Hello, who are you?!

(Follow me on Twitter? @janemcintyre12 and @normandycottage )

Hello, I just wanted to say thanks for dropping by, and either reading my blogs....or stopping *just* long enough for it to count as a page view...!

Since leaving full time work at Easter, I`ve scribbled randomly about my new freedom...learning to run...relying on my fantastic friends...and good times and bad. I`ve told you about my family, my loves and hates and some of the places I`ve visited this year, so now it`s your turn.

Checking up on who`s reading this...and where they are...it`s great to see there are readers across the UK, in the USA, in Russia, Ukraine, China, France, Germany and Italy. Among other places. And that writing about chocolate, beer, pies and age have proved the most popular topics!

But that`s all I know. So....either in a comment at the bottom of the page, or by dropping me an email via the link on my profile page, please introduce yourself and tell me where in the world you are! And if you write a blog, I`d love to return the favour and read that too.

Thanks again!

Jane.

Someone ill? Look away now....

So here`s your scenario.

You`re in your local high street. And something catches your eye on the other side of the busy road. You realise a bloke`s keeled over and hit the deck.

Do you :

a) gasp and feel incredibly sorry for him...and carry on with your shopping...
b) assume he`s probably had a heavy session at the pub, say `tut`, ...and keep walking...
c) belt over the road, zigzagging through the traffic, to see what you can do.

If you answered a) or b), I don`t really want to know you. If you mentally ticked c), then well done. And if it`s me in a heap on the street, could you come and check I`m ok too, please?

The thing is...you never know when you`re going to trip or fall ill in a public place. Nobody does. And when you`re young and fit and 22, you hope it isn`t going to happen too often. But it did today, to my daughter, who was commuting on a rush hour train into Waterloo station in London. With no real warning, she felt ill, and collapsed.

She`s better now,and is getting checked out. But in the telephone conversation we`ve just had, I realised she`d probably encountered all shades of humanity on that train, and has been left feeling pretty saddened by the experience.

There was panic--with someone pulling the emergency lever, bringing the train to a halt.

There was, she realised, on coming round...some irritation among the regular commuters whose schedule had been momentarily thrown out of kilter.

There was some kindness--with a fellow passenger offering her a seat (albeit, I`m told, a little grudgingly...).

And there was some hilarious giggling from a group of schoolgirls.

At Waterloo she gingerly got off the train, then, feeling wobbly again, stood for a moment on the platform. At which point another young woman, dark haired, and possibly Spanish, stopped the whoosh of commuters heading for the exit gate, to ask how she was. She then offered my daughter a steadying arm, carried her bag, checked where she had to get to, and made sure she was well enough to continue her journey.

I`d like to thank her for her kindness...we all would. But what went wrong? Was this symptomatic of an uncaring city where commuters are never keen to look fellow passengers in the eye, let alone catch them when they fall? Or were people just worried they`d do the wrong thing and make a medical emergency worse?

Once, someone--an elderly visitor-- collapsed in a place I used to work. There were probably a dozen or so members of staff in the building at the time; none of the usual trained first aiders, but competent, intelligent people you`d like to think you could rely on in a crisis. And usually, you could. But you could see from the start of the emergency, who was going to roll up their sleeves, and who was going to be rooted to the spot in terror.

A group of us rushed to the room where it happened. He was unconscious; not breathing. Two of us somehow got him from the chair to the floor, one of us starting mouth to mouth, and one of us CPR. Someone had called an ambulance but it was one of those occasions where the town was completely gridlocked because of a number of incidents. For a few more minutes, we were on our own. We carried on, guided by the 999 team at the end of the line, relaying instructions via a colleague. In the end, the elderly gentleman we`d tried to save, got whisked off in the ambulance, and despite everyone`s best efforts, died later that day.

I don`t want a medal for trying. I never have. I just want to know that if it ever happens to me, or to you, there`ll be someone there to do their best for us, or to anyone else who falls ill.

Excellent charities like St John Ambulance and the Red Cross offer courses to help us all deal with potentially life threatening emergencies. It would be great to see more people learning the skills they offer, so that at least something is done until the professionals arrive.

Today, it wasn`t life threatening, but nobody knew that. So a special thankyou to one young woman in London today, who saw another alone, and in trouble, and went out of her way to check.

OK now--but did you see her out cold on that crowded train?

++How about you.....ever helped in an emergency, or even...saved a life? Are there times you`ve looked back, and wished that you`d done more? Maybe you`re a first aid trainer or a paramedic. What more could the public do if they`re first at the scene of a real emergency ? Do you wish more people were trained in basic CPR?

