My Great Granny
April 2020

When I was little, my great granny died. I didn’t know her that well, we would visit a couple of times a year and she would force feed us liqueur chocolates. When she died, my aunt and uncle’s spare room suddenly filled up with all her stuff. Piles and piles of musty smelling possessions. I didn’t understand where all the stuff had come from, I just knew it had been hers and she didn’t need it anymore. Someone asked me if I wanted to keep anything, as a memory. I looked at the piles of things, baffled that one person could have owned so much. Eventually, I chose a set of six tiny glasses. Each one was a different colour, pink, yellow, orange and was nestled in an individual gold-painted holder. I didn’t know what they were, or what they were for, but in my 8-year-old mind, they were the most incredible treasure I had ever seen. I was convinced they must have been used when faerie queens came for tea. When they passed to me, I didn’t do much with them. Didn’t do anything with them, really. I displayed them haphazardly atop the second-hand tv in my bedroom where they collected dust, their brilliance dulled. Occasionally, I would remove a glass from the golden carry tray and admire its tiny ornateness before reverently putting it back in its place.

I don’t know what happened to those glasses. One day I stopped noticing them and soon after they were gone. Maybe my mum threw them out as useless junk, but I like to think that the faerie Queen took them back to entertain her own guests.

Wondering
March 2020

My feet crunch on the gravel path as I labour up the steep hill. It’s a sedentary life, office work, my legs have almost forgotten what it feels like to move. When I put on my ‘outdoor stuff’ shoes, they are dirtier than I remembered. But outside, in the forest, the countryside, it doesn’t matter what your shoes look like. I look down at their scuffed edges and smile as I remember all the miles we have walked together, and think about the miles yet to be walked. Birds riot in the trees above me. I wonder which species they are. A red-brown flash flutters past my face and I remember the name ‘chaffinch’ from a google search. I walk past a particularly noisy bush and wonder what the collective noun for a group of sparrows is. I hope it’s an ‘aggression of sparrows’. It fits their tiny, angry gatherings well. My breathing becomes heavy as the hill just keeps going up and up and my thighs begin to burn. I wonder about the person that invented the Stairmasterᵀᴹ. Branches sway in the wind and leaves whisper.

I listen.

I’m sure trees have a soul, otherwise, how would they make such beautiful music? A jogger overtakes me, red in the face and staring at the ground in front of them so they don’t have to see how much further they have to go. Silently, I cheer them on. I know that cheering out loud would be weird. The jogger reaches the top, their new year’s resolution hanging on by the skin of its teeth. I wonder if I should have made a resolution too. But then I spot a gecko scurrying between the stones and I’m glad I didn’t. A cloud passes by overhead and I look up in the sudden darkness wondering what I will wonder tomorrow.

The Gap
March 2020

You know when you feel like there is a gap in your life? You’re perfectly happy, everything is going well, but somehow it feels like not quite enough. You got your degree, you got the job, maybe you even got the house and a person who completes you. So now what? Sometimes it might take a while to recognise the presence of the gap, but once you notice it’s hard to ignore. No matter what you throw into it, it never fills up. Films, holidays, tasty food, shopping. Everything just tumbles into the darkness without even touching the sides. Finally(!) the weekend arrives and you settle down to have some quality You time. But something is not right. You feel restless, dissatisfied. The hole yawns wide next to your cushy armchair, it hangs in the back of your mind as you stroll down the ‘High Street’ of your local shopping centre, purchases swinging from your wrists.

I discovered my gap quite early, it hung around like a persistent cold. Always annoying but not quite annoying enough to do anything about. So I read books and more books and lived vicariously through the characters, pretending that it was me going on adventures and doing amazing things. But none of the books came anywhere close to filling the yawning gap. That is until I read a book called ‘The Artists’ Way’ by Julia Cameron. She posed a question: What if you created, rather than consumed?

This simple question made me stop.

Think.

Well, I asked myself, what would happen? So I gave it a try. I doodled in tiny notebooks and I wrote silly rhyming phrases about the virtues of jumpers. All of it was uh-mazingly shit (which is partly why I posted that very jumper poem on my website). None of it was any good but it made me happy! Instead of counting the minutes until my next toilet break, my brain was suddenly engaged with new thoughts and ideas. The very act of creating was making me more creative. So, nowadays when I feel a bit down, I drop creativity into the gap, and the gap is filling.

