(published in Countryside Tales Spring Issue)
CATCHING THE MOON.
I thought I'd catch the moon tonight,
it winked at me through willow herb
bare branches too,
reflecting on the liquorice river,
like a light bulb in the sky.
It shone upon a horde of strangely silent ducks
who were content to float
and dream, safe from the hunter's gun,
oblivious to one who shared their soliloquy
and caught the smiling moon.
Patsy Goodsir 2010
EMPTY SLIPPERS.
I know one day I will have to move them
but for now they can sit where they are,
on your side of the bed.
I’m not ready to move on, to talk about you
in the past tense,
to smooth out your indentation in the bed,
like some ruffled memory best forgotten.
They can sit on the floor, as if your feet were
about to slip into them again and dance across the floor
making me laugh the way you always did.
Yes, they are not in the way.
Not now it’s only me, sitting here,
in the window, where you told me I would catch cold,
until you slipped your arms around me.
If I close my eyes, you can slip them round now,
I know you’re here somewhere, in a parallel world,
waiting and watching, probably making the angels smile,
while everyone tip toes round me, whispering about grief
and time, what do they know?
Know about us, you and me?
It was special, wasn’t it?
So special, I know you’re here,
as the shadows flicker across the wall,
stretching like spiders and eagles wings,
crawling higher and higher, tip toeing across
the ceiling where we counted clouds and sheep
and anything else in our conspiring minds,
making reasons to stay awake and hold hands.
Sleep beckons me now,
as I roll into bed, not touching your half,
for fear of cancelling your shape,
they don’t know it of course,
but they don’t know lots,
all they see is the tears washing off my face,
and the empty slippers.
THE FINAL SLAP
I’m almost afraid to admit it, but it’s more than forty years since I wobbled my way down to the stables with a bucket of oats on the handlebars of my rickety push bike. (My pony needed feeding before school.) No doubt these days I would be chastised for no helmet and well, the bucket on the handlebars would have them flinging the “ ‘elf and safety m’larky” at me. Echoing in my ears as I wobbled my way was the sound of the mill hooters, signalling clocking-on time for the hordes of workers responsible for producing garments that were internationally acclaimed. These workers were the “real people”, people who had been born into the life of the woollen mills. Generations earned their money with pride. Camaraderie was supreme. They worked hard, looked after each other, took good holidays in distant climes but were always happy to come home. Fathers, mothers, sons and daughters, all gave their working lives to Pringles.
The people in the Border town of Hawick are a friendly bunch. They are passionate about their traditions, their Common riding and their rugby. But for many the current news that Pringles of Scotland are about to shut down their operation in the town comes as the final slap in the face. No doubt tongues will wag and heads will be shaken in disbelief that such an important part of the history of the town is about to be lost forever. How can this be allowed to happen? How on earth must the retired workforce feel?
Hawick people have always believed in quality. They don’t “do” el cheapo. Which makes it all the sadder that the reason for the demise of such a dynasty as Pringles of Scotland is cheap imports, created through cheap foreign labour.
In recent years many of these proud workers were forced to queue on the pavement awaiting their redundancy pay. Queuing like they were waiting for a fish supper. For some the ordeal reduced them to tears. Was it really necessary to inflict such a cruel treatment upon them?
So what now for this Border town with its beautiful park and recently opened Heritage Centre? How are they going to explain away the downfall of what must be the most famous name EVER in the knitwear industry? How will the “auld faithfuls” deal with the very heart of the industry they made so great being ripped out?
Wouldn’t it be nice if some of the superstars who proudly flaunt the Pringle banner got together and devised a rescue package to put Pringle back where it belongs. Yes, I know I’m only dreaming, but in a wee Border town where the rugby players have the hearts of lions, they all raise the war cry, “it’s not over ‘til it’s over.”
Better still, perhaps this is all a nightmare and tomorrow I am going to wake up and find that Pringles is back where it belongs, flying the flag for Scotland and a wee Scottish Border toon.
For all those who believe in love.
REASON TO DREAM
Red roses, blue eyed children,
shoreline walks beneath an inky sky,
where nature's headlamp makes you believe
this thing that tingles your toes will last forever,
just like the dog-eared book that first endorsed
such frightening and tantalising emotions.
