Rosetinted

After 5 days of working from home/isolation I am prone to think about 'Home', the television adaption of JG Ballard's Enormous Space, back when channels could be unashamedly creative with their programme listing. It has been a while since I last saw 'Home', and I can still feel the impact it had. Some films leave behind a physical impact, I am still unable to step over a worm on a rainy pavement thanks to David Lynch's Eraserhead.  I was, an unashamed lover of anything JG Ballard and have read a number of his brutal tales. I heard his voice as an indictment on the banality of suburban living and his half step away from reality leaves me with a feeling of horror so much stronger than any complete fantasy world. I imagine a mind like Ballard's as a natural product of the strange suburban childhood dichotomy:  where Santa, Jesus and the Tooth Fairy are equal truths and where oddities and curiosities are shielded from eyes as 'not nice' and 'don'

In the game of Rona-geddon, I am finally OUT. I have been asked to self-isolate due to contact with another Ronageddon victim. I am hoping that they stay safe and well. In fact, if any of my  'rona afflicted friends read this, be well, be safe and drink lots of herbal tea with a splash of honey.  So, now I have to face the one thing I have been dreading since the beginning of this fiasco - I have to a) work from home and b) not leave the house for 14 days. This is not my first rodeo, many years ago I contracted measles and suffered quite significantly. I was advised by the doctor to sit in a darkened room and not to leave the house or mix with others for 14 days. Of course the first few days were not an issue, it was a significant enough illness to leave my head on a pillow for a number of days. Eventually, I set up the high backed, green, nylon- clad chair next to the t.v, with the piano stool as a foot stool and watched countless episodes of: 'Wait 'till your father gets

I think I have a plan. It is a vague one, but I just about see the outline in the smog. My life has been devoid of plans for a while. Quite some time ago, I had a fixed long-term plan and it fell through, not dramatically - it quietly crumbled without so much of a care from anyone, except for me. It was, as is often the case of plans that crumble quietly, a life changing plan and its demise caused my grief alone. Sadness held alone is a lonely affair. Perhaps I didn't mind, at least not as strongly as I first felt and with the joy of hindsight - I was quietly relieved that the plan had been wrong all along. The aftermath of a plan failing is that you live in a state of loss, feeling awkward and embarrassed that you ever afforded yourself the belief, time and money to pursue a goal that led nowhere. It is hard to lift your head high when your  self has been so wounded.  But time ticks on and you have a choice, accept your lot or continue to tug at that string that things as they are

This week my mind has been occupied with my inadequacies. It is confession time and here is my confession; as a wannabe writer I possess only rudimentary knowledge of grammar. Allow me to elucidate-I know what sounds alright but have no knowledge of why, and if you asked me to label the grammatical devises I use, I would not have: one, single, clue. In fact as I write now I am wracked with the self-consciousness of the 'non-grammatical' class. You may inwardly sigh and tut (here she goes again), but my lack of grammatical knowledge has always felt like part of the thing that we dare not speak of - class divide. Competent writers can dissect text, like a surgeon's knife through flesh, identify and classify, diagnose and be part of the cure- at least that is the message I have received. And because I have never been able to dissect text: only like or dislike, follow the journey the author sets out or get hopelessly lost- I thought that writing was beyond me. I heard another r

My inner voice is speaking to me quite clearly. It says, and this is no whisper, get any old shit out or this gig is up. This is my fourth draft since August. Things seemed different back then, in some ways there was a hope that we might learn to live with whatever this thing is and find some sort of normal. I suspected that we would be living in a hinterland and with no end in sight but I was feeling my oats for my new found love of the written word and my drive to seek out words seemed like a wall of protection surrounding me. I did not believe for one instance that this time, I would be gaping dry- mouthed with nothing to say- this time was different than the others, this was the first time, for example, I had lived and written through a global pandemic. But if there is one thing I have learned, you are who you are and real change is a position hardly ever won. Those who change have the fortitude to chip away at the bedrock and foundations - not chosen but left behind; they don'

