Wonderland - My Happy Place

I’m privileged to be in my happy place in this season of Winter Wonderland and witness again the splendour of the Dumfries and Galloway countryside. An ice-cream in August by the Solway Firth seems like a million moons ago to me now. Lush green has given way to shades of copper and rust in hedgerows and woodland and every view is simply stunning. It is nature at its best.

I was nine years old when my family and I moved into our pub on south promenade. During that first summer of settling in and exploring, we went to the Pleasure Beach. Candyfloss, rock, hot-dogs, fried onions, burgers and seafood. Imagine all these strong scents mingled together and this is the all-round smell I grew up with, including beer and tobacco closer to home, but this was my first impression of the Pleasure Beach. I remember going on the Alice in Wonderland ride and being scared. It was the falling down the rabbit hole bit. Very effective nearly sixty years ago and I can’t say if any changes have been made as I haven’t returned. In those days, there was no charge to walk round the Pleasure Beach and no such thing as wristbands. Rides were paid for individually. The current way of doing things and the costs prevent me from taking my grandchildren any time soon.

Snug in a cosy lodge, outside white with frost, I’ll make the most of the rest of our stay. I’ll top up the bird-feeders every day and enjoy watching them being emptied. Red kites are fascinating and entertaining, gracefully circling, looking for prey. This unspoilt simple life is my chosen wonderland.

My Haiku

Surrounded by trees,
A cosy and peaceful lodge
Is my wonderland.

Beyond evergreens,
Rhododendrons, firs and pines,
Acres of farmland

Glisten in the frost
Of early winter morning,
Waiting for the sun

To rise above hills.
Gentle clouds streak a blue sky.
Beautiful daybreak.

Admiring red kites,
Gracefully soaring above,
A roost of hundreds

Watching and waiting
Whistling their high pitched shrill call,
Then swooping to feed.

A short drive away,
The quiet of the forest
Brings tranquillity.

PMW 2023

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Heatwave - Staying Cool!

 

We spend the chilly, dreary, dark days of winter hoping we get a decent summer, and then when it comes it can be too much. Luckily, here in the North West, the temperature touched about 32 degrees centigrade, which I think is slightly more comfortable than the hotter southern areas. Small mercies. Is it safe to say the heatwave has gone yet? I’m fine with the warm 22 degrees today offers, along with a fresh, gentle breeze. I’d had enough of feeling sticky and having streams of perspiration running down my back. Anyone wearing glasses may relate to the annoyance of them sliding down their nose, frames sticking to their cheeks and being a thorough nuisance. I would take mine off except that I can’t see a thing without them.

The garden has had it for this season. Vibrant colour of vital blooms looks parched and neglected for all my efforts of conserving water from the kitchen to use outside. Being away for two separate holidays with only one week at home in between is the cause of ruin. Normally we might expect two days of sunshine to be counter-balanced with three days of constant rain. Not this time, no rain for ages and what came wasn’t enough to stop the damage. Within the next few days I will attempt to tidy out the dead stuff and make an effort for autumn and spring. I can live with whatever happens in my small garden. I feel sad for the farmers who are trying to make a living. Some counties have declared a drought. Not us, though, yet.

I think I was the only person carrying a cardigan into Bloomfield Road football stadium at the last home match. It was an incredibly hot day and I was in shorts, sandals and my team shirt, but we sit in the shady and cool west stand so I anticipated shivering. Shady it was, as always, but cool, certainly not. It was roasting, not a breath of air. Away fans in the sunny rows of the east stand must have been melting.

The heatwave of 1976 was widely mentioned in the media as a comparison. I remember the warm sunshine day after day, seemingly forever and walking up and down Blackpool promenade in platform sandals, flared jeans and cheesecloth shirt knotted at the midriff. Oh I was at the height of fashion in those halcyon times.

With global warming, summer heatwaves are to be expected. It is up to all of us to do what we can to lessen the effect, and to look after ourselves and each other when the temperature rises beyond comfortable.

