Being Me

A Tragedy Involving Froth I went into the kitchen, unaware of huge disaster waiting for me there. The bowl was stacked with dirty crocks, of course: the detritus of pork with apple sauce. In haste, for I was keen to watch TV,  I squirted in the Fairy recklessly which meant, before too long, the froth had frothed so frothily I knew all hope was lothed.  Imagine if the sea were all detergent - you’ll understand how things became so urgent. Huge bubbles on the ceiling and the floor and mutinously bubbling through the door and bubbles scaling walls just like Bear Grylls and on the windows and the windowsills. I wished that I had not been so remiss - I now had froth in every orifice - so, when I sneezed – a sneeze so loud and long -   a million bubbles added to the throng. Attacked by bubbles, terrified, afflicted, I waited for my death by Fairy Liquid.   The emergency services knew Fran was under there, somewhere 

It's nearly a month since Christmas and I still have my pile of books and notebooks from friends and family on a chair by the sofa. I can't bring myself to put them all away. There's no reason why I should. No one's dared to move the pile so that they can sit   sat on the chair for a while anyway.  But these are lovely presents: novels, books of poetry, books about poetry, delicious notebooks .... what's not to like? I haven't always received such pleasing gifts.  I was married in April 1982. At the end of that month, I turned 20. Yes, a young bride, and one who wasn't so delighted with her birthday present from her new husband.  'I've bought you an ironing board cover, too,' he said, looking pleased. 'It's the right size. I've checked.'  And indeed he had. It was prettier than the plain blue one on this picture: flowery and cheerful.  He had tried.  Nevertheless, we had words. I was compassionate, don't worry. I was his first...

Happy Christmas, lovely followers! I know it's not been the year any of us would have ordered (had we been asked) but here and there I have tried to offer humour, cheer and a moment's distraction. Thanks so much for being around, for reading, and for your super comments which I love until they are funnier than my own.  I hope you are able to spend some time, however limited, with family or friends. Our plans were disrupted but we're still able to see one set of family so, counting our blessings!  I've been adding videos to my Youtube channel and these two are Christmas-themed, so I offer them here for your entertainment over the holiday. The first is a poem, the second a song. Take your pick or enjoy both :)  See you in 2021 😊

I've been to so many Zoom events lately, often those for writers. Here are thoughts I have during them.   1. Do my nostrils look like the Wookey Hole caves to anyone else? 2. I bet I'm not the only one drinking red wine out of a tumbler to pretend it's Ribena.  3. I wish someone had warned me that when you surreptitiously check your phone, your face lights up like a beacon.  4. That woman's dog is so tiny it would do better as a sandwich filling.  5. How embarrassing that I posted the Clapping reaction just as that man told a tragic story.  6. Do my nostrils look like the Wookey Hole caves to anyone else? 7. Hey, if I tilt my head back just a little like *this*, I reduce the number of chins by a sixth. 8. Crap, no! My Chat message saying, 'I'm loving this' came up just as that lady was describing her latest rejection from a publisher.  9. If I turn my camera off, I could eat this Snickers bar then claim technical problems.  10. Do my nostrils look like...

My try-to-get-fitter walk in the fields today was a silent one. I usually listen to the radio through earphones but have lost one of the soft earbuds and nothing spoils a walk more than having hard plastic nudging up against your fragile tympanic membrane. The BBC's  'Woman's Hour' is a brilliant programme but loyalty has limits.  It was disconcerting, walking in silence. Listening to radio distracts from the disturbing reality that my legs are propelling me in forward motion because, if I think too hard about this, I frighten myself.  Today, while walking, I had to listen to my own thoughts.  And now I've listened to my own thoughts, I remember why I like radio better. The inside of my head is like a wastepaper basket.   Be grateful that I only offer you a brief excerpt.  Oh, look, that bird is - / Where did I put that mark scheme. I'll need it for - / My shoes are getting muddier./ Maybe mash with the fish tonight / really muddy / The trees are defin...

I wrote a poem for Remembrance Day based on Ecclesiastes 3 verses 1-8. You may know the original verses better as a famous Pete Seeger song.  First, here are the verses as they appear in the Old Testament. Following them is my own poem 'There is a Clock-Strike' Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 (New International Version of the Bible) There is a time for everything,      and a season for every activity under the heavens: 2       a time to be born and a time to die,      a time to plant and a time to uproot, 3       a time to kill and a time to heal,      a time to tear down and a time to build, 4       a time to weep and a time to laugh,      a time to mourn and a time to dance, 5       a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,      a time to embrace and a time to refrai...

One remarkable fact about my mother, who took her own life at thirty-one after years of alcoholism, and was in most respects disorganised and chaotic, is that she named all four of her offspring before birth. We all had a name ready-made, whether a boy or girl.  It's one of the few positive memories I have of her parenting. But you have to suck the juice out of some situations.  So efficient! That's the birth-name equivalent of having everything in labelled Tupperware, arranged on your kitchen shelves in size order. I can assure you, my mother's kitchen did not look like this. So, she wasn't consistent, but the name idea counts in her favour.  Here's how it worked.  I am Frances. If a boy, I would have been Francis.  My brother was named Leslie. He would have been Lesley. My sister was Christine. She would have been Christopher. My younger sister was Michaela. She would have been Michael. Have you ever heard of anyone else doing this? Usually, you hear people sa...