Alongside the easing of lockdown, my time has been punctuated by small efforts (I am currently trying to practice Daily Yoga and cut out alcohol) and life-affirming trips into nature, all this between the hours I wander from room to room in the throes of I 'Should be doing something'. I have been doing something, I have been busy disentangling myself away from the cold-comfort of Facebook and Twitter, at least I have made the step of removing the apps from my phone. Of course I still have access, both are accessible on my laptop and from time to time I pop in to look at what other people are doing. We all know by now that these places are not without a health warning and as much as people make me laugh, a percentage make me long for the climatic disaster that now seems inevitable (is the end of human race really such a horror?) When I am not being driven to nihilistic musings, I am led into deep thought about other things (realising that perhaps these humans are not all bad). C

I like Charles Bukowski. When I read his books as an early 20 something, with the mind of an early teen, I admired many of his characteristics. I liked his clipped sentences and simple vocabulary. I liked that he worked and lived in mundanity and made his observations compelling. I liked that he wasn't afraid of his disdain of everything and everyone (I on the other hand was being eaten alive by my own).  I liked his ambition and his daily dedication to two things I liked: drinking and writing. Most of all I liked that he was the archetypal writer: difficult, ugly, and alcoholic. His talent transcending background or opportunity or trends. I read a fair few of his books - Ham on Rye, Factotum, Post Office and perhaps Women. It was comforting and a source of hope that his success came so late on in his life, after being laid so low by the day in and day outness of boring jobs.  I also really liked the fact I was reading Bukowski whilst other young women were immersed in Austin and S

It is now officially the summer holidays, the time of year many of us look forward to, some of us (teachers, politicians and a few blessed others) have a decent amount of time where we don't work and god knows I look forward to it. Only, this year it is a little different - I had some time where I did not work at school, followed by a half-term of being a child-carer more than a teacher. So I wonder, why did I feel that I needed the holidays so much? Why at the end of that paltry half term was I so bone tired and utterly exhausted and why does that feeling continue?  Perhaps, I have gotten accustomed to doing little for a state payout, 'addicted' to it, as some politician somewhere has suggested. Yes, it is dreadful that the less middle class amongst us, who have been working regularly since 13 should want a rest from it all- how very dare us. Our job is to work incredibly hard until our old age, enjoy a few years of pootling around Morrison's cafe and trundling boxed t

It has been very difficult to write lately, you see I have unintentionally returned to a childhood state of fear and I know it is through no one's fault except my own. Whilst I struggle with this burden  I have rendered myself mute. After years of inwardly complaining that it is external factors that have silenced me, I have in effect put a rather large sticking plaster over my own gob. It was never my intention to turn my lockdown journals into political rants and I would rather not become too opinionated; I thought I would be the champion of light entertainment, teatime magazine posts with the odd dad joke and breezy life observations; all positioned through a rose tinted lens. Alas, as this confounded pandemic has gone on I have found myself on the precipice of something new and I fear the leap I could take. I am under no illusions - I know that right now, not one person is asking me to write my life observations and this is nothing more than a hobby. I think the few I have gath

I have been spending much of my time watching gardening programs. What with lockdown, early spring sun and a will for green fingers, me and a bunch of other Brits have been lost imagining ourselves as Percy Thrower, or for those of you under 40, Monty Don. I do love a tour around these television gardens and I am in awe of them knocking out a 200 quid wooden planter and filling them instantly with a van full of healthy plants that they just acquired from some organic nursery. I do ask myself how realistic is this for us inner city, budget bound gardens? I have been gardening sporadically for a few years with differing degrees of success. The rot sets in for me around about October when the lack of sunlight takes my soul and whisks me to Grimsville. I usually wake from my winter coma a bit too late, plant too late and then spend the spring sun time willing everything to grow faster. I am in training this year, to become a filthy weather gardener, it is the only kind that will have any

