what you want eventually.” I
must start practicing this new rule. It will indeed be difficult. How can I love Gareth
Williams and all his criminal protectors? Andrew says we are all half-angel and halfhuman at the moment. In time we will be all angel and will be able to fly and perform
miracles on Earth.
I got stuck into a very powerful, thought-provoking book that dad had lent me titled
The Jesus Mysteries by Timothy Freke and Peter Gandy. The authors have a
substantial argument and solid evidence that cannot be ignored to suggest the
unthinkable – that the story of Jesus is a myth derived from paganism. They
researched the history of the Jesus story and found evidence of power struggles,
forged documents, false identities and edited letters and concluded that Christianity
as bequeathed by the Roman church is a gross distortion of the truth. It appears
evident that everything that we are familiar with regarding the bible: Jesus, son of
God, born of a virgin on 25th December, a miracle performer who died on a cross
and rose again at Easter…. is in fact a myth of the ancient pagan mystery religion.
Jesus was a pagan God!
Freke and Gandy believe that the Jesus story was not a biography but was a
“consciously crafted vehicle for encoded spiritual teachings created by Jewish
Gnostics.” The Gnostics saw themselves as authentic original Christians and
orthodox bishops as an “imitation church.” They were in fact little different from
pagans. The authors point out the irony that the mighty Roman empire embraces
Christianity, having their saviour – Jewish prophet Jesus – who was executed by a
Roman governor. Freke and Gandy write that 2000 years ago Christianity was not
the only mystery cult and Roman leaders worshipped various different ‘saviours’.
They decided one faith only was needed – a universal or Catholic religion.
Christianity was adopted. They say that the Romans needed a mystery religion
because of its popularity with the people. But such religions were led by mystics and
philosophers who had the nerve to question and undermine the authority of the
State.
Literalist Christianity [where the Jesus story is taken as a literal account of historical
events] however was a mystery religion that had purged itself of its troublesome
intellectuals. It was an authoritarian religion, which encouraged the faithful to have
blind faith in those holding positions of power. It was perfect – a religion without
mystics; the outer mysteries [which were common knowledge] without the inner
mysteries [which were a sacred secret]; form without content. Certain philosophers
of the ancient world experienced ‘spiritual enlightenment’ and were mystics and
could perform miracles. Pythagoras [a talented Greek mathematician and
philosopher] was one such mystic who could raise the dead. In Gnosticism every
person represents a ‘divine spark’. Humans have to learn how to free the divine
element from the human material world, which is the personification of evil. This is
achieved through supernatural revelation. Zealots state that humans have to
assist God in establishing the messianic kingdom. Some sayings of Jesus reflect
Zeolot thought: “He had not come to bring peace but division” [Luke 12.51] and
“Jesus instructed his followers at the last supper to buy a sword” [Luke 22.36].
Jewish Zealots challenged Roman rule. The Gnostics say that Jesus was a prophet
to whom God revealed his word just like the prophet Muhammad who is sacred to
Islamic countries.
Whatever the truth and the details, there is no doubt that God exists. I am of the
opinion that we understand when we are able to; all in good time and that meanwhile
it makes sense to do all we can to help our true master achieve his divine kingdom.
Religion and politics go hand in hand. As in the bible story, Jesus was sent here for
one mission only – to overthrow the corrupt Roman government and to make the
world just and righteous. Jesus was a revolutionary – born to rule, a bringer of
prosperity to all, not wealth for the few. But as happens with all leaders of an
uprising [and is still true of today], he paid the ultimate death penalty. Pontious
Pilate refused to have his cosy corrupt lifestyle challenged and had Jesus
unpardonably and deplorably murdered just because he was guilty of being
honourable and law-abiding. [Although the bible would wrongly have us believe that
Pilate tried to save Jesus and that it was the crowd who yelled for his execution.]
