Quill Feather

Humble Lane

2012-11-16T03:43:00.001-08:00

I passed this country way
Day after day
Wondering if it would
Do me any good
To go back there again

Now I've found my way back
As I sit here and wait
Turn my eyes to heaven
And hope I'm not too late

I've found my way back
To Humble land
Doesn't hurt to visit here
Now and again
I'm sitting in my car
With the engine turned off
Looking out of a lay by
And the quiet is enough

Humble Lane
I don't know if I'm the same
As I lift my eyes to heaven
And gently pray

God, I think I blew it
When it was handed on a plate
I forgot to be the person
That I aimed to be some day

I had it all, I held it
And then I let it go
And so I'm here to tell you
That now I know, now I know.

I've found my way back
To Humble Lane
Wouldn't hurt to visit here now and again

Quill Feather: Do You Want to be a Modern Woman?

2011-05-09T13:44:00.000-07:00

Quill Feather: Do You Want to be a Modern Woman?

Do You Want to be a Modern Woman?

2011-05-09T13:31:00.000-07:00

I am proud to be a woman. I am proud to be part of what 'woman' stands for. I am proud of the fact we campaigned to be equal, to have the right to vote, to have equal pay and opportunities in the work place.
I am also proud of a heritage that seems to be disappearing. The smiling picture of a woman in an ironed apron , showing off her clean home and sharing her fabulous baking; while the children are nurtured into school and the husband knows there will be a meal on the table when he gets home from his long day at work.
I have always been ambitious. I have always enjoyed empowering opportunities to prove myself. I wanted a career and a family. It's not too much to ask - to be the best mum, the best wife, the best friend, the best cook, the best house-keeper, the best daughter, the best sister, the best teacher - after all there are a whole twenty-four hours in a day, if we don't sleep too many of them away.
But, in all that ambition the smiling nurturer has to be sacrificed. In order to achieve what we, as women, campaigned to vigilantly and valiantly to achieve in the early twentieth century, the fifties housewife has gradually become replaced by a stressed, hormonal scowling and anti-social bitch who is spread far too thinly across work and family to ever really achieve either fully. A selfish zombie who hasn't the patience or tolerance to live harmoniously with neighbours, work cooperatively with colleagues or spend hours reading children's stories to her children at bedtime. The modern woman is destined to live a miserable unfulfilled life missing most of it in the blur of the fast lane. When we retire at sixty-five will we look back and feel proud of all those sacrifices and un-cherished memories? The children, now married, with children of their own, following in our full paced life-race, who we never really noticed growing up?
I am proud to be a woman. But, just as men's expectations, once the traditional breadwinner and absent father, are now changed and often confused, so are women's. We have ended up trying to be superheroes, trying to be everything to everyone and ending up as nearly nothing to no-one. What happened to our family values and neighbourly conversations? What happened to the government and country that once encouraged and nurtured those oxo family values that kept our families together and taught our children about what was really important in the world? Is it too late to recapture tradition and security before our children turn into our modern selves?

2011-04-02T08:04:00.000-07:00

Well, I don't know how I ended up here, in this tight room. The files of different colours, shapes and sizes, on that shelf behind her tall, thin and yellow-bobbed head. Her features are sharp, shallow cheeked. She has not long turned fifty. I will be forty soon. There seems a bigger gulf than that in our ages, she has lived longer than me. Her minutes have stretched, like her skin, over pointed bones and awkward gecko-looks. She can sit and stare without changing expression for hours.

I wipe the tears from my eyes, needing the hydration, throat bone-dry, wondering if she has taken anything in, but her own sense of significance.

'This is professional misconduct.' She rasps. A fly flicks from her tongue, sticks, she swallows. 'I have never known anything like this to happen in the whole of my professional career.'

My minutes have been quick, sometimes intuitive or impulsive. I try to cling onto time before it disappears. She wishes hers away, with a silent bat of her eye.

'Probably because no-one else would leave the evidence in a locked drawer of their locked room, where they were unaware others had jurisdiction.' I smile, ironically. I don't want her to think I'm not taking things seriously.

My son's waiting outside.

I said I wouldn't be long.

I wonder if we made the right decision sending him here. Having him in the same lost valley in which I work. The heat is stifling, I undo the top buttton of my blouse.

I hadn't noticed, she has turned to stone, eyes locked on mine, unmoving.

She reminds me of the medusa, her hair becoming like snakes, hissing violently in my direction. I back-up on my chair.

She is about to use my full name, I can tell. I don't want her to use my shortened name - as that suggests an assumption.

'You leave my options small.' She sighs. Only because she rarely breathes. Half-dead; Un-dead. She's pale as the corpse-bride. Mrs Havisham in cobwebs, not close enough to retirement.

'If I hear of any further incidents between you and your Head of Department I shall recommend disciplinary proceedings to the Head.'

I don't blame your Head of Department if she doesn't want to respond to you now. It's entirely up to you to bridge things - no matter what her reaction. If you fail I have no choice.'

I'm smiling, drifting off to a world with normal rules and expectations. Where spelling mistakes are minor errors and requests that people make a meeting to talk about serious things, in advance, is reasonable.

It feels like one of those bad movies, where an ordinary guy gets caught up in a crime situation, and can only commit a crime to get himself out of it.

