Confession

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

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

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...

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.