tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75521415990852813422024-02-19T13:42:39.350+00:00Life in the Little SmokeLife in Little 'ol London...Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger204125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-56846707551434452102023-06-06T19:06:00.001+01:002023-06-06T19:06:44.440+01:00The Difference Between Being a Writer & Someone Who Dreams of Being a Writer<p><br />I've had this quote up on a wall for many years. I looked at it often, I looked at the word<b><i> finished</i></b> often. It takes a heck of a lot to <b>finish</b> a book.<b> </b></p><p>What compels some of us (quite a few of us, think of all the books in the world) to keep going when so much of the process is heartbreak?</p><p>I think in the making of something with words, the grind, the hustle- the heft of the endeavor over years shapes you as much as you are shaping the words. </p><p>One day you wake up and the trail of breadcrumbs behind you are gone. There is no turning back. You have to go forward. </p><p>There is no more playing it safe. </p><p>On that day, you realise to stop writing (get time back, have proper work-life delineation, stay in one world rather than straddling many) is more sickening than writing.</p><p>I look at this quote now and everything has changed. </p><p><br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUxtVF7MV_9GvNtyHS_gR1XeMq85kPWlzq9qHoarYQ1DeIhUhxjCBfW8wrImv_Hq_cYU22gULldYXqyrzDSGYgaslywlm3Tg4XVe2Ehq8WXcn-32p0hA3dVNkOkWi58JX6onzBjOAgUwgiMgGmV9O7e7IcuoQCndwue2BFCLxOHLRCHlTNGP1eCQ/s960/19247994_10155190062281210_8010901181921781619_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="666" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUxtVF7MV_9GvNtyHS_gR1XeMq85kPWlzq9qHoarYQ1DeIhUhxjCBfW8wrImv_Hq_cYU22gULldYXqyrzDSGYgaslywlm3Tg4XVe2Ehq8WXcn-32p0hA3dVNkOkWi58JX6onzBjOAgUwgiMgGmV9O7e7IcuoQCndwue2BFCLxOHLRCHlTNGP1eCQ/w444-h640/19247994_10155190062281210_8010901181921781619_n.jpg" title="by Kae Tempest" width="444" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Quote by Kae Tempest</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-67905645441700031072023-04-27T08:22:00.000+01:002023-04-27T08:22:46.238+01:00Things That I Don't Understand<p> Can someone explain the following?</p><p>1. Leaf blowers</p><p>2. Tattoos in Latin </p><p>3. PH balanced bottled water</p><p>4. Large restaurant plates with minute food portions</p><p>5. Perfume ads</p><p>6. Tipping in America </p><p>7. Eating rice off a flat plate with chopsticks</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-28756154397010050992023-04-21T17:58:00.020+01:002023-04-21T19:15:40.393+01:00End of Hiatus<p> Greetings ....<i> echo echo echo</i>. Is anyone out there?</p><p>It's been nearly a year since I posted here. What happened? It just seemed like yesterday that I was writing about <a href="https://lifeinthelittlesmoke.blogspot.com/2022/07/burn-baby-burn.html" target="_blank">burning food </a>and now it's April 2023. Not that you could tell by the weather outside my window. How is it that I am still wearing my puffer jacket and scarf in LATE APRIL? The UK weather has never been known for glory but <i>COME ON</i>. Spring has far from sprung. </p><p>I really have become a Brit. This post was not supposed to be about the weather.</p><p>In May 2019, I posted that I was going on a<a href="https://lifeinthelittlesmoke.blogspot.com/2019/05/hiatus.html" target="_blank"> blog hiatus </a>because I wanted to focus on finishing my children's book. I didn't quite stick to it, posting sporadically during lockdown (how could I not write about toilet paper) but since 2020, the posts have been...non existent.</p><p>But guess what? I did it. I finished the book!</p><p>By that I don't mean you can now go to Foyles and buy it. I mean that I finished it to a standard whereby I felt it was ready to submit to literary agents in hope they would like it enough to offer to represent me. </p><p>The book went out on submission in March 2021 briefly. It wasn't quite ready so I did more work on it and sent it out again in July 2022. By that time I had been working on this idea since 2016. If that makes you feel tired, you're not wrong. To keep me sane, I wrote other things alongside this book. I wrote adult short fiction. I wrote parts of a memoir. I wrote articles. I wrote a second kids book draft in five months, to prove to myself I could. I moaned to other writers. They moaned to me. I helped facilitate three writer's feedback groups. I had work published in anthologies and undertook paid commissions. I completed development schemes on narrative non- fiction, children's literature, memoir and short fiction. I kept writing going in my life in whatever way I could. </p><p>The thing is, most first book attempts are discarded. They are literary roadkill on your path to becoming a better author. You make all your mistakes on your first book. You learn. You improve. You move on. I tried to kill my first book many times before it killed me but I could not give up on it. The main character would not leave me. I felt an irrevocable responsibility to bring her to life. </p><p>She is why I finished the book to this stage, despite it being the hardest thing I have done to date.*</p><p>Once the book was out on submission to agents, some good things happened. I was offered agent representation and won a literary award for under represented children's writers and illustrators. This attention meant I got a few more offers of representation from other agents. </p><p>It was a surreal whirlwind after years of plugging away. I tried to relish the moment but in truth, it felt like an out of body experience. </p><p>Which brings us to current times. I now have a literary agent. Together we did a wee bit more work on the book before sending it out on submission (yes, it's the <b><span style="font-size: medium;">s </span></b>word again) to publishers. </p><p>Getting to this stage has been a long, brutal labour of love. And it's far from over (I hope) </p><p>Watch this space!</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>*Yup, harder than parenthood so far. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-15590561765925416572022-07-08T18:50:00.001+01:002022-07-08T18:51:29.675+01:00Burn, Baby, Burn<p>I'm not a very good cook. </p><p>I can cook but my problem is the part between combining all the ingredients and the end result.</p><p>Imagine the scenario. A simmering pot on the cooktop. Everything has been chopped, diced, spiced and thrown in with requisite seasoning, water, oil et al.</p><p>Here, you stir and wait. But waiting can be dangerous. While waiting, I glance out the kitchen window:</p><p><i>That jasmine climber, needs to be cut back, geez another thing I have remember to do. I should write it down so I remember. Where's my phone? Why is there cat food left? Is something wrong with the cat? Where's my phone? I wonder if I should, oh wait, are those birds mating on the roof? Are they crows or ravens, I should take a photo. Where's my phone? Alexa! Alexa! Play, er, just play something. Alexa - off! How many days left before school holidays? Finish your draft, you've got to finish your draft before the holidays! That's what it will say on my tombstone - she died, still drafting. I'm tired. What's that phrase, where you've got nothing, ah - No Skin in the Game. That's it. Hmm. That would be good title for story. I need to write it down. Where's my phone?</i></p><p>And then the smell of burning brings me back to what I was doing.</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJbbERu3YnhPPkvc9FJt3QLatoo6O2P9A7jV1jFy6HSuimOo6xLMFvuJZO1XzhSO_WkOrh7z43xetc2t6ucLfNYB1jLmrPPEPeMMAcrcRXFft2lGS2JeKmA_xuObC8Gwlnpi5-raEbKujD7FttJ__n2H2Q-K6LzsaGhA1i_u7DP_opocyo6Yi9mQ/s780/intro-1640793061.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="780" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJbbERu3YnhPPkvc9FJt3QLatoo6O2P9A7jV1jFy6HSuimOo6xLMFvuJZO1XzhSO_WkOrh7z43xetc2t6ucLfNYB1jLmrPPEPeMMAcrcRXFft2lGS2JeKmA_xuObC8Gwlnpi5-raEbKujD7FttJ__n2H2Q-K6LzsaGhA1i_u7DP_opocyo6Yi9mQ/w400-h225/intro-1640793061.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>Bon Appetit!</p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-63014337124809036122021-11-25T14:50:00.004+00:002021-11-25T14:52:16.849+00:00Holiday<br />I wrote this poem many years ago in response to the Syrian refugee crisis and after reading <a href="https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/home-433/" target="_blank">Home</a> by Warsan Shire.<br /><i><br /><b>you have to understand,<br />that no one puts their children in a boat,<br />unless the water is safer than the land</b><br /></i><br />My poem is not going to rock the poetry world but I remembered it this week because of what is happening to those poor people trying to cross the Channel to get to the UK. <div><br /></div><br /><b>HOLIDAY </b><br /><br />We’re going on holiday <br />Mum, Dad and I. <br />On a sailing boat, across the sea <br />To an island, nearby. <br /><br />We’ve a backpack each, <br />I’ve packed my Teddy <br />Why’s Mum crying? <br />Everything’s ready. <br /><br />Dad says we’re leaving late at night <br />Cause that is much more fun. <br />It’s so cold, look – the stars are out <br />Why are they starting to run? <br /><br />There’s many other people here, <br />are they all coming too? <br />No-one looks that happy,<br />I really need the loo. <br /><br />That’s not a sailing boat at all, <br />but a rubber blow-up thing. <br />It looks like the toy I have in my bath <br />where I splash and play and sing. <br /><br />The sea is dark, it looks so big <br />The waves are very high. <br />Mum and Dad are quiet.<div>I’m scared. I don’t know why. <br /><br /><i>Strange men shouting <br />Children crying <br />In the boat, now! <br />Someone is lying. </i><br /><br />I need the toilet, Mum says wait <br />I want my bed and toys <br />I shouldn’t be up this late, I think <br />I’m just a little boy. <br /><br /><i>Men shoving <br />Ocean, heaving.</i></div><div><i>Boat is full.</i></div><div><i>Boat is leaving. </i><br /><br />Wee runs straight down my leg.<br />Tears fill my eyes. <br />It’s raining now, I’m so cold <br />Inside, it’s warm and dry. <br /><br />Mum wades in the water, <br />her trousers are now all wet. <br />‘Mum! Mum! I shout <br />I'm not having much fun yet. <br /><br />Dad grabs me.<br />Screaming, I kick and shout. <br />My backpack falls off,<br />Ted falls out. <br /><br />The boat’s now full, we’re in the dark <br />Silence fills the air. <br />Is this a holiday we’re on? <br />I want my teddy bear. <br /><br /><i>Boat is leaking <br />Mum is screaming <br />Ted is gone <br />Am I dreaming?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><b>RIP</b></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-79000887228240569832020-06-05T17:44:00.000+01:002020-06-05T17:46:26.445+01:00Dispatches from Lockdown - Week Twelve<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The three month mark is approaching from the time when the UK first entered lockdown. Restrictions are starting to ease and when I head out to the local high street, you would think that collective amnesia has descended, given the mass disregard for social distancing. It's as if some have forgotten that we are still in the midst of a global pandemic caused by a virus that has no cure. The UK death toll continues to rise, the 'official' figure hovering somewhere between forty to sixty thousand, depending on which news source you believe. Government incompetence is staggering, causing a behavioral free-for-all socially because no-one trusts or listens to them anymore. International commentary derides the UK for entering lock down too late and now exiting too early.<br />
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I agree.<br />
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However, whilst the first wave of infection was out of our control, the second wave isn't. People know what they can do to try and minimise infections but whether they choose to or not is another matter. So I think the UK will have the second wave of it's choosing. </div>
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The things I have missed over the last three months have been surprising. Or not. I didn't think swimming would rank in my top ten list of missing but I'm not surprised that small talk features on the not-missed list. What surprises me the most is how much of the London lifestyle I don't miss. At all. </div>
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Instead I miss the sea. Breathing air that smells a bit burnt, tinged with the scent of eucalyptus. Raucous birdsong and a sky that makes you mute. I miss the edges. I miss feeling rubbed raw by nature.</div>
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I've heard many comment about when things will return to normal but I don't see how you can live through something like this and not have it change you.</div>
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Or maybe it's not change at all. Maybe it's just a reminder of what it is you valued all along.</div>
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I guess we'll see. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-81190251799668400462020-04-24T18:51:00.001+01:002020-04-27T15:16:52.861+01:00Space Invaders<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away (circa anytime before Mar 20, 2020), the Husband complained often about my walking style, especially if he was behind me trying to follow my lead.<br />
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<i><b>You don't walk in a logical fashion</b></i>, he moaned for the umpteenth time.<i><b>You swerve all over the place. You walk like you're being followed, like you're trying to shake someone off</b>.</i></div>
