1993 : Sitting by myself, wearing white leggings and big T-shirt; bare feet up on the opposite seat, boots under the table and a pile of library books in front of me. I’m watching a man with dark hairy arms, in the seat next to my feet. He has a pinky ring on his left hand and a sturdy beard buried in The Scotsman. Long hairs seep out of the neck of his cotton shirt. I wonder about his hands, how the long fingers would feel on my neck, tangled in my hair. Men like women with long hair. The glint of gold on his collar bone brings me to my senses; I can’t bear a man in chains. A child is grizzling further up the carriage - please let them get off at Berwick. Farmers are out hosing their fields. Still in the flat countryside of England, windbreaks of young trees laze in the beating sun. Fields of rape-seed turn the landscape into a painting with pylons etched between long looping power lines like suspension bridges.
Our table is littered with Yorkie bars, plastic glasses and orangeade. We were lucky the train was empty. I’d forgotten to book seats and had been worried but soothed with the idea of us all in separate carriages. Lee, Paul and Claire spread themselves out around the car but are now sitting together playing cards.We have become civilized travellers. I used to be the-mad-woman-on-a-train, screaming at my children under my breath, between my teeth and kicking their feet under the table. It was a case of, ‘Sit there, be quiet, give him that, leave her alone, don’t say things like that, look at the sheep, there’s the seaside, don’t, you’re the oldest, don’t talk to him then, play cards, shut up, leave me alone, give him some paper, see the mist rolling in, no you can’t, just because, shut up and sit down, Jesus Christ, you’re disgusting, blow your nose, I don’t know, another hour, watch my coffee, WILL YOU GIVE HER SOME PAPER!
'‘There’s the sea!’ Claire stands up. We’re coming up to Berwick. I like coastlines; see myself as The French Lieutenant’s Woman standing on the edge of land, pointing my tragic but beautiful face out to sea, watching for my future; waiting for something to happen. I want a house where the air is on the move: not stagnant - well-travelled air and a great expanse of sky. Sometimes I stand on the pier at Tynemouth. I’ve never been further than one night in Amsterdam.
Lee is 16, Paul 12, Claire 11…and I’m still alive. I dreamed the other night that I was smoking; I haven’t smoked for six years. The skin on my fingers is white/pink – nicotine stains long gone, nails white-edged. I dream a lot; sometimes they’re so strange I fear for my sanity – not the usual crazy feelings but real questions. I once dreamed that I halved Claire in two, put the bottom half inside the wardrobe and sat the rest of her up in bed. A day or two later a loud knocking on the door made me so afraid of what I’d done. I imagined a social worker at the door demanding to see my daughter. I tried to put her back together but the bottom half had withered slightly. Selotape held her together for the interview, which I don’t remember and everything turned out all right! I don’t know why I halved her in two.
A gypsy told my fortune last week. I saw her coming but couldn’t make my body avoid her. She grabbed my hand and talked fast with a strong Irish or country accent into my face. I couldn’t break free and could feel passers-by watching us as we stood beneath the hot air vents in the shopping centre. She said everything would be okay, that someone long-dead watched over me, that a man loved me and I would move house but not far. I kept asking her how much it would cost and she continued talking. As she tucked a small bunch of lucky white heather into my fist she asked me for three pounds. I couldn’t speak throughout the spiel, my chest was bursting into my throat. She took the money and I walked hard for the Haymarket exit, stumbled into Northumberland Street gasping for breath, trying to hold off tears. Why am I crying? I said to myself over and over again.
I glance at the children, ‘Look at the cows, they’re lying down. That means it’s going to rain.’ Lee is teaching them to play Chinese Patience. They’re not listening to me. I press my face to the window as the train curves. I can see its head and tail until my breath clouds the glass. Berwick is behind us now, only half an hour to Edinburgh. We spent a week in Berwick when Claire was one – she had her first birthday in a sand pit. The beach was impossible; it reeked of rotting seaweed, fumes waving up the cliff to keep us away from the edge. How many edges can there be in any one life?
Showing posts with label love n relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love n relationships. Show all posts
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Monday, March 09, 2009
Extract from My Memoirs
‘There is a bleed,’ he said.
Not, ‘Your daughter has had a cerebral haemorrhage.’ No, I get the dumbed-down version. Her brain is bleeding into the nape of her neck, where it will disperse. Well that’s nice and tidy, isn’t it? I’m sitting in a tiny room being diagnosed as thick. I want to be bombarded with enormous words and unintelligible language. She’s only been here a couple of hours and has already had two brain scans; they wouldn’t spend that kind of attention on nothing. I’m choking here, trying to be passive and not in the least dangerous.
A new doctor, Mr Surgeon, throws an assortment of options on the table, all of which include the possibility of death. Claire is an adult and only she can make this choice.
‘I’m only nineteen,’ she screams. ‘I can’t make a decision like that.’
My heart is filling up all the space in my mouth.
‘With the operation there’s a fifty-per-cent chance of death.’ His face never moves and all I can hear is a death sentence. He stands at the bottom of the bed – this is nothing like the scenes in TV drama; he doesn’t take anyone’s hand or pat the patient’s arm.
‘What if she doesn’t have it?’ I ask.
‘It could heal itself, or she might fall into a coma.’ He’s a silver-haired automaton. ‘She could live the rest of her life and it wouldn’t burst again but…’
‘I can’t…’ she says. ‘Just do it.’ Her boyfriend is on the other side of the bed, frozen into silence.
