On Beauty

What is beauty?

Beauty can be difficult to describe. Maybe there's a formula for the perfect face, but I suspect many are chasing an ideal that simply does not exist. We exfoliate, refine and paint our faces to look younger. 

Here's an idea. Perhaps we could try just looking like ourselves.

It amuses me when I see teenagers wearing make up. They don't need it, any of them, yet they plaster themselves in the stuff and spend ages getting dressed in their distressed tights, scuffed ballet-style pumps, battered corsages, pretty printed dresses and non-functioning cardigans. Their hair is back-combed to within an inch of its life. They hold a pink phone in one hand and a strawberry beer (with a straw) in the other.

Is youth wasted on the young? It's all relative, surely.

I can not understand the fascination with cosmetic surgery. It seems that most women over 40 in Hollywood all look the same. Botox, fillers and more, plumping up their faces until they look like they're wearing masks. To me, this is not beauty.

I'm not anti-make up. I wear it occasionally. If you meet me at an event, I'll be wearing my make up mask and hope that it hides my blushes and shyness. I could never be bothered to wear it - and take it off - every day.

Beauty is Andy's friend, K. Before I met her, Andy said that she had a light shining out of her. When I saw a vivacious joyful woman across a crowded graveyard, at a wedding, I knew this must be K. I was right.

Andy is beautiful, to me, inside and out. My children are the epitome of beauty. I'm sure they feel the same about me, so why do I not feel beautiful?

Probably because I am fat. I'm not a little overweight, I am big. People sometimes make comments when I walk down the street.

I actually feel self-conscious when I wear make up or dress up. 

"You can't polish a turd."

"You can put lipstick on a pig, but it's still a pig."

I've just read that back and detected a hint of self-loathing. That's not attractive either. 

I saw an advert today for a £59 set of eye-shadows. I wanted them. I wanted to buy them, bring them home, take them out of their (over)packaging and sniff them. I'm sure they smell expensive. Then I wanted to be 16 again. Forget the Rimmel rainbow eyes I created for an aerobics class in 1986 - my eyes matched my leg-warmers, I'll have you know. I fancy playing with eye-shadow now. I want to sit and watch The Apprentice with my face on. I want to create the Christian Dior vision of beauty with pink/gold eyes and glamorous lashes.

Why? Because I'm worth it and youth isn't wasted on the young and because I want to and because I am beautiful in every single way.

This post has been written as part of the Sleep is for the Weak Writing Workshop. This week I chose Prompt 3, On Beauty.




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On Beauty

Eureka!

Having worked for the best part of twenty years I was totally unprepared for motherhood. Yes, I'd read all the pregnancy books. I knew from week to week what my apple, grapefruit, football sized fetus was supposed to be doing developmentally. I read the pregnancy symptoms guide and was grateful to only have heartburn (so long as I had a bottle of Gaviscon to swig from). We had names chosen and baby clothes bought, washed, arranged and then rearranged seventeen times in their drawer. I had written my birth plan - yeah yeah, complete waste of time, didn't take it out of my hospital bag. 

I couldn't see beyond the birth. I could not imagine what it would be like to have a child. I had a couple of friends with babies, but I was never really that interested. Before I met Andy I had resigned myself to never having children. I suppose I had distanced myself from all things maternal to avoid that ache, that need to be a mother.

When we brought Presley home from the hospital I stood with him in my arms. I had absolutely no idea what to do next. I put him in his pram, put far too many blankets over him, and sat and watched him breathing until he woke up. Then we muddled through, trying to work out what he needed. Trying not to break him.

The next day I got the thunderbolt. I felt such an overwhelming rush of love for this tiny boy. I couldn't believe he was mine. I still can't. He is amazing and it is too much for my little brain to take in, but we made him and his equally amazing little brother. 

Despite the awe, I found it difficult being at home with a baby. Before I went on maternity leave I was a senior manager. I was used to being in control. My days had structure. When Presley was small it was an achievement to get washed, dressed and out of the house for some fresh air. If I arranged to meet my NCT friends I struggled to get there on time, even though I had spent all morning worrying and calculating when I would need to leave, allowing plenty of time. We'd be heading out of the door (on schedule) when, uh oh, I needed to change his nappy, his clothes, my clothes. Chaos.

