Dear children,
This Sunday we are having a barbecue. Sandy is coming and you would all be most welcome. You know how she loves you all. It has been a while since she visited. It is promising to be a beautiful day and may be the last sun we have this year. We probably won't barbecue again till next summer. Wouldn't it be lovely to all enjoy that together?
On 12th it is Great Aunt Ethel's 80th birthday. She is celebrating with lunch at The Grand on the strand in Eastbourne. We have all been invited. Obviously, 80 is a grand old age and, since she doesn't have any children of her own, I'm sure she'd be thrilled to see all of you and yours. It would also be a great opportunity for you to catch up with your relatives on Daddy's side (some of them are really quite nice). Numbers are limited, so perhaps you could let me know at your earliest convenience?
We have been invited to a Champagne and strawberry buffet by the Echo. We can bring the whole family and they are laying on food and drink all day. (Your father and I get in for free. You would have to pay £10 per car, but everything after that is gratis).
If any or all of you would be interested in any of those dates, do just let me know. It would be lovely to see you, if you can manage it. It seems such a long time since we were all together, but of course there is no pressure.
Your ever-lovin'
Mamma
XXXXXXXXXXX
Sunday 21 September 2008
Tuesday 16 September 2008
Spanish Song
Every so often, a few gentle notes drifted softly over the vine-smothered wall. The music was not loud enough to disturb, but just sufficient to enhance the evening's ambience in the walled garden of the restaurant. The low murmur of lovers' talk, the chink of cutlery on china and of glass against glass, the flicker of candlelight protected from the balmiest of breezes by goblet-shaped lanterns, and the tiniest pin-pricks of fairy lights twinkling prettily through the garden foliage. It was an idyll. A clandestine paradise.
Ambling down the cobbled street, colourful lines of laundry stretching from one side to the other high above passing walkers, you would never have divined its existence. Only those in the know - learned by word of mouth, friendship with the proprietors, or happy accident - had the secret understanding that this old, studded wooden door, which to the uninitiated appeared to be just a door in a wall like any other, with its unassuming little copper bell, led to the delights of the best garden restaurant in all Granada. From the intimate tables were visible the lights of the Alhambra Palace. As you sipped your Marques de Caceres and contemplated the treasures tonight's menu had to offer, drank deeply of the vision seated at your table with you, you might gaze for further inspiration in the direction of its ancient walls. Your thoughts might even travel to the lives it had held, the opulence it had witnessed and the beauty it still possesses.
I don't know if I'd ever find it again. But I'd happily die in the attempt.
Ambling down the cobbled street, colourful lines of laundry stretching from one side to the other high above passing walkers, you would never have divined its existence. Only those in the know - learned by word of mouth, friendship with the proprietors, or happy accident - had the secret understanding that this old, studded wooden door, which to the uninitiated appeared to be just a door in a wall like any other, with its unassuming little copper bell, led to the delights of the best garden restaurant in all Granada. From the intimate tables were visible the lights of the Alhambra Palace. As you sipped your Marques de Caceres and contemplated the treasures tonight's menu had to offer, drank deeply of the vision seated at your table with you, you might gaze for further inspiration in the direction of its ancient walls. Your thoughts might even travel to the lives it had held, the opulence it had witnessed and the beauty it still possesses.
I don't know if I'd ever find it again. But I'd happily die in the attempt.
Sunday 14 September 2008
Western Frivolity
Tumbleweed.
Tumbleweed, a howling wind carrying choking dust and the sun descending behind the only bar in this godforsaken town.
A cowboy, a sheriff maybe, his boots so pointed the toes have never kissed the ground; legs akimbo, hands on his gun-belt, cheroot between his teeth.
Eyes narrowed to mere slits, periodically he spits to the side without looking to see what he's hit. Casually, he wipes his chin with the sleeve of his seersucker shirt and his hand resumes its position, millimetres from his gun.
He's waiting. Watching. Expectant. Alert.
The sky is about to crash down around him. He knows it, I know it. Whoever he is anticipating is going to be the meanest hell-raiser in all Christendom. Not just a bad dude: a baby-eater. A dog-shooter. A wife-beater. As a kid, he cut the legs off frogs because he was bored.
What would happen, though, if instead of this show-down - this all guns blazing, shoot 'em up, hang 'em high - a stagecoach full of chorus girls thundered around the corner?
Would the sun grind to a creaking halt on its chain and begin a re-ascent? The tumbleweed check its progress? The wind cease to howl? Would the band, resting on its laurels for the explosions of gun-fire, tune up and begin a natty little two-step while girls of all shapes and sizes, colours and costumes alighted from the coach giggling and chatting, rehearsing for the knees-up?
Would that be so bad?
What is a happy ending?
Tumbleweed, a howling wind carrying choking dust and the sun descending behind the only bar in this godforsaken town.
A cowboy, a sheriff maybe, his boots so pointed the toes have never kissed the ground; legs akimbo, hands on his gun-belt, cheroot between his teeth.
Eyes narrowed to mere slits, periodically he spits to the side without looking to see what he's hit. Casually, he wipes his chin with the sleeve of his seersucker shirt and his hand resumes its position, millimetres from his gun.
He's waiting. Watching. Expectant. Alert.
The sky is about to crash down around him. He knows it, I know it. Whoever he is anticipating is going to be the meanest hell-raiser in all Christendom. Not just a bad dude: a baby-eater. A dog-shooter. A wife-beater. As a kid, he cut the legs off frogs because he was bored.
What would happen, though, if instead of this show-down - this all guns blazing, shoot 'em up, hang 'em high - a stagecoach full of chorus girls thundered around the corner?
Would the sun grind to a creaking halt on its chain and begin a re-ascent? The tumbleweed check its progress? The wind cease to howl? Would the band, resting on its laurels for the explosions of gun-fire, tune up and begin a natty little two-step while girls of all shapes and sizes, colours and costumes alighted from the coach giggling and chatting, rehearsing for the knees-up?
Would that be so bad?
What is a happy ending?
Thursday 11 September 2008
Cretan Adventure
The battered, mustard-yellow Citroen Pony stood lonely in the corner of the plot. With the thickest of accents, the swarthy rentals clerk was explaining that it was holiday season, "no car left - yust one". My father turned to my mother, a look of helpless resignation smeared across his face. He lifted his hands outwards, palms up, in a gesture that mirrored his impotence.
"What do you think, darling?"
"If we are going to go anywhere, do anything, not be stuck in this deserted little cove, then what choice do we have?"
Personally, I loved that deserted little cove. It was dark and volcanic; the brilliance of the sand white-gold dust. I could have stayed there happily, exploring, every day of the holiday. But it wasn't about me or my tomboy ways. My mother wasn't one for beach-lingering. She wanted to be up and at 'em, filling our heads with the wonders of the world. Of course she was right, but it didn't feel like it at that tender age, nor would I ever have admitted it. Not for all the ice cream Ben & Jerry make.
So, the Citroen Pony was ours for the week. It was open, boxy, shaped like a jeep and had a canvas roof that fastened onto the sides with poppers. We didn't bother with the roof; didn't have to. The sun shone relentlessly and we piled in, our family of seven: parents in the front, three kids in the middle and two on box seats in the boot.
We visited beaches over the mountain on the other side of the island, reached by winding, narrow roads, with death-defying drop-aways and dotted with shrines to those who had lost their lives in the endeavour. Every so often, a coach laden with holiday-makers would career around the corner on the wrong side of the road and my father make the sign of the cross and grip the steering wheel harder. My mother clasped her handbag and breathed in, as though that would make the car thinner.
We visited Knossos to search for the Minotaur and marvel at the reconstructed palace. At least, we children hunted the Minotaur. My parents marvelled while we dragged our feet in the chalky white dried-out earth and chased lizards over the walls. It was calm, balmy, beautiful.
Returning from one of these adventures, snaking round the shrunken roads, my little brother piped up in his most plaintive voice:
"I need to do a wee!"
"Darling, you're a boy. You have the equipment. We're not stopping here: it's too dangerous. You'll have to do one over the side of the car."
Horror.
"I can't wee while we're driving along!"
At this point, my father saw fit to interject:
"If another of those coaches comes around this next bend, I very well might!"
"What do you think, darling?"
"If we are going to go anywhere, do anything, not be stuck in this deserted little cove, then what choice do we have?"
Personally, I loved that deserted little cove. It was dark and volcanic; the brilliance of the sand white-gold dust. I could have stayed there happily, exploring, every day of the holiday. But it wasn't about me or my tomboy ways. My mother wasn't one for beach-lingering. She wanted to be up and at 'em, filling our heads with the wonders of the world. Of course she was right, but it didn't feel like it at that tender age, nor would I ever have admitted it. Not for all the ice cream Ben & Jerry make.
So, the Citroen Pony was ours for the week. It was open, boxy, shaped like a jeep and had a canvas roof that fastened onto the sides with poppers. We didn't bother with the roof; didn't have to. The sun shone relentlessly and we piled in, our family of seven: parents in the front, three kids in the middle and two on box seats in the boot.
We visited beaches over the mountain on the other side of the island, reached by winding, narrow roads, with death-defying drop-aways and dotted with shrines to those who had lost their lives in the endeavour. Every so often, a coach laden with holiday-makers would career around the corner on the wrong side of the road and my father make the sign of the cross and grip the steering wheel harder. My mother clasped her handbag and breathed in, as though that would make the car thinner.
We visited Knossos to search for the Minotaur and marvel at the reconstructed palace. At least, we children hunted the Minotaur. My parents marvelled while we dragged our feet in the chalky white dried-out earth and chased lizards over the walls. It was calm, balmy, beautiful.
Returning from one of these adventures, snaking round the shrunken roads, my little brother piped up in his most plaintive voice:
"I need to do a wee!"
"Darling, you're a boy. You have the equipment. We're not stopping here: it's too dangerous. You'll have to do one over the side of the car."
Horror.
"I can't wee while we're driving along!"
At this point, my father saw fit to interject:
"If another of those coaches comes around this next bend, I very well might!"
Monday 8 September 2008
Fruitful Dunes
The breeze was gentle, but insistent. It whipped at her hair with playful, random strokes and, occasionally, peppered her face with a fine dusting of sand. She squinted a little against such invasion but did not once drop her gaze. She looked out to sea, searching. What for, not even she could fathom, but her probing was unrelenting, unflinching.
She stayed that way for an hour, maybe more. Time had lost all meaning, all significance. The book in her hand remained unread, her mind oblivious to even its own meanderings. But it was travelling! It carried her on its back, an eagle, soaring over as yet unvisited lands; dipping over fish-glittered oceans. It took her, ghost-like, into homes of mossy warmth, kitchens hanging with dried flowers and herbs; potions bubbling on stove-tops; to intimate tables with wine-laden glasses; mirth and magic and adoration. It led her, her own sweet guide, to meetings of minds, evenings of contented nothings, smiles passed tenderly over tasks at hand.
She walked slowly away, transfigured; her life inextricably altered. Nothing would again be the same. But with that very realisation came the delicate appreciation that it was what it was, and thus it should be.
She stayed that way for an hour, maybe more. Time had lost all meaning, all significance. The book in her hand remained unread, her mind oblivious to even its own meanderings. But it was travelling! It carried her on its back, an eagle, soaring over as yet unvisited lands; dipping over fish-glittered oceans. It took her, ghost-like, into homes of mossy warmth, kitchens hanging with dried flowers and herbs; potions bubbling on stove-tops; to intimate tables with wine-laden glasses; mirth and magic and adoration. It led her, her own sweet guide, to meetings of minds, evenings of contented nothings, smiles passed tenderly over tasks at hand.
She walked slowly away, transfigured; her life inextricably altered. Nothing would again be the same. But with that very realisation came the delicate appreciation that it was what it was, and thus it should be.
Friday 5 September 2008
Lancelot
He fought in vain to banish her from mind.
No battle won had called for such endeavour.
And she, his love within her heart entwined,
Safe-guarded, held, protected, stored forever.
No battle won had called for such endeavour.
And she, his love within her heart entwined,
Safe-guarded, held, protected, stored forever.
They stole their passion: moments undefined;
Her king and lord too trusting, too enamoured.
His loyal servant on his lady dined;
And for her troth, her promise, yet he clamoured.
It could not last: the peril ever loomed.
Discovered: treason! From the kingdom banished.
He bore his life from her to meet his doom.
Her soul enmeshed with his, together vanished.
Thursday 4 September 2008
Savile Row
In one smooth move, he flicked his wrists and shot his cuffs - pink, bejewelled cuffs - the cufflinks alone worth as much as his entire outfit. The pin-striped suit flashy, the Thomas Pink shirt an eye-grasping cerise, the tie impeccably knotted, the shoes Lobb's finest. He stepped off the train with an air of minutely studied nonchalance. Not a hair unstyled, not a thread misplaced. His teeth were pearlier than white and his skin the colour of cheap old pine. Even his eyebrows were groomed to perfection.
Strolling past a group of office girls giggling, smoking and bursting with the previous night's gossip on the corner outside the station, almost imperceptibly he seemed to grow an inch, suck in his stomach, push out his chest, compose his features. His head struck a jauntier angle, his smile fixed in a fairly miserable attempt at seductive. Even the man-bag slung casually over his shoulder exuded affluence and attention to detail. He was a creative masterpiece, sculpted to the exact mould, perfected hour after hour, day after day, many a long year after many a long year.
His roots were humble; his determination to rise above them gritty, steely, already achieved. Seldom, to his parents' obvious distress, revisited. He was recreated, reborn, removed. It caused him as much pain to remember; he ached for the capacity to forget. An only child, there was little to tempt him out of the City, little to remind him of his provenance, as long as he could hold his memories in check.
Each and every microscopic facet of transformation dreamt of throughout his battle for adulthood had been realised: the penthouse flat, the Savile Row wardrobe, the Aston Martin (for fine weekends).
Why, then, was life so empty? He had become a parody. At home, where he could not bear to linger, he was what he so yearned to be: a success, a king amongst men. Here, where he felt he ought to belong, he was just another clone. The veneer had become the man.
No sign of life.
Who can love a shell?
Strolling past a group of office girls giggling, smoking and bursting with the previous night's gossip on the corner outside the station, almost imperceptibly he seemed to grow an inch, suck in his stomach, push out his chest, compose his features. His head struck a jauntier angle, his smile fixed in a fairly miserable attempt at seductive. Even the man-bag slung casually over his shoulder exuded affluence and attention to detail. He was a creative masterpiece, sculpted to the exact mould, perfected hour after hour, day after day, many a long year after many a long year.
His roots were humble; his determination to rise above them gritty, steely, already achieved. Seldom, to his parents' obvious distress, revisited. He was recreated, reborn, removed. It caused him as much pain to remember; he ached for the capacity to forget. An only child, there was little to tempt him out of the City, little to remind him of his provenance, as long as he could hold his memories in check.
Each and every microscopic facet of transformation dreamt of throughout his battle for adulthood had been realised: the penthouse flat, the Savile Row wardrobe, the Aston Martin (for fine weekends).
Why, then, was life so empty? He had become a parody. At home, where he could not bear to linger, he was what he so yearned to be: a success, a king amongst men. Here, where he felt he ought to belong, he was just another clone. The veneer had become the man.
No sign of life.
Who can love a shell?
Oh, For Wings!