The surgeon goes on to describe risks and complications during and after the operation, then in the recuperation period. She is all I can see and hear; her whole life is inside me - I’m pregnant with this beautiful young woman, this busy, loving and sparkling entity. Suddenly I’m a mother again. I’ll be her Rotwieller; she’s too nice; she’ll need me. My head fills with memories of other hospital trips; sons with broken bones, blood and gore and handsome doctors; sexy arms holding x-rays up to light boxes; long muscled thighs stealing my attention. This is different and I am consumed. Death has stalked me all my life but this is my children; I need to stand up and fight. I can’t be that woman anymore, that single parent with one eye on the lookout for the right Mr Right.
They said she'd have time to rest before the operation but here they are wheeling her bed out of its place, unlocking the brakes.
‘It’s only five o’clock,’ I say, walking beside the bed.
‘Mum! It’s too early. He promised.’ She’s crying, grabbing our hands.
‘My God,’ two of her aunts come around the corridor and fall into this scene. Jean is instantly terrified; her husband died ten years earlier from the same thing – he was sent home from three hospitals, nine visits in two days, to die in his armchair at the age of thirty-two.
We trail through the hospital to Theatre, like the day my mother-in-law was taken to the nursing home; the whole family followed her wheelchair, two-by-two, down the road to help settle her in, all of us trying to hide our tears from the children. My mind is flashing clips of film and all the while I walk beside the bed, holding her hand, shushing her, telling her it’ll be okay even though her voice and face are boring holes in my heart. I am stunned at how quickly they take her from me. Ron, her boyfriend, doesn’t know how to act and I lead him to the front door so someone can give him a cigarette. My sons clasp me in their arms and I am dwarfed.
How do you spend five hours while surgeons are cutting into your child’s head? You imagine anything but the saw that will split open her skull; you call everyone in your phonebook and ask them to send up prayers for your only daughter; you allow yourself to be held and soothed by an enormous extended family outside the building, where they keep arriving; and you attempt to drink the awful coffee, watching your six-foot nephew stand and drip tears onto the café table. Then you have to get away from them to be on your own, just a quick walk around the block, not long enough for them to worry. The traffic flows past me, unaware of my trauma, on its way to the tunnel, belching pollution but I need to take deep breaths; it doesn’t matter what goes into my lungs. I am caught in the glare of a huge sunflower painted on the side of a building – it’s a sign.
‘I won’t lose my daughter. I know this.’
When I come into sight of the family I feel them relax. We move upstairs into a waiting area opposite the lifts. Of course there are arguing factions; sisters-in-law not talking to each other, separating the group, all of us trying to ignore it. A lift opens and I catch sight of Mr Surgeon standing at the back. Suddenly I’m flying at him, aware that he wasn’t going to come out and talk to me. He leans across and presses the button to stop the door closing and walks towards me, still with the calm face.
‘Tell me, is she all right?’
‘Fine. No problems. She’s in intensive care. You can go down there now.’ He gives me this good news without an emotion, no smile, but I want to wrap my arms around him. Maybe I just did.
Only a handful of us stay. This family constantly amaze me at the support they instantly present at the first sign of trouble. I urge them to go home, promise updates. My two sons and Ron gather ourselves and move to intensive care.
This is my daughter; she is complaining about the tubes that are collecting around her neck, hanging down from her head; her hand tries to swat them away. It’s proof of her personality, her repaired brain. Even an atheist’s prayer is heard by whoever is up there; my friends are diverse and odder than normal – thank God for them.
On the day she was born I was surrounded; by the kind of neighbours who were part of normal life then, the knock-and-walk-in; gossip or begging bowl; founts of local knowledge. Meg from next door and Maggie through the wall were keeping an eye on me because I’d been in labour all day – if you could call it that. I’d had a little pain in the morning, regular enough to make me believe. My father-in-law came up to collect Lee for a birthday party. When I told him that I was in labour he brushed it off.
‘You’re not in labour. I should know, I’ve had fourteen kids.’
I made him take Paul with him too. It was a Saturday so Matt had gone off to do his thing but I’d warned him to keep calling for updates.
‘We should’ve paid the phone bill,’ I said. Father and son – nothing like each other and yet the instant deafness makes them twins.
The weight of that child bore me down but I couldn’t sit; I could only wander around the flat. There was no pain. Where I went Meg followed. Flo downstairs ferried messages up to us from Matt until they stopped. My waters broke and we sent her down to call the ambulance. I tried lying on the bed but when the urge to push came I leapt up and held onto the bunk-beds, crossing my legs, trying to keep her in. I was terrified of everything that could go wrong and frightened that the lack of pain was a bad sign.
‘Where’s the bloody ambulance?’ We all said it at one time or another and sent Flo back down to find out.
‘Eddie forgot to give the address,’ she said. ‘He’s out of his face but it’s on its way now. Hold on.’
She’d asked me earlier if I wanted a joint. I said no. It never did anything for me; alcohol had always been my thing.
‘Oh God I can’t hold it any longer. Flo, roll your sleeves up, you’ll have to do it.’
‘Shit.’
Meg was hanging out of the bedroom window watching for the ambulance. I kept ranting about germs and shouting at her to close it.
‘It’s here,’ she ducked her head back in, and then out again. ‘Hurry up, she’s delivering,’ she called down three flights to the crew.
The head was out and still no pain. Flo’s face froze. I was so glad to see the two uniformed men walk into my bedroom and take over – so was she. She moved up to my side and took my hand. Meg did the same on the other side. I told the ambulance man that I had no contractions.
‘So just take a deep breath and push when you’re ready,’ he said.
She came out in a rush and I didn’t ask what sex – I assumed it would be another boy. I couldn’t believe I had a girl at last. Meg threw the window up and leaned out.
‘It’s a girl,’ she shouted to the street.