I photocopied her notes of our last meeting. Mine and the Head of Department's. I wanted to prepare myself, know what to expect in our third review meeting in two months. I was alone in our staff office, her teaching diary on the table. What had I said that she felt she'd needed to storm out of that meeting? Whatever it was would be used against me and twisted to mean something entirely out of context. I opened her diary at the date, photocopied the pages and locked them away, until I had time to read them and either file them or recycle them. The first complaints had been spelling errors, giving a lax child an effort grade three, to the complaint of her parents, not dressing professionally enough (although there was no present dress-code), asking my Head of Department if she could bring up matters in our Thursday morning meetings rather than during a planning and preparation period, impromptu, when I couldn't get back the time and she still expected reports to have been finished in that time.

I understand the way she looks at me, the gecko - sat there, polar opposite, like an opposing force field.

It's to unnerve me. To make sure I feel the full weight of her status and control. She laughs cooly, disdainfully at my honesty. Not understanding it's purpose.

I tell her, my son is waiting, with respect, I need to go.

My skin is more elastic than hers. I'm reminding her, of her duty of care, my role of importance. I'm reminding her that we need to look after and care for one another, or we become unable to look after our own.

I can see this is beyond her.

'Thanks anyway, for coming.' She says. She feels we have got no further.

I can see she has learned nothing. It is that thick, sound-proof around her. She cannot hear and the cool steam from her mouth creates too much condensation for her to see. I will not take on her wished away minutes, I will keep mine looser in my hand, but treasure it. I know what my lesson is, humility.

I'm happy to wear the suit.

I'm not sure what her lesson is. Perhaps admitting mistakes and being brave enough to apologise.

I am a better than she is.

Broken mind

2010-12-21T16:10:00.000-08:00

I watch you, unabsorbent and weak, from where I lean on the wall. You're my daddy, that will never change. But I am teacher, sister, mother, stranger, little girl. Sometimes a carer that you do not trust. We go through the same routines, unpacking your bins of books and CDs. You try to name me and my sisters on the large family portrait. You think we are always that age and I make the mistake of upsetting you when you ask me. Inside I am always fourteen, maybe that's what you see. That you are always forty-one, every age, always. Moving between years from moment to moment. You used to be able to articulate, what it was like moving between two worlds; that you never knew which one you were going to be in. Things coming back to you slowly, like a figure appearing out of the steam engine mist, beginning to take shape and definition. The longer I stay, the more you remember it's me. You talk about Furness Grove and Stockport in the 1940s and 50s. You tell me about the Manchester Blitz, asking if I remember it. In the background, Perry Como sings about 'how lonely life can be'...'shadows follow me...' and i fee the familiar nweling in my eyes. 'What do you do with your clock money?'You suddenly ask 'Do you spend it all on icecream?' I smile and tell you no, I don't spend it on icecream. 'You told me someone at your school had a rifle.' 'Did I?' I ask you, untrimmed eyebrows raised. I don't like you to get scared or confused; anything to make you feel safer. You tell me it is probably an army barracks. I agree, suggesting some Christmas music. 'The tree looks nice.'I tell you, already back in the rain on Sherard Street, less than a decade since, finding warm decorations to go with the new pine furniture Ruth and I bought you for your flat in town. I can stilll smell the paint of those long hours, with aching arms, scrubbing and cleaning and painting. To make a palace fit for a king. I still hadn't quite got the curtain right, when it came to taking them down only months ago; filling my car again with your history. Locking the door on your independence. 'Ai! 'You nod 'But I don't like the tablets that come with it. I keep throwing them away.' 'You need to have your tablets.' I tell you, patting your flaky arm. 'They're for your heart and your diabetes and memory. The ladies here are asked by the doctor to keep your health up with those.' 'Ah, well maybe I've been misjudging them.' You concede. Have you let your mind break because it's easier? I feel my cheeks dampen, as I notice you've attempted the crossword I left out for you. It doesn't matter if the answers are right. And when you managed to phone me last night...for the first time in years, telling me you were waiting for your dad to pick you up from St. Josephs... I hoped it wasn't a metaphor. 'But you promised you would stay around for the Christmas period.' I reminded you. I'm so sorry for times when I haven't understood you, been grateful. I'm sorry I didn't want to go and watch Manchester City every Saturday... 'I didn't expect you to be so organised.' You tell me. 'I didn't really know what to expect.' I wonder what I've done, while I've been sitting here, with my hands on my coated lap, to seem so organised. I've grown up, as well as stayed young. I've changed and stayed the same. You make me feel like Alice in Wonderland. 'Well, I'm bored now. Can we go?' You decide, with a familair gruffness. You start pushing yourself out of your chair, pointing out all the things that are 'yours' in your room, that you want to take with you. 'Well, you promised to stay for Christmas remember?' I smile, raising my eyebrows again, parentally. 'You stay here so then I'll know where you are when I come back tomorrow.' I watch you carefully, for any hint of agitation. I feel bad for playing games with you like this. You smooth your Santa Claus beard and moustache, looking around in surprise. 'Oh, they let you stay here do they?' 'Oh, yes.'I state firmly. 'there's a change of clothes in your wardrobe and a bed here look.' I indicate where I've been sitting, leaning against the wall. 'Oh. Do we all get one of these?' 'Mmmmhmmm.' I assure you, standing and kissing your cool, bristly cheek. 'I shall see you here again tomorrow.' 'Did you say there was a wardrobe?' You ask, frowning, wanting to get things straight in your crumpled mind. I brush the hair and dandruff from your shoulders. 'Just behind your chair look, there. So you can change your clothes.' You start then. 'Change clothes? At my school you just wear what you turn up in.' 'Ah. No uniform then?' I pat your shoulders one last time, and hug you, remembering when I used to follow you around everywhere, watching you, a self-made electrician at work. You loved me playing the lead in that play in Crewe - The Electrician's Daughter. You kept patting the director on the back, with your puns and jokes. You nearly made him fall over. You were so tall. Larger than life. Now you're small, in your electronic armchair, that doesn't work. 'See you tomorrow. Love you.' The words choke in my throat. I'm trying to be brave Daddy. Hoping my words don't seem out of place, from a departing stranger. I slip out of the door, to try and catch one of the carers, to ask about the sty on your eye. 'Where did you say there was a bed? Across the hall?' You call. I point to the left of you. 'Just there, look. I'll see you tomorrow.' 'What time?' You ask, looking at your long defunct watch that you insist on wearing rather than the new one you lost. I know you don't want me to leave. 'About 10.' I say, deciding on the spot, I remind myself you're safe here, looked after. But, I feel the familiar guilt, like a cobweb I've walked into, as I leave your Oliver Twist, Willy Loman, Ebenezer Scrooge. I brush the sticky threads from my face, a spider's web of tragic heroes and happy endings. And as I fasten my seatbelt, warming the windscreen against the frost, I wonder...what would have happened had you gone to that trial, years before I was born, for Manchester United. If you hadn't blown them off for a date. I wondered if I'd have still turned up; if I'd have still been born. If I'd still appear, like a familiar figure from the mist, somewhere in your broken mind.

