Words with Hazel

iPod iRony

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 17:59:00 +0000

So, I've climbed up onto one of the rickety kitchen chairs. I'm balancing precariously, screwdriver in one hand, freshly ironed curtain in the other and lips grasping a row of tiny screws. The iPod (set to 'shuffle') chooses that moment to start playing a particularly tinny and soul-destroying version of "Bah Bah Black Sheep" which seems to go on forever.

Why does that always happen?!

Just another one of life's little jokes I suppose.

Pictures, Candles and Cushions

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 22:03:00 +0000

Sometimes I use the hecticness (made up word) of everyday life as an excuse not to update my blog.

But no more excuses! *punches air determinedly*

I am back. It has taken a fair amount of time and a long process of mental workouts to force me to ‘pull my finger out’. Recently I realised it might be useful to make a list of things that would get me back on track. I’ve kind of veered off in recent months onto the lumpy, bumpy dust path that runs alongside. So, my list has - amongst other things - included getting back into blogging and decorating. Yes, the time has come to turn my tiny living space back into something resembling a cosy chillout zone rather than somewhere to store toys.

I feel better for it too. Granted, it's not much of a life change but at least I’m grabbing back a little control in a world where too often nasty things can creep up behind you and pull the rug out from under your feet.

So far the decorating is going well. I’m afraid I can’t take the credit for that. It’s all thanks to my wonderful Dad who, despite being pretty crippled with wrist/elbow pain has once again come up trumps. He never lets me down me ole Dad. (My goodness, I complain so much about life’s difficulties but I never lose sight of all the wonderful things too).

For once I have steered away from my beloved red and opted for something completely new. Turquoise. Well, 'Duck Egg Blue' to be more accurate. It’s fresh and cheery and quite a dramatic change for me. Perhaps this is symbolic of the U turn I intend to make... (can you tell there’s a BIG birthday looming?)

Ooh, and I have lovely new curtains which I can’t wait to hang. To be honest, I’m a little impatient. I can’t wait for it all to ‘come together’ so I can put all the finishing touches to the room – pictures, candles and cushions, that sort of thing. One of the downsides to decorating a tiny house is there is nowhere to put anything while it's all happening. It’s like one of those puzzles where you have to move the little squares in order to make sense of the bigger picture. Let's just say I hope I don’t need to make a quick exit out the back door because everything is stacked up rather precariously in front of it.

Junior is away this week. Spain with my lovely sister. It feels weird (and quiet) without him here. And bizarrely I can feel it in my bones that he is somewhere far away. But he’s having the time of his life and I am getting to bash on with the painting without having to worry about duck egg footsteps on the stair carpet. I would have liked to have had it all finished before he got home but that’s not looking likely.

I think Junior and Baby will miss the fact that for a while the living room resembled a squash court (see short video below).

Anyway, it was nice chatting with you again. It’s been too long.

Space: The Final Frontier

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Thu, 12 May 2011 09:59:00 +0000

This morning Junior and I were discussing the solar system, his current topic in environmental studies. It’s great to see him so fired up about a school project. I was explaining to him that the planets are actually much further away from one another than most pictures show (for example the illustration above) and in actual fact Mars is, at its closest around 35 000 000 miles from Earth. The immensity of space is a difficult concept to grasp so I started telling him about a brilliant exercise which can help people understand the size of the universe and our infinitesimal place in it.

“First you find a large field” I began “it has to be really big, even bigger than the swing park. Place a football in the middle of the field to represent the sun”

Junior nodded thoughtfully.

“Now take ten big steps away from the ball and drop a pea. That’s Mercury. Take another nine big steps and drop a peppercorn for Venus. Seven more steps and drop another peppercorn for Earth”

I continued to explain the entire process right up to (the recently demoted) Pluto which would be a small pinhead about half a mile away from the football.

Junior looked utterly engrossed as he stared up at the sky with a look of intense concentration on his face.

Great! He’s really listening to this; I’ve got him eating out the palm of my hand.

"Mummy" he said when I finally stopped to draw breath.

He’s going to ask me a challenging question! I thought with a satisfied smile or offer me some of his own knowledge on the subject.

“I’ve got a really itchy bum”

*SIGH*

Perhaps it might have been better if I had just shown him this wonderful video on YouTube.

(“The Size of the Solar System” exercise is taken from Chapter One, The Inquiring Mind: Raising Freethinkers

Cats versus dogs

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Mon, 25 Apr 2011 15:11:00 +0000

"Cut my fresh salmon into tiny morsels immediately"

"Love me. Love me...please"

"In order to keep a true perspective of one's importance, everyone should have a dog that will worship him and a cat that will ignore him” Dereke Bruce

I was once asked during an online interview whether I preferred cats or dogs. As a lover of all things furry I found this question tricky to answer. It’s like being asked to choose between purple and green, or Maltesers and Salt & Vinegar Pringles. So different and yet both wonderful in their own ways. Forced to make a decision I had to admit that for me, it’s cats all the way. And here’s why.

I’m lucky to have both a cat and a dog in my life. Firstly there is Baby, my zany puss who has a penchant for used teabags and bites my nose when he’s hungry (which is pretty much all the time). And then there’s Abi, my sister’s adorable boxer pup who has come into our lives like a miniature tornado. She’s going through a bit of a naughty stage at the moment, the four-legged equivalent of a teenager. My Dad’s raspberry bushes have taken quite a hammering over the last few weeks. On more than one occasion I’ve had to stifle my giggles as he chases her round the greenhouse trying in vain to grab the leafy branch that’s poking out of her mouth. Feisty as Abi is, I can see that deep down she just wants to be loved. I think that’s where it goes a bit wrong for me. Are dogs simply too needy? I suppose I’ve always liked a challenge. While a dog will do anything to win your love a cat’s affections really have to be earned. You know you’ve got something pretty special going on if you can make friends with a cat. Wasn’t it Charles Dickens who said “What greater gift than the love of a cat”?

In the movies the lonely, single woman is often portrayed as being the ‘cat woman’. Her man has let her down, strayed, not given her exactly what she wants. He is self-absorbed, lazy and not ready to settle down. So what does she do? She gets a cat, the animal least likely to love her unconditionally! Cats are the furry equivalent of the most roguish male you could find. They are irresponsible, idle and disloyal. They show a total disregard for authority and are mean just for the fun of it. But I love them regardless. If it’s true that humans like their pets to have the same qualities they possess then I guess that says rather a lot about me.

Much as I adore and respect dogs I simply cannot imagine myself being a dog owner. I’m definitely more of an Agora Burton, the eccentric old lady with the 93 cats who appears in my first novel Bree McCready and the Half Heart Locket. I have loved our family dogs but I have had the privilege of loving them from a distance. As Auntie Hazy I get all of the poochy fun and none of the hard work. And boy, are dogs hard work! Cats are so self-sufficient. Give them a cosy blanket, a jingly ball and a bowl of biscuits and they’ll happily amuse and cater for themselves for the rest of the day. Cats are a million times easier to look after than dogs. No long walks in all weathers, no drool in your shoes and no need for baths. Cats come with a self-cleaning function. Baby actually pees straight down the plughole in the bath. How clever is that! Not only is it super clean but it saves me a fortune on cat litter. I know of more than one dog whose idea of personal grooming is to roll in cow pats. And they eat their own sick for goodness sake. Cats would never dream of stooping to such levels.

There are fewer things more heart-warming than a welcome from a feline friend, even if it is only cupboard love. I’m well aware that Baby only really loves me when I’m near his food cupboard. He’s pretty indifferent to me the rest of the time. He’s not all that keen on giving kisses but he will offer them willingly if some chicken paste is on offer. I know it’s a bit pathetic to resort to bribery just to get some affection but I do get some good head butts when I hold the jar up to my face. Doggie welcomes are pretty great too to be fair. Abi is still at the stage where a little bit of wee comes out when she sees you coming. My mum is forever mopping up yellow puddles off the laminate flooring. And kisses from puppies are special - although I was put off recently after catching Abi eating a poo out of the cat tray. The litter was stuck around her moist jowls like glitter on glue, bless her.

Any self-respecting writer should have a cat around, even if it is someone else’s cat that only comes to visit. Barbara Holland once wrote “A catless writer is almost inconceivable. It's a perverse taste, really, since it would be easier to write with a herd of buffalo in the room than even one cat; they make nests in the notes and bite the end of the pen and walk on the typewriter keys” So true! Baby loves snuggling up next to the vent in my laptop. I’ve seen me typing with one hand while he snores contentedly in the crook of my other arm. How could I possibly disturb him when he looks so cute? So what if it takes me twice as long to write my third book. Cats will always find a way of finding the spot that will cause maximum inconvenience. They’ll also find the warmest place in the house, sometimes following the sunbeam around the room. Anywhere warm will do. Someone once said that a dog will sit on your lap because he is fond of you, a cat will sit on your lap because it’s warm up there. A friend of mine was recently contemplating getting under floor heating in her bathroom but decided against it. She reckoned the room would end up as one giant cat bed. That says it all really.

