LIVE WRITE DREAM

The Big Fat Metaphorical Leaf

2012-01-17T12:30:00.000Z

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.)

Regardless of my shattered illusions, it's still a brand new year. 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.

But I've never been one for resolutions. Never. 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 was five. I didn't know myself. I only knew my love for playing with Barbie and watching Button Moon.

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.

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.

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 hope, the failure only serves to heighten our human frailties and make us feel worse. Do we really need that feeling?

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 new New Year's resolution, if you will: Don't make any. An amazingly novel idea, don't you think reader?

What say you?

Happy New Year

2011-12-31T10:00:00.000Z

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.

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 to be 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.

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:

As a little bud with shallow roots

You filled me with wonder

Found in every shard of sand

Handful of dirt,

Speck of dust.

Clouds were friends

Stars were dreams

The sky was my future...

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.

Happy New Year, dearest Readers. Here's to a good one...

There is still no cure for the common birthday

2011-12-17T23:37:00.000Z

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.

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.

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 age? 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 so damn stuck. 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 who 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.

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.

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. It was not pleasant.

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 (damn you, age!), I thought about how James Earl Jones, the voice of Darth Vader, was treading the boards below me with an expertise that amazed and 'well, this isn't so bad'. Not at all.

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 old 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.

I sometimes wonder why I worry at all. But isn't reflection the very nature of birthdays? Reader, what say you?

Get cape. Wear cape. Fly?

2011-12-04T17:32:00.001Z

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 - just one last stretch - when the floorboards groaned behind.

'Louise, what do you think you're doing?'

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.

'Looking for a pillowcase.' I said, as if it was the kind of thing I did every day. It wasn't.

'Are you going to make your bed?'

Me make beds? 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 very special outfit. 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. Or maybe not.

'No, no, no!' I said, head shaking. 'I don't want a white one.'

'But brides wear white on their wedding day. Don't you want a white veil?'

I may have married off Barbie with Ken a few times (and Ken with Sindy once the divorced had been finalised) but I never wanted to be a bride. Boys were stupid. Did she not know me at all? She stared at me with an increasingly crinkled brow.

'I need a red one for my cape. You can't fly without a cape!'

At this moment she noticed the rest of my very special outfit 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.

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. It was a normal weekend in my household.

My very special outfit 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.

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.

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.

'Louise, what do you think you're doing?'

'Climbing the tree.'

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.

'Why are you climbing the tree?'

'Because birds fly from trees.'

'You're not a bird, Louise. You can't fly.'

'I know I'm not a bird.' I continued to climb.

'Well, you're not Supergirl either.'

'I know that! I'm Superman.'

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.

'You're no Superman,' she said. 'He wouldn't have got his cape caught in the bottom of the ladder!'

Well. There was always next time.

Remember, Remember

2011-11-07T15:44:00.002Z

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.

We learned of the tradition at school. Pencils in hand we'd chant: 'Remember remember the 5th of November, gunpowder, treason and plot.' 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 so fleeting.

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.

Little Things

2011-09-27T17:41:00.001+01:00

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.

Sometimes it's the little things...

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.

It's the little things that give you faith...

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.

It's the little things that make you cry...

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.

It's the little things that you regret...

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.

It's the little things that make you smile...and thus the big things seem worthwhile.

There is no place like home

2011-08-30T12:20:00.008+01:00

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.

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.

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.

Here, we keep useless things; rusty keys, books with lost pages and ceramic figurines with missing heads and feet, just in case. 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.

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.

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 always be music.

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.

Top Ten: Things I can't live without

2011-08-15T15:22:00.006+01:00

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 could live without them but I wouldn't want to' list. Indulge me for a moment and read on...

1) Sleep:

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 try to get mine.

2) Music:

Music is my best friend. She's there when I'm happy or sad. She's at the gym, urging me on for just five more minutes. 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.

3) Books:

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.

4) Memories:

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 H.M.

5) Pen/Pencil:

We might live in a technological age where handwriting is that swirly thing kids learned in primary school (and left there) but I would hate 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!

6) News:

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...

7) Internet:

How else can one watch TV, book a holiday, buy a new wardrobe and read a list of the most unusual deaths (and anything else weird) without leaving your desk? Impossible!

8) Passport:

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.

9) Laughter:

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. A lot. Most people laugh at me too but I can deal with that; as long as they're happy.

10) Writing:

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...

So reader, what things can't you live without?

The Voice of the Unheard?

2011-08-11T11:24:00.018+01:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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: 'Due to imminent societal collapse, I regret to inform you we'll be closing at 6pm'. 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.

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.

Reader, what say you?

Restless

2011-08-02T18:12:00.003+01:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I curl into myself with the knowledge that insanity is a real possibility.

The Death Effect

2011-07-28T00:23:00.000+01:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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. They were just like us.

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.

Reader, what say you?

Is that you? This is me...

2011-07-03T21:19:00.004+01:00

This was my Granddad two years ago on his birthday. Despite the hot weather, he insisted on a jumper, jacket and 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.

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.'

The thoughts seem so unnecessary - silly even - but it's surprising how some things never leave you.

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. He 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.

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.

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.

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!'

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.

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.

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.

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.

'Is that you? This is me. I miss you.'

More than I thought I would...

A Letter to Time

2011-05-24T18:19:00.003+01:00

Dear Time,

I've got your number. The devious tricks you play.

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. When will he be back? I wonder. I just need you for a little longer, an hour will do.

But you never come.

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 tick tock 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 we had the chance.

But I never did.

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, we know it's there.

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.

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.

I've had enough of you and yet, somehow, I will never have enough.

Forever Yours,

Lou

The Family Tree

2011-04-26T16:54:00.002+01:00

Roots gnarled, pokes sharp
through black soil.
Trunk slants to one side
in a weary lean of surrender.
The branches,
they don't sit so well;
through moonlight their shadows crawl
up my wall in a crooked twist
and weave; so close,
and yet the distance
of sticks and stems
is a whispered breath,
a wandered mile.

Bark weathered, chipped,
its face of worn whorls, crack
like the desert floor.
I set them free,
these handfuls of dust,
through limp fingers
and the storm carries them away, far,
in a frightful gust of wind.
My eyes sting.
Splinters of past wound me
and I bleed my Grandmother's tears
and the hundred years
of growth rots
at garden's end.

We cut it down;
the rotten tree.
Branches burn to ash,
twig to dust.
By the warmth we wait,
the white singe
of smoke drifts away.
We do not stoke the embers.
We watch them glow orange red,
a slow fade to black
on dying breath.

Early Birds

2011-04-17T22:02:00.003+01:00

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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?

I wonder...

Things I learned today

2011-03-26T03:39:00.005Z

And I'm not even a student any more...

1. Clichés are truths in overused disguise:

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).

2. Human nature dictates that people like to be close, too close (and I don't like it):

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.

3. Live with your parents long enough and you will regress:

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.

4. Book editing eats time for breakfast, lunch and dinner (and makes you cry):

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.

5. Novelties really do wear off:

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. Eventually. 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 Glee. Now that really is sad.

So reader, what did you learn today?

Confession

2011-02-25T07:47:00.010Z

Reader, a whirlwind caught and carried me away. A burst of creative energy assailed me and I could not, would not, fight it. But then, who would?

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.

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.

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?'

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 my precious. 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.

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.

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.

What. Have. I. Done?

Strangerhood

2011-02-04T17:17:00.015Z

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.

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.

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, 'Yeah, my girlfriend's drunk, what's it to you? You're only my neighbour.' 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Reader, what say you?

The Bright Side

2011-01-28T18:41:00.008Z

At school I was once chastised by a 'friend' for being too positive. Yes. Me. 'You always see the good in everything. It's so annoying.' Was it? Well, mum had taught me to 'count my blessings' and 'smile when the going got tough.' Clichés featured heavily.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

And so it goes...

2011-01-10T03:46:00.009Z

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Rolling Stones once said: time waits for no one. And so, dearest reader, let's not be late.

Happy New Year.

Something Wicked this way comes...

2010-12-18T22:28:00.007Z

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.

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. Take that minus 2 degrees Celsius!

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.

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. How do they change those light bulbs? Soon, hundreds of conversations rise up and float down- a chorus of murmurs and shouts. There is a smell- a theatre smell- of polish and something else, something unfathomable. You only know it when you are there.

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...

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.

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. Get it?

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.

Do not conceive in March

2010-12-11T02:12:00.007Z

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.

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.

Yes, dear reader, I am a December baby. The 'best Christmas present ever received' 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.

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 the 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 then did I notice.

But usually, as long as I 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.

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.

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 memorable...

I predict a riot

2010-11-27T22:03:00.011Z

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.

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...

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.

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.

Still, they wanted to shout for their cause. One sixth-form student said, '£9,000 a year fees are a joke. For three years, that's £21,000. It's ridiculous.' She's correct. It is ridiculous that after 18 years of education she still doesn't know her times tables.

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.

And sadly, for most young protesters there, University is not worth the math. They do not want an education. 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.

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.

What happens to them? Amidst the screams of pointless violence, who will hear their voices?

Reader, what say you?

Farmyard Animals

2010-11-16T18:33:00.006Z

Last Saturday was my sister's Hen night. One of the rare occasions where women willingly dress like idiots, with a flashing garter, fluffy handcuffs and a giant sash proclaiming 'Bride to Be' in bright pink letters. The white veil didn't give that one away.

The Hen, some chicks- and a few guys I'd never met- assembled in a local bar, where we doused ourselves in glitter because, apparently, nothing says P-A-R-T-Y more than a generous dose of glitter spray. With escalating noise we morphed into a bunch of farmyard animals, annoying bemused drinkers just wanting a quiet pint on a Saturday afternoon. Boo moo.

The train to central London was ten minutes of dirty jokes and laughter, quizzical stares and stupid queries to my sister: 'Are you getting married?' No. She dresses like that every weekend.

On the Party Bus we boogied to music piped through the ceiling, throwing streamers and balloons at each other like five year olds. From club to club, boobs were flashed, pints were drunk, and some danced in heels too ridiculous for real life. I don't think my feet will ever recover.

At 4am I stumbled from a taxi, purse empty, tools of torture in hand (evil evil shoes), litres of coconut rum swished against an empty skull. I remembered how to walk but keys and locks required a brain I'd left on Bond Street.

Ten minutes later I was inside. Forgetting that I was twenty-five years old, my mum had waited for my return; cold tea perched on one knee, face slopped in sleep against the sofa. She made three rounds of ham sandwiches and, ravenous, I ate whilst recounting the night's events at a decibel my Dad made sure I knew about later.

And just like that, it was over. A night- planned for months, expected for years, anticipated for days- done. A flash of booze and pinched feet, the over-zealous hands of strangers who groped as you danced by, the buzz of music too loud still ringing in ears. And while I still find glitter in places you wouldn't expect, I realise there is something bigger looming on the horizon. Not quite a speck anymore, not so distant. A wedding.

And so it goes...

Rear Window

2010-11-04T13:00:00.004Z

From my rear window
Smudged with the greasy print of fingers
And the smeared corpse of an unwanted spider,
The children play.
Fields lush with green beneath spiked boots
And padded shins.
A whistle blows.

Beyond this glass screen,
Leaves like orange lemons,
Sharp sheets of fire
Burn crisp from starched branches;
A season of weakened spirit,
So it seems.

Past the broken fence and compost heap
At garden's end, to the next street,
The woman, the Adulteress, lies in wait;
Pinching the stub of a cancer stick
To calm nerves before her Lover arrives.
It's exercise.

Birds of black wing and eye
Burst forth from the old Oak next door,
Where neighbours burn tyres and wood
At all hours;
Their garden filled with the carcasses
Of cars and trucks,
And beer bottle lids glint in sunbeams
Like a thousand golden raindrops.

Through the barren hedge where ivy spills
Outwards like green entrails,
The Stranger known for twenty years
Pegs grey whites on a frosted line
With a disheartened sigh;
She retreats inside with an empty basket
Of forgotten dreams.

From my rear window
This play of string-less puppets
Unbeknownst
Act for me in their Acts
First or final,
Who knows?
A whistle blows.

When someone you love becomes a memory, that memory becomes a treasure

2010-10-23T03:41:00.003+01:00

What can I say about grief without sounding pretentious? We all know the deal- death is a part of life; loss will get better with time, so on and so forth. Blah blah blah. Whatever I type sounds trite and forced, akin to something that graces the pages of a self-help guide in a bargain bin of a 99p store.

My Granddad died. I had longed for his passing- to see him free from his painful existence. 'Life' does not fit. Despite my expectation, the news stunned the breath from my body.

After a loss there is a moment when you realise things will never be the same. A millisecond, an intake of breath, a beat in your breast. You'll never hear his voice, his laugh. See his face. Hold his hand. Share his smile. And all too soon, time intrudes into seconds, a breath exhaled, a beat in your head. And that's it. Change. Forever.

Now, reader, I think of him. Fear I did not know him as best I could, wish he was here so I could ask him thousands of questions unanswered, study him with my eyes and trap his detail to my memories. He would be the feast and I would gorge because I could never be full.

Instead he watches me in black and white from a silver frame on the edge of my desk. A smile teases his eyes. He is free. And, for now, that I will treasure.

Trapped in Glass

2010-09-29T02:38:00.004+01:00

Yellow lights flicker in their dusty overhead shells, like moths trapped in glass. Wheelchairs wait empty in the corridor. Each footstep disturbs an embedded urine stench.

We pass open doors of elderly- shiny eyes poking out from furrowed skin and folds of starchy sheets. Who knew hope was in a footstep? In the distance, a shrivelled voice of vocal chords strained and mouth parched. The kind of yelp pulled from the string of boots. Help, it said. Help. It tugs my heart one way but feet go another. Guilt leaves an unwelcome taste.

I sit in the corner of the room where my Granddad lives out his days. They are numbered. The wrinkled weight of his body rests in a bed he has not left for four weeks, and counting. Muscles, nerves, control have all left him and he waits, we wait, they wait.

His bed faces the window- a sky grey with seriousness, the lone magpie perched on a tree bare from seasons change, the window glass marred with fingerprints forgotten.

But Granddad sees nothing.

With a bib around his neck we feed him spoonfuls of mashed food, share sad broken laughs with our Benjamin Button, the irony of life in reverse. I grasp his hand, stroking the lines of history carved into skin like a well-read map. Briefly, his grip tightens. Blue eyes fix on mine, lip quivers. 'I'm ready but I'm scared.'

It's a pithy whisper but I hear him. My fingertips stroke his brow and I engulf his frame in blankets, as if warmth will keep his fears at bay. It's a small comfort but to whom?

As we leave, the lights continue their amber dance in dusty shells and I wonder. Though his limbs are feeble, his mind is strong. My Granddad, the moth trapped in a glass. If I could set him free, he would fly.

The Unwelcome Guest

2010-09-16T16:50:00.007+01:00

If someone dares to tell me I cannot do something, I will prove them wrong. Until that objective is achieved, my actions are absorbed by an unmitigated focus. But there is one area of my life where this system of logic fails miserably. Just as I am raring, ready, I stumble.

But the problem is not an inanimate object that can be moved from my path. It exists in the mind- a place with depths too dangerous. Part of my subconscious has drifted outwards into conscious thought. That little questioning voice is fully fledged and vocal. And with every option and opportunity that I let pass me by, through choice or convenience, or unavoidable circumstance- that voice gains strength.

Now, it is far too loud.

It's the fear- oh, the dreaded wrench of gut fear- of discovering what you thought, hoped you were good at, you probably are not. It's the reason why I don't push myself out there into the world. Why I don't send poetry or stories to magazines and competitions. Why I will never approach a publisher with my novel. Why I think my writing will only be confined to this meagre blog. Oh, it is sad.

On the days when the silence is unnerving and stealth-like in its speed to engulf me, doubt is my only company, an unwelcome guest, my constant companion. Always there, its negative waves erode and chip me until I am rubble and dust.

And now, what little self belief I had in my abilities as a writer has shrivelled. It ventured outside with tentative steps, only for a raincloud of doubt to drift over and soak it, in all its greying scepticism.

Some days, reader, I pray for drought.

The Game of Life

2010-09-02T11:35:00.007+01:00

I had a fight with Father Time. The scythe-wielding bastard tried to kick me up the backside. 'What are you doing with your life? Time is ticking. You'll be thirty before you know it.' At which point I threw his hourglass to the floor, scattered glass and grains of sand. It probably explains why I went to sleep in July and woke up in September. Blog wise, that is.

Reader, I appear to have reached that stage. The mid-twenties alarm has bleeped. Of late, everyone has a question about the direction of my life, questions swathed in the fabric of time. 'When are you going to settle down?' 'What career path do you want to follow?' 'You know you're not getting any younger...?' And so on and so forth.

Seemingly, the countdown has begun. A peaked sense of urgency to abide by conventions. I'm stuck in The Game of Life. I'm a little pink peg in my little plastic car and, apparently, I need to put my foot down. Marry a blue peg. Buy a house. Have 2.4 children and live happily ever after. Roll the dice, take these steps and do as others must.

But what if you want to take one step forward and three back? Appreciate the journey, ignore the destination. Enjoy the unexpected. Are you going against nature just because you deplore the stereotypical sense of life's expectations? If I don't tick a box on the list of lifetime achievements, is that a life half lived?

The truth is I don't know where I'm going or what I'm doing. There is no dreaded sense of urgency or desire to conform. No fear of setting down roots before I wilt. I appreciate the unknown, the randomness that is my life. I enjoy playing the game, just not by the rules.

To ask me what I'm doing with my life is like asking a monkey for the square root of pi. You'll never get the bloody answer...

Tainted

2010-07-20T17:16:00.004+01:00

At the weekend a man was murdered. Violence never fails to shock and annoy me. There is always an underlying frustration as to how people can be so incredibly evil (and stupid).

But there was something about this murder. Society is such that I could have snatched this act from the front page of any newspaper in any part of the world. But I didn't. It happened around the corner from where I live.

The man died on the streets that I walked as a child, where I rode my bike in the summer heat. He died opposite the fish and chip shop where I watched my Great Uncle Tom devour a plate of jellied eels and mash, with a strange mix of horror and delight. He died where my memories were made.

