Twins Twins photo

Godspeed, Little Man

Today was little Brody's funeral, and it brought me completely undone.

I can only imagine how incredibly hard it must have been for his mother - to wake and prepare for the day that she will be putting her 6 week old child to rest forever. To deliver a very moving eulogy, to share her babies story with a church full of people without collapsing in tears. To hug every mourner as they left the church, to smile and accept their condolences without wanting to scream at them. To nurse her other child on her lap, to hug him and squeeze him as they lowered her baby's casket into the ground. I know for sure she is a much braver woman than I.

I would have been a bawling, weeping, moaning mess. You know the Muslim women you see on the news, the way they howl and paw at themselves, throwing themselves to the ground? That would have been me. And i wouldnt be finding comfort in religion of any kind - i dont mean to offend anyone but i hate the hypocrisy of Catholicism. I hate how when good things happen it is Gods glory, his miracle, his wonder; but when babies are stolen away from wonderful kind people its all " God works in mysterious ways " or " He must have needed that angel back ". God gets all the glory but never the blame. Frankly, i think thats absolute crap ( and a whole other post ).

So i went, and i wept for what my friend had to go through. I wept for the thought of what i would do if it were me and my child. And wept for what my parents would have had to do almost 22 years ago. I wept for the little boy they had to put in the ground. And when little Brody's burial service was over i went to my brothers grave and i collapsed onto the grass and i cried there, with him, privately. I cried for all those things and more. I spoke with my brother and i told him how Flynn knows his name ( even though he doesnt pronounce it properly ) and how he can point him out in photos. I told him how Flynn is built like him, small and nuggety, and how our Dad says Flynn reminds him of his son. I promised to bring Flynn to his grave and tell him that we love Uncle Eli. And as i wept and talked and tried to arrange my flowers as best i could, two crows flew overhead.

I dont know what you, out there, believe - but i know what i believe, and i know who those two crows were and why they were there, watching over me. I carry them on my shoulders ( quite literally, tattooed there forever ) at all times, and today they came when i needed them....

Bottoms Up

So - i am lucky enough to be going in for a spot of day surgery today ( can you feel the sarcasm in that sentence? ) In the interests of being completely open on this blog, lets just say i'll be having an exploratory procedure - via the bottom. Or, to be proper, a colonscopy. Yep, thats right, thats where they take a tiny little camera on a tube and shove it up your you-know-where. Its usually the domain of persons over 60 years old but, as i said, i'm "lucky" enough to be one of the few young people who get to have it too. Like i said, its pretty much exploratory so the doctor is looking for the cause of some symptoms i've been having. Best case scenario? Its plain old haemorrhoids that, in all likely hood, were caused by pregnancy ( thanks Flynn! ). Worst case scenario? He could find that i have an auto immune disease, which would mean daily meds for the rest of my life and a strict diet ( thankfully, he seems to already ruled bowel cancer out ).

So - please excuse me if i dont post for the next day or two. I've already had a full day of no food at all, and am allowed precisely nothing ( no food, no drink ) today until i wake up after surgery. My point is that i'm near delirious with hunger and later this afternoon i'm expecting to be relatively drug-addled after anaesethetic. Probably not the best conditions for blog posting ( unless you like a good drunk post or two ).

And now that thats out there, let me finish up with a bit more TMI - i'm hitting the shower to shave my legs before i go to te hospital. I mean, what kind of lady wants to present herself ( bottom first mind you .... ) with hairy legs?

A Duty of Candour, Depressive Women, and Friends in Finland

The first two days of last week were spent at the University Strategic Conference. Unfortunately due to still having treatment at the clinic each morning, staying over was impossible. Experience tells me that it's the informal getting together in this way that are the most valuable and  enjoyable aspects of such events. However, the two days were very good and I came away with a sense that the University had somehow changed gear in working towards achieving its strategic aims. In the last session we were encouraged to raise ‘taboo’ topics. Ironically, the rules of confidentiality don’t allow me to say whether anyone did or not.

