Where have I gone?

You may have noticed my absence, where have I been since October?

Croatia, Montenegro, Italy, and Slovenia for a start on a lovely cruise...

Then Hawarden in North Wales for a writing retreat in Gladstone's Library.

You see I have been writing and I have kept up a blog, but I've moved.

Sorry I really meant to give you my forwarding address sooner but I've got my own website now. And although I'm still fond of my old blogs and will be back to visit and mine them for treasure, you can now find me at 

https://www.sarahnicholsonwrites.com/ 

stick the word blog on the end and you will still have access to my weird, wild, wacky and sometimes wise words.

In some ways blogs have fallen out of favour and maybe one day I'll progress to newsletters, substack, or whatever the latest fashion maybe.

Whatever happens you are still welcome to follow and hopefully sometime in 2025 I will publish book 2. 

It's bubbling away nicely, I'm off to stir in a few more words... hopefully see you soon in the new place.

The trials of online shopping

 I wrote a story for Paragraph Planet yesterday but I don’t think they will publish these 75 words. Actually, on reflection I don’t think they should.

It’s about the “ridiculous” laws around buying a knife.

It’s not about buying a machete.

Its about buying a cheese knife for attacking a chunk of cheddar.

Although I suppose you could cause much harm with a cheese knife if you had the mind to.

The other thing you should know about the story is that it comes from a true story. My friend is of a certain age and the way she related her tale had us all giggling.

She was buying the knife on line and somehow had to prove she was over 18 to the robot at the other end.

Being quick witted she typed in her credit card details, reasoning you can’t have a credit card under the age of 18. Incontrovertible proof!

“You have given me rather a lot of personal information.” Was the robots reply.

“Can you delete it please.”

Hopefully it complied but it still didn’t address the issue of proving her age.

 

I realise knife crime is a serious issue. I’d love to visit the knife angel sculpture if I ever get a chance. It looks both magnificent and poignant.

Of course we should have laws for buying knives, scissors, matches, guns, and anything that can cause deliberate harm.

I wish there were more laws against selling weapons and arms to powerful people who use them to destroy and maim and subjugate.

 

I don’t expect to hear back from Paragraph Planet on this occasion. You can’t always explain the context in just 75 words. But hopefully in just under 400 words you will understand this has much more to do with how some people struggle with online shopping. What was once a simple task has now tied us up in knots.

 

This was the day she realised the world had gone totally mad, not only did she have to prove she was not a robot but now the robot at the other end of the algorithm wanted her to prove her age. She remembered rationing after the war and her phone number from 1972. She remembered the days you could but an axe at the hardware store but today she can’t buy a cheese knife online.

Secret Note Night and the Northern Lights

I’ve not written anything about my love life recently, and when I say love life, I mean the intermittent saga of being widowed and single in your middle years and wondering if I will ever have someone special to share them with.

Granite Man was so long ago – sigh! ...because everybody needs a hero...

On-line dating seems like a non-starter. Scarily Honest or Honestly Scary

And yet I found some very depressing stats the other day that 60% of couples meet on-line these days.

Screenshots taken from a video on Instagram - so very random dates
My parents met in the late 60 - through family connections
Andrew and I met in the early 90s through church

I still think we should start a trend of meeting people in bookshops with the opening chat-up line being - “Have you read this book?”

Until that day a local bar, (well local enough to me but far enough away so I don’t run into people I already know or went to school with – that’s what school reunions are made for) holds Secret Note Nights for singles to meet up the “old fashioned” way, in person.

Originally this started as Single Social and I’ve written about that before… a message to the two men at the bar

There wasn’t a great deal of mixing at Single Socials but this new idea has injected an element of fun and causes much hilarity.

On each table is a small note book and pen, the idea being if someone catches your eye you can send them a secret note, delivered by the hostess for the evening – I shall call her Emma. 

With a glint in her eye and a way of getting information out of people, she can recite who is sitting where, what they do and where they live. She also mixes a mean cocktail – this woman has skills MI5 would kill for!

On Thursday I went with a school friend – we have known each other since we were 5 and have both been on our own for several years. We are not desperate for love but some kind of companionship would be welcome.

We chatted with a gentleman in our age bracket, invited him to join our long table but he obviously wasn’t interested in either of us, saying he preferred to loiter by the bar and keep his options open. Fair enough, it was a polite refusal – we ordered food and carried on our own conversation.