One day, when Presley was about eight weeks old, I had a flash of inspiration. I realised that being a mother was my new job. I decided to treat motherhood as my new career and this totally changed my outlook. I relaxed.

I didn't have anything else to do apart from care for this lovely baby.

So that's what I did.  That's what I'm still doing. My life revolves around my children and making sure they're happy. Sometimes I forget this, as I walk over to the laptop to check my email. Mostly though, I only look at the online world when my real life world is asleep.  I have a routine, but it's all for them. Being a parent is the hardest job I have ever had, but of course it is by far the most rewarding.

There is no job like it, no job where you will get a cuddle and a 'love Mummy' from a nearly two year old.

My job today involved watching my boys play shops. They loaded toy food, books and cars onto the conveyor belt (also known as our sofa). Nearly three year old Presley looked up and saw me smiling. He said 'make Mummy happy'. Yes, my darling boy, you do.

This post has been written as part of the Sleep is for the Weak Writing Workshop. This week I chose prompt no.2 - Tell us about a eureka moment, when you had a sudden flash of inspiration and insight.

Eureka!

Cold Toast and Cringing

Yesterday I made myself two slices of toast. Up popped the toaster. I ignored it, busying myself with being a mother. I waited until the toast was cold. I took it out and cut each slice in half diagonally. On my four triangles of cold toast I spread real butter. The knife scraped along the slices, depositing a thin smear of yellow butter on each one. I stood in the kitchen, while the boys watched Mister Maker (I love him in spite of the gurning), and ate my toast. It was chewy and tasted of butter. It was wonderful.

I can't remember the last time I made my toast like this, but I can remember the first time.

I am eight years old. We're staying at Uncle Dave and Aunty Maggie's house. They're Mum and Dad's friends. They keep moving to different bungalows. Aunty Maggie has a bad back. She tried to lift me out of the bath, but it hurt. She had to go and lay down. I think she cried.

Uncle Dave shakes. His cigar shakes in his hand as he holds it. I can hear the ice cubes clinking in his drink. They don't have children, but they do have a dog. Her name is Mandy and she is a black terrier. She likes to fetch balls if you throw them for her. She is quite slobbery.

Mum says she can't understand why they got cream carpets when they have a dog. The carpets smell new. They are springy under my bare feet. It's mostly boring round Uncle Dave and Aunty Maggie's. They talk to Mum and Dad and we have to sit and listen. I can't get a word in edgeways. Each time I look at Mum, pleading at her with my eyes to let me speak, she holds up her hand. This means grown ups are talking. By the time she asks me what I wanted to say, the conversation has moved on. It's too late. It doesn't matter.

In the morning we sit at the table for breakfast. It is already 10 o'clock, but we're just having breakfast. The table is smoky black glass and the wicker on the chair scratches my legs. Mum and Dad and Uncle Dave and Aunty Maggie are still talking. I drink my orange juice. It has bits in it, I spit them back in the glass. My brother Peter sees me and does the same with his orange juice. We take slice after slice of cold toast and slowly, carefully spread it with the curls of butter in the dish. I feel grown up. This must be how grown ups eat their toast.

Later, I put my hands in Mandy's woolly coat. I wish we could have a puppy. I throw the ball for her and shout 'fetch it, Goldie!'. I realise what I have done. I've called her by the name of the Blue Peter dog. Goldie is Simon Groom's dog and she goes with him to his parent's farm in Dethick. Everyone laughs at me. I can feel my cheeks burning, I am going bright red. They keep laughing. I want to go home and not come back.

This post has been written as part of the Sleep is for the Weak Writing Workshop.  This week I chose prompt no.4 Share a powerful memory, or memories, from your childhood.

There was another prompt asking about the last time you cried. That was just now. I was looking for a photograph of a particular moth caterpillar that my friends and I found in someone's garden one summer. We collected them in our hands and placed them in our gardens. Poor things, they probably starved after we moved them away from their food source. They were quite distinctive, two inches long, fat and green, with red heads and spiked tails. As I searched through the vividly clear photographs I realised that I have a bit of a caterpillar phobia. I clicked away from Flikr with tears in my eyes. I never did find what I was looking for and  in the end I wrote about something else.

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Cold Toast and Cringing

836 Words and 3 Pictures

This week there is a Gallery/Writing Workshop mash up!

The joint theme is emotions.

As I spent some time analysing my emotions I realised how complex they are. I am an emotional personal.