Scrabble then for scraps. Anything. Something.
A hope, a glimmer, shred or morsel.
Promises, half-meant, much less honoured:
The menace of impending doom.
No more will this force be denied. No sway
In heaven or hell now stay this might.
No peace, no haven, shelter, bolt-hole
Shield this from advancing wrath.
Now is not the time to falter, doubt;
Flickering the candle, stout the glass.
Hold then, hold. Stay. Stay.
Forsaken and bereft. Shattered flight.
A hope, a glimmer, shred or morsel.
Promises, half-meant, much less honoured:
The menace of impending doom.
No more will this force be denied. No sway
In heaven or hell now stay this might.
No peace, no haven, shelter, bolt-hole
Shield this from advancing wrath.
Now is not the time to falter, doubt;
Flickering the candle, stout the glass.
Hold then, hold. Stay. Stay.
Forsaken and bereft. Shattered flight.
Wednesday 3 September 2008
These Beautiful Cliffs
Sediment.
Layer upon layer of sediment.
Stunning stratifications of breathtaking colour, crafted over millennia. Unhurriedly eroded through just decades. Inhabited now, in this present moment, by life of such richness and variety as simply cannot be witnessed in one single passing.
Yet its nature, its formation, its very matter... The crushed bones, rotted flesh and pulped tissue of creature and plant; naturally extinct or suffocated in mire; buried under metre after metre, aeon after aeon, megaton after megaton. Fossil-hunters worship at the feet of their grandeur, grateful for the slimmest pickings; children forgotten in their parents' jubilation. Life that was palpable so many, many moons ago, hardened and diminished to this one tiny, barely three-dimensional shard of rock.
We look back with such alacrity. Why, then, can we not cast our gaze forward with a modicum, just a scrap, even a shred of enlightenment?
Layer upon layer of sediment.
Stunning stratifications of breathtaking colour, crafted over millennia. Unhurriedly eroded through just decades. Inhabited now, in this present moment, by life of such richness and variety as simply cannot be witnessed in one single passing.
Yet its nature, its formation, its very matter... The crushed bones, rotted flesh and pulped tissue of creature and plant; naturally extinct or suffocated in mire; buried under metre after metre, aeon after aeon, megaton after megaton. Fossil-hunters worship at the feet of their grandeur, grateful for the slimmest pickings; children forgotten in their parents' jubilation. Life that was palpable so many, many moons ago, hardened and diminished to this one tiny, barely three-dimensional shard of rock.
We look back with such alacrity. Why, then, can we not cast our gaze forward with a modicum, just a scrap, even a shred of enlightenment?
Darkling Dreams
Fleeing through a maze of darkened alleyways,
Amazed, your back retreats before me.
You're back to haunt my waking moments, sleeping whiles.
Moments sleeping no longer harbour safety.
Safety darts ahead, elusive prey.
A head that holds the dreams of wanton fire;
Of wanting already this heart knows too much.
To much disdain still onwards strives for peace.
For peace this vessel's yearning, craving; sighs.
Is yearning destiny's fleet fuel for change?
For change and growth and spirit so essential,
Spirits so to shores of far-flung pledge.
Amazed, your back retreats before me.
You're back to haunt my waking moments, sleeping whiles.
Moments sleeping no longer harbour safety.
Safety darts ahead, elusive prey.
A head that holds the dreams of wanton fire;
Of wanting already this heart knows too much.
To much disdain still onwards strives for peace.
For peace this vessel's yearning, craving; sighs.
Is yearning destiny's fleet fuel for change?
For change and growth and spirit so essential,
Spirits so to shores of far-flung pledge.
Sinking
I am shouting. Into hurricane winds. Every word lost.
You stand there. Inches from me. Bewildered.
I gesticulate. Exaggerate my mouth's movements. Grasp my hair.
In frustration.
You are hurt. Your effort supreme. To comprehend.
Our tongues move but impenetrable language issues forth.
You are angry. Rightly self-righteous. Martyred.
Am I to blame?
Where are our directions? Show me the hand-book. Help me.
Nonplussed. Your vision skewed. Your eyes helpless.
I batter invisible walls with bleeding fists.
My legacy.
Hang on tight. Something can be salvaged. Grasp this wreckage.
Your ears must remain receptive, your eyes open. Don't speak.
Listen. Just listen. Please listen. I am trying. So hard.
To tell you.
You stand there. Inches from me. Bewildered.
I gesticulate. Exaggerate my mouth's movements. Grasp my hair.
In frustration.
You are hurt. Your effort supreme. To comprehend.
Our tongues move but impenetrable language issues forth.
You are angry. Rightly self-righteous. Martyred.
Am I to blame?
Where are our directions? Show me the hand-book. Help me.
Nonplussed. Your vision skewed. Your eyes helpless.
I batter invisible walls with bleeding fists.
My legacy.
Hang on tight. Something can be salvaged. Grasp this wreckage.
Your ears must remain receptive, your eyes open. Don't speak.
Listen. Just listen. Please listen. I am trying. So hard.
To tell you.
Tuesday 2 September 2008
New Life
The pain was slamming into me in intense waves. A steamroller flattening my belly, every five minutes, for long minutes at a time, with no respite.
I had been waiting so long for this. Seventeen extra days. Seventeen interminable extra days. Resisting authority's viewpoint that it would be better to initiate the process artificially. To remove myself from my comfortable home and enter the world of the sickly and dying, sanitised beyond belief yet riddled with disease, no place for new life to start.
I welcomed it. I embraced the pain I had so longed for. With each new twisting wrench I knew my goal was closer. With each nauseating swell I came nearer to meeting the small life I had carried so carefully for nearly ten months.
I sank into the water and allowed it to take my weight. Let gravity stop here, barricaded outside the pool, working on everyone else, I at last exempt. The relief was immediate, powerful, so welcome. I closed my eyes and focussed inwards; through the muscle and sinew; the beating and whooshing of blood pumping strongly, effortlessly, inexorably. From time to time, with each new surge, I let escape a long, low moan, my breath and voice working in conjunction with my body to expel this separate entity from within.
The urgency arrived swiftly, suddenly, relentlessly. The quickening. The quality of the pain transformed subtly. The bearing down of muscle and bone, the heightening of awareness, the crescendo of noise. And then... And then the journey! The shifting, sliding, irresistible transit from one pool of liquid to another. The helplessness, innocence, newness...
And the love! Oh God! The love...
I had been waiting so long for this. Seventeen extra days. Seventeen interminable extra days. Resisting authority's viewpoint that it would be better to initiate the process artificially. To remove myself from my comfortable home and enter the world of the sickly and dying, sanitised beyond belief yet riddled with disease, no place for new life to start.
I welcomed it. I embraced the pain I had so longed for. With each new twisting wrench I knew my goal was closer. With each nauseating swell I came nearer to meeting the small life I had carried so carefully for nearly ten months.
I sank into the water and allowed it to take my weight. Let gravity stop here, barricaded outside the pool, working on everyone else, I at last exempt. The relief was immediate, powerful, so welcome. I closed my eyes and focussed inwards; through the muscle and sinew; the beating and whooshing of blood pumping strongly, effortlessly, inexorably. From time to time, with each new surge, I let escape a long, low moan, my breath and voice working in conjunction with my body to expel this separate entity from within.
The urgency arrived swiftly, suddenly, relentlessly. The quickening. The quality of the pain transformed subtly. The bearing down of muscle and bone, the heightening of awareness, the crescendo of noise. And then... And then the journey! The shifting, sliding, irresistible transit from one pool of liquid to another. The helplessness, innocence, newness...
And the love! Oh God! The love...
Cinematic Drama
"One adult and three children, please. For Wall-E".
"Would you like standard seats, or premier?"
"What's the difference?"
"Premier is a lovely big seat, loads of leg-room, an extra pound a ticket".
"Standard's fine, actually".
(And I'm already remortgaging just to get in here...)
"OK. Any of the seat numbers in grey. Where would you like to sit?"
(Oh God. More questions.)
"Erm. Just there, near the front. Wow. It looks busy!"
"Oh, no. It's just a tiny cinema. So. Seats C 5-8".
"Would you like standard seats, or premier?"
"What's the difference?"
"Premier is a lovely big seat, loads of leg-room, an extra pound a ticket".
"Standard's fine, actually".
(And I'm already remortgaging just to get in here...)
"OK. Any of the seat numbers in grey. Where would you like to sit?"
(Oh God. More questions.)
"Erm. Just there, near the front. Wow. It looks busy!"
"Oh, no. It's just a tiny cinema. So. Seats C 5-8".
-----
"OK. Come on boys. Let's get popcorn. You all want sweet, is that right? So if I get one large popcorn and one large Pepsi to share...?"
"I don't like Pepsi".
"No, sweetheart. You don't. I'll get you and me some water to share, ok?"
(Bloody hell! One popcorn and one drink for £7! Ouch!)
"Erm, boys. Look. You can have a little bag each. Do you see? There's a drink, a bag of popcorn and a bag of sweets in each one. Would you all like to choose your own?"
"Are Magic Stars dairy-free?"
"No, darling. Is there anything else? What's in the other bags?"
"RAISINS! I don't want raisins! I want sweets! It's not fair!"
-----
"Excuse me. Miss? Do you know if you have any alternatives other than Magic Stars or raisins? You see, my son's dairy-free and it doesn't seem fair somehow that his brothers get sweets and he has to have dried fruit..."
"OK. Minute. I just ask".
...
"We have raisins instead?"
"OK. Thanks". (I'm getting nowhere fast here).
-----
"Baby? They don't have anything else. We'll get these and then we'll buy you a bag of sweets from over there, ok?"
"Ohhhh! That's not fair! How come he gets an extra bag of sweets?"
"It isn't extra. It's instead. You two can share his Magic Stars".
(Blimey. £2.60 for a bag of sweets... Argh)
"Sweetie? We'll get a few of these ones instead, ok? This pick-n-mix. You can pick 8 sweets, ok?"
...
"All done? OK. I'll go and pay".
(£11? How did it come to £11? I should have got the sodding popcorn and Pepsi...)
-----
"Excuse me. It isn't a problem or anything. I mean, we'll sit here. That's ok. But I just thought you should know I think you're sitting in our seats..."
"Really? This isn't row H? I couldn't find row H. Where's row H?"
"I think it's a little further back there. Don't worry. We're fine in B. It really isn't a problem."
...
"OK boys? Everybody happy? Good. Look! It's starting!"
-----
"THIS POPCORN IS SALT!!"
Monday 1 September 2008
R U O K?
Dear Jenny,
Are you OK? I was expecting to see you on Friday but you never showed. I was rather surprised. Don't worry - it's not a problem. I was just a little anxious. Let me know you're OK?
Love,
A
XXX
Out of Office Auto Reply: I will be out of the office from 25th September and I will not return until 4th October. Any urgent queries can be directed to my colleagues.
RUOK? Sent email 2 Ur add, auto-reply. Worried coz U no show last Fri. Let me no UOK?
Are you OK? I was expecting to see you on Friday but you never showed. I was rather surprised. Don't worry - it's not a problem. I was just a little anxious. Let me know you're OK?
Love,
A
XXX
Out of Office Auto Reply: I will be out of the office from 25th September and I will not return until 4th October. Any urgent queries can be directed to my colleagues.
RUOK? Sent email 2 Ur add, auto-reply. Worried coz U no show last Fri. Let me no UOK?
-----
I didn't hear from her for a week, for a fortnight. I began emailing friends: have you heard from her? When did you last see her? Did she seem OK? Are you aware of any problems? Any crises?
Their responses were upbeat, puzzling. They had seen her "relatively recently"; "not so long ago": she seemed fine. In fact, if anything she seemed happier than she had been in a long, long time. Her job was going well, she had almost paid off her mortgage. Life was good.
As the days turned to weeks and the weeks to months, we her friends became seriously concerned. Nobody had her parents' address. We didn't even know where they were, only that they lived in Switzerland somewhere. Emails and messages began flying around with increasingly desperate and wild suggestions: should we get the police involved? Go to Switzerland and track down her parents?
We had written to her, camped out on her doorstep, emailed, phoned; some of the more adventurous among us had even tried to break in. All to no avail.
And then, almost half a year later, an envelope dropped onto my doormat one morning.
Getting married. Come?
Friday 29 August 2008
Billy and Sam
They had grown up on opposite sides of the street.
Billy was a tough kid; always bruised or bleeding; forever up a tree or down a manhole. He couldn't walk to school without some adventure befalling him on the way. He was never on time, always dishevelled and permanently cheerful.
Sam was quiet. He wore glasses, always fastened the top button of his shirt, stopped and knelt in the street to straighten his socks. He didn't have many friends, spent most of his time inside and his favourite location was up to his eyebrows in a book, preferably an encyclopaedia.
No-one would have dreamed they'd become friends. But they did. In the most surprising of ways.
Billy was surrounded. The boys encircling him were big, mean, angry. Whatever it was he had done to upset them he was not about to get away with.
As Sam approached, his legs jelly and his heart pounding - threatening to burst out of his chest - pushing his specs up his nose; they had started to laugh. Sam had gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. With steely gaze and gritty determination, he had walked straight past them and around the side of Billy's house. The sniggering petered out to be replaced by noises of confusion and disbelief, and then more snorting and giggling.
Suddenly, with a war-cry nobody could fathom, Sam careered round the corner, garden hose in hand, shooting a violent jet of water into the midst of the throng. They had never moved so fast and in minutes the gang had dispersed, leaving only a very sodden Billy curled up on the floor in fits of hysterical belly laughter.
Sam never walked home alone again. And Billy was (generally) on time. A mis-matched pair if ever there was one; their friendship was cement.
Billy was a tough kid; always bruised or bleeding; forever up a tree or down a manhole. He couldn't walk to school without some adventure befalling him on the way. He was never on time, always dishevelled and permanently cheerful.
Sam was quiet. He wore glasses, always fastened the top button of his shirt, stopped and knelt in the street to straighten his socks. He didn't have many friends, spent most of his time inside and his favourite location was up to his eyebrows in a book, preferably an encyclopaedia.
No-one would have dreamed they'd become friends. But they did. In the most surprising of ways.
Billy was surrounded. The boys encircling him were big, mean, angry. Whatever it was he had done to upset them he was not about to get away with.
As Sam approached, his legs jelly and his heart pounding - threatening to burst out of his chest - pushing his specs up his nose; they had started to laugh. Sam had gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. With steely gaze and gritty determination, he had walked straight past them and around the side of Billy's house. The sniggering petered out to be replaced by noises of confusion and disbelief, and then more snorting and giggling.
Suddenly, with a war-cry nobody could fathom, Sam careered round the corner, garden hose in hand, shooting a violent jet of water into the midst of the throng. They had never moved so fast and in minutes the gang had dispersed, leaving only a very sodden Billy curled up on the floor in fits of hysterical belly laughter.
Sam never walked home alone again. And Billy was (generally) on time. A mis-matched pair if ever there was one; their friendship was cement.
A Gift
It wasn't so much the disappointment that floored her. It was the total lack of awareness. How? How was it possible to spend - no - throw away so much money on something so utterly uncoveted?
Shoes. I mean, really. Who buys anyone else shoes? It's a little like buying underwear for someone other than yourself - pointless, unwinnable, wasteful.