I Love SFF
March 2020

Genre-fiction. SFF. Sci-fi and fantasy. Many people hate it, I love it. An argument I hear a lot is ‘but it’s just dragons and spaceships, it’s not real literature’. This is the moment when I do my confused face. What even is ‘real literature’? Does it have to contain romance and big words? Please, somebody, explain it to me. I love science fiction and fantasy novels because they are exciting, they are intriguing. They have all the same hard-hitting emotional problems that are so important in other books, just with some really cool stuff thrown in the mix! Everything in SFF is so rich and dripping with wonder and imagination and invention and maps and AND. *deep breath* I really like science fiction and fantasy…

I Love Writing
December 2019

Writing is hard. It takes so much thought and effort to even get one sentence on the page. But somehow, once the first sentence is down, the second one follows almost with a mind of its own. Then the third one, and the fourth one. It requires such focus that it takes forever to get into the zone, but once you’re in it, it feels like flying. You soar among the words that begin to blossom over the white space and you become the words. The world around you vanishes and there is nothing but you and your words, just creating. Sometimes what you’re creating is crap and you want to cry, sometimes it is amazing and you say to yourself ‘wow, did I really write that?’ I take my thoughts, my story, and I push them up the mountain, I drag them and coerce them until they have formed something coherent and we can enjoy the view from the top and look back at our struggles together. Despite the pain of effort, the overriding emotion I feel when writing is satisfaction. Just for the very fact that I have created something new. I have taken my thoughts and turned them into something, no matter how inelegant. There is always time for polishing later but for now I am happy with the uncut diamond that is my story, it is cloudy and lumpy but it has the potential to be oh so beautiful.

I Hate Writing
January 2020

I hate writing. It’s so sticky and difficult. I spend hours sitting in front of a keyboard or a notebook, and sometimes I only get a trickle of words. Sometimes a stream flows onto the page but boy was it a struggle. Writing makes me think about things, makes me answer questions that sometimes I don’t want to answer. Maybe I would like to stay ignorant about my thoughts! I could just cosy down and relax with a book and get my chill on. But writing pokes up its ugly head and is like, “Hey.” I ignore it. “Hey, you,” it insists, “you could be writing down that idea that you always promised you were going to work on.” I snuggle down deeper, but now the thought is planted. I sigh and drag myself out of the safety of the bubble I have settled into. Plonked down in front of my laptop I have to drag my brain out of comfort mode and into thinking mode. Ugh. Damn you writing, for holding me accountable to myself. I’m sure I would have gotten around to that great idea eventually…

I have a confession. I’ve not read very many classics, and the ones I have I haven’t enjoyed very much. The style of many older novels is hard for me to enjoy, and many discuss problems that for me feel so irrelevant I want to stop reading. At a discussion with ‘literary types’ who know everything about Ulysses, I would be struck dumb. I enjoy reading about dragons and spaceships. Reading things about exciting adventures is so much more fun! But what about proper literature, I hear you say. Let me return the beginning. What is literature? I read an article from @the.tls that discussed this very question. The Royal Society of Literature asked 2000 British people what literature means to them and the answers were so varied as to make the term literature almost meaningless. Maybe to you, Shakespeare is the epitome of great literature. To me, it is the writing of Ursula K. le Guin. To someone else, it might be Jeremy Clarkson’s autobiography. Everything has the potential to be a classic if it’s written well enough, just please don’t make me read any Dickens.

The Phenomenon of ‘Of course’
February 2020

There is a phenomenon among the people who read books. I call it the phenomenon of ‘Of Course’. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does it sticks out. Usually, it makes the receiver of the phenomenon feel stupid. I’m sure everyone has experienced it and at one point might even have been the perpetrator! The build-up to the phenomenon can vary but will inevitably contain the phrase “Of course I have read: Poe / Austen / Macbeth etc.” With those few words, you will know that you have been ‘Of Course-ed’. It’s not a nice feeling, especially if you haven’t read the author or book that is worthy of this phenomenon. I wonder why we who read sometimes feel this need to prove something. I’m not even sure what it is we are proving. Probably it’s a defensive thing and we’re scared of being ‘Of Course-ed’ ourselves so we jump in there and dish it out first. But why do we need to prove to each other what we have read? It’s ok to have never read a single classic. It’s ok to have hated the ones you have read. There is no right or wrong way to read. As long as you read something, anything, then that’s fine by me.

I Love Reading
January 2020

I love reading, I have for as long as I can remember. When I was a child I would go to story-time at the local library and be enraptured every week. As soon as I could, I started taking home stacks of books to race through with breathless excitement. Over the years I must have read hundreds of books, short ones, long ones, easy ones, I didn’t finish many of the hard ones… books about silly things books about serious things. My tastes have swooped and swirled among the genres, tasting a little bit from what everyone has to offer. I have loved and I have hated, I have laughed and I have cried. Every time I pick up a book I get a sense of nervous anticipation. Who are the people who are going to become my new friends? What adventures are we going to go on together? With each book, I travel in the steps of a different life. It’s like having a new identity for a little while. Their life becomes my life, I get to learn how other people think, react and it’s oh so refreshing to get to be someone other than myself for a while.

