Aga Memories

 

I gravitate towards the Aga

stretch out my arms

giving it a warm embrace

greeting it like a faithful old friend

 

The feelings come back,

a flood of nostalgia

for the home we once lived in

the clanging of the doors

the banging of the lids

brutal hits of metal on metal

solid

dependable

heavy duty

the heart of our - not quite forever - family home

glowing bright red

 

But this one is green,

our encounter is only for the shortest season

its verdant colour symbolises new life

starting afresh

reawakened happy memories

form a diving board

to spring from

The Aga in the kitchen of a house in Criccieth where I went on a retreat

Remember remember - how can I forget?

The tree is left scarred

By the spinning Catherine wheel

That never sparkled

Loose matches rattle

In the pocket of your coat

Worn that November

We had a good time

Created bright memories

Just for a moment

Under the Lamppost

I don't "do" Halloween, I don't like to revel in darkness and the macabre but I made an exception on Saturday afternoon to attend an event organised by my friend Virginia Betts featuring the Dead Poets Theatre Company.

Virginia and her gang of spookily dressed live poets performed some of her poems and stories from her two books "Tourist to the Sun" (poems) and "The Camera Obscure" (short stories). 

Here's a link to her website to find out more virginiabetts.com

Virginia told us about her own writing journey, it's fascinating to hear how other people have been published - it always involves hard work and tenacity! 

She also mentioned how her dreams have inspired her writing and I think that got me thinking when there was a chance to get involved and write our own spooky tale using a couple of picture prompts.

This wasn't the actual picture but one I found on Google that works with my edited version. And I do recall having a similar dream a long long time ago...

picture credit: Daniel Petreikis - found on unsplash.com

Under the Lamppost

Lamplights dazzle brightly, full of hope, setting before me a path to guide my future. Staring hypnotically at them brings spots to my eyes so I blink and squeeze my lids tight to clear my vision. Once fully open I see you there, through the ether, under the lamppost, loitering.

I shiver, sensing you watching me.

You are the mysterious figure from my nightmare years ago.

Now I am older, more self-assured, I feel I should investigate, confront my demons.

But now I am older I am more cautious, aware of dangers that lurk in shadows.

Both of us stand, frozen, watching.

Until one by one the lights go out!

I dream...

They say your dreams are your subconscious resolving conflicts and putting the world to rights while you sleep. My night time dreams are usually just weird, colourful and complex, leaping about in time and space.

Love Heart
found at the Christian Writers Conference 

Writing can be a bit like dreaming, in that your words can be influenced by what is going on in life.

Last Wednesday evening at the monthly zoom meeting of the the Saltburn Writers Group. We started with a free write using the words “I dream…” as a prompt.

A free write is a great way to dump ideas on the page and clear your thoughts. Sometimes you can find the gem of a hidden sentence or idea in the middle which can be developed later.

I scratched my pen on the page, a little dismayed the ink didn’t flow – would I waste the whole minute finding a pen that worked?

When after some harsh scribbling it woke from its dreamy slumber, I wrote the start of the poem below.

I’ve dreamt of writing a book for a long time and although there is still much hard work ahead it actually seems possible. As I share in the writing success of other friends I’m beginning to believe. If they can do it so can I.

I hope you like my little poem and you never know if you do enjoy my words maybe one day in the not-so-distant future you will be able to hold them in a book!

 

 

A sign from the Primadonna Festival

I dream of a pen that writes smoothly

gliding across paper

spilling ideas with the ink-flow

never-ending narrative

a story to be told

 

I dream of crisp white parchment

being magically covered in words

long words,

short words

intelligent and coherent

 

I dream of everything

coming together

words and ideas

forming books

bound printed words

collected in one place

with a shiny cover

 

I dream of seeing my name

not in lights

but boldly printed

with a compelling title

attracting you

to reach out

 

Found on Facebook

            I dream of a book

that dances off the shelf

landing into your hand

caressed with longing

and intrigue

as you unfurl its pages

 

I dream of my words

reaching your heart

making a lasting impression

indelible

connecting

perhaps

inspiring your own dreams

Three Cheers for Middle-Aged Women!