Another ambulance arrived, bringing the midwife who delivered the afterbirth and took care of Claire. Maggie was in the kitchen making tea. My bedroom had never been so full – tea for eight.
They packed me onto a stretcher and took us downstairs; that was scary. The midwife carried Claire behind me. When we got outside the front door the whole neighbourhood was lined up applauding and wishing us well. I pulled the blanket over my face, wanting to kill Meg because she’d whipped them up and was embarrassing me…and that stupid Matt had missed it all.
And that stupid Matt missed most of her life; there is no explanation for his behaviour and neglect of his children – even a conundrum can be solved. He has been told and will be here tomorrow. Even after all this time I still want to kill him, pan his face in with a hot skillet, stab him to death with a blunt spoon but I will be calm. I won’t let acid drip from my tongue – Claire will be proud of me.
Not, ‘Your daughter has had a cerebral haemorrhage.’ No, I get the dumbed-down version. Her brain is bleeding into the nape of her neck, where it will disperse. Well that’s nice and tidy, isn’t it? I’m sitting in a tiny room being diagnosed as thick. I want to be bombarded with enormous words and unintelligible language. She’s only been here a couple of hours and has already had two brain scans; they wouldn’t spend that kind of attention on nothing. I’m choking here, trying to be passive and not in the least dangerous.
A new doctor, Mr Surgeon, throws an assortment of options on the table, all of which include the possibility of death. Claire is an adult and only she can make this choice.
‘I’m only nineteen,’ she screams. ‘I can’t make a decision like that.’
My heart is filling up all the space in my mouth.
‘With the operation there’s a fifty-per-cent chance of death.’ His face never moves and all I can hear is a death sentence. He stands at the bottom of the bed – this is nothing like the scenes in TV drama; he doesn’t take anyone’s hand or pat the patient’s arm.
‘What if she doesn’t have it?’ I ask.
‘It could heal itself, or she might fall into a coma.’ He’s a silver-haired automaton. ‘She could live the rest of her life and it wouldn’t burst again but…’
‘I can’t…’ she says. ‘Just do it.’ Her boyfriend is on the other side of the bed, frozen into silence.
The surgeon goes on to describe risks and complications during and after the operation, then in the recuperation period. She is all I can see and hear; her whole life is inside me - I’m pregnant with this beautiful young woman, this busy, loving and sparkling entity. Suddenly I’m a mother again. I’ll be her Rotwieller; she’s too nice; she’ll need me. My head fills with memories of other hospital trips; sons with broken bones, blood and gore and handsome doctors; sexy arms holding x-rays up to light boxes; long muscled thighs stealing my attention. This is different and I am consumed. Death has stalked me all my life but this is my children; I need to stand up and fight. I can’t be that woman anymore, that single parent with one eye on the lookout for the right Mr Right.
They said she'd have time to rest before the operation but here they are wheeling her bed out of its place, unlocking the brakes.
‘It’s only five o’clock,’ I say, walking beside the bed.
‘Mum! It’s too early. He promised.’ She’s crying, grabbing our hands.
‘My God,’ two of her aunts come around the corridor and fall into this scene. Jean is instantly terrified; her husband died ten years earlier from the same thing – he was sent home from three hospitals, nine visits in two days, to die in his armchair at the age of thirty-two.
We trail through the hospital to Theatre, like the day my mother-in-law was taken to the nursing home; the whole family followed her wheelchair, two-by-two, down the road to help settle her in, all of us trying to hide our tears from the children. My mind is flashing clips of film and all the while I walk beside the bed, holding her hand, shushing her, telling her it’ll be okay even though her voice and face are boring holes in my heart. I am stunned at how quickly they take her from me. Ron, her boyfriend, doesn’t know how to act and I lead him to the front door so someone can give him a cigarette. My sons clasp me in their arms and I am dwarfed.
How do you spend five hours while surgeons are cutting into your child’s head? You imagine anything but the saw that will split open her skull; you call everyone in your phonebook and ask them to send up prayers for your only daughter; you allow yourself to be held and soothed by an enormous extended family outside the building, where they keep arriving; and you attempt to drink the awful coffee, watching your six-foot nephew stand and drip tears onto the café table. Then you have to get away from them to be on your own, just a quick walk around the block, not long enough for them to worry. The traffic flows past me, unaware of my trauma, on its way to the tunnel, belching pollution but I need to take deep breaths; it doesn’t matter what goes into my lungs. I am caught in the glare of a huge sunflower painted on the side of a building – it’s a sign.
‘I won’t lose my daughter. I know this.’
When I come into sight of the family I feel them relax. We move upstairs into a waiting area opposite the lifts. Of course there are arguing factions; sisters-in-law not talking to each other, separating the group, all of us trying to ignore it. A lift opens and I catch sight of Mr Surgeon standing at the back. Suddenly I’m flying at him, aware that he wasn’t going to come out and talk to me. He leans across and presses the button to stop the door closing and walks towards me, still with the calm face.
‘Tell me, is she all right?’
‘Fine. No problems. She’s in intensive care. You can go down there now.’ He gives me this good news without an emotion, no smile, but I want to wrap my arms around him. Maybe I just did.
Only a handful of us stay. This family constantly amaze me at the support they instantly present at the first sign of trouble. I urge them to go home, promise updates. My two sons and Ron gather ourselves and move to intensive care.
This is my daughter; she is complaining about the tubes that are collecting around her neck, hanging down from her head; her hand tries to swat them away. It’s proof of her personality, her repaired brain. Even an atheist’s prayer is heard by whoever is up there; my friends are diverse and odder than normal – thank God for them.
