Friday, 29 April 2011

The Boy in the Picture

My sister is late. I check my phone again and sigh, sick of being jostled by the human stream pouring in and out of the tube station. Where is she? I only have an hour for lunch.

“Martha!” I startle as she materialises beside me. “Where the hell have you been? We won’t get a table in Mulligan’s at this rate.”
“Stuff Mulligan’s,” Martha wheezes, darting her head this way and that. She seizes my arm. “I want you to come and see something in the art gallery.”
“The art gallery? It’ll take too long to get served in there.”
“No, not to eat,” she said, propelling my protesting self along the street. “We’ll get a sandwich afterwards. You have to see this picture.”

I blow out my cheeks, and shuffle from foot to foot.
“This is it? This is why you dragged me here?”
“Look closer,” Martha says. “Look at the boy.” She points, and I see a small tatty boy painted with saucer eyes, clutching a grubby teddy.
“I keep seeing him,” she jabbers. “I’ve seen him in the street, in the office, even at the bottom of my garden.”
I sigh. I love meeting her for lunch on Fridays, and she’s spoilt it. There’s no time now, and I’m not in the mood for this.
“It’s true,” she squeaks.
“Oh for god’s sake Martha,” I let slip my temper’s leash. “I can’t believe you’ve wasted lunch for this. You don’t keep seeing some figure from a crappy painting.” I turn to leave. “You’ve always had a stupid imagination.”
“Where are you going?”
“Back to the office, of course. It’s too late for lunch.”

But later I leave my desk, and sneak to the toilets, clutching my phone. Casting furtive glances over my shoulder, I lock the door, and dial with shaky hands.
“Martha? It’s me.”
“Megan! Are you okay?”
“No.” I gulp to quell the panic rising in my throat. I want my big sis to tell me everything is alright, that it’s just a stupid trick.
“You’ve seen him, haven’t you?”
“Everywhere.” Hell, he was even standing by the photocopier, clutching his horrid teddy, his wide eyes staring at me, unblinking. Fear pounces. My voice cracks. I can’t speak.
“Megan, let’s got back to the art gallery. It closes at six; meet me there after work.”

Our heels clatter up the marble staircase, and we totter into the gallery. The painting is there, innocuous, unremarkable. We walk up to it, and look. Martha gasps. I gawp. There is no boy with a teddy. Where he stood, there is nothing, only a painted street with busy people rushing by.

We look at each other. Martha’s dark eyes are wide in her chalky face. I try to speak, but I can only stutter stammering sounds. I’m trying to say we need a drink, when she grabs my hand. I freeze. Hairs on my neck shudder. There is someone behind us.

We swing round. It’s the boy and his teddy. We step back. He is standing looking at us, his huge eyes riveted, unblinking. He steps forwards. I cannot move until Martha yanks my arm, and then we fly for the door, and I daren’t look back.

(Yes, I know that's a rubbish ending, but it can't end there! I love this story so much, I'm going to have to write a longer version. Watch this space![but don't hold your breath...])

Wednesday, 27 April 2011

What not to say....

And just for once, it isn't me who's opened my big mouth and put my foot firmly in it! I admit it's a rare occasion for me to be on the receiving end of someone else's faux pas, but this did make me laugh..

You might remember I posted a while back about the flooded, boggy state of my back garden. Well at last it's been drained and tomorrow a local gardener is rising to the challenge of my planned 'wavy path going sort-of here to there with a kind-of patio-type thing maybe over there' garden design. 'Vague' is the keyword here. I have a picture in my head, but I'm not technically minded. I'm not bothered about the details, so long as it looks nice when it's finished. The gardener, accustomed as he is the exacting demands of the Mawdesley 'hoi-poloi' (some of the local village think themselves very distinguished) is somewhat bemused by my 'laissez-faire' approach. What colour stones do I want on the path? Frankly my dear, I don't care. Stone coloured stones; what else would one want? It's taken a while, but he's got my drift.

Anyway, I had decided one definate feature; I want a round patio. So on his advice, I toddled off to the local builder's yard this morning, to see what they have to offer. Having left it too late to order anything, work commencing tomorrow, I was limited to choosing what they actually had in stock, namely one. I gamely purchased what is a rather unusual choice in patio for my good self, but drove home congratulating my good self on my adaptability and creatively flexible approach to garden design.