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Draw what conclusions you will but I didn't point out that the only person following me, was him.<br />
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He's right though. When I walk through a crowd of people, I like to pretend that I am in a video game (eighties arcade style) with the aim of avoiding all moving targets (bumping into other people) whilst getting to my destination as quickly as possible.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Oldie but a goodie</span></td></tr>
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It hones your kinaesthetic sense* and makes walking through a crowd really fun. It's even better with headphones on as then you have a soundtrack. <a href="https://lifeinthelittlesmoke.blogspot.com/2010/12/waterloo-couldnt-escape-if-i-wanted-to.html" target="_blank">I have been doing this a long time</a>.<br />
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Unfortunately, due to lock down I have not walked through a crowd for awhile.** Still, I have ventured out each day for my government mandated exercise quota. In the early days, I ran or walked on the footpaths, just as I had done pre-Covid and if I came across another soul, we would do an awkward dance of denial; manifesting a duet between opposed magnets, trying to keep as much air as possible between our bodies. But we would both be on that footpath, our body movements institutionalised by the fear of being run over by cars. A few weeks later, this changed as the roads became quiet and pedestrians, runners and cyclists reclaimed the streets.<br />
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The freedom to run, walk, cycle down the middle of the road, for the most part unhindered by traffic has been one of the unexpected highlights of lock down.<br />
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My daily outings into the world made me notice that people generally fell into two groups.The first were courteous and diligent about social distancing. These are the people who would spot you from afar and if they could, would cross the road or pause to let you go first. Basically move in such a way so you would not get too close to one another.<br />
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Not so the second group. In this Dante's circle are the mobile phone users, looking down at their screens whilst walking, with zero concern about anyone else in the vicinity. Sprawling families who act as if they are on a country ramble, meandering along, taking up the full breadth of a walkway so no-one else can get past. Joggers who spit. Joggers who can't deviate from 'their route' even if this means brushing right up past you. Pedestrians who mustn't have studied metrics at school, mistaking two centimeters for two meters.<br />
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I also noticed that the kinaesthetic sense is sorely lacking in many people. I suppose this because it is not something you wouldn't need to use regularly unless you play team sports or perform in some sort of physical ensemble. But perhaps by the end of this, we will all have finely attuned senses of where others are in relation to ourselves. Let's hope.<br />
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I also noticed that the walking style needed in lock down was something I was born for! My swerve-duck-dodge walk is in vogue. The only difference is that there is now a two- metre radius around each moving target.<br />
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I guess for all of us, there comes a time in life where your weird quirks or odd habits come into their own.<br />
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If only my Husband could see me now (he can't because I left him for dust)<br />
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*my definition of this is the awareness of one's bodily movements within space in relation to the environment<br />
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**apart from the supermarket where social distancing seems to have been abandoned<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-21060607150228898052020-04-12T16:38:00.002+01:002020-04-12T17:07:07.067+01:00Constant Craving<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We are entering Week 4 of lock down in London and the weekend weather has been kind, giving us sun and light in place of muted grey and drizzle. BBQs and sunglasses have replaced jumpers and socks. People are out sunbathing while others are dying.<br />
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It's very odd.<br />
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Our household, for now, is free of illness and so I have been reading in the sun. Newspapers, books, magazines. One particular sentence that zinged through me was by columnist and author Deborah Levy who wrote:<br />
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<b><i>We will have to investigate the magic of the universe from home.</i></b><br />
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Surveying my <u>To-Read</u> pile, I pulled out two books that have been gathering dust for many months, mainly because I had never felt <i><b>in the mood</b></i> to read them since purchase - <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B016L5L3JE/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i14" target="_blank">Island Home: A Landscape Memoir</a> and <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Lands-Edge-Coastal-Tim-Winton/dp/1447203097" target="_blank">Land's Edge: A Coastal Memoir</a>, both by fellow West Australian, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tim_Winton" target="_blank">Tim Winton</a>.<br />
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Who knew that it would take a global pandemic to put me in the mood?<br />
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I was less than a third of the way through <i><a href="https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/may/08/island-home-tim-winton-review-love-song-to-australia" target="_blank">Island Home</a></i> when it clicked that the sentences were slaking a thirst I didn't realise I had. I drank it whole and moved swiftly onto <i><a href="http://www.compulsivereader.com/2011/02/02/a-review-of-lands-edge-by-tim-winton/" target="_blank">Land's Edge</a></i>.<br />
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Both books took me to a place and time outside of corona virus, lock downs and social distancing. They evoked a craving for the West Australian landscape that germinated in me as a young child exploring bush land near our suburban brick and tile home. They made me long for a coastline that leaves your mind blank when you look at it.<br />
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<a href="https://lifeinthelittlesmoke.blogspot.com/2012/04/where-wild-things-are.html" target="_blank">I wrote about this longing</a> after my first few years of living in London; about missing the brand of wilderness that raised me. It took about five, six years of London life for the oasis of a coastline to ebb in my mind.<br />
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Fifteen years on, I thought I had adapted to my new environs and that the zest of daily London life had put to bed the craving for wild.<br />
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I was wrong. It was just subsumed. Waiting.<br />
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As Mr Winton wrote in <i>Land's Edge</i>:<br />
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<b><i>In Europe I tried the landlocked existence. In Paris I experienced my first apartment and my first truly dispiriting body of water, the Seine. The city itself was a revelation, an astounding and beautiful place, but after six months I found myself crazy for the margins.</i></b><br />
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It's no coincidence that during this marginal existence we are living, waiting on the edges of our lives for the threat of covid to recede, that I yearn for the spaces that make me feel outside of myself. To be overwhelmed in nature as opposed to being overwhelmed by a virus.<br />
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Something has come full circle. And it's only week 4.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-22305611056586240682020-04-08T18:57:00.000+01:002020-04-24T18:59:41.176+01:00Oh No. Bojo has the Covo.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
CoVo world moves at a rate of knots. Things change with a blink.<br />
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A few days ago, the UK Prime Minister, Boris Johnson was hospitalised in St Thomas' Hospital with 'persistent' symptoms of coronavirus. <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-52208156" target="_blank">He's spent the last two nights in ICU and apparently is in 'good spirits.</a>' </div>
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<b><i>Bojo's a no go. He's in Tommo's laid low with the CoVo. So now, we've got Dommo leading the Toro's.*</i></b></div>
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I'm no fan of Bojo but I wish him a full recovery.<i style="font-weight: bold;"> </i>In this unheralded time, we need stability, even if it does come in the form of Boris Johnson. The irony of him receiving the very best of NHS care; care that his party has systematically stripped away from many others less fortunate is glaringly apparent under the world spotlight.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What isn't changing swiftly is the Husband's recovery from suspected CoVo. It's been 18 days since he fell ill and he is 6kg thinner and too weak to walk out the front door and do a socially distant stroll to the end of our road. Although he is improving slowly, I have never, in the 25 years I've known him, ever seen him this debilitated.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And he is one of the lucky ones, to have had a 'mild' case of CoVo, if that is indeed what he had.</div>
<div>
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<div>
I hope that it was.</div>
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Because going through it once was enough.</div>
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*I have been watching a lot of Kath and Kim</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-2729140178040129552020-03-31T19:59:00.002+01:002020-04-01T14:42:26.276+01:00And on the Second Day...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's blinding how fast things can change.<br />
<br />
It's remarkable how quickly you can adapt to that change<br />
<br />
Our family are in the tenth day of self isolation due to the Husband developing symptoms of corona virus, just as the schools closed. Overnight I became the sole parent to our nine year old as she was tipped into the wormhole of homeschooling and not being allowed to leave the house for two weeks apart from daily exercise, far away from others.<br />
<br />
I also became the sole carer for an adult who could do nothing apart from lock himself away to avoid infecting us. Our correspondence has been carried out via text messages and my knocking on his closed door to alert him of the meals I have left outside.<br />
<br />
Ten days have felt like three weeks but what I have noticed is that being in this domestic situation is <a href="https://lifeinthelittlesmoke.blogspot.com/2011/05/new-parents-dont.html" target="_blank">like having an newborn baby</a>. I disinfect the house avidly for fear of corona germs. I cook, serve, clean, cook, serve, clean; ad infinitum. My hands resemble claws, so much have I washed them.<br />
<br />
The patchwork nature of my days going from chore to chore to chore means I have found myself unable to think in an linear or in depth fashion,. Instead I have snatched thought syndrome; something I remember from the <a href="https://lifeinthelittlesmoke.blogspot.com/2011/10/paradoxes-of-parenting.html" target="_blank">newborn days.</a><br />
<br />
In this new world order, I have observed the following things over the past few days:<br />
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Freedom is a state of mind. But it helps if you can feel daylight on your skin and outside air on your face, even if for only a few minutes a day. </li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>I am not the technophobe I thought I was. It turns out that when technology is needed, I am a fast adapter. Zoom is the current raison d'etre of online connection and I became a Zoomer in seconds. </li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>I've always thought that it is important to know how how to be alone. And to be comfortable being alone. This helps at times like these.</li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>I am innately, a frugal person.Turns out I was listening to Mum all those years ago.</li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>But it turns out, there is a LOT less that I can live without. </li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>The morning sun in our back garden is glorious.</li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Nature becomes everything during solitude</li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>My dreams are very, very vivid. It's as if I am living my real life while sleeping and on waking, return to a dystopian Groundhog Day. </li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Structure is important. <i><b>There is no freedom with structure</b></i>. I can't remember who said that but I have always agreed. </li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>I'm not sure in the months to follow what I will miss more - free movement through the world or physical contact with others. We'll see.</li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Seeing a plane flying overhead right now is a marvel, like seeing the articulation of possibility made into a machine.</li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>The view from the rooftop outside my loft window at sunset remains untarnished</li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>I'm enjoying street noise because it has become rare. </li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Being a writer is perfect for travelling anywhere and everywhere,when you can't.</li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>People can be pretty damn marvellous. Or not.</li>