I found this on PoemHunter.com,

A Wail of the Heat Wave

The usual thing it used to be
Our summers to decry,
Because they were too wet, you see,—
We longed to have them dry.
But now for months, from morn till night,
We've basked in Sol's bright rays ;
Yet few you'll find who show delight,
Or speak in terms of praise
Of these aggravating, irritating,
Half-cremating, wrath-creating,
Mercury-raising, semi-blazing, scorching summer days.

One feels much like a jelly-fish,
Or limpet washed ashore ;
If this is getting what we wish,
We'll crave for it no more.
Each man you meet reviles the heat
In none-too-classic phrase ;
To be polite, one cannot write
Exactly what he says
Of these hot, oppressive, fierce, aggressive,
Sweat-producing, fat-reducing,
Liquid-yearning, throttle-burning, parching summer days.

O, for a trip to either pole,
With Peary, or with Scott!
Where icebergs rear their white forms tall,
And heat waves trouble not.
A month or so 'mid Arctic snow
Our drooping hearts would raise ;
And soften down the angry frown
Which everyone displays
These roasting, boiling, toasting, broiling,
Record-breaking, sweltering, baking,
Ultra-torrid, beastly horrid, melting summer days.

William Baron,   October, 2010

Thanks for reading. Stay cool. Pam,x

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Summer

After eight years as a regular Saturday blogger, I'm searching for a seasonal summer slant that's not been used before. This week's record temperatures - Tropic of Bowland anyone? - might have proved newsworthy for a couple of days but are soon to be a commonplace feature of British summertime, it would seem. More concerning is that "beating Keir Starmer" and "getting Brexit re-done" (whatever the hell that means) look to be more important to the Tories than ensuring we are meeting the challenges of global warming and our legally-binding Net Zero undertaking. Let's face it, it's not been a priority of this administration, despite the UK hosting COP26; in fact we're going backwards - less on track than we were five years ago apparently - and Alok Sharma, the government's climate minister, has threatened to resign if the new PM fails to commit to a strong green agenda.

Anyway, here's my slant: Summerland. I don't know if you've seen the movie of the same name? It was released in 2020 (first year of Covid) and probably didn't get much exposure as a result, which is a shame because it's a first-rate film, an instant 'lost classic' as it were, with a great story line, terrific acting (Gemma Arterton and Lucas Bond in particular are excellent) and the cinematography is stunning. I won't spoil the plot, for do try and catch it if you can, streamed, on DVD, or whenever it crops up on your TV.

Summerland

Suffice to say the movie introduced me to the idea of the Summerland, essentially a pagan concept of an afterlife. Formalised to an extent in theosophical belief and writings (thanks to Swedenborg, Davis and Leadbeater inter alia ), Summerland would seem to represent the highest level or sphere that souls can aspire to between incarnations, before Nirvana is attained (for theosophists believe we are all on a cyclical mission to reach perfection). It is also sometimes referred to as the astral plane, a sort of sunlit upland for those who managed to live good lives before shucking off their mortal host. There is a lot more weird stuff associated with theosophy - like Sanat Kumara who is believed to be the spiritual deity governing Earth from the floating city of Shamballa, somewhere above the Gobi desert - but the movie doesn't get into that level of complexity. For researcher Alice in her cliff-top house and for blitz evacuee Frank, it simply posits the existence of Summerland, and the ability of those with sufficiently open minds to actually glimpse it in the ether as some reassurance in war-torn 1940 that existence goes on after death. Unlikely, of course, but charming nonetheless. 

Moving on back down to earth in 2022, my own 'house on the strand' (it's not actually on the sea-front but a short walk inland, as anyone who has visited will tell you), is oriented almost precisely east-west. The front faces the rising sun, which filters through the bedroom blinds on a summer morning. It's a splendid thing to wake up to, blue sky, gently warming bright air, the promise of a glorious day to come. By mid-day (give or take a seasonally-adjusted hour) the sun is right above, heading west, flooding the back garden while the front gradually becomes shadowy. It's a house of two halves. The front rooms are warm in the morning but cool in the afternoon and evening as the heat of the day intensifies; the back rooms and back garden are refreshingly cool in the morning but suffused with light and heat right through to sunset. I migrate between front and back as the mood or the need dictates. It works perfectly. Then there are the wrens.

