The Jackie Generation

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2011-07-13T14:48:00.002+01:00

Poppy's Wedding

2011-07-12T16:57:00.000+01:00

The flat was empty when she got in. Dark except for the flashing of the answer machine. Poppy hesitated, it was only 10.30 and she really needed a drink, but she was determined to be strong, and anyway yesterday she had poured the last lot of wine down the sink and couldn’t remember where the remnants of the Jack Daniels was. Instead she chanted her Clarissa Red, guru to the stars mantra. ‘Every day in every way I’ getting stronger and stronger, every day in every way, I’m getting stronger, every day……’ she marched around the room, breathe deeply, breathe, breathe, count 1,2,3,4, 1, 2 3, 4 breathe. Oh bugger she thought and pressed the button.

Bruce’s voiced echoed across the dark lonely living room, it had been a month; the bastard had stood her up, taken their holiday and now what did he want!

At Bruce’s insistence, that the wedding should be a small intimate family affair, there was only four of her family to get ready. He had said that he had sworn all of her friends and family to secrecy about the party, and that she shouldn’t ask anyone, just accept what he said. She therefore didn’t think it odd that her friends hadn’t asked when the party was, she just thought it was part of Bruce’s grand plan.

On her big day, inside the hotel Poppy found that it was only her and her family and a note in a silver envelope. It read.

Poppy after your revelations, I just couldn’t marry someone who didn’t respect themselves and would bring disrepute to my family, so mother has cancelled the service; the lunch is still reserved for you and your family so that you can tell them what you have done. I will be on the holiday that we booked. Please do not try to contact me. The rent is paid up for another month, and then it’s up to you. Bruce.

‘Poppy, hi,’ His voice oozed out of the answering machine ‘I guess I am the last person you want to talk to but, um, err, mother said to call, and that, um, that, um we should talk’ he ended brightly. Boomp went the phone.

‘TALK, TALK’ screamed Poppy at the dismal darkness, the blinking answering machine taunting her, how she hated this flat. The cushions on the sofa were just asking for it, he had chosen them, she leapt over and punched them with all her might, then total and utter violence over took her, and she started to run around the room like a banshee, kicking and punching anything and everything, it all came to an abrupt end when she accidentally head butted the door and passed out.

The following morning, Poppy knew that this was it, she had come into work every day for the last month with a hangover and she had even taken to sipping Jack Daniels from the secret hip flask she kept in her handbag. She knew her work wasn’t up to scratch. It was time to face the music. Edwina, her boss would certainly demand to know why she had a massive shiner and an egg on her head.

The men in the office were certain that Edwina used to be a man, they were positive that her large hands with short stubby nails were men’s hands and the polo necked jumpers and scarves she wore were hiding her Adam’s apple. They never called her Edwina it was always Edward.

Every time Poppy moved her head it hurt, it was as if her brain had shrivelled and was lolling around inside her skull and each time it touched the egg, the tenderness made her cry out. The shame, how could she have lost her temper and done such a stupid thing, oh surely they would sack her now.

She crept into her desk hoping that everyone would be too polite to mention it. Not a chance.

‘Poppy, my office now’ said a harassed looking Edwina.

‘Oh god I knew it would come to this.’ Wailed Poppy. ‘I am a jilted old drunk.’ And with that burst into tears, unable to breathe through the gulping heaving sobs, Poppy started to hyper ventilate, staring wildly at Edwina who, unsure of protocol slapped her smartly around the cheek.

A forlorn Poppy, could feel Edwina’s confused eyes on her. Poppy equally confused threw her arms around Edwina’s neck smearing her mascara over her new pale pink cardigan.

Some time passed until eventually Poppy calmed down and feeling sheepish looked deep into Edwina’s clear eyes and unravelled herself. Something passed between them, they had reached an understanding, neither quite sure how they came to this but each knew that help was at hand, a friendship had been struck.

When Edwina heard the story she laughed so much that Poppy was sure she was going to wee herself. Despite the pain, Poppy heard herself laugh too. It felt good, she hadn’t laughed for over a month now. Her friends were sick of her, moan, moan, moan.

‘Look, I am sorry’ said Edwina bursting out into laughter again. ‘But look at the state on you, and all for a man, who’s handcuffed to his mummy and who would have made your life hell.’ Edwina was uncontrollable each time she looked at the shiner, it was black and purple and covered most of Poppy’s face and made her look somewhat like a bulldog, only a little prettier.

‘So’ said Poppy ‘can I keep my job?’

‘Of course you can my dear, but there is something I want you to do for me. Here are some Clarissa Red books I want you to work through, and they must be in this order.” Edwina paused and then in an overexcited voice continued “And I have such an opportunity for you. My friend Penelope has tickets for the next Clarissa Red seminar in Cardiff, it’s a sell out and she had the last 3 tickets in the Emperor section, which to the uninitiated is right in the front and my dear, you can come with us for the miserly sum of £150. What a bargain, they are normally £350. Get your cheque book then.’

Poppy too taken aback to argue, scuttled off to her desk and got out her cheque book, and got right back to work. That’s ok she thought, kept my job, got some books, and got a ticket for a show, on the road to recovery, yeah!

The day passed in a blur until at 5.30 the buzzer announcing that the day had ended sounded. Poppy decided that she would head home, have a bath, a nice salad and read the first of Edwina’s Clarissa’s books, Jilted, you can bounce back, she’d would then move onto ‘Save your soul’, ‘Heal your past’ ‘Setting goals and moving on’ and ‘Sort your life out in a weekend’. She had flicked through this last one at lunch, it was ok, but there really was too much to do in one weekend. She vowed that she would read the books once and then come back and do the exercises. She at least knew some of Clarissa’s work and was already breathing.

Encounter

2011-04-01T06:28:00.000+01:00

Admiring herself in the mirror Becci waited anxiously for the call. For 3 hours she had been exfoliating, moisturising, preening and pampering. Glancing at her new Tag, a recent present to herself, she wondered where he could be.

She’s met him 2 days ago when she’d stumbled on the cobbles outside the cathedral. The heel from her new Jimmy Choo shoes had come off and as the hot wet tears fell onto her French polished toe nails, a crisp white handkerchief appeared and proceeded to mop up the dark streaks of mascara running down her carefully made up face.

She glanced up, not her normal type, too hairy and not well dressed, she smiled her award winning smile she normally reserved for her targets. Picking up her heel, he laughed and passing it to her he declared in his very English accent, we must get you some sensible shoes. He grabbed her hand and dragged her off to Conti’s, her favourite Vienna café, ordered her a Cappuccino and saccher cake before she could argue. The stranger became Marcus and invited her to dine that evening, with nothing better to do she agreed.

She had been waiting for Marcus wearing her new black linen suit, with red bra top and high red sling backs when the hand reached along the bar, his touch electrifying her and while gazing deep into her eyes asked casually if she would like a drink.

This man was instinctively the kind of man she went for, dark, smooth and expensively dressed, chest hairs peeking through the open necked shirt. His trousers showed off his taught buttocks and draped over his beautifully cleaned shoes. Everything about him cried ladies man.

The manicured hands teasingly pulled her close to him, she could hear her heart beating, the blood rushing in her ears, her ovaries popped, she was lost and didn’t care.

Barely through the door of his room, clothes discarded, his hot fierce kisses fell into an all night release of lust.

Teasing her blonde straight hair into place, she felt only slightly ashamed as she texted Marcus to apologise for not meeting him. He replied there was always the following night and she had agreed.

She slung her Burberry over her slender bare bronzed shoulder, musing that she should really stop spending the house renovation money, she had whittled her £30k to £10k in just 2 short months. Still she thought £10k could still go a long way to making her nans house liveable.

Heading out to meet Marcus, she stopped at the cash point to discover her card was missing. In a panic she called the bank to cancel the card and was shocked to be told that her account was now in arrears.

Marcus meanwhile was enjoying his first decent meal in 3 months since losing his job.

Grandad's Tree

2011-03-22T20:52:00.002Z

We visited grandads house every summer, always the week just before going back to school. Grandad played draughts with me, he called them chequers and cackled when he won, which he always did. Every year he told me the same story about the man in Palestine and the gun, right after his victory, ‘it was him or me’. I never understood and defeated I retreated to the gardens behind the house. The garden was full of trees, there was one, that reminded me of parma violets.

Dad told me that grandads dad had planted the trees and that one was very special. He chose it for my great grandmother and he had carved their initials in the bark just before proposing to her. Dad said that grandad had done the same. It was my tree. There were only ever 2 lots of initials and I wondered why my mum and dads weren’t there.

The discovery of a hidey hole soon made me forget. Every year I left a little treasure that I had found for the fairy that lived amongst the leaves. Some years it was joined by something from someone else, I am not sure who, but I think it was granddad, there was just something in his eye.

One summer I was hiding in the tree, dozing as you do when tired from your adventures, when I heard them. Divorce, that’s all I heard that summer. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it looked and sounded serious. I didn’t dare move a muscle, but made a pledge to leave a note to the tree fairy to make sure that mum and dad were kinder to each other. It must have worked, because they stayed together.

Over the years their fights became bickers, dampened by the heat of Spain’s summers. They moved to Spain for a new life. Dad’s new life ravaged his body, and now he slept almost all day.

Last autumn I decided on a last minute holiday and arrived to find him asleep as usual on the sofa, muttering, take me to the tree. Mum just tutted and looked that way that said it all.

Glass of wine in one hand, my other on him, mum and I caught up.

Three weeks later I am back at the tree. Dad is with me. I put him in the hole and ask the tree fairy to take him safely home.

It is only then I notice their initials, PD and GM.

Bounty

2011-01-11T21:07:00.003Z

She had never thought of herself as a thief, that was until he had left them. Providence had saved them and the council had rehomed them, and as luck would have it, to a pristine block close to Belle Vue Park. Joe’s birthday was fast approaching and all the upheaval had frayed her nerves. She hadn’t meant to snap that morning, but his whining voice was chafing.