I am, along with many other people, entering a new phase in our lockdown experience and with the change of  events brings a different emotional response. I have been wrestling with writing the lockdown journal,  not only because now I have less time afforded to me, but also because whenever I sit down to write; my emotions will not allow me to write anything light or uplifting. You see, now I am expected to ease my way into 'normal' human existence, the only way I can describe what I am feeling at this present time, is sad. It is a heavy and specific sadness but one that feels unreal and muted. A few mornings last week I woke up as if from a tragic dream and on the brink of tears, a glum feeling and not a clue of where it arrived from. Not fed up, or worried or puzzled but deep rooted sadness. Fortunately, once I get to work and I try and fill my mind with the task in front of me that feeling escapes me and I am occupied, busy and none too concerned - on returning back into my

It's Monday, and I have just finished work. I have been out of the house and off to a different place to do something different to what I have become accustomed to. Life is changing, yet again. It is a bit of a shock to the system. I am having to perform tasks I would not necessarily choose to do but are necessary to do. That is the world of work. It has been a challenge to invent my own activities on a daily basis, but a challenge which has, on the whole, been really worthwhile. At long last I have learnt to do the activities which before the lockdown, only formulated in my head. I am grateful that I am returning to a job that is, for the most part, enjoyable and perhaps more importantly worthwhile. This feeling of gratitude has not made my recent walks to work any less sobering, as I consider that after the brief interlude of my lockdown situation,  I return, possibly for the next 20 years or so. I walk to work, in gratitude twinged with slight dread - how do I avoid the exhaus

It is the end of non-working lockdown for me. I am moving back to the land of the working folk. I don't know how I feel about the statistics we are being given and whether or not we are any safer than when I was directed not to work. My place of employment has shown itself to be trustworthy and have put their staff and children first, so in terms of personal risk - I am happy to be returning to usefulness and to be with the aspect of humanity I still quite like, children. Due to a reoccurring ankle injury I have not run for 16 days so I am, in effect,  pegged down to a small vicinity. I have been making efforts to change my small area for the better, the weather has helped - litter picking in your street is always nicer when the sun is on your back. Thanks to a very speedy response from Leeds city council, a fly-tipped couch and various items of rubbish have been removed from the street making it easier and more satisfying to clear the smaller bits of rubbish. We have also had

My life is about to change again, from Monday I am going back to school to help with the childcare that we offer for the keyworkers' children, this coincides with my son's return to school and the rain. It is strange to think that in Britain, we've all got used to a life of sunshine and I, along with many, adapted my life accordingly.  It has all been rather pleasant: beginning the day with sun warming my inflexible bones as I carry on with daily yoga, or the morning coffee club we formed, me, Bruce and middle child moving our garden chairs around chasing the dappled sun and sipping coffee, whilst I flitted between checking my new plants. Or the urban walks where we discovered new paths edged in dog roses and hawthorn. Yes! It has been uplifting to feel the sun warm the skin and bring my freckles to the forefront. Now, at least for a couple of weeks (according to the short term weather reports) we are going to have to readjust to cooler temperatures and cloudy skies. It i

I am wondering if my sense of humour is being blighted. It just does not feel funny anymore.  Not that a global pandemic is ever funny but for some reason in the first few weeks of lockdown I felt as if I had a humour reawakening.  It could be attributed to spending more time with my children who have their own particular brand of wackiness, or maybe it's just that I had more time to find things funny. Maybe with time restrictions eased, I  didn't have to ask anyone to stop mid comedy to 'get ready' 'go out', 'put your shoes on' and all the other humour busting sayings one becomes accustomed to when busy, busy, busy. I believe in humour - a lot. I am the type of person who when upset would rather you were comic than understanding. I don't really believe we can truly understand the feelings of another, empathise, yes - but feelings (at least mine) are often descended from mystery - if you redirect my perception to something absurd then I can fre