It simply doesn’t do to get too sentimental about a cat. Let’s face it they’re pretty selfish creatures. Independent and utterly self- interested. But I think that’s why I like them. You get what you see with cats. There is no hidden agenda. They make it clear right from the beginning that life will revolve around them and everything will be on their terms. Whilst a dog would lie beside your deathbed, shrivelling with you until you took your final breath, a cat would step over your dead body to get to the Munchies. Those stories about dogs that have saved their owners lives always astonish me. Faithful pooches that have rescued a family from a fire, frightened off burglars or dialled 999 with their paw when their master has fallen down a well. It makes me chuckle to imagine what a cat would do when faced with a similar emergency. I’m pretty sure Baby would turn a blind eye to a burglar, unless of course he had come armed with some wafer thin turkey. “Mate, take what you want” he would say as he filled his face “I won’t tell her if you don’t”

If a cat decides that breakfast is at 3.30am then that’s when breakfast will be. In the small hours of the morning you could tell a dog to lie down and be quiet and they would, albeit reluctantly. Try this with a hungry cat and you’ll be the loser. If I don’t get out of bed on Baby’s demand he’ll do anything he can to get my attention – chewing my nose, throwing himself at the bedroom door, pulling out the contents of the airing cupboard and if all else fails jumping from a great height onto my bladder. When Baby came into our lives I was told that the training process might take a while to work. It didn’t. He had me trained in less than two days.

Baby is confident that I’m always going to run around after him with treats even when he’s shredded the toilet roll during the night or left a poopy parcel on my pillow. One fishy kiss or a trusting, velvety paw on my lip and all misdemeanours are instantly forgiven. Every cat owner knows that you never own a cat. They own you. It’s just the way of things. They weren’t worshipped as gods in ancient times for nothing.

Despite the more selfish qualities in a cat there is something about their presence that just takes the sting out of being alone. I know it’s the same with dogs but in a different way. Cats are such relaxing animals to be around. It’s impossible to watch a sleeping cat and feel tense. I think writers like cats because they are such quiet, introspective and wise creatures. Perhaps cats like authors for the same reasons.

I personally don’t care what Baby’s intentions are when he sprawls out on my lap. The warm weight of his wee body and his soft, rhythmic purr is enough to soothe my soul and make my heart melt. Who would have imagined so much pleasure from one wee ball of fur? Cats are great healers. Anaesthetic for the soul. They don’t even have to try too hard, they simply have to ‘be’ and in doing so their whiskers seem to find their way into even the deepest cracks of a broken heart. I have realised that whilst helping Baby to recover from his less than perfect past he has somehow managed to do the same for me. I desperately want to prove to him that it is possible to trust and be happy again. To never hear another harsh word and to feel completely safe. But in order to do this I must first believe that all those things are possible for me too.

Yip, I’ve fallen hook, line and sinker for my furry little Baby and after too many catless years my house finally has a soul again. Dogs are great and I will take my role as Abi’s Auntie very seriously. But there’s no denying, I’ll always be a cat girl at heart.

The peapod incident

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Sun, 17 Apr 2011 19:05:00 +0000

If ever there were two words that put the fear of death in me they are Fancy and Dress.

I actually shuddered writing that.

Whenever I get an invite to a fancy dress party my first reaction is to hide under the duvet and wait for it to pass. Call me a killjoy. I’ve never liked them. I used to think it was because I am a fairly introverted person who doesn’t like to be the centre of attention but this evening my mum reminded me of something that happened in my dim and distant past. Something so horrible that I had buried the memory along with my satin blue ra-ra skirt, 'Fame' legwarmers and wheelie-boppers (which I once wore all at the same time and thought I was the bees knees. No wonder Adrian Fowler never wanted to snog me.)

I was telling mum about the up and coming street party that’s being held at my friends to celebrate the Royal Wedding (thankfully only the children are required to dress up so my panic is over for the time being) The theme is “The Best of British” and Junior is going as Levi Roots. I was showing my mum the woolly rasta hat that he’ll be wearing and she looked a little anxious.

“What’s wrong with it?” I asked, worried that she might think it a bit unconventional.

“Well, it might be a bit warm for this” she replied.

“He’ll be fine” I scoffed, carefully untangling the black dreadlocks.

“You obviously don’t remember the peapod incident then” said mum, ominously.

It all came flooding back to me in a horrible rush.

Gala Day, Summer 1979. Not just any summer. The hottest on record – or at least the hottest I had known in my eight short years. My mum had had this brainwave to dress me up as a peapod for the fancy dress competition. It was a brilliant idea – me dressed all in green with three plump, green balloons tied down my middle in a vertical line to represent the peas. There was only one tiny hitch. The outfit consisted of thick, woollen tights, masses of crepe paper draped over a thick jumper and the pies de resistance – a heavy, woollen teacosy hat, decorated with sweet pea flowers fresh from the garden.

I can remember standing up on the settee while my mum fiddled with the hem of the flowing crepe paper dress so it sat nicely on the rim of my (fur-lined) wellington boots.

“I’m a bit hot mum” I moaned, as I scratched a leg through the 800 denier tights.

“Just another minute or two” said mum through a mouthful of safety pins.

Layer upon layer of crepe paper kept getting rolled around me until I was completely mummified. Then the hat went on but the sweet peas still had to be woven in. It felt like I stood for an eternity while mum carefully threaded the stems into the wool. My face was thumping with the heat and beads of sweat were trickling down my back. I started feeling desperately unwell as I watched my mum blow up the first of the balloons, her face alight with pride at her handiwork.

“You look fantastic!” she squealed “I think we’re onto a winner” but her voice was all warbled and distant and funny little pinpricks had appeared before my eyes.

Just as mum stepped back to admire her creative masterpiece I collapsed onto the floor in a sweaty, limp heap.

Of course we had to abandon the entire thing.

I remember, later that afternoon standing watching the prizes being handed out for best costume. First prize went to a girl in my class and her little sister who dressed up as “A pint and a half of milk” They looked rubbish if my memory serves me well but the crowd were laughing and cheering at the wittiness of their idea. As I sucked on my ice pole I thought about the plump green balloons, now redundant on the living room floor and all I could think was that should have been me up there getting the prize.

Story of my life really.

Finn the Fairy - a story about ambition

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 16:13:00 +0000

I was asked to visit the P3's at Niddrie Mill Primary School in Edinburgh to chat to them about ambition and achieving your dream. A tricky subject to discuss with 7 year olds! I thought it might make it easier to explain what ambition meant if I wrote them a little story. This is what I came up with. They absolutely loved it! Thank you P3 and Miss Allan for a lovely visit. Niddrie Mill will always have a special place in my heart x

"This is a story about Finn the fairy. Now, you might imagine that being a fairy meant that Finn had long, golden hair and wore pretty candy floss dresses. But Finn was no ordinary fairy. Finn liked to wear trousers and t-shirts. They were much more comfortable and allowed her to fly around without worrying about getting a draught up her skirt. She had short cropped hair the colour of rubies which she liked to tuck behind her ears.

Sometimes the other fairies laughed at Finn because she was different but Finn didn’t mind because she had something special. She had a little fire in her soul that made her happy to get out of bed every morning and put a spring in every step. This little fire was called ambition.

Finn wanted to be the best tooth fairy in the whole wide world. Her biggest dream was to one day collect enough pearly white teeth to make the most incredible, dazzling, spectacular necklace ever to be seen. She would imagine this every moment of every day, and at night, as she slept on her spider silk pillow she would dream that Queen Eugene - the big boss fairy - was congratulating her for being the best tooth collector in the whole of Fairyland.

One morning Finn received a letter inviting her for a job interview at Tooth Fairy Headquarters.

“Mum! Mum!” she squealed as she ran through to the kitchen, “I’ve got an interview for the position of senior tooth fairy”

Finn’s mum smiled from ear to ear.

“I’m not in the least bit surprised” she said “I know you can do anything you like if you put your mind to it”

Finn stared down at the letter. She couldn’t stop smiling!

“I need to get ready” she said, flapping her feathery wings “the interview is in two hours. I think I’ll wear my best purple trousers and my fancy green top and I’ve got those little pixie boots I keep for special occasions”

“And I’ll do your hair the way you like it” added her Mum.

Finn flattened her short red hair and looked up at her mum with a worried expression.

“Do you think they’ll like me Mum?” she asked.

Finn’s mum’s eyes twinkled.

“Just you be yourself and do your best and I’m sure they will love you”

“But I’m not like all the other fairies” sighed Finn “I never wear skirts and I hate the colour pink!”

“But you’re hard working and very determined” her mum replied, “I can’t think of anyone who would be better for this job than you”

Finn’s mum had always believed in her and her dream. It gave Finn a warm, fuzzy feeling inside and made her want to achieve her ambition even more.

**~~**

Finn was so nervous when she arrived at Fairy Headquarters later that morning. She hoped Queen Eugene would believe in her too. She took a deep breath, threw back her shoulders, shook her wings and fluttered into the interview room.

There were lots of other fairies waiting to be interviewed. They whispered and giggled when they saw Finn. Finn knew they were laughing at her clothes and it hurt her feelings. But she tried to ignore them as she made her way towards an empty chair. She sat between a boy fairy and a pretty girl fairy with long hair as white as snow.

“Hello” smiled the boy “my name is Pip and this is Immelda”

Immelda looked Finn up and down and screwed up her face.

“I’m so nervous” whispered Finn, “for as long as I can remember I’ve wanted to be the best tooth fairy that ever lived and now I’ve got a chance to prove what I can do”

“You can’t be a tooth fairy” Immelda sneered “you’re not even wearing a dress!”