Until 2 young men asked to sit at our table. They were both good looking and utterly charming but alas of a similar age to our children.

However, the one beside me slid a note along the table with a cheeky grin.

PLEASE HELP I’VE BEEN KIDNPPED!

I thought for a moment and looked at the remnants of my cheese platter.

I can pay the ransom in half tomatoes and a piece of cheese.

He was very quick witted; I really admired his style.

            Throw in a parsnip, and you have a deal!

Then I wrote the line that perhaps betrayed my age.

            Is your name Baldrick?

We laughed and they did know who Baldrick was… maybe.

But I need someone who understands jokes about counting beans, Mrs Miggins Pie shop and why Bob and Bernard are such great names Darling. I want someone who will pander to my every whim as If I were Queenie.

We left and on our drive home, the moon looked incredible, a perfect arc criss-crossed with wispy clouds. I would have loved to stop and take a photo, but photos of the moon never look as magical as the real thing. Just a smudge in the sky.

And yet I came home to all these photos on Facebook of a magnificent Northern Lights display.

I went out into the garden and starred up at the sky. There was a slight pinky glow but I couldn’t be sure if my eyes were playing tricks on me. I remembered hearing you usually see the colours clearer through a phone lens, so I took a photo. It was RUBBISH! A totally black screen.

Feeling cold I gave up and went indoors but still couldn’t resist another peek, hanging out of my bedroom window looking northwards – I had to check that on Google maps first, my windows don’t face in the right direction, except a bathroom one with frosted glass that opens out to see next door and not an inch of sky in sight.

Defeated I decided to go to bed with a good book, but life would be so much different if I had someone else here. Someone who would encourage me to go out on a midnight walk around town together, even venture further into the countryside, holding hands, marvelling at God’s creation.

But I just have to face facts – some of us don’t get to see the Northern Lights, however much we pursue them. Maybe we are not patient enough, or circumstances conspire against us, we are just never in the right place at the right time.

You can live a perfectly fulfilled life without – even marvelling at the photos on social media. You can be happy for everyone else and their sightings.

At the end of the day, I am content that once I did see them.

We took a family day trip to Lapland at see Father Christmas when the boys were small. Andrew was working away that Christmas so this was a special treat. We never took photos but I do remember the colours dancing, the magic covering our family of four.

Maybe one day I will see them again but until then…

stolen from a friend on Facebook 

Content warning: contains S**t

This is a blog post I never thought I’d write and if you are squeamish or don’t like conversations about bodily fluids then look away now.

I feel compelled to write because this weekend it is Stoma Aware Day or World Ostomy Day if you want to go global.

So, let’s start from the beginning with the obvious question, what exactly is a stoma?

A stoma is an opening on the surface of the abdomen which has been surgically created to divert the flow of faeces or urine. And it is estimated that one in 335 people in the UK are currently living with a stoma. Taken from the Colostomy UK website.

Chances are if you know over 300 people one of them might have a stoma and you might not even know because it can be a very private thing that they don’t want to discuss. How many of us like to talk about our toilet habits if we poo normally, the idea of pooing into a bag stuck to your tummy due to rearranged internal plumbing is quite a lot to get your head round.

I have written about having a stoma, I’ve never been secretive about it. Mine was created during surgery for bowel cancer. It ended up being an emergency procedure, but I knew before I went under the anaesthetic it was a possibility, although I had no idea what it would actually entail – it was a steep learning curve waking up in critical care – but that another long story.

Cancer is only one reason people have stomas. Others have them because of bowel and digestive complaints such as Crohn’s and colitis. Often their quality of life is greatly improved as their symptoms are alleviated and they don’t need to access the toilet so frequently therefore enjoying a more “normal” life.

However I found a new statistic recently…

Over fifty percent of people living with stomas suffer from leakage which means access to public toilets is vital to enable them to live fulfilling lives and ensure they do not face social exclusion and isolation. https://www.colostomyuk.org/campaigns/stoma-aware-day-2024-do-you-see-me/ 

I am fairly lucky, leaks when I am out and about are few and far between. I usually get to a toilet in time for a quick bag change and no one is any the wiser, even if I spend longer in the cubicle than most. I carry a small pouch of supplies with me, but to be honest it only happens about three or four times a year.

The worst one was about a year ago when I went to visit a friend for a few days. I was driving up the A1 and suddenly became aware of a sensation akin to having a balloon fill up with water in inside your clothes.