 In the past week I have seen two new movies with the main characters played by middle-aged women – I am in shock, well Halloween is on the horizon I suppose.

Joking aside, how refreshing to see first Lesley Manville in Mrs Harris Goes to Paris and then Sally Hawkins in The Lost King.

Mrs Harris is incredibly put upon by her numerous employers. To them she is merely a cleaner, but they trust her with keys to their houses and all manner of secrets besides. She goes about her duties with a smile, always thinking of others. Until one day, with a bit of financial good fortune she decides to fly to Paris and buy a Dior dress. Not quite as simple as she suspects, lugging an empty suitcase with her and expecting to complete her purchase in time for her flight home.

The story started as a novel by Paul Gallico, who co-incidentally wrote the novel of the Poseidon Adventure, useless fact I know, but I found it intriguing.

There wasn’t a REAL Mrs Harris, although many of the characters working at Dior are based on real people of the time.

Anthony Fabian the director of the latest film adaptation says in Town and Country magazine “The key to this story is that it is magic realism, so it has to have an equal dose of magic and reality. If you go too far into magic, you won’t believe it; if you go too far into the realism, it wouldn’t have that uplifting fairy tale quality.”

The Lost King is a true story about Philippa Langley’s determination in searching for and eventually finding the body of King Richard III in a Leicester City car park. The film is also told with much magical realism as Langley interacts with the deceased monarch who sits on the bench outside her bedroom window. He only speaks to her once she has asked him a pertinent question.

Just like Ada Harris, Philippa comes up against great hurdles in her quest. She is not an esteemed academic and she dares to question authority, believing Shakespeare’s account of the king is grossly unfair Tudor propaganda. The Richard III Society are seen as a bit of a crackpot bunch but it is their crowdfunding that really gets the project underway. Only once the excavation is successful do the University get fully on board.

With a bit of Googling I have just found in the Telegraph that one of the academics is vowing to sue the Hollywood producer for their reckless portrayal of him. Boo hoo!

I am not interested in what’s totally true or not, the important thing to me is that both films are great stories of tenacity with inspiring female leads of an age that is usually unrepresented. Here are two “invisible” women who have the audacity stand their ground – horray!

Mrs Harris has a more sugary ending, I came out of the cinema euphorically happy, just as you should at the end of a fairy tale. With The Lost King I admit I shed a tear as Philippa continued until the bitter end to battle academia and the bigwigs with money who only wanted the prestige. She wanted to find her King and put the record straight.

Mission accomplished ladies – now three cheers for us middle-aged women everywhere!

And while the world is listening, let’s tell our own stories.

Being Thankful

Yesterday we had our harvest festival at church and a sermon filled with all the little things we should be thankful for, like blueberries in porridge. Now personally I wouldn’t thank you for that – I love blueberries but the thought of soggy oats in warm milk poured over them turns my stomach – bleugh!

I’m fortunate I can have my breakfast of choice, most days that’s crunchy nut cornflakes without milk to turn the crunch to mush – I think I was put off milk at primary school, those little bottles with pink straws that sat in the warm classrooms waiting for breaktime still give me nightmares. #firstworldproblems

Scrolling through Twitter this morning I came across a tweet about more bombs dropping in Kyiv. pausing for a second in comfort and silence I glanced up at a patch of blue sky out of my rain spattered window and let my thoughts meander.

The grass has only just recovered from the parched summer, the rain drops are most welcome. Sadly, there are places in the world where rains never fall and places that get far too much more than they need.

The world is an unfair place and sometimes it sounds trite to say we SHOULD be thankful. Almost disingenuous to be thankful for NOT suffering like so many others, but then our thoughts turn to prayers to lift the less fortunate out of their suffering – Oh God when will the madness cease?

