Row

There’s a hole of misunderstanding. It hovers between us, just big enough to stop us reaching out our arms and throwing them around each other. Just wide enough to stop us both in our tracks, the edge of unkindness digging hard into both our bellies, keeping us an equal distance apart. And for a moment our minds are somewhere else, rattling about desperately in the back of our heads, picking up and dropping thoughts, carelessly. And we aren't really sure why we are stood here, saying these things, we just stare at the hole and through each other. It is hard to imagine at this moment there was love there at all. For that moment there is just deep loneliness, where the face I kiss I have forgotten and another person is there instead.  

His Shed.

“Where is he?” I ask my Gran, as I walk into the living room, balancing three cups of tea in two hands.

She’s knitting meticulously. Her metal needles clack together and she barely glances up as I place the cup on the pretty lace doily in the centre of the glass coffee table.

She lets out a sigh. Her eyes flick up quickly in the direction of the French windows, but she doesn’t miss a stitch.

“Down the garden…”

“Oh, okay. I’ll take it out to him then.” I say, placing my tea next to hers and gripping the handle of the third mug firmly. I hear her mutter something about me spoiling him as I tiptoe my way over the rug and step out through the sliding glass doors.

Their new house has stepping stones leading down the long stretch of grass, and I continue my tiptoeing across them, thinking how much I would have loved hopping along these twenty years ago, each one an island and the grass a deep sea.

Closer to the end of the garden, I pass the honeysuckle bush, with its arms all spindly and blowy in the breeze - as if it’s trying to tickle the daffodils two beds down. But it’s when I get nearer to the dahlias lined up in a row like short green soldiers that I spy him. Just a few wisps of white hair on a bald head, popping in and out of view inside the shed. I walk up to the door and poke my head around it to peer in. He’s bent over, fussing with something on the floor. I wonder how he’s managed it for a moment, and then I see the garden kneeler turned on its side - the perfect bench, being just that little bit higher than the chair on his right. He is picking at a muddled up bit of grey string and I see that his hairy eyebrows are knotted just as tightly in concentration.

“I've got you a tea.” I whisper, smiling in at him.

“Oooph!” He lets out a loud, dramatic gasp as he sees me, jumping a few inches on the kneeler, grinning and clasping his hand over his heart as if I’ve just killed him.

I laugh and lean over, planting a light kiss on his bristly cheek and placing his tea on the table next to a pair of garden clippers.

“Hello, love.” He says, winking at me. He shuffles and gets up off his kneeler, carefully lifting a tomato plant off the old wooden chair beside him. Taking his time, he brushes off some loose soil onto the floor and sits down himself, leaving the upside down garden kneeler for me.

I perch on the kneeler and take a deep breath. I can see why he loves it down here. It’s warm. As the sun breathes in and out from behind the odd cloud, light filters through fifteen year's worth of garden dirt smattered on the windows, leaving a gentle sepia hue all around us. The light gently brushes the old flowerpots, trinkets and rusty tools balanced on the shelves. I think to myself that it’s probably a good thing my Gran’s not allowed down here to come and wash the windows - any more light and I’d worry they might crumble.

“Here.” I say, reaching over and taking the grubby string from him. “I’ve got nails made for this job.”
I wave my pointed pink lacquered fingernails at him and begin picking at the knot in the piece of string. Admittedly, they don’t really belong in this shed. They shriek of make-up aisles in shops with artificial lighting. But I pick away at the string, listening to him explain how it’s for that honeysuckle that’s gone a bit wild, and in no time at all I’ve untangled two long bits of string, and wrapped each into two tightly coiled balls.

He leans over to show me his tomato plant, pinching the stalks gently.

“Hm. Bit stringy this year. But y’never know. They could be all right.” He says fondly, lifting up the baby leaves.

I remember us planting seeds together when I was small - tomatoes, radish, occasionally lettuce - in white, squeaky, polystyrene boxes. I recall the excitement of poking my little finger into the soil, just a few centimetres deep and popping in the seed before brushing across the soil. We’d both tap the top for luck and I’d thought it the most magical thing in the world.

“What on earth are these?” I ask him, spying a pair of dusty black leather shoes. Picking one up I dangle it in the air to inspect it carefully. They look like no one has worn them since the seventies. As I brush off the dust, a woodlouse crawls out the heel. They seem to have lost their laces a long time ago, leaving the tongue to waggle freely at me.

“They’re Uncle Les’.” He says, picking up the other shoe and turning it over, before tapping the bottom firmly. “Go on, have a guess.” he says, tapping the numerous small holes in the sole. His eyes sparkle.

“I’m… really not sure.” I say, wrinkling my nose.

“They’re his old golfing shoes. I took all the spikes out. Perfect for the garden. Well. He’s a nine and a half. So they’re a bit big… but not bad.” He says.

I giggle and tap his hand gently.

“Not bad at all.” I say. “Don’t forget your tea.”

As he reaches for his cup, I look closely at my Gramps. I remember him being so much bigger. I look into his face, at his paper-thin skin and love how his eyelashes splay out erratically along his lid. As he tells me about Uncle Les’ shoes, I watch him talk, watch how his eyebrows dance with each expression like two hairy caterpillars kissing in the middle of his forehead. Six or seven wrinkles pile up and gently nudge the wisps of his white unruly hair, that float almost above his head like they aren’t attached at all.

