Recreating history - roundhouses and battles

We're a funny lot in England; we love to re-enact historical periods, whether it's a famous battle or simply domestic arrangements.  I've always love history, though dropped it at school because I've a lousy memory for dates - pretty important when it comes to exams!

I'm very interested in nature and wildlife, too, and am a member of the WWT, World Wetland Trust.  You can imagine how pleased I was to see that my local WWT site, Martin Mere, was holding a historical weekend, can't you?

We drove over on a typical British summer day, armed with waterproof clothing and sunglasses, along with binoculars and camera.  We optimistically took a picnic lunch, too - we do so enjoy tempting fate!

There was a camp, complete with fire.  Large logs formed the seating.  Roundhouses had been constructed to demonstrate the homes.

The sides of the roundhouses were created from willow branches coated with mud "daub".  This came from a hole dug at the site.

Sadly, health and safety regulations interfered, yet again, with simple enjoyment: although the hardy people re-creating the past were quite prepared to sleep in the dwellings they had built, this was not permitted as the thatch roofs constituted a fire hazard.

A nearby area was cleared for use as a workshop, with logs being sawn here, but no activity took place whilst we were there.

This is the house used by the camp's battle director, you can see his shield propped outside, and he allows a small boy to wear his headpiece.

There were supposed to be various activites taking place, such as flat bread making and mock battles, but, although we were there for a few hours, nothing appeared to take place when it should, so it was quite disappointing.  There were a few things for children to make, at a price, with enough people to man those sections.  How cynical of me not to be surprised at that.

Still, we were glad we went; the weather stayed fine, we ate our picnic amid lush greenery, and it was interesting to see the houses.  Plus we saw the wildlife which is why we joined the organisation in the first place:-)

Denim jeans bag - I made it!

I mentioned a few weeks ago that I planned to make a “jeans bag”, and, after hunting in several charity (thrift) shops and at car boot sales, I finally found a pair of children’s jeans that I bought for the healthy sum of 30p – talk about frugality – I was really pleased. Recycling and creating an individual, useful “designer” product, how much better can it get?

I decided on a child’s pair of jeans because I wanted a middling size bag that I can take out shopping with me. It will hold my handbag initially, then, assuming I buy anything, the bag will come out and the shopping will go in.

I like the decorative pockets on these shorts, and cute tie through the belt loops. The pockets themselves are useful additions to any bag, and the tie becomes the bag's strap. I’m not going to give detailed instructions for creating the bag – others have already produced lovely video clips – but I will point out some aspects of my creation.

Above you can see that I've used a seam ripper to remove the stitching down the centre front and back seams and opened the fabric out.

The new centre seam sewn down.  There were existing "jewel" studs, so, to hold down the loose pocket linings, I used my "BedazzleIt" machine to insert a few studs, which do the job nicely.

This shot shows what a mess they look when you turn them inside out!!!  See how uneven the hem edges are?  don't worry, they get chopped and straightened out.

Once I'd levelled the edges, I sewed a French seam, which means all the rough edges are enclosed, so no messy threads to catch and pull when the bag's in use - cunning, I thought:-)

As you can see above, I used the age old trick of simply sewing across the corners to create some depth to the sides of the bag - much easier than inserting a panel in the base - I don't need a massive bag, so this is quick and ideal for me. I caught the points of the corners down inside the bag so that they are flush with the base.  I sewed the French seam down along the base to add a touch of extra strength and make it neater, too.

Remember the cute tie?  Here is it next to some upholsterer's webbing which I sewed on to one side to give it some body - I hate shoulder straps which are insubstantial, don't you?  they tend to end up digging into my shoulder and are uncomfortable.

I sewed in a D ring at each end of the strap, as I thought it would be quite effective, and, I admit it, lazy of me, to use the existing belt loops to suspend the straps from.

I simply ran a few rows of stitches at the top of the belt loop to stope the strap from being to loose and free.

The bag, slung over my shoulder - neat eh?

Playing cards is a dangerous pastime

A few years ago a friend at work persuaded me to take up the game of bridge.  I'd come across it in older novels, such as Agatha Christie's, but never played it.  She told me it was a cheap, interesting evening out, and lessons were due to begin at her club.  It seemed quite genteel, and gentle.

I loved it from the first evening lesson - I marvelled at the new language I was learning - how a simple couple of words could convey to my partner so much information, it was amazing.

I progressed and enjoyed the game, but then, moving from the shelter of lessons to the cut and thrust of the real gaming world, I discovered thinly veiled aggression awaited at many tables.  I experiences partners who would berate their partner for tiny slip-ups in bidding, or for failing to remember a conventional, ie not true to the bidding, bid.

At one club, a couple partnered each other regularly, and both were good, though he was better than she.  I remember seeing them walk out of the club room on a couple of occasions to "discuss" a point on which they disagreed.  Acrimony was often in the air, and it could be embarassing sitting at the same table - though that could be the case with many partners, not just these.