“Neither am I!” laughed Pip.

“That’s different” snapped Immelda, “you’re a boy”

“I don’t much like dresses” shrugged Finn.

Immelda rolled her eyes.

“Everyone knows that all girl fairies wear dresses!” she said.

Finn sighed with frustration.

“Well, maybe it’s time that all changed” she said. “You see, I know I’m really good at what I do and I don’t see why that should change just because I don’t like glittery tutus and frilly pink dresses”

At that moment the door swung open and Queen Eugene fluttered into the room. She was so beautiful everyone gasped. Finn couldn’t believe she was in the same room as the big boss fairy. Queen Eugene sat down at her desk and put on a pair of glasses. She stared down at a pile of papers and then looked around the room.

“The first two fairies to be interviewed are Finn and Immelda!” she announced.

“Good luck” whispered Pip.

Finn took a deep breath as she watched Immelda flutter in graceful loops towards Queen Eugene’s desk.

“I think I’ll need it” she muttered as she followed.

***~~**

Queen Eugene looked over the top of her glasses at Finn as she settled into the chair opposite.

“I would like you to tell me why you want this job” she said.

Finn smiled.

“This is the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do” she began “collecting teeth makes me happy and I’m very good at it. I work hard and I won’t give up until I’ve done the very best I can do to be the very best I can be”

Queen Eugene nodded and smiled.

“But she doesn’t even wear skirts” snapped Immelda “and she won’t wear anything pink!”

Queen Eugene gave Immelda a disapproving look before turning back to Finn.

“Don’t you have…anything pink?” she asked.

Finn shook her head.

“I don’t like pink” she said softly.

Queen Eugene eyed her thoughtfully.

“I tell you what” she said “let’s see which one of you can collect the most teeth in one night. Then we’ll know who is best for the job. Collect a rucksack from reception and I’ll see you back here tomorrow morning – 8 o’clock sharp”

***~~***

That night was a blur to Finn. All she knew was that her little green wings flapped harder than they had ever done before. She flew from house to house collecting teeth from underneath pillows and leaving a coin in their place. She had never been so determined to win a race in all her life! Before she knew it her little rucksack was filled to the brim with shiny white baby teeth.

“I’m sure I’ve got enough to make that beautiful necklace” she thought with a smile.

When Finn got back to Fairy Headquarters she was absolutely exhausted. She knew even if she didn’t win she had done the very best job she could do. There was nothing more she could have done.

“There” she panted and tossed the bag onto the table “I’ve done my best. I’ve worked harder than I’ve ever worked in my life”

Queen Eugene pulled open the zip on Immelda’s rucksack first. She turned it upside down and an avalanche of pearly teeth tumbled to the floor like little white stones.

“Well done Immelda!” she said as she clapped her hands together with delight.

Immelda smiled proudly and flapped her glittery wings.

Finn’s stomach flipped with nerves.

“Mmm, this would take some beating” said Queen Eugene preparing Finn for the worst.

She tried to lift Finn’s rucksack but groaned under the weight of it. Her face turned pink with the effort of tipping the bag over.

“My, oh my” she puffed, “what have you got in here? Rocks!?”

Finn’s heart soared with hope. Perhaps she could still win? This meant so much to her.

Hundreds of little shiny teeth poured out of Finn’s rucksack and spilled across the floor. Queen Eugene gasped.

“I think it’s fair to say this is the most teeth I’ve ever seen in my whole time as boss fairy! We’re going to be able to make at least twenty fancy necklaces with these. I’m very impressed Finn and I would like to offer you the job”

Finn’s face broke into a huge smile.

“Thank you” she said “I won’t let you down”

Finn had never felt so happy. This was the moment she had dreamed about all her life and it felt even better than she had imagined! All her hard work and dedication had finally paid off.

As you might imagine Finn’s Mum was over the moon when she heard the good news.

“I’m very proud of you” she said “you knew what you wanted and you didn’t give up until you had it. I wonder what you will do now that you have achieved your dream?”

Finn smiled a mischievous smile.

“Well that’s simple” she said “now I’m going to work my little pixie boots off and one day I will be the big boss Fairy!”

Finn’s Mum laughed.

“Now that’s what I call ambition” she said"

First blog post of 2011

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Sun, 09 Jan 2011 14:08:00 +0000

It has been a difficult and stressful month. Junior was off school for the first two weeks in December due to the snowy weather. For a while it seemed like we would never see greenery again. I couldn't remember what the world looked like underneath the thick blanket of white. Being trapped in the house with a hyper seven year old was challenging.. to say the least. There are only so many board games you can play, fairy cakes you can bake, Lego models you can build and snowmen you can build. My Christmas decorations have never been up so early!

At long last school re-opened but three days into being back Junior took ill and had to spend a few days under a blanket on the settee. Thank goodness for Calpol and CBBC. Predictably, I then took his bug and spent Christmas in bed/hospital/my folks. Not the best Christmas on record it has to be said.

The M&S Honey Roast Parsnips and Nut Roast are still tucked away in the freezer for a time when we're completely back on our feet and can enjoy them. However, I'm not sure when that will be. This virus has really knocked me for six. On a good day I just feel hungover and on a bad day I feel like every cell in my body has been poisoned. Sometimes the thirteen steps to the toilet feels like Mount Everest.

Poor Dizzy Rascal, our hamster died on the 28th December. She was nearly two years old and so it was not a shock. She seemed bright enough but when I went to clean her cage I noticed (to my horror) that she had doubled in size. I was still so ill when I had to stagger over to the vets in my pyjamas through freezing sleet and wind. I kept feeling like I was going to pass out. It was a particularly emotional experience because it was three years to the day that I had to say goodbye to my faithful puss Bonnie, who died at the ripe old age of 17.

I whispered my tearful farewells to wee Dizzy in the waiting room and kissed her whiskery nose for the last time. I chose for the vet to take her away and do the kindest thing for her. He told me she was so swollen because of a fluid build up, most likely as a result of kidney failure. It was very difficult to say goodbye when she was still so alert and behaving normally. The lovely vet reassured me that I was doing the right thing and it was only a matter of time before she took a stroke or started to suffer. At least I can take comfort from knowing she wasn't in pain. I was kind of glad for the lashing rain on my walk home with the empty pet carrier since no-one would see my tears.

It's times like that - when you're desperately ill and emotionally weak - when you wish there was someone around who could make the impossible choices and pick up all the pieces. I get so tired of being the one who has to make all the difficult decisions and provide all the explanations. Sometimes I yearn for someone to hold me up emotionally and take the choices out of my hands. It was heart wrenching breaking the news to Junior that Dizzy had gone and wouldn't be coming back although he took it well and showed remarkable maturity and sensitivity. It was a comfort to take a bag of Dizzy's unused bedding, food and toys to the SSPCA animal shelter where they would be put to good use.

Poor wee thing. I broke my heart when I came home from the vets and started to clear away her cage. She had made this cute little pile of food, all neatly organised in the corner of her bed. I'm guessing she thought it would be warmer to have breakfast in bed. I know this will sound weird but I really miss her company.

On a brighter note we have a new member of the family. Baby. No, not a real baby! A furry one. Baby the cat arrived in the middle of December. I had some niggling concerns that he might not hit it off with Junior but I needn't have worried. Baby follows him around like a little lamb and it's sweet to see my rowdy boy showing the softer side to his nature. Check out what he has to say about life at his own blog.

Apart from a couple of 'weeing' incidents Baby appears to be settling into his new home. I contacted Sarah at Sunny Harbour (the shelter where we got Baby from) and she has advised me to keep things simple for a few days to reduce Baby's stress levels. I've to limit the space he has and in turn the inappropriate urination should mend itself. Fingers crossed.

I hate to think of my wee cat feeling stressed. Sarah has reassured me that his behaviour is normal, especially considering the stressful environment he came from before finding himself at Sunny Harbour. I wish I could make him understand that nobody is ever going to hurt him again. I guess even cats find it difficult to let go of the past.

Right, I'm away to scrape the snow off my car and give the engine a run. Need to make sure I can get Junior to school.

X

Last blog post of the year

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Fri, 24 Dec 2010 12:39:00 +0000

Being a single mother is not the walk in the park that Jeremy Kyle or the Tory government would have you believe it is. Not if it’s done properly. Over the last couple of days I have nursed a very poorly boy whilst hardly being able to lift my own head off the pillow. In the early hours of this morning as I lay in bed with a soaring temperature and a hacking cough I had the opportunity to reflect on what the last 5 years of lone parenthood has meant for me. It has been a full time job… and the rest. I have been a mum and a dad, a teacher, a doctor, a social worker, a psychologist, good cop/bad cop, chauffeur, clown, cleaner, cook. I’ve been Santa Claus, the tooth fairy and the Easter Bunny. I have been disciplinarian and a warm shoulder to cry on, sometimes at the same time.

And all done on next to no salary, no holidays or sick days. Oh, what I would have given for a sick day yesterday.

I have worked tirelessly and on my own to raise my happy, healthy, well rounded and intelligent little boy. There have been moments where I have gone to bed at night and cried with the pressure and weight of responsibility that being a lone parent can bring. But there have also been moments of sheer giddy happiness. And on the whole I am pleased with the way I have done things and proud of how my little boy has turned out.

