Rosetinted

 You will have to excuse the 2 week hiatus. I tried to mess with a routine I have devised for myself, and although I swear blind that I am the spontaneous type and can cope with changes - the proof is in the pudding and I discover that I am more a slave to schedule than I think. So here I am, on a Sunday morning; before I dress, tidy or organise any offspring, I am writing. I will be completely honest with you; finding content is still an issue- I am still in a battle of personal self-censorship. I don’t know when I began to get up each morning and pick up my metaphorical layer of gauze to soften my persona, but I suspect it was quite young. I knew that I was a ‘little too much’, for my family and my questions were a ‘little too pertinent’ and my natural behaviours just not quite socially acceptable from, perhaps the age of 10. What I wanted to do and say was never quite in step with ‘the group’. That otherness has left a lasting impression; there are still certain ‘normal’ group ac

It was this time last week, when I began to write my previous week’s blog post, having promised myself that I would begin to write weekly. This is my promise to me, as I work out- publicly, no less – my purpose on this revolving ball. Of course, You scold ( You is very much a figment of my imagination) ‘you’re a teacher and your purpose should be tied up alongside that.’  I chuckle, and agree: for all intents and purposes that should be the ticket, but I can’t quite get with that program , there must be more. I don’t really want my funeral to be a eulogy, in front of the 5 people who managed to tolerate me through life,  of how I managed to be kind to a few children and managed to cope through a largely failing (in my opinion) education system.  I always hoped for more.  I blame my childhood; you cannot indoctrinate an impressionable mind with ideas of divine purpose and predestination without inducing a few ‘ideas above your station’.  Which leads me to another thought that has preoc

I said that I would write every Sunday, that is now the new regime. The plan was to use my commute to work, to conjure some witty and adroit text that would have the readers rolling in the isles. However, during my 9 minute walk to work, where I walk down an alleyway that perhaps I should avoid, my mind has been drifting elsewhere.  On Monday, I cheered some emigrating geese as they flew off in formation and for a moment I was captured in the rapture of nature. On Tuesday, I speculated about the lady litter picker, who tidies other people’s mess, all alone before 8am. She is donned in litter tongs and mask and heroically carries out her Sisyphean task. On Wednesday, I wondered how the human pooer is, and whether they’d left a log down my alley. I wonder if they were eating well, healthy and fibrous with a scatter of sweetcorn or had the junk food got the better of them, only observation would reveal the truth. On Thursday, I spent a few too many moments caught up in the futility of w

It has been 7 weeks.  7 whole weeks of working full time, I lost my Friday day off and now I am well and truly in the rat run. I remember it well from the last time I was full time, the all-consuming nature of this job makes, at least for me, pursuing other interests so difficult. I am almost nostalgic for the first lockdown (if I could step aside from the fear and anxiety it induced); when I could just concentrate on having all that precious time to do the things that I dreamed about doing whilst doing my all-consuming job. Those things that I dreamed about pre- lockdown are the same things that I try to find time to do now: write and be slightly more creative than I am in my job. It is funny how, over the years, dreams have whittled themselves down to be so simple. View this post on Instagram A post shared by Deborah Darko Davies (@roseytintz) My lockdown journals were effortless to write, it was as if the combination of time, anxiety and (blessed as I was) f

Some things I have, as a modern person, come to rely on whether or not, evolutionary speaking, it does me a scrap of good. I am a good few generations in from having to make fire or dig a well for water. Perhaps, I am a dullard from becoming too soft and reliant on switching a switch for survival and placing my basic needs in the care of others but, in my defence, I have known no other way and I cannot recall much protest from those who inhabit the western world. Of course there has been moments when we realise the whole earth does not wake each morning to running water or functioning electricity, but on the whole - most of us pampered folk have fashioned our lives around these two facts: we will wake up with clean water and electricity.  For many of us, our survivalist skills are all but forgotten, hence the abundance of adrenaline that courses around our veins. Living without a daily near death experience to expend it we've become anxious of shadows and invented fears amongst ou

I am well acquainted with one of the many formulae of genius, there is a theory that any reasonably intelligent person will reach 'genius' status just through the amount of hours they dedicate themselves to the acquisition of a skill or knowledge.  I have used this theory to try and cajole myself to partake in daily practise: you know the kind of things: yoga, running, writing etc etc. I have tried and failed. Yet, I do not fail at daily practise, I can eat, sleep, urinate and defecate with daily precision, even so I am still not a genius nor skilled at the ablutions I manage to do daily.  View this post on Instagram A post shared by Deborah Darko Davies (@roseytintz) Over the years I have persuaded myself into 'little and often'- that is the most I have managed to achieve: I often run, little. I write little, often and I continue to do little yoga, frequently. Little and often is the way to go, I reassure myself. With this in mind, I have begun

Somewhere on some social media outlet, I made vague promises that this week's lockdown journal would be on the subject of female anger. I got about 200 words in, fueled by whisky and some musky, heavy female hormones and realised I was far too pissed off to write it. I had two options, carry on with the words I had scribbled together, because I said I would - but that just made me angry... so I thought screw it, it is my blog I will write what the hell I want.  I voiced my sentiments, mainly to myself, because no-one gave any shits, and came to understand, somewhat angrily that I had covered some of the bases- so I moved on.  And if you have a problem with that you can take it up with my manager, alright?         View this post on Instagram A post shared by Deborah Darko Davies (@roseytintz) It has been a long weekend of muddy running and promised snow. Only the snow didn't arrive (yet) and if I am really honest I am just longing for spring. I need some co

I have just woken up from a dream, we (I have no idea who we were) had just partaken in socially distanced outdoor japes. In my dream it felt as light and as normal as the time I vaguely remember; before humankind were all set upon each other with our opinions of how best to live through a pandemic. At the end of our outdoor japes I was feeling happy and free (why are feelings in dreams the most vivid part of the experience?) and I thought I would finish our time with a well-rehearsed hand spring. In real life I can just about execute a cartwheel with a front-facing landing but these are dreams OK. So, I limber up (even in my dreams I am middle-aged) I take a big run, I place one hand, than the other on the grass as I prepare to spin my body overhead and land gracefully.... Instead, I run, place the hands down at the point of where I will spin, collapse and crumple like a ball of soggy paper. The 'we' (I still do not recognise their faces) say encouraging things. I try again. I