An article in a friend's newspaper caught my eye - the grainy photo of the lady's face looked familiar, if a little fatter in the face.  I found myself astounded as I read on.  This poor lady had been found dead - stabbed over a hundred times.  Her husband is accused of the crime of murder.

She looked familiar because she was the lady whose partner had often ridiculed her, and taken her outside to remonstrate with.  I find it so sad that a life can be taken over a disagreement in a game of cards.

It is only a game - it shouldn't need a health warning. 

Make a Jeans Handbag: clear instructions

I've seen blogs where clever folks have made handbags out of an old pair of jeans, and thought "I'll do that one day", as you do! Today, however, I decided to locate some instructions, and here is a link to Karen Weisman's fantastically clear set of videos to take you through the process step by slow and careful step:-)

So, find out an old pair of jeans, or buy a cheap second hand pair at a car boot sale or charity shop, grab your heavy duty scissors, your sewing machine, some strong thread and needles designed for denim or thick fabrics, and away you go! You can recycle an old skirt or dress to make the lining, or leave it unlines if it's just a general tote bag for shopping. I'd line it and put the zip in if you're going to use it as a handbag though.

You'll see that Karen has utilised extra pockets from the jeans and sewn them inside one of the bags, which is fine, but I think I'd rather use some of the dress/skirt fabric, as it's lighter in weight. You can measure your mobile phone and make a pocket to fit it - I'd make a simple flap to come down over it, too, fastened with a small piece of velcro. The number of times I've had to hunt at the bottom of my bag because my phone's slipped out of the pocket when I've put my bag down doesn't bear thinking about, so, if I'm making a bag, it's going to be practical!

I'd also sew on a smal horizontal strip of fabric which I'd catch down every inch or so, then there's somewhere to slip a couple of pens safely, too. If you make the strip out of elastic, you could use it to hold down a lipstick or two as well - there's no end to the clever things you could do.

I'm definitely going to give this a try - I'll show you the results when it's done, but, meanwhile, why not have a look at these short clips - you might feel inspired:-)

Make a Jeans Handbag: eHow.com

Lunar Gardening by Gem – ooffoo.com

As you know, I'm not much of a one for growing flowers and pretty things in my garden - I prefer to eat the fruits of my labour. Since fruits and vegetable plants need to flower in order to reproduce, I'm not depriving myself of beauty, my flowers are simply of a less flamboyant nature than all those flower seed packets that fill the shelves in springtime.


So, I found this article on ooffoo interesting, and include the link so that you can take a look for yourself. I'll just give the opening quote to whet your appetite:

"If you with flowers stick the pregnant earth
Mark well the moon propitious to their birth
For earth the silent midnight queen obeys
And waits her course, who clad in silver rays
The eternal round of time and seasons' guides"

From The English Gardener, Seventeenth Century.  Here's the link to the article:

Lunar Gardening by Gem – ooffoo.com

The herb border is establishing nicely

At the edge of what will, sometime relatively soon, be the patio, David has built a double retaining wall, which we have filled with a mixture of sieved soil and compost to create a herb garden.  Here you can see the onion sets just starting to come through.

This seems a much more attractive idea than putting a fence up to stop anyone falling off the patio down into the garden!  It's also highly practical, as I can then access my herbs without going down into the main garden, which, at the moment still retains the vestiges of the original lawn.  No more wet feet after collecting herbs when it's been raining!

I've transplanted coriander, chives, thyme and marjoram from the pots they were growing in into the bed.  Also rocket and nasturtiums from where they had self-seeded in the vegetable beds.  Bordering the steps down into the garden David created square planting areas, for larger herbs.

I have transplanted the purple sage and rosemary into the two squares by the steps nearest to the patio doors. 

Bay went into one of those over by the greenhouse.  I was going to transplant my lavender into the other one, but it's too leggy, so I'll take some cuttings and with any luck I can put some in next year.  Until then a Skimmia is looking after the site - keeping it warm, so to speak.

I'm delighted with how well the herbs have settled down, I took the opportunity to split the plants up whilst I was disturbing them, and in a year or two the border will be full.  I've sown some mixed salad seeds in to fill it up for now, no point in wasting the space, is there?

potatoes for free!

Last summer I grew potatoes from nothing, so to speak.  This year I've done the same.

I'm sure you must all have come across potatoes in your vegetable rack that look like this?  Yes?  So you snap off the growths and get on with preparing them for eating, yes?  No!  Not if you want free potatoes, you don't.

Cut off the growths with about an inch of the potato, and plant it in the garden.  Sometimes you can cut a potato in about half a dozen pieces, each with a shoot on, and plant each of them.  Each piece will grow into a potato plant, yes, really, each one a new plant.  Each plant will produce a crop of potatoes.

Admittedly, the crop will not be as large as from a seed potato, but then it's cost you nothing but a little time and effort.  The magic of nature works for you - aren't you lucky?

