tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21845623800621620842024-03-13T17:08:10.131+00:00LIVE WRITE DREAM...Since 1984...Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.comBlogger115125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-48147512349445061802012-03-01T00:17:00.000+00:002012-03-01T05:17:56.779+00:00You're there but you're not<div style="text-align: justify;">
I used to wait for the divorce. I used to ache for it; for the day when you finally left. I reasoned then, that without you here we could finally get to know one another. The logic seemed irrational to everyone else. But they didn't see what I did; they didn't feel what I felt.</div>
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<i>Most days that was nothing.</i></div>
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When my friend's parents got divorced, they went on outings to the park and the circus and all the other kinds of places that kids go to have fun; all the other clichés. They had hour long phone calls every night and enquiries of their days at school and a genuine interest in who they were as people, a concern for who they were going to be. And even though it wasn't perfect, I wanted all of that too. </div>
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<i>Perfection's a myth anyway.</i></div>
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No one understood my longing. Everyone thought we had it all. From the outside we looked the picture of happiness, whatever that is. Just like the couple along the road; the way they held hands walking up the hill and kissed each other goodbye at the front porch. They looked so happy and content and their love was one to aim for. No one knew that he would pummel fists into her flesh where none could see. No one knew that she would drink a bottle of vodka before he returned home. We never knew what went on behind their closed doors until he flung her through them, along with a suitcase of clothes; until their problems lay bleeding in the street, surrounded by shards of glass and splintered wood and clothes fluttering in the breeze with the distant wail of sirens.</div>
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Behind<i> our </i>doors, you were there; sitting in your chair. You always sit in the chair; the one with the groove of your backside and two elbow-sized dents in each armrest. There's an extra cut of carpet under foot because you've worn away the underneath with your shoes. Everyone else leaves theirs at the door. But not you. You stomp and tread your rebellion into every soft surface until it's harden from the repeated knocks.</div>
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It used to annoy me, watching you sit there, within my reach, engulfed by an unwavering silence of expectation. I'm still waiting for the things you'll never say and the stuff you'll never do; the moments we'll never have. <i>At least I know where to find you. </i>That's what they say. That's the bright side; the silver lining of this ominous lingering cloud. But there's always an unpleasantness waiting for a storm to break; a tight coil of tension unbearable and uncomfortable the longer we wait for release.</div>
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<i>Some days I've never wished for rain so much.</i></div>
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But for the most part, I'm used to it now; that thick tense drought that hangs like a weight around my neck, slowing my responses and my movements and my ability to truly care. As stifling as it seems I don't think I'd know how to breathe without it. </div>
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Not that you would know that. You should, because you're there; in your chair. You always have been. The divorce never came and you never left and we never did get to know one another.</div>
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And it still amazes me after all these years that proximity and closeness are two very different things. I always assumed that you can't have one without the other. But we are the exception, you and me. We may coexist in the same space, in the same house, we may breathe the same air, but our time-lines never meet, our paths never cross. Sometimes I might approach that line, I might waver along it but the wall is built too strong, too high. Just like some rocks aren't supposed to be moved, some walls aren't built to be broken.</div>
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So I understand. I get it; you're there. You always have been. <i>But I still don't know how I feel about that.</i></div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-64150356753755783702012-02-23T14:30:00.000+00:002012-03-01T05:18:08.179+00:00Normal service will resume shortly...please standby...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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Dearest reader,</div>
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Sorry, we are currently experiencing a fault. Do not adjust your screen resolution, normal blogging service will resume once inspiration and the time to write has been programmed correctly.</div>
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We appreciate your patience and understanding while our writer attempts to fix the problem.</div>
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Love,</div>
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Lou @ <span style="color: #674ea7;">LiveWriteDream</span> :)</div>
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<br /></div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-23757801710579871562012-01-17T12:30:00.000+00:002012-02-24T06:58:36.681+00:00The Big Fat Metaphorical Leaf<div style="text-align: justify;">
Reader, it is 2012. I can't help the twinge of disappointment; I thought we'd all be driving flying cars by now, living with androids or wearing self-lacing trainers. (Obviously I learned a lot about the future from Steven Spielberg, but that is what happens when you're born in the 1980s.)</div>
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Regardless of my shattered illusions, it's still a <i>brand new year</i>. There is something about this new phase on the cosmic chart that encourages us to wipe away the webs and shake out the dust. It's a yearly ritual full of hope for improvement, achievement and potential. It's a chance to start afresh, turn over a new leaf; make resolutions.</div>
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But I've never been one for resolutions. <i>Never</i>. I still remember the first time I learned about them during an assembly at primary school. Lines of children sitting crossed legged on the cold hard floor, we stared intently, puzzled, as our Headteacher asked us what we going to do differently that year; what did we want to change about ourselves?<i> I was five</i>. I didn't know myself. I only knew my love for playing Barbie and watching Button Moon. </div>
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Twenty-two years later, not much has changed. Barbie rests in a dust covered box in the loft and Button Moon lost its allure and magic long ago. And though I know more about myself now, making a New Year's resolution to change something makes me feel uncomfortable. It's not that I don't have things that could warrant a change; it's the fact that it only seems normal to do it at the start of the year. </div>
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It still surprises me that an arbitrary date on the calendar can hold so much influence over the way we approach self-improvement. The strength and power to evolve is a source we carry at all times and we can tap into its supply whenever we choose. If you want to stop smoking, do it now. If you want to lose weight, don't start tomorrow. </div>
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I think where people fail is that they see the New Year as this pinnacle thing that has the power to tackle all their bad habits and behaviours at once. But human nature is such that motivation fades and willpower falters and at some point down the line, come February or March, resolutions can (and will) be broken. After such focus and determination and <i>hope</i>, the failure only serves to heighten our human frailties and make us feel worse. <i>Do we really need that feeling</i>? </div>
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But if we wipe away the webs and shake out the dust each day, it makes doing the task the following day a little easier to accomplish until, eventually, it becomes a habit. A good one. Filling our days and months, our whole lives, with little goals and commitments and changes, makes them easier to achieve and far more sustainable. Think of it as a <i>new</i> New Year's resolution, if you will: Don't make any. An amazingly novel idea, don't you think reader?</div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7;">What say you? </span></div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-66577197514337787392011-12-31T10:00:00.000+00:002011-12-31T10:00:03.954+00:00Happy New Year<div style="text-align: justify;">
I had high hopes for this final post of 2011. Full of insightful wit and charm; something that pushed my readers into the realm of wonder and thoughts and dreams.</div>
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But I'm going away for New Year and, consequently, I am surrounded by un-ironed clothes and mismatched shoes, tired thoughts and a mind wired in lists of things to do and <i>to be</i> and at this point, Hamlet always resurfaces in my memory and I am not sure if it is entirely possible to string a plausible sentence in this state.</div>
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So I shall leave you with this; this pithy thing that has played through my mind, dashing and delving between the lists and the inappropriate thoughts of Shakespearean soliloquies:</div>
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As a little bud with shallow roots</div>
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You filled me with wonder</div>
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Found in every shard of sand</div>
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Handful of dirt,</div>
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Speck of dust.</div>
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Clouds were friends</div>
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Stars were dreams</div>
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The sky was my future...</div>