Kerry ‏@kerry_pt3

@janemcintyre12 bless her. Just read it now, I just don't understand some people, thank goodness for that kind lady. X

John-Paul Wooding ‏@jpwtweet

@janemcintyre12 Coincidence after reading your blog today: my wife helped an old lady who'd fallen face first on pavement. So many wouldn't.

When you say nothing at all.....

Did you see that bit in the Sunday Times magazine about who talks the most? Matt Rudd referred to a survey suggesting that women speak 21,000 words a day; men, 7,000. Really?

Most days, it would be pretty tough to calculate your talk-tally, whatever your gender.

But today, for me, it was easy. I`ve just totted it up. And realised that since 10 a.m; (it`s now nearly 5.30 p.m ) I`ve spoken eight words out loud. All day.

These gems were; at Asda: `Pump seven please.` Thanks`. And ....` F*CK, that was close` (to nobody in particular, ten minutes ago, when I almost posted my i-phone, instead of a letter, into the little box down the lane).

Today, I`ve had jobs to do around the house, emails to write, three days away from home to plan, and a satnav to set. I`ve been on Twitter, (quite a bit ) written and received texts, listened to the radio and run a mile and a quarter through the kitchen (on a treadmill) while singing (loudly, and badly).

So it hasn`t been silent. Just without human conversation . It`s felt fine. And donkeys` hind legs the world over are a little safer.

Being at home during the day is such a contrast to all the years I spent in screamingly noisy newsrooms; sometimes longing for people (certain people in particular...) to shut the hell UP. Some days I`d have killed (probably) for a bit of quiet. God knows what the decibel levels were like in the early days-- the constant drone of banter, the clattering of (yes, really...) typewriters, and phones ringing non stop. Oh and London traffic right outside the door. There were subs shouting at you from the other side of the room because they didn`t have your copy...then shouting at you all over again once they`d read it. B*stards. These days journalism can be a whole lot quieter...you still get the banter and the shouting ...but there are no thundering qwertyuiops, and many of those calls to contacts get replaced by a quietly tapped out email. Oh and the offices are double glazed.

Decades later, in my home `office`, I know that if I get cabin fever I can make a call or send a text, and meet up with a friend. I feel incredibly lucky to have the choice. And at some stage this evening, the house will be full of noise and news, company and cooking, laughter and chat, TV and music....and I`ll enjoy that too.

Real silence can be a luxury. It can be so powerful and poignant, as we saw this Sunday, when a nation stood together on Remembrance Day to think about lives and loves lost; selflessness and heroism. But true, lonely silence--that aching, `nobody`s calling`, `no-one to talk to` kind of silence must, at times, be deafening, and desperate. I hope I never hear it.


+How about you? Would it drive you mad to be alone in the house all day? Do women `really` talk more than men...what...all of them? I`d love to hear what you think.

Breast cancer risk? You tell me....

My mum , Jeannie Morris

So-another week ; another debate about breast screening, and whether it causes more harm than good.

An independent review into the value of mammograms  reportedly showed that for every life saved, three women had treatment for a cancer which would never have been fatal.

That treatment might be radiotherapy, chemotherapy or surgery; all with their own side effects.

More information for women will now be made available apparently; to help them make an informed choice. The national cancer director, Professor Sir Mike Richards is quoted as saying this issue has become an area of `high controversy`.

You bet your life it has, Professor.

But should I bet mine...by attempting to make my own decision about the course of treatment I should have, if a little undiscovered planet is spotted in that galaxy of stars on the radiologist`s screen?

The answer is--I don`t know. It`s like the heating engineer telling me my boiler might last another year; might not. But with a £500 overhaul.....I`ll definitely stay cosy. Or a car mechanic offering me a temporary fix,or a brand new engine to be on the safe side. Who knows?

But as far as breast cancer goes; I know too much. Mum was one of six sisters. Four of them developed breast cancer; three, including mum, died from it. Each was given the facts, and made decisions about their treatment as best they could.

The two eldest had the recommended mastectomies. One died, one went on to have a second mastectomy and has survived into her eighties.

The youngest of the six sisters watched it move through the family, and opted for a double mastectomy and reconstruction; a course of action a cousin of mine has chosen as well.

Mum wasn`t on a screening programme--she spotted her own cancerous lump at the age of 48--weeks before she was due to marry a man whose first wife had died...from breast cancer. She had her own decisions to make about her treatment, and even whether she should go ahead with the wedding. She opted for minor surgery and radiotherapy; and the wedding. Not the mastectomy that doctors suggested would have been a safer course of action.Was she right?

