forgetting the time

V Day poem...

2012-02-14T21:16:00.004Z

Last year, I was just falling in love and wrote this poem for my friend Vanessa who was a little heartbroken. Now, the love I found last year ended and I've been recovering for past months, And V has fallen in love again with a proper decent bloke, which she so deserves.

I thought I might post this video of me reading our poem, because there is a little crack of sadness today, but also a smile because for me Valentine's Day is all about the love we don't have yet, the love we left behind and the love we imagine for ourselves...

A Break in the Storm

2012-02-09T22:06:00.001Z

This is one of my favourite places in Manchester - it's called Kim-by-the-Sea. I took my self for a late lunch one day last week. There was hardly anyone there. I went in and sat by the window here, and read my book for an hour or more and ate avocado salad and home-cooked chips and drank rooibos tea.

It was after a fairly perfect morning with my friend Sally. We both skipped work in the middle of the week and met in a hotel in Manchester for a morning lounging by the pool in bikinis. I sat in the sauna and soaked and then plunged in the pool and sauna and pool. It was a little bit of heaven overlooking a very grey Manchester car park, and we were inside warm and lounging on poolside beds. And then a full body massage, which left me almost dreamily relaxed.

We went and looked round Sally's gorgeous new studio, in Islington Mill, which is a gorgeous old mill. I have no reason to have a studio, but I felt quite jealous of her gorgeous white-painted space, and wish I had spare money so I could just get one and put a desk in the middle of the studio and a chair and write. I left her to unpack and settle in while I came to my cafe where I sat by this window with Suite Francaise.

Most of my days at the moment are crazy, adrenalin fuelled and filled with people and tasks, and I jam-pack everything in, so it was good to just let it all go for a day and properly relax.

Love Interruption

2012-02-08T20:00:00.001Z

I'm loving this song at the moment. The lyrics are great. I dedicate this as a yee-ha to all the destructive, unhealthy relationships and hurtful kinds of love to which I'm saying, no, nay, never, no more.

That Critical Voice

2012-02-04T17:41:00.000Z

I've been trying to write a story for... I don't know how long. I suppose the idea originated in September, and I worked on it for a while, did some research and got enthused about it. But life got in the way. I had some difficulties with it, and decided that even though the subject matter excited me, there was something about this story I was just not ready to write. Maybe it was the timing, or difficulties in my life, or something about my understanding about the topic. So, I stopped.

I picked it up again two weeks ago and started working on the same story again, but from a different angle. I've hammered a lot of hours and research into this story, and have written over 6000 words.

Now I've got That Critical Voice in the back of my head talking to me constantly as I'm trying to work on it. It says, not good enough, not good enough, not good enough, on repeat. And no matter how rational I try to be, or patient, or just sometimes plain ignoring it, the voice seems to rise up louder and louder and louder.

I've reached a point now where I need to put the story aside again, because I can't switch off The Critical Voice, and it's become difficult to determine whether the story has potential or not.

I'm not sure whether every writer experiences this from time to time, or whether this is something that only I battle with.

Hoping that tomorrow I can find a more supportive and nurturing inner voice that might encourage me to finish the story before I miss the deadline!

Tea Hut

2012-01-27T21:17:00.016Z

I thought I might introduce our tea hut at the allotments. It's been too wet for digging, and the weather has been pretty cold and windy. I still go down to dig up a few leeks and other winter veg, and take down some old peels and eggshells for my compost bin. I might tidy up canes or bricks or netting, check on onions I planted in the Autumn, and see whether there are signs of Spring, and there are... rhubarb is crowning, all my daffodils and crocuses are pushing through, there are buds on my fruit bushes.

But, last weekend, I just had an hour with Eric in the tea hut. We boiled the kettle and put classical music on the radio. We sat on our wooden chairs with their heart and flower-patterned cushions, and talked about this and that, and got a bit stiff and cold (although we could have put the calor gas heater on and shut the door. But somehow it's life-affirming to sit there, with the drizzle outside bringing in the damp and the wind bringing in the cold, and watching Carole's raspberry canes bowing in the wind.

The photos will show you our little communal hideaway, a place of clutter and books, and teapots and cups, and Tony's beautiful paintings on the walls, and many clocks, chairs, chests and gas bottles, notices on the wall, tins of biscuits or nails and screws, and bits of everything, and hot tea.

Today, I ordered extra seeds (in addition to the tin full of seeds I already have). Bauhilde black beans. Savoy Cabbage. Belstar Calabrese. Chantenay carrots. Rainbow Chard. Buttercup Squash. Butternut Squash. Pak Choi. Esmee Rocket. Kevelden Wonder Peas. Halblange White Parsnips. Great Lakes Crisphead Lettuce. I love the names of seeds. I'd like to be a person that names seeds for a living.

And I've been a complete garden geek researching asparagus crowns. I'm getting them shipped up from a farm in Kent, they last ten years so might as well make sure I get good ones!

I can't wait for spring. It's the small things in life, that make it worth living. The cycle of things sprouting, growing, fruiting, dying back, rotting, lying dormant, and growing again. I love the seasons and the way the allotment changes every day as the weather and seasons change.

At the moment, my plot is waterlogged in places, muddy, damp, mostly everything has died right back, and the soil is bare or covered, and it's rough-dug or clumpy. The greenhouse is empty, the pond is over-flowing, there are dead artichokes on brown stalks, and dried up fox gloves and gladioli that I can't quite bring myself to compost yet. Rotting sunflower heads, ten foot jerusalem artichoke stems, and bare branches on my trees and bushes.

Everything is waiting, including me, for the time when it's growing time again.

Friendship, Yorkshire Sculpture Park and Jaume Plensa

2012-01-23T21:14:00.002Z

I drove over to Yorkshire to visit my amazing friend Carole on Saturday. We've been friends since University days when we were about 19. Over the years, we've had times where we haven't seen each other for many years, friendships drift like that sometimes don't they? But I count her as one of my closest friends, even through distance and being busy with our different lives.

I saw her recently in the middle of a tough tough week. We met at the services by the side of the motorway half way between our houses, and I realised without having realised until when I saw her that I'd missed our friendship like mad. So, one of my pacts is to see her more.

Less than a month later, and I drive back across the Pennines for an afternoon with her at the Yorkshire Sculpture Park. I've never been before, and we met in a very windy, cold car park, wrapped up in many layers, and walked and talked, and drank tea, and ate bacon sandwiches, and wandered around the exhibitions. It was great. Bloody freezing, but great. I think I had jaw ache from so much talking, and burst eardrums from the cold, but it was so good to see her.

And amazing to see this exhibition by Spanish sculptor Jaume Plensa. It seems very apt at a time when I've been experiencing depression again that the exhibition explored a lot of emotional states. I was blown away by how achingly beautiful his exhibits were, particularly the Alabaster Heads, which felt so sad and haunting, and 29 Palms, which is a 50 foot long curtain of wind chime letters that jingle and jangle and throw shadows on the wall, and make up some fragments of some of his favourite poems. To be honest, I loved the whole of his exhibition. Some photos:

Oo, a lovely review

2012-01-20T19:23:00.000Z

Just found out that there is a very good review of Lemistry in science fiction journal, Interzone.

It's a long time since anyone wrote anything nice (actually anything at all) about my writing. And here's what it says about my story, Toby.

Other highlights in the 'Reconstructed Originals' section include Annie Clarkson's 'Toby' a tale that balances emotional ecology with notions of authenticity in beautifully spare and evocative prose.

How good is that?! It's really pleasing to get mentioned in a review of this really quite brilliant book. Added a little smile to my day.

Writing, Writing, Writing...

2012-01-16T18:39:00.001Z

Everything is about short stories at the moment.

So, I'm currently reading Zoe Lambert's excellent first collection The War Tour. These stories explore wars and all their far-reaching impacts through a diverse set of characters and geographies. It's brilliantly well-researched, powerful, and engaging. I love her writing style, and definitely recommend it for a thought-provoking, eye-opening read.

And I just read an amazing collection of short fiction called It Was Just, Yesterday by Mirga Unge, a Swedish writer. She has a kind of brilliance in writing long, breathless prose that explores mainly but not exclusively young women's voices. Her stories have many surprises, and I loved her view of the world, she has an eye for a short story, that's for sure.

And I'm writing.

Last week I wrote two short stories, one about a nervous man with hands like birds. The other about a phone call where a man discloses his dark secret. They are both kind of sad. I'm writing another which is kind of about me, but a me that doesn't exist. It's one of those 'what if' stories. So, the emotional and physical geography is mine, but the incidents in the story never actually happened (but might have done), so what if it had gone the other way?

I'm enjoying writing, I seem to have a flock of ideas. I'm not sure why, I'm not complaining. I'm trying to find the time to write when I can, and seeing where the ideas take me.

or maybe this is my song of the week

2012-01-13T23:55:00.000Z

or this

or this

or this

too many songs I'm loving at the moment, how can I choose just one?

my song for this week

2012-01-11T20:28:00.004Z

2012 so far...

2012-01-08T00:03:00.002Z

Driving to the rainy dales. Stew with an old friend. Cinema in the afternoon. Planting, lopping, chopping, composting. The best bath in the world (which is always after the allotment when dirty, tired and aching). Jan Svankmajer in cinema 3 at the Cornerhouse. Lovely late-night talk at the Temple of Convenience. Cups of afternoon tea in old china cups with saucers at the Tea Hive. Working hard. Wind and rain lashing the house. Leaving the office with a smile on my face. Train stations, and homeless shelters, and solicitors, and speaking through interpreters. Arabic, Kurdish Sorani, Kurdish Kamanji, and Amharic. Slowly learning more about Islam. Therapy. GP. Tesco. Dropping in for tea with a friend. Taking myself out for dinner. Qabili Palau and mint tea. Shifting cow muck at the allotment. More tea and lots of laughs. An Eric hug. A small harvest. Bacon and egg butty. Long soak in the bath. Brisk walk through Styal Woods with my lovely friend. Fallen trees and mud and soggy leaves. Scampi and chips in The Ship Inn, with a crackling fire and us talking and talking. Mirja Unge's It Was Just, Yesterday. Gorgeous home made soup, and lazy evening alone, music and pottering.

I feel thankful for today and this week. Sometimes, good days mean so much more than at other times. After a tough end to the year, good days mean everything.

Wellies and Wishes

2012-01-02T17:49:00.003Z

2010

2011

2012

A bit cold today, but a beautiful bright sun. It's my third January on the allotment, but the photos will show why its the first January I've been able to do any work.

After all the Christmas rain, the plot's waterlogged in parts, very muddy and squelchy. Definitely a day for wellies. It was a day of planting bulbs (a little late, but the weather is so mild), composting 15ft artichoke stems, lopping down three baby trees and chopping the wood up, tidying the greenhouse and weeding my flower wheelbarrow and herb tyres.

It was good to get out there after a few weeks of wetness and rain, and after a tough end to 2011.

I've decided not to do a belly-gazing reflection on last year. I want to make wishes for the new year and look forward.

So, here goes, I wish...

For a good appetite, restful sleeps and tiptop health. For my short story ideas to find their way onto paper. For good friends, belly laughs, and hugs. For love that lasts. For the world to be a kinder place to everyone. For a good growing season. For long walks and hot tea. For talking way into the night. Sunsets and sunrises. For holidays and weekends away. And cars that don't break down. And enough money. For swimming in the sea and picking blackberries and baking and pretty frocks. For home-cooked dinners that are shared. For learning Spanish and dancing, lots of dancing. For calmness. Good films. Music. And time with my family. For bravery and confidence and to always be myself no matter how hard that sometimes is. For less-stress work. For forgiveness and no more goodbyes. For hot chips eaten from the wrapper. For kisses. For gigs and a good birthday. For camping in new places. Picnics on beaches. For Alan's friend to say yes I can visit his chickens. And charity shop bargains. And warm feet. And fun.

I'm happy to share my wishes, they're not just for me.

Walking North

2011-12-28T20:16:00.003Z

Christmas Day morning: one of my favourite walks, from Barley up through the woods above Lower Ogden reservoir, up round Upper Ogden Reservoir, and back down under Pendle Hill. A damp morning, so quiet in the trees, only the sound of running water, and the crackle of pine cones under my feet. Red dead bracken and a couple eating a picnic in Christmas hats. I've walked here many times before so there is something self-affirming about this walk. It's me. I grew up in the shadow of this hill.

Tuesday: Janet's Foss, Gordale Scar, and Malham Cove. Mist, mizzle and mud, until the sun broke through the clouds, not for long, but long enough to open up the sky. Twisted fallen trees and limestone pavements, more water in the waterfalls than I have ever seen and aching shins. Bacon sandwiches and cups of tea. Another favourite place, memories from when I was much younger.

Today: Another favourite walk from Howarth to Penistone Hill and onto the moor. Wind-whipped and stinging with cold, wrapped tight and struggling against the winds. Heather and dry stone walls, ruined barns and flagstones. It wasn't enjoyable, but it was needed. No photos because the weather was just too wild. It was like being in Andrea Arnold's version of Wuthering Heights but colder and with none of the passion. Walked today to try and recover something of myself.

grateful for...

2011-12-24T00:01:00.001Z

A warm bed. Presents under the tree. A lovely evening with friends and the best hug I've had in ages. Laughing yesterday until my cheeks hurt. Kind messages in Christmas cards. The beautiful turquoise beads in the mala Eric gave me. A vivid imagination. The view through my dirty office window onto the Rochdale canal and the looming mills of Ancoats. Friends who seem to love and accept me just the way I am. The best parents I could ask for. My cat who plays tig with the backs of my legs every time I walk up the stairs. A lovely inspiring house mate who makes a great cup of rooibos tea and makes me laugh when she says the word 'waltz'. My allotment. New pretty beads. Being taught a mantra to 'Eliminate all Darkness' and chanting this 108 times while the rain lashed the hut roof. SSRIs. James Vincent McMorrow. Florence. Bombay Bicycle Club. Foo Fighters. Regina Spektor. Six Feet Under. My doctor who gives me a lot of time and rough tissues. The ex-boyfriend who said how great it is to see how much I've grown as a person. Short stories. Mel's emails. Feeling scared but doing things anyway. A brilliant editor. Texts inviting me for drinks and cups of tea. Opportunities to learn about love. Opportunities to learn about loss. The courage to be myself even when I get hurt.

Miss September

2011-12-09T17:48:00.002Z

I am Miss September in our allotment site's 2012 calendar. I am very proud of my nasturtiums and muddy knees. Ha.

The allotment has been amazing this year. I worked very bloody hard and had a glut of vegetables and fruit. My shed had a grateful renovation. As did my pond. In fact, I've been digging right up until last Saturday when the weather took a turn for the windy and wet. I've still been out anyway, and planted three trees into knee deep holes filled with horse muck. I was soaked and wet, but escaped the worst of the weather in the tea hut where Eric and me listened to classical music, drank tea and bemoaned the world. I then fastened my trees to stakes with strips of bicycle inner tube, and watched them sway in these crazy winds hoping they will survive this weather. Sunset apple. Victoria Plum. Conference Pear.

I've still got some winter veg to harvest, given the chance. Sprouts grown especially for my dad, leeks, beets and swedes. Still have a sack and a half of potatoes, onions, and pumpkins all stored in the kitchen. My horse muck is shovelled, wheel-barrowed and rotting nicely in a huge stinking pile at the back of my lot. I've dug in a lot of manure already, I've dug over most of the ground ready for winter, composted dead plants and cut back my currant bushes.

To be honest, the allotment is my escape, my therapy, my exercise, my peace and contentment, my joy. There is nowhere else I can run like a seven year old from one end of the site to the other with a carrier bag held up high in the air behind me like a balloon, or dance along the edge of my railway sleeper raised bed without a care whether anyone is watching me. It's the place where I hide, where I feel I belong and where I experience nothing but kindness. It doesn't matter if I fail, I just try again. It doesn't matter if I know nothing, nobody laughs or puts me down, we are all always learning.

I've been reading back through my allotment diary, through all the hard digging and ridiculous lists of vegetables I've planted and harvested. Just to prove I am hooked, here are three little snippets from earlier in the year:

'It feels more at home than being at home. At the lot, it's like I can breathe, and I hear the wood pigeons and the wind rustling the leaves, and whether it's basking heat or dull or windy or drizzling with rain, it always feel good to be out...'

'I love the pace, the focus, just me immersed in whatever I'm doing - sometimes I can't fix what's in my head, but most of the time the lot fixes everything and I feel bliss, wonder, awe, peace, I feel lucky to have these moments.'

'I harvested and dug and had a cup of tea, and dreamed a little while rain lashed onto the hut roof, just the sound of it, wow, with Eric's radio on classical and the kettle whistling. I needed it today, all this. I needed it so badly and I didn't realise how much. When I came home, I ran a bath and noticed in the mirror how I was smiling all over my face and how healthy I looked. It feels me with such an amazing sense of well-being,'

To be honest, it is such hard work, I have moments where all I want is to give up, but I push through because I can't imagine life without it.

I'm no good at relationships, I find intimacy hard and fall to pieces when someone says they no longer want me around. But I can take hardwood cuttings from a blackcurrant bush. And I manage my work stress badly, especially when I get no support. But I can dig two spits deep with a spade and turn the soil over until it crumbles. And I'm flawed in so many ways that it sometimes feels unbearable, but, somehow down there, noticing a red admiral butterfly at the end of November, or a ten spotted black ladybird on the inside of my shed door, or a robin eating the seeds from the sunflower heads I left on the ground rotting for him, everything clears. And it feels as if I can do whatever it is I need to do.

So when I saw my photo in our 2012 calendar, I remembered all of this, and wanted to write about it because in that moment, in this photograph, I was so wonderfully happy. And I wish that everyone could have something similar that makes them shiver and buzz and smile right down to their bones. This is life. No matter how tough it gets, I can cope if I can still have my time at the allotment.

More to Say

2011-12-04T19:52:00.002Z

Life is an interesting place.

One minute, I write a blog post about writing being the least important thing in my life. A few stresses and upsets later, and it feels as if writing is all I have left. I should have been more cautious about slagging it all off. Life has a habit of biting you on the arse when there's something you need to realise.

Here I am sheepishly and a little painfully admitting that I got a lot wrong. I still need to retreat from parts of the writing world for various reasons. But, as someone said to me recently, in the face of difficulties, 'write Clarkson, write write write.'

So, I am writing 'A Brief history of Wrestling', a conversational story about an amazing friend of mine who was a pro-wrestler in the seventies, taken directly from interviews with him about his wrestling days. I've written a strange story about friendship. And I have a story in the stew-pot that I'm waiting to write, exploring a difficult subject that follows me everywhere through life. I'd forgotten how much writing can focus me, drive me, comfort me, how sometimes it can be as essential as eating.

