Anyone who has followed this blog for any length of time will know that a hobby horse of mine is the insufficient recognition of the contribution made to our society by women. I know that I’m a couple of days late but Sunday was International Women’s Day so I wanted to feature some specific women and, what is more, women entrepreneurs. So, I’ve chosen two such women, and their two female colleagues, who have recently launched a venture which could be very good for the village in which I live, although they do not live here, and in which I have become involved in a small way.

The team which has brought a new community magazine to my Wharfedale village, Menston.  L to R, Louise Atkinson, partner and graphic designer, Cathy Frobisher , Office Manager, Janet-Alison  Arkright , Partner and 'Sales Contributor', and   Andrea Kerman, Sales Person, at the reception in their offices in Haworth, each holding the first edition of the new magazine.

The all-female team which has brought a new community magazine to my Wharfedale village, Menston. Left to Right: Louise Atkinson, Partner and Graphic Designer; Cathy Frobisher, Office Manager; Janet-Alison Arkright , Partner and ‘Sales Contributor'; and Andrea Kerman, Sales Person. Proudly showing the first edition of the magazine open at the Menston pages.

From the village in which lived three extraordinary women who through their writings put the Yorkshire village of Haworth and Yorkshire on the world map – the Bronte sisters of course – this quartet – all mothers with young children, continue what Charlotte, Emily and Anne began.

Menston section of the new community magazine 'It's the business', covering postcode area LS29

Menston section of the new community magazine ‘It’s the business’, covering postcode area LS29 in Wharfedale, Yorkshire

My small contribution to the venture is to write the Menston page and compile the list of events and activities in Menston village. This fits in very well with doing the same thing for what I call the ‘alternative’ Menston website:
http://menstonvillagewharfedale.com

My village’s community activities thrive on the efforts of a lot of remarkable women who live in Menston; many of them are volunteers for a wide range of community organisations ranging from offering support to the elderly to a female choir or arranging events to raise money for victims of the Philippines typhoon Haiyan; several are entepreneurs who run their own businesses, ranging from the village bakery to a fitness studio offering Pilates sessions.

Going back to the female team behind the new magazine, all are mothers and the two partners also run other businesses as well as caring for the family:

Janet-Alison Arkwright has three young sons and a collection of rescue dogs and cats at home. Now qualified in Business, Finance and Law, Janet started as a cleaner at Airedale Hospital but eventually became Cancer Information Officer. She subsequently worked for top names like Asda, worked part-time on the business side for another local magazine and set up her own cleaning company, JA Services Ltd, which she still runs in Haworth. She manages to find the time too for competitive fell running as a member of Keighley and Craven Athletics Club.

Louise Atkinson has a son at primary school. She has a B Tech in graphic design and worked for several years in the print industry covering every aspect. Almost seven years ago she set up her own print company and runs that, KTG Design and Print, and offers graphic design services from Stanbury, close to Haworth. 

Andrea Kerman began work with Magnet, a well-known local kitchen manufacturer, then after a period with a knitting yarns supplier spent several years with the Inland Revenue. She is also a competitive fell runner with Wharfedale Harriers. She has four daughters ranging from 9 to 13 years old.

Cathy Frobisher began her career working for the NHS, which sponsored her to go to Birmingham University where she obtained her foundation degree in Health and Social Care. She came to work for Janet almost three years ago.

 

 

 

 

 

Picture of lambToday – 26 February – is Fairy Tale Day so I thought I’d try to tell you a fairy tale. Although it is Romanian, called Miorita (I don’t have the Romanian characters but it’s pronounced mee-oh-ree-tsa), the little ewe lamb, I’ll try to tell it in English. My very free – not literal – translation (I would not attempt to versify it) is based on a version collected by Vasile Alecsandri (1821 – 1890, Romanian poet, playwright, politician and diplomat who came from the Moldavian city of Bacau, a little south of where I spent most of my time in Romania).

It’s not really a ‘fairy tale’, it’s an ancient ballad which, when I thought I understood it after several years in Romania and knew the language reasonably well, I began to say “Understand Miorita and you can understand Romanians”. Some Romanians may say that is presumptuous, but I believe it to be true though perhaps I should say “Understand Miorita and you can understand Moldavians”.

Moldavia is the part of Romania in which I stayed most of my over 11 years there; if I have a favourite part of this wonderful country it is Moldavia, though my specific favourite is the Bucovina, where some of the more fragile aspects of Moldavians have been strengthened by influences from the western side of the Carpathian mountains.


Bride and groom with marriage crowns during a Romanian wedding service

“Tell them I went to marry a princess”


Miorita

Once upon a time there were three shepherds, each tending their flock on the plain below the lower slopes of hills which seemed to lead to heaven. One of the shepherds was Moldavian, one Transylvanian and one Vrancean (from three parts of ancient Romania).

The Moldavian had more flocks with the most beautiful sheep, with long horns. He had the best, well-trained horses and the most ferocious hounds; in short he was the richest of the three.

The Transylvanian and Vrancean were envious. In their minds, and planning together, they intended to ambush the Moldavian, and kill him, when the sun went down.

Meanwhile, one small grey-dappled ewe lamb had bleated loudly and continuously for three days, refusing to eat.

The Moldavian shepherd asked her: “Don’t you like the grass? Why do you bleat so long and loud? Are you too sick to eat, sweet little lamb?”

She answered: “Dear master, take the flock into that far field, where there is shade for you.  Call a large hound, a fierce, fearless one, strong and loyal, to be near you. When the daylight is gone the Transylvanian and Vrancean intend to murder you”.

