All Hail Garden Centres: 2013 365 Challenge #118

Wheels on the Bus ride at the Garden Centre

Today was saved by the humble garden centre, one of my favourite places to visit at the weekend. Strange, you might think, considering I hate gardening. But they really are fab places to take bored kids, particularly when you’re exhausted. And this morning we all were.

My decision to start limiting my son’s dummy usage (especially talking with the darn thing in his mouth) was not timed well. Sleep came in two-hour chunks last night and this morning Cranky Mummy was an understatement.

I took dummy away, as threatened, after the little darling spoke to me with it in his mouth only moments after the warning. I suffered more than he did as I had to endure an hour-long tantrum that threatened to end in vomit (as Aaron’s tantrums often do).

Amazing what you find in a Garden Centre

Vomit averted, I managed to get him dressed and into the car – one of the two places he is now allowed his dummy (as long as my willpower lasts, which may not be long.) By then any energy I had when I woke had long since vanished. So we decided to visit a new Garden Centre I had a money-off voucher for.

This was a great one, although it was further away than I realised. The entire place was under high ceilings that let in the sunshine and protected us from today’s hail showers.

There were the usual distractions – a shop selling fish (who needs to visit an aquarium?), a pet shop complete with guinea pigs, pretty flowers, ride on toys and cake – plus the rather less usual – a giant gorilla that the children sat on to have their picture taken.

There was even a TV and reading room for kids, a library for grown-ups and a park. The food was a bit pricey but it’s definitely somewhere I would take the children again. Who needs indoor play centres or trips to the cinema when you can find Nemo and Dory in a fish shop, King Kong in the flower hall, and Ice Age I on the television?

Marvellous.

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog: [WARNING: Today’s post contains strong language]

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Claire smothered a yawn and rubbed her hand across her eyes. She stared around blankly, trying to occupy her mind while Sky knelt to feed the goats. Twenty paces away, a man stood watching her. She felt a quiver of recognition, although she couldn’t imagine how anyone she knew would turn up at a rare breeds centre in Norfolk. Probably an old colleague; they do seem to appear in the most random places.

Her eyes felt heavy and her caffeine content was well below safe levels. Crouching down next to her niece, she tried to frame words in her head that might entice her back to the car without a tantrum.

“Would you like to buy an ice cream before we go to the hostel?” She waited, lungs full of in-held breath, while her words seeped into Sky’s consciousness. Never mind marketing, I think a career in diplomacy will be a possibility when this fortnight is over.

After what felt like an hour, Sky smiled and stood up. “Can I have one with a flake, Auntie Claire?”

Exhaling loudly, Claire pulled herself to her feet and reached for Sky’s hand. “Of course, darling, if they have any.”

She turned to lead them to the exit, but Sky remained as if stuck in quicksand. Looking down Claire saw that her niece’s gaze was fixed on a point in the distance. She followed the direction and saw the same man still staring. A shiver trickled down her skin like icy water. With the awful inevitability of a car crash, Claire could see disaster playing out before her. She tugged on the tiny hand enclosed in hers. “Come on Sky, I’ll race you to the coffee shop.”

The girl didn’t move, although the blood drained from her face until it was as pale as her hair.

Bollocks. Claire didn’t want her suspicions confirmed, but her eyes dragged back to the staring man without her volition. Of all the shitty luck. What now?

She felt Sky drop her hand and take a step forward. A breath of a voice whispered, “Daddy?” Then something seemed to break inside her, and she began to run. “Daddy!”

Watching the little girl racing across the grass, hair and dress flying out behind her, Claire felt tears building in the back of her throat. It was her turn to be frozen. She knew she should go after Sky – shield her from what might happen next – but she felt unable to move.

Sky reached the man and held up her arms, demanding an embrace. Even across the distance Claire felt the hesitation and her chest ached in pain. It seemed to free her from immobility and she ran for Sky as if the girl was teetering at a cliff edge. She reached them just as the man dropped down and gave his daughter a quick hug. He looked up at Claire’s flustered arrival and some of the tension left his face.

“It’s you. Couldn’t tell from a distance. Thought it couldn’t be Ruth. She wouldn’t be this far from home.”

Claire looked round, expecting to see the ballet teacher lurking nearby. It seemed unlikely that a man would come by himself to such a place. Wherever she is, let her stay there. Another thought lurched unwelcome in Claire’s mind. Oh god, I offered Sky ballet lessons and talked all about ballet when we were in Cambridge. Stupid, inconsiderate, idiot. No wonder Ruth doesn’t want her to have ballet lessons, when her father ran off with her ballet teacher.

Shaking away the thought as something she couldn’t fix now, Claire reached for Sky. Her father dropped his arms and stood up, his face showing relief.

“How come you’ve got the girl then?”

Claire tried to read the man’s expression. “Sky is staying with me for the Easter holidays.” She stopped, holding back the words Because her mother has a brain tumour and is having chemotherapy.

An awkward silence spread between them like mist. Sky stood gazing in adoration at her father, and Claire wondered when she had last heard from or seen him. As if in answer, Sky spoke in a trembling voice. “I miss you, Daddy. Why don’t you ever call?”

The man – Claire couldn’t even think his name without fury – looked down at his shoes and didn’t answer. Claire could see two red spots burning in his cheeks. He glanced around and behind him, as if searching for someone. His face softened, becoming younger, more gentle. Reaching down, he patted Sky gently on the head.

“I have to go, poppet. Sorry.” He said nothing more, and strode away without looking back.

Claire felt an icy pain spreading through her chest as she watched him leave. Chris. That’s his name. Stupid, fucking wanker, more like. It felt hard to breathe. Watching the departing figure reminded Claire of being dropped at school after the holidays, standing silent while her parents returned to their car. They had never looked back either.

A loud sob brought Claire back to the present. Realising she had forgotten her niece in her own reaction; Claire dropped to her knees in the mud and gathered Sky into her lap. Like a dam breaking, the little girl crumbled and dissolved into a wave of tears. These weren’t the childish screams and dry sobs of a tantrum. With shaking shoulders and loud gasping gulps, Sky cried as if the world had ended.

For her, I guess it has. Claire turned to stare in the direction Sky’s father had gone and saw him lean in to kiss a woman pushing a pram. He linked his arm through hers and bent to say something to the child deep in the buggy. Despite the busy farm bustling around them, the connection was close and private. Claire felt like an intruder.

Oh Sky, I’m glad you didn’t see that. What could make a man leave his child? I guess too many men run off and leave the woman literally holding the baby. But to start a new family, and not stay in touch with your own daughter: What kind of monster does that? Claire’s brain searched for the worst word she could think of, so bad she couldn’t even say it in her mind. That’s what he is and Sky’s better off without him.

***

“Ducks are NOT birds” 2013 365 Challenge #117

Feeding the Birds (not Ducks)

Today was one of those days when I feel I should be thinner.

I’ve never managed to shift the twenty pounds left over from having two kids in quick succession. To be fair I haven’t tried that hard. Life is stressful enough most days without forgoing cake.

Plus I have zero willpower.

The intention was to run off the calories on the new expensive treadmill we bought the month before hubbie was made redundant last October. Unfortunately, my persistent knee problem means I’ve been on it twice and now it gathers dust and torments me.

But mostly I’m okay with the Belly Flood as my husband calls my spare tyre when it spills over the top of my jeans (it’s an in-joke taken from our favourite kids show Ben and Holly’s Little Kingdom where they periodically have magic jelly floods and all yell Jelly Flood loudly.)