But arguably such sessions are important for any organisations health. How many of us have been party to a meeting where the 'Elephant in the Room' is completely ignored as people feel for whatever reason unable to voice their concerns. It’s sometimes easier to simply convince oneself to be a team player and not rock the organisational boat. It can be hard to stand up and be counted for what you believe to be right. I believe that it is important for organisations and the managers who lead within them to learn how to listen carefully to what is being said.

Last year the UK Department of Health signalled its intent to introduce a ‘duty of candour’ for all health care providers, making them contractually obliged to publicly reveal mistakes made. This month the Health Select Committee recommended that the ‘duty of candour’ will need to be a condition for licensing (by the Care Quality Commission) for any qualified provider wishing to contract for the provision of health care services. Even without the moral obligation to enact a duty of candour there are important economic drivers to consider. The cost of settling legal claims against the NHS for clinical negligence was £807m in 2010, a rise of £146m on the previous year. Each of these claims represents something going wrong, a patient harmed or killed. Being a current user of health care services and the fact there were just under 6000 claims last year is enough to make me feel quite depressed.

And I am not alone. The journal, European Neuropsychopharmacology last week published an updated report on work originally undertaken in 2005 which looked at the size and burden of mental illness in Europe. The report showed that almost 165 million people or 38% of the population suffer each year from a mental health problem such as depression, anxiety, insomnia or dementia. Professor Hans-Ulrich Wittchen, who led the systematic review of empirical based studies, noted that the rate of depression in women was 2.6 times higher than for men, particularly for those women aged between the ages of 16 to 42. These researchers attribute this higher rate of depression in women to the burden of balancing the demands of marriage, family and a job – although I am not convinced this link is clearly demonstrated in their paper.

The mental health organisation SANE note that perhaps one reason we believe that women are twice as likely to suffer from depression than men is more to do women being more prepared to talk about it, whereas many men can find it more difficult to describe their feelings of anxiety, depression or loneliness and may even lack the language to express their inner feelings.

However, maybe the depressive woman doesn’t need to be, well completely depressed. Dr Sabura Allen, a clinical psychologist at Monash University published, in 2007, her now famous piece of research which looked at the recent sexual experiences of depressed and non-depressed married and single women who were both in relationships or not. Her study found that depressed women had more sex than their non-depressed counterparts. The study concluded that depressed women were likely to be seeking out sexual intimacy more often to help make them feel more secure. I am not so sure her research really proved this is the case. But it is known that sexual activity provokes a release of endorphins which elevate our mood and can make us feel ‘happier’ and increase our sense of wellbeing.

And finally, it is likely that this weekend will be a difficult one for many people. Each anniversary of 9/11 provokes in me a sense of deep contemplation of the human condition. I was in Finland when 9/11 happened and with friends of many years. We sat and watched the dreadful events unfold together. And Mikko, Leena, and Heikki remain good friends all these years later. They have, and continue to bring much happiness to my life!

A Decade On

I know i wont be the only one to post about this today but - its been 10 years since the September 11th terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center in NYC. Unfathomable at the time, and i think even in the jaded world we live in post 9/11 there is still something of the " How could they possibly have done that ? " about it all. So, in memory of all those who lost their lives that day, i'm going to re-post an entry i made back on September 11th 2008 ( 3 years ago and on the 7 anniversary of the attacks ):

The question was asked in my local paper today - " Do you remember ? " Frankly, i thought it was a stupid question. How could anyone possibly forget ? Of course, I'm talking about the atacks on the World Trade Centre 7 years ago today. What kind of person could ever forget the articles and the images accompanying them, even if they wanted to ?