Wrens are beautiful little birds, more often heard than seen because they are small and shy, but they have a distinctive sound and are far more populous than people think (estimated 11,000,000 in the UK). They are also territorial. I have two distinct families of them, one in the front garden and one in the back, with the house acting as a sort of buffer. Occasionally I hear the males singing at the same time, usually but not exclusively at the start of the day. It's a thrill and a highlight of summer mornings, and although I've written a whole blog and poem about this charming bird before (linked here, click on the title:  Tails Up), I thought why not do so again from a slightly different, somewhat humorous perspective?

Wren Singing

This then, in first draft, is for wrens everywhere, even though they can't read...

Wrens In Stereo

If I awake at dawn, the norm for a summer morning,

I can lie drowsy listening to the front-of-house wren

belting forth his silvery song from the magnolia tree

beneath my bedroom window, rallying all to the day.

Less distinct, being further away, the backstage wren

will join the chorus, rehearsing some mercurial lines

until he's note perfect in the shrubbery. If sometimes,

I suppose it's just by chance, their modulations chime

to great effect, I can feel uplifted by the sound, rouse

myself  to stand equidistant  along the gallery, better 

to balance both outpourings.  They're not performing 

so for me, more likely to secure their territories anew,

but what a rare delight to be showered at start of play

by wrens in stereo for ten or fifteen minutes, overture

to the quiet daily drama unfolding in a writer's house,

better by far than an intrusion of radio or breakfast tv.

Thanks for reading, S;-)

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Summer - Making Memories

It is here, at last, the moment we’ve been waiting for. Proper sultry, summer weather of hot sun and blue skies from dawn until dusk, which is around nine-thirty, and I would like to say it goes on day after day. It won’t. I think this is two days of heatwave, then rain, possibly storm, and cooler temperatures. My house is currently thirty-four degrees and I feel sticky and uncomfortable.  The heatwave may not be completely responsible.  After two and a half years of sticking to guidelines and looking out for myself and family, Covid has got me. I tested positive at the weekend after feeling unwell for a couple of days. There are no signs of recovery yet. When it cools down, I’ll rest in the garden, admiring the fruits of my labours, especially the planter I’ve called Tangerine and White.

The summers of our youth were everlasting and full of ice cream, the park, the beach and sometimes a holiday. Our holidays tended to be spent with family, when my dad could escape from running the pub for more than two days together. It was always good to spent time with our cousins. They are in the USA now, but they lived in London and the south of England when we were all children. My sister and I loved their big garden offering lots of room to play, even space for badminton.

For years home was a pub on South Promenade. We had the beach on our doorstep. Day after day we were there, not a care in the world and not a thought for how lucky we were. Someone would be with us until I, being the eldest, was considered old enough to take us across four lanes of traffic and the tramlines. My sister would choose an ice lolly or ice cream. I loved a portion of shrimps in a tiny paper bag. I can still taste how delicious they were. Better than anything sweet.

When our children were young, summer holidays meant the long road trip to Pembrokeshire and a couple of weeks staying in a static caravan. It was owned by family members who didn’t use it during the busy months of July and August, but were very happy for us and others to enjoy it. We were so privileged. We had holidays that wouldn’t have happened if not for the generosity of our extended family. Our children, and us have great memories of those wonderful times.

Making memories is what we’ll be doing in a few weeks when we take our grown up children and all our grandchildren to have a blast at Butlin’s. It’s our treat as grandparents and a one-off. It will be fun for all of us, of course, but it is centred on giving the grandchildren a fabulous time. My grandparents used to take me to Butlin’s when I was small, before I had a sister. Now I’m the nanna. It’s my turn.