Today I could quite easily take my pick and write about sadness, disappointment, disillusionment, apprehension and fear, but you don't want to read about that, right?

After a morning playing in the garden with my boys I could certainly cover off happiness, joy, pride, amusement and love.

So I am listening to The Flaming Lips at Glastonbury (jealousy!) and writing about something wonderful that happened to me this week.

On Tuesday I attended a book launch. A piece I wrote is in the book Word Soup Year One. I am now a published writer.

Excitement built last week as the team from Lancashire Writing Hub projected extracts from all of the pieces in the anthology on to buildings in Preston and Lancaster.

My name in lights!

When I saw these photographs I literally squeaked with excitement and did a happy dance!

On Tuesday night, at the launch,  I was given five copies of the book, beautifully bound, with my name on. 

Here they are:

I felt pride, joy and disbelief. The book is stunning.

The pieces for the Word Soup Year One anthology were selected by the brilliant Jenn Ashworth and I am in the company of some amazing writers: Tom Fletcher, Sarah Hymas, Socrates Adams, Nicholas Royle, AJ Duggan, Mollie Baxter, Norman Hadley, Rachel McGladdery, JA Brunning and Peter Wild.

So how did this happen?

Well, it all began with this blog, my Baby, Baby Baby. In May last year I started writing, tentatively at first. As my confidence grew I tried my hand at creative writing. Earlier this year I read a piece of flash fiction that I had written at an open mic spot at the Word Soup live lit night. I was then asked to submit a piece for the anthology. I was overjoyed to have 'My Old Man', written about my father, selected. I was invited to read my 836 words at Word Soup in April. It is an emotional piece. I made people cry. Result.

You can buy the book here or win one here.




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836 Words and 3 Pictures

Would you tell me?

Would you want to know if you had made someone feel unwelcome?

I know I can be crass and insensitive at times. I frequently only open my mouth to change feet. Occasionally I feel so upset and angry that I speak out, enraged by injustice or bullying. Mostly, though, I'm mild-mannered and avoid confrontation.

I think I'm pretty consistent both online and in real life. I'm sensitive, perhaps too sensitive. I take things to heart far too readily. Despite my apparent confidence, I'm a delicate little flower.

Missed opportunities eat away at me, niggling and nagging. I lay awake at night thinking of what I should have said, but didn't. I replay conversations and kick myself at the points where I made an idiot of myself, where I gushed, where I over-shared or where I filled the silence with noise.

What I struggle with, above all of this, is that I only want to be accepted or liked or part of a group. When I feel that I am on the periphery or only being tolerated or being excluded I want to curl up in a ball and disappear. When I feel uncertain about my relationship with someone, because sometimes typed words lose their meaning or because sometimes they are very clear, I want to switch off my computer and walk away and keep on walking.

I hope I've never made anyone else feel like that. If I have, would you tell me? 

This post has been written as part of the Sleep is for the Weak Writing Workshop. This week I chose prompt no.4 Tell us about a time when you didn't feel welcome.

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Would you tell me?

Time

I am looking at my right leg, my hand stroking upwards from ankle to knee in search of stubble. My index finger lingers on a scar just below my knee.

I am in Mark Smith's garden with his sister Janice and Joanne and Wendy. We are all running through the long grass, jumping over bike parts, crates and Janice's old pram. The chain link fence that separates his garden from next door hangs loose, twisting away from its posts.

Pop! Snap! Mark fires his cap gun. I am near enough to smell the gunpowder. I love that smell and sniff the air, little sniffs in.

"You're dead," Mark said. 

I sink to my knees intending to die dramatically. My right knee lands on a sawn off fence post, slicing a triangle of flesh.

Game over.

I limp home to show my mum. I feel a bit sick, but it's worth it for the drama. Mum looks concerned, mentions stitches. I've never had stitches.

I sit on the sofa, raising my leg. Mum brings hot water mixed with Dettol, wads of cotton wool, the plasters and a towel. She deftly bathes my wound, washing away the blood and rust. She gently pulls back the cut flap of skin to reveal a triangle of white. I was expecting my insides to be red, the white was a shock. I feel faint.

Mum carefully puts me back together. 

"They need to cut their grass", she says.

I work out that this scar has been with me for over thirty years. Even after all this time, whenever I notice it I am transported back to Mark Smith's garden.