She had taken to wandering around the park aimlessly since being signed off work. A month she thought, did they really think her heart would heal in a month? She had seen the boats through the trees many times, but had never thought to take a closer look. Just recently she had lifted her head from the murk that was her brain and started to observe park life. Autumn was upon her, fall they called in America, where he had headed with his mistress, I hope they do, she smiled, her first one in almost three weeks.

Just one boat was there today, milling in a pool of tranquillity, unlike her thoughts whipped up into a storm. It’s gleaming hull, pure white, in stark contrast to the black kitten playing idly at the water’s edge. She wondered how she might make the owner surrender his vessel. She was scared of water, a swimming accident as a child rendered her incapable of even sitting on a beach. Edging closer, she imagined herself as Rita Hayworth, glamorous, resplendent in blood red costume and high heels giggling, with the dashing captain, sipping champagne. Knowing her luck he’d be more like Blackbeard, with last night’s dinner caught in his rotten teeth and a rough rum stench. At least he would be seducible; she could tempt him with her buxom bosom and lily white thighs. She giggled.

Quickly looking around, she really was alone, marooned and left to face her fate, she shouted ‘bastard’, taking up her cutlass she savaged her errant husband. She snarled, jabbing the cold morning air. ‘Take that’, she cried as she jabbed again. Hysterical laughter filled the air, she looked around to see where it was coming from. It was her. She stopped and took a hold of herself, took a deep breath. She had a boat to liberate.

Out of nowhere, hot tears shot from her eyes and cannon balled down her naked face. Through her tears the boat tormented her, she crept closer. The water shallow like men’s promises urged her on. The name Gracie caught her unawares; she had almost been called Gracie. Gracie Fields had died the day she was born 27 September 1979. She had come a long way since her birth in Rochdale to the cocoon of the park in Richmond. Glancing back at the tree lined path, a couple sauntered hand in hand, too wrapped up in their world to notice her, she was truly alone.

Bravery lifted her, she was Anne Bonny a women full of gumption and a heart of steel, she marched forward. In that moment she was aboard and in control, cutting through the water with the roar of the 2000-horsepower engines, the plumes of spray leaving a misty trail behind her.

All rational thought left her, the bounty before her, she hauled her vast frame forwards, reached and scooped the kitten and charged for the park gates.

If I were

2010-12-17T07:55:00.001Z

I wrote this for a presentation yesterday + I'd like to share it with you all. Its a bit silly :-)

If I were this necklace
I’d fill the world with miles of bright smiles
And cancel miserable Monday morning faces
Green and Blacks chocolate would be voted a vegetable
And I’d crown Ferdy dog King of the World

If I were this necklace
I’d string together a brighter future
And help everyone reach for the sky
We could all dare to dream, of what we could accomplish
And I’d vote Marmite, the toast topping of choice

If I were this necklace
I’d take away the weekly worry
And everyone would dance on Fridays
Resolutions would be a thing of the past
And I’d make mince pies a regular feast

If were this necklace
I’d wear it with pride
And show the world that I sparkle and glow
A crisp cold Chablis could be the new tea
And laughter & happiness the only way to go

If I were this necklace
I’d make tiramisu especially for you
And help you appreciate this wonderful earth
Where goals would be, just for now
And shoes and handbags were given for free

If I were this necklace
I’d share it with you

A day at Rabley

2010-11-06T22:36:00.001Z

The Jackie Generation by Jacqui Malpass | Make Your Own Book

Green dress and I

2010-10-26T15:19:00.000+01:00

For 5 years green dress and I were best friends, she was short, straight, soft and silent, you couldn’t really ask for much more in a friend. She clung to me on nights out, laughed at my jokes, helped me get dates, and danced like a demon, there wasn’t much she couldn’t do. Hidden under a dark green sweat shirt she came with me to mums quiz night, all was ok until the dancing began and my father dragged her onto the dance floor, he insisted she throw off the ugly jumper and come out to play. It was only then that she let me down, there peaking through the straps on my bare shoulder, the trident and tail of a new and glistening large devil tattoo. Dad called me common, green dress said sod him its your body, I believed her.

3 weeks later she came with me to Monaco, hot nights in expensive bars was much more her thing. Dark Italians touching her, wanting her. One short brooding type sucked my finger and proclaimed love, she had other ideas and whisked my out of the dimly lit room, helped me quickly up the stairs out into the balmy night. On our return we sadly fell out for a short while, a forgotten exercise routine and a few too many boozy nights out squeezed her out of my life.

I didn’t forget her and when sometime after I left the note ‘please leave immediately’ on the microwave to the maniac man called husband, she reminded me that we should forget about the fat, renew our friendship and try again. In 3 short months we were back at it again enjoying ourselves and our new found freedom.

Which brings me to the last night we partied together. In the week leading up to that night in Cardiff, she lay there on the bed encouraging me to wax and tan my legs, suggesting that curls would look sexy, not forgetting full war paint and high patent black court shoes. That last night we strutted our stuff on the dance floor watched by the soon to be ex husband, he’d had his chance she reminded me. She bought me home safe and sound that night like she always did, this time to the new man in my life. He for his part didn’t know how close our friendship was, so every night he wined and dined me and sadly green dress was once again left to hang around by herself, devoted to the end.

In a safe plastic bag, green dress stayed hidden for over 15 years. A few weeks ago she called out my name, there she was just the same, sexy sassy and my mate. My body no longer that of a 30 something looks longingly at green dress. She coaxes me, come on, put me on, you need some fun. Look at your legs she cries, get them out show the others how its done. I wiggled and squeeze, she just fits, it’s a sign.

Secrets

2010-09-20T02:48:00.000+01:00

She has secrets so dark like thick molasses that stick to every part of you, tacky to touch, sweet to lick, covering the shame. The innocence of childhood taken and wrapped in a blanket, coddled and silenced. The child never knew it was wrong, a victim of games played by sick adults, who cheat at checkers and eat all the sweets. Discarded like wrappers, strewn without care. Secrets locked away where music never plays. A jolt from the TV in an age of internet and free speech releases a memory. A shudder of realisation and a shot of pain, as a hand reaches through time and grabs her heart, still dead. She watches her world, smile on her face, they can't see in to the place that died. Like a cancer the memories roam free, invading her life, cruel stabs of long forgotten times. She picks up a key and double locks her secrets, they are not ready yet to be set free.

40 and 1/2 tick tock

2010-08-01T16:30:00.000+01:00

At seventeen I knew that I never wanted children and insisted that mum come with me to the doctors to have my tubes tied. It seemed a sensible option, no pills, no condoms and certainly no mistakes. Of course the doctor thought I was mad, far too young and was adamant that I would in time change my mind. Mum must have been pleased when we walked away with my tubes intact and the prospect of her becoming a grandmother re-instated.

My family would often play games with me and when Eva my youngest niece was born they left her bawling on the sofa, decamped to the kitchen and giggled helplessly while I looked at the screaming thing not really quite sure what I was supposed to do with it. When after sometime they did not come back I walked over, prodded it, sat back down and waited some more. Still no one came. When eventually I clumsily picked it up, they ran in and photographed my uncomfortable face.

For another 23 years I remained happily childless. Then one June day at a friends house party a woman arrived with a brand new baby in tow. As was usual all the other women gathered around cooing and cradling the small bundle. As was usual no one passed her to me, why would they? They knew. As I stood glass of crisp white wine in my hand some strange feeling crept up from my ovaries, mingled with my hormones and wham hit me smack in the centre of my brain. I looked helplessy on, I was forty and a half, it was now or never, I wanted one. The noise of the gathering swirled around me, it was if I was caught in a whirlpool, silence gathering at my ears, being sucked under.

People slowly left the house and disappeared to the pub. I stood rooted to the spot as they glided past me. Their voices echoing around the room. Then it was just me and the mother. I walked over in what seemed like an eternity and was surprised to hear my voice croak ‘may I hold your baby please?’. I put my arms out and lifted the tiny object straight to my nose for a sniff. Johnsons baby powder filled my nostrils. It was then I knew, I mean I really knew, I wanted one.

For 6 whole months I pleaded and cried, but my partner insisted that family life was not for him and anyway he didn’t think that I was serious. I have never admired anyone who would deceive a man so I never deliberately tried. I did of course have the occasional accident but it never came to anything.

And as suddenly as the madness arrived, it went. Crisis over.

Q and A

2010-07-28T16:58:00.001+01:00

Q&A - Jacqui Malpass

For a bit of fun I have replicated some questions asked recently in a magazine of a famous actress. I of course am not currently famous, that’s to come. So in preparation here are my answers.

What did you learn from your parents?

How not to run a relationship springs to mind. On a more positive note from mum her wonderful creativity and from my dad generosity.

When you were 13 what did you want to be when you grew up?

This is very funny, I remember saying to a load of kids once that when I grow up I will be a stripper. I have no idea where that came from and now it’s a bit late to be flaunting my body for money. That aside I think I probably wanted to strut my stuff on the cat walk or be in a rock band. More likely the rock band, I can see it in my minds eye.

If you could give your childhood self some advice, what would it be?

Believe in yourself. Stay in school and get an education. I ended up expelled and having to study as an adult.

What’s your biggest fear?

I am terrified of walking by sheer edges with water down below. It is irrational and quite maddening as I love to walk. Once I went walking with my partner and we ended up on a very narrow path with a sheer drop one side, he was up ahead and had no idea how scared I was, I was of course too proud to ask for help until my legs wobbled so much that I thought I would fall over, by which time I could hardly breathe. I called out ‘Richard…. There’s something I forgot to tell you…’ He was fantastic and we got to the top somehow.

When was the last time you cried?

In the garden not long ago. I can’t remember why, but I’d had a drink and the tears flowed. I often well up when I hear sad stories; I am and always will be a real softie.

Which book changed your life?

Little Women. I loved Jo who was a tomboy and who had a passion for writing, she had such sprit and independence and still a kind heart. I really identified with her. I cried when Beth died.

What is your cultural guilty pleasure?

Books, far too many to read, but I just keep buying them, hoping that there will be something different and there rarely is.

Are you an optimist or a pessimist?

Always look on the bright side of life ta da ta da!

Who do you listen to when you need critical advice?

