Last night I had the strangest dream…

Some dreams you can only remember in fragments, they are fleeting and ethereal, disappearing like smoke in the dawn light. Then others are so vivid they are like appearing in a blockbuster movie with 3D glasses on.

Early this morning I had one of the latter dreams. I know it was early morning because I’d drifted back to sleep after an early morning toilet visit! Too much information I know, but when you get to a certain age – hahaha

sunrise or sunset?

In my dream I was in a High Street and I spotted a Marks and Spencers, this was not any ordinary dream but an M and S one.

The entrance didn’t give much headroom, I felt like I had to duck to go in, however did taller people manage to shop there, but the entire front of the store took you down some steps leading you to a spacious basement display.

Much of it didn’t appeal and I walked past, but then I found some live models at the back of the shop wearing some vintage garments that were for sale. Only I didn't know they were live until one moved.

One lady was wearing a burnt orange pinafore dress, with a stripy blouse underneath. The blouse included a large exuberant bow tied at the neck.

The price ticket for the outfit read £49. A real bargain for something so bespoke. I asked to try it on.

I was led upstairs to the eaves of the building where there were some very tiny, dubiously shaped, fitting rooms, very little headspace yet again, was there a toilet in there too? 

As I got changed I spotted that the label was an original St Michael's - this was the real deal as far as vintage fashion was concerned.

Once dressed I was allowed onto the rooftop to strut my stuff and get a feel for the ensemble. There must have been mirrors but I was more taken in by the view, a landscape akin to the chimney sweep scene in Mary Poppins but without the soot and bad cockney accents.

I admired myself in the dress, made from a scratchy wool gaberdine fabric, and blouse, as soft as silk, which went some way to mitigate the prickles of the dress.

I dropped my gaze and caught sight of the price tag, hand written and pinned with a safety pin.

Whereas I’d originally spied the price of £49 it had now increased to three figures. More than a little bit beyond my budget.

However, it was a dress with pockets and all of us know the true value of a pocket in a dress is almost priceless, but as I stuck my hands in I could feel the texture of scrunched up tissues. 

Now it’s all well and good when it’s your own pocket and you know the provenance of where they have come from, but a stranger’s tissues – eugh!

I withdrew my hand quickly, the price on the dress now read an incredible four figure sum.

And there the dream ended.

I’m sure there must be a lesson in there somewhere about price rises, the demise of the High Street, remembering to remove things from pockets before you donate them?

If you have any thoughts, please feel free to add a comment.

Or have you had a weird dream recently that you remember vividly? Please share.

 

Whatever Happened to Nigel?

While having lunch with friends the other day we were reminiscing about people we knew at 6th form. 

Suddenly one friend said "Whatever happened to Nigel?" 

And this poem was born, with apologies to XTC.

Whatever happened to Nigel?

He had so many plans.

He dreamt of sailing round the world

In a boat made of tin cans.

 

He wanted to raise tigers

On the scrubland by the park,

Ride his bike, strung up with fairy lights

As it was getting dark

 

He craved a life full of adventure

You could never call him dull

He must live in some far-flung place

Perhaps the Isle of Mull?

 

And yet the other day

I thought I spied him on the train

Lank hair dripping wet

Caught out by the rain.

 

He looked so sad and lonely

Plans puddled at his feet.

“Are you Nigel?” I enquired

“What’s the chance that we should meet!”

 

I took him home and fed him soup

Tomato from a can

“Did you ever make a boat?

What happened to your plans?”

Third Row Back, With Chocolate

 Today is World Poetry Day, so it’s only fitting I should write a poem.

This come from a conversation with the rector on Tuesday evening after I was once again nominated/coerced into leading a small group at our lent course. I really don’t mind and I like to think I have the skills required, even when some of the theological debates are a bit beyond me. I certainly don’t have all the answers.

When I left, he said “thank you” and I answered “I will get my reward in heaven.”

“Third row back, with chocolate!” was his flippant retort.

It was too good a line to be thrown away, so it is the title of this poem.