2010-07-24T12:05:00.000-07:00

The rythm of yesterday catches me off guard. The same songs playing from the sound system, distracting me from conversation. Lost images glint at the peripheries of my vision, like fairies.
Bewitched are my feet, retracing their moves down memory's pain. My teenage self, flickering like a still burning flame, reflecting in broken hearted songs - not understanding the game.
"If only I knew then what I know now..." Brings me back to the present.
Rachel smells of Tommy Girl, it makes me think of my dad.
"...how different things might have been."
Decisions falter with the glass breaking sound of immature wisdom. Retrospect means the scars still show.
I feel my eyelid self-consciously twitch, smiling at my facade of adult-ness.
Richard Bach. Can you really meet your older self crossing the bending bridge of time? Visit and advice your younger self ?
I had imagined that. The me of now, looking back and reassuring the mixed up mess of yesterday. The drunken frolics, misguided moments, lonely heart craving for its soulmate. I used to imagine seeing myself, older, all accepting, all embracing, reaching out to the poetry writing school girl, staring out of the window, down at the older me in the schoolyard.

We move from the table we have been occupying, smiling at recognisable faces, stopping now and then as we reach the school yard...
I swear I see the ghost of a familiar face looking wide-eyed from a top window, overlooking the courtyard, just for a moment.
"Becky?" Rachel whispers, "Where've you gone?"
I smile, feeling the pulse of tomorrow thumping in my feet.

2010-05-03T13:01:00.000-07:00

The houses sit, like new presents, neat and clean. Their quietness promises the falling sunset hues of vows, packaged memories, fresh beginnings...

I am a face peering out. The birdsong reflecting the orange, red of the sky, more distant now. The squeak of a chair and hum of computer suggest a flurry of tomorrow like a flock of wings waiting to take flight.

Noone can see me.

Evening beckons to a slower pace, a last check that all is ready for the light to find it in its rightful place. The minutes quicken, with the pulse of my heart.

Here, inside my box, like a cardboard doll, I wonder at my sometimes reddening cheeks, swollen tongue, embarrassed of its inarticulate jibes, stumbling footfalls, unsatisfactory mirror reflections...ill prepared moments of inadequacy. I replace them - with a sure, light step - a foxtrot of delights, a waltz of witicisms and a thought that when I awake from my toy slumber, and cut the invisible strings of yesterday - I will dance out of the very square playhouse and sing like the lark of it all.

moment

2010-03-22T14:37:00.000-07:00

Her confident scales shimmer,

blinding,

in rainbow hue. A metallic perfection

in a haze of spray, a moment of light, leaping with all her might.

She does not see the cold, sharp talon; or hear the reeling excitement above.

A contented moment, not thought beyond.

Then the suddenness.

Her pierced slippery body in fight -

flapping and squealing,

jerking and shaking,

shuddering

in quick spasms of breath.

As the blankness comes, her eyes fixing down,

darkness descending,

she is vaguely aware of the sails -

of the whooping joy...

before she is thrown back -

confused, disorientated, scared.

Slipping back, below the surface

of her lost innocence.

2010-03-22T13:26:00.000-07:00

The match sparks, lighting the next Act, we hush -

my fingers tense around his -no longer

pushing him away. No more lines rehearsed

or spoken,tracing letters on his back;

we chastise eachother -going over

the same lines, again and again and gain...

the next scene - he places the puzzle ring

on my finger,disentangling me

from repentant past, still scripted present;

and I place mine on his - not letting go.

As the music plays our sound track cues, we

play grown-ups; reinventing ourselves to

fit. Conform. Our playschool house, loving spouse:

always redrafting our rhyming couplet.