Single mothers (and let’s face facts it always seems to be mothers) get such bad press. I’ve never fully understood why. After all, being a parent is the hardest job in the world. Being a single parent is doubly difficult. Negative stereotypes would have you believe that we are the scourge of society, a prime cause of social breakdown, the sole responsibility for ‘Broken Britain’. I would urge the people who believe this to spend a week in the shoes of a single parent. Have they ever wondered why some people find themselves in the challenging and often unwanted position of bringing up a child on their own? It is unfair to tar everyone with the same brush. I am profoundly aware that there are single parents who abuse the system. Sadly it is this small percentage that politicians and certain sections of the press tend to focus on, forgetting that the majority of us are simply trying to get by and do the very best we can. Sometimes bringing up a child in the face of such hostility and misunderstanding can be intolerable.

So as we draw to the end of another year I would like to reflect upon what has brought me to this point in my life. To take stock of where I am and where I would like to be this time next year. And above all to extend my warmest wishes to parents everywhere. Especially single parents since this time of year brings with it its own unique challenges.

It can be a tough old life sometimes but there is nothing I would have done differently. I hope that Junior and I feel much better tomorrow so that we can fully enjoy the magic of Christmas morning together. For it is moments like those that make all the hard work worthwhile and remind me why I am the luckiest Mummy in the world.

Happy Christmas x

Paws for Thought

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Thu, 25 Nov 2010 19:48:00 +0000

"Time spent with cats is never wasted”

Sigmund Freud

My faith in human beings has been restored. It doesn’t take much. In this world of horror where we hear so much about war and cruelty there are stories that would warm the cockles of the coldest heart. My story is about the Sunny Harbour Cat and Kitten Rescue.

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I absolutely love cats. It was no coincidence that when I was writing my first novel "Bree McCready and the Half Heart Locket" I wrote the character Agora Burton, a whacky old lady who shares her life with lots of cats and clocks. It wasn’t difficult for me to conjure her up. In fact I reckon she’s me in around 50 years time.

Here’s an extract from the chapter entitled "Cats and Clocks" –

"At the end of the gloomy hallway Bree, Sandy and Honey came to a little room filled with cats and clocks, where the old lady poked at a roaring fire, a knobbly hand on her hip to support her decrepit body. A glow surrounded her like a magic circle. Burning logs spat and crackled in protest at being prodded, forcing her to dodge out of the way of floating embers.The room was just like the old woman – small, old-fashioned and eccentric. The walls were covered in paintings of strange landscapes and sepia photographs of rigid people. And there were cats everywhere. They sat on the window sills; were curled up on chairs, and stretched out on the mantelpiece, slowly edging the ornaments forward with their swishing tails until they wobbled precariously at the edge. Bree cleared her throat loudly and the old woman immediately straightened her withering body and smiled across at their gawping faces.
‘Aren’t cats wonderful?’ she smiled. ‘Mysterious, independent and unfathomable.’
Bree nodded but Sandy was unconvinced, the only cat he had ever liked was Bustopher. He looked down at his feet to see that a rather portly, tortoiseshell furball had planted itself beside him and was now licking its paw intently. The cat’s talons were spread out fully to allow a long, sandpaper tongue to lick thoroughly in between each toe. Suddenly sensing Sandy’s stare, the cat promptly stopped licking and glared up at him. Intimidated, he broke eye contact and edged away.
‘The thing I love most about cats,’ continued the old woman, ‘is that they say very little, but they think a great deal.’
She placed the poker against the fireplace and wiped the ash from her hands.
‘There is many a human being who could learn some precious lessons from our feline friends"

When my Mum and I arrived at Sunny Harbour we were welcomed by Paul - the lovely man who runs the shelter with his wife Sarah - and a whole army of gorgeous pussies all vying for our attention. I didn’t know which one to stroke first! Paul took us into a back room and introduced us to some real beauties – Ollie, a sweet boy with a penchant for nibbling fingers (in a nice way!), Daisy, a lovely wee lady who was desperate to get some time away from her three adorable - but demanding - kittens and Simba, a feisty young lad with eyes like saucers filled with mischief! Mum took an instant shine to Daisy who cuddled into her duffle coat like a newborn baby. And I have to admit I could really empathise with wee Daisy's urge to have some time away from her boisterous babes!

Then I saw him. Baby. And it was love at first sight. He was in one of the cages at floor level and easy to miss but when I spotted him I felt that tug in my heart that only comes when something just feels right. He’s a big hunk with the most incredible markings and intelligent eyes. I think I’m in love! Mind you if I could I would take every single one of them home. I have an abundance of love to give, not to mention a sheepskin radiator bed which is crying out for a furry lump to snuggle into it.

I’m returning to Sunny Harbour on Sunday with with a couple of bags of sheets and towels (all donations are welcome) and Junior. I want to see how he and Baby respond to one another and I have my fingers (and toes) crossed that they’ll hit it off. Hopefully this time next week my happy wee family will be complete. I can’t wait.

I simply could not get over the love and quality of care those cats receive from Paul and Sarah, who run the shelter from their lovely home. All the cages were spotless and I could tell that Paul had a heart of gold and would have laid down his life for any one of those moggies. It’s just so heart-warming.

He knew all their individual personalities and quirky mannerisms. You could tell that this was a passion for him. And it would have to be. He works full time on top of caring for the cats that arrive on his doorstep. And there are lots of them. At one point they had 76 poor souls looking for homes. Every single cat receives all the best of food and treatment including microchipping, vaccinations and neutering. The kittens are cared for like newborn babies, fed hourly and all through the night. No cat is ever turned away. Paul and Sarah even bring your chosen cat to your home to ease the settling in period and so that they can check their babies have everything they need in their new surroundings. It’s such a responsible way to do things and it reassures me that every cat that finds their way to Sunny Harbour stands the best chance of finding their happy, forever home.

I’ll keep you updated on the progress with our new addition and post some photos soon. And might I take this opportunity to ask you kindly to think of our innocent, vulnerable friends this Christmas and give a donation to Sunny Harbour. The shelter is run solely off donations from the public and with those hefty vet fees and quality care every single penny matters.

Join Sunny Harbour on Facebook

Facebook

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 21:28:00 +0000

Calling all Bree fans!

"Bree McCready and the Flame of Irenus" now has an official Facebook page!

And if you're not already a member of the "Bree McCready and the Half Heart Locket by Hazel Allan" Facebook page why not join here?

Praise for Bree McCready:

"Indiana Jones meets Jacqueline Wilson" Books from Scotland

"Good friends, action, and thrills, oh my! Bree had all of it" The Book Owl

"It's a snappier, more action-packed, faster paced read than Harry Potter. 5 stars" Our Book Reviews

"This tale will have children eagerly flipping the pages to see what comes next" The Supermom

"If you want to keep your children quiet and busy for a while then this would be a good book to give them. A non stop whirlwind, I can imagine kids begging for another chapter, and another, as they find themselves caught up in Bree's adventure..It would make a great gift for any children you know who like to be kept on the edge of their seats!" The Bookbag

Coming Soon!

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 18:10:00 +0000

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 11:18:00 +0000

Motto

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 20:13:00 +0000

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 17:19:00 +0000

"A mother is the truest friend we have, when trials heavy and sudden, fall upon us; when adversity takes the place of prosperity; when friends who rejoice with us in our sunshine desert us; when trouble thickens around us, still will she cling to us, and endeavor by her kind precepts and counsels to dissipate the clouds of darkness, and cause peace to return to our hearts"

Washington Irving

Thanks for being there Mum. I love you x

Boy/Girl ratio issues at holiday club

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 13:52:00 +0000

I left a rather grumpy looking Junior at rhythmic gymnastics with 20 sweet little girls in pigtails and pink pumps. I tried to reassure him that boys love gymnastics too and that his Great Grandad Quested could walk down the stone steps at Portobello Beach on his hands. He gave me a disgruntled glare as I left the hall.

When I picked him up an hour later he was acting all cool as the girls fought over who was going to be his partner on the way out.

"Goodbye!" they giggled sweetly as he shrugged nonchalantly and swaggered towards the car.

Who said it wasn't fun being the only boy?... : )

It's only week 2 of the summer holidays...