I was in Year 12, my final year of high school, in 2001. The attacks had occured overnight, Australian time, and I remember my mother waking me earlier than usual telling me that two planes had crashed into the Twin Towers. Still groggy with sleep i wasnt exactly sure what she was raving on about - until she made me turn on the tv. I sat in bed, still in my pyjamas with the sheets bunched around my knees, horribly transfixed. I didnt want to see planes punching holes in steel, or desperate people leaping from buildings, or faces covered in ash, a trail of tears tracing its way down their cheeks. I didnt want to see that, but i couldnt look away. I didnt want to see that , and i dont want to remember, but i do.

I went to school early and gathered around a radio with about 30 other seniors. Any 12 or 13 year old Year 7 kid that even let out so much as a peep got threatened with the evil eye and a " Shut the fuck up, you idiot! ". I think it was obvious that we all knew we were witnessing an important moment in history. We Year 12 students were allowed to have the radio news playing in every class that day, probably as much for the teachers benefit as it was for ours. I dont remember which algebraic equations i worked on that afternoon, but i do remember wincing as a light plane flew over my maths class room.

My brother worked at the local McDonalds after school, and i went with my mother to pick him up at the end of his shift. It was unusually quiet, not many families calling in to pick a Big Mac or a Happy meal; i sat at a table staring up at the tv and cried. Bawled, in fact. A totally public place, good old McDonalds Family resturant, and i had nowhere to hide, but i sobbed my heart out at what i was watching. The news reports just kept repeating the same images of people jumping to their deaths. I couldnt help but wonder what last lonely thought they may have been thinking to push them to that extreme. Nor could i help but despair at such a waste of life - and for what ? None of us really knew at that point.

I didnt know anyone in New York City. I didnt even know anyone who lived in the US, but my heart bleed for the families who lives had been irrepairably damaged by such insanity. I wondered what they must be thinking, feeling, hoping, praying; I wanted to let them know that they werent alone in their loss and their sorrow. And i did, by writing a letter to the New York Times. I doubt that it was ever published, by message of support was there on the internet, recorded for all of humanity to see. If i could have helped dig through that rubble, to comfort a crying child who had lost a parent, to donate blood or skin to burns victims, I would have. I may not have been there, I may not have lost any of my people, but i felt it all the same.

It wasnt until i lived in the US during 2005 that i got some insight into what it was really like. I lived in NJ and my host father worked in New York City. On a trip to the local zoo one cloudless, blue sky September day with my boys and their grandparents, I noticed Grandpa Jerry sitting on a fence alone, just staring up at the sky. I asked him what was going on and he told me he was just reflecting - this was as perfect a day as that one looked like it was going to be. If the youngest of the boys had not been born the day before - September 10, 2001 ( happy birthday H! ) in a hospital in Jersey - my host father would have been there, one block from the WTC, when the planes hit. My host father had lost people he knew but luckily had been given a healthy, beautiful baby boy to take his mind off all that.

I dont mean to dwell on these things of course; but isnt that what remembering is ? Isnt remembering dwelling on the past, whether it be good or bad, and whether we want to or not ? Sure, I could have gone through today pretending like i didnt know the date, had forgotten its significance, or focused on sending good birthday vibes to my little H ( who is now big... ). But kind of memorial would that be ? What kind of respect would that be showing those who lost their lives ?
Honestly, I dont particularly want to remember, but some things you just cant forget....

Baby Love

So after yesterdays news i've been keenly aware of and crazy in love with my son today. I felt a pang in my heart for what my friend has lost, and couldnt help but imagine myself in her situation. It did upset me for a little while, and then it made me want to run to my son, scoop him up, and never let him go. Of course, that just isnt possible ( especially not with such an active and wriggly toddler ..... ), as much as i wanted it today.

Image from here

What i did do is just took the time to really be with him - not just in the same room, not just absently mindly playing with him whilst thinking of something else but actually "being" with him. We had a playdate with another mum from mothers group during which i let him run and play and do his own thing but the rest of the day i made him my focus. Even when out shopping with my sister i made a point of talking to him, doing wheelies with him in his pram, rubbing his hair as we strolled - little things that made me feel connected to him.