Allow me the indulgence of my favourite of Shakespeare’s sonnets,

Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

William Shakespeare 1564-1616

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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For the Record - Put It Straight

 One glorious summer afternoon, a few years ago, my husband and I were on my ancestry trail in Manchester's Southern Cemetery. I had done some groundwork online and had a print-out map of the burial grounds with my family members plot details marking locations.

There can be lots to learn from headstone inscriptions, things not recorded elsewhere. I took time to make notes, take photographs and have a silent word with my dear departed ones. There are some interesting folk in my bloodline and this cemetery has four if not five generations of my paternal line. How handy for me that they are all in the same place. It makes adding branches to the family tree so much easier. All was going well until I couldn't find my four-greats grandfather, Benjamin. The number for his resting place was a multiple burial pauper's grave with a list of names which didn't include him. This couldn't be it. From my genealogy discoveries, I knew Benjamin to be a successful,  wealthy man with no suggestion of hard times at the end of his life. It looked like the end of my journey - until we realised that the cemetery records office was still open. I went to ask for help.

If ever I had a lucky day, this was it. Someone checked online and got the same information I had, which was clearly wrong. Within minutes, I was sitting at a desk with a huge register in front of me, in awe of the beautifully hand-written burial records in magnificent copperplate. With Benjamin's full name, date of birth, date of death and interment, I found his grave number straight away. Online details end with an E, in the register with a K. I could see what must have happened when the details were transferred to digital. The style of writing had a flourish on the capital K which could easily be mistaken for an E. I mentioned my possible discovery to a staff member.

With the revised details, I found Benjamin's resting place, complete with a headstone befitting the gentleman I considered him to be. I went back to thank the office staff and tell them my findings. They thanked me - had I not queried Benjamin's grave, the error might never have come to light.

My poem:

I'm really having fun in here,
Line after line it seems quite clear,
Data input made a mistake.
Let's put it right for all our sakes.

Please can we put the record straight?
It's all gone wrong on column eight
And what's been listed as an E
Is actu'lly a K, you see.

I wish I had all afternoon,
Sadly, I have to go home soon,
But now you know what has gone wrong,
You can put Ks where they belong.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, keep safe, Pam x

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Retirement - Bring It On!

I looked forward to retiring at sixty, as many of us did, and then, a bolt from the blue took away plans and wishes and sat firmly on our state pension for another six years. I’m there now and I still haven’t received the explanatory letter ‘sent to everyone’ when the changes were made. WASPI (Women Against State Pension Inequality) campaigns and protests seem to have been sympathetically listened to in some quarters – Jeremy Corbyn, when Labour leader, said that women were “misled”, the situation “needed to be put right” and “We owe a moral debt to these women.” It was included in the Labour party manifesto. Even if nothing changed, it was going to be looked into. The flicker of hope died with the election result.

Anyway, politics aside, my time has come and I’m trying to decide exactly when to hand in my keys and cross myself off any rotas. I’ve spent lots of time at home during the pandemic, shielding at the beginning, then having to isolate a couple of times when I eventually returned to work.  I like being at home. It’s been good getting a feel for life in retirement and spending more time with my husband who retired early a few years ago.  In normal circumstances we would enjoy the freedom of having lunch out, seeing friends and spending more time with family. These things will come back to us, hopefully before too long. I reduced my hours at work so I’m actually at home more than I’m there, yet I still can’t wait to leave.

I yearn for the freedom to just go where I want, when I want without having to plan in advance and ask permission. Deciding one day that we’re off to Scotland, or anywhere the next day, is the life for me. Spending summer afternoons reading in the garden was bliss last year and I look forward to doing it again. I knit and crochet a lot and love making baby clothes so with a current baby boom going on amongst colleagues at the moment I’ve been  a one woman cottage industry.  My writing has been on a back burner for too long. I was trying to use shielding and isolating time to write a best-selling novel or a brilliant TV series, but they’ve both been done, not by me, by the way, and I’ve been struggling to concentrate lately.  There are lots of things on my retirement list and I certainly won’t get bored. I might get fat(ter) on home-made baking, but never bored. I’ll enjoy finding out who I am, so let’s bring it on.

