so seventies................

somewhere in the mid to late seventies…………. went to Vidal Sassoon Salon in Toronto, my sis always went there, when she wasn’t going to the House of Lords (which believe it or not, still exists somewhere on Yonge Street). The stylist told me that golden wasn’t really moi, so I let him dye my locks dark ash blonde………………… I think it lasted perhaps 3 days, then I bought a box of light golden blonde dye and went back to being what I feel is me….workI suppose I kept it long enough to go to work…

oscarOscar is the plant behind me (a chefalure…?? that my sis and bro bought for my mum on mother’s day not long after we emigrated to Canada.  I still have Oscars great-great-great offspring). Back to golden blonde with roots, and bleached eyebrows and little denim piny…chrisitoine& cat

Yes it is an awful wig.  I bought a couple of wigs in the 70’s – experimenting with new looks, including a brown very curly (not quite afro) wig. 


browny curls..

My sis and I were playing around with clothes and taking photos of each other.  She is wearing my awful light ash blond wig.  Ahem, we both loved Cat Stevens…

funky robert&xtinebthis is a cute shot of my brother and sister also fooling around with photos.  She is wearing a sou’wester that my bro bought during his year in England…

xtin&meOMG … this is a pic of me and sis on a new year’s eve in the mid 70’s.  I don’t know if she went out to party, but I remember I did, hoping to hook up with a certain guy!  Acht, he was with someone else, as was my other hope, (his bro).  Horrible new years eve for me!!  Please excuse the ‘orrible flashy belt I am wearing.  I borrowed the striped cross-over top from sis.  She is wearing a Miss Selfridge top.  The biggest store in Canada in the last century was EATONS.  They had the wisdom in the 70’s to add a Miss Selfridge (from pre TOPSHOP Selfridges) to their YouthWear department!!  We bought quite a bit of Miss Selfridge gear back then…


1970 crimpy...

It was 1970, I had graduated from high school, even though I had to go to summer school to get my math… now was it math A, math B, geometry, trig, algebra, new math????……….. I hated mathematics and only got a final mark of 35% in Grade XIII… which thankfully became 58% when I had completed summer school, so I did get my diploma.

As I had no clear direction of where I wanted to go with my life, I decided not to go to Teachers College or Brock University… even though I acutally got acceptance letters from both of them.

I got an afternoon job downtown at Teela Digest at Dundas Square, on the basis of my neat handwriting! I was to put the small Teela Digest insert into envelopes that I had addressed. From that day until this, I had no idea what this company did!!

I had finished work at 4:30pm on a Friday and decided to go to downtown Yonge Street to check out the goings-on. The big news was that Toronto’s busiest street, would be turned into a pedestrian mall for a long weekend.

It was hot and humid, and the busiest blocks of ‘downtown’, from Gerrard Street to Queen Street, had been converted into what I could describe as a big, busy very crowded street market. Most of the pubs and restaurants had spread out to the sidewalks. Smaller shops and boutiques had put out rails of clothes, all on sale! There was ‘live’ music in the street, although I could not tell you who! It was shall I say a very hearty scene!

Oh yeah, my hair! …  back to that!   I had managed to grow my hair just past shoulder length, keeping up my blonding every six weeks or so…. and hadn’t had a perm for a couple of years. But I still loved wavy hair. Somewhat by accident few weeks ealier, I had fallen asleep with my damp hair in 2 braids. When I took out the braids the next day ~ Yeah!  KINKY WAVY HAIR!! I more or less wore my hair this way for the next couple of years. Sometimes the waves were very good!, sometimes hit and miss.. and I could never figure out how to get the ends of my hair to curl nicely and not to stick out ( I tried hot rollers, bobby pin curls,  little perm rollers… none to my satisfaction).

In this photobooth photo, I am wearing a jumpsuit that my MuM made for me out of orange sailcloth. She added the shirring when the neckline bulged out a little… Oh what I really loved about this pattern was that the straps criss-crossed in the back meeting the rest of the suit just above my bra-line!  However, I could not go bra-less as my boobs were just not perky enough, (my sister had such nice firm breasts)…  But unless I wore my favourite jumpsuit with a tee, my bra and straps showed… and I really fancied wearing it as a summer jumpsuit like I had seen in my mags, especially as Toronto summers get so darned hot….what to do?? Guess what I found at the the drug store?… stick-on cups that you place under each breast. I know, they are still around. So I bought a pair and eagerly tried them on! They worked in that there was no bra peeking out the back… I did not particularly like the shape that they gave my tits, but under my jumpsuit, my shape was quite blurred from the front!

now if I continue and tell the tale of what I got up to that evening at the Yonge Street Mall 1970... i might have to kill ya….. later!