One day two of Jesus’ disciples, James and John, ask to sit beside Jesus in Heaven, they believed, they were worthy of such a great honour. (or maybe their pushy mother did, it depends which gospel you read - look up Mark chapter 10 and Matthew chapter 20).

Jesus replied they didn’t know what they were really asking for.

Is three rows back with chocolate also an audacious ask?

Jesus also tells a parable of the guests where he says it is better to take the lowest seat available. If the host asks you to move closer to the top table you will be honoured but just imagine how embarrassing it would be to be asked to move further away, giving up your seat for someone more important. Shameful!

But then remember that Jesus tells us to love our neighbour as we love ourselves – nothing is ever straightforward in the kingdom of heaven, everything is so topsy turvey.

 

So with these confusing thoughts bubbling in my head here is my poem… which could easily be about any relationship with someone we admire and wondering where we fit into the pecking order. You could even read as something quite dark, like a bar of bitter chocolate, maybe it's about obsession?  But it was written from a light and happy, Dairy Milk kind of place, with apologies to anyone who has given up chocolate for lent - hehehe!

 

Third Row Back, With Chocolate

 

I don’t need a red carpet

Or to be at your right hand

A crown, would be too heavy,

I hope you understand.

 

I’d be happy sitting three rows back

A box of chocolates on my knee

Just to catch a glimpse of you,

Hope no one tall’s in front of me!

 

Yes, the glamour might be welcome

Could I live with the fame?

The rich adoration

Everyone knowing my name.

 

With a hint of anonymity

Let me be humble to the end.

I just long to be included

And for you to call me friend.

 

The Strangest Week

We recently set up a new group of Storytellers who go into the local primary schools and act out Bible stories in assemblies. 

We used to follow the Open the Book syllabus but after a few admin changes we decided to break away, which allows us to write our own stories.

This is the first of our bespoke stories which I wrote and we performed last week. A story about Holy Week from a new perspective.

I am happy to share it and would be even more delighted if anyone wants to use it in their church, Sunday School or assembly.

The Strangest Week

I clearly remember the day it went dark at 3 o’clock in the afternoon.

It was a Friday and I was preparing food for the next day, the Sabbath, that’s the day us Jews have to rest, so Fridays are always very busy especially in the kitchen.

I had just put the bread in the oven where the fire was glowing red and when I lifted me head up everything was black.

My eyes adjusted to the gloom and I rushed outside. There was my husband Simeon looking up toward Golgotha Hill, the place of the skull we knew it as, bad things happened there.

“I knew there would be trouble” he said shaking his head, “it’s been the strangest week.”

*****

I suppose it all started the previous Sunday when Jesus rode into town on a donkey. We’d heard such stories of his amazing miracles, how he fed crowds of people and healed the sick. We were told he was a marvellous teacher, so we joined the crowds to listen to his words.

We shouted Hosannah and waved palm branches. It was such a celebration. Jesus was treated like a King.

But later that week he was arrested. He stood in court, meek and mild, a shadow of the man we saw on Sunday.

Some say he was betrayed by one of his closest friends.

“Some friend!” Simeon said shaking his head, “it’s been the strangest week.”

*****

Pontius Pilate the Roman governor wanted to let Jesus go. He said he had done nothing wrong.

“As is our custom we will release one prisoner – you choose - Jesus or Barabbas?”

I was about to shout Jesus’s name but Simeon gave me a look and shook his head. Many of the Jewish leaders hated Jesus and were calling for Barabbas to be set free. He is a known thief, and a big bully in these parts. But suddenly we found ourselves joining in calling for Barabbas, although I didn’t shout very loudly.

“Why did we do that?” I asked Simeon as we walked home

“It’s been the strangest week.” He said with a shrug.

*****

Jesus was crucified that Friday, hung on a cross to die on the hill called Golgotha, the place of the skull. We didn’t go and watch, I couldn’t face it and I had so much to do, but that was the day the sky went dark at 3 o’clock.

We thought it was the end.

And when the sky went back to normal we carried on as usual trying to put the strangest week behind us.

*****

But at the start of the next week the strangest thing of all happened.

It started as a whisper from the women who visited Jesus’s tomb - “Jesus is alive!”

