Words with Hazel

The Pea Pod Incident

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Mon, 06 Feb 2017 16:16:00 +0000

Summer 1979. Not just any summer but the hottest on record — or at least the hottest I had known in my eight short years. It was the summer we dared one another to run along the pavement in our bare feet, the summer that brought a shortage of ice poles at the local corner shop. I’m sure I remember someone frying an egg on the roof of their car.

Gala Day was fast approaching. It was the highlight of the year in our little village and the excitement was raw. Our bun bag tickets had taken pride of place on the mantelpiece and there was bunting draped over every lamppost within a three mile radius.

My mum had a brainwave to dress me up as a pea-pod for the fancy dress competition. It was a brilliant idea — me dressed in various shades of green with three plump, green balloons tied to my middle in a vertical line to represent the peas.

There was only one hitch. The outfit consisted of rolls and rolls of crepe paper wrapped around a thick, woolly jumper, a pair of 80 denier tights, and (the piece de resistance) a knitted tea-cosy hat, accessorised with sweet pea flowers fresh from the garden.

I can remember standing on the settee while my mum fiddled with the hem of my paper tunic so it sat neatly on the rim of my (fur-lined) wellie boots. ‘My Sharona’ by The Knack was playing on the wireless.

“I’m a bit hot mum,” I grumbled, fantasising about sticking my head in the freezer.

“Just another minute or two,” she replied through a mouthful of safety pins.

Layer upon layer of crepe paper was rolled around me until I was completely mummified. Then the hat went on and I stood for an eternity while mum carefully threaded the stems of the sweet peas through the wool. My face was thumping and beads of sweat were trickling down my back and as I watched mum blow up the first of the balloons, her face alight with pride at her handiwork, I started feeling desperately unwell.

“You look fantastic!” she squealed. “I think we’re onto a winner.”

But her voice was warbled and distant and funny little pinpricks had appeared before my eyes.

The last thing I remember before collapsing onto the floor in a sweaty heap was hoping the sheer volume of clothing would ease my fall from the settee onto the orange spiralled carpet.

Of course we had to abandon the entire thing. I don’t think mum ever forgave me.

Later that afternoon I stood sucking on a Zoom ice-lolly, watching the prizes being handed out for best costume. First prize went to a girl and her little sister who had dressed as ‘A pint and a half of milk’. The crowd laughed and cheered at the sheer wit of their idea but it wasn’t half as good as my pea pod.

I thought about the plump green balloons, lying redundant on the living room floor and the sweet peas withering in the heat on the draining board. It should have been me up there getting the prize.

Pipped at the post. Story of my life.

Ten Years a Single Mum

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Tue, 26 Jul 2016 09:55:00 +0000

It was ten years ago this very day – at 2:28pm to be precise – that I entered the world of single parenthood*. It wasn’t entirely unexpected but I don’t think anything could have properly prepared me for what landed in my lap on Wednesday July 26^th 2006.

Early days. Junior not quite three.

I won’t dwell on the details. Suffice to say...

Hooray for happy endings!

So much has happened in the last decade that I cannot imagine in my wildest nightmares ever returning to that old me. I put back the broken pieces of myself differently and now the cracks are barely visible. I like the new me very much.

Happy

Junior turns into a teenager at the end of the year so I am aware that we're about to enter some choppy waters.

But the last ten years have seen some bumps in the road (and a couple of major potholes) and my boy and I are standing stronger than ever. We are an unbreakable team.

I think this ten year landmark is one worth applauding so I am writing a blog post to mark the occasion. It is a very honest account of the last ten years and at times it may come across as self-indulgent but that is not my intention.

Nor do I want to sound like I'm blowing my own trumpet. I make no apologies for writing from the heart; I always have and I always will. This is a celebration of love and survival so the last thing I want to do is throw myself a pity party!

Junior said something very deep when I expressed my concerns about getting negative comments about this post. He said, "Mum, it's your story and you should tell it because you might make a difference to just one person who is going through the same thing."

What a wise little bear.

It’s a lengthy blog post - well, ten years is a very long time so there was rather a lot to say!

It took some time to put this post together and I found the process very therapeutic. I kept thinking of new things to add and I uncovered some interesting stuff about myself that I hadn’t realised before.

Writing about my journey has helped me to see how far I've come since those lonely early days and it has given me a new found strength to keep going. I will no doubt think of other things to add the minute I hit 'Publish' but in the meantime here is a list of what the last ten years have taught me.

(*I do the work of two people when it comes to raising a child therefore I am a Double Parent but for the purposes of this blog post I will use the term ‘Single Parent’. I am also aware that there are men out there doing the work of a Double Parent.)

Sometimes just carrying on is a superhuman achievement. I am the ground on which my son stands so I have had to be strong not only for myself but for him too.

Walking away/giving up was never an option. It’s hard to imagine how anyone could.

It currently costs more to bring up a child than to purchase a house. And that's just the food bill!

Hungry Baby Bear

Feeling like a single parent is most definitely not the same as being one.

Aargh!

Thinking too much about the future can be overwhelming. I constantly have to force myself to stay in the moment.

Single parenting is the easiest thing in the world to have an opinion about but the hardest thing in the world to actually do.

Even though it sometimes feels like it, I am not alone.

Pregnancy, childbirth, painful breastfeeding (nipple in a pencil sharpener, anyone?), sleepless nights, potty training and toddler tantrums were the easy part.

Life is a struggle for some more than for others. Some people could fall into a muddy puddle and come up wearing bangles. I'm not one of them but that's okay.

There is no way to accurately describe what being a single parent entails. People can empathise but only those who have been through it can truly understand. That is not to say I have not had some amazing support from my family and friends who co-parent.

Not everyone you lose is a loss.

I have instant respect for people who have raised or who are raising their family alone. It’s like being a member of an exclusive club that you didn’t choose to be part of but in the end feel proud to be associated with. As a result there is an immediate feeling of support and mutual understanding between those who hold membership cards.

I feel bonded to other single mothers whether I like them or not. I am a woman’s woman and strongly believe that when we build one another up incredible things can happen.

‘Go with the flow’ has become my mantra.

Don't force yourself to fit in where you don't belong.

There comes a point when you realise who matters in your life, who never did, and who never will. It is a pivotal moment.

It has been necessary to keep my mouth firmly shut on many occasions. This is deeply frustrating but has proved to be a vital survival technique.

However, it is often the unspoken words that eat you up.

Life can sometimes feel like an exam I didn’t study for.

I don’t care if it’s purely psychological; ‘Rescue Remedy’ works.

So does music. The louder the better.

It is better to have no partner than to have someone who is only half there or who doesn’t really want to be there at all. You do not need a partner to feel complete.

Never put the key to your happiness in someone else’s pocket.

You can achieve remarkable things with love and not much else.

When the wrong people leave your life the right things start to happen.

Writing has kept me afloat. Putting pen to paper was a last ditch attempt at stopping myself unravel completely. Writing has helped to organise the chaos in my life, given me hope and made me feel whole again. Sometimes you need fantasy to survive reality.

Baking has also helped to keep me sane. Not so good for the waistline but excellent for my mental health. Check out my Bake With Bree blog.

I am worthy of my dreams.

There are no shortcuts. It takes a long time to build a stronger, happier version of yourself. Be patient, it is worth it.

Over the last ten years I have met some amazing people and formed incredible new friendships. This would never have happened had my path not changed direction.

The best people have been the ones who have popped up unexpectedly and helped me to see twinkling fairy lights where once there was only complete darkness. They are the same people who believed in me enough to make me start believing in myself again.

Stay clear of anyone who makes you feel like you are hard to love.

Trust your gut. It knows the way.

It is quite a challenge teaching a small boy how to pee into the toilet when you have zero experience of peeing standing up.

Anger is a soul eating emotion. It might help you survive for a little while but in the end it will eat you alive.

Sometimes you have to be your own hero.

It has been a battle to stop myself from being swallowed up by this one particular aspect of my life. I am multi-faceted, multi-layered, multi-coloured – a collection of everything that has happened to bring me to where I am today. I am a mother...

...a writer...

...an educator...

...a presenter...

...a blogger...

...the author of three published novels...

...and baker extraordinaire...

I am a sister, daughter, auntie and friend. I am imaginative, talented, intuitive and compassionate. I have achieved many things both personally and professionally and I know there are still corners of me that are waiting to be explored. Being a single parent is a massive part of my identity but it does not define me. It is, however, the thing I am most proud of in my life.

Being happy and doing well is the biggest middle finger of all time.

Just when I think I have everything under control I’ll find my glasses in the fridge.

Worry is my constant companion. To quote Bonnie Tyler, “Love is like a shadow on me all of the time.” So is fear. It’s the price we pay for love.

In spite of this fear I have encouraged Junior to take up risky activities so he can embrace life to the full – kickboxing, climbing, horse riding, rock hopping, canoeing, outdoor survival training, hiking and climbing trees to name a small handful. He is a confident and daring young chap!

Gold!

I'm up here, Mum!

That's him on the left

I have given him roots and wings and many opportunities to take flight. This has required massive courage and commitment on my part so I will simply not tolerate being described as “over protective” - Unless of course those who say that are referring to matters of the heart for I am a warrior when it comes to protecting my boy’s feelings.

DON'T MESS WITH MAMA BEAR

My kisses have magical properties. I hope they always will.

I am proud that my son has watched me change a fuse, put up a shelf, assemble flat pack furniture, hang a curtain rail, bleed a radiator and unblock a sink. I am the proud owner of a very well-stocked tool box although my favourite screwdriver does have a flowery handle to keep things girly.

Single parenting has taken multi-tasking to a whole new level. Cook, cleaner, nurse, secretary, counsellor, teacher, chauffeur, Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, monster slayer AND best friend – all done with no holidays or sick leave.

Summer holidays, Christmas holidays, Easter holidays, Bank holidays, September break, October break...

Being a single parent is like running when everyone else is walking. Routine and organisation is the key. It’s flippin’ exhausting ensuring everything is in order to the point of military precision but I have discovered it’s the only way I don’t completely lose my mind.

I don't like being told to calm down or worse, "chill out". Just don't. It is like a red rag to a bull.

Since becoming a single parent I find going to the dentist a strangely relaxing experience; half an hour lying back in a comfy chair listening to Radio 2 with no interruptions or demands. Bliss.

I have had to learn how to walk the fine line between being best friend and strict disciplinarian (often at the same time).

This has been a tricky balancing act but Junior respects my standards and boundaries, even if he does test them at times.

Suffice to say my death glare still possesses immense power.

Coffee is my survival juice. I learned early on how to enjoy it lukewarm.

Some days I am Maria Von Trapp and others I am Agatha Trunchbull. I try not to beat myself up on the ‘bad’ days. Life is too short to spend it at war with yourself. I am doing the best I can.

I have learned that it is easier for some people to criticise than to praise. It is not uncommon to find the blame dropped at my feet and it’s not always easy to step over it. Some people ought to know better. I'm with Douglas Coupland who says, "Blame is just a lazy person's way of making sense of chaos."

The flip side to this is the immense feeling of pride and satisfaction when things go well (and this happens much more often). After all, I only have me to thank for all the successes.

My time and energy is VERY precious. I no longer have patience for certain things and I have no desire to waste a single second on anything that hurts or drains me. I have no respect or sympathy for people who behave like they are the only one in the through a tough time and I simply cannot tolerate fragile egos and arrogance. Some people need a ladder to get over themselves.

I would not have made it through the last ten years without my parents. Their arms must ache from holding me up. The ironic thing is you spend years wishing your Mum and Dad would get off your back only to realise they are the only ones who ever really had your back. My parents are awesome and I love them very much.

Co-parenting is vastly different to single parenting. Two pairs of hands, two salaries, a divided load and double the support. It can sometimes be draining and upsetting to see how the other half live.

It's less lonely this way.

“I love getting a phone call halfway through my working day to say my child is ill and needs picked up from school,” said no single parent ever.

As Junior grows up new challenges come our way. The broken sleep, messy weaning and toddler taming was not for the faint hearted but they were nothing compared to tweenage angst, peer pressure, homework, exams and worries about social media. Single parenting is an ever changing landscape. There will always be obstacles in the way, they will simply change shape. I will have to adapt in order to cope with them. Coming to terms with that has helped a little with the anxiety.

If you continually have to waste your breath explaining the same thing to someone and STILL they don't understand or change their behaviour then they clearly don't respect what you are saying. There comes a time when you have to let go.

"Let it go..."

A house + love = home. Add a fat, quirky cat to that mix and we’re talking big time happy home.

A furry brother from another mother

I will forever be in awe of the single parents who are raising more than one child. Some tell me it is easier than doing it with one but I think they’re just being kind.

In the absence of a supportive partner difficult decisions have had to be made alone. Not only has this resulted in a huge amount of guilt and regret but it has also made me extremely unpopular at times. Every decision I make is because I believe it is best for my child.

If you have never been hated by your child then you are doing something wrong.

By nature I am not a nosey person but if needs be I have superb detective skills. Never underestimate my ability to find stuff out. A worried Mum does better research than an FBI agent.

Stalker Mama Bear

Whoever wrote the phrase “Easy Like Sunday Morning” had clearly never been a single parent.

I laugh when people ask me what I do in my spare time. I am a single parent who has studied for a degree, has two jobs, three published novels and writes. Spare time is a major luxury! My wheelie bin goes out more than I do.

When your child’s heart breaks, your heart breaks too.

This is true for parenting in general but single parents make a very unique emotional investment. We shoulder twice the responsibility with no-one there beside us to share in the anguish, heartache, triumphs or moments of sheer giddiness.