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Sun, 18 Jul 2010 17:06:00 +0000

..and I'm feeling the strain already.
Sensing that I was feeling a little bit stressed Junior put his hand on my shoulder and said "I know what you need Mummy"
A bit of support? To win the Postcode Lottery? A nice cup of tea? A handsome prince?
"A nice face massage" smiled Junior with a sympathetic rub of my shoulder.
"I wish!" I scoffed, rolling my eyes to the ceiling.
"Come with me" winked Junior, leading me through to my bedroom clutching a bottle of Oil of Ulay (I know it's Olay now but I still call Starburst 'Opal Fruits' and Snickers 'Marathons')
I was feeling slightly anxious as Junior plumped up the pillow behind my head and squeezed a healthy sized blob of face cream into the palm of his hand.
"What are you doing?.." I asked suspiciously, trying to contain my OCD about anything spilling onto my bedclothes.
"Just shoosh, Mummy and close your eyes" replied Junior, gently pushing my head in the direction of the plump pillow.
I did as I was told and the next thing I knew I was drifting in and out of consciousness.
Turns out that Junior was taught how to give facial massages in Primary One. All the kids are shown how to do this to one another during what is called Golden Time. Apparantly it helps with relaxation, class bonding and learning what kind of touch is appropriate. Nice to know the taxpayers money isn't going to waste after all.
He did everything beautifully and with little butterfly touches. He even said all the right things like "Just feel yourself floating away" and "All your cares are disappearing"
It was an extraordinary experience and one that reminded me of all the times I gave Junior a massage with baby oil when he was a tiny baby. It used to calm him down before he went to bed and it was something we both enjoyed (although I had to be careful his greasy little body didn't shoot out of my hands like a bar of soap when I lifted him off the changing mat) He used to get what I call the 'thousand mile stare' as I rubbed the massage oil into the fleshy folds of his skin. It was the only time I remember him lying still for longer than 2 seconds.
So, I'm lying there getting my ear lobes rubbed simultaneoulsy (I know! It was fab) and Junior starts talking like Paul McKenna...
"Just feel your worries s-l-i-d-e down your face...down your chubby cheeks and over your big blubbery lips"
I felt a bubble of laughter rise up from my stomach. I tried to hold onto it but it shot up into my shoulders and they started to shake silently. This set Junior off into a fit of wild giggles. He lost all control of his bodily functions, snorting a rather large snotter onto my eyelid at the same time as letting off the loudest fart.
The spell was broken.

For a gentle, loyal friend

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 13:17:00 +0000

“This dog only, waited on,
knowing that when light is gone
love remains for shining”
Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I thought I was doing OK. That was until I came across Junior’s school jotter from last summer. In it was his project on pets. There it was in black and white. “Ellie is my Auntie Sandra’s dog but I see her every day at my Gran and Grandad’s house” “Ellie is so cuddly” “She makes tunnels over my train track with her back legs” “Ellie likes to lick my face when I come home from school” “Ellie is the best dog in the world”
I thought I had cried all my tears. Enough to fill a swimming pool. But no, there were more to come. Ellie the Boxer dog. Totally loyal, totally forgiving and always enthusiastic. She died on a Saturday morning. May 29th 2010.
Nothing could have prepared me for that moment or for the emotional devastation that hit me like a violent, black wave. I frightened myself with the noises I made as I cried for her. Not tears like the ones I shed now but great, primal wails that come from somewhere deep inside and threatened to knock me off my feet. I vaguely remember the short drive down to my parents’ house. I was in a complete daze, viewing the road in front of me through a crystal wall of tears. I felt terrified about how I would react when I stepped through their front door only to see the empty chair at the window and the muddy footprints on the laminate floor. How I actually made it from my house to theirs in one piece I will never know. We spent the afternoon as a family - talking, crying, remembering and yet in my grief I felt so alone. I was, after all only ‘Auntie Hazy’. She was not my dog. She was my sister’s dog, shared with my mum and dad. But because of her loving and giving nature she somehow invaded all our hearts. In some ways Ellie transcended ownership (although I am still very aware of how much my sister loved her and I am in no way trying to devalue anyone else’s grief by telling my side of the story).
Junior adored Ellie and saw her every day, never knowing a life without her around. She would have laid her life down for the kids, choosing to sit and watch them play at the park rather than run around with her ball. We called Junior “baby boy” only to Ellie. “Where’s baby boy?” “Go find baby boy!” Of course this was something that stuck because she met my son when he was only two days old. It was love at first sight. In the beginning I would follow her around with the antibacterial gel for those moments when she decided to wash his fuzzy hair with her tongue. And both the kids learned to walk using Ellie as a support. She never once lost her cool, even when they tugged on her stumpy tail. She was like an old Mother hen with them. One of the things that nearly cracked my heart in two when she died was the acknowledgment that my “baby boy” had died with her.
I suppose in some ways I didn’t feel entitled to grief as much as everyone else. After all, I had had all the fun of Ellie without any of the commitment or hard work. It had been my mum and dad who nursed her through the night like a sick child after her eye operation, it had been my sister who had held Ellie as she took her last breath. That moment must have been so hard for her. Despite the fact we all knew it was the right decision I am so grateful it wasn’t me having to make it.

I wasn’t ready to say good bye. None of us were. Ellie was only eight years old. You hear about dogs double that age still going strong. It seemed so unfair.
What troubles me most is not being able to remember the last time I saw her. I have racked my brains, studied the calendar, counted back the days and yet I cannot work it out. There is a gut churning guilt that comes with that. I can remember sitting in my parents’ garden one really hot morning towards the end of May. Everyone else was out so it was just me and Ellie and the birds. She lay at my feet on the cold slabs watching the baby blackbirds feeding. I remember thinking how peaceful it was and how much I loved having Ellie there as a companion. I have convinced myself that was the last day we spent together. I don’t know if it’s just too painful at the moment for my brain to process or whether I am fooling myself into thinking of that moment because it was so lovely. I know if I had had an inkling that those were the last moments with her I would have treasured them more, attached some significance to them, lay down on those slabs beside her and cuddled her until my arms were sore. But we never know what’s coming, do we. Whether that is cruel or kind I am not sure.

I remember the very first moment I set eyes on Ellie. I couldn’t believe anything could be so cute! Happiness is a warm puppy. She used to chase my IKEA slippers and chew on my toes until I yelped with a mixture of pain and laughter. I remember her as this little wriggly thing that could fit easily on my lap. She would slide down into the valley between my legs and fall asleep, her soft, velvet belly exposed for a tickle. I think of her sucking the buttons on my mum’s shirt, chewing the beak on the wooden duck ornament when she was teething. We would say “No, leave!” as strictly as we could and she would stare up through her long lashes and give one defiant yelp that would turn us to mush in an instant. I think about how excited she would get playing the ‘Findy Game’, a pastime which involved hiding a cube of cheese in various parts of the room while Ellie wasn’t looking and then shouting “Go find!” Inevitably she would always return to the last place she had found her cheesy morsel not thinking we could be creative. Perhaps not the brightest crayon in the pencil case but boy, did I love that big lump. It always made me smile when she chased the crows. Blackbirds, starlings, sparrows, seagulls were all accepted in the garden but not the “big, black crows!” Mad as a box of frogs but all the more loveable because of that. It helps to remember how much Ellie was loved, how nice a routine she had and how much she embraced life. She didn’t ask for much and she was always so happy to get what she was given.
Above all else, I think about my morning welcomes. No-one was ever as glad to see me as Ellie Pellie. When I think of her I want to remember her running to meet me, coming at me sideways because she couldn’t control her excitement. She would give me a high five and breath on me with her fishy breath, something which was not for the faint hearted! It’s strange the things you don’t mind when you love something so much.

Even as I write this I find myself realising that this is the first time I have been in my parents’ house, on my own without Ellie. I know it sounds romantic and clichéd but her presence is very much here. Sometimes I feel like she is a long way away but other times I genuinely feel like I could reach out and touch her. I can almost hear the clicking of her paws on the wooden floor, the clunk of her name tag on the windowsill as she rests her head down to watch passers-by. When Brian the postie comes my brain tricks me into thinking that there is going to be an explosion of sound and frantic scrambling as she attempts to gain purchase on the slippery floor. Like when one song on an album finishes and you know, without thinking which one is coming next. It’s so quiet without her...
Ellie has left such a gaping hole in all our lives, it’s almost unbearable. Only the memory of her keeps me from falling apart altogether and I know with time those memories will fade. They’ll never go entirely but I wonder if in two, three years I will still remember the feel of her velvet ears and the little bit at the top of her nose where the dust gathered. My grief feels ridiculous, like I shouldn’t be feeling this way about the loss of a dog. People expect this kind of grief to happen to them when they lose a person who is close to them. But a dog? I have analysed why I feel such sorrow, why in the immediate aftermath of Ellie’s death it felt like there was an invisible veil between me and the rest of the world. Ellie was the first living creature in a long time that I had allowed myself to love without holding back. My love for her was undiluted. Her love for me was honest and straightforward. Those are things that are difficult to give and receive in human relationships. We (or at least I) always keep back a little of myself with people in case I get hurt or let down. Knowing Ellie would never do those things meant I could love her freely. The price I have to pay for that is unalloyed grief.

People say “she had such a good life” (yes, the best) “you have wonderful memories” (yes, she brought joy to all our lives) “no dog could have been more loved” (that is for sure!) and yet the words seem empty (although appreciated). I know all these things are true but they are never going to bring back Ellie. And I just want her back!
Someone tried to comfort me recently by saying “Ellie wouldn’t want you to be this upset” and it made me smile to remember the time I staggered in the house last year after breaking my hand in two places. I was sitting on the chair at the back of the room crying and rocking with pain and my mum brought me through a frozen chicken fillet wrapped in a tea towel to reduce the swelling. Ellie came over and placed her head in my lap, looking up at me with her big, searching eyes before looking down at my hand as if she knew why I was upset.
“Aw, look at that..” said my mum with watery eyes, “..she’s so intuitive, she hates when anyone is upset”
I’m still not sure whether mum was right or whether Ellie just had her eye on the chicken fillet! I like to think she genuinely was concerned about my well being.