What about the scars you can't see? What about the emotional scars?

Apparently time heals all wounds.

I don't agree. Yes, grief changes over time, the outpourings are less frequent. But once you have lost someone close to you, that loss is always there. That pain is not healed by the passing of years. It is just beneath the surface, waiting for a trigger to release it all over again.

I expect I won't be able to watch the film Gladiator again without mourning a friend who passed away earlier this year. I will see him, not Maximus, walking through the fields and I will weep as I am weeping now.

I only have to hear one of the songs that we had played at my brother's or my father's funerals to feel utterly bereft.

I still pick up football tat in shops and wonder whether I should buy it for my brother. This week I picked up a pack of Panini World Cup Stickers. Then I remember that Peter died in 1997.

1997.

Six weeks before Princess Diana.

So time passes.

This post was written as part of the Sleep is for the Weak Writing Workshop. This week I chose prompt no.5: Time.

Time

Lost

I lost my temper today, all day.

I used to be a pretty mellow person. I've never been volatile. When others flew off the handle at work, I was always the one calming the situation. I would tell them that it's not worth getting angry.

Recently I've felt a rage building up. I don't know if it's hormonal or caused by lack of sleep, but I find myself getting annoyed quite easily.

I try so hard not to lose my temper with Presley and Cash, but sometimes they drive me to distraction. I had no idea children could behave like, well, children. They go on and on and on and on. They ask for the same thing over and over again. Every time I go into the kitchen to cook their tea, Cash follows me, raises his arms and barks 'up' at me. I explain that mummy needs two hands to poach an egg/butter a slice of bread/peel an orange/whatever but this goes in one ear and out the other. 'Up up up UP'.

I sometimes shout at my boys and I ashamed about this. I'm supposed to be the adult in the relationship. They seem to ignore it anyway.

Today though, I have been incandescent with rage practically the entire day. This has nothing to do with the boys and I've tried to keep it from them. 

We're trying to get our house on the market. Our estate agent sent through the brochure for us to proof read today, two days late. I found 31 errors. Some were pretty fundamental. They had ignored our main selling points in favour of saying that we had a 'Conservatory and Modern Fitted Kitchen'. This is incorrect. Our kitchen is the original one from when the house was built in the early 1980s and sadly there is no conservatory. 

I replied with all the changes that were required. I asked for the next proof to be double checked before it was sent to me and advised them that we were thinking about changing agents.

I received a brief email from the manager with no apology, followed by a brochure still listing 'Conservatory and Modern Fitted Kitchen' as a main selling point.

Argh!

I'm furious.

Needless to say I will be terminating their contract in the morning. 

I haven't stopped shaking my head in annoyance and disappointment this evening.

I think I'm pretty justified in losing my temper - just this once.

This post was written for the Sleep is for the Weak Writing Workshop. This week I chose prompt no.2 Lost.

Lost

Fight

"Put your bags down" said Jackie. 

I put my bags down against the youth club wall like this was a reasonable everyday request. It wasn't. I quickly realised that I was surrounded by a large group of girls from the year above me.

Jackie punched me in the face. It didn't hurt as much as you would expect. 

My arms were still at my sides as Jackie punched me again. This time I could feel a sharp stinging in my cheek.

I was having a fight. How was this possible? I'd always avoided confrontation and had only ever hit my brother (like you do and even then I wasn't allowed to hit him hard because he was ill).

Jackie grabbed my hair and pulled my face down towards her raised knee.

Oh God. Don't cry, Sandra, don't cry.

I had to fight back otherwise I was going to get beaten up. I pulled away and lost a handful of hair. I tried to hit Jackie, but she seemed too far away. I tried to grab her hair and put her face on my knee but it felt like I was underwater. I was hurting now. My head hurt.

I could smell cheap hairspray and cigarettes covered up with Impulse body spray.

I looked up at one point to see Mrs Butcher driving the school mini-bus with her netball team in the back. Our eyes met. Mine pleading with hers. She drove off.

I was going to be late home.

"FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT" rang in my ears. It felt like the whole school was watching. No one helped me. No one tried to stop us tearing at each other like angry cats.

Satisfied she had taught me a lesson, Jackie shoved me away from her. Her gang greeted her with congratulatory back slaps and well done Jackies. Someone lit a cigarette for the victor. She took it, half grinning, half wincing. They walked away.

