I'm ordinarily a bit grumpy
I say a bit. I'm actually like a fucking grizzly bear with a sore head. My social skills have degraded to the point where I don't bother going out socially any more. However three things that I've done stick out in my mind from when I was younger and fresher.

Me at 18/19 years old, doing temp work for Widdowsons, loading lorries for the Christmas rush in a busy depot. Lorries from all over were coming in to be filled with goods. It's organized chaos and boxes are being passed around like a human conveyor belt. (Looking back, I've never been so at peace with myself in my entire life.)
I'm crossing the depot heading for the loo when I see this bloke wandering around with this bunch of papers, looking confused and very out of place. As we passed each other I caught his eye and offered, "Alright mate?"

He winced, looked around in sheer desperation and said, "Espanol?" fluttering the papers a little for emphasis.

The poor bastard was Spanish, obviously looking for someone to sign for his lorryload of stuff. I smiled and motioned for him to follow, and he eagerly did, all the way to the supervisors office, who promptly told me to get back to work. I explained again a little more forcefully that this bloke was waiting for his stuff to be signed and was told furthermore to 'sod the foreign twat, go and move more boxes."

I left the office, taking the bloke with me, who had no idea what was just said, and told him in broken Spanish that I didn't speak his language, and did he know any French?

He replied haltingly in French that he knew a little, and I agreed that I was the same. I asked him clumsily for his green paper and he gave it to me with a flourish, I then signed the fucker myself, and apologised on behalf of Britain as best I could, calling the manager a 'merde a la tete.'

The bloke burst out laughing. He then led me to his cab outside the main shutter doors and asked me, 'fumar?' He gave me the biggest fucking cigar I've ever seen, and I thanked him very much, and we shook hands. All of this in a language neither of us knew really at all - a real Frenchman probably would've been in stitches. But it was enough.

I smoked it on New Years Eve a month later, and smiled as I remembered the bloke.

-----------------------------------------------

The other thing that happened was when I worked in a cold storage warehouse. We supplied chicken and sauce and cheese for KFC. We all wore heavy cold weather gear, and again, I actually enjoyed the simpleness of it all, and the other temps were great. No backstabbing, no politics.

I was going about my business there one day, minus 8 degrees, when I saw this older black fella crying softly as he clumsily moved boxes about. He was in his late fifties, with wiry grey working it's way into his hair and beard. I was really shocked when he told me that he couldn't feel his hands, he was "so cold...so cold..."

I asked him for fucks sake, why havent you said anything?, to which he replied he was afraid to, since he needed the job to feed his family, and if he complained, he'd be sacked.

I marched him straight to the supervisors office and played hell up. I quoted Health and Safety and all fucking sorts, and the supervisors went pale when they realized the was way over 35 and shouldn't even been working in cold storage.

The black guy thanked me so sincerely, holding both my hands, still crying, that I had to go off on my own for a bit. A bit moving. At least he got moved to a warm section of the warehouse.

---------------------------------------------------

Oh and I went to Borders at Christmas a few years back and was aghast to find a Christmas tree with labels all over it. "Five year old loves Tigger." "10 year old loves books about dinosaurs" etc. They were the Christmas wishes of dying kids in a local hospital.

No-one had bought hardly any labels from the tree. As I read more and more ("2 year old loves cats") I started crying. I still have no idea what happened to me but I had never, ever been so profoundly moved in my entire life. I stormed around the tree, taking the labels off, and then went around the shop for the next few hours, filling basket after basket with stuff that matched the labels. I bought the fucking lot and had no money left and I didn't fucking care. It was just so fucking wrong for that tree to be there full of labels like that on Dec 23rd. I was assured the kids would get the stuff on time but still.

I was given a 2p reject stuffed toy skunk from Bambi by the tillgirl for my 'generosity'. He sits in my car door pocket.



I wasn't going to post at all. I think bragging about nice things I've done is wrong, and it invalidates the acts themselves, cheapens them to nothing, but they way I've been feeling lately I needed someone to know I can do nice things sometimes. I'm a grumpy, antisocial bastard but I had to let someone know that I've tried to be better. That's all.
(oneltrchardonnay, Sun 5 Oct 2008, 10:59, 11 replies)

Chips
Last night my friend Jon was round my house, along with Mr CSL and our friend Chris. Jon and I offered to go on a fish & chip run.

Mr CSL orders cod and chips with curry sauce. Chris orders two sausages and chips - plain ones, no sauce, no nothing.

We come to the queue. I order stuff. The fish and chip man makes Chris's chips and says "salt and vinegar?" I say yes, and he goes ahead. Jon says quietly, "Chris asked for plain chips."

I think "Oh no," and wonder what to do. The chips have been wrapped up.

Jon's turn comes. He orders curry and chips and then an extra portion of chips - plain. And swaps them with the chips for Chris that I ruined.

He didn't even want the extra chips.

I think that was a really nice thing to do.
(YayLady is cold, Sun 5 Oct 2008, 10:00, 8 replies)

The nicest thing someone's done for me this week
was to vote for me name suggestion for the weekly newsletter :)

PS So sorry Mr Hart lol
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Sun 5 Oct 2008, 9:44, Reply)

...
Apologies in advance for such a long story. Even greater apologies for the fact that I still don't think I've told it very well, nor that I've expressed what a big thing this was for me.

The tale of Tasha.

Firsty, some background.

In Feb 2000 I met, fell in love with, and moved from South East London to the middle of Essex to be with Mrs SeasonTicketless. I’d never felt this way about anyone and clearly she felt the same about me. Despite being opposites in many ways (things we liked to do, fave tv programmes, musical tastes, film genres) we clicked. Never before have I felt so strongly about someone, and for the first time ever I suddenly understood why some couples could stay together forever – a concept I’d had trouble grasping before.

In June 2005, Mrs SeasontIcketless officially became a Mrs, marrying me just down the road from our Chelmsford home. Our three children were bridesmaids (luckily we had three girls, as I’m not so sure we wouldn’t have dressed a little boy in a bridesmaid outfit just so he matched!)

In July 2006, Mrs ST gave birth again, this time to our only son.

In January 2007 we moved about 200 yards down the road to a beautiful house. Enough bedrooms for each of the kids to have their own, and bang smack centre in the part of Chelmsford we wanted to be.