I believe that another great beacon of light that God sent us – Martin Luther king was
also murdered on the authority of the United States government. God bless lawyer
William Pepper who has spent twenty years risking his life trying to prove a
conspiracy to murder Dr King. Strange isn’t it – if Mr of Mrs Ordinary murders
someone, he/she gets life in prison. BUT the VIPs of our world [the very people who
deserve to be punished] are allowed to murder anyone who they think will threaten
their power and wealth. And then they have the cowardice and callousness to frame
an innocent lowly person. SHAME ON THEM. Let us have the truth about who
killed Diana and why.
Andrew tells me that Jesus is God’s son and that he had a brother – the fiend
Satan. He says that only a quarter of the bible is the truth. I’m keeping an open
mind but as I learn more about our own spiritual powers I understand more about the
teachings of aikido – of being ‘at one with the universe’, and of all of us possessing
natural ki energy which is, in truth, just free uninhibited ‘thought’ power.
One thing’s for sure we have to defeat the devil. To do that, we have to change the
evil amongst us into the virtuous. If we cannot change them, we must conquer
them. We must however uphold the law, but if we are attacked then we are within
our rights to defend ourselves. Just as Zena says, the way to conquer evil is to give
it our love.
Pud gave me a real shock when I checked him at midnight and found him wideawake and standing by the door. I startled; he whimpered; then I realised he was
concerned about the haphazard arrangement of his cars. Slowly and deliberately he
lined them all up in perfect order, and only when he was absolutely satisfied with
their disposition did he climb back into bed, cover himself up, and fall asleep.
OCTOBER 3RD 1999
I jumped on the scales for the first time in months. I’m down to ten stone, which is a
big improvement on eleven and a half. I’ve still got half a stone to work off to reach
my ideal. My running programme isn’t going as well though – I’m not even on target
for a half marathon! Oh well, maybe I’ll be ready to do the London marathon in the
real new millennium – 2001.
This evening I began reading Hazel Courteney’s enlightening story of her interaction
with the late Princess Di and the spirit world in her inspirational book Divine
Intervention published by CIMA books, London.
OCTOBER 4TH 1999
I got up this morning to find that my bin had been knocked over and the contents
sprawled across my drive. I also found that some yobbo had sprayed red paint on
my back door and kitchen window. Jesus, when’s it all gonna end?
Dad and I had our meeting with inspector Phil Hare to try and get to the truth of the
stables story. [As if you could ever get to the truth of anything where the police are
concerned!] Prior to this, dad had spent over half an hour on the phone briefing him
of events, so he should have visited us with answers but instead [and as I expected]
we came up against evasiveness and claptrap. The inspector said he’d look into the
incident but he said that he wasn’t prepared to put anything in writing. I passed a
remark that the social worker had advised me to insist on a response in writing. He
displayed a bit of a male chauvinistic attitude when he replied, “Oh, she did, did
she?” before continuing with his nonchalant patter that he’s not obliged to take it any
further because there are no prosecutions or any further action necessary and that
the police have done their bit. Well, how ruddy convenient for them!
I asked why it would take so long for police to trace their records of the incident and
that it was strange that there was no incident number. Hare waffled, “If you had to
do speculative searches – databases – and you didn’t know the date and who made
the call, it could take a while to get the details up.” I butted in, “It’s a big criminal
offence.” He replied, “Is it? Feeding a horse is not criminal; trespassing is not…. If a
crime had been reported it would be on the crime recorded system. Who is saying
they were there? It may not be in the system – if the call has not gone through the
control system. If they phoned the police station direct and asked to speak to
PC1302, he will not have created an incident such as this on it. If Mrs Cooper had
called through central control room, it would be recorded. Even so it would be
recorded.”
Dad and I stressed that we wanted the truth – of why Dewi Jones & Co made up
such an incredible story. Hare babbled, “But you don’t know that Dewi Jones has,
do you? You’re making links up. Dewi Jones’ story is the same as the officer’s.”
Dad told him it wasn’t. Hare said he’d need over five hours to get to the bottom of it
all but that he has no intention of finding out who’s been fibbing and why and that he
won’t be speaking to Cooper. Some investigation! I reckon the only person
speaking the truth in the whole saga is PC1302.