“Arrgghh! Jelly Flood! Nanny!”

However on days like today I feel I should be thinner. It seems the whole day has been a battle: Physically – taking two kids on foot across town to a shoe shop in driving rain – and mentally – being questioned, contradicted and refused on pretty much everything I said.

The highlight was trying not to get into a scrap with a belligerent 2-year-old who insisted vehemently that “ducks are NOT birds”.

That’s a no-win argument right there.

It went on for so much of the day (every time I inadvertently said Feed the Birds instead of Feed the Ducks) that I began to question whether ducks are in fact birds. You know, like gibbons aren’t monkeys and spiders aren’t insects and a Brontosaurus doesn’t exist at all. If someone yabbers at you for long enough, and you’re tired enough, and they cry enough, you’ll believe anything. By bedtime I felt like a victim of a new kind of psychological torture. I’d have agreed that ducks are mammals quite happily to make it stop.

I feel as exhausted as I used to after climbing Snowdon, so surely I must have burned an extra thousand calories today? That would be fair, right? If only…

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“Sky, it’s time to go and get lunch sweetheart. Besides, I don’t have sun-cream and you’re so fair. I don’t want you getting burnt, it’ll make your mummy cross.”

Sky looked up from the sandcastle moat and frowned. The castle was impressive, with at least a dozen towers, all surrounded by a deep furrow which Sky had tried to fill with water. The sea was too far away to begin with but now it seemed to be coming in fast.

Claire watched the waves lapping near to where they sat. “Besides, the tide is coming in.”

The bottom lip began to stick out and Claire braced herself for the tantrum that was about to erupt. She held up a placating hand and was about to launch into a flood of words to push back the torrent of tears when a siren ripped through the silence of the beach. Claire fell back onto the sand and Sky clapped her hands to her ears.

“What the bloody hell is that?” Claire looked around but couldn’t see anything to explain the noise. She swore some more, thankful that Sky’s ears were covered.

“Tis the tide alarm,” a voice called out from behind them. Claire turned to see a woman with several children in tow heading up towards the pine trees.

“I’m sorry?”

“Did ye nah see the signs in the car park? The tide comes in reet quick an if ya nah careful ya can get cut oof.”

Claire tried to decipher what the lady was saying. Her accent was heavy and northern; Claire couldn’t decide if it was Geordie or Scottish, although she knew better than to admit that to the woman. She gathered the alarm was to warn them of the incoming tide.

“Oh, okay, thank you.” She nodded at the woman and turned back to Sky, who had taken her hands away from her ears. “Time to go.”

When the bottom lip threatened to wobble, Claire shrugged and gestured at the other families leaving the beach. “It’s not up to me. I don’t want to have to swim back to the car.”

Sky laughed and looked as if she thought that would be fun. Searching her mind for ways to coax her niece back to the car, Claire remembered a place near the next hostel that she’d seen on the internet. “Would you like to go and see some animals?”

“What kind of animals?” Sky wasn’t budging but couldn’t hide the interest on her face.

“Um, wallabies? Alpacas?” She couldn’t remember what else. “Er, goats?”

Sky’s face lit up. “I like goats. We feed the goats at the Farm. Okay.” Standing up, she collected her bucket and spade, brushed the sand off her skirt, and headed up the beach. Claire watched her departure for a few moments, taken aback by the sudden change of speed. Sky turned as she reached the line of trees. “Aren’t you coming Auntie Claire? Race you back to the car!” And with that she disappeared.

“Aw, look at the wallabies, they’re so cute. Have you ever been to Australia, Auntie Claire? I want to go but Mummy says it’s too far.”

Claire’s brain ached with answering endless questions. I hoped coming here and feeding the animals might distract her for a bit. Wrong. With a sigh she tried to focus on the question. It raised unwanted memories of Josh and Fiona, who were possibly on a plane back to Australia at that very moment. “No I haven’t, although I’d like to go, some day.”

“Where have you been? Mummy says you’re always jetting off on holiday.”

Thank you, Ruth, for that gem. Claire thought about it and realised she hadn’t been anywhere Sky would have heard of or care about. I don’t think beach holidays in luxury resorts are what she means. She’d never had the travel bug before. Holidays were for relaxation and tanning opportunities. She decided it was time to change the subject.

“Look at that sheep’s horns, Sky, they’re all twisty.” She held her breath for a moment, convinced that such a ploy would never get past Sky’s knife-sharp mind. Her niece turned to observe the screw-horned sheep, then span to face Claire.

“Wow! He looks like he has helter-skelter’s coming out of his head!”

Claire exhaled.

***

The Art of Distraction: 2013 365 Challenge #116

Decisions, Decisions: Which shot for the April Volume?

I’ve found something I’m really really good at. Distraction. It’s 2pm, I get the kids in 3 hours, and so far today I’ve filled out one author interview and tidied up this morning’s blog post (it was written at 2am after going out to dinner and was a bit shaky. Probably still is). And I’ve Vaxed the carpets. Um. That’s about it.

Haven’t even managed lunch yet. It’s 2pm, did I mention that? Where has the day gone? What have I been doing all day apart from making the carpets wet and smelly? Oh yes. I bought an iPad mini, so choosing a case for that took twenty minutes. The vaxing took quite a while as I’ve never used the machine before (it scares me) but grew tired of nagging husband to get on with it.

Holkham Beach: Image Copyright Trevor Wright

And I’ve spent an hour trying to choose a front cover for the April volume of Two-Hundred Steps Home, seeing as it’s May next week. (I know, seriously?)

I’m struggling to pick a cover this month because I didn’t get where I thought I would by the end of the month: Sky and Claire were supposed to spend some time on the beach, but I don’t know if that’s going to happen. (Maybe I’ll try and write that post today.)

The location hasn’t been as dramatic or recognisable this month as in previous months and, if I’m honest, I haven’t had as much time to think about each post and so there isn’t really a theme apart from travelling with Sky.

I’ve narrowed my choices to two options: rainy day or beach day. Above are the cover-images I have in my lightbox thus far, so I thought I’d post it and see if any jumped out. For those of you who have read any or all of this month’s installments, do any of these images seem compelling? I have a couple of favourites but it would be interesting to get an independent view.

Right, let’s write about beaches.

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“Can we go to the beach today, Claire? Can we, can we, can we? Please?”

Claire prised open sticky eyelids and looked at the girl jumping on the bed, her blonde hair lit from behind by the sun pouring through the window. For a moment Claire wondered if she was being visited by an angel, after her visit to the Shrine. You can’t convert me, I’m a non-believer. Go away.

The jumping persisted and Claire groaned. It was worth a shot. Her body felt welded to the mattress, as if a nefarious doctor had sedated her in her sleep. Oh. My. God. How can I be this tired? Even when I did those bloomin snow hikes I didn’t feel like this. Her brain present an image of Fi coming in to confess all after the Pennine Way walk. Alright, fair enough, I felt like I was dead then. But all I did yesterday was walk from the steam train to the Shrine and back. Not exactly strenuous.

Flashes of the afternoon and evening events returned in vivid colour as sleep retreated. Sky sobbing in fear that her mother was going to die. Sky falling asleep in Claire’s arms so she felt she couldn’t move for two hours, not even to get her iPad. A rejuvenated Sky demanding games and entertainment until late in the evening. A stubborn and shouting Sky refusing to go to bed. Then a night-time of screaming, as Sky’s daytime fears transformed into night terrors.

