As you are probably aware, dear Reader, Susanne Nundy died a few weeks ago- peacefully in her sleep at home .  However before she died she became increasingly upset by the thought of having deleted her blog…twice.  So she asked some of her minions if they might ‘do’ something about it. Could they reconstitute her original, beloved, blog despite her having ‘nuked’ it…twice (She was nothing if not consistent).

Most of you are probably aware that madame’s minions were successful in their endeavours and the raccoonstituted blog can be viewed at the only place it should be:


This blog post is simply for those who haven’t yet gotten the post-it note.

Although still a work in progress, indeed this very morning the Archivist discovered a secret cache of even more of her posts, it is as near a complete copy of her blog as is humanely (and according to the Archivist ‘demonically’ ) possible. On servers beyond the writ of UK Libel law, back upped more times than a train station Gents and more ‘bullet proof’ than a Kevlar basque. With any luck , it will be on the net until the Zombie Apocalypse (or ‘Brexshite’ as we Brits call it).

And to end on a suitable bit of pathos: The Landlady’s husband, Mr G, has spent many poignant hours and even days reading through it …incase anyone was wondering (he, G, also passed on to Madame’s Little Helpers all the copies of posts he could find on her old laptop).

-Your Dwarf In Norfolk

All lit up with a Tilly Lamp.

Sandra-with-Claudia-426 (1)
Sandra with Claudia – another trafficked hen. No, I don’t know what she does with the eggs either – they pop out what ever she thinks. Perhaps she boils them humanely.

There is a carnival atmosphere up in Lancashire. The drums are beating, that distinctive sound of the new age traveller that we hear at the G7 conference, the ‘go green’ meetings, the ‘call to arms’ of the vegan social justice warrior. Fracking is about to start. The Police have a half million pound a month budget to keep order. You may think there is a whiff of anarchy amongst these demos – but no, they have a leader, a Sebastian Keeley, who want to  ‘reclaim the power’ from the elite and hand it to the, er, non, elite, which presumably makes them the new elite, does it not? Perhaps they get Yurts instead of second hand tents and prime locations to erect thier tents……

The Mister Whippy ice-cream van is already in position, no sign of a burger van – too many vegans I suppose. The beleaguered boss of the Fracking company was pointing out in vain that his was the most highly regulated fracking site in the world; he was being measured for air quality, water quality, and traffic disturbance – the environmental agency had already done 6 inspections and he hadn’t even started work yet!!!

I often feel like writing these days, but then the pain returns, or the nurses have some procedure they need to perform, or the Doctor is calling in – life is never as quiet and organised as it used to be when I jumped out of bed and sat down in front of my computer and started another post…..but today that music exercised me and I wanted to know more about it. What was it called – Garage Band? If you know the answer please let me know in the comments, it’s driving me nuts.

I’ve been led on a merry dance. Somewhere along the line, I found the original track for Rolf Harris’s Waltzing Matilda. Practically the Australian National Anthem these days. Veering off on a tangent, as I often do, I pondered on it’s fate. Had it been vanquished from sight in the same manner that all Jimmy Savile’s Top of the Pops appearances had been? After all, Savile had never been found guilty of heinous crimes, only ‘believed to be so’ – whereas Harris actually had been convicted, however unfairly. Nope, Waltzing Matilda was too much a part of the fabric of Australian life to suffer the same fate it seemed. There is even a museum dedicated to the song! It burnt down a couple of years ago. Now I was firmly on the track of Matilda – my mind works like this, in case you haven’t noticed.

The tune to Waltzing Matilda is actually Scottish – “Thou Bonnie Wood of Craigielea”- if you really want to disappear down a rabbit hole try googling that marching song….Ms Raccoon did, and didn’t emerge for an hour or so – the things I do for you! So almost back on track with Matilda, and what is this I find? If its not Matilda Higgins….