Since Friday, time has slowed. Right. Down. To the point when each moment lasts an hour or so. I haven't really got a clue, only I was convinced for a whole day that Saturday was Sunday, that dinner was tea and up was down. I am very glad it is a long weekend because that somehow justifies my listlessness and makes inertia permissible. It is exhausting keeping up momentum when days and weeks are only punctuated, not with events, but your own internal clock and your own perception of time. This week, at least up until Friday, I have been turning my back on duties and taking up as many hobbies as I can. So far, during lockdown I have accumulated 2 or 3 new hobbies. I have always fancied myself as a dilettante, I may possibly be the best dabbler I know. It was something I took great pride in when I was younger, a stubborn belief that I could do anything if 'I just put my mind to it'.  Of course as you age things change and my belief in dabbling has been sorely tested.  I

Out of all the social media platforms, I like Instagram the best. My timeline is a collection of inspiring images, folks who like to play dress up with secondhand and vintage clothes. I like to join in and have a go too. There are, as much as we can tell on something as fanciful as Instagram, some nice folk- those who drop you an encouraging line every now and then. These little sprinkles of human interaction can lift a grey mood, or motivate you to get through a tedious task, as they say: 'every little helps'. But then as with all interaction of humankind, there is a down side. Firstly, you have to flick through the images 'at your own risk'. Other people's lives can always seem better than yours. Many people are better looking, have better clothes, nicer houses, better abdominal muscles- the list of the 'betters' can be endless. I don't really like to admit it but females are, generally, preconditioned to compare themselves with one another and i

According to some imaginary tabloid, edited by the commentators of Facebook, sometime around Christmas me and a couple of other workshy furloughers wrote a petition to the almighty Santa. We were bitter because we've worked since our teens and know that the hope of retiring when we are fit and well enough to enjoy a rest is a thing of the past. So, we asked him nicely for a break from doing something useful, the waking and the getting ready and the going out to work was getting all too much and we dreamed of a life of Netflix, solo walks and tending our window sill gardens. Luckily for us the almighty Santa came up trumps and sent some invisible, flying around things which sometimes land and make some people sick, and some really unlucky ones die...... It was a small price to pay for an elongated holiday and according to the tabloid viewpoints, a price we are willing to pay. I recognise my own facetiousness and understand that some may think, given our current crisis, I should

My boy loves films. I am his mum and because of this bias, I have secret ambitions for him to grow up and live in the film world. I see, looking through my rose-tinted spectacles: a concept artist, director or stuntman of the future. The boy understands films in a way I have not observed in other children. Before he had the skills to read, he 'wrote' films he had seen through storyboards. The boy can remember cinematography and events in a way that leave me baffled. I am not really looking at the cinematography when I watch a film, I am sucking up the feelings like a vampire. I hoover up the happys or the tragic, or the poignant and the mad. After I have finished watching a film (not even a good film) my reality can be temporarily altered, and sometimes that takes some time to recover from. My boy is less moved (unless animals are involved) and more curious in camera angle, effects, colour, composition and detail. After we have watched a film, and whilst I am still trying to

Biron is similar to someone you might know. Biron likes to live in a world where colours are muted and things move at a reasonable pace. And there is nothing regrettable about taking things slowly, and thinking.  He likes what he likes and makes no excuses for that being collections of, what other people would describe as, junk. A dour little man with arms attached to his grey, blue face with a perplexed expression. He makes his home in a crack under the kitchen cupboard, in an ordinary kitchen, in an ordinary terrace found in an ordinary street. The crack is how he likes it - although some days after wallowing in his bed, he thinks about giving it a little tidy but mostly he is content to share his home with his thoughts and collection of bits and pieces. One morning, Biron lay in his bed and mulled over the oncoming day. Apart from wallowing in his bed and drinking coffee he had no plans after that.  'What to do?'  he thought. After meticulously opening and adjusting his