On the day she was born I was surrounded; by the kind of neighbours who were part of normal life then, the knock-and-walk-in; gossip or begging bowl; founts of local knowledge. Meg from next door and Maggie through the wall were keeping an eye on me because I’d been in labour all day – if you could call it that. I’d had a little pain in the morning, regular enough to make me believe. My father-in-law came up to collect Lee for a birthday party. When I told him that I was in labour he brushed it off.
‘You’re not in labour. I should know, I’ve had fourteen kids.’
I made him take Paul with him too. It was a Saturday so Matt had gone off to do his thing but I’d warned him to keep calling for updates.
‘We should’ve paid the phone bill,’ I said. Father and son – nothing like each other and yet the instant deafness makes them twins.
The weight of that child bore me down but I couldn’t sit; I could only wander around the flat. There was no pain. Where I went Meg followed. Flo downstairs ferried messages up to us from Matt until they stopped. My waters broke and we sent her down to call the ambulance. I tried lying on the bed but when the urge to push came I leapt up and held onto the bunk-beds, crossing my legs, trying to keep her in. I was terrified of everything that could go wrong and frightened that the lack of pain was a bad sign.
‘Where’s the bloody ambulance?’ We all said it at one time or another and sent Flo back down to find out.
‘Eddie forgot to give the address,’ she said. ‘He’s out of his face but it’s on its way now. Hold on.’
She’d asked me earlier if I wanted a joint. I said no. It never did anything for me; alcohol had always been my thing.
‘Oh God I can’t hold it any longer. Flo, roll your sleeves up, you’ll have to do it.’
‘Shit.’
Meg was hanging out of the bedroom window watching for the ambulance. I kept ranting about germs and shouting at her to close it.
‘It’s here,’ she ducked her head back in, and then out again. ‘Hurry up, she’s delivering,’ she called down three flights to the crew.
The head was out and still no pain. Flo’s face froze. I was so glad to see the two uniformed men walk into my bedroom and take over – so was she. She moved up to my side and took my hand. Meg did the same on the other side. I told the ambulance man that I had no contractions.
‘So just take a deep breath and push when you’re ready,’ he said.
She came out in a rush and I didn’t ask what sex – I assumed it would be another boy. I couldn’t believe I had a girl at last. Meg threw the window up and leaned out.
‘It’s a girl,’ she shouted to the street.
Another ambulance arrived, bringing the midwife who delivered the afterbirth and took care of Claire. Maggie was in the kitchen making tea. My bedroom had never been so full – tea for eight.
They packed me onto a stretcher and took us downstairs; that was scary. The midwife carried Claire behind me. When we got outside the front door the whole neighbourhood was lined up applauding and wishing us well. I pulled the blanket over my face, wanting to kill Meg because she’d whipped them up and was embarrassing me…and that stupid Matt had missed it all.
And that stupid Matt missed most of her life; there is no explanation for his behaviour and neglect of his children – even a conundrum can be solved. He has been told and will be here tomorrow. Even after all this time I still want to kill him, pan his face in with a hot skillet, stab him to death with a blunt spoon but I will be calm. I won’t let acid drip from my tongue – Claire will be proud of me.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
MISSING MUM
When I was looking after my mother I didn’t have time to wonder when she would die; a client who calls me for tarot advice often asks me when her mother is going to die. The first few times she asked this I got a perverse pleasure from saying, ‘…not any time soon.’ There is also a man who puts this question to me about his wife; he’s been waiting for her death a long time. This all sounds bad but I really do understand where they’re coming from and just how difficult it can get – and how madly insane you can end up; the day I got my mother into a wheelchair taxi and onto the ward I had my clothes on inside-out and back-to-front, and my hair hadn’t been brushed for days.
I think that one of the hardest things to manage is that decision of just how much you can or should stand in any situation, especially when mental illness is a factor whether we’re talking about plain old senility or something more serious and dangerous – and senility can be full of missiles and snapping teeth! I know, I’ve been there, but it’s the insanity and total confusion of the whole scenario that drives you onward, until there’s no difference between you and the person you’re looking after – I know that I was off my trolly and when a social worker answered my plea for help I fell into her arms in the kitchen. I had a crazy mother on one hand and three teenagers on the other; there was no escape and up until then, no help that really helped.
It makes me sad now, thinking about that time and I thank the gods that it didn’t last long; she went out like a whirling dervish, my mother, and it’s taken years to relegate the memories into something softer. It’s easier to see the real woman she’d been; the mother and wonderful grandmother is now slipping out of the cracks to catch me in tears.
I think that one of the hardest things to manage is that decision of just how much you can or should stand in any situation, especially when mental illness is a factor whether we’re talking about plain old senility or something more serious and dangerous – and senility can be full of missiles and snapping teeth! I know, I’ve been there, but it’s the insanity and total confusion of the whole scenario that drives you onward, until there’s no difference between you and the person you’re looking after – I know that I was off my trolly and when a social worker answered my plea for help I fell into her arms in the kitchen. I had a crazy mother on one hand and three teenagers on the other; there was no escape and up until then, no help that really helped.
It makes me sad now, thinking about that time and I thank the gods that it didn’t last long; she went out like a whirling dervish, my mother, and it’s taken years to relegate the memories into something softer. It’s easier to see the real woman she’d been; the mother and wonderful grandmother is now slipping out of the cracks to catch me in tears.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
COUPLING
Ooooo, Harrison Ford or Richard Gere? Well I choose both and add Bruce Willis, James Woods, Rob lowe, Bon Jovi, Tim Mathieson, Bruce Springsteen and of course the beautiful bald black guy from Weeds – not to mention the beautiful bald black guy from Dexter. I didn’t plan on adding younger men but those last two just popped into my old head so it can’t be helped; there are tons of luscious young men out there but I don’t want to be slavering over them – that would be unseemly. I’m happy with the wrinklies, and they are much more interesting to me, what with their malleable and fabulous faces; I don’t want them for sex – I just want to look and admire their regal standing, their greying and white hair…well okay I’d do the sex thing if I had to but these days I really can’t be bothered. It’s enough to look at men and sometimes I like to listen to them but only if they’re lying, playing a part; they’re more reliable that way.