</ul>
<div>
<br />
But there is no time to think anymore. Things to get on with. People to see (on Zoom). </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-32931790689044260742020-03-21T18:45:00.000+00:002020-03-21T19:52:09.762+00:00Corona used to be a Beer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Since my last post, a mere few weeks ago, it seems that the Earth has stopped rotating anti-clockwise on its axis and decided to turn the other way. We seem to have entered a new reality usually found in dystopian paperbacks sold at airports or kitsch movies about the zombie apocalypse.<br />
<br />
I am referring to the force know as COVID-19, the <a href="https://www.gov.uk/coronavirus" target="_blank">coronavirus</a> which is rapidly altering the way we live, for now. The core of our social infrastructure, i.e. human interaction, is being unpicked in order to stem the potential deaths that this virus may cause and ease the burden it will inflict on the health services.<br />
<br />
Here in London, all schools are now closed.* Citizens have been asked to work from home and avoid unnecessary travel. Restaurants, pubs, libraries, gyms, theaters; all places where people gather in dense numbers to interact have been instructed to close to try and '<a href="https://www.theguardian.com/world/2020/mar/10/covid-19-coronavirus-flattening-the-curve" target="_blank">flatten the curve</a>,' to allow the NHS to try and cope with the anticipated influx of very ill people.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxy5O4fq0Qvj9tTsVIKbV98XwXZF7vevN2473nSoCpI6C0C4aYN6dT7G0o4Gcz7C38xOVZF9VEXQYMjda6dLPHj-93sZRjdByS4NbdgtV_lOKtcys6hg70jy5H8K9ubNlr1J1ef-PHAQ/s1600/106451928-1584626557121flatteningthecurve740px.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxy5O4fq0Qvj9tTsVIKbV98XwXZF7vevN2473nSoCpI6C0C4aYN6dT7G0o4Gcz7C38xOVZF9VEXQYMjda6dLPHj-93sZRjdByS4NbdgtV_lOKtcys6hg70jy5H8K9ubNlr1J1ef-PHAQ/s400/106451928-1584626557121flatteningthecurve740px.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Squash that peak!</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Some people I know feel this social cease and desist has happened too late and that we should have shut down several weeks ago. Others are slightly begrudging of the new social sanctions imposed but acknowledge that we all have to do our bit, whether we have symptoms or not.<br />
<br />
In this new landscape, I thought it would be prudent to check on my folks in Australia who, being in their 70s fall into the high risk group should they catch corona and have been told to practice <a href="https://www.gov.uk/government/publications/covid-19-guidance-on-social-distancing-and-for-vulnerable-people/guidance-on-social-distancing-for-everyone-in-the-uk-and-protecting-older-people-and-vulnerable-adults" target="_blank">social distancing</a>.<br />
<br />
My folks and I are already socially distant, given that we live 10,000 miles apart. We are also very self reliant of one another and phone calls are now rare occurrences, replaced by a family Whatsapp chat. But if a global pandemic doesn't make you call your parents on the other side of the world, then I don't know what will.<br />
<br />
Mum answered the phone and after a lecture about mask wearing and asking after the Grandchild, she moved onto the subject on everyone's lips.<br />
<br />
<b>Toilet Paper.</b><br />
<br />
I noticed the early signs of the phenomena known as <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-51737030" target="_blank">Panic Buying</a> when I was getting ready to leave Australia in early March. Stocking up on Tim Tams one morning in the local IGA, I saw that the loo roll section was bare. When I returned to London days later, I got chatting to a staff member at Morrisons who showed me a photo on his phone of the loo roll aisle just one day before. Empty. He was restocking as we spoke and in light of what he'd said, I put down the 12 pack of bog roll I was going to buy and picked up the 24.<br />
<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhROmeOvwHHyaSt7iKAvTguQNjuJZvy2nO4ShK9P1DVypzyi3g4f1QDGjkZKu4m8v83k3bsaItlRPvtR5epOstMsDnZoTytam-NUVaiQj1hLY7A5rM-u7DzRu86Z_6Mn0hFQuncF6xHiw/s1600/_111126711_esj9yghuuaeaujv.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="351" data-original-width="624" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhROmeOvwHHyaSt7iKAvTguQNjuJZvy2nO4ShK9P1DVypzyi3g4f1QDGjkZKu4m8v83k3bsaItlRPvtR5epOstMsDnZoTytam-NUVaiQj1hLY7A5rM-u7DzRu86Z_6Mn0hFQuncF6xHiw/s400/_111126711_esj9yghuuaeaujv.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">How many bums are they going to wipe?</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It's a good thing I did for weeks later, <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2020/mar/05/even-as-behavioural-researchers-we-couldnt-resist-the-urge-to-buy-toilet-paper" target="_blank">toilet roll</a> has become like gold dust. People are queuing before supermarkets open to try and get some. Corner shops are hoarding it behind their counters, selling it only to 'regular customers.' Psychologists are saying that this global fixation with toilet paper is symptomatic of trying to maintain control at a time where things are chaotic and unknown. A local taxi driver told me he thought it was because people were full of shit.<br />
<br />
Freud would have a field day.<br />
<br />
Toilet paper has never been in short supply at my Mum's house. She is Chinese and therefore she buys bulk. In a gentler time, pre-Corona, visitors to our family house would gaze at wonder at the Great Wall of Toilet Paper assembled and marvel how we would never, ever run out.<br />
<br />
Well.<br />
<br />
Due to our recent visit to Australia, my family and I had depleted Mum's toilet paper inventory.<br />
<br />
<i>We were down to ten rolls when you left, </i>she reported,<i>'But I didn't worry. All those crazy people. As if we couldn't get toilet paper.</i><br />
<br />
But she couldn't.<br />
<br />
<i>I went to Coles. I went to Woolies. None at Aldi's either</i>.<br />
<br />
<i>So what happened?</i> I asked. After all, this is a woman who in the 1980s was captured on the evening news limboing under a half open store door so she could be one of the first inside during a Boxing Day sale to nab a microwave that was 50% off.<br />
<br />
<i>Your Father and I woke up early one morning and he said, 'lets go shopping now before breakfast' so we went to a nearby Coles. But we didn't know where the loo paper aisle was because we don't usually shop there. There were already about 30 people waiting outside when we arrived.</i><br />
<br />
<i>So what did you do?</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>I said to your Father, it's easy. As soon as the shop opens, just follow the crowd. They'll lead us to the toilet paper.</i><br />
<br />
<i>And did they?</i><br />
<br />
<i>When I saw where the crowd were headed, I slipped around and went the back way. Got there before most of them.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>How much did you buy?</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>36 rolls. It'll do.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
It's reassuring to me at a time where so much is changing in an unprecedented way, that Mum always come up trumps when faced with a challenge. Loo roll or locusts, she'll find a way to overcome.<br />
<br />
I hope in the months to follow, I've inherited her moxie. <br />
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*Most schools will remain open on a skeleton teaching crew for children of key workers<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-54134790822429606722020-03-02T14:25:00.000+00:002020-03-03T08:59:58.531+00:00Highway to Hell<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was having brunch yesterday with an old friend in the Canvas cafe courtyard at <a href="https://www.fac.org.au/" target="_blank">Fremantle Arts Centre</a> when she asked me:<br />
<br />
<i>Why don't you write your blog anymore?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipHUJ0jDg4957-KIh42RXRF_yfshO2EvoBQ0_1YLbXmE6k0tvUWHHFa4BmZRPmd1QgaMBK3hkK-t8b1kLJs8BKZO1F5hqMlftBrN_f7ZwOFsnaSAW6hqrV4rxkHcvobFsFX_NejRhfgA/s1600/c63d75198f7142514fe03e6285212415.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="860" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipHUJ0jDg4957-KIh42RXRF_yfshO2EvoBQ0_1YLbXmE6k0tvUWHHFa4BmZRPmd1QgaMBK3hkK-t8b1kLJs8BKZO1F5hqMlftBrN_f7ZwOFsnaSAW6hqrV4rxkHcvobFsFX_NejRhfgA/s400/c63d75198f7142514fe03e6285212415.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">A little oasis</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I rambled on about focusing on my umpteenth rewrite and getting to the end of the draft (which is developing at the pace that if I were racing against a snail with my writing speed, the snail would win) and as I heard the words come out of my mouth, I thought:<br />
<br />
<i>This is bullshit. You could keep blogging if you wanted to. It's good practice for writing short pieces quickly and the Husband will be happy that you are ranting here again rather than at him.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
But what could I write about?<br />
<i><br /></i>
Coincidentally later on that day, <a href="https://www.perthfestival.com.au/event/highway-to-hell" target="_blank">Highway to Hell</a>, the much heralded finale of the 2020 <a href="https://www.perthfestival.com.au/" target="_blank">Perth Festival</a> was taking place. On the 40th anniversary of the death of Perth local and former <a href="https://www.acdc.com/welcome" target="_blank">AC/DC</a> lead singer, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bon_Scott" target="_blank">Bon Scott</a>, the event intended to be a homage to his legacy. A logistical feat, it involved closing down 10 km of a road called Canning Highway, a strip immortalised in the AC/DC song, <i>Highway to Hell</i>. A convoy of eight trucks, each containing live acts would motor the length of the highway from 4pm - 9.30pm, entertaining the crowds and stopping at three key points to play one full AC/DC song of their interpretation.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikCbQu7ayYDdB6tOt3WCgA34gBQZKbozSCXps6o36dimztAhjoZ100VRD6uT02BgpfGt1SkMU2yyfmKhhWxOW6sAXw5W5OdbeXO-KBS8uzj82Ub6QJDBuH9RdiYcsdfWvHhbNZh7uJpA/s1600/IMG_1022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="924" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikCbQu7ayYDdB6tOt3WCgA34gBQZKbozSCXps6o36dimztAhjoZ100VRD6uT02BgpfGt1SkMU2yyfmKhhWxOW6sAXw5W5OdbeXO-KBS8uzj82Ub6QJDBuH9RdiYcsdfWvHhbNZh7uJpA/s400/IMG_1022.JPG" width="288" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Truck trundling</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Pic courtesy of the Twitterverse</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Everyone in Perth knew about the event because for weeks leading up to it, event information had been splashed all around the city and you couldn't drive anywhere in the areas surrounding Canning Highway without seeing road signs stating:<br />
<br />
<b>CANNING HIGHWAY CLOSED MAR 1. HIGHWAY TO HELL</b><br />
<br />
It was the ultimate form of advertising for Perth is car central, so much so that eventually the citizens will lose their legs and grow wheels.<br />
<br />
My friend knew I was going but she had no plans to. Her sentiment was that she didn't understand why the Perth arts community would go to such lengths to commemorate a drunk bogan, rock icon that he was.<br />
<br />
<i>Why can't they have chosen someone with better qualities to honour?</i> she asked, <i>rather than someone who used to drive around pissed, shagging lots of women?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I could see her point but it was a question I didn't have an answer for. By definition, her description of Bon Scott probably could have been found in the dictionary under the words ROCK STAR (of a certain era. Or not)<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>But who else do you know that would draw the mixed crowds?</i> I asked.<i> Wh</i><i>o else would three local councils </i><i>AND the state government </i><i>work together to shut down that road for? I can't even think of a sports person they would do that for?</i><br />
<br />
I really couldn't.<br />
<br />
Later that evening, I gathered with thousands of others under the freight container rainbow sculpture in East Fremantle, the last stopping point for the trucks where each band would play a final song. The crowd was mixed, there were families, students, pensioners, tourists, the odd bogan and everything in between. The fact that it was a free, unlicensed family event created an easy going atmosphere amongst the punters. Local acts and DJs entertained the crowd while we waited for the sighting of the first truck.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHbu-G_ctNNEDTIHR0MR-DaytNaFwIvEBL9XSXVFCtfAc7GlEWAf4kCmqy8nBQ_3gtJdrkI4ppANaLloU4nE4sG66kkv-GD0rVA055tlhVw9vYvRoONa-WYja1FvhyphenhyphenEOFJqW2hbre9tQ/s1600/IMG_1015%255B6751%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHbu-G_ctNNEDTIHR0MR-DaytNaFwIvEBL9XSXVFCtfAc7GlEWAf4kCmqy8nBQ_3gtJdrkI4ppANaLloU4nE4sG66kkv-GD0rVA055tlhVw9vYvRoONa-WYja1FvhyphenhyphenEOFJqW2hbre9tQ/s400/IMG_1015%255B6751%255D.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>East Fremantle Rainbow</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When it came, it was the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Pigram_Brothers" target="_blank">Pigram Brothers</a>; a much loved local Broome band singing a version of <i>TNT </i>followed by <i>Long Way to the Top</i>. Musically they were fantastic but their expressions suggested that they all wanted a nice lie down.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>They look knackered</i> I shouted to my friend R, just as one of the band spoke to the crowd:<br />