Of course, anyone with a pet knows from day one that you will most likely outlive them. At the back of your mind there is always that terror of knowing how awful it is going to be when they are no longer here. There is so much truth in the saying “Fear is a terrible journey. Sorrow is at least an arriving” Thinking about it now I knew that time was slipping away and we were never going to have the time we deserved with Ellie. She slowed down so much in the last year. Sometimes it was an effort for her to look out of the window. She would bring stinky duck over but her eyes were tired and she played half-heartedly. My morning welcomes went from wild circuits of the living room and a hot tongue face-wash to a feeble tail wag. She had so many health problems it’s a wonder we had her as long as we did. My sister had chosen the runt of the litter. No-one else wanted her (thank goodness) and with that ball of fur and cheeky face came a whole host of problems. It felt so unfair having this beautiful, enthusiastic spirit inside a body that ultimately let her down.

Ellie is irreplaceable. But of course so will any other pets we have. You never replace a dog, you just love the next one in a different way. The day we lost Ellie I swore I would never love another animal like that again, such was the pain of losing her. For comfort I Googled pet/grief and I came across this quote by Cleveland Amory.
“Unlike some people who have experienced the loss of an animal, I did not believe, even for a moment, that I would never get another. I did know full well that there were just too many animals out there in need of homes for me to take what I have always regarded as the self-indulgent road of saying the heartbreak of the loss of an animal was too much ever to want to go through with it again. To me, such an admission brought up the far more powerful admission that all the wonderful times you had with your animal were not worth the unhappiness at the end”
Loving anything means grieving when it dies. Because our love for Ellie was so pure our grief is at times unbearable. But I know now that you cannot have the bizarre happiness a warm wet, tongue on your face brings unless you are prepared for the insufferable sadness that comes when the licking stops. The worst days for me are sunny days. Two days after Ellie died they cut the grass in the field where we used to take her to play. The sun was out in a fluffy blue sky and the breeze was fresh. I couldn’t help but think Ellie would have loved it. A few days later, on a rainy Sunday afternoon we let go of six red balloons (Ellie’s collar was red so it seemed a fitting tribute) and watched as they spiralled up before disappearing into the grey sky. We said goodbye and my heart broke all over again with the unfairness of it. Junior and I tied a red ribbon on the fence which we pass every night on our way home. It’s poignant seeing it flapping in the wind. Only we know why it’s there and it helps us feel close to her. But it’s always sad too, like a mini goodbye every day. I know we must be grateful for our short time with our special dog. Some people never experience the undiluted happiness only a pet can bring and I feel sorry for them.
I am sure there will be other animals in our lives. I look forward to meeting them. But I will never forget our gentle, loyal friend.

For Ellie, who left paw prints on our hearts
1st January 2002 ~ 29th May 2010

Read it and weep

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Thu, 24 Jun 2010 12:25:00 +0000

Everyone knows I like a good read but it’s not often I feel compelled to review a book. I knew I was going to love “Dead Boy Talking” by Linda Strachan for lots of reasons. Firstly I had enjoyed "Spider" so much that I read it without coming up for air. However, Linda Strachan’s second offering of gritty realism is something really special.
To start with there is the stunning front cover and the shocking first line that snares you from the outset - “In 25 minutes I will be dead”. But I really knew I was in trouble when I looked at the clock in the car and realised I was ten minutes late collecting my son from school. I’ve never done that before. "Dead Boy Talking" just sucked me in and before I knew it I was completely engrossed in Josh’s story. I had even shed a tear by page 34. I was still thinking about what I had read well into the evening.
The timing of my picking up this book was particularly poignant. Only last week I was told that a young boy I knew had been stabbed to death outside the school I used to teach at. He was 17. Any death of a young person is heartbreaking but when it’s as needless and violent as that it makes it all the more horrific. With it comes the death of possibility and the ripples that affect the community and the people who knew the victim. Sadly, knife crime is an aspect of youth culture that continues to shock and upset us on a daily basis and one that doesn’t seem to be going anywhere in a hurry. That’s what makes “Dead Boy Talking” such an important book. Not only does it open up dialogue about knife crime and gang culture but it also shows us the devastating consequences that carrying a knife can have on both the victim and the perpetrator (Josh is both which gives the story an interesting and unique angle). Every secondary school pupil should read “Dead Boy Talking”. In fact, come to think of it every teacher and parent should read it too. I wish I had had access to books like this when I was at school and I will certainly be putting this on my son’s bookshelf for him to read when the time is right.

Josh's story is a stark reminder of how flimsy the wall can be between friendship and betrayal, how our actions affect others and how easy it can be to take the wrong path. Just as she managed to achieve with "Spider" Linda Strachan allows us to see the bigger picture, snapshots of the events which have brought Josh to this terrible and hopeless point. She reminds us that nothing is ever as black and white as it seems, that there are reasons people behave the way they do even when their actions are abhorrent. Despite the fact that Josh has made a terrible mistake we still feel sympathy for him. I desperately wanted this book to have a happy ending.
I have had the pleasure of meeting Linda a few times and she doesn’t strike me as the sort of person who would have had much experience of knife crime. And yet she manages to capture the emotions, dilemmas and stark choices of teenagers in a way that is authentic and non-patronising. Young people would see straight through any pretence and so it’s great to see there isn’t any in this story. Throughout, Strachan manages to convey a feeling of dread and terror without stepping into unrealistic territory. In fact it is the haunting realism that makes this story so gripping. I was constantly reminded that this could happen to anyone.
The parts of the story where we see Josh lying waiting to die are harrowing, shocking and deeply moving. We are privy to Josh’s thoughts and regrets - “Typical I would only start to understand now it’s too late”. I actually had butterflies in my stomach as the clock ticked down, such was my terror at losing him. 24 minutes…19 minutes…10...3.. The thing that Linda Strachan does so well here is to make it feel like we are standing watching Josh and yet helpless to do anything about it. The mother in me wanted to reach in and scoop him off the ground, to comfort him, help him and ultimately save him. Not being able to do that only added to the heart hammering tension and horror of the story.
"Dead Boy Talking" is not an easy read. There were moments where my stomach clenched so badly I had to put the book down and take a break. I hope that this book takes other people out of their comfort zone too and prompts them to ask important questions and explore the reasons why some young people resort to carrying knives - a deep seated need to belong/"for show and to ward off trouble”. The story of how Josh is dragged into using a knife on his friend is gripping but the most frightening part is how easy it is for him to find himself in the situation. As a mother I was forced to contemplate how my own son might deal with the same pressures and choices both Josh and his friend Ranj faced. Strachan’s characters are always solid and credible. She has a knack of understanding the teenage psyche and tackles the consequences of carrying knives without being sanctimonious or patronising. Although we kind of know how this book is going to end that in no way reduces the value or importance of Josh’s story. As always, Linda Strachan manages to pull in the reader with her masterful writing and some of the most disturbingly precise descriptions I have ever read in a teenage novel. I was completely riveted right up until the heart-wrenchingly poignant finale.
If there’s any justice in the world this book will win Linda Strachan a whole heap of awards as well as a team of devoted fans. My advice? Put aside a day to read this. And don’t forget the tissues.

A poem I wrote in 1997....

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Sat, 15 May 2010 11:59:00 +0000

Grey clouds pile up and drag their rain through a deserted street.
A cruel wind wanders through a back green and fans the ash of a dying fire.
An abandoned mattress appears to breath in time with the wind,
while discarded rubbish spins like a flock of panicked birds.

Upturned shopping trolleys lie like the skeletons of long forgotten beasts
that died where they fell.
A barefoot baby searches for something at the bottom of a puddle,
only the wind combs his unruly hair.

His home, a graffiti stained block has no windows left to smash -
This neglected shell condemned to stand not fall.
He laughs at his reflection as somewhere a dog barks an angry lament.
All around, the cracks deepen and a battered door slams shut in the wind.

His mother hides from the world and watches her dreams unfold under heavy lids.
Her crooked man smokes at a table, his chest rattling like a door in its frame.
These once helpless children are now adults with no battle left to fight.

On the television a newsreader speaks about struggles in a faraway place.
The man stares at the screen with unseeing eyes.

Ambivalence!