My BiBa diary

bought in 1975 or early 1976.

inside page

the inside page…the gold fading.. but it does say 1976

It is a 1976 diary and it is full of magical graphics, special days, even a directory at the back of trendy London cinemas, clubs, hairdressers to visit. Those back resource pages contained gold writing on a black background. Unfortunately the gold has worn off over the years leaving barely legible works….but I love my BiBa diary and used it too!

ahem....... an angry young woman here...

ahem…….looks like an angry young woman here…

Memorial Hospital & the hell that is geriatrics

Halfway through my first year of training in London, I was sent to the Memorial Hospital, which was associated with the Brook, to do my geriatrics training.  I must have bussed it from my room at the Brook Nurses Home, as it was not very far from there, … in fact it was on the same road, Shooters Hill Road.  Interestingly enough, this small hospital only had 3 wards (I think).  Male geriatrics, female geriatrics, and  a gynaecology ward where (among other common ailments were investigated and treated??)  therapeutic abortions were performed!!  Strange, I know…

Geriatrics must be one of the most difficult disciplines in a nurses training.  You get senile, or physically infirm or both, end up on an open ward with 40 beds and exist there until you die!  Listen, it could happen to anyone of us!  Working in the female geriatric ward in the Memorial, had me acknowledging a constant song in my head which back then when I was 20, stirred up the same sentiment………..“hope I die before I get old”! by the good ole Who.  Of course, now that I am 61, I sometimes think: how old is old?  I guess as long as you can keep going by yourself ‘old’ happens when you cant!.Hospital-wards-A-nurse-sw-010


Anyway, I did my best, but one of the worst part of geriatric nursing is that the patient load is very heavy and the staffing is woefully inadequate!  I didn’t mind the patients.  It was not their fault that they became frail or senile, just like it is not the fault of a patient suffering from kidney disease on a medical ward.  Unfortunately and understandably, many of the patients had given up in body mind and spirit, and no longer took much responsibility for their remaining time on earth.  There was a lot of heavy lifting, feeding, cleaning, adult diapers, changing soiled clothes and beds, but the worst single incident I came across concerned a lovely old lady, Ivy who suffered from senile dementia.  She would have her lucid moments, but these were few and far between.  I don’t remember if she had any visitors, in fact all those years ago, the presence of any family visitors on that ward are are a blank in my mind.  Ivy must have been a beauty, because she still had her delicate features and very few wrinkles.  Her episodes of dementia were not loud or vicious, like so many other of those who suffered this awful part of the aging process.  One morning I was starting the morning routine, of giving the patients, most all of whom were still in their beds, a quick wash to the hands and face, and getting them sitting up with the bed-table ready for the breakfast trolley.  When I got to poor Ivy, my heart dropped, she was lying there in her bed, awake, and she was eating her excrament!  Yes, I was disgusted, but I knew it was not her fault.  It was quite the task getting her cleaned up…. her hair, her hands, under her nails and all over her face.  I could not help but wretch as I tried to figure out where to begin…images

There was the Sunday morning, when the 2nd year pupil nurse I was working with, told me with dismay, the two nursing aides scheduled to work with us, had both called in sick, and that the matron was trying to find us another aide, but did not know if and when this would happen, at least for the morning.  So there we were, 2 of us, to care & feed forty mostly bedridden souls.  The breakfast trolley had arrived and we had barely begun setting the ladies up to eat, or feed!  Yes, I would say that at least half of our patients could not feed themselves!  Needless to say, it was a hellish morning, where we barely finished handing out the breakfast trays, let alone cleaning up the ladies!  We did of course change up a few urgent adult diapers, and don’t even think about taking your morning break.  Later that morning a relief aide showed up, but our whole day shift remained hours behind.images (1)

It was easier and yet more heartrending when some visiting family members would place a framed photo or else a photo stuck to the bedside table with sticky tape, of the women in their younger years. … To see past pictures of them, a lot of whom were now forgotten and left in a home, when they were young and vibrant, with their babies and everyday life really makes you realize these a lot of these women most likely lived a full life, just as ‘us younger women are now’.  They are not nameless old people who did nothing in their lives, and ended up in the geriatric unit… although it can be hard to remember that they were once just like us… walking into a ward of elderly people, unresponsive, or staring into space, unable to care for themselves lost in their thoughts or their minds…  Oh human frailty!

