Monthly Archives: October 2014

London leaves

I love where I live, but as autumn encircles the UK I’ve felt a little envious of people further North. We’ve had hints of orange in our leaves, and they’re beginning to desert their branches for the ground, but all in all it’s a pretty poor show in comparison to the explosions of colour I’ve seen in photos from elsewhere.

I remember last year still being surrounded by green whilst rust coloured leaves fluttered across my Facebook feed, and we did get our turn eventually – fiery foliage hanging on long after other trees had turned to winter skeletons.

So I know that autumn will embrace Torbay eventually, but in the meantime I figured I should take advantage of our week in London to show Arthur what all the fuss is about.

It was this tree that caught my eye first, defiantly resplendent in yellow, despite being flanked in green. Arthur ran smiling across the mottled grass, picking up leaves to examine more closely along the way.

At one point he declared he wanted to climb a tree – I think he was inspired by the squirrels. I was impressed by his determination as he tried to work out how he could get purchase on the trunk, but actually in the end a hug seemed much more appropriate.

We continued on across the park, entranced by the increasingly rich pallet of colours surrounding us.

They are beautiful, those lovely London leaves. And an injection of colour was just what my autumn needed.

Silent Sunday: 19th October 2014

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Word of the week: family

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This has been a sad week for us. We’ve said goodbye to two of the oldest members of our extended family, and Arthur has had his first experiences of the bittersweetness that comes with family funerals.

On Wednesday we travelled to Cardiff, where most of my Dad’s family are based, to attend the memorial service for my Great Aunty Gwen. She was ninety one when she died, and right to the end exuded a glamour reminiscent of times gone by. She was a wonderful musician, and though her natural home was in the classical world she still very much appreciated the more modern sound of my brother’s band and offered her advice as they readied themselves to release their music to the world.

Aunty Gwen never married, but as the sister of my late Granny she has always been a part of our family. She was a very private person, but in recent years, particularly around the time of my wedding, she began to talk of her lost love and the flame she still carried for him. I found it hard not to feel sad for her, often sitting alone at family gatherings. But as well as having the support of our extended family – particularly my Aunt and Uncle who still live in Cardiff – her memorial service brought home the important place she held in her local church and community.

I will miss her gentle, softly spoken manner, and the twinkle in her eye whenever she was reminded of her youth.

Then on Thursday we headed to The Lizard, the furthest reaches of Cornwall where most of my Mum’s family live. There we were to celebrate the incredible eighty five years lived by my Nanny, Dora, and to say our final goodbyes.

Even as we were travelling down it was clear this was going to be hard. I’m finding it difficult to know what to type now as the words keep catching in my throat and I feel tears pricking behind my eyes. She has been such an important presence in my life, so immensely inspiring in the strength and determination that saw her through some terrible tragedies and yet so calm and comforting too. Her pride in each and every one of her grandchildren was palpable, and I am so glad that Arthur got to meet her several times too over the past two years. Watching her sit with him on her knee was so magical – he seemed to ignite yet another side of her that I’d never seen before.

I read the eulogy at her funeral, and was astounded again at the life she lived. Looking round the packed church (they even had speakers outside for those who could not squeeze in) it was clear that she’d touched and inspired so many. I’m not going to retell her whole story here, but I am very, very grateful to the strangers who pushed a teenage Dora out of the path of a flying bomb in wartime Walthamstow.

My mum was so brave through it all, sharing a poem which urged us to focus on her legacy, on living our lives rather than dwelling on the passing of hers, and on doing so with love and happiness.

And my resounding memories of this week are of family coming together, solidarity in the face of sadness, with laughs as well as tears.

Sitting in my Grampa’s house with all the history it holds, watching Arthur weave between the legs of his aunts and uncles and my aunts and uncles and high-fiving his great grandfather when it was eventually time to leave.