In July 2007, after a very honest and open talk, we made the decision to split. The decision was based on a few things, primarily the fact that we had grown apart, and that what had started as a lust-fuelled love had slowly ebbed away to just a mutual fondness. We spent very little time together, and the time we did have together was spent doing our own things. We’d grown apart, and despite still loving each other, it wasn’t enough. We agreed to split because as we saw it we were going down a rocky road that we’d been down (and back) before, and we could forsee us trying to stay together and ending up hating each other, whilst at that moment we were still friends and in the long term we’d be better off splitting and staying friends than staying together, running the risk of causing misery to each other and THEN splitting up. Mrs ST moved out of the marital bed that same night, and the two eldest were excited to be told that they’d be sharing a room. We also made the decision not to tell anyone about the split for the time being, as we had the Christening coming up of the three youngest which would be the first time we’d seen many friends and family in months (and in some cases years) and we didn’t want our split to overshadow the day.

At the end of August 2007 we had the Christening. Much fun was had, we caught up with old friends and things were fine.

In September 2007 we told everyone about the split. Until this time only a handful of people had been told, and they had been sworn to secrecy. From my point of view everyone I told seemed to be shocked. I’ve never had so many people tell me that they viewed my marriage as perfect, and one that they thought would last forever. Maybe it was the fact that we’d had 4 kids, maybe it was because people didn’t know us as well as they thought they did.

After answering the same questions over and over again (“Did either of you cheat?” No, not as far as I’m aware. “Whose decision was it?” Both of ours. “Will you get back together?” No…) people finally began to realise that this wasn’t a flash in the pan. Mrs ST and I made plans for the future: I would move out between Christmas and the New Year, which would give the kids ample time to get used to the idea of daddy living somewhere else, and also allowed them to understand a certain timeframe (ie., just after Christmas and just before you go back to school).

A few months go by and I am getting ready to leave. The whole of December seemed to be taken up with me talking to the kids about my leaving, and them being generally apathetic to it all. The eldest seemed to understand and was happy that she was “in the loop” and understood what was going on. My middle daughter, two years younger and aged 5, also seemed to understand but every now and then would pop up with a new question that she’d just thought of.
As 2007 turned into 2008 I found myself packing up the car and driving the 400 yards to my mum’s house, unpacking my stuff and settling in to the spare room. My possessions were few: clothes, PC, mobile phone. That was about it. I’d agreed that I’d keep paying the mortgage as a form of Child care payments, and as such wasn’t able to afford to rent anywhere else. Living rent-free at my mum’s was a blessing then as it still is now.

So what’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me? Well, I suppose I could name my mum here. The woman who, from when I was 7 brought me up single-handedly. Who, with part of her spine missing and with heart troubles for the majority of her life that culminated in a quadruple bypass in 2002, taught me how to be an adult, who sheltered me from the harshness of life and who, despite times when I’ve acted like an arse, has been there with unconditional love and support every second of every day.

I could also put forward my 4 kids, who saw their mum and dad split, saw their dad move out and had their lives jumbled up at such a young age, yet who have remained fairly unperturbed by it all, and seem to have taken things in their stride when neither their mum or I had any reason to expect them to.

But no, instead I am going to nominate Tasha.

You see, as my world was crumbling around me, life carried on as usual. On Halloween 2007 I had to attend a sales conference for work at Stansted. Ten different branches of our company came together for the first time in years, and although it was not unusual to know a few faces and recognise a few more names, it was common to not know most of the people in your surrounding branches.

As I walked in to the reception lounge, I saw what I can only describe now as a vision of beauty. Long blonde hair, styled carefully into curls, a beautiful and welcoming smile, and an aura of goodness. Being the shy sort that I am, I nudged a friend and commented on the beautiful woman who’d I’d seen, dribbling slightly as I did.

Ben, despite being engaged, was quick to go and introduce himself. Ben is the type of person that could create conversation at a Mute Person’s convention, and within no time at all he and Tasha were chatting like old mates. I stood a few feet away, listening in, chiming in with the occasional remark all whilst being blown away by the charisma eminating from Tasha.

After the conference had begun, and we’d stopped again for a break, I jumped on the back of Ben’s conversation to tell Tasha that we were all going for a drink after the conference in Chelmsford (which was a blatant lie, but one that I knew Ben would back me up on), and would she like to come? It turned out she lived in Southend (another 20 miles away from Chelmsford), but that yes, she’d come out seeing as everyone was going. Result.

In the end about a dozen people came out for a drink. Tasha chatted politely with Ben and I, and I had a good time. I didn’t chat her up, for fear of rejection with her being so out of my league, but I had a good time anyway, and finished my drink before saying goodbye.

The next day at work I emailed Tasha to ask her out on a drinking session with some friends the next month. She replied saying that she’d try and come but that she was fairly skint, so no promises. We emailed back and forth a few times, generally having a chat, and seemed like we were getting on ok.

A few days later and I was out on the piss with some friends from work in Chelmsford. Tasha refused to come, claiming she was skint and more importantly, couldn’t be bothered. My boss at the time, Derren, called her at work and basically badgered her all day, convinced her to give him her mobile number and then when we were out called her to see if he could get her to come out. Eventually she caved in and came to meet us.

At the end of the night, after we’d all had far too much to drink, Tasha, who had remained sober, said that she’d drop us all off. One by one she dropped us all in and around Chelmsford as some Godforsaken time in the morning when she looked shattered and obviously just wanted to get home. Derren stayed round mine that night and I persuaded him to give me Tasha’s phone number so I could send a text saying thanks.

A couple of nights later and Tasha and I are texting back and forth like we’re best mates, and although the conversation steered clear of anything naughty (not for my want of trying it has to be said), we chatted via text until the early hours.

A few nights later and once again I was out with people from work in Chelmsford, and this time I offered to pick Tasha up and drive her home later that night so that she could have a drink, as a way of saying thank you for her doing the same previously. I’ve never been a great fan of going out and not drinking, as it normally means everyone finding things hilarious that, being sober, you know aren’t funny at all. I also despise karaoke with a passion. Yet this night we stayed in a bar with karaoke all night, myself, Tasha and about 4 others from work. No one else was in the bar except bar staff and to this day that night remains one of the best I’ve ever had. Tasha had fun (though was the first person to tell me I was crap at shoulder massages (see, I tried!)) and at about 3am we called it a day and I started dropping people home, getting in at about 5am, before getting up again 90 minutes later to go to work.