You can only give patients advice and ultimately leave the decision to them. I don`t doubt that what her husband-to-be had gone through, swayed her decision. But did it kill her? Should she have gone for more radical surgery to try and eliminate the risk? They had seven years together before the cancer really took an aggressive turn, went on the march, and despite every possible form of treatment available, included the mastectomy she`d tried to avoid, mum died .

My family history means I was lucky enough to be offered a place, some years ago on a clinical trial which compares mammography with MRI scanning. And then to be offered annual screening.

And then suddenly, we were talking about my generation. Last year`s scan spotted a little blip on the radar; a condition called Ductal Carcinoma in Situ. I tried to focus on the `stuck in a duct` bit, rather than that `carcinoma` word, which no one wants to hear. I had surgery to remove the affected area and some tissue around it. Then there were three weeks of intensive radiotherapy; which for the most part involved me sprinting in and out of the treatment centre in running gear and trainers. My brain told me I was *fit*; so I shouldn`t be there. The staff were brilliant. I was, compared to many waiting for treatment, completely blessed, but I hated every second and couldn`t bear to meet anyone`s eye, wearing shades most days in the waiting room, and flinching when someone called out my name. I kept the treatment a secret from all but my closest friends and colleagues. That meant carrying on working full time as a breakfast show producer, getting up at 3.30 am.

After it was over, with just a three inch scar and some tiredness, all I could feel was immense relief and good fortune: it was a high grade `blip` caught before it had invaded the surrounding tissues--at which point, apparently, I would have been advised to have a mastectomy. Would I have gone ahead with the surgery? I truly don`t know.

I know plenty of women whose cancers were found early, and who are quite sure they owe their lives to screening, and in some cases to the treatment that followed. Cancer charities seem to be recommending that you go ahead with screening if you`re called for a mammogram under the national programme.

And then, increasingly, you`ll have to make your own decision about anything they find. If you`re waiting for an incisive,well considered conclusion to all this--I don`t have one.

If the oncologist I`m booked to see in a couple of weeks,or any other doctor in the future finds something wrong with me, I want to be treated like the intelligent human being I am, to weigh up the options and statistics, and help shape the events that follow.

But --and excuse me for sounding weak here--a part of me still wants to say hey..do you know what? You`re the one in the white coat. I`m crap at stats. I truly have no idea. Please decide for me.

bbc.co.uk/health

cancerresearchuk.org

breakthrough.org.uk

In other news....allow yourself a smile.

In the papers. On the air. All over the screen. And maybe in your life. Achingly sad and disturbing news. It`ll always be there, and the day it stops affecting you is the day you`ve lost all compassion.

But if you move your head a half turn ... jewels that keep on shining in your life: or the people you meet, the places you go...glint a little, catch your eye...and give you a smile.

I really hope you`ve had some of those moments this week. Just for the hell of it....here are mine:

--Seeing our eldest daughter collect her degree. And realising I was holding my breath with anxiety as she headed for the stage, just as I`d done in her first school nativity with a home made tinsel halo wound precariously round her head. This time, the stakes were higher. And so was the mortar board. Way higher. Perched less than securely on silky hair. The slippy graduation gown resting lightly on her shoulders was actually hiding a backless dress *for later*. Would it stay, or would it go now....Oh...and the steps to the stage had to be negotiated in four inch stilettos. Yeh, but like the 2:1 BA Hons...she did it; and left the amazingly uplifting ceremony at Greenwich University with hundreds more young graduates and their families, beaming, and brimming with pride.

--Watching our youngest daughter share that pride at her sister`s achievements; and the thrill of being part of her big day.Then a day later, hearing her on the phone bubbling with excitement about the part she`d got, after a string of tough auditions and callbacks, for her college show.

--Standing beside St Paul`s Cathedral this week, in total awe as ever at its beauty, marvelling at how Sir Christopher Wren and the hundreds of men involved in its construction in the late 1600s ever achieved it.   Then noticing the sign for the old Roman route of Watling Street over the road, and knowing that if I followed its path ...it`d more or less get me home to Shropshire.

--Listening politely to the beauty counter assistant trying to flog me a pot of face cream containing *actual diamonds* for £80; happy that mine`s a fiver from Aldi.

--Getting whistled at in Greenwich Market (face cream must be working, then?!)

--Seeing a train conductor called John on Virgin`s 1343 from Euston yesterday bothering to stop and say hello to every passenger. And smiling.

--Hearing the ticket seller at Greenwich station say he loved my purse, but adding "not that I`m camp or nuffink"..!