Just like the song that made your heart sing,
and the cherished flower, pressed between the
pages of Slow Waltz Round Cedar Bend,
written by a man who knows all about love,
real love, and gives us reason to dream
when tears begin to fall.
JUST ONE DANCE
She'd seen him of course,
danced around him, so to speak,
avoided him, definitely,
this man who represented risk,
excitement, but more than likely
trouble.
It would be okay,
so she thought,
as long as,
well, as long as he kept
his distance, he could look,
but no more.
A hundred reasons to steer clear
were bouncing round her head,
but she didn't account for
others, who threw them together,
made it impossible to leave
without one dance,
when the connection
became chemistry,
more dangerous and life destroying
than anything touched by naked flame,
sending her into free-spin,
clutching at a reason to escape.
KENYA - 2008
Imagine the terror, the pain and the sight,
of a distraught mother fighting her plight,
they torched what they thought was a place to be safe,
and murdered her baby, the poor little waif.
She climbed out the window fleeing the heat,
cutting her arms and ripping her feet,
but evil was waiting and grabbed from her arms,
a terrified baby intending her harm.
With no conscience, feeling or stopping for breath,
they hurled a small innocent to meet certain death,
within an inferno started by them,
as she screamed a demented, last requiem.
She may breathe and look alive to those that don’t know,
but her life’s lost direction there’s nothing to show
her why this small innocent was ripped from her heart
there’s nothing to live for there’s nowhere to start.
What future can she have with memories like this?
Unable to sleep and deprived of the kiss
from the man that she loved, also lost in the fire,
so she stares into space near her life’s funeral pyre.
SIMPLE THINGS
Raindrops falling in puddles,
that first frosty breath
that makes you do it again.
The crinkle in your nose
when sub zero hits,
and there’s an excuse to wear
chocolate brown leather gloves
and a lime green scarf tied loosely.
A properly prepared latte that
glides down your throat
as you sit undisturbed with your
favourite magazine, knowing you can
sit there for five minutes or five hours,
the choice is yours.
Playing the CD you love
to have so loud it ricochets off
the leather interior you can afford.
Spending the money you
and you alone have earned.
Checking the balance that has
your name.
Reading in bed
listening to the wind
with the faint drone of the radio
playing the usual midnight rubbish,
that doesn’t seem to irritate any more.
Waking up every morning,
not really caring whether it rains or shines,
but knowing that whatever you do
is your decision.
Having two mornings in every week,
when you are not ruled by an alarm clock
as you stare out the bathroom window
at snow covered mountains, some will
only ever see in dreams.
BANG YANG
An orphan, a mother, a widow,
she sobs herself dry,
eyes searching the foliage,
waiting, wondering,
who and what will be next?
The jungle is her home,
the inhabitants her friends,
all grieving, all waiting,
all numb with disbelief
that their plight continues
in a modern age
when lots of help
was promised
but those that made
the promises slinked off
banished Bang Yang and
her comrades to a living hell.
Not for them
soft, downy pillows,
widescreen television
and full bodied wine
that resembles the
steady flow of blood
that seeps from weakened
betrayed, forgotten heroes.
MATILDA LAING
Matilda dines alone
in a house full of dust
and memories washed down
with a bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape.
Bonnie and Clyde sit under the table,
scratching their fleas and waiting for
a morsel to drop at their paws
before retreating to the ailing Aga
that doesn’t quite hold its fire.
They see off the disgruntled cat
who sprints the stairs and nestles in
the cosy airing cupboard that houses
fusty candlewicks that welcomed
new kittens into the world and carry
the stains.
After Coronations Street and Emmerdale
she treads the stairway of threadbare Axminster
overlooked by fearsome
ancestors regaled in splendour.
From her window she looks at the moon
and sighs, she hates being old, hates being alone
with her memories and a wardrobe full of
satin ball gowns with waspish waists.
She unclips a hair clasp and a tumble of silver hair
falls round her shoulders caressing her drooping breasts.
The waist is still visible, the tummy still taut
enough to fit the jodhpurs that lie over the chair
waiting for her attention tomorrow morning
when she rides up the meadow,
Bonnie and Clyde in pursuit,
until Heston snorts to a halt in Bluebell wood.
Edward Jackson stands smiling,
his tweed jacket with torn pockets
sports a battered rose in the lapel,
as he doffs his cap and holds out a caring hand to
his very own rose who slides from the saddle
and into his waiting arms,
ridiculously in love,
amazingly happy,
undoubtedly old.