Claire focussed her bleary eyes on the jack-in-the-box child still shaking the bed. Kids must be bullet proof. Sky seemed to realise the jumping wasn’t working and lay down next to Claire, snuggling in under the duvet.

“Sheesh! Your feet are cold.”

“Sorry, Auntie Claire. Did you sleep well?”

Claire opened her eyes wide and examined Sky’s face to see if there was any trace of irony or evil intent. Clear blue eyes gazed back, brimming with sincerity.

“Don’t you remember having bad dreams, poppet?” Claire reached out and brushed the hair away from her face.

Sky shook her head. “Sorry, Auntie Claire. Mummy says I often don’t wake up when I’ve having nightmares.” Her face fell and tears gathered in the rims of her eyes. Claire was about to offer more support about Ruth’s condition when Sky spoke. “Does that mean you’ll be too tired to take me to the beach today?”

Claire laughed. Kids certainly live in the now. “We’ll go to the beach today, I promise. Let’s just get packed up and check out and we can ask at reception which is the best beach between here and Hunstanton. We can’t check in until later anyway and it looks like a nice day.”

Sky jumped up, her face shining like a star. “I’m packed already. Shall I help you? What can I do?”

Claire inhaled deeply and swallowed down the inexplicable urge to weep that swept over her.

“Wow.” Sky ran along the boardwalk through the pine trees and stopped as if she’d hit glass. “Auntie Claire, look!” She turned and beckoned Claire forwards. “It goes on all the way to heaven.”

Claire walked up to stand by her niece and took in the view, inhaling deeply the scent of salt and pine. Who knew there were endless sandy beaches on the East Coast? Why did we never come here as children? Probably we went to the South of France or were packed off to relatives. Funny that I don’t really remember having family holidays.

The beach stretched endlessly to either side from where they stood, with sea directly ahead and blue sky above. It looked like a picture postcard. The only moving things between sand and sky were distant dog walkers and two galloping horses. It’s not really a family beach, I hope Sky doesn’t mind.

The man at reception had provided a list of sandy beaches and they’d chosen one near the hostel so there would be no chance of missing out on the sun. Besides, when we’re cold and tired I’ll be able to coax Sky to Burnham Market for lunch. Claire remembered that much at least from British beaches. Even on a fine day the wind could be chilly and energy-sapping. She’d contemplated buying a wind-break at the shop where they purchased Sky’s bucket and spade, but the mental image of her niece laughing while she wrestled with the garish stripy contraption convinced her the purchase was unnecesary.

How am I going to occupy her here? No ice cream sellers, no rock pools or crabs or donkey rides. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. She felt a tug on her sleeve and turned her attention to Sky.

“Come on, Auntie Claire, I want to make a sandcastle.”

It felt exposed down on the beach. The wind whirled past them as if it was in training for a long distance race and had no time to stop. Claire could see coloured shapes spinning in the sky and scrunched her eyes up to focus, wishing she’d bought her sunglasses. Sky followed her gaze. “What are they?”

“Kites. Big ones, by the looks of it.” She followed the lines down from the dancing shapes and saw leaping and dancing on bottom end too. “Kite surfers. Brrr, rather them than me. I bet that water’s freezing.”

Claire continued to watch the twirling of the boards and kites, as Sky ran onto the sand and began digging. Something about the freedom of the movement pulled at her. I wonder if they do lessons? That might be a fun challenge. Then she looked at the bent head of her niece, furiously filling her bucket. Oh yes. I forgot. Not until after school starts again, unless they offer babysitting too. Poor Ruth, no wonder she has no life. It’s like having a permanent chaperone. I wonder if they’d let a six-year-old try it? Might be a bit dangerous for a child I guess.

She filed the thought away for later, and went to sit on the sand next to Sky.

***

Oh Man, Not Another Picture – {365.107} (belovedmuse.com)
365. (margauritaphotographyblog.com)

The Wonder of Silence: 2013 365 Challenge #115

Puddles more fun than Paddling Pools

I used to be afraid of silence. All through my years at university I had to have music on to drown out the voices in my head. The ones telling me what an awful person I was. The ones reminding me of every stupid thing I had done or that I was fat, single, unloveable. Doomed to fail. They say the voice in your head comes from how your parents spoke to you as a child.

God help my kids.

Although, having said that, I am teaching them self awareness if nothing else so hopefully they’ll learn to challenge the inner voice. Eventually i learned to be at peace with the voices. I had an amazing flatmate at university who listened and soothed and told me I wasn’t bad or crazy, just normal. Eventually I believed her although faith in that view took a dip when my boyfriend snogged someone else in front of me, New Years Eve, final year.

I broke.

Dancing in Puddles

Thus began my first major bout of depression, although I’d had dark periods before. It wasn’t so much being single (looking back it was a lucky break as he was awful): It was losing my link to the future after graduation. That dark future that academic schooling doesn’t really prepare you for. Music became my crutch. Loud, positive music, like Bon Jovi or dark heavy music, Metallica being my favourite. (a bit of And Justice For All at full volume kept me awake through week long study sessions with virtually no sleep.)

I can’t tell you when silence became acceptable. I think when I became free of other people: when I lived alone and learned I was worth something even with no friends, or A grades and awards to define me. I earned good money and was valued at work. I remained single for a long time. Eventually work broke me and I had my worse bout of depression.

The world ended for a while.

Silence once more became my enemy. I was worthless, useless, trapped. That time SSRIs came to my aid. I quit my job, flat, town, friends, Guide Unit and flew half way round the world. I drove a rusty car in the huge silences of New Zealand, climbed mountains and found a semblance of inner peace.

Fishing for Fir-cones

The demons still have house room. Doubt, Guilt and Inadequacy are long-time flatmates of mine. But I don’t have to drown them out with electric guitars and drums anymore. I do love music. Singing to an uplifting song rarely fails to improve my mood, not that I get much chance. Apparently Mummies aren’t allowed to sing.

What gets the demons raging now is quite often the opposite of silence. 12-hour days of endless yabbering, questioning, squabbling, laughing, crying, shrieking, coughing, sighing and singing leave my nerves jangling and my equilibrium battered. For some reason it fuels the rage until a shout builds up that I can’t always hold in. That’s followed by more crying and some sorries all round before a precious moment of calm.

I hope when both my darlings are at school, and I get some silence every day, Rage will join the other unwelcome emotions crowding my house and I’ll chuck it in the attic with the rest.

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The sun pressed down as Claire and Sky walked into the centre of Walsingham. White and wood-striped buildings huddled round, making Claire feel like she’d been transported to Tudor Britain. There’s something about arriving by steam train – even a toy one –that makes it feel as if we’ve travelled back in time. She remembered a book she’d read once, about a time travelling woman who found herself stranded amidst the bubonic plague. Somehow this place feels closer to the time of the Black Death than Eyam.

Their reason for coming to the Shrine echoed in her mind. I don’t want to think about death, not when Sky is here to pray for her Mummy. She turned her face to the sun and let its promise of summer days warm through the chill in her bones.

Peace descended like a blanket of mist as they meandered through the grounds of the Shrine. Trees and shrubs showed off their spring colours; bright greens mingled with the pink and white of early blossom. Their footsteps slowed as even Sky lost the need to run and skip. Bird song filled the space between the trees. A few other visitors drifted past like grazing deer, and the courtyard of buildings blocked out the sounds of the village beyond the walls.