For what it’s worth I offer you these words of thanks I wrote this morning – a prayer, a poem? Not perfect, maybe not as eloquent as I’d like think they are. As we say in our Open The Book assemblies – if you want to make this prayer yours say Amen after me…

Thank you that I live

In a land of blue skies

And gentle rain

 

Thank you for the softest breeze

To tease my hair

 

Thank you that my life

Is not filled with greater cares

 

But I pray for those who live

Their lives on a precipice

With daily shocks of bombs

Stained with

Grey rubble and dirty red blood

 

I pray for those

In lands parched and dusty

Children with hungry bellies

Or in lands where

The water rises high

Sweeping life and livelihood aside

 

So many lives in turmoil

And I wonder why

 I got to be so fortunate

By just a quirk of birth

To live in a land of plenty

Although there are still great extremes

Troubles and tears

Many hidden in plain sight

 

But today, just for this moment 

 

I have so much to be thankful for

In this land of blue skies

And gentle rain.

Grief is expected – how you grieve is optional

The outpouring of grief since the Queen died has been phenomenal. Carpets of flowers, crowds of people and then there’s THE QUEUE, which can probably be seen from space!

I’ll confess I’m a bit ambivalent about all the fuss, I understand the need for a release of emotion but the flowers to me are a waste, and the pageantry and protocol seems over the top.

tributes for the Queen - image from Metro

My biggest concern is for the wellbeing of the immediate family and close friends, how abhorrent it must be to be filmed at every turn, practically every tear measured. When King Charles had a fit at the leaky pen my heart went out to him. For all his privilege and wealth this is intrusive. He is a seventy something year old man mourning the loss of his beloved mother, not that long after laying his father to rest.

This is the part he was always born to play but at such a time as this his emotions will be all over the place. And the same goes for the rest of the royals, from the oldest to youngest, those used to being in the public eye and those more used to being on the periphery, suddenly being scrutinised far more than usual.

The media can be a voracious beast devouring its prey and all too often those of us looking on lap it up.

If only there could be a halt on proceeding, a chance to just breathe, some space away from twenty-four-hour news.

I guess it won’t be long until this news cycle is over and most of the family can retreat and process their grief more privately, some member won’t get that luxury.

There is now some deliberation as to whether Prince George will make an appearance at his great granny’s funeral. That is a huge ask of a nine-year-old, only his parents can make that informed decision. There will be critics either way.

I was thirteen when my great nana died and hers was the first funeral I went to, co-incidentally she was 96, a good age, an expected funeral, the perfect introduction to the ritual.

The first funeral my youngest son went to was his dad’s – that’s a bit harsh when you are a month shy of being eleven. However, he was old enough to know what was happening and certainly old enough to know his own mind and how he wanted to honour his dad.

Andrew’s coffin was wheeled into the crematorium rather than carried, One of Andrew’s brothers wanted to be involved, the other vehemently refused, one nephew volunteered, one didn’t. Oldest son stepped forward and then youngest said with determination he wanted to help too. It was a proud moment watching them with tears in my eyes, but the scene was only witnessed by very close family. It wasn’t a public spectacle.

I do hope the young royals get some choice in how they wish to proceed. And I hope all of them get the private space to mourn in the ways that are best for them.

Grief is inevitable but how we grieve is both optional and never-ending.

I have been slightly surprised by how much of my own grief has resurfaced at this time, memories of losing grandparents, my dad and of course losing Andrew. The afternoon of the Queen’s death we were scattering ashes of my aunt and uncle, followed up with tea and cake. A family gathering that foreshadowed the royal announcement.

Death is all around us, very much a part of life and yet the subject is still very much taboo. When Andrew died it took me months to even understand what grieving was all about. I thought it was finite and never knew it came in many shades of grey and blue not one size fits all BLACK.

My best piece of advice to anyone grieving is do what you need to do to get through each day, whether you laugh, cry or scream, every emotion is valid.

Let’s hope the royals get the chance to grieve without worrying how the world sees them because they have lost a loved one who means more to them than she could even mean to us.

The Secret Code of Holding Hands

You said we would always hold hands, even when we were old and grey. I wonder if it was appropriate to hold hands through a church service? Hands clasped out of sight, hidden between dark wooden pews, that probably held many secrets. You took my hand in yours and traced the words “I love you” on my palm. I squeezed your hand tight in a warning catching the glint in your eye that threatened an eruption of laughter. We communicated simply, secretly, lovingly. Now I can only remember as I bring a hand to my face to trace a tear.