Sandra Higgins emerged 2008 in Ireland. Sandra is a psychologist who founded the first Vegan animal sanctuary in Ireland, the world possibly, where animals who had been ‘trafficked’ and enslaved for human use were saved (stick wth me,  please). Amongst these modern day slaves torn from their mother’s breasts crying piteously, so that we humans could consume thier livers and slice up their thighs without so much as a thought, was a hen called Matilda. Eventually Matilda came to the end of her natural life – I shall let Sandra take over at this point:

The night she was dying I promised her I would dedicate the rest of my life to vegan education. In her memory I opened Matilda’s Promise, Animal Rights & Vegan Education Centre. Go Vegan World is one of the activities of that centre.

Never again would humans wait at a hen’s rear end for their ovary to produce another egg, a potential son or daughter, carelessly tossed into boiling water for a few minutes, ready to be consumed by an eager monster of a human youngster,

It must have been a moving evening, comforting young Mathilda as she lay gasping for breath, I have tears in my eyes as I think of it. Perhaps I should open the first Palliative Care Centre for Hens?

Anyway, moving smartly along, Matilda’s ideas have gathered so much financial support that she has enough money to buy full page adverts in many of the main stream media’s dying organs. They, of course, are so short of money these days that they don’t care where the money comes from.

So today I had a visitor carrying a full page from the Daily Telegraph.

‘You are going to love this’ he said.

He was right. It seems that Sandra is now campaigning to have us stop drinking milk. ‘Humane Milk is a Myth’. Calves are torn from their Mother’s who are still bloody from birth (watch the terminology) and are searching frantically for their daughter’s. They tremble piteously and drink milk from rubber teats on the wall instead of their Mother’s nurturing bodies. All because human’s take their milk! Their son’s are slaughtered for their flesh, and they themselves are slaughtered at 6 years old – their natural lifespan is 25 years.

Now we may not agree with gummint, and think they should be replaced with dreadlocked morons like young Sebastian but surely before they go they could pass a law for us saying that it was illegal to traffick baby calves and stop people having milk in their tea?

Think of Matilda. Her feathers gradually fading in colour – do they have Hen Ketamine?

Tilly is short for Matilda. In case you didn’t know.

Just thought you’d like to know where my mind had been today, wandering along all sorts of paths – don’t think I’ve actually lost the plot yet, but my ability to write a serious post is still in doubt. So it’s either nothing, or put up with my meandering.

We have so much to worry about in the modern world.


A clattering of Jackdaws.

When we bought this house, we noticed that there appeared to be a pair of Jackdaws living in the chimney. We had to block off the chimney, so felt rather bad about serving these elegant birds with an eviction order, but serve it we did.

They may have lost their home, but didn’t give up their ‘territory’. Day after day they would reappear and stalk round the garden collecting breakfast, then later for twigs – they were building a new house somewhere locally! I was busy in those days, living a normal life; write something in the morning, then get on with housework and helping Mr G transform this derelict pile into a home for us.

Now life has changed for me – immeasurably. I remain fixed in one place, and only see what is directly in my line of vision, can only reach what is left within arm’s reach. If someone puts a cup just two inches out of my reach it might as well be a mile away – I can do nothing about it. It is not the physical problem of what has happened to me that matters – it is the psychological impact of being so utterly dependant on other people and so restricted in my world directly in front of me.

However, I have learnt that there are bonus points to this new life. I study intently what is happening in front of me – and since that includes a bird conservation meadow – and my pair of ‘prancing judges’ as I call them – the Jackdaws – that has a fascination all of its own.

Not many people get the opportunity to watch a pair of birds from the warmth and comfort of their bed, day after day. They start work every day as dawn breaks – and coincidentally, when I wake. I love the early mornings – the mist rolls over the meadow, the deer stretch their legs and start to graze; the white barn owl flies out of the old tin shed next to the signal box and starts his own search for breakfast; the marsh harrier swoops over all of them, searching for a baby rabbit, or perhaps an unfortunate baby bird – all of them solo.

Yet my prancing Judges work as a pair, their grey wigs bobbing up and down as they scour the lawn. Is it that their own young are so safe they can both leave together? Perhaps they have no young? They seem devoted to each other, so perhaps they mate for life like swans?