“Oh, thanks love.” He says, after I hand him another ball of grey string, this one too; unravelled and duly coiled. I can do things so much quicker than he can. I tuck my converse around the legs of the chair and shift a little. I’m impatient. I'm not used to sitting still for so long, and I suddenly feel warm in my leather jacket, and think perhaps we should go back inside, because Gran’s still sat in her chair, probably wondering what we’re still doing down here.

“Shall we go in?” I ask him, leaning to the left slightly to look through the window. The sun’s gone in behind the clouds. A purple haze has fallen over the house and it looks as if it might rain.

He looks up at me, his speckled brown eyes lock on mine. They always speak so much more than he ever does. I see they are the same eyes, framed by the same two hairy caterpillars, that saw me run like a lunatic around the garden, curl kitchen roll into jam jars for growing runner beans and jump like a spider over stinging nettles to pinch raspberries from next-door’s allotment.

“I’ll be in in a minute.” He says fiddling in a rusty looking tool box. “Just want to do this…”

“Okay.” I say, standing up and brushing the soil from my jeans. I hesitate. Suddenly I'm not sure I want to leave. “Don’t forget your tea.” I say, again.

He nods. And wanting to hold on to this person, this memory, this slow playing film reel from my past, I close my eyes tightly, smile at him and walk back up the garden. 

100 Word Post: I Spy

She skipped into the crammed carriage, reminding me instantly of a baby deer. She had big brown eyes and loose curls that bounced on her shoulder as she ground to a halt, gripping the handrail to steady herself. She flicked open her book carelessly. Those eyes glanced quickly down before flicking impulsively to him.

He caught her gaze and his eyes widened. Embarrassed suddenly at being caught out, he shuffled his feet on the floor and blushed as if he was being told off.

She smiled.

The busy carriage zoomed out of focus, and then it was only those two.

A little love back to you...

I've was nominated by Lo on her marvellous blog, It's Always Something to recieve the Leibster Blog Award - lucky me! And because my German is a very average GCSE 'C' (and not much more than that), I've been sneaky and looked up 'Leibster' online and found it means; darling, sweetheart. But because most of you are darlings and I could go on listing your blogs forever... I've decided to translate my 'Leibster' Award as; favourite. 

Valentine's Day is a lovely opportunity to rave about those bloggers I think are just fantastic. Here are my favourites... With love!

Sharon Longworth at Resistent But Persistent

Because... she carries you along a journey, holding your hand to show you her world. Her posts are always full to the brim of quirky turns, lovely tales and stories I could read over and over again- (and admittedly, I do).

Dicky at Dicky Carter

Because...  the way he writes is real and very open; snippets of life, laying it bare. Eloquently put and often very brave.

Philip Dodd at The Domesticated Bohemian

Because... his words hold you in a way that allows his people and places to become inked in your mind for a very long time. So positive and encouraging, he's been my favourite blogger from the very beginning.

Steven at The Golden Fish

Because... perfectly captured moments in poetry, enhanced with beautiful photographs completely works for me.

Dan at My Point Being

Because... he has an uncanny ability to make me smile with his charm and quick wit. His blog always has something new and interesting to learn about, described with a big dose of passion.

Being Twenty-six

London has suddenly exploded with sunshine. Walking to the station yesterday to catch my train for work, there was something special in the air as I passed through the park near my flats. The sun was low in the sky, and just brushing the tree tops in the distance, so bright beams shot across the grass and played havoc with the mist that had settled quietly across the field. The air was crisp, and tickled my nose, but it wasn't cold enough to steam up my breath. I stopped to take a picture by the railings. It looked like something paranormal. Just beautiful. It was a fresh morning, the kind that wakes you right up and starts to make you think. Even at seven O'clock in the morning.

I will be twenty-six on Saturday. Twenty-six.  

I continued up the path, and watched as a grey figure walked through the mist just a couple of hundred yards in front of me. I could hear the footsteps and heavy breathing getting louder as they strode towards me, but the mist distorted his face. He passed quickly and smiled as he went. I beamed back. A little exchange of how beautiful it was. My thoughts flipped back to my birthday.

Was twenty-six really so different from being twenty-five? 

I walked briskly along the path, carefully avoiding squishing all the tiny red berries that had dropped to the ground from the tree overhead.

It's taken me a year, but I think I'm in a good place. At twenty-six, I've got a nice flat, a job that pays for it, good friends and a lovely man.  I might even go as far to say I'm beginning to love London.

I left the park, noticing the way the fog just slipped by and out of sight as I walked across the cast iron bridge and turned left through the estate. Feeling settled, or rather, feeling safe has always been rather important to me. Change was never something I was very good at. I'd try and do everything possible to keep things the way they were. I loved photographs that captured beautiful moments with natural real-life poses, videos I could play over and over again watching every movement and reliving a tiny snippet of who I was at one tiny point in time. And then there were the diaries. I might not have been good at change, but recording change; I was brilliant.

 -------

A fabulous day in London - 14th April 2006

(Aged 20)

We set off at Amersham to get the cheap tickets. Ahead of us was just the most romantic day. It was cool - not too cold but lovely and bright. We arrived in London and started with Covent Garden - my favourite place. We were really hungry so I'd made a picnic and done some cute sandwiches. It was lovely... We arrived and he held me close and we kissed and as we did the sun came out. 