Every day we make small deposits in the memory banks of our children. Make them count.

I have to constantly remind myself that not everyone was raised as well as I was.

I have to constantly remind myself that everyone has different ideas about what makes a good parent.

There's no point in fighting with someone that you don't respect.

You cannot change someone who doesn't see an issue in their actions.

Not every "Sorry" deserves an "It's okay" in return.

Sometimes the only way to stay sane is to go a little crazy.

Life is a series of small miracles and magical moments. Notice them. A random, hilarious text, a cheeky wink from across a busy room, a sleepy Facetime call, a perfectly-timed fart, dancing together in the kitchen...

...sharing a mountain of homemade pancakes...

...cruising in the car with the volume up and the windows down, finding a hidden message when the mirror steams up, laughing till our bellies hurt, watching a movie under the cosy blanket, 'Pick and Mix Roulette'...

I see your Percy Pig and raise you a fizzy Cola Bottle

...spicy noodles at ‘our café’...

...a game of badminton in the park on a summer’s evening, Christmas Eve, playing Hangman over coffee and cake.

It is the simple things that make being a single mum the best job in the world.

Junior is my best friend. I don't think we would have the same bond had it not been for the fact I've raised him alone. He brings out the silly in me and I love every single second of being with him.

People can be quick to believe the bad things they hear about good people. Single parents can fall victim to spiteful criticisms, misguided opinions, bitterness and insecurities. Often the people who criticise your life are the same people who don't know the struggle it took you to get to where you are today. No-one really knows how hard you work, how many hours you put in, how many tears you've cried or how many rejections you've pulled yourself up from so it's best to rely on yourself for approval, not the outside world.

Ignoring small minded people is the best form of self-defence. I choose to distance myself from negative, toxic people who make assumptions and judgements.

Instead I have chosen to surround myself with people who dream, support and actually do things rather than spend their time gossiping about those of us who are busy getting on with our lives. I am proud of who I am, and not ashamed of how someone else may see me.

It is not easy being a single mother raising a son in a rapidly changing world. Being a boy brings with it a unique set of demands, pressures and expectations. I have had to swot up on subjects about the cultural, social and individual factors that impact on boys in society and familiarise myself with terms like ‘modern masculinity’ and ‘precarious manhood’. I try my best to dismantle gender stereotypes and work tirelessly at cancelling out the barrage of negative images of women that are bombarded at my son via social media and music videos.

I feel confident that having a strong and independent female role model will provide a solid foundation on which Junior can build his understanding of the world and his respect for women.

Effort is the best indicator of interest. When someone truly cares they will make an effort, not an excuse.

There is such a thing as too little too late.

The best thing about the worst time of your life is finding out who really cares about you. Value those who go out of their way to make sure you are okay.

Sometimes a long, tight hug is the only thing that'll help.

The strength of a family, like the strength of an army, is in its loyalty to each other. My son has my back and that means more to me than anything.

"Stop being mean about my Mum! She's awesome."

"Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough!"

It has been vital to keep the lines of communication with my son open at all times. I have had to learn to be completely un-shockable! A good sense of humour has helped with this. At this juncture I am my son’s first and only port of call when it comes to sensitive issues so he must know he can come to me with any worries or problems at any time.

I have had to learn to be gentle with myself. My son is loved. Tremendously. I would give my last breath so that he could have one more. He knows that.

My child is safe, healthy, happy, confident, hilarious, clever, kind, sensitive and intuitive. I made that happen.

Too many grown-ups demand unconditional respect from their children without taking the time to observe and learn from them. Often it’s the children who need love the most that will ask for it in the most unloving of ways. Children often communicate in quiet ways. If you don’t understand their silence, how can you possibly understand their words? It is a wise parent who knows their child.

Some mornings all I want to do is pull the duvet over my head and there have been nights when I have cried myself to sleep under the sheer weight of responsibility. Sometimes I look around frantically for an adult only to realise I am that adult. Being a parent is physically and emotionally draining, being a single parent is double that work.

Weight of the world...

It is frighteningly easy to get into a spiral of self-neglect. The daily grind for single parents can be exhausting and all consuming. Often we are so busy managing the practical aspects of single parenthood alongside work/home-life that making it through the day is nothing short of excruciating. A 6am rise, breakfast, packed lunches, clearing away, the school run, a day at work, meetings, appointments, pick-ups, drop offs, ferrying to clubs, help with homework, housework, cooking, cleaning, washing, ironing, shopping, a motorway of information to cope with, squeezing in some ‘me’ time (which usually involves more work from home) before collapsing into bed exhausted at 11pm.

Exhausted Mama Bear

It’s no surprise that a recent study showed that single mothers are at greater risk of poor health in later life. I have had to learn that caring for myself is not self-indulgent, it is an act of survival.

Yoga Bear

Getting ill is pretty catastrophic when you’re a single parent. There is nothing harder than having to take care of a child when you are the one needing cared for. My default position has always been “I haven’t got time to be ill” but battling through an illness can lead to sheer exhaustion and periods where you shake off one thing only to be hit by another. You can’t call in sick for single parenthood. The show must go on.

You need to take responsibility for your own happiness. One of the scariest moments I remember in my single parent journey was realising that nobody else could make things better; the only person who could save me was me.

I found small, appropriate ways of rewarding myself as regularly as I could. It is important to be kind to yourself.

This also means finding healthy boundaries. Saying "no" without feeling guilty, saying "yes" because you want to, asking for help, staying strong to your values and beliefs, not feeling responsible for other people's happiness, being in tune with your feelings, knowing who you are and what you like, clearing out clutter (physical and emotional), pursuing a hobby, prioritising, slowing down, stepping out of your comfort zone, embracing your mistakes, laughing, making new friends, re-connecting with old friends, withdrawing from people if you need to, creating something, appreciating what you have, writing down your successes. The list is endless.

It’s a lot of fun being the only female at traditionally male dominated events. One particularly fond memory I have is being the only mum in the football stands, eating hot chips from a paper cone as we cheered on the losing team in the wind and rain.

It's not as much fun cheering on your son's team in blizzard conditions, especially when you realise it's your turn to wash eleven muddy strips at the end of the game.

I am now familiar with the off-side rule, how much Gareth Bale is worth, that Paul Pogba invented the most famous football celebration and that Zlatan Ibrahimovic has played for over five clubs. I know the terms Nutmeg, Stepover, Drag Back and Rabona and I am a dab hand at dabbing.

Oh, and I'm pretty mean in goals.

There is still a huge amount of stigma attached to lone parents. The unique brand of vitriol aimed at single mothers is often so cruel and misguided that I find it unbearable to listen to it. Channel Five and ‘Take a Break’ magazine have a lot to answer for.

Ignorance is almost as unbearable as stigma. Get your facts straight folks! It is a constant battle trying to prove society wrong but this challenge has made me stronger and more determined.

Time proves everything.

Celebrate every tiny victory.

I will not allow my son to become a statistic. Our family is NOT broken despite what the Tory party and tabloids would have you believe.

Families come in all shapes and sizes

I love the family I have made, the home I have built and the kind of mum I have become. The journey that requires the strength of two is carried on the shoulders of one but I have VERY strong shoulders.

I try my best not to judge other parents and I avoid comparing myself to them either. This is my journey, I will do it my way.

I only have to look at the people who are trapped in miserable relationships to know I am in the right place.

When I have bad days I remember that I am stronger than I feel in that moment. A bad day does not mean a bad life. Each new day is the chance for a new beginning.

Some things are inextricably linked to memory. For example I only have to hear the theme tune for ‘Balamory’ to instantly be transported back to those lonely, grim early days of single parenthood. No amount of Miss Hoolie's sunny cheer and relentless positivity would have pulled me from the dark hole I was in at that time.

The sound of Formula One brings me out in a cold sweat and I cannot listen to Coldplay’s X+Y album. No offence, Chris Martin but it literally makes me feel sick.

There should be no such word as ‘sacrifice’ when it comes to children. I never signed up to be a single parent but I DID choose to be a mum – the best mum I could possibly be. Many other things have had to go on hold as a result of my circumstances but I have accepted this and would not change my life for the world. Junior has never been an inconvenience or a burden to me.

What is best for the child is rarely what is most convenient for the parent. But being a parent is never about doing what is easy! It’s about doing what is best for the child regardless of what that costs you personally. For the single parent multiply this by ten.

Actions speak a whole lot louder than words.

My son is not a replica of me and nor should I expect him to be. I don’t impose on him my own hopes and aspirations because he is an individual; a human being in his own right. Everything I find terrifying, he finds brilliant and vice versa. His favourite subjects are maths and P.E, the two I failed most drastically at. I stopped trying to fathom where these qualities came from and I no longer worry that I brought the wrong baby home. I cherish our differences and marvel at the fantastic young man who is growing in front of my eyes.

Just when I think my son is nothing like me I witness his gentle nature with animals, see him come alive around music, get angry about injustice or inequality or find myself on the receiving end of his caustic wit. It’s in those moments I think to myself, “Aha. There I am.” It is both terrifying and exciting to find parts of yourself in someone else.

No-one makes me laugh like Junior. My son and I share the exact same sense of humour which has helped to seal our remarkable bond over the years. I love him not only for who he is, but for who I am when I am with him.

"And if the homework brings you down then we'll throw it on the fire and take the car downtown..."

I am connected to my son, no matter where he is.

I avoid putting pressure on Junior to be the ‘man of the house’ but there are times when he makes me feel like the child in our relationship. He prefers to have the music down a notch when I’m driving and tells me off for using fruity language. He won’t let me get a tattoo.

Sensible or not, Junior is an adventurous extrovert, prone to leaping before he looks. Like most good mums I come out in a cold sweat at the mere mention of balconies, diving boards, motorbikes and rivers...

"Can't look"

...I also suspect the sensible part of his brain may take a sabbatical when girls come onto the scene.

It would appear the way to a man’s heart is not through being a single mum, which is sad when you consider our unique set of skills, superhuman abilities and general awesomeness.

Compliments go a long way, especially when they are heartfelt and sincere. The simple ones mean the most. Single parents underestimate themselves so much that when people compliment them on the wonderful job they're doing it can feel like winning the lottery. I have been known to burst into tears when someone says something nice to me.

I'm still learning. I am a work in progress.

No matter how much I sucked at parenting today, someone else sucked more.

I am incredibly, unbelievably, spectacularly, lucky.

Nobody can do the job of raising my son like I can.

A simple thank you would have gone a very long way.

"You're welcome!"

Being a single parent is double the work, double the stress, double the tears and double the responsibility…

…But it is also double the love. And in the end love is enough.

For my darling boy.

Once upon a time you were only a wish.

I carried you in my pocket every day.

No-one knew you were there.

Sometimes I dared to reach in and touch you.

I hung wishes on you like you were a star.

You were the centre of my every hope and dream.

I was patient and I never stopped believing in you.

So if you ever feel lost or unworthy,

Unwanted or doubting your value,

Remember you existed for me even before you were real.

The thought of you roared louder than my demons.
You kept me alive.
I would miss you even if we had never met.

You have fire in your veins, love in your heart and the whole world under your feet.

Know who you are and know that it is enough.

You are a star and you were born to shine.

Go out there and do amazing things.

I love you.

"Perhaps Love" by John Denver and Placido Domingo
"If I should live forever and all my dreams come true, my memories of love will be of you."

Pumpkin Fail and a Nice Day Out

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Mon, 19 Oct 2015 16:36:00 +0000

Okay, I could lie and say that this was the result of many months of nurturing, tender loving care and quiet anticipation...

Wowzers!

But I don't like porkies so this is the honest truth. The seed packet promised breath-takingly juicy, giant pumpkins in perfect time for Halloween. This is what I got...

Alan Titchmarsh must be quaking in his wellies

I tried really hard. Honest. I even dug out my flared dungarees and knitted sweater so I could fulfil my fantasy of being Barbara Good. But I've never been very green fingered, so what promised to be an encouraging start back in April...

Little pumpkin seedlings enjoying a warm windowsill

And through the Summer months...

...sadly resulted in a less than impressive 'crop' of one pimple sized pumpkin. I'm not sure what went so disastrously wrong but I'm quite sure the fat slugs and snails could provide the answer if they stopped chomping on my vegetation long enough to tell me.

So, it was with a heavy heart that I came to terms with the fact that there would be no homegrown pumpkins from which to create some delicious recipes to accompany Bree McCready and the Realm of the Lost.

Sandy and Honey's pumpkins turned out better than mine!

My stint at The Good Life taught me something.

Gardening is like life.

You have to be very patient, you have to get your hands dirty and you must deal with things that are out of your control. You need to be willing to put in rather a lot of effort even though the results might leave you frustrated and disappointed. The pleasure is very much in the process and not in the end result and ultimately you have to sometimes admit defeat and move on.

So, that's what I did.

All was not lost because my pumpkin fail provided the perfect opportunity for a nice day out with Junior. My plan had been to make Pumpkin and Lentil soup over on the Bake With Bree blog. I had all the ingredients I required except for the pumpkin, which, let's face it is a pretty important component for pumpkin soup.

I knew the perfect substitute for homegrown was tinned and the only place I have ever been able to source good quality, organic pumpkin is Real Foods. They do Libby's and it's perfectly yum.

I've used this before in my Pumpkin Pie so I knew it would also work well in my soup.

Now, it just so happens that Real Foods is situated across the road from "Our Special Cafe". We don't often go there as it involves a car and a tram ride but it was the last day of the October break so it felt right to kill two birds with one stone.