And this week I was interviewed by the Manchester Evening News, about my latest publication, a short story called Toby, which was published in Lemistry and launched this week in Manchester. The article explains the background to the book. It is a collection of short fiction and essays celebrating the life and work of Polish science-fiction writer Stanislaw Lem, published by Comma Press.

I've pasted the article here, but am not sure whether it's readable, so here's a link to the the interview online.

The launch went well, I think. Madlab in Manchester was packed with people, and the readings and discussion were widely diverse. Trevor Hoyle read part of his short story from the book. He's a lovely man, and I love his re-creation of an actual meeting with Phillip K Dick in his contribution to the book. Polish writer Wojciech Orlisnki, read a brief section of his story set in a Las Vegas style casino where people go on a virtual trip to nineteen eighties New York to try and win money. He gave us a very entertaining and illustrated guide to all things Lem, and although I would love to try and recapture a flavour of his discussion, I was a little nervous waiting to read so wasn't 100% concentrating. Sorry, Wojciech. This is what happens to me when I'm asked to read last. I sit at the back of the room, wondering whether my legs will take me to the front of the room when it's my turn to read. Thankfully they did, and I read an excerpt from my story about adoption, mixed relationships and damaged childhoods. We all answered questions at the end, and it was good, I think. I was able to kind of enjoy it in a strange nervous kind of way.

All in all, I feel reassured that I might possibly maybe have a small contribution to make to the writing world after all. And my plan (hopefully) is that instead of talking so much about writing on the internet, I will just write write write.

forgetting to blog

2011-11-05T15:20:00.001Z

I'm laying 'forgetting the time' to rest.

To be fair, I've been having a rest from it for a few months now, with the occasional post. But, the truth is, I'm forgetting to blog.

Originally 'forgetting the time' was a writing blog, a space for my writing, others writing, books, readings and other literature events, and to explore my inspiration. As time has gone on, I've written blog posts that have covered all different areas of my life from depression to redundancy to films and plays to friendships. Sometimes, I've written blog posts that on reflection seem far too raw and personal. But, then some friends have commented that these are the ones they like the best.

I'm nearing the end of 2011, and life is less about writing sadly, and more focused on just day-to-day life. I seem to have less and less to say about writing and even the allotment is dying back for the year now, so a lot of my inspiration is hibernating.

I've written this blog since December 2008 and have written 284 posts (285 counting this one). I'm not sure whether it's the end or just time for a break.

When I started out as a writer, I had huge ambitions to write a novel, to get published, and to BE a writer (whatever I thought that meant). Over past years, I have had some publications, I've not written a novel, but I've written stories and prose poems and letters and poetry. I used to feel I might die if I wasn't a writer, I felt as if I was meant to be a writer and if I couldn't be then it was a catastrophy. But, now I'm more realistic. I've no agent, no novel, not much promise of publishing a book, and to be honest I'm on the peripheries of every part of the writing world.

Recently, I went to a couple of writing events, and saw people I've met many times at readings and workshops etc, even had lunch. I said hello and was talked to politely as if I didn't really belong there.

So, I haven't been to writing events recently, wanting to avoid some of the charade about it. I dislike the way someone reads and people say great, wonderful, loved it, whether they mean it or not. I hate the way sometimes, people who know me, don't say hello or even acknowledge they even met me before. And I hate the way at these events some of the interaction is on such a superficial level.

There are many exceptions. I have a small number of friends who are also writers and they always inspire me. I love meeting with them and talking, and I love reading their work. And there are a mass of writers around me who I don't know very well, but I admire.

Maybe I'm just tired. But, my experience has been that it's difficult to find a place for myself as a writer. I often feel socially awkward amongst other writers, even though I feel socially confident in the rest of my life. I often feel as if I don't fit in, as if there is some big club that I don't have enough merit to join, and sometimes when I do get a little positive feedback I'm not sure whether this is genuine or the kind of crap I see going on between other writers... you pat my back and I'll pat yours.

Obviously, I'm being a little catty.

There are many people who have been supportive of my writing, who have followed my blog, bought my chapbook, come to readings and given me inspiration. I feel very lucky to have shared conversations, ideas, enthusiasm and I'm grateful for all the opportunities I've been given.

But, I feel it's time to retreat for a while. I will still write, explore ideas, feel inspired and creative, but I need to retreat from the writing world. It feels like too harsh a place, and not as friendly as I might like.

What I Didn't See..

2011-10-12T20:14:00.001+01:00

My latest book review, is up on The Short Review's website... Brilliant book. I loved it!

End of the Long Road...

2011-09-23T19:12:00.001+01:00

Today, I went into the office and packed away the family room so all the furniture, toys, cushions etc are ready to be picked up and delivered to other projects. I took all the photos of families and children's art work down from the wall, and shredded piles of work that we've done that doesn't need to be archived. I handed in my keys and my ID badge, and cleared the last bits off my desk. I left an out-of-office message on my email that said, Sorry I won't be able to reply to your email, as I'll no longer be working for the organisation, if you need to speak to someone, please contact...'

We decorated the office ourselves, bought all the furniture for our family room, put it together from flat packs, and painted the walls. Today, I took down picture frames, and pulled out nails that I hammered into the walls two years ago. And I left a nearly bare office today, nothing on the walls, everything in piles ready for a man and van. There is one week of our project remaining, but it's basically gone now. I have a week's holiday and then I am officially redundant.

It's been a strange ending. We've known it's been coming for a long time, but the end has rushed to meet me. A bit like when you do a parachute jump and when you reach a few hundred feet from the ground, you suddenly feel as if the ground is coming towards you way faster than you would like.

As a team, we had a day out a few weeks ago, but none of us have said goodbye yet.

Maybe that's what happens when events are not your choice. We didn't decide the funding would end. We didn't choose for the project to close. Everyone (fingers crossed) has a new job. I'm the only one being made redundant as it turns out. I half found myself another job elsewhere, but no suitable jobs came up for me anyway.

It wasn't voluntary. I didn't get a generous payout. I get statutory redundancy pay, which is better than nothing, but there was no way I'd have been able to use any payout to take time off work to write, to travel, or to start a business like most of the other people I know who've been made redundant. Life can sometimes feel like a lottery.

So, after seven years, I'm leaving an organisation where I did most of my learning as a social worker, became involved in hundreds of people's lives, saw the best and worst in people, met most of the friends who I now spend time with, found love for a while, grew a lot of confidence, and had some great laughs.

I've worked in two different projects. One for five years, one for two years. Walking out of the office was hard today. It was almost like any other day. Three of us leaving together, having a joke about this and the other, signing out, and saying what could have been an everyday bye.

I have my new job, and I know that I'll grow and learn, support many other people and have new work colleagues who could hopefully become friends.

But, even though I have the chance for this new beginning, this ending is hard, especially because it wasn't chosen. So, tonight I'm letting myself feel the sadness. It's the end of a part of my life, and I'm going to miss it like mad.

Lemistry

2011-09-03T00:50:00.001+01:00

I am very pleased that my short story Toby is being published in this very exciting book.

Lemistry is a book of short stories and essays celebrating the Polish science fiction writer Lem Stanislaw. You might never of heard of him but you will know work that has been inspired by his writing. It's all over the place... in science fiction films, computer games and fiction...

Now, I am not as much of a science fiction geek as this seems to indicate. But, being asked to write a story inspired by Lem's writing was one of those opportunities I just had to have a try at... I delved into some of his writing, and was drawn into one story in particular, The Seventh Sally or How Trurl's Own Perfection Led to No Good. It triggered off a whole sequence of thoughts and ideas, and I sat down and wrote this story on a very rainy Manchester weekend. I've since learnt that The Seventh Sally was part of the inspiration for computer game The Sims!

I loved writing this story, and I've very excited that Toby has been published in this book. I love the fact that it's published alongside stories by such amazing writers... I'm a bit astounded actually, and might not fully believe it until I've seen a copy in print!

Valentine's Day (a video poem)

2011-08-18T20:30:00.002+01:00

The second of my videos from earlier this summer when I read at Manchester Book Market. It's always a bit strange seeing myself on video, and hearing my own voice... There are a lot of really great readings recorded by Literature Northwest from this years book market. Worth having a good browse. I love that they ask such a widely varied collection of poets and writers to read at these events, something for everyone!

Silence

2011-08-14T20:28:00.001+01:00

On Not Losing the Plot

2011-08-12T19:38:00.001+01:00

Earlier this year, I had fleeting moments when I thought I might give up the allotment. Probably not give up the whole plot, just half of it. It was a struggle balancing everything, keeping up with the work, and sometimes it all overwhelmed me.

But, as fellow plotholder Eric said in a text message this was 'not a stupid thought Tinkers effing redickerous'.

(Tinkers is my allotment name. Short for Tinkerbell. It distinguishes me from the other two Annies on our site...)

And it was a ridiculous thought, because in more difficult times, the allotment has been the one thing that's been almost certain to fix or distract me from whatever else is going on.

So, here I am on friday evening after a tough, busy, tiring week, and all I wanted to do was drive to the lot and water my tomatoes and pick some veg for tea. So, I kicked off my work shoes into the shed, slipped my wellies on and wandered around my plot seeing what was ready for picking. Plenty of courgettes, gorgeous french beans, spinach, some raspberries eaten as I picked them, a bunch of sweet peas to bob in a jam jar on my kitchen windowsill...

I watered the spring cabbage seedlings and late brocolli and chard I've not long since planted in the cold frame, and I drenched my tomatoes in the greenhouse. They are just starting to turn red and I'll be able to pick some later this weekend. I noticed my aubergine plants are just flowering... probably a little late, but it's good to see what the flowers look like. I noticed the cabbages are ready to start picking, and celery is growing strong, my brussel sprouts are the size of peas and will be ready for a lovely late autumn/winter harvest, I've got some beetroot big enough to roast, and well... I could write a long long list.

I'm giving away veg all the time. A bag of spuds, some beans, whatever is going spare. I love giving veg away, or little bunches of gorgeous flowers. Small pleasures.

Here are my latest pics...

And weather permitting, I'll be out there again tomorrow. I'm nervous about my new job starting on Monday so it will be good to ground myself by digging on what looks like it might be a drizzly damp weekend.

What else? I'm still letting go about a hundred times a day. I'm listening to this amazing man (my dad had one of his albums on vinyl when we were kids and I've just rediscovered him). I'm watching Mad Men Season 4 and very addicted. I'm loving my beautiful Sissycat who is especially affectionate at the moment (not right at this moment, hissing and scratching at another cat through the window). I'm writing a little, editing a short story which will hopefully soon be published in an anthology. I'm celebrating that I've put on a pound for the first time in ten months (those who know how upset I've been at losing so much weight will know how pleased this makes me). I'm curling up on the settee tonight in my little black dress and fluffy slippers with the TV, some Finnish DVDs and lots of nibbles. And I'm smiling, because despite having a tough month, I'm doing OK...

Letting Go...

2011-08-05T23:41:00.003+01:00

I'm learning to let go. Learning, the operative word.

For the past weeks, I've been holding on tightly to an idea/something that has gone/something I have no control over. It's hard to let go of it. I suppose there are many things we can hold on tight to: the past when we are faced with change, people we have lost, feelings or experiences that no longer exist, even youth.

I feel as if I'm living through similar predicaments over and over again. Life is perhaps trying to give me the opportunity to learn here. So, this time, I want to learn properly.

My situation was summed up beautifully yesterday. I went for a Chinese acupressure treatment. The man said to me: 'Let go, you be free. Hold on, you hurt yourself.' When he said it like that, it seemed simple.

So, right now, letting go is something I'm having to do many times each day. It's not a one step process. It's continual. I let go, I feel good about this, I feel freer and then a little while later I realise I'm holding on tight again to a memory or a feeling or a set of thoughts. It seems to be a process that takes time, patience, constant reminders, some struggle, and discipline.

But, maybe if I keep doing it, then I might start having to let go less and less and then before long, I will have let go without even realising it...

I'm reading an amazing book called When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chödrön. She's an American Buddhist nun, and the book is a collection of teachings on all kinds of Buddhist approaches to life. Eric from the allotments lent me the book, he says he's had it in his shed for ages but I wasn't ready for it before.

She talks about being in the moment, even if that's painful or difficult. She encourages being with loneliness and living with suffering rather than trying to escape from it. She talks about giving up hope and accepting that the world being a groundless place. It's interesting actually, I can see what she means, it makes a lot of sense, although I don't feel able to explain it.

To be truthful, she is dealing with complex issues, that I haven't even begun to fully understand. My plan is to finish reading the book which I am doing slowly, and then start reading it again.

It all seems to come down to one thing, trying to live in the moment (which it seems to be is the key to letting go).

When I think about the times when I live in the moment. On the allotment, where I often just turn up, whatever mood I'm in, whatever the weather. I don't always know what I'm going to do. I just turn up and start somewhere on the plot... pulling up weeds for example, or planting something, or like last weekend, clearing the paths of weeds, covering them and putting chippings down. Most of the time, I focus on what I'm doing. It's very practical, often repetitive, and involves exertion. I'm conscious of what I'm doing, and whether it's hot, the birds chirruping, the strimmer somewhere on the plot, when the sun goes behind the clouds, whether I'm thirsty or not, how wet or dry the soil is, how it feels to dig the fork into the ground, the smell of the soil. I still think about other things, but the thoughts come and go. Often I can arrive in a bad mood or a tired mood or preoccupied and it works out by the time I finish. I notice what has grown a little more, I notice everything. It's the time when I am most observant of what's around me, but also observant of how I feel in a very uncomplicated way.

With practice, I hope to be able to spread this outwards into other parts of my life. But I often fall into old habits and patterns.

Letting go is something I've never done very well, but I want to learn how to be better at it.

Escaping...

2011-07-24T20:35:00.004+01:00

I escaped for the weekend with my friend Vanessa... onto the Leeds-Liverpool canal to stay on my dad's narrow-boat. We didn't chug/drive/sail it anywhere... but stayed at the mooring, which is very peaceful (apart from scary swans, lots of hissing and a few deviations in our plans to avoid them).

We watched DVDs, went for drinks in a barn with other boaters, lay in the sun reading, did some towpath gardening for my mum, cooked lovely food, went into Skipton and trawled round every charity shop in town and the market, drove up to Bolton Abbey and walked by the river, and finished it all off with a gorgeous Lamb dinner in a lovely pub.

I've come home with a burnt nose and two carrier bags of charity shop clothes. I wanted a new dress, and have come home with three dresses (one for work, two for play), a red and white swirly skirt, a vest top, a comfy jumper, a gorgeous leather handbag, and a beautiful silk top from Monsoon, all for the less than £40. It was fun trawling the shops and finding amazing bargains. I probably would have spent more than that on one dress if I'd bought brand new, and now I have a new wardrobe... (Vanessa really is the charity shop queen).

And I had such a lovely time. It was perfect. Almost.

The old, the new and the unknown...

2011-07-16T09:58:00.001+01:00

I've not been writing much.

I'm revisiting a story from a long time ago. It's called Door, and centres on a character called Lars, who works the doors in Manchester. It's a story about denial or repression, how childhood relationships shape our adult ones, and is a story where the reader realises things the character hasn't realised yet. I wrote it when I was doing my MA course in 2005 and it never quite worked. There was something in there somewhere, and some moments I liked. But I never felt the character or the situation were fully formed or quite finished.

I suddenly found myself thinking about this story the other day. I realised perhaps what the story is really about, from recent experiences that have given me more insight. Some events in real life have very uncanny echoes of this story and I feel as if I actually understand now what I was trying to achieve with the story. I think I misunderstood what the story is most concerned with. Maybe I wasn't ready to tell it six years ago. I feel as if I can do a better job now. So, seeing as the rain prevents me getting down to the allotment, I might revisit the story and see what happens.

Other writing things...

Litmus is now available on most book sites, but is cheapest on the Comma Press site I think. I've been reading my copy are there are some amazing short stories, all inspired by eureka moments in science. I've loved reading the afterwords by scientists who specialize in fields of science explored in each story. It's what makes the book special, not just fiction based on scientific discovery, but scientific commentary too. All very accessible (believe me, I am the most unscientific person I know... if anyone reading this went to school with me and ended up being my lab partner in chemistry or physics, then you will know! More doodles, graffiti and gossip in my science books than lab notes). Anyway, my short story veers towards neuroscience/ psychology. It would be interesting to hear what anyone thinks of the book, if you've read it...

My latest book review is up on The Short Review. Another collection of short fiction that I very much recommend.

It's a brilliant first collection. I loved the way the stories were all based in a fictional Australian town, with interconnections betweens stories and characters. There's an interesting interview with the writer too. I love the way The Short Review interviews as many of the reviewed writers as possible. It gives insight into the writers, the background to their collections and how they write. I always like to nosy about other writers lives, experiences and approaches to writing...

Oh, and lastly, if anyone hears of any paid writing opportunities, please please let me know. I will starting my part time job in August, so will have space, time and energy to develop my writing... and am open to any opportunities that might arise. The world will soon be my lobster, as a good friend of mine says...

Life Wishlist

2011-07-09T23:21:00.005+01:00

Some changes in life evolve slowly, others crash into us and we don't see them coming. I'm in the process of the first one and then the second one hits me like a train.

My wishlist:

Sunny days on the allotment. To grow plenty of lovely healthy fruit and veg. Lots of laughs. Cups of tea. A whole decent nights sleep. For my health to stay settled. An easy transition to my new job. Easy goodbyes. Some bloody good nights out. Some dancing. To feel as if I'm in the middle or the edge of things, but not on the outside. Time with my favourite people. Gorgeous food and a good appetite. A peaceful holiday. Decent books. Inspiration to write. Courage. Belief in myself. To be a good daughter and make my parents proud.

That will do. Did I miss anything out? If I was a little wilder in my wishes, I would say...

A place in the country with chickens and a goat and some ducks. Lots of space and time to grow my own everything. And making things. Writing a novel. A campervan to drive and stay here, there and everywhere. Lasting love, and waking up with that person everyday. A family of my own.

I can aim for both lists maybe. But, the ones on the first list seem more in reach... Hope the Universe is listening.

A list...

2011-06-28T21:06:00.000+01:00

The sound of an owl at dusk.

Baby caterpillar on my arm.

Plaster over a cut on my knee.

Filling watering cans from the water butt.

The smell of tomato plants.

Scratch on my leg from a bramble.

Twist of a bean plant up a bamboo cane.

Marigold buds.

The first growth of baby courgettes.

Tangle of strawberry runners.

Bright blue borage flowers.

Pink gooseberries.

Clank of the gates.

First sweet peas.

Prickly comfrey leaves.

Trug filled with weeds.

Scrape of a fork.