I felt so happy... I held his hand and loved looking around the ring stalls and there was a carousel where we sat by and ate our sandwiches in the sun. Then we made our way to St James' Park (while the sun was still out). Walked through the park and even saw Buckingham Palace. Squirrels and blossom were everywhere. We sat on a little bench by the lake and I lay on Leam's lap. I loved just being together away from the usual setting in Manchester. Decided Leam would love Camden and so off we went to the market. He bought me a nose stud from a stall by the lochs. Everyone was having a pint in the sun, so we thought we'd go for a drink. We went to Embankment, and went aboard a river boat on the Thames. Such a beautiful setting. We talked about summer and the future. Felt so good, but got a little cold as evening set in, so we decided to go to china town for an evening meal. I did my usual on the restaurants; changed my mind, couldn't decide on a table, before finally asking to leave and find another one. Then we found a lovely cosy place, nice - but quite expensive. We had London fever, and I just so wanted to stay. If only we could afford a hotel! We made our way back- I felt happy. The day had really summed up for me how good the last six months together have been. We have the 'at one'ishness. There's no need to speak. No silences. He's just so cute and I'm so in love. Still.

Invincible - My guest post.

'I'd like you to write a post on Inspiration.' My friend, Starlight asked me in an email. I felt very honoured. It was to be included in her series of guest posts on Inspiration. I didn't have to think for long about what I would write about. Immediately one person came to mind.

I picked the person who I thought to be invincible, who is undoubtedly my inspiration: My Mum. To find out about her - and the story behind this picture I painted just for her - pay a visit to Starlight's blog, Crazy Thoughts.

Starlight is a wonderful writer, a dedicated blogger and a supportive friend. I want to thank her for giving me the opportunity to share my inspiration with you all.

Kiss me quick!

Waking up early on a Sunday morning, I peek out of the curtains. Its only 7:00am and it’s always going to look foggy like that at this time. The clouds loom over head, but it’s still bright, nonetheless. I’m positive, I’m excited, and quickly run a cool shower. Liam’s still snoozing as I pull on my jeans, a short white T-shirt, and a long navy cardigan. To flip-flop? Or not to flip flop?  I didn’t. I opted for black leather pumps instead. The kettle sounds loud in the quiet flat, as I flick it on, and it jumps into action. It wakes up the cat who is not used to such early morning start on a Sunday. She mews and expects her breakfast before I go to get mine.

It’s a quick turnaround, and within twenty minutes all the lights are turned off, the radio set onto Radio 4 to keep the cat company, before the front door shuts behind us and the key is turned in the lock. Do you think the peach mac or the canvas jacket? I ponder at the top of the stairs. Do you want to catch the train or not? He asks, rolling his eyes at me. The air is fresh, so I stick with the mackintosh and we race to the train station.

One change. Two change. A hot sausage roll and take-away coffee later, we are on the train to Brighton. It’s only an hour journey and I pop one earphone in my right ear and one in Liam’s left. It’s still early, I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes. Two little girls colour a large pad of paper with bright felt-tip pens in the chairs next to us. An old lady and her flowered shopping trolley get on ten minutes later. She parks it close by and shuffles onto the seat opposite me. Gardens with whirligig washing lines full of whites pass by, fields busy with Sunday morning football clubs appear and then are gone as quickly as I saw them. Clatter, bump. Jitter, clunk; the train clambers down the track.

In no time at all, I’m being woken up. My hand in his, I am led down the platform, among a swarm of people. I look up to a maze of Victorian windows and beams, painted blue high up above my head; the station roof. A stern brow and a nod from the inspector. Tickets please. I hand him mine. Thank you. He says.

On the sunny side of the street we walk, avoiding the sea wind whipping past us too cold. I feel like skipping now we are out of London, out of the smoke and one square metre of space in that city. The air feels lighter. Can I see the sea? I tiptoe for a moment. I’ve got to see the sea! Not quite yet. We walk closer down the hill, passing cafes and slightly run down shops, the kind you know have been there forever, with their signs a little peeled, and their customers too few. The promenade is not yet busy. It’s open for business with one or two stalls, selling shells and jewellery spread out on bright cloths. Tinkling music is playing, all in different tunes, from different places, luring you to each end of the stretch. And there’s the sea! My hands are place gently on the cool metal bars along the front. Feel my feet firm on that concrete promenade. But my heart wants to leap out from my chest and do a little dance over the waves into the distance. Take a deep breath, it smells like the sea; salty and fresh. Miles and miles of glittering blue, today quite calm and still.

A Mr Whippy ice-cream? He asks as he kisses my head. Oh, yes, please. No flake... I remember to add. The sun has got hot, I feel it on my face. We walk slowly towards the pier with our ice creams, hand in hand. The pier vibrates with the music on the megaphone. It's Bob Dylan. So we stand and watch the sea, and listen for a while. My Mac over my arm, I tiptoe across the slats. Avoid the dips, the gaps and damaged bits and eye the rusty bolts with suspicion.

We have all the time in the world as we walk along the pier, the wind blowing my hair gently to the right. I feel like a Victorian Lady from an old sepia photo. I pretend I'm in a long frilly dress, adorned with jewels, my parasol and hat. I strut proudly along the pier. Link arms with my tall, top-hatted man, and laugh as I imagine his handlebar moustache.

Ker-ching! Clunk Clunk Clunk! Brrrrring! Oooh, the Penny Arcade. Flashing lights. Tinkling tunes. I feel seven again, and rush to go inside. Holding as many two pennies in my hand as possible. I make a little carrier for them with the bottom of my T-Shirt. Eyes darting to the trays underneath, I look for the coins which have fallen too soon. One through the slot. Slide down the chute. Hit the bottom. Spinning around and around until it stops. Then sweep. Knocked down a level. Pushing the rows forward and forward more. One or two fall, and I hear the satisfying clatter of two pences in the tray below. And everyone stops to glare a jealous look.

