I WAS A REAL LIFE 'HEARTBEAT' WIFE

PART ONE - ROMANCE ON THE POLICE STATION LAWN

 

When I see episodes of the sixties police drama HEARTBEAT I become very nostalgic indeed, and not just for the musical memories the soundtrack evokes.  It's the whole thing - the village police house with the blue light over the door, the uniforms, the cars, the motor cycles, even the story lines, though I have to admit some of them in later episodes did become a bit far-fetched.  Because I was there, a police wife who lived in a country station during the late 'sixties and early 'seventies, where people knocked the door for assistance at all hours of the day and night, and my husband, Terry, covered his rural beat on a motor cycle.   Not with an overcoat flying out behind him, he would be at pains to point out - he actually had some very nice leathers - but on the whole HEARTBEAT really conjured up life in the police force as it was in those days.  And what a life it was!  In future posts, I hope to share with you some of the episodes I experienced - the hilariously funny, the tragic, the really very scary.  But for now I'll tell you how it all began. 

Life as a police wife didn't come as much of a shock to me - I'd been working for the police at our local Divisional HQ for several years before I met Terry.  To begin with I was a secretary with special responsibility for looking after all the officers in our Division, keeping their records up to date (in a ledger - no computers in those days!), and arranging for their police houses and stations to be kept in good order - redecoration, emptying of septic tanks, repairs to burst pipes, all this and more fell to me.   Later, when one of the constables in my office was moved back to the beat, I took on his duties and became what was known as Accident Queen, dealing with all the paperwork that arose from road traffic accidents.  Sometimes I even took 999 calls.   Locating an officer to deal with them wasn't always easy.  There were no personal radios back then, if there was no-one in the station to attend we had to either call a traffic car or wait for an officer to 'make a point' which they did regularly from telephone kiosks.  I loved the work, I loved the life.  It was exciting as well as interesting and the policemen were, for the most part, enormous fun.  I was taught the principles of Advanced Motoring by the traffic crews, got to meet the police dogs, and never knew what the day would bring. 

Then one day a new policeman was posted to our station.  That policeman was Terry.

The funny thing was, I spotted his car before I ever set eyes on him.  He always says it was his car I fell in love with, and his fate was sealed from the moment I saw it.   And that isn't far from the truth.  I looked out of our office window and saw it in the station car park, a smart, sporty Triumph Vitesse, just like the one pictured below.   'Who does that belong to?'  I asked.  And one of my colleagues replied: 'The new policeman, who's just been posted here from Weston-Super-Mare.' 

 

 

The 'new policeman' was on 'earlies' - 6 am-2 pm; my friend Brenda, who worked in CID, and who I usually had lunch with, was on holiday, and so, instead of playing a game of table tennis or skittles with her, and eating together in the recreation room, I took my sandwiches and a book outside.  It was a warm August day; I sat on the lawn reading, and, truth to tell, waiting.  Sure enough, just before 2 pm Terry and his tutor constable returned from patrolling the town, and made some comment about me sunbathing.  He offered me the use of his lawn for the purpose, I think.  They went inside, then, a few moments later Terry was back - on the pretext of getting his gloves from his car, he said.  He began talking to me, asked me out ... and the rest is history.  We were engaged at Christmas and married the following September, on what was my father's birthday and what would become the birthday of our younger daughter, Suzanne.  

And so I became a police wife.  A whole new adventure that I hope to share with you .....from the night our landlady locked him out and he had to sleep in the cells to the time when our country station was besieged by Hells Angels seeking revenge ...  from the lady who thought the Martians had landed on the school playing fields and were burning her in her bed with lasers to the one who tried to enveigle me into the local wife-swapping circle.  But they are stories for another time. 

 

             

     The happy couple!   September 3rd, 1966!

 

 

 

GHOSTS OF CHRISTMAS PAST


Some much loved mementos of Christmas past!

Christmas is a time for children. A time for families. But also a time for memories .....

Oh, the Christmases of my childhood! I remember them so clearly - each splinter of time as clear and sharp as ever it was! If only I can close my mind - and my eyes - for a moment to the clamour of Christmas Present. To the lists of presents to be bought. To the cards to be written and posted. To the constant refrain of 'I Wish It Could be Christmas Everyday' blaring from the supermarket speakers. To the endless queues at the check-outs, the problem of getting a space in the park-and-ride, the feeling of the days rushing past and being nowhere near ready .... If I can shut out all that, I can be a child again, on Christmas Eve.

