Why?

Why is it
That I hurt another, when my deepest desire is for healing?
That I sorrow, when I long for joy?
That I smile, though I feel like weeping?
Why?

Contrary Mary is my name.

Why is it
That when I am young, I wish to be older
That when I have enough, I long for more?
That when I have achieved my goal, it becomes meaningless?
Why?

Contrary Mary is my name.

To deny my nature would be to contradict my own self.
To admit to faults and failings weakens them, takes away their power.
To bring into the light negates the darkness, lessens significance.

I do not have to give in to my nature.
I do not have to submit to strength.
I do not have to live up to my name.

I do not have to.
Yet I know I will.
Why?

A contradiction in terms

Why is it that, when we’re at school
There seems to be a change of rules?
If you’re a teacher, days are short;
If a child, and you are caught
Yawning, bored out of your skin
Time will never let you win.
The days are dull, the lessons long
The minutes just drag on and on.
“The bell already?” Teacher says
“I’m always short of time these days.”

But then the end of term arrives:
Christmas, the best time of our lives.
Art, singing carols, parties, fun,
No work – it’s great for everyone.
Laughter, shrieks and happiness
Mixed into one glorious mess.
Oh, how time flies: before we know
It’s Christmas: holly, mince pies, snow!
Meanwhile, the teachers, grey and old
Surviving countless hours untold
As days drag on and on and on
Until the final bell has gone.

Why is it that time changes rules
Depending on who we are at school?

It's never too late to start...

“Do you want to come surfing with me?”

I didn’t think I’d heard properly. I’ve never surfed, nor thought I could ever do it. I’ve always been a reasonably good swimmer, but never very strong. I’m small (ish – five feet four, actually, which is around average so I am told), suffer from asthma (controlled well), have one leg ever so slightly shorter than the other (a legacy from being born with club foot) and I am not blonde. Nor do I have straight hair. Oh, all right, I might as well say it. Mouse brown and the definition of unruliness. Neither am I particularly slim. (I used to be quite thin, but that is another story.) And the clincher: so short-sighted I don’t even dare walk to the corner shop without my glasses – I’d never get there.

Stereotypes, of course. Not all surfers have to be blonde, slim, long-haired, lissom teenagers, but you still have to fit the mould somehow. Questions jumbled through my mind as I struggled to control the jeering answers. How would I fit into a wetsuit? (With difficulty.) How would I find my way up and down the beach? (He’d have to hold your hand? Hmm, that might not be so bad after all.) Surely I’m too old? (No one is too old to make a fool of themselves.) And, the worst of all: Just how terrible WILL I look with soaking wet hair? (Worse than you can imagine.)

The embarrassment factors seemed overwhelming, the questions relentless.

It’s all right for men. Yes, I’ve lived through the sixties, seventies, eighties, nineties and the rest, equal rights for women and all that… but there is still a lot of ‘in-crowd’ snobbery when it comes to surfing and, anyway, I was born in the fifties. It’s sad, but right at my core, (formed when I was a toddler and my mother stayed at home to run the house and bring up the children) is a belief that all my education hasn’t completely shifted. The belief that, when it comes to ‘men’s sports’, girls just can’t do it as well.

The real truth is that I’m not sporty, never have been.

Remember the game of ‘ladders’ at school? Where you sat down in two rows facing each other, legs stretched out so that feet met in the middle, and then you had to race your partner by running ‘up the ladder’ over all those outstretched legs. I was SO popular with the boys for that game – I was always first to be picked, usually by the most athletic (and good-looking) ones.

Those boys weren’t the best sportmen, in the real sense of the word. I’ll never forget how I felt the day I understood why they picked me first. I’d loved that game until then.

It made me realize that not everyone was ‘nice’. And that I was a good sport, even though they weren’t.

So, back to the question. Did I want to go surfing with him? Old experiences always stay with you. I eyed him suspiciously as I wondered why he was asking me. He smiled.

“Come on, it’s good fun. You’re a good sport – you’ll have a ball.”

Well, it’s all right for him, isn’t it? Tall, athletic. Impossibly good-looking.

“I don’t know how,” I replied, finally.

“I’ll teach you. It’s easy to get the hang of it. I’d really like you to come.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. It’s fun. And it’ll be more fun with you. Remember how I taught you to waterski? It was the only way I could think of to get close to you.”

I blushed. “That was a long time ago.”

“So what? I know we’ve been married for 25 years, but I still think you’re the most gorgeous thing on the beach.”

What could I say? Struggling into my daughter’s wetsuit, with my husband’s help, was, surprisingly, the most romantic thing I’d done for a long time.

Getting out of it, with my husband’s help, after an exhilarating time in the sea, was even more so.

This was first runner-up in the last quarterly 2009 Writelink competition. How exciting!!

My Home

Here,
Fishermen, hardened by cold seas, haul baskets of fish, crabs, lobsters
onto unforgiving stones.
Bankers, softened by the warmth of buildings, take out a cool hundred from the cash machine
for a few drinks after work.

Here,
Children at the private school revel in tales of snorkeling, waterskiing and surfing
in the Caribbean.
Toddlers and pre-schoolers sit in a black-painted, darkened room, watching television.
For hours.