I have always fallen for ugly men, or at least men with interesting faces; my friend Carrie has had to drag me away from some serious mistakes – alcohol had that effect on me, though how do we know that she was right? Just because she judged these men and found them wanting in the attractive department; she was drunk too - I might’ve missed my soul-mate because of her actions! I was drawn towards men with problems; there was a guy in a wheelchair in a Newcastle nightclub, a guy with one arm at Berwick holiday centre, and almost a guy in crutches in the queue for another club until Carrie stepped in.
Now, I’d rather write about sex than actually take part in all that heaving, sweaty exercise – been there, done that loads-a-times, nothing-new-to-be-had. How could I ever be bothered again? I can’t imagine. Maybe I’ll pick up a nice old gent when I’m eighty and he can perambulate me in my wheelchair, lift and lay me in my single bed, bring me my Earl Grey and chocolate biscuits. It won’t matter what he looks like as long as he’s kind and has lost his sex-drive. I don’t want to give up any of my power or precious time to someone else’s pursuits, so that man would have to give his life over to me completely and be my slave, and leave whenever I wanted to be alone. So really, all I'll need is a male live-in carer who also wants to be alone to write his novel or paint his art – what a perfect couple we would make!
I have always fallen for ugly men, or at least men with interesting faces; my friend Carrie has had to drag me away from some serious mistakes – alcohol had that effect on me, though how do we know that she was right? Just because she judged these men and found them wanting in the attractive department; she was drunk too - I might’ve missed my soul-mate because of her actions! I was drawn towards men with problems; there was a guy in a wheelchair in a Newcastle nightclub, a guy with one arm at Berwick holiday centre, and almost a guy in crutches in the queue for another club until Carrie stepped in.
Now, I’d rather write about sex than actually take part in all that heaving, sweaty exercise – been there, done that loads-a-times, nothing-new-to-be-had. How could I ever be bothered again? I can’t imagine. Maybe I’ll pick up a nice old gent when I’m eighty and he can perambulate me in my wheelchair, lift and lay me in my single bed, bring me my Earl Grey and chocolate biscuits. It won’t matter what he looks like as long as he’s kind and has lost his sex-drive. I don’t want to give up any of my power or precious time to someone else’s pursuits, so that man would have to give his life over to me completely and be my slave, and leave whenever I wanted to be alone. So really, all I'll need is a male live-in carer who also wants to be alone to write his novel or paint his art – what a perfect couple we would make!
Saturday, April 05, 2008
A MARRIAGE
I'm spending the day in bed with my lover, the laptop: not going to visit the Polok mob and being sociable, again. Happily, there's a chunky chicken stew bubbling in the slow-cooker. I want to play in my blog; just discovered labels, and a lot of the old stuff needs sorting. Well, that's my excuse; I never worry about these hermit periods that dot my life: I do often give a second glance to my eating habits, which become stranger by the year. Breakfasts this week have included: beef stew; marshmallows; Tuc crackers followed by custard creams; Hamwiches, without bread; but the most normal was probably cheese sandwiches made with Scottish rolls.
I must go up town tomorrow and buy a pair of decent walking shoes (lost mine in the fire) so I can walk to work and get a smidgen of exercise. I blame the laptop; I just can't bear to take my eyes off it. I thought Amazon was going to borrow it last night and was distraught at the thought; when I arrived home from work at 1am and saw the beautiful beast smiling at me from its place by my bed I almost sobbed with relief. I've only come to notice this passion in the last year and now I'm ready to embrace it, go public - make some kind of anouncement.
I AM IN LOVE WITH A MACHINE and if it asks me to marry it I'll say YES!
I must go up town tomorrow and buy a pair of decent walking shoes (lost mine in the fire) so I can walk to work and get a smidgen of exercise. I blame the laptop; I just can't bear to take my eyes off it. I thought Amazon was going to borrow it last night and was distraught at the thought; when I arrived home from work at 1am and saw the beautiful beast smiling at me from its place by my bed I almost sobbed with relief. I've only come to notice this passion in the last year and now I'm ready to embrace it, go public - make some kind of anouncement.
I AM IN LOVE WITH A MACHINE and if it asks me to marry it I'll say YES!
Monday, October 08, 2007
BEGINNING - END & BEGINNINGS
Oooh, my friend Carrie and her man are back together again! He’s been and put an end to his past; closed down the shutters for good and the divorce is on its way. He’d been legally separated for years but recently came to the conclusion that he had to find out just how he really felt, so he went back to see if there was anything to be salvaged of the marriage. The break broke both their hearts; they’ve spent the last three months or so apart, and haven’t been able to completely cut communication – a painful friendship. Why are men so dense? They can’t see past their comforts; he’s lived with Carrie for five years and didn’t know that he loved her; was afraid to find out the truth because then he’d have to spill his emotions, ask himself questions and find the answers from a place he refused to acknowledge – his heart. And he is such a sweet man, one of the very few I’ve known; I never had one like him.
I feel sorry for his wife; she might have had high hopes for reconciliation – she had been asking him to return for a long time, which is probably why he was so confused. At least they both know now, and everyone can move on. There are no children involved; it’s all grown-up angst. He and Carrie will sit down now and negotiate their new future; they were happy together but he always had this weight around his neck, and she knew that he wasn’t completely committed to her. I sincerely wish the best for all three of them.