I brushed myself down, watching clumps of my hair carried by the breeze. I picked my bags up and walked home alone.

***

That was 26 years ago. It turns out that I had snogged Jackie's boyfriend, Steve, one afternoon in a small town churchyard. I didn't know he was Jackie's boyfriend, but apparently that was my crime. I was 14 years old, naive, cheeky and invincible. I was wearing my 'Frankie says RELAX don't do it' t-shirt. When my friends and I walked past him and his mates, he said "Steve says relax, do it".  I never saw him again, but ended up with two black eyes for a quick kiss.

My Mum said I was bullied because I was pretty and clever. Sometimes it can be any excuse, the way you dress or speak for instance. The school, unhelpfully, said I shouldn't walk around on my own. These bullies made my life a misery until they left the following year. This was the first of many incidents, although I was too scared to fight back after that. The worst incident resulted in a suspected fractured skull and rather a lot of blood down the back of my coat.

I still look over my shoulder in that small town.

This is a pretty extreme example of bullying and it scares me that one day my boys may be picked on. My experience hasn't made me any tougher. I've had low self-esteem ever since. I really don't know how to protect them.

This post was written for the Sleep is for the Weak Writing Workshop. This week I chose prompt no.4 Have you ever felt bullied? At school? At work? In your personal life? How did you deal with that? Tell us your story.

Fight

True Happiness

What brings you true happiness?

For me, it is this:

My little boys, Presley and Cash.

If you, like me, are lucky enough to have children you will know true happiness. Maybe not all the time. Lord knows there have been days recently when I've counted down the minutes until bedtime. Twice last week I despaired at my parenting abilities and sat and cried.

But...

But there are moments when I look at my sons, my beautiful boys and marvel at them. As Henri wrote this week in the excellent From Marketing to Milk "You’re given the power of magic. To create a person.". It is magic, it is a miracle that Andy and I created these two amazing children.

They are part of us. I gave birth to them. I pushed these babies out of my tired, pain-wracked body. 

They look a bit like us. This amuses me, it's also a bit weird!

I am astounded by their development. They really are like sponges at the moment. Learning and processing information. They have little discussions, they talk to each other. Andy and I sit and listen with massive grins on our faces.

They didn't now what clouds were, so they guessed. Presley said they were 'lambs in the sky' and Cash said 'snowman'.

When I hold them in my arms, when I am close enough to smell their little breaths, I never want to let them go.

This post was writing as part of the Sleep is for the Weak Writing Workshop. This week I chose prompt no.1 Write about a place, a time, a moment, that taught you something about true happiness.

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I am over the moon that Baby Baby is a finalist in The MAD (Mummy And Daddy) blog awards in the category Most Inspirational Blog. If you would like to vote click on The Mads and check out some amazing blogs.




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True Happiness

I Know why Babies Cost So Much

I know why babies cost so much. I do. I've worked out exactly why each child costs you £100,000 by the time they reach sweet sixteen.*

Glider chairs.

Yes, glider chairs and matching glider stools.

This:

This item of 'nursery furniture' is listed in all the baby books as a baby essential.

Before Children I'd never heard of a glider chair. When I was pregnant with Presley I dutifully wrote one on my list of things we need for the baby.

It must be a symptom of 'baby brain'. I didn't question the price or the practicalities of glider chairs and matching glider stools. I really thought they were an essential purchase.

So we ordered the best chair and stool we could afford. They arrived. Andy unpacked them and put them together. Woo. We had our glider items. 

We were renting a flat at the time and planning to move when the bump-that-became-Presley was a few months old. We didn't have a nursery - couldn't have a nursery - so our glider items sat in the middle of the lounge. In front of the tumble dryer and fridge-freezer, but that's another story.

I stopped sharing the sofa with my husband and started sitting, regally, on my new throne (when I wasn't bouncing on my birthing ball, you know, the big blue thing that stays in the car when you go into hospital in agony labour). The chair wasn't that comfortable so I propped myself up with a v-pillow and a normal pillow, just to correct my posture. I didn't slouch throughout the entire pregnancy lest my baby go back-to-back. It worked.

Once Presley arrived I persevered with my glider items. I struggled to breastfeed in the chair because the arms were in the way.

On the plus side, the pocket was handy for keeping my lip balm and nail file in.