The Butterfly Effect

2011-06-25T09:21:00.002+01:00

The first short story I remember reading was Ray Bradbury's A Sound of Thunder'. I was in third year of high school in Mr Bradbury's English class. Until then, I'd hated English classes. Two years of Mrs Jackson giving us comprehensions, lessons in grammar and enunciating my name with every syllable every time I moved. But, these classes were different. Mr Bradbury wanted us to write poetry and I remember clearly reading Ray Bradbury's story and the feeling of oh my god in the pit of my stomach as I was reading it. It was like a switch inside me that never turned off again.

I read it again this morning for the first time since I was 13, and it still holds the same power, and I experienced a similar compulsivity when reading it. But I'd forgotten how beautiful his description is, how the tension builds slowly. It's an amazing short story.

Last week I handed in my 8 weeks notice at work, after a very strange few months that I haven't been able to write about. We found out at the end of March that the funding for our service will end in September. I knew it was coming in a way. It was no surprise, let's say. With the £110 million cuts that our local council has to make over the next three years, I had a sense that our small service could easily be one of the many cuts it would choose to make. We were a relatively new team delivering a preventative service to families where there is a child in need or at risk, and I'm not sure how much preventative services have a place in the current political climate. And most importantly, we weren't meeting our targets. Yet. We've spent an awful lot of time building the work, rolling it out over a whole city with a significant level of problems, getting our service known, encouraging referrals, and learning the work as we were going. So, I knew in reality that further funding was a dim possibility.

All the same, being told that your project is going to end is hard news to hear. It was one of those hit by a bus feeling. And then a slow dawning question about what the heck are you going to do. Everyone reacts differently to news like this, and at first I figured I'd be fine, that as an employee for over five years I would get a decent redundancy payout if my employer couldn't find me another suitable job elsewhere. I've had friends who have faced redundancy and they had good payouts that gave them enough time to find other work without a huge financial worry. Other friends have decided to use the opportunity to take a little time out of work and write or travel. So, I tried to see it as an opportunity.

I started to do a little research, checking the jobs bulletin, read the redundancy policy. And this was when I discovered that redundancy can mean very different things. It can mean generous payouts or it can mean statutory payouts. I was shocked to find out that statutory redundancy pay is one weeks pay for every year you're worked, which added up amounts to very little in the context of mortgages and bills and the cost of living. My options became much narrower. redundancy was not going to be much of a safety net.

There haven't been many jobs out there. I'm not sure how many people are looking for work at the moment. I feel lucky to have found a decent job, it's not permanent, and it's part-time. So, I will have to find some extra work to get the income I need, but I can also have more time to write and dig and relax more. It's a good move. It's a move I'm not quite ready for, but life is pushing me on, challenging me. I'm not sure whether it's the right move, but I've decided to take the chance.

It has struck me a few times... if I'd have worked that little bit harder... approached the work differently, gone for quantity in my work rather than quality... would this still be happening? Perhaps the world would be a different place if there was one thing I could have done or said. Or if the political world was different, if we didn't have this Government, and the council was not being forced to make radical cuts, would we have been given the chance to build our service up more so we could have met our targets?

The butterfly effect is not comforting to think about. It somehow makes it harder to face change, because you keep thinking, was there one small thing that would have made the difference? could I have been better? made less mistakes?

But that's not helpful, sometimes life just hammers us with things and we have to face them. The reasons why don't matter, what could have been done or not done in the past isn't helpful. It's just a case of suck it and see. Get on with it. Try and trust somewhere that this fits in with some wider plan we have no idea about. Or it's just random life. No reason for it, just one in a long line of things we have to deal with.

There's time now to prepare, to adjust, get used to the idea. I'm thankful for the time. Some people lose their jobs within weeks and are left picking up the pieces. But I've landed in a decent place, and maybe the change will be a good one?

Digging for England...

2011-06-06T14:32:00.001+01:00

It's June and I have less time for gardening than last year and twice as much allotment. What is a girl supposed to do...?

The best she can with what she's got.

So, with 270 square yards, a very old spade, two second hard garden forks, a tin full of seeds, a pile of horse muck and lots of donated and acquired netting, scaffold planks, used tyres, old railings, bamboo canes, and a free-cycled greenhouse... this is what I've done so far, this year...

January saw too much frost, snow, cold and damp to do anything at the allotment...

February saw a delivery of cow muck, some rough and wet digging with wellies caked in muck, and buying far too many seeds. I acquired a greenhouse, which Dave and Eric (fellow plot-holders) kindly erected for me and glazed. It's a rebuild of three different greenhouses all from freecycle. It has a window in the roof, and some slatted windows at the back, both open up when it reaches a certain temperature. It has a path of three small flagstones, and (also from freecycle) some bamboo blinds to protect my baby plants from too much direct sunlight. It's surprising how much is going on at the plot in February.... rhubarb shoots are coming through... onions, shallots and garlic planted in the Autumn were all growing. Tulips and bluebells pushing through the ground. All my fruit bushes had buds on. Everything else was waiting for some warmth.

March saw washing the greenhouse, more wet digging, sorting out my trays and pots, digging out failed purple sprouting brocolli and old leeks, and starting to plant things! I started off most of my seeds in the greenhouse or at home... peas, tomatoes, squash, courgettes, peppers, aubergine, brocolli, cabbage, sprouts, lettuce, sweet peas, sunflowers. Outdoors, I planted parsnips, radishes, beetroots, spring onions, Charlotte potatoes and more... I don't want to make out like planting is easy. It can take ages, so with my potatoes I had to dig over the bed, dig in some manure, leave it a while, dig it over again, dig trenches, line them with manure, bury my seed potatoes, earth them up as they are coming through... hours and hours, achy back, sore hands, a few bruises on route, bending down a lot, standing up, measuring, wheel-barrowing. I planted a LOT of potatoes on weekends in March and April... about 40 plants altogether.

April is wonderful on the allotment. The clocks have changed, the light is better, thermals come off and this April was scorching so it was shorts and vests and digging until 7.30pm. It was a month of barbeques and breakfasts at the allotment and people bringing their babies and friends down. I visited the allotment as many times as possible to water the greenhouse, and even got out the hosepipe. It was 'get as much as possible into the ground' month: the rest of my potatoes, early and maincrop, more parsnips, beans, marrows, swedes, kale, more beets, spinach, pak choi, about 100 flower bulbs (thanks to a cheap batch at Aldi), and loads of my seedlings went outdoors, the ones that could cope with late frosts.

I had a few helpers in April, which I bloody needed because I had a lot of new digging to do and the ground was hard. The woman who had the allotment before me (the bit I didn't have last year) hadn't done much work in a long time, so there were a lot of weeds and grass, the ground is solid, it had flooded like mad in the winter, and is like clay in parts. It was awful to dig and it took hours to clear even a few feet. Back-breaking digging, my lower back has ached since the end of March! Luckily I could alternate this with digging over the the part of the allotment I started with last year. With all the manure I dug in, the soil is rich and crumbles easily with a fork when I dig it. So I am learning, and the newly dug parts of the allotment are getting barrow loads of manure dug in.

I had slug and snail trouble in the greenhouse... so had to plant a whole new batch of seeds... and more new seeds... sweetcorn, nasturtium, coriander, parsley, rosemary...

Everything was starting to grow and push through in April... potatoes becoming bushy, salad leaves and radishes ready for picking, beautiful ruby beetroot leaves, onions and shallots getting fat, flowers on my blackcurrants, raspberries, gooseberries, jostaberries, huge thick rhubarb stems (which I SO wanted to pick, but left it to established for next year), gorgeous purple flowers on my chives, spearmint bushing out of its tyre.

And May was even busier... The greenhouse was bursting with seedlings in May, and I still had a load of digging to do... the digging never ever ends... to create space to plant them out.

I built two new raised beds by sawing scaffold planks and getting Eric to help me nail them together with six inch nails. I spent a whole day nearly trying to cover things with nets, and building all kinds of weird and wonderful protection for seedlings. Eric saw a pigeon lie on its side and shimmy under the netting to eat Carol's plants, so it really is like a full on war with the birds, mostly the big ugly ones like pigeons, crows and magpies. We also have rats, foxes, mice, cats and god knows what other creatures. (And sometimes intruders, Eric had his meditation hut vandalised and pissed on, although I tried to convince him it could have been a pair of amorous foxes).

More digging. One of the other plot-holders offered to help me dig a big section of my plot, and he digs like an ox, or a machine. He helped me make huge progress. I acquired some railway sleepers (via Eric, I think he was a womble in a previous life) for another raised bed and I was glad of a strong pair of hands to help me shift them because I couldn't even lift one of them on my own. They make a beautiful octagon (see the photo) and I can't wait to fill them with flowers and veg.

I caught the sun at the beginning of the month, and had to dig through a crust the soil was so dried out. But then the weather broke, which is great for the plants as they have been so thirsty, but not good for me. I got caught in thunderstorms, scatterings of rain and drizzle. I lacked the time to get out and do what I wanted to do. It's frustrating. Having an allotment is almost like a full-time job.

I got peas planted and beans in the ground, with my 8ft bamboo wigwams already trussed up with green string ready for them. I planted out brocolli, celery, sweet peas, the first lot of sweetcorn (I've gone crazy for it this year as it was SO good last year - 32 plants I think!). My courgettes and squash are flowering, big beautiful yellow flowers, which I would never have expected. My tomatoes are in the greenhouse flowering beautifully, and they smell divine when I water them, I think it might be my favourite smell in the world. My fruit bushes all have berries slowly ripening. I have lovely fuzzy carrot tops in a tyre, pea flowers, ragged swedes where the birds chomped at them, but still surviving, the most beautiful foxgloves which I planted from seed last year. I picked half a kilo of the juiciest strawberries yesterday, and there are lots more ripening.

My battles have been with the weeds, slugs (ongoing) and birds (ongoing). The birds stripped my redcurrant bush before I got the chance to cover it with netting. I have decided to share my strawberries with the slugs. There are so many, it seems only fair, and without miracles I can't keep them away.

The time just flies when I am down there. I get immersed and before I know it two, three, four hours have passed. I start on a job, like watering the greenhouse, and before I know it I have pulled out the flags to put hardcore underneath them, re-potted all my tomatoes, planted some in the ground, tied them to canes, dug a few weeds out and bang bang, there goes another two hours. I have a list of things to do as long as my arm, and I make slow progress all the time, but the list never ends. I would actually love to just sit in a deckchair with a book and enjoy it, but there is always another job to do, weeds to pull out, plants to put in the ground.

It's felt much more hard labour, than labour of love this year. It's been tough, and I haven't been at all sure a lot of the time whether I'm managing it. I'm a little behind getting things in the ground. Some of my seedlings are ankle height when other peoples are knee or hip height. My muscles ache. I don't have enough time.

Yet, I still keep turning up. I'm prodding myself to keep at it, thinking that the first couple of years is the hardest, everyone says it takes a good few years to get established. And it is worth it, I took these photos this weekend to show myself how far I've come...

Hot Kitchen Snow and Blue Has No South...

2011-05-29T11:29:00.001+01:00

I have been a busy reviewer. Two of my recent reviews are in this The Short Review this month..

Blue Has No South, by Alex Epstein

and Hot Kitchen Snow by Susannah Rickards.

They are both very different short story collections. Possibly couldn't be any different. Blue Has No South is a collection of 115 short fictions, that I would variously describe as fables, puzzles, poems, true stories, warnings, dreams, histories, myths, found stories. They are brief, intense, distilled, and this is probably a book I will dip into many times again. Hot Kitchen Snow is more traditional, in the sense that it contains the kind of short stories we might expect when we say short stories. It was a bit of a slow burner for me, but left me thinking wow...

I love short fiction, I love the way stories are so diverse that there is something for almost everyone. I love the way they can be enjoyed in the small pockets of time in my life, snatched between breakfast and work, or at lunchtime, or on the bus or in a waiting room. I love that a small world is contained in only a few brief pages, and we can be taken out of our own world for a brief time, feel something might have changed, or learn something, feel something completely outside of ourselves. And with a good short story it can shake our roots, make us question, unsettle, amaze or make us laugh out loud. And we can carry a whole book load of these moments around with us, get the book out when we want an escape, find odd collections of these experiences inside one cover, but with themes and connections, or an overall journey, or patterns, that if we want to find them are hidden within the different stories.

I mean, I love novels, and I love poetry. But, short stories... are my first love, I think.

Litmus and other writing...

2011-05-15T13:21:00.000+01:00

I have just sent back the proofs for my short story What Kind of Dog, soon to be published in Litmus, a Comma Press anthology of short stories from modern science.

The book is due out in June, I think. And I have to say, it looks amazing from the sneak preview on Comma's website.

The list of authors and scientists in the book is amazing. I'm a little astounded and very pleased that I will be amongst them. And can't wait to get hold of a copy.

My story is inspired by a flood in Petrograd in 1924, which created a moment of discovery for neuroscientist Ivan Pavlov in his work with dogs. It's a subject that I never imagined writing about or researching, but sometimes life presents these opportunities, and I decided that yes, I was going to attempt a story completely outside my experience and strengths as a writer. For a person who was never good at science (or that interested), and has never been to Russia, can't speak a word of Russian, and has little knowledge about 1924, it was a bit of a challenge. And some people might remember me agonising a little over this story.

Anyway, lots of researching, a trip to Manchester University to talk with a researcher in neuro-science, reading, writing, editing, feedback, re-writing. It is ready for printing, almost in print, and I achieved something that when I was first asked to do, I almost said 'no, sorry, it's not something I could write.'

The lesson in this story is....

So, I am writing a new story. Again, a story that is outside my experience. It is set in another continent, in a country I know only a little about, a country with ongoing civil unrest and war, with horrific levels of sexual violence, and it's about a family with a different language and culture to me. Can I do it? Well, I'm 2000 words in and still going, and we'll see, but perhaps I can manage it, with the right research and hard graft, and feedback and writing and re-writing.

I've always been told to write what I know, but... I'm not sure about this sage advice anymore. Perhaps sometimes writing is about taking a leap into an experience you have never lived through, stretching the bounds of imagination, and feeling your way through the unknown. What do you think?

All quiet on the North-Western front?

2011-04-30T20:54:00.001+01:00

I've been a bit quiet on here.

It's been for a number of reasons, but mainly because I've been preoccupied. I'm not even allowed to say why at the moment. But, it's not a good thing. It's an unsettling thing. It's been dominating my thoughts, and because I can't write about it, I haven't had much else to say.

But, I haven't disappeared. I have been out and about...

- Seeing this amazing lady play live at the Deaf Institute in Manchester...

- Reading poetry... at the launch of this very beautiful collection of poetry by my good friend and amazing poet Melissa Lee Houghton (available here)...

- escaping to North Wales for a little caravan holiday, exploring castles, beaches, bingo halls, and arcades

- digging and planting...

Actually, an awful lot of digging and planting. My allotment is 270 square yards, which is a massive space for one person to work on. So far, I have planted Charlotte and Isle of Jura potatoes (enough to feed the whole street), mangetout, beetroot, swedes, brussel sprouts, parsnips, radish, all kinds of lettuce and leaves, spinach, pak choi, onions, garlic, shallots, carrots, aubergines, courgettes, squash, cabbage, tomatoes, leeks, marigolds, sunflowers, dahlias, sweetcorn, beans. I can't remember what else. That's quite a list, so it will do for now.

Some vegetables are growing outdoors, some are still seedlings in the greenhouse or at home. It's a very busy time of year at the allotment. It's the time when seeds are planted, seedlings nurtured and over the next few weeks everything will need to get planted out into the ground. Some of the digging is hard, because it's the new part of my allotment and hasn't been dug for a couple of years. There is muck still being spread. The weeds are getting ahead of me and it all takes far far longer than I imagine.

Today, I was there for hours planting out my mangetout, putting up canes to support them, tying the canes with twine for the peas to climb up, and then netting them to stop the birds from eating them before they get the chance to grow. Then I was sawing scaffold planks to build two more raised beds. Then I was digging over a space where I want to plant some things tomorrow. So, muscles are aching, skin is flush with sun and I am fit for nothing but sleep!

So, things are good, despite the worry that I can't talk about... some nice time with friends, romance blossoming, which is lovely actually, and this gorgeous warm weather is such a treat. I feel as if I come alive in the spring, a cliche, I know, but these light nights, the warmth, everything growing, it gives me a real boost.

I forgot to tell you about...

2011-04-14T21:48:00.001+01:00

... The blossom on the trees on my street that has been falling like confetti and scattering everything in petals.

... the sweetcorn seeds on my windowsill that are pushing up little green shoots through the compost

... the story I am writing/editing about a robot called Toby for an exciting science fiction anthology

... this song, which I LOVE at the moment

I've not been here much. I have been busy with things. Digging. Loving. Worrying a bit. Sleeping a lot. Working at a job that is ticking away like a little time bomb.

Oh, Arts Council Cuts

2011-04-06T21:56:00.005+01:00

I was really gutted to hear last week that Lancaster Litfest lost Arts Council Funding.

It's a sad state of affairs in our country at the moment. Cuts everywhere, and sadly the Arts Council had its budget cut by £100 million. So, they announced which organisations they would keep funding, and there were 200 organisations including Litfest that will not be funded after 2012.

I don't know exactly what it means for their future. There is more on their website. They are still planning and booking events,

So, excuse me for a bit of a shmaltzy blog, but I wanted to write about all the wonderful things Litfest has done for me personally as a reader and lover of literature and as a writer.

I first came across Litfest in 2004, when I was studying in Lancaster. I was on a creative writing course at the University, and one of our tutors said it was a must for us to get down to their annual literature festival. I went to a few events, and thought, wow, friendly events, warm atmosphere, well-organised, professional, and well-attended. I did a little research about what else they did. It was my year of writing full-time, a time when I wanted to explore, learn everything, create, read, write, discover.

I discovered that Litfest do a lot to promote writing in the local area, not just in the community, but in prisons for example. They have an amazing breadth of activities and interests that blew the idea of 'literature' wide open, allowing for experimentation and fresh ideas.

I applied for one of their opportunities. A collaborative writing project. An opportunity for three writers from the North West of England to work with Jackee Batanda, a writer from Uganda. I sent off examples of my writing and was amazed when they got in touch to say I'd been chosen. For six weeks, me, Chris Fittock and Pauline Keith met with Jackee in the cafe in The Folly in Lancaster. We drank tea, ate cake and chatted about our lives and writing. Our job was to explore commonality and difference through writing. And we set ourselves writing tasks and goals, shared writing and ideas. For me, this was exciting. I was a real writer, working with other writers, writing. Ha, it sounds silly really, but this was like a huge boost for me, a break of sorts. I wrote a short story I never imagined I would write, called The Towpath. It's a story based where I grew up, and is about that point as a child when you start to really understand what 'difference' can mean. It explores the experiences of two girls - one white, one Asian - growing up at the time of the race riots in Burnley, Oldham and other places in the North. I never would have written this story without this project, without the support of those writers, and the inspiration.

