14:48 | Posted by
Dale Darley |
Tuesday, 12 July 2011
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.
Friday, 1 April 2011
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.
Tuesday, 22 March 2011
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.
Tuesday, 11 January 2011
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.
Friday, 17 December 2010
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
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
Tuesday, 26 October 2010
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.
Monday, 20 September 2010
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.
Sunday, 1 August 2010
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.
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
Q&A - Jacqui Malpass
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.
Thursday, 3 June 2010
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.Tuesday, 18 May 2010
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.
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".
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".
Saturday, 8 May 2010
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
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
Monday, 5 April 2010
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?
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, 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.
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.
Wednesday, 3 February 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, 30 January 2010
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.
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.
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