Come on Scotland pull your bloody socks up. I have eyed up a special little pub for ages which sits at a place where I regularly take good photographs. It’s normally weekend when I go there and the place always looks like it’s heaving but today I decided to give it a try.
I was full of anticipation when I went in, nice ambience etc, although it appeared a little smokey and gloomy if I am being totally truthful. Smoke coming from log fire I hasten to add.
Service was okay, nothing spectacular, but the food, oh dear, what a disappointment. I had haddock in an ale batter. I nearly needed a hammer and chisel to get through it and in the end left it. No comment was made when my plate was taken, and I couldn’t be bothered to make a fuss at the table, but when I went to the bar I told them I wasn’t impressed with my grub. She immediately apologised and said she would have a word with the kitchen. I was fully reimbursed for my disastrous fish dish, but would so much have preferred to have had it done right.
I took a different turn today and ended up in Callender after stopping at various points and getting some great snaps. If you are used to good customer service please keep driving. I suddenly realised how different the garb is up here. It is the area of the Berghaus, the Goretex and anything else that keeps out the rain. The town is filled with outdoor clothing shops with prices that range from the sublime to the ridiculous. I thought I had the job sussed when I eventually found a nice two tone job in one shop til I discovered the price tag wasn’t £49 but £149. For an anorak that I will probably hank on a fence somewhere. No way, so it’ll be back to Ebay and the excitement of the auction. Failing that the charity shop hit is coming.
One shop in particular was worthy of a clip from a Les Dawson show. There they were the two shop “assistants” leaning on the counter, yapping away. I wasn’t acknowledged in any shape or form even though it was obvious I was a genuine purchaser or would be purchaser. I struggled with zips, hangers, you name it, but no, the conversation continued. Until eventually one of them went off for yes, you’ve guessed it the vaccum. Just after 4p.m. but that was the sole thought in the mind, to get finished. I thought sod it and left.
I thought I was almost there in the final shop which had an enormous stock, but it had rails designed for giraffes and the sizes I needed to get to, involved a bit of tip toe effort. The dizzy bisom behind the counter must have watched me struggle until I asked her if she had a bigger size. To which she replied “No sorry, we don’t ‘av it.” Then stuff started getting wheeled in so again it was time to go before the doors got locked.
After the disastrous food at lunch time I promised myself a nice coffee in Callender, but oh dear, I didn’t even get that. It was bitter and sucked in the sides of my mouth. So I am off now to make my own. Next time I go out I think I will take a picnic, it is cheaper and I know it will taste okay.
Compensation for the day? Some great photographs.
Shall I return to Callender? Perhaps, I will always give a place a second chance, but I know which shops I will be avoiding. And I will be wearing an anorak bought somewhere I have enjoyed decent service.
Best entertainment of the day? Watching the several near shunts in the Tesco express car park!!
THE ROAD TO HELL
It took one and a half hours to get there, so when I bade farewell to my good friends in Sandy I presumed it would take approximately the same time to get back home.
Trouble is on the way up I had downloaded a blow-by-blow account of how to reach my destination from the good old A.A. It literally delivered me to the doorstep. But silly me, I didn’t do one for the return journey.
Head for signs that say M25. That was all that was in my head. I kept seeing signs that said, London, and I thought, fine, just keep going, you’ve come this way before, you’ll eventually hit the M25. Chris Rea’s “Road to Hell.”
But then the signs changed to Central London. I chose to ignore this slight alteration, and kept the foot down, on and on we sailed until I realised the area was becoming more and more built up.
When an area sign for Holloway appeared I knew I was in trouble. But what do you do when you are a country bumpkin? You don’t panic that’s what and you keep on going.
It was a beautiful evening and I became envious of the people strolling around, with sweaters tied round their necks. Others sat contentedly outside welcoming pubs and sipped long cold drinks. I just kept on driving, I saw signs that said things I had heard of, like Centre point, but when this large, highly illuminated area loomed in front of me I was horrified to read the words Euston Station.
Oh my God, what now. I tried not to grip the wheel as if I was in a rollercoaster.
Should I phone daughter no 4 and get her to talk me out of London, should I phone home and get boss’s son to advise me or should I just get on with it or maybe even consult a friendly copper.