And it was the same every year:
Shoes. I mean, really. Who buys anyone else shoes? It's a little like buying underwear for someone other than yourself - pointless, unwinnable, wasteful.
And it was the same every year:
What would you like darling?
Actually, I've really got into Fine Art lately... Maybe a book about that?
And oh! Look! A t-shirt.
Why bother? Seriously... Why ask in the first place? You put your mind to a helpful answer to have it discarded instantly in favour of... What? Something from the bottom of the 'present cupboard'; an outfit that will make you look twenty years older and at least six months pregnant; a cheese grater?
And the really grating (did you see what I did there?) element in all this is the all-pervading sense of ingratitude you feel on opening the beautifully-wrapped dross; the outrageously flamboyant show you have to put on in order to disguise the fact that you are, once again, bitterly disappointed.
Note to self: I shall never be a mindless purveyor of presents.
Thursday 28 August 2008
On Second Thoughts
It wasn't immediately visible. He extended his neck as far as he could, his eyes screwed up against the glare. The sun bounced its reflection off the water in blinding shards of sprinkled light as the waves lapped gently against the hull of the boat.
They had planned a lazy afternoon in a deserted cove; the sandy beach stretching far beyond the line of sight. Nobody ever came here. Ever.
Which was the problem.
Had she not stumbled against him. Had he not been teasing her, dangling the key over the edge. Had they not collided and giggled and toppled...
If he couldn't find it, they'd have to radio for help. If they radioed for help, there would be one hell of a furore. His future in office would be questionable and her reputation... well... It would be in shreds.
The afternoon delights they had had in mind were forgotten. She was screeching and howling, hurling abuse at him, and he was there, leaning precariously over the edge of the boat, looking for the key.
It occurred to him to query, in that ridiculous and vulnerable position, precisely what it was he had seen in her in the first place. Glancing back over his shoulder at this hysterical harridan, all he saw was a costume and war-paint. There was very little of natural beauty or grace. Everything was studied, polished, veneered, manipulated.
Unbidden, the image of her floating face down in the brine bobbed across his mind's eye to be rapidly dismissed as a luxury he couldn't afford. One thing was for certain: he wouldn't be calling her after today.
He found himself thinking fondly of his wife; something that hadn't happened in an age. She had not matured badly, considering the number of children she had managed to produce, but somehow she had little time for her appearance. Or for him, truth be told. He was surprised to discover he was looking forward to getting home.
And there it was! Glimmering between two rocks at the bottom of the crystal ocean; not too far down; just out of reach. He grasped a net and fished around for it, almost lost it, caught it, brought it to the surface.
Instantly she was smiles and coyness, full of apologies and endearments. It washed off him; left him cold.
Wouldn't it be nice to think he wouldn't do it again...? Wouldn't it?
They had planned a lazy afternoon in a deserted cove; the sandy beach stretching far beyond the line of sight. Nobody ever came here. Ever.
Which was the problem.
Had she not stumbled against him. Had he not been teasing her, dangling the key over the edge. Had they not collided and giggled and toppled...
If he couldn't find it, they'd have to radio for help. If they radioed for help, there would be one hell of a furore. His future in office would be questionable and her reputation... well... It would be in shreds.
The afternoon delights they had had in mind were forgotten. She was screeching and howling, hurling abuse at him, and he was there, leaning precariously over the edge of the boat, looking for the key.
It occurred to him to query, in that ridiculous and vulnerable position, precisely what it was he had seen in her in the first place. Glancing back over his shoulder at this hysterical harridan, all he saw was a costume and war-paint. There was very little of natural beauty or grace. Everything was studied, polished, veneered, manipulated.
Unbidden, the image of her floating face down in the brine bobbed across his mind's eye to be rapidly dismissed as a luxury he couldn't afford. One thing was for certain: he wouldn't be calling her after today.
He found himself thinking fondly of his wife; something that hadn't happened in an age. She had not matured badly, considering the number of children she had managed to produce, but somehow she had little time for her appearance. Or for him, truth be told. He was surprised to discover he was looking forward to getting home.
And there it was! Glimmering between two rocks at the bottom of the crystal ocean; not too far down; just out of reach. He grasped a net and fished around for it, almost lost it, caught it, brought it to the surface.
Instantly she was smiles and coyness, full of apologies and endearments. It washed off him; left him cold.
Wouldn't it be nice to think he wouldn't do it again...? Wouldn't it?
Relief
They checked in separately.
They were far enough from home for it not to matter, but old habits... Their routine had become somewhat calcified.
She stepped into the ancient, creaking lift with her tattered old bag and pushed the button for the third floor. As it whirred into action, she rummaged for a mirror in her handbag, reapplied her lipstick and pinched her wan cheeks into life. Using her wall-length sepia reflection, she bolstered her chest back into position and smoothed her skirt over ageing hips. Her heels were too high, her make-up too garish, her hair too youthful. She ran her tongue over her teeth, hitched on her smile and teetered out of the elevator.
As she followed the numbered arrows screwed onto dated flock wallpaper, her mind settled briefly on the question of her presence here, now. Was it really just habit? Had it become a necessity? What had happened to the urgency? Why did she feel she was carrying out a chore?
She swiped the key-card through its reader and the light switched from red to green. Fleetingly, she remembered the days of big metal keys and over-sized fobs. Patting her hair one last time, she pushed open the door and, with a bounce she didn't feel, trotted chirpily into the bedroom.
He had been there. The bed was crumpled, the window open, the complimentary bottle of water open.
On the pillow was a note, scrawled in pencil on hotel stationery:
"Sorry love. Can't do this any more. It's been fun."
And in the place of a signature:
"We'll always have Bognor...."
They were far enough from home for it not to matter, but old habits... Their routine had become somewhat calcified.
She stepped into the ancient, creaking lift with her tattered old bag and pushed the button for the third floor. As it whirred into action, she rummaged for a mirror in her handbag, reapplied her lipstick and pinched her wan cheeks into life. Using her wall-length sepia reflection, she bolstered her chest back into position and smoothed her skirt over ageing hips. Her heels were too high, her make-up too garish, her hair too youthful. She ran her tongue over her teeth, hitched on her smile and teetered out of the elevator.
As she followed the numbered arrows screwed onto dated flock wallpaper, her mind settled briefly on the question of her presence here, now. Was it really just habit? Had it become a necessity? What had happened to the urgency? Why did she feel she was carrying out a chore?
She swiped the key-card through its reader and the light switched from red to green. Fleetingly, she remembered the days of big metal keys and over-sized fobs. Patting her hair one last time, she pushed open the door and, with a bounce she didn't feel, trotted chirpily into the bedroom.
He had been there. The bed was crumpled, the window open, the complimentary bottle of water open.
On the pillow was a note, scrawled in pencil on hotel stationery:
"Sorry love. Can't do this any more. It's been fun."
And in the place of a signature:
"We'll always have Bognor...."
Wilfulness
"Where has he gone?"
The rising panic in her voice was palpable. Heads turned. Idle curiosity overcame etiquette as people stared openly.
"He was just there! Where has he GONE?"
Her hands were in her hair, pulling at it; her eyes suffused with blind terror. She stood on the promenade, rooted to the spot but the conflict in her body was all too evident. Split down the middle: should she run and search, or stay where he had last seen her? Her face was agony to behold.
As the realisation dawned on those closest to her, people started whispering, pointing. One utterly insensitive man was even heard to pronounce: "Really! She's making a bit of a fuss..." To everyone else, though, the situation was hideously reminiscent of a recent, news-making disappearance. Her name was on all lips.
She had begun to grab the shoulders of passers-by, looking wildly into their faces and beseeching them to recall a sighting. She was gabbling a description: five years old, about so high, blue eyes, sandy hair, stripy shorts...
It must have been about five minutes before a rather bewildered looking small boy was dumped unceremoniously into his mother's grasping, outstretched arms. He had just wanted to get to the paddling pool; where was the harm in that?
She sank to her knees, clutching him to her beaten chest, and sobbed.
I looked around. Not a dry maternal eye in sight. There, but for the Grace of God...
The rising panic in her voice was palpable. Heads turned. Idle curiosity overcame etiquette as people stared openly.
"He was just there! Where has he GONE?"
Her hands were in her hair, pulling at it; her eyes suffused with blind terror. She stood on the promenade, rooted to the spot but the conflict in her body was all too evident. Split down the middle: should she run and search, or stay where he had last seen her? Her face was agony to behold.
As the realisation dawned on those closest to her, people started whispering, pointing. One utterly insensitive man was even heard to pronounce: "Really! She's making a bit of a fuss..." To everyone else, though, the situation was hideously reminiscent of a recent, news-making disappearance. Her name was on all lips.
She had begun to grab the shoulders of passers-by, looking wildly into their faces and beseeching them to recall a sighting. She was gabbling a description: five years old, about so high, blue eyes, sandy hair, stripy shorts...
It must have been about five minutes before a rather bewildered looking small boy was dumped unceremoniously into his mother's grasping, outstretched arms. He had just wanted to get to the paddling pool; where was the harm in that?
She sank to her knees, clutching him to her beaten chest, and sobbed.
I looked around. Not a dry maternal eye in sight. There, but for the Grace of God...
Dejection
She sat on the cold, deserted beach, her legs tucked into her chest, arms folded around them, chin on her knees. The sky was the grey of ancient white laundry and equally crumpled.
Not a soul in sight.
The damp of the sand seeped through her jeans and numbed her, but she didn't seem to notice. Her eyes, pools of washed-out blue, reflected the churning uneasiness of the disgruntled sea. The gently insistent breeze toyed with loose strands of her hair. Unacknowledged, a tear travelled slowly over the curve of her cheek, through the dip below it and off the sharp edge of her jaw. It disappeared into her sodden sleeve. How long had she been there?
Throughout the morning, dog-walkers came and went; unrecognised, unsaluted. More than once was curious attention cast her way, only to be dismissed again as the next distraction loomed. As midday approached she was once again alone, only the neglected lighthouse on nearby cliffs for company.
She had begun to shiver. It didn't seem to cause her much concern. Not once did her eyes leave the horizon. What was she waiting for?
As the sun began its descent into the sea, she seemed to wake a little from her reverie. She blinked a few times and slowly, painfully, extended her legs along the sand. In a lazy sweep, she stretched out her arms and arched her back, pointing her toes. Awkwardly, unsteadily she raised herself to her feet and shuffled, head bent, out of sight.
Tomorrow?
She would do it all again.
Not a soul in sight.
The damp of the sand seeped through her jeans and numbed her, but she didn't seem to notice. Her eyes, pools of washed-out blue, reflected the churning uneasiness of the disgruntled sea. The gently insistent breeze toyed with loose strands of her hair. Unacknowledged, a tear travelled slowly over the curve of her cheek, through the dip below it and off the sharp edge of her jaw. It disappeared into her sodden sleeve. How long had she been there?
Throughout the morning, dog-walkers came and went; unrecognised, unsaluted. More than once was curious attention cast her way, only to be dismissed again as the next distraction loomed. As midday approached she was once again alone, only the neglected lighthouse on nearby cliffs for company.
She had begun to shiver. It didn't seem to cause her much concern. Not once did her eyes leave the horizon. What was she waiting for?
As the sun began its descent into the sea, she seemed to wake a little from her reverie. She blinked a few times and slowly, painfully, extended her legs along the sand. In a lazy sweep, she stretched out her arms and arched her back, pointing her toes. Awkwardly, unsteadily she raised herself to her feet and shuffled, head bent, out of sight.
Tomorrow?
She would do it all again.
Wednesday 27 August 2008
Impossible Questions
Do dinosaurs eat metal?
Erm... I suppose, had they been around at the same time, they would probably have had a go. Yes.
How long would it take to get to Mars?
I don't know honey.
A year?
I don't know. Really. I have no idea. Ask your father?
Mum?
Hmmm?
Space is infinite kilometres long, isn't it?
Yes. It is. Oh. Listen. Your father's adding something. Sorry, darling? Ah. He says "and wide, and deep."
If you looked at it, it would go round and round into a circle, wouldn't it?
Erm. Your father says some people believe it's the shape of a figure 8...?
Can I have an egg, a glass of water and some salt?
Oh God. Erm. Not just now. An experiment? Let's try it later.
Mum?
Yes, honey?
Listen to this: Quick is long and long is quick. Do you get it? Do you know what it means?
Sorry baby. I haven't a clue.
Can I have a battery?
What for, sweetheart?
I'm going to make a motor. I just need a battery, some paper, some sellotape, scissors and string.
Darling, I'm not sure that will work.
Can I play Road Burners on the computer? Arthur had nearly an hour yesterday, so I get nearly an hour...
You know, they say the average four year-old asks an average four hundred and sixty-seven questions a day.
In our house, they're usually all before breakfast.
Erm... I suppose, had they been around at the same time, they would probably have had a go. Yes.
How long would it take to get to Mars?
I don't know honey.
A year?
I don't know. Really. I have no idea. Ask your father?
Mum?
Hmmm?
Space is infinite kilometres long, isn't it?
Yes. It is. Oh. Listen. Your father's adding something. Sorry, darling? Ah. He says "and wide, and deep."
If you looked at it, it would go round and round into a circle, wouldn't it?
Erm. Your father says some people believe it's the shape of a figure 8...?
Can I have an egg, a glass of water and some salt?
Oh God. Erm. Not just now. An experiment? Let's try it later.
Mum?
Yes, honey?
Listen to this: Quick is long and long is quick. Do you get it? Do you know what it means?
Sorry baby. I haven't a clue.
Can I have a battery?
What for, sweetheart?
I'm going to make a motor. I just need a battery, some paper, some sellotape, scissors and string.
Darling, I'm not sure that will work.
Can I play Road Burners on the computer? Arthur had nearly an hour yesterday, so I get nearly an hour...
You know, they say the average four year-old asks an average four hundred and sixty-seven questions a day.
In our house, they're usually all before breakfast.
Tuesday 26 August 2008
Judgment Day
Did I get it right, Lord?
I tried so hard to get it right.
I know I didn't speak to you every day, but I've always had a bit of a problem with one-way relationships... I made every effort to hear you. The noise down there was deafening.
Perhaps you could have spoken just a little louder?
I know I didn't adhere to every rule. I did attempt to, but they're awfully strict. It would have taken super-human strength. And I'm just me. I don't do super-human. Sometimes I struggle with human.
Would you have had me do things differently? Were the things I thought right actually wrong? Was I misguided? Misled? Did I abuse your creation? Did I abuse myself?
I found it terribly difficult to relate to those hard-and-fast speeches from people whose lives had little if nothing in common with mine. Even those you call your spokespeople... It was a little like talking at a mirror. It didn't aid my position much.
Would it help to have a new guide-book, do you think? Something a little more modern? A little more helpful to your people down there now? A word or two of encouragement, perhaps? A little less fire-and-brimstone? I did find, during my time down there, that softly-softly was quite an effective approach. Do you think you might give that some thought? Not that I want to teach you to suck eggs, you understand. I just sometimes wonder if you are all that... in touch?
Have I over-stepped the mark? My mouth does tend to run away with me. Sometimes my mind doesn't keep up and I find myself in a bit of a predicament. I certainly wouldn't wish to offend. It's just that, you know, I'm fresh from down there and I do understand a little how it works. Of course, I'm not trying to imply that you don't! It's just... oh dear. You see? I do talk too much.