This morning I discovered the answer – so flipping obvious I cannot believe it had not occurred to me before.

I used to travel to the northern industrial towns a lot in my search for stained glass when that was one of the things I specialised in selling. For some years I have collected chimney pots. Mr G now has them dotted around the garden, flower pots in the top of every one, bursting with a display of marigolds and begonias and peonies to ensure that wherever I look there is a blaze of colour – but one of the pots is rather special. It has a ‘crown top’ and cascading down the sides are a series of downward facing ‘pipes’. I assume it was made to ensure that some noxious gasses successfully escaped from somewhere.

There may be a cascade of orange begonias filling the top of the pipe – but that intelligent pair of jackdaws have discovered that they can hop into the pipes on the sides and still live in a  chimney pot……who says a chimney has to be on top of a roof in order to call it home!

If I hadn’t been in a fixed position, day after day, I doubt that I would ever have realised that this is where they are living. It is forcing me to examine more closely the world around me, and to realise how much of our life we waste rushing from one place to another, forever searching for the greener grass – when actually the greener grass is under our feet all the time.

There really is a silver lining in every cloud.

My campaign is bearing fruit.

Not sure if I can do this but I will do my best. The disease is progressing and today I have had my medication pushed up to 300 ml of Ketamine and 275ml of Fentanyl to cope with the increase in pain, but I have just received this press release from Kate Tullet and I am so pleased – the publicity generated by my story in the national newspapers has born fruit and here is the press release.

From: “Tullett, Kate” <Kate.Tullett@medicalprotection.org>

Date: 13 July 2017 at 14:11:40 BST

To: “Tullett, Kate” <Kate.Tullett@medicalprotection.org>

Subject: MPS comment on NHS Resolution 2016/17 report on clinical negligence costs

Commenting on the 2016/17 NHS Resolution annual report into the cost of clinical negligence to the NHS (just published) –

Emma Hallinan, Director of Claims at the Medical Protection Society (MPS), said:

“While there has been a small but welcome reduction in the number of new clinical negligence claims, the cost of claims to the NHS continues to spiral with £1.7bn paid out during 2016/17. This is up from £1.5bn in 2015/16, and since 2010/11 spend has increased by a worrying 98%.

“It is important that there is reasonable compensation for patients harmed following clinical negligence, but a balance must be struck against society’s ability to pay.  If the current trend continues the balance will tip too far and the cost risks becoming unsustainable.

“Legal reform is required to strike a balance between compensation that is reasonable, but also affordable – this includes the introduction of a limit on future care costs based on a tariff agreed by an expert group and fixed recoverable costs for claims up £250,000 to stop lawyers charging disproportionate fees. From the £1.7bn paid out in 2016/17, legal costs accounted for 37% of that bill.

“Given the pressure on the NHS and the change to the personal injury discount rate – which has significantly increased the NHS’ provisions for future clinical negligence costs – there has never been a more pressing time to tackle this issue, alongside continued work to enhance patient safety.”



Full NHS Resolution annual report: http://resolution.nhs.uk/annual-report-and-accounts-201617/

Brief NHS news article: www.nhsla.nhs.uk/CurrentActivity/Pages/News.aspx

MPS launched its Striking a Balance campaign in June, setting out a package of legal reforms to control the spiralling costs of clinical negligence and strike a balance between compensation that is reasonable, but also affordable. Find out more at www.medicalprotection.org/balance

For further information about MPS contact: E: kate.tullett@medicalprotection.org T: 0207 640 5290

About MPS:

The Medical Protection Society (“MPS”) is the world’s leading protection organisation for doctors, dentists and healthcare professionals. We protect and support the professional interests of more than 300,000 members around the world. Membership provides access to expert advice and support together with the right to request indemnity for complaints or claims arising from professional practice.   