Without a Care

The girl woke up, the strange bed was soft and warm, she was comfortable enough to stay and had no reason to get up, no pressing duties to attend to, but the golden sunlight that fell across her from the open window was too inviting. With young limbs and a childlike grace, she leapt from the bed. She could hear birdsong and the bubbling sound of running water nearby. She gazed on the bright new dawn, not a cloud in the bluest of skies to spoil the view.

A boy burst in her room and she stared at his familiar face, there was the hint of memory or a dream she couldn’t pin down.

“Lilibet, you’re here!” his eyes sparkled with delight.

Without hesitation she took his offered hand, and when they touched she knew this was her forever home. 

He led her out to play in the King's garden, without a care.

Hello Again Lilibet by Murphys Sketches https://www.instagram.com/murphys_sketches/?hl=en 

The Inside Outside Poem

 Inside, two fat juicy apples in the fruit bowl

Outside, a dahlia, not yet fully open, sprinkled with raindrops

Inside, a diary for 2022, yellow, white and blue

Outside, an ominous storm cloud hovering over my washing

Inside, a ticking clock counts each second

Outside, dead strawberry plants need some attention

Inside, a crystal vase with dried honesty seed heads

Outside, a bird feeder swinging by an old shoe lace

Inside, I take the apple and crunch it.

Abi and Me

The dust jacket is matt pink, scruffy black letters, which appear to have been scrawled with a sooty finger, or stick of crumbly charcoal, announce “This is not a Pity Memoir”. When the outer cover slips the sugar pink clashes with glossy bold yellow like a Battenburg cake full of E numbers. The words hidden beneath - “It’s a love story.” 

My copy is signed in the same scribbly hand – “To Sarah, Happy reading, crying (?) Abi Morgan”

Since trying to fashion my own story into a memoir I’ve been reading more true stories, especially those written by writers.

Abi Morgan is a screen writer and I confess I knew little about her except she wrote “The Split” for the BBC and I am a huge fan. Listening to her at discuss her memoir at the Primadonna festival with Kit de Waal I realised just how many similarities there are between my story and Abi’s.

Both of us were born in 1968 – I add her to the list of “famous” people born that year, Kylie, Jason, Catherine Tate and of course Daniel Craig. I note Abi’s birthday is in September, I am still just a smidge older than all of them!

Both us find our husbands collapsed after severe headaches – only Abi’s husband isn’t really her husband, they never married and the outcomes are starkly different.

Subsequently in the wake of one family trauma we both develop cancer – her breast, me bowel.

Yes, many similarities but also our stories are poles apart. We are like spinning tops which clash and career off in opposite directions rather than balloons benignly nudging each other on the breeze.

Am I waxing lyrical, of course, my writing so often coloured by the style of narrative I am reading, Abi’s stream of consciousness somehow taking my own words along with hers.

I didn’t like her style at first, I’m not sure I will enjoy this, I thought, but then something clicked, her lists, her pop culture references and her brutal honesty started to resonate as I tuned into her wavelength.

Grabbing some post-it notes I began reading like a writer (thanks Kit de Waal for that advice) not only noting what I enjoyed but marking the pages where our stories converged.

We had both written to Jim’ll Fix It – neither of us had our letters answered. We both count our blessings for that – phew! What charmed lives we led.

Although Abi never travelled abroad until she was eighteen, she has made up for it since and recounts many skiing trips and foreign family holidays. She even manages to take her two teenage children, one boy, one girl, away to their holiday home in Italy when her beloved Jacob is in hospital. 

Our family could never manage holidays when Andrew was still alive, I remember only too well the stress at the airport flying to Paris, defusing and calming what could have been a major incident. I still find holidays hard to do.

Do I envy Abi’s “glamourous” lifestyle? Perhaps - not really - I wish the home screen on my computer was Andrew and I standing somewhere more exotic than on Redcar beach. But that is my life and my memories, we can’t make anymore together because Andrew died.