He fell asleep in the car on the way home from the shops and i put him gently in his bed. When he woke after half an hour a bit distressed ( he's cutting his canines and they arent playing very nicely... ) instead of shushing him for a few minutes and then shutting the door i climbed into his bed with him, snuggled in under the doona and we had a nap together. Its been a long time since we've had a nap together and it felt good. Not only to get a bit of extra rest, but to have that snuggly, warm, bonding moment that i'm sure will be less and less frequent as he gets older.

Once he finally gets to sleep tonight ( again, those teeth are playing havoc ) i might go in and steal one more baby kiss before heading to bed. I'm just hoping my own sleep tonight is less restless than last night, when i couldnt seem to shake the sadness of the " what ifs? "....

No Such Thing As A Free Lunch

Ben Franklin said that “God helps those who help themselves,” but government helps those who don’t. In his recent book “After America,” Mark Steyn points out how many Americans have become dependent on government: “ . . . by 2004, 20 percent of U. S. households were getting about 75 percent of their income from the federal government [and] another fifth of households . . . receive about 40 percent of their income from the feds . . .” Is that the kind of republic Franklin had in mind when he worked at the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia? No. I don’t think so.

So, government is supporting over 100 million of us, but can the rest of us afford to continue paying for it? No again. Under President Obama, we’re borrowing forty cents of every dollar we spend. We’re borrowing money we probably can’t repay. We’re borrowing money our children and grandchildren will have difficulty paying back, and we’re spending it on ourselves, not them. This is sinful.

Forty percent of Americans are hugely dependent on government. It’s also true that forty-seven percent of Americans pay no federal income tax. How much overlap is there between those two populations? Are we talking about the same people? In most cases, yes. How many of them are likely to vote for a congressman or a senator who says we must stop spending money we don’t have? Not too many when they discover that the only way to eliminate deficit spending is cutting back on the checks they get. We’re a country more and more divided between those who pay and those who get paid.

How long can we take money from our most productive and give it to our least productive? How long can we borrow from foreigners? Not much longer. The whole rest of the world doesn’t have enough money to keep lending to us - especially when they know we’re paying interest with dollars printed under Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke’s policies of “quantitative easing” and artificially low rates.

Too many Americans have learned that it’s easier to let government support them than to support themselves. Reflecting back on thirty-six years of teaching since my recent retirement, I saw a similar pattern in our government schools. A school district’s eligibility for federal money is often figured based on how many parents fill out forms that enable their children to get free or reduced-cost breakfasts, lunches and dinners. The higher the percentage of families who qualify, the more money the school or the district gets. Schools, therefore, are naturally disinclined to scrutinize financial data parents put on the forms. The tendency is to qualify all who apply. Parents and schools both benefit. Not all kids do, however, because some them will grow up to become the citizens expected to pay back the forty cents of every dollar spent on “free” lunches this year. The old adage still applies after all: “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.”

Just as an aside: if you saw how much of that food qualifying students throw in the wastebasket every day it would make you sick. People tend not to value what they don’t pay for, students included. Early in my teaching career, I noticed that custodians would save the discarded food for local pig farmers. Then federal government regulators ruled they couldn’t do that. Ever since, it’s gone into the waste stream.

The percentage of students dependent on expensive federal programs is increasing right along with the percentage of adults dependent depend on federal government checks. Students qualifying for federally-mandated special education are “coded.” Even though I earned an advanced degree in special education decades ago, I still have trouble deciphering criteria for certain codes. For a while at least, the simple explanation for someone qualifying as “learning disabled” was functioning at a grade level lower than what would be expected with his/her measured IQ score. The truly disabled had some measurable perceptual or processing deficiency. Others didn’t, but were nonetheless functioning below grade level, and were, therefore, coded. They received the special assistance of a teacher or an educational technician all through school. Several I got to know well over the years, and it was my personal and professional opinion that they simply didn’t want to do the work. They learned early to be helpless as teachers would administrators would lower the bar for them to pass on to the next grade. Every year I’d have several, and it was rare for even one to be kept back. Much more was spent on such students per capita than on those who did the work expected of them.From Motifake.com

