The kids in question being my parents great-grand-children, my sister’s grandchildren.
I have been estranged from my sister for a lifetime. With 6 years between us we did not have much in common as children. When I was 1, she was seven. When I was seven she was 13. When I was thirteen she left home to go to teacher training college.
On top of that we were chalk and cheese. She never stopped talking. I am quiet. I was interested in everything, providing it was active, creative or intelligent. She was interested in – talking. When I went to school I discovered other children were more like my sister – stupid, whiny, and talking non-stop garbage, than my parents, both rather quiet people but very intelligent, constructive and interesting. At 7 I had concluded that there is no peace in a house with children in it, and spent most of my childhood buried in books and waiting impatiently for the day when I would be an adult and could leave childhood – and children – behind me.
As I left Northern Ireland 33 years ago for work, and lived most of that in London doing a 6day week, and it takes a day to get from one end of the country to the other, and also being completely uninterested, I had basically no contact with my sister until our mother died 3 years ago, and being joint executors were forced back into contact.
Unlike myself who didn’t marry until my fifties, she married and started to have children as soon as she reached 21. So by the time we got back into contact her children were long adults raising children of their own. Most live in USA, but the nearest live somewhere in the sticks in Southern Ireland. My sister has owned a camper van thingy and for years has taken her daughter and children camping all over. She and her daughter called to see me earlier this year, and they arranged to come over again to tour a bit more of the north of England and call in so I could meet the children.
About 2 months before they were due to come my sister told me her husband had had to have a serious operation, so there was doubt whether they would be coming over. Then she said she was coming with the children, one each on other side of age 10, as the daughter would have to stay behind to keep an eye on her father.
She kept asking me if I would like to come with them after they left Harrogate, but the prospect of living in continuous proximity to two children that I had never met before, did not appeal, so I declined politely. Then declined politely again. Then declined again.
We met up in town and they drove round to my bed-sit to drop off the wheelbarrow of presents her American relatives had sent me. I went up the stairs, the two children following, but my sister did not appear. The kids gave me the bags of presents, and I gave them two bags of gifts I had collected for them over the months – all little things. As sis still did not appear I went downstairs to find her searching the campervan high and low for a pot of home-made jam I was supposed to have. (later found in the bag the children had given me).
I am by nature a non-suspicious, easy-going person. Don’t like people much as they are too much trouble, especially children, but perfectly happy following my own interests.
The plan for the day was to go to the Lavender Farm near York. We had visited with her daughter earlier in the year and thought it was worth a visit again when the lavender was in bloom. Then it turns out that sis doesn’t have the detailed map showing the way to the place. Comes on a touring holiday without a road map? Why take the map out of the van in the first place? We drive and drive until I become concerned about whether we are on the right route, so we call into a pub and sis and the grand-daughter go in to seek directions. They take ages. Meanwhile the grand-son in the back, and myself in the front take turns trying to find the way on the satnav.
When we get to the Lavender Farm the children run wild. It is a good place for a day out. I start to notice that the grand-daughter has the habit of going off on her own, with a large distance from the rest of us – from me? Think nothing of it. Children are weird. Odd behaviour is normal for them.
The next day we go to Knaresborough to Mother Shiptons Cave, another really good outing. They have an excellent adventure playground, with high quality equipment, a great climbing frame and a zip cord. There already are some children playing on the zip cord, presumably with their father who throws them along with great energy. The lad goes and politely queues for his turn. The man gives a desultory shove which hardly moves him along at all, and I go over in case he wants a decent push. But he gets off in a hurry before I can get to him and moves quickly away from the zip. Meanwhile the girl is doing her being as far away as possible as she can from me in the playground. Still, the penny doesn’t drop.
After Mother Shipton sis hires a boat the she and the children row around the Nidd for an hour. Then grand-daughter says when are we getting our fish and chips, which were promised earlier. We go into town and I take a photo of the children sitting beside Blind Jack (a statue of a Knaresborough personality, seated on a bench). In the restaurant while sitting at the table the girls knee knocks into mine. I move mine away, but at that point I start to wonder what is going on. There was plenty of room. The action could only have been deliberate.
When I develop the photo I am puzzled why the children are sitting hunched, looking as if they were cold. They had just had several very active hours, were wearing warm coats. Me and my sis were in t-shirts. This is August, the middle of summer, not December. That photo niggled me.
The photo made me think very hard about what had happened all day. First the unnecessary delay when sis left me with the children alone for what seemed designed to be a prolonged period – the multiple presents, which if I had started to open would have taken some time – while she searched pointlessly for a pot of jam which I already had.
The nonsense of not bringing a road map, and then the inexplicable length of time she and the grand-daughter took asking for directions.
This followed by the grand-daughter ostentatiously putting as much distance between herself and me as possible, both at the Lavender Farm and the Mother Shipton playground. And the boy running away from me on the zip cord. Classic behaviours of children avoiding abusers.
The touching under the restaurant table could be made out to be more than an accident and instigated by me.
The photograph of the mysteriously cold children – in a photo cold can look like fear. The body mannerisms and facial expressions are similar.
And sis had brought the children on her own, without their mother, and seemed very anxious that I should accompany them on the rest of their trip.
Framing gang stalking targets as paedophiles is a gang stalking standard. The beauty of using children to set someone up is that as soon as children are involved, to protect their privacy, all legal processes become top secret, so their is no publicity and an innocent target cannot make their side of the story known.
So this is why I am publishing this rather trivial and boring account. If in future I was falsely accused of child molesting, I would be legally gagged.