This is our special cafe...

Junior and I have had some lovely times at Cafe Nom de Plume. The atmosphere is great because it feels like sitting in someone's living room. You always get service with a smile. Good memories have been made here. I used to live in this part of the world so it's nice to visit again and show Junior where I spent my misspent youth.

Junior had the garlic bread with cheese (and brown sauce) and a raspberry milkshake...

I had a latte and a gingerbread cookie.

A day out at Cafe Nom de Plume (which incidentally means 'pen name' - a pseudonym adopted by an author) would not be complete without indulging in the gigantic bowl of popcorn and paprika. Junior has it every time.

Here it is, a mountain of warm, salty popped corn.

I'll never manage all of that!


Fine, I'll give it a try then.

Taking a break halfway through for some hydration

Finally making a dent!

I can't manage another...single...piece...

On the way home I set Junior a challenge. Every time he spotted a pumpkin I would stop and take a picture. They were quite literally everywhere!

Lovely window display

Outside Real Foods

Pumpkins with an...erm, Christmas twist

Pumpkin overload

A pumpkin for a Munchkin

Literally a Munchkin Pumpkin

So it seems this is the perfect time to make Pumpkin and Lentil Soup. And very delicious it was too. Click here to get the recipe over on my Bake With Bree blog.

Thanks, Junior for making the day so special. This is for you...

Sometimes I find it hard to believe I got something so incredibly right. I guess my boy is proof that I can grow and nurture something pretty spectacular. Single handedly, all by myself I have produced a perfect little pumpkin X

Life's a Beach!

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Thu, 16 Jul 2015 17:34:00 +0000

It was a typical Scottish day at the beach. We arrived there equipped with suncream, picnic blankets and sunglasses but ended up sheltering under a huge golfing umbrella, forced to eat our picnic under an itchy blanket in the car with the heater on full blast! Still, the kids had an absolute ball and swam in the waves despite the freezing temperatures. The sun even came out for a short while in the afternoon, warming our skin and allowing us to enjoy an ice cream on a bench. It was the kind of day where memories are made.

As we strolled along the sand I stopped briefly to write a message using the metal tip of the umbrella - BAKEWITHBREE - well, someone might've spotted it before the tide washed it away. Promotion doesn't stop, even on a family day out. My niece took it one step further, adding - GO AND SEARCH IT ON GOOGLE by HAZEL ALLAN. It took her ages and I was really touched by her dedication to the cause.

She pointed out the pawprint dot above the letter 'i' which was completely unintentional but cute nevertheless.

I think we took most of Gullane beach home with us. Judging by the amount of sand in the boot of the car and in the shower tray I am surprised there was any left at all on the beach! We all had weather beaten cheeks and by 6 o'clock my niece's legs had turned from blue to healthy pink and my old Dad was spark out on the recliner. Smiles all round.

Topics and Treats

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Sun, 05 Jul 2015 11:30:00 +0000

Click here...

I've decided I'd like to branch out and add to my skills as an author/presenter! I am now available for baking/storytelling/arts and craft workshops in Edinburgh and the surrounding areas. I am prepared to travel a bit further and this would be reflected in the price.

The idea is to combine my skills as a writer, Mum and Early Years Educator to bring classroom themes to life through the medium of baking, rhymes, songs and arts and craft activities. By blending my passion for storytelling, literature, education and food I believe I can bring a unique and dynamic spin to classroom learning.

I have an A-Z of themed ideas, ranging from Animals, Christmas, Butterflies and Fireworks to Road Safety, Vikings, Weather and the Zoo! These themes are added to on a daily basis and are always child centred, fun and educational. With my expertise, creative flair and catalogue of good ideas I will be able to adapt and extend any theme to suit any classroom or nursery environment.

All baking ingredients will be supplied so all that I require is a suitable, clean space to bake, a cooker/oven and some enthusiastic children! I cover all ages from babies to teens (adults too), tweaking recipes to ensure they are age appropriate and suited to the learning needs of the children. I am happy to work in private childcare or council schools/nurseries. I am Live Literature funded through The Scottish Book Trust.

Children benefit from baking in many ways:

Not only are you offering them lots of fun while they create something amazing but you're also teaching them science, laying down some basic maths and reading skills, building confidence and creativity, giving them a sense of control and accomplishment, enhancing vocabulary, fostering social and important life skills AND providing them with an important introduction to health and safety.

Phew!

Who would have thought baking cakes could be so educational and rewarding?

A typical "Topics and Treats" session would take place during a morning or afternoon session (maximum 2 hours but I can be flexible) and would cost in the region of £100-£150, depending on time, travelling, resources, materials and planning. This is in line with the Scottish Book Trust and Society of Authors rates of £150 per 1 hour session.

The session would ideally start with a 'sit on the carpet' introduction and a stimulating but controlled discussion. I would then read a story or poem - I'm an expert in the art of keeping little ones focussed and I am also skilled at facilitating discussion with any age group. I will sometimes read books by other authors but if I can't find a suitable story to fit the theme I also enjoy writing my own.

Staff can then select a smaller group of children to come and bake. Staff can discuss with me prior to my arrival (via email) how many children I will be working with, any special arrangements or dietary requirements and whether there is a particular focus of my visit - for example weighing or texture. I could also prepare some name labels in advance so every child has their name on show - this helps me but also ensures the children feel relaxed and valued.

I am extremely organised and will come prepared with ingredients, some equipment and materials and a laminated recipe card to make things attractive and as easy as possible for the children to follow instructions.

After a tidy up and while we wait for any cakes to bake we can either go back to the carpet for another story or a sing song, which would be tied in with the theme. Sometimes I will bring along props, like puppets. Depending on how long the session is we could also do an art and craft activity.

Here is an example of a typical session for nursery aged children

The theme is Minibeasts or Halloween.

The children have expressed an interest in spiders and you would like me to visit your nursery to read some stories and make something nice with them.

When I arrive we all gather together on the carpet for a relaxed introduction and I read 'Aaaarrgghh, Spider!' - a "rip-roaring, shout-aloud picture book about a spider who wants to be the family pet". I also like to write my own stories and often enjoy storytelling as an alternative to reading from a book.

Staff then select a smaller group of children to come and bake. A maximum of 5 or 6 children would be best but we can discuss this prior to my arrival.

We make Incy Wincy Delights or if you'd prefer we could make a healthy Spider Pizza using vegetables. It's always nice to make enough to share with the other children.

After the baking session we gather together again to sing some songs or if there is time we could do a simple art and craft activity - making spider puppets for example.

This is simply an example. I am happy to take the lead but I am equally happy to discuss in an email prior to my visit what you would prefer me to focus on.

Sound good?

I have 20+ years experience of working with children of varying ages and abilities. I have vast experience working with challenging behaviour. I have an N.N.E.B qualification in Child Care and Education and a BA Degree in Community Education. I currently work in the Learning Support department at a busy Edinburgh school. I am PVG registered.

In addition to my career in education I am a published author with three acclaimed children's novels.

CLICK HERE FOR SOME INFO FROM MY PUBLISHER

I have a passion for literacy and creating good quality, exciting stories for young children. I thoroughly enjoy encouraging language and communication development through books and stories. Being a children’s author has not only offered me a keen insight into what young people look for in fiction but has also given me a passion and determination to reach children who might otherwise approach reading and writing in a reluctant way. I regularly visit schools where I talk to young people about my love of words and my life as an author. I have been invited to speak at many literary events, including the Edinburgh International Book Festival. I have also devised Teaching Packs to accompany my novels.

Baking is my other passion. I love food almost as much as I love books!

Making learning fun. It's what I know, it's what I live, it's what I'm good at.

So, if you are interested in me visiting your establishment then drop me an email at hazel1allan@btinternet.com

I promise you won't be disappointed.

Incy Wincy Delights

Click her for Flipagram recipe

Some very simple ingredients. This is a no-bake recipe, suitable for very young children. The only 'cooking' involved is melting the chocolate!

I used a mixture of Original Oreos and Chocolate Creme flavour. Smarties are good for eyes but you could also use Skittles, white buttons or M&M's. Not the healthiest recipe ever created but what is Halloween all about if it's not about eating sweets? Everything in moderation, that's my motto.

Melt 200g of Milk Chocolate over a simmering pan. Be careful not to let any of the water touch the chocolate as this will ruin it.

Twist the Oreos apart. This can be quite tricky for little ones and they'll probably need a bit of help to avoid their biscuit getting broken. We don't want any tears!

Lay out the bowl of melted chocolate and plate of sprinkles on the table.

Let the children choose their biscuit and then spoon a teaspoon of melted chocolate onto one half. This will be messy...and FUN!

The children then take a Cola lace and carefully cut it in half and then half again so they end up with four pieces. This is a brilliant opportunity to do some counting and talk about measuring and basic fractions. Great chance to introduce simple mathematical vocabulary - Half, quarter, four equal lengths, measure etc.

Show the children how to lay the four pieces of Cola Lace across the centre of the body of the spider. This would be a great time to discuss how many legs a spider has and another ideal opportunity for counting.

Gently replace the top half of the Oreo biscuit, pressing lightly so the chocolate squishes everything together.

Spoon another small amount of chocolate onto the top of the spider's body and follow this with a good scattering of chocolate sprinkles. This is where the fine motor skills and hand-eye co-ordination comes in.

The main body of Incy Wincy is now complete and all that's left is to decorate his face. You can do this any way you like. I chose Smarties and black writing icing for the eyes, and a jelly diamond cut in half for the mouth. Tiny strawberry lace pieces also make good mouths as you can shape them any way you like.

Incy Wincy Spider - ready to gobble up. YUM!

The little 'web' Oreos are a nice addition and use up any leftover chocolate (if it hasn't already all been scoffed!). Easy peasy - just spoon a little chocolate over the top of an Oreo biscuit, draw four circles of white writing icing, one inside the other and then use a cocktail stick to draw six evenly spaced lines from the centre of the biscuit to the outside edge giving the effect of a spider's web.

Don't worry, we're friendly!

Wriggle, jiggle, tickle!

A plateful of Incy Wincy Delights and web Oreos. Perfect for a spooky Halloween or minibeast theme.

Love and sticky fingers, Hazel X

Bake With Bree - My New Blog!

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Tue, 19 May 2015 17:51:00 +0000

Introducing my new blog!

Bake With Bree

A Collection of Recipes to Accompany the Bree McCready Book Series

I like making things. Whether that’s stories, cakes or drama it is something that’s been in me from day one. And I like to think my handsome, clever son is the perfect evidence of my creative skills.

Baking and writing are really not that different. Both require some carefully measured organisation, a generous spoonful of inspiration and a sprinkling of patience. Both can be messy and time consuming and sometimes both can go spectacularly wrong. But ultimately both can result in a wonderful feeling of accomplishment, a perfect moment when you step back with dishevelled hair, sweaty brow and tear stained cheeks to admire the results of your hard work. It’s easy to compare the process of baking a batch of cupcakes with writing the first chapter of a novel. Firstly you must gather together some essential ingredients – character, plot, conflict, resolution (or flour, sugar, butter and eggs) - throw them together, tweak, alter, add a pinch of this and a pinch of that and then wait for everything to come together to form one perfect product.

Combining my passion for writing with my love of food has been an exciting and enjoyable venture. I always knew I would incorporate recipes into the Bree novels, not simply because I love food but also because it helped to bring the stories to life and give a different dimension to my descriptive writing. I found the warm, fruity aroma of Castle Zarcalat Scones helped me to better visualise the dark confines of Don’s castle chamber and when I tried my Honeypops for the first time the tingle of space dust on my tongue really helped to connect me with the wacky, sassy side of Honey Pizazz. The books are set during different seasons and the recipe ideas have reflected this – whether it’s the waft of spicy apple squares on a chilly Autumn morning in Bree McCready and the Realm of the Lost or the thick icing dripping down the sides of Mrs Matlow’s Christmas Cookies in Bree McCready and the Half Heart Locket. The zingy taste of Lemonade Lovelies never fails to transport me up onto Bree’s rooftop garden on a scorching afternoon with Madeleine McCready serving up ice cold lemonade as the trio enjoy a lazy summer in Bree McCready and the Flame of Irenus.

Lemonade Lovelies

Baking and writing have offered me the perfect outlet over the years, a way of escaping some difficult times. I have a reputation for completely immersing myself in any project I take on and I find that while I’m busy making and baking there simply isn't any space left in my head for the other stuff that weighs me down. I am completely and utterly in the moment which, according to Buddha and the Dalai Lama, is a very good place to be. When I slide my baking equipment out of the cupboard I can squeeze my stress and worries into the space left behind and firmly shut the door. They don’t shrink or disappear but I do get to forget about them for a while. Rolling, sifting, kneading and stirring are therapeutic in much the same way as scribbling, typing, cutting and pasting are. Granted, there are a few more calories involved but nobody is forcing me to swallow my creations, tempting as it may be. Treats are nice but it’s the added joy of serving them up to others that’s the real cherry on top of the cake. There are always plenty of willing volunteers on hand to provide feedback. It feels like I’m giving away a little slice of myself every time I present my baking for someone else to enjoy. Food and love are so closely intertwined and giving pleasure to others leaves me with a warm, fuzzy feeling that money can’t buy. I especially love watching my son bite into one of my culinary creations, waiting for that moment when his eyes roll, followed by a long “Mmmm” of appreciation as he licks his fingers and scrapes the plate for every last crumb.

Perhaps one day (I can live in hope) he will devour my books with a similar enthusiasm.