Poring over all the incredible images my Mum’s brother had collected of their mother’s life, capturing so many family gatherings over the years. One of my favourites shows Nanny surrounded by the eldest of her many grandchildren, cousins proud as we said hello to the newest addition to our family. We’re all in our thirties now, and we were all there in that little Cornish village to say farewell to the grandmother we shared.

I know that I am very lucky to have such a wonderful extended family. And I’ve never been more grateful for my immediate family either, my parents, and my brothers, the women who’ve chosen to spend their lives with them and of course the gorgeous man who chose me, and our beautiful son.

We all gathered at my parents’ house on Wednesday evening, had a late supper and raised toasts to those who are no longer with us.

There was something magical in the air that night, and I think it is what people call love.

Goodbye Aunty Gwen, and goodbye dear Nanny. Thank you for the lives you lived. We will do our very best to live ours in a way that will continue to make you feel proud.

W is for winter

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I might not be terribly find of the thought of the nights drawing in or the prospect of endless grey drizzle, but there are actually lots of things about winter days I love.

Snow in particular has a strange power over me. One of my best friends is Canadian, and she thinks I’m mad. But then I’ve never had to deal with the drudgery of it – the blackouts, the snow ploughs, the military precision required just to leave the house. For me snow is magical: transforming city and countryside scenes alike as it deadens sounds and amplifies the light.

I love what it does to people – to total strangers. This picture was taken in London Fields, in one of the particularly impressive bouts of snow we’ve had in recent years. Everyone seemed to be transported back to their childhood, real or imagined, as they built snowmen, made angels with their arms or pelted each other with the white stuff till they collapsed giggling into it. And all of this in what seemed like silence under the branches of trees heavy with their own liberal dusting.

We’re much less likely to get snow in Brixham – being by the sea tends to ward off the coldest of the winter weather, which is one of the the only things I don’t like so much about living here. You don’t need to go too far inland to find it though: frozen ponds and crystallised leaves, delicate icicles and impenetrable frosty ground.

I think it reminds me of the fairy kingdoms I liked to inhabit when I was growing up, the supreme delicacy of the patterns in the ice and the way it makes everything sparkle. There’s something humbling about those moments when nature reminds you of its presence, too: the way it transforms the landscapes we work so hard to control and makes everyday life just that little bit more difficult.

W is for winter.

Joining in with The Alphabet Photography Project over at PODcast.

Another voice

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As I’ve been working through my draft, chopping and changing and adding and tweaking, there’s something I haven’t quite been able to reconcile.

On one level, this novel is a thriller. Something bad is happening – right from the beginning. Except my protagonist doesn’t know about it, and we’re seeing things from her point of view. I need to create a growing sense of dread, a sense that all is not right in the world – but from Grace’s perspective, for the majority of the time at least, everything is unfolding as it should. There are moments where her intuition tells her to be careful, but it’s hard to really work these without things seeming ham-fisted. And besides, she’s not stupid: if she was really uneasy then she wouldn’t take the steps she needs to for everything to pan out as it does.

When I was in the planning stages I thought perhaps I could tell the story through multiple voices, weave the different versions of reality through. I soon concluded that this wouldn’t work, that it would give too much away where I wanted to leave the reader guessing.

Except now I’m not so sure…

I wrote a character exercise last week to explore things as my antagonist sees them, and it turns out his voice is so strong that I don’t think I can silence it. He can’t have equal airtime in the novel – it is not really him that this story is about – but I think there can be flashes, moments of insight into the dark mind at work behind the scenes that will colour the reader’s interpretation of the rest.

That’s where I’m at right now anyway. I’m going to see what happens if I let him have his say at a few key points, whether I can manage to craft his interludes so they create that sense of dread without giving too much away. If I can pull it off it should add an element of dramatic irony as things unfold, give the reader a smidgen more knowledge than Grace has herself to filter their reactions to her through.

And if nothing else then just the process will give me more of an insight into what’s driving him, and that can be no bad thing.