On balance though I would have to say that glider items are a total waste of money.

All you need for a baby is love, a pair of strong arms, nappies, cotton wool, vests and babygros and muslin squares - plenty of muslin squares. Forget the explore garden gym, forget the all singing, all dancing, all swinging chair, forget the baby bath, the top and tail bowls and the drop-side cot - seriously you'll never drop the side. The only time the side dropped on Presley's cot was the time it fell on my foot. Bloody thing.

Hands up, who else has a glider chair gathering dust and clothes?

What else did you buy for your babies that was a complete waste of money? 

*I have no idea what it actually costs to bring up a child, but £100,000 is a figure that sounds plausible.

This post has been written for the Sleep is for the Weak writing workshop. This week I chose prompt no.3 What gadget, object or invention do you find completely useless and impractical and think the world could do without.

I Know why Babies Cost So Much

I Want to Believe

When did you leave us?

Was it sometime in the night when you were struggling to breathe? Was it when the kindly GP gave you something to make you more comfortable? Were you unconscious? Did you hear Dad phone me and say ‘You’d better get over here, Sandra, he’s not going to survive’? How did that make you feel? Did you hear us telling you ‘we’re here’? Did you hear us telling how well you were doing, trying to keep our voices steady and bright? Could you feel our tears splashing on your hands as we held them in ours?

I didn’t say goodbye.

We’d exchanged our usual farewells the night before.We didn’t know this would be the last time we spoke to each other. I suspect this wouldn’t have made any difference to what was said. You said ‘thanks for coming’. No matter how much you tried you couldn’t make it sound sincere, although it was. It was the same when you received gifts. You always said ‘thanks’ but it was a family joke that we said you didn’t mean it, that you never liked anything you were given and would rather have had the money. You liked the football slippers I gave you though, I’m sure you did.

So I’d said ‘thanks for being such a hospital’, our Two Ronnies-style take on the word hospitable. We both said ‘see you later’.

What happens when you die?

Your neck pulsed.

And then it didn’t.

Did your spirit float up at that moment and look down on us? Dad looking at the clock, recording the time of death, tutting and saying ‘what a waste’. Mum wailing. Me sitting, still holding your dead hand. We made you more comfortable by laying you on the sofa. We covered you with a sheet, not over your face though. You looked asleep. I combed your hair. We had a cup of tea.

I tried to find you.

I desperately wanted to know you were okay. I wanted you to haunt me. I didn’t want you to leave me. I saw spiritualists, mediums and clairvoyants. All came highly recommended. You didn’t appear to any of them, although they said you did (after I had mentioned you). In my head I knew they were charlatans, taking money from the bereaved, exploiting my grief to buy more candles and angel figurines. In my heart I kept an open mind. I wanted to believe in ghosts. I wanted to hear that one word that would prove you were there.

I wanted to hear you call me by my nickname, the one you had used since we were children. The one that no one else knew about. The one you used when you wanted me to get you something or when you were beating me at Yahtzee. I still can’t play Yahtzee without crying.

Each time I tried to find you you seemed further and further away. All the time I was searching I was curling further and further into myself. I was shutting down emotionally.

I cried silently each night, feeling trapped. Not wanting to rob Mum and Dad of their last surviving child, but so much wanting to be with you. To look after you as I had always done. No one was looking after me.

One afternoon I sat at my desk, taking the first bite of an enormous cream cake. This would stuff down my feelings for a few minutes. My secretary came in. She was a friend, although I had pushed her away with the others over the past year.

She said, kindly and gently, that the cream cake wasn’t going to help. She took it out of my hand and replaced it with the Yellow Pages. It was bookmarked with a pink post-it note. I opened it to find the page for bereavement councellors. I nodded thanks, wiped my fingers and dialed.

Several months later and many stones lighter I was still grieving, but I had started to say goodbye to you. I stopped looking for your ghost and kept you in my heart instead.

Photo credit

This post was written as part of the Sleep is for the Weak Writing Workshop. This week I was able to incorporate all of the writing prompts, these being:

1. Write about a nickname you have been given in your life, either an endearing one or perhaps a hurtful one that cut deep. How did that nickname come about? Who gave it to you? What feelings and memories does it conjure up?
2. Tell me about a time when you had a moment of realisation and knew that something HAD to change. Did you act on it straight away? Or did it take time?
3. Have you ever had a paranormal experience? Or has someone you know? How did you interpret what you experienced? If it was someone close to you, did you believe them?
4. Share some memories of a sibling or siblings. How does your relationship with them now differ from when you were kids? For those of you who have perhaps lost a sibling, what do you remember most vividly about them? What things or places remind you of them most?
5. Tell us about a random act of kindness, either one you performed or one you received.