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In this dawning of a shiny new year, untarnished and unwrapped, let's look at the world with childlike eyes again. Let's see its potential.</div>
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<span style="color: #351c75;">Happy New Year, dearest Readers. Here's to a good one...</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-90346868698784453592011-12-17T23:37:00.000+00:002011-12-19T12:25:48.005+00:00There is still no cure for the common birthday<div style="text-align: justify;">
On Wednesday I began my 27th year crying. Midnight arrived as I sat at my computer. My fingers hovered above the keyboard, my eyes narrowed on a date that used to give me such butterflies as a child. I remember the sleepless night before; the fluttering of hope and excitement for a brand new age. Eight was always better than seven-and-a-half, ten was better than nine-and-three-quarters, and every birthday was welcomed with such unmitigated joy.</div>
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As a child you know nothing of responsibilities and the difficulties that adults face daily. Life is a playground and there is so much time left to explore it that you never questioned its passing; the increasing age. You welcomed it with as much excitement as the scores of presents and cards and candles on cake.</div>
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But it is different now. The older you get the more a birthday sheds its skin and shine until it is just another day in a week, month and year. Presents are nice and cards are appreciated but the <i>age</i>? The increasing number is no longer something I greet so readily. There are a number of reasons for this: I am not where I want to be in my life, or doing what I always dreamed. I don't currently have someone special to share my day. Imagination and reality are conflicting. I feel <i>so damn stuck</i>. And while it seems like everyone around me is doing the job of their dreams, getting married and having babies, going off on world adventures, I am here. And it is not where I want to be and I am not <i>who</i> I want to be. Now another year has flown by too swiftly and I did not think to reach out, to grab it and go along for the ride. </div>
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I feel engulfed by quicksand and though I've been in the pit for a while now, just the fact that it was my birthday seemed all the more resonant.</div>
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At 12.01am the thought of this was like a sharp pinch to soft flesh, a heavy punch to my gut; it knocked the breath from my chest. The thoughts - so many rambling thoughts - bubbled up and tumbled down my cheeks. The realisation of all these things that I had considered fleetingly over the past year; vague moments and wonderings, sporadic feelings of failure, suddenly aligned like the sun and my zodiac. Before me they sat; accumulated like a line of bitter pills I had to swallow. <i>It was not pleasant</i>. </div>
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By 12.10am the sniffling had decreased and I actually managed to settle down for some sleep. In the morning, when the light was white and my head was clear, I opened cards and presents and felt okay. Later there was cocktails and laughter, dinner and a trip to the theatre to see Driving Miss Daisy. And though we sat up in the heavens with the realisation that my long distance vision had declined (<i>damn you, age</i>!), I thought about how James Earl Jones, the voice of Darth Vader, was treading the boards below me with an expertise that amazed and '<i>well, this isn't so bad</i>'. Not at all.</div>
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At the end of my birthday I dropped tired into bed and thought more about the play I had just seen; about Daisy and Hoke and how <i>old</i> they were when they realised they were best friends. Once again the thought struck me; I might not be where or who I want to be but I am only 27. I've still got plenty of time to figure that out; to explore the playground. And even if I am still waiting until my nineties for all these things I have stacked with such importance, surely the journey there will be worthwhile. </div>
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I sometimes wonder why I worry at all. But isn't reflection the very nature of birthdays? <span style="background-color: #eeeeee; color: purple;">Reader, what say you? </span></div>
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<br /></div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-38032968323808883672011-12-04T17:32:00.001+00:002012-02-24T07:03:45.230+00:00Get cape. Wear cape. Fly?<div style="text-align: justify;">
I was six when my mum found me rifling through the airing cupboard in my room. We kept towels and bed linen on the slatted racks, despite the musty smell that lingered inside. Balanced precariously on my desk chair I stretched upwards, tiny hands lost within soft folds of clean laundry. The floor beneath me was littered with duvet covers, Christmas themed table clothes and doilies. I'd finally found what I was searching for - <i>just one last stretch</i> - when the floorboards groaned behind. </div>
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'<i>Louise</i>, what do you think you're doing?'</div>
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Uh oh. Trouble. There was always a little edge to the way she said my name; an extra emphasis on the L. I spun around with a push and twist of glee. That old chair provided me with hours of room-spinning fun.</div>
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'Looking for a pillowcase.' I said, as if it was the kind of thing I did every day. <i>It wasn't</i>.</div>
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'Are you going to make your bed?'</div>
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<i>Me make beds</i>? I assumed some kind of bed fairy did that while I was at school. I explained the complexity of my problem; a pillowcase was needed to complete my <i>very special outfit</i>. With a glance at the carefully ironed table cloths now in disarray on the floor, mum reached above my head and pulled from one of the stacks without any dislodge. Mums really could do everything. <i>Or maybe not</i>.</div>
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'No, no, no!' I said, head shaking. 'I don't want a white one.'</div>
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'But brides wear white on their wedding day. Don't you want a white veil?'</div>
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I may have married off Barbie with Ken a few times (and Ken with Sindy once the divorced had been finalised) but <i>I</i> never wanted to be a bride. Boys were stupid.<i> Did she not know me at all</i>? She stared at me with an increasingly crinkled brow. </div>
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'I need a red one for my cape. You can't fly without a cape!'</div>
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At this moment she noticed the rest of my <i>very special outfit</i> on my bed. A bright blue Minnie Mouse t.shirt that I had turned inside out and a pair of red cycling shorts. Beside it a hand-drawn S that I had coloured in, badly, with yellow felt-tip and cut out with kid-friendly scissors that always tore paper rather than cut it. Briefly, mum considered me and flipped through a pile of sheets beyond my grasp. She shook out one of my sister's red bedsheets. I imagined it fluttering in the wind behind me as I soared through the sky and bounced off the clouds. I snatched it from her hands.</div>
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With a roll of her eyes, she left me; my behaviour nothing new. I always had a vivid imagination. When I wasn't shouting at my dolls in my makeshift 'classroom', I was entertaining the Queen or pretending to fly on Falkor the luckdragon from The NeverEnding Story. </div>
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My <i>very special outfit</i> now complete, I got dressed with a sense of accomplishment. I secured the yellow S to my chest with a couple of strips of Sellotape and sank my feet into red Wellington boots outgrown the previous winter. As my sister tied the sheet around my neck in a double knot, I was so overwhelmed by the excitement that I forgot the pinch of my toes and the skin growing raw at the backs of my heels. </div>
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It was cold when I stepped outside. At the top of the garden steps I felt the score of goosebumps, the tug of my cape as it toyed with the wind. Hands on hips, I focused on the large tree by the end fence. That was where my mission would begin.</div>
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I dragged a rusty paint-splattered step ladder down to the grass leaving a two line trail of flattened green blades behind me. My hands scrapped the roughened tree bark as I wedged the ladder against the trunk. The trail of ants usually would have stopped me from climbing but I had my cape now; I had to finish this. I had one muddy boot on the step when my mum called from the top of the garden. She was watering potted plants. </div>
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'<i>Louise, </i>what do you think you're doing?'</div>
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'Climbing the tree.' </div>
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I pushed off from the grass and the ladder wobbled. A few trailing ants didn't survive my sudden grasp for the solid trunk and I wiped their corpses down my top. They looked like dirt. </div>
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'Why are you climbing the tree?'</div>
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'Because birds fly from trees.' </div>
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'You're not a bird, Louise. You can't fly.'</div>
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'I know I'm not a bird.' I continued to climb.</div>
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'Well, you're not Supergirl either.'</div>
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'<i>I know that</i>! I'm Superman.'</div>
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At the top of the ladder I stretched upwards to a low hanging branch but something tugged and I toppled and tumbled to the ground. Laughter tinkled from every direction and when I opened eyes my sister appeared, all five versions of her head shaking. </div>