Then the rumour spread to the disciples, Jesus’s special friends. “He’s come back!”

Soon everyone had heard, “It’s true!” “But he was dead!” “Not anymore, he’s alive!”

Although not everyone wanted to believe it.

“It’s the greatest miracle of all.” Said Simeon shaking his head “but it has been the strangest week!”

 

Myths and Fairy Tales

It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything on my blog.

Been a while since I attended a writing workshop.

And been a while since I have written a poem.

 

With one fell swoop I shall rectify all of the above.

This afternoon I went to a Myths and Fairy Tales Poetry workshop.

We warmed up with a CINQUAIN – which I will confess I’ve never written before and I was glad when we were told how it is written. Two syllables in the first line, four in the second, then six, then eight and back to 2 syllables in the fifth and final line.

 

Rose red

lips like petals.

Here lies Snow White asleep.

I aim to wake her with a kiss,

I miss!

 

I am definitely in a playful mood, just right for subverting the fairy tale stereotypes.

We looked at some other poems, several from Carol Ann Duffy’s collection The World’s Wife which give a different slant on many traditional myths. I also really enjoyed this one by A.E. Stallings, which includes a multitude of magical tales.

Then, we had twenty minutes to write a poem from the perspective of a different character in a familiar story.

I chose someone’s mum – see if you can guess whose?

 

Jacqueline

I should have had a daughter

Jacqueline, I would have called her

Not as foolish as my lazy son

She would have valued our cow

Seen her true worth

Traded her for more than a handful of beans.

 

Oh my stupid, stupid boy!

Head stuck in the clouds

With thoughts of giants in his tiny head

Made up stories that grow exponentially over night

And fill his world with madness.

 

There’s not even enough beans for a stew tonight

We’ve no eggs for breakfast either

When the golden sunrise comes.

 

I cast the beans upon the ground

Stomp on them for good measure

In defiance!

 

Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum

If only I’d had a daughter, instead of a son!

 

We then looked at the location and how myths and fairy tales can take on a whole new direction when you change the setting. The challenge was to place a character somewhere new.

Before writing about Jack I had toyed with the idea of writing something about Rapunzel. What if after she escaped her tower she took a visit to the hairdressers? A strange experience for someone who has not visited one for a very long time.

 

The Up Do

 

They gather a team for my dramatic “up do”

“Your hair is so thick.”

“Would you like a tea or coffee?”

“Any holidays planned?”

 

I sit in a chair like a throne

No longer all alone.

Being pampered and cared for

Enjoying the incessant chatter.

 

I have little to offer in the conversation of celebrity.

I’ve been shut away too long.

But I don’t have chance to answer

Or drink my tea which sits growing cold, forgotten.

 

They wash and brush and snip and jabber,

And trim and curl and twirl and prattle.

They surround me in a miasma

of product and spritz and spray

Which scratches my throat

Like the sharp thorns

That one held me prisoner.

 

They twist strands of my hair, like rope

And pin it up into a high tower on my head.

Unscalable!

How will I get out of here?

Unfathomable!

 

Finally, they let me see

A mirror is held to the back of my head

They smile, suddenly silent, awaiting affirmation

 

I wish I’d gone short instead!

 

So there we have it, 2 poems written, 3 if you include in the cinquain, all in one afternoon. And it was lots of fun, especially sharing at the end and seeing what everyone else had written about.

The words other people say

I can now say I am a published writer with no fear of boasting or exaggeration.

I’ve seen my words in print before, been featured in anthologies of short stories and poems but now I have published my first solo effort and am earning some money from it – time will tell if I ever break even with all my expenses so far, I’ve not done the maths but that is immaterial just now.

About fifty people came to my “bookless” book launch over a week ago. The following Monday I stood in front of another dozen or so people at my first speaking engagement, waffling on and waving my arms about. I’m not good at keeping still, I open my mouth to talk and my hands automatically join in.

My book has been sold as far away as Australia and Italy.

The first empty book box - the first of many I hope.
Can you spy the glitter sparkling at the bottom?

It’s all rather exciting but when I clicked onto Amazon and discovered my first five-star review, I actually bounced on the sofa with joy.