<br />
<i>We have been playing non stop for four hours. </i><br />
<br />
<i>That explains it</i> R replied.<br />
<br />
After that the trucks kept coming showcasing the following acts:<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
Dom Mariani with the Tommyhawks / Steve 'N' Seagulls / Carla Geneve with the Floors / Shonen Knife / Odette Mercy with Mathas / Amyl and the Sniffers / Abbe May with The Southern River Band.<br />
<br />
<div>
It was a treat for me to hear the array of Australian music on offer, and also enjoy the acts from Finland and Japan. My favourite of the night was <a href="https://www.facebook.com/carlagenevemusic" target="_blank">Carla Geneve</a> and the Floors performing a sublime version of <i>Hells Bells. </i>I also loved <a href="https://www.facebook.com/odettemercyahsa" target="_blank">Odette Mercy</a> singing <i>High Voltage</i> in Tongan<br />
<br />
The last truck came with <a href="https://www.abbemay.co/" target="_blank">Abbe May</a> with The Southern River Band performing <i>Can I Sit Next to You Girl</i>. As they rolled off, the event ended and the barricades opened. It felt anticlimactic as we all started walking down the said Highway to Hell to wherever our next destinations were.<br />
<div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuDDZ8HSfE0hx3EnYtF9bKz4oVj8PwAq3Q2A7zG7gI40ipY6mRi6DVYCw68HOz2fK7I9A7j4fSIoaKRxavo9R9b7Me4dJHmwBOHoMaGUGy2E9ezzezMv24yrykfyYtX4SOhGiQL3sJSQ/s1600/IMG_1025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuDDZ8HSfE0hx3EnYtF9bKz4oVj8PwAq3Q2A7zG7gI40ipY6mRi6DVYCw68HOz2fK7I9A7j4fSIoaKRxavo9R9b7Me4dJHmwBOHoMaGUGy2E9ezzezMv24yrykfyYtX4SOhGiQL3sJSQ/s400/IMG_1025.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Freo showed up for AC/DC</span></b><br />
Pic courtesy of Twitterverse</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br />
<i>Is that it?</i> I thought to myself. I wanted more but there was none to be had. Later I realised my post AC/DC malaise was due to the lack of momentum caused by the event structure. Each truck appeared for a moment and then was whisked away. It was like swiping on Tinder (I've been told), seeing only the briefest idea of a person or in this case, the band. I had gone expecting a live gig and what the event was, was AC/DC on Tinder. There was no chance to get stuck into the act or their music.<br />
<br />
In the end though, the only music that really mattered that night was Accadacca's. Beloved by the hundreds and thousands of Perth citizens who swarmed to hear it played, it showed the power that songs can have through time and space. And that you can still be the life of the party, even when you're dead.<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #2e3247; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<br />
<i><b>And the music was good and the music was loud<br />And the singer turned and he said to the crowd<br />Let there be rock</b></i><br />
<br />
-Let There Be Rock - AC/DC<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-23336033100926868852019-05-09T20:53:00.003+01:002019-05-10T08:44:44.244+01:00Hiatus<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's been awhile since I've posted and that's no coincidence. Years ago I started blogging as a way to keep writing under the illusion that someone, somewhere might read it.* When I started in 2005 (another blog, not this one), I was newly married, childless, starting a new life in London and recovering from ME. Now in 2019, I'm still married, have one child, consider London home** and recovering every day from the juggling act that is work-family-social-writing.<br />
<br />
Unlike 2005 I now have a semi-regular writing practice because I am trying to write a children's book. I got serious about it a few years back when people started dropping dead around me so this children's book is my mid life crisis, only that I have always written in some form or other. Serious means that any spare time is sucked up by the book and a few other writing projects that I hope will gain traction.<br />
<br />
So being <i><b>serious about writing</b> </i>(oh so serious<i>) </i>means that I don't have time to blog anymore. If I ever finish the bloody thing, I might start again but until that elusive point in time (insert Gatsby's green light here) I will not be blogging.<br />
<br />
So until that fine morning, take care and see you on the flip side.<br />
<br />
<div style="font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">To be a serious writer requires discipline that is iron fisted. It’s sitting down and doing it whether you think you have it in you or not. Every day. Alone. Without interruption. . . . There is no glamour in writing. In fact it’s heartbreak most of the time.” ~Harper Lee</span></i></span></div>
<br />
<br />
* And because it amuses me<br />
** Until Brexit happened.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-15599208730395646702018-09-27T16:35:00.001+01:002018-09-27T17:13:22.008+01:00Palate Cleansing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I googled 'Australian - Chinese' writers recently in a pique of curiosity to see what would come up. <a href="https://www.sbs.com.au/topics/life/culture/article/2017/12/20/no-one-born-hyphenated-meet-asian-australian-writers-youll-be-reading-2018" target="_blank">This article</a> caught my interest, mainly because of the word 'hyphenated.'<br />
<br />
Years ago when I was a university student in Perth, I was introduced to the works of Trinh Minh-ha, who wrote something that has stuck in my head all these years.<br />
<br />
<i><b>'The challenge of a hyphenated reality lies in the hyphen itself. The hyphenated condition certainly does not limit itself to a duality between cultural conditions</b></i>.'<br />
<br />
I had not, up to that point, ever thought of myself as a hyphen, or hyphenated, but Minh-ha's theory around hybrid identities resonated with me. And still does because it provides an apt symbol for those of us who have or still do straddle multiple ethnic and cultural worlds as part of our daily lives. The fact that the article that caught my interest about Australian-Chinese writers is titled '<a href="https://www.sbs.com.au/topics/life/culture/article/2017/12/20/no-one-born-hyphenated-meet-asian-australian-writers-youll-be-reading-2018" target="_blank">No-one is Born Hyphenated.</a>' shows it is still a popular symbol being used <br />
<br />
Anyway, the opening paragraph contained another sentence that caught my attention. I quote:<br />
<br />
<b><i>Ethnic literature's hot. And important, too,” says one writing
instructor. “I’m sick of ethnic lit,” a fellow student retorts, “It’s
full of descriptions of exotic food.” </i></b><br />
<br />
This made me laugh because the memoir I am writing about growing up as a Chinese kid in Australia contains <b>lots</b> of descriptions about the getting, preparing and eating of said <i>exotic </i>food. <br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>I am such a cliche </i></b>was my second thought. <br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
Which got me thinking about us hyphenated Chinese - (add second culture here, or third, ad infinitum) people for whom food is, to put it mildly, pretty important.<br />
<br />
<i></i><b><i></i></b>
And not just any food. Good Food. Good Chinese Food.<br />
<br />
<i></i><b><i></i></b>
Good Chinese Food is very important to most of my Chinese-hyphen friends. I have friends that have rice every night. Congee is important. Meat is important. Quality is important. Wok flame is important.<br />
<br />
It makes sense. Irrespective of culture, your palate is formed by the food you eat growing up. And your attitudes towards food are informed by your environment . For the Chinese, food is imbued with vast powers. It is medicinal. It is preventative. It is superstition. It is celebratory. It is family. It is communion. It is value-for-money. It is, just short of religion. Actually, it is a religion. For the Chinese, food is a religion.<br />
<br />
Somehow, I became an atheist.<br />
<br />
Like most of my hybrid friends, Chinese food was a huge part of my upbringing but now, unlike some of them, I do not regard Chinese Food as the apex of the culinary universe. I like it. I eat it occasionally. I eat a lot of it if mum and dad are visiting. But for the most part, it does not feature in my daily diet.<br />
<br />
This does not compute with some of these friends. It doesn't compute with my mother although she pretends it does. <br />
<br />
<b><i>But what do you eat?</i></b> they ask, aghast.<br />
<br />
I like raw things, I like vegetarian food. I don't really like congee. I think stir-frying is handy, but over- rated. <br />
<br />
I don't want to eat the things that I had to eat every night growing up. My palate is not a case of either-or. Chinese Food vs All Other Food. <br />
<br />
There is however, one Chinese dish which I worship with holy devotion. It has sustained me for 43 years, most likely because I don’t have it that often.<br />
<br />
Like the title of the article, we are not born hyphenated. We are born multitudinal. I couldn't exercise that within my palate as a child when rice was might.<br />
<br />
But I can now. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-6340180029847805112018-09-18T17:23:00.002+01:002018-09-18T19:03:48.559+01:00Going Full BAME<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
BAME is the common acronym used in the UK for anyone who is Black. Asian. Minority. Ethnic. I fit into the BAME definition but it is a term which I have never liked. The first time I ever heard it was during a job interview for Yellow Earth theatre. I was fresh off the boat (another popular term used in relation to BAME people). I had not been in London long and was bright-eyed and bushy- tailed in my eagerness to submerge myself into the arts scene.<br />
<br />
I thought the interview was going well when the Chinese-British director asked what I thought about working for a BAME company.<br />
<br />
<i>Excuse me? What's that?</i><br />
<br />
<i>BAME. Black. Asian. Minority. Ethnic.</i><br />
<br />
I stared at him. Was he serious?<br />
<br />
<i>What a horrible term. We’re all just lumped in together?!</i><br />
<br />
The comment was out before I could stop it. The smile left the director's and he pursed his lips defensively.<br />
<br />
<i>What's wrong with it?</i><br />
<br />
<i>Sorry, I just haven't heard that before</i>, I back pedaled. <i>It's not a term that's used in Australia.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Well what do you use in Australia?</i><br />
<br />
<i>For theatres like this, we would usually say Community Theatre. Not BAME.</i><br />
<br />
<i>BAME is more descriptive. </i><br />
<br />
<i>How? Where do I fit? I'm Chinese. Does that make me Minority or Ethnic? I know it's not Asian cause Asian means Indian in this country. </i><br />
<br />
The look he gave me told me he thought I was an idiot first and foremost, irrespective of ethnicity. <br />
<br />
Needless to say, I didn't get the job. I left in a huff.<br />
<br />
<i>What a moron</i> I thought. <i>Talk about being a willing participant in your own incarceration</i>.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimo47txJaa9igRX_U61ASslMeliM0DxrNO0YuGEFqJiPv07QdKiUmjpZImmkuoi6s0aS4lYtkJ285-6kOuGJyA54XAxUwwFi4CW4iOZMgpSQtwHfvqmAArKaD9vUpWqrvRj7UgA-JUyQ/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="185" data-original-width="272" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimo47txJaa9igRX_U61ASslMeliM0DxrNO0YuGEFqJiPv07QdKiUmjpZImmkuoi6s0aS4lYtkJ285-6kOuGJyA54XAxUwwFi4CW4iOZMgpSQtwHfvqmAArKaD9vUpWqrvRj7UgA-JUyQ/s400/index.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Finally, publishing is taking a Benetton approach.</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Years later (ie, now) when I started attending writing retreats and workshops, I heard the BAME term being bandied about again. It turns out that being a BAME is a good thing in publishing right now as the industry and market have realised that not only white people can tell stories or write books. <br />
<br />
I absorbed this news and unlike my younger angry self, I decided to go all in. Go Full BAME. <br />
<br />
<i>Why not use this moment to my advantage</i> I thought. <i>I sure as hell need whatever help I can get</i>.<br />
<br />
So I started applying for writing awards and competitions specifically aimed at BAME people. Luck would have it that I got offered places on some of them. Does this make me feel like I sold out?<br />
<br />
Nope. It makes me feel like about fucking time other voices and people were considered legit and commercial.<br />
<br />
Maybe this turn around in my attitude was the getting of wisdom. In all likelihood, it was just wanting to get.<br />
<br />
Get something. In writing. Out. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-31920799560515902842018-09-06T16:20:00.001+01:002018-09-06T16:20:36.892+01:00Middle of the Road<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Middle age happens so suddenly. The future is infinite until one day, it is not. The first time someone called me middle-aged, I scoffed.<br />
<br />
<i>You are middle-aged </i><br />
<br />
<i>No I'm not! </i><br />