I slipped my right hand just inside my seatbelt on my tummy and yes I was leaking!

Fortunately, I found a service station with a disabled toilet not too far away. I grabbed my stoma supplies from under the passenger car seat, where I keep them for emergencies. As I was visiting friends, I had an overnight bag in the boot with everything else I needed. I emerged a new woman.

As I said this happened a year ago and I’ve had nothing as dramatic happen to me since. At night I tend to wake up before a serious catastrophe occurs. Although I have been known to have a 3 a.m. shower and have to change the bed. Living alone, sometimes has its advantages.

However yesterday, after reading the statistics about leakage I had another major incident – very similar to my A1 experience. Only this time I was much closer to home. A good thing right?

Hmmmm, well I knew where I was going and I knew there was a petrol station up ahead, but sitting in a car breaking for the roundabout, then accelerating means you are almost pumping the bag to squeeze a little bit more of the offending fluid out.

I’m sorry if this is all gross, I did give you a warning but this is reality, not just for me but for many others. Often people are denied access to a toilet in an emergency, or get disgusted looks when exiting a disabled toilet but looking perfectly able – not all disabilities are visible!

I reached the services, grabbed what I needed and was thankfully unchallenged when I slipped into the toilet at the back of the shop. It was spacious with a sink that was most welcome. The floor was wet with an A frame cleaning sign in the middle. It didn’t look like it had recently been cleaned but it certainly wasn’t the worst I’ve seen.

I then proceeded to strip off and clean myself up. 

"Sorry it's engaged!" I called out a couple of times when someone tried the door

Now I’d only been out for lunch and I don’t regularly carry a full spare set of clothes with me.

However, the chance of a mooch round the charity shops after lunch was too good to miss and I’d bought myself a new dress, well I say dress, one of those shorter ones I prefer to wear with leggings but I emerged bare legged with my boots and socks on carrying my rolled up stained clothes.

Cath Kidston dress - a lifesaver!

No body saw me – phew!

Only I had to stop for printer paper on the way home so I pulled my coat over the short dress, it didn’t cover me any more than the dress did. Then I dashed into Currys, trying to act all nonchalant and not spend all the time pulling the hem of my skirt down to cover my legs – never my best feature – just keep smiling.

At least I didn’t bump into anyone know…

“Sarah!” Oh no too late.

I apologised for the way I was dressed.

“Your boots match your dress, you look lovely.”

Ah a true friend, someone who overlooks my eccentricities and quirky dress sense, and sees the real me.

I could have lots of labels if I want them, a writer, a mother, a widow and an ostomate but none of them define all of me.

Please be kind if someone takes longer in the loo before you. Don’t tut if someone walks out the of disabled loo but looks perfectly able, because I have a radar key for legitimate reasons and I am not afraid to use it! 

And I am NOT alone!

a radar key used to access disabled toilets and a stoma bag

Truth is stranger than Fiction!

 At half past 7 last night I was in the toilets of a London hotel trying to stop a nose bleed – how surreal is that? I’ve not had such a gushing flow for a long time and I wondered if it would stop before I headed across town to catch my train home. Would I have to sit all bloody on the tube with a wodge of tissue stuffed up my nose?

(I had visions of the beginning of If I Can’t Have You by Charlotte Levin – if you’ve never read it I urge you to look it up.)

Fortunately, I stemmed the tide, left the loos, exited the hotel, crossed the road to Marks and Spencer’s, and bought myself a coronation chicken sandwich and some sparkling water. It’s the little details that make all the difference.

I guess you want to know why I was even there, some shady assignation perhaps? Oh, believe me the truth seems even more unbelievable than what I’ve just written, although every word happened.

You see I won an award last night – does that sound like the work of fiction? Actually, most of my writing thus far has been recounting real life so I won a prize for best non-fiction book.

The Ink Book Prize has been set up to reward those of us who have self-published.

(Although I am published by Resolute Books, we are a collective of independent authors each with our own responsibilities for self-publishing, the Resolute logo is a badge of honour – each book goes through a strict review process to earn it.)

This was the inaugural award with prizes for fiction, non-fiction and children’s fiction, alongside an award for best debut. Established by award-winning author Abiola Bello and award-winning publicist Helen Lewis.