It culminated in a book, The Big Picture, which is no longer available, but I still have a few copies. And a reading at Litfest, my first reading as a writer, where I shakily read excerpts from my story, and answered questions asked by the audience. My first taste of being a writer, I felt very inexperienced, but as if a whole new world had opened up for me.

Over the years, I have carried on going to a range of different readings and events organised by Litfest. And I feel really lucky, because since that opportunity, Litfest has supported me as a writer continually over the past few years. The artistic director, Andy Darby, and Sarah Hymas, editor of Litfest's publishing imprint have for some reason been very warm towards my writing, and I have been lucky enough to have worked with them on a number of projects:

- Andy invited me to read at Litfest in 2007, to launch my chapbook, Winter Hands. I was really humbled to read alongside Graham Mort and Ian Duhig, poets I admire deeply. I was sandwiched between these two amazing readers, without understanding quite how I had managed to be sharing an event with them. We opened the festival to a wonderful audience at the Duke's Theatre, introduced by my publisher Ian Seed. It was such a good night. It was the first time my dad heard me read. I signed books for the first time. My hands were shaking and I felt flush all night. But I read, and sold a ton of books, and was giddy for days.

- I applied for Flax Books Poster Commission in 2008, and along with five other writers was commissioned to write a short piece of prose/poetry for a poster. Jenn Ashworth, Ian Seed, Maya Chowdhary, Jane Routh, Meg Peacocke were the other chosen writers. The poems or prose were then made into posters, all of which are available as free downloads from Litfest. It was really exciting waiting to see the poster design. My poster Okarito is SO beautiful. It was chosen along with one other to be printed as A1 posters. I have a copy hanging on my living room wall, and they are available for sale for £20 via the link above.

- My writing was also chosen for two of Flax Books' Digital Anthologies. Unsaid Undone and This Road We're On. They are both very different anthologies of short fiction, featuring five writers. They are in digital form, and Unsaid, Undone, is also available for download as a free DIY pamphlet, or a professionally done £5 print copy.

Being published by Flax is more than just having words in print. Both anthologies have so much in them... audio recordings of the writers reading their work, a profile of the writers (Here is my Flax Profile), photographs and illustrations. And Flax are good to their writers, they produce postcards with excerpts from the anthologies, offer a coaching session, arrange further writing opportunities from time to time, take professional photographs and launch the anthologies in style.

Unsaid Undone was launched at The Brief Encounter Tearooms at Carnforth Train Station, the very same cafe featured in the film.

So, Litfest has really given me more opportunities than I could have imagined. I am a Flax writer. I am a Litfest writer. The roots of my writing are entangled in its history, and my learning, growth and love of reading and writing are partly down to the chances and support they have given me over the past six years.

This is why Litfest is important to me, and why it is so disappointing that Arts Council are going to end their funding.

Litfest are asking for support. They say this...

Send us an email telling us why Litfest is important to you. Tell us, for example, about an event that has uplifted you, or a writing workshop that has made a difference.

Book a ticket for one of our events, or pop in and buy a book from our Poetry Bookcase. As hundreds of British arts organisations are being cut, now is the time to show your support for the arts. Vote with your feet.

Tell your friends about Litfest - face-to-face or online.

Get involved - volunteer some of your time to staff our Poetry Bookcase, help with our leaflet and poster distribution, or join our Front of House team at events.

a million ways to measure the sun...

2011-03-27T21:06:00.002+01:00

My friend Steve is launching his book tomorrow.

I've only known Steve a couple of months, even though we're both poets moving around in the same circles. I went along last minute to a reading in Manchester, and there he was, this slightly tired but interesting looking fella with a woolly cap, standing at the mic on a very wintry Manchester evening. He started reading this poem called 'The Mills are Dead', and for a number of reasons, I tuned in more than I had been doing the rest of the evening. It was something about his rich Rochdale accent, there is something that says home to me about an accent like that. And I love mills. And his poem just spoke out to me that night. It has a real grim sense of the closure of the mills and all the detail of a time and place that died with them.

Anyway, a few hellos later, and some emails and coffee, and chat, and we're doing a bit of writing together. And then 'A Million Ways to Measure the Sun' comes through my letterbox.

A bloody good collection, I think. A real mix of intimate and industrial, his poems are stripped down, gritty and beautiful. They explore the darker, grimmer parts of life, as well as the more physical and real emotion aspects of being... He has a way with words and images that builds distinct sensory details into a broad landscape.

Here's 'The Mills are Dead so you can see what I mean...

The Mills Are Dead

Backboned of redbrick
guttural fuck from
the three day week,
the operation of bread
strike led darkness
scuffed end of the canal,

the mills are dead now mate;
the mills are dead.

The bones don't know
white finger, sluice-gated
pike faced, algae flushed
cheeks of the bar; after hours
poker hands, cribbage board
matchsticks; picking gristle
from Capstan teeth, kind of
open door neighbourhood kid,

Cos the mills are dead now mate
the mills are dead.

But I reckon your mother would know -
sure as a fiver on the flags
of a Sunday morning, organ playing
Afro-Caribbean lady - ginnel calling
her late husband to the pulse
of the cossack's daughter, shipped
over, shaving potatoes sobbing by the kitchen sink.

Cos the mills are dead now mate,
the mills are dead.

Anyway, I wanted to let people know about the launch. If you're around Manchester, come and hear him read. His voice reading these poems will be worth it...

And if you can't come, have a look at his book which is available as a download or a print copy.

Or have a look at his website. He is an amazing photographer and artist as well, man of many talents... And he's got short poem films on youtube.

And here is the man himself...

A little round up...

2011-03-20T18:31:00.000Z

I'm writing another short story commission, very exciting and on the hush hush, can't say much about it, although I am venturing into science fiction for the first time, and hope it will be worth it. I have a couple of readings coming up in April, that I will 'announce' in due course... I have written the odd poem this year, some reviews (online soon...) and am kind of nearly almost writing a script, just need to find the TIME.

Work is a stress. I'll say no more. It's necessary and sometimes rewarding, but I wish I had more time for myself.

I'm loving PJ Harvey's Let England Shake and Radiohead's King of Limbs, both are on repeat, and I'm not getting bored of them. I'm getting hooked by Mad Men. I loved The Fighter. I wish I had more money because there is a ton of music, film, gigs, theatre I would love to indulge in but just can't. I've not seen my friends as much recently and miss them, come on lovely friends, let's get together...x

Probably one reason for having less time is that I'm still enjoying a bit of romance. I'm squeezing him into my already busy and very full life, and he's very lovely, I can tell you. Ha. And he's not run a mile yet. Even after experiencing my grumpy emotional witchy side. Watch this space...

And of course, my allotment. I've been a bit slow getting started with the allotment this year. But thought I would give you a sneaky peek...

My new greenhouse! Thanks to Eric and Young Dave, I now have a beautiful square greenhouse. Eric acquired me it from freecycle, picked it up for me in three different trips, and the two of them put it together, with donations of flagstones from John the Gardener. I'm so lucky and very very pleased.

It has been cleaned, hosed down, dug over, and is now planted with many seeds... today I have planted tomatoes, aubergines, cabbages, broccoli, sprouts, squash, basil, sweet peas, sunflowers, leeks, and they are in my new greenhouse waiting to germinate. Also planted outdoors parsnips, radish, spring onions and beetroots.

I need to get my bum in gear and dig dig dig so I can plant everything out when it's ready. I have loads more seeds to plant, and potatoes chitting nicely in the kitchen. I have missed the allotment. I'm finding it hard to find the time and motivation to fully get back into it, but I think these lighter nights will help, and hopefully soon a bit more warmth. It's still very bitter out, up here in the north.

Ugh Politics

2011-03-20T16:07:00.003Z

Politically, I'm very annoyed. (This is ongoing). Annoyed about the cuts, upset by the cuts. More people I know being made redundant, not just in the public sector but the impact of cuts is being felt in a lot of places. I've been signing petitions left, right and centre, and not randomly either, but there are so many children's centres, libraries and other such goodnesses facing closure, I feel the need to sign my name to so many important things. All places I use during my work or personally, all places that I know are valued in the community.

I've marched and had a shout about it in Manchester a few weeks ago. I'm not sure what good it will do but I was inspired by all the kids on the march, handmade banners from families trying to stop cuts that will affect them, and a lot of passion.

The big protest is next week of course in London on March 26th. I've decided not to go for a number of reasons, but I really hope the people that can make a difference notice and give a toss.

So, add to that my other angers

... anger at Sir Philip Green (the 'owner' of the Arcadia group, Top Shop, Dorothy Perkins, BHS, Burton etc) for his £285 million tax dodge), Vodaphone for not paying their 1.6 billion tax bill and all the other tax dodgers. Come on you rich bastards, pay up and then we can pay nurses, the police, social care, and public workers the money they deserve instead of pay freezes, cuts and redundancies.

... anger at the banks, I don't need to keep going on about why... why on earth are this government not making the banks pay for their mistakes and implementing the Robin Hood Tax

... anger at the government, which increases every day. Cuts in the short term will only cost more in the long term. And now here we are involved in a military attack on Libya, which I don't agree with, and where is the bloody money coming from for this? If we can afford expensive wars, then we can afford to put some money into our libraries, nurseries, and stop penalising the poor. Another link, this time to UNICEF's brilliant new Mind The Gap Campaign highlighting that 1 in 3 children in the UK LIVES IN POVERTY...

Anyway, cough, splutter, breathe.

time (or lack of it)

2011-03-05T20:07:00.001Z

So, there are the same twenty four hours in the day as usual. But they seem shorter, or perhaps they get filled quicker than I want them to. Where is the bloody time going? How come I have so little time to do everything I need and want to do?

Sometimes, all I can manage is to get to work, feed myself, make sure I have clean clothes. And even sometimes one or two of these go amiss. And I don't even have children. I have no clue how parents manage to fit everything in.

I mean, yes, work is very busy. I've been working the same hours as usual, but they seem to be very exhausting hours that require a lot of energy and concentration. But, I've always had a demanding job.

I'm not trying to be anything near a domestic goddess. If I can make it to the supermarket, wash my clothes, and cook a few meals, then the week has been a success. But, the house is a bloody pigsty and I don't know how I can find the time to clean it. The cat is moulting everywhere. The floor needs sweeping and I can't remember when it last saw a mop. I desperately need to fix the drawers that are falling out of my wardrobe, and the bathroom needs a good scrub.

It's not the way I want to spend a Saturday though.

Today, I felt cross and grumpy and completely out of sorts. I wanted to go to the allotment and get on with a million jobs down there and get some fresh air. I wanted to go on the demo in Manchester against the cuts because who knows whether I will still have a job later this year. I wanted to see my friends who I am seriously neglecting. I wanted to spend a bit of time with my new love, who I hardly have any time for. And I had a dozen jobs that needed doing. How on earth am I meant to fit everything in.

I felt cross with myself, stomped around, was snappy. I made a decision and then felt bad about the other people or things I was not getting the time for.

Ugh. Bleugh. Phf.

I've sacrificed a Saturday night to do jobs, just so I don't have to do any tomorrow. And I'm so bloody grumpy anyway, that I wouldn't want to inflict myself on anyone.

Please. Tell me. How do people do it? Especially those with kids? How do you stretch time? Get everything done? Still find time to relax sometimes? Find time to sleep?

Hush and Other Poetic Events...

2011-02-25T18:18:00.002Z

Wednesday was Hush. A night of poetry at Earth Cafe. It's a monthly thing, and I've never been before. But I was lucky enough to be invited to read by the evenings organiser and host Gerry Potter.

Earth is a vegan cafe with very wholesome gorgeous foods. In the basement of the Buddhist Centre, it is all red brick and wood, Buddhas and prayer wheels, peaceful and light and calm. Gerry has created a very friendly, warm monthly event. I was surprised by how welcoming it was. People drifted in and scattered themselves at tables around the room, and then at a huge table in the middle of the room are sat poets and audience together. There was quite a gathering. I might guess at about forty people, or a little less. There are cups of tea and coffee, people eating, and it was all very cosy.

Gerry opened and closed each part of the evening with his own poems about men, read in his wonderful scouse accent, tender and acerbic, comic and beautiful. And he brought together three very different poets.

I was the first, and I read some poems about my childhood, about friendship, love, loneliness, the city and rain. This is quite unique as an event, as for a start, I was sitting down on a chair with other people sitting on chairs, so I was with the audience, and I was also part of the audience. It was quiet, attentive and warm. People listened, clapped, asked questions, and I was in the middle of them, not on a microphone, no need to project my voice above any peripheral noise.

Alabaster DePlume read next. I have met him before, but never seen him perform. And his performance was magical actually. He has a very unique, eccentric style and reminds me of a cross between a wizard, a Shakespearean actor and a comedian. His poems made us laugh a lot. His delivery was wonderfully timed.

Ben Mellor is a poet I've never come across before. Handsome young man in cap and jacket, with a relaxed and rhythmic style. Funny, political, moving. I loved one of his poems about paper... Bloody brilliant.

There is something intimate about having a quiet poetry night, like a soiree, or a sharing of poetry amongst friends. I really enjoyed the way, there is an open invitation to anyone in the room to read a poem after the guest poets. I liked the milling about and chatting, the casual to and fro of comments and questions, and the way we were all sat down together.

It's been a very poetic/literary week.

Monday was Beatification at Sand Bar. John G Hall's Beat Poet film and poetry night. I had cancelled plans so I mooched along on my own, and stayed for a while. It was worth it to hear Jackie Hagan's poem. I can't even recall what the title was, but she took us on a journey through her life, different ages and experiences, personal, exposing, funny, tender, painful. I really like her stuff. I think she is an amazing, brave and talented poet.

Thursday was Pen-ultimate at the Contact Theatre. Ben Mellor is part of this collective of poets, actors, MCs and playwrights, and we heard about it at Hush and decided to give it a go. A brilliant night of poetry, music, MCing, freestyling. I wouldn't really know how to describe it. Like a mash-up of poetry, hip hop and performance. There were some brilliant poems, some very funny moments, political stuff. I like unexpected or spontaneous nights out. They are full of surprises.

Busy, busy. This has been the poetic part of my week off work. I had nothing planned and have filled it with love and poetry, reading, writing reviews, a little digging, a short story and a lot of sleeping. Bliss...

My February

2011-02-21T00:42:00.002Z

Today, I went to the allotment after an extended break. The allotment is almost bare and sad-looking. It's that end of winter barren time. Most of last year rotting back or composting. Plastic and carpet-covered ground. Fruit bushes bare. Empty raised beds. The pile of cow muck is sinking down and stinking. It's wet, flooded in parts, boggy or squelchy most other places.

Eric and Dave have built the frame of my greenhouse and it is waiting for some solid foundations, and some glazing. It's a lovely square metal frame, and I am hugely grateful for their kindness in acquiring it for me, picking it up and putting it together. I have been absent and kept away by the cold, wet weather and not feeling 100%. But they have inspired me to get back to it, work hard again, and start the new allotment year.

On closer inspection, there are signs of life everywhere. My rhubarb is poking through and has new leaves. Onions, garlic, shallots that I planted in Autumn are all pushing through. Crocus bulbs, the first shoots of my tulips.

We dug over the space where my greenhouse will sit. Pulled out dead brocolli rotting in the ground and bird-pecked. And we drank tea. Of course.

I have a willing boyfriend, who is handy with spade and has been patient with me as I told him all my plans, told him how I want things done. The allotment has been my solitary project and I always find it difficult to let others in. I love occasional help, but am strangely possessive over my plot, and like things my way. He seems to be accepting of this, and let me boss and criticise a little when I didn't realise I was doing this. I caught myself though and felt a little bad.

I must learn to share.

I must learn to let go of the control a little, and let others help me in their own way.

We spent our first whole weekend together. It was lovely in a most ordinary way. We cooked and ate, we watched TV and chatted. We went to the pictures and laughed (a lot). He is much more relaxed than me. I tend to rush around and do do do, achieve, busy busy. He is laid back, likes to see what comes, take the weekend as he finds it. He is teaching me his ways.

It's funny how another person can be a mirror, making me realise how I am, my own peculiar habits and ways. He seems very accepting of the aspects of me I dislike and are difficult. So far...!

I've had a few setbacks in my health again. I'm having some tests, and went on a dairy-free diet for two weeks. My GP asked me to go dairy-free, then eat dairy again to see how it affected me. So, on Thursday I ate two chocolate muffins, buttery toast and some milk. I felt a little ill, but wasn't sure if it was psychosomatic, so I had some more milk, and spent all the next day very bloated, gurgling and in pain. It was a bit horrible. So I went dairy-free again and what do you know, I'm feeling so much better.

So, maybe all the problems over the past few months, the weight loss, and so on, is down to being lactose intolerant.

It has been a whole adventure working out what to eat without dairy, and the idea of this being a long-term thing is a little daunting, but I'm hoping that this might be the answer. I reckon I can manage this, and it feels a relief to have a possible answer.

It's been a strange. Most people haven't really realised it's been tough for me, they just notice the weight loss and are like, wow you look really well. Then yesterday, someone I've not seen for months said straight away, concerned, god, you've lost a ton of weight, have you been sick? It hit home, how worried I've been and that actually it is a little frightening, not being in control of losing weight, or what food I can eat, or whether it's going to make me ill, and how ill. It was good to have someone notice. I feel as if I've been going on about it a lot and that others are thinking, what's she bloody moaning about, loads of people would love to lose a bit of weight.

So, anyway, maybe cutting out dairy might be the answer. Hopefully this is the reason, and I can get back to enjoy my food again.

I am in love with many things at the moment. Black eyeliner. PJ Harvey Let England Shake. Making mix CDs. Poetry readings. Woolly tights and skirts. Avocados. And I've not felt any depression whatsoever since the end of November. How good is that.

Sticking Two Fingers Up to David Cameron's Big Society....

2011-02-15T22:21:00.001Z

I left University in 1994, not sure of what I wanted to do with my life, what career I might have, what use I might be in society. I decided to spend six months doing voluntary work full-time for a charity. I wanted to be useful, give something, but also learn something about myself.

It wasn't the first time I'd done voluntary work. I spent one day a week for a year while I was at University, helping in the classroom of a special school. I'd done numerous activities to raise money for charities. When I was a teenager, I spent Sunday afternoons visiting an old people's home for a while. I helped serve dinners, made beds, emptied bed pans, chatted with the oldies. Maybe a strange thing to do as a teenager.

