A woman. Reclaiming her essence. Hoping to raise her children to know the important stuff.
daily I bathe in a pool of my tears
body wracked, mind veers
put pen to paper yet remain mute
thoughts tumble, so convolute
layer upon layer I try to unpick
like a wonky hem, being unstitched
back to the start, the beginning of time
before I felt your hand in mine
Sometimes a day turns out to be unexpectedly good. Take today for example. Having been a dirty stop out on Friday night (no, make that Saturday morning) I went to bed nice and early last night like a good girl (stop laughing). This resulted in me being wide eyed and bushy tailed at 6.30am. What to do at 6.30am on a Sunday morning?? Obviously I lay there for a while, listening to the stillness, relishing the fact there was no urgency to leave the comfort of my bed until the lure of coffee was too strong to resist any longer.
Padding downstairs I could hear the soft sounds of sleeping teens and a waking cat. Whilst the kettle boiled and the coffee brewed I looked out at a rain-sodden garden. I’d hoped to go for a walk in the woods, perhaps have a mooch around the indie shops in a neighbouring town, maybe visit a farmers market but suddenly those ideas are not quite so appealing when the heavens are open. Now put the strait-jacket down but I had the urge to stand on the drenched grass and open my arms and heart wide. The cat joined me, somewhat bemused and there we stood. Me laughing, her quizzical, until I was soaked through. I dashed back into the house feeling alive, giddy and just a little bit mad. Cat, as is her wont, stayed outside getting water-logged. Happily there was a towel in the clean laundry pile, so divested of wet jimjams I took my coffee to bed.
Sunday morning, coffee and Nigel Slater is a pretty near-perfect combination. Especially when you’ve danced, semi-clad, in the pouring rain just moments before. Eventually I decided to get up and slowly the signs of life from other parts of the house started. I think they were waiting in the hope I would make breakfast, which of course is exactly what I did. Is there anything more satisfying than feeding teenagers? They are so appreciative of the culinary offerings you place in front of them that you don’t mind the stack of plates, pans, glasses and cutlery that they leave in their wake. In any case, washing up IS kinda therapeutic..so they tell me.
One guest left at lunchtime and Eldest Child and the BF went shopping for each other’s valentine’s gifts (call me naïve but doesn’t that defeat the object?) leaving Youngest Child home with mother. It doesn’t happen often so when she stayed put instead of vanishing up to the disorderly chaos of her room I was thrilled. We watched Jane Eyre (she rather liked Michael Fassbender) and ate an entire pack of peanut m&m’s whilst a gammon joint gently simmered. The house was filled with the delicious smell of smoked ham and companionship.
Of course the sheer guilt of all those chocolate covered peanuts kicked in so I followed the dvd with a x-trainer workout and when I was hot, sweaty and feeling a tiny bit virtuous EC arrived home complete with BF, a beautiful jumper and a gorgeous slab of (still untouched!) chocolate apparently made in a Hotel. Both for me. “Just because” was the answer to my confusion. I told you making breakfast for teens is gratifying. Sadly they had been unable to find anything suitable for the intended purpose at the shops so both EC & BF decamped to my sanctuary and joined me on my bed to browse the web via my laptop. I had been watching a comedy which became far more entertaining than the virtual shopping and before long YC wedged herself into a little space too and all 4 of us were watching tv on my bed. I looked around me and my heart was full. Unexpectedly good day? You betcha.
into my life
a new photo frame
in the making
staking a claim
to belong with the
the frozen seconds
before the future beckons
but instead the image
failed to develop
and you scooped up the
fragments of your shattered
montage; it was me left
battered & bleeding.
Something I wrote a while back & found in an old notebook.
Thought it worth letting it see the light of day..
Spotted this block of stone on a stroll through Islington, London this morning. Love is all you need on this freezing cold but bright day. (at Camden Passage Sunday Market)
So. Eldest Child has joined a new dance crew. It’s an hour long class & takes 30 minutes to get to. You do the math. It’s 8pm and I ask the smiley lady behind the desk if there is anywhere I might get a coffee (after giving up on my google search). Tesco, just round the corner has a Costa cafe I am told. Off I go. I see the shining illuminated sign advertising said purveyor of coffee and my heart is cheered. Decaff soya latte & The Invention of Hugo Cabret. It’s going to be a good evening. Why is it that some supermarkets smell of freshly baked bread and others smell of….unwashed customers mingled with grime? Eventually I see another sign. I follow it to a darkened corner of the store. Apparently people in these parts don’t drink coffee after 7pm.
Yesterday my car went to the garage (not under it’s own steam you understand, like a pair of socks, worn too often, making their way to the washing basket). This isn’t because I like taking random trips to far flung towns in my county, but by virtue of the fact that my car has decided it’s dashboard is too plain and so, to brighten things up is showing off with a pretty yellow symbol. Seems it needs a new valve. Sounds little doesn’t it? Inexpensive. A five minute job. Don’t let 5 small letters fool you. So I call another garage and am quoted almost half the price. Needless to say I jump at this. Off I go, back to garage A, return the courtesy car, pay £60 for the privilege of knowing I need a new valve and head home with the car, complete with it’s baleful yellow warning light.
Today, car and I go off on another jaunt. This garage doesn’t offer courtesy cars. I get a taxi home. Within half an hour I receive a phone call - car has been diagnosed as indeed requiring a new valve but after removing the existing one, giving it a spit and polish (ok, so maybe they didn’t spit on it) and putting it back, the pretty yellow light has gone out. It’s a miracle! Taxi back to garage B. £60 for telling me that there wasn’t really anything wrong after all. Bargain.
Eldest Child is delighted. “Great! Can I have a lift into town now please?”. Two hours later I go to collect the Eldest Child. We stop at an amber light. The car once more decides it likes yellow…. Of course, the garage is closed.
Anyone thinking that I now wish I’d gone with the first quote is absolutely right.
This, in my opinion, has to be the greatest compliment your child’s friend can ever pay you…
I am blessed.