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'You're no Superman,' she said. 'He wouldn't have got his cape caught in the bottom of the ladder!'</div>
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Well. There was always next time.</div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-25737658063410367112011-11-07T15:44:00.002+00:002011-11-07T15:47:57.862+00:00Remember, Remember<div style="text-align: justify;">
Every year on November 5th the British skies are lit with colours and sparks, and gardens warmed by the amber glows of firelight. The ground is usually muddy wet and littered with autumnal leaves and there is always a fine mist grazing the milk of a half moon. The air is filled with the cold scent of winter approaching and the lingering dust of burning wood and smoke. It's the kind of night which makes you avoid dark alleys and abandoned streets to seek the comfort and familiarity of tradition.</div>
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We learned of the tradition at school. Pencils in hand we'd chant: '<i>Remember remember the 5th of November, gunpowder, treason and plot</i>.' There were brief mentions of a man called Guy Fawkes but any embellishments of his story were cut short by the excitement the night would bring. Colourful fireworks, explosions and sparklers were all a kid could wish for. </div>
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When I was little we could rarely afford the fireworks but we always had a permanent supply of wood that my Dad built into a large nest at the bottom of the garden. Our friends would arrive with their own Guy Fawkes; a set of old clothes stuffed with newspaper and a plastic mask attached as the head. We'd sit him on top of the bonfire and slowly watch him crackle and flame. </div>
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The night was meant to be a celebration of victory over a plot against our country's King but, in spite of this, I often remember feeling deflated. The slow melting of the plastic mask on the Guy, the drip and droop of his smiley face in the heat made me sad and wistful for something. The way my sparkler never lasted long enough to write my full name and the singe and spit as I threw its heated stick into a bucket of cold water. The way the fireworks died just as soon as the colour hit the black night sky. Watching the dying embers of the fire; the charred remains and soft drifts of grey smoke as if something was gone forever but never knowing what that something was. </div>
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Our supply of wood died sometime during my early teenage years and with it, the childish excitement. The older I got the less significant this tradition became until it evolved into another November night, with only the loud bangs in the distance to serve as a reminder.</div>
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But due to my sister's recent desire to make new traditions, on Saturday I found myself dragged along to the Bonfire Night celebrations at Leeds Castle in Kent. Dressed like my younger self all those years before; coat, scarf and gloves, I trailed my Wellington boots through a field of mud, lugging a camping chair on one shoulder and a desire to be indoors on the other.</div>
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We set up our chairs beside the lake before buying bags of roasted chestnuts and cups of hot chocolate. There were thousands of people around us; some stood eating candy floss and hot dogs, others sat on picnic blankets on the grass. As the night darkened and the crowds built further, I blew steam from my cup, legs stretched ahead, waiting. I thought it would be like all the other times; pointless. </div>
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But there was no bonfire this time. No newspaper-stuffed Guy Fawkes or melting mask, no dying sparklers. The music started and the fireworks exploded in the sky and around me kids waved flashing lightsabers that made their faces glow red and blue. For just 40 minutes everyone put their lives on pause to watch the spark and fade in the sky above, illuminating the castle behind and the water below.</div>
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And I didn't feel sad or deflated or wistful for something I didn't know. I felt the spark of something new, something long forgotten and suddenly I realised I had come full circle. I wondered why it took me twenty-six years to finally embrace what I should have done as a child; the excitement of tradition. The idea that you grasp fistfuls of these brief celebratory moments (as minor as sitting in a camping chair in the freezing cold with your family) and enjoy it while you can because, honestly, the experience is <i>so</i> fleeting.</div>
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And there is one thing that I'll remember now that I never did as a child; soon we can do it all over again. There is always next year. Perhaps because I'm older now, it doesn't feel like a lifetime away. </div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-12653975711576738522011-09-27T17:41:00.001+01:002011-11-07T15:45:26.515+00:00Little Things<div style="text-align: justify;">
Two years ago my Nan was a blanket of shrivelled skin; wiry tufts of white hair spilled over the edges of starched sheets. Her eyes were the bluest I'd ever seen; as if she'd stolen all the pigment from ocean and sky. I don't remember how we came to be sitting there in hospital. All I remember was the rough grip of her hand, the feel of her bones as we connected. The watery glaze of her eyes joined with mine as she told me I was beautiful. It was the first and last time.</div>
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Sometimes it's the little things...</div>
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At 21, I was consumed by a plague of tiredness and endless tears, where the days ran into months and my mood never changed. I don't remember what led me to the kitchen at 2am, how the bottle of bleach came to be in my hands, or why I was so focused on the warning sticker above the barcode. All I remember was the guilty inner debate and the explicit realisation that I truly didn't want my life to end. The dance of hope in my chest was like the first glimpse of sun after a long cold winter. I shall never forget one thought; I wanted the chance for an afterwards.</div>
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It's the little things that give you faith...</div>
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When I was nine and it was my Granddad's birthday party, I was most excited to see my Great Uncle Tom for the first time in months. I don't remember all the fuss or why he had to leave half way through the day. I remember the stiffening of his slight frame as I hugged him, the fleeting wince of pain across his haggard face. It was the last time I saw him. I never said goodbye.</div>
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It's the little things that make you cry...</div>
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I was eight years old when I woke early that Christmas Day. At the end of my bed an old pillowcase spilled colourful presents like dominoes. I attacked them with fevered hands and widened eyes. I don't remember exactly how it happened. All I remember was thinking it strange how Father Christmas had the same wrapping paper as my mum. It was the slow dawning of that revelation throughout the day; something else I once believed in was not what I thought. I felt the loss of something I could not put a name to.</div>
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It's the little things that you regret...</div>
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Three years ago we visited Prague to celebrate my Dad's retirement. On our first day the weather clothed us like a second skin, the air was heavy but the sky was clear. I don't remember how or why we ended up drinking beer under a gazebo in Old Town Square. All I remember was the sudden torrent of rain that engulfed us and the clamour of twenty waiters holding up the gazebo with broomsticks as it threatened to fall. Soaked and shivering, I remember we were the only ones to laugh at the sudden change in weather. Sometimes, being British isn't all that bad.</div>
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It's the little things that make you smile...and thus the big things seem worthwhile.</div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-56638256820054360292011-08-30T12:20:00.008+01:002011-09-02T16:24:15.141+01:00There is no place like home<div style="text-align: justify;">
Home is where the porch door warps on a hot day and refuses to close. It's where the TV plays to ghost audiences once the living have left the room, while the cat sharpens claws on the carpeted stairs. The bottom step has felt the wrath like no other.</div>
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Here, the walls were once my canvas and diary. Beneath the scores of wallpaper lies a hidden wealth of drawings and childish ramblings; forgotten secrets only unearthed by some far away future tenant. Somewhere in the box room, the wall was kissed with pink-painted lips to see the effect of my mother's stolen lipstick. In the kitchen by the door, two sets of heights compete in efficient pencil scrawl. Eventually, mine won.</div>
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Home is where the cups and plates never match and the best china is only used on Christmas Day, much like the dining table. The rooms are always littered with forgotten activities; cups linger beside a cold kettle, the ironing board is only there to hold laundry and stub toes, and the vacuum cleaner remains at the end of the living room, plugged in waiting. It often waits for a long time.</div>
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Here, we keep useless things; rusty keys, books with lost pages and ceramic figurines with missing heads and feet, <i>just in case</i>. There is not just one messy drawer in this dust glazed place. They all are. The yellow papery entrails of encyclopaedia's, history books and the archive of Reader's Digest dating from 1972, spill out from bowed shelves on bookcases. And there's more upstairs.</div>