But then, I come from a family who brought me up to think of others, to help people who needed help. My grandparents did supported lodgings for all kinds of people, I'm not sure exactly who they were, or where they were from, but mostly there was a string of men they supported, drinkers, addicts mostly I think. It was just normal for me growing up, something I never questioned.

I'm not unusual.

Most people I know give to charity, or help out a neighbour, or volunteer.

Plus, I've worked for three of the biggest children's charities in the UK, for most of my working life. I get paid for my work. So, it's not done for free.

But in the work that I do, I see families who care for each other, who physically care for their relatives or friends and neighbours, who take in the children of friends and bring them up, who make meals for people who can't cook for themselves, who do cleaning, washing, shopping, give lifts to people. Some of them work full-time and dedicate themselves to others in the evenings or weekends. Other people claim a meagre carers allowance. I've seen people care for relatives through terminal illness, care for people in their families with chronic disabilities. I probably don't need to keep giving examples...

These are just ordinary people, who are relentless, selfless, who have little money but loads of love, kindness, or just do it because they have no choice... who else is going to do it. Sometimes they get a little bit of help from the State... a bit of money, a small grant, a ride to a day centre, a bit of respite care, someone who listens, a group they can go to and get a break, or training, or a laugh, sharing experiences. Sometimes.

So, when David Cameron talks about a 'Big Society' it makes me really fucking angry.

It makes me wonder where he comes from and what kind of upbringing he had and what on earth he thinks people are doing in this country. I listen to him talk about a 'Big Society' and all I can hear is a man of privilege who has no clue of the struggles that people go through, or the way communities already rally round, or the amount of voluntary caring and giving people already give, of the amount of charities there are out there working in communities already doing so much to improve peoples lives.

I want to ask him where he thinks the money is going to come from for all this extra work in the community, because nothing is ever, truly for free. Good volunteers need training and support, they need resources, buildings or spaces to work from, they need protection. If groups are going to run libraries and post offices, then they need books, they need lighting, heating, chairs, a building, they need organising. They need money.

Because, most charities I know get money from government funding, local councils, as well as other funding sources, and they get it from the public. Only the government are cutting funding left, right and centre. They are cutting the budgets of local councils, and people are losing jobs, have higher bills, higher VAT, and they just don't have spare cash for giving to charities.

The charity I work for is launching an emergency appeal for funds.

The local council where I live is cutting funding to many of the places that are the hub of community work, voluntary work, helping, caring, supporting, forcing these to close if funding doesn't come from somewhere else by the end of March. That's six weeks time.

There are people I know who rely on support, childcare, groups, services, community resources so that they can keep going.

I know it sounds like I'm hamming it up a bit. But seriously, not everyone has it easy. Having a library that has a homework club can be like a lifeline for some parents and children. Or being able to go to a parent and baby group when you're 17 and know nothing about being a parent can give support and skills that mean a child is looked after properly, safely. Someone who has three kids and is a single parent feeling suicidal because it's so cold that they can't heat the house because they have no money, or they're isolated from their family, or they're ill... this person might just get by because they have a worker (a trained, paid, skilled worker) who visits them every week and gives them just enough support to keep them going...

I want to ask David Cameron...

So, who is going to be part of this Big Society? Who are the people who are going to fund it? Run it? Have the 'passion' for it? The spare time for it?

And why the bugger are you cutting the funding and the resources that are already out there, if a Big Society is needed this much?

Ugh...

I'm actually ashamed at the moment, of our Government, my local council, and of the organisations who aren't standing up against what seems to be happening in our country at the moment.

and the weeks roll by....

2011-02-10T20:56:00.000Z

Here am I, collapsed on the settee after a bit of a tiring day, Coronation Street on the box, belly full and almost nearly ready to head up the stairs to bed.

Sigh.

It's as much as I can do to finish work, make it home and make tea at the moment. I mean, that's probably an exaggeration, but still, energy levels are ebbing, and I'm waiting for those lighter nights. Can't wait for allotment weather.

I'm itching to talk about my new bloke, but it's early days and I'm not tempting fate by saying too much.

So, I'll just say that. And smile.

And tell you about a reading I'd doing on 23rd February. It's called Hush, and it's hosted by wonderful Manchester poet Gerry Potter. It's at Earth Cafe at the Buddhist Centre in Manchester. 7.30pm. There are three poets, Ben Mellor, Alabaster Deplume and little old me.

Gerry describes Hush as 'a unique intimate arena where performance poets gather to chat in free-verse to the audience around them. A new experience allowing the poets real not amplified voice to mingle gently with the audience sat cheek by jowl. A very human experience without the ego of the microphone. The poets voice, a most important tool. The voice a wonderful and nagging constantly informing and decieving instrument. Performance and not performance, more than a chat yet as fullfilling as gossip. A home of truth and lies. Come and share your own timbre with a poem in our open sit-down and add your voice to the sound of our crowd and remember HUSH!'

Be good to see you there, if you fancy it... x

ch ch changes.. horsemuck and prize parsnips

2011-01-23T12:10:00.002Z

Listening to Sam Cooke, Sunday morning in pyjamas. Perfect.

Just wanting to chat. So, decided to blog about January, which has been a strange month so far. It's taken me ages to get back to form after the flu over Christmas. Plus, I didn't say much about it on here, but I had a couple of months of struggling with some health niggles. I lost two stones before Christmas, not through dieting, but with IBS, which was particularly bad for a short time. I'm not quite sure what happened. It coincided with making a lot of changes in my life, so maybe my body was unsettled.

People have kept saying, wow, you look great, have you lost weight? And I've mumbled back about being ill and really it's not such a good thing.

But I guess, it's the plus side of being ill. I could afford to lose that much weight, I suppose, and it is nice to feel slim and fit into old clothes. I've not been this weight since my twenties, which is.... about eight years ago... so it's like rediscovering an old self. I seem to have my appetite back again, and my weight seems to be stabilising. I hope. So fingers crossed, it was just one of those things.

But, but, but, can I tell you that all the changes are working. All the CBT, mindfulness, acupressure, diet changes, going out even when I feel rubbish, pushing myself to be more sociable. I feel more confident, and have been having a lot of fun. Gigs. Music. Readings. Dancing. Walking. Films. Chatting. New friends. Old friends. Making plans. Focusing (when I can) on the positives. Enjoying life more. Writing again! I am keeping my fingers crossed that I can maintain this, because it's oh so much nicer than being down.

The freezing and then wet weather has meant that I've not been digging as usual at the allotment like I do most weekends. It's been ages, about six weeks now, and I have SO missed it. But, at last, yesterday was an allotment day.

And my annual delivery of manure! I thought it was going to be horse muck like last year. I still have a small pile left, which has rotted down to a beautiful dark rich manure that is going to make some delicious vegetables. Ha, Miss Allotment getting excited about manure and calling it 'beautiful'. But, yesterday's delivery was two and a half tons of COW muck. Ugh. I have to admit it was pretty bloody horrible. The stink was so bad, I retched a couple of times as I was pushing the wheelbarrow to pile it on my plot. It's a bit too fresh for my liking, and stunk of piss as well. The thought of putting this on my soil is not very appealing, so it's in a pile while I decide what to do. I'm assured it will rot down nicely and be just as good as horse muck, but not convinced. We'll see...

It was good to get back to it. A couple of friends came down to help, and a few plot holders were there too. We had some good banter, some tea and chocolates, and shovelled away. And then some digging... The frost has given most of my veg a battering, so we pulled out some failed crops, and dug in some of the lovely horse manure.

My shoulders and upper back are ACHING today. Ha, a sure sign that I've not been down for a while. I can't wait to crack on with it this year. I have twice as much allotment, and have ordered loads of seeds. I'm planning to grow more variety and quantity this year, so will have bags of food. Probably won't know what to do with it all, and give it away to friends and neighbours like last year!

Oh and I dug up some leeks and parsnips. I couldn't resist having a photo taken of me with my prize parsnips. They're monsters aren't they, and probably inedible. I think they've gone very woody in the middle, but we'll see. I had no idea they would be so big! (Note to self, dig them up in December next year).

little see-saw of life part 5

2011-01-22T22:33:00.000Z

Ups
Woolly tights. The Black Keys. Fish cakes. A little digging. Mix CDs. Kim-by-the-Sea. Kissing in the car. And other places. Cups of Tea. Better health. Having an appetite again. Skirts and dresses. Chatting by IM. Writing northern stones. Rivington Pike.

Downs
Government Cuts. Dark mornings. Dark nights. The smell when shovelling cow shit. Worrying.

I Heart Writing (again)

2011-01-16T18:23:00.001Z

I've promised myself to get back my love for writing by just doing it, writing what I want, being spontaneous, not having a fixed goal, sharing writing, reading, hearing people read, collaborating.

It's not rocket science.

If I focus on enjoying it, then how can I go wrong. Yes, I don't always have a lot of time or motivation or energy. Yes, sometimes I write rubbish. There might not be a publisher for me or money or external rewards. But writing is writing, personal and freeing and therapeutic and playful in itself.

So, I am writing with another poet. A prompt a week. A response from each of us. Poem or haiku or prose poem or a wandering piece of free-writing. Even if it's rubbish. By the end of the year, there will be 52 pieces of writing, and I bet some of them are good.

Some afternoons in a cafe writing with the same poet. Writing exercises. Sharing what we've written. Tea and metaphors.

My little everyday observations on new blog northern stones

My third (or fourth) collaboration with an artist, where we have again started to send inspiration through the post. A poem that she responds to with a visual response which I respond to with a poem. We might make another book with them at some point.

There is another poet, who I want to approach to see if we can do something together on a theme, explore some issues in poems, find some way of collaborating and putting it out there in some way, a website maybe, postcards, short films.

Ideas. Ideas.

It feels good to be enjoying writing again. No pressure. No expectations.

#57 Dear 2011

2011-01-08T17:48:00.000Z

Dear 2011,

I'm not sure whether I like you yet. It's miserable, cold, wet weather. It still goes dark at 3.30pm. VAT just went up to 20%. All the sparkly lights have gone. And I've still been feeling a bit wobbly after the flu.

I'm hoping it's just the beginning of January I don't like.

And that, soon, all kinds of exciting things will start happening, like dating, crazy nights out, sunny days at the allotment, making holiday plans.

2011, you are off to a slow start, but I have every hope for you,

xx

a river of stones...

2011-01-01T13:22:00.001Z

Hello first day of a new year...

Inspired by this lovely lady, I've started a second blog... It's called 'northern stones' and is hopefully going to be the place where everyday I will write one 'small stone'.

A small stone is 'a polished moment of paying proper attention'. An observation, I guess. A tiny concentrated piece of writing that focuses on one moment or image or thought in the day, and gives it a home.

I started yesterday, so have written two stones so far.

Fiona's idea is to create a 'river of stones' or in other words... a collection of small stones written by different people, who might be writers, or who just might want to write a tiny poetic line or two every day. Her challenge (for want of a better word) is for as us to write every day for January, but I'm hoping to keep going beyond this.

Read more about it here, and maybe join in.

I've been reading Fiona's small stones for a long time now, and they are very inspiring. I can't promise mine will be as inspiring... but I thought oh how lovely, observant, in the moment, and poetic. Yes, yes, very 2011, very now, very what I want to do.

So, here I am writing my northern stones.

a little bit of a head cold and a renaissance...

2010-12-28T22:53:00.005Z

There's about a hundred things I want to write about, but I'm going to be strict with myself.

One.
The past five days I've been forced to stop by a bugger of a head cold. I've been holed up in Lancashire with my family, and it's been a honey and hot lemon Christmas. It's been sneezes, tissues, falling asleep on a chair by the fire, bloody lovely puddings made by my mum, more coal on the fire, more films, laughing until my belly hurt, pyjamas, blankets, paracetamol, fortune cookies, charades, more sleep, sore throat, croaky voice, leaving the house once for a snowy walk, hats, scarves and gloves, some lovely presents, family stories.

I feel dead lucky.

Probably without the head cold, I might have rushed back to Manchester, or rushed around doing things. But, I've been rough as old dogs and floored for a few days, and it's made me appreciate what is right here for me whenever I need it, all-weathers, and whatever I'm like, warts and all. This is what love feels like. It's ace.

I want to be better at showing how much I care for the people who are always there for me because they're brilliant.

Mushy mush mush mush.

Two.
This year was a bit like a head cold.

For years and years, I've been dragging around a whole load of crap from the past, a lot of which doesn't even belong to me, is not my fault, and stems from events that are gone and can never be changed.

Probably, somewhere deep inside, there has always been this hope that I would be able to heal it all or find some understanding to make it all go away. Or that I would find someone else who could take it all away for me.

But this year my body sent me some strong messages in the disguise of migraines and other health niggles and it shut me down at times, forcing me to stop and take a closer look at what the heck I'm doing to myself.

Since May, I've been slogging away trying to make changes, not sure what it is exactly I need to change, but trying anyway.

And at last in December I feel as if something is shifting. Yes, yes. It feels different, positive, as if some of the crap is being left behind and I'm starting to like myself and appreciate what is bloody lovely about my life. I'm enjoying myself a whole lot, feeling loved, believing in myself more, having fun, loving my friends.

Again, mushy mush mush, but you know, it is an amazing relief to feel like this again, after being in such a self-hateful, scared, empty place. It's not perfect... It's still tough. I still get ill. I still feel down in moments. I've just decided I don't want to be that unhappy scared person any longer.

I choose to leave all the rubbish behind and be happy. For as long as I can be.

So there. That's a good attitude to start the new year with, innit.

#56 Dear Promise of New Things

2010-12-21T23:16:00.004Z

Dear Promise of New Things

You make me feel excited right down to my bones. I mean, it's impossible to say how new things will turn out. And not so long ago I probably would have been dead scared. But right now, you are just the ticket

A xx

#55 Dear Amazing Weekend

2010-12-19T21:01:00.004Z

Dear Amazing Weekend,

Thank you for so many unexpected things:

for putting me in a big Manchester snow-globe on Friday night. It was one of those evenings where even though it was freezing out, I felt warm cos of a bunch of lovely women friends, fairy lights on the tree, lots of chat, laughing until my belly hurt. Then when we looked out of the window everyone said WOW all at the same time because everything was white with snow.

for a very cool mate who sorted me two free tickets to see James at the MEN arena on Saturday. We danced like crazy for two hours, sang until we were nearly hoarse, and were transported back about 18 years. It was perfect.

for a very interesting after-gig drink, which even though was only planned as one ended up taking us into the early hours, new places, mad dancing, lots of laughing, new friends, a little bit of naughtiness. Ha!

and then for today, because we planned to see a film, but fate gave us an afternoon wandering around art galleries, singing carols along with some buskers, eating coconut macaroons, and browsing the Christmas markets.

Weekend, you've been surprising and full of spontaneity, and I'm exhausted, but have a massive smile on my face

xxx

#54 Dear Poems I Haven't Written Yet

2010-12-16T22:16:00.007Z

Dear Poems I Haven't Written Yet,

I love knowing you are out there somewhere, and when I'm watchful / open / curious it's very easy to find you, hiding behind an image, or a thought, or something someone says, or a memory, an object, a word, an idea, a sound, a song, or a person. And if I wait patiently, then all the words emerge, and you become something I never imagined writing. Almost like a stranger who starts talking to me in a bar. We might become friends, perhaps lovers, or maybe you'll be just another person I met once whose name I won't remember.

I like knowing there will always be more strangers and more poems. It's what life is about, and I think for a while I forgot you were out there, or stopped caring, or believing. But, here I am discovering you again, and it feels good.

Poems, I look forward to meeting you,

A x

#53 Dear Memory of Dancing in a Lake

2010-12-13T21:41:00.006Z

Dear Memory of Dancing in a Lake

I love that you keep coming back to me, when I am working, when I'm in bed in the dark, when I am driving in traffic jams, when I am waiting in queues in the supermarket, when I am bored or alone or afraid. There is something beautiful about knowing you are there with me. Especially when I play one particular song and you fill me with that afternoon again. It is magic. How one minute I am here, and the next you have swooped down and taken me right back there. I love you for it. No matter what happens I can live that day over and over again from start to finish. Thank you,

A x

Torino

2010-12-12T21:20:00.010Z

So, a lovely brief visit to Italy last week.

Wonderful friends picked me up from Milan airport and whisked me away to a four course lunch home-cooked by Roberto's lovely mum for Mr Bertuol's birthday. She makes her own pickles and preserves, so we had artichokes, stuffed chilli peppers, mushrooms picked from the hills, and a ravioli with pasta sauce, beef rolled in mushrooms. It was a bit of a treat. His parents don't speak English and I don't speak Italian, so the conversation took place with some kindly interpretation.

I've been wanting to visit their allotment for some time now, having heard such a lot about it, so was dead pleased to get a tour later in the day, just as the sun was setting. Wow. All I can say is wow. Their allotment is more like a farm. Their hazelnut trees stretch down the hill for ages, and there is so much space, and a lovely collection of allotment structures built by Mr Bertuol.

I am dying for a summertime visit now, when everything is growing and Mrs Bertuol has her giant pan cooking tomato sauce on their outdoor fire. My god. Heaven.

Then to Turin for three lovely days with my friends, who really looked after me, took me touring round the city in the cold cold cold, down beautiful cobbled streets, into grand old coffee places, restaurants, christmas markets, museums, churches, down by the river, more coffee places, more streets. It is such a stunning place, filled with gorgeous historical buildings. And most important of all, I got the chance to spend some lovely time with my friend chatting about everything, proper time. And it was a giggle, a brush with the Italian fire brigade, some play in the film museum, and a little bit of jiggle to Aretha on our last night.

And I even had the drama of being caught up in an Italian student protest on the way back to Milan, when a mob of students decided to sit on the train line for an hour so that I nearly, very nearly, missed my flight back to Manchester.

#52 Dear Part of Me That is Always so Hard on Myself

2010-12-04T22:49:00.000Z

Dear Part of Me That is Always so Hard on Myself

Let's make a deal. I'll try not to mess up, if you be a bit kinder. There is enough hard stuff to deal with in life. There'll always be other people who will let us down because people are just people trying to live their lives in the best way they can. We're all imperfect and flawed. So, let's try to focus on the positive and not dwell on the mistakes and fuck-ups. What do you reckon?

A x

little see-saw of life part 4

2010-12-01T20:35:00.004Z

Ups
Proper Winters. Central heating. Home-made mackerel pate. The Wire, Season 5. My new mobile. My new fringe. Laura Marling. Someone telling me I looked beautiful yesterday. Nexus Art Cafe. Hat scarf & gloves. The advent calendar my sister sent. Being less scared than I used to be. New friends.

Downs
Sore belly. Being let down. Being a bitch. Icy pavements. Wanting what you can't have.