<br />
<i>Yes you are. You're over forty. Do you think you'll live until eighty- something?</i><br />
<br />
Hmm. He had a point. I don't intend to live past eighty, and if I do, it will be an accident.<br />
<br />
But despite the logic of numbers and average human lifespan presented to me, I did not consider myself middle-aged. The symptoms against which middle-agedness is gauged (in my society) such as physical decline, irrational desires to tick off bucket-list items (compete in marathons, write a book, adopt unflattering hairstyles) and an increasing observation that everyone seems really <b><i>young </i></b>all happened and are happening to me but I remained staunch in my refusal to be one of them.<br />
<br />
The Middle Aged.<br />
<br />
Those people.<br />
<br />
Then Book Club happened. Book Club has been happening to me for the past few years. It is, perhaps, another sign of being Middle-Aged but I'll pretend that I didn't just say that. <br />
<br />
Book Club asked all members to nominate a book for the next meeting. I hummed and hawed as I scanned the three shelves of books that are on my 'to read ' list. None of them seemed suitable. I looked at my list of notes where I write down book titles that seem interesting.<br />
<br />
Nah.<br />
<br />
I gazed at my shelves and my notes. Then it hit me.<br />
<br />
I will never read all the books I want to read before I die.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJwk9fPQ9Z7fHkDgr3bsj5bni8TxjlslztwuHFhELmI3ojT2Pcfas8p-MQI-1uK-kdFU98X5V2zSktvsPDCZZfF-tmlKZJ7Rs2jflzsrXQx7h1KEy8tFl4tyXk8fiWB2RjhiTdnGX0jg/s1600/easy-chinese-reading.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJwk9fPQ9Z7fHkDgr3bsj5bni8TxjlslztwuHFhELmI3ojT2Pcfas8p-MQI-1uK-kdFU98X5V2zSktvsPDCZZfF-tmlKZJ7Rs2jflzsrXQx7h1KEy8tFl4tyXk8fiWB2RjhiTdnGX0jg/s400/easy-chinese-reading.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>In my head, I am this age when reading</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Nk6WtcFXUCcnsgBZYkxc0uVRnc-SmPLb76WvIsUj83LbVG-qpeCROSFZu4VoVe4zKrEutYrcoKEF4hgIev40sRPZjpoU39F6BQ-yyCacUgdM3NrPyOgEBmr9UzY8uAIWVHrbiug11Q/s1600/one-happy-senior-chinese-woman-260nw-724443013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="390" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Nk6WtcFXUCcnsgBZYkxc0uVRnc-SmPLb76WvIsUj83LbVG-qpeCROSFZu4VoVe4zKrEutYrcoKEF4hgIev40sRPZjpoU39F6BQ-yyCacUgdM3NrPyOgEBmr9UzY8uAIWVHrbiug11Q/s400/one-happy-senior-chinese-woman-260nw-724443013.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>In reality, I am closer to this age when reading</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
The list is too long. Some of the books I want to read, I don't even know that I want to read them because they haven't been written yet.<br />
<br />
I realised that I no longer have the luxury of thinking, <i>I'll read that some day. I'll get around to it</i>. That the years I have left are not sufficient read all that I want.<br />
<br />
It's a tragedy.<br />
<br />
And just like that, I became Middle-Aged.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-23717474421482217942018-05-31T17:27:00.002+01:002018-09-10T11:46:38.010+01:00Bird: by Crystal Chan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
There is something about certain books you read as a child that stay with you. For all the reading I’ve done as an adult, nothing comes close to the obsessive amount of times I re-read <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/childrens-books-site/2013/jul/05/review-esther-hautzig-endless-steppe">The Endless Steppe</a>; <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Bridge-Terabithia-Katherine-Paterson/dp/0060734019">Bridge to Terabithia</a>; <a href="https://www.penguin.co.uk/authors/michael-ende/15061/">Momo</a>; <a href="https://www.vox.com/2016/4/11/11394904/beverly-cleary-still-alive-ramona-quimby">the Ramona series</a>; <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/1696081.Hating_Alison_Ashley" target="_blank">Hating Alison Ashley</a> and the first book I never returned to my school library, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dancing-Star-Gladys-Malvern/dp/1504030257">Dancing Star by Gladys Malvern</a>.* I knew every yellowed page, every dog-eared wrinkle, every dirty finger smudge found within the pages of those stories. Falling in love with a book or a story for the first time usually happens, if it happens at all, when you are a kid and discovering the world of reading.<br />
<br />
<br />
So when I was told that to write children’s stories, you must read prolifically in the genre, it was a task I looked forward to. My seven year old daughter certainly helped me come up to speed with what kids her age were now reading. Judy Moody. The Treehouse Series. Wimpy Kid. They were fine but left no impression on me. So I branched out and started reading random middle-grade books that looked interesting in the library or bookshop. I read best-selling middle grade, obscure middle grade; local and overseas middle grade. I enjoyed many of them but none of them left a mark of any kind. I did not re-read any of them.<br />
<br />
Then I read <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13260749-bird"><b><i>Bird</i></b> </a>by <a href="http://crystalchan.net/">Crystal Chan</a>.<br />
<br />
I found <a href="http://www.thepiratetree.com/2014/08/21/bird-an-interview-with-crystal-chan/"><b><i>Bird</i></b></a> one weekend when visiting Brighton. We were sheltering from the rain in the local Waterstones and my daughter was doing her best to keep us prisoners of the children’s book section. We were not allowed to leave until she had inspected all that she wanted to inspect, which was considerable. I really only had myself to blame, having fostered this habit in her since birth so I followed suit. I picked up <b><i>Bird,</i></b> initially because of the surname signifying East Asian descent. There aren’t many Chinese people writing kids books. So I picked it up and after reading the first few pages, put it down, thinking ‘I already have too many books.' Then I picked it back up. Read a bit more. This dance of denial continued for a good while and eventually, the only possible outcome happened which was that <i>Bird</i> came out of the shop with me. Paid for, of course.<br />
<br />
And then it sat in my bookshelf for over six months.<br />
<br />
I had the good sense to pack it for a writing weekend away and started to read it on my train journey. By Chapter Three, I was hooked. By Chapter Four, I was texting people to tell them that THEY MUST READ THIS BOOK.<br />
<br />
What was it about <i><b>Bird</b></i> that hooked me? The voice of the main character, a young girl called Jewel, was stronger than anything I have read in a long while. Also the way Ms Chan writes about Jewel’s relationship with the natural world literally was breathtaking and for me, instantly relatable. There were certain phrases in the story that made me just stop. Really stop and pay attention and absorb what had just been said on the page. I was in thrall of what the author had managed to do. Which in my case, was to wake up a part of me that hasn’t been reached by a book or a story in a very long time. <i>Bird</i> is a book I wish I had written. <br />
<br />
I wrote to Ms Chan the minute I finished reading it. I just had to. I told her that she had set the bar to another level for me and how much I admired her talent. Her swift reply was gracious, kind, and in truth, a bit quirky. <br />
<br />
Lit up somehow from this experience, I started reading, <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/books/2010/sep/04/my-name-is-mina-david-almond"><b><i>My Name is Mina</i></b></a>, by <a href="http://davidalmond.com/">David Almond</a> the next day. As I turned the first few pages, I thought it would not be in the same stratosphere as <i>Bird</i>. I mean, how could it?<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYtQ0RA7Etge4agK2T1VEoyfTo2FatIanl0AKaJR_1fnG_R2a7p5E_oWpUmrXE_Yen4TMQO0bQYfBiRrZUS9Ct5uS91W8VZ9CBeU-ffymQjxEabHJ_geCKUW4vLX2r4a5o-cPd_R9mEw/s1600/IMG_3046.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYtQ0RA7Etge4agK2T1VEoyfTo2FatIanl0AKaJR_1fnG_R2a7p5E_oWpUmrXE_Yen4TMQO0bQYfBiRrZUS9Ct5uS91W8VZ9CBeU-ffymQjxEabHJ_geCKUW4vLX2r4a5o-cPd_R9mEw/s400/IMG_3046.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">YOU MUST READ THESE BOOKS</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br />
I read it in an hour. I ignored my daughter who was waiting for her breakfast and gave her an ipad instead. I ignored the beep of the washing machine finishing its cycle. I ignored my buzzing mobile.<br />
<br />
<br />
To be cracked open by two incandescent, insightful and special books in a week just does not happen anymore. Until it does and I am reminded, thankfully, that experiences from childhood can still be had. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*Technically this is called stealing which is not a good idea. </div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-56462924328072587722018-05-22T16:19:00.000+01:002018-05-22T16:21:14.742+01:00 Spread the Word Life Writing Prize<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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</xml><![endif]-->During a sluggish period with the children’s book I am (forever) writing, I saw a call for competition entries for the <a href="https://www.spreadtheword.org.uk/enter-the-life-writing-prize-2018/" target="_blank">Spread the Word Life Writing Prize</a>. Life writing, as defined by the competition rules, is writing that is based on real life experiences of the author. As luck would have it, I had a piece that I had started writing a few years ago about growing up in Australia during the 70s and 80s and what it was like to be the only Chinese kid in school. I dug it up, worked on it and then sent it off to the competition. <br />
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To my surprise and delight, my entry was <a href="https://www.spreadtheword.org.uk/projects/life-writing-prize/#LIFE%20WRITING%20PRIZE%202018" target="_blank">longlisted alongside eleven other writer</a><a href="https://www.spreadtheword.org.uk/projects/life-writing-prize/#LIFE%20WRITING%20PRIZE%202018" target="_blank">s</a>. This meant that I got to attend the Awards Ceremony and read an excerpt from my piece. I met the other longlisted writers; <a href="https://www.spreadtheword.org.uk/life-writing-prize-judges-2018-theyre-looking/" target="_blank">competition judges</a>; the wonderful <a href="https://www.gold.ac.uk/goldfish16/life-writing/joanna-munro/" target="_blank">Joanna Munro</a> who is personally financing the award for five years and the <a href="https://www.spreadtheword.org.uk/about-us/#Team" target="_blank">Spread the Word staff</a> who were super to deal with in the lead up to the Awards Night. I also got to invite my long-suffering friends to the ceremony where they actually heard some words I’d written rather than me babbling on about writing to them but not ever showing them anything. <br />
<br />
After we had all read from our pieces, <a href="https://www.spreadtheword.org.uk/14016-2/" target="_blank">Danny Brunton</a> was announced as the winner with his with his piece, <a href="https://www.spreadtheword.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2018/05/New-Boy-by-Danny-Brunton.pdf" target="_blank"><i>New Boy</i></a>, alongside <a href="https://www.spreadtheword.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2018/05/Paradoxical-by-Xanthi-Barker.pdf" target="_blank"><i>Paradoxical</i> </a>by Xanthi Barker and <a href="https://www.spreadtheword.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2018/05/Small-Talk-by-Laura-Morgan.pdf" target="_blank"><i>Small Talk</i></a> by Laura Morgan as highly commended entries.<br />
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I had already been informed by Spread the Word prior to the event that I had not made the shortlist, so I knew that I was not in the running. But to me, I felt I had already won; obvious to all that were not blind by the huge shit-eating grin plastered to my face the whole night. Because I think when I found out I had made the longlist, it may have been the happiest day of my life. More than my wedding day or the day my child was born. <br />
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That’s how happy it made me. Pure unadulterated joy unmarred by stress (wedding) and pain (childbirth) <br />
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What a terrible thing for a mother and wife to say. <br />
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But it’s true. <br />
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It was a really good day. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-34340180819222331102018-04-20T16:10:00.000+01:002018-04-20T17:37:30.073+01:00The First Draft<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It’s been a long time since I last wrote on this blog. The reason being that I have been busy writing elsewhere. For the past year, any spare writing time has been devoted to working on my children’s book and I think, I hope, that the first draft is nearly done.<br />
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There are different definitions of what a first draft is. For some, it is the initial purge of words and spewing of ideas onto the page to clear your mind and focus. It is after the process of spewage that you actually begin to write the story.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj61APT65swLmTpwuZTz5xS8dTbcTnXj2JRaB8kCEUFLV595ZYhNJxzgGGoe5tM69ZlYDXHYA9yrjT6Q1NSL2-gBvlI841z36fDD98-COgQjGWOLMwzmgzATSYNtG11xhUSxb-JrGgvZA/s1600/IMG_2614.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="1548" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj61APT65swLmTpwuZTz5xS8dTbcTnXj2JRaB8kCEUFLV595ZYhNJxzgGGoe5tM69ZlYDXHYA9yrjT6Q1NSL2-gBvlI841z36fDD98-COgQjGWOLMwzmgzATSYNtG11xhUSxb-JrGgvZA/s320/IMG_2614.jpg" width="390" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">My First Draft</span></b></td></tr>