That night was the start of a true friendship between Tasha and I, and over the next 6 weeks leading up to Christmas I spoke to her every day via email or text, saw her every couple of weeks, got squarely told very early on that there was no way we would ever get together: Me: You know I like you in more ways that as a mate? Tasha: Yeah, I do, but you’re cool being just friends, aren’t you? Me: Yeah, course. The strange thing was that I meant it too.

So come New Year, I find myself sitting in my bedroom. My heart broken as I no longer live with my kids, no longer have the house of my dreams, no longer have the money to afford my own place, and generally hating everything around me. As we started back at work the day after New Years Day, I would talk to my kids on the phone as I drove to work each day, and for the best part of six weeks, each phone call would end with my telling them I loved them, putting the phone down and crying my heart out as I drove along for the best part of half an hour or so.

I realised very quickly that my life seemed to be falling apart. I needed a distraction. I needed to get out of that spare room and do something. Anything. What I needed was company.

I consider myself to have quite a few friends. None that I would ever want to be a burden on, but plenty that would help me out when I needed it. So when I looked around at the start of January to try and find someone – anyone – to reach out to me, I couldn’t find anyone. Friends that I worked with didn’t know what to do. Friends that I spoke to weekly started to keep out of my way. Long term friends offered their support but were generally too far away.

I never told anyone how down I was. How much everything was affecting me. I’d always been a private person, and perhaps with hindsight I was a little too private. Had I told anyone of my deep despair at the time, I’m sure I’d have had a whole support network around me. Instead, I put up barriers, pretended I was ok and tried to get on with life. All the time hoping beyond hope that someone would take me under their wing without me resorting to having to ask. Depression is a strange thing, and I honestly felt that asking for help would have tipped me over the edge.

So when I would text Tasha saying “I’m bored” at 9pm, she’d text back “come round if you want. I’m not doing anything.” And so, for just about every night for over a month I’d find myself sitting on Tasha’s sofa, doing nothing but watching tv. When it got late, she’d bring out a pillow and a blanket and tell me to kip the night rather than drive home tired.

What I learnt those few weeks was that Tasha and I were very similar. We had the same sense of humour, we seemed to like and dislike many of the same things. We had an empathy with each other.

Spending so much time at Tasha’s house helped me get through a very dark patch. It was a place - and a person – that had only just come in to my life, and therefore I didn’t associate it with my ex, my kids or anything to do with my life at that time. It was a hideaway, somewhere I could go and feel loved and wanted, and not have to worry about anything.

What started out as lust for Tasha turned into a deep respect for her. When we’d first started texting and I’d asked her why I didn’t see so much of her, she responded “With all due respect Dan, I don’t see my friends as often as I want or need to, let alone work colleagues.” Yet here she was, less than 2 months later, spending time with me when I’ve no doubt a lot of the time she had other stuff she could be doing.

People ask me now if Tasha and I will ever get together, They’ve seen as out as friends, and see the way that we laugh at the same things, bounce off each other and generally get on really well. “You look like a perfect match” I’ve been told, in sentiments that echo what was said about my marriage. The answer is no, we’ll never get together. There was a time when it was all that I wanted, but now it would be too strange. I wouldn’t risk having sex with Tasha for fear of losing her friendship, and I wouldn’t risk a relationship for fear of the same. On one level it makes perfect sense, and on another it makes no sense at all, but I trust my instincts on this one.

That’s not to say I don’t love her dearly, because I do. She was the only shining light in an otherwise extremely dark period, and I say that fully aware of the love that was a stones throw away from both my mum and my kids.

So the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me is when Tasha was a friend for me at the start of the year.

Sometimes the smallest things can make the biggest difference. And sometimes it’s almost impossible to put into words just how much that means.
( SeasonTicketless is too often the statue, and rarely the pigeon., Sun 5 Oct 2008, 9:32, 6 replies)

Thank you for calling first!
In my spare time, I volunteer as a counselor on a suicide crisis line (this is not a "hooray for me" post, not to worry), and I'd like to take a moment to thank the individuals who, despite their pain and desperation, pick up the phone and give us a call.

Believe me, NOT killing yourself is the often the nicest possible thing you can ever do for your family, your friends, and all the future friends and family you'd otherwise not get the chance to meet.

If you've every seen the aftermath of a suicide, or heard from the family or friends of someone who's killed himself/herself, you know it's not something you'd want to inflict on anyone.

Even if you think nobody would care, believe me, they do. No matter how alone you are, there are people who would like to know you if you'd take the chance, and there are probably people who like you already, who'd be very upset to hear of your demise, that you just need to get back into better contact with.

It's not a sign of weakness to get help for depression. It's a mental illness, and if it's severe, you can no more "suck it up and get on with it" than you could "suck it up" if you had cancer, and you know it's severe if you're thinking about ending it all, even if you joke about it too.

Depression is also the most treatable of mental ilnesses, and with a combination of therapy and/or medication, many people get past it and find a life with joy and meaning.

Killing yourself isn't something to romanticize, it's a miserable, horrible, pathetic mess with all kinds of collateral damage.

So to those of you who've considered it, but have taken the time to call a hotline or get help on your own, I thank you on behalf of all your current and future friends that are left unbereaved (and your future self, who will thank you in time). Whether you believe it or not, the world is (and can continue to be) a better place with you in it.

If you're British or Irish, call the Samaritans:
In the UK dial 08457 90 90 90.
In the Republic of Ireland dial 1850 60 90 90

If you're a Merkin, call:
1-800-SUICIDE
1-800-273-TALK

If you're not any of those, well, get on with it then. Cut vertically, not horizontally, the knot goes behind the ear for proper severing of the spinal cord, you need a good height for jumping unless you just want broken legs, etc. (This is B3TA after all, it wouldn't be right to post without the obligatory tasteless comment.)

Seriously though, just use GOOGLE to find a suicide hotline / crisis center / psychiatrist / therapist / etc., or just go to your local emergency room, they can help, and there are options regardless of how little you can afford.

Thanks again for calling. Even if your life doesn't mean much to you now, it does (or could) mean everything to someone else.
(not here, Sun 5 Oct 2008, 6:36, 8 replies)

As long as we're getting serious....
I don't usually tell people this (read: never) but it illustrates quite well the concept of the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me. I wrote before about a friend of my childhood who had become an actor.
I'm not writing his name cause I don't want it to show up on a search engine but when I was a little girl, he lived in our neighborhood. I had no idea he was in the theatre; he was just the cute neighbor boy.