My poem,

When I can please myself on what I want to do each day
Without the stress and strain of doing my job in the way,
I will take time to rest, to think and to learn who I am,
Apart from a wife, a mother and a nanna called Pam.

My wardrobe’s full of Marks and Spencers matching navy blues,
Formal skirts and cardies and some uniform slim-line trews.
Tunic length NHS blouses, navy with polka dots,
Pockets stuffed with tissues and hair-ties, a tangle of knots.

Let’s get rid of such strict clothing and find a nice, new style,
Dresses, ear-rings, beads and things I haven’t worn in a while.
Skinny jeans, knee-high boots and a home-made Aran sweater,
My family and freedom will soon make me feel better.

I’ll wear long, floaty skirts and lipstick, and I’ll paint my nails,
I’ll join in with other WASPI girls on some campaign trails
And hope some good may come of it, though it’s too late for me
So many ‘50s women need to set their pensions free.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, stay safe, Pam x

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Tracks - We'd Better Make Tracks

It is the moment I dislike the most. Our peaceful time in Scotland, staying in the quiet of a hidden-away lodge has reached an end. The car is packed for home. The rooms of our accommodation  are clean and tidy, we’ve checked and double-checked for anything forgotten and one of us says, ‘We’d better make tracks’.

The fact that we’ll be returning soon is of no consolation when the sadness of leaving has already taken hold.

I’ve been trying to find out where the term ‘making tracks’ originated and it is so frustrating not to discover a definitive answer. All I have found is a reference to early 1800s slang for running away in a hurry and leaving footprints. 

Quote -  “This nineteenth century American colloquialism was recorded by Thomas Chandler Haliburton (1796-1865) in his ‘Sam Slick’ papers, which originally appeared in a Nova Scotia weekly in 1836, as well as several earlier journals…”

I wanted to know why the saying is ‘making tracks’ when ‘following tracks’ seems to make more sense. I hoped to learn something more and I haven’t, so if any reader knows, please share with me.

‘We’d better make tracks’ was my father’s way of bringing a summer picnic to an end on a Sunday tea-time. Pubs were closed between 2 p.m. and 7 p.m. in those days. My family would get together and drive in convoy to a suitable destination to spend the afternoon, everyone bringing food to share. We were all based in Lancaster and Morecambe for a while and our outings were Crook O’ Lune, Littledale, Glasson Dock, Heysham and Ingleton Falls. I was aged four or five, the only child and got made a fuss of. Everyone was relaxed, life was simpler, or that’s how it looked to me. No one rushed. There would be glancing at wrist-watches and mutterings about getting back for opening time as thermos flasks and rugs were put away into car boots in a leisurely fashion.

Our first pub was in Manchester, close to Piccadilly railway station. I was too young to remember much about it, but I knew it was the Star and Garter on Fairfield Street and my walk to nursery with my father took us under a railway bridge. On a recent day at Manchester Christmas Markets with my friend, I suggested that we look at the pub, from the outside. Our train was taking us to Piccadilly so we weren’t going out of our way. I’m easily lost in a city without a coastline to guide me, so it was no surprise to find us following Fairfield Street in the wrong direction. We hadn’t gone too far, luckily. We strolled back and eventually reached the pub, took a few photos then went shopping. Later, waiting on Platform 14 for the train home, I was absent-mindedly gazing around when I realised that right in front of me, across the lower level train tracks, stood the Star and Garter. My friend and I laughed. We’d walked for ages looking for that.

Before long, it will be time for rest and recuperation in Dumfries & Galloway. The car will be packed, the house in good hands and I’ll be happy to say, ‘We’d better make tracks.’

