Cerne Abbas: A Very Naughty Boy

 Facebook blocked me from promoting my piece which had an a image of the Cerne Abbas Giant on. So I sent this to Facebook:

“I’m dismayed my advert has not been approved. It has been marked as having ‘adult’ content; please can you explain this? This is an educational piece about Celtic heritage.”

This was their response:
“Hi Mabh,

Thanks for writing in. I’m here to help. 

Your ad was rejected because the image doesn’t follow our ad guidelines. Ads may not use overly sexual images, suggest nudity, show a lot of skin or cleavage, or focus unnecessarily on specific body parts. This is also applicable to the images present on your Pages.

Please make the necessary edits and recreate your posts. If it’s an ad created from the create flow, you can edit it in your ads manager:

Review our policies on ad images here: 

Let me know if you need more help from my end. Have a great day.



Facebook Ads team


Is it just me or has she completely ignored my original query? Anyway, this was my follow up email: 

“Hi Jane,

The picture is of, and I can’t stress this enough, a national monument. It is a piece of history and certainly not pornographic or ‘overly sexual’. Please reconsider your decision based on the facts. The Cerne Abbas Giant is thousands of years old and can be seen by anyone. What are you achieving by blocking its image on Facebook, other than irritating a paying customer and her audience?


Mabh Savage”

What do you think guys? Am I onto a loser with this? I’m just riled that they consider the Cerne Abbas giant, a piece of much loved history, too sexual for Facebook.

The Power of Old Tights!

An ‘up cycling’ achievement: half of one leg of a dead pair of (clean!) tights with two handfuls of oatmeal in the foot, suspended in the running hot water of Nathan’s bath to help ease his chicken pox. Plenty of cold water added at the end to make the bath reasonably tepid, so as not to sting. Very soothing.

Outside In: Heart Centre, Leeds

If you’re in Leeds this Saturday, do pop in to Heart in Headingley where Peter Spafford will be showcasing local talent. Expect music, spoken word and poetry, and also expect to be impressed. Click link below for full details. See you there!

Terence Pratchett, novelist, born 28 April 1948; died 12 March 2015


SuziH says it better than I ever could. Sharing with tears in my eyes. Out of cheese error.

Originally posted on Wyrdness Abounds:


When I was 14, I nicked my Dad’s copy of Soul Music, and in the 24 hour period that followed I was irrevocably, indelibly changed forever as a human being. From the moment the first line:

“This is a story about memory. And this much can be remembered…”

filtered into my adolescent brain I became forever someone who knows precisely what Mustrum Ridcully keeps in the top of his hat, the one animal that can never be buggered at all and what is on the end of a Wizards Staff. Moreover, I was whisked into a world where everyone knows the gods exist, but you’d be foolish to start believing in them, where Headology is key and where it was totally sensible to throw a party fuelled by moonshine whenever you needed a problem solved.

Terry Pratchett’s Discworld changed my life and is the reason I grew up to…

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2015-03-02 09.38.45

It’s the second of March, and winter has returned. Beyond the safe green of my house plants there is a blizzard; fast, white and dangerous. Even as I type, the flakes are becoming thicker and the garden toys are disappearing under an icy veil.

I tell myself I’m done with winter.

I’m done with the cold.

I’m done with not being able to get to work.

I’m done with Nathan missing school.

I’m done with damp laundry hanging miserably on radiators and hard-done-by cats glowering at their snow imposed prison.

Yet I stop, and stare, and am hypnotised by the swirling spirals of soft, chilly wonder. I know it makes life harder, yet somehow I feel joy at its presence.

I lowered the dose of my anti-anxiety medication a couple of weeks ago. At first I felt much better, like the tease of spring sunshine in February. But just like the March snow, darkness and uncertainty flurried into my mind, fogging my feelings and leaving me a fractious egg, ready to drop and crack.

I burrowed out of hibernation too soon, and was met with ice and emptiness instead of warmth and growth.

I look at the blizzard now and wonder if I will ever gather all those flakes; ever see the swirling stop and a gentle order resume. I seek balance, where the ice and fire sometimes battle but in doing so make steam, not muddy puddles. Give me hot steam, to drive this engine and make tracks with the tasks I long to do.

The sun is coming out now, and I have gone back to my recommended dose of meds, not feeling a failure for not being able to cope without them, simply using them as one with a broken leg uses a crutch. I must remember they are a tool, not a stigma. They are the gentle slowing of the blizzard of the mind. They are a little sun when all is cold.

And it’s only for now. Only in winter. Because there is a season to all things, and even in the deepest, bitterest chill, spring will come.