#51 Dear Snow

2010-12-01T19:00:00.005Z

Dear Snow,

I might get sick of you if you stay too long, but right now you are just what I need. I love the way you make everything look beautiful and the way you flurry down when I am walking and stick to my coat, my gloves, my specs. The way you sound under my feet is amazing, that scrunch scrunch noise as you press down under my boots. I've been wrapped up, huddled up in my coat, scarf, hat, layers and layers of clothes. You make it seem like proper winter. The best thing is you make me forget everything I want to forget about, and I just feel awe like I did when I was little. Thank you, thank you (but don't hang about too long cos I've got a plane to catch, and also when you go all slushy and icy you ain't so nice)

A xxx

Hibernation Vs. Going Out

2010-11-27T16:07:00.006Z

It's a bit cold. I am wearing two vests, a long sleeve t-shirt and two cardigans, furry slippers, jeans, and am almost lying on the radiator. Somehow the cold seems to be in my bones, and I'm very tempted to get into bed and stay under the duvet for the rest of the day.

I don't know how I would cope living in somewhere like Alaska. I just don't think I'm used to the cold, even though I should be a tough Northerner, to be honest I'm totally soft. I feel like hibernating until it gets a bit warmer.

As usual, there is so much I want to write about. Mostly personal. I want to write about how rubbish I am at anything remotely like love. Or how I wish I was less of a worrying kind of person. Or how I am so very far from understanding what my life is all about.

But, I will resist.

Instead, I will tell you what I've been doing to force myself to be a more sociable writer.

I went to Beatification, a Monday night poetry and beat film night organised by the infamous John G Hall. The highlight for me was seeing Tony Walsh read his massive brilliant clever funny sad amazing poem about Manchester. He said afterwards that he thought it didn't go down very well, and sent me a video of him going down a storm with the same poem. I think it is seriously one of the best poems I've ever heard.

Then Paradox, another Manchester poetry and music night. I'm not sure what my highlight was. It was a bit of a mixed bag to be honest, and perhaps not in the right order, and lots of chatting by drunk people while the poets were reading. I suppose that's the downside of mixing poetry with a music night on a Friday night, and keeping it going until 3am, although god, I didn't stay that late. I read two poems, my Dear Man with the Bicycle poem, and 'Out Dancing' a prose poem about my Burnley days, which is in the Flax Anthology This Road We're On. It is quite tough reading to a room filled with drunk people, so I just flung my voice out there, read loud and slow into the mic, and didn't worry how it was going down.

Then, I went to the launch of new Manchester publisher's Hidden Gem Press. A brilliant, very well attended launch, there were loads of people, not enough chairs for everyone who crowded into the Anthony Burgess Centre, and some great readings from Claire Massey, Zoe Lambert, and the main act Emma Unsworth. Emma read from her novel to be published in June by Hidden Gem, Hungry The Stars and Everything and it was a bit bloody tantalising, especially as we now have to wait until it's published to hear more...

It's been good getting out and hearing people read their writing, bumping into people I know, having a drink and a chatter. There are so many interesting events going on in Manchester, I love that I live in such a vibrant literary city.

I might even go out tonight to another event, if I can pull myself away from the radiator.

Mindfulness and Doing The Ironing

2010-11-14T17:44:00.009Z

I'm slowly reading this book The Mindful Way Through Depression. I say slowly. I was first recommended this book by a friend who found it useful, secondly by my therapist, thirdly by my acupressure lady. It took me a long time to buy this book, and then it sat on my bookshelf for many months. I actually forgot I bought it, and finally I searched it out and asked myself why am I putting off reading this book?

Perhaps it's the subtitle: Freeing Yourself from Chronic Unhappiness. It sounded like a troublesome difficult read to me, not exactly bedtime reading. Also, I wondered am I chronically unhappy, what's the difference between plain unhappiness and chronic unhappiness?

Anyway, a hundred other questions later, and I'm reading the book. I'm three chapters in. It's actually fairly brilliant. It's written by four practitioners who have different experience working with people with depression. It draws on the Buddhist practice of 'mindfulness'.

I'm still in the early chapters, but there have been many recognitions, raw nerves perhaps, and yes moments. It's interesting. Their view is that the idea of 'fixing' depression or problem solving it or taking a 'doing approach' actually drags people deeper into depression.

So, I am trying to learn a 'being' approach, involving being mindful and aware. It's interesting and not a natural way to go about things for me as it involves being in the moment with the difficult experiences as well as the good ones. So, actually focusing on the sadness instead of making it go away. I can understand why, it's just a bit of a scary idea.

The first task in the book is to eat one raisin. In a mindful way. I know, it sounds a bit nuts...!

But it's an interesting way to demonstrate mindfulness. Putting the raisin in your hand and looking at it, properly, in a way perhaps you have never looked at a raisin, see it for the first time, see how it feels to the touch, bring it to your nose and smell it, be aware of how your body responds to the smell. Put it in your mouth slowly, don't chew yet, just be aware of how it feels in your mouth, then chew slowly deliberately, being aware of each bite and the tastes that come from the raisin, blah blah. The key is to be aware of the whole process to experience it, not just chuck a load of raisins in your mouth and chew, swallow without even realising what you're doing.

How many times have any of us eaten a meal, shovelling it into our face without even tasting the food, or really care what we're eating, just because we're hungry and we've got to eat? Especially lunch when I'm at work and haven't got time to eat and I grab anything, eat while driving or typing, worrying about all the things I've got to do, or what I've just done, or what I need to do next.

It's all about being, rather than doing. I've been trying it practice mindfulness while I was doing the ironing. I know!

I guess there is something about the smell of clean washing, the feel of the fabric as the iron runs over it, the steam, smoothing out all the creases. Yes?

I tried very hard, but found my mind wandering here there and everywhere. Wondering about a problem I have, trying to work out how it might get better, worrying it might be about me, then thinking about other worries, whether things will get easier, or harder, what I might need to do, thinking about next weekend, a weekend three weeks ago...etc etc. Ha!

It demonstrated why I might need to be more mindful... to focus on the moment, experiencing it instead of thinking and worrying my way through life. I don't suppose it's rocket science, but ahem, it's not something I'm very good at.

The next chapter is about breathing! I'm hoping I might have some skills already in this area.

PS. Sorry if Forgetting the Time is becoming more depression and angst than writing and books. As usual, heart on sleeve, I'm writing about what's on my mind, and being more honest than possibly some people might approve of. Don't care (sticks out tongue). This is my life, my blog and I'm tired of hiding, pretending, and living in a slightly embarrassed inadequate-feeling kind of way.

Anyway, this post IS about a book...

A Prize

2010-11-14T15:40:00.003Z

I won a prize at the Allotment AGM on Saturday. I'm the proud recipient of a voucher, given to me by the committee for my hard work on my allotment. How lovely is that! The voucher came in a little 'baby' card, seemingly all they had left in the shop, but actually I thought it very apt. In allotment terms I'm still very much a baby gardener.

In celebration of my award, I did more hard work: dug over my old onion bed and dug in four wheelbarrows of horse muck, planted garlics and red onions, cut back my raspberry canes, and half-built a very wonky looking compost bin. I also had to do some repair work, after the 90 mph winds last week.

Harvest this weekend was leeks, for my delicious leek and potato soup. I've never made it before and have to admit it tastes amazing. All down to the gorgeous leeks I reckon.

It's very tempting to hibernate this time of year, but I'm doing everything I can to resist this urge. I need as much sunlight and time with friends as I can get...

little see-saw of life part 3

2010-11-08T22:07:00.003Z

Current Ups
Cuddling with Sissy in this cold weather. Planting onions and shallots with my sister. Going out dancing. Seeing my friend Rosie sing in her band. Late night chats. PJ Harvey. Roasting my own home-grown butternut squash. Writing again. Sesame Snaps. Gorgeous Autumn leaves everywhere. Breaking Bad Season 2. New little cowboy boots. Getting the chance to say goodbye. The Eighth Day. All my lovely girl friends. Jacket Spuds. Allotment of course.

Current Downs
Damp dark days. PMS. Rejection. Health niggles. Government cuts. Heating bills. Stroppy or low moods.

our bonfire

2010-11-08T17:48:00.004Z

We had a lovely bonfire down at the allotments on Friday. Perfect actually. We've all cleared bits of wood, branches and brambles over the past weeks and abandoned it on Carol's plot. She'd cleared her pumpkins and squashes especially. Somehow miraculously David and not sure who else built it all into an amazing bonfire that burned for hours (with the little bit of accelerant needed to get it going in this gorgeous British damp).

It was a wonderful gathering of plot-holders, their families and friends, and masses of food and drink. Eric and Dave got the barbeques going and we had a zillion sausages, burgers and chicken drumsticks, with Seamus's delicious potato pudding, and a whole heap of home-made cakes. The trestle tables were out, and our odd collection of chairs. We had a few fireworks, a brilliant Catherine Wheel nailed to a shed, and some rockets, and fizzy, screechy, banging things.

It was the best bonfire I've been to as an adult. Cosy, safe and friendly. We all got to throw more wood on the fire (no safety barriers needed!) and we toasted our cheeks by standing a bit close to the fire. Kids and big kids waved around sparklers and we laughed and chatted and made lots of wooing sounds when the fireworks went up, and of course, there was tea aplenty

I don't think I've had anything like this as an adult, it's like a little community, and I love it. It's been a year now since I got offered my little half plot. It seems to have gone really fast, and I can't quite believe how much work I've done, how much I feel part of something great, and HA, how much work I still have to do. I feel dead lucky that I was offered my plot number 21, and on the most perfect site.

Catching Up...

2010-11-01T18:28:00.002Z

I have a lot to say at the minute. About writing, about me, about life, about changes that are going on, good things, bad things, emotional things, daft things.

In the words of the Wombats:
'And I don't know why I want to voice this out loud,
It's therapeutic somehow.'

Down at the allotment, everything is dying back, I'm harvesting the last of my Summer and Autumn veg, and getting prepared for next year. There is a lot of digging to do, a lot of horse muck to be spread, plants to be composted. There is something very therapeutic about it: letting the old die back and rot down so it will fertilise what I plant next year.

I suppose it makes sense then that I seem to be working on letting go of a lot of other dead stuff in my life, to make way for the new. Old patterns, old ways of doing things, old feelings.

I've been doing a course called 'Beating the Blues' for the past eight weeks. Only one session left. It's a course my GP told me about because I really don't want to go back on medication if I can help it, and this course is supposed to be as good as medication, so the blurb says. It's pretty much a self-help course, focusing on cognitive behavioural techniques to change thought patterns, challenge negative inner beliefs, develop better strategies for dealing with anxiety and depression. So, for example, I've been focusing on things like, developing better sleep patterns, working on problem solving, challenging errors in my thinking and replacing these with more useful ways of thinking. It's very practical and more thorough than I'm able to explain here.

The hardest part has been identifying my inner beliefs. All well and good if these are healthy, positive and self-affirming. But some of my inner beliefs (being honest) are a bit messed up and it was tough coming face to face with them, realising some of the deep down things I believe about myself. I was supposed to find evidence against these inner beliefs, and funnily enough at first all I could find was evidence that confirmed them.

It's strange how powerful inner beliefs can be. Even though, my head will say 'these are not rational beliefs, they make no sense,' somewhere else deep inside the beliefs are wedged tight refusing to be moved. And I really need to unwedge them. Otherwise I'm going to keep getting depressed or stuck or anxious. And life is passing, you know. Quicker than I want it to.

I was very emotional for a week or two. It spilled out onto all kinds of people and into all kinds of situations. This is something I usually feel really bad about, bad about myself, reconfirming all those negative inner beliefs blah blah. So, often I hide away when I feel emotional, and wait for it to pass. But I decided not to do this. And actually, I've been met with a whole load of kindness, hugs, and warmth from friends and people I don't know that well.

And it's interesting writing blogs like this. There are probably a lot of people that think I'm nuts. Heart way too much on my sleeve. Far too confessional, and all that. But, this is me, right? So... I'm writing it.

And this is what I want to do next.

Write more often and more of what I want to write. Write the novel. Write stories. Believe I can do it. Say yes to every opportunity. Be confident. Even if it scares me, still do it. Get on planes. Meet new people. Stand in crowded places. Talk to strangers if I want to. Learn. If someone is mean to me, believe it's about the other person not me. Let go more. Be spontaneous. Be me, actually. Chatter. Laugh. Be enthusiastic. Don't care what other people think. Stop bloody worrying. Get out there. Spend time with friends. Focus on now. Love deeply. And find some peace inside.

Dear Man with the Bicycle: A Prose Poem

2010-10-31T10:02:00.007Z

Dear man slow-pedalling through Manchester streets, past all those late drinkers, the strangeness of students in swimwear on nights out and police vans with their blare blare blare blare. Dear man on your bicycle, everything seems slower when you are pedalling with a girl behind you clinging to your waist, arms warm, legs splayed and the whoosh whoosh of air and breath and fingers holding on, wanting you. And you find her hands are too gentle, her mouth bites kisses into your skin, and coats jumpers t-shirts are lost so it's just you bare-skinned in a chilly room and her, stripping off a turquoise dress, peeling away tights. She is an aching shade of white, not what you expect or want, she is a girl in front of you unfastening buttons and zips. She will sit astride you while you imagine you are still pedalling through the streets with her behind you. This city is a city you have always known; it is bricks and walls and music beating inside you with your heart drum drumming, and she is such quietness by contrast. She is not what you want. Dear man in her white-sheeted bed, not knowing what to say apart from Come on, fuck me. Fuck me. There is something just ever-so-maybe-you-don't-know-anything-about-her and she will ask you questions when there are no answers only music drum drumming inside you. Dear man waking with the end of a head cold, wondering why you didn't let her go all night, why she didn't ask you to leave like last time, this all or nothing everything girl who is accidentally maybe sometimes never going to be for you. But still, you feel the need to tell her Soon every time you leave on your bicycle, unchained from the front railings and pedalled slowly through this city of damp commuters and street sweepers, with the beat beat of your life loud in your head, louder than her, and maybe you know already that you never want to see her again. But you don't tell her. Yes, this is how it is. This is how it is.

This Government Cuts

2010-10-25T20:05:00.011+01:00

Went on the rally against the cuts in Manchester. Last Saturday morning. It was pissing down with rain. Typical Manchester weather. But, we marched through town anyway, had a good shout, waved a few placards, listened to some very rousing speeches.

Although we don't look very roused...! Maybe that's because it's depressing. Many people in this country seem to think these cuts are inevitable. They don't seem to realise that the government have chosen to make cuts that will hit the poor and vulnerable hardest, and that there were alternative choices they could have made. This is going to be a hard four years for so many people.

Pavlov, sweat and tears... A reading this Thursday!

2010-10-25T12:47:00.004+01:00

Just wanted to quickly spread the word about a reading this Thursday (see below). I've been commissioned to write a short story about a famous scientist and one of his eureka moments. It's part of a project by Comma Press linking writers with scientists, and will culminate in an anthology of short stories to be published in March 2011.

I have been sweating over this story for the past couple of weeks, talk about stress! I'll be reading a stripped down simple version of it this week... it still needs further work, and I'll write more about how mad, crazy and wonderful it's been working on this story soon.

But anyway, please come along, you can give me feedback after, and then I can scurry away to work on it a bit more...

Science and the Short Story

The International Anthony Burgess Foundation, the Engine House, Chorlton Mill, Cambridge Street, Manchester

28 October 2010, 6.30pm (free)

Featuring Annie Clarkson, Trevor Hoyle, Emma Unsworth, with neurologist Sohail Siadatnejad and chemist Zoe Schnepp. An evening of fiction and science, with readings of three stories specially commissioned to celebrate moments of scientific breakthrough. Annie Clarkson revisits a fortuitous flood in the laboratory of Russian physiologist Ivan Pavlov. Trevor Hoyle explores the potential ramifications of the brain's recently discovered 'Mirror Neurons' - the neurological seat of compassion, empathy and vicarious pleasure. Emma Unsworth plays cards with the father of modern chemistry, Dmitri Mendeleev. Followed by discussions with two researchers currently taking these fields further.

Trevor Hoyle's latest novel is Down the Figure 7, set in Lancashire just after the war. His environmental novel The Last Gasp is currently under option in Hollywood. He also writes drama for Radio 4, his play GIGO winning the Radio Times Drama Award. Annie Clarkson's first collection of long poems, Winter Hands was published by Shadowtrain Books. Her story 'Lindy' was published in Brace (Comma, 2008).
Emma Unsworth is a journalist, short story writer and graduate of Manchester University’s Novel Writing MA. Her first novel is to be published by Manchester's new press, Hidden Gem next month.

Part of Comma Press's Bio-Fiction project; supported by Manchester Beacon and part of the Manchester Science Festival.

My end of October

2010-10-19T21:43:00.005+01:00

Yesterday, I was driving down Princess Parkway. Leaves were falling from the trees on either side of the road. It seemed as if there were scatterings of rusty leaves filling the whole sky and drifting down towards me. It was so beautiful.

I sat on the settee in a strangers house. She recently experienced a breakdown and is slowly trying to piece herself together so she can care for her children again. We talked and smiled, and she told me things, and at a certain point she said 'That's the first time I've told anyone that.' I'm always astonished by people's courage.

I've listened a lot this week and it is still only Tuesday.

On Sunday, I baked a gorgeous apple and raspberry crumble made with delicious apples picked from Fiona and Nula's tree and autumn raspberries picked from my allotment. I shared the crumble with the girls at work with lashings of Devon custard.

I've cried. There was this man. I spent some time with him, and was growing to like him. He gave me a ride on the back of his bike and made me feel as if my breath was whooshing out of my chest sometimes when he looked at me. But, after he stayed the night last week, he didn't call. And now I know he's not going to call.

I dug out a heap of weeds and just kept putting the spade into the ground and turning the soil over, and digging again. It was a damp day and it kept spitting rain. I came home with earth on my face, my hands, my arms, my clothes, my hair. I was dead cold and my hands ached. But it felt good because I know that whenever I want I can go down there and dig and everything always feels a little better.

I sat in candlelight on my big brown settee with my roasted beetroot, roast sweet potatoes, my home-made meat and vegetable pie. I listened to James Yorkston, Meg Baird, Nick Drake, Bon Iver.

It's been months and months of not writing, but I'm here again, pen, paper, ideas. My head is filled with this character, this place and time that is so far away from me, but which has become so familiar. I almost have a story.

Pets, Pest, Prey, An Elastic Sky and The Word Dress

2010-10-17T19:43:00.012+01:00

Wow, what an amazing day of poetry in Lancaster yesterday.

First, a day for writers published by Flax Books. This involved wandering around the very beautiful Storey Institute, listening to poems about Pets, Pests and Prey. A really interesting idea - readings taking place in different places, the bar, corridors, the gallery, the stairway.