Our philosophy is to support safe practice in medicine and dentistry by helping to avert problems in the first place. We do this by promoting risk management through our workshops, E-learning, clinical risk assessments, publications, conferences, lectures and presentations. MPS is not an insurance company. All the benefits of membership of MPS are discretionary as set out in the Memorandum and Articles of Association.

Kate Tullett

Media Relations Manager
Tel:            +44 (0) 20 7640 5290

Mob:          + 44 (0)7989 423667
Fax:           +44 (0) 20 7399 1371
Email:       kate.tullett@medicalprotection.org

Medical Protection Society  |  Level 19, 32 London Bridge Road  |  London SE1 9SG  |  UK



A View Definitely Not to Die For!

Mr G has been beavering away since March 19th when it became obvious that I would never walk upstairs again.

There had been an old boiler room attached to the side of the house when we bought it – a haven for spiders, a toilet for the resident scruffy lap dog belonging to the previous owner on rainy days, a defunct boiler, the remains of an old oil burning stove, and several coats that would have been out of date 25 years ago. He hired a skip and filled it to the brim in hours.

Then came the task of digging out new footings – apparently the previous owners thought that the entire house might slide into the river under the weight of their new boiler if they didn’t give it at least three-foot of solid concrete underneath. Sheesh! Mr G swung a sledge-hammer against that concrete for days, finally enlisting the help of Trev the Trannie. Trev might be midway through his two years of dressing and living as a woman, but he knows how to put a jack hammer to good use. The village was monumentally impressed. (When you live on the main road, you acquire Assistant Site Foremen by the dozen as everyone drags their dog down to the post office for their morning paper).

Eventually four tonne of hardcore was dug out and put into bags – and the task of refilling the trench with er, another four tonne of concrete, began. I think this is like the offside rule, something that women will never understand. What was wrong with the four tonne of concrete you started off with? Eh? *Sighs* Best not to ask.

Eventually the building started leaping upwards as through possessed. A foot high, two foot high. Windows appeared on a lorry and were fitted to the walls. The ribbed framework of a roof appeared looking like the upside down remains of a beached whale – and surprise, surprise, the thatchers who are booked up for two years ahead, turned up one day and announced they had five days free before they started their annual holiday and thought they might just spend it thatching this little bubble on the side of our house…

The plasterers appeared, a rarer sight than traffic wardens in this neck of the woods, and amazingly, they also had some free time before they went on holiday, sufficient to plaster the ceiling – I was beginning to recognise the unseen hand of our friendly but very elderly local builder at work. Favours were being called in, in the rush to get this finished for me.

Mr G was permanently locked in his workshop, machines whirring the only sign that he was still alive. He rushed hither and thither with tape measure, but refused to discuss what he was doing. Since my bed in the kitchen was placed facing the front of the house, I could see nothing of what was going on behind me, occasionally a nurse would exclaim ‘Ooh, it’s going to be beautiful’ and be told to ‘Shush!’ Until finally I was wheeled out to see the semi-finished version. Still the floor to be done…..the oak was ready but the man with the machine needed to turn it into floor boards was due to go to the Isle of Man for the races…would he do it in time?

He did.

And finally I was wheeled out in state into my new abode. It is fantastic. My favourite jugs laid out on the widow cill. All the power points connected up to plug my bed into; a new table (a lash up according to Mr G!) made out of an old desk top to sit beside my bed and hold my computer and all the things I need within reach – tissues, notepad and pen, radio, mouthwash (this medication gives me the most disgusting taste in my mouth) telephone, buzzer to call my carer, everything I need to exist. Even double doors that make it feel as though I am out in the open world.  What more could I want? Mr G is an incredible man.


“You can NOT afford to smoke!”

icandyNo, this is not a ‘Blocked Dwarf’ rant about the Smoking Ban, nor a ‘like Gildas without the IQ’ thesis about some fascinating tit bit of tobacco history;  I save those for Granddad’s site. (where, hopefully, this week, there will appear my humble treatise  on Picardian  Smuggling Dogs of the C19). [Ed: Must Google Picardian Smuggling Dogs.]