Anyway, rotten stuff was going on at my house. I was an unhappy, scared child. Most of what I remember is fear, shame and embarrassment. I became more and more withdrawn and was never sure if people liked me.

When I felt the absolute worst about myself; the dirtiest and lowest, I would go find my friend and sit with him (sometimes I would try to hunt him down!).He always made me feel better. I could lean against him or climb on his lap and hide my face in his chest. Sometimes he would wrap me up in his shirt and rock me. He wouldn't say anything or look at me-I think he knew I couldn't face anyone. I know he had no idea what was going on; I'm sure he would have done something.

But being around him and interacting with him, I would store up little things to bolster myself with. He meant them a different way, I know, but if he said, "You're my good girl" or "Gosh, you're smart." I would hug those things to myself and treasure them. When I felt so awful I wasn't sure if I would wake up the next morning, I took them out and played his (and a couple of my teachers', my mother's and one or two others') words in my head and could believe I wasn't bad or worthless. That I didn't deserve what was happening.

Because of them I think I didn't go down a path so many abused girls do-falling into bad relationships, hating myself and making bad choices, dropping out of school, walking the street, doing drugs blah blah blah. I got out with my sense of self relatively intact and decided to be somebody because I was good: I was Sister's good girl, my friend's smart girl etc. He was 10 years older than me and I looked up to him so much.

I think that's a major reason I became a nurse: to look out for those who can't speak up for themselves. There are so many people in the system who have no one on their side except for us.

Because I went through all that, I feel like I can hear what patients aren't saying and am able to help them get to the heart of the matter with compassion and sincerity. Patients talk to me because they trust me-I don't share all this with them, but they know I take them and their concerns seriously; I listen to them. You know if someone has suffered or had their heart broken. You feel like they can understand where you're coming from and intuitively "get" your position-you aren't embarrassed & don't feel judged. It's easier to let someone in to help you.

Anyway, I owe him more than I can ever repay. It was the kindness, decency and respect he naturally showed a sad-sack little pest that defined his character and protected me. He was the only adult man I was around who really saw me as a person, someone worth listening to. My dad was never around and his friends didn't pay attention to small children. My uncles whom I loved were back in the States. The other man I saw the most was the one mistreating me.

I wasn't a commodity to him. My worth didn't lie in what I could do for him but in who I was. In his eyes, I was worth something,not just my body. And knowing that saved me.

I know he wouldn't even remember me; it's been 40 years since he saw me and I only came up to his elbow. I wish I could tell him this and let him know he not only saved me, but all the patients since then that I've helped and allowed me to parent two terrific children who will grow up to make a contribution to the planet.


Edit: Jeez! Apologies for length-I don't want to remember the ugly thing.
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Sun 5 Oct 2008, 5:56, 10 replies)

And another thing
As a result of the aforesaid stubborn streak I do more for others (not much, but more) than is done for me. The best ever was when I was a wee porky of no more than 19 summers.

At that time I was drifting aimlessly having dropped out of Uni. Through various contacts I ended up running playschemes which kept me in beer. Nice. At one of the schemes I had a lot of kids from less than affluent backgrounds, a rather rough area. My home streets as a matter of fact. Now one of the kids was what we now call cerebral palsied but back then (1978) was simply handicapped or spastic. He was a nice kid though and I took a liking to his rather wry sense of humour. Without letting the other kids suffer I made sure he was included somehow. He was about 9 or 10 but spent most of his time in a McClaren type buggy (his parents couldn’t afford anything fancier and didn’t like the huge wheelchairs). I spent time chatting to his parents at the end of the sessions (hippies, father was a fitter in the shipyards and his mother was what Marge would acknowledge as a homemaker).

One night I was feeling particularly gracious and offered to take the young un of their hands for an afternoon, and did so. It was a Saturday, I picked him up from home and after a warning from his dad to “Not let the little get play up” we went to the beach and visited the fair. Toilet duty wasn’t much fun but we coped. I delivered young un back home and with a total naivete asked “So, what did you get up to this afternoon then?” I actually blushed immediately and started stammering and stuttering. The bairn’s Dad just laughed and said “You know what? We spent this afternoon with the bairn’s sister. We don’t get much time for her and we’ve had a really good time. She said she’d forgotten what it was like to have time with us. Thanks mate.”

So my singular act of kindness turned out to be a bit Pay it Forward. It made me feel good and to be honest this is the first time I’ve thought about it in years. Thanks QOTW for letting me feel good about myself.

Strange the things you do when you’re young and idealistic.
(porkylips looks better as the sun goes down., Sun 5 Oct 2008, 3:09, Reply)

Payback time.
Unfortunately I am a very independent, self reliant type. To the point of bloody mindedness which often drives my wife to distraction. As a result, other than the usual birthday stuff, people rarely get to do nice things for me and I really can’t remember many. The last one I do remember however was this summer.

My wife has only recently started work again (after an agreed hiatus for child rearing) so this summer we decide on a four week holiday in southern Spain. Chill-out factor was the prime consideration. We had a week on our own, a week with the boy and his beloved and a fortnight on our own. We also informed him it would be his last family holiday as he is now of an age to start sorting himself out with holidays, we’d help pay as usual but we realised he would want his own space (maybe). Now as a bit of back story: my son’s birthday is in December and one of the things we invented was the Holiday Fairy. A very kind creature that ensured he had a small present during the middle of the year, normally Duplo, lego, pokemon or whatever was in vogue at the time.

Come this summer he managed to suss things out and asked me outright “Is there a holiday fairy?” He’s a quick lad. 19 next birthday. I owned up that there was no such thing.
“oh.” He said in a small voice looking suitably crestfallen. “No holiday fairy then?”
“No son, sorry.”
“Ah well, never mind.”

After he had gone home I joined my good lady in an early night and on snuggling down for a good night’s sleep (after many a Jaeger fuelled evening with the boy) I felt something hard under the pillow. I reached under and pulled out a packet of cigars, not just any cigars but Moods Tubos (cheap but hard to find and a really nice smoke). I opened the box and found a handwritten note in his still childish scrawl.

“Hola from the Holiday Fairy. Thanks Dad.”