And I can't help but feel a loss. Not just for those lives ruined by a knife in one careless hand. But for the loss of good memories. The loss of safety- that innate feeling that allowed one to walk the streets without fear or question. Now, the value of my home and the comfort that evoked has slowly dissolved. Everything around me feels tainted by an evil plague.

I know bad things happen in the world. But as petulant as it sounds, I don't want it in my periphery. If bad things have to exist, and sadly they do- good and evil are as synonymous as yin and yang- I want it to exist in some other world that I don't have to think about. Occasionally I wish I was still a child and awareness was just a word in the dictionary. It would sure make life liveable, sometimes.

I wish I was naive enough to believe that was even possible...

I miss you too...

2010-07-12T16:20:00.008+01:00

Do you remember that day?

I didn't wave you off to school,

Instead I lie in bed

Waiting for pain to subside.

The last moment I saw

Your worried little face;

Tears on red cheeks,

A flash of fear in green eyes.

Later you came to see me:

Your soft peachy hand rested

There upon my grey face.

You said it felt like marble.

Do you remember that day?

You wore black lace

With pretty blue shoes;

I thought they should have matched.

I gazed from afar,

Under the wooden arch

Where I married your father

While you threw down black soil.

Later I came to see you:

What once was my hand rested

There upon your peachy face.

You said you felt cold.

Do you remember that day?

You were only sixteen

Forced to leave home;

I wanted to hit your stepmother.

You moved into the flat

Above the model shop

And when the door closed

Eyes wept like the day I left.

Later I came to see you:

What once were my arms rested

There upon your sorrowed shoulders.

You said you felt so alone.

Do you remember that day?

Dressed in white

Holding peach flowers;

I wanted to tell you I was so proud.

You walked down the aisle

Clasped in your father's hand,

Stepping and smiling

Despite the stab of pain.

Later I came to see you:

What once were my lips rested

There upon your sullen cheek.

You thought it had been a boy.

Do you remember that day?

You turned sixty

Surrounded by friends;

I wished I had reached that age.

You laughed with guests,

Opened cards and presents

Feeling pleased

The day had gone so well.

Later I came to see you:

What once were my hands rested

There upon your tired face.

You said 'I miss you mum...'

Eleven thousand doors to eleven thousand lives

2010-07-06T01:07:00.010+01:00

On Sunday I ran my local Race for Life to raise money for cancer research. The race is popular in the UK; apparently women love to dress up in pink to walk or run 5k. I signed up with basic knowledge of the event: Busy. Far too much pink for my liking. And it would be silly...

We stood beneath a cloudless blue sky, on a heath thirsty for green. The weather grasped the body like a hot second skin. Thousands gathered in pink t-shirts, hats, tutus and feather boas, bunny ears and fancy dress.

Attached to the back of every person was a sign which read, 'I race for life for...' Before me were thousands of doors to thousands of lives. Some raced for mums, dads, uncles, aunts, brothers and sisters. Friends. Others raced for themselves, or for someone known by someone else. We were strangers bound by one common thread.

Perhaps the cause was still raw for me but I had never felt so moved. My surroundings were immense, the horizon tipped far and endless and the people ant like and tiny. It was like I had floated up and out of my body and I was privy to a weird giant puppet show from above.

And in that moment, I walked to the start line aware of my own insignificance- my own mortality. How trivial matters had been given the right name. How grateful I was to be there. Sure, I was boiling hot, sweaty and aching before the race had started. But I was hot, sweaty, aching and alive.

It's amazing how these things hit you in the strangest of places. Particularly when you're sandwiched between two women dressed like Betty Rubble from The Flintstones. Well. I did say it would be silly.

Top Ten: Signs you're getting old(er)

2010-06-18T15:41:00.006+01:00

Living at home with parents in their sixties is taking its toll. At 10pm, the TV is turned down to minuscule levels; I'm still watching. They wake to pee at hours of morning not meant to be seen. At the weekend they've experienced a full day by 2pm; I'm just getting up.

Like or not, we age. Bodies peak, faces wrinkle, mobility slows. But there are signs that tell us the metaphorical hill might be closer than we think, as well as living under my roof...

1) You enjoy cups of tea a little too much. After a long day out the first words are: 'I'm dying for a cuppa.' You might say you're 'parched'. If accompanied by an expression more appropriate on a man lost in the desert, you have old fartitus.

2) Unlike the youthful frivolity of living payday to payday, you speak of investments and bonds. You know the inns and outs of ISAs like you know your ABCs. The thought of putting money away is positively orgasmic. Yes! I'll be £200 richer in 20 years! Yes! I'll have what she's having- a 3.6% tax-free ISA please. Sexy.

3) You often start a sentence with, 'When I was your age...' Enough said.

4) You obsess with parking your car outside your house. Come home to find a strange car where yours should be, you're hysterical. What follows is persistent peeping behind net curtains, watching, waiting, for that pesky car to move. When it does, two seconds later, you follow. Car in rightful place = relaaaax.

5) You're strangely sensitive to changes in room temperature. You have a telepathic link to the thermostat and can sense when changed. If anyone dares to turn that dial by two degrees, you'll know. It's like the spidey-sense for old folk.

6) If you can say: 'I've spent enough of my lifetime cooking to not want to do it anymore,' well, you are old people. Old. And perhaps a teeny bit lazy. Making beans on toast three nights in a row is not cooking. I'm just saying.

7) Your kitchen is a hive of forgotten activity. Taps left running in the sink. Dishwasher half unloaded. Teabags over-stewed in cups of cold tea. Warning: age related forgetfulness results in massive water bills, dirty plates, and thirsty house guests.

8) The legal ability to vote, drink, drive, or watch an 18 rated movie no longer holds any excitement. You've been there, done that, and worn the t-shirt so many times it's worn out. A bit like yourself.

9) When you reminisce about movies or TV shows, no one has a clue what you're talking about. That's because they were probably rolling around on a floor somewhere trying to learn to crawl. Or hadn't yet been conceived...

10) You can tell it's going to rain by the creak of knee or pain in your hip. Joints telling the weather is not just a circus freak rarity, although it should be.

So reader, remind you of anyone?

A Focus on Character

2010-06-07T04:43:00.010+01:00

Kit McLean hated airports like people hated hospitals. The thrill of escape- its anticipation and excitement- did not fill her with joy. Humans were built to walk the earth, not fly over it; a philosophy by which she had lived. That was until her mother went abroad for two weeks. One year later Kit stood outside departures. Thanks mum.

A plane seared air above. Kit flinched. Why couldn't she continue to stay with her dad? Wasn't that the benefit of divorced parents; to stay with one while the other was occupied? She veered along the conveyor, ears filled with the monotonous thud and roll of suitcase wheels and trolleys.

Inside she joined a line which seemed never-ending. Ten minutes later she reached the check-in desk. She was down on her luck.

'Are you alone miss?'

The woman behind the desk looked questionably alert. Drugs? Or just one of those morning people? Yuck.

'Yes. Why?'

'But you're so young to be travelling alone!'

She was fifteen, God damn it, not five. Sure, curls and freckled cheeks fooled some. Her dad often blamed the dimples, but she did not have pig tales and could quite clearly see over the desk.

'Thanks for your concern but I'll be fine.'

Politeness equals maturity.

'So you're flying to Cairo today, young lady?'

I'll give you young lady. Kit checked the back of her hand where her flight number was scribbled in permanent marker.

'Yep. That's right.'

One spindly hand reached forward. Kit headed for her bag. Fingers crossed her passport was at home instead of hiding between crumpled homework and her teddy-bear, Ollie. The woman chuckled.

'You are young to be travelling without your parents.'

Goodbye Ollie.

'I'm fifteen and I'm going to meet my mother. She's studying.'

'Really, what's she studying?'

Kit glanced at her watch, its Mickey Mouse hands made her smile. If she sighed loudly, yawned or stretched, maybe the woman would stop.

'She specialises in Egyptian artefacts. She's working at a museum in Cairo which is where I'm going.'

Politeness equals maturity.

'When I was young I was lucky I got a trip to Brighton Pier! Something to tell your friends in September; they'll be jealous.'

'That you went to Brighton Pier?'

That shut her up.

'Well, here you are. Enjoy your flight. Next!'

Flight! Kit had forgotten about that. Every step took her closer to the end. Throat tightened, cheeks hot. Her pulse drowned all noise. She spotted a row of payphones. Death could wait.

Backpack resting between her feet, Kit tugged her sleeve, eyeing the scribble that stretched her forearm. She punched in the digits.

'Mum?'

'-it, -it, is that you?'

The line crackled, spat.

'Mum, I'm at the airport.'

'What, in Egypt?'

'No, Gatwick. I've just checked in. I won't be in Egypt for a while.'

'Look, I'm going into a tomb so I must dash. Kit, it's fascinating, we've found something special. Infinitely special. Anyways, I'll be there to pick you up, hopefully.'

'Mum don't do this to me! I won't know where I'm going.'

'Bye darling!'

Dialling tone. Tomb? Kit did not want to go into a tomb. They were underground for a reason, as in- they stayed under ground and you stayed over it. Luck really wasn't on her side. Damn, she hated airports. Where was a life-threatening illness when you needed one?

Return to Room 101

2010-05-27T13:30:00.004+01:00

Day: 1 trillion and fifty-six

Job rejections: Fifty billion

Outlook: Bleak, still

It's 9am. Sunshine and smiles have burned out and a shrivelled cloud of dreary rises from their ashes; a grey stench to permeate skin and spirit. It feels like my heart's been dug out from my chest with an ice-cream scoop, cold chest sewn shut with wire and barbs. Job centre day.

As usual, arrive early. Impressions count. Man with cheeks of mottled skin takes sly sips from a silver hip flask engraved with the words 'Employee of the Month.' The irony plays with my smile and loses.

The level one crowd is thicker than usual and I'm forced to stand. Woman to my left kisses her teeth. Mottled skin man tuts loudly. My foot taps a beat. An impatient chorus rises up and falls flat.

Patience not a virtue I practice, I march over to an employee whose stress is scoring red over her chest and up her neck. She sees me coming, her eyes widen and she sighs before shouting, 'Oh for heaven's sake, I can't catch a break!'

Twenty-five minutes later, still waiting. Three employees off sick and the rest have to pick up 'the slack.' Being called thus offends me. Finally my name is mumbled. The man chews gum with a slow rinse of his jaw and sighs heavily. The only thing they all do so well. 'Right,' he yawns. 'I'm gonna make this quick.' What's new?

Without a glance to my form or a care for my progress, he forces me to sign. As I tear a hole in the sheet with a blue Biro, I feel it build, a scream pinched about my throat. It's May, people. MAY! And I still don't have a job. What am I doing wrong? Why are you not helping me? Hello. Can you even see me...?

The truth hits, a raw thwack. Face burns. I'm just another name on a badly printed form. A box to be ticked, not a person to be helped. I'm a number, not a soul.

I don't like this truth. I wish today was a liar.

Child of Ignorance, Mother of Misery

2010-05-11T11:12:00.004+01:00

I don't step on pavement cracks. Opposite my window is a mirror to reflect bad spirits. Every day I rub Buddha's belly for good luck. Crossed knives- I panic. I must throw salt over shoulder when it spills. If I see a lone magpie, I always say hello to his wife and children. And don't even get me started on walking under ladders.

Superstitions are an awkward subject matter. From my Dad they evoke a shrug and an eye roll. One friend takes them very seriously- to the extreme of burying the shards of a broken mirror in her back garden to stop the beckoning seven years bad luck. Another friend sees superstitions as a simple weakness of the mind.

In 1898, Robert G Ingersoll wrote an extensive essay on this subject. He listed, with vehemence, every superstition of his time to demonstrate their lack of evidence. He declared their roots to be a supernatural enemy of science, a disregard for cause and effect, of intelligence and reason. 'Superstition,' he wrote, 'is the child of ignorance and the mother of misery.'

Over one hundred years later, this is laughable. Even the most intelligent people partake in some form of superstition, however small. Perhaps without conscious knowledge of doing so. Picking up a penny from the street. Rubbing dice in hands before a throw. Fingers crossed with a wish. There's no madness in it. Or weakness. Superstitions are subconscious seeds sown as we are nurtured- taught at nursery, repeated as rhymes.

They may be crazy old wives tales. Fragments of a delirious imagination. Outrageous notions that have no scientific basis or proof. But I like them- these rituals. There's an element of security within them. A belief that by performing these rituals, we are protected from a potential evil, or provided with welcome good luck. There is no sense to it, no reason. But reader, do we need one?

Voting for Ghosts

2010-05-04T14:23:00.007+01:00

Thursday. I wake from a fitful slumber, feet cold, face hot. As I inch feet to steal the warmth behind my knees, red digits flutter in my periphery. 9.29pm. Late. I'm late. Legs tangled in sheets prevent a successful leap from the bed and I plunge, head first, into the bedside table. Corner stabs temple. Shards of pain to the power of three. Underneath my eye, a vessel starts to twitch. One hand has twenty fingers. That's not right. I'm late...

'Are you alright, love?'

Fingers of cold bone jab one hot cheek. Three outlines of a blurred figure enter my vision. A thousand tonne fog rests on my head but it's only air.

'My head hurts.'

'Pfft! I've known pain far worse.'

'And you are?'

'Name's Emily Davison. Come now, you're late.'

I spin my body out of its circus tangle and off the bed. Vision follows two seconds later. Liquid muscles and jelly bones quiver as I heave myself up onto feet that don't feel like my feet. Hand seeks out the pain bleating relentless in my temple. Contents of stomach don't feel safe. I clutch my side, as if that will help.

The four walls of my room have broken and dispersed. A white descends to curl around me, a whisper to my flesh. I follow Emily along a floorless corridor of fog.

'Where are we going?'

She smiles. I gulp. We reach open nothingness. A woman strides out, her neck held rigid by a high white collar. The sternness of her nose is intimidating.

'Wait. I know you. You're-'

'Emmeline Pankhurst.'

It's official. I am late. For my check-in at the Bethlem mental institution.

A ballot box slides out from the white. A pen drops from nowhere. A voting form appears crumpled beneath the painful twist of my fingers. Empty boxes loom, waiting to be ticked. Tick me. Tick me. No! Tick me. Emily creeps forward.

'I didn't throw myself under that horse for you to stand there.'

Emmeline glares at the pocket watch in her weathered hands. Red digits flutter. Pen hovers. Mind quivers. Somewhere, Big Ben chimes ten but I'm not watching the news. My heart leaps. I fall.

'You're too late. You've missed your chance. I'm terribly disappointed in you.'

I'm faced with the pointed stare of two suffragettes and their suffering. Pain has found a beat and plays like dirty hip-hop in my head. I sink into the fog and drown in it.

Thursday. 9.45pm. Wake face down on floor. Spine jarred; feet, thighs, knees tangled upwards against the edge of the bed. Temple aches. I heave myself up onto feet that feel like my feet in a room that looks like my room. Stagger over to my calendar. 7 days to go. Not late after-all...

Expect nothing. Live on surprise.

2010-04-21T02:06:00.008+01:00

She lives where no one can see her. But I can. I know her face, the shade of hair, the shine of eyes. I hear the tone of her voice and how it breaks when she's angry with me. A lips quiver with a fleeting memory. The violent twist of her hands when she's uncomfortable. To my surprise, she constantly changes her mind. I build expectations and she knocks them down before I'm finished. Lego beliefs strewn across the floor.

My novel's protagonist. Antagonist, more like. Sure, she was never set in stone. I never knew what she looked like, what she believed in. What she ate for breakfast. That is not how I work. I am not a planner. I don't do spider-diagrams or character maps. I write.

But now my protagonist has leaped from the realms of character and is flesh, blood. She is a person with skin, veins, feelings and secrets untold. She has evolved beneath my fingertips. With every heavy score on the keyboard, she breathes life. I feel like Victor Frankenstein - without all the stealing of dead body parts.

Of course, I have not created a monster. Nor do I feel disgust when we are together - there in on the blank page, cursor blinking. But I am afraid of her. Of what she can do. I lead her along one route and she resists, wishing to go another direction. I want her to say one thing and yet she says something else, unexpected. I feel like she is writing this book and I'm just the body to use.

Is it normal - to be overwhelmed and lead by your character? Reader, what do you think?

Rant of the Day

2010-04-12T01:42:00.007+01:00

I have an issue with injustice. A fundamental part of me - a gene - roused with anger at the very thought of people doing wrong and getting away with it. So intense, so intrinsic is this, I often adopt the behaviour of spoilt child: feet stamped and shoulders slumped.

For the past month I have followed the story of Constance McMillen. Aged 18, she was banned from taking her girlfriend to Prom in Mississippi. When fuss was kicked, the event was cancelled by the school - exposing McMillen to a flurry of abuse from peers. A Prom was later staged by parents but McMillen was sent to a fake venue with only 7 others in attendance. The rest of the school bigots had their heterosexual dance elsewhere.

When I read this, my heart was a caged bird. I felt its fluttering in my ears and, soon, my gene was roused. Anger lurked like an insidious lump in my throat. As evident from previous posts, I have no place for prejudice. Particularly this behavioural form. It is fine to have a difference of opinion but to enforce this difference on others and its resulting behaviour is both offensive and unjust.

McMillen already lives with one difficulty- that her sexuality does not fit the 'accepted norms' of society. Of course, this is arguable. I live in a place fully accepting of the LGBT community. Clearly, McMillen does not. Furthermore, to be faced with an array of prejudicial abuse from her school, her peers and their parents is one difficult step too far. Where is the justice in this?

Discrimination of this kind is an insult to human nature and its malleability. We have such great potential to learn from past mistakes and grow in acceptance of all things, of all people. And yet we continue to exist in a fixed sphere of intolerance and the more we do so, the more injustice occurs. I'd like things to change.

What say you, reader?

Into the looking glass, and what we find there...

2010-04-02T00:51:00.014+01:00

I was five when we moved to a new house. My first memory of it was the three things left behind by the previous owners: an oxygen cylinder and mask, a green velvet chair with no cushions, and a mirror. Victorian tall- its solid mahogany feet pinched the carpet and its silvered glass only shined for one minute after a polish before the dust motes settled.