I must say  a couple of times I was mortified at the behavior of some of the aides… a lot of these women were decent and caring and good, then there were some real bad eggs… earning a minimum wage I believe, you get all sorts.  Some would have been better working in a laundromat, for all the compassion they showed..  One morning I witnessed on awful incident !  There were 2 nurses aides showering Ivy, who was sitting on a commode, basically unable to do much for herself.   They actually lifted up her aged floppy breasts and then let them fall back down, saying ‘what are these things Ivy, do you need these Ivy”?  When they saw I was there, they went back to talking to each other, and started to dry Ivy.  What indecent disrespect.!. I should have said something, but I was too timid.  I still had half my rotation to go, and thought it would not be a prudent move.  I was not close with any of the ward staff, so I couldn’t even discuss the situation, let alone report it to the Sister, who I don’t even remember to this day!  Not that it is any excuse, but I don’t believe Ivy noticed what was going on, thankfully for her.  These 2 aides were permanent workers on the geriatric ward, so I tried to keep out of their way, whilst getting my work done.  What I did notice about the terrible two, is that they both seemed to have enormous ‘chips’ on their shoulders, and became somewhat surly when I would ask them where something was, or had Mrs Smith had her lunch…

Oh I was so glad to get back to the Brooke and away from that big understaffed ward of sad lost souls. and those cruel caregivers!


I found this on GooGle…. on all about LOST HOSPITALS OF LONDON.  Actually it states that the Memorial Hospital is still up and running as it has been designated as a historical site, due to it’s services to soldiers. I just cut and pasted the more recent history..  Even though it doesn’t mention the gynae unit, I swear there was one... perhaps it was temporary,  maybe it was a short stay unit for T.A.’s !!!?

It sure looks nice in photographs… hell, I wish I could remember it!!!

Although originally dealing with general cases, by 1965 the Hospital began to specialise in surgery.   It had a Casualty Department, but it was felt that its facilities were too limited to deal with the increasing number of road traffic accidents in the area.  In 1969 the Department closed when the new Accident Centre opened at the nearby Brook General Hospital.  The acute wards were transferred to the Brook General Hospital and St Nicholas’ Hospital in Plumstead.In the 1970s  the Memorial Hospital became a geriatric hospital, with 128 long-stay beds.  A Day Hospital was built in 1975.St Nicholas chapel opened in 1986 following the closure of St Nicholas Hospital; fittings from that Hospital were installed in the chapel and a window in the chapel – the Golden Window – was transferred from Goldie Leigh Hospital. The tondo from the British Hospital for Mothers and Babies, which closed in 1984, is also displayed here.
Present status (July 2009)Oxleas NHS Foundation Trust now owns the site.Although this huge Hospital appears closed, the buildings are still partly used for a day care centre and out-patient facilities for pschiatric patients.  The main building is currently undergoing renovation and will eventually house a new day centre for the elderly. Originally scheduled to finish in autumn 2007, the building works are still going on.The ward blocks at the rear of the site were demolished in 2006 and replaced by two modern wards.
Entrance gatewayHospital buildingThe entrance gateway and the Hospital building on Shooters Hill.Hospital buildingfront elevation from the eastThe Hospital building from the grounds (left) and the front elevation from the east (right).


Student nurse in Toronto, 1973

The psyche rotation was another matter!  One month at Queen St Mental Health Center, also known back then in 1973, as 999 Queen Street, or even just nine, ninety-nine !!  A Toronto institution with an ominous reputation, for decades thought of as the ‘loony bin’.

queen street mental health centre back in the 40/50s

queen street mental health centre back in the 40/50s


dont know the time period of this photo?


I believe the main entrance looked like this in 1973…….. I could be wrong… of course there definitely were no recycling bins back then!

Interestingly (to myself), I have no clear memories of how the hospital looked when I did my psych rotation there in the 70’s, however this is the one image that did stick in my mind along with these  lyrics of Pink Floyd…


All in all it was all just bricks in the wall.
All in all you were all just bricks in the wall

My group of about 6 fellow student nurses were assigned to a ‘Day Hospital’ setting.  There were about 12 patients, most indigent, living in ‘half-way houses’, who came in Monday to Friday from 8:00am to 4:00pm.  These poor souls were so dysfunctional, tattered and torn that one wondered if these were day patients, what were the in-patients like!!