Shall I just pop through there, then? Is that where you want me? Or... is it towards that waiting-room I'm headed? It is? Oh. OK. Erm... How long do you suppose I'll be waiting?
Ah. Until I ask no more questions? I understand. I'll work on that then.
I tried so hard to get it right.
I know I didn't speak to you every day, but I've always had a bit of a problem with one-way relationships... I made every effort to hear you. The noise down there was deafening.
Perhaps you could have spoken just a little louder?
I know I didn't adhere to every rule. I did attempt to, but they're awfully strict. It would have taken super-human strength. And I'm just me. I don't do super-human. Sometimes I struggle with human.
Would you have had me do things differently? Were the things I thought right actually wrong? Was I misguided? Misled? Did I abuse your creation? Did I abuse myself?
I found it terribly difficult to relate to those hard-and-fast speeches from people whose lives had little if nothing in common with mine. Even those you call your spokespeople... It was a little like talking at a mirror. It didn't aid my position much.
Would it help to have a new guide-book, do you think? Something a little more modern? A little more helpful to your people down there now? A word or two of encouragement, perhaps? A little less fire-and-brimstone? I did find, during my time down there, that softly-softly was quite an effective approach. Do you think you might give that some thought? Not that I want to teach you to suck eggs, you understand. I just sometimes wonder if you are all that... in touch?
Have I over-stepped the mark? My mouth does tend to run away with me. Sometimes my mind doesn't keep up and I find myself in a bit of a predicament. I certainly wouldn't wish to offend. It's just that, you know, I'm fresh from down there and I do understand a little how it works. Of course, I'm not trying to imply that you don't! It's just... oh dear. You see? I do talk too much.
Shall I just pop through there, then? Is that where you want me? Or... is it towards that waiting-room I'm headed? It is? Oh. OK. Erm... How long do you suppose I'll be waiting?
Ah. Until I ask no more questions? I understand. I'll work on that then.
Flutter By
Toughened.
Calcified.
Indissoluble.
Beneath the lumpen membrane I am formed.
This chrysalis shields my exquisite splendour from the waiting world.
Anticipation mounts. Will I fly? Can I fly? Will I take to the wing and soar, ever higher, the sky my only constraint?
Or will I emerge to be devoured by a creature more voracious than I? My life snuffed out, cut short, annihilated; just as I am on the verge of discovery.
My armour provides both shield and prison. My mind squarely divided. Flight? Concealment?
Is it worth it? This struggle? This battle for beauty and freedom?
Just for a day?
Calcified.
Indissoluble.
Beneath the lumpen membrane I am formed.
This chrysalis shields my exquisite splendour from the waiting world.
Anticipation mounts. Will I fly? Can I fly? Will I take to the wing and soar, ever higher, the sky my only constraint?
Or will I emerge to be devoured by a creature more voracious than I? My life snuffed out, cut short, annihilated; just as I am on the verge of discovery.
My armour provides both shield and prison. My mind squarely divided. Flight? Concealment?
Is it worth it? This struggle? This battle for beauty and freedom?
Just for a day?
Tough Love?
It didn't take much to make him angry. Just a word, a look, an object out of place.
She spent so much of her day on tenterhooks. Did I get that right? Should I try that differently? Dare I say that out loud?
He always said he loved her afterwards. Cringing on the floor, head in her hands, knees in her chest, bruised and sore, crying quietly (any louder would have set him off again), he stroked her hair, dressed her wounds, called her sweetheart, said he'd die without her.
When the baby came along she had nine blissful months of peace. He showed a side she had not seen since before their courtship. It proved her downfall. It gave her false hope. It made her believe she could recapture it. She never did.
The Law didn't help. After the first hospitalisation, they took the baby away. They housed him safely with a family who already had four children, who would take care of him, show him the kind of love that would make him whole, healthy. She fought tooth and nail to get him back, of course, but as long as she stood by her man, or knelt by her man, or crumpled by her man, there was no winning.
She was trapped: trapped by her love for a man who would, eventually, kill her.
Her son? He went on to fight for the rights of the victims of domestic abuse. He saved many broken lives. All but the one he was powerless to effect.
She spent so much of her day on tenterhooks. Did I get that right? Should I try that differently? Dare I say that out loud?
He always said he loved her afterwards. Cringing on the floor, head in her hands, knees in her chest, bruised and sore, crying quietly (any louder would have set him off again), he stroked her hair, dressed her wounds, called her sweetheart, said he'd die without her.
When the baby came along she had nine blissful months of peace. He showed a side she had not seen since before their courtship. It proved her downfall. It gave her false hope. It made her believe she could recapture it. She never did.
The Law didn't help. After the first hospitalisation, they took the baby away. They housed him safely with a family who already had four children, who would take care of him, show him the kind of love that would make him whole, healthy. She fought tooth and nail to get him back, of course, but as long as she stood by her man, or knelt by her man, or crumpled by her man, there was no winning.
She was trapped: trapped by her love for a man who would, eventually, kill her.
Her son? He went on to fight for the rights of the victims of domestic abuse. He saved many broken lives. All but the one he was powerless to effect.
Monday 25 August 2008
The Maze
Tell me what you dream?
Of fires and dungeons. Of corridors and stifling darkness. Of smoke and heat. Of airless doom.
Tell me how you feel?
Tired and cold. Shaky and nervous. Sick and hopeless. Terrified and lost.
Tell me where you're going?
Nowhere fast. To hell in a handcart. Over the hills and far away. To the darkest corner of my soul.
Tell me what you think?
You think I think? How do you expect me to think? How can I think? God! You want me to think?
Tell me what to do?
Do nothing. Do everything. Do something. Oh. Do what you want.
Tell me how to help?
Go away. No. Come back. Leave me in peace. No. Talk to me. Tell me something. Tell me anything. Talk to me. No. Don't talk to me. I don't know. Help?!
Tell me... Tell me... Tell me where you are?
I'm here. I think I'm here. I think I'm still here. Yes. I'm still here. And I will stay here. And life will go on.
Of fires and dungeons. Of corridors and stifling darkness. Of smoke and heat. Of airless doom.
Tell me how you feel?
Tired and cold. Shaky and nervous. Sick and hopeless. Terrified and lost.
Tell me where you're going?
Nowhere fast. To hell in a handcart. Over the hills and far away. To the darkest corner of my soul.
Tell me what you think?
You think I think? How do you expect me to think? How can I think? God! You want me to think?
Tell me what to do?
Do nothing. Do everything. Do something. Oh. Do what you want.
Tell me how to help?
Go away. No. Come back. Leave me in peace. No. Talk to me. Tell me something. Tell me anything. Talk to me. No. Don't talk to me. I don't know. Help?!
Tell me... Tell me... Tell me where you are?
I'm here. I think I'm here. I think I'm still here. Yes. I'm still here. And I will stay here. And life will go on.
Tree Whispering
Did you ever look at the trees properly? I mean, really, truly, properly?
Did you ever lie on your back, your head resting on your hands, and just look up?
What did you see?
Did you see the leaves dancing on the breeze, branches swaying as one with the wind, leaning gracefully with one another, making their own whispering music? Never knotting, catching, tangling, damaging one another, but brushing gently past their companions, kissing shoulders as they pass by.
If you lay there long enough, did you see? Did you see how the eddying currents whip them all to the same state of frenzied excitement and yet, even then, they are as one in their movement? They jostle and haggle and prance and turn and then, just as suddenly, they are still, peaceful, spent.
We have a lot to learn.
Did you ever lie on your back, your head resting on your hands, and just look up?
What did you see?
Did you see the leaves dancing on the breeze, branches swaying as one with the wind, leaning gracefully with one another, making their own whispering music? Never knotting, catching, tangling, damaging one another, but brushing gently past their companions, kissing shoulders as they pass by.
If you lay there long enough, did you see? Did you see how the eddying currents whip them all to the same state of frenzied excitement and yet, even then, they are as one in their movement? They jostle and haggle and prance and turn and then, just as suddenly, they are still, peaceful, spent.
We have a lot to learn.
Alphabet of Confusion
Anguish, agony, argument;
Bewildered, bent, broken;
Cruelty, callousness, calumny;
Divisive, derisory, devastating;
Excitement, electricity, escalation;
Fear, fervour, fantasy;
Greed, gluttony, gallows;
Hearts, horror, hallowed;
Inspiration, irony, invaded;
Jove, jewelled, jaded;
Kisses, kindness, kinetics;
Love, longing, legacy;
Morbid, memory, mired;
Nostalgia, need, neglect;
Open, overt, optimistic;
Pleading, potent, palpable;
Queer, queasy, quiet;
Restored, revived, reanimated;
Silent, supine, sapped;
Trust, terror, torpor;
Unbidden, uninvited, undenied;
Viscous, vitreous, vilified;
Wanton, wily, wilful;
Ex... Ex... Ex...
You, yours, youth;
Zenith.
Bewildered, bent, broken;
Cruelty, callousness, calumny;
Divisive, derisory, devastating;
Excitement, electricity, escalation;
Fear, fervour, fantasy;
Greed, gluttony, gallows;
Hearts, horror, hallowed;
Inspiration, irony, invaded;
Jove, jewelled, jaded;
Kisses, kindness, kinetics;
Love, longing, legacy;
Morbid, memory, mired;
Nostalgia, need, neglect;
Open, overt, optimistic;
Pleading, potent, palpable;
Queer, queasy, quiet;
Restored, revived, reanimated;
Silent, supine, sapped;
Trust, terror, torpor;
Unbidden, uninvited, undenied;
Viscous, vitreous, vilified;
Wanton, wily, wilful;
Ex... Ex... Ex...
You, yours, youth;
Zenith.
Tuesday 12 August 2008
Time
They said they wept the day they dropped him off. They pulled into a lay-by and wept. They said they held one another in the front of the car, sobbed hot tears on one another's shoulders and then drove on.
He was ten.
We are in this world for such a short time. Some of us are committed to a shockingly brief stay. Each moment with someone you love is precious. When that moment is gone you cannot get it back. We may claw at the past with greedy fingers, trying to reclaim some of its lost magic. We want to be the person we were. We hang onto vanity and fewer wrinkles. We may even clutch a fervent desire to change an action, a thought, a time, a place. We restrain it there, in our minds, just behind our eyes, through every waking hour of every sleep-poor day and, if it is sufficiently powerful, it follows us into our dreams.
Unfinished business. Baggage. Lack of closure.
What happened to living for now? Yesterday is gone - of that we can be certain. Tomorrow may not come - of that we must be aware. So now. What of now? THIS IS NOW.
Why? Why did they take him? For such heart-ache, for such pain, for such a small boy?
Because it was fair.
For his future.
Who kissed him goodnight and smoothed his hair before sleep? Who patched up his knees and held him through his tears?
Who asked him if it was fair?
He was ten.
We are in this world for such a short time. Some of us are committed to a shockingly brief stay. Each moment with someone you love is precious. When that moment is gone you cannot get it back. We may claw at the past with greedy fingers, trying to reclaim some of its lost magic. We want to be the person we were. We hang onto vanity and fewer wrinkles. We may even clutch a fervent desire to change an action, a thought, a time, a place. We restrain it there, in our minds, just behind our eyes, through every waking hour of every sleep-poor day and, if it is sufficiently powerful, it follows us into our dreams.
Unfinished business. Baggage. Lack of closure.
What happened to living for now? Yesterday is gone - of that we can be certain. Tomorrow may not come - of that we must be aware. So now. What of now? THIS IS NOW.
Why? Why did they take him? For such heart-ache, for such pain, for such a small boy?
Because it was fair.
For his future.
Who kissed him goodnight and smoothed his hair before sleep? Who patched up his knees and held him through his tears?
Who asked him if it was fair?
Saturday 9 August 2008
Life Lesson
A car pulled up outside the house.
A small girl threw open the door and hurtled inside.
Her mother, switching off the engine and gathering up her younger daughter and their belongings, closed the door thoughtfully behind her. She looked bewildered. And a little worried.
Upstairs, the little girl lay on her bed sobbing. Her heart-rending cries shook her whole body and created tidal waves on her mattress. What could have broken her little world at just four years old?
Her mother's footsteps on the stairs were slow and mechanical. She had a baby on her hip and another in her belly. She was tired.
The bedroom door was closed. She knocked softly and let herself in.
Depositing the little one on the floor by a pile of soft toys, she sat gently on the edge of the bed and laid a tender hand on her daughter's back to still the weeping.
"What is it pet lamb?" she asked tenderly. "Was it so awful, school? Did you have a terrible time? Didn't you like your teacher? Didn't you make nice, new friends?"
Through juddering intakes of breath, her big new schoolgirl attempted to control herself and speak.
"It's not that," she whimpered.
"What then, darling? What is it?"
Alice sat up on the bed, straightened her uniform, squared her shoulders and looked her mother in the eye. In spite of her apparent composure, her next words were a wail:
"I'm in love and I know he'll never love me!"
School sucks.
A small girl threw open the door and hurtled inside.
Her mother, switching off the engine and gathering up her younger daughter and their belongings, closed the door thoughtfully behind her. She looked bewildered. And a little worried.
Upstairs, the little girl lay on her bed sobbing. Her heart-rending cries shook her whole body and created tidal waves on her mattress. What could have broken her little world at just four years old?
Her mother's footsteps on the stairs were slow and mechanical. She had a baby on her hip and another in her belly. She was tired.
The bedroom door was closed. She knocked softly and let herself in.
Depositing the little one on the floor by a pile of soft toys, she sat gently on the edge of the bed and laid a tender hand on her daughter's back to still the weeping.
"What is it pet lamb?" she asked tenderly. "Was it so awful, school? Did you have a terrible time? Didn't you like your teacher? Didn't you make nice, new friends?"
Through juddering intakes of breath, her big new schoolgirl attempted to control herself and speak.
"It's not that," she whimpered.
"What then, darling? What is it?"
Alice sat up on the bed, straightened her uniform, squared her shoulders and looked her mother in the eye. In spite of her apparent composure, her next words were a wail:
"I'm in love and I know he'll never love me!"
School sucks.
Thursday 7 August 2008
Mistaken Identity
He rushed into the kitchen, breathless with excitement. His hair was wild and his eyes huge and brilliant. His cheeks flushed, trousers damp around the ankles, hands flailing wildly. He must have been about four years old and something had just changed his life.
He couldn't speak. He gulped for air. He looked at his mother. Expectation was high.
"What is it darling?" she asked.
The words tripped and tumbled over each other like puppies at feeding time. He stopped, took a deep breath and started again. Just as quickly, but with marginally more sense, he started to speak again.
"It's just I... oh, MUMMY!" his eyes were imploring, beseeching. "It's no good. You'll never believe me... But it's TRUE!"
"Darling! What? Tell me!"
He took another gulp of air and tried again.
"I just... oh, Mummy..." his shoulders drooped in despair. His head hung down, eyes looking up at his mother. "You won't believe me."
"Please, sweetheart. Tell me. What is it?"
He squared himself once more. Puffed out his chest. Forced himself to take his courage in both hands and present it to his bewildered mother.
He rushed out his words, almost as though thinking too long would block them again.
"I just saw a pterodactyl in the garden. It crashed into the field!"
An internal struggle began for his mother. Laughing now would crush his little spirit. And yet, he was right. She couldn't believe him. Her face remained smooth and calm, not a flicker of her mind's battle was betrayed. She answered him calmly.