I see the fair at the end of the pier from the corner of my eye. Dodgems, the Waltzers, a Helter Skelter - roller coasters galore!

I grasp Liam's hand, dragging him across the slats. Oh we've got to have a go on the Waltzers! He looks at me as if I'm crazy. But I was sick last time... He says. Oh don't be a baby. Lets get tokens! I kiss his cheek. We change over six pounds with the tiny lady in the booth, and compromise to have a go on The Twister - fast, but less sicky.

The bar goes down across our laps. We hand over our tokens. The bell sounds and the music starts. His arm is tight around my shoulders. The ride jolts into action; we swing sharply to the left. There's a pause for half a second - I catch Liam's eye - before we fly across the section, my hair whipping furiously behind me. I throw my head back and look to the sky. Hands in the air! I scream to him. The people waiting by the side, whizz in and out of sight. My heart is thump, thump, thumping so I hold on tight. His face looks green, his teeth are grinding and his lips curl. 

We slow right down all of a sudden; the music comes to a stop. My hand is white from gripping on so tight. Giggling, I lift the bar and hop onto the floor.

His arm slips around my waist and I pretend not to notice that he's wobbling a bit, or that he's using me as a crutch. Laughing, we pass a small pub with patio chairs and tables. How about a pint on the pier? I ask, with a slight glint in my eye. Hmm... Maybe in a bit. He says, squinting into the sun. I flop over the railings to the sides of the pier; still trying to catch my breath. We look out to sea, to the beautiful blue and right across the stony beaches. The sun beats down a little stronger than before. The tinkling music plays on. Lets get you back to shore. I say.

A lucky black cat. The End.

I saw him standing at the end of the road, waving at me and smiling like a lunatic, a little black cat by his side snug and safe in the cream canvas cat carrier. Even from nearly two hundred metres away, I could see her eyes peeping through the black mesh, all big and looming. Bess had become quite heavy now she had a huge bandaged leg, so I was grateful Liam had been able to carry her to the hospital.


Liam had taken the morning off as I had to make it in for work at 8:30am, since there was no one available to cover those first few morning hours on reception, I had left work at 10:00am, grabbed my coat and taken the tube, reaching East Putney only twenty minutes later. As I walked out from the station, the sun was more than shining - it was positively beaming down on me - and I hoped it was the sign of a good omen.
The animal hospital wasn't far from the station, and I was glad for the walk along Putney high street to clear my head, it was nice to be in there at a strange hour, amongst different types of people - the ones I usually miss from being at work.


Nervous wasn't the word. Desperate was more accurate. 


'Don't worry.' Liam said as I reached him. 'You look petrified! You know what? If it doesn't work today - we have a back up.'


'I know.'

That was one thing at least.

'I'm okay. But thanks for bringing her over...' I replied softly, and then I leant down until those two gleaming black eyes were level with mine. 'Come on then, girl.'


I picked up the cat carrier and kissed Liam goodbye before walking towards the automatic glass doors.
Inside Putney RSPCA Animal Hospital, it was organised chaos. There were (rather unsurprisingly) all kinds of animals, being held on leads, in boxes, cages and on the knees of their worried-looking owners. I was rather amused, despite the situation, to see how many people in that waiting room did in fact resemble the animal they'd arrived here with. (Whether that meant I was small, black and furry, was quite another thing.)


I approached the reception, and gave my name to the lady dressed in green overalls behind the counter. She nodded and smiled at me, before ushering me to take a seat in the crowded waiting room. Stepping over one of the biggest dogs I had ever seen, I lifted Bess high above my head, partly because I didn't want her to get worked up about the dogs, and partly because the huge animal had started sitting up to sniff her. I placed her in the corner, so she didn't have to see the Chihuahua opposite, or the yappy Westie to it's right who just wouldn't stop barking. I realised after about five minutes that there were, in fact, loads of dogs in this waiting room. And then I noticed the large black and white sign on the opposite side of the room, which read 'CATS AND SMALL ANIMALS'.


Oooohhh.


Back over the enormous dog (bear?) that was still sprawled out across the pathway, we went, and into the much quieter area of 'Cats and Small Animals'. It was a bit like Narnia. No, it wasn't, really. But there was definitely no sniffing, barking, yelping, scratching or drooling. Hurrah.


There was one other girl sitting alone on the bench, with her cat placed on the floor by her feet. As I walked over, looking relieved, she smiled, and leant forward immediately to talk to me.


'Much quieter over here, isn't it!?' The girl said cheerily as I walked over. She was roughly my age, perhaps a little younger, and had wide expressive eyes and a open face. Instantly I connected with her, mainly because she was willing to talk to a complete stranger (like I do), but also because she had made me feel at ease in a situation where I was far from it.


'Ahhhh... Is that your baby?' She leant over and peered in at Bess. 'She's beautiful. Look at her silky fur. What's her name?'


'Bess.' I replied. And perhaps, as a rather unnecessary after thought I added, 'I named her after my Great Grandmother.'


'This is Gypsy, but we also call her Gyps. An actual gypsy woman gave her to us when she was a kitten.' The girl said. When she spoke, she waved her hands about a lot. I do that too.
'That's so sweet.' I replied, looking through the bars at her huge black and white cat, with a little black dot on her nose.