I particularly loved hearing Cath Nichols beautifully poem about Starlings, Rosie Garland's poem about a certain kind of pest, and Kate Davis' poems about her taxidermy gifts to her husband...

This was followed by a lovely lunch. Thanks Flax! Plus, a workshop where thirteen of us worked together to create a collaborative poem. We then performed this in the gallery to a very friendly audience. It worked really well, I thought, considering most of us were strangers only an hour earlier, and our poem 'We are hundreds of moths' sounded amazing and was such fun to be involved in.

And I decided to stick around for some Litfest events too...

The launch of An Elastic Sky.

Lovely scones and tea, readings from the five wonderful poets featured in the anthology and five short films inspired by a poem by each writer. A packed auditorium, some great readings, and very moving films. I was so inspired. I've been lucky enough to be published in two of their anthologies, and can honestly say their launches are better than most.

And then WOW, the most gorgeous event I've seen at a literature festival.

Claire Massey is an amazing writer of fairy tales and she was commissioned to write a fairy tale about this gorgeous dress. The dress was made by a bridal designer and has been made out of the pages of a book. In this case, Angela Carter's brilliant book The Bloody Chamber. I mean, Wow. How beautiful does she look, and the story was amazing.

You know what, I love poetry and writing and reading and everything to do with books. I love that I can keep being amazed, surprised, and moved so often. Thank god for words right?

Metrophilias

2010-10-17T19:25:00.004+01:00

My review of Brendan Connell's Metrophilias is on
The Short Review's website. It's my latest book review, and just for your amusement here is a little snippet...

This book is filled with drunks, miscreants and sexual degenerates. Many of the characters seemed scarred or ugly in some way. We have stories about masochists, sadists, cannibals, erotic-pyromaniacs, and characters obsessed with carpets, noses, soft toys, and broken bones, for example. There is a man who finds a woman's head in the trash, takes it home and falls in love with her. There is a woman who, literally, gets sexual pleasure from the holy cross.

Busy Poet

2010-10-08T19:25:00.007+01:00

I've been a busy poet.

After a quiet six months, lots has started to happen. Readings. A workshop. Writing. And some other writing opportunities that I can't talk about yet.

Funny how things shift and shimmy into place without much effort.

First, a lovely reading at Didsbury Arts Festival. A Tuesday evening at the Northern Lawn Tennis Club, not the obvious poetry venue. We were a tad worried when there was only five people ten minutes before we started, but what a lovely crowd we got. There was maybe 30 or 35 people, very receptive, warm and friendly, There was an odd backdrop as behind me, Rachel Mann and John McAuliffe as we read were a trail of tennis players, passing the other side of the window from the tennis courts. It created a quirky evening of poetry/tennis. I loved meeting Rachel, the only vicar/poet with tattoos I ever met, and John's lovely Irish voice brought his poems to life, made me smile.

Then, Eat Your Word Soup at Cafe Culture for Wordpool 2010. Bit of a mouthful. I drove over to Blackpool, the North West's glittering seaside town, for an afternoon/evening of workshops and readings. And my first ever writing workshop. Eek. It was only a wee half hour workshop, but it was good. I think. I enjoyed it, and I hope other people did. I got people writing in response to various things I gave them, postcards of people, ripped up bits of my old work, angel cards. It was a way to spark new ideas, find starting points for poems or stories. Half an hour is not long, but we packed in lots of quickfire writing and then people could read out what they'd written if they wanted to... It was a real buzz actually for me, and for a first workshop I was dead pleased. Yay.

Then the readings, which were fab. Rachel McGladdery was wonderful in her slinky back dress reading some very powerful poems, especially the one about her dad, I think it's called Long Shadow, and it was brilliant, can't say more than that. I was next, and it was weird, I read the same set of poems as for the Didsbury reading, but it felt different. No nerves, but being a reader between two performers, perhaps made it stand out as being a little less confident. Marvin Cheeseman was AMAZING, I am his new biggest fan. He made me laugh so much, brilliant entertainer, very engaging, and some very funny poems. It was so lovely meeting them both, and a lovely audience which sadly was very small, which is a shame. The Eat Culture put on a brilliant event, and yet very under-subscribed. And on National Poetry Day too... where were all the poetry lovers, or are there no poetry lovers in Blackpool?

I drove back from Blackpool with all kinds of thoughts in my head about poetry and writing, and me as a writer and my life, and what I want to do and not do. I have a story to write, poems starting to shape themselves inside me again, which is nice. Yay. I'm a writer again, little old me, writing. I have no idea whether it will be any good, but it's about enjoying it right?

This is England 86

2010-10-03T19:40:00.003+01:00

I've been catching up on This is England 86 on 4OD. I was on holiday when the final episodes were televised. So, I missed out on any of the discussion about it. I wanted to share some thoughts, as phew, that's got to be one of the strongest pieces of television I've watched in a long long time.

I'm a big Shane Meadows fan, anyway. Dead Man's Shoes, This is England, A Room for Romeo Brass are all brilliant. He always captures something very tough about British society, the underbelly maybe, the stuff that other people just allude to, or explore in passing. No, Shane Meadows as a director really hits it to his audience, he seems unafraid of confronting the ugly truth. There's always humour, it's always hard to watch in some way, bloody heart-breaking.

So, Shane Meadows directing television is not one to be missed.

But heck, episode three was difficult to watch. More than difficult. I was shaking by the end, and felt physically quite sick and upset. Brutal, honest, horrific, very affecting. Brilliantly acted. I have no idea how actors play such scenes as the one between Mick and Trev. Johnny Harris had such a tough job playing the part, how any man takes the part of a rapist and plays it in such a convincing way, I've no idea.

We had a discussion at work about the last two episodes, both of which have horrible sexually violent scenes. For me, the scene with Trev in episode three was harder to watch. It was the power dynamic, the way he says, 'this could be the best sex you've ever had or the worst sex you ever had', the way he coerces her into not putting up a fight. And also how the scene seemed to last forever, it wasn't cut when it got difficult, but followed the action to the end. There was that awful moment when its over when Trev pulls up her knickers and fastens her jeans, and we all know that this isn't over for her. Rape is never over like that, even when the physical act has finished.

I'm in awe of Shane Meadows for directing this in the way he did, and Channel 4 for broadcasting it, the actors for putting themselves through this scene which must have been tough. Brave. Unflinching. Hard-hitting. Emotionally very raw.

It took me a while to get myself together, and I wandered around the house doing a few bits and pieces, wanting that awful feeling to go away. I've thought about it for days on and off.

Episode 4, with the scene with Lol confronting her dad was even more brutal, violent and in some ways more shocking. The girls at work found it more upsetting, but I think I was ready for it in some way. It was no surprise at all to me when her dad tried raping her as well. When she went round there, I understood why, I knew why she would want to scare him, confront him, show him that she knew what a nasty, violent shit he was, but there was part of me that wanted to shout at the TV, no no no, don't go near him, get out of the house! Sickening. But brilliant, the way they showed Lol reacting in such a different way, fighting him, angry, determined, desperate.

Some people might think it was too much, but I think it just showed reality. In my view that's the only way to confront reality, but shoving it in people's faces and saying watch this. This is what happens sometimes. This is what some men do. Yes, and not just psychos, or strangers, but men in people's own families...

It's why I still call myself a feminist, why I laugh or get annoyed when people say that we live in an equal society.

Anyway, rant rant rant. There were a hundred other reasons why I loved This is England 86, and thought it was a class piece of telly. But I've said enough!

Watch it! It's still on 4od...

I have broken my machete

2010-10-02T18:11:00.004+01:00

I know, it sounds like the title for a brilliant prose poem but, I really have broken my machete. I was hacking down my giant sunflowers and the handle broke, and now the blade is very wobbly. I kept using it like. But I'm sure it is a danger to mankind, or maybe just me. Sigh. Anyone know where I can get a new machete? It's not really an item I'm very sure about going into a shop and asking for. But it is so handy down the allotment for hacking, chopping and generally looking like I know what I'm doing. It also makes me look seriously well-equipped. (Incidentally, do you think the police would accept that I use it for gardening, if I was stop and searched? Hm)

After avoiding the allotment for the past few weeks, apart from harvesting some very good looking veg, I did a good two and a half hours solid work down there today. I had energy to burn and a lot to do, so I got stuck in, digging, pulling down my almost dead ten foot sunflowers with stalks like small tree trunks, and a bit of weeding.

I have SO much to do. The allotment committee have offered me the other half of the allotment, so I will have a full size plot for myself. Only trouble is, the other half is derelict, has not been worked for two years, the soil is hard as rocks, and there are piles of weeds, debris and other crap all over it, an overgrown pond with a hole in it, and some really tough looking grass on the rest of it. I'm beginning to think I might be nuts for saying yes. There's still a lot to do on my half, and now I have doubled my workload.

Eric has found me a greenhouse with no glass, that needs erecting and glazing. So that's lying around waiting to have something done to it. I also want to build some compost bins out of old pallets.

So, is anyone up for a dig? Seriously. If you're in Manchester and you fancy some hard labour for no money (although I'll throw in some veg or a beer, depending what appeals most), then give me a shout.

butterfly

2010-09-28T18:35:00.000+01:00

He wants her to be a butterfly, look pretty, land on his leaf when he wants butterfly. He wants short-lived, colourful, flighty, a transformation into the beautiful for a moment, and then gone.

Of course, he doesn't know she's already been cabbage white, common blue, speckled wood, been wanted before in all those grass verges waste ground woodland clearings, been captured and released, suffered a hundred tiny deaths in killing jars.

He doesn't know that being a butterfly can be painful, wants only what he wants, can't see that waiting to see what she wants might be a beautiful transformation for the both of them, only sees brevity, the flicker of wings when he wants wings, and not the woman she could be.

Of course, she could never tell him this, feels delicate because this is what butterflies feel.

So, me and V were Andalucian girls for a week

2010-09-27T22:00:00.011+01:00

I love holidays. It's official. I love the way I can go to another country for a week and forget (almost) everything back home, transport myself physically and emotionally into another place entirely, and experience everything differently. Sigh.

This is where we stayed.

One of three idyllic apartments hidden away in the Arab quarter of Alhama de Granada. We had a gorgeous garden, a library in the living room, a lovely cluttered Spanish kitchen, and a comfy double bed each. Perfect for friends, couples, a little family, a writers or artists retreat....

And we loved the town. White-washed houses, cobbled narrow streets, old churches, beautiful little square with a few bars and (my favourite) Cafe La Creme that sold the most gorgeous cakes imaginable, and of course, the gorge with its old ruined flour mills, jade river and jagged orange cliffs.

Oh, I swear to god, I did not want to come home. It was amazing. We ate tons of gorgeous food, read, basked in the sun, watched films, chatted, laughed, walked, swam, wandered around palaces and gardens, had picnics, skinny-dipped in the lake, danced, entertained, soaked in the Arabic spa...

My favourite moments were probably...

lying under a tree on a very quiet beach called Punta de la Mona, with a lovely gentle breeze and an undisturbed view of the beach and sea, and then the most gorgeous swim in lovely deep seawater with the waves lifting me as I swam

eating the most delicious goat with garlic on our first afternoon in Alhama in the square

meeting Paco, a local restauranteur and Flamenco singer who was a little bit drunk when he came over to our table at Meson Diego, and then near the end of our holiday eating at his restaurant La Seguiriya, beautiful food and a most excellent host, and ever patient with my terrible Spanish.

skinny dipping and dancing like a wild thing at the edge of Lake Bermajales, where we had the whole lake to ourselves for an afternoon

getting lost wandering through the Albaicin in Granada and the gorgeous gardens at the Alhambra

and lots of little moments, funny things we did and said, little Scampos the dog who we kept meeting around town, lunches in the garden, reading, asking lovely old spanish ladies for directions, the views which were stunning, feeling so so so relaxed and not worrying about anything...

That Little See-Saw of Life: Part 2

2010-09-09T17:26:00.002+01:00

Current Ups
Meditation and chanting with Eric at the allotment. My free meal at Nando's. A Sunday evening play on the park. Especially the slide. One or two kisses, yes yes. Singing along with MUSE at LCCC. Making plans with lovely V. Sharing a dish of Jamaican Lamb Chops. Digging. My sister coming home from NYC tomorrow.

Current Downs:
There are a few. Worries. Etc. Thinking too much. Waiting for things I don't want to wait for. Health niggles.

bits and pieces...

2010-09-06T17:07:00.008+01:00

You might notice in my sidebar that I have two readings coming up. One at Didsbury Arts Festival on 28th September and the other at Blackpool Wordpool on October 7th. I'll be dragging out my best frock and poems for both occasions so have a little clickety click on the right hand side of my blog to see what and where and who else is going to be there.

What else?

I worked on my novel a bit over the past two weeks. Hurray. I found a new narrator. She was already in there, but I realised that it might free up the story a bit if she became the main narrator. I've written a couple of chapters. It's all very messy first draft see-what-happens writing. But for the first time in over a year, I had one of those moments where I reach a certain place where my pen seems to move by itself and I'm surprised by what I write and it feels like discovery/ energy/ breakthrough all mixed up into something I feel pleased with. Ha. What are the chances of that. This novel feels like it might take me another ten years, but I don't care, because at last it clicked into place for me for a short time, and I felt like a 'proper writer' again.

And I've had another review published... The Bigness of the World by Lori Ostlund- a very wonderful collection of short stories that I very much recommend...

Horse, Flower, Bird

2010-09-05T10:26:00.005+01:00

My latest review. Kate Bernheimer's collection of adult fairy tales Horse, Flower, Bird.

privacy, autobiography and other perils...

2010-08-26T15:43:00.007+01:00

I've been reading what Jenn Ashworth has to say about blogging's perils and pitfalls. There are some interesting comments from her readers, mainly around privacy.

It's got me wondering...

Some people choose to put lots of personal information out there about themselves. They reveal information about their childhoods, their relationships, their mental health, their experiences of abuse, their longings, their neuroses, their prejudices, the things they hate or love about themselves and the people around them. It can be freeing, cathartic, helpful to others, illuminating, or it can raise consciousness, build bridges, and share experience.

This doesn't mean someone wants others to seek out their address, knock on their door and say 'hey I read your blog and wondered if you fancied a cup of tea.'

Probably, even the most autobiographical blog is a version of the truth. It's selective, an interpretation through one person's eyes, written from a series of points in time, revealing some things, hiding others, with the truth shifting and changing depending on the person/ mood/ day / subject matter and numerous other things.

I've written poems that are very personal and autobiographical. Others that are total fictions.

It doesn't mean others know me from my writing or my blog.

It is a bit weird, when sometimes I go to a writing event and someone says 'oh I read your blog', and I think 'eek, did I want that person to know that thing that I revealed in that blog about such and such.'

But it's also nice when a stranger or a friend reads something and says, 'Yes, that's how I feel, or I love that too, or I like what you said about that.'

It's all a balance.

So, just for your entertainment, here are a collection of truths and fictions about me that you can take or leave, love or hate, believe or not:

My life is a busy place, a lonely place, a place full of people and without people, it is a labyrinth of my own making, a place where I breathe and eat and shit. I have a stone that I always carry in my pocket, a mole on my right breast, a nail-less toe, one eye blinder than the other, one leg longer than the other, a weak bladder, a weak heart. I have five jars of buttons waiting to be sewn onto jackets and a novel I will never finish and an unmade bed. I'm afraid of dentists, anaesthetists, hypnotists and being away from home. Actually I'm afraid of almost everything. Except being at home alone. I'm not looking for a relationship, I just want to be found. I'm emotional, devotional, kind-hearted, moody, broody, strong-minded and cold. There is not one person in the world who really knows me, my gate is locked, my roof is leaking, my curtains closed. I sing a perfect C, make chocolate muffins, parle francais, dance as though my feet are itching, and when I'm tired I get cross as old bears who are hungry and unlike the rest of the time I don't need love or kindness or cups of tea, I just need sleep.

comforts

2010-08-21T17:22:00.006+01:00

These things have been giving me comfort...

An interesting book called We lent to me by my therapist because she said what I was talking about is the subject of this book. It is an interesting take on modern love/romantic love using the story of Tristan and Isolde and interpreting it using Jungian psychology. I'm not one for reading psychology/self-help, but I liked it, it makes a lot of sense (to me at any rate). I've now ordered one of his other books.

The allotment. As always. I went down this morning and dug out my french beans which seem to have finished. I picked blackberries, sweetcorn, courgettes, borlotti beans, spinach and baby carrots. The sun was gorgeous this morning, warming my skin, giving me lots of goodness (and slightly pink cheeks). It didn't feel as if I was in the city. It never does somehow.

Sissy. As always. She is amusing me a lot at the moment. Yesterday evening I sat with my french doors open. There was sporadic rain, and every time we had a downpour she came rushing in, skidding and sliding across the wooden floors and then trying to recover herself to walk casually over to say hello. Daft thing.

A review of This Road We're On, which said some lovely things about my writing, including 'power crackles between carefully crafted lines' and 'astonishingly visual passages'. I've been feeling quite lost as a writer this past year. I was on a path and then realised one day that the path was no longer there. I'm not sure whether or when I might find it again. But it is really nice to read a review like this one.

The film Tetro.
I went to see it at the cinema this week. It's written and directed by Francis Ford Coppola. It's set in Buenos Aires and is in English and Spanish. It's one of the most beautifully made films I've seen recently, in black and white and colour, there is so much attention to detail, god it's beautiful. There is something terribly lost and achingly sad about it, yet also something reassuring. I can't explain any more than that.

This wonderful video. It's very inspiring, even if I haven't quite found a way to live life in this way yet.

A Video of Me and a Poem

2010-08-19T20:10:00.001+01:00

Poetry, Veg and a morning with Sam Rockwell...

2010-08-15T18:30:00.004+01:00

Oh, what a lovely weekend....

It started with a light bit of digging.

Progressed to an afternoon of poetic inspiration at a workshop run by the wonderful New York poet George Wallace. Which was wonderful actually because it has been six months almost since I wrote a word (despite all my good intentions to start writing my novel again, etc). We played, experimented, imagined. It was very inspiring, and made me think YES.

Then eating (which is always good in my books).

Then an evening of poetry, words, music at Paradox, a crazy poetry night where I saw lots of lovely friends, some wonderful readers, had a few laughs, and I read my sad little love story Everything. It's been a while since I read at a poetry night, and it was nice nice nice.

I went home to cake, chat, sleep, and an early morning goodbye to my lovely overnight guests. (Bye Gelly Bean, bye George, it was lovely having you both chez moi!)

Decided the morning would be best spent with Sam Rockwell (sigh) in Moon, which is an amazing film, I refuse to listen to anyone who says otherwise. And if Sam Rockwell is reading this, then, I know I live a long way away, but I would be very happy if you wanted to ask me out. Ha.