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Home is where I can trace the length and curves of the garden path with eyes closed and still feel it necessary to repeat the hundreds of cartwheels I did as a child. It's where the swing seat is always the hub for chats over cups of tea or glasses of wine as the sun sets and the breeze rises. Whilst mum bemoans the state of the neighbour's fence, we sit underneath the umbrella at the garden table enjoying barbecued meats, despite the rain trickling down our uncovered backs. </div>
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Here, hugs are offered without question and a shoulder sought is given freely. Laughter is first on the agenda and there is always music, whether filtering through the garage wall or tinkering down the stairs. There must <i>always</i> be music. </div>
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Home is where I feel free even with the doors locked and the windows closed. It's the one place where you only ever know its scent once you leave and just the reminder of it makes you long for its comfort with a smile. </div>
Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-77687715141722234722011-08-15T15:22:00.006+01:002011-08-16T18:25:27.369+01:00Top Ten: Things I can't live without<div style="text-align: justify;">I know that I can't live without food or water because, well, I'd be dead. But this isn't that kind of list. This is more of an 'I<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><i style="background-color: #eeeeee;">could</i> </span>live without them but I wouldn't <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">want</span></i> to' list. Indulge me for a moment and read on...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">1)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #eeeeee;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #eeeeee; color: purple;">Sleep:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As evident from previous posts, readers will know I have lived without sleep for days, many times. The results? Not pretty. Hallucinations, holes in memory and angry tirades directed at innocent family members. If you value friends and sanity, make sure you get your 8 hours while I <i>try</i> to get mine. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">2)</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">Music:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Music is my best friend. She's there when I'm happy or sad. She's at the gym, urging me on for j<i>ust five more minutes</i>. Within the same breath, she can inspire and move me to tears. She drowns out the silence on long car journeys and is as much a memory as the memory itself. I can't see her but I'd be lost.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">3)</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">Books:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Learning to read opened the door to my imagination. All the stories - the hundreds of world's I've visited without having to move - has enriched my life and the way I see the things. As long as I have a book - I don't care what it is - I'm content. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">4)</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">Memories:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Memories make us who we are on good days and fuel us on the bad. Idle insignificant moments of my life where I am lost in banality, stress or sadness, can be altered by the recall of a distant memory. The smile, the happiness evoked, flicks the switch. Without memories, life would be very poor. Just ask patient <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/HM_(patient)">H.M</a>. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">5)</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">Pen/Pencil:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We might live in a technological age where handwriting is that swirly thing kids learned in primary school (and left there) but I would <i>hate </i>the inability to write things down. I don't even need paper - the skin on my arm is sufficient. I might not be Shakespeare and his quill but I have the right to try, damn it!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">6)</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #f3f3f3; color: purple;">News:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Reading it, watching it - I'm not fussy. Good or bad, I'll take both. The thought of going a couple of days without access to the news gives me palpitations. Not knowing what's happening in the world? Excuse me while I go get my Sky News on. It's for the good of my health...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">7)</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">Internet:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">How else can one watch TV, book a holiday, buy a new wardrobe <i>and</i> read a list of the most <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_unusual_deaths">unusual deaths</a> (and anything else weird) without leaving your desk? Impossible!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">8)</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">Passport:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I might not like the picture inside but my little burgundy book represents a wealth of opportunity. The instant access to hundreds of destinations provides untold possibilities. All I need is my passport. Money helps too, of course, but that's another matter. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">9)</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">Laughter:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Handing out smiles makes me feel like a decent human being. Nothing else will remedy a bad day (or an awkward situation) that laughter. My mum taught me to laugh, particularly at myself, no matter what the occasion. So I do. <i>A lot</i>. Most people laugh at me too but I can deal with that; as long as they're happy. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">10)</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">Writing:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I suppose I could have put this with number 5 but writing is so much more than the physical act of using a pen. It's a whole process; thoughts, creativity, imagination. I can't bear to think of a life without the time or opportunity to write. It's a fun, sometimes cathartic, activity that prevents my brain from exploding. Needs must and all that...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">So reader, what things can't<i> you </i>live without? </span></div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-32270627914307978402011-08-11T11:24:00.018+01:002011-08-11T20:19:49.089+01:00The Voice of the Unheard?<div style="text-align: justify;">When Mark Duggan was killed in a Police shooting last Friday, the news barely scraped my consciousness. I did not know him. He was yet another face to match another front page headline. As awful as it sounds, though I fleetingly thought of his family, I went about my day like any other. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And when the riots started in Tottenham, seemingly in protest to Duggan's death, the same happened. I'd seen this before: the student riots were not that long ago. I didn't fully understand their motives and I had a head full of questions (and a mouth full of rude words) but it did not affect me. I was unconnected. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But then Monday came. It was 8.30pm. There was a chorus of sirens - Police, Ambulance, Fire - and they were edging closer. In the distance a helicopter hovered above a thick stream of white grey smoke. The air was acrid and heavy and it wasn't the weather. For the first time in my life I decided to stay indoors for fear of what might happen outside. Instead, I watched the news. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Businesses and homes were looted and vandalised. Hooded youths of all age ran amok with the kind of adrenaline only a riot could provide. Antagonised Police tried to contain the problem with their meagre hands of power but it was never going to be enough. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Within minutes, a furniture shop built through generations of one family was nothing more than charcoal. Children carried by their parents, cried, as their homes and belongings drifted up to the sky in a flurry of black ash. Everything earned during a lifetime of hard work vanished in seconds.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">What started as a problem elsewhere slowly crept in to my vicinity. In an instant I was connected. It makes me ashamed to admit such superficiality. Initially uncaring, I shrugged at the issue as if it were trivial. It was beyond my realm of comprehension because it was way over there in someone else's street. It wasn't in mine. I had no experience.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But as the evening darkened and the sirens grew increasingly frequent, I felt it; the fear of the community, the wonder if it would ever end. There was one image in the newspaper that really struck me; a shopkeeper had posted a note in his window: '<i>Due to imminent societal collapse, I regret to inform you we'll be closing at 6pm</i>'. The words made me laugh but in the seconds it took to process, I wondered. Could society collapse? Was this just the beginning? Disaster has to start somewhere.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Martin Luther King once said 'riots are the voice of the unheard'. People riot when they have exhausted all other means of communication. If I was to examine the riots across the UK recently, I wonder if I could put them in this context. If these riots were about unemployment, budget cuts, or a real desire to truly know what happened to Mark Duggan at the hands of the Police, this context would be true. Sadly, it appears the real motive behind the riots has dissolved. In all I have seen and experienced, it seems to be nothing more than an excuse to steal, vandalise and have a good time fighting for fighting's sake. And that's even more frightening.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #674ea7;">Reader, what say you?</span></div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-27410009254361541002011-08-02T18:12:00.003+01:002012-02-24T07:12:20.087+00:00Restless<div style="text-align: justify;">
It's 3.30am. The heat of the previous day has yet to fade and I am restless hot and sweat. In the dim yellow light of my bedside lamp, the artex pattern on the ceiling mocks me. One swirl has joined with another to form what looks like a boot. It jumps out to strike against my head. A dull thud settles at my temple. </div>