Meanwhile Jacob lived and Abi wonders what it would be like if he hadn’t. Would life be better or just different? She ponders a carefree life as a widow - sorry love that's not all its cracked up to be!

I certainly don’t envy her looking after a man who is her “husband” and yet isn’t – he doesn’t even recognise her – she is NOT the REAL Abi Morgan. A side affect of his debilitating neurological condition.

My heart breaks at the thought and I know full well that I would not have handled that situation as well. If Andrew lived and needed full time care it would have driven me mad, I couldn’t have done it. Only I am allowed to say it but, I do believe it was for the best Andrew’s heart attack was fatal.

Jacob suffers from MS and then develops Anti-NMDA receptor encephalitis – 80% of people have a good outcome with treatment, but his prognosis is not so great, they never get fully out of the woods.

I’m not sure what the percentage is of people having heart attacks fully recovering?  I daren’t look it up. It probably quite high and Andrew could have been perfectly fine but from family history I know that his dad was never the same after his first heart attack at the same age of 48. I know how stoic my mother-in-law was but how looking after her husband wore her down and how the ripples scarred the family.

Abi’s grief is so raw and visceral, you can still grieve if someone survives, you still mourn what was lost. 

Many of our challenges were different, I was spared financial worries, the mortgage paid off once I produced the death certificate – I burst into tears when the letter arrived.

Coming on top of all we both lost our cancer diagnoses seemed a cruel twist of fate, far too dramatic for even a weekly soap opera. 

We both think of our children and the unfairness of the situation, already being a family with “one man down”. 

Abi appears to have struggled more than me with the procedures of her own treatment, but she was also caring for Jacob, two hospital stories knotted together – how I admire her for that.

I had been a widow for eight years when I was diagnosed and I had my dad beside me during chemo, we sat side by side being drip fed our individual poisonous cocktails  – “family outings”, that my mum now admits she was weirdly jealous of.

It’s strange what you see in others, you wonder if you would cope differently. Be braver? Fall apart? Stay or leave?

Ultimately Abi’s story is not a pity memoir but a true love story, just as it says on the cover. You will never know how you might react until it happens to you and I pray it never does, at least not as dramatically. It makes a good story but up close and personal is almost too much to bear.

Abi Morgan you have my full admiration.

Everyone else – go read this wonderful, honest, life affirming book and hold you loved ones just that bit tighter in gratitude.

Down the Mouse Hole

Youngest son has just completed his master’s degree in computer science but he was stumped the other evening when his friends asked “what is the plural of mouse as in a computer mouse?”

It almost seems too obvious – surely it’s mice, but then again, it doesn’t sound exactly right.

image from the National Cyber Security Centre website

When would you ever need to use the word in the plural, you only have one attacked to your computer, if indeed you even bother these days with the scrolly bit built into a laptop?  (I confess I wondered the other day what happened to all the mouse-mats in the world???)

Neither of us could decide on an answer and so we were driven to the font of all knowledge – Google.

In computer terms, a mouse is a corded or wireless device that moves your computer's cursor while you move the mouse. In most cases, the plural of mouse is "mice," but more than one computer mouse can also be called "mouses."

A definitive answer? Well maybe or maybe not because as you scroll further.

MOUSE is an acronym, and is short for Manually-Operated User-Selection Equipment so technically MOUSE is already the plural 

However, the inventor of this essential piece of equipment disputes this.

When asked who named his most famous invention, Doug Engelbart recalled, “No one can remember. It just looked like a mouse with a tail, and we all called it that.” 

And this is where an inevitable rabbit (or should I say mouse hole) opened up as I took my searching away from the computer jargon to being word nerdy.

If it was called a mouse because of its shape, the acronym M.O.U.S.E. was in fact a BACKRONYM.

An acronym deliberately formed from a phrase whose initial letters spell out a particular word or words, either to create a memorable name or as a fanciful explanation of a word's origin.

Backronym was definitely a new word to me and I delighted in this new bit of not quite useless information to drop into any conversation. Especially when on further reading I discovered another new word INITIALISM

An abbreviation consisting of initial letters pronounced separately (e.g. BBC )

Youngest son was perhaps more perplexed than ever, but I’d lost him somewhere along the way in the tunnels of the ever-expanding mouse hole. 

