Bergen Belsen


Several month’s ago my grandmother died.

It was only at her funeral that I found out that she had been in the first group of nurses that attended Bergen Belsen.

Entering the concentration camp a few days after the British troops was an experience that changed her, how could it not ? I think it was as a consequence of this that she didn’t claim the medals she had been entitled to.

This account below was written by Joy Trindles (nee Taverner). It’s odd to think that she and my grandmother must have known each other. My grandmother nursed British and Allied troops as well as German and Italian POWs. After D-Day, like Mrs Trindles, she crossed to the continent.

Apparently, there is a memorial to the nurses at Belsen and my grandmother’s name is on it.

It is astonishing to what degree experiences help form our views and understanding.

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At the End of the Day

The Slog

I’ve been having some lughole trouble over the last week or so. It happens every two to three years: when I’ve been swimming a lot in the pool, ear wax mixes with the chlorinated water to produce an unpleasant plug, so I get irregular deafness. None of this, of course, will evoke widespread sympathy from those scraping by on a part time job as a single mum, but sooner or later I wind up going to the GP to get the ears syringed. This is something of a hassle because first one needs to lie on one side for a day while softening chemicals loosen things up, and then sit for ages in a waiting room until Mme le Medicin gets busy with the power jet.

What I therefore tend to try (in the hope it’ll clear itself) is doing it myself. This isn’t as difficult as you’d imagine. All…

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