That's what I did about 3 weeks ago, and look at the growth they've put on!!  To obtain a larger yield of potatoes, simply pile earth up against the stems of each plant.  The obliging potato will generate new roots into this fresh soil, and they will produce the tubors for you.  Even better magic, and more free food :-)

I came upon this tiny article entitled "Make your own eco-barbeque" by Sarah Davies listed on ooffoo.com:

Using charcoal isn't very environmentally friendly, but modern BBQ's aren't designed for wood. If your washer is beyond repair, or a friend is getting rid of theirs, remove the drum before its recycled (its easy, just unscrew from the back). Stand it on a stone surface, add a mesh over the top and you have a perfect wood barbeque, or firepit. The holes that used to let water through are great for letting oxygen to the fire, and as the wood burns, the ash falls through them

Now I happen to have two of these very drums sitting in the garden as we speak.  Yes, I know!  How often does that happen??  Now I don't have to go out and buy a new washing machine just to be able to recycle the drum out of my old one. 

Whew, what a relief that is!!

David has kindly compacted the broken bricks which form the base of the embrionic patio, and now my new teak table is sitting, proudly, gleaming with freshly applied teak oil, so that I can enjoy my meals in this unlooked for sunshine:)

the top picture is the "Lazy Susan" which fits over the centre of the table and revolves so that it's easy for guests to help themsselves to the lovely grub - who knows, maybe from my stainless steel bbq?

Valentine's Day look at the garden

Happy Valenitne's Day :-)

We tend to ignore the day itself, as it is over-commercialised to such an extent. Hence David is busy removing the manhole cover which broke my wrist a couple of weeks ago, to send it for re-training reduce its height so that when we lay the gravel on the patio it won't be jutting up too much.

He thoughtfully arranged with nature's gardener to have a couple of snowdrops show their shy heads for me, in lieu of a bunch of flowers.  So  much nicer!

The blossom will soon be out on the Skimmia, too.  Lovely white flowers, currently protected by reddish-pink sepals in sweet little bunches.

The forsythia won't be too far behind - the buds are swelling, and soon those brown twigs will be covered in glorious sunny blooms.  So pretty because the leaves follow the flowers, so don't obscure them.

Enjoy your Valetine's Day, whatever you do :-)

Six Word Saturday, new short story for children

Second Short Story Published in Newspaper:)


The draft of this story, Box of Secrets, was published in an earlier blog in September.  Check it out!

The story as published, is below.  Enjoy:)

Box of Secrets

My box of secrets lies under my bed. It’s a brass-bound travelling trunk that belonged to my Grandfather in the 1920s. I’ve had it since I was two, and I can’t imagine ever not having it. The big, brass lock is engraved with his initials:- CAD, Charles Arthur Dobson. My name is Charlie Dobson, I was named after Granddad. The old key is heavy. I keep it hidden behind my Horrible History books on the top shelf of my bookcase.
The chest was given to me to keep my Lego in when I was small, to stop my bedroom floor being covered in tiny plastic pieces. I grew out of Lego long ago, but the chest remains. Now I keep my secrets in it.
We all have secrets, don’t we? Things we’d rather other people didn’t know. I’ll let you into a few of mine. I know you won’t tell them to anyone else - you’d better not.

# # #
When I was eight I was run over by a car. I was in hospital for six weeks with my leg pinned together. No football for me that summer. After I left hospital people noticed that I wasn’t acting the same as I had before I’d been knocked down. I was snappy, and would fly off at the slightest thing. I even hit my mum one day. She’d said ‘No.’ when I asked to watch a DVD.

‘But why, Mum? There’s nothing on TV.’

‘I think you should go in the garden for a while and get some fresh air, love. You might not be able to play football, but there are lots of other things to do.’
‘Like what?’

‘Well, there’s the boules set in the shed; your basket ball or darts board on the back of the garage door, you’ve always loved playing darts. You could try your bike. The doctor said you could do most things now, as long as you don’t overdo it at first.’

‘But I want to watch a DVD, Mum. I don’t want to go outside.’

‘I said “no”, Charlie. That’s the end of the matter. Please go outside and get some fresh air. If you don’t want to play, then take a book outside. I’m going to vacuum the house, and I don’t want to be vaccing around you. Off you go, please!’

Next thing I knew, Mum was on the floor; a red river running from her nose.

‘Mum, are you ok? I’m sorry, Mum, I’m sorry. Mum? MUM! Wake up, Mum!’ I grabbed the tea-towel and held it to her nose. I felt awful. I could see drops of water on her t-shirt; that’s when I realised I was crying.

I was so relieved when she started to move, and her eyes opened. ‘Oh, Mum, thank goodness you’re alright. I’m so sorry, Mum. I don’t know what happened. Your nose is bleeding. Are you ok? I’m sorry, Mum, I’m sorry.’

‘It’s ok, Charlie. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.’ She said, but she didn’t look it.

Her face was so white you could see all the freckles that are normally hidden by her tan. And the blood! I felt sick; there was so much of it. I just stayed crouching there, until she started to move. Then I leapt up, and helped her. She was a bit unsteady, and I pulled one of the stools from under the breakfast bar for her to sit on.

‘What shall I do, Mum? Shall I make you a cup of tea?’

‘Yes, please, love. That would be nice.’ She said. ‘Come here, though, first.’

