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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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…
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.
or click below for the e-book
Thanks to Katherine for answering my questions as if she was
Mona (and Za Za)
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.
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.
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.