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The light flickers to distract. I put my hand up to the bulb, so close that my hand glows red. My fingers; they're almost see-through, as much as skin can be, except for the threads of blue veins. I feel the heat - the slow burn of flesh - and yet, I can't snatch my hand away. I am compelled to leave it there a while, watch it glow. I feel like E.T.</div>
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The sheet, which I tucked in tightly at the end of the bed, suddenly feels like lead. Within the coffin confinement I wonder how it would feel to be buried alive. I imagine the earth, chalky thick and brown, crumbling as it tumbles around me, clogging my eyes, sapping me of air as it fills my throat. I inhale deeply to make sure I can still breathe. I watch the rise and fall, rise and fall of my chest. I think of my veins knitted through my fingers, the job they do. It's all okay. I am alive. </div>
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My legs are heavy with unease and fight with the sheet above. Air licks my feet and toes wriggle with delight in their freedom. My body has a fidget fit and for what seems like an age, I turn and turn and tangle within the sheets. The pillow is not a friend and I punch it with fists until a stream of white feathers graze the air in a soft dance. For a while, all is still. </div>
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But then, the door moves within its latch - a slight hitch back and forth sounds as loud as thunder in the morning silence. There must be a breeze, though surely it's a sinister kind never to grace my flushed skin. I throw my leg over the edge of the bed. It's there all of three seconds before the creep creep of unease; the loss of protection, the feeling that something will snatch and bite and I'd be legless and not in a good way. It doesn't matter how old you are; deep down, a person will always wonder what exists beneath their bed.</div>
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I curl into myself with the knowledge that insanity is a real possibility. </div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-44034177405767699172011-07-28T00:23:00.000+01:002011-07-28T00:23:06.631+01:00The Death Effect<div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The passing of death always serves as a reminder of how fragile life is. It's a swift jolt to brains caught up in the monotony of everyday existence. Suddenly we remember that death is scary and final; death happens.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The death of Amy Winehouse at the weekend, sadly, did not shock me. It was everything that happened afterwards. It was the news channels spitting out the news only an hour after she was found dead. It was the gluttonous purchasing of her music on iTunes, sending an old album flying back up the charts, as if people hadn't had access to it for the last five years. It was the media lionising her unforgettable talent when previously all they did was berate her for her addiction, despite the messy tabloid gold it provided. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">It all just felt wrongly childish; as if we lived in a giant playground and everyone had decided it was okay to like that person again. It didn't matter if they knocked them to the ground and kicked them while they were down. That was yesterday.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Still, it is not the first time this has happened. Michael Jackson's death two years ago induced the same surge in his popularity. In recent years, condoned by the media in light of the allegations surrounding his private life, he was ridiculed and vilified. And yet, within hours of his death he was a renewed figure of appreciation; a talent the world would miss.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Take Marilyn Monroe. During her career she was never really viewed as an exemplary actress; her job was a 'sex symbol' and nothing more. But since her death at age 36, she is cited as one of the greatest female stars of all time. Her estate is probably richer now than it ever was when she was alive.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">What is it about the effect of death on a person's significance? Seemingly, an untimely demise renews our interest in their contribution to the world. Where was all this caring and appreciation when it really counted?</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Suddenly everyone remembers that person actually mattered and, perhaps surprisingly, that person was human; not some figure of greatness to perch on a pedestal. They were flesh, blood and bones; their hearts could break and their souls could hurt. <i>They were just like us</i>. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Maybe that's what this is all about. Glorifying someone after their death is just a reflection of how we would want to be treated. Maybe this rush to celebrate Amy Winehouse and remember her talent is because we ourselves want to be celebrated when we're gone. We don't want to be forgotten.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">Reader, what say you?</span></div></div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-61271389345037896952011-07-03T21:19:00.004+01:002011-07-03T21:23:09.316+01:00Is that you? This is me...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXm1uCZS9aeJQX49LEx4bjjLNYoppvFElyTNLm3SovTJx5jXkf8sbosr77df6hTOK__823rpeUoESXCVOIaH7PcO9yorBWMVByShOB3xD05ayO3XsID-yDlOVqfxBTvWavDecyGnldesM/s1600/grandad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXm1uCZS9aeJQX49LEx4bjjLNYoppvFElyTNLm3SovTJx5jXkf8sbosr77df6hTOK__823rpeUoESXCVOIaH7PcO9yorBWMVByShOB3xD05ayO3XsID-yDlOVqfxBTvWavDecyGnldesM/s200/grandad.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This was my Granddad two years ago on his birthday. Despite the hot weather, he insisted on a jumper, jacket <i>and</i> a blanket. He wore my old sunglasses and a hat my mum made from newspaper as a joke. He even wore it on the ride home.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I post this because last Saturday would have been his 96th birthday. I can scarcely believe that he's been gone nine months; not because time slips through our fingers like sand but because I still feel like he's here. Every day we repeat his old-man sayings and laugh at the things he used to do. Even answering the telephone I still expect to hear a little pause before he says, 'Is that you? This is me.'</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The thoughts seem so unnecessary - silly even - but it's surprising how some things never leave you. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">For years I never really had a solid relationship with my Granddad. When I was a child it was his brother, my Great Uncle Tom, whom I had real affection for. <i>He</i> was the one who came to stay for three weeks every summer; who told me bedtime stories and gave me custard cream biscuits before dinner when my mum wasn't looking. And when I was nine years old and Uncle Tom died, I was bereft. Suddenly, I had to carve a relationship with my real Grandfather who hadn't really been around at all.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It would be unfair to say he was completely absent. He tried to visit once a week, on a Tuesday, and always bought a huge paper bag of penny sweets. We ate them as we watched TV. Granddad never really said much - he preferred to fuss over his three Yorkshire terriers - and would always leave at the end of Quantum Leap. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This was the extent of our relationship for many years. I guess I never thought much about it. Sometimes I would yearn for the bond I shared with Uncle Tom but such thoughts from a child were always fleeting - and forgotten just as quickly.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Much later, like most relationships, things changed. As I left my childhood years, it was as if Granddad saw me for the first time, as if he thought: 'At last, she's an adult; we can finally talk on a similar level!'</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">With hindsight, he probably wasn't a 'kid' type person. Not every Grandparent is the typical cliché. Perhaps he found it difficult to communicate, struggled to relate. His sense of humour and way with words were certainly better suited to an adult mind.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Soon enough, he wasn't just my Granddad. I came to appreciate the person he was beneath that label. I learned how he didn't let his physical disability (caused by a motorbike accident aged nineteen) destroy his zest for life. How everything he did was for the future benefit of his family and how important it was to know we would be cared for. I appreciated his wittiness and the cheeky glint in his eye.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">We had our disagreements - he didn't think women needed higher education - and he sometimes got on my nerves (yes, Granddad, I'll make you a cup of tea; you can stop with the dying-of-thirst charades) but he always made me smile. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Even on the passing of his birthday, with glasses raised to his empty chair, just the idea of him, his memory, made me smile. Like most people I wondered what I would say to him, given the chance. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">'Is that you? This is me. I miss you.'</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">More than I thought I would...</div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-14276740456966547012011-05-24T18:19:00.003+01:002011-05-25T15:20:31.186+01:00A Letter to Time<div style="text-align: justify;">Dear Time,</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I've got your number. The devious tricks you play.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">When you're not around I feel like an addict, crawling the floor, walls, in desperation; frustrations tearing at skin, the fear a rapid scrape against my chest. <i>When will he be back?</i> I wonder. <i>I just need you for a little longer, an hour will do.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But you never come.