I am in that place…

I am in that place between years… I used to work and I will work again… I used to go to bed and sleep, for now, I watch films too late and lie-in till I hear the bin men in the street, then rush to catch them before they leave. I shop, with a thousand million shopping drones and feel like I do in church, waiting for it to make some sense, while those around me seem to get it, I do not. I am going through the motions. I am waiting for my PUK code, my MAC code to release me from the contract with this year, so I can move on to the next. I am sorry 2011, it isn’t you, it’s me… 2012 looks so appealing, I know it’s just flirtation, that once I’m in it the old routines will seem the same, but I have to try, or I will never know. There’s a few slugs in the old carton, but I want to open a new one, fresh and cold. I am in this zone, this place, a matter of days before I can move on.

How to communicate when you have to be quiet…

As you may know, I’m working with a group of young people called The Mouthy Poets, who are currently based at Nottingham Playhouse. Each week we meet to explore words and communication, writing, performing (we work towards two main performances a year and a number of ‘satellite’ performances). One of our members is Maresa Mackeith, she is also a member of a group called Quiet Riot. Quiet Riot are a group of people who are unable to speak, for a variety of reasons, they communicate via signs, spelling boards, voice coders etc. They also write and campaign for recognition of those of us who have the inability to speak aloud.

For someone like me, who talks a LOT, to lose the power of speech would seem catastrophic. At Mouthy we are very vocal, we talk, we sing, we  gabble, we interject, interrupt, laugh, disagree, cheer, support, all OUT LOUD. So at the beginning of November I devised a workshop where I asked the group to communicate about an event in the week, by writing it down a-word-at-a-time.

They wrote the first word on a small piece of paper, then passed this to their neighbour, who read it to the group. This took a looong time! But we were all very patient and a hush fell whilst this was taking place. When we reached Maresa, her mum Caroline (who attends as her PA, but also gets stuck in to the exercises for herself) took her hand and together they spelled out on an alphabet board, what Maresa wanted to share. She is a past-master at this and is able to explain briefly, yet succinctly, what she has done, how she was feeling about it, what she is feeling now about it. She has honed the art of precis. When she ‘speaks’ we all fall silent and wait, there is no sense of impatience and we are all impressed with her choice of words. Whilst we gabble and splurge about this and that, she speaks in clear statements which cut to the crux of the matter.

Once we had gone around the circle, we talked about how the exercise had made us feel. Had it affected what we were going to say? Did we decide to abbreviate? Did we feel frustrated? Did we feel liberated? And Maresa… how did she feel watching us all communicating in a similar way to her? She said she enjoyed the speed… the pace.

I then gave them ten minutes to write a piece about the event we had been focussing on. I asked them to make sure their writing was clear as we would be sharing these with the group. When they had finished, I asked them to swap their writing with somebody else – then each person had to perform that piece as if it were their own. If they were not happy with what they had written, they could choose a few lines from it, but they had to give that piece over to someone else to work on.

The results were amazing. Some really thoughtful writing came out and because they were conscious that they were performing somebody else’s piece (although I had told them they could edit if they saw fit) they treated the performance with real commitment. Each performer somehow retained their own voice, but applied it to the writing of their partner. What was most encouraging was that listening to their work performed by somebody else, gave them confidence – there were writers who didn’t really like their piece when they wrote it, but when they heard it, they changed their mind. Even those who had been satisfied with their piece when they had written it, said they were happier with it when they heard it performed by somebody else.

I am conscious that for members of Quiet Riot to have their work heard, they have to rely on other performers, performers like Mouthy Poets – so for me it is important that Mouthy Poets understand how it feels to hand over your hard work to somebody else and let them do with it what they will. I also believe that a writer should be able to put their words onto the page in such a way that a performer can deliver that work as they intended it – that’s not to say that every performer won’t interpret that piece of writing in their own way, but a good writer should consider every word, every comma or dash or space.

Quiet Riot and Mouthy Poets are putting together a visual exhibition to celebrate Disability History Month, which runs from November 22nd to December 22nd. We hope to include work by Quiet Riot and Mouthy, as well as poems written in the 1800s by disabled writers. It would be great if we could have work in braille too and art works as well as written pieces. The exhibition will be at Nottingham Playhouse in the upper foyer.

If anyone has a piece of writing or a piece of visual art they feel would be appropriate please contact me and I can put you in touch with Maresa and Jim who are coordinating the event.