Meanwhile I was suddenly content with my new found knowledge and repeated the words, acronym, backronym and initialism as I drifted off in peaceful slumber.

 ooooooo

If you enjoy finding our about new words and their meanings here's a word related book recommendation: The Dictionary of Lost Words by Pip Williams.

I recently listened to this as an audio book and it is a superb novel set at the turn of the twentieth century with the backdrop of the suffragette movement leading up to the first world war.

It is the story of Esme who grows up sitting beneath the table of the scriptorium in Oxford where her father works as part of the team compiling a definitive dictionary. Esme collects scraps of discarded words, saving them so they are not forgotten; women’s words and common words that don’t have the academic gravitas to fit into a scholarly dictionary.

It's well worth a read or a listen!

 

Followed by Widows

 

The title of this could be the start of a creepy gothic adventure, I’m imagining being pursued by wraith like creatures in black veils who float along dark and misty alleyways.

Actually, that might be more interesting to both write and read, maybe I need a new heading?

Perhaps the name of this post isn’t totally accurate either. I want to write about how many widows follow me on Twitter but when I fact checked the number it is actually very small. However, the Twitter algorithms do put lots of tweets on my timeline written by widows and those recently bereaved.

Sometimes I add my own comment, after all I’ve been playing this game for almost twelve years so perhaps, I should consider myself an expert at dispensing wisdom on the subject.

“Be kind to yourself” being the best I have to offer.

In real life I also seem to be followed by widows, maybe I’m not a good friend to have, since I lost Andrew, others in my wider social circle have been widowed and some of those before their mid-fifties. I wonder if God uses algorithms to put like-minded people in your path to offer support when it is most needed?

Early on in my journey I wrote a blog post called Following Foglights and another about being a pioneer. It’s almost laughable that even back then I considered myself a trailblazer. Foreshadowing at its finest maybe, although at 42, I knew others would follow, eventually.

I still hold onto my dreams of writing a book about my experiences and even if my latest plan is to write my story as fiction, a hint of truth, greatly embellished, I hope it expresses some of the challenges and emotions that accompany the grieving process.

Everyone’s journey is different but there are always similarities and common ground. Just knowing you are not alone is comforting.

To that end I really must write the book instead of writing about it. I know I was procrastinating earlier in the month when I wrote about creating a spreadsheet to help with the plot - I've done very little if any actual writing since. 

Please hold me to account and nag me to keep going because there maybe someone following in my wake who needs to read it.

Pondering, Plotting, Planning, Procrastinating

 I sent a message to youngest son

“Today I created my very first excel spreadsheet.”

This was his reply.

Which did make me laugh because, as a computer geek, he is a lover of spreadsheets, so much so I even bought him this mug for Christmas one year.

My spreadsheet wasn’t filled with numbers and complex mathematical equations but with a plot outline for my novel.

A few months back I decided writing my story as a memoir was a bit like piloting a minisub through rice pudding (one of Andrew’s favourite sayings) and as I have never liked rice pudding, I decided I needed a dramatic re-think to move things forward if I ever wanted to complete the project and get a book written, let alone published.

After much pondering I have chosen to write the tale of a young widow in her first year of grief as a novel, rather than writing a true story. My protagonist goes through some of the same things I did and I will still draw on my emotions and experiences which I wrote about at the time in my blog. The rawness of my writing from then will be invaluable source material.

However, the story is NOT about me, I have left some bits out, changed real people for made up characters and embellished much of it. I’ve already written 16,000 words – which sounds impressive, but I'm at the stage where the doubts creep in. I find myself floundering as I realise there are things I want to change at the start and I’m reticent to continue, it feels as if I’ve wandered a bit too far from the original path and lost my bearings.

What’s required is a map, something tangible to direct me, a proper structure to build on. I need to work on the plot, it’s all too fluid, bouncing around in my head, it requires taming and I have never really mastered this bit of the process before.