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Mon, 10 May 2010 10:06:00 +0000

Wikipedia states that ambivalence is "a state of having simultaneous, conflicting feelings toward a person or thing" In this case it's my career as an author. I guess every writer reaches this point. Sometimes I feel like jacking the whole thing in and finding a more conventional way of life, one that doesn't consume every waking (and some sleeping) moments of the day. If I'm honest I have come close to scrapping the pursuit of a writing dream a few times. During a rather dark period at the end of last year I seriously considered drawing a thick, black line under the whole thing. Then I met my friend Paul for coffee and as always he encouraged me to reflect on things and gave me the proverbial slap in the face that I needed. He reminded me that I did not embark on this adventure for fame or financial rewards but because writing was something I loved doing. So I got straight back to it and swiftly finished the sequel to "Bree McCready and the Half Heart Locket". And loved doing it. Just last week I was struggling with the thought of making a start on my third book when I received an email from a lovely woman in Hertfordshire. She wanted to let me know how much she had loved my first book, in particular the thread that runs throughout the story about bullying. This lady's daughter had been so badly bullied that she ended up having to leave mainstream education to attend a specialist school, a sanctuary for bullied children. I had touched this lady with the words I had written, enough for her to take the time to write and tell me so. Sometimes it takes a moment like that to prompt me to keep going. Perhaps these small glimmers of niceness are the only rewards I will reap for my hard work. Perhaps these moments are enough. After all, reaching people in that way is a privilege that only a select few of us get to do. I must not lose sight of that when I am down in the dumps about the path I have chosen to follow. I started out with the goal of writing a good story. Then the goal shifted to getting that story published. Once that had happened all I wanted was for young people to like the story. All my goals so far have been attained. Of course it is natural for me to want to keep shifting the posts, to see how far I can stretch this dream of mine. I understand that no writer is an overnight success and I'll just have to get used to living with impatience and frustration as my daily companions.
"Stated another way.." continues Wikipedia, "..ambivalence is the experience of having thoughts and emotions of both positive and negative valence toward someone or something. The term also refers to situations where 'mixed feelings' of a more general sort are experienced, or where a person experiences uncertainty or indecisiveness concerning something" Yep, I'm nodding furiously here. I am experiencing feelings of uncertainty. Should I continue investing my time and energy into a venture which may never come to what I would like it to come to? I cannot seem to pull myself away from this mental slump. It's not so much writer's block as writer's droop. I know where I want to go with the series - Bree McCready was always going to be a trilogy and I'm two thirds of the way there already - but this final hurdle seems somewhat higher than the other two put together. Perhaps the dangling carrot seems a bit more shrivelled than before? Ambivalence is a psychologically unpleasant state of mind. When the positive and negative aspects of something are both present in a person's mind at the same time it can be quite torturous. This schizophrenic state inevitably leads to procrastination, or just outright avoidance. Suddenly, cleaning out that cutlery drawer seems way more appealing than sitting down and drawing out a synopsis for book three. Sigh, I know everything will turn out fine in the end. It always does. What I have to keep remembering is at the core of things I still care deeply about what I'm doing. Okay, the dream has been tempered slightly by reality but it's still my dream and that surely makes it worth holding onto.

In my day!

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Tue, 20 Apr 2010 11:07:00 +0000

Well, it was a busy Easter holiday but Junior finally went back to school this morning. I thought I would be relieved but in actual fact I've been left with the feeling that I've misplaced something or left my umbrella on the bus. To be honest I really miss him. The house is so quiet and for the first time in three weeks it doesn’t look like there has been a Lego explosion in my living room. Junior was a little reluctant to return to school, although I think the fact he had brand new, big size, shiny black shoes helped a bit. I had to be upbeat about the start of a new term but deep down I was kind of sad that our holiday was over. I think it’s because we had such a lovely time away last week. We spent a glorious couple of days in the Highlands where we soaked up the scenery and stayed in the most beautiful B&B I have ever been in. Junior made friends with Corrie the Wonder dog (so called because the poor thing fell out the top window last year, breaking both his back legs and seriously damaging his spine. He survived, albeit with a slightly wobbly walk) We were warned that Corrie was nervous of children since his accident but he and Junior hit it off instantly and within 10 minutes of arriving they were playing with the squeaky ball in the daffodils.
The break away did us both the world of good. The weather was perfect and everything went our way. I felt so chilled out and refreshed that I have to admit to shedding a wee tear as we drove through the gate to begin our journey home. We arrived back in Edinburgh with sun-kissed necks, rosy cheeks and a head full of wonderful memories which I am sure will last a lifetime. I’ve posted some pictures for you to see - I haven’t yet mastered the art of pasting pictures intermittently throughout my blog posts so they always have to appear at the top, before the text starts. You’d think after a year of keeping a blog I would have worked out how to do this!
Driving through the mountains I kept yelling “Look at the scenery! It’s so incredible! Now, you don’t see THAT every day, do you!” (and other toe-curling expressions that only a parent would say). Junior grunted his approval from the back seat but I could see in the rear view mirror that he was far too engrossed in his Nintendo DS to fully appreciate the spectacular beauty around him. It reminded me of Billy Connolly telling the story about his tour around America in a camper van when his children were small. The van was kitted out with all the mod cons of the time, including a television. On their return from some of the most scenic and beautiful places on earth Billy had asked his kids what their favourite part of the holiday had been. “Sesame Street” they replied in unison.
We stopped off at Auchengarrich Wildlife Centre on the way back down the road where we spent a fantastic 5 hours. The sky was peacock blue and there wasn’t a cloud to be seen. Junior ran wild in the adventure playground and I relished every moment spent in the company of the weird and wonderful furred and feathered creatures on show. We even got to watch emu chicks hatching. I had to giggle when Junior spotted a little bird hopping around inside the deer enclosure.
“Mummy, mummy look a sparrow!” he squealed excitedly as he skipped over to take a closer look, “now you don’t see THAT every day, do you?!”

So, I was telling Junior this morning what life was like when I was his age.
“You didn’t have baths back then..” he announced proudly, “just metal tubs. And no cars, just horses and carts”
I put him right although I did have a panic when I heard myself say “..in my day”
I was telling him about the swing we used to have in the back garden (the same garden he now plays in when he stays with my parents). It was strong and sturdy, not like the cheap plastic rubbish you get now and it had a thick, solid seat made out of very hard wood. This unforgiving chunk of wood was held on by two long metal poles with sharp hooks on the end which were fed through hanging chains at the top. These lethal hooks used to catch on your clothes and my friends and I had many a ripped pocket in the late 1970’s where we had attempted to jump off the swing when it was in full motion, trying to make it safely over the washing line before it garroted you. Oh, the fun we had before health and safety was invented. Looking back, that swing was so ‘child un-friendly’ but we had hours of fun on it and were never once asked to wear a helmet or knee pads before we climbed on. I don’t remember my mum ever warning us not to get too close to the great slab of a seat or it would crush our skulls in one swift motion. Yet now she panics if Junior runs too near the greenhouse or swings on the washing pole. How times change.
Junior’s favourite story from the past was the one about being off school ill.
“We didn’t have cosy covers and 24 hour TV when I was little…” I told him, with my chin jutting out bravely, “..when I was off school Gran would get the itchiest, scratchiest blanket from the airing cupboard and wrap me up in it. It was like a punishment. We would lie on the settee and watch school programmes until TV stopped for the afternoon”
“stopped..?” asked Junior with a puzzled expression.
I nodded sombrely, like I was recalling some memory from a time too traumatic to relive.
“In my day..” I said with a pensive pause, “we only had programmes for a little while every day. TV used to finish at lunchtime and we would get something called the test card - a picture of a creepy girl and a sinister clown playing noughts and crosses”
Junior’s mouth was opening further with every word and his eyes were wide with growing horror.
“And there were only three channels to choose from” I concluded, which finished him off.
“Three channels!” he squealed disbelievingly, “how did you survive?!”

Anyway, I’m away to hang the washing out. The sun is still shining but there’s a crisp breeze which should dry the clothes in no time.

A losing game?

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Wed, 07 Apr 2010 19:50:00 +0000

Junior is a fantastic little boy but Jeez, is he a BAD loser!!

We were playing a game of Coppit after dinner tonight. It's my favourite board game, genuinely exciting and one which I have happy memories of playing as a child. I was trying to find the balance between providing opportunities for him to capture my 'men' and showing him that every action he made had a consequence. All was going well until I somehow managed to roll three sixes in a row which resulted in me 'copping' one of his men. Suddenly I was a "cheat" and everything was going wrong for him. The tantrum was spiralling at an alarming rate and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I tried to gently explain that I wasn’t making the die land on six every time it was just a fluke. Big, fat tears had started to plop onto the board, making it all soggy (his not mine!) I tried all the usual words of encouragement,
“Come on, this is supposed to be fun!”
“You can’t always be the winner” (blah blah blah)
but it had gone too far. As far as Junior was concerned the world had turned against him in a big way. To be fair we’d had a busy day and he was exhausted but it got to the point where I couldn’t take any more of the huffing and deliberate sabotaging of the game (suddenly he was moving one extra square when I wasn’t looking or sliding the die instead of rolling it so he got a six!).
“Right” I announced firmly, “if you continue to cheat I will put the game away”
That was it. All the bones in Junior’s body melted and he had a complete emotional breakdown.
“I always lose!” he yelled in between wracking sobs, “it’s not fair!”
My patience was dwindling fast.
“If this is how you react to losing a game how the heck are you going to cope when life really gets tough?” I sighed wearily, “..like if you don’t get the job you want or you love someone who doesn’t love you back! If I had fallen apart every time I got a knock back I wouldn’t be sitting here right now!”
I knew I had taken things too far but it was too late. Junior’s tear stained face fell even further.
“I don’t want to grow up!” he wailed, throwing the pieces down on the floor in a colourful explosion of plastic cones.
Sometimes I forget he is only six. Time for a cuddle and a wee pep talk me thinks....
He did calm down after a while, so much so that by the end of the game he shook my hand gallantly and said “Well done Mummy” which I thought was lovely. In fact I think I used the words “Jolly good sport” for the first time in my life. He congratulated me through gritted teeth but the point was he had the courage to remain dignified in defeat. It reminded me of a great quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson ~ “Win as if you were used to it, lose as if you enjoyed it for a change” This is the secret to life.
It did make me wonder if these little experiences in life prepare us for adulthood. Nobody likes to lose but it’s an important life lesson to accept that sometimes things don’t go our way and the only way to deal with that is to accept defeat and move on. Sometimes life can feel like it's a losing game. Perhaps if we can learn early on that not everything is going to go as planned, that sometimes the game doesn’t go our way and we can’t always throw a six then it will make rejection and loss easier to take when we are older. Having some tough setbacks can be really important. Losing is learning after all. Sometimes losing can change us, make us tougher. Sometimes we can take away a morsel of wisdom from one lost game and apply it to another game.