We knew it really was "all happening" when our cockerel was delivered by 'Mr Young the Fowl Man'. He reared dozens of them, alongside his flock of hens, in a big open run just the other side of the road from where we lived, so we could hear them crowing for weeks before. The 'First Smell of Christmas' was my aunt, singing off what remained of the poor bird's feathers, which always notched up our excited anticipation. (Actually, I lie. 'The First Smell of Christmas' was much earlier - puddings boiling in the copper. A smell I detested!)

But back to that wonderful cockerel.

In my childhood, chicken was a once-a-year luxury, rather than the commonplace meat it is today. When it was gone we had to wait a whole twelve months to taste another. Oh, the wonderful aroma that filled the house as it was cooking! And it truly was the star of the show. We didn't have all the fancy accompaniments in those days - just brussel sprouts, stuffing, and - if we were lucky - roasted potatoes instead of boiled. But what a feast it was - even if I had to eat some of that hated Christmas pudding afterwards!

Then of course there was the excitement of waiting for Father Christmas to call. I remember looking out of my bedroom window when I was supposed to be asleep, ever hopeful that this year I might catch sight of his sleigh in the moonlit sky. But of course, I never did. I'd wake in the middle of the night, crawl to the bottom of my bed and feel the pillow-case that hung there - my sister and I always had pillow cases, not stockings - and it would be lumpy with a box that might be a jigsaw puzzle, and a couple of orbs that were probably an orange and an apple. I'd managed to miss him again! But at least he'd called and left me presents!

The family presents were always piled on the settee in the living room and covered with a sheet. We couldn't wait to remove it and hand out the assorted parcels to the adults, who sat in a circle as befitted the occasion, and we took it in turns to 'open'. Great merriment always ensued from the presents we received from one elderly auntie - they were always several years too young for me and my sister - I remember 9-piece jigsaws which we had races to complete, and when buying for my grandchildren and great nieces and nephews I live in fear of "doing an Auntie Pat". Her presents to my mother were just as uninspired - we took bets on whether it would be a peg-bag or a voluminous pinafore - each year it was one or the other. And on one memorable occasion a gift from us to them reapeared the following year in fresh wrapping paper ... obviously she was no more pleased with our offerings than we were with hers!

The present I will never forget is the one I got the year I passed the 11-plus to go to the Grammar School. A much longed-for bicycle! Too big to be put on the settee, it was standing in the hall when I came downstairs, also covered by a sheet, but an unmistakeable shape. The excitement I felt then has never been surpassed. It stayed with me as a warm glow for days, weeks, months, forever, really. That bike - a red Hercules with no gears at all - was my pride and joy and it still hangs in our garage. It might be a rusted wreck now that I will never ride again, but I just can't bring myself to get rid of it.

Oh ... those Ghosts of Christmas Past ... Happy, happy days, with memories time will never erase. And more happy ones to come, when I was a young wife and mother, and now a very proud grandmother. But that's another story .....

MY DAD, MY HERO

I mentioned in my last blog, RETURN OF THE BLACK MOUNTAINS, that the book (out in e-format on 1st November) was based around stories my father told me about life 'in the old days', but I think he deserves a page all to himself!

His name was Gerald Young, just Gerald - his poor mother had probably run out of inspiration by the time he came along, one of the youngest in a family of thirteen. His father was a miner, and the older boys had followed him into the pits of the Somerset coalfield; Dad was to do the same at the tender age of twelve.

I should explain here that he was almost fifty by the time I was born, and the early part of his life was a very different world to the one I knew. The school leaving age at the time was 13, but because Dad was clever enough to pass the 'knowledge test' at twelve, he was allowed to leave a year early. He went to work first on 'the screens', sorting coal above ground, but before long he was underground, working as a 'carting boy'. The Somerset coal seams were notoriously narrow and faulted, too low to accommodate pit ponies, so men and boys had to do it, crawling on hands and knees and dragging a 'putt' of mined coal from the coal face to a place where the roof was higher. A rope around their waist, then threaded between their legs, was attached to the 'putt'. It was hard, demeaning toil, and the rope rubbed their skin raw until they became used to it. But for all the infamy of the 'gus and crook' as the apparatus was known, I never heard my father complain about it. 'It's just the way it was, my dear,' he used to say.