The Day Hospital daily routine included group therapy, a social worker who spoke with each patient and would ensure they had transit tickets, dealt with disability funds and residence issues,  psychiatrists who checked in once a day re the condition of the patients and regular consultations at set times,  a rest period, individual counseling, an hour of crafting and the availability of a TV and a record player for social time in the afternoon.  Staff could also refer patients who had medical issues to MDs in the building (social medicine offered more in those days!).

I remember how awkward the group therapy sessions were, as most of the time none of the patients offered any words, and the room would be heavily silent.  One of the patients, a 6Oish woman, who looked more like 8O, and never spoke, sitting all day in an armchair, smoking a cigarette (patients were allowed to smoke in hospitals in the 7Os), well she would take a couple of puffs, and then continue holding the lit cig in her fingers, while it burnt down to her fingers.  She must have done this for many years as she had horrible scars on her knuckles of these 2 fingers.  At least in Day Hospital, we could attend to this issue and put out the cigarette or remind her to either smoke or extinguish it.

Yes, I am sure a lot of these patients were in a state of sonambulance due to the medications they were prescribed.  The alternative to not being medicated I am sure would have been worse and probably negate the essence of the Day Hospital function.  I am not saying that it is good for patients to be too doped up,  but what a conundrum.  I believe that the psychotropic drugs were prescribed in ‘good faith’ in earnest efforts to help these patients function.

the only good things about our psyche rotation were

  • we were allowed to wear our civvies
  • We had the most amazing instructor, Milly B.  She was empathetic, compassionate and had a sense of humour.

There was many a day where you could pass Milly’s assigned office on the day hospital unit and find one of us crying our eyes out.

We of course were each assigned a patient.  Mine was Mary D.  She suffered from a plethora of psychiatric ailments, including paranoid schizophrenia.  Mary was about 35 and alone in the world. She had never been able to keep a job and had often ended up living on the streets.  She had suffered many physical injuries and had been raped more than once.

Mary was of small stature, thin, and pale with stringy, greasy long brown hair.  She looked like she had given up as she paid no mind to her personal appearance, and often smelled of urine, body odour and worse.  She frequently wore the same wrinkled stained clothes from day to day looking like she had slept in them.  It was extremely difficult to talk to Mary.  She would never look me in the eye and often ignored or did not hear my questions.  This was the common scenario and the reason my colleagues and I found this experience so depressing and left us feeling inadequate and hopeless about helping our patients and making a difference in their lives.

One of the obvious functions of the Day Hospital, was that we would administer their medications during the 8 hours they were with us.  It seemed difficult to imagine that most of these patients in various states of lost and fractured minds could regularly remember to take their pills.  Patients were offered hospital meals of breakfast, lunch and an early supper in Day Hospital, for some of them, probably the only good food they had access to for the whole week.  They also had access to showers.  Mary never wanted to take a shower and I often needed Milly’s help to persuade her to wash or take a shower.

I had read in Mary’s chart that one of her phobias was hair.  Apparently once, she had shaved off all her hair, and plucked out every hair on her body, including her eyelashes!

The last day I saw Mary nearing the end of my rotation, she continued to be uncommunicative, but did agree to a full shower, took her meds for me and ate a little from the meals offered to her.  We (the students) left, as always, 30 minutes before the end of the Day Hospital day which closed at 4:30pm.  I said goodbye to Mary, who was sleeping, sitting up, at the end of a couch, not an unusual occurrence in this unit.

The next morning, arriving at Day Hospital for our shift,  I was thunderstruck to hear that Mary was dead!  At the end of  yesterday’s shift, when staff had tried to awaken Mary to go ‘home’,  they discovered that she had no vital signs.

OH MY GOD………………….Mary was my patient!   Was it my fault? Should I have checked that she was breathing, felt for a pulse when I said goodbye to her????  She didn’t look any different snoozing that afternoon than she did snoozing at any other time.  Her lips were not cyanotic, she did not feel cold to the touch, when I patted her hand.

I was relieved when Milly told me it absolutely was not my fault, and that Mary was most likely alive when I last saw her… but still I felt so guilty and inadequate!


