100 Word Post : Dusky Dreamer

I sneak in, teased by the dusky tones of Chanel. I’m quite sure you’ve just left. The silver Victorian hand mirrors lay guarded on your dressing table, about to keep my secret. I gently pick one up and allow myself a seat. I tilt my head and raise my chin – pouting just a little - casting high ivory cheek bones swept with glittering bronze, your pearls wilting around my neck. My soft mousy wisps transform into deep chocolate curls and my lips become slicked with pink. I’m so ready for the man of my dreams; I’m now thirty, not thirteen.

All things bright and beautiful

It was one of those rare, sunny winter days, when the sky is a clear brilliant blue and you can tell just from looking out of the window that it is so cold outside that your fingers will freeze, your cheeks will smart and you cant help but let your eyes blink tears. And rather than being sensible, staying in and snuggling up under a duvet with the cat, Liam and I pulled on two pairs of socks, some boots and a couple of warm layers. I grabbed my camera and we headed out to Wandsworth for a walk.

I think there is nothing quite so beautiful (or peaceful) as walking through an old graveyard, and Wandsworth Cemetery, which opened in 1878 was where we found ourselves. As the sun cast spectacular shadows upon what would usually be seen as a sombre and mysterious place, we took our time walking along the paths. We read aloud unusual names, admired the Gothic stone carvings, and noted how on even some of the older graves, someone had placed fresh flowers.

There were a few older headstones that stood out and caught my eye as we passed. I didn't think it would be wrong to take a photo to remember them and share how beautiful they were with you. 

 

 Photos taken Wandsworth Cemetery, Magdalen Road 

 

January Jitters

So, I'm back in the office and it's definitely January. The flowers in reception have been replaced. Transformed from the festive red berries and silver sprayed pine cones to a rather demure thistled number with grasses, red gerberas, pink lilies and (most confusingly) all bundled together with a palm leaf. The weather has also gone a bit berserk. Last night the wind screeched through my single glazed windows and caused havoc with the flower pots on my balcony. But today the deep rumbling clouds of yesterday transformed into a beautiful warm pink morning sky. They seem a bit like me; unsure how to be now January is about. You still feel the same as you did last week; same clothes, same hair, same old work to come back to. But there's also something different. You feel bolder and a little bit braver. When you woke up on New Year's Day, did you sense what I did? A spark, a sort of hope that musters about in the air, not quite brushing away last year's cobwebs, but giving you that lift to take on anything. Especially that fresh, clean, sparkling new year.

cited

If only I was Santa...

I've not posted on my blog for some good few weeks now, and so quite frankly, I wouldn't blame you if you had started to wonder if I might be Father Christmas.

Here I am, finally coming back to post after a well deserved rest from my miraculous feat of delivering presents to children all over the world, recovering from having eaten millions of mince pies and suffering perhaps the greatest sherry hangover in history.

Sorry to disappoint, but whilst I believe wholeheartedly in the Spirit of Christmas, I'm pretty sure I am not it.

I wish I had been in Lapland, wrapping presents and writing lists, because in the last few weeks, I have been having what could only be described as a 'major drama'. As one part of a large family, 'major drama' is something you just come to expect, like chicken pox and homemade left-over-vegetable soup for dinner. It's a proven recipe for disaster; you mix people who possess similar genes, who live in a similar environment, who have very different opinions and you will almost certainly get 'major drama'. (Anyone who has spent Christmas with family will know exactly what I am talking about).

Falling out with strangers is easy. You say some angry words (either under your breath, behind their back, or to their face- depending on how brave you are) and then forget about it once your pride has taken a little knock.

Falling out with family is so much more difficult. So, you're having a bit of a word, because quite frankly, you don't agree. You're just about to bring up that thing which you know will wind them right up, when you hear a niggling little voice. Annoyingly, it reminds you to be careful about what you say and how you say it, because whether you agree or not right now, they'll probably be back in your life at some point in the future.

You huff, because that's the last thing on this Earth you'd want after they've just said that.

The voice persists and niggles you again. It says that whether you think you do or not, you actually love this rather annoying person with these outrageous opinions. But because you're human, emotional and have a very different point of view, you ignore the niggling voice and go right ahead and say that thing- loudly, so that everyone else can hear.

There. You feel better for all of about two seconds. Then it hits you worse than an anger explosion. It's the lurker, the meddler of all emotions; guilt.

Let me tell you, nothing is worse in a 'major drama' than the guilt. It's going to get you and get you good, until you do something about it.

It pokes you when you're eating your coco-pops in the morning, prodding as you're chatting on the phone about dinner, slyly creeping in as you're quietly driving home or nudging you in the shower. It even gets you in the middle of the night.

Some people live with the guilt poking them for days, weeks, months and even sometimes years. They learn to live with the bruises (which have been known to turn them blue). They'll insist that it gets better, that the pokes turn into taps, which eventually brush right past you. They swear it disappears.

But I don't buy it. Not for one minute. After three weeks of pokes that jabbed right in my stomach and consumed every last part of me until I had turned almost completely blue, I stopped. Just before Christmas.

There is no good time to have a 'major drama', least of all at Christmas. All around me were signs of peace, light and joy. I couldn't help but notice fairy lights on the Christmas trees, lit up wreaths on bright front doors, candles glowing in windows all around the town and that warm Christmas spirit in the air, telling me that there was truly light in London. But there was not a bit of light shining inside of me, not even enough to write one letter to create the first word of a new post.

So I picked up the phone and I called. The right words were the hardest to say, and dropped like my shoulders as I slid weakly on the bed. During those moments in our conversation when I felt human and emotional and had a very different point of view, I fell silent, not daring to interrupt that niggling voice in my head.

There's nothing good about holding it in, about being too proud and stubborn. But I promise you, there's something brilliant about being brave and speaking up with the right words- even if it wasn't all your fault. Because at Christmas time there should be love. And if you give out love, there will be light, no matter if you've been nudged for just a few hours, a couple of days, several weeks or half of your life. It's just a case of mustering up enough of your spirit (Christmas or not) to do it.

100 Word Post : Storm

I can see her struggling, pushing desperately against the wind. She looks like a tiny mushroom fighting her way across the park. Her umbrella wobbles and dances quickly to the left. The trees bow to her as she passes and the rain teases her with slaps and showers. The wind pulls her puppet strings until she loses control of her feet. The umbrella flips sporadically and a gust whips up her skirt. I can’t see, but I wonder if under her hood she is laughing, or perhaps she’s blindly cursing the storm, angry at how it got her this time.