: My beloved's van failed its MOT.

IT HASN'T been a good week. My beloved's van failed its MOT and cost almost pounds 400 to mend and, to add insult to injury, my computer just sat looking at me refusing to play. It had 13 viruses and while we mere mortals have to get by with aspirin and a hot water bottle, the antibiotics that this thing needed cost me pounds 126.99 which is a hefty prescription charge.

Last week I sat in front of my trusty old daisywheel typewriter for four hours trying to type 800 words that could be deciphered by the features editor. It wasn't easy without a spell check, more tripewriter than typewriter. By midmorning I was knee-deep in screwed-up bits of paper and the air was blue with a selection of words that no self-respecting female ought to be familiar with.

A computer comes with a spell check facility, on my typewriter there is none and, where once upon a time I could have spelled for Wales, these days, having relied for so long on technology, even the simplest words look wrong.

I faxed it however and, surprisingly, nobody got back to me asking if I wasn't sure that a career on the pick'n'mix counter of Woolies might be more suitable.

Apart from the financial hiccups and the house still looking like an auction room there has been a much more worrying and serious problem in the last 10 days. My beloved's gentle little mother has been taken into hospital suffering from depression that may or may not have been brought on by stress.

Her and her husband live quietly but as she lives near a school there is a lot of noise and she's become a little wary of the kids - which I suppose is understandable; as one gets older, children, especially teenagers, can be quite intimidating to elderly people.

The cherry on the cake came when her hanging basket was stolen while she was in church; what sort of people would stoop so low as to steal the hanging basket from two old aged pensioners?

I went to see her and she is so depressed that nothing anyone says seems to make any difference. Depression is an invidious thing that creeps up until it becomes out of control and all the positive platitudes that well-meaning people say fall on stony ground.

Back in the mid-Seventies I suffered a breakdown and it was the most awful thing that I have gone through. Too scared to tell anyone - even my husband - about my thoughts, I suffered alone for two years and believe me it was two years in hell.

I had no idea what a breakdown was and thought I was simply insane; I was too afraid to tell my wonderful doctor because I thought I would be immediately certified and my girls taken into care. I had panic attacks many times a day and the most irrational things went through my mind - thoughts my brain conjured up that were completely beyond my control and so alien to my nature that I couldn't possibly have told anyone about them.

I used to get up around six in the morning and clean through the house in a ritualistic way thinking that if I didn't follow the same pattern every day, something dreadful would happen; I always finished off by polishing the kitchen floor even though it shone like glass.

During the whole two years I never imagined that I would ever get well and be able to think normally again. Such is the nature of the beast that you forget what normality is. When you get that low you feel there is no hope anywhere, no God and no sense to anything - all is pointless.

If it hadn't been for my children I have no doubt in my mind that I would have ended it all. Then one morning when I was on my hands and knees giving the floor yet another going over, I felt a ray of hope that was as unexpected as the illness itself.

It was early spring and I had the back door open onto the garden, a blackbird hopped into my kitchen and just stood looking at me for a while, its head cocked on one side. I stood stock still as he looked me up and down and a great peace came over me.

He hopped unhurriedly out into the morning and flew onto the garage roof where he stood serenading the coming day. I listened to his song and felt it was just for me. Head in hands, I wept and wept until I was emotionally exhausted but that little bird woke something in me, a sense of peace and beauty that I never thought would return.

It was a long haul but every day I got a little better and the periods between the blackness got longer. My faith in God came back stronger than ever. I pray He'll send a little bird to the garden in Bangor hospital where my beloved's dear little mam sits to sing away her dark thoughts and give her back hope and peace of mind.