Don't Pranic Mr. Mainwaring
When I went to the hospital to have my elbow checked, I entered zone 2 shivering with indignation. The X-ray machine had broken and a twenty minute wait lasted nearly three hours.
I was given a 50p deduction on parking since I had been waiting for so long. Still, having to pay anything at all to visit the sick is in itself an outrage.
I was given the all clear by a doctor but not after I'd ranted about the lack of resources. I was mad enough to criticise the regime before he manoeuvred my arm. It didn't occur to me he may have been a Conservative doctor who was less than pleased with my diatribe about the Tory Government and their treatment of the NHS.
Fast forward to this morning, my martial arts osteopath said my body was in revolt.
"Could the doctor have deliberately hurt me?" I asked. I did not expect JB's answer.
"The PC answer is no of course not, but in truth he did do something to you which put you back a couple of weeks."
So there I am realising that if I am going to criticise, perhaps it would have been politic to wait until after he had examined me.
Now I'm sot suggesting that all doctors do that, but I am suggesting that you choose your battles.
So today I had two hours of Pranic healing. Sitting on a chair in my living room, a man with a crystal wand waving it around my energy field. He said it removed clogged areas of stress and anger. And boy did Mr. Cameroon and his crew make me angry.
The cat danced around my feet, the healers daughter, and mine, sat in the kitchen. She only eight my daughter twenty years older than her giggling together.
I felt sick half way through - the toxins coming out - and then I felt something lift. Was it an acceptance of defeat? Or just a release of election fatigue?
Whatever when we drove down to Brighton, my body felt lighter.
I bought food for the new mother. Five of us sat down to delicious quiches, and a big salad with pomegranate seeds and quinoa. I enjoyed making it in the little kitchen.
Then it was lemon cheesecake and delicious newly brewed coffee.
My son-in-law, exhausted from three nights of no sleep with the new baby, looked at me and asked whether it was okay to talk about the election.
We discussed the carnage that may happen over the next five years.
As a worn out old activist, cradling a four day old baby, what could I say. We all try and do the best for our own. We all believe that the newly born deserve a life better than the one we've lived. How to achieve that?
Firstly we have to trust that the next generation will carry the baton, but we have to pass that baton on in whatever we way we can. My way is to shout and talk, then take the consequences. Of course it gets lonely, but not for long. I write a little blog and suddenly I'm joined with others who feel the same. We forget just how dynamic unity is.
Mrs. Thatcher and her disciples knew the power of a unified work force. It came as no surprise when we saw the dismantling of the British working class.
We're now left with a splintered work force, hundreds of entrepreneurs, thousands of young mixologists and a scrap heap of middle aged experts that don't know what to do with themselves after yet another river cruise
Most of us find change unwelcome, it hurts, its disruptive, its like having that new born baby. You have to just go with the flow since all routine has been smashed. The next five years will be watching, listening and choosing the moments of dissent.
Some use prayer, some use meditation, some use protest, whatever it takes with whatever happens next. But as my martial arts osteopath always says, once you have entered the Sacred Dohyō, once you have stepped into that ring you have to be prepared to die.
Am I prepared to die for what I believe?
Well I've never been tested.
Will it come to that?
Only time will tell.
Jeni Barnett tells of her scrumptious time at Good Food Live in her first audiobook! Download NOW from iTunes
My father fought the Moseley blackshirts in Cable Street. He joined the Socialist Party of Great Britain (They still exist, I saw a candidate at one of the counts last week). He was an idealist, a gentle cultured man who truly believed socialism would prevail. I visited his grave yesterday and told him not to despair. Hard not to but I trusted him and still do. It wasn't in his lifetime, it won't be in mine. His granddaughter has inherited his ideals and teaches politics now so maybe, just maybe his great-grandchildren will believe too.