"Show me, darling."
He took her hand and led her into the garden, down the hill, to the gate.
There, in all it's glory, was a microlight.
Guy was, thankfully, unharmed. A little bit of Tom, however, died that day.
He couldn't speak. He gulped for air. He looked at his mother. Expectation was high.
"What is it darling?" she asked.
The words tripped and tumbled over each other like puppies at feeding time. He stopped, took a deep breath and started again. Just as quickly, but with marginally more sense, he started to speak again.
"It's just I... oh, MUMMY!" his eyes were imploring, beseeching. "It's no good. You'll never believe me... But it's TRUE!"
"Darling! What? Tell me!"
He took another gulp of air and tried again.
"I just... oh, Mummy..." his shoulders drooped in despair. His head hung down, eyes looking up at his mother. "You won't believe me."
"Please, sweetheart. Tell me. What is it?"
He squared himself once more. Puffed out his chest. Forced himself to take his courage in both hands and present it to his bewildered mother.
He rushed out his words, almost as though thinking too long would block them again.
"I just saw a pterodactyl in the garden. It crashed into the field!"
An internal struggle began for his mother. Laughing now would crush his little spirit. And yet, he was right. She couldn't believe him. Her face remained smooth and calm, not a flicker of her mind's battle was betrayed. She answered him calmly.
"Show me, darling."
He took her hand and led her into the garden, down the hill, to the gate.
There, in all it's glory, was a microlight.
Guy was, thankfully, unharmed. A little bit of Tom, however, died that day.
Wednesday 6 August 2008
Self (ishness)?
"I feel trapped," she moaned. "Shackled."
"But why? What did I do?"
"It isn't you. It's me. I don't know who I am any more. I don't even know who I was. Have I ever been me? It's agony, this confusion. I can't stand it. I have to go."
"But there must be something I can do?"
"There isn't. If there had been, we'd have seen it before now. If love can't save us, nothing can."
"But surely... I mean... What will...? Can't...? God! There must be a way!"
"Please. Don't make it harder. I am already shredded. This is the hardest thing I have ever had to do."
"But where will you go? What will you do? How on earth will you survive?"
"It's a new beginning. I have to shed the past and concentrate on my future. I have to find myself. I'm sorry. Really, I am. I never meant to hurt you. You never changed. You're lucky. You'll always be you. I have to be positive. I have to believe that I will continue to exist. Or start existing, even."
"So you never existed with me?"
"I didn't say that. Some form of me did. And was happy for a time. It isn't you. It's me. You mustn't blame yourself. Hate me. HATE me, if it makes it easier."
"It doesn't."
"Given time..."
"Don't!"
"There's nothing more to say then. I have to go. I do love you, you know."
"DON'T!"
"Goodbye."
But what...
about...
ME?
"But why? What did I do?"
"It isn't you. It's me. I don't know who I am any more. I don't even know who I was. Have I ever been me? It's agony, this confusion. I can't stand it. I have to go."
"But there must be something I can do?"
"There isn't. If there had been, we'd have seen it before now. If love can't save us, nothing can."
"But surely... I mean... What will...? Can't...? God! There must be a way!"
"Please. Don't make it harder. I am already shredded. This is the hardest thing I have ever had to do."
"But where will you go? What will you do? How on earth will you survive?"
"It's a new beginning. I have to shed the past and concentrate on my future. I have to find myself. I'm sorry. Really, I am. I never meant to hurt you. You never changed. You're lucky. You'll always be you. I have to be positive. I have to believe that I will continue to exist. Or start existing, even."
"So you never existed with me?"
"I didn't say that. Some form of me did. And was happy for a time. It isn't you. It's me. You mustn't blame yourself. Hate me. HATE me, if it makes it easier."
"It doesn't."
"Given time..."
"Don't!"
"There's nothing more to say then. I have to go. I do love you, you know."
"DON'T!"
"Goodbye."
But what...
about...
ME?
Tuesday 5 August 2008
Playdough
Okay.
I have the secret.
It's not difficult. Are you with me?
You take one saucepan.
Lemme see! Lemme see!
Climb up here then, on this chair. Can you see now? Good.
You take one saucepan.
The big one! Use the big one! It's so shiny!
Okay. I'll use the big one. So. Ready?
You take one saucepan.
I can see my face! It looks sooooo biiiiiiiiiig... And a bit... wobbly...
Ahem. Ready? I'm starting now. Can I get past the first bit? Good. Okay.
You take one saucepan. And some measuring cups.
They're so COOL! Can I see? Can I hold them? Wow! They all fit into each other! Can I have them in my room?
No. So. We have a saucepan. And some measuring cups. Next? Next we need our ingredients. You take...
What are ingrediments?
The ingredients are what you put in the pan. So. Ready? Good.
You take two cups of flour.
Can I do this bit? It's sooooooo messy. One cup. Two... oops. Sorry....
That's okay. We'll use the dustpan and brush later. Do we have two cups in there? Good.
And one cup of salt. I think I'll do that one, if that's okay with you. And four teaspoons of Cream of Tartar. Oh yes, that's right. We need the measuring spoons.
Oh! They're so CUTE! They're even smaller than the cups! Can I have THESE ones in my room?
No. If you're really lucky, I'll get you your own for Christmas.
So. We have two cups of flour, one cup of salt, four teaspoons of Cream of Tartar. Next we need two tablespoons of oil. I think I'll do that one, too, if that's okay with you. Pass me the oil. Gloopy, isn't it?
Can I have some oil for Christmas, too?
What would you want with oil? Anyway, you can always use mine.
So. Two tablespoons of oil. Next we need two cups of water. You can do that bit. Can you reach the tap? That's good. Now, turn it... gently! Never mind. What's the good thing about water?
It dries.
That's right. So. Two cups please.
Now. What colour would you like your dough to be?
Purple.
I should have said. You can pick a colour from any of these bottles here.
Green, then. Please.
Okay. I'll put a big splash of that in the saucepan. Now, we heat it on the stove. Can you see? Careful! It gets very hot. We stir it and stir it. Isn't that messy? Slowly, slowly. It's heating up and mixing together. Isn't that a lovely colour. It's kind of beech-leaf green, isn't it? Can you see it's not so sticky now? It's coming together and now, now that it's not shiny any more, that means it's not gooey either. You can poke it with your finger, like this, and it doesn't stick. That means it's ready. Are you ready to play with it?
Sweetheart?
Where did you go?
Darling?
Ah. Well.
Sleep well sweetie-pie.
I have the secret.
It's not difficult. Are you with me?
You take one saucepan.
Lemme see! Lemme see!
Climb up here then, on this chair. Can you see now? Good.
You take one saucepan.
The big one! Use the big one! It's so shiny!
Okay. I'll use the big one. So. Ready?
You take one saucepan.
I can see my face! It looks sooooo biiiiiiiiiig... And a bit... wobbly...
Ahem. Ready? I'm starting now. Can I get past the first bit? Good. Okay.
You take one saucepan. And some measuring cups.
They're so COOL! Can I see? Can I hold them? Wow! They all fit into each other! Can I have them in my room?
No. So. We have a saucepan. And some measuring cups. Next? Next we need our ingredients. You take...
What are ingrediments?
The ingredients are what you put in the pan. So. Ready? Good.
You take two cups of flour.
Can I do this bit? It's sooooooo messy. One cup. Two... oops. Sorry....
That's okay. We'll use the dustpan and brush later. Do we have two cups in there? Good.
And one cup of salt. I think I'll do that one, if that's okay with you. And four teaspoons of Cream of Tartar. Oh yes, that's right. We need the measuring spoons.
Oh! They're so CUTE! They're even smaller than the cups! Can I have THESE ones in my room?
No. If you're really lucky, I'll get you your own for Christmas.
So. We have two cups of flour, one cup of salt, four teaspoons of Cream of Tartar. Next we need two tablespoons of oil. I think I'll do that one, too, if that's okay with you. Pass me the oil. Gloopy, isn't it?
Can I have some oil for Christmas, too?
What would you want with oil? Anyway, you can always use mine.
So. Two tablespoons of oil. Next we need two cups of water. You can do that bit. Can you reach the tap? That's good. Now, turn it... gently! Never mind. What's the good thing about water?
It dries.
That's right. So. Two cups please.
Now. What colour would you like your dough to be?
Purple.
I should have said. You can pick a colour from any of these bottles here.
Green, then. Please.
Okay. I'll put a big splash of that in the saucepan. Now, we heat it on the stove. Can you see? Careful! It gets very hot. We stir it and stir it. Isn't that messy? Slowly, slowly. It's heating up and mixing together. Isn't that a lovely colour. It's kind of beech-leaf green, isn't it? Can you see it's not so sticky now? It's coming together and now, now that it's not shiny any more, that means it's not gooey either. You can poke it with your finger, like this, and it doesn't stick. That means it's ready. Are you ready to play with it?
Sweetheart?
Where did you go?
Darling?
Ah. Well.
Sleep well sweetie-pie.
Lines of Communication
It starts well.
It fizzles along the tubes, leaps over the synapse-chasms, snaps into the consciousness and lurks on the tip of my tongue...
I open my mouth to speak.
And the fog descends.
I babble.
It was once so clear but now it is murky. Something has, with lumpen feet, stomped through the middle of the crystalline pool and churned it into mud.
I stammer.
My head hurts. The words are hanging, suspended in my brain, out of order, out of synch, jangling against one another. With sharp edges.
I stutter.
My tongue is a shovel, my words are a pit and I am digging deeper and deeper. And it is not what I mean. I talk myself around in a circle until I spin dizzily back into the hole. How can I expect you to understand what I have so dismally failed to explain?
I give up.
The fog clears and the pain dissipates.
Cuppatea?
It fizzles along the tubes, leaps over the synapse-chasms, snaps into the consciousness and lurks on the tip of my tongue...
I open my mouth to speak.
And the fog descends.
I babble.
It was once so clear but now it is murky. Something has, with lumpen feet, stomped through the middle of the crystalline pool and churned it into mud.
I stammer.
My head hurts. The words are hanging, suspended in my brain, out of order, out of synch, jangling against one another. With sharp edges.
I stutter.
My tongue is a shovel, my words are a pit and I am digging deeper and deeper. And it is not what I mean. I talk myself around in a circle until I spin dizzily back into the hole. How can I expect you to understand what I have so dismally failed to explain?
I give up.
The fog clears and the pain dissipates.
Cuppatea?
Escuchame
Qu'est-ce que tu veux?
No entiendo. Lo siento...
Quels sont tes besoins?
Me hablas en una lengua extrana...
Je ne comprends pas. Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?
Es que no me entiendes... Te hablo y me miras asi... no me conoces...?
Tu me parles, mais qu'est-ce que tu dis? Je n'ai aucune idee... Tu ne me connais pas?
Que necesitas? Cuales son...
Il me faut apprendre ta langue, je crois. Je veux te comprendre.
Creo que me hace falta hablar tu idioma. Quiero entender.
Let's start now.
No entiendo. Lo siento...
Quels sont tes besoins?
Me hablas en una lengua extrana...
Je ne comprends pas. Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?
Es que no me entiendes... Te hablo y me miras asi... no me conoces...?
Tu me parles, mais qu'est-ce que tu dis? Je n'ai aucune idee... Tu ne me connais pas?
Que necesitas? Cuales son...
Il me faut apprendre ta langue, je crois. Je veux te comprendre.
Creo que me hace falta hablar tu idioma. Quiero entender.
Let's start now.
Monday 4 August 2008
Saturday Sweets
We sat in silent anticipation. In the sitting room the excitement was palpable. The sounds of fiddling and concocting, rustling and pouring came from the kitchen dresser.
And the cry went up:
"Eyes closed! Hands in your laps! Little backs straight!"
We sat in a regimented line on the sofa. Eight little eyes squeezed shut. Eight little hands on eight little knees. Four little backs poker-straight.
And the ritual continued as every Saturday before, and many after.
Deprived of the sense of sight, we felt the egg-cup deposited in our hands replete with its precious load of jelly tots, smarties, jelly babies and dolly mixture.
Eyes open we surveyed our prize. Each of us had a singular method of proceeding: one shovelled every morsel straight in and gulped a gooey mixture of sticky sweetness; another savoured each one slowly, allowing the last to dissolve completely before moving on to the next; the third saved them for later, allowing the possibility of gloating to come into play; and the last... she ate a few, saved a few and, invariably, gave a few away.
Life is a little like Saturday Sweets... Which one are you?
And the cry went up:
"Eyes closed! Hands in your laps! Little backs straight!"
We sat in a regimented line on the sofa. Eight little eyes squeezed shut. Eight little hands on eight little knees. Four little backs poker-straight.
And the ritual continued as every Saturday before, and many after.
Deprived of the sense of sight, we felt the egg-cup deposited in our hands replete with its precious load of jelly tots, smarties, jelly babies and dolly mixture.
Eyes open we surveyed our prize. Each of us had a singular method of proceeding: one shovelled every morsel straight in and gulped a gooey mixture of sticky sweetness; another savoured each one slowly, allowing the last to dissolve completely before moving on to the next; the third saved them for later, allowing the possibility of gloating to come into play; and the last... she ate a few, saved a few and, invariably, gave a few away.
Life is a little like Saturday Sweets... Which one are you?
Shrouded in Mystery
What does it mean?
It's all Greek to me. Or mythology. Or magic.
You wave your wand and... pow! It's there. I see it. As though for the first time.
I can't begin to understand. The cerebral cogs click and whirr and overheat. Smoke issues from my ears as my eyes mist over with the exertion.
Don't talk to me now! I'm trying to hold onto a thought. But it's a slippery little sucker. And it's gone.
Too many books. Too many ideas. Too much history.
My head like a carpet bag stuffed with needles and wool; some balls intact, others unravelled and tangled; some garments started, nothing finished; requiring time, effort, willingness and very nimble fingers to make sense of the mess.
Time I have got. Effort I will put in. Willingness abounds. (Like Yoda I will speak).
Anyone got any scissors? Or failing that a good dictionary?
It's all Greek to me. Or mythology. Or magic.
You wave your wand and... pow! It's there. I see it. As though for the first time.
I can't begin to understand. The cerebral cogs click and whirr and overheat. Smoke issues from my ears as my eyes mist over with the exertion.
Don't talk to me now! I'm trying to hold onto a thought. But it's a slippery little sucker. And it's gone.
Too many books. Too many ideas. Too much history.
My head like a carpet bag stuffed with needles and wool; some balls intact, others unravelled and tangled; some garments started, nothing finished; requiring time, effort, willingness and very nimble fingers to make sense of the mess.
Time I have got. Effort I will put in. Willingness abounds. (Like Yoda I will speak).
Anyone got any scissors? Or failing that a good dictionary?
Saturday 26 July 2008
Denial
"I didn't!"
"You did."
"I didn't!"
"You did."
"Would you two please stop bickering?"
"We're not!"
"You are."
"We're not!"
"You are!"
"Mummy, where's my Snuggly Duck?"
"In the baby's room, where you left it."
"I didn't!"
"You did."
"I didn't!"
"You did."
"Darling, have you seen my mobile?"
"It's on the dresser. You put it there this morning."
"No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did."
"You're imagining things."
"No, I'm not."