So, off I trot on this new and very delicious adventure. I hope you enjoy the recipes in the Bake With Bree blog as much as I have enjoyed putting them together. Please feel free to email any questions or comments (positive or otherwise) to bakingwithbree@gmail.com I’m always open to constructive feedback about my books or my baking.

So, get messy, lick the spoon and bring the world of Bree to life!

Love and sticky fingers,

Hazel x

Ice-Cream and Goosebumps

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Fri, 04 Jul 2014 17:54:00 +0000

To mark the end of the first week of the summer holidays I decided to take Junior on a tour of our home town. I’m so painfully aware that time is slipping through my fingers and I want to relish the moments we share as best buddies before he leaps into the realm of high school. So we headed for the bus laden with rucksacks full of picnic goodies, cagoules, sunglasses and umbrellas. I’m quite sure only Scottish people carry something for every season in their bags.

Up the back of the bus like the cool kids

One of the things I really wanted to do this year was to go on the open top bus tour which travels around the sights of Edinburgh, old and new. Our favourite was definitely the Old Town as there were far more gruesome tales to be told from that part of the city. As we travelled through the Cowgate we heard the story of Burke and Hare - a definite favourite for gore hungry 10 year old boys. We passed a pub called the Burke and Hare which, rather surprisingly, has very little to do with the murdering Irishmen from 19^th century Auld Reekie.

“On the right you will see an establishment named after the infamous Burke and Hare,” explained our friendly tour guide, probably for the umpteenth time this week.

Heads swung to the right and cameras clicked furiously.

“You may notice that this particular establishment caters for anatomy of a different kind.”

There were gasps as tourists caught sight of the sign, complete with writhing shadow women advertising lap dancing, pole dancing and stripping.

“What’s pole dancing?” asked Junior as the bus continued its journey through the Grassmarket.

“Erm. Well…” I stammered. “It’s when ladies take their clothes off and swing around a pole for entertainment.”

It took a moment for the penny to drop but when it did Junior’s eyes lit up.

“Is that part of the tour?”

We hopped off the bus at the Museum of Childhood on the Royal Mile, a favourite place from my own childhood. It was nice for Junior to learn about toys and games from a time before consoles and social media.

We stopped for some fun at the Bubbleparc and Bungeedome which is located on the rooftop of Princes Mall. It all made me feel a little squeamish and I was glad we hadn't chosen to do this just after our enormous picnic!

Boing!

The Boy in the Bubble

Wheee!

We took a stroll through Princes Street gardens where we fed some noisy seagulls and played under the tree which inspired me to write about Bree McCready’s first date with Adam Eastbough (you can read the excerpt below if you want to.)

Later, we bought Mr Whippy ice-cream and huddled together in the wind to watch a live band play to a gathering crowd on The Mound.

Children danced and people clapped enthusiastically despite the drizzle. I think that’s one of my favourite things about the Scottish Summer. Where else on earth would you find the perfect combination of ice-cream and goosebumps?

It was a pretty perfect day, right down to our chance meeting with a good friend and her lovely boys at a pedestrian crossing at the West End.

On the way home, both exhausted and windswept, Junior cracked open a can of Irn Bru.

“This is the best invention to come out of Scotland,” he announced proudly before taking a swig.

“Really?!” I replied. “Did you not learn anything from our open top bus tour? What about the telephone, chloroform, Harry Potter? Go on, tell me one more amazing thing to have come from Edinburgh.”

Junior thought about this carefully before his face broke into a wide grin.

“I know!” he said smugly. “Pole dancing!”

Thanks for a great day, Junior. You are and will always be my best bud X

Excerpt from Chapter 21 of Bree McCready and the Realm of the Lost (Book 3 in the Bree series)

“Bree knew she was dreaming. A snapshot of the happiest day of her life; her first date with Adam. The first flush of spring meant it had been warm enough to wear T-shirts with no coats. They had browsed some gift stalls and then stopped for a picnic in the city gardens. The thunder had been unexpected and they had had just enough time to pack away the food before the rain came, great drops that made everything look fresh and green. Adam had grabbed her hand and they had run together, splashing through puddles and laughing. They sheltered under the lowest branches of a spreading oak tree where the air took on a different quality. Adam’s fingertips had grazed her hand lightly….

Bree's tree. Probably not an Oak.

Banana Turd

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Mon, 05 May 2014 11:38:00 +0000

"There is a garden in every childhood, an enchanted place where colours are brighter, the air softer, and the morning more fragrant than ever again. ~Elizabeth Lawrence

Staring down at the neglected, brown-speckled banana on the worktop I had a sudden brainwave.

I remembered a recipe from three decades ago, one I last attempted in a muddy field in 1979. The Brownies were well known for inventing ‘recipes’ that could utilise the bonfire. Of course there were the obligatory ‘Marshmallows on Sticks’ but our troop was much more creative than that. Necessity is, after all, the Mother of Invention. One bright spark came up with the idea of gripping the edge of an empty apple pie tray with a clothes peg and using this miniature frying pan to cook pancake batter over an open fire. There were a few blistered fingers and tears before we realised it would be better using wooden pegs rather than plastic ones but our injuries never put us off continually striving to find the perfect edible outdoor creation. For us, this came in the form of Baked Chocolate Bananas. A basic recipe, this involved cutting a banana lengthways, slotting in a Cadbury’s Flake then wrapping the whole thing up tightly inside a tinfoil parcel. We’d then chuck these on the fire and wait, making sure not to take our eyes off which particular creation was ours, nestled amongst the other hundreds of silver parcels. The excitement and anticipation was intolerable.

So, keen to relive my youth, I informed Junior that we were going to try the recipe out. He wasn’t convinced when he saw me brandishing the unloved banana but when he heard there was chocolate involved his enthusiasm grew tenfold. We didn’t have a Flake but there was plenty of leftover Easter chocolate so we opted for the next best thing, a Galaxy Ripple.

Now, I’m definitely one for tweaking recipes, forever adding a squirt of this and a pinch of that to the list of standard ingredients, so I decided for this timeless delight a nice addition would be a drizzle of Maple Syrup.

When we'd finished constructing things Junior carefully wrapped the sweet delight inside the foil and I slid it into the hot oven – the closet thing we had to a hand built bonfire. As we waited, I resisted the urge to break into a rendition of Ging Gang Goolie, opting instead to tidy away the breakfast dishes.

As the smell of cooking banana and melting chocolate wafted out from the oven I was transported back to that muddy field, rain tic-ticking off my red cagoule, breath pluming in the cold air, warming stiff fingers near the flames as I willed the chocolate to melt as quickly as it could. I remembered dodging the sparks from the fire as they drifted through the air like fireflies. These are the kind of magical moments I like to share with Junior, who is still unconvinced I had a life before he came along.

I could barely contain my excitement as we sat at the table and carefully unwrapped the hot foil to reveal the treasure inside. Baby, our greedy cat, licked his lips in anticipation. Spoons at the ready we pulled the foil aside and a hot plume of sweet steam escaped. We looked down at the mixture of black banana skin, chocolate and melted syrup. The Ripple had somehow managed to retain its shape, only now it had a glossy sheen to it.

“Ew! It looks like a giant turd swimming in olive oil!” shrieked Junior, his face contorting with disgust.

My heart sank. He was right. This alien object would not have looked out of place in the cat tray. Perhaps the Maple Syrup had been one step too far.

“Oh. It’s not how I remember it,” I said, genuinely saddened.

Baby looked down with pure disgust before skulking away. For a cat that will eat anything, a creature that is partial to licking his bum for long periods of time, this really spoke volumes.

Junior dropped his spoon and folded his arms.

“There is no way I’m eating that.”

I totally agreed but I was not ready to back down. My boy needed to toughen up.

“Listen matey,” I said sternly, “when you’re stuck in a marshy field in the middle of nowhere with the rain pelting down around you, when you’re homesick and smelly and you have wet feet cause your wellies are full of holes, when the wind is blowing your tent away and you’re dreading going to bed because someone has put jelly in your sleeping bag, THIS is heaven!”

Junior looked dubiously at the sticky slop spreading out across the plate.

“I think you had to be there, Mum.”

And you probably did.

Tonight I came across...

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Mon, 03 Feb 2014 19:12:00 +0000

...this diary entry from October 19^th 1985 (age 14)

I feared the darkness as a kid

Behind the curtains terror hid

The wardrobe creaked, the floorboards cracked

The shadows ready to attack.

And then he came, The Bogeyman

His icy breath upon my palm

A whisper crawled inside my ear

Coiling, twisting pioneer

And with it came a solitude

A certainty of nothing good

A layer of frost across my skin

A thread of crimson dread was spin.

And then he’d slither out again

His tapestry left in my brain.

Wow, I thought, that's pretty impressive, I don't remember being that cool. I must've been going through my Smiths/Joy Division phase.

Then I flipped a few pages to Tuesday 22nd October 1985. A hastily scribbled felt-tip heart leaps off the page.

Inside it reads,

"Saw A in the canteen at lunchtime. He was eating chips and custard. His hair is so gorgeous. I will die if he doesn't notice me soon."

So, not so cool after all. What's worse is I have absolutely no recollection of who A was.

This song was Number One when I wrote that diary entry. It felt like it dominated the charts for about 20 years but it was only 5 weeks - which I suppose is a lifetime for a moody 14 year old. The opening bars still bring me out in a sweat as they transport me back to those awful school discos where the aroma of Impulse spray combined with the heady scent of teenage desperation was thick enough to choke on and where geeky, awkward, misunderstood teenage girls inevitably (to paraphrase one of my favourite songs) left on their own, got home, cried and wanted to die.

The Day the Music Changed the World.

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Thu, 30 Jan 2014 22:16:00 +0000

My bedroom door opens and light floods in from the hallway. I pull my pillow over my head but it’s not enough to drown out Dad singing Karma Chameleon. Or trying to. I fear I may cringe myself to death.

I’m already regretting this. I was, after all, only trying to prove a point; attempting to show the world that I’d made a serious choice and that nothing was going to make me look at another piece of meat again as long as I lived. Not even a snog with Nik Kershaw.

Surely it’s still the middle of the night? It’s dark, my duvet is warm and my eyelids are sealed shut but I can smell toast and there’s some awful music coming from the bathroom. Dad puts a plate on my bedside table and pulls back the curtains to look out into the street. The van will be here soon to take me to Govan. The way I’m feeling, it might as well be Australia. I’ve never been further than the school bus route and I once got homesick at Brownie camp, which was held in the field behind my house. Slowly, I sit up and put on my best pained expression. I consider playing the illness card but I know all I’ll get is a boring lecture about choices and commitments and how Dad spent his childhood down pits or up chimneys or something. I reach for the toast.

Today is July 13^th 1985 and I’m going to be working a nine hour shift on a butcher van in stifling heat. Meat is Murder says Morrissey on the cover of this week’s Smash Hits. I try to ignore the thought that I would gladly scoff a sausage roll for another half hour in bed.

“This is child cruelty,” I mutter, biting through a thick layer of Marmalade.

Dad laughs.

“When I was your age I had already left school and was working down the pits!”

Here we go.

“Twelve hour shifts in pitch blackness. Kids your age lost limbs down there. This is character building. Think of the tenner you’ll have in your pocket at the end of the day. It would’ve taken me two weeks of hard graft to earn that.”

How could an ancient old fogey possibly understand the importance of today? Dad tries to be cool by asking my friends if they like Ultra-box or Atom Ant and he doesn’t even know who George Michael is despite me having a gazillion posters of him all over my walls. I glance at the one next to my head, the dog-eared centrefold that’s covered with lip-gloss prints of my lips.

Oh, George. One day you will be mine.

“You’re the one who wants to be a vegetarian, Hazel,” says Dad in his told-you-so voice, “and we told you, if you want to eat differently from the rest of the family, you’ll have to buy your own food. So you’d better get up and start earning. You can watch the concert tonight.”

My stomach clenches. Life is so unfair.

“If I miss George Michael I’ll kill myself. Then you’ll be sorry.”

“Is that the weirdo who looks like a girl?”

Give me strength!

“That’s Boy George, Dad.”

“They all look the same to me. Men with make-up and dresses! What next?”

He leaves me alone and I nibble on my toast, half asleep and drowning in misery.

They’re billing Live Aid as The Biggest Show on Earth, The Global Jukebox. Everyone will be talking about it tomorrow but I’ll have to say I missed it because I was catching lamb chops at the bottom of a blood-stained chute. My sister, who works on the van every Saturday, has filled me in on all the gory details. The guys will make rude jokes all the way to Glasgow, jokes I won’t understand but will laugh along with anyway. They’ll offer me cigarettes and make fun of my brace. Then I’ll spend the day wrapping chunks of dead animal in polythene before handing them out to a greedy, rowdy crowd who speak a different language to me. My sister once caught a whole pig’s head. It came flying down the chute towards her with its mouth gaping open and beady eyes staring up at her. And my parents wonder why I’ve turned vegetarian!

I hear them out on the landing talking about Spandex Ballet.

Please make them stop!

“I’ve laid out your thermals,” chirps Mum, as she comes in my room, arms filled with clean washing.

“It’s July, Mum! It’s supposed to be the hottest day of the year.”

I’m convinced if we were taking a family trip to Venus, Mum would pack the hot water bottles and the 15 tog duvets.

“You’re going through to Glasgow at six in the morning,” she continues, undeterred, “it’ll be freezing. You’ll be grateful for those Long Johns, trust me. You might want to hurry up with that toast.”

Tears prick my eyes and I blink them away.

“I wish I’d never said I’d do this stupid job!”