What had made him angry was that he was blackmailed into continuing with the job until he was twenty-four years old. He 'carted' for his father, and carting boys were much harder to come by than colliers, so that when he wanted to leave he was told: 'If you go, you can take your father with you.' And so he stayed: he couldn't be responsible for his father losing his livelihood.

That story is one of the many that found its way into THE BLACK MOUNTAINS, along with the dreadful accident that nearly cost him his life. One day, taking his putt of coal down a steep incline, he misjudged the 'sprag' , a peg which was thrust between the spokes of the wheel as a way of braking. The putt ran down the incline, dragging him behind it, and at the bottom he was catapulted in an arc, taking all the skin off his back as he grazed the stone roof above. In those days injured miners were taken home by one of the carts that were waiting at the pit head to be loaded; that day there were no carts waiting, and Dad's brother carried him home on his back - a journey of the best part of a mile up a very steep hill. A story like that is better than any I could have invented!

Then there was the accident that happened to his little sister, Eva, who tumbled into a bath of scalding water. Lucky to escape death, she lay on her stomach for six months whilst her terrible injuries slowly healed, and had to be taught to walk again.

And more, so much more ... I think it will warrant another instalment ...

Though I used my father's family as 'pegs' for the characters in THE BLACK MOUNTAINS, and though Hillsbridge is a thinly disguised Radstock, the story is completely fictional, as I am always at pains to point out to readers who think they can spot the real villains. ( 'We all know who that was, don't we?' ....)

But one more incident is completely true. When my father escaped the mines he travelled the country, doing all kinds of different jobs. Whilst he was working as a deck chair attendant on the beach at Ramsgate, a local boy of 13 got into trouble whilst swimming - the currents were notoriously dangerous. Four men, including Dad and a lifeguard, went into the water to attempt to save him - one man drowned in the attempt, two were forced back - and my Dad got the boy safely to shore. He had never learned life-saving; he brought the boy in by his hair. For this he was awarded the Carnegie Hero's Fund Trust Award, a citation which hangs on my wall today, and £10 - a lot of money at the time! So you see, my dad really was a hero.

Unfortunately he died before THE BLACK MOUNTAINS was published, but he carried the piece of paper in his wallet on which I had written the dedication, and I'm sure he was pleased and proud. The dedication is this:

For my Father, Gerald Young

Who was a carting boy in the pits of the Somerset Coalfield for ten years and a collier in Somerset and South Wales for several more.

The stories he told me inspired this book. The plot and characters are fictional, but the way of life is as he described it to me, and I believe that he, and others like him, helped to write 'Black Mountains' with their lives.

 

RETURN OF THE BLACK MOUNTAINS!

(and the rest of the Hillsbridge books)

A 21st CenturyFairy Tale

 

Once upon a time there was a little girl called Janet whose father had once been a carting boy in the mines of the Somerset coalfield.  She loved to listen to the stories he told of those long ago days, of winters when he never saw daylight because he was underground from before dawn till nightfall, of the mice who would creep out for crumbs from the miners' 'cogknockers' - bread and cheese,  of a horrific accident that nearly cost him his life, and so on.  He also told of life in the little town.  There was the weekly market where Smasher the Chinaware Man would throw crockery into the air and let it fall to the pavement to attract customers, quack doctors sold their pills and potions, and a dentist would extract teeth on a wagon in the market square in full view of passers-by. There were the concert parties and fetes; and there was the notorious  'draw' when names were picked out of a hat to decide which previously exempt miners would have to go to war in the trenches.   And of course he told too of all the pranks he and his friends played as children - and later!!

Janet decided to use the stories her father had told her as the background to a novel, the story of a family who lived in the mining town of Hillsbridge.   THE BLACK MOUNTAINS, which tells the story of the Halls, opens in 1911 and spans ten years.  It was first published by Macdonald in 1980, and later in various editions by Century.  In the USA it was published as THE HOURS OF LIGHT. 

 

 

The original hardback version of THE BLACK MOUNTAINS

 

 

Everyone loved the story of the Hall family, so Janet wrote three more books about them, each following the next generation, and Charlotte, heroine of THE BLACK MOUNTAINS, appears in all of them, though no longer centre stage.  THE EMERALD VALLEY tells the story of  her daughter, Amy, who was just a little girl in THE BLACK MOUNTAINS.  Next comes THE HILLS AND THE VALLEY, set during World War 2, with Amy's daughter Barbara in the spotlight, and lastly A FAMILY AFFAIR set in the 1950s when Charlotte's granddaughter is a doctor in Hillsbridge.