It looked like an ordinary mirror. Only it wasn't. It was my secret door to another world. I would step through to play inside this mirrored place where I talked and walked backwards- where everything and everyone was forgotten and my only worry was if someone else discovered my secret. And as I grew older I would sit at length, cross-legged, staring at my reflection until I slowly dissolved into nonsense.

Have you ever done this, reader? Looked into a mirror long enough that you disappear? Not for reasons of vanity- often there are no reasons. The need to do so is just because. But sometimes you stare so long that simply looking becomes a search for something far deeper than pleasing appearance: meaning.

I did this yesterday. I was tidying the box room, shifting books and junk to make room for more, when the sun pierced everything. A single golden beam filtered through the curtain, striking my old playground, and light danced about the walls in jolly abandon. My gaze caught on the shiny pane, past smudged prints, dust and greasy streaks, and into eyes. And what started as a general derision directed at those eyes- What are you doing with your life? Where are you going? - soon became a detached wonderment.

Recognition vanished and the face before me morphed into shapes- circles, ovals- randomness. Who was this before me? For that matter, who was I- did I even exist? Question after question dropped seemingly from nowhere into my grey matter- matter that existed somewhere beyond the wall of somewhere else.

It was the strangest of sensations. A tingle, a chill so unsettling that time ceased and everything but this stranger faded to nothing. But as quickly as I dissolved I came back, pulled by the light that danced across the silvered glass and drew my gaze- and myself- up and out of nonsense.

I went back to tidying books and boxes of junk. But golden light flickered, my spine tingled and the unsettled followed me like a grey cloud - a burst of iced air. My mind drifted to the looking glass and I couldn't help but wish I was five years old again...

Dream, Hallucination or Prediction?

2010-03-29T00:22:00.006+01:00

Last night I had trouble sleeping. This is nothing new. I haven't slept properly in seven years. There comes a point when I am so tired I cannot function. Words. Backwards. Become. Spots appear around me and I reach out to grab them, thinking they're weird alien beings come to eat me alive. Then come the tears. I weep and moan- wallow in self pity, cry and pray to a God I don't believe in. 'Why God, Why? Why won't you let me sleep? I hate you.' This is the point where I pass out face down into my pillow. Maybe He really does exist. Or a She. Possibly an It. I fear I'm going off point here...

I had a dream. I discovered the secret to time travel. Or was it a dream? Maybe I hallucinated. Maybe my brain was so fed up with being awake 24 hours a day that it created this weird story to keep itself occupied- to pass the time. Perhaps I unlocked the psychic inside and can only make predictions about the future during an insomnia-ridden daze. A bit like the psychics who can only predict things with a twenty pound note in their hands.

In my dream there was a chart about time continuums, followed by a long vomit-inducing algebraic equation. On a table sat a box that looked like a modified version of the Flux Capacitor. After all, that is what makes time travel possible.

Doc Brown wasn't there. Neither was Marty McFly. But Steven Spielberg was. I felt that Back to the Future is masquerading as a piece of fiction when really, it's fact. I think Spielberg did find the secret to time travel and it really does involve a 1981 DeLorean. This is more plausible than a phone box as Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure suggests. Now that's just stupid.

Please note this is a re post. Normal blogging service will resume shortly...

I dreamed a thousand new paths but woke and walked my old one

2010-03-17T02:43:00.013Z

For some time I have felt awash with the tedium of routine. The longer it lingered, the more its weighty grip choked and squeezed me dry. Drip by drip everything fled- inspiration, motivation, purpose. So I decided to set myself a challenge. Step away from my electronic life and embrace the world beyond it. Could I exist one week without modern comforts and would it give me the inspiration I craved?

Day 1. Instead of my usual routine- computer on, check emails, search jobs- I go for a walk. The wind is brutal with my curly hair, rain blistering against skin and my shell quivers. But it feels good. There is something quite freeing- exhilarating- about full lungs of fresh air. By the time I reach home, fingers pink and numb, a new idea simmers and I feel like I'm on to something. I go to bed and read a book by candlelight. As golden flames lick shadows, the story leaks inspiration. If I'm going to embrace this simple life and live like Walden, I won't do it by halves.

Day 2. Bypass the computer and march outside. The elements are far more forgiving and the sun welcomes me with a warm hand. I buy a stack of newspapers and sit reading headlines and job descriptions. I usually do this online- quickly- eyes roam speedily and I click link after link until I arrive at a different subject entirely. Who says you can't link a PA job in Hammersmith to a 1979 Pink Floyd album? But there's no option of that in Greenwich Park, with black fingerprints and a pile of paper yet to feel the wrath of my Dad's recycling mission.

Day 3. Job centre. World's slowest typist tells me to continue my search online. 'No,' I say. 'I'm not using the Internet this week.' She glares. 'And why is that?' I hesitate. 'I'm hoping it will inspire me- not using the computer or watching TV. I feel a bit overloaded with information and need a break from it.' She sighs. 'Don't we all, dear. Don't we all.' The walk home is lengthy but full of people and I watch like I'm watching TV. I just wish I had a remote.

Day 4. Desperate to check emails, I almost crack. Somehow, willpower awakens and I throw a bed-sheet over the computer, as if that will help. My netbook appears- shiny, compact- attracting me like a Magpie. But I've come too far. Later, mum asks if I can find out about an Actor and again- the lure of Google almost proves too much. 'Sorry- the Internet Movie Database will have to wait.' Damn.

Day 5. I feel tranquil. My brain works efficiently and I am fully accustomed to writing with a pen again. At first my handwriting was a brutal scrawl needing its own translator. But now it is delicate and beautiful and I imagine my pen is a quill and my tea-stained paper is really very old. Add these to candlelight and maybe I will write like Shakespeare. Re-reading my work later, I find that perhaps it does have too many malapropisms and oxymorons. Hmmm.

Day 6. Worry sets in. Have not written my blog for a week nor have I read any. Emails probably stacking up too. And mum is still on about that bloody Actor. I hesitate before ripping off the bed-sheet, rubbing the screen like it's my precious. Oh Google. How I missed you.

Well, reader. You can't say I didn't try...

Missing

2010-03-08T00:25:00.004Z

A major search is underway for inspiration, reported missing last week. Inspiration was last seen in a feisty struggle with imagination, creativity and common sense, all of which compete for attention daily. With each passing hour, there are growing concerns that it may never return.

'Inspiration can take many forms. Some days it is a book, a painting, or a walk in the park. Often it is a musical score or a burst of madness.' This constant evolution of identity is proving troublesome for those involved in the search.

Described by many as a stimulation of the mind and, often, a brilliant idea, inspiration has been likened to a bolt of lightning or a 'light-bulb' moment. It is known for leaving in times of difficulty and has earned the reputation of 'fair-weather friend.'

Yesterday, however, LiveWriteDream begged for its safe return. 'The nights are the hardest. When I can't sleep, inspiration usually helps me. It fills my time and allows me to write the hours away- a faithful companion. Without it, I am nothing.'

Anyone with information regarding its sudden disappearance is asked to contact LiveWriteDream immediately.

The Perfect Day

2010-03-02T17:43:00.004Z

It was the perfect day to dump a body. Steel grey sky. Mist poured heavy from the heavens and fogged thicker at the feet. Rain lashed and speared flesh. All this worked in our favour. Today, people would stay inside. They'd seek the warmth of the fire. The closeness of the kettle and stove. The distraction of the TV. Of course, that wouldn't include the work crowd. But we had a plan for that. I thought of everything. He doesn't do much. He just stands there looking pretty. Even that's pretty hard.

The clock read 9.25. Peeping between the rags we call curtains, I checked that everything was in place. Car 10 yards away. Check. Keys in pocket. Check. Body wrapped in black sack tied with rope. Check. I ticked them off my list with a red ballpoint pen.

At the door, the wind sliced me with its frosted knife and I watched with watery eyes as he dragged the body up the basement stairs. The neck snapped as the head hit every step and I wondered why I had to do everything my damn self. 9.29. Rope burned its twisted pattern into my palms and, for the second day in a row, they were red. I shrugged and set foot outside.

My breath was heavy and the rain pricked the sack covered body. Our feet squelched mud and, soon, his face was smudged with the stuff- brown dirt speckled and smeared over his blue jean arse. I wanted to laugh but some part of me crawled out from within and took over. My cheeks fell.

I fished for the car keys and pressed the button. The lights flashed orange and he yanked the boot open, wiping and flicking the rain from his face with fevered hands. I let it run off me, rivulets down my eyes, drops hanging to a point from my nose. I breathed in the lung-harsh air and blew out white.

It took four swings to get it in. We whacked the head on the brake light and it cracked. I cursed him- thoughts of the Police pulling us over. The ice couldn't get any thinner. Boot shut, I climbed in. He sat in the driver's seat, hand hovered over the ignition. I smacked him with the cup of my palm and we jolted to a start.

At the edge of town, the hedges filtered out and the dirt track moulded into solid road. The wipers squeaked blunt blades across the dirty screen. An army of black umbrellas poked their pointed ends to blame an ashen sky. Mail was posted. Dogs were walked. Feet hurried. My cheeks rose and a jolly tune filled my head and forced itself out between my lips.

The car slowed to a pedestrian pace and I turned to him, hand cupped and ready. His eyes flitted between the road and the rear-view mirror. He was a dog's whimper and I turned. The sack rose up from the uncovered boot and rustled as air was sucked in and out from the shrivelled dead lungs inside.

I had not thought of everything.

Age is a prison from which we cannot escape...

2010-02-21T15:32:00.008Z

Staring at my Granddad, I had a revelation. He's 96 years old- and looks it. His chin drapes leisurely onto a sunken chest, skin stretched thin and rough. Fingers skewed- he means to point ahead but points left without realising. He's blind in the left eye, deaf in the right ear and both hips are fake. And he has one leg longer than the other. Evidently, he has a lot going for him.

I watched him sleep in the armchair. Listened to the slight whir in this chest. The slip slap as he unconsciously sucked up streams of saliva running down the creased valley at the corner of his mouth. Breath too quiet, fistfuls of fear pounded my chest but the alarm abated when he woke with confused eyes at my expression. If this is my gene pool and I'm in for the same inevitability- I don't want to get old. Well, old old.

It has been said that aging is a prison- a sentence we cannot escape. Though we may try. Some yield to the surgeon's knife. Others simply lie. But these are no means of escape. It's mere escapism.

Besides, with age we gain. Love. Experience. Memories. The strength of these possessions can act like a remedy to the harshness of aging. A sort of therapy for acceptance. Why we don't mind the odd wrinkle around the eyes because we remember the laughs that made them.

But is there a point where aging- living - is cruel? My Granddad spends all day in the same chair, watching a TV that he cannot see. Images blurred beyond pattern recognition and voices a shrivelled whisper to his ears. He barely has the strength of muscle or mind to heave his weariness from his seat. He doesn't live. He exists. He crossed that line and now waits in a realm akin to limbo. Surely waiting for your own death- willing it- wishing for it- is a vicious hand of nature?

Reader, what do you think?

The Book of Love

2010-02-14T02:13:00.013Z

The Book of Love is long and boring; no one can lift the damn thing. It's full of charts and facts and figures, and instructions for dancing. Apparently, it also contains music, flowers and heart-shaped boxes. A highly original book, I may add.

I did not make this up. All credit goes to The Magnetic Fields- the band- not the electric current.

With all the red-love heart-shaped mess occurring in the world today, it got me to thinking. What if there was a book of love? Would it be of help or hindrance? Let us imagine...

The book is red and pink and the letters 'o' are shaped like hearts. Cupid's soft profile peers from the back cover, his wings embossed gold. He wrote it when his career hit a rough patch; his bow and arrow deemed a dangerous weapon and confiscated at Airport security. Still, the silver lining was a spot on the New York Times Bestsellers list. Every year for eternity. In bookshops it sits between 'How to get rich for life' and the other big seller, 'Instruction manual for Babies, Children and Unruly Teens.'

Every home has one. Pages dog-eared and scuffed from years of reference. When a guy doesn't call, the girl flicks through its wisdom searching for the answer to her prayers. Chapter 5: 'what to do when a man isn't interested' is especially scruffy in most households. When a man can't understand his other half, chapter 11 often comes in handy: 'reading between the lines: a woman's prerogative.'

With this modern age, there is even an e-reader copy of the book available for download, as well as an iPhone 'Love' App. On dates around the world, men and women flick through phones, hoping to avoid a disastrous dinner, just as their dates excuse themselves for the restroom.

Hmm. This alternate reality sounds too Stepford Wives for my liking. Where would our conversations be without date disasters and love woes? Hearts are meant to be bruised and broken sometimes. Love isn't always supposed to be easy. It's dirty and messy and can screw with your head. Much like life. On that note...

Happy Valentine's Day, readers.

Happy Blogiversary!

2010-02-09T18:20:00.007Z

A year ago today, I became a Blogger. What a fun-filled tumultuous 365 days it has been. Let us hop aboard my non-existing time travel device and go back to the beginning...

I introduced myself in a list of random facts. Wrote about the importance of memory and acting your shoe size. Explained how the violent relationship with my abnormal appendix came to an end, and the first rate hospital service provided during recovery. Throw in some poetry, a Top Ten series and a few jobless rantings and you have the perfect mix of what my blog represents. Sadly readers, this isn't a recipe. Apologies.

In order to keep this blog going, I've decided to shake things up. A bit like a couple desperate to add some spice in the form of handcuffs when their sex life goes stale. Here's a list of what's coming up (no pun intended) this year:

1) The LiveWriteDream Blog Review:

Occasionally I will pick a random blog to read and review. If I like what I see, I will promote it. If I don't like what I see, well, I'll write that too, constructively of course. Perhaps it will end in a libellous lawsuit, perhaps it won't. Nevertheless, I'll have fun trying.

2) Rant Day:

On a yet to be named day of the week, I will write a purely rant-filled post. This will be about something that has annoyed me, be it what I've read, seen or experienced. It may even be about a celebrity. Not so fond of those. At present, all of my blog posts are general rantings so you may have to wait until everything stops annoying me. Readers, it may be a while.

3) The LiveWriteDream Blog Award:

Currently, I am creating my very own blog award to present to my favourite bloggers here in the blogosphere. I can't promise it will be fancy. It may look like it was created by a 5 year-old. But it will be given with love and admiration and should be displayed proudly for all to see. Just like the stick-people drawings by a 5 year-old given to her parents and stuck proudly on the fridge door.

And there you have it. The new and improved LiveWriteDream. Coming soon(ish). Maybe. When I can be bothered. Oh, the anticipation!

Room 101

2010-02-04T21:29:00.011Z

Day: 1billion and twelve

Job offers: Zero

Outlook: Bleak

It's 10am. Job centre. Perv guy waits outside. Slouched against grey stone, puffs of white smoke trickle between a crooked yellow smile as he nods in my direction. I wince and walk inside.

Level One. The swarm of unemployed builds. We look like normal people and yet underneath our soft human skin there lies a bitter soul, hopeless, seething. The smell of vodka and shampoo overwhelms. It mixes with damp clinging to a worn leather jacket on bony shoulders. I shuffle away with an awkward smile. The kid behind glares up with demon eyes black and clicks a tune with his tongue. I throw evils in his direction. He clicks faster, louder. My nails dig a deep crescent pattern into my palms.

Later, name called, I sit as the woman types quickly without looking at me; her fingers heavy and pronounced on every letter. Keyboard clicks, tongue clicks. Head hurts. Her pupils flit over my form once before she signs in hurried blue strokes.

'Can I ask you a question?'

The woman sighs, head cocked to one side.

'If you must...'

'Well...' I struggle to find the least offensive words. Inside, my bitter self sharpens her bite, ready to lunge.

'Look, I haven't got all day.'

The clock says 10.30am. Clearly she's lying.

'Do I get any guidance at some point?'

'What do you mean?'

'You know, do I get to chat with someone about my prospects or potential job avenues?'

'What do you think this is?' She lifts eyebrows to furrowed skin.

'Well, you're just showing me a computer screen of jobs. I can do this at home, online.'

'Go do it then.'
She pushes my form towards me and shouts 'next' over my shoulder. Demon child pokes his tongue as I stagger away.

Floating downstairs, my eyes sting. I refuse to let them win, and battle with my lids to keep them open, to stop the flow. Outside I gasp air and let its crispness flood my lungs, clear my head. I shake myself and walk away, leaving the dreaded place behind. I do not look back. Until next time.

A novel taster...

2010-02-01T01:41:00.009Z

I don't know why I'm here. Here in this decaying building with single paned windows that rattle in the slightest breeze and walls so blue I feel sad just looking at them. People come but never go. We sit, talk and listen until it's time to sleep and if we're unlucky, we wake, sit, talk and listen all over again. It's one endless nightmare of circles. I hate circles. They always make me dizzy.

I don't know how I got here. I opened my eyes to the blue, the strangers, to closed doors. I stood- grogginess clung to my sandpaper skin and tasted grey in my sticky mouth. Lead-filled bones had slept for a hundred years except no Prince had kissed to claim me.

I ran at the doors, shoving them with the full force of my body. Arms jarred, elbows cracked, the metal threw me. I landed on my backside. Brushing dust, I walked over and shook them again. All doors opened. What made these so special?

Whacking them with my palms, I rattled the handles, pounding fists on thin panes of glass until my chest heaved. Pain nestled in my joints and stayed there. I didn't care. I just wanted to get out. Later a dark-haired woman peered up from her magazine and pressed a button. Two burly men walked out of nowhere and pinned me to the floor with big fists and heavy thighs. The hard edge of a boot made an imprint on my cheek as one of the men pushed at the clothes around my hip. I flushed as hands touched bare skin. Hairs provoked rose sharply from my neck. I felt the violation rush down my spine. The fierce prick of an ice-cold needle would have floored me had I not already been there. I felt like shouting for a Doctor or a Lawyer but wasn't sure which was needed first.

Whimpering, my breathing slowed. Thousand tonne eyelids blocked out the light and the boots, and I felt my fists slacken to palms. I was air and nothingness, clouds and stars. And then, I was night.

So reader, what do you think?