“Now you are married, have a child and responsibilities you can NOT afford to smoke!” said my late pietist Prussian mother in law, who obviously mistook me for the German, even Prussian, son-in-law she had hoped for.

Prussians, for those who don’t know, are Germans with a Pickelhaube inserted where ‘die Sonne notten shinen’.   To be fair to the woman, whom I grew to love…after  20 years or so…I was a bit of a heavy smoker back then – up to 5 packs a day when I could chain smoke in an office. Though to put her command into some financial context,  a pack of fags cost 4 DMs, and had for as long as anyone could remember – I’m talking even ‘quality’ brands. 4 DM. Which was, in 1989, about £1.30!

Can’t recall what 20 B&H cost me in the UK then but I have a feeling it was well over twice that.  At the time I was bringing home, net cash, £1k or 3K DM a month and we had but the one baby and we were living rent free-ish with the parents-in-law (NEVER DO THAT! How my mother in law survived the 6 months of sharing a 2 bedroom flat with us I shall never know, I came close to swinging for her on an almost daily basis).

Could I afford to smoke? Probably not, says the older wiser me, but at the time I replied: ‘I work 60 hours a week with 20 hours travelling time in the dark and cold of a Hessian winter. I can’t afford  NOT to smoke!’

Then there was my mother-in-law’s bestest friend, Edda the evangelical Norwegian. For those who don’t know, Norwegians are Germans with a ski stick inserted ‘Solen skinner ikke’ (‘Solen’ from ‘Sol’ or the Latin word for sun I’m guessing?) who, when  The Bestes Frau and I moved into our first flat, admonished us to “save every bean”.  

So, of course, I immediately stopped drinking, smoking and started reusing teabags? No! of course I didn’t.  Both those good ladies had grown up in the aftermath of WW2, both had been through the sort of poverty in childhood that would now be classed as child abuse. Both had started their married child-rearing lives on a budget that involved adding  water to stew to ‘extend it’ and not being able to afford new shoes if the children had inconsiderately decided to grow again. Both had felt themselves blessed to have married non-drinking non-smokers. Not for any pseudo scientific health reasons but simply because a couple of Dmarks a day on beer and a couple more on fags would have meant the difference between having jam, butter and real coffee for breakfast or petrol based marg and ‘Mucke Fuck’ (Ersatz barley based fake coffee). Anyone here over the age of 60 or so will probably recognise what I’m describing.

Life everywhere for young parents was tough back then after the war and in the 50s, 60s and 70s. Hell it remains tough today. The lack of money and lack of sleep don’t change with fashion.

What I’m trying to say is, it is none of my concern what young couples spend their money on. I do not expect young couples (or single parents for that matter either) to bring their babies up in the sort of relative ‘poverty’ we ourselves had to. In fact I believe that each generation should ‘have it better’ and when my youngest and his wife spent the equivalent of my first month’s real wages on a wide screen plasma coffee-making TV I held my peace.  I’m happy that my Grandkids’ Mom and Dad can afford not only to run a car but his big bike as well, and that on fairly low wages. I accept Granddaughter needs a wardrobe full of more clothes than I think or the wife have owned over our entire lives.  And if they want to replace the perfectly good, serviceable and easy clean linoleum floor with carpet hand woven from water proof yak wool then fair enough.

Yet this morning I was chatting to a young, 23 years old, soon-to-be-Father of my acquaintance. He’s what I’d describe as a ‘good kid’, works hard at some just over minimum wage job, treats his equally hard working ‘missus’ well, doesn’t get too drunk too often and aside from the fact he is a Norfolker, speaks ‘Norfolk’ not English, and insists on discussing something called ‘football’ with me and regaling me with the ups and downs (a lot of downs it seems) of ‘his’ team ‘the Canaries’, he seems an all round well balanced young man. Not too bright, not too thick, content with his lot in life, now he has finally gotten his missus in the club and his driving licence. Pretty sure he’ll  make a good Dad.