'Yes, well. The gypsy said she would have to drown her if they couldn't find a home for her, so we took her in at once.' The girl looked serious and thoughtful for a moment, before going on to ask me question after question about why we were here, what had happened at the other vets, how the prices for vets fees are just terrible and finally how she was here today because she had found a lump on Gypsy's back. Gypsy, I'd just found out, was nearly fourteen, and the second eldest of her four cats.


I was grateful for this chatty girl who loved cats. But before long, a vet walked out into the corridor and called Bess' name. I quickly wished the girl- and Gypsy- good luck, before picking up Bess and her three x-rays (which I had brought with me), and followed the vet into one of the side rooms.


The room was larger than the one we had waited in at the vets last week. The lady who had ushered me in, was indeed the vet, and she introduced herself as Juliet. Juliet had a sparkle in her eyes, and sounded ever-so posh, like she might have had horses and a swimming pool at home. She was matter of fact, but kind, because she put me at ease right away by joking about how they (meaning the other vets) might have given Bess a pink bandage, as it looked like she supported Manchester City football team with the sky blue one she had on now. I laughed, and said it might well be appropriate as she was born in south Manchester... Juliet took the x-rays out of the brown envelope and got to looking at them right away on the light box.


Alongside Juliet was a friendly-looking man in his late twenties. He was the veterinary nurse assisting the vet. He beamed at me, and I noticed how lovely his teeth looked when he smiled.


'It must have been a nightmare week for you. But don't look so worried, you can relax now! Bess is in safe hands.' He said as he helped me lift her carrier onto the examination table.


'Oh yes.' Juliet piped up. 'It's a bad break, and the bone is quite splintered. I really wouldn't recommend any other kind of operation, than one to insert a plate along the bone. Of course, there is always the option of amputation, but I really think we can fix her leg without such drastic measures.'


'And you can do the operation for her, here, at the RSPCA?' I asked, tentatively, shuffling from one foot to the other, expecting the worst.


'No problem. Now, we are very upfront about payment here, and we don't mind talking about money. A lot of people who come to us haven't got much to spare, so we understand the need to be open. Obviously since we are a charity, we are able to subsidise the prices heavily for you, but you are on the higher side of our pay bracket... Let me see... An operation would be in the region of....'

She checked her computer for a moment.


'... £400 at most. That's everything included. Today's consultation, the operation, anaesthetic, a few overnight stays, and the after care to take the stitches out and future x-rays. It won't be any more than that.' She pulled a oh god this is a lot and I'm sorry face.


I nearly jumped over the examination table to kiss her. She would do it. I could find that sort of money - I mean, it wasn't nothing - it was still a lot - but it wasn't such a unimaginable amount as £1,700. I suddenly felt lightheaded.


'Lets do it. Oh, you have no idea how relieved I am that you can help her. I've been so worried about her, and I've felt like such an irresponsible parent for not taking out pet insurance...'


'Oh, don't be silly. Even I don't take out pet insurance for my cats. They can be so catchy, full of loop holes.'

I didn't like to point out at that point that she was a vet and could probably operate on them at home on the kitchen table, herself.

She was quick, matter of fact, as went through the details of the surgery. She mentioned how, if once they'd opened her leg, it looked worse than they'd originally thought - impossible to salvage - then they would do the best thing for Bess' future recovery and quality of life - even if that meant amputating the leg. I trusted her implicitly. So, is that it? I kept saying to her, over and over, hardly believing that they didn't want more money, and there were no more complicated matters than this.

'That's really it.' Juliet said, laughing. 'She will be fine, don't worry. Give us a ring tonight, to see if we managed to squeeze her in for the operation today - if not, she will definitely be done tomorrow. Plus, you can pop in to see her anytime you like during working hours over the next few days, if you miss her.'


'Thank you so much for looking after her.' I said, and I had never meant it more.


The smiley male nurse, who's name I had found out was Leandro, went to pick Bess out of her carrier to put her into the RSPCA cage with a soft green blanket, which he had prepared as Juliet had been talking to me.


'Do you want to give her a cuddle before you go?' Leandro asked, avoiding knocking her huge blue bandage on the sides of the carrier.


'Yes please.' I said, as I took her out of his arms, and kissed her velvety left ear. She flicked it, and growled a little at me, but I stroked her nose, and hoped she knew she was staying somewhere safe.


Thanking them both profusely and glancing one last look at Bess, I walked out of the calming white examination room and back into the manic reception area. As soon as the door clicked shut, I felt a wave of pure relief wash over me, and I sighed loudly, utterly oblivious to the yapping and general chatter of the waiting room around me. The most colossal grin spread right across my face, I couldn't help it and I didn't care if they all thought I was nuts. It was as if every worry, stress and seemingly unsolvable problem of the last week had left my aura, crying a little 'oh' of happiness.

I looked over to the 'Cats and Small Animals' section.
A couple were sitting together with a wicker cat basket on the chair next to them. Gypsy and her owner had gone. Shame, I thought, it would have been nice to take her phone number. I hoped that Gypsy's lump hadn't been anything too serious.
The lady sat with her partner was looking at me, and had seen my euphoric face as I'd walked out of the examination room with an empty cat carrier.

'Good news?!' She asked me.

'Yes.' I said, and beamed at her.