Despite my repeated requests for him to phone me, there has been no response. I
believe he is not getting my messages. I’ve also left messages for PC1651 to
phone, but for some reason no one wants to talk to me! What convinces me most
that the police are guilty of impropriety and that they are covering up for the family is
that Cooper told me three times that she’d reported the crime to PC1302, yet he said
he hadn’t spoken to her and didn’t know her. He had only been given a message to
come and see me and to warn Andrew and he knew virtually nothing about the
crime. It thus seems to be a collaboration. I hadn’t mentioned PC1302 to Cooper or
any of the others, so how did she know that he’d been to see me? I expect she’d
been briefed to name him [maybe by PC1651.] Hare announced that if his
investigations reveal that Dewi Jones & co have collaborated with Gareth and
involved the police, it is a very serious matter and needs to be dealt with.
“Pah! As if we’re going to get a scrap of truth out of that pretender,” I later told dad.
But he wasn’t so critical and believes that Hare is trustworthy and will do a thorough
investigation. Dad simply cannot believe that this could be a set up and that the
police are in on it. I’ve long since stopped trusting any official. I think it is
outrageous that a police officer can come to my door with tales that a Mr or Mrs X
are accusing my kids of X crime and I’m not allowed to know the details and [worse]
when the story is proved to be a sham, no one answers for it. I’d also asked Hare
why the devil’s child is not being charged with harassment since not only has he
pestered me and my kids directly but he has made umpteen unfounded referrals to
social services and has stated to the court welfare officer that he has me watched.
But Hare said that I need to find out from social services who is watching. However
when I told him that social services won’t divulge such information, he just shrugged!
Oh God bless the day when justice is served, secrecy is swept aside and honesty
triumphs. All the people who have wronged me and wronged others have absolutely
no idea of the wretched depths of despair that they are sending themselves to. If the
likes of Hare can admit they’re lying, they will be blessed and earmarked for heaven.
Can the anonymous security man in the council come to me and say, “Yes, I lied
about the CCTV being on – I’m sorry?” Can his colleagues also admit that the story
about Andrew and Shell being in grave danger from the sea was an ugly
concoction? Can the Dewi Jones mob apologise for their lies and the distress they
caused us and can they now give away their wealth to someone in need and so
contribute towards a pure unadulterated world? Can the council be brave enough
and big enough to ask our forgiveness for the abominable way they are treating us?
I can forgive and forget, but I am not the judge. God is.
The council are playing games with us. The difference is they get big bucks [which
they stole from hard working decent law-abiding citizens] whereas I plunge further
into poverty. I should sue them for loss of earnings potential and loss of job and
expenses for my court sessions since it is because of them that my court battle has
become complicated and thus lengthened. They should also be sued for
unnecessary stress and harassment. They don’t realise though that they can never
break my spirit, because we are with God and they are with Satan. They forget that
he who laughs last laughs loudest. That is a divine certainty; for the council as we
know it will simply cease to be. They don’t seem to care that they are ruled by and
will perish with the wicked cowardly devil whereas our master is strong, intelligent
and supreme.
Everyone has the power to eradicate evil and promote equality and freedom for all.
People must listen to their conscience – it is an excellent guide as to how we should
behave. If we don’t behave as God wants us to, our consciences can drive us nuts
and can kill us in the end.
Many women are finding the courage to stand up to their malign men folk and to
expose their malevolent criminal deeds. We need more women like Sheryl Gascoine
to come forward and ‘grass’. Let’s have some powerful men’s wives tell all too – if
they dare! I am sure that when many more women reveal the truth about their
injurious partners, they will find the world listening and the transformation to
uprightness in motion. I have a special message to all the women of the world who
have been violated by a man; and violated again because of our inherently and
endemically corrupt ‘justice’ system – a system that supports criminals and in
particular men, never give up your fight for truth and justice. You may not think that
anyone can hear you or cares about you but we can and we do. Even if you get
nowhere in court, even if your case never gets to court, tell us your story. At the end
of the day, we, the people are judge and jury. Go to the papers, TV shows, hand
deliver your story if need be; but never give up. We all need to support each other
and speak out. Remember the umpteen little voices.