I love you too, son.
(porkylips looks better as the sun goes down., Sun 5 Oct 2008, 1:37, 1 reply)

flowers
while in college i had a really crap time in one of my relationships
he had been controlling, possessive and constantly criticised me etc. i finally saw sense and ended it.

but then he began trying to get sympathy or sex from girls by telling any female willing to listen about how i used him for sex, cheated on him and many other things that never actually happened (i later found out that this didn't work for him as no one believed what he was saying)

so this one lad, who was a friend of a friend, noticed i was kinda miserable with all this stuff going on (and he did kinda like a me but anyway..).
one day after college i was on my way out, horrible ex not far behind bitching to random girl about me, when i saw the lad standing near the gate, he had a few purple plastic roses with him.

evil ex's face dropped when the lad walked over gave the flowers to me, gave me a kiss and then walked me to the bus stop.

so yeah that was one of the nicest things anyones ever done for me.
we did end up getting together after that but ended up just friends because i moved.
(i eat crayons, Sat 4 Oct 2008, 23:22, Reply)

I've touched on this before
I've already discussed my Mum, in the 'have you seen a dead body' QOTW. I won't go through all that again; all I want to say is this:

To the funeral home attendant - you probably didn't expect my request. I arrived back in the home town a good few hours after my mum had died. The rest of my family had seen her, dying, as she had, at home, and in her own bed rather than some sterile hospital ward. The funeral directors had come to pick her up at something like 5 am. I got back home at around noon, and instantly wanted to go down to the funeral parlour, to say my last goodbyes. I had been home the previous weekend, but she was extremely ill by that point, and all I did mostly was sit by her bedside as she drifted in and out of consciousness, looking fragile and in obvious pain.

I got to the funeral parlour and asked if i coud see her. This obviously caused a bit of awkwardness as they had already secured the coffin; however, the attendant said "give me an hour", and off I went.

Being able to see her, no longer in pain, no longer fragile, was a blessed relief. To look down on the dead body of a parent may seem morbid to some; to me it was a relief - she looked happy and peaceful.

So, to that attendant, I say thank you. It may have been a pain in the arse to do it, but you have my utmost thanks. Because of you, I remember my Mum not as the pain and cancer riddled frail woman she had become, but as the youthful and vibrant woman that brought me up.

Apologies for sappiness; frankly, I don't give a monkey's toss.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Sat 4 Oct 2008, 23:06, 15 replies)

"There's been another 'toilet casualty'"

groan

These were not the words I was looking forward to as I returned to my poky room in a university hall of residence. The one thing that made New Hall stand out above all the other halls at my university was that it had an en-suite shower and toilet. A great advantage for most people but for me, my own personal toilet was just another place for my clumsy girlfriend to knock things into.

She looked into my eyes trying to be cute before realising I wasn't in the mood.

"What the fuck have you permanently soiled now?"

"Erm..."

I breathe in deeply realising that I suppose it's better that she confesses to the error rather than let me continue to use my toothbrush/teaspoon/remote control/coffee mug*.

"It's your lipbalm."

I'm glad that men don't carry handbags (or manbags) but I always try to shop for trousers with generous pockets that can cope with my essential items. Whenever I leave the house I will, without fail, always be carrying: wallet, keys, coins, Orbit Spearmint and finally, my lipbalm. I have thick, pouty lips and I need lipbalm to keep them moisturised and healthy.

"Nevermind, but you're buying me a bloody replacement."

"No you don't understand. It was the cherry cola one."

"Doooooooo. Nooooooooooot. Waaaaaaaaaaaant."

Of all the lipbalms I have ever tried none were quite as nice as the Avon Christmas catalogue special purchased for me by my sister (it had a snowman on it with a cherry nose :) After trying to find a replacement for the one slowly dwindling stick I possessed I realised that I was going to have to savour what little was left and use it only for special occasions. By destroying the irreplaceable, my girlfriend knew she had failed badly and felt suitably ashamed.

Fast forward 7 years to today, literally this very Saturday. I awoke to find a parcel from my sister, the one she phoned about yesterday.

"It's just a little something I saw and I thought of you. Don't get too excited it's nothing special." said my big sis.

"OK then cheers, I'll look forward to that then."

I was secretly dreading it would be an item of clothing or worse - something cluttery that would take up space in my house.

I opened the tiny package this morning to find an official Coca-Cola Cherry flavour lipbalm. Yayness! Not the nicest thing someone has ever done for me but certainly the most recent nice thing. Much appreciated as I walk down the road away from the searing depression of heartbreak back towards happiness, moving ever closer to the day I can shave off my beard of woe and return to my clean-shaven, rugged good looks.

To be honest, I'm getting sick of my friends commenting on facebook pictures of me saying I look like Chad fucking Kroeger.

* - no really, she was a complete disaster. When we lived together I literally enforced a ban on her having glasses of water in the bedroom - she was that Clouseau-esque.
( djtrialprice, Sat 4 Oct 2008, 21:34, 12 replies)

Bah humbug
I've spent my life being really nice to everyone! Even to people who didn't really deserve it.
For example, one of my best friends stopped talking to me to the extent of shunning me at my own birthday all because I went somewhere without inviting her. Now this seemed very stupid to me as she does stuff without inviting me, which is okay because we're not supposed to be together constantly...
A couple of weeks later I happened to be out at the same place as her. I saw her dancing on her own and felt bad for her though she had really hurt me, thus I went and danced with her and kept her company until the song ended and she walked off.
Guess what! She still "hates" me and won't talk to me, even though I tried to be nice.

Things like this happen to me all the time. I seriously don't know why I bother. Perhaps I'll become a bitch, maybe then people will treat me better.

Sorry for being so pessimistic during a happy QOTW but I'm going to give up caring :)
( Mellicious is made of candy, Sat 4 Oct 2008, 20:57, 2 replies)

stab my eyes out
reading this sentimental drivel
(The_artist_formally_known_as_alz0r, Sat 4 Oct 2008, 20:19, 4 replies)

not the nicest thing ever
but I started uni 2 weeks ago and my grandma sent me a card today with a tenner in it saying if i ever needed to talk she was always there but she expects I've been so busy with lectures, clubs and 'eyeing up the local talent' that I haven't had time to feel lonely. makes me feel guilty for hardly ever going to see her.
it's the little things that are the nicest sometimes
(rosie-pie, Sat 4 Oct 2008, 19:37, 3 replies)

I'd like to thank my mum.....
for having a string of disastrous relationships after my dad left when I was very young, up until the age of 18 when she met my current step-father.

She completely put me off getting serious with anyone and suffering the misfortunes she and a lot of women on here have gone through with men. I've never been heartbroken, mentally or physically abused or cheated on. I have been lonely at times but generally had some good sex and a lot of laughs with some nice guys, (and girls).