Mummifying Alan

So, I am watching them mummify Alan, just like the ancient Egyptians. Day 84, the voice over tells me. Alan’s been through a lot, cleaned and coated and soaked and dried. “It’s for the grandkids,” his voice from the past tells me. His wife seems cheerful enough, “Alan made a joke out of everything.” She sheds a tear as she explains how he’ll never see the grandchildren grow. Not sure I would want to be mummified, just let the worms do their worst or their best.

Stepping…

I am feeling rather grandmotherly as I prepare for the imminent arrival of two little-ings from Paree… the step-children. A bouncy boy (more of a Tigger than a boy reallly), who smiles at everything unless it displeases him in which case we get a quick scowl before the smile returns (he can’t keep it up for long) and his sister, for whom I believe, life is a series of puzzles and conundrums that she is forced to deal with at the hands of adults. Whilst her brother bounces around crashing into the day, she eyes it up, assessing the pros and cons, gauging the players in it before responding to them – the result being, when she does accept and react to you, a feeling of such satisfaction, it makes the wait worthwhile. I’m covering all bases here as far as sleeping arrangements go… pink bedding in The Lovely J’s room, put-you-up at the side for one or two boys, or… girls dorm and boys dorm with the two boys top-and-tailing in Curly Boy’s room, or… visitors in our bed with dad, and me in Lovely J’s bed or… ”I expect,” their dad says, “you’ll all end up in one bed, with me on the floor.”

Now I’ve done this stepping thing before… sadly it has all come to an abrupt halt due to, I do not know what… since their father and I parted ways I have not heard a whisper from either of them… less of a concern for the older one who is now almost 30, but for the younger – we met when she was 7 and now she’s 18 – it is like losing a part of the family. I have no way of knowing exactly why she has chosen not to respond to cards and letters and emails, even texts. The break up with her father was an extremely complicated and dramatic one, involving lies about being hospitalised, which uncovered a web of lies stretching back over 10 years. I am left, well actually we (friends, family, children) have all been left wondering what was true and what was not – sadly the little girl I have watched progress from long white socks (which she wore with everything) to having her first tattoo, seems to be a casualty of it all.

My nature is to be persistent, to let the people I care about know that I care, but in this case I am wondering if it might just be best to let it all go and leave that decision to her.

My step-daughter (who we discovered after the event, suffers from vertigo) stepping out in happier times

 

 

Following instructions…

A rare weekend to be shared with Curly Boy, no plans, no distractions, usual chores, but they can wait. “What shall we do then… you and me?” I ask him, expecting the usual suggestions.
“Let’s just drive,” he laughs, “we could go to France, get on a boat…”
“We could…” my mind racing over the details of the spreadsheet imprinted on the inside of my eyelids… income, expenditure. Little room for manoeuvre on these shores, let alone ABROAD.
He shuffled off to bed, leaving me a-Googling. St Malo, Zeebruge, Dublin, Caen… Dunkirk! £17 day return! An adventure for under £20 (yes I know there’s fuel on top) but adventure on foreign shores for £17? All I need now is a hi-vis jacket, warning triangle, first aid kit, fire extinguisher and I’m sorted.

She’s Leaving Home

So, the Lovely J turned 18 this year… took her A Levels, passed her A Levels, she’s an adult. Some of her friends have headed off for uni, some are doing retakes, some are working. Jo has moved down to London (up to London?) to live-in as a nanny with an old school friend of mine, until she gets an application for Au Pair America sorted.
So here’s the thing: child number one turns 18, Child Benefit ceases for her. Child Tax Credit ceases for her. Working Tax Credit drops as she is an adult and I have one less dependent.
Have my household bills decreased? Gas, electric, food? No. Added to which I am now liable for full Council Tax as I am no longer a lone adult in the household… but hang on, she doesn’t live here, she’s not generating waste, using the local amenities… and yet, in order to continue to pay single person rate of Council Tax, I will have to give her forwarding address and she will no longer be resident here. She will have to register to vote, change her doctor, dentist, driving licence to an address where she may only be for a matter of months. If she were at university, this would not be the case. So I face a dilemma… pay £25 a month for amenities and services she is not using (at a time when I can scarcely make ends meet- childcare now costs me £70 a week as the child Curly Boy used to come home from school with has moved up to senior school) – or simply say to my fledgling, “sorry, you don’t live here anymore.”
So, having limped along thus far, I find myself stumbling at this particular hurdle. I have coped with the re-banding of the system which caused free prescriptions to cease, free dental care, free eye tests and help towards cost of lenses. Tall Boy has accepted that EMA no longer exists, he has found himself a part-time job. I have increased my working hours and taken on any freelance work I can lay my hands on. But now I find I am around £300 a month worse off than 2 months ago, because one of my children is no longer a child.
Moan over…