I turned back, and walked over. She pulled me to her and gave me a hug. ‘Don’t worry, son, I know you didn’t mean it. Make me a cuppa, and get yourself a glass of orange. I was planning to talk to you, so we’ll have a little chat and a drink. Okay?’

I nodded, and ran water until the red ball hovered over the half litre mark. I put a pyramid in a mug for Mum, then opened the fridge. By the time the switch clicked off I’d poured my juice. When it was just how she likes it, I carried the mug of tea into the lounge, where Mum was sitting. She’d changed her t-shirt, and washed her face, so she didn’t look as bad; but her nose was swollen and bruised. I sat down next to her, I felt like a little boy again.

‘Charlie, love, since you came out of hospital you’ve been finding it really difficult to control your temper, haven’t you?’

I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to speak, I felt like crying again, and boys don’t cry.

‘Well, remember last time we saw Dr. James, and he said he’d arrange for you to see someone who can explain how to manage better?’

I nodded again.

‘Right, well the clinic rang earlier. They’ve made an appointment for you to see a counsellor to help you; her name is Angela. I’m taking you to see her tomorrow morning. Okay, honey? She’ll help you to stop hitting out at people, or being so cross when little things go wrong.’ She smiled at me.
‘Yes, okay. I’m really sorry, Mum; I didn’t mean to hit you.’

‘I know, sweetie, I know. It’s okay. Dr. James says Angela knows all sort of tricks you’ll be able to use to help you get back to normal. Let’s enjoy our drinks, shall we? We’ll both sit and watch a film together. How’s that?’
‘Yes, great. Can I have a biscuit?’
Mum nodded, and I ran off to get the biscuit tin.
# # #

My counsellor, Angela, explained all about “traumatic shock”. She explained that some soldiers who come back from war zones suffer nightmares and personality changes. It’s called Post Traumatic Shock Syndrome.
Angela said that what I was going through was much the same thing, and was common after an accident that wasn’t your fault. It was more like an illness, not me being naughty. I think I remember seeing something on the news about soldiers coming back from Iraq and acting oddly, so I’m like a soldier – cool!
But, Angela was very clear that it was up to me to conquer my problem. Nobody else could do it; she could only help. Angela said we would work together, until we’d found the best way for me to control it. She called it ‘Anger Management’, and I saw her twice a week for the first month, then once a month for a while, then again after six months. When I was ten, she said I was handling things well, and I didn’t need her any more.
The best way we found for me to stop exploding when things went wrong, was to carry round a small notebook and a pen. I had to write down whatever it was that had annoyed me; fold the paper up into a tiny ball, then flush it down the toilet when I got home. Once it was gone, she said I must recognise that I had dealt with it, and it was over and done with. I had to forget it and move on.
So, that’s what I did. At first. After a while, I was just flushing pieces of blank paper. My real notes I locked away in my trunk, along with my log of the revenge I took against anyone who annoyed me.
Take Brian, for instance. He kicked a muddy football at me one rainy day in September. He kicked it at me, not to me, and my new coat was filthy. I asked to be excused during afternoon art, and took his new jacket and stuffed it into one of the cisterns in the boy’s toilets. It wasn’t discovered for ages, not until someone complained about the toilet not flushing very well.

Then there was Arshid. He knocked over my Coke©, then laughed. That really pissed me off. Later, when nobody was about, I peed into his glass of orange juice. I could hardly keep from laughing when he drank it later!
Keeping my “Retribution Record”, as I call it, has really helped. I never lash out at people now, no matter how mad I feel at the time. I heard somewhere that “revenge is a dish best eaten cold”. I know what it means now. Sometimes it takes weeks for me to find the perfect opportunity to get my own back, but that’s fine; it’s all the sweeter for the waiting.
If I can, I take something to remind me of my revenge; a bit like a souvenir you’d bring back from a holiday. It might be a button, like the one off Brian’s jacket, or the laces from a pair of football boots, taken so that James couldn’t play in the school final. He was well mad, but he shouldn’t have taken my football without asking me that playtime.
They’re all locked away with my log book. I got that idea from an episode of CSI, where Grissom discovers that the murderer kept souvenirs of all his victims. Sometimes there’s nothing I can take to remind me, so I make a more detailed entry in my Retribution Record; I can relive it better, then, when I want to sit and gloat.

So, now you know some of my little secrets, and where they’re hidden. You’d better remember my name; and if we meet, be careful not to bug me. I always get my own back. Be warned!

winter sunshine walk, signs of Spring

Last night it snowed, so this morning was beautiful in a white sort of way.  I love the appearance of pristine snow just glistening and waiting for the first footprints, don't you?

The sky was that dirty white that promises there may be more snow to come, but by ten o'clock, there was a brighter white glow which indicated that the sun was burning its way through the cloud.

Sure enough, after lunch it was glorious., so I took the camera for a walk.  I thought I'd look for signs of Spring, and I'm pleased to say I found plenty.

New growths on bare twigs are promising to burst into leaf. 

The gorse bushes, above, are bearing cheerful yellow blooms.