I was busy telling my neighbour about how clever I was to have actually remembered to go and purchase said patio, when he asked if I'd been to said local builders' yard because, and I quote, "In their doorway, they've got this horrible sun-shaped patio. It's horrible. Who would buy something like that?"

Dear readers, it was the only one in stock. I stopped my neighbour's hearty guffaws with a calculatedly withering glare, and pointed out that actually, it's a good size for a patio, and I think it will look nice. Admittedly I might not have chosen it had there been any others, but I have convinced myself it will look rather fetching. Needless to say, the conversation ended there. I'll post some snaps to show you once it's in place, so you have from now and then to practise saying 'goodness, how tasteful'!

Tuesday, 26 April 2011


Well, I promised myself it would be back to business today, children duly dispatched to their assorted schools, the youngest with considerably less drama than I anticipated. I blew my nose, did the shopping, walked dog-of-small-brain, made a coffee, and plonked myself down at my desk to compose an amusing, pithy and (hopefully) neatly written piece of flash fiction. And guess what? That’s right; two hours later, I’m now downstairs fiddling around online, drinking tea and scoffing biscuits, with nothing other than ‘I don’t know what to write’ scrawled in assorted ways across a piece of A4. There was much staring out of the window, an hour-long radio programme about Gustav Holst, a bar of chocolate, and nothing else! This is one day where my usual apply-bum-to-seat approach isn’t going to work: I keep wondering how younger son is getting on. Will he have eaten a school dinner? He was very anxious about not being allowed to take his own packed lunch. Sigh. No wonder there’s nothing else a-stirring down in the bowels of my mind.

Anyway, good news; I have a story being published over at ‘The Pygmy Giant’ shortly. I’ll post a link when they put the piece up, but in any case, it's a great site for flash fiction, and well worth a visit. I am indebted to The Heartful Blogger for mentioning it on her blog, otherwise I might never have found it.

Another interesting site to visit belongs to photographer Ian McKell. I don’t know anything about photography, but The Times featured some of his work in their magazine on Saturday. (23/04/2011) According to their writer, Chris Sullivan, McKell has spent a decade photographing travellers who don’t originate from traditional travelling communities, but have adopted the lifestyle as a means of finding a more sustainable and simpler way of life. Sullivan quotes one of the men photographed, Pete Delaney, as saying “We don’t believe you need all these possessions that are shoved down your throat. We don’t believe in living in debt.”

Hallelujah for such sense! Their lifestyle sounds enviable, but Delaney also says “A lot of people have tried to live the life, but have gone back indoors when they realise exactly what it takes.” Yeah, that would be me, were I to try; well-intentioned, but unable to adapt to living permanently in a horse-drawn caravan. But after studying the pictures, I’m intrigued. It would be fascinating to spend some time with these people. As someone who loathes even camping, I’m curious to know what it must be like to get used to living without the home comforts I cherish.

Since this woman and her electric kettle/shower/comfy bed are, realistically, unlikely to be parted, that’s never going to happen. Instead, I’ve ordered Ian McKell’s book, to have a closer look at his work. But do pop over and visit his site. His pictures are beautiful.

(apologies for the link to 'The Times'. You can access the article, but first you have to register and pay £1 for the privilege. Having said that, it is interesting, so you could say 'money well-spent' xx)

Wednesday, 20 April 2011


What a week.... Between school holidays, a sick child, and yours truly being wound up tighter than an over-wound clock over smallest boy's impending start at his new school (only six days to go, gulp) there isn't much happening down here in 'Tales' on the creative front. I hope you will all bear with me, and keep on dropping by, I should be back to normal soon. Once the boy's first day, next Tuesday, is over, I'm hoping my current 'rabbit in the headlights' mentality will pass, and it will be business as usual. Up until then, well, I'm not good company in any sense.

I did sit down last night though with Kat Wright's second TIC TOCC challenge. This week's timed exercise was to use your imagination to capture what might happen in a stone circle when there is no one around. As with last week's, I didn't want to write, not that I feel particularly able this week, but I wanted to experiment again with art.

Now, I think the resulting picture would be a very good effort for a two-year old! I used the kids' long-forgotten crayons, and given my state of mind, I started very tentatively. But once I got going, I found scribbling, pressing really hard with the crayons, soothed my worried mind. It was very therapeutic.

The point behind the picture was to convey the energy I feel emanates from both standing stones and stone circles, radiating out from the stones. I spent ages afterwards trying to photograph it in such a way so as to show up the way light illuminates the textures and adds to the effect I was trying to create, but I have to say the picture looks better in real life.