I'd learnt it was like being part of a club, having a cat. Everyone wants to help as your rationality goes out of the window and your heart takes over. Cat-owners (or rather, cat-lovers) all understand that pain you go through when the little animal you are so used to having around the house; who eats the chicken you'd left out for dinner, leaves muddy paw prints on the windowsill, or dead mice under your bed, falls ill, or has a nasty accident. You see, when she was no longer able to prppp when I walked through the front door or curl into a ball on my lap as I watch television, stretching her claws out and spiking me through the fabric of my jeans, I had realised the lengths I would go to, to make her better again. 

Bess, home after the operation with her shaved and stitched up leg.
Getting all the love.

Bess is now back home, resting from her operation. It looks like it went really well. She has to stay in a large cage for a couple of weeks until the bone heals. But she is happy, and back to her old self again. Thank you to everyone who sent their kind thoughts to us and offered help; you made such a difference. If you would like to find out more about RSPCA Putney Animal Hospital, and the brilliant work they do, click here to visit their website.

The Award, The Mexican and Me

I've been given an award! The versatile blogger award, nonetheless. And whilst I'll admit I have been very versatile in the last couple of weeks working like a nutcase and trying to fit in one hundred things a day, I haven't been such a good blogger because of this, and my posting has been a little too far and few between for my liking. All because you just get those weeks where it all piles on top of you, and you end up being something different to a whole load of people, which stops you from doing what you love, or more importantly, from having the time to be you.

Now, like Jayne from Suburban Soliloquy, I'm no good with following the rules...  But tah-dah! It must have been fate that I was nominated for the award in which you have to show and tell a few things about yourself in a post. So here I am blogging (very good) about me (hurrah!). Two birds with one stone? I think so.

But first, you absolutely must (if you haven't done so already) check out Jayne and her blog, Suburban Soliloquy. Jayne is wonderful with words and very good at regular posting (*blush*). Her writing is playful and beautifully artistic - but always real. When Jayne nominated me for this award, I felt very honoured that she'd picked me, and in a similar way to how I feel when someone stops by my blog, reads a post, or takes their time to comment on something I have written, I was rather grateful. I'd like to say thank you to Jayne - but also to all of you who stop by my blog for a read.

I have so many blogs I could recommend, but I'd never get onto the 'me' bit of this post if I listed them all. For now, four bloggers come to mind. They all write blogs in a way I can always relate to, and their posts have encouraged me to write from the heart, just as they do. As the rules sort of went out the window in the way both Jayne and myself accepted this award, I'll leave these bloggers to accept this award if and as they wish.

Phillip at the domesticated bohemian

Otherworldlyone at Calling People Names

Starlight at Crazy Thoughts

Sharon at Resistant But Persistent


I've been procrastinating. But mainly because I've found it hard to think about just what to say about me...  I've been quite shy in this blog, and haven't put up any pictures of me, or too many personal details. In fact, I think the only photograph I've included in my blog is of my Gran. And a nice one it is too. 

Before I started writing, way back in September last year... I painted. Not walls, but pictures. I wouldn't say I was good enough to call myself an artist, but I loved creating all things bright and beautiful on a blank canvas. I never really liked painting what I saw, but threw everything into what I could imagine, and just waited to see what it would turn out like. I put all of this down to the fact that my Dad made me do Politics instead of Art at A-Level. And since trying desperately to justify 'The Special Relationship' between Britain and America in a draughty exam hall sometime in February 2004, I rebelled, and I threw everything I had into being creative.

So I think I'll say the bit about me, through a few photographs I've taken.

I might live in London, but I'm a country girl at heart.
And a Hertfordshire girl in particular.

 


Bess. Named after my Great-Grandmother, Bessie.
My lucky black cat.

 



I collect crystal balls. Nope, not to see into the future.
Because they are beautiful.
This one was a present from my Mum for my sixteenth birthday - and my favourite.

 



Yes. I crochet small animals - occasionally.
It's Cheryl the Snail.

And finally...



It's my lover. And me.
He's the Mexican and I'm the Cowgirl.
In our first year university halls, where we first met and fell in love.
And nope, he doesn't have one that big in real life.

The Present

As my earlier post, The Magpie might have told you, I am a sucker for silver. I collect silver rings. Being a slightly self-confessed hippy, there was a time when I used to wear one on each of my fingers, so I almost couldn't close them together without a gap appearing between each one. I've toned it down a little now (only four between both hands) - positively discreet.

L has bought me almost half of my silver rings, picking the ones which reflect me perfectly. He knows I fall in love with the art decor swirls, mixed gold and silver, the unique crystals, the odd antique ring saved from the 1800's that's got a dent and oodles of character. He got me one for each of our first few Christmases together, on a couple of my birthdays, and sometimes just because he saw that one he knew I'd love.

I remember when my Dad used to buy Christmas presents for my Mum. I used to utterly dread her opening it. When I hadn't managed to monitor his annual purchase, not only was it wrong, it was often a disaster.
All those mid-Decembers, I went with him to choose something for her; browsing around John Lewis and picking out a cute black Elle jacket which I knew she'd love, leading him to the perfume counter and making sure he sniffed more than the first bottle he laid his eyes on. I desperately wanted him to pick something for his wife which said, 'I know you. I love you. I chose this for you, because it's something which represents all you mean to me.' That was all he had to do.