Others were coded for behavior problems and that designation changed periodically as well as euphemistically. Some years it was “Behaviorally Handicapped.” Other years it was “Emotionally Disturbed,” and so forth. Some even got their own “educational technician” to follow them around throughout their school day acting as personal secretary or manservant. Parents of these children qualifed for so-called “crazy checks” amounting to several hundred dollars per month. The Urban Dictionary describes them as “often approved for simple and common conditions such as a child (usually in a single-parent household) who can't behave in school.” If their children learned to behave, their crazy checks would stop.

Teachers are encouraged to believe that every child comes to school ready to learn. Trouble is, too many learn that if they don’t work, others will support them. That’s the lesson they carry with them throughout their lives.

And we wonder why America is going bankrupt.

Another Premature Angel

This one is short and sweet, and goes out to a beautiful family who lost their little man today. KM, another mum from my mothers group, gave birth to a gorgeous little man on the 27.7.11, 4 months premature. Today, despite fighting with every little fibre in his tiny body, baby Brody slipped quietly away to join all the other babies, taken too soon.

May he sleep peacefully where he is now, and know that we keep him in our hearts for ever.

B.J.R 27.07.11 - 7.09.11

A Mile In Their Shoes

I read a quote the other day that I really like. It says,

"Before you judge someone you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way, when you do judge them, you're a mile away and have their shoes."

I forget who said it but I find it rather funny.

The Week That Was

So - you may have noticed that not only did i go AWOL for the four days that i mentioned i would be Rockhampton, but that i also gave myself the rest of the week off from blogging too. As much as i like to keep things up to date, to keep the posts coming and the blog chugging along, i think i need a wee little break every now and again. But what did i get up to with all that spare time away from the blogosphere?


Monday: Dropped Flynn off at daycare. Did not get so much as a " Goodbye Mummy, i love you ". Cursed him under my breath for being such a turd. Got dropped to the airport, checked in ( along with my partner in crime, J ) only to find our fligh out of Dubbo was going to be 40 mins late. Made it to Sydney, checked in on a different airline, met up with the 4 other NSW staff members headed to the conference, and wolfed down some Maccas in time to make it to our gate for boarding to Brisbane... and found out this flight would be 40 mins late. Spent the majority of the flight wondering if we would make our connection to Rocky. Got there just as boarding opened, caught my third flight for the day and landed in Rocky pretty much on time. Dinner time actually. Checked into our rooms, freshened up and met Queensland staff members for tea. Not enough meal allowance to order dessert ( boo! ). Head to bed absolutely exhausted.

Our accomodation - The Edge

Tuesday: Full English  style breakfast ordered at 8am, made the conference room at 8:55am. Actually interested in the mornings presentations. An hour for a pub lunch - at a table of 19 managed to sit myself across from the chattiest staff member there. Get a case of threethirtyitis mid afternoon and struggle to stay awake in front of the boss. Break for the day just before 5pm. Back to the room for a freshen up and a dose of Music Max. Meet 6 other keen staffers for diner ( the rest were pikers - boo to them! ). Find a great boutique pub bistro and have one the nicest dinners i've had in a while - including dessert! Order the apple tart tartine and am gobsmacked when it is not just one slice but the WHOLE BLOODY TART. Do the best i can to tackle it but, even with sharing a piece, can only manage to finish two thirds. Can barely walk back to the motel... am too full of apple tart.