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">There are moments when you languish on hands, of clock and human, a slow decay of seconds and minutes, of possibilities. Moments which consume to drown me in awareness. In these, I hate you. I do not like the awareness of time; the <i>tick tock</i> sound of a clock. It's an unyielding reminder, a warning, of life slipping past. At once, I am filled with guilt, regret, for all the things I could be doing, all the things I should have done when I had the chance; when <i>we</i> had the chance.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But I never did.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And it annoys me, time. They speak of you as some magical creature with the ability to eradicate all the bad memories, the unwanted details. As if you are a giant eraser that we may use to clear our page, to wipe clean our slate. But no matter how many times one starts over, we can still see the faint outline of what used to be. No matter how clear it looks to the outside eye, <i>we</i> know it's there. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">They say you are a great healer. That as you pass, the wound mends. But everyone forgets that all wounds, however small, leave a scar. Red and raised, though it may fade, it is always there. No one ever says anything about that.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Some days you seem like an instrument of torture; an endless stretch of suffering. And then there are those days when I reflect on all those moments you afforded over the years; the shared smiles, birthdays, weddings, graduations, parties and friends. The minutes spent watching the sun rise over the Grand Canyon and the catch of my breath that followed, the seconds before my first kiss when I forgot that everyone else existed. They are an accumulation of wondrous, unforgettable things that only you could provide.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I've had enough of you and yet, somehow, I will <i>never</i> have enough. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Forever Yours,</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Lou </div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-71780529657719468482011-04-26T16:54:00.002+01:002011-04-26T17:44:04.770+01:00The Family TreeRoots gnarled, pokes sharp<br />
through black soil.<br />
Trunk slants to one side<br />
in a weary lean of surrender.<br />
The branches,<br />
they don't sit so well;<br />
through moonlight their shadows crawl<br />
up my wall in a crooked twist<br />
and weave; so close,<br />
and yet the distance<br />
of sticks and stems<br />
is a whispered breath,<br />
a wandered mile.<br />
<br />
Bark weathered, chipped,<br />
its face of worn whorls, crack<br />
like the desert floor.<br />
I set them free,<br />
these handfuls of dust,<br />
through limp fingers<br />
and the storm carries them away, far,<br />
in a frightful gust of wind.<br />
My eyes sting.<br />
Splinters of past wound me<br />
and I bleed my Grandmother's tears<br />
and the hundred years<br />
of growth rots<br />
at garden's end.<br />
<br />
We cut it down;<br />
the rotten tree.<br />
Branches burn to ash,<br />
twig to dust.<br />
By the warmth we wait,<br />
the white singe<br />
of smoke drifts away.<br />
We do not stoke the embers.<br />
We watch them glow orange red,<br />
a slow fade to black<br />
on dying breath.Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-16314811098666556302011-04-17T22:02:00.003+01:002011-04-18T02:56:42.795+01:00Early Birds<div style="text-align: justify;">This morning, I woke early. The birds were deep in conversation, perched on the leafless tree outside my bedroom window. The sky gently roared with a far-off flight.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was the kind of early which I usually observe as being late. With insomnia, if I'm lucky, I rarely get to sleep before 5am. This morning I found myself surprised, confused, to be waking up the other side of it and without prompting, no less. It felt as if I'd opened someone else's mail without reading the name first. It's all too easily done, absent-mindedly, but once you realise, it feels a bit wrong.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The distant sun, hiding beneath the horizon, washed the sky with lilacs. There was an eerie stillness in that explicit moment - strange and serene - the realisation that no one in the houses around you could possibly be awake. And if they were awake, were they too padding around the kitchen floor barefoot, treading lightly on learned floorboards that did not creak, wishing the sound of the kettle boiling did not seem so loud?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Curtains open, the room flooded with a pastel light. The day was young and the air fresh to my stale lungs. I'd never seen so much potential in a cloudless sky, or a sun that broke orange through the trees at garden's end. I felt boundless and sprightly, as if my feet had springs.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">As strange as it sounds, I was handed a gift. Of time. Though I lost more hours through sleep, they were given back. Hours usually spent bemoaning my lack of sleep - my grumpiness, the bruise-like tinge under my blood-shot eyes - these hours have been returned. The mindless thoughts are gone and in their place is the freedom to think as I please. I almost don't quite know what to do with myself. My limbs are alien and these can't possibly be my hands.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And so, as I embark on a day filled with possibilities, with a mind sharp and clear for the first time in months, I wonder. To go to bed as the sky turns black, sleep the night through and wake before the sun; is this what it feels like to be normal?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I wonder...</div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-17694928618303269552011-03-26T03:39:00.005+00:002011-03-26T03:49:49.176+00:00Things I learned today<div style="text-align: justify;">And I'm not even a student any more...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">1. Clichés are truths in overused disguise:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This morning, I watched a woman deposit two armfuls of men's clothes across the pavement; anywhere her feet passed. She screamed epithets of 'all men are bastards!' at any person who dared to pass, whilst throwing the contents of some bloke's now empty wardrobe. First cliché of the day: hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. At lunch, I listened to the couple at the next table loudly voicing their moaning mumbles of how dreary a life can be. For forty-five minutes they experimented with how long one can talk before breathing is a necessity. Second cliché of the day: misery loves company (and makes me wish I was deaf). </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">2. Human nature dictates that people like to be close, too close (and I don't like it): </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">During the off-peak hours of my gym, I blissfully ran in the middle of a long line of vacant treadmills. So why did a woman feel the need to climb onto the one next to mine, when there were so many others free? I felt, somehow, violated. Like I was seated on an empty bus and the next person to climb on board felt compelled to squeeze their arse into the space next to mine. Maybe I'm weird but I don't need to be so close to somebody that I can tell whether they brushed their teeth that morning. If you don't breathe the same air as another human being for longer than five minutes and you feel lonely, I don't care. Give me some space, damn it! S P A C E. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">3. Live with your parents long enough and you will regress:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On my return from the gym, my mum asked me to tidy my room. In the hall I stood, transfixed by her expression, plagued by a sense of déjà vu. I'd seen that face before, painted with irritation, the jaunt of her frame; hand fixed on hip, finger pointed in my direction. Quite suddenly I was five years old, gazing up at my mum as she moaned about the state of my bedroom floor. Even then I liked to dress it up with clothes and shoes, stacks of books and an old guitar. There was a method to my madness. Aged five, there was a reluctant understanding of her request. I did what I was told. But aged twenty-six? I climbed the stairs with the discovery that you can never be too old to get a telling off from your parents. God help me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">4. Book editing eats time for breakfast, lunch and dinner (and makes you cry):</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Re-reading nearly three hundred pages of my novel is an all consuming process. Thirty-five pages in and I've lost three hours, two thousand words and my sanity. And so, I've realised. By the end of this process I will have square bloodshot eyes and a body stuck permanently in seated position. And, most probably, I'll be thirty years old. Oh joy. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">5. Novelties really do wear off:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A shiny new phone is only 'new' until next month when a newer one comes out, and only shiny until I drop it in the sink. This will happen. <i>Eventually</i>. Instant downloads of new music loses its thrill once you've pressed the repeat button fifty times in as many minutes. That never happened when I used to buy albums on cassette tape. The rewinding took too long to bother. And I no longer feel glee when watching <i>Glee</i>. Now that really is sad. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">So reader, what did <i>you</i> learn today? </span></div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-8925652726724553532011-02-25T07:47:00.010+00:002011-03-26T03:11:28.047+00:00Confession<div style="text-align: justify;">Reader, a whirlwind caught and carried me away. A burst of creative energy assailed me and I could not, would not, fight it. <i>But then, who would</i>?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">For those new to my blog, eighteen months ago I started writing a novel. It began as a piece to pass the time. A pithy little thing, five pages long. And yet, some days later, it was ten pages. And some time after that, it was twenty. My character had not finished telling her story and so I listened to her pleas. What started as a short story soon evolved into something far more complex. The Novel.