One year, I hadn't gone with him. The present lay under the tree, and I had squeezed it on Christmas Eve, not out of the usual excitable present-squeezing, but out of pure fear, dreading the potential few hours of disappointed looks, tears in the potatoes and choruses of  'is this really what you think of me!?', tomorrow afternoon.
I eyed the present suspiciously all Christmas morning. Then after lunch, when the living room carpet had been almost entirely covered with multi-coloured Christmas wrapping paper, the present found its way into my Mum's hands. She opened it, and I swear to God, the following present happened:

It was a nightie. Ok. Not that bad, you're thinking. But it was an extra comfortable large T-Shirt nightie. Not the sexiest nightie he could have picked out at the lingerie store for his wife... In the middle there was a picture of a fat cartoon mouse. The mouse was eating a large piece of Emmental cheese. Yes, you know, the Tom and Jerry style, 'cartoon' cheese with the holes in it? But it was what was written on the front of her new nightie - in bold, comical writing - which made my jaw drop:

"SAY YES PLEASE TO CHEESE!"

Nothing says, 'this is how I feel about you', than a literally and metaphorically, cheesy nightie.

This last Christmas, L and I agreed to save the money we would have spent on each other's presents and put it towards a holiday sometime in the Spring. With a severe cash-flow problem, and the disappointment of not receiving a Christmas bonus this year (not even a little one) hitting me hard, I was quite relieved to be let off one of the dozen presents I had to buy for my ever-extending family.


L arrived on Christmas Day, and within a matter of minutes, my little brother had arranged his bag of presents under our tree, whilst my Mum fussed about him and threw a Jack Daniels his way.
It was a couple of hours after he'd arrived, just after dinner, before we managed to get some time together, just us.
I'd gone for a bit of a lie down, a combination of too much sparkling wine, and hundreds of children running around. I'd barely closed my eyes, before L, who had followed me upstairs, poked his head around the door and said coyly:


"Bth, don't kill me... I wanted to get you just a little something for Christmas. You see, I got a bonus, and you didn't. And I thought you deserved just a little present."


He was holding a small box wrapped in gold paper with a matching tag, half hidden behind his back. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to kill him or hug him for how thoughtful he was.
He dropped the little box into my hands.
I turned it over a couple of times. Thoughts flew through my head.

• It's got to be a ring with a box that small.
• Oh my God. Not an engagement ring?
• No, don't be stupid. He's not on his knees.
• Damn - he got me a ring! I hadn't got him anything.
• I wonder if this means the holiday's off...

I slowly undid the golden ribbon and opened the box. I saw him looking at me - expecting - scanning my face for any response. It was a ring. It was silver. But I was surprised. The time had passed when I should have squealed "I love it!", but I couldn't find the words. It didn't have soft feminine curves, or see-through crystals set in gold and silver. It looked strong and dark, almost masculine.

"It's just really different... nothing like I'd expected." I mumbled, my cheeks flaming red.


You idiot. Shut up now and say thank you.

I was horrified I didn't love it. But this was a present, not something I'd chosen myself. 

Just be grateful. 

Flashes of my Mum's expression flew through my mind. Specifically the time one Christmas when she had opened a Boots own brand of Evening Primrose Body Lotion and a pair of nail clippers from my Dad. Oh God. Please don't let my face resemble that look. I scolded myself. This wasn't my Dad we were dealing with, and this present was obviously no last minute disaster. It was from the man who had thought of me, of what I'd like. As if to prove my point, L piped up:

"I thought it looked Arabic and unusual... a really strong piece."

I took the ring out the the box, running my fingers over the smooth underside of silver. It had a thick band, and across the top was a strong silver ridge. Down the two sloping sides, it was covered in tiny sparkling marcasite crystals. L was right. It was unusual. It was nothing like anything I'd ever loved in a ring before. But there was something strangely beautiful about it. It spoke differently to my other rings.


I put it on my finger. It fit perfectly.


"I really liked it in the shop." He said. "But don't worry, we can take it back and choose you something else together. It was just something little I chose which reminded me of you."

I felt like a real fool. I looked at the silver ridge. It reminded me of a backbone; strong, secure. The marcasites although set deep, glittered at me beautifully. They sparkled and spoke to me more than a solitaire diamond ever could. A unique kind of glittering.
I saw a real present on my left hand. One from someone who really knew me - apparently better than I knew myself.
One by one I took all the other rings off my fingers and popped them into the little ring box, looping the golden ribbon into a bow.

"It's actually perfect" I whispered. "Thank you."

When it rains

You know the saying: 'When it rains, it pours' ?

It does in my life. Quite literally.

It might sound just a little bit weird, but everytime something happens - something you might call life-changing - it always seems to pour with rain. I'm not talking that drippy rain, that splashes in puddles, or the kind that makes your beautifully blow-dried hair go frizzy, but that drench-you-to-your-bones, so-hard-it-hurts-a-little-bit, bouncing off the rooftops kind of rain. Like a reminder to say, 'hey, something really big is happening'. This year it poured with rain a few times. It did, when Mum got cleared of cancer, when L came home from Peru and said he wanted me. It rained when we finally found out we'd got the flat in London, when I decided once and for all - I was leaving my Manchester.

I'm one of those very sentimental people, and I always have been. I used to save all my Easter eggs when I was a kid, keep them safe, unopened, until the chocolate started to go white and my Mum had to throw them out when I wasn't looking, somtime in August. On the last day before my birthday, I would go around the house announcing; 'this is the last time I will eat my breakfast when I am nine', in a theatrical way. Before I went to bed I would whisper to my Mum; 'this is my last ever sleep before I'm ten.' My parents thought I was nuts. On the eve of the Millenium, I made a little box, wrote a letter, popped in a picture, and buried it in the back garden. I've forgotten where it is now, but holding onto time was so important to me, I had made everyone come and watch.