I was up for debut as well but put on my gracious loser face when it was awarded to Claire Linney for children’s book Time Tub Travellersand the Silk Thief.

She spoke incredibly well and her book sounds amazing. It is about children who travel back in time and discover black characters in British history – something so many of us do not realise. I can’t wait to read it.

My friend Claire from Resolute was up for the fiction prize for her historical novel Wheel of Fortune. She also didn’t win, but didn’t have to practice her gracious loser face as unfortunately she was unable to attend.

The fiction prize was awarded to Eva Asprakis for Thirty-eight Days of Rain. A young writer with obvious talent and so much better at public speaking than she believes!

Then they read out the blurb for the non-fiction and it was so obviously my words.

winning books

You dream of getting an award and composing yourself to deliver your thank you speech, but I can’t say I prepared anything, I stood there, waved my arms about and told the potted history – came home, Andrew collapsed, word turned upside down and started blogging – I think telling the story is now like muscle memory, I've repeated it so often.

winning authors

Did I ever believe when I started this almost 14 years ago that I would end up here – well honestly I hoped I would, I want my story out there if I’m brutally honest. Mostly for altruistic reasons, I want to dispel the taboo of bereavement and grief, I want to get people talking about these things so they become just a little easier to deal with. I want to give people permission to speak about their loved ones, I long to hear their stories too.

Real life is sometimes so much weirder than what we can make up.

“I can’t believe all this happened to you.” Said Abiola “You made me cry.”

Yes, I do have that effect on people but this is my reward, more icing and cherries on the cake – maybe this is sprinkles. Whatever it is I’m loving it.

And the nosebleed – maybe that was down to pure excitement – but it happened – honestly everything I write is true 😉

Forty Years of Friendship

 There are some key moments in your life that make you feel your age.

Discovering your first grey hair.

When your oldest child heads off to university.

When your youngest child graduates from university.

When you meet up with friends you have known for 40 years, and that’s not the friends you first met age 5 when you started school but the friends you made at sixth form, when you were 16. (I’ll let you do the maths with that one and work out our age now)

This weekend I was privileged to host such a social gathering.

Between the six of us that met, two of us have experienced cancer, two have been divorced and remarried, one of us – OK me – has suffered the loss of a spouse, only one still has both parents around - sadly not me. Between us we have 13 children and all of them are older than we were when we first met!

That’s quite mind-blowing. I suppose in many ways it’s amazing we are still all here and that we are still friends.

We don’t all get to meet up very often, one friend joined us remotely from Exeter later in the evening. Although most us live in the area we grew up in, four of us moved away but two of us came back.

floating head in the top righthand corner for our live link to Exeter

I realise there are a lot of numbers in this – 4 of us started A level maths together, 2 dropped out, one failed and one passed – but it’s only a grade D. (again this is me! 😊)

But of course, we are much more than incredible numbers. The lives we’ve lived and how they have intertwined over the years would make a cracking novel – I’d change the names. I don’t think any of us have had any major fallings out in that time either, maybe for a better read I’d have to add some tension!

Although honestly, I don’t need to write it down, we did all that back in the day. When we finished sixth form, we each had an exercise book to stick photos in and share our memories.

Looking back at these books evoked such crazy memories. The clothes we wore were hilarious, although many of the photos were of parties where we had dressed up. We wrote silly stories with song titles, memories from the geography field trip and English lessons. We wrote in code and used “in jokes” that make little sense to anyone but us.

The afternoon ran into the evening and we never ran out of things to say. Seemingly no topic was off limit, but let’s just say it was the “boys” who started the HRT/menopause conversation, talking about their wives. How refreshing to have such a bond.

When will we meet up again – we always say we need to do it more, realistically I suppose a couple of years may go by before we get our act together, although I hope it’s sooner than that.

 

And the crazy conversation carries on…

 

Coffee with milk, tea with milk, tea with just a splash

I make a list to get it right, I’m a hostess with panache

 

And in my notebook also goes, the silly things we say

Phrases to create a poem, I take the words and play

 

They just need sufficient stirring, perhaps I’ll make a roux

Blending with precision seems the proper thing to do

 

We discuss the years when we were born, for most that’s ‘68

Other notable births of that time; Kylie and Catherine Tate

 

“I could have had Kylie’s body, if I hadn’t given birth”

Instead, a fine pair of knees show tremendous worth

 

“I have a sexy elbow! It’s written in the book”

I roll up my sleeve seductively, so everyone can look.