I feel sorry for his wife; she might have had high hopes for reconciliation – she had been asking him to return for a long time, which is probably why he was so confused. At least they both know now, and everyone can move on. There are no children involved; it’s all grown-up angst. He and Carrie will sit down now and negotiate their new future; they were happy together but he always had this weight around his neck, and she knew that he wasn’t completely committed to her. I sincerely wish the best for all three of them.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
TAKING WHAT WE GET
My god, Carrie is broken-hearted indeed; she called me last night in a real state. I keep telling her that it's okay to grieve, because it is like a death. Now all the unanswered questions are surfacing - bitterness and anger taking over in short bursts. I stand outside this evidence of love and thank my stars that I am completely closed for this kind of business. It's just excruciating to watch, knowing that there's nothing you can do except stand by as support and wait, till she moves on, till she gets over him - till hell's fires blink out.
I am lounging in Amazon's new flat, using her phone line; I have arranged for BT engineers to come put in a line at Musician's but it'll be two weeks. Soon, the smoky air will assault my lungs as we clear out more of our ruined possessions, then it's off back to prepare Musician's flat for decoration; I'll probably be there a few months.
The interviews went well and I should hear by tomorrow if I've got the job the agency has put me forward for; if so, I'll begin on Monday. If not, they'll set me on to something else. It's all call centre, customer services stuff; I'm trying to avoid the sales work first; I'll take them if I can't get in anywhere else - I haven't really got experience in this field so will have to take what I get in the long run.
I am lounging in Amazon's new flat, using her phone line; I have arranged for BT engineers to come put in a line at Musician's but it'll be two weeks. Soon, the smoky air will assault my lungs as we clear out more of our ruined possessions, then it's off back to prepare Musician's flat for decoration; I'll probably be there a few months.
The interviews went well and I should hear by tomorrow if I've got the job the agency has put me forward for; if so, I'll begin on Monday. If not, they'll set me on to something else. It's all call centre, customer services stuff; I'm trying to avoid the sales work first; I'll take them if I can't get in anywhere else - I haven't really got experience in this field so will have to take what I get in the long run.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
ABERDEEN IN A HEARBEAT
I brought the rain to Aberdeen, again. As my train arrived in the station spits of rain were dotting the pavements. I am the harbinger of the deluge – but not flooding, I hope.
Well, the Cointreau slipped down our throats with the greatest of ease; I poured the first one, and we sat slugging, because, as I said, ‘This is going down a treat, just like lemonade.’ And, that’s because it was lemonade; I forgot to stir it, so the Cointreau was sitting on the bottom of the glass…and when I got there, boy it was strong!
We got through over half the bottle, but had bought two; it was reduced to £14.99 in Morrison’s and I made Carrie put them in our basket. I told her that we might need more than one over the three nights, and we wouldn’t want to run out of the lovely stuff.
She is doing okay; it really is like a wake – we laughed our heads off at old tales and jokes, she cried a couple of tears but waved them away. The whole thing is very civilized; he’s here now packing up more of his stuff and we’ve been laughing and reminiscing for an hour – he is a lovely person, but dripping with baggage, which he has to go sort out. It’s a sad situation, but I know that Carrie will be alright.
We’re going to the cinema this afternoon to see John Travolta in a dress; Hairspray! Meeting up with Carrie’s daughter first, then we’ll have something to eat after the movie. The last time the three of us saw a movie together was when I treated us to Ghost in Newcastle; I surprised Carrie by producing a bottle of Bailey’s and two plastic cups – her daughter was only a teenager then. We left the cinema giggling like girls.
I went to bed last night with my toy-boy, Harry Potter. I bought it in WH Smith in the train station for £9.99 but had to spend another £15 to get it at that price, so I treated myself to Richard Dawkins, The God Delusion, and Carrie to a David Baldacci novel. I am enjoying HP even though I’ve forgotten a lot that happened in the last book, but it’s gradually becoming apparent. My sister-in-law, Sid, called me the other day to tell me that she’d been breaking her heart over it and had finished. 'Don’t tell me anything,’ I yelled. All the family have bought it from Asda for a fiver but I couldn’t be bothered going, and I’d have got a taxi home so would’ve paid about eight or nine quid for it in the long run…and I might have a new job next week anyway, so I’ll be alright for money – I hope.
Well, the Cointreau slipped down our throats with the greatest of ease; I poured the first one, and we sat slugging, because, as I said, ‘This is going down a treat, just like lemonade.’ And, that’s because it was lemonade; I forgot to stir it, so the Cointreau was sitting on the bottom of the glass…and when I got there, boy it was strong!
We got through over half the bottle, but had bought two; it was reduced to £14.99 in Morrison’s and I made Carrie put them in our basket. I told her that we might need more than one over the three nights, and we wouldn’t want to run out of the lovely stuff.
She is doing okay; it really is like a wake – we laughed our heads off at old tales and jokes, she cried a couple of tears but waved them away. The whole thing is very civilized; he’s here now packing up more of his stuff and we’ve been laughing and reminiscing for an hour – he is a lovely person, but dripping with baggage, which he has to go sort out. It’s a sad situation, but I know that Carrie will be alright.
We’re going to the cinema this afternoon to see John Travolta in a dress; Hairspray! Meeting up with Carrie’s daughter first, then we’ll have something to eat after the movie. The last time the three of us saw a movie together was when I treated us to Ghost in Newcastle; I surprised Carrie by producing a bottle of Bailey’s and two plastic cups – her daughter was only a teenager then. We left the cinema giggling like girls.