You'll just have to take my word for it that it looks better 'in the flesh', so to speak! Okay, well, that's it, I'm afraid - the children are demanding drinks. Afterwards, I think I might have to do some more calming crayoning - Grrrr!!

Friday, 15 April 2011


We pass in a shop doorway. Our eyes meet, and we hit ‘pause’, while our brain cells go rummaging through long forgotten files, as we struggle to remember. And then we do. We know one another.

“Oh hi!”

We used to work together. I remember comparing divorce scars and exasperating children wounds, but I can’t remember her name. Haven’t seen her since that awful night when I… No, my brain shrieks, let’s not remember that. It throws the file out of reach.

“How are you?”

I am still the same old weathered me; lived-in, worn-out and decidedly rough, frayed around the edges, but she looks fantastic. She’s lost weight. Sculpted cheekbones give elegance to her tired face. Her hair is styled and sprayed. She is wearing artful make-up. Her clothes look new, and, unlike mine, they match. Her legs are lithe in skinny jeans and knee-high, high-heeled boots. There is little sign of the put-upon woman with whom I used to work.

“You look amazing,” I say, turning green inside my dog-walking coat, trying to think if I remembered to wash my face or comb my hair today, and hoping she won’t notice if I haven’t .

“You do too,” she says. We both know she’s lying.

But her makeover is not the only thing that divides us. Her eyes are puffy from the exertion of recently shed, bitter tears. It’s been a while since I cried those sorts of tears. And as I turn and walk away, I wonder which of us is the luckier.

Wednesday, 13 April 2011

'Tales' does Tic Tocc!

You might have noticed I mentioned last week I was going to take part in Kat Wright's 'Tic Tocc' challenges over at 'Wright Story'. The idea is, as you may know, to complete a creative exercise within either ten or twenty minutes. Having been struggling creatively for a while, I thought it might do me some good. I'm too darn lazy to do something like this under my own steam.

She sent out the first challenge yesterday. It was the photograph of a magnificent old tree, [which looked like a mother-goddess figure breaking into a dance] set in flowery, sun-dappled woods. Kat asked everyone to create something around what might be hiding behind the tree.

I had already decided I didn't want to write, I want to stretch myself in other directions. I've never learnt to draw, but I quite fancy doing an art class. So I helped myself to some of the kids' paper and pencils, put on a favourite cd, and sat down. Here's what I managed in twenty minutes. (please don't laugh!)

I jumped out of my skin when the alarm sounded. But I was having so much fun, I took the snap to show Kat, made another cup of tea, and settled back down. And an hour and a half-later, the mug of tea gone cold and the music long finished, here's what I ended up with.

Regular readers, feel free to run to the hills! I can't quite believe it either. Now, if I'd written about this, I've no doubt there would have been some sort of skulduggery afoot, a nasty murder, or some other dastardly plot. But settling down with the kids' pencils, and not trying not to think too heavily about what I was doing, this was the result: forty year-old woman draws a fairy. Now that's disturbing!

Seriously though, I can't believe how much I enjoyed doing it. I've always talked about how much I'd like to be able to draw, but sitting down to do it, well, my conscience will nag about all the important stuff I haven't done but needs doing. Plus, my inner critic always points out that I don't know how to draw. As a shy schoolgirl, I used to find art classes at school really intimidating. There were always those confident kids who could churn out masterpieces without having ever been shown how. I gave it up at the first opportunity. But sitting there last night with my pencils, I felt really free.

This has really made me think about my whole approach to being creative. You might have noticed I set up a new page yesterday, I plan to post a novella I wrote about twelve years ago.
[I must add I've since realised I'm not sure how to go about physically doing this on 'blogger' since I can't actually post anything to the new page. If anyone has any suggestions, I'd be really grateful.]
I'm working through it at the moment, typing it up and cutting out the cringingly awful parts. But the thing that has struck me the most going through it, is how much I've changed. The person who wrote it is much freer, creatively speaking, than me.

Yes, I know, twelve years is a long time, and down here in 'Tales', the trials of the intervening years have aged me horribly. But here's one of my favourite lines from the story;
"The doctor led the way, his white coat billowing, a spinnaker unfurled to send him skimming across seas of disease, bearing him away from any patches of calm wherein he might become swamped by what he sought to cure."