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'd always wanted to write a book. I'd read a lot of them, which helped. Liked the feel of words as they played and slipped from my mind. A blank white page never scared me. It tempted, with possibilities and promises. What could I do with it? Who knew? I'd certainly have fun finding out. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Other people recognised my eagerness to write. In my Year 6 leaving book that I got from primary school, aged eleven, an old teacher had written: 'Be sure to send me the first copy of your book.' Over the years, every so often, my Granddad would ask me: 'So, when are you going to write this book of yours?'</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's been a struggle. There have been days when I could not bear to look at it, think or dream. I've grappled with distrust; of my own imagination and my possible talent. At times I've loved it so much I envisioned marrying it, settling down and having kids. I'd stroke the pages on the screen like it was <i>my precious</i>. Other times I've hated it so much I'd print the whole thing just to rip it up and throw it in the garden, praying for rain to wash it away, from print and from memory. And then I felt bad for wasting a tree.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But through all that, the days of love and hate, the weeks of missing motivation, the months when inspiration left me in the lowly pit of despair, somehow, it has happened. I have finished. I have written a novel. I am full of accomplished glee, like I've reached the top of a mountain and my lungs are full of the freshest air. I'm just like Maria in The Sound of Music, without all the singing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But now, dearest reader, comes the hard part: the dreaded edit. My lungs are suddenly empty, I've tripped, tumbled down the mountain side and I've hurt my head.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><i>What. Have. I. Done</i>?</span></div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-20939647994791243432011-02-04T17:17:00.015+00:002011-04-26T17:03:39.087+01:00Strangerhood<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">As a child, my street was peppered with children on bikes and roller skates, discarded skipping ropes and goalposts made from hub caps. The road was empty but for a handful of cars: the perfect playground. From the playing children, parents became friendly too. Neighbours borrowed garden tools, helped in fixing cars and deliberated world events on the front step. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Twenty years later things have changed. Despite the recent influx of new families to the street, no children play outside. Bikes are a distant memory and roller skates a forgotten invention. At the end of the street, where cars do three-point turns, a football, deflated, peeps through grass as high as kneecaps. The gesture of a wave or smile elicits a response of wriggling discomfort. We live in a strangerhood of people who come and go; eyes glazed with disinterest, focused only on themselves. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Over Christmas, one telling incident occurred. We awoke one morning, 3am, to a woman running hysterically up and down our road. Within minutes her screams woke every house. Unable to ignore anyone in distress, least of all a visibly frightened woman, we went outside to investigate. Asking one of our neighbours what was going on, his only reply was, '<i>Yeah, my girlfriend's drunk, what's it to you? You're only my neighbour</i>.' He was right, of course; we are only neighbours. But not long ago, that actually meant something. It's a terrible shame to see the descent; to have grown up in a street once so sociable, now devoid of any neighbourly concern.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Today, society is insular. People have closed their minds, and doors, to the prospect of having a relationship with their neighbours. Community spirit is just that; an essence of something that once was.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Why has this happened? Community spirit was once an integral part of our nation's identity. During the Second World War, Britain was known for its street parties; a social gathering of neighbours under a canopy of coloured flags. Tables and chairs of different height and style would line the street and everyone came together. Drinking tea from an assortment of china cups, people joked, children danced and friendships were built - as war raged on around them.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">In terms of human relationships, little has changed. But the outside world has altered drastically. With the advancement of technology, children now play indoors; essentially removing the basis for all neighbourhood networks. If the children do not interact, there is no reason for their parents to either. The impact of terrorism and an increase in anti-social behaviour has also weakened local neighbourhoods. People are wary and distrustful of strangers and so we isolate ourselves to feel safe. Combined with the growth in online social networking, there is little wonder why we have seen a steady decline in community spirit. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">But think of what we are missing. A step away from our front door there is a wealth of potential on offer. Support, camaraderie and common ground. Friendship. What better reasons are there to go outside and make the effort? Share more than just a party wall and a garden fence. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">Reader, what say you?</span></div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-20169903821890715762011-01-28T18:41:00.008+00:002011-01-28T19:01:30.917+00:00The Bright Side<div align="justify">At school I was once chastised by a 'friend' for being too positive. Yes. <em>Me</em>. 'You always see the good in everything. It's so annoying.' <em>Was it</em>? Well, mum <em>had</em> taught me to 'count my blessings' and 'smile when the going got tough.' Clichés featured heavily.</div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"><br />Still, seeing the good in people, life, in the world: what was wrong with that? In response I was nonchalant; a shrug of shoulders and the straightening of my school tie. But underneath my air of indifference, I ached. That one remark carved itself on me like an unwanted scar.</div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"><br />Unnerved, I thought about it for days. Sure, I saw the good in things. Championed happy endings. Appreciated silver linings. Tread in dog poo and I'd thank the stars I was wearing shoes.</div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"><br />Whenever something bad was said, I'd defend. In my eyes, there was a reason why that boy was so angry that he threw chairs across the classroom, or why that girl's uniform was never clean. I may not have know what it was but there was always a bigger picture. There was always a beginning - and middle - to everyone's story.</div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"><br />And yes, I had a penchant for smiling at strangers; the old lady at the bus stop, the pram-pushing mother on the street. Even if my smile could not elicit one in return, it did not matter. They were in a hurry; they weren't in the mood; it was a grey area. Understood.</div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"><br />Even so, I didn't think these things were noticeably a nuisance. But yesterday, as I voiced my anger on the news, mum sighed: 'You should look on the bright side a bit more often.' I wasn't sure how one could 'look on the bright side' of someone doing only two years for murder, but at that moment the point was shelved. Like the new pain of an old injury, memory stirred.</div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"><br />Looking back, to that moment outside the food hall, I understand. Confronted by peers, my thirteen year old self was afraid. Defend the foundations of my personality? As if: courage was just a word in the dictionary. My 'annoying' optimism was wrong in the eyes of my so-called friend. And so my ability to believe in the unbelievable, to treat people as I found them, was bludgeoned out of me with one cruel and unnecessary remark. </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"><br />Well, I certainly thought so at the time. As a result, through choice or circumstance, I allowed it to change me. Like a guilty secret, I hid that side of me for so long it started to fade. But it never disappeared. It was always underneath the surface. </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"><br />Life often makes it hard to be optimistic. Repeated knocks and obstacles only serve to dampen the spirit and lose faith. Black and white, ignore the grey. It feels easier to accept defeat and wallow in the gloom. I've done that. We all do. It's the norm. But sometimes it doesn't hurt to take a walk on the bright side. In fact, it feels quite good...</div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"> </div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-10927644196136029242011-01-10T03:46:00.009+00:002011-01-10T04:06:17.812+00:00And so it goes...<div><div><div align="justify">I celebrated the New Year with family and friends in Wales. We stood outside holding glasses of pink champagne and watched the fireworks, faces lit with flashes of green, red and blue. We played with sparklers, spelling our names with the fading yellow light. The sky was filled with Chinese lanterns. Hundreds of glowing wishes soaring against a sky made of ink. </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"><br />Auld Lang Syne played in the background, filtering from a neighbour's TV. There were hugs and kisses, toothy smiles and eyes that twinkled more than usual. Strangers, wearing silly flashing hats, passed us with a jovial wave and clink of near-empty bottles. </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"><br />Minutes we were suspended, trapped in a time where nothing mattered. Woes and worries, fears and frustrations; forgotten. It was like they slipped into a place, a mere crevice, beyond recognition, beyond memory. But only for a little while. Only while the fireworks still had gunpowder and the streamers still popped and the champagne still fizzed in flute glasses. </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"><br />But then the cold came. Clawing and biting at our reddened cheeks and ears, pulling at the memories, the past, logic. As the rest stamped muddied feet before going inside, I stood on the driveway amidst the carnage of those suspended minutes. Feet surrounded by the shards of scorched sparklers and a jumble of pink and purple streamers; a champagne cork and an empty bottle.