Home Time

2010-03-22T13:12:00.000-07:00

No more looking back, wanting the wasted day to move at speed. No more wishing for wistful home time - feet out in the cold, pattering away like rain, to the car.

I'm home - the cloister corridors echo it. The tall, arched doorways and columned court yard passage open as I pass - recognising me. At last.

The day could not start too soon, nor last too long - the trodden stone stairs and history won't let go of me. They knew this day would come. that I would come. And here I am.

Smiling, from toe to static hair, floating along passageways, walking through walls.

I recite the sonnets, board and mortared; raise the aged scroll above my head in testimony to undulating journey, wavering faith. Reward. the gates have opened -breathe in the incense, the frankinsence and mirth - the old boys appaluse, eyes proud and approving as I sail into the harbour of the school; and finally lay anchor. Home time.

Candle Burning Bright (inspired by a piece of writing from one of my Creative Writing students)

2009-11-25T13:45:00.000-08:00

I am writer,
biter, wounded fighter.
I am revolution,
language solution -
with no elecution.
I am rock, eroded,
secret coded;
I am writer, fighter -
the candle burning brighter...
scroll on paper, caper after caper;
poetry shaper.

Beauty

2009-11-25T12:53:00.000-08:00

My heart is on full speed ahead; left foot agitated. Already surging with more energy than I can handle.
I make my way up the old stone steps, hearing each footfall echo all around. Glad now to just be on the move.
'You alright?' asks the suited Miss Price, smiling at me reassuringly, through her professional superiority.
I catch a glimpse of myself,wish I had not, hair askew, inside the glass door she pushed open; Lipstick bitten off, creased blouse.
The door slips from sideways view, and I follow her patent heels along the tall windowed old building.
'In here.' She ushers me, opening a wooden classroom door.
The room is empty, interactive whiteboard blinking expectantly at the brand new pimple on my chin.
I take a deep breath and pushed my arms slowly down.
Muffled laughter and curious voices, sudden choir of shoes and chatter, about to become my next half hour.
"Hello year 9. I'm Mrs Askew...er...er...Agnew...I'm going to be doing a half hour introductory lesson with you on first world war poetry."
Every face is looking at me, questioning, not yet convinced.
'Sorry we're late.' More appear in the doorway.
"First we're going to play with some words...what could this poem be about?"
Time slows, becomes critical. I am outside, inside, forgetting myself, too aware of myself.
I am heart beat singing iambic pentameter, climbing into words that can't describe the surreal.I am gathering wind on dancing branches that play with the light through the arched, leaded window. I am a sonnet, already downstairs in the Parlour, waiting for the verdict. At home, awaiting a call. A mother praying that this telegraph is not for her...
"If we had another half an hour - we would start to annotate the poem - with some of the articulate ideas you've had about themes and structure. I've really enjoyed teaching you, thank you very much and well done."
I am back. I smile into eyes and watch me leave.
The adrenaline plays with the static in my hair, seeking a way out, demanding a decision, response, conclusion.
Returning to the Parlour I indicate good luck to the next candidate that Miss Price guides to the awaiting throng. The wind has reached a whining pitch and ferocious branch battle. I watch as a bare branch hangs, drops, is swept away. I lean against the window ledge, gaze, wonderingly at the green sports field and neatly slotted carpark beyond. The open fire warms my now shivering right side, invites me to sit down, relax, await the panel interview.
But I know.
I feel the calm wash over me, bathe me, acknowledge and lift me.
I have never been surer.
The door clicks and it's time again.
I leave my opponent to wait, once more; can see he is aware of waiting - as I am brought into interview. I hear myself speak, without assumption; on the edge of my leather seat. Determined not to ramble, answer too quickly. Examples, examples...there is laughter, I lean back, open the water and drink.
"Thank you for answering some hard questions both articulately and thoughtfully." The headmaster smiles, stands shakes my hand firmly.
I return to the parlour, indicate good luck to the next candidate, tired of waiting. I'm only happy now to be on the move.
"I'm sure we'll see you soon." Smiles Miss Price.
The grey tarmac is damp, but the trees now are still, listening, as though I have a secret to tell.
"I'm sure I'll see you again soon." I whisper, they nod and wave their arms.
I catch myself, through the water droplets of the right wing mirror. Cheeks rosy with colour, hair windblown and natural looking, faint touch of glitter on my plump, lips, sparkiling eyes.
I am beauty.

The Big Plan ( Sunday scribbling prompt)

2009-07-21T01:49:00.000-07:00

"You're going to have two children. A boy and a girl." Elsie told me confidently.
I didn't question it. Apart from the fact it was my homework she was doing.
I wasn't patient enough to sew as intricately as she did.
I was going to be a postmodern expressionist. I wouldn't need sewing skills.
"Every couple should have someone who can mend and sew, that's what makes a happy marriage." My mum told us, bringing in our supper tray.
Elsie stopped the thread from turning above my palm and carried on sewing her clown circles.
Hot chocolate filling our nostrils, as it cooled by the chair.
The night before Elsie had made me laugh so much - just as I'd taken a mouthful of the chocolatey liquid - and the specks of it were still all over my pajamas.
"They'll last you just one more night." Mum had said "Til I do the next wash."
"What about you?" I asked Elsie,she sat with her skinny legs curled under her nightie, blonde hair tied back tight in a pony tail. "How many are you having?"
She shrugged.
"Doesn't work on yourself. The needle didn't move anyway."