"Daddy, he took my Game Boy!"
"No, I didn't!"
"Yes, you did!"
"No, I didn't!"
"I'm telling Mummy. Muuuuuuum!"
"Muuuuuuuuuuuummmmmy!"
"She's in the sitting room."
"NO, I'M NOT!"
"You did."
"I didn't!"
"You did."
"Would you two please stop bickering?"
"We're not!"
"You are."
"We're not!"
"You are!"
"Mummy, where's my Snuggly Duck?"
"In the baby's room, where you left it."
"I didn't!"
"You did."
"I didn't!"
"You did."
"Darling, have you seen my mobile?"
"It's on the dresser. You put it there this morning."
"No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did."
"You're imagining things."
"No, I'm not."
"Daddy, he took my Game Boy!"
"No, I didn't!"
"Yes, you did!"
"No, I didn't!"
"I'm telling Mummy. Muuuuuuum!"
"Muuuuuuuuuuuummmmmy!"
"She's in the sitting room."
"NO, I'M NOT!"
Wednesday 23 July 2008
Solitude
It doesn't matter where she is. Nor matter how large the crowd.
Some days, it is as though her head is a goldfish bowl; public property for anyone to gawp and marvel at. But how can they see past the murk? How could you possibly tell if there's anything alive in there? And if they could, if they did, would they tell her? Or back off in confusion.
And her heart. It beats there, on the outside of her cardigan sleeve. Sometimes it hollers at people as their lives brush shoulders with hers:
"Today I'm sad! Today I need you!"
"I'm out of sorts, out of synch, out of kilter. I've lost my rhythm, lost direction, lost my marbles. I'm beginning to wonder if I had any rhythm to start with. Or direction for that matter - how did you know which route to take? Did you know from childhood? Did someone help you? Can you help me?"
But it falls on deaf ears. Or maybe her heart's frequency is set to another channel?
Occasionally, the channels cross with sparks of static electricity and her eyes light up with hope. But almost invariably the dial spins on past hers. Her station is not churning out enough crowd-pleasing material. She doesn't have the will to spin it. She wants the content to be accepted for what it is.
So she hitches on the smile and stands in the middle of the crowd in the playground, the life and soul.
Alone.
Some days, it is as though her head is a goldfish bowl; public property for anyone to gawp and marvel at. But how can they see past the murk? How could you possibly tell if there's anything alive in there? And if they could, if they did, would they tell her? Or back off in confusion.
And her heart. It beats there, on the outside of her cardigan sleeve. Sometimes it hollers at people as their lives brush shoulders with hers:
"Today I'm sad! Today I need you!"
"I'm out of sorts, out of synch, out of kilter. I've lost my rhythm, lost direction, lost my marbles. I'm beginning to wonder if I had any rhythm to start with. Or direction for that matter - how did you know which route to take? Did you know from childhood? Did someone help you? Can you help me?"
But it falls on deaf ears. Or maybe her heart's frequency is set to another channel?
Occasionally, the channels cross with sparks of static electricity and her eyes light up with hope. But almost invariably the dial spins on past hers. Her station is not churning out enough crowd-pleasing material. She doesn't have the will to spin it. She wants the content to be accepted for what it is.
So she hitches on the smile and stands in the middle of the crowd in the playground, the life and soul.
Alone.
Sunday 20 July 2008
Freecycle
We don't want a drum-kit, do we?
Until we have a sound-proofed garage, the answer must always be no.
Robes. They are stone-coloured, natural, heavy linen. It includes a top, a skirt and a hooded coat. They give the effect of Jedi robes. Fits size 16-18 woman, about 5'7" - 5'8". These are used but undamaged. Excellent for ceremonies.
Anyone?
Hats. There are 5 hats, all hand-made and never worn. Two are Tudor-style and the other three are fascinators. Would be good for fancy dress or acting.
Ermmmm. Let me think. Oh, tell them OK. Good for the dressing-up box.
I have an old dolls' house, I think from the '70s, needs restoring. Was given to me by another freecycler last year and I've never got round to restoring it. Seems a shame to be sitting there.
But we have boys. Or... should we stereotype? Would they love it?
Three tables, 6' x 3', wooden tops, metal legs. In fair condition.
Yes, yes, yes! Straight away! Our party - they'd be perfect!
Wanted - bidet - Bohemia, St. Leonards. Can collect.
I'm afraid I can't oblige. Our bidets are in use. But Bohemia... Doesn't it sound wonderful?
dyson cylinder for offer i have just bought a newer model so getting rid it's in quite good condition still good suction has been used mainly for pet hairs so will need a good clean
Some things you should just never ask. Or own up to. And some people need to learn to punctuate.
Offered. Orthopaedic mattress, double (4'6" x 6'3") Somewhat coffee-stained but very supportive and if covered with a mattress cover and an underblanket would be fine. Has given me 20 years of good comfortable sleep but is just too heavy to take overseas.
Who needs a wife?
Offered. Majorette stuff. Leotards, jazz shoes, baton etc. that are no longer of any use.
Don't you look at me like that!
Until we have a sound-proofed garage, the answer must always be no.
Robes. They are stone-coloured, natural, heavy linen. It includes a top, a skirt and a hooded coat. They give the effect of Jedi robes. Fits size 16-18 woman, about 5'7" - 5'8". These are used but undamaged. Excellent for ceremonies.
Anyone?
Hats. There are 5 hats, all hand-made and never worn. Two are Tudor-style and the other three are fascinators. Would be good for fancy dress or acting.
Ermmmm. Let me think. Oh, tell them OK. Good for the dressing-up box.
I have an old dolls' house, I think from the '70s, needs restoring. Was given to me by another freecycler last year and I've never got round to restoring it. Seems a shame to be sitting there.
But we have boys. Or... should we stereotype? Would they love it?
Three tables, 6' x 3', wooden tops, metal legs. In fair condition.
Yes, yes, yes! Straight away! Our party - they'd be perfect!
Wanted - bidet - Bohemia, St. Leonards. Can collect.
I'm afraid I can't oblige. Our bidets are in use. But Bohemia... Doesn't it sound wonderful?
dyson cylinder for offer i have just bought a newer model so getting rid it's in quite good condition still good suction has been used mainly for pet hairs so will need a good clean
Some things you should just never ask. Or own up to. And some people need to learn to punctuate.
Offered. Orthopaedic mattress, double (4'6" x 6'3") Somewhat coffee-stained but very supportive and if covered with a mattress cover and an underblanket would be fine. Has given me 20 years of good comfortable sleep but is just too heavy to take overseas.
Who needs a wife?
Offered. Majorette stuff. Leotards, jazz shoes, baton etc. that are no longer of any use.
Don't you look at me like that!
Saturday 19 July 2008
Without You
Where would I be?
You watched me grow, just ahead of you.
You were my little frilly shadow for the longest time.
You told me stories through your sucked thumb, lisping my name.
You stood just behind me and said "Yeah!" in agreement, often.
I adored you.
You were my china doll.
I wanted to brush your teeth before you had any; your hair before it came.
You watched the anguish of my teenage years. You saw my pain.
You squirrelled it away in the back of your mind to soothe me in later distress.
I would have liked to have been more use to you during yours.
We stand together now, and say "Yeah!", side by side.
You watched me grow, just ahead of you.
You were my little frilly shadow for the longest time.
You told me stories through your sucked thumb, lisping my name.
You stood just behind me and said "Yeah!" in agreement, often.
I adored you.
You were my china doll.
I wanted to brush your teeth before you had any; your hair before it came.
You watched the anguish of my teenage years. You saw my pain.
You squirrelled it away in the back of your mind to soothe me in later distress.
I would have liked to have been more use to you during yours.
We stand together now, and say "Yeah!", side by side.
Power-Point
Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.
By George, I think I’ve got it!
Shouldn’t that yardstick apply to every thought, every action?
Would the human race not be better off if, before shifting the tiniest muscle, before lifting the smallest finger, before exerting the least grain of decision, it examined the purest corner of its conscience and said:
“Should I?”
_______
And would it be presumptuous to suggest to all you leaders-of-men that it's never too late to start?
Word Count
Unit = one.
But it also means two or more, doesn't it? Family unit? One unit of several members.
Couple = two.
A couple of children. A couple of problems. A happy couple.
Trio = three.
A tricky trio of troublesome tykes. Triumvirate. Tri-partite. Three-line whip.
Several = a few.
Several years ago I lost my marbles. How many?
Millions.
But it also means two or more, doesn't it? Family unit? One unit of several members.
Couple = two.
A couple of children. A couple of problems. A happy couple.
Trio = three.
A tricky trio of troublesome tykes. Triumvirate. Tri-partite. Three-line whip.
Several = a few.
Several years ago I lost my marbles. How many?
Millions.
Right Where You Want Me.
We are very much aware of the frailty of life, for some reasons that you know and others that you don't.
"But what did she mean, Daddy? Obviously, I understand the first reference, but the second? What is wrong? What are you not telling me?"
"I told her she shouldn't put that in there when she read it to me."
"But what is it? Are you OK?"
Sigh. "Yes, darling. I'm fine. Look, I really don't think I should tell you this."
"Oh God! WHAT?"
"She'll be awfully cross. You must promise I didn't tell you."
"OK, OK, I promise. Just tell me!"
"There were a couple of scares last year. She was awfully worried. She found a lump. And then she had another fear, too. But they were both fine. They were checked out - tests and everything. There was nothing in it."
So, I don't quiz her about it because I'll re-open the can of worms, prolong the argument. And besides, it came to nothing.
Yet if I don't ask, I don't care.
Damned if you do, damned if you don't.
Friday 18 July 2008
Words
Scurvy.
It's a good word, isn't it?
Only one vowel but a good distribution of curves and angles.
Curves.
Curvy.
See?
But I don't suppose it's very nice to have it.
It's a good word, isn't it?
Only one vowel but a good distribution of curves and angles.
Curves.
Curvy.
See?
But I don't suppose it's very nice to have it.
Thursday 17 July 2008
Do I Know You?
Have you been this way before?
I have.
Well, of course I have - here I am.
But I thought I was the first.
At least, I thought I was the only one.
I didn't think I'd find anyone along here.
You seem awfully familiar.
Look! That scar's just like mine!
And that one.
And that one!
This is kind of weird actually.
I might just go back. I'm sure I've got something pressing to do. I've just forgotten what it is.
Or...
Did you want to go on a little way together?
We could maybe see... you know... how they heal?
I have.
Well, of course I have - here I am.
But I thought I was the first.
At least, I thought I was the only one.
I didn't think I'd find anyone along here.
You seem awfully familiar.
Look! That scar's just like mine!
And that one.
And that one!
This is kind of weird actually.
I might just go back. I'm sure I've got something pressing to do. I've just forgotten what it is.
Or...
Did you want to go on a little way together?
We could maybe see... you know... how they heal?
Wednesday 16 July 2008
Think Fast
Crushed.
Devastated.
His little sleep-crumpled face betrays a child destroyed.
Lifting my foggy head from my pillow I look at him, small and fragile in the doorway, and ponder what could have brought such wretchedness so early in the day.
As the cloudy skies of deepest sleep begin to clear, the weak dawn sun of realisation lights a sense of panic rising somewhere deep inside me.
"She didn't come!" he wails.
"Are you sure?" I ask, trying to buy time to find a happy outcome to this tragedy.
"Yes! Look!"
He thrusts his little fist under my nose and uncurls his fingers. There, nestled innocently in his little palm (where it should not be) is a tiny, perfect tooth.
"Listen," I cajole, "It's still awfully early, sweetheart. Barely daytime yet. Night-time really. Is your brother still asleep?"
He nods.
"I'll sneak in and see if she's been while you've been talking to us."
He doesn't notice me take the coin from my bedside table. I am a devious mother.
I return triumphant.
"Look! She came! She must have been running REALLY late tonight. Perhaps lots and lots of little boys and girls lost teeth yesterday..."
His face is transformed. From wreckage to rapture in one wily move.
At breakfast, I notice him observing me from under his eyelashes. He is puzzled.
Eventually, I ask.
"What is it, darling?"
He opens his hand again.
Anyone?
Devastated.
His little sleep-crumpled face betrays a child destroyed.
Lifting my foggy head from my pillow I look at him, small and fragile in the doorway, and ponder what could have brought such wretchedness so early in the day.
As the cloudy skies of deepest sleep begin to clear, the weak dawn sun of realisation lights a sense of panic rising somewhere deep inside me.
"She didn't come!" he wails.
"Are you sure?" I ask, trying to buy time to find a happy outcome to this tragedy.
"Yes! Look!"
He thrusts his little fist under my nose and uncurls his fingers. There, nestled innocently in his little palm (where it should not be) is a tiny, perfect tooth.
"Listen," I cajole, "It's still awfully early, sweetheart. Barely daytime yet. Night-time really. Is your brother still asleep?"
He nods.
"I'll sneak in and see if she's been while you've been talking to us."
He doesn't notice me take the coin from my bedside table. I am a devious mother.
I return triumphant.
"Look! She came! She must have been running REALLY late tonight. Perhaps lots and lots of little boys and girls lost teeth yesterday..."
His face is transformed. From wreckage to rapture in one wily move.
--- --- ---
Eventually, I ask.
"What is it, darling?"
He opens his hand again.
Anyone?
Tuesday 15 July 2008
Trial by Love?
I was 19.
She came, uninvited, into my room and sat on my bed. She wouldn't make eye-contact; she looked at her feet.
"I don't know if you two have got what is called an 'active sex life.'"
My heart began a sickly pounding and my tongue seemed twice its usual size. I opened my mouth to speak. But she was faster. Talking swiftly, without stumbling, she spoke of 'protection'. I explained, quietly, that this information was a little late in arriving.
I pleaded. I begged. I appealed to her maternal protection. It didn't hear me.
"PLEASE don't tell Daddy."
"Your father and I have no secrets."
She always said that: "Your father and I". Like they were the important ones, the ones that mattered. We, their offspring, were secondary appendages.
When he returned home later that evening, I was summoned to my father's study. From behind his desk, he motioned for me to sit. In no uncertain terms he made it clear that I was an abomination. My behaviour would not be tolerated. I would desist. Not only that, but I would not be permitted to receive Communion until I had been to confession and put a stop to my sinning.
I would also not pervert my brother or sisters. I would not speak of my actions, far less perform them under their roof.
On Sunday, I was woken as usual and herded into the car with my younger siblings. As the time for Communion arrived, my family filed one by one to the front of the church and left me, the fornicator, alone in the pew. Head bowed. Mortified.
And so it went on. Sunday after Sunday. Shame, humiliation, ritual stripping of my soul.
And I did not desist.
One Sunday, months later, in Moscow, I found an American church for my visiting parents. Fresh from observing a mountain of letters, sent to reinforce his love and keep my spirits chirpy, they sat either side of me. The congregation rose, one by one, to take Communion and my mother stood. She turned to me. Graciously forgiving, she held out her hand to me. Permission to return to the fold. I stood and followed, sobbing tears of gratitude, humility, repentance.
Should I call her God?
She came, uninvited, into my room and sat on my bed. She wouldn't make eye-contact; she looked at her feet.
"I don't know if you two have got what is called an 'active sex life.'"
My heart began a sickly pounding and my tongue seemed twice its usual size. I opened my mouth to speak. But she was faster. Talking swiftly, without stumbling, she spoke of 'protection'. I explained, quietly, that this information was a little late in arriving.