When people say nice things it can be all too easy to shrug them off, brush the compliments away while insults and hurtful words tend to stick like glue.

At my book launch I asked a few people to write 100 words about me and I admit everyone excelled themselves with their own lovely words about me.

A friend who I was at school with from the age of five all the way until sixth form together wrote something based on an acrostic of my name, Such fun, Abundance of energy, Reunion, Aging – or rather NOT aging and Hilarious laughs together.

My bridesmaid wrote a piece peppered with references too BAZAAR to explain to anyone else. Fellow writer Ruth Leigh recalled how we first met in a pub, introduced by a mutual friend and how we still regularly meet in a bar.

The rector recalled our first meeting a little over five years ago.

Pauline (Sarah’s Mum) told me about Sarah leaving the north to come back to Hadleigh but discovered that she had cancer. I found out about Andrew, two ‘boys’ and all the complexity that this person had been through. Not a great fan of hospital visiting, I summoned my energy to see this hapless victim.

“Hapless victim” .... not!

I met the full on, dynamic entity called “Sarah”. I sat on the end of a hospital bed listening to her story.

The nature of Sarah is bustling busy-ness, passionate and compassionate, speaking up for those who might not have a voice!

Deo gratias

I admit I had to look up Deo gratias – it means thanks be to God.

The Brett Valley Collective, who I have performed with put their heads together to come up with words to describe me which was crafted into this poem which even rhymes.

Enthusiastic, dedicated

A mover and a shaker

Upbeat, warm and generous

Resilient, not a faker

 

Strong and courageous

A can doer, a creative

Despite some time up north

In Hadleigh she’s a native

 

A smiler Sarah loves to laugh

If she seems nice - well she is

Chatty with a zest for life she

Bubbles like a glass of fizz

 

A trusted member of our team

At BVC she’s in

Chances now of getting out

Are looking very slim

 

Without sweet moments life can feel

 Like lemons sharp and bitter 

So let’s take a leaf from Sarah’s book and go

In search of some lost glitter

 

They went over by 3 words – but I think you will agree they are important so I let them off, especially after I was sprinkled with actual glitter.

My oldest son wrote about the times we had watched sport together, including the first time I took him to a Premiership football match. While he could remember all the action and who scored the goals, my lasting memory was walking through a rainbow painted tunnel to get to the ground which I thought was so pretty. Then there was the time we watched tennis together and I couldn’t tell the players apart as they were dressed identically. My son said “Nadal is left-handed,” which only confused me even more.

Then youngest son shared this, in rhyme and exactly 100 words. Just like his mother he enjoys a challenge, but I must say I never quite expected these words, which made my eyes leak…

You were my comfort when thing went wrong in 2010,

And how much have you done since,

all those conversations about Avengers, and the X-men.

 

Finding a short cut through the waterfall on LEGO Racers,

how was that not a dead end?

Hosting Friday Tea so I can see all my friends

 

Helping me make bolognaise answering my phone call

“How do I cut a pepper”?

Let's not forget all my university work

where you have played the role of spell checker.

 

Or our long evenings watching superheroes on the TV.

You have always been the best mum for me.

 

Every person summed me up, or at least the version of Sarah that they knew and loved. And how loved I felt that evening.

As I writer you want your words to resonate and mean something. Getting a kind comment, a review by official channels or just a message saying how much your writing has meant to them is PRICELESS.

Maybe we should all scatter compliments and kind words like confetti and if we catch some hold on to them tightly and believe they are true!

A Book Launch to Remember

For those who couldn't attend last night here is what I had to say for myself.

Hadleigh Old School - all ready for the book launch with not a book in sight!

"It’s difficult to know where to start really. Julie Andrews says you start at the very beginning and I suppose this is where I began. In what was once a small market town, definitely NOT a village but back in the late 60s and early 70s, Hadleigh was at least half the size it is today.

Going back even further to a time before I was born or even thought of, my dad, along with his brothers, went to school in this very building. He was a practical sort, not academic and probably hated every minute.

“What do you want to have your book launch at my old school for?” I can imagine him saying in his broad Suffolk accent.