I turn away from the rain splattered window, and the cemetry beyond.The car sighs into ignition and I turn carefullly out of the driveway.
There aren't many people around. I often wondered what would happen if everyone decided to visit their loved ones at the same time, crowding round the graves to discuss their own mislaid plans. As I had mine today.
Looking for the advise I had always relied on her for.
Mum had said that plans were fine in principle, but you should be ready to throw them out of the window the minute labour started.
I'd had to do that twice.
I guessed the same principle could be applied to anything.Things always took you by surprise,like Pete. I had trusted him.
But things happened for a reason. He was so impractical.
Nothing actually changed after he'd gone.I missed the idea and convenience of having a partner, rather than the actuality of it.
I flicked the right indicator on, with heightened awareness of the minutae of the day.
Cars seemed to glide by in slow motion and I saw the faces inside them; gestures and expressions. I noticed the tiny flecks of sun rays climbing out of the clouds and hitting the top most point of the iron gate, winking, winking.
The puddles on the gravelled drive and tarmac road glistened with jewels, then went dull again.
We'd never got married.
I'd waited too long for him to ask me.I guess he was never going to.
I wondered what mattered when you were lying in the grave.
I went over the text again,in my head,feeling the swirling of blood inside, like a slowly gathering wave, unsure of direction.

Was gr8 2 c u this morn. U looked stunning in summer dress with hair up. Think Charmaine's mum noticed I couldn't take my I's off u.x

I turned left, flick, flick, flick, into Yewtree Crescent.
I was early picking up George and Lainie, but I'd wait for a while outside school. Decide how I'd react when I saw her.
She'd been late recently, or used the other gate. I'd thought it was strange, how she didn't wait for me anymore. How she had hung her dark head down, looking at her patterned tights and cut off denimns.
I thought she'd begun to smell of wine. There'd been a bottle open the last tme I went round for a coffee at 10.30 a.m.
Were there two glasses?

She had trained to be a cardiologist.
Her house was not clinical, but immaculate, tasteful, full of children. She'd been telling me for a while she wasn't happy with Jason. They'd had problems since his car accident. She'd found it too much to cope with.We were the only couple at school she'd invited to her 40th birthday party.To say thank you, she'd said, for all our support.
But I didn't see hide nor hair when Pete left, not of her anyway.She'd become gradually more distant.
Jason began picking up the children from school, though she didn't work. I thought he was a good husband, indulging her, trying to do all he could to get back on his feet. He did everything around the house - the mending, the repairing.I couldn't understand the way she treated him.She was always complaining about him.

After the first text she'd forwarded she'd sent me several more.
Of course, she must have realised,I had already read them several times before.

'I think you've got it all wrong.I haven't loved her for a long time - it's u. Pls can we meet.xx'

My heart stopped after that one. No matter how many times I read it.
It brought back the paranoia, the guilt and the futility of those early days.
I'd always stayed clear of other peoples' dramas until now. Always planned for a peaceful life.

The rain had stopped completely now, the sun blinding my wing mirror as I glanced to see who had pulled up behind me.It was a familair grey Yaris.
The swirling and tugging in my stomach started again.
Angry, I pushed the door open and stepped out onto the newly laid pavement. The roadworks of which had kept us in turmoil for parking, these last few weeks, leaving smuges of whitened cement across the pavestones, now flattened and like an iron had steamed out all the cracks and creases.
I waited by the car, trying to look neutral, my goose-pricked fresh completely alert.

We fell into silent step, heads bowed and watching eachothers' feet, as we entered the black, wrought iron gates of the school. Not wanting to draw attention to ourselves.
"Have you been to see your mum today?" He asked.
"Laid her down some yellow roses."I smiled. "I always used to buy them for her birthday." I exhaled , puffing out my cheeks and slipping my mobile out of my pocket.
"What do you know about these?" I asked him.
I showed him the texts I'd been forwarded, scrolling through, them one by one, watching his face failing to register a change.
"She's taken my mobile." Was all he said.
'So, what's the plan?' I asked eventually.
I allowed his fingers to brush my palm and hand, lightly.
Only Charmaine's mum, always first to arrive, waiting outside the classroom, folded black brolly in hand. She looked at us, smiling uncertainly before looking to some spot beyond us in mock oblivion.
I didn't feel guilty. I knew I could look after him better. I knew he would treat me better than Pete.
I had told Elsie that morning.
"They've been split for a while haven't they?" She asked me, over her steaming cup of hot chocolate, blowing the rising smoke toward me.
"She left him six months ago - but I think she's been planning to go back to him." I sighed.

"Am I making a fool of myself?"I asked him softly, daring to glance just slightly too long at his rugged profile. Wondering what would happen now.
It had been a year since Pete had been gone.
I wasn't one for surreptitious romances, sneaky moments - trying not to arouse suspicion.
He turned to me fully then. Parents beginning to arrive and fill up the playground.
"I'm in it for the long term.Rachel and I have been over for a long time."He smiled. "If you'll have me."
"That all depends."I smiled, taking his rough hand into my shaking palm and wrapping it up tight.
"On what?" He frowned lightly.
"Can you sew?"