Home of the best apple tart tartine ever - The Heritage Hotel, Rockhampton

Wednesday: Bacon and egg breakfast ( again ) ordered at 8am, made conference in time to get the seat right next to the national boss. Yay. Dont mind so much as very interesting round table discussion til morning tea, and then discussion on customer service. Big boss puts confidential notes in front of her on the table - apparently thinks that i either cant or wont sneak peeks at it when she isnt looking. Lunch at the same pub. I dont know how but i manage to get the seat next the big boss at lunch aswell. My salmon is slightly overcooked but the lemon/lime/bitters goes down well. Stay awake and alert for the last afternoon session. Finish the book i started on Monday before dinner. 17 of us head to the same boutique pub as Tuesday night. After a lovely chicken scallopine i decide to tackle the apple tart again. This time make it two thirds of the way through by myself. May have finished the whole thing if it werent for few Midoris i'd already consumed ( yay for open bar tabs! ). Make it back to the motel despite my enormous apple tart belly. Repack suitcase - couldnt be arsed doing it at 6am.

This is NOT my boss - ha ha, i wish!

Thursday: Up at 6am and at the airport an hour and 10 minutes early for our flight, thanks to a particularly edgy staff member. Grab a crappy airport cafe breakfast ( tastes like cheesy cardboard ). On and off our first flight before the time i would usually leave for work. Potter around Brisbane airport and invest in a new book. Also bought $11 worth of mixed lollies ( rip off ). Brisbane to Sydney is uneventful - so uneventful in fact that i manage to drift off for a half hour nap. Grab some lunch with J, do a couple of laps of Sydney domestic and then settle in at our gate to wait for boarding. Actually have a flight with REX that arrives AND leaves on time ( incredible! ). Spend the flight trying to rest but giggling at the conversation from the couple behind me ( work in tv production, bitching about their bosses, filming out west, planning on driving to their destination 4 hrs from Dubbo at twilight - bad idea! ) J and I were two of the last people off the plane but the first thing i notice is Flynn pressed up against the terminal window, marvelling at the plane. Once he notices me he gets all excited and runs towards me as fast as his little legs will carry him. One huge mummy huggle and short drive later, i get tea cooked for me at my mum and dads. Mick drives us back to our place where, after putting Flynn to sleep, i collapse into bed, totally cactus.

Friday: A regular day at work, except that we're playing catch ups from the four days we were away. Barely have time to scratch myself. Make up a batch of spag bol for tea because, frankly, i couldnt be bothered doing gourmet. Again, i hit the sack before 8:30pm. Around 10pm i hear Flynn wake but Mick is still in good daddy mode and goes to him, and ends up sleeping in Flynns big boy bed with him. Good job Daddy - a calmed child and i get the whole bed to myself!

Saturday: Am gifted a sleep in by my gorgeous fiance. Feel so rested up on waking that i finish our shopping list while i tuck into my cereal. Go out and buy some new work shoes while Mick goes down to his shed and washes his work truck - meet back at home and then head out for groceries. Pop to the neighbours with Flynn for a quick visit when we get back. Flynn loves the little girls and teh dogs next door, so far is a bit scared of the mum ( big sook ). Once he figures out that K has swings, a trampoline, a pool AND can ply him with lollies they'll be good friends. Lots of cleaning and clothes washing done in the afternoon. Made some yummy chipotle chicken wraps for tea and watched " Monsters Inc " before bedtime. No wild saturday night for this little black duck!

Sunday: Flynn gives Mick his Fathers Day presents in bed, but instead of saying " Happy Fathers Day " he says " hello Cookie bird! " ( methinks he was dreaming about his aunties talking parrot... ). Go out to local nursery/cafe for Fathers Day brekkie with my parents, my younger sister and my brother and his family. Yummy French toast and fresh orange juice. Also lots of being dragged by the hand to see the fish in the pond. Flynn lets a combination of teething and finally becoming clingy ( which i thought he might, once i came back from Rocky ) turn him into a complete and utter feral child. Combination of sookiness, squealing and toy throwing drives me up the wall. Manage to get him to fall asleep after an hour and half on my lap. More sookiness when he wakes up which thankfully wears off when we go to my parents for bbq dinner. Good food, big laughs. Come to the conclusion that both my son and my father may just be nuts. Still, settle into warm bed to watch " Underbelly: Razor " with a big smile on my face....