I just wish my sisters had learnt from her mistakes.

Doesn't mean I'll never eventually settle down with someone though. You can never be too old to finally take the plunge if you discover a keeper.
( girlinthehole, Sat 4 Oct 2008, 19:34, 2 replies)

The Mr Chips moment
I finished a teaching degree in April 2007 and I was really undecided about going into the profession. It was tough and not what I expected and quite frankly I needed a rest but after 2 years of skintness needed a job. I decided to become a supply teacher for the year and see if that could help me decide what to do.

The first 11/2 terms were hell on toast (you know how kids in crap schools treat supply teachers) and I kept getting sent to crap schools. I was having a bad year, found a lump* and had to move to a new place after inadvertently moving in with nutters** until the supply agency sent me to a new school.

The pupils at this school suffered from anxiety disorders and were so traumatized by bullies that they couldn't deal with regular school. This was the carling of teaching jobs - small classes of lovely kids who work hard. They all got top marks, one lad getting a grade A GCSE in three months. Unfortunately the school couldn't afford to keep me on :(

I need to say thankyou to those kids for giving me my Mr Chips moment so early in my teaching career - some teachers never get that. I'm now working at a good school and mostly enjoying it and when the little buggers drive me up the wall I think back to that school and those kids and know that I'm a good teacher.



*Thankfully just a cyst
**I wasn't using door handles properly they demonstrated how to do this
(DryGoldfish, Sat 4 Oct 2008, 19:23, 3 replies)

My old boss
Could be a total bitch sometimes, but on the whole I got on fine with her. I refused to take any shit and she accepted that. Our relationship never moved beyond strictly professional, until my mum was diagnosed with breast cancer.

At that point, she really showed me what she was made of. She yanked me out of the room when she saw how close to tears I was, and spent ages just letting me talk, and venting my anger. I was angry. Angry at the world in general. I'd lost my dad as a teenager and here I was, facing the possibility of losing my mum.

Over the next few months, she was there for every step of the treatment, the biopsy, the lumpectomy, then the radiotherapy. Every day she would ask how my mum was, and how I was. Just knowing that someone cares is a huge help during a time like that, believe me.

When my mum's treatment was finished successfully, my boss finally told me that she'd been where I was. Her mum had been diagnosed with breast cancer some years earlier. She'd had a double mastectomy, radiotherapy, chemotherapy, the works. After a long hard fight, my boss's mum had lost the battle at the age of 60. I hadn't even known her mum was dead.

There we were, two women a generation apart. One who'd lost a mum to breast cancer, one who's mum had been declared in remission from the same disease. (Years later, and it's never come back, fingers crossed.) My mum's cancer had been caught early thanks to a mammogram, and thanks to the wonderful people of the NHS, she'd fought it, and beaten it.

My old boss is still known as a bit of a dragon to most people. They see her as a hard-faced old cow. Other people can think what they like, I still owe her my thanks for her support through a hellish hard time. I've moved on but still email her regularly. I hope she knows that if she ever needs my support for any reason, I will be there. No questions asked.
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Sat 4 Oct 2008, 18:58, Reply)

Good Samaritan
So I was driving my van alone across Australia. I was doing one of my many 1000km days to get me from Kakadu national park down to the dodgy highway 66 to Mount Isa. I was pushing hard as it was getting late and I really didn't want to stop early in Katherine I wanted to get to Mataranka. Petrol stations close at dusk, the roads are more dangerous as cattle, camels, cows and kangaroos are more active at night. I had bull bars but that will make bugger all difference if you hit a camel. The only people who drive at night are the road trains (will fuck up a camel and keep going) and the nutters.

So its gone dusk and I'm breaking my rule about driving at night but I'm nearly there, another 30 miles roughly.

Anyway, the lights start to dim and I'm thinking hmmm thats odd. So I wake out of my daze and look at the dash, the battery warning light is on. Shit the battery is dead, the alternator isn't charging it or the fan belt has gone.

Pull over and open up the engine and peer in with the last few rays of sunlight. Yup I've snapped the fanbelt driving too hard to get into town tonight.

I have a spare and some cheap tools so go get the bits and set up the warning triangle 50 yards up the road.

Its now dark, I'm alone in the same spot that those two backpackers were murdered a few years before...

Anyway, the bastard bolts won't come off of the tensioner for the belt to get the new one on. I'm cursing away when an old ute turns up and this guy gets out and asks whats up. I point to the broken fan belt by my feet and mention I'm trying to fix it.

He says there is a station over there and they probably have a UMTS phone with a signal out here (my GSM one didn't get coverage out here). So I grab my valuables (abandoned vehicles tend to get stripped if left un attended) and sit in the back of the ute with his dog and we rattle up to the station. I get to call the breakdown services on their mobile and they won't accept any payment for the call.

So back to the truck and I'm going to have some food and wait. The guy refuses to go and says he'll wait with me.

After 45 mins I'm getting nervous they are not coming as they should have been there by now.

So I decide to have a go at the bolts again with my cheap tools. We both work at them and still no sign of the breakdown truck.

Eventually brute force and some additional leverage we got the new belt on and tight enough to run the alternator. The engine starts and I'm all set. I realise I'm out of cash and all I have of value is a pack of beer in the fridge in the back of the van.

I offer Steve to come into town with me and I'll buy him dinner at the main hotel. He is working on another station and if he is late they will think something has happened to him and start looking to see if he's had an accident so he wants to press on.

I gave him my beer, a big handshake and a thank you for saving me from a night by the side of the road camped in my van and off he went.

Its this spirit, kindness and honest integrity that makes the Australian people awesome. I experienced many other examples on my travels too, but this was a big one.
( b3tz, Sat 4 Oct 2008, 18:07, 3 replies)

The best thing..
Amongst other things...

My Mum, took me back into her tiny overcrowded house when I finally left an abusive relationship.
My Mum also fitted my conservatory with a new roof, and took my shed to bits, painted it and then reassembled it, replete with new roof felt.
My Mum has also dragged me out of the house and looked after me when my struggle with depression threatens to beat me, and took me and the little sparklers on holiday many times..

My Mum has given me an impossible Role Model to live up to, and when I'm feeling spectacularly selfish (part of my illness) I could swear she does this on purpose.