The more elaborate our means of communication, the less we do so

2010-01-25T03:06:00.012Z

A month ago today I deleted my Facebook account. I originally joined in 2006. Final year of University. In the computer room queue, people discussed how many friends they had in this strange online community and were eager to update their statuses. I joined more out of intrigue than desire to accumulate my friends into a concrete number. I'd always thought it weird when someone could reel off how many friends they had. The fact that they bothered to count alerted my senses to a loser from loserville.

Soon enough, the bug had bitten. I jumped on the bandwagon- it felt dirty, wrong- and so right all at once. I latched onto the novelty of being social without seeing anyone. Housemates would message me from their bedrooms instead of calling up the stairs because it was more fun that way. I could sit at my desk and still chat with my friends. 'Hey, I'm in the library trying to study!' 'Really? I'm at home writing my essay. Cool.' Yes, it was.

I became the Facebook master. I can hold my own in a conversation but give me a blank page and I am witty perfection in cyber form. It became an addictive tool of procrastination when I really should have been writing my dissertation about Gray's Model of Impulsivity. (Don't ask. I may harm you).

When I left University, however, things changed. Stepping away from my social network- where conversations started online and were resumed in the real world- suddenly I had no real world. My only way of communicating with University friends was through this non-social channel, and it grew tiresome.

All the non-verbal tools of communication- recognition of facial expressions, body language, eye contact, gestures- had no forum on Facebook. Then there's the auditory means of communicating, such as voice tonality. Can we really glean true meaning of speech if it hasn't been spoken?

The accumulation of these points made the decision to quit Facebook an easy one. Friends pleaded with me not to leave and I admit, sometimes, a part of me didn't want to. A small part. When I finally deactivated that account, I felt surprisingly liberated, a feeling which continued. It was no longer necessary to constantly check my page or think of something witty to say. The pressure was off.

So reader, it has been a month. I am in contact with those I wish- not the false set of friends acquired. Gone are those people whose friend requests I accepted because I walked past them in school or smiled at them at work. I have no care except for those I really care about. Now I write letters and pick up that thing called a telephone. How very old fashioned of me...

Top Ten: Pet Peeves of the 21st Century

2010-01-17T02:18:00.015Z

Everyone has a pet peeve. People, situations, habits that grate, like nails down a blackboard. Things that get on nerves and put backs up, whatever that means. Wait, what does it mean? Answers on a postcard.

1) The iPhone:

So called smartphone. Do we really need one product to make calls, send emails and take photographs? What if you wanted to make a call whilst taking a picture? Not possible with an iPhone. Massive fail. I also stand by my earlier comment: it looks like it's been made by aliens. Who knows where they've hidden the probes. Beware.

2) Facebook:

Hailed as the social networking place to be, Facebook has lured 350million people to waste time staring at their computers. Whether updating your status (yeah, I really wanted to know what you ate for breakfast) or uploading photographs (oh look, she's vomiting over that guy in the club-good times) you're not exactly being sociable. It's also a place rife with stalking and spreading lies. Nobody has 1000 friends. Unless you're Heidi Fleiss.

3) Twitter:

Advertised as 'the best way to share and discover what's happening right now' by microblogging in 160 characters or less. If what you've got to say is that small, it's not worth sharing. Witty or not.

4) Climate-change bandwagon jumping:

Environmental issues have existed for hundreds, if not millions, of years. Buying bags for life, recycling and less car usage do not change the fact. If you've only just started giving a damn about the environment for your great-great-great grandchildren, well, you're a big fat bandwagon jumper. Not cool, people.

5) X-Factor/Britain's Got Talent/America's Got Talent/Pop Idol/American Idol/Popstars the Rivals:

For years I've endured people who can't sing/dance/sing & dance and, listened to people discussing those who can't sing/dance/sing & dance. I don't care if Jedward make you laugh. They don't have talent, or the xyz factor, they don't pop and they're not idols. I may end up in rehab- the first breakdown caused by Simon Cowell's money-making machine. Susan Boyle got there first? Oh well.

6) Botox fever:

Popularity of Botox has increased considerably in the last decade. No longer a seedy little beauty secret, women (and men) are sticking needles of fat into minuscule lines that even magnifying glasses can't see. The result? Fish faces. Permanently stunned/scared expressions. Grow old gracefully, fish face.

7)Twilight:
Not the time of day. I like that. I'm talking about those books about the vampire, the werewolf and the pale girl. However poorly written, they killed a few hours. But they're certainly not worth all the screaming hype. Four words for you, Stephenie Meyer: Bram Stoker, Ann Rice. Let them show you how it's done.

8) Text Speak without the texting:

A popular peeve gets a 21st century twist. Shorthand in text messages is acceptable. But skipping vowels and consonants in emails, letters, blogs and essays is lazy, taking poor spelling and grammar to another vexing level. Learn to spell you lzy bstrd.

9) Orwellian Prophecies fulfilled:

No newspeak as of yet. But Big Brother has infiltrated every aspect of our world and not just on TV. In every shop, street and car-park, there is a feeling of being followed; a desire to glance over ones shoulder. Being treated like potential criminal whilst trying to reverse park. Annoying.

10) Celebrity Nicknames in real life:

Brangelina. Bennifer. TomKat. Spork. Cringe fest linguistics. Now non-famous people are doing it. Without the holy matrimony. It was cute. Until I vomited in my mouth.

So reader, anything you'd like to add?

Progress is impossible without change

2010-01-15T01:09:00.010Z

Two months ago I posted about words, darkness and echoes. Yes, reader. I had decided to write a novel. Since then I have practiced the art of hurling words and punctuation at a harsh white page that mocks me, and waited for them to form coherent sentences.

Have I accomplished my mission? Well. At 30,000 words, it's half done. No title as yet. And the story keeps evolving no matter what I do. It has a life of its own. Sometimes this scares me, so much so I should stop and cut all ties. But then it might just hear my negative thoughts and try to kill me. No, reader. My novel isn't trying to kill me. Just the process of writing one.

My expectations were, I believed, realistic. I assumed it would be a difficult challenge. One I thought I was ready for. My story plagued my mind for months and in an effort to exorcise it, I wrote more. Soon six pages begged to be defined and labelled a 'novel.' So I did.

Encouragement was heard from all corners, even those in the blogosphere. So I persisted. Chipped away at the idea, sketched out plot. Wrote and re-wrote. Hit stumbling blocks, writer's block; blocks of all kind determined to outwit my pursuit.

Nothing, however problematic, can get in the way of my determination. (Take that procrastination demon!) Sure, it takes a few knocks. But I shall persist by every means necessary. Except killing. Won't do that.

Snow, salt and frozen peas

2010-01-11T01:52:00.009Z

This weekend I ventured into hell. Just an average Saturday afternoon doing the weekly shop. It's usually busy. Hyper kids running along aisles, breaking eggs. Babies howling in abandoned trolleys by the milk or frozen peas. Elderly shoppers inconveniently taking up space as they tick off their shopping lists with shaky hands. This time, there was one extra variable that changed everything. It had snowed.

As a result, Tesco morphed into a dystopian horror film where I expected blood and fire at every turn. Women fought over loaves of bread. Men arm wrestled for pints of milk and argued over tubs of salt. Children watched with frightened eyes wondering what in hell happened to all the adults.

Attempting to manoeuvre around the aisles, prams bashing into the backs of my heels, trolleys ploughing into mine, I stopped. Up into the clouds I floated and peered down at the manic ants around me. Row upon row of empty shelves. Nothing left except ice. Pet food. And marmite. Turns out people don't love it after-all.

What is it about the sight of snow that generates mass hysteria? Outside temperatures freeze but inside, our own mercury goes into meltdown. It is highly unlikely that people are going to starve to death without five loaves of bread and eight pints of milk. A little bit of the white stuff (snow, I mean snow) and madness breeds faster than the horniest of hamsters.

Since last Wednesday, we've had five inches of snow in London. People couldn't even make a proper snow angel with that pathetic excuse for a snowfall. But they can make five hundred sandwiches and ten thousand cups of tea, should the need arise.

The mind boggles.

Those days

2010-01-04T22:18:00.003Z

When I'm ninety,
skin wrinkled, wise eyes,
glasses perched like windows
on a cottage that improves
with age,
weathered and worn,
I'll remember those days.

Days when I was five,
I'd run miles from
the neighbours' dog,
teeth bared and barked
behind shabby gate.
Lungs full, I'd skip
over pavement cracks
and bottomless puddles
from the afternoon rain
that I never saw.
It never rained in those days.

Days when I was six,
happiness played
in the bee-filled garden,
auburn hair merging
with blades of green grass,
dandelions and daisies.
I'd stare into sky blue
spotting faces
and shapes the clouds made,
trying to figure out if the sky
was moving or if it was me.
It was always me in those days.

Days when I was seven,
I'd play music through
headphones bigger than my head,
pretend I was the star;
Ken and Barbie were my fans.
Without care who saw,
I'd dance around the house,
the street and shops,
wearing Wellies, a dress
and a Freddie Krueger face mask.
I'd never do that these days.

So long, farewell...

2009-12-31T13:25:00.010Z

Auf Wiedersehen, goodbye. Or a hearty 'piss-off' and middle finger to 2009. I'd like to say it's been a good year but I would be lying. And as you know readers, I do not lie. Actually, I do. Sometimes. White ones only...

2009. The year sucked in epic proportions. Our economy crumpled under the worst recession in years, unemployment rates soared. (Yes, thanks for that). Every week a Soldier was bought back from Afghanistan in a box, younger than the one before. When it felt it had killed enough people, just the threat of Pig flu turned everyone into hypochondriacs and mask-wearing head-cases. Michael Jackson died. So did my Nan. Jordan and Peter Andre got divorced. The bad time shocks were endless.

Still, at least I had my health. Hmm. That's debatable. I spent the best part of the year throwing up and the rest recovering from surgery which felt like my stomach had been run over by a truck. I couldn't walk properly or laugh for months. Oh the joy!

But wait. Through all the sadness, obstacles and general 'such is life' moments, I am forgetting something. It is nearly over. And here comes the best part of a New Year. It's filled with endless streams of possibility. Untrodden paths and journeys. Hope.

Readers, let's take a cup of kindness and drink to that. Happy New Year.

A Christmas Message

2009-12-25T07:35:00.008Z

Behind this screen I sit and pray
That all should have a Merry day.
Forget the sorrow and loneliness,
I wish you health, love, and happiness.

Merry Christmas to all my readers. Hope it's a good one.

Hopeless: Coming to Job Centres Near You

2009-12-21T03:20:00.014Z

After months of constant ear bashing from my mum to 'sign on,' I had a meeting at the job centre. Quite possibly, I am the only person in the UK who doesn't want to be on benefits. Just the mention of the words 'job' followed by 'centre' makes my heart sink to my boots. Which I proceed to stamp all over. Many times.

As a British citizen it's my right to receive help when required. Instead of feeling indifferent and accepting of my unemployed position in these economic climes, I just feel ashamed. Should I really feel this way? Since when has asking for help been synonymous with shame?

Nervous, I hoped that my meeting would shake my fears and settle my soul. So I arrived early. Outside, as my shoes argued with the ice-slicked pavement and the threat of more broken limbs loomed, I stood looking at the grey building, the bright green sign. My stomach flipped. Breath white in the bitter air. Automatic doors slid open and the inside heat enveloped my cold bones, bewitching my feet.

Inside, ten angry/depressed/frozen faces met mine and five voices asked why I was there. Thought that was obvious. Job centres are self explanatory. Directed to a man far too happy at such an early hour, I grew annoyed. As he rejoiced over the cold weather (kills germs, apparently), I spied my surroundings. Inconspicuous desks. Bland faces. 8.20am and bored already. A good start.

Fifteen minutes and four forms later, I sat in the 'comfy' chairs awaiting the next step. The job centre's definition of comfy does not match mine. But you're not meant to feel comfortable. They want you alert, back rigid, on edge for questions. The edge of an IKEA chair perfect for torture. Or bad taste.

As the clock edged closer to 9am, cold air gushed in and out, repeatedly, as more people filed in. Old men. Women pushing prams. Children moaned, babies howled. The office pulsed with disdain. My feet itched to leave. I told them to shut up. I'd come this far...

Finally, twenty-five minutes later I sat opposite another cheerful fellow. He smiled, telling me the systems were down and my application would have to be completed by hand. 'Don't worry,' he shrugged. 'It'll only take an hour.' My returning smile did not reach my eyes.

As we talked about my endless search for employment, I started to feel better. Unexpectedly, it was a relief to discuss it with someone who knew how bad things were. My stomach fluttered with a feeling akin to hope. Then he hit me with it: 'I'm being honest now though, don't think you've got much chance for a while.'

Oh the hope was slaughtered. 'Yeah, if you want to get a job, I'd remove all of your education info from your CV.' It was like he had taken a bat and repeatedly whacked me over the head. He was Al Capone and I was the gangster who had betrayed him. My brains were all over the desk.

Not only will I not get a job for at least another month but I've apparently wasted four years of my life, and thousands of pounds, studying for two degrees. Seemingly, educated people can't get jobs nowadays. But if I lie about what I've been doing all this time, I may end up on someones payroll. It's true. You do learn something every day.

Alas, I left the job centre still hopeless. I put myself out there and asked for help. Where did it get me? Watch this space...

Christmas in New York

2009-12-19T00:31:00.005Z

Fairy lights glimmer at Rockefeller,
golden sparks leap from green firs;
their elfin flames twinkle in eyes
as I scan the ice,
searching for my sister
who stutters across the frozen sheet.

From here we board the red bus
that rides in the wrong city,
passing snowflakes fastened on the wall
of Bloomies, bullion colour flashing
in sequence to Carol of the Bells
chiming in my ears.

We peer at the Plaza, sited in grandeur
by Central Park, where children wrapped
in coats and scarves and bobble hats
throw tiny handfuls of greying snow
at black beauties standing in rank,
waiting for fools to pay $20 for a ride.

Car horns peal from traffic lined by
FAO Schwarz, where shoppers leave with
bulging bags of toys and treats and
tourists nervously hail taxis for
the Brooklyn Bridge, where they
gaze with glee at the Hudson River.

Ensared in the sleepless city,
we make way to Times Square, where
neon lights blaze, crowds pour from
subways, shops and Broadway shows, and some
buy salted pretzels from the shifty man
frozen on 47th.

Steam rises from subway grates on 49th,
as we hurry down to catch the R,
speeding us to the Empire State,
stemming proudly from the city's middle,
where we soar 102 floors
above the earth.

From this highest point we huddle,
bitter from the minus winds, and gaze at the
yellow ants crawling slowly around blocks
and rows of streets, inflamed by
the city's glow, like streams of lava,
as evening dusk finally falls.

'Tis healthy to be sick sometimes...'

2009-12-12T01:10:00.014Z

It's that time of year. The over 65s get flu jabs. Tesco runs out of tissues and Vicks vapour rub. The red-nosed germ infested man breathes heavily down my neck on the central line. Everyone is coming down with something. And so am I. A relentless scratch at my throat. An annoying sniffle. A plague of headaches that will never cease. I am sick. Of. Everything.

I'm sick of hearing about the X Factor. In Sainsbury's. The pub. Boots the Chemist. Even the oldies in the Post Office give me their two pennies' worth. Just the sound of their admiration for the 'sexy' swinging hips of Olly-can't-sing-but-will-probably-win-Murs results in ear ache. Plus an annoying hum that won't end. A bit like the high pitch that accompanied the BBC test card with the little girl and the freaky clown.

I'm sick of reading about Tiger Woods and Tiger's Wood (now an upcoming porno- get ready people). As mistress number thirteen comes out of the woodwork (pun intended) I wonder how he managed to have sex with all those dirty women and play golf. Contemplating levels of sanitation makes stomach heave. Chunks threaten to rise.

I'm sick of Gordon Brown and all the other waste of space MPs who've spent all our money on golden syrup, potted plants and pay-per-view porn. (I've now said this twice in one post. It's getting out of hand- no pun intended).

I'm sick of people thrusting their iPhone's in my space. As if I want to use a phone that doesn't have keys to press and looks like it's been made by aliens. And no I don't care if you have an 'app' that makes the screen steam up like a shower. Will that help me when I need to call 999 after I've had a mental breakdown from all this rubbish? No. But it will look pretty. Sod off.

Henry David Thoreau once said it was healthy to be sick sometimes. If that's the case, I'm the healthiest bloody person I know...

If Only...the two saddest words in the world

2009-12-06T03:48:00.011Z

A recent post by fellow blogger Hunter (over at the brilliant Time Crook) got me to thinking. I could demonstrate my wittiness here by inserting 'yes it hurt' or 'that's new' but it would be a lie.

Thinking does not hurt. Nor is it new. I think far too much. All. The. Damn. Time.

As I approach my 25th birthday (8 days, not that I'm counting), I am taking stock of my life. To some this may seem premature; the kind of thing appropriate only for the wrinkled as they sit in armchairs approaching 90. But I like to reflect. See how far I've come, what I've achieved. What I'd like to achieve next. Introspection is good for the soul.

So it follows that Hunter's post resonated with me. He wrote a moving account of childhood regret and I was surprised that his younger self experienced this cruel emotion at such a young age. I've always assumed, perhaps wrongfully, that we only regret things at a more advanced age. When we've seasoned the ability to understand and appreciate our actions, in-actions and wrongdoings. Consequently, I started to think of my own regrets in life. And here came my unintentional revelation:

I have none. Sure, I used to. I thought I did. But as I've got older, I regret not a single thing. Moment. Choice. Person. Situation. Event. Feeling. Not even wearing that pink and green shell-suit when I was five years old. (It was the 80s and fashion was flammable; give a girl a break).

Okay, so that's a silly example. But I figured, if I was to regret everything that has bought pain or difficulty, confusion or disappointment; I'd be crippled under its weight. I've learned from every choice and action that has resulted in a mistake. If I regretted those mistakes, it would mean I'd regret that chance to learn and the path I'm now on. I cannot and will not regret that.

Regret isn't wrong. It is, after-all, a human quality that we cannot escape. But if we learn to accept our mistakes, actions and in-actions that result in this cruel emotion, we won't waste so much time in the past. We'll be more open for the future, for the here and now.