As much as I hate to admit it, my partner can see things very clearly and after I get over being annoyed at his plain common sense, I am really rather pleased that I asked him.

Do you ever have a crisis of confidence?

Of course doesn’t every one? I support the mantra feel the fear but do it anyway. That is of course when I am not procrastinating.

There should be an advert here about some up and coming thing that I am doing. So watch this space I am sure it’s coming soon.

Circles in the sand

2010-06-03T05:31:00.005+01:00

I arrived at the beach, 6am, cold and unprepared. Unprepared for the smack of cold air on my face, the colours emerging through the early morning mists and the way that the scene commanded me to stay still, mesmerizing me. Tucking my hands in my pockets and pulling my hoodie over my damp hair, I headed towards the haze. As the waves carelessly crashed onto the shore, foamed and sauntered back, I was reminded of the way my ideas and thoughts often welled up reaching a crescendo, only to clattered against each other as I over analysed them, washed back into the grey seas of my mind along with the litter of other peoples failed dreams. I turn, my back to the water, a cauldron of deep dark blue, the golden sand before me, unbroken and fresh with opportunity. Virgin land. Shoes off, big toe pointed, I dig through the soggy sand, dragging and dancing. Whooping my first circle in the sand. 10 minutes later many rings of hope lay in front of me, connecting spheres of achievement, random, somehow together and yet still apart. Standing quite still, my circles before me, pale blue sky above me, a watery orchestra caressing me. Safe. My thoughts let loose are whispered into the wind, sent spiraling into the universe creating an umbrella over my kingdom. Peace. It seemed like an eternity as I watched humanity race past me, too fast for the naked eye. I step into the maelstrom, hands reach out to push me through the fabric of time, carrying me away on an ocean of endless possibilities. The journey continues.

Rope

2010-05-18T21:51:00.000+01:00

Around my heart is a thick rope. Old, worn and ingrained with dirt. Its frayed from constant chaffing. The braids are as thick as my fingers. No one cares about the rope but for me its use is clear. It encases my vibrant beating heart like entwined digits, stretching as I breathe. My heart hurts, the pulsating muscle needs the tightly wrapped rope around it for protection. The bristles irritate it, but tell me I am alive. They force my heart to fight back. The rope is wrapped around 5 times and finished with a neatly tied bow. One tug of the bow and it will release my cocooned organ. When the time comes I will pull gently and allow myself to feel again. But for now the rope holds my heart in place. Inside the rope I place one small rose quartz crystal, its gentle pink energy strangely at odds with the pale dirty rope. They clash yet balance.

My mind wanders to what should be. Words cannot describe the simple pain that tears through my chest. I let my guard down. I let you in. You stayed for a brief moment and left. Stepped into my space and lifetimes whirled by. I knew you from somewhere, were you a lover in another life? I reached out, touched and felt you returned to me, I savoured the moments. My hands wandered over smooth flesh, my lips meeting yours told me it was meant to be. In times past it was a secret love cut short. In this life you may be gone, I will have you back. This time, I will catch you and not let go.

I left my mark on you, my hands poured healing energy into your heart, my kiss will linger on your lips, my smell in your nostrils and soft touch on your bare skin will constantly remind you. I gave you my blessing to leave me, it was a gift. I know you will be back.

Anger

2010-05-18T21:18:00.000+01:00

In the lost moments of your anger what did you do? Did you reach for the blade that lay drying on the board. Feel the cold hard plastic handle comfortable in your grip. Squeeze it tightly whilst adrenaline rushes up your arm, stiffens your shoulder and wires your brain. Your thoughts clear, your intentions precise.

Will it only be one stab? Accurately placed, fatality guaranteed. Or will you stab in a frenzy, enjoying the viciousness of the attack?

Then stop as calmness returns, a small trickle of sweat running down your face, drips into your mouth, as you savour your work. The villain is down, you hear his (or her) last breath. The room bloody and splattered, his (or her) artery pumping its last drops of precious liquid.

No in that last moment you realise that the police would know it was you. You couldn't carry the lump into the garden, it would take all night to bury. After, you have to re arranged the plants, clean up the mess, burn your clothes, scrub the floors, all whilst devising a plausible story of why he (or she) was no longer with you.

In the next blink of an eye your sense returns, your grip on the knife of freedom loosens.

You turn to your tormentor and say "Yes dear, whatever you say".

Other side of the street

2010-05-08T06:56:00.001+01:00

Yesterday I was talking to the lovely Michelle Clarke on the way back from a day trip to London. The car was filled with a great energy as we gassed about all sorts and I was reminded of a person who is sadly no longer a friend and of all of the people we no longer have in our lives because of their toxic energy.

We cannot change others, we can only change ourselves and we deserve to have only the right people in our lives who value us for who we are and give us the space and the freedom to be who we are. This short piece was written a while ago after a visit from this friend, who left me wondering why for some its always grey skies and for others even when its cold and damp outside relish the cool breeze on their faces and the fresh air as it hits thier lungs and reminds us of all the beauty around.

Awaking to the sound of the birds singing, you think bugger off
You walk by the running river and see only the concrete path
Overhead the emerging skies are filled with hope, you see rain
Through your window the blossoms are wilting, leaves turning brown
The tea has no taste; it’s a hot, wet morning drink
Toast like cardboard, salty greasy butter, jam sickly and sweet
You hate today, its like every other day, nobody cares, you know it
Hiding from the knock on the door, nobody calling for you
You get through life, nothing to look forward to, frequent hot, violent tears
Meanwhile on the other side of the street

The curtains are open the daylight streams in, a new day begins
You awake with weak warm sun on your face, cocooned in your duvet, safe
The chorus greets you, natures daily miracle, sings to you
Looking out of your window, the outside calls for your company
Light perfume tea delicate on your palette lingers in your mouth
Alive today and every day, living in the now, freedom, you can touch it
Later when walking by the sea, thundering sounds stir your soul
Conversation and laughter with friends, white wine, black beer and chocolate
Kisses and gentle touches from your lover to come
You seize the day, nothing to be feared, everything to be savoured and learned
Meanwhile on the other side of the street

The Jackie Generation

2010-05-06T22:45:00.000+01:00

The Jackie Generation by Jacqui Malpass | Make Your Own Book

The Blue Room

2010-04-05T06:24:00.002+01:00

Standing in the large room in my paint splattered jeans and T-shirt, I surveyed my blank canvas, 4 walls waiting for the caress of my paint brush to be coated in colours that would entice lovers to sink nightly into each others arms.

Everyone loves blue, dark, light, powder, bright, royal, mystical, exciting and calming. A colour for nights of love or sleep after the hectic torment of a day in work.

The pot in front of me was pale, fresh and new, gentle like the emerging spring morning. The label declared powder blue.

Hands on hips I smiled. The bright sun was streaming though the windows, I turned my face upwards, closed my eyes, the warmth kissed me, it was a beautiful day. Outside the tall leafy tree hid me from the passers by, alone in my world. Screw driver in hand I opened up the paint. The smell permeated my nostrils, I sniffed deep, acrid chemicals crept up my nose and lingered just a moment too long at the back of my throat. As I placed the lid on the bare floorboards I imagined how the room will look once finished, carpeted and adorned with our bed covered in new linen, selected to match the style being created.

Only this weekend this room would know my spite, no colours for sex but soft powder blue, the colour he hated, a colour that would remind him of his childhood. The lazy man that I had chosen to buy a house with had decided once again that he had better things to do. At the suggestion that our bedroom needed completing he had donned his black leathers climbed aboard his fast motorbike and sped away to friends in London.

I sighed. Paint brush in hand, I dipped it into the thick goo, coated, I was ready for the attack. A lunacy came over me as I ran at the wall, slapped the brush hard against it and watched paint being splattered everywhere. I snarled. I jabbed like a sword fight using the brush as my rapier into the wallpaper. The wallpaper that I had single handedly put up only the week before. Only to be criticised for air pockets as he strutted around the room, spitefully pointing out my mistakes. Well take that, I cried as I jabbed again. Hysterical laughter filled the air, I looked around to see where it was coming from, it was me. I stopped and took a hold of myself, deep breath I had a room to paint.

The off white wallpaper slowly disappeared and became cool calming blue pages, blank waiting for the rest of the story to unfold.

Sitting in the doorway, Jonesy, a black and white cat kept me company. I didn’t know until years later that this cat belonged to someone else, he became my permanent companion as I created a home from the mess.

My stomach rumbled it was time for tea and biscuits. I put down the loaded brush and wiped my hands down my already crusty jeans and clomped down the bare stairs to the old cream kettle. Minutes later I was back hot steaming cup in hand to survey my work. Sipping slowly as I reviewed my art. Powder blue, colour hex code #B0E0E6, just a number not a spell, nothing to symbolize and strengthen this relationship.

Slurping the dregs of the tea, I inhaled deeply, I was satisfied with my efforts. The light was now fading from the window, hours had passed in the now tranquil room and a soft shadow fell. I packed up and made for home, certain that tomorrow would bring another deluge of comments about my handy work. Who cared?

The idealist

2010-04-05T06:11:00.001+01:00

Allegedly I am an.........

Idealists, as a temperament, are passionately concerned with personal growth and development. Idealists strive to discover who they are and how they can become their best possible self -- always this quest for self-knowledge and self-improvement drives their imagination. And they want to help others make the journey. Idealists are naturally drawn to working with people, and whether in education or counseling, in social services or personnel work, in journalism or the ministry, they are gifted at helping others find their way in life, often inspiring them to grow as individuals and to fulfill their potentials.

Idealists are sure that friendly cooperation is the best way for people to achieve their goals. Conflict and confrontation upset them because they seem to put up angry barriers between people. Idealists dream of creating harmonious, even caring personal relations, and they have a unique talent for helping people get along with each other and work together for the good of all. Such interpersonal harmony might be a romantic ideal, but then Idealists are incurable romantics who prefer to focus on what might be, rather than what is. The real, practical world is only a starting place for Idealists; they believe that life is filled with possibilities waiting to be realized, rich with meanings calling out to be understood. This idea of a mystical or spiritual dimension to life, the "not visible" or the "not yet" that can only be known through intuition or by a leap of faith, is far more important to Idealists than the world of material things.