I pleaded. I begged. I appealed to her maternal protection. It didn't hear me.
"PLEASE don't tell Daddy."
"Your father and I have no secrets."
She always said that: "Your father and I". Like they were the important ones, the ones that mattered. We, their offspring, were secondary appendages.
When he returned home later that evening, I was summoned to my father's study. From behind his desk, he motioned for me to sit. In no uncertain terms he made it clear that I was an abomination. My behaviour would not be tolerated. I would desist. Not only that, but I would not be permitted to receive Communion until I had been to confession and put a stop to my sinning.
I would also not pervert my brother or sisters. I would not speak of my actions, far less perform them under their roof.
On Sunday, I was woken as usual and herded into the car with my younger siblings. As the time for Communion arrived, my family filed one by one to the front of the church and left me, the fornicator, alone in the pew. Head bowed. Mortified.
And so it went on. Sunday after Sunday. Shame, humiliation, ritual stripping of my soul.
And I did not desist.
--- --- ---
One Sunday, months later, in Moscow, I found an American church for my visiting parents. Fresh from observing a mountain of letters, sent to reinforce his love and keep my spirits chirpy, they sat either side of me. The congregation rose, one by one, to take Communion and my mother stood. She turned to me. Graciously forgiving, she held out her hand to me. Permission to return to the fold. I stood and followed, sobbing tears of gratitude, humility, repentance.
Should I call her God?
Sunday 13 July 2008
Tug-of-War
He was roped in. Literally.
I don't think I realised how game he can be. He came home with burns from that rope and a chest he later struggled to get to sleep on.
"I'm in team 3", he announced. All that was left was to wait to be called.
We stood along the line, his boys and I, roaring our encouragement.
On one end of the rope, a raggle-taggle assortment of dads; all shapes and sizes; all plucky and determined; all being cheered on by their proud families.
On the other end?
Firemen.
Seldom have I been so conflicted.
I don't think I realised how game he can be. He came home with burns from that rope and a chest he later struggled to get to sleep on.
"I'm in team 3", he announced. All that was left was to wait to be called.
We stood along the line, his boys and I, roaring our encouragement.
On one end of the rope, a raggle-taggle assortment of dads; all shapes and sizes; all plucky and determined; all being cheered on by their proud families.
On the other end?
Firemen.
Seldom have I been so conflicted.
Friday 11 July 2008
Danish Pastries
Two devastating blondes board the train. They sit adjacent to us and chat to one another happily. Admiring glances are angled at them from the length of the compartment.
My day-dirty hair is being used as a prop by my big, fat baby. He is hollering in my ear and rubbing half-chewed dates into my already crumpled blouse. It is hard to imagine feeling or, indeed, looking less glamorous.
The bombshells catch his eye and he gives them his most disarming grin. And dribbles down my neck. I feel it trickle into my bra. They coo at him and reach for his chubby little hands.
The trolley wends its way bumpily down the aisle, stops by me and I order some ridiculously over-priced and revolting coffee - anything to stay awake. And to kill time.
It is the vixens' turn. The trolley attendant leans over them attentively.
In their most beautiful accents, they ask for coffee and a croissant each. But there is only one left. He offers them an alternative :
"You could 'ave a Danish?"
They collapse into uncontainable fits of giggles. I've already got the joke, but the attendant is clearly flummoxed.
"We are Danish", titters the lovely nearest me, by way of explanation.
He still hasn't got it.
"Well, it won't be as good as the ones you get at home".
I sigh and turn back to my little round ball of damp havoc.
Well, that's killed five minutes.
My day-dirty hair is being used as a prop by my big, fat baby. He is hollering in my ear and rubbing half-chewed dates into my already crumpled blouse. It is hard to imagine feeling or, indeed, looking less glamorous.
The bombshells catch his eye and he gives them his most disarming grin. And dribbles down my neck. I feel it trickle into my bra. They coo at him and reach for his chubby little hands.
The trolley wends its way bumpily down the aisle, stops by me and I order some ridiculously over-priced and revolting coffee - anything to stay awake. And to kill time.
It is the vixens' turn. The trolley attendant leans over them attentively.
In their most beautiful accents, they ask for coffee and a croissant each. But there is only one left. He offers them an alternative :
"You could 'ave a Danish?"
They collapse into uncontainable fits of giggles. I've already got the joke, but the attendant is clearly flummoxed.
"We are Danish", titters the lovely nearest me, by way of explanation.
He still hasn't got it.
"Well, it won't be as good as the ones you get at home".
I sigh and turn back to my little round ball of damp havoc.
Well, that's killed five minutes.
Thursday 10 July 2008
Tea-Time
"Superman shot off through the garden. His..."
"I'm not Superman. I'm Superfrog".
"I do apologise.
"Superfrog shot off through the garden. His cape bil..."
"I'm not wearing a cape. It's my ninvisible cloak".
"I am sorry.
"Superfrog shot off through the garden. His ninvisible cloak billowed around his arms. Robin..."
"I haven't got arms. Frogs have four legs".
"How silly of me.
"Superfrog shot off through the garden. His ninvisible cloak billowed around his four legs. Robin, his sidekick, leapt in..."
"He's not Robin. He's Super-Sumo-Robin-Head".
"How did I miss that?
"Superfrog shot off through the garden. His ninvisible cloak billowed around his four legs. Super-Sumo-Robin-Head, his sidekick, leapt into view halfway down the lawn..."
"It's not a lawn. It's a Space Trampoline".
...
...
...
"Mum?"
"I'm not Mum. I'm She-Who-Forgot-Where-She-Started.
And it's tea-time".
...
...
...
"Superfrogs don't eat tea".
"I'm not Superman. I'm Superfrog".
"I do apologise.
"Superfrog shot off through the garden. His cape bil..."
"I'm not wearing a cape. It's my ninvisible cloak".
"I am sorry.
"Superfrog shot off through the garden. His ninvisible cloak billowed around his arms. Robin..."
"I haven't got arms. Frogs have four legs".
"How silly of me.
"Superfrog shot off through the garden. His ninvisible cloak billowed around his four legs. Robin, his sidekick, leapt in..."
"He's not Robin. He's Super-Sumo-Robin-Head".
"How did I miss that?
"Superfrog shot off through the garden. His ninvisible cloak billowed around his four legs. Super-Sumo-Robin-Head, his sidekick, leapt into view halfway down the lawn..."
"It's not a lawn. It's a Space Trampoline".
...
...
...
"Mum?"
"I'm not Mum. I'm She-Who-Forgot-Where-She-Started.
And it's tea-time".
...
...
...
"Superfrogs don't eat tea".
Tuesday 8 July 2008
Writers' Block
The tentacles of my thoughts thrash about, desperate to grasp onto something.
The something is elusive.
As the suckers of one long limb approach their goal, like an unyielding lover it vanishes around a corner in a flash of red, lost forever.
If I'm not careful, these writhing, living branches will knit themselves into the most horrible tangle and I'll never think straight again.
Would it help to apply gin?
The something is elusive.
As the suckers of one long limb approach their goal, like an unyielding lover it vanishes around a corner in a flash of red, lost forever.
If I'm not careful, these writhing, living branches will knit themselves into the most horrible tangle and I'll never think straight again.
Would it help to apply gin?
Monday 7 July 2008
Mrs Bantam
She's heading straight for me.
Look down, look up, look anywhere but at her. Maybe it's someone standing near me she wants. Maybe if I engage someone else in conversation, she'll walk straight past.
But she's a teacher. She knows who she's after. And it's me.
I try to look meek, optimistic, unthreatening, friendly, vulnerable, welcoming. It's too much for my poor face to cope with. I end up looking, frankly, a bit simple. I am already ashamed and embarrassed.
"Could I have a word, Mrs. Sands?"
I nod my acquiescence and smile hopefully. Perhaps he's been outstanding today. Maybe it's a heroic tale I'm about to hear.
But her face quickly denies me that hope. And I find it lurked only just below the surface anyway.
"I walked into the classroom today to find Alfie digging for gold".
I am non-plussed. Suddenly, I feel like a foreigner in my own land. Digging for gold? What on earth could she mean?
She senses my incomprehension.
She gestures with her index finger, turning her face away and pushing her finger up the far side of her nose. I get the point.
"I'm afraid he is beside himself. I simply asked him if he could desist and he dissolved into tears. I haven't been able to get a word out of him since".
I follow her to the classroom and collect my crumpled, sodden child.
Slowly, bleakly, desolately, my little nose-picker and I make our way out of the school gates and towards the car. He hiccups occasionally. He still hasn't looked up at me. I have one hand soothingly, protectively, on his shoulder.
Suddenly, he trips. And the force of the fall propels the cherry stone from deep in his nostril.
Look down, look up, look anywhere but at her. Maybe it's someone standing near me she wants. Maybe if I engage someone else in conversation, she'll walk straight past.
But she's a teacher. She knows who she's after. And it's me.
I try to look meek, optimistic, unthreatening, friendly, vulnerable, welcoming. It's too much for my poor face to cope with. I end up looking, frankly, a bit simple. I am already ashamed and embarrassed.
"Could I have a word, Mrs. Sands?"
I nod my acquiescence and smile hopefully. Perhaps he's been outstanding today. Maybe it's a heroic tale I'm about to hear.
But her face quickly denies me that hope. And I find it lurked only just below the surface anyway.
"I walked into the classroom today to find Alfie digging for gold".
I am non-plussed. Suddenly, I feel like a foreigner in my own land. Digging for gold? What on earth could she mean?
She senses my incomprehension.
She gestures with her index finger, turning her face away and pushing her finger up the far side of her nose. I get the point.
"I'm afraid he is beside himself. I simply asked him if he could desist and he dissolved into tears. I haven't been able to get a word out of him since".
I follow her to the classroom and collect my crumpled, sodden child.
Slowly, bleakly, desolately, my little nose-picker and I make our way out of the school gates and towards the car. He hiccups occasionally. He still hasn't looked up at me. I have one hand soothingly, protectively, on his shoulder.
Suddenly, he trips. And the force of the fall propels the cherry stone from deep in his nostril.
A Long Time Absent
Kneeling, I am overwhelmed with gratitude
For the peace;
For the calm.
Inside.
Most surprising.
Glancing down beside me: small head bent, intent.
Following.
Keeping up.
Angelic.
My darling.
For the peace;
For the calm.
Inside.
Most surprising.
Glancing down beside me: small head bent, intent.
Following.
Keeping up.
Angelic.
My darling.
Saturday 5 July 2008
Know Your Audience
"I have to be honest", he said.
Doesn't that always worry you? Why do you have to be? Very few people are, in truth. Doesn't it usually mean that you're about to say something a little outspoken and, really, you're just preparing your listeners for it?
Anyway, he had to be honest.
"I'm a breast-man. I don't know why. I just love them.
They're just... lovely".
His face was enraptured, his eyes far-away and wistful. There was no doubting the truth of his words.
His audience, two baggy-bosomed mothers-of-four, smiled at him indulgently.
Good job they love him.
Doesn't that always worry you? Why do you have to be? Very few people are, in truth. Doesn't it usually mean that you're about to say something a little outspoken and, really, you're just preparing your listeners for it?
Anyway, he had to be honest.
"I'm a breast-man. I don't know why. I just love them.
They're just... lovely".
His face was enraptured, his eyes far-away and wistful. There was no doubting the truth of his words.
His audience, two baggy-bosomed mothers-of-four, smiled at him indulgently.
Good job they love him.
Friday 4 July 2008
School Reunion
I had never met her before. Despite the crowds milling around her, laughing, emptying their glasses with friendly abandon, using this short time to fill the last few decades, she sat alone.
She was one of the few who hadn’t brought a husband. She had found a quiet spot in a wicker chair, in a corner under a tree, by the pool. Before her, but apparently being afforded little attention, a family splashed, oblivious to anyone else. Armbands, rubber rings, giggles and screams. It was the perfect place to sit, undisturbed; to avoid having to make small-talk. The other guests appeared to understand. They gave her the solitude she seemed to require.
Very occasionally a wistful smile shivered across her face and, as quickly as it had appeared, vanished.
I sat at a table on the lawn with the rest of the party. We ate, drank and talked. They were a fascinating group; their lives so diverse, their paths so different. They had reached an age that had brought them ease in their own skin and no competition amongst themselves. They were simply enjoying being together. Most of them had children my age and grandchildren at similar stages to my own boys happily cavorting in the pool with their father.
The lunch, ridiculously billed as a picnic, was lavish and plentiful. There were cold meats, Spanish tortillas, quiches, salads of many colours and delicious warm breads. The wine was as always in abundant supply Рthe Rioja the sensible choice as the Ros̩ on the garden table was heating to the point of tasting mulled.
On the surface at least, the argument with my parents had been forgotten; they were basking in the glow of their munificence: hosts and providers, parents and grandparents; generosity personified. As I passed behind her chair, my mother took my hand and held it affectionately to her warm cheek without breaking off her conversation with her old school friend. I was enjoying the break in hostilities, allowing myself to relax into the afternoon: the sunniest of the year. But I didn’t altogether trust it. Experience had taught me, to my cost, that things were not always as simple as they appeared and that, more likely than not, the rumblings would continue undetected until the next time I dared declare my wishes in opposition to my parents’. This was merely a truce, and I shouldn’t trust its permanence.
The afternoon stretched into evening and the last of the guests left. The children were dried and dressed, the cold banished from their bones under sun-toasted clothes. One by one they were loaded into the car. A mood of pure benevolence washed over me as I embraced my father.
“I love you, Daddy. I hope you know that”, I told him.
He laughed, a little self-consciously, and told me he loved me, too. I headed for the car, where my mother was making faces through the window at my boys. I put my arms around her and thanked her for a superb afternoon.
“It’s so sad about Hettie”, she said.
“Has she never been married?” I asked.
“Oh darling, she had two sons. The first was killed in an accident in front of his brother. His brother couldn’t bear it and took his own life in despair”.
“Oh my God!”
“Then her husband left with a younger woman. She said that was the worst bit”.
Somehow I have forgotten what our argument was about.
She was one of the few who hadn’t brought a husband. She had found a quiet spot in a wicker chair, in a corner under a tree, by the pool. Before her, but apparently being afforded little attention, a family splashed, oblivious to anyone else. Armbands, rubber rings, giggles and screams. It was the perfect place to sit, undisturbed; to avoid having to make small-talk. The other guests appeared to understand. They gave her the solitude she seemed to require.
Very occasionally a wistful smile shivered across her face and, as quickly as it had appeared, vanished.
I sat at a table on the lawn with the rest of the party. We ate, drank and talked. They were a fascinating group; their lives so diverse, their paths so different. They had reached an age that had brought them ease in their own skin and no competition amongst themselves. They were simply enjoying being together. Most of them had children my age and grandchildren at similar stages to my own boys happily cavorting in the pool with their father.
The lunch, ridiculously billed as a picnic, was lavish and plentiful. There were cold meats, Spanish tortillas, quiches, salads of many colours and delicious warm breads. The wine was as always in abundant supply Рthe Rioja the sensible choice as the Ros̩ on the garden table was heating to the point of tasting mulled.