There were a couple of different bulbs poking their tough shoots through the dead leaves which have been sheltering them all winter, and, of course, some of the perenniel weeds are stealing a march on all the more sensitive plants.  They are survivors for a reason, after all!

There are some dainty white florets on an evergreen shrub which I haven't identified - anybody know what it is?

I'm really pleased I went for my walk.  Fresh air, sunshine, and crisp white snow underfoot.  Lovely, but I was glad I was wearing gloves and a snug hat to keep my extremities warm!

I wish I could manipulate my photos easily, they seem to have a mind of their own:(

new short story, I'm in the local paper

This is another of the reasons I've not been blogging! I sent it off to a local newspaper, and they're printing it today as part of their Saturday short story series - wow - I'm about to be published! You can imagine the way my face split in two!!!! Anyway, here it is, for your delectation and delight:

Daniel’s Trip to Blackpool

The day we went to Blackpool started out like any other day of the summer holidays; I wish it had ended that way too.

We had toast for breakfast. I had peanut butter and Marmite on mine – one of my favourites. I like it with chocolate spread too. The peanut butter, not the Marmite, of course. I caught sight of Mark, next door, waving. I waved back.

I looked at Mum, and she smiled. ‘Yes, you can go and play with Mark. Make sure you clean your teeth and straighten your bed first, though.’ ‘OK. Thanks Mum.’

# # #

We decided to play football on the green at the end of the road. There’s a small estate down there, and usually quite a few kids about.

‘Mum, can I go down to the green to play footie, please?’

‘Yes, OK; but stay on the green. Don’t go playing in the road. Promise?’

‘Yes, of course. We always stay on the green, you know we do.’

‘I know, but I also know how easy it is to be distracted. So, be careful.’

‘OK, Mum. Can I take some drinks with me? And some crisps?’

‘You can take drinks, but no crisps. You’ve only just had breakfast!’ She put her arm round my shoulders, and gave me a squeeze as she said it. I shrugged her off, of course. I’m eleven now, just, so I don’t need hugs any more. Mark doesn’t let his mum hug him.

I grabbed a couple of cans from the fridge door, and stuck them in a carrier bag with my old football. Then Mark was knocking at the door, and I was off.

# # #

‘Let’s play cricket.’ ‘But I’ve brought my football. We said we were going to play footie!’

‘Yeh, but I’ve changed my mind, I’d rather play cricket. Let’s get the wickets in, then when the other kids turn up, we can get on.’

The expression on his face told me that he’d get his way, as usual, so I just grabbed some sticks and rammed them into the baked soil.

That morning, however, there weren’t any other kids about. We soon got fed up hanging around with no-one else to play with, so we went back to Mark’s to play with his new Wii game. His mum said I could stay to lunch, so I had a toasted cheese sandwich with them.

After lunch, we went back to mine. The house smelt like Mum had been polishing; you know - that sort of warm smell that means the house is loved. Mum wasn’t one of those really house-proud women you see on the telly, but she cleaned up thoroughly once a week or so. Anyway, she was sitting down with a cuppa when we got there.

‘Hiya, did you get a good game in?’

‘Yeh, Mark’s Wii is fantastic. His mum had some really tasty cheese. You should ask her what it was, Mum; you’d like it.’

‘Why didn’t you ask her, then, silly? You were there eating it!’

‘Just thought I’d tell you, you’re always on the phone to each other, anyway.’

‘True enough, I’ll try and remember to ask her. Thanks.’ She smiled, and put down her cup. ‘I thought we’d drive out to the sand dunes for a couple of hours. What do you think? I mentioned it to your mum, Mark, and she said you could come with us - if you’d like to, that is?’

‘Thanks, Mrs Johnson, yeh, that’d be cool.’

‘Great, Mum. I’ll go and grab my camera.’ It was my birthday last week, and I’d got this neat 10 mega-pixel camera.

Mum gave me the keys so we could go and get in the car, while she got the picnic rug out from under the stairs. The cool-bag was by the door, so we took that out with us. We stowed the bag in the boot, but I kept my camera with me.

Mum was out with the rug in no time. She tossed it in the boot, and slammed down the lid. ‘Belts on? Ready to go?’

‘Yes, Mum. Ready to go.’ I kicked Mark’s leg, and nodded at his seat belt. He shrugged, and pulled a face. But then he put it on.

The weather was just right for the dunes. It was sunny, but there was a light breeze from the sea. We found a sheltered spot and spread out the tartan blanket. It has a waterproof layer on the back, which is really useful; you don’t end up with a soggy bum if the sand’s still damp. Mum had brought chilled juices, with a family size bag of Kettle chips and some fruit, so we had a little picnic.

I took loads of photos. One of those I took of Mum hangs on my new bedroom wall. She looks happy, shading her eyes from the sun and smiling at me. I can look at it now, but I couldn’t do for ages; it just reminded me of that never-to-be-forgotten trip.