Highly ethical in their actions, Idealists hold themselves to a strict standard of personal integrity. They must be true to themselves and to others, and they can be quite hard on themselves when they are dishonest, or when they are false or insincere. More often, however, Idealists are the very soul of kindness. Particularly in their personal relationships, Idealists are without question filled with love and good will. They believe in giving of themselves to help others; they cherish a few warm, sensitive friendships; they strive for a special rapport with their children; and in marriage they wish to find a "soulmate," someone with whom they can bond emotionally and spiritually, sharing their deepest feelings and their complex inner worlds.

Idealists are relatively rare, making up no more than 15 to 20 percent of the population. But their ability to inspire people with their enthusiasm and their idealism has given them influence far beyond their numbers.

Idealists at Work
Idealists, as a temperament, are passionately concerned with personal growth and development. They are naturally drawn to working with people and are gifted with helping others find their way in life, often inspiring them to grow as individuals and to fulfill their potential both on, and off, the job.

Because you live in anticipation of an exciting future, in your ideal job you will be asked to stretch your imagination on a continual basis. Existing ideas, individuals and groups of people, products, services, and the relationships between these things can trigger flashes of insight about how "what is" might unfold into "what might be." You feel rewarded where you feel free to share your insights with people who encourage your creativity and who support the unpredictable process by which you narrow down the stream of ideas into innovations that are meaningful within the scheme of your personal values. You are likely to be comfortable taking on a leadership role, so long as it doesn’t place you in an arbitrary hierarchy.

Becoming a crone

2010-02-03T08:48:00.001Z

I awake at 3.30 to sounds of loud revellers wishing each other good night.

A word pops into my mind, it's menopause. I run the word around my mind meno pause. Meno, mens Greek for monthly. Pause, pausis cessation. The time when 'a womans monthly pauses'. Odd. Peri meno pause the time before the time it ends. Peri, around about. Nothing definate then, around about the time your monthly pauses. It all makes sense.

At 13 my mother prepared me for times to come. She gave me a mirror and suggested that I take a look at myself, I thought it strange but complied and looked into the round shaving mirror. She laughed, no down there. Down there was my vagina. She wanted me to not only look at it, but to also put my fingers in it and feel around. Her logic was sound, if you know what it looks and feels like normally, then you will know if there are any changes.

It made sense, so I did. Years later, when I ran a fertility company I was to advise women to 'put their fingers inside themselves' this was to check where the cervix was as this is one of the signs for ovulation, along with temperature and cervical mucus.

Mucus another word that you wouldn't use in polite conversations. Along with the mirror exercise I was horrified at the 'mucus' that appeared around about the time that the monthlys began. At 13 I had no idea what it was. Of course I now know that the fantastic machine that is my body, was preparing me for pregnancy.

Not only did she give me a mirror, but mum took me to one side and showed me a belt and a packet of things called sanitary towels, big thick wadges to stuff in my pants - when the time came. These were put away in my top drawer.

The top drawer day soon arrived. On coming home from school one day I discoverd it had started. I remembered mums conversation with me, so feeling confident I proceed to fit my new pink device. Sitting on the bed I pondered if they had really arrived, so I took it all off, packed it away and sat quite still to wait for her to come home. Only then when she confirmed it would I know - I was on my way to womanhood.

Years have passed, no children came and now I am slipping into the third age of woman, I am becoming a crone (thats a wise women BTW). Just when I thought that I have endured all that fertility creates, I must now face all that menopause brings.

Bingo Wings

2010-01-30T09:52:00.001Z

Christmas is over, the party frocks with spaggetti straps are away. Arms are back in warm winter woolies.

Spring is coming...

Womens arms will be back in public view and I am shocked at the display. I gasp in horror, how can’t they see the wrinkly fat flappy things that are attached to their bodies?

Women of all sizes and shapes have these things that just hang at their sides, screwed into their shoulders like shapeless slabs of meat. When they hold them up to wave hello or goodbye they jiggle.

Exposed in the latest top some of them are white and blotchy, some have extra folds like elephant hide, some look like they could take off, its shocking.

I call for women of the armed world to unite against these ghastly beasts. If you have fat flabby arms don't go sleeveless.

Escape to the moon

2010-01-23T08:56:00.004Z

I didn’t know it at the time, but the weekend I fainted in Linda’s’ Gran’s flat in Shard End, would be my last weekend as a school child. Shard End had an empty second floor council flat, a record player, 2 beds and no grown ups. Each weekend since we had discovered that her grandparents had gone to Scotland to manage a caravan park we hitch hiked there, usually in lorries with greasy fat men, took the key from its hiding place and spent it in wild party mode, lying to our parents about where we were. It was easy; they didn’t care where we were as long as we weren’t bothering them.

That last weekend feeling, adventurous I found some tablets in the bathroom cupboard, which cried ‘take in the morning’, so I did, all of them, but with no food in me, it was no wonder, a short while later whilst having my hundredth wee, I fainted. My little experiment made it hard for us to get home, but we did. What I couldn’t have foreseen was that when we got home, Lynne’s father, tall, rather well fed, his fat tummy poking through his untucked shirt, stinking of fags, a company director with an air of self importance would tell us both that we had been found out, something about the loud music and a neighbour complaining.

He demanded that I ‘fessed’ myself up to my parents. He scared me, especially as Linda and I had recently, inadvertently found pictures in his brief case of a naked woman, legs wide open, in his bedroom who wasn’t his wife. Why we didn’t blackmail him there and then I don’t know. Feeling ill, I did as I was told.

Later that week I got something else I wasn’t expecting, expelled from school. The class registers of both myself and Linda had been compared and it was discovered that we had both missed an entire term. Being the one with the most to lose I was expelled whilst she was allowed to stay, I put this down to her dad being a ‘director’ and mine was just a sergeant in the RAF. This time I couldn’t face my father, so I called him at work, expecting the usual telling off, the sting of his words, ‘are you mental or what?’ wrenched my heart. I held back the tears and swallowed hard, he simply put the phone down on me.

Dad had a philosophy on life; you could do whatever you liked as long as you didn’t get caught. And caught I duly was, twice in one week. I was certainly my fathers’ daughter, a rebel, I think he quite liked it, but equally hated the fuss when he had to deal with my games. Mental, no, naughty, yes, bored, yes, ignored, yes. No one talked or looked at me that week, a nobody, whilst, I slightly unconcerned, relished my new found freedom. During the day I visited the beach, the pub for games of darts and pool, and trips to Cardiff. At night I sat in my room and plotted my escape, freedom from these unhappy people who didn’t acknowledge me, freedom at last to be me.

Cardiff was fun, shops to wander around, clothes to try on and people to gaze at. Who were they, where had they come from, where were they going, were they free? Even the odd looking man who came to talk to me outside C&A seemed fun, despite his boring drab clothes and wiry ruffled yellowy blonde hair that seemed to sit on his head like an unruly thatched roof. He had the remnants of a secretly scoffed chocolate bar around his mouth, shiny blobs caught in the corners, making him look almost clown like. I talked to him; I talked to anyone, did and still do. At the time of course, I didn’t know he was on the streets looking for bored aimless young people, so when he invited me for ‘a nice cup of tea’ with some other friends I went along. My antenna, that thing they call instinct switched off.

The bright blue plain door above the shop opened to some steep stairs and a sitting room. Lulled by the tea and chocolate, I was invited away for the weekend, no cost, just lots of others like them, having fun. I am not sure I really knew what they were, right at that point, all my young ears heard was ‘weekend away’. With no-one to question my decision, that Friday just 3 days after leaving school for the very last time, I was sitting on a mini bus, with the aliens. Bemused and confused, I took furtive looks at them, they all had a distant look in their eyes, their clothes had no colour, they had no colour, no personality. They opened their mouths and catchy little songs about god flowed forth. But apart from that there was nothing.

It was part way along the journey to Stanton or Norton Fitzwarren or wherever we were going that I started to get that funny feeling in my tummy. Perhaps I wasn’t free, perhaps the aliens were going to eat me or kill me or something worse. As wild thoughts spilled wildly and madly around my brain, the songs were beginning to filter through, why were they singing the same songs all of the time, nothing made sense so I gave trying to work it out and added my small voice to theirs.

Sometime later, we arrived at a beautiful farm, more aliens and other waifs looking just like me, all mingling, grey smiles glued to pasty faces, more songs and somewhere a guitar being strummed. Wandering aimlessly around, looking for signs of life, I let them herd me to my dormitory, then to large wooden table for prayers and food. Great food, fresh from the farm, real food, brightly coloured vegetables contrasted against the dull people sitting around me. Then more songs. I welcomed the early bedtime and wondered how I could escape. Cocooned in my bunk bed, an over active fertile mind retraced my steps, out through the door, through the muddy tractor tracks into the lane, but which way? If I ran surely they would know and capture me, then what?

The following day I woke up, felt myself, yes I was all still there. After washing we had another great meal, fresh food from the farm you couldn’t beat it, and yet more prayers and songs. I was still on another planet. Imagine my surprise when after the delicious if somewhat tuneful breakfast, we were herded into a classroom. Cream walls, 2 windows with views of the countryside, lots of wooden chairs, there must have been at least 50 people in that room and at the front a grey teacher with a flipchart.

The next two days were hell on earth, trapped once more in the classroom, with no unescorted time to myself. Richard my yellow haired new best friend by my side. Lectures from early in the morning to late at night, interspersed with food and more of those catchy little ditties. This was worse than school! The drone of the lecturers’ voice kept sending me into a lull, tales of Christ and his reincarnation boring me. As my mind drifted in and out of the room I was shocked to hear that Reverend Sun Myung Moon was indeed the second coming of Christ. So that’s what we were here for, the aliens wanted to turn us into moon children! My heightened senses told me, I must escape, I must escape. These people were nuts and I wanted to go home to face my punishment. My dad was right I was mental.