We need more people to come forward and spill the beans on their
fathers/partners/relatives/colleagues who belong to the secret seedy Freemasons.
This organisation is made up of male members who are all ranks of the police,
judiciary, medical profession and other well-respected persons in society. These
men outrageously fix it so that justice is never done; innocents go to jail and guilty
b…. WALK FREE. If these Masons and other members of other secret societies [for
example, Northern Ireland’s Orange Order] do not hurry up and become upright, they
will be severely punished; if not by society, by the much worse burning fires of hell to
which they are heading when they are dead. It is not enough for members to say
that they themselves do no wrong and therefore are in the clear or that they have
genuinely not witnessed any corruption or other wrongdoing. That may be so, but
the fact that they are members makes them culpable because they are supporting an
evil organisation. Ignorance about what they support is no excuse either.
A young Italian girl grew up surrounded by the Mafia. Her father, uncles, brothers
and other male relatives were members. They all terrorised and murdered to
increase their wealth and power. They killed anyone who got in their way, especially
anyone who tried to bring them to justice, including upright senior police and judges.
The young girl saw what the men in her family were doing and she didn’t like it. She
snitched on the lot of them and took them all to court and testified against them. Of
course in the end they killed her too. She was only seventeen. What a courageous
young woman she was though. Her whole life was worthwhile. She was dedicated
to serving God and for that she lived in constant fear and dread of what the Mafia
would do to her.
There is no reason why we all can’t be like her. The point is, we all live in fear
anyway - of crime, of poverty, of loss of life and deterioration of health and that of our
loved ones. We all face insecurity. Most of us would be better off dead anyway than
to be ‘living’ the lives that we presently do. And all the negativity is just getting worse
by the hour. Even the perpetrators of evil live in fear and under constant threat.
They also need good in their lives and want to be free of the shackles of Satan. To
defeat the devil we have to give out love and behave according to God’s law. Those
who hurt others or who are lovers of money and materialism or who corruptly protect
the wrongdoers need the most love in order to see the error of their ways and to give
them the inner strength to walk the path of God. Those with the most wealth have
the furthest to fall, but fall they must in order to be free of Satan. They can begin the
journey to freedom by giving away their worldly goods to those in need.
People must find the courage to strive for integrity and justice with no surrender. If
you have already been wronged [and many of us have], don’t swallow another blow
from unscrupulous authorities. The truth will surface eventually; just persevere and
be persistent and use peaceful, lawful means. When we all uncover depravity, it will
be defeated.
If we can master our own feeble desire for noxious substances we will soon
annihilate the abhorrent drink, drug and tobacco culture and all their related
misdemeanours and violations. That’ll be a hefty punch on the nose for the
government and her bent agencies and her big business/drug smuggling cronies and
fat cat lawyers. Such substances are the work of the devil.
So too is society’s sick obsession with casual sex, porn and prostitution. Women
must rise up against the evil sex trade. Decent people should have nothing to do
with it and should certainly not pay any money in relation to it. Name and shame the
pornographers and those protecting porn. Likewise name and shame those who
profit from and protect prostitution and who make sex slaves of women. Also, name
and shame the men in government/war lords who force women to prostitute because
they are denied other means of making a living. God bless Andrea Dworkin for her
work in speaking out about this subject.
Men all over the globe must refuse to join the armed forces. And let’s see an end to
the manufacture of weapons of any description and the demolition of all existing
ones. People should refuse to work in the arms industry. The world is sick of
governments preaching morality and an end to genocide on the one hand whilst
manufacturing and selling arms slyly on the other. Future contention will not be
between political parties or for electoral votes, it will be a deadly battle between good
and bad and we will witness worldwide rioting and uprisings. Government
departments will be crushed including her intelligence agencies since they are
hugely expensive organisations protecting corrupt business. People must have faith
that it is right and proper to do everything possible to strive for a righteous world and
that in the doing they will be safe in the knowledge that God will keep their enemies
at bay; since those doing good for society will be protected by the Holy spirit.