</div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"><br />The sky was dark and still, starless. It hit me like a thwack against my wind-cold cheek; 2010 was really over. There would be no possibility of un-doing, no should-have would-have could-have's. There was no going back.</div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"><br />The finality of it was frightening; that time could really creep upon you like that. And it wasn't just the unexpectedness of it all; it was the reminder how fragile time really is. How little of it we have at our disposal. </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"><br />The Rolling Stones once said: <span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);">time</span> <span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);">waits</span> <span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);">for</span> <span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);">no</span> <span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);">one</span>. And so, dearest reader, let's not be late.</div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);"><br />Happy</span> <span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);">New</span> <span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);">Year</span>.</div></div></div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-69007310331059900962010-12-18T22:28:00.007+00:002010-12-18T22:56:47.367+00:00Something Wicked this way comes...<div align="justify">Tuesday. 7.30pm. Part of my birthday celebrations is a trip to see Wicked: The Musical. Feel unsure about anything to do with a lady the colour of Slimer from Ghostbusters. It also doesn't help that everyone tells me, 'Yeah, it's wicked; get it?' No. I. Do. Not.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />Arrive at the theatre looking like the Michelin Man. Hope that every layer of clothing I wear is another degree of cold I can endure. <em>Take that</em> minus 2 degrees Celsius!</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />As I unravel from my winter armour, we approach the foyer. Walls, ceiling, floor- and all the people in between- bathe in emerald green. The glow distorts faces to sinister, demented levels. All men, women, children and teens look like The Riddler. Wonder if I'll have to solve a puzzle to find my seat.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />With minutes before the curtain rises, I take in my surroundings. Red velvet seats and gold leaf décor. Crystal chandeliers proudly hang from arched ceilings. <em>How do they change those light bulbs? </em>Soon, hundreds of conversations rise up and float down- a chorus of murmurs and shouts. There is a smell- a <em>theatre</em> smell- of polish and something else, something unfathomable. You only know it when you are there. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />With the strangeness of strangers, I am transported to how it used to be. Rows of bow ties and ball-gowns. Suited men with ruler spines selling ice cream in the aisle. Suddenly, there's a shriek in my ear. Two guys wearing misjudged Christmas jumpers are jostled and spill beer on my friend. They laugh, while she's left smelling like a brewery. Oh well. At least her hair's shiny...</div><div align="justify"><br />The lights flicker, the noise falls. And then the math happens. One bottle of birthday wine + warm theatre = sleepy head. My chest is the refrigerator, my chin the magnets. I am disturbed by a fierce clatter of cymbals that jolts me too high to be cleverly disguised as a body stretch. A giggle escapes from behind.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />As I prop my eyelids with fingers and thumbs, hoards of school kids pour in from all directions to ruin a song and my perfect stage view. Boy with World's Longest Neck provides me with half a show. A talking goat and a few winged-monkeys later and I wish I had something to throw at his head; a bucket of popcorn or maybe just a bucket. Nah. That would be too wicked. <em>Get it?</em></div><div align="justify"><em></em></div><div align="justify"><br />Soon enough, it's over. My needle hands sting from clapping longer than advised even though, for the most part, I have no idea what I'm clapping for. I am robotic, following the crowd. They've enjoyed it. The flash of green lights, a blonde who looks suspiciously like Cinderella and a Wicked Witch who is, as it turns out, not so wicked. Imagine that. </div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-22711027779373359412010-12-11T02:12:00.007+00:002011-02-04T21:41:04.326+00:00Do not conceive in March<div align="justify">June 1991 I had a joint birthday party with my sister and a family friend. Our garden was filled with children jumping excitedly on a bouncy castle, faces painted with butterflies or Batman. Our birthday cake was divided into three. My third had purple icing shaped like a clown with the letters 'HAP' swirled underneath. The 'PY' just could not fit.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />Looking at the cake I remember feeling puzzled, not least because I never really liked clowns. Not that they scare me- they barely register on my apathetic scale. What confused me; it wasn't actually my birthday. And even more so, was I celebrating my sixth birthday just gone or more seventh approaching later that year? Perplexed all round. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />Yes, dear reader, I am a December baby. The <em>'best Christmas present ever received'</em> according to my mum- but she's not the one who has to celebrate birth just before Christmas. A time when everyone is too preoccupied with work parties and gift shopping, hanging fairy lights and cooking roast dinner. When the only cards that sell in Clinton's are the hundreds of Jesus in his Manger and those of the infamous red-nosed Reindeer. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />Seemingly, the only time anyone remembered my birthday was in June 1991 and that was just a fake one. A deluge of cards and presents- a drought ever since. As a child, I never noticed. Well, except once. Aged ten, all I wanted for my birthday was a tiny V-Tech learning laptop (in 1994 I was <em>the</em> height of cool). Unfortunately for me, all children wanted one for Christmas and it sold out. When I had nothing to open that December morning; only <em>then</em> did I notice.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />But usually, as long as <em>I</em> knew it was my birthday- that was enough. In bed the night before excitement fluttered in my chest, toes wriggled in anticipation. I'd wake early with a strange awareness that this day was different, special. I was one year older and that bought change.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />Now, it's as if that excitement has drifted away in a birthday balloon, caught on a strong wind and floated far. And as time passed it shrivelled, deflated and popped on a sharp branch of a twisted tree. And what makes things worse is that my birthday is already lost amidst the hectic planning and mental countdown to the busiest and most expensive times of year. As if people haven't got enough to do.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />So reader, I understand. I forgive the lack of birthday wishes. I forget. But just so you don't, some advice: If you plan on having children- try not to conceive in March. Makes birthdays far more <em>memorable</em>...</div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2184562380062162084.post-63905010802700482222010-11-27T22:03:00.011+00:002010-11-27T23:36:49.774+00:00I predict a riot<div align="justify">Presently, the UK is in chaos. Hazardous snowy weather, jobless millions and a shaky coalition government trying to clean the mess its predecessor left behind. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />After years of poor governing and escalating debts, the UK was in obvious need of an overhaul. Drastic cuts, increased taxes and political reform. It was on the cards and yet there was always going to be some who didn't like the hand they were dealt...</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />A few days ago, thousands stormed the Liberal Democrat headquarters to protest against one such increase -University tuition fees- and the anger of a broken promise. A promise from the Lib Dem leader, Nick Clegg, to scrap those fees completely. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />But a seemingly peaceful protest descended into violence. Youths smashed windows with metal implements. A Police Van vandalised, people injured and, eventually, the protest bought to an abrupt end by hundreds of Officers.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />Still, they wanted to shout for their cause. One sixth-form student said, '<em>£9,000 a year fees are a joke. For three years, that's £21,000. It's ridiculous</em>.' She's correct. It <em>is</em> ridiculous that after 18 years of education she still doesn't know her times tables. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />Reader, I do understand their innumerate frustration. I was a student. I remember the struggle to find the £3,000 per year tuition fees, not to mention the thousands for accommodation and living expenses. University life adds up to one very expensive equation. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />And sadly, for most young protesters there, University is not worth the math. They do not want an <em>education</em>. They want an easy ride; 4 lectures per week, booze-filled nights and 40% to pass the year. A three year gap before having to look for work. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />But in that crowd, on shards of broken glass, there are those few. Those who articulate their peaceful protest, who have the common sense to know violence is never the answer. They are fuelled by a desire to be more. They want to learn and grow as human beings and show the world their potential. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />What happens to <em>them</em>? Amidst the screams of pointless violence, who will hear their voices?</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#6600cc;"><br />Reader, what say you?</span></div><div align="justify"></div>Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04152803362923785129noreply@blogger.com9