So this morning he ‘do say he doo’ that he and she had been out shopping at the weekend and had bought a baby buggy. For £500 (in words: HOW BLOODY MUCH?!?!)  I hadn’t had time to pick my jaw off the floor when he added ‘it was 2nd hand, new they cost £1.2K’.  

In what universe does any young couple pay more for a 2nd hand buggy than his or mine car is worth?  I-Candy? I can bloody not!

I get that every young parent wants to give their child the best; I surprised myself and shocked my own Aged Mother Dwarf by paying £25 for a pair of welly boots for Granddaughter2 not so long back (in my defence, they had pink cats on them and proper pull up handles!).

But five hundred nicker for a buggy? Stroller on, mate! Leave it out….in the porch all night John, not!

Sweet Jesus wept but he was scared he’d get tear stains on the i-upholstery.

The price is what gets me. Not the fact that my young friend was doting enough to part with what must be a week’s wages + for them both for a buggy, a buggy that will be no more serviceable than the one I got for £5 at the car-boot for Granddaughter2 when she is here. That and the fact that there are young couples out there who think that paying £1.2k for a buggy in ‘Thai fusion lime green and pastel grey with McPherson® suspension’  is somehow ‘normal’ or the ‘right thing’ to do – I don’t care how much they bloody earn.

The landlady once recounted how she made nappies for her baby daughter out of old curtains. You can imagine her reaction when I recounted my experiences of this morning to her.

[Ed: Mighty fine nappies they were too, with tasteful brown fern leaves dotted about on the most expensive terry towelling that the Canadian Embassy could run too; sadly, folded in the required triangles, they looked disconcertingly like skid marks….sweet memories!]

I hate to sound like either ‘Heli The Outlaw’ (my mother in law), Edda or even my own Aged Mother Dwarf  but the saying ‘Cut your cloth to fit your coat’ seems appropriate.

Barbara Hewson and on line trolling.

Ms Hewson has taken it upon herself to write to my election agent in the following terms:

Sue has been issuing some quite threatening messages on social media directed at all manner of people including an academic at Edinburgh.

Threatening to expose them etc etc

I do indeed intend to get to the bottom of where precisely the 50,000 euros went to – a not unreasonable goal, given that I have been openly accused of having ‘pocketed it’ on my own behalf.

I would say that ‘threatening to expose them’ conjures up a slightly different and more sinister description of my desire to know what has been going on.

Given that when I asked for a backup copy of my blog, they were neither able to supply it, nor did they make any further replies to me. They have now replied to David Rose saying that they do have it safe – but I have yet to hear from them personally.

Ms Hewson has also claimed to my election agent:

She is now openly associating with the worst type of conspiracy theorists and lunatics on Twitter – including those with criminal records for harassment – so the potential for serious mischief is grave.

I am not in a position to know who has a criminal conviction and who hasn’t. Until this latest saga, I had never paid much attention to Twitter apart from publicising my latest article. Frankly I was too busy researching the next article to engage in the endless Twitter spats. They seemed to be a complete waste of time and breath to me.

Given that Ms Hewson is alleged to be associating with Mr Simon Just (I trust Ms Philmore will forgive me for quoting from her blog)

15/01/17 I email Ms Hewson’s solicitors requesting confirmation that I can serve any application for an injunction at their offices. I say I am very concerned that Ms Hewson is in contact with two men who have just been arrested for stalking Esther Baker and an unnamed journalist. These men are Simon Just and Darren Laverty.

and that if you Google “Simon Just” you will come up with numerous blog entries complaining about his Twitter trolling and in his guise as @majorleak2017 that I ‘prove’ my true identity:

@majorleak2017 to @barristerblog: There are concerns that the account @AnnaRaccoon2017 is not really Anna. Do you have any Q’s that may prove one way or other?

@AnnaRaccoon: I have just posted a lengthy reply to addeybob. Yes, it is mine, set up by me, no one else has access. Old Holborn did have access to the Lettuce Prey account which he renamed Anna Raccoon.