--Battling through driving rain and peasouper fog in France late on Saturday night with a teasingly unreliable Satnav to find dear friends had turned on the lights and heating at my destination for my arrival--and had left a big bag of walnuts on the kitchen table too.

--Back in England, finding there was more fog on my way home up the M40. Cheered hugely by the sight of  a tiny Fiat inching past with a registration plate which included the word *Yay* !

--Sitting at the kitchen table with coffee and toast this morning with a million things to do, but all the time in the world to do them.


Tweets by @janemcintyre12

Stop, oh yeah, wait a minute Mr Postman...

....bill, leaflet,leaflet,flyer, bill.

Is that IT?

Today`s post.

It arrived at 1.30 pm, and contained only demands for cash...and a clutch of junk mail. The postman didn`t even ring twice. (There`s no doorbell, to be fair...)

Anyway, I`d been meaning to register with the Mailing Preference Service (MPS) for ages. It`s the organisation which says it can stop you getting junk mail .We get way too much. And it goes, (all of it...) unread, into the recycling bin. Pointless.

So I attempted to register online. Maybe you`ve tried it. You can add the names of up to five people who live at your place. I got to the fourth, and tried to move to the next page. It told me I`d added something that wasn`t `a valid name`. 

Really? Frustrated, I had another bash. I *even* tried to spell my daughter`s name the `French` way. Rien. Maybe it was the Mc in McIntyre baffling the system? That Celtic mix of upper and lower case, all in one surname? Nope. Wouldn`t let me proceed. I know: maybe the confusion of more than one surname daring to live under one roof? I had no witnesses; no cake, no ring, no junk mail shredded into confetti...but I did the decent thing, and married myself off. Still nothing. Our names were `not valid`.

Irritated; I called the `helpline` number listed on the website. I got through to a lady robot, who suggested that I punch in the names of family members, using my telephone keypad. Fiddly. No thanks. I`ll follow the website`s intoxicating promise of talking to `a live agent`.   

Meekly, I joined the queue. No irritating music either. BUT HANG ON....!!! They then repeat the automated message about all their `consumer executives` being busy, again and again and again. Yep, I could have put the phone down. But I just had to see what happened. The message happened. Twenty more times, in quick succession. Then...guess what? The nice lady said `goodbye`...and disconnected my call.

Oh dear, MPS. As a key customer organisation set up to help people reduce the amount of junk mail they get every day...and the amount of waste that family then has to recycle...sorry...but today? You were  rubbish.

 "Goodbye" :)

ps, Maybe you`ve had more luck? I`d love to hear how you got on...or how you manage your own junkmail!

It`s Chocolate Week.Try another chunk

I love it and I hate it. If I taste even the tiniest corner, I have to finish the whole damn slab. Yep, even if it`s a family sized stonker. The kind the health police have now told chocolate companies to label as *IDEAL FOR SHARING*.Get lost. Fat chance.

I once shared an attic flat at the top of an old mansion in Chislehurst with a wonderful girl called Anita. Because a couple of the rooms were Toblerone shaped;chocolate (aswell as men) was on our minds a lot of the time. Mine (chocolate bars...not blokes...but actually...) would arrive in a rush; the result of a quick dash to the garage and a sprint up three flights of stairs to work off what was to follow. In,slam door; frenzied ripping of wrappers; scoffed. Game over.

Anita, though, would unwrap hers slowly and seductively.... teasingly breaking off just a square...then maybe another...then leaving the rest of it seminaked ; peeping through the folded back wrapper...tempting anyone (I was her only flatmate) who might glance into `her` cupboard to check out the tomato puree situation. In her mind, it was there as a little treat for herself the next night. She soon learnt that was a bad idea. Finders, keepers. You see it; you eat it. Fact.

I`ve tried the completely calorie free variety too--you know--the bar you munch in the car all alone? Nobody sees you eat it if you drive fast enough ; so you get home..and the chocolate thing never really happened. Until the scales give your secret away. Been there, didn`t like it.

But I`m staying strong! It`s been tough. I would, frankly, kill for one of Julia Wenlock`s chocolate covered honeycomb bars today, or virtually anything she produces at her Shrewsbury based business, (she`s on Twitter, too, at @TootSweetsShrew ...go on...eat my share...!) but once I start.......you know the story.These days, the bathroom scales are making me smile, and that`s the way it`s going to stay .Happy chocolate chomping if that`s what you`re up to today :) And happy chocolate week to Julia and everyone else whose beautiful creations tempt and delight us.