Sure, life is hard sometimes but it's also far too short.

What say you, reader?

Hearing Damage

2009-11-30T22:04:00.009Z

Me + my sister + cinema = fun filled weekend. It is true. Betraying every sense in brain and body, I went to see New Moon. Begrudgingly. Okay, I wasn't dragged kicking and screaming. Nor were my hands tied and eyes propped open Clockwork Orange-style, forced to watch. But this is the Twilight saga. How would I describe my feelings towards this? Meh. Yes. Meh.

Sat down in our seats, I had the aisle. I like to be able to run if required. You never know when an alien life form of jelly-like substance may creep upon the unwitting cinema goer. You know, The Blob. Keep up reader, keep up.

We arrived early. Row upon row of empty velvet seats. Silence. Bliss. But it started. A slow steady hum of boots and heels in the distance. Raucous laughter and squeals of dolphin pitch that scratched ear drums twenty miles away. Louder it grew until the oxygen dwarfed and the cinema filled. From all directions hundreds of tweenagers poured in, squeezed through the gaps, marching up steps in near-darkness. Silver streaks glistened from T. Shirts emblazoned with 'Team Edward' and 'Bite Me.' Cheeks painted with uneven scrawls of 'Team Jacob' in black eyeliner. I had never felt so old in my life.

As the trailers finished, the sounds of popcorn munched and slushies slurped faded into the roar of screams from every pre-pubescent pair of lungs. A huge sallow-looking moon appeared on the screen. Screams. A green meadow filled with purple flowers. Screams. That sickly slouchy fellow with pained yellow eyes followed. Screams. 2 minutes had passed and I was deaf. It did not bode well for the next 128. I started to pray.

Prayers unanswered. Two hours of my life lost forever, snatched by evil Father Time in cohorts with Summit entertainment. Robust hearing built to withstand the toxic levels of my iPod obliterated in mere minutes. I don't remember much about the film itself. Abstain from sex blah. Vampires sparkle in sunlight blah. There was a lot of buff men running around the woods topless, dressed only in denim shorts. But I suppose I would remember that.

For the most part I stared aghast at my sister. Laughed at the madness around us. Worried about the hyperventilating teens along our row. By the time another batch of wild hysterics faded and we turned back to the screen, we'd missed about twenty minutes.

I am now scarred for life. Tweens and teens are the new enemy, riled up on sugar and desiring a man that eats animals and, oh yes, doesn't exist. I am too frightened to venture into my local cinema. They're not just under threat from The Blob. I think next time I'll wait for the DVD. Or perhaps I won't even bother. You know. Meh.

Thinspiration?

2009-11-26T23:29:00.008Z

There's a woman at my gym who walks on the treadmill at an incline of 15. This really bugs me. It isn't that she's holding on with a white-knuckled grip, struggling to keep the pace. It isn't that I can't possibly walk at an incline of 15 without flying off and causing myself (and others) serious damage. It's because this woman is the size of a broomstick. And no one seems to care.

Every bone in her back protrudes from sallow skin. Stick legs harsh and a face pinched tight. Her slack mouth gasps for air, eyes roll backwards, and I worry she's about to go into cardiac arrest. Whenever she is around I am on edge. I have to force myself to not make a scene. The floor is a refrigerator, my feet are the magnets. Week by week I watch her determination and that incline of 15 killing her.

It gets worse when other gym-goers talk with admiration. 'I wish I had such a small waist,' or 'I wonder how she got arms that thin?' She's been placed on a creepy pedestal and used as thinspiration. I must have a screw lose. They see beauty. I see serious mental issues. And someone crying out for help.

With my increasing worry for treadmill woman (and my need to understand) I found myself researching thinspiration. Hundreds of websites talk lovingly, promoting their best friend Ana. I soon realised who 'Ana' was. How naively clever of them. No one will realise you're Anorexic with such masterful disguise.

A recent article on Fox news.com has suggested that these Pro-Ana websites do not encourage Anorexia because the disorder is biologically based. Furthermore, the idea that websites, blogs and images supposedly encourage eating disorders is not supported by either Science or research. I'm not convinced. Just because a handful of studies haven't found evidence, doesn't mean it doesn't exist.

The Pro-Ana message doesn't mean anything to me. It doesn't dwindle my senses or blur my focus on reality. But what about those easily influenced; highly impressionable people who think their hips are too big or their stomachs aren't toned enough? What about the women gazing up at that pedestal in my gym? Ana's message- 'the only thing that matters is being thin'- might mean something to them. And worryingly, it just might get through.

Reader, what do you think?

I am Scrooge. Hear me roar.

2009-11-18T17:47:00.013Z

I saw the Coca Cola Christmas advert on TV today. The one where a whole village runs to catch sight of the neon-lit lorries, and a giant face of Father Christmas on the back holding a bottle of diet coke. Hmm...big nose and rosy cheeks, I thought he was more a beer kind of fellow. Of course the hills are dusted white, there's a coldness in the air and a faint jingle of bells in the background. Doesn't it make you feel all christmassy?

In a word, no. It is only November. NOVEMBER! Businesses everywhere are wishing my life away, willing it to be that time of year where spending a fortune has replaced the real meaning of Christmas. You know, the whole birth of Christ thing? Ring any bells?

I can't buy a birthday card in November. Clinton cards has shifted those for all the cheap ones with cute reindeer and picturesque scenes of snow falling over thatched cottages. The last time it snowed at Christmas, I wasn't born.

In Sainsbury's, I could buy my Halloween pumpkin and a box of mince pies, if the feeling fancied. The Christmas spirit on TV, however, started a few weeks ago. Jamie Oliver and that tiny Top Gear bloke travel through country villages promoting real hearty home-cooked grub. Tell me, does Christmas only exist in villages? I'd like to see Richard Hammond walk his trolley through the streets of South East London. If he makes it to Morrisons in one piece, I'd have more faith in a Christmas miracle.

I am sick of going into shops that look like the Christmas fairy threw up glitter everywhere. I'd like to find a car space in Bluewater without all the panic-buying mum's and people on the dole who should be paying their gas bill rather than buying out Toys R Us. I'd like to make it round Tesco's in peace without the sales assistants trying to tempt me into tasting their mince pies. They all taste like crap to me.

By the time December 25th comes around my Christmas cheer is skating on very thin ice. No ice-skating-at-Christmas pun intended.

Consequently, I have decided to boycott all things Christmas until mid-December. So if you see a woman wandering around with three ghosts of past, present and future; that will be me. Yes reader, I am Scrooge. And I am not ashamed to admit it.

The Hay Wain

2009-11-11T02:30:00.005Z

I used to stare intently;
eyes met hands
as they ran along the print,
my chubby finger
poking away at the speckled sky
or the open window
on Willy Lott's cottage
and the man on the carriage
pulled by red-saddled horses
through the shallow River Stour.

It was always there for viewing
at the bottom of the stairs;
detail hidden in brush strokes
of white and green,
waiting to be found.
I wanted to move the man
or name the dog
barking at his owner
from the dusty yellow river bank.

I was eager
to retrace the curve
of the water's edge,
unearth the broken boat
as it lingered in overgrowth,
count the swift trail
of dabbling ducks.
As night fell around me,
I would await change
through that window
to some hidden sun-filled world,
where days never did end
and darkness never reached.

In my world
the picture
at the bottom of the stairs;
its paint film cracked,
glaze darkened
and colours diminished
as Flatford Mill ceased trade,
the Stour began to rise
and trees and shrubbery
outgrew its frame.
But that image
memorized, captured,
imprisoned in print,
always stayed the same.
It will never change.

We shall keep the Faith

2009-11-05T01:56:00.008Z

It's that time of year again. Out into the cold they tread, men and women, medals pinned to their chests. They jangle a tin of coins and present a box of poppies.

The poppy as a symbol of remembrance originated in 1918. Inspired by the war poem 'In Flanders Field' by John McCrae, US Professor Moina Michaels promised to always wear a poppy for those who served in the war. And so it goes...

Sadly, the Poppy Appeal has bought much debate in recent years. Last year Channel 4 newsreader Jon Snow refused to wear a poppy on air, stating that it should be a personal choice, not a political force. 2009 proves no different. In The Independent yesterday, Mark Steel asked, 'why should I be pressured into wearing a poppy?' He argued that the selling of the famous red flower was a government conspiracy; a ploy to ensure we keep on fighting. Even pubs and libraries have jumped on the 'poppy fascist' bandwagon by refusing to sell them.

I am disgusted.

They are missing the point by a country mile. The wearing of a poppy is not just about remembering those who have lost lives fighting for the freedom of our country. It's not just about the past. It's about hope and support for our future. To turn the poppy into a political symbol is outrageous and extremely naive.

The Royal British Legion use money raised in the Poppy Appeal to help provide financial, social and emotional support for those who have served and continue to serve in our Armed Forces. By actively refusing to wear a poppy, we are implying that these needs are not valid; that our forces are not important; that we just don't care. In times such as these; how is that right?

When my Nan passed away a month ago, we found a poppy amidst her belongings. Stuck to a small wooden cross, underneath she had written, 'To us you were the world.' This for my Granddad who died in the RAF in 1944. It represented his memory, her pride in his duty served. A tiny red symbol of her loss. Our loss. She kept that for sixty-five years. Political? I think not.

Just like my Nan, I keep a poppy. Every November I buy a new one and I wear it with pride. Not just for my Granddad but for all the Granddad's. Uncle's. Brother's. Friend's.

In the big scheme of things, it isn't difficult to pin a small red flower to your lapel. For one week, one day out of a year, that's all it takes to show some respect. Forget the political ramifications, the debate, and the conspiracy theories. Remember the dead, the injured, the families left behind. That's what the poppy really stands for.

Hurling words into darkness and waiting for an echo...

2009-10-28T00:09:00.010Z

It started as a smile, a glance. A flirtation with ideas. It grew into words. I dabbled; a few here, a few there. Soon they came together, merged effortlessly as one. Yes, reader. I am writing a novel.

For weeks, maybe even months, I've worked on one story. Every day I'd add a new paragraph. Change some words. Delete. Adjust a sentence. Complete a chapter. Days passed and my characters became real to me, fleshed, alive, ready to jump from the page, to give me hell if I didn't do them justice. If I didn't give them a chance.

The right side of my brain has taken over, given itself fully to my fictional world. Nothing is logical. Life's situations are no longer my own. They're my characters. As I sit at my computer, I do not exist. I am Lucille. I am Simeon. I am about to come of age.

What started as a short story has today become a novel. Lucille was babbling on about herself, recounting a flashback, when suddenly I appeared, left side of brain kicked into gear. I sat there in my fictional world and realised; there's more to this.

I am writing a novel.

I announce this like those at an AA meeting. They say the first step is to admit you have a problem. I do. I've convinced myself I have more than a short story on my hands. Such a lethal confession. Once committed, I do not give up. The harder things get, the harder I try. Am I even capable of this? Who knows. But now I'm in this for the long haul. It'll be scary. Daunting. Challenging. It's going to be one hell of a journey.

Fingers crossed I reach my destination.

Who do you think you are?

2009-10-23T01:25:00.009+01:00

This week I've unearthed a lot of dirt. Not literal dirt of course; the metaphorical stuff that lurks behind closet doors and under floorboards. The kind that has Forensic Anthropologists' all excited because what's in that dirt has just uncovered a hundred years' old mystery. I've also watched far too much of the TV series, Bones.

Rifling through boxes of books from my Grandmother's house, I was arranging them into three piles: Oxfam. Recycling. My Bookcase. I snatched up the complete works of Oscar Wilde, binding ornate with gold stitching, insides doused with the scent of a thousand libraries. I begrudgingly threw Rudyard Kipling into the recycling; his pages too tattered for eyes, too worn for hands. Oxfam is now the proud owner of thirty books on Marxism. (Nan, what were you thinking?!)

Mission accomplished, I returned the books to their new homes. Placing Oscar Wilde lovingly on my bookcase, a photograph fluttered to the floor from inside; hidden between Dorian Gray and some Woman of No Importance. I studied it; black and white, edges frayed, yellowed. A man I did not know.

Impatient for more I poured the books into one frenzied pile, organisation be damned. Fingers, eyes scoured every page and book. But there were no more hidden photographs. No more dirt unearthed.

Now I spend time hunting relatives, delving into the unknown depths of my family tree in search of the man I did not know. It's like I've been given a key that unlocks the door to my family history and yet I have no idea where that door is. I have a single jigsaw piece and the rest of the puzzle lurks in some muddy boot-fair with the rest of the unwanted crap. Only I want it. I really do.

The importance of knowing where you come from is as fundamental as knowing who you are. They are not one and the same. You could know that you're courageous and determined and yet not know where that courage comes from. Sometimes, certain traits that we value so highly really are passed along that family tree, branch to branch. Sometimes it's nice to know you're not the only one out there, sitting on a limb.

Reader, I know who I am. But the man I did not know; he's going to tell me where I'm from. And I cannot wait to find out...

Seven

2009-10-19T00:28:00.011+01:00

I don't like seven. It's all sharp edges and odd number. In a list it's even worse. Why would anyone write a list of seven things? Why not round it up? You know how I love my Top Ten.

A few days ago, however, I was given the task of writing such list. Seven things about me. Along with this was the honour of the Kreativ Blogger award, given by the lovely Sarah over at The Good Girls. She writes some great stories. I suggest you visit immediately.

Seeing as I have some new followers, particularly over the last month, I thought I would recycle an earlier post. Fear not readers, I do not lack inspiration. I'm just being lazy...

1. I am one of those people who needs things to look forward to, else I lose the will to live.

2. I am double jointed and can freak people out with a twist of the elbow or the pulling of the thumb from its socket. As you can see, I know how to have a good time.

3. I'm a bit of a movie buff (or freak depending on your viewpoint) and have over 250 DVDs in my collection. Due to the low prices in Tesco, that collection is growing rapidly. Thanks Tesco.

4. I love my surname. I do not love being called Highlander by every guy I meet. Yes, I know. Highlander was a MacLeod. I'm a McLeod. You're correct. Well spotted. Now sod off.

5. I went travelling by myself when I was 19 years old. Some say this was brave, others say it was foolish. The fact that I was chased 2 miles by a homeless man would prove the latter correct.

6. My favourite word is 'bollocks.' It is just so expressive. If I could use it in every sentence, I would.

7. I was very fortunate to get my own back on someone who made my life hell at school. Said bully approached me on a train and asked if I remembered them. My reply was that I had a brain condition which meant I couldn't remember arseholes. Bully stunned into silence = smile on my face all day long.

8. My real name is Zion5 and I'm from the year 3021.

So there it is. Seven things about me. Okay, the list says eight but I had to round it up and we all know number 8 isn't true. Or is it...?

Finally, I must pass on this Kreativ Blogger award to a new and deserving fellow writer. After reading yet another great post from him, this award goes to the brilliantly witty plentymorefishoutofwater. He never fails to make me smile. Over to you...

Snow Sky

2009-10-13T00:41:00.002+01:00

As soft mist lingers white over waters
starched by the cold hand of frost,
a bird's wing snaps the silenced air;
a grave mark on the horizon.

A willow weeps for its branches
trapped beneath the frozen pond,
caught unawares as winter creped
in a windless night-time lull.

And in the darkened hush,
Winter's breath blew cold the scorched leaves
brittle from the distant summer heat,
as ripe and red as berries.

In woodland shamed naked by an iron chill,
creatures live, breathe and beat,
backs turned, eyes closed
to brace the arctic bite.
A tree branch, severed, cracks.

Grey clouds a solemn smudge
on a pink and purple sky,
beckons a white hell of flakes and flurries
and drifts, to shackle nature in its frozen grasp.

Underneath rimy rooftops,
faces pressed against cold glass
misted by warm breath,
await the first sign of Winter's torment.
A single flake met by giant smiles.

Humanity is just a work in progress...

2009-10-02T10:01:00.006+01:00

I am not a misanthrope. This is me we're talking about. I openly adore happy endings and smiling at strangers. I want the good guy to win. Always. But sometimes optimism fades.

As a society we are confronted frequently by our actions. The seedy underbelly of humanity is laid bare on a daily basis, stripped of benevolence. Through media we have no choice but to meet with our failings, or as such, the failings of others. Sex isn't the only thing that sells. Add violence and corrupt politicians and you've got one big money-making equation.

Day after day I read some version of kids murdering kids, people enslaving people. Governments stealing from their own country. Abuse. Fraud. Theft. The list is endless. Out in the world we exist together, and yet so far apart. People on the street are lost; passers-by a void around them. Hold open a door for someone and you won't get a thank-you in return. Sometimes it's the little things.

Repeatedly I get knocked; gradually I am worn, eroded. That's when the optimism, the faith in humanity, starts to wane.

But today there was hope. I awoke this morning to stories that recharged my belief that, at its very heart, humanity can be good. People can be good. A small group of British Firefighters are off to help search for survivors in the aftermath of the Samoa tsunami. The knowledge that these men are to risk their lives for others, in a country that on any other day we would not think about, warms my soul.

In addition to this story, a British football team stopped a woman from jumping to her death from the Humber Bridge. This simple act of kindness to someone in need reminds us of the invisible ties that bind us. Humanity, in its most basic form, can be found in the strangest of places.

As a result (for now at least) I find my faith in humanity restored. Or should that be faith in footballers...?

Top Ten: Things to know before going to University

2009-09-22T11:02:00.016+01:00

Five years ago I was on my way to Sussex University. Sitting in my Dad's car, next to an old toaster that wasn't needed and a kettle that would burn me more than it boiled water, I felt excited. Anxious. Completely unprepared. It seemed crazy. I'd relished in writing endless lists, delighted in trips around IKEA. Upon arrival, fear gripped me. What should I do now? Where do I go? What do I do? I wanted to vomit. Thankfully, I didn't. What a first impression that would have been...

As students across the UK enter the world of academia; all eager to jump start on destroying their livers, I thought I'd make this Top Ten an educational one. Here I impart with four years worth of experience. Wisdom. And it's free. Take it, please:

1) It's okay to introduce yourself to every person you see, including the maintenance guy. He may come in handy when the light bulb blows at 3am and everyone has to pee in the dark.