 

I found this poem,

 

Flowered Tracks

 

The breeziness of gentle winds, leafs rustle as trees sway
Sunlight rays a partial light, that shine across the bay
Summers warmth an evening sky, are setting on the day
Dusk approaches through the trees, as the daylight goes away

Flowered tracks along the gorge, a gentle mountain breeze
Dusty valleys lead the way, past the old oak trees
Down to flowing waterfalls, the beauty that one sees
Flowered tracks floating beside, are following with ease

Deep inside the canyon walls, the water hits the stream
Shimmers from the waters edge, upon a golden gleam
The beauty of a secret place, waters merged with a sun beam
Is this a true reality, or flowered tracks last dream

Between the hills on golden ponds, lies colours of tracks flowers
Where the rocky crescent forms, and where the sunlight cowers
Moon light shadows visible, only after sunlight hours
The beauty of a litten dusk, the light the moon devours

A wolf howls above the rocks, high upon the glade
One heart beat I can hear, I am feeling so afraid
Full moons light upon my soul, the wolfs cursed life is paid
Wolf's blood bite on flowered tracks, a glistened moonlight trade

Wolfs eyes glare standing alone, no hunters and no packs
Were wolfs fangs on shadows moon, blood seeping through the cracks
A man once stood is now transformed, his humanity life lacks
The werewolf curse is fulfilled, complete on flowered tracks

 

Written by Kirk, from Hello Poetry.

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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The Best Decade - My 1960s

I like to write historical fiction. I get a lot of enjoyment from researching specific eras. There is so much to learn and I never tire of it. I’ve spent a long time, in fits and starts, on a project that begins in the early 1960s and I’d love to see it completed, though it may have to stay on the back burner until I am able to dedicate more of myself to it. I expected to be retired by now, me like many others, and I planned to treat my project like a full-time job and see if it went anywhere. Let’s wait and see if I’ve still got a functioning brain by the time I get my pension.

I’m choosing the 1960s as the best decade that I have known and I’ve chosen through personal experience and not my research. I was born in the mid-fifties into a wonderful, close family of strong minded women and hard working men. I appreciate how fortunate I am to have had the love, security and grounding of a decent up-bringing. I’ve always been mindful that not everyone is so lucky.

In the mid-sixties we moved to Blackpool. Life got even more exciting. My parents had their dream pub on the promenade and clearly loved it. South Shore beach became my playground, with my younger sister, buckets and spades and either our mother or our adored housekeeper, Auntie Kathy to look after us. We watched the whole world from our upstairs windows, holiday makers dashing off the beach as a storm came over the sea, silly hats, illuminated trams and gangs of what my dad called Beatniks. As soon as the illuminations ended, that was it, Blackpool prom died. The winter view was one of an empty, bleak wilderness, but it was fascinating watching the waves come over the sea wall and crash on to the tram lines during a fierce gale. If only I could see it all again, but thinking as an adult now, I would be worried about the rattling sash windows blowing in. The summer of 1968 is still my favourite, even though my mother embarrassed me by telling singer/songwriter/busker Don Partridge how much I adored him, as we were being introduced. He didn’t seem to mind but I certainly did. He was in the Central Pier show for the summer season and we, that is me and my mum, were front of house guests and back stage guests on separate occasions. I was enthralled to hear him sing ‘Rosie’ and ‘Blue Eyes’ live on stage and I still love those songs. We had a summer of shows and meeting people including Engelbert Humperdinck. He was headlining at the ABC theatre. I was speechless.

My poem is an old one of mine, written with love for those bygone days. It reminds me now of a late friend, Christo Heyworth. When he read the poem, he told me that the ‘grumpy deck chair man’ could have been him, though, as I said at the time, I couldn’t imagine Christo being grumpy.

 

This Was My Blackpool In ’68.

Taking a tram from North Pier to Starr Gate.

A summer of fun and staying up late.

This was my Blackpool in ’68. 