Isn’t it funny how signs vanish when you need them most?
I drove and drove…Nothing!!
Then there it was, M1 North. Bearing in mind I was trying to head south in the direction of Sevenoaks, which is the other side of Dartford, I knew this was well in the wrong direction, but I was past caring, I just needed to get out of the concrete jungle. So off I went.
Now here is the snippet that I simply did not know. I did not know that motorways had no roundabouts. I thought I only had to drive to the first roundabout, go round the bloody thing and I would be in the right direction.
So I drove and drove, and drove some more. I think there were signs for Buckinghamshire, Warwickshire, Northamptonshire and then there it was Birmingham 36 miles. BIRMINGHAM????? Oh no, this is crazy. Where’s the nearest Holiday Inn, maybe I should just get my head down for the night and set off again in the morning. Or maybe I should just give up and drive to Scotland and not bother going back to work.
I kept thinking, maybe if I go off at a slip road there will be a roundabout, so I stopped for petrol, yes I needed some by now, and asked the first friendly looking geezer in the petrol station shop. “Just go off and the next slip road pet and drive ‘til you hit the roundabout, and that will put you in the right direction.”
I smiled and said I wouldn’t embarrass myself by telling him where I was trying to reach, but I took his advice.
Soon I was heading South, so I put the foot down and sailed along, dreaming of my cosy bed. M25 Eureka, I never thought I would be glad to read that sign, but wait a minute what was this? Three lanes of traffic, all going nowhere. You know that awful scenario, half a car length every 3 minutes?
I fumbled for my Travel Sweets, rather aptly named don’t you think I ejected Enrique, sorry Enrique and cranked up Sir Mick with Start Me Up closely followed by one of my all time favourites Brown Sugar. I don’t know why, but it makes life a better place. My little red car, throbbed, pulsated and spluttered on, very, very slowly. Eventually another signed loomed. “August 1st. M25 closed 12.00- 5.30a.m.” What? Closed? Oh bloody hell. This is a joke.
But there we were, Rollers, Ferraris, Cavaliers, Kas and my little red Seat.
Mile upon mile of start stop, start stop. Huge cranes, hard hats, muck and stoor (guid auld Scottish word).
I smiled, sucked another travel sweetie and thought, yes girl, you have made the right decision. Three weeks from now I start a new job back up in my beloved Scotland, far away from closed M25s and enormous cities.
I have never sighed such a relief as when I reached the Queen Elizabeth Bridge, and even there they only had two tollbooths open. This was midnight on a Wednesday night. And all you could see both ways was a serpentine of headlights snaking their way north and south. Thousands of poor other sods, with Sat Navs, tired children and grumpy partners.
I reversed into my little corner at the side of the garage at 12.40a.m.
I left Sandy, Bedfordshire at 7.15p.m. Lots of people reading this will laugh, in fact everyone that I have told the woeful tale has giggled and shook their head, but for me it was still a triumph. I drove in the midst of London, me the original country girl, I didn’t panic and although I took the scenic route home I did get home. But maybe next time I will download the return route directions. Just incase…
And remember motorways have no roundabouts.
FINELLA
Coal black hair,
cat green eyes,
and a look that could
put you through the floor,
this was Finella,
this was my mother.
Intelligent, warm,
she reminisced about India,
tigers, servants and love,
mostly about love.
Vivacious, captivating,
but frighteningly complicated
at times even scary
as she battled with demons
that incited great rages.
She dealt with officialdom
like it wasn’t there,
no one questioned her,
ever,
it simply never happened
yet she never raised her voice,
simply an eyebrow that had
pedantic bullies shaking in their shoes.
Words were her weapon, her manipulating tool,
spoken or written with great panache.
Her flamboyant writing mirrored her image,
in an almost uncanny way,
as she dreamed her unfulfilled dream.
Dilemmas, now there’s a word that conjures up all sorts of images. People have different definitions of what a dilemma is. For me it is being faced with a situation that is going to cause some sort of problem whatever way you turn. My Roget’s Thesaurus calls a dilemma a predicament, a dubiety, a choice or an argumentation.
Whichever of these things it is, it calls for quick action, fingers crossed on a wing and a prayer.