I love seeing other people reading. I’m intrigued to see what adventure they are having as our bus trundles along. Sometimes I’m tempted to interrupt and ask them if they’ve gotten to the good bit yet so we can be excited together, but I know from experience that the worst thing you can do to someone who is reading is interrupt. So I just smile to myself and snuggle down in my seat with my own adventure made of paper and ink.

The Priory of the Orange Tree
October 2019

I just finished The Priory of the Orange Tree by Samantha Shannon and I think it now has the spot of my favourite book of all time. The plot is an incredibly complex web of interwoven stories, each one could be a book by itself and I would read every one. The history of each of the societies the book follows is so rich it’s like a melt in the mouth chocolate pudding that leaves you crying for more. I love each and every one of the characters, even the ones who do bad things, even the ones who do stupid things. And on top of that, the book is beautiful beyond belief (I love a good map 😍). The only bad thing about this book is that it had to end. Please Samantha Shannon, answer my prayers and let me read more adventures of Ead and Tané, pretty please. With sprinkles. 🙏

Emil Ferris
February 2020

There is a book. A stupendously amazing book called “My Favourite Thing is Monsters”. It was written by a woman called Emil Ferris. In her book, she took the format of a comic and smashed it open. Each page could be a standalone poster that would delight and terrify your living room in equal measure. And do you know what she created this incredible artwork with? Bic pens and spiral-bound notebooks. Her artistic style is so simple, it removes any pretension and yet is so rich that each page is a maze of the incredible. When creating her book, she immersed herself in her characters and drew while in the clutches of their emotions. These emotions allowed her to create multifaceted art that joins graphics, ideas and emotions that can be read in a heartbeat but will take years to decode fully. The story is just as beautiful as the artwork. It is harrowing, beautiful and delightful in equal measure. Each page brings a new emotion that leaves me reeling. All I want to do when I put the book down is pick it up again. It sits across the room and it calls to me, beguiling me with its beautiful story and even more beautiful art. I always complain to myself about not having time to write, or the circumstances are too difficult just now I’ll just write later. Emil Ferris created her debut graphic novel while partially paralysed from West Nile Virus, suffering homelessness, being completely broke and being a single mother. She got the book finished anyway and as it was being delivered to shops it got arrested by the Panamanian government. Against all odds, Emil Ferris has created one of the most wonderful books I have ever read. I have never been able to answer the question of “what’s your favourite book?”, but now, I think I might.

Margaret Atwood
January 2020

Margaret Atwood once described science fiction as “talking squids in outer space.” At the time she was considered an icon in the sci-fi world so this description was quite a kick in the teeth for fans. She argues that she writes speculative fiction and that nothing exists in her books without already having happened somewhere in history. Perhaps she has a point, there are people out there who do think science fiction is just “talking squids in outer space.” She wants her books to go on the nice shiny shelves marked ‘Literature’ at the front of the shop instead of relegated to a dark corner on the third floor where all science fiction and fantasy books seem to end up. A good tactic to sell more books. But this distancing of herself from sci-fi just weakens the genre even more in the eyes of its detractors. Her books are so obviously sci-fi in my eyes that calling them speculative fiction almost feels like doublespeak. Maybe that was her idea all along, subvert the sci-fi haters to read her wonderful (terrible?) dystopia’s and lure them over to the dark side. I hope that is true. In that case, welcome new readers! I swear I’ve only read one book about a squid in space.

Do you have a loyalty card?
April 2020

Something happened to my other half recently. He was waiting at the bus stop when a woman walked past him in a smart blazer. His first thought? ‘Ohh that fabric would look great on an armchair!’

I think it’s safe to say that we have reached that uncomfortable stage towards the middle of life when you become inexplicably interested in the home section of every shop. An endless procession of nesting tables march in front of your eyes, each one flaunting their sexy curves or their practical adjustable feet for uneven floors. Your mind fills with colour charts after your furniture exhausted mind thought it would be a good idea to buy a questionably coloured sofa. You start signing up for loyalty cards, innovative points systems. You hold up the queue searching for the loyal customer coupon you got in the post.

The pressure to find the perfect coffee table builds. Should it match the TV cabinet or should we try being quirky? You get desperate and develop a twitch in your eye. It all becomes too much. You start thinking, Do we really need furniture? We could just live on the floor instead, ultra-minimalism style. A couple of throw cushions and a bean bag. But now it’s too late, the furniture shops know your name, they know where you live. You’re sucked into the world of matching ornaments to your kitchen counter.

It’s too late.
Now you’re one of them.
Now you’re one of us.
What’s that? Oh yes, I do have a loyalty card.