I reached the same point with The Girl in the Yellow Dress and The Book of Esther and admit I gave up. Hopefully one day I will go back to them because I know they are both too good to completely throw away. I believe they are worth finishing. As is this latest novel idea. 

This is when I usually start pondering... 

Is plotting just another way to procrastinate? 

Will planning take me away from the all important business of actually writing?

The writing had already stalled so I reasoned I'd got nothing to lose and with renewed confidence and purpose, I sat in the garden the other week, enjoying the sunshine and creating some character mind maps. I’ve already ditched some characters in the process, which feels right even though it means I will need to delete a few thousand words before I start writing again. I always think I know my characters well but then discover if I push too hard, they fall apart like a wobbly tower of Jenga blocks. They don’t have solid foundations or backstories.

Today I’ve produced my spreadsheet of the main plot details in some semblance of order, when different characters appear and how that moves the narrative on. The structure, while not set in stone, will give me a bit more of a framework to hang the finer details of the story onto. I have found my way forward, at least for now until I come up against another hurdle, which I invariably will.

But for now I’m quite excited, I feel as if I really have excelled myself today – or maybe it’s just procrastination as a way of avoiding the housework? But that, as they say, is another story entirely…

Home Truths with Lady Grey – a character interview with Mona

And now for something completely different - as part of the blog tour for Katherine Blessan's new book Home Truths with Lady Grey I decided to interview one of the book's main characters and I created my own cafe which serves Lady Grey tea for us to meet in!

I choose a table in the café in the corner and sit so I can see the door. I’m a little early.

                Mona is easy to spot when she arrives, with the olive complexion from her Iranian heritage and long dark hair. A toddler walks besides her with the kind of confidence that only a three-year-old can possess. I smile both to make her feel welcome and because I have the feeling, she is the sort of person I could so easily be friends with.

                After all her daughter almost shares my name, although she goes by the name Za Za which seems to suit her bubbly personality.

                Mona and I both order Lady Grey tea, another good sign in my book.

                She settles herself down, the drinks are placed in front of us and she removes the paper from Za Za’s fairy cake. Sprinkles fall on the plate like fairy dust and the child is captivated.

                “So, Mona, tell me a little about your family?”

                “My parents are Farah and Iskander Shirazi. They were born in Iran and moved here from Iran in the mid ‘80s. My sister, Pari, is a couple of years older than me. She is married with two kids and is very career minded. I’m married to James and we have bonkers little Za Za, as you can see here.”

                “What was it like growing up as an Iranian girl in Sheffield?”

                “In many ways I had a normal childhood, and because it was normal for me, I can’t really compare it to growing up non-Iranian. But Sheffield was less multicultural than it is now, and there were a few times when I was so embarrassed by my Maman’s dress or by my parents’ faith traditions that I just wanted to do my own thing and be like everyone else. I think that was mainly fear of other children’s reactions though, rather than anything about being Iranian in itself.”

                “You have a faith, different to mine. You are a Muslim and I am a Christian, but I feel we have much in common. How does your faith impact your life?”

                “I know there’s a God who cares about me and guides my life. That gives me peace. I’m not very devout, as my Maman frequently likes to remind me, but I feel the certainty of Allah’s presence like a rock.”

                “Ask me a question now!” squeals Za Za not wanting to be left out.

                “Hmmm.” I pretend to think deeply. “Tell me about your favourite toy?”

                “Meme my favouwit toy. Sometimes naughty but always love.” Za Za holds Meme’s hard little body up in the air then snuggles her against her chest and closes her eyes. Then she opens them again and gives a cheeky grin.

                Mona drinks her tea, enjoying the way her daughter is engaging with me. Once Za Za has finished her answer Mona hands over her phone to keep her daughter amused and tells me about her friend Jennifer.

                “She’s very kind, actually, and thoughtful.  On first impressions, she doesn’t come across that way as she can be a bit defensive, but I like her directness, the way she doesn’t pretend to be something that she’s not. It’s refreshing.

                “The way Jennifer’s life experience shapes her is also fascinating. She’s been through a lot in her time, but doesn’t come across as bitter. She was bullied at school, experienced sexual harassment and now she’s got Motor Neurone disease.”