Human Perspective - ( inspired by SundayScribblings)

2009-07-06T13:32:00.000-07:00

I see her from the corner of my eye. She's smaller than the top segment of my thumb. I walk straight, confident, swishing my hips and hair. Trotting closer to my mare. Someone that small cannot pose a threat.
She begins to move, in duplicate, across the grass, opposite the school. I see the class has been dismissed too and wave, pointing to daddy beside me, trying to distract him. He begins to run, the look of delight undeniable. I know he's seen her. Not sure who has told the truth.
She's getting bigger, soon she'll be almost the same size as me.
I've put things in perspective. Know that everything will be fine, if I reach the black, rusty gates before the next car passes me.
I begin to canter, gently. No more fibs. Covering up for eachother.
"What's the hurry?" He asks, laughing.Taking everything in his stride.
I wonder why he hadn't come right out and said it straight away. If he had it would be innocent. Easy to forget about, laugh about like an old joke.
It was because he got caught out he had to think, on the spot.
I knew he loved me, I'd never doubt that. But I was starting to know how he felt about her too.
I thought she was a friend. But if he was innocent, why had she lied?
She was behind us now, slightly distanced. I could feel her eyes on my back, her awkwardness no match to my assuredness, as I took his hand, knowing he'd smile at me that way, as he always did.
"Mummy,I didn't play with Jessica today."
"Didn't you Sweetheart?"I try to sound casual. Feel her brush past me.
I look now and we lock eyes. Her steely blue ones on my muddy green.
"Hi Jessica." He says, voice full of syrup. I turn to see the expression on his dreamy face, feeling my heart drop, like a hot brick.
She's been off poorly, I assume - or too embarrassed to face the consequences.
I wondered if we'd ever know who left the class hamster's cage door open.
They certainly aren't going to tell - but I have my suspicions.

archways

2009-05-26T11:56:00.000-07:00

I can feel my adrenaline tapping me, like a hand pulling constantly at my sleeve. The air around me shared by too many goldfish, with the same amount of memory. We stared open mouthed at eachother, blankly.

Now something else was tapping my shoulder. Tap, tap, tap.

Breathe. I waved goodbye, dropping exercise books in a puddle near my car. Hearing tomorrows voices of disdain at my lack of care.

'Shit.'

See if I could be home in twenty minutes. If the road wasn't too jammed with eager escapees, tapping, tapping, tapping on their wheels and dashboard. Oh, sunshine. The weather couldn't make up its mind. Be back by 4.15, latest. Gratitude to mother-in-law, five minutes for daily gossip and who she bumped into in town today. Children in car, drama club for 5 '0'clock. Dinner ready by 6.0 and bedtimes for 7.0. Should let them go later now really, but head starts hitting books by 9.0. Marking takes so much longer in slow motion, with narcolepsy. Two hours tonight, tops. Lunch boxes and school bags checked for screwed up letters and invitations. Breathe. bed.

No time for a relationship. Husband has to make appointments like anyone else. I've Saturday morning free. Three days away. Is it really only the beginning of the week?

80 miles an hour down the A46. Therapy. Windblown hair like a rushed poem.

Rude gear box noises in front of the house.

'Excuse me.'

Shall I rebel and leave everything in the car tonight? Strut onto my drive like a carefree dayworker. Enter my life like a loaded credit card. Leave all my worries behind.

A small hand at the window,outside,desperate to draw my attention.

'Look Mummy, a rainbow!'

I get out of the car,turn, look up. Stand still and stare like a child.

A momentary archway to freedom.

Visualise

2009-05-23T05:05:00.000-07:00

'Let Go' whispers the breeze, like a cool stream
down my spine. It's trickling down my throat. Hope.
Bare foot meadows and clear blue skies.'Visualise'.
Words, like kite tails, free and absurd. I heard
fluttering wings and petals fall, smelt the
nectar of dreams and the promise of pure
sun. Innocence. Starting again, like the
blank verse we rehearse; star kissed and golden
as mist. I am weightless as clouds and calm
as rain, running against the green veins and
shoots. Drops like parachutes of poetic
dance. Entranced. Drip, drop, never stop. 'Let go'.

2009-02-10T06:50:00.001-08:00

http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com

Snow Hope

2009-02-10T05:38:00.000-08:00

Snow day. Second day in just as long.
Heaviest snowfall since 1991. Snowmen, snow balls, igloos and sledges. Someone skiied to The Spa to shop.
Ben is like Jekyll and Hyde. I can't keep up.
Sliding down hill fast.
Spent four hours building a snowman this morning, that looked like it'd been to weight watches. He was six foot tall.
Had to reach up on tiptoes to put his hat on.
"Not sure it qualifies." Says Dave next door.
Little bit of snow and we're all experts.
The children had disappeared - neighbours, MSN. Contracted to finish, while they got on with their own things.
"Haven't seen any children building snowmen." The Liverpuddlian Postman observes.
"Only the adults."
Sign of the times.
They haven't a clue what to do with all this white stuff.
Walked round to the shop later and got pelted by a group of year 9s, on the traffic island, with hard hitting snowballs. Maybe they do know.
The cars were hit like scabs, daring to go to work, or venture further than their own driveway.
I'm hoping for something magical.
I expect it.
The snow comes and the world grinds to a halt.
And everything falls into place in the pause.
Ben says he'sthe only one to care about finances. But I'm more optimistic.
I'm thankful for the break before it comes.
I'm confirming it's there - snowboarding it's way to me through the drifts of snow hope.