# # #

Mark killed Mum on the way home. We were nearing Preston when he dropped his i-Pod. He took off his seat-belt to pick it up. A few minutes later, some pratt drove into the back of the car, and that’s how we found out Mark hadn’t bothered to put his belt back on. Mark went shooting forward and crashed into Mum, forcing her through the windscreen.

I could see Mum lying across the bonnet of the car, with Mark on top of her. It looked like he was hugging her. But everything was red and shiny and wet. Mum’s hair was spread out around her head like a halo.

My seatbelt held me in place. It took me a lifetime to undo it.

It was really weird. Like a film. Flashing lights. Men in uniforms. Ambulances and police cars. I didn’t hurt. Nothing was real. The front of a black car was inside ours; it was pushing my seat forward.

The driver was struggling out of his door, past a white balloon. He was shaking his head, his mobile held to his ear.

Everything was silent. They said it was shock. I could only hear myself, screaming like a girl, ‘Get my mum! Mum’s bleeding - please get her out.’

They did, but it was too late. They put a blue blanket over Mum. Over all of her. Mum wasn’t there any more.

I watched them talk to Mark. They put him on a stretcher, covered him with a blanket and gave him an injection. They put a mask over his nose. Why were they making such a fuss over him? I wanted to scream ‘He’s just killed my mum!’

‘What’s your name, son?’

‘Daniel.’ Mark’s just killed my mum. She’s dead. Mark killed her.

‘We need to take you to hospital, Daniel, to check you over.’

‘I’m alright. Where are they taking Mum?’ They can’t take her away; they haven’t tried to help her. But they’re helping Mark.'

‘Is that your mum, then? What’s her name?’

‘Amanda. Amanda Johnson. Where are they taking her? I want to go with her.’

‘Daniel, we can’t let you do that. You can go with your friend.’

‘He’s not my friend.’

‘Have you got a dad I can phone for you? He could meet you at the hospital.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know his number?’ ‘

What?’ They’re closing the door. They’re taking Mum away from me.

‘Daniel, what’s your dad’s phone number, love?’

‘It’s in my mobile.’ I took it out of my pocket and handed it over. None of this is real.

‘Hello, Mr Johnson? This is the emergency ambulance service. We’ve been called out to a road traffic accident. I’m afraid your wife and son were involved. I have to warn you, it’s a serious accident.’

I’ll wake up soon, and it’ll just be a normal day. ‘DAD! They won’t let me go with Mum. Tell them to let me, Dad! TELL THEM!!!’

# # #

I woke up in the hospital; Dad was standing next to me. His red eyes cried out the truth. He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. Something trickled down my face. I thought I must be bleeding, but my hand only showed wet. Then I was sitting up, and Dad had his arms round me, and we were both crying. A nurse put a box of tissues on the stretcher, then drew a curtain round us.

Dad said the police had told him that the driver of the black car had been chatting on his mobile, and not concentrating. He hadn’t seen Mum indicate for a right turn, and had crashed straight into the back of us.

If Mark had been wearing his seatbelt, Mum would still be alive. Now I wanted to kill Mark. How could he have been so stupid?

# # #

Everyone says it was “just one of those things”, and that “he’s paid for it”. He spent weeks in hospital; and he’ll always be scarred. Doesn’t change the fact that he killed her, though, does it?

Three weeks ago, a lady from Oxfam came and collected twenty black bin liners of Mum’s life. Our stuff went in a huge van. We followed it in Dad’s car. I looked back over my shoulder and could see Mark and his mum standing at their gate, watching. She waved, but I turned my back on them.

I like my new school, and I’ve got some new friends.

We never go to Blackpool.

Reflctions, new short story

I've been quiet for a while, what with one thing and another - this short story being one of the reasons - it's now been handed in as part of my creative writing portfolio.. Please read and enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Reflections

The poster outside the theatre reads: The Glitzy, the Glamorous, the Gorgeous - Jo Johnson. Final week.

Jo sits before the mirror, carefully applying lipstick. The dresser leaves; the costumes are hung in performance order, ready for the quick changes called for during the show. The dressing room is full of flowers; cards surround the mirror.

Jo gazes round; has it really been so long? Is it really time to retire? To hang up the sequins and satin for the final time? It only seems like yesterday that …

# # #

'Right, love, I’m just running Isobel into town to get a present for Mandy’s party this afternoon. Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?’

‘No, thanks, Mum. There’s nothing I want, and, besides, I have my end of year project to get on with.’

‘OK then, see you later, be good,’ Mum says, and they’re gone.

I didn’t want to go to town with them, just to hang around watching them riffle through every gift in the shops, and every book on the shelves at Waterstone’s. Besides, I have my project to finish. I’m two years older than Isobel, and Mum trusts me to be left at home on my own nowadays.

So, finally, I have the house to myself. This is what I look forward to; my special times. I switch the pc on, ready to work. Now I’m in Isobel’s room, opening the wardrobe door. She’d kill me if she knew what I was doing, but she doesn’t. I’m always very careful to put things back exactly where I get them from; she’s never guessed what I do when she’s not here.