One of my most memorable dilemmas involved a suicidal cow. Yes, I mean one that says moo. She was a Friesian cross Hereford suffering from milk fever. Don’t ask me why, but cows suffering from such a thing, are inclined to position themselves next to water. This lady was no exception, apart from the fact that she decided that not only would she lie close to the water, but in it.
I watched from the relative cosiness of the farmhouse, with my four young daughters racing round my feet. My bovine friend was now well and truly kneeling in the swirling burn that runs through the bottom of what was known as the ‘Front Field’. She lowered her head, she was giving up. My heart started thumping, panic setting in. I needed to get to her, save her, but I couldn’t do it alone. There was also the question of what to do with four small children, but when you are in your twenties dilemmas like that don’t faze you. Hubby was off chasing the oval ball somewhere. (Why do dilemmas invariably happen when the man in your life isn’t around?) Dilemma 2 reared its ugly head. I knew who I needed to help me, but I also knew where he would be, and that was somewhere he shouldn’t. There was no time to debate the ethics of phoning up the home of the married lady who was the object of our tractorman’s desire; I had a cow dying in front of me.
In my most pleasant upbeat voice I asked to speak to Roy, and yes, it was urgent.
After blabbing out the words cow in river (for it was more like a river than a burn) I told him I was on my way down there with the kids and could he please come and help me. Being a conscientious sort of guy, he didn’t let me down.
I shooed my foursome into the Subaru and set off down the front field. Four little faces peered in wonderment as I waded into the ice-cold water and lifted her head rather ungainly by the ears. You would not believe how heavy a cow’s head is.
The little faces now looked very concerned, not for mummy, but for the poor cow. Her calf sat quietly on the riverbank, seemingly unaware that there was a strong prospect he would become an orphan. I cannot remember what month it was, but it was obviously during the rugby season and it was definitely winter. I had all the necessary wet weather gear, waterproof trousers, coat, Wellingtons but the icy water made short shift of it all, my feet felt like blocks of ice as the water poured into my Wellingtons. I heard a distant drone that became welcomingly louder. The red Massey Ferguson came zooming down the road to the bottom gate. By now I felt as though my back would never straighten and my fingers would need to be amputated with frostbite. I barely looked up; instead I concentrated my efforts on some soothing words, punctuated with the odd “silly bugger”
“I’m going to reverse right back. Ye’ll need to try and get the chains roond aboot her” Shouted Roy above the revving tractor. The little faces were mesmerised. Nothing as exciting as this ever happened on the telly.
At times like this, you don’t worry too much about if you are going to hurt the animal in question, (another dilemma perhaps) more that if you don’t get a move on, she’s going to be gone to the big cattle shed in the sky. Roy reversed the tractor down the banking, flung me the chains as he jumped from his cab. I cursed and swore and swore some more as between us we managed to get the chains round her neck and under a front leg. Meanwhile Roy kept giving her a slap, trying to get her to come to her senses and stand up. When the penny eventually dropped that she was having none of it, he whizzed back to his cab and started to slowly inch forward, as I screeched instructions. The Subaru by this time was totally steamed up and four little faces clapped loudly and roared “Hurrah”when we eventually got the poor beast free of the water.
Naturally her calf was on the far side, so again Roy and I waded through the water to chase the little creature further downstream where it was more accessible for him to cross. The job was done, mother was soon unchained but somewhat weakened by her ordeal. We opted to leave her out rather than put her through the ordeal of being taken up the hill and into a byre. Before we released her we rubbed her down with straw. She didn’t even try to go anywhere, but lay back down with her feet tucked in below her. I shook out a bale for her to have a warm lie, and spread more straw across her back.
I thanked Roy for all his help and managed to refrain from apologising for dragging him away from his ‘friend’. After all, I wasn’t supposed to know what was going on!!
‘Ever the gentleman, he doffed his cap, then turned to the cow and said ‘Stipit bitch.’
Frozen but happy I squelched back into my car to enthusiastic applause from the children.
We jostled and bumped our way back up the field, to the next dilemma, what to make for tea.
A few years later we built a rather grand new shed to house our cows and calves, thus eliminating the chance of a repeat performance of my Winter dip.
We don’t need a special day
to celebrate our love.
Every day with you is special.
From the second you touched my hand
I knew that you were the one
I would love ‘til the day I die.
It’s not in the words you say
though they are special enough,
more in the comfortable silence.