Here,
Bright young things, fuelled by alcohol, giggle and dance the night away,
remembering nothing by morning.
The elderly sit in residential homes, staring at walls, surrounded by too many people,
Keeping company only with their memories.

Here,
Those who have travelled the world, experiencing exotica, safaris, sunshine,
mingle on the High Street with
the young and old who have never travelled off the Island
save, perhaps, for the unhappiness and stress of a hospital visit.

Here,
contradictions in wealth, education, politics,
concern for family, neighbours, the community -
Threaten to overwhelm our future.

This was second runner-up in the last quarterly Writelink competition. What fun!

PS: it appears as 'Problem' on the website

Down my way...Herm

Azure and turquoise waters lap a golden beach under a cerulean blue sky. A description that is cheesy, corny, and completely accurate. Yet this place is not Mediterranean, nor Caribbean or indeed anywhere exotic, even though the sun burns our skins.

The island of Herm. Miniature, carless, perfect. One of the Channel Islands, barely one and a half miles long and half a mile wide, separated from Guernsey by a narrow channel down which the tides swirl ferociously. Boats make the crossing with ease when the weather is fair, yet at times during the winter, when gales devour the islands, nothing puts out from St Peter Port harbour for days at a time.

On Herm, there is nothing but a tiny village, a handful of granite holiday cottages, each converted from a former use: a fisherman’s retreat, a baker’s, a widow who eked out a living with handcrafts. A campsite on the hill. Pleasure boats in the harbour. St Tugual’s chapel, older than we can even dream, glows with care: polished wood, stunning flower arrangements, a sense of tranquility and ease.

The courtyard of the pub hums. It is half an hour before the last boat of the day. Tired, sandy, sunbronzed children – skin cancer a disregarded concern – eat ice creams, their parents deep in conversation over a cream tea, chatting to strangers. Some of these acquaintances will develop into life-long friendships.
After an hour, the courtyard is empty. Later, folk will, like us, drift down from the cottages and campsite for a meal or a pint of Guernsey cider. Food tastes better here, but in any case, Herm and Guernsey pride themselves on their fresh local produce – not least, the Guernsey milk, butter and tomatoes which have made the islands famous.

Herm. Simplicity, luxury, solitude, friendliness. Addictive.

Children's short stories

All’s well that ends well…

It was possibly the worst day of my life. Forgot my lunch box, so Mum brought it into school. I wish she was more like other mums. It’s so humiliating when she bangs the classroom door open, marches in and dumps it on my desk, right there in the middle of a lesson. Other mums don’t do that.
No one laughed, which made it worse. Mrs Jenkins, my teacher, just looked cross, but she didn’t say anything.
After that, I just couldn’t concentrate. Copied the wrong thing off the board, started the maths on the wrong page, turned over two pages at once in my exercise book and didn’t notice… And in games, Sir said he was dropping me from the footie team because I wasn’t concentrating.
At lunchtime, everyone DID laugh. Mum had given me my little sister’s lunchbox. Barbie yogurt and fairy cake. I couldn’t even go and swap it – she’s in the infant’s and has lunch earlier than me.
Even my best friend, Rob, was doubled up laughing. I stuck my tongue out at him and Mrs Jenkins thought I did it to her.
So I lost the rest of my lunchbreak.
And THEN I got stuck in the toilet. The lock jammed. I had to wait for the caretaker to come along and unscrew it. I was late for register.
It was while Mrs Jenkins was ranting at me for being late that I noticed. Ludo was sitting there, right next to her handbag, scrubbing his nose with his paws. Then he suddenly dashed across Mrs Jenkins’ shoes, heading for the door.
Ignoring Mrs Jenkins’ screams, I threw myself on the floor, grabbing the hamster in my hand. I’d caught the cleverest escapee our class had ever known. I was a hero.

The Puppy

“WHY can’t we keep him?” cried Jodie, cuddling the whimpering pup in her arms. It squirmed, its little body twisting and turning as it tried to escape.

“We can’t have a dog. You know Grandad doesn’t like them,” sighed her mother. “You should have asked me first. You’ll just have to take him back to the shop.”

“But they GAVE him to me,” she cried. “Please, please, please can we keep him? I’ll look after him, I promise.”

“I’ve just told you,” repeated Jodie’s mother. “Now, that’s the end of it. He can stay tonight as it’s too late now, but you’ll have to take him back in the morning.”

Jodie’s eyes filled. It wasn’t fair. Why did Grandad have to spoil it? Why did he even have to live with them, anyway? He had his own house. She just didn’t get it.

Jodie was still furious as she went up to bed, leaving the puppy in a box in the kitchen. All her pleading to have him in her bedroom had been useless. Her mother had been adamant.

“He’ll be fine in the kitchen. He might make a mess upstairs and anyway, he’s not staying.”

Anger gave way to tears again. It had been a long time since she’d cried herself to sleep.

Jodie woke with a start. The dog was barking, scratching furiously at the kitchen door. She ran onto the landing to see her mother bending over her grandfather, who was sitting on the floor at the foot of the stairs.

Jodie’s mother looked up. “Grandad’s had a fall, Jodie, but he’ll be all right now. I only woke up when your puppy started creating that noise. Grandad’s decided he does like dogs after all. What are you going to call him?”

Jodie smiled. “Mr Barker.”