Mind you, I don’t think she’d notice if I did put anything back in a different place. She’s quite messy. Stuff’s falling off hangers, everything’s higgledy-piggledy. Not like my wardrobe. I have everything hanging in colour order. It looks lovely and tidy when I open the door. My shoes are in pairs on the floor of the wardrobe, not like these. It’s easy to see how I get ready much more quickly than Isobel.

My fingers feel along the different fabrics until the faint prickle of the Lurex tells me I’ve found it. A tingle runs down my spine as I lift the hanger from the rail. This illicit borrowing never fails to excite me. I strip off my jeans and t-shirt, putting them neatly on the bed. My skinny body, slighter than Isobel’s, despite me being older, develops goose bumps.

I hold it out in front of me to admire it. I’d been so jealous when Isobel had been the Christmas Fairy at a fancy dress party last year. She’d looked lovely, but I know that I would have looked gorgeous. I have short blonde hair, with natural curls. Isobel’s heavy, dark plait just didn’t do the costume justice. Don’t get me wrong, Isobel did look beautiful. Everyone said so - but I would have looked stunning.

I remember that whenever we used to dress up when we were younger, I was always the girl, and Isobel the boy. I’ve always been daintier, with a rosebud mouth, and extra long eyelashes. She takes more after Dad, but I resemble Mum, and she was a model before she had us.

I slowly slip the dress from the hanger and spread the skirts on the floor. Now comes the best bit... I bend down and slide the smooth, silky lining up against my body. I’m now encased in a fresh, pink skin. I clip the wings onto the straps. The metamorphosis is complete.

The reflection in the mirror shows beautiful, golden-haired fairy Jo. Gold gossamer wings flutter gently. Fine ribbon straps lead down to the pink satin bodice, overlaid with gold mesh. Delicate and feminine; I feel so special in this dress. I’d like this to be my everyday clothes – no more jeans and t-shirts.

I find the pink tights, tossed on the floor of the wardrobe, and carefully pull them up; it wouldn’t do to snag them! I pirouette, revolving like the ballerina in Isobel’s pink jewellery box. My shimmering, iridescent wings reflect back the sunlight streaming in at the window. I wish I could step, like Alice, into the looking glass, and be the fairy girl reflected there.

Oh, no! I can hear the car pulling into the drive! Where has the time gone? I slip out of the fairy finery and in seconds it’s back on the hanger, in the wardrobe. I grab my clothes, and dash to my bedroom to tug on my jeans and t-shirt. I didn’t have time to take off the tights, but she won’t be wearing them today. I can return them when she’s at the party. I pull on a pair of trainers, and rush downstairs, nearly colliding with Mum and Isobel in the hall.

‘Everything alright?’ Mum asks. ‘You look a bit flushed.’

‘Yes, I’m fine. Did you get what you needed for the party?’

‘Did we? We found the most amazing handbag! It has compartments for everything, so Mandy won’t keep losing her things. It has little loops for lipsticks, and pens. And it’s in leopard print furry fabric. She’ll love it.’ I get the distinct impression that Isobel has fallen in love with it and would like one for herself!

Isobel runs upstairs.

‘I’m going to have a shower now, Mum. OK? Then my hair has time to dry.’

‘OK, sweetheart. I’ll start making lunch soon.’ She looks at me. ‘I’m making a cuppa, d’ you want one?’

‘No, thanks, I’m working on the computer.’ I turn away, and walk upstairs. I am actually doing my project in no time.

The tantalising aroma of sausages tickles my nose, my mouth is watering. I realise I’m hungry, and begin to type faster to get my work finished. Then Mum’s voice calls:

‘Isobel, Joseph? Lunch is nearly ready. Time to set the table, please, one of you.’

‘Right, Mum,’ I shout. ‘I’ll just log off, then I’ll be down.’

‘Thanks, Joe,’ says Isobel, ‘I’m just finishing drying my hair.’

‘No problem, sis.’

I run down and set the table. Jo is hung up again until the next time we’re alone.

# # #

That was the day I decided to come out with it. I’d hidden myself in Isobel’s closet for long enough. When she had gone to bed, and Mum and Dad were sitting with a bottle of wine, I took a deep breath:

‘Mum, Dad; I’ve got something I want to tell you.’

‘What’s that, son?’

‘You sound serious, sweetheart, whatever is it?’

‘I …I…’
‘Spit it out, lad, spit it out. We’re waiting.’

‘Well, you see …’ Despite my project on assertiveness, I can feel my cheeks burning, and my eyes prickling. My heart is pounding, my palms are wet.

‘Tell me, does this have anything to do with the fact that you’ve got Isobel’s tights on, by any chance?’

I look down. She’s right! I’d forgotten to take them off! A small patch of pink between my trainers and my jeans betrays me.

‘Well, er, yes, it does, actually.’ I feel like my heart’s going to jump out of my mouth. ‘I like wearing her clothes. I’ve been doing it for ages, when there’s nobody else here, and it feels right. I don’t feel like there’s anything wrong with me. I mean, I don’t fancy boys, or anything, but I belong in girl’s clothing. I’ve been thinking about it for ages, and just didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to tell you.’