Tantrums of Duty

2009-02-10T05:24:00.000-08:00

You've put a bit of weight on in the last
few years. Hiding behind defences,stop.
Bombarded by the adult world; like a
new recruit thrown straight into the trenches.
Stop. You weren't prepared. Stop. Coping with the
crossfire. Well, it's time to grow up. You've seen
too much. Stop. Need to focus. Stop.On the
living. Can you can see it? This isn't what
You expected. Stop. No glory in the parade.
Take care of yourself and stop
waiting for someone else to do it. Stop waiting for
the world to give you what you feel you're owed.
You need to help yourself move forward. You've

become a bit selfish and self indulgent.
You've become lazy and preoccupied.
You need to draw a line under yourself,
Tear gas eyes. It's all lies.Stop wasting time
feeling around blindly. Feeling sorry
for yourself.There's more than you going on
out there. It's the big picture, the over
view. Don't get busy tripping up over
grenades of detail, stumbling through the gases
of criticism and judgement. You're good
at putting others before yourself.
Don't expect others to do the same.There's
no instruction leaflet, no law. Take
care of yourself, your own health. Stop these
tantrums of duty; stand up and count
for something. Put your ego aside.Stop

Taking Notice

2009-02-10T05:02:00.000-08:00

She stepped, gingerly, into the cluttered buzz.
The volume seemed to disperse in places; die down as she arrived.
Her antisocial desk faced the wall.
She could see why it was the one given to her. The only desk not attached to another. The only desk free of clutter - organised and colour coded to the smallest item.
She was a teaching freak.
'We've decided we're going to mess that up when you're not here. Can't have that!' The head of department had told her in the first week.
She enjoyed teaching.
But something inside her had got lost. Was this it. The amount of her that was drained and left grey to return home.
Noone said good morning.
She tried to catch someones' eye, smiling falteringly, at the male Asian teacher who looked up from his laptop briefly; after whispering and giggling to the blonde,whose desk area he shared.
She was ready, prepared for faces to turn, a greeting, a hand gesture.
Anything to convince her to stay.
She was semi-opaque, a transluscent sheet ready for OHP use.
Highlighting imperfections and weaknesses.
'Don't put baby in the corner.'
She wondered what people would say if she got up and randomly danced her way out of the room. Behaviour preserved for home. Comfortable working conditions.
She had never not wanted to go into work. She'd said it before, but never really meant it.
She hadn't stopped, half way there, paralysed by irrational forces pushing against her in the opposite direction.
She'd never experienced the vulnerbility, diluted authority, in lessons where students were peers.
Asked to criticise, empowered to bully, laugh and argue in a false sense of power. Misplaced. Wrong.
IT was her duty to nurture respect. the school's duty to empower her to nurture.
There was no hierarchy. Except amoung the staff.

Her absense, the mouse in the corner - missing, had been noted. Not tolerated. No questions asked.
She had nothing to lose.
She did not fit. She felt like Alice, swallowed by her own tears.
It was becoming harder.

But today was a little different.
She had a secret that she had noone to tell.
She smiled, felt others smile, reluctantly, back.
Her glow was evident.
This morning was different from all the other mornings. When she had forced herself to come in. Against every atom of her.
She was handing in her notice.

Home

2008-09-16T13:27:00.001-07:00

We looked in awe at her surroundings,
at the marble on the floor.
We looked agasp at her belongings,
the golden doorknobs,
clothes she stored;
We said we loved her taste in pictures,
we said she must be very proud.
She paused and shrugged and looked around her
from her sozzled corner of the lounge.

We had admired her doors and windows,
all the reading lamps within.
We had smiled at all the money
that had been spent upon a whim.
We would love to gaze at ceilings,
such as these, like hers, above.
But she said she's never liked the place.
'Too small, you see, for us.'

When we left an looked behind us,
at the golden lights, now dim,
we could only feel the sdaness
of the loveliness within.
Relieved now to return
to our own warm and humble homes.
knowing we had all that glittered
in a way she'd never known.

Aroma ( Coffee prompt)

2008-09-16T13:01:00.000-07:00

Shrouded by aroma, into that still, unscripted afternoon...I walked. Ghostly coffee, carressing my outer senses and making promises.
Head bowed, like a willow, the childhood road seemed strange to me.
Part of the present, should I take a step into the light, and part of the past that hovered between light and shadowof the flickering trees.
Others lived there now, behind those gates - in rooms that haunted my dreams and memories.
Strangers that trespassed upon night visions, as I had slept there, within those walls. Walls I would not leave. Still there.
Pictures drifted to the ground, like autumn leaves, spiralling away from me...
I was a character, leaving the stage, retiring from a need for explanation.
The sound of a plane stalled thought, overhead...I clung to it, the caffeinated aroma floated eastwards, recalling fragments of her words.
'When I go...you mustn't wait Stefan...'
How could she know she was soon to reach the boundaries of our thoughts?
Know the truth of our own theoretical scrabble.
She had been there for a moment, and vanished.
She had despised herself, used me as an aspirin, she confided, one afternoon. Peering at each other over over sized cups and saucers. Waiting for the plane, that would finally take her away.
She had held me so tight, I had stopped breathing. I felt like a dam ready to break.
Embarrassed by myself, my own emotions.
The breeze pushed gently, whispering memory. Her words '...masters of our own destinies...'