She sits on the bed, tilts her head and sighs.

“Why can’t I have a normal daughter?" she asks softly. "Most teenagers have a paper round or do a spot of babysitting for extra money. Not you. You work on a dodgy butcher van with a load of foul-mouthed louts. And you’re supposed to be a vegetarian! Why do you always have to do things differently? What about that nice Sharon McDuff?”

I knew Sharon bloody McDuff would pop up at some point. You wouldn’t catch Sharon wearing Long Johns or coming home on a Saturday night with giblets in her raven hair.

“I heard she’s modelling jeans down at the outdoor market,” continues Mum, wistfully. “I bet she eats her mince and tatties without giving her Mum a hard time.”

I swallow a mouthful of toast. This isn’t fair! I’m trying my best here, trying, in some small way, to change the world. Why can nobody understand that?

“Mum, did you know that eighty percent of the starving population live in countries which export food for farmed animals. Ethiopia grows and exports crops for European livestock. Crops their people should be eating. If we all turned vegetarian there would be no need for Live Aid.”

She pats my leg and gives me that look; the look that says ‘how could I have given birth to such a freak?’

“Let’s not think about all that depressing stuff. That nice George Michael isn’t on stage till 8 o’clock tonight. I checked in the souvenir paper your Dad bought. He is a dish, isn’t he? George Michael, not your Dad!”

Under the duvet, my toes curl so much I feel the beginnings of cramp.

It’s going to be a long day....

Moody Me

Dangly earrings & Avon's Iced Champink lipstick were all the rage back then


The Global Jukebox

Watching

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Sun, 05 Jan 2014 17:45:00 +0000

“They sat together in the park
As the evening sky grew dark
She looked at him and he felt a spark tingle to his bones
‘Twas then he felt alone and wished that he’d gone straight
And watched out for a simple twist of fate.”

Bob Dylan

From the café I watch the street, waiting for you to appear. I promise myself that if I don’t see you I will give up – accept defeat and move on. It need only be a quick glimpse; your face in a bus window, the outline of you in a shop. I can’t be sure but it feels like our fate has already been decided.

My glasses steam up as I sip my tea and for a moment I panic that I might miss you. I hold the cup close to my face, careful not to breathe so hard that I create a cloud of steam for you to hide behind.

I wait for a long time. Twice I think I see you, both times my heart stops and my tongue slides involuntarily along my bottom lip. It wasn’t you but it helps to imagine that it was. I have played out the moment inside my mind so many times that I’m not sure if reality could match up. I realise how ridiculous I am being, how futile this hope is. But you have become my new disease; I cannot shake the feeling that it was not an accident that I found you.

I open my book, the one I carefully chose to help me appear aloof and intelligent; so confident was I that you would spy me in the window. My eyes scan the page but are quickly pulled back to the street. You may pass at any moment and I must catch your eye, throw you a smile that will stop you in your tracks; a smile that will make you change your mind. I practise the curve of my lips on an old man who has stopped on the other side of the glass. He smiles back and tips his head graciously. If only it could be this easy every time.

The waitress stops at my table and asks if I would like more tea. No thanks, I reply, hoping I don’t sound rude. She has stolen the attention that should be on the street. What if you chose this exact second to walk by? What if you passed the window when my eyes were on the book? What if you’re already walking down someone else’s street?

Fate is rarely kind, far from the romantic notion that some external force is controlling our destiny; that love and good fortune are written in the stars. Sometimes fate has a cruel sense of humour, offering us the perfect person with an impossible situation (or a perfect situation with an impossible person) and all too often fate can be a lonely café where the waitress appears at the wrong time to offer us something unwanted.

In the end we all watch and wait, hoping for guidance or a sign that will determine whether we continue or give up. Karma, Divine Providence, Kismet, Chance, Destiny, Serendipity – regardless of our beliefs, we all cling to something, choosing to accept that the merest coincidence is something more profound, finding significance in a moment that might otherwise slip our notice.

I didn’t see you today but that doesn’t mean I have given up hope that one day you will change your mind. Some things, no matter how unlikely, are just supposed to happen. I prefer to think of life like writing a novel. Every day we are faced with a blank sheet of paper and it is up to us what we write on it. Perhaps it was my fate that led me to you but it could just as easily have been my fat. What I do know is when we find something this important, someone we know we were designed to be with, they’re worth waiting for.

Even if that means forever.

Kindness is for life, not just for Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Thu, 19 Dec 2013 19:49:00 +0000

"Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around" Leo Buscaglia

Remember my blog post about Jim and Stella, the lovely old couple I met during rather unfortunate circumstances?

Today, Jim came into my work to deliver a Christmas card. Sadly, I was out at the time so I missed him but he stayed for a wee while and chatted with some of the Nursery staff. He still can't talk about what I did that day without getting emotional. I had absolutely no idea how much it meant to him that I helped Stella and it’s very touching to know that my small offering of kindness has gone so far, that one act of compassion could have had such an impact on two strangers' lives. I really didn’t really do much but it was enough that I cared.

Christmas is a time when we show love and compassion towards one another. It’s a time when even the most frozen heart can thaw, even if it’s only for a little while. I wonder why it is that we wait for this festive season to demonstrate that side of our nature. Wouldn’t it be lovely if everyone was like that all year round? I was not shocked to discover that two people walked past Stella that afternoon as she lay, shaking and bleeding in the road. However, not being shocked by such appalling behaviour is in itself shocking. How sad to think that we have come to expect so little from our fellow human beings, that it no longer comes as a surprise that some are capable of turning a blind eye to the worst suffering.

I know it’s a cliché but how wonderful it would be if we could only extend the love, forgiveness and compassion we feel during the Christmas period and to do it, not for reward or personal gain but simply because it was the right thing to do. It needn’t be a grand gesture that makes the difference, it could be something as small and as simple as a smile, a sympathetic ear or stopping when no-one else has.

Sometimes it feels like we live in a world full of people who couldn’t care less. Try being that person who couldn’t care more. Beginning now, treat everyone you meet as you would like to be treated; offer them all the love and empathy you can muster, spread it like gold dust and in doing so perhaps a little of that gold dust may cling to your hands.

I love this time of year partly because of the coloured lights, the chocolate and the exchange of presents but mostly I love it because it brings out the best in people. Christmas seems to wave a magic wand over everything, turning us into better versions of ourselves; it’s the time of year when people are reminded that they are here for something other than themselves. My wish is that we could bottle some of our festive spirit and sprinkle it liberally over things throughout the year. It's a schmultzy thing to say but this Christmas let us open our hearts as well as our presents. In the words of Charles Spurgeon, 'Carve your name on hearts, not on marble.'

Leave nothing behind but goodness, be kind, live well. Happy Christmas Xx

Just a Silly Phase I'm Going Through

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Sun, 08 Dec 2013 15:43:00 +0000

“Youth and regret, here alone. Bright and joyful celebration.”

What’s a girl to do? It’s the story of my life that I should develop a hopeless crush on someone who is totally uninterested in me. I wonder what the odds are of falling for someone who feels the same way back? Slim to zero I reckon. It’s a miracle that anyone should ever fall in love with anyone else. Surely we should all be single entities, floating around on a lonely planet, colliding occasionally but never actually connecting. In fact I’m beginning to think there’s more chance of my fridge sprouting wings and flying out the back door than me enjoying a mutual connection with someone nice.

It’s not a big deal. I’m fine on my own. Really. But I have to admit, it’s not like my hopeless crushes to last this long; normally they fizzle out when I realise they’re not going to go anywhere. But for some inexplicable reason I feel different this time. It’s hard waiting around for something that might never happen but a whole lot harder giving up on it when you know it could be something special.

A Daring Adventure

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Sat, 07 Dec 2013 22:42:00 +0000

“When I look back now over my life and call to mind what I might have had simply for taking and did not take, my heart is like to break.” ~William Hale White

Today the family watched my niece in her Christmas show. It was all very sweet but there were a few moments where I had to avoid eye contact with my sister for fear of us both sniggering like 12 year olds – you know that bubble of laughter that builds like gas inside your stomach before erupting at the most inappropriate moment? I had to swallow that down a few times during the hour. Some of the singing was buttock-clenchingly awful but as I sat there enduring the din I felt guilty about judging these kids. After all, at least they were up there giving it a go. You wouldn’t catch me singing on stage in front of a couple of hundred people unless there was copious amounts of red wine involved. So, bless their cotton socks, they were trying their best and nobody should ever be ridiculed for that. Furthermore, they looked like they were having the time of their life and let’s not forget, it’s not the winning but the taking part that matters.

When I think about myself as a youngster I feel sad that I never expressed my talents for fear of failure. Or lack of confidence. Or lack of encouragement. Or…who knows what? All I know is something prevented me from choosing the paths that might have taken me to great places. Frustratingly, I had it all inside me. I could’ve been a brilliant singer or actor. I was extremely creative and spent many hours writing plays, choreographing and singing. I had (and still have) an incredible gift for remembering lyrics. But all these things took place in the privacy of my bedroom, or in the bathroom, singing into a deodorant bottle, imagining the tiny flowers on the wallpaper was a rapturous audience at the London Palladium. I perfected the thank you speech for my BAFTA at an early age and I truly think, with the right guidance and an injection of self-confidence, I could have achieved that dream. In fact, I could have achieved anything. But sometimes it’s easier to not try. Sometimes it is easier to hide away, to let other people take the risks and to let life pass you by. Years of having a thick layer of protective fat really saw to that.

We often make the mistake of thinking that opportunities are going to spring up and hit us in the face. For a long time I imagined meeting the man of my dreams in a museum or a library. Like a scene from a Rom-Com, I would play the part of the ditzy, misunderstood character who bumps into the handsome geek as we browse the artefacts from ancient Egypt. Cue the moment where the music kicks in, we’re both completely awestruck and spend the rest of the day strolling through parks and sipping hot chocolate whilst discussing life and love. I now know that is never going to happen, not least because I rarely get the chance to visit museums nowadays and the last time I spent time in a library I stumbled across a strange man doing something very dodgy behind the Historical Fiction aisle.

Opportunity can be difficult to recognise. It doesn’t come with flashing lights and alarm bells attached to it. Sometimes it is subtle to the point of being invisible. Opportunity surrounds us but it rarely falls into our laps; we must go out and grab it with both hands. A wise person once said, “If opportunity doesn’t knock, build a door” but that takes time and effort. It can also involve hurt and humiliation. But the other option is to never try and that simply isn’t an option.

I am raising my son to believe in himself. I desperately want him to recognise his qualities and to try his best, even when he’s not very good at something. I will guide him in his interests and I’ll tell him he’s gorgeous every single day, because that is the truth. Judging by the deodorant/hairspray fumes that waft from his bedroom every morning – enough to stun a small horse! - he perhaps believes me a little too much. I have always encouraged Junior to be the best he can be, to try his best and to never judge others when they try theirs. I will endeavour to raise him to take appropriate risks, even if that means certain people laughing at him or making fun of his efforts. Even if that means failing miserably or falling flat on his face and even if that means taking the giant leap of following the person of your dreams on Twitter only for them to immediately ask you to unfollow them. Life cannot be lived fully without risk. To play it safe and to never put your dignity on the line would only result in a life unlived. It’s worth remembering that with time the hurt doesn’t hurt anymore. Only regret does.

I still suffer from debilitatating nerves when I give author talks but I have never opted out of any because of this. There’s something exhilarating about feeling the fear and doing it anyway. Not only is it a gigantic “fingers up” to all the people who ever doubted me but it’s also a reminder that I am as good as the next person if not better. I remember my first gig at the Edinburgh Book Festival, where I presented my novels to a fully booked auditorium, filled with children from all over the country, some of whom had travelled an entire day to see me. The pressure was huge and as I watched over 250 eager children file into the venue I thought I might actually die of fear. But the second I started speaking, the nerves disappeared and were replaced with an immense feeling of peace and pride.

I wasn’t alone on the stage that day. In the shadowy corner, just behind my right shoulder, I felt a strange and unexpected presence. A ghost of a girl, sitting in a chair, quietly absorbing the words coming from the mouth of the woman she would become. She was wearing her favourite burgundy dress, tied at the waist with a black belt and her hair shone chestnut under the lights. It was me, aged ten. It’s an extremely difficult moment to try and put into words without sounding seriously unhinged but I held that moment in my hand, brilliant as a star, fragile as a bubble and at the end of the gig, just before the lights went up and the children prepared to leave, I turned to my younger self and smiled a smile that told her, “We got there in the end.”

Hometown Memories (Part Two)

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Sat, 23 Nov 2013 19:04:00 +0000

Previously, I was talking about health and safety during my childhood (or lack of it!) I’d now like to revisit a blog entry from 2009, some of which I’ve tweaked for the purposes of this post.

Health and Safety didn’t exist in the 70’s and 80’s. British Bulldogs, a game we played during break-time at school, resulted in many broken limbs, missing front teeth and black eyes. Despite this, there was never a need for playground supervisors. We just got on with things without adult intervention. And it's a miracle that any of us managed to escape Mad Cow Disease after being forced to eat those horrific beef olives for school dinners. They looked like turds wrapped in boiled socks, cunningly disguised under a mound of lumpy gravy and mashed potato which had been served up with an ice-cream scoop).
I distinctly remember my Primary 6 teacher clapping with glee as a fellow pupil stood up to show us all her party trick, which involved shoving a liquorice lace up her nostril, pulling it out of her mouth and yanking it backwards and forwards like she was drying her back with a towel. We all thought this was mega cool and not one single member of staff intervened to tell us otherwise. Those were the days!
The best example of 1980’s leniency towards health and safety was my Dad’s generator. Intrigued? Sounds like something out of Doctor Who, doesn’t it? Well that’s not far off. The few times I have ever dared to raise the memory of the Generator in front of my childhood friends has resulted in the room suddenly turning icy. This is usually followed by an eerie silence filled only by the sound of tumbleweed rolling past. Some memories are best left buried.