Then a whole beautiful, sun-kissed day at the allotment, digging, picking, planting, drinking tea, basking, chatting, and meditating with Eric. It was heaven. Tony let me pick a half dozen plums from his tree and they are such juicy loveliness. I picked a whole load of blackberries, dug up potatoes, spring onions, cut some chives, picked some black beans, and my first ever home-grown sweetcorn!

A little picture of some of my haul...

And another picture of my dinner, eaten al fresco on the deck outside. The sweetcorn was the most tastydeliciousscrumptious corn I have ever tasted, oh my god, so so so good. I will never eat shop-bought again

Big satisfied sigh.

Thankyouthankyouthankyou world for a most lovely weekend. Very grateful xxxx

A reading...

2010-08-13T21:24:00.003+01:00

A short notice one.

Tomorrow night. Paradox at Fuel Cafe Bar in Withington, Manchester. 7.30, I believe.

The special treat is that George Wallace will be reading, he's a beautiful reader. He's described in the blurb as 'one of Americas original living beats, kindred spirit to Kerouac and mate of Patti Smith.' I've heard him read a couple of times before and he certainly has a magical way with words... Click his name above for a video reading.

The evening also features music, dj, and more poetry from an amazing list of Manchester (and a few other places) writers.... Neil Bell, Geraldine Green, Eoin becomes Spaceghost, Tony Walsh, John G.Hall, little old ME, John Leyland, Steve Waling, Lauren Bolger, Anna Percy, Sarah Miller, Jackie Hagan, Gerry Potter, Matthew Byrne, and Steph Pike

Apparently everyone gets a free flower and it's free to get in. What more could you want?

see-saw

2010-08-10T18:59:00.002+01:00

Still on the little see-saw of life.

Current ups
Everything to do with the allotment. Sissy. The Sopranos Final Episodes. Scout Niblett screeching out songs. The decking in my yard where I sit and eat my tea on nice nights. Tea at Kim by the Sea with Vanessa tomorrow night. Eric making me laugh. My bed. A brilliant book I'm reading about Tristan and Isolde.

Current downs:
Tiredness. Worrying a lot. Work. Not being able to see my family as much as I want. A little anxiety, even about nice things.

mini chapbook reviews

2010-08-05T00:00:00.009+01:00

From time to time, I review poetry chapbooks for Sphinx, a print and online zine.

You might have heard me banging on about just how few reviews many poetry chapbooks receive, so here I am again rat a tat tat.

I have two mini reviews up in the latest issue.

A review of Jon Stone's Scarecrow

And Casey Quinn's Prepare to Crash...

I review these chapbooks whether I love them or hate them or something in between, but the great thing is you don't just get my mini review, you also get the opinions of two other reviewers...

Have a read maybe. At least have a little click on the Sphinx website so you can see what they are doing, and you might find a little pamphlet of poems you want to read...

gardening geek

2010-07-25T23:32:00.016+01:00

I knew the weekend was going to be lovely. Allotment, food, friends (not in that particular order). A big sigh that the weekend is pretty much over.

I had a good weekend at the allotment. An exerting Saturday, sawing scaffold planks, and then with much-needed help from Eric building a big square raised bed. Then, basically digging it in, making sure it was firm, and filling it with soil, raking it over. It was a bit strenuous! Dripping with sweat, totally covered in muck, and knackered. It took a good four hours.

But the reward was harvesting some food for the weekend/week ahead.

I'm getting so much food from the allotment now. It had been five days since I last went down, and there was a glut of courgettes, some of them becoming small marrows. I dug up some charlotte potatoes, carrots, beetroots, and picked spinach, and french beans. Very, very rewarding picking my own veg. I can't even begin to tell you how much work has gone into reaching this point (most weekends from September last year until now). The rewards with an allotment are so so slow....

But, now I get to bring home this little feast (and a whole bag of courgettes that have been given to neighbours and friends.)

There is nothing better than cooking with your own veg. Actually, there's nothing better than having a bath after being down at the allotment. It's like the best bath I've ever had. Every time.

Today was another few hours hard work, but with the help and company of a lovely friend. I sowed red clover in the new raised bed (it's a green manure, which basically means you grow it, and then dig it into the ground so it adds lots of nutrients). We dug out the path next to it, pulling all the weeds out. And next week I'm going to put down wood chippings that we get delivered for free. It's making my half of the plot look so much tidier.

I did some watering, cut down all my comfrey to make some liquid feed and put the rest on the compost heap because it helps it all rot down better. Ha, ha. I know, I know. I'm a total garden geek, I had no idea about any of this stuff a year ago and would probably have laughed at the idea of it. It's bloody addictive and so so BRILLIANT learning all this and trying it out and seeing what happens. Even if it does make me sound like a bit of a ****

Here is some gardening geekery/allotment porn so you can see for yourself...

the most lovely part of the week...

2010-07-23T18:01:00.003+01:00

Yes, right now is the most lovely part of the week. This week. But also any week. It's Friday 6pm. I'm sitting outside in my back yard, bare feet, sun warming every little bit of me, Sissy just about to poke her nose in the two scoop tub of ice cream I just bought from Moonlight. Forest fruits and Honeycomb.

The bees are buzzing around the lavender and geraniums. I can hear kids playing further down the street, an aeroplane, the wind really gently rusting the leaves on next door's tree. It's the start of the weekend.

Relief. It's the end of the working week, which has been good in its way but hard work and draining. I finished work and wanted to be somewhere half way between home and work for a while. I don't just mean geographically, I mean emotionally. My head was full and I needed to empty it a little. So, I went to one of my favourite little cafes Falafel. It's a Jordanian cafe where for £3.50 I can get gorgeous falafel wrapped in flat bread with houmous, olives and arabic salad, with a big pot of fresh mint tea. The service is lovely. The music takes me to another place completely, and I can stare into the street and watch all the bustle of cars and people passing and feels as though I am hundreds of miles from wherever I just came from.

I love it that I live so close to such a crazy, wonderful place with every kind of Asian and Middle Eastern cafes and restaurants, takeaways, ice cream parlours, fruit and veg shops, barbers, hardware, clothes and jewellery shops none of it particularly English. I love it that people can smoke shisha in one of more than a dozen places, or buy their wedding clothes, or choose a box of Indian sweets. So I milled about for a bit and watched people and bought ice cream.

This week was a week of much torrential rain, lunch with a friend, 2 for 1 pizza at pizza express with a lovely bunch of girls followed by Inception. It has been a week of Qi Gong, and Charles Lambert's The Scent of Cinnamon, and bumping into someone lovely in the supermarket, and trying to be more relaxed, confident and open to whatever. Doing less of my bad habits and focusing more on the positives.

This is my favourite part of the weekend because the working week is over and I still have a whole weekend to do whatever with whoever and wherever I choose. Hurray, hurray.

#50 Dear Week

2010-07-22T21:32:00.002+01:00

Dear Week,

Where did you go? I had no idea that you had passed, and I didn't even think about my blog once.

I must have been enjoying myself, hurrah!

A xx

the safe children, and other nightjar press stories...

2010-07-15T19:44:00.009+01:00

I’ve been hanging on to these beautiful chapbooks for quite some time. The idea of a series of limited edition chapbooks each containing a single short story is very exciting to a reader like me. I love unique books, I love short stories. What more could I want than four gorgeously designed Nightjar Press chapbooks, each one signed by their author and individually numbered, all for a mere £3?

So, I’ve been saving them up for a rainy day, and yesterday was such a day, torrential rain in fact. So, towards bedtime, I settled into my pyjamas with a cup of tea on the bedside table, and dived in.

Tom Fletcher’s The Safe Children was the first one. I’ve heard Tom read a few times, and I know he leans towards the scary side of fiction, so, I expected something a bit chilling. I went to a reading once called Fright Night where he read a few tales, but I don’t remember anything quite as scary as this. I’m not going to give it away. This story has to be experienced first-hand. It is science fiction, with a very down to earth, everyday style, but with an awful reality emerging that made me feel quite sick. And take it from me, I’ve heard a few things in my time, I’m a social worker and no stranger to gruesome realities. This one still bit me though and lingered in my head for ages (especially when I was trying to get to sleep). Shudder.

So, I decided to turn to Michael Marshall Smith to see what he had to offer in What happens when you wake up in the night. I know. The title kind of indicates that this story might induce fear, and the cover photograph is an accurate reflection of the content. The voice of the very young child narrating the story was quite brilliant, I thought. I’m a bit of an aficionado of child voices in fiction and was completely drawn in. Again, don’t want to say too much. It has less social context than Tom Fletcher’s story. It’s all set in one room, in a house, at night. Very little happens in truth, but it is a slow-drawn, perfectly created nightmare.

Joel Lane’s Black Country is quite a contrast. I wasn’t sure what to expect from the cover, or from the title. Unlike the previous two stories which give an indicator of what we might find inside, this chapbook gave little away. I did suspect that it might be a bit creepy, given that it is published by Nightjar. This chapbook contains a story about some strange unexplained happenings in a broken and almost-derelict town. We explore what is happening alongside a detective who used to live in the area, and sets out on his own personal journey back to the town of his childhood. It evokes time and place beautifully, the description is poetic in a gritty way, and it is a story that creeps inside you, but I wanted more, I felt as if I hadn’t read enough of Joel Lane’s writing, and I felt somehow that this was not as good a ‘stand alone’ story as the other two. Brilliant, but wanting more from a one story chapbook has its difficulties, I thought.

Finally, I came to Alison Moore’s when the door closed it was dark, another story with elements of nightmare about it, definitely an uncomfortable story, and with a creeping tension (like all the stories in the Nightjar catalogue). Alison’s writing is beautifully detailed. I loved the vivid sense of place evoked from description such as ‘the iron staircase which zigzagged up the front of the building like the teeth of her mother’s pinking shears or a children drawing of lightning.’ Such detail really drew me into the story, and I identified strangely with its young isolated main character. Her sense of fear and almost claustrophobic experience really tattered my nerves. The ending is really horrible, because I was more worried about what was going to happen after the story finished than what had happened so far.

And I guess that is the power of a scary short story, how our imagination takes us deeper into the story. There is enough space for our imagination to play, and what is unsaid or suggested grows into all the darker corners of each of these stories. It was Tom Fletcher’s story that left me most disturbed, and The Safe Children has to be one of the most quietly brilliant stories I’ve read.

I can’t wait to see what else Nightjar Press has up its sleeve. From what I have learnt so far (and knowing a little about their editor Nick Royle's taste in fiction), I believe there will be some very dark, disturbing stories ahead.

I heart Tove Jansson

2010-07-13T16:19:00.004+01:00

My review of Tove Jansson's Travelling Light has been posted on Bookmunch today.

I adore Tove Jansson's writing, she writes beautiful short stories, that I recommend very very much. If you haven't read any of her work, then this is a good start... or you could read The Summer Book, which was the first book of Tove's I read, and the one that made me fall in love with her writing.

I wish I could write like Tove, yes I do, yes I do...

#49 Dear Sun Kissed Shoulders

2010-07-11T18:48:00.003+01:00

Dear Sun Kissed Shoulders,

You've always been very pale. I would describe you as a milky white colour. But now, after lots of outdoors work on the allotment, you seem to have turned kind of golden. Yes, maybe you are a little pink this evening, but you're more tanned than you have ever been. There is even a line where my vest strap has been sitting. There you are, all sun-kissed and I never knew you could do that. I'm glad you can still surprise me after thirty seven years.

Thanks

A xx

#48 Dear Weeds

2010-07-10T21:56:00.002+01:00

Dear Weeds,

Especially mare's tail, bindweed, and the one that looks like a fern and has little runners that shoot out in all directions. I wish I could banish you from my allotment, because you grow almost as fast, if not faster than all the lovely vegetables, and I am forever hoeing you or digging you out. Please don't grow so quickly, and maybe think about not coming back at all,

yours hopefully
A Clarkson

#47 Dear Sleep

2010-07-07T17:38:00.004+01:00

Dear Sleep,

Really looking forward to you tonight. It feels like I really need you, and probably I could probably have a little bit of you now, but I have a few things to do and I'm not sure whether going to bed at 5.30pm is a thing that grown ups can do.

I honestly think you might be my favourite thing in the world. We get along brilliantly, and I probably take you for granted sometimes so this letter is to show you some love, and say I can't wait till later,

love Annie xx

and another giveaway....

2010-07-05T17:15:00.002+01:00

Someone kindly pointed out that my blog has been getting a bit gloomy recently, which is probably very true, oh Annie lady of dark mithery moods and much moaning.

So, I am giving away nice things, again trying to spread a little love and kindness out there to make up for me being a bit maudlin at times.

In celebration and promotion of This Road We're On, a new free to download digital anthology of short stories published by Flax Books.... I have some lovely postcards to post out to people. The postcard has a very writerly picture of me, a tiny slip of a story called Behind the Apollo, in a lovely colour design, and on the back I will write you a little message, a hi, hello, and something.

So, if you would like a postcard sending, jot me a comment if I already have your address, or email me your address, and it will be heading your way. It's only a postcard, but how often do we get a little fiction postcard (or in fact any nice things) through the post for free...?

On Kindness, and a giveaway...

2010-07-05T11:48:00.002+01:00

Oh, I forgot to link to this review.

I wrote this a little while ago. The book is about kindness, and as it's one of my favourite subjects, it seemed like an ideal book for me to read and review for Bookmunch.

It's an interesting little read, a bit too cerebral for me, and not enough about real kindness. But lots of fascinating ideas and theories about kindness (or the lack of it). I'd be interested to know what you think...

And so, I'm giving my copy away to whoever says 'me me me' first either in a comment, or by email. I would really like to hear what the winner thinks, maybe on your blog?

#46 Dear Birthday

2010-07-04T22:33:00.004+01:00

Dear Birthday,

You have been strange this year. I mean you are just the anniversary of a day 37 years ago, but somehow our culture has made this a really important day.

Some years I like you, especially when I spend a lot of time with family and friends. This year, has been quieter than most, and hampered by car problems that meant I stayed home on my own, and then a slight kitchen accident that almost led to a fire, which is not a wholly bad thing as I found out my smoke alarm still works.

I have to confess that this year I didn't like you much. I liked the days leading up to you, I got a lot of lovely birthday wishes sent my way from afar, and the early part of the day was lovely, but you went downhill after that and I kind of wish you had just been an ordinary day.

A friend of mine recently told me that he didn't know when his birthday was, that in his country it's not the same, so he didn't understand birthdays in the same way that many people do. This kind of helped me put it in perspective.

Birthday, I think perhaps you have been overshadowed by other things happening in my life, and maybe next year you will be better, or different, or maybe it just won't matter as much

A x

#45 Dear Weekend...

2010-07-04T10:00:00.003+01:00

Dear Weekend,

I am so pleased you arrived, and marked the end to a partly yeuchy and stranded week. I love you. Really I do, because so far you've been not but almost perfect. So, I want to say a big speech of thanks to you: for a lovely curry and casino on Thursday with the girls from work (so, Thursday is the new Friday in Manchester), for getting my car back (hopefully) fixed, for a lovely two hour dig down at the allotment on friday evening when it was lovely and warm, for the little jar of sweetpea flowers on my windowsill, for a harvest of courgettes, spinach, onions, garlics, lettuce galore, for a handful of strawberries and raspberries that I ate straight from the plant, for late night pottering about, for books through the post, for a lovely barbeque at the plot yesterday, for stuffed courgettes, for a lovely bath, for tons of birthday cards, and for not being over yet, there is more to come, and I don't go back to work til Tuesday, so you're longer than all the other weekends, hurray!

A xx

This Road We're On

2010-07-01T23:25:00.006+01:00

So, why was I in Lancaster? Was it worth the hassle of breaking down/being stranded/being towed back to Manchester by a lovely lad called Jake who had a smell of diesel about him?

Yes, yes.

It was the launch of This Road We're On, wonderful new short story anthology which is a free digital book online NOW!

It was at the gorgeous literary venue The Storey, in Lancaster. It's the first time I've visited, and I was impressed by the gorgeousness of the little auditorium we were in to read from and launch the book. All five of the writers were there: Chris Witter, Me, Amy Prodromou, Naomi Kruger and Emma Bragg.

In summary, there was wine, strawberries, chatter, milling about, a lovely introduction by editor Sarah Hymas, projected images from the anthology on the wall behind the readers, five very different readings from these little short stories which all feature relationships and love, free postcards scattered around with an excerpt from each of our writing, clapping, more milling about, meeting of people I've only previously met on the internet (Hi Ron), meeting of people I've not seen for ages (Hi Pauline), and a surprise appearance by my publisher (hi Ian). I thought it was a friendly, laid back and lovely launch.

So, now, I urge you... read This Road We're On

Actually maybe I should really say, read browse and explore, because there are stories, recordings from each writer, profiles, photos.

And let me know what you think...!

#44 Dear RAC

2010-07-01T17:24:00.003+01:00

Dear RAC

I'm very grateful that I am a member of your breakdown service. The RAC man who came out to me last night was very lovely and helpful, even if he was not able to fix the problem with the gasket on my thermal heating thingy. I was an hour away from home, and so without your services I wouldn't have got towed and might have been stranded there all night. The man you sent to me with his towtruck was kind, friendly and made a difficult night seem less fraught. I felt very relieved when he arrived, and I say a big THANK YOU that I got home safely, with my broken car dropped off at the garage.

However, I wonder whether perhaps you might need to recruit more staff. I'm just wondering, because it took over five hours from when I called you out to when I got home, which is a bit of a long time, and I was sat in a dark empty car park, next to a closed pub for an hour and a half waiting for the tow truck, and it was a bit scary waiting on my own, and maybe if you had one more tow truck working in the area, then it might have avoided me feeling quite vulnerable.

Just saying. I mean, you're great, but maybe just maybe you could have been a but more timely with your greatness

AC

#43 Dear Yeuchy Day

2010-06-29T19:21:00.002+01:00

Dear Yeuchy Day

I screw up my nose and stick out my tongue to you. Yeuch yeuch yeuch. Gr. Ugh. I'm not sure exactly why you've been so unnecessarily difficult. Coud be this warm sticky weather, or my hormones, or that I planned too many things for too short a time, or maybe I just need a good night's sleep. But anyway, you won't beat me, yeuchy horrible day, ha!

Annie

#42 Dear Little Harvest...

2010-06-27T17:27:00.006+01:00

Dear Little Harvest,

It really was lovely picking, cutting and digging you up at the allotment today, while other people were watching a dismal game of football. It was so lovely to bring you home, and then chop you up and make you into this scrumptious lunch.

You were rainbow chard, spinach, onion, radish, little gem, mizuna and rocket. Now you are homemade rainbow pie and salad. Yum.

Thanks, you made my day perfect

A x