I'm not being conceited when I say I love that line. I loved it when I wrote it. But it encapsulates precisely what I'm trying to say. I think it's a good line, but I'd never write anything like that now. I like my imagery to be tighter, less 'wordy'. But I've been through years of rejections and criticism. The 'girl' who wrote that, and metaphorically speaking, I was only a girl, was free to soar, whereas 'Tales' here can only glimpse the sky from a chink in the dungeon's wall.

Today I'm not sure about the wisdom of revisiting old work, yesterday I thought it was the best idea ever. Maybe I've already passed my peak of what I'm capable of producing, and maybe I should give up and go back to my job as a school dinner lady.

Who would have thought a picture of a fairy would be the key to such a Pandora's box of angst? I'm off to peruse the job pages...and maybe have a look to see if there's an art course starting nearby!

A Cracking Good Read!

Boy, am I tired this morning? It’s that green-about-the-gills glazed sort of tiredness when all you're fit for is staring aimlessly at the wall, or going back to bed! As I’m about to resume my role as ‘chief entertainments officer’ for the school holidays, the kids due back from ‘chez papa’ shortly, I think I ought to hit the coffee.

It’s totally self-inflicted. I shouldn’t read at bedtime, because if I can’t put the book down, this is what happens. And at the moment, I’ve got a real ‘can’t-put-downer’ on the go, ‘Angelology’ by Danielle Trussoni.

The story is essentially about war between a mysterious secret society, and a race of monstrous half-human, half angel creatures called ‘the Nephilim’, and no, nothing to do with dodgy eighties goth rockers ‘The Fields of The Nephilim’. (used to have such a girlie crush on their lead singer!) Now I have friends who are keen believers in angel guides and the like, but I defy anyone to think of angels as being kindly benevolent beings after reading this. The Nephilim, and assorted angels, are ruthless and terrifying. I haven’t finished the book yet, but I was too frightened last night to leave it until the story had reached a calmer moment.

The book rips along at a roaring pace. But I have to say, there was a bit of a downside to this for me. A third of the way in, it hits a wall of back-story, which is pretty much comprises the middle third of the book. This is only my personal point of view, but I found this part tedious, which just made me want to skip over it and get back to the action. Indeed, I nearly gave up reading it altogether. That’s just my view, of course, and I’m sure other people won’t agree. But once that part ended, it was a case of ‘Bam!’ right back into rollercoaster speed.

I haven’t finished it yet, because I made myself turn out the light at 2am. It’s so well written, I think it blurs the edges between fact and fiction. A cracking good read, and I heartily recommend it. Now, coffee.....

Sunday, 10 April 2011

Day Out

The spring sunshine beams down so hot, it’s as though Mother Nature is so enamoured with the sun, she’s decided to fast-forward to summer. Peter’s pale-blue eyes aren’t used to natural light; they sting and water, and his head swims in the heat. Hey, he feels like shouting at the sun. You can’t fast-forward. That’s not fair.

He rummages in a ‘free-trade’ canvas bag for his sunhat. It was white once, but the cotton is stained from years of use. He bought it during his gap year, and trekked it through the forests of Borneo. But that’s such a long time ago now. He sighs as deep a sigh as his failing lungs permit. Ah, to have those carefree days again. He looks up, drawn by his children’s laughter, and envies them romping through the straw in the play-barn. They are healthy, and they have no idea how lucky they are.

Fenella, his wife, is clucking over their youngest, making sure the others don’t trample her underfoot. Peter admires his wife’s brightly-dressed, buxom frame, her fell-fed curves filling out the jaunty prints hand-painted onto the fabric by a women’s workshop in the north of India. India: he would have liked to have gone back there. He sighs, and Fenella pushes her glossy blonde hair back from her sweating, dusty face. She is the wholesome face of their vegan lifestyle while he languishes, reed-thin, hollow-cheeked, being devoured from inside. Fatigue swirls through his veins. The barn is hot and dusty. He puts out a skeletal hand to steady his trembling body, and leans back against the bales.

Families drift in and out of the barn. Peter watches. Men waddle, their heads shorn, their reddening pale flesh protruding from ridiculous combinations of ill-matched vests and t-shirts, their proud bellies wobbling while their wives’ fat bulges around too-tight brassieres, and rises, cake-like, over the tops of trousers. Half the world is dying of hunger, the other half eating themselves to death, Peter thinks, his vision blurring as he grows hotter and hotter, his pallid skin sweating under the hat and his fuzzy blonde beard. But there’s nothing he can do, his time is nearly up.