Anne, Auntie Kath and me, all holding hands

Crossing the Prom to get on to the sands

Where the grumpy deck-chair man always stands.

This was my Blackpool in ’68. 

We were young ladies with panache and style,

Playing the penny arcades for a while,

Frittering our spends on the Golden Mile.

This was my Blackpool in ’68. 

Spinning the Waltzers three times in a row.

Make it go faster, we don’t like it slow,

And then the man said, “That’s it, off you go!”

This was my Blackpool in ’68. 

Out to a summer show, straight after tea.

Engelbert tonight at the ABC,

A back-stage delight for my mum and me.

This was my Blackpool in ’68. 

Got to get ready, there’s no time to lose!

My trendiest outfit is what I will choose…

A pink mini dress with bright orange shoes.

This was my Blackpool in ’68. 

A time of peace, love and Flower Power,

Charlie Cairoli and Blackpool Tower,

Seaside and sunshine for hour after hour.

This was my Blackpool in ’68.

Pamela Winning,   2013

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Summer

Ah the Summer-time! Lovely weather and fun times, juxtaposed with the school summer holidays creating havoc with working parents timetables and kids saying: "I'm bored!". They've no imagination these days have they?

My favourite seasons have to Spring and Autumn though. I don't like it when the temperature soars, it just laves me feeling hot and bothered and very grumpy.  Even when I used to go on foreign holidays, I would sit in the shade. Hee hee.  And then there's all that flesh on display. I'm no prude, but really?  I've always been a firm believer that you should dress for the body you have and not the body you want or wish you had. See, I get grumpy about Summer!  It's just not for me.

A few months ago, I performed the following poem at our monthly Open Mic. Night.  It is an imagining of being stranded in the height of Summer in an American desert. I hope you enjoy it.


The Thirst:

Burning, blazing orb,
shape shifting.
Dazzling rays reaching,
scorching and searing.
Devoid of moisture
the crazed crust
buckles and splinters.
Armoured plants
cling to life,
storing precious milk.
Red sand-blasted eyes,
lips parched,
swollen tongue,
raw, dusty throat.
Skin burnt,
crisp and peeling.
Distant dancing
draws attention,
the air shimmering
just above the ground.
Dehydrated, shrunken brain
draws optical illusions,
tempting the senses
with the promise of 
cool clear water.
Liquid gold
not to be.


Thanks for reading. ;-) x


P.S. If you have some time on your hands this evening, Sarah L Dixon is hosting an event called "The Quiet Compere Tour 2014 (Stop 8)" in the Churchill Room at The Imperial Hotel, North Promenade, Blackpool. It takes place from 7.30pm and will feature 10 poets, each with a 10 minute spot. Admission is just £4 on the door for an evening of wonderful poetry from the likes of Lara Clayton, Michelle Hayward, Colin Davies, Joy France, Christopher James Heyworth, Big Charlie Poet, David Riley, Stephen Gunnar Stroud, Laura Alice Nation and Reuben Woolley.  If you have been to any of our Open Mic. Nights in the past, you will recognise a few of those names.  Come and join us.

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Daedalean Exchange

There's been some great advice on the blog this week.  I can get behind everything the smarty-pants on here have shared, especially the merits of enjoying your audience and memorising the words.  In addition, I have a few tips for performance which I have picked up at workshops, from fellow poets and through practice:

• Walk through your poem - pace as you read it in practice.  This will allow you to find the natural breaks and rhythm of the piece. (courtesy of Sarah Hymas)
• Ensure that you are well hydrated (beer works) before you read.  There's nowt worse than spitting feathers and struggling to get the words out.  This happened to me in January and I looked rather strange constantly licking my lips in a vain attempt to lure my salivary glands into action.
• Visualise the images in your poem and make sure those images are clear for the audience.  These will act as hooks for the minds of your audience when they try to understand and remember what you said. (courtesy of Ann the Poet)
• Slow down.  Don't be afraid to be.  When you appear behind the microphone the air is heavy with expectation.   Allow that moment to hang.  Use it to collect yourself, to consider what you are about to perform.  Feel your way into the poem.  Let the emotive thread unfurl naturally.  Deliver every sound from your lips with love.  These are your word, painstakingly crafted, meaningful, exquisite.  Push them out into the room with confidence.  Bring them to life in your voice in the same way they live for you on the page.  
• Love the audience.  Respect the relationship you have with that room full of people in that moment.  They are giving you a small portion of their life in the hope that you will fill it with a little piece of your own filtrations.  This is a valuable gift.  Look into the faces of your fellow poetry lovers and thank them for opening up to your words.  The easiest way to do this is by speaking your truth in your way and unashamedly.  Audiences don't want what's gone before, they want you.  They want your truth.  Respect them.  Give them that truth.

 The theme for this Friday's event at the No 5 cafe in Blackpool is 'Games'.  I am yet to write a word.  It should be noted that the advice above is only useful if you do, in fact, have a poem to read at a poetry event.  In the words of Alice in Wonderland (Disney), "I give myself very good advice but I very seldom follow it." 

Pinch of salt and all that. 

By the by - I'm taking my daughter and her friends to a comic convention on Saturday.  We are all dressing up. Raven will be Lacie from Pandora Hearts. I'll be going as American McGee's Alice. I feel like the proverbial duck waddling into an arena full of Cosplay fans.  If anyone knows of any top tips for surviving at these things I would be most grateful if you'd post them below.  Thank you.

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Winter is Coming

by Ashley Lister

As has been noted, there has been a confrontational quality to my writing over the past few weeks. This has been noted in my angst-fuelled poetry, it has been noted in my furious fiction and it has been evinced in the internal memos I’ve been sending to some of the a***holes at the workplace.

I blame it on the encroaching summertime.

I do not like summertime.

Whilst many people enjoy the warm weather and extended hours of daylight, I am not a lover of summertime. I find it is an affront to the senses:

In the summer time, I find, there is too much bare flesh on the promenade.

Those who know me will be aware that I’m not a prude. Truth be told, I have a penchant for bare flesh and could look at it for hours. However, I have little time for the pasty-coloured bare flesh that gets exposed on the prom during a British summer. Half the time it’s like looking at a skinned halibut in a bikini. The rest of the time it’s not quite so attractive.

I also find there is too much perspiration.

It’s been said that deodorants and common sense are never used by those people who most badly need them. I shall say no more on the subject except to mention that summer offends my sense of smell.

Our national anticipation of summertime is a constant irritation. Everyone in the UK acts as though we’re going to have a California heatwave starting in late May and continuing until early September. When the reality kicks in, three mild days before a Bank Holiday downpour, everyone acts with aggrieved disappointment.

Personally I think we should start investing our hopes in one of the other seasons. The other three are more dependable because of their consistent ability to deliver. I’m hoping for a really crappy autumn this year, followed by a dire, miserable winter and an unsatisfying and unmemorable spring. If we approach the seasons with this mindset, even if our hopes are dashed, we won’t be disappointed. 

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A little bit green, or Red, White and Blue

First of all- what a weekend!

By the time you are reading this I expect the weather will have returned to its usual self (raining) and any remaining interest in the Royal family could be waning. Not mine though. I started out the weekend as one of the many ‘why shouldn’t we have a Queen’ people- on the basis that we have one already and so why should we change it. After watching Her Majesty float down the Thames waving for 4 hours, all in the smacking rain and wind, I was completely bowled away.

There are 86 year old women that come into the newsagents. They use the chair we leave by the card stand, invariably wheezing and moaning about the top of the hill and the speed of everybody. I am probably told three or four times a day that ‘things don’t work as they used to’. To see the Queen then, whom the Express recently reported has worked more days in 2012 than all the MPs, going so strongly after sixty years of the job, I feel so proud I want to start licking a stamp. One of our stamps. With our Queen on. 

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