Now, my Mum used to be quite horrid to me at times when I was little Sparklet, above the call of parental duty.. this could keep experts busy for years.. This leaves me with the feeling that my Mum knocks herself out looking after me in spite of how she feels about me..Just imagine doing all that for someone you didn't really like all that much? Either way, it's been one hell of a huge apology, and I still love my Mum loads because of it..
(Beer Elf Thought this was like a campfire, anyhow, on, Sat 4 Oct 2008, 17:18, 2 replies)

Leonard Cohen Concert Dublin
Must've been twenty years ago. Leonard Cohen was visiting Ireland and his concert was a sell out. My chums had already gotten tickets and assured my Mrs and me that we'd have no problem buying some from the parasite touts outside. Sure enough we got a couple of 'restricted view' tickets for an exorbitant sum from one of the gurriers.* And nowhere near the seats our friends had.
When we got in we discovered that the two seats were behind a pillar. Shit! Impossible to see anything.
Next thing, Leonard Cohen's son appeared and gave a snort of disgust. 'Restricted view? That's no view!' said he. Disappeared off and got two chairs which he then put up on the platform within a few feet of Leonard and the band. We had the best seats in the house. And the envy of our chums who couldn't believe their eyes.
A little act of kindness I have never forgotten.
* A Dublin term describing low life. Great word.
(reinvented, Sat 4 Oct 2008, 17:17, 1 reply)

someone asked me a question
during my university years i met someone who as introduced to me as 'the gay one'. she sat next to me and we started chatting, she asked me if i was gay. Extremely offended I said no.

Once i was home i asked myself why i was so offended and come to the conclusion that I had some un answered questions to ask myself.

What proceeded was a year or so of soul searchin (getting pissed) and being secretive and depressed.

This particular person was always there for me, she would come and collect me from the pub when i was too drunk to go home, she would listen to my problems, she put up with abuse from me telling her it was her fault i was so unhappy.

Never once did she tell me to fuck off, never once did she try it on with me (no folks she had no alterior motive, this was a pure act of kindness on her part).

She tried to get me to stop drinking my problems away, she advised me to get counselling (which i did), she advised me to talk to my course leaders at uni so that my studies did not suffer.

She was great.

As i write this to share i realise what a big thing this was and am eternally greatful to her as I am now gay and proud.

Unfortunately because i was a great jackass we no longer speak... I cant even remember what I did wrong, so dont know how to say sorry to her.

I am aware that she is very very happy and content and this is the least that she deserves for being the person who helped me to see what was missing in my life.
(jenko83, Sat 4 Oct 2008, 17:07, 1 reply)

Neighbor by the lake
When I was 7 my wretched father was skipping out on the house we rented--we'd been there a couple of years but he drank and didn't like to work, so we had to scarper.
Flash back to the previous summer. I had received a handsome silver half-dollar for my birthday, which I somehow lost--possibly across the street, in my neighbor's lovely lawn. I had spent many an afternoon looking for it.
Now, 7 months later, as we were pulling away from the old place, the kind gent ran up and said, "Look, I just found your half-dollar!" I believed him and thought that for once, I got a break of almost cosmic proportions.
Years later I realized what he had actually done and knew I had gotten a break of actual cosmic proportions--this fellow who did such a thoughtful thing for a wee wretched child with lousy parents. I can't remember his name, the house by the lake is gone, I hear, due to erosion and fancy marina installation. But I know that when I was little and adrift there were people keeping an eye on me; and I realized my extended family--grannies and aunts and uncles--had been doing the same. I only got to thank a few, the rest have since died.
Thank you, mister. You were the high point of a wretched year--from the child you knew you would never see again but did such a nice thing for--I turned out pretty well, by the bye.
(Mrs.Fonebone, Sat 4 Oct 2008, 17:01, Reply)

Many people have saved my life in every way possible
I was looking through this and was thinking "what's the nicest someone's ever done for me", and I couldn't think of anything. Oh sure there's the tiny things that make life good like the wife giving me a hug when I'm stressed etc, but nothing really worthwhile writing here.

But then I thought, "Mark, you COCK!" there are lots of people who have done the nicest thing for me...

saving my life.

You see, back in 1995, aged just 14, I had a massive brain haemorrhage. Completely out the blue. I was just sat in my room on a blazing hot summers day playing on my MegaCD (as you do) then suddenly I went blind, couldn't walk properly, dizzy and incredible pains in my head. I tried to get downstairs but fell down and lost consiousness. All in all it took about 5 minutes to go from completely normal, everyday stuff, to dying on my kitchen floor.

But I'm still here. I'm married, have travelled around the World, I own my own home and, apart from a massive scar on my head and a stutter, you wouldn't think there was anything wrong. The only way this could happen was several people doing the nicest thing anyone can do, and although you think "that's just their job" - they made more difference to my life than anyone could ever hope to do.

My Dad - who found me unconsious on the floor, choking on my own vomit, who put me in the recovery position and phoned for a doctor

The Doctor - who came out quickly and raced me over to the local Emergency hospital

The A&E staff - who fought for several hours to get me to regain consiousness

The Ambulance staff - who raced hell for leather up the M42 to Coventry Walsgrave Hospital, relaying my condition to the hospital staff.

The surgeons, anaethetists, nurses etc - who fought for 13 hours to stabalise me, get my head cut open and stopped the bleeding that was flooding my brain

The Intensive Care Nurses - who looked after mum and dad while I was lying in a coma, and helped them when I came round, despite being given a less than 30% chance of doing so.

The ward nurses - who looked after me and were patient with me when I was consious again but couldn't talk, see or form sentences correctly

The Physiotherapists - who tried to get me to sit up, stand up and eventually walk again - and wouldn't let me give up despite the pain it was putting me in.

The Occupational therapists - who got me doing basic tasks to regain my independance and lead a "normal" life

All the people whos donated blood I used - I must have used gallons of it

My friends - who came to visit me in hosipital and despite having no hair and being unable to talk to them, made me laugh and smile again

My sister - who drove miles to be by my bedside

The Speech therapists - who gave me the gift of communication back, allowing me to talk and be understood again

The hospital porters - who talked to me and put me at ease, even when I was going for a horrible treatment

The Asian lady - who always waved and smiled at me, despite her husband being in terrible pain across the ward with a massive head injury

The hospital library staff - who saved me some comedy audio tapes to cheer me up

The Hospital Vicar - who came and sat with me and didn't need to say a word to make me calm

The X-Ray and CT Scan people, and the members of the public who donated money so the hospital could have a CT scanner.