There’s lamb feeding at two. Is it time? He checks his watch, peering at the dial. But as he squints to make out the numbers, Fenella’s voice rises above the hum of people chatting. She is explaining to the children yet again. ‘That’s right darlings,’ she is saying. ‘It will be time to take Daddy back to hospital.’

He rubs his face, and groans. He doesn’t need reminding, and yet everything at this farm park, bursting with life springing into bloom, reminds him. His time is nearly over. They only let him have occasional days out now. His eyes sting, this time with tears. He blinks, grits his teeth, and stares at the cobwebbed roof. Really, he should be grateful, he tells himself. At least the weather is nice.

Friday, 8 April 2011

An Encounter

The warm air is alive with birds staking territorial claims, squawking their rights up into a pale sky turned gold and peach as the blood-orange sun dips. The man walks through chaotic clouds of midges, whistling, one hand sunk deep in his pocket, the other leading a handsome dog, a young German Shepherd, its magnificent coat still puppy-fluffy, its energy quivering like a coiled spring. Dog and master round the corner by the ancient oak, and turn onto the old drovers’ road.

They stop. Their way is blocked. A black dog, a Labrador, over-fed to barrel-like proportions stands snarling, its coat gleaming, its podgy hackled bristling. Teeth bared, it advances, growling.

The man steps back. His head turns this way and that, his eyes combing for a streak of movement that will identify an owner, but there is no one. The pup whines, and tries to slink behind his owners legs as the black dog growls and growls, edging forward. Heart hammering, the man shouts, but it makes no difference. The dog advances, locked on target.

It launches in a fury of teeth and barks. The man remembers his sturdy boots. He lashes out with his foot, but nothing deters their attacker. So the man kicks, and kicks again, his boot pounding through ample flesh to the bones below. The dog yelps, but it doesn’t stop. Anger takes over. The man kicks and kicks until the dog squeals, turns tail, and runs.

The man is panting, his face flushed scarlet and sweaty, his eyes wild. For a moment he is triumphant. Then he remembers what he learned in childhood: we don’t kick animals. He looks around, fearing, perhaps, his cross mother standing with hands dug into her hips, or an irate owner, or a crowd of horrified onlookers. But there is no one save the birds and midges. Content justice has been served, he dismisses his conscience, and carries on his way.

Thursday, 7 April 2011

Blogs to visit

If you haven't clicked on any of the links I've listed down the side of this page before, and you've a bit of time spare, can I recommend you pop over to visit The Heartful Blogger? I met her online through the 'River of Stones' project. Not only has she got the coolest named blog I've discovered, she writes regularly, and she's just had a number of brilliant stories published. If you pop over right now, and click on her link to a new literary journal 'State of Imagination', you can read a fantastic story in which a woman literally turns into a pigeon in front of her family. It is superbly written, and very clever.

I also love Kat Wright's blog 'Wright Story'. Despite suffering ill-health, she creates the most beautiful pictures and ideas. I'm going to be taking part in a project she is organising which involves being set ten or twenty minute challenges to get those creative juices flowing. Although it begins next week, unfortunately for me right in the middle of the school holidays, I'm looking forward to having a reason to dust off my paintbrushes. If you follow the link, Kat explains the project so much better than me, and who knows; you might decide to sign up too! It sounds as though it's going to be very inspiring.

...and now I'm off to sit through an assembly school have organised to say 'goodbye' to both son-the-younger and his teaching assistant. I'm going prepared with many tissues. Sniff, eyes watering already...

Tuesday, 5 April 2011


...this just wasn't what I was going to write about today, but as usual, I've run out of time, Tuesdays always being phenomenally busy down here in 'Tales'. I was just making a quick cup of tea when I noticed this in the kitchen. I just had to take a picture, and shout "Hey, look! My baby has flowered!!!" I can do this online you see, because no matter how hard your eyes are rolling, I can't see you. If you mutter "ohmigod you are so sad" in the style of Harry Enfield's 'Kevin the teenager', as is son-the elder's default style these days, I can't hear you. And if you leave a message to that affect, I'll probably assume you're being witty in a way I haven't understood.

But just look at my baby!!