Silence wrapped around them: not the absence of noise, but the absence of humanity’s intrusion. Tight knots began to unravel in Claire’s mind and a tension she had been previously unaware of flowed free like a river bursting its banks.

Sky remained quiet as she walked with Claire along the path leading to the main building. As if made obvious by its absence, Claire became aware that her world had become saturated with the little girl’s chatter. When I think how lonely I was when I first started this journey, and now I can’t wait to be alone with my own thoughts.

The lack of constant questions and observations allowed Claire to hear her own inner voices. To begin with they clamoured to fill the space, as if Sky’s conversation had kept them mute for too long. With strong words from Claire, the garrulous voices fell silent.

Time enough later for angst and self-doubt and plans for the future to be aired and discussed. Right now I’d like to enjoy my silence while it lasts, please.

A new voice piped up with the last word. You do realise talking to the voices in your head like they’re a pack of unruly children might not be entirely normal? Schizophrenics are usually the only ones who acknowledge the different people in their heads. Claire shrugged away the unwelcome suggestion and turned her attention to her surroundings.

Sky walked with her head high, holding the map they had been given of the complex. For once, Claire was happy to follow on behind and let her niece take charge. This is more her area than mine, if she’s a Believer.

The girl led them unerringly to the Chapel where she wanted to light a candle for her mother. At least there isn’t a service on. I’m not sure I could sit through Mass. The irreverent thought floated into her mind before Claire could banish it. Come on Claire, hold on to the peace. Belief in a more meaningful existence than designer labels and Starbucks lattes wouldn’t do you any harm.

Trying to be present in the moment, rather than trapped in her chattering mind, Claire looked around the chapel. It really was tranquil. Tall windows let in rainbow-hued sunshine, illuminating the details of the architecture. She felt eyes watching her and turned to see Sky standing by the rows of candles, a lit candle in her hand. Claire felt her heart lurch at the sight of Sky’s face, a mixture of grown-up seriousness and childish hope.

Crossing the stone floor, Claire moved to her side and gave the girl’s shoulders a squeeze. After a tiny hesitation she also picked up a candle and lit it. Trying to think about Ruth was harder than stilling the voices in her head. Ruth who had been in her life longer than the voices; who had helped her, dressed her, tormented and teased her. Ruth who – whatever else she might be – was her only sister.

How does it work, lighting a candle for someone? I can’t pray, I wouldn’t know where to start. She decided instead to fill her mind with all the positive pictures of Ruth she could find, focussing on everything that made her sister unique. With tears pricking her eyes she followed Sky’s lead and placed the candle on the stand. Then she reached for her hand and gripped it tightly.

“Everything will be okay, Sky. It will.”

She felt the hand squeeze hers in reply, as Sky remained staring at the flickering flames. Then, almost too quiet to hear, even in the heavy silence of the chapel, Sky’s voice whispered like the breath of a candle.

“I miss my Mummy.”

Claire felt the shudder through her hand as the little shoulders began to shake with sobs. Gathering her close, she led her niece to a seat. “It’s okay, darling. We’ll call her from the coffee shop. She’ll be missing you too.”

Holding Sky tight, Claire looked over her shoulder at the image above the candles. If you’re listening, Mary, we could use your grace about now. Don’t let this little girl lose both her parents. You let her Daddy run off with a ballet teacher. It would be cruel to take her mother too. Have mercy.

Goosebumps raised along her arms as a breeze swept through the room, setting the sea of flames dancing.

***

Sitting With Silence (lifehealingcenter.wordpress.com)

Gnattish Attention Span: 2013 365 Challenge #114

Afternoon craft

I have been officially crap today. I can’t even blame the new novel as I haven’t really got my teeth in it yet. Some days I just can’t focus. Lack of sleep (Aaron was awake every two hours last night and pretty much every night for a fortnight) is the main culprit. (I hope)

Then I bury myself in a downward spiral of rubbish parenting. I check my email (not helped by having a two-day email conversation with my sister who lives in the US) and Twitter and that irritates the kids, so they get whiny and annoying. So I withdraw further and spend more time doing chores or checking things on the computer, so they get more irritating and thus it continues.

What to do though?

Summer’s Here!

I’m not someone who naturally sits still. Even when I’m writing I get up every hour and put the washing machine on or walk the dog. When the children want me to sit and watch them playing in the paddling pool I manage about five minutes and then I have to move. Today I had to keep moving or fall asleep. We went to Rhyme Time, visited the Methodist drop-in so Amber could play with her friends, got new books at the library and had the paddling pool up all afternoon. But still I sit here at bedtime feeling like I was a terrible parent today because I wasn’t ‘present’. Aaron even told me to ‘Listen!’ this morning (I say that to him all the time. His command had more effect on me than the other way around.)

Anyway, I don’t feel bad as such. There are good days and bad days and mostly the kids had fun today. It’s just I get frustrated at my inability to give the kids my attention. My sister and I have spent our two-day email conversation discussing schooling options. She took her family to America partly to enable her children to attend a free school called Sudbury Valley. We talked in our emails about homeschooling or unschooling, both options I couldn’t imagine undertaking.

One of Many Tantrums Today

I have huge respect for anyone who home schools their child. It’s definitely an area I feel (for me) is best left to professionals, not least because I have the attention span of a gnat.Too much time spent with me and my kids won’t be able to focus on anything. They’ll learn (probably have already learned) that normal behaviour is flitting from one chore to another and saying ‘just a minute’ a lot and checking emails when meant to be fetching sun cream or hats or milk or any of the other hundred demands I get in a day.

I know you don’t get to choose, but I really hope they remember the craft and the cake baking, the story reading and the trips to the zoo, rather than the let down of Mummy’s scattered attention and constant tiredness. Fingers crossed.

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“Come on, Sky, let’s go get some fresh air.” Besides, ten defeats in a row at Connect 4 are more than I can stand. I’m going to have to win at some point and then there will be tears.

“But it’s still raining, Auntie Claire.”

“We won’t melt. You can wear the waterproofs I bought you. I’ve been looking online – apparently there’s a miniature railway that runs from here to a place called Walsingham –”

“Walsingham? The place with the Shrine?” Sky’s face lit with interest. “We learned about that in school. Yes, can we go? I’d like to see the shrine and say a prayer for Mummy.”

Bloody hell, where did that come from? Claire couldn’t have been more shocked if Sky had asked to strip naked and run through the streets. Actually, given her niece’s willingness to run around the hostel room naked, even that wouldn’t have shocked her as much. Ruth isn’t religious, as far as I know? Certainly Mum and Dad aren’t. She thought back to the homework Sky had shown her. I guess hers is a Church of England school.

“Of course we can go, darling. I don’t know much about it but I’m sure there will be guide books. Do you want to go on the train? We can drive there otherwise.”

Sky’s forehead furrowed in thought. “If we go on the train it will give you something for your blog, won’t it?”

Claire felt her niece’s kindness like a hammer blow. Maybe my niece isn’t a spoiled brat after all. Guilt at her previously unfounded views of the girl flushed her cheeks red. In an attempt to hide her reaction she reached over and pulled Sky into a hug. “That’s very thoughtful, sweetheart. Yes, I can write about the train ride on my blog.” Although Carl won’t think it exciting enough unless you fall out the carriage and under the wheels. I don’t suppose there’ll be much drama at a shrine either.