Collecting…

Back to School

Summer is finally over, Curly Boy’s first day back at school today. New teacher, new uniform, except the trousers are too small and I shall have to go and change them today, sending him in an old pair. He has shot up over the summer and I realise what a different body type he is from my other lanky two.

I am planning on blitzing the writing now, just two weeks before I start back at work, losing my precious day off as the grip of finances tightens… hopefully teaching one night a week, if the bookings start rolling in- Nottingham Trent University are running a series of Creative Short Courses out of their Art & Design Department and I pitched to do a ten week course on creative writing: Writing the Right Writing (yes, clumsy title I know). I aim to take a tour through blogging, poetry, stage, screen, novel, short story, non fiction- I’ll be asking participants to try each genre and explore what mode of writing suits their topic. I have realised that sometimes I may sit down to write a poem and discover that actually this story needs to be told a different way. All I have to do now is write my lesson plans… no pressure!

Clearing away

It’s hard to believe it’s almost a year since I began the process of parting company from Curly Boy’s father. It’s been a long haul and a lot of things have had to take a back seat.

I have been working hard on the allotment this year. For the first time it’s felt like it’s mine. Aided and abetted by PMM (new chap) I’ve been making slow but sure progress. Yesterday and today we moved stinky old water butts, half filled with broken glass, dug over weed filled beds, yet again, and cleared away the area under a tree near the chicken coop. We found a vine choked by weeds and tied it up, hoping that it will flourish now. The chickens have adopted the newly cleared area as their favourite spot. Whether this is due to the shade or the fact that we’ve uncovered some tasty bugs, I’m not sure.

It’s been a lot of hard work, but because nobody’s been breathing down my neck telling me what should be done and how it should be done, I find myself far more inclined to crack on with it. PMM is new to gardening and together we’ve been stumbling on and making it up as we go along. Fire starting seems to be his favourite task, with digging worms for chickens a close second. Middle Sis has been my produce and general digging advisor and Big Sis arrived for a visit this weekend to advise on flowers and general aesthetics. It’s all coming together.

In the meantime the writing has been taking a back seat. This is not good! But, I’m hoping that just as the allotment has grabbed my attention again, so I’ll get stuck into the second book. Summer is not the best time to write for me, lack of routine (not back to work until mid September) is a killer. Who would have thought I’d be hankering after that?

The holidays…

And so I find myself on Day 1 of The Holidays. Eight weeks stretch before me. A tatty, untidy, rather grubby house surrounds me. An unpublished novel and unanswered mail wink at me from a pile on what we laughingly call ‘the dining room table’.

I was woken by a solitary magpie doing sentry duty across the skylight at gods know what time (watch strap broken, not wearing watch, must get new strap). In the street I can hear the deafening tinkle of glass being hurled into the bin truck by the recycling men (quick, put bin and glass box out before they get to us).

The phone rings, it is school: can Tall Boy and Lovely J please return their text books today or tomorrow or their results will not be released (don’t be ridiculous! They can’t NOT give results because a few text books are due – YAWN – school never changes, empty threats about nonsense whilst the bullies and cheats go unchallenged).

There is a strange odour coming from under the floorboards, reminiscent of last year when the soil pipe cracked and leaked under us. Please let it not be the same again!

The blue Ikea bags full of ‘to do/to sort’ seem to have multiplied. Tall Boy appears in boxers, his head banging into the paper-sphere light shade (which I keep promising I will change to spare him the indignity of it falling onto his head every time he passes and knocks it) – ‘anything for breakfast?’

Eight weeks? I can get it ALL done in eight weeks can’t I? Get novel published, finish second one, tidy house, paint house, get first year accounts sorted and tax done, MOT car, swap it for bigger one, go on Arvon course, go to Wales for ‘holiday’, keep on top of allotment, rebuild rabbit hutch, phew!
Happy Holidays.