But then would he ever have believed I could write a book? It was something way beyond his comprehension.

“What have you been doing all day?” He’d ask in the school holidays. “Reading.” “Haven’t you done anything constructive?” Now I written a book, perhaps even he would consider that all the reading I did as a child was constructive after all.

Writing has been a dream of mine for a long time, as well as being a dancer, an actress, a general superstar and all-round diva. I feel like I have finally arrived in my sparkly dress; surrounded by so many of you. I stopped counting how many people I had invited tonight and I am truly flattered to have you all here supporting me. It means a lot.

My writing really took off after my husband Andrew died and I became a widow at 42. Like my dad he never really understood my literary passions, and told me I didn’t know the right people to ever be published. Once that may have been true, but the world has changed since he’s been gone.

My first blog, started two weeks after Andrew died on what would have been his 49^th birthday was called unravelling edges. I was coming undone at the seams. My words resonated with readers as I processed my grief, that funny black cloud that surrounded me that I didn’t really understand. I thank God for my two sons Joe and Ben who gave me a reason to get up each morning. They were only 13 and 10.

In the months that followed the word count grew and I thought I could so easily put my writing in a book – how foolish I was. It has taken a lot of tears, tantrums, and time to get this project to completion. I won’t read out the long list of acknowledgments listed in the back of the book – once you get a copy you can read them for yourself…

Which brings me to the elephant in the room, the lack of actual books to buy this evening. 

I don't even have enough Os on my light box to write the message oops no books!

It is ironic really that a book about finding glitter in the darkest of days should be beset with such problems. I only have myself to blame for not ordering them on time. But most of you know me well enough to know I am not the most organised person on the planet and I have my own inimitable way of doing things.

However, I decided a “no book” book launch is such a good gimmick and I’ve made you all a commemorative bookmark (many thanks to Emma in the church office) One day when I am a total mega star, or at the very least a C grade celeb on Strictly it might be worth a small fortune!

bookmarks with sparkly wool tassels, each hand threaded by me!

You can still pre-order books tonight and pay by cash or card. I will hand deliver or post on at no extra cost early next week.

But I have waffled on for more than 500 words - that’s quite a feat when most of the stories in the book are less than a quarter of that.

Another USP – unique selling point. My memoir is written in very short stories, like snapshots that “coalesce to form a vivid picture of a person dealing with loss in a real and personal way”. So says author and podcaster Matt McChlery in the endorsements. Which you can read once you get the book.

The 100 words idea was self-imposed because I am a bit of a nerd when it comes to numbers – one of the stories is called “sixteen years, six months, six days” some of you might be sharp enough to realise the significance of that particular time period.

It’s not always easy to write a story in so few words and sometimes my words have overflowed so they make more sense.

Now before I read some of my own stories to you I thought it would be good to hear some other voices, some other stories, but still all about me!

I have challenged a few friends to tell their own stories about me in 100 words. I’m not sure what they are going to say but they are people with different perspectives, people that have known me at different stages of my life, some for just a few years, and others for too many decades to count."

 

I then handed the floor over to my friends to share their recollections, which were varied, often funny, some rhymed, there was an acrostic and my own words were used against me. I was even showered in actual glitter. I will seek permission to share these words on my blog another day.

 

Looking glamourous in my sparkly dress with my proof copy and glass of prosecco!

I read a few of my own stories about some of the unique celebrations we have shared as a family. 

Then I took pre-orders for the non-existent books – it’s NOT a SCAM honest!!!

There was mingling, much laughter, plenty of hugs and the bubbles flowed – although honestly I was on such a HIGH even half a glass of Prosecco was enough to get me giddy – but then as some friends know lemonade bubbles can make me tipsy…

Now that is a story I never got to write, and many more have been popping into me head – perhaps my next book should be the inbetween stories. The every day tales that never fitted the narrative this time around. Let me know if you think that’s a good plan. Maybe some truth and some fiction. I do need to think about what to write next…

…but for now I will bask in the glow of a glittery evening that I shall fondly remember FOREVER. After all it’s not every day you have your first ever solo book launch!