Such was the psychiatric rotation at Queen Street in 1974…

the house on Vic Park

my wonderful Ricoh camera did not need a flash! so I took lots of photos in mirrors..3 different rooms and I hung the silly plastic parrot from a junk store on the window above the lovely cast iron Punch & Judy on the window sill…

more adventures with Ty…

There was the time when I came home from work late one evening (on Thursdays, JJ was open until 8pm) to find Ty completely passed out on the kitchen floor, 2 empty prescription bottles and capsules and yellow pills strewn all over the floor with the inevitable assortment of empty booze bottles.  I could not rouse him, so I went to the corner telephone box (we could not afford a working phone) and called 999.  An ambulance arrived not long after I returned to the house.  They took him to a hospital A & E.  I think I rode along in the ambulance.  Maybe even the coppers came.

I remember when I got to the treatment room where they were working on him I could hear groaning and gross retching.  They let me go in and sure enough they had a red rubber N/G tube down his gullet into which they were no doubt instilling ipecac and or charcoal.  I had brought the pill bottles and later found out it was Valium and Penicillin and Tony had gone to town swallowing as many as he could with ale.  He later told me that he figured if he took lots of Penicillin at one time then he would recover (most likely from a chronic chest infection) quicker!  Now you know and I know that an intelligent man such as Tony (and believe me he was a smart man) would know that taking a fistful of Penicillin at one time, would do nowt.  I know that it was a futile cry for help from a tortured man.  Of course when I told the medical staff what obvious history I knew about this man and that I believed that this was indeed a cry for help, they responded that even though they believed me that was not much they could do to help him as if he wished to he could leave in the morning he was free to do do, which was exactly what he did!  I know that it was not their fault and that it would take a mythical medical team with herculean effort to actually help Tony deal with his demons, not to mention his alcoholism.

There was the time when Ty actually was allowed a 2 day visit at Vic Park with his darling little son Timi, who was about 4 at this time.  I don’t recall how the following all came to be but when I came home from work one afternoon during Timi’s visit, I was met by a couple of coppers who were talking with Ty’s mother.  They asked me if I was Ty’s girlfriend, to which I replied yes!  Tony had been arrested and was in jail for at least the overnight!  I don’t remember what his crime was although it most likely had something to do with drunk and disorderly! ….  and believe it or not, not knowing a thing about me, they asked me if I would be responsible for little Timi!  What could I say, but yes.  So I looked after little Timi until Ty’s return the next afternoon.

He was a very sweet little boy and I thought he perhaps had been witness to his dad’s drunken disorder that day.  Poor little soul!    I had been a paediatric nurse looking after sick babies for a year, but I had never had the total responsibility of caring for a little boy before!  I decided that I would take him to the main local drag, Victoria Park Road, and buy some great nosh and some comics for him.  We went to the local bakery and I told him to pick out whatever cakes he wanted.  This gave me a genuine excuse to pick out some fresh cream tarts that I adored.  We then went to the newsagents and I bought him some comics and sweeties.  I fed him supper of course, we read and then we watched the telly while we munched until he fell asleep.

We got on together very well, even though I was essentially a stranger to him at the start.  Somehow, I got a message I don’t really remember how?  maybe Bill came to the door to tell me??  that I had to meet Ty the next morning with little Timi at Bill’s stall.  I guess he had gotten out of jail and contacted Bill who did have a  home phone.  I remember taking little Timi in a taxi to Petticoat Lane to Bill’s stall to meet Ty (I think Bill must have bailed him out).  The cabby made some comment to me how cute little Ted was and he looked just like me….awww, that was nice and I beamed…

Anyway, I was happy to care for little Timi and felt sad that this dear, little boy had to be witness to ugly, perhaps many, scenes when his father was soused.  He was a real sweety.  I am sure Ty was contrite, but I don’t remember much about that, although he did thank me for looking after his little son.  I also don’t recall the fallout, although I am sure there must have been some, especially from Ivy (and I don’t blame her one little bit)!

my guardian angel….

Oh, the rigours of being young…. It wasn’t easy, but at 53 and as I confess that I have not been overly good to my body, I wonder what it was like to move with ease, no creaking bones and aching muscles.  Of course, when one has the gift of youth and a strong adult body (even the right leg must have been relatively strong), one would not even notice facile activity.

Anyway, enough rambling on… Here I will recount some lucky strikes.  I can only but wonder at the escape from injury or death!

