Get cape. Wear cape. Fly?

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. 

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

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

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

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

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? 

Is that you? This is me...

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...

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...

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...

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.

Tainted

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...

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...'

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

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...

Those days

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.

We shall keep the Faith

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.

Bluebells

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.

The Auction

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

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?

Wanderlust

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.

We do not remember days; we remember moments

Memory. It never fails to amaze me. Deep within the recesses of our grey matter, amidst the firing synapses, there lies this vast cognitive ability that allows us to remember.

I find it incredible that I can be sitting at my desk and suddenly I’ll be transported to the time I cut my foot open on a crab shell at aged 8. Or I'll be watching rain fall from the grey sky and instantly, without force, I can feel the gust of heat and humidity as I stepped off the plane in Florida when I was nine. Memories are that powerful.

So I find myself wondering; why would anyone want to rid themselves of such power, such capacity? Astonishingly, there are some who do. Today the Daily Mail and The Guardian reported news of a memory-erasing pill, developed to treat post-traumatic stress disorder. The idea is that it will expunge the sufferer of any painful memories thus allowing them a happy and fulfilling life.

Quite frankly, I’m astounded. Do the decades worth of research count for nothing? What about all those patients, people who lost their ability to remember? Take H.M for example. Henry Molaison was a 27 year old man who underwent brain surgery to correct epilepsy and developed amnesia. For over fifty years, until his death, he could not form new memories. He spent those five decades in an institution assisting scientists’ research on memory.

This case study doesn't bear thinking about. It's heartbreaking to know that one person can live such a life, so unfulfilled, simply because he cannot remember. I’m pretty certain that H.M would have given anything to lead a vastly different life than the one he lived. The chance to form new memories and remember old ones is a like a basic human right. No one should live without it.

And yet there are people willing to do so!

Memories are there for a reason. Yes, some are bad. But the bad ones are like mistakes; they help us grow. We learn from them. We become better people because of them. I don't understand why anyone would want to throw such potential away.