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Sarah Palin is the reason compasses point North.

calendar   Monday - November 30, 2009

A VERY DISTURBING COLUMN FROM THE SUNDAY MAIL, AND WE ARE WORRIED. THIS ISN’T FUNNY.

I didn’t expect this to end the way it did and I honestly find it very disturbing. In fact, we’re worried about her.

Wife and I read this lady regularly and you would have to go into the Mail’s archives for say the last 60 days, to get an understanding of her.
Readers of BMEWS would no doubt wonder about a women who feeds muesli to the rats in her barn, or spends money she can’t afford feeding two pet chickens on a special diet of organic food.  She loves animals poor woman, and it now dawns on us that the love and over the top affection she showers on all those pets she takes in, in some way makes up for the love she does not have and desperately wants in her life. 
At first I just thought she was quite silly.  But not after reading this. There’s more then just silly going on here.  And we are frightened for her.

Tired of London and the lifestyle, she thought she’d find happiness of some kind by getting out and moving to the country where she could also keep horses. A passion since girlhood.  Well, the grass wasn’t greener.  About the first thing she did was turn off the natives by things she wrote in her column about where she’d moved to.  As I said above, to truly appreciate what I am trying to get across, you would really need to see the Mail archives for the last 60 day.  Or perhaps longer.  In fact, there are links to previous stories at the end of the various articles.

Please don’t judge too harshly.  I think this lady is hurting.

Liz is one of the best known and highly rated female journalists writing today. Her columns include a fashion addict column in the Daily Mail and ‘Liz Jones’ Diary’ in the Mail on Sunday’s YOU magazine each week. Liz also writes high profile interviews for the magazine, has a column in the newspaper and writes extensively on women and related topics for Femail in the Daily Mail.
Liz is the author of two books; The first, Liz Jones’ Diary, was published by Quadrille in 2005, while The Exmoor Files, detailing her move from London to a farm in Somerset, was published by Weidenfeld & Nicholson in August 2009.
Formerly Liz was the Editor of Marie Claire and Features Editor for the London Evening Standard.


In which I realise I hate my life here

By Liz Jones
Last updated at 8:01 PM on 28th November 2009

I knew that whatever I had discovered in my T-shirt in the middle of the night would turn up eventually. I spotted Sweetie staring maniacally at my Prada suitcase (a piece of luggage which, incidentally, is no longer what it was thanks to Gracie/Tracie; everything I own now has small teeth marks on it somewhere).
I scooped up Sweetie (she growled at the indignity of being picked up), put her in the hall, and gingerly opened the suitcase. There, sitting in a corner, was a field mouse , with tiny round eyes, a pointy nose and an expression that said, ‘Ye godfathers. I am harassed by 17 cats, find refuge in your T-shirt, and then you fling me to the floor. Since then I have been cowering in your suitcase and, to be honest, I have almost lost the will to live.’

I scooped up the poor mouse in my hands, negotiated various doors and walked, in my bare feet, to the orchard, where I deposited the poor creature in a hedge. It didn’t look remotely grateful, or even give me a backwards glance.

I love the puppies, but the wee and poo everywhere is making me lose the will to live. Mini Puppy is very good, but Gracie is insane. I have just taken her for a long walk, down the hill, round by the lakes, up through the square field and the moment she gets back in the house she squats. I come down every morning to pools of wee. Some days I feel so low I just step over the puddles.

I can’t even go into Dulverton to buy wine or pet food or post a letter because I am so hated, so laughed at and gossiped about.

I am sitting here now, typing, wearing my black Miu Miu jacket while Grace Kelly is chewing on its hem, ripping it to ribbons. I don’t have the energy to stop her. I wish, like a new mum, I was entitled to puppy leave. I think of all the baby things I have given friends – cashmere blankies, blue aran sweaters – and wonder at the fact no one has sent me so much as a packet of Winalot.

I can see now why collies are often abandoned: they are so bright, so in need of stimulation, I can understand how someone in a normal home, ie, one that isn’t a dump like mine, or surrounded by 46 acres, would just give up. It is odd but I have started to lean on Michael, asking for his help with the little ones. ‘What should I do? Were you like this as a puppy?’ I ask him, kissing him on his black and white nose. It is too much to expect of a dog: that they become your husband.

I want to go home. I want to go back to London. I want to go on an exotic holiday. I hate my life here. I can’t even go into Dulverton to buy wine or pet food or post a letter because I am so shunned, so hated, so laughed at and gossiped about. I have no money.

My car is always dirty. I am always dirty. I have no nice things any more. I can’t buy fresh coriander. I realise that last sentence will probably mean more local youths will take pot shots at my house, but it’s a fact. I am used to being able to buy things without ordering them first.

Everything is so hard, even lighting the wretched log fire. I know that makes me sound weak and pathetic, but I don’t care. I don’t even have someone to share things with, to help, to tell me everything is going to be OK. I spent my whole life thinking that, maybe one day, I would be happy.

I thought, maybe one day, I would meet someone, because that is what everyone told me. It is one of the great lies: ‘You will meet someone, just when you least expect it.’ But that never happened. Life doesn’t always turn out OK.

At the moment I wake up in the middle of the night, every night, wracked with self-doubt and fear. I realise I am completely alone in the world. Even members of my own family never phone to see how I am. As long as the standing order to pay for my mum’s full-time nurse keeps being paid, I guess they know I must still have a pulse.

The truth is, every time I go to sleep, I hope against hope that I won’t wake up.

LIZ JONES


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Posted by peiper   United Kingdom  on 11/30/2009 at 05:03 AM   
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Not that very many people ever read this far down, but this blog was the creation of Allan Kelly and his friend Vilmar. Vilmar moved on to his own blog some time ago, and Allan ran this place alone until his sudden and unexpected death partway through 2006. We all miss him. A lot. Even though he is gone this site will always still be more than a little bit his. We who are left to carry on the BMEWS tradition owe him a great debt of gratitude, and we hope to be able to pay that back by following his last advice to us all:
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Oh, and here's some kind of visitor flag counter thingy. Hey, all the cool blogs have one, so I should too. The Visitors Online thingy up at the top doesn't count anything, but it looks neat. It had better, since I paid actual money for it.
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