                Our meeting is brief, we say our goodbyes, Za Za waving a twirling as she leaves which makes me smile.

                Once you break through Mona’s shy and quiet demeanour, she is so easy to talk to. Her friendship with Jennifer is an intriguing one, an accidental first encounter followed by a more formal arrangement. How much we all have to learn from one another if we only take the time to listen and put aside our prejudices.

 

You can find out how Mona and Jennifer become friends and about the challenges each of them face by reading Katherine’s latest book Home Truths with Lady Grey.

Get in touch with Katherine if you would like a print copy.

Home Truths with Lady Grey

or click below for the e-book

Home Truths with Lady Grey

Thanks to Katherine for answering my questions as if she was Mona (and Za Za)

What DOES Jesus look like?

 Anyone watching the latest series of Killing Eve?

Hopefully I won’t give away any spoilers but I want to start by thinking about the visions Villanelle has of Jesus.

For those who have never watched the show or have no idea what I’m writing about I shall give a brief resume.

Villanelle is a psychopath, a ruthless killer who works for a shadowy organisation as an assassin.

Her dress sense is incredibly flamboyant and for a murderess there is something endearing about her, she seems a little lost, in need of mothering but I don’t think she would make a good daughter or a faithful best friend. She would put you on her hit list if you just looked at her in a funny way.

The fourth and final series begins with her “finding God” wanting to prove that she has turned over a new leaf. She uses her extensive charms to join a church, even moving in with the kindly vicar of the parish. She is desperate to get Baptised, for all the wrong reasons, and actually belong to something good for the first time in her life.

This is when she starts to see visions of Jesus, her own version of Jesus, Jesus in drag.

To be honest I’ve avoided looking up any reaction to this but I suspect there is some outcry from the more conservative quarters that this image of Jesus is blasphemous. I’m sure if this series was on the BBC at a specific time rather than streamed on iPlayer it might have got more reaction.

However, I take a different view as I think we all have a tendency to make Jesus in our image to suit ourselves and make Jesus relatable.

The Victorians were fond of portraying Jesus as white with glowing blonde hair and clear crystal blue eyes and that image has pretty much stuck for many people.

One day on our church Facebook page I dared to post an image of Jesus that was black and someone got very upset about it. But each culture has their own idea of what Jesus/God looks like, basically we like to make Jesus someone we can identify with, usually with our own colouring and style.

Ethiopian Last Supper (anonymous)

Peace, Be Still by James He Qi (1998)

No one knows what Jesus really looked like as there are obviously no photographs from that time but one of the the best approximations I’ve seen is this image by child prodigy Akiane Kramarik, amazingly she was only 8 years old when she painted this! WOW!

Prince of Peace

Then there is this model by Richard Neave which never claims to be Jesus but a representation of what a Jewish man of that time and place might look like. It is far removed from the the blonde haired image we so often see.

Model by Richard Neave  2001

Jesus might not look like us but if we are made in God’s image then each of us displays something of God and his son Jesus in our essence. The family resemblance is not in looks but something in our personality - our caring nature, our creativity, the sense of justice or wonder we possess, the ache of compassion, the joy we experience seeing a sunset or hearing good news.

I refuse to be offended at Villenelle’s vision and likewise didn’t get upset when my bother bought me a dancing with Jesus bobbling figurine at Christmas. Was it a present meant to provoke a reaction? It just made me laugh, as I’m sure God does when we often get things wrong in a crazy way, not when we do something blatantly sinful on purpose.

Our own childish view of Jesus is like a child’s stick figure drawing. Perhaps God has hundreds and thousands of these images stuck on his giant fridge and each day as he passes he smiles benevolently at our crude likenesses.

I’m sure God has a sense of humour and can take a joke far better than the rest of us and see the funny side when it doesn’t mean harm. God has broad shoulders and one day we will see him face to face and perhaps then he (or she) really will have the last laugh at our shocked faces.

A long time ago on a blog post far far away I wrote this poem called Jesus is an Action Man - if you enjoyed this you might like this too CLICK HERE to read it.