“Look Auntie Claire, there’s the train! I can see steam. I didn’t know it was a steam train.” She clapped her hands and stood on tiptoe to get a better look. All along the platform bedraggled parents stood waiting with bouncing children in a rainbow of overalls and waterproofs. I could do a good trade in coffee right now. Or gin.

As the train slid to a standstill next to the platform, Claire stifled a groan. Oh my god, look at it. It’s tiny. We could walk to Walsingham quicker than that thing. She shoved the thought away and took some snaps with her phone. At least it’s something visual for the blog. I wonder if Ruth would mind if I posted some pictures of Sky? Maybe I can attract a new Mummy audience? She cast another glance along the line of waiting parents. They look like they could use a laugh.

The rain drizzled to a halt as they left the station and within minutes they were bathed in midday sunshine. Claire turned her face to the window and let the rays bathe her face while Sky sat opposite her, face pressed close to the glass taking in the scenery. Every time they went under a bridge – which seemed to be quite often – she whooped in a way that Claire thought only children in TV programmes did.

She found her niece’s delight in the little things endearing. When did I last get that excited? Even a pay increase raised little more than a smile and a feeling of ‘about time too’. When do we lose that pleasure in the mundane? A strange grief for her own lost childhood swamped Claire. Maybe that’s why people have kids: so you can see the world through their eyes and enjoy it again.

Tiredness dragged at her shoulders and eyelids and the remaining days of the Easter Holidays stretched out relentless in mind. Not sure that would be enough for me. You see the evils in the world too, I bet. Worries and fears that didn’t exist before. Sod that. Settling back into her seat, Claire closed her eyes and tried to grab some rest before Sky began asking questions.

***

Using Life’s What Ifs: 2013 365 Challenge #113

My Three Darlings

Writing out some of the background for my new novel today I realised I was inadvertently writing a ‘what if’ about my own life, or one tiny aspect of my life.

I think sometimes that’s what writers do. They use their words, their imaginations to explore different lives they might have lived. Mine is a little thing that might have been huge.

I was late for my period this month: second month in a row. Now, we’re careful. We have two beautiful children and I’m in my late thirties. My first child was born at 37 weeks, the second at 35 weeks. My pediatrician friend said that trend to premature babies could easily continue.

I love my Big Sister

So, even if we wanted more children (which we don’t – only when I get occasionally broody) the risks are far too high. And I KNEW I wasn’t pregnant. I’m more likely to be menopausal, as early menopause runs in the family. But, still, you start putting two and two together and making five. I was tired, grumpy, teary and, above all, late.

The protagonist in Baby Blues & Wedding Shoes gets pregnant against the odds. These things happen. I worried.I read up about menopause at 2am on my phone. And, being me, I re-planned my future with a third child in it. I needed to be prepared, just in case. I worked out the age gap, when the third would start school. I decided it would be nice for Aaron to have a play mate when Amber starts school in September. I tried to decide whether I’d prefer a boy or a girl. I’m a writer: I wove stories.

Drove hubbie nuts.

Then I decided I ought to actually get a test and part of me was actually a bit excited (damn you, breeding hormones). I didn’t need the test, as it turned out. As if just buying it was enough, I knew before I got home that it was no longer required. In a tiny way I felt as if I’d lost a baby, even though no baby existed. Because I had made the scary future so plausible.

I wasn’t going to talk about it on the blog – it seems to come under the ‘too much information’ category. Until I started writing out my character list for the new book this morning:

George: 11. Two siblings, Ben (14) and Susie (16). George suspects he wasn’t planned. His sister tells him their mother used to say ‘I’ve only got two hands’ or ‘one of each, job done’. George feels unwanted and an outsider. Susie is academic, Ben is musical. They’re close. George likes football and computer games and being lazy.

My Little Bean

I realised, half way through writing it, that George is my imaginary third child. The things I worried about at 2am were all there: that any other children born into our family would feel left out because my two are so close in age; that Amber would remember me saying ‘one of each, job done’; that a third child would feel alienated, like my Uncle and my Mum – both the last of three kids.

The loss of my imaginary child, that hurt for a day, doesn’t hurt so much now. When I see the kids needing another play mate I do wish I had started my family earlier, so more children was a possibility. But now I can write them in to existence instead. So much cheaper and no need for cots, bottles, stretch marks, swollen ankles and endless dirty nappies. Hurrah.

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Rain hammered at the window as if it, too, wanted to come in and watch TV. Claire reached for the remote and turned up the volume; the dulcet tones of Rapunzel drowning out the drumming beat. She looked around the abandoned lounge, thankful that they were the only occupants.

Next to her, head propped up on one hand, Sky gazed at the TV as though it were entirely responsible for the rotten weather preventing their trip to the beach. She sighed and the noise cut through thrumming rain and Disney’s finest. Claire smiled at the grown up sound. I wonder if she’s learned that from me or Ruth?

“Do you want to watch something else?” Claire had suggested Tangled because she thought she could work with it on in the background. Lack of attention had left her blog drifting with diminishing views and comments and she knew some serious effort was required to breathe life back into it.

The last thing I need right now is Carl on a crusade to have me do another challenge. The Doctor’s Note isn’t going to hold out much longer. I don’t think surviving the school holidays without committing murder is the kind of thing Coca Cola or the YHA would want associated with their brands, however much it must be a reality for millions of parents.

Another sigh cut through her thoughts and she put down the iPad, searching for patience and a smile. Hitching it in place she turned to Sky and said in as lively a voice as she could muster after a night of bad dreams and no sleep, “What shall we do then? Coffee and cake? More homework? We could go exploring: There are lots of places other than the beach to visit.”

“But I wanted to go to the beach!” Out came the bottom lip. Claire pushed away the irritation and searched her mind for alternatives.

“I think there’s a games room here, shall we go and have a look?”

A glimmer of interest flicked across Sky’s face. I’ll take it. Claire got up and held out her hand. After a beat of hesitation, Sky took it and let herself be led from the room.

“I win, I win!” Sky hopped around gleefully as she connected four yellow discs in a row, once more cutting off her Auntie from her own straight run. Claire smiled at the elation, feeling only slightly guilty at her own cheating. Surely it’s only bad when you cheat to win? Cheating to lose – to make a child smile – that’s normal, right?

Her idle brain ran on with the idea. I wonder if I should win now and then, just so she gets used to losing? Surely losing has to happen at some point in a child’s life? Somewhere in her mind she remembered Ruth telling her about the trials of children’s parties, where everyone had to win at pass the parcel or musical statues. I don’t remember it being like that when we were growing up? Losing, crying about it, getting over it, was all part of being a kid. She looked over at Sky’s beaming grin and compared it with what she knew the alternative would be if she beat her niece. Maybe that particular lesson can wait.

“Well done, Sky. Two out of three?”

***

Panning for Gold: 2013 365 Challenge #112

Panning for Gold in New Zealand

We’ve had a great family Sunday today, taking the kids for a proper pub meal out in the sunshine before going to buy play sand at a DIY store. That’s what Sunday’s are all about.

I also spent a chunk of time in bed reading The Wee Free Men by Terry Pratchett because I’m still wiped. When I wasn’t reading I was sifting through my brain to locate ideas for my new novel.

I tried to explain the process to my husband and I decided it’s a bit like panning for gold. I throw a load of ideas, some mine, some influenced by books I’ve read or movies I’ve seen, into a big pan in my mind. Then I sift and sift until something sparkles. I know it’s a nugget because my heart starts to beat a bit quicker and I feel super awake, no matter how tired I am.