2) Make every single moment of Freshers' Week count. No one told me this. Or they did but in a really flippant way as if they had asked me to buy them a pint. 'You want anything at the bar?' 'Yeah, I'll have a Bud, oh and by the way, make freshers' week count.' Doesn't really get into the thought processes, does it? Maybe if they had written it down in capital letters; they seem to do the trick. MAKE FRESHERS' WEEK COUNT. GO TO EVERY BAR CRAWL. CHAT UP THAT CUTE GUY OR GIRL. DANCE ON THAT TABLE. You'll know what I mean in four years' time. Comprende?

3) Don't buy every book on your reading list (or read them). Not only will you still have those books (unopened, in pristine condition) five years later, your wallet won't thank you for it. Then you'll be all, 'Sorry guys, I can't go out tonight, I bought a book instead of dancing and laughing and generally having a good old time.' Sitting in halls, penniless and alone, your new books will start to mock you and that's never fun.

4) SAVE SOME MONEY. The capital letters return. By the third week of uni, after you've paid rent, bought way to much food for one person, and wasted enough money getting wasted, you'll be scraping inside the smelly communal sofa for extra coinage. So be prepared. It will save you sticking your hands down that sofa. Worth the effort alone.

5) Learn how to cook. Even just the basics. A diet consisting mainly of toast, kebabs, chips, and alcohol will age you thirty years. And possibly give you an eating disorder.

6) Go to the Freshers' Fair. You may think it looks like a load of drab tables lined up in the drizzly rain with naff home-made posters pinned to trees. You'd be right. But there are freebies. Baked beans. Light bulbs. Spoons. What more could you possibly want?

7) Sign up for the Doctor asap. Yes, there is such a thing as Freshers' Flu. No, it is not a rumour and/or a conspiracy theory. I wish.

8) It's okay to not go out drinking every night. It doesn't make you un-cool or antisocial. It makes you normal. This is good.

9) Attend lectures. You never know, you may actually learn something. Learn, she said? Of course! Remember that grey matter inside your head? The brain. It's quite handy.

10) Whatever you do, DO NOT break your foot a week before starting University. Crutches and drunken people do not mix. Trust me...

So reader, anything you'd like to add?

DiD

2009-09-17T18:25:00.008+01:00

We are crazy. Unhinged. No not really. We're fine. Normal. We even went to school today. We were taught Pythagoras' theorem in Math and contour lines in Geography. We zoned out in Science.

At lunch we stood under the blue tarpaulin that hung from the side of the music block, listening to the rain making soft beats that blended with the guitars and drums humming through the wall. Sam lied to us. He told us it would be quiet by the music block 'cos of all the building work, but we heard those guitars and those girls who can't sing for shit. We heard them and boy were we pissed.

We found Sam in the science block. He's always there. He likes that sort of thing; burning shit with Bunsen burners. He's in room 413, his 'safe-haven' he calls it; thinking we can't find him there. Dumb. He's there all the time. We smile when we see him lighting up an old Bunsen under a condenser thingy. As we said, we zone out in science.

'Boo!'

Sam jumps, dropping the glass bottle to the floor.

'C'mon guys. Not now. Please. Science is my time. We agreed.'

'You lied to us, Sam. You said the music block would be quiet and it wasn't so our agreement no longer stands.'

'I want to do my experiment. I need to pass this. I'm failing everything else.'

'Not our problem.'

Sam starts banging the table with this fists. He gets angry easily. We smile.

'Now, now Sam. What did that table ever do to you? Take this.'

We hand him a shard of glass from the floor.

'What am I meant to do with it?'

'You know what to do.'

Sam sighs and presses the glass into his arm. We feel his pain but pain is good. Red blood trails over his knuckles, staining skin creases. Blood is better.

Now we're back at Sam's house. We go up to his room. He's at his desk trying to finish homework. We start poking him.

'Leave me alone,' he says.

It is so easy to wind him up.

'C'mon Sam. Live a little. You said yourself, you're failing. Why bother trying?'

Frowning, Sam raises from his seat and starts marching the room. Back and forth. Back and forth. We feel dizzy.

'I don't want you here. You're always here. Always here. Go!'

We laugh. Sam starts shouting loudly, bashing his fist against his temples.

'Get out! I can't take this anymore! Stop laughing. Get out!'

We like it when Sam is like this. His face goes all red, eyes go hazy, and he starts twitching and shit. Then his mum bursts into the room with that worried face again. She never changes, always worried.

'Sam! What's wrong? Who are you talking to?'

Sam looks at us, quickly. We press our fingers to our lips.

'No one mum. Just talking to myself.'

And we're the crazy ones...

Land of Hope and Glory

2009-09-13T23:48:00.008+01:00

Friday night I flicked idly through the channels in vain hope of something inspiring to watch. I'd pass up inspiring for vaguely interesting, I was that bored.

I stumbled across the BBC Proms. It always seemed a tad too conservative for my musical tastes, despite my liking for Barber's Adagio for Strings and Fauré's Pavane. This time, however, I persevered.

Held in the Royal Albert Hall, the orchestra played in synchronised supreme. British, English, Scottish and Welsh flags rose up from the audience whom waved them freely, proudly, with the music.

As these flags fluttered and 'Land of Hope and Glory' filled my living room, I felt the stirrings of a patriot. An old patriot that I have hidden under lock, key, smothered with dust and a collection of Spice Girls records.

Though in no way staunchly patriotic, I have always felt some pride in being British. Growing up I felt lucky, grateful even, to belong to a country that stood up for its beliefs and marched forth into a new world, however poorly the outcome.

As with anything, however, our positives began to fade. What once made us great, a leader, made us tired and weary. A second in command. With each election and passing year where the true message of what our country stands for was lost, my little patriotic light diminished.

And so I hid it. And it was lost.

But we have a history that cannot be ignored. We may not have made the right choices. We may have needed help, as most countries do. But we have always paid back in kind. And we have always been there. The little country surrounded by water, so small it would get lost in the corners of some lands. We have produced some of the most incredible minds, some of the most ingenious inventions. We have led and we have followed. But we have always been there.

In spite of what is presently occurring in the world and what will continue for future generations, last night I realised; I am still proud of my country's history. However dusty or faded; my patriotic self will always be there. Sometimes lost. Sometimes hidden. Never forgotten.

I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate

2009-09-07T01:59:00.015+01:00

God be damned, I cannot sleep. Again. My insufferable affliction forces my body through sleep deprivation for the forth day in a row and results in the use of phrases such as 'insufferable affliction.' I sound like I ate an Austen novel. Indeed.

During my sleepless state my mind starts to wander to insane possibilities. I have discussed this previously. I won't recount how I discovered the secret of time travel but you can read that lovely episode here.

At 1.05 this morning half the world was quiet. The only light was the orange flicker of street lamps and the moon's milkiness behind scattered clouds. Out of my bedroom window I peered at the black, the still. The quiet tried to soothe my heavy lids, to no avail.

I paced; quick fevered strides that didn't care if they woke the house. My hands gripped my temples. Eyes narrowed. Blinked once, twice, a hundred times. In the corner of the room stood Rick Deckard. What the hell was the Blade Runner dude doing in my bedroom? I smiled. He smirked.

I got into bed certain I should be certified. 'It's only the insomnia. Not real. Not real. You're just sleep deprived that's all. Not real. Not real.' I pulled the duvet over my eyes like a child who'd just spotted the Bride of Chucky crawling in the shadows.

Eyes scrunched tight, I willed my brain to shut down but Rick Deckard had ignited my imagination, was pushing it into gear. All of a sudden, I was off...lost in a world where illegal replicants were causing havoc on Earth and a man suspiciously like Rutger Hauer was spouting poetry at random intervals. Oh, wait a minute...

It begs the question; why does my sleep deprived mind always end up trapped in a science fiction film? Maybe my subconscious is trying to tell me something. Should I be worried, like, Matrix worried? It's possible...isn't it?

See. I told you. My level of crazy rockets to demonic heights without sleep. This morning I was a sky high ninety-five.

But for now, all these moments will be lost in time...like tears in rain...time to sleep...

Until tonight...

2009-09-01T22:18:00.004+01:00

Hello, moon.
Chalky captive in bloody sky.
Hopes of shepherds delight dashed
as the sky weeps,
and rain heals her wounds
overnight.
She fades to grey.

Tell me moon.
What did you do?
When daylight recedes beyond your
nacreous gleam,
her shameful retreat brings
night to menace.
Confess your sins;
you have time.

You can't see me moon,
from your crescent perch.
Your light can't reach our faults
hidden within the shadows.
But I see yours.
Luminous imperfections
across your face.
I wonder if you know.

I'm sorry, moon.
Lonely sole deserted in an
ordinary sky.
Where stars burn universal,
a galaxy determined
to surpass your shine.
You only have yourself to blame.

Goodbye moon.
The sun may scold you;
chase away the darkness
but she too brings new shadows to hide.
You recoil into the blue,
fade beyond the clouds.
But I know you're there...

We're all going on a summer holiday...

2009-08-19T08:57:00.004+01:00

That's right. It's that time of year when I shove my belongings into a suitcase, dawdle on down to Gatwick airport and board a plane to nowhere.

Nowhere is a good place to go. Sun. Sea. Sand. Oh and iced lollies. Can't be without those.

I am off today to the land of no expectation. Usually just the fear that my life could slip into a mundane routine sends me over the edge but when I'm on holiday? Now that's a different matter. I like the way my yearly holiday hasn't evolved as with everything else. It takes the same pattern:

Disembarking the plane, my party comments on how hot it is. As if coming to a country near the equator wasn't warning enough. Upon check-in there is usually some mix up. Probably due to the fact that twenty five years ago my mother decided to christen me with the same initial as my elder sister.

Two Miss L M's? No es posible! Oh yes it is.

Once unpacked, someone will profess their annoyance at the lack of fridge/toaster/air-conditioning/bed. Delete as appropriate. It happens. Three days into the holiday I will resemble the pallor of a lobster or, depending on my voraciousness with suncream, that of a white china plate.

And so it goes. And will continue to do so until the end of time.

But it wouldn't be a holiday without it. Until next time my lovelies...

Judgement Day

2009-08-15T22:58:00.008+01:00

This morning I went to the corner shop in my pyjamas. Yes. I'm that person. The kind who puts on flip flops when it's raining and has scruffy bed hair when she buys her newspaper and a pint of milk.

Stood in line with my purchases, I was keen to return to my weekend indolence where all that matters is tea, toast and fine smudgy print. Behind me, however, was the judgemental squad. A long line of pitying glances, as if I was a homeless person who had found a pound coin and the first thing she must do is treat herself to skimmed milk and a liberal broadsheet. One or two were stunned by my audacity to leave the house looking less than perfection. People go out without mascara and lip gloss? Our eyes! Our poor eyes!

Does my lack of style, at 7.30am, really matter in the great scheme of things? I wasn't on my way to a job interview. I wasn't off to meet friend's in town. My big plan was grabbing my weekend favourites and returning to bed to watch crappy morning TV. I didn't realise I needed Gok Wan's assistance to enter the high society that is the corner shop. Forgive me, please.

Why are people so judgemental? It's yet another one of those unanswerable questions that life likes to throw at you but please, I'd really like the answer.

Psychologically speaking, it's possible that we have an internal self-belief that everyone should behave as we ourselves do. An ideal representation of socially correct behaviour. When we come across someone who breaks this self-belief, someone who challenges it, is that when judgement occurs?

I don't know, reader. Consider me flummoxed.

Bluebells

2009-08-10T03:26:00.007+01:00

My daughter gave me a present today.

Bunched in her pink hands

so tight the tips of her nails pursed white.

She offered them to me,

face obscured by the bells;

tiny pendulous blossoms bowed

and coiled in fragrant lavender blue.

It may have been that scent.
as Manley Hopkins once said

was like faint honey,

a sweetness that

awakened the dusty web of my past.

All at once I was there,

in '53, six years old,

holding hands with Lesley.

We left the house in Dorking,

linking tiny fingers,

running towards sandstone hills

at the edge of town, air so fresh

so full of grass, cows and hay,

lingering in our noses

as we opened the gates to Glory Field.

Early in the day,

grass still moist

and our black buckled shoes would squelch

their way across the green sea.

We would use our arms to row ourselves

across to Glory Wood

while looking out for dog pirates.

Our green eyes widened,

ears listening, hearing

nothing but eerie calm of the clearing

and our hurried breaths.

Trees narrowed into a path;

sunlight peeked through their leafy canopy,

falling in pots of gold hidden

in the mass of lavender blue.

Once again we'd row ourselves

across the sea, running fingers

through long stalks, falling into the

deep flowery water, legs lost

amidst the honeyed scent.

Glory Wood began to darken;

a coolness enveloped our arms

and we'd pick some gifts for home.

Every sunday we gave our mums a present.

Bunched tightly in our pink hands,

nail tips white,

pendulous coiled petals obscuring

our red faces.

They always smiled, distant,

expression vague

but now I know;

they too remembered the bluebells.

Laugh and the world laughs with you. Cry and you're a f****** idiot.

2009-08-02T16:45:00.013+01:00

Isn't that how the saying goes? I never paid much attention. It always got the same reaction as 'Chin up love' or 'Pull yourself together.' If I knew how to pull myself together, don't you think I would? Utter bloody contempt.

Has anyone else experienced it? That darkness; so deep one could believe they're blind. Once you've been into The Darkness, you're more susceptible to it. It's like poison. It remains undetected, coursing through veins and vessels when suddenly it attacks and once again you're at its mercy. You don't know when it will strike but its cloud is hovering. A black threat in the distance.

Depression is a serious illness. I know the depths Darkness can reach. It isn't pretty. What surprised me was how little people realise this; how flippant they can be. 'Oh she's depressed? Nothing a bit of fresh air and sunshine can't fix!'

Erm. NO. When you're depressed, air is a stale evil. Hurts to breathe. Sunshine burns every layer of flesh yet never pierces one's soul; it's too bright for one's eyes. All you want to do is shimmy under the duvet and let sleep win over. Let the Darkness in.

Then come the tears. Standing at a bus stop, sitting in class, at work, when that bitter salty taste reaches your lips. Crying and you didn't realise. Numbness a result of depression's destructive path.

Somedays it feels like it's brewing again. The light is slowly fading, shadows contort my face and I'm bracing myself to be immersed. It's like I can feel its pulse; the sadder I feel the louder it gets. I call them 'those days.' I want the sun to shine but on 'those days,' the sun doesn't have the time.

Sadly, I'm not a lone sufferer. Research suggests that depression is on the rise and even more worryingly, left undiagnosed by GPs. Why? Apart from lacking a cure for depression, the main reason is shame. When one feels embarrassed for the loss of their emotional state, their deficient grasp on their life, one doesn't want to admit it. Owning up to losing control? Not on your life.

This is where we're going wrong. People should confess. Go to the GP. See a therapist. Whatever it takes for The Darkness to fade. Do it and be proud. If anything, at least you're gaining back some control.

And if anyone tells you to 'pull yourself together' feel free to punch them in the face. And once from me too...

Welcome to Hollyweird

2009-07-26T22:45:00.021+01:00

Every day hundreds of people pack their belongings into bedsheets, tie it to the end of a stick, throw it over their shoulders and make their way to the land of fame. Well, if they were a cartoon. Nowadays they just use a suitcase. Much easier.

The epitome of wealth, Hollywood is the place to fulfill one's dreams. Or so they say. I'm not sure who 'they' are. I just know 'they' are foolish, as are most of the poor souls who gravitate there; hopes and dreams a heavy burden on their backs.

In popular culture Hollywood is promoted as THE place to be. The young and beautiful drive expensive cars, pour themselves into designer clothes and live in hilltop houses. Life is so perfect, so peachy, why would you want to live anywhere else? Well. The above do exist. In abundance. But sadly it's a lot seedier than one can imagine.

Rejection stands lonely on street corners, it screams from sad waitresses in every bar. Barbie's walk painfully on dirty faded stars on the street; hair bleached to breaking point, starved faces pulled tight, lips injected with so much botox I'm surprised they can read their lines in auditions. Broken dreams fill every bus ride along Hollywood Boulevard, on the hour every hour.

'Hollywood' doesn't exist. In yesteryear the term was culturally and historically significant in American cinema. It was the place where it all began. It meant something. Today it's just superficial. Fabricated. Dirty. It's Hollyweird. You don't need to be an actor or singer. Talent is no longer a requirement. You just need to be desperate. Fame hungry. Pathetic. If you have these qualities; celebrity and notoriety, here you come!

It's all rather tragic. This wealthy place, once the symbol of glamour and greatness, has now disintegrated into nothing. Just a has-been shell of its previous life. This kills me. I rather like the old fashioned importance of working hard; honing one's craft because you can't bear to do anything else. In today's society, people flock to 'make it' in Hollyweird because they don't want to get a real job. Working hard is too exhausting. They want it easy. And Hollyweird gives it to them. Modern practices; an emphasis on fame, wealth and beauty as paramount have resulted in standards slipping. Hollyweird now represents everything that's wrong with our contemporary world.

It's definitely questionable. Who wants to be in a place where the stars are stuck on the ground? They shine better in the sky...

It's not the end, it's the beginning...

2009-07-17T00:52:00.021+01:00

Mondays. Manic. Happy. Sometimes cheap. Mine was dull. It was graduation, part deux. Dressed in my finest I begrudgingly slipped on that monstrous cap and gown and made way to my seat. Two minutes later, the music started. Personally I wouldn't call the organ, music per se. It's more like the wail a piano makes as it crashes to the ground, dying. You know; like they do in cartoons.

The organ continued for ten minutes, bleating and thundering, forcing every eardrum to endure its slow painful death in a ten mile radius. I wondered if the pianist was deaf. And then wished I was.

Eyes darted to the nearest exit. If I took a quick left, back ten paces and then out the door, I'd be free. My ears could rest. I would breathe in the fresh air, smell the freedom. I imagined it smelt good.

I didn't find out. Couldn't. I was squished between two people; our chairs packed so closely together I deduced that the girl next to me was extremely fond of garlic. Or perhaps she was terrified of vampires. It wasn't pleasant, either way.