Surprisingly, they let us go. Back in Cardiff, I was taken to a private room and asked what I thought. My disdain for the whole weekend poured forth, no mercy here. I rabited on whilst the looks on their faces grew ever more concerned. No said yellow top you are not right for us, you can’t come back. With the weekend I left school over, I went home once again to tell my tale. Home sweet home, angry parents, no money, no job, no qualifications. Being made an example off seemed so much better than an arranged marriage and a life of walking the streets looking for others to brainwash. I was free.
Copyright : Jacqui Malpass : 2008

You'll never go to university

2010-01-23T08:29:00.002Z

I wonder what the teacher from my primary school thought she was doing when she told my dad 'your daughter will never go to University'. I hadn't remember this negative statement until this morning when lying awake in the early hours, my thoughts wandering around my mind maze uncovered a few forgotten things. I went on to pass my 11 plus.

School bored me, the rules enraged me, long skirts and flat Clarkes shoes. I razored the shoes and hitched the skirt up. The irony, I wear Clarkes now! I never realised how poor my parents were or how hard they saved to ensure that my feet were clad in the best shoes. Sorry guys!!! And thank you, I have good feet or in the words of a not so nice acquaintance 'you have young feet' eh?

The teacher was almost right. I ended up getting expelled from school. On returning to the UK, I insisted that I went to a comprehensive as the local grammer school was girls only, I was a tomboy and I wanted male company. When batman chucked me out, my dad said ' are you mental or what' I went with gritted teeth to night school with my mum to get 5 'O' levels and later an 'A' level. They said ' you can get a nice job in the civil service'. 5 mind numbingly years in the inland revenue was not a nice job.

Let me take you on a tangent. Whilst thinking about school I remembered my friend Linda C. Linda and some other friends would skive off as often as possible, she and I would hitch to Birmingham and pretend to our parents that we were staying with each other. Silly and dangerous, but such fun. Of course we got caught and Lindas dad made me grass myself up to my parents. Then came the expulsion.

I had forgotten that just a month before we had gone looking in her dads briefcase for the logo I had designed for his company newsletter. Whilst delving we found photos of a woman naked with her legs open on the marital bed, clearly not her mum. A sharper person would have kept the evidence for emergencies.

Fast forward to 1991, I, after years of being told I was stupid, I started and gained an MBA, they even put my dissertation in the library. So the teacher was wrong I did go to university after all.

Now a sucker for punishment I began a relentless search for knowledge and studied a wide range of things, crystal therapy, human nutrition, reiki, life drawing, creative writing and god knows what else. Every time vowing I wouldn't take any more on.

2009, when I needed a change of direction and distraction, I enrolled on the ILM level 7 certificate in coaching and mentoring and NLP practitioner. Why did I do them together I ask myself as the pain of constant studying and writing assignments slowly diminishes? It was strangely cathartic.

Will I be going back to university???

Damn right! I am already in discussions for the next round of pain and discovery.

To the teacher and to everyone who opens their stupid mouths to tell someone that they wont amount to much, they are stupid or can't do something. STOP. Engage your brains. Say something positive, motivate and encourage. If you can't, then say nothing at all.

And thank you to all of the negative, controlling people who did open their mouths, you inspired me, one of the greatest pleasures in my life is doing what you said I couldn't do!

6:26am

2010-01-21T06:33:00.000Z

From being awake since 4am, I have managed to only have 1 cup of tea and invite the now snoring smelly dog to my bed.

My dilemma with a battery (computer and I) that is slowly fading is, do I get out of bed and showered to go to a networking event which is fantastically close to the house or do I stay in bed?

In reality of staying in bed is not an option. There are the girls to let out, who will be clucking madly by 7am and trying to beat me to the back door once I pull back the latch. Then there's the Ferds who needs feeding and walking. He however is still snoring, snorting and sighing.

mmm.....

Lazy womans option methinks.

Birds out, dog fed and let out, shower, choose clothes, network. Then walk dog.

Happily my short story is manifesting itself, more ideas invade my brain and I think a few more tweaks and it will be done. Happy days.

6:32 and time is running out.

Ferds and the snowballs

2010-01-08T05:58:00.000Z

I guess that a 2 year old dog, previously homed in Fulham, has possibly never seen snow before.

Wednesday I dressed up warmly for the deep white stuff that surrounded our house and coaxed a unhelpful Ferdy into his lead.

He gingerly stepped out into the snow, then sniffed and sniffed, bounded and ran head long into it.

The walk to the park was littered with Heel Ferdys and a look on his face that said but mum its snow, me play me play!!! And very probably you old cow.

In the park I let Ferdy free, it was such fun watching him race around in the fresh untouched snow, galloping towards me, skidding to a halt, turning around and dashing in another direction.

The best bit was playing snowballs. He chased and leaped at every snowball and the look of total confusion on his face when is 'ball' disappeared was priceless.

So much fun, wish I had filmed it.

5:09

2010-01-08T05:20:00.000Z

Its 5:09 and I have been awake since 3:39. When I tried to sleep thoughts wandered aimlessly into my mind.....

Outputs for today's meeting, things to improve the spreadsheet, will the house contracts be ready today, what's on the news, I must stop eating crap, how can I stop eating crap, I need a swish, should have bought my gym kit to the hotel, better do some Pilates later, should I go to Pilates on Sat before I head to Bridgend, shall I give Tuesday to Simon or wait for Mike and Debbie to reply, better bring the scales back to Newport, and on and on.......

To stop the brain whirring and crashing I got up and turned on my computer to tackle my priority, prep for today's meeting, that's now completed. Other emails are sent and now I am tired and bored, however there is brightness in my life, I have remembered that I have Earl Grey tea in my purse. I have no idea why. It makes me happy to know that I don't have to wring out the dregs of the Tetleys that has been left in my room.

When my mind zig zags into chaos there is always EGT.......................

Its the simple things in life that bring so much pleasure to me.

Later when I get home there will be a wagging tail with my slipper grasped with intent in his slobbery mouth. He will run around like a loony eventually racing upstairs to await me. Then and only then can I get my kiss and cwtch from my man.

A cup of tea, we will chat.

Simple things.

Eye of the storm

2010-01-07T05:47:00.003Z

I am standing quite still, looking. I am the eye of the storm, calm. Around me madness. Bright colours whizz by, people, problems. They are calling my name, which way to turn? My body like a statue, tall and firm, like a rock, unyielding. Hands reach out and touch me, help me they cry. My eyes turn side to side, watching, blue, green, red, black, brown, faster and faster. Arms by my side, I don’t reach out, but someone touches me, too late. Their essence like a spiders web clings to me, wraps itself around me. Their voices, sad, pitiful, lonely, whispers in my ears. I didn’t mean it, it wasn’t me, them, its always them. The words drift in and out. I make soothing sounds, I am the voice of reason, sense and kindness. In my brain the alarm is triggered, escape, how can I escape? Body rigid, trapped, mind says run, run as fast as you can. The eyes look deep into my soul, don’t go. Go, go, let me go. Grief, sadness, sorrow, dumped, they are gone. I am standing quite still, the storm has gone, for now.

Gosh it's 2010 already

2010-01-06T06:45:00.000Z

What happened its 2010, time has flown along with life's rubbish, just one last thing to get out of the way and my metamorphosis from old me to older me but newer will be complete.

It's the house, I need it to complete this week. The ex is being a bit odd but in a strange way it seems its the catalyst to ending it all. Well when I say ending it all I mean that he gets his cash I get mine and then I work with the new owner to sort out some final bits of legal things. Which is fine, except the ex gets away once again with doing as little as possible and contributing even less.

My life is wonderful.

During 2009 I was offered an opportunity to go on a course and so chose an ILM level 7 certificate in executive coaching and mentoring. Being a sucker for the hardest of everything, I thought mmm this will stretch me.

All was well until I was made redundant and the very kind Welsh Assembly Government gave me some cash to retrain and I chose to become an NLP practitioner,

Let me tell you doing 2 courses that require you to go out and practise (with humans) and write detailed assignments and diary is not easy. Especially when your dog often whines for a walk and puts his whole face on your books or computers.

I am a rude studier, leave me alone or else. I learnt however, that the Ferdy face in my face meant time for a break. I took my breaks but it naffed me off, I had my head in something and I wanted to complete it.

To add insult to injury my gorgeous new man kept talking to me.

So doubly disturbed everything just took so long!

I looked back to 1994 and studying for the last year (of 3) of my MBA. Recently separated, divorce pending, new man in my life. Whoa, echoes here. This one though didn't talk much, he left me to it and did his thing. Which seemed great at the time. Time passes and when I was decorating the house I am now trying to sell, he left me too it and did his own thing. Do we (or is that me) ever learn?

In 2009 I wrote a note to the universe with a picture of a stick man. All of the attributes, I thought I wanted in a man were on this paper. With my girlfriends we conducted a letter to the universe session.

The session led my me was along the lines of drink lots of wine, write what you want in a positive way on a piece of paper shaped like a man and burn it. Not only that write a short story about forgiveness and burn that.

Mine was easy I wanted the perfect, for me, man. They wanted to forgive their exes. They burned and stamped, I sat smiled and waited, drunkenness is a marvellous thing for removing your inhibitions.

I wasn't expecting the man who did come into my life. We had met the year before and I kept getting cold feet. The cold feet didn't stop me fancying him like mad and sending the odd drunken email.

After the burning ceremony, he turned up. That's not entirely true, fed up with rubbish dates, I asked him out, just expecting a casual romance with no strings. Bugger me I fell in love.

Here we are 2010 man, dog, 3 chickens and back to working for myself.

Life is wonderful.

Random things

2010-01-06T06:41:00.000Z

So you want to know me eh?