And in the knowledge that
there have never been restrictions
and that, my darling, is true love.
FLAT BLACK CAT
I drove by in a trice,
with the usual tailgater
up my arse.
But I saw you,
lying there,
flattened, silent.
Covered in dust,
from days by the verge
forgotten, lost, but sadly dead.
I wondered if,
you belonged to someone,
did you sometimes sit on a knee
and offer a gleeful chin,
to be stroked and caressed
or were you the original TC,
a knight of the road,
a feral, living rough,
but still welcoming kindness?
Whatever the answer is,
I wish that I knew,
so that I could rest
and not be sad,
about the little cat,
at the side of the road.
Purple lupins, ten feet tall,
just a dream, just a wish,
beneath soft pink apple blossom,
that floats like gossamer on the faintest breeze.
Happy days, happy times,
nurturing sweet peas to clamber across
grey painted trellis, grey for effect,
worked well too.
So many sounds, touches,
emotions, today and always,
thinking of you, with your coal black curls,
cat green eyes and toffee apple smile.
Fun and laughter were your friends,
you taught them to be mine,
you showed me the beauty of the rose,
and what lies behind the thorns.
Each scarlet geranium takes me back
to the times when a little girl looked into
the rainwater tank, while you filled the can
that sometimes filled imaginary rivers.
You wore a polka dot dress tightly grasped
by a broad scarlet belt, you were my princess,
I wanted a dress like yours, to be so pretty,
just like you, my princess, my mum.
Even your shoes were scarlet leather,
cosseting dainty feet that loved to dance.
Laughter filled your life and mine,
and on the air the scent of Gingham perfume.
Gingham for week days, Tweed for Sundays,
a little bit here and a little bit there,
always my friend, always my mum
this morning, I thought I heard you calling.
My morning started much like any other, except this morning I put a coat on and pulled up the hood to shelter my newly washed locks from the pouring rain.
The beautiful Koi carp didn’t seem to mind. They just tootled round the pond waiting for breakfast.
As usual I was a day behind with my newspaper reading, but what I read on page 21 of the Telegraph had me nearly reduced to tears of despair. I wanted to climb a mountain and scream to the world, what the hell is going on?
I have much to do today, but cannot focus on anything until I get this little baby off my chest. And someone owes it to MITROFAN to let him know that some of us do care.
Who is Mitrofan? He’s the unsuspecting, trusting bear, shot by King Juan Carlos of Spain. So what? I hear the hunters say.
Mitrofan is described as a “good humoured and jolly bear” who was kept at a farm in the village of Novlenskoye, in Russia. This good humoured and jolly domestic bear was put in a cage where the party fed him on honey laced with Vodka. Thus the big, lumbering creature became an inebriated, “easy” target for their visiting dignitary.
The report from Sergey Starostin has caused some embarrassment to the Governor of Vologda, a region in northern Russia. Mr. Starostin, deputy head of the region’s hunting grounds conservation department, has loudly condemned the shooting of Mitrofan, which happened in late August. The word he uses is “abominable.”
There is no evidence to prove that King Juan knew the tragic animal was drunk, but one would wonder if it would be possible for an experienced hunter not to realise that something was amiss.
Governor Pozgalev was forced to order an investigation after failing to gag the feisty Sergey Starostin, who claims there have been similar incidents in the region. His words will ring in many ears. “I’ve been hunting for many years and I think that a situation when an animal is given no chance is immoral.”
I second that Mr. Starostin, and salute you for your courage at speaking out against this despicable act of total cruelty and indulgence. “Hey, I shot a bear today!”
Fears are now running high for Maya a female bear who shared a cage with Mitrofan at the Woodgrouse hunting estate. It is feared she is being prepared for the next “big wig” who visits the region “for a bit of sport?”
And what of the law? Shooting a wild bear with a licence is permitted; killing a tame bear might contravene a law. Oh, just in case you didn’t know, giving a bear in Russia vodka, is not illegal.
That makes me feel a whole lot better!!!
If only the tables could be turned and big, unsuspecting Mitrofan, who put his faith in the human race, was able to return and fill some of the hunting party with lashings of Vodka before giving chase.
Perhaps I’ll have a word with Stephen King!!
Rest in peace Mitrofan, hopefully you are in a better place. And to the members of that misguided hunting party, I wish you many sleepless nights!!
