Thursday, August 11, 2022

Comments by Frank Broadhurst

Showing 6 of 6 comments.

  • That is quite the mission statement. Where to begin?

    Could anybody provide me with the name of the private therapist in the Netherlands mentioned? I have started the laborious task of formulating a critical response to this article/mission statement.

    I have only got as far as getting to know the background of the author of the blog and of all the people mentioned in it, and noting down any paragraphs that contain web-links, names or words written in italic.

    My findings after only two hours of working on this in my spare time has led me to some very non-scientific, unethical avenues.

    I intend to write a long article. I fear that going down this particular rabbit hole might lead me to writing a book about the Brave New-Age World which I fear we are sleepwalking into in the name of profit and big businesses disguised as non-profit charitable orginisations.

    It will probably take me until after Christmas to complete the research necessary to write a half decent essay of 5000 words or less. The reason it will take so long is that I work full time at night in a supermarket and have little spare time on my hands during these dark days.

    I think the working title will be ‘Magic Mushrooms? Thank you, I’ll pass’

    There are stronger words that I could have used in the working title. But I do not wish to risk getting on the wrong side of the moderators.

    Have a happy Christmas.

    I look forward to giving a poor MIA editor nightmares with my submission in early 2021.

    Cheery-bye.

    FB

  • When daddy became dad.

    Late one Tuesday or Wednesday evening in October 1989, a twelve-year-old I got out from the back of the horseless carriage of my teammate’s father, having been chauffeured from my midweek football team training session in Stanstead Mountfitchet, about five miles from home.

    My next foggy memory is noticing that my father’s car was missing from the drive, I proceeded down the drive that led to the car-port containing a workbench, bicycles, various tools and other bits and bobs. If you don’t know what a car-port is, it is a roofed garage without a front door. The main entrance to the house was situated there on the side of the house rather than at the front. But it was always referred to as the front door.

    Unusually, the front door was ajar and the door that separated the hallway and living room was wide open. The living room was devoid of life, the main light was dimmed down low, the television was off, the kitchen was empty and dark. Before I climbed up the spiral staircase to further assess the situation, the lady from next door entered the house with a very concerned look on her face. She nervously explained to me in a vague way that my parents were at my granddad’s house because something bad had happened.

    The next thing I can remember was being in bed, presumably after checking my two younger brothers were asleep in the bedroom next door to mine. And I lay still, in the dark, with the covers covering my face, my mind blank, unable or unwilling to imagine what might be going on at granddad’s. The upstairs and downstairs telephones started ringing in tandem and I rushed into mummy and daddy’s bedroom, picked up the receiver and daddy was on the line.

    I cannot remember the words he spoke, but he told me that my granddad had been found dead, it sounded as he was laughing, and I convinced myself that he was joking, I am sure I either asked him as to why he was laughing, or told him to stop joking about. I don’t know. Nothing made sense.

    I went back to bed to hide and stare at the dark air, and eventually my dad opened my bedroom door and let in some light, once again I cannot remember what was said, but daddy was not joking or laughing in the slightest. It was the very first time that I saw tears stream from my dad’s eyes.

    I quietly cried myself to sleep.

    The next morning I could have stayed at home, but I got ready for school determined to be strong, like the 12 year-old grown-up I was pretending to be . At the beginning of morning registration the realisation of grandad’s death hit me hard, I started sobbing and a very kind and thoughtul fellow pupil asked me what was wrong, I tried to get out the words, but my sobs and sniffles were inadequate masks for the pain I felt inside, a mental and an emotional pain I can safely say could be comparable to a thousand broken wrists. The stifled sobs and murmurs, turned into full blown wails and cries… I wasn’t grown up enough to go to school that day after all.