We’re into day six of the Easter break already and it’s been hectic but enjoyable. So far we’ve covered the cinema, an egg hunt, eating out, a country park, football club and soft play. Next week is even busier, including a much needed break away. On the down side we’ve had a nasty gash in the knee and some head lice to contend with. I love afternoons like we had today. We did some artwork, built the marble run together, chatted over home made soup and laughed so much at bedtime that some mouth wash came down Junior’s nose. I taught him how to sing “Blackbird” by the Beatles and when he sang it back to me I had a lump in my throat that I thought might choke me. We make a good team, me and Junior. Tantrums and traumas there may be but sometimes I look at my boy and wonder how it is possible to love someone so much and still be standing.

Clutter!

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Wed, 24 Mar 2010 11:00:00 +0000

I seriously need to de-clutter my house. I have now filled every available shelf/cupboard/cubby hole and there is simply no more room for anything else. Everyone who knows me will tell you I am the Queen of organising. "A space for everything and everything in its space" has always been my motto. Sometimes it amazes me just how much I have managed to cram into this tiny box I call home.
I read an article the other day that said British people's clutter adds up to an estimated worth of £31 billion. That's just stuff we never use. I know most people would have been shocked to learn this but I wasn't. In fact I did wonder if I might be contributing to at least a couple of billion of those pounds with the stuff that lies unused and untouched in my under-the-stairs cupboard. I lovingly refer to that 8 foot by 3 foot rectangle as "no man's land" ("An area of land that no-one wishes to move into or take control of for fear of being attacked" - in my case by a precariously balanced stack of toilet rolls or a particularly vicious ironing board). There have been times when I've desperately needed something at the back of that dark and frightening place but have taken one look at the obstacle course I would need to negotiate in order to get there and just closed the door with a heavy sigh. I know I need to tackle the problem but I hate chucking things out. I've done it before and almost always regretted it. I do have the occasional ruthless splurge where I feel liberated by throwing things onto the charity/rubbish pile. "If you don't use it or don't like it then chuck it!" is the mantra during those times. But inevitably, a few months down the line I'll find myself cursing under my breath that I gave that certain something away.
My loft is a veritable banquet of guff. There's no other way to describe it. It bulges at the seams. Having to clear it out is a job that fills me with dread not least because I cannot even get into the attic. There is not one single inch of floor space on which to stand. My attic reminds me of one of those puzzles I used to play with as a child. The one where you had to move the squares around to make a picture. I would have to move all the things around the loft hatch (broken lamps, old baby clothes, three legged chairs, an ancient typewriter) just to get up there. It seems like such an overwhelming task, and one I simply could not contemplate doing on my own. There is very little truth in the saying "out of sight, out of mind" when it comes to my loft. I lie awake at night in a cold sweat thinking about the day I'll have to tackle it.
My kitchen cupboards are a plethora of unused appliances that at some point I must have thought I wouldn't be able to function without. A yogurt maker (what a hassle that was!), two juicers (which take around 40 oranges and an hour to clean just to get one tiny glass of juice), a popcorn maker (fun to watch the truckload of puffed up corn spewing out the hole but it tastes like pieces of polystyrene which could in no way compete with M&S butter toffee bites), a George Foreman grill (which I bought during one of my short-lived health kicks and is a real faff to clean), three Thermos flasks (!), a Soda Stream fizzy juice maker...the list is endless. I haven't used any of these appliances for years and yet I cannot bring myself to part with them.
In Feng Shui the main entrance to the house is called the "Mouth of Chi" because it has the strongest influence on how energy flows into your home. "Your home cannot benefit from fresh, vital Chi if the front door is blocked". Mmm. I wonder if Chi has worked out a way to get past two pairs of muddy wellies, three pairs of smelly trainers, a broken brolly, a spade (which has been there since the snow forced me to dig myself out of my parking space every morning) and enough coats and cagoules to start a clothes stall. Since Junior came into my life I don't think I have been able to open the front door all the way. It used to be pushchairs and car seats blocking the way, now it's school bags, football trainers and a Spiderman ball (that somehow I always forget is there until I have fallen over). According to Feng Shui, "opening the front door more widely and frequently is a good way to breathe life into a less-than-exciting romantic life". Oh well, that explains quite a lot then...
Having a small house gets on my nerves beyond description. I hate having to manoeuvre my rather ample bottom around things to get washing into the tumble dryer/step over hamster cages to get in and out the back door/tiptoe through the mine-field that is Junior's bedroom floor in order to put clothes away/crawl over the bed just to get to the wardrobe. But I often wonder if having a bigger house would solve the problem or simply result in me filling every available space with even more clutter! Oh, to have a minimalistic living room. Nothing gathering dust, no obstacles to make my journey from the settee to the kitchen fraught with danger.
Getting rid of clutter feels great. I think I'll go and make a start on no man's land. To quote Captain Oates, "I may be some time"!!

Quote for today

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Wed, 03 Mar 2010 09:20:00 +0000

"As long as the world is turning and spinning, we're gonna be dizzy and we're gonna make mistakes"

Mel Brooks

The tooth, the whole tooth and nothing but the tooth

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 18:44:00 +0000

“In this pocket you will find,
A teensy, tiny tooth of mine.
So while I sleep where dreams are made,
Let’s see if you can make a trade”
Author Unknown.

Well, it’s the first day of March and I have spent the last couple of hours running around like a mad march Hare! When I picked Junior up from Monday Club this afternoon he smiled up at me and I just about fell over. He resembled a miniature Shane McGowan (pre fancy new veneers).
One of Junior’s top front teeth fell out on Saturday morning. It felt like such a big deal; another step towards adulthood. It had been dangling by a thread and we tried everything from crunchy apples to wrapping it in tissue and yanking it. But for the entire Friday night he looked like Nanny McPhee. I was slightly concerned that it might fall out during the night but tried to reassure myself that for as long as there has been little boys and girls there have been wobbly teeth and as far as I know nothing awful has ever happened. At 6am the following day I heard him fiddling around with it and then there was this sickening sound like an elastic band snapping followed by a delighted shriek as he waved a blood-stained tooth in front of my face.
The tooth fairy wrote him a lovely letter and left it under his pillow in an envelope filled with fairy dust and a note attached saying “time delivered 2.30” (see what I did there? 2.30/tooth hurty) Two shiny pound coins were tucked inside - I hear that’s the going rate these days. It was 10p when I was little but that’s inflation for you.
Anyway, I wasn’t expecting to have to do it all again so soon, hence my shock when I saw another gap in Junior’s mouth this afternoon. My first thought was “Oh no, I don’t have a single penny on me, I’m going to have to go to a cashpoint” which was a real pain because the traffic was already building up and I had just polished off a massive mug of tea (a deadly combination if ever there was one). Junior spent the whole way home in the car planning what he was going to buy with his fairy money and I had to gently explain that the tooth fairy might be a bit skint after a busy weekend. But he wasn’t buying it.
“The tooth fairy is magic mummy..” he said with a patronising tilt of the head, “..she can get money from anywhere”
The first cashpoint was at the petrol station round the corner from my house. There was a queue to get in so imagine my frustration when I eventually made it only to find a sign up saying “Out of Order”. Back in the car and off to the shopping centre, a frustrating 15 minute drive back the way I had just come. I put in my card and it spat it straight back out at me. Apparently I had 'insufficient funds' to cover the £2 needed to cover the cost of one shiny white incisor, lovingly wrapped in a paper towel by Babs at the Monday Club. Tooth fairies might be able to get money from anywhere but it would appear that stressed out mummies (with very full bladders) can’t!
I racked my brains to think where I could get the money for a very excited Junior. He was not going to buy my stories - "The tooth fairy has a sore wing and can only carry a 5 pence piece this time"/"the tooth fairy gave your money to the poor children"/"the tooth fairy is really poorly and has promised to being you £2 when she’s feeling better" - He’s six, he ain’t stupid!
Back home there was a frantic (but fruitless) check inside the settee and the pockets in the dirty wash basket. Junior was already upstairs putting the tooth under his pillow and the familiar ache of motherly guilt was beginning to unfurl in my chest as I imagined having to break the news to him that there was not going to be a special delivery. I started to unpack his school bag - half eaten packet of crisps, wet socks, chewed up homework sheet and the tin I give him for Monday club money. Imagine how my heart swelled when I heard it rattle. Inside was the £2 which he had forgotten to hand in to Babs! I’ve never been so happy to have a son with a memory like a sieve. When he goes to bed tonight I will write yet another letter from the tooth fairy and gently slide it under his pillow when he’s in the place “where dreams are made”. And I don’t feel too guilty for telling him porkies about the existence of fairies who take his unwanted teeth away to make beautiful necklaces. These are magical times and so short lived I will relish every single moment of them.
I was just having a little moan to my Dad on the phone about always having to fork out money left, right and centre for things that are out with the budget (i.e lost teeth) and he told me to look on the bright side. With two less teeth in Junior’s head at least I’ll save some money on toothpaste!