To the man who said ‘Women with muscles are creepy.’
April 2020

I was chatting to a guy at lunchtime a while ago. The exact topic of conversation escapes me, but one point he made sure as hell hasn’t. He said:

“Women with muscles are creepy.”

Then he grimaced. Grimaced! I would like to relate to you how I put him in his place right then and there, how I gave him the ‘ole feminist one-two. But I didn’t. I chewed on my forkful of lunch, baffled at this statement that had just landed on the table. I couldn’t think of anything to say at that moment other than a noncommital “hhmm…” It was pathetic. So, a month later, here is what I would have said, beware, sarcasm ahead.

How do you think we open jars?! How do you think we walk around and manage to sit up straight instead of being a puddle of skin and bones on the floor? Ah, but you’re talking about visible muscle. About veiny women whose boobs perch on top of pecs. Ok then. This is actually a well-known phenomenon. When a woman even so much as touches a dumbbell she grows muscles so fast it’s like watching a scaled-down less angry version of the hulk. It’s true, I swear. But what I want to know is, what are you scared of? Are you scared of the loss of femininity? Are you scared of losing your spot as ‘the strongest’? Both? intense stare

Whatever his real problem is, there is nothing creepy about women with muscles. The bigger problem lies with people like him trying to stop us from reaching our full gloriously veiny potential. And to conclude with the words of Miley Cyrus, “I’ve got two, ooh ooh letters for you, one of them’s F and the other one’s UUUuuuuUUUuuuUuu”.

New Beginnings
February 2020

I recently moved. Not just to a new flat, but a whole other country. It was a bold decision that I didn’t think I would ever have to make, but it was made easier by a few things… **coughbrexitcough**. Everything changed. And nothing changed. Everything I’ve ever read about ‘starting fresh’ was overwhelmingly about fear. All the things you knew in your old life are gone! Started over from the beginning! So, with trepidation, I did it. I moved to a new country with a new language, new customs, new job, new everything. Everything is different. And yet, I can’t help feeling like nothing has changed. I still go to work every day, I still have to take the bin out and do the dishes. My life is continuing in the same way as it was before. I thought that every second of the day was going to be overwhelmingly culturally different. I was completely convinced that I was going to feel like a fish out of water for months, years even. But much to my surprise, I’ve settled right in. Yes, there are some interesting new customs and a bafflingly poor selection of tea in the shops, but these things are not as scary as they seemed when I was making the decision way back to stay or to go. (If you couldn’t already tell, I’m not the adventurous type, I much prefer to read about other people having the thrilling adventures.) So, yes, this is a new beginning, in every sense. But it’s one where everything seems to be going just swimmingly.

Being Ill
January 2020

2020. A new decade! I was all set and raring to go to get 2020 off to a great start. I had all these plans and ideas and I was full of energy to get things rolling. Then I immediately got ill. It wasn’t one of those out of the blue illnesses though. It was a long, slow build-up, each day I got progressively worse. I felt more crap every day. On the day where I felt the very worst, I went to work because I felt guilty about taking a sick day! Guilt and anger were the emotions I felt most strongly in the week that I was ill. Guilt at inflicting my illness on my colleagues, guilt at not being able to work to my best ability. But it was anger that burned the hottest within me from my sickbed, well, apart from the fever. I was angry at all the time that was being stolen from me by this insistent January cold. My plan for beginning the year energised turned into beginning the year binge-watching animated series’ on Netflix with boxes of sinus tablets. I confined myself to nothing but rest for 4 days, I forced myself to relax and to truly get better. This helped me to realise that I didn’t need to feel angry at wasting my time or guilty about not helping others. Catching a winter bug is just, normal. It happens and there isn’t much you can do to avoid them. So, in the end, I just decided to roll with it. Ok, I’m ill, let’s take the chance to relax and not worry about anything other than rest. That mindset is what helped me get through being ill, that and copious amounts of tea.

Being a Hufflepuff
December 2019

Yano that test you can do to see what Hogwarts house you would be in? Well, I did it a couple of years ago and I’m only just coming to terms with the results now. Here it goes. I. Am. A Hufflepuff. I was convinced I would come out as a Ravenclaw because I like books and I was totally clever at school, but when the result came out and it said I was a Hufflepuff I was devasted. Ok, maybe devastated is a strong word for finding out my fictional house in a fictional story but I was pretty miffed. Slytherin house takes the cunning, only those of sharp mind go to Ravenclaw, the bravest and boldest go to Gryffindor. And who goes to Hufflepuff? Whoever is left over, a place for the people who are blandly nice. Well I tell you, that there aren’t enough plain nice people in the world! You know what else we Hufflepuff’s are? We are hard-working. We are patient. We are tolerant and we are chivalrous. We are loyal and we probably make really good friends. All that adds up to a really great sounding group of people to me. Hufflepuffs unite!