The thing I find hardest, however, is sifting out the real gold from the stuff that has been planted there. When we did Gold Panning in New Zealand on our honeymoon there was a vague chance of real gold, but the tour guides also put a tiny nugget in for us to find too. When I’m tilting and tipping for ideas sometimes the nuggets I find have come from another author.

There’s gold in them there hills

I never plagiarise deliberately, but I read a lot and I read within the genres I like to write. So ideas come that I think are mine, and as I look at them from all sides I realise they seem familiar. My question then is always, how much can you borrow before it becomes plagiarism? There are no new ideas in writing: there’s only so much you can do with 26 letters after all.

Today’s nugget involved my protagonist using books written by his father to investigate a strange place (I don’t want to give too much away as I haven’t actually written anything down yet!). Seemed like a new idea until I remembered Shadow Forest, where the children use a book to negotiate the monsters hidden in the forest. Now, is that close enough that I’ve stolen the idea from Matt Haig? Or is it far enough away that I can use it in my story?

When I wrote academic papers during my degrees I would cite references for everything because I was terrified of plagiarism. If only you could do that for novels: I didn’t mean to steal this idea but it was just SO good it sunk into my subconscious and came out as I wrote. Worst still is what happened to me in my dissertation: you write the whole thing and then you read a paper that has all the same arguments. I read a novel after writing Baby Blues & Wedding Shoes that had a very similar beginning. It looks like I’ve stolen my entire first chapter, even though I wrote mine first.

Does anyone else ever worry about inadvertently stealing stuff from other authors? How do you tackle it?

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“Hey Claire, how’s tricks?”

“Kim! You read my mind. I’ve been meaning to call.” Claire tucked her feet under the duvet and curled up round the phone, prepared to enjoy a good gossip with her best friend.

“I should think so, you old trout. I haven’t heard from you in a month. I have to read your blog to find out more about your Aussie fella and getting mugged. What happened to ringing your mate?”

Claire flushed hot and glanced down to where Sky lay sleeping next to her on the bed, glad her niece couldn’t witness her embarrassment. “I’m so sorry. I feel like I’m living in a bubble. It’s easy to forget there’s a real world going on away from these infernal hostels.”

“So, you’re not really enjoying your challenge? The blog’s great. I’d love to meet your Aussie friend. He sounds yummy.”

“You’d have to go a long way to do that. He’s flying home with his wife and kids any day now.” Claire swallowed hard and hoped Kim wouldn’t detect the wobble in her voice.

“Oh dear. You fell for a married man, didn’t you?” Kim’s voice was a perfect blend of sympathy and censure.

“I didn’t know he was married when I met him.” Claire spoke without thinking, before realising her hot words amounted to an admission of guilt. Not wanting to analyse the emotions pumping through her chest, Claire sought to change the subject.

“I’ve got my niece with me at the minute.” Sky stirred beneath the covers and Claire lowered her voice, not wanting to wake her. “I’m looking after her for the Easter holidays.”

“Oh.” There was silence.

“What is it Kim?” Silence was not a normal state of affairs when Kim was on the phone. Normally the challenge was squeezing a word in sideways.

“Jeff and I were thinking of coming to see you, that’s all. From the blog we gather you’re in East Anglia still. Be nice to have a day or two away. The rehearsals are fun, but a girl can only be Puck for so long.”

Her voice was light, but Claire could tell her friend was unhappy. “When’s opening night? I hope I’ll be able to come and see you perform.”

“Oh, not for a few weeks. Yes, do come.” There was still a chill. Part of Claire felt irritated. It’s not like Kim and I are the kind of friends who call every week. She wondered if there was another reason for her friend’s call, but a day spent with Sky had left her drained of all energy and emotion and she didn’t have the strength to delve behind Kim’s words.

“So, when are you and Jeff thinking of coming? We’re in Wells at the moment but we’ll be in Hunstanton for the weekend.”

“Sunny Hunny. Lovely. Why don’t we come and stay there? If we can’t get into the hostel we’ll book a B&B.”

“Are you sure you and Jeff are up to socialising with a six-year-old?” Claire realised how ungrateful that sounded. “Not that I won’t be delighted to see you both. It’s just she’s, well, quite full on.”

Another silence drenched the line. Claire’s tired brain tried to pick through the possibilities; for once her radar concerning her friend felt way off beam.

“That’s fine. Jeff likes kids.” Kim’s voice sounded strained. Claire wondered if her friend had guessed the cause of her own break up with Michael. That must be it. She doesn’t want to talk about kids and relationships because she knows it broke mine.

“Okay then, hun. Send me an email or text once you know what your plans are. If Jeff loves kids he can entertain Sky while we have a proper natter.”

“Thanks. I’d like that.”

As she hung up the phone Claire couldn’t shake the feeling that Kim was holding back. I’m probably imagining it. I’m so tired nothing makes sense anymore and I’m jumping at shadows. Nothing bothers Kim; she’s indestructible. She tried to think it through but her eyes refused to stay open. Even though the iPad cheerfully informed her it was only 9pm she ignored it, glad none of her erstwhile colleagues could see her hitting the sack when they were probably only just leaving the office and heading for the bar.

I’d take twelve hours of Boardroom bullying and office shenanigans over keeping up with a six-year-old any day.

***

Introducing George: 2013 365 Challenge #111

Planting Sunflower Seeds at Sacrewell Farm

While lying in bed cursing the sore throat and stiff neck that have besieged me this afternoon, a germ of an idea planted in my mind and squirmed into the soil, like the sunflower seeds my kids planted at the Farm today.

I recently finished another great kid’s book and saw that, as with many of my other new finds, it was published by Chicken House. The name rang a bell and I realised it was the name of the publishers that were part of the competition I didn’t enter with Dragon Wraiths because the manuscript was too long.

I visited their website to see if they accept submissions and they’ve just launched the competition again, with a deadline of 1st November.

Ooh went my brain. It’s a long time to 1st November. There’s time to write something new. After all, I started Dragon Wraiths this time last year and had that finished by last November. And that was over 100k words. The maximum for The Chicken House / Times competition is 80k words. If I plan it out this time (at least a bit, I am a pantser after all) I could stay within word count.

On the Tractor Ride

Now of course this breaks all the rules of being a writer. You’re not meant to write for gain or fame but only for the love of writing. Thing is, I love writing but I need a goal and a deadline, at least to get me going. I’m proud of Dragon Wraiths and that was written for a competition (and ultimately prize money).

But I didn’t get up every nursery day and write 5,000 words just for profit (which would be a foolish aim anyway: everyone knows writers don’t make money). I wrote it to find out what happened to Leah, to find out how the story ended. But on dark days the thought of maybe winning £5000 did help keep me motivated.

So I lay in bed earlier this evening, feeling foggy and sore, and searched through my mind for a new idea. It felt a bit wrong, looking for an idea rather than waiting for one to arrive. But people who write hundreds of books must have to do that. I knew what genre at least: I’ve been aching to try my hand at a fantasy middle grade fiction since enjoying The Divide, The Extincts, Stone Heart, Shadow Forest, The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents, and now Ravenwood. And, after some throwing around of ideas, I tapped out the opening scene to a new novel. One I hope might generate characters that will survive to a sequel, since my favourite books are the ones with lots of volumes around the same central characters. I like characters to become my friends. My only dilemma right now is it might involve Time Travel. Again. According to some agents I follow on Twitter, Time Travel has been done to death already. Oh dear.