Suddenly, a procession of people appeared; dressed in multicoloured gowns depicting their levels of education. Boredom hit me. Struggling to compress a yawn, my face contorted to demented levels and Garlic Girl gave me the evils. Stop doing that, weirdo, she said. Well, her face said it all.

The speeches began and I found myself dreaming of what I would do when released. I would eat cakes and drink vodka and go for long walks on the beach, relishing in my freedom. Phasing back to reality, the Mayor was staring at me intently. I turned to the right of me; nothing but a row of empty chairs and an angry woman at the end, beckoning. If she could have punished me, she would have. Oh yes.

Led backstage, I awaited with my fellow graduands. Some spoke of their nerves, their excitement, their achievements. I prayed I wouldn't fall over my own feet and land on my arse. When I finally reached the stage, name called, my mind drifted again. Somewhere above in the clouds I hovered whilst my body dumbly nodded and shook hands with I don't know who. One step, two step. Here come the stairs. Don't fall down them. Nearly back at your seat. Ah. Potential embarrassing situation averted. Relief.

The rest of the ceremony fluttered past in a daze of monotony. Hands went numb from all the clapping. Garlic Girl continued to breathe her smelly self all over me. And the Mayor couldn't take his eyes off me. I doubt he had a little crush. Looks like I won't be welcomed back any time soon.

I'm still pleased that I went. I have stories to tell, memories to recall. That's the best part. Oh and the whole getting a degree thing. Oops. Forgot about that...

So in light of graduation season, I thought I would leave you with a few words of wisdom:

'There is a good reason why they call these ceremonies 'commencement exercises.' Graduation is not the end, it's the beginning.'

-Orrin Hatch

Fingers crossed he's onto something there...

The Library Spell

2009-07-09T19:05:00.005+01:00

Morning seeks refuge amidst the

yellowed paper and faded print

leather bound tales of woe

and joy.

Tips of fingers trace the

pinched in curve where

page meets page

of open book.

Ears oblivious to worldly noise

I crawl inside the words,

deafened by them screaming

an enticing spell

of verse and rhyme.

My back arcs over the 'A's

and 'B's, I coil within

the 'me's and 'we's.'

Loneliness a forgotten affair,

there between the bonds of book

and I

find my friend's who make

magic with mystery,

an illusion, of poetry and prose.

When I leave my shelter

of words that never hurt me,

I stretch past.

Limbs ache from time spent

cramped between them,

eyes adjust to the change in light.

The only evidence of the

library spell?

A star filled sky.

Top Ten: Movies

2009-07-06T20:26:00.013+01:00

We are back to the list. I seem to have an obsession with these. Note to self: must see some kind of list specialist concerning possible cure.

Soon I will morph into David Letterman, what with all the Top Ten I insist on creating (most of which are yet to be published; you have been warned). My lists are more refined. Take, for example, Letterman's 'Top Ten Things That Almost Rhyme With Peas.' So silly. And too easy. Sneeze. Bees. Keys. Sleaze. Knees...nope, I'm out. Trickier than I thought.

Right now I'm talking about the talkies. Movies. Films. Whatever you call them, they're entertaining. Most of the time. They can be cheesy. Intriguing. Thrilling. Funny. Exciting. Moving. They can make you think, believe, dream. Or bash your head against a brick wall in vein attempt to erase the memory.

As with my Top Ten: Books list, I found this difficult. I own a lot of films. Hours of my life were stolen from me by watching some truly terrible ones. (Speed 2: Cruise Control, you owe me 2 hours 1 minute). That said, I like to think I'm qualified in knowing a good film when it hits me in the face. Popcorn at the ready:

1) The Shawshank Redemption (1994)

2) Back to the Future (1985)

3) The Colour Purple (1984)

4) Schindler's List (1993)

5) The Godfather (1972)

6) Rear Window (1954)

7) Platoon (1986)

8) An Affair to Remember (1957)

9) Imitation of Life (1959)

10) WALL*E (2008)

So reader, what's on your Top Ten Movies list?

The Auction

2009-07-02T20:34:00.004+01:00

Silver speckled tea set,
angular handles,
curved spout,
fine letters engraved
on the underside.
And me,
sitting in the garden
aged four or five,
pouring air and dust
and dreams
into a cup, offering it
to my imaginary friend.
Sold for £150.

Mahogany bookcase,
deep shelves,
bobbled pattern,
thick lines carved
into wood coloured like
rich autumn leaves.
And Granddad
sifting through books,
mind roaming,
questioning Descartes
and Plato
and Rousseau.
Sold for £50.

Raggedy Ann doll,
white dotted
cobalt blue dress,
straight red yarn hair
that frames her
child drawn face.
And Nana
in 1923,
slumped on the floor
crying and
cuddling and
whispering that she
was her only friend.
Sold for £85.

Metal sewing thimble,
slate coloured,
thin lines imprinted
around the edge
alongside
T.W.
And Ma,
holding brown thread,
to sew badges onto
my brownies sash,
frowning and
cursing and shouting
that the thread
just won't go through.
Sold for £100.

All these objects,
this junk,
this stuff,
my stuff
now sits in another garden,
another house
in other hands.
While I'm left
with nothing but
memories.
Only they can't be sold.

The Legacy of Peter Pan

2009-06-26T20:02:00.013+01:00

When I was three years old I danced my very first dance. Well, that's debatable. It was more like a bum wiggle. But the song that so inspired the wiggle was 'Don't stop till you get enough.' And I didn't. I 'danced' until my little legs could no longer do so.

The following year I was given a battered cassette tape labelled 'Bad' and a portable player from my sister's hand-me-downs. Clipping the player onto my skirt, I adjusted the massive headphones and pressed play.

The rest, as they say, is HIStory.

So far I've had a 21 year love affair with Michael Jackson's music. I spent most of 1988 to 1995 listening to the entire catalogue of hits from 'Off the Wall' to 'Thriller' and 'Dangerous.' Needless to say I was shocked when I heard the news of Jackson's passing. The reminder of death always leaves an unpleasant feeling. It hangs around, questioning our beliefs, our way of life, our future. It goes against what nature intended- that is-to live. Ironically, death is a part of life too but, when it happens, you never remember that. Why would you want to?

It is important to remember that Jackson has succeeded where so many others have failed. He left an amazing musical legacy that I doubt anyone will repeat. Or even come close. Despite his death he will continue to live- through this legacy. Regardless of how the media and some may have viewed him, he's left his mark on the world. One hell of a mark. Isn't that something?

The Importance of being Educated

2009-06-19T16:49:00.011+01:00

Can you smell that? It's a bit of excitement with a whiff of anxiousness and a dash of pride. Yes. It's that time of year when millions of students start the first day of the rest of their lives: Graduation.

Next month I'll be one of those students. Except that I've done it all before. Yep. Been there, done that, worn the t.shirt. Instead of excitement and anxiousness there's just the stench of embarrassment.

My last graduation in 2007 was hell. I was forced to wear a scratchy black gown that bought me out in hives. And a cap which made my head sweat so much I looked like I'd been swimming. Then there's the endless sitting around, for hours. The kind of sitting that makes your arse so numb that it feels like a separate entity. Oh and the constant clapping. I'm all for congratulating my peers but jeez, I couldn't feel my hands for the rest of the week. The only good thing to come from that day was that I got to shake hands with Richard Attenborough who was Chancellor of the University of Sussex. Now he's the man.

So I find myself full of regret for agreeing to attend my upcoming graduation, part deux. And it isn't because I had a boring day the last time round. Sadly, I feel that 'further education' has turned into a bit of a farce. That's where the stench of embarrassment comes in.

90% of my brain (and my heart) hates me for feeling this way. But there's that 10% that can't be denied. The 10% that thinks education has become nothing but an excuse to get out of getting a real job in the real world. That believes by making university education so readily available, we've downgraded its value. It's such a harsh opinion to have but I just can't help it.

Going to university was always on my agenda. The reason my life for so long was study hard and study harder. I went off on a gap year to relax and have a good time, pre-empting that I would need all my strength in my future education.

But when I arrived at uni, I felt like I was surrounded by people on their own gap year. A stopgap. A bit of time to figure out what they really wanted to do with their lives. When students come out with things like, 'Oh I only need 40% to pass the first year,' well, you know there's a problem.

Education and its importance has always been drilled into me. Having a degree would further my career and widen my prospects. I've since discovered it's a bit of a hindrance. So many people have degrees nowadays, all fighting for the same jobs. How on earth are employers meant to separate the men from the boys? The good from the bad? It's just one big vicious cycle of mess.

Surprisingly, I don't regret going to University. The skills learned outside the lecture theatre have provided me with a greater wealth already. I'm independent, responsible, know how to cook and the social skills alone are surely a benefit. Plus I did learn. My brain got bigger. That's always a good thing. I just think that the education system needs to change. We need to adapt the way it is used. And make sure it's used for the right reasons.

Reader, what do you think?

I'm back baby!

2009-06-08T03:57:00.009+01:00

While I am not one hundred percent and my walking can be likened to that of an old fart or a snail or possibly an old snail, I am feeling okay after my operation. Unfortunately, it was more serious than your average appendectomy; my appendix being the size of a foot when it should have been the size of a finger. Add that to the removal of a small part of my bowel and you've got some idea of the scar now trawling its way down from my navel. Not that you needed to know that. Jeez. I really should stop with all the sharing.

My stay in hospital was an eventful one. You would think that the Gods of Fate or whomever ordains our paths in life would have allowed me a quiet convalescence. Oh no. First, there's Evil Nurse. She's the one who doesn't really want to be there. Who sneers at the sound of help-alarms and tells everyone you've been nothing but hassle when really, you've been off your face on meds and not made a sound. Evil Nurse woke me on the first night of recovery by slapping my face. Just to make sure I was alive. The care provided in hospitals is first rate.

Then came Frances. The 69 year old lady in the bed opposite. She liked to talk. A lot. Particularly at 4am when the morphine was crawling through my veins, hypnotic and sleep inducing. Frances was erratic and confused, pulling out IVs and jumping from her bed. I once awoke to find her asking me if I was part of the conspiracy occurring in the ward. My 'yawn' had qualified me to join the 'scheme.'

This all really happened. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.

But now normality has returned. I'm back. Kind of. In a half-hearted sort of way. I can't really laugh 'cos it hurts. Sneezing is out too. Plus any kind of bending down and spinning round. Man. This op has really taken all the fun out of life. Whatever will I do now?

The end of an Era

2009-05-28T01:37:00.006+01:00

It has come to an end. My relationship with....my appendix. Yes, sadly it is true. For 21 years we had no problems. We co-existed in harmony. I knew he was there, he knew I was here. I thought we'd be together forever. Until...

2005. He decided to be a bastard. I was studying at University, in the midst of deadlines and research when he decided to let himself be known. It started off as an annoying niggle. I brushed him off. He persisted. Before I knew it, he stabbed me constantly in the side. Oh the pain. The pain!

The Doc said he was rumbling, grumbling; that was all. Nothing to worry about. And so I got on with my life. I ignored the annoying niggle, the inconsistent stabs of pain. I turned a blind eye to his pleas for attention. No, I said. No! Leave me alone. Can't we go back to the way we used to be?

Sadly, we could not. And so this afternoon, we will end it. My appendix is being removed. This is why I will not be posting for a while. I need time to come to terms with my loss.

Fear not reader, I will return. Until then my lovelies. Until then...

The Ironic Bandwagon

2009-05-25T01:18:00.008+01:00

My dad does it. Every night he reads the paper before stacking it with the rest of the week’s crumpled, old news. He also does this with cardboard. Empty Weetabix, Frosties and PG tips boxes are cut up in a prolonged, time-consuming fashion to be taken on their weekly trip to recycling.

So what is the meaning behind this environmental endeavour? I know my dad didn’t do this for the good of his health, or mine for that matter. It’s possible that we love our planet dearly and want to ensure future generations survival. More cynically, it’s because we’ve jumped on the eco-bandwagon as it catapults our society into an overwhelming sense of eco-panic.

Okay, so my dad may have been first on said bandwagon, but he’s definitely not the last. According to governmental statistics, as a nation, we are getting better at it too. Earlier this month it was reported that recycling rates have increased by 30% in the last year. This comes as no surprise. The idea of ‘green living’ and all that sits under the environmental belt has become one of huge importance over the last few years. Thus changing the odd habit into more eco-friendly ones is never far from our minds. In fact it’s everywhere.

Supermarkets stock ecological or ‘green’ merchandise, ranging from cleaning products to reusable bags for life. Websites pop up on Google searches reminding us to switch off our lights, turn off our TVs and insulate our homes. Adverts by retail giants encourage us to go for electrical products with the Energy Saving Recommended Logo. On TV, politicians claim to be environmental activists. Even the Academy Awards are in on it; the documentary film 'An Inconvenient truth' won an Oscar three years ago for the discussion of its global warming issues.

Even so, behind the ‘save the earth’ campaign, lurks an extreme rampant hypocrisy. Articles do their best to argue for eco issues, exerting their environmental prowess in the form of perplexing words such as ‘CO2 emissions’ and ‘carbon footprint.’ Next to said article is an expensive advert for a well-known airline which, ironically enough, emits the same amount of CO2 as a small country.

Similarly, the United Nations Climate Change Conference is to be held in Denmark for 10 days this December. The aim is to discuss the Kyoto Protocol; a ten year treaty hoping to reduce the harmful greenhouse gases which cause climate change. The annual meeting, however, attracts around 20,000 politicians and environmentalists, as well as the odd celebrity. The environmental cost of transport for all these people? Oh, only a few hundred thousand tonnes of CO2 emissions.

In addition, leaflets on voting for Green Parties are printed, posted and thrown away without so much as a glance or regret for the amount of trees wasted. Trees that could help decrease these harmful greenhouse gases, as well as moderating ground temperatures. Implicated supermarkets may very well produce green products, ban plastic bags and promote their trusty bags for life, but the revenue made on such commodities are pumped back into their already successful multi-billion pound businesses.

Sadly, nothing will change. My dad will carry on with his painstaking recycling methods. I will continue to re-use my bag for life until my baked beans fall out of the hole in the bottom. Eco-warriors will continue to camp in trees, remaining unwashed. But together, while the supposed ‘environmental’ consumerists reap the monetary rewards, we will leave the irony (and mess) of it all for the next generation.

Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies

2009-05-19T00:30:00.011+01:00

Sigmund Freud thought childhood was a time fraught with oedipal complexities; lots of penis envy and castration anxiety. This coming from a man who believed cocaine wasn't addictive. Hmm...

No offence to Freud but childhood isn't that complex. Sure it's a difficult period of psychological and biological development, as well as a variety of challenges. But does anyone else remember it being fun?

It's the only time in your life when naivety and ignorance is accepted. When innocence isn't something to be ashamed of and responsibility is an enigmatic word only spoken by big people. It's also a time when the word 'enigmatic' evokes a puzzled frown.

Looking back there was something so comfortable about being a child. Everything in the world, even the most mundane, was looked on in wonder. Curiosity ran through the blood. Climbing a hill felt like climbing a mountain. Swimming ten metres felt like ten miles and the discovery of a worm wiggling in the mud was the most amazing find ever.

What happened to that fresh, excited feeling? Why does growing up suddenly make us feel stale? In Western cultures, coming of age is advertised as the best time of life. Which it is, mostly. As adults we gain independence and an invitation to a whole new world. Sex, gambling, smoking, driving, voting, marriage. They seem pretty novel at first but soon that novelty wears off and we're left longing for the innocence and freedom of childhood.

I don't want to go back. Apart from missing all the novelties, I still haven't figured out that whole time-travel conundrum. However, I think we must change our adult perceptions. Occasionally we should act our shoe size. Go outside and splash in puddles, dance in the rain and play on the swings. Feel the fear and do it anyway. Investigate. Discover. Look at the world in wonder again. Maybe the staleness will fade away.

That said, I'm off to look for worms in the garden. Oh dear. Freud would have a field day with that...

Words to Live Your Life By

2009-05-16T02:28:00.007+01:00

I am trying to write a play. I have already done this; my first attempt deemed a success. I feel, however, that was pot luck. A fluke. Last year there must have been a magical creative current flowing through the skies above my house that poured its imaginative contents into my brain.

But I stood outside last night, stared into the lifeless sky; the kind of sky that is neither grey nor white. There was no magical current flowing above me. Just grey rain from a dove grey sky.

Sadly, I am suffering with an acute case of ‘inspiration-lackus.’ All writers encounter such problems. It happens. Free-flowing words get tangled up and eventually we trip and stumble upon them. The words stop. The cursor blinks, the pen dries out and we panic. Our thoughts become clichéd and stale.

In this situation, I have to jolt myself from all the wallowing in self-pity. This is where my beloved quotations come in. I take pleasure in finding some pearls of wisdom scattered about the internet, hidden away in the many ‘Os’ of Google like lost treasure. As I am not an evil pirate who hoards her treasure, I thought I would share it with you:

‘Nothing in the world can take the place of Persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent. The slogan 'Press On' has solved and always will solve the problems of the human race.’

-Calvin Coolidge

It amazes me that words spoken over eighty years ago still have such resonance. However much we may argue against it, human work ethics have not changed in that time. We have and always will need to work hard at everything we do.

So despite my resentment at my blinking cursor and stale ideas, I must persist with my play. Without a struggle, without any effort, success has no meaning.

Wish me luck! :)

To Me, Love from Me

2009-05-09T22:40:00.004+01:00

Hindsight is a powerful thing. Magical some might say. That is probably why we don’t have such ability. The power of it is far too great for us mortals to handle.

Last week I read the God’s letter to his sixteen year old self. By God, I mean Stephen Fry. In it he talks of the difficulties surrounding his sexuality and the repercussions it had growing up. The letter was such an inspired idea that it sparked a mass of replies from regular Joe Bloggs, like you and me; all writing their own letters to their younger selves.

I sat down yesterday intending to read a couple of these letters. There’s something quite alluring about having a window into other people’s lives. I never thought I would spend over an hour reading pages and pages, peeking into hundreds of windows. Hundreds of souls. Because that is what it felt like. I had access to years of resentment and heartache. It’s been a long time since I’ve cried that much. I felt like I was bleeding tears.