Back in 1975, when I lived with my drunken amour, and worked down Oxford Street, I had an afternoon off, so rather than go home, I thought I would go to Selfridges which was just a short walk past JJ toward Marble Arch.  I was at an intersection of xxxx (I cant recall) and Oxford Street where the big store was located.  The light was green, but as I was not situated bang on the corner, I crossed between cars (about 3 from the crosswalk (!)).  As I almost reached the pavement I stalled.  Somehow my mid-length blue trench coat had become stuck in the back bumper of the car I was passing.  So I gave my coat a pull…. nothing… a bloody great yank! … Somehow the hem of my coat was well and truly wedged in that bumper.  To my horror, I seemed to notice that the light had turned amber.  I continued with my struggle to free my coat and in those split seconds a few thoughts went through my mind…. I could take off my coat….. I could jump on the back of the car and pound on the rear window, or I could be dragged to horrendous injury or worse.  In those minute nanoseconds, I realized that I actually did not have time to take off my coat as the line of traffic had begun to move.  The next thing I know I had hurled myself onto the back of this car (I have no idea what make, I believe it was big, posh and black) and pounded on the rear window.  An older woman turned and with a mortified look on her face she must have instructed her chauffeur to stop the car.  The uniformed man approached me.  I was on my feet as thankfully the vehicle was stopped.  He gave my coat a tug… nothing!  Then he pried the bumper from its position tucked so tightly against the car, and finally I managed to extricate the offending corner of my coat from this car.  Knowing what a polite woman I am, I am sure I thanked him.  He returned to his front seat and rumbled off.  I, in shock, completed my crossing to the safety of the pavement.

I entered Selfridges and immediately sought out the ladies’ loo where I entered a stall, sat shaking and sobbed.  I did not accomplish my mission to Selfridges, whatever that was.  I made my way home, thinking of how horribly injured I would have been if I had not managed to grab that woman’s attention.  I also thanked my lucky stars that I did.

my future husband??

London and my future husband…

I was again doing my London thing for the 2nd time in 1975 when Alan and his then live-in love, Amy popped into my jean junction store.  I was in the Oxford St. store closest to Marble Arch then.  Chris P (I think)was the manager (more about him aat (at another time)).

Alan ended up buying a horrible pair of dungarees which cost him £14.99, pretty expensive back then.  He told me years later that he really did not like them, but felt he should buy something because I worked there.  I remember the dungarees were tight (like all the denim that guys and gals wore back then), with flared bottoms in a mid blue wash.  As I was the cashier I was not on commission unlike all the other young souls who worked there.

He asked me if he and Amy could spend a night at my place so they could save money.  I had moved out of Ty’s place  and was  living in a bedsit in Kilbourne.  It was a brutal breakup (for me).  However, I lucked out when I had poured out my heart to Lyn. another cashier. about what a scoundrel my Ty was and she kindly suggested a very viable solution!,  Lyn who was from Wales, lived in this bedsit, but she lived most of the time with her love, another JJ salesman, Zeev, who like me was in my 20’s (I think he was even older than me) and was from Israel.  She suggested that I move in with her and as she would hardly ever be there, it would be like my own place, and it would be helping her out by halving her rent.  It was a win-win situation for both of us and of course I accepted.

Lyn also became a head cashier.  She was such a nice, kind, bubbly gal!!

Lyn also became a head cashier. She was such a nice, kind, bubbly gal!!

Speaking of Lyn’s Israeli boyfriend, JJ, like many other boutiques on Oxford St was staffed by a sort of United Nations.  I met people from France, Italy, USA, Malta, Lebanon, Portugal, just to mention a few countries of origin.
I remember the day I moved into the bedsit.  It was a beautiful summer’s day, Lyn was as usual at Zeevs and I put on my music.  Funnily enough, I have no recollection of how I moved my stuff that day!!  What the day even more delightful was that I had a fresh bottle of codeine linctus (Maat) to make me even happier!    Sad isn’t it, or maybe pathetic is a better description!

Back to Alan and Amy: either I gave them directions and the key, or else they arrived after I had finished work that day.  My bedsit consisted of a big living/dining/sleeping area, a separate kitchen (probably communal) and a communal bathroom and toilet.  Alan and Amy slept in Lyn’s bed, me in mine.  Both were single beds.  I did not hear a peep out of them once they were in bed (thank God)!

The significance of this occurrence is that there was my husband-to-be sleeping with his girlfriend in the same room as me, years before we got together and wed!  Get It?  Aww well…

In the end after 3 or so months, I gave notice to Lyn and moved back in with Ty (no great surprise to me…).  The ending of the story of me and Ty is quite predictable…..(Maat)