Penny the Chicken eating Lunch

Is it bad, that I’m motivated by entering a competition? I hope not. I read Sally Jenkins lovely collection of short stories, One Day For Me, this morning because I couldn’t get the sequel to Ravenwood as an ebook. All of Sally’s stories were written for competitions. They’re still great. It’s accepted practice for short story writers to write for specific markets and hopefully financial gain. Why not novels? If it’s rubbish it won’t win so no one’s hurt.

Matt Haig, author of Shadow Forest, says otherwise and I respect his opinion but I hope there are grades of love versus money. Writing for love is a given or I wouldn’t have survived to episode #111 of Claire, through insomnia and flu and dearth of ideas. But bills need to be paid and everyone wants to think their novels might be read one day. Therefore, alongside trying to find new adventures for Claire, I’ll be creating George and his new world. Hopefully Claire won’t suffer (I’m actually hoping a new project will kickstart my imagination as I’ve been really struggling with Claire recently).

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“Auntie Claire, I don’t feel very well.”

Claire looked down at her niece and recoiled slightly at the green tinge of her skin.

“Are you going to be sick? Lean over the side for heaven’s sake. But not too close! I don’t want you falling in.” She looked around at the other passengers and prayed Sky didn’t vomit on any of them. Something of her reaction must have come through her voice, because a clammy little hand sought out hers. “Sorry, Claire. I don’t mean to feel poorly. I’ve never been on the sea before.”

Patting the frozen hand, Claire tried to remain calm. The white tips of the choppy waves weren’t helping. It hadn’t seemed that windy on the shore, but here in the harbour the small craft was rocked by gusting blasts that whipped the waves to froth. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea. I might have known Sky would get sea sick, especially as she’s still recovering from her fever. When she remembered Sky’s amazement as they first arrived at the coast, Claire couldn’t feel it was a bad move. Her mouth had dropped into a perfect ‘o’ of wonder at the grey sea spreading out before them to the horizon.

“It’s so big,” she had said quietly, her eyes wide and staring.

The tour guide called out, interrupting Claire’s thoughts. “You can see grey seals now, if you look towards the shore. There are still some youngsters playing if you look closely. We’ll get in as near as we can.”

“Look, Sky,” Claire said brightly, “baby seals.” Sea spray soaked her skin and she knew it was frizzing her hair to an impossible mess. Snuggling deeper into her jacket, she felt Sky’s hands and face to ensure she wasn’t getting too cold.

Sky raised her head to look at the slick grey animals frolicking in the sea near the boat. Her complexion was still green and Claire hoped the distraction would help her keep breakfast on the inside. I wonder if I dare get out my phone and take some pictures for the blog. If Sky is going to throw up I might not get another opportunity. The boat pitched suddenly and she felt her own stomach lurch. I might even be joining her.

“If you look closely you can see common seals as well as grey seals. The common seals are actually rarer than the grey seals so we’re fortunate to see both today.”

The Guide’s words rolled over Claire like the sea as she focussed on getting a few snaps before another gust of wind sent her or her phone overboard. Feeling a tug at her sleeve, Claire could sense Sky trembling beside her. Tucking the phone back in the safety of a pocket, she pulled her niece onto her lap and hugged her close.

“Alright, sweetie. Just keep breathing through your nose and concentrate on the seals.”

“Here, love, give her one of these.”

Claire looked up to see a kindly face peering out through a fur-lined hood. Glancing down, she saw a pack of polo mints nestled in the woollen glove reaching out towards her.

“Thank you,” she said with real gratitude. Pulling off her gloves, she retrieved a mint and handed it to Sky. She was rewarded by seeing the distress on Sky’s face ebb slightly, like the outgoing tide.

Flashing a smile at the stranger, Claire hugged Sky close again. “That’s it, poppet. You’re being very brave. Well done.”

After a few more days with me, the poor girl isn’t going to want to see her Auntie Claire again. Somehow the thought made her sad.

***

Relentless Parenting: 2013 365 Challenge #110

Learning how to Muck Out

I don’t have many words today.

Lack of sleep, residual illness and a day with hyper children have been a recipe for spectacularly crap parenting. Plus the research I did for yesterday’s Claire post left me concerned about how much homework Amber will be expected to do, come September. It sparked an interesting debate on my Facebook page and I feel better for the welcome perspective, but when I’m low little fears become huge. Sometimes parenting seems relentless and my resilience sadly lacking.

I also managed to go to the wrong surgery for a doctors appointment about my infernal knee, and I’m scared to walk the dog in case she runs off again.

Feeding the Lambs

Looking for the positives, Amber has decided she wants to be a farmer after watching the rangers muck out the lambs for half an hour at the Farm this morning. I think that’s a much better ambition than being a show jumper (especially as she’s never ridden a horse, but happily knows that pigs make sausages and cows make burgers.) They both got to feed the lambs too, because it was raining and cold and there were about five people at the farm. A bit different to Easter week.

Amber’s Creation

We also had a great craft session in the afternoon. I managed to leave Amber to her own devices with a project rather than helping her achieve perfect results (as I normally would), because Aaron decided he wanted to decorage a dog, not a dolly. I made him a dog out of some green felt stuffed with cotton wool (Well it’s meant to be a dog anyway) but he’d lost interest by the time I finished it. Amber’s dolly looks like the result of a deep sea accident, or maybe something designed by Vivienne Westwood, but she loves it. And I’m delighted that she’s broken free and created something that looks nothing like the picture on the box. The hardest thing about Amber’s homework will be letting her do it by herself and make her own mistakes.

Mummy’s more precise version

As part of my research for today’s post I needed to find out how six-year-olds write. I browsed the great Radio 2 page for their 500-word story competition (a writing competition for children), but most were written by slightly older children. Great stories though. My favourite is Cow on a Bus: it’s read by Richard Wilson and is very funny.

Instead, for my research, I dug out an old school book of mine hubbie found during the last clear-out. I have no idea how old I was when I wrote the contents, but judging by the handwriting it must be between five and seven. This was my story including all typos, spelling and punctuation (i.e. none) – if I get a chance tomorrow I’ll scan in the page (including illustrations) for giggles.

One day there lived a little boy he was walk in the woods he met a big giant the boy said he hat a secret tell me what is it I will not tell you I will pick you up and put you in my pocket and he walked to the castle and on the way he met a bigger giant the bigger giant said what is that in your pocket a little boy the two giants walked on to the castle on the way they meta the biggest giant so far when they got to the castle they put the boy on the table and he told them the secret they all ran away and he went home and told his mummy

At least my punctuation has improved since then! 🙂 Hubbie asked what the secret was. I have no idea. I probably never did! Right, time to dredge up some energy for Claire post (it’s 11pm. Have been faffing with photos and research all evening. Tut tut.)

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Claire looked down at the painstakingly formed words, written in pencil in the lined workbook. It didn’t look like much. With a glance at her niece’s eager expression, Claire swallowed her apprehension and began reading.

One day a girl walked in the woods. She was looking for a handsome prince but only found a slimy croaking frog. I wish my fairy godmother would come and turn this frog into a prince. The fairy godmother arrived in a sprinkle of stars. I have come to grant your wish. She waved her wand but gave a loud sneeze and with a puff of smoke she turned herself into a frog. Oh bother said the fairy godmother as she hopped away with her wand in her mouth. She wondered how to turn herself back into a fairy. The princess couldn’t help because she had run away.