The Work Experience Girl - Who held my hand when I was crying and claustrophobic in the MRI tunnel

My school - who despite not having any disabled students usually, went out of their way to welcome me back

The school bullies - who stopped being nasty to me and started to be nice to me, even trying to be my friend (must have been the scars!)

The Sun Newspaper - who allowed me to write a column for their stroke awareness week

The Salters Nuffield Biology Unit - who chose me to be a case study in their A-Level text book

You guys - who make me laugh even when I am at my lowest

My parents - who never left my side and gave me the strength to fight on

My wife - who despite my problems and short comings, loves me completely.

There's probably thousands more who I haven't thanked but you are all in my heart.

Cheers.

edit: I'm overwhelmed and humbled by all your lovely comments - thank you all so much :o)
( h3donist tryin' to play me out as if my name is Sega.., Sat 4 Oct 2008, 16:13, 13 replies)

I just try to be nice to everyone.
Especially people I like. I can't currently afford Stephen Fry's latest book, but there was a book signing today and I wanted to meet him. So I baked him some bread.

It's yummy bread, I had too much dough so made myself a bun as well.
( Rev. Cleo still alive, Sat 4 Oct 2008, 15:43, 4 replies)

is this sap week or what?
I was an insecure kid. My entire high school career is best described as a slow and tortuous slog out of the pits of social phobia and mortal embarrassment - I still to this day have moments when I realise I have a social life and go "Huh. When did that happen?"

I was prone to random crying fits, mostly when something embarrassing happened, which was a sort of vicious cycle as everyone would then crowd around me going "Are you crying? What's the matter?" which was, obviously, EVEN MORE EMBARRASSING than whatever teacherly telling-off, wardrobe malfunction or snide comment prompted it in the first place.

So one day we had to get into groups of five for a project. The class had about thirty kids in it, so it was a relatively even split. People were generally sitting in groups of five-ish friends, too, so they mostly didn't bother moving, already knowing what their groups would be. I didn't have friends in that class, not even just the sort I'd hung out with a couple of lunchtimes and therefore could assume would let me in their group, so I already had the sinking feeling that I'd end up in a group by default of them being the last group with not enough people, but the divisions weren't obvious enough for me to just count and quietly go sit down with the smallest bunch. So I screwed up my meager courage and approached some people to ask if I could join their group.

"Sorry, we already have five people." Was the answer. "Oh, okay." so I moved on to the next group, and the next - only to get the same response. None of them were particularly hostile, but having been publicly rejected from four groups was enough for me, and I calmly walked outside to have a bit of a cry outside the purview of well-meaning interrogators.

And a tall girl who had absolutely no reason to like me or feel that my wayward emotions were in any way her problem came out and just hugged me for a bit. She didn't say anything. Afterwards I went back inside and approached the last remaining group, who turned out to be the one missing a member.

It was just a little thing, I still remember it and am grateful for the small kindness. And also quite happy that nothing has happened to me that was so bad as to NEED a greater kindness than that, honestly.
(Lieutenant Colonel Oblivious brought to you by intravenous sugar, Sat 4 Oct 2008, 15:36, Reply)

My younger brother...
...will make someone an excellent husband one day.

1) he just sat with me whilst I cried myself dry after finding out a friend of mine was killed. He didn't have to say anything, just sitting with me was enough.

2) when my immune system goes on strike, he makes me Lemsip/hot ribena/tea and gets me some medicine

3) he pushes me to going into hospital when my asthma flares up. I dont like going to casualty as I feel as though I'm wasting resources that could be spent on people who need more than I do.
(ToysForBigBoys would spread her legs for Nick Clegg., Sat 4 Oct 2008, 15:29, Reply)

Similar to Resident Loons...
There is a website for New York improvisors, that had a brief period of web fame about 5 years ago when a Corn Perker wrote a diary about her job.

They had a rush of new members, including me, and it was incredibly annoying for them.

But, after the 'newbies' left, I hung on.

And started to make friends.

These were friends that started to change my life.

They encouraged me to try Improv. The supported me when i felt I was shit at it.

They fed me, accomodated me and showed me round when I visited: alwaysloveyounyc.blogspot.com/

They became my friends.

And I love every day that I know them. Even the annoying ones.

So, the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me, was done by a guy I have never met who set up a website, a girl who wrote about Corn Perking and everyone that welcomed me and encouraged me to do what I do.

And, by the way (and to plug) I'll be doing it at a theatre in London in early November, if anyone wants to come along (message me for details).

(and yes, friends of mine who read B3ta, I have just outed myself to you by posting that link. Try not to be canutes about it)
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Sat 4 Oct 2008, 15:20, Reply)

My nan
Died nearly 2 years ago, about a month after I'd started uni. During the run up to this she'd been getting very confused and very distressed and anxious about things that don't really matter, as I'm sure you'll all know old people can do. So there are a couple of stories I'd like to tell all you lovely people about some lovely people who helped her.

Story #1: She'd gone down the road to the shop to buy some milk and could have sworn she'd put the right amount of change in her pocket, but when she came to the checkout she didn't have enough. Now to any of us this wouldn't be a problem, but to her it was very distressing and embarrassing, and she got very flustered. However a very nice gentleman in the queue behind her paid for it. So thank you nice gentleman, it was only a few pence to you but it made the world of difference to my nan.

Story #2: They had closed the post office in my nan's village so she couldn't withdraw her pension any more and chip and pin was just becoming compulsory. However to someone like my nan, who couldn't remember who'd visited her that day or even what time of day it was, remembering a pin number would have been impossible. So thank you nice lady in the bank who helped when mum took nan in and asked for a special needs card where you could still sign for things - you were very nice about it and could see the problem immediately, and again a small thing for you made the world of difference to my nan.

Story #3: About a year before my nan died two men had moved in next door. It was quite obvious they were a gay couple but they were discreet and my nan never mentioned it. They had a rabbit and my nan loved animals, but hadn't been able to look after any since her dog died a few years before. She'd spend hours leaning over the fence talking to this rabbit, bless her! This couple also kept an eye on my nan as she was getting more confused and when she had the stroke that finally put her in hospital they were the ones that realised something was wrong, forced the door and called an ambulance. She eventually died of pneumonia a month later and they came to the funeral, even though they didn't really know her and really didn't have to. It meant more than they'll ever know to my family.
(Petite chien is going to do science to it, Sat 4 Oct 2008, 15:02, 8 replies)