I went to bed last night with my toy-boy, Harry Potter. I bought it in WH Smith in the train station for £9.99 but had to spend another £15 to get it at that price, so I treated myself to Richard Dawkins, The God Delusion, and Carrie to a David Baldacci novel. I am enjoying HP even though I’ve forgotten a lot that happened in the last book, but it’s gradually becoming apparent. My sister-in-law, Sid, called me the other day to tell me that she’d been breaking her heart over it and had finished. 'Don’t tell me anything,’ I yelled. All the family have bought it from Asda for a fiver but I couldn’t be bothered going, and I’d have got a taxi home so would’ve paid about eight or nine quid for it in the long run…and I might have a new job next week anyway, so I’ll be alright for money – I hope.
Friday, July 13, 2007
THE BACHELOR
His gum-coated tongue laps up flies
in a slow rolling motion. He goose-steps
with long black legs through trampled night sand
flicking up a fine dust.
She nestles into tall gutterings, curls
up to high-flown paper and leaves, and sleeps till
the sun sinks. Rain runs off her brown back,
only snow disturbs her.
At first light, sated, he walks the shoreline
ducking his head, sucking up water – a rasping
whistle through his teeth – the spray loosens rough
gum from his tongue.
They live separate lives. She attracts him
with a low murmering, excitement pitches
vibrations as far as half a mile, in waves
five minutes apart.
He picks up the signal, flies back and forth
across the river in a bid to escape but comes
closer to her position on every return journey
until he lands at her feet.
Mating over, he dances in rage – now leaving
now charging, though he is weak already.
He leaves her to bury the eggs, and screams
at the opposite bank.
She fucks him twice a year. The eggs hatch out
when the ground is soft, April, October….frost
would suffocate the young, they must fight
their way out with still-soft claws.
The moment their eyes open, necks stretch and
feet hook into a rival’s head, red is the first
colour they know. She clambers over his strong thighs
eyes on the road ahead.
Published in STAND Magazine 1993
in a slow rolling motion. He goose-steps
with long black legs through trampled night sand
flicking up a fine dust.
She nestles into tall gutterings, curls
up to high-flown paper and leaves, and sleeps till
the sun sinks. Rain runs off her brown back,
only snow disturbs her.
At first light, sated, he walks the shoreline
ducking his head, sucking up water – a rasping
whistle through his teeth – the spray loosens rough
gum from his tongue.
They live separate lives. She attracts him
with a low murmering, excitement pitches
vibrations as far as half a mile, in waves
five minutes apart.
He picks up the signal, flies back and forth
across the river in a bid to escape but comes
closer to her position on every return journey
until he lands at her feet.
Mating over, he dances in rage – now leaving
now charging, though he is weak already.
He leaves her to bury the eggs, and screams
at the opposite bank.
She fucks him twice a year. The eggs hatch out
when the ground is soft, April, October….frost
would suffocate the young, they must fight
their way out with still-soft claws.
The moment their eyes open, necks stretch and
feet hook into a rival’s head, red is the first
colour they know. She clambers over his strong thighs
eyes on the road ahead.
Published in STAND Magazine 1993
Sunday, April 16, 2006
FULL A HELL
My ex reared his ugly head again yesterday. And for the second time he discarded his children. Suddenly last year there was a silence from him; no reason apparent, just rejection. My sister-in-law, Sid, called to tell me that my daughter was breaking her heart. That’s the only thing in life that can move me to murder; someone upsetting my children…and for it to be that man again! So I called him. He said ‘fuck off’ and hung up. I was stunned; was not aware that we had fallen out - we spoke to each other sometime last year and there had been no argument.
I can only assume that he has gone mad or someone is meddling; telling stories and lies; there is always someone at it in big families. He has a girlfriend, so maybe he is just trying to shrug off his past to please her - he did that before too. In the end I sent him a text message, ‘ur children n I wil never bother u again tho what we did to offend u is a mystery. Ur loss.’
I am so laid back these days that I am almost horizontal. I’ve lost all my passion; I let people argue and debate and don’t feel I have to join in. I let them discover whether they’re right or wrong by themselves. But I come alive when he upsets my kids. I want to kill him, stab him with blunt objects, gouge his eyes out with a spoon, bite off his head and pan his face in with a hot, cast iron skillet!
I can only assume that he has gone mad or someone is meddling; telling stories and lies; there is always someone at it in big families. He has a girlfriend, so maybe he is just trying to shrug off his past to please her - he did that before too. In the end I sent him a text message, ‘ur children n I wil never bother u again tho what we did to offend u is a mystery. Ur loss.’
I am so laid back these days that I am almost horizontal. I’ve lost all my passion; I let people argue and debate and don’t feel I have to join in. I let them discover whether they’re right or wrong by themselves. But I come alive when he upsets my kids. I want to kill him, stab him with blunt objects, gouge his eyes out with a spoon, bite off his head and pan his face in with a hot, cast iron skillet!