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This was my belief until one day, while chatting to another writer, she said her definition of a first draft is when you can do no more. That the story is as good as you can make it and that you need outside help, usually from an editor, to take it to the next stage.<br />
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I shuddered.<br />
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‘That means your first draft could take years!’ <br />
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She nodded. <br />
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‘Yep.’<br />
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It’s annoying to be reminded that there are no short cuts to writing. Telling yourself that you are on your fourth draft after six months is much more satisfying than being on your first draft after one year. Satisfying because it sounds like you have done more and are further ahead, even if you aren’t.<br />
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‘Why would you make it harder for yourself? ‘I wondered after our chat. <br />
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However, I couldn’t rid myself of the idea that the first draft should be the best version of the story that you can produce on your own. And so I have been doing precisely that. Writing a first draft over and over and over again. Say ‘over’ really fast for fifteen minutes and you get some idea of what I’ve been up to.<br />
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This year of writing has been a big learning curve for me. I’ve met other aspiring and published writers and therefore I now know what MG, YA and PB* means. I know the functions of an agent, editor and publisher. I know that apparently, your narrator should always be older than your target market.** I know what a beta reader*** is and even found some for my not-yet-completed first draft. And I’ve been reminded that to try and write seriously is fricking hard and completely satisfying. </div>
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*MG - middle grade, YA - young adult, PB - picture book.<br />
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** So if your story is aimed for 7-9 years old, your narrator ideally should be older than that. Personally, I think this is bollocks.<br />
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*** The first readers of your complete draft.<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-78361611559050034542017-09-29T13:52:00.000+01:002017-09-29T13:52:56.222+01:00Andrée Grau<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Andrée Grau is the <a href="https://pure.roehampton.ac.uk/portal/en/persons/andree-grau(4c295381-1da8-423c-b045-862f21ccc753).html/" target="_blank">Professor of Dance Anthropology</a> at <a href="https://www.roehampton.ac.uk/" target="_blank">Roehampton University</a>.<br />
<br />
Yesterday while marking student papers in one of her favourite parks in France, she died suddenly of a heart attack.<br />
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I met Andrée in 2010. I was six months pregnant and about to start the MA Dance Anthropology degree at Roehampton for which she was the Programme Head.<br />
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At that first meeting, she exuded warmth and interest in her new student cohort. She was fascinating to look at, dressed in beautiful clothes put together with a unique eye. Her lipstick was vibrant, her jewellery works of art and her makeup impeccable. All my misgivings about starting the course in the late stages of pregnancy melted in the presence of this engaged and charismatic person. I was won over even before I'd even heard one of her fascinating lectures or experienced her wise counsel and acute perception.<br />
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I was a part-time student and in the four years it took me to complete the MA, Andrée was ever present. She guided me, helped me and listened to me. When I was in the first year of motherhood, trying desperately to cope with a sick baby, my own ill health and essay deadlines, she was the only person who really saw what was going on for me and told me not to quit. That she could help me find a way through.<br />
<br />
Andrée was a internationally renowned dance scholar. She was a pioneer in the field of dance anthropology; a niche discipline which she helped develop and grow. Students travelled from all around the globe to study her course at Roehampton. Despite her reputation and prodigious academic output she had no intellectual arrogance or entitlement. She was down to earth, funny, sharp and kind.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirvfb8btY-XERY6vHuq_J4730f5GEXtzNM9KPK6OEuhKeJ4-P0B_XD8rtor2P6HUkGCuaIbtyBwwoDrZanWH7OsjxPr95nR2vhNZ439Bb_MvanUBZj8Wif66dmecumsz8qGejCQr4zXw/s1600/1929012_69315871411_2706652_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="294" data-original-width="284" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirvfb8btY-XERY6vHuq_J4730f5GEXtzNM9KPK6OEuhKeJ4-P0B_XD8rtor2P6HUkGCuaIbtyBwwoDrZanWH7OsjxPr95nR2vhNZ439Bb_MvanUBZj8Wif66dmecumsz8qGejCQr4zXw/s400/1929012_69315871411_2706652_n.jpg" width="386" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Andrée Grau</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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It's a terrible lesson to learn that sometimes things you put off, last forever. I hadn't seen Andrée after I graduated from Roehampton in 2014. We made plans to meet occasionally but it never eventuated. She was busy. I was busy. We'd catch up on Facebook from time to time. But that's it. We'll never have that coffee together.<br />
<br />
I always thought I would go and seek her advice when it came time to consider a PhD. She would have been expecting me. Even though she knew I had no wish to be an academic, she knew that I am a scholar at heart.<br />
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It stuns me that I won't be able to do that. That I won't be able to talk and discuss and laugh with her ever again. I wanted to ask her about fieldwork and how she thought I could conduct it with a family. I wanted to ask her so much.<br />
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All day long, tributes from her ex students and colleagues from all far flung corners of the world have been coming up on Facebook. They speak about her warmth, her kindness, how she looked out for each and every one of us. How much she was held in high regard and with genuine respect. We are all devastated.<br />
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For all that she gave us, I hope she knew how much we respected and loved her. How much we owe to her and what an impact she had on so many lives. I hope she took heart in the fact that she created many new dance anthropologists, all scattered around the globe. That we honour her legacy and will remember her always.<br />
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I can't believe she's gone.<br />
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Thank you Andrée. I will miss you.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-86025307834586202462017-07-03T10:32:00.002+01:002017-07-04T16:15:33.338+01:00 Arvon Foundation's Children's and YA Fiction Tutored Writing Retreat<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A few months ago, I attended the Arvon Foundation's Children's and YA Fiction <a href="http://www.arvon.org/retreats/#tutoredRetreats" target="_blank">Tutored Writing Retrea</a>t. I'd started writing a children's novel in March 2016 and I knew I would need help along the way if I wanted to get to the end. My aim in writing was not to be published. Not to become an author. Just to finish writing a book.<br />
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<a href="https://lifeinthelittlesmoke.blogspot.co.uk/2016/07/writers-retreat-at-clockhouse.html" target="_blank">My prior weekend experience at Arvon</a> had been so positive that I had high hopes for this course. A week in a remote part of Devon dedicated to writing with one-to-one tutoring from published authors in the genre. In the company of other writers all working towards the same goal.<br />
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It sounded idyllic.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWF7NUL_BAzeckVv5LexZf9xvfhgVNw0RBLCGhCoCb3ac5JUQ2Zl5szzAZPoV7RY3uvXjXnlTBSW1Nn3AZu0SdcS7d8I1c7PbMHW7_K8xe6FzOExkPN_QAQaVRMYiqpGErqsYo9ruTpA/s1600/18194247_10155015054491210_7865492655370742203_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWF7NUL_BAzeckVv5LexZf9xvfhgVNw0RBLCGhCoCb3ac5JUQ2Zl5szzAZPoV7RY3uvXjXnlTBSW1Nn3AZu0SdcS7d8I1c7PbMHW7_K8xe6FzOExkPN_QAQaVRMYiqpGErqsYo9ruTpA/s400/18194247_10155015054491210_7865492655370742203_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsinLAxuDahp6CFSHIwN-GqqdHRlRf6Z4l-9daIujaIs5PKvpTEA3Rz6V0ztlsMMGqPM3qTmXbr_xvZOngrw3jXbbiGuq_CPmw8w86blfY6w7jWKWkwVrGLnSrV4xSyRKLXAIMJn_BZQ/s1600/18198572_10155015054566210_5547041282829594898_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsinLAxuDahp6CFSHIwN-GqqdHRlRf6Z4l-9daIujaIs5PKvpTEA3Rz6V0ztlsMMGqPM3qTmXbr_xvZOngrw3jXbbiGuq_CPmw8w86blfY6w7jWKWkwVrGLnSrV4xSyRKLXAIMJn_BZQ/s400/18198572_10155015054566210_5547041282829594898_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Arvon Totleigh Barton centre</span></b></td></tr>
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I arrived at the <a href="http://www.arvon.org/centres/totleigh-barton/" target="_blank">Arvon Totleigh cente</a>r near Sheepwash in Devon with 30,000 words of a story that did not work. It had taken me about thirteen months to accumulate and shape those words; time stolen and snatched amidst paid work, childcare and domestic drudgery. I wasn't close to the story however and I knew something was wrong with it. But what?<br />
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Turns out, just about everything.<br />
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<a href="http://melvinburgess.net/news/" target="_blank">Melvin Burgess</a> and <a href="http://www.lucychristopher.com/" target="_blank">Lucy Christopher</a> were the tutors at Totleigh. Melvin, who has been nominated for the <a href="http://www.ibby.org/awards-activities/awards/hans-christian-andersen-awards/" target="_blank">2018 Hans Andersen Author Award</a> has written a gamut of YA books covering everything from dogs to drugs to Vikings to giants. Lucy, a fellow Antipodean and lecturer in the <a href="http://www.bathspa.ac.uk/courses/pg-writing-for-young-people/" target="_blank">MA Writing for Young People</a> at Bath Spa has also covered the YA market with kidnappings, swans and a soon to be published reworking of Shakespeare's, The Tempest. Despite their considerable output, I had never read a book by either of them and didn't remedy this in the lead up to the retreat, Quite frankly, I didn't have the time and I preferred not knowing their work as I wanted to meet them as people, not as authors.**<br />
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The story I'd taken to Totleigh was not for the YA market. It was aimed for 6-8 year olds in the vein of a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Ende" target="_blank">Michael Ende-ish</a> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Momo_(novel)" target="_blank">Momo</a> allegory with <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robin_Klein" target="_blank">Robin Klein</a>-<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hating_Alison_Ashley_(novel)" target="_blank">Hating-Alison- Ashley</a> humour.<br />
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Well it was in my head anyway. The reality was far from it.<br />
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All the retreat participants bonded quickly. As a group, we were united in our determination to use the week to write as we lacked time in our real lives to do so. It soon became apparent that the other thing we had in common was drinking. And even if we didn't to start with, a week at the retreat fixed that. We were a diverse group, hailing from around the UK with <a href="https://www.jessicaolien.com/" target="_blank">one participant from New York City</a>. By the end of the week, we knew not only each others plots and characters but also occupations, childrens' names, places of work, relationships and preferred choice of tipple.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG6_rOdyIi62ZHgSzy_YxHxXo7KZpF-RB1m6CEa0yf_jUjRnH8ZRE766aWmzJRjn1fAwEs7wuzQ3WpkkYNWm13xaXiw9woOTGrlS0KEnfnjxPU81wk9xh7CiQBTEDOeeUyTXo2Xpjf1g/s1600/18157417_10155015054381210_2219332161305526371_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG6_rOdyIi62ZHgSzy_YxHxXo7KZpF-RB1m6CEa0yf_jUjRnH8ZRE766aWmzJRjn1fAwEs7wuzQ3WpkkYNWm13xaXiw9woOTGrlS0KEnfnjxPU81wk9xh7CiQBTEDOeeUyTXo2Xpjf1g/s400/18157417_10155015054381210_2219332161305526371_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>This is where we ate and talked about writing. </b></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFiOZ6n2euyqFfFRGj2mIUolRpi9mxCb_xiO1SuVP8t2AK1IfU04uBcW5kMz04ZiuaVUFT3MyAumbdWhqpn-1d5dKMhV5GNwDlZ2YJPg81SWB7pgPPviFILtNK-TCZ6q2gULP84SJkwA/s1600/18194718_10155015054476210_8702508587762060989_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFiOZ6n2euyqFfFRGj2mIUolRpi9mxCb_xiO1SuVP8t2AK1IfU04uBcW5kMz04ZiuaVUFT3MyAumbdWhqpn-1d5dKMhV5GNwDlZ2YJPg81SWB7pgPPviFILtNK-TCZ6q2gULP84SJkwA/s400/18194718_10155015054476210_8702508587762060989_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">This is where we sat and talked about writing.</span></b> </td></tr>