On the surface at least, the argument with my parents had been forgotten; they were basking in the glow of their munificence: hosts and providers, parents and grandparents; generosity personified. As I passed behind her chair, my mother took my hand and held it affectionately to her warm cheek without breaking off her conversation with her old school friend. I was enjoying the break in hostilities, allowing myself to relax into the afternoon: the sunniest of the year. But I didn’t altogether trust it. Experience had taught me, to my cost, that things were not always as simple as they appeared and that, more likely than not, the rumblings would continue undetected until the next time I dared declare my wishes in opposition to my parents’. This was merely a truce, and I shouldn’t trust its permanence.
The afternoon stretched into evening and the last of the guests left. The children were dried and dressed, the cold banished from their bones under sun-toasted clothes. One by one they were loaded into the car. A mood of pure benevolence washed over me as I embraced my father.
“I love you, Daddy. I hope you know that”, I told him.
He laughed, a little self-consciously, and told me he loved me, too. I headed for the car, where my mother was making faces through the window at my boys. I put my arms around her and thanked her for a superb afternoon.
“It’s so sad about Hettie”, she said.
“Has she never been married?” I asked.
“Oh darling, she had two sons. The first was killed in an accident in front of his brother. His brother couldn’t bear it and took his own life in despair”.
“Oh my God!”
“Then her husband left with a younger woman. She said that was the worst bit”.
Somehow I have forgotten what our argument was about.
Induction
He eyed me almost disdainfully.
"If I could ask you to just sit here a minute and fill out these forms. Just let me know when you're done". He swaggered off. He didn't even have to try to look nonchalant. He wasn't remotely attractive (certainly not my type) but something about his sinewy poise and movement just oozed fitness. You couldn't help but watch and admire.
I sat on the swivel-chair in the corner feeling small and inexperienced. I was, as they say, out of my comfort zone. In so many ways. This was not my world and I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to be a part of it. But it was too late now. I had come in and I had sat down. I had a questionnaire, for God's sake! Why didn't they make it easy?
I answered all the relevant questions, many of which made me squirm. There was something self-flagellatory in the manner in which I forced myself to answer questions at which other people would surely draw the line... Age, weight, reasons for putting myself through this humiliation.
Occasionally, I glanced up from my test to see minuscule young things in even smaller garments barely breaking a sweat on machines that would surely have been better located in a dank dungeon somewhere. This must be hell. I must, voluntarily, have mosied on into hell. What is more, I was actually going to pay them to torture me. And. AND, I was going to pay extra for them to devise a particular routine of suffering especially for me!
I was no stranger to humiliation. After all, you only have to get pregnant to qualify for large doses of it at the hands of anyone wearing a health professional's badge. And I had managed that four times.
Is it right to prefer to give birth naked in a roomful of people you don't know than to join a gym?
"If I could ask you to just sit here a minute and fill out these forms. Just let me know when you're done". He swaggered off. He didn't even have to try to look nonchalant. He wasn't remotely attractive (certainly not my type) but something about his sinewy poise and movement just oozed fitness. You couldn't help but watch and admire.
I sat on the swivel-chair in the corner feeling small and inexperienced. I was, as they say, out of my comfort zone. In so many ways. This was not my world and I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to be a part of it. But it was too late now. I had come in and I had sat down. I had a questionnaire, for God's sake! Why didn't they make it easy?
I answered all the relevant questions, many of which made me squirm. There was something self-flagellatory in the manner in which I forced myself to answer questions at which other people would surely draw the line... Age, weight, reasons for putting myself through this humiliation.
Occasionally, I glanced up from my test to see minuscule young things in even smaller garments barely breaking a sweat on machines that would surely have been better located in a dank dungeon somewhere. This must be hell. I must, voluntarily, have mosied on into hell. What is more, I was actually going to pay them to torture me. And. AND, I was going to pay extra for them to devise a particular routine of suffering especially for me!
I was no stranger to humiliation. After all, you only have to get pregnant to qualify for large doses of it at the hands of anyone wearing a health professional's badge. And I had managed that four times.
Is it right to prefer to give birth naked in a roomful of people you don't know than to join a gym?
Thursday 3 July 2008
Loss
Her eyes had dulled, the life drained sadly away.
Her smile had disappeared; that it had existed at all had now become a mere rumour.
Her stance spoke of a broken woman, a woman who had thrown in the towel, given up the fight, relinquished her place, accepted defeat.
Her shoulders sloped so that you could almost watch her energy trickle down their length, drip off her fingers and vanish, unspent, into the ground.
Her head fell to one side naturally now, giving her a mournful yet slightly quizzical air, as though she were trying to fathom how she had come to be so.
Crowds passed her in the street. On their faces was the evidence of their thoughts:
"Poor cow - some people are so bloody miserable"; "Thank God I'm not like that"; "There, but for the Grace of God..."
Have you noticed that people seldom equate the old, infirm or unhappy with themselves? They seem to think they are exempt from these phenomena, naturally occurring and usually lurking somewhere around the corner for each of us...
To have loved and lost is a tragedy. To have loved and lost so many leaves only a shell.
Her smile had disappeared; that it had existed at all had now become a mere rumour.
Her stance spoke of a broken woman, a woman who had thrown in the towel, given up the fight, relinquished her place, accepted defeat.
Her shoulders sloped so that you could almost watch her energy trickle down their length, drip off her fingers and vanish, unspent, into the ground.
Her head fell to one side naturally now, giving her a mournful yet slightly quizzical air, as though she were trying to fathom how she had come to be so.
Crowds passed her in the street. On their faces was the evidence of their thoughts:
"Poor cow - some people are so bloody miserable"; "Thank God I'm not like that"; "There, but for the Grace of God..."
Have you noticed that people seldom equate the old, infirm or unhappy with themselves? They seem to think they are exempt from these phenomena, naturally occurring and usually lurking somewhere around the corner for each of us...
To have loved and lost is a tragedy. To have loved and lost so many leaves only a shell.
Wednesday 2 July 2008
Sports Day
The field stretches forward interminably. It seems yet more intimidating than it did before. The freshly-painted white lines dividing the lanes appear to merge into one in the middle-distance. Nervous giggling. Dry throat. Twitchy legs.
A small prayer on the starting line: "Don't let me be last, please don't let me be last. I don't have to be first but please don't let me be last!"
Everyone is watching. Everyone in the WORLD. Or so it seems.
The whistle blows and it all kicks off, everyone jostling for position. Some fall back and others seem to fly. Like the sound of train wheels the mantra is silently repeated: "Somewhere in the middle, somewhere in the middle, somewhere in the middle..."
First place is taken, second, third. Then fourth, too, crosses over the plastic cord on the scorched grass in this school field. FIFTH! Fifth out of ten! That's not bad at all. Perfectly respectable. Head can be held up; not too high, but up nonetheless. A sticker is thrust forth: "Well Done!"
God, I hate the mothers' race.
A small prayer on the starting line: "Don't let me be last, please don't let me be last. I don't have to be first but please don't let me be last!"
Everyone is watching. Everyone in the WORLD. Or so it seems.
The whistle blows and it all kicks off, everyone jostling for position. Some fall back and others seem to fly. Like the sound of train wheels the mantra is silently repeated: "Somewhere in the middle, somewhere in the middle, somewhere in the middle..."
Chest thrust forward, head thrown back, legs pumping. Eyes half-shut, tongue clamped between teeth. Mustn't fall!
God, I hate the mothers' race.
Fear and Comfort
The world is fraught with risk and peril, my love.
Like opening your head on the playroom doorframe;
Like snapping your collar-bone in the school-yard;
Like having your heart broken when she doesn't love you back.
These arms will keep you safe from harm, my love.
They'll mop you up and patch your wounds;
They'll take you where you need to be;
They'll hold you till the hurt has eased.
The time will come for you to leave, my love.
Adventures call and you must answer;
New arms await your nervous discovery;
I shall encourage your flight and fear your falls.
Like opening your head on the playroom doorframe;
Like snapping your collar-bone in the school-yard;
Like having your heart broken when she doesn't love you back.
These arms will keep you safe from harm, my love.
They'll mop you up and patch your wounds;
They'll take you where you need to be;
They'll hold you till the hurt has eased.
The time will come for you to leave, my love.
Adventures call and you must answer;
New arms await your nervous discovery;
I shall encourage your flight and fear your falls.
Collection
His eyes light up; face aglow
Tousled hair, everywhere.
He's seen me.
He stands, unsteady
Trousers sagging, wellies wonky.
Come straight to me.
My face? Inane.
My grin enormous.
My arms open.
A few small steps close the divide
From group to one
Enfolded.
Tousled hair, everywhere.
He's seen me.
He stands, unsteady
Trousers sagging, wellies wonky.
Come straight to me.
My face? Inane.
My grin enormous.
My arms open.
A few small steps close the divide
From group to one
Enfolded.
Rite of Passage
Chest puffed out like a pigeon courting.
Grin stretched wide across his face.
Eyes half-closed with pride and pleasure.
Bags clutched tight; close and safe.
Steps small, knees high, he marches out.
Arthur has started school.
Grin stretched wide across his face.
Eyes half-closed with pride and pleasure.
Bags clutched tight; close and safe.
Steps small, knees high, he marches out.
Arthur has started school.
Tuesday 1 July 2008
Cool Dude Day
8.30 a.m. is never a good time to have to be somewhere on a Sunday. For starters, it means having to be ready even earlier. But I am trying to be a good Mummy.
So, it is 7 o’clock and I am in bed with a day-welcoming cup of tea. My eyes are slowly ungluing themselves from their lids and my brain has started to whirr into action (or some semblance thereof). With peace reigning (in the way it never does at this time during the school week) I am given permission to run through a checklist of tasks before the time comes to haul myself, under protest, from beneath my all-too-comforting duvet. A packed lunch must be assembled, sun-cream and a cap located (in case of hot weather), waterproofs (in case of wet), all brought together in a backpack emblazoned with his name. Breakfast must be prepared and consumed...
I haven’t even mentioned the salvage job that needs to be carried out on my face before it is ready to brave the world.
With the bustle of preparation finally behind us and our journey to our rendez-vous nearly complete, neither of us has had time to acknowledge, to ourselves or each other, what is about to happen. The coach will leave at 8.30 a.m. It will deposit him in the same location at 5.30 p.m. (or thereabouts). And in between?
He hoists his backpack over his shoulders. I find myself hoping he doesn’t topple backwards.
I am handed a band with his name and contact details on it to attach to his wrist. I dutifully comply.
I fasten it too loosely and it slides, immediately, right off.
With my longest nail, I prise the edges of the stickiness (designed to hang on for grim death until removed with scissors) back, just enough to enable a fold. My sense of achievement is great. My son is identifiable and will remain so!
Another Mummy approaches, holding tightly onto her own son. His feet, too, are dragging a little.
“Why don’t you two sit together on the coach?” she suggests. “And maybe try to stay together today?” We are jollying them along. They are going to have fun.
All too soon, the coach has arrived. Our small, silent boys file, brave smiles hitched onto nervous faces, up the steps and onto the coach, brisk ladies-in-charge hurrying them on. He is so small I can hardly see the top of his head.
Oh God. Can he see me? Will he see me to wave goodbye? Did I cuddle him hard enough? Is he strapping himself in?
He turns, searches, and his face relaxes into his cheekiest grin. He’s fine. He waves cheerfully. I blow him kisses. I wave energetically. The coach pulls away. My little, independent son.
As I walk back to my car, something catches in my throat.
And I thought I was worried about HIM.
So, it is 7 o’clock and I am in bed with a day-welcoming cup of tea. My eyes are slowly ungluing themselves from their lids and my brain has started to whirr into action (or some semblance thereof). With peace reigning (in the way it never does at this time during the school week) I am given permission to run through a checklist of tasks before the time comes to haul myself, under protest, from beneath my all-too-comforting duvet. A packed lunch must be assembled, sun-cream and a cap located (in case of hot weather), waterproofs (in case of wet), all brought together in a backpack emblazoned with his name. Breakfast must be prepared and consumed...
I haven’t even mentioned the salvage job that needs to be carried out on my face before it is ready to brave the world.
With the bustle of preparation finally behind us and our journey to our rendez-vous nearly complete, neither of us has had time to acknowledge, to ourselves or each other, what is about to happen. The coach will leave at 8.30 a.m. It will deposit him in the same location at 5.30 p.m. (or thereabouts). And in between?
He hoists his backpack over his shoulders. I find myself hoping he doesn’t topple backwards.
I am handed a band with his name and contact details on it to attach to his wrist. I dutifully comply.
I fasten it too loosely and it slides, immediately, right off.
With my longest nail, I prise the edges of the stickiness (designed to hang on for grim death until removed with scissors) back, just enough to enable a fold. My sense of achievement is great. My son is identifiable and will remain so!
Another Mummy approaches, holding tightly onto her own son. His feet, too, are dragging a little.
“Why don’t you two sit together on the coach?” she suggests. “And maybe try to stay together today?” We are jollying them along. They are going to have fun.
All too soon, the coach has arrived. Our small, silent boys file, brave smiles hitched onto nervous faces, up the steps and onto the coach, brisk ladies-in-charge hurrying them on. He is so small I can hardly see the top of his head.
Oh God. Can he see me? Will he see me to wave goodbye? Did I cuddle him hard enough? Is he strapping himself in?
He turns, searches, and his face relaxes into his cheekiest grin. He’s fine. He waves cheerfully. I blow him kisses. I wave energetically. The coach pulls away. My little, independent son.
As I walk back to my car, something catches in my throat.
And I thought I was worried about HIM.
Bertie
A little fat hand swivels on its chubby wrist, or at least where a wrist would be were it visible through the chunky rolls that envelop it.
"Iggaligga!" he shouts, followed swiftly by "Mmmmm - AH". For those who are not in the know, or alternatively who don't speak baby-lingo, he has just hollered "See you later" and followed it with a smacker of a kiss.
Thighs that beg for raspberries are wobbling tentatively through their first upright paces.
"One..." we all call, "Two...", arms outstretched and face transformed in rapturous grin, dimples deepening with every step, "Three..." He stops abruptly.
Clearly, he feels it is time for unstinting applause. He claps thunderously and bellows his approval at his own achievement.
The force of his movement threatens to topple him and we all watch, suddenly silent, breath held.
He rights himself, grins again and continues his jerky journey until, eleven independent steps taken, he lands unceremoniously on a plump, nappy-clad bottom.
It is no tragedy for there, undetected by his parents or, indeed, the hoover, is a perfect sultana. Mission accomplished.
"Iggaligga!" he shouts, followed swiftly by "Mmmmm - AH". For those who are not in the know, or alternatively who don't speak baby-lingo, he has just hollered "See you later" and followed it with a smacker of a kiss.
Thighs that beg for raspberries are wobbling tentatively through their first upright paces.
"One..." we all call, "Two...", arms outstretched and face transformed in rapturous grin, dimples deepening with every step, "Three..." He stops abruptly.
Clearly, he feels it is time for unstinting applause. He claps thunderously and bellows his approval at his own achievement.
The force of his movement threatens to topple him and we all watch, suddenly silent, breath held.
He rights himself, grins again and continues his jerky journey until, eleven independent steps taken, he lands unceremoniously on a plump, nappy-clad bottom.
It is no tragedy for there, undetected by his parents or, indeed, the hoover, is a perfect sultana. Mission accomplished.
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