 

Body parts and HRT, is any topic taboo?

Reaching that age when we have to know, "where’s the nearest loo?"

 

We discuss emergency sponge fingers, tiramisu, random Italians

While wondering if Charlotte “would like to sell my stallion?”

 

So now I’ve lifted-up the curtain, exposing our chaotic rambling

Have we matured over the years? I doubt it, but we’re still standing!

Telling my story out loud!

I can’t believe it was over a week ago that I travelled to Monkeynut recording studio in Hampshire to record my first audio book.

It is not the first time I have been in a studio. My Library Studies degree included a media option where we received hands-on experience with all manner of recording and editing. I would often opt to be in front of the camera and I’m perfectly happy with a microphone listening to the sound of my own voice.

Maybe you need some narcissistic tendencies to do this, or just a belief that what you have to say will be interesting and helpful.

In the back of my mind, I was thinking of an older friend who posted on Facebook she finds it difficult to read much these days and would my book be recorded as she would like to listen to my story. This also helped me remember an old piece of advice when presenting on radio – imagine you are just speaking to one person. So, Margaret, this was very much recorded with you in mind.

I’m not sure I ever believed this would happen, but when the chance presented itself, I knew it was something I wanted to invest in, it’s not cheap, but I’m not an author for the money. I want my words out there in whatever form possible, hopefully helping others who have had similar experiences.

Elliott Frisby, owner of Monkeynut, and my producer for the day, came out with an interesting comment when we stopped for lunch, soup, fresh bread and Lurpak butter (other brands are available).

“I always think Lurpak is something you have at Christmas because it’s special. A bit like recording an audiobook.”

found on Facebook - in Otter News

It’s certainly not something you do every day, unless you work in the industry doing voiceover work. If publishing your words is the icing on the cake, then recording them is the cherry on the top.

The process is simply reading, with expression.

You read from an iPad and just scroll at your own speed. The beauty of my book is that most of the time one of my short stories fitted completely on the screen. I knew when I could take a larger pause, then I'd scroll to the next one and compose myself again. 

Elliott told me to put myself back in time to remember how I was feeling at each stage so I wasn’t just reading but taking the listener on an emotional journey.

For me this was a really interesting part of the process. Each story stirred up so much and I tried to relive as much as I could. The breathlessness of “Sleepless” – the first night without Andrew. The joy of having our first son just before Christmas and the twinkling tree lights making everything magical. The horror of youngest son when I took a pair of scissors to his dad’s sweatshirt which I was recycling  into a bag.

I could see every scene playing out in my mind, taste each mouthful of food I mentioned, touch the coldness of Andrew’s dead body, hear the laughter as we watched the fireworks with friends and smell the soup in our mugs. Maybe I’m just blessed with a vivid imagination, but I really hope I have managed to convey all these senses in the recording.

“How many mistakes did you make?” some friends have asked, as if a mistake is a huge tragedy.

It really isn’t. Elliott would just interrupt the proceedings, “can we go back to…”

I would just repeat that one sentence, without fuss or any fear I’d jeopardised the whole project.

Often, I knew the issue - a rumbly tummy, a slight hesitation or mispronunciation. These things are easy to edit out – going back to my student days we used reel to reel tape which we cut with razor blades and spliced with tape, a time-consuming process. Digital recording is much simpler, or at least I assume it is, I’m leaving all of that in the hands of the professionals.

So now it’s a waiting game as the production work is done behind the scenes.

Now the day is a memory to write about, something to cherish, an opportunity too good to miss.

I guess now I have to write another book, because I really do want to do this again. But nothing will beat this FIRST time, because my story is so personal.

Thanks to Elliott at Monkeynut for making the whole day so much fun too. And when I recorded the freestyle bit and you called my “one take wonder!” that really made my day as my confidence soared.

 

As an aside, once I’d finished recording there was time to visit Romsey Abbey. Inside is the Florence Nightingale window, which depicts her being called by God.

Telling my story is what I believe God has called me to do and I felt a sense that this beautiful piece of artwork confirmed that.

Then I walked outside into the drizzle to marvel at the wild flowers. From the rainbow I saw a few days before Andrew died until now, God is always reminding me of his goodness, adding a sprinkling of glitter. I felt blessed and I pray this new telling of my story blesses others in ways I cannot even begin to imagine.