Saturday, April 15, 2006
ATTACHMENTS
This Lilly is a long-boned woman with legs like skewers and empty breasts lying on the furrows of ribs. Her smile comes from an old heart, strong beyond reason. She smiles at laughing visitors who kiss, kiss, kiss, planting babies in her lap and presents on the bed. She tells them that she’s had lunch, but the menu escapes her. Food appears like magic: chicken is fish, porridge is soup and everything is beautiful. I’m her daughter-in-law, ex, yet I’m more present than her oldest son, my ex. There’s a kind of club of us, EXs; they just can’t seem to get rid of us. You see it’s a huge welcoming family, and when there are children to complicate things - the family just gets bigger with every new relationship. The daughters seem to hang on to their men whether they like them or not, but the sons just move along and the ex-wives follow on regardless; children slip and slide through the myriad aunts and uncles
The old Lilly was swamped; a vast, slack-skinned woman, hidden in layers of old muscle and blue-flowered polyester. Fourteen children darted in and out with wives and husbands; grandchildren flapped hands at mince with onion and vegetables, mince without. Boiled potatoes – no potatoes, steak pie, spam. Fat chips – thin chips buttered bread, bare bread, tea, no jam. Liver for William, rabbit for John, licked-clean dishes stacked the sink, smells ran up walls, dripped off stairs and settled when she sank into her broad armchair. She was born to be a mother and besieged by everyone’s children. Now she is surrounded by women and the grandchildren they bore her. She never knew she was the key to all those relationships and now as the last days slip by the space she lives in grows huge.
I am only beginning this trail. I wonder how many friends I will lose when my children fall out of love.
The old Lilly was swamped; a vast, slack-skinned woman, hidden in layers of old muscle and blue-flowered polyester. Fourteen children darted in and out with wives and husbands; grandchildren flapped hands at mince with onion and vegetables, mince without. Boiled potatoes – no potatoes, steak pie, spam. Fat chips – thin chips buttered bread, bare bread, tea, no jam. Liver for William, rabbit for John, licked-clean dishes stacked the sink, smells ran up walls, dripped off stairs and settled when she sank into her broad armchair. She was born to be a mother and besieged by everyone’s children. Now she is surrounded by women and the grandchildren they bore her. She never knew she was the key to all those relationships and now as the last days slip by the space she lives in grows huge.
I am only beginning this trail. I wonder how many friends I will lose when my children fall out of love.
Monday, April 03, 2006
READING AND WRITING
Thinking that I should get some writing back out there in the poetry mags, I wrote a poem for a competition about love; I can’t really remember what it was like, being in love. When I read of all that madness I begin to wonder if I was ever, really in love. Just like my memories of old granny, the tyrant, I only retain the bad stuff. They said they wanted poems on both falling in and out of love…I naturally chose the latter and created this rant below:
HAMMERED FLAT
My head is full and bursting
with glimpses
of long-sleeved blouses and light-weight
jumpers
arrayed at eye-level;
a regiment at my right hand.
Any one of them would fit
my situation.
In my line of fire
the back of his head smirks;
it dares me
to reach for blunt objects
poison darts…
carefully planned alibis, and
mysterious gangsters
from a murky past.
I picture rooftop parties
and mountain picnics,
his startled shape, flailing
on the wind, like
an inebriated seagull
tumbling and squawking
at the woman with her hand out…
not saving, but waving.
Cheerio then… bastard.
Captain Correlli’s Mandolin…again am stuck in the middle, and have started reading other books; I always do this with his novels. When you begin them you are captured and charmed by the characters and the settings but soon slowed down by the history lesson. I like history but there seems to be something stilted about the way he uses it in his novels; I’ve read three of his now and this happened in every one. When I turned 40 I stopped reading books if I got bored half-way through; the first book I discarded like that was ‘Oscar and Lucinda’. Again, charmed at first but bored flat eventually. So I’m not going to read him again.
In the last couple of years I’ve got into Wilbour Smith; his books are fantastic. You are getting a history lesson in a novel but it’s well-fictionalized. You just can’t put them down; a great read. Also in this time been through the Jean Auel series, ‘Clan of the Cave Bear’. What an amazing read they are, though the sex gets a bit gratuitous at times; but then again maybe that’s because I’ve completely lost my sex drive and, subconsciously, don’t want to be reminded of it. I was really pleased to hear that ‘The Time Traveller’s Wife’ won a big prize last week; it's one of the best books I've ever read, though I think it should have ended earlier than it did. I’ve got the last Harry Potter with me, think I’ll dump the captain for now and get into that.
HAMMERED FLAT
My head is full and bursting
with glimpses
of long-sleeved blouses and light-weight
jumpers
arrayed at eye-level;
a regiment at my right hand.
Any one of them would fit
my situation.
In my line of fire
the back of his head smirks;
it dares me
to reach for blunt objects
poison darts…
carefully planned alibis, and
mysterious gangsters
from a murky past.
I picture rooftop parties
and mountain picnics,
his startled shape, flailing
on the wind, like
an inebriated seagull
tumbling and squawking
at the woman with her hand out…
not saving, but waving.
Cheerio then… bastard.
Captain Correlli’s Mandolin…again am stuck in the middle, and have started reading other books; I always do this with his novels. When you begin them you are captured and charmed by the characters and the settings but soon slowed down by the history lesson. I like history but there seems to be something stilted about the way he uses it in his novels; I’ve read three of his now and this happened in every one. When I turned 40 I stopped reading books if I got bored half-way through; the first book I discarded like that was ‘Oscar and Lucinda’. Again, charmed at first but bored flat eventually. So I’m not going to read him again.
In the last couple of years I’ve got into Wilbour Smith; his books are fantastic. You are getting a history lesson in a novel but it’s well-fictionalized. You just can’t put them down; a great read. Also in this time been through the Jean Auel series, ‘Clan of the Cave Bear’. What an amazing read they are, though the sex gets a bit gratuitous at times; but then again maybe that’s because I’ve completely lost my sex drive and, subconsciously, don’t want to be reminded of it. I was really pleased to hear that ‘The Time Traveller’s Wife’ won a big prize last week; it's one of the best books I've ever read, though I think it should have ended earlier than it did. I’ve got the last Harry Potter with me, think I’ll dump the captain for now and get into that.
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