Every Christmas, I used to get a diary from my Great Aunt - one to write stories in, not for the dates. I made promises to write my stories every day. January always started with beautiful handwriting. But by mid February I used to forget a day - sometimes two. By the time March came along, my diary was almost a write off (pardon the pun). I was rarely completely honest, for fear someone might find it. But I did love the way I could keep myself paused in a single moment, forever inked on the paper.


New Years Eve is like this for me. The fireworks boom, the people all scramble for kisses and time seems to hold still a few seconds longer for me.
In those few seconds, the world becomes still and I think of the times it has poured with rain. Of the people who have loved me, and those who have taught me about love. I shouldn't hold on to time, because things naturally change. Life doesn't stop and it can't be held tight, or controlled with my pen. The rain falls, and washes the dark away. Like a new start. A new year. Another day.

I Lve my Grn.

It had been a long, draining Christmas shopping trip to Westfield Shopping Centre after work. I was laden with bags of all shapes and sizes and in the grumpiest mood L had ever seen. I was a combination of cold, hungry, tired and thirsty; and had begun to whinge a little like a three-year-old. I'd worn ridiculous shoes, which were rubbing at my toes, and after three loops of Westfield, my soul had got lost somewhere outside Habitat. We queued on the platform at Shepherd's Bush Station amongst a swarm of irritable shoppers. Without success, I hopped from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm as the wind howled down the platform. When the train arrived, I managed to squidge myself in, face to face with L (which despite my bad mood and our bickering, wasn't quite as bad as getting up close and personal with the large hairy man on my left).
  
I love having the time to pick out presents leisurely; starting my planning in August, and finding the perfect present for each of my family by the time Christmas comes along. But this year, I've had a lot to contend with, and it's the early, perfectly-chosen Christmas presents which have suffered. This year I have:

•  Moved the 12 boxes which contained the contents of my life to the opposite end of England.
• Changed jobs four times in a year.
• Endured an absent boyfriend for four long months whilst he travelled the length of South America in an attempt to 'find himself'.
• Moved back in with my Mum for 6 months (with the cat and her toys in tow).
• Been a financial wreck for a year living in the bottom £50 of my overdraft for what seemed like forever...

So you could forgive me a little bit for lacking inspiration and texting my Gran one morning last week:

'Hello! Does Gramps need anything for Xmas?'

I must explain a little about my Gran. She is 77 and my Gramps is 82. They have polar opposite personalities and I'm trying to get them to run their own stand-up comedy show because they are so funny together. My Gramps is a little imp of a man (quite literally) who loves nothing better than falling asleep in his chair whilst the Golf is on the telly. He loves to wind my Gran up, pretending he can't hear her, then winks at me over his newspaper, letting me in on the joke.

Her dry sense of humour is far funnier after she's had an 'oh, go on then, just one more' glass of wine. She's shrewd with her money, so my Gramps loves to whisper loudly that she's actually a millionaire; 'she's been saving for years, y'know', to which Gran pipes up something about Gramps being a 'wicked old man'.

My Gran is much bigger than Gramps, and much louder and bossier to go with it. She does everything for him - and everyone else too. Whenever I speak to her on the phone, the first thing she always says is: 'So. What can I do for you?'  My Gran owns a mobile phone, email account and a Facebook profile. She loves to prove she's no technophobe. Quite honestly, I am proud.

I got an instant reply to my morning text:

'Hello E. Says he doesn't need anything. Lucky him. I really don't know. Just dont spend too much. Will think and text tonight. Best I can offer. l g x'

Often my Gran's text are in code. She thinks you pay for each letter you use in a text, so many of the vowels are removed, or the punctuation is lost - hence the casual 'l g x' at the end of this one.

I was slightly annoyed that she hadn't come up with something amazing that I could buy my Gramps for Christmas before I had hit the stress of Westfield Shopping Centre. I was counting on her help - I find men so hard to buy for.

But, true to form, she didn't let me down. On our train, we had reached somewhere around Putney Bridge on the District Line; the mass of bodies had filtered off slowly from the centre of the carriage and I had manage to grab a seat from an old lady who shuffled off at Parsons Green. Good. I sat across the carriage from L, shooting him the odd evil look for some silly comment he'd made a moment ago. My phone beeped loudly to say I'd got a message. L shot me an evil look right back which had 'how loud and inconsiderate you are' written all over it. The carriage had gone quite quiet.

I received the following text from my Gran:
Honestly. No joke. I've copied it down for you, word for word.

'Got it. He needs a battery for his torch. The torch is rather large with handle. If you like will get it and leave at No.4. About 3 pounds. He's desperate for torch to work.'

Well that was it. I was in hysterics.

L looked at me in horror. The woman next to me jumped, then wondered what had happened. Half the carriage turned and stared. I exploded with the most almighty roaring laugh Putney Bridge had ever heard.

My grumpy Christmas shopping mood had been alleviated by the prospect of buying Gramps a large £3 battery for Christmas. Not even a new torch, but a battery for the torch which is nearly as old as me. As I sat there, shaking the row of carpeted seats with laughter, the phrase my Gran likes to say quite often popped into mind: 'What a sad life we wrinklies live'.



My Grn