October sun

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As I watch the world through rain-battered windows, white horses galloping across the bay to the invisible shores beyond and the wind, still eerie in the daylight, ricocheting off my neighbours’ walls, it’s worth remembering that not every day is like this.

Just the other side of the weekend we woke to blue skies, the sea calm and the sunlight glinting off cliffs as far away as Dorset. The air was crisp but still warm in the sun. It didn’t feel much like autumn then at all.

I followed Arthur up through the woods and along the path to the fort. His excitement was palpable: as with all of our little adventures, even the well-trodden ones, there was a sense that anything might happen.

When we got there, it wasn’t clear whether he had shrunk or the world had grown. Whichever it was, he looked so tiny as he ran around being chased by his shadow that it almost took my breath away.

Once his efforts had exhausted him he came back to me again, both bigger and smaller now and ready for sleep: peaceful and contented in the October sun.

Silent Sunday: 12th October 2014

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The plan

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***

It was still seared into his memory, the moment when he’d told her. Fear had flashed across her face at first, but that had quickly turned to contempt.

“I can’t actually believe you thought you’d get away with it.”

She’d spat the words at him, not caring how hurtful they were.

“I trusted you, and this is how you repay me?”

He’d tried to explain to her that this, in fact, was the deepest kind of trust. He’d let her be a part of something special, something new. But she was having none of it.

She had almost destroyed him, but this time would be different.

He had it all worked out: how he’d reel her in, draw her closer and closer so that by the time he revealed the truth she would be in too deep to see things any other way. And if she let him down – well, he was ready for that too. He knew exactly how he was going to cover his tracks this time.

She wouldn’t let him down though, not this one.

He scrolled through the information he had about her so far – the photographs, the friends, the good times and the bad. He already felt he knew her intimately, and the next stage would fill the gaps that were remaining.

She had no idea what was about to begin. He wished he could tell her, let her in on his plan and watch the admiration spread across her pretty face, but there was no doubt in his mind that this was how it had to be.

He looked at the bank of screens staring coldly at him for the last time and picked up the black holdall at his feet. If he could just get this bit right then everything else would fall into place.

The leather of his gloves hugged his hands assertively. He could do this. He would prove them all wrong. And he would not make the same mistakes again.

***

Thank you to Sara at Mum Turned Mom for inspiring this post with her prompt: ‘The mistakes we make…’.

This piece is another exercise in character development, this time jumping inside the head of my antagonist at the point the novel begins. The story we actually hear unfolds from the protagonist’s point of view and it is a long way into the novel before the truth begins to come out.

Word of the week: autumn

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There’s no escaping it: after an unseasonably warm September, and some tantalisingly sunny days at the beginning of this month, autumn has finally arrived.

I’ve never been that great at dealing with this time of year. I thrive on light and sunshine, and as the nights begin to close in I can’t help but feel a lingering sense of dread. Things are a lot better than they used to be, now that I’m out of the city and not doing a job that means never seeing daylight in the winter months. And this year Arthur and I have actually been enjoying the coming of autumn rather a lot.

We’ve made the most of it being a bit colder, wrapping up warm and snuggling up whenever we get the chance.

There’s generally been lots of time for snuggling: we’ve had some pretty spectacular rain this week, and there’s been nothing for it but to stay inside. Arthur’s really embraced this. He’s been having tea parties with his animal friends, and devouring books like they’re going out of fashion.

We’ve been getting out of the house whenever we can too, breathing in the changing landscape of the sea and sky. The air is deliciously refreshing, and there’s a whole hat collection for us to revisit.

To fuel our way through this seasonal shift, we’ve been doing our best to eat healthily. We had our first roast last Sunday – I’m looking forward to many more of those – and I’ve been drinking even more water than usual.