@majorleak2017 Sorry until you answer my specific questions regarding 3 emails to Real Troll Exposure then your response is not good enough for me.

@AnnaRaccoon: Suit yourself.

@AnnaRaccoon (showing an identity card) This do you?

@majorleak2017 Nope, I asked specific questions.

@majorleak2017 No answer to specific questions = no belief.

@AnnaRaccoon: Given that I haven’t a clue what the questions are, then you have a long wait for me to answer them!

@majorleak2017: Yes I did. You chose to ignore them. What did you say in those emails? But for the benefit of doubt: Emails on 6th December 2016, 25th November 2016, 12th November 2015 to Real Troll Exposure

@AnnaRaccoon: Absolutely no idea whatsoever. Don’t have copy of them to refer back to – do remember an exchange regarding Old Holborn, and would have said as I’ve always said to many people that he has an ego the size of Luxembourg, has caused me grief in the past, specifically over being his agent when he stood for election, but I’ve always forgiven him. Something along those lines, but whether in those specific e-mails couldn’t tell you. Don’t have them to refer to. I don’t have his teeth either. Er, by the way – who are you? You ask me to prove who I am – but you hide behind ‘Green Bottle’.

To which I responded:

Oh my oh my – so connected to the Barbara Hewson who sent the local vicar round to my door this evening? Who’s connected to rabbit and moor and Amanda and Jervis – this just gets better and better. Why didn’t he just ask Barbara? As in ‘did she have big buck teeth when she was lying in her bed grandma’? Pass the popcorn…..!

Around the same time, this exchange appeared between Dame Alun and Ms Hewson – though her tweet was shortly afterwards deleted:

Accusing me of ‘associating’ with the “worst type of conspiracy theorists and lunatics” on Twitter would appear to be a bit ‘rich’. 

Mr Just and Janette Scharenborg would appear to have an ‘association’ in that they were jointly named in a cease and desist letter some time ago. Janette Scharenborg has a long and exotic history on Twitter that I certainly wouldn’t want to be associated with. (Interestingly that last link refers to a woman named as Susan Melrose which was one of the names used by ‘Fiona of the fake Savile letter’ – gets ever more confusing by the minute doesn’t it??)

Hewson goes on to say:

She has talking of trolls being able to go after people

Sadly I can’t make sense of this sentence. Unless of course, she is referring to trolls she is associated with who have a long history of tracing and harassing people? Like me? Can’t be sure given the syntax.

She holds a vast amount of highly sensitive and confidential material – she once said that Savile alone generated 30, 000 emails and this was some years back so her mountain o f sensitive personal data must be much greta now. I am not sure if she is even registered with the ICO.

All information that I have held over the past five years has either been passed to Edinburgh, IICSA or destroyed, precisely because I was concerned about the material being held in private hands. Further, I have cleaned my computer of all old e-mails, (which is why I was not in a position to refer to the emails Simon Just wanted me to produce) contact details, and old blog articles.

I find the email to my election agent, coupled with the attempt to involve our local vicar in this affair, both frightening and intimidating.

Ms Hewson claims that she was writing to him thus because she wanted to disassociate herself from my campaign on the subject of the NHS on the grounds that she was concerned that her home address would be revealed – from what I have read of Mr Just’s alleged predilection for revealing people’s home addresses she might be well advised to look closer to home before she emails my election agent saying that my:

social media output has become utterly irresponsible‘.

Pot, kettle!

I’ve never had to delete my late night Twitter output in the morning.

For anyone wondering why I am finding it hard to work out who I can trust and who I can’t, who I can believe, and who I can’t – they only have to read the above.

Since I publicised my new email address yesterday, I have received three emails from former commentators on my blog who had watched with horror the public ‘baiting’ of me by both Ms Jervis and rabbit – and read both as being deliberate attempts to create unhappiness, so it’s not just in my ‘imagination’ – given that I have also been battling with a very difficult family reunion after 50 years apart; given the enormous physical and emotional impact of going from being a walking, talking, human being to someone who requires a team of nurses to turn, wash and relieve me of bodily waste, in a single week-end; given that I have been betrayed and lied to by two people who I have supported for many years, and given the Twitter onslaught I have endured, and had tried to mount a campaign on behalf of the NHS – I would say my mental health has stood up pretty well. Ketamine or no Ketamine.