I Want to Believe

Will You Be There?

This post has been written as part of the Sleep is for the weak Writing Workshop. This week I chose prompt no.4 Write a story or a poem or something descriptive to try and share your view of what happens when we die.

I decided to attempt a poem, inspired by a writing exercise from my creative writing group. This is a pantoum.

Will You Be There?

Will you be there?

Will you hold my hand?

I'm scared

Darkness

Will you hold my hand?

There is nothing

Darkness

You are gone

There is nothing

You fade away

You are gone

Rest in peace

You fade away

I'm scared

Rest in peace

Will you be there?

***

I guess this writing prompt caught my eye because I've had a difficult week. I'll be offline for a couple of days as I'm spending a little time with my best friend and attending her husband's funeral.

Normal upbeat service will be resumed for the Easter weekend, I hope. x

Will You Be There?

Where's My Mansion?

Andy and I often joke about what our boys will be when they grow up.

Our most popular fantasy is for Presley to be captain of the England football team. He would be a brilliantly creative player, he would be highly respected and he would be a fantastic role model. He would score the winning goal in the World Cup Final and lift the Jules Rimet trophy. Andy and I would be watching, grey-haired, with tears in our eyes. The camera would land on us and the commentator would say 'and there are Presley's proud parents. Thank you Mr and Mrs Calico.'

So what steps have we taken to make this dream a reality? We encourage him to kick a ball with both feet. We've looked at mansions in Alderley Edge*. That's about it!

*We haven't.

What about Cash? He's a natural comedian, but I don't see him in the spotlight. Perhaps he'll start off as a stand-up comedian, win the Perrier award at the Edinburgh Fringe and make a TV special. Then he'll go to Africa for Comic Relief and decide to stay there to help the poor.

They're never too young to learn about the world of work.

Here is Presley answering the telephone in Andy's office.

Of course we paid him!

In reality I expect the boys may have inherited their parents' academic intelligence. They'll probably go to university. They may have professional careers, they may be artists or mechanics.

I really don't care what they do. I'll encourage them and support their choices.

I just want them to be happy and healthy. That is all.

This post was written for the Sleep is for the Weak Writing Workshop. This week I chose prompt no.3 What do you secretly dream of your children doing?

Where's My Mansion?

Toot Toot!

I’ll start with some good old British modesty and self-deprecation, then I’ll put it aside, just for today. I feel uncomfortable blowing my own trumpet, particularly as I can’t play the trumpet. I’ve got a feeling this post is going to be tricky to write, but for reasons that I hope will become clear, it is important for me to write it, as a reminder.

***

I’m an excellent manager.

In my well-paid job, that I gave up to become a stay at home mum, I was a financial controller or financial director.  This means I managed the accounts departments of companies. I was usually responsible for all aspects of finance within a business, most often reporting directly to the managing director. I was trusted implicitly by those managing directors and became their right hand woman.

As a fully qualified accountant (before children, my proudest moment was qualifying with first time passes in all my exams) I competently produced full sets of accounts accurately and on time.

I was organised and never missed a deadline. I introduced new operational and accounting software systems. I performed audits, ran meetings and training sessions and was usually the office expert on Excel.

I think the reason I was so successful in my career however, was the way I dealt with people. I was an excellent manager because I treated people with respect. I was kind to them. I cared about them. I made sure everyone in my department was fully trained and knew exactly what they were supposed to be doing.

When I asked one of my team to do something, they did it. This was the skill that set me apart from other less accomplished managers. To them it was like I had a magic wand, they asked how I did it. I told them, but they went back to their teams and either ignored them or shouted at them.

The secret of running a successful department is to remember that being a manager is your top priority. All of your other tasks must wait, your team is more important. This is why people have cried when I’ve announced I was leaving or clapped and cheered when I’ve been promoted.

None of this happened over night. I learned my management style over many years and by managing spectacularly badly to start with. Eventually I discovered that if your team performs well, you look good. It’s simple really.