One of the problems with this time of year in the past has been that I’m not terribly good at making the right choices – I know what will get me motivated, make me feel better, but actually doing it is another matter. Having an awesome toddler to hang out with is obviously one way to make making the right choices easier. And I’ve also been getting a helping hand from Tea with Miss Beatrix’s #BashSAD challenge.

I don’t feel sad this year – and that’s despite an October which so far has held more than a usual amount of sorrow (more on that another time). In fact I’m looking forward to embracing autumn – and even winter. There is so much in this life to enjoy, and I intend to make the most of it.

Things not to say to a babywearing mama

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I’ve been wearing Arthur since he was five weeks old. It was a bit of a revelation to me, and in many ways has shaped my whole approach to parenting. In the beginning the world seemed pretty supportive of my choice: there were still those who had something to say about it, but most mums I know wore their babies at least part of the time when they were tiny.

However as Arthur’s got older – and bigger – an increasing number of people have felt the need to voice their opinion on me wearing him, from well-meaning friends and family to total strangers in the street or on the bus. Most people are of course still lovely and supportive, but there are others whose comments range from the slightly irritating to the downright disturbing – and having spoken to other babywearing friends I am by no means the only one on the receiving end of them.

So here, in no particular order, is my list of things you might want to think twice about before saying to a babywearing mama.

“You’re going to spoil him, you know.”

Now I get this quite a lot. I suppose it’s my own fault really, for leaning towards the attachment parenting side of things. But as I’ve said before and I’ll doubtless say many times again I don’t believe that keeping my baby close and secure is going to spoil him. Yes, he’s very happy being worn. But does that mean I should be choosing to follow an approach that makes him less happy, just in case? I think not.

“Gosh – is that safe?” (For one friend I spoke to this question was combined with vigorous tugging on the straps of her baby carrier)

Um, yes, thank you for your concern, but this is perfectly safe. (At least it was until you started to undo the buckles!) There are of course precautions to be followed when wearing a baby, just as there are with any means of transporting a child. People have been wearing their babies for hundreds of years, and if I didn’t think it was safe then I wouldn’t be doing it.

“Oh your poor back. He must be so heavy!”

Now I feel a bit bad about including this one, because I know that most people who say it do so with my best interests at heart. But still, when you hear it several times a day it can get a bit annoying! There are of course carriers on the market (naming no names of the carrier that inexplicably seems to be the most popular despite managing to make newborns feel heavy) that are not as comfortable, for mums or babies. However having fallen in love with babywearing I’ve done my research and found one that is supportive and spreads the (quite considerable) weight of my baby evenly. There are lots to choose from, but the carrier we use now is a Toddler Connecta, designed for babies from 18 months. It’s fab, and I find it decidedly easier to wear my son than I do to carry him in my arms.

“Heh heh, I wish that was me nuzzled up in there.”

This one freaks me out a bit to be honest, and depressingly it’s the one I’ve heard most. It’s most commonly uttered by old men, and why they think they can get away with expressing to a mother walking with her child their desire to have their face in her breasts is beyond me. Seriously gross.

“Can’t he walk?”

Do mums with pushchairs get this one? I’ve been hearing it since not long after Arthur turned one, and I’m not entirely sure what the implication is. Yes, he can walk. But like most not-even-two-year-olds his little legs get quite tired when I’m rushing around trying to get things done. And if he couldn’t walk..? Well that would just be entirely inappropriate.

“You don’t want to still be doing that when he’s a teenager!”

And we’re back to that other attachment parenting chestnut. My son is one. Much like co-sleeping and breastfeeding, I very much doubt I’ll still be wearing Arthur when he’s a teenager. I might be wearing him for a while longer yet mind – I’ve been quite inspired by mamas wearing their pre-schoolers, and he still feels light as a feather when I put him on my back.

So there we have it: the things I most definitely don’t want to hear whilst I’m wearing my baby. I’d love to hear about your experiences so please share them in the comments below!

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Sophie is…

on a journey of (re)discovery in a brave new world.