 

Eventually the Hillsbridge quartet went out of print, but lots of people were still asking for them.  Janet had long since run out of spare copies in the loft, and most libraries had long since decided that their well-read and dog-eared copies would have to go, so she and all the people who still wanted to read about the Hall family were very sad.

 

 But then along came a kind fairy godmother who works for Macmillan Bello.   They publish out-of-print books in e-form and also print-on-demand.   They took a look at the Hillsbridge quartet and said they would like to make them available once again!   So, like all good fairy stories, this one has a very happy ending.

 

Janet has just heard they are due out on October 11th, and she is very, very excited!!

 

oooo-OOOO-oooo

 

Author's note:  Janet Tanner is my real name.   But of course I am also Amelia Carr!!

 

 

 

SUPERSTITIOUS - ME?

 

 

 

 

Proof I love green!  But Mum didn't approve ...

 

 

Where on earth do superstitions begin?  Some are easy to explain - walk under a ladder and a pot of paint (or worse!) might fall on your head.  Some are symbolic - crossed knives equal crossed swords.  The rest, I imagine, started simply because something bad happened to someone and they associated it with an event that had happened just previously.  For example - Carols Should Only Be Sung at Christmas.  This was one of the things my mother was superstitious about, and she always warned us that proof enough, if proof were needed, was that after singing out-of-season carols when celebrating Christmas late with my aunt and uncle - 'Grampy fell down'.  Grampy was in his eighties and a bit tottery on his feet, but it was the carols that were to blame.  I must say that if there were any truth in this superstition everyone visiting stores and supermarkets between mid-October and Advent would be having very bad luck indeed!

 

I think my mother was the most superstitious person I have ever met, though she always claimed the dire warning she was issuing was the only thing she was superstitious about.   To the rest of us, though, the list was endless, and none of the portents foretold good fortune, always something dreadful.   She didn't like seeing the new moon 'through the glass', as she described it.  If a picture fell from the wall (which they sometimes did, since we had heavy old frames suspended on rope which was liable to fray) disaster would soon strike.  Even a black cat crossing her path was regarded as unlucky, rather than the traditional 'lucky'. 

 

But chief among her superstitions was a fear and loathing of the colour green.  To have it anywhere in the house was an absolute no-no, and as for wearing it ....  disaster would surely follow.  So fearful was she of the colour that she would even cut the green title block from the church magazines, saved because they contained details of family christenings or weddings.  My father frequently told her she was being ridiculous but went along with it for the sake of peace, as did my sister and I.   Though my sister finally flouted the 'green is banned' rule by joining the Girl Guides at school - their uniform included a green tie.  My mother did threaten to go and see the pack leader to ask if my sister could be excused wearing the tie, but I think she was eventually talked out of that.

 

For years and years I avoided green, partly because I didn't want to upset my mother, and partly because I was genuinely afraid of what might happen if I rebelled.  It was a bit like standing on the edge of the high diving board and wondering if I dared jump - except that I did used to jump off the high board, but was too indoctrinated to risk wearing green.   And then crunch time came. 

 

I wrote in one of my previous blogs about the meningitis my daughter Suzie suffered when she was a baby.   She was lying desperately ill in a sterile cubicle in the Children's Hospital, and each time we visited we were required to put on a gown, which hung on a peg ready for us.  The doctors' gowns were white, the nurses' were brown, and - you've guessed it - the gowns for relatives were green.  I was horrified, thinking it a very bad omen, and the first couple of days I asked for a brown gown instead.  But inevitably the next time the green gown was back, and eventually I made up my mind.  I would wear it.   What would be would be.  If something dreadful happened, which was a very real possibility, I would not blame the green gown.  And if Suzie recovered, I would know the whole thing was nothing but a ridiculous superstition.

 

Suzie made a miraculous and complete recovery.  And from that day on I have surrounded myself with green.  I love it!  I often wear it, and we decorated our house with loads of green - even painting the front door in a lovely shade of holly.  I never managed to convince poor Mum, though. 