The Generator was one of a kind. I had never clapped eyes on one prior to 1981 and I have never seen one since. I still have absolutely no idea what the purpose of the device was (other than to torture small children), although I have a vague recollection of it having something to do with my Dad’s job as a telephone engineer. Basically, it was a small, black plastic box with a handle on one side and two long (rusty) wires sprouting out of the other. One person was supposed to turn the handle S-L-O-W-L-Y while the victim - sorry, willing volunteer - held on to the wires (one in each hand). If this was done correctly, a mild electric current, not dissimilar to pins and needles, could be felt in the palms. My Dad thought it would be a great idea to take this contraption into school and to use it to demonstrate the physics of electricity to a class of nine and ten year olds. Actually, it was a brilliant educational experiment which involved the class standing in a circle, linking hands. The person at the beginning of the circle would grab hold of one of the wires and the person at the end would hold onto the other. Ta-da! Everyone would experience the tingle of current flowing through their hands, hence grasping the important message that human beings are excellent conductors of electricity. Now, in a controlled environment with a sensible adult supervising, this was a terrific lesson (unless you were unfortunate enough to be standing next to John Galbraith who not only spent most of his time with his finger up his nose but who also had incredibly sweaty hands). However, in the wrong hands this small plastic box was a lethal weapon. It certainly gave kiss, cuddle and torture a whole new meaning!

Only once did I agree to hold the wires when asked to do so by someone who shall remain nameless. I had a hopeless crush on this boy and was therefore putty in his hands. He lured me behind the coal bunker, another dangerous place where we liked to explore, despite the desperate pleas from our mothers who had to deal with our filthy clothes in the days before spin cycles and Vanish washing powder. He cruelly led me into a false sense of security by initially turning the handle very slowly. Delighted with the attention I was receiving from him I happily allowed him to speed up a little. By now the pleasant tingle had been replaced by a prolonged stinging sensation. A small crowd had gathered and were goading him to go faster. There was an evil glint in his eye as the rotations quickened. I didn't have time to let go of the wires. I can still remember, with horrifying clarity, the whirring noise of the generator. I can almost feel the hot, searing pain that shot up through my arms and neck before making its way back down to my burgundy Clarks sandals. There was a smell of singed hair in the playground for days after. The whole experience had a nightmarish quality to it - the boy’s evil laugh as his cheeks reddened from the exertion of turning the handle, the jeers of the baying crowd and the horrific realisation that no matter how much I wanted to let go of the wires I simply could not open my fists. When he eventually stopped (and believe me, it felt like a lifetime before he did) I remember trying to smile to cover my embarrassment but in truth I fought back the tears until I got home. It was my first realisation that love could hurt. Despite this, the hopeless crush continued well into my teens.

The Generator made me popular - for a little while. I took it into school a few times after the coal bunker incident but we got bored of it when no-one was willing to take a turn holding the wires. Something better, more exciting and equally as dangerous probably came along and the Generator would’ve been relegated to the back of the garden shed, the one my sister and I decorated with blue and white gloss paint and posters of Bananarama. It’s nice to still laugh about the Generator with friends who remember it as clearly as I do. Perhaps every childhood contains an object that to an outsider may seem of no consequence but to the rest of us holds much more significance. To those of us who shared the moments it created, the Generator will always trigger vivid memories – and not always good ones!

Jim and Stella

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Wed, 13 Nov 2013 21:50:00 +0000

I was walking home from work this afternoon and to my horror I saw an elderly lady sitting in the middle of the road. I ran over and as I got closer I realised there was an awful lot of blood on her face. I fumbled for my phone as I tried my best to comfort her. Her husband came from nowhere, himself rather shaken, and explained that she had taken a tumble whilst walking to their front door. He had left her alone to park the car. It was clear that he was in a deep state of shock. I dialled 999 and offered as much information to the emergency services and I could. By this point another member of the public had arrived and was helping the old man lift his wife off the cold ground. It was heart-breaking to watch her shuffle up the driveway, clutching her nose with a blood soaked handkerchief. Whilst I was relaying information to the emergency services, the man managed to tell me his wife was called Stella and he was called Jim. He couldn’t remember how old Stella was; just that she was born in 1927. I did a quick bit of mental arithmetic for the nice lady on the other end of the phone. Jim explained that Stella had Alzheimer’s and that she had forgotten to take her walking stick out with her.

Once I'd finished the phonecall, I let myself into their house where I found Stella sitting in the living room, teary, shaken and disoriented. Jim was in the kitchen so I made sure she was comfortable and warm. I reassured them both that the ambulance was on its way. The heavy bleeding had stopped (much to my relief) and I could now see a nasty gouge down the entire length of Stella’s nose. She already had the beginnings of two black eyes and her top lip was torn. There was blood all over her coat and, more poignantly, the paper poppy pinned to her lapel. I took her hand in mine; tissue paper skin as cold as marble. I could feel her shaking like a baby bird so I gave her hand a gentle squeeze and she started to cry. Jim left the room to get the shopping in from the car. It struck me as odd at the time but I realise now he probably needed a moment to collect his thoughts. I shouted that he should leave the front door ajar so the paramedics would get in easily. He was worried about the house getting cold, especially with the rising cost of electricity. I pulled the blanket up over Stella’s legs. She started opening up about how much she loved Jim and how lost she would be without him. She told me this three separate times, the exact same words with the same passion. I had to fight back my tears every time.

I learned a lot in the time it took for the ambulance to arrive. I learned that Stella was the youngest of seven children and that she hated her name, blaming her mother for running out of ideas by child number seven. I told her (truthfully) that it was one of my favourite names and her face lit up.

“It means star,” she said, proudly.

“Well, today you really are a star,” I replied, “a falling star.”

She laughed.

I learned that Stella and I share a birthday – 45 years apart. I learned that she is at the horrible stage of Alzheimer’s where she’s aware of her decline and that she often forgets her own name. I learned that Jim, aged 93, cares for her by himself, doing all the cooking and household chores. He never complains. I learned that they have been married for 65 years and have one son (who they refused to let me call in case he worried.) I learned that even in an emergency people feel the need to offer you tea and that it is possible, even at the ripe old age of 87, to have the most beautiful, bluest eyes in the world.

Some people bring out the best in us and make us forget, for a few minutes, that the things we think are vitally important really aren’t. What is important is love. I witnessed love in action today and I found it deeply moving. Love can be beautiful but often it’s messy and painful. Often it’s about sacrifice and staying together even when things get ropey. And love is always accompanied by fear. I saw that in Jim’s eyes as he watched the white handkerchief turn a vivid shade of crimson.

Here was a couple so devoted to one another that at times it was difficult to see where one ended and the other began. I joked with Stella that I wished I could find a man like Jim but I know in my heart I won’t. I don’t think love is built to last like it was when they met back in 1947.

When the paramedics finally arrived I knew it was time to leave. Jim couldn’t thank me enough for sticking around. Stella held her hand out to me. Her blue eyes twinkled but this time there were no tears. And this time it was her who squeezed my hand. She thanked me for helping and apologised for the blood on my trousers. I hadn’t even noticed. I told her to take care and to remember her walking stick the next time she left the house.

I had a little cry when I got home. It was probably a mixture of delayed shock and the emotional roller-coaster I’d been on. It was sad to think that at some point in the not too distant future either Jim or Stella will find themselves on their own. How unfair that will be after all those years, all those shared moments, the laughter, the tears, the sacrifice.

True love is a quiet thing. There are no thunder booms and flashing lights. The real meaning of love is absolute loyalty, acceptance, allowing yourself to be be vulnerable. Love is what is left over once being in love has fizzled out. Perhaps that is not as exciting as the initial firework display but the beauty of true love is that it’s long-lasting and unquenchable. Above all, love is a bit of a mystery. You can’t go looking for it; it has to find you.

Hometown Memories (Part One)

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Sat, 12 Oct 2013 11:52:00 +0000

“When you finally go back to your old hometown, you find it wasn't the old home you missed but your childhood.”

Sam Ewing

I’ve just been listening to a radio discussion about the potential dangers of garden trampolines.

Should children be allowed to play on them? Are the parents who buy them being irresponsible?

There were some detailed and horrific outlines of the injuries that can occur if these trampolines aren’t used properly.

Clearly there were no such discussions in the 1970’s. On the contrary, I’m quite convinced there were people specifically employed to invent the most dangerous and torture inducing toys imaginable. Anyone who owned a Raleigh Chopper will know what I’m talking about.

It might be difficult to make out from these rather ancient photographs just how dangerous our old swing was. Our innocent smiles hide a more sinister truth.

Such apparatus would definitely be illegal nowadays. In fact, it’s hard to comprehend how we didn’t die whilst playing on it. Rusty nails, jagged edges and sharp corners; there was nothing child friendly about our swing. Two metal pokers with sharp hooks at either end hung from dangling chains, making the seat height adjustable. In keeping with the danger theme, the seat was one solid lump of thick wood, perfect for high speed collisions with fragile skulls. And just in case the swing wasn’t deadly enough on its own, my Dad cemented two concrete slabs in place underneath. Well, he wouldn’t want his lawn getting damaged if we fell off from a great height now, would he?

In the early days, the swing was painted dark bottle green but latterly it was spruced up with blue gloss (most likely some hideous lead based paint) to match the washing poles.

Looking back, our swing was rarely used for its intended purpose. More often than not it was a den, a wigwam, a climbing frame, a spaceship; somewhere to tie an unsuspecting victim to during a game of High Chaparral. Our favourite modification (due to my horse mad sister) was to remove the rods and seat, slide a plank of wood across the bars, use the seat as a saddle and Dad’s belts as stirrups/reins. This particular invention came at the height of Harvey Smith mania and made our garden very popular with the local kids.

I still remember the giddy excitement when Mum told us we were getting a swing. I must have been around 7 years old. It was second hand, as were most things from my childhood, and it arrived strapped to the top of a van one Saturday morning during an episode of Swap Shop. I remember watching eagerly from the kitchen window as my Dad dug a square hole in the grass, wellies deep in mud, pipe hanging from the side of his mouth (This is how I will always visualise the Dad from my childhood - a cross between Tony Benn and Tom from the Good Life.) Our swing was totally unlike any you might get nowadays. Toys were built to last back then! This beauty took three men to carry it down the driveway and five-foot deep, cement-filled foundations to support it. I think that’s why it was still there well into my teens; a permanent fixture which gradually stopped being a plaything and evolved into a place to hang out with friends, a meeting area and (much later) smoker’s corner. I was well into my High School years when we finally got rid it. It was sad seeing it being dug up and even sadder having to say goodbye to the memories that were engrained in the flaking paint. And of course, nobody else wanted it because by this point most sensible parents realised that small heads were not likely to survive the impact from the four inch thick wooden seat.

Now, where the swing once stood, there is a neatly kept patio. Underneath the slabs lies a pet cemetery, an array of animal skeletons, increasing in size and in various stages of decomposition. In a thousand years’ time this little patch of soil is going to baffle archaeologists who will ponder why goldfish, budgies, terrapins, cats and hamsters all lived and died in such close proximity to one another.

It astounds me that nobody ever had an accident on that swing. Well, that’s not strictly true. There was that one time my friend and I had a “show-jumping” competition (Harvey Smith again) which involved swinging as high as possible before leaping off and flying over the washing line in a tumble of screams and windmilling limbs. We were having way too much fun to even consider the risk of head injuries or garrotting. Back then accident prevention was something that had only been discussed at Tufty Club or those dreadful public safety adverts which Mum always turned off because they gave us nightmares. Health advice came in the form of being told not to stand on the cold lino with wet hair, not to mistake the rhubarb leaves for lettuce and definitely not to make a face in case the wind changed and we were left that way for eternity.

In the early eighties we were invincible! So, with my best friend egging me on I built up enough height and speed to let go and propel myself through the air. Only something went wrong. One of the sharp hooks caught the pocket of my corduroy dungarees and as I jumped off the seat I was violently yanked back with the force. I heard an almighty rip and the entire pocket was torn away. I did a backwards somersault and landed heavily on the concrete slabs but somehow I managed to duck before the ten tonne seat came slamming back down. My friend laughed so hard she snorted some of her Wham Bar out of her nostrils.

It never occurred to us that I nearly died that day. I just got back on the swing, minus a pocket, and tried again. We were particularly bouncy in those days. There was a lot of getting back up, dusting yourself off and trying again. Good practise for life, I guess.

I don’t know how I managed to survive my childhood. Perhaps I was just very lucky. Perhaps 70’s kids were built like their toys – tough and made to last. But perhaps safety doesn’t happen by accident. There could be some truth in the proverb, ‘It is better to be a thousand times careful than once dead.’ As a mother I am constantly torn between the decision to keep my son safe at the same time as allowing him the freedom to explore and understand his abilities. I’m not sure whether we are ruining our young people’s childhoods by wrapping them up in cotton wool. Play allows children to learn and develop. In particular, adventurous play exposes them to the scary world in which they will live, a world that is not free from risk. We need to allow them opportunities to learn how to cope with what lies ahead.