I love orchids, but they are so expensive, and often haven't been properly cared for, the flowers forced in the name of a quick and lucrative sell. I got this little plant for a pound, after it had been knocked over, and come adrift from its pot. The garden centre could have repotted it, but instead, it was sat languishing on a bargain table of damaged plants until yours truly swooped and ran to the till, cackling with delight, under the glare of a bevy of disapproving looks.

And just look at it! Not only is it a gorgeous colour, but the centre of the flower, and I hope you can make this out in the picture, resembles a bird of prey swooping down for the kill. It's so beautiful, yet it was so close to being discarded as rubbish. I'm sure there's a message in there somewhere, if only I had the time to look!

Monday, 4 April 2011


Look at this amazing moth I found while tidying the shed at the weekend. Isn't it beautiful? I'm not sure the picture does justice to just how furry it was. I found it clinging to a piece of wood, got it onto my finger, and then put it on this bush in the garden while I took these snaps.

I should point out that 'tidying the shed' is not a normal activity for me, and indeed, I was actually employed in constructing a 'tool tidy' out of the moth's piece of wood, again, very unusual behaviour for me. Regular perusers of 'Tales' will know I'm having something of a crisis around my novel-in-progress at the moment. So 'tidying the shed' is 'not-writing', and an extremely attractive activity for the day after I received some not-altogether flattering feedback on what I've been writing.

[If anyone is interested, and you need to join to be able to read material, I've posted the opening chapters on 'Youwriteon'. I'm desperate for feedback if you have ten minutes or so to spare. I've posted under my Twitter pseudynom of 'Sam Tales'. So far I've had good and 'reserved' reviews, but they've all been tremendously helpful, and I can see now where more work is required.]
(ed.'s note - actually, I've now removed said chapters. When many reviewers spot the same fatal mistake, it's time for a spot of pruning...)

Anyway, going back to the moth. I think, and I'm happy to be corrected on this as it took hours of combing through photographs on the internet which didn't look like 'my' baby, that it's a Broad-Barred White. So far so good. Problem is, according to the website UK moths, it shouldn't be out-and-about until June. Which means that by removing it from my shed in the name of 'not-writing', I have killed it, since the nights are too cold, and indeed too wet for the poor thing to be out of doors. I went back into the garden the next day to see if I could find it, but alas, the damage was already done, and it was nowhere to be seen. I'd like to be able to tell it I'm sorry. It is truly a victim of not only my ignorance, but also my lack of self-belief.

Sorry moth....

Mother’s Day Catastrophe Blues (oh yeah!)

Yesterday was, of course, Mother’s day, and down here in Tales, the children were ‘chez papa’, so it got off to a jolly good start. A lie-in, an uninterrupted breakfast over the morning paper with music playing sedately in the background, a long walk in the sunshine with the dog-of-small brain, and then round to ‘chez papa’ where my darlings had prepared Sunday lunch for me. How civilised I hear you say. And it was…for a while, and then all hell broke loose.

Upon our return ‘chez mama’, the urchins descended into tantrum mode. There were tears, stamping, shouts of ‘I hate you’, and a bitter and prolonged outbreak of fraternal warfare. I stood in the middle of this maelstrom, clutching the cards they’d made and whimpering, ‘it’s supposed to be Mother’s Day’. It didn't make any difference. No one was listening.

The crowning moment came at teatime, when son-the-younger swallowed a tooth with a mouthful of food. He was distraught. Screaming, he tried over and over to make himself sick, but he’s lost the knack now, this having been something of the ultimate tantrum-party-piece when he was small. I tried to soothe him by launching into an explanation of the tooth’s impending journey through his body. But have you ever tried explaining digestion to a distressed autistic kid with limited understanding? Let’s just say it wasn’t one of my finer moments. Son-the-elder nearly choked laughing, while son-the-younger’s screams have probably been picked up by scientists in a distant galaxy scanning ours for signs of life.

By bedtime, we were all exhausted, son-the younger still sobbing over his lost tooth, which he was still doing this morning until he realised the tooth fairy had remembered, for once, to visit. (how good am I? and this time without, I might add, having raided either child’s piggy bank) The tears vanished at the magical sight of a pound coin.

Mother’s day: thank goodness it only happens once a year. Now, if days like the one I spent with my children yesterday only happened once a year, my life would be peachy! And my hair wouldn’t be turning grey…

Friday, 1 April 2011


The red-brown hare morphs into a clod of clay soil and keeps perfectly still until long after the dog-of-small-brain and I pass by.
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...