‘Dad and I have wondered, you know, sometimes. Just little things you’ve said, or done.’

‘Then why didn’t you say something?’

‘You’d have been embarrassed, and insisted we were mistaken, that’s why.’

‘No I wouldn’t!’

‘Yes, you would! We had to wait for you to speak to us about it. Anyway, love, what have you decided, after all your deliberation? Have you come to any decisions?’

‘I want to go to drama lessons, and then, oh, I don’t know, go on to some sort of acting school, you know, like RADA, or somewhere. Not like ‘Fame!’ I don’t want to do musical stuff, I want to be Grand Dame. I want glitz and glamour. I want to wear fairy costumes, ball gowns, wigs and high heels.’

‘Good Lord! I’ll never hear the last of it when I get my next posting - my son wants to be a drag queen!’

‘No, Dad. Not a queen at all. An actor, specialising in cross-dressing.’ How could I get through to him? ‘I’ve been doing some research, Dad. Did you know that Danny la Rue was in the Navy, too? That should shut the ratings up! And he got an OBE. I’ve been looking to see where the local drama classes are, there’s one on Saturday mornings, in town. Can I go, Mum, please?’

I’m feeling quite calm about it now. It’s such a relief to have said it out loud. Mum and Dad look at each other. Dad still looks a bit worried, but Mum, well she’s absolutely fantastic!

‘Sounds like a good idea, to me. Don’t you agree, Jack? I’ll take you down at the weekend, and we’ll see what they’re offering.’

I could hardly believe my ears!

# # #

So, that’s how it started. I went to Mme. Estelle’s Drama Academy every Saturday. It was harder than I thought it would be, but I persevered. I couldn’t believe that Mum and Dad had been discussing me; I wished I’d screwed up the courage to say something sooner.

In the first play we put on after I joined the Academy, I was a support character; no lines, just a lot of standing around, trying not to look bored. The following year, I was chosen to be the leading man, and Mme. Estelle couldn’t understand it when I refused the part. She persuaded me to take it: ‘A leading man, at fifteen! Silly boy, you must take the part – actors need to accept all sorts of roles when they’re starting out. Be patient!’

Then, the next Christmas we put on a panto, and my dreams came true. I was the Dame. I was the Dame! I was in heaven!

As you know, talent scouts regularly tour the theatres, looking for the next star in the making, and one of them liked my work. Bob’s your uncle, as they say. I was offered a place at a stage boarding school, and haven’t looked back. It was difficult leaving home. I even missed Isobel, believe it or not, and was homesick for a couple of weeks. However, the work was so interesting, and, I have to say, hard, that I didn’t really have time to miss home too much.

Well, you know the rest; there are no secrets in this business. Now I wear frivolous frocks and sequinned satin almost every day, and I get paid for it. Handsomely.

I wonder what would have happened if Isobel hadn’t been the Christmas Fairy?

boasting, my words were chosen,

Congratulations to Christine from "Christine's Chatter" for her winning contribution:

Tthis is the photo for which the words were written. November 1, 2009, Write with Pictures.

Isn't it sad that so many children today don't realize that cakes, cookies and biscuits can be baked at home?





If it doesn't come wrapped from the supermarket, it's not "real" for some.





You can share so much with a child when you're baking - math, motor skills, sharing, mixing, tasting, creating, sharing secrets, the science and magic of raising cakes and dough - oh - and most of all - LOVE.





Keep on baking, people, keep on :)

In the midst of death we have life

You know you have days when you think to yourself (though, come to tink of it, how could you think to anyone else??) - "I wish I'd done this yesterday!"? Well, this is one of those days.

I've just come in from the gareen, having harvested what I believe will be the final runner beans. Here they are, on the right. You could be forgiven for thinking I've taken leave of my senses (yet again, I hear you cry!), but I haven't. No, really, I haven't.

In the midst of death, we have life. Those dead-looking papery beans that you wouldn't give a second glance in the greengrocer's, contain next year's (and possibly the next, and the next) seeds. In this case, some of them are somewhat slimey, because I didn't collect them yesterday in the dry, but this evening after copious amounts of rain.

I wanted you to see how awful and unattractive they look, so that you don't despair when it comes to harvest your own next year - you know you'll want to give it a go - it's free, organic food!!

I mentioned the beautiful colours the other day, but I've taken this photo so that you can see how different they look to the small beans you find inside the runner beans when you're eating them. Those tend to be either greyish, if very small, or this lovely pink when they're middle sized. As they grow larger, and riper, they develop the delightful speckling that you can see, and the colour goes through a purply pink to the deep coral. They are beautiful - nature is a marvel!

Just for those of you who think size really does matter, here are some against a couple of tape measures. I've used a couple so that you can see inches or centimetres, whichever is your preferred measure. You see, I might have lost my mind, but I'm still considerate :)

I'm going to go and enjoy some of the beans with some sprouting brocolli and tiny Charente carrots, tossed with some potatoes and drizzled with toasted sesame oil and fresh lime juice. Yum!