IF you think you could do better, or indeed know of anyone who has encountered such a set of difficult circumstances over a two month period and has done better – do please pass on my contact details. I am happy to take advice.

Now, whatever will tomorrow bring? Excuse me, I’m going back to watching the swans – and the Marsh Harrier, he’s busy trolling a baby rabbit. Pass me my binoculars.

Edited to add: Comment facility now appears at top of page immediately underneath ‘author’ – no idea why, and can’t be bothered to figure it out right now. but you can comment if you wish to by clicking on that link.

Reply to tdf since moor larkins site will not accept response from me.

tdf – you can email me on susannecameronblackie@gmail.com and I will give you the background to recent events and the Caroline Robinson story. I have laboriously typed out a response to you three times, and three times it says the comments has been published and I get an e-mail from wordpress saying that my comment has been published, but it does not appear on the site. Not as Susanne Cameron Blackie, not as Anna Raccoon, not as Anonymous. I don’t know why.


And when you go looking for it to find something else to steal – it just ain’t there!

Try rabbit’s blog – she’s the expert….I just write ‘fiction’ – or I did in the good old days….there you go ‘tdf’  – I referenced rabbit’s blog just like you wanted.

Ring a ring of roses…going to leave a comment on her blog telling her to reference me?

Oh, you can’t of course, because she just deletes comments she doesn’t like. Blocks anyone who disagrees with her. Me, I used to let any old fool comment on mine.

Switches from being an expert on Duncroft (that she’s never set foot in), to being an expert on the NHS – in the blink of an eye. Well, the blink of two or three eyes, after the rest of them had done their dirty work.

Ask her about Cleveland and Savile if she’s an expert on the NHS – she’ll know all about it.  I’m told she chaired the meeting in Leeds with Amanda – that came from what I thought was a reliable source, but not corroborated so can’t be sure now. Difficult to tell when everyone hides behind false names.  Don’t believe any of them now. They could all be the same person – is rabbit really Jervis in disguise? Or Hewson? Nope, can’t be Hewson ‘cos she was at meeting in Leeds too.

Good to know that Jervis doesn’t think I’m mentally ill – neither do mental health professionals. Just ‘wounded’ – as she well knew, and knew just how to make thing worse. It’s a game to them.

Keep the Savile flag flying – more like a helium balloon than a flag and its flown all the way up to IICSA.

Not what they intended but you can never tell which way the wind is blowing…

They’ve got a mole in their camp and they haven’t got a clue who it is!

That’s the trouble with all these false identities – you can never be sure – never trust anyone – and the mole is still happily chuntering away, telling me everything.

My, what a lot I didn’t know! To think I could have ended my days happily writing about the NHS – thinking I was doing some good, making the best out of a shitty situation.

Instead of which – a whole can of worms opened up. You can thank Jervis for that – other people were watching and shocked at what they saw.  So shocked they started talking – and when they found out just how wounded I was, and that Jervis knew all along, knew I’d never sued the NHS, knew I’d never worked for them, knew I’d already had PTSD after being trapped before, knew I was trapped in this bed, knew that those exchanges weren’t just innocent ‘perfectly justifiable’ enquiries from a voter hundreds of miles away from Corbyn’s constituency  – they weren’t just shocked, they were appalled that anyone could be so cold, so calculating, so callous – then they really started talking.

Oh, they know that I don’t really trust them – I’ve told them straight – ‘don’t trust anyone now’, nothing personal, but they are OK with that, they understand – said they wouldn’t really trust anyone if they were in my shoes either.

Mind you – I haven’t been in my shoes for over two months now….*joke*…march 18th 2017, last time I ever stood up.

Sigh…but what do I know about the NHS? What do I know…