I think we are all here for a purpose. I think we all have a higher spiritual self that
guides us by way of our conscience and that we chose to come into this world when
we did to do what we have to do. I think that those who strive hard to make the
world a better place for everyone do listen to their higher spiritual selves and
therefore work for God. More and more of us are getting this awakening as we start
to do the right thing. It’ll soon get to the stage where it’ll be the norm to always
behave righteously and the majority of us will be challenging wrongdoing, whistle
blowing on bent bosses, officials and business persons et cetera wherever and
whenever we see it around us; and will not be frightened to do so. Those who don’t
strive for truth and justice and uprightness will soon be in the minority. And they will
be the ones who will be considered ‘different’. I think some people just refuse to
acknowledge and refuse to listen to their higher spiritual selves and that is why they
are so easily influenced by the devil and will remain so; and will ultimately pay a high
price for it.
OCTOBER 5TH 1999
Inspector Hare phoned me with the results of his so-called investigation. As
predicted he fed me a pile of bull-dust that he thinks gets him off the hook and will
shut me up. Well he can jolly well dream on. We, the profane, are sick and tired of
being fobbed off by the likes of the police. It’s high time they spoke a bit of truth.
Hare told me he’s spent a lot of time investigating. He said he’d told PC 1651 to
phone Dewi Jones and make enquiries. [I’ll go and see that family again and make
my own enquiries.] It would appear that it was only grass [Deb had been told that it
was pellets] that had been fed to the horse and that nothing was in fact stolen – just
misplaced. Well surprise, surprise! Hare said that the horse had got colic, had run
riot and had gone over a fence, “probably a barbed wire” one and that it needed
fifteen stitches. [Well, the horse’s owner, Dafydd, had told me that the horse had
injured itself in its stable – I’ve got it all on tape.] Hare didn’t know if an officer had
seen the injured horse; he presumed someone had been up there. I commented
that I thought he’d done an investigation. He didn’t even know that the horse in
question is a valuable one.
I asked if he thought the whole tale a bit fishy but was told, “No; they’re not lying.”
Hare repeatedly told me that “there was no criminal action and the family want all
this to stop now.” Well, I know there was nothing criminal as regards the behaviour
of my own kids, but as for the performance of the police…. Well that’s another
story…. And I have no doubt that the Dewi Jones conspirators would like it all to stop
now. I’m sure Hare does too. But they must remember that they started this little
game; not me; so they must now afford me a little courtesy and allow me to finish it –
all in my own sweet time, of course….
Dad does not doubt Hare’s findings; but I sure do and I’m not going to let it drop.
You’d think the conspirators would’ve got their story straight before including me in
the game. I’ll be writing to the Police Complaints Authority next, and the MP and the
papers…. I’m doing my little bit to question the rulers of the darkness of this world in
the hope that eventually they will answer for their crimes and in the doing some of
the devils walking amongst us will be defeated. I beg others to do likewise. Point
the finger of guilt at the authorities and whoever else is really to blame. Complain;
cause a fuss; DON’T BE SILENCED. Tell the world about your pain and suffering
and name and shame those guilty of your persecution. The crooks can’t stand that.
Remember evildoers will get their comeuppance since those who do wrong do have
a debt to pay to society. Even if they do escape justice in this world, they will most
certainly not do so in the next. God needs as many little helpers as he can get.
Hand-deliver your story, erect posters, badger the press…. If the majority of us can
try to defeat some of the devils in our midst and of course those residing within
ourselves, then ultimately and collectively we can help our divine ruler destroy the
grand master of evil himself – Satan. With perseverance and togetherness we’ll
annihilate him. The ultimate goal is victory for God and a safe pure unadulterated
world governed by righteousness for us.
We have a fight on our hands.