"Stefan?..."
I had been sat there for years; my whole life replaying the same film.
It wasn't an original story.
Emily's arms were now around me, seeking solace; patient of my seeming non-entity.
I sighed, dragging my eyes toward the light from the windows and breathing in the perfume I had bought her last Christmas. She smiled.
"Tea or coffee?"
"...Tea."

Exhalation

2008-09-16T12:57:00.000-07:00

What poem can a sigh so sing,
in utterance resound and bend;
to full close heart in trust of him.

When words are lost, meandering,
the revealing breath - whispering:
...what poem can a sigh so sing?

The bleeding ink, the only thing,
absorbs the comfort, yet eludes;
to full close heart in trust of him.

Disguised for words, now muse for whim;
infertile page, but of this loss ...
what poem can a sigh so sing!

To write? And have perspective been,
exasperating every strain;
to full close heart in trust of him.

Then - leaving me, with barren grin,
tormented trust, encrusted lies.
What poem can a sigh so sing,
when heart claims closed to loving him.

Vigil

2008-09-16T12:34:00.000-07:00

Sitting by the fire, memories turn to ash.
He wakes with a start,
knocks over the brandy glass;
his head turns to the window,
he thought she heard a knock.
It was only the ticking of the clock.

A lightbulb coughs and splutters,
he thought he heard her laugh;
creakings of the floorboards, murmurs of the past.
He switches on the light,
to blot his painful heart.
But his thoughts are only shadowed by the dark.

In burning all her letters,
he thought he'd put away
his abandonment of reason,
this enduring day to day.
He'd turned his back to questions,
he'd turned his face from stares,
and turned toward oblivion
of all that wasn't there.

But her voice, it still awoke him,
in the silence of the night.
Awakening the nightmare
of a wrong that wasn't right.
He turned toward the bedroom,
he thought he heard her sigh;
But it was only the milk float going by.

Teaching Vocation

2008-09-06T07:41:00.000-07:00

I knew I wanted to teach. Saw visions of those shining faces, looking up at me with awe. I saw their twinkling eyes and avid expressions , hungry for inspiration and creative regeneration; hands flying in the air, keen to share their new found insight on the freshly open doors to the world of emotionally literate education.
I stand in my new year 11 classroom, a student shouting 'You're pathetic!' from the back of the room, to congratualtory jeers and sniggers. I am articualutely communicating my mobile rules of the classroom, continually, batting away the incessant 'Are you new Miss?', 'Are you a new teacher?', 'What's your first name?', 'Is it Miss or Mrs, Miss?' from towering sixteen year olds, behaving like a night on the town after a rugby triumph. 'Did you used to teach at public school?', 'I think you'd be better at primary, Miss - did you used to teach at primary?' I am told I am covering things they've 'done before' and 'already know' ; plus they aren't doing P.E.E but P.Q.A and refuse to accept it's the same thing.

The battle has begun. Again.

After a hideous qualifying year two years ago, I have changed schools, hopefully, for the last time. Not dissatisfied with classes that didn't hold up to my rose-tinted spectacled idyll - or with the changing attitude of today's youth : challenging, afraid of change, defensive and often verablly aggressive - but because in coping with the present classroom environment I've been wondering where the essential backbone of the department is, or of the school - in asserting its staff and teaching brigade so they are equipped and prepared for the frontline when the bell tolls.
After filling out my ten referrals for continual disruption, rudeness to staff and for uncooperative behaviour, despite a clear warning system, my head of department patted me on the back, told me I was doing the right thing and took the worst offenders off me to ring their parents immediately, saying " If they try and front up to you they are fronting up to the whole department - and they'll never win." No, the reason for most movement these days is the sometimes elusive search for department and school cohesion, approachable management, a friendly smile in the hallway inbetween lessons, someone asking you if everything is okay and 'how did it go?'
In 'progressing' to a 'business-like' attitude to school we seem to have forgotten that we're in an emotional and hugely hormonal environment, with children from all walks of life, with their lives often in a constant state of flux themselves; we're not in an automative, hierarchial office pigeon hole where emotions can be left at the receptionists desk with the days agenda - to be picked up again on the way out hte door. School is where teachers need to make a thousand and one spur-of-the-moment decisions, have responsibility of 10-32 highly charged children each hour, all at once, each with their own agenda and still have the capacity to play 'professional' for all sundry and purposes. We need to feel our backs are covered, that we are not only in control of our classroom, but that the children know it too, so we can deal with anything they throw at us with every scenario thought out in advance and facilities to deal with it; especially in our 'inclusive' climate.
I calmly let the 'pathetic' remark wash over me, ironic smile intact; how many times have I been here, and will I be here in the future?
Cool as a cliche cucumber I wait patiently for silence. Nothing to see here, no cracks, no performance - no visual and available buttons to press for future use. though they are trying very hard to find them. I remind myself of the two thirds of the class who are writing in their books, working silently, following the instructions and task, however reluctantly for some. I am, today, armed with knowledge of support beyond the classroom and action immediately after the lesson, i have secret ammunition that they won't feel the heat of until later, when they are detached from the group, more vulnerable, perhaps at home. I even leave the lesson, smiling, calm, patient that things will improve gradually. And ironic because as the prime candidates sneer at me on the way out the door, though they don't know it yet, I have won this battle today - and the classroom will be mine, not theirs - not this time.