1. I like to draw/paint naked people (canvas or paper not their bodies)

2. I once wore my new red shoes to bed as I loved them so much

3. In 2009 re pierced my ears after doing it at 13 with a frozen sausage and needle

4. I will help anyone BUT they have to want to help themselves first

5. When I give my heart I give it totally

6. The first band I saw was Ian Dury and The Blockheads at 19 in Sophia Gardens

7. I was expelled from school but now have an MBA, and a load of other qualifications, I am a real girly swot now

8. I have a devil tattoo on my shoulder but I am really an angel

9. My first cat was called Bert Watkins from Planet Earth

10. I can sew and own a sewing machine, I cut a dress out over 6 years ago and its still waiting to be sewn together

11. I love to roll down grassy hills

12. I believe that we walk this earth many times learning our lessons, but I don’t know where we go when our bodies die

13. I HATE being told what to do

14. If you want to control something, find something with a knob on it and leave me alone

15. I once took all my clothes off for a stop on in a pub

16. I let my furry alarm clock sleep with me

17. I am in the middle of writing 2 books and looking for inspiration

18. I want to do something worthwhile that benefits people less fortunate than me that really makes a difference before I die

19. I can knit and used to knit a jumper a week when mohair jumpers were in fashion

20. I love cabbage and gravy, with my favourite meal roast beef, Yorkshire pud, with horse radish

21. My first car was a beige beetle with an orange wing

22. My first big bike was a Triumph Trident 750 but my favourite was my Ducati 600SS

23. I am an morning person, I love the sense that a new start is dawning

24. I don’t eat pork, prawns or pasta

25. I hate to be trapped inside and just adore walking around this beautiful country

Small bored boys

2010-01-06T05:48:00.000Z

Tuesday I took Ferdy, he's the Vizsla, not the boyfriend to the pond for our usual short walk. For short walk read 45 minutes, where Ferdy canters around, sniffs for food and tries to get the ducks and swans.

He drags me to the pond and then if by magic opens his bowels and gives me one of his finest poohs, watched by a crowed of boys.

The boys champion, far enough away from me so that I can't kick him up the arse, shouts 'shit picker'. He friends now brave enough to join the chorus collaborate with the tubby one in a grey tracksuit. Not being one to keep quiet I shout back, something innocent and silly really... 'what you would rather me leave it in the park?'

Oh and if I did......

They then chanted at me and the fat brave one shouts 'I am going to shag your daughter'. 'Sorry mate' I shout 'I don't have a daughter'.

Eh, am I as thick as them? Then I suddenly realise that I am closer to 50 than 15 and I should just let the ignorant kids shout at me.

For a fleeting moment I saw myself as the saviour of stupid kids, shake myself down, have a giggle and carry on my way. I was of course young and horrible once!

But just for fun after I walked around the pond and park headed back towards them, this time with my gob shut!!!!

Despite the passing of time, they somehow remembered that I picked up my dog shit and off they went. I smiled. Twats!

The voice

2009-11-22T18:13:00.000Z

The voice belongs to a 50 something bimbette. Blond hair threatened into place frames the face with gold clad bulging eyes and pink lipsticked mouth, out of which comes the ceaseless noise. I wonder why it never stops, endless mumbles which get louder when it wants us to snap to attention.

Too many years of loud music have rendered me somewhat hard of hearing. I always tell the voice I wasn’t aware that it was addressing me, so that I don’t have to be drawn into its shapeless world.

The voice troubles me, I can’t place its owner who lives in Bristol but doesn’t have that West Country twang. There’s a falseness, its hiding its origins, I know because, because is becoorse.

I learn to hate the voice, it criticizes my clothes, tucks me in and its hands touch my body uninvited. Its only been sending shrill messages for a week and I already need to escape. The pink hole is open more than it is shut and after a short while I move my desk to the other side of the room, for some much needed peace. The voice mutters under its breath only to rise to a nasty hiss when it demands ‘how dare I move’ it snarls and threatens me.

It’s too late I lose my temper; its snotty falseness grates me. The voice has landed on a nerve and jars me; the code imprinted on the ganglia, bullets in place the voice pulls the trigger. I can never hear it again without the bile rising.

Its another day, I am deliberately ignoring it. It rises higher lamenting the journey to work, no one is listening, the monkey screeches louder as if to declare ‘you will listen to me’. We all, my colleagues and I continue to tap tap on our computers; no one lifts their eyes, for to catch its eye will give it life. Its stops, silence, but the lingering echo wraps itself around each of us, rubbing harsh salt into our ears. I daren’t look up, until the extra tap tap of its keyboard is added to ours.

Eventually my bladder betrays me and I try to sneak across the uncarpeted room, past its desk. No chance. ‘Oi missus’. The pink circled hole opens and the brittle irritating false notes clatter out. The commentary on the inadequacy of the last person it had barked at flies over my head. I rush by and out of the door. Silence. The temptation not to return is great and I linger by the coffee machine, take a deep breath and eventually head back, I fly through the door and straight to my desk. Tap tap.

We place bets on when will the voice leave, its only been with us a few months. I write its name on a piece paper and stamp on it, then burn it gleefully hoping that my magic incantation will bring the leaving date closer. No such luck. In the office voice speaks differently to the men it wants to manipulate, its light and fluffy, it tinkles girlishly and coo coo’s like a dove. To the women who its thinks are beneath it, it is harsh and wintery, sharp like broken glass as it cuts you with its demands. To the women it perceives as equal it rallies along with jokey anecdotes and giggles sympathetically to their problems and plight. People complain about the voice, it is shocked and sniffles to show that it has feeling. No one cares, too late the damage is done and the voice must leave.

Copyright : Jacqui Malpass : 2008

The Beach

2009-11-18T21:45:00.000Z

I open the car door and lift my legs out and suddenly I am struck by the cold on my bare feet, I quickly stuff them into warm socks and boots head off. Its freezing, I am not properly dressed as I push my hands into my jeans pockets and zip up my top. The early morning crispness is refreshing as it hits my face like a slap from cold flannel. The peace swirls around caressing my senses. There are just a few early risers walking their dogs, we greet each other, me with a smile hiding the hurt I feel, they matching my smile, I am a good actress they don’t see the turmoil I feel.

The dirty mustard sand gives way to dewy grass and then pitted dark concrete as I head towards the coast path. I pass through the gate and into the mist. The sound of the waves crashing on the grey stern rocks draws me towards them. They stand stubborn and unmoving as the water batters them. I clamber down and get closer to the murky water, my life rushes in and out in time with the ebb and flow. Looking around I find small pebbles smooth to the touch, wet like the tears on my face which I hadn’t noticed which taste of saltiness as I lick my lips. I hurl the pebbles into the water, my anger unabated as I scream at the sky, ‘fucking fucking bastard’. It feels so good to let it all go. The stones hit the water and disappear, plop, and still the wave’s crash on the rocks, they don’t care.

I sit exhausted on a rough wet boulder, my shoulders drop and I cast my mind back to the table still laid and the food I have cooked, now frozen in sad single person portions, ready for another day. I laugh, you don’t know but I haven’t cooked in 15 years, I am amused that I tried so hard, the irony of it all, I cooked and no one came.

Its time to march, release pent up energy, back to the path and on towards the gully. The sun starts to rise above the houses that skirt the beach, its strong yellow rays hit my eyes and blind me temporarily, it’s a new day and a new start, no time to be sad. I greet mad Mike out with his 10 dogs, we shoot the breeze and then I am off. In no time at all I am at the gully. Memories flood in as I remember that I used to run up there 20 years ago, but there is nowhere for me to run today.

Turning around the sun’s warmth hits my back, my shadow is cast forward, I am 10 feet tall, and the years of darkness are behind me. Holding my head up, I am proud to be me, I am glad of this walk I am alive and I can feel.

Soggy biscuit

2009-11-18T21:43:00.000Z

Did life give you what you wanted? No of course not, you are supposed to go out and grab it.

If you had grabbed it, what would you be holding, love, life and laughter

Let this be your lesson, your path, your journey

If life was to be treasured, would it glitter and shine, would it sparkle in your eyes, fill your soul, lighten your step?

Touching me, loving me, respecting me, did you ever? What kind of possession was I, a rare jewel or a crunchy biscuit dunked, soggy and forgotten.

Green Frog of Kettering Town

2009-10-30T14:12:00.000Z

Ask anyone to draw a frog and it would almost always be green, ask them where their green frog came from, they would probably shrug and say from a pond; ask where the pond is they probably wouldn’t know. The red eyed green tree frog comes from Latin America which sounds so much more exciting than a market in Kettering, but that’s exactly where my red eyed green frog came from. Frog was found in Kettering market on Wednesday lunchtime sometime in the early summer of 1984.

I came to be in Kettering not through choice I was here on a course, learning Pegasus an accounting software package. Leaving Wales the day before in my dark blue company car I was excited and so desperate to get out of the office, 3 whole days away in a hotel. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy being in the modern offices occupied by Dawn Computers, but I had joined as a trainee sales person and after being tortured by the chauvinistic Graham for 4 long months I couldn’t take it any longer. I had headed nervously into the general managers office and looked imploringly into his deep blue eyes and asked to be transferred to the training department, thank goodness he was sleeping with the receptionist otherwise there might have been a price to pay. I must have tugged at his heart strings because he let me move upstairs to join May and Eva straightaway. And so with my background in accounts I was quickly booked onto the course.

The journey to Kettering was uneventful, out of Wales via the M4, across country to the M5, M5 to the M6 and then onto the M1, not much to see just endless grey tarmac and a colourful collection of cars occupied by boy racers to pit my wits against. In just 3 hours I had arrived, it was dark and the historical relevance of this town slipped by me in my eagerness to get to the hotel and have a gin and tonic on the company. The 3 storey 16th century red hotel was tatty and the musty smell reminded me of stale damp washing, not quite the luxury my young mind had conjured up. The following day I was wakened by the sun as its warm rays stole through the gap in my flowery curtains burning a line across my face. The shower dribbled on me, the white rectangle of soap didn’t lather and the tiny pink towel barely covered me, what was breakfast going to bring I laughed as I dressed?

An hour later I was out into the street and walking the short distance to the equally old office perched on top of a glass fronted shop and there I sat for two whole days without venturing out. By day three, sheer boredom drove me outside and an aimless wander placed me at the edge of the market. The sheer thrill of seeing the stalls perked me up and I rushed from each looking at the assortment of bric a brac, time was running out when out of the corner of my eye something green glinted against the sun. There was green frog, its bold red eyes filling my imagination of a time of nipped in waists, voluminous skirts pushed out with layers of net. I could see green frog adorning a short boxy jacket with just one big button at the neck, ¾ sleeves, finished with fresh white gloves. Possibly, the smart sophisticated owner would have had a chignon and pill box hat?