The fairy godmother talked to the other frog and found out it didn’t want to be a prince, it liked being a frog. The fairy frog hopped until it came across a cottage in the woods. A girl with gold hair was climbing out a window, running from the sound of roaring bears. Little girl said the fairy godmother, if you wave this wand and turn me back into a fairy I will help you escape the angry bears. The little girl picked up the wand and ran off with it into the woods. Drat said the fairy and hopped through the window. Hello Daddy Bear said the fairy frog, that little girl with gold hair has stolen my wand. Never mind that said the bear she ate our porridge and broke our chair. She is a naughty girl.

The bears and the fairy frog ran after the little girl. They found her stuck in a muddy puddle waving the wand and shouting at a slimy frog sitting on her head. Mummy Bear took the wand and turned the fairy frog back into a godmother. The fairy godmother thanked the bears and the frog and turned the little girl into a wasp. You naughty little girl, you will be a wasp until you are sorry for stealing the porridge and my wand and for breaking Baby Bear’s chair. The fairy godmother waved goodbye to the bears and the frog who didn’t want to be a prince and went home to bed.

Claire read the story and smiled. She certainly has imagination. There are full stops and capital letters too. I wonder if I should add punctuation? How much are parents meant to get involved in their child’s homework? Looking up at the expectant expression on Sky’s face, Claire decided to leave the masterpiece as it was. She hated it when Carl found fault with a presentation that had taken hours to prepare: why burst the girl’s bubble by suggesting she add speech marks? Maybe they could work on them later.

“Well done, Sky, this is very good.”

Her niece beamed and then nodded. “Yes, I know. I’m very good at stories, Miss Henley says so.”

Slightly taken aback, Claire hesitated before laughing out loud. Oh for the confidence of youth.

***

A Doggy Tail: 2013 365 Challenge #109

Storm Clouds

Had a slight altercation with another dog walker today: It made me realise how little we know about other people’s stories and how hard we have to fight to remember that.

We’d only just got in the field and I let Kara off the lead as normal. She’s not great at recall but we know most dogs round here – she either plays with them or runs up to say hello and runs back. Occasionally she embarrasses me but she’s not the only naughty dog and as she approaches strangers on her belly I never worry too much.

Today we met a woman walking with I guess a teenager holding a dog on a lead. A small dog, maybe a beagle. I didn’t get close enough to see.

Gorgeous Skies

Kara ran off before I realised there was someone there (my head is still a bit foggy). I thought initially it was just the poodle Kara doesn’t like and she’d come straight back. It wasn’t, she didn’t, and before I could call, the girl had run off crying into the field, dragging the tail-wagging dog with her, while the woman flapped at Kara to shoo. Anyone who knows dogs knows that’s just an invitation to play. True to form Kara lay on her belly, wagging her tail and grinning, and after some screaming from me and more flapping from the woman she ran back.

I should have stayed to apologise but I was part embarrassed, part furious, and decided the girl’s obvious fear was sufficient excuse to clip Kara’s harness on and leg it.

I took the other path, under the storm clouds, and was rewarded for my crime with a drenching. My initial reaction was rage that the woman had hit out at Kara, and irritation that they would walk somewhere where dogs are generally off lead.

My Over-zealous Softie

When I calmed down I felt awful. Mine was the mistake and I should have stayed to apologise. Kara’s a big dog compared to a beagle and if the girl was scared of dogs I would hate to add to that fear. I should have had Kara under closer control until I knew the field was empty. I don’t know their story. For all I know the girl was conquering a fear of dogs by owning a little one and Kara bouncing up might have done untold harm. Or not. Unless I meet them again (and pray to God I don’t) I’ll never know.

But my ranty words on Twitter in the initial aftermath are still there and the truth remains that Kara is still a fairly disobedient dog. My anger, I realise, came from knowing I was to blame and for not considering their story, their situation. That sucks.

At least I can stand here, in this nice remote field, and watch Kara’s joy as she runs for the sake of running. She’s already forgotten the incident. We can learn a lot from our canine friends. [Written on my phone while walking the dog.]

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Sky looked up from the game she was playing on Claire’s phone and tilted her head like a sparrow. “Auntie Claire, will you help me with my homework?”

Claire looked over at her niece in surprise. “Homework, at your age? I don’t think I had homework until I went to secondary school. What would I have been? Eleven?”

Sky looked blankly at Claire. “We get reading and spelling and sums. Not during the holidays though.”

With a flush of guilt Claire realised she was relieved not to have to teach spelling. Without Spellcheck I wouldn’t have a clue. Why bother sending your child to school if you have to teach them when they get home?

“So, what homework do you have for the holiday? Your Mummy didn’t say.”

“I forgot to tell her. I have it here.” Sky pulled her bag onto the bed and rifled through the contents, eventually retrieving a crumpled sheet of A4 paper.

Claire took it and smoothed the creases out before reading the contents.

For your Easter Homework please choose one of the following two options.

1. Build an Easter Garden. Research which flowers grow well in pots and tubs using the internet and non-fiction books. Read about the Easter Story, including the events leading from Palm Sunday to the Resurrection and consider the symbolism of ‘growing things’ at Easter time to represent new life.

2. Write a story using your imagination. Plan it with a story mountain so you know it has at least five parts to it (beginning, build up, problem, resolution, ending). Try to start each part of your story in a different way (action, description, speech). Maybe try to rewrite a traditional Fairy Tale. Don’t forget capital letters and full stops (some of you are also using paragraphs, commas and speech marks).

Claire closed her mouth and gazed at the sheet. What the..? She’s SIX. I don’t even know the Easter Story from Palm Sunday. Never mind how we’re going to grow an Easter garden and carry it around in a Skoda. And what the hell’s a story mountain? Inhaling deeply through her nose, Claire looked up at the guileless gaze of the pixie girl sitting cross-legged on the bed. Her mind felt foggy, like it did when Carl plonked an unexpected project on her desk or moved a deadline.

“Er. Okay. Which, um, which one did you fancy doing, Sky?” Not the garden, not the garden, not the garden.

The pixie face split wide in a smile. “I thought we could write a story. You do writing for your job: I’ve seen you.”

“I don’t write fiction, sweetheart, but I’m happy to help you write your story.” It is her homework: I just have to facilitate it. I hope her imagination is better than mine. And she knows what a story mountain is. I think Google might become my friend. She sat on the end of the bed, the homework sheet hanging from her hand.

“Can I do the fairy tale thing? I thought of a story. What if a Fairy Godmother got hiccups or kept sneezing and it made her magic go wonky? What if she tried to turn the frog into a prince and turned herself into a frog instead?”

Sky giggled and bounced up and down on the bed. “Then she wouldn’t be able to do any magic because she couldn’t hold her wand. Or maybe she could hold it in her mouth but then she’d sneeze again. Or hiccup. And become, um, a butterfly. Yes. No. She could become a pumpkin. No, a bird. A magpie. And she could…”

Claire listened to Sky’s imagination spilling out into the monochrome hostel room, filling it with colour and life. If I had ideas like that I would have more followers on my blog. Or I wouldn’t have to be here at all: I’d have made Director without jumping through Carl’s stupid hoops.

Thinking about Carl’s involvement in her current situation made Claire’s temples ache. It’s probably time I came to a decision about Carl and his stupid assignment. She looked at Sky, scrabbling through her bag to retrieve a blue workbook and sparkly pink pencil case.

First things first. Carl can wait. I have to help the next Roald Dahl create a masterpiece.

***