I’m very grateful that I lived in a time when I could feel hot tarmac beneath my bare soles, a time when every day felt like the start of a new adventure. I am more grateful that I did not live in a time when schools had to cancel Sports Day due to wet grass or ensure children were wearing goggles before handling Blu-Tack. It makes me sad to hear about schools imposing bans on snowballs and conkers, although in these times of ‘claim culture’ I can understand such drastic measures.

All my happy (and most vivid) childhood memories revolve around death-defying acts – sliding across the frozen pond down at the farm, standing on the crossbar of my bike whilst steering the handlebars with a long piece of string, leaning over the edge of the quarry letting only the wind hold our weight. NOT that any of these activities come highly recommended *stern mother/teacher face* I was one of the lucky ones. Not everybody had that privilege. But when I think of the laughter, the scabs and bruises, the ripped corduroys and the sense of freedom, I know I wouldn’t have changed my childhood for the world.

We made our own entertainment in the early 80's

So, I was telling you about my creative writing night class....

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Sun, 06 Oct 2013 18:34:00 +0000

Our most recent homework assignment was to stalk...erm, follow someone for ten minutes. This could be any person, someone we knew or a total stranger. I opted for the latter. We were required to write a story incorporating not only their mannerisms but also our emotions, including an element of tension. Tall order! Once again, I enjoyed the challenge. Unfortunately I missed the class due to illness so I didn't get the chance to share my efforts with my peers. So I'm sharing them here instead!

Names and places have been changed to protect identities.

The Girl

At first I follow her with only my eyes. She comes out of ‘Cash Exchange’, swinging a carrier bag and talking enthusiastically into her mobile phone. I can’t tell whether she is angry or happy as her expression changes from one second to the next. She is re-living a moment, re-telling it. I glance at my watch and start the process.

Ten minutes.

The Girl is painfully thin apart from her pregnant belly which is straining to escape from under her top. She reminds me of the Ethiopian children I’ve seen on the television; skin-covered skeletons with bellies full of air.

It’s difficult to tell how old she is but I hazard a guess at late teens, possibly older but still far too young to be a mother. I am reminded of something my Dad would say to describe someone who is a bit rough around the edges - Looks like they’ve had a tough paper round.

I can’t decide whether her eyeliner is deliberately smudged or whether it has slipped down into the creases beneath her eyes over the course of the day. Either way it is stark against her gaunt, pale face.

My emotions take me by surprise. I want to take her into the café next door, buy her something to eat. I want to help her, protect her, save her. I can only hope the growing child is managing to swallow a small amount of nutrition. She finishes her conversation and slips the phone into the pocket of her jeans. She is smiling, remembering something funny. She looks totally at peace with the imminent arrival of the small infant that she will have to care for. I am intrigued by this. I think of myself during this late stage of pregnancy; an anxious wreck too frightened to leave the house, not least because I was worried Greenpeace might attempt to rescue me. I wonder whether The Girl is aware of this small person growing inside her. Perhaps she has not yet made that connection. Perhaps she is oblivious to the fact that underneath her stretched skin there is a helpless human being – years of sleepless nights, endless worry and empty purses.

She slides a plastic bottle from the bag. The bright blue contents slosh around as she takes a swig. It looks like she is drinking screenwash. She heads towards the escalator, pushing through the crowd, belly first. She walks faster than her size should allow and the effort to keep up with her makes me sweat. At the foot of the escalator she is intercepted by a cocky salesman advertising personal injury compensation.

“Had an accident in the last three years, madam?” he asks, skilfully blocking her way.

“Aye, aboot nine mumphs ago, can you no tell?” she answers, patting her bump.

The man laughs awkwardly and moves aside.

She is like a little powerhouse. It’s like she’s trying to prove something – I’m coping, I’m good at this, I’m ready. Or perhaps she is simply in a hurry. She hops onto the bottom step of the escalator and I prepare myself to sprint up the stairs two at a time behind her. But she uses the few seconds to look through the contents of the bag. As she scans the cover of a horror DVD she absentmindedly rubs her belly with the tips of her fingers; little circular motions. I notice her nails are chewed. There is a heavy ring on her index finger: chunky gold capitals that spell out the word MUM. She has done this before.

The top half of her long hair has been scraped back by a clip, a messy mixture of colours clearly in need of a wash. I suspect that some of the hair is not her own; cheap fuchsia extensions pulled tightly to reveal her white scalp. The jeans that cling to her skinny legs are tucked into scuffed boots, the kind that are usually worn on a building site. They look too big for her and I briefly wonder if they might belong to someone else; a man, the father of this child. The T-shirt does not reach her waistband and I spy the top of an elaborate tattoo - possibly thorny roses or barbed wire - scrawled across the base of her spine. White tissue paper skin.

She turns her head and one of her huge hoops earrings smacks the side of her face. I catch her eye and curse inwardly. She probably felt the cold sting of my judgement seeping through her clothes. Rather than look away, I smile and she smiles back. Her eyes belong to a much older woman. I feel an overwhelming urge to comment on her pregnancy, to offer her some words of support, to tell her how wonderful it is being a mum, to advise her to relax and enjoy the first few months for they will pass quickly. But I don’t want her to remember me. I plan to follow her for the next 8 minutes. Wherever she goes, I will go. I need to be as invisible as possible.

She steps off the escalator and heads for the Chemist, walking so fast that her hair can’t keep up. I follow her into the shop, flashing a smile at the beefy security guard so he will stay off my case. I have no intention of buying anything. I am here to observe.

The Girl marches over to the counter and flicks through a leaflet while she waits for some assistance. I slide behind the make-up aisle and immerse myself in the lipsticks. If I tilt my head to the right I can still see her. She is chewing on her thumbnail. The confident air has left her and her eyes are darting nervously. The pharmacist greets her with a smile and asks how she can help. The Girl would like some nicotine patches please.

“How far gone are you?” asks Nice Pharmacist, eyeing the stomach which is squeezed up against the counter.

“I’m two days overdue,” replies The Girl, with a hint of apology.

Nice Pharmacist takes a small step backwards and stares down at the bump like it’s an unexploded bomb. She jokingly asks The Girl to keep her legs crossed until she gets home. The Girl laughs a gravelly laugh.

“If I’d kept my legs crossed nine mumphs ago I wouldnae be in this state now!”

There’s a conversation about the benefits and the potential risks associated with nicotine patches during pregnancy. The Girl rests her hand on the top of her bump and listens intently, nodding in the right places. Nice Pharmacist advises that it would probably be best to wait until the baby is born before starting patches or gum. The girl laughs and says she will start smoking again once the baby is born; this is just to see her through until the birth, which she hopes happens soon. The smile on Nice Pharmacist’s face slips but quickly returns. I notice a twitch in her left cheek that wasn’t there before. The Girl realises she has made a blunder.

“I’ll make sure I’m in a different room when I’m having a fag,” she adds quickly, “and I’ll clean my teeth before I kiss the bairn.”

The security guard has started circling me like a vulture. I attempt to look nonchalant as I read the small print on a Super Duper Lash Enhancing Mascara. To my annoyance, I miss whether The Girl makes her purchase. When I look up she is gone and a fat lady with a headscarf and a hacking cough has taken her place.

I leave the shop as quickly as I can without arousing further suspicion. I spot her striding out of the main exit, carrier bag swinging back and forth like a pendulum. Aren’t pregnant women supposed to waddle, be red-cheeked and out of breath? As she marches through the people, they step aside, creating a bubble of air around her. I glance at my watch.

Three minutes.

I’d better move fast if I am to catch up with her. Out in the open I find her chatting outside ‘Bargain Busters’ with an older woman who has borrowed the same hair dye. I pretend that the perfume display in the window has caught my attention and position myself at an angle where I can see what is going on behind me in the reflection of the glass. The older woman is leaning against a buggy. Strapped inside is a toddler who is clutching a half-eaten sausage roll. The woman is telling The Girl about something that happened at the Job Centre earlier that morning. Her language is turning the air blue. She says something that makes The Girl laugh her gravelly laugh. The toddler starts straining to escape from his buggy. He screams out in frustration, kicking his little legs until one of his trainers fly off.

“Stoap it, ya wee git!” shouts the woman as she attempts to push the shoe back on.

He kicks his legs and screams until his face turns pink. The woman smacks his leg and he throws the sausage roll on the ground in protest. The Girl picks it up and offers it back to him. I imagine the germs swarming over the pastry.

“Are you havin’ a bad day, son?” she asks with a gooey voice.

The woman gives up and tosses the trainer into the hammock beneath the buggy.

“I swear tae God I’m gonnae kill him!” she hisses through gritted teeth. “I didnae get a wink ‘o sleep last night and Billy’s oan night shift all week.”

In the reflection, I catch The Girl’s eye. I have outstayed my welcome and I start to panic. But there is no need because she turns her attention back to her friend.

“I’m sick of this bairn,” she groans, pushing her knuckles deep into the small of her back. “Kaden wiz nearly two mumphs early but this yin is never coming oot.”

“You need tae smoke,” says the woman. “Trust me hen, they come oot quicker and they’re much wee’er so it’s an easier birth.”

“Huv you goat a fag?” asks The Girl tentatively.

Her friend pulls a new packet from the compartment at the back of the buggy and peels off the cellophane in one swift motion. She discards it and a gust of wind snatches it before it reaches the ground.

“Mama!” whines sausage roll boy.

His tears have made tracks down his grubby cheeks.

“Shut it!” she spits before lighting a cigarette, cupping her hand around the flimsy flame.

She takes a long draw before handing it to The Girl, who sucks hard, inhaling deeply, savouring the moment. She closes her eyes when she exhales, blue smoke streaming out from her mouth and nostrils.

It’s now I realise it was not this emaciated girl who caught my attention and brought out my nurturing, protective streak. It was the child inside her with its seashell fingernails and gossamer eyelashes. Floating in a cocoon of warmth I now imagine its wrinkled face screwing up as this mouthful of smoke floods its living space. I imagine the infant choking, gasping for air, kicking its tiny limbs. Perhaps that will encourage you to pop out, I think.

I think of the months I spent fretting over every morsel that crossed my lips. No soft cheese or runny yolks. No coffee or Paracetamol. I think of my refusal to enter the kitchen if the microwave was on, the panic over the bottle of champagne I consumed before I knew about the tiny seed blooming inside me. And after he had left my body, the struggle to make everything safe remained and always will.

I recall the tears over my failure to breastfeed, the piles of literature about the MMR jab; the hours spent chopping grapes into tiny pieces to reduce the risk of choking. I think of the care I take now to make everything perfect for my growing boy, the labour of love that will ensure he lives a healthy life until the time comes for me to let go. And even then I won’t let go. Above all I feel a profound sadness that I was unable to be Mum to more children. Precious, wanted lives that never were.

I know I cannot protect this woman’s unborn child any more that I can protect those broken little Ethiopians that live inside my television. I cannot save everyone.

I can still hear The Girl’s gravelly laughter long after I’ve walked away.

Espresso writing

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Mon, 30 Sep 2013 16:07:00 +0000

I had a whole heap of fun with my homework from the creative writing class I've been attending. I am enjoying my time there and have met a varied mix of like-minded people who seem to share the same wicked sense of humour as me. Most evenings descend into a giggle-fest, much to the annoyance of the Bridge club in the adjoining room.

Espresso stories explore a literary form that really forces the writer to include the major points of a story at the same time as keeping the word count to a minimum (something the editors I have worked with will tell you I've always struggled with.) Espresso shorts are complete stories that take no longer to read than an espresso would take to drink. The only rule is that they're a sentence or two, totalling 25 words or less.

Here are a few I scribbled in my lunch break last week.

A burst of blue light, followed by a vibrato slicing through the silence. Sleep-filled, she fumbles for her mobile phone. Three words... I’m watching you.

She touches the stud in her ear. A holiday in Blackpool. Laughter. Open-mouthed kisses. She misses him. Other ear bare! Her heart breaks over again.

She’d never been abroad. Too scared to fly. Scared of heights. Scared of enclosure. Scared her bum wouldn’t fit in the seat. A life unlived.

It came from nowhere, a shape blurred by the rain on the windscreen. He thought he’d missed it. Then the crunch of bones under tyre.

She sprinkled the powder into the coffee and it settled on the top. Surely he’d notice. Slowly, it sank down into the darkness. She smiled.

The class have moved on to another topic now (you'll be hearing more about that soon!) but I will keep writing these very short short stories as I find they help me with ideas and structure.

Speak soon :)

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Tue, 18 Jun 2013 19:54:00 +0000

Baby spent most of last week in a cattery, a lovely place in the country where he went for a “wee holiday”. He wasn’t all that keen (well, that’s quite possibly the biggest understatement of the decade) but I felt reassured that he was in safe hands. He had his own luxury apartment with split levels and a view out over the pond. The lovely owners even left the radio on for him at night so he wouldn’t feel lonely. The worst part of the experience was the car journey there – 20 minutes of howling, growling, wailing and puking. And that was just me. The Ellie Goulding CD did nothing to calm his nerves, nor did my shaky rendition of Soft Kitty. In a final desperate attempt to calm Baby down, I slid my fingers through the grille at the front of the cat carrier so I could tickle his chin. This seemed to work well – until it was time to change gear. To my horror, I realised my hand was stuck and I was fast approaching a complicated roundabout. Luckily for me (and the rest of the road users) it was early Sunday morning so it didn’t much matter that I sped round on two wheels and in fifth gear while frantically trying to free my hand.