*** 

So what?

You may well ask.

The question I'm asking myself is why oh why haven’t I transferred these skills to my new job?

Managing a team of thirty-six adults (some of whom could be big kids) in my last job was a piece of cake compared with looking after two toddlers!

No corporate job can prepare you for that!

Photo credit

This post was written as part of the Sleep is for the Weak Writing Workshop. This week I chose prompt no.5: Tell us about something, or show us something that you do really, really well and are proud of.

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Toot Toot!

My Private Universe

Reading through the prompts for this week's Writing Workshop, I started singing this in my head

As I watched the video, filmed in Sydney, I wondered what my life would be like if I had stayed in Australia.

I took my gap year when I was thirty and newly divorced from my first husband (my childhood sweetheart). I travelled around Australia for six weeks, before settling in Sydney. I'd had the time of my life travelling. I know this is a cliche, but I can't think of any other way to describe my experience.

How else would you describe the following?

• Sailing round the Whitsundays, including an afternoon on Whitehaven Beach.
• Skydiving from 12,000 feet and landing on Mission Beach.
• A rainforest stay at Cape Tribulation.
• An outback safari, including hikes around the Olgas and King's Canyon, sunset and sunrise at Uluru and sleeping under the stars, in a swag, in the red desert.
• A jolly week in Adelaide, including a tram ride to the beach.

I also met hundreds of other backpackers, broadened my horizons and gained so much confidence.

Whist I was in Sydney, I lived in a lovely little house in the funky neighbourhood of Newtown. We were spoilt for choice with an abundance of bars and restaurants all within a few minutes walk. I could get a bus straight to Coogee Beach at the weekend.

I commuted into the CBD for work. My office over-looked the Harbour Bridge. I worked with some brilliant people, some of whom I still see or at least email regularly. I could walk to the Opera House in my lunch hour and eat my sandwiches in the Botanical Gardens. I saw shows at the Opera House. I sailed in the harbour. 

I was living in Sydney when the Olympics were on. I saw the Olympic flame carried through the streets on my way back to the station. I saw some athletics at the stadium (Colin Jackson waved to me when I shouted 'Go Colin' at him from my front row seat, my friends at home saw me on the television). I attended free concerts. I stood with thousands of others in Martin Place watching the Aussies win gold after gold in the swimming. I watched the closing ceremony fireworks in the harbour.

I spent Christmas day in Bondi. I didn't make it to the beach due to the mother of all hangovers! I was over-looking the harbour on New Year's Eve - more fireworks! I saw Coldplay, Powderfinger and PJ Harvey at The Big Day Out. I had a ball at the Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras.

I've just read this back and it must sound like terrible bragging. That's not the intention. As well as the highs, there were also several low points. I drank too much too often and got into a few alcohol related scrapes. Luckily I always got home safe... eventually. I suffered at times from loneliness, boredom and depression. I fell out with my house mate a couple of times. I had my toxic (now ex) friend to stay for two weeks, during which time she totally undermined my new-found confidence, slagged off my lifestyle and told me my work friends weren't proper friends. She told me I was an embarrassment when I got drunk at my office Christmas party (that I paid for her to go to). She corrected me when I referred to something as 'scummy' with 'we say scuzzy now', inferring that I was missing out on life in our old local. She refused to pay me the money she owed me. She didn't want to see anything or do anything. I could go on, but I don't want to dwell on that time!

These low points were more than out-weighed by the good times. I stayed in the same job the whole time I was there. I was sponsored by the company I worked for. They gave me a four year business visa and the offer of a (very good) permanent job. I had friends, I had a social life.

I came home though, after a year, because my Dad was alone and not well. I wanted to come home, but I always planned to go back to Sydney. I have, but only for holidays.

What if I had stayed?

What if I was still there now, in some kind of parallel universe? What if my Sliding Doors moment had left me Down Under?

Yes, there would be highs and lows, just as there have been in my life back in the UK.

BUT

I can not think about that parallel life. I can not imagine a life without my husband or my children. It is too awful to contemplate. So I'll look at my photographs and remember the (mostly) fantastic year I had in Oz and be grateful that I came home when I did.

This post was written as part of the Sleep is for the Weak Writing Workshop. This week I chose prompt no.4 Imagine there is another 'you', living in a parallel universe.

My Private Universe