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During the retreat, each of us had four individual tutored sessions with Melvin and Lucy over four consecutive days. We also had to cook dinner (in a group with three others) for one night and take responsibility for our own washing/clearing up. In the evenings we gathered together for group activities including author readings from Lucy and Melvin and a guest visit from <a href="http://www.walker.co.uk/contributors/David-Almond-5033.aspx" target="_blank">David Almond</a>. The last night was reserved for participants to read out something they had written during the week. The rest of the time was free for writing.<br />
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Most of us had arrived with ideas of what we would work on in the week. Mine was to edit and bash my manuscript into some sort of draft material shape. Prior to attending we'd all submitted 2000 words to both tutors so they had some clue of what everyone was working on.<br />
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My first tutorial was with Melvin. Ten minutes into that tutorial was all it took for him to accurately highlight key issues with my story. My stomach twisted as I realised I would have to rewrite the whole thing if I wanted it to be the story I wanted to tell. Goodbye thirteen months work. Goodbye 30,000 words.<br />
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Kill your babies they say of the writing process. Get rid of what you love if it doesn't serve the story, no matter how good you may think it is or how attached you are.<br />
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In my case, it was more like, <b>Torch the Village and Kill (Nearly) Everyone</b>.<br />
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It's a strange paradox that writing can be a emotional, psychical process. To create characters and stories, you have to dig deep. But then you must be completely unsentimental to shape the story into life.<br />
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It's a fascinating and grueling learning process.<br />
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I stumbled out of the tutorial slightly ashen, in a state of semi-shock. If someone had asked me there and then to climb Everest, it would have seemed an easier prospect.<br />
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Over the next day or two, I buckled down and started from the beginning. I took some comfort from the fact that others were in similar states to me. Frantically re-writing, rethinking, re-working. We all worked so hard that week, including Lucy and Melvin who were locked up inside from 9am-5pm giving feedback and advice to writers in various states of mania and descending madness.<br />
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No wonder we drank.<br />
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So two months on from the retreat and I have plugged steadily away at my story. I am still nowhere near the end but I can see it now. The story is rough and there are so many problems with it but the process of grappling with words, story and characters is rewarding. I have learned that committing to a writer's process is a daily struggle. It's hard, fantastic and renewing all the one time.<br />
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A small group of us from the retreat have committed to meet monthly to give feedback to each other's projects. And in truth, to attempt to recreate a small semblance of the Arvon atmosphere. You cannot write in a vacuum and as Lucy said, <i><b>You must find your tribe</b></i>. Writing stories is hard and only other people struggling with it truly understand. <br />
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But how lucky we are that we enjoy this particular type of struggle.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEDeB670MjYPc8TZ79TcgRRBcJRuriX2IIxZl7gYNVZERFtBmImu-eUziATnaikmurLqy8xaw6je0brHsHW7e1E5rfGgIrFfT0rxTAB3ZLCzlJ6zs9LIG9JL7WKYHY1sEUIBvrJopYCA/s1600/19247994_10155190062281210_8010901181921781619_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="666" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEDeB670MjYPc8TZ79TcgRRBcJRuriX2IIxZl7gYNVZERFtBmImu-eUziATnaikmurLqy8xaw6je0brHsHW7e1E5rfGgIrFfT0rxTAB3ZLCzlJ6zs9LIG9JL7WKYHY1sEUIBvrJopYCA/s640/19247994_10155190062281210_8010901181921781619_n.jpg" width="443" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Hallelujah, Amen. </b></span></td></tr>
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**However during the retreat I read <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/childrens-books-site/2016/may/15/melvin-burgess-junk-ya-teen-fiction-censorship-drugs" target="_blank">Junk</a> by Melvin and <a href="https://www.chickenhousebooks.com/books/killing-woods/" target="_blank">The Killing Woods</a> by Lucy. Both compelling in very different ways.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-23881132366086622502017-05-23T14:58:00.000+01:002017-05-23T18:29:21.257+01:00Life's Not Fair<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I'm supposed to be working right now but I'm finding it hard to concentrate. This morning I woke up to find out that twenty two people had been killed at a music concert in <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2017/may/23/manchester-suffering-spirit-atrocity-arena-attack" target="_blank">Manchester</a> by a suicide bomber. Amongst those killed were children and teenagers. If I stopped writing this to concentrate on my Excel spreadsheet, maybe it will stop the urge to cry. But from experience, too much time on Excel can kill other signs of life.<br />
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I've tried to avoid most of the news today. In spite of this, I've heard the words 'terror' more times than I care to. I am not scared though. It's something else that is bothering me.<br />
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I should be used to waking up to catastrophic news by now. When I woke up to Brexit, I was shocked. Such shock that there was no room for tears but instead, profound grief. For I sincerely believe that it's a decision that will change the course of world history for the worse.<br />
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After that Trump was a breeze. I cried but more from anguish than pain.<br />
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Months later when <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2017_Westminster_attack" target="_blank">the guy bulldozed pedestrians</a> off Westminster Bridge right outside my work place, I made a point of walking across the bridge many times to and from work thereafter.<br />
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Brussels, France. France again. Germany. Idiots sacrifice others for misguided reasons. This has always happened of course. Right now, political instability, rising nationalism, a 24-hour news cycle and social media are the forces working to create a playing field fueled by suspicion, worry and protectionism. If continued, the Hunger Games may become non -fiction in years to come.<br />
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Maybe it's disingenuous of me to lament this latest tragedy because it is closer to home. Manchester is my patch. More so than places like Syria, Sierra Leone or Papua New Guinea where many young people endure unthinkable suffering and die every day.<br />
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Last night I checked on my six year old before I went to sleep. She looked so peaceful in repose. Such a contrast to her high energy antics during the day. I stared at her sleeping face and was struck by her vulnerability and also my own. It occurred to me that someday in the future we would be parted. I felt a physical pain in my chest and snuck out of her room.<br />
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It was an Ariana Grande concert those kids were at. I can imagine their excitement, going to a concert with their parents or unsupervised with their friends. I remember going on my own to my first concert. It's a rite of passage, something I hope my daughter experiences one day. You don't go to a concert expecting to die. Until recently this wouldn't even have been in the lexicon of 'concert going.' But with <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-34827497" target="_blank">Bataclan</a> and now Manchester, it is becoming so.<br />
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Walking home from school yesterday, my six year old told me about her day. They had been learning about an African animal that was becoming extinct.<br />
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<i><b>People kill it because they think it brings bad luck.</b></i><br />
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<b><i>What does it do that is so bad</i></b>? I asked<br />
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<b><i>Nothing. They just think it is bad luck.</i></b><br />
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<b><i>So the animal does nothing but they kill it anyway? </i></b><br />
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<b><i>Yes.</i></b><br />
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<b><i>That's not very fair.</i></b><br />
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<b><i>Life's not fair Mum. Don't you know that? Life's not fair.</i></b><br />
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It certainly isn't.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-20821191521027229932017-05-05T15:52:00.001+01:002017-05-23T18:35:48.939+01:00Brodsky/Baryshnikov<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Mikhail
Baryshnikov is a good-looking man. Nearing 70, he has charisma in spades which
was in full display last night when I attended his show, <a href="https://www.ft.com/content/61e68bd4-0906-11e7-97d1-5e720a26771b" target="_blank">Brodsky/Baryshnikov</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Marketing for the show</span></b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">When
I booked my (very expensive) ticket, I didn’t know what the show was about. All
that my bedazzled eyes could see was <b><i>Baryshnikov</i></b></span><b><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Baryshnikov</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Baryshnikov</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Baryshnikov</span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Later
when I informed the Husband that he would be on child watch duties, he read the
marketing material and raised an eyebrow:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">You
do know that he’s not dancing, don’t you?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Of
course I know that. What do you take me for?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">And
that he’s reading poetry.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Uh, duh. That’s why it’s Brodsky/Baryshnikov. Joseph Brodsky. Poet Laureate. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">In
Russian. He’s reading poetry in Russian.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Oh.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">What
could I say?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I
had not read the small print but quite frankly, I didn’t care. Baryshnikov
could be on stage brushing his teeth and I’d still have gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://bacnyc.org/about/mikhail-baryshnikov" target="_blank">Mikhail Baryshnikov</a> is one the greatest ballet dancers of all time. At the height of
his prowess as a classical dancer, he defected from Russia to Canada in 1974.
Afterwards he went on to wow the world with dance and forayed into acting,
painting, photography and writing. He never rested on his laurels. He’s pushed
himself artistically and creatively throughout his life and now nearing 70, he’s still
taking creative risks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Brodsky/Baryshnikov
is a one-man show. Over the course of 90 minutes, Baryshnikov recites Brodsky’s
poetry as if in conversation with the dead poet and performs set movement
pieces throughout. The words (thankfully) were subtitled for an English speaking audience.
Whilst I do not speak Russian, the timbre and tone of Baryshnikovs’ delivery was
compelling. Who knew he sounded so sexy in Russian? The melancholy and
hope that permeates much of Russian art and literature resonated in Brodsky’s
words. I found myself loving the poetry. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When
Baryshnikov took his shirt off and started moving, the reaction of the audience
was palpable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Is Baryshnikov
is going to dance?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But
he didn’t. He did some weird performance Butoh which I didn’t like very much. I
didn’t think it suited the show but again, it didn’t matter. This is
Baryshnikov. However odd the conception, the movements themselves were as crystalline
and precise as ever. At 70, his body could rival most men half his age. He is in
good shape. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvWVNLE6cBXkyvmxW2Fw1Tj4vhiVUL6hV1zTJcTWplo962soaYw1goKUGuK4ZLLrN9Dn2otvqBaIxcjUqpsPjFjbh_l-kS76b-93Wi1kKINxa_EWYP2EumpBzBGoLGxgJR77N2HPiTXQ/s1600/Baryshnikov-008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvWVNLE6cBXkyvmxW2Fw1Tj4vhiVUL6hV1zTJcTWplo962soaYw1goKUGuK4ZLLrN9Dn2otvqBaIxcjUqpsPjFjbh_l-kS76b-93Wi1kKINxa_EWYP2EumpBzBGoLGxgJR77N2HPiTXQ/s400/Baryshnikov-008.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Moody Russian Dancer</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">At the end, he came out to take his bow.
