There is something about reading. Lots of us do it here on wordpress, it’s what has brought us together, and I tried to put into words exactly what it is that I love for Perdiz Magazine last week.
Here’s an excerpt from my piece, but head to the beautiful Perdiz (HERE) to read the full article.
“I was sat on my bed reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when I discovered my mum was moving us in with some strange man that wasn’t my dad. I stared at the fading bobbled butterflies on my duvet cover for a few seconds, and then I turned back to Violet Beauregarde ballooning into a giant blueberry. Her plight in this chocolate fantasy land made more sense to me than anything the real world could offer in that moment.
That’s the thing about books, and certainly about great books, they make sense. They are written to make sense. As for the world around us, that’s anybody’s guess.”
This past week has been a week of lasts. My last Friday night as a twentysomething, my last Sunday lie-in as a twentysomething, my last painful Monday morning wake-up as a twentysomething…. In case it isn’t slap-you-in-the-face obvious, this week I turn 30.
I am surprisingly not too tormented about the looming age milestone that many a woman has had a meltdown over. And I do wonder if now might be the time to stop panicking when I get asked for ID at the checkout when buying Burgundy… The wine. Not the place. Unfortunately.
As a child, I was one of the lucky ones. A birthday in half term, no school guaranteed, and one whole lazy day of presents and playing with them.
As an adult, it sucks.
Everywhere I go, I find myself amidst a crowd of little people. I am not saying I don’t like children, but I am perhaps one of those adults that only likes (and adores) the ones I know or am related to.
So, suggestions for child-avoiding, 30th-birthday-worthy weekday activities during half terms are most welcome. Answers on a postcard, please.
I can’t remember exactly when I first started saying “one day”. I know I was very young. And I know I said it a lot. I also know that I say it as much now as I ever did then.
I am the dreamer of the family with her head in the clouds. I’ve grown accustomed to that face some people pull when I mention my plans for “one day”. Back then I made my aunt buy me an extra large sketchbook so I could map out the plans for my future abode. These days I lose minutes to the dark side that is daydreams and living in reverie.
Lucky for me while chasing my one-days I’ve found a partner in crime. Amidst seven years of citing one-days to each other, we almost didn’t realise when we were in the middle of a one-day moment last week.
Last Wednesday was a lucky day. The boy and I attended Wimbledon for the first time (the ultimate tennis event for those of you who aren’t into watching two people smash a ball around a court).
We sat munching our lunch and hiding from the rain in the corridors beneath Court 1, lamenting for the day we would be relishing in VIP treatment and swapping the overpriced ham sandwiches for the three course lunch whipped up by Michel Roux just a few doors down at The Gatsby Club.
As the usual two little words tumbled off my tongue I had an epiphany. I might “one day” be sitting pretty beside the privileged of Wimbledon, but I was also sat slap-bang right in the middle of a one-day moment right now, a moment I had dreamed of since I first found myself roaring at the TV screen alongside a nation of Tim Henman supporters in the 90s.
That said, I shall forever be a dreamer.
Without dreams, I wouldn’t have found myself back at Wimbledon again yesterday within touching distance of the almighty Roger Federer. In that front row seat the silence was palpable, the sounds were magnified and for that moment in time, the grass was a green as it was ever going to get.
I’ll always chase the “one days”, but thanks to this week, I will also remember to stop and smell the rosy aroma of those that are happening right now.
You will have to excuse my meandering mind again today. As I was laid face down on a surgeon’s table this morning, I couldn’t help but wish I was sat on the riverside bench that the boy and I had perched on just 20 hours previously with two portions of chips and a can of Dr. Pepper. I’ve always loved what we Brits can do with a potato, but I hadn’t sampled the magic for at least six months.
So as I studied the speckles of a blue vinyl floor, I started reminiscing about chips…
I was a fussy eater until I was around 25 years old. As a kid, I was often left sitting at the dinner table long after everyone else had finished, staring at a plate filled with greens.
I would long for a portion of fries.
My Dad used to tell me I’d turn into a chip. I used to think it wouldn’t be as bad as turning into a cauliflower or a piece of broccoli. At least I could be a supermodel skinny fry with a French accent.
Happy new year to my lovely readers, I hope your last few weeks have been filled with a little indulgence of all kinds. In racking my brains this morning for a New Year’s post I ventured down this nostalgic path…
Mechanical pencils are very often my weapon of choice, owing to many childhood years spent amidst shattered splinters of sharpenings and lead smears across my fingers and exercise book pages, but this morning, jutting from the hefty white ceramic fist that sits on my desk grasping my writing tools, a sliver of gold caught my eye.
Digging out a plastic sharpener in faded fuchsia from the bottom of my desk drawers, I gave this metallic sheathed scribbler its very first gasp of life. It shed its lustrous skin whilst the smell of wood shavings and lead scuffled up my New Year’s flu blocked nose and struck a chord in my brain that resonated with my eleven year old self, sharpening pencils in a blue diplodocus desk tidy that my Dad had purchased because I had a penchant for dinosaurs and it was obviously with much hilarity that one could sharpen their pencils in an extinct reptile’s bottom.
Once I’d grounded myself from my nostalgic wondering, I noticed the sharpenings had spiralled into a golden fringed crown… a regal start to the year.
Today’s prompt from photography101… ‘connect’.
My hair flew forwards as the wind drove against my body flying upwards. At the top we stopped for mere milliseconds, jolted by the sudden standstill, the palpable moments of weightlessness before we would go plunging towards the muddy ground.
Laura didn’t have an imaginary friend. But she did have a series of Take That dolls that were entirely representative of their real life counterparts when they whispered sweet nothings to her.
This post is in response to today’s Daily Prompt, Imaginary Friend…
Remembering childhood again thanks to The Daily Post…
As I have been caught amidst a whirlwind of weddings and autumn colds I have decided to combine the last two assignments with this one vignette. The task was to describe a favourite meal from childhood, and a childhood home. So here is fruit pastilles and a house at the side of the forest…
Blades of grass erupted from the ground beside the doorway and continued as linear soldiers across endless metres until the forest floor interrupted them with mud. At the bottom of this greenery a colossal mass of trees extended into the daunting never-end.
Her bedroom window offered a viewfinder into the mysterious world that loomed at the end of the garden. By moonlight the world whispered an infinite abyss of darkness in return. Her four foot frame would fit cosily within the nook of the windowsill. Her nose would turn pink pressed against the cool glass, puffing winged steam trails with every exhale. In her pockets she would find week old fruit pastilles bought by the father she missed. They granted sweet comfort as she held them on her tongue, sucking the sugar crystals, prolonging their life for as long as possible.
She would find flickers of movement. Watching her watching them. Until she would turn off the lights and let the darkness envelop.
A life sized cabinet of curiosities…
Its heavy air still seizes my nostalgic nose from my very first footstep inside. Its stuffed creatures still monitor me from every corner and kink of the room.
My feet must have contributed to the eroded curves of its stone entrance steps. My instinctive untamed child fingerprints will have joined many along its endless glass cupboards of oddities. My neck still cranes to take in the skeletal giants, as was required when I was two foot nothing.
An archaic collection that repeatedly takes centre stage across my own historical timeline.
Old friends are the very best of friends, and Mr T Rex and I go way back. #100happydays #day93