 

So - am I superstitious about anything?  Well ... I like to think I'm an optimist.  So yes, I do turn over my money when I see the first sliver of new moon.  And yes, I do put on my right shoe before my left so I can put 'my best foot forward'.  But that's not superstition, is it?

 

I'd rather call it 'positive thinking'!

 

 

 

TAKE HEART, ZARA.  THERE ARE MORE IMPORTANT THINGS THAN ANNIVERSARY CARDS!

 

 

No anniversary cards, but still happily married!

With two of our lovely grandchildren.

 

 

So Mike Tindall is being castigated by the gossip columnists for buying Zara a last-minute wedding anniversary card in Sainsbury's.   The marriage will never last if he doesn't treat her with a better show of love and respect, is the message.  All I can say is - tosh!  And believe me, I speak as one who knows.

I come from a family who always sent one another cards on every possible occasion - goodness, my grandma even used to send my sister and me Valentine cards and pretend she didn't have the slightest idea where they had come from!  When I married Terry 46 years ago next month I fully expected the same sort of tradition.  The first Christmas after we were married I bought a huge card bearing the message 'To My Darling Husband at Christmas' and sent it to him.  His reaction when he opened it was not at all what I had expected.  Instead of delight, he looked dismayed.  'Does this mean I've got to send you one?' he asked grumpily.  Naturally, I dissolved into tears.  A couple of days later there was a huge card on the breakfast table with my name on the envelope.  I opened it, feeling vindicated, to discover a card identical to the one I had sent him, except that it was 'To My Darling Wife'.  He'd taken so much notice of my card to him, and the one he was buying he hadn't even noticed!  Yes, I was upset all over again, but then we laughed about it, and propped the matching pair up side by side under the Christmas tree.  I never expected a Christmas card from him again, and I've never had one.

I've never had an anniversary card or a Valentine card from him either, though, to give him his due, he is very good about birthdays.  Well, the cards, anyway.  My present has been known to arrive in the brown paper bag it was bought in.

As for bouquets ...  flowers bought from a garage forecourt would have been far better than no flowers at all.  For years and years, I never received a single bloom.  When I was in hospital having my second baby all the husbands were arriving with bouquets, and I mentioned to the girl in the next bed that I'd be lucky to get any from Terry.  'Oh, you're wrong!' she said, spotting him walking across the car park. 'He has got flowers for you.'  I was surprised - Terry buying flowers?  I couldn't believe it.  I was right to be doubtful.  The flowers turned out to have been sent in for me by our next-door neighbour.

I must admit there were times when I felt pretty miffed, but then I realised.  If Terry was the sort for the grand romantic gesture, he wouldn't have been the man I'd fallen in love with.  No use getting upset about it.  It wasn't that he wasn't generous, he was.  He never has begrudged me anything.  He just honestly couldn't see the point of that  sort of thing and he wasn't going to change.

Having said that, there have been occasions since when he has bought me flowers.  The publication of my second novel, Oriental Hotel, being a case in point.  I was doing in a signing in a local bookshop when the florist arrived with the most beautiful bouquet - for me, from Terry.  When I read the card, I was in tears again, this time of joy.  Because I knew he'd done it absolutely to please me and for no other reason, and because it was so rare, made that bouquet, extra special.   There were red roses too on our silver wedding anniversary, probably about the only ones in twenty-five years, and again, all the more special because of it.

We'll be celebrating our Golden Wedding in another four years - maybe, if I'm lucky, there will be flowers for me then too.  But I'm not expecting a card, from Sainsbury's or otherwise.  If I get one it will be a bonus.  But far better to have an unromantic man and a happy marriage than the other way around.   And that would be my message to Zara.

 

It's twenty years now since I wrote this account, which was published in the Daily Mail, but it is every bit as fresh in my mind today.  To accompany it, I had a photograph taken with an enormous white cockatoo sitting on my arm!

 

 

 

 

HOW I BEAT MY TERROR OF BIRDS

 

'How old are you?' asked the hypnotherapist.  'I'm two.'  My voice sounded childish.  'What are you wearing?'  'My blue coat.'

            I wasn't convinced I was reliving this: I've seen photographs of myself wearing that coat.  Then I heard myself add, with a giggle: 'I'm not wearing my bonnet.  Mummy makes me wear it because of my bad ear, but Daddy lets me take it off.'

            That was disconcerting.  It sounded like a long-forgotten truth.  I honestly didn't know where it had come from.