People stood up and clapped and clapped. Not because it was the best thing they
had ever seen but out of respect for this great artist who is still taking creative
risks and baring himself onstage. He smiled, bowed and then did a little
jump-hop-skip and ran to exit offstage.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">People
were still clapping so he came on and did it again. Bowed. Jump-hop-skip. Run to exit. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He
did it three times. That little jump-hop-skip-run.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I
guess it’s like breathing to him that jump-hop-skip-run. After every show, every performance, that is the way he exits the stage. He’s been doing it since he was a boy, since
he started learning how to dance. His body just does it automatically. This show
was not about dancing but still, he took a dancer’s bow and exit. He couldn't help it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was a weighted moment and it's what I'll remember most about the show. His jump-hop-skip exit embodied so much of Baryshnikov's history and legacy. To quote the show itself:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Life is the sum of tiny movements.</b> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">-Joseph Brodsky</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br /></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-10292398180288713412017-03-14T16:07:00.002+00:002023-04-21T15:11:54.191+01:00Not the Nanny<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The perils of working from home with children was highlighted in a most delightful way last week when <a href="https://asiansecurityblog.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Robert Kelly's</a> live BBC interview went viral. If you have no clue what I mean, check this out:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/Mh4f9AYRCZY/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Mh4f9AYRCZY?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
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The clip did the rounds quickly. Friends were eager to share the charm and humour in this 40 second clip. When I watched it, the Husband said he could hear me laughing from downstairs. Even writing about it now brings on a chuckle. </div>
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I clocked early on that the children were mixed race so I assumed that the woman who slid so spectacularly into frame was their mum. The little girl in her yellow cardigan became my hero.</div>
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The next day there was online debate whether the woman was the nanny or the mum. The clip had gone viral and the woman was being referred to as the nanny. At this point, I was unsure what she was so after some checking, I read that the woman was most definitely the mum. </div>
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I was at a party later and the video came up in conversation. We watched it, laughed and afterwards my friends spoke about the nanny in the clip.</div>
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<i><b>She's not the nanny. She's the mum.</b></i></div>
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<i><b>No no. She's the nanny.</b></i></div>
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<b><i>No she's not. She's the mum.</i> </b></div>
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<i><b>No, she's the nanny. </b></i></div>
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I let it go. I'm not sure what the reasons were for the insistence that the woman was the nanny. We didn't discuss it but it left me feeling uneasy because in 40 seconds, you probably make that assumption based on body language or race. I hoped it wasn't the latter.</div>
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Swiftly, the widespread assumption that Jung-a-Kim, the woman in the video, was the nanny or maid sparked media interest and debate over cultural stereotyping and casual racism. I jumped on the bandwagon and posted this <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-39244325" target="_blank">article</a> on my Facebook. The resulting discussion was wide ranging from affirmations that '<a href="https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2017/mar/13/nanny-bbc-interview-robert-kelly-small-children" target="_blank">Nannygate</a>' was indeed racist to comments that it was her body language and behaviour that made her seem nanny-like. Which in itself is a whole other topic of subjugation. </div>
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The most relevant question raised within my own circle was:</div>
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<b><i>Why does it even matter?</i></b></div>
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Why could we all not just enjoy the clip and not query why people assumed that Jung-a-Kim was the nanny? What's wrong with being a nanny anyway? Nothing.<br />
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When I asked myself the question, <i>why does it matter</i>, this is what I came up with.<br />
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Even if only one person out of all the thousands that viewed the clip made the assumption that Jung-a Kim was the nanny based on racial stereotyping, that is one person too many. Because assumptions like that spread and take root unless you call them out early. Assumptions like that will eventually affect my life. They already have. </div>
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Asian woman. </div>
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Servant. Maid. Nanny. Mail order bride. Subservient. Victim. Vixen. Prostitute. Dragon Lady. Tiger Mum.<br />
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All such cliches but these stereotypes live on as demonstrated by the reaction to this clip. For I'm pretty sure that more than one person based their nanny assumption on race.* </div>
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<div>
In my experience, it is not overt racism that is the most damaging or hurtful. When someone tells you to your face that you should <i><b>go back to where you came from you fucking Chinese cunt,**</b></i> a least you know what you are dealing with. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It is the subtle, covert judgement that is the most dangerous. Or what <a href="https://www.romper.com/p/assuming-the-woman-in-the-bbc-dad-video-is-the-nanny-highlights-a-dangerous-stereotype-43667" target="_blank">Jen McGuire </a>calls <i><b>casual, almost benign stereotyping</b></i>. She writes:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i><b>It's this sort of <a href="http://www.redbookmag.com/life/news/a49202/whats-wrong-with-bbc-dad-viral-video-racism-sexism/">casual, almost benign stereotyping</a> that can ultimately be so dangerous. Just because it's not aggressive or overt doesn't mean it's not changing our world view. In fact, because it can be so much more difficult to pinpoint, it's also harder to call out.</b></i></div>
<div>
<i><b><br /></b></i></div>
<div>
It's the kind of stereotyping, such as the case here with Jung-a-Kim, where because it is subtle or unintentional that you are told to stop making a mountain out of a molehill. That it is harmless. That you are looking for something that isn't there. Or that you are imagining it.<br />
<br />
If you have never experienced any form of racism nor stereotyping in your life that has affected you adversely, then you are lucky. So have some empathy, if you can, when I say:</div>
<div>
<br /><b>
We are not imagining it.</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
* I am not exempt. I have been racist. I make assumptions all the time. I can be judgmental. I try and have respect and empathy. But I don't always. In this instance, because I have grown up with this type of institutionalised racism, I am calling it out. But I have been wrong as well in other cases. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
**The Husband disagrees. He says he would prefer low level racism, even if it is more insidious, than someone coming at him with a knife shouting, '<i>Come here you fucking Paki</i>' (true story)</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7552141599085281342.post-90658909245640991492017-01-27T13:14:00.001+00:002017-01-27T21:37:55.446+00:00Women's March London 2017<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">About
a week before Trump’s inauguration I started acting like a cat does before a
storm arrives. Hair on end. Pacing around the room. Eyes darting nervously,
looking at something invisible that no-one else can see.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcvmCSE6iKwgS3bfM9aIfnT2W__TjoqfDrjM6J0GaUQV5wTnaPN_qC4lAjaFdMrh2pHz_bZk284PXHnOhYZgv6rN24eVpN27CgDBnTILXnnba0wAK3UsvM4aXQty0T18p2CtJKAaqT6A/s1600/mark-taylor-black-kitten-in-defensive-witch-s-cat-display-with-back-arched-and-hair-standing-up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcvmCSE6iKwgS3bfM9aIfnT2W__TjoqfDrjM6J0GaUQV5wTnaPN_qC4lAjaFdMrh2pHz_bZk284PXHnOhYZgv6rN24eVpN27CgDBnTILXnnba0wAK3UsvM4aXQty0T18p2CtJKAaqT6A/s320/mark-taylor-black-kitten-in-defensive-witch-s-cat-display-with-back-arched-and-hair-standing-up.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Cat before a storm. This was me.</b></td></tr>
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<i style="font-family: inherit;">'What
is wrong with you?'</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> asked the Husband as I stalked from room to room.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>'I
don’t know</i>,' I screeched. '<i>I feel possessed!'</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The
Husband after watching me pace concluded: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>'I
think you’re tapped into the zeitgeist,'</i> he muttered. '<i>Business as usual.'</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He
was right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had managed to block out
the reality of Trump’s presidency all throughout Christmas and New Year. Our
family’s return to work and school had kept me preoccupied for the first few
weeks of January. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But
around mid- month, media attention surrounding the inauguration meant I could
keep my head in the sand no longer. It was about to happen and I was pissed off
and on edge. A storm was brewing. In the
form of a radioactive orange Oompa Loompa with a mean little mouth and unnecessary
hand gestures. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieKt1-aVJJfU9Bq2oRJC_cwlwWtRy2ey0DUBrzkaG_aYA1m2XDQT-hiXuql_zDUqQgI0XrgS2Hxh1tQoW76Sx_h3-XuDLgD3I2jmhTC_suPACd8WvO9ClpY8emuStrel9yskx5ka-8LA/s1600/2F54D3C900000578-3357973-image-m-3_1449989241763.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieKt1-aVJJfU9Bq2oRJC_cwlwWtRy2ey0DUBrzkaG_aYA1m2XDQT-hiXuql_zDUqQgI0XrgS2Hxh1tQoW76Sx_h3-XuDLgD3I2jmhTC_suPACd8WvO9ClpY8emuStrel9yskx5ka-8LA/s320/2F54D3C900000578-3357973-image-m-3_1449989241763.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Change the wig to yellow and there he is</span></b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In
November, I’d registered to attend the <a href="https://www.womensmarchlondon.com/" target="_blank">Women’s March in London</a>. This march
originated as an invite from a <a href="http://www.reuters.com/article/us-usa-trump-women-idUSKBN13U0GW" target="_blank">Hawaiian grandmother </a>to forty of her Facebook
friends to march on Washington, as a reaction to Trump’s election victory.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">When she woke up the next day, the event had
gone viral. Soon thereafter, sister marches were being arranged in cities all
around the world as an act of support and solidarity to the <a href="https://www.womensmarch.com/" target="_blank">Washington march</a>. I
wanted to attend the London march for it was a means to act in accordance with
my beliefs rather than do nothing and despair at the erosion of civil liberties.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The
last time I felt compelled to march was post Brexit last July. The time before
that was twenty years ago when I was an<a href="https://www.wilderness.org.au/" target="_blank"> environmental campaigne</a>r. Those years
as a campaigner showed me the power of well organised and persistent grassroots
action. It showed me that a small group of determined people working together
can change things. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz3J6ReocLpYVLBbY9VzMlrc_lJjrT3WrQeyZSCu2Gz2fjaPzDwiwsin9p-3m1YMW1t8gXW-a1Aq3q_Abyk5ZpDzQ8X_Ofhstb9lOBjLVluzJ7qax6ZEKOiOnRuhzu8gwfxTqUQJqwpw/s1600/IMG_1766.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz3J6ReocLpYVLBbY9VzMlrc_lJjrT3WrQeyZSCu2Gz2fjaPzDwiwsin9p-3m1YMW1t8gXW-a1Aq3q_Abyk5ZpDzQ8X_Ofhstb9lOBjLVluzJ7qax6ZEKOiOnRuhzu8gwfxTqUQJqwpw/s400/IMG_1766.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Women's March Global Logo</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBeQofdNxyforj-EfNh6B-vgmhAK0SsCxo5tmiHkWu6e9tLyROIDbzf3tsmkars8rDqAXwzbyTYs_ucVanSl_-cYjNuFuK_vjOuGrpeIuCWaHn_4rLaVl_lt3QaF7SKg_KPOwq-nGz2w/s1600/Logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBeQofdNxyforj-EfNh6B-vgmhAK0SsCxo5tmiHkWu6e9tLyROIDbzf3tsmkars8rDqAXwzbyTYs_ucVanSl_-cYjNuFuK_vjOuGrpeIuCWaHn_4rLaVl_lt3QaF7SKg_KPOwq-nGz2w/s320/Logo.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Logo from Women's March London</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My
intent was to attend the march alone. But to my delight, several other women I
knew from Dragon’s school were also attending. Soon a small gang of us arranged
to attend the event together.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The
day of the march dawned bright and beautiful. The clear blue skies served as a
welcome omen that our march was a force towards positive action. A tangible sense
of excitement and electricity fizzed in the air as we assembled in Grosvenor
Square opposite the US Embassy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We knew
that there were 600+ sister marches scheduled to happen all around the world
and that we were there to represent the UK. The night before, I’d watched Trump’s inauguration
which only heightened my determination to march for human rights, amongst other
infringements which Trump represents. By this time, I considered it a civic
duty. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE-IcEEJl1N1mikNwZOBGlFsRRucJpcwq6I_7q5KIJEfDQSmMC6fUKwcHEpI8P12mSEZKzG9iUihbSM7VhKbOJXs98kB7izXxLHJxx32QAj8W3c0sXbf38tXdeNDUsuKPY0eWupgBaGA/s1600/IMG_1661.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE-IcEEJl1N1mikNwZOBGlFsRRucJpcwq6I_7q5KIJEfDQSmMC6fUKwcHEpI8P12mSEZKzG9iUihbSM7VhKbOJXs98kB7izXxLHJxx32QAj8W3c0sXbf38tXdeNDUsuKPY0eWupgBaGA/s320/IMG_1661.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">A beautiful day for a march</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">There
is a lot I can say about the march but in summary, the gang I marched with found it an overwhelmingly positive experience. The mood of the event was friendly, inclusive, peaceful and determined. </span>We marched alongside a diverse demographic; old, young, men, women.<span style="font-family: inherit;"> I got the sense that like me, people felt moved to act because it was vital to take a stand against what was happening in the world. Brexit shook our foundations and Trump tipped us over the edge. The march was a vessel through which to funnel our charged emotions and say, <i><b>No way. It's not OK</b></i> to the powers that be.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> The other big bonus of the event was the emergence of witty, creative protest placards such as these below:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Afterwards
we found out we had helped make history. The final numbers have yet to be confirmed
but the approximation is that over five million people participated in the
global marches. From Antarctica to Sydney to Chennai to Antigua, people stood
up to protect core values of respect, equality and individual freedoms. It purportedly
was the largest turnout for a global march led by women in history. Ever. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAHwTrlH6xBa1SToURlQb598nDLjgdmY1TVHW9pv6sC-UE0Gn0uq3Tq9xJ42TqPxYbi9KrpR1q_H-ARC8cAeSO2oqKe4ysQAu8fmd3sHU1N_jWYpo3CreaS1HjBjIP6cu_fxblYBatgA/s1600/IMG_1764.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAHwTrlH6xBa1SToURlQb598nDLjgdmY1TVHW9pv6sC-UE0Gn0uq3Tq9xJ42TqPxYbi9KrpR1q_H-ARC8cAeSO2oqKe4ysQAu8fmd3sHU1N_jWYpo3CreaS1HjBjIP6cu_fxblYBatgA/s320/IMG_1764.jpeg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">We Made History!</span></b></td></tr>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;">And
it’s only the beginning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s
a week after the march, and myself and the group I attended with are still on a
high. We’ve bonded over this shared experience. People who said to us, '<i>What can a march change</i>?''* underestimate the power of taking action. We feel energised. We feel hopeful. We feel a part of the movement working towards tipping the balance back to a just and open society. For several of us, there is a
dawning realisation that the march was just the beginning of our involvement in
what is being referred to as the Resistance. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Like Dorothy on her journey along the Yellow
Brick Road, we’re not quite sure where this path will take us. Somewhere for
the common good is my hope. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">A
quote by Gloria Steinem sums it up:</span></div>
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<i style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Sometimes
we need to put our bodies where our beliefs are. </b></i><br />
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<i style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Sometimes it is not enough to
press send</b></i><span style="font-family: inherit;">.</span><br />
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*Ever heard of Gandhi? And if you are a woman, how do you think you got the vote?</div>
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