#atinylife educate

‘Ug I hate that phrase. It’s so sexist.’

‘What phrase?’

‘Bang for your buck. It’s clearly a reference to sex workers.’

‘Is it?’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘Dunno. I thought it was about fireworks.’

‘Nah!’

‘You know, if there was a way to check…’

‘… you mean like a magical encyclopedia on your phone? OK. Let’s see…

“Bang for the (or one’s) buck, which means ‘value for one’s money’, was originally a political one. Its first use was quite literal: With bang referring to ‘firepower’ or ‘weaponry’, it really did mean ‘bombs for one’s money’. The alliteration of bang and buck helps to make the phrase memorable. (Random House, via Wikipedia)”

‘There, you see. Isn’t education a wonderful thing?’

‘You’re just delighted I was wrong.’

‘Not delighted. I’m pleased for you. You’re growing.’

‘At least I can admit when I’m wrong…’

#atinylife BookFest

Yesterday, I made my first appearance at a Book Festival. I’ve not managed to visit many, even as a punter, but every time I have made it along to one, I’ve felt like I was among ‘my people.’

Our event, Books, Blogs and a Blether, comprised of myself, Joanne, who runs Portobello Book Blog, and fellow writer Natalie Fergie chatting blogs and writing. My favourite moment?When we asked everyone to share what they were reading with the person next to them, and the room exploded into a cacophony of book enthusiasm.

The idea of writing being a lonely profession isn’t new. But events like yesterday don’t just help me feel less alone. They make me feel supported by my network, new friends and readers. I even got some great feedback on the first Chapter of lucky draft 13 of Novel number 2.

 

#atinylife Cups

Seems like the easiest thing, when you see it on YouTube. You bash the cup around, and it makes a pleasing, percussive sound.

I had learned the ‘other’ cup song years ago, with my husband’s daughter. We had never laughed as much together as we did that night. And I mastered it, eventually.

So when a friend showed me a video of ‘Royals’ by Lorde, with cups, I left her house as soon as it was socially polite, (OK, possibly sooner) to try and work it out at home.

After kitchen table practice, we tried it together in public. I’ve been going to that particular music session for ten years, and have never been given a request …  not that I’m bitter – that’s not what the session is about. But suddenly:

‘Play that one with the cups again, you two!’

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vXHfu7JzQ4E

#atinylife Politics

‘I don’t do politics.’

‘I’m so bored of politics.’

We’ve all seen this on our newsfeeds, school run, or workplace.

Well, first off, I’m grateful that I have a choice.

For so many, talking about politics is dangerous, and I don’t mean they might lose a few friends for banging on about things that they think matter.

For others, a life without politics in it is harder, if it’s not safe for you to go home anymore…

Or if ever since you were born, the colour of your skin means more than anything else you might feel, know or have to offer.

I try to remember: from when I get up, switch on the kettle, eat, drink, send my kids to school, drive on our roads –

that’s just the first half of my morning!

It all relies on politics.

#atinylife Door

Sometimes I’ll be watching a film or listening to a song or singing to myself. I’ll see something on the news or the newsfeed. Or I’ll be at a kitchen table talking with some friends about something difficult, really being honest for once.

Maybe the preceding day has been painful.

It doesn’t open just because the children have been constant all day, or if I’ve had another writing rejection. If I’ve been the source of a social faux pas – and I’ve had many! it stays resolutely shut.

Sometimes I’ll know it’s going to be a day when it opens up, but sometimes I don’t.

The last time I could almost feel the crack, the hinges swinging. Like an internal door, the echoing space, empty but so, so full.

 

I’m talking about the place inside me where all the tears live.

 

#atinylife Bluelight²

I know, I know.

I wrote about ambulances just the other week there.

But honestly.

 

We were coming out of the cinema,

and the traffic was what I thought was Sunday-night busy.

It turned out everyone was sticky-beaking

at the accident,

and when it was our turn to nose out into the flow of traffic

– our lane was perfectly clear by the way –

I slowed down too.

One car had shunted another.

Everyone looked OK.

The ambulance was there, not rushing off, which I always take as a good sign.

Four … fire-fighters?

Police?

Paramedics?

Fire-fighters, probably.

were pushing the car

out of the road

so that we could all get home.

One had the car door open and was pushing both in and outside the car.

They were running.

Running the car off the road.

 

So we could get home.

 

#atinylife Wood

It was just an ordinary day.

Logs arrived while I was out, so that was good planning.

When I got home, Mr HB had gone to get the children from school, stacking half done.

So I rolled up my sleeves. Figuratively of course, it’s winter –and started moving the logs from the lane to the wood shed.

I could see the children way down the lane when they came back and they stacked the wood too, one more willingly than the other, but they were both ‘encouraged’ to help.

Then the light deepened and pinkened and I knew it was sunset even though we hadn’t seen the sun all day.

Bathed in a rose tint we stacked wood, complained about having to help, blew on our painfully frozen fingers.

An ordinary day.

Wood, sky, children, work, cold, light.

Extraordinarily ordinary.

#atinylife Yew

I walk carefully, through a natural tunnel – one that you could easily miss – fringed with needled branches. Then the space unfolds itself out into the living cathedral of a circular yew tree.

The shouts of the children become half-remembered, as I taste the quiet that lingers in the air here, a flavour of peace. Even bird song is hushed. The silence, or muted noise, as the children duck under branches, disappearing into the network of spreading branches, holds poignancy within a twigged basket.

I breathe the green and brown smell: fresh growth and old wood. As I move through filtered light, drawn as always to touch the rough bark of the largest trunk, feeling this wood of a thousand years, a million needles cast off under my feet. An indoor outdoors.

 

Calm replaces my busy, and I am at peace.

#atinylife PoemReadingDare

When I was about eighteen

lots of people starting talking

about a book they had read.

 

‘It’s totally about you, Stella!’

They would say.

And I would be like

What? A total fuck up

like I am?

 

I can’t remember

where I got my first copy

or where I read it

or what I was doing at the time.

 

But I have read it so often

since then

that I know it all

off by heart.

Words and phrases

from the book

remain in my vocabulary

 

‘happiness is … the pursuit

of attainable goals.’

 

‘I am going to cancel

and spend the evening

eating doughnuts

in a cardigan

with egg on it.’

 

‘Humph.’

 

Sentences structured without all words.

 

One of my favourite reviews

of my own novel,

said it was like ‘a younger version

of Bridget Jones.’

Which was

v. good.

 

 

 

#atinylife Refugee

I am watching

the refugee video

on Facebook.

 

It’s a list of the things people took with them.

One nappy, the actor says.

One nappy.

 

And my son calls

from the living room

‘Mum?

Is it

time

to

go

yet?’

 

He is in the living room

of my house.

I am in the kitchen

of my house,

watching the refugee video

on my computer

in my kitchen

of my house.

 

One nappy. Phone, sim card.

Wrap them in a plastic bag,

pay all you have,

get into a boat

 

with your children, and …

 

In my house,

in my kitchen,

my son is going out.

Later, he will come home.

Later, I will lock the door

 

of my house.

 

Fall asleep, in bed.

I’ll be warm. Home.

 

And I’ll vaguely remember

a video

I watched

earlier,

on Facebook.

On my computer.