As green frog sat in my hand the owner told me how just 3 weeks ago he had walked up the wooden stairs of the otherwise empty building and there sitting in the middle of the floor was a box, lined with a newspaper from the 50’s, all of the contents brand new, with a note explaining that they were samples made in 1951, he didn’t know who had left the box and as he had no need of them they were all to be sold. I didn’t need a green frog but I wouldn’t be back and it was old with an undiscovered history. A fiver later green frog was mine, wrapped in white tissue and placed in a plain brown bag. I tucked the bag safely in my handbag and walked quickly back to the course, only a few hours left and I could take green frog home.

Copyright : Dale Darley : 2008

Imagine

2009-10-30T14:04:00.001Z

I don’t remember who put the ghetto blaster next to the John’s grave, all I heard was a click and the tune filled the still air. I do remember the day, it was a warm spring day, the sky was clear and pale blue, just a few stripes of white, the warmth of the sun touching our faces, the leaves on the trees just starting to bud and even though the birds were twittering away without a care in the world it seemed a still and silent day. Certainly all of the people, friends and family gathered around the grave seemed quiet, lost in thought.

As the lyrics Imagine there's no heaven, It's easy if you try started to fill the air, my heart was abruptly torn wide open, a deep searing pain filled the space between my breasts, my throat constricted as I swallowed hard, fighting back the hot tears that were starting to prick my eyes and roll down my pale cheeks. As the words Nothing to kill or die for hit my ears, the tears simply pored forth. In the background, somewhere, there was a wailing woman, her pain raw and obvious. It took sometime to realise who it was. It was her. The one he had died for.

My mind wandered back to my wedding day, John the only black face amongst what seemed to be hundreds of white friends, it was over 20 years ago and we weren’t so cosmopolitan then, so it was unusual. Oh he was so handsome, you just wanted to nibble him. He and several others looked gorgeous in white tuxedos, holding the bride, me high in the air, across their hands, squeals of laughter, as they tried to in unison to pick me up and hold me there as the photographer snapped us. I am sure I was quite light, some 2 stone lighter than today and without the laughter lines.

He DJayed that day, twice, playing my favourite songs, whilst everyone got wasted, it was a good day. I could see myself demanding he play Wonderland, laughing, he said ‘I know I know’. You see he always played it for me when I was in the clubs, he knew it was my song. He was best friends with Billy next door, so I often saw him and he would always laugh and say ‘come on Dale' when I fell out with what became my awful husband.

The final bars of the song And the world will live as one bought me back to the day. Click the music stopped. A deafening silence, suddenly filled by birdsong bought me out of my reverie. Shocked faces looked at each other, as John’s mum asked in a loud brave voice ‘you are all welcome to come back to the house’. The wailing women was still crying, uncontrollable, perhaps the dreadful truth had finally hit her.

I don’t remember what they fought over, all I know is that on that night, the night he decided he could take no more, that his life was futile, he wrote a few notes, delivered a birthday card to a friend. Later we found out that it said ‘remember me as I was’. That night, he placed the noose around his neck and stepped off the chair. I don’t know what the sound would have been, in my imagination, I can hear a crack and a gurgle as the breath died in his throat, but I don’t know really. Did he in his final moments wish he could step back on the chair, now just out of reach.

All I know is that on that day, I went to my very first funeral; I stood at the open grave of a beautiful man, dead before his time, listening to a great song, one which will never be the same again. A short while later, laying in my bed alone after yet another fight, cruel words still stinging my ears, I imagined that John was there saying once again ‘come on Dale’. He wasn’t of course, but it cheered me to think that he was there, he didn’t come again.

The following year I was passing the cemetery, it was a clear and still spring day, much like the day I went to my first funeral, my mind lost in other thoughts, my car pulled over as if by itself outside a small shop, I looked out of the window, freesias, innocence and friendship, in buckets. With a handful in my hands I walked across the road into the graveyard, I must have memorised where the grave was, counting the trees I wandered along the path, there he was on the left, where we had left him just over a year before, John. I laid the flowers down, no message, stared at the headstone, what could I say? No words came. With one backward glance I walked away, never to return. I didn’t go to another to another funeral for over 20 years.

Leaving Home

2009-10-18T21:38:00.000+01:00

Standing back from the road, I can see my home, tendrils of ivy skulk over rotten windows, embrace solid grey stones, overhead the empty attic window stares uncaringly.

Cold chill, sepia autumn light, highlights leaves fading from green to gold falling silently to adorn the frozen grass.

The front door, blue-grey, dirty from the endless stream of cars which pass it by, adds to the melancholy.

It opens to my home, exposing the warm colours, inviting. Lingering smell of times gone by, now masked by scented candles.

Can you hear the silence and feel the peace?

Disturbed only by the whirr of the computer and tapping of keys, communicating with a digital world.

Gazing out of the window I can see the rambling garden, filled with remnants of the life I once lived.

Escaping from my other life, this, is the place where friends and I come to hide and to seek solace, to sip a chilled white wine, to chatter.

I have loved it here, I disengage, let go, pass on, fill with memories, my home, only bricks and mortar, to a future which lies elsewhere.

Branches

2009-05-18T21:26:00.000+01:00

Gap in the curtain, opens to a small window on the outside world, dark blue sky, branches meshed, criss crossed like my lifes journey. Journeys that I have travelled and lessons learned. I am in bed, it’s a brand new day, the world is awaking as I survey my room, reflecting. The song on the radio tells me to get up get up it’s a new day dawning. From nowhere I feel tearful. The singer is right, new day, new start. My mind wanders to new beginnings, possibilities and adventure.

The small lost child inside emerges and crawls to the surface, she takes a look around and starts to ask those questions. I glance up and see the red voodoo doll, the one for love, its hair normally straight to its shoulders is wild like a mad bird in flight perched on its head. Is this symbolic?

Other pictures around the room remind me of other times, a friends wedding, me and Ali, black and white, observing the day, captured 2 friends for ever.

The fireplace remains black and strong cast iron. Not lit during my tenure it still reaches out and surrounds me in warmth. Its strong arms envelope me. I miss being held close.

Back at the window the day is fast emerging.

It’s a day closer to meeting you, the panic sets in. Normally confident, still silly, a dreamer. You paint pictures in my mind, easy to talk to, strum a few chords, make me laugh. Its that laughter again, its mine.

The pink glass mushroom glints and makes me smile, a wedding gift but I have no idea why. I’ve kept it ever since, like a magical life umbrella.

Little fat Buddha arm raised high, victor not victim, reminds me to strike out, go forth, head held high.

Radio 2 playing All things bright and beautiful, Sarah rabbiting on, great energy, this isn’t my usual channel, I wonder who switched me over?

A room full of symbols I think I have got the message and whatever happens when we meet there will be another memory to be savoured.

The one

2009-01-18T21:55:00.006Z

3 emails later the picture arrives. I waited for this one like I waited for the others, with a sense of dread and anticipation. The adverts always say attractive, tall and fit, but the pictures always tell the truth. I have become shallow in this market for love. I read the profile, mostly they bore me, kind and caring, are you the one? I want to see into their lives, see their souls, not silly words for love struck women.

I read all of the emails and respond when I can. The headings do not intrigue me, the content bores me, where is your imagination, is this how you woo a woman?

Your email upbeat, your profile amusing, so I wrote and I wrote.

The day comes we are to meet. I clutch the small picture in my sweaty nervous hand. Will you be attractive, really be tall, better in the flesh? Will we be attracted or will we want to run away? What if I want to feel you, touch your flesh, kiss you, should I wait.

It doesn’t matter, as soon as I see you, I know...... I don’t fancy you. Ten minutes later you bore me to death, no conversation, dull lifeless person. Forty minutes later, I leave you.

Two hours later, I am back online. I get an email, will you be the one?

Tell someone

2008-12-18T21:53:00.002Z

Its a beautiful day and I am glad to be alive, the sun is out and the birds are singing on this modern housing estate in Kent, the garden of England. The houses are just a bit too close to each other for my liking, I like my space.

This weekend is one of celebration, for 1 year ago about this time something happened that made me wish I was dead. The only other time I wanted to die was when my hormones kicked in at about 12/13ish, becsuse then I didn’t know what the hell was happening to my body, scary or what! No this was a realisation that I had to give up trying to fix someone and get on with living or in that moment dying becuase I thought I’d had my chips!!

But what a wonderful year I have had. My mum said to me in December I am so glad that I have my wild child daughter back, I didn’t think she had gone away. But mums know best. My brother said something similar to me last night, so welcome back you nutty cow.

Last night and on many nights I observe people in relationships who stifle each other. I went and talked to a guy on his own, similar age to me. How could I tell. Well he knew all the words to the songs too. So anyway we talked, he was out with his kids, wife wasnt interested. And then the story of his relationship slowly unfolded. Like so many we forget why we got together with someone, forget the passion, your tummy turning over, looking deep into their eyes, laughing at really stupid things, talking rubbish, holding hands, having sex in the kitchen, touching thier skin and just being. You get the picture.

For much of the night I danced alone, dragging the odd person up. They laughed the odd person. I expect thier wife didnt want to dance either. But I loved just getting up and doing what I wanted to do, without anyone saying oi you cant do that. Not sure I will be happy with the pictures or the videos of me dancing and playing around with my nieces. But hey who cares!

Dont get me wrong freedom is a fine thing but it gets lonely being free, but thank goodness for the daily reminders that being in a relationship aint all its cracked up to be.

So my little note is not about me feeling alone, I choose to be on my own at the moment, until someone comes along who really gets me and lets me be me, I will stay this way. This note is a gentle reminder to all of those who woke up next to thier partner this morning and didn’t stay long enough to make love, to stare deeply into their eyes, touch thier skin, connect with thier souls, to linger longer long enough to show that they really cared. Stop and take your time, today is the first day of your new love affair with your best friend.