They did everything possible to make Baby feel welcome on his arrival but it was a strange and frightening environment for him, not least because there were plenty of other cats. The noises and smells must have been totally unnerving for him and worst of all they must have reminded him of the cat shelter I rescued him from. My worry was that in leaving Baby, he was going to think I wasn’t coming back. How do you explain to an animal that you’ll be back soon and that this is only for a short time? For a cat who has had several (unhappy) homes and who has experienced neglect and abuse the only conclusion to draw from cages and vanishing owners is abandonment.

I remember the first time I saw Baby, Christmas 2010. It was love at first sight for me but for Baby it would take longer for the barriers to come down. I understood that only too well and so I tried not to rush things. I was content to let him take time to settle in. I knew it would take a lot of effort on my part for him to trust humans again. Let’s face it, the ones he lived with before didn’t exactly fly the flag for human kindness. I was warned he had ‘baggage’ but I reckoned we would get on well, due to the fair few suitcases of emotional baggage I had stored away. And I like a challenge.

It took a few weeks before Baby stopped flinching every time I moved. It took months before the postman could pass the window without him running for cover. It took over a year to get a single head bump from him. He has never been demonstrative but he does offer some love when the Munchies cupboard gets opened. I’m always pathetically grateful for the small amount of affection he shows me and even more grateful that he appears to be madly in love with Junior. Sometimes it’s like a mutual appreciation society and I have to fight back my feelings inadequacy. I must confess to resorting to holding fishy cat biscuits up to my face in an attempt to get a kiss from Baby. It’s a tactic that works well. I like to pretend he loves me and isn’t just very greedy. I do hope I never have to do this with a man.

But here’s where the story gets interesting.

There has been a distinctive shift in Baby’s behaviour since his return home from the cattery. He has been home for three days and I’ve never seen him so affectionate and relaxed. Perhaps he’s just glad to be home. Perhaps the food is better here. Perhaps it’s the guilt he feels at making the nice man bleed when he was putting him back in the cat carrier.

I think it’s more likely that he simply can’t believe his luck.

My sister peeked through the window before she entered the cattery to collect him. She said Baby looked perfectly settled, cleaning himself on the balcony. It’s nice to know he wasn’t distressed but I feel a little sad because there was probably a hefty amount of resignation on his part, an acceptance that he had been right all along – that this good life with the small, kind boy and slightly crazy woman was going to come to an end at some point.

So, I think this is where the shift has come in. It’s as though Baby feels more secure now. In his mind, the worst thing happened. We left him. But we came back. The lesson is that we are never going to give up on him. I think it took the stint in the cattery for him to wholly accept that.

For two and a half years he held back, didn’t allow himself to fully accept our love in case it was snatched away. He must have been waiting for the day when we would admit defeat and cart him back to the shelter again. But how could I ever give up on him? He’s grumpy and demanding. His breath smells of fishy rubber and he sometimes misses the litter tray. He steals food off our plates and he scratches the bed until it’s bald. He does high speed circuits of the house at 3am and if that doesn’t wake me up he jumps on my bladder from a great height.

But doesn’t he deserve the same chance of happiness that we all do?

I would like to be the one to teach him that sometimes it’s okay to let go, that sometimes it’s fine to drop the barriers and embrace the love that is being offered. I want to show him that it’s possible to live in the moment and not worry so much about what lies ahead, to feel safe in the knowledge that there are people who are capable of sticking with you even when the going gets tough. Yes, happiness can be fleeting and good things can be snatched away from us but it is possible to trust again. Ultimately, there can be no healing until we have restored our trust in life. Who knows? Perhaps with a little bit more time and a lot more perseverance, maybe Baby and I can accept these things together.

Fishy Family Secrets

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Sun, 16 Jun 2013 10:13:00 +0000

Whilst sipping on a cup of Earl Grey in a café, my sister pointed up to the rafters and said, “Look, that lampshade looks like Mum’s old crystal trifle bowl, the one that Grace lived in.”

Grace was our first pet, a goldfish we won at a funfair in 1976, a time when it was still acceptable to carry a living creature home in a small sandwich bag. In a rush of giddy excitement I dropped the bag in the back of the car. It landed with a plop and a skoosh, which was followed with a mad scramble to rescue the flapping fish from underneath the driver’s seat. I still recall the water pouring out of a hole in the bag and thinking I had killed her. We could have refilled the bag with my guilty tears.

Despite her early ordeal, Grace lived to a ripe old age, albeit with a weird, squishy lump on the top of her head. She lived in luxury, swimming around in my Mum’s best Edinburgh Crystal trifle bowl, a wedding present and family heirloom. Grace swam around happily in there for 51 weeks of the year but every December 23^rd she would be temporarily re-homed in a less elegant Tupperware sandwich box so that Mum could make her festive trifle. I know it sounds revolting but she always gave it an extra good clean and the carefully positioned layer of tinned fruit covered the marks at the bottom where the gravel had scratched the glass. None of the dinner guests were ever any the wiser. On the contrary, they always ‘oohed’ and ‘ahhd’ and commented on the ‘extra special something’ that they’d never tasted before. Of course, my sister and I were threatened with death (or at least a week without Swap Shop) should we ever let the secret out. Cue much giggling and footsie under the table when it came time to spoon the first serving from the bowl. Mum’s death glare usually put a swift end to the hilarity.

My Mum still uses that crystal bowl and I always smile whenever I see it. If I run my finger over the fine web of scratches along the bottom I can still imagine Grace bobbing around at the surface with that strange, eyeball-shaped lump I gave her on her first day as our family pet. There’s something marvellous about family traditions and secrets. Happy secrets, of course, not the kind that destroy. Silly memories are what link us with our past and our families in unique ways. They provide us with common bonds and shared experiences. They still make us laugh 35 years later when we spot a familiar looking lampshade in a café and are suddenly transported back to our 1970’s living room.

To the outside world we all grow old. But not to our siblings. Somehow, we always see each other as we always were. We share private jokes, we remember family feuds, griefs and joys. A sibling is like having a little bit of childhood that can never be lost. Different flowers from the same garden.

The Next Big Thing!

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Sat, 10 Nov 2012 11:55:00 +0000

"Bree McCready and the Realm of the Lost" is OUT NOW!

My friend and fellow writer, John Ward, very kindly tagged me in his blog as part of the exciting "Next Big Thing" scheme, where writers answer questions about their work. Here are my answers….and then I’ll hand you over to some other writers. It's like a great big game of tig, only you don't have to leave your comfy seat : )

What is the working title of your next book?

Bree McCready and the Realm of the Lost is the third book in a trilogy for 9-12 year olds and it's quite literally hot off the press! It’s beautiful and has a stunning cover by Lawrence Mann, (see above) the genius and all round nice guy who designed the covers for all three books.

Where did the idea come from for the book?

The original idea came from a short story I wrote about bullying called 'In Her Shoes'. Everything spiralled from there and one day it came to me in a flash that I would write three books, each one focusing on one of the three main characters. I didn’t really know I was capable of writing an action adventure/horror/comedy/issue based novel so it all came as a bit of a surprise! I had absolutely no idea what a challenge it would be.

What genre does your book fall under?

Oops, I already answered that one above! It’s a fast-paced action adventure with soul. That’s because in between the cliffhangers and frights there are some tender moments that deal with issues such as bullying and grief. If I had to choose a genre I would say fantasy adventure.

What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

Nobody famous. I would want to hand select the actors very carefully.

What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?

With the help of a magic book, a shy swat, a psycho rebel and a lanky nerd try to save the world for a third time.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

All three books are published by Strident Publishing.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

It’s difficult to say since I made a lot of notes for books two and three as I was writing book one. They kind of all intertwined. If I had to guess, I would say at least two years. It's pretty epic!

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

The Bree books have been described as "Indiana Jones meets Jacqueline Wilson". To be honest I try to avoid reading other children’s books mainly because I don’t want to be influenced by them. I did read a couple of Cathy Cassidy and Jacqueline Wilson books to inspire me when I was tackling Bree’s first romance (she meets a boy in book two and by book three they are boyfriend and girlfriend). I couldn’t really remember my first love (way too long ago!) so I needed a bit of refreshing.

I read Roald Dahl to my son (9) and I love the dark elements in his novels so I guess that might have inspired me to push the boundaries a little more with book 3. I realise that children love scary/dark moments and that writers should not be frightened to use them more.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

Six years ago, a personal crisis cracked open something in me that had been buried deep inside. Suddenly the idea of writing felt like the right thing to do. I also wanted a ‘kick ass’ heroine because of the way I was feeling about myself at the time. There’s nothing quite like inventing a strong female protagonist to boost your self-esteem!

Without wishing to sound mushy, my son inspired me. It would be nice to think that at some point all my hard work and tears will make a positive difference to our lives. Also, writing a novel was on my list of things to do before I die. I’m pleased and proud that I managed to write three.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

There are two worlds in the stories, separated by a thin veil (which weakens in book 3). So in all three books the children start out in their own, recognisable world with school, shops, houses but then when the adventure starts they find themselves thrown into a world of castles, creatures, and terrifying villains. I always liked the idea that it was possible to flit between two very different worlds.

I’ve had some great feedback from adults who seems to love the stories and appreciate the allegory and hidden messages.

Okay, that’s it from me. Now for that game of tig :)

John Ward

I once spent an entire Saturday with John travelling around Scotland on a book signing tour. He is an absolute gentleman and genuinely one of the nicest people I have ever met. John has an incredibly powerful way with words, some will make you laugh and some will make you cry. John is one of life’s good guys and I'm so glad to know him.

Pippa Goldschmidt

Pippa's short stories, non-fiction and poetry have been published in a variety of magazines and anthologies. Her novel ‘Wider than the Sky’ was one of three finalists in the Dundee International Book Prize and will be published by Freight next year.

Emma Barnes

The fantastically talented Emma wrote 'Wolfie', the first novel that my son begged me to keep reading. It’s magical and wonderful. Emma is pretty groovy too. Follow her on Twitter: @EmmaBarnesWrite

Gillian Philip

Gillian is a lovely lady and fellow Strident author who has written the amazing 'Rebel Angels' series and a gazillion other books. She’s pretty amazing so check her out. You won't be sorry you did.

Linda Strachan

Another amazing lady, Linda writes for all kinds of genres, including picture books for little ones, non-fiction and handbooks for writing. She makes a mean cupcake too. I once wrote a review for Linda’s teenage novel Dead Boy Talking. I don’t often do reviews so that says a lot about how much I loved it. Her new teenage novel Don’t Judge Me is out NOW!

Fiona Gibson

Fiona is an author and journalist. I find reading her books (Mummy said the F Word, The Great Escape, Mum on the Run) like sinking into a deep bubble bath with a box of chocolates in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. Sheer bliss.

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Sat, 14 Jul 2012 17:29:00 +0000

Greg 4 Hazel, 2gether 4ever.

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Wed, 04 Jul 2012 19:59:00 +0000

I’ve got it bad. Really bad. Quite possibly worse than my life threatening crush on George Michael in 1984 when I watched the "Club Tropicana" video a zillion times and cried myself to sleep every night because I couldn’t touch those delicious bouffant streaks.

It’s inexcusable really, what with me being a middle aged mother but I can’t help it. I am madly in love with Greg Davies.

There. I said it.

Suddenly I feel twelve again - perched on the bench at the school disco, waiting for Adrian Fowler to ask me to dance to Hot Chocolate’s “It Started With a Kiss”. I can almost feel the itch of my woollen legwarmers and smell the heady scent of Tweed perfume mingled with pre-teen desperation. But my twelve year old crush on Adrian was a perfectly natural part of growing up whereas my forty year old crush on Greg Davies is bordering on the ridiculous. I've watched all the YouTube clips, re-runs of Mock the Week and Never Mind the Buzzcocks. I've even ordered Firing Cheeseballs at a Dog from Amazon. Next I’ll be working out love percentages and practising writing 'Hazel Davies' in my secret diary.

When you’re a six foot tall woman, finding a man taller than you can be challenging. I rather like to feel feminine, despite not being a girly girl. Memories of walking off the kerb so my head was in line with my first boyfriend are excruciating as is the memory of only knowing how to dance the lead at my best friends wedding because I had so often been cast as a man in school dance lessons.

I like the thought of being able to rest my head on a man’s chest without having to crouch down. At 6 foot 8 inches tall and with a lovely broad chest Greg seems like just the man to fit the bill.

*sigh*

But it’s not his glorious stature that I’ve fallen for. He could be 4 foot 11 with a hunchback and a limp and I would still find him insanely attractive. It’s not even his lovely smile or apparently gentle nature (although this helps). It’s quite simply the fact that everything he says makes me laugh like a drain.

You can keep your Gerard Butlers and Brad Pitts. I don't see what all the fuss is about Christian Bale and Matthew McConaughey. Who needs six packs and bulging biceps when you can have warmth and wit? Give me a man who can make me laugh till I’m sore and I’ll be the happiest person alive. It would just be a bonus if his thighs were larger than mine.

So Greg this is for you. Not that you’ll ever read this blog post or know anything about me. But isn’t that what harmless crushes are all about, experiencing the pleasure of something without any of the risks that come with the real thing? Oh and by the way, our love percentage is 98% so if you do see this, call me.

Crush.

iPod iRony

noreply@blogger.com (Hazel) — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 17:59:00 +0000

So, I've climbed up onto one of the rickety kitchen chairs. I'm balancing precariously, screwdriver in one hand, freshly ironed curtain in the other and lips grasping a row of tiny screws. The iPod (set to 'shuffle') chooses that moment to start playing a particularly tinny and soul-destroying version of "Bah Bah Black Sheep" which seems to go on forever.

Why does that always happen?!

Just another one of life's little jokes I suppose.