            I was in regression therapy, trying to rid myself of a phobia that had haunted me for as long as I could remember.

            I fed birds in winter, adored my daughter's cockatiel and my mother's budgie, but the prospect of touching them or of them touching me turned me into a gibbering idiot. 

            As a child I woke sobbing from nightmares, paralysed by the terrible conviction that if I moved I would encounter … feathers.  I was once sick when I walked into a butcher's shop and found myself surrounded by unplucked Christmas turkeys.  I couldn't touch a picture of a bird; I couldn't even look at one.

            As I grew up the nightmares came less often but the terror remained, blind and unreasoning.  And the fear of knowing that I would lose total control if suddenly faced with my phobia only made things worse.

            Once, I found a dead bird which must have come down the chimney, and flipped completely.  All the use went out of my legs, I was screaming, hitting out blindly at my husband as he tried to comfort me.  For hours afterwards I snatched my hand away from everything I touched as if it, too, had become that bird.

            I was panicked by the flutter of wings, but it was the sight of a dead bird that touched the depths of my horror and brought the most extreme reaction, and especially a black bird.

            I consulted a local hypnotherapist, John Hudson, who said my terror was probably rooted in something that had happened when I was young.  If I could remember it as an adult, he said, there would be no phobia.

            Often people think they recall the traumatic incident which was to blame, but almost certainly what they are remembering is the earliest occasion on which they were confronted with the trigger.  The true cause is buried deep, resulting in a reaction irrational to an adult, yet impossible to control because subconsciously we are programmed with the emotional response of a child.  What we had to do was find the incident and allow me to relive it as a grown woman.

            My mother always said my phobia began when I was frightened by a pheasant while walking in the woods with my father.  But this didn't explain why I was more afraid of dead birds than live ones, especially black birds.

            My hypnotherapist put me into a light trance, having attached an electrical skin resistance meter (the old fashioned lie detector).  I felt relaxed and in control.  I didn't believe I'd been hypnotised at all and , when I began answering his questions, I was convinced my answers were coming from a desire to co-operate. 

            He persuaded me to describe the scene.  I was in the wood. It was a bright, cold Sunday morning.  My father was wheeling the pushchair along a path.  I was running on ahead.  Then, nothing.

            'A bird flies up in front of you,' the hypnotherapist said.  'It startles you, but it won't hurt you.  There's nothing to be afraid of.'

            But something was desperately wrong.  Suddenly I was crying and shaking.  The hyphotherapist told me later the monitor had shot off the top of the scale.

            'I don't think we've reached the root of the problem,' he said.  'We need to try again.'

            At home, I kept remembering the session, and something more.  It was as if I was watching a photograph develop in my mind, snatches of something I could almost see.

            A week later the hypnotherapist repeated the procedure.  The barrier – apprehension – was still there, blocking my memory. 

            This time I had a hazy impression of branches cracking in a tangle of trees. Someone was there.

            'I am going to snap my fingers,' my hypnotherapist said. 'When I do, you'll remember what happened.'  He snapped his fingers.  Suddenly I heard the crack of gun shot.  And then a violent fluttering in the undergrowth beside me and a bird, large, black and broken, anguished in its death throes, at my feet.

            I was screaming.  And a childish voice sobbed: 'It's dead!  I don't want it to be dead!'

            Tears were streaming down my face.  At last I had remembered the horrific incident which had been buried deep in my subconscious. 

            My parents had no doubt encouraged me to forget.  And the bottled-up horror had remained with me, out of reach, but overwhelmingly powerful.

            The hypnotherapist advised me my fear may not go all at once.  'You have a lifetime of terror to overcome.  But now you know the root cause you will soon learn you don't have to be afraid.'

            I could hardly believe it.  As I left his surgery I saw a pigeon on the pavement and decided to put it to the test. I couldn't bring myself to walk close enough to make it fly, I was tense and nervous.  But my skin didn't crawl any more.

            Today, my phobia is totally cured.  I no longer fear the flutter of wings which in my experience had preceded a horrible death.  And my memories of that long-ago have gradually developed into a clear photograph.

            I remember just what it was like to be a child, but I remember with the understanding of an adult.  Hypnotic regression exorcised my demons and opened a new world for me.  And my freedom from fear is wonderful.

*****

 I was photographed with a cockatoo on my arm!