It got me thinking. What would I write to my sixteen year old self? If I were to have the power of hindsight, what would I do with it? Some people, a bit like the Old Biff in Back to the Future Part II, would tell their younger selves to bet on winning races. Make the future a little bit richer. Other people would warn themselves away from trouble, be it people or otherwise. Make the future a little bit safer. And me? Read on reader and find out:

To me,

The year is 2009. Firstly, there are no aliens here, robots or flying cars. The Fifth Element, Total Recall and all Philip K. Dick books were not predictions as we so thought. I’m sorry. It’s a big let down. There’s more future to come so fingers crossed.

Secondly, I want you to stop. Put down the book, revision card and highlighter pen and breathe. Look out the window. There’s a world out there. Life. Education is important but you’ll waste enough of your future on it for you to make such an issue of it now. So go out. Enjoy yourself a bit more. Remove that scrunchie and let your hair down. Oh and by the way, you will regret ever wearing a scrunchie. I mean Carrie Bradshaw hates them. You will find out about Carrie and Co in about a year. Oh and don’t stress too much; she does ends up with Big.

I also want you to stop worrying what other people think. You are still doing this now and we are growing weary from all the worrying. Paranoia is not healthy. If you get a bitchy look from someone, it does not mean that this person hates you or that you have done something wrong; it just means they are jealous of something or their face is naturally like that. I’m afraid there have been no developments on a bitchiness cure. Yet.

Unfortunately you will meet a few more bastards on top of the ones you feel have already ruined you. I would name names and tell you to steer clear or murder them if murder didn’t result in prison but alas, I will not. I cannot. Because Lou these people, like it or not, will make you. They will be the reason you know when someone is feeling sad, lost and alone because you have felt that way. They will be the reason you can spot/smell/sense a complete arsehole/twat/bully ten miles away; a very good safe quality to have. In spite of all the crap that will naturally happen, you are still here. And you still have your heart. You are a lot stronger than you realise. A lot.

So just remember, everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end. (I know how much you love quotations). Good luck Kid.

Love from Me

PS: When you go travelling in a couple of years, watch out for the homeless man hiding in a bush on Hollywood and Highland.

xxx

Playground games

2009-05-05T19:41:00.016+01:00

In 1994, I spent the majority of my time in the playground running away from the person trying to 'tag' me. Back then I could hide in the girls toilets or behind a tree. Here in the blogosphere I cannot. There's no tree. There's no toilets. There's just time, space and many people tagging me at once.

Alas, I'm a little slow at response. I apologise. If I haven't responded to one of the kind awards I've been bestowed it doesn't mean they're unappreciated or unacknowledged. It's just that I forget to put them here on the blog. You see, I think too much and this thinking means that other details get pushed out. I'd be a super encyclopedia if it weren't for all the thinking.

Anyways, I was tagged. A few times. You know who you are. This time I have made the effort to participate in our playground's game of tag: 7 things about me:

A) Link to your original tagger and post these rules:

The lovely Alpha Buttonpusher tagged me. You should check out her blog. She always has some very insightful, thoughtful things to say.

B) Share 7 things about yourself:

I'm going to recycle my very first post on this blog. Most of you probably haven't read it so I'm not cheating. I swear.

1) When I was little, I used to bite glass. Seriously. There are loads of glasses in my house with tiny chunks missing from them (illustrating that I was a freakish child who bit glass and that my mum keeps random crap for many, many years).

2) I have a fear of foxes. When I was about five or six, I had nightmares that foxes would climb through my bedroom window and claw at my face. Even to this day whenever we see a fox in our garden, while everyone says ‘aww how cute’ inside my head I’m thinking: ‘die evil fox, die.’

3) My favourite word is 'bollocks.' It's just so expressive. If I could use it in every sentence, I would.

4) I am one of these people who need things to look forward to or else I lose the will to live.

5) I am the most accident prone person ever. If there is something to hit, fall over, fall on, I will do it. Even if there isn’t, I’d fall over myself. Hell, I’ve even caught my foot in my own trouser leg.

6) I love New York to the point of obsession. Can one have too many black and white photographs of the same NY skyline? The ‘official’ answer is yes. My answer is no.

7) I get so angry at books and movies with sad endings. They lead you on with their happy beginnings and happy middles and then the ending appears where the lead character dies and I’m left feeling like I’ve been stabbed in the chest. If I wanted to feel that way, I’d go out and get stabbed. And don’t give me all that ‘well, real life is like that…real life is tough’ bullshit. Books and films are about escapism. I don’t read books and watch movies for reality bollocks. I leave that to Big Brother.

C) Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names and links to their blogs:

Here goes people. Watch out. You may get tagged!

Godlessmonkey

365Letters

SerendipitousFreelanceWriter

Life's Happenings

Confessions of a Bookworm

Frances Writes

Afternoon Tea Break

D) Let them know they've been tagged:

Meh. I'll get round to that later!

So there it is. I've run ragged around the blogosphere. I've had my fun. Now it's over to you my friends. TAG! You're it!

When the music stops

2009-04-29T16:45:00.011+01:00

Silence. There is something quite melodic about silence; the lull of breath, the dull roar of blood in ears and the faint thud of hearts as they beat.

In a world where noise is like our shadow; trailing behind us, never ceasing until the sun falls and our bodies rest in a room of quiet darkness, silence is often desired, hoped for, wished upon. Everyone wants a bit of silence. Time to collect their thoughts and clear their minds.

Not me. I fill my days with noise. I love the sound of people chatting and laughing, phones ringing. And when those days are over, I fill my nights with music. Song after song, every beat, every voice, every melody makes me happy and I settle into a rhythmic ease.

Yesterday the music stopped. I was sitting in my room writing, the sound of my iPod playing happily in the background when suddenly, nothing. The noise of the house filled my room which all at once seemed too large, too hollow. Cold. But the truth was, there was no noise. The house was vacant. There was nothing but empty rooms, empty air. Silence.

And so I realised. I hate silence. Sitting there in the cold of my room, the slight hum of my computer my only company, my mind went haywire. I was alone. And with that realisation, my thoughts trailed to more depressing places; the fact that I've felt alone for a long time now and I didn't want to be. And so in my enforced rumination, I understood that my continual desire for all things loud, this thrist for music playing 24/7 was just a lie. If I filled in the silence, I drowned out my thoughts and the truth; the truth being how unhappy I was.

Of course, I am not completely unhappy. I actually feel quite at home being on my own, more so that anyone else I know. (Plus, this is what being a writer is all about; enforced alone time). But it was in that instant of stark silence, in all of its harshness, that I grasped at a minor flaw in my life and became aware of its implications. I tell you, realisation is a powerful thing.

As is silence.

Barbie is a Bigot

2009-04-21T15:47:00.025+01:00

For the past week I have been lost in slumber. This doesn't mean I have been asleep for seven days. I'm not that lucky. I've just been kind of numb. Vague. Life seemed a bit blurry around the edges. I've been on a drug trip, without the drugs. I have no idea what bought it on. It must have been time for a funny five minutes. Or perhaps a silly seven days.

It is not often that something can anger me so much that it jolts me from my own numb little world, where life (in my head) is equal and just. But this weekend it did. I was watching the news when a barbie-doll-type creature appeared. Her dress was so sparkly I feared I might be blind as the light reflected off the silver gems and burned my eyes. She was so plastic she looked close to melting point under the harsh studio lights.

I'm talking about Miss California. This past weekend was the Miss USA pageant; a disgusting form of 'entertainment' that thrives on the idea that women are objects and beauty is paramount. I never thought of myself as a staunch feminist but catching a glimpse of the contestants in their bathing suits with their fake tans and perfect white teeth, parading their bodies like show-ponies, I have to admit that I am.

However, it wasn't the whole beauty-objectifying aspect of the Miss USA that became world news this weekend. It was gay marriage. When celebrity blogger Perez Hilton asked whether she believed in same-sex marriage, Miss California Carrie Prejean, a.k.a Barbie, replied:

"We live in a land where you can choose same-sex marriage or opposite. And you know what, I think in my country, in my family, I think that I believe that a marriage should be between a man and a woman. No offense to anybody out there, but that's how I was raised."

This was the moment that jolted me from my numbness. Can you believe I actually forgot that people like her still exist? She's not the only stupid one.

And you know why Barbie is so stupid? Because she makes her own belief sound ridiculously outdated. She points out that she lives in a country with the right to choose but basically states that the right to choose is wrong. Furthermore, she bases her whole argument on the way she was raised when actually her sister is a gay rights activist. Surely her sibling was nurtured by the same parents and yet she never turned out a homophobe.

Perhaps I am being unfair. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion and in a twisted way, it's refreshing that someone had the courage to voice theirs in a world rife with political correctness. But everyone should have EQUAL rights. If people can't marry because they are the same sex, we are endorsing the idea that gay people are second-class citizens. Why do so many insist in moving backwards when society has struggled with a ferocious determination to move forwards?

Consider me truly baffled. Reader, what do you think?

The Lone Voice

2009-04-13T00:04:00.002+01:00

Now I sit on Bond Street,
incarcerated in stone,
leaning towards Roosevelt
sitting casually to my right
and I wonder;
was it worth the fight?

I think back
to 1940s Britain, where
Chamberlain had failed us
and I offered nothing
but blood, toil, tears and sweat.

As Hitler beat his iron fist
against my nations heart,
families huddled in sodden shelters
that offered themselves
like watery graves,
hidden in the depths
of the underground-
where children forced
trembling palms onto aching ears,
and mothers clutched love,
memories and hope,
wrapped in brown envelopes;
the faded string fastened
tightly around their past.

Whilst hands lost their grip
on life, in streets and homes,
darkened by black-taped
windows,
boots trailed muddy
footprints through fields,
lightened by orange flames
of bomb-wrecked planes-
where the dust of men
lingered in metal crevices
and charred remains
of their static two-way radios.

I think back
to May 8th 1945, where
a mass of relief gathered
in Whitehall, waving victory
with flags of red, white and blue.

And I wonder,
as our nations
fight once more
in this endless struggle for power,
do men still say this
was our finest hour?

There's no business like show business...

2009-04-05T23:33:00.010+01:00

So. I saw my play. Yep, you read that right. My very own play. That I wrote and everything. You wouldn't think I could manage to write a whole play considering the way I'm writing at the moment. Short sentences. Incomprehension. But this I can put down to the shock of seeing my words performed before my very eyes!

It was a strange experience. I wasn't sure what to expect. It was my first play and its first production. I sat there as the lights dimmed above the audience and the song 'there's no business like show business' started playing. (You see what I did with the title of this post. I'm so clever.)

My heart flipped, an erratic beat in my chest. Blood roared in my ears. I swallowed down my stomach that had somehow found its way into my throat. My hands gripped the paper programme so tightly that the creases in my fingers turned white. I was suddenly nervous. Why? I wasn't the one acting. I was never very good at that type of thing. I'm more the drama queen and we drama queens have the tendency to over-act.

The actors appeared and a hush fell around me. People were actually there to watch my play. Then it hit me. I had written a comedy. What if no one laughed? Can you imagine it? Lines that you had struggled over, re-written, deleted and then re-re-written and no one even laughs. My palms began to sweat. I squirmed in my seat. Breath held, I watched as the actors arrived on stage and the first lines were uttered. Two more lines passed and there was silence. Oh dear. Where did it all go wrong?

I slumped into my seat, felt the shame grow like fungus around me. More lines passed. Three minutes felt like an hour and I wanted to crawl under the row of seats and disappear out the door. Then it happened. It sounded like angels singing and harps playing. No, wait, I can't in all honesty type that without laughing. It didn't sound that cheesy. It sounded like relief. And you know what relief sounds like? Laughter. That's what.

They laughed. The audience laughed. After that I relaxed. I went with the flow. I smiled and watched the actors make the parts their own, watched them faff up their lines and recover with perfect professionalism.

As the lights brightened and my family congratulated me and I heard about the good review I had received from the previous week, I felt kind of proud. And now I'm like a little proud bunny. (I thought the bunny would be appropriate considering it's Easter. Again, I'm so clever.)

I never imagined I would feel this way. As well as putting an overdue smile on my face, the play has given me a bit of a morale boost. Maybe I can do this writing thing after all. It wouldn't hurt to try would it? And you know what else? All of a sudden I'm feeling inspired.

Inspiration. I'll take that from anywhere.

Don't be late...

2009-04-02T00:50:00.005+01:00

I wake up
It’s on my mind,
So I walk around it
I waste some time.
I’ll be working on something
In the middle of the day,
When it will land before me
And take my breath away.
I’ll put it aside
Do the task in hand,
Then it’s there in my face
In the lie of the land.
Its fingers seize my neck
The pulse in my throat
Tightening its grip
I cough, I bleed, I choke.
It’s like it’s telling me
To deal with it,
Think it through
To know what I want with it;
I have no clue.
Then it’s above me
Pushing me down;
A weight of solemn pressure
Under which I’ll surely drown.
I try to get to sleep
But it blinds me with its light,
I try to switch it off
But it’s not giving up the night.
This is how it goes
Morning till day break;
My future
Giving me a hard time
Reminding me;
Don’t be late.

Attack of the Clones

2009-03-24T02:14:00.012Z

I’ve had a light-bulb moment. This doesn’t happen very often. When it does I like to relish the moment, let it linger in my senses for a while. Savour it.

I was lost in my imaginary world when it happened. Without warning, Bromley shopping centre morphed into the planet of Geonosis and I was attacked by an army of battle droids. Instead of being armed with lightsabers, this load of clones had Clinique lip-gloss and pocket hair-straighteners.

I’m talking about girls. Lots of tweenage girls aged 12 going on 30, with their identikit skinny jeans and waist-belts over cardigans. They hang out in large crowds and one is unable to detect any form of individuality. No wait. That’s a lie. One of the girls had black shoes instead of white. Rebel.

Lost amongst the identikit parade, I had my light-bulb revelation. Firstly, I am old before my time; born in the wrong decade. Or perhaps the wrong era. I am yet to decide which one.

Secondly, the idea that we have lost meaning of individualism saddens me. I had never thought about it before, not with any real ardour. I lived for three years in Brighton, a place drenched in eccentricity. During this time I shut my eyes to the rest of the world. It didn’t matter that beyond the boundaries of Brighton there was a growing epidemic of homogeneity. It is only now that I am fully aware. For the first time I am truly seeing.

With this renewed awareness, there is anger. Yes, reader, my light-bulb moment was one of anger. The aversion I feel to this spate of uniformity leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. It is perhaps unfair to lay all the blame with the clones- sorry, the girls. They don’t know any better. At aged 12, I was probably the same; yearning to fit in, to conform. It is only now, with age and experience, I know better. I wasn’t trying to conform. I was trying to hide. No one can make fun of the invisible girl, lost in a sea of sameness.

I’ll admit that I’m confused as to how we arrived at such a time. I assumed, rather naively, that our modern society encouraged nonconformists. Instead I fear we are on a slow descent into some scary dystopia. The kind only read about in science fiction novels. Oh, it may only be at an early stage, where everyone dresses and acts the same and listens to the same music and watches the same TV shows. But dystopias have to start somewhere.

So who or what is to blame? Is it the media, with its encouragement and celebration of the perfect image? What about mass consumerism? How can one possibly derive any sort of individuality when every shop produces the same monotonous output?

Reader, is my conspiracy-theory-crazed mind in overdrive? Is my insomnia-dazed brain thinking too much? What do you think?

Wanderlust

2009-03-20T18:54:00.004Z

When I was nineteen years old, I was restless. Lost. My mind craved freedom. I yearned to break free from the restraints of routine and normality; an aspect of life I detested. It seems implausible to reach the metaphorical crossroads so young but I guess, rather eccentrically, I have always been about five years older than most my age.

It was this reason that I decided to go travelling. Solo. A loner at heart, instead of filling me with fear, I felt exhilarated. At last, life had direction. Meaning. For two months I travelled around America and Australia with nothing but a backpack, some dollar bills and a trusty map. I finally got that freedom I craved and it sure tasted good. Along the way, I grew up. Learned. Laughed. Cried. I lived. I made some memories, happy, sad. Worthwhile.

Let me share them with you:

The coach, bound for the Grand Canyon, had been driving all day from a small town just off Route 66. As I sat longing for our destination, the coach was abuzz with the chatter of my fellow travellers. Australian and American accents blended with the laughter, the snoring and the faint, tinny chords of music playing from someone’s headphones. From my window seat, I watched the barren, dusty desert rush past so quickly that the golden landscape became a blurry, honey coloured hue in my eyes.

It was late afternoon when we arrived. Necks straining, we all scrambled to look at the view obscured by the yellow dirt ingrained on the coach’s windows. The doors opened with a screech. The heat of the day seeped into the enclosed space, forcing everyone from their seats with a renewed vigour.

The sun was an amber glow, so bright; I had to trail the shadows of those walking in front. We climbed over scattered rocks, following a dirt-lined path of trees, bushes and plants alien to my eyes. As I lifted my gaze from the dust on my boots, I stopped breathing. My eyes, my brain, my senses; nothing from me was prepared for what I saw. The colours of this beautiful, natural rock glistened in the afternoon sun. Reds and golds merged effortlessly into one glorious colour, highlighted by the curves, indents and markings carved by the Colorado River below.

I felt overwhelmed. A shiver trailed the length of my spine. Hairs stood proudly on the back of my neck. My heart beat so loudly that blood roared in my ears, deafening the world outside of me. I looked to the side, an empty space, air, nothing but the realisation that I had no one to share such an amazing experience with. Loneliness pained me; sadness seeped into my very core. I looked around at all the people, fingers pointing, cameras flashing. I wondered why anyone would want to take their own eyes off such a sight, just so they could take a picture. It wouldn’t do it justice.

I walked closer to the edge, looked up, down, left and right. My eyes greedily ate the view as if I would soon be blind. In that moment, as the sun started its descent, the shadows grew taller over the canyon and an eerie quiet took hold of the people around me. I had never felt so small, insignificant and yet so alive.