The shepherd said to her: “If I am to die here, tell the Vrancean and Transylvanian to let my bones lie somewhere near, by the sheepfold so that my sheep are close by and I can hear my hounds. Put beside me a small beech pipe with its soft, sweet sound, a small pipe of bone which has a loving tone, and one of elderwood, good but fiery-tongued. Then, when the winds blow and play on them all my listening sheep would come near and weep”.

“Do not tell them how I died. Say that I could not stay but went to marry a princess, the most beautiful princess in the world. Tell them that at my wedding a bright star fell, the sun and moon came down to hold my marriage crown. My guests were trees – firs and maples. The high mountains were my priests, my fiddlers the birds, my torchlights the stars”.

“However, if you should meet somewhere my little, old mother with her girdle of wool, crossing the plains with tears flowing from her eyes, asking everyone she meets whether they had seen, had known, her fine shepherd son, slim as a willow tree with a face as bright as milk foam and a small moustache like a young ear of wheat, with hair as black as the feathers of a crow, and small black eyes that glow like ripe sloe berries, have pity and tell her that I have gone to marry a noble princess on the far hills there which lead to heaven”.

“But do not tell my old mother that a bright star fell for my bridal night, that firs and maples were my guests or that the high mountains were my priests, my fiddlers the birds and my torches the stars”.


I have stood on those hills which lead to heaven and can assure you that they do.

“Phone!”

Eyes glint, sunk in a sea of black. A mean nose pricks the air, piercing the swirling, breathless, grey clouds erupting from the dark slit beneath, from which the single syllable had come. A flash of light in the lower darkness draws my eyes down: a thin bright steely gash tremors in the black, darting forward erratically from time to time.

“Gimme yuh fuckin’ phone” leaps from the slit as the sharp flash of light makes a short dash in my direction.

I feel the anger bubbling up, smothering the surprise.

I have a phone; I hate it. It’s the key that so many people think they have the right to turn to enter my life as and when they choose. They wouldn’t turn up on my doorstep as and when they choose and expect to enter. So why do they think the slim megabited slab in my pocket gives them that right? I rarely answer it. I have it to call a breakdown service if the car fails, to let my wife know not to wait for me to eat if I’m going to be late home, or for her to contact me in an emergency. I hate it, but sometimes I need it.

The bitter bile of anger surges more at ‘that word’. That corrupted, over-used word which assaults me on every city street, which has me desperately pressing a button on the tv remote, the word which otherwise articulate, witty men and women seem to believe is indispensable to a joke on tv after 9pm, the word which keeps me from the once favourite pastime of standing at the bar with a pint, which has me snapping shut a barely opened book, the word which has me reaching for ‘close’ on otherwise enticing blogs. It was a good word, to be savoured infrequently, as an extremely rare single malt. It was a powerful word which has had its energy ripped from it, its strength sapped as it slashed the English language asunder and now I hate it, even more than the phone.

“You fuckin’ stupid? Gimme yuh fuckin’ phone”.

That’s two too many assaults on the English language for me. My knuckles speed forward, overcoming  the paltry resistance felt when almost at full stretch, finally coming to an abrupt stop in a small messy pool where that mean, sharp beak had previously been. Eyes, messy pool and screaming slit collapse into a writhing black mass at my feet; the light flash clatters to the ground.

I take a handkerchief from my pocket and pick up the knife.

“Kill, Kill” screams in my brain as I rip the balaclava from the squirming black mass, grab the hair to wrench the head back and press the knife point to its throat. Silence.

I roll the mass over, grab the ends of a cord at the bottom of an anorak and swiftly bind wrists to ankles. Whimpers.

“You should ask nicely”, I say as I take the phone from my pocket and press the 9 three times. I hate the phone but, as I said, sometimes I need it.

office rules to rest

laid among timed paper clips

writing in my head

Retirement caked decorated with symbols of writing - paper, pen, computer monitor

Snapshot from jumping meerkats video clip

What’s this got to do with hernia repair? Read on.

Last Friday I had ‘open’ hernia repair surgery. Subsequently house bound, even chair bound though decreasingly so, I have decided to set down my thoughts/experience with the operation as they may be of use to others facing a similar procedure. I also want to record the luck of discovering a Romanian doctor on duty at the time the NHS had deemed I should be sent home. I have to admit that I was somewhat anxious before the event, and searching for advice on the likely post-op situation, how long to recover, etc, much of the information was contradictory. With this background I had been warned by everyone from hernia repair surgeon to most acquaintances who had had the op that I should expect severe pain and to be ‘out of action’ for quite a time, even surprise from Germany that it was to be ‘open’ rather than ‘keyhole’ surgery and that I was to be discharged home the same day. I consoled myself that the pain could not possibly be as bad as that experienced last year, first waiting several hours for an ambulance then for quite a while in A & E with bladder retention; then, by the time a catheter was in, I was pretty much lunatic. (more…)

21 January 2015

 

White snow dying     grey

Children’s faces sad    silent

Birds sing    dreams of Spring

The chair and the table. The table is the same colour as the chair; the lighting makes it look different here. The Romanian home-woven carpet is probably about 100 years old - typical Bucovina motifs

The finished chair and table. The table is the same colour as the chair; the lighting makes it look different here. The Romanian home-woven carpet is probably about 100 years old – typical Bucovina motifs

And now for something completely different (hoping my project does rather better than John Cleese!). Relaxing with feet up is something I like to do in the evening in my dotage, having generally been up and active from around 5.30am (I’ve always been a ‘morning person’). A La-Z-Boy wing recliner chair was what I aspired to. The recommended retail price of around £1,000, or even sale offers of around £750, was more than I was prepared to pay and anyway I do not like the current ‘boxy’ cubic designs. (more…)

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 212 other followers