Black and Blue Bodies, A Red Letter Day, and Purple Prose

In my opinion, and I know I am making a rather sweeping generalisation here, nurses becoming patients is never a good thing. Disclosing that one is a nurse to other nurses when one is a patient is possibly also not always such clever thing to do.

I was surprised, therefore to find myself telling a nurse armed with a needle poised above my vein, ready to draw blood, that I was a nurse. The somewhat unfortunate result was getting two bruised arms before any blood was drawn. It was unfortunate that the drawing of blood came immediately before the administration of a deep subcutaneous injection into my abdomen. The injection was painful and bruised me. But it was just the start, my belly was turned black and blue during what was a week of daily injections.   

I was at a clinic I last attended in December 2007. On that first visit I came across a very caring health care assistant. I remember her well. Seeing my bewilderment on that first day at the clinic she kindly offered me a welcome cup of tea – which duly came, served in what my Mother would call 'a proper tea cup'. Nearly four years later, we were both there again. This time there was no tea, and she was the one looking bewildered. The waiting room door was locked. It had a numerical lock which defied all her attempts at guessing the code. So we stood outside talked about the advantages of a Kindle versus paper books and whether I knew who had 'done it' in the TV series the Killers – and despite my repeated protestations that I had never heard of the programme she insisted I must know who the villain was. I was saved by the arrival of the Clinic Sister. The painful injection was a small price to pay for being rescued.

I think the Clinic story is likely to run for a bit yet, unfortunately. What I also hope gets to have a long run is our new School. September 1st, 2011 was a Red Letter Day for the School. It was the official beginning of the new School of Nursing, Midwifery & Social Work. The creation of this new School, bringing together for the first time a much wider range of health and social care professions in one school, is what I believe to be one of the most exciting and significant developments in the Schools history. The opportunities to deliver our programmes differently are limitless. There are many opportunities for new research and to further contribute to the development of health and social care services of the future. I am really proud to be part of a newly formed team of colleagues who will take these ideas and opportunities forward.

Of course at one time in British Universities, there really were red letter days (often referred to as scarlet days) where the full dress gowns were worn. These days such academic dress is usually only worn on graduation days. It is such a shame that it doesn’t these days. I would love to be able to wear of our gowns everyday!

However, it was only the Doctors who got to wear the Scarlet Robes! That is real Doctors (those with a PhD). But it was not surprising to read the outcomes of the 2011 Ipsos MORI Veracity Index which revealed that 88% of adults in the UK reported that they trust medical doctors to tell the truth. It was an annual poll carried out for British Medical Association. The results revealed that doctors were the most trusted profession measured. The least trusted profession were politicians. It was teachers who were the second most trusted profession (81%). Interestingly, since 1983 at least 50% of those taking part in the survey have also said they trust the ordinary person in the street to tell the truth (in 2011 it was 55%).

And finally, many congratulations to our NJL, who also had her own Red Letter Day on Thursday – she got married - well done and best wishes!

College Mail

Years ago when I was just a tiny tot I loved getting mail. I would ALWAYS ask if anything had come for me and on the rare occasion that there was something in the stack for me, my excitement would go through the roof. As I grew from there my excitement would be still be present but I had adopted the preteen attitude of indifference. However, when I hit Junior year mail started coming in right and left. The longest I could go without getting mail was a couple of days. And when I really thought I couldn't get anymore, Senior year happened. Not a day has gone by that I have not had some form of mail. All of it has been from colleges and all of it has gotten old. I don't want any more college mail!

That all changed yesterday. I've applied to couple of places and got the first response back yesterday.

It's from this place. Lee University. The place I want to go. And guess what? I'm in. I've been accepted!
I'm too excited for words! T
his is such an answer to prayers.