Speck (not spit) the dog

2008-06-07T16:19:00.000+01:00

Speck a short and rather elderly dog ran out from her garden and excitedly scampered around us. We laughed, normally on our walks dogs just barked at us. We had no idea how to get home from here across the common. Speck it seemed was a little messenger sent from the angels to guide us across the unkempt fields. She ran ahead waiting until we caught up and then charged ahead. Part way across we decided to name her, Bouncer and Lassie.

A bit further along and we started to worry, she wasn't going home. I called her to heel she did, thank goodness for Barbara Woodhouse. But no sooner did she heel did she decide to run off, not back home but further towards the road that was looming in the distance.

Heel Lassie I cried, come here Bouncer my friend yelled. She came over and rolled onto her back and waited for a tummy tickle. Thats it we knew, we could either walk all the way back or walk her across the road and back to ours pick up the car and drive her back. We didn't want to go back, earlier in the walk we had been charged by some young cows and there was no way we wanted to go back to where these 'dangerous' beasts lay in waiting.

As we neared Bryncethin 2 houses appeared at the edge of the common. We stopped and asked if they knew the dog? No. But they did give us a rope that we could use as a lead.

So we walked Bouncer Lassie to a nearby road, called for help and waited for our lift to turn up in his very nice clean car. Then began the uncertain trip back to where we thought we had picked her up. Eventually after a few false turns we found the house and handed her back.

Llanwrtyd Wells you've got to visit

2008-06-01T14:01:00.000+01:00

This weekend I travelled from my home town 70 miles to a small mid wales town called Llanwrtyd Wells. It was billed as the smallest town in Britain, and it certainly was. However what it lacked in size it made up for in heart.

We arrived from the direction of Llandovery smack into the square and our hotel the Neuadd Arms dominated the small area. It looked a little tatty unlike the lovely picture on the website. Our rooms were small, clean and had everything you would need for a short stay.

Before setting off for our walk we called into the Drovers Rest for a cup of tea. Peter the owner was lovely and chatty and told us all about the history of the area. Before leaving we glimpsed his evening menu, wow it looked fantastic, had we not been on a budget we would have definitely been back.

We set off towards Victoria Wells and the log cabin holiday centre as advised by the map we were following, so far so good. A short distance into the walk the map simply didn't deliver enough instructions about which way to head, so if in doubt go straight ahead - first mistake. We ended up by the Old St Davids church and kept walking. The morning was hot and clammy and we were grateful for the peace in the countryside, just the birds singing and the river to keep us company.

The scenery was breathtaking, hills, trees and a clear blue sky, a few houses dotted around and the occasional car.

An hour and a bit into our walk, we came upon 2 farmers, obviously father and son, who looked at the map shook their heads and told us where we were was not on our map. We were given instructions to cross the river a little further down near some cottages, which we did. We headed up the bridle path, which was wet and rocky, oh and very steep, great for those buttocks. At the top we wisely decided to head to the right which we believed would eventually take us back to town. Sadly the path ended and we had to make our way through the forest. Not realising that the innocent looking grass was actually a bog, I lost my foot in the mess, fell forwards and scrabbled to firmer ground. My friend had an equally messy time. Giggling we headed off into the unknown of the dark forest.

From here we ducked the branches and made our way through the trees and down the side of the hill, to another path. This time we headed right and ended up at the start of the bridle path.

We stopped at a spot with a small pool of water overlooking the farm and ate the first rolls from our packed lunch, brie and grapes.

From here we made our way back down the hill and was greeted by the owner another friendly man whose accent suggested South Africa, we didn't ask but his rugby jersey also gave the game away. A few minutes later and we were back on the road. Our 2nd rolls were devoured at the picnic area kindly set up by the Welsh Assembly Government. The river had become a small pool, such stillness, further along a father and son were swimming.

We stopped at the Stonecroft Inn for a swift half and chatted to the girl behind the bar. Hopeful for a band later that night, but sadly we were to be disapointed.

4 hours later we arrived back at our hotel, where a nicely chilled bottle of white wine was waiting for us. A small sleep and then we were ready to sample the delights of the town.

The bar of our hotel contained just a few people who were chatty and funny. We ate and headed to the Stonecroft Inn. It was unusually quiet for a Sat night and sat at the bar was a selection of older men who as it turns out very highly entertaining and were a pleasure to talk to. And even the old farmer who clearly loved to be rude, had a smile teased out of him. He did tell us that there were plenty more fish in the sea, not quite sure of the context, but it pleased him.

Many drinks later we had made friends with the lovely landlord and a selection of younger locals, who made us feel so incredibly welcome that we will certainly be hoping to go back and sing some more Neil Diamond with them.

Would I go back. Damm right I would.

What is it about walking?

2008-05-30T13:48:00.000+01:00

We started walking together some years ago, adhoc probably once a month. We would always choose lovely places to go, stop for a bite and then carry on back to base.

But this year (2008) both of us wanted more. We live in a fantastically beautiful country, Wales. Just a few (well maybe more) steps from our front doors we can be in the countryside or besides the water. So this year we stepped out in earnest.

It started with a Tuesday and a weekend day, soon we planned a weekend away (more of that later), then as we became addicted to the fresh air and freedom we added Thursday night, even a trip to the cinema includes a 30 minute walk each way.

Theres something so fantastic about being outside, no TV, mostly no cars, birds singing, wind hopefully gently blowing, rivers flowing, leaves rustling, wet grass, hillside views, sheep bleating then running away, the odd curious cow or is it a bull, you get the picture.

After work when you put on your boots, relinquish the days dramas and forget that you are knackered, a sense of being alive rushes through your veins, wires your brain and sets you up for an adventure.

With so many directions to choose from, we often wonder where shall we go tonight? Whatever the choice there must be a pub somewhere along the track, it must be friendly (more about those later too) serve either good Guiness or wine and if the mood takes us good food.

And then we are off.

The more we walk the more the blog will grow, who knows there may be a walk on here for you and we may just bump into you on the way.

Don't forget to smile and say hello.

Flame to the fire

2008-05-18T21:30:00.001+01:00

I stare into the teasing flames, mind cast back, lost in thought.

There must have been together times, chopping veg, sharing wine and discussing the day. Food made, dinner served, contemplating the night. Snuggled together, warm smooth skin, kisses, sex and sleep. Waking dreamily and staring into each others eyes, caressing love thirsty skin.

As the flames lick and weave a dance around each other I see rising passions, entwining each other in silly games. As sure as the life is sucked out of the fire, day turns to night, energy is drained from romance.

At first he said that he loved my wild and free ways. Over time he tried to mould me into the woman he thought he had. Complaining about my shoes, plugs left in the sockets, ironing undone, demanding tea or declaring I’d hidden his mail. Cleaning up was woman’s work. He shouts “pass me a can” whilst sprawled on the sofa, dirty baggy joggers pulled over the ever growing paunch. The TV now entertains him and conversation certainly strains him.

In the shadow of my mind I see a monster on the sofa, mesmerised like a rabbit caught in the headlights I thought that I couldn’t escape. His behaviour crept in slowly, insidiously, trapped, it was too late before I realised I was powerless to act, my identity enmeshed with his, I was crushed.

The dying embers of the fire bring a chill to the room. Glowing volcanic rocks tell me that even though the flames of love have died down, there is hope. I poke the ashes and set about recreating the fire ready for tomorrow night.

By morning I am like a chrysalis emerging from the hard shell that bound me to his dark cocoon, I am reborn. Somehow I found an inner strength. I can smell the fresh breath of morning freedom, see blue skies ready to let me spread my wings. The once gentle caress given freely will no longer fall from his finger tips. Given time, the right person and ingredients, the flames can be re kindled. Until then.

Silent violence

2008-02-23T23:13:00.000Z

The day she met him she was drunk, as usual. Saturday nights were always a blur, good friends, laughs, cider. Starting in loud smoky pubs, migrating to trashy clubs and maybe a smoke on some threadbare sofa, emerging just before dawn for the long wander home.

Across the room in yet another non descript dive she met his eyes, they laugh and talk. When she wakes in the morning he is cradling her face and saying all the things that she longed to hear.

Time passes, parties galore, with nothing much in common they marry. He is supportive of her need to become better educated, whilst constantly reminding her how clever he is. She doesn't notice her confidence slipping away as the comments slip darkly from his lips. They are mingled with compliments which confuse her. This is her life. She often looks in the mirror and wonders who she sees. The little girl with so much hope or the stupid stupid wife.

Time passes love fades. She looks at the monster man, bewildered. So charming to others, the gentleman is never exposed. 10 years on, the golden key of education is passed to her. Holding it tightly she pulls on her parachute pack, heavy on her back, and jumps. Drifting surprising slowly to the ground, she is free.

Turning back to stare over the landscape of lost love, she wonders how she never noticed her identity slide away. Turning the other way she sees her angel, smiling she hands over her award, framed and ready for all to see, clever, clever girl.

6 months later, spsruced up and ready to rock, she steps confidently once again into the snake pit, bitten and smitten so easily.

Like hideous purple flocked wallpaper the pattern repeats until she no longer knows who she is or where she is going.

Stupid stupid stupid.

The cruel mouth rarely stops. By day she is a sucessful career woman, running teams and beating deadlines, at night she dares not ask a question for fear of reprisal. Sitting on the sofa staring into space. Counting the passing traffic she passes her time.

After 15 years together, he buys her a computer. He said, that with this gift she could become more useful. She smiled.

At night her fingers type, she occasionally looks up as another can of beer is opened or abuse hurled at the TV that refuses to deliver just one decent programme. Her online friends become her world.

With access to other places she builds a digital pathway to nirvana. One day she comes home, executes her plan and is gone.

He notices her missing when he suddenly realises the tapping of the keys no longer annoys him. He shrugs.

Lying in her new bed, in a another town, anticipating her new job she closes her eyes. Behind her eylids lie the remains of two battles hard fought. Trails of verbal abuse crushed into the carpet of her mind. As she steps over her bloody past towards a pale blue horizon, the mantal of victim falls off her shoulders. She sleeps.

The sun rises its a beautiful new day. She is one of the lucky ones.